{illustration of a woman crying and holding her child while three women stand near consoling her} HOW IT WAS PAID. BY MISS LIZZIE BATES. AUTHOR OF "PAUL {illegible} BUILDER." "BEGIN [ILLEGIBLE] Philadelphia:{special script} ALFRED MARTIEN, 1214 CHESTNUT STREET. 1871. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871 by ALFRED MARTIEN, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. Alfred Martien, Printer and Stereotyper.{special script} CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I.--THE DECISION .................................... 5 II.--LEAVING HOME ................................... 15 III.--FIRST STEPS .................................... 29 IV.--MAKING FRIENDS ................................. 41 V.--WITH THE CLERKS ................................ 54 VI.--FANNY CARROLL .................................. 67 VII.-CHRISTMAS ....................................... 79 VIII.--COUNTING THE DAYS .............................. 90 IX.--TAKING UP THE BURDEN ........................... 95 X.--THE HALF-AGER LOT ............................. 111 XI.--SUMMER IN THE CITY ............................ 123 XII.-VACATION ....................................... 132 XIII.--THE SECOND YEAR AS CLERK ...................... 144 XIV.--SOCIAL INFLUENCES ............................. 156 XV.-PLOTTING ....................................... 170 XVI.--UNLOOKED FOR GUESTS ........................... 182 XVII.--A NEW REVELATION .............................. 190 XVIII.--AT HOME ....................................... 201 Contents. CHAPTER PAGE XIX.--THE LOST FOUND ............................... 216 XX.--HOME TALK .................................... 226 XXI.--THE NEW HOME ................................. 237 XXII.--LOST AND GAIN ................................ 243 XXIII.--THE NEW TURNOUT .............................. 254 XXIV.--THE LECTURE .................................. 264 XXV.--AT THE FARM-HOUSE ............................ 282 XXVI.--PERCY'S ILLNESS .............................. 291 XXVII.--THE MYSTERY .................................. 302 XXVIII.--HELPING HERSELF .............................. 309 XXIX.--WAY-MARKS ... ................................ 317 XXX.--A CHAPTER OF EVENTS .......................... 330 XXXI.--AFTER THE TRIAL .............................. 343 XXXII.--CONCLUSION ................................... 348 "HOW IT WAS PAID." CHAPTER I. THE DECISION.

I SEE no other way, mother," said Agnes Strong, as she looked into the pale face. "I am able to do it."

"To go out into the world requires something more than ability, child. Experience is needful, and that you have not."

"That will come with time," said Agnes, while the shadow of a smile trembled on her lips.

It was a wild night; the wind swayed against the casement in fearful gusts, and the rain poured in torrents. Now a neighboring shutter swung to with a heavy sound; then a wail, shrill and furious, and through it all a deep undertone, sad and tender.

Looking into the fitful firelight, Agnes was the first to speak.

"Suppose we try to keep together; all the time we should be in dread and doubt, obliged at last to give it up. It is a fearful picture; I cannot bear to think of it," and Agnes threw back the heavy braids with that weary sense of oppression, sending her gaze steadily into the fire, determined and resolute, and still unknowing.

"Mr. Fennimore will not turn us out of door," ejaculated the mother.

"Mr. Fennimore is a busines man. He holds the mortgage. If we were free of this we could live comfortable," and Agnes was once more silent.

"I must think of this, child; it comes to me suddenly, my brain is clouded. Surely he will not deal with me too severely. He knows how weak I am, how anxious for my children, and just how desolate my home will be without them."

While mother and daughter sit with arms folded, overcome with grief, and still reaching up to the Helper, we will take occasion to say something of their antecedents.

The Strongs, father and sons, were well known in Cloverdale. A staunch old family, the great, great grandfather having the honor of coming over in the veritable May Flower, and one of the sons making a conspicuous figure in the war of the Revolution; while at a later date, others had filled honorable posts at the bar and in the pulpit. All of them men of mark, with cultivated intellects and aesthetic tastes, but, uniformly to a man, disinclined to hoard money, and not so well calculated to gain it, as many not otherwise so nobly dowered. Ebenezer Strong, the head of the family with which we have to do, had attempted to make his way in Cloverdale as a merchant. Easy, good-natured, and obliging, he proved to be eminently popular in the way of sales; but returns did not always meet expectations; bills were run up, in many instances, no doubt, without a thought of payment; and in others, Ebenezer Strong had not the heart to push. And thus, with profitable business, he had the misfortune to run backward instead of forward, and at length his pretty village home was mortgaged to the city merchant.

Mrs. Strong, although with corresponding taste and culture, was a woman endowed with a large share of practical sense. She could turn and make over, plan and keep her own accounts; but the small saving in this way was not enough to fill the gaps. Each year debt was increasing; something must be done.

"If I were only a boy," said Agnes, as admitted into her mother's counsel she dared to look the evil in the face. "Papa pays his book-keeper a thousand dollars. If I could do this for him, mother," and the light danced in Agnes' eyes.

"Book-keeping is not quite the thing for a girl."

"I might make headdresses and bonnets and mantles for the store."

"Your father would not like that."

"Neither should I, mother; but book-keeping is quite another thing. Just think how much it would save. In five or six years we might have this mortgage paid off, papa said, only this morning, if he was clear of this. Only give me your sanction, mother; I know he will not object."

Mrs. Strong, as we have said, had a large share of practical sense; but she was not prepared to give her sanction to Agnes' proposition. A book-keeper would certainly be a valuable acquisition; it would, without doubt, save more than a thousand dollars a year; but for Agnes to sit bent over the desk, looking forward to five or ten years, was a picture that she had not wish to contemplate. She must wait a little longer, economize a little more closely. After all business might not be so very bad; some way would open.

Agnes was not one to fold her hands; from her parents she inherited the best traits that belonged to either. Like her father, she was fond of study; books were her delight, and leisure to enjoy them was in one sense her ambition. Affectionate and strongly attached to her father, she could not enjoy this while she saw his trouble, and knew of the weary hours her mother gained, doing without needful sleep in order to keep her household neat and tidy in appearance. "Why should I not do something? And what is there that I can do?" were the questions as often as she looked upon the pallid, tearless face. "My father employs others; let me take the place of one on whom he is the most dependent, the one to whom he gives the largest salary."

To this end Agnes placed herself under the tuition of an experienced accountant, and in due time received from him a certificate that placed her among the best of book-keepers. With this document she presented herself before her father, looking bright and happy as she said, "Only let me do it, papa, and our difficulties will soon vanish." There was no denying the necessity, and after a few spasmodic efforts to suggest something better, permission was granted.

It was a new thing in Cloverdale to see a female book-keeper, and that a young and pretty girl; but so long as it was in her father's store the sting was blunted. Some crying out against the mother for allowing it, and others against Agnes, accusing her of being strong minded and eccentric; turning her ledger when she ought to be enjoying herself. What could the girl be thinking of? Of course it would ruin her prospects, and she so pretty!

There was no response, save a more earnest endeavor to do her work well, regardless of present comfort, looking forward to what she hoped to accomplish--to what she felt that she could accomplish; repaid a thousand times in seeing the care dying out of her father's face; her mother's step growing stronger and more elastic.

Hardly six months had passed, when health, that seemed so much improved, suddenly failed. With a few days' illness the merchant laid aside his work; the store passed into other hands, leaving the widow and children to deplore their loss, and to think hopelessly of the slight tenure by which their home was left to them.

In this emergency Mr. Fennimore visited Cloverdale. He was considerate, and professed himself unwilling to push his claim. At the same time he offered Agnes the position of book-keeper in the city, her salary to go against the debt; and thus the original plan would be carried out, with twice the number of years, perhaps.

It was a great trial for Mrs. Strong, but Agnes was hopeful. Herbert was ten, Helen two years older, and Jessie a baby of three summers. There was a little to live on, "and with one less there will be fewer to feed," said Agnes, as she endeavored to make cheer out of her necessity.

"It may be for the best," said Mrs. Strong, lifting her head. "Mr. Fennimore promised me that you should board with him; to know that you are in his family will be some comfort; but our home will be very lonely without you."

"Let us think it will not be so very hard, mother. How often you have told me, that God never placed a man or a woman in the world without giving each some work, and this is mine."

"It is going from home, child; going into new duties, surrounded by temptation, exposed to danger and without experience," and the mother spoke wildly; while her arms closed around her child as if to shield her from some unseen evil.

"True, mother, and this very ignorance of life will be my protection. Hedged in with my duties, with my head full of hope, I shall have little temptation to stray away. You will not be troubled about me? Say that you will not, mother?"

The storm had spent its fury, and in the distant blue the stars were shining.

"Let us consider this an augury of the future, dear mother," said Agnes, as she drew the curtain, revealing the full glory of the heavens. Tears were in the mother's eyes; Agnes knew that she was thinking of the absent.

"Give me your free permission, mother. I could not go if I did not think it the way my father would approve, and God will be just as near me in the city as he is here, mother."

"I know He will, and I will trust you to His care, my child."

{decorative device} {decorative device} CHAPTER II. LEAVING HOME.

THE sun shone in the splendor of a November day, and the air, tremulous with the chant of insect life, trailed over the hills a rich filmy veil of amber and gold. The forests were gorgeous in color, and the brown earth was tufted with bright hued leaves.

Cloverdale exulted in her beauty; from the sunflower with its golden disk to the ivy on the wall, all was brightness.

It was not a long journey to the city; Agnes was to go alone; Mr. Fennimore offering to meet her at the depot and take her at once to his own house.

"In February I am to come home for a few days," said Agnes, as with trembling lips and unsteady fingers, she put the few remaining articles into her satchel. "You will write often, mother, and tell me every little thing."

"You must not be distressed if I do not write every week," replied Mrs. Strong, doing her best to keep her voice steady. "You must not be homesick, or give way to uneasiness. We will all write as often as we can."

"It is time, sister, I see them coming," and Herbert gathered up the satchel, while Helen stood with gloves, veil, and travelling shawl. A moment in which a life time seemed pressed, and the clasping arms relaxed. Another kiss on the baby's upturned face, and Agnes sprung down the steps and through the gate, followed by Herbert and Helen.

It was not far to the dépot, and this distance was sensibly diminished by taking a back street. The platform was as usual filled with a promiscuous group, and among them Agnes recognized several of her acquaintances.

"Going to be gone long?" asked Horace Shields, as he swung the mail bag to his shoulder. "We shall miss you, Agnes."

"I shall be absent for months, perhaps years;" was the quiet reply.

"In that time you will forget Cloverdale."

"I shall never forget that Cloverdale is my home, Horace."

It was well for Agnes that the hurry and bustle left small time for last words. She was in no mood to bear it.

"Going so soon! I did not know this," and Lyman Reed ran up the steps with his books under his arm. "I have been so busy trying to get off myself, that I have not heard of your leaving."

"It is only recently that I decided to go. You have resolved to study, Lyman?"

"I believe it is not satisfactorily arranged."

There was evident commotion, the cars were about to leave. Clinging to Helen's hand, Agnes kissed the pink cheek again and again.

"Help mother all you can. Be a good boy, Herbert," and resolutely crossing the platform, the young traveller entered the car and drew the thick veil over her tear wet face.

Gradually sobs died away. Agnes looked up. It was a beautiful morning; the line of travel leading through a picturesque portion of country, the ever changing picture winning her thoughts from herself. Vallies were dotted with thickets of gorgeous color; mountains like flaming torches rising one above the other; wild tangled gorges spanned by bridges looking so light and unsubstantial, that it seemed a miracle they could bear so much; rivers to be crossed, with clustering villages, and farm houses like pigeon nests, all wreathed with the same magnificent display of crimson, brown, and gold.

Noon found them halting before a dingy looking dépot. "Twenty minutes for dinner," and Agnes looked from the car window as the travellers hurried past, each eager to secure the best place. She had not the courage to make the attempt, besides, she was not in the least hungry. On the common, little children were rustling the bright leaves with their shoes, looking up and catching them as they danced and fell. Raising the window, she breathed in the invigorating odor and let the light wind play over her forehead.

"It will be some hour before we stop again. Do me the favor to share my lunch," said a pleasant voice. At the same time the half of a chicken nicely broiled was passed over the back of the seat. "You will really be doing a favor," continued the speaker, seeing Agnes hesitate. "Our basket is hardly touched, and we are near our journey's end."

There was genuine kindness; it was impossible to refuse, and Agnes noticed for the first time that the lady was a cripple, with a haunting face; the oftener she looked at it the more it grew upon her, the large, dark, earnest eyes, the pleading tenderness in the voice, caused her to feel that the woman must have suffered.

"I am sorry we are not to enter the city to-night," said the woman, to a studious-looking youth at her side; "you might be of service to this lady, Robert."

"This would afford me pleasure; but you are too weak to ride all day, mother," and the brown face was full of tenderness.

Another moment all was hurry and excitement. Eager to go in, they are just as eager to come out. "All aboard!" shouts the conductor, and the train is under way, the passengers doing their best to settle themselves in their former places.

Before the day was over, Agnes saw her new friends leave. Sinking into her seat, a troop of painful thoughts came to torture her. The sun would be down before she reached the city. What if Mr. Fennimore should not be at the dépot? And in spite of herself a lonely homesick feeling rushed over her.

Of all places, perhaps, there is no other, where the overpowering sense of loneliness is more keenly felt, than aboard a railway car packed with human beings, as it dashes into the dépot of a great city. Unknown and unattended, it is enough to sadden strong hearts. But when the traveller is a girl hardly emerged from childhood, inexperienced, unknowing where to go, or what to do, it is fearful.

Almost despairing, and still striving to be firm, Agnes was surprised, as the question was asked by a gentleman opposite, "Have you friends in the city? Do you expect them to meet you?" On being told that she was a stranger, but expecting to meet a friend at the dépot, he said, gently.

"If you will excuse a valise in each hand, I will see you through the crowd, and if your friend is not in waiting, I will show you to the hotel beyond."

A quick, eager look into the manly face, and Agnes followed the tall, lithe figure through the crowd, and through the dépot. Mr. Fennimore was not there.

"Give yourself no uneasiness," said the gentleman; "if it is Mr. Fennimore, the merchant, on C---- Street, I will call and let him know that you are here; my residence is not far from his place."

Securing a room, and making sure that it was comfortable, Agnes was left to think over the incidents of the day. With humility, she now saw that she had been timid and restless, when she ought to have trusted; looking, as a child looks for his father to care for him; and once more she resolved that she would never again yield to distrust, that hereafter she would walk firmly, leaning upon the arm of her guide. Going home, she thought of her mother; they were thinking of her at this hour. How far away it seemed, and still there was only the difference of a few hours' ride between them. She had became calm and composed when Mr. Fennimore was announced.

"I am sorry for the delay; I know how lonely you must have been, unaccustomed as you are to travel. I am glad that you met with Dr. Murray."

"It was a favor for which I was most grateful," returnd Agnes.

"One of our most reliable young men, and as a physician, he bids fair to take the lead."

Agnes was saved a reply by the appearance of the hack.

"And now for home; I trust you will not be lonely with us, Miss Strong."

The lamps were lit as they were whirled down the street. Agnes had never been in so large a city, and her eyes were quick to take in all that it was possible for her to see at the time. Mr. Fennimore kept up a chain of questioning, and before she had time to think of a meeting with strangers, there was a halt.

"Here we are!" exclaimed Mr. Fennimore. Agnes only saw that it was a large, elegant-looking dwelling, as she followed him up the steps, and into the hall. A middle-aged lady, with a sweetly attractive manner, met them at the door.

"This is Miss Strong, aunt. Mrs. Brandon is virtually the head of the house," said Mr. Fennimore to Agnes; "I have a fancy that you will become, in a little time, very good friends."

Before he bade her good-night, Mr. Fennimore said, "Shall we see you at the store in the morning? or do you prefer resting a day?"

"I hope to commence my duties to-morrow," was the instant reply.

"Your promptness pleases me. We aim to be there at eight o'clock. I will myself show you the way."

Thus far Mr. Fennimore's reception justified all that could be expected of him, and when, at a later hour, Mrs. Brandon kissed her good-night, Agnes tried hard to choke down a sob, it was so like the mother from whom she had never before been parted.

It was a cheerful looking room with a large closet, in which Agnes found her trunks, two windows with deep casements, a table with prettily carved book shelves hanging over it, a bright warm carpet, with stuffed chairs and sofa, vases filled with autumn flowers, with a few pictures on the wall; all showing a woman's taste, and instinctively Agnes' heart went out to "Aunt Brandon" for being so considerate with regard to her comfort.

Comfortable as it looked, there was still a feeling of loss. She would sleep better with her books unpacked and lying on the table. "Only this morning Herbert used his strength on the straps, calling upon Helen to help him," now she is so tired it makes her tremble, while the tears blind her. One by one the simple black dresses are hung on the wall, then the drawers are filled, and the books laid on the table. A home look takes the place of the unconscious stateliness that belongs to a well appointed but uninhabited apartment.

Drawing her chair to the table, Agnes bows her head over the portfolio, her mother's last gift; "you will write often child." "Not to night," echoes Agnes, and resolutely she raises her head and opens the small red covered Bible. It was her father's Bible, and on the fly-leaf was his name. Slowly the tears fall as she turns the pages. This is the hour that they are thinking of her at home. Sitting around the table, she can almost hear the questions asked by Herbert. Helen will read to-night, and in her mother's prayer she knows that her name will be mentioned.

Leaving Agnes in her room, we will look in upon the little group at Cloverdale. It has been a long day. Not till Mrs. Strong caught the last look of the cars, did she feel utter loneliness, realizing in a fuller sense what it was to leave home; seeing only a young slender girl nerved with courage to go into the world, of which she knew so little. With a cry that startled Jessie from her play. "It was wrong, all wrong! I ought not to have let her go. What if danger should threaten, or temptation overcome? My child, my poor child!" and reaching out her arms the mother clasped only empty air. All day she has been in a maze, and at night, it is hard to comprehend; looking up at every sound, as though expecting the hand of her darling on the latch. Harder still, as the children talk of "sister," and when the hymn was sung, Helen's was the only voice.

The children were asleep. With a calm, gained from renewed effort to lean upon the strong arm of One able and willing to support her, the mother takes the lamp and glides up the stairs. Herbert's cheek is dimpled with a smile, a pleasant dream is tangling up his brain. "Teach me to lead him aright," and a kiss nestles on the white forehead. There's a tear on Helen's cheek. After all she misses Agnes quite as much as we do. "Dear child!" and kneeling, the mother presses her lips to the pillows on which that dear head has always rested. "God keep her, shield her, care for her." The words are gone. How long, the mother never knew, but peace came; peace that was not again to be disturbed in the same measure. The small room is just the same. Everything is in perfect order, the books and flowers just as she left them. There is strength and comfort as the mother looks, the delicacy and refinement are innate, circumstances cannot deprive her child of these; principle is hers, and the God whom we both trust will not forsake us in our need. Sweet hope came into the mother's heart, and with it sleep.

{decorative device} {decorarive device} CHAPTER III. FIRST STEPS.

THE sun's rays shining through the shutters caused Agnes to start up with alarm, and strive as she would, her fingers trembled as she brushed out her long hair. "Mr. Fennimore will set it down to my disadvantage if I am behind time." The clock on a neighboring steeple began to strike the hour. "I am thankful that it is not late," said Agnes, opening her window with a feeling of relief. Never before had she looked upon such a sea of roofs, domes, and steeples; while doves circled around her head, catching the sun rays upon their purple wings, and darting away with arrowy swiftness. Others with spotless purity, sat at the door of their small dwellings, looking with composure on the busy scene below. Flowers flashed their brightness underneath her window, and Agnes remembered to have seen a passage that without doubt led into this very yard. The house was still. Opening her door softly, she crept through the hall and down the thickly carpeted stairs. Drawing a bolt that proved, as she fancied, to lead into the side yard, she stepped boldly forth. The sweet breath of the morning was around her, dew-drops sparkled on the blossoms, tears came into Agnes' eyes, she had not thought of anything so beautiful. All the time she had been mindful of duties, cold, hard, stern. God had given her to look upon a world of beauty. It was hers to enjoy; it was as much her duty as to do; and a sweet, holy calm pervaded the heart before weighed down with the responsibility of duty. Agnes' reflections were interrupted by a light cheerful voice.

"I was unwilling to disturb you, Miss Strong, and here I find you with the flowers. It is useless to ask if you slept well, your face tells me that you are quite yourself," and Mrs. Brandon came forward with a motherly greeting.

"I had not thought to find flowers so late in the season. I feel thankful that I can see them from my window."

"We allow them to remain as long as possible. Merton watches the weather and brings them in in time to escape frost.

With a few pleasant words, Mrs. Brandon led the way to the breakfast-room. Mr. Fennimore was already at the table, his manner kind as it was the night previous.

"It is not unusual for me to breakfast alone, Mrs. Fennimore and the girls are out every evening, and, as a matter of course, indulge themselves in the morning. I am very glad of company, Miss Strong."

Mr. Fennimore was a business man, everything that he did was on time. Agnes determined to be punctual, and at the hour designated was ready.

"Papa, papa! one kith please," and down the stairs, and through the hall came a beautiful boy. "I thought I would catch you. Vic said you wouldn't like to be troubled with me. You do, don't you, papa?"

"Like to be troubled with you? not much," and a shower of kisses rained over the boy's face. "Now, Percy, let me introduce you to Miss Agnes Strong, she has come to live with us and go with papa to the store. Percy is all the boy we have, Miss Agnes," said the father, with a look of pride on his face.

"I am going with you when I am big enough," and the little fellow straightened himself and looked searchingly into Agnes' face. A pleasant smile welcomed him, and darting forward, "I am right glad you've come to live with us, Miss Agnes Strong, I'll like you ever so much," and the rosy lips were held up for a kiss.

"Pretty well, Master Percy, such demonstration may not be altogether pleasing to Miss Strong."

"It is, isn't it, Miss Strong?" while a serious look crept over the beautiful face.

"Call me, Miss Agnes, Percy, and for the rest, let us be good friends. Good-by, your papa is waiting."

It was a charming episode. Agnes felt that she would be all the happier with a child like Percy in the house. The walk did not seem long, everything was fresh and inviting. Reaching the place of business, Agnes was not surprised to find it large, with rooms, and counters, and clerks more numerous than she had known before. With a single introduction to Mr. Ludlow, the junior partner, and also the head bookkeeper, her desk was assigned her, and the work of the day began.

You will find yourself the only lady with a ledger," said Mr. Ludlow; "in a business like ours we have several bookkeepers as well as entry clerks; should a difficulty meet you at any time, I am at your service."

Busy as she was Agnes could not avoid seeing that she was an object of scrutiny to the seniors, as well as the subject of remarks from the younger clerks. Much as has been said of woman's capabilities and powers, it was a new thing to see her take the place of bookkeeper in a large establishment, and there were fears and ominous shakes of the head as they saw so young a girl attempt it. Mr. Fennimore was altogether sanguine. Honest in all his dealings, Mr. Fennimore flattered himself that he was doing a very good thing, giving the girl a salary that she could not get at anything else, having his books just as well kept, and still, at an expense less by several hundred dollars than he was in the habit of giving.

"What a quiet looking little thing," said Belle Burnham, "and that plain black dress makes her look as old as her grandmother."

"It is too bad for you to talk so," whispered Clara Randall, as she folded a heavy silk. "Her black dress gives me to understand that she buried some dearly cherished friend, her mother perhaps. No, her father, now I think of it. I heard Mr. Fennimore tell Mr. Ludlow that she kept her father's books, and when he died the store had to go, and that's how she came here."

"Well, now she's away from home she's no need to wear black, it makes a regular dowdy of her; but if she does wear it she might relieve it with crimson. By the way, rose-color would become her charmingly."

"Just like you, Belle Burnham, you never think of anything but dress," exclaimed Frank Evans. "With your head so full, I don't see how you manage to do anything during the day."

"You charming little bit of innocence, Messrs. Fennimore & Gilchrist employ only a certain portion of my head, the rest is free to go and come at pleasure."

"Do hush, Belle, such a rattlebrain," and the girls chatted; for it was lunch, and while some went out, others remained.

Agnes left her desk with a dull, heavy head-ache. A walk in the air revived her; but Mrs. Brandon could not be deceived.

"You are tired, child. Mr. Fennimore will excuse you to-day."

"It is nothing; I shall soon get accustomed to it," was the modest reply.

Going out, a carriage stood at the door, and a group of young girls looked after her from the steps. Agnes did not hear the words, but the laugh floated out till it just touched her heart. Happy in the love of parents able to surround them with every luxury, they did not know that the little graceful figure passing down the street was one on whom a family leaned for support.

The evening passed very much as the morning had done, and night found Agnes weary and not a little homesick. Dinner was announced before she had time to brush her hair and put on a fresh collar. Percy met her with a free, joyous welcome, leading her immediately to the dining-room. Mrs. Fennimore and her daughters were seated. With a brief introduction, Mr. Fennimore gave Agnes a seat by his side with Percy opposite. There was no blessing. Mr. Fennimore was a religious man, that is, he belonged to the church and so did his wife; but active Christian life was unknown to them. Business absorbed the attention of one, fashion the other. In the world it was expected of them. A position in society must be maintained; it was due to their children. Hence a blessing was not asked at table, neither was a prayer offered in the family; there was really no time for these things.

The hour was enlivened with pleasant, spirited remarks relating to topics of which Agnes was not supposed to know anything; the party last night; the opera troop expected next week; the entertainments anticipated as the season advanced, with the all absorbing consideration of dress. Agnes had a sweet, intelligent face, and although silent she was not a moody companion.

As the family left the table, Percy seized her by the hand. "Now you must come and see my rocking horse. When I am a little bigger papa is to get me a real pony, and I'm to have a phæton, and I'll take you to ride some day, Miss Agnes."

The daylight has gone. Vic came for "Master Percy."

"I'm not going, Vic; I'm going to show Miss Agnes all round; she's not seen anything yet."

"Not to night, Percy. In the morning, perhaps, you can go with me," said Agnes.

"Vic never dresses me in time to see papa, and I thought you'd like it," and a grieved look crept into the earnest eyes.

"So I would, but it is late, and your mother has sent Vic for you. You must go, Percy, and I must go to my room," and Agnes kissed the white brow.

"Are you tired of me? I thought you would like me," and to Agnes' ear the voice sounded strangely like Jessie's.

"I am not tired of you, and I shall love you very much, provided you are obedient, as a good boy is sure to be."

"I don't want to go, Vic, but I'm going. I want you to love me, Miss Agnes," and with another good-night kiss, Percy turned away.

A genial warmth in her room without the sight of fire caused Agnes to forget the cool, crisp air outside; turning down the gas, she raised the window and looked out. The wind moaned heavily, and the gathering darkness concealed the beauty that had pleased her in the morning; lights glimmered in the distance, and the roll of city life came swaying and surging like the waves of a great sea.

With a swift look at the stars as they glistened above her, Agnes closed the window and drew her chair to the table. Notwithstanding the pleasant appearance of the room, there was a feeling of loneliness; she had felt it all day, and Percy's words deepened it. His little pleading voice was so much like Jessie's. She knew that they were thinking of her, and leaning her head on her hand the tears fell silently. "This will not do," at length broke from her quivering lips. "I feel that it is right, and mother will be disappointed if I fail in what I have undertaken," the voice faltered. A new resolve was in her heart. When free from work the hours must be used wisely. With fewer calls upon her leisure, she would have time to improve herself; books were safe companions. Above all, the one book from which she must draw daily comfort. Once more peace was in her heart, the desire of her soul was open before Him. With all that He had given her to enjoy, it would be ungrateful to distrust, and dishonoring to the Giver to waste opportunities for improvement in senseless murmuring and regret.

Resolutely, as one determined to overcome, Agnes opened her book. Hours passed; the clock on the steeple recalled her thoughts. "Everyting in its time if I am to succeed," and with a firmer heart than she had known since she left Cloverdale, sleep closed her in.

{decorative device} CHAPTER IV. MAKING FRIENDS.

NOVEMBER was drawing to a close. Agnes Strong was at home in the large establishment of Fennimore, Gilchrist, & Co. Mr. Ludlow no longer had any fears. "She will do," he said to Mr. Fennimore; "I have examined her balance sheets every night, there's not a mistake; not a neater hand has to do with our books."

"I felt sure of that," was the reply. "I had seen her books. Her father was strictly honest and very methodical; but he had no business turn--was too easy; never pushed his customers, especially if they were poor and pretended to be troubled. He was a good man, a worthy man; but he could not get along. The fact is, it won't do to let one's feelings run away with him. Where money is due it must come, if a man expects to keep along."

This was Mr. Fennimore's creed. As a business man he understood the art of pushing, he had learned to do it easily, almost gracefully, and if he did not push Mrs. Strong with his claim, it was because he could obtain a competent bookkeeper at comparatively small cost. It was in keeping with his plan, and all the time Mr. Fennimore flattered himself that he was doing a very good thing. The girl was poor, she must do something; she knew how to keep books. It was a compliment to be permitted to keep books in so large and elegant an establishment; she ought to be, and was, no doubt, very grateful for it. The family, no doubt, felt that it was a very great privilege, they ought to feel so; gratitude is very becoming, especially where one is poor and dependent.

Mr. Ludlow was a scholarly man; his tastes could not be wholly confined to dollars and cents. If he had a capacity for business, it was because he had cultivated it.

"I see that she has been well trained," continued Mr. Ludlow. "But what about the mortgage. Her salary goes to raise it?"

"Yes."

"It will require a good many years. The interest will leave but a small portion for the principal."

"Not so very long," was the careless answer.

"She has, no doubt, considered this. Young as she is, there is a firm, resolute will. I judge she is not one to withdraw, when once she has decided upon a course of action."

"You see, Ludlow, it is a good thing for the girl; five hundred dollars a year with the privilege of a home in my family is more than a woman would naturally expect."

"But, if she does her work as well--if she gives as much time?"

"It is not expected that she will do as well."

"It seems that you expected she would. I confess that I did not; but my opinion has changed. I find that she is accurate and quite as expeditious as Kent or Coleman."

"After all, she may not hold out. You will allow that it is a good thing for her; better than she could do at anything else."

"That is not the question. If she does as well as the others, is she not entitled to the same salary?"

"Of course not, a woman never commands as much as a man."

"A woman does not usually do the same kind of work, neither does she give the same number of hours, the same devotion, we will call it, to the work. But, if she voluntarily undertakes to do what the man does, if she is subject to the same training, setting herself to the task with a firm and resolute will, with the result equal to that of the man, should not the remuneration be the same?"

"I never knew that you was such a woman's rights man," exclaimed Mr. Fennimore, without answering the question; "I thought you considered woman's appropriate sphere to be at home."

"True, but if she is forced by circumstances to step out of this retreat; if she is obliged to support herself and her family, as a man does by virtue of a natural right; if she choses some calling that can, if educated, be done by her equally as well as by the man?"

"Then you do not think that she can do everything equally well?"

"Certainly not, there must be adaptation to her strength, taste, judgment."

"I confess I have not thought much about it," said Mr. Fennimore, turning impatiently in his chair. "I only know that it is not the custom, a woman does not expect it."

"A custom that ought to be dropped," and Mr. Ludlow took up his hat.

"I do not know about the question in general, but in this particular case I am ready to do the fair thing. I promised her mother that I would keep her in my family, and if she suited, her salary should be raised every year."

There was no reply. With his hat drawn over his eyes Mr. Ludlow passed from the office into the street.

It was Saturday night; sitting at the table with her head resting on her hand, Agnes Strong took no notice of time. She did not know that Percy had been at her door pleading with his little grieved voice for the good-night kiss. Mrs. Brandon's voice aroused her.

"My child, without a light! Your letter has made you homesick. I am almost sorry it came to-night."

"The letter was from home," said Agnes, with an attempt at calmness. "With the week at a close, I could but think how pleasant it would be to be with them for the Sabbath."

The tearful voice touched a chord in the good woman's heart.

"It would be pleasant if they lived so near that you could go home every week. But as this cannot be, you must not give way to loneliness; a dejected spirit shows want of confidence."

"I do not mind it so much on my own account. But they miss me, mother and Helen, and Herbert says that he cannot half get his lessons. After all, perhaps it was not right to leave them."

"It was not a sudden movement, you deliberated, you asked God's blessing upon the undertaking?"

"O, yes, Mrs. Brandon."

"Then do not be troubled. You asked; rest content, He will lead. Follow him."

Only a few words from one who knew what it was to sit alone, and the heart of the young girl was lightened. Once more hope nerved her to go forward. She felt that in His strength the end and aim in view would be accomplished.

"I see that you have a good number of books," said Mrs. Brandon, glancing over the table, "and this reminds me that I promised to show you the library. If you desire, we will go there now."

Agnes needed no second invitation; the library was a place that she had dreamed of. It was possible, by a diligent use of her time, to read more or less every day. In mapping out her course this was decided upon, and if for a moment her letter had caused her to forget, still the resolve was in her heart; if she wavered, it was not to turn back.

"I had no idea that Mr. Fennimore had such a collection of books," exclaimed Agnes, as she ran her eyes over the book shelves.

"It is said to be one of the finest collections in the city. With many sterling works and choice old volumes that one seldom finds."

"His business cannot allow of his spending much time here," continued Agnes.

"Not so much time as he used to get; since the girls are in society it seems that everything has changed," and Mrs. Brandon began to take down and open books; calling Agnes' attention to favorite authors, repeating snatches, and sometimes whole pages, showing an intimate acquaintance with many, of whom Agnes had only heard. Perched on the topmost shelves were busts of Milton, Shakespeare, Dante, with an exquisitely carved head of Beatrice.

"Books that I have all my life wanted to see," said Agnes, as her eye took in the contents of each shelf. "I shall never tire of coming here, Mrs. Brandon."

"A calm, trusting spirit can accomplish a good deal more than one restless and dissatisfied."

"I know it, and with such an opportunity for improvement, I shall strive all the more to use my time wisely."

Once more Agnes was in her room, but the loneliness was gone; the well filled book shelves opened to her view rare pictures and possibilities; careful of the moments she could read through many a volume, and thus the years devoted to the work she had undertaken would also be filled with mental improvement.

The next morning Agnes was up early. The east was rosy with the light of coming day, the streets were still, the house without a sound. Lightly she opened her door and slid along the hall to the library, a feeling of reverence crept over her, humbled and awed in the presence of the mighty dead. Here were Herbert, Jay, Chalmers, Tillotson, Edwards and Robertson; poetry and prose; metaphysics and disquisition; essays and science. For once Agnes paid no attention to the clock on the steeple, the chiming of bells clear, sweet, tender, failed to arouse her.

"I thought to find you here," said Mrs. Brandon; "you must be half famished. Come to my room for a cup of coffee."

"I am not in the least hungry."

"You have been up several hours, I shall insist upon your taking it. There is no order with regard to breakfast on Sabbath morning."

Agnes slipped her volume into its place.

"Does no one else in this house go to church, Mrs. Brandon?"

"Mr. Fennimore goes occasionally."

Brought up strictly to regard the Sabbath, Agnes could not understand that it was possible for one to prefer another course. Mrs. Fennimore remarked at breakfast, "I am glad that you go to church, Miss Strong. Aunt Brandon almost invariably goes alone. To tell the truth, it is the only day in the week that we have at home; I sometimes wish it was otherwise. But the girls enjoy society, and until they are settled I must go with them."

Mrs. Brandon was ready as the bells began to ring, and without more delay they started. It was a lovely morning, and the streets were full of people.

"It is nice to see the people all going to church," said Agnes, surveying the well-dressed throng.

"They are not all going to church, Agnes."

"Where are they going?"

"Such a day as this the parks and gardens are crowded. It is not in the city that everybody goes to church. Although a great many are seen there, still it is a very small part of the inhabitants after all."

"So full of care and business during the week, I should think Sabbath rest would be a delight to the people."

"So it would if all regarded it in the light that you do. Christianity in a city is always in the minority. You remember the narrow path and the broad highway?"

"In this sense, it must be very sad to live in the city."

"Christians can hardly afford to be sad under any circumstances. The city offers a broad field for Christian activity, minute men always on duty. If one has the will to work, there is no better place than in the streets of a great city."

The pastor was already in the desk as the two ladies entered. Agnes had never been in so large a church, never had she seen such a crowd of worshippers. Very still and solemn was the place as the pastor read his text, "Casting all your care upon Him, for He careth for you." The sermon supplemented the thought that Agnes had endeavored to cultivate during the week, committing her way unto God, she resolved to do this without questioning.

"Sorrow is God's school," said the pastor, "care and responsibility are not peculiar to any one class or condition of men. Each has his own burden, and each must bear it more or less alone. Look upon life as a season of preparation. Do not waste it in murmuring or crying out for change. He who sees your heart knows your trials, and He is pitiful and of tender mercy. But He sees that you need just this discipline, and in love to you He sends it."

It was a comforting discourse, the heart of the young stranger was lifted into a clearer atmosphere. The walk home was full of thoughtfulness. Notwithstanding circumstances were depressing, He would bring good out of it, making these days stepping-stones to the life beyond.

{decorative device} CHAPTER V. WITH THE CLERKS.

NOTWITHSTANDING the cool, crisp winds sweeping up the sidewalk, the garden was bright with flowers. A warm friendship had sprung up between Percy and Agnes, and a walk through the yard at morning and night was eagerly looked forward to by the little boy. In this way, Agnes came to see more of Mrs. Fennimore, Nellie, and Kate. But the life they led had little in common with that the bookkeeper knew, and thus living under the same roof and meeting at table, there was nothing beyond the formality of strangers between them. The pleasures of the library made ample amends, however, and if Percy looked forward to a walk, Agnes anticipated uninterrupted reading at night; added to this was the Wednesday evening lecture and the Friday evening prayer-meeting, both of which Mrs. Brandon always attended.

As the cold increased, Agnes became painfully conscious of wants to be supplied. How these wants could be met without taking from her salary was a problem. Naturally Agnes was not given to an exact economy, neither had it been hers to study the precise cost of a garment, or to lie awake at night counting up the least possible number with which she could make out. It grated upon her to do it now, but the salary that looked so large in the beginning grew small in comparison with the debt; and the more she thought of it the more necessary it seemed that not a penny should be taken for personal use. This was a painful conclusion for a young and sensitive girl, and there were times, in spite of all her efforts, that her heart cried out for the old life.

Looking over her journal, Agnes was mortified at the reflex movement, when all the time she thought herself making advances; questioning if she were humbler, holier, happier with all her striving; not knowing that the lesson of endurance is learned through the ordinary routine of daily teaching. In such hours there was a drop of sweetness, her labor was brightening the load of care her mother bore. If she could but pay off the debt, what mattered? and brushing up her black dress, and folding her shawl so that it shall have the appearance of being warmer, she goes to the store.

With but few words to give, Agnes was on speaking terms with the clerks; most of them young, and with a little pardonable vanity, perhaps, anxious to make a creditable appearance. Entered upon her duties, she could not be unconscious of remarks and side glances, as they contrasted their pretty winter suits with her sombre garments.

It was later than usual, a light snow lay on the pavement, and the girls slipping into their wrappings chattered of evening diversions, dancing, dress and places of amusement. The sight of soft, fleecy snow led Agnes to think of home. Herbert was sure to have his sled, and Jessie was tumbling about like a little red ball; while through the rooms she saw her mother come and go, with Helen nestled up in the corner of the sofa, the farthest possible from the window, so that her attention may not be diverted from her work.

Through the open door came a puff of cold, biting wind. "I shall have to walk fast or freeze," thought Agnes, as she drew on her overshoes and put on her hat and shawl.

"Agnes Strong, are you to wear black forever?" asked Belle Burnham, a black-eyed beauty, fond of dress, and a style of face admirably set off with bright colors. A look out of the large mournful eyes toned down Belle's abrupt gayety.

"True, I know that you are in mourning; but have you not worn it sufficiently long? Warm rich tints would become you charmingly."

"That is possible," was the quiet reply. "I have not thought of laying it aside, however."

"I am surprised that you should speak so rudely," said Fanny Carroll, drawing near to Belle.

"Well, I hate to see one forever in the same thing. Not a particle of change all of these weeks."

"When one is in mourning change is not expected."

"But one is not expected to wear mourning forever. It gives me the blues to look at her."

"Her black dress, with the sweet sadness in her eyes, only makes me think of the loss that came to her when her father died."

"You have a way of seeing good in everything; and lately it seems that everything I do or say is wrong. It did not used to be so, Fan," and there was bitterness in Belle's voice.

"I have no wish to find fault with you, Belle; but you know how very much you love dress. It is not all of us that can afford to look as prettily."

"Agnes Strong can; she gets more than any of us."

"She may be obliged to use it for something else."

"No indeed! her mother is well to do; lives handsomely. Agnes is here because she would rather live in the city."

"Did she tell you this?"

"I heard it from somebody that knows all about her; she was a belle in Cloverdale at one time."

"She would be a belle anywhere, I should think."

"She is as proud as Lucifer. Never stops to speak to anybody, and when she is invited anywhere, looks up with such an innocent air and says she hasn't time."

"You are wrong, Belle. See her sit at her desk, day after day; she does not have the time to speak to us, and at night she reads, instead of going out."

"Of course; but I should like to know where you learned all this?"

"She told me herself."

"It's easy to see you don't care a pin for me since she came," and Belle turned away her face.

"I do care for you, Belle, just as I always did; but I cannot bear to have you unjust towards one who seems more intent upon the right discharge of her duties, than upon her pleasure."

The two clerks had now reached the street where their way parted.

"Good night, Belle; you won't think I love you less?" said Fanny.

"There's no use concealing it; anybody with half an eye can see that you admire Miss Strong," and the beauty tried to smile in spite of her vexation.

The object of these remarks had reached home; she was tired and chilly. It was Friday night and she was tempted to stay in her room; she had a new book, and her head ached. Dinner was frequently taken alone now; the family dined out, or had visitors, Agnes seldom meeting any one but Mr. Fennimore, Percy and Mrs. Brandon.

"I want to go a little earlier than usual tonight," said Mrs. Brandon to Agnes, as she left the table.

"I have half decided not to go, Mrs. Brandon."

"Not go! I thought you were always ready to go out Friday nights."

"So I am, usually; but to-night I am tired."

"Just the place to get rested."

"I shall not be missed."

"There is One to miss you more than you know, and I shall miss you, child. It has seemed like a new life since you are here to go with me."

Tears were dropping from Agnes' eyes; it was wrong to feel as she did, and about such a trifling thing; and running up to her room, she was soon ready and on her way to the chapel.

Mrs. Brandon was a prudent woman; she knew the weight of little things. She had seen the struggle in the heart of the poor girl, and she knew how sad and lonely it must be, for one thus suddenly snatched from the warm shelter of home. Mrs. Brandon had not told Agnes why she wished to go earlier than usual. At the entrance of the lecture room she whispered that Dr. Reed was in the habit of coming early, and she sought this occasion purposely, to introduce Agnes to the pastor. Opening the door, Dr. Reed was the first to welcome them. If Agnes had been charmed with him in the pulpit, she was no less delighted with a personal interview. His manner was cordial, his voice strangely tender. As he spoke there was a sudden thought, a certain indefinable expression that led Agnes to question if indeed she had ever met with Dr. Reed before, or who she had seen that was like him. Learning that she was from Cloverdale, the doctor remarked,

"I had a brother there; his children have lived there since his death. Do you know any one by the name of Reed, Miss Strong?"

"I know Lyman Reed and his sister Huldah."

"The same. Lyman writes me that he has decided to go through college."

It was the hour for service, conversation was at an end. But a link was forged in the chain that was to keep Agnes Strong calm and restful in her new home.

"There, child, you feel better for going out; I knew you would," Mrs. Brandon said, as she saw Agnes to her room.

"I do feel better, and I thank you for being patient with me; I hardly understand how I could feel as I did."

"Just because you were tired and a little disheartened. We could all appreciate the pastor's remarks. How seldom we comprehend that it is God's plan that we live in a great measure alone, suffer alone, each with his own burden, his own incommunicable grief. How touchingly he spoke of the meaning and necessity of all this. That the whole aim is to drive us away from all earthly craving, leading us to seek God alone, to dwell in him.

"It is humiliating to think that I resolve to do, and then fail to perform; it seems that there is no trust in me."

"It is the work of a lifetime to be a Christian, Agnes. Many times are we tempted to cry, 'it is all a failure,' 'I make no progress.' But if the work be real, every failure may be considered a gain. There will a day come to you, it has already come to me, when you will see plainly that pain and sorrow and disappointment have done more for you than joy and happiness ever did."

Tears were in Mrs. Brandon's eyes; in her endeavor to comfort another, she had touched upon her own grief. A mother, she had seen the loved ones go to sleep before her hour of rest. "He surely will leave me one," she said. But the Gardener needed just that bud to make His garden fair, and the angels knew and called her Agnes home.

Long after Mrs. Brandon left, Agnes sat at the window. It was a glorious night, the distant worlds sparkled like jewels. Insensibly the thoughts of the young girl went backward. It humbled her, as she said, to think that Belle's words had so troubled her. If she would succeed in paying off the mortgage, she must be contented with plain dresses for several years; what mattered if she could only do it. It was such a terrible thing to see a family scattered. To be driven from her home would kill the mother, and Herbert was young.

How vividly it all comes back, the moon-beams climbing up the sides and whitening the wall of her own little chamber. Again she makes one at the parlor table, the mother's cheeks have grown thin and pale, and Helen's face wears a look of thoughtfulness. She knows they miss her, and unrest on her part will be sure to sadden them. Once more her journal is opened and another resolution entered. "A still more earnest effort to bend all my energies to the one object, doing good as I have opportunity, trusting and not over-anxious, so that I may under all circumstances do my best."

{illustration of flowering plant} {decorative device} CHAPTER VI. FANNY CARROLL.

THE season had fairly commenced, balls and parties, opera and theatre, leaving Mrs. Fennimore and her daughters hardly time for needful sleep and rest. Since Mrs. Brandon had spoken so freely of her own past life, Agnes felt a new sympathy for the lonely woman, so courageously striving to soften the pain of her own heart by increasing the happiness of all those with whom she had to do. With a cultivated mind and the easy grace of a woman of the world, Mrs. Brandon was well fitted to be a guide to Agnes' mind, and the evenings in the library were not unfrequently broken with remarks and criticisms on passages read, that aided materially in mental growth and harmony.

Fanny Carroll had not been at her post for two weeks. She looked pale and exhausted as she came in one morning. Agnes made haste to speak to her. "I am glad to see you back, Fanny," and there was more in the look than in the words for Fanny Carroll.

"I am glad to come back, and still I am not as strong as I would like to be."

"Are you quite sure that it was right to come to-day?" asked Agnes, as she looked into the flushed face.

"I am much better than I have been. It is necessary for me to keep my place."

It was no time for words, customers were numerous, and each clerk had as much as she could do. Independent of this, the bookkeeper found her heart running out to the pale clerk. Here was another to whom exertion was necessary. It would not answer for her to lose her place. Perhaps a mother depended upon her, or there were younger brothers and sisters to be educated. With a strong bond of sympathy there had been few words between them, and Agnes resolved when night comes that she will see still more of Fanny Carroll.

The day was unusually busy, it was late before either could leave.

"How do you feel to-night?" asked Agnes, as she joined Fanny on her way out.

"Only tired," repeated the poor child, with an evident attempt at cheerfulness.

"I have been trying to prevail upon her to go to the theatre to-night. She confines herself so closely, no wonder she is sick," said Belle Burnham.

"I have been out all day, Belle."

"Pshaw! 'Tis enough to make any one gloomy. All day in the store, too busy to look or to speak to any one, and at night cooped up at home. If you'd go out more you would be as well as anybody, Fanny Carroll."

"Even if I desired it, I have not always some one to go with me as you have, Belle."

A blush suffused the beautiful cheek, and a gay retort made Fanny laugh in spite of her weariness.

"Living with Mr. Fennimore, I suppose you go all the time," Belle said to Agnes.

"On the contrary, I go very seldom, unless you call going to church 'going out.'"

"I don't, that is just as mournful as staying at home. We need diversion, something lively after being confined all day. Others go; James Fieldson was out every night last week, he says it is necessary, he could not live without it."

Agnes stood with her hand on the door knob.

"You are weary, Fanny, if you are ready to go now I will walk with you."

Just then a door was closed, and Mr. Ludlow passed through the room with his hat drawn over his eyes.

"Where in the world did he come from," exclaimed Belle; "however, there's no danger of his seeing or hearing us; if ever a man lived in the clouds it's Mr. Ludlow. If I had a fraction of what he's got, I'd live differently. He is another of your quiet stay-at-home bodies. If it was not for that, I think I'd set my cap for him."

"What is the matter, Belle? it takes you so long to get ready," said Fanny, looking back.

"I am not going your way to-night, you needn't wait for me," and a little ironical laugh followed the two girls into the street.

"Take my arm, Fanny, it will be a support to you," said Agnes.

"I had no idea I was so weak. Mother felt badly to have me come; but I thought Mr. Fennimore would expect me; two weeks is a long time, and this is our busiest season."

Little by little Agnes gleaned that an elder sister had acted as clerk; "she died last year," and Fanny had taken her place. Of a delicate constitution and consumptive tendency, confinement did not agree with her. But the necessity was great; her mother depended upon her salary, she could not give it up.

"Suppose you stay at home another week, until you are quite over this cold," suggested Agnes.

"If I could do so, and feel easy and comfortable about it, I would. Dr. Murray says I ought to. How can I when there is so much for me to do?"

"Do you lean upon yourself, Fanny, or do you feel that your way is marked and watched over by God?"

"If I fail to draw my allowance from Mr. Fennimore, who will provide bread for us?"

"The One that seeth the sparrow as it falls. With strength denied, He does not exact labor."

"I know it; but to feel at ease--to know that He will do it. I do try, Agnes."

Tears dimmed Agnes' eyes; she knew the feeling that oppressed Fanny's heart, she had felt the same. Exerting herself, she endeavored to comfort the poor girl, and at length won a promise that she would rest quietly until she was stronger, more able to do. "In the mean-time I will come and see you, if you will permit me."

"I shall be glad to see you; but the neighborhood in which we live is not very pleasant. I am glad that you are with Mr. Fennimore, Agnes."

"Later than ever," said Mrs. Brandon, as Agnes entered the dining-room.

"You have heard me speak of Fanny Carroll, one of the clerks in the silk department? She has been absent two weeks, with a cold. To-day she was at the store. We came out together, and she seemed so weak and feeble that I could not leave her."

"You saw her home?"

"I left her at the door. It was so late I did not venture in; and I thought, perhaps, you would go with me."

"Most certainly I will. Are they poor?"

"So poor that Fanny feels obliged to exert herself."

"It is a sad case. Her sister was a beautiful girl."

"A little material help would be of great benefit to Fanny. If she could have just what is spent for an evening's pleasure; if some lady who has enough would do without a new dress or a new bonnet. Don't laugh at me. Is there anything that I can do without?"

"I think not, Agnes," and a smile beautified the motherly face.

"What made you so late, Miss Agnes," and Percy bounded into the room.

"I made the walk longer than usual," replied Agnes, as she held out her hand to the child.

"Are you through your dinner?"

"Quite through, Percy."

"Papa said I must not give it to you till after dinner."

"A letter, Percy; I am glad."

"May I go with you, please?"

"If you like; but while I am reading there will be no person to talk with you."

"I shall see how glad you will be that I had it for you."

One reading did not satisfy; it had to be read and re-read, so that each word would be rightly understood.

"Christmas will soon be here, and then February. We are counting so much on seeing you," Helen had written.

"Not half as much as I count upon it," said Agnes, as she folded the letter slowly.

"If your letter makes you cry, I won't give you another," said Percy, lifting his little hand to wipe away the tears.

The action aroused Agnes, she had forgotten the child; and raising her head, she held his attention with pleasant stories until Vic came for him.

Mechanically Agnes opened her book; for once she had no desire to study. So much sorrow and toil to live; so much display and magnificence. Why not make a division? the rich giving of their abundance, and the poor making a wise use of the aid received. Fanny Carroll's case was not a peculiar one; all over that great city were others, quite as trying; aged, homeless poor, and little children asking for bread. It was dangerous ground and could lead to nothing profitable. Brushing the damp hair from her forehead, Agnes tried once more to fix her thoughts on her book. It was useless, and rising suddenly she went to the library.

Surrounded by worthies of the past, the questioning spirit vanished. Taking down a rare old volume of George Herbert, she soon became so thoroughly absorbed, that she was not conscious when the door opened and Mr. Fennimore entered.

"Do not disturb yourself, Miss Agnes, we are only to remain a moment. You have seen Dr. Murray. Miss Strong, doctor."

"I remember the occasion," said the doctor, extending his hand. "I am very happy to meet you again, Miss Strong."

A blush suffused Agnes' cheek; she, too, remembered the occasion; entering a great city with but one face that she had ever seen, and uncertain if she was to meet that face.

Dr. Murray was a man of rare conversational power, with a ready tact that enabled him at all times to say just the necessary thing. He saw the timid, hesitating manner, and glancing over the shelves began reviewing authors, one by one, with the readiness of one who had but just laid them aside. Agnes was herself again, speaking of the books she had read, jotting down on a scrap of paper others suggested by the doctor, and asking questions with the air of one accustomed to turn every opportunity to good account.

Mr. Fennimore was hunting papers, presently he turned to the doctor.

"I am sorry to disturb you, but this is the document in question."

"I have to apologize to Miss Strong for taking so much of her time," said the doctor, with a smile.

"The pleasure and the profit is mine," was the reply.

Music floated up from the parlors. Mrs. Brandon came in to say "good-night."

"So much in one day," said Agnes. "Experiences are the milestones in life's journey."

"They are the conditions of growth in character," returned Mrs. Brandon.

{decorative device} {decorative device} CHAPTER VII. CHRISTMAS.

LITTLE Percy had never seen a happier Christmas. "Please come and see what Santa Claus brought me," starting Agnes out of her dream of home. "Not much, but it will show that I remember them," as she thought of the small presents sent the day before.

Outside the world was beautiful, a light feathery snow lay upon the roofs and steeples, capped cornice and pillar, and hung in graceful festoons from leafless branches. The air was clear without, excessively cold, and the sun rays, glancing through the crystal cordage, transformed each tree and shrub into a fairy palace. A fitting morning on which to commemorate the birthday of the Redeemer, and a song of gladness was on Agnes' lips. It did not seem long since she was as unconscious as Percy, that anybody but Santa Claus had to do with Christmas presents.

"Not a moment longer, good-by, Percy."

"Just a minute, you haven't seen all," cried the child.

"Another time, Percy, I shall be late," and hastily kissing the little pleading face, Agnes slipped quickly out of sight.

Short as was the walk to the store, it was long enough to meet with diversity in life. Magnificence and beauty, squalid want and deformity, age and youth; little children clad in velvet and fur, and little children cold and thin, their great wandering eyes riveted on the windows, longing and hungering for just one present with which to celebrate Christmas.

"Dear, dear! If God would give me that, maybe He will. Mother says He gives us everything; dear, dear! I just wish He would."

Involuntarily Agnes listened. It was strange to hear children speak in that fashion, poor and thin as they were, they were evidently the children of parents who were striving to lead them aright; perhaps they had never seen a doll before, at least, had never seen one as beautiful.

"Little girl what is it that you want so very much?"

"O, Miss, if I had that doll for Addie, she loves dolls, the very sight of it would make her most well again."

"Who is Addie? your little sister?"

"Yes, Miss, she's my 'dopted sister; mother took her and she's sick most all the time.

"You want the doll to give to this little sick sister?"

"Yes, Miss, mother says it's better to give something than to have things given to us."

"Wouldn't you like something for yourself?"

"If I was to have anything else, I rather it would be for mother. God has given me such a big present."

"What has He given you?"

"Don't you know? He gives it to us all; He gives us Jesus. This is His birthday."

Agnes' cheeks were wet, while the child's face was glowing as before, it was beseechingly tender.

"I have not time this morning, but if you will tell me where you live, I will come and see Addie, and perhaps I will bring her a doll."

As soon as dinner was over, Mrs. Brandon and Agnes, each with a large wax doll that had received an uncommon share of admiration in former days, set off for Mrs. Capens. The sun during the day had softened the snow, then freezing at night, rendered the less frequented streets uneven and tiresome.

"I don't like to go back without finding her," Agnes said, as Mrs. Brandon remarked that it was "getting late." "Suppose we inquire?"

"Yes, at the grocery on the corner. No, here comes a policeman; but I am afraid, child, that you have been deceived. There are hundreds of them in the city who just make a business of begging. They tell such good stories, but in reality there is no truth in them."

"O, dear! I had not thought of anything like this."

"It may not be so in this case. Can you direct us to ----- Street, sir? It leads from this street we have been told; but we cannot find it," said Mrs. Brandon to the policeman.

"----- Street," repeated the man, looking up and down; "never heard of it. Not here, that's certain."

"I am sorry," sighed Agnes. "It can't be that it was all put on; she looked so sweet and innocent, poor child."

"Stop a moment," cried the policeman, "there is a ----- Place by that name."

"That is it; I call everything street. She told me the truth, I was sure of it," exclaimed Agnes.

A few minutes walk brought them to ----- Place.

"How poor and miserable it looks," said Agnes.

"This is not the worst part of our city. I frequently go to more frightful places than this," was the reply.

"One of the central houses it must be. Yes, here it is," and mounting the broken, dingy looking steps, Agnes knocked on the door.

"Too light a rap to be heard," said Mrs. Brandon, at the same time making as loud a noise as she was able, with a perceptible shaking of the door. A shuffling step was heard in the passage, and the door grated on its hinges.

"Does Mrs. Capen live here?" asked Mrs. Brandon of the singularly gaunt, ill-favored man before them.

"Capen? Capen? let's see. Here, Sal, any of the Capens here?"

"Not that I knows of," and a half-grown girl with a bushy red head, and a crying baby in her arms, came and stood before the two ladies.

"We have been told that she lived here; would you be so good as to inquire?" continued Mrs. Brandon.

"Here, pap, take bub; I'll just run up and see, I knows pretty much all the folks."

It was not long before Sal returned.

"Mrs. Capen is up there," she said as she took the baby; "you see she's so quiet, that's the way of it."

Agnes was not content to go behind, and side by side the two ladies pressed up the long, dark stairs. Mrs. Capen was on the fourth floor. A slight tap on the door, and it was opened by a tall, dignified lady; her clothing was clean, but poor and scant. To the inquiry, "Does Mrs. Capen live here?"

"I am Mrs. Capen, and this is the lady Floy saw in the morning," was said in a sweet, low voice. At the same time the woman invited her visitors to enter. A blush suffused the hollow cheek as she said simply, "We have but one chair; if you will wait I will bring another."

A fire of sticks was burning on the hearth, and by the light Agnes saw how barren the room was of comfort.

"Floy told me that you was coming, and she asked me to borrow a chair," said Mrs. Capen, as she returned with an awkward looking stool. "Floy and Terry are out for an errand, they will be back presently."

Hardly were the words said when the children entered.

"I thought of you all day, Miss, and to-night it was getting so late, I was afraid, perhaps--" and the words were suddenly checked.

"You was afraid that I could not come," said Agnes, with a smile of encouragement.

"Yes, Miss."

Throwing back their shawls, the fire-light fell on the little waxen faces.

"Dear! dear!" and Floy's eyes danced.

"If this doll was yours, would you still like to give it to Addie?' asked Agnes.

"O, I would like it. I never saw anything so pretty. I most know it will make Addie well again."

"You may have it, to do with as you like, Floy."

Sinking on her knees and clasping the doll in her arms, Floy bowed her head, "Thank you; God thank you, lady," and away she ran. A smothered cry from a little closet room, and then "dear! dear" of Floy, told the delight of the sick child over her treasure.

"Would you like to know what I am to do with mine?" asked Mrs. Brandon, holding up her doll, slightly smaller, but quite as pretty as the other.

"Maybe you would like to give it to the lame girls down stairs," said Floy, as she came back and stood by the side of her mother.

"This doll is for you, Floy."

"Is it really for me? I did not ask God but for one--just one for Addie."

"God always gives us more than we ask for, child."

As Floy hurried back to show her doll to Addie, Mrs. Brandon drew the mother to talk of herself. It was a sad history, bereavement, illness, loss, and now almost destitution. Still, dark as it was, there was faith, and trust, and confidence in One on whom she had believed in her youth. As Floy said, Addie was taken from the bed side of a dead mother, "poorer then than I was," said Mrs. Capen. "She is a delicate child, cannot bear exposure, and live on the coarse food like Floy and Terry."

With a few words to Addie as she lay with the doll in her arms the visitors left.

"We will see you to-morrow," Mrs. Brandon said, as Floy lit the inch of tallow candle, and saw them down to the door.

"It humbles me to think of that child's faith," Agnes said, as she reached her own comfortable room. "Asking God for a gift for another, kneeling and thanking him for it when received. She did not seem to be surprised."

"Such trust we ought to have, Agnes; making our wants known and leaving the issue with Him."

"There are no miracles," replied Agnes. "If we do not provide bread to eat, and raiment to put on, and homes to dwell in, we shall not have them."

"Our Father knoweth that we have need of these things. We are to ask Him."

{illustration of a lily} {decorative device} CHAPTER VIII. COUNTING THE DAYS.

FOR the winter Cloverdale was unusually quiet, society, with many, being restricted to neighborly calls and the usual attendance upon church. Of these Mrs. Strong was one. Not that she selfishly confined herself to the comfortable enjoyment of her own home. The necessity that called for action on the part of Agnes, left her with the burden that had been shared between them. For the sake of the children she must make the home attractive, they missed Agnes. True, February was coming, and counting the days, Helen and Herbert never stopped to think of what was continually before the mother, namely, that Agnes' visit would be for a few days only, and the second leave-taking would be more trying than the first. She did not say this, and they did not think of it, laying their plans and anticipating the time.

"We want all pleasant days, such coasting as we'll have! Perhaps Farmer Thurston will give us a ride; he always seemed to think so much of sister," said Herbert.

"I guess Prudy will be glad to see her, such friends they used to be. I never see Prudy anywhere that she don't ask for her," added Helen.

"If we have ice she can take my skates. I want her to have a real nice time," continued Herbert.

"A real nice time, so do I," and Jessie climbed up to Herbert's knee and looked wistfully into his face.

"We must not expect too much," said Mrs. Strong, anxious to tone down their enthusiasm. "We shall be glad to see sister, let the days be as they will. As for snow and ice it does not look like it."

At length the day came, the children's impatience was not greater than the mother's, only more visible. Helen and Herbert were up very early. It was ironing day, and Helen finished the napkins and towels, and then made an attempt on a dress for herself. "I would like sister to see some improvement, I could always iron towels and napkins," she said.

"I am afraid you will be late for school, children. Do not think of anything but your lessons now."

"I shall try not to mother; I am glad the cars are not due until school is out," replied Herbert.

"Dear child, she will be glad to see her old room looking just as she left it," Mrs. Strong said, as she opened the linen closet and folded away the week's ironing. Then going into the small chamber she smoothed the white counterpane, dusted the books, and looped up the curtains. "If she was only to stay!" and brave as the mother endeavored to be, the lesson she tried to impress upon Herbert was imperfectly learned by herself. Long before the train was due, Jessie was standing at the window, her small nose flattened against the pane, watching and waiting with a strange look of patience on the ruddy face.

"Coming, coming, mother! Let us all go to the dépot, and Herbert dropped his books.

"It is too cold for Jessie, you and Helen go."

Herbert's pace quickened into a run. Agnes was standing on the platform. "I am glad, so glad to see you," and for the first time, Herbert learned that words are but poor interpreters when the heart is stirred.

"I am glad to see the dear old home looking just the same," Agnes said, as she nestled down by the parlor fire. "Only you have grown paler and thinner, mother."

"Mother is growing old, losing her good looks," was the quiet reply.

"I am glad to be older, ain't you, Agnes? by-and-by I can do something," and Herbert looked proudly into his sister's face.

They were pleasant days, and only when the children were asleep did mother and daughter talk over the cares and responsibilities that weighed upon each.

There was no murmuring, and still Agnes kept nothing back.

"Five hundred dollars with board looked to me as very considerable, but come to pay the interest, it will leave not much. If I spend any part of this for dress, it will delay the final payment,if, indeed, I can pay it at all."

"I have thought of this, child, and as we are in mourning, it may be as well to continue to wear it; fewer changes are required in order to make a creditable appearance, and still it is a sombre dress for you."

"I think it is best, mother, and with a few cheap dresses for the summer I can do very well. I never had any idea how much it takes just for shoes, handkerchiefs, gloves, and pins," and thus the girl who had never counted closely, was made to ask not how much, but how little could she possible do with

"I would not have troubled you about this, what you need you must have. We can do without better than you can, child."

"I confess that it did trouble me at first, I could not bear their remarks. But when I came to see the destitution in the city, delicate women and beautiful children without the comforts of life, I forgot all about my dress. I have learned a great deal this winter, mother."

"We cannot see now, but by-and-by we shall know why we could not break through the bolts and bars. It is God's plan or I could not bear it, child."

"And, mother, I have been thinking if there was anything more that I could do."

"What more, when you are doing all the time?"

"You know at school I got the prize for composition, and at night, when we had time, the girls would listen to my stories, asking for more, and now and then begging me to write them down. I never thought of them as worthy to be read, but now, when it is so necessary, that I do all I can, I have thought perhaps--"

"Your brain is taxed already, I cannot say no more."

"But, mother, if in this way I can earn enough for little needs I shall be happier, leaving the salary to go for payment of the debt."

"Each year it will be more and the debt less."

"So we will hope; and, mother, we may not have the time again. You will not think that I shall fail in what I have undertaken, and if I have said anything of my own little wants to make you fret, you will forget it. I am well and strong, and you will lean upon me, and if I can do more you will be glad, dear mother."

With the brown head clasped to her bosom, Mrs. Strong sat looking into the waning fire. What visions rose up before her she did not say, but kissing the tear-wet cheek, "you have a look like your father, child."

"I would gladly know, mother, if he sees and understands our little life; if he comprehends the full measure the future holds for us, whether of joy or sorrow. There are times I know it is not real, when I seem to feel his hand upon my head, his kiss on my forehead. I do try, and trying I would like to have him know."

"Jesus knows."

"This comforts me, and papa is with Him."

Long after Agnes was asleep, the mother crept from her bed up to the small room. She could not sleep without another look at the face that was so soon to go from her. One cheek was pillowed on the round, white arm, the mass of long, dark hair falling in loose curls over the pillow. Kneeling as she used to kneel, she prayed, "Father, keep her heart pure, and give her strength for all there is for her to do."

The burden had gone from the mother's heart, the benison of peace was over her.

{decorative device} CHAPTER IX. TAKING UP THE BURDEN.

THE good-by has been said, Agnes is speeding away to the city, leaving Herbert and Helen straining their eyes to catch another look of the train, with the mother and Jessie hid away in the small room at home.

"It will be summer when she comes again," and Herbert thrust his unmittened hands into his pockets.

"She will stay longer then," said Helen, by way of comfort.

"If I was only a big boy, but I can do it," said Herbert, walking away towards the house.

"What is it that you can do?"

"You will see when the spring opens and the ground is plowed up. Sister wouldn't have told me if she'd thought I couldn't do it."

"She didn't think that you could plant corn and potatoes."

"But I can, and I shall do my best to learn."

"I wonder what made her think of this?"

"I know, she's trying to save the house from being sold. You know you would hate to live anywhere else."

"And so would you."

"I shouldn't a great while; I'm going on eleven, and the first thing I should do when a man would be to buy it back again."

"Suppose you hadn't anything to do it with?"

"That's not like sister, she doesn't stop to ask questions, she just goes at it, and I should. Hallo! there's Jessie coming to meet us."

It was a rare occasion to Percy when Agnes returned, so many things had occurred, and, at length, he insisted that she must go with him to the parlor. Kate was ill, and his mother and Nellie were making visits. Sick and alone, Agnes could not refuse, much as she desired to spend the evening in her own room.

Kate was the youngest, a fair haired, sprightly girl, not as much sought for and petted by society, as her more beautiful sister, Nellie. Of a slight constitution, constant excitement and late hours were making sad havoc with her health; and a cold contracted at a fancy ball a few evenings previous, made it necessary to call a physician, who at once prescribed a cessation from parties "for a month." Curled up on the sofa in a blue silk wrapper, that set off her pure complexion and light, soft hair charmingly, Kate was trying to wile away the time with a book.

"I told Miss Agnes that you were sick, and she has come to see you," said Percy, leading his friend directly to the sofa.

"I am sorry to find you suffering," said Agnes, stooping to kiss the white forehead. "If my coming is any intrusion, you will not hesitate to tell me."

"It is lonely to be sick, and especially at this season; we had so many engagements. It was very kind of you to come with Percy."

"What can I do for you?" asked Agnes, after she had exhausted the incidents of her journey; "you have a book; shall I read to you?"

"I rather you would sing the songs you sing for Percy," was the reply.

Percy sprang to the instrument; fortunately it was open.

"I have almost forgotten the little that I knew; you must excuse me if I break down entirely," said Agnes, as she ran her fingers over the keys. There was compass and sweetness to the voice, and shutting her eyes, Kate gave herself up to the enjoyment of songs, of a nature widely different from those she had before heard in connection with the piano.

"I cannot sufficiently thank you," said the sick girl, as once more Agnes drew her chair to the sofa; "if forgetting means want of practice, I shall insist upon your using the instrument. Nellie has no time for it, and I am worthless just now. It is a real pleasure to hear you sing."

"You are very kind. Music requires practice, and my duties demand nearly all my time," said Agnes, modestly. Creeping up into her arms, Percy laid his head on her shoulder, and was soon fast asleep.

"How is this?" said Mrs. Brandon, coming in with Dr. Murray, "where is Vic?"

"Percy had permission to stay with me, auntie. He soon tired, and finding Miss Strong begged her to return with him. I have passed a very pleasant evening," said the invalid.

"I am afraid that I stand but a small chance, Miss Kate."

"I hope so, Dr. Murray. I am in haste to get well."

"Such company as you have to-night will prove no hinderance; for the rest you must make up your mind to be very quiet; a month is not such an age."

"Can I go out then?"

"If you are prudent and quite well of your cold."

Turning to Agnes, the doctor spoke of her visit to Cloverdale, asking of her family with the freedom of a friend. Incidentally Fanny Carroll's name was mentioned.

"She is not as well. I hope you will find an early opportunity to visit her, Miss Strong."

"Is her recovery doubtful, Dr. Murray?"

"She can live but few months," was the reply.

Lingering till she saw Kate asleep, Agnes went to her room. On her way she stepped in to see Mrs. Brandon.

"Have you seen Fanny since I left?"

"I have called there several times."

"Dr. Murray says she is not as well."

"She was better; then came hemorrhage of the lungs, and now there is little hope."

"I had not thought of this. I supposed that rest was all she needed. Does she know how really ill she is?"

"She is quite aware of it; her restlessness is all gone. We must go and see her, Agnes."

"The last time I was there she told me of her plans. She thought to do so much for her mother and her little brothers and sisters."

"God has given her to see that her own little plans are not of so much account as she once thought them. It is a blessed thing, this trust in God, Agnes."

Kate did not go out at the end of a month, as she expected to do. Not satisfied with one visit, Percy came every evening for Agnes to go to the parlor. Mrs. Fennimore and Nellie were frequently there. With music and cheerful conversation the invalid seemed to rally. Mrs. Brandon was lively and entertaining.

"If you can, Kate will be glad tohave you drive with her," Mrs. Fennimore said to Agnes, as she went out from lunch.

"I would like it, Mrs. Fennimore, but I have not the time."

"I wish you would," cried Percy, who stood ready to accompany them.

"Your papa will expect me at the store," and resolutely Agnes walked down the street.

As the spring opened visits to Fanny Carroll were more frequent, always at night and necessarily short, still it was a comfort to the invalid, and the quiet, cheerful resignation at all times manifest, was a useful lesson to Agnes.

Belle Burnham passed a gay winter, she did not understand how Fanny could be anything but gloomy; shut up in one room, it was enough to kill anybody. Fanny must not expect to see her, and at length she contented herself with sending messages by Agnes.

"We have always been friends. Belle has a good, kind heart, but she loves dress and display, and I have sometimes feared that she is not sufficiently careful of the ways and means by which she gets it. For my sake, Agnes, watch over Belle," Fanny said.

"I cannot flatter myself that I have the least influence. Indeed, I have fancied of late that Belle had a real dislike to me."

"I cannot think that, Agnes; Belle is far from being happy, and she is often rude and ironical in a vain attempt to cover real feeling.

"I will remember this, Fanny, and for your sake I will try to be on friendly terms with Belle."

With so many calls upon her time, Agnes had fewer hours in the library, and fewer talks with Mrs. Brandon. The shy, timid manner was wearing off; in its place there was an easy, graceful movement, as though accustomed to drawing-rooms from her infancy. With nothing of outward adornment, a magnificent suit of dark hair, large liquid eyes, superb teeth, and a complexion denoting health, Agnes Strong was one to be admired. With a love of beauty, and well knowing the advantage of a tasteful dress, she did not seem to have a thought with regard to herself. One purpose was before her, to that she bent herself, it must be accomplished. If there was one characteristic more than another predominate it was perseverance, a certain fixed going on, as though it were an impossibility to swerve from the prescribed course.

While Mr. Fennimore flattered himself that he was doing a very good thing in thus giving a responsible position to the daughter of his friend, and Mr. Ludlow was arguing from time to time the justice, or rather want of justice, in employing a competent hand to do the work at a third of what was formerly given, Mr. Gilchrist was sifting the young bookkeeper with the eye of one accustomed to find flaws.

"All very well as long as the novelty lasts. The girl knows what she is about, but just let her make acquaintance and find out how really pretty she is, and that's the end of it. A woman can't stick. For the life of me, I can't see what Fennimore meant; better have sold the house at once."

So thought Mr. Gilchrist, and so he talked to his partners; but as the days passed, and he saw the young clerk go in and out with a firm resolute purpose, the quiet, unobtrusive appearance, without a thought to attract, and still attractive, nonplussed him and obliged him to confess that it was a phase of woman life that he had not before seen.

Ignorant that she was the object of scrutiny on the part of her employers, Agnes kept a firm, undaunted spirit; what if it did take the freshness and bloom of her girlhood? She had the consciousness of doing right.

As the days wore on, a more intimate acquaintance was made with Dr. Reed; a faithful pastor, Agnes found in him a tender, sympathizing friend. The orphan whom Mrs. Capen had undertaken to nurse in her illness, and for whom Floy had asked God to send a "dolly," was now well, an active, lovely child, and through Dr. Reed's influence adopted into a worthy family, leaving Mrs. Capen to care more especially for her own.

"It is a blessed thing to have the will and the ability to do good," Agnes said to Mrs. Brandon, as they returned from a visit to the poor woman.

"It is not always with an outlay of money that the greatest good is accomplished; influence is in many cases more valuable, and simple kindness, I have sometimes felt, goes further than either," was the reply.

"True, kindness stimulates and energizes, but money is the foundation on which to lay this more acceptably."

"Sunshine is more necessary to struggling vines than rich soil, and struggling hearts need the warmth of sympathy."

"I never used to feel this as I do now."

"You were not situated so that you could feel this until now.

"Does every good come to us through sacrifice?"

"Through labor, and care, and sorrow, we enter into the life beyond. Had this been otherwise, the Son of Man would not have suffered all that He did suffer, in order that He might be the comforter, the friend, the more than brother. Sharp and bitter as our sorrow, it perfects His image in our hearts."

"I am trying to think more of the 'well done,'" said Agnes.

"Think what it will be when we have safely crossed the river; it won't be long now. We shall wonder then, that we could ever have been troubled over the unevenness of the way."

{illustration of flowers} {decorative device} CHAPTER X. THE HALF ACRE LOT.

IN the sunshine Cloverdale rejoiced; dwellings were immersed in it, streets were paved with it. Mrs. Strong's house was open, and Mrs. Strong herself clipping and pruning, with Herbert and Helen and Jessie picking up leaves and straws. The warm south wind sweeping over violet beds sent a rich perfume through the rooms. The windows were open in the chambers above, and the flutter of a white curtain caused a sigh to escape the mother's lips.

"If sister could be with us; she loves this kind of work." Herbert said, as he gathered up the branches and wheeled them off in his small cart. A stout, healthy lad, the winter had made a perceptible change in him. Not only was he older, but taller, more muscular, with a deep, earnest look in his eyes.

"I don't suppose I can plow; but when the ground is ready, I can plant the seed, and then keep it from weeds."

"I think between us we can do it, Herbert."

"To plant corn and potatoes would hardly be suitable for you, mother."

"A great many women do this, Herbert."

"You never did, mother."

"I never did, but I must now."

Herbert did not say any more; he saw that his mother's face was calm, and he knew that many things had been done through the winter that had never been done before. Helen's hands were covered with moist earth.

"It's nice; but I'm tired," said Jessie, sitting down on the steps. "I'll ask God to blow the leaves away; it's easier than to pick them up."

"God will not blow away the leaves to save us the trouble of picking them up. You must not ask Him for anything like this," said Helen, stooping to brush the curls from the flushed forehead.

"Mamma said I might ask Him for anything I wanted, and I am going to ask Him for this, and let Him do it if He wants to."

Helen turned away with a rogueish little smile on her lips. "We each have something and this happens to be my part."

It had been a question with Mrs. Strong and Agnes, how to use the half acre in the rear of the house to the best advantage. Vegetables were first thought of, but there was no market; besides it had always been Mrs. Strong's privilege to give away from the products of her garden more than was consumed by herself.

"Suppose you have a strawberry bed. This can be managed easily, is more of a luxury, and you may find sales at the dépot," suggested Agnes.

"Another season, perhaps; Herbert will be older, and I shall be more accustomed to do things easily," replied the mother. "James Thurston managed to raise corn and potatoes on a spot not much bigger than ours."

"If we can raise but a partial supply of corn and potatoes, it will certainly be a great item in the yearly account; and next year the strawberry bed," said Agnes, musingly.

With the ground plowed, Herbert found it hard work to plant, rounding up the hills and flattening them on the top with his hoe.

"I tell you what it is, child, I'm not going to let you, or your mother, do the planting," said farmer Thurston, as he saw what Mrs. Strong proposed to do. "My folks want a good deal of fine sewing, I don't know exactly what; but something handsomer than they can make. Now, I am just going to put in corn and potatoes, and fill in the corners with radishes and melons and squashes; they are pretty to look at, and, perhaps, when they are ripe we can find a market for them; nothing so delicious as a good, nice watermelon, or a nutmeg in the season."

This was said by farmer Thurston, as he looked straight into Herbert's face, all the time he intended it for Mrs. Strong to hear.

"If it is fine sewing that your wife wants, Mr. Thurston, and you will take it in return for your work, I shall be glad to do it. True, Herbert and I can do all there is to be done, but it will take us longer, and we should not do it as well, perhaps."

"It won't take me long; I'll bring the boys and have it done in no time."

"Will your wife send up the sewing, or shall I go for it."

"Bless you, no! I'll send up my woman; she wants to see you any way; good-day," and the farmer was gone.

"Pretty work for Ebenezer Strong's wife; and that girl of his trying hard to keep the house. I wanted to do it, and I couldn't think of any other way than to bring in the sewing. I'll see she don't have much of it. It makes some people right down proud to be poor, and the Strongs are just that kind; they'll work their fingers off before they'll accept favors," was the farmer's soliloquy.

The corn was planted, with several rows of potatoes, a square of beans, with peas, tomatoes, melons, squashes, cucumbers--every available corner was filled in. "A vegetable garden after all," exclaimed Mrs. Strong.

"If there's any more than you need for your own use, I'll take them over to the 'Mills,'" said the farmer, as Mrs. Strong commented upon the amount that he had put into so small a space.

"You see there's nothing like close work, just keep down the weeds, they'll grow quite as well for being neighborly," and the farmer talked of possibilities, making a long bed on each side of the front yard for good blooming flowers, "suitable for bouquets," and thus Mrs. Strong's heart was strengthened, she could keep down the weeds, and as the days went on the way would open.

Sunshine and rain acting upon the buried seed, soon brought it up to greet the light and {illustration of a woman on a horse speaking with a woman holding a basket of clothing} air, the garden was beautiful with its wealth of springing leaves, a strong, fresh growth that promised well.

The sewing did not come, but one pleasant afternoon when the corn was sending up its long leaves, and the cucumbers and squashes were in bloom, Mrs. Thurston came to make a "real old-fashioned visit." She had a big reticule on the arm of her saddle, and Mrs. Strong fully expected to see something very elaborate.

"Only some shirts for Hiram, I thought I'd bring just what I had, it's not much sewing I do at home, and Prudy don't get much time. She's taken up a new study, and now there's nothing but flowers, garden flowers won't do, they must come from the woods, and such tramps she has to get them, and then she picks them to pieces, and such a litter! I like it though, almost as well as she does, only I don't just know what family, and order, and genus means; counting up pistils and stamens is new work, but Prudy likes it and so does Hiram, I sometimes wish Agnes was at home to go with them."

Mr. Thurston spoke to me about some fine sewing, I am ready to do it any time," returned Mrs. Strong, as her neighbor paused.

"Did he? well, that was kind in him, I was needing some a while ago, and I shall want some more by-and-by, I'll let you know in time," and Mrs. Thurston began to talk of the garden, and Agnes. "It must be real lonesome without her."

"We miss her, Agnes is a good, brave girl; it is harder for her than it is for us. Such a home child, she didn't use to think that she could sleep away from her mother."

"I told Prudy so, she sometimes gets lonely on the farm, and thinks it would be fine to go away from home. I told her Agnes would never have gone if she hadn't felt it to be her duty. It's not really necessary for Prudy, and come to the case in hand, I don't suppose she would leave us any way."

"Agnes would rather be at home than any- where else in the world," returned Mrs. Strong. "You know the place is mortgaged, and she is in hopes that in a few years she can pay it off."

"Then she don't go flying about at night with every body that comes along?"

"Mr. Fennimore has a large library. She writes me that she reads every moment that she can get."

"Prudy has a cousin that writes her a good deal about lectures, and concerts, and such things. Agnes don't go to any of these?"

"She attended a few lectures and one or two concerts last winter, but this she found interfered with her duties."

"Cloverdale has parted with a good many of the young folks. I always thought Lyman Reed's going had something to do with Agnes."

"O, no, Mrs. Thurston, Lyman Reed went to college."

"But he didn't decide to go till after Agnes left."

"There was some trouble about the money his father left him. I hardly know what, still I know it fretted him, and no doubt affected his decision with regard to a college course."

Mrs. Thurston was a discerning woman, she had come out purposely to learn how it was with the widow Strong, and she knew the best way to unloose the mother's tongue was to talk of Agnes.

"If I only knew where the pinch is, I could help her a good deal," Mr. Thurston said to his wife, and the good woman started with a purpose to find out a thing that she was pretty sure to accomplish.

As night came on Farmer Thurston called, while his wife was putting up her work he spoke of the crops, the probability of a good yield, with the current prices, and easy exchange of produce. "Don't bother yourself about the corn," he said to Herbert, "I've got a little plow that will run right through the rows, just the cutest little thing."

Mrs. Strong was surprised at the interest she began to feel in farm life, a portion of each day she spent in the garden keeping down the weeds, and studying the nature of the plants; wondering as she so often said, to see so much growing in the corners and on the walls.

"Next year we must have grapes, it is a good place, the sun can get to them all day, and travellers like grapes, mother; I am sure of selling them at the dépot," said Herbert.

Floating out on the glad expectancy of something better to come, boquets were made each time the train came in. Herbert filled his basket, and if the day was warm, perching Jessie on his shoulder, and marched to the dépot, the baby's smiles and dimpled hands causing the travellers to forget the dust and heat.

"I would like to have everything look as well as possible when sister comes," said Mrs. Strong to Helen. "Shut up in the city all summer, it will be refreshing to smell the flowers, and to taste the fresh, crisp vegetables."

"What was it farmer Thurston said about buckwheat?" asked Herbert, lifting his cap and looking into his mother's face.

"That it was a late crop, and could be put in after other things have passed; it matures quickly."

"Just the thing for us, mother."

"We cannot have everything, child."

"There's one thing we have, mother, that seems to me more beautiful every day," said Helen, as she sat down on the door step and looked into the glowing west.

"What is this, Helen?"

"The sunset and the sunrise is ours, mother."

"Yes, child, and God's love is ours."

{decorative device} {decorative device} CHAPTER XI. SUMMER IN THE CITY.

FANNY CARROLL had gone home!

"We must not neglect Mrs. Carroll," Mrs. Brandon said; " I know the loneliness of a mother's heart. She needs us more than she did when Fanny was with her."

Belle Burnham missed Fanny for a week, and then the old dashing manner came back. Belle was anticipating a trip to the shore during the summer vacation, and there was no end to the plans she had mapped out.

"I wonder how it is?" was sometimes said by Clara Randall. "But Belle is beautiful, and no doubt her friends help her. I have somewhere heard that she had a rich bachelor uncle, who liked to indulge her," and the thought vanished. Clara had so much to do to meet the expenses that it would be enjoyment to her simply to have a few weeks quiet at home.

During the long June days Agnes went to the store; doing her best to enjoy, catching the brightness, and striving for a cheerful, happy spirit. Inviting as were the shop windows, she passed them with only an admiring glance; finding leisure at night to make the little inexpensive changes in dress that kept her neat, and not particularly noticeable as old fashioned and indifferent. It was the month for leave taking. To remain in the city would be at the risk of being unfashionable; Mrs. Fennimore was to go to Saratoga.

"It will be the best thing for Kate, and papa can be with us more there than at any other place," said the fashionable mother.

Agnes knows that she will miss them. Percy's gleeful laugh has cheered her many a time; his tender pleading eyes strangely reminded her of Jessie. Everywhere the burning heat and dust-filled atmosphere makes her long for the green glades and shady nooks of Cloverdale. Dr. Reed was likewise enjoying a vacation; the Wednesday evening lecture was laid aside, Friday evening meetings but feebly attended, and on Sabbath the church door was shut.

"It will give us an opportunity to visit some of the neighboring churches, there are always sure to be some pastors who do not leave the city," Mrs. Brandon said.

Agnes could not make up her mind to stay at home; and every Sabbath morning the two women walked a dozen squares, feeling refreshed and comforted with the hour's service in the house of God."

"We are near the cemetery, if you do not mind the heat, let us visit it," said Mrs. Brandon to Agnes, as they left the church.

"Let us go by all means," returned Agnes; "I am in the mood to enjoy the quiet of such a spot."

"We shall escape the crowd at this hour; later in the day, it is a favorite resort for all classes."

Leaving the dusty street, they passed through the gate into what seemed to Agnes a grove of rare trees and flowering shrubs; with smooth carriage roads and shaded paths and cool grottoes. The air was full of sweetness, birds sung and squirrels sprung from limb to limb; everywhere flowers were in abundance, and but for marble shafts and tablets, one would have thought it some noble park, cultivated with taste, in order to please the eye of the beholder.

"How lovely!" exclaimed Agnes. "It takes away the gloom of death to think of such a resting place."

"Death ought not to be gloomy, child."

"Is there nothing of gloom when we think that the countless sleepers here were once as full of life as we are now; absorbed with their own schemes, or weighed down with burdens it was impossible to bear?"

"True, there is a gloom when one dies without God; but to one who has a hope in the resurrection, death is a welcome messenger. When a child is away from home, how happy he is when he looks from the window and sees the faithful servant whom his father has sent to bring him home. Death is the Father's messenger, why should we shrink from him?"

"But is it not terrible to think of lying in the dark ground, even for the Christian?"

"It is a safe place for the body. God does not lose sight of it, this poor worn body that we have patched up and kept together, there is something sweet in it's being left to rest, Gabriel will waken it in time."

"The body resting in the ground, and the spirit resting with God," said Agnes, musingly.

"You do not think there is any gloom about it?" said Mrs. Brandon, looking into Agnes' face.

"Not when one is fairly over, but going down into the river the waters are black and cold."

"No, child, the river is not so wide but the light shines across, and the Ferryman has a stout arm to lift one above the flood."

There was no answer; Agnes was thinking if she was not too often forgetful, and weighed down with a burden it was her privilege to throw aside.

"I would be one of those who look upon death as only a messenger sent by the Father," she said at length.

"Why not? Lovely as it is here there is nothing for us to cling to, nothing but what fades and dies; these graves witness to this truth; dies, but is not lost; it is only going from a very plain room into a dwelling of splendor, a palace with walls of jasper, doors of pearl, and floors of solid gold. There we can walk on the banks of the river of life, drink from its crystal waters, with fruit from trees that grow on either side of it. What a happy place for converse with friends. There we shall see Jesus the delight of our soul, and be satisfied."

"How did you come to feel like this? Tell me, dear friend," said Agnes, with tears running down her cheeks.

"Let us go a little farther and I will tell you," said Mrs. Brandon, drawing Agnes' arm within her own.

They soon came to a spreading oak, in the shade of which were two exquisitely carved shafts of pure white marble, one taller than the other; a little area of ground encircled with an iron railing, with gravelled walks and flowering shrubs. Touching a spring the gate opened, while the slant sunbeams through the tree tops touched the graves.

"All that I had are here," and sinking on her knees, Mrs. Brandon pressed her lips to the green sod. "This is my Agnes' grave, and here her father sleeps, baby Charlie lies on one side of him, and there's a place for me. I like to come here, and in thinking of what they were to me, and what they are now, I have come to look on death as a friend, and the grave as a pleasant rest, until God speaks the word."

"For the body only?"

"Gloomy it would be if aught of the thinking part was laid here; in the beautiful heaven the soul rests. I think of the loved ones there, not dead, but alive in the house of their Father, happier with Him than they could be with me. I love to come here, and although I weep, it does not sadden me, I feel the assurance of His love and I am satisfied."

Agnes had never heard any one speak of heaven as Mrs. Brandon did. She liked to think of it in this manner, it seemed nearer. Her father was there, it took away the desolate sense of loneliness.

The sunbeams were visibly longer, the grounds were filling with people. A world of life and a world of sleep, with only a narrow green door between. Plucking a flower, Mrs. Brandon gave it to Agnes, "In rememberance of your visit, child."

Turning from the more artistic portion of the grounds, they stopped beside a new made grave, the sod had not grown over it, and the marble slab was wanting. It was the grave of Fanny Carroll.

"We must plant flowers here," said Mrs. Brandon. "It will please us to do so, and Fanny's mother will appreciate the kindness."

At the gate an aged man, with a golden-haired child to lead him, passed down the less frequented paths.

"Poor and rich meet here. Social differences are unknown to the sleepers," Mrs. Brandon said.

{decorative device} {decorative device} CHAPTER XII. VACATION.

MR. Fennimore and Mr. Gilchrist had gone, and, at length, Mr. Ludlow, leaving Agnes seated at her desk. Occasionally her head drooped and a faint cry struggled up for the free glad days her childhood knew, following up the brook fringed with alders, dabbling her bare feet in the water, and fishing for trout with a bent pin for hook. How beautiful they seemed, those far-off days, with a father to care for her and lead her home, pleasant to remember, and Agnes can almost taste the delicious coolness. It will not answer, and brushing her hand over her eyes she sees nothing but the ledger. Running up and down the columns, as though there were no such things as trees, and groves, and pebbled brooks, she worked on.

It was August when Mr. Ludlow returned.

"I cannot say how much I shall do, but it is really too bad to keep you here any longer."

It was not far to Cloverdale, but it seemed long that day. Agnes flattered herself that she had grown calm and patient; the day's experience showed her that the lesson was not yet learned. Bright days followed; the freedom and sense of rest bringing happiness only known to those who have been deprived of it. Experience matures more than years, and at night, as mother and child drew their chairs close, the same look was visible in the face of each; talking in a business like way of the crops, how far the corn and potatoes would go, making a correct estimate of the garden, counting up the expenses with a firm resolute tone. Trials that are bravely met lose their sting.

"We cannot hope to raise enough to live upon; but I will help, and with what we have, may possibly leave a little to go toward the debt," said Mrs. Strong, after a pause. "But you need clothes, child; your black is really quite rusty."

"I must do with what I can make out of the old ones, mother. Mrs. Brandon told me how to renovate crape and bombazine; I am to do over mine and yours, too, mother. If we can live this year, the next my salary will be larger."

"In order to retain your position it is necessary that you should make a creditable appearance."

"I have no desire to appear to disadvantage, mother; but it does not seem that I can spend a farthing until this debt is paid."

"It will require years at this rate, and still I am in hopes the strawberry bed will bring us in a good sum another season."

"You must not count the years; you must think that I can do it. A year with Mr. Fennimore is enough to secure a permanent place there, and if it does take years--" and the words were gone.

Setting the strawberry plants gave Herbert the opportunity to question Agnes. Not a little surprised was she at the knowledge he had picked up, relative to the best way of training and cultivating the vines; with certain crops of quick growth, winning from the earth threefold for all the toil. Helen had learned to do many things during the winter, all tending to the same end, namely, to help pay the debt. Before she left, old neighbors were visited; and one day farmer Thurston came in his old fashioned wagon, and took them all out to his house, and in the evening there was a ride on horseback with Prudy.

"It looks like old times, father," exclaimed Mrs. Thurston, as the girls cantered down the lane. "Prudy don't ride half as well as she did when Agnes was here."

"I hope it won't be long 'till we have her back. I was afraid she'd be pale and thin shut up in the city for a year. I don't see but she's as bright as ever, and ten times handsomer," said farmer Thurston to Mrs. Strong.

"Agnes is a good, brave girl, and has tried to improve herself," was the reply.

"I hope none of them city chaps will steal her away; I'm 'most afraid to have her go back."

"No danger of anything of that kind. Agnes has set her heart on lifting the mortgage, and she will think of nothing else till this is accomplished."

"She gets a pretty good salary?"

"Not as much as she hoped to receive. When she took her father's books he counted the salary the same as he had given Mr. Cooper. Mr. Fennimore seemed to think that it was impossible for a female bookkeeper to expect as much as a man would receive."

"What difference can it make whether a man or a woman; if the work is done equally well?" replied farmer Thurston. "True, there are certain things that a woman has not the strength to do, as well as a man could do; but in bookkeeping there is no earthly reason why she should not receive the same amount."

"Mr. Fennimore wrote to me some months since that he was well pleased with her work. I am in hopes that when he sees how really devoted she is to her duties, he will raise the salary very considerably."

"It is perfectly outrageous that a woman, because she is a woman, must work at the same thing, without the loss of a fraction of time, and then receive for it not half of what would be given to a man, just because he is a man," exclaimed Mrs. Thurston, with no little irony in her tone.

"Now, mother, keep cool; it's not easy to break through old customs," and the farmer laughed good-humoredly. "The world is an old craft; it takes a good deal of pulling to turn her. If the day ever comes, it will come through the wisdom of woman herself."

"In what manner?" asked Mrs. Strong.

"Simply by showing herself capable of doing."

"You do not doubt her capacity?" exclaimed Mrs. Thurston.

"No more than I doubt her real worth, but the circumstances of her life not unfrequently conceal the sterling qualities, that only need to be seen to be acknowledged. This is the reason why sorrow and loss are so frequently blessings to woman. Stripped of the pretty artifices that hide her real worth, she rises in the might of her womanhood, winning by simply acting out her own true noble nature."

"Then you do not wish to revolutionize, neither to reform, but simply allow a woman to take the position for which she was created?" asked Mrs. Strong.

"Let her stand true to herself, the embodiment of everything lovely, and reforms will not be needed; through the force of her own purity she lifts the world to her level."

Father thinks that a woman can do anything, and still it is not always when she does her best that she is recognized," said Mrs. Thurston.

"It will not answer for one here and there. Let every mother teach her daughters that to act worthily is more to be regarded than to dress prettily, that a pure, true, earnest look is better than a silly, simpering smile, that a hand that can make a loaf of bread, sweep a room, and fashion a garment, is more to be prized by a sensible man, than one whose fingers are loaded with diamonds. There is dignity in service, and there never was, nor ever will be, a true man nor a true woman who does not recognize it."

"But how does this affect the question, namely, the equality of salary for the same work, let it be done by a man or by a woman?" asked Mrs. Thurston.

"So much of a woman's heart goes into her life, that if she chooses to spend it in frivolity, very little will be left for higher, nobler duties. Give such a woman a position of responsibility and she will be sure to fail, excusing herself through weakness or petty artifice, when all the fault was want of attention; herself a sham, instead of the calm, truthful, well-poised woman that she is privileged to be."

"A mother's life is full of responsibility," said Mrs. Strong.

"Life is full of responsibility, let it be mother or child, there are duties just as incumbent upon the child as upon the parent. In a woman's life there is no room for vanity."

"There they come. Look! Agnes is ahead," said Mrs. Thurston.

"She rides splendidly," exclaimed the farmer, "but she'll lose it. Prudy understands the ditch and Dolly will make it easily."

It was an exciting race. Swallow skimming over the ground with Dolly hardly a shoulder behind. The farmer rises to his feet, the mothers press forward and almost hold their breath, it is a long time since they have seen the girls ride in that fashion. Hiram is fairly distanced. On they come, neck to neck, breast to breast, but now Agnes wavers. Swallow needs the spur, the ditch is before them, Agnes falls back and Prudy takes it at a leap.

"Splendidly done, Dolly!" exclaimed Farmer Thurston, patting Dolly's shoulder, while Prudy's laughing, rosy face beamed down upon him. Agnes saw that she was beaten, and gracefully falling back came up leisurely by the side of Hiram.

"Well done! and you enjoyed it. Another such a ride and you'd be a regular beauty," said Mrs. Thurston, "and father, Prudy must ride oftener. Look at the roses, I shall insist upon it after this."

"It was not quite fair," said Prudy; "Agnes did not know of the canal, besides, Swallow doesn't leap as easily as Dolly. I should have been afraid to try it with him."

It was kindly said, and the father thought he had never seen the pink cheek half as lovely, while Agnes blushed and thanked her friend. "You were always the best rider, Prudy."

"We must have one more before you leave," said Hiram. "Unfortunately our horses are put to all kinds of service; I am surprised to see them do as well as they have to-night." In the meantime, the saddles were removed and the horses were geared to the wagon. Swallow and Dolly looked as steady as though leaping ditches was never thought of.

"I don't mind if you drive down to-night," was said to Hiram. "There's room for Prudy if she cares to go, and be sure to stop at the post-office as you come back."

Down the brown road they trotted leisurely, while the farmer let down the bars for the cows, then lit his pipe and sat down on the door step. At length, tilting the bowl so that the ashes fell out, the farmer said,

"Mother, I've been thinking we might help widow Strong. It is too bad for that girl to carry such a load at her time of life."

"What can we do, father?"

"There's that ten acre lot next to Howe's place. He wants it badly."

"And will give your price?"

"That will depend upon how high I hold it."

"I doubt if Agnes would accept a loan, if you should offer it."

"If Hiram and Prudy don't mind, I'll just do it, mother."

"Prudy is not the least bit selfish, and Hiram, well, Hiram is just as good a boy as ever lived, if his mother does say it."

{decorative device} {decorative device} CHAPTER XIII. THE SECOND YEAR AS CLERK.

AGNES was not acquainted with the process of taking stock. This was not her father's habit, and she saw, at a glance, that the want of it was one cause of his failure. She likewise saw, that with all this care on the part of the firm, there was a deficit, that betokened fault and wrong-doing. But where? Once more the books were examined, everything was fair and easily understood. "But where are the goods? we had them," exclaimed Mr. Gilchrist, "that is certain, we had them; the sales are fairly rendered, but the returns are not seen."

Mr. Fennimore was a man of ready tact, annoyed, as he was, at not being able to see clearly where the error lay, he did not, like Mr. Gilchrist, make an outcry that would in itself tend to concealment, provided that his employees had anything to conceal. He knew that the best way to discover fraud was to allow the usual routine of every day service to pass, without the carefulness that betokened suspicion. Had Agnes known of the dishonest practices sometimes resorted to, the crafty eyes of Mr. Gilchrist would have troubled her beyond measure, but secure in her own conscientious attempt to do right, she failed to see that suspicion was already excited, a suspicion that fastened upon her, although the proofs were wanting. It had the effect, however, to render her, if possible, more faithful, giving herself wholly to the work, and even employing her leisure, so as to further the day's duties.

With Mr. Fennimore absent when she left, the year was not exactly balanced between them, and she was not surprised, when one evening just as she had settled herself in the library chair, the merchant entered, and taking from his desk a package of papers, called her attention to the adjustment of the year's account.

It was readily done. "A mortgage of four thousand dollars on the homestead at seven percent interest, making two hundred and eighty dollars. This deducted from the salary of five hundred would leave two hundred and twenty, and from this ten for incidental expenses, giving two hundred and ten as the first payment."

A sigh crept over Agnes' lips and her cheeks were colorless.

"This is correct, I believe. You are ill, Agnes, what is the matter? Let me call Mrs. Brandon."

"It is nothing; I beg you not to trouble Mrs. Brandon," said the poor girl, with a strong effort to appear calm.

Mr. Fennimore continued, "It leaves you a nice little sum, more than you would have received for teaching or clerking in any other capacity. And next, rather this year upon which we now enter, your salary will be increased, say a hundred dollars, that is what I promised your mother. Yes, a hundred dollars will be very considerable, and if you spend as little as you have spent the last year, it will make a nice little sum at the close. Economy is to be commended in a young person, I honor you for it," and with his easy, fluent speech, Mr. Fennimore ran on, flattering himself that he was doing a very good thing, giving the girl to feel that two hundred and twenty dollars over and above the interest of the debt, with ten dollars less in her two journey's home, was in reality a very good thing, "more than a woman would naturally expect. Really, Agnes, I congratulate you on your ability to do this."

To tell the truth, Mr. Fennimore did not feel quite easy with regard to the amount he gave his bookkeeper. Since Mr. Ludlow had spoken freely of the disparity of salary. Coleman and Kent each receiving fifteen hundred for the same work, his conscience was not a little troubled, the question continually thrust back upon him: "If the work is the same and equally well done, should not the salary be the same?" Mr. Fennimore did not mean to be unjust; but was there a precedent? Would it have a good tendency? To give a female bookkeeper as much as a man, would tend to dissatisfaction. In every branch of trade females would begin to ask more. No, he would raise the salary by degrees. True, it would take a good many years at this rate to pay off the debt, perhaps she never would pay it; but so long as the interest was paid her mother would have a home, and Herbert would be a young man in time, and with these sage reflections, the rich merchant settled down into the belief that he was a most considerate man, doing by the child of his friend just about as he would like a friend to do by a daughter of his.

Mr. Fennimore had gone, and still Agnes made no attempt to leave her chair. True, she had known that the interest would swallow up nearly all, but she had never realized as she did now, the years that must intervene between the first and the final payment. Years of loneliness to her mother, and what would Herbert, and Helen, and Jessie be by that time? Poor child, she did not consider that this was dangerous ground, she had lost for the time the sweet feeling of trust, of thinking only of the day, content with one step at a time, knowing, feeling there was One to be touched with the weary load she had to bear. A cloud hid His face, she could only think of the years, the long, dreary waiting that her mother would know; while Herbert would grow into manhood without a sister's watch and carefulness, and Helen would forget perhaps. Would it not have been better to go out from their home? they would at least have been together, and their struggles only deepened the bond of love between them, and now Jessie would grow up hardly knowing she had an elder sister.

Agnes did not intend to torture herself. She was thankful that she could pay the interest, and thus secure to them a present resting place, but she longed to be with them, to take the care of home duties from her mother's shoulders, to help mould the character of Herbert, a companion as well as a sister to Helen, while baby Jessie would drink instruction from her lips as well as from her mother's. At length she started from her chair exclaiming in the bitterness of her soul,

"Could I only receive as much as my father allowed me, counting my salary as a bookkeeper the same that Mr. Cooper received. And why not? I do the same work. Mr. Fennimore says that it is not the custom for a woman to receive as much as a man, and thus because it is not the custom, I must give these years," and clasping her hands behind her, Agnes walked up and down the room, striving in vain to see clearly.

Gradually the sobs ceased, and the tired feet grew still. Once more she opened her book.

"I thought to find you here," said a pleasant voice, and Agnes turned to meet Mrs. Brandon. "Dr. Reed has brought a friend to see you. He asks permission to come to the library."

"For fear you will run away to put yourself in visiting trim, he comes in person to claim your answer," said the pastor, as he followed Mrs. Brandon into the room.

"Your visit is none the less welcome for being a surprise. I did not know of your return, Dr. Reed."

"I came only yesterday, and Lyman to-day. Will you please welcome my nephew, Miss Agnes."

Partially concealed by the dignified form of the doctor, Agnes had not perceived another, and now she could hardly comprehend as she looked upon the beaming countenance of the young student, that it was the same tall boy she used to meet in Cloverdale.

With such a complete revulsion of feeling, it may not seem strange that Dr. Reed saw more of the real state and condition of the poor struggling heart than Agnes dreamed of.

Opening conversation in such a manner as to give her time to recover herself, asking of Cloverdale, and seemingly interested only in those things that had a tendencey to divert her from herself; leading Lyman to speak freely of his studies, and showing the necessity of keeping the mind calm and restful, not alone as a Christian grace, but in order to profit by opportunities, ready at all times to do our best work. Especially should we not look look at life in the aggregate, not disquieting ourselves for fear that we have made mistakes, not choosing our work wisely. If Christ is in the heart there is no danger; He chooses for us, and the place where we are is the place where He would have us. We must not think so much of success as of doing our duty, loving our work, making pleasure out of it."

A calm, quiet look rested on Agnes' face, the pastor turned to Mrs. Brandon, thus leaving the young people to talk over the old life in Cloverdale, old friends and old homes, consecrated as they were to each by the remembrance of a parent's love and tenderness. With charming pleasantry, Agnes told of her visit to Farmer Thurston's and of the race, Prudy winning by reason of the ditch. Then of another, a "straight heat," in which Swallow had the good sense to take the lead.

"The more of such rides the better," said Dr. Reed, with a good-humored laugh. "I wish you could manage to get one in town every week."

"You do not think I want for exercise?" returned Agnes.

"To walk from a sense of duty, and to walk purely as a means of enjoyment are different things. Lyman tells me that he has a way of walking and studying his lesson as he goes. A suicidal practice. Nature is no recluse, treat her in this manner, and she will soon cease to give us her favor. You would not thank me to bring in my sermon; if obliged to do this, you would politely inform me that my study was the place in which to write sermons. In the glad sunshine the mind should be free to enjoy, drinking in the influence of the season, listening to the great choral chant, inspiring us with thoughts of Him whose we are, and for whose glory we are to live; our bodies, temples to be kept in good repair, because they were fashioned and made by Him."

It was pleasant to note the improvement in Lyman Reed, no longer a shy, awkward boy, his speech was easy, and his manner graceful. In scholarship he bade fair to distinguish himself, and Agnes felt a sense of pride and gratification as she thought of the years to come, years that would be sure to bring him more improvement than the past had done.

Dr. Reed was almost as much given to music as Luther was. In all moods music was his inspirer, and before he could leave, the instrument was opened, and to Agnes' simple accompaniment songs were sung calculated to lift the heart above the cares and annoyances of life.

Once again in her own room, Agnes had the courage to look at her work. Not a dreary workshop in which she was to delve; but a glad, bright world in which she was to enjoy, as well as to work; patient and restful that she might do her best; looking forward with hope, and fully expecting great results, without being over careful with regard to the way it was all brought about.

{decorative device} {decorative device} CHAPTER XIV. SOCIAL INFLUENCES.

A TELEGRAM from Mrs. Fennimore announces her arrival to-night," Mrs. Brandon said to Agnes, as she came in to dinner. "As Mr. Fennimore is not here, we will go to the dépot and meet them."

"I shall be glad to see them," replied Agnes. "Does Mrs. Fennimore speak of Kate? Has she perfectly recovered?"

"Kate is quite well. They have had a magnificent time; there never was a more brilliant season. Nellie has had a train of admirers; Mrs. Fennimore says something about bearing off the prize; I could not quite make it out, and I have no time now. I have an idea she comes with a suitor. If so, we shall soon know without puzzling our heads over Mrs. Fennimore's chirography," and Mrs. Brandon laughed merrily.

Before the ladies left the table the carraige was at the door. The evening was sweet and clear, with just enough coolness in the atmosphere to make it bracing. The streets were full of people, and as the carriage wound along, Agnes had time to think of the day on which she entered the city for the first time, the saddening, withering loneliness as she neared the dépot. Then she thought of the invalid mother and son, whose kindness had made her feel a sense of uneasiness; a certain but undefinable sympathy, that caused her to miss them, and to long to see them again. How long it seemed since that eventful day, when a shy, timid girl she followed a stranger through the crowd and through the dépot, disappointed and half afraid Mr. Fennimore would never come for her.

The train came up majestically as though conscious of its living freight. Percy was quick to espy Horace, and Vic could not keep him from shouting as he saw Mrs. Brandon and Agnes standing on the platform. In the confusion and scramble for baggage and place, Agnes saw Mr. Ludlow with a delicate looking woman on his arm, and the next instant her hand was grasped by a tall lad whom she remembered as the veritable "Robert," upon whom her thoughts but just now centered.

Surprised to see that Robert had found an acquaintance in Miss Strong, Mr. Ludlow drew near, and introduced the lady as his sister, Mrs. Norris; "and this is my nephew. But where did you make the acquaintance of Miss Strong, Robert?"

"It was so long ago, that perhaps I am not warranted in claiming an acquaintance. But I have often thought of her, uncle," and a half serious, half comic look crept over the boy's face.

"If thinking of one may tend in any sense to an acquaintance, then, I may say, that I have thought of you very often, and as often wished to meet you and your mother, Robert," replied Agnes.

Mr. Ludlow looked pleased, but said little.

The carriages were rapidly filling. Mr. Fennimore's was crowded.

"We will walk," Mrs. Brandon said to Agnes.

"There is no necessity for that; we have one seat and can readily make two," said Mr. Ludlow. "I insist upon you going with us," as Agnes hesitated. "I will take the box."

"That is my place, uncle," and Robert tossed up satchels and shawls, then sprung up himself.

Mrs. Norris, although an invalid, was no longer a cripple. This being Robert's first year in college, his visit home was restricted to a few days. The ride was pleasant, and when Agnes was set down at Mr. Fennimore's door, she could hardly understand the kinship that had so suddenly sprung up between herself and Mrs. Norris and Robert.

For a week there were no more quiet evenings. Every night Kate sent Percy to bring Miss Agnes to the parlor, and when the history of the summer was exhausted, music filled up the time, and Agnes was obliged to retire without a look at the library, or scarcely time to open a book in her own room.

Robert Norris called, and before he left he brought his mother. "Now you are to be friends, and in my absence you will visit my mother frequently," he said to Agnes.

It was as Mrs. Brandon surmised. Nellie had brought off a prize in the shape of a young naval officer, Lieutenant Anhart, to whom she was already engaged, the marriage to take place during the coming holidays. An event like this was soon known to the numerous acquaintances of the family, and congratulations, visits and entertainments crowded in so thickly, that Mrs. Brandon was under the necessity of taking the oversight of the needful preparations, as she had done in the management of the household.

In this way Agnes found herself more and more identified with the family, driving with them, shopping with them, her taste appealed to, and her opinion not unfrequently deciding them to take or to reject articles of dress, of which she judged without any regard to fashion, but simply as they were becoming to the wearer. Gradually the fascination of sight-seeing, visiting, and admiration grew upon her. Instead of regret when Percy came for her, she was anxiously waiting. Without giving less time to her duties she gave more time to her toilet. Her hair was arranged elaborately, her dress put on with studied effect. And one day when Kate whispered that she must have a new dress, suggesting, with the utmost kindness, that white silk would be very appropriate if she still desired to continue mourning, Agnes blushed at the meanness of her wardrobe; mingling with those whose taste was exquisite, it was due to herself and to her friends, to give more attention to her personal appearance.

Going to her room she thought of it; white was becoming, a plain silk prettily made with plenty of natural flowers would have a charming effect. Her old dress was not fitting. True, when at home she had turned and retrimmed it, flattering herself it would do very well another year. But this wedding would be in the house, it would be shabby not to appear in something fresh and appropriate; the family were kind to her, it was due them; and Agnes came to believing that it was absolutely necessary.

The next morning she awoke with a withering headache, and when she reached the store it was past the hour. On the way to her desk Mr. Gilchrist gave her a searching glance, that brought the hot blood to her cheeks. Why should he look at her in that fashion? and it was all that she could do to keep from crying with vexation.

Opening her books she ran rapidly over the page, made mistakes and began again. It was a dull morning outside. At length the rain begun to drop from the black clouds, and the wind dashed in furious waves against the casement. Looking up she saw Belle Burnham and James Fieldson whispering and throwing covert glances in the direction of her desk. Once more she recalled Mr. Gilchrist's look, and her eyes filled. "It makes such an ado if I am a moment late," and she determined to go without her lunch to make up for it.

At night Clara Randall crept up to her.

"It is a long time since we have seen you, Agnes. Mother wants to know if you have forgotten her?"

"No indeed! but I am so much occupied that I have very little time for anything."

"You go out a good deal I am told. I am glad of it Agnes, and still I miss your visits. You do not know, you can never know, how much good they did me."

"I am thankful for this, Clara, it was always a pleasure for me to go to your house. Assure your mother of my love; as soon as I can, I will come and see her."

"Mrs. Carroll came to see mamma yesterday, she asked after you. She thinks so much of you, Agnes."

"I have not been to see her for a long time, Mrs. Brandon has so much to do, and I wait for her. When this wedding is over, Clara, it will be different."

Going out into the rain, Mr. Ludlow offered to share his umbrella. Stung with the remembered glance Mr. Gilchrist had given her in the morning, Agnes accepted the proffered arm, chiefly that she might have an opportunity to apologize for being late. But Mr. Ludlow was in one of his genial moods, turning every incident so pleasantly, that she reached home before she found a place to slip it in. Wearied with the day, and with a blinding headache, Agnes excused herself, pleading "letters to write." Kate was not to be put aside, seeing that Percy failed, she went herself. To escape importunity the poor girl went down.

Notwithstanding the rain a pleasant group had gathered. Lieutenant Anhart was there, and before the evening closed, Dr. Murray entered. As the company increased, small groups collected in the different rooms, and diversions in keeping with the taste of each were resorted to. Gathered up on the sofa, Kate was listening to Dr. Murray, as he recounted some of the incidents connected with a year's residence in Paris. Agnes sat near, a serious look on her face, with an expression of pain about the eyes, notwithstanding her effort to conceal it. A mirror was so situated that glancing at it sideways, she could perceive the occupants of the room behind her. A party of whist players had gathered around the table, and in the interval of play she heard her own name. Giving her attention to Dr. Murray she endeavored not to listen, but the words came distinctly.

"I confess I was never more surprised than with Miss Strong, after all that has been said. I never saw a plainer case of fascination on Kate's part; and then her dress, black, for an evening, and well worn at that."

Kate did not seem to hear; but Dr. Murray stopped suddenly.

"I am not to do all the talking. We must have music to-night, Miss Kate, it is a long time since I have heard you play."

It was a diversion, the party at the card table was silent.

"You are not well to-night; let me entreat you to retire early," Dr. Murray said to Agnes, as they hunted a duett for the sisters to sing.

"Rest is what you need. Take the opportunity while they are singing to withdraw to your room."

A look of thanks from eyes suffused with tears and Agnes made her way unnoticed through the crowd and up to her own room. Flinging herself into a chair at the table, she glanced at the half-finished letter to her mother. How was she to finish it? Tears were running down her cheeks, and her hand trembled. "Rest," Dr. Murray said. Would it ever be? Once she pined for recognition, for the privilege of meeting with the guests in the parlor; she felt that it was a source of improvement from which she was debarred. Now, it was hers; was she happier?

Instinctively the brown head drooped over the clasped hands. Too miserable to sleep, she could only try to think how it all come about. Strange fascination that made her forget the aim and purpose of her life. What was society to her until the debt was paid? What right had she to sigh for a new dress while her mother was burdened with cares, her sisters and dear young brother striving every day to do, because she was doing? Never had Agnes Strong felt such a sense of humiliation; her resolves broken, the purity of her endeavor soiled with influences that she should have had the firmness to withstand. It was a bitter hour, the secret chambers of her heart were open before her; she saw the vanity that mocked her efforts; the narrow limits of her view; the mists of doubt, perplexity and worldly desire robbing her of rest.

At length she raised her head, and pushing the damp hair from her throbbing forehead, laid her hand on the little red covered Bible. The touch sent a thrill through her weary frame. Once her solace was in the promise found in that blessed book. How had it been of late? With hardly time to read a verse morning and night, no wonder it failed to comfort her. Drawing the book near, she opened it.

"Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him."

Once more the book was closed. While Agnes with a clearer vision swept the past, she saw the impossibility of serving two masters. If she was to follow out the course she had prescribed for herself, she must withdraw from the fascinating delights around her. A divided heart would come short in duty, a decision must be made. Weak as she had shown herself to be, there was still a lofty principle within, a firmness to resist where resistance was felt to be indispensable.

Once more Dr. Murray's words sounded in her ears, "Rest is what you need," and rest was won; the temptation to stray from the right path no longer fascinated her.

{decorative device} {decorative device} CHAPTER XV. PLOTTING.

NOTWITHSTANDING the respectful consideration of Messrs. Fennimore and Ludlow, Agnes saw with pain that Mr. Gilchrist was not satisfied. Entering when she would, his look was always the same; a quick, searching glance, not enough to betray suspicion, and still, without a particle of confidence; with a cold, metalic ring in his voice when he had occasion to eddress her, a covert remark not loud enough for her to hear, and still, the manner, gesture and expression conveyed a meaning.

Since the summer vacation, Agnes seldom met Belle Burnham. She only knew that Belle had enjoyed herself, staying beyond the limit and coming back more beautiful and much more expensively dressed than when she went away. As the days passed, Belle took occasion to renew the acquaintance, talking of Fanny Carroll, and inconveniencing herself for the sake of walking a few squares with Agnes; she changed her flippant tone for one of respectful attention, suggesting and throwing out remarks for the sake of winning a prolonged answer.

James Fieldson was one of the senior clerks. Possessed of fine natural ability, with a prepossessing person and appearance, he was regarded as an agreeable acquaintance, and by many, as a most desirable friend. Having the confidence of his employers, he was entrusted with much beyond the usual routine of sales; coming and going with a cheerful good-humored manner, and with the seeming interest of a member of the firm. This man, who seemed a favorite with all, had never received favor from Agnes Strong. On the contrary, she had several times wounded his self-love by declining to accept his courtesy; not from any desire that she had to do this, but simply that she had neither time nor inclination to drive or to walk with him. For this, or for some other reason, she had forfeited his good will; for weeks hardly a word had passed between them. Now he came with a manner so gentle and deferential, Agnes was alarmed. The friend and affianced of Belle Burnham, could it be that the two were plotting against her? Too just to cherish such a suspicion, she resolutely cast it aside. Still, care was necessary, and prudence justifiable; the weakness of her own heart was known to her, and once more she resolved to do what she had to do faithfully, at all times and under all circumstances to act worthily.

In the fashionable world the season promised to be unusually brilliant; balls, parties, and masquerades, with a constant flash of excitement. Theatres were having a "splendid run," if newspaper accounts could be credited, and a "superior opera troupe" was nightly winning golden favors. Since the question of dress caused her to feel humiliated, because of the meagreness of her wardrobe, Agnes had withdrawn as much as possible from large gatherings in the parlor, preferring to seem indifferent to kindness, rather than be subject to the danger of being led beyond her power to withdraw. The white silk dress was dismissed; if she appeared at the wedding it must be in such dress as she had, and at rest upon this point, she was happier than she had been for a long time previous, spending hours, if not the entire evening in the library, making calls, going by herself if Mrs. Brandon was engaged, and returning comforted, because she set out with the intention of giving comfort to others.

From an acquaintance, Mrs. Norris grew to be a valued friend. A Christian woman, she had passed through varied scenes of affliction; her sympathy was active, her views of Christian life and duty broad and expansive, her example safe to follow, and her conversation Christ-like.

It wanted but a week of the day on which the wedding was appointed. Agnes entered her room surprised to find a dress of white silk plainly and neatly made, with sash, gloves, boots--everything needful for the evening. Waiting a moment to enjoy her surprise, Kate slipped out from behind the curtain.

"Beautiful, isn't it? I knew you would like it; and now please try it on. Mamma had it made by one of your old ones, and I am sure it will fit. Sherburne knows how to do everything perfectly."

"But, Kate, I don't think it will be right for me to wear such a lovely dress. It is really very handsome, and--"

"Now don't make any objection. Why, it is plain as plain can be, just a little lace at the throat and the fall at the elbow, isn't it sweet?" all the time Kate's fingers were busy slipping off the old dress and putting on the new one.

"Just right! I knew it all the time. Stand just where you are, mamma and Nellie must come and see you."

Nellie could not leave Lieutenant Anhart. Mrs. Fennimore came.

"Sherburne has done her best, it fits superbly. With your hair dressed, and plenty of flowers, you will be all right."

"Mrs. Fennimore, indeed it is too beautiful a dress, I can't afford--"

With stately grace Mrs. Fennimore swept out of the door and down the stairs, leaving Agnes standing in the centre of the room, with her sentence half finished on her lips.

"Mamma won't like it a bit if you make the least objection, and papa picked it out himself. You surely can't refuse a present because it is too handsome, and this is a Christmas present," and away ran Kate, perfectly satisfied with her scheme.

Tears rained down the cheeks and fell upon the spotless silk. To wear it would be to do what she had preferred not to do. The pride of the Strongs was aroused; it would place her in a false light; she had no wish to appear other than she was, and laying it hastily aside, Agnes flung herself into a chair and covered her face with her hands.

A light step crossed the floor, and a gentle hand was laid on the bowed head.

"What troubles you, Agnes?"

"Please decide for me, Mrs. Brandon," said Agnes, as she raised her head and threw a glance in the direction of the dress.

"I think it beautiful," replied Mrs. Brandon, not yet comprehending the cause for tears.

"The only fault--it is too beautiful, it is beyond my means."

"It is a Christmas present, given by those to whom you do a service; admitted into their family they wish to show their regard, and have taken this way to express their appreciation. I see no reason why you should hesitate to wear it, Agnes."

Starting to her feet, Agnes laid her hand on Mrs. Brandon's arm.

"There is another reason; but a few weeks since, I felt a strange sense of humiliation as words were dropped relative to my dress. As a means of economy, as well as a mark of respect for my father's memory, it was arranged between my mother and myself that I should continue to wear mourning. I love pretty dresses, and although my life would not consist in this, doubtless, if I had the means, I should gratify my taste and wear what was most becoming to me."

"I see that you fear it will set you in a wrong light, and also, that having one beautiful dress will incline you to desire another."

"I fear so, Mrs. Brandon."

"Your friends have shown taste and delicacy in this matter. Color is arbitrary; some nations wear white for mourning; to me it seems more appropriate than sombre garments."

"You would have me wear it?"

"I see no reason why you should not. To refuse, would be to sacrifice the kindness of your friends to a fear lest others should judge you wrongfully."

The wedding took place at the appointed time. Entering into it heartily, Agnes was not won from her duties, going to her desk every morning, she returned at night to mingle in the festivities, only so far as the family was concerned, setting aside her own wishes, wearing the dress with an easy grace and childlike simplicity that won admiration. A round of parties followed, and then Lieutenant Anhart took his wife to Washington, leaving Mrs. Fennimore and Kate to feel a sense of loneliness new and strange to them.

"We cannot suffer you to come back to your books quite yet," said Kate, as she entered the library, where Agnes was writing. "It is not every evening that we can hear Parepa; mamma sent me up to ask if you will go with us to-night?"

"It is very kind in your mother, Kate, I am much obliged to her. This has been an unusually busy day, and I should prove a dull companion."

"The very thing for you; papa is to join us, for a wonder. Indeed, we will not go without you," and Kate did not stop for an answer.

The house was full, and as Agnes and Kate looked over the brilliant throng, a score of eye-glasses was turned to the box. It was a new scene for Agnes, and half-screened by the damask curtain, she gave herself up to the enjoyment of music, sweeter than she had ever heard from human lips.

"Is it true, Miss Strong, that music makes one sad?"

The voice recalled her wandering thoughts. Agnes turned to find Dr. Murray standing near her, and with him Lyman Reed. A smile of recognition passed over the enthusiastic face.

"I could never put it in words, Dr. Murray; and still, I have to confess to a strange feeling of sadness when I listen to sweet music. It is a fancy perhaps. I seem to myself standing on the verge of a new existence, beyond the barrier of which I catch glimpses of what I long to see more perfectly."

"Such sights and sounds lead us forward. We might prize this life too highly, if not for the faint glimpses of what there is beyond."

Once more the sweet joyous voice went floating over the house, lifting up eager, anxious hearts.

Lyman Reed was making a flying visit to his uncle. It was pleasant to see the easy, affable manner in which he conversed, the noble thought, and broader culture giving expression to the face; and almost before Agnes was aware, she was in the old garden again, listening to the robins in the lilac trees, watching as they built their nests, and scattering crumbs of bread and cake, and then walking demurely away, that they might take their dinner unobserved.

As the curtain fell, Agnes saw that she was the object of close scrutiny by a couple in the gallery, the man talking to his companion and looking to the box. Again she turned, the same subtle glance was fixed upon her, while a strange smile crossed the handsome face. It was James Fieldson, and the look he wore was such a blending of artifice and hate, that Agnes wondered, as before she had wondered, what lay behind it. Going out, Mr. Gilchrist passed her with a stately bow.

As the carriage with Mr. Fennimore and his family rolled away, James Fieldson drew his companion's arm within his own, and slowly followed the crowd down the street.

{illustration of a flowering plant} {decorative device} CHAPTER XVI. UNLOOKED FOR GUESTS.

LYMAN REED'S visit was but a foretaste of what was to come. Busy as Agnes was through the day, with evenings in which she found it difficult to refuse Kate's pleading to join in diversions in themselves fascinating, she found time for the weekly letter home. With more variety in her life, she did not forget the monotony of theirs, doing the same things and thinking the same thoughts, save day by day on higher ground. It was pleasant to receive their letters. Percy always brought them now, and as regularly stopped while they were read; going down with a happier heart, because he had carried in his own dimpled hands what was the means of so much enjoyment to another.

Cloverdale was not far from the city, and the faces of acquaintances were sometimes seen, with verbal messages and little mementos of love. On one of these occasions it was Farmer Thurston, his good, honest face lit up with a smile as he entered the store, undismayed by the eyes of questioning clerks; looking around with an air of unconcern, and then with his hands in his pockets walking deliberately to Agnes' desk. With a little cry of surprise, Agnes greeted her old friend with her usual warmth, and then listened as he told the news; the sudden death of "Neighbor Howe," making it needful for him to come to town; telling this with an air of sympathy, and still keeping back the especial business. The sale of the ten acre lot was not made when Neighbor Howe died, and Farmer Thurston had come to the city, first of all, to see if this could not be effected with his heirs.

"Bless me! how I have run on, without once telling you that Prudy is here. She doesn't have many chances to get out, and mother wanted her to come."

Night found the two girls in Agnes' room; the little confidences of girlhood slipping out, unwinding the long dark braids, and talking of the old home-life.

"I do wish you could come back to stay, Agnes."

"I must not think of this for a good many years," said Agnes, as she twined her hair over her fingers and let it fall in long curls over her white shoulders. Thinking of "old times," the poor girl did not know that the tears were running down her cheeks.

"If we could contrive a way to help you. It does seem too bad for you to have so much to do, and I have hardly anything."

"God means that you shall do something else, Prudy."

"Do you suppose God gives to each just the work He wants us to do?"

"If I did not believe this, I could not do the little that I now do."

"Then why don't He give as much to me as He does to you? I am quite as well able to do it, only, I don't so well know how to do this kind of work."

"He does not of necessity give us the same work. What yours is to be will be made plain in due time. If it does not come now, it is because He is preparing you for it. Years ago, when we used to go to school, sitting on the same seat and having our play house together, I did not dream to be a bookkeeper in the city. Yet it has all come about. The nicer the work the longer the preparation; only be ready when it comes, Prudy."

Raising the curtain, the two girls looked out into the night. Late as it was, it was not too late for gleaming lights, while the roll of carriages was one long continued peal.

"Do you know, Agnes, we were at the hotel only one day, and still it seemed such a long time; so many new things to see, and so much to hear, I am sure I should be very miserable if I had to live in it all the time. I was surprised to see little children running about without seeming to mind that any one else was in the house."

"Because they were accustomed to it. Take those children to Cloverdale, and let them have the sweep of the meadows, with the daisies to gather, and the brooks to dabble their feet in, and they would feel quite as strange as you did at the hotel."

"Then there were women who seemed to make such a muddle of things; talking of their rights and voting, and the dear knows what. Wouldn't it be funny to see women dropping their aprons and smoothing their hair, in such a terrible hurry to go and get back in time? I imagined how it would be with mother on town-meeting days; just the days when we always have company, and the baking has to be tended to, and the pies and cakes and the bread; and father bustles about a little more consequential than usual, talking of men and votes, half shy about telling us just what he is to do. I hope it will be a good time before mother gets into it. Do you think it right, Agnes?"

"For women to vote?"

"Yes."

"Why, if a woman wants to vote, I see no reason why she may not."

"But her wanting to, is the thing," returned Prudy, with a startled look. "There's Miss Plumm, with her head fairly turned, leaving her old father and mother with no one but a bound girl to look after them, while she's off lecturing. Have you seen her, Agnes? she told me she would call upon you."

"I have heard her name mentioned, I have not seen her."

"There were two women talking at the hotel, but I can't tell you, I never can half remember; only one raved so loud about the taxes she had to pay, and the unjustness of living under laws of which she had no voice in the making. Her companion answered in a tone of the utmost sweetness. She spoke of home and home-life as being the great motive power, the mighty onrolling influence of woman, making all questions of human legislation as motes in the balance, compared to the inimitable grace and fascination of woman in her own divinely appointed right. She went back to the first woman, and running through the long line of those whose names have come down to us, she showed the controlling power to consist, not in assuming rights, not in discussing topics of state policy, storming fortresses, and taking castles, but in winning hearts."

"And for this you applauded her," said Agnes, while a smile parted her lips.

"The little that I have seen would incline me to think that the power is here."

"I am sure that it is so in your case, dear. It is possible, that certain women missing this empire are given rule somewhere else."

"For my part, I would not wish to rule in a lesser kingdom."

"There goes the bell. Now for dreams. If you go to the store with me in the morning, you will have to rise early."

{illustration of a flowing plant} {decorative device} CHAPTER XVII. A NEW REVELATION.

FARMER THURSTON went home without effecting the object for which he came. The heir was a very different man from "Neighbor Howe." A farm in a desirable portion of the country, with stock and rent-roll, was a very desirable appendage; but there were other things of more importance; dismissing Farmer Thurston with, "Next summer, perhaps, we will see; my agent can attend to it, &c." The farmer muttering "what a fool I have made of myself;" then going to bid Agnes goody-by--"February will bring you home, I'm most sorry we didn't wait till that time."

To Prudy, the visit was one of rare delight. Never before in the city was there so much to take her attention. Too busy to chaperone her friend, Mrs. Brandon offered to take the entire oversight of the young girl from Agnes. Not only this, an evening was spent with Mrs. Norris. Very sweet and pretty Prudy looked in her garnet-colored merino, with dainty ruffles of spotless white. Modest and without affectation, she mingled in the talk, as Mrs. Norris spoke of "the grandeur of the age in which we live." A charming study, Mr. Ludlow thought, as he sat in a luxurious armchair, his head thrown back, his half-shut dreamy eyes watching the play of newly awakened feeling, as the light and shade on the surface of some crystal lake.

"It is a question that requires time to solve," said Mrs. Norris. "Of this we are assured; there never was an age when so much depended upon woman, when such a weight of responsibility rested upon her deliberations. Happy for her, if she rises superior to the noisy clamor of agitators, their flippant bravadoes and puny threats showing the weakness of their arguments, as well as the inefficiency of organizations to bring about the desired good."

"You admit there are evils?" asked Prudy, modestly.

"Just as there are spots on the sun, but not the less does it shine. If there are certain things denied to woman; for instance, if it is not hers to sit in the Senate Chamber, or in the House of Representatives, it is hers to preside in gatherings where the fascination of beauty, wit, and merriment, are far more potent to sway and hold the hearts of those who do sit there. If it is not hers to sit upon the bench, it is hers to influence the judge whose duty it is to give righteous judgment. If it is not hers to stand in the pulpit, it is hers so to speak of Christ, by a uniform, consistent, and persuasive life, that she wins tenfold more than the grandest orator the world ever knew."

"You give woman rights, that if acknowledged, would make her blush to ask for more," said Mr. Ludlow, with a laugh.

"The nations are in her hand. The moulding power is hers," was the quiet reply.

Prudy had been looking at a book of autographs. Without seeming to consider Mr. Ludlow in the business relation in which he stood to Agnes, she said,

"You say, Mrs. Norris, there never was an age when so much depended upon woman. Surely, there never was a time when there was greater necessity for woman to exert herself; but let her do her best, she receives but a pittance, because she is a woman."

"Not till it was said, and Prudy caught the look of Agnes' face, did she stop to consider. Mrs. Norris saw her embarrassment, and said,

"Do not be troubled. What you say is true. In all the departments of labor, a woman is not expected to do as well. And what created this expectation? The fact, that she did not do as well, establishing a precedence unfavorable to the universal estimate of her labor. This is the very thing that I took into consideration, when I said that much depended upon woman. It is through her effort that this verdict will be annulled. It is possible, very probably, that she will for a time suffer; but let her persistently, patiently put forth her effort, and she will at length succeed; that is, in departments open to man and to woman."

At this moment, Mr. Ludlow seemed suddenly to become conscious that he was not doing his best to make the evening pleasant for his young friends. That very day he had ordered some fine stereoscopic views, and in looking at these, conversation was diverted; Prudy's bright eyes thoroughly awakening the dormant energies of the merchant.

The next morning a drive was proposed. Agnes was engaged, Mrs. Norris excused herself. Timid and shy with strangers, Prudy could only reply in monosyllables. Mr. Ludlow was too thoroughly a man of the world to allow restraint on the part of his companion, and before she was aware, Prudy was talking of Cloverdale and the Strongs, with all the enthusiasm of her frank, generous nature.

It wanted but a few days of the time when Agnes was expected home. Mrs. Fennimore, and Kate, and Percy had gone to Washington, and the house was dull without them. Once more the library was visited. Mrs. Brandon had more leisure, and calls and visits were made as before the wedding.

It was later than usual, the lamps were lit, a cold bleak wind sent the snow flakes dancing and whirling in every direction. Nestling down into her shawl, Agnes made what headway she could; obliged to turn her back to the storm; and then flying along, almost blinded by the driving sleet. Gliding into a narrow street, for the purpose of shortening her walk, a familiar voice struck her ear; the tone was harsh, and the words were full of suppressed passion. By the wavering light of the lamp, she saw a woman partially concealed in an arching doorway, and a man whose answer told that she had been using words of entreaty.

"I can't, Marian; and why do you persist in tracking me in this manner? I have explained to you. If you do not go away, you will ruin me."

"Where shall I go, James? My father has turned me from his door. You promised--"

"No more of that. I tell you, once for all, it cannot be."

"But, James!"

At that instant the man caught sight of Agnes, and shaking his companion from his arm, he turned abruptly and fled down the street.

Oppressed with a strange undefinable feeling, Agnes was about to pass, when a hollow cough and the muffled sound of weeping struck her ear, and touched her heart. Without questioning, she turned to the woman.

"You are suffering. What can I do for you?"

"Nothing," answered the woman, with an effort to step forward. The light of the lamp shone upon a face white and thin, while the large dark eyes glistened.

"You are weak and chilled, lean upon me," said Agnes.

A wild, scornful laugh floated out into the storm. "Ha! Ha! He wouldn't let you see him so much as stand beside me. Once he was proud to have me hanging on his arm--ha! ha!" and once more the wild, startling laugh.

"What was she to do; without doubt the woman was a maniac, and Agnes looked around to see if there was any one whom she could call to her aid. Nothing but the wind, and the snow, and the sleet, while the light of the lamp wavered and shot out arrowy light.

"He wants me to go away--he says I shall ruin his prospects--ha! ha!" and the woman clutched Agnes by the arm, and, at the same time, a stream of blood gushed over the purple lips. A shrill cry from Agnes, as the woman reeled and fell, brought a policeman, wrapped in his coat and covered with snow.

"Who is she? Where shall I take her?" was said to Agnes.

There was no time to deliberate, the woman was ill and suffering, she needed attention, Mrs. Capen was not far distant. "I will show you the way," was the quick response, and lifting the slight figure in his arms, the man bore her through the storm.

Mrs. Capen was easily aroused, and laying the inanimate form on the bed, the policeman felt that his work was done, leaving the two women to care for the hapless stranger. Mrs. Capen was a skilful nurse, she understood the case at once, and it was not long before a spasm of pain crossed the face and the dark eyes opened.

"Where am I?" was asked, feebly.

"You are with those who will take good care of you, and now you must lie very still, and try to sleep," answered Mrs. Capen.

Removing the shawl, Agnes was surprised to see a mass of rich dark hair falling in rings over the pillow, while the face and figure were those of a young person, who must at one time have been very lovely.

As the sufferer appeared to be sleeping, and Mrs. Capen manifested her willingness to care for her during the night, Agnes spoke of home.

"I have never been out so late before. Mrs. Brandon will be alarmed, and I fear she will set out to seek me."

"It is altogether too late for you to go home by yourself. Terry and Floy will sit here; I will go with you."

In vain Agnes remonstrated; she was not afraid, the storm was abating. Mrs. Capen was not to be put aside.

"I should never forgive myself if any ill should come to you," and leaving the sleeper in the care of Floy, they started.

Days passed; the history of Marian Temple was known to Agnes Strong, and no sister could be kinder or more considerate. It was evident the poor girl had but few weeks to live, and there was more need to teacher her how to spend these days wisely, than to upbraid her with what could never be undone. Mrs. Capen manifested no reluctance in waiting upon the sick girl, and thus the kindness of Christian hearts was made to pass before her, driving despair from her side, and causing her to ask for pardon as a free gift.

"If you are better as the spring opens, how would you like to go into the country?" Agnes asked one day.

"I shall not be better in the spring," replied the invalid; "if I am, I shall like to go into the country."

The next day Agnes started for Cloverdale, and at night, as mother and child mingled their confidence, the story of Marian Temple was repeated, and a prayer went up that she might be taught to live worthily, then would she be prepared to die happy.

{decorative device} {decorative device} CHAPTER XVIII. AT HOME.

AGNES' visit was full of surprises. Helen was a head taller, Herbert a stout boy, Jessie had outgrown her baby dresses and little prattling ways, and the mother had caught a stoop, strangely at variance with the erect, trim figure of her youth.

"We are all growing older," was the answer, as Agnes remarked upon the change.

"I shall soon be a man," and Herbert measured his length with Agnes; "just to your shoulder, next year I shall be taller, and by and by you will have to look up to me," and the boy stretched up on tiptoe.

"Only one day at a time, my son. A long bridge between this and the next year."

"I know, mother, but I can't help thinking we shall pass over it."

The very next day Mrs. Thurston and Prudy came.

"We thought we'd come early and make a real old fashioned visit. Hiram told me to say that Dolly and Swallow were in good trim, and the girls should have a ride before night. I've been wanting to see you a long time." Turning to Mrs. Strong; "You see, father never goes anywhere but he brings home something. He's a mighty hand to go shopping, he just takes the best that he can find, and he don't always know what Prudy and I need. This time, he brought home ever so much, and what is worse, it is most all black. I said to Prudy, 'that would make just the nicest dresses for Mrs. Strong and Agnes, but it's worth nothing at all to us.' We have a sight of black dresses, and I somehow feel kind of superstitious over it, just as though something was going to happen. Now, if you need new dresses, not but what you have enough" --all this time Mrs. Thurston was opening and spreading out two beautiful pieces of bombazine. "There, did you ever see anything handsomer? father has an eye for nice goods."

"It is very handsome," returned Mrs. Strong. "To tell the truth, Agnes and I each need a dress of this kind, only, it must not be as good."

"Indeed, mother, you can't tell how nice I can make my old ones look; you must have one this spring, you need it more than I do," said Agnes, drawing near to Mrs. Thurston.

"You won't find anything prettier," continued the good woman.

"When we have anything, it must be something less expensive," and Mrs. Strong looked away.

"If you like the cloth, and need a dress, you must have this. I don't want a black dress anyway, and father wont like it a bit to have me going round trying to change it. When he brings home anything, he expects us to like it, and that's an end of it. As to expense, I'll see to that; I'm going to want a heap of fine sewing sometime, and I know you'll help me," and without waiting for remonstrance, Mrs. Thurston began to measure.

"Prudy and I haven't brought a stitch of work. What hinders us from cutting the skirt and sleeves?"

Mrs. Strong was too much surprised to speak, there lay the long breadths one over the other.

"And now for the sleeves, Prudy."

Prudy had been to the city, and, of course, she brought away a share of the fashions. Then Agnes was called upon; the thought of her mother having a new dress of such rich material, rendered her for the time dumb, but soon patterns were produced and choice made.

"We can talk just as well, and better, for that matter," continued Mrs. Thurston, giving the sleeves to Prudy. "And now, about the other; Prudy had no need of it, and I just know what father will say, if he knows that I'm keeping it laid away; it will be a real neighborly act if you take it off my hands. Stand up, Agnes, and let me measure the skirt. We'll have a real social afternoon, each of us with something nice to do." And thus in a shorter time than we have written it, Mrs. Thurston had succeeded in doing the very thing she came to do. And the new dresses were fairly under way.

It was a new thing to hear Mrs. Thurston talk of the fashions, but, as conversation flagged on the part of Mrs. Strong and Agnes, the good woman drew a vivid picture of costumes when she was young, asking Mrs. Strong if she remembered this and that, and bringing a smile to Agnes' lips.

Before night, Hiram came dashing up behind Dolly and Swallow. There was plenty of room in the large old-fashioned sleigh, and Helen, and Herbert, and Jessie were included, leaving the mothers to talk over their work.

"It was splendid! you should have gone, mother," exclaimed Herbert, as he helped Jessie into the house. "Hiram took us out where the snow was white and clean, and there were drifts, and we came pretty near upsetting."

Jessie was so much elated, and her words came so fast, that it was impossible to understand them, and for a time, the ride and its effects absorbed every other consideration.

"I'm not going to let you work on this to-night," Mrs. Thurston said, as she folded and put aside the half-finished dresses. "Hiram has not much to do, and he will bring us up in the morning; in the course of the day we can get through, and then you will have the time to use just as you planned to use it."

"There are not many like her," said Mrs. Strong, as the sleigh slid away from the door. "What she sets her heart on doing, she is pretty sure to accomplish."

"Do not be troubled about the dresses, mother. I have a plan--and when the debt is paid--"

"Dear child, I am afraid I cannot wear the dress with any degree of satisfaction; burdened as we are, people may think it extravagant."

"It is black, mother, and if it is good, it will only wear the longer." The words were hardly out of her mouth, when the street door opened and Herbert ushered into the parlor Miss Georgana Plumm, a tall, dark, very pretty woman, not as old as Mrs. Strong, and still older than Agnes. A woman beyond the medium range of intellectual culture, found in a village like Cloverdale and still with views somewhat biassed {sic} and one sided, by reason of the limited stand-point from which they were taken. With a good degree of enthusiasm, whatever Miss Georgana did, she overdid; let it be making a speech, or merely greeting, and shaking hands with a friend.

"How natural you look, dear," as she entered the room with a little graceful haste, and threw her arms around Agnes. "I have been dying to see you; had company all day, ladies from the city; they've gone to Judge Doolittle's for the evening, and I came up here."

"With your numerous engagements, it was very kind in you to think of me," said Agnes, in a quiet voice.

"Just the same, isn't she?" continued the visitor, to Mrs. Strong. "But really, how astonishingly well she looks."

"To her mother she always looks well," was the laughing reply.

"It changes some people to live in the city. I think it would change me," said Georgana.

"Perhaps so," said Agnes, with a peculiar curve of her upper lip.

"But tell me all about your home, I have heard of you this winter. I saw somebody that saw you at the opera; he said you looked beautiful, and you do. It seems you no longer wear black in the city."

"I wear black in the city, Miss Plumm, but upon the occasion of which you speak, I wore white."

"It must have been charming; he described it as very becoming, and the ladies and gentlemen with you were elegant. Don't blush, tell us all about it," and Georgana laughed at her own sprightliness.

"There is little to tell, Miss Plumm. I went to the opera with Mr. and Mrs. Fennimore, the gentlemen to whom you refer were of their party."

"Lyman Reed was there," said Georgana, looking full into Agnes' face.

"Yes, I had forgotten him."

"That's strange; they say he calls on you frequently."

"You seem to be well booked-up," said Agnes, with a smile. "Let me turn questioner and ask, how you have enjoyed the winter?"

"I have been to the city twice, hadn't a moment to call on you; they had me on committees all the time. I hate committees, but there must be somebody, you know."

"You will excuse me, if I am not as well informed with reference to your movements as you are with regard to mine," said Agnes.

"It is very little that I do; but that little I do willingly. You see, when the question of suffrage came up, I was interested; it seemed to me the great grand movement of the age. I read everything I could find relating to the subject, and at last I wrote to several prominent individuals connected with the movement, and ever since I have been counted one of them."

"Of course, writing and lecturing to advance the cause?" questioned Agnes.

"I have not the voice that many have, and it taxes me to speak to large audiences. Father was opposed to it on this account; but I feel it to be my duty; I could not rest satisfied to sit still."

"No doubt it would be a great cross," said Agnes, ambiguously.

"It is a time when every one should be awake. I trust that you are interested in this work. I have often thought of you as being just the one to help spread the truth."

"I trust that I am not backward in making known the truth; but what leads you to count upon me in connection with this cause?"

"The position that you hold in a large establishment would of itself witness that you must be interested in winning your rights."

"Perhaps I have not appreciated my wrongs as many do."

"Is it possible that you have never thought of the burden under which woman groans; the privileges perpetually denied to her; the position of inferiority to which she is condemned?"

"On the contrary, I have considered her privileges unlimited; her position superior to every other created being. I was always thankful that God made me a woman."

"Is it possible!" exclaimed Georgana, "and you depend upon yourself?" The little woman was growing excited, her cheeks were crimson and her eyes flashed. "Your mother sees differently. It cannot be that a woman with property to be taxed and business to settle, feels that she has her rights."

"In what sense?" asked Mrs. Strong. "Not right to have property to be taxed, or not right to be left in a position that makes it incumbent upon her to attend to her own business arrangements? God gives us property as well as position. If a woman finds herself so circumstanced, God placed her there."

"That's not the point; it is human law of which I was thinking, laws made by man, and in making which woman has no part. She can be taxed, but she cannot vote; she can be punished, shut up in prison, even be put to death, and not a remonstrance can she utter, because she is a woman."

"An offender against the law is judged by the law. Laws are made as a code of government for the protection of the people; they are a prevention of wrong, a barrier against crime. If they are so made that they protect man and man's interests, then are they so made that they protect woman and woman's rights as well. I confess that I cannot see the necessity of woman casting a vote."

"In a country like ours, where the choice of officials from the lowest to the highest depends upon the ballot, I should think the necessity a very clear case," said Georgana, with a little ironical laugh.

"Suppose that woman does vote," continued Mrs. Strong, "should we be more secure, more able to place the right man in office than we are now? There is no denying that votes to a large extent always have been, and are still--pardon the word--bougt; that is, influence is thrown around the voter; his mind is biassed, turned, led. If not so, why are such sums of money lost at every election? If not so, why do our politicans canvass the county?"

"Surely it cannot be wrong to enlighten the understanding, to do away with prejudice, to enlist and influence as many as possible to vote the right ticket!" exclaimed Georgana.

"There are men who are above bribes, and there are men who accept them. If woman is privileged to vote, will it be any different? Is she so strong that she can stand firm and self-poised; undismayed by commotion, undaunted by threats; proof against temptation before which the man falls? To cast a vote is a privilege, a rare privilege. Woman cannot hold it too highly, nor man cherish it too dearly. The ballot-box should be held as a consecrated thing. Not lightly should a man approach it; intelligently studying the great interests of his country, conscientious in his act, reverent in his manner; depositing his vote as a sacred trust for which he is answerable to God. It is not increase of numbers that we want, but increase of intelligence and of moral rectitude. It is not a question of woman's capability, but of fitness. God has appointed each a place, and has given to each his own work. A woman is not called upon both to rear children and to make laws; the man is not to embroider and do fine work. One is to battle for the right with the manly strength and unyielding will that God has given him; the other is to make home attractive, teaching her children and throwing around the man the strong fetters of woman's love."

"You give to woman great power," said Georgana, with warmth.

"God has given to woman great power, and laid upon her great responsibility." Mrs. Strong paused, she could not have said less, and was resolved not to say more.

"What would you have her do?" asked Georgana, in a milder tone.

"I would have her follow the New Testament teaching, perfect in every womanly grace and charm. A woman has power in proportion as she is more or less womanly."

"I am glad to hear an expression of your feeling, and still I am disappointed," said the visitor, rising. "It wants concerted action, old theories and old creeds must be laid aside."

"A dangerous step for woman."

"Light and truth are emancipators," said Georgana.

"Light that breaks upon woman through the gospel," was the reply.

{decorative device} CHAPTER XIX. THE LOST FOUND.

AGNES returned to town weary and excited; try as she would, it seemed that some great event was to take place in her life, and still the idea was prominent that she was to do, if possible, more than she had ever done before. She could not deny that her visit was not just what she had anticipated. Not that she was uneasy with regard to the new dresses, but Miss Plumm's call left an unpleasant memory. She had no desire to meet her in town, and as for her lectures, nothing would tempt her to go. It was no reason because she depended upon her own efforts that she must clamor to vote, others might, she had no objection to their doing so.

Agnes' first call was upon Marian Temple. Mrs. Brandon accompanied her. "I have been to see her almost every day," said the kind-hearted woman.

"You do not think it will improve her to go to the country?" asked Agnes.

"By no means, she has but a short time to live. But I feel assured that her last days will prove her best days; the poor child sinned deeply, but she was fearfully wronged."

"She told you?"

"Dr. Murray told me."

"Does he now attend her?"

"Yes, but here we are; and that is, I do believe, the doctor's voice."

"Do not enter quite yet, Mrs. Brandon," said Agnes, pleadingly.

It was too late; Floy had seen them from the window, and the door was open. Dr. Murray was coming out, his countenance was grave and sad. Bowing to the ladies, he passed on without a word.

Mrs. Capen had but two rooms; in one of these, pillowed up in her chair, was Marian Temple. Her think cheeks were crimson with fever, and her eyes sparkled with unnatural light.

"Do you suffer much?" asked Agnes, as she took the feverish hand in her own.

"Only at times, and I am so comfortable. I was afraid that I should not live to thank you for bringing me here."

"God put it into my heart. Thank him, Marian."

"I do, it is all that I can do;" and the invalid leaned back against the pillows, and closed her eyes wearily.

"You must not talk," said Mrs. Capen, pouring out a few drops of cordial, and holding the goblet to the sufferer's lips.

"We have no wish to weary you," said Mrs. Brandon, "we came in to see you, not to make you talk."

"But I want to tell her," turning to Agnes; "I may not have another opportunity. I want to tell her just how badly I felt, cast off by everybody, disowned by my father; and when I coughed and the blood ran over my lips, how wild, and still how glad it made me. I knew then it would not be long, and after that night of bitter agony, I found myself in a nice clean bed, with somebody to nurse me. I could not believe it, it seemed a dream. Then I thought of God. How many times I had wandered through the streets at night, stopping to look up into the sky that seemed so far away, the stars so high above me, and wondering if there was a God, as they used to tell me; and if there was, why He did not care for me. And then I knew there was no God, it was all a story, it was all as false as other stories I had been told; for if God saw and loved his creatures, He would pity me. And when I came here, I listened as they read, feeling that He did not care, or He would not so long have left me to myself. When one day, how well I remember it, I heard the story of the woman brought to Jesus; how mad they were against her, wishing in their hearts to put her to a cruel death. "But Jesus stooped down, and with his finger wrote on the ground, as though He heard them not. So when they continued asking Him, He lifted up Himself and said, he that is without sin, let him first cast a stone at her."

All this Marian said at intervals, the color coming and going on her white cheek. Lifting her eyes once more to Agnes' face--"I saw His look, so calm and tender, and my hardness was all gone. I knew that He had not cast me off. Involuntarily I cried out to Him, and I felt the clasp of His tenderness. Since then, I have rested. He knew it all the time, and He did pity me, He did not cast me from Him."

Mrs. Brandon was weeping, and so was Agnes Strong.

"Come nearer, please. I want to tell you something more," and Agnes drew her chair close to the sick girl. The lips moved, but there was scarcely a sound. At length she said, "Father will come, if you go for him. Is it too much to ask?"

"No, Marian, I will go for him."

On the outskirts of a village, not far removed from the city, stood a white cottage, with its humble porch overrun with woodbine and honeysuckle. One side was covered with a luxuriant creeper, the long green tendrils falling over the roof and around the chimney. Beyond, the scene was striking and essentially romantic; fields green and fresh, or brown and ready for tillage, with glens and spreading dells undulating away to the forest. A glittering river wound in and out, with glimpses of cattle, and trees, and farm-houses: all this Agnes saw before she reached the place. As she opened the gate leading up to the cottage, a sense of desolation came over her; the rusty hinges grated out a response that made her shiver; there was a tangle of shrubbery, a look of neglect, as though years had passed without a habitant, and still, the gravelled walks were smooth, and the chamber windows open.

Irresolute and half-inclined to think the house abandoned, Agnes stood for a moment before the door, then summoning her courage, she gave the bell a vigorous pull. A dull, grating sound, like a low, human cry, caused her to start back, and almost to fly through the yard, that seemed to be thicker and more tangled, now that it shut her in. A door closed in the distance, and then an uneven step came down the stairs and through the hall. The street door opened with the same harsh, grating sound, and a gray-haired woman, thin and pale, and habited in black, looked out.

"Does Mr. Temple live here, and can I speak with him?" asked Agnes, in a trembling voice.

"Mr. Temple lives here, but he does not receive visitors."

"I came to see him especially."

"If you came to see him on business, he is not well, he cannot attend to you."

Growing resolute, and afraid that her coming would be in vain, she said, "If Mr. Temple is at home, and you refuse to let me see him this morning, he will be very sorry for it," and Agnes' voice was firm.

With an earnest, questioning gaze, the woman looked into the calm face before her.

"Who shall I say wishes to see him?"

"I will tell him myself. Show me the way."

There was a resolute will in the tone and the look, and the woman led the way down the hall, and through a central apartment, into a small passage with a door at the end.

"Stay here," said the woman, and deliberately turning the knob, she entered the door. An age it seemed to Agnes; not a breath was heard, not a sound reached her ear. Was the house haunted, and had the woman vanished, leaving her shut up in that narrow passage? At length the door opened, and the woman glided by her like a vision. Calling up all her courage, she resolutely walked forward. She did not stop to note the room, she only saw a table on the centre of the floor, covered with books and papers, and in an arm-chair beside it, a man apparently not mor than middle age, and still, his hair and beard were blanched to a silvery whiteness. In his face there was a strange blending of sadness, with almost regal pride, a man that would suffer rather than yield. As Agnes advanced, the man rose and extended his hand. There was so much frankness in the action that she burst into tears.

"I have come--"

"From Marian?" said the man, as Agnes hesitated. "I have felt it all the morning. Tell me of my child," and tears rained over the white beard.

"My poor motherless girl! I see it all differently now; I was too stern with her. She believed the villain, she thought him true and noble, and he deserted her; and I--" a groan escaped the tortured man--"I should have been kind, and taken her home and sheltered her, my stricken lamb. I loved her, but my pride forbade. O, what did I not suffer! and then I tried to find her and could not. But tell me," rising up in his agony, "will my child live? Shall I ever see her in her old home?"

"I can only say that you may see her now, {illustration of older woman hugging a young girl} if you come at once. She is very weak, but she desires to see you; otherwise she is at rest."

"Did she ask for her father--did she tell you where to find me?"

"She asked for you, and I promised her I would come for you. We must go now, Mr. Temple."

"I am ready. Would I had gone before."

And together they went to Marian.

{illustration of a lilly} {decorative device} CHAPTER XX. HOME TALK.

MRS. FENNIMORE with Kate and Percy were at home, and Lieutenant Anhart and his wife were spending a month there, previous to joining his squadron. The house was once more jubilant; drives and visits in the morning, dress and dancing in the evening; "with music and conversation for those who prefer it," whispered Nellie to Agnes. Lieutenant Anhart had the weakness to think that there never was such a woman as his wife, and his furlough was not long enough to allow of his wasting time, and a waste of time it was, to do anything or exist anywhere where Nellie was not. Next to his wife, Lieutenant Anhart loved his cheroot, and sometimes he took a hand at chess, in which Mr. Fennimore joined.

Occupied as Agnes was during the day, she had not the slightest wish to enter the parlor at night; but so kind Mrs. Fennimore had become, and Kate and Percy so full of entreaty, that she could not refuse without rudeness. Dr. Reed often called, and Dr. Murray was sure to drop in before the evening was over. Mrs. Norris had not been as strong since Agnes had known her, and not unfrequently she came, leaning on the arm of Mr. Ludlow, looking so sweetly, and expressing so much gratification with everything and everybody. Lyman Reed and Robert Norris were sometimes there, all forming a brilliant company.

"I would not care to have a husband as devoted as Douglas is to his wife," Kate said playfully to Agnes.

"You would not like him to neglect you."

"Action is the thing for a man; something great and noble to do. I would have my husband a hero, a patriot, a--"

"The quality that makes heroes is usually allied to very great tenderness," said Mrs. Norris.

"I should want to look up to him as somebody greatly superior to myself, and I could not, if he was forever dangling after me."

"What ball are you now rolling?" asked the lieutenant, throwing himself into an arm chair by the side of Mrs. Norris.

"Kate is inclined to find fault with men who are too shy to be caught with a fly-hook," said Mr. Ludlow, with provoking humor.

"Indeed, Kate, I did not know that you condescended to use a hook with a fly."

"Neither do I."

"Kate prefers a net," Robert sung out from behind his mother's chair; "there is not choice with a hook."

"I do not like to capture anything, I never did. But tell me what you think of 'the great movement of the age,' as Miss Gladiolus calls it?"

"This conglomerate mingling of the aesthetical element of the masculine and feminine gender, for the promotion of physical equality on the basis of the natural combination of opposites? I like it hugely," said Robert, dancing around to Kate's chair, and dropping gracefully into the footstool at her feet.

"I was never more serious. It is a subject in which I am interested, and of which I know very little," continued Kate.

"It is possible the little you know, Kate, is more than the rest of us can boast. You saw something of the movement last winter." Mr. Ludlow had a happy manner of drawing one out, without compromising himself.

"We did not attend any of the lectures, but we saw and heard a good deal at the hotel."

"How did it impress you?"

"Educated, as I have been, to think that in all Christian countries, woman, per se, occupies a superior position, it seems to me lost time to contend for equality; and also, as I have supposed there was a certain fitness and adaptation, certain virtues and characteristics more prominent in one than in another, harmonizing and blending, but not of necessity doing the same work."

"Then you do not believe that the platform is the place where a woman appears to the best advantage?"

"I cannot think that it is."

"Neither can I think that it is;" and Mrs. Ludlow spoke gravely. "Nevertheless this question is one that interests me; it interests each one of us. Truth never dies, neither is it overcome. Storm and tempest are needful to purify the atmosphere; and as in the natural world, so in the intellectual, and even the spiritual; whatever of obscurity, doubt and gloom, there is light beyond."

"You view these agitations as but surface movements?" asked Agnes.

"Changing and diverse; to-day a theory discussed, questioned, criticised; and tomorrow gone like a soap bubble."

"Still, there is a substratum not so easily dissolved," said Mrs. Norris.

"And this is truth," responded Mr. Ludlow.

"This continual hammering after 'rights' seems to me, as Kate says, like lost time," and Lieutenant Anhart laid his arm over the back of his wife's chair. "Illimitable right belongs to woman--a right to frown down everything low, contemptible and wicked; and a right to lift up whatever is lovely and of good report; the noblest right that can be given to mortals."

"That is a universal right," said Dr. Murray, entering quietly, and taking a seat in the group. "The field is broad; God has given a diversity of talent in order that we may wisely adapt ourselves to the circumstances. One is to plant and another to water; one to remain at home with the stuff, and another to go down to battle. If all are to vote, and all to make laws, and all to mount the platform, there will be none to care for our homes; and without homes, without the sweet restraining influence that emanates from the home circle, the nobler attributes of man's nature would wither and die; while the spirit of evil within him would rule and riot without check or hinderance."

"You lay great responsibility upon woman," said Agnes, calmly.

"God has set her in a place of responsibility. All through His word are scattered most admirable pictures of woman. 'A foolish woman is clamorous,' we are told."

"The most of those whom we met last winter," continued Kate, "seemed to think that if free suffrage was established all would be well."

"As a general thing, women of this class labor under a mistake; tossing up straws, when so much that is worthy to be done lies at their very doors. As a physician, I have ample means to see and to understand many things not on the surface; and I say, with all deference, that a woman greatly errs when she throws down the sceptre in her own kingdom, clamoring for privileges and responsibilities that belong more exclusively to another," said Dr. Murray.

"As far as my observation goes, the women who seem the most active in crying out against their wrongs, are those who missed something in their youth," said Lieutenant Anhart, with an attempt at gravity.

"And go on missing it," added Robert.

"What are you doing, people?" asked Mrs. Fennimore, as she approached leaning on the arm of Dr. Reed. "If you do not object, we desire some music."

"The council is dissolved," said Lieutenant Anhart, springing to his feet. "Solos or quartettes, my lady mother?"

"Solos first, and then something in which all can join."

Nellie was the first at the instrument. Her voice was clear, and not a heart but was moved with the beauty of the song she sung.

"I have always mourned that I did not in my youth learn to play upon some instrument," said Dr. Reed. "In one respect I am like Luther; music with me is an inspirer, as well as an exorcist."

"Lord Bacon says, that the genius, wit and spirit of a nation is discovered in its proverbs. I should say, that it is sooner seen in the songs of the people," said Mr. Ludlow.

Kate's execution was faultless, but her voice was not as sweet and clear as her sister's. Happily she chose a song so entirely opposite, and so admirable adapted to her voice, that the hush and quiet were undisturbed. Agnes, who seemed greatly interested, softly rose and stole to the outer circle of the group which had gathered around the piano. As the song died away, her voice of admiration was heard, and then she quietly returned to her chair.

"It is now your turn, Miss Strong," said Lieutenant Anhart.

"I never practise," said Agnes.

"It is high time that you did," was the laughing response. It is not becoming to refuse after others have shown themselves amiable; but Agnes was anxious not to place herself in competition with those who had preceded her.

"We have a duett that I have sometimes sung with Kate; if she does not object," said Agnes, calmly.

The music was such as to bring out the peculiarities of each voice, one being a soprano and the other a contralto. Not a lip moved except those of the singers, and at the close, there was a burst of irresistible applause.

"I have not forgotten your singing when I was here before. I have not heard anything finer until to-night," said Robert.

"You have learned to flatter," returned Agnes.

"I am not a flatterer; I believe in everything good, but beyond all, I believe in music. Under the inspiration of song, a man can be led to do anything."

"I own to a love of music, and I have wished to excel in it; I feel that I could. But there are other things to claim my attention."

"Things, that like your music, you do better than anybody else. Do you know, Agnes, my uncle says--"

There was a sudden diversion, Dr. Reed was rising to go. Approaching Agnes, he took her hand in his own.

"Pardon the interruption: I saw a friend of yours to-day, and she so called herself--Miss Georgana Plumm. She lectures somewhere, I did not stop to hear where, and she is to call upon you. She has a list of names which she politely thrust before me, at the same time soliciting mine. I imagine that she is to call on you for the same favor."

"A friend of yours, and a lecturer. What is she like?" asked Robert, as Dr. Reed turned away.

"Miss Plumm is a friend of mine in this sense, she comes from Cloverdale. And as to what she is like, she is like a very pretty woman."

{decorative device} {decorative device} CHAPTER XXI. THE NEW HOME.

MRS. CAPEN'S rooms were empty; over the threshold the white-haired man had gone, bearing the empty casket back to the old home. But a few days Marian was spared to him. Still, it was a blessing to have seen her, to sit with his arms folded about the child, whom he had so deeply mourned. It was a joy to hear her story, and to know that she was not what he feared she had become. Poor child! Had he only stopped and listened. No wonder she hid away from the hand that should have cherished her, the trembling, smitten dove; and nestling the brown head to his bosom, tears coursed over the father's cheeks.

"Do not think of it, father, sad as it was, it is all forgiven. Look! my robes are all white, and for my heaviness, He will give me a crown. And, father, as we are forgiven, so must we forgive."

Proud and stern as he had been, his heart was now as tender as a child's. Once he nursed the thought of vengeance. With a resolute purpose he followed up his victim; it was in his heart to take life, but God stayed his hand. God was merciful, he would leave it with Him.

What a change! the old housekeeper saw it as soon as he entered, and although she wept as she looked upon the white cold face of Marian, she felt that it was well. In the mother's grave they laid her, the poor child who had so longed for the mother's sheltering arms, a homeless wanderer looking up into the far-off sky and asking after God. All this time His watchful care was over her, and now He had taken her to dwell in one of the many mansions; she would never more go astray, never more sorrow, never more need to be forgiven. It was a joy to think of this, and the father's heart softened still more; others were in the world, sad, lonely, and broken-hearted, looking up into the blue sky, and feeling after God. For Marian's sake he would think of these, for Marian's sake he would forgive.

Grateful for kindness to his child, Mr. Temple's thoughts went out to Mrs. Capen. Floy was springing into a tall, beautiful girl. What would her future be? Was it not in his power to shape her course, so that her life might be one of moral power, as well as social happiness. Terry was a lad of fine promise. Mrs. Capen had evidently seen better days, and the fiery trials through which she had come, had so purified and lifted up her moral nature, there was little danger that she would fail to use added means and privileges worthily.

In thinking to benefit others, the burden was lifted from Mr. Temple's heart. No longer did he hide away from his fellow-men, brooding over his ills, and nursing vengeance, pursuing it with fierce hate, and then subsiding into apathy and gloom. Suspense and withering doubt had gone; safe and at rest, he was eager to take up the work where he laid it down.

Years ago Mr. Temple had a prosperous business in the village, with a row of pretty dwellings that he called his own. Overcome with the great sorrow that had fallen upon his house, his business was neglected, his rents uncalled for, and at length his houses slipped away. But one was left, a pretty dwelling, back from the dusty street, with ivyed porch and well-placed windows, curtained with rose trees. Maples lined the walk, and a spreading elm screened the low chambers.

"I am glad it is vacant, Allen went out only last month," said Mrs. Juniper, as Mr. Temple made known his plan. "If they come right on, there will be a good chance for a garden; there's plenty of currants, and gooseberries. If I had known it sooner, I might have planted radishes and lettuce."

"Allen said something about the roof and the fences, something about repairs or he would not stay," said Mr. Temple, as to himself.

"It's well you didn't listen to him, or he'd been there still. And this Mrs. Capen, I know she'll like it. What a change it will be? And Floy a pretty girl you say. I can't bear to think of pretty girls poor and homeless." And the good housekeeper began suddenly to lay the table for supper, bringing out the plates, and thinking of the time when the old rooms were brightened with a face, the loveliest by far that she had ever seen.

"If Mrs. Capen proves to be the woman that I think, she can fill the rooms, and act a mother's part to others as beautiful as Floy. It is a good plan, I wonder I never thought of it before," and Mr. Temple went on thinking half-aloud, and planning a life's work with the small cottage as the base.

"I'll go over there to-morrow," said Mrs. Juniper. "If they are to come, I would like it to look neat and pretty from the first."

"And the roof and the fences--there's Stevens! Call him in, Juniper; we may as well settle it at once," said Mr. Temple, starting up, and looking to the door.

"A strange man!" exclaimed the carpenter, as he went down the street; "for years he hasn't seemed to care a dime for anything. Allen couldn't get him to say a word, and at last was obliged to go away. Now he's to fix up. A most singular freak, I declare. It's a good job for me though."

Mr. Temple went into the city the next day, and when he returned to Haddonfield, Mrs. Capen, and Floy, and Terry were with him.

{decorative device} {decorative device} CHAPTER XXII. LOSS AND GAIN.

AS the days grew longer, Agnes found time to visit her old friends. Once more she went with Mrs. Brandon to the weekly meetings, and when Sabbath came, Kate, as well as Percy, accompanied them to church. It was pleasant after the cares of the week to enter the house of God, reaching out after the higher type, yearning for more of the Spirit's influence in her heart; hopeful, because of His knowledge, supported by His strength, stimulated by His promises. After all, what is life without religion--the resignation that sees a Father's hand in the allotments and incidents peculiar to each? How it supports and strengthens, to feel that God hath done it, that in His boundless love, and seeing all the way, He planned and purposed for the good of His children. How weak and trifling to give so much time to things that perish with the using. God knows our needs, and can be touched with our necessities. It was this feeling, that He knows, that He is mindful of our infirmities, that rendered Agnes calm and cheerful; she realized this great truth, and it nerved her to go forward; she knew His tenderness; she never dreamed that He would leave her; she felt the clasp of His hand, and her prayers were only the free outgushing of her heart in close communion with her best Friend.

"It is refreshing to go to church such a morning as this," said Kate, as she walked out into the quiet beauty of an April day.

"I wish mamma would come. I am sure she would like it. I like it a great deal better than I used to."

"With me it makes the week happier. I do not feel the sting of little things so deeply," returned Agnes.

"I did not know that you ever felt the sting of little things. Your face is always calm, and mine is in a tumult half the time," said Kate, while a smile played over her lips.

"If I wear a calm expression it is because of my Sabbath rest; this calm may be yours, if you desire it, Kate."

"I do; I want it very much. It is one of the things essential to a lady. A calm dignity of manner, never surprised, at all times equal to the occasion."

"This rest is not to be secured simply as an essential to the manners of a lady; it is a rest that comes from trust in God, a rest that springs from love and confidence; knowing that He cares for us, and will order everything for our good."

"Are you calm because you know that God will take care of you?"

"I trust it is a consciousness of this that keeps me quiet, when otherwise, I should be deeply moved."

"How can we obtain this, Agnes--this rest of which you speak?"

"By asking for it."

"Can everybody ask? Can I ask?"

"You can ask, and everybody can ask. But you must not ask for rest because it is beautiful; there is no promise, only, as we ask in the name and for the sake of Christ."

"I am afraid I want it for my own sake, Agnes."

Percy was walking with Mrs. Brandon; he now turned, and slid his hand in that of Agnes.

"When I'm a man, Miss Agnes, I'm going to be just like Dr. Reed."

"A good man, like Dr. Reed, Percy?"

"Yes; I'm going to stand up in the pulpit as he does."

"I hope you will, Percy; there is no better place for a man; but if you expect to do this, you must never forget to be a good, true, noble boy."

They now reached the gate. Percy ran to tell his mother what Dr. Reed said, and Kate and Agnes went each to her room.

Notwithstanding Mrs. Capen had gone, Agnes' list of benevolent calls was more, instead of less. They stated walk to the store furnished material; little children as well as age, to be searched out and rendered comfortable. Some of these visits were made on Sabbath evenings, Kate begging the privilege of going; her heart was touched as she looked upon the destitution of which she had never the slightest conception, and her sympathy given in a way and manner that carried comfort to sorrowing hearts.

"I must take occasion to see Miss Gladiolus," she said to Agnes, as they came out of a clean but comfortless apartment. "I don't believe she knows how many people want for the comforts of life. I never knew until now."

"I hardly presume Miss Gladiolus would be willing to give up the lecture-room, and search about the garrets, and alleys, and cellars. There is not much renown in this kind of work," said Agnes, eager to hear what next Kate would say.

"I think this is very nice work; we make everybody happier. I like it better than I do making visits with mamma. And, Agnes, it seems to me this work is ours to do; work that we can do better than anybody else."

"Do you mean that as individuals we can do it, or that it is work suitable for a woman to do?"

"I mean that it is work suitable for a woman to do. You are always sure to find somebody, and then you hunt them up; papa never sees these poor people, and he takes the same walk, and, I dare say, if I should go down town, I should look at something else; but I like to come with you, and when I go home it don't matter how tired I am, I feel happy. If God made us all, and loves us all, and saves us all, I don't see how we can feel so vastly superior to others, just because we live in better houses, and wear finer clothes. But just think, what if we should lose them all?

A tear was in Agnes' eyes, she was thinking of loss; not alone of a fine house and good clothes, but of a father's love. It was needful, and looking up, a smile broke over her face.

"In many instances, no doubt, loss is necessary before our sympathies are enlisted in the right direction. It is very sweet to think that God knows best. Giving one to heap up riches for another to scatter; permitting others to distribute for themselves; and others still, deprived of everything, that they may learn to wait."

"I am afraid it would take me a long time to learn to be patient."

"When we love a person, we are pleased with what he does; we do not question and cavil; there is a conscious rest in his judgment, in his love, and we are satisfied."

"And this rest we feel when we love God?"

"We rest; that is, we are satisfied because we love God, because we trust Him."

Kate said no more; wending her way along the narrow streets, and over broken pavements, apparently in earnest thought.

"One more call. Are you very tired, Kate?" Agnes asked.

"Not tired; and still, we have walked a good distance, I judge."

"More than you are accustomed to. I shall chide myself if you suffer from it."

It was an old tumble-down building, with rickety stairs leading up through dark halls, with doors dingy and black, opening into cheerless apartments. On the fourth floor they found the object of their search, seated in an arm-chair curiously fashioned, with a cover of diverse colors and patterns, put together very neatly, and with evident attempt at harmony. The room was scrupulously clean, but meagerly furnished, and at the time the visitors entered, had but one occupant, the woman in the arm-chair. As the door opened, a long thin hand was stretched out.

"Is it Miss Agnes?"

"You was expecting me to-day, Mrs. White?"

"I was in hopes you would come."

"Mrs. Brandon is not quite well, and I have brought in her stead a dear young friend, who knows very little of sickness and sorrow," and Kate was duly introduced.

"Perhaps God does not design her to drink from this cup. He gives pain and loss to one, and joy and prosperity to another; it is not for us to question; it is His will, and for some wise purpose."

With her hand clasped in that of the sick woman, Kate looked down into the untroubled face; the soft brown hair was parted smoothly, and over the eyes was a green shade; the lower part of the face was oval, while the throat was pure as ivory, and beautifully turned. On a small queer little table at her side was a Bible with raised letters, one hand lay carelessly on the open page, the other was extended to her guests.

"Amelia has gone to her class," she said at length. "Much as I enjoy this book, and different as it makes my life, I like to talk of the goodness and mercy of God. I sometimes think that God took away my sight that I might commune with Him without having any thoughts distracted by outward objects."

After a delightful half-hour, reading and talking, songs were sung, in which Kate joined with more than her usual zest and spirit.

"I never expected to hear such music until I heard the angels," said the blind woman, as her visitors rose to leave.

The sun was nearly down when they reached home. Lieutenant Anhart was on the balcony, and as they passed, Nellie looked up archly.

"Does your service last all day, Kate? You have lost a good deal by not being here this evening."

"The loss is nothing to the gain, Nellie."

{illustration of flowering plant} {decorative device} CHAPTER XXIII. THE NEW TURNOUT.

I NEVER saw finer animals; splendid matches!" Lieutenant Anhart said to his wife, as he stepped from an open carriage, drawn by two magnificent bay horses. "A capital drive!" and he cast another look at the prancing steeds. "Through the new park, and along the river. It is charming, Nellie; you must see it. By the way, Branly begged me to present his compliments, and say that his horses are at your service. They say he owned plantations without number. The war ruined him. You would like to hear him speak of his appreciation of the North. He says it was all a mistake; had there been a better understanding between the two sections it would never have happened; he lays all the blame on politicians and demagogues. He does not seem to think of himself, but his people. I never saw a fellow more genuinely modest. Losing everything, I can't see just how he keeps up. Has just gone into business with Fieldson, he tells me. I never thought much of Fieldson;" and Lieutenant Anhart drew his wife's arm within his own, and walked up and down the gravelled path. Suddenly he paused, and plucking a blush-rose, placed it in the midst of her sunny curls.

"Branly thinks my wife is beautiful; shows his taste here, as well as in his horses. And, Kate--I wonder if she's seen Branly. He's seen her, he admires her; I think I should if I had never seen her sister. Can't we arrange it, Nellie? Encourage him a little for Kate's sake. Under the reconstruction laws, it's likely he'll have it all back. Branly doesn't seem to care a picayune. I never saw one bear loss with more fortitude."

Next to his wife and his cheroot, Lieutenant Anhart loved horses; he studied their attitudes gloried in their movements, and the result was, that whoever could show him a novelty in this line was, par excellence, a good fellow. Had Lieutenant Anhart not been a seaman, it is but natural to suppose he would have been a horseman, and his judgement not so liable to be dazzled by new specimens.

Mrs. Fennimore was planning improvements; certain work was to be done in the summer, and the workmen were there to receive orders.

"Mamma, I really don't admire the idea. I like the gleam of marble; exquisite little temples with Ionic columns, and fountains, and--."

"When your father has a place on the Hudson, or at Hempstead, it will be quite time to think of this. With only a square, we cannot have all you admire, and the changes I propose, will, I think, make it very pretty," and Mrs. Fennimore went on giving orders.

Lieutenant Anhart was correct in saying that Branly was an adroit horseman. He sat well, there was a certain pride in the way he gathered up the lines, a telegraphic message that the spirited animals before him clearly understood. To drive well is in no sense a profession; that is, it cannot be taught, it is inherent, or not at all; the natural expression of the dominant nature, man and brute acting in concert; the active, thinking brain, shown in the action of the animal, the fire of his eye, the arched nostril, the prancing step, brought out or concealed by the spirit of the master. Branly loved horses, he never felt better than when behind just such splendid matches as he had now, and never appeared to so good advantage; he knew this, and it gave a lofty expression to his countenance, a princely air and bearing; he could talk of his losses with a peculiar sang froid that especially pleased Lieutenant Anhart.

Turning from Mr. Fennimore's door, Branly's thoughts were somewhat digressive; he was thinking of the rich merchant, and the very considerable pile he had gathered, and he was thinking of Kate as a really beautiful girl; a girl who would come in for a share of this pile, and he thought what a very nice thing it would be to have an interest here. With no little tact, he had already struck a line. Anhart was his friend; Anhart was a lover of horses, and Anhart's wife was Kate's sister. Then there were other considerations; the princely look faded from Branly's face, his fingers slackened. With a start, he looked around him; this was not the time; he grasped the reins with more firmness, the horses stepped proudly. Branly was himself again, bowing, smiling with the easy nonchalant manner that was more effectual than any other in palming himself off as a Southerner reduced by the war.

The day was dying out; a delicious softness was in the atmosphere. Numerous equipages flashed by; magnificent landaus with ladies exquisitely dressed; phaetons with footmen in livery, and dimpled hands to grasp the reins; buggies with fast horses, and still faster youths; rickety old carryalls and rockaways; pedestrians and street loungers; children and nurses, all drinking in the perfumed air, all intent upon enjoyment sifted out of the great floating panorama around them.

Slowly the princely turnout passed through the crowd. His self-satisfied air rendered Branly's face peculiarly striking; his horses seemed to be conscious that they were objects of admiration; their action was perfect; bright eyes turned to them, and bright glances shot out to the driver. It was pleasant thus to be the object of attraction. Branly felt it to be so, and his generous heart expanded; the smile on his lips was more bewitching. His horses were comparatively fresh, why not prolong his ride? Why cut short the exquisite pleasure of being gazed at by admiring eyes. Branley was not selfish, his horses were freely offered to Lieutenant Anhart, he hoped the ladies would do him the favor to accept. But now, what was to hinder, the day was done, no doubt Agnes Strong would enjoy a drive, and there would be another chance of showing his horses before Mr. Fennimore's door. Once more a quick telegraphic message flashes along the lines; there is a firm, even movement; but faster, not a muscle but shows to the best advantage; the curve of the head and neck, the neat tapering ears, full glossy chest and well-turned rumps are perfect; but it is the action that charms, and this shows the power of the man. Here is an elegant establishment closing up for the night. A young girl habited for a walk is just leaving the door. Gracefully the turnout reins up; with a spring Branly is on his feet.

"I consider myself fortunate, that is, if you will permit me to drive you home, Miss Strong." the voice and manner were admirable, the bow was all that a bow could be, with an unmistakable air of reverence; in a sense, the expression of the heart rather than the head.

"Thank you, I am not to go directly home," and the voice was low and clear.

"Wherever you will, I am only too happy to attend you."

"Thank you, Mr. Branly, I cannot ride to-night," and with a kind bow the girl passed on.

"To make such an ape of myself! I might have known it!" and in a moment the discomfited actor turned with a smile. Belle Burnham and Clara Randall were in the door.

"The air is delicious, allow me the honor of driving you home, Miss Randall. Belle's preferences are so well known that I shall not presume in that direction," and amid smiles and pleasantry, Clara was handed to the seat.

Agnes Strong did not go directly home as she said; first, she stopped at a flower stand and purchased a small bunch of hyacinths; Mrs. White could not see them, but she would know how beautiful they must be by their sweetness. To reach Mrs. White's by the shortest route, Agnes had to take the street and to pass the very place where she first met Marian Temple. How changed! and still how vividly it all came before her. A group of laughing rosy-faced girls were now standing in the very doorway where Marian then stood. James Fieldson was no longer a clerk; he had an establishment of his own, with his mother to take charge of it, until Belle Burnham chose to share it.

Insensibly James Fieldson faded from her mind; the past was buried, she had no desire to recall it, no desire to cherish feelings of bitterness towards one who had been civil to her, and still, one for whom she had ever felt an unconquerable aversion. Strange! this feeling of aversion should extend to his partner. With the hyacinths in her hand, Agnes tried to analyze the feeling. Was it that Branly was the friend of James Fieldson, or was it inherent in himself? Try as she would she could not charge him with anything unbecoming in a gentleman. Still, with all his seeming frankness, there was a lack of symplicity. He seemed an actor got up for effect. Knowing little of human nature, she was liable to be mistaken. Of this Agnes was assured, let her own private opinion be as it was, she would not give utterance to it; down deep in her heart she would keep it. An actor to her, he might not be so in reality, and with this sage conclusion, she found herself at Mrs. White's door.

{decorative device} {decorative device} CHAPTER XXIV. THE LECTURE.

THE days were passing swiftly, Lieutenant Anhart's visit was drawing to a close, and Lieutenant Anhart himself was beginning to feel a touch of his old enemy. Ennui was a chronic complaint in the Anhart family, descending in a direct line, like the family pictures, from father to son. Lieutenant Anhart had a sealed box which contained a long list of ancestral names, with their predominant virtues, and characteristics, and exploits. It was an exercise that he particularly enjoyed, to meditate upon former greatness. Lying at his length on the sofa, with Nellie's fingers tangling themselves in the rings that clustered around his white forehead, he felt and looked not at all the hero that he could be when aroused. Tired of everything else, Lieutenant Anhart did not tire of his wife. He believed in Nellie, she was his divinity, and knowing her power, be it said to her honor, she used it wisely.

"Why don't you take a wife, Murray?" was said one evening, as the doctor dropped in. "I count the years lost that I lived without Nellie, she always knows just what I want, and, to tell the truth, when she is by, I don't seem to want anything else."

"Perhaps I should not be as fortunate," and a quizzical expression shot out from the doctor's eyelids.

"By-the-way, have you seen Branly lately?" asked the lieutenant, with more than his usual vivacity.

"I see him in the street."

"Those are splendid animals of his, I vow! I should like them for a few days. You could drive them after I am gone, Nellie," and with a spring, Lieutenant Anhart was on his feet.

"What are you to do with yourselves this evening?" asked Kate, dancing in with a paper in her hand. "Wonderful attraction, positively the last of the season," and the rosy-cheeked girl was laughing mischievously.

"Tell us what it is, Kate, that heading is too general."

"The subjection of woman," said Kate, trying to speak seriously. "For myself, if there is nothing else to do, I would like to hear it. Their annual meeting, a large gathering is expected."

"How did you get your information, Kate?" asked Dr. Murray.

"One of them just called to see Agnes. Aunt Brandon was engaged, and I received her. She spoke so prettily that I was quite taken, and when she rose to leave, she begged me to accept of tickets. Here they are; will you go?"

"I have consultation that will render it impossible. You will excuse me," said the doctor, rising.

"And I have an engagement; besides, I do not hold that woman is subject, to me she is the object," replied Lieutenant Anhart.

"She will manage to waylay Agnes. It will be something to see how she looks on the platform."

"Do you mean Agnes, or the lecturer?"

"Both."

The bookkeeper did not raise her eyes, but she knew by the violent tint in the air, that the day was done. With a little sigh, the ledger was shut. Then a drawer was opened and a letter slipped out. For a moment Agnes sat with her elbow on the desk, her head supported by her hand; wearied with the day, her thoughts had gone out to her mother, her little sisters, and her brother; the letter in her hand was from Herbert, he had written but few letters, and the most of these were to his sister. Agnes was not weeping so much over the absence, as over the trials and the effort it was necessary that each should make at home. If she could only do it all. Herbert's letter was full of home-life. She could see the house, and the garden, and the small field beyond. She saw the strawberry bed with its green leaves and rich red clusters of delicious fruit. There was a genuine vein of humor in Herbert's nature, it was next to impossible for him to describe the gathering of the fruit and taking it to the market, without a laugh, and still, there was a serious tone. Agnes could see the self-denial, even to Jessie, with her fingers stained, crying out,

"I hope sister will know that I never eat one of the real nice ones."

Underneath it all, she saw how anxious they were to help her pay the debt, how their hearts yearned to have her once more at home. Every night for a week, Agnes had read the letter, and every night she failed to answer it. It would not do to delay, and still she longed to say good, strong, hopeful words. A moment the head was bowed over the clasped hands, and the cry of her soul went upward. In communion with the Unseen, she sat clothed with new courage. Arduous as was the work, He would help her, the sympathy of a precious elder brother was hers, and once more she resumed her pen.

Scarcely had she finished folding and slipping her sheet into the envelope, writing Herbert's name in a bold, dashing hand on the outside, when a step was heard, and looking up, she saw Clara Randall.

"I knew that it was necessary for this letter to go out, and I would not let you be disturbed."

"Thank you, Clara. Have you waited long for me?" said Agnes, drawing on her gloves.

"There is a lady who desires to see you; she has been waiting some minutes."

"Did she give you her name?"

"She said merely that she would wait for you."

The visitor had changed her position, so that Agnes did not get a glimpse until she had made the length of the room.

"Miss Plumm, this is a surprise! I am glad to see you!" said Agnes, in a gentle voice, at the same time extending her hand.

Miss Plumm's greeting was more voluble. It had been so long since she had seen her "dear Agnes," and since she came to the city, she had been overrun with engagements.

"Do I understand that you are still lecturing?" asked Agnes.

"I quite hesitate to say that I am, feeling as I do, that you have no sympathy with the movement. But my voice has grown quite strong, and my friends said so much about the natural advantages I possessed for a public speaker, that it seemed like wilfully doing wrong if I persisted in refusal."

"It must be very trying."

"It is like everything else, we get accustomed to it. The first time I attempted it I broke down entirely; the next, I tried a stimulant that braced my nerves, and all said that I got through with it splendidly."

Agnes inquired after Cloverdale, and was surprised to learn that Miss Plumm had not been there for months.

"It is a great work that we have undertaken, and there are so few women, comparatively, who are willing to sacrifice their ease."

"Your lectures are not gratuitous; you receive money for them?"

"Just enough to pay expenses. We do not wish to make it a pecuniary consideration. But I see that you are ready to leave. I have a few friends at the hotel; you will not scruple to be introduced to them?"

"It will be necessary for me to go home first."

"By no means; I have been to your house; they do not expect you to dinner," and with delicate tact, Miss Plumm began to talk of Cloverdale and the pleasant summer she expected to pass there. Agnes was disposed to listen, and before Georgana finished, they reached the hotel. There was nothing said of the meeting until a few minutes of the hour, and then it was not amiable to refuse.

"It is our annual gathering. Let me introduce you to others, and still more prominent members. I know you will be charmed with them," said Miss Plumm.

"My place would seem to be in the audience," said Agnes, looking down upon the motley assemblage.

"O! there is plenty of room here: I want you near me, and then, if you don't care to stay, we can easily slip out by the side door."

On the platform were from ten to twenty ladies, some of them tall and angular, and others round and fussy, all disposed to be exceedingly kind and polite. Georgana was all animation, and Agnes was sensibly annoyed. To each and all it seemed evident that she was there as a willing co-worker in the same field.

"I congratulate the association on your admission," said Miss Featheredge. "And still, it is only what may be expected of every one who has the courage to think for herself; truth is bound to triumph, and we shall succeed."

"You labor under a mistake; allow me to explain," stammered Agnes.

"I assure you it is all understood. You have made no mistake at all. You are young; it is easy to see that this is your first appearance; have no fears; I was quite as timid when I began as you are now."

"But I do not believe in this movement. I did not come here to speak."

"Give yourself not the least uneasiness; just sit still in your place; you shall not speak except you desire it," and with a patronizing air Miss Featheredge trailed her robes across the platform.

With burning cheeks Agnes looked around to find some avenue of escape. The hall was now crowded with a strange medley of human beings; brazen-faced women with bare arms and huge fists; ladies dainty and white; youths and maidens giggling and whispering, with a sprinkling of men, watchful and curious; a nondescript mass of living, breathing life, to be swayed and influenced for good or for evil.

"There is a mistake; I must go," Agnes whispered to Miss Plumm.

"Do not attempt to leave the platform; it will throw everything into disorder. What matter if you are considered one of the speakers? It cannot, in any sense, injure you. You are my friend, and as such, you sit here. I will explain it all to-morrow. But here comes the Rev. Mrs. Wisely."

The reverend woman walked with a quick nervous tread to the small table at the front of the platform, extended her hands over the people, and prayed. Then followed the annual report, showing the work that had been accomplished by the association during the year. It was highly interesting, showing most emphatically the grandeur of the field, the immense accession of numbers, and the necessity of combined effort, if they wished to succeed. Mrs. Opinion was a widow, with a pink and white face, without a beard; she read with just the slightest lisp. The brazen-faced women softened, and began to pull down their sleeves; the ladies, dainty and white, waved their fans; the men drew near. Mrs. Opinion continued, and when the report was finished, a glow of satisfaction lit up the hall, an unseen halo circled the heads on the platform.

With graceful self-possession, Mrs. Knowall stepped forward. With touching allusion to the report, and the gratification that each must feel in the accomplishment of so much, still, it was but the beginning; gratified as she was, it was not the hour to relax effort; never was there greater need than at present. Looking at the question as she would, she felt that there was but one way that the several States could procure the suffrage, and that was to thrust the measure continually on Congress until it was successful. For her part she did not wish to go through the States and plead for equal rights with Patrick and Sambo. She admitted, however, that it was a right step to have women in the jury box. A higher type of lawyers was also needed, and that need would never be supplied until women were admitted to practice at the bar. With a wave of the hand, Mrs. Knowall spoke of the church and the clergy. The Methodist Church had struck out the word "obey" from the marriage ceremony, and until the other churches did the same, she hoped the women would see to it that they be married, if married at all, by Methodist clergymen.

Mrs. Knowall considered that the greatest evil to contend with was the unenlightened condition of the sex so long held in bondage. As things stood at present, a woman had no individuality; she belonged to her husband, with no rights that he was bound to respect; the plaything of an hour, the slave of his caprice, the household drudge. The fair speaker ended by calling upon women of the different States to uphold those who were willing to stand in the front, women who were willing to sacrifice themselves if need be, in order to break the chains that had so long bound them; lifting them up to the same heights, the same wages, the same political rights with men.

The brazen-faced women clapped their hands; ladies, dainty and white, waved their fans; men cried, "Go on!" "Just the thing!" "We are delighted!"

Mrs. Middling next spoke. She was young and pretty, with cheeks like June roses; there was a storm of applause, and the red lips opened. Mrs. Middling did not believe in too much haste; to overthrow popular opinion was a great work. Custom was a great thing; custom was like caste; wise measures must not be precipitated; to undermine a fortress was sometimes as well as to take it by storm. She had not seen as much of the world as Mrs. Knowall, but she had seen enough to convince her that the teaching of certain books had more to do with the subjection of woman than anything else. As long as such doctrine was adhered to, what else could be expected? How absurd! and the black eyes flashed. "Let your women keep silence in the churches; for it is not permitted unto them to speak; but they are commanded to be under subjection. And if they will learn anything, let them ask their husbands at home." Again: "Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the Church."

I need quote no further to assure you that reform is not to be looked for, so long as such doctrine is promulgated. By these writings the marriage relation cannot be dissolved. Absurd! and still, I would not be rash. As I said at first, I say now, it is rather by undermining, than by open, declared warfare. This will require time. We must make up our minds to wait, not idly, but as those who are content to win by pulling down old creeds and substituting others more consonant with the feelings of those who live in this enlightened age.

Amid shouts of applause, the speaker took her seat; others followed, many of them brief, but all in the same spirit. Miss Plumm saw the uneasiness of her friend, and moved her chair nearer. Miss Featheredge was all smiles and complacency.

"Mrs. Middling is a charming woman. Did you ever hear one speak more to the purpose? so calm and patient, so willing to wait," she said to Agnes.

"Surely you do not agree with her, that it is for woman to undermine the teaching of the Scriptures! you cannot think this!" and Agnes spoke with indignation.

"Do not misinterpret her words," returned Miss Featheredge, in the blandest manner; "I assure you, Mrs. Middling thinks as much of the Scriptures as any one can. It is only certain portions, translated to suit the times, you know."

"I know no such thing. If one line is false then all is false. Such teaching as I have heard here to-night is dreadful! I will do my best to refute it."

"I seen that you are warm; the day has been too much for you. Another time you will be surprised that you could speak in this manner. I was just as much excited when I began to think of these things," said Miss Featheredge, with the most provoking sang froid.

"I see that you are tired; let us go home," said Miss Plumm. "It is unfortunate that Mrs. Middling expressed herself just as she did. She meant nothing wrong; she is a most admirable woman. In the interest she felt, she spoke without consideration."

It was late, there was evident uneasiness in the crowd. In vain Miss Plumm tried to force her way to the side door. Once more the speakers crowded around Agnes, loading her with congratulations, and not allowing her time to answer.

"I think we shall now be able to reach the street," said Miss Plumm, drawing Agnes' arm within her own. "You are too tired to walk, I will call a carriage and take you home," she added, as they reached the door.

"No necessity for that, madam. I will see the young lady safely home."

Agnes looked up. Mr. Ludlow stood before her with Kate Fennimore on his arm.

{decorative device} {decorative device} CHAPTER XXV. AT THE FARM-HOUSE.

"FATHER, do you think it can be true?" asked Prudy Thurston, as she opened the blinds and shook out her duster.

"I should be very sorry to think it true, child."

"But, father, surrounded by new influences, Agnes may be led to view things differently. You have often said to me that a reform was called for."

"True, there are certain things; for instance, intellectual culture should be as deep and broad for woman as for man. Give her by all means the same mental scope; her heart educated as well as her head, to understand where her true strength lies. Then will she act wisely at all times, as teacher, guide, or counsellor; ordering her household with discretion; herself an example for her children to follow. Again, when service is rendered, the remuneration should be in keeping with the service, not limited by consideration of sex. A faithful painstaking woman is in all justice entitled to the same wages that a faithful painstaking man would receive. The limit is one of fitness only in such branches of industry or of science as are open to both. When Mary Klemm went into the public school, I voted to give her the same salary that a man would receive; for in teaching, I hold that a woman is fully the equal, in most instances the superior; and in discipline, I see nothing to hinder her being so, provided she acts with her native dignity and worth. But, if I wanted a stone wall built around the farm, I would not give the same wages to a woman as to a man. In the first instance, it is not a woman's place to do it; in the next, her physical strength is insufficient."

"But, father, if women are not to be lawyers and doctors and ministers, it is not necessary that they should be as thoroughly versed in books?"

"Most certainly. If women are not to be lawyers and doctors and ministers, they are to be companions for these; they are to be mothers of lawyers, doctors and ministers; a foolish, silly, addle-brained woman cannot be the mother of a noble high-souled man. The mother forms the character of her son; in a great measure, she forms the character of her husband. If we want a nation of men, we must educate the women of the nation. When the understanding is cultivated, and the heart filled with wisdom, vanity, bigotry and prejudice will fly away."

"But, father, the paper says 'the meeting was opened with prayer by the Rev. Mrs. Wisely,'" and again Prudy took up the sheet.

"Rev.! An office that a woman cannot in any instance discharge. To attempt it, is in open violation of scripture teaching."

"If woman are jurists, father."

"Fiddlesticks! To think of a woman so demeaning herself. Let her study to inform herself upon all topics; theology, law, physics, science. She should be well-read, with a mind trained to think, and with an aptitude to teach. But she is to be a 'keeper at home.' 'There are diversities of gifts,' 'there are differences of administrations,' 'but the same spirit.' It is not a question of equal rights; equality of rights and privileges is nowhere condemned, and by no sane person denied. It is a question of 'diverse gifts and diverse administrations;' the woman with her duties, and the man with his, as God created them."

"If a woman is forced to go from home, father; every feeling in her heart crying out against it, to no purpose, she must go."

"Not a more noble sight under the heavens, than to see a woman willing to do, as her necessities and her duty seems to require. Strong in the purity of her character, the integrity of her motives, she dares, putting her hand into the hand of God, to go forward. To be a 'keeper at home,' is not to be understood in the sense of the letter. The circumstances in which each individual being is placed are in the hands of God. For these the man or the woman is not accountable, but only for the way and manner in which they are met. A man, with a firm manly spirit, honest and just, with a steady onward movement, determined to overcome; the woman, girded with her own womanly qualities, modest and true, relying on the strong arm of God, trusting and reverent, a being to lead through love. But when, with her own hand, she breaks down the barriers; when, headstrong and perverse, she turns from the true God, ignores His laws, and denies His worship, not a frailer being can be found. Her bulwark gone, she becomes an easy prey to the evil and designing."

The above conversation was called forth by reading in the daily paper a paragraph to the effect, that at the late annual meeting of women, distressed because they could not vote, Agnes Strong's name was mentioned as one of those on the platform.

Prudy's calm face was unusually troubled. It did not seem that Agnes would throw her influence in that direction, but surrounded by new associations it was possible; in any event, if she had done so, it was because of evident conviction that she was right; and Prudy brought water for the vases, and arranged her flowers so as to give the room a pleasant appearance.

Through the long summer days she had thought of Agnes; patting Dolly's neck, and talking to the poor dumb creature of the rides they would have. Dolly's great brown eyes opening as she thought of the fences and ditches, and the delight it would be to leap them.

A great change had come over the Thurston family, a change that neither the farmer not his wife had foreseen, and still, they were not unprepared to meet it. Hiram was not to be a farmer. Drawing his chair between that of his father and his mother, and taking a hand of each, he told them of the hopes he cherished, and the plan he had for study. It was not a new idea, he had thought of it for years, and since Lyman Reed left Cloverdale for the purpose of studying for the ministry, he felt that he could not be denied the same privilege.

Tears ran down the furrowed cheeks of the farmer, and the mother wept silently.

"If you object to this, mother--or if you prefer, I would stay with you, father," and Hiram's voice faltered.

"We do not ask you to do this, my son. If you feel it to be your duty, you must go; but it comes to us suddenly. If you go, we are alone; we have no son to take your place."

"I know it, and I have delayed on this account. But father, suppose you give up the farm, it is hardly fitting at your years to work as you have done."

"I have thought of that, boy, and if you desire to study, mother and I will not object."

Farmer Thurston was a religious man, he did not understand how it was possible for a man to live without recognizing a Divine power. He trusted in God, and he felt that God shaped his course, and was mindful of him every day. Hence this decision, while it changed his plans outwardly, did not in the least trouble him; rather, he deemed it a privilege to give his son to the work of the ministry. In this feeling the good mother shared heartily; she believed in God, and she believed in Hiram. Whatever he felt he must do, she felt sure that he would do it well. To be faithful was a cardinal virtue in the Thurston family.

It was a settled thing; Hiram was to go to college, and Prudy was to go to Vassar. Huldah Reed was there. It is possible that Prudy's visit to the city had something to do with this; a girl with a quick, active brain, she saw the value of education. Perhaps it was her father's counsel, the necessity for a woman, as for a man, to study. If Hiram went to college, it was not for her to sit passive at home.

"I believe it's best to take these bosoms to Mrs. Strong," Mrs. Thurston said, as she entered the parlor with her hands full of work, and a roll of linen on her arm. "I sometimes feel like having a machine of my own, but if you both go away, I shall be lonely without a good deal to do. I don't know how it would be if I hadn't some sort of sewing all the time."

"If you go, mother, ask Mrs. Strong when she expects Agnes?"

"It's nigh upon time, I should think. I'm in a real hurry myself to see the child."

"Just notice the corn when you are there," said the farmer; "it looked scorched and thin. I feel anxious that she should have good crop this year."

"And, father," said Mrs. Thurston, looking around as she reached the door, "suppose you drive out after dinner; it will do us all good to see how happy a drive in the country will make them."

{decorative device} CHAPTER XVI. PERCY'S ILLNESS.

MRS. FENNIMORE and Kate, with Lieutenant Anhart and wife, had gone to Portsmouth. It was a great trial for Nellie to see her husband go out on a long voyage, and this trial was softened by the presence of her mother and sister.

"I do not wish you to bury yourself like a Hindoo widow," said Lieutenant Anhart, as the tears streamed over the cheeks of his young wife. "It is possible that Government will recall us within half the time. In any event, I may be able to send for you;" and to divert Nellie, plans were formed, and lines of travel marked out that took them farther and farther from home.

Contrary to the usual custom, Mr. Fennimore and Percy were left behind; the former, by reason of accumulated business, and the latter as requiring too much care. Mr. Gilchrist had been in Europe for several months, and not till he returned could Mr. Fennimore or Mr. Ludlow promise themselves a day's respite.

Through the sultry heat, Agnes Strong went to and from her desk. Lonely and deserted as the house was, it was recreation for Percy to accompany her, which he did, returning by himself, or with Vic, before the sun was too warm. It happened one day, that Vic paid a visit to a friend, living on a street infected with fever. The day was excessively warm, and when she returned home, Percy was faint and exhausted. For a few days he drooped perceptibly. Dr. Murray was called in; fever was in all his veins, and his eyes glared wildly. Mr. Fennimore was beside himself with grief. An only son, how could he give him up; and going to his room, the rich merchant shut the door, and refused to be comforted.

For the first time, Agnes neglected to go to the store. With Percy calling wildly for her, it was impossible to leave him. Sitting with the sick child tossing on the pillows, she felt the insufficiency of riches to bring comfort; sickness could not be bribed, death seemed inevitable. Mrs. Brandon was a good nurse, and for days the watch was kept, the grim angel hovering on the threshold and still not commissioned to enter; all the while the little one tossed and moaned, and then fell back into troubled sleep.

"He breathes easier," said Mrs. Brandon, as once more she leaned over the couch, putting her ear to the parched lips, and lifting the thin hand in her own.

The knob turned softly, Dr. Murray entered.

"There is hope," he whispered, as he looked long and anxiously into the worn face. "If he wakens, we shall save him."

Silent and still the two women sat by the small bed, tears brimming their eyes, and their hearts going out in prayer, that if possible the child might be spared. Suddenly Agnes started to her feet. It was a question of life and death. Would he not like to look upon the face of his boy? and still, she feared to disturb the father. Moments passed that seemed ages to the watchers, and the dark eyes opened. The fever had gone; still and white the child lay, conscious, and yet too weak to move, scarcely to breathe.

"There is hope; he will live," and away slid Agnes to the closed door. A slight tap, and it was opened.

"Come in!" said Mr. Fennimore.

"I could not rest till I had told you. Percy is conscious; with care, he will live."

"Thank God!" exclaimed the father, dropping his head on his hands. Then lifting himself, "these have been dark days, Agnes; but God has heard my prayer."

"When God lays His hand upon us it is for the purpose of drawing us nearer to Himself. He has come very near you, Mr. Fennimore."

Once more Agnes went to her desk. She had anticipated going to Cloverdale at this time, but her work had accumulated; she could not leave her books in that fashion. And at length, when she succeeded in putting them in order, and then going for a few days, her mother thought she had never seen her so pale and thin before.

"You must not think of this. I feel pretty well, and I am so happy to be at home again that I shall soon recruit," was the reply. "But tell me of yourself, and how you managed to get in your crops."

"As for crops, Farmer Thurston helped us this year just as he did last. You have heard that he has given up his farm?" asked the mother.

"So I was told."

"Hiram is to study, and Prudy goes to Vassar College."

"Lyman Reed told me some months since, that Hiram had made up his mind to study. When does he leave?"

"They are both to leave in less than a week. I was afraid, child, that you would not come in time to see them."

"I cannot be too grateful that I was privileged to come at all, that God has kept us through another year," and sitting in the soft summer twilight, the little confidences of the year steal out. Try as she will, the mother cannot hide the care, the ceaseless study to make ends meet; the children growing taller and needing more. And Agnes, without a particle of pride, tells of her salary untouched, the little she has spent, won through her pen, "not much, but something, and next year, I promise myself more time."

"I sometimes think it wrong, child, those years that you must be away trouble me."

"There will be two less, let us count this way, mother; and next year, if I can get more time and so write more."

"All the time keeping you upon the stretch."

"It does not hurt the mind to stretch itself, smoothing the wrinkles out and keeping it in healthful action. It is not much that I can do, but that little will fill the place as well perhaps as the larger work permitted some one else."

"I cannot chide you; but it seems too hard," and the tears drip over the wasted cheeks.

"Dear mother, now I see that I am no comforter. There is nothing hard, with God to help us," and kissing away the tears, the sweet child's face is hid on the mother's bosom.

Blessed days and nights, with such sweet rest as Agnes had not dreamed to know again. How beautiful the small chamber where she used to sleep, with the same old pictures on the wall; she had seen finer since, but none that had more power to win her thoughts and fill her heart with images of peace; then the books, and the vases filled with flowers, as though but yesterday she went away. Rich as is her city home, it has not a room to equal this; and sinking on her knees before the casement, the past comes up before her. Years ago, she never thought to go to sleep until her father, passing to his chamber, stopped to kiss her on the lips. "God bless thee, keep thee, child." Was it too much to think that he was watchful from his home in heaven? and questioning, she looked up to the stars, "God knows, and the precious Elder Brother will not leave me to wander in by-paths."

To Herbert the days are one long triumph. "Nearly a head taller than I was last winter." and stretching up, he talks with boyish pride of the corn he planted, with potatoes, "more than we need;" then of the strawberry bed, the market, and what the buyers said. "We had no thought it would bring half as much, and this will help you, Agnes, to pay off the debt."

"And now, if mother would not do so much. You see how much taller I have grown, and I am stronger too, and so is Helen. We do not want to see mother work so hard."

"In the garden, Herbert?"

"Sitting up at night to do some kind of sewing; and when she coughs, it makes me faint to hear her."

"We must try to save her, she must not sit up at night."

"I thought if you only knew, you would find some way."

It was a bitter ordeal, as Herbert talked of the withering struggle the mother knew, and still, a struggle of which she did not speak. Helen had her plans, talking in snatches of a cloak embroidered, and a dress, unfolding the towel in which it was hid away, and shaking out the folds.

"It is neatly done, where did you learn it, child," said Agnes, weeping hot tears.

"I must help you, Agnes;" and the blue dress with its delicate vine of white flossy silk was laid away, and the sisters talk of the debt that must be met, each, even to Jessie, anxious to do her part.

Busy as the days were, there were calls to receive, and old neighbors to visit. Farmer Thurston was the first, and Swallow and Dolly were treated to a race. With a quiet dignity that deepened the manly beauty of his face, Hiram spoke of his studies, and the hope that he might be permitted to do successful work.

"I am glad that it is to be your work, Hiram," and patting Dolly's neck, the student drinks in strong words of encouragement, words that shall be to him in the future as an inspiration.

To Prudy, who had never been from home for any length of time, it was a serious change.

"I begin to see how hard it was for you to leave home," she said to Agnes.

"Think only of the bright side, Prudy; think of the gain it will be to you in knowledge and social improvement."

"If not for this, I could not go;" and the two girls, so one in feeling, and still so far removed in circumstances, walked up and down the yard, and talked of school-life and the beautiful that lies beyond.

Before Agnes left, she called on Dr. Makewell.

"Not for yourself, child," said the doctor, looking into the bright face. "A litte pale and worn; but a fine constitution would build up with half a chance," then listening eagerly.

"Yes, yes, I understand--a cough--has worked too hard; you did well to tell me. I will see her, depend upon it. It is not right to let a cough run on."

As she returned, Herbert met her.

"I do not like to give it to you, and still, you must have it," as he held up a letter. "I am very sure it is to take you from us."

"I have already stayed longer than I expected, Herbert."

With trembling fingers Agnes opened the letter.

"It is from Mr. Fennimore; I must go back to-morrow."

{decorative device} CHAPTER XXVII. THE MYSTERY.

TRY as you will, you cannot make it anything else. We had the goods and here are the books, they do not tally;" and Mr. Gilchrist ran his fingers through his hair, and looked around with very evident dissatisfaction. "There was a perceptible deficit last year; you advised silence and increased watchfulness; instead of finding the cause, the evil has spread; the amount is more than double what it was then."

"This is true; but it does not argue wrong on the part of the book-keeper," returned Mr. Fennimore.

"It is evident the goods have gone on a wholesale plan; how this could be done, with one or more of us in the house, is more than I can understand; neither can I understand how a woman can look so well, so really elegant in her appearance, without spending her salary."

"You refer to Miss Strong?"

"Of course. We know very well the others use every penny they have, and some of them, like Belle Burnham, have well-to-do friends to help them."

"Miss Strong has nothing to pay for board, and I am told by Mrs. Brandon that she has marvellous taste in the way of making over her clothing."

"Not only is her salary untouched, but, I am informed that she brings from home nearly two hundred dollars. How was this obtained?"

"Mrs. Strong is a good manager; they have a back yard containing a half acre or more, never used for anything in Mr. Strong's time; this was plowed and planted, with seed dropped in every conceivable place. Above all, they had a strawberry bed. And the money she brings, is the savings, in which the mother and children each joined."

"All very plausible," and Mr. Gilchrist twisted his brown beard with a troubled, half angry expression.

"Have you heard anything different from this?" asked Mr. Fennimore.

"A story very different and quite as probable."

"Whatever it is, it is new to me," continued Mr. Fennimore. "Does it come from a reliable source?"

"From authority that I do not dispute. Fieldson came to me some months before I left for Europe with regard to it. The girl boarded with you, and I disliked to say anything until we had proof."

"Fieldson accuses her of taking goods?"

"He does not accuse her; but he said as much as to say that a good many pieces of silk were sold in that little country store, half of the profit of which was set to Mrs. Strong. The inference was, that the goods went from here."

"And you believe this?" said Mr. Fennimore, rising to his feet. "Villain! how could he say it! I know it is false."

"Keep cool, Fennimore. Now you see why I wanted the proofs. I knew you would be ready to defend her."

"So I will, against such an accusation."

"Remember, it was not an accusation."

"Suspicion, that an honorable man would never have dared to dream."

"It must be looked into," said Mr. Gilchrist, after a pause.

"So I should say."

"As for suspicion," continued Mr. Gilchrist, "I have no wish to suspect one wrongfully, above all, I would be careful of the lady's character. But there is a wrong, perceptible last year, and greatly advanced this. To allow it to go on would be to wink at the sin, to say nothing of the loss; two or three hundred dollars, she may think of no consequence to us. You know, without saying much, that she has been thoroughly dissatisfied with her salary. She may think this a justifiable means to bring it up."

"Did you ever hear her speak to this effect?"

"I never did. Miss Strong was always strikingly reserved when I was by."

"Miss Strong is a person of great reserve, find her where you will."

"I should not think so from what Fieldson says. She's voluble enough when she is with him. By-the-way, was it just the wisest thing letting Fieldson go? He was an uncommon salesman, and seemed as much interested for the honor of the house as either of us."

"Fieldson had a good many valuable qualities, but he lived fast, got entangled; left town for a time, and when he returned, set up for himself. We did not try to hinder him."

"I never thought much of Branly. A Southerner, is he?"

"I have heard some such thing; a planter, with an immense number of acres."

"Lost it, eh?"

"Of this I know nothing. He drives an elegant team."

"Against him--unless he has good backers."

There was a pause, the merchants were evidently thinking.

"I wish Ludlow was here," said Mr. Gilchrist, touching upon the old subject. "He has a head to unravel things."

"He will be here to-morrow," replied Mr. Fennimore, without turning his head.

"And Miss Strong?"

"The day after."

"I do not see that it is possible to be more vigilant. What do you say to a detective always on hand?" asked Mr. Gilchrist.

"A good idea. There is Allbright, he will ferret out this thing if anybody can."

"If Ludlow is to return to-morrow, we may as well not decide till he comes. He once made a remark that led me to think he had an eye on one or more individuals. Bah! I am half-sick of employing women anyway.

"And I set higher value upon their service every day, faithfulness is the rule; there may be exceptions," returned Mr. Fennimore.

At this juncture the door opened, and a clerk entered with a note which he gave to Mr. Gilchrist. Reading it hastily, it was passed to Mr. Fennimore.

"Show him in, Burton," was said to the clerk.

A moment after, Detective Allbright was closeted with the merchants.

{decorative device} {decorative device} CHAPTER XXVIII. HELPING HERSELF.

THE cool crisp November days rendered the genial atmosphere of Agnes' room inviting. Throwing aside her shawl, she seated herself in a large comfortable chair, and for a few moments gave way to the enjoyment of grateful warmth and rest. Coming up the street, she was thinking of Cloverdale, and the murmuring wind in the leafless branches inclined her still more to think of the old home. Never had it been such a trial to leave them; the weary look in the mother's eyes, the low, hollow cough, just as she remembers her father's to have been. Stealing up to her room and kneeling by the white bed, she asked Jesus to support and comfort them. She felt that He would do it. But to-night her heart is weak, she longs to see them, longs to feel the comforting assurance of their words. All through the day a shadow has rested on her heart, and still, it is but a shadow; wherever she turns it seems to follow her, stare at her, jeer, and almost to threaten her. She felt it, as Mr. Gilchrist met her in the morning, and Mr. Fennimore had now a look and manner unlike what he had formerly shown. After all it might be a fancy, and covering her face with her hand, she tried to think of some clue to the phantom, or at least of some way to exorcise it. Doing her best, it was not wise to disquiet herself over it, neither had she time to bemoan it. If the duties of the day were done, there were others quite as necessary. Not a moment of time must be wasted; she had given her mother to understand that she was to do more this year, and if she succeeded, it would be because of her worthily occupying the spare moments.

The shadows on the wall deepen, the white light is tinted into purple. A slight rap at the door, and Percy enters.

"Papa said I might bring them to-night. You are glad, Miss Agnes?" and he held up a handful of letters.

"I am glad of the letters, and I am glad that you are able to bring them. God was good to make you well again, what can you do for him, my little boy?" and throwing her arms around the child, she held him in a warm embrace.

"I can love him, Miss Agnes. Papa loves God I know, for he talks to him when he thinks I am asleep. I don't think mamma does, I never hear her."

Sitting with her arms around the child, the phantom vanished. She could think only of Jessie; the baby ways and gleeful silvery laugh, dissolving gloom.

Turning to her letters. "This is from Herbert, and this from Vassar; and this, tearing open the envelope, from Dr. Makewell." Silently she ran her eyes over the sheet, the weary look faded from her face, her eyes were lit with a soft tender light. Percy caught sight of the bright gleam, and nestled his curly head the closer.

"You won't cry any more. God will keep her well now," and the child's faith strengthened the wavering trust in Agnes' heart.

Once more Agnes drew her chair to the table, and opened her portfolio. Christmas was coming, and she had undertaken to supply several magazines, each with a Christmas story; the little that she had gained the year previous, backed by her necessity, stimulated her to improve every moment of time. Mrs. Brandon was of great service to her; taking her communications to the office, listening to criticisms, suggesting and revising even.

"Great talents are not necessary," she said, as Agnes lamented her inability; "write just as you talk, and of such things as you understand; a cheerful lively style, upon the popular questions of the day, is all that is needed. In going through the streets of the city you see enough every day to furnish a ground-plan, scaffolding, and perchance half the work. All that you have to do is to make others see just what you see."

In following this plan, Agnes was surprised to find the increased interest she felt in everything around her; what was at first an effort came to be a diversion. Her simple descriptions were pictures of real life. Viewed by others, they touched the heart, and by their very simplicity won largely upon the public mind. In her womanly capacity, quiet, and a "keeper at home," she could flash her thought from one part of Christendom to another, and thus her influence, small and unpretending as the tiny rivulet, would be felt by thousands to whom her presence could never be known.

In the eyes of Agnes Strong this influence eclipsed all consideration of "rights." At the ballot-box, true, a woman's vote would count one, the same as Dick and Harry. Here was an avenue in which not one vote, but hundreds, could be controlled through the influence of the pen. She was also led to see more perfectly the beauty of adaptation; not underrating herself because it was not hers to write sermons: she was free to do this; no doubt she could do it, and do it well; but was it suitable? was it expedient? would it bring the desired result? With ready tact she saw that lively imagination, playful fancy, quick conception, with skilful combination and an easy flow of language, was quite as powerful, and really as necessary in the accomplishment of the great work given man to do, as the most learned exegesis, or the deepest, most abstruse metaphysics; and thus discerning, she worked on, content to scatter the pearls she found in her own bag, without questioning if they were of less value, or in beauty unequal to the various gems carried by her associates.

So much occupied, Agnes did not hear the door open, did not know that the sweet motherly face of Mrs. Brandon bent over her.

"You have done enough for one day, child. Put it all aside for this time."

A little sigh broke over the red lips, and the shadow of a smile. "I have but a few lines; I must finish this to-night."

"I remember an old legend to the effect, that two well-known individuals each received from the hands of their king a valuable diamond, with instruction to use it so that it should be with enjoyment to themselves and of profit to the king's subjects. Pleased with the regal gift, and anxious to carry out the instruction of the king, one guarded his gem so closely that the care of it became a burden, affording neither pleasure nor profit to himself, neither was it of any use to his fellow-men. The other was so profligate of his, wearing it on every occasion, and leaving it so exposed, that in time he was robbed of the gift. Thus both defrauded themselves and the world of what was given as a princely blessing."

"I appreciate the legend," said Agnes, with a laugh, "and to show you how I prize the gift of health, I will not add another line;" and opening the drawer, manuscripts and pens were consigned to darkness.

"Now for sleep and dreams. But tell me, are they well? You received letters."

"My mother is greatly improved, and the children jubilant. There was likewise one from Vassar."

"How is our little wild flower?"

"She says we must not be surprised if she runs down for a visit during the holidays."

{decorative device} CHAPTER XXIX. WAY-MARKS.

NEVER were the holidays ushered in more brilliantly; light fleecy snow, such as many city children had never seen; ice where it was wanted, on the ponds, with sunshine to dazzle and transform the limpid drops into countless gems. All the world seemed bent upon enjoyment. The time immemorial custom of gifts given and received was the ruling passion; rich papas and fashionable mothers did not think it beneath them to be seen in the street with ominous-looking packages in their hands; secret societies everywhere multiplied; whisperings were in the air; and a stranger would have considered the world on the eve of some great revolution.

The elegant establishment of Fennimore, Gilchrist & Ludlow was full of activity, and through it all the book-keeper could be seen, with a strange sweet gravity on her face, her heart filled with pleasant memories, but her eye never wandering, making out her bills, and summing up her balance sheet. Christmas to her was a remembrancer. With reverence and holy awe she knelt by the side of Mary as she cradled the infant Jesus in her arms; through the values of Judea she followed him. With Martha and Mary she welcomed him, with Peter and John she talked with him, and on the day of crucifixion she wept as she followed to the tomb where Joseph had laid him. More than a holiday, it was a renewal of the gift first given. It was a day in which she could go with all boldness and ask for guidance and protection. Looking forward to another year, she could trust Him; faith was strengthened, the small gifts that she could make were hallowed with love, receiving largely of His grace she was satisfied, and night found her calm and quiet.

In Mr. Fennimore's house Christmas had a new significancy. The story of His love mingled with the gifts and the pastimes; if the entertainments were not as costly, they were more extended; if fewer gems were purchased, more blankets were given, and more fuel distributed.

Into these cheerful, happy home-gatherings the students came. Robert Morris with his chum Harry Walters, Prudy and Hiram Thurston, Dr. Reed and Lyman, Dr. Murray, with Mr. Ludlow and good Mrs. Norris. Agnes had never met Mrs. Gilchrist, and she was surprised one evening, as Mr. Gilchrist crossed the room and introduced his wife, a charming little woman with sparkling black eyes, an abundance of dark curls, and with a frank, sweet manner, that caused Agnes to forget the keen scrutiny to which she had always been subject from Mr. Gilchrist.

"I see that you do not believe in a religion that makes one gloomy," said the little woman, to Agnes.

"On the contrary, I think one must be exceedingly gloomy without religion. The abiding presence of One, superior to ourselves, One to whom we can go for counsel; satisfied that everything that happens is for good."

"Where do you learn this?" asked the little woman. "I would like to feel this sweet calm, assured that everything that happens is for good. But do you really believe, everything?"

"The Bible tells us, everything."

"There are plenty of wicked people in the world, surely everything they do is not for good."

"The acts of wicked people are overruled so that they are pierced with their own weapons."

"Trials are hard to bear, I have had some of them. I think I would rather have the good accomplished some other way," said the little woman.

"But we must be willing to let God choose."

"I will think of this; to tell the truth, I have thought of it a good deal; but there are so many kinds of religion in the world. I never could endure gloomy, long-faced religion," and away flew Mrs. Gilchrist.

"Is it possible that you have not met with Mrs. Gilchrist," said Dr. Murray. "She is a very lively lady, and one of the most amiable of human beings. Her history is quite romantic. Mr. Gilchrist found her abroad, in a nunnery, I believe. There was a great stir at the time. She seems to be a very happy woman."

"This accounts for her speaking of so many kinds of religion. She does not like gloom connected with religion."

"What a happy world it would be, if the religion of the Bible was everywhere understood and practiced. I have sometimes wondered why God permitted sin," continued Dr. Murray.

"Had there not been sin, there would have been no need of a Saviour. In that case, man would have known nothing of the tenderness, the love of God," was Agnes' reply.

"Then you would have sin in the world?"

"The redeemed from sin love most. There is a peculiar bond, that can only be known by those who have sinned and been forgiven."

There was a diversion, some fine stereoscopic views were being presented.

"Perfect, isn't it?" exclaimed Mrs. Gilchrist, as they stood contemplating St. Peter's. "You have been there?" turning to Dr. Reed.

"I spent a few months there when a student. It was Rome rather; as it was, I never found myself in the street without thinking of the terrible tragedies that had been enacted there; the torture and the death."

"There is much to inspire thought, and to develope true and noble action; yet, I never think of Rome without a shudder."

"And for that reason it is not wise to think of it at all," said Mr. Gilchrist, and with admirable tact he arranged the cards so that the next view was in Wales, and another in France."

"It must be charming to visit these places," said Prudy, blushing at the idea of the little she had really seen.

"Travel is a better teacher than books; books are the foundation, without which foreign travel will not much improve us," said Dr. Reed.

"The older I grow, the more I am convinced that a limited view of men and things is the one grand thing to guard against," said Mr. Ludlow. "Travel tones down prejudice, and does away with petty differences and jealousies."

"Add to this knowledge, Christian charity, love, and humanity, and you have reached the sum of present good," returned Dr. Reed.

Mrs. Gilchrist was talking with Professor D'Orson, a tall white-haired man, with mild gray eyes capable of deep and varied expression.

"You were saying there was one great blemish in the manner of this people. Allow me to ask what may this be?" said the Professor.

"I can easily sum it up in one word--restiveness, a want of ease," said the little woman.

"And this you term a great blemish," was the playful rejoinder.

"With us, we think, and naturally enough, that ease and quiet dignity of manner are the legitimate effects of birth and breeding. A refinement that belongs exclusively to those who are by circumstances placed beyond the cares and perplexities of life. With all privileged classes, as we have here, it would seem that we should find more calm faces than we see."

"And still, you tell me that you have met with individual cases where this sweet calm predominated, and that it was attributable to their religion, and not to the accidents of birth and fortune?"

"Yes; and what is the most curious to me, it is said to be the religion of the Bible. If this is so, my perplexity is increased rather than diminished; in a country where so many profess to follow the teachings of the Bible, if it really has this effect, why is it that so many fail to express it in their countenances?"

"In order to express a truth in this manner, we must live in an atmosphere permeated with this truth; that is, we must make it our daily contemplation. All things must be subservient to this, and thus we come to express it, for the very reason that our hearts are full of it."

"You believe in the religion of the Bible. Is it this that keeps you so calm in this great world of excitement?" and she turned her sparkling eyes to the placid face of the Professor.

"I believe in the religion of the Bible, Therese."

"But there are so many conflicting interpretations. Think of our church; we have a Bible."

"Manipulated to suit the priests."

"I will not think of it. I hate them; I hate their arts; but I do love a religion that brings peace."

"Religion will not permit us to hate."

"I have cause."

"Then forgive, as you hope to be forgiven."

The beauty of Mrs. Fennimore's gatherings were, that everybody found something to interest them. Dr. Reed was talking with a brother clergyman, whom he had not met for years. And Harry Walters found himself face to face with a lady, whom of all others he most desired to see, and still the very last person he had expected to meet. Dr. Murray and Prudy Thurston had found some rare landscapes and old family portraits. Agnes was sitting near them, the charm of quiet restfulness on her face, silent, but not unobservant.

"Allow me to present a friend, whose cheerfulness, like your own, is the result of his religion," said Mrs. Gilchrist, laying her jewelled fingers on Agnes' arm.

"Are you an admirer of pictures, Miss Strong?" asked the Professor, as the little woman glided away.

"I know little of pictures as works of art; to me a picture is pleasing according to the impression it makes on the mind. The few that I have called my own have been to me like personal friends, mute but sympathetic."

"Then you think a picture embodies power?"

"To me a picture has the power to symbolize truth, leading up and drawing out the better feelings of the soul, or debasing, as the companionship of living forms would be."

"In this sense, you make pictures educators," returned the Professor.

"Most certainly; purifying our taste, and inciting us to all that is pure, and noble, and good."

"In this you differ from many who seem afraid to address the sentiment of beauty, especially in religious culture."

"On the contrary, I think there is a very grave mistake here. Why did God create so much of beauty, if He did not intend it to symbolize himself? The flowers are pictures painted by his hand, short-lived and transient; they have a strange power to touch the heart, the beauty inspiring us with love for the Giver, and the fragrance like the expression of good deeds. The pictured representation on canvass testifies to the same unspeakable attractiveness. To look upon a painting that shadows forth a soul full of Christian goodness, is unconsciously to desire to imitate it."

"I have to confess to a love of pictures; flung around the world, as I have been, they have held for me a companionship; winning my eye when I was lonely, strengthening me when weak, nerving me to resist temptation," said the Professor, feelingly. "There is a wise discrimination necessary here as elsewhere, however. With power to express truth, a picture may also express error; more than we think are these mute emblems educators."

There was a general uprising, the Professor started to his feet.

"We must have a Christmas carol," said Dr. Reed, "something that all can sing."

Once more the parlors resounded with the measured chant of happy voices, the grand old hymn ringing out in choral sweetness, "Peace on earth, good will to man."

As the strain died away, Mrs. Gilchrist whispered to Agnes, as she bid "good-night,"

"I am beginning to like your religion, it is but the least bit gloomy."

{decorative device} {decorative device} CHAPTER XXX. A CHAPTER OF EVENTS.

ALLBRIGHT, the Detective, found it necessary to leave town for a season.

"I am fully persuaded there are those who understand this game," he said to Mr. Ludlow. "Depend upon it, we are on the right track; but so long as I am here every day, so long the fox will double; call off the hounds and he'll come round himself," and with a peculiar laugh the wily man crossed the room, and stood before the book-keeper.

"Any commands for Cloverdale, Miss Strong? My business leads me that way; I shall be happy to be the bearer of any little message."

"Thank you; I was just wishing to send a small package. I shall consider it a favor if you will take it," returned Agnes, at the same time taking the package from her desk.

"I will deliver it safely," said the Detective, with his eyes sparkling. To tell the truth, he was going to Cloverdale for a purpose, and he desired above all things to become acquainted with Mrs. Strong and her family.

The whisperings from Fieldson to Gilchrist awoke suspicion in the minds of Messrs. Fennimore and Ludlow, and these suspicions were strengthened of late, causing Mr. Gilchrist to change his manner very observedly towards Agnes. It was evident the new firm was living fast. With a modest beginning, they had gone up too rapidly; the length of the rope was uncertain. Not only this, rumor began to sift out Branly's antecedents. Whatever he was, it was evident that he was not born below Mason and Dixon's line; neither did he ever own a plantation. Still, he bore the same careless nonchalant manner, with evident leisure, and plenty of money; reconstruction did not trouble him, his fortitude was proof against political idiosyncrasies.

As the winter advanced, a great change came over Fieldson, the dash and confidence of his manner had a certain recklessness strangely at variance with his former graceful appearance. Belle Burnham was quick to note this, and running up and down the gamut of her caprice, she talked to Clara and Agnes, or grew moody and silent.

Successful with her Christmas stories, Agnes was led to make still greater effort, rising an hour earlier and taking an hour at night. Absorbed with her own schemes, she did not forget the weekly call on Mrs. White, nor the occasional tea-drinking with Fanny Carrol's mother, and the home walks with Clara Randall, together with an occasional letter to Mrs. Capen. Floy was now a tall girl, and Terry was errand-boy for the village merchant. "I can never be sufficiently thankful," and the tears were sure to run down Agnes' face, as she opened a letter from Mrs. Capen.

Detective Allbright was not known in his official capacity in Cloverdale, and Agnes was surprised to hear from Herbert that he had passed so many days there. "He has been here several times," wrote Herbert, "and had so many questions to ask of our crops, the strawberry bed and the market. Helen says she knows he will have one next summer, and then, I'm afraid, we'll not do as well." Herbert did not know that the village merchant was questioned quite as thoroughly, and if he had, he would not have known the connection, or what that had to do with the real object of Detective Allbright's visit to Cloverdale.

For some reason, after Detective Allbright left, Mr. Ludlow seemed suddenly to relapse into very great neglect. Seldom was he to be found at his desk; but wandering from one room to the other, his hat drawn down over his eyes, seemingly oblivious of all around him. It was the custom for the porter to open the house at a regular hour, and while sweeping and dusting, it was not an uncommon thing for the familiar friends of the clerks to drop in for a moment's chat, or to look over the papers, of which there was always a supply.

Desirious of accomplishing more than usual for the day, Agnes was in her place almost as early as the porter. Giving herself to her work, she did not raise her eyes for a time, and then she was surprised to see several unfamiliar faces about the door, "friends of the clerks of course." She resumed her work, her eye running up and down the column as before. At length a shadow fell upon her book, and looking up, Branly was before her.

"Pardon the intrusion. I do not see either of the firm; will you be so good as to look at this for a moment," and a paper was laid before her. It required some little time to explain it, and the first thing Agnes heard was a scuffle and a pistol-shot. Detective Allbright had one of the strangers on the floor, and Mr. Ludlow was in the act of wresting the pistol from Branly. All was clamor and confusion. In the mêlée one of the men escaped, the other two were walked off, surrounded by a body of policemen. Branly was safely guarded.

"You are wounded! you are suffering!" exclaimed Agnes, as she caught the pallor of Mr. Ludlow's face.

"I believe so," and sinking into a chair, the blood dripped from the wounded arm.

"Thank heaven it is no worse!" exclaimed Mr. Fennimore, removing the coat. "A flesh wound. Bind your handkerchief around it, Agnes, and then tell me how all this happened."

It did not take long for Agnes to tell all that she knew; the porter coming in for a share, and the pieces of silk found in the hands of the men and hid behind the small iron doors, revealing more than words. It seemed Detective Allbright had surmised something of this, making known his suspicion to Mr. Ludlow, and thus, without the appearance of care, there was still greater watchfulness. The men taken in the act were arranged so that the silk was passed down from the wholesale department by the stairs, unseen by the majority of those who were putting the place in order. It was a new thing to see Agnes at her desk, and Branly had taken that means to ward off attention. Finding that they were caught, Branly attempted to escape, and in the struggle with Mr. Ludlow drew his pistol.

By this time Clara Randall and Belle Burnham had arrived. Clara was greatly excited and Belle could hardly stand. In vain Mr. Ludlow was prevailed upon to go home.

"There is still more to this business, it is an act of mercy to finish it at once," and Mr. Ludlow looked full into Belle's face. Trembling, the girl reeled and would have fallen, but Mr. Fennimore caught her in his arms.

"If you have anything to say, Belle, let us know it at once."

The poor girl made an attempt to speak, but said nothing, turning her white appealing face to Mr. Fennimore.

"I knew nothing of this morning's work."

"But you have known of a plan to take goods for the purpose of throwing blame on another," said Mr. Ludlow, bending his grave eyes to the white anguished face.

"Yes," came through the trembling lips.

"No more," cried Mr. Ludlow; "we do not wish to torture you. It is for your own sake as well as ours; it is that suspicion may no longer rest upon the innocent."

Detective Allbright and Mr. Gilchrist were walking the room, arm in arm; tears were in their eyes, and their talk was fragmentary. Clara and Agnes had slipped away to weep by themselves.

The next day an indictment for forgery was made out against the firm of Branly and Fieldson. Bitter as was Belle's cup, it was not so bitter as that the mother had to drain.

"James has not been at home for two days," she said, as the officers came to the house; "he told me that he had business that required his absence for a few days. Is it possible my son has been doing anything like this!" and the tears rolled down the sunken cheeks. "James is my only child; I depend upon him."

Accustomed as the officers were to scenes of wretchedness, they turned without a word.

Weeks passed. James Fieldson was tracked to Liverpool, a fugitive from justice, and a wanderer; there was no escape, back they brought him, and when his mother looked upon his face again, he was a prisoner.

The day of trial came; it was a complicated case, the talent of the country was employed, the sympathies of the people were enlisted. The accused had friends, and the prosecutors had no desire to aggravate the circumstances. Despite their efforts at privacy, the court-room was crowded. Short as the time had been, there was a terrible change in the faces of the prisoners. Pale and haggard, with sunken cheeks and trembling lips, one would scarcely have recognised the dashing James Fieldson. Belle Burnham had to be supported into the prisoner's box. Cyrus Branly was calm, but it was the calm of the stoic, the leaden apathy of despair. By the side of Fieldson sat his mother, the tall spare figure bent forward, the face half hid in her veil, with eyes red with weeping, and only raised at intervals to look into the face of her boy.

It was a painful spectacle, and well might move hearts. As the trial went on, and the witnesses were called, sympathy merged into excitement. There was no bravado, tenderness pervaded the entire proceeding, the tone of the witnesses testified that they felt the responsibility resting upon them. As facts were brought out one by one, no person showed more surprise than Mr. Fennimore, no one more feeling than Mr. Gilchrist. It was the skilful unraveling of a plot in which many had been victimized by the artful wiles of a few master spirits. Excitement grew intense. Would the law condemn those who had been led into wrong-doing through the plausible wiles of others?

It was a terrible ordeal for the mother, the shattered nerves seemed giving way, great beads of perspiration stood on her forehead, a groan escaped her. Unknowing court rules, and unmindful of prying eyes, Agnes Strong glided across the floor, and twining her arm around the woman, drew her head to her shoulder. The action seemed to comfort her, the prisoner's face relaxed, pity touched each heart; but justice must be met. The evidence was given in, the lawyers began to sum up.

"Hold!" cried a firm voice, "there is one more witness."

There was an opening in the crowd, and a man advanced to the platform. A furtive glance from the prisoner and his head fell on to his hands. The mother saw the movement, and putting up her trembling hand, she wiped away the tears that blinded her. Looking to the witness, she tried to make it out. Surprised to see Mr. Temple, and eager to spare the mother what would break her heart, Agnes whispered her to withdraw. "No, no, I must stay; I must not leave my boy."

The witness began. "Irrelevant! Out of order!" cried one. "Go on," said the judge.

With a brevity that showed the mastery of himself, and the power of well-chosen words, the witness drew the picture of a home in which there was but one pet lamb, a fair-haired child, a girl wearing her dead mother's name, and with a smile that touched the father's heart. Years passed; the father cherished as some sacred thing the jewel left him; each day developed beauty, and the grace of a tender heart perfumed his home. Into this cherished fold the spoiler came, his look was noble, his words framed to catch the trusting heart, his promises were fair.

But when he came to speak of that father's wretchedness, his searching the city day after day, walking the streets at night, that then vengeance entered his heart, and he had but one thought, he made but one prayer--that strength might be given to take the life of the man who had so wronged him:--when he painted the weary watching, tracking his victim, and still, his hand withheld--above all, when he told how stealthily the father followed the steps of the unconscious man into the restaurant, hiding away on the balcony; then of the sudden revulsion of feeling as he listened to the pleading voice of the prisoner, her eyes swollen with weeping, the name of his murdered Marian on her lips:--as he unfolded the plot to which this girl listened, pleading again and again that she might not be a participator in such a vile scheme, the indignation of the crowd could not be controlled. Belle Burnham was carried from the court-room unconscious; the mother of James Fieldson had a dazed look more touching than tears would have been.

{decorative device} {decorative device} CHAPTER XXXI. AFTER THE TRIAL.

TWO years have passed. Agnes Strong is still a book-keeper. It is the last year, however, and a smile touches her lips as she remembers that the next journey home will be to remain.

Two years, bringing little change to her, but more to others. Robert Norris is through college, and Mr. Ludlow has taken Prudy Thurston to his own home. Hiram has greatly changed, and rumor says that Kate Fennimore looks upon him as she looks upon no other.

Through all of these changes the book-keeper has kept on her way, one purpose in her heart--to free her home from debt. What a proud happy moment it will be, when she can give into her mother's hand the document that she has so long labored to win. After all, it has been a pleasant way, and her eyes fill, while her heart is full of thankfulness.

The hum of voices is dying out, Agnes draws on her gloves slowly.

"Will you wait for me? I promised Mrs. Fieldson a bunch of hyacinths," said a voice, touching in its sadness.

Is it possible! Can this be dashing Belle Burnham, this sweet grave woman whom we now see talking with Agnes Strong? The expression of her face, although so sad, is calm. Ever since that fatal day that doomed James Fieldson to a convict's cell, Belle has cared for the stricken mother. The dazed look that came to the furrowed face as she sat by the prisoner in the court-room has never left it; neither does she fully comprehend where her boy has gone. Calling Belle, James, and babbling of the time when a younger, fairer woman will keep his house.

In her hour of sorrow, the firm that Belle had served did not desert her. "We will still employ you, if you choose to remain," was said in a tone that strengthened her in her effort to overcome her faults.

Stripped of her vanity, humbled in view of her short-coming, she went in and out a changed being. Agnes had never felt so nearly drawn to Belle Burnham. In her sorrow there was a kinship. Belle had the elements of a noble nature. Once more Fanny Carroll's words stirred her heart, "For my sake, Agnes, be a friend to Belle."

Gradually the seed sown began to spring up. A new life opened before the once giddy girl, her heart was touched with new love.

"One of our remembrance days," said Belle, as she came back with the flowers in her hand; "little as she comprehends, she remembers the flowers that James loved best. This morning she brought me a vase and whispered very significantly, that "James would like to see it filled with hyacinths."

"And when she sees them, will she know that he is not there?" asked Agnes.

"Not if I talk as though he were present."

"And this makes you sad, Belle?"

"It makes her happier, and when I call her mother, she pats my cheek and lays her hand caressingly on my head, telling me what a good son James has always been."

"How could he do it?" broke from Agnes' lips.

"The desire to live beyond his means. Honest gains are slow, and happiness is in ourselves, not in the outward circumstances of life."

"You have learned this, Belle?"

"I used to think of nothing but dress and display. It seems so strange, I cannot make it out, Agnes."

"In thinking of the lesson that you have learned, do you never consider, Belle, that it is possible for James to learn this very lesson, and thus the loss may be made up to him in a richer, fuller life?"

"In eternity?"

"Not only this; but life beginning here."

"I dare not think of it."

"James was a good boy, his mother says; may he not, repenting of his sin, become a good man?"

"But the disgrace--in prison, Agnes."

"A prison where one learns to lead a godly life is better than a palace shared with sin."

"You think this possible, Agnes? O, how my heart would fill with joy, if I could think that he would ever be what my fond heart once thought him."

Tears were streaming over Belle's cheeks; Agnes wept also.

"You are a dear, good friend, Agnes. What should I have done without you? what shall I do when you are gone?"

"Go to the Promiser, Belle; talk with Him just as you talk with me. When He forgives, He blots out, and a new name and a new life He gives."

{decorative device} CHAPTER XXXII. CONCLUSION.

THINGS have greatly changed in Cloverdale; streets have been opened and old ones enlarged; small buildings have given place to more imposing structures, and sumptuous residences stand on the outskirts. A pleasant distance from the city, with a sweep of country for drives and picnics, the little rural town has become a charming resort for the dwellers in brick walls and dusty, sunburnt streets. Farmer Thurston has a new home, and every summer Prudy comes, as bright and charming in her ways as when a girl she patted Dolly's neck, and taught her to take the fences and ditches at a leap. Dolly has grown too stiff to venture on such pranks, and in her place there is a fine bred animal of Arabian breed, that Prudy persists in calling by the same name.

Agnes Strong is at home; you would know it by the light laugh and elastic step; the gladness in her mother's heart, leaping up to meet the sunshine. The buds of promise have all blossomed. Saturday is sure to bring Mr. Ludlow; and when his patients will permit, Dr. Murray. Once more Agnes follows up the brook, leaving the Doctor to throw his line; telling of the time when a bent pin was her ambition, making mountains of pebbles, watching the shadows, and obstructing the water for the purpose of hearing it sing.

As the season advanced, the students came. Hiram, and Robert, and Harry Walters. Mrs. Norris was already with Farmer Thurston, and Mrs. Gilchrist, with Mrs. Fennimore, Kate, and Percy, and good Mrs. Brandon were expected.

"What a pity that it cannot always be summer," said Mrs. Gilchrist, as she danced over the meadows and set all the flower cups in motion, "it is so easy for one to be amiable, surrounded by so much beauty and such seeming content."

"If it were always summer, there would be no flowers," answered Professor D'Orson, who had but just arrived. "Cold and heat, shade and sunshine, are needful to perfect their beauty; just so with us, amiability that deserves the name, is the effect of conflicting forces, giving us the mastery."

"You bring your religion into everything," said the little woman, while a shade of seriousness stole into the upturned face. "I don't quite understand it. I look into the flower cups and I hear music strangely sweet, but I cannot tell from whence it comes."

"This reminds me of one of your countrymen, Therese," returned the Professor. "He could not tell, and, at length, being shut up with nothing but a plant to take his attention, he began to study out the language, tracing the veins in the leaves. As the flower opened, his interest increased. It was white, purple, and rose-colored, with a fringe of silver. Studying the flower, he came to understand the language; each leaf was a psalm, with an altar of incense, on which perfume was every hour laid."

"I see, I see," said Mrs. Gilchrist, and resting on the mossy bank, she looked up into the far-off sky; it did not look so very far, light was breaking, and with it there were gleams of beauty that brought a smile to the rosy lips.

Straying away into nooks, and glades, and cool murmuring grottoes, they came together at night; each with a memento, a delicate fern, a shell, or a tiny pebble, with experiences and confidences that were only so many fibres to twine into after life.

Autumn was circling over the hills, the breath of the flowers was less sweet, birds chanted and trilled, but did not sing with the same gushing abandon the summer knew.

Mrs. Strong's house is the centre of some new commotion. Kate and Prudy flutter in and out, while laces, and silks, and gossamer fabrics take shape and form. Then comes a day when the village church is hung with flowers, and a bridal train crosses the threshold and sweeps up the aisle. Slowly the train opens to the right and left, and leaning upon the arm of Dr. Murray, Agnes Strong stands before the altar. Reverently the words are said, and they go out, two hearts blended into one life. Little children scatter flowers, and standing on the steps, Mrs. Gilchrist plucks off her shoe; "that's for luck," as she tosses it after the happy pair.

Thus the old life closes, and the new begins.

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