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+The Project Gutenberg Etext of All's For the Best
+by T. S. Arthur
+(#4 in our series by T. S. Arthur)
+
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+Title: All's For the Best
+
+Author: T. S. Arthur
+
+Release Date: October, 2003  [Etext #4589]
+[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
+[This file was first posted on February 12, 2002]
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+Edition: 10
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+The Project Gutenberg Etext of All's For the Best
+by T. S. Arthur
+******This file should be named allsb10.txt or allsb10.zip******
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+
+ALL'S FOR THE BEST.
+
+BY T. S. ARTHUR.
+
+PHILADELPHIA:
+
+1869.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS.
+
+
+
+
+
+I. FAITH AND PATIENCE.
+II. IS HE A CHRISTIAN?
+III. "RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE."
+IV. NOT AS A CHILD.
+V. ANGELS IN THE HEART.
+VI. CAST DOWN, BUT NOT DESTROYED.
+VII. GOOD GROUND.
+VIII. GIVING THAT DOTH NOT IMPOVERISH.
+IX. WAS IT MURDER, OR SUICIDE?
+X. THE NURSERY MAID.
+XI. MY FATHER.
+XII. THE CHRISTIAN GENTLEMAN.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+ALL'S FOR THE BEST.
+
+I.
+
+FAITH AND PATIENCE.
+
+
+
+
+
+"_I HAVE_ no faith in anything," said a poor doubter, who had
+trusted in human prudence, and been disappointed; who had endeavored
+to walk by the lumine of self-derived intelligence, instead of by
+the light of divine truth, and so lost his way in the world. He was
+fifty years old! What a sad confession for a man thus far on the
+journey of life. "No faith in anything."
+
+"You have faith in God, Mr. Fanshaw," replied the gentleman to whom
+the remark was made.
+
+"In God? I don't know him." And Mr. Fanshaw shook his head, in a
+bewildered sort of way. There was no levity in his manner. "People
+talk a great deal about God, and their knowledge of him," he added,
+but not irreverently. "I think there is often more of pious cant in
+all this than of living experience. You speak about faith in God.
+What is the ground of your faith?"
+
+"We have internal sight, as well as external sight."
+
+There was no response to this in Mr. Fanshaw's face.
+
+"We can see with the mind, as well as with the eyes."
+
+"How?"
+
+"An architect sees the building, in all its fine proportions, with
+the eyes of his mind, before it exists in space visible to his
+bodily eyes."
+
+"Oh! that is your meaning, friend Wilkins," said Mr. Fanshaw, his
+countenance brightening a little.
+
+"In part," was replied. "That he can see the building in his mind,
+establishes the fact of internal sight."
+
+"Admitted; and what then?"
+
+"Admitted, and we pass into a new world--the world of spirit."
+
+Mr. Fanshaw shook his head, and closed his lips tightly.
+
+"I don't believe in spirits," he answered.
+
+"You believe in your own spirit."
+
+"I don't know that I have any spirit."
+
+"You think and feel in a region distinct from the body," said Mr.
+Wilkins.
+
+"I can't say as to that."
+
+"You can think of justice, of equity, of liberty?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"As abstract rights; as things essential, and out of the region of
+simple matter. The body doesn't think; it is the soul."
+
+"Very well. For argument's sake, let all this be granted. I don't
+wish to cavil. I am in no mood for that. And now, as to the ground
+of your faith in God."
+
+"Convictions," answered Mr. Wilkins, "are real things to a man.
+Impressions are one thing; convictions another. The first are like
+images on a glass; the others like figures in a textile fabric. The
+first are made in an instant of time, and often pass as quickly; the
+latter are slowly wrought in the loom of life, through daily
+experience and careful thought. Herein lies the ground of my faith
+in God;--it is an inwrought conviction. First I had the child's
+sweet faith transfused into my soul with a mother's love, and
+unshadowed by a single doubt. Then, on growing older, as I read the
+Bible, which I believe to be God's word, I saw that its precepts
+were divine, and so the child's faith was succeeded by rational
+sight. Afterwards, as I floated off into the world, and met with
+storms that wrecked my fondest hopes; with baffling winds and
+adverse currents; with perils and disappointments, faith wavered
+sometimes; and sometimes, when the skies were dark and threatening,
+my mind gave way to doubts. But, always after the storm passed, and
+the sun came out again, have I found my vessel unharmed, with a
+freight ready for shipment of value far beyond what I had lost. I
+have thrown over, in stress of weather, to save myself from being
+engulfed, things that I had held to be very precious--thrown them
+over, weeping. But, after awhile, things more precious took their
+place--goodly pearls, found in a farther voyage, which, but for my
+loss, would not have been ventured.
+
+"Always am I seeing the hand of Providence--always proving the
+divine announcement, 'The very hairs of your head are numbered.' Is
+there not ground for faith here? If the word of God stand in
+agreement with reason and experience, shall I not have faith? If my
+convictions are clear, to disbelieve is impossible."
+
+"We started differently," replied Mr. Fanshaw, almost mournfully.
+"That sweet faith of childhood, to which you have referred, was
+never mine."
+
+"The faith of manhood is stronger, because it rests on reason and
+experience," said Mr. Wilkins.
+
+"With me, reason and experience give no faith in God, and no hope in
+the future. All before me is dark."
+
+"Simply, because you do not use your reason aright, nor read your
+experiences correctly. If you were to do this, light would fall upon
+your way. You said, a little while ago, that you had no faith in
+anything. You spoke without due reflection."
+
+"No; I meant just what I said. Is there stability in anything? In
+what can I trust to-morrow? simply in nothing. My house may be in
+ruins--burnt to the ground, at daylight. The friend to whom I loaned
+my money to-day, to help him in his need, may fail me to-morrow, in
+my need. The bank in which I hold stock may break--the ship in which
+I have an adventure, go down at sea. But why enumerate? I am sure of
+nothing."
+
+"Not even of the love of your child?"
+
+A warm flush came into the face of Mr. Fanshaw. He had one daughter
+twelve years old.
+
+"Dear Alice!" he murmured, in a softer voice. "Yes, I am sure of
+that. There is no room for doubt. She loves me."
+
+"One thing in which to have faith," said Mr. Wilkins. "Not in a
+house which cannot be made wholly safe from fire; nor in a bank,
+which may fail; nor in a friend's promise; nor in a ship at sea--but
+in love! Are you afraid to have that love tried? If you were sick or
+in misfortune, would it grow dim, or perish? Nay, would it not be
+intensified?
+
+"I think, Mr. Fanshaw," continued his friend, "that you have not
+tested your faith by higher and better things--by things real and
+substantial."
+
+"What is more real than a house, or a ship, or a bill of exchange?"
+asked Mr. Fanshaw.
+
+"Imperishable love--incorruptible integrity--unflinching honor," was
+replied.
+
+"Do these exist?" Mr. Fanshaw looked incredulous.
+
+"We know that they exist. You know that they exist. History,
+observation, experience, reason, all come to the proof. We doubt but
+in the face of conviction. Are these not higher and nobler things
+than wealth, or worldly honors; than place or power? And is he not
+serenest and happiest whose life rests on these as a house upon its
+foundations? You cannot shake such a man. You cannot throw him down.
+Wealth may go, and friends drop away like withering autumn leaves,
+but he stands fast, with the light of heaven upon his brow. He has
+faith in virtue--he has trust in God--he knows that all will come
+out right in the end, and that he will be a wiser and better man for
+the trial that tested his principles--for the storms that toughened,
+but did not break the fibres of his soul."
+
+"You lift me into a new region of thought," said Mr. Fanshaw, "A dim
+light is breaking into my mind. I see things in a relation not
+perceived before."
+
+"Will you call with me on an old friend?" asked Mr. Wilkins.
+
+"Who?"
+
+"A poor man. Once rich."
+
+"He might feel my visit as an intrusion."
+
+"No."
+
+"What reduced him to poverty?"
+
+"A friend, in whom he put unlimited faith, deceived and ruined him."
+
+"Ah!"
+
+"And he has never been able to recover himself."
+
+"What is his state of mind?"
+
+"You shall judge for yourself."
+
+In poor lodgings they found a man far past the prime of life. He was
+in feeble health, and for over two months had not been able to go
+out and attend to business. His wife was dead, and his children
+absent. Of all this Mr. Fanshaw had been told on the way. His
+surprise was real, when he saw, instead of a sad-looking,
+disappointed and suffering person, a cheerful old man, whose face
+warmed up on their entrance, as if sunshine were melting over it.
+Conversation turned in the direction Mr. Wilkins desired it to take,
+and the question soon came, naturally, from Mr. Fanshaw--
+
+"And pray, sir, how were you sustained amid these losses, and
+trials, and sorrows?"
+
+"Through faith and patience," was the smiling answer. "Faith in God
+and the right, and patience to wait."
+
+"But all has gone wrong with you, and kept wrong. The friend who
+robbed you of an estate holds and enjoys it still; while you are in
+poverty. He is eating your children's bread."
+
+"Do you envy his enjoyment?" asked the old man.
+
+Mr. Fanshaw shook his head, and answered with an emphasis--"No!"
+
+"I am happier than he is," said the old man. "And as for his eating
+my children's bread, that is a mistake. His bread is bitter, but
+theirs is sweet." He reached for a letter that lay on a table near
+him, and opening it, said--"This is from my son in the West. He
+writes:--'Dear Father--All is going well with me. I enclose you
+fifty dollars. In a month I am to be married, and it is all arranged
+that dear Alice and I shall go East just to see you, and take you
+back home with us. How nice and comfortable we will make you! And
+you shall never leave us!'"
+
+The old man's voice broke down on the last sentence, and his eyes
+filled with tears. But he soon recovered himself, saying--
+
+"Before I lost my property, this son was an idler, and in such
+danger that through fear of his being led astray, I was often in
+great distress of mind. Necessity forced him into useful employment;
+and you see the result. I lost some money, but saved my son. Am I
+not richer in such love as he bears me to-day, than if, without his
+love, I possessed a million of dollars? Am I not happier? I knew it
+would all come out right. I had faith, and I tried to be patient. It
+is coming out right."
+
+"But the wrong that has been done," said Mr. Fanshaw. "The injustice
+that exists. Here is a scoundrel, a robber, in the peaceful
+enjoyment of your goods, while you are in want."
+
+"We do not envy such peace as his. The robber has no peace. He never
+dwells in security; but is always armed, and on the watch. As for
+me, it has so turned out that I have never lacked for food and
+raiment."
+
+"Still, there is the abstract wrong, the evil triumphing over the
+good," said Mr. Fanshaw.
+
+"How do you reconcile that with your faith in Providence?"
+
+"What I see clearly, as to myself," was replied, "fully justifies
+the ways of God to man. Am I the gainer or the loser by misfortune?
+Clearly the gainer. That point admits of no argument. So, what came
+to me in the guise of evil, I find to be good. God has not mocked my
+faith in him. I waited patiently until he revealed himself in tender
+mercy; until the hand to which I clung in the dark valley led me up
+to the sunny hills. No amount of worldly riches could give me the
+deep satisfaction I now possess. As for the false friend who robbed
+me, I leave him in the hands of the all-wise Disposer of events. He
+will not find, in ill-gotten gain, a blessing. It will not make his
+bed soft; nor his food sweet to the taste. A just and righteous God
+will trouble his peace, and make another's possessions the burden of
+his life."
+
+"But that will not benefit you," said Mr. Fanshaw. "His suffering
+will not make good your loss."
+
+"My loss is made good already. I have no complaint against
+Providence. My compensation is a hundredfold. For dross I have gold.
+I and mine needed the discipline of misfortune, and it came through
+the perfidy of a friend. That false friend, selfish and
+grasping--seeing in money the greatest good--was permitted to
+consummate his evil design. That his evil will punish him, I am
+sure; and in the pain of his punishment, he may be led to
+reformation. If he continue to hide the stolen fox, it will tear his
+vitals. If he lets it go, he will scarcely venture upon a second
+theft. In either event, the wrong he was permitted to do will be
+turned into discipline; and my hardest wish in regard to him is,
+that the discipline may lead to repentance and a better life."
+
+"Your faith and patience," said Mr. Fanshaw, as he held the old
+man's hand in parting, "rebuke my restless disbelief. I thank you
+for having opened to my mind a new region of thought--for having
+made some things clear that have always been dark. I am sure that
+our meeting to-day is not a simple accident. I have been led here,
+and for a good purpose."
+
+As Mr. Fanshaw and Mr. Wilkins left the poor man's lodgings, the
+former said--
+
+"I know the false wretch who ruined your friend."
+
+"Ah!"
+
+"Yes. And he is a miserable man. The fox is indeed tearing his
+vitals. I understand his case now. He must make restitution. I know
+how to approach him. This good, patient, trusting old man shall not
+suffer wrong to the end."
+
+"Does not all this open a new world of thought to your mind?" asked
+Mr Wilkins. "Does it not show you that, amid all human wrong and
+disaster, the hand of Providence moves in wise adjustment, and ever
+out of evil educes good, ever through loss in some lower degree of
+life brings gain to a higher degree? Consider how, in an
+unpremeditated way, you are brought into contact with a stranger,
+and how his life and experience touching yours, give out a spark
+that lights a candle in your soul to illumine chambers where
+scarcely a ray had shone before; and this not alone for your
+benefit. It seems as if you were to be made an instrument of good
+not only to the wronged, but to the wronger. If you can effect
+restitution in any degree, the benefit will be mutual."
+
+"I can and I will effect it," replied Mr. Fanshaw. And he did!
+
+
+
+
+
+
+II.
+
+IS HE A CHRISTIAN?
+
+
+
+
+
+"_IS_ he a Christian?"
+
+The question reached my ear as I sat conversing with a friend, and I
+paused in the sentence I was uttering, to note the answer.
+
+"Oh, yes; he is a Christian," was replied.
+
+"I am rejoiced to hear you say so. I was not aware of it before,"
+said the other.
+
+"Yes; he has passed from death unto life. Last week, in the joy of
+his new birth, he united himself to the church, and is now in
+fellowship with the saints."
+
+"What a blessed change!"
+
+"Blessed, indeed. Another soul saved; another added to the great
+company of those who have washed their robes, and made them white in
+the blood of the Lamb. There is joy in heaven on his account."
+
+"Of whom are they speaking?" I asked, turning to my friend.
+
+"Of Fletcher Gray, I believe," was replied.
+
+"Few men stood more in need of Christian graces," said I. "If he is,
+indeed, numbered with the saints, there is cause for rejoicing."
+
+"By their fruits ye shall know them," responded my friend. "I will
+believe his claim to the title of Christian, when I see the fruit in
+good living. If he have truly passed from death unto life, as they
+say, he will work the works of righteousness. A sweet fountain will
+not send forth bitter waters."
+
+My friend but expressed my own sentiments in this, and all like
+cases. I have learned to put small trust in "profession;" to look
+past the Sunday and prayer-meeting piety of people, and to estimate
+religious quality by the standard of the Apostle James. There must
+be genuine love of the neighbor, before there can be a love of God;
+for neighborly love is the ground in which that higher and purer
+love takes root. It is all in vain to talk of love as a mere ideal
+thing. Love is an active principle, and, according to its quality,
+works. If the love be heavenly, it will show itself in good deeds to
+the neighbor; but, if infernal, in acts of selfishness that
+disregard the neighbor.
+
+"I will observe this Mr. Gray," said I, as I walked homeward from
+the company, "and see whether the report touching him be true. If he
+is, indeed, a 'Christian,' as they affirm, the Christian graces of
+meekness and charity will blossom in his life, and make all the air
+around him fragrant."
+
+Opportunity soon came. Fletcher Gray was a store-keeper, and his
+life in the world was, consequently, open to the observation of all
+men. He was likewise a husband and a father. His relations were,
+therefore, of a character to give, daily, a test of his true
+quality.
+
+It was only the day after, that I happened to meet Mr. Gray under
+circumstances favorable to observation. He came into the store of a
+merchant with whom I was transacting some business, and asked the
+price of certain goods in the market. I moved aside, and watched him
+narrowly. There was a marked change in the expression of his
+countenance and in the tones of his voice. The former had a sober,
+almost solemn expression; the latter was subdued, even to
+plaintiveness. But, in a little while, these peculiarities gradually
+disappeared, and the aforetime Mr. Gray stood there
+unchanged--unchanged, not only in appearance, but in character.
+There was nothing of the "yea, yea," and "nay, nay," spirit in his
+bargain-making, but an eager, wordy effort to gain an advantage in
+trade. I noticed that, in the face of an asservation that only five
+per cent. over cost was asked for a certain article, he still
+endeavored to procure it at a lower figure than was named by the
+seller, and finally crowded him down to the exact cost, knowing as
+he did, that the merchant had a large stock on hand, and could not
+well afford to hold it over.
+
+"He's a sharper!" said the merchant, turning towards me as Gray left
+the store.
+
+"He's a Christian, they say," was my quiet remark.
+
+"A Christian!"
+
+"Yes; don't you know that he has become religious, and joined the
+church?"
+
+"You're joking!"
+
+"Not a word of it. Didn't you observe his subdued, meek aspect, when
+he came in?"
+
+"Why, yes; now that you refer to it, I do remember a certain
+peculiarity about him. Become pious! Joined the church! Well, I'm
+sorry!"
+
+"For what?"
+
+"Sorry for the injury he will do to a good cause. The religion that
+makes a man a better husband, father, man of business, lawyer,
+doctor, or preacher, I reverence, for it is genuine, as the lives of
+those who accept it do testify. But your hypocritical pretenders I
+scorn and execrate."
+
+"It is, perhaps, almost too strong language, this, as applied to Mr.
+Gray," said I.
+
+"What is a hypocrite?" asked the merchant.
+
+"A man who puts on the semblance of Christian virtues which he does
+not possess."
+
+"And that is what Mr. Gray does when he assumes to be religious. A
+true Christian is just. Was he just to me when he crowded me down in
+the price of my goods, and robbed me of a living profit, in order
+that he might secure a double gain? I think not. There is not even
+the live and let live principle in that. No--no, sir. If he has
+joined the church, my word for it, there is a black sheep in the
+fold; or, I might say, without abuse of language, a wolf therein
+disguised in sheep's clothing."
+
+"Give the man time," said I. "Old habits of life are strong, you
+know. In a little while, I trust that he will see clearer, and
+regulate his life from perceptions of higher truths."
+
+"I thought his heart was changed," answered the merchant, with some
+irony in his tones. "That he had been made a new creature."
+
+I did not care to discuss that point with him, and so merely
+answered,
+
+"The beginnings of spiritual life are as the beginnings of natural
+life. The babe is born in feebleness, and we must wait through the
+periods of infancy, childhood and youth, before we can have the
+strong man ready for the burden and heat of the day, or full-armed
+for the battle. If Mr. Gray is in the first effort to lead a
+Christian life, that is something. He will grow wiser and better in
+time, I hope."
+
+"There is vast room for improvement," said the merchant. "In my eyes
+he is, at this time, only a hypocritical pretender. I hope, for the
+sake of the world and the church both, that his new associates will
+make something better out of him."
+
+I went away, pretty much of the merchant's opinion. My next meeting
+with Mr. Gray was in the shop of a mechanic to whom he had sold a
+bill of goods some months previously. He had called to collect a
+portion of the amount which remained unpaid. The mechanic was not
+ready for him.
+
+"I am sorry, Mr. Gray" he began, with some hesitation of manner.
+
+"Sorry for what?" sharply interrupted Mr. Gray.
+
+"Sorry that I have not the money to settle your bill. I have been
+disappointed----"
+
+"I don't want that old story. You promised to be ready for me
+to-day, didn't you?" And Mr. Gray knit his brows, and looked angry
+and imperative.
+
+"Yes, I promised. But----"
+
+"Then keep your promise. No man has a right to break his word.
+Promises are sacred things, and should be kept religiously."
+
+"If my customers had kept their promises to me there would have been
+no failure in mine to you," answered the poor mechanic.
+
+"It is of no use to plead other men's failings in justification of
+your own. You said the bill should be settled to-day, and I
+calculated upon it. Now, of all things in the world, I hate
+trifling. I shall not call again, sir!"
+
+"If you were to call forty times, and I hadn't the money to settle
+your account, you would call in vain," said the mechanic, showing
+considerable disturbance of mind.
+
+"You needn't add insult to wrong." Mr. Gray's countenance reddened,
+and he looked angry.
+
+"If there is insult in the case it is on your part, not mine,"
+retorted the mechanic, with more feeling. "I am not a digger of gold
+out of the earth, nor a coiner of money. I must be paid for my work
+before I can pay the bills I owe. It was not enough that I told you
+of the failure of my customers to meet their engagements----"
+
+"You've no business to have such customers," broke in Mr. Gray. "No
+right to take my goods and sell them to men who are not honest
+enough to pay their bills."
+
+"One of them is your own son," replied the mechanic, goaded beyond
+endurance. "His bill is equal to half of yours. I have sent for the
+amount a great many times, but still he puts me off with excuses. I
+will send it to you next time."
+
+This was thrusting home with a sharp sword, and the vanquished Mr.
+Gray retreated from the battle-field, bearing a painful wound.
+
+"That wasn't right in me, I know," said the mechanic, as Gray left
+his shop. "I'm sorry, now, that I said it. But he pressed me too
+closely. I am but human."
+
+"He is a hard, exacting, money-loving man," was my remark.
+
+"They tell me he has become a Christian," said the mechanic. "Has
+got religion--been converted. Is that so?"
+
+"It is commonly reported; but I think common report must be in
+error. St. Paul gives patience, forbearance, long-suffering,
+meekness, brotherly kindness, and charity as some of the Christian
+graces. I do not see them in this man. Therefore, common report must
+be in error."
+
+"I have paid him a good many hundreds of dollars since I opened my
+shop here," said the mechanic, with the manner of one who felt hurt.
+"If I am a poor, hard-working man, I try to be honest. Sometimes I
+get a little behind hand, as I am new, because people I work for
+don't pay up as they should. It happened twice before when I wasn't
+just square with Mr. Gray, and he pressed down very hard upon me,
+and talked just as you heard him to-day. He got his money, every
+dollar of it; and he will get his money now. I did think, knowing
+that he had joined the church and made a profession of religion,
+that he would bear a little patiently with me this time. That, as he
+had obtained forgiveness, as alleged, of his sins towards heaven, he
+would be merciful to his fellow-man. Ah, well! These things make us
+very sceptical about the honesty of men who call themselves
+religious. My experience with 'professors' has not been very
+encouraging. As a general thing I find them quite as greedy for gain
+as other men. We outside people of the world get to be very
+sharp-sighted. When a man sets himself up to be of better quality
+than we, and calls himself by a name significant of heavenly virtue,
+we judge him, naturally, by his own standard, and watch him very
+closely. If he remain as hard, as selfish, as exacting, and as eager
+after money as before, we do not put much faith in his profession,
+and are very apt to class him with hypocrites. His praying, and fine
+talk about faith, and heavenly love, and being washed from all sin,
+excite in us contempt rather than respect. We ask for good works,
+and are never satisfied with anything else. By their fruits ye shall
+know them."
+
+On the next Sunday I saw Mr. Gray in church. My eyes were on him
+when he entered. I noticed that all the lines of his face were drawn
+down, and that the whole aspect and bearing of the man were solemn
+and devotional. He moved to his place with a slow step, his eyes
+cast to the floor. On taking his seat, he leaned his head on the pew
+in front of him, and continued for nearly a minute in prayer. During
+the services I heard his voice in the singing; and through the
+sermon, he maintained the most fixed attention. It was communion
+Sabbath; and he remained, after the congregation was dismissed, to
+join in the holiest act of worship.
+
+"Can this man be indeed self-deceived?" I asked myself, as I walked
+homeward. "Can he really believe that heaven is to be gained by
+pious acts alone? That every Sabbath evening he can pitch his tent a
+day's march nearer heaven, though all the week he have failed in the
+commonest offices of neighborly love?"
+
+It so happened, that I had many opportunities for observing Mr.
+Gray, who, after joining the church, became an active worker in some
+of the public and prominent charities of the day. He contributed
+liberally in many cases, and gave a good deal of time to the
+prosecution of benevolent enterprises, in which men of some position
+were concerned. But, when I saw him dispute with a poor gardener who
+had laid the sods in his yard, about fifty cents, take sixpence off
+of a weary strawberry woman, or chaffer with his boot-black over an
+extra shilling, I could not think that it was genuine love for his
+fellow-men that prompted his ostentatious charities.
+
+In no instance did I find any better estimation of him in business
+circles; for his religion did not chasten the ardor of his selfish
+love of advantage in trade; nor make him more generous, nor more
+inclined to help or befriend the weak and the needy. Twice I saw his
+action in the case of unhappy debtors, who had not been successful
+in business. In each case, his claim was among the smallest; but he
+said more unkind things, and was the hardest to satisfy, of any man
+among the creditors. He assumed dishonest intention at the outset,
+and made that a plea for the most rigid exaction; covering his own
+hard selfishness with offensive cant about mercantile honor,
+Christian integrity, and religious observance of business contracts.
+He was the only man among all the creditors, who made his church
+membership a prominent thing--few of them were even
+church-goers--and the only man who did not readily make concessions
+to the poor, down-trodden debtors.
+
+"Is he a Christian?" I asked, as I walked home in some depression of
+spirits, from the last of these meetings. And I could but answer
+No--for to be a Christian is to be Christ-like.
+
+"As ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them." This
+is the divine standard. "Ye must be born again," leaves to us no
+latitude of interpretation. There must be a death of the old,
+natural, selfish loves, and a new birth of spiritual affections. As
+a man feels, so will he act. If the affections that rule his heart
+be divine affections, he will be a lover of others, and a seeker of
+their good. He will not be a hard, harsh, exacting man in natural
+things, but kind, forbearing, thoughtful of others, and yielding. In
+all his dealings with men, his actions will be governed by the
+heavenly laws of justice and judgment. He will regard the good of
+his neighbor equally with his own. It is in the world where
+Christian graces reveal themselves, if they exist at all. Religion
+is not a mere Sunday affair, but the regulator of a man's conduct
+among his fellow-men. Unless it does this, it is a false religion,
+and he who depends upon it for the enjoyment of heavenly felicities
+in the next life, will find himself in miserable error. Heaven
+cannot be earned by mere acts of piety, for heaven is the complement
+of all divine affections in the human soul; and a man must come into
+these--must be born into them--while on earth, or he can never find
+an eternal home among the angels of God. Heaven is not gained by
+doing, but by living.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+III.
+
+"RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE."
+
+
+
+
+
+"_HAVE_ you noticed Miss Harvey's diamonds?" said a friend,
+directing my attention, as she spoke, to a young lady who stood at
+the lower end of the room. I looked towards Miss Harvey, and as I
+did so, my eyes received the sparkle of her gems.
+
+"Brilliant as dew-drops in the morning sunbeams," I remarked.
+
+"Only less brilliant," was my friend's response to this. "Only less
+brilliant. Nothing holds the sunlight in its bosom so perfectly as a
+drop of dew.--Next, the diamond. I am told that the pin, now
+flashing back the light, as it rises and falls with the swell and
+subsidence of her bosom, cost just one thousand dollars. The public,
+you know, are very apt to find out the money-value of fine jewelry."
+
+"Miss Harvey is beautiful," said I, "and could afford to depend less
+on the foreign aid of ornament."
+
+"If she had dazzled us with that splendid pin alone," returned my
+friend, "we might never have been tempted to look beneath the jewel,
+far down into the wearer's heart. But, diamond earrings, and a
+diamond bracelet, added--we know their value to be just twelve
+hundred dollars; the public is specially inquisitive--suggest some
+weakness or perversion of feeling, and we become eagle-eyed. But for
+the blaze of light with which Miss Harvey has surrounded herself, I,
+for one, should not have been led to observe her closely. There is
+no object in nature which has not its own peculiar signification;
+which does not correspond to some quality, affection, or attribute
+of the mind. This is true of gems; and it is but natural, that we
+should look for those qualities in the wearer of them to which the
+gems correspond."
+
+I admitted the proposition, and my friend went on.
+
+"Gold is the most precious of all metals, and it must, therefore,
+correspond to the most precious attribute, or quality of the mind.
+What is that attribute?--and what is that quality?"
+
+"Love," said I, after a pause, "Love is the most precious attribute
+of the mind--goodness the highest quality."
+
+"Then, it is no mere fancy to say that gold corresponds to love, or
+goodness. It is pure, and ductile, and warm in color, like love;
+while silver is harder, and white and shining, like truth. Gold and
+silver in nature are, then, as goodness and truth in the human soul.
+In one we find the riches of this world, in the other divine riches.
+And if gold and silver correspond to precious things of the mind, so
+must brilliant jewels. The diamond! How wonderful is its affection
+for light--taking in the rays eagerly, dissolving them, and sending
+them forth again to gladden the eyes in rich prismatic beauty! And
+to what mental quality must the diamond correspond? As it loves the
+sun's rays, in which are heat and light--must it not correspond to
+the affection of things good and true?--heat being of love, and
+light of truth or wisdom? The wearer of diamonds, then, should have
+in her heart the heavenly affection to which they correspond. She
+should be loving and wise."
+
+"It will not do to make an estimate in this way," said I. "The
+measure is too exacting."
+
+"I will admit that. But we cannot help thinking of the quality when
+we look upon its sign. With a beautiful face, when first seen, do we
+not always associate a beautiful soul? And when a lady adorns
+herself with the most beautiful and costly things in nature, how can
+we help looking, to see whether they correspond to things in her
+mind! For one, I cannot; and so, almost involuntarily, I keep
+turning my eyes upon Miss Harvey, and looking for signs of her
+quality."
+
+"And how do you read the lady?" I inquired.
+
+My friend shook his head.
+
+"The observation is not favorable."
+
+"Not favorable," he replied. "No, not favorable. She thinks of her
+jewels--she is vain of them."
+
+"The temptation is great," I said.
+
+"The fact of so loading herself with costly jewels, is in itself
+indicative of vanity--"
+
+A third party joining us at this moment, we dropped the subject of
+Miss Harvey. But, enough had been said to make me observe her
+closely during the evening.
+
+The opening line of Moore's charming lyric,
+
+"Rich and rare were the gems she wore,"
+
+kept chiming in my thoughts, whenever I glanced towards her, and saw
+the glitter of her diamonds. Yet, past the gems my vision now went,
+and I searched the fair girl's countenance for the sparkle of other
+and richer jewels. Did I find them? We shall see.
+
+"Helen," I heard a lady say to Miss Harvey, "is not that Mary
+Gardiner?"
+
+"I believe so," was her indifferent answer.
+
+"Have you spoken to her this evening?"
+
+"No, aunt."
+
+"Why?"
+
+"Mary Gardiner and I were never very congenial. We have not been
+thrown together for some time; and now, I do not care to renew the
+acquaintance."
+
+I obtained a single glance of the young lady's face. It was proud
+and haughty in expression, and her eyes had in them a cold glitter
+that awoke in me a feeling of repulsion.
+
+"I wish you were congenial," the lady said, speaking partly to
+herself.
+
+"We are not, aunt," was Miss Harvey's reply; and she assumed the air
+of one who felt herself far superior to another with whom she had
+been brought into comparison.
+
+"The gems do not correspond, I fear," said I to myself, as I moved
+to another part of the room. "But who is Miss Gardiner?"
+
+In the next moment, I was introduced to the young lady whose name
+was in my thought. The face into which I looked was of that fine
+oval which always pleases the eye, even where the countenance itself
+does not light up well with the changes of thought. But, in this
+case, a pair of calm, deep, living eyes, and lips of shape most
+exquisitely delicate and feminine--giving warrant of a beautiful
+soul--caused the face of Miss Gardiner to hold the vision as by a
+spell. Low and very musical was her voice, and there was a
+discrimination in her words, that lifted whatever she said above the
+common-place, even though the subjects were of the hour.
+
+I do not remember how long it was after my introduction to Miss
+Gardiner, before I discovered that her only ornament was a small,
+exquisitely cut cameo breast-pin, set in a circlet of pearls. There
+was no obtrusive glitter about this. It lay more like an emblem than
+a jewel against her bosom. It never drew your attention from her
+face, nor dimmed, by contrast, the radiance of her soul-lit eyes. I
+was charmed, from the beginning, with this young lady. Her thoughts
+were real gems, rich and rare, and when she spoke there was the
+flash of diamonds in her sentences; not the flash of mere brilliant
+sayings, like the gleaming of a polished sword, but of living
+truths, that lit up with their own pure radiance every mind that
+received them.
+
+Two or three times during the evening, Miss Harvey, radiant in her
+diamonds--they cost twenty-two hundred dollars--the price would
+intrude itself--and Miss Gardiner, almost guiltless of foreign
+ornament, were thrown into immediate contact. But Miss Gardiner was
+not recognized by the haughty wearer of gems. It was the old farce
+of pretence, seeking, by borrowed attractions, to outshine the
+imperishable radiance of truth. I looked on, and read the lesson her
+conduct gave, and wondered that any were deceived into even a
+transient admiration. "Rich and rare were the gems she wore," but
+they had in them no significance as applied to the wearer. It was
+Miss Gardiner who had the real gems, beautiful as charity, and pure
+as eternal truth; and she wore them with a simple grace, that
+charmed every beholder who had eyes clear enough from earthy dust
+and smoke to see them.
+
+I never meet Miss Harvey, that I do not think of the pure and
+heavenly things of the mind to which diamonds correspond, nor
+without seeing some new evidence that she wears no priceless jewels
+in her soul.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+IV.
+
+NOT AS A CHILD.
+
+
+
+
+
+"_I DO_ not know how that may be," said the mother, lifting her
+head, and looking through almost blinding tears, into the face of
+her friend. "The poet may be right, and, "Not as a child shall I
+again behold him, but the thought brings no comfort. I have lost my
+child, and my heart looks eagerly forward to a reunion with him in
+heaven; to the blessed hour when I shall again hold him in my arms."
+
+"As a babe?"
+
+"Oh, yes. As a darling babe, pure, and beautiful as a cherub."
+
+"But would you have him linger in babyhood forever?" asked the
+friend.
+
+The mother did not reply.
+
+"Did you expect him always to remain a child here? Would perpetual
+infancy have satisfied your maternal heart? Had you not already
+begun to look forward to the period when intellectual manhood would
+come with its crowning honors?"
+
+"It is true," sighed the mother.
+
+"As it would have been here, so will it be there. Here, the growth
+of his body would have been parallel, if I may so speak, with the
+growth of his mind. The natural and the visible would have developed
+in harmony with the spiritual and the invisible. Your child would
+have grown to manhood intellectually, as well as bodily. And you
+would not have had it otherwise. Growth--development--the going on
+to perfection, are the laws of life; and more emphatically so as
+appertaining to the life of the human soul. That life, in all its
+high activities, burns still in the soul of your lost darling, and
+he will grow, in the world of angelic spirits to which our Father
+has removed him, up to the full stature of an angel, a glorified
+form of intelligence and wisdom. He cannot linger in feeble
+babyhood; in the innocence of simple ignorance; but must advance
+with the heavenly cycles of changing and renewing states."
+
+"And this is all the comfort you bring to my yearning heart?" said
+the mother. "My darling, if all you say be true, is lost to me
+forever."
+
+"He was not yours, but God's." The friend spoke softly, yet with a
+firm utterance.
+
+"He was mine to love," replied the bereaved one.
+
+"And your love would confer upon its precious object the richest
+blessings. Dear friend! Lift your thoughts a little way above the
+clouds that sorrow has gathered around your heart, and let
+perception come into an atmosphere radiant with light from the Sun
+of Truth. Think of your child as destined to become, in the better
+world to which God has removed him, a wise and loving angel. Picture
+to your imagination the higher happiness, springing from higher
+capacities and higher uses, which must crown the angelic life. Doing
+this, and loving your lost darling, I know that you cannot ask for
+him a perpetual babyhood in heaven."
+
+"I will ask nothing for him but what 'Our Father' pleaseth to give,"
+said the mother, in calmer tones. "My love is selfish, I know. I
+called that babe mine--mine in the broadest sense--yet he was God's,
+as every other creature is his--one of the stones in his living
+temple--one of the members of his kingdom. It does not comfort me in
+my great sorrow to think that, as a child, I shall not again behold
+him, but rays of new light are streaming into my mind, and I see
+things in new aspects and new relations. Out of this deep affliction
+good will arise."
+
+"Just as certainly," added the friend, "as that the Sun shines and
+the dew falls. It will be better for you, and better for the child.
+To both will come a resurrection into higher and purer life."
+
+
+
+
+
+
+V.
+
+ANGELS IN THE HEART.
+
+
+
+
+
+_THE_ heart is full of guest-chambers that are never empty; and as
+the heart is the seat of life, these guests are continually acting
+upon the life, either for good or evil, according to their quality.
+As the guests are, so our states of life--tranquil and happy, if
+good; disturbed and miserable, if evil.
+
+We may choose our own guests, if we are wise. None can open the door
+and come in, unless we give consent; always provided that we keep
+watch and ward. If we leave wide open the doors of our houses, or
+neglect to fasten them in the night season, thieves and robbers will
+enter and despoil us at will. So if we leave the heart, unguarded,
+enemies will come in. But if we open the door only to good
+affections--which are guests--then we shall dwell in peace and
+safety. We have all opened the door for enemies; or let them enter
+through unguarded portals. They are in all the heart's
+guest-chambers. They possess the very citadel of life; and the
+measure of their possession is the measure of our unhappiness.
+
+Markland was an unhappy man; and yet of this world's goods, after
+which he had striven, he had an abundance. Wealth, honor among men,
+luxury; these were presented to his mind as things most to be
+desired, and he reached after them with an ardor that broke down all
+impediments. Success answered to effort, with almost unerring
+certainty. So he was full of wealth and honors. But, for all this,
+Markland was unhappy. There were enemies in the house of his life;
+troublesome guests in the guest-chambers of his heart, who were
+forever disturbing, if not wounding him, with their strifes and
+discords. Some of these he had admitted, himself holding open the
+door; others had come in by stealth while the entrance was all
+unguarded.
+
+Envy was one of these guests, and she gave him no peace. He could
+not bear that another should stand above him in anything. A certain
+pew in the church he attended was regarded as most desirable. He
+must have that pew at any cost. So when the annual choice of pews
+was sold at auction, he overbid all contestants, and secured its
+occupancy. For all the preceding year, he had failed to enjoy the
+Sabbath services, because another family had a pew regarded as
+better situated than his; and now he enjoyed these services as
+little, through annoyance at having given so large a price for the
+right of choice, that people smiled when they heard the sum named.
+He had paid too dear for the privilege, and this fact took away
+enjoyment.
+
+Envy tormented him in a hundred different ways. He could not enjoy
+his friend's exquisite statuary, or paintings, because of a secret
+intimation in his heart that his friend was honored above him in
+their possession. Twice he had sold almost palatial residences,
+because their architectural attractions were thrown into the shade
+by dwellings of later construction. Thousands of dollars each year
+this troublesome guest cost him; and yet she would never let him be
+at ease. At every feast of life she dashed his cup with bitterness,
+and robbed the choicest viands of their zest. He did not enjoy the
+fame of an author, an orator, an artist, a man of science, a
+general, or of any who held the world's admiring gaze--for while
+they stood in the sunlight, he felt cast in the shade. So the guest
+Envy, warmed and nourished in his heart, proved a tormentor. She
+gave him neither rest nor peace.
+
+Detraction, twin-sister of Envy, was all the while pointing out
+defects in friends and neighbors. He saw their faults and hard
+peculiaries; but rarely their good qualities. Then Doubt and
+Distrust crept in through the unguarded door, and soon after their
+entrance Markland began to think uneasily of the future; to fear
+lest the foundations of worldly prosperity were not sure. These
+troublesome guests were busiest in the night season, haunting his
+mind with strange pictures of disasters, and with suggestions
+touching the arbitrary power of God, whom he feared when the thought
+of him was present, but did not love. "Whom He will He setteth up,
+and whom He will He casteth down." Doubt and Distrust revived this
+warning in his memory, and seeing that it gave his heart a throb of
+pain, they set it close to his eyes, so that, for a time, he could
+see nothing else. Thus, night after night, these guests troubled his
+peace, often driving slumber from his eyelids until the late morning
+watches. If there had been in his heart that true faith in God which
+believes in him as doing all things well, Doubt and Distrust might
+never have gained an entrance. But he had trusted in himself; had
+believed himself equal to the task of creating his own
+prosperity--had been, in common phrase, the architect of his own
+fortunes. And now just as he was pluming himself on success, in
+crept Doubt and Distrust with their alarming suggestions, and he was
+unable to cast them out.
+
+Affections, whether evil or good, are social in their character, and
+obey social laws. They do not like to dwell alone, and therefore
+seek congenial friendships. They draw to themselves companions of
+like quality, and are not satisfied until they rule a man as to all
+the powers of his mind.
+
+In the case of Markland, Envy made room for her twin-sister,
+Detraction; Ill-will, Jealousy, Unkindness, and a teeming brood of
+their malevolent kindred crowded into his heart, possessing its
+chambers, ere a warning reached him of their approach. Is there rest
+or peace for a man with such guests in his bosom?
+
+Doubt and Distrust only heralded the coming of Fear, Anxiety,
+Solicitude, Suspicion, Despondency, Foreboding. Markland had only to
+open his eyes and look around him, to see, on every hand, the
+unsightly wrecks of palaces once as fair to the eye as that which he
+had raised with such labor and forethought, and as he contemplated
+these, Doubt, Distrust, and their companions, filled his mind with
+alarming thoughts, and so oppressed him with a sense of insecurity
+that, at times, he saw the advancing shadows of misfortune on his
+path.
+
+Thus it was with Markland at fifty. He had all good as to the
+externals of life, yet was he a miserable man, and, worse than all,
+he felt himself growing more and more unhappy as the years
+increased. Was there no remedy for this? None, while his heart was
+so filled with evil affections, which are always tormentors. He did
+not see this. Though his guests disturbed and afflicted him, he
+called them friends, and gave them entertainments of the best his
+house afforded.
+
+Sometimes Pity came to the door of his heart and asked for
+admission, but he sent Unkindness to double bar it against her.
+Generosity knocked, but Avarice stood sentinel. Envy was forever
+refusing to let Good-will, Appreciation, Approval, Delight, come in.
+Detraction would give no countenance to Virtue and Excellence. Doubt
+made deadly assault upon Faith, and Trust, and Hope, whenever they
+drew near, while Ill-will stood ever on the alert to drive off
+Charity, Loving-kindness and Neighborly regard. Unhappy man! Fiends
+possessed him, and he knew it not.
+
+It so happened on a time, that Markland, while standing in one of
+his well-filled ware-houses, saw a child enter and come towards him
+in a timid, hesitating manner.
+
+"A beggar! Drive her away," said Unkindness and Suspicion, both
+arousing themselves.
+
+Markland was already lifting his hand to wave her back, when
+Compassion, who had just then found an old way into his heart,
+hidden for a long time by rank weeds and brambles, said, in soft and
+pitying tones:
+
+"She is such a little child!"
+
+"A thieving beggar!" cried Unkindness and Suspicion, angrily.
+
+"A weak little child," pleaded Compassion. "Don't be hard with her.
+Speak kindly."
+
+Compassion prevailed. Her voice had awakened into life some old and
+long sleeping memories. Markland was himself, for a moment, a child,
+full of pity, tenderness and loving-kindness. Compassion had already
+uncovered the far away past, and the sweetness of its young blossoms
+was reviving old delights.
+
+"Well, little one, what is wanted?"
+
+Markland hardly knew his own voice, it was so gentle and inviting.
+
+How the, pale, pure face of the child warmed and brightened!
+Gratefully with trust and hope in her eyes, she looked up to the
+merchant. There was no answer on her lips, for this unexpected
+kindness had choked the coming utterance. Rebuff, threat, anger, had
+met her so often, that soft words almost surprised her into tears.
+
+"Well, what can I do for you?"
+
+Compassion held open the door through which she gained an entrance,
+and already Good-will, Kindness and Satisfaction had come in.
+
+"Mother is sick," said the child.
+
+"A lying vagrant!" exclaimed Suspicion, jarring the merchant's
+inward ear.
+
+"There is truth in her face," said Compassion, pleading, and, at the
+same time, she unveiled an image, sharply cut in the past of
+Markland's life--an image of his own beloved, but long sainted
+mother, pale and wasted, on her dying bed.
+
+"Give this to your mother," he said, hastily, taking a coin from his
+pocket. There was more of human kindness in his voice than it had
+expressed for many years.
+
+"God bless you, sir," the child dropped her grateful eyes from his
+face, as she took the coin, bending with an involuntary reverent
+motion. Then, as she slowly passed to the warehouse door, she turned
+two or three times, to look on the man who, alone, of the many to
+whom she had made solicitation that day, had answered her in
+kindness.
+
+"So much for the encouragement of vagrancy," said Suspicion.
+
+"Played on by the art of a cunning child," said Pride.
+
+Markland began to feel ashamed of his momentary weakness. But, he
+was not now, wholly, at the mercy of the guests who had so long
+tormented him. Compassion, Good-will and Kindness were now his
+guests also; and they had other and pleasanter suggestions for his
+mind. The child's "God bless you, sir," they repeated over and over
+again, softening the young voice, and giving it increasing power to
+awaken tender and loving states which had formed themselves in
+earlier and purer years. Tranquility, so long absent from his soul,
+came in, now, through the entrance made by Compassion.
+
+Markland went back into his counting-room, almost wondering at the
+peace he felt. Taking up a newspaper, he read of a rare specimen of
+statuary just received from Italy, the property of a well-known
+merchant. Envy did not move quickly enough. The old love of beauty
+and nature, which envy, detraction, greed of gain, and their
+blear-eyed companions, had kept in thrall, was already in a freer
+state; and found in good-will, kindness and tranquility, congenial
+friends.
+
+So, love of art and beauty ruled his mind in spite of envy, and
+Markland found real pleasure in the ideal given him by the
+description he read. It was, almost, a new sensation.
+
+A friend came in, and spoke in praise of one who had performed a
+generous deed. There was an instant motion among the guests in
+Markland's heart, the evil inciting to envy and detraction, the good
+to approval and emulation. Tranquility moved to the door through
+which she had come in, as if to depart; but Good-will, Kindness and
+Approbation, drew her back, and held, with her, possession of the
+mind they sought to rule. Envy and Detraction were shorn, for the
+time, of their power.
+
+Wondering, as he lay on his bed that night, over the strange peace
+that pervaded his mind--a peace such as he had not known for many
+years--Markland fell asleep; and in his sleep there came to him a
+dream of the human heart and its guest-chamber; and what we have
+faintly suggested, was made visible to him in living personation.
+
+He saw how evil affections, when permitted to dwell therein, became
+its enemies and tormentors; and how, just in the degree that kind
+and good affections gained entrance, there was peace, tranquility
+and satisfaction.
+
+"I have looked into my own heart," he said, on awaking.
+
+The incident of the child, and the dream that followed, were, in
+Providence, sent for Markland's instruction. And they were not sent
+in vain. Ever after he set watch and ward at the doors of his heart.
+Evil guests, already in possession, were difficult to cast out; but,
+he invited the good to come in, opening the way by kind and noble
+acts, done in the face of opposing selfishness. Thus he went on,
+peopling the guest-chamber with sweet beatitudes, until angels
+instead of demons filled his house of life.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+VI.
+
+CAST DOWN, BUT NOT DESTROYED.
+
+
+
+
+
+"_TRIPPED_ again!"
+
+"Who?"
+
+"Brantley."
+
+"Poor fellow! He has a hard time of it. Is he all the way down?"
+
+"I presume so. When he begins to fall, he usually gets to the bottom
+of the ladder."
+
+It was true; Brantley had tripped again; and was down. He had been
+climbing bravely for three or four years, and was well up the ladder
+of prosperity, when in his eagerness to make two rundles of the
+ladder at a step instead of one, he missed his footing and fell to
+the bottom. My first knowledge of the fact came through the
+conversation just recorded. From all I could hear, Brantley's
+failure was a serious one. I knew him to be honorable and
+conscientious, and to have a great deal of sensitive pride.
+
+A few days afterwards, while passing the pleasant home where
+Brantley had been residing, I saw a bill up, giving notice that the
+house was for sale. A few days later I met him on the street. He did
+not see me. His eyes were on the pavement; he looked pale and
+careworn; he walked slowly, and was in deep thought.
+
+"He is of tougher material than most men, if the heart is not all
+taken out of him," I said in speaking of him to a mutual friend.
+
+"And he _is_ of tougher material," was answered, "that is, of finer
+material. Brantley is not one of your common men."
+
+"Still, there must be something wrong about him. Some defect of
+judgment. He is a good climber; but not sure-footed. Or, it may be
+that beyond a certain height his head grows dizzy."
+
+"If one gets too eager in any pursuit, he is almost sure to make
+false steps. I think Brantley became too eager. The steadily
+widening prospect as he went up, up, up, caused his pulses to move
+at a quicker rate."
+
+"Too eager, and less scrupulous," I suggested.
+
+"His honor is unstained," said the friend, with some warmth.
+
+"In the degree that a man grows eager in pursuit, he is apt to grow
+blind to things collateral, and less concerned about the principles
+involved."
+
+"In some cases that may be true, but is hardly probable in the case
+of Brantley. I do not believe that he has swerved from integrity in
+anything."
+
+"It is my belief," I answered, "that if he had not swerved, he would
+not have fallen. I may be wrong, but cannot help the impression."
+
+"Brantley is an honest man. I will maintain that in the face of
+every one," was replied.
+
+"Honest as the world regards honesty. But there are higher than
+legal standards. What A and B may consider fair, C may regard as
+questionable. He has his own standard; and if he falls below that in
+his dealings with men, he departs from his integrity."
+
+"I have nothing to say for Brantley under that view of the subject,"
+said the friend. "If he has special standards of morality, and does
+not live up to them, the matter is between himself and his own
+conscience. We, on the outside, are not his judges."
+
+It so happened that I met Brantley a short time afterwards. The
+circumstances were favorable, and our interview unreserved. He had
+sold his house, and a large part of the handsome furniture it
+contained, and was living in a humbler dwelling. I referred to his
+changed condition, and spoke of it with regret.
+
+"There is no gratuitous evil," he remarked. "I have long been
+satisfied on that head. If we lose on one hand, we gain on another.
+And my experience in life leads me to this conclusion, that the loss
+is generally in lower things, and the gain in higher."
+
+I looked into his face, yet bearing the marks of recent trial and
+suffering, and saw in it the morning dawn.
+
+"Has it been so with you?" I asked.
+
+"Yes; and it has always been so," he answered, without hesitation.
+"It is painful to be under the surgeon's knife," he added. "We
+shrink back, shivering, at the sight of his instruments. The flesh
+is agonized. But when all is over, and the greedy tumor, or wasting
+cancer, that was threatening life, is gone, we rejoice and are
+glad."
+
+He sighed, and looked sober for a little while, as thought went
+back, and memory gave too vivid a realization of what had been, and
+then resumed:
+
+"I can see now, that what seemed to me, and is still regarded by
+others as a great misfortune, was the best thing that could have
+taken place. I have lost, but I have gained; and the gain is greater
+than the loss. It has always been so. Out of every trouble or
+disaster that has befallen me in life, I have come with a deep
+conviction that my feet stumbled because they were turning into
+paths that would lead my soul astray. However much I may love myself
+and the world, however much I may seek my own, below all and above
+all is the conviction that time is fleeting, and life here but as a
+span, that if I compass the whole world, and lose my own soul, I
+have made a fearful exchange. There are a great many things regarded
+by business men as allowable. They are so common in trade, that
+scarcely one man in a score questions their morality; so common,
+that I have often found myself drifting into their practice, and
+abandoning for a time the higher principles in whose guidance there
+alone is safety. Misfortune seems to have dogged my steps; but in
+this pause of my life--in this state of calmness--I can see that
+misfortune is my good; for, not until my feet were turning into ways
+that lead to death, did I stumble and fall."
+
+"Are you not too hard in self-judgment?" I said.
+
+"No," he answered. "The case stands just here. You know, I presume,
+the immediate cause of my recent failure in business."
+
+"A sudden decline in stocks."
+
+The color deepened on his cheeks.
+
+"Yes; that is the cause. Now, years ago, I settled it clearly with
+my own conscience that stock speculation was wrong; that it was only
+another name for gambling, in which, instead of rendering service to
+the community, your gains were, in nearly all cases, measured by
+another's loss. Departing from this just principle of action, I was
+tempted to invest a large sum of money in a rising stock, that I was
+sure would continue to advance until it reached a point where, in
+selling I could realize a net gain of ten thousand dollars. I was
+doing well. I was putting by from two to three thousand dollars
+every year, and was in a fair way to get rich. But, as money began
+to accumulate, I grew more and more eager in its acquirement, and
+less concerned about the principles underlying every action, until I
+passed into a temporary state of moral blindness. I was less
+scrupulous about securing large advantages in trade, and would take
+the lion's share, if opportunity offered, without a moment's
+hesitation. So, not content with doing well in a safe path, I must
+step aside, and try my strength at climbing more rapidly, even
+though danger threatened on the left and on the right; even though I
+dragged others down in my hot and perilous scramble upwards. I lost
+my footing--I stumbled--I fell, crashing down to the very bottom of
+the hill, half way up which I had gone so safely ere the greedy
+fiend took possession of me."
+
+"And have not been really hurt by the fall," I remarked.
+
+"I have suffered pain--terrible pain; for I am of a sensitive
+nature," he replied. "But in the convulsions of agony, nothing but
+the outside shell of a false life has been torn away. The real man
+is unharmed. And now that the bitter disappointment and sadness that
+attend humiliation are over, I can say that my gain is greater than
+my loss. I would rather grope in the vale of poverty all my life,
+and keep my conscience clean, than stand high up among the mountains
+of prosperity with a taint thereon.
+
+"God knows best," he added, after a pause, speaking in a more
+subdued tone. "And I recognize the hand of His good providence in
+this wreck of my worldly hopes. To gain riches at the sacrifice of
+just principles is to gather up dirt and throw away goodly pearls."
+
+"How is it with your family?" I asked. "They must feel the change
+severely."
+
+"They did feel it. But the pain is over with them also. Poor weak
+human nature! My girls were active and industrious at home, and
+diligent at school, while my circumstances were limited. But, as
+money grew more plentiful, and I gave them a larger house to live
+in, and richer clothes to wear, they wearied of their useful
+employments, and neglected their studies. Pride grew apace, and
+vanity walked hand in hand with pride. They were less considerate of
+one another, and less loving to their parents. If I attempted to
+restrain their fondness for dress, or check their extravagance, they
+grew sullen, or used unfilial language. Like their father, they
+could not bear prosperity. But all is changed now. Misfortune has
+restored them to a better state of mind. They emulate each other in
+service at home; their minds dwell on useful things; they are tender
+of their mother and considerate of their father. Home is a sweeter
+place to us all than it has been for a long time."
+
+"And so what the world calls misfortune has proved a blessing."
+
+"Yes. In permitting my feet to stumble; in letting me fall from the
+height I had obtained, God dealt with me and mine in infinite love.
+We give false names to things. We call that good which only
+represents good, which is of the heart and life, and not in external
+possessions. He has taken from me the effigy that He may give me the
+good itself."
+
+"If all men could find like you," I said, "a sweet kernel at the
+centre of misfortune's bitter nut."
+
+"All men may find it if they will," he answered, "for the sweet
+kernel is there."
+
+How few find it! Nay, reader, if you say this, your observation is
+at fault. God's providences with men are not like blind chances, but
+full of wisdom and love. In the darkness of sorrow and adversity a
+light shines on the path that was not illumined before. When the sun
+of worldly prosperity goes down, a thousand stars are set in the
+firmament. In the stillness that follows, God speaks to the soul and
+is heard.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+VII.
+
+INTO GOOD GROUND.
+
+
+
+
+
+"_WHAT_ did you think of the sermon, Mr. Braxton?" said one church
+member to another, as the two men passed from the vestibule of St.
+Mark's out into the lofty portico.
+
+Mr. Braxton gave a slight shrug, perceived by his companion as a
+sign of disapproval. They moved along, side by side, down the broad
+steps to the pavement, closely pressed by the retiring audience.
+
+"Strong meat," said the first speaker, as they got free of the crowd
+and commenced moving down the street.
+
+"Too strong for my stomach," replied Mr. Braxton. "Something must
+have gone wrong with our minister when he sat down to write that
+discourse."
+
+"Indigestion, perhaps."
+
+"Or neuralgia," said Mr. Braxton.
+
+"He was in no amiable mood--that much is certain. Why, he set
+nine-tenths of us over on the left hand side, among the goats, as
+remorselessly as if he were an avenging Nemesis. He actually made me
+shudder."
+
+"That kind of literal application of texts to the living men and
+women in a congregation is not only in bad taste, but presumptuous
+and blasphemous. What right has a clergyman to sit in judgment on
+me, for instance? To give forced constructions to parables and vague
+generalities in Scripture, about the actual meaning of which divines
+in all ages have differed; and, pointing his finger to me or to you,
+say--'The case is yours, sir!' I cannot sit patiently under many
+more such sermons."
+
+Mr. Braxton evidently spoke from a disturbed state of mind.
+Something in the discourse had struck at the foundations of
+self-love and self-complacency.
+
+"Into one ear, and out at the other. So it is with me, in cases like
+this," answered Mr. Braxton's companion, in a changed and lighter
+tone. "If a preacher chooses to be savage; to write from dyspeptic
+or neuralgic states; to send his congregation, unshrived, to the
+nether regions--why, I shrug my shoulders and let it pass. Most
+likely, on the next Sunday, he will be full of consideration for
+tender consciences, and grandly shut the gate he threw open so
+widely on the last occasion. It would never answer, you know, to
+take these things to heart--never in the world. We'd always be
+getting into hot water. Clergymen have their moods, like other
+people. It doesn't answer to forget this. Good morning, Mr. Braxton.
+Our ways part here."
+
+"Good morning," was replied, and the men separated.
+
+But, try as Mr. Braxton would to set his minister's closely applied
+doctrine from Scripture to the account of dyspepsia or neuralgia, he
+was unable to push from his mind certain convictions wrought therein
+by the peculiar manner in which some positions had been argued and
+sustained. The subject taken by the minister, was that striking
+picture of the judgment given in the twenty-fifth chapter of
+Matthew, from the thirty-first verse to the close of the chapter,
+beginning: "When the Son of Man shall come in his glory, and all the
+holy angels with him, then shall he sit upon the throne of his
+glory: and before him shall be gathered all nations: and he shall
+separate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep
+from the goats." The passage concludes: "And these shall go away
+into everlasting punishment: but the righteous into life eternal."
+
+Now, although Mr. Braxton had complained of the literal application
+of this text, that term was hardly admissible, for the preacher
+waived the idea of a last general judgment, as involved in the
+letter of Scripture, and declared his belief in a spiritual
+signification as lying beneath the letter, and applicable to the
+inner life of every single individual at the period of departure
+from this world; adding, in this connection, briefly: "But do not
+understand me as in any degree waiving the strictness of judgment to
+which every soul will have to submit. It will not be limited by his
+acts, but go down to his ends of life--to his motives and his
+quality--and the sentence will really be a judgment upon what he
+_is_, not upon what he has _done_; although, taking the barest
+literal sense, only actions are regarded."
+
+In opening and illustrating his text, he said, farther: "As the word
+of God, according to its own declarations, is spirit and
+life--treats, in fact, by virtue of divine and Scriptural origin, of
+divine and spiritual things, must we not go beneath the merely
+obvious and natural meaning, if we would get to its true
+significance? Is there not a hunger of the soul as well as of the
+body? May we not be spiritually athirst, and strangers?--naked,
+sick, and in prison? This being so, can we confidently look for the
+invitation, 'Come, ye blessed of my Father, if our regard for the
+neighbor have not reached beyond his bodily life? If we have never
+considered his spiritual wants and sufferings, and ministered
+thereto according to our ability? Just in the degree that the soul
+is more precious than the body, is the degree of our responsibility
+under this more interior signification of Scripture. The mere
+natural acts of feeding the hungry and giving water to the thirsty,
+of visiting the sick, and those who lie in prison, of clothing the
+naked and entertaining strangers, will not save us in our last day,
+if we have neglected the higher duties involved in the divine
+admonition. Nor will even the supply of spiritual nourishment to
+hungry and thirsty souls be accounted to us for righteousness. We
+must find a higher meaning still in the text. Are we not, each one
+of us, starving for heavenly food?--spiritually exhausted with
+thirst?--naked, sick, in prison? Are we eating, daily, of the bread
+of life?--drinking at the wells of God's truth?--putting on the
+garments of righteousness?--finding balm for our sick souls in 
+Gilead?--breaking the bonds of evil?--turning from strange lands, and
+coming back to our father's house. If not, I warn you, men and
+brethren, that you are not in the right way;--that, taking the
+significance of God's word, which is truth itself, there is no
+reasonable ground of hope for your salvation."
+
+It was not with Mr. Braxton as with his friend. He could not let
+considerations like these enter one ear and go out at the other.
+From earliest childhood he had received careful instruction.
+Parents, teachers and preachers, had all shared in the work of
+storing his mind with the precepts of religion, and now, in manhood,
+his conscience rested on these and upon the states wrought therefrom
+in the impressible substance of his mind. Try as he would, he found
+the effort to push aside early convictions and early impressions a
+simple impossibility; and, notwithstanding these had been laid on
+the foundation of a far more literal interpretation of Scripture
+than the one to which he had just been listening, his maturer reason
+accepted the preacher's clear application of the law; and
+conscience, like an angel, went down into his heart, and troubled
+the waters which had been at peace.
+
+Mr. Braxton was a man of thrift. He had started in life with a
+purpose, and that purpose he was steadily attaining. To the god of
+this world he offered daily sacrifice; and in his heart really
+desired no higher good than seemed attainable through outward
+things. Wealth, position, honor, among men--these bounded his real
+aspirations. But prior things in his mind were continually reaching
+down and affecting his present states. He could not forget that life
+was short, and earthly possessions and honors but the things of a
+day. That as he brought nothing into this world, so he could take
+nothing out. That, without a religious life, he must not hope for
+heaven. In order to get free from the disturbing influence of these
+prior things, and to lay the foundations of a future hope, Mr.
+Braxton became a church member, and, so far as all Sabbath
+observances were concerned, a devout worshiper. Thus he made a truce
+with conscience, and conscience having gained so much, accepted for
+a period the truce, and left Mr. Braxton in good odor with himself.
+
+A man who goes regularly to church, and reads his Bible, cannot fail
+to have questions and controversies about truths, duties, and the
+requirements of religion. The barest literal interpretation of
+Scripture will, in most cases, oppose the action of self-love; and
+he will not fail to see in the law of spiritual life a requirement
+wholly in opposition to the law of natural life. In the very breadth
+of this literal requirement, however, he finds a way of escape from
+literal observance. To give to all who ask; to lend to all who would
+borrow; to yield the cloak when the coat is taken forcibly; to turn
+the left cheek when the right is smitten--all this is to him so
+evidently but a figure of speech, that he does not find it very hard
+to satisfy conscience. Setting these passages aside, as not to be
+taken in the sense of the letter, he does not find it very difficult
+to dispose of others that come nearer to the obvious duties of man
+to man--such, for instance, as that in the illustration of which, by
+the preacher, Mr. Braxton's self-complacency had been so much
+disturbed. He had never done much in the way of feeding the hungry,
+giving drink to the thirsty, clothing the naked, or visiting the
+sick and in prison--never done anything of set purpose, in fact. If
+people were hungry, it was mostly their own fault, and to feed them
+would be to encourage idleness and vice. All the other items in the
+catalogue were as easily disposed of; and so the literal duties
+involved might have been set forth in the most impassioned
+eloquence, Sabbath after Sabbath, without much disturbing the fine
+equipose of Mr. Braxton. Alas for his peace of mind!--the preacher
+of truth had gone past the dead letter, and revealed its spirit and
+its life. Suddenly he felt himself removed, as it were, to an almost
+impossible distance from the heaven into which, as he had
+complacently flattered himself, he should enter by the door of mere
+ritual observances, when the sad hour came for giving up the
+delightful things of this pleasant world. No wonder that Mr. Braxton
+was disturbed--no wonder that, in his first convictions touching
+those more interior truths, which made visible the sandy foundations
+whereon he was building his eternal hopes, he should regard the
+application of doctrine as personal and even literal.
+
+It was not so easy a thing to set aside the duty of ministering to
+the hungry, sick, and naked human souls around him, thousands of
+whom, for lack of spiritual nourishment, medicine and clothing, were
+in danger of perishing eternally. And the preacher in dwelling upon
+this great duty of all Christian men and women, had used emphatic
+language.
+
+"I give you," he said, "God's judgment of the case--not my own.
+'Inasmuch as ye did it not unto one of the least of these, ye did it
+not unto me. And these shall go away;' where? 'To everlasting
+punishment!' Who shall go thus, in the last day, from this
+congregation?"
+
+As Mr. Braxton sat alone on the evening of that Sabbath, troubled by
+the new thoughts which came flowing into his mind, the full
+impression of this scene in church came back upon him. There was an
+almost breathless pause. Men leaned forward in their pews; the low,
+almost whispered, tones of the minister were heard with thrilling
+distinctness in even the remotest parts of the house.
+
+"Who?" he repeated, and the stillness grew more profound. Then,
+slowly, impressively, almost sadly, he said:
+
+"I cannot hide the truth. As God's ambassador, I must give the
+message; and it is this: If you, my brother, are not ministering to
+the wants of the hungry and thirsty, the stranger, the sick and in
+prison, you are of those who will have to go away."
+
+And the minister shut the Book, and sat down. If, as we have
+intimated, the preacher had limited Christian duty to bodily needs,
+Mr. Braxton would not have been much exercised in mind.
+
+He had found an easy way to dispose of these merely literal
+interpretations of Scripture. Now, his life was brought to the
+judgment of a more interior law, as expounded that day. It was in
+vain that he endeavored to reject the law; for the more he tried to
+do this, the clearer it was seen in the light of perceptive truth.
+
+"God help me, if this be so!" he exclaimed, in a moment of more
+perfect realization of what was meant in the Divine Word. "Who shall
+stand in the judgment?"
+
+For awhile he endeavored to turn himself away from convictions that
+were grounding themselves deeper and deeper every moment,--to shut
+his eyes in wilful blindness, and refuse to see in the purer light
+which had fallen around him. But this effort only brought his mind
+into severer conflict, and consciously removed him to an almost
+fatal distance from the paths leading upward to the mountains of
+peace.
+
+"This is the way, walk ye in it." A clear voice rose above the noise
+of strife in his soul, and his soul grew calm and listened. He no
+longer wrought at the fruitless task of rejecting the higher truths
+which were illustrating his mind, but let them flow in, and by
+virtue thereof examined the state of his inner life. Now it was that
+his eyes were in a degree opened, so that he could apprehend the
+profounder meanings of Scripture. The parables were flooded with new
+light. He understood, as he had never understood before, why the
+guest, unclothed with a wedding garment, was cast out from the
+feast; and why the door was shut upon the virgins who had no oil in
+their lamps. He had always regarded these parables as involving a
+hidden meaning--as intended to convey spiritual instruction under
+literal forms--but, now, they spoke in a language that applied
+itself to his inward state, and warned him that without a marriage
+garment, woven in the loom of interior life, where motives rule, he
+could never be the King's guest; warned him that without the light
+of divine truth in his understanding, and the oil of love to God and
+the neighbor in his heart, the door of the kingdom would be shut
+against him. Ritual observances were, to these, but outward forms,
+dry husks, except when truly representative of that worship in the
+soul which subordinates natural affections to what is spiritual and
+divine.
+
+At last the seed fell into good ground. Mr. Braxton had been a
+"way-side" hearer; but, ere the good seed had time to germinate,
+fowls came and devoured it. He had been a "stony-ground" hearer,
+receiving the truth with gladness, but having no root in himself. He
+had been as the ground choked with thorns, suffering the cares of
+this world and the deceitfulness of riches to choke and hinder the
+growth of heavenly life. Now, into good ground the seed had at last
+fallen; and though the evil one tried to snatch it away, its hidden
+life, moving to the earth's quick invitation, was already giving
+prophetic signs of thirty, sixty, or a hundredfold, in the harvest
+time.
+
+Why was there good ground in the mind of Mr. Braxton? Good ground,
+even though he was wedded to external life; a self-seeker; a lover
+of the world? In the answer to this question lies a most important
+truth for all to whom God has committed the care of children. Unless
+good ground is formed, as it was in his case, by early instruction;
+by storing up in the memory truths from the Bible, and states of
+good affection; by weaving into the web and woof of the forming mind
+precepts of religion--there is small hope for the future. If these
+are not made a part of the forming life, things opposite will be
+received, and determine spiritual capabilities. Influx of life into
+the soul must be through prior things; as the twig is bent, the tree
+is inclined; as the child's memory and consciousness is stored, so
+will the man develop and progress. Take heart, then, doubting
+parent; if you have in all faithfulness, woven precious truths, and
+tender, pious, unselfish states into the texture of your child's
+mind--though the fruit is not yet seen, depend on it, that the
+treasured remains of good and true things are there, and will not be
+lost.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+VIII.
+
+GIVING THAT DOTH NOT IMPOVERISH.
+
+
+
+
+
+_OF_ all the fallacies accepted by men as truths, there is none more
+widely prevalent, nor more fatal to happiness, than that which
+assumes the measure of possession to be the measure of enjoyment.
+All over the world, the strife for accumulation goes on; every one
+seeking to increase his flocks and herds--his lands and houses--or
+his gold and merchandise--and ever in the weary, restless,
+unsatisfied present, tightening with one hand the grasp on worldly
+goods, and reaching out for new accessions with the other.
+
+In dispensation, not in possession, lies the secret of enjoyment; a
+fact which nature illustrates in a thousand ways, and to which every
+man's experience gives affirmation. "Very good doctrine for the idle
+and thriftless," said Mr. Henry Steel, a gentleman of large wealth,
+in answer to a friend, who had advanced the truth we have expressed
+above.
+
+"As good doctrine for them as for you," was replied. "Possession
+must come before dispensation. It is not the receiver but the
+dispenser who gets the higher blessing."
+
+The rich man shrugged his shoulders, and looked slightly annoyed, as
+one upon whom a distasteful theme was intruded.
+
+"I hear that kind of talk every Sunday," he said, almost
+impatiently. "But I know what it is worth. Preaching is as much a
+business as anything else; and this cant about its being more
+blessed to give than to receive is a part of the capital in trade of
+your men of black coats and white neck-ties. I understand it all,
+Mr. Erwin."
+
+"You talk lighter than is your wont on so grave a theme," answered
+the friend. "What you speak of as 'cant,' and the preacher's
+'capital in trade'--'it is more blessed to give than to receive, are
+the recorded words of him who never spake as man spake. If his
+words, must they not be true?"
+
+"Perhaps I did speak lightly," was returned. "But indeed, Mr. Erwin,
+I cannot help feeling that in all these efforts to make rich men
+believe that their only way to happiness is through a distribution
+of their estates, a large element of covetousness exists."
+
+"That may be. But, to-day you are worth over a quarter of million of
+dollars. I remember when fifty thousand, all told, limited the
+extent of your possessions, and I think you were happier than I find
+you to-day. How was it, my friend?"
+
+"As to that," was unhesitatingly replied, "I had more true enjoyment
+in life when I was simply a clerk with a salary of four hundred
+dollars a year, than I have known at any time since."
+
+"A remarkable confession," said the friend.
+
+"Yet true, nevertheless."
+
+"In all these years of strife with fortune--in all these years of
+unremitted gain--has there been any great and worthy end in your
+mind? Any purpose beyond the acquirement of wealth?"
+
+Mr. Steel's brows contracted. He looked at his friend for a moment
+like one half surprised, and then glanced thoughtfully down at the
+floor.
+
+"Gain, and only gain," said Mr. Erwin. "Not your history alone, nor
+mine alone. It is the history of millions. Gathering, gathering, but
+never of free choice, dispensing. Still, under Providence, the
+dispensation goes on; and what we hoard, in due time another
+distributes. Men accumulate gold like water in great reservoirs;
+accumulate it for themselves, and refuse to lay conduits. Often they
+pour in their gold until the banks fail under excessive pressure,
+and the rich treasure escapes to flow back among the people. Often
+secret conduits are laid, and refreshing and fertilizing currents,
+unknown to the selfish owner, flow steadily out, while he toils with
+renewed and anxious labors to keep the repository full. Oftener, the
+great magazine of accumulated gold and silver, which he never found
+time to enjoy, is rifled by others at his death. He was the toiler
+and the accumulator--the slave who only produced. Miners,
+pearl-divers, gold-washers are we, my friend; but what we gather we
+fail to possess in that true sense of possession which involves
+delight and satisfaction. For us the toil, for others the benefit."
+
+"A flattering picture certainly!" was responded by Mr. Steel, with
+the manner of one on whose mind an unpleasant conviction was forcing
+itself.
+
+"Is it not true to the life? Death holds out to us his unwelcome
+hand, and we must leave all. The key of our treasure-house is given,
+to another."
+
+"Yet, is he not bound by our will?" said Mr. Steel. "As we have
+ordered, must not he dispense?"
+
+"Why not dispense with our own hands, and with our own eyes see the
+fruit thereof? Why not, in some small measure, at least prove if it
+be indeed, more blessed to give than to receive? Let us talk plainly
+to each other--we are friends. I know that in your will is a bequest
+of five thousand dollars to a certain charitable institution, that,
+even in its limited way, is doing much good. I speak now of only
+this single item. In my will, following your example and suggestion,
+is a similar bequest of one thousand dollars. You are forty-five and
+I am forty-seven. How long do we expect to live?"
+
+"Life is uncertain."
+
+"Yet often prolonged to sixty, seventy, or even eighty years. Take
+sixty-five as the mean. Not for twenty years, then, will this
+institution receive the benefit of your good intention. It costs, I
+think, about fifty dollars a year to support each orphan child. Only
+a small number can be taken, for want of liberal means. Applicants
+are refused admission almost every day. Three hundred dollars, the
+interest on five thousand, at six per cent., would pay for six
+children. Take five years as the average time each would remain in
+the institution, and we have thirty poor, neglected little ones,
+taken from the street, and educated for usefulness. Thirty human
+souls rescued, it may be, from hell, and saved, finally, in heaven.
+And all this good might be accomplished before your eyes. You might,
+if you chose, see it in progress, and comprehending its great
+significance, experience a degree of pleasure, such as fills the
+hearts of angels. I have made up my mind what to do."
+
+"What?"
+
+"Erase the item of one thousand dollars from my will."
+
+"What then?"
+
+"Call it two thousand, and invest it at once for the use of this
+charity. No, twenty years shall stand between my purpose and its
+execution. I will have the satisfaction of knowing that good is done
+in my lifetime. In this case, at least, I will be my own dispenser."
+
+Love of money was a strong element in the heart of Mr. Steel. The
+richer he grew, the more absorbing became his desire for riches. It
+was comparatively an easy thing to write out charitable bequests in
+a will--to give money for good uses when no longer able to hold
+possession thereof; but to lessen his valued treasure by taking
+anything therefrom for others in the present time, was a thing the
+very suggestion of which startled into life a host of opposing
+reasons. He did not respond immediately, although his heart moved
+him to utterance. The force of his friend's argument was, however,
+conclusive. He saw the whole subject in a new light. After a brief
+but hard struggle with himself, he answered:
+
+"And I shall follow in your footsteps, my friend. I never thought of
+the lost time you mention, of the thirty children unblessed by the
+good act I purposed doing. Can I leave them to vice, to suffering,
+to crime, and yet be innocent? Will not their souls be required at
+my hands, now that God shows me their condition? I feel the pressure
+of a responsibility scarcely thought of an hour ago. You have turned
+the current of my thoughts in a new direction."
+
+"And what is better still," answered Mr. Erwin, your purposes also."
+
+"My purposes also," was the reply.
+
+A week afterwards the friends met again.
+
+"Ah," said Mr. Erwin, as he took the hand of Mr. Steel, "I see a new
+light in your face. Something has taken off from your heart that
+dead, dull weight of which you complained when I was last here. I
+don't know when I have seen so cheerful an expression on your
+countenance."
+
+"Perhaps your eyes were dull before." Mr. Steel's smile was so
+all-pervading that it lit up every old wrinkle and care-line in his
+face.
+
+"I was at the school yesterday," said Mr. Erwin, in a meaning way.
+
+"Were you?" The light lay stronger on the speaker's countenance.
+
+"Yes. A little while after you were there."
+
+Mr. Steel took a deep breath, as if his heart had commenced beating
+more rapidly.
+
+"I have not seen a happier man than the superintendent for a score
+of weeks. If you had invested the ten thousand dollars for his
+individual benefit, he could not have been half so well pleased."
+
+"He seems like an excellent man, and one whose heart is in his
+work," said Mr. Steel.
+
+"He had, already, taken in ten poor little boys and girls on the
+strength of your liberal donation. Ten children lifted out of want
+and suffering, and placed under Christian guardianship! Just think
+of it. My heart gave a leap for joy when he told me. It was well
+done, my friend--well done!"
+
+"And what of your good purpose, Mr. Erwin?" asked the other.
+
+"Two little girls--babes almost," replied Mr. Erwin, in a lower
+voice, that almost trembled with feeling, "were brought to me. As I
+looked at them, the superintendent said: 'I heard of them two days
+ago. Their wretched mother had just died, and, in dying, had given
+them to a vicious companion. Hunger, cold, debasement, suffering,
+crime, were in the way before them; and but for your timely aid, I
+should have had no power to intervene. But, you gave the means of
+rescue, and here they are, innocent as yet, and out of danger from
+the wolf.' In all my life, my friend, there has not been given a
+moment of sincerer pleasure."
+
+For some time Mr. Steel sat musing.
+
+"This is a new experience," he said, at length. "Something outside
+of the common order of things. I have made hundreds of investments
+in my time, but none that paid me down so large an interest. A poor
+speculation it seemed. You almost dragged me into it; but, I see
+that it will yield unfailing dividends of pleasure."
+
+"We have turned a leaf in the book of life," his friend made answer,
+"and on the new page which now lies before us, we find it written,
+that in wise dispensation, not in mere getting and hoarding, lies
+the secret of happiness. The lake must have an outlet, and give
+forth its crystal waters in full measure, if it would keep them pure
+and wholesome, or, as the Dead Sea, it will be full of bitterness,
+and hold no life in its bosom."
+
+
+
+
+
+
+IX.
+
+WAS IT MURDER, OR SUICIDE?
+
+
+
+
+
+"_WHO_ is that young lady?"
+
+A slender girl, just above the medium height, stood a moment at the
+parlor door, and then withdrew. Her complexion was fair, but
+colorless; her eyes so dark, that you were in doubt, on the first
+glance, whether they were brown or blue. Away from her forehead and
+temples, the chestnut hair was put far back, giving to her
+finely-cut and regular features an intellectual cast. Her motions
+were easy, yet with an air of reserve and dignity.
+
+The question was asked by a visitor who had called a little while
+before.
+
+"My seamstress," answered Mrs. Wykoff.
+
+"Oh!" The manner of her visitor changed. How the whole character of
+the woman was expressed in the tone with which she made that simple
+ejaculation! Only a seamstress! "Oh! I thought it some relative or
+friend of the family."
+
+"No."
+
+"She is a peculiar-looking girl," said Mrs. Lowe, the visitor.
+
+"Do you think so? In what respect?"
+
+"If she were in a different sphere of life, I would say that she had
+the style of a lady."
+
+"She's a true, good girl, answered Mrs. Wykoff, "and I feel much
+interested in her. A few years ago her father was in excellent
+circumstances."
+
+"Ah!" With a slight manifestation of interest.
+
+"Yes, and she's been well educated."
+
+"And has ridden in her own carriage, no doubt. It's the story of
+two-thirds of your sewing girls." Mrs. Lowe laughed in an
+unsympathetic, contemptuous way.
+
+"I happen to know that it is true in Mary Carson's case," said Mrs.
+Wykoff.
+
+"Mary Carson. Is that her name?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Passing from her antecedents, as the phrase now is, which are
+neither here nor there," said Mrs. Lowe, with a coldness, or rather
+coarseness of manner, that shocked the higher tone of Mrs. Wykoff's
+feelings, "what is she as a seamstress? Can she fit
+children?--little girls like my Angela and Grace?"
+
+"I have never been so well suited in my life," replied Mrs. Wykoff.
+"Let me show you a delaine for Anna which she finished yesterday."
+
+Mrs. Wykoff left the room, and returned in a few minutes with a
+child's dress in her hand. The ladies examined the work on this
+dress with practised eyes, and agreed that it was of unusual
+excellence.
+
+"And she fits as well as she sews?" said Mrs. Lowe.
+
+"Yes. Nothing could fit more beautifully than the dresses she has
+made for my children."
+
+"How soon will you be done with her?"
+
+"She will be through with my work in a day or two."
+
+"Is she engaged anywhere else?"
+
+"I will ask her, if you desire it."
+
+"Do so, if you please."
+
+"Would you like to see her?"
+
+"It's of no consequence. Say that I will engage her for a couple of
+weeks. What are her terms?"
+
+"Seventy-five cents a day."
+
+"So much? I've never paid over sixty-two-and-a-half."
+
+"She's worth the difference. I'd rather pay her a dollar a day than
+give some women I've had, fifty cents. She works faithfully in all
+things."
+
+"I'll take your word for that, Mrs. Wykoff. Please ask her if she
+can come to me next week; and if so, on what day?"
+
+Mrs. Wykoff left the room.
+
+"Will Monday suit you?" she asked, on returning.
+
+"Yes; that will do."
+
+"Miss Carson says that she will be at your service on Monday."
+
+"Very well. Tell her to report herself bright and early on that day.
+I shall be all ready for her."
+
+"Hadn't you better see her, while you are here?" asked Mrs. Wykoff.
+
+"Oh, no. Not at all necessary. It will be time enough on Monday.
+Your endorsement of her is all-sufficient."
+
+Mrs. Lowe, who had only been making a formal call, now arose, and
+with a courteous good morning, retired. From the parlor, Mrs. Wykoff
+returned to the room occupied by Miss Carson.
+
+"You look pale this morning, Mary," said the lady as she came in,
+"I'm afraid you are not as well as usual."
+
+The seamstress lifted herself in a tired way, and took a long
+breath, at the same time holding one hand tightly against her left
+side. Her eyes looked very bright, as they rested, with a sober
+expression, on Mrs. Wykoff. But she did not reply.
+
+"Have you severe pain there, Mary?" The voice was very kind; almost
+motherly.
+
+"Not very severe. But it aches in a dull way."
+
+"Hadn't you better lie down for a little while?"
+
+"Oh, no--thank you, Mrs. Wykoff." And a smile flitted over the
+girl's sweet, sad face; a smile that was meant to say--"How absurd
+to think of such a thing!" She was there to work, not to be treated
+as an invalid. Stooping over the garment, she went on with her
+sewing. Mrs. Wykoff looked at her very earnestly, and saw that her
+lips were growing colorless; that she moved them in a nervous way,
+and swallowed every now and then.
+
+"Come, child," she said, in a firm tone, as she took Miss Carson by
+the arm. "Put aside your work, and lie down on that sofa. You are
+sick."
+
+She did not resist; but only said---
+
+"Not sick, ma'am--only a little faint."
+
+As her head went heavily down upon the pillow, Mrs. Wykoff saw a
+sparkle of tears along the line of her closely shut eyelids.
+
+"Now don't stir from there until I come back," said the kind lady,
+and left the room. In a little while she returned, with a small
+waiter in her hand, containing a goblet of wine sangaree and a
+biscuit.
+
+"Take this, Mary. It will do you good."
+
+The eyes which had not been unclosed since Mrs. Wykoff went out,
+were all wet as Mary Carson opened them.
+
+"Oh, you are so kind!" There was gratitude in her voice. Rising, she
+took the wine, and drank of it like one athirst. Then taking it from
+her lips, she sat, as if noting her sensations.
+
+"It seems to put life into me," she said, with a pulse of
+cheerfulness in her tones.
+
+"Now eat this biscuit," and Mrs. Wykoff held the waiter near.
+
+The wine drank and the biscuit eaten, a complete change in Miss
+Carson was visible. The whiteness around her mouth gave place to a
+ruddier tint; her face no longer wore an exhausted air; the glassy
+lustre of her eyes was gone.
+
+"I feel like myself again," she said, as she left the sofa, and
+resumed her sewing chair.
+
+"How is your side now?" asked Mrs. Wykoff.
+
+"Easier. I scarcely perceive the pain."
+
+"Hadn't you better lie still a while longer?"
+
+"No, ma'am. I am all right now. A weak spell came over me. I didn't
+sleep much last night, and that left me exhausted this morning, and
+without any appetite."
+
+"What kept you awake?"
+
+"This dull pain in my side for a part of the time. Then I coughed a
+good deal; and then I became wakeful and nervous."
+
+"Does this often occur, Mary?"
+
+"Well--yes, ma'am--pretty often of late."
+
+"How often?"
+
+"Two or three times a week."
+
+"Can you trace it to any cause?"
+
+"Not certainly."
+
+"To cold?"
+
+"No, ma'am."
+
+"Fatigue?"
+
+"More that than anything else, I think."
+
+"And you didn't eat any breakfast this morning?"
+
+"I drank a cup of coffee."
+
+"But took no solid food?"
+
+"I couldn't have swallowed it, ma'am."
+
+"And it's now twelve o'clock," said Mrs. Wykoff; drawing out her
+watch. "Mary! Mary! This will not do. I don't wonder you were faint
+just now."
+
+Miss Carson bent to her work and made no answer. Mrs. Wykoff sat
+regarding her for some time with a look of human interest, and then
+went out.
+
+A little before two o'clock there was a tap at the door, and the
+waiter came in, bearing a tray. There was a nicely-cooked chop,
+toast, and some tea, with fruit and a custard.
+
+"Mrs. Wykoff said, when she went out, that dinner would be late
+to-day, and that you were not well, and mustn't be kept waiting,"
+remarked the servant, as he drew a small table towards the centre of
+the room, and covered it with a white napkin.
+
+He came just in time. The stimulating effect of the wine had
+subsided, and Miss Carson was beginning to grow faint again, for
+lack of food.
+
+It was after three o'clock when Mrs. Wykoff came home, and half past
+three before the regular dinner for the family was served. She
+looked in, a moment, upon the seamstress, saying as she did so--
+
+"You've had your dinner, Mary?"
+
+"Oh yes, ma'am, and I'm much obliged," answered Miss Carson, a
+bright smile playing over her face. The timely meal had put new life
+into her.
+
+"I knew you couldn't wait until we were ready," said the
+kind-hearted, thoughtful woman, "and so told Ellen to cook you a
+chop, and make you a cup of tea. Did you have enough?"
+
+"Oh yes, ma'am. More than enough."
+
+"You feel better than you did this morning?"
+
+"A great deal better, I'm like another person."
+
+"You must never go without food so long again, Mary. It is little
+better than suicide for one in your state of health."
+
+Mrs. Wykoff retired, and the seamstress went on with her work.
+
+At the usual hour, Mary Carson appeared on the next morning. Living
+at some distance from Mrs. Wykoff's, she did not come until after
+breakfast. The excellent lady had thought over the incident of the
+day before, and was satisfied that, from lack of nutritious food at
+the right time, Mary's vital forces were steadily wasting, and that
+she would, in a very little while, destroy herself.
+
+"I will talk with her seriously about this matter," she said. "A
+word of admonition may save her."
+
+"You look a great deal better this morning," she remarked, as she
+entered the room where Mary was sewing.
+
+"I haven't felt better for a long time," was the cheerful answer.
+
+"Did you sleep well last night?"
+
+"Very well."
+
+"Any cough?"
+
+"Not of any consequence, ma'am."
+
+"How was the pain in your side?"
+
+"It troubled me a little when I first went to bed, but soon passed
+off."
+
+"Did you feel the old exhaustion on waking?"
+
+"I always feel weak in the morning; but it was nothing, this
+morning, to what it has been."
+
+"How was your appetite?"
+
+"Better. I eat an egg and a piece of toast, and they tasted good.
+Usually my stomach loathes food in the morning."
+
+"Has this been the case long?"
+
+"For a long time, ma'am."
+
+Mrs. Wykoff mused for a little while, and then asked--
+
+"How do you account for the difference this morning?"
+
+Miss Carson's pale face became slightly flushed, and her eyes fell
+away from the questioning gaze of Mrs. Wykoff.
+
+"There is a cause for it, and it is of importance that you should
+know the cause. Has it been suggested to your mind?"
+
+"Yes, ma'am. To me the cause is quite apparent."
+
+They looked at each other for a few moments in silence.
+
+"My interest in you prompts these questions, Mary," said Mrs.
+Wykoff. "Speak to me freely, if you will, as to a friend. What made
+the difference?"
+
+"I think the difference is mainly due to your kindness
+yesterday.--To the glass of wine and biscuit when I was faint, and
+to the early and good dinner, when exhausted nature was crying for
+food. I believe, Mrs. Wykoff"--and Mary's eyes glistened--"that if
+you had not thought of me when you did, I should not be here
+to-day."
+
+"Are you serious, Mary?"
+
+"I am, indeed, ma'am. I should have got over my faint spell in the
+morning, even without the wine and biscuit, and worked on until
+dinner-time; but I wouldn't have been able to eat anything. It
+almost always happens, when I go so long without food, that my
+appetite fails altogether, and by the time night comes, I sink down
+in an exhausted state, from which nature finds it hard to rally. It
+has been so a number of times. The week before I came here, I was
+sewing for a lady, and worked from eight o'clock in the morning
+until four in the afternoon, without food passing my lips. As I had
+been unable to eat anything at breakfast-time, I grew very faint,
+and when called to dinner, was unable to swallow a mouthful. When I
+got home in the evening I was feverish and exhausted, and coughed
+nearly all night. It was three or four days before I was well enough
+to go out again."
+
+"Has this happened, in any instance, while you were sewing for me?"
+asked Mrs. Wykoff.
+
+Miss Carson dropped her face, and turned it partly aside; her manner
+was slightly disturbed.
+
+"Don't hesitate about answering my question, Mary. If it has
+happened, say so. I am not always as thoughtful as I should be."
+
+"It happened once."
+
+"When?"
+
+"Last week."
+
+"Oh! I remember that you were not able to come for two days. Now,
+tell me, Mary, without reservation, exactly how it was."
+
+"I never blamed you for a moment, Mrs. Wykoff. You didn't think; and
+I'd rather not say anything about it. If I'd been as well as usual
+on that day, it wouldn't have happened."
+
+"You'd passed a sleepless night?" said Mrs. Wykoff.
+
+"Yes, ma'am."
+
+"The consequence of fatigue and exhaustion?"
+
+"Perhaps that was the reason."
+
+"And couldn't eat any breakfast?"
+
+"I drank a cup of coffee."
+
+"Very well. After that you came here to work. Now, tell me exactly
+what occurred, and how you felt all day. Don't keep back anything on
+account of my feelings. I want the exact truth. It will be of use to
+me, and to others also, I think."
+
+Thus urged, Miss Carson replied--
+
+"I'll tell you just as it was. I came later than usual. The walk is
+long, and I felt so weak that I couldn't hurry. I thought you looked
+a little serious when I came in, and concluded that it was in
+consequence of my being late. The air and walk gave me an appetite,
+and if I had taken some food then, it would have done me good. I
+thought, as I stood at the door, waiting to be let in, that I would
+ask for a cracker or a piece of bread and butter; but, when I met
+you, and saw how sober you looked, my heart failed me."
+
+"Why, Mary!" said Mrs. Wykoff. "How wrong it was in you!"
+
+"May be it was, ma'am; but I couldn't help it. I'm foolish
+sometimes; and it's hard for us to be anything else than what we
+are, as my Aunt Hannah used to say. Well, I sat down to my work with
+the dull pain in my side, and the sick feeling that always comes at
+such times, and worked on hour after hour. You looked in once or
+twice during the morning to see how I was getting on, and to ask
+about the trimming for a dress I was making. Then you went out
+shopping, and did not get home until half past two o'clock. For two
+hours there had been a gnawing at my stomach, and I was faint for
+something to eat. Twice I got up to ring the bell, and ask for a
+lunch; but, I felt backward about taking the liberty. When, at three
+o'clock, I was called to dinner, no appetite remained. I put food
+into my mouth, but it had no sweetness, and the little I forced
+myself to swallow, lay undigested. You were very much occupied, and
+did not notice me particularly. I dragged on, as best I could,
+through the afternoon, feeling, sometimes, as if I would drop from
+my chair. You had tea later than usual. It was nearly seven o'clock
+when I put up my work and went down. You said something in a kind,
+but absent tone, about my looking pale, and asked if I would have a
+second cup of tea. I believe I forced myself to eat a slice of bread
+half as large as my hand. I thought I should never reach home that
+night, for the weakness that came upon me. I got to bed as soon as
+possible, but was too tired to sleep until after twelve o'clock,
+when a coughing spell seized me, which brought on the pain in my
+side. It was near daylight when I dropped off; and then I slept so
+heavily for two hours that I was all wet with perspiration when I
+awoke. On trying to rise, my head swam so that I had to lie down
+again, and it was late in the day before I could even sit up in bed.
+Towards evening, I was able to drink a cup of tea and eat a small
+piece of toast and then I felt wonderfully better. I slept well that
+night, and was still better in the morning, but did not think it
+safe to venture out upon a day's work; so I rested and got all the
+strength I could. On the third day, I was as well as ever again."
+
+Mrs. Wykoff drew a long sigh as Miss Carson stopped speaking and
+bent down over her sewing. For some time, she remained without
+speaking.
+
+"Life is too precious a thing to be wasted in this way," said the
+lady, at length, speaking partly to herself, and partly to the
+seamstress. "We are too thoughtless, I must own; but you are not
+blameless. It is scarcely possible for us to understand just how the
+case stands with one in your position, and duty to yourself demands
+that you should make it known. There is not one lady in ten, I am
+sure, who would not be pleased rather than annoyed, to have you do
+so."
+
+Miss Carson did not answer.
+
+"Do you doubt?" asked Mrs. Wykoff.
+
+"For one of my disposition," was replied, "the life of a seamstress
+does not take off the keen edge of a natural reserve--or, to speak
+more correctly sensitiveness. I dislike to break in upon another's
+household arrangements, or in any way to obtrude myself. My rule is,
+to adapt myself, as best I can, to the family order, and so not
+disturb anything by my presence."
+
+"Even though your life be in jeopardy?" said Mrs. Wykoff.
+
+"Oh! it's not so bad as that."
+
+"But it is, Mary! Let me ask a few more questions. I am growing
+interested in the subject, as reaching beyond you personally. How
+many families do you work for?"
+
+After thinking for a little while, and naming quite a number of
+ladies, she replied--
+
+"Not less than twenty."
+
+"And to many of these, you go for only a day or two at a time?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Passing from family to family, and adapting yourself to their
+various home arrangements?"
+
+"Yes, ma'am."
+
+"Getting your dinner at one o'clock to-day, and at three or four
+to-morrow?"
+
+Miss Carson nodded assent.
+
+"Taking it now, warm and well served, with the family, and on the
+next occasion, cold and tasteless by yourself, after the family has
+dined."
+
+Another assenting inclination of the head.
+
+"One day set to work in an orderly, well ventilated room, and on the
+next cooped up with children in a small apartment, the air of which
+is little less than poison to your weak lungs."
+
+"These differences must always occur, Mrs. Wykoff," replied Miss
+Carson, in a quiet uncomplaining voice. "How could it be otherwise?
+No house-keeper is going to alter her family arrangements for the
+accommodation of a sewing-girl. The seamstress must adapt herself to
+them, and do it as gracefully as possible."
+
+"Even at the risk of her life?"
+
+"She will find it easier to decline working in families where the
+order of things bears too heavily upon her, than to attempt any
+change. I have been obliged to do this in one or two instances."
+
+"There is something wrong here, Mary," said Mrs. Wykoff, with
+increasing sobriety of manner. "Something very wrong, and as I look
+it steadily in the face, I feel both surprise and trouble; for,
+after what you have just said, I do not see clearly how it is to be
+remedied. One thing is certain, if you, as a class, accept, without
+remonstrance, the hurt you suffer, there will be no change. People
+are indifferent and thoughtless; or worse, too selfish to have any
+regard for others--especially if they stand, socially, on a plane
+below them."
+
+"We cannot apply the remedy," answered Miss Carson.
+
+"I am not so sure of that."
+
+"Just look at it for a moment, Mrs. Wykoff. It is admitted, that,
+for the preservation of health, orderly habits are necessary; and
+that food should be taken at regular intervals. Suppose that, at
+home, my habit is to eat breakfast at seven, dinner at one, and
+supper at six. To-day, such is the order of my meals; but to-morrow,
+I leave home at half past six, and sit down, on an empty stomach to
+sew until eight, before I am called to breakfast. After that, I work
+until two o'clock, when I get my dinner; and at seven drink tea. On
+the day after that, may be, on my arrival at another house where a
+day's cutting and fitting is wanted, I find the breakfast awaiting
+me at seven; this suits very well--but not another mouthful of food
+passes my lips until after three o'clock, and may be, then, I have
+such an inward trembling and exhaustion, that I cannot eat. On the
+day following, the order is again changed. So it goes on. The
+difference in food, too, is often as great. At some houses,
+everything is of good quality, well cooked, and in consequence, of
+easy digestion; while at others, sour or heavy bread, greasy
+cooking, and like kitchen abominations, if I must so call them,
+disorder instead of giving sustenance to a frail body like mine. The
+seamstress who should attempt a change of these things for her own
+special benefit, would soon find herself in hot water. Think a
+moment. Suppose, in going into a family for one or two days, or a
+week, I should begin by a request to have my meals served at certain
+hours--seven, one and six, for instance--how would it be received in
+eight out of ten families?"
+
+"Something would depend," said Mrs. Wykoff, "on the way in which it
+was done. If there was a formal stipulation, or a cold demand, I do
+not think the response would be a favorable one. But, I am satisfied
+that, in your case, with the signs of poor health on your
+countenance, the mild request to be considered as far as
+practicable, would, in almost every instance, receive a kind
+return."
+
+"Perhaps so. But, it would make trouble--if no where else, with
+servants, who never like to do anything out of the common order. I
+have been living around long enough to understand how such things
+operate; and generally think it wisest to take what comes and make
+the best of it."
+
+"Say, rather, the worst of it, Mary. To my thinking, you are making
+the worst of it."
+
+But, Mrs. Wykoff did not inspire her seamstress with any purpose to
+act in the line of her suggestions. Her organization was of too
+sensitive a character to accept the shocks and repulses that she
+knew would attend, in some quarters, any such intrusion of her
+individual wants. Even with all the risks upon her, she preferred to
+suffer whatever might come, rather than ask for consideration.
+During the two or three days that she remained with Mrs. Wykoff,
+that excellent lady watched her, and ministered to her actual wants,
+with all the tender solicitude of a mother; and when she left, tried
+to impress upon her mind the duty of asking, wherever she might be,
+for such consideration as her health required.
+
+The Monday morning on which Mary Carson was to appear "bright and
+early" at the dwelling of Mrs. Lowe, came round, but it was far from
+being a bright morning. An easterly storm had set in during the
+night; the rain was falling fast, and the wind driving gustily. A
+chilliness crept through the frame of Miss Carson as she arose from
+her bed, soon after the dull light began to creep in drearily
+through the half closed shutters of her room. The air, even within
+her chamber, felt cold, damp, and penetrating. From her window a
+steeple clock was visible. She glanced at the face, and saw that it
+was nearly seven.
+
+"So late as that!" she exclaimed, in a tone of surprise, and
+commenced dressing herself in a hurried, nervous way. By the time
+she was ready to leave her room, she was exhausted by her own
+excited haste.
+
+"Mary," said a kind voice, calling to her as she was moving down
+stairs, "you are not going out this morning."
+
+"Oh, yes, ma'am," she answered, in a cheerful voice. "I have an
+engagement for to-day."
+
+"But the storm is too severe. It's raining and blowing dreadfully.
+Wait an hour or two until it holds up a little."
+
+"Oh dear, no, Mrs. Grant! I can't stop for a trifle of rain."
+
+"It's no trifle of rain this morning, let me tell you, Mary. You'll
+get drenched to the skin. Now don't go out, child!"
+
+"I must indeed, Mrs. Grant. The lady expects me, and I cannot
+disappoint her." And Miss Carson kept on down stairs.
+
+"But you are not going without something on your stomach, Mary. Wait
+just for a few minutes until I can get you a cup of tea. The water
+is boiling."
+
+Mary did not wait. It was already past the time when she was
+expected at Mrs. Lowe's; and besides feeling a little uncomfortable
+on that account, she had a slight sense of nausea, with its
+attendant aversion to food. So, breaking away from Mrs. Grant's
+concerned importunities, she went forth into the cold driving storm.
+It so happened, that she had to go for nearly the entire distance of
+six or seven blocks, almost in the teeth of the wind, which blew a
+gale, drenching her clothes in spite of all efforts to protect
+herself by means of an umbrella. Her feet and ankles were wet by the
+time she reached Mrs. Lowe's, and the lower parts of her dress and
+under-clothing saturated to a depth of ten or twelve inches.
+
+"I expected you half an hour ago," said the lady, in a coldly polite
+way, as Miss Carson entered her presence.
+
+"The morning was dark and I overslept myself," was the only reply.
+
+Mrs. Lowe did not remark upon the condition of Mary's clothing and
+feet. That was a matter of no concern to her. It was a seamstress,
+not a human being, that was before her--a machine, not thing of
+sensation. So she conducted her to a room in the third story,
+fronting east, against the cloudy and misty windows of which the
+wind and rain were driving. There was a damp, chilly feeling in the
+air of this room. Mrs. Lowe had a knit shawl drawn around her
+shoulders; but Mary, after removing her bonnet and cloak, had no
+external protection for her chest beyond the closely fitting body of
+her merino dress. Her feet and hands felt very cold, and she had
+that low shuddering, experienced when one is inwardly chilled.
+
+Mrs. Lowe was ready for her seamstress. There were the materials to
+make half a dozen dresses for Angela and Grace, and one of the
+little Misses was called immediately, and the work of selecting and
+cutting a body pattern commenced, Mrs. Lowe herself superintending
+the operation, and embarrassing Mary at the start with her many
+suggestions. Nearly an hour had been spent in this way, when the
+breakfast bell rang. It was after eight o'clock. Without saying
+anything to Mary, Mrs. Lowe and the child they had been fitting,
+went down stairs. This hour had been one of nervous excitement to
+Mary Carson. Her cheeks were hot--burning as if a fire shone upon
+them--but her cold hands, and wet, colder feet, sent the blood in
+every returning circle, robbed of warmth to the disturbed heart.
+
+It was past nine o'clock when a servant called Mary to breakfast. As
+she arose from her chair, she felt a sharp stitch in her left side;
+so sharp, that she caught her breath in half inspirations, two or
+three times, before venturing on a full inflation of the lungs.
+She was, at the same time, conscious of an uncomfortable tightness
+across the chest. The nausea, and loathing of food, which had given
+place soon after her arrival at Mrs. Lowe's to a natural craving of
+the stomach for food, had returned again, and she felt, as she went
+down stairs, that unless something to tempt the appetite were set
+before her, she could not take a mouthful. There was nothing to
+tempt the appetite. The table at which the family had eaten remained
+just as they had left it--soiled plates and scraps of broken bread
+and meat; partly emptied cups and saucers; dirty knives and forks,
+spread about in confusion.--Amid all this, a clean plate had been
+set for the seamstress; and Mrs. Lowe awaited her, cold and
+dignified, at the head of the table.
+
+"Coffee or tea, Miss Carson?"
+
+"Coffee."
+
+It was a lukewarm decoction of spent coffee grounds, flavored with
+tin, and sweetened to nauseousness. Mary took a mouthful and
+swallowed it--put the cup again to her lips; but they resolutely
+refused to unclose and admit another drop. So she sat the cup down.
+
+"Help yourself to some of the meat." And Mrs. Lowe pushed the dish,
+which, nearly three-quarters of an hour before had come upon the
+table bearing a smoking sirloin, across to the seamstress. Now,
+lying beside the bone, and cemented to the dish by a stratum of
+chilled gravy, was the fat, stringy end of the steak. The sight of
+it was enough for Miss Carson; and she declined the offered
+delicacy.
+
+"There's bread." She took a slice from a fresh baker's loaf; and
+spread it with some oily-looking butter that remained on one of the
+butter plates. It was slightly sour. By forcing herself, she
+swallowed two or three mouthfuls. But the remonstrating palate would
+accept no more.
+
+"Isn't the coffee good?" asked Mrs. Lowe, with a sharp quality in
+her voice, seeing that Miss Carson did not venture upon a second
+mouthful.
+
+"I have very little appetite this morning," was answered, with an
+effort to smile and look cheerful.
+
+"Perhaps you'd rather have tea. Shall I give you a cup?" And Mrs.
+Lowe laid her hand on the teapot.
+
+"You may, if you please." Mary felt an inward weakness that she knew
+was occasioned by lack of food, and so accepted the offer of tea, in
+the hope that it might prove more palatable than the coffee. It had
+the merit of being hot, and not of decidedly offensive flavor; but
+it was little more in strength than sweetened water, whitened with
+milk. She drank off the cup, and then left the table, going, with
+her still wet feet and skirts to the sewing-room.
+
+"Rather a dainty young lady," she heard Mrs. Lowe remark to the
+waiter, as she left the room.
+
+The stitch in Mary's side caught her again, as she went up stairs,
+and almost took her breath away; and it was some time after she
+resumed her work, before she could bear her body up straight on the
+left side.
+
+In her damp feet and skirts, on a chilly and rainy October day, Mary
+Carson sat working until nearly three o'clock, without rest or
+refreshment of any kind; and when at last called to dinner, the
+disordered condition of the table, and the cold, unpalatable food
+set before her, extinguished, instead of stimulating her sickly
+appetite. She made a feint of eating, to avoid attracting attention,
+and then returned to the sewing-room, the air of which, as she
+re-entered, seemed colder than that of the hall and dining-room.
+
+The stitch in her side was not so bad during the afternoon; but the
+dull pain was heavier, and accompanied by a sickening sensation.
+Still, she worked on, cutting, fitting and sewing with a patience
+and industry, that, considering her actual condition, was
+surprising. Mrs. Lowe was in and out of the room frequently,
+overlooking the work, and marking its progress. Beyond the producing
+power of her seamstress, she had no thought of that individual. It
+did not come within the range of her questionings whether she were
+well or ill--weak or strong--exhausted by prolonged labor, or in
+the full possession of bodily vigor. To her, she was simply an agent
+through which a certain service was obtained; and beyond that
+service, she was nothing. The extent of her consideration was
+limited by the progressive creation of dresses for her children. As
+that went on, her thought dwelt with Miss Carson; but penetrated no
+deeper. She might be human; might have an individual life full of
+wants, yearnings, and tender sensibilities; might be conscious of
+bodily or mental suffering--but, if so, it was in a region so remote
+from that in which Mrs. Lowe dwelt, that no intelligence thereof
+reached her.
+
+At six o'clock, Mary put up her work, and, taking her bonnet and
+shawl, went down stairs, intending to return home.
+
+"You're not going?" said Mrs. Lowe, meeting her on the way. She
+spoke in some surprise.
+
+"Yes, ma'am. I'm not very well, and wish to get home."
+
+"What time is it?" Mrs. Lowe drew out her watch. "Only six o'clock.
+I think you're going rather early. It was late when you came this
+morning, you know."
+
+"Excuse me, if you please," said Miss Carson, as she moved on. "I am
+not very well to-night. To-morrow I will make it up."
+
+Mrs. Lowe muttered something that was not heard by the seamstress,
+who kept on down stairs, and left the house.
+
+The rain was still falling and the wind blowing. Mary's feet were
+quite wet again by the time she reached home.
+
+"How are you, child?" asked Mrs. Grant, in kind concern, as Mary
+came in.
+
+"Not very well," was answered.
+
+"Oh! I'm sorry! Have you taken cold?"
+
+"I'm afraid that I have."
+
+"I said it was wrong in you to go out this morning. Did you get very
+wet?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+Mrs. Grant looked down at Mary's feet. "Are they damp?"
+
+"A little."
+
+"Come right into the sitting-room. I've had a fire made up on
+purpose for you." And the considerate Mrs. Grant hurried Mary into
+the small back room, and taking off her cloak and bonnet, placed her
+in a chair before the fire. Then, as she drew off one of her shoes,
+and clasped the foot in her hand, she exclaimed--
+
+"Soaking wet, as I live!" Then added, after removing, with kind
+officiousness, the other shoe--"Hold both feet to the fire, while I
+run up and get you a pair of dry stockings. Don't take off the wet
+ones until I come back."
+
+In a few minutes Mrs. Grant returned with the dry stockings and a
+towel. She bared one of the damp feet, and dried and heated it
+thoroughly--then warmed one of the stockings and drew it on.
+
+"It feels so good," said Mary, faintly, yet with a tone of
+satisfaction.
+
+Then the other foot was dried, warmed, and covered. On completing
+this welcome service, Mrs. Grant looked more steadily into Mary's
+face, and saw that her cheeks were flushed unnaturally, and that her
+eyes shone with an unusual lustre. She also noticed, that in
+breathing there was an effort.
+
+"You got very wet this morning," said Mrs. Grant.
+
+"Yes. The wind blew right in my face all the way. An umbrella was
+hardly of any use."
+
+"You dried yourself on getting to Mrs. Lowe's?"
+
+Mary shook her head.
+
+"What?"
+
+"There was no fire in the room."
+
+"Why, Mary!"
+
+"I had no change of clothing, and there was no fire in the room.
+What could I do?"
+
+"You could have gone down into the kitchen, if nowhere else, and
+dried your feet."
+
+"It would have been better if I had done so; but you know how hard
+it is for me to intrude myself or give trouble."
+
+"Give trouble! How strangely you do act, sometimes! Isn't life worth
+a little trouble to save? Mrs. Lowe should have seen to this. Didn't
+she notice your condition?"
+
+"I think not."
+
+"Well, it's hard to say who deserves most censure, you or she. Such
+trifling with health and life is a crime. What's the matter?" She
+observed Mary start as if from sudden pain.
+
+"I have suffered all day, with an occasional sharp stitch in my
+side--it caught me just then."
+
+Mrs. Grant observed her more closely; while doing so, Mary coughed
+two or three times. The cough was tight and had a wheezing sound.
+
+"Have you coughed much?" she asked.
+
+"Not a great deal. But I'm very tight here," laying her hand over
+her breast. "I think," she added, a few moments afterwards, "that
+I'll go up to my room and get to bed. I feel tired and sick."
+
+"Wait until I can get you some tea," replied Mrs. Grant. "I'll bring
+down a pillow, and you can lie here on the sofa."
+
+"Thank you, Mrs. Grant. You are so kind and thoughtful." Miss
+Carson's voice shook a little. The contrast between the day's
+selfish indifference of Mrs. Lowe, and the evening's motherly
+consideration of Mrs. Grant, touched her. "I will lie down here for
+a short time. Perhaps I shall feel better after getting some warm
+tea. I've been chilly all day."
+
+The pillow and a shawl were brought, and Mrs. Grant covered Mary as
+she lay upon the sofa; then she went to the kitchen to hurry up tea.
+
+"Come, dear," she said, half an hour afterwards, laying her hand
+upon the now sleeping girl. A drowsy feeling had come over Mary, and
+she had fallen into a heavy slumber soon after lying down. The easy
+touch of Mrs. Grant did not awaken her. So she called louder, and
+shook the sleeper more vigorously. At this, Mary started up, and
+looked around in a half-conscious, bewildered manner. Her cheeks
+were like scarlet.
+
+"Come, dear--tea is ready," said Mrs. Grant.
+
+"Oh! Yes." And Mary, not yet clearly awake, started to leave the
+room instead of approaching the table.
+
+"Where are you going, child?" Mrs. Grant caught her arm.
+
+Mary stood still, looking at Mrs. Grant, in a confused way.
+
+"Tea is ready." Mrs. Grant spoke slowly and with emphasis.
+
+"Oh! Ah! Yes. I was asleep." Mary drew her hand across her eyes two
+or three times, and then suffered Mrs. Grant to lead her to the
+table, where she sat down, leaning forward heavily upon one arm.
+
+"Take some of the toast," said Mrs. Grant, after pouring a cup of
+tea. Mary helped herself, in a dull way, to a slice of toast, but
+did not attempt to eat. Mrs. Grant looked at her narrowly from
+across the table, and noticed that her eyes, which had appeared
+large and glittering when she came home, were now lustreless, with
+the lids drooping heavily.
+
+"Can't you eat anything?" asked Mrs. Grant, in a voice that
+expressed concern.
+
+Mary pushed her cup and plate away, and leaning back, wearily, in
+her chair, answered--
+
+"Not just now. I'm completely worn out, and feel hot and oppressed."
+
+Mrs. Grant got up and came around to where Miss Carson was sitting.
+As she laid her hand upon her forehead, she said, a little
+anxiously, "You have considerable fever, Mary."
+
+"I shouldn't wonder." And a sudden cough seized her as she spoke.
+She cried out as the rapid concussions jarred her, and pressed one
+hand against her side.
+
+"Oh dear! It seemed as if a knife were cutting through me," she
+said, as the paroxysm subsided, and she leaned her head against Mrs.
+Grant.
+
+"Come, child," and the kind woman drew upon one of her arms. "In bed
+is the place for you now."
+
+They went up stairs, and Mary was soon undressed and in bed. As she
+touched the cool sheets, she shivered for a moment, and then shrank
+down under the clothes, shutting her eyes, and lying very still.
+
+"How do you feel now?" asked Mrs. Grant, who stood bending over her.
+
+Mary did not reply.
+
+"Does the pain in your side continue?"
+
+"Yes, ma'am." Her voice was dull.
+
+"And the tightness over your breast?"
+
+"Yes, ma'am."
+
+"What can I do for you?"
+
+"Nothing. I want rest and sleep."
+
+Mrs. Grant stood for some time looking down upon Mary's red cheeks;
+red in clearly defined spots, that made the pale forehead whiter by
+contrast.
+
+"Something more than sleep is wanted, I fear," she said to herself,
+as she passed from the chamber and went down stairs. In less than
+half an hour she returned. A moan reached her ears as she approached
+the room where the sick girl lay. On entering, she found her sitting
+high up in bed; or, rather, reclining against the pillows, which she
+had adjusted against the head-board. Her face, which had lost much
+of its redness, was pinched and had a distressed look. Her eyes
+turned anxiously to Mrs. Grant.
+
+"How are you now, Mary?"
+
+"Oh, I'm sick! Very sick, Mrs. Grant."
+
+"Where? How, Mary?"
+
+"Oh, dear!' I'm so distressed here!" laying her hand on her breast.
+"And every time I draw a breath, such a sharp pain runs through my
+side into my shoulder. Oh, dear! I feel very sick, Mrs. Grant."
+
+"Shall I send for a doctor?"
+
+"I don't know, ma'am." And Miss Carson threw her head from side to
+side, uneasily--almost impatiently; then cried out with pain, as she
+took a deeper inspiration than usual.
+
+Mrs. Grant left the room, and going down stairs, despatched her
+servant for a physician, who lived not far distant.
+
+"It is pleurisy," said the doctor, on examining the case.--"And a
+very severe attack," he added, aside, to Mrs. Grant.
+
+Of the particulars of his treatment, we will not speak. He was of
+the exhaustive school, and took blood freely; striking at the
+inflammation through a reduction of the vital system. When he left
+his patient that night, she was free from pain, breathing feebly,
+and without constriction of the chest. In the morning, he found her
+with considerable fever, and suffering from a return of the
+pleuritic pain. Her pulse was low and quick, and had a wiry thrill
+under the fingers. The doctor had taken blood very freely on the
+night before, and hesitated a little on the question of opening
+another vein, or having recourse to cups. As the lancet was at hand,
+and most easy of use, the vein was opened, and permitted to flow
+until there was a marked reduction of pain. After this, an anodyne
+diaphoretic was prescribed, and the doctor retired from the chamber
+with Mrs. Grant. He was much more particular, now, in his inquiries
+about his patient and the immediate cause of her illness. On
+learning that she had been permitted to remain all day in a cold
+room, with wet feet and damp clothing, he shook his head soberly,
+and remarked, partly speaking to himself, that doctors were not of
+much use in suicide or murder cases. Then he asked, abruptly, and
+with considerable excitement of manner--
+
+"In heaven's name! who permitted this think to be done? In what
+family did it occur?"
+
+"The lady for whom she worked yesterday is named Mrs. Lowe."
+
+"Mrs. Lowe!"
+
+"Yes, sir."
+
+"And she permitted that delicate girl to sit in wet clothing, in a
+room without fire, on a day like yesterday?"
+
+"It is so, doctor."
+
+"Then I call Mrs. Lowe a murderer!" The doctor spoke with excess of
+feeling.
+
+"Do you think Mary so very ill, doctor?" asked Mrs. Grant.
+
+"I do, ma'am."
+
+"She is free from pain now."
+
+"So she was when I left her last night; and I expected to find her
+showing marked improvement this morning. But, to my concern, I find
+her really worse instead of better."
+
+"Worse, doctor? Not worse!"
+
+"I say worse to you, Mrs. Grant, in order that you may know how much
+depends on careful attendance. Send for the medicine I have
+prescribed at once, and give it immediately. It will quiet her
+system and produce sleep. If perspiration follows, we shall be on
+the right side. I will call in again through the day. If the pain in
+her side returns, send for me."
+
+The pain did return, and the doctor was summoned. He feared to
+strike his lancet again; but cupped freely over the right side, thus
+gaining for the suffering girl a measure of relief. She lay, after
+this, in a kind of stupor for some hours. On coming out of this, she
+no longer had the lancinating pain in her side with every expansion
+of the lungs; but, instead, a dull pain, attended by a cough and
+tightness of the chest. The cough was, at first, dry,
+unsatisfactory, and attended with anxiety. Then came a tough mucus,
+a little streaked with blood. The expectoration soon became freer,
+and assumed a brownish hue. A low fever accompanied these bad
+symptoms.
+
+The case had become complicated with pneumonia, and assumed a very
+dangerous type. On the third day a consulting physician was called
+in. He noted all the symptoms carefully, and with a seriousness of
+manner that did not escape the watchful eyes of Mrs. Grant. He
+passed but few words with the attendant physician, and their exact
+meaning was veiled by medical terms; but Mrs. Grant understood
+enough to satisfy her that little hope of a favorable issue was
+entertained.
+
+About the time this consultation over the case of Mary Carson was in
+progress, it happened that Mrs. Wykoff received another visit from
+Mrs. Lowe.
+
+"I've called," said the latter, speaking in the tone of one who felt
+annoyed, "to ask where that sewing girl you recommended to me
+lives?"
+
+"Miss Carson."
+
+"Yes, I believe that is her name."
+
+"Didn't she come on Monday, according to appointment?"
+
+"Oh, yes, she came. But I've seen nothing of her since."
+
+"Ah! Is that so? She may be sick." The voice of Mrs. Wykoff dropped
+to a shade of seriousness. "Let me see--Monday--didn't it
+rain?--Yes, now I remember; it was a dreadful day. Perhaps she took
+cold. She's very delicate. Did she get wet in coming to your house?"
+
+"I'm sure I don't know." There was a slight indication of annoyance
+on the part of Mrs. Lowe.
+
+"It was impossible, raining and blowing as it did, for her to escape
+wet feet, if not drenched clothing. Was there fire in the room where
+she worked?"
+
+"Fire! No. We don't have grates or stoves in any of our rooms."
+
+"Oh; then there was a fire in the heater?"
+
+"We never make fire in the heater before November," answered Mrs.
+Lowe, with the manner of one who felt annoyed.
+
+Mrs. Wykoff mused for some moments.
+
+"Excuse me," she said, "for asking such minute questions; but I know
+Miss Carson's extreme delicacy, and I am fearful that she is sick,
+as the result of a cold. Did you notice her when she came in on
+Monday morning?"
+
+"Yes. I was standing in the hall when the servant admitted her. She
+came rather late."
+
+"Did she go immediately to the room where she was to work?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"You are sure she didn't go into the kitchen and dry her feet?"
+
+"She went up stairs as soon as she came in."
+
+"Did you go up with her?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Excuse me, Mrs. Lowe," said Mrs. Wykoff, who saw that these
+questions were chafing her visitor, "for pressing my inquiries so
+closely. I am much concerned at the fact of her absence from your
+house since Monday. Did she change any of her clothing,--take off
+her stockings, for stance, and put on dry ones?"
+
+"Nothing of the kind."
+
+"But sat in her wet shoes and stockings all day!"
+
+"I don't know that they were wet, Mrs. Wykoff," said the lady, with
+contracting brows.
+
+"Could you have walked six or seven squares in the face of Monday's
+driving storm, Mrs. Lowe, and escaped wet feet? Of course not. Your
+stockings would have been wet half way to the knees, and your skirts
+also."
+
+There was a growing excitement about Mrs. Wykoff, united with an air
+of so much seriousness, that Mrs. Lowe began to feel a pressure of
+alarm. Selfish, cold-hearted and indifferent to all in a social
+grade beneath her, this lady was not quite ready to stand up in the
+world's face as one without common humanity. The way in which Mrs.
+Wykoff was presenting the case of Miss Carson on that stormy
+morning, did not reflect very creditably upon her; and the
+thought--"How would this sound, if told of me?"--did not leave her
+in the most comfortable frame of mind.
+
+"I hope she's not sick. I'm sure the thought of her being wet never
+crossed my mind. Why didn't she speak of it herself? She knew her
+own condition, and that there was fire in the kitchen. I declare!
+some people act in a manner perfectly incomprehensible." Mrs. Lowe
+spoke now in a disturbed manner.
+
+"Miss Carson should have looked to this herself, and she was wrong
+in not doing so--very wrong," said Mrs. Wykoff. "But she is
+shrinking and sensitive to a fault--afraid of giving trouble or
+intruding herself. _It is our place, I think, when strangers come
+into our houses, no matter under what circumstances, to assume that
+they have a natural delicacy about asking for needed consideration,
+and to see that all things due to them are tendered_. I cannot see
+that any exceptions to this rule are admissible. To my thinking, it
+applies to a servant, a seamstress, or a guest, each in a just
+degree, with equal force. Not that I am blameless in this thing. Far
+from it. But I acknowledge my fault whenever it is seen, and
+repenting, resolve to act more humanely in the future."
+
+"Where does Miss Carson live?" asked Mrs. Lowe. "I came to make the
+inquiry."
+
+"As I feel rather troubled about her," answered Mrs. Wykoff, "I will
+go to see her this afternoon."
+
+"I wish you would. What you have said makes me feel a little
+uncomfortable. I hope there is nothing wrong; or, at least, that she
+is only slightly indisposed. It was thoughtless in me. But I was so
+much interested in the work she was doing that I never once thought
+of her personally."
+
+"Did she come before breakfast?"
+
+"Oh, yes."
+
+"Excuse me; but at what time did she get her breakfast?"
+
+There was just a little shrinking in the manner of Mrs. Wykoff; as
+she answered--
+
+"Towards nine o'clock."
+
+"Did she eat anything?"
+
+"Well, no, not much in particular. I thought her a little dainty.
+She took coffee; but it didn't just appear to suit her appetite.
+Then I offered her tea, and she drank a cup."
+
+"But didn't take any solid food?"
+
+"Very little. She struck me as a dainty Miss."
+
+"She is weak and delicate, Mrs. Lowe, as any one who looks into her
+face may see. Did you give her a lunch towards noon?"
+
+"A lunch! Why no!" Mrs. Lowe elevated her brows.
+
+"How late was it when she took dinner?"
+
+"Three o'clock."
+
+"Did she eat heartily?"
+
+"I didn't notice her particularly. She was at the table for only a
+few minutes."
+
+"I fear for the worst," said Mrs. Wykoff. "If Mary Carson sat all
+day on Monday in damp clothes, wet feet, and without taking a
+sufficient quantity of nourishing food, I wouldn't give much for her
+life."
+
+Mrs. Lowe gathered her shawl around her, and arose to depart. There
+was a cloud on her face.
+
+"You will see Miss Carson to-day?" she said.
+
+"Oh, yes."
+
+"At what time do you think of going?"
+
+"I shall not be able to leave home before late in the afternoon."
+
+"Say four o'clock."
+
+"Not earlier than half past four."
+
+Mrs. Lowe stood for some moments with the air of one who hesitated
+about doing something.
+
+"Will you call for me?" Her voice was slightly depressed.
+
+"Certainly."
+
+"What you have said troubles me. I'm sure I didn't mean to be
+unkind. It was thoughtlessness altogether. I hope she's not ill."
+
+"I'll leave home at half past four," said Mrs. Wykoff. "It isn't
+over ten minutes' walk to your house."
+
+"You'll find me all ready. Oh, dear!" and Mrs. Lowe drew a long,
+sighing breath. "I hope she didn't take cold at my house. I hope
+nothing serious will grow out of it. I wouldn't have anything of
+this kind happen for the world. People are so uncharitable. If it
+should get out, I would be talked about dreadfully; and I'm sure the
+girl is a great deal more to blame than I am. Why didn't she see to
+it that her feet and clothes were dried before she sat down to her
+work?"
+
+Mrs. Wykoff did not answer. Mrs. Lowe stood for a few moments,
+waiting for some exculpatory suggestion; but Mrs. Wykoff had none to
+offer.
+
+"Good morning. You'll find me all ready when you call."
+
+"Good morning."
+
+And the ladies parted.
+
+"Ah, Mrs. Lowe! How are you this morning?"
+
+A street meeting, ten minutes later.
+
+"Right well. How are you?"
+
+"Well as usual. I just called at your house."
+
+"Ah, indeed! Come, go back again."
+
+"No, thank you; I've several calls to make this morning. But, d' you
+know, there's a strange story afloat about a certain lady of your
+acquaintance?"
+
+"Of my acquaintance?"
+
+"Yes; a lady with whom you are very, very intimate."
+
+"What is it?" There was a little anxiety mixed with the curious air
+of Mrs. Lowe.
+
+"Something about murdering a sewing-girl."
+
+"What?" Mrs. Lowe started as if she had received a blow; a
+frightened look came into her face.
+
+"But there isn't anything in it, of course," said the friend, in
+considerable astonishment at the effect produced on Mrs. Lowe.
+
+"Tell me just what you have heard," said the latter. "You mean me by
+the lady of your intimate acquaintance."
+
+"Yes; the talk is about you. It came from doctor somebody; I don't
+know whom. He's attending the girl."
+
+"What is said? I wish to know. Don't keep back anything on account
+of my feelings. I shall know as to its truth or falsehood; and, true
+or false, it is better that I should stand fully advised. A
+seamstress came to work for me on Monday--it was a stormy day, you
+know--took cold from wet feet, and is now very ill. That much I
+know. It might have happened at your house, or your neighbors,
+without legitimate blame lying against either of you. Now, out of
+this simple fact, what dreadful report is circulated to my injury?
+As I have just said, don't keep anything back."
+
+"The story," replied the friend, "is that she walked for half a mile
+before breakfast, in the face of that terrible north-east storm, and
+came to you with feet soaking and skirts wet to the knees, and that
+you put her to work, in this condition, in a cold room, and suffered
+her to sit in her wet garments all day. That, in consequence, she
+went home sick, was attacked with pleurisy in the evening, which
+soon ran into acute pneumonia, and that she is now dying. The
+doctor, who told my friend, called it murder, and said, without
+hesitation, that you were a murderer."
+
+"Dying! Did he say that she was dying?"
+
+"Yes, ma'am. The doctor said that you might as well have put a
+pistol ball through her head."
+
+"Me!"
+
+"Yes, you. Those were his words, as repeated by my friend."
+
+"Who is the friend to whom you refer?"
+
+"Mrs. T----."
+
+"And, without a word of inquiry as to the degree of blame referable
+to me, she repeats this wholesale charge, to my injury? Verily, that
+is Christian charity!"
+
+"I suggested caution on her part, and started to see you at once.
+Then she did sit in her wet clothing all day at your house?"
+
+"I don't know whether she did or not," replied Mrs. Lowe, fretfully.
+"She was of woman's age, and competent to take care of herself. If
+she came in wet, she knew it; and there was fire in the house, at
+which she could have dried herself. Even a half-witted person,
+starting from home on a morning like that, and expecting to be
+absent all day, would have provided herself with dry stockings and
+slippers for a change. If the girl dies from cold taken on that
+occasion, it must be set down to suicide, not murder. I may have
+been thoughtless, but I am not responsible. I'm sorry for her; but I
+cannot take blame to myself. The same thing might have happened in
+your house."
+
+"It might have happened in other houses than yours, Mrs. Lowe, I
+will admit," was replied. "But I do not think it would have happened
+in mine. I was once a seamstress myself and for nearly two years
+went out to work in families. What I experienced during those two
+years has made me considerate towards all who come into my house in
+that capacity. Many who are compelled to earn a living with the
+needle, were once in better condition than now, and the change
+touches some of them rather sharply. In some families they are
+treated with a thoughtful kindness, in strong contrast with what
+they receive in other families. If sensitive and retiring, they
+learn to be very chary about asking for anything beyond what is
+conceded, and bear, rather than suggest or complain."
+
+"I've no patience with that kind of sensitiveness," replied Mrs.
+Lowe; "it's simply ridiculous; and not only ridiculous, but wrong.
+Is every sewing-girl who comes into your house to be treated like an
+honored guest?"
+
+"We are in no danger of erring, Mrs. Lowe," was answered, "on the
+side of considerate kindness, even to sewing-women. They are human,
+and have wants, and weaknesses, and bodily conditions that as
+imperatively demand a timely and just regard as those of the most
+honored guest who may sojourn with us. And what is more, as I hold,
+we cannot omit our duty either to the one or to the other, and be
+blameless. But I must hurry on. Good morning, Mrs. Lowe."
+
+"Good morning," was coldly responded. And the two ladies parted.
+
+We advance the time a few hours. It is nearly sundown, and the slant
+beams are coming in through the partly-raised blinds, and falling on
+the bed, where, white, and panting for the shortcoming breath, lies
+Mary Carson, a little raised by pillows against which her head rests
+motionless. Her eyes are shut, the brown lashes lying in two deep
+fringes on her cheeks. Away from her temples and forehead the hair
+has been smoothly brushed by loving hands, and there is a spiritual
+beauty in her face that is suggestive of heaven. Mrs. Grant is on
+one side of the bed, and the physician on the other. Both are gazing
+intently on the sick girl's face. The door opens, and two ladies
+come in, noiselessly--Mrs. Lowe and Mrs. Wykoff. They are strangers
+there to all but Mary Carson, and she has passed too far on the
+journey homeward for mortal recognitions. Mrs. Grant moves a little
+back from the bed, and the two ladies stand in her place, leaning
+forward, with half-suspended breathing. The almost classic beauty of
+Miss Carson's face; the exquisite cutting of every feature; the
+purity of its tone--are all at once so apparent to Mrs. Lowe that
+she gazes down, wonder and admiration mingling with awe and
+self-accusation.
+
+There is a slight convulsive cough, with a fleeting spasm. The white
+lips are stained. Mrs. Lowe shudders. The stain is wiped off, and
+all is still as before. Now the slanting sun rays touch the pillows,
+close beside the white face, lighting it with a glory that seems not
+of the earth. They fade, and life fades with them, going out as they
+recede. With the last pencil of sunbeams passes the soul of Mary
+Carson.
+
+"It is over!" The physician breathes deeply, and moves backwards
+from the bed.
+
+"Over with her," he adds, like one impelled by crowding thoughts to
+untimely utterance. "The bills of mortality will say pneumonia--_it
+were better written murder_."
+
+Call it murder, or suicide, as you will; only, fair reader, see to
+it that responsibility in such a case lies never at your door.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+X.
+
+THE NURSERY MAID.
+
+
+
+
+
+_I DID_ not feel in a very good humor either with myself or with
+Polly, my nursery maid. The fact is, Polly had displeased me; and I,
+while under the influence of rather excited feelings, had rebuked
+her with a degree of intemperance not exactly becoming in a
+Christian gentlewoman, or just to a well meaning, though not perfect
+domestic.
+
+Polly had taken my sharp words without replying. They seemed to stun
+her. She stood for a few moments, after the vials of my wrath were
+emptied, her face paler than usual, and her lips almost colorless.
+Then she turned and walked from my room with a slow but firm step.
+There was an air of purpose about her, and a manner that puzzled me
+a little.
+
+The thermometer of my feelings was gradually falling, though not yet
+reduced very far below fever-heat, when Polly stood again before me.
+A red spot now burned on each cheek, and her eyes were steady as she
+let them rest in mine.
+
+"Mrs. Wilkins," said she, firmly, yet respectfully, "I am going to
+leave when my month is up."
+
+Now, I have my own share of willfulness and impulsive independence.
+So I answered, without hesitation or reflection,
+
+"Very well, Polly. If you wish to leave, I will look for another to
+fill your place." And I drew myself up with an air of dignity.
+
+Polly retired as quickly as she came, and I was left alone with my
+not very agreeable thoughts for companions. Polly had been in my
+family for nearly four years, in the capacity of nurse and chamber
+maid. She was capable, faithful, kind in her disposition, and
+industrious. The children were all attached to her, and her
+influence over them was good. I had often said to myself in view of
+Polly's excellent qualities, "She is a treasure!" And, always, the
+thought of losing her services had been an unpleasant one. Of late,
+in some things, Polly had failed to give the satisfaction of former
+times. She was neither so cheerful, nor so thoughtful, nor had she
+her usual patience with the children. "Her disposition is altering,"
+I said to myself, now and then, in view of this change; "something
+has spoiled her."
+
+"You have indulged her too much, I suppose," was the reason given by
+my husband, whenever I ventured to introduce to his notice the
+shortcomings of Polly. "You are an expert at the business of
+spoiling domestics."
+
+My good opinion of myself was generally flattered by this estimate
+of the case; and, as this good opinion strengthened, a feeling of
+indignation against Polly for her ingratitude, as I was pleased to
+call it, found a lodging in my heart.
+
+And so the matter had gone on, from small beginnings, until a state
+of dissatisfaction on the one part, and coldness on the other, had
+grown up between mistress and maid. I asked no questions of Polly,
+as to the change in her manner, but made my own inferences, and
+took, for granted, my own conclusions. I had spoiled her by
+indulgence--that was clear. As a thing of course, this view was not
+very favorable to a just and patient estimate of her conduct,
+whenever it failed to meet my approval.
+
+On the present occasion, she had neglected the performance of
+certain services, in consequence of which I suffered some small
+inconvenience, and a great deal of annoyance.
+
+"I don't know what's come over you, Polly," said I to her sharply.
+"Something has spoiled you outright; and I tell you now, once for
+all, that you'll have to mend your ways considerably, if you expect
+to remain much longer in this family."
+
+The language was hard enough, but the manner harder and more
+offensive. I had never spoken to her before with anything like the
+severity now used. The result of this intemperance of speech on my
+part, the reader has seen. Polly gave notice that she would leave,
+and I accepted the notice. For a short time after the girl retired
+from my room, I maintained a state of half indignant independence;
+but, as to being satisfied with myself, that was out of the
+question. I had lost my temper, and, as is usual in such cases, had
+been harsh, and it might be, unjust. I was about to lose the
+services of a domestic, whose good qualities so far overbalanced all
+defects and shortcomings, that I could hardly hope to supply her
+place. How could the children give her up? This question came home
+with a most unpleasant suggestion of consequences. But, as the
+disturbance of my feelings went on subsiding, and thought grew
+clearer and clearer, that which most troubled me was a sense of
+injustice towards Polly. The suggestion came stealing into my mind,
+that the something wrong about her might involve a great deal more
+than I had, in a narrow reference of things to my own affairs,
+imagined. Polly was certainly changed; but, might not the change
+have its origin in mental conflict or suffering, which entitled her
+to pity and consideration, instead of blame?
+
+This was a new thought, which in no way tended to increase a feeling
+of self-approval.
+
+"She is human, like the rest of us," said I, as I sat talking over
+the matter with myself, "and every human heart has its portion of
+bitterness. The weak must bear in weakness, as well as the strong in
+strength; and the light burden rests as painfully on the back that
+bends in feebleness, as does the heavy one on Atlas-shoulders. We
+are too apt to regard those who serve us as mere working machines.
+Rarely do we consider them as possessing like wants and weaknesses,
+like sympathies and yearnings with ourselves. Anything will do for
+them. Under any external circumstances, is their duty to be
+satisfied."
+
+I was wrong in this matter. Nothing was now clearer to me than this.
+But, how was I to get right? That was the puzzling question. I
+thought, and thought--looking at the difficulty first on this side,
+and then on that. No way of escape presented itself, except through
+some open or implied acknowledgment of wrong; that is, I must have
+some plain, kind talk with Polly, to begin with, and thus show her,
+by an entire change of manner, that I was conscious of having spoken
+to her in a way that was not met by my own self-approval. Pride was
+not slow in vindicating her own position among the mental powers.
+She was not willing to see me humble myself to a servant. Polly had
+given notice that she was going to leave, and if I made concession,
+she would, at once conclude that I did so meanly, from
+self-interest, because I wished to retain her services. My naturally
+independent spirit revolted under this view of the case, but I
+marshalled some of the better forces of my mind, and took the field
+bravely on the side of right and duty. For some time the conflict
+went on; then the better elements of my nature gained the victory.
+
+When the decision was made, I sent a message for Polly. I saw, as
+she entered my room, that her cheeks no longer burned, and that the
+fire had died out in her eyes. Her face was pale, and its expression
+sad, but enduring.
+
+"Polly," said I, kindly, "sit down. I would like to have some talk
+with you."
+
+The girl seemed taken by surprise. Her face warmed a little, and her
+eyes, which had been turned aside from mine, looked at me with a
+glance of inquiry.
+
+"There, Polly"--and I pointed to a chair--"sit down."
+
+She obeyed, but with a weary, patient air, like one whose feelings
+were painfully oppressed.
+
+"Polly," said I, with kindness and interest in my voice, "has
+anything troubled you of late?"
+
+Her face flushed and her eyes reddened.
+
+"If there has, Polly, and I can help you in any way, speak to me as
+a friend. You can trust me."
+
+I was not prepared for the sudden and strong emotion that instantly
+manifested itself. Her face fell into her hands, and she sobbed out,
+with a violence that startled me. I waited until she grew calm, and
+then said, laying a hand kindly upon her as I spoke--
+
+"Polly, you can talk to me as freely as if I were your mother. Speak
+plainly, and if I can advise you or aid you in any way, be sure that
+I will do it."
+
+"I don't think you can help me any, ma'am, unless it is to bear my
+trouble more patiently," she answered, in a subdued way.
+
+"Trouble, child! What trouble? Has anything gone wrong with you?"
+
+The manner in which this inquiry was made, aroused her, and she said
+quickly and with feeling:
+
+"Wrong with _me_? O no, ma'am!"
+
+"But you are in trouble, Polly."
+
+"Not for myself, ma'am--not for myself," was her earnest reply.
+
+"For whom, then, Polly?"
+
+The girl did not answer for some moments. Then with a long, deep
+sigh, she said:
+
+"You never saw my brother Tom, ma'am. Oh, he was such a nice boy,
+and I was so fond of him! He had a hard place where he worked, and
+they paid him so little that, poor fellow! if I hadn't spent half my
+wages on him, he'd never have looked fit to be seen among folks.
+When he was eighteen he seemed to me perfect. He was so good and
+kind. But--" and the girl's voice almost broke down--"somehow, he
+began to change after that. I think he fell into bad company. Oh,
+ma'am! It seemed as if it would have killed me the first time I
+found that he had been drinking, and was not himself. I cried all
+night for two or three nights. When we met again I tried to talk
+with Tom about it, but he wouldn't hear a word, and, for the first
+time in his life, got angry with his sister.
+
+"It has been going on from bad, to worse ever since, and I've almost
+given up hope."
+
+"He's several years younger than you are, Polly."
+
+"Yes, ma'am. He was only ten years old when our mother died. I am
+glad she is dead now, what I've never said before. There were only
+two of us--Tom and I; and I being nearly six years the oldest, felt
+like a mother as well as a sister to him. I've never spent much on
+myself as you know, and never had as good clothes as other girls
+with my wages. It took nearly everything for Tom. Oh, dear! What is
+to come of it all? It will kill me, I'm afraid."
+
+A few questions on my part brought out particulars in regard to
+Polly's brother that satisfy me of his great lapse from virtue and
+sobriety. He was now past twenty, and from all I could learn, was
+moving swift-footed along the road to destruction.
+
+There followed a dead silence for some time after all the story was
+told. What could I say? The case was one in which it seemed that I
+could offer neither advice nor consolation. But it was in my power
+to show interest in the girl, and to let her feel that she had my
+sympathy. She was sitting with her eyes cast down, and a look of
+sorrow on her pale, thin face--I had not before re-marked the signs
+of emaciation--that touched me deeply.
+
+"Polly," said I, with as much kindness of tone as I could express,
+"it is the lot of all to have trouble, and each heart knows its own
+bitterness. But on some the trouble falls with a weight that seems
+impossible to be borne. And this is your case. Yet it only seems to
+be so, for as our day is, so shall our strength be. If you cannot
+draw your brother away from the dangerous paths in which he is
+walking, you can pray for him, and the prayer of earnest love will
+bring your spirit so near to his spirit, that God may be able to
+influence him for good through this presence of your spirit with
+his."
+
+Polly looked at me with a light flashing in her face, as if a new
+hope had dawned upon her heart,
+
+"Oh, ma'am," she said, "I have prayed, and do pray for him daily.
+But then I think God loves him better than I can love him, and needs
+none of my prayer in the case. And so a chill falls over me, and
+everything grows dark and hopeless--for, of myself, I can do
+nothing."
+
+"Our prayers cannot change the purposes of God towards any one; but
+God works by means, and our prayers may be the means through which
+he can help another."
+
+"How? How? Oh, tell me how, Mrs. Wilkins?"
+
+The girl spoke with great eagerness.
+
+I had an important truth to communicate, but how was I to make it
+clear to her simple mind? I thought for a moment, and then said--
+
+"When we think of others, we see them."
+
+"In our minds?"
+
+"Yes, Polly. We see them with the eyes of our minds, and are also
+present with them as to our minds, or spirits. Have you hot noticed
+that on some occasions you suddenly thought of a person, and that in
+a little while afterwards that person came in?"
+
+"Oh, yes, I've often noticed, and wondered why it should be so."
+
+"Well, the person in coming to see you, or in approaching the place
+where you were, thought of you so distinctly that she was present to
+your mind, or spirit, and you saw her with the eyes of your mind. If
+this be the right explanation, as I believe it is, then, if we think
+intently of others, and especially if we think with a strong
+affection, we are present with them so fully that they think of us,
+and see our forms with the eyes of their spirits. And now, Polly,
+keeping this in mind, we may see how praying, in tender love for
+another, may enable God to do him good; for you know that men and
+angels are co-workers with God in all good. On the wings of our
+thought and love, angelic spirits, who are present with us in
+prayer, may pass with us to the object of our tender interest and
+thus gaining audience, as it were, stir the heart with good
+impulses. And who can tell how effectual this may be, if of daily
+act and long continuance?"
+
+I paused to see if I was comprehended. Polly was listening intently,
+with her eyes upon the floor. She looked up, after a moment, her
+countenance calmer than before, but bearing so hopeful an aspect
+that I was touched with wonder.
+
+"I will pray for him morning, noon, and night," she said, "and if,
+bodily, I cannot be near him, my spirit shall be present with his
+many times each day. Oh, if I could but draw him back from the evil
+into which he has fallen!"
+
+"A sister's loving prayer, and the memory of his mother in heaven,
+will prove, I trust, Polly, too potent for all his enemies. Take
+courage!"
+
+In the silence that followed this last remark, Polly arose and stood
+as if there was something yet unsaid in her mind. I understood her,
+and made the way plain for both of us.
+
+"If I had known of this before, it would have explained to me some
+things that gave my mind an unfavorable impression. You have not
+been like yourself for some time past."
+
+"How could I, ma'am?" Polly's voice trembled and her eyes again
+filled with tears. "I never meant to displease you; but----"
+
+"All is explained," said I, interrupting her. "I see just how it is;
+and if I have said a word that hurt you, I am sorry for it. No one
+could have given better satisfaction in a family than you have
+given."
+
+"I have always tried to do right," murmured the poor girl, sadly.
+
+"I know it, Polly." My tones were encouraging. "And if you will
+forget the unkind way in which I spoke to you this morning, and let
+things remain as they were, it may be better for both of us. You are
+not fit, taking your state of mind as it now is, to go among
+strangers."
+
+Polly looked at me with gratitude and forgiveness in her wet eyes.
+There was a motion of reply about her lips, but she did not trust
+herself to speak.
+
+"Shall it be as it was, Polly?"
+
+"Oh, yes, ma'am! I don't wish to leave you; and particularly, not
+now. I am not fit, as you say, to go among strangers. But you must
+bear with me a little; for I can't always keep my thoughts about
+me."
+
+When Polly retired from my room, I set myself to thinking over what
+had happened. The lesson went deeply into my heart. Poor girl! what
+a heavy burden rested upon her weak shoulders. No wonder that she
+bent under it! No wonder that she was changed! She was no subject
+for angry reproof; but for pity and forbearance. If she had come
+short in service, or failed to enter upon her daily tasks with the
+old cheerfulness, no blame could attach to her, for the defect was
+of force and not of will.
+
+"Ah," said I, as I pondered the matter, "how little inclined are we
+to consider those who stand below us in the social scale, or to
+think of them as having like passions, like weaknesses, like hopes
+and fears with ourselves. We deal with them too often as if they
+were mere working machines, and grow impatient if they show signs of
+pain, weariness, or irritation. We are quick to blame and slow to
+praise--chary of kind words, but voluble in reproof--holding
+ourselves superior in station, but not always showing ourselves
+superior in thoughtfulness, self-control, and kind forbearance. Ah
+me! Life is a lesson-book, and we turn a new page every day."
+
+
+
+
+
+
+XI.
+
+MY FATHER.
+
+
+
+
+
+_I HAVE_ a very early recollection of my father as a cheerful man,
+and of our home as a place full of the heart's warmest sunshine. But
+the father of my childhood and the father of my more advanced years
+wore a very different exterior. He had grown silent, thoughtful,
+abstracted, but not morose. As his children sprang up around him,
+full of life and hope, he seemed to lose the buoyant spirits of his
+earlier manhood. I did not observe this at the time, for I had not
+learned to observe and reflect. Life was a simple state of
+enjoyment. Trial had not quickened my perceptions, nor suffering
+taught me an unselfish regard for others.
+
+The home provided by my father was elegant--some would have called
+it luxurious. On our education and accomplishments no expense was
+spared. I had the best teachers--and, of course, the most expensive;
+with none others would I have been satisfied, for I had come
+naturally to regard myself as on a social equality with the
+fashionable young friends who were my companions, and who indulged
+the fashionable vice of depreciating everything that did not come up
+to a certain acknowledged standard. Yearly I went to Saratoga or
+Newport with my sisters, and at a cost which I now think of with
+amazement. Sometimes my mother went with us, but my father never. He
+was not able to leave his business. Business! How I came to dislike
+the word! It was always "business" when we asked him to go anywhere
+with us; "business" hurried him away from his hastily-eaten meals;
+"business" absorbed all his thoughts, and robbed us of our father.
+
+"I wish father would give up business," I said to my mother one day,
+"and take some comfort of his life. Mr. Woodward has retired, and is
+now living on his income."
+
+My mother looked at me strangely and sighed, but answered nothing.
+
+About this time my father showed some inclination to repress our
+growing disposition to spend money extravagantly in dress. Nothing
+but hundred-dollar shawl would suit my ideas. Ada White had been
+presented by her father with a hundred-dollar cashmere, and I did
+not mean to be put off with anything less.
+
+"Father, I want a hundred dollars," said I to him one morning as he
+was leaving the house, after eating his light breakfast. He had
+grown dyspeptic, and had to be careful and sparing in his diet.
+
+"A hundred dollars!" He looked surprised; in fact, I noticed that my
+request made him start. "What do you want with so much money?"
+
+"I have nothing seasonable to wear," said I, very firmly; "and as I
+must have a shawl, I might as well get a good one while I am about
+it. I saw one at Stewart's yesterday that is just the thing. Ada
+White's father gave her a shawl exactly like it, and you must let me
+have the money to buy this one. It will last my lifetime."
+
+"A hundred dollars is a large price for a shawl," said my father, in
+his sober way.
+
+Oh, dear, no!" was my emphatic answer; "a hundred dollars is a low
+price for a shawl. Jane Wharton's cost five hundred."
+
+"I'll think about it," said my father, turning from me rather
+abruptly.
+
+When he came home at dinner-time, I was alone in the parlor,
+practicing a. new piece of music which my fashionable teacher had
+left me. He was paid three dollars for every lesson. My father
+smiled as he laid a hundred-dollar bill on the keys of the piano. I
+started up, and kissing him, said, with the ardor of a pleased
+girl--
+
+"What a dear good father you are!"
+
+The return was ample. He always seemed most pleased when he could
+gratify some wish or supply some want of his children. Ah! if we had
+been less selfish--less exacting!
+
+It was hardly to be expected that my sisters would see me the
+possessor of a hundred-dollar shawl, and not desire a like addition
+to their wardrobes.
+
+"I want a hundred dollars," said my sister Jane, on the next
+morning, as my father was about leaving for his store.
+
+"Can't spare it to-day, my child," I heard him answer, kindly, but
+firmly.
+
+"Oh, but I must have it," urged my sister.
+
+"I gave you twenty-five dollars only day before yesterday," my
+father replied to this. "What have you done with that?"
+
+"Spent it for gloves and laces," said Jane, in a light way, as if
+the sum were of the smallest possible consequence.
+
+"I am not made of money, child." The tone of my father's voice
+struck me as unusually sober--almost sad. But Jane replied
+instantly, and with something of reproach and complaint in her
+tones--"I shouldn't think you were, if you find it so hard to part
+with a hundred dollars."
+
+"I have a large payment to make to-day"--my father spoke with
+unusual decision of manner--"and shall need every dollar that I can
+raise."
+
+"You gave sister a hundred dollars yesterday," said Jane, almost
+petulantly.
+
+Not a word of reply did my father make. I was looking at him, and
+saw an expression on his countenance that was new to me--an
+expression of pain, mingled with fear. He turned away slowly, and in
+silence left the house.
+
+"Jane," said my mother, addressing her from the stairway, on which
+she had been standing, "how could you speak so to your father?"
+
+"I have just as good right to a hundred dollar shawl as Anna,"
+replied my sister, in a very undutiful tone. "And what is more, Im
+going to have one."
+
+"What reason did your father give for refusing your request to-day?"
+asked my mother.
+
+"Couldn't spare the money! Had a large payment to make! Only an
+excuse!"
+
+"Stop, my child!" was the quick, firm remark, made with unusual
+feeling. "Is that the way to speak of so good a father? Of one who
+has ever been so kindly indulgent? Jane! Jane! You know not what you
+are saying!"
+
+My sister looked something abashed at this unexpected rebuke, when
+my mother took occasion to add, with an earnestness of manner that I
+could not help remarking as singular,
+
+"Your father is troubled about something. Business may not be going
+on to his satisfaction. Last night I awoke, and found him walking
+the floor. To my questions he merely answered that he was wakeful.
+His health is not so good as formerly, and his spirits are low.
+Don't, let me pray you, do anything to worry him. Say no more about
+this money, Jane; you will get it whenever it can be spared."
+
+I did not see my father again until tea-time. Occasionally, business
+engagements pressed upon him so closely that he did not come home at
+the usual hour for dining. He looked pale--weary--almost haggard.
+
+"Dear father, are you sick?" said I, laying a hand upon him, and
+gazing earnestly into his countenance.
+
+"I do not feel very well," he replied, partly averting his face, as
+if he did not wish me to read its expression too closely. "I have
+had a weary day."
+
+"You must take more recreation," said I. "This excessive devotion to
+business is destroying your health. Why will you do it, father?"
+
+He merely sighed as he passed onwards, and ascended to his own room.
+At tea-time I observed that his face was unusually sober. His
+silence was nothing uncommon, and so that passed without remark from
+any one.
+
+On the next day Jane received the hundred dollars, which was spent
+for a shawl like mine. This brought the sunshine back to her face.
+Her moody looks, I saw, disturbed my father.
+
+From this time, the hand which had ever been ready to supply all our
+wants real or imaginary, opened less promptly at our demands. My
+father talked occasionally of retrenchment and economy when some of
+our extravagant bills came in; but we paid little heed to his
+remarks on this head. Where could we retrench? In what could we
+economize? The very idea was absurd. We had nothing that others
+moving in our circle did not have. Our house and furniture would
+hardly compare favorably with the houses and furniture of many of
+our fashionable friends. We dressed no better--indeed, not so well
+as dozens of our acquaintances. Retrenchment and economy! I remember
+laughing with my sisters at the words, and wondering with them what
+could be coming over our father. In a half-amused way, we enumerated
+the various items of imaginary reform, beginning at the annual
+summer recreations, and ending with our milliner's bills. In mock
+seriousness, we proposed to take the places of cook, chambermaid,
+and waiter, and thus save these items of expense in the family. We
+had quite a merry time over our fancied reforms.
+
+But our father was serious. Steadily he persisted in what seemed to
+us a growing penuriousness. Every demand for money seemed to give
+him a partial shock, and every dollar that came to us was parted
+with reluctantly. All this was something new; but we thought less
+than we felt about it. Our father seemed to be getting into a very
+singular state of mind.
+
+Summer came round--I shall never forget that summer--and we
+commenced making our annual preparations for Saratoga. Money was, of
+course, an indispensable prerequisite. I asked for fifty dollars.
+
+"For what purpose?" inquired my father.
+
+"I haven't a single dress fit to appear in away from home," said I.
+
+"Where are you going?" he asked.
+
+I thought the question a strange one, and replied, a little curtly,
+
+"To Saratoga, of course."
+
+"Oh!" It seemed new to him. Then he repeated my words, in a
+questioning kind of a way, as if his mind were not altogether
+satisfied on the subject.
+
+"To Saratoga?"
+
+"Yes, sir. To Saratoga. We always go there. We shall close the
+season at Newport this year."
+
+"Who else is going?" My father's manner was strange. I had never
+seen him just in the mood he then appeared to be.
+
+"Jane is going, of course; and so is Emily. And we are trying to
+persuade mother, also. She didn't go last year. Won't you spend a
+week or two with us? Now do say yes."
+
+My father shook his head at this last proposal, and said, "No,
+child!" very decidedly.
+
+"Why?" I asked.
+
+"Because I have something of more importance to think about than
+Saratoga and its fashionable follies."
+
+"Business! business!" said I, impatiently. "It is the Moloch,
+father, to which you sacrifice every social pleasure, every home
+delight, every good! Already you have laid health and happiness upon
+the bloody altars of this false god!"
+
+A few quick flushes went over his pale face, and then its expression
+became very sad.
+
+"Anna," he said, after a brief silence, during which even my
+unpracticed eyes could see that an intense struggle was going on in
+his mind, "Anna, you will have to give up your visit to Saratoga
+this year."
+
+"Why, father!" It seemed as if my blood were instantly on fire. My
+face was, of course, all in a glow. I was confounded, and, let me
+confess it, indignant; it seemed so like a tyrannical outrage.
+
+"It is simply as I say, my daughter." He spoke without visible
+excitement. "I cannot afford the expense this season, and you will,
+therefore, all have to remain in the city."
+
+"That's impossible!" said I. "I couldn't live here through the
+summer."
+
+"_I_ manage to live!" There was a tone in my father's voice, as he
+uttered these simple words, partly to himself, that rebuked me. Yes,
+he did manage to live, but _how_? Witness his pale face, wasted
+form, subdued aspect, brooding silence, and habitual abstraction of
+mind!
+
+"_I_ manage to live!" I hear the rebuking words even now--the tones
+in which they were uttered are in my ears. Dear father! Kind,
+tender, indulgent, long-suffering, self-denying! Ah, how little were
+you understood by your thoughtless, selfish children!
+
+"Let my sisters and mother go," said I, a new regard for my father
+springing up in my heart; "I will remain at home with you."
+
+"Thank you, dear child!" he answered, his voice suddenly veiled with
+feeling. "But I cannot afford to let any one go this season."
+
+"The girls will be terribly disappointed. They have set their hearts
+on going," said I.
+
+"I'm sorry," he said. "But necessity knows no law. They will have to
+make themselves as contented at home as possible."
+
+And he left me, and went away to his all-exacting "business."
+
+When I stated what he had said, my sisters were in a transport of
+mingled anger and disappointment, and gave utterance to many unkind
+remarks against our good, indulgent father. As for my oldest sister,
+she declared that she would go in spite of him, and proposed our
+visiting the store of a well-known merchant, where we often made
+purchases, and buying all we wanted, leaving directions to have the
+bill sent in. But I was now on my father's side, and resolutely
+opposed all suggestions of disobedience. His manner and words had
+touched me, causing some scales to drop from my vision, so that I
+could see in a new light, and perceive things in a new aspect.
+
+We waited past the usual time for my father's coming on that day,
+and then dined without him. A good deal to our surprise he came home
+about four o'clock, entering with an unusual quiet manner, and going
+up to his own room without speaking to any one of the family.
+
+"Was that your father?" We were sitting together, still discussing
+the question of Saratoga and Newport. It was my mother who asked the
+question. We had heard the street door open and close, and had also
+heard footsteps along the passage and up the stairs.
+
+"It is too early for him to come home," I answered.
+
+My mother looked at her watch, and remarked, as a shade of concern
+flitted over her face,
+
+"It certainly was your father. I cannot be mistaken in his step.
+What can have brought him home so early? I hope he is not sick." And
+she arose and went hastily from the room. I followed, for a sudden
+fear came into my heart.
+
+"Edward! what ails you? Are you sick?" I heard my mother ask, in an
+alarmed voice, as I came into her room. My father had laid himself
+across the bed, and his face was concealed by a pillow, into which
+it was buried deeply.
+
+"Edward! Edward! Husband! What is the matter? Are you ill?"
+
+"Oh, father! dear father!" I cried, adding my voice to my mother's,
+and bursting into tears. I grasped his hand; it was very cold. I
+leaned over, and, pressing down the pillow, touched his face. It was
+cold also, and clammy with perspiration.
+
+"Send James for the doctor, instantly," said my mother.
+
+"No, no--don't." My father partially aroused himself at this,
+speaking in a thick, unnatural voice.
+
+"Go!" My mother repeated the injunction, and I flew down stairs with
+the order for James, our waiter, to go in all haste for the family
+physician. When I returned, my mother, her face wet with tears, was
+endeavoring to remove some of my father's outer garments. Together
+we took off his coat, waistcoat and boots, he making no resistance,
+and appearing to be in partial stupor, as if under the influence of
+some drug. We chafed his hands and feet, and bathed his face, that
+wore a deathly aspect, and used all the means in our power to
+rekindle the failing spark of life. But he seemed to grow less and
+less conscious of external things every moment.
+
+When the physician came, he had many questions to ask as to the
+cause of the state in which he found my father. But we could answer
+none of them. I watched his face intently, noting every varying
+expression, but saw nothing to inspire confidence. He seemed both
+troubled and perplexed. Almost his first act was to bleed copiously.
+
+Twice, before the physician came, had my father been inquired for at
+the door, a thing altogether unusual at that hour of the day.
+Indeed, his presence in the house at that hour was something which
+had not occurred within a year.
+
+"A gentleman is in the parlor, and says that he must see Mr. W----,"
+said the waiter, speaking to me in a whisper, soon after the
+physician's arrival.
+
+"Did you tell him that father was very ill," said I.
+
+"Yes; but he says that he must see him, sick or well."
+
+"Go down and tell him that father is not in a state to be seen by
+any one."
+
+The waiter returned in a few moments, and beckoned me to the chamber
+door.
+
+"The man says that he is not going to leave the house until he sees
+your father. I wish you would go down to him. He acts so strangely."
+
+Without stopping to reflect, I left the apartment, and hurried down
+to the parlor. I found a man walking the floor in a very excited
+manner.
+
+"I wish to see Mr. W.----," said he, abruptly, and in an imperative
+way.
+
+"He is very ill, sir," I replied, "and cannot be seen."
+
+"I must see him, sick or well." His manner was excited.
+
+"Impossible, sir."
+
+The door bell rang again at this moment, and with some violence. I
+paused, and stood listening until the servant answered the summons,
+while the man strode twice the full length of the parlor.
+
+"I wish to see Mr. W----." It was the voice of a man.
+
+"He is sick," the servant replied.
+
+"Give him my name--Mr. Walton--and say that I must see him for just
+a moment." And this new visitor came in past the waiter, and entered
+the parlor.
+
+"Mr. Arnold!" he ejaculated, in evident surprise.
+
+"Humph! This a nice business!" remarked the first visitor, in a rude
+way, entirely indifferent to my presence or feelings. "A nice
+business, I must confess!"
+
+"Have you seen Mr. W.----?" was inquired.
+
+"No. They say he's sick."
+
+There was an unconcealed doubt in the voice that uttered this.
+
+"Gentlemen," said I, stung into indignant courage, "this is an
+outrage! What do you mean by it?"
+
+"We wish to see your father," said the last comer, his manner
+changing, and his voice respectful.
+
+"You have both been told," was my firm reply, "that my father is too
+ill to be seen."
+
+"It isn't an hour, as I am told, since he left his store," said the
+first visitor, "and I hardly think his illness has progressed so
+rapidly up to this time as to make an interview dangerous. We do not
+wish to be rude or uncourteous, Miss W----, but our business with
+your father is imperative, and we must see him. I, for one, do not
+intend leaving the house until I meet him face to face!"
+
+"Will you walk up stairs?" I had the presence of mind and decision
+to say, and I moved from the parlor into the passage. The men
+followed, and I led them up to the chamber where our distressed
+family were gathered around my father. As we entered the hushed
+apartment the men pressed forward somewhat eagerly, but their steps
+were suddenly arrested. The sight was one to make its own
+impression. My father's face, deathly in its hue, was turned towards
+the door, and from his bared arm a stream of dark blood was flowing
+sluggishly. The physician had just opened a vein.
+
+"Come! This is no place for us," I heard one of the men whisper to
+the other, and they withdrew as unceremoniously as they had entered.
+Scarcely had they gone ere the loud ringing of the door bell sounded
+through the house again.
+
+"What does all this mean!" whispered my distressed mother.
+
+"I cannot tell. Something is wrong," was all that I could answer;
+and a vague, terrible fear took possession of my heart.
+
+In the midst of our confusion, uncertainty and distress, my uncle,
+the only relative of my mother, arrived, and from him we learned the
+crushing fact that my father's paper had been that day dishonored at
+bank. In other words, that he had failed in business.
+
+The blow, long suspended over his head; and as I afterwards learned,
+long dreaded, and long averted by the most desperate expedients to
+save himself from ruin, when it did fall, was too heavy for him. It
+crushed the life out of his enfeebled system. That fearful night he
+died!
+
+It is not my purpose to draw towards the survivors any sympathy, by
+picturing the changes in their fortunes and modes of life that
+followed this sad event. They have all endured much and suffered
+much. But how light has it been to what my father must have endured
+and suffered in his long struggle to sustain the thoughtless
+extravagance of his family--to supply them with comforts and
+luxuries, none of which he could himself enjoy! Ever before me is
+the image of his gradually wasting form, and pale, sober, anxious
+face. His voice, always mild, now comes to my ears, in memory,
+burdened with a most touching sadness. What could we have been
+thinking about? Oh, youth! how blindly selfish thou art! How unjust
+in thy thoughtlessness! What would I not give to have my father back
+again! This daily toil for bread, those hours of labor, prolonged
+often far into the night season--how cheerful would I be if they
+ministered to my father's comfort. Ah! if we had been loving and
+just to him, we might have had him still. But we were neither loving
+nor just. While he gathered with hard toil, we scattered. Daily we
+saw him go forth hurried to his business, and nightly we saw him
+come home exhausted; and we never put forth a hand to lighten his
+burdens; but, to gratify our idle and vain pleasures, laid new ones
+upon his stooping shoulders, until, at last, the cruel weight
+crushed him to the earth!
+
+My father! Oh, my father! If grief and tearful repentance could have
+restored you to our broken circle, long since you would have
+returned to us. But tears and repentance are vain. The rest and
+peace of eternity is yours!
+
+
+
+
+
+
+XII.
+
+THE CHRISTIAN GENTLEMAN.
+
+
+
+
+
+_IT_ has been said that no man can be a gentleman who is not a
+Christian. We take the converse of this proposition, and say that no
+man can be a Christian who is not a gentleman.
+
+There is something of a stir among the dry bones at this. A few eyes
+look at it in a rebuking way.
+
+"Show me that in the Bible," says one in confident negation of our
+proposition.
+
+"Ah, well, friend, we will take your case in illustration of our
+theme. You call yourself a Christian?"
+
+"By God's mercy I do."
+
+Answered with an assured manner, as if in no doubt as to your being
+a worthy bearer of that name.
+
+"You seem to question my state of acceptance. Who made you a judge?"
+
+Softly, friend. We do not like that gleam in your eyes. Perhaps we
+had better stop here. If you cannot bear the probe, let us put on
+the bandage again.
+
+"I am not afraid of the probe, sir. Go on."
+
+The name Christian includes all human perfection, does it not?
+
+"Yes, and all God-like perfection in the human soul."
+
+So we understand it. Now the fundamental doctrine of Christian life
+is this:--"As ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to
+them."
+
+"Faith in Christ is fundamental," you answer.
+
+Unless we believe in God, we cannot obey his precepts. The
+understanding must first assent, before the divine life can be
+brought into a conformity with divine laws. But we are not assuming
+theologic ground. It is the life to which we are looking. We said
+"The fundamental doctrine of Christian _life_."
+
+"All doctrine has relation to life, and I contend for faith as
+fundamental."
+
+We won't argue that point, for the reason that it would lead us away
+from the theme we are considering. We simply change the form of our
+proposition, and call it a leading doctrine of Christian life.
+
+"So far I agree with you."
+
+Then the way before us is unobstructed again. You asked us to show
+you authority in the Bible for saying that a man cannot be a
+Christian who is not a gentlemen. We point you to the Golden Rule.
+In that all laws of etiquette, so called, are included. It is the
+code of good breeding condensed to an axiom. Now it has so happened
+that our observation of you, friend objector, has been closer than
+may have been imagined. We have noted your outgoings and incomings
+on divers occasions; and we are sorry to say that you cannot be
+classed with the true gentleman.
+
+"Sir!"
+
+Gently! Gently! If a man may be a Christian, and not a gentleman at
+the same time, your case is not so bad. But to the testimony of
+fact. Let these witness for or against you. Let your own deeds
+approve or condemn. You are not afraid of judgment by the standard
+of your own conduct?
+
+"Of course not."
+
+And if we educe only well-remembered incidents, no offence will be
+taken.
+
+"Certainly not."
+
+We go back, then, and repeat the law of true gentlemanly conduct.
+"As ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to them."
+You were at Stockbridge last summer?
+
+"Yes."
+
+And took supper at the hotel there, with a small company of
+strangers?
+
+"Yes."
+
+There was a dish of fine strawberries on the table, among the first
+of the season. You are fond of strawberries. They are your favorite
+fruit; and, as their rich fragrance came to your nostrils, you felt
+eager to taste them. So you counted the guests at the table, and
+measured the dish of strawberries with your eyes. Then you looked
+from face to face, and saw that all were strangers. Appetite might
+be indulged, and no one would know that it was _you_. The
+strawberries would certainly not go round, So you hurried down a cup
+of tea, and swallowed some toast quickly. Then you said to the
+waiter, "Bring me the strawberries." They were brought and set
+before you. And now, were you simply just in securing your share, if
+the number fell below a dozen berries? You were taking care of
+yourself; but in doing so, were not others' rights invaded. We shall
+see. There were eight persons at the table, two of them children.
+The dish held but little over a quart; of these nearly one-third
+were taken by you! Would a true gentleman have done that? You
+haven't thought of it since! We are sorry for you then. One of the
+children, who only got six berries, cried through half the evening
+from disappointment. And an invalid, whose blood would have gained
+life from the rich juice of the fruit, got none.
+
+"It was a little selfish, I admit. But I am so fond of strawberries;
+and at hotels, you know, every one must take care of himself."
+
+A true gentleman maintains his character under all circumstances,
+and a Christian, as a matter of course. A true gentleman defers to
+others. He takes so much pleasure in the enjoyment of others, that
+he denies himself in order to secure their gratification. Can a
+Christian do less and honor the name he bears?
+
+"It wasn't right, I see."
+
+Was it gentlemanly?
+
+"No."
+
+Christian?
+
+"Perhaps not, strictly speaking."
+
+In the gall of bitterness and the bonds of iniquity still, we fear,
+for all your profession. Christianity, as a system, must go deeper
+down into the heart than that. But we have begun with you, friend,
+and we will keep on. Perhaps you will see yourself a little
+differently by the time we are through. A poor mechanic, who had
+done some trifling work at your house, called, recently, with his
+little bill of three dollars and forty cents. You were talking with
+a customer, when this man came into your store and handed you his
+small account. You opened it with a slight frown on your brow. He
+had happened to come at a time when you felt yourself too much
+engaged to heed this trifling matter. How almost rudely you thrust
+the coarse, soiled piece of paper on which he had written his
+account back upon him, saying, "I can't attend to you now!" The poor
+man went out hurt and disappointed. Was that gentlemanly conduct?
+No, sir! Was it Christian? Look at the formula of Christian life.
+"As ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to them."
+
+"He should have waited until I was at leisure," you answer. "When a
+man is engaged with a customer who buys at the rate of hundreds and
+thousands, he don't want paltry bills thrust into his face. He'll
+know better next time."
+
+Have you settled the bill yet?
+
+"No. He called day before yesterday, but couldn't give change for
+ten dollars."
+
+Why haven't you sent him the trifling sum? He worked over half a day
+at your house, and your family have been more comfortable for what
+he did there ever since. He needs the money, for he is a poor man.
+
+You half smile in our face at the suggestion, and say, "Merchants
+are not in the habit of troubling themselves to send all over the
+city to pay the little paltry bills of mechanics. If money is worth
+having, it is worth sending or calling for."
+
+In thought, reverse your positions, and apply the rule for a
+Christian gentleman; remembering, at the same time, that God is no
+respecter of persons. In his eyes, the man's position is
+nothing--the quality of his life, everything.
+
+A gentleman in _form_, according to the rules of good breeding, is
+one who treats everybody with kindness; who thinks of others' needs,
+pleasures and conveniences; and subordinates his own needs,
+pleasures and conveniences to theirs. He is mild, gentle, kind and
+courteous to all. A gentleman in _feeling_ does all this from a
+principle of good-will; the Christian from a _law of spiritual
+life_. Now, a man may be a gentleman, in the common acceptation of
+the term, and yet not be a Christian; but we are very sure, that he
+cannot wave the gentleman and be a Christian.
+
+You look at us more soberly. The truth of our words is taking hold
+of conviction. Shall we go on?
+
+Do you not, in all public places, study your own comfort and
+convenience? You do not clearly understand the question! We'll make
+the matter plainer then:
+
+Last evening you were at Concert Hall, with your wife and daughter.
+You went early, and secured good seats. Not three seats, simply,
+according to the needs of your party; but nearly five seats, for
+extra comfort. You managed it on the expansive principle. Well, the
+house was crowded. Compression and condensation went on all around
+you; but your party held its expanded position. A white-haired old
+man stood at the head of your seat, and looked down at the spaces
+between yourself, your wife and daughter; and though you knew it,
+you kept your eyes another way until he passed on. You were not
+going to be incommoded for any one. Then an old lady lingered there
+for a moment, and looked wistfully along the seat. Your daughter
+whispered, "Father, we can make room for her." And you answered:
+"Let her find another seat; I don't wish to be crowded." Thus
+repressing good impulses in your child, and teaching her to be
+selfish and unlady-like. The evening's entertainment began, and you
+sat quite at ease, for an hour and a half, while many were standing
+in the aisles. Sir, there was not even the gentleman in form here;
+much less the gentleman from naturally kind feelings. As to
+Christian principle, we will not take that into account. Do you
+remember what you said as you moved through the aisles to the door?
+
+"No."
+
+A friend remarked that he had been obliged to stand all the evening,
+and you replied:
+
+"We had it comfortable enough. I always manage that, in public
+places."
+
+He didn't understand all you meant; but, there is One who did.
+
+How was it in the same place only a few nights previously? You went
+there alone, and happened to be late. The house was well filled in
+the upper portion, but thinly occupied below the centre. Now you are
+bound to have the best place, under all circumstances, if it can be
+obtained. But all the best seats were well filled; and to crowd more
+into them, would be to diminish the comfort of all. No matter. You
+saw a little space in one of the desirable seats, and into it you
+passed, against the remonstrance of looks, and even half uttered
+objections. A lady by your side, not in good health, was so crowded
+in consequence, and made so uncomfortable, that she could not listen
+with any satisfaction to the eloquent lecture she had come to hear.
+
+We need say no more about your gentlemanly conduct in public places.
+Enough has been suggested to give you our full meaning.
+
+Shall we go on? Do you call for other incidents in proof of our
+assumption? Shall we follow you into other walks of life?
+
+"No."
+
+Very well. And, now, to press the matter home: Do you, in the sight
+of that precept we have quoted, justify such conduct in a man who
+takes the name of Christian? It was not gentlemanly, in any right
+sense of the word; and not being so, can it be Christian?
+
+"Perhaps not."
+
+Assuredly not. And you may depend upon it, sir, that your
+profession, and faith, and church-going, and ordinance-observing,
+will not stand you in that day when the book of your life is opened
+in the presence of God. If there has been no genuine love of the
+neighbor--no self-abnegation--no self-denial for the good of others,
+all the rest will go for nothing, and you will pass over to abide
+forever with spirits of a like quality with your own.
+
+Who made us your judge? We judge no man! But only point to the law
+of Christian life as given by God himself. If you wish to dwell with
+him, you must obey his laws; and obedience to these will make you
+nothing less than a Christian gentleman--that is, a gentleman in
+heart as well as in appearance.
+The Project Gutenberg Etext of All's For the Best
+by T. S. Arthur
+******This file should be named allsb10.txt or allsb10.zip******
+
+Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, allsb11.txt
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+End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of All's For the Best
+by T. S. Arthur
+
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