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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Woodcliff, by Harriet B. McKeever
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<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76570 ***</div>

<h1>
<br><br>
  WOODCLIFF.<br>
</h1>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3">
  BY<br>
</p>

<p class="t2">
  HARRIET B. McKEEVER,<br>
</p>

<p class="t4">
  AUTHOR OF "EDITH'S MINISTRY," "SUNSHINE," "FLOUNCED ROBE," ETC.<br>
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3">
  PHILADELPHIA:<br>
  LINDSAY & BLAKISTON.<br>
  1865.<br>
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p class="t4">
  Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by<br>
  LINDSAY & BLAKISTON,<br>
  in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States<br>
  for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.<br>
</p>

<p class="t4">
  STEREOTYPED BY J. FAGAN & SON. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; PRINTED BY SHERMAN & CO.<br>
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p class="t3b">
  CONTENTS.<br>
</p>

<p class="noindent">
  CHAPTER<br>
</p>

<p class="noindent" style="line-height: 1.5">
  I.&mdash;<a href="#chap01">The Sea-Shore</a><br>
  II.&mdash;<a href="#chap02">A Ride on Horseback</a><br>
  III.&mdash;<a href="#chap03">Maddy's Triumph</a><br>
  IV.&mdash;<a href="#chap04">Too Proud to Bend</a><br>
  V.&mdash;<a href="#chap05">Youthful Visions</a><br>
  VI.&mdash;<a href="#chap06">A Scotch Matron</a><br>
  VII.&mdash;<a href="#chap07">The Cottage and the Hall</a><br>
  VIII.&mdash;<a href="#chap08">Boston Relatives</a><br>
  IX.&mdash;<a href="#chap09">Home Again</a><br>
  X.&mdash;<a href="#chap10">Sunshine at the Hall, Shadows at the Cottage</a><br>
  XI.&mdash;<a href="#chap11">A Mother's Life Sorrow</a><br>
  XII.&mdash;<a href="#chap12">Stars in the Night Season</a><br>
  XIII.&mdash;<a href="#chap13">Driftwood</a><br>
  XIV.&mdash;<a href="#chap14">Excelsior</a><br>
  XV.&mdash;<a href="#chap15">Strife</a><br>
  XVI.&mdash;<a href="#chap16">Rugged Hills for Weary Feet</a><br>
  XVII.&mdash;<a href="#chap17">Mirage, or Madeline after a Triumph</a><br>
  XVIII.&mdash;<a href="#chap18">The Early Dawn</a><br>
  XIX.&mdash;<a href="#chap19">"Auld Lang Syne"</a><br>
  XX.&mdash;<a href="#chap20">Out in the Light</a><br>
  XXI.&mdash;<a href="#chap21">Searching for Scottish Friends</a><br>
  XXII.&mdash;<a href="#chap22">Mist on the Mountain</a><br>
  XXIII.&mdash;<a href="#chap23">Graham Hall</a><br>
  XXIV.&mdash;<a href="#chap24">Wings Clipped that had Commenced to Soar</a><br>
  XXV.&mdash;<a href="#chap25">Parting from English Friends</a><br>
  XXVI.&mdash;<a href="#chap26">The First Link Lost and Found</a><br>
  XXVII.&mdash;<a href="#chap27">Hearts' Ease</a><br>
  XXVIII.&mdash;<a href="#chap28">Seaweed</a><br>
  XXIX.&mdash;<a href="#chap29">Beatitudes</a><br>
  XXX.&mdash;<a href="#chap30">Fellow Heirs of the Grace of Life</a><br>
  XXXI.&mdash;<a href="#chap31">Reunion</a><br>
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap01"></a></p>

<p class="t2">
WOODCLIFF.
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER I.
<br><br>
THE SEA-SHORE.
</h3>

<p>
It is a summer afternoon&mdash;the light fleecy clouds float
lazily over the glowing landscape&mdash;the sun is shining
brightly over the deep blue waves, gilding their crested
foam with sparkling diamonds, and lighting up the golden
hair of a little girl, who sits upon the beach, gazing out
upon the wide-spread ocean.  It is a graceful form which
sits there, tapping her dainty little foot, and laying her
hand caressingly, every now and then, upon the head of
her favorite old dog, Hector.
</p>

<p>
Her hat is thrown down by her side, and leaves uncovered
a head of remarkable beauty: the deep blue eyes,
fringed with their dark lashes, express a world of feeling;
the delicately arched nostril and curved mouth betoken
pride, but a troop of dimples is playing around that
expressive feature, lighting up the whole face with arch
humor; the transparent complexion, through which glows, in
rosy tints, the feelings of her sensitive nature, lends its
finishing touch of enchanting loveliness to the sweet
picture; and, as the sea-breeze lifts the flowing ringlets which
lie in such rich profusion around her shoulders, seldom
could be seen such a revelation of bright and happy
childhood as the young being who sits there, singing one of her
favorite songs.
</p>

<p>
A passer-by, who knows something of the thorny paths
of life's pilgrimage, would scarce know which to do, to
sigh or smile at the glimpse of such a beaming face; but
the ever-changing expression and flitting color would be
most likely to cause a sigh, as one might anticipate the
discipline which such a spirit must taste in a rough and
stormy world.
</p>

<p>
But we will not anticipate sorrows, sweet child!
</p>

<p>
Bright days of happy childhood are before thee!
</p>

<p>
She certainly dreams of nothing yet but joy, and hope,
and love.
</p>

<p>
"You're a good dog, Hector&mdash;don't we love each other,
old fellow?" and Madeline stooped down to rub her cheek
against her pet's shaggy head.
</p>

<p>
Looking up in her face as though he understood all she
said, he seemed proud of his little friend's caresses, and
making a kind of pleasant growl, he put up his shaggy paw,
as was his custom, when he wanted to be especially petted.
Not far from where she sits, may be seen a group of children
playing with their wheelbarrows.
</p>

<p>
A little girl of six, and two older boys are busily engaged
in filling their barrows with shining white pebbles,
and while pursuing their innocent play, they prattle
merrily together about the riches which they supposed
themselves to be gathering.
</p>

<p>
But little difference is there between these children and
men of larger growth&mdash;for these are gathering pebbles, and
men are gathering dust.
</p>

<p>
"Look here!  Philip," said the little girl, "I am sure that
this is a real diamond; don't you remember when John
Stanley came from Cape May, what a heap of diamonds he
brought with him, and sold them for ever so much money?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, sis, but then you know that he said you might
gather a great many pebbles, before you get one diamond?"
</p>

<p>
"But I'm sure, Philip, that I have found a great many;
so clear and so big; I'm so glad, because I'll give 'em all
to mother, and we shall be so rich; she won't have to work
so hard any longer; I could work here all day if I could
only see dear mother smile again."
</p>

<p>
"Well, you're a good little girl, sis, and I hope that we
shall find that you are right," and as they continued their
innocent employment, they sang cheerily, and little Susan,
in her delight, would frequently stop to clap her hands, and
dance with joy.  Just then, a couple of boys came up, who
had been watching the children for some time.
</p>

<p>
They were clad in the height of boyish fashion, and with
a conceited air, approached our little speculators, tapping
their pantaloons with their canes, and with a supercilious
manner, accosted them.
</p>

<p>
"What are you about there, you little fools?" said Harry
Castleton.  "Do you call these stones that you have been
wheeling up diamonds? they're nothing but common pebbles,
and you're a set of fools for your pains&mdash;you'd better
go home, and dig potatoes," and rudely snatching the
wheelbarrow, Harry tumbled it down to the edge of the
surf, and upset all the contents into the ocean; while
Charles Davenport stood by snapping his fingers with
malicious delight.
</p>

<p>
It was a dreadful loss to poor little Susan, who burst into
a bitter fit of weeping, and Philip stood looking angrily on.
</p>

<p>
These were larger boys, and neither of Susan's brothers
felt old enough to attack them, although they were boiling
with anger.
</p>

<p>
Just at that moment, a poor boy who had seen the whole
proceeding, stepped up.
</p>

<p>
'Tis true that he wore patched pantaloons, which were
too short, and an old threadbare jacket; but his linen collar,
though coarse, was white; and his shoes, though very old
and worn out, were neatly tied with black strings&mdash;poverty
was stamped upon his attire, but nobility upon his broad
expansive brow.
</p>

<p>
A look of manliness which shot from his fine dark eyes,
and the firmness which compressed the lip, rather overawed
the boys who saw him advancing; but when their mean
spirits perceived the poverty of his attire, contempt
mastered their temporary fear, and they stood ready for the
encounter.
</p>

<p>
"For shame! young gentlemen," said the boy, "couldn't
you find your equals in size and age when you attempt
such cowardly acts?"
</p>

<p>
"Who are you, sir?" said Harry Castleton, "that you
dare speak to your betters in such a tone? take yourself
off in a minute, or I'll lay the weight of my cane across
your face."
</p>

<p>
"I'm a boy like yourself, young gentleman, but I scorn
to attack weak little children in their plays, or to fight with
puppies."
</p>

<p>
"Do you dare to call me a puppy?" shouted Harry Castleton,
and flying at the boy, he dealt him a violent blow
across the face, causing the blood to fly from his nose, and
at the same moment, kicking the little wheelbarrow out into
the ocean.
</p>

<p>
The little girl with the golden locks had been looking on
the scene, but as soon as she saw the blow struck by the
young upstart, she flew towards the boy.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, Harry Castleton! aren't you ashamed of yourself! first
to disturb these poor little children, and then to make
a coward of yourself by attacking a boy that won't fight?"
and hastening up to the boy, she took her delicate
handkerchief, and wiping his bleeding nose, she said kindly,
</p>

<p>
"I am afraid that you are hurt."
</p>

<p>
"Not much, miss, it's only a trifle;" but as she seated
the boy, she perceived the blood gushing from a wound in
the temple, that she had not seen before.
</p>

<p>
Running to the surf, she brought the handkerchief back
again, and with the most tender, generous care, continued
wiping the blood which still kept oozing from the wound.
</p>

<p>
Charles and Harry stood by sneering.
</p>

<p>
"Really, coz," said Charles, "you are making a fool of
yourself, waiting upon a beggar boy, as if he were the son
of a gentleman."
</p>

<p>
"I don't think that fine clothes always make the gentleman;
for I'm sure I've learned this afternoon, that the feelings
of a gentleman may lodge under a threadbare jacket;
what is your name young gentleman?" continued the
child.
</p>

<p>
"My name is Roland Bruce," was the answer.
</p>

<p>
"And mine is Madeline Hamilton," was the frank response.
"Why didn't you knock Harry down!  I should have
been so angry that I'm sure I should have struck back
again."
</p>

<p>
"I was very angry, miss, but I've been taught that 'He
who mastereth his spirit, is better than he that taketh a
city.'
</p>

<p>
"But when you are struck, I think that you ought to
defend yourself."
</p>

<p>
"I did, by trying to ward off the blow; but I should have
made it no better by stooping to fight with such a boy as
that."
</p>

<p>
"Well, I'm glad to see that you're a proud boy,"
continued the child, laughing, "and I'm sure that you made
those upstarts ashamed of themselves&mdash;see how they're
slinking off!  I'm ashamed to call Charles Davenport
cousin&mdash;do you feel better?" added the little girl.
</p>

<p>
"Yes, thank you, I'm much obliged to you for your
kindness; and here, miss, is your pocket-handkerchief."
</p>

<p>
"I don't want it," said the child; "you must wear it
home," and she tied it carefully over the wounded temple.
</p>

<p>
As the boy raised his cap to bid her good afternoon,
looking after him, she said aloud, "I wonder what is meant
by a nobleman, nature's nobleman?  I guess that's one&mdash;I'd
rather call him cousin, with his patched clothes, than that
mean, contemptible pair."
</p>

<p>
Thus soliloquized Madeline Hamilton, the spoiled and
petted child of rich Mr. Hamilton, of Woodcliff.  Turning
to little Susan, who still cried for her wheelbarrow, she
said,
</p>

<p>
"Let us see if we can't find your barrow," and running
down to the shore, she found that it had been washed up,
and was fastened between a couple of large stones, from
which she soon lifted it, and restored it to the poor child.
</p>

<p>
"Come over to Woodcliff to-morrow, and Aunt Matilda
will give you something."  Then giving the child particular
directions, Madeline returned to the spot where she had
left her flat, and calling Hector, hastened home.  It was a
tolerably long walk, and by the time that she reached home,
it was late sundown.
</p>

<p>
She entered full of excitement.  Throwing down her flat,
and seating herself at the tea-table, she commenced telling
her adventure.
</p>

<p>
"Aunt Matilda," continued the child, "what is a
nobleman&mdash;nature's nobleman?"
</p>

<p>
"Why, a nobleman is one who is born of a noble family,
to be sure," was the answer.  "Our descent is English,
and our ancestors were all nobles."
</p>

<p>
"Once I remember that you told me a nobleman was
coming to dine with us, and I expected to see a very grand
person; and when he came, he was only a little man, who
took snuff out of a gold snuff-box, drank wine, and talked
about hunting.  I didn't see anything noble about him.
Another time, our pastor said that Mr. Linwood would call
upon us, who had divided a very large fortune equally
among his brothers and sisters, though they had all been
cut off by the father's will.  Our pastor called him noble,
because he had done a noble deed.  Now, aunty, there is
no use to try to make me believe anything else&mdash;everybody
is noble who does noble acts; and I don't care how he is
dressed, or where he lives.  Now, aunty, don't be affronted,
I can't help my feelings; I do love good people, and
high-spirited people, even in rags; and I hate mean, low-minded
people, even dressed in fine clothes.  I can't act deceitfully;
they make me mad, and I can't help showing it.  Now,
aunty, what is a gentleman?"
</p>

<p>
"One who is brought up with the manners of a gentleman,
who dresses like a gentleman, and who belongs to a
genteel family."
</p>

<p>
"Well, aunt, I suppose then that you call Charles
Davenport a gentleman?"
</p>

<p>
"Why, to be sure I do."
</p>

<p>
"Well, I call him a vulgar, low-bred boy; and, aunt,
I suppose that you would call Roland Bruce, with his
patched clothes, short pantaloons, and old jacket, a
common boy?"
</p>

<p>
"To be sure I would, child; why, what is he?"
</p>

<p>
"Why, I think he must be one of nature's noblemen, for
he looked ever so much grander than Charles or Harry, as
he stood on the beach, taking the part of poor little
children, and wouldn't fight, either.  They looked really mean
in their fine dress, and he looked like a hero in his poor
clothes.  Give me nature's nobleman, after all, aunty."
</p>

<p>
"Brother, just listen to the child," said Aunt Matilda; "did
you ever hear such horrid talk?  I can't instil any proper
pride into that girl."
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hamilton threw himself back in his chair, and
laughed heartily at what he called "Madcap's spirit," and
told his sister "not to be alarmed, for he was afraid that
they'd find too much pride there some day, for either of
them to manage."
</p>

<p>
Aunt Matilda loved her high-spirited little niece, and
found it very easy to forgive her; but she was often sadly
afraid that she would forget her rank, and disgrace her
family, by improper connexions.  Soon after tea was over,
Charles and Harry made their appearance, but Madeline
was still so indignant that she quickly left the room, and
steadily refused all her aunt's entreaties to return.
</p>

<p>
"They're a mean pair, aunty, and I can't see either of
them this evening," was all the response that she could
obtain from her wilful little niece.
</p>

<p>
Before retiring, the warm-hearted child sought her father's
study, and seating herself on his lap, laid her cheek softly
against his, and said, "Papa, kiss me before I go to bed.
If I've said anything wrong, forgive me, dear papa."
</p>

<p>
"No, little Mad-cap, you've done nothing wrong; only,
dear, I don't want you to associate with all kinds of
common people."  And thus the impulsive child's faults were
winked at by her indulgent father, and false worldly
sentiments inculcated by her frivolous aunt.  The next day,
little Susan presented herself at Woodcliff, and Aunt
Matilda, who was really kind-hearted, gave her some very nice
garments for her mother and brothers; and Madeline, with
the impulsiveness of her nature, was loading gifts upon her
that were wholly unsuitable, until aunty came in to check
the profuseness of the generous child; and Madeline was
sadly disappointed as she carried back to her wardrobe a
handsomely flounced pink lawn, and a pretty little jaunty
hat trimmed with flowers.
</p>

<p>
"I'm sure they would have been very nice for Sundays,"
soliloquized the child; "at any rate, I wanted her to have
them.  Aunt Matilda is so stingy and so cross&mdash;dear me!
I wish I was a young lady, just to do as I please.  I'll
have what I want, and give what I choose, then, that I will."
</p>

<p>
Many a nice garment found its way to Mrs. Grant, for
Madeline regarded little Susan as her own particular
protégé after the adventure by the sea-shore, and the child
herself was never tired of telling her mother about the good
boy that took her part so warmly, and the beautiful child
that wiped his face with her fine linen handkerchief; and
the mother could not help laughing as she mimicked the
manner in which Harry and Charles sneaked away after
her indignant rebuke; "and I am sure that they are no
gentlemen, though they were dressed ever so grand," was
the conclusion that little Susan always reached at the end
of her story.
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap02"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER II.
<br><br>
A RIDE ON HORSEBACK.
</h3>

<p>
Woodcliff is truly a pleasant home, where Mr. Hamilton
has displayed his fine taste, and rendered it one of the
most attractive residences in the whole neighborhood.  It
is a very elegant mansion, surrounded on the first floor by
piazzas, while balconies from the second story command a
fine view of the adjacent country.  It stands majestically
on the top of a high cliff, sloping down in grassy terraces to
an artificial lake, where numerous goldfish enjoy their merry
gambols, and where Madeline frequently sits dabbling her
pretty white feet, and throwing crumbs of bread to the pets
which she has tamed.  At the back of the house may be
seen a large conservatory, filled with rare and beautiful
flowers, and at the opposite wing a fine library; both wings
opening into gardens laid out with the most exquisite taste,
adorned with every variety of rich and costly shrubbery.
</p>

<p>
And here has passed the childhood of Madeline Hamilton,
the only and petted child of a father who idolizes her,
and who will not cross her strong will, or deny any
indulgence that wealth can purchase.
</p>

<p>
Having lost her mother in her infancy, her only female
guide is a maiden aunt, whose weak character is entirely
unable to control the strong will of her wayward little
niece.  Indeed, though often much provoked, a few cunning
compliments, and a shower of warm kisses, could at any
time disarm Aunt Matilda's anger; so that by flattering her
aunt, by numerous blandishments, and by sundry coaxing
ways with her father, Madeline pretty generally ruled the
household.  Though proud spirited and passionate, she had
a warm and generous nature&mdash;a creature of storms, and
tears, and smiles; and parlor and kitchen alike bent to the
will of the spoiled child, for her witcheries had bound all
to her little car.  Her favorite amusement was riding about
the country upon a pony, which her father had purchased
for her two years before.
</p>

<p>
Mounted on Selim, away she would scamper up and
down the lanes and hills of Woodcliff, sometimes attended
by a groom; but if she could contrive to elude his
vigilance, most frequently she took these rides alone.
</p>

<p>
Selim was very gentle, and they were great friends; but
occasionally he had been known to run away when
suddenly frightened.
</p>

<p>
Aunt Matilda often remonstrated against these wild rides,
but all in vain.
</p>

<p>
"There she goes like a Mad-cap down the lane!  I tell
you, brother, that we shall have her brought home some
day, either crippled or killed."
</p>

<p>
Just as Aunt Matilda concluded her speech to Mr. Hamilton,
the child turned her beautiful face, beaming with
mischief, back upon her father, and waving her little whip in
defiance, she tossed her bright locks to the wind, and
galloped off.
</p>

<p>
"I can't bear to restrain her, sister; nothing has ever
happened yet, and it seems such a pity to check such a
spirit as that."
</p>

<p>
Madeline was in high glee, and Selim was equally frolicsome.
Taking the path with which they were both familiar,
she rode gaily along, fearless and joyous, singing some
merry song.
</p>

<p>
Passing a corner of the road, she was suddenly attracted
by the sight of the boy of the sea-shore.  As she passed,
he took off his cap respectfully to the little girl, and she
returned the salutation by reining up her horse, and
inquiring about his injuries.
</p>

<p>
"They are quite well, miss," was the reply; "and mother
is very thankful to the young lady, who so kindly lent me
her handkerchief."
</p>

<p>
Just then Maddy perceived Harry and Charles riding
rapidly up the road, and who started off at a quick pace as
they passed her.  Charles gave two or three cuts of his
whip upon Selim's haunches, a liberty which he would not
bear.  He started in full gallop.  Madeline kept her seat
bravely, but with a pale cheek and quivering lip; for now
she was really frightened, and found herself incapable of
checking his speed.  On he galloped, more and more fiercely,
for the sight of the flying horses but increased the
swiftness of his flight.
</p>

<p>
Roland saw her danger, and every moment expected to
see her thrown as he perceived her swaying backward and
forward.  With lightning speed, he had started as soon as
he saw the mean act of the boys, and by wondrous efforts
succeeded in reaching the horse.  Exerting all his strength,
he headed off the animal at the risk of his life, and seizing
the bridle, held on even while the horse was rearing.
</p>

<p>
"Hold tight, Miss Madeline," said Roland, with a firm
voice; "men are coming."
</p>

<p>
At that moment he was thrown to the ground, but still
held on to the bridle, though kicked severely by the
frightened animal.
</p>

<p>
In another instant two men arrived, who succeeded in
lifting Madeline from Selim's back; and extricating Roland
from his perilous condition, found that he had severely
sprained his ankle, and received several bruises.
</p>

<p>
Madeline was laid fainting upon the ground, and when
the boys who had caused the accident rode up, their
blanched countenances indicated the terror which they
really felt.
</p>

<p>
"We did not mean to throw you, coz," said Charles; "all
we meant was a little sport."
</p>

<p>
"You might have killed your cousin, young gentlemen,"
answered Roland.
</p>

<p>
"Hold your tongue, you low upstart!  What right have
you here?" was the rude reply.
</p>

<p>
"It was well that I was near, for Miss Madeline had
not much to hope for from her manly cousins."
</p>

<p>
"Begone! you ragamuffin!  We want none of your help."
</p>

<p>
"I shall not go, sir, until I have seen Miss Madeline safe
in her father's house," was the quick reply; and with a firm
step, Roland advanced towards the little girl, and after she
was sufficiently recovered, succeeded, by the help of the
men, in placing her upon Selim's back, who was now quite
pacified.  Roland, though suffering from a sprained ankle,
taking the horse's bridle, led him quietly along.
</p>

<p>
Seeing Roland master of the field, the two boys sneaked
away, and Madeline said,
</p>

<p>
"I'm glad that they are gone; a pair of mean cowardly
fellows!  I can't bear Charley Davenport; but I'm afraid
that you are hurt, Roland," continued the child, "and I'm
so sorry that those rude boys spoke so insultingly.  But
don't mind them, Roland; I only wish you were my
cousin, instead of Charles."
</p>

<p>
"Don't think of me, miss; you were kind to me when I
was hurt the other day; and I am so glad that I can be of
any service to you.  As to the boys, I pity them; they have
never been taught what is true politeness."
</p>

<p>
"There is Woodcliff, Roland," said Madeline, as she
turned into the avenue which led to the house.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hamilton and Aunt Matilda ran hastily down to
meet her; and soon they perceived her horse led slowly
along.
</p>

<p>
"What is the matter, my darling?" inquired the father,
lifting her from the horse, and alarmed at her pallid
countenance.
</p>

<p>
"Not much, now, papa; but if it had not been for the
bravery of this good boy, I might have been killed," and
as soon as she was seated, she related the story of her
rescue to her grateful father.
</p>

<p>
"Thank you, my brave boy," said Mr. Hamilton, as he
wrung Roland's hand.  "You have done me a favor which
I shall never forget."
</p>

<p>
As Roland stood uncovered in Mr. Hamilton's presence,
he thought that he had never seen a more noble boy,
though clad in the garb of poverty.  Taking out his pocketbook,
he offered him a five dollar note, a great treasure for
Roland Bruce.  Drawing himself proudly up, while the
color mounted to his very temples, he said:
</p>

<p>
"Excuse me, sir; I would not lose the pleasure of helping
Miss Madeline, and poor as I am, I cannot receive
anything for an act so simple."
</p>

<p>
"If I can serve you in any way, my boy, come to me
freely; I should be most happy to aid you."
</p>

<p>
Just then the two cousins rode slowly up the avenue,
and felt justly humbled at the sharp reproofs administered
in the presence of Roland Bruce.
</p>

<p>
"Boys, I am heartily ashamed of you.  When you practise
jokes of this kind, let it be on some one beside a little
girl; I am sorry that your cousin had to find a protector in
a stranger."
</p>

<p>
"Papa, look at Roland, how pale he is!" exclaimed
Madeline, just as he sank down exhausted on the step of
the piazza.
</p>

<p>
"You are hurt, my boy," said Mr. Hamilton.
</p>

<p>
Roland tried to smile, but the pain of his ankle was so
severe, that he could no longer conceal his sufferings.  "I
think that I have sprained my ankle," was the answer.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hamilton instantly took off the shoe, and was
shocked to see how much it was swollen.
</p>

<p>
"You must come in, my boy, and have remedies applied
at once."
</p>

<p>
After bathing and bandaging the limb, much to the
mortification of the two boys, Roland was sent home in the
buggy, under the care of the coachman.  Charles and
Harry shrank away into the house, and Madeline cried
because her friend was hurt.
</p>

<p>
"Won't you send over to-morrow, papa, to see how he
is?  He is such a good, brave boy."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, my child, all shall be done that is right; but you
must not fret so much about a stranger."
</p>

<p>
With the careful nursing of a good mother, and the kind
attentions of Mr. Hamilton, Roland soon recovered, and
Madeline frequently stopped at the cottage door to inquire
for her young protector.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hamilton was sadly puzzled to know what to do
with his wild little daughter.
</p>

<p>
She was now ten years old, with bright talents, but a
wholly undisciplined mind; for nothing of importance had
yet been done in the great task of education, unless we
except a physical form of perfectly healthy development.
</p>

<p>
She had free access to her father's library, and devoured
indiscriminately whatever came in her way&mdash;history, poetry,
romance&mdash;and it was really amusing to see with what
facility she personified her favorite characters; and how
much she remembered of the wild legends of feudal days,
and of the lords and ladies that graced the Courts of Queen
Elizabeth and Mary Stuart.
</p>

<p>
Sir William Wallace and Robert Bruce, were, however,
her great heroes, and were ever uppermost in her mind
whenever she heard of a great man.
</p>

<p>
Fairy tales were her delight; and Madeline was never
better pleased than when she could gather an audience of
youthful listeners, to whom she could relate the wonderful
doings of these little people.
</p>

<p>
Acting out in her fanciful costumes either the grandeur
of Queen Elizabeth, the grace of Mary Stuart, or the
changing fortunes of Cinderella, Madeline amused her
father and Aunt Matilda by her witcheries part of the day,
spending the remainder of her time in her wild frolics on
the back of Selim, scouring the woods, or frequently
attended by Hector, rambling on the sea-shore.
</p>

<p>
Two or more hair-breadth escapes by land and water, at
last decided Mr. Hamilton that he must get a governess
for his mad-cap daughter, and much to her disgust, she was
told that papa had gone to Boston to bring back a lady, to
take charge of her education.
</p>

<p>
"Now, I suppose, aunty, that I am to be tied down to
old musty books, slate, pencil and pen, and everlasting
thrumming on the old piano&mdash;good-bye to the wild woods,
and the sea-shore.  I know I shall get sick; I always get
sick over school-books; and then papa will have to send.
Miss Prosy away; we'll see, that we will," tapping her
little foot impatiently on the velvet carpet, and darting a
quick mischievous glance at her aunt, she continued, "I'll
make this house too warm for Miss Prosy.  I tell you,
aunty, she'll be glad to get rid of Madeline Hamilton before
long," and tossing aside her ringlets, she dashed out
of the room, humming a lively tune.
</p>

<p>
Madeline sought her maid, Nanny, into whose ears she
poured all her grievances.
</p>

<p>
"Nanny, is it not too bad?  There's papa gone off to
Boston, to bring back some horrid old teacher to spoil all
my fun.  I expect she is tall and thin, and yellow and
cross.  I know I shan't like her; I never did like a teacher
yet."
</p>

<p>
"I'm real sorry, Miss Maddy, for I think you know more
now than half of the little girls.  You can say Cinderella,
and can act Queen Elizabeth, and Queen Mary, and can
make verses, and ever so much."
</p>

<p>
Madeline was a shrewd child, and knew very well that
such foolish things were of no manner of use to any little
girl.
</p>

<p>
She could not help smiling at Nanny's simplicity, and
said,
</p>

<p>
"Why, you see, Nanny, these things only amuse me.
I know that there is a great deal more to learn, but I don't
want to take the trouble."
</p>

<p>
"Don't be afraid, miss; your papa won't make you learn
if you don't want to; and if you don't like the teacher, I
can help you to get her away."
</p>

<p>
"That is a dear good Nanny; I'll give you a new dress,
and pretty collar, if you'll only be my friend."
</p>

<p>
"I know what to do, miss; if I tell your papa that you
don't sleep well, and that you are getting pale, he'll think
that you are going to be sick, and will send her away, I
know."
</p>

<p>
"Well, Nanny, I am not sick now.  I feel as merry as a
lark.  Do you want to hear my little song, Nanny?"
</p>

<p>
Dancing about the room, in a sweet clear voice, she
commenced singing,
</p>

<p class="poem">
  Away, away to the woods for me,<br>
  Away, away to the dear old sea;<br>
  Away up the hills, and down the lanes,<br>
  As I give to Selim the lightest reins.<br>
</p>

<p class="poem">
  Then away we scamper in many a race,<br>
  Giving old Hector a good wild chase;<br>
  Books and slates are very good things,<br>
  But Mad-cap would rather dance and sing.<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Away, away to the woods for me,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Away, away to the dear old sea.<br>
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
"Did you really make up that song, Miss Maddy?"
asked the wondering Nanny.
</p>

<p>
Madeline burst out laughing as she replied, "Why, yes,
Nanny, I often make up such little pieces."
</p>

<p>
"Why, how do you do it, Miss Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"I don't know, Nanny; the words just come to me
themselves."
</p>

<p>
"Why sure! what a wonderful child!  What's the use
of getting a teacher; I guess Miss Prosser can't make
verses."
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap03"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER III.
<br><br>
MADDY'S TRIUMPH.
</h3>

<p>
Late on Saturday evening, Mr. Hamilton arrived with
a pale sad looking lady, whom he introduced as Miss
Prosser.
</p>

<p>
Aunt Matilda received her as a lady, but wilful little
Madeline, with a cunning glance of her eye, extended her
hand reluctantly, and saluted her as Miss Prosy.
</p>

<p>
"Prosser, my dear," corrected the father.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, yes, I forgot&mdash;Miss Prosser; do you give hard
lessons, Miss Prosy?" continued the child.
</p>

<p>
"I do not think that you will have any cause to
complain, if you will only be diligent and obedient."
</p>

<p>
"Those are two words which I have never been taught
yet, Miss Prosy."
</p>

<p>
"Prosser, my dear, Prosser," interrupted the father.
"I hope that you will find Madeline all that you desire
after awhile.  She is a wild little girl now; lessons will
be hard at first, and you must not keep her too close."
</p>

<p>
Monday morning arrived, and Madeline was summoned
to the library, where her studies were to be pursued.
</p>

<p>
Miss Prosser was one of the rigid school of disciplinarians;
and Madeline, with the quick instinct of a bright
child, soon felt that there would never be any bond of
union between herself and the sad lady, who appointed her
daily tasks.
</p>

<p>
The first hour passed tolerably, the second wearily, but the
third, which introduced her wild imaginative mind to the
severe discipline of arithmetic, was insufferable; and
throwing down her book impatiently, she said, "I'm tired of this
stuff; I can't do any more this day; good-bye, Miss Prosy,"
and away started the wild child, ere her governess could
express her surprise.
</p>

<p>
Running to her father, who was just going out to ride,
she begged so bewitchingly to accompany him, that papa
could not refuse her; and Miss Prosser had the mortification
of seeing her out of the library window, galloping
down the avenue on Selim, with her flat set jauntily upon
her bright young head, and she, poor lady, mourning over
her wilful scholar.
</p>

<p>
"Really, my dear, you must not do this again; Miss
Prosser will be offended."
</p>

<p>
"I was so tired, dear papa; I felt as if I would smother
in that warm room; and when she placed the multiplication
table before me, I knew it was of no use to try; I
shall never learn the horrid old thing, I know."
</p>

<p>
Day after day, Madeline wearied the patience of her
teacher.  Sometimes, when it was her whim, she would
apply herself most earnestly to some favorite exercise, and
surprise her at the quickness with which she mastered even
difficult lessons; but as to regular, systematic study, it was
out of the question.
</p>

<p>
Sometimes she would teaze Miss Prosser with endless
questions.
</p>

<p>
"Miss Prosy, why did you not get married? you are
very good-looking," inquired the teazing child.
</p>

<p>
"Miss Madeline, study that lesson, and don't spend your
time in asking such foolish questions."
</p>

<p>
"I'm not in the humor, Miss Prosy; I feel lazy; I'd
much rather talk; and papa says he don't like me forced
to study."
</p>

<p>
"Don't you want to be an intelligent woman, Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"I don't know, indeed; I am afraid I should be an old
maid, if I think too much of learning.  I can gain a great
deal by reading, and that is what I like."
</p>

<p>
"Aren't you going to study this morning?" continued
Miss Prosser.
</p>

<p>
"I don't think I shall; I don't feel very well; and if you
have no objection, I'll lie down on the sofa, and read the
Lady of the Lake."
</p>

<p>
Miss Prosser knew that it was in vain to enforce obedience;
for in all cases, appeals to Mr. Hamilton ended in
Madeline's victory, and generally she had to wait upon the
young lady's whims.
</p>

<p>
"Why, Miss Prosser, I do believe that you are growing
gray; and you always look as if you were going to cry."
</p>

<p>
Just then, perceiving that two large tears dropped upon
the book which she was using, Madeline, with all the
impulsive warmth of her nature, threw her arms around Miss
Prosser, saying,
</p>

<p>
"I did not mean to hurt your feelings; I do so like a
little bit of fun."
</p>

<p>
"You should learn, my child, to restrain your impetuous
nature, for thoughtless words may wound as deeply as
intended ones.  I have known much of sorrow, Madeline.
Once I was the centre of a happy home, where I was
cherished as tenderly as you are now; but now I am all alone
in the world&mdash;an orphan, and penniless."
</p>

<p>
"Do forgive me, dear Miss Prosser," replied the child;
"I will never do so again," and she hid her face in her
hands, bowed her head and wept.
</p>

<p>
"I do forgive you, Madeline, heartily: but do, my dear
child, try to think always of the feelings of others."
</p>

<p>
Madeline was subdued all that day.  At the table, she
was careful to see that Miss Prosser had the nicest little
delicacies, and when she went to her room at night, the
warm-hearted child followed to see that she was
comfortable, and kissing her, bade her good night.
</p>

<p>
Matters progressed very well for a few days.  Madeline
seemed as if she really meant to be a good child, and under
the new impulse, the governess was hopeful.
</p>

<p>
The mornings spent in the library were all that she
could desire.  It was so pleasant to come into contact with
such a fresh, original mind, as that of her bright little pupil;
and then Madeline really appeared to be learning the art
of self-control.
</p>

<p>
"There comes Hector!" she exclaimed one morning, as
the sharp bark of her dog was heard at the door.  Formerly,
she would have thrown down her books, and rushed out to
meet her favorite.
</p>

<p>
'Tis true that she did for one moment arise from her
seat, but quickly returning, she said, "There, Hector, go
away this time, that's a good dog;" and though he
continued whining and scratching at the door, she remained
resolute, and refused him admittance.
</p>

<p>
This was quite a triumph for Madeline, and Miss Prosser
repaid her with a smile of encouragement, which impelled
Madeline, with a heightened color, to renewed efforts of
diligent study.  Occasionally, there would be outbreaks of
the old spirt of mischief, but generally, the progress was
onward.
</p>

<p>
One morning, Madeline, full of excitement, met her
teacher.  "Only think Miss Prosser, my cousin is coming;
Lavinia Raymond.  Oh! what a nice time we shall have;
she's the girl for fun; when she's here, we are out every
day somewhere.  I know papa will give me a holiday; I
mean to coax hard, and he never refuses his little Mad-cap."
</p>

<p>
"But, my dear child, you certainly don't expect to give
up your studies while Lavinia is here."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, indeed; I think I have learned enough now for
the last month to last me all the time that she stays with
us."
</p>

<p>
Mad-cap's spirits were fully aroused; it was almost
impossible to bring her into any kind of composure, and
Miss Prosser was compelled to shorten the exercises for
that day at least.
</p>

<p>
Lavinia was expected late in the afternoon.  As soon as
dinner was over, Madeline commenced her visits to the window,
the door, and even to the gate, which led to the avenue,
backward and forward, until she was nearly tired out.
</p>

<p>
"Papa, I don't believe that she is coming at all," at
length uttered the impatient child.
</p>

<p>
"Do you know, my dear, that it is only six o'clock,"
replied Mr. Hamilton, smiling, and taking out his watch;
"they cannot possibly reach here before seven, so you had
better run in, and amuse yourself at your piano."
</p>

<p>
Away ran Maddy&mdash;opening her instrument, she rattled
away for about ten minutes; then calling Hector, and
throwing on her flat, down the avenue, through the gate,
and out into the open road she started at full speed.  At
length, after sundry races of the same description, she
spied a distant carriage, but was bitterly disappointed
when she found that it only contained a party of strangers.
Seven o'clock came, but no cousin.  Discouraged, she
seated herself on the piazza, and when at length she found
that the carriage had entered the avenue, standing tip-toe
on the lower step, she awaited, with a glowing cheek, the
letting down of the carriage step.  In another minute, Lavinia
was in her cousin's arms, and Mrs. Raymond warmly
welcomed by her brother-in-law and Aunt Matilda.
</p>

<p>
She was a woman of the world, devoted to fashion, and
training her daughter in all its follies.  Lavinia was two
years older than Madeline, but completely a spoiled child
of folly&mdash;the only bond of sympathy between her and
Madeline, was their mutual love of mischief.
</p>

<p>
"Take me to my room, Maddy, I want to make my
toilet," was the first request of Lavinia; and accompanied
by her maid, Madeline led her to her chamber.
</p>

<p>
Our natural little girl was greatly amused by the pains
bestowed upon a child's toilet; for the utmost time that
Madeline could spare, was to bathe thoroughly, twist her
ringlets hastily around her fingers, put on her simple dress,
and without another thought, her toilet was completed.
But Lavinia, was washed and powdered, combed and
pomatummed, her head dressed like a woman's, and after
the indulgence of an hour's whims, Susette pronounced
her "comme il faut."  What a contrast between the
affectation of Lavina Raymond, and the natural sportive
grace of Madeline Hamilton!
</p>

<p>
At the table, Mrs. Raymond answered the polite bow
of Miss Prosser with a supercilious stare, and Lavinia,
imitating her mother's rudeness, scarcely noticed her
presence.
</p>

<p>
After a few days of unrestrained license, Miss Prosser
ventured to remonstrate with Mr. Hamilton, but he could
not think of interfering with Mad-cap's pleasures; and all
that he would consent to was, that Lavinia and Madeline
should spend two hours daily at their studies, unless
otherwise engaged.  Two or three mornings of every
week, they were off on some excursion of pleasure; the
remainder of the time was broken in upon by every trivial
excuse that could be invented.  Indeed, since Lavinia's
arrival, Miss Prosser's influence was at an end; lessons
were to be excused, musical practice virtually had closed.
</p>

<p>
Lavinia would not study, and even when Madeline was
so disposed, she would not allow her to do anything but
play.  Weary were the hours of the sad governess, and once
more the prospect of another change began to loom up
gloomily in the distant horizon.  She had hoped that she
was at least for years at rest; but the orders to march rang
daily in her ears.
</p>

<p>
After many trials and disappointments, Miss Prosser,
utterly discouraged, was contemplating the perplexity of her
situation.  Seated one morning in the library, waiting for
her wayward pupils, she was suddenly surprised by the
entrance of Mr. Hamilton.  Her sad weary expression of
countenance touched him for a moment, and he said, "I am
sorry, Miss Prosser, that my little girl is so wilful, but I
have not the heart to deny her anything, and when Lavinia
has gone, we shall return to the old order of things."
</p>

<p>
"I fear, by that time, my dear sir, that I shall find it
impossible to bring Madeline into any kind of subjection; I
am greatly perplexed, for I cannot bear to receive a salary
for doing nothing."
</p>

<p>
"You need not mind, Miss Prosser, if I do not complain."
</p>

<p>
"I do object, sir, to receive a salary without giving the
equivalent, and seriously conclude that I cannot do so much
longer."
</p>

<p>
"Do have a little patience, Miss Prosser; Lavinia will
leave in about a month, and then we shall be regular once
more."
</p>

<p>
Poor Miss Prosser was still severely tried; practical jokes
were frequently played upon her, and although she was
certain that Madeline had not taken an active part in them,
still it pained her to see that even she could be amused at
her expense.  Matters grew worse instead of better; Madeline
was impatient, and Lavinia indifferent.
</p>

<p>
The month rolled on; Lavinia and her mother took their
departure; and Miss Prosser endeavored once more to
regain her influence over her pupil.
</p>

<p>
"Come, Madeline, aren't you tired of play?" asked the
governess.
</p>

<p>
"No, indeed; I hate books and study, and long, sad faces;
Lavinia don't go to school but half the year, and I am going
to coax papa to let me stop until next winter."
</p>

<p>
"Just come, now, Madeline, and let us read a little
together; you have not said one lesson for three weeks."
</p>

<p>
"Well, I suppose I must, just to please you, Miss Prosser;
but let it be a short one."
</p>

<p>
Maddy soon commenced yawning, and as soon as the lesson
was over, brought out her favorite volume of Shakspeare,
and really did manage to spend another hour in
searching for beauties in her pet author; but one hour was
sufficient, and, begging to be excused, she was gone.  And
thus the patience of the poor lady was taxed daily, her
spirits sank, and too conscientious to hold such a position,
she fully made up her mind to resign.  Accordingly, on
the next day, Madeline's father was summoned to the
library.
</p>

<p>
"I have sent for you, Mr. Hamilton, to resign my charge;
I have tried it for six months, but in vain.  Your child has
the brightest talents, but the system of indulgence pursued
towards her, precludes entirely the possibility of
improvement.  I must have my pupils advance, or I cannot be
happy.  I have nothing else to complain of; my quarter
will expire next week, and then I feel that I ought to leave."
</p>

<p>
"I am sorry, Miss Prosser; but I suppose that it cannot
be helped."
</p>

<p>
The lady smiled at this acknowledgment of weakness;
but her resolution was taken.
</p>

<p>
The sad, pale teacher took her leave on the following
Saturday, and when Madeline found that she was really
going, with the perverseness of such wayward natures, she
was actually sorry; she had learned to respect her
governess, and really liked her better than any who had ever
taught her before.
</p>

<p>
"Good-bye, Miss Prosser; I am sorry that I have been
so naughty, but I can't help it.  Papa says so; and I know
it is so.  Here's a breastpin, with some of Mad-cap's hair
in it; will you show that you forgive me by wearing
it?"
</p>

<p>
"Thank you, my dear child; I shall always remember
your warm little heart; and if ever you change your ways,
and desire to hear from your friend, write to Messrs. Wood
&amp; Co., Boston.  I think that you will, Madeline; but some
one else must be the teacher.  I have tried my utmost, and
failed."
</p>

<p>
Strange to say, Madeline shed some natural tears as
she saw the carriage vanish with her governess; but in a
few days, the feeling of perfect liberty in which she revelled,
obliterated all the regret, and Hector and Selim were
again her constant companions.
</p>

<p>
"Dear me, brother," said Aunt Matilda, "what shall
we do with the child; she is now nearly eleven, and
scarcely any education."
</p>

<p>
"Time enough yet, Matilda; she'll be all right; don't be
afraid of Mad-cap, she is bright as a diamond."
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap04"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER IV.
<br><br>
TOO PROUD TO BEND.
</h3>

<p>
"I wish I had something to do; I am tired of playing,
tired of riding, tired of everything&mdash;I have nobody to
speak to but papa, and Aunt Matilda, and Selim, and my
other pets."  Thus soliloquized Madeline, as, with a weary
yawn, she threw herself upon the sofa in the library.  "I
get so tired of Aunt Matilda, she never talks any sense:
nothing but head-dresses, and her complexion, her white
hands, and the days when she was young.  Miss Prosser
did talk sense, and I wish she were back again; I always
liked her when she made me do what she commanded.
I did not let her know it, though; I am too proud for
that."  And Madeline tapped her little foot upon the carpet, her
usual way of expressing a chafed, impatient spirit.  "I
think I heard the bell ring," and running to the window,
she peeped through the thin curtains, to see who was
there.  "Oh! dear, if there isn't Roland Bruce&mdash;what's
that he has got in his basket?"  Just then a servant
entered.
</p>

<p>
"Miss Madeline, a poor boy wants to see you at the door."
</p>

<p>
"O, yes, I know; I am so glad to see him," and away
she flew.
</p>

<p>
Roland took off his cap as soon as he saw the little
girl, and with a modest air, he said:
</p>

<p>
"I thought, Miss Madeline, that you would like these
pretty doves," uncovering his basket.
</p>

<p>
Madeline peeped in, and there lay the sweetest little
ring-doves, with their soft eyes looking up in her face.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, Roland, what a good boy you are! they are so
pretty; it's just what I have wanted so long."
</p>

<p>
"Here's some chickweed, too, Miss Madeline, for your
canary; we have so much in our garden; and I thought
you would like some lilies of the valley."
</p>

<p>
"O, thank you, Roland, how good you are to remember
me!  Now let us run out into the garden, and you shall
plant the lilies."
</p>

<p>
Leaving her doves in the care of Nanny, her own maid,
away scampered the child, hair flying, and eyes beaming
with innocent delight.
</p>

<p>
"Here, Roland, this is my garden," said the child,
pointing to a corner of the grounds which bore many
marks of careless culture.  "Here I come to dig and weed,
but I get tired of it; I get tired of everything, Roland."
</p>

<p>
"If you'll let me, I'll come, Miss, and look after your
flowers; I know something about them, for we raise them
and sell them to our neighbors.  I have not forgotten your
kindness, Miss Madeline."
</p>

<p>
"I wish you were my brother, or my cousin, Roland,
what nice times we should have!  I have a boat, a pony,
and a dog, and so many things; but for all that, I get so
tired."
</p>

<p>
"Have you any books, Miss Madeline?" continued the boy.
</p>

<p>
"Books! why I have more than I can count&mdash;all kinds
of books."
</p>

<p>
"Do you never study, Miss Madeline?" inquired Roland,
with a look of surprise.
</p>

<p>
"Study! no, indeed, I hate study.  I like to read stories,
and poetry, and fairy tales, and accounts of great men&mdash;did
you ever hear of Robert Bruce? he's my hero;
wasn't it nice when the spider taught him such a lesson?"
</p>

<p>
"I've read about him, Miss Madeline, for my mother
has told me so much about Scotland&mdash;both my parents
were Scotch."
</p>

<p>
"Were they, Roland? may be you're some relation to
Robert Bruce; why I do believe you are."
</p>

<p>
Roland smiled at her simplicity, and stooping down,
planted his modest flowers in a shady corner.
</p>

<p>
"Wouldn't you like to go to our school, Miss Madeline?
Mr. Norton is such a good teacher."
</p>

<p>
"Where is your school, Roland?" asked the child.
</p>

<p>
"It is about a mile from here, in Maple Lane, and such
a pleasant walk in fine weather."
</p>

<p>
"Is Mr. Norton cross, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"No, indeed; he's the best friend that I ever had."
</p>

<p>
"Have they more teachers than one?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes&mdash;Mr. Norton the principal, Miss Adams the first
assistant, and Miss Corning second."
</p>

<p>
"Are there many scholars, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"I think we have sixty, Miss Madeline; Mr. Norton
makes everything so pleasant, and learning so easy."
</p>

<p>
"I'll coax papa to let me come; you'll help me to learn,
won't you, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
Madeline was sorry when Roland turned to go home.
</p>

<p>
"Good-bye," said the child, "you'll see me at your
school; if I take it into my head, I can go;" and running
back to the house, once more she visited her little pets,
and named them Patty and Jim.  Impatiently she awaited
papa's arrival from his ride.  As soon as he was seated,
jumping on his lap, she threw her arms around his neck,
and looking up in his face with her own bewitching way,
she said:
</p>

<p>
"Now, papa, I want you to promise me something."
</p>

<p>
"What is it, Maddy?  It is not much that I can refuse you."
</p>

<p>
"Well, it's something good, papa; you'll like it, I know.
I want you to let me go to the school in Maple Lane.
Mary James, Minnie Scott, Lizzie Belton, and Ellen
Taylor all go; and I think it will be much better than
school all alone, and no one to speak to but the teacher."
</p>

<p>
"I must make some inquiries first, Mad-cap," answered
her father.
</p>

<p>
"Won't you go to-morrow, papa?  I want to go right
off, and I promise you that I'll study hard; just let me go,
that's a dear papa."
</p>

<p>
"Well, I'll see about it to-morrow, Madeline, and if all
is right, you shall go; I will do anything to make you
learn."
</p>

<p>
Next morning Mr. Hamilton made the necessary calls
upon the parents of the children named by Madeline, saw
the principal, entered her name, and all being satisfactory,
his consent was fully given.
</p>

<p>
"Well, Maddy, all is settled; you will go on Monday to
Maple Lane.  I hope that you will be a good little girl,
and not get tired of it in a week or two."
</p>

<p>
"I hope, my dear niece," said Aunt Matilda, "that you
will show some proper pride, and not make an acquaintance
of everybody that you meet.  You must remember that
there are many very common people who go to school
there; no associates for Madeline Hamilton, the heiress of
Woodcliff."
</p>

<p>
Madeline put on her mischievous air as she replied, "I'm
afraid I shall often forget that I must act the little
princess; for when I meet a right funny little girl, I don't
often stop to ask who she is, but I just play with those I
like."
</p>

<p>
Monday morning came round; papa's summer carriage
was brought up, and Maddy, with a glowing cheek and
dancing step, seated herself by her father's side.  A neat
little satchel, and a basket with a nice lunch pleased our
little girl mightily, for she had never seemed like a scholar
before.
</p>

<p>
Maddy was now about eleven years old&mdash;a bright
animated being; and when Mr. Hamilton took her by the
hand, and led her up to the desk of the principal, all eyes
were turned towards the shy little creature, who was really
abashed by the gaze of so many young faces, all looking
with curious eyes upon the young stranger.
</p>

<p>
"I have brought you my little girl, Mr. Norton; she is
my only child, and quite a darling at home.  She has been
so much petted, that I fear you will find her sadly deficient."
</p>

<p>
"We have excellent teachers, Mr. Hamilton, but strict
discipline; I fear that you may think it too much so for
your little daughter."
</p>

<p>
"We can try it, Mr. Norton, and if too strict, there is an
easy remedy.  May I ask in what class she will be placed?"
</p>

<p>
"I presume in Miss Corning's; she has the youngest
children."
</p>

<p>
By this time, Madeline had gained courage enough to
look around her, and was delighted to greet Roland Bruce
on the opposite side of the room.  Finally, papa took leave;
Madeline underwent examination, and was placed under
Miss Corning's care.  Her chief study for the first day was
faces and characters, for she was a quick little one at the
latter.
</p>

<p>
Maddy was much amused at the pretensions of some of
the purse-proud in the neighborhood, and inwardly resolved
that none of these would-be-ladies should be among her
friends.
</p>

<p>
During the intermission, Lizzie Belton, a young miss of
fourteen, anxious to cultivate the acquaintance of a Hamilton,
stepped forward with rather a patronizing air, to take
Madeline out to the play-ground; but the proud little girl
declined the honor, and looked eagerly around for Roland.
</p>

<p>
"I'm so glad that you have come, Roland," said the child.
"I don't know any of these girls except by name, and I
don't care for them.  They all seem to think themselves so
grand, because they are dressed fine.  I don't care for
clothes that are too good for a brisk race."
</p>

<p>
Roland had seen that the child was even rude to some
of the girls, and said,
</p>

<p>
"Miss Madeline, don't you think it would be better to
be a little sociable with them?  You will have enemies
among them if you do not."
</p>

<p>
"If I can find one real little girl, who likes me for myself
alone, that is the playmate for me.  Bring your sister,
Roland; I'd rather play with Effie, than any of the rest of
them."
</p>

<p>
"She is not here to-day, Miss Madeline!"
</p>

<p>
"What do you think of Miss Corning, Roland?  I don't
think I shall like her very much; she has such a stern,
cross way of speaking, She need not order me about; I
can be led, but I can't be driven!" and the proud spirit
flashed in Madeline's expressive eyes.
</p>

<p>
"Just obey the rules, and study well, Miss Madeline,
and you'll have no trouble with Miss Corning; but if you
don't, you'll have a hard time.  Every one has to mind
her, and you must not try to have your own way here."
</p>

<p>
"Who is that queer-looking boy sitting under the tree,
Roland?" asked the child.
</p>

<p>
Roland smiled as he said, "Poor fellow! he is not very
smart; his name is Tony Willikins; he is an only son, and
his father is a very rich man, and gives him everything he
wants."
</p>

<p>
Just then Tony came near where Madeline was seated,
and being an admirer of pretty little girls, he stopped
before her, and making an attempt to bow by pulling his cap
suddenly from his head, and clapping it under his arm, he
said,
</p>

<p>
"How do you do, Miss?  Please tell me your name."
</p>

<p>
Madeline burst out laughing at the grotesque figure that
stood before her, twisting his watch-chain, and simpering
in such an unmeaning manner.
</p>

<p>
"My name is Mad-cap Hamilton," answered the child.
</p>

<p>
"That's a queer name!  I don't like it much, Miss.  My
name is Anthony Willikins; my pop lives in a great big
house; we have six horses and two carriages, and three
dogs, and a big garden, and ever so many books, but I can't
read any of 'em yet; and I've got a boat all to myself, and
one carriage and two horses.  Wouldn't you like to take a
ride with me, some day?  I'd like to take you; pop would
let me, I know; won't you ask your pop to let you go?"
</p>

<p>
All this time Madeline was convulsed with laughter, and
could scarcely answer.
</p>

<p>
"I don't think papa would let me go, Tony; he does not
like me to go with strangers."
</p>

<p>
Just then the bell rang, and after a short afternoon
session, the school was dismissed, and Madeline went home
with her tasks for the next day.
</p>

<p>
While the novelty lasted, duties progressed very well;
but the old habits of indolence returned, and then came the
warfare between Madeline, the self-willed, and Miss
Corning, the determined.
</p>

<p>
"Madeline, how is it that you now come daily unprepared
with your lessons?" inquired the lady.
</p>

<p>
"I had something else to do," was the quick reply.
</p>

<p>
"Do you expect to go home without reciting them?"
</p>

<p>
"Certainly, Miss Corning!  I cannot learn them all in
school."
</p>

<p>
"We will see, Madeline! for you can't leave the room
at recess, or go home until they are learned perfectly."
</p>

<p>
Madeline threw her books aside, and sat with burning
cheek and flashing eye, while the tapping of her little foot
betrayed the tempest within.  Miss Corning said no more
at that time.
</p>

<p>
Roland saw the storm that was brewing, and seating
himself near his little friend, he whispered:
</p>

<p>
"Do not act so, Miss Madeline; it is very wrong.  God
sees you, and you are sinning against him, by not obeying
those who have the rule over you."
</p>

<p>
Madeline looked up surprised at Roland, wondering how
a poor boy could dare so boldly reprove her.  But he was
not at all abashed; he knew that he was right, and
Madeline wrong, and he returned the look of indignant scorn
with one of pity.
</p>

<p>
"How dare you pity me, Roland Bruce?  Don't you
know that I am Madeline Hamilton?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, miss, I know all that, and I'm very sorry for it,
for my Bible says that 'To whom much is given, of him
much will be required;' Madeline Hamilton, therefore, is
bound to be a better, wiser, holier child than Bessie Carter,
because she has more advantages."
</p>

<p>
Though Mad-cap was so angry, she inwardly respected
the boy, who though so far beneath her in social rank, had
the courage to lay her faults plainly before her.
</p>

<p>
She sat however, still sullen and silent, and Roland said
no more; recess had passed, and the school duties were
resumed.
</p>

<p>
Miss Corning glanced occasionally towards her refractory
pupil, not at all disposed to yield one inch.  Madeline's
reflections were of the most mortifying character.  She
liked and respected Roland Bruce, and now she feared that
she had lost his friendship by her bad conduct; then the
inward conviction that she was wrong, and must at last
own it, was deeply humbling to her pride.
</p>

<p>
The afternoon passed by, school was dismissed, and
Roland still lingered.  Walking directly up to Madeline,
he said in a manly tone:
</p>

<p>
"Miss Madeline, you are all wrong; just say so; give
up this rebellion, and recite your lessons.  I can't go home
and leave you here; I would not leave Effie, and I cannot
leave you."
</p>

<p>
Madeline was melting; for one moment she hesitated,
and then turning with swimming eyes, extended her little
hand to Roland, as she said:
</p>

<p>
"You are a true friend; you have dared to tell a spoiled
child how bad she is, and I honor you for it.  I will study
all my lessons, if you will only hear me say them."
</p>

<p>
Miss Corning nodded assent, and Madeline set to work
with a good will to accomplish her task.  Soon she mastered it,
and it was a curious sight to behold the flattered
and petted child subdued and penitent, looking in Roland's
face so timidly, for approval and encouragement.  Such is
the force of a strong character, even in a boy.
</p>

<p>
"Forgive me, Miss Corning," said the humbled little
girl, "you don't know how I have been spoiled; but I will
try to be better in future."
</p>

<p>
"You will always find me a friend, Madeline, when you
do right, but a severe judge when you persist in wrong,"
was the immediate response.
</p>

<p>
"Good-bye, Roland," said the child, as she left the
school-room; "don't think me so dreadfully bad.  I am so
sorry," and she wept bitterly.
</p>

<p>
"Good-bye, Miss Madeline, I am so glad that you confessed
that you were wrong; it has raised you so much in
my regard; try to do right, and God will help you, Miss
Madeline."
</p>

<p>
Maddy had learned two valuable lessons on that day:
one, that there were two in the world stronger than she,
to whom she must submit; and the other, that happiness
follows a conquest over the natural evils of a sinful heart.
Her path was smooth and pleasant for some time; she
was studious, and improved rapidly.  Roland was her fast
friend; aiding her in every difficult lesson, and keeping a
constant watch over the outbreaks of her passionate
nature.
</p>

<p>
Miss Adams was one of Roland's teachers, and had a
brother in school about his age.  George Adams was a
bright boy, but could not compete with Roland Bruce; and
feelings of jealousy, both on the sister and brother's side,
were often manifested.  A written examination was to take
place, which was to decide the question of promotion.
George Adams and Roland were in the same class, and had
an equal number of questions to answer in grammar,
geography, and algebra.  Their desks were side by side.
Roland had carefully written out all his answers; and, as
he folded up his manuscripts, he said, with a bright look:
"There, I have not one blank, nor one blot," and, closing
his desk, he prepared to go home.  George Adams remained
behind, and Madeline, having something to do, tarried also.
They left the school-room together, and the child, with her
accustomed shrewdness, observed that George avoided her
eye, and passed out without speaking.
</p>

<p>
Next morning was examination-day&mdash;when Roland's turn
came, his manuscripts were nowhere to be found.  Diligent
search was made, but in vain.  Miss Adams arose and said:
</p>

<p>
"It is very strange, Roland; no one would take them
from your desk; it looks very much like deception."
</p>

<p>
Roland's eye flashed, as he replied:
</p>

<p>
"I wrote them all out, and placed them in my desk,
yesterday afternoon."
</p>

<p>
In an instant, Madeline Hamilton was on her feet; regardless
of the presence of Mr. Norton, the assistants, and some
of the directors, she exclaimed, as she pointed her finger
towards the guilty boy:
</p>

<p>
"I saw him open Roland's desk&mdash;Roland Bruce is not a
deceiver; there is the deceiver!  I know that he was always
jealous of him.  I watched him as he passed along the road;
he scattered pieces of paper, I picked them up, there they
are," and she handed them to Mr. Norton.  Madeline's cheek
and eye were burning; but fearless, in the defence of her
friend, she thought of no one else.
</p>

<p>
"Madeline has always been the champion of Roland
Bruce," said Miss Adams; "she certainly forgets who he is;
a son of a poor huckster woman, who takes truck to market."
</p>

<p>
"No, I do not forget, Miss Adams, that he is the brightest
boy in school, has always been a mark to shoot at, and that
there is not one boy in this school, half as wise and good as
Roland."
</p>

<p>
"Sit down, Madeline," said Mr. Norton; "this matter
shall be looked into."
</p>

<p>
The excitement had passed, and the little advocate,
over-powered, bowed her head upon her desk, and wept
convulsively.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Norton examined the fragments of paper; they were
all proved to be Roland's.  George Adams was suspended
for dishonorable practice; and Roland, after another written
examination, promoted to the highest rank in school.  A
practical lesson of the truth of that Scripture which declares
that, "He who humbleth himself shall be exalted, and he
that exalteth himself, shall be abased."
</p>

<p>
"Really," said Lizzie Belton, "I think that Madeline
Hamilton makes a fool of herself by the fuss she makes over
these Bruces; they are well enough in their place, but they
are no companions for me."
</p>

<p>
Lizzie had not forgotten her rebuff, nor, since that time,
had she made any progress towards intimacy with Madeline
Hamilton.
</p>

<p>
After school, Roland hurried over to Madeline.
</p>

<p>
"I am sorry that you have made such an enemy, Miss
Madeline; Miss Adams will not forgive you very soon.  If
you had only waited until school was out; it was such a
public exposure."
</p>

<p>
"I did not think of anything, Roland, but two people; I
did not even see any body but Roland Bruce, and that mean,
contemptible George Adams."
</p>

<p>
"Won't you try to subdue some of your quickness, Miss
Madeline?  I fear that it will bring you into trouble."
</p>

<p>
"There is no use, Roland; I have a hot, quick temper,
and it makes a hasty tongue."
</p>

<p>
"You are a warm little friend, and I thank you for your
kindness to one so humble as I, for I am nothing but the son
of a very poor woman, who has to struggle hard to find her
children bread."
</p>

<p>
"Just to think of that Miss Adams, calling your mother,
your good mother, a low huckster woman."
</p>

<p>
"I know that she is not, and I pitied Miss Adams when
she made such a speech before her scholars; for she hurt
herself more than the did my dear, precious mother."
</p>

<p>
"Don't I wish, Roland, that you would live to be a great
man; wouldn't they all be ashamed of themselves?"
</p>

<p>
"Don't be troubled, Miss Madeline, I am trying all that
I can to be a learned and good man; and I know that God
will take care of me if I am His child, and I humbly hope
that I am."
</p>

<p>
"When you are a great man, you shall come right down
here among them, and make grand speeches; and won't I
be glad to see them all bowing to Mr. Roland Bruce, the
poor widow's son."
</p>

<p>
Roland could not help laughing at the little enthusiast,
for he was but sixteen now, and many a weary year must
pass away, and many rugged hills be scaled, ere he should
figure as a great man among the people of Maple Lane
school.
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap05"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER V.
<br><br>
YOUTHFUL VISIONS.
</h3>

<p>
A nest of rocks standing out upon the ocean, around
which the waves dash with mournful measure, is one of
the most inviting retreats for the people around Woodcliff.
</p>

<p>
On this bright summer afternoon, a beautiful dreamer sits
upon its summit, with eyes turned upward on the rapidly
changing clouds.  Ever and anon, a smile passes over the
young face, as some bright thought flits through the
teeming fancy.
</p>

<p>
"Down, Hector, what is the matter?" said the child;
but the dog continued barking and wagging his tail, as he
ran down the side of the rock, and bounded along the
beach.
</p>

<p>
Madeline soon saw that her young friend Roland was
coming towards them, with whom Hector was well
acquainted.
</p>

<p>
"Come up, Roland, it is perfectly splendid," exclaimed
the little girl, and soon she was joined by her young
companion.
</p>

<p>
"I want you to come and help me watch the clouds.  I
don't know if you can see as I do, but there is everything
that is beautiful this afternoon."
</p>

<p>
"Look there, Roland! see that white-winged angel sailing
along so softly; but it is fading&mdash;it is all gone&mdash;it
seemed to wave its hand to us, bidding us farewell.  Oh! look
there at that group of clouds; there are soldiers, and
banners, and spears flashing&mdash;don't you see that flag
waving so grandly?  Now just see, Roland, the flag has
turned into a long fish with wings&mdash;now don't laugh at me,
Roland."
</p>

<p>
Roland could not but smile at her wild fancies, and replied,
</p>

<p>
"I ought not to laugh at you, Miss Madeline, for many
a beautiful picture have I seen on the clouds, and many an
odd one in the winter fire."
</p>

<p>
"Don't call me Miss Madeline, Roland; we go to the
same school; I am younger than you, and I'm sure that
you are a great deal wiser and better than I.  It sounds so
stiff; call me Madeline, or Maddy."
</p>

<p>
"I'm only a poor boy, very far beneath you, Miss Madeline,
and I don't think I can take the liberty," answered
Roland.
</p>

<p>
"Well, I won't answer you, Roland.  If my father is a
rich man, I'm only a little girl."
</p>

<p>
"Look there, Madeline! that is a very black cloud.  I
think that we shall soon have a storm."
</p>

<p>
"I'm not afraid of a storm; I rather like to see the
lightning flash, and to hear the distant thunder; but I don't
much like the thoughts of being wet."
</p>

<p>
The clouds thickened rapidly; thunder began to rumble
in the distance, and some large drops fell around them.
</p>

<p>
"Had we not better turn our steps homeward?" asked
Roland.
</p>

<p>
"I think not," was the quick reply, "I have a fancy for
seeing this storm."
</p>

<p>
"Is there any shelter, Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, there is an old fisherman's hut among the next
nest of rocks.  We can go there."
</p>

<p>
Quickening their pace, Roland took Madeline's hand, and
hurried her rapidly along, for the wind was now blowing
at a fearful rate.
</p>

<p>
They were soon sheltered in old Peter's cabin, and the
children stood at the door, watching the storm.  It was a
grand sight, but not more so than the little enthusiast, who
stood with parted lips, eyes turned upward, and her long
ringlets waving wildly in the wind, gazing entranced on
the war of the elements, and looking the very genius of the
ocean.  The waves dashed in foaming spray against the
rocks; the sea gulls in large flocks flew low down,
skimming the white caps of the crested billows, which chased
each other out on the stormy ocean, the birds screaming as
if inspired by the spirit of the storm.  The lightning
flashed, the thunder roared, and the rain now fell in
torrents.  Poor Hector was sadly frightened, and cowering at
Madeline's feet, continued whining so long as the storm
lasted.
</p>

<p>
It raged furiously for one hour.  When it subsided, the
sun once more appeared in his setting glory, shining on
the still falling rain drops, painting a rainbow on the clouds
which spanned the ocean.  Further up the beach, the town
of L&mdash;&mdash; lay in the sunlight, and reflected on the
window-panes, the whole town glittered as though each house was
decked with diamonds.
</p>

<p>
Madeline clapped her little hands with delight.  "Was
there ever anything so beautiful?"
</p>

<p>
"Look, Maddy!" said Roland, "at those clouds piled up
so grandly; they look like the snow-clad Alps that hang in
your father's library."
</p>

<p>
"See how the sun glistens on the top of them, Roland;
it looks just as if the light came right down from the palace
in the skies, and as if the angels stood in crowds on the
mountain tops, looking down upon us."
</p>

<p>
"We don't know, Maddy, how many of the shining ones
may be there; for the Bible tells us that they are
ministering spirits, sent down to minister to God's people."
</p>

<p>
"Look, Roland, at that bird; it seems to fly right round
the top of that mountain-cloud.  See how its white breast
shines in the sunlight!  Did you ever wish you were a
bird?  Wouldn't I like to see as much as that bird sees
now, so far above the earth."
</p>

<p>
"Did you ever see a mountain, Maddy?" inquired Roland.
</p>

<p>
"No, I have not; I have often looked at papa's pictures,
and wished that I could climb up one of the mountains of
Switzerland."
</p>

<p>
"I have seen mountains, Maddy, so grand! so dark! so
rugged!  I suppose that the mountains of Scotland are
not so beautiful as those of Switzerland; they are so dark
and gloomy, and those deep ravines which lie among them
are so terrible.  I have walked there after sunset, and
heard the thunder echoing from cliff to cliff, while the wild
birds screamed as they flew to their mountain eyry."
</p>

<p>
"Were you not afraid, Roland, to be there all alone?"
</p>

<p>
"I was not alone, Maddy, my uncle used to take me,
for I was a little boy; but I shall never forget the fear
which I have felt among those heather-clad mountains; I
used to cling so tightly to his hand, for I was filled with
solemn awe."
</p>

<p>
"I wonder if I shall ever see a mountain, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"I dare say that by-and-bye your father will show you
all these wonders."
</p>

<p>
"How long since you were in Scotland, Roland?" asked
Madeline.
</p>

<p>
"It is now seven years.  My father was a very sad,
strange man, Maddy, and he took a sudden fancy to come
over to America; my mother was a minister's daughter,
her name was Mary Gordon; she lived with my grandfather
at the manse even after she was married."
</p>

<p>
"What is a manse, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"A manse is a Scotch name for a parsonage; it was a
pleasant little home, situated in a hamlet, at the foot of
the mountains, not far from my grandfather's kirk."
</p>

<p>
"What is a kirk, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"A kirk is a Scotch name for a church.  There was a
lake not far from our house, and many a time did Uncle
Alick take us children out in the boat; sometimes we
would cross the lake, and pay visits to our neighbors.
Once he told me that he was going to show me a place
that I must never forget; he said that we should be gone
all day; so my mother, Effie, Uncle Alick and I started
with our little basket of provisions.  We crossed the lake,
and made our way up the sides of the mountain; at length,
we commenced descending, and soon found ourselves in a
thickly shaded glen, covered with a heavy sward of rich
green grass.  We stopped under a large old tree, and after
we had been seated awhile in silence, my mother said:
'Roland, do you see that old ruin behind that clump of
trees?'  'I see a pile of stones and an old chimney,
mother,' I replied.  'There lived our ancestor, the old
pastor of Glencoe.  His name was David Gordon; he lived
in those dreadful days when men were hunted like wild
beasts for conscience' sake&mdash;your great ancestor was a holy
man, and had bound his soul by the solemn "League and
Covenant," not to submit to the tyranny of the English
Church.  He was the father of a large family, and was a
faithful shepherd of the flock of Christ.  Many a time,
when those bloody troopers were in hot pursuit, did
this aged man of God, at the head of his little flock of
parishioners, sally out at night, marching over the wild
moors and up the steep mountain sides, seeking shelter in
the caves of these old hills.'
</p>

<p>
"'Who was king then, mother?' I inquired.
</p>

<p>
"'Charles the First; and who, though a good husband
and father, was a bigoted and tyrannical king.'
</p>

<p>
"'Did he hurt God's people?' I asked.
</p>

<p>
"'He let his soldiers persecute and kill them.  Their
blood cried to Heaven against him, and deeply were they
avenged.'
</p>

<p>
"'Then I'll never love the Church of England, mother,'
and my little heart burned within me.  'But, mother, you
were going to tell me a story.'
</p>

<p>
"'Yes, Roland, I want to show you how strong the old
pastor of Glencoe was when called to suffer for God.  One
day, his eldest son, Gilbert, had gone away from home on
an errand that would bring him back late in the evening;
and David Gordon, his wife, and granddaughter, Lilian,
were left at home.  Suddenly, they heard the sound of
horses' hoofs, and they knew that their day had come.  In
a very few minutes, a company of troopers appeared in the
green before the manse; dismounting, they fastened their
horses to the neighboring trees; the captain, entering the
manse, dragged old David Gordon from his study, and bade
him prepare for death.
</p>

<p>
"'Down on your knees, you old canting hypocrite!' said
the hardened man; 'you have but a minute to prepare for
death.'
</p>

<p>
"'Just let me hae a few minutes for prayer,' said the
old Christian; and, kneeling down, he raised his eyes to
Heaven, while his white hair floated in the cool breeze,
and ought to have softened the hearts of those cruel men.
</p>

<p>
"'In another minute his faithful wife, the companion of
fifty years, knelt by his side.
</p>

<p>
"'I am wi' ye, David, whatever is yer fate; I will be
wi' ye; and the blessed Saviour, who strengthened the
martyr Stephen, will stan' by his weak disciples.'
</p>

<p>
"'Hold your clatter, you old beldame; see if your God
will come to save you from the bullets when they are
sent.'
</p>

<p>
"'How lang, O Lord! holy an' true, shall the wicked
triumph?' breathed out old David.  'Wilt thou leave us
forever? hae mercy, O Lord! upon our enemies; turn the
heart o' Charles Stuart to thysel.'
</p>

<p>
"'Do you dare to speak the name of the king?' shouted
the trooper, at the same time pointing to the band that
stood waiting his orders.
</p>

<p>
"'Planting themselves opposite to the kneeling pair, they
commenced loading their carbines; and, just as they
prepared to fire, a young creature, not more than sixteen,
rushed from the manse, and throwing herself upon the
bosom of her grandfather, stretched forth one pleading
hand, exclaiming,
</p>

<p>
"'Oh! spare his grey hairs; he has ne'er harmed ye! he
has done naething but guid a' the days o' his life, an'
if ye kill him, his bluid will call frae the ground against
ye at the judgment-day.'
</p>

<p>
"'Take her away,' shouted the Captain; 'the old parson
must die.'
</p>

<p>
"'I will na gae!  I will na leave my dear auld grandfather;
an' ye can na hae the heart to kill us a',' answered
Lilian, in her innocent trust.
</p>

<p>
"'Fire, men!' shouted the Captain, and in another
minute, the sharp report of a dozen guns, echoing through
the glen, sending their deadly bullets among the kneeling
group, released the souls of the aged pastor, his faithful
wife, and sweet Lilian Gordon, covered with the blood of
her aged grand-parents.  She lay on the green sward, and
even those fierce soldiers were touched when they looked
at the pale face of the beautiful girl, around which hung
in rich profusion those golden locks, stained with her
life-blood, as it oozed quietly away.
</p>

<p>
"'She might have gone away,' said one of the troopers;
'we didn't want to kill her or the old woman; it was their
own fault.'
</p>

<p>
"'All this fearful scene had been witnessed by a faithful
servant, who had hidden herself in a loft, where, trembling
and overpowered with grief, she had seen and heard all.
</p>

<p>
"'When Gilbert Gordon returned in the evening, what
was his horror to see his father, mother and only daughter
weltering in their blood on the green sward in front of the
manse!
</p>

<p>
"'With the assistance of a few mourning parishioners,
by the light of the pale moon, they dug a hurried grave,
and after a few words of solemn prayer from the lips of
Gilbert Gordon, they laid away the precious remains of the
martyred dead in hope of a joyful resurrection, placing a
small board to mark the place where they slept; and when
those troubled days were over, an humble tomb-stone
marked the very spot where they lay down their lives for
Jesus.
</p>

<p>
"'Go, read it, Roland,' said my mother; 'and never
forget that the blood of martyrs flows in your veins.
Always be strong for the right, my son; and remember
that you are a Gordon as well as a Bruce.'
</p>

<p>
"I read the inscription on the simple tomb-stone, partially
defaced by time; the letters were very faint, but I still
could read: 'The Rev. David Gordon; Janet, his wife;
and his granddaughter, Lilian Gordon; martyred on the
20th day of October, 1643.  They sleep in Jesus.'
</p>

<p>
"Maddy, I have never forgotten that sacred spot; and
so deep was the impression that, boy as I was, I felt as if
my soul grew larger from that day, and as if I would
rather suffer anything than dishonor a name so sacred as
that of Gordon.  I remember every word my mother said.
I have thought of the story in the dark hours of the night,
and have prayed that God would give me such a heroic
soul as David Gordon's."
</p>

<p>
Maddy listened to the recital, and all the deep feelings
of her imaginative nature were stirred to their very depths.
She could never again look upon Roland Gordon Bruce
with any other feelings than those of deepest veneration;
for, boy as he was, and poor as he was, was he not a
descendant of martyrs? and as much of a hero in her
young fancy, as though he had figured himself upon that
bloody sward, and as though, instead of occurring in 1643,
it had been an event of yesterday.
</p>

<p>
The story had ended&mdash;returning to the rock, they took
their seat once more upon its summit.  The storm had all
passed away; the gulls were flying to their nests, their
white breasts glistening in the bright sunlight that now
flooded the waters.
</p>

<p>
"Maddy, I do think that I like storms better than calms.
I like everything that brings the grandeur of God before
me; there is a voice within, Maddy, that answers to the
music of a storm."
</p>

<p>
"I never could tell just how it was, Roland, but I often
think just as you do, only I never could speak it in words."
</p>

<p>
"Maddy, our talk to-day has brought back my home in
Scotland; and it makes me feel sad to think that I am so
far away from the land that I love.  You ought to hear
some of our music, it is so beautiful."
</p>

<p>
"Won't you sing me one of the songs that you like,
Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"Will you try to sing one with me, Maddy?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, I would if I only knew one."
</p>

<p>
"I will teach you one, Maddy, if you will try-.&mdash;I know
that you will like it;" and Roland dictated the words of
the following Scotch song:
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Scots, wha hae wi Wallace bled!<br>
  Scots, wham Bruce has often led!<br>
  Welcome to your gory bed,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Or to victorie!<br>
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Now's the day, and now's the hour:<br>
  See the front of battle lour:<br>
  See approach proud Edward's power&mdash;<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Chains and slaverie!<br>
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Wha will be a traitor knave?<br>
  Wha can fill a coward's grave?<br>
  Wha sae base as be a slave?<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Let him turn and flee!" &c.<br>
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap06"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER VI.
<br><br>
A SCOTCH MATRON.
</h3>

<p>
Mrs. Bruce had seen many sorrows.  She had married
Stephen Bruce chiefly to please her father.
</p>

<p>
Early in life she had been betrothed to Malcolm Graham,
a young man of excellent character, who dearly loved
sweet Mary Gordon.  She had another suitor, Stephen
Bruce, the son of her father's most intimate friend; this
was the one preferred by her parent.
</p>

<p>
Malcolm went to sea; the vessel foundered, and his
name was among the missing.  Mary pined away for two
years in sadness and sorrow; at length, to please her
father, she accepted the hand of Stephen Bruce, and made
him a faithful wife.
</p>

<p>
When Roland was about one year old, one stormy
winter evening, Mary was rocking her child to sleep,
singing a sweet cradle hymn, when the door of the manse
opened suddenly, and Malcolm Graham, her early lover,
stood before her.  A scene of agony passed&mdash;they parted
in sorrow.
</p>

<p>
Stephen Bruce, on discovering that Malcolm was still
alive, became morose, jealous, and at last unkind.  After
the birth of Effie, he suddenly embarked for America,
where he lived with his family for several years.  At
length, he returned to Scotland on business; the vessel
in which he sailed for America was wrecked, and nothing
was ever heard of Stephen Bruce.
</p>

<p>
In Mrs. Bruce's neighborhood lived a strange woman,
named Elsie Gibson, a Scotch woman, who had also lived
several years in America.
</p>

<p>
She was a frequent visitor at the widow's cottage, and
exhibited a mysterious interest in all their affairs.  Soon
after the wreck of the vessel in which Stephen had sailed,
she presented herself at the cottage.
</p>

<p>
"I came to ask for the bairns, Mrs. Bruce," said Elsie.
"We are baith Scotch people, and I kenned aboot the
Gordons in the auld country.  Dinna think me officious;
are the bairns weel provided for?"
</p>

<p>
"Stephen had a good support, Elsie, but it will be some
time before I can hear from home; then I shall know what
is to be done."
</p>

<p>
Elsie was a strange, solitary woman, associating with
no one but Mary Bruce.  Sometimes they would miss her
from the neighborhood for weeks, then suddenly she would
make her appearance, always exhibiting the same interest
in the Bruce family.
</p>

<p>
In about four months after Stephen's disappearance, a
package, directed to Mrs. Bruce in an unknown hand, was
left at the cottage door by a little boy, who as quickly
disappeared.  It was found to contain fifty pounds, saying
that the same would come quarterly from her husband's
estate.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Bruce was amazed.  How could it have come to
her?  Why did she not receive letters from Scotland?  It
was evidently not a foreign letter.  She could not fathom
the mystery.  On the following day Elsie paid her
accustomed visit.
</p>

<p>
"How fare the bairns, Mrs. Bruce?  Where is Roland?"
</p>

<p>
When he stepped forward, Elsie laid her hand upon his
head and said, with deep emotion,
</p>

<p>
"God bless you, my bairn, ye're the vera image o' yer
father."
</p>

<p>
"Did you know my father, Elsie?" asked the boy, surprised.
</p>

<p>
Elsie seemed to recover herself in a minute, and replied,
coldly, "I hae seen him, Roland."
</p>

<p>
This time her visit was a short one, and, as she left the
house, Mrs. Bruce said to her children, "Elsie is a strange
woman; I wonder what makes her think so much of us?"
</p>

<p>
Next evening she called again.  They were all seated in
the little porch enjoying the cool evening air.
</p>

<p>
"There, mother!" said Effie, "is the boy that brought
the package."
</p>

<p>
"What package?" asked Elsie.
</p>

<p>
"A strange thing happened day before yesterday, Elsie.
A little boy called towards evening and left a note, in an
unknown hand, enclosing a remittance of fifty pounds from
my husband's estate."
</p>

<p>
Roland was by this time running after the boy, calling
to him to stop; but he was too quick, and disappeared in
the woods close by.
</p>

<p>
Elsie looked pleased and said,
</p>

<p>
"I ween that Roland will na catch the lad, he is a swift
little hare-foot."
</p>

<p>
"Why, do you know who he is?" asked Mrs. Bruce.
</p>

<p>
"I dinna say sae, Mrs. Bruce."
</p>

<p>
Elsie arose hastily and took her leave.
</p>

<p>
For several years the same mysterious notes came
quarterly, but at last they entirely ceased.  Elsie Gibson
had been absent for months, and the family were wondering
what had become of their old friend, when, one evening,
Roland spied the same tartan plaid which Elsie always
wore, and which distinguished her from all her neighbors.
</p>

<p>
"Mother, I do believe that Elsie Gibson is coming up
the lane," exclaimed Roland, and in a few minutes she
opened the door and walked in.
</p>

<p>
Elsie looked sad and careworn.  "I maun sit me doon,
Mrs. Bruce, for I'm a weary body this cauld night," and she
took her seat near the fire.
</p>

<p>
"Where have you been so long, Elsie?" asked Mrs. Bruce.
</p>

<p>
"I hae been far awa', tending on a sick friend; but he's
better now&mdash;that is, better in body, but sore stricken in
mind."
</p>

<p>
"I have had trouble too, Elsie, since we parted.  My
quarterly allowance has all stopped, and I must look around
for means of support."
</p>

<p>
Elsie looked concerned; a deeper shade passed over her
pale features as she replied,
</p>

<p>
"Great changes hae come owre me, Mary, that is, Mrs. Bruce.
I too hae lost the wee bit o' money that I had, and
I maun gang out to service."
</p>

<p>
"I am sorry, Elsie, but I hope you know the blessedness
of looking up in the midst of all the sorrows of this life;
if we have a home above, we need not mind the trials of
the way, they will be very short compared to the rest
beyond."
</p>

<p>
"Sometimes, Mrs. Bruce, I lose sight of the promises,
and gang doon into the 'Slough of Despair;' then the
burden is a heavy load to carry.  But there is a storm
brewing, and I maun hurry awa'."
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Bruce helped her on with her tartan, shook her
hand warmly, and bade her look up in the midst of darkness.
</p>

<p>
"Guid-night, Mrs. Bruce; may the guid Lord guide and
keep us a', and prosper his poor servant in her new home;
it will na tak meikle to find my claithes, and the rest shall
go to ane I luve weel; that is blessed wark, Mrs. Bruce, a'
my puir life is spent for that."
</p>

<p>
Roland walked with Elsie to the turn of the lane, and
as she bade him "guid night," she added, "I shall always
luve ye weel, Roland, for the sake o' ane that's awa'."
</p>

<p>
Roland returned wondering how it was that they seemed
to constantly connected with Elsie Gibson&mdash;some mysterious
links which he could not trace, certainly bound them
together.
</p>

<p>
In a short time Elsie obtained a good place, but with the
condition that once a month she was allowed to be absent
for one day, returning the next; and thus she had continued
for several years, until we bring Madeline acquainted
with the Bruce family.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * *
</p>

<p>
"Good morning, Mrs. Bruce; you are always so busy;
don't you get tired of working all the time?" asked
Madeline, as she entered the humble cottage.
</p>

<p>
"It is better, Miss Madeline, to have too much to do,
than too little.  I am never so happy as when I am fully
occupied; and then I am working for my children, and that
is always cheerful work."
</p>

<p>
Madeline looked around the humble room, and thought
how neat everything looked.  True, there was a rag-carpet
on the floor, but the simple furniture was well kept; the
tins, bright as silver, hung upon the wall, the family work
was all done, and Mrs. Bruce and Effie were busy with
their needles.
</p>

<p>
Effie was a mild, gentle girl, with a pale complexion,
light hair, and very soft blue eyes, resembling her mother,
only not so lovely as Mrs. Bruce had been in her youthful
days.  It was her delight to lessen her mother's cares, for
she had a heavy burden to carry; but the devotion and
love of her children was a sweet cordial to an aching heart.
</p>

<p>
Madeline sat down on a low chair by the side of Mrs. Bruce,
and throwing off her flat, opened a little basket
which she had brought with her.
</p>

<p>
"I hope you will not be offended, Mrs. Bruce, but I've
brought you some very nice tea and coffee that papa has
just received from Boston; there is some white sugar, and
some rice, too.  I hardly knew how to bring it, for you are
not like the other people that live in the cottages round
here; but I hope that you will not be hurt at me; we have
so much, and I know that you have so little."
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Bruce dropped her head lower down to hide the
tears that would start as she replied, "We Scotch people
have a great horror, my dear, of receiving anything but
what we work for; but I'll take the little gift to please you,
Miss Madeline."
</p>

<p>
"I am so glad, for I was so afraid that I was not doing
exactly what would please you, that I really trembled when
I got to the door.  I don't know how it is, but from the
first day that I saw Roland on the shore, I knew that he
was not a common boy."
</p>

<p>
Hanging between the windows was a small portrait of a
venerable man.
</p>

<p>
"Whose likeness is that, Mrs. Bruce?" asked the child.
</p>

<p>
"That is my father's picture.  He was the minister of
the parish where we lived.  He was a good man, Miss
Madeline, but he is now among the spirits of the just made
perfect."
</p>

<p>
"How is it, Mrs. Bruce, that you and Roland seem to
think so much of the world to come?  I never used to
hear anybody talk about it until I met you."
</p>

<p>
"Why, my dear child, what should I do with all my
cares and sorrows, if I had no hope of a better life than
this?"
</p>

<p>
"I don't want any better world, Mrs. Bruce.  I have
everything that I wish, and more too.  This world is very
beautiful to me; I should not like to leave it and go down
into the dark grave."
</p>

<p>
"That is the natural feeling of a young heart, Miss
Madeline, but the day will come when you cannot live
without such a hope."
</p>

<p>
"I don't have many cares, Mrs. Bruce," said Maddy,
with a mischievous twinkle of her eye.  "I am puzzled a
little about the pattern of my doll's bonnet, but the greatest
trouble just now is, that papa has brought down a French
governess to teach me French and music.  That is not very
pleasant, for it takes so much of my time out of school that
I get tired to death."
</p>

<p>
"You ought to be very thankful, Miss Madeline, to your
father for all his kindness and care.  I hope that you will
improve your time diligently."
</p>

<p>
"You ought just to see Mademoiselle Fouladoux; she is
such a queer little person.  I tell you that I have fun with
her; she speaks broken English, and makes such odd faces
when she talks.  She has a little lap-dog named Fanfan;
she makes as much fuss with her as if she were a child&mdash;nasty,
cross little thing it is!  She must have sponge-cake
and cream twice a day.  I tell you, Mrs. Bruce, our cook
gets mad enough.  I wish the little cur was in the ocean.
What do you think? she sleeps in the bed with Mademoiselle!
Just think of that! a dog in the same bed with a
lady!" and Madeline threw herself back, and laughed
heartily at the thought.
</p>

<p>
"I hope you do not tease Mademoiselle, Miss
Madeline?" answered Mrs. Bruce.
</p>

<p>
"Tease Mademoiselle!  Not much!" answered the child,
with a roguish smile upon her dimpled face.  "Only when
she gives me a hard lesson, I give her a hard one back by
pulling Fanfan's tail, or boxing her ears slily; and then
Mademoiselle rolls up her eyes, and cries out, 'Oh! ma
petite mignon, ma pauvre petite Fanfan!' and then she
takes up the horrid thing, with its sore eyes, and kisses it.
Just think of kissing a lap-dog."
</p>

<p>
"Try to be a good girl, Miss Madeline; it is a hard task
for a young lady that has a good home to go out to teach.
If you'll only think of that, I am sure that you will be kind
to Mademoiselle!"
</p>

<p>
"I'm not a good girl, Mrs. Bruce.  I'm not used to
thinking whether a thing is right or wrong; nobody ever
said much to me about it but Roland.  I am sorry to be
bad when it grieves Roland, for he is such a good boy.  I
do believe that he is a Christian.  Where is he to-day,
Mrs. Bruce?"
</p>

<p>
"He has gone to market with the vegetables; he always
goes on Saturday, for he saves his mother all the labor that
he can."
</p>

<p>
"How does he go?  Has he a little cart?" asked Madeline.
</p>

<p>
"One of the neighbors lends him an old cart and horse,
that is too old to be used by the family; but it makes
Roland feel badly, because he is afraid that the poor horse
is too old to work."
</p>

<p>
"Is that all you have to live on, Mrs. Bruce?"
</p>

<p>
"No, my dear, I sew and knit for several of the neighbors."
</p>

<p>
"I think we can send you some work.  Aunt Matilda
often wants some one to do plain sewing."
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Bruce loved the warm-hearted little girl, and pitied
her motherless condition.  She saw countless weeds springing
up in the heart of the child, and resolved to try to
scatter seeds of truth around her.
</p>

<p>
"What are you making, Effie?" inquired Madeline.
</p>

<p>
"I am making a shirt for George Belton, Miss Madeline.
I made two last week."
</p>

<p>
"Why, how in the world did you do that, Effie? go to
school every day, learn your lessons, and make two shirts!"
</p>

<p>
"I rise very early in the morning, and sew two hours
before school; I study as much as I can in school; and I
sew all my leisure time."
</p>

<p>
"That's what makes you look so pale, Effie; what a pity
that you have to work so hard!"
</p>

<p>
"I don't feel it, Miss Madeline; my mother has been so
good and kind to me, that I am only too glad to help her
now."  And Effie's blue eyes were turned upon her
mother's face, with a look full of filial love.
</p>

<p>
"Well, I must go now.  I learn good lessons here,
Mrs. Bruce; you'll let me come and see you often&mdash;may I?"
</p>

<p>
"You are always welcome, Miss Madeline, for I love
you for your goodness to my dear children."
</p>

<p>
"Good-bye, ma'am;" and Madeline Hamilton touched
the hand of Mrs. Bruce with more real respect, than she
felt for most of the circle of rich friends who visited at
Woodcliff.
</p>

<p>
"Aunt Matilda, don't you want some plain sewing
done?" said Maddy, as soon as she entered the house, for
her little brain was teeming with plans of how she might
do good to the Bruce family.
</p>

<p>
"I think we do," was the answer.  "I want some bed
linen made up; our stock is getting low, and I was
wondering whom I would get to do the work."
</p>

<p>
"Mrs. Bruce will do it, aunty; she is such a nice woman,
and such a good sewer; and then she is so good, and so
poor."
</p>

<p>
"You may tell her, Madeline, to come up to-morrow, or
next day; the work is all cut out; I should like her to
have it."
</p>

<p>
Maddy hurried off early in the morning on her errand of
love, tripped in so merrily, regardless of the dew upon
the grass, so eager was she to carry good news.  Roland
was at home, and met Madeline with a respectful manner
that seemed very cold to our little girl.  Handing her the
best chair, he bade her sit down, for this was the first time
that he had ever welcomed her to his bumble home.
</p>

<p>
"Aunt Matilda wants you, Mrs. Bruce, to send for the
work to-day; she has it all cut out, and wants you to do
it all."
</p>

<p>
"I'll come up for it, Miss Madeline," answered Roland;
"we are so much obliged to you for your goodness."
</p>

<p>
Maddy began to laugh.  "I thought, Roland, that we
made a bargain a little while ago; have you forgotten that
you were to call me Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"I don't think that it would be very proper for one who
comes to your house to get work for his mother, to take
such a liberty with the heiress of Woodcliff."
</p>

<p>
"Good-bye, Mrs. Bruce," said the child, and away she ran.
</p>

<p>
"Mother, I cannot bear to see you work so hard," said
Roland; "and then dear Effie looks so pale, her step is so
languid.  Try, mother, to look up to Heaven, hoping and
trusting; but everything looks so dark around us."
</p>

<p>
"You must not say so, my son; the promises of God
are 'yea and amen in Christ Jesus;' we believe that we
are his children;' 'all things shall work together for good to
those who love God;' let us keep our eyes upward, my
dear boy; God is there, Roland&mdash;Jesus is there&mdash;our home
is there."
</p>

<p>
"There is not much for us here, dear mother."
</p>

<p>
"Don't forget, my son, the blood that flows in your
veins, the blood of Christian heroes; do not be unworthy
of them, Roland.  I gave you to God as soon as you were
born, my child; I have trained you for Him; He has
work for you, my son&mdash;I am certain of that.  Just trust
Him; look upward, Roland, and you will see everything
that is noble and holy.  Don't keep your eyes upon the
earth; that will draw your soul downward.  There is a
great deal to live for, Roland; God will lead you to some
high and holy destiny, if you will only trust Him."
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But trust him for his grace;<br>
  Behind a frowning Providence,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He hides a smiling face."<br>
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
"You have cheered me, dear mother; what should I do
without you?" answered the boy.
</p>

<p>
The next morning, Roland went to Woodcliff for the
work.  Madeline was not at home, and Roland was not
sorry; for he felt that it was humbling to be there on such
an errand.  The feeling was a wrong one, but Roland was
a proud boy, though a poor one.  There was no little
confusion in his soul on that day.  He was performing a
filial duty, that he knew; he was doing nothing that he
ought to be ashamed of, and yet the pride of his heart did
rise up against the humiliation of menial service, in the
sight of Madeline.
</p>

<p>
Not far from Roland's home lay the village church-yard,
whither the inhabitants of the country around often
resorted.  It was a charming spot, beautifully kept, and
adorned with shrubbery, fine trees, and a variety of exquisite
flowers.  Many of Mrs. Bruce's lessons to her children
were taught in that rural cemetery on Sunday evening, after
the services of the day were over.
</p>

<p>
On the following Sunday, Roland strayed thither alone.
He had not been there long, before Madeline entered, with
Hector for her only companion.  Roland joined the child.
</p>

<p>
"This is a beautiful place, Miss Madeline," remarked the
boy.
</p>

<p>
Maddy put her fingers on her lips with rather an arch
expression, as she said:
</p>

<p>
"I will not talk to you, if you call me Miss."
</p>

<p>
Roland smiled, and continued, "Very well then, I
suppose that it must be Madeline."
</p>

<p>
"Come with me, Roland; I want to show you my
mother's grave," and Madeline led her companion to a
secluded corner of the cemetery, where stood a splendid
monument, on which was inscribed, "Sacred to the memory
of Julia, the beloved wife of Lewis Hamilton, who departed
this life June 16th, 1837."  The enclosure was beautifully
laid out and adorned with choice flowers, and over the
monument bent the branches of a noble tree.
</p>

<p>
"Was your mother a Christian, Madeline?" asked the boy.
</p>

<p>
"I do not know, Roland; I was too young to remember
anything; I hope that she was."
</p>

<p>
"Do you ever think of dying, Madeline?" asked her
friend.
</p>

<p>
"Not often, Roland; it is too dreadful to think of the
dark and gloomy grave.  I would rather think of living,
Roland, in this bright world."
</p>

<p>
"Mother never lets me call it gloomy, Maddy; she says
that it is only the gate which opens into heaven; and
since Jesus hath lain there himself, she says that none
who believe in him need be afraid."
</p>

<p>
"Do you believe in him, Roland?" asked the child.
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Maddy, I do with all my heart, and love him,
too; and all I want is to serve him here on earth, and live
with him forever."
</p>

<p>
"How long, Roland, is it since you have thought about
these good things?" asked the little girl.
</p>

<p>
"Ever since I was a very little boy, Maddy.  I remember
when I was so small that I could scarcely talk plain,
that my mother used to lay her hand upon my head, and
ask the dear Saviour to bless her boy.  Then, when I was
older, she used to take me every night to bed, and that
was the time when she led my young heart up to Heaven.
She has had many trials, Maddy; but she is always happy,
for she is always looking up, and she tries to make me just
as hopeful."
</p>

<p>
"I wish that I had such a mother, Roland; nobody
ever talks so to me.  Aunt Matilda taught me the catechism
and the creed, but it was just like saying parrot
words; I do not know what they mean.  I believe in
Jesus, but not the way you do.  I believe more in Roland,
I think!" and the child smiled.
</p>

<p>
"Why; what do you mean, Maddy?"
</p>

<p>
"Why when I want to do something wrong, I don't
ask, how would Jesus like it; but I often ask, how would
Roland like it?"
</p>

<p>
"Just pray, Maddy, every night, 'Open thou mine eyes,'
and 'Lead me to the rock that is higher than I.'"
</p>

<p>
"What is that rock, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"That rock is Christ, Maddy; if we keep our hearts
fixed on him, we shall walk in the blessed way safely."
</p>

<p>
While talking thus, Elsie Gibson joined them.
</p>

<p>
"What are ye talking aboot, children?" asked the
woman.
</p>

<p>
"Roland was showing me how to find the blessed way,
Elsie."
</p>

<p>
"He can lead you, Miss Madeline; he has a holy
mother, he is a chiel o' prayer; and his ancestors were
maist o' them holy men.  In the bloody days that tried
men's souls, Roland's race was foremost in bearing their
testimony to gospel truth."
</p>

<p>
"You like Roland, Elsie, don't you?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, my little bairn, I luve him for his ain, and for his
father's sake.  I kenned his father, Miss Madeline, when
I wore the snood o' a Scottish maiden."
</p>

<p>
"Wasn't his father a relation of the great Bruce, Elsie?
I have often thought so, but Roland laughs at me."
</p>

<p>
"I dinna ken, Miss Madeline, for ye ken that was mony
years syne, and we canna find kinship back so far awa'."
</p>

<p>
"Elsie, is Roland's father really dead? sometimes I
think that he may be alive yet;" asked the child suddenly,
fixing an earnest look upon Elsie Gibson's face.
</p>

<p>
The question was evidently unexpected, but after a
moment's silence, Elsie replied:
</p>

<p>
"The vessel was lost, Madeline, and it has aye been
said that ilka soul went doon."
</p>

<p>
The shadows of the setting sun were deepening, and
Maddy, Roland, and Elsie walked together to the widow's
cottage.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Bruce invited Maddy in.
</p>

<p>
"Will you take a seat among us this evening, Madeline?
It is the time of our family worship."
</p>

<p>
Maddy sat down on a low chair by the side of Mrs. Bruce,
much sobered by the conversation in the cemetery.
</p>

<p>
Reverently the mother read the sacred volume, and
after singing a Sabbath evening hymn, in the words of
solemn prayer, she addressed the throne of grace,
commending all her dear ones to the care of the Good
Shepherd, not forgetting the little girl who knelt with the
humble family around that altar of domestic piety.  It
was the first time that Madeline had ever joined in such
an exercise, and she was deeply impressed by the sweet
and soothing worship.
</p>

<p>
It was so different from her own domestic circle, that
Madeline could not but muse deeply on her way home;
and, unconsciously to herself, from this moment really
commenced the germ of that life which, though smothered
for awhile, still the seed, perhaps smaller than the grain
of mustard seed, was planted, which would hereafter lead
the warm young soul upward, heavenward.  Ever looking
aloft was the load-star at the widow's cottage, around
which revolved all their plans, all their hopes.  Perhaps
wild little Mad-cap, attracted by the same power, may
also learn to look aloft from even the dangerous heights
of Woodcliff.
</p>

<p>
Effie's feeble health called for many little comforts which
Mrs. Bruce could not afford; but ever and anon the tripping
feet of Madeline Hamilton, or a basket of delicacies
brought by Nanny, made large demands upon the gratitude
of the widow's family.
</p>

<p>
"Don't thank me, Mrs. Bruce," Maddy would often say;
"Roland is so good to me, is so kind at school, and teaches
me so much, that I cannot feel that I ever do enough in
return for you."
</p>

<p>
It was, indeed, a strange sight to behold this little girl,
usually so ungovernable, yielding to the slightest check
from Roland; for she really respected the boy, who carried
out his principles.
</p>

<p>
Occasionally her wild spirits would burst forth, and an
innate love of teasing led her to play jokes, even upon her
friend Roland.  Fear of ridicule was his weakness; he
could not bear to be laughed at; he was almost ashamed
to own it, but it was really a fact.  Brave in other respects,
he was really a coward here, and Maddy discovered it.
</p>

<p>
Woe to Roland, when her mischievous fits were upon her!
</p>

<p>
"Who is there, Nanny?" asked the child, perceiving that
some one was in the hall.
</p>

<p>
"A boy wants to see you, Miss Madeline; he has something
for you."
</p>

<p>
"Oh, Roland, is it you? come into the parlor."
</p>

<p>
Nanny looked surprised, but Roland stepped in, and,
taking off his cap, seated himself respectfully.  He looked
as if he really belonged to the parlor of Woodcliff; his
whole bearing was so manly and self-possessed.
</p>

<p>
"Madeline, I have something for you.  You know how
often we have admired the sea-weed together; for a long
time I have been gathering the most beautiful specimens
that I could find, and mother has been drying it, and
together we have arranged it in a book."
</p>

<p>
Roland opened the pages, and Madeline's joy was unbounded.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, how beautiful!  How did you ever do it, Roland?
They look like the most lovely flowers.  Stop, Roland!  I'll
get our microscope," and away she flew.
</p>

<p>
"Look!  Roland, look!  I never saw anything so sweet.
It is the most charming present I ever had in all my life."
</p>

<p>
"I have some shells too, Madeline, but they are not very
rare; but such as I could gather I have brought.  I am so
glad that you are pleased."
</p>

<p>
"I have nothing that I shall think so much of as these.
Your dear, kind mother, with all her cares, could remember
little Mad-cap; and, Roland, it was so sweet to bring me
just what I admire so much.  I shall keep them all the
days of my life, to remember Roland and his mother."
</p>

<p>
It was really an exquisite little book, arranged with the
most delicate taste, and when Aunt Matilda was called in
to see the gift, she was quite struck with the evidences of
refinement visible in every page of these beautiful sea-weeds.
</p>

<p>
"I have something else, Madeline," and Roland brought
out a tasty little moss basket, the gift of dear Effie.
</p>

<p>
That evening found Madeline running down to the
widow's cottage to thank her for the gift.
</p>

<p>
"Thank you, dear, darling Mrs. Bruce, for your beautiful
present," exclaimed the impulsive child, throwing her arms
around her, and showering kisses upon her pale face.  "I
shall keep it as long as I live, for I have nothing that I
shall value like these beautiful weeds."
</p>

<p>
"I am glad that you are pleased, Madeline; it made us
so happy to arrange them for you."
</p>

<p>
"How could you find time to think of little Mad-cap, with
all your cares and troubles, dear Mrs. Bruce?"
</p>

<p>
"How could you, Miss Madeline, surrounded by all the
elegance of Woodcliff, find time to think of us in our humble
cottage?"
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap07"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER VII.
<br><br>
THE COTTAGE AND THE HALL.
</h3>

<p>
There are sorer battles than those waged on the field
of strife, where the old and the new man contend in a
human heart; and such had Roland fought on the morning
of this day.  He thought that he had conquered, and with
a brave spirit and cheerful countenance, he started for
Woodcliff with the bundle of work which his mother had
completed.  When he came in sight of the Hall his courage
began to fail, for on the porch were several of Madeline's
young acquaintances.  Roland recognized Mary James,
Minnie Scott, and Ella Taylor, all schoolmates, but who
had little to do with the Bruces.
</p>

<p>
"What ails me?" said Roland to himself; "is it possible
that I am so wanting in manliness, as to fear the ridicule
of those silly girls?  Down at once with the feeling;
poverty is nothing to be ashamed of;" and Roland hastened
on with a firm step and head erect.
</p>

<p>
"You seem to have a heavy load, Roland," said Mary
James; "have you garden truck in your basket?"
</p>

<p>
"No, Miss; I do not carry my vegetables around, we
sell them in market."
</p>

<p>
"Perhaps you are coming for old clothes, Roland; you
look as if you wanted some," remarked Minnie Scott.
</p>

<p>
"If you'll come round to our house, we can give you
some," sneered Mary James.
</p>

<p>
Poor Roland was sorely tried; his clothes were very
shabby, for it had been a long time since his mother had
been able to buy him any&mdash;patched pantaloons and worn-out
shoes indicated his poverty.  His cheeks were crimson,
and his eyes flashed indignation, but he took no farther
notice of the insulting remarks, or of the titter which
passed round among the girls.
</p>

<p>
"For shame, Mary!" exclaimed Madeline; "have you
no feeling?  Roland is my friend, and shall be respected
here."
</p>

<p>
By this time the boy had advanced to the piazza, and
Madeline called for Nanny to come and take the bundles
which he had brought.  Madeline then invited him into
the house, and with real delicacy of feeling, made no farther
allusion to the insolence of the children.  They entered the
drawing-room where Aunt Matilda was seated.
</p>

<p>
"Aunty, this is my friend, Roland Bruce; he has brought
the work home."
</p>

<p>
She bowed stiffly.  "Could you not have taken the boy
into the sitting-room, Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"If those upstarts had not insulted him, perhaps I might
have done so; but, as it is, I prefer to bring him here."
</p>

<p>
Madeline was by this time fully roused.  She could not
endure that a boy of Roland's character should be first
insulted by her friends, and then by her aunt.  Turning to
the latter, she said, "Will you please, ma'am, to entertain
the young ladies while I shall be engaged with Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"Which are your guests, Maddy, this boy, or the young
ladies who have come to visit you?"
</p>

<p>
"Just now this is my guest, Aunt Matilda.  There is no
use of arguing with me," and with a proud toss of her
brown ringlets, she turned to the boy who stood a silent
listener.
</p>

<p>
"Come with me, Roland, I have many things to show
you," and Madeline led the way, while Roland followed,
by no means abashed by the magnificence which everywhere
surrounded the young heiress&mdash;velvet carpets, lace
curtains, rich furniture, splendid paintings, &amp;c., had no
effect upon the manly boy, who, with a proud step and
dignified carriage, followed his friend.
</p>

<p>
First she led him to the library.  "I want you to look
around, Roland, at the books; here is where I like to come
on stormy days, when the wind is howling around.  Many
an hour I've spent in this room."
</p>

<p>
Roland looked around delighted; he had never seen so
many books together before.
</p>

<p>
"Why, Madeline, I should never want any other friends.
Here are Cowper, and Milton, and Shakspeare, and our
own Burns&mdash;and all these books of history.  You ought to
be a very wise little girl."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, I know that, Roland; but I have not read the
useful books; I read novels, and fairy tales, and all kinds
of poetry, and aunty says they fill my head with nonsense.
Would you like to read some of these books, Roland? for
I have only to say so to papa, and he would lend them to
please me."
</p>

<p>
"I could hardly ask such a thing, Madeline, but if he
will, I promise to take good care of them, and to keep them
covered."
</p>

<p>
Out of the library into the conservatory, Madeline
conducted her friend.  Here again Roland was delighted, for
dearly did he love flowers and all beautiful things.
</p>

<p>
"How happy you ought to be, Madeline, with such a
world of beauty all around you."
</p>

<p>
"Which of these flowers would you rather take home,
Roland?" asked the child.
</p>

<p>
His eye roved hastily around, and rested with a smile
upon a simple purple flower, as he said, "That little
mountain heather."
</p>

<p>
"What! pass by these lovely roses, and take that little
flower!"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Madeline, I love it best; it is our own Scotch
flower, and grows all over our dark mountains."
</p>

<p>
"You shall have a plant to take home to your mother,
Roland."
</p>

<p>
Next she led him up a long staircase and directed him to
stand still at the head of the first landing; leading him to
the window, she said, "Hark!  Roland, do you hear any
music?"
</p>

<p>
Roland stood entranced as he listened to the low, plaintive
strains that came swelling over the strings of an
Eolian harp, and as the breeze rose higher, louder, wilder,
fuller swept the weird sounds among the strings.
</p>

<p>
"How beautiful, Madeline!" exclaimed the boy.
</p>

<p>
"That's what I call the fairies' concert, Roland; on wild
winter nights you cannot imagine what that music is
like&mdash;it puts me in mind of Ossian's poetry."
</p>

<p>
Down the stair-case and out among her pets, next we
find our little girl.
</p>

<p>
"Here are my pet doves, Roland; Patty and Jim; they
know me now, and always begin to coo when I come near
them.  And here is my canary&mdash;but I want you to see
Bob," and out into the stable-yard trotted Maddy and ran
up to a donkey that stood nibbling away at some grass.
She patted him on the head, and Bob made a singular
noise to show his pleasure.
</p>

<p>
Roland attempted the same liberty, but in a minute,
Master Bob kicked up his hind legs, and set up a hideous
bray.
</p>

<p>
Maddy laughed heartily, and said, "Bob don't like
strangers, Roland; but that's the most harm that he ever
does."
</p>

<p>
"They are useful animals, Madeline.  I have often
thought that it would be such a treasure if I had a cart and
donkey; but that I cannot get, for we are too poor."
</p>

<p>
Maddy smiled with a knowing look as she conducted her
favorite back into the drawing-room, and, finding the coast
clear, she described the pictures to Roland, and then sat
down to the piano, and played and sang sweetly,
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "I remember, I remember<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The house where I was born&mdash;<br>
  The little window where the sun<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Came peeping in at morn;<br>
  He never came a wink too soon,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Nor brought too long a day;<br>
  But now I often wish the night<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Had borne my breath away."<br>
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
"I am much obliged to you, Maddy, for your kindness,
but I really must go now; I have kept you long enough
from your friends," and Roland took up his pot of heather
to go home.
</p>

<p>
"Friends, indeed!  Fudge upon such friends!  They
have no sense, and I don't care for one of them."
</p>

<p>
Just then, Mademoiselle put her head into the drawing-room
door.  "Oh!  Mademoiselle Madeline, que fait vous?
vous êtes trés impolie, voila vos jeunes amis, et vous êtes ici
avec ce pauvre garçon."
</p>

<p>
"Do not faint, Mademoiselle, I know what I am about."
</p>

<p>
"Que dira Mr. H.?  Lui qui est si Monsieur.  J'ai peur
que tu ne seras jamais une dame; vous êtes impolie, M'lle.
Venez avec moi!"
</p>

<p>
Madeline burst out laughing, and whispered to Roland,
"She is a poor simple thing; I can't help laughing at her."
</p>

<p>
"Don't, Maddy; she is your teacher, and therefore ought
to be respected."
</p>

<p>
"That will do for good people like you; Roland, I can't
be so good."
</p>

<p>
By this time they had left the piazza, and Madeline
conducted Roland out to the gate, passing Aunt Matilda and
the young ladies in the avenue.  He raised his cap and
bowed gracefully as he took his leave.  "Good evening,
Miss Hamilton, I am sorry to have intruded so long."
</p>

<p>
"Good evening, sir," replied the lady haughtily.
</p>

<p>
"Where in the world did he learn to make such a bow
as that?" said Mary James.
</p>

<p>
"He was born a gentleman," answered Madeline, "and
if he were clad in rags, he would carry the same manners
everywhere."
</p>

<p>
"Don't talk such folly, Madeline," said her aunt; "Roland
is well enough, but he is not a gentleman, nor the son
of a gentleman, and no associate for Madeline Hamilton.
You make a dunce of yourself, in the way that you behave
to these people."
</p>

<p>
"Perhaps so, aunty; but I shall never forget that I am
a lady to every one."
</p>

<p>
"You forgot it, Maddy, this afternoon, when you left
your young friends, to entertain that boy."
</p>

<p>
Madeline blushed as she replied, "They were so rude,
aunty, that I could do nothing else."
</p>

<p>
"Madeline has a remarkable taste," said Ella Taylor;
"Roland and Effie Bruce are her chief companions at
school."
</p>

<p>
"I choose them for their worth, and because all the rest
treat them badly," answered Madeline.
</p>

<p>
"Well, we will not talk any more about it now," said
Aunt Matilda; "Maddy always has her own way, and
there is no use of crossing her while Lewis Hamilton is
master."
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
"Papa, do you care much about my donkey?" said
Maddy that evening to her father.
</p>

<p>
"Why, Mad-cap, what makes you ask that question?"
</p>

<p>
"Because I am tired of riding about with Bob.  It has
been several months since I drove him, papa, and I thought
that we could put him to such good use now."
</p>

<p>
"Why, what do you want to do with poor Bob, Maddy?"
</p>

<p>
"It would be such a nice little animal for Mrs. Bruce,
papa.  Here, we only keep him for amusement, there, he
would be so useful.  They have to borrow a crazy old cart,
and a broken down horse every week to go to market,
and if they only had a little cart, Bob could take their
vegetables to market.  Shan't I give him to Mrs. Bruce,
papa?"
</p>

<p>
"Well, Mad-cap, I believe that you would give your
head away if it were loose; you may do what you please
with poor Bob; but what about the cart?"
</p>

<p>
"Why, papa, there's a little cart that he used to drag
sometimes; we don't use it now."
</p>

<p>
"Do what you choose, Maddy; it would be a good
thing for the widow."
</p>

<p>
Maddy did not wait a second bidding.  Accordingly, on
the next Friday afternoon, Bob was geared up to the little
cart, and Maddy took her seat, full of glee.  He was a
perfectly safe animal, and our little girl had driven him
many a time around the lanes of Woodcliff.  Madeline
drew up to the door of the widow's cottage with a
laughing countenance.
</p>

<p>
"Come, Roland and Effie, I want to take you a ride this
afternoon; jump in; I want to see if you can drive Bob,
Roland."
</p>

<p>
They were soon seated in the little cart.  Bob was
rather restive at first, for he soon recognized the voice of
a stranger; but with Madeline's coaxing, they proceeded
very well, and had a merry ride.
</p>

<p>
"Shall I drive you home, Madeline?" asked Roland,
after Effie had dismounted at the cottage-door.
</p>

<p>
"No, I believe not, Roland; Bob may as well stay here,
for cart and donkey are both yours."
</p>

<p>
"It cannot be, Miss Madeline; the gift is too costly."
</p>

<p>
"Miss Madeline! here comes Roland's pride again!"
answered the child.  "Bob is of no use to us now; I am
tired of driving him about, and he's just the animal for
you, Roland."
</p>

<p>
"What a good little friend your are, Maddy!  You are
just like some kind fairy."
</p>

<p>
"What a good boy you are, Roland!  You are just like
some grown-up friend; so you see we are about even after
all.  I can give you what money can buy, and what will
soon be gone; and you give me light, knowledge, strength,
goodness, Roland, and that money cannot buy; so you
see at last I can make it out that your gifts are better than
mine."
</p>

<p>
This was an invaluable gift to our young friend, for it
enabled him to go regularly to market without borrowing
from his neighbors; and it made Madeline very happy to
see the sunshine which she had carried to the cottage.
</p>

<p>
Effie was a gentle girl, and all that she could do to show
her gratitude, was to raise her soft blue eyes to Maddy's
face with speechless thanks, and to press her hand as they
passed into the cottage.
</p>

<p>
"May the good Lord bless you, Miss Madeline, for all
your goodness," was the spoken gratitude of Mrs. Bruce.
</p>

<p>
"It is getting late now, good-bye; I hope that Bob
won't be running away to his old stable; give him plenty
of cabbage or turnip-tops;" and, with this injunction, away
scampered the child, happier than she had ever been in all
her life before.
</p>

<p>
Maddy was nearly right when she said, "we are about
even after all," for the influence brought to bear so
unconsciously upon her by this humble family, was of a
character that could not well be measured.
</p>

<p>
It was a true remark which, in her simplicity, she had
uttered, when she said, "I believe in Roland."  A word
from him was of more avail than aught else, in checking her
impulsive actions.
</p>

<p>
On the next Sunday morning, as Roland and Effie were
on their way to the Sunday-school, whom should they see,
smiling at them from the carriage window, but Madeline,
who was riding out with her Aunt Matilda.  Roland hoped
that they were going to church; but he had some doubts,
for he had seldom heard the child speak about the house
of God.
</p>

<p>
In the evening they met at the cemetery, for it was a
common thing for Madeline to walk there on Sunday.
</p>

<p>
"Where were you going, this morning, Maddy?" inquired
her friend.
</p>

<p>
"Aunty and I were taking a ride to see Mrs. Linden;
she has not been very well all the week, and she thought
that a ride would do her good."
</p>

<p>
"But, Maddy, don't you know that this is God's day,
and that we are commanded to keep it holy?"
</p>

<p>
"I have never been taught, Roland, to make much
difference; papa spends his Sunday mornings in the
library; Aunt Matilda often has the head-ache, and cannot
go out, and then I run off down to the shore with Hector,
or else take the boat, and paddle about on the lake."
</p>

<p>
"God did not give us the day of rest for our own
pleasure, Maddy; it is the day when we ought to think
especially of holy things, and spend it in such a way as
will do our souls good, and please our Father in heaven."
</p>

<p>
"What do you do on Sunday, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"We go to the Sunday-school, where we learn about
our blessed Saviour, and join in singing sweet praises to
his holy name; then we go to church; and when we come
home, dear mother always contrives something nicer for
dinner than on other days, though remember, Maddy, it is
prepared the day before; then she explains the Bible to
us, and tells us some of those old Scotch stories, which we
love to hear, about the holy men who died for their religion.
Sunday is such a sweet day at our little cottage, we are all
so close together then, and we feel how blessed is the
thought that we shall spend our heavenly Sabbath together
forever and ever."
</p>

<p>
"Oh, Roland! how different you are from us at Woodcliff.
I get so tired of running about; I get tired of reading;
I have no one to speak to, and we don't go to church
more than once in every few weeks.  I run out in the
kitchen and talk to our old cook, then I go talk to my pets,
then I run into the library and read a little, but all the
time, Roland, I want something that I cannot find."
</p>

<p>
"I wonder if your father would let you come to our
Sunday-school?"
</p>

<p>
"I'll ask him, Roland; what do you do there?"
</p>

<p>
"We learn Bible lessons, hymns, and catechism; we
have such kind, excellent teachers; and once a month we
have missionary meetings."
</p>

<p>
"I should think that it was very stupid to hear nothing
all the time, but solemn talk about death and judgment."
</p>

<p>
Roland smiled.  "We hear of something else, Maddy;
about the blessed Saviour, the friend of sinners, and about
that happy land where Christians hope to go."
</p>

<p>
Maddy turned an earnest look upon Roland's face.
</p>

<p>
"How do you <i>know</i>, Roland, that all these things are
true?  How do you <i>know</i> that the Bible is really God's
word?  Papa has some books in his library, by great men,
who don't believe the Bible."
</p>

<p>
"The Bible not true, Maddy!  I know but little of the
reasons which prove it to be God's own word; but it would
take me hours to tell you even what I know, there are so
many things which prove it true.  It tells about so many
things which were to happen hundreds of years before they
occurred, and they came exactly as the Bible said they
would.  It told that there would be a flood, and the flood
came; we know that, not only from the Bible, but from
other old histories, and from the sayings of many ancient
nations.  Who could tell but God, what was going to come
to pass, Maddy?"
</p>

<p>
The child sat with a serious face turned towards Roland,
as she replied, "I cannot answer that, Roland."
</p>

<p>
"It has also foretold the fate of wicked nations, of
Babylon, of Jerusalem, of Sodom and Gomorrah; and just as
it declared, has it happened.  It told of Jesus, when,
where, and how he should be born; and just so he came&mdash;and,
Maddy, there is a voice in all our hearts, that wants
something better than we can have here, something that
will last forever.  The good Father knows that, Maddy,
for he put within us that immortal soul that longs for
immortal joys; and then he sent us down from heaven
these precious letters, which tell us of just such a state
beyond the grave.  These letters were sent to God's own
servants at different times, and gathered together in the
days of King James, and made into the book which we
call the Bible."
</p>

<p>
"I suppose, Roland, that the voice which you speak of,
is that which makes me sometimes feel so tired of
everything, although I have so much; yet I am always wanting
something that I have not got."
</p>

<p>
"That's what you want, Maddy; a heart at peace with
God, through Jesus Christ our Lord."
</p>

<p>
Madeline wore a very serious face, as she turned to leave
her mother's grave, where she had been sitting; and,
plucking a flower from one of the plants, she said:
</p>

<p>
"Roland, I'll go with you to Sunday-school; I want to
know more about these good things."
</p>

<p>
"I am afraid that your father will not want you to go
among the people of our church, we are not of the same
sect as he."
</p>

<p>
"Why, you know, Roland, I can coax him to anything;
and though Aunt Matilda is very bigoted in her notions,
he won't mind what she says, if I want to go."
</p>

<p>
Saturday evening came, and Maddy, mounting her
father's lap, said,
</p>

<p>
"Papa, what would you give to know what I have in
this paper?" (and folding her hands tight over the package,
she turned her beaming face upon her father).  "Before
I open it, I want you to promise me something&mdash;it is
something very good, papa; just say I shall have it, and
then I'll show what I have for you."
</p>

<p>
Papa smiled upon his little daughter, as he said, "I
should like to know what it is before I promise."
</p>

<p>
"It is, indeed, papa, something very good&mdash;just say
yes; that's a dear, good papa."
</p>

<p>
"Very well, Maddy, I say yes&mdash;now open the paper."
</p>

<p>
Bending over her package, she opened just a small
portion, and holding it up before her father, said, with an
arch expression on her bright young face,
</p>

<p>
"Just peep a little, papa," (and then closing it again,)
"now, as soon as you give me two sweet kisses, you shall
see what I have."
</p>

<p>
Papa was only too willing to grant the request, and
Madeline, trembling with delight, said,
</p>

<p>
"There, papa, see what little Mad-cap has made for
you;" and, opening wide her package, she produced a pair
of beautiful slippers, which, after months of labor, she had
worked for her father.  It was her first piece of work, and
quite a triumph of her skill.
</p>

<p>
"It is a sweet gift, Maddy; I shall be almost too proud
of them to wear them.  Who would ever have thought of
my wild little daughter's working a pair of slippers?" and
Mr. Hamilton kissed his darling child again and again.
</p>

<p>
"I never should have thought of doing it, papa, but
Mrs. Bruce told me that I ought to do something for my kind
father; and she showed me how to work them.  Come,
papa, put out your foot, let's try them on; why they fit
beautifully; I am so glad!"
</p>

<p>
"And now, what does my little daughter want?"
</p>

<p>
"Why, papa, just let me go to Roland Bruce's Sunday-school.
I get so tired on Sunday.  Half the time Aunt
Matilda does not go to church, and I have to wander about
all day, tired of everything."
</p>

<p>
"Brother, will you let the child go there?  They are not
of our church; she will learn all kinds of puritanic notions;
I really think she ought to be brought up in the religion of
her parents."
</p>

<p>
"And so do I, Matilda, most emphatically; but if you
do not attend to that yourself, and she must either lounge
about the house all day, rove up the sea-shore, and among
the lanes and woods, or go to Sunday-school with the
Bruces, where she can occupy her busy mind with something
good, I think the latter is to be preferred.  You can
go, my daughter, if it promotes your happiness."
</p>

<p>
"She will have no associates of her own class, if you
allow this intimacy."
</p>

<p>
"She's only a child, Matilda; future years will regulate
all that."
</p>

<p>
"We shall see, brother; I am afraid that you will repent
of the step."
</p>

<p>
Maddy had gained the day; and on Sunday morning,
off she trotted with her friends, the Bruces, with great
delight.
</p>

<p>
The exercises pleased her; fortunately, she was placed
under the care of a wise and excellent teacher; and Maddy
spent the first Sunday much to her satisfaction.
</p>

<p>
But with all these influences, she was still the same
mischief-loving child as ever.  Old Betty, the cook, Nanny,
her own maid in the kitchen, Mademoiselle in the school-room,
and Aunt Matilda in the parlor, were all in turn the
subjects of her practical jokes.
</p>

<p>
The first of April bad arrived, and her little brain was
busy with its plans.  Early in the morning, Roland received
a note in printed letters, stating that if he would go down
to the sea-shore in the afternoon, and walk up to old Peter's
cabin, then down to the rock, he would find something
hanging on the flag-staff to his advantage.
</p>

<p>
He had entirely forgotten that it was the first of April,
and his curiosity being awakened, he started off early in
the afternoon, and followed the directions given.  When
he reached the rock, hanging to the flag-staff was a
package directed to him, which he commenced opening; after
removing many envelopes, he found a short note, directing
him to take the donkey and go to the next town, stopping
at the post-office, where he would find further directions,
and with the injunction to be sure and not neglect the hint.
Accordingly, he went; when reaching there, he found a
large and heavy package, directed in the same manner.
On opening it, it contained a brick, very carefully covered
in a number of newspapers, with directions to go to the
woods near Maple Lane school, and under the large oak-tree
by the door, he would find a spot marked by a board
with R.G.B. printed on it; on digging it up, he would
find the object of his search.
</p>

<p>
Roland followed the direction; and, after much digging,
found a box directed as the rest; on opening of which he
drew out a small toy bagpipe, with the direction, "For
Roland when he visits the Highlands."  Just as he was
examining the toy, out sprang Maddy, and making a low
courtesy, said&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"It is the first of April, Roland; I hope you are not very
tired."
</p>

<p>
It was the first time that she had seen him displeased.
He did not smile, for his time was very precious, and he
had wasted the whole afternoon with Madeline's folly.
</p>

<p>
"I am sorry, Miss Madeline, that you saw fit to send me
on such a chase.  It will do for rich people to waste their
time&mdash;I have something else to do."
</p>

<p>
"I was only in fun, Roland; I did not think that it
would make you angry."
</p>

<p>
"I never could bear to be laughed at, and then I had
something very particular to do for my mother.  It was
not kind to serve me such a trick."
</p>

<p>
"I did not know that you were such a touchy boy, Roland.
I don't think that you need make such a fuss about
a trifle."
</p>

<p>
"I can't help it; I never could take a joke.  Good-bye,"
and Roland mounted his donkey, and rode away without
another word.
</p>

<p>
Poor little Maddy! she had not thought of such an end
to her sport, and her proud spirit was fully aroused.  She
knew that she had done nothing very wrong, and felt
really angry at Roland for his conduct.  She thought that
it was foolish, and determined to make no further apology.
He might go with his Scotch pride for all that she cared;
and with one hand, she haughtily tossed her curls, but with
the other, wiped away tears that would fall in spite of her
pride.
</p>

<p>
Roland had a battle to fight all the way home.  He felt
that he had done wrong; he had betrayed unchristian
tempers in the presence of one whom he desired to benefit,
had injured the cause of his Master, and wounded the feelings
of a kind little friend, who was only enjoying, as she
thought, a harmless piece of fun.
</p>

<p>
The old man was very strong that day in Roland's heart;
and poor Bob felt something of the inward strife, as the
boy unconsciously urged him forward with the hard heels
of his boot.  The new man whispered other counsels&mdash;"You
ought to be ashamed of yourself, Roland Bruce;
you pretend to be a Christian, and to get so vexed at a
piece of fun from a frolicsome little girl, who is such a good
friend to you."  Roland slackened his pace, and by the
time that he had reached the cottage door, the new man
had prevailed.
</p>

<p>
"Where have you been, Roland?" asked his mother.
</p>

<p>
"Why, mother, this is the first of April, and Madeline
has sent me on a wild goose chase this whole afternoon.  I
was very angry at first, and said some unkind things for
which I am very sorry."
</p>

<p>
"I need not tell you what is your duty, Roland."
</p>

<p>
"No, dear mother; I will not lay my head upon my
pillow to-night, without clearing my conscience."
</p>

<p>
As soon as tea was over, he walked over to Woodcliff;
and when near the house, met his little friend walking with
a serious step along the lane.  As soon as she saw Roland,
she turned her head away, drew up her form to its utmost
height, and with a proud step attempted to pass by.  But
Roland crossed her path, and taking off his cap said,
</p>

<p>
"Madeline, I could not go to my rest to-night, without
asking your pardon for my rudeness.  I am very sensitive
to ridicule, but I do hope that you will forgive my hasty
speech.  I ought to have been ashamed of myself for such
conduct to you."
</p>

<p>
She turned her face towards the boy.  Her eyes were
swimming with tears, but she extended her hand, and said,
</p>

<p>
"I do forgive you, Roland, but I cannot tell you how
much you wounded me, for I was only in fun; and then,
Roland, I thought that Christians never get angry."
</p>

<p>
"That is what grieved me so much, Madeline; that I,
who try to teach you, should have forgotten myself so far;
it has taught me a good lesson, and bade me to look up for
help, for my strength is all weakness when the tempter
comes."
</p>

<p>
"Well, we are friends now, Roland; I could not bear to
be angry with you.  I shall not forget this first of April,
and know where to play my tricks in future."
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap08"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER VIII.
<br><br>
BOSTON RELATIVES.
</h3>

<p>
"Which way, Maddy, this vacation?" asked Mr. Hamilton.
</p>

<p>
"What do you think of Boston, papa?  I have not seen
Aunt Clara so long; may I not go there?  I don't
remember her at all."
</p>

<p>
"That is what I was thinking of, Maddy; your aunt has
written so often.  I am afraid, however, that you will have
a sober visit, for Aunt Clara is a very religious woman."
</p>

<p>
"I have cousins in Boston, papa, and they will make my
time pass pleasantly."
</p>

<p>
"Well, you shall go, Maddy, and then your cousins may
visit you at Christmas."
</p>

<p>
"What kind of a looking person is Aunt Clara, papa?"
</p>

<p>
"She used to be a pleasant looking woman when she
was young, not very handsome, Maddy; but since she has
lost her children she has also lost all her bloom, and lives
entirely secluded from the world."
</p>

<p>
Maddy was full of anticipated pleasure; but there was
one drawback&mdash;she did not like to leave her friends at the
cottage.
</p>

<p>
"I came to bid you good-bye, Mrs. Bruce," said the
child.  "I am going to Boston to spend the holidays; but
I shall not find such good friends there, I am sure."
</p>

<p>
"There is one request I have to make, Madeline."
</p>

<p>
"What is that, Mrs. Bruce?"
</p>

<p>
"That you will bring me back your likeness."
</p>

<p>
"That I will, if you want it."
</p>

<p>
Roland, Effie and Maddy started to pay their last visit
for some time to the sea-shore.
</p>

<p>
"Shan't I miss the old ocean, Roland?  I do so love to
hear the music of its waves."
</p>

<p>
"We shall miss you, Maddy," said Effie.  "Only think,
you will be gone three whole months, and when you get to
Boston, you may forget your country friends."
</p>

<p>
"That's what I never do, Effie," replied the child, with
a glowing cheek.  "I do not fancy very many people, but I
never grow cold to those I once love.  I hate warmly, and
I love with all my heart."
</p>

<p>
Roland sat very still, for secluded as their lives were,
there was but one source of pleasure to them outside the
cottage walls, and that was the society of our impulsive
little Madeline.
</p>

<p>
"Papa told me to say to you, Roland, that you may come
up to Woodcliff every Saturday, and get any book you want
to read."
</p>

<p>
"Thank you, Madeline; that is very kind.  It will help
to pass my leisure time until you return."
</p>

<p>
Madeline mounted the highest rock, and, standing by the
flag-staff, she spread out her arms towards the sea, saying,
"Good-bye, old ocean, until I come back.  I shall find
nothing so grand as this, go where I may."
</p>

<p>
They parted at the cottage door, and next morning, Aunt
Matilda was busily employed in packing up all the finery
that she could gather for her little niece.  Handsome
dresses, and pretty tasty waists, several new bonnets, and
every variety of adornment that she could devise, were
heaped upon the child.
</p>

<p>
"Now, Madeline, I do hope that you will not be such a
wild little thing in Boston.  If you want to be like a young
lady, you must not race about so&mdash;it tumbles your curls, and
disarranges your dress.  No young lady is ever noisy or
boisterous.  When you are invited out, you must always
wear gloves, and make a courtesy when you come in and
when you go out."
</p>

<p>
"I am afraid, Aunty, that I shall often forget these rules;
I shall never stop to think of half of them."
</p>

<p>
"I hope, Madeline, that you will not mortify me by any
breach of etiquette."
</p>

<p>
"A fig for etiquette, Aunt Matilda; I am only a little
girl, and I am sure that Aunt Clara don't want me to be a
little woman."
</p>

<p>
In due time, Maddy, accompanied by her father, started
on her trip.
</p>

<p>
She had some dread of Aunt Clara, for she had heard so
much about her sorrows, her piety, and her gravity, that
she really expected to see a woman solemn as the grave,
and demure as a cloistered nun.  Towards evening, they
arrived at Mrs. Edmonds'; and when Maddy entered the
parlor, nothing could exceed her surprise on meeting a
small lady of middle age, with a serene aspect and
peculiarly sweet smile around her mouth; her almost youthful
innocence of expression would have misled one, were it not
for the silver hair which lay upon her fair forehead in
rippling waves, falling in a few light curls around her face,
and speaking so deeply of grief and sundered ties.  A black
silk dress, and white lace cap and collar&mdash;simple, but costly,
was the costume which at all times, distinguished Aunt
Clara.  A pretty little foot, and delicate hands, especially
attracted Madeline's attention.  The only ornaments she
wore, were a mourning pin containing her children's hair,
her wedding ring, and a plain gold watch.
</p>

<p>
Aunt Clara folded Maddy affectionately in her arms, and
turning to Mr. Hamilton, with much feeling, remarked&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"What an image of Julia!  I shall love you, Madeline,
for my dear sister's sake."
</p>

<p>
"It is so, Clara; she grows every day more and more
like her mother.  Just as impulsive; just as warm-hearted."
</p>

<p>
Maddy decided at once that Aunt Clara was charming.
After a hasty toilet, Maddy was conducted to the family
room.  Everything was so genial and cheerful, that she
really enjoyed her tea out of the bright silver urn; and the
old family plate seemed to shine with such a polish under
the gas-light, that she wondered if it was brought out in
compliment to the strangers.  It really did smile a bright
welcome.  The family consisted of Aunt Clara, and an
orphan child, the daughter of a dear friend, who had died
when she was an infant.  Ever since, Mrs. Edmonds had
supplied a mother's place to Lucy, who bore her mother's
name.
</p>

<p>
Madeline was introduced to the young girl, who appeared
about fourteen.  She soon found that Lucy was gentle and
attractive in her manners, with a degree of seriousness
unusual in a girl of her age.
</p>

<p>
Lucy Edmonds was drawn towards the bright and beautiful
child, who prattled so sweetly around the supper
table; for not being possessed of many personal charms,
she was a warm admirer of it in others.  Lucy's chief
attraction was a profusion of glossy black hair, that lay in
heavy folds around a remarkably fine head; a pale
complexion, ordinary features, and soft dark eyes, made up the
rest.
</p>

<p>
As soon as tea was over, Madeline drew Lucy into the
parlor, and seating herself upon the sofa by her side, she
rattled away with questions, for which she scarcely waited
for an answer.
</p>

<p>
"Do you ever see Lavinia Raymond?  What a conceited
piece she is!  Is she just as fond of dress as ever?
When she was at our house, all she thought about was
changing her dress, and walking up and down before the
glass.  I suppose that I must be polite to her, for her
mother is my father's sister; but I know I shall like you
better, Lucy."
</p>

<p>
Lucy was amused at the perfect openness of Madeline's
remarks, but she had been taught better lessons, and merely
replied,
</p>

<p>
"Lavinia comes to see us occasionally; our doings are
not pleasing to her; but mamma does not like me to make
unpleasant remarks about people.  Lavinia has never been
taught anything better.  We ought to be sorry for her."
</p>

<p>
"Well! well! you are a good little Lucy, I see that.  I
am afraid that you will not like my plain-spoken words."
</p>

<p>
"I like truth, Madeline; but it is not well, mamma says,
to express all that we think about people.  Charity should
lead us to hope the best of everybody."
</p>

<p>
"I do believe that you are a Methodist, Lucy; that's the
name that is given to very good people, is it not, Lucy?"
</p>

<p>
"There are very good people among all Christians,
Madeline; but I think that my mamma is the best of all."
</p>

<p>
"Lucy, will you give us some music?" said Aunt Clara.
</p>

<p>
She did not need any coaxing, but went forward to the
instrument with the calm self-possession of one that had
been taught to think but little of herself.
</p>

<p>
Lucy Edmonds had a sweet voice, and sang several songs
most charmingly.
</p>

<p>
"That's what I like, Lucy," remarked little Mad-cap.
"Now there was Lavinia Raymond, who has had the very
best masters; it was the greatest act of condescension for
her to play one piece, and then it was done in such an
affected style, that I really used to feel sick when she sat
down to the piano.  Here! this was the way;" and Madeline
seated herself at the instrument, and, being a perfect
mimic, commenced rolling her eyes, and mincing her words
in imitation of her cousin.
</p>

<p>
"Madeline," said Aunt Clara, "did not Lavinia stay with
you some months?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, ma'am, she was at Woodcliff three months."
</p>

<p>
"Is it kind, Maddy, to ridicule her?  You know that she
is your cousin, and has been your guest.  Never mind
Lavinia, Maddy, I would rather hear some of your music."
</p>

<p>
"I would play willingly, Aunt Clara, but I only know a
few simple songs."
</p>

<p>
She sat down with such an artless, winning manner, that
Aunt Clara listened with peculiar delight, not only on
account of the manner with which she complied, but with
feelings of deep emotion, as the rich music of her remarkable
voice reminded her of the sister whom she had lost.
</p>

<p>
"Do you like Scotch songs, Aunt Clara?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, my dear; will you sing one?" and Maddy sang
with peculiar sweetness&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Ye banks and braes o' bonny doon,<br>
  How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair,"<br>
</p>

<p class="noindent">
but when she sang in her own touching way,
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "I am wearing awa', Jean,"<br>
</p>

<p class="noindent">
Mrs. Edmonds could not restrain the starting tears, for it
was her sister's favorite song.
</p>

<p>
About nine o'clock, a bell was rung, which assembled
the family for prayers.  The two servants, with
Mr. Hamilton, Lucy, and Madeline, composed the worshipers.
Lucy took her seat at the piano, and played an evening
hymn, in which all present joined; and Aunt Clara's soft
impressive voice read the Scriptures, and a solemn form of
evening prayer, which committed all present to the care of
the Good Shepherd.  All was serious, and yet there was
a sweet cheerfulness about the whole household, which
had a most harmonizing influence upon our little girl.
</p>

<p>
"Good-night, my love," said the kind aunt, as she kissed
the niece; "Lucy will show you to your room."
</p>

<p>
There was a dear little chamber adjoining Aunt Clara's
room, which had been fitted up for Madeline.  It was a
gem of a child's sleeping-room&mdash;a pretty green carpet, the
dearest little bedstead and wash-stand, the prettiest little
bureau, and neatest chairs, a hanging-shelf filled with such
nice books&mdash;pure white curtains, the sweetest toilet set,
and pictures of domestic scenes of innocent and happy
childhood.  It was charming!  So thought Madeline as
she looked around.  And when she saw the little Bible
and hymn-book, which were placed upon a table near her
bed, she felt that Aunt Clara had forgotten nothing that
could make her good and happy.
</p>

<p>
The first bell awoke our little girl, and in a few minutes,
Lucy peeped in to see what progress she was making.
She was soon dressed, and, after a few verses in the Bible,
and a short prayer of simple words, Maddy met good Aunt
Clara in the breakfast-room.  Smiling and serene, she
kissed her little niece; and, after the morning devotions
and breakfast were over, Aunt Clara, taking Madeline by
the hand, went up to her chamber.
</p>

<p>
"Now, my dear niece, there are a few things which I
wish you to do, after the chambermaid has attended
to the ordinary care of your room.  I want you to keep
everything in perfect order, putting up your comb and
brush, hanging up your dresses, and putting away everything
that you are not using; neatness is invaluable to a
woman, and I hope that you have been accustomed to
these things."
</p>

<p>
Maddy smiled, and said, "I don't think that I ever hung
up a dress in all my life; Nanny did everything of that
kind for me; but I'll try to remember, if I can."
</p>

<p>
"So I suppose, Madeline; but it is a good thing to learn
to wait upon yourself.  After a while, we will take a ride;
I want to show you the environs of Boston."
</p>

<p>
The child was enchanted with all that she saw; her
innocent expressions of delight amused Aunt Clara, and
brought back many a train of tender thought, as her
enthusiasm recalled the image of her mother.
</p>

<p>
When she reached home, she found that Lavinia Raymond
had been to see her.
</p>

<p>
"Is not this foolish, Aunt Clara, for Lavinia, who is
only a little girl, to leave her card for her cousin?  She is
a real dunce to put on such airs."
</p>

<p>
"Stop, Madeline; it is your cousin, and you should not
indulge in such free remarks."
</p>

<p>
"But, Aunt Clara, I would not say one word behind her
back, that I would not to her face; I've told her many a
time that she was a simpleton."
</p>

<p>
"Do you expect to go through this world, Maddy, telling
everybody what you think of them?"
</p>

<p>
"If I don't by my words, I must by my manners; for
I cannot, for the life of me, be polite to people whom I
do not like; that seems deceitful, Aunt Clara."
</p>

<p>
"No, Maddy, you are mistaken; courtesy is due to all&mdash;you
may form very erroneous opinions of people; and there
could be no social intercourse if all the thoughts that pass
through our minds, are to be obtruded at all times upon
persons whom we may not choose to fancy."
</p>

<p>
Next day, Lucy and Madeline called upon Lavinia.
</p>

<p>
"What did you mean, Lavinia, by leaving your card the
other day?"
</p>

<p>
"Why, Madeline, that is the fashionable way of paying
visits!"
</p>

<p>
"Poh!  Lavinia, we are nothing but little girls; and it is
just ridiculous for us to be playing the woman."
</p>

<p>
Lucy could not but smile at her homely bluntness, and
thought that her mamma would have some trouble before
she could tame the spirits, or discipline Madeline's voluble
tongue.
</p>

<p>
In a day or two, Aunt Clara invited a few choice little
girls to take tea with our young friends.  They were
pleasant children, just such as Madeline liked, fond of play,
and not too old to talk about dolls.  Lavinia, who was one
of the party, looked down upon the rest with supreme
contempt, and when asked to join in their childish plays,
could only answer, "No, I thank you; pray excuse me."
</p>

<p>
Lucy Edmonds exerted herself to the utmost: joined in
their plays, and when they wanted to dance, played several
cotillons for their amusement.  Aunt Clara brought out
some childish games, and in her own sweet winning
manner, made one of the company.
</p>

<p>
Madeline passed a delightful evening.  After the children
had gone, she hung around her aunt, as if wanting to say
something.
</p>

<p>
"What is it, Maddy?  Have you not something to tell me?"
</p>

<p>
Seating herself on a little stool at her aunt's feet, she
said, "How is it, Aunt Clara?  I heard that you were so
stern and cold, and that you thought it a sin even to smile.
I thought that I should be so afraid of you; then you let
us dance, and I always thought that good people did not
dance.  I am not at all afraid of you, Aunt Clara, and I
love you so much more than I do Aunt Matilda."
</p>

<p>
"You have made some common mistakes, Madeline; the
world likes to cast reproach upon the children of God, and
so they represent us as dull and gloomy; but the Bible
does not, Maddy.  The righteous there are always spoken
of as the only happy people in the world&mdash;merriment
belongs to the days of childhood, Madeline, and if the joy
of the spirit leads the feet to a dancing motion, let it be so;
only let it stop when childhood has passed away; more
serious duties, cares, and joys then have claims upon us."
</p>

<p>
"You let Lucy dance, then, Aunt Clara?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Madeline, here at home if she wishes to; but
dancing-schools and children's balls, and all these foolish
displays, I entirely discourage."
</p>

<p>
"What will you do, aunt, when Lucy is a grown-up lady?"
</p>

<p>
"I am trying all that I can to give Lucy a strictly
religious education, and, by the blessing of God, I expect
that she will be a Christian; that will regulate all the rest,
Madeline.  Lucy will not then need the vain amusements
of the world to make her happy&mdash;when the butterfly bursts
its shell, it feeds no more upon the food which satisfied the
grub, but honeyed sweets alone suits its new nature; so
with the child of God, Maddy, who can say,
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Let worldly minds the world pursue,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;It has no charms for me;<br>
  Once I admired its follies too,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But grace has set me free."<br>
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
"Well, dear aunt, if all pious people were just like you,
I think that everybody would want to be Christians; but
there was Miss Molly Tibbs, with a face as long as my arm,
and a mouth drawn up like a persimmon, she thought it
was a sin to laugh, and that pink was a wicked color; just
think of that, Aunt Clara, the sweet color of the lovely rose
wicked!  Did you ever hear such stuff?  But wasn't she
a vixen! scolding from morning till night&mdash;tormenting her
little brothers and sisters, and making everybody unhappy
around her."
</p>

<p>
"Poor lady!  What a pity that she had not studied the
character of our blessed Master, whose whole errand upon
the earth was to make men happy."
</p>

<p>
On the first Sunday after her arrival she accompanied
Aunt Clara and Lucy to church.  It was a solemn service,
and the minister was an earnest, faithful preacher of the
simple gospel.  When the sweet organ rolled through the
church with its swell of heart-stirring music, Madeline was
carried away, for she was not accustomed to the organ in
their humble village church.
</p>

<p>
"Was not that lovely music, Aunt Clara?" asked the
child; "it is so different from our country choir.  I could
listen all day to music like that; and the voices, Oh! how
that lady's sounded; it seemed to ring, Aunt Clara, just
like a sweet bell, and then it rolled up and up, and I could
follow it all round the roof&mdash;it seemed to carry us right up
to Heaven."
</p>

<p>
Sunday was a happy day at Aunt Clara's.  She wore
her brightest smile on that blessed day, and everything
around her household breathed of the sweet calm within
that holy bosom.  In the corner of the parlor stood a harp
closely covered.  Madeline had often wondered who played
upon the instrument, and at last ventured to ask Aunt
Clara.
</p>

<p>
"I was very fond of the instrument, Madeline, and used
to play upon it in the happy days when my husband and
children were with me; but since then I have never
touched it."
</p>

<p>
"Will you not let me hear some of its sweet strains,
Aunt Clara?  I never heard the harp," asked Madeline.
</p>

<p>
"It is out of tune, Maddy; but to-morrow I will send
for the tuner, and you shall be gratified."
</p>

<p>
"Whose pictures are those, Aunt Clara?" asked the
child, as she stood gazing at the portraits of two lovely
children, a boy of twelve, and a girl of nine years of age.
</p>

<p>
"That is my Edward, Madeline, and that is my sweet
Agnes; they have been among the blessed ones seven
years now; they were lovely and pleasant in their lives,
and in their death they were not divided.  Only one week
separated them.  Edward was taken first with scarlet fever,
and Agnes followed him in one short week.  Oh!  Madeline,
these were dark hours when I laid my darlings in the grave;
but they were lambs of Jesus' flock, Maddy, and the
comfort came.  Jesus healed my wounds with his own gracious
hand.  I can say now, 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath
taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.'"
</p>

<p>
"What a sweet face Agnes has!  She looks so pure,
just like a sweet lily of the valley."
</p>

<p>
"That's what we used to call her, Maddy, for she was
just as lovely as those sweet lilies.  Look here, my child,"
and Mrs. Edmonds opened a little book which contained a
number of dried flowers.  "These she gathered the last
year of her sweet life, and pressed them for her mother;
they are so precious, Madeline.  Come up stairs, my dear,
I want to show you something else," and Aunt Clara led
the way to a small room that was always locked.  "This
was my darlings' play-room, Maddy."
</p>

<p>
A baby house, a rocking horse, some hanging shelves
filled with books, several dolls, a little bureau filled with
dolls' dresses, and a box of carpenters' tools&mdash;all these
sweet mementoes were there.  But that which touched
Madeline most, was the last Christmas tree that the mother
had ever dressed.  There it was, with all its little keepsakes
from various friends.
</p>

<p>
"Oh!  Aunt Clara, did it not break your heart to part
with both?"
</p>

<p>
"It would have done so, my child, but for the grace
which bade me look upward, when the first storm of grief
had passed, and I could look up at the crown of glory, the
palms of victory, and the white robes of the upper world;
then by degrees my grief was stilled, and I have found
comfort in lightening the griefs of my fellow-sufferers, and
spreading the flowers of love along the path of other
children, as I would have done for my own darlings."
</p>

<p>
"That's what makes you so good to Lucy, dear aunt,"
answered Madeline.
</p>

<p>
"Lucy is a great blessing, dear; she is so thoughtful for
her years.  I think she never forgets my sorrow, and is
always trying to make up for the loss of those who have
gone before."
</p>

<p>
"Why, aunt, I never should have thought that you had
seen so much trouble, you are always so smiling and happy."
</p>

<p>
"Maddy, there are some of the marks of the grief that
wrung my heart," and she pointed to the silver hair, so fine,
so soft, "it turned white in one night, my child."
</p>

<p>
Madeline felt a deeper reverence for her dear aunt from
that day, and by every means in her power tried to show
her love for her afflicted relative.  And in return, Aunt
Clara learned to love most tenderly the wild child of nature
committed for a time to her care.  The next day, the tuner
was sent for, and in the evening, Aunt Clara entertained
Madeline with some exquisite sacred music on the harp.
</p>

<p>
"I have often heard papa talk about the harp, he is so
fond of that instrument.  Would it not be a great surprise
if I could learn the harp without his knowledge? he would
be so delighted."
</p>

<p>
"We will see about it, Maddy."
</p>

<p>
Next day, Mrs. Edmonds engaged one of the best teachers
in Boston, and laid out a daily plan for her little niece as
well as Lucy, for she well knew that idleness is the bane
of happiness.
</p>

<p>
"Line upon line, and precept upon precept," was, however,
the discipline which she had constantly to exercise in
training the wayward nature of her interesting charge.
</p>

<p>
One day Aunt Clara looked over the banisters, and saw
her little niece talking very earnestly to a poor woman at
the front door.
</p>

<p>
"Come here, Madeline, I want to speak to you."
</p>

<p>
"Wait a minute, aunt," said the child, "I will be there
directly."
</p>

<p>
"Who is that woman, Maddy?"
</p>

<p>
"I don't know, aunt; but she is so poor and ragged.
She has five children, and no husband, and they are starving
to death."
</p>

<p>
"How do you know that, my child?"
</p>

<p>
"Why, aunt, she said so," replied Maddy, with an earnest
look.
</p>

<p>
"What did you give her, my child?"
</p>

<p>
"All that was in my purse, aunt."
</p>

<p>
"And how much was that?"
</p>

<p>
"Only two dollars, aunt, and that is so little to buy
clothes and food for so many."
</p>

<p>
"You had better not give money in that way, my child."
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Edmonds went to the door, took the woman's
address, and promised to call upon her the next day.  Accordingly
she went, but no such person lived there, or could be
heard of in the neighborhood.  Madeline was sadly
chagrined, when she found that the woman had told such a
dreadful falsehood.
</p>

<p>
"So you see, my dear, it is not best to give money at
the door; it is always advisable to visit such cases."
</p>

<p>
"What a shame! Aunt Clara, for that woman to be so
wicked; she might prevent us from giving to one who is
really deserving."
</p>

<p>
"So it is, my dear; but we have to learn some very sad
lessons in this wicked world."
</p>

<p>
Madeline frequently visited Lavinia, not because she
wished to do so, but simply on the ground of relationship,
and Lavinia frequently sent for her.  One morning, a
servant rung the bell, and left cards for Madeline and Lucy,
from Lavinia Raymond for the next Tuesday evening,
announcing herself at home at eight o'clock.
</p>

<p>
"Aunt Clara, must we go?  I don't want to go to any
such parties of would-be men and women."
</p>

<p>
"I suppose that you must go, Maddy; you will give
great offence to your Aunt Raymond, if you do not."
</p>

<p>
"I am not going to dress up in anything but a simple
muslin, aunt, and if she don't like it, I don't care."
</p>

<p>
"That is the most becoming for a little girl; it is what
Lucy will wear."
</p>

<p>
The evening arrived, and Lavinia was quite shocked at
the plebeian simplicity of Madeline and Lucy.
</p>

<p>
"Why did you not wear one of your silk dresses,
Madeline? this is a full dress party.  I think you might have
paid me the compliment."
</p>

<p>
"I came as a little girl, Lavinia, not as a young lady."
</p>

<p>
"You are the greatest simpleton that I ever saw, Madeline,
with a father rich enough, and indulgent enough to
give you anything you want, and you care no more for dress
than a little country girl."
</p>

<p>
"That is just what I am, Lavinia."
</p>

<p>
The sight of so many over-dressed children aping all the
airs and graces of grown men and women amused our little
girl, and no sooner was she at home, than she commenced
mimicking the folly that she had witnessed.
</p>

<p>
"Aunty, there was one of the most terrible gluttons there
among these would-be ladies that I ever met with.  She ate
of everything upon the table, every variety of ice-cream and
cake, and jelly, and confectionery; she ate oysters, and
drank champagne; and to crown all, she filled her pockets
with choice bon-bons; and when the candied fruit-basket
was broken, took her share of that.  I wonder how she got
home; I know that she was deadly sick, for she looked as
pale as a ghost.  I'd rather sail on the lake back of our
house with two or three little girls, than go to a dozen
grand parties like that.  You ought to have seen Lavinia,
Aunt Clara, flounced to the waist, quantities of jewelry,
hair dressed by a fashionable hair-dresser, and she bowed
and courtsied about all the evening, as if she were
twenty-one, instead of thirteen."
</p>

<p>
"My dear Madeline, will you ever remember that you
were entertained last evening by Lavinia, and that you
should not indulge in such free remarks?"
</p>

<p>
"I can't help it, Aunt Clara; I hate affectation, and
despise flirts; a flirting child is perfectly horrid."
</p>

<p>
"These are strong expressions, my dear child; I do not
think that the occasion calls for them."
</p>

<p>
"I expect, aunt, that I shall have to take Lavinia home
with me.  Aunt Raymond hinted it last night; but I must
have Lucy; shan't I, Aunt Clara?"
</p>

<p>
"We will see, my dear; I should like Lucy very much
to spend a few weeks in the country.  I think that she needs
the change."
</p>

<p>
"Will you go with me to-morrow to a good artist?  I
promised to take some of my likenesses home.  Mrs. Bruce
would be so disappointed."
</p>

<p>
"And who is Mrs. Bruce, Maddy?"
</p>

<p>
"She is one of my best friends, but she is very poor,
aunt; she has to do plain sewing, and go to market for her
living; she has two such good children, one named Roland,
he is so good and so wise; they have taught me so much,
Aunt Clara; and then she has a daughter Effie, such a dear
girl; they are Scotch people, aunt, you would like them so
much."
</p>

<p>
"Is Mrs. Bruce a lady, Maddy?" asked her aunt.
</p>

<p>
"A lady, aunt!  I don't know what to say; she has
nothing that any other lady has; she has a very mean home,
common clothes, and they are one of the poorest families
around Woodcliff; but there is something about her, aunt,
not at all like the common poor; she is educated, refined,
polite, pious&mdash;yes, aunt, she must be a lady&mdash;sometimes I
think Roland must have been a relation to the great Bruce,
he is such a hero."
</p>

<p>
Madeline succeeded in getting some really good pictures
of herself; giving one to Aunt Clara, and one to Aunt
Raymond, she reserved the remainder for dear friends at home.
</p>

<p>
"Here is a letter, Aunt Clara, from dear papa; he will
be here in two weeks, and says that Lavinia and Lucy must
be ready to go home with us&mdash;you will not object, dear
aunt?"
</p>

<p>
"No, Maddy, Lucy can go."  Madeline was very happy
at the idea of returning to Woodcliff, though sorry to leave
her beloved aunt.  She had made surprising improvement
on the harp, and regretted the loss of her lessons.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hamilton had but a short time to stay; therefore, on
the next morning after his arrival, the party turned their
faces towards Woodcliff.
</p>

<p>
"Good-bye, dear aunt," sobbed Maddy; "I shall not
soon forget the sweet lessons I have learned here; you
will keep my secret, won't you, aunty?"
</p>

<p>
"You'll come to me, Maddy, should sorrow overtake
you; Aunt Clara always has a warm corner at her
hearthstone for her little niece."
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap09"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER IX,
<br><br>
HOME AGAIN.
</h3>

<p>
And so they drove off.  Arrived at Woodcliff, Maddy
returned to her old pursuits and pleasures.  It was a happy
little group that gathered that evening at the widow's
cottage.  Madeline, anxious to take the promised picture,
invited her cousins to accompany her.
</p>

<p>
"Not I," answered Lavinia; "you must really excuse
me; Lucy can do as she pleases, but I have no taste for
such plebeian associates."
</p>

<p>
"Every one to her taste," replied Maddy.  "Come, Lucy,
let us go."
</p>

<p>
It was a warm welcome that was extended to them, and
when Madeline handed her picture to Mrs. Bruce,
</p>

<p>
"Thank you, my dear child," was the quick answer; "you
could have brought me nothing which I shall so much value;
it is such a perfect likeness."
</p>

<p>
"I am glad that you are pleased, Mrs. Bruce; and I am
so happy to be at home again."
</p>

<p>
"Have you had a pleasant visit, Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, indeed, I have learned such sweet lessons from
my precious Aunt Clara; she is so good, and so happy.
She lives religion, Mrs. Bruce; she does not talk it as some
people do; but pray excuse me, and here is my cousin Lucy
who has come down to stay with me."
</p>

<p>
"I am glad to see her for your sake, Madeline; but here
come Roland and Effie; how glad they will be!"
</p>

<p>
"I'll just hide behind the door, don't tell;" and in a
minute she had concealed herself, until the children were
fully in the house.
</p>

<p>
Suddenly springing out from her concealment, Effie
could not restrain her joy, and folded Maddy in a heart-warm
embrace, while Roland, with beaming eyes, extended
both hands, and said, with deep emotion, "You are
welcome, Maddy, back among us.  Woodcliff is nothing
without you."
</p>

<p>
Madeline kept her young friends constantly busy going
from place to place, and showing them all the amusements
around the Hall.
</p>

<p>
Lucy was enchanted; for, being simple-hearted, nothing
pleased her so much as the charming scenes of nature; but
Lavinia's tastes were so much perverted, that green trees,
shady lanes, quiet skies, and even the grand and glorious
ocean, had no charms for her.
</p>

<p>
One afternoon, the three girls, accompanied by Hector,
took their accustomed walk to the sea-shore.  Madeline
was in high spirits, and mounted the highest rock, leading
her cousins after her; she skipped about from point to
point, and at last clambered down the sides of the little
cove, which was easily crossed at low tide.  In the
excitement of their play, running races with Hector, they had
rambled far up the beach, forgetting entirely the rising tide.
Maddy, in her wild frolic, had taken off her shoes and
stockings, and had amused herself by wading in the water.
Evening was approaching, and when they returned, they
found it impossible to cross; the tide had risen so high,
that the cove was entirely impassable.  Madeline was now
alarmed, for there was no other way of return but by the
cove; fortunately, she had left her hat tied to the flag-staff,
and with the quickness of thought she called Hector, and
throwing a stick across the cove, sent him in search; he
dashed through the water, and stood barking loud upon
the other side, for he seemed to understand their
danger&mdash;up and down he ran, then up to the top of the rock as if to
search for some one; at last, he came bounding back, as
if to tell good news; his bark was no longer one of alarm,
it was one of joy.
</p>

<p>
"Hector has found some one," said Madeline; "I know
his ways, he does everything but talk."
</p>

<p>
Lavinia began to wring her hands.  "What shall we
do?  we can't stay here all night."
</p>

<p>
"I should not like it much, Lavinia," replied Maddy;
"but I think that somebody is coming."
</p>

<p>
In another minute, Roland appeared on the top of the
rock.
</p>

<p>
"Don't be alarmed; I'll bring help soon;" and, dashing
through the water, he took Madeline in his arms, saying,
</p>

<p>
"Don't be afraid, I can carry you; it is not far across,
and nothing else can be done."
</p>

<p>
The water by this time had reached his armpits, but as
Madeline kept quiet, he succeeded in landing her in safety
on the other side.  It was not so easy to carry the others.
Lucy was older and larger, but willing to be directed by
Roland, she also crossed in safety; and Hector manifested
his joy at each landing, by barking loudly and licking the
hands of the young ladies, especially his pet Madeline.
</p>

<p>
But Lavinia's folly had nearly cost her life; first by her
ridiculous airs while the water was rising, then her fears
about her delicate dress, then her squeamishness about
allowing Roland to carry her.  At last, he had to say,
</p>

<p>
"There is not another minute to lose," and, seizing
Lavinia without her consent, he commenced the crossing.
The water was now above his shoulders; Lavinia writhed,
and struggled, and screamed; Roland tried to pacify her,
but in vain.
</p>

<p>
"I cannot hold you, miss, unless you are quiet."
</p>

<p>
But it was all in vain&mdash;and in the struggle, Roland
tripped in the water, and Lavinia fell from his arms; for a
moment, she disappeared; Roland, too, in his efforts to
reach her, was struggling under the water.  Hector sprang
into the water, and in another minute, was carrying the
silly girl to the shore.
</p>

<p>
Madeline was in agony, her cheek pale as death, for
Roland had not yet risen; in another second, her fears
were relieved; he regained his feet, and soon reached the
shore in safety.
</p>

<p>
Lavinia was dreadfully frightened; her mouth filled with
sea-water, and her clothes drenched with the bath.
</p>

<p>
"How did you find us, Roland?" asked Maddy.
</p>

<p>
"Hector's bark alarmed me; I traced you by your shoes
on the rock, and your hat upon the flag-staff."
</p>

<p>
"How can we thank you, Roland?" continued the child;
"what should we have done without you?"
</p>

<p>
Lucy too, returned her thanks; but Lavinia, in whose
behalf he had incurred the most risk, coldly replied:
</p>

<p>
"How could you let me drop, sir?  I have spoiled my
handsome dress, and my new shoes."
</p>

<p>
Roland did not answer; but Madeline replied with a
flashing eye,
</p>

<p>
"Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Lavinia Raymond? when
Roland really risked his life to save yours.  Have
you no thanks?"
</p>

<p>
"Thanks for what? spoiling my beautiful dress?"
</p>

<p>
"Lavinia Raymond, you are a fool!  I have no patience
with you!"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, Maddy! don't talk so; think of dear Aunt Clara,"
said Lucy.
</p>

<p>
"She makes me so mad, I can't help it."
</p>

<p>
Roland, by this time, had disappeared, having gone to
one of the cottages on the beach, and found that Lavinia
could get dry clothes there.
</p>

<p>
There was no time to be lost; the party hurried to the
hut; Lavinia had to endure the mortification of being
dressed in the clothes of the fisherman's daughter, and all
the party to ride home in an old cart.  There was nothing
else to be done, and by this time, our changing, impulsive
Maddy had forgotten all her indignation towards Lavinia,
and was in a perfect gale of merriment at the ludicrous
figure which they made in the old ricketty cart.
</p>

<p>
"Really, Miss Raymond, no one would know you in
this queer dress.  We would make a fine tableau, would
we not, Lucy?"
</p>

<p>
It was some time before Madeline escaped again to the
shore, for her father was really alarmed at the result of this
dangerous excursion.
</p>

<p>
Maddy began to long for her harp lessons.  Having
confided her secret to Aunt Matilda, they began to wonder
how they should continue to go on without Mr. Hamilton's
knowledge.  Most unexpectedly, an opportunity offered.
</p>

<p>
"What says my little daughter about parting with papa
for a few months?" said Mr. Hamilton.
</p>

<p>
"Why, papa; where are you going?" replied the child.
</p>

<p>
"I am called, suddenly, to Europe, and will be gone
four or five months."
</p>

<p>
"How can we do without you, papa?"
</p>

<p>
"The time will pass very rapidly, Maddy; you will still
continue at school, and Mademoiselle will go on with the
French lessons at home."
</p>

<p>
The next week Mr. Hamilton departed.  Aunt Matilda
hired a harp from Boston, and engaged the same teacher
to come twice a week to give lessons, as there was a
railroad sufficiently near to make this practicable.  Madeline
devoted herself most assiduously to her music lessons,
for she was determined to surprise her father on his return.
Her talent was remarkable, and progress accordingly rapid.
</p>

<p>
She was so much occupied, that she saw but little of the
Bruces, for during the stay of her cousins, her father
had given her permission to stay from school.  Roland
missed his little friend, and wondered what was keeping
her so long away.  Still, occasionally he met her on her
accustomed walks and rides, but always in company with
her young friends, and a passing bow or smile was all that
he received.
</p>

<p>
One autumn evening, however, in his rambles, Madeline
suddenly stood before him.
</p>

<p>
"How do you do, Roland?" said the child, extending
her hand, "it seems so long since we have had one of our
pleasant chats."
</p>

<p>
"How long will your friends stay, Maddy?"
</p>

<p>
"Some weeks longer, Roland, and I am so busy; do you
know that I am taking harp lessons to surprise papa?  He
will be gone some months yet, and when he returns I shall
be able to play.  Would you like to hear me, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Madeline, if it were possible."
</p>

<p>
"How did you spend your time when I was in Boston,
Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"I went regularly to Woodcliff every Saturday, and took
advantage of Mr. Hamilton's permission to use his library,
and all the leisure moments I had, I employed in reading;
it was not much, but I used to sit up one hour later, and
thus read a great deal."
</p>

<p>
"What books did you choose, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"The lives of wise and good men, Maddy, especially such
as had to endure hardships in their youth; and I found that
most of these great men had to struggle in their early years;
and I found too, Maddy, that those who left the brightest
mark in the world were believers in the blessed Bible;
others made impressions while they lived, but they are
almost forgotten now; but Christian philosophers and
statesmen are those whom God honors."
</p>

<p>
"How is it, Roland, that all your thoughts and words
seem filled with the Bible?  Other boys are not like you."
</p>

<p>
"Because it was my daily food; rising up, and lying down,
in the house, and by the wayside, it is, Maddy, our
household book; and you need not wonder that all my life has
been so constantly under the power of its heavenly truths."
</p>

<p>
"I wish that I loved the Bible as you do, Roland; I
have seen so much of its power at dear Aunt Clara's&mdash;she
is such a lovely Christian; but I love to read other books
so much better&mdash;will you come up next Saturday, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Maddy, I have a book to bring home&mdash;will you
not let me hear some of your music then?"
</p>

<p>
"Certainly&mdash;I know two or three pretty pieces which I
think you will like so much."
</p>

<p>
"I must go now, Maddy, for my mother will want me;
good-bye, get ready to come to school soon;" and with these
words, Roland turned towards his home.
</p>

<p>
Saturday came, and Madeline was tuning her harp at an
early hour, in expectation of her young friend.
</p>

<p>
When Roland arrived, she was practising one of her sweetest
pieces, and calling him into the parlor, she played all
that she knew, while Roland stood enchanted with the
music that he had never heard before.
</p>

<p>
"I have learned one hymn, Roland, for you, because I
knew that you like sacred music;" and she sang with
touching sweetness an evening hymn.
</p>

<p>
Lavinia Raymond was watching outside of the piazza
the performance in the parlor, and as Roland passed out on
his way home, the sneer with which she greeted him, was
but a repetition of the insolence of other meetings.
</p>

<p>
"Madeline, are you really such a dunce as to let yourself
down to that beggar boy?" asked Lavinia, as she entered
the house.
</p>

<p>
"Listen to me, Lavinia; the Bruces are my friends, poor
as they are; I honor and love them all, and you shall not
sneer at them when I am near&mdash;you are not worthy to
mention even the name of a Bruce."
</p>

<p>
"Quite theatrical, Madeline!&mdash;you would make an excellent
actress; the flashing eye, the glowing cheek, the lofty
head, and the proud step would very well suit a queen."
</p>

<p>
"Be silent, Lavinia, I will not submit to your insolence;"
and Madeline haughtily left the room.
</p>

<p>
In a few minutes she entered, and extending her hand,
said,
</p>

<p>
"Lavinia, forgive me; I was very rude to a guest, but
you provoked me."
</p>

<p>
"You may enjoy your friends for me, Madeline; but I
must say that I am sorry to see you throwing your
attentions away upon plebeians."
</p>

<p>
"I am not doing so, Lavinia; it makes me happy to do
anything for people so good as they are, for I do believe
that they are the real children of God.  I would that I
were half so good."
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap10"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER X.
<br><br>
SUNSHINE AT THE HALL; SHADOWS AT THE COTTAGE.
</h3>

<p>
Morning, noon, and night, was Madeline inventing some
new scheme of fun and frolic, never, however, neglecting
her harp.
</p>

<p>
Mademoiselle generally managed to get about half of her
lessons; Aunt Matilda did not interfere, for Maddy had
company, and could not be expected to study much.
</p>

<p>
"You know, aunt, that it would be the height of impoliteness,
and I could not expect the girls to take lessons; to
be sure, Lucy does, as a matter of choice."
</p>

<p>
This was sufficient, and Madeline's all-powerful
arguments prevailed.
</p>

<p>
Poor M'lle Fouladoux was often sorely tried, and Fanfan
was her only comfort.
</p>

<p>
Occupied with her young friends, Madeline knew but
little of the shadows gathering over her friends at the
cottage.
</p>

<p>
It was all sunshine at Woodcliff; for thus far, Maddy's
life had been all a bright summer day; but it would have
been quickly dimmed, if the young heiress had known the
sorrows that were threatening her humble friends.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hamilton had formerly lived in the South, and
having freed the servants who lived with him, he had
brought his house-domestics to his Northern home.  They
were strongly attached to their master's family, and
Madeline, especially, was their idol.
</p>

<p>
Nanny thought nothing could surpass her young mistress
in beauty, or grace, or smartness, and many a cup of flattery
was administered by this faithful, but foolish servant.
</p>

<p>
"Girls, I think that we shall have some rare sport this
fall; Jim, the coachman, is quite smitten with our Nanny;
they shall have a wedding, and I'll be mistress of the
ceremonies.  You ought to see the darkies dance;" and
Madeline mimicked to the life what she had often seen in the
kitchen.
</p>

<p>
"Will they be married here?" inquired Lavinia.
</p>

<p>
"Yes, indeed; they shall be married in our dining-room,
and I'll dress Nanny's head myself."
</p>

<p>
Madeline watched her opportunity, and questioned Nanny
about the affair.
</p>

<p>
"Lor' bless you, young missus, what put this ere in your
head?  Jim is jest a perticelar friend."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, I know, Nanny; you need not try to deceive me,"
answered the child.
</p>

<p>
"Well, Miss Maddy, what do you all think of Jim?"
</p>

<p>
"He's a clever fellow, Nanny, and we are all willing."
</p>

<p>
"Well, then, Miss, I mout as well tell; we are gwan to
be married in about a month."
</p>

<p>
"You shall have a nice wedding, Nanny; I'll give you
your wedding suit; you shall be married in the dining-room;
get your bridesmaids and groomsmen, and you shall
have a grand time, Nanny."
</p>

<p>
Maddy was a busy little bee during the next month; the
evening at length arrived, and the guests assembled in the
dining-room waiting for the bride and groom.  Maddy had
been superintending the bride's dress; but having
completed that, with her cousins, joined the company in the
parlor.  The minister stood waiting at the head of the
room.  At length the bridesmaids and groomsmen appeared,
then Nanny and the groom.  She was dressed in white,
with low neck and short sleeves, and her head encircled by
a wreath of large red roses.  The ceremony proceeded.
When about half through, Jim, supposing it ended, turned
to kiss his bride.
</p>

<p>
"Not yet," said the minister.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, well! so far, so good.  Go on, Massa."
</p>

<p>
When the ceremony was ended, they took their seats
among the congratulations of their numerous colored friends,
and with the imitative quickness of their race, the manners
of ladies and gentlemen were most amusingly copied in
Mr. Hamilton's dining room.
</p>

<p>
"Why, Miss Nanny, you're quite brilliance to-night,"
said one of the groomsmen.
</p>

<p>
"Who are you calling Miss Nanny, Bill?" said the other
groomsman, tittering, "that is Miss Roberts now."
</p>

<p>
Nanny hung her head bashfully, and, looking up at Jim,
said,
</p>

<p>
"That name sounds mighty quar."
</p>

<p>
About ten o'clock, a nice supper was announced in the
servants' sitting room, and it was really amusing to our
young folks, to see the airs with which the colored
gentlemen handed out the belles to the supper table.
</p>

<p>
"We're much obliged to you, Miss Madeline," said
Jim, "for this party, for we know that you got it up for
us."
</p>

<p>
"I hope that you will make Nanny a good husband, Jim,
for she is a good girl.  I won't let you be cross to her."
</p>

<p>
After supper, a number of songs enlivened the evening,
and a serenade at a late hour, in which four voices joined,
wound up the affair.
</p>

<p>
Madeline had heard nothing of the Bruces for several
weeks, excepting by a few casual words in the Sunday-school
room, for Lucy and she still attended.  On the
following Sunday morning, Maddy thought that Roland
looked very sad, and Effie was not present.
</p>

<p>
"What is the matter, Roland?" asked the child.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, Madeline! dear mother is so sick; she seems to be
growing weaker every day."
</p>

<p>
"Don't get disheartened, Roland; you know what you
have often said to me, 'Look up for help.'"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, I know, Madeline; but the loss of my mother
would be such a great calamity, that I cannot always look
up.  Sometimes, I cannot trust the promises; then I get so
weak, I can scarcely hold up my head."
</p>

<p>
"I am sorry, Roland.  Is there anything that I can do
for her?"
</p>

<p>
"Come and see her, Madeline, that would cheer her up."
</p>

<p>
"I have been detained by company, Roland, that is all
the reason."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, I know that; we can't expect you to leave them
often."
</p>

<p>
"I will come soon, Roland; I am so very sorry."
</p>

<p>
Madeline kept her word, but her high spirits were
suddenly saddened, when she saw the pale face and trembling
hands of her kind friend.  Mrs. Bruce was sitting up
endeavoring to sew, but the marks of languor were so
apparent, that a chill settled around Maddy's heart, and she
feared that Roland must soon lose this dear mother.
</p>

<p>
"You are not well, Mrs. Bruce," said the child, as she
took her friend's extended hand.
</p>

<p>
"No, my dear, flesh and heart are failing; but 'God is
the strength of my heart, and my portion for
evermore.'  While he is left, I am perfectly at peace."
</p>

<p>
Madeline looked upon the placid face, and the sweet
smile of trusting faith that lit the features of her friend,
and thought how precious was that holy trust.
</p>

<p>
"I know now, Mrs. Bruce, what you mean by looking
up; how happy you must be."
</p>

<p>
"If I looked down upon myself, Maddy, with all my
weakness and sin; or if I looked upon my dear children,
who may soon be left motherless, my heart would sink;
but when I look upward at the rest in store for those who
love God, and at the sure promises to the children of the
righteous, I can even rejoice in tribulation, because, my
dear, they work patience, experience, and hope."
</p>

<p>
Madeline glanced at Roland and Effie&mdash;the former was
regarding his mother with a look of loving reverence, as
though he partook of her lofty hope; but poor, delicate
Effie sat with her head bowed upon her hands, and the
big tears rolling down her sweet face.  Madeline drew the
weeping child towards her, and, passing her arm around
her, whispered,
</p>

<p>
"Don't cry so, Effie; your mother may get better, and
we will always be your friends."
</p>

<p>
"I know that, Madeline; but where shall I ever find
another mother?"
</p>

<p>
Maddy returned with a saddened spirit, for with all her
sanguine nature, she could not but fear that deep sorrow
was settling around the cottage household.  Not a day
passed, without some little delicacy from Woodcliff;
sometimes by Madeline's own hand, or else sent by a servant.
</p>

<p>
Lucy frequently accompanied her cousin in her visits, but
Lavinia never&mdash;she could not stoop to such a condescension.
</p>

<p>
In all her letters to her father, Maddy never forgot her
humble friends, and, in return, Mr. Hamilton directed that
every comfort should be supplied to the declining mother.
</p>

<p>
After a few weeks, Mrs. Bruce appeared to rally once
more, and hope revived the spirits of all who loved her.
Madeline especially was greatly elated, and was sure that
her dear friend was recovering.  With the revival of her
hopes, her high spirits rose again.
</p>

<p>
"Don't be alarmed, Roland, your mother will soon recover,"
and Maddy yielded to the delusion with full confidence.
</p>

<p>
Roland was now called to bear a heavy burden, for the
support of the family fell chiefly upon him.  Busy in their
little garden, he toiled with a cheerful spirit, and found his
donkey and cart a great treasure, for now he could go into
market three times a week with the produce of his little
plot of ground.  It pained him sorely to leave school, but
duty called, and the obedient spirit submitted.  The
delicacies from the Hall kept his mother well supplied, and
with the strong faith of a Gordon, he could labor, wait, and
even rejoice.  The boy of seventeen, under the discipline
of trial, and the teaching of a holy mother, seemed to have
reached the maturity of riper years; and Mrs. Bruce felt
that she might lean upon him with affectionate trust, as the
instrument which God had chosen to cheer her declining
days.
</p>

<p>
Autumn was now rapidly closing around them, and
Madeline, with her elastic step and bird-like voice,
frequently crossed the door-sill of the cottage, always lighting
it up with her bright, hopeful face, and leaving behind her
the sweet echoes of her own joyous nature.
</p>

<p>
Full of hope for her friends, her merry spirit kept the
family all alive at the Hall.  Her young friends were to
stay until Christmas, and Madeline promised them great
sport should there be snow enough for a sleigh-ride.
</p>

<p>
Tony Willikins, her warm admirer at school, often stepped
in at Woodcliff to pay his respects, and having seen
Mademoiselle at church, and met her occasionally in her
walks with Madeline, that prankish little girl had contrived
to bring about quite an intimacy between the two.  Many
a bouquet that was sent for Madeline was conveyed to
Mademoiselle, with Tony's compliments; and Tony himself
was often chagrined, on seeing the French teacher
innocently wearing the flowers intended for the roguish
child.
</p>

<p>
Tony had somehow learned a few French phrases, and,
much to the amusement of our young friends, he made a
barbarous use of his slim stock of language, not at all
aware of his false pronunciation.
</p>

<p>
His salutation of "Maddymorthelle," always set our
young friend in a titter; and his persevering efforts taxed
Mademoiselle's French politeness to the utmost.
</p>

<p>
Poor Tony was a complete butt for Madeline and Lavinia,
and many a joke did they play upon the unconscious youth.
</p>

<p>
One afternoon, Tony paid them a visit in what he
considered splendid costume.
</p>

<p>
He had been told that small-clothes were to be the
fashion that winter, so, to be ahead of all others, had
ordered a new suit of clothes; and presented himself at
Woodcliff in black tights, with black silk stockings, pumps,
silver knee and shoe buckles, and, to crown all, a pair of
blue glasses, which he had been told was becoming; he
wore also a fancy-colored guard ribbon, and a diamond pin.
Tony thought himself irresistible; and when Madeline
entered the parlor, and saw the ludicrous figure, it was
next to impossible to restrain her laughter.
</p>

<p>
At that moment, fortunately, Fanfan performed some of
her amusing pranks, which gave Maddy an opportunity of
indulging her risible faculties, and if Tony had not been
such a weak youth, he might have seen that the laugh
continued much longer than Fanfan's oft-repeated tricks
could call forth.
</p>

<p>
"Mith Madeline, I want to thow you my new guard
ribbonth," and Tony opened a package which contained
every imaginable color.
</p>

<p>
"Which do you think the prettieth, mith?"
</p>

<p>
"I like blue; that is my favorite color."
</p>

<p>
Immediately Tony changed his scarlet guard for a blue
one; and, much to the amusement of the young girls, he
continued,
</p>

<p>
"Blue ith my color now."
</p>

<p>
"Won't you sing, Tony?" asked Madeline.
</p>

<p>
"Yeth, if Maddymorthelle will play for me.  What
shall I thing, mith?"
</p>

<p>
"'How can I leave thee!'" answered Madeline, with a
merry twinkle.
</p>

<p>
"That is tho affecting, mith; I am afraid that I can't
get through it, but I'll try."
</p>

<p>
Mademoiselle took her seat at the piano, and Tony commenced
with a lisping, languishing tone to sing.  Madeline
was convulsed with laughter; and Tony, who saw her
handkerchief covering her face, thought that she was
deeply affected, and said,
</p>

<p>
"We had better not finith the thong, Maddymorthelle;
it affecth Mith Maddyth' nervth."
</p>

<p>
Madeline could stand no more; jumping up, she ran out
of the room to indulge her burst of laughter, which could
no longer be restrained.
</p>

<p>
Lucy did not sympathize with the jokes played upon
Tony, for his weakness was his misfortune; and with her
correct principles, she could no more ridicule that, than she
could a blind, deaf, or lame man; but Madeline had not
yet learned to ask about the right or wrong of an action,
the impulses of the moment yet ruled the child.  Sometimes,
the thought would cross her mind, that it might not
be just right, but the love of fun prevailed over her light
scruples.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * *
</p>

<p>
The cold increased, and one morning, Madeline ran into
Lavinia's room, saying,
</p>

<p>
"Get up, Lavinia, here is a grand snow-storm!  Now
for our promised ride."
</p>

<p>
They watched the progress of the storm anxiously; all
day and night it continued, and by the next morning, the
sleighs began to fly around the neighborhood.
</p>

<p>
At that moment, a sleigh stopped, and Tony, dismounting,
invited the young ladies to take a ride.
</p>

<p>
"I will call about four o'clock, and we will ride up to the
White Houth, take thupper, and return by moonlight."
</p>

<p>
Maddy ran to her aunt to obtain her consent, which was
given on condition that she should make one of the party.
</p>

<p>
Accordingly, at the appointed hour, furred, tippeted, and
well protected from the cold, our party set off in high glee.
</p>

<p>
"You can manage those spirited horses, I hope, Tony?"
said Aunt Matilda.
</p>

<p>
"Don't be afraid, ma'am; I have driven them many a
mile, and never had an acthident yet."
</p>

<p>
The ride was splendid, Madeline in wild spirits, and the
whole party affected by her merry sallies.
</p>

<p>
Arrived at the White House, Tony ordered a supper, and,
after a lively dance in one of the parlors, in which all
joined but Lucy, they sat down to a nice supper, and then
started for home.
</p>

<p>
There was a number of sleighs on the road, all travelling
at full speed; Tony's animals were not to be passed.  A
large sleigh came dashing by.  Tony tried to check the
wild animals, but all in vain&mdash;on they rushed.  Miss
Matilda was in an agony of terror.
</p>

<p>
Utterly unable to manage them, they galloped on madly,
till, bringing up on a snow-bank, they upset the party on
the road-side, and raced furiously on, until overtaken by
several men, who came to the rescue, and, after some time,
succeeded in quieting the excited horses.
</p>

<p>
Miss Matilda was in a state of dreadful alarm; Mademoiselle
Fouladoux deploring the condition of little Fanfan,
who had accompanied the party; Madeline laughing at the
adventure; Lavinia provoked; and Lucy quietly awaiting
the return of Tony.
</p>

<p>
When the youth at length appeared, Mademoiselle threw
up her hands, exclaiming, piteously,
</p>

<p>
"Oh, Monsieur Willikins! take us home; ma pauvre
Fanfan will take a dreadful cold."
</p>

<p>
Tony wrapped the dog up in his foot muff, and proceeded
home as rapidly as they could go with safety.
</p>

<p>
"We have had a jolly time, Mademoiselle," exclaimed
Madeline.  "I think the upset was the best part; none of
us were hurt, and it was only a good joke after all."
</p>

<p>
Little did Maddy know of the sorrow that was wringing
the young hearts at the cottage.  Not having heard for
several days, the next morning Madeline started to see her
friends.  On entering the house, no one was visible; all
was quiet, and she proceeded up stairs to the widow's
chamber.  Propped up with pillows, with a face as pale as
the white sheet, and laboring for breath, she beheld her
humble friend.  Effie was sitting on one side of the bed,
close to her mother, and Roland was reading the Bible to
his declining parent.
</p>

<p>
"'Let not your heart be troubled; ye believe in God,
believe also in me; in my Father's house are many
mansions.'"  He stopped for one moment, but Madeline said,
"Go on, Roland;" and, with his own rich voice, he
proceeded to repeat a Psalm, "'I will lift up mine eyes unto
the hills from whence cometh my help.'"
</p>

<p>
"My help cometh even from the Lord, who hath made
heaven and earth," responded the mother, with uplifted
eyes and hands clasped over her panting breast.
</p>

<p>
"Come here, Madeline, my dear child," said the fading
Christian; "you see that it will not be long before I shall
go home, and be no more seen; but remember what I tell
you, that God is a sufficient refuge in this hour of trial, and
the Saviour of sinners my all in all!"
</p>

<p>
"Can you look up still, dear Mrs. Bruce?" asked Madeline,
with deep solemnity.
</p>

<p>
"Yes, my dear child; I know that he that keepeth Israel
shall neither slumber nor sleep.  'He will not suffer the
sun to smite thee by day, nor the moon by night,' that is
the promise, Maddy, and I believe it with all my heart;
'his rod and his staff they comfort me.'"
</p>

<p>
"You will get better yet, Mrs. Bruce, I am sure," answered
the child, "for I know that Roland and Effie pray
for you, and God has promised to answer prayer."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, he will answer us, when we ask with submission
to his will; his will now is made clear and plain, my days
on earth are drawing swiftly to a close.  I am ready and
willing to depart and be with Jesus, which is far better
than to stay here; but to leave my darlings, Maddy, is a
sore trial.  You will not forget them, dear, when I am
gone."
</p>

<p>
"Forget your children!  Never!  I know none that I
love so well; and so long as I live, they will find me, little
Madeline, their true friend."
</p>

<p>
"Bless you! my dear child, for those kind words; they
cheer my heart.  I look upon them as an answer to my
prayer; for this morning there was an hour of darkness,
when I thought of them, especially of Effie; but now I can
keep my eyes fixed upon Heaven, and bid adieu forever to
earthly cares."
</p>

<p>
Effie was weeping bitterly, her mother turned her face
towards her and said,
</p>

<p>
"Do not distrust our Heavenly Father, my child; he
will comfort and sustain you; he has sent this dear little
friend to us in our hour of sorrow."  Turning to Madeline,
she continued, "Tell your father, Maddy, that we shall
never forget his kindness; for weeks your family physician
has been attending me, sent by your father; he has done
all that he can, but vain is the help of man."
</p>

<p>
Madeline was deeply impressed by the lesson of that
solemn hour, for she had never been so near the presence
of death before.  From that hour, she spared no pains to
administer to the comfort of her precious friend.
</p>

<p>
Betty, the old cook, was a kind-hearted woman, and
daily prepared some little delicacy grateful to the invalid,
which Madeline and Lucy took with their own hands.
</p>

<p>
Deep was the sorrow settling down upon the heart of
Roland Bruce; for his mother was parent, friend, guide&mdash;his
only earthly stay.  When he looked into the wilderness
of life without his mother, it did indeed seem a desolate,
dreary waste.  He sat looking upon the pale face regarding
him with such a look of unutterable love.
</p>

<p>
"Roland, come sit by me; I have much to say to you
while I have strength to speak."
</p>

<p>
He arose and seated himself close by his mother's side.
"You are seventeen now, my son, with almost the character
of a man; and, blessed be God!  I believe that you
are his dear child."
</p>

<p>
Roland took his mother's hand, and while tears rained
over it, he replied,
</p>

<p>
"To you, dear mother, under God, I owe all that I am.
I can never forget the lessons of wisdom, truth, trust in
God, and heroic endurance that you have taught me by
examples from the Bible, from the world, and especially from
our own honored race."
</p>

<p>
"You must never forget your lineage, Roland; you are
not descended from those who derive their greatness from
outward show, magnificent adornment, or the pomp and
equipage of courts.  Your ancestors were trained in the
humble manse, in the lowly cottage, among the rude mountains
of Scotland, and their grandeur was moral only.  They
were born in the days when to be a spiritual Christian was
to hold life very cheap&mdash;the spirit of those days has always
distinguished our race, for in every generation, there has
been a witness for God among the Gordons."
</p>

<p>
"I have never forgotten it, mother," answered Roland.
"I think it is that which makes me think so little of the
pomp of this world.  I have never felt at all impressed by
what I have seen at Woodcliff, because I contrast it all
with the humble tomb-stone in that Scottish glen, and with
all else that you have told me of the name of Gordon."
</p>

<p>
"I believe, my son, that God destines you for something
good and great.  Roland, remember what I mean by great;
not rich or grand in earthly goods, or even in intellectual
culture merely, but great in deeds of benefit to your race;
in order to reach that point, spare no pains to obtain a good
education."
</p>

<p>
"How shall I, mother? it is what I long for; but I have
no money, no means, no influence.  I am all alone."
</p>

<p>
"Where there is a will, there is a way, Roland.  I do
not wish you to have money or influential friends; I want
you to have trust in God; this is the motto I leave with
you, my son, 'Looking aloft;' remember it is your dying
mother's motto; when discouraged, turn to that, and I am
sure that you will prosper."
</p>

<p>
"Oh, mother! how shall I live without you? your voice
is like a trumpet to me; it stirs the very depths of my soul;
and when you speak, it seems as if I could dare anything.
I never shall forget my feelings when you bade me read
the inscription on the tomb-stone of our martyred ancestors;
my soul seemed to take a great leap, and really to swell
within my childish form.  I felt as if I never could be low,
or mean, or grovelling after that, and so I feel to-day; but
what will it be when you are gone?" and Roland bowed
his head and wept.
</p>

<p>
She laid her hand upon his head and said: "When I am
gone, Roland, these memories will be with you, I know, 'to
keep your soul from blight.'  I have perfect confidence that
God will keep his promise to me, and to you; he will guide
you, I am sure; and though you may have sore trials, he
will sustain my Roland, and make him a blessing to the
world&mdash;too many twilight hours of consecration, too many
seasons of dedication has my Father witnessed when
Roland's name was itself a prayer, to allow one moment's
doubt&mdash;not one of those sacred hours will ever be forgotten
by our covenant-keeping God."
</p>

<p>
"Ob, what I am losing in you, my mother!"
</p>

<p>
"It is God's will, my son; perhaps by cutting you loose
from all earthly dependence, he designs to cast you wholly
upon himself&mdash;this is the way that you are to learn the
blessedness of 'looking aloft.'  Think what others have
done who have risen from the humblest walks of life, and
do likewise; only let all be done for the glory of God, not
for your own exaltation, Roland.  If it is ever in your
power, I wish you to visit your home in Scotland; you
have an aunt and cousin living there; there is some property
also, and I think that it will be to your advantage to
seek out your relations.  There is an old friend of mine
whom I should like you to see, Malcolm Graham; he would
be a valuable friend.  Above all things, get a good
education; stop at no sacrifice; shrink from no labor."
</p>

<p>
Roland listened to his mother's words as though it were
a voice from Heaven, and to him it was; for the message
of that hour guided all his earthly destiny.  He rose with
reverence; his feelings were too deep for utterance;
pressing a kiss on either cheek, and on the calm pale forehead,
he left the room, and bowed by his bed-side, poured out his
young soul in fervent prayer.
</p>

<p>
"What has been done, by the blessing of God, shall be
done again," said Roland to himself&mdash;"'looking aloft,'
trusting in God, I can do all things."
</p>

<p>
The resolution of that silent hour was sublime; it was
known to none but God; but doubtless a record was
entered in the book of God's remembrance which was never
blotted out, never revoked; and the name of Roland Bruce
was seen by angels signed to that recorded dedication, and
sealed by the precious blood of the Redeemer.
</p>

<p>
From that day, the setting of life's sun to Mrs. Bruce was
slow, sure, but glorious.
</p>

<p>
"One more charge, Roland," said the mother, after an
hour's converse; "be faithful to Effie; I need scarcely tell
you that; but she is a delicate flower, and must be tenderly
cherished, Roland; and after I am gone, in my top drawer,
tied with a black ribbon, you will see a package; it is for
you, Roland: I can trust you with your mother's history."
</p>

<p>
Elsie Gibson had been absent for months from the
neighborhood, but one evening suddenly she appeared at the
cottage.  She seemed much agitated on hearing how ill
Mrs. Bruce was, and asked to see her.
</p>

<p>
Conducted to the dying chamber, and standing by the
bedside, she took the pale withered hand that lay upon the
bed-clothes, and said:
</p>

<p>
"Mary Bruce, this is a solemn hour; I trust that you are
at peace with God."
</p>

<p>
"Blessed be my Saviour's name!  I am; I have no fears
for the future, no anxiety for the present; death is
swallowed up in victory."
</p>

<p>
"Is there any message that you would send to any of
your Scotch friends, Mary?  I may go to Scotland ere long.
Is there anything upon your mind, Mary?"
</p>

<p>
"There is no one near, Elsie, is there?" anxiously
inquired the invalid.
</p>

<p>
"There is no one, Mary; we are all alone."
</p>

<p>
"If you ever see my brother or any of my relations, give
my love, and tell them how happy were my dying moments&mdash;and
now, Elsie, you knew my husband in former days&mdash;do
you know that sometimes I have felt that he was not
dead.  He was so singular, sometimes I thought he was
deranged; he became so gloomy in latter years, that I have
thought perhaps he is not dead; we never heard of it
certainly, and then the supplies which I received so long must
have come from him."
</p>

<p>
"If he were alive, would you send him any message?"
</p>

<p>
"I should like to tell him that I freely forgive any
unkindness which he showed to me.  He had sore trials to
rend his heart, and so had I, Elsie.  If he is alive, and has
forsaken his family, I forgive him that too; because, if he
is, I believe that it was done in an hour of great depression,
perhaps insanity."
</p>

<p>
Elsie listened earnestly to these words; a faint smile
passed over her face, as she replied:
</p>

<p>
"I ken something o' your story, Mary; it was a sad one;
very much like the song o' 'Auld Robin Gray;' but your
sorrows are amaist owre, Mary; and on the ither side, a'
will be plain and clear."
</p>

<p>
A few more days, and the ministering angel called for the
faithful mother, and bore her peacefully, happily, over the
swellings of Jordan, to the bosom of the Redeemer whom
she loved.
</p>

<p>
Roland stood in the presence of the dead with solemn,
tender dignity; for he felt that no common loss was his in
parting with such a friend and counsellor in life's trials and
sorrows; but his hopes of reunion were so strong, so bright,
that time appeared but as a little span, at the end of which
he should again meet the spirit of that sainted parent.
</p>

<p>
Effie was not so strong&mdash;poor, timid, loving child!  It
seemed to her as if life would weep itself away in the first
burst of anguish that filled the chamber of the dead.
</p>

<p>
Aunt Matilda undertook the expenses of the widow's
funeral, and the family at the Hall joined the humble
procession.
</p>

<p>
Elsie Gibson was a sincere mourner, and made many
mysterious remarks which none could explain.
</p>

<p>
About a week after the funeral, Roland and Effie bent
their steps to the village grave-yard.  When they came in
sight of the grave, what was their surprise! to see Elsie
and a man wrapped up in a heavy cloak, in earnest
conversation.  He stood with his handkerchief to his face, as
though deeply affected; but as soon as Elsie perceived the
approach of the two, she hurried away with her mysterious
companion.
</p>

<p>
They were both surprised, and wondered who it could be
thus interested in their mother.  They were paying their
last visit ere disposing of the furniture at the cottage.
</p>

<p>
Aunt Matilda had offered Effie a home, where she was
to make herself useful with her needle.  Roland was
preparing to obey his mother's request of seeking an
education.  All was ready for his departure, and Madeline sent
for him to come up to the cemetery in the evening.  When
reaching his mother's grave, there sat Madeline on the
humble mound, at the head of which was placed a simple
head-stone of white marble, with his mother's name and
age inscribed, with the sweet words, "Asleep in Jesus."
</p>

<p>
"Is this your work, Madeline?" asked the boy.
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Roland; it was the last thing that I could do for
you; you have been a faithful friend to me, and it is a small
return."
</p>

<p>
"I cannot tell you, Madeline, how grateful I am for this
act of kindness; it was a trial to me to think that my
mother must lie in the grave without any sign to mark the
place of her burial."
</p>

<p>
"When do you leave us, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"Just as soon as my little stock at the cottage is disposed
of; it is of very little value, but after all our debts are paid,
what is left is for Effie, I can take care of myself.  I shall
be all alone in the great world, Maddy, but it will be a
comfort to know that you, my little friend, will not forget
me."
</p>

<p>
Madeline's eyes filled with tears.  "That cannot be,
Roland; all that I know of anything that is good and holy
began with you; when I first knew you, I scarcely knew
the difference between right and wrong."
</p>

<p>
"There is one thing I want you to promise, Maddy, and
that is to read your Bible morning and evening, praying
for God to help you to understand what you read."
</p>

<p>
"That is a small request, Roland, and I promise that I
will let nothing interfere with the duty."
</p>

<p>
"May our Father bless you, Maddy, and have you always
in his holy keeping.  I shall never cease to pray for
you."
</p>

<p>
"Where are you going, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"To college, Maddy, where I hope to gain a classical
education.  My mother charged me to strive for that, and
with my eyes fixed upon heaven, I hope to succeed."
</p>

<p>
"Have you any money, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
The boy smiled as he replied, "In the bank of Heaven,
Maddy."
</p>

<p>
"What do you mean by that, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"I mean that there are promises made to God's children&mdash;dear
mother has always told me that God's word can
never fail&mdash;so his bank can never break, Maddy."
</p>

<p>
"I shall miss you, Roland, when my naughty fits
come.  I shall want you to show me how to conquer
myself."
</p>

<p>
"You must not lean on any human arm; there is one
strong arm, Maddy; the one that conquered sin, Satan and
death."
</p>

<p>
"That is Jesus, Roland.  I wish that my faith in him
was just like yours."
</p>

<p>
"Pray, Maddy, that he would give you faith; he is the
author and finisher of our faith.  Do you remember any of
the little songs that I have taught you, Maddy?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Roland, I remember them all; I shall get the
music, and learn them perfectly now."
</p>

<p>
"Let us sing together our last song, Maddy," and Roland's
rich voice, with Madeline's sweet, clear notes, joined
in the dear old song,
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Should auld acquaintance be forgot,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And never brought to mind?<br>
  Should auld acquaintance be forgot,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In days o' lang syne!<br>
  For auld lang syne, my Jo,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;For auld lang syne;<br>
  We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;For auld lang syne."<br>
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
Maddy's voice trembled, and ere they reached the last
verse she bowed her head and wept.
</p>

<p>
Roland put his hand in his pocket, and drew out the
likeness which Madeline had brought from Boston for his
mother.
</p>

<p>
"Here is the face of my kind little friend," said the boy,
"I shall often talk to it when far away."
</p>

<p>
"I have nothing but the sea-weed and the shells to look
at, Roland; but in my heart the memory of all the wise
and precious things which you have taught me."
</p>

<p>
"It is time for me to go now, Maddy.  Good-bye; I am
sure that we shall meet again."
</p>

<p>
Madeline looked up with such a bright smile through her
tears, and said.
</p>

<p>
"Remember, Roland, what I have always said, that you
will come back to Woodcliff a great man; and I shall be
so glad to see the upstarts around us bowing down to
Roland Gordon Bruce, the son of poor widow Bruce.
Good-bye, Roland; I shall never forget the lessons of Maple
Lane School, or the happy days that we have spent
together."  Giving her hand to Roland, they exchanged a
parting clasp, and Madeline turned to leave the cemetery.
</p>

<p>
Roland sat down upon his mother's grave, and watched
the childish form until she was seen no more; then, bowing
his head upon his hands, he could no longer restrain the
silent tears that would chase each other down his cheeks.
</p>

<p>
"Thus fade my earthly friends," sighed the boy; "first
my mother, then Madeline, this precious little friend, then
Effie, my darling sister, next, and I shall be alone&mdash;a waif
upon the wide, wide world; but no, not a waif while God
lives and my Saviour reigns, for, blessed be his name!  I
can trust him still."
</p>

<p>
The little stock at the cottage was soon disposed of, and
after all their mother's debts were paid, nothing remained
but a few dollars, which Effie insisted Roland should take
with him in his first encounter with the world.  Effie was
comfortably settled at Woodcliff, Roland stayed at old
Peter's cabin a day or two, and Lucy and Lavinia had
returned to Boston.
</p>

<p>
"A letter from papa, dear aunt," exclaimed Maddy; "he
is in New York, and will be here to-night," and she was
nearly wild with delight.  "Won't I surprise him with a
morning serenade on my harp!" and she had it brought
into the room adjoining her father's, that she might awake
him in the morning with her music.
</p>

<p>
There was no more composure for Madeline during the
whole of that day&mdash;busy in her father's chamber, and in
the library to see that all was prepared for his comfort,
adding, as the last touch, some sweet flowers for both
rooms.  Madeline tried to settle herself to some employment,
but all in vain, until she uncovered her harp; practising
some of her best pieces, she spent the rest of the
morning in preparing for her serenade.  Evening at length
arrived, and with it her dear father.  Folded once more in
his arms, Madeline was perfectly happy for the moments
following his arrival.
</p>

<p>
The evening was spent in showing the beautiful things
that Mr. Hamilton had brought for Madeline and her aunt;
nor was Effie forgotten by the kind man.
</p>

<p>
"Something will arrive to-morrow, Maddy, that I could
not bring with me, on account of its bulk; I know that it
will please you best of all."
</p>

<p>
Handsome dresses, laces, gloves, and jewelry were
lavished upon the idolized child.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hamilton was a happy man, once more seated in
the midst of his family&mdash;fatigued, he retired early to rest;
and, rising early in the morning, stood at his window to
enjoy the beauty of a magnificent sunrise.  While quietly
looking upon the scene, he thought that he heard the sound
of very low, sweet music; for a moment, it ceased; and he
thought that he must have been mistaken; but again it
swelled out in deep rich chords of melody, accompanied by
a charming voice&mdash;it seemed very near, certainly in the
next room.  Opening the door, what was his surprise to
see Madeline, in her night-dress, seated at a harp,
performing most delightfully, and singing a song of welcome for
her father.  He listened in delighted silence until the close,
then exclaimed,
</p>

<p>
"Why, my daughter! what does all this mean?  How
in the world did you accomplish all this without my
knowledge?"
</p>

<p>
"It was commenced in Boston, papa; and during your
absence, I have applied myself diligently, determined to
surprise you."
</p>

<p>
"Well, truly!  I think that the fairies must have been
very busy, Maddy, both with you and me."
</p>

<p>
"Why with you, dear papa?  Have you been learning
too, without my knowledge?"
</p>

<p>
"You will know to-day what I mean, dear; but really,
you could have done nothing that could have pleased me
better, than this pleasant surprise."
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hamilton seemed to be very frequently at the front
door, watching evidently for an arrival; at length,
Madeline's curiosity to know what was coming, was about to be
satisfied, for a wagon turned into the avenue, bringing a
very large and singularly-shaped packing-box.
</p>

<p>
It was brought into the house and soon opened, when,
to Madeline's surprise, an elegant French harp appeared.
</p>

<p>
Throwing her arms around her father's neck she exclaimed,
</p>

<p>
"Thank you, dear, dear, papa; this is just what I wanted!
How in the world did you know it?"
</p>

<p>
"Did I not tell you, Maddy, that the fairies must have
been very busy?  But, candidly, I have always intended
that you should study my favorite instrument, and have
brought you one of the finest that I could obtain in Paris."
</p>

<p>
"Is it not delightful that I have been taking lessons,
papa?  Now I can send away the old harp, and have my
own."
</p>

<p>
For some weeks, Madeline was busily occupied with her
beautiful instrument; but Mr. Hamilton was obliged to
yield at last to the conviction, that he must part for a
few years with his darling child, if she was ever to be
properly educated for the sphere in which she was
destined to move, for, under the weak guidance of Aunt
Matilda, that could never be.
</p>

<p>
As soon as he could obtain the co-operation of good
Aunt Clara, a suitable boarding-school was solicited, and,
after due preparation, Madeline was sent from home, to
remain until her education should be completed.  It was a
sore trial to both parent and child, and the parting nearly
overcame the resolution of the father, who could scarcely
endure the loneliness of Woodcliff without his darling.
Poor Effie would also be very lonely, but Aunt Matilda
was really kind at heart, and imposed nothing upon the
young girl, but what she was fully competent to perform.
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap11"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XI.
<br><br>
A MOTHER'S LIFE SORROW.
</h3>

<p>
Madeline had been gone for some days, and Roland
had nearly completed his arrangements.  He saw much of
Effie, for the few remaining hours were precious to both.
</p>

<p>
"Effie, meet me this evening in the cemetery, I wish to
read you our mother's manuscripts."
</p>

<p>
Effie promised.  The last evening had arrived, and the
orphans met upon their mother's grave, for the sad
farewell.  Roland untied the black ribbon, and commenced
reading:&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"When you read these lines, my dear children, my
mortal remains will be sleeping in the quiet grave, but I
myself shall be with Jesus, and that is enough of bliss for
an immortal spirit.  I have thought it wise to make you
acquainted with the history of my early life.  You know
that my father was the minister of the parish where I was
born.  He was a wise and holy man, and gave me all the
advantages of a good education.  My mother died when I
was young, but my Aunt Ellen, my father's sister, came to
take charge of the manse, and to bring up the motherless
children.  She was an excellent woman, and faithfully
performed the part of a mother.
</p>

<p>
"I had a cousin, named Malcolm Graham, to whom I
had been most tenderly attached from my earliest
childhood.  We had roamed our native mountains, and sailed
upon our Scottish lakes together; we had walked from
earliest days to the house of God in company, had sang
from the same hymn-book, and had joined the church on the
same day.  We sang the same Scottish songs, loved the
same wild stories of our martyred ancestors.  In fine, we
were as one soul; no love was ever purer, holier, deeper
than that which filled our young hearts for each other.
</p>

<p>
"My father and my aunt were blinded; they had been so
accustomed to look upon us as brother and sister, that
nothing could have surprised my father more, than when
Malcolm came to ask that the current of our lives might
henceforth flow in one calm, holy channel.
</p>

<p>
"'It canna' be, Malcolm; you are owre near akin; I
could na' ask the Master's blessing upon sic a union.'
</p>

<p>
"'Oh, Uncle Gordon, ye canna' break your Mary's
heart, by sic an answer?'
</p>

<p>
"'Why did I na' ken this before?  I might ha' seen it a'.'
</p>

<p>
"Malcolm pleaded his cause earnestly; my father loved
us both tenderly.  At the end of a week, he gave his
unwilling consent, on the ground that, as he had blindly
allowed the intimacy, he had not the heart to say nay, and
we were betrothed.
</p>

<p>
"At the same time, Stephen Bruce, the son of my father's
most intimate friend, renewed his addresses, for since I
had grown to early womanhood, he had twice a-year,
offered his hand, and been refused.  This was the man that
my father favored.  He was a reserved and rather gloomy
man, but his love for me was an all-absorbing passion.
He had a good moral character, was well off in the world,
and moreover, was the son of my father's bosom friend.
Malcolm was poor in the possessions of the world, but
rich in all that could ennoble and dignify a man.  There
was but little prospect of his rising in the world, in an
obscure part of Scotland.  An opportunity offered for him
to enter upon a lucrative situation in China; he accepted;
my heart sank within me, for I felt that a wide ocean
would soon separate us, and I feared that I should never
see the face of Malcolm Graham again.
</p>

<p>
"My father encouraged the step.  I could see the secret
joy of Stephen Bruce, and I felt as if I could never
consent.  But Malcolm was young and hopeful; he saw at
the end of his long exile, a sweet happy home among our
native mountains, where we should share life's joys and
sorrows; and, at last, I became reconciled to the thought.
</p>

<p>
"We parted at the sweet trysting place where we had so
often met in the happy days of our young affection.  On
the banks of the lake, near our quiet home, stood a clump
of old trees, whose branches dipped gracefully in the placid
water.
</p>

<p>
"Thither we walked slowly to spend our last sad hours.
I wore the light blue snood of a Scottish maiden, which
somewhat confined my curls.
</p>

<p>
"'Shall I hae one, Mary?' asked my cousin.
</p>

<p>
"I cut one from my head, and tied it with a piece of the
blue ribbon of my snood.
</p>

<p>
"Malcolm placed it in a little pocket-book, and laid it
away in his bosom.
</p>

<p>
"After hours of silent weeping, he bade me farewell, and
I felt as if a load of lead sank down into my heart, as I
watched his retreating form until he vanished from my
sight.
</p>

<p>
"For two years, letters came regularly; all bright,
encouraging, hopeful; he was fast acquiring a fortune, and would
return in another year.  In the meanwhile, Stephen Bruce
increased his assiduities; I could not banish him from the
house, because he was the son of my father's friend.  In
another year, a letter announced that Malcolm would sail
in the ship Neptune for Liverpool, and that I might expect
him in October, when I must be ready to fulfil my vow.  I
was a happy creature then; all the intervening time was
passed in making my simple preparations.
</p>

<p>
"Aunt Ellen was a thrifty housekeeper, and took great
pride in the quantity of bed and table-linen which her niece
must have.  I was occupied chiefly with my wardrobe.  My
father did not seem much rejoiced, for he had never given
up his Scotch prejudice against the marriage of first cousins;
but he was a man of too much integrity to break a given
promise.  The summer passed, the falling leaves were
musical to me, for they brought October; the month passed, but
no news of the Neptune.  November passed in the same
manner.  December began to drag its cold and dreary days
along, but still no news.  At length, one morning, my father
entered the family parlor with a grave countenance, and a
newspaper in his hand.  'Ellen, will you come into my
study?' said my father to my aunt.
</p>

<p>
"My heart gave a sudden bound; for I had long been so
anxious, that even the fluttering of a leaf would affect me.
I saw my father's face; it was ominous.  Aunt Ellen
returned, and sitting down by my side, she said, tenderly,
'Mary, can ye bear bad news?'
</p>

<p>
"'What is it, Aunt Ellen?' I replied, starting to my feet;
'tell me, tell all; anything is better than suspense.'
</p>

<p>
"She laid her hand upon my young head, and softly
smoothed the rippling hair that lay upon my forehead and
down my temples.
</p>

<p>
"'The Neptune has foundered at sea, Mary, and Malcolm
Graham is among the missing.'
</p>

<p>
"I heard no more; for hours I lay stunned and insensible;
for weeks, between life and death.  At length, a good
constitution, under the direction of a wise but inscrutable
Providence, triumphed, and I awoke to take up the duties
of my daily life with a sad and chastened spirit.
</p>

<p>
"My father redoubled his kindness; but it was evident
that Malcolm's removal was a relief.
</p>

<p>
"The only request I made was: 'Do not allow Stephen
Bruce to visit the manse; I could not bear it.'
</p>

<p>
"My request was complied with.  During all this time, I
never wholly lost my hope; I would say to myself: 'Among
the missing, not the lost; Malcolm may yet be alive.'
</p>

<p>
"Two years of silent sorrow passed&mdash;the light of my life
had gone out.  I busied myself about my father's house,
my brother's clothes, and in the duties belonging to me, as
the minister's daughter; but joy had passed away.
</p>

<p>
"I seldom saw Stephen Bruce, excepting at church; but I
knew that my father visited him.  Occasionally I met him
by the road-side, but he never joined me.
</p>

<p>
"This delicacy of conduct gained my respect; and when
my father at last requested, for his own sake, that the son
of his old friend might visit him, I consented; for my father
had been very kind to me.
</p>

<p>
"He came occasionally, was always polite and respectful
to me, nothing more.
</p>

<p>
"At the close of the third year, after Malcolm's loss, my
father called me to him, and said: 'My daughter, I hae
tried to be considerate and kind to ye; I hae placed nae
compulsion upon your inclinations; now, I hae ane request to
make; will ye not allow Stephen to renew his addresses?
He is just as devoted to you as ever; he has luved ye
faithfully for ten years, ever since yer childish days.  If
his devotion and worth can na overcome yer repugnance,
or rather indifference, I hae nae mair to say; but it would
please yer father if ye would allow him to renew his visits
to ye personally.'
</p>

<p>
"'Give me a week to think of it, father; that is all I ask.'
</p>

<p>
"At the end of that time, I agreed to my father's proposal.
I felt that all my love was in the deep ocean buried with
Malcolm Graham, and that duty must henceforth rule my
life; to please my father only, I consented.  Stephen was
very considerate, but I saw that the same devotion filled
his heart.  He was so anxious to please, so humble, so
undemonstrative, that I could not but pity him.  I treated
him with kindness, and sometimes even with tenderness;
then he was so grateful for the smallest act, that it touched
my woman's heart.
</p>

<p>
"At last, when in trembling tones he ventured once more
to urge his suit, I did not discourage him; I simply told
him to wait.
"'Bless ye, Mary! e'en for that,' was the grateful answer.
</p>

<p>
"At the close of the fourth year, I consented to become
his wife.  He wept in the fulness of his joy, and my father
was happy; but the name of Malcolm Graham could never
be mentioned in his presence.  If by chance it was, dark
frowns would lower on his brow, and it was at all times a
forbidden subject.
</p>

<p>
"He was a kind husband, and I tried to be a faithful wife;
but in the twilight gloaming there were times when the
memory of my cousin poured over my heart like a flood.
</p>

<p>
"The next year after our marriage, you were sent, Roland,
to form a new tie between us.  You were a lovely babe,
and your mother was proud of the sweet infant that smiled
upon her from his cradle.
</p>

<p>
"Stephen Bruce was a handsome man, Roland, and you
were like him; the same profusion of dark hair, the same
dark eyes; but there was always about you, Roland, an
open frankness, that never characterized your father.  He
was constitutionally reserved and taciturn, often gloomy.
</p>

<p>
"Our married life flowed smoothly along for two years.
We lived at the manse; for my father could not part from
his only daughter.  He was very fond of little Roland, and
the presence of a baby in the house was a sunbeam across
his path.
</p>

<p>
"One very stormy winter evening, I was rocking my little
boy to sleep, singing some sweet cradle-song.  The wind
howled fearfully without, and the snow came down in heavy
drifts.  I heard a footstep on the little porch in front of the
manse; it seemed to be a man knocking off the snow before
entering.
</p>

<p>
"The family dog gave a familiar bark of joy, and a voice
that I thought drowned in the deep ocean said: 'Down,
Shep! down, sir.'  My heart stood still.  The next
moment, the door opened, and Malcolm Graham stood before
me.  He extended his arms.
</p>

<p>
"'Mary!  Mary!' he cried, 'hae ye na welcome?'
</p>

<p>
"I started to my feet; I am sure that my eyes must have
glared with terror.  I sank upon the chair by the side of
the cradle, and pressing my hand upon my heart, continued
gazing.  I was speechless with terror and grief.
</p>

<p>
"'What is in that cradle, Mary?'
</p>

<p>
"'It is my child, my babe, Malcolm.'
</p>

<p>
"'Tell me its name, Mary Gordon.'
</p>

<p>
"'Roland Gordon Bruce,' I answered, in trembling tones.
</p>

<p>
"He struck his head with both his hands in anguish&mdash;'Hae
I come home for this?  Oh, Mary! how could ye
sae forget me?'
</p>

<p>
"'I thought you dead, Malcolm; and by this marriage, I
have made my father happy.'
</p>

<p>
"'Look here, Mary!' said the wretched man.  Opening
his vest, he took out an old worn pocket-book, from which
he drew the lock of golden hair, tied with the faded ribbon
of the maiden's snood, that I gave him on the night of our
parting.
</p>

<p>
"'I hae never parted with it, Mary, and it shall go wi' me
to my grave.'
</p>

<p>
"I was near fainting; no words can paint the anguish of
that hour.
</p>

<p>
"'Go, Malcolm, go; you must not be seen here.  I cannot
even shelter you from the storm.  I can pray for you,
Malcolm, but we must meet no more.'
</p>

<p>
"My cousin advanced&mdash;before I could prevent it, he
clasped me to his bosom, pressed one last kiss upon my icy
forehead, and in another minute was gone.
</p>

<p>
"Alas! alas! just as he passed out, my husband entered.
He knew him&mdash;it was Malcolm Graham, the one whom he
had always feared as his rival in the affections of the one
he loved.
</p>

<p>
"'How dare he enter this house?' was the first salutation.
</p>

<p>
"'He thought that I lived here yet as Mary Gordon,
husband.  You have no reason to fear either him or her whom
you call by the sacred name of wife.'
</p>

<p>
"He was pale with anger; fire shot from his dark eyes.  I
was terrified.  I walked up to Stephen Bruce, and laid my
hand upon his arm.
</p>

<p>
"'Stephen, am I not your wedded wife? wedded in the
sight of Heaven! do you think that I, Mary Gordon, the
descendant of heroic martyrs, can ever forget her plighted
faith, plighted before God's holy altar?'
</p>

<p>
"'No, Mary, you will not forget your duty as a wife; but
your heart is wi' Malcolm Graham, your early luve.'
</p>

<p>
"'Stephen, Malcolm is dead to me&mdash;we shall never meet
again.  I do not wish him to cross our path.'
</p>

<p>
"From that hour our domestic peace was at an end.  The
family malady had certainly made its appearance in the case
of my unhappy husband.  I was kind, affectionate, attentive
to all his wants.  I hushed the voice of memory, and
learned to be even cheerful in the performance of daily duties.
I looked upward daily, hourly, Roland, and I was sustained
in my hour of trial.
</p>

<p>
"I begged my father to see Malcolm, and tell him to keep
out of my husband's way.  He explained all to the
unhappy man, and related his sad story.
</p>

<p>
"He had been wrecked, taken prisoner, and landed in
Algiers, without the possibility of communicating one line to
his friends.
</p>

<p>
"In company with six others, after an absence of seven
years, he had made his escape.  He promised my father to
leave the country, for he saw that with the fancy which
had seized my husband's brain, nothing else could restore
domestic harmony.  Accordingly he went, but the evening
before, I was sitting in the parlor of the manse.  It was
autumn&mdash;the windows were open, and I was alone.  I saw
the figure of a man walking slowly up the path that led to
the house.  He crossed the porch, and for one minute, stood
gazing in at the window.  It was Malcolm Graham.  He
held up once more the golden lock.
</p>

<p>
"'Farewell, Mary; I cannot gae without your blessing.'
</p>

<p>
"'God bless you forever and ever,' was the reply which
burst from my trembling lips.  He walked hastily away,
stood at the gate for one moment, waved his hand, and was
gone.
</p>

<p>
"I hoped for peace now that he had left the country.
While he was in Scotland, your father would sit for hours
gloomy and silent without exchanging a word; then he
would suddenly take his hat, and set out to search for
Malcolm, imagining that he was always lurking about the
manse.  And even after he had gone, I could not regain
his confidence.
</p>

<p>
"The memory of my poor cousin was the shadow in your
father's life, the ghost that haunted him day and night.
</p>

<p>
"Malcolm was gone for several years, but your father
never wholly recovered his spirits.
</p>

<p>
"In the meanwhile, Effie was born, and the duties of
daughter, wife and mother fully engrossed my daily life.
</p>

<p>
"When you were about nine years old, Malcolm suddenly
returned.  He was now a rich man; he bought a home,
furnished it, and took home a widowed sister and child to
preside over his household.
</p>

<p>
"Life had disciplined his Christian character; he was
cheerful and serene.  It made me happy to hear that he
was foremost in all the schemes for good around the
neighborhood, and the name of Malcolm Graham was everywhere
revered.
</p>

<p>
"He was often called 'the good old bachelor,' for though
many mammas would have liked to place their daughters
at the head of his establishment, it was evident that no
such thoughts ever disturbed the dreams of 'good Uncle
Malcolm.'
</p>

<p>
"From the time that he returned, your father's gloom and
restlessness increased.  The mania had seized upon him
again, and nothing would do, but that the wide ocean must
separate his wife from the country where Malcolm lived,
although we had no kind of social intercourse.  We met at
church, and that was all.  Much to my aged father's grief,
hasty preparations were made to go to America.
</p>

<p>
"He was devoted to me and my dear children, and could
not bear the thoughts of my leaving home and dear friends
to embark upon the ocean, and go to seek a home in a
strange country, with a man so gloomy and suspicious as
your father had become.
</p>

<p>
"But during all these trials, my God sustained me, and
while conscious of being in the path of duty, I was even
cheerful.
</p>

<p>
"We left Scotland; for awhile we lived comfortably, and
your father's malady seemed to diminish.  One drawback
there was always to my happiness, and that was, that your
father seemed so anxious to break up all connection with
Scotland, that I was not allowed to write home for months,
for fear that I should hear something about Malcolm.
</p>

<p>
"At length he returned to Scotland, for the purpose of
settling his affairs, and making America his permanent home.
On the voyage back again, the vessel was lost, and no word
was ever heard from him again.
</p>

<p>
"About this time, poor Elsie Gibson appeared among us.
I never could understand why or how it was, but she always
seemed acquainted with our affairs, and interested in all
that concerned us.  There came regular remittances, they
seemed to come from New York, and were left at our door in
the evening.  At last I observed that Elsie Gibson appeared
among us in a day or two after these packages came, and
always contrived to find out about their safe arrival.  At
last they ceased altogether, and then came the days of
poverty and trial, which you, my darlings, have patiently
shared.  I wrote home frequently, but received no answers.
</p>

<p>
"Several times there have been mysterious visits at night
around our dwelling; once or twice have I seen the figure
of a man peeping in at our window, and many other
circumstances have led me to conjecture that your father may
yet be alive, and that Elsie Gibson knows something about
him.  She told me that your dear grandfather died soon
after your father disappeared, and although we heard once
or twice from Aunt Ellen, that ceased also, and I fear that
she is no more.
</p>

<p>
"If it is in your power, Roland, I wish you to seek your
friends in Scotland; there must be some left.  I have told
you this sad story, my dear children, first because I want
to warn you both of forming connections for life, with any
one, for any other reason save that of deliberate heartfelt
choice.  I acted from what I supposed to be duty; it was
productive of happiness to none concerned.
</p>

<p>
"And another reason is, that by telling you my supposition
that your father may yet be alive, Roland may try all
that is in his power to find out the truth, and to comfort
that afflicted parent, for if he is in the land of the living,
he is in sorrow, of that I am sure.
</p>

<p>
"Nothing beside death could separate him so permanently
from us, but the malady which I have always
dreaded.  And now, my dear children, let me once more
bid you, in every hour of sore affliction through which you
may be called to pass, look upward; upward for direction,
upward for comfort, upward for hope.  God is 'the Father
of the fatherless;' remember the sweet promise, 'When
my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will
take me up.'  I can leave you in his gracious care.  'May
he guide you with his counsel here, and, after that, receive
you to glory.'
</p>

<p>
"I have done with earthly care and sorrow.  I wait for
you, my loved ones; I know that you will come to me, and
that with our precious Saviour throughout eternity we shall
rejoice as much in the sorrows that we have suffered, as in
the joys vouchsafed, if they have helped to bring us home
to glory.
</p>

<p>
"I need not say, do not forget your mother; I know that
you will not.  Keep close to your Saviour.  Let your motto
always be, 'Looking aloft,' 'Looking aloft;' through joy
and through sorrow, still 'Looking aloft.'"
</p>

<p>
After closing the manuscript, both the orphans sat
weeping upon their mother's grave.
</p>

<p>
"How quietly she sleeps! dear, tried, and patient
mother!" said Roland.  "How blessed is her rest in that
world of peace and love!  Do not weep so, Effie, God is
in Heaven; do not lose sight of his promises; have they
ever failed, dear sister?  He will take care of us, he will
guide us, I know, if we put our trust in him."
</p>

<p>
"I am so weak, Roland; since I have lost our mother,
I feel as if I was all alone in the wide world; and now you
are going too."
</p>

<p>
"But I shall come back, Effie; I may have a great many
trials and disappointments, but I can trust the hand that
guided Noah, and Daniel, and Elijah, that delivered Peter,
and so many of his dear servants; and Effie, don't let us
doubt his love, when, to make the promises sure, he gave
up his dear Son, and nailed him to the cross to make his
word, 'Yea and Amen.'"
</p>

<p>
"I'll try, Roland, to be trustful as you; but I am a weak
and timid disciple."
</p>

<p>
"Just think, Effie, that every drop of precious blood was
just like setting the seal to all the blessed promises; and
do you believe that the Saviour who could die for us would
ever forget us?"
</p>

<p>
"How you comfort me, Roland; your words are always
so kind, so strong."
</p>

<p>
"Don't let us forget our sainted mother's motto, Effie,
'Looking aloft!'  Oh, what blessedness in such a holy trust!"
</p>

<p>
While seated thus, Roland perceived Elsie Gibson
advancing towards them.  When any change was about to
take place in their earthly destiny, there was always the
same old friend.  They could not fathom the mystery; but
so it was.
</p>

<p>
"And sae ye are aboot to leave us, Roland," said the old
woman; "ye are the chiel o' mony prayers, and belang to
the race o' the righteous.  I dinna fear for ye, my bairn."
</p>

<p>
"I do not fear, Elsie; I am almost penniless, but the
promises are all the same."
</p>

<p>
"I hae something for ye, Roland," continued the old
woman, and taking a gold watch from her pocket, she
continued, "It is your ain; dinna part with it, my son."
</p>

<p>
Roland examined it, and found inside the case the initials
of S.B.  It was a handsome article, and Roland's wonder
was unbounded.  S.B., what could that mean?  And
how was it that Elsie Gibson, so poor a woman, could afford
to give him a watch?
</p>

<p>
"Where did this watch come from?" asked Roland, "and
what right have I to such a gift?"
</p>

<p>
"Dinna fash yoursel aboot it, Roland; it is by right your
ain, and some day ye'll ken how&mdash;&mdash;.  I shall like to hear
o' your welfare, my dear bairn."
</p>

<p>
"I thank you, Elsie, for your kindness to us all.  God
will bless you, I am sure."
</p>

<p>
"May the widow's God be wi' ye, Roland, thro' a' your
wanderings in the wilderness," and shaking hands warmly
with both the orphans, she vanished from the cemetery.
None had ever traced the old woman to her home, if home
she had.
</p>

<p>
"Farewell now, Effie," said her brother, as he folded his
sister in a warm embrace.
</p>

<p>
She could not speak, but lay on his bosom overpowered
with the grief of parting.
</p>

<p>
"Take me home, Roland," said the poor child, and they
walked in silence to the gate at Woodcliff.  One more
embrace in silence, one long, agonized kiss, and Effie turned
up the avenue with a heart too full for utterance.
</p>

<p>
Mother, brother, Madeline&mdash;all gone.  Nothing was left
to the desolate orphan but her Father in Heaven.
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap12"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XII.
<br><br>
STARS IN THE NIGHT SEASON.
</h3>

<p>
Out on the wide, wide world.  Roland could not but
feel the loneliness, as at the early dawn, with nothing but a
few clothes packed up in an old carpet bag, and a few
dollars in his pocket, he turned his face away from what had
once been home.  It had cost him, youth that he was, many
an anxious thought and weary hour of toil, to help to keep
it up; but it was the dear spot where a mother smiled and
a sister cheered his return.
</p>

<p>
He had paid his last visit, fastened the cottage windows,
locked the door, and turned to leave the little home.  But
what is that lying on the front porch?  it looks like a familiar
object.  He stoops to pick it up.  It is a little book that
his mother daily used, "Clark on the Promises."  Many a
pencil mark is on its pages, and many a finger print pressed
there by a hand that lies mouldering in the grave.  He lays
it away among his treasures, and turns his footsteps towards
the sea-shore.
</p>

<p>
The lonely dashing of the waters at that early hour
sounded so drearily, and recalled most forcibly the beautiful
lines of Tennyson.
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Break, break, break,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;On thy cold gray stones, oh sea!<br>
  And I would that my tongue could utter<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The thoughts that arise in me.<br>
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "O, well for the fisherman's boy<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That he shouts with his sister at play!<br>
  O, well for the sailor lad,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That he sings in his boat on the bay<br>
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "And the stately ships go on,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To their haven under the hill,<br>
  But oh, for the touch of a vanished hand!<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And the sound of a voice that is still.<br>
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Break, break, break,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;At the foot of thy crags, oh sea!<br>
  But the tender grace of a day that is dead,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Will never come back to me."<br>
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
He mounted the rock once more, leaned against the
flagstaff, and looked out dreamily upon the wide expanse of
ocean, emblem to him of the untried world beyond.  Then
he turned to look upon the spot where he had first seen
Madeline in all her childish grace.  It had been a sweet
dream with which to commence his young life&mdash;a peep into
a home of elegance and refinement&mdash;a year's communion
with a fresh young spirit, so free, so wild, so guileless.
Some pleasant thoughts stirred in the soul of the youth,
and caused a smile to flit across his face, as he felt that
perhaps he might have awakened in that bright child some
incipient longings after a better life.
</p>

<p>
Then his thoughts turned to the reality; the hard, stern
reality, the battle of life, so soon to commence.
</p>

<p>
"These bright things are not for me," sighed Roland;
"they might enervate my character.  God knows that it
will be better schooled in the path which strikes the steel
within.  What a precious talisman my dear mother has
left me, 'Looking aloft!' upward where I see the works of
the Creator, the smiles of God; upward, where I see the
path trodden by all the good and great of the earth; you
shall never be ashamed of your son, mother."  The word
"mother" was spoken audibly, the holy name stirred up
the depths of Roland's soul, and he wept aloud.
</p>

<p>
It was but a moment of indulgence; for, taking up his
carpet-bag, he commenced his journey on foot.  And
whither? like faithful Abraham, he went out, not knowing
whither he went.
</p>

<p>
He had heard of a neighboring college about one hundred
and fifty miles off, where the President, himself a self-made
man, had sympathy with struggling aspirants.
</p>

<p>
"I can but try," thought the youth; "I'll go trusting,
and I may succeed."
</p>

<p>
All day long he journeyed with a springing, elastic step,
for hope was strong within him.  He stopped to take his
meals, and to read a verse or two in his mother's precious
book of the promises.  When evening approached, Roland
began to cast about for a night's lodging.  He did not
want to spend his money, he had so little; that he must
keep for his books.  But what to do?  He could not sleep
out upon the ground, it was too cold.
</p>

<p>
Not far off, he perceived a neat-looking farm-house.
Two or three children were playing about in the front
lawn; the mother, a pleasant looking woman, came to the
door, and with such a kind, cheerful voice called in her
little ones to tea, that Roland felt she will not refuse me a
place in her barn.  I can but ask.  He walked directly up
to the front door with a firm, manly step, and knocked.
The mistress of the house appeared.
</p>

<p>
"I called to ask, ma'am, if you will allow me to sleep in
your barn to-night; I have walked twenty miles to-day,
and have no place where to rest."
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Romaine was really a kind woman, but here was a
stranger, "Would it be safe?"
</p>

<p>
"Where is thee going, my boy?"
</p>

<p>
"I am on my road to College, ma'am, and I have yet
one hundred and thirty miles to travel."
</p>

<p>
"Going to College, my son, and no means to pay for a
night's lodging; thee must be a brave boy to start on such
an errand."
</p>

<p>
"My mother told me to stop at nothing to get a good
education; it was on her death-bed, madam, and I will do
any thing to obtain such a blessing."
</p>

<p>
"Don't thee know it takes money to go through college?
But thee must be tired; come, sit down, my son; what is
thy name?"
</p>

<p>
"Roland Bruce."
</p>

<p>
"How does thee expect to get through, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"I can work, madam," said Roland, with a bright smile.
"I am very strong, and very willing; and I have my
mother's motto to work by."
</p>

<p>
"What is that, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"'Looking aloft,' madam; it is a strong tower."
</p>

<p>
He was in New England, where sympathy with one
thus anxious was sure to meet a response.
</p>

<p>
"Thee can stay with us, Roland, to-night, but not in a
barn; we have a little room where thee can sleep.  But
come in, thee must be hungry."
</p>

<p>
And the kind woman led her guest out to the tea-table,
where a comfortable repast was already spread.
</p>

<p>
"What can thee do, Roland, in the way of work?"
</p>

<p>
"I can make fires, black boots, saw wood, etc.; and, I
suppose that there must be plenty of such work in a college."
</p>

<p>
"But suppose the boys look down upon thee, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"I can afford to let them, if I get all the knowledge I
want; they won't do it always; I am above getting angry
at them, madam."
</p>

<p>
"Thee is a strange boy, Roland; so humble, and yet so
proud, too."
</p>

<p>
"I am afraid that there is not so much humility as there
seems to be about me; for all this stooping down is but to
rise at last; I shall be thinking of that all the time."
</p>

<p>
"When thee is ready, I will show thee thy room,
Roland."
</p>

<p>
They sat and chatted pleasantly for another hour, and,
when Roland saw the family making preparations for
retiring, he followed his kind hostess to a snug little room,
opening out on a front balcony.
</p>

<p>
Roland was too full of earnest thought for sleep; so,
taking a chair, he seated himself alone on the balcony.
</p>

<p>
The family had all retired; quiet reigned around.  It
was a clear, cold night, and the bright stars shone out, and
spangled the heavens with their radiant constellations
Roland looked upward, and listened to their voiceless
eloquence.
</p>

<p>
How long had they continued their silent march of glory?
</p>

<p>
Centuries had rolled by, and year after year had they
travelled the same wondrous circles, with the same marvellous
precision.  The north star had pointed the mariner
on the stormy deep, to his desired haven.  Orion, with his
glorious belt of stars, on the same day of the month, at
the same hour, might ever be seen in the same point of the
heavens; the beauteous Pleiades, obedient too, wheeled in
their wondrous course.  Ursa Major, at all times, might be
looked upon as a familiar friend; and amid them all, the
grand planets had joined the mysterious dance of the
universe.  Orbit within orbit, sun beyond sun, each the centre
of other solar systems, had wheeled into their wondrous
revolutions; obedient to the same laws, without confusion,
without noise, (for great works are ever noiseless,) from
century to century; and to-night, guided by the same
Omnipotent hand, amid the unceasing silent whirl, Roland
sits and listens to their eloquent teachings.
</p>

<p>
"These are material things," thought Roland, "destined
at last to be rolled up like a scroll and pass away, but I am
an immortal.  These transient orbs are the objects of His
unceasing care, and shall I, an immortal being, fear to trust
my all in His wise and gracious hands?  His providence, with
its myriad of wheels, is just as surely guided as are these
heavenly orbs.  I remember the night when my mother
showed me these bright constellations, and the very lesson
that she taught me.  I can look upward to-night, and
recall it all.  Stars in the night season speak comforting
words.  It seemed dark night when I left Woodcliff, but
the stars are shining around my path, as well as in the
heavens; for was it not the good providence of God that
led me to this sweet chamber, when all I hoped for was a
barn?"
</p>

<p>
Thus communed Roland with the starry heavens, and,
after having committed himself in perfect trust to the care
of his Heavenly Father, he laid him down and slept in
peace.  "So he giveth his beloved sleep."
</p>

<p>
By the dawn of day he was astir, and after an early
breakfast, prepared once more for his journey.
</p>

<p>
"Thee will have a pleasant day, Roland; it is clear and
cold, and bracing to a young frame like thine."
</p>

<p>
Roland bade his kind hostess good-bye with a grateful
heart.
</p>

<p>
"You have cheered me with your kind words, Mrs. Romaine,
and the blessing of the orphan's God will be upon
you."
</p>

<p>
"Farewell, Roland; I hope thee will be successful; many
of our great men have started just as thee has."
</p>

<p>
Roland did not draw upon his provisions again until the
middle of the day, when to his surprise he found that a
large stock of substantials had been added to his store.
</p>

<p>
Twice in the course of his journey he slept in a barn;
he had met with some rough treatment, but enough of
kindness to show that a good Providence was guiding his
steps.
</p>

<p>
At the close of the sixth day, Roland came in sight of
the college walls.
</p>

<p>
A number of the students were strolling on the lawn in
front of the building.  Several scrutinized him closely, but
Roland walked steadily forward, with head erect, and firm
step.
</p>

<p>
"Here, I say, Charley, what do you think of the new
arrival?" said George Stanley to a companion; "extensive
trunks, hey!"
</p>

<p>
Roland turned a moment; there was something in his
eye that Charley did not relish, and he moved away.
</p>

<p>
At length he reached the President's room, and was
directed to be seated.
</p>

<p>
After a short time, a small man, with rather an
uninviting aspect, appeared.
</p>

<p>
"What is your business, my boy?" asked the President.
</p>

<p>
"I am seeking an education, sir," replied Roland, in a
direct, straight-forward manner.
</p>

<p>
"Who is your father, sir?"
</p>

<p>
"I have none, sir."
</p>

<p>
"Your mother?"
</p>

<p>
"I am an orphan, sir."
</p>

<p>
"Your friends?  I mean responsible persons, sir."
</p>

<p>
"I have none, sir."
</p>

<p>
"Your means?"
</p>

<p>
"None at all, but these hands, feet, and head, sir."
</p>

<p>
"I am afraid that we cannot take you."
</p>

<p>
"I will do anything, sir; I will saw wood, make fires,
black shoes, anything but cheat, sir.  I won't say that I
can pay you, as some might promise, for I never can."
</p>

<p>
Dr. Kingsley was an eccentric, but a really noble-hearted
man; he had taken one glance at Roland which had interested
him, and his questions had been put to try him.
</p>

<p>
He had marked the fine dark eye, the expansive brow,
and the sweet, but firm-set mouth; he had listened to the
straight-forward appeal of the youth; it brought back his
own early struggles, and he felt as if such a boy had a right
to an education of the highest order.
</p>

<p>
"Are you aware, my young friend, how trying is the position
which you propose?  If you are mentally and morally
superior, are you willing to be treated as an inferior, and
perhaps sometimes scorned?"
</p>

<p>
"I can brush away gnats, sir," replied Roland, with an
expressive toss of his hand; "for I am a Scotch boy, with
Scotch pride enough to sustain me.  If they scorn me for
doing right, what care I?"
</p>

<p>
"What is your name, sir?"
</p>

<p>
"Roland Gordon Bruce, sir."
</p>

<p>
"A fine name&mdash;the Gordons were distinguished among
Scottish martyrs, if I mistake not."
</p>

<p>
"They were, sir; and I trust that I shall never dishonor
the name I bear."
</p>

<p>
"You can come, Roland," said Dr. Kingsley, in a softer
tone of voice.
</p>

<p>
Roland had endured the hard tone of scrutiny with
calmness; but the free consent was more than he could bear.
He rose suddenly to his feet, seized Dr. Kingsley's hand,
and with a glowing cheek, and eye suffused with feeling,
exclaimed&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Thank you, dear sir; I have no words to express all
that I feel."
</p>

<p>
Dr. Kingsley turned his head away, for he did not care
that Roland should see his emotion, but continued&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Where is your baggage, sir?"
</p>

<p>
"It is there, Dr. Kingsley," said the boy, smiling, and
pointing to his carpet-bag; "that contains all my worldly
goods."
</p>

<p>
"And where are your books, Roland? that is an expensive
item," continued the President.
</p>

<p>
"I have none, sir.  I have about five dollars, sir; will
that suffice?"
</p>

<p>
"We shall see, Roland."
</p>

<p>
Dr. Kingsley had a sudden call for his handkerchief.
Blowing his nose violently, he recovered his equanimity.
</p>

<p>
He sent for the Janitor&mdash;"Show this boy to the small
attic room, No. 70, and see that he is well attended to,
Mr. James.  Remain here one moment, Roland;" and the good
man hurried Mr. James out into the hall&mdash;"Be kind to this
boy; he is made of noble stuff&mdash;don't let the fellows impose
upon him; he is poor as a church mouse; but he is proud,
and brave as a lion."
</p>

<p>
Mr. James conducted Roland to his little attic, where he
soon deposited his worldly goods; and at the ringing of the
supper-bell, made his first appearance among the world of
students.  He took a seat appointed at the foot of the room,
at a side-table, among the younger boys, and glanced around
him.  His clothes were mean and shabby, compared with
any by whom he was surrounded; but there was a quiet
manly air of independence, as he sat with head thrown
back, one arm leaning upon the table, and a calm straight-forward
look in his eagle eye, that repelled insolence; and
Roland was allowed to sit among them in silence, but
without any welcome from the boys.
</p>

<p>
After supper, as it was yet the time of freedom, many
of the students strolled out upon the lawn.  Roland took
his seat under a large oak tree, alone in the great crowd.
</p>

<p>
A handsome boy, dressed in the height of fashion,
advanced towards our novice.
</p>

<p>
"You look lonely, sir; may I ask your name?"
</p>

<p>
"Roland Bruce&mdash;and yours?"
</p>

<p>
"Edmund Norris.  Now come and take a stroll with me."
</p>

<p>
Roland joined his young companion.  Several of the boys
tittered at the patronage.
</p>

<p>
"Ned can do as he pleases," said George Stanley; "but
I am a little more cautious about my acquaintances; I dare
say he is only a charity boy; I saw the poor, mean
carpetbag that he brought."
</p>

<p>
Edmund Norris was a petted child of wealthy parents,
but he had a warm, noble heart; and remembered the day
when he came as a stranger among so many.  His great
fault of character was want of firmness, easily led, and
generous to a fault; consequently, he was a great favorite&mdash;a
dangerous distinction for a college boy, with plenty of
money.
</p>

<p>
"You'll soon get acquainted with the boys that are worth
knowing," said Edmund.
</p>

<p>
"I came only to study," answered Roland; "so that I
can have my books and a quiet corner, I care not for the
roughness of outward circumstances."
</p>

<p>
"You'll find Dr. Kingsley a fine old fellow; he's hard
upon us lazy ones, keen-eyed as a fox, none need try to
deceive him."
</p>

<p>
"I like his few words, and kind deeds," answered Roland.
</p>

<p>
"Don't get home-sick&mdash;that is a horrid feeling, and all
have it at first.  I dare say when you go to your room,
you will go to sleep with moistened cheek, thinking of
mother and home."
</p>

<p>
"I have neither home nor mother; I am almost alone in
this wide, wide world&mdash;none but a sister can I claim in
America&mdash;good night, Mr. Norris."
</p>

<p>
Roland returned to his room with a grateful heart.
Another star had arisen upon his night-season, and, as he
looked out upon the spangled heavens, they seemed to
smile upon the bright young aspirant, as he sank to sleep.
</p>

<p>
Next morning, his examination took place, his studies
were appointed, and his duties in the house defined.
</p>

<p>
When he took the boots the first time from the students'
doors, many of them were in the passage.
</p>

<p>
"I told you that he was only a charity student," said
George Stanley; "he's to be our boot-black, I see&mdash;it's a
capital joke, by jingo! with his princely airs."
</p>

<p>
But though performing these menial offices, his deportment
in the class-rooms, and his superior recitations,
commanded respect, in spite of the slurs cast upon him by
mean spirits.
</p>

<p>
He had marked out his course, notwithstanding all that
might be done, steadily to perform his duties, to avoid the
students generally, and, above all things, to employ all his
leisure time in preparing for his recitations.
</p>

<p>
It was a hard lot that Roland Bruce had chosen&mdash;it
took him several hours at night to clean the boots, although
he was aided by a little fellow in the employ of the
institution; before the dawn of day, he was busy carrying up
wood and making the fires, aided by the same little fellow.
</p>

<p>
He allowed himself but six hours' sleep, and husbanded
his time so carefully, that, with all his hard labor, he really
accomplished more than half the students in the college.
</p>

<p>
Added to his industry, Roland's talents were of no common
order, and the faculty soon perceived that the humble
boot-black of the college, would carry off most of its
honors.
</p>

<p>
"Holloa, Boots!" exclaimed George Stanley one morning,
as Roland was passing through the halls with wood for
the rooms.
</p>

<p>
He passed on without noticing the insolence.  As he
returned, Stanley was at the door.
</p>

<p>
"Here, Boots!  I want to see you."
</p>

<p>
"When you speak to me as you ought, I am ready to
listen," answered Roland, with quiet dignity.
</p>

<p>
"Well, Mr. Bruce, I want to say to you, that you don't
polish my boots well."
</p>

<p>
"Complain to the authorities, Mr. Stanley," and Roland
passed on.
</p>

<p>
"Proud as Lucifer!  I wish I could humble him, with
his grand airs of superiority," said Stanley, as he banged
the door of his room.
</p>

<p>
"You humble him!" answered Edmund Norris; "a
pigmy might as well try to reach the sun."
</p>

<p>
"Why, what is he, Norris? but a mere boot-black for
the college.  I won't stand his pride."
</p>

<p>
"Go to the recitation room, if you want to see what
Roland Bruce is&mdash;there is not a fellow in the college that
can compete with him, notwithstanding all his hard labor."
</p>

<p>
"I suppose that he is a prince in disguise, Norris, from
the airs which he puts on."
</p>

<p>
"He has done nothing to offend you, Stanley, and yet
you take every opportunity to insult him.  I tell you, sir,
that I know Roland Bruce&mdash;neither you nor I could have
the independence which he exhibits; and, so far from
humbling him, in my estimation, it exalts him; though I
know that I never could reach it&mdash;I could not saw wood
and black shoes for my education."
</p>

<p>
When the students met again in the dining-hall, Norris
stepped up to Roland, and said,
</p>

<p>
"Your seat is by me henceforth at the table."
</p>

<p>
"How is this?" inquired Roland, surprised.
</p>

<p>
"I made the request, that's all; you shall be treated
properly."
</p>

<p>
Several of the students frowned on finding themselves so
near to "Boots," as they termed him; when speaking <i>of</i>,
not <i>to</i> Roland Bruce.
</p>

<p>
"How long since you were knighted, Sir Edmund?"
asked Stanley; "I find that you have taken your place
among the sons of chivalry."
</p>

<p>
"If I am entitled to the name for righting the oppressed,
very well, I <i>am</i> Sir Edmund Norris."
</p>

<p>
Roland, with his quiet dignity of demeanor, really did
not look very much in need of patronage; although truly
grateful to the generous young soul, who was always his
champion.
</p>

<p>
Our young student had secured the universal respect of
the faculty&mdash;Dr. Kingsley was his firm, tried friend; he
furnished him with all his necessary text-books, so that
the five dollars were yet untouched.  Mrs. Jennings, the
matron, was extremely kind, looking after his little stock
of clothes, keeping them as neat as possible, and not
unfrequently adding a collar or two, a handkerchief, or a pair
of stockings to his scanty wardrobe.
</p>

<p>
"Can't you stop in my room a minute, Roland?" said
the good lady.
</p>

<p>
"I thank you, my dear madam, but I really have no
time to day."
</p>

<p>
"Always busy, my son; may you be rewarded for your
patient industry."
</p>

<p>
"Thank you, my good, kind friend;" and Roland's heart
swelled with emotion, for he had heard but one kind
womanly voice since he had lost his dear mother, and that
was good Mrs. Romaine's.
</p>

<p>
"There is a box for you, Roland," said the janitor; and,
much to his surprise, he found quite a large box in his
little attic, accompanied by a letter from sister Effie; so
full of love and tender recollection, that, for a moment, it
quite unmanned him.
</p>

<p>
"You will find many useful things, dear Roland; don't
ask how I got them; my own hands made the shirts and
hemmed the handkerchiefs; they come to you from a very
dear friend.  The suit of clothes comes from Mr. Hamilton,
who has heard of your course at college, and who was
quite chagrined that you should go without seeing him;
but the shirts and handkerchiefs are a secret."
</p>

<p>
Roland opened the box, and there he found a suit of
clothes, half a dozen shirts, stockings, and handkerchiefs,
with other valuable and necessary things.
</p>

<p>
He bowed his knee before his Father in Heaven, and
blessed him for the gift, for really his old clothes were
completely worn out.
</p>

<p>
Stars in the night season shining still around him&mdash;why
should he ever doubt?
</p>

<p>
Edmund met him with a beaming countenance in the
dining hall, not that he cared any more for Roland in his
neat mourning suit, but it did please him to see his friend
taking his seat among his fellows, in the garb of a gentleman.
</p>

<p>
Who could have sent the shirts and handkerchiefs? but
one kind friend could he think of, and that was Madeline
Hamilton.  He knew that whatever she desired, was
granted to her by her indulgent father.  It was pleasant
to be thus remembered&mdash;but how humbling to Roland's
pride, who longed to work for all his needs!
</p>

<p>
Roland really loved his warm-hearted friend, Edmund
Norris, but he saw that he was wasting both time and
money.  Night after night would he sit up until a late
hour, indulging in card-playing and champagne.  He was
constantly resolving to change his course, but he had no
power to put his resolutions into practice.  The term was
rapidly passing away, the time for examination drawing
nigh, and Roland feared that his friend would utterly fail.
</p>

<p>
Edmund was often late at chapel and recitation, and
yawning and listless all day.
</p>

<p>
Roland's mind was soon resolved as to duty.
</p>

<p>
"Shall I see you this evening, Edmund, after supper, on
the lawn?" said the faithful friend.
</p>

<p>
"I will be there," was the reply.
</p>

<p>
True to his promise, Roland awaited his coming.
</p>

<p>
"I am aware what you have to say, Roland," said the
young man; "you want to read me a lecture upon my evil
ways; is it not so?"
</p>

<p>
"I have no right to lecture you, Edmund; but I cannot
see you ruining all your prospects, and throwing away
every advantage, without remonstrance."
</p>

<p>
"I know it is all true, Roland; but what is a fellow to
do?  Just as soon as I go to my room for study, three or
four of my chums follow me, and there is no rest until I
open my door, and then come the champagne and the cards,
and night after night is spent in this way.  I am always
resolving, but can bring nothing good to pass."
</p>

<p>
"Are you happy, Edmund?  Does conscience acquit you?
What would your father say!  Can you bear to be
disgraced at the close of the term?"
</p>

<p>
Edmund bowed his head, and replied, "I am a miserable
fellow!  None of these things really satisfy me; but what
can I do?  I have too much money, Roland; I want to
turn over a new leaf.  I have a thought," and, taking his
pocket-book out of his pocket, he continued, "take it,
Roland; keep it for me; when I really need money, I will ask
for it, and give a strict account."
</p>

<p>
"Really, Edmund! that seems very much like a child."
</p>

<p>
"Well, Roland, that is just what I am; a weak, spoiled
child, and I must be treated as one; if I am to study, I
must put it out of my power to waste my time."
</p>

<p>
Roland took the trust smiling, and said, "You will not
complain, Edmund, if I sometimes refuse your demands."
</p>

<p>
"That is the bargain, Roland; I think that I can keep
my promise."
</p>

<p>
The young man really did close his doors upon all his idle
friends, and commenced a new course.
</p>

<p>
"Shall I come to your little attic, Roland, to study?  No
one will follow me there."
</p>

<p>
"Certainly, my friend;" and Edmund found the quiet of
the distant room, and the presence of his studious friend, a
great help to his new resolutions.
</p>

<p>
"Boots" was making rapid progress in his studies.  Many
were jealous of his talents, and feared him as a rival; but
with the one great end in view, he was turned aside by
nothing.
</p>

<p>
Roland's manly Christianity was overcoming all enmity
excepting with mean grovelling spirits.  Stanley still
delighted to make thrusts at him, for he could not but
acknowledge his superiority.
</p>

<p>
One morning, he stopped at Stanley's door for his boots;
they were not outside; he knocked&mdash;a faint voice answered,
"Come in."
</p>

<p>
Roland entered, and poor Stanley lay on the bed, burning
with fever, and tossing from side to side in agony.
</p>

<p>
"What is the matter, Stanley?" asked Roland.
</p>

<p>
"I have suffered agony all night; my head aches and
burns, and my whole frame is shaking with chills."
</p>

<p>
"I am sorry for you, Stanley; it is bad to be sick
without a woman's care and kindness; shall I bathe your
head?"
</p>

<p>
Roland brought a basin of cool water, washed the poor
fellow's face, combed his hair, and laid cloths wet with cool
water on his burning head.
</p>

<p>
"I will send the doctor, Stanley; you need advice."
</p>

<p>
Going immediately to the matron, he informed her of the
case, sent for the physician, and returned to Stanley's room,
where he stayed cooling his head until the doctor arrived.
It was a serious case, and needed great care, the physician
said.
</p>

<p>
All others avoided the sick room for fear of a contagious
disease, and poor Stanley would have suffered greatly,
perhaps have lost his life, had it not been for Roland's care.
</p>

<p>
He received the doctor's orders, saw that his medicines
were given at the proper time, and spent as much of
his time as possible by Stanley's bed-side; that, however,
could not be long with all his other duties; but Stanley
was never left alone, for the Janitor's boy stayed with him;
and by Roland's minute directions, he was properly attended to.
</p>

<p>
Stanley was very ill for three weeks; when convalescent,
he called Roland to his bed-side, and said,
</p>

<p>
"How could you do so much for me?  I have never said
a kind word to you since you came here."
</p>

<p>
"'When thine enemy hunger, feed him; when he thirsts,
give him drink; for in so doing, thou shalt heap coals of
fire on his head.'"
</p>

<p>
"Whose words are these, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"The words of Jesus, Stanley."
</p>

<p>
"Are you one of his disciples?  I thought you were too
manly for that, Roland.  I have always thought that that
will do for old women and children; not for men."
</p>

<p>
"You are mistaken, Stanley; a Christian is the highest
order of a man."
</p>

<p>
"Will you forgive me, Roland?  I have been a mean
puppy to you."
</p>

<p>
"Forgive, Stanley!  Certainly.  You have been
thoughtless, but I hope not unfeeling."
</p>

<p>
"You have conquered George Stanley, Roland, and woe
to the fellow that dares speak against you."
</p>

<p>
"I am so happy, Stanley, to see you getting better; but
do not thank me; thank your Father in Heaven; he is the
giver of life and health."
</p>

<p>
"Another star in the night season," thought Roland.  "If
I can only do some good to poor Stanley, I shall be satisfied."
</p>

<p>
Edmund kept his resolution&mdash;to be sure one evening he
stayed rather longer than usual in Roland's room, as though
having something to say.
</p>

<p>
"Roland, I want some money," said the youth.
</p>

<p>
Roland smiled.  "For what, may I ask?"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, never mind this time, Roland; I want it; it's mine,
and that is enough."
</p>

<p>
"But where is your promise, Edmund?  You remember
that you agreed to tell me what you meant to do with it."
</p>

<p>
"There's a new arrival, Roland, an old friend of ours,
and I want to give a treat."
</p>

<p>
Roland smiled again.  "I cannot consent, Edmund; it
breaks the contract."
</p>

<p>
"Well, I've made myself a little boy, indeed; can't
have my own&mdash;I must have five dollars."
</p>

<p>
"You can't to-night, Edmund; come to me to-morrow
morning, and we will talk about it then; it was your own
proposition, and you must abide by it; it has been a great
benefit thus far; you have not missed a recitation for three
weeks; I am not going to see all your good resolutions
thrown to the winds."
</p>

<p>
Edmund retired not very well pleased, but could not
gainsay one word that Roland had uttered.
</p>

<p>
Next morning, he came with a bright face.
</p>

<p>
"You were right, Roland, and I wrong; you know how
to manage me, I see that."
</p>

<p>
The close of the year arrived&mdash;Roland occupied the
highest place in the college, and Edmund passed a
respectable examination, thanks to his faithful friend.
</p>

<p>
"There has been partiality shown to 'Boots,'" said Robert
Thornton; "I don't believe that he deserves all the
honors."
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap13"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XIII.
<br><br>
DRIFT-WOOD.
</h3>

<p>
Farewells are spoken&mdash;trunks are strapped&mdash;Roland's
carpet-bag is well packed, filled by good Mrs. Jennings, for
she has discovered that he returns on foot.
</p>

<p>
Sleeping in barns, occasionally at farm-houses, at last he
finds himself in sight of Woodcliff; he passes Maple Lane
school on his way, and remembers the bright young face
that used to smile upon him so kindly, and the reverent
folding of her little hands, as Maddy listened to the
teaching of her young mentor, so meek under his reproofs, so
fiery and impetuous with all others.  He wondered how it
was now.  On, on, past the cottage home, past the
cemetery, he finds himself at the gate of Woodcliff.
</p>

<p>
Walking up the familiar avenue, old Hector bounds to
meet him, for he was a staunch friend of Roland Bruce.
Effie hears the noise, and runs out to see what is the matter.
</p>

<p>
A glance at the tall young man is sufficient.  It is her
own dear, dear brother! and in another minute, Effie is
pressed to the warm heart of her only relative.  Roland
holds her off, and looks anxiously at his dear sister.  Is she
really paler, thinner; or is it the mourning-dress that makes
her look so pallid?
</p>

<p>
"Are you well, Effie?" asks the anxious brother.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, yes, Roland, and so happy; they are all so good to
me here.  Miss Matilda will not let me overwork myself,
and Mr. Hamilton is so kind."
</p>

<p>
"Do you ever hear of Madeline, Effie?"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, yes, frequently; and she always asks about you,
Roland; she is just as glad as I am when you are successful
at college."
</p>

<p>
"Has she been at home lately?"
</p>

<p>
"She was here at vacation; but it does not take place at
the same time with yours."
</p>

<p>
"Has she grown much, Effie?"
</p>

<p>
"Very much; she is growing tall, and so beautiful.  You
know, brother, that I always thought that there was nobody
so pretty as Madeline."
</p>

<p>
"Is she like she used to be, Effie?"
</p>

<p>
"Not so wild, brother; but just as sweet and affectionate.
She used to go every day to see the rose-bush that
you planted together, and she was always singing the
Scotch songs that you taught her.  Where will you stay,
brother?"
</p>

<p>
"At old Peter's; that will do very well for me, Effie.
Before I return to college, I am going to the White Mountains;
I want to see them so much, and the journey on foot
will do me good."
</p>

<p>
"How about your clothes, brother?"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, yes, you little rogue, you thought that I could not
guess your secret.  Why, who else would send me the new
shirts and handkerchiefs but Madeline?  You had no money,
Effie, and she is the only one that cares for me."
</p>

<p>
Effie smiled.  "You've guessed right, brother.  When
she was at home she gave me the money, and I made them
all.  What a happy little thing she was when they were
done!  She skipped about, and danced like a merry little
kitten.  'Roland shall look like a gentleman at college,'
she said; 'and I know there's not one ahead of him there.'"
</p>

<p>
"Effie, do you remember our dear mother's last message?
Oh, what a comfort it has been to me!  'Looking aloft!'
whenever I have felt as if my heart would sink, I have
remembered those sweet words, Effie, and they have made
me so strong."
</p>

<p>
"So have I, Roland.  I am often very lonely, brother,
and sometimes very weak.  Sometimes I feel as if my life
will be a short time; then the dear words come, 'Looking
aloft!' and I think of all that they mean, and they make
me happy."
</p>

<p>
"Shall we go into the conservatory, Effie?" asked her
brother.
</p>

<p>
"Oh, yes; I have taken good care of her flowers, Roland;
and that Scotch heather is always so pretty!"
</p>

<p>
Effie led her brother to the old spot.  The flowers were in
full bloom.  Roland plucked a branch from Madeline's own
rose-bush, and another from the heather, and turned away.
Next, he entered the library, and on opening one of the
book-cases, there lay a glove of his little friend; and in
one of the books, a pressed branch of sea-weed.
</p>

<p>
"I may have these, Effie?"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, yes; they are of no use to Madeline."
</p>

<p>
Roland laid them carefully away, and then turned to seek
old Peter.
</p>

<p>
"I shall see you soon again, Effie.  Good-bye, now."
</p>

<p>
"Good-bye, dear brother.  I am so glad that you have
come."
</p>

<p>
"Is that you, my lad?" said old Peter.  "I'm right glad
to see your young face once more."
</p>

<p>
"Can you let me stay a few days with you, uncle Peter?"
</p>

<p>
"Why, yes, boy; but ours is a poor place; we can't do
much for you."
</p>

<p>
"It will be well enough.  I shall only be here for a few
days."
</p>

<p>
Roland rambled around among the old familiar scenes,
and towards evening, returned to the sea-shore.  Seating
himself upon the rock where he had passed so many happy
days, he gazed out upon the wide ocean.  The music of its
waves was sad, depressing.  It spoke of the past; for the
future it had no voice.  As he mused, a log of drift-wood
floated by.  How solitary it seemed!  All alone! floating
on the wide ocean, drifting whither the tide would wash it
up at last.
</p>

<p>
"Is that like me?" thought Roland.  "Am I so lonely
in this wide world?  Am I such a creature of chance?"  No
human voice was near to answer the question of his
soul.  The night birds sang their melancholy song around
him, and it was an hour of deep sadness.
</p>

<p>
"Why should I indulge in such a train of thought?" inquired
Roland of his heart.  "This is the language of
despondency, almost of despair.  Am I indeed nothing but
driftwood?&mdash;so useless, so solitary!"  Looking upward, the bright
fair moon was sailing overhead so serene! so pure! so silent!
With her voiceless majesty she answered, and the mother's
dying whispers came like sweet music to banish the
language of despair:
</p>

<p>
"'Looking aloft, Roland!' 'Looking aloft!' I will
not be the drift-wood of human life.  I will seek to fit
myself for my place on this great globe, and, obedient to my
Maker's laws as is that placid moon, I shall with his
blessing move on as surely to my destiny; happy to serve my
God here, and enjoy the fulness of His presence hereafter.
Float on, thou worthless log! thou shalt not symbolize my
fate!  Sail on, thou placid moon!  Let my course in life
be steady, calm, obedient, as thine."
</p>

<p>
The voice within quickened his pace as he walked up and
down the beach, repeating the Psalm of Life:
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Tell me not in mournful numbers,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Life is but an empty dream!<br>
  For the soul is dead that slumbers,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And things are not what they seem.<br>
  Life is real!  Life is earnest!<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And the grave is not its goal;<br>
  'Dust thou art, to dust returnest,'<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Was not spoken of the soul," &c. &c.<br>
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
Turning his steps towards Uncle Peter's cabin, he slept
the quiet sleep of recovered trust and confidence in God.
</p>

<p>
Next evening he sought his mother's grave.  How
soothing were the words upon that marble head-stone!
"She sleeps in Jesus."  And how sweetly did they speak
of the dear little friend that placed them there!  He had
not been seated long before Elsie Gibson made her
appearance.  She seemed delighted to meet Roland again.
</p>

<p>
"Weel, Roland, the days o' youth are passing away,
a'maist a mon.  Ye're the vera image o' ane I luve weel;
may ye be a happier mon than he."
</p>

<p>
"Whom do you mean, Elsie?"
</p>

<p>
"It matters na, my bairn; I'm glad to hear sic a good
account o' ye, Roland, at the college; there's a great wark
before ye, my son, may ye live to do it weel."
</p>

<p>
"Elsie," said Roland, "do you know anything about my
father?"
</p>

<p>
"I used to ken a' aboot him, Roland, in days lang syne,
when we were baith young."
</p>

<p>
"Do you know where he is now, Elsie?"
</p>

<p>
"Why should ye ask sic a question, Roland? do ye na
ken that the vessel in which he sailed was lost?"
</p>

<p>
"I have heard so, Elsie; but strange thoughts have
crossed my mind lately."
</p>

<p>
"They are silly thoughts, Roland; ye maun think o'
yer father as dead.  Good-bye, Roland, I maun be awa'."
</p>

<p>
Roland turned his steps again towards Woodcliff.  This
time he asked Effie to let him sit alone in the library for a
few minutes.  He turned over many volumes, which he
knew Madeline was in the habit of reading, and in many a
page he found her mark.  Taking up a small portfolio
which contained many scraps of paper, listlessly he sketched
the sweet face as he first saw Madeline on the sea-shore
with Harry, Charles, and the other children.  Roland had
cultivated his taste for drawing, and had made a striking
pencil-sketch of the scene.  Placing it almost unconsciously
back in the portfolio, he left the room, and, crossing the
hall, met Mr. Hamilton.
</p>

<p>
"Why, Roland, I am rejoiced to see you.  How greatly
you have grown,&mdash;almost a man!"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, sir; time makes changes."
</p>

<p>
"How are you progressing at college, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"Very well, sir; there is one of our catalogues," handing
one to Mr. Hamilton.
</p>

<p>
"This is good news, Roland.  I hope, my boy, that you
will continue to reap such high honors.  Stay, and dine
with us, Roland."
</p>

<p>
It was the first time that he had ever been invited to
Woodcliff as a table-guest, and with a modest blush, he
accepted the courtesy.  It pleased him to find that Effie's
place was also at the family table, and with the well-bred
ease of a native gentleman, he took Mr. Hamilton quite by
surprise.
</p>

<p>
"Madeline would like to see you, Roland; she was at
home last vacation, and has greatly improved; you would
scarcely recognize little Mad-cap; she is so much more
sober."
</p>

<p>
"Does she sing as much as ever?" asked Roland.
</p>

<p>
"Yes, her voice is splendid; she shall have the best
masters that I can find, Roland.  But do you know, boy,
that I like the old ballads she used to sing, more than the
opera-style, which is now so fashionable?"
</p>

<p>
Before Roland took his leave, Mr. Hamilton sought a
private opportunity to speak to him.
</p>

<p>
"Is there anything that I can do for you, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
He grasped Mr. Hamilton's hand warmly, as he answered,
"I am already your debtor, sir; and found your
gift of inestimable value."
</p>

<p>
"You were kind to my little daughter, Roland; and I am
always at your service."
</p>

<p>
Roland bowed, and took his departure.
</p>

<p>
"That is a remarkable youth, Matilda," said Mr. Hamilton,
as he closed the door.  "I don't know what to make
of him; brought up wholly in a cottage, without the
advantages of refined society, he has more of the manners of
a gentleman than either Harry Castleton or Charles
Davenport.  He must have had a remarkable mother, and the
soul within must be of the noblest mould."
</p>

<p>
"But really, brother, I don't think it well to encourage
the intimacy between this youth and our Madeline.  He is
growing to be a man, and an attractive one to such a romantic
child as yours.  You really talked of her to-day to
Roland as if he were her equal."
</p>

<p>
"Really, Matilda, you are simply ridiculous; he is actually
a plebeian, and Madeline patronizes him; it has rather
amused me to see her independence."
</p>

<p>
"I don't approve of the levelling system, Lewis Hamilton.
Let each one keep his place in society; no good comes
of these intimacies."
</p>

<p>
"I am not afraid, Matilda.  I think our Maddy has a
good share of pride&mdash;enough to keep her from low
associates."
</p>

<p>
"I tell you, Lewis, that Roland Bruce has more influence
over that proud and wayward child than any other living
person,&mdash;a word from him, a look of reproof, I am told, had
more power to check her impetuous nature, than all the
teachers of Maple Lane school."
</p>

<p>
"Well, Matilda, he has never taught her anything wrong;
she is greatly improved since she knew the Bruce family."
</p>

<p>
"You are certainly possessed, brother, with a spirit of
contradiction; but I have borne my testimony,&mdash;you must
have your own way.  I have said all that I mean to."
</p>

<p>
Roland's was rather a sad walk back to old Peter's cabin.
He felt that he was rapidly approaching the years of
manhood, and that Madeline would soon step over the sweet
days of childhood, and enter the enchanted ground of young
maidenhood.  Then, the difference in their social position
would raise the barrier over which he dare not step; and
Madeline Hamilton and Roland Bruce would henceforth
belong to different worlds.
</p>

<p>
It was a hard thought; but Roland had seen enough, and
known enough of worldly pride, to feel that this was so.
Not with Madeline herself, for she was too much a child of
nature for that; but he must not allow her to incur the
displeasure of her father, but especially her aunt, by forgetting
the broad gulf between them.
</p>

<p>
On his next visit to Woodcliff, he was struck with
something peculiar in the look of Effie's eyes.
</p>

<p>
"Your eyes look weak, Effie.  I fear that you sew too
closely; is it not so?"
</p>

<p>
"They do annoy me sometimes, Roland; they get so
dim that I can hardly use them."
</p>

<p>
"Do take care of them, sister; any disease of the eye is
such a great calamity."
</p>

<p>
"It would be a sore affliction to lose my sight, Roland;
then indeed I should find it difficult to look upward."
</p>

<p>
"Don't let us forget, Effie, that whatever befalls us, comes
from our Father's hand, and must be a part of the training
by which He means to fit us for the better world."
</p>

<p>
"It is a comfort, dear Roland, to feel that God cannot do
wrong&mdash;if we could only trust him always."
</p>

<p>
At that moment, Nanny called Effie.
</p>

<p>
"Here is a letter from Miss Madeline."
</p>

<p>
"I am so glad that it came while you were with us,
Roland," said Effie, as she broke the seal.
</p>

<p>
She read it hurriedly, and said&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Here is something about you, Roland;" and she read
the quotation.
</p>

<p>
"I suppose that you hear often from Roland; I should
like to know what he is doing&mdash;tell him that little Maddy
is growing to be quite a studious, serious girl.  My chief
companion here is Lucy Edmonds; she is a dear, sweet
friend; I wish that I were like her.  I am learning a great
deal of new music, but I have not forgotten any of my old
Scotch songs.  Take care of my rose-bush, Effie: I mean
the one that Roland planted; I hope that it will not die.
Be kind to old Hector for my sake, dear old fellow!  Now
that I am away, I think more of Roland's good lessons
than I did when at home; I am sure that I shall never forget
them."
</p>

<p>
Effie handed the letter to Roland, which he read quite
through.
</p>

<p>
"She will be surrounded by snares, Effie, when her education
is finished; with all her wealth and beauty, I tremble
for Madeline; but still I do not believe that the world will
wholly spoil our little friend."
</p>

<p>
"When will you leave us, Roland?" asked his sister.
</p>

<p>
"In two days, I think; I have brought up my clothes
for you to look over, Effie; so soon as that is done, I shall
take up my line of march."
</p>

<p>
"Will you walk all the way, Roland? it is so far."
</p>

<p>
"I am used to that, Effie; indeed I prefer it; for I can
stop where I please, enjoy all that is beautiful, and rest
when I am tired.  Don't be afraid of me, little sister; I am
very brave and strong."
</p>

<p>
His preparations were soon made.
</p>

<p>
"Effie, you don't know what a comfort you are to me&mdash;while
I have you, I cannot feel alone.  Some of these days
we shall have a dear little home, where you shall be the
household fairy, and your brother the guide and strong arm
of his precious sister."
</p>

<p>
"Take care of yourself, dear Roland; don't be so daring;
I don't believe that you ever think of danger."
</p>

<p>
"I shall climb the highest mountain, Effie, it is such a
pleasure to conquer difficulties; and I will bring back to
you the beautiful ferns and mosses of the mountains&mdash;then
you can make one of your pretty baskets for Madeline."
</p>

<p>
Folding her once more to his heart, Roland took his final
leave.
</p>

<p>
"I shall be back in a few weeks, Effie; good-bye for a
little while;" and looking back, he kissed his hand, and
smiled upon his dear sister.
</p>

<p>
Effie looked after her brother with an admiring gaze, and
thought "How handsome he is!  What a noble walk!  God
bless my dear, dear brother."
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap14"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XIV.
<br><br>
"EXCELSIOR."
</h3>

<p>
Happy season of bright joyous youth!  It nerved Roland's
springing step, flushed the glowing cheek, brightened
the dark eye, and gushed forth in cheering song upon the
early morning air.
</p>

<p>
The past for awhile faded, the future was left in the
hands of the kind Father, and the youth revelled in the
freedom of the present moment.
</p>

<p>
On through the charming scenes which led him to the
place of his destination; sometimes, by the roadside where
bloomed the neat little homes of New England, all with
their pretty porches entwined with flowers of every hue;
then, through the thick woods where happy birds carolled
around his path; again by the river's brink, with the bright
sky overhead, and in the sweet consciousness of an interest
in all these beauties of creation, Roland could look up and
say, "My Father made them all."
</p>

<p>
At length he stopped at the foot of the mountain which
it was his ambition to reach.
</p>

<p>
Large numbers like himself were preparing for the ascent,
but none on foot, save our young aspirant.
</p>

<p>
On through thick green foliage, and over rocky paths, he
pressed his way, occasionally stopping to rest under some
shady canopy.
</p>

<p>
Frequently in company with youthful parties, whose
merry chatter disturbed the thoughts which began to crowd
upon Roland, as the ascent brought frequently to view some
new scene of beauty and grandeur.
</p>

<p>
As he pressed on, the journey became still more toilsome
and difficult, the road stony and rough; and Longfellow's
Excelsior came fresh upon his memory.  Seating himself
for awhile, he repeated audibly the beautiful lines.
</p>

<p>
The fresh mountain air inspired him with renewed courage
and determination, and, starting once more, he strained
every nerve in his efforts to scale these steep mountain
heights.
</p>

<p>
The voices of the travellers on horseback became fainter
every moment, until at length he was left in perfect
solitude upon these dizzy heights.  After many struggles over
rocks, and by the brinks of deep ravines, Roland found
himself upon the top of Mount Washington.  The wind
was blowing fiercely; he could scarcely keep his feet; the
howling of its blasts through the deep solitudes, and wild
whistling music among the tall green pines, together with
the cold air, which almost cut his cheeks, and made him
draw his coat more closely around him, almost banished
the thought that at the foot of the mountain glowed the
heat of summer.
</p>

<p>
He was highly favored, for it was a bright sunny day,
and the atmosphere perfectly transparent.  With cheeks
tingling from excitement, and blood stirring in every vein,
he stood entranced amid the glorious scenery.  He felt that
he had conquered, and the consciousness nerved the young
soul for further efforts.  This suited the tone of his character,
and prefigured the temper with which he would in future
fight the battle of life.
</p>

<p>
He looked around&mdash;grandeur marked every feature.  Beneath
him lay the great world, the theatre of future conflicts.
The busy cities, the rivalries, the sins of men, the
trials of the way, the din of battle, the "Slough of
Despond," the "Giant Despair,"&mdash;but here certainly was also
a glimpse of the "Land of Beulah."
</p>

<p>
Above, the glorious sky, so vast, so magnificent! around
him, the scenery which no pencil could ever fully paint.
Deep ravines, towering peaks of glory, falls of water dashing
down the dizzy heights, and beyond! peak piled on peak,
stretching as far as eye could reach, a whole amphitheatre
of glorious mountains.
</p>

<p>
A voice within answered to the voice around; it was the
same which had spoken to him in the days of childhood,
when standing in one of his native glens, among the rude
mountains of Scotland, he had listened to the story of his
martyred ancestors.
</p>

<p>
His soul swelled then, child that he was, with lofty
emotions.  It swelled now with fuller, deeper majesty, as he
listened to the voice of God among these mountains; and
on through life, that voice will follow Roland.  He took out
his little Testament and read, "I will lift up mine eyes unto
the hills from whence cometh my help."  And again,
</p>

<p>
"As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so the
Lord is round about his people."
</p>

<p>
"Need I look farther?" asked Roland of his soul.  "God
is here!  <i>My</i> God!  <i>My</i> Father!"&mdash;and, bowing his head,
he lifted up the voice of prayer, and here amid these
mountain solitudes, made a fresh covenant with the God of his
martyred fathers.  In this hour of rapt communion, he
remembered Effie, his orphan sister, and Madeline, the dear
little friend of his early youth.
</p>

<p>
Here, surrounded by these glorious mountains, in this
vast solitude, it was easy to imagine the glories of that
mountain of the Lord, when his people gathered home once
more, should rest in peace; and when in the glories of the
latter days, wars and tumults, strife and discord, sin and
misery, should forever cease.
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Upon the frontier of this shadowy land,<br>
  We, pilgrims of eternal sorrow, stand.<br>
  What realm lies forward with its happier store<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of forests green and deep,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of valleys hushed in sleep,<br>
  And lakes most peaceful?  'Tis the<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Land of Evermore.<br>
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Very far off its marble cities seem&mdash;<br>
  Very far off&mdash;beyond our sensual dream&mdash;<br>
  Its woods, unruffled by the wild winds roar:<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yet does the turbulent surge<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Howl on its very verge<br>
  One moment&mdash;and we breathe within the<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Evermore.<br>
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "They whom we loved and lost so long ago,<br>
  Dwell in those cities, far from mortal woe,<br>
  Hunt those fresh woodlands, where sweet carollings soar.<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Eternal peace have they:<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;God wipes their tears away:<br>
  They drink that river of life which flows for<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Evermore.<br>
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Thither we hasten through these regions dim;<br>
  But lo, the wide wings of the seraphim<br>
  Shine in the sunset!  On that joyous shore<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Our lighted hearts shall know<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The life of long ago:<br>
  The sorrow burdened past shall fade for<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Evermore."<br>
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
There was nothing but the shelter of a rude shed, but so
enraptured was our young traveller that he resolved to
stay.
</p>

<p>
In the evening, the screams of the wild mountain birds
added to the grandeur of the scene; and often could be
seen in the air, sailing along in graceful swoops, the
American eagle, proud emblem of our country's glory.  In the
deep night season, the growling of wild animals, the howling
of the winds, whose deep sighs through the ravines,
filled the whole air with music&mdash;not sweet and silvery, but
grand, majestic, overpowering; for nature has her deep
bass as well as her rich tenor, and her sweet warbling
treble.  Here was the effect of the deep bass of harmonious
instruments; and to crown all, distant thunder rolled
from cliff to cliff, echoing until lost in the distance, and
Roland looked on, and listened in eloquent silence.  His
visit was drawing to a close&mdash;how could he descend from
such heights of grandeur, to the busy, bustling world
again?
</p>

<p>
But duty called; packing up his little all, and gathering
the ferns and mosses in a box which he had brought for
the purpose, he commenced his descent.  Not soon should
he forget the inspiration of these vast solitudes, away from
man, alone with God.  He buckled on his armor, and with
a brave spirit sped to the foot of the mountain.
</p>

<p>
Roland had heard much of the beauty of the charming lake
Winnipiseogee, which lay on the route to the mountains,
and thither he resolved to tarry for awhile.
</p>

<p>
Arriving in the evening, he rambled along its beautiful
margin, the glorious mountains spanning the horizon, here
adding features of beauty, there of grandeur.
</p>

<p>
It was a great transition from such wild magnificence, to
this placid beauty; the calm lake, the pretty little hotel,
the boating parties on the clear water, the refined society,
the grassy banks with the fine old trees that formed so
many bowers of shade, for here it was really summer; all
this was soothing, not stirring as the mountain tops.
</p>

<p>
Day by day, musing, sketching, rambling, or rowing
about in the little boat, owned by the family, he enjoyed
nis summer recreation.
</p>

<p>
One evening, returning from one of these excursions on
the lake, stepping on shore, whom should he encounter but
Edmund Norris.
</p>

<p>
Seizing Roland's hand, he exclaimed, "Why, my good
fellow! how came you here?"
</p>

<p>
"On foot, Edmund!" said Roland, smiling.
</p>

<p>
"But where are you staying?"
</p>

<p>
"At that little cottage, Edmund."
</p>

<p>
"Go, pack up your duds, Roland, and come with me, I
can't do without you."
</p>

<p>
"Who is in your party, Edmund?"
</p>

<p>
"Only my mother and sister."
</p>

<p>
"They would consider me an intruder, Edmund; besides,
it is impossible, I can't stay at a hotel."
</p>

<p>
"And why not, sir?  I think I know, Roland; I will not
take any denial&mdash;you have done me infinite service, and I
can never repay you.  I must introduce you to my mother,
Roland; she is anxious to know you," and placing his
friend's arm within his own, he hurried him off to the hotel.
</p>

<p>
"My friend, Roland Bruce, mother, my sister, Miss
Norris," and Roland bowed to a very pleasant looking
middle aged lady, and an interesting young girl, in the
person of Jessie Norris.
</p>

<p>
"We are glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Bruce,"
replied the mother, at the same time extending her hand;
"this is a meeting that I have long desired."
</p>

<p>
The summer passed rapidly, and the party separated for
their respective destinations.
</p>

<p>
Edmund would not hear of Roland's return on foot,
consequently they travelled together to the point nearest
Woodcliff, and there they parted, mutually pleased;
Edmund to his home, and Roland back to Woodcliff, to pay a
short parting visit to Effie.
</p>

<p>
"We shall meet at college, Roland," said Edmund.
</p>

<p>
"Yes, and it must be a hard working year; I can only
go two terms after this."
</p>

<p>
Another week near Woodcliff, and Roland prepared for
toil again.
</p>

<p>
"I have come, dear Effie, to say farewell for awhile,"
aid Roland.  "I have brought you some beautiful ferns
and mosses, and when I come again, I will expect to see
the basket."
</p>

<p>
"I can make two, Roland, one for each window in the
drawing room; Madeline will be so pleased,&mdash;they are both
for her."
</p>

<p>
"Come, Effie, let us sing our mother's favorite hymn,"
and the orphans sang with sweet voices, and full hearts,
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "God of our fathers, by whose care,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Thy people still are blest;<br>
  Be with us through our pilgrimage,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Conduct us to our rest."<br>
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
"Now, sister, let me go for one minute up the staircase;
don't come with me, I want to be alone."
</p>

<p>
Roland stood upon the landing, and listened to the sweet
murmurs of the Eolian harp.  The summer wind swept
lightly over the strings, and seemed to sigh, "farewell,
farewell;" but for a moment, a stronger breeze swept over
them, and higher, fuller arose the aerial music, and "aloft,
aloft" they whispered.
</p>

<p>
He descended with a smile, and said,
</p>

<p>
"Now, dear Effie, I am ready; God forever bless my
darling sister; don't forget 'Looking aloft!  Looking aloft.'"
</p>

<p>
She smiled through her tears, and said,
</p>

<p>
"I'll try, dear Roland, but I am not so strong as you."
</p>

<p>
Back again on the first day of the term, Roland was
warmly welcomed by the faculty.
</p>

<p>
He returned bravely, cheerfully, to his self-imposed
service of drudgery; but the presence of many new members
subjected him again to the same ordeal through which he
had passed the first half of the former year.
</p>

<p>
The same diligence and fidelity, the same faithful friendship
for Edmund, the same honors at the close, marked the
second year; and at the period of vacation, another visit
to dear Effie, to the familiar spots around Woodcliff, and he
was anticipating a return for the last year to finish his
college course.
</p>

<p>
"You cannot imagine, dear brother, how delighted Madeline
was with the baskets&mdash;'did he gather them with his
own hands, Effie?' she used to ask me day after day, and
I saw her place a few of the ferns which I had saved, away
in one of her school books.  'Thank Roland for me,' was
her last message; 'tell him I expect to see him a great
man, delivering orations, or public speeches, at any rate, at
Maple Lane, yet.'"
</p>

<p>
Roland smiled, as he said, "The same little enthusiast yet."
</p>

<p>
"Little! brother! why, you forget, you have not seen
Madeline for two years; she is no longer a little girl; she
is fifteen now, and unusually tall for that age.  I don't
believe that you would call her Maddy now."
</p>

<p>
Roland's countenance fell; for this innocent hint had
brought again most forcibly the conviction that the
approach of womanhood was building a gulf which could not
be passed, and the sweet intimacy of playful childhood
could be no more renewed.
</p>

<p>
His third year at college was a season of rapid progress.
On his return, Dr. Kingsley sent for Roland to his private
room.
</p>

<p>
"You have been well tried, my son," said the good man.
"I have looked upon your course, Roland, with pride;
shall I say it to a boy? with reverence.  Not one of fifty
would have borne the indignities of your position, and
risen above them all, as you have; you shall be rewarded.
The offices which you have performed so nobly will be
given to another, little Jack, the Janitor's nephew, and
another boy hired for the purpose; you, Roland, shall have
all your time for study."
</p>

<p>
Roland was a manly boy, but with a warm, tender heart.
His eyes filled with tears of gratitude.
</p>

<p>
Seizing Dr. Kingsley's hand, he pressed a warm kiss upon
its wrinkled surface, and said,
</p>

<p>
"Words cannot thank you, Dr. Kingsley, for all your
goodness; the training of this college is more than a
fortune to me."
</p>

<p>
"You must not lavish all your thanks upon me, Roland.
Edmund Norris has told me all your trials, all the insults
which you formerly received; he has told me of all your
patient endurance, and noble return of good for evil.
Mrs. Norris is wealthy, she has offered to place you exactly by
the side of her son, bearing all your expenses, and occupying
the same room.  I judged you by myself, and thought
that you would rather be indebted to the college.  You
will occupy the room with Edmund; but we must have the
honor of educating Roland Bruce."
</p>

<p>
"You will be repaid, my dear sir, for all your kindness
and delicacy.  Oh! how faithful are the promises of God:
'Looking aloft' was the motto which my dear mother left
me on her death-bed; I have tried to act upon it; and
endeavoring to do my duty, have looked upward for God's
blessing, and have never been disappointed."
</p>

<p>
Dr. Kingsley straitened himself up, put on a sterner look,
took off his spectacles, that seemed suddenly to become
moistened, and jerking his handkerchief out of his pocket,
blew his nose violently, saying,
</p>

<p>
"I have a bad cold, Roland; I don't know how it came,
but I did not feel it until you came into the room."
</p>

<p>
Roland smiled, for Dr. Kingsley did not like it to be
known what a warm sympathetic heart beat under that
cold, and somewhat stern exterior.
</p>

<p>
Roland's position, this year, was a happy one; and
Edmund was about as much the gainer as he.
</p>

<p>
Rooming together, Roland's powerful example was a
strong incentive to the young man; and though often tempted
to relax, what at first was a severe task, became first a
habit, then a pleasure.
</p>

<p>
A secret plot for some forbidden pleasure was again
agitating among the wild ones.
</p>

<p>
"You need not ask Ned Norris to join us," said one of
his former companions, "he's among the saints now; he
dare not say that his life is his own when Roland Bruce is
about.  I don't care much about his company, but it is
deucedly inconvenient to miss his purse, it was always
open in former days&mdash;but old 'Boots' has the charge of him
now, and there is no use of asking him to join this spree."
</p>

<p>
"Do you dare call him 'Boots' again?" said Stanley,
doubling his fist, "I told you all that I'd knock the first
fellow down that insults Roland Bruce; there is not one
here fit to wipe his shoes."
</p>

<p>
"How came you to turn round so soon, Stanley? you
were among the most bitter of his enemies," said Thornton.
</p>

<p>
"When you all stood off from me as if I were a leper,
Roland Bruce quietly, nobly took care of me; he watched
me on my sick bed, as if I had been his friend, instead of
his enemy; and do you think that I'll ever hear you speak
against such a fellow as that?"
</p>

<p>
The chief offender slunk away, evidently frightened.
</p>

<p>
"You never told me so, Stanley; it must have been
before I came."
</p>

<p>
"I tell you now, Brown, Roland shall be treated as a
gentleman, so long as I am in this college; so clear out, or
I may knock you down."
</p>

<p>
Brown crawled away, and Roland was everywhere in
the ascendant.
</p>

<p>
Many envied him his quiet superiority; but all respected
the studious youth that was carrying off so many of the
honors.
</p>

<p>
His path was henceforth a pleasant one, until one
morning, whom should he see among the new students but
Harry Castleton and Charles Davenport!
</p>

<p>
Roland's appearance was that of a gentleman; for, although
he had not the changes which some had, he always
contrived to appear genteel.
</p>

<p>
After breakfast, Roland advanced to the young men, and
politely extended his hand.  Charles, with a supercilious
air, turned on his heel, saying,
</p>

<p>
"You are mistaken, sir; we do not know you."
</p>

<p>
Roland had acted the part of a gentleman and a Christian,
and he left the young men to imagine that they had
humbled him.
</p>

<p>
They soon observed his intimacy with Edmund Norris,
whose family they had met elsewhere.  Determined to annoy
him still farther, they sought the first opportunity of
speaking alone.
</p>

<p>
"Do you know this young Bruce?" said Harry.
</p>

<p>
"Yes, sir, I have good cause to know him; he has saved
me from many a false step and wicked companion."
</p>

<p>
"Do you know his origin?" continued Harry.
</p>

<p>
"I know that he is Scotch, and had a good mother."
</p>

<p>
"His mother was a common huckster, and he no better
than a beggar; he lived in my uncle's neighborhood, and I
have seen him many a time with old patched clothes, and
scarcely a shoe to his feet."
</p>

<p>
"Indeed!" said Edmund.  "I know that he is very poor;
he has told me much of his history.  You have told me
now how poor he is&mdash;shall I tell you how noble he is in
the estimation of all true hearts in this college?  You are
at mean work, sir, but you will not harm Roland Bruce;
he is above your mark, sir.  Good morning, Mr. Castleton."
</p>

<p>
Edmund saw that the two were cultivating the intimacy
of several of the upstart boys, sons of the merchant princes
of New York, with gold watches, full purses, fashionable
wardrobes, empty brains, and cold, sordid souls.
</p>

<p>
Brown was one of them&mdash;a mean, cowardly fellow, who
had not forgotten the attack of Stanley, and was glad to
find allies in the two new students.
</p>

<p>
"There comes Boots," said Brown, one evening to Harry
Castleton.
</p>

<p>
"Whom do you mean?" was the quick reply; and Brown
pointed to Roland, who was walking in the lawn, arm in
arm with Edmund Norris.
</p>

<p>
"Why do you call him 'Boots,' Brown?"
</p>

<p>
"I'll whisper the story to you&mdash;do you know that in the
first two years that he was here, he earned his education
by blacking boots, carrying up wood, making fires, &amp;c., and
now he has the presumption to hold himself up above us
fellows, and the faculty really place him constantly before
us as a pattern to follow."
</p>

<p>
"That is a good joke," answered Castleton; "I'll remember
that story&mdash;a common boot-black! 'pon my word! brought
here among gentlemen!  Faugh!  I shall smell boots
every time I pass him."
</p>

<p>
The next week, a drawing was on the wall in the passage
to the recitation room, representing a boy blacking boots,
and underneath written "Boots" at his profession; and
another picture of a boy with a basket of boot-blacking and
brushes, receiving a diploma; under which was written
"Boots graduates, ready to practise on gentlemen's
feet."  Roland and Edmund saw the low proceeding&mdash;they did not
notice it; but, on going out of the hall, Castleton and
Davenport passed close to the young men.
</p>

<p>
"Don't you smell boots, Davenport?" said Castleton.
</p>

<p>
Stanley was near; he heard the insult, as also did Norris.
</p>

<p>
Instantly, the two were surrounded; and Stanley,
enraged, said,
</p>

<p>
"I will bear it no longer; you shall not insult Roland
Bruce;" and he gave Castleton a violent blow in the face.
Edmund, too, joined the fight.  Castleton and Davenport
tried to defend themselves, but in vain; surrounded by
several of the boys, they received a sound drubbing.
</p>

<p>
Roland was distressed&mdash;he was a brave boy, and though
he knew that in the anger of the combatants he was likely
to become entangled in the broil, he stepped forward, and
placing himself between Edmund and Castleton, he said,
</p>

<p>
"Edmund, I beseech you, come with me; it is not worth
minding&mdash;leave these boys to themselves; they do not
harm me."
</p>

<p>
"Go away, Roland; I must punish them in a way which
they will never forget."
</p>

<p>
Roland, however, persevered, and succeeded in drawing
away his friend.
</p>

<p>
The boys each had black eyes, swollen faces, and torn
coats for their reward.
</p>

<p>
They did not again try the same game, but their hatred
of Roland was by no means lessened; it was rather
increased.
</p>

<p>
The term drew rapidly to a close&mdash;Roland was looking
forward anxiously to his embarkation on the theatre of
human life.  He knew that he had nothing but his education,
and simple trust in God.  That was enough for his
confidence.  He graduated with high honors.  Edmund was
to stay another year, and grieved to part with his friend.
</p>

<p>
Dr. Kingsley congratulated Roland warmly&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"You have done nobly, sir," said the President; "your
friends may well be proud of you."
</p>

<p>
"You forget, my dear sir, I have but two, who care
particularly for my success, and they are both young girls; one
my sister, and the other a little friend."
</p>

<p>
The good President gave him warm parting counsels,
and on shaking his hand for the last time, said,
</p>

<p>
"Remember, you have friends at college; your Alma
Mater will always be proud of her son."
</p>

<p>
The young men were all busily occupied, and full of eager
anticipations.  Vacation had arrived, and all had some dear
home circle waiting for them, but Roland.  He had none;
and, on the waste of life, sometimes he could not but feel
like a waif among the multitude, but never long.
</p>

<p>
"Looking aloft" was the general tone of his brave spirit.
With five dollars in his pocket-book, he prepared to leave
the college; and, on opening it, he found ten dollars more,
with the pencilled words&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"You have been a faithful banker; accept this from Edmund."
</p>

<p>
Taking leave of his kind friends, he turned his face
towards Woodcliff, and Effie looked with pride upon her dear
brother, as she read the diploma over and over again.
</p>

<p>
"Would not our dear mother be happy, Roland?" said
the young girl; "you have accomplished her desires; may
all the rest be fulfilled, dear brother."
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap15"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XV.
<br><br>
STRIFE.
</h3>

<p>
"Where are you going, Roland?" asked Effie, with an
anxious face.
</p>

<p>
"I think to New York, sister."
</p>

<p>
"Have you any money, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"But very little, sister, excepting in the bank of Heaven;"
was the reply, and yet Roland smiled, it seemed so daring
to set out on life's journey so penniless.
</p>

<p>
"I have five dollars, brother, you must take it; Miss
Matilda gave it to me for some very fine work which I
have just finished for Madeline;" and away ran Effie to
bring her pocket-book, and attempted to empty its contents
into Roland's hand.
</p>

<p>
Roland shrank from the gift.  "I have fifteen dollars,
Effie, that must do until I reach the great city."
</p>

<p>
"What do you expect to do, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"I shall see when I reach New York."
</p>

<p>
"How shall I write to you?  I shall be so anxious."
</p>

<p>
"I will write first, and let you know where I am."
</p>

<p>
"Give me your valise, brother," and Effie placed in it
some sandwiches, which she had prepared with her own
little hands.
</p>

<p>
With a hasty farewell, and a brother's warm kiss,
Roland turned his face towards the great metropolis, brave,
hopeful, trusting, still "Looking aloft."  Oh! what need
of the talisman now!
</p>

<p>
Sometimes a good-natured farmer would give him a lift
on the road; and, at the end of one week, he found himself,
weary and lonely, entering the great city.  One dollar was
all that was left in his pocket-book.
</p>

<p>
Rambling listlessly up Broadway, the multitude depressed
him; for he felt himself friendless indeed, in this
vast surging crowd.
</p>

<p>
Passing Trinity Church, he perceived it open, for it was
the time of the evening service.  The sound of the organ
cheered his spirits, and, joining in the solemn service, for
awhile he forgot his worldly cares, and worshipped the
Unseen.
</p>

<p>
Perceiving a gentleman mounting the steeple, Roland
followed, with the injunction from the sexton not to stay
too long, for he should wish to close the church.  The
gentleman took a hasty glance, but soon descended, leaving
Roland to his meditations.
</p>

<p>
What a busy, bustling crowd below!  Did they, indeed,
belong to the one great brotherhood of man?  Each one
pushing his own way, apparently so regardless of his
neighbor's motions; some to happy, smiling homes; some
to dens of poverty and misery; many to haunts of sin.
And the streets so filled with carts, carriages, omnibuses,
and cars, all threading their way so skilfully through the
thronged thoroughfare.
</p>

<p>
The solitudes of the grand mountains was to be alone
with God; the dreariness of this human crowd was oppressive,
and here, away in the lofty steeple, near the clouds,
far above the din and press of this great multitude of
humanity, he felt that he could breathe once more.
</p>

<p>
Glancing over the vast city, the numerous steeples all
around him reminded him that he was among Christians.
"So many Christians!" thought Roland, "and not one
knows me; but then every Sunday, in these houses dedicated
to God, they pray for the fatherless and the homeless,
and I am one."
</p>

<p>
So deeply was he engrossed in thought, and so soothing
was the quiet of this retreat from the busy world, that
Roland forgot how time was passing.  The crowd diminished,
evening shadows rendered objects below somewhat
indistinct, and the fair moon appeared to light the heavens.
Sailing majestically along, sometimes hidden by clouds,
then emerging again into all her calm beauty, Roland
could not but compare her course to the journey of God's
dear children through this wilderness: sometimes obscured
by sorrow, yet always coming forth again into the calm,
clear sky of perfect peace.
</p>

<p>
Roland remembered that he had no place where to lay
his weary limbs that night, and he repeated some of the
promises.
</p>

<p>
"When my father and my mother forsake me, then the
Lord will take me up."
</p>

<p>
The heavens seemed to smile upon him; he felt that he
was God's own child, and repeated solemnly, "Our Father,
who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom
come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven, <i>give us
this day our daily bread</i>," his heart was comforted; and he
descended the dark stair-case with the same feeling of
security as if he had pressed the hand of his Heavenly
Father guiding him safely along.
</p>

<p>
When he reached the church, he found it locked; he had
stayed so long, the sexton had forgotten him, but he was
not afraid&mdash;afraid in God's dear house, with the soft, sweet
moon shining on him through the stained window-glass!
Oh! no&mdash;there was a sense of sweet security pervading
his heart, and, laying himself down in one of the cushioned
pews, he slept the sleep of perfect security in the Father
above.
</p>

<p>
Locked up until the time for the morning service, the
sexton was both surprised and displeased at the sight of
the tenant in rich Mr. Seldin's pew.  Roland apologized,
but the old man was surly, and hurried him out of the
church.
</p>

<p>
He was hungry and thirsty, so the first thing that he
sought was some food.  Furnishing himself with some
crackers and cheese, and refreshing himself with a drink
of water, he commenced his first day's battle with life.
</p>

<p>
Up and down the long, crowded streets, in the stores,
at the offices, along the wharves, he sought in vain for
some employment.  Hundreds of just such applications
were refused daily.  All asked the name of some friend, he
had none to give but Dr. Kingsley.  Some smiled at his
answers when asked what he could do.
</p>

<p>
"He could keep books, copy law-papers, go errands,
clean pavements, sweep out offices, any thing that would
give him the means of an honest livelihood."
</p>

<p>
Night came, but without a shelter.  It was late, and he
was weary, so, turning into one of the market-houses, he
had no other resource.
</p>

<p>
On one of the stalls lay a poor boy, pale and emaciated.
Roland saw that he was sick, so placing his valise under
his head, over which he had thrown some soft garment,
he laid himself down to sleep by his brother's side.  "He
has more need than I," thought Roland, as he resigned the
softer pillow to the poor boy.  Presently a police-officer
came along.
</p>

<p>
"What are you about here, you young rascals?  Have
you been out on a plundering job?"
</p>

<p>
Roland raised his head and said, "I do not think, sir,
that you will find this poor boy to be a vagrant; and, as
for myself, I am poor and homeless, that is all."
</p>

<p>
"New York is a bad place for a young chap like you to
be in, without a home."
</p>

<p>
"I know it, sir; I have walked all day, searching for
work, but have found none; can you tell me what to do?"
</p>

<p>
"I saw an advertisement for a boy in a printer's office,
perhaps you may do; but I am afraid that you are too
old."
</p>

<p>
"If you will be so good as to give me the direction, I
will go in the morning, and see what success I shall have."
</p>

<p>
After eating sparingly of his little stock, Roland started
to find the printer's office.
</p>

<p>
"We do not take boys without references; you are too
old for us at any rate," and Roland was disappointed again.
Roving about, he asked permission to saw wood, to clean
pavements, and obtained a few such jobs; but his heart
was sinking; the promises were fading, and, at the close
of the third day, wearied and heart-sick, the same officer
met Roland again in the same market-place.
</p>

<p>
"What! my boy, still roving about?" said the man.
</p>

<p>
"I have walked for three days, and all that I could find
to do was to saw some wood, and to clean a few pavements.
I have but a few cents left, where shall I turn?"
</p>

<p>
"Come home with me, I believe that you are an honest
boy; you shall not sleep out in the street again."
</p>

<p>
And Richard Green took Roland with him to his
comfortable little home.
</p>

<p>
"Here, wife, give this poor fellow a good supper and a
comfortable bed, he has come to this great city without
money or friends; we must do something for him."
</p>

<p>
Martha Green was a rough woman, with a kind, womanly
heart; she had a son, about Roland's age, away at sea,
and she wiped her eyes with her hard, wrinkled hand, as
she asked,
</p>

<p>
"Have you a mother, my son?"
</p>

<p>
The question opened the flood-gates penned up in the
poor youth's heart, and, manly as he was, weakened by
suffering and hunger, he could not restrain the tears that
would burst forth, as he replied,
</p>

<p>
"No, Mrs. Green, my mother is in heaven; I should be
doubly grieved if I thought that she knew of the trials of
these few hard days."
</p>

<p>
The good woman busied herself about the neat kitchen,
and soon invited Roland to a warm and comfortable meal.
A cup of warm coffee, some nicely cooked meat and potatoes,
with home-made bread and butter, was a luxury which
he had not seen for weeks; and when, at last, he lay
down in the snug room on a clean bed, with everything
around him so comfortable, language could not express the
gratitude which filled his heart at the gracious answer to
his prayer.
</p>

<p>
Cheered by the sympathy of these humble friends,
Roland set out again with renewed hope.
</p>

<p>
Rambling about from street to street, his eye was at
length attracted by a sign, which directed him to the
"Noon-day Prayer Meeting."
</p>

<p>
Taking his seat among the worshippers, he was pleased
to see Richard Green, his humble friend, among the
company.  He felt that God was there, and deeply, earnestly,
did Roland pray for guidance.
</p>

<p>
"I was glad to see you there, Richard," said Roland.
</p>

<p>
"Why, you see, my son, I've been one of the roughs in
my time; but, since I've been coming here, I find that
there's something else to do in this world beside getting
bread and meat.  I see a great deal in my line to make
me hate the ways of sin, for it always brings misery; so
I've given up all my bad ways, and, by the help of God,
I'm bound for Canaan."
</p>

<p>
They walked back again to the officer's home, and, picking
up the paper, Roland perceived an advertisement&mdash;"Wanted,
a boy to clean a lawyer's office, go errands, etc.,
with the privilege of reading law in the office."
</p>

<p>
After dinner, he called upon Mr. Dean.  He was questioned
closely as to his previous knowledge, his handwriting,
etc.  Roland showed his letter from Dr. Kingsley,
speaking in the highest terms of his character and
acquirements.  Mr. Dean was a shrewd man, and soon made an
engagement with Roland.
</p>

<p>
Grateful to his dear Heavenly Father, Roland passed a
happy day, and wrote immediately to Effie, telling her of
his good fortune, and giving her his direction.
</p>

<p>
Ere entering upon his labors, he walked down to the
Battery.  All was so refreshing&mdash;the quiet water
so peaceful, its gentle murmurs calmed his fevered brow,
and, "Looking aloft" once more with cheerful hope, he
mused gratefully upon the past, hopefully upon the future.
</p>

<p>
"How I should like Madeline to know something of my
good fortune," thought he; "but would I like her to know
of my poverty? my misery?  Would I like her to know
that I had to sleep out two nights in the market-house,
and then dependent for shelter on a police officer?"
</p>

<p>
Roland winced under these bitter thoughts.
</p>

<p>
"The gulf is wide, indeed&mdash;when she emerges into the
gay world, she will forget the poor boy at Woodcliff."
</p>

<p>
The next morning, Roland entered upon his duties;
they were endless&mdash;cleaning the office, making fires,
running errands, copying law papers, early and late, left but
little time for reading law; perhaps one hour a day was
all that he could save from his unceasing toil.
</p>

<p>
Having considerable literary taste, he wrote frequently,
after retiring at night, articles for the daily press.
</p>

<p>
They always seemed acceptable, and the Editor, who
really delighted to encourage young genius, advertised,
"If the person, writing over the signature of Randolph,
will call at the office, he will hear something to his
advantage."
</p>

<p>
Roland called&mdash;the Editor was interested.
</p>

<p>
"You must not write, my young friend, gratuitously.  I
will compensate you for your articles; send me a weekly
contribution, and I will remunerate you."
</p>

<p>
Roland was surprised and grateful&mdash;not aware of his
own merits, he had regarded these efforts simply as means
of improvement, and had not dreamed of compensation.
</p>

<p>
He made the agreement with the Editor, and then, being
questioned as to his present employment, his kind friend
saw that he was overworked, and undervalued.  In a week
or two, the friendly editor sent for Roland again, and said,
</p>

<p>
"I have spoken to a distinguished lawyer of this city,
who is fond of bringing out young men; he is interested
in your story, and if you will wait a few minutes, he will
call here."
</p>

<p>
In a short time, a gentleman, with a manly bearing, and
a bright, quick glance, entered the office.
</p>

<p>
A short conversation with Roland completed the agreement,
and, as he was only engaged temporarily at Mr. Dean's,
it was soon announced that he must get another in
his place, for in a week more he would leave for a more
lucrative situation.
</p>

<p>
Roland soon found himself among people infinitely more
refined, for Edgar and Helen Thornly were both attractive
young persons.
</p>

<p>
Edgar had just returned from college; a gay young
fellow, whose chief occupation in life was the pursuit of
pleasure; and Helen, a lovely young girl, not long home
from boarding-school.
</p>

<p>
Treated in all respects as an equal, he found the home
circle at Mr. Thornly's peculiarly agreeable, and in return
for these benefits, rendered at all times most faithful
service to his generous employer.
</p>

<p>
Roland often felt concerned for the petted son of Mr. Thornly;
for furnished constantly with a full purse, he had
ample opportunity of enjoying the pleasures of the gay
world, and was becoming very rapidly one of the fast young
men of New York.  It was true that he had a desk at his
father's office, but it was seldom occupied for any length
of time by the young man; for late hours at night made
corresponding hours in the morning; and, in the afternoon,
a drive with a fast horse generally closed the day.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Thornly occasionally remonstrated.
</p>

<p>
"Just wait a little, father; you know that I have been
shut up so long at college, that it seems hard to go to work
as soon us I come home.  I will be a smart lawyer yet."
</p>

<p>
"Brother," said Helen, "whom do you think I met to-day
in Broadway? my old school-friend, Madeline Hamilton;
she is in New York, spending the Christmas vacation
with Mary Trevor."
</p>

<p>
"Won't you invite her here, sister?  I feel quite anxious
to see your 'queen of beauty.'"
</p>

<p>
"You need not try to captivate Madeline; she is as proud
as Juno, and so far, quite indifferent to beaux."
</p>

<p>
"She'll have plenty of admirers, sis, when she bursts
upon the world with all her wealth and beauty."
</p>

<p>
Roland heard the announcement of her presence in New
York with mingled feelings&mdash;she was a young lady now,
how would she meet the old friend of his childish days?
</p>

<p>
"Roland, are you fond of music?" asked young Thornly.
</p>

<p>
"Extravagantly, but I have never heard any of the
celebrated singers."
</p>

<p>
"We are going to the opera to-night; will you
accompany us?"
</p>

<p>
Roland was a novice in the world of New York, and
thinking only of the music, he consented, and accompanied
the party.
</p>

<p>
Bewildered at first with the delicious music, he scarcely
thought of the adjuncts; but the uncovered forms, the freedom
of the actresses, the sentiments of the opera translated
into English, shocked his sense of delicacy; and when he
looked around at the crowds of fair young faces, looking
and listening without a blush to much that was enacting
before them, he felt convinced that this was no place for a
Christian youth, and resolved accordingly.
</p>

<p>
Near them, was seated a party of young persons deeply
interested in the performance.  One especially attracted
him&mdash;the deep blue eyes, the profusion of soft brown hair,
the sweet expressive mouth, were certainly like those of his
little friend; but in the tall, graceful girl before him, he
scarcely could believe the evidence of his senses, when the
silvery voice revealed fully Madeline Hamilton.
</p>

<p>
He had not seen her for four years, and the sparkling,
bewitching child had merged into the lovely, blushing
maiden of sixteen.
</p>

<p>
During one of the recesses between the acts she arose,
and stood facing the party near her.
</p>

<p>
Roland caught her eye; she looked earnestly, then
smiled, and, with a bow of high-bred courtesy, recognized
her old friend.
</p>

<p>
Roland felt that Madeline was no longer a child; he
returned her bow with equal politeness.
</p>

<p>
Next morning, at breakfast, Helen discussed with her
father all her arrangements for an evening party the
following week.
</p>

<p>
Roland made one of the company, and watched anxiously
for each arrival, expecting every minute to see the friend
of his childhood.
</p>

<p>
A ringing silvery laugh, as tripping feet passed up the
staircase to deposit her wrappings, announced the presence
of Madeline, the little Mad-cap of the sea-shore.
</p>

<p>
She entered&mdash;a simple girlish dress became the young
maiden; for she remembered that she was yet a school-girl.
</p>

<p>
She bowed gracefully when introduced to the company&mdash;a
bright blush and a smile acknowledged the acquaintance
of Roland Bruce.
</p>

<p>
He advanced&mdash;"How are you, Miss Madeline?  It has
been a long time since I saw you.  When did you arrive
in New York?"
</p>

<p>
A casting down of the eyes, and the slightest quiver of
a mischievous smile, crossed the bright young face.
</p>

<p>
"Last week, Mr. Bruce.  I am spending my vacation
with my friend, Miss Trevor."
</p>

<p>
"When do you expect to return?"
</p>

<p>
"In about ten days.  One more year will complete my
school-life."
</p>

<p>
"Then for the gay world, I suppose, Miss Madeline;"
and Roland smiled somewhat sadly.
</p>

<p>
"Yes, that is our intention.  We shall spend my first
winter in New York."
</p>

<p>
"You have not forgotten the lessons at Woodcliff, I trust,
Miss Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
Madeline turned her face away, and bending her eyes
upon the ground, said,
</p>

<p>
"I must speak the truth; I fear, that those lessons have
lost much of their power."
</p>

<p>
"Are you happy now as then, Miss Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"Not when I stop to think; but I have not much time
for that."
</p>

<p>
Listening seriously to Roland's earnest words, with eyes
bent, and hands folded reverently as of yore, the Roland
and Madeline of Maple Lane School stood once more revealed.
</p>

<p>
"Madeline, the piano is waiting for you," said Helen;
and leading her young friend to the instrument, she
interrupted the conversation.
</p>

<p>
Dashing off into one of the most beautiful of the many
variations of fine old pieces, she ran through several
brilliant compositions, until at the close of "Auld Lang Syne,"
she accompanied it with her charming voice, in all the
melting tenderness of former days.
</p>

<p>
Roland was inexpressibly touched.
</p>

<p>
"She has not quite forgotten those early days," thought
the youth.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
Edgar Thornly gave his father much uneasiness, for his
indolence increased, his nightly dissipations became more
reckless&mdash;moreover, he seemed gloomy and abstracted.
</p>

<p>
One day, a gentleman called to pay Mr. Thornly a fee
of two hundred dollars.  He placed it in his desk, and
put the key in his pocket.  Roland and Edgar were both
present.  It was the duty of the former to lock the office
every evening; but on this occasion Edgar tarried.
</p>

<p>
"Is it not time to lock the office?" said Roland.
</p>

<p>
"I suppose so," was the answer; but still he lingered.
</p>

<p>
At last Roland said,
</p>

<p>
"I have an engagement, Edgar, and must lock up."
</p>

<p>
"Can't I do it, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"No, Edgar, your father directed me to see it locked
always before I leave."
</p>

<p>
"You are mighty particular, Roland;" and, taking his
hat, Edgar left the room.
</p>

<p>
Just before Roland closed the office finally, James, the
waiter, entered the room to replenish the fire.
</p>

<p>
"Be quick, James, I have an engagement."
</p>

<p>
The man soon finished his work, and left the room.
Roland locked the door, and took his departure, placing
the key in his pocket.
</p>

<p>
The next morning, Mr. Thornly wanted the money; on
opening the desk, the lock was picked, and the money
gone&mdash;who could have taken it?
</p>

<p>
The waiter was called, and inquiries made of him.
</p>

<p>
"The last one I saw there was Mr. Bruce," said the
man; "nobody has been there since."
</p>

<p>
Edgar testified the same.
</p>

<p>
"I saw it just before I left the room," said Roland.  "I
saw you put the money in the drawer, Mr. Thornly; I was
the last person in the office; I locked the door and put the
key in my pocket; when I looked for the key this morning
it was gone, and when I went down to the office, it was
already open."
</p>

<p>
"I was up first this morning," said the cook; "I was
in the cellar under the office, I heard some one moving
about in stocking feet; I thought it was very early, but I
supposed it was Mr. Bruce, and did not go to see who was
there."
</p>

<p>
Roland <i>could have told</i> that he saw one of Edgar's
embroidered slippers close by the office door, and that when
he entered, the gas was left burning, and a knife, which he
had often seen Edgar use, lying under the table.
</p>

<p>
Roland felt the perplexity of his situation; he knew that
suspicion pointed towards him, but he could not clear
himself without involving his employer's son.
</p>

<p>
Just as he felt himself so happily, so usefully employed,
it was a hard thing to be cast again upon the world, and
under such circumstances.
</p>

<p>
The breakfast was eaten in silence; the business of the
day pursued in the same formal manner.  Edgar avoided
being alone with Roland, and the atmosphere of the whole
house was stifling.
</p>

<p>
Before closing the office, Roland begged for a few minutes
conversation with Mr. Thornly.
</p>

<p>
"I feel the terrible suspicion which rests upon me,
Mr. Thornly; I cannot stay here, a suspected man; painful as
the task is, I must go."
</p>

<p>
"It is doubtless so; but, Mr. Bruce, I have placed
unlimited confidence in you, sir; I know not what to think."
</p>

<p>
"Your confidence has never been abused, sir; the day
will come when my innocence shall be established; in the
meanwhile, I can wait."
</p>

<p>
"What will you do, sir, without a reference?"
</p>

<p>
"I do not know; but you will not make the affair
public? let me beg of you for many reasons not to do so."
</p>

<p>
"I promise you not to do so; but do not send any one
to me until the affair is cleared up, I cannot recommend
you; it is all a mystery."
</p>

<p>
"You are not going, Roland?" said Helen Thornly; "I
can't bear to see you so insulted, so wronged."
</p>

<p>
"Thank you, Miss Helen; but you must see that circumstances
around me are very dark&mdash;I can only declare my
innocence, and leave it all for Providence to proclaim my
honor."
</p>

<p>
"My father will be the loser, Roland; I have my own
thoughts, and I will never rest until I find out the truth."
</p>

<p>
"It has been a pleasant home, Miss Helen, but I must
leave it; my dear mother left me a precious motto on her
  eath-bed, 'Looking aloft.'  It has comforted me in many<br>
a weary hour; it is my refuge now."
</p>

<p>
"Packing up his clothes immediately, he took a respectful
leave of all, thanking Mr. Thornly for all his kindness.
</p>

<p>
"It will be right some day, Mr. Thornly; I can trust
and wait," were Roland's last words.
</p>

<p>
Out again upon the cold world, Roland deposited his
clothes with his friend Richard Green, and, weary and sad,
walked down to the Battery.
</p>

<p>
He had not paced the bank long, when Madeline, in
company with several gay young friends, passed by; her
careless, joyous laugh jarred upon his lacerated feelings,
and her ceremonious salutation completed the depression
of that weary day.
</p>

<p>
Could she have known the sorrow of that noble heart,
would she have passed so coldly?
</p>

<p>
No&mdash;although the poison of a letter received that day,
from Lavinia Raymond, rankled in her proud young heart.
</p>

<p>
Roland paced the bank until midnight&mdash;midnight around,
and midnight within the tried young spirit; for faith could
not grasp the promises at once, in that hour of anguish.
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap16"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XVI.
<br><br>
RUGGED HILLS FOR WEARY FEET.
</h3>

<p>
Homeless once more, Roland sought an humble refuge,
in the house of his friend, the good police officer.  Aware
of the difficulties which would beset his path, he shrank
from encounters with the rough world; for what could one
expect who had left an office like Mr. Thornly's suddenly,
and could bring no reference?
</p>

<p>
He made the effort day after day, and although there
was so much in his whole bearing that was prepossessing,
none were willing to run the risk.  Never had his prospects
appeared so discouraging, and never had he greater need
of all the support of the sweet talismanic words which had
guided and strengthened him so long.
</p>

<p>
Devoting more time to his pen, his contributions to the
press were more frequent, and this resource was just now
invaluable, as it really did provide his daily food.
</p>

<p>
In these days of darkness, Roland never passed the poor
news boys, or any who earned a precarious living in the
streets, without feelings of warmer, deeper interest.
Sometimes he would stop to look at some little, tired wanderer,
ragged, pale, friendless, sleeping perhaps in a packing-box,
in the market stalls, or wherever he could find shelter from
the weather, and he would often ask himself,
</p>

<p>
"Can I do nothing for these poor, homeless children?"
</p>

<p>
He weighed the matter seriously, and turned attention
to the subject, in the articles which he contributed to the
daily press.
</p>

<p>
Writing from a full heart, that had passed through these
sorrows himself, his words were eloquent; and on making
an appeal to any who would be willing to aid in procuring
home and shelter for these poor outcasts, to meet him at
his humble lodgings, he waited anxiously for some response.
</p>

<p>
A week passed.  At length a thoughtful-looking man,
with very plain garb, sought him at the place appointed.
</p>

<p>
"I have been interested in your articles, young man; I
came to ask what would you propose?"
</p>

<p>
"I scarcely know, sir; but the misery and exposure of
this class haunt me daily, nightly.  I have been told that
there are three thousand.  In a great city like this, there
should be a home for such."
</p>

<p>
"Are you aware that much money would be needed to
provide one?"
</p>

<p>
"I know that, sir; but if it is the Lord's directing, He
will provide the money, if we will only use the means."
</p>

<p>
"Have you time at your disposal?"
</p>

<p>
"I have a great deal just now, and will do any thing that
you propose."
</p>

<p>
"First, tell me your name."
</p>

<p>
"It is Roland Bruce; I can show you a letter from the
President of the college where I graduated."  And trusting
the plain, honest, benevolent face, he told his story to
the good man, not even reserving the trial at Mr. Thornly's.
</p>

<p>
Mark Grafton was a keen physiognomist, and an eccentric
man; he smiled when he read the letter, for he had
fully made up his mind before to trust the open
countenance, and fine clear eye of Roland Bruce.
</p>

<p>
"What I propose is this: I will give you a list of names
of influential men, who I know will give their aid in a
cause like this; you will call on them in my name, and
report progress to me every evening."
</p>

<p>
Roland was delighted; here was an opportunity to
occupy his time with useful employment, to benefit a class
for whom his heart had often bled.
</p>

<p>
He commenced his work with a sanguine, hopeful heart.
"Looking aloft," for God's especial blessing, he set out
with a bright, animated countenance, and a brisk, elastic
step.
</p>

<p>
Praying daily for guidance, and leaving the cause of his
acquittal in the hands of the just and wise, and gracious
Disposer of human events, he was willing to leave the time
in God's own hands; the event he knew was sure.
</p>

<p>
He was generally successful&mdash;many contributed largely
of their means, for he found that the name of Mark Grafton
was everywhere a sufficient recommendation.  A few
presented a cold shoulder, but he had every reason to be
grateful, when at the end of a week, he numbered on his list
some two hundred subscribers.  Mr. Grafton was more
than gratified, he was sanguine as to the result.  As soon
as five hundred subscribers were obtained, they would
commence operations.
</p>

<p>
A house was rented, provided with plain comforts which
to houseless wanderers would appear like luxuries; a
matron placed at the head, and then came the work of
gathering the outcasts.
</p>

<p>
An advertisement was placed in the daily papers, and
several placards on the corners of the streets.
</p>

<p>
"If boys who clean crossings, or sell matches and newspapers,
will meet this evening at No. 42 M&mdash;&mdash; street, they
will find something to their advantage."
</p>

<p>
Mr. Grafton and Roland waited anxiously&mdash;about half a
dozen came; accustomed so long to a roving life of
freedom, many thought that the advertisement pointed to
something which might restrain their liberty, and therefore
looked suspiciously at the notice.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Grafton explained his plans to the boys.  Each one
connected with the home, must contribute one dollar per
week of his earnings, which would be put by in a fund for
his own especial benefit, when he should reach mature
years.  So vicious themselves, they were slow to believe
in the truth or honesty of their fellows, and not one at
first could be found to agree to the plan proposed.
</p>

<p>
"I give you a week to think about it, boys&mdash;you can stay
here all the time, and weigh the difference between a
comfortable home, where you will be provided with good
reading, careful instruction, pleasant recreations, and the
power of laying by some of your money; compare this
with a roving life among vicious boys, who often rob you,
and who are leading you away farther and farther from
ways of peace and respectability, until at last, you may
end your days in a prison, and spend eternity with the lost
and degraded; if you cannot come into all our arrangements
at the close of this week, you must depart, and we
offer the same to others."
</p>

<p>
The boys listened carefully, but doubtingly.  Roland
spent as much of his time with them as he could spare
from his daily duties connected with the Home, and with
his pen.
</p>

<p>
Generally in the evening, he came and talked with them
for a couple of hours, listening to their accounts of the
day's labors, and reading to them some interesting matter.
He was taking care of his Master's cause among these poor
forsaken children, and God was taking care of his.  Did he
doubt it?  No&mdash;not for one moment.
</p>

<p>
Time sped on; by degrees, the number of boys increased;
they were gaining confidence in their kind friends.
</p>

<p>
Roland took up his abode among these waifs of humanity.
Many trials beset his path, many discouragements; for the
deep depravity of a whole life, short though it might have
been of these juvenile transgressors, was not to be rooted
out in a day, a week, or even a year.
</p>

<p>
Habit was a strong giant that required the strong
antagonism of stalwart efforts; and blow after blow must be
levelled against the monster in the strength of Gospel
warfare, ere he would show signs of yielding to the attacks.
</p>

<p>
But Roland's manliness and benevolence were really
undermining the citadel of sin, and in a few months he began
to see the fruit of their labors.
</p>

<p>
About fifty boys were now inmates of the Home; they
were cleanly, interested in their mental improvement,
regular in their attendance upon Gospel ministrations every
Sunday; and although, now and then, their hopes were
disappointed by the absconding of several, still their
progress was onward.
</p>

<p>
Let us turn for one moment to Mr. Thornly.  From the
day that Roland left the office, Edgar's spirits drooped.
Helen watched him closely; her room was adjoining his;
and often, late in the night, she could hear him pacing his
room, and groaning, as if in great distress of mind.
</p>

<p>
Once she opened the door&mdash;Edgar was tossing about, and
talking in his sleep.
</p>

<p>
"Go away, Jones," muttered the youth, "I can't get the
money; two hundred dollars! two hundred dollars!"
</p>

<p>
Helen's heart sank within her.  She had sore misgivings
about her brother, but what was she to do?  Could she
accuse him without farther proof?  Could she bear to see
Roland suffering so wrongfully?
</p>

<p>
Still her brother continued his late hours; seldom in
before one or two o'clock in the morning.
</p>

<p>
Every few days, a man would call to see him; and Edgar
always appeared gloomy and distressed after these visits.
</p>

<p>
Several times he was out; and when Helen asked the
name of the person who called so frequently, she found to
her grief that it was Jones.
</p>

<p>
At last, he asked to see Mr. Thornly; then came the
dreadful disclosure.  Edgar had been gambling to a large
amount, and was indebted to this man several thousand
dollars.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Thornly was horror-struck; Edgar bowed down to
the dust in shame; Helen overpowered with grief.
</p>

<p>
"It has come at last, brother.  I knew that some
dreadful grief was approaching&mdash;but is there not something
worse than all, that is not yet revealed?"
</p>

<p>
Edgar turned his blood-shot eyes upon his sister.
</p>

<p>
"What do you mean, Helen?  Do you mean to crush
me entirely?"
</p>

<p>
"No, Edgar, I do not; but I want you to commence anew&mdash;give
up all your bad associates&mdash;do justice to one that
you have wronged."
</p>

<p>
Edgar bowed his head upon his hands.
</p>

<p>
"I wish that I were dead, Helen; I am too wretched!"
</p>

<p>
"Edgar, can you not tell me something about the two
hundred dollars that sent poor Roland away?"
</p>

<p>
Edgar was silent; he groaned bitterly; and striking his
head with anguish, he paced the floor in agony.
</p>

<p>
"I can endure this no longer, Helen; I took that money;
I was threatened by Jones with exposure, and I took it;
how it has burned me ever since!"
</p>

<p>
"Shall I tell our father, Edgar? it is better for all to
come out."
</p>

<p>
"Do what you please, Helen; I must have relief."
</p>

<p>
Helen had a hard task to perform, but she was a true
sister, and saw no other path by which Edgar could retrace
his steps.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Thornly was almost paralyzed&mdash;but reproach was
not to be used towards a spirit so crushed as Edgar's; he
was suffering enough of agony.
</p>

<p>
His had been the error of a weak and yielding nature,
furnished too abundantly the means of indulgence, rather
than the deep duplicity of an accomplished villain.
</p>

<p>
"Justice must be done to Roland," was the first response
of Mr. Thornly.
</p>

<p>
On the next morning, Roland's eye caught the following
notice: "If Roland G. B&mdash;&mdash;, will call at the office of
Mr. Thornly, he will hear something important."
</p>

<p>
"The day of deliverance," thought Roland; and, taking
his hat, with a joyful step and overflowing heart, he made
his way to Mr. Thornly's office.
</p>

<p>
His former employer was seated at his desk.
</p>

<p>
"I have proofs of your innocence, Roland, and I have
sent for you to do you justice;" then, with a sadly grieved
and humbled spirit, the father recounted the story in as
few words as possible.
</p>

<p>
"I knew that my innocence would be proved," answered
the youth, "and I left my cause with God."
</p>

<p>
"Had you any idea of the truth at that time, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"I had, sir; I saw Edgar's slipper near the door, and
found his knife under the table, with which he had picked
the lock.  I saw his depression for days before, and I
supposed that some debt was pressing heavily upon him,
which he could not discharge."
</p>

<p>
"And you bore all this quietly, gave up a promising
situation, left a comfortable home, and went out upon the
world friendless, homeless, without a character, rather
than expose my son, or pain his father's heart.  Truly, yours
is conduct not often met with in this cold and selfish
world."
</p>

<p>
"It was my duty, sir; I could do nothing else; there
were only suspicious circumstances, not actual proof."
</p>

<p>
"And what have you been doing in the meanwhile?"
</p>

<p>
"I could obtain no employment among lawyers, I have
therefore been writing for the press; and been busy in
establishing a home for friendless boys, like myself."
</p>

<p>
"Do you mean the one in which Mark Grafton is interested?"
</p>

<p>
"I do, sir; it has been a great blessing to me, for instead
of dwelling upon my own griefs, I have been trying to
lighten those of others, more oppressed than myself."
</p>

<p>
Mr. Thornly was silent for a moment.  He was a worldly
man, but this exhibition of Christian principle stirred up
the fountains of his heart.  Extending his hand, he said,
</p>

<p>
"Roland, can I ask you to come back again, after all
that has passed?  It would be to me a personal favor."
</p>

<p>
"I am but too happy, sir, to take my old desk; I believe
that the finger of Providence has pointed me here, and I
trust that we shall be mutual blessings to each other."
</p>

<p>
"Will you forgive my poor son, Roland? he is humbled
to the dust."
</p>

<p>
"Forgive! certainly, sir; nothing is more easy, nothing
more delightful."
</p>

<p>
"Will you do more?  I believe that this deep disgrace
will be the turning point of a new life with Edgar, if we
only encourage him; will you be his friend, Roland?"
said Mr. Thornly, laying his hand upon the young man's
shoulder, and looking in his face with a father's pleading
eyes.
</p>

<p>
"You may trust me, sir," was the frank, noble answer.
</p>

<p>
Next morning, Roland took his place in the office once
more.
</p>

<p>
His meeting with Edgar was most painful.
</p>

<p>
"Say nothing, Edgar," was Roland's first salutation,
when the young man sat down, covering his face with his
hands.
</p>

<p>
"I know all&mdash;words are unnecessary; all is forgiven,
entirely buried between us; henceforth I am your friend."
</p>

<p>
"Oh!  Roland Bruce, language cannot tell what a cordial
those few words are to me.  I feel so desponding, so
crushed; I have no companions, I go nowhere."
</p>

<p>
"That is better just now, Edgar; but after a little while,
you will come and read law with me."
</p>

<p>
Edgar spent all his time in the office.  Roland provided
him, at first, with pleasant reading; then, by degrees, he
proposed the course which he had pursued himself.  Edgar
was but too willing to be guided by such a hand, and
Mr. Thornly and Helen looked on with speechless gratitude.
</p>

<p>
Roland was still interested in his homeless boys, and
paid his periodical evening visits.  It was, indeed, a
comfort to see what a marked change was observed in so
many.
</p>

<p>
One day, he was greatly surprised on perceiving a letter
addressed to him in printed characters.  On opening it,
there was a check for one hundred dollars, for the "Home,"
"from one deeply interested."  Where could it come from?
was his question.  Could it be from Madeline?  How
would she know about his actions?  Suddenly it occurred
to him that Helen corresponded with her, and the thought
that she might be thus a fellow laborer with him was very
sweet, and he encouraged the fancy.
</p>

<p>
This was, indeed, a turning point in Edgar Thornly's
life&mdash;from this time, his whole course was changed, and
his grateful father could not by words thank his young
mentor; actions proved his gratitude.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * *
</p>

<p>
At the close of the second year, Roland was admitted to
the bar.  Mr. Thornly threw all the business in his way
that could be thus controlled, and Roland's course was
upward and onward.
</p>

<p>
Twice had he visited Effie during this period, found her
happy, but with very weak eyes.
</p>

<p>
Madeline was never at home when he paid his visits;
therefore, she seemed to him almost like one from whose
society he was finally shut out.
</p>

<p>
Practice increased&mdash;his sound learning, practical common
sense, and deep investigation into the science of law,
opened a path of usefulness and honor.  It could, however,
never be said of Roland Bruce, that he was the lawyer
sought out by low criminals, or whose influence could be
purchased to legalize crime; for, though heavy fees were
offered by such, knowingly, he would not stoop to practices
so degrading.  He soon obtained the name of "the honest
lawyer," and none were more proud of his rising influence
and talents, than the generous man who had afforded him
so many facilities in his upward course.
</p>

<p>
"That is an important case, Roland," said Mr. Thornly,
after he had described to the latter, what had been placed
in his hands.
</p>

<p>
The man had been charged with murder, and the circumstances
by which he was surrounded were overwhelming
in their proofs against him.  By skillfully managing the
case, and obtaining delay, proofs establishing his innocence
were obtained at a time when all around the poor man was
darkest.  The accused man was one universally esteemed;
the joy felt at his acquittal was so intense, that, throughout
the city, the press complimented the young lawyer for the
ingenuity with which he had conducted the trial.
</p>

<p>
This success brought him into public notice, and restored
to the arms of an only and heart-broken daughter, the
parent whom she loved.  A paper containing the account
was sent to Effie, and, handing it to Madeline, who was
then at home, the sister's heart was cheered by the
warm embrace with which Maddy congratulated the dear
girl.
</p>

<p>
"Did I not say, Effie, that Roland would live to be a
great man yet?  Won't we be happy to see him here
among the Beltons and the Smiths?  Effie, do you know
why he seems to have forgotten his old friend?" (for a
minute she hesitated, and then continued with an averted
face,) "does he ever mention Helen Thornly in his
letters?"
</p>

<p>
"O yes! very often, Madeline; he says she is such a
lovely girl, he wishes that I knew her; she is a dear friend
of his."
</p>

<p>
"So I have heard, Effie," and Madeline said no more;
but, opening the piano, she played several of her old pieces,
but especially the favorite "Auld Lang Syne;" then,
walking out to the garden, she plucked a rose from her
favorite bush, and proceeding back into the house, and up
the stair-case, she stopped to listen to the strains of her
Eolian harp.
</p>

<p>
It discoursed sad music that night, or was it the echo of
her own spirit?
</p>

<p>
"I did not think that he would have forgotten me so
soon," murmured Madeline; "but so it is, present friends
obliterate the memory of the absent.  I must try to
forget him; but I cannot quite forget the holy teachings of
my young days, nor would I if I could&mdash;may they remain
forever!"
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap17"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XVII.
<br><br>
MIRAGE, OR MADELINE AFTER A TRIUMPH.
</h3>

<p>
"Well, daughter, I suppose that I must leave my
retirement, for this winter at least," said Mr. Hamilton.
</p>

<p>
"So you promised, papa; I am looking forward to the
season with great expectations.  Mary Trevor is impatient
for us to come early, she has so much in store for me.
There are Mrs. Peyton, and Mrs. Rossiter, and Mrs. Starr,
all waiting anxiously for us; they give such elegant parties,
papa."
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hamilton looked with an expression of proud exultation
upon his beautiful daughter, and anticipated the sensation
that the advent of such a bright star would make in
the world of fashion.
</p>

<p>
Madeline was full of eager anticipation, but not heartless;
she really regretted the parting with Effie, and the
loneliness which she knew the young girl would suffer
during her absence; for Mr. Hamilton and Aunt Matilda
would both accompany the young heiress.
</p>

<p>
"I am sorry, Effie, to leave you; but the winter will
soon pass; you will busy yourself with looking after the
house, with your needle and your books; and write often,
dear."
</p>

<p>
Effie sighed, as she almost whispered,
</p>

<p>
"Madeline, a great weight is on my heart; I find my
eyes daily becoming more and more dim; if the outer
world should all be dark to me, what a poor useless being
I should be, and what a burden to my friends!"
</p>

<p>
"Don't imagine such an affliction, dear Effie; Dr. Jenks
shall attend to your case at once; but do try to keep up
your spirits.  I have often thought, Effie, that we ought to
try to do something for the people in the neighborhood;
there are several families that we have been accustomed to
help; I will appoint you my almoner.  There are four old
persons to be supplied with warm garments and coal for
the winter; and three or four invalids that need weekly
care.  Nanny makes gruel or other comforts for Mary
Swain the cripple, and it would be a pleasure to me to know
that they are all attended to."
</p>

<p>
Effie brightened at the prospect of such work, for
employment like this was the element of her nature.
</p>

<p>
"Take good care of my flowers, Effie, especially my
rosebush, and when I come back, let me see some roses on
your pale cheeks, dear."
</p>

<p>
"You will not forget me, dear friend, that I know," said
Effie, folding her affectionately in her arms, and pressing
a loving kiss upon her cheek, she whispered, "do not
forget the Blessed Saviour, Madeline; you will be surrounded
by a thousand temptations."
</p>

<p>
A tear glistened in Madeline's eye, but she dashed it
aside, and said,
</p>

<p>
"Effie, don't be distressed about me; some of these days
I will be just as good as you can wish, but I must have a
peep at the gay world first."
</p>

<p>
"Some of these days, Madeline; how little do we know
about the days appointed us."
</p>

<p>
The day of departure arrived; the trunks were all
strapped; Mr. Hamilton and Aunt Matilda seated in the
carriage, and Madeline, folding her humble friend in her
arms once more, took her seat by her father.
</p>

<p>
"Farewell, Effie, be bright and cheerful, dear; we shall
soon be back again."
</p>

<p>
The young girl stood upon the piazza as long as she
could see the carriage, and turning into the house with a
sad heart, Effie sought and found the comfort that she
needed, at the feet of her own dear Saviour.
</p>

<p>
Let us follow Madeline to the scene of her introduction
into the gay world.
</p>

<p>
Established in an elegant suite of rooms in one of the
most fashionable hotels in New York, Madeline and her
aunt were busily occupied in giving orders for her winter
outfit.
</p>

<p>
This was Aunt Matilda's element, and neither expense
nor pains were spared on the wardrobe of the young lady.
</p>

<p>
Soon cards from the upper circles of the great metropolis
multiplied in the card basket of our young novice.
</p>

<p>
All was pleasure and excitement, and weeks were occupied
in returning these numerous visits, and attending to
milliners, dressmakers, &amp;c.  Madeline's first appearance
for the season was at the ball of Mrs. Rossiter, one of the
leaders of fashion in New York.
</p>

<p>
Attired in the most exquisite taste, for the first time her
mother's diamonds adorned her person.
</p>

<p>
When she entered the elegant room, leaning upon the
arm of her father, all eyes were turned towards her, in
whispers of admiration.
</p>

<p>
As she passed, "Beautiful!" "exquisite!" "charming!"
greeted her everywhere.
</p>

<p>
"Let us be seated, papa," murmured Madeline, for the
public gaze was oppressive.
</p>

<p>
She was the centre of attraction the whole evening, her
hand sought for in every dance; truly, the young girl was
completely bewildered and intoxicated.
</p>

<p>
And so, night after night, the ovation of flattery was
laid at the feet of Madeline Hamilton.
</p>

<p>
Harry Castleton was among the most devoted of her
admirers; but he was simply tolerated, for Madeline saw
through the shallowness of his pretensions, and really
pitied his contemptible folly.
</p>

<p>
"Well, papa, who do you think is the reigning star this
winter?" said Helen Thornly.
</p>

<p>
"I do not know much about the gay world now, daughter,
for I tired of it long ago; but I suppose every season
has its own particular star, that shines a little while, to be
eclipsed by another."
</p>

<p>
"Madeline Hamilton is the theme of every tongue; her
beauty, her wealth, her accomplishments, have made her
all the ton&mdash;the beaux are crazy to be found in her train,
and the belles are dying of envy."
</p>

<p>
"Have you met her anywhere, Helen?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, papa, at Mrs. Trevor's&mdash;she is splendid in her
point lace and diamonds.  I wish you could have seen her;
and yet she does not seem vain.  She always was an
artless, impulsive girl; but I think New York will spoil her
simplicity."
</p>

<p>
Roland listened to the remarks, and felt a deeper sinking
of the heart, as he realized the ordeal through which
Madeline was passing; but still, remembering all the past, and
the power of first impressions, he could look upward, and
trust that she would yet come out unscathed.  Her world
was entirely remote from his; they met but occasionally,
and that in the street, but seldom at Mr. Thornly's.
</p>

<p>
The opera, balls, parties innumerable, engrossed her time,
but was she happy?
</p>

<p>
Let us follow her awhile after her evening triumph.  She
had spent the evening at Mrs. Starr's, one of the gayest
parties of the season.
</p>

<p>
Magnificent dressing, the most costly viands of the table,
the most fashionable band of music, scores of admirers, and
strains of the most intoxicating flattery met her everywhere.
Her triumph was complete.
</p>

<p>
Was Madeline happy?  To have looked at her bright
young face beaming with smiles, to have listened to her
musical laugh, and sparkling repartee, to have watched her
light and airy motions in the graceful waltz, one would
have pronounced her the gayest of the gay.
</p>

<p>
But there was a depth in the heart of Madeline Hamilton
which could not be filled by these empty vanities, a thirst
for a better life, which could never be satisfied with this
mere mirage in the pilgrimage of an immortal.
</p>

<p>
Wearied and heart-sick, she enters her dressing-room,
and seating herself, commences disrobing.
</p>

<p>
Unbinding her luxuriant hair, she lays aside the glittering
ornaments and the faded flowers; leaning her head
upon her hands, she weeps over the emptiness of her daily
life.
</p>

<p>
Placing her jewels in a small casket, she opens a little
box in her writing-desk; reverently she turns over the
leaves of an old book, revealing branches of withered
seaweed; and in another corner of the desk, a cluster of
common shells.  The sight of these simple things opens the
flood-gates of her heart; and, pressing the sea-weed to her
burning lips, she weeps in the anguish of her spirit.
</p>

<p>
Memory is busy&mdash;back to the sea-shore, the Maple Lane
School, the cemetery, the little cottage of the humble
widow.
</p>

<p>
The present is fading&mdash;she had had a distant view of the
glittering world; she had longed for its pleasures; nearer
and nearer had she approached the shining lake where she
hoped to quench her thirst; but, stooping down to drink,
she had found the world like the mirage in the burning
sands of the desert, a mere illusion! a mighty cheat!
O! for an hour of those early days! those simple childish
pleasures!  O! for the teachings of that young Mentor, who
so wisely controlled the impetuosity of her high spirit, and
tamed the wilfulness of her proud young heart.
</p>

<p>
She had listened to the tones of flattery, until they had
palled upon her ear, and sickened her heart; and for one
approving, yea, even one kind reproving glance of the dark
eye of Roland Bruce, she would have given all, and more
than all that the world had ever given her.
</p>

<p>
She recalls the holy lessons that had led her young heart
to think of better things.
</p>

<p>
She compares Roland's character with all that she had
met in the gay world, and feels that was mere tinsel; his
was pure and solid gold.
</p>

<p>
She touches the simple weeds with fond, caressing fingers,
and almost resolves to turn away from the gay, glittering
throng.
</p>

<p>
But alas! the friend of her youth is lost to her.
</p>

<p>
She believes the tale that Lavinia has so often told, and
almost envied Helen Thornly the daily companionship of
such a spirit as the one that had forgotten her.
</p>

<p>
"But I may cherish these dear mementoes yet," sighed
Madeline; "they speak of such holy, blessed things, that
even the sight of them refreshes me."
</p>

<p>
Placing them reverently in her desk, she commits
herself to God's keeping, and retires to her rest.
</p>

<p>
The world was fast losing its hold upon Madeline; the
power of early teaching was returning.
</p>

<p>
"Papa, shall we go home early in the season?" said
Madeline; "I long for Woodcliff."
</p>

<p>
"Just as soon as you please, daughter; are you getting
tired of the gayeties of New York?"
</p>

<p>
"I am sick of them, papa; I would rather spend one
month at Woodcliff now, where I could ramble by the old
sea-shore, sail in my own boat on the clear lake, or ride
dear old Selim up and down the lanes, as I used to when
a child."
</p>

<p>
Her father smiled, for he longed for the elegant
retirement of his own home; but Aunt Matilda remonstrated.
</p>

<p>
"Surely, brother, you will not allow Madeline to be so
foolish; she might, at least, spend the whole season here."
</p>

<p>
"She may do just as she pleases, Matilda," was the
answer; "I am glad that she retains her love of domestic
life, after all the gayety of this winter."
</p>

<p>
Aunt Matilda sought Mr. Hamilton's private ear.
</p>

<p>
"I hope that you will not listen to Madeline's folly,
brother, after going to so much expense in bringing her
out, and when so many of the very first in the land are
ready to lay their fortunes at her feet, here you are marring
her prospects for a mere whim."
</p>

<p>
"Really, Matilda, I did not bring Madeline to market, I
am not so anxious to be rid of my daughter, and if she is
more happy in domestic life than in the gay world, I am
only too glad to encourage the feeling.  She has seen just
what the world is, and has sense enough to understand its
hollowness."
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
Roland is rising rapidly in his profession, still interested
in his "Home for the News-boys," and esteemed by his kind
and generous patron.
</p>

<p>
"Do you know, papa," said Helen, one day, "that
Madeline is going home; here in the very midst of all her
triumphs, she is longing for Woodcliff&mdash;so she says, but she
always was a strange girl; I don't know what to think of
her."
</p>

<p>
Roland felt a thrill of joy pass through his heart at this
intelligence, for it seemed to say that Madeline was not
spoiled by the gay world.  How he longed to see her, and
his wish was speedily gratified.
</p>

<p>
A carriage stopped at Mr. Thornly's door, which he
recognized at once as Mr. Hamilton's&mdash;in the next minute,
Madeline stepped out, and sent the carriage away.  It was
not a mere call, then, and he hoped to see her, ere she left
New York.
</p>

<p>
She had come to spend a social evening with Helen, and
Roland having the free entrance to the drawing-room at all
times, sought his young friend.
</p>

<p>
"You are going to leave us, Miss Madeline," was his
first salutation.
</p>

<p>
"Yes, I really long for Woodcliff; a peep at New York
life has been sufficient."
</p>

<p>
A bright smile passed over Roland's face.  "I was afraid,
or rather I thought that you might have been intoxicated
by its flattery."
</p>

<p>
"It is very empty, Mr. Bruce, all mirage and outside
show; I want something better; point lace and diamonds,
with glitter and show without sincerity, will not satisfy
one that once longed for inward peace."
</p>

<p>
They are sitting apart from the rest, who were engaged
in their own conversation.
</p>

<p>
Roland drew near to Madeline, and in a low tone, he
whispered,
</p>

<p>
"Madeline, do you long for this better life now?"
</p>

<p>
She blushed deeply at the old familiar name, as she
replied,
</p>

<p>
"Most intensely, Roland; the world has lost its charms
for me."
</p>

<p>
Just then, Helen stepped up, and interrupted the
conversation.
</p>

<p>
"Will you not persuade Madeline to sing?" said the
young girl.
</p>

<p>
"If you will favor us first, Helen;" and Roland led
her to the piano, and stood turning over the leaves for her,
while she sang.
</p>

<p>
Was it the tenderness of a lover, or the mere interest of
a friend that marked his manner towards Helen? inquired
Madeline of her heart.
</p>

<p>
There was something in the glance of Helen that
betrayed more than a common interest.  But what meant
Roland's whispered words? old affection? or mere brotherly
regard for one whom he remembered as a mere wayward
child?
</p>

<p>
After Helen, she took her seat at the piano, and song
after song was called for.
</p>

<p>
With all the simplicity of childish days, she poured forth
those strains of thrilling melody, once heard, never to be
forgotten.
</p>

<p>
Roland shaded his eyes to hide the deep emotion which
he could not control, when she warbled forth, "Ye banks
and braes o' Bonny Doon," with the sweet pathos of her
touching voice.  He could not answer, even when she
turned, and with the innocence of early days, said, in a
low tone,
</p>

<p>
"That was your mother's favorite, Mr. Bruce."
</p>

<p>
He bowed, but could not reply.
</p>

<p>
The evening passed; Madeline spoke her farewells to the
family.
</p>

<p>
Roland handed her to the carriage
</p>

<p>
"Remember me in your daily prayers, Roland."
</p>

<p>
"God bless you, Madeline, forever and ever; and I feel
that he will with his choicest blessings."
</p>

<p>
"Helen is a sweet girl; I hope that you may be happy."
</p>

<p>
The carriage drove off&mdash;Roland retired to muse upon the
evening, and the next day, Madeline was on her road to
Woodcliff.
</p>

<p>
On the following day, a note was delivered to Roland
with a check for one hundred dollars for the "Home for the
News-boys."
</p>

<p>
Once more in sight of Woodcliff, Madeline's heart beat
warmly towards every object around her dear home.
</p>

<p>
Effie was on the piazza to meet her, but Madeline was
shocked to see the change in the dear girl.
</p>

<p>
"Oh! how welcome you are, Madeline!  I have been so
lonely; if it had not been for the poor people that you gave
me to take care of, I should have been dreary enough; for
Dr. Jenks will not allow me to use my eyes at all."
</p>

<p>
"I am so glad to be back at the dear old home, Effie."
</p>

<p>
"Why, you did not stay as long as you intended, Madeline."
</p>

<p>
"No, I begged papa to bring me home; I have seen
enough of New York; I never was made for fashionable
life, Effie."
</p>

<p>
"And you really have come back to us, Madeline, perfectly
free, notwithstanding all the fortunes that have been
laid at your feet."
</p>

<p>
"How did you hear all this, Effie?
</p>

<p>
"Miss Matilda used to write us such descriptions of your
numerous conquests, that I often felt as if we had lost you
altogether."
</p>

<p>
"You need never be afraid of such empty-headed fops
as I have seen, Effie; I scarcely met a man of sense while
I was away."
</p>

<p>
Madeline felt the need of some strong guiding hand in
her present state of feeling; and, after she had been at
home a few weeks, begged her father to allow her to visit
Aunt Clara once more.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hamilton felt as if he could scarcely spare her.
</p>

<p>
"I shall not stay long, papa; I do so want to see my
dear aunt, and she has written for me so often."
</p>

<p>
"You may go, Madeline, if you will promise me to
return in one month; no longer, my daughter; I want you
near me, my dear child, for I am not so well as usual."
</p>

<p>
"Perhaps I had better stay, papa."
</p>

<p>
"No, Madeline, you can go; if I need you, I will send
for you."
</p>

<p>
On the evening before her departure, she had visited the
library, and turning over some familiar books, she came at
last to her portfolio, that she had used when a school-girl.
Listlessly looking through its contents, a card dropped out,
on which was sketched what she was sure was a picture of
herself, as she appeared on the evening when she had first
met Roland.
</p>

<p>
It was a spirited little picture; but who had drawn it?
</p>

<p>
She hurried to Effie, and holding up the card, said,
</p>

<p>
"Do you know who sketched this?"
</p>

<p>
"I think it must have been Roland; for one evening
when he was here, he was a long time in the library; and
I know that he draws beautifully."
</p>

<p>
Looking on the back of the card, she saw the initials
R.G.B., and soon the sweet memento was placed among
Madeline's treasures.
</p>

<p>
Taking Hector as her companion, she sought the dearest
spot around Woodcliff, and soon seated on the rock near
the old flag-staff, memory wandered over the past.
</p>

<p>
The incident in the library had touched her deeply; but
then that was simply a memory of childhood, and she had
doubtless been forgotten since that time, or only remembered
as an old friend; for had not Lavinia declared more
than once that Roland was actually betrothed to Helen
Thornly; for her own cousin had said so.
</p>

<p>
Ere she left the shore, she visited old Peter.  He was
living yet, and hastened to meet the young lady whom he
had so often seen on the sea-shore.
</p>

<p>
"Well, dear me! the children will grow to be men and
women, it seems; but a little while ago since you and
Roland were skipping about here as happy children; now,
you are a young lady, and Roland such a fine-looking
young man!  The last time he was down, he came to visit
me in the old cabin&mdash;says he, 'Peter, you don't care for
that little shoe that is up in the shelf?'"
</p>

<p>
"No," says I, "it is no use to me, but I kept it a good
while because the little girl dropped it here, and she was a
bright child, and very good to Uncle Peter."
</p>

<p>
"Did you give it to him?" inquired Madeline.
</p>

<p>
"Yes, I did, and he placed it in his pocket, and took it
away&mdash;a queer fancy for a young man to be hoarding up
old shoes."
</p>

<p>
"Did he ask for one of yours, Uncle Peter?" inquired
Madeline, with her old smile of mischief.
</p>

<p>
"Bless your heart! my young lady, he did not want my
old shoes; for he only wanted that one, because it belonged
to the little foot that used to run about here on the old
beach."
</p>

<p>
This was pleasant talk, and she wondered if Roland
really did think as much of the little shoe as she did of the
faded sea-weed that lay hidden in the desk.
</p>

<p>
"I suppose that he did <i>then</i>," thought she; "but that
perhaps was before he knew Helen Thornly."
</p>

<p>
"Are you comfortable, Uncle Peter?" asked the young
girl, before she left the cabin.
</p>

<p>
"Well, you see, Miss, I should like to have some tobacco;
mine is about gone, and it is hard enough to get it
sometimes."
</p>

<p>
"You shall have some, Uncle Peter;" and the next day
Madeline sent to the nearest store for a good supply for the
old man.
</p>

<p>
"God bless her bright young face! she always had a
warm heart, but a quick, high temper.  I wonder how it is
now; she'll come all right by-and-bye."
</p>

<p>
Madeline wondered for several days what Roland had
done with the little shoe; but she guessed at last that it
thrown away before this.
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap18"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XVIII.
<br><br>
THE EARLY DAWN.
</h3>

<p>
"I shall not leave you long, dear papa," was Madeline's
farewell; and Aunt Clara was but too happy to see
her dear niece once more.
</p>

<p>
"I have heard glowing accounts of your winter in New
York, Madeline; I really was afraid that you would be
wholly intoxicated by its temptations."
</p>

<p>
"I was for awhile, dear aunt, but I discovered that all
was mere mirage; there was an inner life that was wholly
starved in that heartless round of folly."
</p>

<p>
"How did you spend your time, Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"In dressing, shopping, singing, waltzing, going to the
opera, making and receiving calls, in hearing frothy talk,
and scandalous remarks, in listening to the flattery of a
score of empty-headed fops, coming home tired at night,
sleeping late next morning, and longing for one sight of
nature, one true friend, one satisfying portion.  Aunt Clara,
I learned to loathe the empty life, and I have come to you
longing for something better."
</p>

<p>
Folding her niece in her arms, she imprinted a warm kiss
on the fair young forehead, and said,
</p>

<p>
"There are fountains of living water, Madeline; these
only can quench the burning thirst of an immortal spirit."
</p>

<p>
"I must find them, dear Aunt Clara, for I am fainting
for thirst."
</p>

<p>
Lucy Edmonds was happy again, for dearly did she love
the warm-hearted girl.  Madeline's openness, her generous
heart, her plain bluntness, her perfect transparency of
character, charmed her, and contrasted with Lavinia's worldliness
and vanity; it was really refreshing to hear her sweet
young voice, and see her moving about again in her aunt's
household.
</p>

<p>
This was an important era in the life of Madeline Hamilton,
for a great change was passing silently in her moral
nature, and a peep into her journal will reveal something
of her inner life.
</p>

<p>
"New York.  At length I have seen something of this
bright world, of which I have heard so much.  Last night
was my first appearance at Mrs. Rossiter's ball.  Dear
papa spared no expense upon my dress; it was exquisite&mdash;white
silk with point lace, flowers, and my mother's diamonds.
I suppose that it was a beautiful vision that
dawned upon the world, for the language of flattery and
admiration met me on every side; and, must I say it?  I
was, for awhile, pleased with the cup offered to my lips.
Papa was gratified, Aunt Matilda in ecstasies, and I, while
in the midst of the gay scene, was enchanted&mdash;all was so
new, so beautiful, so grand.
</p>

<p>
"Why did I sigh when I entered my dressing-room, and
shut out the world?  And yet I did sigh, and said to
myself, 'Is this all?  Empty heart! what is it longing for?
With everything this world can give, but within, an aching
void.'
</p>

<p>
"I have seen Roland, saw him at church, but he did not
see me.  How calm! how devotional his whole manner!
O, for the peace that he enjoys!
</p>

<p>
"Mr. Grafton called a few days ago to see papa; all his
talk was of Roland.  Roland's goodness!  Roland's
benevolence!  Roland's talents!  It was a pleasant
theme&mdash;and, when he told about the News-boys' Home, which he
had helped to establish, I felt so proud of him.  I wonder
what made him think so much of the news-boys! could he
have been once as poor, as destitute as they?  Mr. Grafton
hinted it.  Poor Roland! what he must have suffered!
But why should I feel proud of him?  He is Helen
Thornly's betrothed; so the world thinks, so Mr. Grafton
supposes, and Lavinia Raymond declares.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * *
</p>

<p>
"At the opera, last night, the music was divine; but the
bewildering acting, the unchaste appearance of the women,
the glitter and parade of the audience,&mdash;was this what
Roland would approve of?
</p>

<p>
"I lead two lives, one in the outside world, where all is
show, and giddy pleasure; another, an inner life, with
every fibre of my nature sending out its clasping tendrils
to reach something substantial, enduring, satisfying.  Like
the delicate air-plant fluttering in the breeze, I stretch
forward to grasp it, but it is gone.  I have not found it yet.
Who would believe it, that sees Madeline Hamilton
surrounded by flatterers, intoxicated for the moment with the
gay blandishments of the world, smiling, waltzing,
sparkling in magnificence?  Who would believe that, in the
silence of the night, she mourns, and weeps, and longs for
something better.
</p>

<p>
"I have heard of that better part, that higher life, from
Mrs. Bruce, from Aunt Clara, from Roland.  I have seen
it in the calm tranquillity of their daily life, in the blessed
hopes of a Christian's death.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * *
</p>

<p>
"Last night, I was at Mrs. Rossiter's ball; it was
superb! but Oh! how hollow!  Even while receiving the
hospitalities of their hostess, how many heartless ones did
I hear whispering disparaging remarks, criticizing the
entertainment, and prophesying the downfall of the
establishment.  I am sick of this folly&mdash;would that I were back at
Woodcliff, among the green trees, the quiet lanes, the grand
old ocean, the solemn cemetery, with dear Effie, my good
old Hector, faithful Selim, my pets, my flowers; anything
but this heartless, empty show.
</p>

<p>
"O! what an hour I spent when I retired!  I opened
my desk, and there lay the dear old sea-weed, given so
long ago by my best friend, my childish guide, my model
boy&mdash;now such a noble man.  I pressed them to my
burning lips; what would I give for one hour's heart
communion, such as we used to love in days that are gone.
He could guide me, he could strengthen me, but he is gone,
he is another's now.  Then I prayed&mdash;yes, earnestly&mdash;fervently;
and I resolved that this empty, frothy, sinful
life should end.  It must be sinful; it cannot be right that
an accountable creature should spend the solemn days of
probation in such frivolity.
</p>

<p>
"Next morning, I told papa that we must go home&mdash;Aunt
Matilda opposed it&mdash;she does not understand me,
but Roland does.  I met him at Helen Thornly's&mdash;something
of the old tenderness in his manner; but still there
is a gulf between us which seems impassable.  But I can
cherish the memory of all that he used to be, and all that
he has taught me.  All that I know of goodness, and high
and holy things, I have learned from that beggar boy, as
Harry Castleton has dared to call him, and even now!  I
felt as if I could wither him with my scorn, and certainly
annihilated him with one of my haughtiest looks, for I have
not seen him since that day.  Harry Castleton scorn
Roland Bruce!  Roland in a cottage, struggling with
poverty, as I have seen him, with the grand and lofty
spirit of the Gordons; and Harry Castleton, rolling in
wealth, the dweller in a palace, would be simply Roland
and Harry still.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * *
</p>

<p>
"At home again!  How I ran about with my winter
hood, and water-proof, visiting the old familiar spots, and
rejoicing in the presence of my dumb pets.  The dear old
library&mdash;my harp and piano, like faithful friends, seemed to
welcome me again; the sweet Eolian sounded out a loud
pæan, for sharp March winds swept over its strings, and it,
too, seemed rejoicing.
</p>

<p>
"How shall I occupy my time?  There is a great deal
here to do.  I should like to do some good in the world,
and live for something beside myself.
</p>

<p>
"Could I not gather a little group of poor children, and
teach them?  Could I not establish something like a parish
school?  There are so many poor people around us, that
only live a wild life,&mdash;children of the fishermen.  Effie could
help me, and we would be so happy together.  Then, after
awhile, we might perhaps have the services of our own
church; I could get a missionary to come here twice
a-month from Boston, and then we may have a church of our
own; but I must see Aunt Clara first, she can direct me.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * *
</p>

<p>
"I am with Aunt Clara again.  There is rest in her
very smile; the soft silver hair lies so quietly around her
mild face; the peace of God breathes in every look and
motion.  She is so different from Aunt Matilda&mdash;she draws
me heavenward; Aunt Matilda drags me down.
</p>

<p>
"Poor aunty! what a pity that she has nothing but the
things of this world to lean upon! no wonder that she feels
their insecurity.  But, dear Aunt Clara, so patient, so
peaceful, so happy.  I can pour out my whole heart, I can
tell her all my thoughts.
</p>

<p>
"She seems to anticipate all I have to say.  How sweet
the name of Jesus sounds, uttered by her lips!  She talks
to me of his tenderness, his fulness, his preciousness, until
sometimes I feel, 'None but Jesus!'
</p>

<p>
"Then clouds come again&mdash;I lose my hope, and all is
dark.  But still I trust that there is some progress in the
inner life.  I love my Bible; the hour of prayer is precious;
the house of God, my chief joy.  Nothing will draw me to
the world again, I hope; and yet my 'heart is deceitful
above all things,' as regards the things of God.
</p>

<p>
"Lavinia urges me to follow in her sinful, foolish ways; I
will not&mdash;I have refused her invitations repeatedly, and
she tries the power of ridicule.  She does not know me, or
she would not try the weakness of such a weapon.
</p>

<p>
"I am too proud yet to yield to such a mode of opposition.
Just let me believe myself a Christian, and Lavinia's
ridicule will only excite my sorrow.
</p>

<p>
"The gay world has lost its charms for me, and I care not
what Lavinia and her friends may say.  She has told me
a great deal about Helen Thornly, and has convinced me,
that she is, indeed, the chosen companion of Roland's future
life&mdash;may they be happy!  She says that Roland always
speaks of me with the affection of a brother, very calmly,
but never seems willing to talk about Helen.
</p>

<p>
"How much of my present state of feeling may arise from
this loss of my early friend.  If so, how little is this
weariness of the world to be trusted! in other circumstances,
the power of the world may all return.
</p>

<p>
"I went to hear Mr. Endicott, Aunt Clara's pastor.  What
an earnest, faithful sermon!  What a picture of our sinful
nature he drew!  it is all too true.  And where is our help?
'Look unto me,' says the Blessed Saviour; do I look unto
him? if I did, would not peace visit my bosom?
</p>

<p>
"Oh! for a living faith!  Sometimes I feel as if I really
had exercised such trust, and then the merest trifle draws
my heart away, and my peace vanishes.
</p>

<p>
"Lavinia has such power to annoy me&mdash;she takes
malicious pleasure in bringing all the gossip that she can
about Roland&mdash;why should I be so disturbed?  He is only
my friend; I am mortified that I should allow myself to
dwell so much upon these circumstances.  I had a letter
from Helen, yesterday&mdash;it was full of Roland&mdash;she says if
I could know all, I would value him as highly as she does.
</p>

<p>
"How little does she know of me!  What can be the
secret which she cannot disclose?  She says that it places
him among the noblest and the best of men.  She writes
as if she were on terms of close intimacy with Roland;
writes of mending his clothes, attending to his room,
helping him in his work among the News-boys.  It is evident
that she loves Roland Bruce; and how can she do otherwise,
living in the house with him on such familiar terms?
May they be happy together!  But it does seem strange
that he can forget his old friend so soon.
</p>

<p>
"A letter from papa; he is not well&mdash;he says that the
parlor is so melancholy, the harp so silent; he wishes me
to return; I promised him that I would; and nothing can
keep me away.
</p>

<p>
"Aunt Clara is sorry to have me go so soon, but she
thinks it is my duty, and bids me depart.  I am going,
to-morrow&mdash;she prayed so earnestly alone with me, that I
might be kept from the temptations of the world, and
brought really to the feet of Jesus.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
"I am at home again&mdash;papa looks so thin and pale; his
spirits are very low&mdash;Effie's eyes are no better; I am
troubled about the dear girl, more than she is about
herself; she seems to live in the spirit of a beautiful hymn.
</p>

<p class="poem">
  'Sweet to lie passive in his hands,<br>
  And know no will but his.'<br>
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
"I spent my first evening at the harp, playing for dear
papa; he seemed so happy to have me at home again&mdash;how
fondly he hung over me all the evening!
</p>

<p>
"What should I be without him?  I cannot bear to think
of such a time.
</p>

<p>
"He called me to his side before he retired, and opening a
casket, gave me such a beautiful set of emeralds; he is
never tired of lavishing gifts upon his darling child.
</p>

<p>
"To-day Effie was sitting near the window trying to knit
a little; she seemed sorely perplexed, frequently dropping
her stitches, and scarcely able to take them up again&mdash;Aunt
Matilda observed her.
</p>

<p>
"'What are you worrying yourself for, Effie, with that
knitting?'
</p>

<p>
"'I am so tired of doing nothing,' replied the dear girl,
while large tears rolled over her cheeks.
</p>

<p>
"Poor dear Effie!  I fear that she is really losing her
sight&mdash;so patient! so resigned! so ready for the will of her
Heavenly Father, whatever that may be.
</p>

<p>
"Roland had heard of her sickness, and has been to see
her&mdash;'He was so kind,' Effie says; 'so gentle to his little
sister.'  She says that he asked a great deal about me.  I
wonder if he has the little shoe yet&mdash;how foolish all this
is!  I ought not to write such folly.
</p>

<p>
"I have a great deal of time unoccupied&mdash;ought I not to
do something for this neighborhood?
</p>

<p>
"But how shall I begin?  In my walk, yesterday, I
rambled among the factory children; they seem very poor
and ignorant; can I not do something for them?
</p>

<p>
"Aunt Clara gave me some little books and tracts for just
such people; I think I will take some among them.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
"I went this morning along the factory lane, with my
little basket in my hand; the children found that I had
pretty books with pictures.  Soon they were running after
me.
</p>

<p>
"'Lady, please give me a little book,' cried one little
girl.  'Give me one, lady,' 'and me,' 'and me,' sounded
out a score of young voices, all eager for a book, or a tract.
</p>

<p>
"The books were soon all gone, and I had the pleasure
of seeing several sit down by the road-side, eagerly
examining the pictures, while others ran in to show their
mothers what they had got.  I think very few can read,
for they only looked at the pictures.
</p>

<p>
"One little curly-headed girl, with bare feet and ragged
clothes, came pulling me by the dress.
</p>

<p>
"'Lady, please come and see my mammy; she is very sick.'
</p>

<p>
"I followed the child, and found her poor mother
extended upon a bed of sickness, with every appearance of
want and misery.  I questioned her; she had been sick for
two months; often in need of food; her two children worked
at the factory, and their scanty wages was all that she had.
</p>

<p>
"'Oh, ma'am! the rich don't know the value of the
broken pieces which they throw away; but we know,
ma'am.'
</p>

<p>
"I left her some money, and promised to remember poor
Mrs. Donnelly&mdash;she had set me to earnest thinking.  Her
grateful look repaid me for that visit.
</p>

<p>
"In the next cottage was an old bed-ridden grandmother;
in another a cripple; and enough all around to convince
me that Madeline Hamilton must not spend an idle
life around Woodcliff.  Just to think that I have lived so
many years in elegance and ease, and all this misery at my
very doors.  I thought of the parable of the steward, and
his Lord's return to reckon.  It is true that a great deal
was sent out from Woodcliff among the neighboring poor,
but it could not be said of us generally, 'I was sick and ye
visited me.'  I must do something&mdash;but how shall it be?  I
will ask Effie; she knows a great deal about these people.
Roland could tell me; his earnest, warm heart, and strong
good sense, would see the way at once.  It will be so
pleasant to know that I am working in the same field with
Roland&mdash;he, for the misery of New York, and I, for that
around Woodcliff.  These poor children have no time for
school, and yet they are so ignorant; can I teach them in
any way?  They might stop work on Saturday; I would
pay their mother their wages, and they could come to me
in the afternoon; they would thus lose no money, and gain
much knowledge.  I will try, and Effie can help me to
gather the children.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * *
</p>

<p>
"I went yesterday&mdash;six little ones promised to come on
Saturday.  Aunt Matilda is shocked with the idea of a Miss
Hamilton becoming the Lady Bountiful of the neighborhood.
</p>

<p>
"'What will Mrs. Grundy say?' is ever uppermost with
poor aunty.
</p>

<p>
"I have a room all my own, where I can do just what I
please; my pleasant sitting-room, where I can easily
manage twelve little girls.  I will have some nice desks and
benches made, and James can bring them in every Saturday.
</p>

<p>
"Yesterday my little class came&mdash;they were all clean,
but several barefoot and ragged.
</p>

<p>
"They seemed quite bewildered by the pretty things
around them.  I played a simple hymn, and tried to teach
them to say it; but they were struck dumb with amazement.
I suppose that they had never seen a piano before.
</p>

<p>
"I amused them then by telling them a story.  Effie took
them out in the garden, and gave each a bunch of flowers.
They looked so pleased, poor little things!  What a pity
that I had not known before how cheap a thing it is to
make others happy, and that my garden could brighten so
many little faces; but I don't think that they were so happy
as I&mdash;my heart felt so warm, and tears of gratitude would
rise, when I remembered all God's goodness to me.  There
was a warm glow of sunshine around Woodcliff on Saturday
afternoon, and it shall come again.
</p>

<p>
"Effie thinks we had a good beginning; the little ones
promised to come next Saturday.
</p>

<p>
"Aunt Matilda laughs at my new folly, as she terms it,
saying, 'that I will soon grow tired of it.'
</p>

<p>
"Papa says, 'I am glad that Madeline has thought of the
children; it will employ much of her time.  I sometimes
think that we spend a very useless life here at Woodcliff.'
</p>

<p>
"Aunt Matilda replies, 'I am sure, Lewis, that you
cannot expect me to enter into any such plans.  I am much
too delicate with my nervous temperament; it would drive
me crazy to teach little children; and I do think that
Madeline Hamilton might find employment more worthy of a
young lady.'
</p>

<p>
"I have written to Helen to send me some shoes for
children, and some books, giving her a short account of
what we are doing.
</p>

<p>
"Saturday came again&mdash;my six little girls were punctual;
but it was a rainy day, and they brought some mud.
</p>

<p>
"Aunt Matilda was very angry, and said harsh things.
I replied haughtily, and with one of my outbursts of
temper.
</p>

<p>
"'Well, Madeline, if this is your piety, I want nothing
to do with it.'
</p>

<p>
"'I don't pretend to piety, aunt; I only want to do some
good in the world; and I think that you might help, instead
of hinder me.'
</p>

<p>
"I was ashamed of myself, and deeply depressed for all
that day&mdash;will I ever learn to bridle my tongue?
</p>

<p>
"The little ones were glad to get their new shoes&mdash;I gave
them their first lessons; they were very dull, for they have
never been taught anything; and it was hard to keep their
eyes from wandering about the room, and out into the
garden, for the glass doors of my sitting room open directly
on the garden, filled with beautiful flowers.  A hymn which
they tried to sing, and a bunch of flowers for each, closed
the exercises."
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * *
</p>

<p>
The school went on prosperously for several weeks; the
numbers increased to twelve; and Madeline was pleased to
see some improvement.  Effie taught each one orally verses
from the Bible, and simple hymns, for she could not use
her eyes at all.
</p>

<p>
Weekly the young girls visited the factory lane, and
soon the poor people learned to look for the visit with great
delight.
</p>

<p>
The sick mother was tenderly cared for; the old
grandmother provided with what she needed; the cripple
comforted by kind words, and gentle ministrations; and
Madeline felt the joy of knowing that she was doing something
towards lightening human misery.  But Effie's eyes were
growing worse; it was deemed advisable to consult a New
York oculist; and Madeline was obliged to accompany the
young girl.
</p>

<p>
The Saturday school was for awhile suspended, much
to the disappointment of the little ones, for they were very
sorry to lose their kind teachers.
</p>

<p>
Being alone, it was thought proper that they should
take up their abode in a private boarding-house, for
Madeline could not burden her friend Mary Trevor with the
charge of Effie.
</p>

<p>
But little encouragement was given by the great oculist;
and Madeline was now convinced that her friend was
doomed to a life of darkness.
</p>

<p>
Roland was not in New York when they first arrived,
having gone to a neighboring town on important business.
Madeline was devoted in her attendance upon Effie; reading
to her, and in every way that affection could invent,
trying to turn her thoughts from herself.  Effie was,
however, in habits of daily self-communion, schooling her young
heart to what she felt was coming.  "God help me!" was
her constant cry; and when was that feeble prayer ever
disregarded by the dear Father in Heaven?
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap19"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XIX
<br><br>
"AULD LANG SYNE."
</h3>

<p>
Madeline's presence in New York is soon known among
her friends; numberless cards are left at her house, but as
her errand is one chiefly of business, she returns but few
calls; a few exceptions, however, are made; for she wishes
Effie to have some cheerful society.
</p>

<p>
Occasionally, excursions are made around New York
for the purpose of amusing her young friend, for Madeline
spares no pains to cheer her drooping spirits.
</p>

<p>
Roland has returned; he has been absent on exceedingly
annoying and troublesome business, and somewhat to throw
off care, takes a boat for the bay.
</p>

<p>
It is a beautiful evening, and has invited a merry party
of ladies and gentlemen to take the same excursion.
</p>

<p>
Roland does not relish the companionship of the
light-hearted, and withdraws himself from their neighborhood;
not far from where he stands, he observes the form of a
lady leaning over the side of the boat; sometimes gazing
dreamily upon the water, then upon the heavens above; it
looks like a familiar form.
</p>

<p>
He recognizes the face of Madeline, but avoids
recognition, because he wishes to watch her movements.  She
seems melancholy and abstracted, and hums sadly a
familiar air, one that he had taught her; the dear old song
of "Auld Lang Syne."
</p>

<p>
"Does she remember those happy times?" thought the
young man, "and surrounded as she is by so much to make
her forget those early days; does she still cherish the
memory of her boyish friend?"
</p>

<p>
He observed her wipe a tear silently away, and as she
turned to renew her walk, Roland moved towards her, and
she recognized the object of her thoughts.
</p>

<p>
"Mr. Bruce!" "Miss Madeline!" were the hasty
salutations, as each extended a hand of welcome.
</p>

<p>
"How came you here, Miss Madeline?" was Roland's
first question.
</p>

<p>
"I am here with Effie, for advice with regard to her eyes."
</p>

<p>
"Is she with you to-night?"
</p>

<p>
"She is not, for she has but little heart for amusement;
she insisted on my coming, and I have left her in good
company for the evening."
</p>

<p>
"You were musing, Miss Madeline," said Roland, in a
lower voice, "and singing that old Scotch song; did it
recall former childish days?"
</p>

<p>
For a minute, Madeline did not reply; at last she said,
"I shall never forget those days; how often do I need just
such a friend as I had then."
</p>

<p>
"There is a friend, Madeline, 'that sticketh closer than
a brother;' have you found him yet?"
</p>

<p>
"I am trying, Roland, but there is much to hinder; my
faith is very weak; my heart very deceitful."
</p>

<p>
"Your Saviour knows that, Madeline; he is not only
the 'author, but the finisher of our faith;' if you have any,
even as much as the grain of mustard seed, it is of his
planting; he only can make it grow; do you look to him
daily?" and Roland bent more closely to Madeline, as they
paced the deck together.
</p>

<p>
"I think I have that little grain; but my great infirmities
of character do so harass me; my quick impetuous temper
make me feel so unworthy.  I have no one to strengthen
me now as when I went to Maple Lane School."
</p>

<p>
"Do the temptations of the world draw your heart away
from better things, Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"I think not; I care for none of them; I want to be a
Christian, wholly; to live a better, higher, holier life."
</p>

<p>
"These are the teachings of the Holy Spirit, Madeline;
God will perfect his own work; only do not resist these
influences, they are sent from Heaven."
</p>

<p>
"Lately I wanted your advice so much; I want to do
some good at Woodcliff; but I did not know how to begin."
</p>

<p>
"I have heard, Madeline, about your little school; go on,
my young friend, God will guide and bless you."
</p>

<p>
"How did you hear, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"Did you not write to Helen for books and shoes? she
told me all about it."
</p>

<p>
Madeline shrank away at the mention of Helen's name,
for she feared that she had been too communicative about
herself, but it seemed so like the old times, that she could
not resist the opportunity of opening her heart on this one
subject.
</p>

<p>
"Does Helen take any interest in such things?" inquired
Madeline.
</p>

<p>
"Yes, she does now," was the answer; "she is quite a
help to me in my 'Home.'  I wish that you could do
something for us, Madeline."
</p>

<p>
"How can I work for you away off at Woodcliff?"
</p>

<p>
"Why, you have a very fertile imagination, and used to
be famous at story-telling&mdash;can't you manufacture
something for the 'News-boys?'"
</p>

<p>
"I write stories, Roland! why, I never thought of such
a thing&mdash;but it would be a pleasant thing if I could so
write for them, and work for you."
</p>

<p>
"I want you to work for God, Madeline; you have bright
talents, my little friend;" and Roland seemed to have gone
back to the days on the sea-shore, and to forget that he was
talking to a young lady, the heiress of Woodcliff, instead
of little Maddy of Maple Lane School.
</p>

<p>
Madeline smiled, for it made her very happy to feel that
she could, in any way, be a coworker with Roland, and she
really felt as if she could make the effort; it was worth
trying.
</p>

<p>
"Must it be very religious, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"It must be something to wake up the moral sense of
these poor boys, and to point them to a holy life."
</p>

<p>
"Oh! that is too much for me, Roland; I can, perhaps,
write a little story which may please them, and keep them
from bad reading."
</p>

<p>
"Will you promise me to try, Madeline? send it on to
me, and I will correct it, and get it ready for the press."
</p>

<p>
Suddenly Madeline burst out into one of her old fits of
laughing; her own ringing, silvery laugh.
</p>

<p>
"I could not help it, Roland; it seems so strange to
think of Madeline Hamilton turning authoress."
</p>

<p>
"It does not seem strange to me; I always believed that
you were born for something very good, Madeline; now I
want you to tell me all about your little school, and the
poor people around Woodcliff."
</p>

<p>
And Madeline entered into an animated description of
all that had been attempted; so artless, so naive was her
account, so modest, and yet so frank, that Roland felt as if
he was seated once more by the bright child of the
sea-shore; but when he remembered that years had passed
since then, and that the broad gulf of wealth and rank
forbade the free, charming intercourse of those young days;
he checked expressions that would have arisen to his lips,
and hushed the wild beating of his heart, awakening to the
sense of danger, that attended such an interview as this.
</p>

<p>
"You promise to write the story, Madeline, remember."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, I promise anything,"&mdash;&mdash;and she checked the
remaining words trembling on her lips,&mdash;"to you."
</p>

<p>
They forgot the passing of time in this sweet communion,
until Charles Davenport came up to Madeline, and laying
his hand upon her arm, said, haughtily,
</p>

<p>
"Are you aware, Madeline, how long you have been
absent from your party?"
</p>

<p>
"Are you aware that you are interrupting my
conversation with an old friend?"
</p>

<p>
"An old friend, indeed!  May I ask the name?"
</p>

<p>
"Mr. Bruce, Charles Davenport."
</p>

<p>
"How long since you resigned your post at college, sir?"
</p>

<p>
"What post, Mr. Davenport?"
</p>

<p>
"That which you held when I was a member of that
college."
</p>

<p>
Roland did not answer&mdash;indignation was too strong; but
Madeline did.
</p>

<p>
"I understand your insinuation, sir; how dare you insult
Roland Bruce?  You cannot lower him; you have tried
it too often, and failed."
</p>

<p>
Poor Madeline! aware of the hot blood that was mounting
to her face, she covered it with her hands, and murmured,
</p>

<p>
"Begone, Charles Davenport; you make me forget that
I am a woman; I am so ashamed, what shall I do?" and
she burst into tears of wounded modesty.
</p>

<p>
Charles went off whistling.
</p>

<p>
"Quite a scene with that upstart fellow!"
</p>

<p>
Roland stood by Madeline, scarcely knowing what to
say.  He was aware that her innate sense of propriety had
been greatly outraged by the words which in her impetuosity
she had uttered; he stood silent for one minute, then
taking her hand, said,
</p>

<p>
"I understand your generous nature, Madeline; I thank
you more than words can express."
</p>

<p>
"I am humbled, mortified at my impetuosity; do not
think me destitute of modesty, Roland."
</p>

<p>
"You, Madeline! you know not what you are saying&mdash;be
satisfied when I say that if the expression of the deepest
respect that ever filled the heart of man can relieve your
wounded pride, it is all your own."
</p>

<p>
"Thank you, Roland; I could not bear to lose your
respect; let me always deserve that."
</p>

<p>
Taking her hand, and placing it within his arm, he led
her to her party, saying,
</p>

<p>
"Good night, Miss Madeline; I shall see you and Effie
to-morrow;" for Roland felt that this heart-communion was
becoming each moment more dangerous.
</p>

<p>
"Who was that young man?" inquired Mary Trevor;
"he is so noble-looking, and what a bow! quite the air of a
prince!"
</p>

<p>
"Poor and proud!" retorted Charles Davenport.
</p>

<p>
"He is an early friend of mine, Mary.  His name is Bruce."
</p>

<p>
"O yes! he is in Mr. Thornly's office; I have met him
there several times; he is a young man of fine talents, and
quite an admirer of Helen Thornly; some say more."
</p>

<p>
Madeline did not reply, but there was something in her
heart that night, that made her feel very easy with regard
to these rumors; at all events, Roland has lost none of his
interest in his youthful friend, and Madeline dreamed about
Woodcliff, and Maple Lane School, about the sea-shore,
Uncle Peter, and a little shoe.
</p>

<p>
Next morning, Roland called to see his sister, and was
deeply pained at the evidences manifest of the affliction
hanging over his darling Effie.
</p>

<p>
Folding her in his arms, he pressed upon her sweet face
the warm kisses of brotherly love.
</p>

<p>
"Would, darling, that I could shelter you from the woes
of life; but Effie, this is not our home; we are seeking a
better one; and if for a little while our Father sees fit to
close my sister's eyes, I will be eyes and everything else
for her."
</p>

<p>
"I know it, Roland; I am trying to school my heart; I
know what is coming; each day the light becomes more
dim; but the presence of my Saviour is always with me;
I can still, with the eyes of my soul, 'Look aloft.'  I have
so many blessings, Roland; a pleasant home, good kind
friends, a dear, dear brother, such a friend in Madeline, and
the hope of Heaven always so bright."
</p>

<p>
Roland smoothed the soft brown hair, kissed the pale
forehead, and lifting up his voice, prayed so fervently for
the dear stricken lamb, that Effie was comforted.
</p>

<p>
A few more days, and the young girls returned to Woodcliff,
with the sad certainty that nothing more could be done
for Effie.
</p>

<p>
Roland saw them safely in the cars, and promised to
write frequently to his sister.
</p>

<p>
"Remember your promise," was his last charge to Madeline.
</p>

<p>
As soon as possible, she made preparations for her new
effort; carefully concealing from her father and aunt the
nature of her employment.
</p>

<p>
She was some time deciding whether her hero should be
a good or a bad boy; she tried both, but was dissatisfied.
At last, she selected one from the very lowest walks of life,
and the deepest degradation, raised by the power of Christian
love to a post of useful, earnest piety.
</p>

<p>
As her story progressed, she read each chapter to Effie,
who was delighted at the genius manifested by her model
friend.
</p>

<p>
At length it was completed, and sent to Roland; nothing
was heard of it for some time.  So humble was her sense
of its demerits, that Madeline looked daily for the return
of her manuscript.
</p>

<p>
Finally, a letter came to Effie, announcing that all
arrangements were made, the book disposed of, and would be
out in about two months; but Roland asked what was to be
done with the money for the manuscript.
</p>

<p>
"I never thought of that," said the young girl; "but tell
Roland, Effie, to keep the money for the 'Home.'"
</p>

<p>
When at last the package came, and Madeline really
looked upon one of her own productions in print, she could
not but smile at her temerity; and when in addition to the
book, were also some flattering notices from the press, she
was actually surprised.
</p>

<p>
Papa was in the library&mdash;Madeline knocked at the door
with a trembling hand; and when her father bade her
enter, she stood irresolute with the book in her hand, and a
shy smile upon her face.
</p>

<p>
"What is the matter, daughter? you seem agitated."
</p>

<p>
"I have something to show you, papa."
</p>

<p>
"Well! what is it?  I am ready."
</p>

<p>
"This little book, papa."
</p>

<p>
"Poh! poh! is that all? only a boy's book, Maddy."
</p>

<p>
"But I know that you'd like to read this one, papa."
</p>

<p>
"Well, to please my daughter, I'll read it some time; lay
it on the table."
</p>

<p>
"But, papa, I want you to read it now; look at the
title-page."
</p>

<p>
"By Madeline."  "Why, what does this mean?"
</p>

<p>
"It means, dear papa, that this is Mad-cap's book."
</p>

<p>
"Did you really write this, my child?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, I did, papa; I hope it may do some good among
the poor boys of New York."
</p>

<p>
"What next, Maddy?" asked her father, with an amused
expression of countenance.
</p>

<p>
"I must be busy, and this is such pleasant work; you do
not object, do you, papa?"
</p>

<p>
"No, not exactly; but I should not like to have your
name handed around as an authoress; I have rather a
horror of literary ladies in general; they are so often odd,
and I cannot abide an eccentric woman."
</p>

<p>
"But, dear me, papa, these little unpretending stories are
really nothing; they never can make me famous; and really
I do not wish for anything but that they may do some
good."
</p>

<p>
Papa read the little book with a feeling of secret pride,
quite surprised to see so much talent in his daughter Maddy.
At the tea-table, he alluded to the subject.
</p>

<p>
"Well, what would you think, Matilda, if I should
introduce Madeline to her aunt, as a young authoress?"
</p>

<p>
"Think, Lewis Hamilton! why I should say that you
are both crazy.  First, a Lady Bountiful, bringing in all
the ragged children of the neighborhood, and now a writer
of childish books.  I am really concerned; if she becomes
a 'blue stocking,' I have no hope left; she will grow to be
a careless, slatternly woman, just like that Miss Hodges,
that used to go about the country with soiled face and
hands, carrying her great bag of manuscript under her
skirts, fastened around her waist, like saddle-bags.  You
have no idea, Lewis Hamilton, how these pursuits ruin a
woman&mdash;your indulgence carries you much too far."
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hamilton laughed heartily at such a picture.
</p>

<p>
"Don't alarm yourself, Matilda; I don't think that
Madeline will ever reach notoriety like that."
</p>

<p>
"Why, aunty, I can't see how you could ever dream of
such a thing; you know bow I despise a sloven; if I
thought that I could ever become such a disgusting person,
I would burn my papers at once, and consign my poor little
attempts to the oblivion which they may reach in another
way; but, dear aunt, really in earnest, I promise you to
wash my face and hands, and comb my hair at least once a
day, and not to disgrace my name."
</p>

<p>
Throwing her arms around Aunt Matilda's neck, she
kissed her affectionately, and said,
</p>

<p>
"Now confess, aunty, did not you think first, 'And what
will Mrs. Grundy say?'  Is not that the truth?"  And Maddy
was victor as usual of the whole ground; father, aunt, and
all who had read her little book.
</p>

<p>
"Write to your heart's content, Maddy, only avoid those
follies which are so often seen."
</p>

<p>
The little school prospered.  Effie aided as far as her
strength allowed.  Total blindness had spread its dark
mantle over the dear girl.
</p>

<p>
It was truly a mournful sight to behold the desolate
orphan, groping her way about the house, feeling by the
banisters, and along the walls; or sitting with folded hands,
and meek submissive face, generally in Madeline's sitting
room.
</p>

<p>
Her health was evidently on the decline; a feebler step,
failing appetite, longings for the better land marked her
approach to her Father's house.
</p>

<p>
She had learned to knit very expertly, even without eyesight,
and it was with feelings of humble contentment that
she could thus employ her fingers, for many a nice pair of
warm stockings were thus provided for their little pupils.
Seated in Madeline's favorite room, she could smell the
fragrance of the flowers, hear the warbling of birds, and
the sweet voice of her dear friend at her daily practice.
Her chapter in the Bible was read to her every morning,
by Madeline, who would then arrange her chair, get Effie's
knitting, and busy herself about her own employments.
</p>

<p>
"Will you get me a bunch of heather, Maddy?  I want
it near me; it was my mother's flower, you know."
</p>

<p>
"Here it is, Effie;" and placing it in her hands, Madeline
kissed the sweet pale face, while the blind girl pressed
it to her lips with sweet memories of the departed.
</p>

<p>
"Is it a bright morning, Madeline?" asked the orphan.
</p>

<p>
"Bright as a May morning can be, Effie; the dew is
yet on the sweet flowers, and all is charming and refreshing."
</p>

<p>
"I can well afford to be contented with my present
blindness, Madeline; for I shall soon see the brighter
scenes, and pluck the flowers of Paradise; will you sing
for me that sweet hymn,
</p>

<p class="poem">
  'Thy will be done?'"<br>
</p>

<p class="noindent">
and as Madeline poured out the plaintive melody of that
touching air, Effie leaned back in her chair, with a sweet
placid look of perfect happiness.
</p>

<p>
"Madeline, it is a precious experience 'to know no will
but his,' willing to live, joyful to die; I would live for
Roland, but die to be with Jesus and my mother; by-the-bye,
Madeline, to-morrow is the day when we may expect
my brother; did he not say on Thursday?"
</p>

<p>
"He did in his last letter to you, and he is a faithful
promiser."
</p>

<p>
Seated in her accustomed place, Effie listens eagerly for
every step, for her remaining senses are made more acute
by the loss of one; the step on the gravelled walk, then on
the piazza, the closing of the front door, the firm tread
along the hall, and the voice so beloved, sends a glow of
joy over the face of the blind girl, and rising, she gropes
her way hastily to the entry, where she is soon folded to the
bosom of her "dear, dear Roland."
</p>

<p>
He gazes sadly for one moment upon the sightless eyes,
the pale drooping form, and the hectic bloom on the thin
face, and feels that Effie is following their mother to the
land of the blessed.
</p>

<p>
But Roland has a cheerful spirit, and nothing but strong
comforting words pass his lips when alone with his little
sister.  He tells her of his plans, of his success in
business, and his News-boys' Home, of incidents connected
with the history of several, and amusing accounts of their
first entrance upon civilized life.
</p>

<p>
"Would you believe it, Effie, that one poor little fellow
did not know the use of a staircase, and we found him
groping up on his hands and feet as he had been accustomed
to do by the ladder of his gloomy garret.  There
was a looking-glass in the matron's room, and the same
little fellow was pushing through, thinking it was another
room."
</p>

<p>
Effie laughed at these stories, and thought her brother
the most entertaining company that she had ever met.
</p>

<p>
"Now, brother, tell me all about Madeline's book; did
the boys like it?"
</p>

<p>
"It was the very book for them; they are always asking
for 'The Boy in Earnest;' each one is to have a copy on
Christmas morning."
</p>

<p>
Turning to Madeline, he continued,
</p>

<p>
"You must go on with your stories; the publisher was
delighted, and wants more from the same source.  I have
some matter which I can give you, and you can weave it
into the form of a tale for us&mdash;you see that my advice was
good, Madeline, although you were so afraid to try."
</p>

<p>
"It is always right, Roland; you never advised me for
anything but my good, but you ought to hear Aunt Matilda
make fun of these things; she says that I shall forget to
wash my face and hands after awhile; do you think that
there is really any danger of such a calamity?" and
Madeline smiled archly on her friend.
</p>

<p>
"Not if I may judge by present appearances;" was the
reply, as Roland gazed with an admiring look upon the
perfect lady-like neatness of hair, dress, and manner that
always distinguished Madeline.
</p>

<p>
"I never could tell what you wear, but I think that your
aunt need not wish anything different."
</p>

<p>
Madeline blushed at the compliment so unusual from the
lips of Roland, and made a low mischievous courtesy, with
the witchery of former times.
</p>

<p>
"Thank you, kind sir, you had better take care, lest you
make me vain, instead of a 'blue stocking;' and one is as
bad as the other."
</p>

<p>
"Pure motives, Madeline, will make all right; everything
in its proper place, but God over all."
</p>

<p>
A bright blush mantled the young face, and a light
beamed from the deep blue eyes, illumining the whole
countenance, which Madeline did not care to be wholly
revealed, for she dropped the lids hastily, lest the eyes should
speak too much.
</p>

<p>
The Saturday school assembled before Roland returned
to New York.
</p>

<p>
On a visit to Effie, he had the pleasure of being present
at one of these gatherings.
</p>

<p>
Madeline was much embarrassed, and could scarcely proceed
with her work in his presence.
</p>

<p>
Understanding her feelings, he said, kindly,
</p>

<p>
"Is there anything that I can do, Miss Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"If you will make the opening prayer, I should be
pleased.  I use our forms of prayer, but I would rather hear
yours to-day."
</p>

<p>
Roland poured forth a simple, heart-felt, earnest prayer,
remembering all the members of that household, as well as
the children kneeling around them.  Madeline had never
heard him pray, and when he named her as the young
teacher of the little flock, she felt that more earnestness
marked those petitions, and deeply was she moved by the
glowing language of that solemn supplication.
</p>

<p>
He took Effie's class, and although apparently engrossed
by the employment of the hour, watched with deep emotion
the humble, affectionate manner with which Madeline
performed her duty towards her young pupils.
</p>

<p>
He did not wonder at their interest, when he glanced at
the earnest glow of her lovely countenance, nor at the
reverence of the young faces, when he listened to the simple
instruction which she endeavored to impart.
</p>

<p>
At the close, Madeline took her seat at the piano, and
played one of her childish hymns, in which they all joined;
then the bunch of flowers, as usual, was the kind dismissal.
</p>

<p>
"Please, ma'am, granny is very bad with the rheumatiz,"
said little Betsy Smith; "she wants you to come and see
her."
</p>

<p>
"I will come to-morrow, Betsy."
</p>

<p>
"And please, ma'am," said another, "daddy broke his
leg last week; won't you stop at our house?"
</p>

<p>
Madeline blushed as she saw the expression with which
Roland regarded her, as she answered the humble petitioners.
</p>

<p>
"God bless you, Miss Madeline, in your good work," said
the young man, as he warmly pressed her hand; "but this
is a novel kind of school in a young lady's sitting-room, in
the midst of flowers and music, and such teachers."
</p>

<p>
"Our accommodations are not suitable, we know; but
we hope for something better some of these days."
</p>

<p>
"The children will be sorry to move away from this,"
was the quick reply.
</p>

<p>
"But we can teach so few in this room, and we might
as well have more."
</p>

<p>
Roland was more pleased than he could express with all
that he had seen, and when he took his departure, his last
words were,
</p>

<p>
"God bless you, Miss Madeline, and do not forget
another book."
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap20"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XX.
<br><br>
OUT IN THE LIGHT.
</h3>

<p>
It is a bright and beautiful day&mdash;Madeline looks tenderly
upon the drooping invalid reclining upon the couch in her
pleasant sitting-room.
</p>

<p>
"Will you walk this morning, Effie? the air is so pure
and fresh, it will revive you."
</p>

<p>
She raised her languid head for one moment, and replied,
</p>

<p>
"I cannot to-day, dear, I am too weak; come read to me
some of the precious Saviour's words; they will comfort
me."
</p>

<p>
Madeline selected some passages from the fourteenth
chapter of John, those which have cheered so many weary
pilgrims on their journey homeward.
</p>

<p>
"In my Father's house are many mansions; if it were
not so, I would have told you; I go to prepare a place for you."
</p>

<p>
"'Many mansions,' dear Madeline, and one is mine, purchased
by a Saviour's blood, ensured to me by his unfailing
truth."
</p>

<p>
Madeline's eyes filled, and her voice trembled as she
continued.
</p>

<p>
"And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come
again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there
ye may be also."
</p>

<p>
"'I will come again,' Maddy; listen to those words;
Jesus will come again, and where he is, I shall be also;
with Jesus, dearest; with my mother in Paradise; out in
the light; no more blindness, no more darkness, but perfect
bliss; this is my hope."
</p>

<p>
Madeline took up the next verse.
</p>

<p>
"And whither I go ye know, and the way ye know."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, blessed be God!  I know the way; I have known
it so long; my mother led my infant steps in that holy
way, and I cannot remember when I did not love my
Saviour.  O, what cause have I to praise my God!  While
so many are living in sin, dancing merrily in the way to
death, his grace has saved me, Maddy; if I had been like
others, rich and healthy, I might have been just as
thoughtless, just as vain."
</p>

<p>
Madeline continued until she came to the verse, "Jesus
saith unto him, I am the way, and the truth, and the life; no
man cometh unto the Father but by me."
</p>

<p>
"He does not leave us, dear, to grope in darkness, when
he says, 'Come unto me;' he leads the way himself; he is
the truth; he guides us into all truth; he is the life, Maddy,
the life of the immortal soul; through him we have pardon,
access to God, and the hope of eternal life sure and stedfast;
poor, weak, trembling thing that I am, I can cast my
little anchor within the vail, and feel it on a rock.  I know
that this faith must be divine, for I am such a fearful, timid
being, afraid of so many things around me, and yet not
afraid to meet a pure and holy God in judgment; this faith
must be all his work, Maddy."
</p>

<p>
With a heart full of sympathy, Madeline continued until
she reached the thirteenth verse.
</p>

<p>
"And whatsoever ye shall ask in my name, that will I
do, that the Father may be glorified in the Son.  If ye shall
ask anything in my name,  I will do it."
</p>

<p>
"'If ye shall ask anything in my name;' think of the
promise, Madeline, 'I will do it.'  I have believed my Saviour,
and I have asked eternal life for you, and my Saviour
will, yes dear, he is hearing my prayer, and Roland's
too&mdash;how often have we prayed together for you."
</p>

<p>
Madeline's head drooped for one moment, and she could
scarcely proceed; but she answered,
</p>

<p>
"Do you really believe, Effie, that I shall ever be a
Christian? that I, proud, self-willed Madeline, shall ever be like
the meek and lowly Saviour?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, dear, if you, like Mary, will sit daily at his feet,
he will teach you; he will make you like himself; and then,
Maddy, after all the cares and sorrows of this mortal life
are ended, we shall be forever with him."
</p>

<p>
"Does it ever grieve you to think of leaving this world,
Effie?" asked her friend.
</p>

<p>
"When I think of Roland all alone," and her lips quivered,
"then my heart is sad, for he has none but me; but
you'll be kind to him, Madeline; you will not forget Effie's
brother."
</p>

<p>
"There is Helen Thornly, Effie; while he has her, he
will not be desolate."
</p>

<p>
"What do you mean, Madeline?  Helen is only a kind
friend to Roland, nothing more; she helps him in his
missionary work, and that brings them much together; there
is nobody in the wide world that Roland values as he does
you, Maddy; next to me, you are his other sister."
</p>

<p>
"Did he ever tell you so, Effie?"
</p>

<p>
"Why no, not exactly; but I know Roland; he can never
forget the kindness of his little sea-shore friend, or the sweet
intercourse of childish days; he has too much gratitude for
that.  But Maddy, there is one thing I should like&mdash;when
I am gone, you can write no more letters for poor blind
Effie; how he will miss them!  If you would only continue
to write to him kind, friendly letters, he would not miss me
then quite so much."
</p>

<p>
Dear innocent little Effie!
</p>

<p>
Madeline blushed even in the presence of the blind girl,
at such a proposition.
</p>

<p>
"That cannot be, Effie; it would be highly improper for
a young lady to be writing letters to a gentleman."
</p>

<p>
"Pardon me, Madeline, I forgot the difference; I see it
cannot be expected; it would be presumptuous in Roland;
but still it would be so pleasant; and I don't see why you
cannot; just letters of advice, Maddy."
</p>

<p>
"I advise Roland! why Effie, that would be singular
indeed, when nearly all my life he has been my counsellor."
</p>

<p>
"This is a strange world, Maddy.  I know that you
would like to write; and just because people are so foolish,
you have to be led by their notions; Roland is only like a
brother, and I can't see any harm in it at all."
</p>

<p>
"Dear papa would not approve of such a correspondence,
Effie; and besides, Roland has never asked it himself."
</p>

<p>
"Some of these days, Madeline, you will be thinking of
marriage, or some one will think of it for you; I hope that
you will ask Roland's counsel, then; I know that he would
not like you to marry any one who is not a Christian."
</p>

<p>
"Why, Effie, you need not trouble yourself about the
matter; I am very happy at Woodcliff; I don't know any
one that could tempt me away from my father; in fact, I
don't think about it at all.  Harry Castleton has troubled
me sometimes with his offers, but really, I scarcely give it
a thought, and least of all with him."
</p>

<p>
But Madeline smiled at the idea of asking Roland's
advice upon such a subject.
</p>

<p>
"Now, Maddy, sing me one of our sweet hymns."
</p>

<p>
"What shall it be, dear?"
</p>

<p>
"'How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord;' that is
one of my favorites."
</p>

<p>
And Madeline sang the beautiful words with touching pathos.
</p>

<p>
Effie was not able to sit up all that day, but continued
in the same happy, tranquil state of mind.
</p>

<p>
Time wore away&mdash;gradually Effie's strength declined.
</p>

<p>
One day, being a little stronger, she called Madeline to
her side, and said,
</p>

<p>
"Bring me the box, dear, which you will find in my
upper drawer," and accordingly Madeline obeyed.
</p>

<p>
"I have none but you, Miss Matilda, and Roland, Maddy,
and I want to distribute my few trifling keepsakes, before
I am too weak.  My Bible, my breastpin, with my mother's
hair, and my little desk, are for Roland; my mourning ring,
the gift of Miss Matilda, and the likeness, which you
remember we had taken in New York, are both for you; my
hymn-book, my knitting-bag and caba, are for Miss
Matilda.  I bought a little book for each of the servants, when
I was in New York; write my name in each.  You may
do what you please with my clothes; I think, however, it
would be well to distribute them among our little
scholars&mdash;now I have nothing more to do with earth, but just to
wait my Father's will; when he is ready, he will send for
me."
</p>

<p>
There was a picture of the Believer's Vision on the wall
opposite to where Effie reposed, and as she lay there with
folded hands, and sweet expression of perfect peace, Madeline
had learned to associate the two, and ever after, would
that touching picture speak of Effie.
</p>

<p>
"Madeline, I promised Roland that I would send for
him when the change was near; I think that it will not be
many days before I shall be out in the blessed light of
Heaven.  I asked the Doctor, yesterday, and he told me,
Maddy, that it might be a very short time, or a few days,
at farthest; will you send for Roland?  This is Thursday,
and he could be spared better on Saturday and Sunday."
</p>

<p>
Madeline sent a few hasty lines, and on Saturday afternoon
he arrived, pale and sad, for he understood the message.
</p>

<p>
"You will stay with me, Roland, until all is over?" was
the request of the dying girl.
</p>

<p>
"I have made all my arrangements, and will not leave
you, darling."
</p>

<p>
"I want to see Mr. Hamilton alone, Roland; I have
something to say to him; will you tell him, dear?"
</p>

<p>
Madeline's father had learned to love the gentle blind
girl, and when he entered, and saw the gray shadows of
death upon her countenance, he could scarcely control his
feelings.
</p>

<p>
"I am going to leave you, Mr. Hamilton, and I want to
thank you for all your kindness to poor blind Effie; I shall
not be blind much longer, for I am going out of the darkness
into the blessed light of Heaven; but I want to tell
you, that weak and timid as I am, I am not afraid to die;
my trust is in Jesus, and he never leaves me, nor forsakes
me.  I love you, Mr. Hamilton, because you are Madeline's
father, and I want you to be just as happy as I am&mdash;warnings
have come to you, my good, kind friend, for these many
months, and I want you to promise me, dying Effie, that
you will seek the Saviour, ere it is forever too late."
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hamilton bowed his head upon his hands, and replied,
</p>

<p>
"I often feel, Effie, as if my days would not be very
many in this world, for I am much worse than Madeline
dreams of.  I have not your blessed hope, my dear child,
but I know that yours is real, is divine, and I promise you,
Effie, to seek your Saviour; does that make you happy?"
and Mr. Hamilton stooped down to kiss the pale cheek of
the child.
</p>

<p>
"Happy! yes, Mr. Hamilton, I should be perfectly happy,
if I could hope to meet you all up there," and she pointed
upward, while a look of seraphic blessedness dwelt upon
her face.  "Now, send Miss Matilda."
</p>

<p>
Miss Matilda had avoided being alone with Effie, for she
was afraid of death.
</p>

<p>
Thoughts of the dark grave, the judgment and eternity,
were all that she ever associated with the subject.
</p>

<p>
She entered the room, and took her seat by the couch.
</p>

<p>
"You are not so very ill, Effie; I have seen persons
weaker than you recover."  Effie smiled, as she replied,
"I have no fears of death, Miss Matilda; my Saviour has
taken them all away; I have no desire to live, but for
Roland's sake; but I sent for you to tell you how blessed
is the Christian's state.  My trust is all in my Saviour;
and he will not prove untrue to his word.  You have been
very good to poor orphan Effie, and I want to see you
happy.  I know you are not happy now&mdash;no one can be
who does not love God best of all; you will not be offended
at me, Miss Matilda, for I shall soon be gone; but I want
you to seek the Saviour."
</p>

<p>
"I am a member of the church, Effie; I don't know
what you mean, exactly."
</p>

<p>
"I mean, dear Miss Matilda, that I want you to have
real heart faith in Jesus; faith that makes you love him,
trust him, follow him as your best friend."
</p>

<p>
"Effie, I do believe in him, but not as you do."
</p>

<p>
"That is what I mean, Miss Matilda; I don't mean just
to be a member of the church, and no more; that is not
all; I want you to be a member of Christ himself, and that
is by faith."
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "'Tis like Heaven below,<br>
  My Redeemer to know,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The angels can do nothing more,<br>
  Than to sit at his feet<br>
  And the story repeat,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And the dear friend of sinners adore."<br>
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
Miss Matilda sat bathed in tears, for she had a warm
affectionate heart, and could not but love the little lamb
who was pleading so sweetly the cause of her Master.
</p>

<p>
She took the pale and withered hand, and replied, "Effie,
there is something about this, different from all that I have
ever seen; death always seemed so terrible to me."
</p>

<p>
"It is only terrible where sin is not pardoned; 'the
sting of death is sin.'  Jesus has borne it all for me, and
to me there is no sting, nor any fear of the grave, because
he has lain there, and blessed it, Miss Matilda."
</p>

<p>
"Would that I had such a trust as this," and she kissed
the dear child, and left the room.  Sweet was the
communion between Effie and her brother.  Roland's strong
faith, and scriptural knowledge made him a most valuable
treasure to the feeble girl, for as the dying hour
approached, she had some experience of the conflict between
the soul and body, and some slight cloud of darkness in
her hour of weakness; but Roland sat by her, watching
each change, praying, soothing, repeating words of
Scripture, and the hour of temptation passed.
</p>

<p>
"Out in the light, dear brother; so soon at home with
Jesus.  Read from the Revelations, Roland;" and in a
deep, rich voice, he read,
</p>

<p>
"'And there shall be no more curse; but the throne of
God and the Lamb shall be in it; and his servants shall
serve him: And they shall see his face; and his name shall
be in their foreheads.  And there shall be no night there;
and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the
Lord God giveth them light; and they shall reign forever
and ever.'"
</p>

<p>
"'And there shall be no night there,' Roland, 'but one
eternal, glorious day;' come, Madeline, one more kiss, one
more, Roland," and Effie clasped her dying arms around
both as she whispered, "Love the Saviour, love Roland
as I have loved him, Madeline, love each other, and we
shall meet in Heaven."
</p>

<p>
They arose from that cold embrace, and as Effie lay back
upon her pillow, softly, gently the sweet spirit departed;
and when Madeline saw that she had gone, forgetting all
ceremony, she took Roland's arm, and led him out into the
garden, for Effie had departed in Madeline's sitting-room.
He walked mechanically to an arbor, with Madeline by his
side.  One burst of manly grief rent his bosom, for dearly
had he loved his gentle sister, and he felt now that he was
indeed alone.  Almost unconscious of the act, she leaned
her head upon Roland's shoulder, and whispered,
</p>

<p>
"Not alone, Roland; I will take Effie's place."
</p>

<p>
"You cannot, you cannot, Madeline; not Effie's," and
ere he was aware, he passed his arm around her waist, but
as instantly released her, as he continued pacing up and
down the arbor; "you cannot be my sister, Madeline; I
must be gone from here, and then I shall indeed be all
alone."
</p>

<p>
Madeline scarcely knew what to think of his conduct;
if it was intended as a casting off her sisterly love, she was
indeed mistaken in him; but that she could not believe&mdash;what
then could he mean?
</p>

<p>
What was Roland's surprise in the evening of Effie's
death to be called out to see a woman in the entry, and
who should present herself but Elsie Gibson!  They had
not seen her for many months.
</p>

<p>
"Weel, Roland, ye hae lost anither&mdash;what ailed the puir
bairn?"
</p>

<p>
"Consumption at last, Elsie, and she had been blind for
months before she died."
</p>

<p>
"She is at rest, Roland&mdash;but may I see her remains?"
</p>

<p>
"Certainly, Elsie," and the brother took the old woman
into the room where Effie lay.
</p>

<p>
"Will ye gi' me a lock o' her hair, Roland?  I had a lock
o' your mother's, and I want this for the same person."
</p>

<p>
"For whom, Elsie?" was the quick reply.
</p>

<p>
"For ane that has a right, Roland, ye'll ken some day,"
and Elsie was allowed to cut a lock of fair hair, and folding
it carefully in paper, she placed it in her pocket.
</p>

<p>
Roland remained until the day of interment; and accompanied
by the members of Mr. Hamilton's family, and the
children whom she had taught, he laid the dear remains
by the side of her mother, to await the morning of the
resurrection.
</p>

<p>
Nothing further detained him at Woodcliff; indeed, he
seemed anxious to be gone.
</p>

<p>
"Thank you, Miss Madeline, for all your kindness and
devotion to my darling sister," was his last farewell.
</p>

<p>
"Shall I see you again, Mr. Bruce?" was Madeline's
inquiry, for she felt an inward conviction that Effie's death
had removed the last tie that bound him to Woodcliff.
</p>

<p>
"I may, perhaps, come down to see about the grave,
Miss Madeline, but the world has claims upon me, and I
must fulfil them;" then suddenly changing from his cold,
constrained manner, to one of deep feeling, he seized
Madeline's hand, and pressing upon it one long, fond kiss, he
said,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Forgive me, Madeline; it is the first, the last that I
shall ever press upon that hand.  I have had my warning,
and I shall never intrude; but you must not forget me, I
could not bear it; farewell! farewell!" and ere the
astonished girl could reply, he was gone&mdash;out of the door, down
the avenue&mdash;out of sight!
</p>

<p>
What could it all mean! sometimes so cold, then so
impassioned!  How could she account for the conduct so
strange!  She was not aware that Aunt Matilda had
discovered that it was owing to Roland's influence that her
niece had attempted authorship; nor did she know how
much alarmed her aunt had been at the apparent intimacy
between Roland and herself: she had witnessed also the
scene in the arbor on the day of Effie's death, and resolved
to break up the intercourse, if possible; accordingly, on the
evening after the funeral, Roland was seated alone in the
parlor, when Miss Hamilton entered.
</p>

<p>
"We shall miss your dear sister, Mr. Bruce, for she was
a sweet, gentle girl, and we all loved her, and I suppose
that it will be a long while ere we shall see you again; for
as Effie is gone, there is no longer any thing to draw you
to Woodcliff.  If circumstances are somewhat different, it
would give me great pleasure to invite you freely to our
house, but you know that we must have some regard for
the opinions of the world, and as Madeline is now a young
lady, it would be the height of imprudence to encourage
such an ill-assorted intimacy."
</p>

<p>
Roland's face flushed crimson&mdash;all the fire of his
naturally proud temper was aroused; he bit his lips, and
remained silent for one minute, then taking his hat, he simply
said,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Good-evening, Miss Hamilton, I am sorry to have intruded
so long; I understand the gulf between Miss Madeline
and myself perfectly, you have no reason to fear.  I
am quite as proud as you."
</p>

<p>
It was after this interview, that he had taken leave of
Madeline.  She was distressed, but could not understand
what all this seeming inconsistency of conduct meant.
</p>

<p>
"Brother, I have been really concerned at the intimacy
between Madeline and this young man," was the remark
of Miss Matilda to Mr. Hamilton.  "I have found out the
reason why she wrote that book; she would never have
thought of such a thing, if it had not been for Roland
Bruce; he put it into her head, and forsooth! she must
puzzle her brains to publish this book; there is nothing
that he has ever hinted, that she has not done; and I
actually believe that Madeline may some day so far forget
the dignity of her family, as to stoop to such a man as
that."
</p>

<p>
"I have some fears myself, Matilda, for I observed with
how much deference Madeline listened to all his remarks,
and what deep sympathy she manifested with his grief;
and I do not wonder, for he is a most remarkable young
man."
</p>

<p>
"Well, I have put an end to it, brother, without your
help.  I just hinted to him that as Effie was gone, there
would now be nothing to call him to Woodcliff; you should
have seen the crimson blush mantling his whole face, and
the proud bearing of the youth, as he replied, 'that he
should intrude no more.'"
</p>

<p>
"Does Madeline know any thing about it, Matilda?"
</p>

<p>
"She does not, for I fear to rouse her spirit."
</p>

<p>
"And I, too," was her father's reply; "I do not believe
that she would tolerate this if she knew it."
</p>

<p>
"She shall never be any the wiser, and Roland is too
proud to tell her; he walked out of the parlor like a prince."
</p>

<p>
Madeline had another source of disquietude&mdash;her father's
health seemed rapidly declining, and his spirits very low;
so much so, that his physician ordered him to Europe, and
rapid preparations were to be made, in order that they
might leave America in the early autumn.  Mr. Hamilton
observed Madeline's great depression, for since Effie's
death, he had seldom seen her smile; the old joyousness
had vanished from her face, and the elasticity from her
step.  She was very lonely without her dear young friend,
and the hours spent in her sitting-room so much alone,
were not calculated to raise her spirits.  Her walks were
equally lonely; still she rambled to the sea-shore, and old
Peter's cabin.  In a short time, she had placed a simple
marble slab at the head of Effie's grave, and planted some
flowers that she had loved around the sacred spot.
</p>

<p>
One evening she bent her footsteps to the old man's cabin.
</p>

<p>
"I am glad to see you, Miss Madeline, for Master Roland
was here last Monday, and left this little note if you
should call;" and he handed her a small slip of paper, on
which was written, "A thousand thanks for the sweet
memento over my sister's grave; I know whose hand placed
it there; the one whose friendship has never failed us, and
who never can be forgotten.  I hear that you are going to
Europe; may God preserve and bless you with his guiding
band and sustaining grace, prays now and always, Roland."
</p>

<p>
Madeline read the little note with tears.
</p>

<p>
"When was he here, Uncle Peter?" was her first question.
</p>

<p>
"On Monday last; he came to see about his sister's grave,
but found everything done before he got here.  You ought
to have seen him, Miss Madeline, when he came back from
the grave; he sat down there," pointing to a broken chair,
"and covering his face with his hands, he sobbed and wept
so bitterly.  When a man cries so hard, I know there must
be some great sorrow."
</p>

<p>
"What else did he say, Uncle Peter?"
</p>

<p>
"He asked about you, Miss Madeline,&mdash;how you were,
when you were here, how you looked, and if you ever
spoke of him.  He then asked about Mr. Hamilton.  I
told him how sick he was; he seemed so very sorry, but he
did not say one word about Miss Matilda.  I asked him
if he was not going up to the Hall; but he said, 'No, Effie
was gone, and there was nothing to call him there
now.'  Then he asked when you were going to Europe.  I said,
'in about two weeks;' is that correct?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Uncle Peter, if we can get ready for the steamer.
Was that all he said?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, that was all; and then he went away, and I was
so sorry, for he seemed so sad and lonely."
</p>

<p>
Madeline returned with a bowed head to her home; it
was as she had expected.  Roland could not come to the
Hall, now that Effie was gone.
</p>

<p>
It was a comfort, however, to visit the old man, and
Madeline's calls were frequent.
</p>

<p>
One evening, strolling quietly along, her thoughts were
dwelling sadly on the past, and with dread to the future;
she had reached the spot where she sat on the day that she
had first met Roland.  For one minute she stood, and
wiped away a silent tear.  Then walking on, with her eyes
bent upon the beach, she was conscious of nothing around
her, until she reached the old man's cabin.  What was her
surprise upon entering to see Roland!
</p>

<p>
He arose with a constrained manner, and said,
</p>

<p>
"Miss Madeline, I heard that you were going to Europe,
and I felt that I must bid you farewell.  I have been here
once before, but without success&mdash;when do you sail?"
</p>

<p>
"In about a week, Mr. Bruce," was the answer.
</p>

<p>
"Can I speak to you alone, Miss Hamilton?" and Roland
offered his arm, and led her to the old rock, where
they had so often sat in the careless days of childhood.
</p>

<p>
"You are going to cross the wide ocean, Miss Madeline;
will be introduced into new scenes, and will be exposed to
the blandishments of the gay metropolis of England&mdash;do
not forget your immortality; do not forget your early
friend.  I know that they will try to banish me from your
memory; but Madeline, by all the tenderness of childhood's
days, remember, if not me, remember all that I have told
you&mdash;you cannot know the loneliness which I have suffered
ever since Effie's death, and I cannot bear to think that you
can ever forget me.  I ask only your friendship, your
prayers."
</p>

<p>
Madeline's voice trembled as she asked,
</p>

<p>
"Why is it that you come no more to Woodcliff?  we
should be so glad to see you."
</p>

<p>
Roland smiled bitterly, as he replied,
</p>

<p>
"Perhaps so, Madeline; but I have good reasons; you
may know them some day.  When you go to England,
among the rest of your visits, do not forget the benevolent
institutions; get all the information that you can; and
when you return to America, you will be better prepared
to follow out your plans for good; we shall have the
pleasure then of knowing that although separated, we are
co-workers for the same great end."
</p>

<p>
They continued in such conversation for some time
longer; at length the shadows of evening warned them that
it was time to part.
</p>

<p>
"Farewell, Madeline!" and Roland seized the little hand
extended so frankly, pressing it tenderly between both of
his own.
</p>

<p>
"Farewell, Roland; be assured that I shall never forget
you, and when I say this, I mean all that I say&mdash;God bless
you, Roland, forever and ever; he will bring you back to
Woodcliff to bless its people.  I have never lost that faith,
Roland."
</p>

<p>
At the end of the lane which led to the shore, they
parted; and as Madeline walked slowly up the road that
led to the gate of her own home, turning back, she still
saw Roland gazing after her, and waving his hand, as she
vanished up the avenue.
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap21"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXI.
<br><br>
SEARCHING FOR SCOTTISH FRIENDS.
</h3>

<p>
"And now for earnest working," thought Roland, as he
turned wearily away from the one cherished spot; "it is a
hard trial to part from such a friend, but it is evidently my
Father's will, that alone I must still pursue my way; I
must not indulge in vain regrets, but 'Looking aloft,' I will
endeavor to do whatsoever my hand findeth to do with
diligence and single-hearted devotion."  Day by day,
Roland gathered the heavenly manna, and drank of the spiritual
rock; thus strengthened, he returned with renewed zeal to
the duties of his daily life.
</p>

<p>
"Whither so fast, my friend?" cried a familiar voice, as
he was threading his way along the busy streets of New
York.  Turning quickly, he perceived his college friend,
Edmund Norris.  Grasping Roland's hand, he said,
</p>

<p>
"You are the very one that I want to see; I am going
to Europe, and must have a companion; my mother will
hear of none but you, Roland; come, old fellow! just say
that you will go; I will bear your expenses, and we shall
have a grand time together."
</p>

<p>
"How long will you be absent, Edmund?"
</p>

<p>
"About one year; perhaps longer."
</p>

<p>
"What is your plan?"
</p>

<p>
"I propose visiting the continent, England, Scotland, and
Ireland; my mother is not willing to trust her wild son
with any one else; when will you give me an answer,
Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"To-morrow, if you will call at my office, No. 12,
Beekman street."
</p>

<p>
This offer seemed most opportune.  He had no domestic
tie to keep him in America, and here was the opportunity
which he had so long desired, to visit his native land, and
search for his relations, if any he had left.
</p>

<p>
"I will go, Edmund," was his reply; "when shall we sail?"
</p>

<p>
"In the first steamer; I wish to be there early in the
fall."
</p>

<p>
"I shall be ready, Edmund; I can leave my business in
the hands of a young man in my office."
</p>

<p>
The Thornlys were especially sorry to lose the young
inmate; and Helen's pale cheek and depressed spirits
betrayed the interest which she felt in the young man.
</p>

<p>
"You will write to Edgar, Mr. Bruce, I hope," was her
last injunction.  "I should not be surprised if you should
meet Miss Hamilton abroad, for they have all gone for her
father's health, to consult London physicians."
</p>

<p>
"Farewell, Miss Helen, I shall always be grateful for
your kindness."
</p>

<p>
Roland did not see the tear which trembled on her cheek,
as she turned away to hide her emotion.
</p>

<p>
When he reached the vessel, a handsome dressing-case,
a sea wrapper, slippers, and cap, with the kind regards of
Mr. Thornly, awaited him, with the label, "A small
acknowledgment of benefits conferred upon Edgar, by his
grateful father."
</p>

<p>
A swift passage across the Atlantic, in very fine weather,
brought them to their desired haven.  It had been keenly
enjoyed by Roland, for the sight of the wide expanse of
ocean was exhilarating to a soul like his.  When first
espying the white cliffs of Dover, he mentally asked, "shall I
find any kindred in my native land, or am I still to wander
alone in this wide world?  Be that as my Father wills; I
have kindred there," looking upward, "they await my
coming."
</p>

<p>
He was so young when he first left Scotland, that much
of the impression had vanished, and the present, therefore,
had all the charm of novelty.
</p>

<p>
Taking a steamer, they crossed the Channel, and after a
short journey on land, found themselves among the crowds
of Paris, wending their way alone, in search of lodgings.
</p>

<p>
Taking rooms together, they soon realized that their
surroundings were totally different from America; and curiosity
for a few days kept them busy visiting the lions of the
brilliant city, and making themselves acquainted with its
numerous works of art, and countless attractions.
</p>

<p>
As soon as Edmund became a little domesticated, Roland
took tickets for their attendance upon a course of scientific
lectures, in one of the best institutions of the great
city.
</p>

<p>
It was an important advantage to study with such a
friend; for Roland's comprehensive mind, and clear
intellect took in all that was demonstrated, and many a maze
of perplexed reasoning was made clear to Edmund by the
keen analysis of Roland's superior powers.
</p>

<p>
"You must not expect me to visit the vicious amusements
of Paris, Edmund, my principles forbid this; but, if
you must see all, Mr. Lisle, a young American, of fine
moral character, is here, and will escort you; he is a safe
guide; I hope that you will see the real tendency of sinful
pleasures, and learn to value something higher."
</p>

<p>
"Just let me tell you, Roland, about the opera," said
Edmund, one night, after his return, "it was splendid; the
music was enchanting, the Emperor and Empress were
both present&mdash;what a cold, dead, statuesque face he has!
That beautiful woman cannot love him, I am sure; you
should see Eugenie, she is truly an elegant woman, and her
dress was perfect.  I don't believe that there is much love
for the Emperor here, for, although the audience noticed
his presence, by a 'Vive l'Empereur,' there was no heart
in it."
</p>

<p>
"You only saw the outside of the opera, Edmund; you
did not follow the multitude who crowd gambling saloons,
and other vicious places of resort after the opera was over.
I should be sorry to see you escorted there by any of these
gay young Frenchmen; while I feel as if I have no right
to put actual restrictions upon your liberty, I trust that you
will promise me one thing, Edmund."
</p>

<p>
"What is that, Roland?  You are so reasonable with
me, so considerate, that I think I may safely promise."
</p>

<p>
"You will find that there is no Sabbath in Paris; that is,
no Christian Sabbath; people attend to business and seek
their pleasure more on that day than on any other.  I want
you to promise that you will attend upon the Evangelical
Chapel on Sunday, and avoid the places of public amusement."
</p>

<p>
"I can easily promise that, Roland, for I feel shocked
myself at what I see."
</p>

<p>
It was a refreshing season to Roland, when he could turn
aside from the gay glittering world around him, and
worship his God with many of the wise and good of all
Protestant churches.  Sometimes American ministers led the
devotions of the day, and he could then join in the familiar
hymns of his childhood and youth, even in the midst of an
infidel and dissolute capital.
</p>

<p>
"Who is that young man?" said Dr. M. to Henry Lisle,
"I have observed his devotional aspect; I think he is a
stranger; I really feel as if I should like to make his
acquaintance."
</p>

<p>
"That is a young Scotchman; he has lived most of his
life in America, and is here with a friend, whose studies
he is directing."
</p>

<p>
"Do you know him, Lisle? if so, introduce me."
</p>

<p>
After the services, Dr. M. was made acquainted with
Roland, and he began to feel not quite so much alone in the
great world.
</p>

<p>
At the rooms of Dr. M. he was privileged to meet what
was really the choice society of Paris.  The good and wise
frequently assembled at his apartments, and Roland and
Edmund were, at all times, welcome guests.
</p>

<p>
Dr. M. had heard from Edmund something of his history,
and having struggled himself in his early days, deeply
sympathized with the brave young spirit of Roland Bruce.
Sometimes, they were invited to the saloons of French
philosophers, but the skeptical spirit, everywhere
manifested, led Roland to be very careful how he exposed his
young friend to such influences.
</p>

<p>
The halls of art were crowded with the finest specimens
of distinguished artists, both of ancient and modern days;
and our young friends spent many hours in examining these
wondrous triumphs of human skill.  The winter passed
rapidly; early in the spring, they visited Switzerland,
explored its natural beauties, passed through Germany, sailed
upon the Rhine, and recrossing the Channel, found
themselves in London, at the opening of the gay season.
</p>

<p>
Roland was pleased at the improvement manifested in
Edmund; he was learning to distinguish between the good
and the vile, and his friend felt as if he might trust him
while in London, without his supervision, which he knew he
must do, when he should visit Scotland, or else leave him
in one of the Scottish cities.  Roland busied himself for
awhile in seeing the sights of London, and in visiting the
ragged schools, and other benevolent institutions, by which
he gained many valuable hints from those so much longer
engaged in such good works.
</p>

<p>
Taking up the paper one morning, he read a glaring
account of a drawing-room, when the Queen of England
gave one of her receptions.
</p>

<p>
A rapturous description was given of the first appearance
of Miss Hamilton, a young American.  Her beauty, her
grace, her manners were descanted upon.  The perfect ease
of her deportment, as she advanced under the escort of the
American Minister, was described; and a brilliant season
prophesied for the young heiress of Woodcliff.  She was
particularly distinguished by the Queen, who, contrary to
her general practice, made some especial remarks to her
about her country.  Madeline's blushing acknowledgment
of Her Majesty's notice was much enlarged upon.
</p>

<p>
Roland read the account with mingled feelings; but pain
was uppermost, for he feared that the very novelty of the
scene would insensibly draw her heart away from better
things.
</p>

<p>
Edmund having brought letters of introduction was
presented on the same day.  He came home to Roland in
ecstacies of delight.
</p>

<p>
"You should have seen the blaze of English beauty; but
it was nothing compared to the young American, Miss
Hamilton; theirs was rich, blooming, rosy, the glow of full
redundant health, and the grace and ease of high birth;
hers was spiritual! delicate! bewitching! none could tell
which was the most beautiful; hair, eyes, coloring, or
expression, but one exquisite combination of all that can
attract in woman.  Then her ease, her simplicity, her
apparent unconsciousness, was the theme of every tongue.
Her dress was perfect; her pure white lace, with moss-rose
buds, and a set of pearls, softened still more her delicate
beauty; she managed her train, Roland, as if she had
dwelt in the presence of royalty all her life, stepping backward
so gracefully, I could imagine the pretty little foot, by
the beautiful hand and arm.  I declare, Roland, I was
proud of our young American.  I'll warrant she has a
royal nature, royal in its highest sense; you ought to have
seen her, Roland.  I waited until the drawing-room was
dismissed, and stood at the door, to see her handed to her
carriage by Lord N&mdash;&mdash;, an elegant young nobleman; did
not I envy the fellow, Roland?  I'll find out where she
stays, and, mark me!  I'll have an introduction before the
month is over."
</p>

<p>
Roland was amused at Edmund's enthusiasm, and troubled
at the account of the impression made in the world of
fashion by his peerless young friend.
</p>

<p>
"In the gay metropolis, with all her attractions, will she
be kept unscathed?" whispered Roland to his heart.  "Looking
aloft" for her, as well as for himself, he felt the blessedness
of remembering her in his daily prayers, and never was
Madeline forgotten.
</p>

<p>
Edmund frequently alluded to his want of success in
obtaining Miss Hamilton's direction, but one day, he came in
full of glee: "Lisle is here, Roland; he knows Lord N&mdash;&mdash;,
and he will inquire of him for Miss Hamilton; he has letters
of introduction to some of the nobles of England, and is as
much interested as I in trying to find out where she is.
The Duke of D&mdash;&mdash; will give a ball next week, Lisle is
invited; he will get an introduction for me before that time,
and I shall then meet Miss Hamilton."
</p>

<p>
Edmund seemed possessed with this one idea of obtaining
an introduction to the reigning star.
</p>

<p>
"Congratulate me, Roland; the Duke of D&mdash;&mdash; called
yesterday on Lisle while I was there; I was introduced as
Lisle's young American friend, and to-day I have a card for
the ball."
</p>

<p>
Nothing else was talked of but the coming ball.  Edmund's
head was full of the anticipated pleasure.
</p>

<p>
The evening came and passed.  Next day, Edmund was
in a high state of excitement.
</p>

<p>
"I was introduced, Roland, to Miss Hamilton, but that
was all, I could get no nearer; she was surrounded by
admirers&mdash;the Duke of D&mdash;&mdash;, and the Earl of M&mdash;&mdash;, Lord
B&mdash;&mdash;, and Lord G&mdash;&mdash;, but most of all, Lord N&mdash;&mdash;, were
devoted in their attentions.  If her young head is not turned
by all this, I shall proclaim her a wonder.  Lord N&mdash;&mdash; is
a handsome young nobleman, with that respectful deference
to ladies, and especially to Miss Hamilton, which I think
would captivate such a girl."
</p>

<p>
Roland was compelled to listen silently, for he had not
told Edmund that he had ever seen Madeline; but every
word was painful, for he felt the ordeal to be so
severe&mdash;would she come out unharmed?
</p>

<p>
"I went last night to the opera, Roland; Miss Hamilton
was there, attended by her father and Lord N&mdash;&mdash;.
Mr. Hamilton looked so proud of his beautiful daughter, and no
wonder; nothing to compare to her could be seen anywhere
last night; eye-glasses were levelled at her from all
quarters, but I really don't believe that she knew it, and, if
she did, she certainly did not betray it."
</p>

<p>
Roland attended weekly upon the services of the
Rev. Mr. B&mdash;&mdash;, a minister of the establishment, simply on
account of the earnest spirituality of his preaching.
</p>

<p>
On the next Sunday, whom should he see advancing up
the aisle, in a simple modest dress, with a close bonnet and
veil, but Madeline, attended by her father and aunt.
</p>

<p>
Several pew-doors were opened, but the sexton led them
forward to a pew, where sat a young lady and gentleman of
high rank.
</p>

<p>
"That is Lord N&mdash;&mdash;," whispered Edmund to Roland,
for he had observed the party.
</p>

<p>
Madeline was earnest, devout, prayerful, and listened to
the sermon with such an humble, serious manner, as to lead
Roland to hope that she was yet the simple, earnest child
of Woodcliff.  Lord N&mdash;&mdash; and his sister were equally
devout, and Roland felt that the deportment of the young
man in church was just such as was calculated to please
one like Madeline.
</p>

<p>
It was pleasant to worship God in the same house with
his friend, to sing the same hymns, and use the solemn
words of the same beautiful service.  The service ended,
Roland paused a moment at the door, hoping to receive one
passing glance, but Madeline walked out, closely attended
by Lord N&mdash;&mdash;, who handed the party to their carriage, ere
he entered his own; she did not even see Roland.  His
heart sank, for he could not bear to think himself forgotten.
</p>

<p>
Edmund still continued to rave about Madeline, telling
whenever he met her, and running on in the same strain
about her beauty.
</p>

<p>
The next Sunday, Roland bent his steps to the Ragged
School in one of the lanes of London.
</p>

<p>
When he entered, he was surprised to see several ladies
of rank in the audience.  It was a novel sight, for there
were large numbers present from the very lowest haunts,
clothed in rags and filth, even up to those who had adopted
some of the customs of civilized humanity.
</p>

<p>
Far up the room, he thought that he saw a familiar form;
he advanced, and attended by Lord N&mdash;&mdash; and his sister,
sat Madeline, in all the sweet simplicity of her girlish days.
</p>

<p>
She saw Roland, a bright smile welcomed him, and he
stepped forward extending his hand, his honest, strong,
guiding hand; the very touch was strength to Madeline.
No more salutations were exchanged until the close of the
services.
</p>

<p>
"How came you here, Miss Madeline?" was the first question.
</p>

<p>
"Did you not tell me to visit such places when I came
to London, Mr. Bruce?" was the frank, artless answer.
</p>

<p>
"Thank you, Miss Madeline for the remembrance; have
you learned anything by your visits?"
</p>

<p>
"A great deal, for Lord N&mdash;&mdash; and Lady Alice are both
interested in these good works, and they have told me
the various ways by which these poor creatures may be
reached."
</p>

<p>
"London and its gayeties have not then wholly obliterated
your desires to do good, Miss Madeline."
</p>

<p>
"By no means, Mr. Bruce," replied Madeline, with one
of her brightest smiles; "I am only anxious to be once
more at Woodcliff to put some of my plans into practice."
</p>

<p>
"How is Mr. Hamilton, Miss Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"Rather better; we see that London air agrees with
him, and shall, therefore, stay longer in England than we
had at first intended."
</p>

<p>
This was a short, but pleasant interview, and Roland
felt cheered by the few hasty words dropped by Madeline.
</p>

<p>
Passing through the streets of London one day, he
observed Madeline in a carriage with the lady whom she
styled Lady Alice&mdash;it was evidently a nobleman's carriage
by the coronet on the pannels.  He sighed as he thought
of the great distance between them socially, but could not
resist the opportunity of watching the carriage, which
stopped at the door of a store; the ladies dismounted, and
entered the store; waiting for them to return to the
carriage, Roland inquired whose carriage it was, and the
direction of their residence.  Having obtained information, he
walked to the spot, and saw the elegant mansion where
Madeline was staying&mdash;what folly! thought he, to suppose
that she can ever regard me in any other light than an
humble friend; but it is a pleasure to see her.  He had not
stood many minutes, ere he perceived a lady's form standing
near the drawing-room window; she looked out, but
not observing Roland, who stood concealed behind a tree.
</p>

<p>
Soon he heard voices, for the window was open; and in
a few minutes more, the rich melody of Madeline's notes,
singing a new and brilliant piece.  He stood sorrowfully,
for why should he thus haunt her dwelling to hang upon a
voice, which the friendship of early days had given him a
right to hear still in the intimate communion of a congenial
spirit.  It seemed a cold barrier of society which thus shut
him out, and which he sometimes felt he must dare to
batter down.
</p>

<p>
The season was passing rapidly; and Roland began to
prepare for his northern tour.  Edmund had concluded to
accompany him, for he had not made the progress in
Madeline's acquaintance that he desired.
</p>

<p>
His journey through England was truly delightful&mdash;like
a beautiful garden, every corner was highly cultivated;
gentlemen's country seats, noblemen's splendid palaces and
parks, picturesque villages, and shady, green lanes
everywhere met his eye, and though unlike the grand features
of American scenery, the panorama had all the charm of a
lovely picture of domestic ease and elegance, the charm
which dwells so especially among English homes.  Stopping
awhile at the Lakes of Westmoreland, they explored
its exquisite beauties, so often the subject of the painter's
pencil, and the poet's pen; and passing on, travelled more
rapidly, until they reached Edinburgh; visiting many spots
of historic interest.  Roland stayed a few days, and then
turned his face towards his native hills, leaving Edmund
in Edinburgh, until he should hear from him.
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap22"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXII.
<br><br>
MIST ON THE MOUNTAIN.
</h3>

<p>
November, with its chilly winds, finds Roland a traveller
in Scotland.  He has the directions given by his mother,
and has to cross a mountain region in a stage, ere he
reaches his native village.  It is a lonely journey, for he is
the only passenger; and a heavy Scotch mist is rapidly
falling over the dreary landscape; distant mountains are
first enveloped, then trees and bushes, and last even the
scattered houses along the road-side, until all is darkness
and gloom.
</p>

<p>
He had heard of a Scotch mist, but could never have
conceived of anything so murky, so dense, and yet behind
it all was the bright and cheering sun.  So is the experience
of human life, often enveloped in heavy clouds, shrouded
in darkness; yet beyond, God our Father sits guiding the
changes of our destiny.
</p>

<p>
Evening approached&mdash;no human beings could be seen;
and nothing disturbed the solitude, save the muffled lowing
of the cattle through the heavy atmosphere, the bleating
of sheep, and the faint tinkling of the bells which they
wear to direct their guides.
</p>

<p>
No signs betokened their approach to human habitations;
as yet no beacon pointed to his native village, and there
may be no voice of kindred to welcome him to his mother's
home.  So impenetrable was the darkness, that the stage
stopped for the night.  It was a gloomy period in Roland's
young life&mdash;but never did the brave spirit forget his motto;
"Looking aloft!" through mist, through clouds and darkness,
he slept the blessed rest of perfect trust.  He woke
in the morning to see the first bright rays of the rising sun
beaming through his shutters; opening them, Roland looked
out upon a scene of surpassing grandeur; lofty mountains
in the distance, range after range, over which the sun was
rising in all his majesty, thick heavy woodland wearing the
dusky hues of autumn, flocks of sheep under the care of
their guides, here and there the shepherds' huts, and over
all, the bright sunlight flooding the landscape with his
glory, and tinging the clouds of mist with prismatic hues,
as they rolled away, and mingled with the higher
atmosphere, leaving the landscape all revealed.
</p>

<p>
Roland was cheered by the sight.  "So may it be at
last with my destiny," thought the youth; "if I seek God's
glory in all, he will fulfil his promises."  After a hearty
breakfast of hot bannocks and milk, Roland resumed his
journey, and referred to the driver for information
concerning the rest of his journey.
</p>

<p>
"How far are we from Glendale, driver?"
</p>

<p>
"Aboot tharty mile or mair, I ken."
</p>

<p>
"Do you know the family of the Gordons?"
</p>

<p>
"Do ye mean the family o' the auld minister, David Gordon?"
</p>

<p>
"The same," was Roland's reply.
</p>

<p>
"The auld minister bae gane to his rest these mony years;
I dinna ken how lang syne."
</p>

<p>
"His son and daughter?" continued Roland.
</p>

<p>
"Baith gane hame."
</p>

<p>
Roland bowed his head, for now he felt his desolation.
</p>

<p>
"Is there no one there, driver, who can give me any
information concerning them?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, there is the auld servant, Jennie Scott; she lives
near by the auld manse."
</p>

<p>
In a few hours, Roland found himself approaching his
native village; he had some remembrance of these familiar
scenes; the lake where he had rowed in his childhood with
Uncle Alick, the manse with its grove of old trees, and
the kirk not far off, he found were realities that had their
picture hung up in the halls of memory.
</p>

<p>
Stopping at the village-inn he sought out the old servant.
Knocking at the cottage door, a face somewhat familiar
presented itself.  "Is this Jennie Scott?" asked Roland.
</p>

<p>
"It is so, please your honor; will ye sit doon, sir, in my
humble cottage?"
</p>

<p>
"Do you remember Roland Bruce, the little son of Mary
Gordon, Jennie?"
</p>

<p>
"Do I remember the bairn that I nursed so lang in these
auld arms?  Can I e'er forget the bonny chiel?  Mine were
the first arms that held him after he breathed the breath o'
life&mdash;can ye tell me ony thing aboot the lad?"
</p>

<p>
"He stands before you, Jennie," and Roland seized the
hand of his old nurse, while she threw herself upon his
bosom, and wept for joy.
</p>

<p>
"It canna' be,&mdash;he was sic a wee bairn when I saw him
last, and now sic a braw an' winsome mon.  Bless the
Lord!  O, my soul, for a' his guidness to his auld servant."
</p>

<p>
Roland then told the old woman something of his
history, and what had brought him to Scotland.
</p>

<p>
"Ye've came too late, my son; the auld minister has been
dead these ten years.  O, he greeted sair for ye, my bairn.
Miss Ellen died in twa years after that, and Mr. Alick twa
years ago; ye've nae mother's kin in Scotland, that I ken,
Roland."
</p>

<p>
"And none in America, my old friend, my mother and
sister both sleep in Jesus, and I am alone in the wide
world; but then, God is my Father&mdash;can I visit the old
manse, Jennie?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, my bairn, I keep the key, for I gang owre there
every few weeks to luik after the furniture, and to keep it
a' clean."
</p>

<p>
"How is it, Jennie, that it is not inhabited?"
</p>

<p>
"Why, Mr. Alick ordered, when he died, that it sud be
kept closed for three years, and if nane came to claim it
then, that it might be sold, for it belanged to the auld
minister, Roland, and Mr. Alick hoped that the right heir
might come some day."
</p>

<p>
Jennie led the way to the old homestead, and as they
advanced, tears would force themselves into Roland's
eyes, as he recognized the familiar porch, and one old tree,
where he had so often played.  She opened the shutters,
and let in the light of day.  All was in a state of perfect
neatness and order.
</p>

<p>
The family-parlor was so comfortable, from which a glass
door opened into the minister's study.
</p>

<p>
How sacred it appeared!  The study-table where he had
prepared so many sermons for his flock&mdash;the old arm-chair
where he had sat&mdash;the couch where he had reclined when
weary&mdash;the book-case, with its shelves of devotional books,
and the best authors of the Scottish Church; and on the
study-table, his old Bible marked from the Old to the New
Testament by his own venerable hands.  In a table-drawer,
lay his spectacles, the inkstand that he used, and
even the pen with which he wrote.
</p>

<p>
"Look here, Roland! at this carpet," said Jennie, as she
pointed to the spot so worn by the old man's knees, for he
always knelt in one particular place.  "This is a sacred
room, Roland, an' I hae always been sae happy to ken
that nae stranger has e'er come in here amang the auld
minister's books."
</p>

<p>
From the study, they passed into his mother's room.
</p>

<p>
There stood the cradle, and the rocking-chair, in which
she had sat, to nurse her babes.
</p>

<p>
Jennie took up her apron to wipe her old eyes as she
said,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"How mony times hae I seen Mary Gordon, when she
thought naebody saw her, weep owre the cradle, as she
rocked her babes to sleep; but she was a guid woman,
Roland, an' a true an' faithful wife.  Is yer father living,
my son?"
</p>

<p>
"That is a hard question to answer, Jennie; it has
always been said that he was lost at sea, but strange
things have happened to make me sometimes think he
may yet be alive."
</p>

<p>
"He was aye a sad an' gloomy mon, Roland; I sud na
wonder if he were crazed at last."
</p>

<p>
"Can you tell me anything about Malcolm Graham,
Jennie?  I must see him soon."
</p>

<p>
"He lives aboot twenty miles frae here, up on the side
o' the mountain; he is called far an' nigh 'guid Uncle
Malcolm;' he only lives to do guid, Roland; he has charge
o' a' your property, an' can tell ye a' that ye need."
</p>

<p>
The place where they stood was full of sad memories,
and the longer he remained, the more familiar he became.
</p>

<p>
"Why here, Jennie, is the very wheel-barrow that Uncle
Alick brought me all the way from Edinburgh; many a
time have I filled it with pebbles, and emptied them into
the lake," and Roland picked up the toy, and regarded it
tenderly, even as an old friend.
</p>

<p>
"Let us go now, Jennie, for I must make some preparations
to visit Uncle Malcolm."
</p>

<p>
"Ye maun gang amang some o' your grandfather's people
first, Roland; they wud be sair grieved if ye gang awa'
without seeing them."
</p>

<p>
"I will stay over the Sabbath, Jennie, if you can keep
me at your little cottage, for I want to go to the old kirk,
where my mother worshipped God."
</p>

<p>
The weeds in the little garden around the house, and the
neglected look of the grounds, spoke volumes to Roland's
heart of the dear ones who had vanished from the old
manse, and of the busy hands now silent in the grave.
</p>

<p>
"What is that, Jennie?" said Roland, as he observed
a little mound under an old tree, with a piece of board at
the head.
</p>

<p>
"Read the words, Roland, an' ye'll see what lies buried
there."
</p>

<p>
"Here lies old Shep, the faithful dog; for twelve years
he served his master."
</p>

<p>
"I remember him, Jennie; many a time has he carried
me on his back."
</p>

<p>
"This auld place is fu' o' death, Roland, but it is just as
fu' o' hope; for a' wha hae gane before, hae died the death
o' the righteous; an' they a' sleep in the Lord."
</p>

<p>
Roland spent the days between this and the Sabbath in
rambling about, and in company with old Jennie visiting
his grandfather's parishioners.  They all expressed great
joy on seeing the young man, and observed universally the
likeness to his father.
</p>

<p>
"But he has nane o' the gloom," said the old sexton;
"he has the same black hair an' dark e'en, but the look is
a' upward an' bright, as if he walked wi' his grandfather's
God."
</p>

<p>
On the Sabbath day, in company with old Jennie Scott,
he walked up the aisle of the old kirk.  She was a proud
woman on that day&mdash;for was not she walking wi' her minister's
grandson? the handsomest, the noblest, an' the best o' a'
the young men around Glencoe?
</p>

<p>
He sat in his mother's seat, and used the old book which
contained her name.  On the fly-leaf was written&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Malcolm Graham, sailed on the first day of March, 1807.
May God be with him to bless and keep him."
</p>

<p>
On another leaf was written&mdash;"Mary Gordon, married
to Stephen Bruce, Oct. 1st, 1811.  May God bless the union
with peace."
</p>

<p>
Roland's tears dropped over these silent memorials, but it
was a blessed thought that all the cares and trials of that
beloved mother were over forever; and as he now joined
in the psalms which she had often sung in the pew of her
own kirk, so he hoped in the church triumphant to sing
with her and Effie the song of Moses and the Lamb.
</p>

<p>
After the service, he visited the graves of his kindred,
and with true delicacy, none of the plain Scotch people
intruded upon his solitude, as he stood in silence around the
sacred spot.  "What a blessing to have godly ancestors!"
thought Roland; "followed all my life by earnest prayer,
God has shielded and blessed me thus far with the knowledge
of himself as my reconciled Father in Christ Jesus."
</p>

<p>
Many were the warm greetings which met him at the
church gate; and many the blessings that were showered
upon him by the people who loved the memory of their
dear old minister.
</p>

<p>
"I must go, Jennie," said Roland, when Monday morning
came.  "I am anxious to find Uncle Malcolm."
</p>

<p>
"Ye will see me again before ye return to America?"
</p>

<p>
"O, yes, Jennie; I will be sure to return."
</p>

<p>
It was a cold, bleak morning, when he started.
</p>

<p>
"I think we are going to hae a snow-storm, Roland; had
ye na better wait a day or twa?"
</p>

<p>
"I think not, Jennie; I can get along very well;" and he
would not hear of farther delay.
</p>

<p>
"I ken the signs around these dark mountains, Roland;
we shall hae a heavy fa' o' snaw before nicht&mdash;the stage
will only tak' ye within three miles o' Malcolm's house,
an' it will be a dark journey on foot in a snaw-storm."
</p>

<p>
"God is with me, Jennie; I must go."
</p>

<p>
"Fare ye weel! my bairn, till we meet again," said the
old woman.
</p>

<p>
Taking up his carpet-bag, and seeing his trunk carefully
deposited, he started on his journey.
</p>

<p>
It was a raw, chilly morning; he had provided himself
with a tartan plaid, and wrapping himself in its heavy folds,
he took his seat in the stage.  The wind sighed heavily as
though a storm was really brewing.
</p>

<p>
"We shall hae to plew through heavy drifts before we
reach the end o' our journey," said the driver.
</p>

<p>
As they ascended the road, the animals were well aware
of what was coming; and the wild mountain birds screamed
around them with foreboding warnings.
</p>

<p>
In a short time, the snow commenced falling; at first,
skurrying in little gusts of driving wind, then more and
more thickly, until they were in the midst of a heavy
mountain storm.
</p>

<p>
The atmosphere was filled with the flakes, which, driven
by fierce winds, drifted on the side of the road.
</p>

<p>
More and more difficult became the travelling; the poor
jaded horses could scarcely drag the vehicle through the
piles of snow.
</p>

<p>
Stopping for dinner at a road-side inn, the landlord looked
out upon the storm with a serious countenance.
</p>

<p>
"It is a pity, young mon, that ye cam' oot in sic a storm;
it will be fearfu' before nightfa'; perhaps ye had better
bide wi' us until the mornin' breaks."
</p>

<p>
"No, I must push on;" for Roland was not one to be
daunted by difficulties.
</p>

<p>
"Hae ye ever been oot in a Scotch snaw-storm on the
mountains, my lad?  Ye dinna' ken what ye hae to encounter."
</p>

<p>
"I have not," was the reply; "but I shall only have
three miles to walk, and that will be easier, I think, than
riding."
</p>

<p>
"Walk in sic a storm!  I am sorry for the mon that tries
it this dark night."
</p>

<p>
The stage started; the storm increased; it was a weary
drag through the piled up snow: and yet it was still falling
thicker, faster, while the wind was raging; frequently, the
horses had to pause; and it was late, indeed quite night,
when they halted at the stopping place.
</p>

<p>
The driver directed Roland how to find the road to
Graham Hall; indeed, to be sure that he had the right
start, he walked with him some distance, until he was
fairly on the track.
</p>

<p>
It was up a by-road that he was now walking.  He was
directed to go straight-forward until he came to a gate, that
led directly to Malcolm's house, about one mile distant.  It
was a weary journey, more difficult than he had imagined;
the beating of the snow in his face, and the tremendous
power of the wind against which he was struggling,
frequently overpowered him; and he had to stand still with
his back to the storm, to recover himself for fresh efforts;
his feet were growing benumbed, his mouth stiffened, and
the feeling of weariness almost compelling him to lie down
to sleep, was creeping slowly over him.  Still he persevered,
and roused all his energies to shake off the lethargy.
</p>

<p>
In his carpet-bag, he remembered a small flask of wine
which Jennie had thoughtfully placed there; taking a
mouthful, he felt revived.  But he certainly ought to be
near the gate; he had walked so long, and yet he could
find none.  He must be lost&mdash;what was now to be done?
He stood silent for a minute, prayed for guidance, strained
eyes and ears for some direction.  At last, he heard the
bark of a dog; he did not seem very far off.  Roland
whistled, and advancing a few steps farther, he thought he
saw a light, very dim in the midst of the falling snow, but
still there was really a faint glimmer; he tried to follow it,
and as he advanced, it became brighter; then he felt that
he was in the right path to a human habitation.  He
hallooed, as loud as his failing strength would allow, several
times; the light moved, another light was visible; it was
certainly approaching; in a minute, a dog bounded through
the drifts, and barked loud and long.  "Dinna' be alarmed,"
cried a man's voice, "he is only telling us that he has
found ye."  In another second a man appeared with a
lantern.
</p>

<p>
"Ye hae been oot in a sair storm, my friend; follow me,
an' I will bring ye to a safe harbor."
</p>

<p>
"I am searching for Malcolm Graham," was the reply.
</p>

<p>
"Hoot awa', mon! ye are far oot o' the way; it is a
guid thing that I found ye in time."
</p>

<p>
Taking Roland by the arm, he led him forward through
the drifts, to the door of his humble cottage, where his
good wife stood waiting her husband's return.
</p>

<p>
"Throw me my tartan, wife," cried the man; "here is a
lost traveller, an' I am ganging to guide him to Graham Hall;
gi' the dogs the lanterns; come, Jack, come, Joan,"
continued the man, as he fastened the small lanterns with
reflectors, around the dogs' necks.  "We are safe enow,
sir, for these tykes ken every turn o' these mountain
roads."
</p>

<p>
They bounded off with a cheery bark, and threading
their way skilfully by the side of the drifts, our travellers
followed the lights with quickened pace.
</p>

<p>
Bright lights beaming from several windows suddenly
burst upon them.  "We are at Graham Hall, sir," said the
shepherd; and hastily stepping up on the front piazza, he
rapped loud with the iron lion's head that served for
knocker at the great hall door.  The master presented
himself.  "Why, Sandy Armstrong, what brought ye oot in
sic a night as this?"
</p>

<p>
"I hae found a lost traveller searchin' for Graham Hall,
sir; an' I hae brought him safely to ye; but he is sairly
worn oot."
</p>

<p>
"Come in, sir, and we shall soon see what the warm
fires and blankets o' Graham Hall can do for ye, my young
friend."
</p>

<p>
"Guid night, sir," said Sandy, and Roland thanked the
kind man for his safe escort.
</p>

<p>
"Won't ye tak' some warm negus, Sandys?" said the master.
</p>

<p>
"Thank ye kindly, sir, but I maun hasten back; the
snow is falling still heavily."
</p>

<p>
Roland stood for one minute, in the midst of a large hall,
while the master removed his tartan, knocked the snow off
his boots, and hung his cap upon the pegs, where the
master's hunting-dress, his powder-horn, and game-bag,
indicated his love for mountain sports.  A set of antlers
mounted the hall-door, and some hunting pictures adorned
the wall.
</p>

<p>
"Ye are weak and sick, sir," was the kind salutation;
"tak' my arm," and Malcolm Graham led Roland into a
bright family room, where a large wood fire blazed upon
the hearth of a Franklin stove&mdash;the rich, dark carpet, the
heavy oak furniture, old fashioned chairs, and pictures of
Highland scenery gave an air of charming comfort to the
apartment, which was truly grateful to the sick and jaded
traveller.
</p>

<p>
"Lie down, sir, on the couch;" and Malcolm beat up the
soft chintz cushions with the tenderness of a woman, as he
laid Roland down on the comfortable lounge.  Perceiving
that Roland made several attempts to speak, the master
continued,
</p>

<p>
"Dinna talk, there is plenty o' time for that; I will be
back in a minute," and speedily returning, he sat down by
the side of the young man, watching his motions.
</p>

<p>
"Here, brother, is the negus," said a lady, opening the
door slightly; and Malcolm handed it to Roland.  The warm
drink speedily restored vitality to his frame; then taking
off his boots, his kind host rubbed his feet briskly, dropping
cheering words as he performed the service.  By this time,
Roland was sufficiently recovered to look around him; and
first he glanced at the tall and noble-looking man that
waited upon him.  The dark gray eyes expressed a world
of feeling, and the mouth, though firm, was loving as a
woman's.  'Tis true that the fine head was partially bald,
and the hair that remained was silvered with marks of
time, but there was that about Malcolm Graham that won
Roland's heart at once.
</p>

<p>
"Do you know, sir, whom you are befriending?" was
Roland's first remark.
</p>

<p>
"No, sir, a' that I ken is that ye are a stranger, an' I
took ye in."
</p>

<p>
"It is fitting that you should know&mdash;my name is Roland
Bruce, sir."
</p>

<p>
Malcolm's color changed, as, seizing the young man's
hand, he exclaimed: "Mary Gordon's son!  I thank thee,
O, my Father!" and Malcolm hid his face in his handkerchief
to conceal the storm of mixed emotions which swept
over his countenance, and shook his frame.
</p>

<p>
"I came from America to search for my relations; but I
find none of my mother's kindred left.  I am truly alone in
the wide world; she bade me search for you also."
</p>

<p>
"Not alone, Roland; Mary's son is my especial care, and
my heart opens wide to receive ye; come to my arms, my
son, and let me press my lips upon yer young brow."
</p>

<p>
For that warm embrace, the friendship of future years
was sealed, and the two were no more strangers.
</p>

<p>
Malcolm opened the door and called, "Annie, I hae some
one to introduce to ye," and his sister, Mrs. Lindsay,
entered the room.
</p>

<p>
"This is Mary Gordon's son, Annie; ye will luve him for
my sake."
</p>

<p>
The lady greeted him warmly.  "Ye are welcome to our
fireside, Roland; but ye maun be very hungry;" and the
good lady hastened away, to order a warm supper for the
weary guest.
</p>

<p>
The door opened softly, and a young face peeped shyly in.
</p>

<p>
"Come in, Annot," said her uncle; and a little fairy of
fifteen, with a profusion of light, curly hair, and a dancing
step, advanced shyly to the couch.
</p>

<p>
"Shake hands wi' Mr. Bruce, Annot; he has come to stay
wi' us, my luve; he is the chiel o' a vera dear friend of
Uncle Malcolm."
</p>

<p>
"I am glad to see ye, sir; I luve ilka body that Uncle
Malcolm loves."
</p>

<p>
Another applicant for introduction, in the form of a large
family dog that lay ensconced on a rug by the fire, had long
been asserting his claims to notice, by repeatedly putting
up his shaggy paw, and looking up in his master's face, for
his share in the ceremonies.
</p>

<p>
"I maun na' forget auld Lion, Roland; come here, auld
fellow!" and the dog, wagging his tail, put up his rough
paw to salute Roland; at the same time, expressing his
satisfaction by a low growl, that he meant to be
musical&mdash;at any rate, it expressed good-will.
</p>

<p>
Soon a neat-looking Highland girl entered, and spreading
the table, she placed upon it sundry grateful viands.
</p>

<p>
"Hannah!" said Mrs. Lindsay, "tell Dugald to kindle a
fire in the minister's room."
</p>

<p>
"And now, Roland, see if ye can tak' some supper," said
the master, as he led his young friend to the table.
</p>

<p>
He ate sparingly of the profusion spread around him, for
his appetite had not yet returned, but the feeling of perfect
comfort was such a rest, that it was refreshment enough for
Roland, for some hours at least.
</p>

<p>
"We shall not keep ye late to-night, Roland; ye need
rest, and, to-morrow, ye shall tell me a' your story."
</p>

<p>
A bell summoned the family for evening worship; two
or three Highland men and women came in from the kitchen,
and took their seats reverently with the family.  Annot
opened the piano, Malcolm read a chapter in the Bible,
with some simple comments; Annot played a beautiful
Psalm, in which all joined heartily; and the master
concluded the exercises by a solemn, earnest prayer, in which
Roland was most affectionately remembered.
</p>

<p>
Taking a light, he said, "Come, Roland, I will tak' ye
to yer room;" and Malcolm led the way to a bright cheerful
chamber, where a glowing fire blazed upon the hearth,
for the master was a great advocate of wood fires.
</p>

<p>
A warm feather bed, plenty of blankets, with chintz
curtains, an easy rocking-chair, and writing-table, made up a
whole of home comforts, such as Roland had never, in all
his life, enjoyed before.
</p>

<p>
Fixing the lamp with old bachelor exactness several times
before it suited him, Malcolm left the room, saying,
</p>

<p>
"Is there onything that ye want, Roland? dinna be
afraid to ask."
</p>

<p>
"Nothing, sir; I am perfectly comfortable; good-night,
sir."
</p>

<p>
"Guid-night;" and Malcolm left him to the quiet of his
thoughts.  Having allowed him time for his devotions, and
preparations for repose, Malcolm entered once more.
</p>

<p>
"Here is a bowl o' negus, my son, it will na' harm ye
after sic a freezing as ye hae had;" and Malcolm insisted on
his drinking down the whole.
</p>

<p>
"Now, guid-night, Roland;" and Malcolm laid his hand
in blessing upon the young head, as he continued,
</p>

<p>
"God bless ye, and gi' ye refreshing sleep."
</p>

<p>
He lay awake some time, for Roland's emotions were of
that delicious character which none can realize but those
who have been thus suddenly transported from a scene of
danger and suffering to one of perfect rest and safety.  The
howling of the wind without, and the beating of the
snowdrifts against the window-panes, were strongly contrasted
with the light of the glowing fire illumining some Scripture
pictures on the wall, the warm, soft bed, and the sweet
atmosphere of Christian love by which he was surrounded.
Truly, "the Lord giveth his beloved sleep!" and such a
sleep was Roland's.
</p>

<p>
"We did na' wake ye early, Roland;" said his friend,
who came at last to see if he was stirring, "for we kenned
that ye needed rest; how do ye fare this morning?"
</p>

<p>
"Perfectly well and happy," was the answer.
</p>

<p>
"Well, I will leave ye now; as soon as ye are ready,
come down to the breakfast-room."
</p>

<p>
Roland poured out his heart in earnest, grateful prayer,
dressed himself, and appeared before the family quite
another man.
</p>

<p>
A smoking breakfast of good, hot coffee, venison,
beef-steak, hot bannocks, muffins, and boiled eggs awaited him;
and, on this occasion, he did ample justice to the tempting
viands.
</p>

<p>
"We have delayed worship, this morning, on your
account, Roland;" and immediately after breakfast, the
same company again assembled, the same sweet music,
Scripture reading, and fervent prayer of the night before.
</p>

<p>
"Come, look out upon the landscape, Roland," said the
master, as he led the young man into the family parlor, and
turned aside the heavy curtains that he might see the
picture without.
</p>

<p>
The sun was shining in all his glory upon the
landscape&mdash;mountains of snow were piled up everywhere, glistening
in the sunbeams, which were reflected in prismatic colors
in the icicles pendant from the branches of the trees.  Such
a scene Roland had never before witnessed, and, to his
temperament, it was full of exhilaration.
</p>

<p>
"Now, my son, I am ready for your story;" and Malcolm
led the way to his own private room, directing that he
should not be disturbed that morning.
</p>

<p>
It was a cozy little apartment, with secretary, writing-table,
book-cases well filled, comfortable chairs, a cushioned
lounge, and a bright wood fire.
</p>

<p>
A bust of Sir Walter occupied one niche, and Burns
another.  A picture of Abbotsford, another of Melrose
Abbey, and one of Burns' Highland Mary, adorned the walls;
and a flute, with piles of music, lay upon a stand in the
corner of the room.  Horns of deer branched over the
windows, and several figures of Scottish knights, in bronze,
adorned the mantel-piece.  Everywhere, the house was
furnished with the quiet comforts, and even elegancies, of
a Scotch gentleman.
</p>

<p>
Lion was here, of course; for at all times, he was allowed
free access to Malcolm's apartments, and no more faithful
friend ever followed the fortunes of a master, than good
old Lion.
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap23"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXIII.
<br><br>
GRAHAM HALL.
</h3>

<p>
It was a morning fraught with deep and painful memories,
for as Roland related the story of his mother's trials, and
his own struggles with poverty and suffering, Malcolm's
manly heart was stirred within him; and when he read the
manuscript which Mrs. Bruce had left, floods of memory
overpowered him for one moment, for it took him back so
painfully to the days of his youth.
</p>

<p>
"But she is at rest noo, Roland; there ne'er was a
purer, holier heart in the form o' woman, than that which
beat in the bosom o' Mary Gordon.  I should hae made
her happy, Roland, but God willed it otherwise, an' I am
content; but how is it that she could hae suffered so much,
with sic friends in Scotland?  Did she na write home?"
</p>

<p>
"She did, frequently, Uncle Malcolm; for the first year
we received answers; then we were surrounded by mystery;
we could not imagine how it was, but at last, my
mother thought that death must have removed her relatives,
and she ceased to write."
</p>

<p>
Malcolm opened a small drawer that was kept carefully
locked, and lifting an old pocket-book, took out a lock of
golden hair, and a piece of faded blue ribbon.
</p>

<p>
"That is to be buried with me in my grave, Roland; it
is a' that is left to me, on earth, o' Mary Gordon; but I
believe that we shall meet in Heaven; for, Roland, we
were made for each other, and shall hold communion yet;
here is a perfect likeness o' your mother, when she was
sweet Mary Gordon;" and Roland gazed upon the picture
with feelings of loving reverence.
</p>

<p>
It was a bright young face, with deep blue eyes, and a
profusion of light curly hair; innocence marked its general
expression, but in the eyes there was a look of high and
holy inspiration, such as she never lost.
</p>

<p>
"If ye should outlive me, Roland, that is yours; your
name shall be placed upon the back; would that I could
hae kenned my boy in the days o' his adversity; and now
I hae ane request to make, and it is this; ca' me always
Uncle Malcolm; would that I were mair to ye."
</p>

<p>
"That will be very easy, dear Uncle Malcolm; for I feel
as if I had indeed found not only a friend, but a relative;
but it is better that I had not known you before; the very
discipline of my life has called out qualities which prosperity
could never have fostered."
</p>

<p>
"That talisman, Roland, has been your a', it has been
the making o' Mary Gordon's son.  'Looking aloft!'  O, what
blessedness in those holy, strengthening words!  It shall
be placed upon her miniature, Roland."
</p>

<p>
When Roland related the early struggles of his life in
New York, the trials at college, the weariness of hope
deferred, his "News-Boys' Home," Malcolm sat with head
bowed upon his hands, and when he had finished his recital,
he clasped Roland in his arms, and said,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Ye are indeed the chiel o' Providence; be my son,
Roland, for I love ye as my ain."
</p>

<p>
But little was said concerning his early friend, Madeline,
but even the few passing words spoke volumes to Malcolm
Graham.
</p>

<p>
Bowing down together before the mercy-seat, Malcolm
poured out his soul in earnest prayer for the youth kneeling
by his side, and Roland took up the language of supplication
and praise, and from a full heart poured out his gratitude.
Arm in arm they left the study, and the servants
wondered what the master had found in the lost traveller
of the night before.
</p>

<p>
"I have some inquiries to make about Aunt Douglass,
for I am strongly inclined to believe that my father still
lives; I think perhaps that she may know something of
him."
</p>

<p>
A painful expression passed over Malcolm's face, as he
replied,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"I can direct ye, Roland, but dinna gae yet; stay wi'
me a few days; I want to tell ye aboot a' my plans, and as
soon as the travelling will allow us, I hae mickle to show
ye o' Highland life."
</p>

<p>
The next day brought Roland acquainted with Uncle
Malcolm's daily habits.  A part of each morning was
devoted to Annot's studies, a part to superintending
general business, keeping accounts, and a portion to regular
systematic reading.
</p>

<p>
Sometimes Uncle Malcolm indulged in sporting, a part of
the amusements of Scotch gentlemen.
</p>

<p>
Friday evening came, and after supper, the master said,
</p>

<p>
"Dugald, bring in the books an' get ready for the meeting,"
and the old servant soon returned with additional
seats, and a large number of hymn books.
</p>

<p>
"We hae a meeting o' my tenants every Friday, Roland;
we are vera far frae ony kirk, an' I hae to be
minister to them, for they can only attend the quarterly
communions."
</p>

<p>
Soon the people began to assemble; rough Highlanders,
with their wives and elder children came flocking in.
</p>

<p>
Malcolm sat at the head of a long table, and as each one
saluted him, it was manifest with what feelings of
affectionate reverence good Uncle Malcolm was regarded by his
humble people.  A chapter from the Bible with some familiar
remarks just to the point for his hearers, several beautiful
Scotch psalms, in which all joined earnestly, and then
a prayer from Malcolm, and another from Roland, closed
the evening.
</p>

<p>
Several remained behind to ask advice; some about their
business, their families, their spiritual needs, their cares
and sorrows, their disputes and difficulties; and the kind
words dropped by the good steward of his Master's goods,
testified to the fidelity with which he discharged his holy
trust.
</p>

<p>
Daily did Malcolm and Roland ride around among his
humble dependents, and a book for one, a tract for another,
some pecuniary help for others, marked all these visits.
</p>

<p>
"You see, Roland, that I am pretty busy for an old
bachelor; I could na' live without employment.  Then we
hae some pleasant society here, although we live so far
apart.  When the gentry visit us, it is to stay several days,
sometimes weeks at a time, for the latch o' Graham Hall is
always up."
</p>

<p>
On Sabbath afternoon, a company of little ones flocked
to the Hall, and Malcolm, Mrs. Lindsay, and Annot were
the teachers on these occasions.  It was quite a pleasant
treat to Roland to aid in the good work.
</p>

<p>
In the evenings, Annot entertained them with her sweet
Scotch songs, and Roland frequently accompanied her
with his deep, rich voice, and Uncle Malcolm with his flute.
</p>

<p>
Malcolm often wondered what he should do when Roland
would leave him, for every day he learned to love him,
not only for Mary Gordon's, but for his own sake.
</p>

<p>
"We shall hae to ask for your room to-night, Roland,"
said Mrs. Lindsay, "for the minister is coming, and he
always occupies that room."
</p>

<p>
"It makes no difference to me, dear Madam; put me
anywhere that suits you."
</p>

<p>
The Rev. Mr. Murray was a fine specimen of a Scotch
minister, grave, earnest, faithful; he was always welcome
among his humble mountain parishioners, and came
quarterly to look after their welfare.
</p>

<p>
"Are there ony ready for the Lord's supper, Mr. Graham?"
inquired the minister.
</p>

<p>
"I think there are four; they will be here next Sabbath,
when ye can examine them."
</p>

<p>
There was a large gathering at Graham Hall on that
holy day, for notice had been given that the minister was
coming.
</p>

<p>
He preached an earnest, faithful sermon, somewhat longer
than Roland had been accustomed to, for an hour and a
half were given up to that exercise; long prayers, and long
psalms made the occasion tedious to one not accustomed to
such services, but the people did net complain, although
it brought their dinner two hours later than on other
days.
</p>

<p>
In the afternoon, the minister examined several candidates
for the Lord's Supper, which was to be administered
on the following Sabbath, and paid a just tribute to the
fidelity with which they had been instructed by the
minister's earnest helper.  Mr. Murray stayed all night, and
gave some wise spiritual advice to Roland before he took
his departure.
</p>

<p>
"He seems to be a chiel o' God," said Mr. Murray, "and
can come to the sacrament, if he wishes, next Sabbath; it
must be pleasant to hae sic a guest."
</p>

<p>
"He is a descendant o' the Gordons, Mr. Murray, and a
chiel o' earnest prayer."
</p>

<p>
"They were aye a godly race, Mr. Graham, an' mony an
ancient martyr bears their name."
</p>

<p>
On the following Sabbath, Malcolm, Roland, Mrs. Lindsay,
and Annot started at early down in one carriage, and
all the servants in a large, comfortable wagon; the house
was closed for the day, for in Scotland these sacrament
days occupy the whole Sabbath.
</p>

<p>
Arrived at the place of concourse, large numbers were
seen coming in all directions; carriages, wagons, people on
horseback and on foot, hurried to the service, for as it
occurred so seldom, it was a great occasion to devout
Scotch people.
</p>

<p>
Owing to the numbers, the services were out of doors;
a table was spread under large shady trees, and
temporary seats provided for the occasion.
</p>

<p>
A long sermon was preached, but full of power; long
prayers, but full of unction; deep, sonorous, stirring psalms
were sung by the great multitude, and Roland thought of
the songs of the redeemed in the Revelations, where the
hallelujahs were compared to the voice of many waters.
The effect was sublime under these old trees; young men
and old, mothers, maidens, and little children all joining
in the solemn chorus, with the heavens for their canopy,
and the green sward for their carpeted aisles.
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "'Neath cloistered boughs each floral bell that swingeth,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And tolls its perfume on the passing air,<br>
  Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A call to prayer!<br>
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Attest the feebleness of mortal hand;<br>
  But to that fane, most catholic and solemn,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Which God hath planned!<br>
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply,<br>
  Its choir, the winds and waves, its organ thunder,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Its dome, the sky!"<br>
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
But here was the voice of God's ambassador, and the
presence of the Holy Ghost, and Roland listened and
worshipped with solemn awe in nature's grand cathedral.
</p>

<p>
In the intervals between the services, the people
assembled in serious groups under the trees to eat their
meals, for all who lived at a distance had come with the
intention to spend the Sabbath.
</p>

<p>
No lightness was manifest among the crowds, for Scotch
people are proverbial for their reverence for the Sabbath.
The minister mingled occasionally with his people; but
none, not even the little children, seemed to forget that it
was the holy Sabbath.  At the close of the solemn day,
Malcolm and his family returned to their mountain home,
doubtless benefitted by the exercises of this holy service.
</p>

<p>
"We have had a pleasant day, Uncle Malcolm," said
Roland, "but would it not be better if the services were
not quite so long?  I observed many old people nodding
in the afternoon."
</p>

<p>
"It would be doubtless better, but the customs of the
old Scotch church are very hard to remodel.  The good
Dr. Chalmers has done much in the way of reform, but it
has not reached us yet."
</p>

<p>
"What a noble witness for the truth is that good man!
There is but one such man in our age, Uncle Malcolm; at
least but one given to an especial branch of the Christian
church."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Roland, the Church of England has her Bickersteth;
the Baptist, her Robert Hall; the Methodist, her
Wesley; and a' seeking one great end, the glory of the
Saviour, and the spread of his kingdom.  What a blessed
day that will be, when these sects shall pass away, and we
shall be truly one in Christ, once more the simple primitive
Christians of Antioch!"
</p>

<p>
And thus they fulfilled the blessed command of their
Master, talking of the things of his kingdom, until like the
disciples on their way to Emmaus their hearts burned
within them with emotions of holy love.  Where the
fountain is full, the streams will gush forth naturally, freely,
healthfully.
</p>

<p>
"It is a fine day, Uncle Malcolm," said Roland, on the
following Monday; "can we go to-day to visit the glen
where my martyred ancestors lie?"
</p>

<p>
"I was thinking o' it mysel', Roland; the weather could
na' be better, hard roads, and clear sharp air&mdash;it is a long
ride frae' here, and we will set out early&mdash;hae the carriage
ready, Dugald, and a basket o' provision; we will gae in
aboot an hour."
</p>

<p>
It was a splendid ride over these mountain roads, winding
around in their ascent to heights whence there were
vistas charming in their grandeur even at this season; then
descending into rural glens where the cottages of the
peasantry ever and anon met their view.  "There is Castle
Kennicott, Roland;" and Malcolm pointed to a miserable
range of buildings, so dilapidated that his companion smiled
at the name.
</p>

<p>
"There lives old Sir Peter Kennicott; he is a specimen
o' an auld Scottish laird, vera poor, and vera proud; his
wife, Lady Catherine, and three daughters, make up his
household; they visit us two or three times a year, and
living as they do in the seclusion o' their Highland home,
ken but little o' the ways o' the rest o' the warld; they are
vera amusing wi' their quaint auld-fashioned manners; but
Lady Catherine is a guid woman, and much esteemed."
</p>

<p>
Beguiling the way with pleasant chat, in a few hours
they reached the spot they sought for.  Dismounting, they
stood around the lowly grave&mdash;the same ruined chimney,
the same grand old trees, the same dark and sombre glen,
where no human habitation was visible, recalled the picture
so deeply engraved upon the memory of Roland.
</p>

<p>
"We stood just here, Uncle Malcolm," (and Roland
almost whispered, for he felt in the midst of solemn
associations,) "when my mother told me the story of old David
Gordon and the sweet Lilian, and I think from that day
my childish soul took a great leap in its existence, and I
never could forget the thoughts which stirred within me,
as I remembered that my ancestors were among the holy
band of Christian martyrs."
</p>

<p>
"It is a great honor, Roland, to be descended frae those
who will hereafter be kings and priests unto God."
</p>

<p>
"What a cruel being man must be that can slay such
innocence as slumbers here!"
</p>

<p>
"And yet it is frae oot sic dreadful scenes o' bluidshed
that great principles to bless our race arise; the struggles
between right and wrong are often ushered in by the gibbet,
the stake, or the battle-axe."
</p>

<p>
"O, what a happy time that will be, Uncle Malcolm,
when the nations shall learn war no more! when man shall
love his brother man."
</p>

<p>
"It is coming, Roland; sure as God's word is true, sic a
day will dawn upon the earth."
</p>

<p>
Hours were spent around the humble grave, for both felt
the inspiration of the scene.
</p>

<p>
"I hae something mair to show ye, Roland; here is ane
o' the caves where our fathers used to hide in those dismal
days; and mony a time in the midst o' baptismal or sacrament
seasons in these lonely glens, at the sound o' the
tramp o' Claverhouse and his troopers, would they hae to
fly to these damp and gloomy shelters."
</p>

<p>
"How solemn must have been the worship of these
days, Uncle Malcolm; ever on the borders of eternity, they
must always have sounded like funereal hymns in these
solitudes!"
</p>

<p>
"And yet how much we hae read o' their heroic spirit,
their brave endurance, and their triumph over death!  I
can imagine strains o' victory always mingling wi' a
martyr's hymn."
</p>

<p>
When they arrived at home, letters from Edmund awaited
Roland; he seemed to be growing tired of travelling
alone.  Uncle Malcolm, with his accustomed hospitality,
immediately wrote a few lines of cordial invitation to
Graham Hall.
</p>

<p>
"Wha' hae we here?" asked Mrs. Lindsay.
</p>

<p>
Roland looked out, and, lumbering up the road, came a
large old-fashioned carriage, with two fat, lazy horses.
</p>

<p>
"It is Sir Peter," continued the lady; and soon the party
stopped at the door.
</p>

<p>
"How fares it wi' ye a'?" said the old man, as he stepped
slowly from the carriage, and warmly shook the master's
hand.
</p>

<p>
Lady Catherine followed, and then the three daughters,
with their pets&mdash;Miss Juliana, with her cat; Miss Winnie,
with a fat lap-dog; and Miss Jacky, with a large parrot,
brought to her from abroad by a sailor cousin.  Sundry
bandboxes, and a trunk, indicated that they meant to stay
for some days at least.  The three ladies had all passed
the hey-day of youth, for the youngest was thirty at least.
Miss Juliana, the eldest, having passed two seasons at
Edinburgh, was the only one who pretended to the manners
of a lady; she still preserved carefully the wardrobe
of those youthful days for extra occasions, such as a
visit to Graham Hall.  On this day, a worn-out travelling
dress, made in the fashion of twenty years ago, looked
rather antiquated; but the narrow purse of Kennicott
Castle made a virtue of necessity.
</p>

<p>
Sir Peter, clad in the costume of ancient times, with his
bob-wig and powdered hair, his small clothes, and silver
knee and shoe-buckles, his three-cornered hat, and
silver-headed cane, with a coat whose pockets were large enough
to hold a change of clothing, presented a most grotesque
appearance, and really might have been mistaken for a
person rigged out for a dramatic scene.  Lady Catherine
was equally antique.  After the ceremony of introduction,
they were escorted to their rooms; and nothing more was
seen of them until dinner-time, when their appearance at
the table indicated the employment of the morning.
</p>

<p>
Miss Juliana was arrayed in a youthful dress of light
blue silk; and, as the eldest, wore the old family jewels,
which certainly were not of the most costly kind.  Her
hair was dressed in the most youthful style; but artificial
rose-buds could not conceal the gray locks, or hide the
shrivelled cheeks.  She carried a fan, with which she
performed certain singular manœuvres, which she considered
the very tip of the haut-ton.
</p>

<p>
Miss Juliana was the oracle of the family; for had she
not been in Edinburgh for two seasons? and ought she not
to know the fashions of high life?
</p>

<p>
Miss Winnie was fat and coarse, with high cheek bones,
large hands and feet, freckled skin, and red hair; she
certainly did not pretend to be the beauty of the family.
</p>

<p>
Miss Jacky, the "Baby," as they still called her, was
considered the "beauty."
</p>

<p>
A small figure, with a profusion of light flaxy hair,
tortured into curling, light complexion, with high color,
unmeaning china-blue eyes, and pursed-up little mouth,
distinguished her from her sisters.
</p>

<p>
They were all bent upon Baby's making a great match;
therefore, all the finery of the past generation, that
remained in the old family chest, was kept especially for her.
A heavy crimson brocade for winter, that stood alone, was
made up with low neck and short sleeves; and in summer,
one light pink taffeta was likewise remodelled.  One wreath
of roses for her hair, one string of pearls for the neck, with
ear-rings to match, one pair of soiled kid gloves for the
hands, and one pair of narrow pointed slippers, made up
Baby's wardrobe, and this she had worn on her visits to
Graham Hall, and Douglass Manor, ever since she was
eighteen; and now, alas! Baby was thirty.
</p>

<p>
She had sung the same songs, danced the same Scotch
reels, said the same pretty silly things; charming only to
her family, and yet Baby was not married.
</p>

<p>
Sir Peter had long thought that a seat at the head of the
table at Graham Hall, would be the very thing for Baby,
but unfortunately, the master did not concur in sentiment.
</p>

<p>
"Annot, my dear, come sit by me," said the sweet young
lady, for she knew that Malcolm dearly loved his little
niece.  Baby was devoted in her attentions to the child,
but it all seemed lost upon Malcolm, who was busily engaged
in talking to Sir Peter about the cattle and the sheep
during the late snow storm.  "I lost ten o' my best sheep,
Mr. Graham," remarked the old man.
</p>

<p>
"I did na lose ane, Sir Peter," was the answer, and
Malcolm dropped many hints which might have been
useful, if the old man had not been too indolent to profit
by them.
</p>

<p>
The politeness of the household was much taxed by their
efforts to entertain their guests; for there were just four
subjects of conversation for the four ladies.
</p>

<p>
Lady Catherine discussed household economy; Miss
Juliana, her visit to Edinburgh, twenty years ago, an
unfailing subject; Miss Winnie, her pet lap-dog, with all his
wonderful tricks; and Baby, "The Children of the Abbey,"
and the "Sorrows of Werter."
</p>

<p>
It was in vain that Mrs. Lindsay tried to divert the
channel of conversation to better things; back to the old
worn-out sayings and doings of their little world they would
come.
</p>

<p>
All the ladies employed themselves in knitting while
they talked.  Lady Catherine knit stockings for the
winter; Miss Juliana mitts innumerable; Miss Winnie,
tippets of all sizes; and Baby tidies and mats for parlor and
chamber.
</p>

<p>
Knit! knit! knit! talk! talk! talk!  Truly a visit from
Kennicott Castle was a trial to Christian patience!  And
then, the darling pets!  Miss Juliana's pet cat fought with
the master's noble dog; Miss Winnie's lap-dog tried to tear
out the eyes of Annot's little kitten; and Baby's parrot
screamed night and day, "Polly wants Baby!  Polly wants
Baby!"  Then Miss Juliana's cat must have sweet milk
three times a day, and the most delicate pieces of meat cut
up very fine; Miss Winnie's lap-dog must be fed upon
cream; and Baby's parrot could open her cage-door, and
help herself to whatever she liked upon the table.  This
was great fun to Baby, but disgusting to others, who could
not bear a dirty parrot walking over the dinner-plates.
Miss Juliana played two old marches, Miss Winnie two
old pieces, and Baby three songs exactly.
</p>

<p>
They all attended punctually upon the family devotions,
and then Malcolm could pray that all who knelt around
that altar should set their affections upon things above,
and not on the vain and fleeting things of earth; their
frivolity pained him, and the good master tried many ways
to do them good.
</p>

<p>
He talked to the ladies about schools for the poor
children, and about comforts for their parents.
</p>

<p>
"Dear me!" said Miss Juliana, "Mr. Graham you would
na' expect us to stoop to these wild Highlanders;
why! they are na' mair than savages!"
</p>

<p>
"And sae they will continue, my dear Madam,"
("Madam!"  Miss Juliana did not like that,) "if you will
na' step forward to their help; and in sic a lonesome place,
I should think it would be pleasant wark."
</p>

<p>
"Why, Mr. Graham, it would take twa hunters ilka
morn to catch the wild things; on the tops o' the highest
hills, down in the deepest glens, hidden amang the steep
rocks, we might as well try to tame the wild animals as
these rough, outlandish children o' the crags."
</p>

<p>
"Try, Miss Juliana, gi' them something for the body,
and, after awhile, they will come to ye for something for
the mind."
</p>

<p>
Miss Juliana yawned, "It is sae mickle work, Mr. Graham,
for a high-born lady; I could na' think of sic a
thing."
</p>

<p>
For two weeks the visitors remained; but no visible
progress was made by Baby, and the party turned their faces
homeward.
</p>

<p>
"Ye will return our visit soon, Mr. Graham; bring yer
young friend wi' ye; we canna promise mickle at Kennicott,
but we will mak' ye welcome."
</p>

<p>
"Thank ye, Sir Peter, when we hae leisure, we will
accept your kind invitation."
</p>

<p>
The old carriage was brought up, Sir Peter and Lady
Catherine comfortably seated, followed by Miss Juliana
and her cat, Tabby; Miss Winnie and her dog, Charley;
and Baby with her talking Poll, screaming, as she went,
"Poll wants Baby;" with sundry band-boxes and trunks,
filled with the old finery, to be packed away for future
occasions; while the ladies would now assume their tartan
plaid and woollen hose, until making another visitation.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Lindsay gave one long, expressive breath; good
Uncle Malcolm smiled with a look of relief, and little
Annot clapped her hands as she hugged up her pet kitten,
and said, "Now, tittens! that horrid dog is gone, and ye
shall hae some peace o' your life."
</p>

<p>
In a few days, Edmund arrived, and received a hearty
welcome from the master of Graham Hall.  Soon domesticated,
he revelled in the comforts of the hospitable mansion;
and day after day, seated by the blazing fire of the
family-room, he would rub his hands with delight, exclaiming,
</p>

<p>
"This is living, Roland!  How shall I ever content myself
in that Babel of a city after these grand mountains,
these noble trees, this free life out-of-doors, and this
glowing, warm-hearted hospitality within!"
</p>

<p>
"It is a charming home, indeed!" was Roland's reply,
"the very perfection of that sweet word; though so cold
without, one feels all the time here in the midst of a warm
glow of Christian love, and hearty welcome."'
</p>

<p>
"What a charming piece of simplicity is that dear little
Annot, Roland!  So fresh! so naive!  After the glitter of
New York belles, she is really captivating; and then her
music&mdash;why, she warbles sweetly as a mavis."
</p>

<p>
Roland smiled as he replied, "Where is Miss Hamilton,
Edmund?"
</p>

<p>
"O, she is out of my reach! a bright divinity that I may
worship in the distance!  But this little Scotch mountain
girl! innocent child that she is, charms me daily more and
more, with her winning ways, and her sweet, loving
eyes."
</p>

<p>
"Take care, Edmund, how you allow yourself to become
enchanted; for you may never see Scotland again."
</p>

<p>
"That is not so certain, my dear sir, for I have had a
taste of Highland life that I shall never forget; and this
sweet face I must see again."
</p>

<p>
Roland found that he must seek out his aunt; therefore,
in a day or two, Uncle Malcolm and he sat out for Douglass
Manor, leaving Edmund behind to seek his own pleasures.
It was a long two-storied stone mansion, that had
long been in the family, and therefore dignified by the
name of "The Manor."
</p>

<p>
Mr. Graham inquired for the mistress; asked into the
parlor, they awaited her arrival.
</p>

<p>
In a few minutes, a tall lady, with pleasing aspect, and
dignified address, entered the parlor.
</p>

<p>
"Ye are welcome, Mr. Graham; it is a long time syne I
hae had this honor."
</p>

<p>
"I cam' to introduce a family connexion, Mrs. Douglass."
</p>

<p>
The lady looked earnestly at Roland, a change passed
over her countenance, as she advanced towards the young
man, and taking his hand, she said,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"I dinna ken what to think, but surely ye are vera like
my brother Stephen, lost so lang ago."
</p>

<p>
Malcolm had left the room.
</p>

<p>
"I am Roland Bruce, your brother's son, Aunt Douglass;
you are the first relative that I have met in Scotland."
</p>

<p>
She grasped his hand, and drawing him to her, kissed
him affectionately.
</p>

<p>
"My dear nephew!  This is joyful indeed!  Nane o'
my kindred hae I left on earth, but yoursel'!"
</p>

<p>
Roland then related his story to his aunt; she was deeply
moved; as soon as he mentioned the name of Elsie Gibson,
she exclaimed,
</p>

<p>
"Is it possible that Elsie is in America?  We missed
her years ago, but nane could tell whate'er became o'
her."
</p>

<p>
"What relation does she bear to us?" inquired Roland.
</p>

<p>
"Roland, she luved your father dearly, an' had he
married her, he wud hae been a happier mon; but he was
aye like one crazed on the subject o' Mary Gordon."
</p>

<p>
"My mother made him a good wife, Aunt Douglass; she
was most faithful and devoted."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Roland, I ken a' that to be true; but her heart
was na wi' her husband."
</p>

<p>
"It was with no one else, Aunt Douglass; I wish that
you could have known my dear mother."
</p>

<p>
At the end of their interview, Mrs. Douglass was
convinced that her brother was yet alive.
</p>

<p>
"I will gae wi' ye, Roland, when ye return to America;
I maun find my brother, for our property is yet unsettled,
although my father has been dead these four years; ye
maun stay wi' me, Roland, it is sic a pleasure to see a
branch o' my ain hoose," and Aunt Douglass affectionately
laid her hand upon the young man's shoulder.
</p>

<p>
"Looking aloft!" thought Roland, "how many of my
prayers and hopes have been fulfilled!  I will never
distrust a gracious God, so true to all his promises."
</p>

<p>
Malcolm left Roland with the promise to come once more
to Graham Hall ere he left the country.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Douglass busied herself in preparing all the
documents necessary ere she left Scotland, and after having
shown her nephew all that was interesting around the
Manor, she started, with her nephew for Malcolm's home.
</p>

<p>
"Would it not be better, Uncle Malcolm, to settle my
mother's estate before I leave Scotland?  I should like to
dispose of it, for my future home will be in America."
</p>

<p>
"I will attend to all that, Roland; I have taken charge
o' a' ever syne the death o' your kindred; indeed, it is sold
already."
</p>

<p>
Uncle Malcolm did not then tell Roland that he was
himself the purchaser, and had given a higher price than any
stranger would have done.
</p>

<p>
In a short time, all was arranged; Roland received a handsome
price, and old Jennie Scott was sorely distressed at the
thought of a stranger in the old manse.
</p>

<p>
"Dinna trouble yourself, Jennie," was Malcolm's word
of comfort; "it will be the manse still, a guid minister
shall abide there, and Jennie shall be the woman o' a' wark
there yet."
</p>

<p>
She kissed Malcolm's hand,&mdash;"Ye're a guid an' faithfu'
mon, Mr. Graham, an' God will bless ye evermair."
</p>

<p>
The time of parting had arrived&mdash;Roland was grieved to
leave the dear shelter of Graham Hall, for it was indeed to
him a home, and its master a kind and generous father.
Mrs. Lindsay, too, had been like a dear mother, and little
Annot clung around him, and cried at parting with "dear
Cousin Roland."
</p>

<p>
Edmund could not leave the dear home-circle of
Graham Hall without deep regret; and as he bade a
sorrowful farewell to artless Annot Lindsay, and held her
little hand fondly within his own, he whispered,
</p>

<p>
"I shall come again, Annot, and then we shall have the
pleasant walks and rides once more."
</p>

<p>
She dropped her sweet eyes on the ground, then raising
them to Edmund's face, swimming in tears, she replied,
</p>

<p>
"I shall miss ye, Mr. Norris, so vera, vera much; but
ye'll come again, an' I'll learn so mony new songs just for
ye, an' nane ither."
</p>

<p>
Annot stood at the window looking at the carriage as it
turned away; and ere it vanished out of sight, a familiar
face smiled at her from the back of the carriage, and a
hand waved a last farewell, that she knew was Edmund's.
</p>

<p>
Soon in London, Malcolm took lodgings for himself,
Mrs. Douglass, and his young friends; and many pleasant
visits did they pay together among the homes of the
destitute; and many useful hints were given by the wise and
faithful friend to Roland and Edmund.  Riding out one
day, Mr. Graham perceived a carriage passing close by
their side.  It contained two ladies, one remarkable for
her beauty.  She looked startled, blushed, smiled, waved her
hand, and was gone.
</p>

<p>
Roland was deeply agitated,
</p>

<p>
"Who was that, Roland?" inquired his friend.
</p>

<p>
"That was Madeline Hamilton, Uncle Malcolm," and
Roland dropped his eyes beneath the earnest look of his
friend.
</p>

<p>
"Ye never told me that she was in London, Roland."
</p>

<p>
"No, Uncle Malcolm, I did not."
</p>

<p>
"And why, my son, may I ask?"
</p>

<p>
"I am not on terms of intimacy with Miss Hamilton now."
</p>

<p>
"How is that, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"She does not belong to my world, Uncle Malcolm; so
her relatives think."
</p>

<p>
Uncle Malcolm bit his lip, as he replied slowly,
</p>

<p>
"Does Madeline think sae, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"I think not; she is simple-hearted, truthful as a child,
above all that is sordid, or worldly; but they may spoil her
here in London."
</p>

<p>
Malcolm read at once the whole of Roland's secret.
</p>

<p>
"Ye could keep up intercourse wi' Miss Hamilton if ye
please, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"I think I could, Uncle Malcolm; but I would not tempt
her from the path of duty."
</p>

<p>
Malcolm Graham smiled, a bright and happy smile;
for in the future, he saw a path so high! so blessed for his
dear young protégé.  "Looking aloft!" in the right sense
thought Malcolm, "and God will take care o' his interests,
for time and eternity."
</p>

<p>
"Roland, my boy, trust in God; for he will make a'
things work together for your good.  Seek first the kingdom
o' God and his righteousness, and a' these things shall
be added unto ye; all <i>these</i> things, Roland&mdash;whatever is for
your real good."
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap24"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXIV.
<br><br>
WINGS CLIPPED THAT HAD COMMENCED TO SOAR.
</h3>

<p>
Madeline is in a new atmosphere; silken fetters bind
her feet, and amid the novelty of scenes so different from
those at home, gradually the world acquires an ascendancy
over her young heart, which almost ceases to converse with
itself.
</p>

<p>
Her journal has long been laid aside; but one very rainy
day she opens its pages, and contrasts her present state
with the past.  Madeline is humbled; taking up her pen,
she resumes a record of past events and emotions.  She
made her entries for only a few weeks after her arrival.
</p>

<p>
"London, May 10th.&mdash;What a new world surrounds me!
Ah, so novel, so different from New York!  I am in a
constant whirl of excitement, with scarcely time for thought.
We have brought letters of introduction from Mr. Leighton
and Mr. Trevor to the American minister, which bring us
at once within the pale of London life among the haut-ton.
Aunt Matilda is delighted; quite in her element; papa
pleased because we are, but he looks very pale and languid.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
"Yesterday was the great day; I was presented to the
Queen by the American minister.  I wanted to see Queen
Victoria, because she is a rare example of a good wife and
mother in a royal circle.  It was a magnificent scene;
such a crowd of well-developed, rosy young ladies; such
splendid dressing, high-breeding, and courtly grace, I have
never before seen!  I understand now something about
the rich glow of English beauty; but the Queen interested
me most.  She is not handsome, but there was a benevolent
glow upon her face when she addressed me personally,
and said some kind things about my country.  I could have
kissed her hand, but I suppose that would not have been
courtly etiquette, and so I had to content myself with
performing the difficult ceremony of bowing out backwards; I
did not fall, and that is all I can say about the manner.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
"I am busy in returning calls, visiting dress-makers,
&amp;c., for we are invited to a ball at the Duke of D&mdash;&mdash;'s.
I wonder if I ought to go, and leave papa; Aunt Matilda
insists, and papa wishes it; it will take place next week.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
"Well!  I have been to the grand ball; a great crowd,
magnificent rooms, superb dressing, a train of admirers,
scarcely room to dance, but unable to accept all the
invitations; introduced to the Earl of N&mdash;&mdash;, a refined and
courtly English nobleman; his wife, the Countess, is
peculiarly pleasing; and his daughter, the Lady Alice,
charming; a sweet, artless English girl, just making her first
appearance in gay life.  I don't believe that she relishes it
much.  Lord N&mdash;&mdash;, the son, is the most pleasing gentleman
that I have yet met in London; modest, unassuming,
gentlemanly, and intelligent, and sufficiently good-looking
to captivate the majority of young ladies.  His attentions
are acceptable, because they are so perfectly respectful, so
unobtrusive.
</p>

<p>
"This family pleases me more than any I have seen;
they must be among the best specimens of English nobility.
</p>

<p>
"Aunt Matilda is so intoxicated, by moving among
nobles, that I cannot help laughing; and I fear that she
will make the impression that she is really not accustomed
to good society; there is so much fuss and folly about her
movements.  I ought not to write this of Aunt Matilda, for
she is so good and kind to me; only too anxious about the
number of conquests, and I shrewdly suspect that she is
meditating one herself.
</p>

<p>
"Dined yesterday at the Earl of N&mdash;&mdash;'s, in company
with papa and Aunt Matilda; quite a family dinner, as
dear papa avoids much company.  I think it is a Christian
family, for the good earl asked a blessing at the table so
reverently.  It is the perfection of a refined household; all
so easy, so quiet, and in such exquisite taste; and the
conversation was so improving; no frivolity, but a high-toned
intelligence, that made it really a privilege to be one of the
party.  I find that they do not mingle much with the gay
world, but as pilgrims and strangers, they are 'in the
world, but not of the world.'  I am thankful that we have
made such an acquaintance.
</p>

<p>
"After dinner, Lady Alice led the way to the drawing-room,
and, in company with her brother, entertained us
with some delightful music, and showed us some very fine
engravings of English scenery.
</p>

<p>
"I have been to an English opera; the music was fine,
the company brilliant, and the scene altogether fascinating.
In the course of the evening the Queen of England
entered; when the whole audience arose, and the orchestra
played with great spirit 'God save the Queen.'  Her
Majesty acknowledged the compliment by a gracious bow,
and a warm, benevolent smile; no wonder that her
subjects love her so truly.  These late hours are killing to
devotion; I come home so tired, that my prayers are
lifeless and formal.  I wonder if papa is lonely when I am
away; he says not, for he is very fond of reading.  I think
that he reads the Bible habitually now.  When I ask him
anything about himself he smiles, and says that 'he will
be better soon.'
</p>

<p>
"Lady Alice is very kind; their carriage is always at
our disposal; she has taken us to Westminster Abbey,
St. Paul's, the Parks, the Zoological Gardens, the British
Museum, and the Picture Galleries; I could spend days at the
latter.
</p>

<p>
"My good aunt has taken great pains to let it be known
that we are really related to the Duke of Hamilton;
poh! poh! that is so foolish!  We are truly altogether American,
and what care we for noble birth!
</p>

<p>
"Last Sunday, in company with Lady Alice, I visited
one of the Ragged Schools in M&mdash;&mdash; Lane.  I had no
conception before of the place.  A very large room, crowded
with children; some clad in rags and filth, others were
civilized; but there was a look of sensuality among them
that was so revolting.  It was a pleasant sight to see so
many of the higher classes, filled with the spirit of the
loving Master, seeking these degraded children.  I was
surprised to see the Lady Alice take her seat so humbly
among a company of such rough, half-clad girls; and pleased
to see the look of grateful respect that rested upon the face
of more than one, as they listened to the instructions of
their gentle teacher.
</p>

<p>
"'Do you teach here weekly, Lady Alice?' I asked as
soon as she had done.  'That is my privilege, Miss
Hamilton, when I am in London,' was the modest reply.
</p>

<p>
"'Could you not find a position among some not quite
so degraded?'
</p>

<p>
"'Yes; but then so few comparatively are willing to
come here; and then you know, Miss Hamilton, that our
Master did not scorn the lowest sinner.'
</p>

<p>
"I was silent, for Lady Alice had set me to thinking.
</p>

<p>
"Suddenly, I was surprised by the sight of a familiar
form; at first, only the back; but I could not be
mistaken&mdash;he turned, and it was indeed Roland Bruce!  How did
he ever come here?
</p>

<p>
"He advanced, and extended his warm, strong hand;
the touch was magnetic&mdash;how it revived the dear old days
around Woodcliff!  How strong it seemed!  Just like
the staff of my childhood; not only the staff, but the
sceptre to which I willingly bowed.  He inquired how I
came here, and I told him.
</p>

<p>
"'Did I not promise you that I would visit such places?'
</p>

<p>
"He looked so pleased, and then told me why he was
in England, and that he expected, ere he returned, to visit
Scotland.
</p>

<p>
"The earl's family attend the church under the ministry
of the Rev. Mr. B&mdash;&mdash;, not for its grandeur, but purely for
the simple evangelical preaching of its earnest pastor; but
my aunt goes with the Duke of D&mdash;&mdash; to a more fashionable
church, where the elite attend, but where there is little
but the form of piety.
</p>

<p>
"It is a great privilege to attend upon such a ministry
as Mr. B&mdash;&mdash;'s, for it draws my thoughts away from earth.
</p>

<p>
The earl's family are all members of the Church of
England.  Last Sunday, all four partook of the communion.  I
felt so lonely, so conscience-stricken when they all arose
and left me in the pew.  After church, Lord N&mdash;&mdash; said to
me with such real concern upon his fine face&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"'I am sorry, Miss Hamilton, to find that you are not
a follower of the Redeemer; why is it so?'
</p>

<p>
"I could not answer for one minute, but at last replied&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"'I ought to be, I know; but I am so unworthy, so
worldly!'
</p>

<p>
"'So am I unworthy, Miss Hamilton; but Jesus is all
my righteousness.  I cannot bear to see you, one so'&mdash;and
he stopped; 'I cannot bear to see you any thing but a
Christian.'
</p>

<p>
"'Thank you, Lord N&mdash;&mdash;; how is it that, surrounded
by so much to draw the heart from God, your family are
all so different from the rest of the world?'
</p>

<p>
"'In the world, but not of the world, Miss Hamilton,
is my answer; and all the difference consists in this&mdash;that
by the grace of God only, we are what you see.'
</p>

<p>
"What a lovely specimen of piety in high life is here!
'Tis true, that not many of the great ones of the earth are
called to be children of the kingdom; but there are some.
</p>

<p>
"Lord N&mdash;&mdash;'s remark has led me back to the days of
former seriousness.  Am I grieving the Spirit of God by
my worldliness?  'Ye cannot serve God and mammon' is
the Saviour's teaching; may I feel its power.
</p>

<p>
"The earl's family are going down to Parkhurst Manor,
their country-seat, and have invited us to accompany them.
Aunt Matilda would rather stay amid the dissipation of
London life; but I am weary of it, and so glad to go into
the country; and then it will be better for papa, dear
papa!  I wonder if he is any better.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * *
</p>

<p>
"Parkhurst Manor.&mdash;What a charming home!  The
entrance to the mansion is through a splendid park of trees
of ancient growth, and the grounds most beautifully kept;
the smooth green grass, the branching elms meeting over
the avenue which leads to the house, forming such a cool,
green arbor; the sporting deer meeting us everywhere,
some looking at us with a startled look in their soft, brown
eyes, and others so docile that they walked close by the
side of the carriage; but the smile of the honest gatekeeper
at the Lodge was the best welcome, as he opened the gate,
taking off his hat, and saying&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"'You are welcome back to the manor, my Lord.'
</p>

<p>
"'Thank you, James; I hope you are all well at the
Lodge.'
</p>

<p>
"In another minute, two rosy little girls ran across the
road, and, dropping a courtesy before the carriage, said&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"'Welcome back, my Lady, we are so glad to see you;
is Lady Alice there?'
</p>

<p>
"The young lady smiled upon the little things, and
replied&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"'Come up to the Hall to-morrow, I have something for
you, my little girls,' and the carriage drove on.
</p>

<p>
"The house is a large and elegant mansion; I scarcely
know of what style of architecture, but much of it is ancient;
the wings are of more modern style, the windows all opening
out on to the lawn.  From the second story, verandahs
surround the mansion, filled with most rare and exquisite
flowers.  The grounds are laid out with the utmost taste
in winding paths; at the back of the house is a calm lake,
on which float a number of graceful swans; pavilions,
rustic seats, and rural bridges over several small streams
which flow through the grounds, and shrubbery of the
choicest kind adorn the walks; in fine, nothing is wanting
to make this another Eden of delight.  I revelled in the
sights and sounds around me with inexpressible pleasure;
but the sweetest sight of all was the meeting between the
parents and their dear children, who came running to greet
them; two sons, the one nineteen, the other seventeen,
with two younger girls, so artless! so simple hearted!
</p>

<p>
"'Dear papa! dear mamma! you have come at last!
Now, it is dear old Parkhurst!  You have come to stay,
have you not, mamma?' and the little Ladies Julia and
Mary seized their dear mother's hands, as if afraid that she
would run away again.  Sweet, precious picture of domestic
bliss!
</p>

<p>
"The children were not in the habit of sitting at the
table; but this was a holiday, and all assembled that
evening around the family board, as a great treat, in company
with their tutor.
</p>

<p>
"But, although brimful of joy, the little girls knew how
to be quiet, and contented themselves with looking at their
beloved parents and dear brother and sister; and the young
men joined very modestly, but seldom, in the general
conversation.  I sat near the little girls, and once I heard
them whisper to each other about the books which mamma
had promised, and the dolls from Lady Alice.
</p>

<p>
"The countess glanced kindly, but reprovingly, at the
children, as she said&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"'My little girls are forgetting mamma's rules at the
table; there must be no whispering.'
</p>

<p>
"'Excuse us, dear mamma,' replied the Lady Julia, 'we
were wondering about the books and dolls.'
</p>

<p>
"After supper, a bell summoned us to evening worship
in the chapel, whither the countess led the way, and the
tutor, who is a young clergyman, conducted the devotions,
while Lady Alice presided at the organ.  Thanks for the
return of the parents were included in the service, and, at
the close, the dear children were dismissed with a loving
kiss from both parents.
</p>

<p>
"Happy household! trained thus from infancy for Heaven,
what a calm and holy atmosphere prevails everywhere
at Parkhurst!  The echoes of sweet Sabbath chimes ever
softly ringing, and sanctifying the simpler acts of its daily
life.  I am so glad to be here; such a contrast to many of
the gay and worldly families of London, where all seem
bent upon ignoring entirely their immortality.
</p>

<p>
"The next morning after our arrival, the family carriage
and three fine horses were drawn up before the door.
</p>

<p>
"'We want to show you some of the beauties around
Parkhurst,' said the earl, 'and concluded that the young
people would prefer the saddle.  I presume that you ride,
Miss Hamilton; we English people are famous riders.'
</p>

<p>
"Lord N&mdash;&mdash;, Lady Alice, and I mounted; papa and
Aunt Matilda occupied the landau with the earl and
countess.  We had a most delightful excursion among the green
lanes of 'old England,' breathing the cool morning air.  It
is, indeed, a garden of sweets; the high cultivation everywhere,
the country residences, the rural cottages, all with
their flowers and trees, and the reverence with which the
family of the earl was everywhere greeted, made this ride
highly gratifying.  I find a most regular, systematic household,
the heads of the family each having especial hours of
retirement; the children their periods of study, recreation,
and out-door exercise.  After morning worship, the family
scattered to their several avocations.
</p>

<p>
"'You are at home, Miss Hamilton,' said Lady Alice,
leading the way to the library; 'I read two hours daily,
a course laid down by my former tutor, and I presume that
you would like to do the same.  Mamma visits the school-room
daily, and makes inquiries of the tutor about the
children, but she does not interfere; she has one in whom
she places perfect confidence, and she aids, not thwarts, his
plans for their improvement; the exercises of the school-room
are no more disturbed than if they were all away at
school.  Mamma is too sensible for that.'
</p>

<p>
"We chose our books, took our seats at separate tables,
and enjoyed two delightfully private hours&mdash;'tis true that
Lord N&mdash;&mdash; knocked at the door, and just peeped in once.
</p>

<p>
"'No admission, brother,' said the Lady Alice, with an
arch smile; 'we are very busy now; you know that we
all read at this hour; go get your books, like a good boy,'
and springing from her seat, she opened the door wide,
threw her arms around her brother's neck, and kissed him,
saying, 'now go, Alfred.'
</p>

<p>
"'This is the way she rules me, Miss Hamilton; I dare
not disobey my precise little sister; so adieu, ladies!'
</p>

<p>
"Two hours at the piano closed the studies of the Lady
Alice.  I observed a harp in the drawing-room, and while
she was occupied in the music-room, I took advantage of
the time, to refresh my almost forgotten pieces.  I had
brought some new music with me, and was glad to find
that I had so much leisure.
</p>

<p>
"'I suppose that I may venture to intrude,' said Lord
N&mdash;&mdash;, at the close of my practice; and another hour was
spent in entertaining my young host, who is a passionate
lover of music, and who accompanied me with the flute.
</p>

<p>
"Out on the verandah, Lady Alice observed, 'There come
my little girls from the Lodge,' and running to her room,
she brought out several books, and a new dress for each.
Little Mary and Bessie Bond were modest children, and as
they dropped a courtesy to their young lady, she handed
them the gifts which she had brought.
</p>

<p>
"'Thank you, Lady Alice, you are very good,' said the
elder.
</p>

<p>
"Dinner at five, where a select number of friends joined
our party.  The breakfast costume is simple lawn or
muslin wrappers, with a pretty cap for the countess; but
the dress for dinner was more elegant&mdash;rich silk dresses,
with low neck and short sleeves, hair handsomely arranged,
with rich head-dresses for the elder ladies, simpler for the
young, and a moderate addition of fine jewelry.
</p>

<p>
"There was much more ceremony at this meal, though
nothing was oppressive; it was felt to be the etiquette of
high-bred English life.  The conversation was general,
improving, entertaining; personalities were strictly avoided,
and it was evident that the earl had gathered around him
a party of pleasing, intelligent, refined English people;
even two or three frivolous young ladies were held in check
by the general tone of sentiment.
</p>

<p>
"We walked in the Park after dinner, and the game-keeper
amused us highly by a summons to his feathered charge.
Making a certain call, in a moment crowds of rooks were
seen emerging from their own domicile, which was quite a
large building for birds only.  They clustered around him,
on his head, his shoulders, his hands, and wherever they
could obtain a footing, while crowds congregated around
his feet, making their own peculiarly coarse, unpleasant
cawing; indeed, there seemed to be quite a familiar intimacy
between him and his dark-feathered favorites.
</p>

<p>
"At another call, the deer came bounding towards him;
it was such a pretty picture of the power of kindness over
the dumb creation; it pleased me especially, for I do so
love the world of animals.  I found that I might pat the
gentle fawns, and by a few kind words draw them towards
me, rubbing their pretty heads against my hands, and
looking up in my face with their confiding, soft brown eyes.
I thought of the time when 'the wolf also shall dwell with
the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and
the calf and the young lion, and the fatling together; and
a little child shall lead them.'  Happy period of millennial
blessedness! for then the fiercest will have parted with
their savage nature.  This day was a pretty general picture
of the daily life at Parkhurst Manor&mdash;so domestic! so
purifying! so elevating!  Then the sweet worship of the
chapel!  By what holy ties does this family seem bound
together! thus privileged to worship God as one family.
It has its soothing effect upon my spirit&mdash;everything here
draws one upward, even surrounded as we are by wealth
and elegance.  God is in all, and over all.  This is the
perfection of human life.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * *
</p>

<p>
"Yesterday was Sunday at Parkhurst&mdash;what a holy day!
The children take their meals with us on that day.  No late
hours on that sacred morning&mdash;so quiet, so refreshing was
the sweet early morning hour!
</p>

<p>
"The earl paused after the blessing was asked&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"'Now, my children, for our texts.'  The father and
mother reverently repeated theirs; Lord N&mdash;&mdash;, and Lady
Alice followed, then each of the children repeated seriously
the Sunday text.  It was a touching lesson; this reverence
for God's holy word!  This was practical obedience to the
command which says,
</p>

<p>
"'And thou shalt teach them diligently unto thy children,
and shall talk of them when thou sittest in thine house, and
when thou walkest by the way, and when thou liest down,
and when thou risest up.'
</p>

<p>
"As I listened, I could easily understand how much they
must learn in a whole year.
</p>

<p>
"'Our children are very anxious to remember all these
texts, Miss Hamilton,' said the earl; 'they also learn a
daily text with their instructors, and once a month repeat
all to me; all who remember them perfectly, are rewarded
with a handsome book; you have no idea how their library
grows in this way, and what a stock of Scripture knowledge
they obtain.'
</p>

<p>
"Soon upon the quiet Sabbath air, stole the sweet chimes
of the village-bells; and when we started, in every direction
might be seen the villagers in their best attire, crowding
to the house of God.  It was a pleasant picture to see
the dear children of the Manor in their simple white dresses,
straw-hats, and white ribbon, with the daintiest little
rosebuds for face trimmings; and the lowly, gentle reverence
with which they all joined in the service of the Church
of England, did touch my heart so deeply.  Then so
many of the earl's tenants were there, and all his domestics
excepting such as were positively necessary at home,
who took their turn at the afternoon-service.  The services
were delightful in that quiet country church, and the sermon
earnest, faithful, Christlike.  After church, the family
of the earl remained a short time; many of the parishioners
received his friendly greetings, and the kind salutations
of the good countess; but it was not for this that
they remained.  The earl took my hand, and led me to
that part of the church where a marble slab pointed out
the final resting-place of the earl's family.
</p>

<p>
"Among other inscriptions, I read: 'Sacred to the memory
of Augusta, eldest daughter of the Earl and Countess
of N&mdash;&mdash;, aged eighteen&mdash;Asleep in Jesus.'
</p>

<p>
"The parents stood awhile in silence by the vault; the
mother wiped a silent tear, and the earl, turning to me
said,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"'My dear Miss Hamilton, I brought you here to impress
the lessons of mortality; there is much around you, my
dear young lady, to draw your thoughts to earth; but here
you see the young, the gifted, the rich, the beautiful must
lie down at last in the silent grave; let this moderate your
estimate of the things of time and sense, and teach you
to set your young affections chiefly on things above.  The
dear one who lies there had early learned the lesson; she
was a Christian, she died in the Lord, and we shall meet
her again.'
</p>

<p>
"We turned away; I can never forget that impressive
lesson.  We returned with serious thoughts to the carriage,
and I felt 'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.'
</p>

<p>
"The conversation at dinner turned upon the subject of
the sermon; it was cheerful, subdued, befitting the sacred
day.  No Sunday rides, no Sunday visiting, but all breathed
of holiness and heaven.
</p>

<p>
"After dinner, we all assembled in the drawing-room,
and before evening worship, all joined in singing hymns,
and other sacred music.
</p>

<p>
"Lady Alice played, Lord N&mdash;&mdash; accompanied with the
flute; and all, old and young, father, mother, tutor,
governess, and children joined in the sweet hymns.
</p>

<p>
"As we sang, I thought&mdash;what memories are here for
these dear children!  Even though they may lose these
precious parents&mdash;will they not follow them always 'to
keep their souls from blight?'
</p>

<p>
"Sweet Christian Sabbath!  I never spent such before.
</p>

<p>
"It had added another step to the family-ladder, and
hung another link to the golden chain; by one mounting
upward, and by the other united, to the family of the
redeemed in Heaven.  Its holy chants, heavenly hymns, and
solemn prayer seem here to go with us through the cares
and trials of the Mondays and Tuesdays of this mortal
state; until blotting out all earthly days, the earthly and
heavenly Sabbath glideth into one&mdash;one eternal day of
holy rest.
</p>

<p>
"And thus it seems at Parkhurst&mdash;the spirit of the
Sabbath is with us all the week.
</p>

<p>
"On Monday, I observed an unusual number of persons
coming up the avenue, generally of the poorer classes.
</p>

<p>
"Curiosity led me to ask Lady Alice, 'What brings so
many to-day.'  'If you will come with me, I will show
you, Miss Hamilton,' and she led me to her mother's small
room, where, seated at a table, she seemed awaiting her
visitors.
</p>

<p>
"On the table stood a writing-desk, and by her side a
pocket-book, evidently containing money.
</p>

<p>
"'Sit down, Miss Hamilton,' said the countess.
</p>

<p>
"Each one had her tale to tell, of sorrow, difficulty, or
poverty.  The countess listened patiently, kindly to all,
gave judicious Christian advice, and bestowed upon a
certain number her weekly allowance for the aged, the sick,
the struggling with life's cares and toils.
</p>

<p>
"I could not describe the deep respect which I felt for
this lady in high rank, so surrounded by temptations to
selfishness; turning aside so humbly, so gently, to listen
to the tales of sorrow and privation, from the humble
poor.  They evidently regarded her as a superior being, and
I could but say 'What has grace wrought!'
</p>

<p>
"Upon inquiry, I find that this is the habit of the
countess, on every Monday morning, to meet the women of the
neighborhood, while her husband appoints another day to
meet the men for the same purpose.
</p>

<p>
"What an influence must this exert for good!  I find that
even the children have their Saving Fund from which to
draw for their charities; for during the interview, Lady
Julia entered modestly, and said,
</p>

<p>
"'Dear mamma, here is our money for the little girls,'
and the good countess smiled upon her daughter, as she
replied,
</p>

<p>
"'Mrs. McBride and Mrs. Rhyle want Sunday dresses
for their little girls, that they may go to Sunday-school, and
this is just enough, Julia.'
</p>

<p>
"The child looked very happy as she tripped away, and
Mrs. Rhyle said, 'What a sweet young lady she is!'
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
"Yesterday, the good pastor dined with us; the conversation
was all about plans for good among the people; and
it could scarcely be seen which was most interested, the
good pastor, or the noble earl, in their benevolent schemes.
</p>

<p>
"The wife was an interesting English lady, and much
of the side talk between the mothers, was about the dear
children of the Parsonage; for the good countess loved the
gentle wife of the humble pastor, and knew that this was
the subject that pleased her most.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
"I have such a pleasant room adjoining the Lady Alice,
both opening to a verandah, where we spend much of our
time among the flowers.  My room is daily supplied with
the most exquisite, which Betty, my English maid, brings
every morning, with 'the compliments of Lord N&mdash;&mdash;.'  She
always seems amused; but it is just politeness, and as
such, I receive them.
</p>

<p>
"But lately, I have been a little disturbed; Lady Alice
sometimes throws out gentle hints, and Lord N&mdash;&mdash; is more
than polite, I fear; I should be so sorry, for I do esteem
him so highly.
</p>

<p>
"This morning he was passing under the verandah;
looking up, he said, smiling, 'May I join you, sister?' and
receiving permission, he came up through a back staircase,
and joined us on the verandah.
</p>

<p>
"'You look very much like Flora, Miss Hamilton, among
these flowers; they are so bright, and you so much like
their queen.'
</p>

<p>
"This was the first direct compliment that Lord N&mdash;&mdash;
ever paid me, and I know that I blushed.  I did not reply,
for I am awkward at answering compliments.  I simply
turned the subject, but he selected a moss rose-bud.
</p>

<p>
"'Will you wear my flower, Miss Hamilton?' he whispered,
in a lower tone.
</p>

<p>
"I knew not what to say.
</p>

<p>
"'With pleasure,' was my reply, 'if you will give the
same to Lady Alice.'
</p>

<p>
"'Then you will seem like <i>sisters</i>; thank you, Miss Hamilton.'
</p>

<p>
"I had not perceived the use that he might make of my
answer, and I was therefore silent.
</p>

<p>
"Lady Alice was greatly pleased when she placed her
bouquet in the bosom of her dress; I was rather annoyed
when I looked at mine&mdash;she whispered,
</p>

<p>
"'Would, dear Madeline, that it were so.'
</p>

<p>
"I must be circumspect; not for worlds would I wound
the hearts of these dear friends.
</p>

<p>
"They are dear as valued friends, for they have been a
great blessing to me; I must pay them with truth and
candor; and yet this passing fancy of mine may only be
the result of personal vanity; I will banish the whole from
my memory, ashamed that it ever entered my foolish brain.
Aunt Matilda does annoy me, she says so many silly things
when I am alone with her; if she continues to talk so about
Lord N&mdash;&mdash;, it will destroy all our friendly intercourse, and
I shall have to go back to London.  I am so afraid that she
will make her fancies plain to the family, and that would
be more than I could endure.
</p>

<p>
"Yesterday we had company to dinner; the conversation
turned upon England and America.  One gentleman was
evidently prejudiced, and spoke disparagingly of our country.
I felt the blood rise to my face, for he did not speak
the truth.  The good earl came to the rescue.
</p>

<p>
"'Have you ever been in America, Sir Edward, or met
many of its people?'
</p>

<p>
"'I have not,' was the reply, with some embarrassment.
</p>

<p>
"'Then, I think, sir, that you should withhold your
judgment with regard to our American cousins; some of the
most intelligent, frank, and gentlemanly persons that I
have ever met, have come from that country.'
</p>

<p>
"'I have read travels, my lord, and have received my
impressions from such writers as Dickens, Mrs. Trollope,
&amp;c.'
</p>

<p>
"'Indeed, Sir Edward, I never was more heartily ashamed
than when I read Dickens's book; after receiving so many
hospitalities, to return them with such prejudiced accounts
of his sojourn,&mdash;I for one do not believe them; I have met
some of the American clergy, and authors, and other
distinguished men, and, as a true and loyal Englishman, I can
say that I have never met more refinement, intelligence, or
sterling worth, than among the Americans.'
</p>

<p>
"'Thank you, my lord,' I replied, for I could no longer
keep silent; 'it has always seemed so strange that there
should be any rivalries between us, for are we not the
same people? the same language, the same descent, and
the same religious faith?  For my part, I am willing to
acknowledge the great debt we owe to England.  From
her, we have our finest authors, the very gems of literature;
from her, the noblest specimens of philanthropy and
genius; and from her, our Christian faith, and the very
formulas in which we worship God.'  I blushed, and drew
back, for I had not been aware how long a speech I was
making, until I saw the look of approbation in the earl's
countenance, and the warm glow upon Lord N&mdash;&mdash;'s.
</p>

<p>
"'These are noble sentiments, Miss Hamilton,' said the
good earl.  'I was always sorry for the obstinacy of George
the Third; for through him we lost those colonies which
are now merged into so great a nation.'
</p>

<p>
"'But perhaps,' remarked my father, 'we might not have
been what we are, if we were still under monarchical rule;
our free institutions have spurred on enterprise of every
kind, and started us as a nation far ahead in many things.'
</p>

<p>
"'I am a true, staunch Englishman,' replied the earl,
'and am not willing to own that anything can be better
than the mild and beneficent rule of our gracious Queen
Victoria, under the good constitution of old England.  I
think you Americans are too fast, and are growing to be so
large, as almost to become unwieldy; this is what I fear
for America; her very freedom may be abused.'
</p>

<p>
"'We are a driving people, my lord, fast in every way;
in enterprise, in business, in habits of living; in fine, I fear,
with you, too fast; too reckless in modes of making money;
and in many quarters I see signs of corruption, which must
bring upon us God's judgments; I fear, my lord, sometimes
for the future of my beloved country, for God rules among
the nations, as well as among individuals.'
</p>

<p>
"'May God preserve America to be a bright example of a
fine, intelligent, and virtuous people,' said the good earl;
'and now, Mr. Hamilton, let me give you a toast&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"'America, the stalwart child of Old England&mdash;may they
go side by side, in all that is good, and great, and glorious!'
</p>

<p>
"And then my father responded,
</p>

<p>
"'Queen Victoria, and the realm of Great Britain&mdash;may
she long be spared to bless her great dominions.'
</p>

<p>
"Both toasts were drunk standing.
</p>

<p>
"Sir Edward sat rather silent for the rest of the meal, and
the good earl patted me kindly on the head in the
drawing-room, and said,
</p>

<p>
"'Yours is a warm and noble heart, Miss Hamilton; may
it find its mate in good old England.'
</p>

<p>
"What does the earl mean?  I hope nothing with reference
to his son; I should be truly distressed.
</p>

<p>
"Another bunch of flowers from Lord N&mdash;&mdash;; they are very,
very sweet; but I laid them by the side of the old withered
sea-weed, and their charm was gone.
</p>

<p>
"Ah, Roland! do you cherish the little shoe and the
child's picture yet!
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * *  *
</p>

<p>
"My father is worse, I see it daily; he is losing his spirits,
and the earl seems distressed.
</p>

<p>
"Am I to lose my father, my dearest earthly tie?  He
sent for me to-day to come to his room.  He looked so sad,
sitting in his large easy chair.  He took me on his lap, as
when I was wild little Mad-cap.  'Madeline, my daughter,
I sent for you, because I have much to say.  I am not so
well, my child; indeed, the signs in my case warn me that
I have not much longer to live.  I have arranged everything
for you; you are left independent, with none to
trammel you, and the power to choose your own guardian.
I can trust you, Madeline, in all things; I could have
wished to leave you under the care of a wise and faithful
companion, worthy of my daughter; but that is a subject
in which I shall not bind you; you are free to choose there
wholly for yourself.  I shall not live, Madeline, to cross the
ocean.'  O, how my heart sank!  I bowed my head on his
dear shoulder, and wept convulsively.  'Do not speak so,
dear papa, I cannot bear it,' was my answer.
</p>

<p>
"He smoothed my hair, impressed warm kisses on my
cheek, and soothed my troubled spirit with kind and loving
words.  'And now, Madeline, with regard to higher subjects,
I would say that my residence in this holy family has
not been in vain.  I have long been in the habit of reading
the Scriptures; the good earl has manifested the deepest
interest in my spiritual welfare; he visits me every
evening in my room; and it is owing to his influence that I
have been led to consider the need of preparation for another
world.  I have renounced all dependence upon my moral
life, and look only to the Blessed Saviour for salvation in
the world to come.  It is my desire, Madeline, to testify
my faith in His atoning sacrifice next Sunday, in the
village church, at the table of our Lord; are you not ready,
my darling, to accompany me in the solemn act?'  I could
not answer my father, for mingled feelings of joy and
sorrow filled my heart; floods of happiness at the humble
declaration of his faith, and unspeakable sorrow at the thought
of parting from one so beloved.  I promised my dear parent
to think upon the subject, for I had lately longed for the
blessed privilege.
</p>

<p>
"I sought the room of the countess, and confided to her
the subject of our conversation.
</p>

<p>
"'Would you like to see our pastor, Miss Hamilton?'
was the kind suggestion, and the good lady sent for her
faithful guide.
</p>

<p>
"He was so good, so gentle, so Christ-like that I could
easily tell him the whole history of my inner life.
</p>

<p>
"'Are you resting <i>wholly</i>, my dear Miss Hamilton, upon
the merits of the Redeemer for salvation?'
</p>

<p>
"'Wholly, entirely, my dear sir, from the bottom of my
heart I can say, "None but Jesus."'
</p>

<p>
"'Are you willing to devote yourself, soul and body, to
your Master's service, my child?'
</p>

<p>
"'That is my desire, and has long been the language of
my heart.'
</p>

<p>
"'Then come, and welcome, to the table of the Lord, my
dear child; Jesus will not reject such as you.'
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
"Last Sunday, for the first time, by my father's side, I
bowed at the table of my Lord and Master; received the
emblems of His dying love, and promised to be His forever.
O, what a precious privilege!  And then by the side of my
dear father.  Now we are one in the most sacred of all
bonds.  After church, the countess pressed a warm kiss
upon my cheek, and said, 'One in Jesus, dear Madeline;'
the Lady Alice pressed my hand in silence; and Lord
N&mdash;&mdash; looked so very happy.
</p>

<p>
"Bless God for this sweet sanctuary of a Christian
home!  My father says that we must go back to London;
and when we reach there he will tell me why, saying,
'Trust all to God, dear Madeline; whatever he wills is
right.'  Aunt Matilda is pleased with the idea; for the
quiet of country life does not suit her.  She is only sorry
at leaving Lord N&mdash;&mdash;, but says that 'he will soon follow
us.'  I wish that she would not talk such folly, nor such
nonsense about old Lord C&mdash;&mdash;, who was really quite
devoted to aunty when in London."
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap25"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXV.
<br><br>
PARTING FROM ENGLISH FRIENDS.
</h3>

<p>
The noble park and green lanes of Parkhurst, with all its
elevating joys, were soon to be exchanged for private
lodgings in a crowded city; and Madeline's spirits sank as she
contemplated a return to London with her beloved parent;
for she could no longer blind herself to the fact that day by
day he was fading from her sight.
</p>

<p>
Standing alone, on the evening before her departure on
the verandah, where she had spent so many happy hours,
she was indulging in mournful reveries; she should probably
see this beautiful park, this happy home, these charming
scenes no more.
</p>

<p>
While musing thus, Lord N&mdash;&mdash; passed under the verandah.
</p>

<p>
"May I come up, Miss Hamilton?"
</p>

<p>
"If you wish, my Lord; I am alone, and would be glad
to see you."
</p>

<p>
The step of the young man was not gay and joyous as
on other days, and Madeline perceived that he wore a
serious, saddened countenance.
</p>

<p>
"You leave us, to-morrow, Miss Hamilton; may I ask a
place in your remembrance?"
</p>

<p>
"I shall never forget the pleasant hours at Parkhurst,
Lord N&mdash;&mdash;, or the dear friends that I have made in this
happy home."
</p>

<p>
He was silent for one moment, and then with deeper
feeling said,
</p>

<p>
"But may I not ask a particular place in your
remembrance, a nearer, dearer than a passing acquaintance, that
will be forgotten in a day?"
</p>

<p>
"I do number you, my lord, among my most valued
friends; and I shall never forget you personally."
</p>

<p>
"Ah, Madeline! the memory will not be to you what it
will ever be to me&mdash;the one green spot in life, which I shall
cherish so fondly."
</p>

<p>
She bowed her head, and was silent; for painful emotions
were stirring in her heart, and tears were crowding
beneath the drooping eyelids.
</p>

<p>
"Madeline, we may not meet again; I cannot let you
leave us without asking, is there any hope that I may
obtain the rich love of your noble, fresh young heart?"
</p>

<p>
She turned a frank look upon the young man, while her
eyes swam in tears, as she replied,
</p>

<p>
"I cannot deceive you, Lord N&mdash;&mdash;; my deepest respect
and warmest friendship are yours, but my love I
cannot give."
</p>

<p>
"Why, Madeline? does another possess that which I
would make any earthly sacrifice to obtain?"
</p>

<p>
"That is a delicate question, Lord N&mdash;&mdash;; my hand is
free, but my heart has long been" (and she blushed as she
uttered the words) "interested in another.  I never knew
until to-day how much, how deeply.  This is a painful
confession, but due to you, my lord; for had it not been so, I
could not have been insensible to worth like yours."
</p>

<p>
He bowed over the fair young hand extended in friendship,
and replied&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"May you be happy, Madeline! happy in love as pure,
as devoted as mine.  I will not say that my heart is
broken; that is the language of a silly, brainless man; nor
will I say that my hopes are crushed, for God our Father
rules on earth, as well as in Heaven, and his will is not
what I had hoped.  I submit, I trust, with patience, and
by-and-bye, I doubt not, will see the reasons why I have
been disappointed in my first affection."
</p>

<p>
"He will guide you, I doubt not, my lord, in all the
events of life; and one so benevolent, so useful, so noble
as you, cannot be unhappy; for there is too much in this
wicked world for Christians to do, to spend their lives in
vain regrets."
</p>

<p>
"We are one in Christian hope, Madeline, and that is a
comfort; one in all schemes of good for our fellow-men."
</p>

<p>
"Will you pray for me, Lord N&mdash;&mdash;?  Sore trials are
before me, and I need a Saviour's grace to sustain me in
what is surely coming."
</p>

<p>
"You are before me morning and evening, Madeline;
and, though separated by the wide ocean, I shall remember
you whenever I bend the knee to my Father in Heaven."
</p>

<p>
"We shall be friends, Lord N&mdash;&mdash;," continued Madeline,
as she extended her hand.
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Madeline; after a while, true and faithful friends.
I shall rejoice when you are happy, and be sad when you
are afflicted."
</p>

<p>
They were not aware of the passage of time until Lady
Alice was heard calling, "Madeline, where are you?  Papa
and mamma sent me to look for you.  Come to the
drawing-room, we must have some music to-night," and she ran
hastily up to the verandah, and drew away her young
friend, saying&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Brother, I think you are very selfish; we want Madeline
to-night, as it is her last evening at Parkhurst."
</p>

<p>
Lord N&mdash;&mdash; did not answer, and Madeline followed Lady
Alice, deeply pained at the disappointment which she knew
would fill all that family circle.
</p>

<p>
She took her seat at the harp, but begged to be excused
from singing, for she could scarcely trust her voice to speak.
</p>

<p>
Lord N&mdash;&mdash; seated himself at a distant window, shading
his eyes with his hand.  Lady Alice stood by her side,
and Madeline played in her most touching style many of
her beautiful pieces.
</p>

<p>
"Some of your sacred music, Miss Hamilton," said the
earl, "for that suits the tone of our feelings," and she
played some exquisite variations from the hymn, "I would
not live alway."
</p>

<p>
Every heart was full; silence reigned among them.
</p>

<p>
"Now, one hymn of hope, Madeline," said the countess,
and all the group joined in the sweet words&mdash;
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "How firm a foundation! ye saints of the Lord!"<br>
</p>

<p class="noindent">
and, supported by the others, she too poured forth her
wondrous notes in strains of melody, while the rich chords
of the harp accompanied the choir of voices.
</p>

<p>
They parted sadly that night, and the next morning
early, left with feelings of deepest sorrow the sweet shelter
of Parkhurst Manor.
</p>

<p>
"We shall see you in London, Madeline," said Lady
Alice, "for you will need us, dear."
</p>

<p>
A great change awaited our young friend; quiet lodgings
and the rooms of an invalid were exchanged for the spacious
accommodations and elegant ease of the home they had
left.  Aunt Matilda was sadly discontented, and shrewdly
suspected what had taken place at Parkhurst.
</p>

<p>
"Madeline, I have a right to know; I am sure that Lord
N&mdash;&mdash; loves you deeply.  Have you rejected him?  Are
you such a blind, silly girl?"
</p>

<p>
"Do not ask me, aunt; surely I have a right to some
privacy of thought and action."
</p>

<p>
"You cannot deny it; you have rejected one of the first
offers in Great Britain, and you are just a fool, and nothing
else, Madeline Hamilton!"
</p>

<p>
"Would you have me give my hand without my heart,
Aunt Matilda?"
</p>

<p>
"A fiddlestick for a heart, Madeline, when a coronet was
laid at your feet, to turn away&mdash;I know what for; I am so
ashamed for you, that I cannot utter all I think.  Now I
am sure that you love that beggar-boy; for nothing else
could make you reject such a splendid match as the son of
an English earl."
</p>

<p>
"Spare me, dear aunt, and let us talk of something else;
when dear papa is so ill we have enough to think about."
</p>

<p>
She could not forgive her niece, and seldom exchanged
any thing but the merest words necessary for daily
duties&mdash;cold, constrained, often harsh.  She took the first
opportunity to acquaint Mr. Hamilton with the facts of the case.
He was both surprised and grieved, for he had seen with
pleasure the growing attachment of the young nobleman.
</p>

<p>
"Madeline, how is it that you rejected Lord N&mdash;&mdash;?
Few young ladies would turn away from such an offer.  I
had hoped that his goodness and mental worth, not to
speak of his lovely family, would have certainly won your
heart."
</p>

<p>
"Do not let us talk about it, dear papa, I do not love
Lord N&mdash;&mdash; as I should a husband; he is a dear friend,
but nothing more."
</p>

<p>
"I cannot account for it, Madeline, unless your heart is
previously occupied; if so, should you not tell your father?"
</p>

<p>
"I am bound to no one, dear papa; just let me wait
upon you, and administer to your comfort, that is all I ask."
</p>

<p>
"Remember what I have said, Madeline; it would have
made me very happy if you could have accepted this young
man, not on account of his noble birth, or wealth, but just
for his modest, manly piety and worth.  But in this matter
you must choose for yourself, and God will bless my
daughter."
</p>

<p>
After a consultation of eminent physicians, the painful
alternative was proposed to Mr. Hamilton.  When they
had gone, he sent for his daughter.  "Madeline, you
remember that I told you in all things we must trust in God;
you have now great occasion for that holy confidence.  I
have never told you until now the nature of my disease.
It has been a long and painful process that has brought me
to the crisis; an operation is necessary, my child;" observing
Madeline's pallid face, he continued, "do not be alarmed;
all is in the hands of a wise and gracious God.  It may
be successful, or I may sink under the operation; but
nothing else can be done, and we must prepare our minds;
it will be speedily over, there will be no very long
suspense.  Be the end what it may, I trust that I am
prepared; my hopes are all upon the 'Rock of Ages.'"
</p>

<p>
"When will it take place, papa?" asked the trembling
girl.
</p>

<p>
"In about ten days," was the answer; "and now, darling,
we will talk no more about it; to-morrow will be
Sunday; you must go to church, Madeline, and have prayers
offered for me; Aunt Matilda will stay with me."
</p>

<p>
It was a season of sweet and holy refreshment to the
young pilgrim, for she needed the heavenly manna for her
weary, anxious spirit.  Passing out of church, what was
her surprise to see Roland, the friend of her youth,
standing at the door in company with two gentlemen; the one
elderly, of noble presence, and the other a young
gentleman, of whom she had no remembrance.  Roland
advanced, extended his hand, and said&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"How is it that you are here alone, Miss Hamilton?"
</p>

<p>
"My father is very ill; my aunt is staying with him,
and he sent me to have prayers offered for him.  I need
them, oh, how much! remember me, Mr. Bruce."
</p>

<p>
Madeline was pale and worn, and Roland was touched
by the expression of deep sorrow upon her fair young face.
He took the little hand as in days of yore, and said, in low
tones&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Do you dream, Miss Hamilton, that I can ever forget
you at a throne of grace?  You are always remembered
there and everywhere."
</p>

<p>
Roland then hastily introduced his friends, but Uncle
Malcolm had recognized the young lady that he had once
met before in a carriage.  A glance at the earnest gaze of
Roland, and at the downcast blush of Madeline, caused a
smile to flit across the face of the good man, as he
remembered the days of his youth, and the sweet blushes of
Mary Gordon in the first days of their innocent, unhappy
love.
</p>

<p>
"Where are you staying, Mr. Bruce?" asked the young
lady; "I may need your presence ere long."
</p>

<p>
Roland gave his address, and they parted.
</p>

<p>
"Well, Roland Bruce!" said Edmund, "of all the sly
fellows that I have ever met, you exceed&mdash;here have I been
prating to you of Madeline Hamilton's beauty, and behold,
she is an old acquaintance!"
</p>

<p>
Roland smiled, as he replied, "Yes, I knew her in
America, ever since she was ten years old; and I am
therefore somewhat acquainted with the young lady."
</p>

<p>
"And why, then, do you not visit your old friend?"
</p>

<p>
Roland's countenance fell, and drawing himself proudly
up, he replied, "We will change the subject, if you please,
Edmund."
</p>

<p>
When Madeline returned, she sought her father's room.
</p>

<p>
"Papa, I met Roland Bruce, to-day, at church; he seemed
so concerned to hear that you were sick."
</p>

<p>
"What is he doing in London, Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"He is in attendance upon a young man whose studies
he is directing."
</p>

<p>
"I should like to see him, Madeline; he is a noble fellow,
and has been a kind friend to my little girl; I do not think
that he was very well treated by your aunt; but as eternity
approaches, my daughter, the distinctions of life melt away.
I did not want to dismiss him from our house&mdash;send for
him to-morrow, and tell him to bring his friend, Mr. Graham,
with him."
</p>

<p>
On the morrow, a few lines summoned him to the sick
room, but without Mr. Graham.  Shocked at the change in
Mr. Hamilton, he took his withered band, and seating
himself by his side, he said, "These are hours of weakness,
dear sir, and need a strong support."
</p>

<p>
"They are, Roland; I feel flesh and heart failing, but I
can say God is now the strength of my heart&mdash;your dear
patient sister was the little messenger that brought the
first whispers of the Spirit, Roland; I never forgot her
dying words."
</p>

<p>
For a minute, the brother was silent; but seizing the
pale hand, and pressing it warmly, he replied,
</p>

<p>
"Oh!  Mr. Hamilton.  What joyful news! my little
Effie! was she, indeed, the messenger to you? wonderful
are the ways of God!"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Roland, and I have always wanted to tell all that
those words have done for me.  I felt that her faith was
real; from that day, I have been reading my Bible with
earnest prayer, and it has revealed to me a Saviour,
all-sufficient for the darkest hour, all-merciful to the greatest
sinner&mdash;will you pray with me, Roland?" and the young
man bowed down by the side of Madeline, at her father's
bed-side, and poured out an earnest, heartfelt prayer.
</p>

<p>
"There will soon be a painful trial, Roland; will you be
with us when the day arrives?"
</p>

<p>
"I promise, Mr. Hamilton;" and Roland retired.
</p>

<p>
He was frequent in his visits to the sick-room, introducing,
also, Uncle Malcolm, whose strong, fervent faith,
and Scriptural wisdom, was an unspeakable blessing to the
suffering man.
</p>

<p>
"To-morrow is the day, Roland; bring your friend;" and
Mr. Hamilton pressed the strong hand of his young friend.
</p>

<p>
What was Roland's surprise, to see Madeline pale, composed,
and steadfast, by the side of her parent's bed, awaiting
the physicians.
</p>

<p>
"Can you bear this trial, Miss Hamilton?" was Roland's
whispered inquiry.
</p>

<p>
"I cannot leave my father; who else should sustain him
but his own daughter?  I have prayed for strength; it is
mine, Roland;" for in the deep feelings of the moment, she
dropped the ceremonious title which she had used of late.
</p>

<p>
The surgeons arrived&mdash;instruments were prepared; the
sufferer calm and tranquil; Madeline heroic as a loving
woman should be; Roland, full of sympathy for her;
Malcolm strong, tranquil, prayerful.
</p>

<p>
"My daughter, is it not too much?" whispered her
father.
</p>

<p>
"For you, my father? can anything be too much?  I can
bear all;" and she kissed the dear face with steadfast lips.
</p>

<p>
Close by her father's side, with restoratives in her hand,
she remained throughout the whole painful trial; cold, and
pale as marble.
</p>

<p>
Roland stood near her, and Malcolm on the other side,
with eyes closed, and heart uplifted to God in prayer.
</p>

<p>
"It is all over," said the principal surgeon.
</p>

<p>
"How?" whispered Madeline, to Roland.
</p>

<p>
"Safe, Madeline!  It has been successful."
</p>

<p>
The tension had been too much; the strong heart of love
gave way to the woman's weakness; the reaction was too
great; and Roland, perceiving her falling, lifted her tenderly
in his arms&mdash;the first time that he had pressed her form so
closely since the days of childhood; imprinting one warm,
pure, and tender kiss upon the sweet, pale face, he laid her
quietly upon the couch in the next room.  Aunt Matilda
was there in anxious suspense.
</p>

<p>
"Is it over, Mr. Bruce?" asked the lady.
</p>

<p>
"All is well, madam, thus far, but Miss Hamilton needs
your care;" and he bathed the face of the unconscious girl
with the cologne that he had brought from the next room.
</p>

<p>
"I will perform these offices, sir; you are not needed
here,"&mdash;and dismissing him haughtily from the room, she
proceeded to loosen the clothes, and apply restoratives.
The fainting was deep and long, and hastily she called a
physician from the next room.
</p>

<p>
Yielding to remedies, in a few more minutes, some gasping
words, and a heaving of the chest, indicated returning
consciousness.
</p>

<p>
The eyes unclosed&mdash;"How is my father, sir?"
</p>

<p>
"Quite composed," was the reply; "he needs perfect
quiet; do not see him just yet; there must be no emotion;
when you are entirely restored, you can attend him."
</p>

<p>
"When can you pronounce him out of danger?"
</p>

<p>
"We cannot tell for twelve hours what will be the result."
</p>

<p>
Madeline lay quiet for another hour, her lips moving constantly
in prayer; at length she arose.  "I am better, aunt;
give me a glass of wine; I must return."
</p>

<p>
"I am afraid, my dear child, that it is too much."
</p>

<p>
"No, aunt, I cannot stay here&mdash;see!  I can walk firmly;
I am perfectly restored;" and she passed quietly into the
next room.  Stooping over her father, she pressed one long,
loving kiss upon his dear face.
</p>

<p>
"Do not speak; I shall not leave you, dear papa, again."
</p>

<p>
Malcolm watched with deep interest the strong love that
filled the heart of Madeline; and coming to her side, he
said,
</p>

<p>
"My dear young lady, is your strength equal to this
great demand?  I am ready to stay, and Roland will aid
me."
</p>

<p>
She smiled as she replied,
</p>

<p>
"But you are not his daughter, his Madeline."
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hamilton slept apparently in perfect peace.  Madeline
watched him with untiring patience and hope.  Whenever
he stirred, she was directed to administer, in small
doses, the stimulants that were ordered by the surgeons.
</p>

<p>
"What is the danger?" inquired Madeline; "he seems
so quiet."
</p>

<p>
"The want of reaction; sinking of the vital powers, my
dear young lady."
</p>

<p>
"Is there any reaction yet?" asked she, with a trembling
voice.
</p>

<p>
"None whatever," replied the surgeon, as he sat holding
the pulse&mdash;"but it may come yet; there is a great
difference in constitution."
</p>

<p>
Mr. Hamilton was evidently in a state of insensibility,
which Madeline mistook for sleep.
</p>

<p>
"You had better administer the wine, my dear," was
the surgeon's direction.
</p>

<p>
"Will it not disturb his sleep, sir?"
</p>

<p>
"Not at all, my dear child."
</p>

<p>
And Madeline from time to time offered a tea-spoonful
of wine to the exhausted man, only a part of which he
appeared to swallow.
</p>

<p>
Hours rolled on&mdash;Roland saw the quiet agony of the
devoted daughter, as no symptoms for the better appeared.
</p>

<p>
"Shall I take your place, Madeline, for a few minutes?"
whispered Roland, as he beckoned to Mr. Graham to lead
her to an open window; and while she stood there, leaning
upon the shoulder of this good man, Roland continued
watching, and dripping the wine drop by drop.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Graham whispered&mdash;"Luik unto the Rock that is
higher than we, dear Miss Hamilton," for he saw what was
approaching.  "There is a friend that sticketh closer than
a brother; trust him, my dear young friend;" and while
she leaned so confidingly upon the strong man, he whispered
earnest words of fervent prayer for the dear father stretched
upon that bed of languishing, and for her so soon to be
bereaved, that she was comforted and strengthened.  "Take
me back to my father's side, Mr. Graham.  I must not
leave him."
</p>

<p>
The twelve hours had passed&mdash;no signs of returning
consciousness had yet appeared.
</p>

<p>
The surgeon beckoned to Malcolm Graham to come into
the next room.
</p>

<p>
"It is all over, sir&mdash;there is scarcely any pulse&mdash;he may
recover consciousness, but he is passing away.  God help
the daughter; you must prepare her."
</p>

<p>
Madeline had seen the signal.  "Let me go, Roland; I
must know the worst;" and hastily she followed Mr. Graham.
He was standing by the side of the mantel-piece,
with his head bowed upon his hands, and strong emotion
was shaking his frame.  He perceived Madeline.  Taking
her by the hand, he led her kindly to the couch&mdash;they were
alone.  Placing his fatherly arm around her, he said with
a caressing voice, "Lean on me, my child;" and he tenderly
smoothed the soft brown hair, that lay dishevelled around
her face.
</p>

<p>
"God is trying ye, my dear; ye hae lately given yoursel'
to him; ye and yer dear father.  He is going to tak'
him first; can ye say, 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath
taken awa', blessed be the name o' the Lord?'"
</p>

<p>
Her head sank lower, lower; she had fainted&mdash;Malcolm
laid her down tenderly as a woman, and knelt by her side,
administering restoratives, chafing the cold hands, and
lifting up his heart in prayer.
</p>

<p>
She opened her eyes&mdash;a sweet, sorrowful smile passed
over her face, as she whispered, "It is a hard trial, but the
Lord's will be done; my father is a Christian, and I can
say now, he is thine; take him, dear Lord, to thyself; but
O, Mr. Graham! this human heart!  How lonely will it be!
My father was parent, mother, brother, friend!"
</p>

<p>
"Comfort will come, my dear child, if ye are ane o' the
Saviour's fold; he is afflicted when ye are sad, has borne
all yer sorrows, carried all yer griefs."
</p>

<p>
"Now, let us return, Mr. Graham," and Madeline took
her place again by her father's side.
</p>

<p>
A few more silent hours passed&mdash;about midnight, there
was some motion visible in the form that lay there so
deathly still.  Slowly he unclosed his eyes, and raising his
hand, said,
</p>

<p>
"Where is my daughter, my Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"She is here, dear papa," was the quick response.
</p>

<p>
"Kiss me, darling; I am in the midst of the dark valley,
just passing over, Madeline; but 'his rod and his staff, they
comfort me.'"
</p>

<p>
She stooped over the dear parent; he folded her fondly
to his heart; then held her off; looked at her one minute
with unutterable love; then pressed upon her cheek the cold
kisses of lips that were chilled in death.
</p>

<p>
"You have been a comfort to me always, Maddy; you
will meet me, darling, in the better world; be true to your
dear Saviour, Madeline."
</p>

<p>
"Do you suffer, dear papa?" was the affectionate,
anxious question.
</p>

<p>
"Not at all; perfect peace! perfect peace!  God be
praised!" and in another minute, the spirit of Lewis
Hamilton had departed to its rest.
</p>

<p>
"Tak' her, Roland," said Mr. Graham, as he saw the
drooping form of the afflicted daughter.  Tenderly he
led her to the adjoining room, and whispered words of
Christian sympathy and love, in her hour of sore trial.
Aunt Matilda had remained in the room with her brother,
until the last moment, and had then sought her own room.
</p>

<p>
"O, Roland! you know what I have lost," said the poor
girl.
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Madeline, but think of his everlasting gain;" and
Roland sat with Madeline's dear hand clasped in his, as in
the days of yore.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
Lady Alice had heard of the bereavement, and accompanied
by her brother, she sought the house of the mourner,
at the earliest period after the funeral was over.  Roland
was there, and Lord N&mdash;&mdash; needed none to tell him of the
deep love that dwelt in the heart of Roland Bruce for the
orphan girl.  But there was something in the humble,
deferential manner of the young man, which led Lord N&mdash;&mdash;
to wonder if he were really an accepted suitor.
</p>

<p>
And for Roland himself&mdash;when the first hours of sorrow
had passed, and all were trying to return to their accustomed
pursuits, more than ever did he feel the vast difference
between himself, the poor young lawyer, just
launching upon the theatre of life, and the rich young
heiress of Woodcliff, the idol even in noble circles.
</p>

<p>
What could Madeline ever be to him, but the sweet
child that he had trained, the young girl that he had
watched so carefully, and the noble woman whom now he
reverenced?  He was allowed access to the house, because
Aunt Matilda had now no authority over Madeline, and
independent as she always was, she would not allow dictation
here; but only as a friend he came, and Madeline felt that
it was so.  Once more she sought the house of God, where
she had been accustomed to worship.  Clad in deep mourning,
she took her seat among the worshippers, and listened
to the Gospel message, with a full and trusting heart.
</p>

<p>
It was a communion season, and as she bowed around
the chancel, she did not perceive, until she was returning
to her seat, that Lord N&mdash;&mdash;, Roland, and Mr. Graham had
all knelt at the same table.  It was a very sweet and
soothing thought that here they could all hold blessed
communion with their common Saviour; and though Uncle
Malcolm and Roland were of different sects from herself, they
were all one in Christ Jesus, "one faith, one hope, one
baptism."
</p>

<p>
Lady Alice was about to return to Parkhurst; but ere
she went, she came to bid farewell to Madeline, who was
soon to return to America.
</p>

<p>
"I am sorry, dear, that you cannot be my sister, but I
shall always love you; it is a great disappointment to us
all, but especially to my dear Alfred.  I have brought you
our likenesses, Madeline, with our hair woven on the back;
you can cherish us as friends, dear."
</p>

<p>
"You do not blame me, Lady Alice, I hope; I esteem
your brother more than any one that I have met in England;
and for yourself, dear friend, I shall love you always,
just as if you were my sister&mdash;you will promise to write
frequently, will you not?  I have something for you, Alice,"
and Madeline brought out a lovely miniature, a perfect
likeness of herself.
</p>

<p>
"Thank you, Madeline; I never saw any thing more
beautifully painted&mdash;now, farewell! be sure to write often;
but be assured that I do not blame you; for as I am sure
that you must love another, I have nothing more to say;
nothing else could prevent you from loving my dear
brother."
</p>

<p>
And thus they parted, these two young girls who had
learned to love each other so well.
</p>

<p>
Lord N&mdash;&mdash; came also ere he left the city.
</p>

<p>
"I may call you Madeline, may I not? for I am trying
to school myself to look upon you as a dear friend; I could
not let you go without a farewell, sad though it may be."
</p>

<p>
"I am glad to see you, my lord, and hope to hear of
your welfare through your dear sister."
</p>

<p>
"I think that I have seen my rival, Madeline, in the
young man that I have met here; and I do not wonder;
that noble brow, on which sits enthroned the lofty intellect,
the only signet of true nobility, and that manly form, I could
not but admire, while I dare not, as a Christian, envy."
</p>

<p>
"You are mistaken, Lord N&mdash;&mdash;; Mr. Bruce is but my
friend."
</p>

<p>
"He will be more, Madeline, before many years; and
may God bless you both, I shall ever pray.  Farewell! dear
Madeline, for I may say that in parting," and he wrung
the fair hand, on which he printed a warm farewell kiss, and
was gone.
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap26"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXVI.
<br><br>
THE FIRST LINK LOST AND FOUND.
</h3>

<p>
With a sad heart, Madeline turned her face homeward,
for no kind father would brighten Woodcliff again.  Uncle
Malcolm accompanied them to the steamer, which was to
sail for Liverpool on the ninth of September.  Malcolm
had become deeply attached to the noble youth who was
to be the companion of their voyage.  Laying his hand
upon Roland's shoulder, he gave him his blessing, and
placing a packet in his hand, said, "Dinna forget, Roland,
this is but your first visit; I maun see ye again, my son,"
and turning to Madeline with a moistened eye, he
added,&mdash;"Farewell! my dear young leddy, ye will na neglect my
boy, my Roland, I am sure; may God forever bless and
comfort ye wi' his choicest gifts."
</p>

<p>
Madeline bowed her head over the warm and honest
hand, as she replied,
</p>

<p>
"Roland has been my friend and brother ever since I
was ten years old; such friendships are not soon forgotten,
Mr. Graham."
</p>

<p>
Bidding Miss Matilda and Edmund a courteous farewell,
he took leave of Mrs. Douglass cordially, and left the
vessel.
</p>

<p>
Their passage must necessarily be a sad one; for on board
were the remains of Mr. Hamilton, and they could not but
be solemn in the presence of the dead.  When fairly out
at sea, Roland opened the packet placed in his hand by his
good friend, and found to his surprise, a scrip containing
shares in the Bank of London to the amount of six
thousand pounds, accompanying which was the following note:
</p>

<p>
"To Roland, from a friend that loves him well, assured
that he will be a good steward of his Father's gifts."  Examining
his trunks, he perceived that there was one more
than he had brought, with his name on it, and a key hung
to the strap&mdash;what could it mean?  On unlocking it, he
found a set of valuable law-books, a full suit of handsome
black cloth, a complete set of shirts, neckcloths, gloves,
hats, in fine, all that a gentleman needed; and, in addition,
a small case which, on opening, contained a very valuable
gold watch; and another, with Uncle Malcolm, Mrs. Lindsay,
and Annot's pictures.
</p>

<p>
He was overpowered with gratitude, first to the God of
his fathers, and then to the noble friend whom he had
raised.
</p>

<p>
"Looking aloft!" whispered Roland, with a full heart,
"I know now my mother's meaning; O, what a legacy she
left her son on that death-bed!  From what depths of
poverty have I been raised!  To what a post of honor and
prosperity!  To God alone be all the glory!  When she
bade me trust Him, I did not know the noble friend that
was then awaiting for me among my native hills, I did
not then know Malcolm Graham; but God knew where he
was, and led me to him.  May he give me grace to be a
faithful steward of His many gifts."
</p>

<p>
Aunt Matilda was still very haughty to Roland, and
distant to Mrs. Douglass; for she could not brook the
companionship of the "common class," as she styled these,
after the society of nobles; she was rather more
condescending to Edmund Norris, for she had learned that he
belonged to the upper circles of New York.
</p>

<p>
Madeline was much alone, and, in her deep mourning
dress, forbade any approach to light or trifling intercourse.
</p>

<p>
One evening, having sought a secluded part of the
vessel, Roland followed her, and found her looking down into
the deep and solemn ocean.
</p>

<p>
"May I intrude, Madeline?" for they had both agreed to
drop the formal titles of ceremony.
</p>

<p>
"You are welcome, Roland, welcome always; for I spend
many sad hours in this lonely vessel, and can never forget
the sacred relics that are with us."
</p>

<p>
"That is a solemn thought, Madeline, but do not let us
think of the silent dust; let us look upward to the blessed
rest of the immortal part."
</p>

<p>
"How grandly sublime, Roland, is this rolling ocean!
so deep! so vast! so boundless!  It reminds one of
eternity.  I never look down upon its dark waters without
hearing from its dashing waves the murmurs of another
world; how many have sunk in this deep abyss, and passed
hence to their eternity!"
</p>

<p>
"Do you remember, Madeline, how we used to listen to
its music at Woodcliff, when we were boy and girl?  What
fancies we used to have!"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, truly! we were singular children, Roland; I was
a giddy little kitten; but no one knows what deep and
solemn thoughts used to visit me even then;" and turning
a bright glance upon Roland's face, "I think the first that
I ever remember was from words uttered by you, the
boy-sage, as I think now that you always were."
</p>

<p>
Roland felt his heart throb with emotions of delight at
these tender reminiscences, and replied,
</p>

<p>
"Then you still remember, Madeline, the intercourse of
those childish days."
</p>

<p>
"Remember, Roland!  Yes; they will be remembered
in the world to come; for your words, your mother's, and
dear Effie's are the only ones whose impressions have ever
influenced my life."
</p>

<p>
"What a blessed thought, Madeline! that dear Effie
should have so impressed your dear father."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Roland, it was a call of mercy; but I knew
nothing of it then."
</p>

<p>
"God leads us by a way that we know not, Madeline;
what a blessed thing it is to trust Him!  When my mother
first taught me these talismanic words, I did not know their
power; but I have learned since what they mean.  'Looking
aloft,' upward in all things, in sorrow, in perplexity, in
adversity, in prosperity, for guidance, for blessing, for
comfort; I can trust Him for everything now.  When, with
her weak and trembling voice, she bade me in that hour of
affliction, 'Look aloft,' when my boyish heart sank within
me at the prospect of being all alone, I did not know,
Madeline, of the dear friend, Malcolm Graham, waiting for me
in Scotland; nor did he know of me, but we were waiting
for each other; for God knew, Madeline; and He knows
and will guide all else that shall befall us;" and then he
proceeded to relate some of the most important features of
Malcolm's history.
</p>

<p>
And thus the hours were beguiled until a late time for
retiring.
</p>

<p>
Aunt Matilda called, "Madeline, it is growing late;"
and Roland, taking her arm, and placing it within his own,
led her to the cabin-door, where he bade her "Good
night."
</p>

<p>
"You seem much interested in the conversation of that
youth, Madeline; it is not very proper for a young lady to
be sitting alone until so late an hour with a young man."
</p>

<p>
Madeline's old spirit flushed her cheek, and tightened
the proud lip; but she checked herself, as she replied,
</p>

<p>
"Aunt Matilda, I am not a child now; my actions are
free, I believe, of control, so long as I do nothing that I am
ashamed of; I always was, and shall be, interested in the
conversation of Roland Bruce, and shall consider myself at
liberty to talk with him when I please."
</p>

<p>
"O, I dare say, miss, that he is much more interesting
than Lord N&mdash;&mdash;; I have no patience with you, Madeline,
to cast away a coronet for such a man as this."
</p>

<p>
"Aunt Matilda, you must not use such language to me;
Roland is to me a very dear friend, and nothing more."
</p>

<p>
"You cannot say, Madeline, that he had nothing to do
with your rejection of Lord N&mdash;&mdash;."
</p>

<p>
"I cannot be questioned, Aunt Matilda; but I will never
slight, or cast aside a friend like Roland Bruce;" and
Madeline sought her rest with a disturbed spirit, for she feared
that she had spoken improperly to her aunt, and resolved
to apologize next day.
</p>

<p>
She was stirring early in the morning; and, with the old
innocence of childhood, she went to her aunt's state-room,
and said,
</p>

<p>
"Aunty, let me in; I have something to say to you."
</p>

<p>
Aunt Matilda could not resist the pleading voice, and
opened the door.
</p>

<p>
"I am sorry, dear aunt, for what I said last night; will
you forgive little Mad-cap's hot speech? it is some of the
old temper, aunty, that will get the mastery; when I can
sit more humbly at Jesus' feet I shall be better, I hope."
</p>

<p>
Aunt Matilda kissed the dear girl fondly, as of old, saying,
</p>

<p>
"I forgive you, my dear; you are the same little coaxing
witch that you were when a child; I wonder if you'll ever
be anything else."
</p>

<p>
"I hope I shall always be innocent and truthful as a
child, aunty; but I think that it is time I had learned to
govern myself more like a woman."
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Douglass was charmed with the simplicity and
frankness of the young heiress; and, although much
slighted by Aunt Matilda, Madeline's kindness amply
compensated for this lack of courtesy.
</p>

<p>
"I believe, Madeline, that you would associate with any
one," said Aunt Matilda; "however low born or obscure,
it matters not to you."
</p>

<p>
Madeline smiled, as she replied,
</p>

<p>
"You need never fear, dear aunty; for the vulgar and
coarse-minded I despise, though dwelling in a palace; it is
'mind that makes the man;' so you see I come home true
American, though I have mingled with the nobles of England."
</p>

<p>
"Don't you think that the earl's family were lovely and
refined?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, dear aunt; but I did not love them for their rank;
it was for their worth, their education; and, dwelling in a
cottage, they would be the same; we saw some, I think,
even among the higher classes in England, that were not
remarkable for refinement; for instance, the fat baroness
that we met at our dress-maker's; don't you remember her
vulgar airs when she tried to impress us with her style?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes; but then you know that she had not always
belonged to the haut-ton; she was one of the 'nouveaux
riches.'"
</p>

<p>
"In fine, Aunt Matilda, she was not a genuine lady,
and never could be made one; whereas, Mr. Graham is
one of nature's noblemen that I used to talk about when a
little girl, and he never can be anything else; I have met
with a few others just like him, dear aunt;" and Madeline
smiled rather archly upon Aunt Matilda.
</p>

<p>
"She'll never be cured of her plebeian notions," said the
lady, with u sigh, as she turned away, "and it all comes
from associating with these Bruces."
</p>

<p>
Madeline smiled again as she took the arm of Mrs. Douglass,
and commenced her walk upon the deck.
</p>

<p>
"I am afraid that we are going to hae a storm," said the
latter; "the sky is vera threatening, and the wind sighs
heavily, as if mischief were brewing."
</p>

<p>
"It must be a grand spectacle, Mrs. Douglass, to see the
war of the elements; I think that I should like to be in a
storm, if it were not too violent."
</p>

<p>
"What are the signs, Davie?" said Mrs. Douglass to a
sailor standing near.
</p>

<p>
"We shall have squalls before morning, ma'am.  Mother
Cary's chickens are flying around, and the wind comes
from a stormy point of the compass."
</p>

<p>
Aunt Matilda became nervous as she watched the dark
clouds gathering from so many different quarters, and heard
the growling of the distant thunder.  The wind rose higher
and higher, the waves swelled until they rolled and surged
in heavy billows in the wake of the ship, which commenced
pitching and tossing from side to side; the rain descended
in torrents, and, through the speaking-trumpet, the loud
tones of the captain giving his orders, and the running to
and fro of the seamen, increased the fears of the ladies.
</p>

<p>
"What do you think of the storm, captain?" inquired
Madeline.
</p>

<p>
"We shall have a fierce tempest, my dear young lady;
but we have a good strong ship, don't be alarmed."
</p>

<p>
Aunt Matilda betook herself to the cabin, and, covering
herself up in her berth, trembled with apprehension.
Mrs. Douglass and Madeline committed themselves quietly to
the care of their Father in Heaven, and Roland paced the
deck, with his eye turned anxiously upon the warring
elements, and ever and anon walking near the cabin door,
hoping to see something of Madeline.
</p>

<p>
"Is that you, Miss Hamilton?" said the young man, as
he thought he distinguished her standing at the cabin
door, in the dim light below.
</p>

<p>
"Shall I come up, Mr. Bruce? it is very close in the
cabin."
</p>

<p>
"Throw on a cloak and hood; I want you to see the
storm."
</p>

<p>
Madeline joined Roland on deck, and, looking around,
was awe-struck at the scene.  The wind was whistling
through the canvas, and the ship reeling to and fro
like a drunken man, seeming, to Madeline's fears, almost
unmanageable.
</p>

<p>
"Is there danger, Roland?" she asked, clinging closer to
his protecting arm.
</p>

<p>
"There is always danger in a storm like this, and none
are safe but those who are anchored on the Rock of Ages,
Madeline," and Roland drew her closer to him, and threw
his arm around her to keep her from falling.
</p>

<p>
"This is a grand spectacle, Roland; we never saw the
ocean in such a ferment.  How insignificant we seem! how
powerless!"
</p>

<p>
"You remember, Madeline, the sublime verses from the
Psalms of David, where he describes the life of the
seaman?  'For he commandeth and raiseth the stormy wind,
which lifteth up the waves thereof.  They mount up to the
heaven, they go down again to the depths: their soul is
melted because of trouble.  They reel to and fro, and
stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wits' end.  Then
they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and he bringeth
them out of their distresses.  He maketh the storm a calm,
so that the waves thereof are still.'"
</p>

<p>
Madeline listened to the rich, deep voice repeating these
beautiful words, until, calm and tranquil, she leaned upon
that strong arm for security, knowing how he trusted in
the Lord.  But the hurricane increased, the rain beat
fearfully around them, the waves rose mountain high, and,
washing over the deck, compelled them to seek shelter
below.
</p>

<p>
"Shall I come in, Madeline?" asked Roland, when he
reached the cabin door.
</p>

<p>
"Yes, yes, Mr. Bruce! come in, don't leave as!" called
out Aunt Matilda, who was suffering agonies.  "We shall
all be lost! oh, hear the wind, how it howls!  And how
the vessel rocks!  Listen! listen, Mr. Bruce, to the
crackling timbers!  Can the vessel stand this storm?" and Aunt
Matilda wrung her hands in despair.
</p>

<p>
"Be calm, my dear Miss Hamilton," was Roland's answer;
"let us commit ourselves to God, there is safety no
where else," and he knelt down in the midst of the anxious
company, and, in earnest words of fervent trust, he called
upon the God of the tempest, and still "Looking aloft,"
was calm.
</p>

<p>
Presently, the ship gave a heavy lurch, and rolled over
on her side; all were thrown violently down on one side
of the cabin, but she did not right again.  Edmund Norris
ran to the ladies' cabin, for he felt the fearful danger.
</p>

<p>
"We are going, Mr. Norris!" called Aunt Matilda; "we
are sinking, I am sure!  O; God, have mercy! have
mercy!"
</p>

<p>
"Not yet, my dear madam.  The captain has ordered
the main-mast sawed away, and then we shall probably
right again."
</p>

<p>
Roland, seated on the floor of the cabin, held Madeline
in his arms.  Not a word escaped her lips, for she was
quietly reposing upon the promises of her Saviour.
</p>

<p>
"We are in great danger, Madeline; are you resting
upon the Saviour, dearest?" and Roland bent down in
agony over the pale face that lay upon his bosom.
</p>

<p>
"I know it, Roland, but perfect trust fills my heart; and
if we go down in the deep water, it is with you, my dearest
friend, and we shall enter Heaven together, and never go
out again."
</p>

<p>
It was an hour when the ceremonies of life were all
forgotten, and Roland pressed a warm kiss upon the cold
forehead and the pale lips that were whispering these
precious words.  In another minute the ship righted, and
the cheers of the sailors resounded throughout the ship.
</p>

<p>
"Let us thank God, Miss Hamilton," said Roland, as he
turned to Aunt Matilda; "for I hope that the storm is
subsiding," and he poured out, in their midst, an earnest
thanksgiving for the deliverance which he trusted was near.
Gradually the storm abated, and, towards morning, the
waves sank to their ordinary bed, and the vessel went on
her way.  A temporary mast had to be erected, but, as
they were nearing port, little anxiety was felt.
</p>

<p>
Madeline blushed when she next met Roland, for she
feared that, in the hour of danger, she had betrayed too
much; but the sweet remembrance of his whispered words
had banished all remaining doubts, and now she knew that
Lavinia's tales about Helen Thornly must all be false; for
Roland and honor were to her but one name.  Edmund
Norris had witnessed the scene in the storm, and understood
now the silence of his friend whenever he had mentioned
the name of Madeline Hamilton.
</p>

<p>
They were now nearing port.  In a few days, speeding
up the bay, they were at home.  Roland took lodgings for
himself and aunt in New York, and Madeline prepared to
return to Woodcliff.
</p>

<p>
"You will go with us, Roland," said Madeline; "we
must look to you to aid us in the last said offices for dear
papa," and the young man accompanied the party.
</p>

<p>
"You will come on to see us, Mrs. Douglass," was
Madeline's last farewell.
</p>

<p>
It was a sad return; for, instead of the beloved father,
nought remained but the sacred dust to be consigned to
the silent grave.  The servants gathered in reverence in
the hall, as the family entered.  Joy at their return was
mingled with deep sorrow, for they had all loved kind
Mr. Hamilton.
</p>

<p>
In two days, arrangements were made for the interment;
and, in the midst of his own people, and the surrounding
neighborhood, he was laid by the side of his departed wife,
and the service that he had loved whispered its sublime
consolations over his grave.  Roland returned to New
York, and resumed the active duties of his daily life.
</p>

<p>
Not long after Madeline's arrival, the old took, coming
to her sitting-room, asked to see her for one moment.
</p>

<p>
"Miss Madeline, there was a strange woman here the
other day, inquiring when you would be at home; she
spoke some queer language, I don't think it was an Irish
tongue, and she called herself Elsie."
</p>

<p>
"Did she say that she would come again, Betty?"
inquired Madeline.
</p>

<p>
"Yes; I told her when you were expected, and she said
that she would come soon.  She was very tired and
hungry, and I gave her a good supper; that was right,
was it not, Miss Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Betty, do not turn any one away that wants
something to eat from Woodcliff; we have a great deal to
spare, and it is such a blessed thing to give."
</p>

<p>
In about a week, Mrs. Douglass came down to pay a
visit.  Aunt Matilda was polite, for she was too
kind-hearted to be rude in her own home.
</p>

<p>
"Have you heard any thing from Mr. Bruce's father?"
inquired Madeline.
</p>

<p>
"Nae, not yet; but I hae advertised in several papers,
an' hope that I may get some tiding afore lang."
</p>

<p>
"It is strange that he should have left his family so
suddenly, Mrs. Douglass."
</p>

<p>
"He was aye an odd mon, Miss Hamilton, prone to
fits of melancholy, an' we often feared that he wud gang
crazy."
</p>

<p>
After she had been a few days at Woodcliff, an old
woman called to see her; in going to the hall, what was
Mrs. Douglass' surprise to see Elsie Gibson! whom she
immediately recognized.
</p>

<p>
"Is that ye, Elsie?" said the lady, grasping her hand.
</p>

<p>
"I'm owre glad to see yer face, ma'am; you were aye like
yer brither Stephen."
</p>

<p>
"Can ye tell me ony thing aboot him, Elsie?  I hae a
fancy that he is still amang us; and I maun find him."
</p>

<p>
"It hae been a lang time syne he cam to this country,
Mrs. Douglass, an' his family had na seen him for years."
</p>

<p>
"There is property in Scotland which canna be settled
until we find the heir, Elsie, an' if ye ken ony thing aboot
him, will ye na tell his sister?"
</p>

<p>
"His loss was published in the papers in America.
Mrs. Douglass, an' that is a' that I can say, ma'am."
</p>

<p>
Elsie would say no more, and spent the rest of her time
in making inquiries after her kindred in Scotland.
</p>

<p>
"Are ye na ganging home, Elsie?" continued Mrs. Douglass,
"there is a comfortable hoose waiting for ye wi' your
sister, and she is sair grieved that ye bide sae lang awa'."
</p>

<p>
"As soon as my wark is done in America, I will gang to
my ain people, for I hae greeted sair for them; but my
wark is na finished yet; fare ye weel, ma'am, I shall see ye
ance mair," and Elsie took her departure.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Douglass returned to New York, and still continued
her advertisements, for it was all that she could do.
After she had been there some months, a note reached her
from a family in Newark, requesting her to call, as they
could give her some information with regard to the person
of whom she was in search.
</p>

<p>
Mr. and Mrs. Antrim were a Scotch couple living quietly
outside of Newark, having resided for twenty years in
America&mdash;Mrs. Antrim, a neat, elderly person, received
Mrs. Douglass cordially.
</p>

<p>
"I saw your advertisement, madam, and it struck me
that I might give you some information concerning your
lost friend."
</p>

<p>
"It is my brother, madam, wha is subject to fits of
derangement, an' wha I think is in America."
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Antrim described a mysterious man who had long
lived in their neighborhood.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Douglass listened with deep interest, for she was
sure that she had found her brother.
</p>

<p>
"When was he here last, Mrs. Antrim?" she inquired.
</p>

<p>
"Last Monday, and said that he would come this week."
</p>

<p>
"Can ye accommodate me wi' board for a few weeks?"
</p>

<p>
"I think that we can; we are not in the habit of taking
lodgers, but if it will be the means of bringing this poor
man back to his family, I will do it cheerfully."
</p>

<p>
"I dread seeing him, Mrs. Antrim, for if he kens the face
o' his sister, he will ne'er come again."
</p>

<p>
"We must be very cautious; do not address him, Mrs. Douglass,
take no notice of him.  I have a little grandson
of whom he is very fond; he is the only one that can make
him talk; we must watch for opportunities."
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Douglass provided herself with a pair of green
spectacles, and a very plain Quaker dress, that completely
metamorphosed her, for the bonnet so entirely hid her face,
that her own relations would not have recognized her;
this she was to wear whenever the strange visitor should
appear.
</p>

<p>
In a few days, Mrs. Antrim came up to Mrs. Douglass'
room.
</p>

<p>
"He is coming, you had better change your dress."
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Douglass did not appear until tea-time; she then
quietly took her seat at the table, and had time to
scrutinize the strange guest.  Years had made great changes;
the tall form was bent, the black hair was thin, and streaked
with gray, the bright eye was dim and wandering, the once
rich, dark complexion sallow, and the cheeks hollow and
shrivelled; an uncertain flickering smile played around the
lips once so stern and firm; but there was no mistaking
Stephen Bruce&mdash;there was the marked finger, the same
voice, and the remains of the same brother that had once
sat by her side at her father's board.  He talked but little,
for he saw that there was a stranger present.  The little
grandson was at the table.
</p>

<p>
"Sit by me, George," said the man, as he drew the child
next to him, and continued, "shall I gie him some o' these
cakes, Mrs. Antrim?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Robert, but not many."
</p>

<p>
"Where hae ye been a' this week, my little mon? ye hae
na' been to see auld Robert ance."
</p>

<p>
"I have been sick, Robert, and grandma would not let
me go out."
</p>

<p>
The boy was about ten years did, the age that Roland
was when his father had disappeared, and had the same
dark eyes and hair.  The man smoothed the dark hair as
he said,
</p>

<p>
"He is just like ane I luve, Mrs. Antrim."
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Douglass could scarcely control her feelings, and
finding that her food was almost choking her, she arose
hastily, and left the room.
</p>

<p>
"Where has the strange woman gane, Mrs. Antrim?
Did I frighten her awa'?  What does she wear that bonnet
for?"
</p>

<p>
"She has had weak eyes, and is not very well, Robert."
</p>

<p>
"I heard her speak aince, Mrs. Antrim; I think that I
hae heard the voice afore; let me see," and he placed his
finger upon his lip, as he continued, "I can na' remember,
but I hae heard it somewhere."
</p>

<p>
He left soon after tea, and Mrs. Douglass, deeply agitated,
declared that it was her lost brother.
</p>

<p>
"What do you want to do, Mrs. Douglass?"
</p>

<p>
"To tak' him hame wi' me to Scotland; our property can
na' be settled until he gaes."
</p>

<p>
"I fear that you will have great trouble before you can
do this."
</p>

<p>
Several visits were paid, but still no progress towards
acquaintance; at last one day, he said suddenly to
Mrs. Antrim,
</p>

<p>
"Is that a Quaker lady?  She seems very quiet, not
ane o' the clattering kind o' women.  I hae twa books
which I ken would please her,&mdash;the lives o' George Fox
an' William Penn; I wonder if she would come up to my
little cottage."
</p>

<p>
This was wonderful for Robert Duncan, but he seemed
to regard the quiet lady with a sort of pity.  Mrs. Antrim
communicated the news to Mrs. Douglass, and with many
charges to conceal her emotion, they walked up to the
humble home.  It had but two rooms, very plainly
furnished&mdash;on one side of his sleeping-room hung a shelf of
books.
</p>

<p>
"Will ye sit doon, ma'am?" said Robert to the Quaker
lady, and bringing the volumes spoken of, he continued,
"I thought that ye might like these books, ma'am; wud ye
like to read them?"
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Douglass replied, in a low tone; "If thee will lend
them to me, Robert."
</p>

<p>
He tried to look under her bonnet, as he said, "It is vera
like her voice."
</p>

<p>
"Whose voice, Robert?" asked Mrs. Antrim
</p>

<p>
"It dinna matter, ma'am, it can na' be; for she is far
awa'."
</p>

<p>
While they were looking over the other books, two pictures
fell out from between the leaves of one.  It was but
a glance&mdash;but it was Mary Gordon's face, and Roland's
when a lovely child.  Mrs. Douglass was thrown off her
guard; she seized the pictures.
</p>

<p>
"Where did ye get these, Robert Duncan?" and the man,
alarmed, gathered up the pictures, and hurried off into the
next room.  Before they left the cottage, he came back,
and with the suspicious glance of returning insanity,
said,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"What do ye ken aboot these pictures? hae ye e'er seen
them before?" and before she could reply, Robert had
rushed out of the cottage, into a woods near by, and as
they returned home, they saw him peeping with a dark
countenance at them from behind some trees.
</p>

<p>
"I fear that we shall not see him soon again," said
Mrs. Antrim; "he will have one of his dark spells, and we must
let him seek us now."
</p>

<p>
For weeks no tidings were heard of the poor man, and
Mrs. Douglass began to fear that her mission was fruitless.
It was some time before he appeared at church again, and
bent on avoiding them, he went out at a side door, and
they did not force themselves upon his notice.
</p>

<p>
For several weeks it was the same&mdash;Mrs. Antrim hoped,
however, that the loneliness of the cottage would bring
him to their fireside in search of his little friend George.
</p>

<p>
A salutation at the church-door, and a walk home with
Mrs. Antrim, was the first encouraging sign; and the next
afternoon, Robert was seen coming slowly up the garden
path.
</p>

<p>
"I think you had better not appear, Mrs. Douglass, until
he asks for you," said the hostess.
</p>

<p>
"I could na' stay awa' frae little George any mair,
Mrs. Antrim; how fares the bairn?"
</p>

<p>
"He has been asking for you every day, Robert."
</p>

<p>
The poor man looked pleased, as he caressed the little
fellow.
</p>

<p>
After a few more visits, he asked for Mrs. Douglass.
</p>

<p>
"Where is the Quaker lady, Mrs. Antrim?"
</p>

<p>
"She will be here directly, Robert," and Mrs. Douglass
appeared without her bonnet; a simple cap alone covered
her fine dark hair.
</p>

<p>
Robert looked long and earnestly at the face, as though
he were studying the resemblance to some one whom he
had known.
</p>

<p>
"Did ye always live in America, ma'am?" inquired he.
</p>

<p>
The question was unexpected.
</p>

<p>
"I hae been here for some time, Robert."
</p>

<p>
"Yer dialect is Scotch, ma'am; hae ye iver lived in
Scotland?"
</p>

<p>
"That is my native land, Robert."
</p>

<p>
No more conversation passed at this time, and he took
his leave.
</p>

<p>
Absent again for some weeks, they sent to inquire, and
found that he was very sick.
</p>

<p>
"I will mak' a desperate trial, Mrs. Antrim; there hae
been no progress yet in my mission; an' I maun try anither
mode; let me gae this time to see him."
</p>

<p>
"You may go, Mrs. Douglass, and may God be with you."
</p>

<p>
Throwing off her Quaker dress, she assumed her former
garb, and tremblingly proceeded to the cottage.  Robert
was very sick; confined entirely to his bed.
</p>

<p>
She entered, took off her bonnet, and advanced to the
bedside.
</p>

<p>
"Stephen Bruce! my brother Stephen! dinna ye ken yer
sister?"
</p>

<p>
The countenance of the sick man darkened, as he replied,
</p>

<p>
"Wha are ye that come to fash a puir sick mon by calling
him by a wrang name?"
</p>

<p>
"Dinna ye ken yer ain sister Annie, Stephen?"
</p>

<p>
"My sister Annie is in Scotland," replied the man,
thrown off his guard.
</p>

<p>
"She is by yer side, Stephen, yer ain loving, faithfu'
sister; she has crossed the deep ocean to find ye, an' God be
praised, she has na' come in vain."
</p>

<p>
"Why do ye seek me, Annie?  I am but a puir wretched
mon; ye canna' want sic a brother."
</p>

<p>
"Ye are sair distraught, Stephen; I cam to tak' ye hame,
that ye may get yer ain, my brother."
</p>

<p>
"Nane wad want to see a mon that had forsaken wife an'
bairns as I hae done, Annie."
</p>

<p>
"Just consent to gang wi' me, Stephen."
</p>

<p>
But no words could change the determination of Stephen
Bruce; he listened moodily to all his sister's arguments;
but all was in vain.
</p>

<p>
She took her departure, and her heart sank within her
when she heard the bolts slide, fastening doors and
windows against another entrance.
</p>

<p>
She sent each day to inquire; he was getting better; but
no inducements could persuade him to open his door to the
family at Mrs. Antrim's, not even to little George.
</p>

<p>
In a few days, the cottage was forsaken; and Stephen
had vanished from the neighborhood.  Thus the link so
lately found was lost once more.
</p>

<p>
In vain Mrs. Douglass sought for tidings; there was no
clue whatever to his movements.
</p>

<p>
"I hae no hope but in Elsie Gibson, Mrs. Antrim; I
think that I shall see her soon."
</p>

<p>
Advertisements were again inserted in the newspaper;
but still no news.
</p>

<p>
At length Elsie made her appearance.
</p>

<p>
"I hae found my brother, Elsie, an' lost him again; can
ye tell me where he is?"
</p>

<p>
"I need na' be so secret noo, as ye ken that he lives; he
has a strange dislike towards his kin, but I hope that we
may ow'rcome it, for he is na sae bad as he was."
</p>

<p>
"Where is he, Elsie?" asked Mrs. Douglass.
</p>

<p>
"He is aboot tharty miles frae here, wi' an auld woman,
who is kind to him."
</p>

<p>
"What led ye to this country, Elsie?"
</p>

<p>
"Ye ken the history o' my early days, Annie Douglass;
and ye ken fu' well that Elsie ne'er forsakes the ane she
luves, though Stephen luved anither.  When the tidings o'
his loss reached Scotland, I greeted sair for him wha lay
buried in the deep sea; but when he appeared suddenly
amang us, I saw that his puir mind was a' shattered, for
he seemed dark an' gloomy, and could na' bear the sight o'
Malcolm Graham.  He was aye jealous o' that stricken
mon; an' had the notion that Malcolm yet luved his wife
wi' a fond an' tender luve.  He hid himsel' frae his friends,
got some o' his money secretly, bound me by a solemn oath
to keep his secret, and then started again for America to
watch his wife.  I kenned that he was crazy; an' leaving
a comfortable hame, where I had enow to live on weel, I
cam' owre here; found puir Stephen separated frae his wife
and bairns, an' wandering aboot wi'out a hame.  I could
na persuade him to gae back to his wife; but he employed
me to see that their wants were weel supplied.  I went
out to sarvice, for I had nae ither way to live.  At last, the
money he had brought was gane; he had become so much
warse that he could na' tell me how to write to Scotland;
then cam' the dark days.  I had to wark vera hard to find
a hame for puir Stephen; the only thing that I am sorry
for was that I agreed to stop the letters which Mary sent
to Scotland, for he was beset wi' the notion that, in this
way, she could hear frae Malcolm; an' he was niver at rest
until I brought the letters, an' he destroyed them in my
sight.  Then he seemed a little better; for he felt that he
had closed the door for aye between his pure an' holy wife
an' the mon that she had luved sae truly.  But Stephen
luved her a' the time.  I used to tak' him sometimes several
lang mile just to get a glint o' Mary an' her bairns in
her humble cottage.  I led him to her grave, an' I saw him
weep bitter tears owre the green sod, and owre the grave
o' his daughter, Effie; an' I hoped that the warm tears wad
wash awa' the cloud owre the puir brain; but it is there
yet, Annie; an' I ken o' only ane ither way to lead him
hame.  I hae told him meikle aboot his son Roland; he
luves that boy wi' a' a father's pride; if he could see him,
he might prevail on him to gang back to Scotland.  I hae
helped to bear Stephen's sorrows, Annie, an' a' the pay I
ask is just to see him happy; an' that is my mission here,
Annie; when I see him wi' his ain people ance mair, an'
his puir stricken heart at rest, then I shall gang hame
again, an' spend the rest o' my life in preparing for my last
journey."
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Douglass listened with many tears to this sad story,
and agreed with Elsie in the fancy that Roland only could
persuade his father to return.
</p>

<p>
She lost no time in writing; Roland came at once, and
the three set out to find the heart-broken man.
</p>

<p>
Elsie entered first.  "Stephen, I hae brought a friend,
whom ye wad luve to see, an' wha wad luve to see ye."
</p>

<p>
"Wha is it, Elsie?  wha can want to see sic a mon
as I?"
</p>

<p>
"Yer son Roland; as soon as he heard where ye are,
he left all, an' is here, langing to see his father."
</p>

<p>
"Elsie, how can he e'er forget the days o' poverty an'
woe that I hae brought upon his mother?"
</p>

<p>
"He is a Christian, Stephen; he has forgiven a' the
past, an' a' that he wants noo is to see his father, an' be a
guid an' faithfu' son to him, as he was aye to his departed
mother."
</p>

<p>
"Bring him in, Elsie; I maun see my boy."
</p>

<p>
Roland entered, and before he could prevent it, Stephen
had crawled out of bed, and lay prostrate at the feet of his
son.
</p>

<p>
Roland instantly raised him from the ground.
</p>

<p>
"Do not kneel to me, my father; I came to seek you as
a loving, faithful son."
</p>

<p>
"I can na look upon yer face, yer young noble face,
Roland, for I am na worthy o' sic a son."
</p>

<p>
"Dear father, let us forget the past; my mother would
smile upon this reunion, and now your sorrows are all over;
I will cherish and keep you as a true and loyal son."
</p>

<p>
Stephen Bruce could not resist the generous appeal, but
lifting up his voice, the poor man wept; the fountains of
the great deep of feeling were broken up, and stormed the
bosom of the heart-broken penitent.
</p>

<p>
Elsie Gibson stood by&mdash;poor, faithful Elsie; her mission
was accomplished; her woman's unselfish love was all
repaid.  She knelt by the side of the bed, and wept long and
quietly, for hers were the tears of grateful, happy feeling.
Roland beckoned to his aunt.
</p>

<p>
Stephen raised his head, the pale lips quivered, as he
said, "come, sister Annie, we are a' as ane again;" and
stretching out his arms, he folded in the embrace of a
brother's love, the twin-sister of his early days.  There was
no more need to persuade Stephen to return to Scotland;
his anxiety to secure to this honored son all his rights,
made him eager to set sail, that he might, in some measure,
atone for past neglect.
</p>

<p>
"You will return to America, my father, as soon as all
is settled."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, my son, I can na' be parted ony mair; I maun
look to ye, my boy, for the strong arm; for I am a puir
broken doon auld mon, auld before my time;" and Stephen
folded his son in his arms with feelings of deepest reverence
and love.  Elsie! poor faithful Elsie, stood in weeping
silence.
</p>

<p>
"Fareweel, Elsie! guid an' faithfu' friend! ye hae been
true through the darkest days, an' God will bless ye;" and
Stephen laid his hand upon her head, as he said, "True
an' faithfu' may we a' meet abuve."  As soon as possible,
arrangements were made to leave America; farewells
exchanged; and Roland, hastening from the ship, could still
glance upward, and say, "Looking aloft!"
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap27"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXVII.
<br><br>
HEARTS' EASE.
</h3>

<p>
Foreign travel, association with Malcolm Graham, and
abundant opportunity in Paris, London, and Scotland, for
improvement, had done much for Roland.  It was seen in
his daily life, in his professional career, and in the polished
grace always attendant upon a highly-cultivated mind, and
a heart purified by holy principles.
</p>

<p>
Roland was henceforth among the leading members of
the younger barristers of the great metropolis; for although
but few could be found to adopt his principles of action,
none failed to respect his character.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Thornly's patronage was generously extended to the
young man, and the society met at his house was from
among the choice families of the crowded city.
</p>

<p>
Edgar was still cheering his father's heart by the evident
improvement in his moral character, and earnest devotion
to study.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Thornly could never forget the debt of gratitude
which he owed to Roland; and for Helen, alas! it had
been a dangerous privilege to dwell in the house with
Roland Bruce.
</p>

<p>
He is now a prosperous man&mdash;but does he forget the
humble friends who had sheltered him in the days of his
deep adversity?  No&mdash;for no sooner had he returned to
New York than he remembered Richard and Martha
Green.
</p>

<p>
Prosperity warms and expands a noble heart, and only
chills the sordid&mdash;and from the open purse of this child of
Providence, many liberal donations found their way to the
"News-Boys' Home."  A valuable library now filled the
book-case in the reading-room, and none knew the generous
donor; but no boy spending his quiet evenings in useful
reading could experience half of the delicious pleasure that
Roland enjoyed, when sitting among them, hearing and
answering their questions; remembering that his means
had contributed the larger number to the shelves.
</p>

<p>
Roland's name often appeared in the public prints in
connection with important law cases, and never without
abundant praise; but remembering the source whence all
came, he was not high-minded, but grateful; for it was God
who gave him intellectual power and influence; the God
who in one moment could lay his finger on that active
brain, and produce universal chaos.
</p>

<p>
Entering the reading-room one evening, Roland perceived
a stranger, evidently a gentleman, sitting at the
table; he raised his head on Roland's entrance.
</p>

<p>
"Why, Stanley! is this you, my good fellow?  Where
did you come from?"
</p>

<p>
"I have been in New York some time, Roland, pursuing
my studies; and seeing your name in the papers, I have
been trying to trace your steps.  I am interested in these
good works, and coming to visit this institution, I found
that you were among its laborers, and have waited to see
you."
</p>

<p>
"It does me good, Stanley, to see your honest face once
more."
</p>

<p>
"And I am no less glad to meet you, Roland," shaking
him heartily by the hand; "I was a wild chap in those
college days."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Stanley; but you were a whole-hearted fellow,
even when you were doing wrong."
</p>

<p>
"Those days are over, Roland,&mdash;what would you say if
I were to tell you that I am now among the saints, though
the very humblest of them all?"
</p>

<p>
"What would I say, Stanley?  Is it really so?  Give
me your hand, your old honest grasp, and let me clasp it
as a Christian brother.  How was it, Stanley?  Tell me
all about the great change."
</p>

<p>
"It is told in a few words&mdash;the first sermon that I ever
really heard, was preached at my sick-bed, by one who
lived the Christian&mdash;it sank right down into my very soul;
it spoke volumes to me; it haunted me night and day; for
then I began to feel that I really was a miserable sinner.
I tried to silence the voice, but it spoke deeper, louder.  It
followed me into the very dens of dissipated city life.  God
be praised that it did!  I could obtain no rest.  Suddenly,
I gave up my evil ways, and my bad companions; and at a
supper, where many of them were gathered, I publicly
renounced them all&mdash;they were amazed; they tried the power
of ridicule; but they knew Stanley, and soon left me to
myself.  I found peace in Jesus, and I am not ashamed,
Roland, of the gospel of Christ&mdash;unworthy as I am, I am
preparing to be an ambassador of him whom I once derided
and persecuted."
</p>

<p>
For a moment Roland was silent.  He remembered the
earnest, fervent prayers, which he had poured out in behalf
of Stanley; the answer had been long delayed, but it had
come at last.  They left the room arm in arm, Christian
brothers.  Roland was full of joyful anticipation, for he
knew the earnest character of this young man, and believed
that, like a second Paul, he would preach the everlasting
gospel.
</p>

<p>
Introducing him into the family of Mr. Thornly, he was
frequently in his society, and found what he had long
desired, a fellow-laborer in his Master's cause.
</p>

<p>
Helen was interested in the bold young champion of
truth, for she was herself becoming daily more devoted to
the cause of the Redeemer, less assimilated to the spirit of
the world.  With her father's full consent, she took an open
stand with the friends of Jesus, and from that day, her
course was upward and onward in the Christian life.
</p>

<p>
Madeline occasionally visited New York on business, for
she was still engaged in writing her little books&mdash;entirely
separated from the gay world, not only by her mourning
dress, but by deliberate choice, she was only found in the
domestic circles of intimate friends.  She was still annoyed
by the public attentions of Henry Castleton, for personal
vanity had made him blind to the positive aversion of his
cousin Madeline.
</p>

<p>
Lavinia is now on a visit to New York, and is spending
an evening at Helen Thornly's, in company with a few
friends, among whom is Henry Castleton.  The
conversation turns upon a party where the two had met.
</p>

<p>
"Really!" said Lavinia, with a toss of her proud head,
"go where you will, one must meet with the parvenues of
society; did you observe that Miss Digby dressed out in
her diamonds and point lace, for such a small social party?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes," replied Harry, "I could scarcely restrain a smile,
when I was introduced to her; who is she, Miss Raymond?"
</p>

<p>
"She is the daughter of old Digby, the great confectioner;
he has retired from business, and lives in grand
style, with his carriages, and his town and country house;
but you can see the vulgarity of the people, for who but a
Digby would ever have thought of diamonds at such a
party?"
</p>

<p>
"And who was that little Miss Austin?  I mean the one
dressed in simple white, seated in the corner?" asked
Lavinia.
</p>

<p>
"I don't know," was Harry's reply, "but she was evidently
a lady; so quiet! so refined! with such a low sweet
voice, and dressed in such excellent taste&mdash;did you observe
how much attention was paid to her?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, I wonder who she is; the Browns, the Starrs,
and the Carsons were very polite to her; and you know
that they are really our first people; she must be
somebody, for she had such a distinguished air."
</p>

<p>
Helen let them run on with their folly, and then quietly
remarked with a meaning smile,
</p>

<p>
"Miss Austin is a governess in the family of the lady
whom you were visiting; her father was a sea-captain, and
her mother conducted a young ladies' school for many
years; indeed, until her death; her daughter, who is highly
accomplished, is obliged to earn her own living&mdash;she is a
lady of great worth and intelligence, and, happily, is with
a family who knows how to value such gifts."
</p>

<p>
Helen and Madeline were both amused at the disconcerted
expression upon the faces of Harry and Lavinia.
</p>

<p>
"Really!" said the latter; "I never was more mistaken
in all my life, for I took her for a lady of high rank."
</p>

<p>
"What are we coming to?" responded Harry, "when
the daughters of confectioners and teachers can aspire to
mingle with the best circles?  I should not wonder if
shoemakers and tailors would creep in.  Indeed, I have met
with one who was formerly a common boot-black in society
where <i>I</i> visit; I am amazed at his presumption, for Roland
Bruce was nothing more."
</p>

<p>
Madeline could restrain herself no longer&mdash;for although
Helen tried to hold her down, she arose with dignity from
her chair, while a crimson glow covered her whole face,
and regardless of the presence of strangers, she said,
</p>

<p>
"And do you presume, Harry Castleton, to look down
upon such persons as Miss Austin and Roland Bruce? you,
with your empty head!" (and she tapped her pretty
head with unconscious scorn,) "and they with their noble
character, and brilliant powers of intellect&mdash;I am sorry for
you, Harry, with such a <i>pretty little figure!</i> and such a
<i>paltry little soul</i>!  Will it ever grow beyond a pigmy's?
Roland Bruce will shine among the great and good, when
you are entirely forgotten."
</p>

<p>
Harry withered beneath her rebuke; and even Lavinia,
whose lip curled in contempt, for the moment looked
awe-struck.
</p>

<p>
Madeline stood with her back to the door, facing the
glass; she was too much excited to look forward, or she
would have seen the figure of Roland standing irresolute at
the door, for he had heard all; and stood, not knowing
whether to advance or retire.
</p>

<p>
It was a picture for an artist, as he appeared listening to
the impassioned words bursting from the lips of Madeline
Hamilton.  Roland towering above all present in height,
with his broad expansive brow, on which sat enthroned a
lofty intellect, the signet of true nobility; his fine dark eye,
and firm, but sweetly expressive, mouth, his cheek glowing
with the feelings of the moment; and Madeline, in all her
youthful grace and beauty, with cheek suffused, and
burning eye, her hand extended towards Harry Castleton, who
durst not raise his eyes to hers&mdash;the room was silent&mdash;suddenly
Madeline raised her eyes, and in the mirror opposite
she saw the figure of Roland standing behind her, and
covering her blushing face with her hands, she sat down,
overwhelmed with shame.  Roland advanced, with great
dignity, towards Helen Thornly.
</p>

<p>
"Will you favor us with some music, Miss Helen?"
</p>

<p>
She advanced, glad to break the painful silence.
</p>

<p>
Roland did not, for some minutes, approach Madeline;
he understood her feelings, and spared her the pain of
drawing any further notice towards the sorely mortified
girl.  When a suitable opportunity offered, he quietly took
his seat by her side; he saw that she was suffering, for
whenever she raised her eyes, they were moistened with
tears, and her lips trembling with emotion.
</p>

<p>
"Do not distress yourself, Madeline," whispered the
young man, "be calm if you can; if you cannot, I will lead
you to the other room."
</p>

<p>
"Don't speak to me, Roland, I an ashamed of myself;
such a burst of passion in this public place!  I wish I were
in my room; I am not fit to meet this provoking young
man."
</p>

<p>
"I thank you for the generous defence; but another time,
Madeline, I will say more to you about it."
</p>

<p>
"You despise me, Roland, I know that you do; for I
despise myself."
</p>

<p>
"Despise that warm and generous heart, Madeline!
Never! do not entertain the thought for one moment; but
I must leave you now; we are too much observed.  I will
call to-morrow, if you will walk with me to the Battery."
</p>

<p>
Crossing to another part of the room, he found himself
near Lavinia Raymond, and bowed politely.
</p>

<p>
"Miss Thornly sings well, does she not, Miss Raymond?"
</p>

<p>
Lavinia looked surprised, as though not acquainted with
the gentleman, and made no answer.
</p>

<p>
"Her voice is very sweet, and she sings with much
feeling," he continued.
</p>

<p>
Miss Raymond deliberately turned her back, murmuring,
"Impertinent!" and crossed to the other side of the
room.
</p>

<p>
Roland smiled, for Madeline's warm and generous defence
had filled his heart with secret rapture, although he
could have wished that it had not drawn upon her so much
notice.
</p>

<p>
The evening passed unpleasantly, for Madeline's mortification
and self-reproach were too deep to be easily forgotten;
she had exposed herself in the presence of so many
witnesses, had given way to an unchristian burst of temper,
publicly wounded a cousin whom she should have tried to
benefit, and, she was sure, must have lost the respect of
Roland Bruce.
</p>

<p>
Roland's quiet dignity of manner had won for him golden
opinions, and Harry had failed again in humbling the man
whom he both feared and hated.
</p>

<p>
Lavinia was again disappointed; for the company generally
had treated the one with marked distinction, the other
with entire forgetfulness and contempt.
</p>

<p>
Late in the afternoon of the next day Roland called;
Madeline was ready, but shy, reserved, abashed.
</p>

<p>
They walked almost in silence until they reached the
Battery; then seating themselves under the shade, Roland
addressed the mortified girl,
</p>

<p>
"What is the matter, Madeline? you seem so silent; are
you displeased with me?"
</p>

<p>
"No; not with you, but with myself; I thought that I
had learned to control my impulsive temper, Roland; but
I find that I have made no progress.  I own that I was
all wrong yesterday, but I have done the same before; and
on the first provocation, I am tempted, and overcome
again."
</p>

<p>
"Your motive, Madeline, was noble; and, as Miss Austin
was not present to defend herself, it was generous in
you to be her champion."
</p>

<p>
Madeline looked her thanks to Roland, for she saw how
he was trying to reconcile her to herself, and understood
the delicacy with which he approached the subject.
</p>

<p>
"For myself, Madeline," and he spoke in lower tones,
"you were always the same noble, frank, and generous
friend; but you will allow me also the privilege of a friend;
you know I have always laid a gentle rein upon your neck,
Madeline; and you formerly yielded to the friendly check;
may I still do the same?"
</p>

<p>
"Say all that you think, Roland, fully, freely, as you used
to do; only don't excuse me."
</p>

<p>
"I wish that you would learn to restrain those open
expressions of your feelings; they make you enemies, and they
are not in accordance with the spirit of the Gospel."
</p>

<p>
"I know it, Roland; I am so glad that you do not praise
me; I should not respect you if you did; but how am I to
become meek and lowly?  I, passionate! proud! wilful
Madeline?  I want to be humble, I long to be holy."
</p>

<p>
Roland took the little hand gently, kindly, as of old, and
held it between his own; bending his eyes upon the
ground, he repeated, "'Come, learn of me, for I am meek
and lowly in heart, and you shall find rest unto your
soul.'"
</p>

<p>
"How, Roland, can I learn of Jesus?"
</p>

<p>
"Sit at his feet every day, Madeline; study his holy
character, pray for his blessed spirit; you have trusted him
with the justification of the immortal soul; trust him also
in the work of sanctification; he is the author of both; of
the former by himself; of the latter by his spirit."
</p>

<p>
She bowed her head, and wept.
</p>

<p>
"O, Roland! sometimes I fear that I am not among the
justified ones; if I were, would not the fruits be more
manifest?"
</p>

<p>
"Have you any hope of Heaven apart from Jesus, Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"No, Roland, 'Jesus only,'" and this she said with
deepest feeling.
</p>

<p>
"That is faith, Madeline, and it is faith that justifies;
this faith works godly sorrow for sin, earnest longing for
holiness, deep humiliation; do you not experience these?"
</p>

<p>
Madeline looked up through her tears with such a smile
of hope&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Roland, ever since yesterday I have been in the
dust, repenting of my sin, and longing, praying for holiness;
and then I am so sorry for Harry Castleton; I wounded
him so deeply, I behaved so shamefully."
</p>

<p>
Roland, looked upon the weeping girl, almost with the
feelings of a parent towards a child; there certainly was
compassionate tenderness in his face, and lowly reverence
in that of Madeline, as he laid his hand in blessing upon
the drooping head.
</p>

<p>
"I am going to ask Harry's pardon, Roland; I cannot
be happy until I do; and then, by God's help, I will never
be unkind to him again; he is not gifted like some others,
and it was mean to reproach him with it; I know that he
has always loved me, and I ought to be grateful; is it not
strange that it makes me so angry, when it is not so
with some others&mdash;I wonder why it is, Roland?" and the
artless look with which she uttered these innocent words,
caused a smile to pass over his face, for she was a child in
some things yet.
</p>

<p>
"Is not this pleasant talk? just like 'Auld Lang Syne,'
Roland, when you used to lecture little Mad-cap, and when
she used to like the lectures so much better than other
people's praises."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, it is too pleasant, Madeline; I wonder if you have
cherished the mementoes of those childish days as I
have? do you know this handkerchief, Madeline?" and Roland
took out of his pocket a soiled cambric handkerchief, stained
with blood.
</p>

<p>
She looked at him with great surprise.
</p>

<p>
"Why, where did you get that dirty handkerchief?"
</p>

<p>
"Don't you remember the first day that we met upon the
shore, that you wiped my face with your handkerchief?  I
have kept it ever since, and would never have it washed;
to-day I was looking among some old relics, and put it in
my pocket, intending to place it again among my treasures."
</p>

<p>
Madeline blushed as she looked at the handkerchief, and
smiling, she said,
</p>

<p>
"They were very happy days; what a merry child I
was! so spoiled! so wilful!  I wonder if I am any better
now."
</p>

<p>
"You were a very charming child, Madeline, and I never
can forget the little friend of the sea-shore.  Here is another
relic!" and he held up a lock of golden hair, which she had
given him in those childish days.
</p>

<p>
"Were we not very happy, Roland? now I am so much
older&mdash;we have both seen sorrow, you the most; and I too
have tasted of the cup&mdash;and now it is so solemn to live,
Roland, to have the charge of so much property, and to be
responsible as a steward for all that God has given to me.
Papa told me that I might choose my own guardian; I have
no male relations, and no one but you&mdash;will you not take
charge of my estate, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"It is a great responsibility, but I cannot well decline
it; I shall be but too happy if I can serve you."
</p>

<p>
"I want some one to teach me how to take care of it,
and how to use it for the good of my fellow-creatures.  I
saw such a beautiful example in the Countess of N&mdash;&mdash;
and her noble husband; they seemed just to live to do good
to their own family, and the people all around them.  I
have commenced my little school again, and it is growing
fast; I shall soon want a teacher; then I must have a
reading-room for the factory-men, a missionary for the
neighborhood, and, after a while, a dear little church of my
own."
</p>

<p>
Roland listened to the young enthusiast with a glowing
heart, for she was running on with a smiling face, and such
an earnest, happy expression.
</p>

<p>
The tears were gone&mdash;April had passed, and smiling
May fanned its breezes around the two, as they sat under
those shady trees.
</p>

<p>
She was playing with a sprig of hearts'-ease while she
was talking.
</p>

<p>
"What a sweet flower you have, Madeline!"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, it is one of my favorites; I have so many at
Woodcliff."
</p>

<p>
"Won't you give it to me, Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"What! my hearts'-ease, Roland!  There, take it; I wish
it were not so faded."
</p>

<p>
Placing it in a button-hole of his coat, he smiled as he said,
</p>

<p>
"That is an emblem of yourself, Madeline, or what you
used to be&mdash;my own little hearts'-ease."
</p>

<p>
"Well, truly!  Roland Bruce paying compliments!  Take
care, good sir; don't become a flatterer."
</p>

<p>
"I speak truth, Madeline; but let us talk a little more
about this trust that you wish me to undertake&mdash;are you
very careful about your accounts, Madeline? you should
make a regular entry of every day's expenditure, calculate
your income, put apart so much for your charities, and so
much for your daily wants&mdash;but never run into debt."
</p>

<p>
Madeline began to smile.
</p>

<p>
"Well, good sir! it seems so funny for little Mad-cap to
be sitting here listening to a lecture from her guardian,
little Roland of the Maple Lane School&mdash;you are getting
on pretty fast, I think, and it will not be long before we
hear that eloquent speech that I have so often talked
about."
</p>

<p>
Roland was suddenly depressed; for when he looked
upon the young heiress of so large an estate, and himself,
her guardian, he felt more than ever repelled from thoughts
that would sometimes rise up in his heart with visions of
domestic bliss.
</p>

<p>
There was so much of artless, tender interest in Madeline's
manners, that often the thought would cause a thrill
of rapture as hope whispered, "She loves me, this peerless
child of Nature! this fresh, guileless young heart!  But
it cannot be&mdash;be silent, foolish heart!  But it is a joy to
guide, to counsel, to comfort, even to hear her voice," and
gradually he sank into silence.
</p>

<p>
Madeline's spirits were gay&mdash;taking Roland's arm, they
walked home quietly together.
</p>

<p>
It had been a happy hour!  But Roland awoke as from
a dream, when Madeline named her property; with that,
came the incubus that always lay as a shadow between
him and his darling's warm young heart.  Chilled by its icy
breath, he remained quiet.
</p>

<p>
"Why are you so silent, my good sir?" inquired
Madeline; "it seems that you have left all your spirits at the
Battery."
</p>

<p>
"I was looking some very painful thoughts right in the
face, Madeline; there are some things that I must get
accustomed to, but it is not an easy task."
</p>

<p>
"Can I help you, Roland?" and she turned a kindly look
upon his troubled face.
</p>

<p>
"<i>You</i>, help me, Madeline!  No&mdash;it is beyond your power,"
and he looked deeply pained.
</p>

<p>
"There is nothing, Roland, that I would not do, to lighten
your cares, if I only knew what they were."
</p>

<p>
"Never mind, my good little friend, there is a refuge for
every care; I have tried it very often, and it has never
failed&mdash;no, not once."
</p>

<p>
By this time, they had reached the door of Madeline's
stopping-place.
</p>

<p>
"Good evening, Madeline, God bless you!"
</p>

<p>
"I shall see you to-morrow, Roland&mdash;shall I not?  I will
then tell you all about Harry."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, I will see you,"&mdash;and Roland turned away to kiss
the sweet little bunch of hearts'-ease, murmuring, "not for
me! would that she were penniless;" while Madeline went
up-stairs, humming a low, soft tune, as she whispered,
"What a dear, kind guardian!"  Would she have echoed
Roland's wish, had she known this to be the only barrier
between two pure young, loving hearts?
</p>

<p>
True to her sense of right, she sent a short note without
delay to Harry Castleton, requesting the favor of an early
call next morning.
</p>

<p>
Harry loved Madeline as much as his weak nature would
allow him to love any one beside himself, and had borne
much contempt from her even meekly; therefore, he obeyed
the summons, wondering what change had come over his
proud cousin.
</p>

<p>
"I sent for you, Harry, to apologize for my conduct; I am
heartily ashamed of it&mdash;it was unwomanly, unchristian,
and uncalled for.  I hope, Cousin Harry, that you will
forgive me; you know what a proud, high temper I have, and
must attribute all that I said to that infirmity."
</p>

<p>
Harry looked amazed&mdash;he had never before seen Madeline
so humble herself to any body, and he wondered what
it really could mean.
</p>

<p>
"I was to blame too, Madeline; I know how my speeches
provoke you, and I believe that I uttered them for that
very purpose.  I receive your apology freely, I hope that
you will accept mine.  I cannot help my feelings about
Roland Bruce, for I do believe that it is he only that
prevents your return of my warm affection."
</p>

<p>
Madeline bit her lip, for hasty words were coming again,
but she restrained them, and replied,
</p>

<p>
"You are mistaken, Harry, I feel for you the interest
of a cousin; nothing else could possibly be entertained;
but you will never have to complain again of unkind
conduct at my hands; I have been too deeply humbled.  I do
wish you well, cousin Harry; I would like to see you
caring more for better things; then at least, you would
have my respect."
</p>

<p>
"Madeline, if you had always been thus kind, I might
have been a better man; your scorn has embittered me;
but words like these soften my heart, and waken better
feelings, even in vain and trifling Harry Castleton."
</p>

<p>
They spent an hour in friendly conversation, and Madeline
was greatly relieved, when she parted amicably from
her cousin.
</p>

<p>
A familiar step soon followed upon Harry's departure,
and Madeline, with her own mischievous smile, said,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Now, Roland, have I not been a good girl?  I made an
humble apology to Harry, for all my naughty ways, and I
think that my venerable guardian must be satisfied with his
protégé."
</p>

<p>
Roland smiled, and answered,
</p>

<p>
"Follow out your own convictions of right at once,
Madeline, as you have done in this case, and you will not go
very far astray."
</p>

<p>
"I would have done the same willingly before all that
room full, Roland, that they might have known how heartily
ashamed I was?"
</p>

<p>
Roland looked upon this fascinating combination of innocent,
frank child-nature with true earnest womanhood, and
felt convinced that the world would never spoil this fresh
young soul.
</p>

<p>
"You look very sad, to-day, good sir; has any thing
happened to distress you?"
</p>

<p>
"Nothing now, Madeline; I have only had to tame down
some wild, ungoverned fancies."
</p>

<p>
"Here are some of my papers ready for my sage
guardian; when I get home, I will send the rest."
</p>

<p>
Roland winced again; for this bundle of parchment reminded
him of the night's sore struggle&mdash;he could not now
see Madeline with the mere regard of a true friend, for the
silent hours of midnight communion had fully revealed the
state of his heart.
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap28"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXVIII
<br><br>
SEAWEED.
</h3>

<p>
The witcheries of the world were rapidly losing their
power over Madeline Hamilton&mdash;but Nature, calm, beautiful,
bright, became more dear, more elevating to her child&mdash;for
had she not always been her nursing-mother even
from earliest childish days?
</p>

<p>
There was perfect harmony between the fresh guileless
nature and the green trees, the smiling sky, the deep blue
ocean, and the sweet voices among which she rambled;
and deeper, fuller than ever was the joy swelling in her
young heart, when she could look upward and say, "My
Father made them all."
</p>

<p>
From the deep fountains of her new nature gushed out
streams of love, for all that God had made; for the more
that she loved God, the truer, and more spiritual became
her love for her fellow-men.  Then the intimate relations
between herself and Roland, the dear companionship,
the old feelings of perfect trust and reverence, and the
tender interest which enveloped her in such a mantle of
protection, dwelt with her daily; and neither needed words
to tell how truly they were one, nor with what unconscious,
mysterious knowledge, they had read each other's hearts.
Roland could not but feel "she loves me," and Madeline
needed no language to make her understand how precious
was the sacred bond which united their warm young
hearts.
</p>

<p>
The little children that assembled around her still in her
Saturday-school, and her class on Sunday, all felt the sweet
attraction&mdash;the dwellers at the cottages, Aunt Matilda, and
the people in the kitchen, all realized that a warmer glow
of love kindled in the young face, and sweeter words were
breathed from her lips.
</p>

<p>
Madeline was really living&mdash;for the heart had found objects
on which to bestow its benevolence, and the feeling, day by
day, was deepening, widening, as she felt truly "Jesus loves
me, and I love him."
</p>

<p>
As the guardian of her worldly concerns, she received
frequent letters from Roland, full of kind advice and
strengthening words.  He had laid down for her a plan
which she was eager to carry out, and it was a pretty
picture to see the young girl with her little basket of books,
tracts, and domestic comforts, sallying forth daily among
her humble dependents.  Hours for devotion, household
cares, for reading, music, for exercise, for benevolence, were
systematically arranged, and as carefully carried out; and
while Aunt Matilda was yawning over want of occupation,
and imagining headaches, indigestion, and countless other
evils, Madeline scarcely found time for her numerous
duties.  She was very happy; for even while she missed
the smile of her dear father's approval, was she not blessed
with the assurance of his unspeakable gain? and did she
not hope to join him at last in the better world, to part no
more forever?
</p>

<p>
Her cheek bloomed with brighter tints, her eye beamed
with holier love, and her lips told tales of sweet inward
peace and joy, drawn from the deep wells of salvation.  She
was learning some of Mozart's and Beethoven's finest
music on her harp, and some sacred melodies for her voice;
for she knew the style that pleased Roland, and was
scarcely aware how all her occupations were mingled with
the name of that precious friend.  Sometimes, doubts and
difficulties would obtrude themselves when reading the
Scriptures, and then she would wish for her faithful guide.
</p>

<p>
"Get Mr. Bruce's room ready, Mary," said Madeline to
the chambermaid; "he will here to-morrow," and she spent
much of her time in preparations for the welcome visitor.
</p>

<p>
Aunt Matilda found that although her niece treated her
with respect and affection, in the choice of her guardian
she had exercised the liberty which her father had given
her, and the good lady had quietly to submit.  The respectful
reverence with which Roland treated Madeline's aunt
almost disarmed her opposition to this intimacy, and would
have done so entirely, could she have divested herself of
the fear that Roland might some day be more than guardian.
After tea, Madeline led Roland to the drawing-room.
</p>

<p>
"I have learned some new music just for you, guardian,"
and she played some of her finest pieces with exquisite
taste and execution.
</p>

<p>
"How can people like polkas and waltzes after such
music as this?" said Roland; "it seems to speak so truly
the language of the soul."
</p>

<p>
"I have some beautiful sacred melodies, and I want you
to learn them to sing with me, guardian, your voice is so
good."
</p>

<p>
It was amusing to see Madeline assume the office of
teacher, and when he would make mistakes, with an arch
expression around her mouth, to hear her say&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"What a dumb scholar! don't you see that you are singing
the wrong note?  I am so glad that there is something
I can do better than you."
</p>

<p>
It was a laughing lesson, with Roland's blunders, and
Madeline's pretended reproofs, and the pat of the little
hand on his head when he succeeded.
</p>

<p>
"Don't be affronted, guardian, for I really do entertain
a profound respect for you, though not much wholesome
fear; that is rather out of my sphere, good sir."
</p>

<p>
After sundry trials, they succeeded admirably, and
Madeline's sweet treble, with Roland's rich tenor voice,
made truly delightful music.
</p>

<p>
"That's a good boy, Roland! you shall have a treat for
your performance," and Madeline ordered a <i>tête-a-tête</i>
supper before retiring, with just such viands as Roland
liked.
</p>

<p>
"Shall I see you to-morrow in the library, Madeline?"
was Roland's request, as he bade "good-night."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, at nine o'clock; I shall be occupied until that
time."
</p>

<p>
A full hour was spent in transacting some business
attendant upon his office, and, at the close, Madeline, with
a sweet, serious face, seated herself on a lower seat by the
side of her guardian.
</p>

<p>
"I have wanted you lately, Roland, I have been so
troubled when reading the Scriptures; I don't know what
can be the matter, but my mind has been so disturbed by
doubts and difficulties, that they have clouded my peace,
and perplexed me so much."
</p>

<p>
"Are they connected with your duties, Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"No, Roland; they are about deep, inscrutable mysteries
that I cannot understand," and Madeline, from a full
heart, poured out all her tale of doubts and trials into the
ears of one ever ready and able to counsel and aid her
trembling steps.
</p>

<p>
On Sunday morning, Roland accompanied Madeline,
opened the services of the Sunday-school, and aided in
teaching; in the afternoon, by the side of his young friend,
and using the same book, he joined in the beautiful service
which she loved, for he had outlived the prejudices of his
childhood, and had learned to love goodness and truth
wherever he saw it, or under whatever garb, and could now
easily make allowances for the deep aversion of those days
of persecution to the rigid ritualism which laid such heavy
burdens upon the consciences of Christian men.
</p>

<p>
While he remained at Woodcliff, one hour each morning
was spent in studying the word of God, and his clear
explanations greatly aided the young believer.
</p>

<p>
"This is a pleasant evening, Madeline; shall we walk
down to the shore?  I must see the dear spot before I
return to New York."
</p>

<p>
"Wait a minute, Roland, I must get my hood and scarf;
it is a little damp.  Old Peter will be glad to see us, and
I have something for him."
</p>

<p>
"So have I," answered Roland.  "He must be growing
very old, for he was an aged man when we first came to
Woodcliff, and that is seventeen years ago; I am now
twenty-six."
</p>

<p>
"And I twenty-one; and yet, Roland, I do not feel
more than sixteen; I enjoy life as much as then, and I have
just the same faith in goodness as I had at that age."
</p>

<p>
They soon found themselves at the dear trysting place,
and, seated on the rock, they gazed in silence upon the
grand old ocean.  Madeline was the first to speak.
</p>

<p>
"Does it seem possible, Roland, that eleven years have
passed since you stood there," pointing to a spot near
them, "defending the poor little things who had lost their
diamonds?"
</p>

<p>
"And yet, Madeline, if we measure time by events,
what a long life mine would seem!  So full of trial, of
blessing, and of stirring incident!  What finger-posts of
Providence have marked my way!"
</p>

<p>
"How strange are its wondrous dealings, Roland!  I
ran down to the shore that evening with my dog Hector,
just for a merry race and a wild romp with my good old
playmate, and I found you&mdash;then a poor, threadbare boy,
with a grand and noble soul&mdash;be still, Roland" (for he was
about to speak), "I felt what was hidden under your
worn-out jacket, child that I was; and I found such a
friend! eternity only will reveal what you have been to
wild, impulsive Madeline;" turning, with her young face
all glowing, she added, "I fought your battles then, Roland,
and I have done so ever since, for my childish instincts
read truly."
</p>

<p>
"There are some scenes, Madeline, written upon the
tablets of memory with a diamond pen, and that afternoon
was one; the face of the bright child, with her generous
impulses and her scorn of meanness, the stained handkerchief,
and the tender touch of the dimpled hand have been
with me ever since; to this have been added the bright,
wild, untamed intellect that interested me in Maple Lane
School, the docile pupil coming to me with such winning
grace.  I see the folded hands and downcast eyes even
now; the mischievous little sprite that loved bewitching
pranks; the gay young girl who, amid all the blandishments
of wealth, still nobly cheering my way; the riper
woman, with her noble heart, at last bowing at the foot of
the cross, and pouring out its love on all around her.
These, Madeline, have been with me always&mdash;cheering,
blessing, soothing."
</p>

<p>
"All this, Roland, under the leading hand of a wondrous
Providence, you have done; sometimes I was led away,
but for what a short period!  These early lessons are never
forgotten; and even in England, where I was surrounded
by so much more to tempt, my heart, true as the needle to
the pole, turned back with all its freshness to those early
memories and their teachings."
</p>

<p>
Roland sat in silence for a moment, his heart filled with
unutterable love&mdash;could it be duty to throw from him this
gem of priceless worth, this young, warm, guileless woman's
heart? and yet as a flash darted through his brain, the
thought that would obtrude&mdash;as her guardian, acquainted
with the extent of her possessions, might he not be thought
selfish, mercenary?
</p>

<p>
"And now you see, good sir, you are my grave and
reverend guardian, and must know all about your ward,"
and Madeline flashed upon him one of her arch glances of
mischief; "if a young lady has offers of marriage, I suppose
that she ought to tell her guardian&mdash;is not that so?"
and she continued, smiling, "and always ask his advice
about such matters, for I have something of the kind to
tell now."
</p>

<p>
Roland dropped his eyes, and moved away from the
young lady, lest she should see his emotion, and replied
seriously, "I shall always be interested in whatever
concerns you, Madeline, and will advise here, as elsewhere,
truly, faithfully."
</p>

<p>
"Well!  to begin&mdash;Harry Castleton is one of my devoted&mdash;he
has offered himself three times, and has as often been
refused; for you know, guardian, that I could never love
him, but I am going to treat him better; I have made a
good beginning; what do you think of him for Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"Think, Madeline!  I should never cease to mourn over
such a union&mdash;it could never be."
</p>

<p>
"Amen!" said Madeline, archly; "and then there was
Mr. Livingston, of New York, that all the belles were
dying for; a man of wealth, rank, fashion, and intelligence;
not caring much for the gay world&mdash;what do you think of
him?"
</p>

<p>
"Did you love him, Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"No&mdash;not exactly; and I used to think it was very
strange! he was so handsome and attractive! but what do
you say about him?"
</p>

<p>
"I could not approve of him either."
</p>

<p>
"Why, guardian! you are grim, and hard to please&mdash;well! then
there was Tony Willikins; poor Tony! when I
was a wild young thing, I took a ride with Tony, and he
asked me about his future establishment; about his house,
his carriage, his grounds, his furniture; and I gave my
opinion&mdash;well, to be sure! he built just such a house,
ordered just such a carriage, and then came, and asked me
to live in his house, and ride in his carriage.  I almost
laughed in his face; and when I refused, he said that I had
encouraged him, because I described the house, and
recommended the carriage; I did not think that he was quite
such a dunce, but I really felt sorry for Tony; I did not
mean any harm&mdash;now, guardian, what do you think of
Tony Willikins?"
</p>

<p>
Roland smiled at the story, and replied,
</p>

<p>
"I should object no more to this poor fellow with weak
intellect, and affectionate heart, than I would to a rich
brainless fop, without a heart."
</p>

<p>
"When I went to England," and Madeline's face assumed
a more serious, tender expression, "I was introduced
to the family of the Earl of N&mdash;&mdash;; it was all that a
Christian family ought to be, and there I spent some of the
happiest hours of my life.  I was domesticated in that
household for many weeks, and became much attached to
Lady Alice, the eldest daughter.  Lord N&mdash;&mdash;, the eldest
son, was a bright example of a young English noble;
refined, intelligent, pious, and of an extremely prepossessing
appearance; we were associated daily; Roland, he learned
to love me with all the depth and tenderness of a true,
manly nature.  I never knew an hour of deeper sorrow,
than when compelled to say to that outburst of a warm
affection, 'only friendship can I return;' now, guardian,
what would you think of him?"
</p>

<p>
They were sitting very near the edge of the shore, and
as the waves washed up the sea-weed, Roland took up a
bunch, and handing it to Madeline, said,
</p>

<p>
"You remember these flowers of the ocean&mdash;how often
have I gathered them for you?"
</p>

<p>
"Remember them!" and Madeline opened a small pocket-book,
from which she took a few faded weeds, "Ah! how
often have these memorials spoken to me, Roland; once I
placed them by the side of the splendid bouquet, that Lord
N&mdash;&mdash; used to send me daily&mdash;and oh! the difference."
</p>

<p>
"O, Madeline! dare I hope that the giver of these faded
weeds was dearer than Lord N&mdash;&mdash;, with all his grandeur
and his goodness?"
</p>

<p>
Madeline turned her deep expressive eyes upon Roland's
face, as she replied, in trembling tones,
</p>

<p>
"Nothing else could have made me insensible to the
worth of Lord Alfred N&mdash;&mdash;; these faded weeds, the
sea-shells, the sketch I found once in the library, were more
precious to me, more fondly cherished, than all the gifts of gold
that have ever been laid at my feet."
</p>

<p>
"Can such blessedness be mine? the wealth of such a
heart?"
</p>

<p>
"And mine, dear Roland! it seems too much of earthly
good to know that you are all my own, not only as my
friend, but my dearest, truest love."
</p>

<p>
"And can you, with all your wealth and attractions,
turn from so much, and give your heart to me?  I have
not much to offer, Madeline; it is true that my dear friend,
Uncle Malcolm, placed me above the reach of need, but
nothing compared to the heiress of Woodcliff; I fear the
judgment of your aunt; would that you were penniless."
</p>

<p>
"I want nothing but yourself, Roland; only your pure
and noble self; have we not loved each other always? and
yet there was a time when I was afraid of Helen
Thornly."
</p>

<p>
"And when I was afraid of Lord N&mdash;&mdash;; for I saw his
worth, and his attractions, Madeline; and knew that you
were with him daily while I was absent."
</p>

<p>
"What would your father think of such a choice, Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"He was willing, in such a matter, to trust his daughter;
dear, noble father! he respected you, Roland, always;
and I believe, if he were living, he would smile upon us."
</p>

<p>
"Look at me, darling!" said Roland, "let me see those
dear eyes, those truthful, earnest eyes, just turned on me,
as full of love and tenderness as in days gone by;" (for
Madeline had dropped her head, and bent her eyes upon
the ground.)
</p>

<p>
She raised them to Roland's face, and in the deep look
of perfect trust and tenderness, he saw what that hour had
revealed to him.  Taking both hands within his own, and
looking up to heaven, he prayed that God would bless this
sweet union of two young souls that had been so long as
one.
</p>

<p>
"This is a love, Madeline, which will stretch forward to
eternity; it will be companionship on earth in all that is
pure and holy, to be perfected in the world above."
</p>

<p>
One sweet, pure caress, one fond kiss sealed this heart
union; and taking her arm within his own, they turned
their steps homeward.
</p>

<p>
"Let us just listen for one moment to the music of the
ocean, Roland; it is a grand old organ, with its deep,
mysterious chords; it has murmured many solemn hymns for
us, many a varied melody&mdash;sometimes gentle summer
lullabies, sometimes wails like funeral dirges&mdash;what does it
waft us to-night?"
</p>

<p>
"Nothing but soft, sweet hymns of harmony, Maddy;
bidding us praise our Father and our God."
</p>

<p>
Old Peter had been watching the young people, in
whom he was so much interested; he saw the deep-absorbing
interest of that interview; the tender caress, and
the slow step as they moved away, and he said to
himself,
</p>

<p>
"This is just what I thought would come of hoarding up
old shoes.  God bless them! they are a dear young pair,
and deserve to be happy.  What a handsome couple they
will make!  And they are both so good!  It puts me in
mind of Becky and me in our young days," and the old
man wiped a moistened eye with his rough coat-sleeve.
</p>

<p>
Tea was long over when they reached home, but they
wanted no supper; and Aunt Matilda was out of patience
at the monosyllables which she received as answers, for
both seemed wholly engrossed with each other.
</p>

<p>
"Let us go to the library," whispered Madeline; and as
they stood before the portrait of her father it seemed to
look upon them, with all the benignity of expression that
dwelt upon the face of Mr. Hamilton.
</p>

<p>
"It smiles upon us, Roland! does it not?  I know my
dear father too well not to be assured that he would bless
us; let us kneel before his picture;" and as they bowed
solemnly in the library, Roland poured out his heart in
earnest, fervent prayer, for God's choicest blessings upon
them both.
</p>

<p>
After an evening spent in happy converse, the hour of
separation came too soon.
</p>

<p>
"Let us listen to the Eolian to-night, Roland;" and Madeline
led him to the stair-case; standing there together, it
discoursed soft, sweet strains, for the evening was balmy
and pleasant, and the wind fanned gentle breezes among
the foliage of Woodcliff.
</p>

<p>
"How soft! how sweet, Roland, the harp is to-night! it
seems to breathe only of happiness and peace; sometimes
it has been so wild, so sad, when I have been in trouble!
I wonder if it does not just echo the voice within."
</p>

<p>
"Doubtless it is so, Madeline; to-night the serenade is
very sweet; if the fairies play among the strings, they
must know all about us, dear."
</p>

<p>
"It is a pretty fancy, and cannot harm us, Roland; I
don't believe it, you know; but then there are many things
I don't believe which it is pleasant to think about."
</p>

<p>
"You must be careful, dear, in these flights of fancy, that
they do not depart from truth."
</p>

<p>
"Well then, Roland, we will banish the fairies, though
they were long the friends of my childhood, and substitute
the good, real angels, and think that the sweet music is
mingled with theirs."
</p>

<p>
"Good-night, Madeline, may they guard your slumbers;"
and Roland clasped the little hand fondly, and impressed
the kiss of pure affection upon the fair young brow.
</p>

<p>
Madeline's dreams were pure and holy that night, for
was she not the chosen companion of the man whom she
most loved and honored on earth?
</p>

<p>
Next morning, she acquainted her aunt with what had
taken place.  She was not surprised, but deeply
disappointed.
</p>

<p>
"I cannot understand you, Madeline, to reject such a
man as Lord N&mdash;&mdash;, and to choose one so low-born, so
obscure as Roland Bruce; but you must have your own way;
you were always a wilful child!"
</p>

<p>
"You will learn to think differently some day, aunty;
when you know Roland, you will find out true nobility."
</p>

<p>
"Next Sunday will be our communion day, Roland; you
will stay, can't you?" said Madeline.
</p>

<p>
"I will try; by writing a few lines, I can be spared that
long."
</p>

<p>
There were but few as yet gathered into that little fold;
but it was a blessed hour, when the two bowed together at
the table of their Master, and consecrated their united lives
to his holy service.
</p>

<p>
There had been a parlor organ hired for their little church,
and as they together joined in the high praises of the
Trisagion, their spirits seemed to soar beyond the things of time
and sense, and to prostrate themselves together before the
throne of God and the Lamb.
</p>

<p>
"This is living," said Roland, as they walked homeward
together; "loving God supremely, and each other fondly,
for Jesus' sake, with the sweet hope of eternal union, when
the cares and sorrows of life are ended; this is living,
Madeline.  God is love, and is best pleased when his creatures
are most like him."
</p>

<p>
"I used to think, Roland, that it was a sin for mortals
to love each other, and it once troubled me sorely, when I
began to think of becoming a Christian."
</p>

<p>
"Just study the life of Christ, dear, and the teachings
of the disciple whom Jesus loved the best, the loving John;
his epistles are full of heavenly love, and you will never
make that mistake again; for remember, that he teaches
the duty of the highest exercise of Christian love, when
he says, 'That we ought to lay down our lives for the
heathen.'"
</p>

<p>
"How that view draws us to the blessed Saviour!  How
different from the teachings of those who would represent
God as seated far away, upon the throne of the Universe,
forbidding the approach of his erring children."
</p>

<p>
"Always think of God, Madeline, as a loving Father,
whom you may always approach to plead the merits of his
Son; he is ever ready to look upon you graciously in the
face of Jesus, our Redeemer."
</p>

<p>
"What precious hopes, dear Roland, does the gospel
hold out to us! union with Christ forever, and intimate
soul-union with each other in a world where there can be
no change, no parting, no decay."
</p>

<p>
"Let us bless him, dearest Madeline, for these holy
hopes, and show that we love him, by lives devoted to his
service; by-the-bye, do you know that I begin to like your
service better than our own? so much that is sublime is
taught by its offices.  It seems to be an echo of the voice
within.  How lofty is the language of the Trisagion!  I
could almost have imagined the worship of the spirits
before the throne, crying 'Holy!  Holy!  Holy!' and could look
forward to that time, when, as disembodied spirits, we shall
join with those who have gone before; with patriarchs, and
prophets; with martyrs, and apostles; with 'the spirits of
the just made perfect;' with my mother, Effie, and your
own dear father, in praising the God who has brought us
safely home."
</p>

<p>
"I am glad that you feel so, Roland, for I have decided
preferences for my own forms of worship; though I can
hold communion with Christians of every name, who truly
love my Master."
</p>

<p>
Monday morning came, and with it, return to daily cares
and duties.
</p>

<p>
"Madeline, I brought old Peter a warm over-coat for
winter, one that I have done with; I forgot to say
anything about it that evening;" and Roland smiled.
</p>

<p>
"And I forgot a Bible with large print, and a pair of good
spectacles; I had them with me, but I forgot them too."
</p>

<p>
"I hope that we may be excused this time, Madeline;
our hearts were engrossed by each other.  Farewell,
dearest, write daily," continued Roland, "or rather keep a
journal, and send it to me twice a week; I want to know
everything about you, where you go; all that you think and
feel are precious to me now."
</p>

<p>
Madeline blushed rosy red, as she found herself folded in
a warm embrace, and returned modestly the kiss of
affection which was pressed upon her lips.
</p>

<p>
"Pray for me, Roland, every day and every night; we
can meet there, dearest;" and Madeline stood upon the
piazza watching him as long as she could see him, and
returned the wave of the hand, ere she retraced her steps
back to the library.
</p>

<p>
Letters from Lady Alice had just reached Woodcliff; for
Madeline had been in constant correspondence with her
valued English friends.  They were particularly welcome,
for in one was announced the approaching marriage of Lady
Alice to Lord Elmore, and several hints about Lady Lucy
Hampton and her brother Alfred; concluding with a warm
invitation to make a bridal visit to England.
</p>

<p>
On Roland's next visit, he brought a warm letter from
good Uncle Malcolm, congratulating him on his prospects
of domestic happiness, and insisting on a visit immediately
after his marriage.
</p>

<p>
"I do not think it at all improbable, Madeline, for I have
business which calls me to Scotland," said the young man.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Bruce was expected daily, and Madeline obtained a
promise that his first visit in America should be to
Woodcliff.
</p>

<p>
In a few days he landed at New York, and met with a
warm welcome from his son.
</p>

<p>
"Are you really glad to see me, Roland?" asked the
poor man, as he looked up in his face with a sad, wistful
expression.
</p>

<p>
"I am really glad, my father; I have a carriage ready
for you, and bright, pleasant rooms."
</p>

<p>
No pains were spared to make him happy, and under the
wise, affectionate treatment of his son, Mr. Bruce really
seemed to be losing much of that sad and moody state of
mind which had so long afflicted him.  As soon as he could
be prevailed upon to go, Roland took him to Woodcliff, and
introduced him to his intended daughter-in-law.
</p>

<p>
Madeline received him with a warm, affectionate welcome;
and although shy at first, under the influence of her
kind manners and sweet music, he became daily more
social and tranquil.
</p>

<p>
After singing several hymns to please him, he walked
up to Madeline, and laying his hand upon her head, he
said,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Thank ye, my dear, ye hae ta'en a deal o' trouble to
please an auld mon&mdash;ye are to be my daughter, are ye na!"
and stooping down, he pushed back the rich folds of hair,
to look more earnestly on her sweet young face, and then
kissed the pure, calm forehead.
</p>

<p>
"I will try to make you a good daughter, sir," and she
kissed the withered hand that was held out to her.  From
this time, quite an intimacy sprang up between the two,
for the music had driven away the evil spirit for a time.
</p>

<p>
"She is vera luvely, Roland, amaist as luvely as yer
mither was at her age&mdash;be kind to her, my boy; ne'er suspect
yer wife; but be sure that ye hae her heart&mdash;are ye
sure o' that, Roland!"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, father, she has never loved any one else, she is all
my own!"
</p>

<p>
"Happy son! happy Roland!" whispered Stephen, as he
took his son's arm, to walk out on the piazza.
</p>

<p>
As Madeline took leave of the old man, she said,
</p>

<p>
"You will come again, dear sir, will you not?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, my child, this hae been a pleasant visit; ye are
guid an' kind, an' I luve ye, my daughter."
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
Aunt Clara is on a visit to Woodcliff, and finds her most
sanguine hopes realized in what she sees of Madeline's daily
walks of usefulness, and many a time, with tearful eyes,
exclaims,
</p>

<p>
"What hath God wrought!"
</p>

<p>
"Aunt Clara, I have been thinking a great deal about
the men here; there is a very large number among the
factories, and in the cottages of the fishermen.  They very
seldom come to our Sunday services, but waste their vacant
time in lounging about idly, and in drinking what they have
earned through the week.  I have thought of a reading-room
where we could supply good reading for the evenings,
and keep them away from bad company; but I don't
know how to go about it; I cannot go among men, that
would not be exactly feminine, and I cannot bear all the
expense myself."
</p>

<p>
"Would it not be well, Madeline, first to bring the
matter before some of the gentlemen of the neighborhood?"
</p>

<p>
"That is exactly the way, Aunt Clara; I'll send for
Roland, he shall make the speech&mdash;I'll give notice in the
Sunday-school, and then I'll send notices around to the
principal gentlemen, to meet at the Sunday-school room."
</p>

<p>
Madeline was full of her new plan, and put it into
practice immediately&mdash;notifying the Sunday-school, sending
for Roland, and canvassing the neighborhood thoroughly,
by means of the messengers.  Ten days were allowed to
prepare for the meeting; she talked about it in the Sunday-school
eagerly, for the ungodliness of the men was sorely
distressing to her benevolent spirit.
</p>

<p>
Roland came&mdash;the evening arrived, the room was
lighted early, and Madeline watched eagerly for an
audience.  A few strolled in, some of the mothers of the
children, some of the young ladies, and a few of the
children's fathers; but this was not what Madeline wanted&mdash;it
was nearly eight o'clock, and but two gentlemen, one
the old minister of Roland's church, the other, a gentleman
somewhat interested in the morals of the neighborhood.
After a while, a half dozen more came, then three or four
more, until about one dozen were present; at last, quite a
party of young ladies and gentlemen took their seats, and the
meeting commenced.
</p>

<p>
Roland had acquainted Mr. Stewart with the object of
the meeting, and requested him to state it to the audience,
and open the exercises with prayer.  Interest had brought
but few, curiosity the larger number.
</p>

<p>
After the opening exercises, Roland arose.  His name had
not been announced; but while he spoke, the rich, manly
voice, and quiet dignity of manner at once enchained
attention; and as he proceeded to describe the wants of the
neighborhood, and the necessity of some efforts by which
to benefit the working classes, gradually his manner
increased in warmth; and when he alluded to the days when
as a boy athirst for knowledge, he had sat on these benches,
and had often longed for the use of a well-assorted library,
there was a general buzzing among the young people.
</p>

<p>
"Who can it be?" said Minnie Smith.
</p>

<p>
"Why, don't you remember Roland Bruce?" replied
Lizzie Belton.
</p>

<p>
"It cannot be possible&mdash;that elegant looking man,
Roland Bruce! then such a speaker!  I can't believe the
evidence of my own senses."
</p>

<p>
"I know his eye, Minnie, I knew him as soon as I looked
at him&mdash;I heard the other day that he is quite a
distinguished lawyer in New York."
</p>

<p>
"Well, dear me! who ever could have believed it?"
</p>

<p>
"Why, Madeline Hamilton believed it&mdash;or else she never
would have taken so much interest in him&mdash;proud minx! she
always said that he'd be a great man yet."
</p>

<p>
"Let us listen, Lizzie, we are losing his speech;" and
the young girls stopped talking, to listen to his eloquence.
He represented the wants of the working man, said he
had an intellect demanding food, as well as a body; that
he had a right to both; he believed that many might be
reclaimed and elevated, if those more favored would lend a
helping hand, and recognise the one great fact of
brotherhood&mdash;on this he spoke feelingly, for he had felt deeply.
In glowing words, he enlarged upon the advantages of
useful reading, appealed to those who employed these men;
and asked if they would not make better workmen, more
faithful laborers, more moral and intelligent, if conscious
that there were hands stretched out, saying, "Come my
brother, I will help you."
</p>

<p>
All listened respectfully; and at the close, the gentlemen
present contributed something, those of large means
liberally, and Madeline had the pleasure of seeing her scheme
likely to prosper.  After all had subscribed, "M. H&mdash;&mdash;"
modestly added one hundred dollars to the list.  "Who is
he?  Who is he?" was the question whispered all round
when the meeting was over.
</p>

<p>
"A young man by the name of Bruce, I think," was the
reply of Mr. Belton.
</p>

<p>
"I can tell you, gentlemen," said Mr. Stewart, his former
minister; "he was once a boy in the Sunday-school of my
church, and a member of Maple Lane School, very poor,
very humble, but an excellent son, a devoted brother, an
earnest Christian, with bright talents, all exercised for his
Master.  He is a child of Providence, gentlemen, raised to
what he is by a blessing upon a mother's piety and manly
trust in God."
</p>

<p>
Several went forward, and shook him warmly by the
hand.
</p>

<p>
"We are proud of our Maple Lane boy, sir; your
minister has told us something of your history."
</p>

<p>
Lizzie Belton and Minnie Smith looked quite abashed,
hiding their faces as Madeline proudly took Roland's arm,
and left the room.  As soon as they were out of hearing,
she exclaimed&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"There, Roland, don't say that I am not a prophetess;
I knew the day would come when you'd make these silly
upstarts feel ashamed of themselves.  I felt proud of you
to-night, Roland, for I saw that they were mortified as
soon as they knew who it was.  I suppose that they would
like to obtain the notice of Roland Bruce now."
</p>

<p>
"Madeline, is not this very much of the old leaven?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, I suppose it is, guardian; but it was in this very
room where they used to be so mean, and I could not help
the feeling.  They have heard you make your speech in
Maple Lane School, and it did some good, too; I am
thankful for that.  Now I'm going to prophesy a little
more&mdash;don't shake your wise head, good sir, at my folly&mdash;you'll
be an 'Honorable' yet.  I expect to address letters
to the 'Honorable Roland Bruce, U.S. Senate.'"
</p>

<p>
Roland burst out laughing.
</p>

<p>
"Of all the scheming little heads that ever sat upon the
shoulders of a woman, yours exceeds.  What possesses
you, Madeline?" and Roland laughed again most heartily;
"how can you ever dream of such a thing?  I shall never
be a politician."
</p>

<p>
"No, I know that, I should be very sorry for that; but
worth and talent sometimes meets its reward, even here."
</p>

<p>
"Madeline, I have but one ambition,&mdash;to serve my God
faithfully in whatever station he appoints, and to walk
hand in hand with one of the purest and loveliest of God's
creatures in the path that leads us home to Heaven."
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap29"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXIX.
<br><br>
BEATITUDES.
</h3>

<p>
A mariner on the broad, mysterious ocean is sailing
homeward; he has encountered many fearful storms, laid
by wearily in exhausting calms, and steered safely amid
rocks and shoals, with the blessed haven still in sight of
faith's eyeglass.  He is nearing home; chart and compass
awaken a thrill of hope and love, as they point so surely to
the same familiar outline of approaching land.  A small
speck, as of a distant star, is gleaming on him through the
atmosphere; sometimes very faint, then brighter, clearer,
fuller, until the beacon of the light-house, with the steady
brilliancy of a small, well-defined orb, speaks to his heart
the one sweet word of "Home."
</p>

<p>
He speeds on swiftly, steadily, with canvas spread to
the breeze, and finds himself anchored at last in quiet
waters, waiting for the pilot to take him into port.  The
vessel lies peacefully upon the rippling waves, the air is
scarcely moving, the sails flap lazily, and the scream of the
sea-bird is exchanged for the softer melodies of birds nearer
land, as they fly low with their song of welcome.  The sails
are now taken in, and the sailors are singing songs of
home; the air is full of music, for the murmurs of the
gentle waves, the light spray dashing slowly against the
sides of the vessel, whose rocking lullaby is scarcely
perceptible&mdash;all murmur harmonious notes to the hearts of the
weary, home-sick mariners; the captain, assured that "all's
well," goes below to dream of home, of clasping arms, warm
kisses, and words of holy love.  They have reached the
latitude of a seaman's blessedness, "near home."  Thus
far, too, has Roland sailed upon the voyage of life; his
bark has ridden safely through storm and calm, through
rock and shoal, with the beacon light of faith and hope
always shining bright above him, and looking thus steadily
aloft, he, too, has reached the quiet waters of the
"Beatitudes."  He reads much in that sweet chapter of "the
sermon on the mount," and, from the depths of a blissful
experience, feels what Jesus means when he pronounces the
word "blessed" upon the children of his love.
</p>

<p>
"<i>Blessed</i> are the poor in spirit, for theirs <i>is</i> the kingdom
of heaven."
</p>

<p>
The poor before God&mdash;has he not realized the blessedness
of that kingdom, which is joy, and peace, and love in the
Holy Ghost?  He loves to dwell separately on these
beatitudes; as the miser lingers over the "unrighteous
mammon," so Roland muses over his heavenly treasures, fearful
lest one should fade away from the grasp of faith.
</p>

<p>
"Blessed are the meek," says our dear Lord, "for they
shall inherit the earth."
</p>

<p>
The meek&mdash;those contented with their earthly lot, only
anxious for the favor of God&mdash;they shall truly inherit the
earth now with their spirit of contentment, and hereafter,
in the days of millennial glory, when the saints shall truly
possess the renovated earth&mdash;and with his spiritual growth
hath not the Master blessed Roland in basket and in
store? and even if he had not, would not the spirit of humble
piety be to him a richer boon than the wealth of the Indies?
</p>

<p>
He has reached these quiet waters, and dwells among
the regions of the "Beatitudes."  Is not Roland happy? and
may not all who thus cast themselves upon the good
providence of God, while steadily pursuing duty, be equally
blessed?  Jesus' words have meaning; let us prove their
power.
</p>

<p>
Roland is the same active, energetic, earnest man, rising
daily in public estimation, while seeking only the favor of
God.  Days of deeper trial may yet come, but God in his
wisdom chooses their time.  While walking in the footsteps
of Daniel, nought is needed but the discipline of Daniel.
</p>

<p>
"Do you know, Roland, that they are talking of you for
the Legislature?"
</p>

<p>
The question was addressed to him by Edmund Norris,
who was greatly interested in his friend's success.
</p>

<p>
"Nonsense, Edmund!" was the reply; "I should never
please the politicians.  I am no party man, and would
never stoop to the tricks of men in office."
</p>

<p>
"There is really a chance for you, Roland, and I don't
see why corrupt men are to be allowed always to rule the
land.  I think high-minded, honorable men are greatly to
blame for not taking more interest in public affairs; they
could do much towards purifying our halls of legislature,
as well as our courts of justice."
</p>

<p>
"I have plenty to do here in my private walk, Edmund,
and can thus exercise a silent influence among my fellow-men."
</p>

<p>
In a few days, Roland found that all was not merely
Edmund's talk, for a party of gentlemen waited upon him
to see if he would allow his name to be used in the next
election.  He listened quietly to their propositions.
</p>

<p>
"What do you expect, gentlemen, of your representative?"
</p>

<p>
"That he would by all measures advance the prosperity
of his State."
</p>

<p>
Roland smiled, saying&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"According to the views of a certain party."
</p>

<p>
"Certainly; he is bound to represent those who send
him."
</p>

<p>
"Then I suppose that he is expected to attend to many
little matters of private interest; that is frequently attended
with much trouble.  What will he receive for such offices?"
</p>

<p>
"He may pocket many a cool five hundred in this way,
if he is only accommodating."
</p>

<p>
"Supposing that his judgment and conscience should
both be opposed to the views of his constituents on some
points, what would be expected?"
</p>

<p>
"That he would waive such inconvenient things in the
way of politics, and always consult the interest of his
party."
</p>

<p>
"Then you expect him, in a free country, to give up his
own independence.  Is that so, gentlemen?"
</p>

<p>
"Of course&mdash;he cannot be a public man, and preserve
that.  The independence of a politician is only read in the
Constitution of the land; it has no real existence&mdash;he has
sold it."
</p>

<p>
"Then, farewell, gentlemen&mdash;I am a foreigner by birth,
but an American by choice.  I revere the men who framed
our Constitution, and am willing to be guided by its noble
teachings.  I cannot consent to your proposition of making
it a dead letter in my case, nor can I surrender the
inestimable rights of manhood.  I thank God for my conscience,
and my judgment; I will not hoodwink the one, nor act
against the dictates of the other.  I am a <i>freeman</i>.  If
ever I fill a public station, it will be as an independent
man, to advance the right, the just, the true only.  I am
not your man; I would be of no earthly use to
individuals&mdash;the 'cool five hundred' cannot buy me."
</p>

<p>
"We are sorry, Mr. Bruce," replied the speaker; "with
your talents, you could reach any post of honor that you
choose; but with your romantic notions, you are throwing
away a golden opportunity."
</p>

<p>
"This would be no post of honor to me, gentlemen;
there are others more private, more influential, that involve
no sacrifice of principle; I have chosen such, and have the
sweet approval of my conscience; I cannot barter that for
any earthly good," and he laid his hand impressively upon
his heart.
</p>

<p>
"We honor your integrity, but it will not do in a world
like ours&mdash;good-morning, sir."
</p>

<p>
"Good-morning, gentlemen&mdash;God is wiser than man, and
by his laws will I be governed."
</p>

<p>
Edmund was disappointed at the result of this interview.
</p>

<p>
"And so you rejected the offers that I spoke of, Roland;
I think that you carry your high-flown notions too far&mdash;you
might easily have accepted such a position, and not have
compromised your principles in the least."
</p>

<p>
"We differ in sentiment, Edmund; and the day will
come, when you will agree with me&mdash;experience is a great
teacher."
</p>

<p>
"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God."  This
beatitude spoke volumes to Roland that night, as he
sank to quiet slumbers; for peace soon follows sacrifice.
</p>

<p>
In the exercise of Christian principles, Roland was a
happy, prosperous man, for wealth smiled upon him in the
daily increase of his practice; and though he occupied no
place of public trust, he was much more honored in the
omission than in the gift.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * *
</p>

<p>
Madeline is now in New York, whither she has been
called on important business.
</p>

<p>
"Shall we take a sail this evening?" asked Roland.
</p>

<p>
"Nothing would be more pleasant; let us go early, and
return by moonlight."
</p>

<p>
The sail on the quiet waters of the bay was one of those
periods of heart communion which are among the purest
joys of earthly intercourse.
</p>

<p>
The world shut out; the low whispers of this evening
hour, as they sat apart, indicated the deep feelings of each
young heart.
</p>

<p>
They sat watching the passing vessels, some sailing out,
others coming in from the sea; craft of all kinds and sizes
gliding by them so gently, all containing pilgrims on the
waters of life.
</p>

<p>
"Roland, do you ever think how much these little boats
resemble the voyagers of mortality?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Madeline, all bound to the ocean of eternity; we
are sailing with them, dearest&mdash;it seems very sweet and
peaceful&mdash;what a sad thought that so many may be speeding
on the voyage which ends in a fearful wreck at last!"
</p>

<p>
"How blessed are we, dear Roland, to feel that our little
barks are guided by a gracious hand! for we know who
steers them on so safely."
</p>

<p>
"Do you realize the presence of that precious Saviour,
Madeline?  I have been lately studying the sermon on the
mount; have you ever thought, dear, of the full meaning
of the Saviour's word, 'blessed?'"
</p>

<p>
"And I have been reading in the same, dear Roland; and
think that I am learning, slowly, the meaning of those
precious 'beatitudes'&mdash;as I bend at my daily devotions,
and read the holy book; as I walk among my poor
dependents in the green lanes at Woodcliff, or worship in the
school-room of Maple Lane, I feel the murmured
benediction, and know now what Jesus means, when he says
those precious words, 'blessed' are they who exercise these
holy emotions."
</p>

<p>
Roland sat in silence for a few moments, and then continued,
</p>

<p>
"Our little barks are now in quiet waters, dearest&mdash;why
should they be any longer separated? or rather when shall
we occupy the same vessel, and sail together on the same
stream?" and Roland took the little hand within his own,
and listened for the answer.
</p>

<p>
She smiled archly, as she replied,
</p>

<p>
"Our present life is very happy, Roland; the married
people say that these are the happiest days&mdash;why then
should we wish to bring them to a close so soon?"
</p>

<p>
"Do you really think so, Madeline?" said Roland, as she
turned away to hide her blushes, "do you believe any such
thing? don't you know that we would both be happier
were our destinies united? and then, dearest, remember,
that I have no home,&mdash;a parlor and two rooms are not
home, Madeline.  I brought you here this afternoon just to
ask, how much longer must I go alone?"
</p>

<p>
"It is a shame to tease you, Roland, but the old feeling
of mischief is very tempting&mdash;now, I suppose, that you
want to bring my liberty to an end; to put aside the lover,
with his sweet whispered words, and to begin the husband,
with his tones of authority.  'Madam, I wish it so,' and
'Madam, you must not do this,' and 'Madam, you must
not do that;' is it not so, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
He understood the little artifice, by which she evaded an
answer, and smiled again, as he replied,
</p>

<p>
"You are afraid of no such thing, Madeline; you know
your power, and the deep love that fills my heart; do not
trifle when I want a serious answer."
</p>

<p>
She laid her little hand quietly within the grasp of the
strong, firm man, and said,
</p>

<p>
"Take me, Roland, I am yours for life&mdash;through weal
and woe, in sickness and in health, until death us do part."
</p>

<p>
The moment of levity had passed.
</p>

<p>
"When shall I call you mine?"
</p>

<p>
"In two months from to-day, Roland; will that suffice,
dearest?"
</p>

<p>
"Why should it be two months?  I cannot understand
what you ladies have to do&mdash;what is the use of such an
extensive wardrobe?  It is just as easily made up
afterwards.  I could be ready in a day, Madeline."
</p>

<p>
"And you really would deprive me, Roland, of a young
bride's pleasure&mdash;it is such a joy to prepare a wedding
trousseau!"
</p>

<p>
"You don't think so, Madeline, for I know no one who
cares so little for the fripperies of dress as you&mdash;now what
is the reason for delay?"
</p>

<p>
"To be serious then, Roland; Aunt Matilda has some
peculiar notions about these matters; and since I have not
pleased her altogether in my choice, I think it is due to her
to consult her wishes in this one thing&mdash;she would never
hear to any thing else, I know."
</p>

<p>
"Well, then! be it so&mdash;two months from to-day; that is
the decision."
</p>

<p>
The spirit of mischief returned.
</p>

<p>
"Don't you pity the poor thing, with the proud spirit,
giving herself away to such a grand Mogul, with all his
strict notions of right and wrong?  I am afraid that she
will beat her wings against the bars of her cage."
</p>

<p>
"Do you really fear the bonds of matrimony, Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"With you, dearest? no&mdash;you may lead me where you
will; for I know that it will always be in paths of holiness
and love."
</p>

<p>
"Here then is the token of our union!" and Roland
placed upon her finger the ring of betrothal, and then
kissed the dear hand that lay so confidingly clasped in his.
</p>

<p>
"Now, Madeline, I have something to show you; it is
too dark to read it now, but I can tell you what it is.  I
want you only&mdash;Madeline, without her dowry; she only
is the object of my love.  I have drawn up this document,
in which all your estate is secured to yourself forever; so
that I can be wholly cleared from any suspicions of sordid
motives&mdash;your wealth has always been a drawback, and
long withheld me from seeking your hand."
</p>

<p>
"And do you think, Roland Bruce, that I would marry a
man whom I could not trust with everything that is mine?
What! separate interests between man and wife! are we
not one, Roland? one in love, in hope, in pursuits, one in
the hopes of a better world; and shall we not be one in
all things pertaining to this mortal life?  No, Roland&mdash;what
is mine, is yours&mdash;yours to direct, to manage, to
control&mdash;we are one in all things, Roland, I will hear to
nothing else; I do not want to read that paper; I am blushing
while I think of it."
</p>

<p>
Roland was silent a moment, from the depth of his
emotions.
</p>

<p>
"Your confidence shall never be abused, my own precious
Madeline; we will try to use these gifts as stewards
for our Master, and I feel assured that he will bless us."
</p>

<p>
The return home was full of sweet reflections; for amid
the music that swelled, and then died away from passing
pleasure boats, there came a voice over the quiet waters,
which pronounced them "blessed," and they heard its
blissful whispers.
</p>

<p>
We will leave them to this hour that comes but once in
mortal life; and will not anticipate the discipline that must
purge away the remaining dross of imperfect human
character, until presented faultless before the throne of God.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
Aunt Matilda resigns herself to the necessity of such a
marriage, and busies herself in the preparations, for she is
determined that there shall be a grand wedding at Woodcliff.
There is much to do, for the young pair are to sail
for Europe immediately after their marriage.  Lavinia
Raymond is shocked at such a degradation, and declares
that neither she nor her mother will countenance such a
sacrifice by their presence; Harry Castleton and Charles
Davenport are disgusted when they hear of their new
cousin, and several young ladies around Woodcliff utterly
surprised.
</p>

<p>
"It may do for Madeline Hamilton to take such a step,
she can afford it," said Lizzie Belton; "but for any of us,
we should lose caste at once."
</p>

<p>
The wedding day arrived.  It was a bright and beautiful
morning in the month of May.  Madeline arose early, and
sat quietly at her chamber window looking out upon the
beauteous prospect;&mdash;all creation smiled; so felt the young
girl&mdash;the birds carolled their sweetest songs around the
window; flowers bloomed everywhere in rich abundance;
the sky was clear, for but a few fleecy clouds floated over
the landscape.
</p>

<p>
"This is my wedding day," whispered Madeline, "would
that my dear father were here to bless his daughter; but
he is in a better land, where there is neither marrying nor
giving in marriage."
</p>

<p>
She bowed her head, and prayed in solemn silence for
herself, and for him who was henceforth to be her partner
in the journey of life; and after the sweet hour of
communion with God, descended to the breakfast room; the only
marks of emotion visible, the blushing cheek, quivering lip,
and dewy eyes.  George Stanley and Helen Thornly, with
Edmund Norris and Lucy Edmunds, acted as groomsmen
and bridesmaids.
</p>

<p>
We need not say that the bride was lovely, nor the groom
imposing in his appearance&mdash;a full flowing dress of white
satin, and a cloud of exquisite lace, through which gleamed
diamonds and orange blossoms, enveloped the fair bride.
</p>

<p>
The Bishop of the diocese officiated; for as yet, there
was no minister settled in the neighborhood.  It was no
empty ceremony of mere show for Madeline&mdash;she would
have prefered a more quiet wedding&mdash;but almost unconscious
of the presence of so many, she took her solemn
vow before God.  A sweet smile of happiness played around
her mouth, bright rose-tints shone through the bridal veil,
and the eyes, when raised to her husband's face, expressed
pure and holy confidence, with perfect love.  Roland's
deportment was calm, dignified, reverential&mdash;he looked upon
the fair being at his side, as one committed to his love by
God himself, and deeply solemn were the vows made on
that day, before the marriage altar.
</p>

<p>
Madeline's first glance was for Roland's father, who was
standing near.
</p>

<p>
"Bring him here, Roland."  She took the pale hand, and
presented her cheek to him, saying,
</p>

<p>
"Love me, dear father, you have a daughter now;" and
Stephen Bruce looked down upon the fair face and smiled
sadly, as he replied,
</p>

<p>
"Be happy, my dear children, happier than I hae been."
</p>

<p>
George Stanley was to be ordained in the autumn; and
the married pair looked on quietly, pleased on seeing
so many indications of an incipient attachment between
the young man and their friend Helen.
</p>

<p>
"Would it not be pleasant, Roland," said the young
wife, "to have them near us, George for our minister, and
Helen for the pastor's wife?"
</p>

<p>
"I suppose, dear, that we are for marrying all good
people; but seriously, I do believe that my friend George
is deeply interested in our little Helen."
</p>

<p>
Laying aside her wedding-dress, they met at the supper
table as a social family party; and after tea, Madeline
ringing a bell, summoned the household to the library.
</p>

<p>
Roland took his place at the table as head of the family,
and with a serious, manly voice, addressed a few words to
those present; then reverently read a chapter in the Bible,
making a few serious remarks,&mdash;Madeline led the singing
with the accompaniment of a parlor organ, and Roland
closed the service by an earnest, fervent prayer.
</p>

<p>
Returning to the drawing-room, Madeline excused herself
a moment, and leading her husband to the landing at
the head of the stairs, she said,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"I want to hear what the Eolian says on our wedding-day,
Roland&mdash;how soft! how peaceful are its murmurs,
dear!"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Madeline&mdash;the air itself is very soothing, and then
our feelings of calm and tranquil blessedness are reproduced
on the sweet harp."
</p>

<p>
"I am a little more fanciful than you, dear&mdash;I must
believe in the ministry of angels; you know, Roland, that we
are told that they are ministering spirits, and that they
encamp around the dwellings of the righteous.  I believe,
dear, in your prayer to-night, that you invoked their
presence; it is a sweet fancy that they may breathe upon these
chords of unearthly music."
</p>

<p>
"If so, Madeline, they are discoursing charmingly
to-night&mdash;for I can imagine nothing in this weird music,
with its mysterious strains, but sounds of peace, and joy,
and love."
</p>

<p>
The only drawback to their happiness was the thought
of leaving old Mr. Bruce behind them; but a knowledge of
his sorrows had interested Aunt Matilda, and her kind
heart led her to promise to take good care of the old
gentleman.
</p>

<p>
He seemed quite pleased with the idea of living in the
country; Roland left a number of charges with him, and it
was a grateful thought that he could be useful to his son.
</p>

<p>
Susan Grant was appointed teacher of Madeline's little
school; and old Mr. Bruce spent his evenings generally at
the reading-rooms, acting as librarian.
</p>

<p>
Accompanied by Stanley and Helen, they reached New
York; taking leave of them, they sailed in the first steamer
for Liverpool; and, after a quick passage across the ocean,
reached their destined port.  Hurrying on, they found
themselves in the great metropolis of England; the Earl
of N&mdash;&mdash; was out of town; anxious to see her friends,
Madeline made no stay in London, but proceeded directly
to Parkhurst.
</p>

<p>
Their journey was through a charming country, at a most
lovely season of the year, when spring flowers were
abundant; the hawthorn hedges in full bloom; and all nature
rejoicing in the fresh green of a spring-time in England.
</p>

<p>
Madeline's emotions were rather embarrassing as she
drew near to Parkhurst; and when the porter at the lodge
opened the gate, and she found herself really driving up
the avenue, her emotion was visible.
</p>

<p>
Roland smiled as he read the speaking face; and taking
her hand, he said,
</p>

<p>
"Madeline, you are trembling."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Roland; I am thinking of the last evening I
spent here; it is nearly three years ago, and I dare say
that it is all forgotten; but these scenes revive the memory
most powerfully."
</p>

<p>
Arriving at the manor-house, their names were sent up;
and, in another minute, the Lady Alice came running in
to greet her beloved friend.
</p>

<p>
"Welcome, dearest Madeline!  I have been so sure that
you would come;" and she embraced the young bride with
the warmth of old friendship.
</p>

<p>
"My husband, Lady Alice;" and Roland bowed to the
noble lady, with all the grace of courtly ease.
</p>

<p>
"You are welcome to Parkhurst, Mr. Bruce, for
Madeline's sake."
</p>

<p>
"How came you here, Lady Alice!  I supposed that you
were married ere this."
</p>

<p>
"I have been a wife, Madeline, six weeks, and am now
making a visit to my mother; you will see Lord Elmore at
dinner;" ringing the bell, she called a servant, directing
him to show the visitors to the room which she pointed
out.
</p>

<p>
Madeline ran to the window to look out upon the familiar
objects; the same gentle deer, the cawing of the dear old
rooks, the bloom of the same sweet flowers, and the deep
shade of the same old trees, just seemed as if she had left
them but yesterday.
</p>

<p>
"Is it not charming, Roland?" said the young wife,
"and then, when you see the dear family, you will not
wonder that I call this happy home another Eden."
</p>

<p>
Descending to the drawing-room, the countess was there
ready to receive them.
</p>

<p>
"And so, Madeline, my love, you come to us as a bride,"
was the warm salutation, as she kissed the blushing cheek,
and then turned gracefully to greet her husband.
</p>

<p>
"You have obtained a prize, my dear sir; I hope that
you will cherish her tenderly."
</p>

<p>
Roland bowed over the fair hand, as he replied,
</p>

<p>
"I believe, my lady, that I know her value."
</p>

<p>
The hour for dinner arrived; the earl gave them a hearty
welcome; and Lord Frederic, who was now a fine young
man, received them with all due courtesy.
</p>

<p>
"Where is Lord N&mdash;&mdash;?" thought Madeline, but she did
not ask.
</p>

<p>
"My brother is out riding with Lady Lucy; we expect
them every minute," said his sister; "and now, Madeline,
let me introduce you to my husband, Lord Elmore;" and
a pleasant-looking young man, with a quiet face of
goodness, bowed in return to the smile of Madeline.
</p>

<p>
In a short time, Lord N&mdash;&mdash; entered, with the Lady Lucy
leaning upon his arm; he was taken by surprise, blushed
slightly, but advancing to Madeline, he said,
</p>

<p>
"Lady Lucy, allow me to introduce you to our friend,
Mrs. Bruce, formerly Miss Hamilton, of whom you have
heard me so often speak."
</p>

<p>
The young lady, with a very sweet smile and blush,
extended her hand to the married pair.
</p>

<p>
Seated at the table, the conversation became general.
Lord N&mdash;&mdash; was polite, kind, friendly to Madeline; but it
was plain that the gentle Lady Lucy engrossed all the more
tender attentions.
</p>

<p>
"How long since you were married, Mrs. Bruce?" asked
Lord N&mdash;&mdash;.
</p>

<p>
"About five weeks, my lord; we left Woodcliff
immediately, and are on our way to Scotland."
</p>

<p>
"You will pay us a visit, dear Madeline," said the Lady
Alice, "ere you go further; I shall hear no denials."
</p>

<p>
Madeline looked towards her husband.
</p>

<p>
"Can we spare the time, Mr. Bruce?"
</p>

<p>
"I think so; we are not to be hurried in our movements."
</p>

<p>
After dinner, Lord N&mdash;&mdash; uncovered the harp; and leading
Madeline forward, said,
</p>

<p>
"I have heard no such strains as you produced ever
since you left us, Mrs. Bruce; you will favor us this
evening."
</p>

<p>
"Most gladly, my lord; have you any choice?"
</p>

<p>
"None at all; all your music is charming."
</p>

<p>
Lady Lucy sat near the harp, for she was enraptured
with the performer, and no less with the sweet strains
produced by Madeline's dainty fingers, as they wandered
so gracefully among the harp-strings.
</p>

<p>
"I wish that I could play as you do, Mrs. Bruce; Lord
N&mdash;&mdash; is so passionately fond of music; I am trying to
learn, and hope that I shall succeed."
</p>

<p>
"Do you understand the piano, Lady Lucy?"
</p>

<p>
"I think that I do."
</p>

<p>
"Then there will only be the difficulty of learning how
to manage the instrument, which will require diligent
practice: will you not play a piece?"
</p>

<p>
With unaffected ease, she took her seat, and played with
much taste a simple little air, and turning around, artlessly,
to Madeline, said,
</p>

<p>
"Do you think it worth while for me to learn?"
</p>

<p>
"Indeed I do," was the quick reply; "you have taste,
correctness of touch, and will soon acquire skill."
</p>

<p>
"We will come to the harp to-morrow morning alone,"
said the young lady, "and see what we can do; perhaps
you will point out my errors."
</p>

<p>
"Certainly, my dear lady; I shall be but too happy to
render you any aid."
</p>

<p>
Lord N&mdash;&mdash; was pleased with the social chat, and when
he had the opportunity, said to Madeline,
</p>

<p>
"Is she not charming? so artless! and yet so intelligent
and good!"
</p>

<p>
"She seems to be a lovely person, Lord N&mdash;&mdash;; may I
congratulate you in the possession of such a heart?"
</p>

<p>
"You may, Mrs. Bruce; she will soon be mine."
</p>

<p>
Next morning, the young ladies met in the drawing
room, and Madeline took great pleasure in directing the
hour's practice; and as long as she stayed at Parkhurst,
the Lady Lucy availed herself of the generous aid of the
youthful visitor; mutually pleased with each other, these
were happy hours.
</p>

<p>
A visit to Elmore Hall completed their stay in England.
Leaving her pleasant friends, Madeline enjoyed the fine
country through which they passed on their way to Scotland.
</p>

<p>
Stopping in their journey wherever there were spots of
historical interest, or beautiful scenery, their northern tour
occupied some weeks.  Madeline's naive and enthusiastic
expressions of delight were fully appreciated by the fine
taste of her husband.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
"Whom hae we here?" said Uncle Malcolm, as he heard
the wheels of a carriage driving up to the door.
</p>

<p>
"They are travellers frae a distance, uncle," said Annot
Lindsay, "for they hae a large number o' trunks."
</p>

<p>
Malcolm could think of but one such party, and hurrying
out, the beaming faces of the young pair greeted him from
the carriage window.
</p>

<p>
In a moment Roland was pressed to his heart, and Madeline
most affectionately welcomed to the Highland Hall.
</p>

<p>
"How lang hae ye been in England, Roland?" inquired
Mr. Graham.
</p>

<p>
"About three months."
</p>

<p>
"And did na let us know, Roland!  How is that?"
</p>

<p>
"We wanted to surprise you, my good sir; and then we
had a great deal to see, and we knew that you would hurry
us on to Scotland; but we are going to pay you the longest
visit."
</p>

<p>
Uncle Malcolm took Madeline's hand.
</p>

<p>
"May the dear Lord bless ye, my sweet young leddy! ye
hae made a noble choice, an' I doubt na will be a happy
wife."
</p>

<p>
"The wife of Roland Bruce must be blessed, Uncle
Malcolm; I have known him for more than eleven years, and
always loved him even from a child."
</p>

<p>
Madeline looked around her with wondering eyes, for all
was so different from the calm features of English
landscape.  High mountains, clothed with dark, rich foliage,
and the rough lineaments of the Scottish Highlands, so
totally unlike the picturesque country through which she
had so lately passed.  But it had great charms&mdash;even the
novelty made it attractive.  Then this Highland home of a
Scotch gentleman was so comfortable; such a warm glow
of welcome shone upon her everywhere, that the young
heart was full of happiness, and the bright face dimpled
with rosy smiles.
</p>

<p>
And Annot Lindsay was so piquante! so fresh! so guileless!
Her airy little figure, soft blue eyes, and profusion
of light ringlets shading her sweet young face, were not
her only charms.  The warm heart that beat under her blue
boddice, and the musical voice that greeted Madeline with
such a simple, earnest welcome, gained the heart of the
young bride at once; for soon after supper, the two were
seated side by side, on the soft sofa of the family room,
quite at home; Annot holding Madeline's hand, and
looking on her face with evident admiration.
</p>

<p>
"Madeline, I luve ye," whispered the young girl, as she
drew closer to her, and leaned her pretty head upon her
shoulder&mdash;"wunna ye be my sister, Madeline? for I ne'er
had ane."
</p>

<p>
She returned the caress of the lovely girl.
</p>

<p>
"That is just my case, Annot, and I can easily adopt you
as my little sister; for I shall not return to America
without you."
</p>

<p>
"What will Uncle Malcolm say to that?"
</p>

<p>
"Oh!  I am wonderful at coaxing; ask Roland about that."
</p>

<p>
While this episode was acting upon the sofa, Uncle
Malcolm had raised the piano.
</p>

<p>
"It has been tuned on purpose for ye, dear; now, sister
Lindsay, I am going to gie ye a treat;" and the good man
led Madeline to the instrument.
</p>

<p>
"Scotch music first," said the host.
</p>

<p>
"I know a great deal, Uncle Malcolm, for I learned it to
please Roland."
</p>

<p>
And Madeline threw out her whole soul that night, and
poured forth such strains of melody as melted every heart&mdash;even
old Lion drew closer to the instrument, looking wistfully
in the face of the performer.
</p>

<p>
Then came several fine sacred pieces, which particularly
accorded with the tastes of the family at Graham Hall.
</p>

<p>
After evening worship, Mrs. Lindsay led her guests to
their room, for she perceived that they were wearied with
their journey.
</p>

<p>
"You have made great improvements, Mrs. Lindsay,"
said Roland, as he looked around.
</p>

<p>
"Yes&mdash;Malcolm wad hae everything renewed; he went
to London himsel', so that a' should be right."
</p>

<p>
"He has made this a charming room, indeed," said
Roland; "one would scarcely wish to leave it."
</p>

<p>
"That is just what we should like, Roland, but we canna
wish for sic' happiness; guid night,"&mdash;and she kissed the
cheek of the young wife, and departed.
</p>

<p>
In the freedom of the country, the three young people
ran about with the gay spirits of childhood, searching out
the fine points of picturesque views, and bringing in every
variety of novel plant.  Roland often laughed at
Madeline's blunders, who, being unacquainted with Scotch
vegetation, frequently gathered weeds for flowers.
</p>

<p>
The purple tints of the Scotch heather met them everywhere,
and Madeline could easily understand why it was
so dear to Mrs. Bruce; for was it not almost the carpet of
the Scotch highlands?  Many were the pleasant excursions
which Uncle Malcolm devised for their amusement&mdash;a visit
to the old manse, and another to the kirk, where Madeline
stood in silence with Roland, amidst the memories of his
childhood.
</p>

<p>
"We must see Jennie," said her husband; and the old
woman, who now lived at the manse, was summoned to the
parlor.
</p>

<p>
"An' this is yer bonny bride, Roland! may she aye be
a blessed wife! she's a bright young bird! wad na yer
mither hae luved her weel?"
</p>

<p>
"I am glad to see you at the manse, Jennie."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Roland&mdash;but the dear ones that made its sunshine,
hae a' gane; an' a' that I can do is to remember."
</p>

<p>
"You will meet them again, Jennie."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, i' the land that's far awa', hinney&mdash;when this
puir body hae done wi' cares an' toils, we shall a' rejoice
together."
</p>

<p>
"Here is something for you, Jennie; a warm winter
dress; we remembered you on our way."
</p>

<p>
"And I too," said the young wife, as she unrolled a soft
tartan cloak.
</p>

<p>
Jennie dropped a courtesy, as she said,
</p>

<p>
"These are just what I wanted&mdash;it wad hae' been a lang
time ere I could hae' bought the like; thank ye kindly, my
bonny bairns."
</p>

<p>
They turned to go&mdash;"Stay, Roland; I hae yer mither's
hymn-book; I found it i' the auld kirk, an' I kenned that
nae body wad luve it half sae weel."
</p>

<p>
Roland took the precious relic, and bade farewell.
</p>

<p>
"God bless ye, my bairns; an' bring ye hame to the
blessed kingdom;" were the parting words of old Jennie.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
Alone they stood around the grave of Lilian Gordon;
and Madeline, amid the deep solitude of the solemn scenery
with nought but the murmurs of the rustling winds, and
the gurgling of mountain brooks to disturb the silence,
could sympathize with the emotions so often described by
Roland, on that sacred spot.
</p>

<p>
"Here were kindled the first feelings of ancestral pride,
Roland;" said the young wife.
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Madeline, I can say with the poet Cowper,
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "'My boast is not that I deduce my birth<br>
  From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;<br>
  But higher far my proud pretensions rise&mdash;<br>
  The son of parents passed into the skies.'"<br>
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
"Here, too, was kindled your dislike of the Church of
England."
</p>

<p>
"That is true&mdash;and can you wonder?  I was but a child,
then, with all the strong feelings of a Scotch education&mdash;I
knew nothing of the noble specimens of piety, learning,
and the true catholic spirit which distinguish the Church
of England in modern days; I doubt if you could find a
persecuting Laud now."
</p>

<p>
"It makes me so happy, my husband, to hear you express
such sentiments; for I should be very sorry to find
a gulf between us, on such a subject."
</p>

<p>
"But, really, Madeline, in spite of all these old grievances,
I do prefer, in many things, the church of your love&mdash;it
suits my spirit; the solemn order of its ritual, the fervent
tone of its devotion, baptized by the Spirit of God, breathed
throughout these sacred offices, seem to me so much more
worthy of the solemnity of public worship offered to the
Deity, than the rude irreverent speech which shocks a
devotional, humble spirit; the trouble is just here&mdash;people
are tempted to rest in forms, and where there is not a
spirit of heartfelt piety, these may degenerate into mere
lip-service."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, Roland, that is true&mdash;but do not all persons who
lead public exercises have their own forms almost
stereotyped? and our choice must, sometimes, not always be,
between crude, irreverent, tedious prayers, and the wisdom,
piety, and experience, of some of the purest spirits of the
Reformation.  I could close my eyes, sometimes, and say
who was praying, if I did not know the voice, I am sure.
What a blessing it is that we can both stand on such a
broad platform, as to embrace all who love our Lord Jesus
Christ, in sincerity and truth&mdash;my heart turns instinctively
to all such with a warm throb, and wherever I see the
lovely features of the Master, I am conscious of a love
above all this earthly scaffolding."
</p>

<p>
"There was much in the spirit of the old Covenanters to
admire and revere, Madeline; their heroic endurance and
patience placed them by the side of the noblest martyrs;
and many of them will, doubtless, be very near the throne
of our dear Lord in that day, when he gathers in his own
elect."
</p>

<p>
"For that I love their memory, Roland; but there was
much in the spirit of their great leader, Oliver Cromwell,
that did not seem to me to accord with the spirit of
Christ."
</p>

<p>
"He lived in days so different from ours that we can
scarcely realize what qualities such times could call forth."
</p>

<p>
They were seated by the side of Lilian's grave, and, with
hands clasped, they sang
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "Blest is the tie that binds<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Our hearts in Christian love;<br>
  The fellowship of kindred minds<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Is like to that above."<br>
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
After a few moments of delicious silence, Roland looked
upward towards the distant hills.
</p>

<p>
"It is growing late, dear; we must not keep our good
friends waiting;" and reluctantly they turned away from
the hallowed spot.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
Time sped too rapidly; for the intercourse of the congenial
spirits which dwelt at Graham Hall was just such as completely
represented the idea of domestic happiness.  Riding
about with Uncle Malcolm, interested in his various schemes
of business or benevolence, Roland was content; and
Mrs. Lindsay, Madeline, and Annot formed a happy trio around
the domestic fireside.
</p>

<p>
The simplicity of the young wife endeared her tenderly
to good Mrs. Lindsay; for while she daily gave Annot her
music lesson, she left no opportunity of gathering from
Mrs. Lindsay's experience practical knowledge for her own
housekeeping.  With her clean, white apron, she was often
seen by the side of that good lady, when making any of her
nice dishes, or putting up the various comforts for winter
use.  Many a time did Roland peep in on these occasions,
smiling at the pretty figure, with sleeves rolled up, and
dainty fingers busily at work with the pastry and cakes,
the pickles or jellies of good Mrs. Lindsay.
</p>

<p>
Sometimes he would run in, and whisper some words
which would cover Madeline's face with blushes, and she
would reply,
</p>

<p>
"Send him away, Mrs. Lindsay; he is growing to be
such a flatterer; he'll make me vain and foolish."
</p>

<p>
She gathered thus a number of valuable recipes from
the kind hostess, and looked upon her visit to Graham
Hall as the most useful of all since she had left home.
</p>

<p>
"A letter from Edmund!" said Roland, one morning, at
the breakfast-table; "he says that he envies us this visit,
for he never was so happy, in all his life, as when at
Graham Hall; there's something here about our little Annot
that I know she'd like to hear;" and Roland glanced
mischievously at the blushing face of the young girl.
</p>

<p>
"I dinna care onything about it, Roland; it's just a
shame to tease me sae;" and Annot ran away from the
table in a hurry to attend to some business that she
remembered suddenly.
</p>

<p>
When Roland had a private opportunity, he whispered
in her ear,
</p>

<p>
"Edmund wonders if sweet Annot Lindsay remembers
the pleasant walks and rides, the quiet evenings, and
mossy bunks round Graham Hall; he can never forget
them, he says, for the linnet that sang those pretty Scotch
songs so sweetly is ever haunting his path."
</p>

<p>
Annot listened with downcast face, for she was conscious
of remembering them quite as tenderly.
</p>

<p>
"Do you know, Annot, that I have obtained Uncle Malcolm's
consent to spare you just one year? you are going
with us to Woodcliff; he consents, because he thinks that
the journey will be of great use to you, Annot; he wishes
you to be one year with my Madeline."
</p>

<p>
"Am I really going!" and she clapped her little hands
with delight.
</p>

<p>
"I shall be sae happy;" then speedily changing countenance,
"but what will Uncle Malcolm an' dear mother do
without me?  I fear that they will be sae lonesome."
</p>

<p>
A farewell visit to Aunt Douglass and Elsie Gibson
closed their sojourn in Scotland.
</p>

<p>
Pleasant things must have an end.  After a few weeks of
busy preparation, Annot was ready; and the hitherto happy
party were very silent around the breakfast-table, where
they met for the last time.
</p>

<p>
The parting hour had arrived; trunks all ready, the farewell
blessing given, and the last adieux silently exchanged
from full hearts and weeping eyes.
</p>

<p>
Annot threw herself upon the bosom of her mother,
then of dear Uncle Malcolm, with a burst of feeling; and
was placed silently in the carriage by the side of
Madeline, who folded the young girl in her arms, and said,
</p>

<p>
"Be comforted, Annot; you are going with those who
love you dearly."
</p>

<p>
"I ken it a', Madeline; but I am leaving the dearest far
behind."
</p>

<p>
As they passed the familiar scenes of her daily life she
still looked out with weeping eyes.
</p>

<p>
"Farewell, dear Scotland! how bonnie her dark-brown
hills appear to me!"
</p>

<p>
A short voyage brought the party to America, and,
without delay, to Woodcliff.
</p>

<p>
"There, Annot, is our dear, dear home!" said Madeline,
as they drove up the avenue of noble elms.
</p>

<p>
"It is a lovely spot, dear! but how different from
Scotland!"
</p>

<p>
Aunt Matilda, Mr. Bruce, and the servants were all in
waiting; for the long absence of six months had prepared
the way for a warm welcome.  Aunt Matilda could never
tire of looking at her dear niece, and Mr. Bruce hung upon
the arm of his son with the same old reverential love, his
voice trembling with joyful emotion.
</p>

<p>
"I hae missed ye day and night, Roland, but I hae done
a' that ye told me, an' a' is just as ye wish it."
</p>

<p>
The novelty of the scenes around her revived Annot's
spirits, and she was soon the merry little sunbeam of the
house.  Aunt Matilda was delighted with the Highland
lassie, and was never better pleased than when she could
draw her away from all the rest, and hear her tales about
Scottish life, and scenery, and people; the old superstitions
had their charm for her, and many a time Madeline enjoyed
a quiet laugh at the expense of Aunt Matilda.  As soon as
Edmund heard of the arrival, he hastened to Woodcliff;
but what was his surprise to see Annot Lindsay in
America!  She was no longer the pretty, innocent child of
fifteen, with her sweet voice and winning ways, but a
lovely girl of eighteen, with the simplicity of a child and
the deeper nature of a woman.  She had grown wonderfully,
but was still a little Highland maiden; the same soft
eyes and ever-changing color, the same graceful form and
tripping step, the same luxuriant flow of golden ringlets
and tender, bewildering voice.  He was completely taken
by surprise.  He could not call her Annot now&mdash;this
young and charming woman.
</p>

<p>
"Miss Lindsay, I am delighted to see you again; this is
indeed an unexpected pleasure," and Edmund touched
respectfully the hand so bashfully extended, and, as soon as
possible, Annot sought the shelter of a quiet corner, where
she thought herself secure from observation.  But not so.
Edmund was soon again by her side, and would take no
denial when begging for some of her sweet Scotch songs.
</p>

<p>
She was an artless little thing, and, without farther
persuasion, took her seat at the piano, and revived the old
memories with her sweet voice, now so much fuller, deeper,
richer than three years ago.
</p>

<p>
"I ken some mair music, Mr. Norris," and Annot
proceeded to sing some of her more fashionable music.
</p>

<p>
"Let us keep to the old songs, Miss Lindsay; they are
the sweetest by far."
</p>

<p>
"What are you about now, Edmund?" said Roland.
</p>

<p>
"I am in business just to please my mother; but I despise
mercantile concerns; I shall never be a successful
merchant."
</p>

<p>
"We shall see you often now, Edmund, I suppose," said
Roland, archly emphasizing the word now.
</p>

<p>
"I think that is very likely," dryly answered Edmund,
with a significant smile.
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap30"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXX.
<br><br>
FELLOW-HEIRS OF THE GRACE OF LIFE
</h3>

<p>
"This is a trial," said Roland; "business calls me to
New York, and it will never do for me to be running down
daily to Woodcliff; I should be half of my time on the
road.  In the busy season, I shall have to content myself
coming every other day, unless we take boarding in the
city."
</p>

<p>
"Do you desire it, Roland? your wishes shall guide me,
although I should be sorry to leave dear Woodcliff; life is
so very different in that gay metropolis."
</p>

<p>
"I think that we had better remain here; we will go to
the city for a few weeks in the winter, that Annot may
see some of the lions that we have to show her."
</p>

<p>
Still the child of Providence, Roland rose step by step,
until we find him occupying posts of honor and trust, a
self-made man, such as thrive best in America.  Life was
very charming at Woodcliff; but Madeline felt that it was
time to furnish her young charge with some useful pursuits,
so one morning after breakfast she summoned her to
her sitting-room.
</p>

<p>
"Well, Annot, now you have run about like a wild bird
for a few weeks, suppose that we arrange some plans for
improvement, dear; that is what Uncle Malcolm wishes,
you know."
</p>

<p>
"An' that is just what I desire, Madeline."
</p>

<p>
"I have written to one of the best teachers of music in
Boston, and, as it is but a few hours' ride, he can come
twice a week to give you lessons, and you will have
abundant time for practice; then I am going to ask your help
in the Sunday-school, and will give you ten families among
the factory people to visit."
</p>

<p>
"Thank ye, dear Madeline; I hae always led a busy life,
and I wad na be happy in a state o' idleness."
</p>

<p>
The neighborhood around Woodcliff was rapidly increasing;
the factories had brought many new families, both of
the working classes and their employers; and the healthy,
pleasant climate, the vicinity of the sea, and the beauties
of fine scenery, had attracted also many summer residents,
who were building picturesque cottages all around in the
pleasant lanes, on the hill-tops, and some nearer to the
sea-shore, where there was now a prospect of good bathing.
Consequently, the Sunday-school and the congregation
rapidly multiplied.  Madeline began to think that it was
time to think about her favorite plan in earnest; there
must really be a church at Woodcliff.
</p>

<p>
It was a very happy household that dwelt beneath its
roof; but there must be something to disturb its quiet, for,
to Madeline's surprise, Lavinia wrote to say that Lucy and
she were coming on a visit to Woodcliff.  A slight shade
of annoyance passed over the face of the young lady as
she wondered what would bring Lavinia, after her conduct
at the time of her marriage; but Madeline was a Christian
and a lady, and sent an acknowledgment of the letter, with
the information that a room was ready for their reception.
They arrived&mdash;Lavinia, the same vain and frivolous girl;
Lucy, the same gentle, pious friend.  A handsome wardrobe,
with every variety of fashionable folly, was intended
to impress Annot Lindsay, but it failed signally; for it
simply excited her wonder, and offended her pure and
lady-like taste.  Remarks were never made upon the subject
except by Lavinia herself, and Annot generally contrived
to introduce some more profitable conversation.
</p>

<p>
We will sit down with the family at a breakfast scene.
Always attired with the neat simplicity of a lady, Madeline
had not yet learned to appear before her husband with
dishevelled hair, untidy costume, or any neglect of ladylike
habits; and yet she was busier now than when Aunt
Matilda expressed the fear that such might be the case;
for, in her leisure moments, she still scribbled privately for
the news-boys; but she had learned to live by system,
thanks to the master of the family.
</p>

<p>
"Roland, will you want the horses to-day?" asked the
wife.
</p>

<p>
"I think not; do you wish to ride, Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"Yes; I have a visit to pay; I have never returned
Mrs. De Coursey's call."
</p>

<p>
"I think that I shall have to refuse my wife the use of
the horses to-day."
</p>

<p>
Madeline changed countenance&mdash;to be refused! and before
Aunt Matilda and Lavinia, it was really too bad.  She
began to tap her little foot under the table, and to play
impatiently with her spoon.
</p>

<p>
"Why can I not have the horses, if you are not going
to use them, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"I do not wish my wife to cultivate the acquaintance
of Mrs. De Coursey; she is not a proper associate for a
pure-minded lady."
</p>

<p>
"Why, what is the matter with Mrs. De Coursey?  for
my part, I think that she is charming; so sweet in her
manners, so generous in her charities!"
</p>

<p>
"Have you ever seen her ride with her husband, Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"I cannot say that I have," was the reply.
</p>

<p>
"Have you not seen her riding repeatedly with that
infamous George Sinclair, Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"I think I have, but he is her cousin; is he not?"
</p>

<p>
"Perhaps so; but in the absence of her husband, she is
much too free with gentlemen generally."
</p>

<p>
"And so you really refuse me the horses, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"Do not let us talk about it now, my love; after
breakfast, I will explain my reasons more fully."
</p>

<p>
Roland looked deeply pained, Madeline angry and
mortified, Lavinia Raymond contemptuous, and Aunt Matilda
utterly surprised.  It was the first ripple on the matrimonial
surface.
</p>

<p>
The meal passed in silence&mdash;husband and wife were
thoroughly uncomfortable.  After Madeline had washed her
silver and glass, as was her custom, she proceeded, with a
dejected step, to her favorite room.
</p>

<p>
Roland followed&mdash;she was sitting in silence before her
secretary, leaning her head on her hand, while she could
not conceal the tears that were stealing through her
fingers.
</p>

<p>
"My dearest wife," said the young man, "have I pained
you?" and he seated himself by her, winding his arm around
her waist, and kissing away the tears, as they fell drop by
drop from her eyes.
</p>

<p>
She did not answer; conscience was busily at work, for
she felt that she had been wrong.
</p>

<p>
"Can you not trust me, love? would I refuse you any
thing which I know was for your real good? but when the
honor of my pure and noble wife is concerned, then I must
be the husband, Madeline.  Do you know that Mrs. De
Coursey is not visited, even in New York, by any of the
really pure and good?"
</p>

<p>
"I did not know it, Roland, but I wish that you had
refused me when alone; it was so mortifying to be treated
just like a&mdash;&mdash;child!" and she sobbed out the latter word,
and threw herself upon his bosom; "and then to see the
look of triumph and contempt in Lavinia's face, and
surprise and pain on Aunt Matilda's."
</p>

<p>
"What need you care, my love, for the opinions of the
world, if you only know that you are right?  It is right to
avoid the society of the impure, and it is right to be guided
by your husband&mdash;is it not, dear?"
</p>

<p>
Madeline turned her eyes full upon Roland's noble face,
so full of sorrow, and tender feeling.  He had fully
conquered; and she wound her arms around his neck, as she
whispered,
</p>

<p>
"Forgive me, dear Roland, you are always right&mdash;this is
just some of the leaven of my old hateful pride."
</p>

<p>
"And you the same sweet, ingenuous wife&mdash;do you think
that I will ever allow any thing to approach you, Madeline,
that can even breathe upon your reputation, or your
happiness? now, darling&mdash;be comforted;" and he kissed
again and again the half-smiling, tearful face.
</p>

<p>
Madeline began to laugh, a little hysterically, at first, but
at last the showers passed away, and she was herself
again.
</p>

<p>
Opening her secretary, she took out a draft of a church,
which she had brought from England, a copy of the pretty
Gothic building at Parkhurst.
</p>

<p>
"I want to ask your advice, Roland, about this church;
you won't refuse me dear, will you?"
</p>

<p>
"It is very pretty, Madeline; but I think that we must
have something added that is a little more useful."
</p>

<p>
"O, yes! it wants a Sunday-school&mdash;we cannot have
that in a building like this, without spoiling the
proportions."
</p>

<p>
"We can have a building by itself of the same style,
and then, you know, that there must be a parsonage."
</p>

<p>
"Yes, that is fixed&mdash;no church without a house for the
minister; I think the time has come to set about
building&mdash;but it will cost a great deal of money."
</p>

<p>
"I will give a thousand, Madeline, out of my own
means&mdash;I mean from my practice."
</p>

<p>
"Can we not give two thousand, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"I think so, but we must be careful, dear, not to go
beyond our ability, though our means are abundant; now,
darling, come sit by me a moment," and Roland drew the
young wife by his side upon the sofa, while he said softly,
</p>

<p>
"Do you not sometimes regret your loss of liberty,
Madeline? just tell me, darling, truly."
</p>

<p>
"Never, Roland, in the depths of my heart&mdash;there may
he ripples of the old pride disturbing the surface of my
happiness; but the quiet ocean of love cannot be ruffled by
these little passing winds," and she kissed her husband
fondly; then rising said, "wait a minute, I must get my
bonnet and mantle, for I have some purchases to make
to-day."
</p>

<p>
Returning soon, every trace of sadness had vanished,
and with the old arch look of mischief in her face, she
entered saying, with a mock reverence of profound
obeisance,
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "'Most potent, grave and reverend signior!<br>
  My very noble and approved good master,'<br>
  If I have in aught offended your lordship,<br>
  I most humbly beg your gracious pardon&mdash;<br>
  The very head and front of my offending is in this;<br>
  That wilful woman like, I, like a fractious child,<br>
  Have sought to have my way, and not my lord's.<br>
  But now I lay down the weapons of my rebellion,<br>
  And Desdemona-like, bow to my lord Othello,<br>
  And say just love me well, my lord, and I am happy."<br>
</p>

<p class="noindent">
and as she concluded, placing her hand gracefully upon her
heart, she made another mocking obeisance; the long,
drooping eyelashes hiding the gleams of mischief that lurked
in ambush.  While she spoke these words with such a
winning grace, Roland looked and listened with admiring
gaze.  It was the bewitching child of the sea-shore, and
the wild woods yet, that stood before him, with her bright
look of mischief gleaming from her deep blue eyes, and
dimpling her expressive mouth.  He kissed the glowing
cheek with fondest love, as he replied,
</p>

<p>
"Well done! my love, where did you get that fine speech?"
</p>

<p>
"An imitation of Shakspeare, my lord; I was just seized
with a fit of mischief, and thought that I would be sweet
Desdemona&mdash;have I succeeded, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"Admirably&mdash;now, what have you to ask, my darling?
I know that there must be something behind this pretty
acting."
</p>

<p>
"Why, just this&mdash;to show that we are all right again,
just take me this morning to the store, and this evening to
the hill above Glendale; I want to show you a fine site for
our church."
</p>

<p>
"My plans were all different for to-day; but you must
carry me where you please, Desdemona."
</p>

<p>
"That's noble, my lord Othello; now as soon as you can
get the carriage, I am ready."
</p>

<p>
In a little while the carriage drove up, and Lavinia was
utterly surprised to see Madeline, with beaming eyes and
glowing cheek, handed in by her husband.
</p>

<p>
Kissing her hand to those on the piazza, she drove off in
high spirits, and Lavinia said,
</p>

<p>
"Madeline lets that man lead her just where he pleases;
I am astonished that a girl of her spirit should be so
tame&mdash;refuse her own horses!  I should like to see the man that
could do that by me."
</p>

<p>
"It is mutual leading, Lavinia," replied Lucy.  "I never
saw a more perfect union."
</p>

<p>
They rode happily along, their intercourse the dearer
for the gentle agitation that had disturbed it&mdash;but let young
married persons beware that they stir not these ripples too
often, for they may raise tempests at last.
</p>

<p>
Lengthening their ride, they remained away for two
hours, and Madeline was happy in having her husband at
home all day.  After an early tea, another pleasant ride
to Glendale, closed the day.
</p>

<p>
Arrived at the spot, Madeline led her husband to the top
of a hill, commanding a fine view of the whole country.
On the brow of this eminence stood a grove of fine old
forest trees, that looked as if they had grown there on
purpose to shade the pretty church; on the slope of the hill,
facing the south, was an extensive lawn descending
gradually to a babbling stream, bordered on either side by
wild shrubbery, and fine old trees, dipping their branches
into the winding creek; pretty vines hung in graceful
festoons among the branches, forming charming resting-places
for the strollers on the banks of this rural stream.
</p>

<p>
To the left was one broad rolling hill, rising in gentle
swells, until it was lost in the distant outlines of misty
blue hills.
</p>

<p>
This one eminence was partly covered with fine forest
trees, crowning it to the very top; and on the slopes at the
foot of the hill were pretty rural cottages, surrounded by
shade trees, cultivated fields, and thick clumps of woods.
From one broad opening, peeps out the dearest little
miniature home, so like a bird's nest of love; as far as eye
could reach, for miles the country was one beautiful garden
of gentle hills and dales, and extensive woodlands; adding
the picturesque feature of a dark stone bridge over a
neighboring stream.  The whole landscape was dotted with fine
farms, gentlemen's country-seats, and quiet rural homes;
and bounding this whole charming picture, on every side,
were ranges of low hills, fading away in the distance in
tints of misty blue.
</p>

<p>
Viewed at sunset, it was a picture never to be forgotten&mdash;the
whole landscape was flooded in a halo of glory; the
deep crimson of the setting sun illumined the sky, and
hung his veil of splendor over every hill; gradually it
changed to deeper hues, then to rich purple and gold,
tinging the trees with the reflected glow of sunlight; slowly
the hues faded, until the landscape was enveloped in the
sombre drapery of solemn evening.
</p>

<p>
"What a place for thought and study, Roland!  This
must be the site for our church; we will call it Calvary; it
shall be Gothic, with a Sunday-school, and parsonage to
correspond; we must have a good minister; I have set my
heart on George Stanley, he has been just ordained; write
to him, Roland; he might as well come down at once; and
if he becomes interested, he can help us to collect the funds,
for it will cost a large sum of money.  The house must be
Glendale Parsonage, and I think Helen will be the lady;
don't you, Roland?"
</p>

<p>
"I have no doubt of it; they are constantly engaged in
the same good works, and seem just suited to each other;
he so strong and self-reliant, she so gentle and dependent."
</p>

<p>
Madeline had passed a happy day; and, on their return,
Lavinia and Lucy were walking on the piazza.  There was
something so tender in the manner of the young husband,
as he lifted her from the carriage, and so confiding in the
deep blue eyes of the wife, that Lavinia was full of
wonder.
</p>

<p>
"I wonder how long the honeymoon will last," said Lavinia,
as she observed the perfect reconciliation of the
married pair.
</p>

<p>
"I think for life, Lavinia," was Lucy's reply; "there are
depths of love and earnest piety in both characters; and
such links are not easily broken."
</p>

<p>
"For my part, I don't believe in such romantic notions,
Lucy; give me a handsome house and carriage, plenty of
servants, and a long purse of money, with a comfortable,
easy husband, who will let me take my path, and he choose
his, and that is all that I care for."
</p>

<p>
Madeline and her husband, seated in the library, were
looking over some accounts connected with their charities;
and, after an hour devoted to business, she took her seat
on a low ottoman at Roland's feet; and leaning her head
upon his knee, occasionally she looked up in his face, with
the true love of a wife shining in her expressive eyes, while
he laid his hand caressingly upon the soft brown hair.
</p>

<p>
"We are very happy, Roland," said the young wife, "and
sometimes when I read of the discipline of God's children,
I tremble lest it should be necessary to visit our nest of
love."
</p>

<p>
"We must never forget, my wife, that we are but pilgrims,
seeking another, that is, a heavenly country; let our
great object be to glorify God, to love him supremely, and
then we can trust him with all our future.  Looking aloft! dear,
always, through joy and through sorrow, that is the
way to happiness and peace."
</p>

<p>
"How different, Roland, is the bond that unites us, from
the cold and selfish world! no wonder that there are so
many wretched marriages, when so few are founded upon
the holy principles of the Gospel.  Ah, how many, when
days of indifference and neglect overtake them, sigh for a
love that never existed!"
</p>

<p>
"If people would only study the epistles of the disciple
whom Jesus loved, and form their heart unions from such
high and holy sources, how different would be the loves
and friendships of poor humanity!"
</p>

<p>
And thus holy was the heart communion of this true
union.
</p>

<p>
"Do not forget, Roland, to write to Stanley to-morrow,
and bring him down with you next week to see the field of
labor; it will be such a privilege to have a church of our
own."
</p>

<p>
"Now, dear, it is time for worship;" and Roland rang
the bell which summoned his family to the library.
</p>

<p>
While he reverently read and expounded the Holy
Scriptures, all listened with deep seriousness; Madeline
always conducted the singing; and guests and servants
felt the value of that banner of security thus daily spread
over the family circle at Woodcliff.  Even Lavinia was
obliged, much against her will, to pay the homage of deep
respect to the character of Roland Bruce.
</p>

<p>
The Eolian discoursed sweet music on that calm evening,
as, arm in arm, Roland and Madeline stood near the
open window.
</p>

<p>
Edmund's visits to Woodcliff were much more frequent;
a piece of music for Annot, an hour's private talk with
Roland, or a book for Madeline, all served as so many pleas
for weekly visits; until, at last, Edmund was always
expected on Saturday night, to return with Roland, on
Monday, to the city.
</p>

<p>
Tired of the frivolity of fashionable life, his heart turned
with delight to the home-circle of his friend, and he often
wondered if he should ever be blessed with such a happy
household.
</p>

<p>
Annot had learned to listen for his footstep, and to blush
when his hand was upon the door-knob; always ready
with some new music, or a plate of especially choice fruit.
Edmund gradually found that the lovely Scotch lassie
was necessary to his happiness; and the heads of the
family did not discourage the intimacy, for Roland knew
his worth; had watched his progress, and saw the gleams
of spiritual life as they developed themselves in his young
protégé.
</p>

<p>
Therefore, when Edmund invited Annot to a walk on
the piazza, to a ramble on the sea-shore, or by the placid
lake, to an evening ride in the quiet lanes, there was no
opposition; it rather pleased both husband and wife to see
the dawn of a virtuous attachment, so elevating to the
character of a young man.
</p>

<p>
Lavinia brought her visit to a close, for the tranquil
pleasures and useful pursuits at Woodcliff did not suit the
worldly tastes of her vitiated heart.
</p>

<p>
Stanley and Helen accompanied Roland on his next
Saturday's return.
</p>

<p>
A long talk in the library between Roland and his friend
about the parish seemed to have ended harmoniously; for
after an early tea, the four took a ride to Glendale, for it
was but a mile from Woodcliff.
</p>

<p>
Stanley was enraptured with the beautiful view from the
hill-top, and Helen more quietly enjoyed the scene.
</p>

<p>
"There, Mr. Stanley, will be a part of your parish," said
Madeline, as she pointed to the numerous pleasant homes
scattered in all directions from one to five or six miles
distant; "many of these people go nowhere to church, and
if we should plant one in their midst, I doubt not that we
could soon raise a prosperous congregation; the good Bishop
of our Diocese is very anxious for such an effort, for his
family have a summer-cottage here; we have already about
one hundred in regular attendance, and large numbers of
summer residents could worship with us&mdash;we have a prosperous
Sunday-school with twelve teachers, and a Parish
school under the care of an excellent young person, Susan
Grant."
</p>

<p>
Stanley listened with deep interest
</p>

<p>
"The call seems inviting, Mrs. Bruce, and nothing would
please me more than a home amidst just such a people;
what do you say, Helen?"
</p>

<p>
At this direct and sudden appeal she blushed deeply&mdash;for,
as yet, only surmise had connected the two names.
</p>

<p>
"I think that it would suit you exactly, Mr. Stanley;
this quiet, shady hill, looks so inviting to thought and
study."
</p>

<p>
Madeline could not resist the temptation as she whispered,
</p>

<p>
"And you, dear Helen, for the pastor's good little wife."
</p>

<p>
The sweet face was suffused with blushes, as she replied,
</p>

<p>
"Would you advise it, Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"By all means, my dear girl; Stanley is the very
companion for you, my little lily."
</p>

<p>
This was all side-talk, while the gentlemen were engaged
in conversation of a more practical character.
</p>

<p>
The end of the conference was that Stanley should enter
at once upon his labors, and that active measures should
be taken without delay towards the erection of a church.
He preached on Sunday to quite a large congregation; and
the manly, earnest character of his sermon, so full of the
unction of a pure gospel, made a deep impression; Roland
heard many saying as they left the school-room,
</p>

<p>
"I wish that we could have him for our minister."
</p>

<p>
Stanley soon came among them as their own pastor, and
until his own home was ready he took up his abode at
Woodcliff.  The church was quickly planned, an architect
and builders upon the spot, and under the energetic
perseverance of Roland and Stanley, it went forward rapidly.
</p>

<p>
Daily did the character of Stephen Bruce's piety deepen;
his mind would probably never regain its tone, for it had
been shattered too long and powerfully for perfect restoration.
He was very busy in riding daily to the church; for
although of another sect, he was interested in all of
Roland's plans, and reported daily progress, with all the
simple-hearted pleasure of a child.
</p>

<p>
Susan Grant, the little girl for whom Roland stood as
the youthful champion, was now an excellent young woman,
and had charge of the parish school, while Philip acted as
librarian for the reading-room; and the affectionate
daughter had actually lightened her dear mother's cares, and
brightened her happy home, not, however, by gathering
diamonds, but by scattering seeds of knowledge.  November
was now approaching, and Madeline remembered her
promise to Annot, that she should visit the city for a few
weeks; accordingly, the three took up their abode at one
of the best hotels.  Visiting all the celebrated places in and
around New York, Annot was pleased for awhile, but her
chief delight was in the happy evenings that she and
Edmund could now spend together.
</p>

<p>
At the end of six weeks, Annot came to Madeline with
a pleading look upon her face&mdash;"Shall we return to
Woodcliff, dear?"
</p>

<p>
"I am glad to hear you make the request, Annot, for I
must be there by Christmas; and so you have seen enough
of this great city, my dear, and love the quiet of the
country yet?"
</p>

<p>
"Luve it, Madeline!  I dinna ken how I could e'er be
happy in a great city.  Sic a bustle, an' sic a round o' folly,
I ne'er could endure."
</p>

<p>
"And what, then, will you and Edmund do?  You know
his business is in New York."
</p>

<p>
Annot hung her pretty head, and blushed as she replied,
</p>

<p>
"There is nae positive bond between us, Madeline."
</p>

<p>
"Not that of devoted hearts, Annot?"
</p>

<p>
"I did na say that exactly; but it wud na be right to
make an engagement o' that sort without Uncle Malcolm
an' dear mother's consent."
</p>

<p>
"Have you ever written to them, dear, upon the subject?"
</p>

<p>
"Oh, yes, Madeline!  I ne'er hae ony secrets frae them;
they want us baith to wait until Edmund sees Uncle
Malcolm.  I hae been here noo quite a year.  I canna gae
hame alone.  In the spring, Mrs. Norris, Jessie, an'
Edmund, are all going to Europe, an' I shall accompany
them."
</p>

<p>
"You have every prospect of happiness with Edmund
Norris, but I don't know what Uncle Malcolm will say
about parting with his darling niece."
</p>

<p>
"Is it na strange, Madeline, that I could feel willing to
leave dear Uncle Malcolm, the guid friend o' a lifetime, an'
my precious mother, who has luved me sae fondly, to come
awa' wi' a stranger, that I hae only kenned intimately for
one year? and yet I am willing; I could go ony where wi'
Edmund, to the north or south pole.  Does it na seem
amaist a shame, Madeline, to say sae?" and Annot blushed
rosy red, as she hung her head down bashfully.
</p>

<p>
"I know all about that, Annot&mdash;it is not strange, dear,
for does not the Bible say, that a 'man shall leave his father
and mother, and cleave to his wife, and they twain shall be
one flesh?' and it is just the same with the wife; so don't
distress yourself, little dear; it is the ordering of our
Father."
</p>

<p>
Christmas Eve at Woodcliff&mdash;what a bright, happy time!
The parlors, library, dining and sitting rooms, are all dressed
with evergreens, winter flowers and vases, in which the
Scotch heather lifts its pretty purple flowers among brighter
blossoms; and a table with a large white cover stands in
the middle of the library, which has been most carefully
locked for the last week.
</p>

<p>
In the back parlor stands a Christmas tree (on the top
of which rests the Christmas angel), hung with numberless
little gifts, and decorated with red holly berries,
lady-apples, colored glass globes, and a profusion of variegated
wax candles.
</p>

<p>
On a small table are spread piles of fancy covered books.
</p>

<p>
This has been the work of Madeline and Annot since
their return from New York; interesting several families
in the neighborhood, they have gathered together a large
quantity of presents for the children of the Sunday-school.
</p>

<p>
They are determined to have a happy Christmas at Woodcliff.
Early in the evening, the rooms are lit, and the ladies
dressed.  Madeline, in Roland's favorite brown silk, with
lace collar, and sleeves, with no ornaments save a branch
of ivy leaves and scarlet berries in her hair, and a
handsome carbuncle set, that her husband had presented&mdash;Annot,
in a pale blue dress, with a delicate lace frill around
the neck and sleeves, and a few white camelias in her
golden ringlets, that hung so gracefully around her shoulders.
</p>

<p>
Standing in eager expectation near the window, they
listened for the approach of their guests.
</p>

<p>
"I hear the carriage," said Madeline, for it had been sent
to the station to bring the expected company.
</p>

<p>
Hastening out to the piazza, she welcomed her friends;
Roland had brought out Edmund, with his mother and
sister, and Helen Thornly.
</p>

<p>
"Well, this is beautiful, indeed!" said Roland, as he
glanced around at the preparations.  "I think we Scotch
people lose a great deal in not making more of this joyous
season; but really, Madeline, have not the fairies been at
work?"
</p>

<p>
"No, dear, neither fairies nor angels have had anything
to do with it, not even Santa Claus; human hands planned
all."
</p>

<p>
"I know better, darling," whispered Roland; "a household
angel has gathered these lovely flowers, and lit up
this bright festival; my household angel, Madeline."
</p>

<p>
The ladies were soon disrobed, and ready to join the
cheerful party in the dining-room, where a genuine Christmas
dinner was prepared.  After they had done full justice
to the viands, Roland exclaimed, smiling,
</p>

<p>
"And what is to be done with this Christmas tree? are
we going back to the days of childhood, Madeline?"
</p>

<p>
"You'll see after a while," was the arch reply, as the
folding doors were closed between the rooms.
</p>

<p>
In a few minutes, the tramp of little feet on the piazza,
and the buzz of children's voices, announced an arrival&mdash;ere
they entered, the children, under the guidance of Philip
and Susan Grant, sang a sweet Christmas carol.
</p>

<p>
They were then admitted into the front parlor, and
strange to behold were the large staring eyes, and open
mouths of the wondering children, who had never seen
such grandeur before!
</p>

<p>
A sweet Christmas hymn, sung by ladies' voices, was
heard in the room beyond, and when the door suddenly
opened, and the sight of the splendid tree, illuminated from
top to bottom, burst upon them, they could no longer restrain
their expressions of delight.  The girls clapped their
hands, and the boys stamped their feet, as they exclaimed,
</p>

<p>
"Oh! goody gracious!  I never saw anything like that!"
</p>

<p>
"Just see the heap of apples!" said one little girl.
</p>

<p>
"Just look at that pretty doll!" said another.
</p>

<p>
"Look at them ere glass things!  I wonder what they are."
</p>

<p>
"There's a gun!" said a boy.
</p>

<p>
"And there's a top!" said another; "and such a heap of
things!"
</p>

<p>
"And there's a whole pile of books!" said another.
</p>

<p>
"Look at the bags of sugar-plums!" said a fat little
urchin.  "Hurrah for the sugar-plums!" and the little
fellow turned a summerset, and rolled over and over on
the floor.
</p>

<p>
After considerable trouble, they were all reduced to
order, and Roland held a hat, and gave each child a card
with a number on it.  Madeline took her stand by the
tree; one by one she took down the gifts, and, calling out
the number, each happy child came forward to receive the
present.  Each child had also a bag of sugar-plums and a
book to take home, and a large slice of Christmas cake for
present enjoyment.
</p>

<p>
"Now, dear children," said Madeline, "we sent for you
this morning to wish you all a happy Christmas.  This is
the dear Saviour's birthday, when he came down to make
children happy.  He gave a Christmas gift to all, and that
was himself.  Now, because he was so full of love, the
people who love Jesus want to do something like him,
and so they give presents to their friends to show their
love; each little gift that you have in your hands, my little
ones, is a gift of love.  Now, if any of you have a sick
brother or sister, or little friend, who could not come
to-day, don't eat all your sugar-plums or cake, but save some
for them to show that you love them.  The night that
Jesus was born, the angels sang in the clouds over the
plains of Judea; now let us sing our Christmas hymn,"
and Annot played, while Madeline led the singing, in
which all joined.
</p>

<p class="poem">
  "While shepherds watched their flocks by night,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;All seated on the ground,<br>
  The angel of the Lord came down,<br>
  &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And glory shone around," &c.<br>
</p>

<p><br></p>

<p>
It was a happy company that hurried home that night
through the sharp, frosty air, to tell about the wonderful
tree, and the beautiful things at Woodcliff.
</p>

<p>
Which was the happier? the little children, as they went
home with their pretty gifts, or the young mistress of
Woodcliff, who hung the Christmas tree to make them
happy?
</p>

<p>
"And now for Blue Beard's room," said Madeline, as
she led the way to the library and unlocked the door.
</p>

<p>
A bell summoned the household; and as she uncovered
the table with a bright, beaming face, Roland looked upon
his young wife, and felt that he was indeed a proud and
happy man.
</p>

<p>
"Now first, my lord and master, as a true and loyal
wife," and Madeline spread out a beautiful wrapper made
by her own hands, and, putting it on her husband, said&mdash;"Why
it fits beautifully! it suits the library exactly; and
here's a pair of the prettiest slippers, worked by Annot,
and a cap and scarf for winter nights in the cars, by Aunt
Matilda.  Now aren't you a rich man, sir? make your
prettiest bow to the lady of the house, sir."
</p>

<p>
As Roland obeyed the command in the most graceful
manner, he whispered words that made Madeline's cheeks
glow with innocent pleasure.
</p>

<p>
"A rich man, dearest!  I do not envy the richest man
in Christendom, Madeline."
</p>

<p>
"What did he say, Madeline?" said Edmund; "there
must be none but public speeches to-night."
</p>

<p>
"Just a little sweet flattery, Edmund; let me enjoy it,"
and she threw her head slightly back, smiling archly on the
speaker.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Bruce was particularly pleased with his nice wrapper
from Madeline, and beautiful Bible with fine large print,
and gold spectacles, from Roland; Aunt Matilda with her
handsome breastpin from Madeline, and pretty watch from
Roland.
</p>

<p>
"Here's my offering, Madeline," said her husband, as he
opened a small case, and produced an elegant watch and
chatelaines; "your old watch is not so good as formerly,
dear, and I have got the very best that New York could
afford."
</p>

<p>
Madeline looked a world of thanks.  Lastly, came the
servants, who, one by one, advanced to receive their gifts
from the hands of their beloved young mistress.
</p>

<p>
Aunt Matilda was rapidly losing her prejudices against
Roland; but, not willing to allow herself conquered, she
attributed her change of manner to the conviction that he
really was of gentle birth at last.  Without her consent,
he was gaining daily complete ascendency even over her
pride, yet she often wondered whether he were not more
than he pretended.  One evening, seated together in the
familiarity of family intercourse, Aunt Matilda turned
suddenly to Roland, and said&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Are you sure, Roland, that you are not distantly
connected with the ancient Bruce?  I have often thought you
must be; for you certainly could not have got your carriage
and manners from the common classes.  Bruce and Gordon
are grand names; I think that you must have had noble
relatives in some of the branches."
</p>

<p>
Roland smiled, as he replied&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Can you not believe, Aunt Matilda, that God can
choose a vessel of common clay, and, by his grace, endow
it with high qualities, if he pleases? or must all your ideal
great men be of the purest porcelain?"
</p>

<p>
"I cannot help thinking, Roland, that there must have
been some porcelain among them, even though you may
not know it, or care for it if you do."
</p>

<p>
"All I can boast, Aunt Matilda, in the way of pedigree,
is that my ancestors, as far back as I can trace them, were
a hardy race of plain Scotch farmers, shepherds, and
mountaineers, among whom were always found faithful, earnest
ministers of the Lord Jesus; their greatness consisting
only in heroic deeds of calm and patient endurance in the
cause of truth and holiness."
</p>

<p>
Madeline smiled archly, as she asked&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Aunty, what great deeds have the noble Hamiltons
ever achieved?  I have never heard of any.  I believe their
grandeur consisted wholly in their birth, in spending lives
of idleness, and wasting their fortunes&mdash;which, I believe,
drove my grandfather to this country a poor man&mdash;and
in passing away from the world without recording one of
their names among those who wrought heroic deeds or
benefited the human family.  Is it not so, aunty?"
</p>

<p>
Aunt Matilda was silent for a moment, but, with a
mortified expression, said, at last&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"You must allow that there is something in noble birth,
Madeline."
</p>

<p>
"Not apart from goodness, aunty; for I have set up my
husband against all such pretensions."
</p>

<p>
"Well, you need not be telling everybody about Roland's
birth, anyhow."
</p>

<p>
"I certainly shall take no pains to conceal it, Aunt
Matilda; I am too proud of Roland Bruce himself."
</p>

<p>
"And so am I, Madeline; but I am not going to tell
everybody about his early days."
</p>

<p>
"Conquered at last!" said Madeline, laughing heartily,
as Aunt Matilda left the room.
</p>

<p>
"She cannot let go her prejudices, Madeline; but she is
a very kind-hearted aunt to both of us."
</p>

<p>
In the early spring, Annot returned to Scotland in
company with the Norrises; she was sorely missed at
Woodcliff, but warmly welcomed by Uncle Malcolm and
Mrs. Lindsay, who could not but realize that she was greatly
improved by her sojourn with Madeline.  It was a sore
trial to the good man to resign his beloved niece to any
one, especially to one living in a foreign land; but, true to
his noble character, seeking the happiness of those he loved,
he said&mdash;
</p>

<p>
"Take her Edmund, she is yours; but ye maun leave
her with us a year ere ye claim her hand, and visit us as
often as ye can."
</p>

<p>
"I know the sacrifice, dear Mr. Graham, but you need
not fear to trust your darling to me; we are all in all to
each other, and, I trust, humbly desire to live for a better
world."
</p>

<p>
"I canna separate young hearts, Edmund; I know the
pang, and can ne'er inflict it on another."
</p>

<p>
A pleasant visit of a few months, daily increased Uncle
Malcolm's respect for Edmund Norris, and he felt before he
left Graham Hall, that in him he had found another dear
son.
</p>

<p>
"I do not think that I shall always lead a city life, dear sir;
our tastes are for the country, and as soon as it can be
possible, that shall be our permanent home."
</p>

<p>
"Would that it could be in Scotland, Edmund; I should
be so happy to have ye with me."
</p>

<p>
"That is a subject for future thought, dear sir; my mother's
wishes must be consulted."
</p>

<p>
The young pair bade farewell with the sweet hope of
meeting again; but O, how long! for one whole year! and
what might not happen?  How many hearts have asked
the same sad question?
</p>

<p><br><br><br></p>

<p><a id="chap31"></a></p>

<h3>
CHAPTER XXXI.
<br><br>
REUNION.
</h3>

<p>
The church is finished&mdash;old Mr. Bruce is delighted, for
he fancies that he has had much to do with its completion.
</p>

<p>
Stanley is settled as the pastor, and ministers with great
acceptance.  The day has arrived for its opening, the
ringing of the bell summons the worshippers from all quarters;
and Madeline, with her bright and happy face, has taken
charge of the choir, and sweet is the music which from
grateful hearts rolls through the solemn edifice.
</p>

<p>
At the close of the first Sabbath evening, the family of
Woodcliff are gathered in the drawing-room.
</p>

<p>
"How many do you number among your communicants,
Stanley?" asked Roland.
</p>

<p>
"About eighty," was the reply.
</p>

<p>
"You may record me as another, Stanley, for as the head
of a family, there must be no division in that important
matter; and I can be very happy in worshipping with
you, my dear friend, in your own solemn and holy forms of
worship."
</p>

<p>
"Thank you, dear Roland," said the wife, "this is so
pleasant to have you with me as a fellow-communicant;
we have been for a long time fellow-pilgrims, but this
outward union is peculiarly gratifying."
</p>

<p>
"You must make some allowances, dear, for my still liking
a good old-fashioned doctrinal sermon, even if it is pretty
long; and therefore, father and I must go once a day to the
church of our ancestors, for that is all that I have to remind
me of good old Scotland."
</p>

<p>
"Certainly, dear Roland, and I shall go with you; good
Mr. Stewart and I have always been the very best of
friends; he is on excellent terms with our own pastor, for
he is one of God's dear people, and I love him as such."
</p>

<p>
Madeline is very happy, for she is busy in fitting up the
pretty parsonage of Glendale; as soon as the finishing
touch shall be given, Helen will take her place there, as
the pastor's gentle wife.
</p>

<p>
Early in the autumn, the preparations were completed,
and Stanley has brought his bride to the pleasant home.
</p>

<p>
"What a beautiful study!" said Helen, as she looked
around at the neat furniture; "such a complete table for a
minister! such a pretty book-case! and so well filled! such
a comfortable lounge! and cosy rocking-chair!  I really
think, husband, that I shall often bring my work here, when
you are not too much occupied."
</p>

<p>
"You will be welcome any day after twelve o'clock,
Helen; for I must be alone until then.  I have a system
to live by.  In the afternoon we shall ride out to visit my
people, for I must make you acquainted with the humblest."
</p>

<p>
"What a happy work is ours, dear husband! laboring
together for that blessed kingdom which is to prevail upon
the earth, and at last to sit down at the marriage-supper of
the Lamb."
</p>

<p>
At the appointed time, Edmund brought home his young
Scottish bride, and settled in New York for the winter,
spending their summers near Woodcliff; Annot retaining
her connection with the church of her fathers, but often
worshipping at Calvary, with the friends that she loved so
well.
</p>

<p class="thought">
* * * * * * *
</p>

<p>
Ten years have passed&mdash;their rolling cycles bringing the
changing seasons&mdash;spring, with its fresh young buds of
life, summer with its ripening fruits, autumn with its fading
glories ready to drop into the lap of winter; nursed tenderly
through the night of nature, until the children of another
spring proclaim their joyous advent, by the swelling
buds, the winged songsters, the smiling skies, the music
of babbling brooks, and balmy breath of the resurrection
season.
</p>

<p>
This, without the walls of Woodcliff&mdash;within also, there
is growth, harmony with the visible works of the Divine
renovator.  The little seed planted so long ago by feeble
boyish hands has germinated; often seeming almost lifeless;
hidden from the light and the sun, but not from the great
husbandman, who has watched its mysterious life.  First
the little sprout, then the delicate leaflets so tender and
faintly green, then the stronger plant.  Thus hath it been
with the spiritual world at Woodcliff&mdash;the Divine workman
invisible, the work so silent, yet so powerful!
</p>

<p>
"The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest
the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh,
and whither it goeth: so is every one that is born of the
Spirit."
</p>

<p>
The changing culture appointed each day, each hour,
each minute, on to the very latest breath of mortal life, by
the great husbandman of immortal fruits.
</p>

<p>
Under the eye of the glorious three, the silent, wondrous
work is going on.  The <i>Father</i>, planning the scheme of
man's redemption; the <i>Son</i>, executing it by sacrifice of
himself; the <i>Spirit</i>, with his powerful breath vivifying the
sleeping germs.
</p>

<p>
And then the glorious harvest, when the reapers come
to gather in the sheaves!  O, blessed day of jubilee, when
Jesus comes!  There has been but little of the discipline
of sorrow thus far in the life of Madeline.  That refining
process was deemed best for Roland in his early days&mdash;now,
a long season of sunshine hath succeeded, and the
deeper incisions of grafting and pruning are reserved for
future years.
</p>

<p>
Blessed are they who wait in patience on the hand of
the wise and loving cultivator!
</p>

<p>
Ten years have passed over husband and wife, each year
deepening and purifying their love.
</p>

<p>
Each anniversary of her wedding day, Madeline has
learned to look under her pillow for some sweet token of
affection.  A faithful likeness of himself, finely set, a handsome
pin with his mother and sister's hair, a rich diamond ring,
with united initials engraved within the circlet, and various
other dear mementoes, have marked each returning wedding
day.
</p>

<p>
Three lovely children are added to the domestic circle;
Malcolm Graham, a boy of seven, Mary Gordon, a child
of five, and Lilian, a sweet prattler of three years, fill the
halls of Woodcliff with their merry voices.  One lovely
boy, their little Lewis, sleeps in the quiet cemetery, and the
infant spirit has formed another tie to beckon the parents
heavenward.
</p>

<p>
Another anniversary morning has arrived, and the pictures
of her household darlings greet Madeline on her first
awaking.
</p>

<p>
"This is indeed a treasure!" said the happy wife, "how
perfect is the likeness! you could have given me nothing
that can please me better! and now, dear, here is my own
little keep-sake for this happy day," and Madeline produced
a beautiful miniature of herself, in the bloom of her ripe
womanhood.
</p>

<p>
"Ten years, Madeline, have passed, and I can say truly
'how much the wife is dearer than the bride,'" and Roland
fondly kissed the sweet lips, and calm, pure forehead, of
the one he loved so well.
</p>

<p>
Stephen Bruce grows cheerful in the society of his
grand-children, and seems to be renewing his youth among these
dear prattlers; his piety is becoming more and more
simple-hearted, more like that of a little child.
</p>

<p>
Roland is daily growing more influential; and
notwithstanding his high principles of integrity, after a few years,
there is found virtue enough to send him to the Senate of
the United States, and Aunt Matilda is becoming quite
reconciled that Madeline should be the wife of a Senator.
</p>

<p>
At Washington in winter, Madeline is too truly a mother
to leave her children at Woodcliff, and too faithful, as a wife,
to part from her husband; consequently, the house is left
under the care of a housekeeper, and the family-circle take
up their abode at the capital.
</p>

<p>
Madeline's attractions draw around her a number of admirers,
who are anxious to bring her into their circle as a
new star; but devoted to her calling as wife and mother,
she simply returns the calls of the leaders of fashion, and
resolutely avoids the frivolity of the giddy world.  Aunt
Matilda is sadly chagrined, for she had anticipated
Madeline's triumphs with great exultation.
</p>

<p>
"I cannot consent, dear aunt, to such a life," replied the
wife to her remonstrances; "if I were running this round
of folly, what would become of my household darlings?"
and steadily, she pursued the quiet tenor of her beautiful
life.  Occasionally, she accepted invitations to
dinner-parties, always being there the centre of attraction.
</p>

<p>
One pleasure she felt that she must indulge in, for
whenever she knew that her husband was to speak in Congress,
Madeline was always one of the most attentive listeners
to his eloquence, ever on the side of the right, the true
the good.
</p>

<p>
"What were you musing about this morning, Madeline?"
said her husband; "I saw you in the gallery surrounded by
so many ladies, all busily engaged in conversation, and you
in such a deep brown study."
</p>

<p>
She smiled as he replied, "I was thinking, Roland, about
my childish days; and was seated in memory by the lake
at Woodcliff, when tired of playing with my gold-fish, I
used to amuse myself by throwing in pebbles, and watching
the little circles, as they widened in their course, until
I could trace them no longer.  I thought, Roland, of the
boy on the shore at Woodcliff; I saw you just as you stood
that day when first I met you; I traced all your course,
comparing it to the little pebble thrown carelessly into the
lake, drawing one circle of influence round the spoiled
child at Woodcliff, then beyond, at college, another round
Norris and Stanley, then around Helen Thornly, another
around my dear father through your own sister Effie,
then a broader, wider circle, embracing the poor,
neglected news-boys of New York, and encircling Woodcliff;
and now a broader still around the country that you serve,
until I am lost in wonder, and can trace it no farther; truly
human influence is a wonderful agent, and we ought both
to exclaim 'What hath God wrought!'"
</p>

<p>
"How little did we know, dear wife, of the power of my
mother's blessed words, when she bade me 'Look aloft;' I
listened to them, then, as simply comforting; I have learned
since how they have guided my path as a beacon light, to
beckon me onward."
</p>

<p>
A servant entered, interrupting the conversation.
</p>

<p>
"Mr. Bruce, a gentleman wishes to see you," and Roland
entering the parlor, is greeted by the fast friend of his
college days, Dr. Kingsley.
</p>

<p>
"How are you, my son?" said the good man, as he
heartily shook Roland's hand.
</p>

<p>
"I came to congratulate you on your success to-day, for
I was in the Senate Chamber and heard your speech; I
cannot tell how my old heart swelled with pride as I
listened, and remembered you, Roland, as one of my sons.
I always knew that you would leave your mark upon the
world, and do honor to your Alma Mater."
</p>

<p>
"I can never cease to thank you, Dr. Kingsley; for had
you turned me away, I had no other resource."
</p>

<p>
"And then, Roland, the world would have lost a noble
laborer in the cause of all that is good and true."
</p>

<p>
"You will not reject other poor aspirants, my good
friend, for there are many struggling spirits who need just
such a hand as yours to guide, and such a heart to sympathize."
</p>

<p>
Introducing his old friend to Madeline, an hour's pleasant
intercourse closed the interview, with a cordial invitation
to the good man to visit them at Woodcliff.
</p>

<p>
"Congress will adjourn to-morrow night," said Roland.
</p>

<p>
"Then for dear Woodcliff," answered Madeline; "are
you not glad, father?" turning to old Mr. Bruce.
</p>

<p>
"Yes, indeed, there is sae much that needs my care, an'
I am tired o' this noisy, bustling place; but I am glad that
I came; for I canna be separated frae the bonnie darlings."
</p>

<p>
Immediately on the close of the session, they turned
their faces homeward, and a joyful party met once more
around the domestic fireside.  The winter curtains were
yet up, for it was cold and cheerless out of doors, and a
warm fire and cheerful supper greeted them, with Stanley
and his wife ready to welcome them home again.  The
next morning, Roland came in from the library with the
delightful news, that Uncle Malcolm and Aunt Lindsay
were coming to pay a visit to America.
</p>

<p>
"The best room shall be prepared for dear Uncle Malcolm,"
said Madeline, and she busied herself in making
ready for the good old friend.
</p>

<p>
"They will be here in three weeks, at the farthest," said
Roland, "and we must have a nice lounge, and rocking-chair
put in his room, plenty of books, and a secretary; for
Uncle Malcolm could not be happy without his usual pursuits."
</p>

<p>
Annot was sent for, with her husband, and two sweet
children, little Roland and Anna, the one five, the other
three years old.
</p>

<p>
"I can scarcely wait," said the anxious daughter, "for it
is seven years since I hae seen my mother."
</p>

<p>
One evening Roland arrived from New York with the
news that the steamer was below.
</p>

<p>
"They will be here to-morrow or next day," was the
answer to Annot's anxious questions.
</p>

<p>
Merry as a kitten, she was never tired of telling her
little ones that Grandma and Uncle Malcolm were coming.
</p>

<p>
Old Mr. Bruce and his grandchildren were playing on
the front lawn&mdash;little Malcolm driving his sister Lilian in
a small carriage; and grandfather amusing himself by
keeping close to their side, to keep them from danger.
</p>

<p>
Suddenly, Mary cried out,
</p>

<p>
"There comes the carriage!" and the little girls ran
rapidly into the house with the news; while Malcolm,
holding his grandfather's hand, stood in anxious expectation
of the arrival.
</p>

<p>
The carriage stops&mdash;Annot is folded in the arms of her
dear mother, and Uncle Malcolm grasps warmly the
extended hands of Roland and Madeline.
</p>

<p>
"Welcome a thousand times to Woodcliff, dear uncle!"
exclaims Roland; and Stephen Bruce also advances with a
timid step, but placid smile, to greet the new comers.
</p>

<p>
"What little boy is this?" asks the good man, as he lays
his hand on the head of Roland's son, standing by anxious
to be noticed by the stranger.
</p>

<p>
"This is Malcolm Graham," answered the happy father.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Graham changed countenance, and whispered,
</p>

<p>
"How came this, Roland?  I aye thought it strange that
ye did na name him Stephen."
</p>

<p>
"My father named the boy himself."
</p>

<p>
Uncle Malcolm smiled gratefully at this token of entire
forgetfulness of the painful past, and lifting the dear child
in his arms, kissed him fondly, as he laid the hand of
blessing on his dark brown hair.
</p>

<p>
While Madeline is presenting her other darlings, Annot's
eyes are moistened with happy tears, as she leads little
Roland and Anna up to their grandma and uncle, who
pronounce them "darling pets," and the proud young
mother is full of innocent delight.
</p>

<p>
Changes have taken place in all the party&mdash;ten years
have added many silver hairs to Malcolm Graham's noble
head, but to him they are indeed a crown of glory.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Lindsay is stouter and more matronly&mdash;Madeline
has exchanged the bewitching charms of young girlhood
for the ripe beauty of a queenly woman, retaining still the
brightness and vivacity of early youth, and the arch
expression of her lovely face.
</p>

<p>
Roland is a noble man of thirty-seven, with a fine,
commanding figure, the same dark eagle eye, and sweet
expressive smile of benevolence.
</p>

<p>
Annot is no more the lovely child, with her wealth of
golden ringlets falling round her face and shoulders; but
the blooming wife in the first flush of sweet young
womanhood.
</p>

<p>
Seated between the two, Uncle Malcolm takes the hand
of each, saying,
</p>

<p>
"Here are baith my daughters! well, ye are making
Uncle Malcolm an auld mon, wi' yer bairns skipping
around me; but I hope that my heart will ne'er grow old."
</p>

<p>
"You will never grow old in feeling, uncle," said
Madeline; "and we are so happy to have you with us; but
you must be tired; come, Annot, let us show Uncle his
room."
</p>

<p>
Each taking an arm, they led him to his pleasant chamber;
Annot retiring with her mother, and Madeline busying
herself about Uncle Malcolm.
</p>

<p>
"Here is a warm winter wrapper, and a pair of chamber
slippers; I knew that you would like them, uncle."
</p>

<p>
The old gentleman sat down in his comfortable chair;
and, looking around on all the arrangements of his room,
with the bright fire lighting up the whole, said,
</p>

<p>
"Well, Madeline! this is comfort! ye will spoil the auld
mon among ye."
</p>

<p>
"No danger, dear uncle," as she kissed the calm
forehead; "we can never do too much for you, for are you not
my husband's dearest, warmest friend?"
</p>

<p>
Sweet was the incense of gratitude and praise that
ascended from the family altar that night, as Uncle Malcolm
led the devotions, and Madeline conducted the singing of
the hymn.
</p>

<p>
The next morning, after breakfast, Uncle Malcolm called
Roland aside, and said,
</p>

<p>
"Tak' me to the spot most sacred in America;" and,
alone, they proceeded, with solemn step, to the cemetery.
</p>

<p>
Standing at the foot of his mother's grave, the strong
man stood for some minutes in silence, reading the
inscription on the humble tomb-stone; then Uncle Malcolm,
overpowered by the floods of sad and touching memories, lifted
up his voice, and wept aloud.  Roland stood with his arm
around the old man, and whispered,
</p>

<p>
"We must not mourn for her, dear uncle, a blessed spirit
around the throne."
</p>

<p>
"I dinna, Roland; but I could na but feel how happy I
should hae made her; how I wad hae sheltered her frae
the rough world; for while I was enjoying a' that wealth
could gie, my puir Mary was suffering years o' penury an'
toil."
</p>

<p>
"It is past, dear uncle; through all her trials she enjoyed
the peace of God, which passeth all understanding; and
there is the blessed hope of reunion; do you not think that
we shall know each other in the better land?"
</p>

<p>
"I do, my son, confidently hope to meet that blessed
spirit, purified an' full o' holy love, where there shall be nae
mair parting; while I live, Roland, I shall luve her memory,"
(and he took out of his pocket-book once more the lock
of golden hair,) "that must be buried wi' me, Roland."
</p>

<p>
None asked where Uncle Malcolm had been, for the serious
and tender expression that dwelt upon his face, and
softened the tones of his voice throughout the day, spoke
volumes.
</p>

<p>
Interested in all the benevolent schemes around Woodcliff,
Malcolm rode out with Roland; and, with a full heart,
listened to the account of all their plans for good.  On
Sunday he attended the church at Glendale; and as he
listened to the Christian statesman, seated so humbly before
his large class of young men, he could not but bless God
for the grace which had so faithfully directed the footsteps
of this good steward of his Master's gifts.
</p>

<p>
As he watched the earnest look, the respectful reverence,
the deep interest of the youth who surrounded Roland, he
rejoiced in the inward conviction that none of this good seed
would fall to the ground unblessed; and many a tale of
sacred influence and private benevolence reached the ears
of Uncle Malcolm in his private visits among the people
of Woodcliff, for Roland was not one to blazon his own good
deeds.
</p>

<p>
"We hae had a blessed day!" said the good man, at the
close of a Sabbath-day at Woodcliff; "what a holy
privilege we hae enjoyed in worshipping a common Saviour!"
for they had attended on the services of each church, and
had heard faithful discourses from both ministers.
</p>

<p>
"Stanley seems a maist devoted mon," said Uncle Malcolm,
"how meikle o' Christ there is in his sermons!"
</p>

<p>
"Yes, that is the secret of his success; while he does
not neglect nor undervalue the scaffolding of the Christian
church, the whole power of his ministry is to lead sinners
to build their hopes upon the corner-stone, Christ Jesus our
Lord."
</p>

<p>
"It seems to me, Roland, when the heart is filled with
luve to the Master, an' a sense o' the danger o' immortal
souls, men canna spend their time in preaching sae meikle
on these minor things.  I hae felt, syne I hae been amang
ye, perfect communion o' spirit, for I hae heard naught but
Jesus, an' him crucified."
</p>

<p>
"I have often thought, dear uncle, how sweet is this
communion of saints!  How blessed is the feeling that
every Sunday so many pilgrims are worshipping the dear
Redeemer in the great cathedrals of vast cities, and the
lowly temples of the village lanes of good old England; the
solemn worship of its ancient church mingles with that of
its American child, throughout the length and breadth of
this vast country; while the prayers and hymns of Christians
mingle daily from the hills of Scotland, and the green
island of the shamrock.  All over the world the songs of
pilgrims, on their heavenward march, roll up to Heaven;
and, dear uncle, when you are in Scotland, we can still
commune in spirit; you, in your fathers' venerable church,
and we in the one we love."
</p>

<p>
"'Tis a vera holy bond, Roland, an' wae be to the Christian
who can allow bigotry or intolerance to chill sic holy
worship."
</p>

<p>
"Let us never forget, dear uncle, the tie of Christian
brotherhood as the dearest and purest of all earthly
bonds."
</p>

<p>
"I could na bear to think o' parting, my son, if I did na
realize this sacred bond o' union."
</p>

<p>
Many such hours of hallowed intercourse were spent
between these two noble spirits, so elevated above the
common masses of humanity.
</p>

<p>
Little Malcolm is a child of promise; and the parents are
teaching diligently the first great lesson of obedience to
their children; not a day passes without its lessons: "Line
upon line, precept upon precept," looking upward for God's
blessing, both parents train their dear children in paths of
obedience, truth and love.  Little Mary is a gentle, loving
child; but Lilian is a repetition of Madeline, happily under
the controlling influence of wise and loving guidance.
Aunt Clara is daily ripening for the skies.
</p>

<p>
Lavinia, the same vain, frivolous devotee of fashion, no
longer young, still unmarried, is rapidly becoming that
most unhappy of all miserable beings, a censorious and
disappointed old maid.
</p>

<p>
The declining years of Stephen Bruce are calm and tranquil;
surrounded by a family who encircle him with tender,
affectionate reverence, his latter days are his best; and he
is passing on to "the rest that remaineth," full of calm
unshaken trust in his Saviour.  Stanley has gathered round
him a devoted flock; and Helen is the happy wife of a
tender husband, the mother of a lovely family, the helper of
her husband's labors; sharing in his cares and sorrows, as
well as in his joys.
</p>

<p>
Glendale is a blessed sanctuary, and Calvary Church the
centre of a holy influence in the midst of the homes of
Woodcliff.
</p>

<p>
Harry and Charles have not learned wisdom yet, for
their youth was one of folly, and they are reaping the fruits,
in advancing years, of uselessness and discontent; affections
withered, intellects wasting, time flying, and their Lord
coming for his reckoning&mdash;such is the life of thousands&mdash;who
can bear to read their everlasting destiny?  "Cast ye
the unprofitable servant into outer darkness."
</p>

<p>
Uncle Malcolm's visit is drawing to an end, and he seeks
an occasion of private conference with Edmund.
</p>

<p>
"My son, I feel as if I canna gae hame wi'out ye and
Annot; I am growing auld, Edmund, an' the cares o' life
begin to weigh heavily upon me; why na move yer family
to Scotland?"
</p>

<p>
"It would be just the life that I should love, Uncle
Malcolm; for years I have longed for the country.  I am
not calculated for commercial pursuits, and I know that
Annot would only be too happy to be once more in her
dear old home; there is but one difficulty&mdash;my mother
would so mourn over the separation."
</p>

<p>
"I hae enow to occupy us baith, Edmund; an' there are
sae mony openings for usefu'ness, I am sure that we should
be happy together.  Then I am anxious that Annot's
bairns should be trained in Scotland, for their inheritance
will be there."
</p>

<p>
Edmund spoke to Annot on the subject.
</p>

<p>
"Can it be, dear Edmund?  I hae sae langed for a return
to my ain land, an' I agree perfectly wi' Uncle Malcolm
that Scotland is the hame for our bairns."
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Lindsay most earnestly added her influence, and
Mrs. Norris, convinced that it was for Edmund's worldly
prosperity, finally consented.  American friends were pained
to miss the dear faces of Annot's family from among their
circle, but both Roland and Madeline saw that it was right.
</p>

<p>
Uncle Malcolm had learned to love his little namesake,
and, on the evening before their departure, took the child
into his own room, and, after warm, affectionate counsels,
prayed with the dear boy for God's blessing on his childhood
and his youth.  Going to his secretary, he brought
out a handsome rosewood writing-desk, completely furnished.
</p>

<p>
"This, my boy, is frae Uncle Malcolm; as soon as ye
are auld enow, I hope that ye will mak guid use o' it.
Ye will find i' the stable, too, a dear little pony that I hae
bought for my namesake to ride; he is quite safe, an' papa
will teach ye how to ride; ye maun ca' him Selim, after
mamma's pony."
</p>

<p>
"Thank you, dear good Uncle Malcolm; I'll try to be a
good boy, and then you won't be sorry for these gifts," and
the boy kissed the good old man again and again.
</p>

<p>
Going down stairs, he called the little girls to his side.
</p>

<p>
"Noo, Mary, what do ye think that Uncle Malcolm has
for his bonnie lassie?"
</p>

<p>
"I know just what I want, uncle."
</p>

<p>
"What is it, my bairn? dinna be afraid to tell."
</p>

<p>
"I want a pretty baby-house, uncle, for Lilian and me."
</p>

<p>
Uncle Malcolm smiled pleasantly, and, taking the hands
of the little girls, led them into the library, and there was
the sweetest baby-house, entirely furnished with such a
handsome outfit, and, seated on chairs in another part of
the room, two beautiful dolls from Aunt Lindsay.  They
were quite beside themselves; Mary in quiet wonder, and
Lilian skipping about the room in ecstasy.
</p>

<p>
"Noo, mamma, I hae only ane request to mak, an' that
is, should these little lassies quarrel aboot these gifts,
please deprive them o' their use for ane whole month; but
I hope that they will na be sae naughty."
</p>

<p>
Both the children thanked good Uncle Malcolm, and,
kissing each other, made faithful promises not to dispute
about the pretty gifts.  The day of parting had arrived;
always painful, but doubly so now, as it removed a dear
family from the midst of this circle of friends, with but
little prospect of meeting again on this side of the better
land.
</p>

<p>
"God bless ye! my ain dear children," said Uncle Malcolm,
as he laid his hand upon the heads of Roland and
Madeline; "let us aye remember the precious words o' our
departed saint, 'Looking aloft,'" and tears trembled in the
eyes of the good man as he tenderly repeated the blessed
words.
</p>

<p>
The carriage drove off with a tearful company, and
Roland, kissing the lips and encircling the wife with his
sustaining arm, led her in to the library.
</p>

<p>
"This is life, dear Madeline; there must be partings
here.  Reunion, lasting and eternal, must be beyond this
mortal shore."
</p>

<p>
Life still rolls on at Woodcliff.  Roland and Madeline
have not yet reached the perfection of existence; but, as
far as mortals can, theirs is truly living&mdash;living that life on
earth which shall be perfected hereafter in the kingdom
that is coming.
</p>

<p>
'Tis true that these are the creations of fiction&mdash;ideal
man and woman&mdash;but let none say that such can never
dwell in mortal flesh.  Christ came to make such.  There
is not one trait exhibited here, but is commanded in the
Gospel, and from which can be drawn grace to form just
such characters upon the earth.  Such monuments of
grace have walked the earth like angels, and such there
will be again; for there is a time coming, when the world
will be filled with such lively stones, in the glorious temple
that shall hereafter be erected on the earth.  Why should
not she who writes, and they who read, seek to be one of
these highly-polished living stones?
</p>

<p>
'Tis true that to mortal vision, this blessed kingdom
does not <i>seem</i> very near; for throughout the world are
sounds of war, and tumult, and confusion; man slaying his
brother man on many fields of combat, and the sweet dove
of peace and love <i>far, far</i> away; but there are yet some
left on earth in whose bosoms dwell, by bright anticipations,
the spirit of the millennium; above this strife and
tumult, dwelling in a world of their own, with folded hands,
uplifted eyes, and hearts whose pulsations are one eternal
prayer.  Precious witnesses for the kingdom of peace, and
love, and holiness, yet to come!  To come!  Blessed be
God! to come!  And this little pilgrim band whom we
have followed so long, still "Looking aloft," and seeing
Him who is invisible, may confidently look for that
everlasting glorious kingdom.
</p>

<p>
"Looking aloft!" blessed talisman against the spirit of
worldliness, selfishness, and strife of every kind!  "Looking
aloft!"  It inspired Noah when sheltered safely in the
ark, calm and happy amidst the overwhelming deluge of
wrath.  It calmed the trusting heart of holy Daniel in the
den of lions, stilling their angry growls, and closing their
bloodthirsty jaws.  It sustained David in the hour of his
darkest trials, and, centuries ago, inspired those sublime
Psalms of holy confidence which multitudes still sing in
their pilgrimage as they are marching home.  It wakened
the songs of triumph in the prison of Paul and Silas, and
cheered the great apostle beneath the uplifted axe of the
bloody Nero.
</p>

<p>
It lit up smiles of joy and peace upon the faces of that
holy band of martyrs who were stoned, sawn asunder, and
burned at the fiery stake, when even woman's earnest eye
and childhood's tender glance were turned calmly upward
to the glorious Saviour; and from the stake and the block
the martyr's gaze of faith pierced the heavens, as, "Looking
aloft," they saw Him who is invisible.
</p>

<p>
Blessed talisman! sufficient for those dark and stormy
days, it is enough for all life's woes, and cares, and sorrows.
It hath sustained Roland Bruce in the days of poverty,
trial, and bereavement; and hath brought him into the
quiet waters of usefulness, peace, and love, with "the
promise of the life that now is, and of that which is to
come" all fulfilled.  Hand in hand with the chosen partner
of his joys and sorrows, we bid them both farewell; with
the certainty that such a union will be peaceful and blessed
while they tread life's changing scenes, and, in the world
to come, will be crowned by blissful, eternal reunion, so
long as their motto, beaming from the pole-star of hope,
remains "LOOKING ALOFT."
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="t3">
THE END.
</p>

<p><br><br></p>

<p class="transnote">
[Transcriber's note: there are several instances of
Madeline taking off, or putting on, her "flat".
It's unknown if a flat is a type of hat, or if
it's a typographical error for "hat".
All instances have been left as printed.]
</p>

<p><br><br><br><br></p>

<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76570 ***</div>
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