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Title: The breach of trust

or, The professor and possessor of piety

Author: Madeline Leslie

Release date: June 22, 2025 [eBook #76354]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: D. Lothrop Company, 1869

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BREACH OF TRUST ***

Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

Helen and her class in Sabbath School.

THE BREACH OF TRUST;

OR, THE

Professor and Possessor of Piety.

BY

[Madeline Leslie]

"Professing themselves to be wise, they became fools."

"Ye shall know them by their fruits."

BOSTON

D LOTHROP COMPANY

Entered for the Author according to Act of Congress, in

the year 1869, by

ANDREW F. GRAVES,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of

Massachusetts.

CONTENTS.

————

CHAPTER I.

THE PROFESSOR OF RELIGION

CHAPTER II.

THE POSSESSOR OF PIETY

CHAPTER III.

RETROSPECTION

CHAPTER IV.

THE BROTHER AND SISTER

CHAPTER V.

HELEN'S SECRET

CHAPTER VI.

THE PASTOR'S STUDY

CHAPTER VII.

THE FEIGNED AND THE REAL

CHAPTER VIII.

THE SUBSCRIPTION PAPER

CHAPTER IX.

THE PROFESSOR'S DEFEAT

CHAPTER X.

THE REVELATION

CHAPTER XI.

THE GUARDIAN AND HIS WARD

CHAPTER XII.

A NARROW ESCAPE

CHAPTER XIII.

SYBIL'S VISITS

CHAPTER XIV.

THE YOUNG MISSIONARY

CHAPTER XV.

EXPLANATIONS

CHAPTER XVI.

A DISCOVERY

CHAPTER XVII.

THE DELICATE TITBIT

CHAPTER XVIII.

MR. TRACY'S SANCTUM

CHAPTER XIX.

MORRISVILLE

CHAPTER XX.

THE ANONYMOUS GIFT

CHAPTER XXI.

THE FRENCH CHATEAU

CHAPTER XXII.

THE CRASH AT LAST

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE BRIDAL PAIR

CHAPTER XXIV.

MONSON P. TRACY

CHAPTER XXV.

DEATH OF A POSSESSOR

CHAPTER XXVI.

END OF THE MERE PROFESSOR

Breach of Trust.

——————

CHAPTER I.

THE PROFESSOR OF RELIGION.

MONSON P. TRACY was a self-made man, and he had perfect confidence in himself. His own opinions, and his own judgment, were the only laws to which he succumbed. Those who honestly differed from him, he pronounced bigoted, self-willed. And where the difference referred to personal subjects, he called his opponents blind and prejudiced, treating them with a contempt intended to crush them.

Monson P. Tracy was, I am sorry to say, a man of not more than moderate abilities. He was addicted to hobbies, and some of these, to the relief of by-standers, he rode to death. He was a man of unbounded ambition. Believing himself entirely competent to fill any office his country had to offer, he was not backward in presenting his claims, and urging them on the unappreciating public.

Monson P. Tracy professed himself a Christian. He owned a slip in the popular church edifice near him, and might usually be seen in it on the morning of the Lord's day. He said a form of grace at table, and read a form of prayer afterward. By these means he intended to impress those about him with the fervor of his devotion, but in this he cheated few beside himself.

In an old-fashioned book which he seldom opened, there was a maxim: "By their fruits ye shall know them." This touchstone applied by others, rendered a verdict widely different from the one he so lovingly hugged to his own breast. But time will show us which verdict was correct.

If there was one thing which particularly pleased Mr. Tracy, it was to see his name in print. To give the man full justice, he was active, industrious, and energetic. Few men could work more skilfully to attain an end. And all his powers were brought into play to bring about so desirable a result, as seeing his name in capital letters at the head of a column in the newspaper.

Let me take advantage of an auspicious moment of this nature, to introduce him more fully to my readers.

He was sitting in a luxurious arm-chair, by far the most comfortable which the room contained, with the drop-light nicely shaded by a porcelain screen exactly the right distance from his eyes, a pleasant smile on his well-formed mouth, reading from the evening Journal.

His wife, a meek little woman, in a low chair on the other side of the table, had a stocking stretched over her hand, and was gazing rather dismally at a large hole in the toe, when he thus addressed her:

"There is an article here, Mrs. Tracy, which you will be interested to read."

"I seldom read the newspapers," was the indifferent reply. "I haven't time."

"But you will read this. I repeat, that it will interest you."

The tone was decisive, though a smile still curled his lips.

After an anxious search for thread of the right size, Mrs. Tracy realized that her husband had addressed her, and was awaiting a reply. She glanced in his face, and saw a heavy shade about to settle on his brow, so she quickly asked:

"What is it? Anything about you?"

"It is the report of my speech at the Convention. The editor does himself credit, in his way of printing those reports. See!"

He held the paper toward her, swinging the drop-light in her direction, while she read:

"Speech of Monson P. Tracy before the — Convention. Received by a crowded audience, with loud and repeated applause."

The small, hazel eyes of the lady glistened as she read; her ball of cotton fell from her lap unheeded.

"Oh, how nice! How pleasant! How proud I am to be the wife of a man whom every body praises!"

"Yes, Mrs. Tracy, it is pleasant, I acknowledge it. It is agreeable to feel that my efforts for the welfare of my fellow creatures are appreciated. In my pocket you will find a dozen copies of this report. I wish that you would see them folded and directed to the gentlemen whose names are on this list. It will be a pleasant work for you."

"Will it be necessary to direct them this evening, Mr. Tracy? My mending is sadly behind this week."

"An hour, after I have retired, will be sufficient for the business."

He was turning back to the paper with a smile, when thinking it would be a suitable opportunity, she touched on a new theme.

"I shall need a little money for family expenses."

The smile quickly vanished as he asked curtly:

"How much?"

"Ten dollars will do, though I ought to have more. Sarah Barrows has been here to-day with her bill. She says her mother is sick and needs medicine."

"Pshaw! That is only an excuse! She must wait my convenience. Here are ten dollars. Make them go as far as possible. Our expenses were never so heavy."

The next morning as Mrs. Tracy was pouring her husband a cup of coffee she asked:

"Did you notice in the paper the death of Mr. Edmond. I saw it as I was directing the Journals you left last night."

"No," he answered with a start of surprise. His face paled a little, for memories of the past came rushing over him. Without interrupting his breakfast, he exclaimed presently. "So he's gone! I wonder what he's done with all his property!"

A ring at the door-bell prevented an answer, if he expected any, and a boy from the telegram office was admitted by the servant.

"Please, sir, this came two days ago; and, on account of the direction not being distinct it was sent to Miles Tracy Esq., in the country; and now it's come back to us again."

The gentleman seized the narrow slip of paper and read eagerly:

"Father is dying. Wants to see you. Carriage at depot to meet you this evening.

"FRANCIS J. EDMOND."

Mr. Tracy turned upon the messenger with an angry scowl. "Your office ought to be fined heavily for such mistakes. Here is a dying man sends for me on business of the last importance; a carriage sent a mile to convoy me to his house; and I not there. It may be a loss to me of—well more than you can imagine."

"Will you please sign your name, sir?" ventured the boy, timidly extending the book.

"No, not I! You may tell your master I am exceedingly displeased."

"Here, boy, I'll sign it," said Mrs. Tracy following the messenger to the door, "only it's a terrible pity there was such a mistake."

"I wish you would pack my carpetbag," remarked the merchant. "I shall start for Maytown in the eleven train."

Mr. Tracy having finished his breakfast, and re-read the telegram, started up, and began to make preparations to go to his store as usual.

"Shall you have time to order the dinner from the stall?" asked his wife anxiously.

"Scarcely. I shall be away, you know. You had better get along with what you have in the house. I can't help wondering what Mr. Edmond wanted to see me for."

CHAPTER II.

THE POSSESSOR OF PIETY.

IN a beautiful country town, near forty miles from the city honored as the residence of Monson P. Tracy, lay the valuable estate of Mr. Roswell Edmond. On a height of land overlooking a great sweep of forest and plain with a church spire here and there giving notice of a home for weary wanderers, a lovely lawn sloping down to the edge of a lake in the foreground with a pretty border of willows and maples making the borders of the estate, stood an English cottage almost embowered in the numerous vines trained over the lattices.

As the traveller approached by the main avenue, which wound around the lawn to the front entrance, he could not fail to be impressed with the evidences of refined taste which met his view on every side.

Ornamental trees of a half century's growth threw a pleasant shade over the avenue, but the whole front was open except an occasional tree or cluster of trees which gave additional beauty to the scene. Here was a purple beech, a magnificent specimen, with its heavy foliage gracefully sweeping the ground. There on the opposite side were a cluster of Norway spruce, and, farther on, some rare varieties of Siberian pine.

On the wide piazza which extended around three sides of the house, rustic chairs, with wide spread arms invited the weary to rest, while the fragrant honeysuckle, the prairie rose, or the climbing wisteria vied with each other in producing charms to the delight of those who lingered near.

The front entrance opened into a spacious hall, extending through the house uninterrupted by stairs.

This was a favorite apartment with the whole family, and many hours every day through all the summer months were passed there.

The walls of the hall were lined with rare paintings carefully selected by Mr. Edmond during his frequent European tours. Nor did he neglect the skill of his own countrymen, as many a gem by an American artist bore ample testimony. The corners of the hall and also niches in the sides were filled with busts and statuary. This apartment being lighted from the roof was finely adapted for the purpose to which it had been applied.

Beside the light from above there was a high, narrow window, each side of the front door, and in the corner, near a splendidly executed bust of Sir Walter Scott stood a table inlaid with pearl, covered with the trifles usually found in connection with a lady's work-basket.

This was the favorite resort of Helen Josephine, only daughter and constant companion of Mr. Edmond.

The oldest child, a son named Francis Joseph, was nearly four years his sister's senior, and was Sophomore in Yale College, having left home for the preparatory school a short time after his mother's decease, which occurred five years earlier.

The dangerous illness of his father had called him from College duties at a time when, worn with over-work, he was poorly fitted to meet the overwhelming blow which awaited him.

He had the privilege, however, of administering to his father's comfort, for three days before his decease. To his care the dying parent committed the weeping Helen, with many tender admonitions.

"She is my darling, Frank, the companion and comfort of my last years. Impulsive, and it may be too resolute, but warm-hearted and loving, do not restrain her unreasonably. Govern her through her affections, and when other motives fail, remind her of my counsels, my prayers in her behalf."

In regard to their property, Mr. Edmond assured his son that every arrangement which prudence could suggest, had been already made. Monson P. Tracy, a man endeared to him by the knowledge of having in a worldly sense created his fortunes, had been appointed executor of his will and guardian to his children as long as they remained minors.

In speaking of this man the day before his death, Mr. Edmond said:

"He is bound to me by ties of gratitude. I believe him to be upright and honorable. And I die assured he will more than fulfil any obligations he may feel toward me by the deep interest he will take in the welfare of my children."

An hour or two later he asked: "Does the Doctor think I shall survive another day? If so I should like to see Mr. Tracy, and you may telegraph for him. But in case I should not live till he comes, I will say, that I have equally divided all I have left between you and your sister. She has also an estate willed her by her grandfather, now in the hands of an aged aunt. But as it will not come to her till the decease of her mother's aunt, I have made no mention of it in my will."

He then gave minute directions concerning his funeral, which he wished to have plain and without ostentation, recommending also that Woodbine Cottage, as his place was called, should be rented for a few years. And that until the completion of Helen's education, she should reside in the family of her guardian, if agreeable to him.

When the evening train arrived, and it was ascertained that Mr. Tracy had not answered the summons, the dying man merely explained to his son the steps necessary to be taken to set up the will, and provided that in case his executor should not accept the trust, their pastor, Mr. Knowles, should be his successor, who should have the privilege of appointing one or more, according to his judgment, to manage the financial responsibilities of his wards.

"Now," he said, when his son had made a memorandum of his father's words, "now I have done with earth, and need not be cumbered with worldly cares. I thank God, who, years ago, by his Spirit drew me to himself, and that now, in the midst of bodily infirmity, I am not harassed by mental anguish. I thank Him for his unspeakable gift—the Lord Jesus Christ, who bore my sins in his own body on the tree. And I am fully persuaded, my Saviour, having bought me with a price, will keep me to the end."

During the evening and night, Helen could not be persuaded to leave her father's couch, even to seek a few hours repose which she so greatly needed. She insisted on sharing her brother's vigils that she might smooth the dying pillow of the being whom she loved best on earth.

When he closed his eyes under the influence of opiates, she, too, slept on his pillow, her hand clasping his as she sat in a chair by his side.

Once, about midnight, the dying man started, as if from a painful dream.

"Is that you, Helen?" he gasped, fixing his dim eyes on her face. "Kiss me, darling! Oh, it is hard to leave you fatherless, motherless!"

His voice expressed the anguish of his soul, as he suddenly realized the desolation which would be his daughter's lot. But presently, after she had soothed him with kisses and words of endearment, his face brightened, and he exclaimed, with renewed strength:

"Get thee behind me, Satan, away with doubts, and gloomy forebodings. I know in whom I have believed; I can rely on His promise for me and for my children."

Then addressing them as they bent over him weeping, he added:

"I dare not ask for your exemption from trials; they are the common lot of humanity, and may be made the instruments by which your heavenly Father will lead you to himself. But I have prayed that your lives may be full of faith, hope, and charity. That the Saviour so precious to me in my dying hours, may be your Saviour, comforting and sustaining you through all your earthly journey, and at last presenting you to his Father as the reward of his sufferings in your behalf."

When the beams from the morning sun shone into his room, he roused from a troubled slumber, and pointing to the bright rays, gasped feebly:

"To-morrow's sun will shine on my body, but my soul will be bathing in the full effulgence of the Sun of righteousness. I shall see him as he is. But I shall not be afraid—no—not afraid! The pierced side and bleeding hands will be my safeguard."

He sank back, and they thought he had ceased to breathe. But he soon revived, and with a stronger voice exclaimed:

"Rock of ages cleft for me,

Let me hide myself in thee."

These were his last words.

CHAPTER III.

RETROSPECTION.

TWELVE o'clock the day following this sad event, found Monson P. Tracy seated in the cars, steaming away in the direction of Maytown. He was the only passenger in the first division of the car. And as he for the third time perused the brief telegram, his thoughts naturally turned back to his first acquaintance with the deceased.

To make my story more plain I will take this opportunity to describe some events which occurred about twenty-five years earlier.

Mr. Edmond, who at that time resided in the city, was one morning passing into his counting-house when he heard one of his clerks, threatening a youth with imprisonment if he did not take himself from the premises.

"What has the young man done, that he should be treated so roughly?" inquired the gentleman.

"No good, sir! I can bear testimony to that. I've seen him hanging round for days in company with some jailbirds. I've no doubt he is well acquainted with the police already."

"What have you to say for yourself?" urged Mr. Edmond, after gazing for a moment in the hungry face before him.

"I should like to tell you all about it, sir," stammered the boy, "but not before him. I don't know anything about jailbirds."

"Come with me into my counting-room."

When alone with the gentleman, the youth recited a tale of destitution which touched the heart of the listener. Only a month before, he had publicly professed his faith in Christ and had devoted himself with all his powers of body and mind to the service of his Saviour. Only that very morning he had asked his heavenly Father to give him opportunities to win souls. Was not this meeting with a fatherless boy just launched on the stage of active life a direct answer to his prayer?

He drew from the youth the facts that after the death of his parents an uncle had taken him home, but had treated him with such cruelty that he resolved to run away, and make his own fortune. He had but a dollar, given him by the hired man, who deeply sympathized with him, and with this small sum he had worked his way mostly on foot, nearly a hundred miles to the city. The first night he slept in the wagon of the drover who had brought him the last few miles. The following day he visited the wharves and counting-houses, begging for work, without one morsel of food passing his lips, and at night was thankful to accept a crust from a youth near his own age, and to share his couch on the floor of a cellar.

Three days passed in nearly the same manner, and this was the commencement of the fourth.

Leaving Monson, for it was he, in his office, Mr. Edmond dispatched a lad to a bake-shop near by for a loaf of bread. It was reward enough to watch the hungry boy devour the food. Then the gentleman pushed a sheet of paper before the child, saying:

"Write these words: 'Fear God and keep His commandments, for this is the whole duty of man.'"

The result both surprised and pleased the merchant, who at once set him to work with the promise of befriending him if he would deserve aid.

A few months proved that the youth was both active and industrious, and his benefactor took increasing interest in him. He advised Monson to attend an evening school and apply himself to those branches which would fit him for mercantile life. He provided ample means for the accomplishment of this object. Nor did he, while aiming to advance the temporal interests of his protégé, for one day forget the great object of winning him to the rank of a soldier of Christ. He presented him with a Sunday suit, and introduced him to a class in the Sabbath School, stating that it was his wish that every one in his employ should be a regular attendant on the means of grace.

Monson was not without a good deal of native shrewdness. He soon perceived what he called, "the weak side" of his employer, and was quite willing for policy's sake to feign a love for religion. On the Sabbath, his seat in church on the side wing, and directly in front of his benefactor's slip was never vacant, while his apparently devout hearing of the word, inspired many a prayer in his behalf from his watchful friend.

At the end of seven years, Monson found himself in a position to which he had never aspired. He was head clerk in the great commercial house of Roswell Edmond, with a salary sufficient to support himself in luxury.

But though extremely fond of show, Monson had a strong motive for prudence. He was, as I have already explained, a man of unbounded ambition. He believed himself to be the possessor of uncommon abilities, and he wished to live to have his name blazoned through the land. He had early joined a club of young men, who met professedly for the discussion of the popular subjects of the day, and, I fear, for far worse purposes. Finding that his loud voice, distinct articulation, and confidence in himself, won many votes to the side he advocated, he speedily became quite a leader among his companions.

Mr. Edmond, ever zealous to promote the interests of his protégé, encouraged this love for debate, only trying to divert it into a healthy channel. He selected subjects such as would really profit, and himself aided Monson in preparing his arguments. For instance:

"Are there evidences enough in nature to prove the existence of a God?"

"What are the arguments in proof of the inspiration of the Bible?"

Fifteen years from the morning when the good man first met the hungry youth, Monson P. Tracy's name appeared on a new sign hung in place of the old one of Roswell Edmond & Co.

This gentleman having inherited a large fortune in addition to his already handsome estate, resolved to comply with the wishes of his wife, and retire altogether to his beautiful estate in the country. He therefore decided to show his appreciation of the faithful services of his head clerk, by allowing him to purchase the business at a reasonable, or, as his mercantile friends assured him, at a most unreasonable discount.

He had thus been the means of creating the fortune of Mr. Tracy, a fortune which had steadily increased, until he was counted among the most prosperous merchants in the city.

In consequence of Mr. Edmond's frequent absence in Europe, where he went in search of health for his wife, the benefactor and his protégé had seldom met of late years. But as Mr. Edmond frequently saw Mr. Tracy's name in print, and heard him spoken of as a rising man, especially as he believed his professions of piety to be sincere, he felt no hesitation in leaving his children's property, and, what he valued far more, the cultivation of their hearts, to his guardian care.

CHAPTER IV.

THE BROTHER AND SISTER.

THE hour was sunset, but the high brick walls prevented the two persons seated in a bay-window on one of the main streets of a large city, from enjoying more than a few tints of the gorgeously painted clouds.

Helen Josephine and her brother, reunited after a separation of three months, thought but little of this deprivation at the time. The young girl sat on a divan placed within the window, her head resting on her brother's shoulder, her hand closely clasped in his. He had, at her request, been telling her of his studies, the classmates who particularly interested him, the words of kindness and encouragement he had received from his professors, and then they sat silent, communing with their own hearts.

At length, with a profound sigh, Helen exclaimed:

"Oh, Frank! I find it so hard to keep the resolutions I made by dear papa's couch. My heart is full of hard thoughts. I'm afraid I never can be happy here. Oh, why did God take papa away? I wish, oh, I wish, I had never left Woodbine Cottage, my sweet, 'sweet,' home!"

Frank was startled by the depth of feeling displayed in his sister's tone, even more than by the words. Tenderly embracing her, he said soothingly:

"You shall tell me all about it, pet. Come, open your heart, and confess all the naughty thoughts you have had."

She shuddered, which caused him to add:

"Can't you imagine for the time that I am papa, and confess, as you used to, for the sake of a good-night kiss."

"Not here! Oh, not here! Take me to Maytown, and let us pass one week near our dear, lost home. Why didn't I realize then what a paradise it was?"

"That's a good suggestion," remarked Frank. "We can board with our old nurse, and wander around among the familiar haunts as much as we please, for there are no young people on the place to disturb us. If it is pleasant, we will start to-morrow."

Mr. Tracy at this moment entered the room with the proof of a column in the newspaper in his hand.

"So you are sentimentalizing in the twilight," he exclaimed, laughing aloud. "I was going to ask the favor from you, Mr. Edmond, of a glance over this proof. It is my speech before the legislature. You have probably seen some notice of it. The press have been very flattering in their reports, and I have at length been prevailed upon to give it to the public."

"On what occasion was the speech?"

"I am astonished you have not heard of it. Our legislature were petitioned for a railroad grant; and I was requested to lay some facts before them, which had come under my notice. I did so, and my statements were favorably received, exceedingly so; indeed I may say I was congratulated upon the fairness of my arguments as well as the incontrovertible nature of my figures."

During this speech, Frank caught a glimpse of his sister and was so astonished by her manner, that he found it difficult to comprehend all his guardian was saying. A comprehensive:

"Certainly, sir," put him all right with the gentleman, who, after ordering a servant to light the gas, and placing the precious sheet in the hands of the young collegian for review, left the room.

"Now, Sis," ejaculated her brother playfully, "you must explain what you mean by freezing up in that style. I never saw such a change come over any person's countenance as did over yours on Mr. Tracy's entrance. I had no idea you could be so dignified. Ah, I'm afraid you have been naughtier than I thought!"

"I have been taking lessons in deportment," she answered without relaxing from her gravity. Then, with a sudden burst of feeling she exclaimed:

"It seems years, instead of months, since I lived at home, and ran wild around our shady walks. Oh, Frank, promise me one thing! Say you will never be married, and that as soon as you graduate, you will take me back to Woodbine Cottage. Promise that, and I'll try to be content."

A footfall sounded on the walk before the house, then came quickly up the steps.

Springing from her seat with a bound, Helen seized her brother's head in her arms, pressing her lips excitedly to his forehead.

"Good-night," she whispered. "Tell Mr. Tracy our plan for to-morrow. I must send word to my teachers of my wish to be absent." Then before he could reply she had glided from the parlor.

The young man stood a moment gazing after her retreating form, wondering at her impulsive manner, then drew a chair near the table, and sat down to the examination of the proof-sheet.

He had only advanced to the fifth line, however, before the door opened, and a young man entered.

"Mr. Edmond, I suppose," he said, advancing cordially with hand outstretched. "I am happy to see you under my father's roof. But where is your sister?"

"She has just left me. I suppose you are Roswell Edmond Tracy, my father's namesake."

"Yes, and when did you arrive? Oh, I see you are reading that speech of father's, quite a crack thing, the papers say. Father enjoys that sort of work amazingly. But I never could endure it. I'm constituted differently, you know."

"I don't think that I quite understand you."

Roswell laughed, and looked wise. "Speechifying I mean. But you need not trouble yourself to correct that proof," as he saw the young collegian make a mark on the margin with his pencil. "Ha! Ha! Ha! That was printed and distributed two days ago. That's an old ruse of father's to get your opinion of his speech."

The stranger, not relishing this style of conversation, remained silent.

"I'm sorry your sister retired before I came home," Roswell went on. "Perhaps she was offended because I was so late. But indeed I could not help it. I've taken a mighty fancy to your sister and tell her all my tricks with the governor," nodding toward the proof-sheet. "Why it's just the easiest thing in the world to wheedle him out of money. Just flatter him up about his speeches; tell him what so and so said of them, all shoddy, you know, of my manufacture, and out comes an X before he is aware."

"I earnestly hope that my sister does not practise such deception," seriously remarked Mr. Edmond.

Mrs. Tracy's entrance, followed by her husband, prevented a reply to this observation.

The guest took this opportunity to impart the information that he was going to visit Maytown for a few days and wished to take his sister with him. Then, as no objection was made on the part of the guardian, he pleaded fatigue after his journey, and retired to his chamber, carrying the proof-sheet with him.

His room adjoined his sister's, though there was no connection between them. Presently he heard a low tap at his chamber door.

"Is it all settled?" she inquired eagerly. "Are we really going?"

"Yes really, by the first train to-morrow morning."

She clasped her hands joyfully, her whole face sparkling with animation; but she did not speak.

"What kind of a youth is Mr. Tracy's son?" demanded the brother. "He tells me strange things of you."

"Of me? Hush! I cannot breathe in the house with him. There, kiss me good-night again. I must go. To-morrow I'll tell you everything."

CHAPTER V.

HELEN'S SECRET.

BUT to-morrow, her mood had changed. And when, as soon as they were comfortably seated in the cars, he urged her to relieve his mind, and tell him all she knew of the youth who bore his precious father's name, she quietly refused.

"It is not my secret; I have no right to know it. I did not obtain my information honorably. That is, I overheard a conversation not intended for my ear, and I did not allow my presence to be discovered even when I might. I was spellbound. I could not have stirred for the world. And now I would not be ignorant of what I heard; no, not for every dollar dear papa left me."

It was all in vain Frank expressed his horror and surprise and grief that she was so reserved, she only shook her head.

"No," she repeated drawing up her dainty little neck, and putting on an air of defiance, "No, I can take care of myself, if I am only sixteen. If it ever becomes necessary, I will tell you. Now let us talk of something more agreeable."

"But, Helen, remember that I promised Father to watch over you as tenderly as he could have done. You must explain your unaccountable behaviour. I will not go back to College, and leave you so. Between wonder and anxiety, I scarcely slept at all last night."

"Do you want me to become a laughing-stock for all these people?" she inquired, her cheeks crimson with excitement. "I should be crying before I said ten words."

She turned suddenly away to the window and for some time appeared absorbed in the prospect without. But at last, hearing her brother sigh repeatedly, she touched his hand and said humbly:

"Don't worry, Frank. I'm a bad girl; and I'm afraid I shall grow worse, with all sorts of hard feeling rankling in my breast; but when we are at home, we will take a walk to my pretty arbor, and I'll make a full confession of all that concerns myself. That's what I'm going to Maytown for, you know. Come, Mr. Junior, can't you be agreeable? With that solemn face, our neighbors will think you are my jealous lover, or a very stern guardian, which you are not."

A few hours later the happy pair, for the time throwing behind them all anxious thoughts, wandered off from the cottage of their old nurse to the garden and grove belonging to the estate.

The place had been rented for two years by an aged couple who were in search of quiet, and who gladly gave permission to the youthful owners to ramble wherever they pleased.

"I can breathe here," cried Helen, expanding her chest and inhaling large draughts of the sweet, fresh country air. "The fragrance from the flowers and the new mown lawn is perfectly delightful."

Then with a sudden change of tone and manner, she turned to her brother, stopping in her walk, and inquired:

"Frank, what would be the result if we told Mr. Tracy that we preferred Mr. Knowles for our guardian?

"But, Sis, under the circumstances Mr. Knowles would not accept the trust."

"What if I could persuade him? Don't you remember what he said the day we left dear papa under the sycamore trees?

"'If you are ever in trouble, my child, come to me as to a father. My heart and my home are ever open to receive the children of my best parishioner.'"

Frank walked for some distance in silence, his sister closely and rather impatiently watching him.

"I am not sufficiently acquainted with the law, to understand whether wards have a right to change their guardian except for some delinquence in regard to the trust. Perhaps Mr. Tracy would be glad to be rid of the responsibility."

"No, he would not!" exclaimed Helen, in great excitement. "He would not give it up if he could keep it against our wish."

"Now, Sis, I will not go on talking in this blind way. Here is our rustic seat, and we are as retired as if we were in the midst of a great forest. Sit down, and tell me everything that has occurred since I left you."

"Well, I will."

She threw herself on the seat and for one moment covered her face with her hands, shuddering visibly.

"Are you trying to torture me, Helen?" inquired Frank, seizing her hand and pulling it from her face; "if so, you have succeeded well."

"Oh, Frank! I hate Mr. Tracy and Roswell. I despise Mrs. Tracy for being the wife of her husband. And I despise Helen Edmond more than all. I'm growing worse and worse every day; I'm freezing up, as you call it. I'm growing hard and defiant, and unforgiving. I'm forgetting all dear papa's instructions. I'm getting to hate prayer, or grace at table. Oh, I'm horrid! And the worst of it is, I'm afraid I shall never be any better."

"Helen, Mr. Tracy is a Christian. You ought not to talk so."

"If he is, I'll try hard never to become one. But I know he is not. I might have believed it, if I had never known our precious papa. I might have imagined that religion was talking about churches and ministers, going to church one half of every pleasant Sunday, reading prayers in a loud, monotonous voice, and in the meantime doing every mean, selfish, ungrateful thing, under the cloak of piety.

"Thank God, I have seen one good Christian. I have seen him live, and I have seen him die." Her voice faltered and for a moment she lost self-control.

But with an effort, she quickly resumed: "I have seen a man whose heart was kept pure, and therefore sweet, healthy streams flowed from the living fountain. A man who thought little of himself except so to live as to do honor to his Saviour, but who thought much of others in his efforts to make them happier and better,—a man whose name, perhaps, was never seen in public print, but which was engraven on the hearts of all who knew him,—a man who confessed himself a sinner, though in the sight of others he was a saint,—a man whom Jesus loved and comforted in his dying hours. Yes, I'm sure there are Christians."

Frank sat and gazed at his sister in wonder. Her eyes by turns melting and defiant, her head erect, her cheeks crimson with excitement, her tongue loosened and the words flowing with the greatest rapidity from her lips. For one instant, the thought crossed his mind that a fever was burning in her veins and affecting her reason, but one recollection of her talk before starting with old nurse, just like her old self, put such fears to flight.

He clasped her hand tenderly exclaiming, "Sis, I can't make it out. I don't know you. I believe you're not Helen after all."

"That's just it," she answered, with a loud laugh that distressed him beyond measure. "I'm not Helen, papa's darling, who meant to try and be good and meet her papa in heaven. I'm another girl, all bad, 'bad,' and nothing to help me be good. How will it all end?"

"Helen, do you think Mr. Tracy a bad man? Have you a sufficient reason for thinking so? If you have, tell me what it is, and I will take you away from him, if I lose my fortune by the means. But if you have any pity on me, don't give up so."

"I distrust Monson P. Tracy, Frank. He may be a shrewd business man. Papa thought him so. But I consider him wholly without principle; and then he is eaten up with selfishness. I verily believe he imagines there is only one man in the United States whose opinion is worth taking, and that man is Monson P. Tracy. He may be honest in this belief; and cheat himself into the idea that he is noble, generous, upright and honorable; but I'm sure he doesn't cheat his Maker."

"Nor does he seem to have cheated you, Sis. But you give no proofs."

"Perhaps I cannot. One must live with him to see how thoroughly a man can make clean the outside of the platter while the inside is full of corruption."

"You never used to be so bitter, Helen! I couldn't have believed it was in you. Remember who says 'Judge not.'"

She sighed. "Perhaps you would become bitter too, if you were obliged to put a constant restraint on your feelings, to listen day after day to a discourse on Christian duty, which was after all only an opportunity for self-glorification, and knew,—what you knew. If you heard a man planning all sorts of iniquity to blast the happiness of one under his charge, and then was obliged to listen to his prayers."

She started as if to leave the spot; but he seized her hand.

"You must not run away," he said firmly.

"I wish I could run away from myself. I loathe the thought of harboring such hard, bitter, defiant feelings. I loathe myself for being obliged to live with those so utterly distasteful to me, to accept common civilities from their hands while all the time I hate them. Oh, it is indeed dreadful!"

"Helen, tell me, what iniquity has Mr. Tracy planned to blast your happiness?"

She shook her head, her eyes flashing. "I cannot tell you. It would be dishonorable. They think me young and capable of being moulded to—to, well no matter, to what. No, I must not tell you yet; but I promise that if anything occurs to make it impossible for me to reside under the same roof, I will tell you."

"Do you imagine I can go back to my studies with the thought that my only sister, left to my care by our dying father, is in circumstances of peril, all the more alarming to me because I cannot even guess at the nature of it?"

A quick gush of tears for a moment relieved poor Helen's agitation. But with a wonderful self-control, she quickly recovered herself. Throwing her arms around her brother's neck, she exclaimed passionately:

"It might be worse,—I might not have had you."

CHAPTER VI.

THE PASTOR'S STUDY.

THE evening of the same day found them seated in the small, cosey study of the parsonage.

Mr. Knowles, a white-haired man with a peculiarly mild, benign countenance, sat near the window, his silver locks illumined with the last rays of the setting sun.

At his feet Helen had seated herself on an ottoman. From her expressive features the haughty defiance had vanished. For the nonce she was a humble child. Her eyelashes were heavy with unshed tears, not bitter ones, for they had been talking of her father. And these precious memories softened and soothed her poor, torn heart.

Opposite them sat Frank and the cheerful companion of the clergyman. They were conversing in animated tones of college life and college duties, while Sybil, an unmarried daughter, moved in and out in the preparation of the simple evening meal.

"Come, father," she said, at length, "supper is on the table. And if you wish your pet Helen to enjoy Jane's waffles, you must come while they are hot."

A few words entreating a blessing on the food were spoken by the pastor before they were seated. Frank, whose eyes happened to turn toward his sister, was astonished to see her face quivering with emotion. This had passed, however, without notice. And during the meal, he had never remembered to have seen her more cheerful, fascinating all present by her life-like, piquant descriptions of scenes through which she had passed.

"Bring the Bible and Psalm book, Sybil," said the good man, when all had eaten, and were full. "Our friends will love to join us in our evening devotions."

Helen sprang from the table, and passed him the books.

"You always used to let me do it," she exclaimed, playfully.

She seated herself close to his elbow, opening the book at the place where the mark was inserted, and then putting her hand lovingly through his arm.

Occasionally, through the reading, Frank saw her give the arm a loving squeeze. And once the impulsive girl pressed her lips warmly on the wrinkled hand, when the silver-haired man turned upon her a glance so full of tenderness, that the watcher saw she could scarcely preserve her composure.

Indeed, when the few verses of evening praise had been sung, and the pastor poured out his earnest petitions for the friends present to unite in the service, she was wholly overcome, so that her sobs became quite audible.

No sooner had they risen from their kneeling posture, than she darted from the room.

"Oh! Oh!" she faltered, when Sybil followed, and tried to soothe her. "Oh, if I lived here, I might become good. I do love prayers from real Christian men. But now I'm bad,—all bad!"

It was quite late before the pastor would allow his visitors to leave. And then he followed them to the gate, bidding them return in the morning, as he had much to say. He passed his hand lovingly over Helen's abundant tresses, before he allowed his wife to take the young girl to her heart for a good-night kiss.

"She is overflowing with affection," he said, when with Sybil they had turned back to the house.

"Something has changed her," dryly remarked the practical Sybil. "I haven't yet made up my mind whether the change is for the better or for the worse."

Nurse Johnson had lived in the family of Mrs. Edmond's mother. She had followed the young wife to Woodbine Cottage, and been an early friend to Frank and Helen. In her sixtieth year, her kind master fitted up a small house formerly used by the gardener, and gave her a life-lease of it. It was a terrible trial to her when the old home was broken up, and her children, as she fondly called them, moved away. Eyes less sharp than hers would have discovered a change in the once lively Helen. It is not strange, therefore, that her love for her youthful mistress led the affectionate woman to wonder what had occurred during the few months since her master's decease.

"Here is your room," she said, leading the way to a tiny chamber under the eaves, "and Frank's is close by. Everything is sweet and clean, so you wont mind for once that it is small."

"No, indeed, nurse, I shall not mind anything, now I am where people love me for myself. I can lie here in the morning, and smell the fragrant honeysuckle, and hear the birds warbling their pleasant songs. Carry out the light, nurse, and let me see the trees waving in the moonlight, What pretty shadows the leaves make on the floor. Nurse, I call this a paradise, and I would like to live here always."

She threw her arms around the neck of her old friend, and sobbed quietly to herself.

"I knew ye weren't quite happy, darling. Ye couldn't deceive yer old nurse, with all yer smiles and gay tones. I seed right through inter yer heart; and when yer was out walking with yer brother, says I to myself, 'My pet isn't sitiwated as she oughter be, her eyes don't dance permiscuous as they used to do; and I can hear a plaint of sadness through her laugh.' Now sit down on yer bed, darling, and tell yer old nurse all about it."

For one instant Helen was tempted to yield and unburden her heart of its load. But a moment's reflection convinced her that her partial friend would be a most injudicious confident. Nurse would be sure to espouse her views, right or wrong; to endorse her own conduct, to hate whoever she fancied had injured one she loved, and thus be incapable of giving any good advice.

Still she would not wound the feelings of a friend so devoted, by refusing to place confidence in her, and therefore answered cautiously:

"It has been hard for me, nurse, to live with strangers, and I miss dear papa every hour in the day."

"That's it, pet; that's just what it is. You're grieving yourself to death, and that's wrong. The good Lord has took him home, and if yer try to do right, and love the dear Saviour, he'll call yer in his own good time. Now go to bed, and to-morrow ye 'll look more like yerself."

Exhausted by the various emotions of the day, our heroine was soon buried in a profound slumber, from which she did not arouse until the sun was high in the heavens. She started from her couch, and began to dress in great haste, only stopping occasionally to listen to the carolling of the redbreasts, or the familiar sounds from the farmyard.

The house was so small it was easy to hear every word spoken. And Helen, as she hurriedly twisted her abundant hair into a heavy coil, and hid it under a net, could distinctly follow the conversation taking place on the open porch beneath her window.

"I wish she had never left here," Frank was saying. "I'm afraid her health will be seriously affected. Mr. Knowles would have known exactly how to deal with her."

"What hinders her from coming back now? Miss Sybil would be delighted to have her there, and I've heard say that Mr. Frederic is coming home from his travels before long. He could tutor her just as he used to."

The listener held her breath. She could not afford to lose one word now. How changed she was. There was an air of softness about her, while her usually pale cheeks were of the richest crimson. What a pity there was nobody but the birds to see her.

A little maiden from a neighboring cottage came sauntering up to the door at this moment, to bring some eggs fresh laid, and Frank, impatient at his sister's late appearance, ran gayly up the steep stairs to call her, just as she was saying to herself, with clasped hands:

"Oh, what a happiness that would be!"

CHAPTER VII.

THE FEIGNED AND THE REAL.

ON reaching the parsonage, Sybil announced that her father had been called away to the bedside of an aged parishioner. Helen and her brother resolved, therefore, to improve the time of his absence by calling on some of their old protégés.

Every where they met with the most cordial welcome. But in one poor hut lay an old woman, bedridden and almost blind, who could not find words to express her joy and gratitude at having her dear friends once more under her roof.

"I told my heavenly Father," she said at length, "that I wanted to hear your voices once more. There's the Testament, Miss Helen, just where it used to be, on the shelf. If you'd read a few verses of the good Word, and yer brother 'd say a prayer, as yer father used to, I'd be more than content."

During the whole morning the young girl had been quite her former self. But now, as she took the Bible to gratify the old woman's request, Frank saw large drops running down her cheeks.

Her voice quivered a little as she asked:

"Where shall I read, Mrs. Barnes?" But then turning to the place indicated, the fourteenth chapter of St. John, she read in a tolerably calm voice, that, and the three succeeding chapters.

"It's like heaven, Miss," faltered the poor sufferer. "It's like hearing His voice calling to my poor heart, 'Father, I will that they also whom thou hast given me be with me where I am, that they may behold my glory which thou hast given me.' Think of that, Miss Helen, 'his glory'! When you pray, Mister Frank, ask Him to give me patience to wait his call."

After leaving the hut, they were hurrying back to the parsonage, when they met Mr. Knowles.

He saluted them with fatherly tenderness, taking Helen's hand and tucking it under his arm. But his face had a worn, anxious expression which did not escape their notice.

"Is the sick man very bad?" inquired Helen.

"All is well with him, my dear. His victory over death is complete through our Lord Jesus Christ. It was a privilege to see him die. More than ever my prayer is, 'Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his.'"

Helen's lips quivered, as she murmured:

"It scarcely seemed like dying when papa went home."

"You are right, my child, to call it home. It shows me you are looking forward to heaven as your own abode."

"No, I am not! I dare not!" passionately exclaimed the young girl, with a burst of tears. "In order to go to heaven, I must forgive, and I cannot do that. You would not love me at all if you knew how bad I have grown."

"I shall never cease to love you, my poor child. But who has so deeply offended you that you cannot forgive? It is very unlike you, Helen, to feel so."

"Mr. Knowles, if you had been our guardian, all would have been prevented."

"Yes, sir," urged Frank, "we are dissatisfied, certainly Helen is, with Mr. Tracy. Would it be possible for us to request his resignation, and for you to assume the charge?"

The clergyman gave a searching look in the young man's face, but did not speak for several minutes, walking on slowly, gazing upon the ground. Then he answered:

"I must inquire into this. You shall tell me all about it at another time. Now I have a letter to write in answer to one I have just taken from the office. And by the way, Helen, did you ever meet a young girl in the city named Sarah Barrows?"

Helen started, the color flashing into her face.

"Yes, indeed, sir, I have seen her at Mr. Tracy's. I pity her with all my heart."

"She writes me she is in great trouble. But you may read the letter for yourself. It will enlist your sympathies in her behalf."

The epistle was as follows:

"REVEREND MR. KNOWLES:

"KIND PASTOR AND FRIEND: Excuse me for intruding once more on your time. But I am in sore distress, and know not another friend to whom I can appeal. My mother is very feeble; she cannot sit up an hour and the pain in her back is incessant.

"Of course the care of her occupies much of my time. But by sewing late into the night, I might be able to earn sufficient to pay our rent and buy enough to keep us alive, were it not for the carelessness of the rich about paying for work."

"At this very time I am threatened with being turned out of my room into the street, which I feel sure would cause my dear mother's death, because Mr. T—, one of the richest men in the city, will not pay me 'my just dues.' I have done embroidery for his wife, and she always screws me down to the lowest rates, but instead of paying promptly, as she promised, and which I told her was absolutely necessary in order to keep us from starving, she puts it off from time to time on the paltry plea that she can not get the money from her husband.

"This morning, after a visit from my landlady, I resolved to go directly to his office. Nothing but my extreme necessity would have given me courage enough to do so. I was shown into his counting-room where there were two or three gentlemen. And when he asked my business, supposing I was a book-agent, I told him my sad story, and begged him by the love he professed for his Saviour, to pay me my just debt.

"He expressed the greatest surprise: said he had never heard of me before: apologized repeatedly for the inconvenience caused by the mistake, and asked me to follow him to the desk, where I should be paid with interest.

"I did so with a light heart; but what was my terror when I found he was conducting me to the door. And when beyond the hearing of any one, he abused me in the vilest language, threatening me with imprisonment if I ever dared show my face in his office again.

"Now, dear sir, for the want of thirty dollars, justly earned, I must leave my shelter, see my poor mother die in the street, and be left a helpless orphan to end my days,—where? I do try to forgive my enemies, but it is very hard to do so.

"Your miserable friend,

"SARAH BARROWS."

"Yes, Mr. Knowles, that's all true," exclaimed Helen, thrusting the open letter back into the gentleman's hand, with an unnatural laugh. "That's the kind of piety that prevails in the family of my revered guardian. I happened to overhear him talking to Sarah once in the hall. And if I had not run after her and emptied the contents of my purse into her hand, I think she would never have come to this last trial, she would have starved to death.

"Ah, yes!" added Helen with crimson cheeks, and eyes fairly blazing with indignation. "And when the poor couple were found dead in their beds, and the jury had pronounced a verdict of 'Death from Starvation,' what an eloquent plea Monson P. Tracy would have made for the poor in our garrets. How touchingly he would have described their destitution and want, their struggles and sufferings, before they would yield to vice, or death. What a prominent place would be secured for his speech in the journals, with the ostentatious heading:

"'MONSON P. TRACY'S PLEA FOR OUR POOR CITIZENS.'

"'Monson P. Tracy's offer to head a paper for our respectable poor, with a subscription of five hundred dollars.'

"Yes, I understand all about it."

"Helen, Sis," plead her brother, after gazing at her with mingled wonder and alarm. "Don't look so. I don't know you. Think of dear father."

"No, I dare not think of anything so sweet and precious. Poor Sarah's wants must be relieved." She pulled out her netted purse, her face growing every moment more hard and defiant, and impulsively tore open a roll of bills. Then, with a groan of regret, exclaimed, "I have only twenty-six dollars, and thirty are needed at once."

"Give me the address," urged Frank, "and I will forward the money by this morning's express. Fifty dollars will not be too much, and fortunately I have some bank notes with me."

"Come with me, my poor child," urged the pastor, taking Helen's hand, as with a face from which all the color had vanished, she stood gazing after her brother's retreating form. "Come with me. I must inquire into this."

CHAPTER VIII.

THE SUBSCRIPTION PAPER.

SIX months have passed since the events related in the last chapter. After a week's holiday, the brother and sister returned to the city, where the student intended to pass the remainder of his vacation.

Soon after their arrival, Helen renewed her lessons both in music and drawing, devoting herself to her practice with a zeal which threatened to prove an injury to her health.

Her guardian being absent on a business tour, and the time of Roswell being unusually employed in his father's store, the young wards found their residence in the city far more endurable than they had expected.

By the advice of Mr. Knowles, Frank had persuaded his sister to return to her studies, and endeavor to bear with patience the annoyances and petty trials likely to arise from the fact of living with persons so uncongenial to her taste.

That there was anything beyond such annoyances to be feared, neither Mr. Knowles nor Frank imagined. For, true to her own sense of honor, Helen had kept the secret she had overheard strictly within her own breast.

In the beginning of the autumn, just after her brother had left for College, the young girl was seized with the measles which were very prevalent at that time. In her case the disease was violent, and left her with an alarming cough which confined her to her chamber for months.

It was May before she was quite recovered, which leads us to the present time in her history.

During her convalescence she had begun to keep a journal which, once a week, she deposited with her own hands in the Post Office for her brother. From this journal I shall take the liberty to make a few extracts.

June 2: "Mrs. Barrows died last night. Poor Sarah sent me word as she had promised, and I went to her at once. She was overcome almost as much as if she had never expected such an event. I could say nothing to comfort her, so I just sat and held her hand, and let my tears fall with hers. I did wish then that I dared to remind her of the Saviour's love and pity. I would have given anything if I had been worthy to kneel by that couch, and commit the afflicted girl to the care of One mighty to give consolation. But as I knew I had no right, I sat still, and shed some tears for myself as well as for her. By and by the woman for whom she had sent, came to make arrangements for the funeral, and I took my leave.

"As I had promised to procure what mourning was necessary, I went into a dry-goods store for that purpose. While I was hesitating between goods that suited my taste and such as suited the length of my purse, (my guardian keeping me rather short of late), the owner of the store, Mr. McKinstry, came by and spoke to me.

"'I hope that mourning is not for yourself, Miss Edmond,' he said.

"'No, sir. It's for a poor seamstress, named Sarah Barrows.'

"'I have heard that name before,' he answered, trying to call to his recollection where he had heard it. 'Has she a sick mother?'

"'Yes, sir; it is she who is dead.'

"'And is Sarah left entirely destitute?'

"'Yes, sir, and very feeble in consequence of her devotion to her mother. I wish something might be done to aid her. She is very worthy.'

"I said this more to myself than to him; but he responded at once:

"'I was greatly interested in her appearance on the only occasion I ever met her; and if you will start a subscription paper, I will give twenty-five dollars.'

"I was going to thank him, but just then he was called away. Now I shall do as he suggested, and call on him to-morrow to head the list. I am very happy about this, and very hopeful too. You used to say I could make people do just what I wished; and I mean to exert all my talents in this good cause. Perhaps I shall get enough to support Sarah a year at school. It is the height of her ambition to be a school teacher; and I have heard her say that after one year of review and close application she would dare venture."

June 6. "I tried to write last evening after the funeral, but so much had happened I was too much excited. I called on Mr. McKinstry twice. But he was out, so I had to head my list with some other name. I found the gentlemen very good-natured and generous, listening patiently to my story about Sarah and never offering me less than ten dollars. Yesterday morning I had seventy-five toward the three hundred that I consider necessary for a year's schooling, and went to Mr. McKinstry again for his twenty-five, feeling quite rich at the thought that with that, one third had been raised with so little trouble.

"The good man was looking over the names while he asked me questions about Sarah; for he had taken a lively interest in her, and at last I grew quite confidential.

"Now I have come to a part where I fear, Frank, you will blame me; and I must confess my own conscience pricks me a little. I was saying, 'If I can't make up all the sum, I must contrive to collect a debt of thirty dollars owing her.'

"'Certainly you must. But, Miss Edmond, you have omitted your guardian's name. Has he not given you something?'

"'I have not asked him.'

"Then you must, without delay. It was at his store I met your protégé; and her modesty and grace of manner greatly prepossessed me in her favor.'

"'What was her errand?' I asked, feeling my face burn with shame.

"'To collect a bill which Mrs. Tracy had overlooked, and which he paid at once. I remember he spoke of the girl after he came back with the receipt, and said he could not forgive himself for her apparent distress; or rather, he expressed deep regret that he had never heard of her before. He remarked that he should not soon forget her.'

"I could not sit still and hear this. I started to my feet, and I have no doubt I looked like a fury, as you say I do when I'm angry.

"'Did you imagine Mr. Tracy followed poor Sarah from the room to pay her?' I asked.

"'Of course I did.'

"'But, Mr. McKinstry, he did not. He knew well of her distress, and was annoyed at her continuing to urge the bill upon his wife, which her mother's sickness obliged her to do. I heard him abuse her, and threaten never to give her a dollar if she was so impertinent. She should wait, he said, till it pleased him to pay it. When she humbly urged that she had done the work under price, because her need was so great, and represented their starving condition, he actually shut the door in her face. I believe she was starving then.'

"'Can this be true?' he asked, gazing in my face as if he would read me through.

"'Yes, sir, every word of it. I ran out by the servants' door, and gave her what change I had in my purse, and that was how our acquaintance began.'

"'Are you sure he did not pay the bill on the day she called?'

"I then told him about Sarah's letter to Mr. Knowles, and that you had sent her the money to keep her from being turned into the street. I told him, too, that I referred to the same bill when I mentioned that some one owed her thirty dollars.

"'This is a terrible revelation,' he said, very sternly. 'I wish I might believe you are yourself deceived.'

"'I wish so myself; with all my heart,' I exclaimed, sobbing. 'For if I were, so many things would be different.'

"'Give me that paper a minute,' he said, presently.

"And then I was all alone in his counting-room, perched up on the high stool where I had seated myself. Don't think me very silly and childish, for I couldn't help it. When I thought how many people one selfish man can make unhappy, my self-control gave way. And when Mr. McKinstry came back, he found me leaning on his desk, and crying all over his papers like a great baby. I laughed, though, when he showed me the addition of four names to my paper, over a sum of sixty dollars, making more than half of all I want.

"Before I came away, he tried to make me promise to present the paper to Mr. Tracy, but I would not. And he said:

"'Then I shall do it myself. If he does not pay his debts, the law shall make him.'

"You can imagine after this, how I felt when, at the usual hour, Mr. Tracy read the Bible, and prayed for the poor and afflicted, the sick and dying, etc., etc. I never before realized so fully the truth of the inspired words: 'Behold, the hire of the laborers * * * which is of you kept back by fraud, crieth; and the cries * * * are entered into the ears of the Lord of Sabaoth.'"

July 17. "I have long felt that a crisis in my life was approaching. I have several times met Monson P. Tracy's eyes fixed on me with a strange expression. It is impossible to describe it,—not hate, nor contempt, nor curiosity, but a mingling of all these emotions. I imagine he has ascertained that I do not worship him, and perhaps thinks I have taken a peep under the cloak of piety which he wraps so closely about him.

"There is another reason why a longer residence here is undesirable; 'intolerable,' is the better word. Roswell persists, in spite of all my coldness, in paying me marked attention. He does this especially in public, and evidently means to give the impression that some engagement exists between us.

"How I am chafed and fretted by all this, you can easily imagine. Sometimes for a few minutes I do try to follow dear Mr. Knowles' advice, and subdue all my hard thoughts. Sometimes I can pray for the charity which 'endureth all things, which thinketh no evil,' but I suppose there is too much iniquity in my heart for my prayers to be heard."

July 25. "Oh, Frank! How I wish you were here this minute. If you do not come soon, I shall leave by myself. Something has just happened which has made me very angry. I was sitting in my room with the door ajar on account of the heat, when I heard a familiar voice at the front entrance inquiring for me. I flew to the mirror to brush my hair, and then stood impatiently waiting for the servant to summon me, when I heard the outer door shut, and, running to the window I saw, who do you guess? Your old friend, Frederic Knowles, walking slowly up the street. I rushed down stairs with so much haste, that I almost fell into the arms of Mr. Tracy, who was taking a card from the hands of the servant girl.

"'Why was I not called to receive my visitor?' I asked, angrily enough.

"'Mr. Tracy told me you were not in,' the girl answered, innocently.

"I repeated my question, turning to him.

"He dismissed the servant, and walked into the parlor without answering. Then he said coolly:

"'I am your guardian, and wish to know the character of gentlemen who call, before I allow you to receive their visits.'

"I confess I was too angry to articulate one word. Oh, how I longed to tell him all I thought of his conduct. I am thankful now that I was restrained from doing so, though I cannot keep back the tears when I recollect my disappointment. Why am I not twenty-one instead of seventeen? Or, why was not Mr. Knowles appointed my guardian instead of Monson P. Tracy? I have no doubt he has learned of my interview with Mr. McKinstry, and is intending to punish me. But is not a guardian's authority limited? How sadly our dear papa mistook the character of the man he selected for us."

CHAPTER IX.

THE PROFESSOR'S DEFEAT.

THE crisis which Helen had predicted was reached on the very evening before Frank's arrival from college for the summer vacation. Roswell Tracy made proposals of marriage to his father's ward. His proposals were indignantly rejected. Hereupon Mr. Tracy interposed, and represented the immense benefits which would accrue to Helen and her brother, were the two families to be united by wedlock.

The young lady bit her lips till the blood came, trying to keep silent. But when her guardian went on to urge her compliance, by describing the deep affection of his son, she found it impossible longer to restrain herself.

"Mr. Tracy," she began, "no arguments you can use will change my determination. I despise the character of your son. He cares nothing for me, as you are well aware. His aim is to become possessed of the fortune my dear papa left me. Impossible, do you say? Then I am forced to remind you of a conversation which took place between you and him in this very room nearly a year ago, when you, Monson P. Tracy, recommended me as a favorable match to your son; and when he, after bestowing on me various epithets of contempt, was only persuaded into the plot by your representations of the size of my fortune."

While she spoke, the excited girl stood opposite her horror-stricken companion, her head haughtily thrown back, her eyes blazing with defiance, until he really quailed before her.

"No wonder you blush," she exclaimed, noticing a deep flush on his cheeks. "You, whom my father raised from poverty: You whom he trusted with all that he most valued on earth. I have often blushed for you when I have heard you speak his name.

"I have done more for you than you deserve, for I have never repeated to any one, the precious conversation which I accidentally overheard. What I shall do in the future I cannot say. My only desire now is to leave the city. Before the usual time for resuming my studies, a mutual agreement must be entered into as to my place of residence."

To say that the merchant was astonished by his ward's haughty defiance of his wishes, would but feebly express the emotions which surged through his mind as she, a young girl of seventeen summers, expressed her sentiments without reserve concerning him and the plans he had made for her future. He acknowledged to himself that for the time she had conquered; but with an oath, he bound himself to revenge her insult. He doubted her truthfulness when she said she had never repeated the conversation she had overheard, for he judged her conduct by his own, and could scarcely conceive of a sense of honor strong enough to prevent her from publishing such an event to the disadvantage of one she disliked.

"Yes," he soliloquized, as she with a contemptuous bow swept from the room, "yes, I have been too squeamish with regard to her property. I will invest those outlying bonds to-morrow."

A few hours later, when Frank reached the city, he found his sister quite calm. The catastrophe she had dreaded for months had taken place. The necessity for a change of residence had been made apparent. Roswell's impertinent advances had received a check, and now she could go forth in peace.

"Where shall we go?" asked Frank, seriously.

"Home to Woodbine Cottage, if the tenants can be persuaded to give up the lease. I would leave to-night were it possible. But as it is not, you must come with me while I bid good-by to my teachers and the few friends I shall leave behind."

"So be it. But as I am within a few months of my majority, I must have an interview with Mr. Tracy before I leave."

"You can do that while I pack my trunks."

A week later found our young friends once more the inmates of Nurse Johnson's cottage. Their kind friend, Mr. Knowles, had undertaken to negotiate with the tenants and endeavor to induce them to relinquish their lease nine months before its legal termination.

In the meantime, they had received a hearty welcome to the parsonage whenever they wished to be there. But as Frederic, the youngest son, the Benjamin of the pastor's old age, was now at home, Helen shrank from the invitation to take up her abode there, pleasant as on some accounts, it would have been.

This young man, after graduating at Yale College, had passed two years in Germany studying theology, and had now come to spend his last year with his father, writing sermons and laboring among his father's flock.

In some respects the young theologue differed from most students. He did not imagine that by secluding himself from his fellows and studying the musty folios found in the library of his alma mater, he could most effectually fit himself to work upon the minds of men. He considered that after the study of God's word, the most effective "study of mankind is man." And that in order to address men most successfully, a pastor must interest himself in whatever concerns his people, must visit them often at their homes, watch the workings of their minds under different circumstances, search out their weaknesses as well as their strength.

Mr. Frederic, as he was called by the villagers in distinction from his father, was in his twenty-eighth year, though Sybil's junior by seven summers. From a boy he had been a special favorite with Mr. Edmond, and had received many tokens of his affection. It was by the generous aid of his father's wealthy parishioner that his expenses abroad had been defrayed. Of course it was to be expected that he would feel a keen interest in everything which concerned the welfare of the children of his patron.

Sybil was by no means a match-maker, and yet, for some time, she had been forming a nice little plan by which her favorite brother was to be able to settle among them as the successor of their father, and at the same time become the possessor of a dear little wife and an ample fortune.

I do not intend to advance the idea that Sybil was mercenary. Such a charge would rouse up the whole inhabitants of Maytown in her defence. But Sybil well knew, that while the labors of a faithful pastor are great, his pay is small; that while he preaches benevolence, the scarcity of his means will not allow him the luxury of practising it. By her own experience, she well understood the petty cares and vexations which arise from the receipt of a very limited salary; and she did hope that her brother's mind would not be cramped and harassed by such cases.

It was with a view to keep alive the interest Frederic naturally felt in Frank and Helen, that this energetic woman made frequent mention of them in her letters to Germany; and was delighted to find that in his answers her brother always referred to them. But her dissatisfaction was extreme, when, on his return, he confided to her the rise and progress of an affection for an English lady he had met in Halle, the encouragement he had received from her, and at last his keen disappointment at her rejection of his proposal.

"I have lost faith in woman," he said, in a despondent tone, "and therefore I shall never marry."

"Lost fiddlestick! Pshaw, Fred! I supposed you were more of a man. Just because that flirt of a foreigner presented you the mitten, to give up in that way! I'm ashamed of you. If your first parish treat you ungratefully, do you intend to retire to a monastery, and say:

"'I shall never try another parish; I have lost faith in them'?"

"I'm afraid, after all, he isn't worthy of such a prize as my pet Helen," she soliloquized, after he had retired. "Her fresh, warm heart deserves a better return than he can give."

CHAPTER X.

THE REVELATION.

THE months which followed were happy ones to the orphans, months to be remembered in years to come. The tenants, reluctant to relinquish so quiet a home, affected a compromise with the young owners. A part of the house was surrendered to them for their exclusive use. And nurse Johnson came to superintend their domestic arrangements, while Nannie, a good-natured, strong-armed damsel from a neighboring farm, undertook the work.

Even Sybil declared nothing could be better planned; and the result proved her a true prophet.

Once a week, Helen asserted her dignity as housekeeper, by insisting that the whole family from the parsonage should dine and take tea at Woodbine Cottage.

What a happy time that was! How actively did she superintend the culinary operations in the kitchen. The bread must be of the lightest, the butter the sweetest, the cream the yellowest, the strawberries the freshest, for this delightful occasion. How she bustled about with sleeves rolled back and tiny white apron, to see that every apartment was in order, and the flowers arranged to the best advantage. With what a merry voice and dimpling cheeks, did she run hither and thither to answer the demands of her brother, of nurse, or of Nannie.

Then when her guests had arrived, how solicitous she was to minister to their comfort, how ready to gratify their every wish, to sing and play for their entertainment.

Her piano had been removed from the hall to their own private parlor; and here she conscientiously practised the lessons she had taken in the city.

In the corner of the dining-room stood the easel, with the pallet and brushes near at hand. Both Helen and her brother had a decided taste for drawing, and many hours during this happy period were passed in transferring to the canvas, the views in the neighborhood, which most pleased them.

At the table, too, Helen's pretty air of shyness, her enthusiasm and her blushes, rendered her very attractive. With her dear pastor seated at her right hand, and Mrs. Knowles occupying a corresponding place by her brother, with Sybil erect and angular on one side, and Frederic opposite, the young girl declared she was the happiest creature in the world. Indeed, since parting from her guardian, she seemed to ignore his existence; to wish to free herself from the recollection of the trying months through which she had passed. There was little now of those fitful moods, flashing eyes, and bitter expressions.

"The country is so sweet," she said once to Mr. Frederic, as they were walking together near a hedge of hawthorn. "I can pray here with the hope that my heavenly Father will listen. Everything reminds me of his love."

"Yes," he answered, looking down at the fresh, girlish face, lighted with enthusiasm; "yes, God seems nearer to me in the country."

"I love to think it is his voice when the birds sing, or the water gurgles so sweetly in the brook," Helen went on. "Do you remember," she asked, looking archly in his face, "how you scolded me once for being afraid of the geese in farmer Noyes' pond?

"'God made the pretty geese,' you said.

"And I asked: 'Is it naughty, then, to be afraid of anything God made?'"

The young clergyman threw back his head and laughed aloud, not a common act of his, by the way.

"Can you remember that, Helen? Why you couldn't have been more than four years old. I know I had to take you in my arms, and carry you out of the reach of the dreadful monsters."

"I don't think I forget a single kind word ever spoken to me," was her eager reply.

"Nor, it seems, have you forgotten my scolding!"

"Oh, you have scolded me a great many times beside that, you know!"

Helen tried to assume a careless tone, but in spite of her efforts, her voice quivered a little.

"Have I?" he asked, more moved than he liked her to see. "I can't recall the occasions to mind."

"You found me gazing in the brook, and told me I must not be vain. You refused to take my hand and lead me home as I begged you, because you thought I had been unkind to a poor boy. I had scratched his face with all my strength, but it was because he drowned my pet kitten. After your reproof, I took the boy home and gave him my only dollar, a silver one. But I remember, even now, how mixed up my ideas of right and wrong became the more I reflected on the subject. I was certainly wicked, because you said so, but how could it be right for him to drown my pretty kitten?"

"I am ashamed of my injustice, and will not go a step farther, until you tell me you will forgive my crossness."

He stood directly in her path, and for one instant she raised her eyes to his face. Then, with crimson cheeks and quickened pulse, she said faintly:

"Please let me go on," and he did.

That night, when in the solitude of his own room, he took from his neck the ribbon attached to a locket, and, unclasping it, gazed upon the placid face so skilfully portrayed there, why did another pair of eyes dance before his vision? Not calm, cold orbs, like those in the picture, but eyes soul-lit, with life and love shining in their depths. Why, when gazing on those thin, well-formed lips, upon which the smile seemed stereotyped, did memory flash upon him a mouth he had lately looked upon, lips full and sweet, and quivering with repressed emotion? Why, from gazing at the features, did he proceed to a dissection of character, and for the first time acknowledge that a woman who could lead a man on to make proposals of marriage, with the intention of wounding him through his affections, was unworthy of his regard? Why did he, instead of placing the relic of past joys under his pillow, as heretofore, lock it in a desk out of sight, and resolve to let by-gones be by-gones?

Had Sybil known all that was transpiring on the other side of the partition within a few feet of her own pillow, she would have roused herself from her heavy slumber to thank God that his delusion was over at last. Or had she heard his nightly prayer wherein he thanked his heavenly Father for the sweet interview which the day had afforded, and even guessed to whom he referred, she would have hoped much for his future.

As it was, she slept on quietly and profoundly, while he lay for hours communing with his own heart.

"Helen," said Frank one morning at breakfast, "don't make any engagement for to-morrow, for I prophesy you will have company."

The young lady glanced archly in his face, as she said: "I can guess who. It will be a Miss about my age; and she will not come alone."

"You are mistaken for once," he added in some confusion. "I am quite confident you cannot guess the name of the person."

"I will write it down and put it in a sealed envelope, and we shall see whether I cannot." Still the same roguish curl to the lips.

"Come out to the arbor, and I will tell you a secret."

She smiled gayly and followed him.

"Do you remember a promise you once wished me to make?"

"I remember a great many."

"Pshaw, don't be silly! One about my being married."

"No, I recollect nothing of that kind, I wished you to remain single, that we may each live in happy freedom from care."

"Do you still wish it, Helen?"

"If you could persuade Sybil Knowles to be my sister, perhaps I might consent."

"Nonsense, Sis. Sybil is old enough to be my mother. There is a way, though, that you could gain her in that relation, Frederic might."

"Hush Frank, what has all this to do with my company?"

"Helen, I am going to give you a sister. While you were so unhappy, I wouldn't tell you. But now that your heart is so gay, that songs flow from your lips as naturally as from the robins, I have ventured to ask her to Woodbine Cottage."

She did not start as he expected, or show any symptoms of surprise.

Presently he added, "She will be here by the ten up train, and I shall go to meet her. So you see you have not guessed right."

With a merry laugh Helen tore open the envelope and held it out before him.

To his astonishment he read, "Miss Constance DeWolf will visit me to-morrow accompanied by Mr. Francis Joseph Edmond."

"Why, Sis, I hope you haven't been breaking open my letters. So you knew it all the time. Oh, how deceitful women are!"

He laughed as he kissed her affectionately. "You must explain," he urged, "how you found me out. But have you no congratulations to offer?"

"Not one, till I have seen her and proved her to be worthy of my brother. If she is so, I don't think she will have any reason to complain of my coldness. Wait a minute; and I will explain how I ascertained the name of my relative elect."

She darted into the house and soon returned with her portfolio. Taking from this a slip of blotting-paper, she laughingly held up before him the impression made by the ink, which, when held before a mirror, easily revealed the name she had placed in the envelope.

"I soon ascertained from your absorbed, absent manner that you had a secret: and as you suddenly appeared in the character of a daily correspondent, I put the two things together, and guessed you had a lady-love. Haven't I waited patiently for you to tell me?"

CHAPTER XI.

THE GUARDIAN AND HIS WARD.

TO go back a few weeks in our narrative. Mr. McKinstry succeeded, by what means he never explained, in obtaining from Monson P. Tracy the amount of Sarah Barrows' bill, with interest from the time it was due. This, with the sum already subscribed, made a little more than the three hundred dollars needed for a year's expenses at an academy near by.

The poor orphan, crushed with the weight of her grief, dreading to look into the future which seemed so dark and cold, could only falter out her prayers and try to calm her bleeding heart by repeating to herself the promises of God to the fatherless ones.

When Helen Edmond, with a face like a sunbeam, burst into her darkened room with a paper in one hand and a roll of bills in the other, and announced to the desolate girl the success of her plan, and the necessity of immediate exertion in order to reach the school at the commencement of the term, Sarah pressed her hands to her head, bewildered with her good fortune.

At last, when her kind friend had related in detail the manner in which the happy result had been brought about; she said:

"I do not deserve such generous kindness. I have been praying God to open a way for me to support myself honestly, but I was faithless and unresigned."

"But you will never be so again, Sarah. I am so glad for you. It is necessary to go at once; and you must write me how you succeed in your studies."

This was only a few days before Helen's return to Maytown. And in consequence of her change of residence, she did not receive any intelligence from her protégé until she was settled at Woodbine Cottage.

In the letter Sarah announced that she had been admitted at once to the senior class, and that by teaching a few hours daily in the primary department, she could earn enough to pay for lessons in vocal and instrumental music of which she was passionately fond.

By the terms of Mr. Edmond's will, a part of the property would revert to Frank on his twenty-first birthday. But the full division would not be made until his sister had attained her majority.

Under many circumstances this would have been a judicious arrangement. Frank's time was now occupied in completing his professional studies, he having chosen the law, and Helen being still too young to need more than the limited allowance given her by her guardian.

Just before they left the city, Frank had sought an interview with Mr. Tracy, in consequence of a note received from him in reference to certain new investments. The young man only knew in general that aside from the grounds around Woodbine Cottage, a considerable sum was invested in real estate, being let out to mortgagees who paid interest on the same. The great bulk of the property, however, lay in City stocks.

It was in regard to a part of these stocks, and the interest accumulating from them, that Mr. Tracy wished to talk with his ward, who since his father's decease had endeavored to fit himself for the care of his property.

Exactly at this juncture, a company of speculators were in the city, getting subscribers to the purchase of a lead mine in one of the Western States. They had handsome drawings of the locality, with minute details of the wonderful facilities afforded for getting the metal into market. Day after day these gentlemen had been closeted for hours with Monson P. Tracy and had so effectually convinced him of the immense value of the mine, that he had resolved to invest in it every dollar he could raise. He also resolved to advise Frank to buy shares with the capital now lying at interest.

But young and inexperienced as he was, the law student hesitated. He had often heard his father warn others against being drawn into the vortex of speculation. He felt that he had no right to risk the patrimony which had descended to him.

Mr. Tracy, however, opposed such fair arguments to his objections, representing the advantages which would be sure to accrue, in such glowing colors, that, though not entirely convinced, Frank consented that a small sum should be risked, as he insisted on calling the investment.

Had the young man been aware with whom he had to deal, could he have known that the shares in the lead mine were made an excuse for probing him as to his own knowledge of the various investments made by his father; more than all, had he imagined that instead of a friend bound to his interests by personal regard, as well as by gratitude to his father, his guardian was a mean, selfish man, thinking only how much he could be benefited, he would never have laid himself open by his perfect frankness, as the mark of a designing villain.

Frank Edmond, like his father before him, was totally deceived in the character of Monson P. Tracy. Judging the man from himself, and from what appeared on the surface, Mr. Roswell Edmond formed an opinion of what his old protégé ought to be, rather than of what he was. Indeed, having had reason to be fully satisfied with the business capacity of his former clerk, he rested on the assurance that in the pecuniary responsibilities of his wards, he would spare no pains in the care of their fortune.

Unfortunately the example of Mr. Edmond was followed by a wealthy widow—named Quincy, who made Mr. Tracy guardian to her son, a young man of nineteen, with "phet roviso" that the child was not to have control of his fortune until his twenty-fifth year.

There were some men, Mr. McKinstry among them, who shook their heads, and prognosticated evil in the future for the wards. While others, not so shrewd and discriminating, were willing to adopt Monson P. Tracy's opinion of himself and believe him to be a man of unflinching integrity.

Three months after Frank's conversation with his guardian, he received notice through a friend that he was reported as one of the largest owners in the lead mines. The speculation by shrewd financiers was considered wild in the extreme, the difficulty of access to the locality being almost insurmountable.

In consequence of this intelligence, the collegian visited the city, for the purpose of ascertaining its truth. He called at his guardian's counting-room on three successive occasions, but found him absent, or too much engaged to see him.

He then wrote, requesting the gentleman to appoint an hour for an interview.

This meeting proved wholly unsatisfactory. Mr. Tracy assumed the high ground of acting according to the instructions of the will. He said he had only consulted his ward on a former occasion out of courtesy, and not because he felt incompetent to decide what was best for their interests. And he requested, in a lofty tone, that there might be no further interference in his business.

The interview gave the student great uneasiness, especially as through the kindness of the same friend who had before written him, he obtained access to the list of names of the lead mine stock-holders, and was startled to find that twenty thousand dollars worth of shares was accredited to him.

This fact sent him in a hurry to a lawyer with whom he had already entered his name as a student, to inquire whether the powers of a guardian over the property of minors was not limited, and found, to his keen regret, that it was so, to a more or less degree, according to the terms of the will, and that in his case, Monson P. Tracy's control was entire. Indeed, so perfect had been Mr. Edmond's confidence in his old clerk, that when advised to add Mr. Knowles' name to the other, he had answered his attorney:

"If Mr. Tracy will accept the trust, no other will be necessary. He will handle my children's fortunes, and secure their welfare in every respect as if they were his own."

There was no other help for the young man than patience. He returned to Maytown far more of his sister's opinion in regard to their guardian than he had left it. Helen, quick to discriminate character, had long insisted that he was capable of any dishonesty which would not render him amenable to law; and more, that by a subtle way of reasoning, he would convince himself that any act which would advance his own interests, was right.

CHAPTER XII.

A NARROW ESCAPE.

AS Autumn advanced, Helen Josephine recommenced her studies with great zeal. Before he left Maytown, her brother marked out a course of reading for her, in connection with which she promised to write abstracts daily of the works perused, for his subsequent examination. She also had two recitations a week in intellectual philosophy, in Mr. Knowles' study, and on the intervening days. Mr. Frederic taught her geometry.

On the last occasion, the young girl made it a condition that Sybil should be present, not that she imagined Mr. Frederic would embrace the opportunity to make love to her. But she distrusted her own powers to keep her mind on the lesson, except for the presence of the lynx-eyed, practical sister.

Little did she imagine while she was taking pains to prove that the line A was equal to the lines B and C, or that the three angles of a triangle are equal to two right angles, that Sybil's thoughts were roving far from her knitting needles, which made so monotonous a clicking, and taking in the possibilities of a connection between the two beings she loved so well. And, moreover, that she was devising means to break up the increasing coolness between them.

Strange as it may appear, the more Frederic admired the mind and person of his young pupil, the more reserved his manner grew. Beautiful, accomplished, and heir to a large fortune, he could scarcely admit the possibility of winning her to be the wife of a poor country clergyman. And yet sometimes in the retirement of his own chamber, a recollection of what he saw in her eyes when he asked her to forgive him, like a flash of electricity, sent hope surging through all his being. He was ready now to confess to himself that his love for the young English girl was tame and without vitality, compared with the emotions which at present filled his breast.

Yet his resolution was strong, never to allow Helen to become aware of his attachment. Sometimes, however, when her recitations had been uncommonly good, and she turned her beaming eyes upon him, wondering he did not praise her, it required all his strength of purpose to restrain his lips from expressing what was in his heart.

Meanwhile, Sybil sat knitting row after row upon the socks she was forming for her poor protégés in the parish; and wove castle after castle in regard to the future of those before her.

"It's all sheer stuff and nonsense," was her silent soliloquy, "to prove that one letter of the alphabet is as good or better than another. They're all good enough in their way; and it's a mark of childishness I didn't expect of Fred to be spending so much time about such trifles. But it will do as well as anything else to bring them together; and that's the main point at present."

But Sybil loved her brother's pupil too well not to strive to interest her in duties more important than the comparative value of A, B and C. She related the histories of her poor people, and often invited the young girl to accompany her in her visits. She encouraged her to aid those who were really needy, but reminded her that it was a better form of charity to teach the poor to help themselves.

Near Woodbine Cottage, Helen and her brother had their own protégés, whom, even when absent, they had always supported in part. One of these, the bedridden woman, had some months before received her welcome summons, and had gone home to her rest. But there were others who looked to the children of their loved benefactor at Woodbine Cottage for aid, and who expected the young lady to make them frequent calls.

Thus busy in her studies, her domestic duties and her charities, the autumn was passing quietly and usefully away, when some events occurred which greatly changed the current of her thoughts.

On the outskirts of the village of Maytown and about three miles from the church near the centre, a large stocking factory had been erected, which led in the course of a few years to the building of a dozen or more small, cheap houses in the vicinity, for the families of the working people.

Frank and his sister rode through the new village, or Mottville as it had been named, out of compliment to the owner of the factory, and had wondered where all the children running wild about the tenements went to school, as there was no appearance of a schoolhouse near by. But all thought of them was forgotten in subjects of greater interest, until one day Helen heard Frederic talking to his sister about the place.

"Why not have a Sabbath school in one of the houses?" she asked, her countenance beaming with animation.

"Exactly what I have wished," echoed the young clergyman, warmly; "but I do not know any room of suitable size."

"Hire any room to begin with," suggested Sybil. "You wont have many scholars at first."

"I should like to try, and see how many I could obtain," said Helen, glancing timidly in Frederic's face.

"They are rough people," answered the young man. "It would not do for you to go alone."

"I don't think there would be any danger. I used to go to worse places in the city, and I never met with abuse. If you will let me try it, I will begin to-morrow."

He fixed on her a gaze so full of admiration, that she felt her cheeks burn, as she added, "I will inquire about a room first. How much ought I to give for the use of it?"

"Very little. It is altogether probable that you will have one offered you. But I am anxious lest you should be annoyed. I would offer my services to go with you, but—"

"Oh! I would much prefer going alone; that is, I should not dare to talk to the people before the minister."

"Since when have you become so diffident, Helen?"

Not considering an answer to this question necessary, Helen rose at once to return home.

It was the middle of the afternoon of a very warm day in November. Having bid her friends adieu in a gay tone, our young friend passed through the gate with her sack hanging on her arm. From the dimples around her mouth, one might conclude her thoughts were pleasant ones.

She had but a quarter of a mile to walk, and was already two thirds of the distance, when she heard the sound of loud shouting behind her.

Curious, but not alarmed, she stopped, gazed into the distance, and not being able to discern anything, mounted a stone in order to see farther over the hill.

She now perceived several men making signs and furious gestures, the meaning of which she was entirely at a loss to understand.

Every moment the confusion increased, the men came running toward her, shouting and gesticulating, whether to her or to some other person she could not in her bewildered state decide.

Sometimes running on a few steps and then stopping to look about her, at length to her horror she sees one man in advance of the rest, and instantly concludes he is a madman broken loose from the hospital.

The screams and cries are now so near at hand that the poor girl can distinctly hear the words:

"Fire! Shoot him! He'll catch her! She's right in his path! No, there's too much danger!"

On, on she flies. It is for her life, while the man frantically shrieks:

"Dodge him! Jump the fence! Quick, or you'll be too late!"

She knows now that the danger is imminent, her breath comes shorter and shorter. She lifts her heart in one earnest prayer:

"Lord help me!"

Then, overcome with fright and fatigue she staggers, and is about to fall, when a strong arm lifts her from the ground. She is thrown over the wall; her companion leaps after her. A gun is discharged, a groan follows, and her consciousness forsakes her.

How long she lay in this state she never knew. At last she is aroused by lips pressed to hers, a voice murmuring her name in a tone of agony.

"Helen, my darling, awake! Have they killed you?"

Languidly she opened her eyes and found herself in the arms of her teacher.

"What has happened? Who is killed?" she gasped, trying to disengage herself from his close embrace.

"Father, accept my thanks," was Frederic's fervent ejaculation.

"I heard a gun," urged Helen. "Who is killed?"

"A dog, a mad dog. Can you guess what I have suffered?"

She staggered against him, the color again receding from her face and lips.

And almost without knowing what he did, her preserver strained her once more to his heart.

"You saved my life," she murmured, her lips quivering, while great drops trickled down her cheeks. She did not try to thank him. She sank back against the wall and wept quietly to herself.

"God be praised," was his only answer.

CHAPTER XIII.

SYBIL'S VISITS.

"I SUPPOSE there is no more danger. I can go home now," faltered Helen, with an appealing glance in her companion's face.

"There is no danger, but I would like to see a little color in your cheeks before we start."

"There they are!" cried Sybil's clear, ringing tones. "Come, father, let us hurry on."

Frederic held out his hand to assist Helen over the wall, and she was standing to receive the others when they came up.

Sybil started forward, and catching Helen in her arms burst into a loud cry over her. But presently recovering herself, she exclaimed:

"There, Helen Edmond! I wouldn't live the last hour over again, not for my right hand." Then, wiping her eyes, she added, "You've made me act like a fool, I believe. I don't often snivel in this way."

But happening to catch a glimpse of the young girl's blanched lips, she burst out again, crying:

"It's horrible to think what might have happened. Frederic what makes you stand there, when Helen looks as if she'd sink to the ground?"

Mr. Knowles in the meantime came hurrying to the spot, and opening his arms, the poor excited girl threw herself into his embrace.

"You've caused us a terrible fright, my dear," he said, tenderly caressing her head which lay against his bosom. "We must not forget who watched over you and protected you from danger."

"He saved my life," murmured Helen, glancing toward her preserver.

"Under God, my child. God gave him the ability to outrun the mad creature."

"And the willingness to put his own life in jeopardy to save yours," added the practical Sybil.

"Did you do that?" eagerly asked Helen, seizing the young man's hand.

"What would my life have been worth, if the dog had overtaken you?" he whispered, leaning toward her.

She started from him, the color mounting to her brow, and putting her arm within Sybil's said:

"Will you please to come home with me?"

"That is my intention. You must go to bed and have some boneset tea. I don't like your looks, one moment white as a sheet, the next red as fire. Like as not, the shock will give you a fever."

"Shall I send the doctor to Woodbine Cottage?" inquired Frederic, anxiously.

"Oh, no!" replied Helen, with a weary smile. "I only need rest. If I can forget those dreadful sounds, I shall be well."

She held out her hand to the young clergyman, though she had not courage to look him in the face, and receiving an additional charge from the good pastor to be careful of herself, turned in the direction of her home.

Thanks to Sybil's boneset tea which the poor victim, to please her friend, drank clear and strong, or perhaps to the pleasant emotions stirred in her heart, the next day found our heroine quite as well as if no dreadful danger had threatened her life.

She arose as early as usual, and for a while gave herself up to receive the petting of old nurse, who was greatly excited by the accident. Then she sat down to breakfast, smiling and blushing to herself, lingering over her chocolate, muffins and eggs, until nurse wondered whether the fright had not been too much for her.

"He will certainly be here this morning," Helen said to herself, "but what can I say to thank him?"

She was still at the table, when she heard a ring at the door-boll. Her heart fluttered so dreadfully, she could scarcely stand; and she flew to the opposite door in order to escape to her chamber.

"My wife wouldn't give me any rest till I'd been to see how Miss was, after the fright," said a loud, good-natured voice, and the owner of it walked in at the back door, just in time to meet Helen.

"I shot the mad dog," he said, in explanation, "and I would have shot him with a better will, if I'd known 'twas Mr. Edmond's daughter he was running after."

Helen shook the man's hand in a cordial manner, and then drew a chair forward for him to sit down.

"I allus set store by Parson Knowles and his family," the visitor went on, "but I never know what a smart one that son o' his'n was, till I see him start off to overtake you. 'Twas a miracle, and nothing else, how he got the start of us, and threw you over the wall. You see I couldn't fire afore, I was afraid of shooting you. If he's as smart at writing sermons as he is at running, I'll promise to be one of his most reg'lar hearers."

"I shall have reason to thank you and him as long as I live," faltered Helen, her voice trembling. "Of all horrible diseases, I think hydrophobia is most to be dreaded."

It was usual for the young lady, after arranging her domestic affairs, to walk down to the parsonage and recite the lessons learned the day before. But this morning, even if she had been prepared with lessons, something held her back from going to meet the one being who occupied all her thoughts.

Immediately after the departure of her visitor, she opened her piano, and tried to fix her mind on her practice, but this she found was impossible. A voice continually sounded in her ears, "What would my life have been worth if the dog had overtaken you?" And then those sweet epithets when she awoke—"Helen, my darling, have they killed you?"

Just as the hall clock was striking ten, the door opened and Sybil walked in.

It was evident something had occurred to vex her, for her mouth was set hard and defiant, though her inquiries about the health of her favorite were as tender as ever. She bustled about, tumbling the music over, and peeping into Helen's portfolio, until the young lady asked what she was looking for.

"Well!" she exclaimed, throwing off her shawl. "I may as well own up. I used to think Sybil Knowles above the weaknesses of her sex, but I confess I made an egregious mistake. She's just like the rest of 'em, and that's enough news for one morning."

She caught up her shawl and pinned it across her breast, keeping her mouth tightly shut all the time.

"You're not going yet," cried Helen, seizing her arm. "I wanted to hear about—about—your father, and all the family."

"They're all well, thank you," was the unpromising reply, and Sybil made toward the door. But catching a glimpse of her pet's tear-dimmed eyes, she hesitated, and then explained:

"It's no use to hide it. We've had a stormy time at home this morning. I don't approve of it, and I never will. Only last night I thought—well, it's no matter what an old maid like me thought,—but now there's fury and all to pay. I wouldn't have believed there was so little sense in the world."

"What do you mean, Sybil? I can't understand a word you say."

"Well, I'll ask one plain question, though perhaps you'll think it's none of my business. Why didn't you tell me about Roswell Edmond Tracy! There? I've done it; and I am not sorry either," as Helen's face grew crimson. "I took you to be a frank girl, and I would have set your truthfulness against the world."

She twitched her hand from her companion and walked off stiffly down the avenue.

Before Helen, astonished beyond measure by her words and actions, could recover herself, the woman was almost out of sight.

"What can it mean? I'll go right down to the parsonage and find out," was the young lady's first resolution. But after what had occurred the day before, she shrank from putting herself in the way of meeting Frederic. It belonged to him to seek an interview.

The rest of the morning she wandered about the house, wondering what could have occurred. By dinner time she had grown quite indignant, and resolved if her preserver (as she now designated him) came, she would not be at home to see him.

Nannie was dispatched to the farmer to procure a steady horse which she could drive to Mottville. And as soon as the conveyance was ready, she started away, telling Nurse she should not return till dark.

Her route led her directly past the parsonage. But she took pains to turn off through a lane which joined the main street again a few hundred rods past the house.

Her heart misgave her somewhat as she drove slowly by the spot where yesterday's danger and escape occurred.

"How differently I should have been employed now," she said to herself, "had not Frederic jeoparded his life for mine."

After this, she rode on speculating on Sybil's singular conduct. And from this, there arose another question which gave her so much pain that for the first time she became conscious of the strength of her attachment to her teacher. The question was this:

"Would Frederic's parents approve me for a daughter-in-law? Am I fit for a clergyman's wife?"

Conscience unhesitatingly answered, "No. Frederic is a warm-hearted, earnest Christian; and I am—what am I? If not for Christ, I am against him. I must take a stand somewhere."

CHAPTER XIV.

THE YOUNG MISSIONARY.

IT was fortunate for the young girl that the horse was in reality what the owner had predicted, fit for a child's guidance. For while she was communing with her own heart, she took no heed to his steps.

"Let me see," she went on, "I must have faith, hope and charity. Have I faith? What is faith? Papa used to tell me I had faith in him, when I trusted him. The Bible says, 'faith is the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen.' I'm afraid I have not that faith in God which I have in some people. Mr. Knowles, for instance, I'm sure he loves me; and I would trust him even against the evidence of my senses.

"Oh, what a dreadful confession! Has not my heavenly Father proved that he watched over me with more than a father's love? How happy my lot is, compared with so many around me? Can not I have faith in him, and trust Jesus to save me? I will try from this very minute. It does not seem hard, but perhaps I do not understand it right.

"Hope comes next. It is natural for me to be hopeful. I never quite lost hope, even when I was at Mr. Tracy's. But this hope is different. If I trust in God, it will be right to hope that he will receive me at last, but then I must be sure that I do trust him. How can I tell? I will ask him to help me judge myself.

"Last of all comes charity. Without charity, the Bible says, I cannot be saved, though I give my body to be burned or bestow all my goods to feed the poor.

"I remember once papa had a letter from a clergyman with a beautiful description of these graces. 'Faith is trust in God. Hope is expectation that he will fulfil his promises to us, but charity is love, and love is likeness to God.'"

Large drops gathered in Helen's eyes. "I'm sure I have not love to everybody," was her mental ejaculation. "There is my guardian. I've always said I hated him. And when I think how ungratefully he has treated papa's last requests to him, I can scarcely hear his name without horror. Nothing that I can imagine would induce me to live with him again. No, I cannot be a Christian, I have not charity."

The thought grew more distressing every moment. Helen had been a child of praying parents, and the arguments she used in her self-examination proved that she had been carefully instructed in her duty to God.

There were other influences, too, which had produced their effect. It was impossible for any one, not wholly hardened, to live in intimate companionship as she had done, with such a family as her pastor's, without feeling that religion was the first thing to be desired.

By the time Helen had reached this painful conclusion, the horse had arrived at the top of the hill which overlooked the new village of Mottville. She pulled the rein and he stopped.

"What is the use," she asked herself, "of my collecting scholars into a class, if I cannot teach them to love the Saviour? And how can I teach them, if I do not love him myself?"

Her lip quivered, and her breast heaved convulsively. She was ready to sink with grief when the gracious Spirit who was watching over her, suggested the question:

"What hinders me from beginning to love Him now, right here, under these trees? God is everywhere; and he knows all the thoughts of my heart. He sees that I am sorry that I have lived so many years unmindful of all his goodness; yes, more sorry than I can tell; and that I really need his forgiveness. It seems to me I already begin to love him. How can I help it when I think of all he suffered for me?"

She clasped her hands together, and gazing up into the clear November sky, murmured:

"Dear Jesus, I do love you. I can ask the children to come to thee, for I can tell them how sweet it is to be near thine arms."

A few minutes longer she sat there, her whole being filled with gratitude for this fresh token of God's favor. Memory reviewing the events of her past life, which now in the new light afforded her, seemed but one long history of her heavenly Father's love. In the bitterness of the parting from her papa, in the trials she endured at her guardian's, she realized that God, by his Spirit, was drawing her to himself, and preparing her for the work she believed he had now accomplished in her soul.

She was at last interrupted in her meditations by seeing that a carriage was rapidly ascending the hill, and would speedily pass her.

Jerking the reins, therefore, she spoke to the horse to go on, and then saying:

"Now for my scholars," tried to put her animal into a trot.

The carriage was what is called a beach wagon, a stylish looking turn-out with a black span, handsomely harnessed, driven at present by a dashingly dressed youth, apparently just entering his twenties.

He fixed a searching gaze upon the young girl from the time he approached near enough to see her, walking his horses for the purpose, and then turning to his companion, said, loud enough for Helen to hear:

"It's the heiress from Woodbine Cottage. I thought Dixon was bragging when he described her, but he hasn't told half."

"I wonder who he can be," was Helen's thought. "I think he is exceedingly impertinent."

But all unpleasant recollections were soon lost in the pleasure of her calls, some of which I shall describe.

A short distance from the factory stood a row of buildings, which, with their neatly painted fronts, and the green shades drawn partly down, presented quite an attractive appearance. Leaving her horse standing at the head of the narrow street, our young heroine went to the nearest door.

To her disappointment, there were only two children at home, the mother and oldest son being at work in the factory.

Helen sat down for a minute to talk with the children, and before she left, so much interested them in her now Sunday School, that they promised to beg their mother to allow them to go.

From this place she visited many families. Wherever she found either father or mother at home, they acknowledged the need of some school where their children could be taught. Some even requested permission to attend the school themselves saying:

"We shall grow to be heathen if we are left without any instruction."

"But where," she asked, "shall I find a room large enough?" And this she found would be her main difficulty.

A fleeting thought passed through her mind, that she would like to get funds from her guardian and build a small chapel where the school could be well accommodated, and where Frederic could occasionally preach. But while she was wondering what would be the cost, she came to another street, wider than the first with houses scattered here and there at quite a distance from the factory.

A little girl was running along the beaten path at the side of the road. And Helen, interested in her bright face, asked her if she would like to ride.

So far the young missionary had met with nothing but kindness and encouragement. But her faith was destined to meet a trial. After the child got out of the buggy, she knocked at a door and had a very pleasant interview with an old lady who told her that she had no children to send, but she should advise her son and daughter-in-law to let their little folks go. When Helen, greatly pleased at her interest, imparted her fear of not being able to procure a room, she answered heartily:

"You're welcome to this until you can get a better."

Then throwing open the door into a large bed-room, she said: "One of the classes can come in here, you see."

The young lady was delighted, and accepted the offer as cordially as it had been made.

"Who is your next neighbor?" she asked, preparing to leave.

"She's a hard one, Miss," answered the old lady, smiling, "but the more's the need of her being taught."

Encouraged, however, by her former success, Helen drove to the house nothing doubting.

Her low knock brought a woman to the door whose appearance of hardness and defiance caused the visitor's heart to beat most painfully. No human face could be more repulsive. The lines of discontent, sourness and gloom had deepened until they had become absolute deformities, and there she stood in the partly open door surveying the stranger in the most insolent manner.

"I am getting up a Sabbath School," began Helen, trying to smile, "and I called to invite your children."

"You may go away again, then, for no one belonging to me shall go inside the door of a church or Sunday School."

"We are going to meet for the present at the next house," Helen went on. "I'm sorry you wont let your children go," and she sighed audibly. "I love children, and I want to do them good."

She was turning away, but Mrs. Lane had by no means done with her.

"I know all about Sunday Schools," she burst out in an angry tone. "My oldest gal went once to the church three miles sway, and 'cause she wasn't dressed out in furbelows and flounces like the others, the children wouldn't speak to her. Sunday Schools are places to larn pride and loftiness, and hatred of poor folks; that's just what they are, and I want nothing to do with 'em."

Helen turned back and gazed in the woman's face.

Her cheeks glowed with anger; and as she stood with outspread arms, she reminded one of a virago.

"But," thought the visitor, "she has a soul to be saved, and she has young children under her direct influence. She is a hard case, but there must be some way to touch her heart. I wont give her up, I'll come again. It's no use to argue with her." So she quietly said:

"Good morning, Mrs. Lane. I'm very sorry you wont let me have the little ones."

"What good would it do you? Tell me that. Why don't you call me a liar and say I ought to larn manners, as the woman did who came to leave tracts? Have I frightened you?" And she laughed a hard, bitter, defiant laugh that chilled the hearer's blood.

"Shall I tell you what I was thinking?" Helen asked, softly.

"Yes, tell, if you have a mind. It's a free country, I s'pose."

"I was thinking how many trials you must have had to feel so unkindly to every one. And I was wondering whether anything I could do for you or yours could soften your feelings toward your fellow creatures."

To her astonishment the woman left her abruptly, and went into an inner room, shutting the door after her.

CHAPTER XV.

EXPLANATIONS.

IN leaving the house, Helen met the child who had rode with her. The little girl was not particularly attractive in appearance, but now her black eyes sparkled with pleasure, as she again saw the lady.

"Do you live here?" Helen inquired with a smile.

"Yes, ma'am; and I am coming to your school. If ma wont let me, I'll run off."

"Come right in, you dirty brat," screamed the mother, throwing up the window. "How dared you stay so when I sent you of an errand?"

The young missionary sighed repeatedly, as she drove away. "I'm afraid I can't do anything for them," was her sad reflection.

But on the whole, the results of her afternoon's labors were highly satisfactory; and she set out for home in an enviable state of mind.

"Shall I stop and tell Mr. Knowles about my mission?" she asked herself, as she approached the entrance to the lane.

There was no need of an answer, for there before her, walking dejectedly, with his head down, she saw her pastor.

Spurring up her horse, she speedily overtook him, and persuaded him to take a seat by her side.

"I have something splendid to tell you," she began, her face beaming with pleasure.

After she had repeated the incidents of the afternoon, the horse enjoying the opportunity to fall back into a walk, she put her hand lovingly into his arm, saying softly:

"There is something else I want to tell you about myself."

"Ah!" he exclaimed, starting a little, and disclosing an anxious face. "Well, my dear, anything that interests you—"

"I have begun to love the Saviour; and now I can tell the children what a precious Friend he is."

"That is indeed good news, the very best," he said, patting her hand to hide his own emotion.

"And only think," she went on, "I don't hate Mr. Tracy at all."

He started painfully at the name.

"I only pity him for being so selfish and grovelling. I wish I could do him good; or rather, I wish he could know in his own heart how much happier real religion would make him."

"My child, you delight me. Surely your Father rejoices over you, for we know that there is joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth."

"Will you tell Mrs. Knowles and the—the rest," faltered Helen. "Tell them I never knew what happiness, real happiness was before."

"I will, indeed, my dear child."

Helen was sitting at the tea table lingering over the meal, while nurse, with the freedom of a tried friend, sat in a rocking-chair near the window, talking over the events of the afternoon, when Sybil was seen coming up the avenue.

On entering the room, she kissed Helen, and said warmly, "I'm rejoiced at the good news. I've been on my feet all day, walked half over the parish, but I could not rest without coming to tell you how delighted we all are. I only wish your father were alive to be made glad. Stay, I've brought a piece of paper with me. It's from Frederic. I asked him to come along, but he thought it wasn't best, feared for his welcome, I suppose. Why, where is that document? I must have lost it on the road."

"Oh, Sybil! I hope not. Look in your pocket again."

"I have turned it inside out. See! It's gone, that's clear. Well, I do seem to have changed characters with somebody else. My head has been upside down ever since morning."

"I'm so sorry you've lost my note."

"'Tisn't worth grieving for, Helen, Frederic scribbled it off just as I was coming away: and he can write bushels more of such letters, if you are willing to spend your time reading them."

"To-morrow I shall expect you all here, as usual. I forgot to say so to Mr. Knowles."

"I wont forget it; but you mustn't be disappointed if Frederic isn't here. He is going away. I left him packing a box of books."

"Going away without bidding me good-by!" gasped the poor girl, seizing the back of a chair for support.

"It's a sudden thing, very. It's against my advice, too. I don't think it's a good plan to run away from trials. Stay where you are, Fred, and live them down, is what I told him."

"Sybil!" almost shrieked Helen, her eyes protruding, and her whole face white with terror, "tell me the truth, was Frederic bitten by that mad dog? Tell me quick!"

The woman laughed. "Not by a dog, child. He's bitten, though, no doubt about that. Don't look so frightened, dear, and don't ask me another question, for as sure as you do, I shall say something I ought not. There, kiss me good-night, for I must go."

"No, you must not. Wait till I've written a note, which you must carry safely."

She ran to her desk, and presently returned with a folded paper, containing these words:

"MY DEAR PRESERVER: If you cannot spare time to say good-by to one whose life you so generously saved, I cannot let you go without saying that as long as I live, I shall thank God for such a friend in my hour of danger.

"HELEN JOSEPHINE EDMOND."

The next morning our young heroine had not left her chamber, when nurse brought her a note. She smiled as she recognized Sybil's peculiar chirography. The note was brief, and was as follows:

"DEAR HELEN: Father has been summoned to a family just beyond Mottville. He wants you to ride there with him, directly after breakfast. I think likely we shall go to Woodbine Cottage as usual, for Frederic has postponed starting for a day or two.

"Your true friend,

"SYBIL KNOWLES."

"P. S. I send the note which I found safe where I put it, tied in the corner of my handkerchief; but I was so flustrated yesterday I acted like a fool."

Helen's cheeks grew rosy, as she impatiently tore open the neatly directed envelope and read:

"Yesterday, dear friend, I rejoiced over your life preserved from a dreadful calamity. To-day and forever more, I shall rejoice and thank God for a soul won to the Saviour. I am going away, perhaps we shall never meet again, but the sweetest memories I carry with me are those of hours spent with you."

"FREDERIC."

For a moment our heroine stood with hands clasped on her breast, her face blanched, her eyes fixed wildly on the opposite wall. But suddenly her features relaxed with a fixed resolve.

"Yes, I will," she energetically exclaimed. "I will. I have a right."

Presently her voice sounded over the banisters:

"Nurse! Nurse! Tell the messenger I'll be ready, and please bring my breakfast up on a waiter. I'm going to ride with Mr. Knowles."

Scarcely an hour later she was sitting close beside her pastor in his narrow buggy, jogging away toward Mottville.

"I'm very glad you sent for me," she began, resolved to speak while she had courage. "I want to ask you to explain something I don't understand."

The white-haired man smiled faintly, as he answered: "I have also some questions to put to you."

"There is nothing you can ask that it will not give me pleasure to answer," she said, earnestly, adding with an arch glance in his face, "I think you are already acquainted with all my secrets."

"The first question refers to your father's namesake, Roswell Tracy. I have had a letter from your guardian, with regard to a portion of your property, and have already forwarded it to your brother. But that is not the part which troubles me. In his son's behalf, Mr. Tracy makes you an offer of his hand and affections; and he says from the encouragement Roswell has always received, he hopes soon to welcome you as a daughter."

"Stop, my dear," as Helen suddenly seized his arm, "let me finish. When I was last in the city, I heard some statements about this young man that make me greatly fear for your future happiness, if you marry him. As the grateful friend of your dear father, I feel it my duty to tell you this."

"Mr. Knowles, I never did encourage Roswell. I told his father I despised his character. It is a plot to get my fortune. I am sure of it. I overheard father and son concerting it long ago. Mr. Tracy is an awful man. I hope I'm not wicked in saying so, but he is not one to give up a plan when he has set his heart upon it. But I never will consent, never. He may take every dollar I have, but I never will marry Roswell."

She ended her sentence with a burst of passionate tears.

"Don't, my dear. If that is the case, there is no occasion for tears. You have relieved me immensely."

Still the sobs did not cease, and at length came the explanation:

"Oh, Mr. Knowles! I'm afraid I'm not a Christian. I can't love Mr. Tracy; he is such an awful man."

CHAPTER XVI.

A DISCOVERY.

"IT is not wrong, Helen," remarked Mr. Knowles, "to hate injustice, oppression, and crime, wherever you see them, but you must try to forgive your enemies, whoever they are. Mr. Tracy, in his letter, speaks of you with great tenderness. Indeed, he seemed desirous of making up to you the loss you have met with by the sudden fall in the value of some of your stocks, by the fortune he should settle on you is the wife of his only son."

"I wont touch a cent of his property," sobbed the excited girl. "I never will see Roswell if I can help it. But Mr. Knowles, what if I can't help it? If you know Mr. Tracy as I do, you wouldn't wonder that I'm afraid. I've heard him boast, time and again, that he never gives up any purpose. He hangs to it till he has accomplished it. There is only one thing that would stop him, and that is if I were married to another man."

Helen glanced timidly in her companion's face as she said this, and her heart grew warm as he answered gently:

"That's so, child! That's so!"

"Would it be wicked for me to tell you some things I know about him?" she asked, eagerly. "Things I heard him tell himself, laughing and joking meanwhile."

"I don't know that it would be wicked."

"He had a party of gentlemen one night. They sat down to dinner at seven, and afterwards they drank a great deal of liquor. When we went back to the parlor, the company were all in gay spirits, and began to talk over their youthful pranks, as they called them. I wanted to retire, but Mrs. Tracy, and the wife of one of the visitors bogged me to stay. They said our presence was a restraint on the men. I wont call them gentlemen. I never shall forget the disgust, the loathing I had of my guardian, after that.

"Why, Mr. Knowles, he confessed that all the while he was pretending in papa's presence to be religious, while he went regularly to church, and discussed religious subjects because he saw it fell in with the weakness of his 'boss,' as he called papa, he was acting exactly contrary to his wishes.

"Several nights every week, after the store had been locked, a company of boon companions met there, and carefully securing the shutters to exclude every ray of light, gambled until the small hours. Sometimes the debating club met there, and caroused till morning.

"One of the company asked how he obtained possession of the keys; and he shouted with mirth as he answered:

"'Oh, it was the easiest thing in the world to humbug the boss! He had such an exalted opinion of me that he would have suspected any of the clerks sooner. When I told him that I wanted to balance my accounts for the month, and would like the store key, he gave it out at once. Sometimes I hinted that my boarding house was so noisy, I couldn't meditate and pray as I wished. On these occasions, he would offer me the key with tears in his eyes.'

"This confession was received with repeated shouts of laughter, while I, mortified beyond measure at finding myself in such company, could only wish that my papa would appear bodily and accuse Mr. Tracy of his perfidy."

"I am very sorry to hear this," said Mr. Knowles, "sorry for many reasons."

"I might possibly have concluded that these confessions were the result of the liquor," continued Helen, "but unfortunately I heard other confessions equally disgraceful. And then Mr. Tracy often boasts that he can drink any amount without showing the effects.

"You know, perhaps, that he has another ward, a young man who has gone into business with Roswell. I have listened with dreadful heart-burnings to the fatherly advice given the young partners, advice which, if followed, without the skill in evading law he himself possesses, would lead them to prison."

"That is a grave charge, Helen."

"Please listen. I am not exaggerating in one particular.

"You know that he used to import coffee, tea and liquors of various sorts. He instructed them in watering their liquors, boasting, with a laugh, that he had watered many a hogshead of New England rum or many a pipe of brandy, while in the employ of Mr. Edmond, and then pocketed the money the extra liquor brought."

Mr. Knowles groaned.

"Do you wonder now that I have no respect for the man? Is it strange I could not endure to live under his roof? Do you think I would connect myself with him by marrying his son?"

"When do you expect your brother, Helen. I wish to see him as soon as may be."

"Not until Christmas, unless something unusual occurs."

The clergyman seemed to be absorbed in thought, but as they drew near their destination, said suddenly:

"I must write him to meet me in the city."

The family who needed the pastor's services consisted of a widow and four children. The oldest boy had found for himself a situation in a store, but the others were dependent on their mother.

When Mr. Knowles and Helen knocked at the door of a neat one-story house, they were shown into a small parlor plainly furnished, but bearing the marks of taste and refinement.

Presently Mrs. Russel, the widow, entered, and apologized for having taken the liberty to summon the clergyman by saying:

"I heard from my neighbors that you were a friend to the poor and afflicted; and I am in great trouble."

She then went on to state that while her husband lived, though not rich, she didn't know the meaning of the word poverty. When he died, it was her great desire, the one she insisted on when her relatives urged her to break up, to keep her family together, certainly until her children's characters were more formed than at present. She had a rich brother in the city, she said, who urged her to give away her two youngest, put the others out at service, and find a place for herself as housekeeper.

"Abominable!" exclaimed Helen, greatly excited by the simple story.

"I wrote him I was willing to work hard, to deny myself of every luxury, even to live on two meals a day, but I could not consent to throw a mother's holy duties upon another."

"You did right," said the young listener.

"At last after many changes, I heard of this place, and with the advice of a younger unmarried sister who has been like an angel of mercy to me, I made the move with the idea of taking table—boarders from the factory. There are four overseers who have already engaged to come, and they promise to bring me as many others as I want. But last week, just as my hopes were raised to the utmost, my landlord decided to sell this house, and move to one of the Western States. In consequence of my disappointment, he offers to sell it to me for one thousand dollars, one half of which can lie at interest for a year or two.

"After consulting my neighbors here, and finding that without doubt property would rise, I went at once to the city, though I could poorly afford the expense, to plead with my rich brother to buy the house for me and let me pay him by instalments. This would have been a safe speculation for him, and have given me perfect relief. But he would not advance one dollar, though I told him that our sister was willing to risk one hundred dollars which she had earned as school teacher. He said he could speculate with his money more to his advantage than buying country houses."

Mrs. Russel wept as she added: "I remember the time, and I reminded him of it, when but for the kindness of a good Christian gentleman, he would have starved while trying to procure work."

"And did not that recollection soften him?" inquired Mr. Knowles.

"He made no reply, sir, except that he had plenty of use for his money, that his taxes and church subscriptions were enough to ruin any man. And, to prove what he said, he brought me a newspaper wherein a large subscription had been noticed. I think I have the paper now."

She opened a drawer in the worktable and took thence a copy of the — Journal, which, with flushed cheeks, she unfolded, and gave to the clergyman, placing her finger on the paragraph.

While he was deliberately putting on his glasses, Helen seized it, and with a scream of astonishment read aloud:

"We are gratified to notice among the liberal contributors to the new orphan asylum, the name of one of our princely merchants, MONSON P. TRACY. This noble and large-hearted gentleman has added one thousand dollars to the sum already raised. A few more similar donations, and the entire amount will be made up."

"Shameful! I wish everybody knew that he refused to help his own sister to a shelter for herself and children. Mr. Knowles, is it wicked for me to hate such a man?"

"Hush, my child, let charity have its perfect work. The building of an asylum for orphans is a noble undertaking. Don't let us impugn his motives."

Helen turned away from him with a look of disgust. "Your brother is my guardian," she exclaimed; "and my father is the gentleman who gave him employment. I am quite prepared to believe your story, having lived with him for a year. And I am acquainted with some of the methods by which he tries to cheat his fellow-men into a belief of his goodness. I am thankful that he cannot cheat his Maker."

As she said this, there was a flash of defiance in her eye which her pastor had not seen there for months.

"Helen," he urged mildly but with a glance of reproof, "we will not pursue that subject any farther. Our business is to advise our friend what course to take."

"How long, Mrs. Russel, will your landlord continue his offer?"

"Only one month, and a week of that has gone."

"I will write to Mr. Tracy to-night that I want five hundred dollars to help a poor woman," exclaimed Helen.

"Oh, Miss! The Lord will reward you, I never can," answered the widow with a burst of grateful tears.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE DELICATE TITBIT.

THE very next mail carried a note to the city to the effect proposed; and the writer awaited an answer with great impatience.

It came at length, and was, as Mrs. Knowles had feared, a refusal. The words were these:

"MY DEAR HELEN: When at your father's request, I undertook the charge of your fortune, I determined so to fulfil the trust that I might have nothing to regret on my dying bed. So far I have been enabled to do what I believe your father would approve.

"I am sorry to refuse you the means of carrying out the generous purpose you have formed, but the loss you and your brother have lately met with, though small in comparison with your entire fortune, would make it impossible for ma to send you so large a sum as five hundred dollars without a great sacrifice on the stocks.

"I trust you received your usual remittance for the quarter, which I forwarded just before your note came to hand, but for which I have not yet obtained a receipt.

"Knowing your interest in the great philanthropic enterprises of the day, I take pleasure in sending you by this mail a copy of my speech at the meeting of donors. It has been highly applauded by my partial friends, and I may say by the public in general. Probably your clergyman and others may like to read it.

"Your friend and guardian,

"MONSON P. TRACY."

In the first excitement of reading the letter, Helen threw the newspaper accompanying it to the farther corner of the room, where it lay unheeded until Nannie the next morning was sweeping the carpet. Then she picked it up, and laid it carefully among the magazines on the marble-topped table.

As I may not have occasion again to revert to the family of Mrs. Russel, I will here say, that having learned from Mr. Knowles that Miss Edmond's guardian refused to give her the money asked for, she was obliged to relinquish the house. She moved to a town at a distance, Helen expressing her kind wishes by enclosing to her a twenty-dollar bill from her quarterly allowance.

But to go back from this digression. On their return from Mottville, Mr. Knowles carefully avoided all mention of Mr. Tracy. And though Helen tried to ascertain what had caused Sybil's strange conduct, he ingeniously turned the conversation in another direction.

He drove to Woodbine Cottage, and left her with a caress unusually tender, replying to her earnestly expressed wish that everybody, referring to her guardian, would let her alone, and not be writing letters to disturb her happiness, with the inspired words:

"'Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee.'"

"Thank you," she answered, the tears springing to her eyes. "Please come to dinner as early as you can."

There was still an hour or two before she could expect them, as the morning was not more than half gone. But she had only returned to the parlor after making her toilet for the day, and selected the sheet of music she intended to practise, before she heard a manly step crackling on the gravel walk before the house.

At any time previous to her recent escape, she would have run to the door and herself admitted the visitor. But now, disregarding the quick snap of the bell-wire, she waited with all the calmness she could summon, the entrance of Frederic, for she was sure it was he.

Before she had decided in what manner to receive him, he had taken her hand, and led her to the sofa, where, with some embarrassment of manner, he seated himself beside her.

An hour or two later, when Mr. Knowles arrived, accompanied by his wife and Sybil, the young clergyman led the blushing girl to his parents, to ask their blessing on the engagement of marriage just formed between them.

Laying his hand on her head, the silver-haired pastor repeated the sacred words:

"'The Lord bless thee and keep thee: the Lord make his face shine upon thee, . . . the Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.'"

His wife caught Helen to her breast, and whispered in her ear: "God has answered my prayer for my son. A good wife is a present from the Lord."

Sybil at first stood up erect and stiff. Her favorite brother had never confided to her his intentions, and she was taken by surprise, which she especially abhorred. But one timid glance from the young fiancée's appealing eyes, and her stiffness vanished.

She seized Helen so warmly, that she almost lifted her from the floor, bestowing kiss after kiss on her glowing cheeks, and then said in a loud voice:

"It sha'n't be my fault, Helen Edmond, if you're not the happiest wife in the State."

At this moment, nurse summoned them to dinner. And Helen, appreciating the faithful affection of the good woman, went toward her and asked timidly:

"Have you no congratulations for me? I have promised to be Mr. Frederic's wife."

"I knew it, dear; I was sure of it."

"How could you know it, Mrs. Johnson?" inquired Sybil, with some spirit. "Only yesterday my brother was packed for a long journey, and it was doubtful whether he ever saw Helen Edmond again."

Nurse shook her head sagely. "I had reasons, good reasons," she repeated, glancing tenderly in the face of her young mistress. "I'm glad for you; and Mr. Frederic has reason to thank God."

"Indeed I have," warmly echoed the young man.

After dinner, Frederic proposed a walk to the arbor. And then he explained to his lady-love the grief, the horror he felt, when, on the very night of the accident, his father made known to him the contents of Mr. Tracy's letter. He resolved at once to accept a call to a parish in a distant State, and nothing but her assurance in her note, that till the day of her death she should be grateful to him, had prevented his abrupt departure.

"I confess I was too hasty, too impulsive," he urged. "But I then resolved to postpone my journey for a few days, and see you once more.

"On his return from Mottville, father informed me that you ignored any affection for Roswell Tracy. And I lost not a moment in coming to you to learn my fate."

The first of the following week, Mr. Knowles started for the city, where, at the rooms of an eminent attorney, Frank Edmond had engaged to meet him. While he was away, the answer came to Helen's application for five hundred dollars, to which allusion has already been made, and likewise the paper containing Mr. Tracy's speech.

One morning when Roswell was present, she tore off the envelope, and in a pompous tone read aloud:

"ORPHAN ASYLUM."

"At a meeting of the donors of the new Orphan Asylum, Monson P. Tracy presided with his usual dignity and grace. A large number of the fair sex were present on this interesting occasion, to listen to the speech which they had learned might be expected from Mr. Tracy, in regard to the objects of the institution. The loud and continued applause of the audience, which frequently interrupted the speaker gave ample proof of their appreciation of his sentiments. We give it to our readers as taken by reporters present. We understand it is to be issued in pamphlet form, and can be obtained from any of our bookstores."

"Then follows the speech," cried Helen, laughing merrily.

"Let us have it," urged Frederic.

But the young girl, after a glance down the column, threw away the paper in disgust, exclaiming:

"I can say it by heart. It is not original with him. I helped him make some of those very selections, and pasted them into his scrap book. Oh dear! How little I thought then that I should feel toward him as I do now.

"When I first went to reside in his family, he fancied I had literary tastes, as he termed them, beyond my years, and used to honor me with a first reading of his speeches. Then it came to be my habit to read him the newspapers, and various pamphlets arriving by every mail. Whenever we noticed any pretty sentiment, or well-timed expression, the scissors were brought into immediate requisition; and the paragraph forthwith became a part of the huge scrap book. It was easy to write an elegant address by making free use of another's thoughts.

"Now, Frederic, if you ever want to court public favor, I can introduce you into all the nice intricacies of the business. I have been behind the scenes, and know just what is to be done. In the first place, you must propitiate the press. The press is a great institution to a man who wants to rise, and the editors, owners and reporters must be fêted and feasted no matter at what cost. Then if you want a delicately worded notice of your speech, etc., etc., you have only to prepare the titbit in the privacy of your own apartment, and the editors will adopt it as their own. Straightway it will appear at the head of a column with your name in capitals to attract attention."

"And multitudes who read the article will swallow the sugared flattery without suspicion," added Frederic laughing. "But, Helen, you don't mean to assert that Mr. Tracy adopts such disgusting measures to advance his popularity?"

"I have the testimony of his own son to that effect," was her serious reply. "And I once had the honor of being invited to write a puff to head his speech before the — Convention. I was young at the time, and innocent," she added with a roguish glance at her lover. "I considered the request as mere fun; and I copied this piece of bombast I had once committed to memory:

"'If ever a feather be plucked from the wing of an American eagle, may it be to write the names of Washington and Tracy with indelible ink upon a substance which never shall perish when the pillars of the earth crumble to dust.'"

"What was the result?" inquired the young clergyman, looking intensely amused.

"The result was that the pill, to my perfect horror, was swallowed whole.

"'You really have a knack at such business,' Mr. Tracy said, his eyes sparkling. 'This will do admirably, though perhaps it is a little too flattering.'

"I seized the paper and tore it in pieces, at which act of rudeness, my guardian was greatly displeased."

CHAPTER XVIII.

MR. TRACY'S SANCTUM.

I BELIEVE I have already informed the reader, that Mr. Tracy was counted among the merchant princes of the great city where he lived. He resided in a handsome house on one of the fashionable streets; kept his carriage and fancy matched horses, and his whole equipage and appearance were calculated to do honor to his high rank in life.

At the end of the wide hall, upon which the front door opened, there was an apartment sacred to the use of the head of the family. Indeed, he always designated it as his sanctum. The walls on one side of this small room were lined with hook cases filled with volumes on his favorite subjects. The under part of these cases, with the exception of a space devoted to scrap-books, was crowded with newspapers containing his speeches or those in which speeches had been favorably noticed, or papers from which scraps were to be cut for the formation of other speeches.

In the centre of the opposite side of the room stood a high and rather old-fashioned secretary, with mahogany doors. Opening these, the curious could see a number of rows of what are technically termed pigeon-holes, filled with neatly filed papers.

Underneath was a wide shelf containing a few law books, conspicuous among which was a volume of "Revised—statutes," and under the shelf, three small drawers. When the doors of the secretary were shut, all these appurtenances were hidden from view. They were always shut and locked when Mr. Tracy was not seated in his arm-chair opposite, for the secretary was a sacred deposit. And, old-fashioned as it looked, the pigeon-holes and small drawers held papers for which brokers would readily have given their hundreds of thousands.

The room contained nothing else of note except a handsomely executed bust of Mr. Tracy and an oil painting of the same man.

It is Monday morning, and Monson P. Tracy sits in his leather-bottomed arm-chair drawn up before his desk. The well-varnished doors however remain closely shut, and the gentleman has both his elbows on the desk, his head supported by his hands.

When he starts back at a noise from without, an observer, if there were one, would see that his face was unusually pale, and the well-cut features contracted as if with pain. The disease, however, is mental, and must be endured, since he has no idea of confiding in a medical adviser.

It may be that the services of the Sabbath were too much for him. He had caused no little surprise to the congregation by appearing in his slip, both in the morning and afternoon, beside remaining to partake of the sacrament of the Lord's supper.

This last was always a trying occasion to him, some texts of Scripture introducing themselves into his mind, and refusing to be shut out, as it was easy to do at other times.

But yesterday the minister's text was extremely unfortunate for him. Mr. Tracy really thought he should be obliged to remove to the Stone Church and place himself under the spiritual guidance of a more liberal preacher. The text was this,—

"Whoso 'eateth and drinketh unworthily, eateth and drinketh damnation to himself, not discerning the Lord's body.'"

But at length the Sabbath was over, and M. P. Tracy had bottled up his religion and corked it well for another week. Not that he considered it in danger of exploding; there was not enough vitality in it for that. But he had work to do, and his religious profession was sadly in his way.

So there he sat propping his head with his hands, trying to drive away or frighten off or in any manner get rid of certain passages he had read in an old-fashioned volume:

"'Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world.'"

"'Ye shall not afflict any widow, or fatherless child. If thou afflict them in any wise, and they cry at all unto me, I will surely hear their cry; and my wrath shall wax hot, and I will kill you with the sword; and your wives shall be widows, and your children fatherless.'"

After half an hour, he rose to convince himself that the door leading into his sanctum was securely locked, and returned to his seat again. But this time, he seized a pen, and began a rapid calculation in figures.

"Ten thousand clear gain," he soliloquized, "and nothing done that the law can touch. That's what I call a neat stroke. Wouldn't I like to see another lead mine agent as clear headed as Myers. Ten thousand gain on my book, and not one dollar out. Didn't I pull the wool over my ward's eyes? Let me see, I drew ten thousand out of his city stocks, and invested it in shares, on condition with Myers that I should have an equal amount gratis. In my character as guardian, I conclude to sell Frank and Helen my shares, and out comes another ten thousand to pay for them. All fair, honorable and aboveboard! But about this parson who was to have been my successor according to my old employer's will. I'd no idea he would make such a row about my proposal in behalf of Roswell. What shall I say to him?"

He took a letter from his breast-pocket and read with considerable irritation a request from Mr. Knowles to meet him on Tuesday afternoon at three o'clock at the office of S. R. Miles, attorney at law, in reference to the property of Francis and Helen Edmond.

"I'll plead excess of business and decline meeting him," he exclaimed, knitting his brows. "I'll suffer no interference. But will not my refusal court farther inquiry? Frank, who is now of age, will apply to the court for liberty to remove his property from my hands? Sometimes I wish Mr. Edmond had never named me as executor. I did humbug the old man to be sure," and an unpleasant smile passed over his features.

Another silence, the frown on his forehead growing sterner every moment. At length, he burst out:

"What a piece of folly I've been guilty of! I can see it plainly now. Helen has the spirit of —; well I wont call hard names.

"It's that letter I wrote the parson that has roused her. Ha! Ha! Ha! Wouldn't she rave if she knew exactly what a charming piece of morality I had selected for her? Roswell must reform or he'll go to the dogs. I wrote that just to gratify my spite in return for her officious interference concerning Sarah Barrows. Such revenge doesn't pay, as I ought to have known. But now what is to be done?"

Suddenly he started, clapping his hands on his knees.

"I have it," he exclaimed. "I'll do it. At any rate it will give me time."

Drawing the key of the secretary from his pocket, he proceeded to take from the book shelf a large bound volume, running his finger down one and another of the columns of figures, his countenance relaxing visibly.

"Yes, that will do," he murmured with a sigh of relief; "that will do, and it will give me time."

He pulled open a large drawer in the lower part of the secretary and taking from thence a sheet ruled with red ink, he proceeded to make out a list of securities, bank and city stock, mortgages on real estate, etc., etc., to be exhibited to Frank Edmond and his legal advisers.

This work occupied him till three o'clock in the afternoon, but he arose from it satisfied that it would do the business for which it was intended, and that for the present he was safe.

The dinner-bell rang while he was returning the folio volume to the shelf, and with a self-satisfied smile, he said to himself: "All looks fair and above board except the sale of that land for half its value. I must trust to my usual good luck to explain that somehow. 'Twouldn't do to let them guess that I received a good fat bonus for consenting to the sale, and that the bonus went into my own pocket."

It was an immense relief to Mrs. Tracy when she saw her husband emerge from his sanctum, with a smile taking the place of the scowl she had so much reason to dread. At twelve o'clock she had knocked at his door with a plate of sandwiches and a glass of brandy. But in return for her wifely attentions, she had only received a rudely expressed request that she would attend to her own business, and leave him alone.

Lifting the cover from an immense platter before him, the gentleman condescended a flattering remark upon the juicy roasting joint. Then replacing the cover, he repeated the form of words he used as grace, and then proceeded with alacrity to carve several nice cuts which he laid gently on his own plate.

The duty of attendance on number one being complied with, he sent his plate round to his wife to be supplied with potatoes, turnip, squash and macaroni, at the same time asking:

"Will you have it rare, Roswell?"

The young man, looking extremely pain and haggard, with blood-shot eyes and trembling hands, replied that he liked it very rare.

Mrs. Tracy having passed her plate for some meat, the conversation flagged. Roswell, however, was soon satisfied, and pushing back from the table complained of a tearing headache.

"You confine yourself too closely to business," anxiously remarked his mother. "You ought to take some recreation."

A loud laugh from Monson P. and a silly chuckle from the son were the mother's only answers.

"I don't see anything to laugh at," she exclaimed with more than usual spirit. "I can see that Roswell is running down; and I'm sure he needs more air."

"You had better not talk about what you don't understand," said her husband with a sly wink at his son.

But presently, some emotion of fatherly interest prompted him to add:

"Roswell certainly isn't looking strong. And if he doesn't take care, his life wont be a long one."

After a dessert of plum pudding and coffee, they arose from table, and Mrs. Tracy seized the favorable opportunity to state the fact that she needed money.

"Money, it is always money," he began but suddenly checking himself, to her surprise and delight, her husband opened his portemonnaie, and put a roll of bank notes into her hand.

CHAPTER XIX.

MORRISVILLE.

IN a village seventy miles from Maytown, the old-fashioned stage coach drew up, just about sunset, at the gate of a stone house. The driver jumped from the box, let down the steps with a clang, and held out his hand to assist his lady passenger to alight.

"This be the house, Miss, follow the path round to the south door. This one,—" pointing to a front entrance, shaded by a portico with heavy coping, and woodbine stripped of its leaves flickering to and fro in the breeze,—"this one is locked most-times."

"Thank you," answered a pleasant, girlish voice, which we recognize as that of our friend Helen Edmond. "Will you bring my trunk in?"

"Sartin, Miss."

"Here's your pay, driver. I think this part of the country is beautiful."

He was busy unstrapping the trunk, and only stopped to take the bank bill in his teeth, while she, following his direction, walked slowly around the house to a pretty porch on the south side.

There on the ample platform lay an immense dog of the St. Bernard breed, who, after regarding her with half-shut eyes, lifted his huge form and lazily approached her.

"Good fellow," exclaimed Helen. "You and I must be friends." She laughingly held out her hand.

And to seal the compact, he licked it, as if she were an old acquaintance.

A woman at this moment answered her ring, and ushered the traveller into a cosey sitting-room, with pots of house plants filling the south windows, and giving the apartment that "heartsome" appearance so thoroughly appreciated by a stranger.

"Yer aunt's expecting of yer, Miss," the woman remarked. "I'll show yer her chamber, whenever yer ready. I s'pose yer tired and hungry."

"Not much of either," laughingly answered Helen, throwing off her hat and cloak. "It looks very pleasant, here."

"Yer aunt 'll be pleased to hear yer say so, Miss."

Leading the way to the front hall and up the handsome staircase:

"This is the room; and I'll have some supper ready when yer come down."

The chamber windows opened to the west, and the reflection from the gorgeously tinted sky filled the room.

In the centre of the apartment, with her eyes fixed on the glorious scene, sat an elderly lady, arrayed in a silk dressing-gown and frilled cap. She held out her hand with a welcoming smile, and then drawing down the sweet, fresh face, imprinted a loving kiss on Helen's cheek.

"You make me feel young," said the old lady, after a long gaze into Helen's eyes. "You are very like your mother."

"I'm glad to hear you say so. Did you know her very well? And will you tell me a great deal about her?"

"I answer yes to both your questions. I hope you have come to stay a long time with me."

"Yes, aunt, a month if you wish it."

The old lady smiled in a knowing way, but then added:

"You must be very weary after your long ride. Go down and eat your supper, but don't be away too long. I am growing selfish at once, you see."

Helen soon reappeared, and gave her mother's aunt an account of her journey, half of which she had come alone, her life in Maytown, her studies, her letters from Frank, and the pleasure she anticipated in her new sister, Constance.

"I wish Frank could have come with you. I don't like this way of young girls travelling alone," said Aunt Martha.

"Since Frank's engagement, I am getting quite used to doing without his attentions," urged Helen, laughing. "Besides, I only came alone from S—, that is less than half way."

"Who was your companion, dear?"

"Mr. Knowles, a clergyman from Maytown."

"Ah! I think I have heard of him, a man near my own age."

"That is the father to Mr. Frederic. A kind old gentleman, and I love him dearly."

Mrs. Prescott apparently did not notice the blush which accompanied these words. She only patted the delicate fingers lying in her own, and said:

"I am glad you have an affectionate heart. I think you and I shall understand each other."

By this time the evening was quite advanced, and Betsey, the woman who had admitted Helen, came in to make arrangements for the night.

The room was very large, and contained a good deal of heavy, old-fashioned furniture. There was an immense high post bedstead, with curtains of printed linen and beyond that a narrow bed. There were two bureaus, with claw feet and carved handles, a large table, and a small work table, each in the same style, and half-a-dozen chairs of various shapes, but all with elaborately worked bottoms.

On the tables and bureaus there were curiously carved boxes of quaint, old-fashioned shapes, the wood as rich and dark with age as the furniture.

Exactly at nine, a bell was rung in the lower hall.

"Helen," said the old lady, "we have prayers at this hour. My eyes are dim and failing, will you read for me?"

"I shall love to," Helen answered, with such an emphasis, that both her aunt and Betsey, the long tried, faithful servant, smiled their approbation.

Presently a man and woman came up the stairs, and quietly took seats near the door. Helen then opened the Bible, to which her aunt pointed, and read the chapter which came in course.

"Your mother was a sweet singer," remarked Mrs. Prescott, when she had finished. "I suppose you can sing?"

"Yes, aunt."

"Are you too weary to sing a psalm? It is a long time since I heard one. The book is near your hand on the little table."

Selecting a simple tune, the young girl gained all hearts presently by her ready compliance, and the smile with which she said: "I shall be glad of some help."

She commenced in a low tone, but soon, inspired by the sentiment of the hymn, she forgot the novelty of her position, and the room was filled with her clear sweet notes.

From this time the singing of a hymn became part of the morning and evening service.

"Christopher has carried your trunk to your chamber, Miss," explained Betsey, lighting a candle for the young lady. "I hope you will find everything to your mind. If not, I shall be proud to make it so."

"I trust my niece will remember this is her home as long as we can persuade her to remain," remarked Mrs. Prescott, kindly. "Now good-night, dear. May your sleep be rendered sweeter by the thought that you have made your mother's friend very happy. Good-night, and may the good Father protect you."

Helen lovingly returned the old lady's kiss, and then sought her chamber, but not her bed.

Taking her portfolio from her trunk, she commenced a journal, which she had promised to send her teacher, as, in the first line, she blushingly termed him.

"How fresh and lovely you look, my dear," began her aunt, the next morning. "Shall I make you vain by telling you so?"

"I've heard a few remarks before, of that kind, in my life," Helen said, laughing merrily, "but really, this fine air is enough to make one fresh. I have been up since sunrise, and have visited every nook and corner of your farm, as Christopher calls it. I have seen the late chickens, and commenced an acquaintance with Hero. What a splendid fellow he is! And I've seen where the summer garden is, and admired the old trees, even enough to satisfy Christopher. Isn't he funny, with his little bows, and big words?"

"And do you know that this farm, house and all, will be yours by and by? It is not my gift. I have a life-lease only. Your grandfather willed it to you when you received your grandmother's name."

"I hope it will not come to me for a long, long time," was Helen's tearful reply. "I had much rather have 'you!'"

An hour or two later the young girl had brought her sewing, some delicate trifles of lady's work and was sitting by her aunt when Mrs. Prescott said:

"Now, my dear, tell me all about Mr. Frederic Knowles."

Glancing quickly at her companion, an arch smile around the old lady's mouth sent the warm blood to beautify the young girl's cheeks.

"You see, I know your secret, Helen."

"It is no secret, aunt."

And then with many blushes she nestled herself closer to the old lady and told her all that was in her little innocent heart. She told her too of the day when she found she needed an Almighty Friend, and how her Saviour had appeared to her as one altogether lovely. From this time the tie between the two was very strong.

The more Helen saw of Morrisville, the better she liked it. In her journal she gave Frederic an account of the long, wide street shaded with noble old elms—the handsome mansions which bordered it for nearly two miles, the large stone church half covered with ivy. She ended her description by saying:

"If I could move Woodbine Cottage and the parsonage and all the people that I love from Maytown to Morrisville, I should be almost too happy."

Only on the Sabbath was our young friend discontented. The clergyman who had ministered to the wants of the people for twenty years had been called to a position of greater responsibility, and the pulpit was now supplied for a few months by a younger man whose heart his hearers soon found, was not in his work. Indeed he confided to one of the Committee the fact that unless he could get a call from some wealthy church where the salary would support him in style, he should leave the pulpit for the bar.

Mrs. Prescott had for many years been a liberal supporter of religious institutions, both in her native town and elsewhere. On account of her feeble state of health, she had never heard the new preacher; but she had invited him to her house, had talked with him on subjects connected with personal religion, and had listened to his prayers. She had done more, and by her Christian frankness proved herself a tried friend. She advised him to search his own heart, and take counsel of God in reference to his motives in preaching the gospel of Christ. If he found that worldly gain, ease or luxury were inducements stronger than the desire to win souls, she asked whether it would not be better for Christ's kingdom and for his own soul that he should leave the work in which he was engaged.

CHAPTER XX.

THE ANONYMOUS GIFT.

THE next week after Helen's arrival in Morrisville, Mrs. Prescott sent Christopher to a neighbor to ask him to call upon her as soon as convenient. When the gentleman arrived, she sent Helen off for a long walk. The result of the neighbor's call may be seen in the following note, which was addressed to the Reverend Frederic Knowles, Maytown.

"DEAR SIR: At the request of the gentleman who is engaged by the first church in Morrisville to supply our pulpit until January, I write to request you to preach on the last Sabbath in this month, it being his desire to be absent on that day. Our usual price per Sabbath is fifteen dollars.

"If you can come, you are requested to put up at the house of Mrs. Martha Prescott on Elm Street. Please answer at your earliest convenience.

"Yours, respectfully,

"THOMAS RICE."

"I expect a friend, my dear," remarked Aunt Martha on the Saturday preceding the day in question. "Betsey has aired the room, and put it in order, but I want you to see that all is right. A tiny bouquet cut from the flowers below would prove to the guest a pleasant welcome."

Without a suspicion of the truth, Helen gladly undertook the task. She ran here and there, singing gayly through the wide halls, carrying small articles of bijouterie, to render the chamber attractive.

"I wish it were a gentleman," she exclaimed, rushing into Mrs. Prescott's chamber, "for I have found a handsome travelling-case with razors and all sorts of conveniences for the toilet. If our visitor were a gentleman, I would ask you to let me carry it there."

"Except for the shaving apparatus the dressing-case is equally suited for a lady's toilet, my dear."

"Shall I put it on the bureau then?"

"In the north parlor you will find a small ebony table, you may set the dressing-case on that."

"Yes, and my little vase in front of it," and Helen ran off, singing, to finish her pleasant work.

Saturday evening about the hour that Helen a fortnight earlier reached Morrisville, there was a ring at the front door. At the old lady's request her niece went down to receive the visitor, and to her surprise and delight found herself face to face with her preserver.

After tea Mr. Rice called upon the young clergyman, and gave him a note left by the minister who had gone from town.

In consequence of this visit Mr. Knowles was invited to return on the first Sabbath in January to preach as a candidate for settlement, which, having consulted with his father and Mrs. Prescott, he agreed to do.

Having been disappointed in their former minister, the church and parish now resolved to proceed with more caution in choosing a pastor. But after listening to Mr. Knowles' earnest representation of the way of salvation through Jesus Christ, his pleas with the unrenewed to lay down the weapons of rebellion and enlist on the side of the great Captain, they were zealous to obtain his services.

As it was Mrs. Prescott's wish that Helen's friend should for the present make her house his home, the old lady had frequent opportunities of conversation on the great doctrines of evangelical truth, and discovered in him a richness of Christian experience which greatly delighted her. She found too that he was eminently a working man, and that he had the faculty, so rare, of interesting children in his preaching.

"It's so simple," said one, "that my little boy listened spellbound."

"And yet," replied another, "it's food. I don't go away hungry, as I used to."

Mr. Knowles on the first Sabbath visited the Sunday School. And afterward he was seldom absent during some part of the exercises. He went from class to class listening to the answers, and giving a practical direction to the instructions which waked up both teachers and scholars.

"I regret more than anything in leaving Maytown," he said one evening, "our Sabbath School at Mottville. Did Helen ever tell you, Mrs. Prescott, about her starting a school, gathering the scholars and obtaining a room?"

"Never."

Frederic then gave a glowing description of the young lady's visits, already described, dilating on her talk with the hard-faced woman.

"And only think, Aunt," added the young girl laughing, "that old woman's children came after all. It was on the second Sabbath I believe. I had my class seated around me when Lizzie came in dragging a younger brother after her. The teachers were already engaged with their classes, but she did not mind this.

"She spoke in a loud voice, 'I'm going to be Miss Edmond's scholar, and so is Bobby. Ma says we sha'n't come, 'thout we can be in her class, 'cause she isn't stuck up like other rich folks.'"

"Just imagine our modest Helen receiving such praise in such a public manner," remarked Frederic, archly. "I caught a glimpse of her blushing face, and could scarcely help laughing at her too evident distress."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Helen, frankly. "I liked it because it was sincere. I was only blushing because you—you looked so comical."

Early in April, Mr. Knowles was ordained over the first church in Morrisville. After this, it will easily be believed Helen consented to remain for the present with her aunt. The new clergyman had a room and boarded at Mr. Rice's, Mrs. Prescott's nearest neighbor. The young man begged Helen to consent that their marriage should take place immediately after his ordination. But she thought herself too young and too ignorant for the responsibilities of such a station, and told him that now while he was so near, she thought it much better to defer the wedding until she was of age.

In the meantime, Frank, after the meeting with his guardian and Mr. Knowles, returned to the city, where he was prosecuting his law studies. Though there was some reason for suspicion that all was not right, regarding their property, nothing could be proved; and everything was left as before, in the hands of Mr. Tracy.

Since that time, beyond receiving her quarterly allowance, Helen had had no communication with her guardian. Through her brother, she learned that the gentleman was reputed as very rich, and speculating with his loose capital. In the same manner she heard that Roswell Tracy and young Quincy had failed in business, the ward having lost every dollar he was worth. Roswell had left his father's house, and was forbidden to return.

Pleasanter tidings came from Sarah Barrows. At the close of her school-year, she was engaged to remain as teacher in the primary department, while she continued her studies with the advanced class, and perfected herself in music. She wrote enthusiastically of her success, adding,—

"I shall never forget that you were the one employed by my heavenly Father, to raise me from despair. If my earnest prayers for you are answered, you will have every good that He can bestow."

One pleasant event occurred soon after Mr. Knowles' settlement. A man rode to Mr. Rice's door, mounted on a noble, iron gray horse, and inquired for the parson. He delivered a note, and then observing: "There is no need of an answer," went down the steps, and walked away, leaving his horse tied to the post near the gate.

The note was brief:

"DEAR SIR: As your parish is large, and your parishioners scattered, I have taken the liberty to send you a horse, which may lighten the labor of visiting them.

"A GRATEFUL PARISHIONER."

Before the young clergyman could bring himself to comprehend that the present was really intended for him, the messenger was out of sight. What was to be done? He turned again to the envelope, and there read, "Rev. Frederic Knowles, Morrisville."

A sudden suspicion sent him at once to Helen, when she expressed so much wonder and delight, that he was left to infer the note and the animal were as new to her as to him.

"Isn't he a splendid creature?" she asked, again and again. "So high spirited, and yet so kind. See, Frederic, how he likes me to pat his neck. I must beg a ride now and then."

"But, Helen, it is impossible for me to accept so valuable a present from an anonymous friend."

"I shouldn't call a parishioner, anonymous," she warmly urged. "Why, I love your people so well that I would accept a present from any of them; and this is exactly what you need."

"But where shall I keep him?"

"Has not Mr. Rice an empty stall?"

"No, I heard him say his stable was full."

"Wait a minute."

Helen bounded up the stairs to Mrs. Prescott's room. But instead of making any inquiries of the old lady, she sank into a chair, and covering her face, laughed till the tears trickled down her cheeks.

"He doesn't even suspect. He demurs about accepting it. Oh, it is so nice!"

"Have you told him about our stable? And that Christopher will gladly assume the care of the horse?"

"No, aunty, I asked whether Mr. Rice had not room."

"You had better invite him to come up to my chamber."

Mr. Knowles found the old lady at the front window gazing at the horse, which stood in full view.

"I am glad our people are disposed to be so thoughtful for their minister's comfort," she said, cordially. "I have been admiring the beautiful creature. Are you a judge of a horse?"

"Enough so to understand that this is an expensive animal, sound, and capable of enduring great fatigue. But," with an anxious smile, "I feel a delicacy about accepting such a present. If I thought,—" casting a sudden glance upon Helen, who stood flushed and excited behind him. He checked himself, as she calmly returned his gaze.

"Helen tells me Mr. Rice cannot accommodate the horse. And therefore, not to be behind your anonymous friend, I invite you to keep him in my barn, at my expense, on condition Christopher does not object to the care. Betsey, will you ask him to come here a moment?"

"I'll go," cried Helen, darting from the room.

"It is too much, Mrs. Prescott, after all your other kindness," murmured the young man.

Christopher, having received his instructions, entered the room, and having listened to the story of the mysterious animal, was asked to take it under his charge.

The man made sundry little bows,—after his usual fashion, and took a moment for reflection. Then he said he'd be happy to do any kindness for Miss Helen's friend. And if Mr. Knowles would assure him the horse didn't bite, he'd feed him and groom him with pleasure.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE FRENCH CHATEAU.

THE spring and early summer passed both pleasantly and profitably to Helen. She had begun her work in the parish, had her own district for visiting, and had gathered a class of seventy children, from the outskirts of the town, which she had formed into an infant Sunday School, and taught them by oral instruction.

Though under twenty years, her zeal and energy infused new life into the labors of the younger church members. By her own example, she proved what could be done toward inducing those who had long neglected public worship to frequent the house of God. She assisted in the formation of a Young Ladies' Charitable Society, and from her own purse, provided material for clothing, for many of the poor of the town.

In this Society it was her endeavor that the law of charity, as described by St. Paul, should govern the members. She proposed playfully, that every one who was guilty of speaking ill of another, should pay a fine into the treasury. In this way the tone of morals was raised, and the popularity of their pastor's wife elect was not decreased.

But in the midst of all this prosperity, sad news came to Helen. News of the decease of Miss Constance DeWolf, and afterward of her brother's failing health.

It was indeed true, that the loss had deeply affected the young lawyer. His depression of spirits brought on an attack of fever; and then a sudden cold was followed by a severe and obstinate cough, which his physician feared would seriously affect his lungs.

Helen, overpowered by the arguments of her pastor, had just consented to be married in September, when a telegram came to her from the physician, that her brother's life was in danger; and that in order to avert the threatened calamity, he must take a sea voyage, and reside for the winter, at least, in a more salubrious climate.

Before Helen showed the telegram to any one, she decided, with a burst of tears, that it was her duty to accompany her brother abroad. Many were the headaches and heartaches before she embarked with her charge on board ship, leaving so many dear ones behind her.

Mr. Knowles, feeling it to be impossible for him to leave his parish to accompany them, would not give consent to her going until he had received a letter from Sybil, that she would take the part of mother to the children of her old friend Mr. Edmond. But this arrangement, which relieved Helen of so much care, was given up at the last moment, in consequence of the sudden illness of her father. And Frederic, torn with disappointment and anxiety, was obliged to commit the travellers to the care of a gentleman who was returning to France with an invalid daughter.

It is easy to imagine, then, with what impatience the lover and aunt awaited the first intelligence from the absent ones.

First, came a hastily written note, in place of the long journal Helen had promised, just saying that sea-sickness and care of Frank had deprived her of the pleasure of writing on board ship; that the captain had shown them every kindness; and that they had concluded to accompany their new friends, Mr. and Miss LeFavor, to France, for the winter.

In a few weeks, however, a thick package, bearing a foreign postmark, came to hand, directed to the Reverend Frederic Knowles.

As it was addressed in part to Mrs. Prescott, I do not think I shall violate the rules of etiquette by copying it.

"'VERY DEAR FRIENDS: By this time I am quite sure a letter from the wanderers will be welcome. It would be much pleasanter to sit on my low chair between you, in auntie's pleasant chamber, and talk of all I have seen and felt since I left home, but as that is impracticable at present, I must let my tongue rest while my pen performs the welcome task.

"'The voyage to Liverpool was not so favorable to poor Frank's health as we hoped. For several days I was too sick to see him, or even to hear much from his stateroom, and his spirits, thus left to himself, suffered deplorably. Since we have reached this quiet village, the mild air and entire change of scene have benefited him greatly. We have a pleasant home just outside the churchyard, where we are so favored as to find a Protestant church and an excellent Rector. He is upward of seventy years old, but his complexion is still fresh and ruddy; while his long silver hair which waves over his collar is indeed a crown of glory.

"'Monsieur D'Ortey and I are intimate friends. Don't laugh, Fred. Indeed it astonishes me when I find how freely I can tell him all the trouble I have in keeping this erring, wayward heart of mine in subjection. I wish you could see how tender he is with our dear invalid. While Frank was asleep, I took a walk with him and told him the sad story of Constance's early death. I described how they had loved one another, without a cloud of difference ever arising between them. I could see that his feelings were deeply moved.

"'Monsieur is a widower and childless. He has a married couple in his vine-covered cottage, who take care of him. They too are past the meridian of life, but they are kind, and attentive, and suit his quiet tastes better than strangers. He once had sons and daughters around him, but they are all lying in the churchyard. He can see their simple monuments without moving from his study-table. Often before I go to rest, I sit at my window, and watch the pretty shadows made by the moon among the boughs waving over their graves. There is nothing sad to me in this; for I know it is only their inanimate bodies which rest there, while their souls are alive and full of bliss in the presence of their Saviour.

"'Monsieur D'Ortey is always cheerful, but there is something about him which convinces even a stranger that his happiness springs from a heart chastened and purified in the furnace of affliction, that his treasure is laid up in heaven. The dear man fancies I resemble his youngest daughter; perhaps this is the reason he talks to me so much about the loved circle that once flitted so joyously through his vine-embowered home.

"'I have told you so much about him, because I want you to be as well acquainted with his character as he is with yours. He knows, dear auntie, what a kind mother you have been to the daughter of your niece. He knows Fred, that I left my heart away over the sea, and that only a sense of duty to my afflicted brother prevents me at this moment from bearing the name of one I so dearly love. He smiles often as I describe every member of the family, and really laughed yesterday as I repeated some of Sybil's quaint speeches.'" * * *

The next steamer brought a continuation of Helen's journal; she began:

"'Thank God with us, dear friends, Frank's health is really improving; and what is very favorable, he seems willing to live. I have won him to talk of dear Constance, and Monsieur spoke to-day so cheerfully of his loved ones as only gone before, that I hope Frank will be won to the same view.

"'I do believe it was the finger of our heavenly Father that led us to this place. No one could be more kind than dear Monsieur D'Ortey. I, who am often a looker on, sometimes smile to notice with what skill he is interesting our invalid in schemes for usefulness.

"'About half a mile from us there is an old building unlike what we ever see at home. It is built near a beautiful spring of water, clear as crystal, which has a peculiar taste, very pleasant, and is used as medicine. It is called la fontaine d'or, or the Golden Spring, and was so named by an American traveller many years ago, from its resemblance to the Golden Spring in Jamaica, West Indies, which is so celebrated for its virtues; and it has retained the name over since, even by the natives, who come a long distance with their buckets or pitchers for the water.

"'The chateau, as it is called, stands on an elevation just back of the Golden Spring. It has small diamond-shaped windows, the panes set in lead; and instead of the sash throwing up like ours, a pane here and there opens with a rude hinge. The rooms are almost bare of furniture, the floors uncarpeted and worn, but still there is something delightful to me in the place.

"'The chateau was once occupied as a convent. It has a high wall around it, which formerly took in the Golden Spring, and an immense gate barred and bolted with iron.

"'Monsieur D'Ortey can remember when the rooms were crowded with children and teachers, and when the great bell, hung in a rude tower behind the building, used to echo among the hills many times in a day.

"'At last, the convent was removed to another place where a new and wealthy Abbess had provided a more spacious building, and our good Rector, from his small means, purchased the chateau for his parish school.

"'At first there was such a prejudice against the place that many parents refused to send their children, but this is dying away.

"'When we first came, I learned with how much self-sacrifice Monsieur was paying the teachers. I grew interested at once and begged him to take us to the school. I must describe our ride there.

"'Our kind friend borrowed from his people three donkeys, the most awkward, ungainly creatures I ever saw. Frank really laughed when he saw me mounted on my beast; laughed as I feared I should never hear him again. But when he sat on one of the others, I returned his mirth with interest. Monsieur sat erect on his low donkey, his white, silky locks streaming behind in the wind.

"'At the gate we alighted, and gave the donkeys into the care of a boy, while we tasted the water. Frank described the effect upon him to be exhilarating. I only felt a slight tingling which extended, however, to the tips of my fingers.

"'We went through the gate without ringing, for now it is always open except at night, and found, in the large receiving room, eight children engaged with their books, under the instruction of a pale woman who was knitting fancy articles to eke out her scanty support.

"'In another room there were nine more pupils, all girls, who were learning to sew, or making fancy work for sale. There was a large glass at one end of the hall containing specimens of their skill, which is remarkable for beginners.

"'After visiting our schools and asylums at home, the methods of teaching here appear old-fashioned and deficient in energy. I told Monsieur, I wanted to infuse some of our Yankee ideas into the minds of the children, and wake them up. I wanted to hang up Bible cards and pictures—to introduce a black-board and numeral frame. I wanted to show the little ones, laboring so sluggishly over an old map, the globe, and explain that the earth was round and the countries scattered all over it. You should have seen Monsieur D'Ortey's face while I was talking. It shone like the face of an angel. He put his hand on my head, saying:

"'God bless you, dear child.'

"'Near the gate we stopped again for another draught from the Golden Spring, which Frank calls his elixir, and with a sudden thought our kind friend sent back to the chateau for a flask so that we could take some home.

"'On our way back Frank made me very happy by promising to send to our banker in Paris for a check, to purchase some very simple apparatus for the school. To-day of his own accord, he proposed another ride to the chateau, and we supplied ourselves with flasks for the Golden Spring. As we expected, we met Monsieur there. I went into the girls' school, and talked to them as they worked. I told them about my home across the sea,—about my dear scholars in the Sabbath School,—I told them I loved them and that it would be a sad thought when I left France that I should never see them again. I noticed one little girl put her finger up stealthily to wipe a tear from her eye. I then begged them to love the dear Saviour, who would take them to heaven when they died, and I told them I hoped to meet them there.

"'Frank, meanwhile, was outside the chateau with Monsieur. When they came in, I looked at my invalid in surprise. His cheeks were quite rosy with excitement, and there was an air of resolution about him, I have not seen since his sad loss.

"'They had been talking about the great trees, which Frank is sure, make the house damp. He offered, not only to pay for having them thinned out, but to ride over every day and superintend the work. Is not this hopeful? I think you may look for me quite early in the spring. For dearly as I love Monsieur and the children, at the chateau, my heart ever turns to that small spot in Now England, which holds my loved ones.

"'Before I close my long letter, I must tell you that in consequence of the change of climate, my hair began to fall off, and I was advised to have it cut short. You would be amused to see how girlish I look with my close curls, clustering around my head. In the meantime I have taken pleasure in having some ornaments made of the dissevered tresses. A watch—chain fastened with gold braces, will, I hope, please my pastor; and I think I can persuade aunty and Sybil, each, to wear a ring of the same material."

CHAPTER XXII.

THE CRASH AT LAST.

"YOU think there is no doubt," Helen was saying to her brother, holding her pen suspended, while beaming smiles played about her mouth. "I would not like to awaken expectations, if there is a doubt."

Frank's face reflected his sister's cheerfulness, as he answered: "God willing, we shall leave here in a fortnight, to be in season for the steamer the first of the month. Thanks to the elixir from the Golden Spring, I feel as well as ever, and mean to take hold of work with a will. Do you know, I have made arrangements to carry a couple of hundred bottles of the water with me. I mean to have it analyzed, and,—"

"Take care, Frank," she said, interrupting him, "I may have a word to say. You know Monsieur has given me a clean title, as he calls it, to the Golden Spring, with a strip of land leading from the chateau to the road." She laughed merrily as she held up the legal document to view, but presently added:

"Keep quiet, now, while I finish my letter, and then we will walk to the office and post it."

They were just in time to drop it into the bag. And then the rosy-faced girl gave them a letter which had come by the morning diligence.

"Whose hand-writing is that?" asked Helen.

"I do not know," was the grave reply. And then each waited quietly for the envelope to be unsealed, the same fear suggested to the minds of both.

"It contains bad news for us."

The name at the bottom of the sheet afforded no information; and so, with a sigh for which it would have been difficult to account, Frank proceeded to read the first page, his sister leaning against his arm, and looking over his shoulder.

"MR. FRANCIS J. EDMOND: I regret to be the bearer of ill tidings, but necessity knows no law of kindness. I therefore proceed to inform you, that through the perfidy of your guardian, Monson P. Tracy, your entire fortune, with the exception of the estate in Maytown, has been sacrificed. I write this at the request of the son of my partner, who was Mr. Tracy's bondsman for the faithful execution of the will.

"The circumstances, as far as I can learn them, are these (Mr. Tracy not being in a state to afford information on any subject): More than a year ago, the lead mines came into the market. Mr. Tracy purchased, from the agent, one hundred shares for you and your sister, paying ten thousand dollars for the same, on the condition that one hundred shares more be given him outright. For a short time the market for shares was very brisk, the agent pressing their claims to public favor with equal skill and shrewdness. Maps or charts of the locality were exhibited, with the railroad, and a pretty village in the foreground, but all this ended in moonshine.

"Further inquiry proved that there was not a-house within twenty miles, and that the nearest railway was more than a hundred. The lead mines sank, therefore, into the ground. Mr. Tracy, on ascertaining this fact, quietly transferred his hundred shares to your side of the sheet, on the conviction that you could afford the loss better than he could.

"All this occurred some months ago. But in January of this year, another agent came on with charts, and specimens of the ore, which was decided to be of the best quality. He established a new company, and finally persuaded Mr. Tracy once more to give it his confidence, and the influence of his name. This he consented to do for a price. He sold out city stock by the consent of his bondsman, who was also infected with the mania of speculation, and invested fifty thousand more of your fortune, together with an equal amount of his own; which last, however, it has been ascertained, he never paid for.

"Engineers were engaged to lay out and build a railroad to the spot. And everything looked prosperous, when the crash came.

"On Wednesday of last week, Mr. Tracy was known to have received letters which nearly rendered him frantic. He rushed to the broker's office, and sold, at a ruinous discount, seventy-five thousand dollars worth of stock belonging to you. But what he did with it, or what he intended to do with it, cannot now be ascertained. By noon, of the same day, the bulletins announced to all interested parties, that the lead mine speculation was a failure. A party of scientific men sent to the spot for the purpose of thorough examination, had reported the fact that there was little or no lead there.

"To my partner, who had become too deeply involved to recover, it was a fatal blow. He committed suicide the next morning under the influence, it is charitably believed, of a sudden attack of insanity.

"Of Mr. Tracy I can only say, that the entire community have received a shock. He was, as you are aware, a professor of religion. His name has for years been before the public as a warm supporter of the great benevolent objects of the day. He was a regular attendant on the preaching of Mr. Manning, and his opinion was sought, almost equally, in matters pertaining to religion and finance.

"Now the researches of Mr. Seymour, who was bondsman for him in the case of young Quincy's fortune, has brought to light a series of crimes worthy of a fiend.

"He has for forty years been living on his character for piety; and a profitable speculation he has made of it. But the end came before he expected. His iniquities have been brought to light, and the revelation is one to amaze the most hardened villain.

"The miserable victim of his own avarice was found in a small room in his own house. And when the sheriff broke into the apartment, he was lying upon the floor in a fit, sheets of paper covered with figures, and leaves from the account books, lying open near him, torn from the binding, and still clutched in his hands. He was removed at once to an upper chamber, where he was put under guard, but where, at the earnest pleading of his wife, she was allowed to be with him."

"Frank, you ought to be there," Helen burst out, her eyes wildly protruded. "You might save something from the wreck."

The young man stood still for one moment, then crushing the letter in his hand, he answered hoarsely:

"We must start by the diligence to—night."

"I always knew he was a villain." faltered Helen, the tears streaming down her checks. "Dear papa, how cruelly he was deceived!"

But presently recovering her self-control, she exclaimed: "I have no time for regrets now. I must ride to the chateau and bid my scholars good-by. Mr. Tracy can't throw away what we've given to them."

The hardest task remaining, was to bid farewell to the good clergyman, who had become so dear to them both. It was well they had not much time to dwell upon the parting. With his wrinkled hands on their bowed heads, the tears coursing over his furrowed cheeks, he called upon God, their father's God, to bless them, and keep them to the end. Then he turned away, weeping as he went. But Helen ran after him, and throwing her arms around his neck, kissed him again and again, saying:

"We shall never forget your kindness and love. Write us, dear father; write everything that concerns you; and don't forget to pray that we may meet again."

"We shall meet there," he said, reverently pointing his finger upward. "I shall not be long here, but while I live, I shall never cease to pray for you."

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE BRIDAL PAIR.

IN less than three weeks from the hour when they bade adieu to Monsieur D'Ortey, they landed on the shores of their native land, and lost no time in proceeding to the city where their guardian resided.

From this place Helen at once hastened to Morrisville by the new line of cars which carried her within a hundred rods of her aunt's house.

Reaching the handsome depot finished during her absence, she left her baggage in the care of the depot-master and with her travelling bag on her arm started to walk home.

It was nearly nine o'clock, and she was hastening her steps when she overtook an old gentleman, and to her delight recognized Mr. Knowles. Putting her arm in his, she began to ask a multitude of questions concerning those she loved.

"Frederic is in the city," he said. "Your aunt is in her usual health, and will welcome you with open arms."

"How long has Frederic been gone?"

"Less than a week. He is engaged with lawyers in trying to ferret out some of the iniquities which have been going on under a cloak of piety. I suppose you have heard—"

"Yes, sir, all," she exclaimed, interrupting him. "You see I read Mr. Tracy's character correctly.

"When will Frederic be back," she added, with some impatience. "Frank is in the city to attend to business."

"Immediately, I should suppose. He sent for me to supply his pulpit next Sabbath."

Helen found her aunt stronger than when she left home. She received her niece with tears of joy. And when Helen hung over her with words of love, said with emotion:

"Dear child, I did not realize what your presence was to me until you went away."

In the excitement of meeting old friends, Helen did not notice the change which had taken place in Mr. Knowles. The next morning she was much pained to see that he looked exceedingly feeble, and that his gait was less firm than when they parted.

He explained his weakness by saying: "The late revelations concerning Mr. Tracy have shattered my nerves. I am an old man. I have lived more than the three score and ten years allotted to man. You know what the good book says, 'and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.'"

Helen's eyes were dim as she pressed his hand. She had no voice to speak.

"Yes, my dear child, I am near my end; or rather I am near the beginning of a new life; a life, as I humbly believe, with God in heaven. I am looking forward with bright anticipations to the hour when I shall receive my summons. I shall see my Saviour then, and unite in the wonderful song: 'Worthy the Lamb.'"

"Do you think the saints are always engaged in singing?" timidly inquired Helen. "When papa died, I used to wonder how the good people employ their time in heaven."

"My child, eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, the joys that are prepared for those who reach that happy place. But still, I think the children of God may form some conception of the employment and bliss.

"When you first gave yourself up to the Saviour's care, trusting him to do for you what you found you could not do for yourself, did you not then, and have you not since, at favored intervals, enjoyed precious views of the Father's condescension, in giving his Son to die for the guilty? Of the boundless love which led the Lord of glory to resign his throne, and come to earth to bear in his own body the sins of all mankind? Have you never realized, if but for a moment, what priceless treasures of grace and blessedness his death would bring to you? And has not your heart burned within you, till you could only find relief in praise? If so, and I should fear for the professed Christian who is a stranger to such joys, then you have had a foretaste of what the happiness and employment of heaven may be.

"Think of it, my dear. We shall see Abraham, the father of the faithful, Isaac, Jacob, and all the patriarchs, Moses, the great lawgiver, Joshua, the captain of Israel's hosts, Samuel, the prophet, David, the sweet Psalmist, Solomon, the wise king, Isaiah, Jeremiah, and all the host of worthies who followed. We may hope to converse with Matthew, the Publican, with Mark, the Evangelist, Luke, the physician, and John, the beloved disciple; we may hear from Paul the account of his wonderful conversion, of his stripes and suffering, cheerfully endured for the sake of his divine Master; and more than all, we may see our Saviour; we may examine the print of the nails. We may look on his matchless form, may hear his voice full of love and tenderness. We may do all this, while exempt from the infirmities which subject us in this world to sin and sorrow. Can we not imagine what the bliss of heaven will be?"

"Thank you," murmured the young girl, "I shall always remember what you have told me."

Mr. Knowles then explained that an aged member of the church had died and was to be buried this day. "I came," he said, "by my son's request, to aid him in the funeral services; and I then expected to remain over the Sabbath while Frederic who would be near to Maytown, preached for me. Now as Frederic will naturally desire to be here, I shall probably return to-morrow."

"I can't spare you yet, I have so much to tell you, and—if I consent to be what Frederic wishes, I must have you here."

He patted her glowing cheek, with a smile as free from care as if no thought of death had entered his mind.

At this moment Betsey opened the door.

"Will you come to breakfast, Miss?" she asked, trying to speak in a formal tone, but failing most lamentably. Her eyes were so full of mirth and her whole manner so different from the usually grave Betsey, that Helen stared at her in surprise.

But she turned to the aged man and gave him her youthful arm for a support. She had, however scarcely left the hall before she heard a familiar voice talking to her aunt in hurried, excited tones:

"Where is she? Has she left her room?"

Leaving her companion in the hall, Helen bounded up the stairs, and in a moment more was in the young clergyman's arms. For one instant he gazed into her blushing face, and then whispered:

"Thank God, I have you once more."

"Not a rich heiress, Frederic, but a poor ignorant girl, who will need constant care and teaching to make her good for anything."

"We wont quarrel the first moment of meeting," he said, "but I give you warning that I will not hear my wife slandered in that way; and by the by, Helen, it must be soon.

"That's a good child," he went on, taking her silence for consent. "With the help of God, I'll make you so happy you shall never regret it."

"I have already made the arrangements with your father," she answered, with one of her roguish glances. "He is to perform the ceremony."

"Of course, and when is the ceremony to be? Remember how patient I've been."

"Must I promise to obey?" she asked, with mock solemnity.

"You shall promise nothing but to be my wife, and that in all the duties arising from the relation, you will take the Bible for your rule. That is easy, isn't it?"

"Oh, Frederic! I forgot to tell you that breakfast is ready; and that I left your father standing in the hall."

"Not one step do I go until this question is settled. Shall it be to-day?"

"No; no indeed!"

"To-morrow, then?"

"Why, I can't even get unpacked."

He noticed the quiver in her voice, and, taking her hand within his arm, led her down to the table where Mr. Knowles was seated, with a cup of coffee before him.

"Have you any message for Maytown, father?" he asked, quietly. "One of my neighbors will start for that place directly after breakfast, to accompany mother and Sybil back here. Helen wishes them to be present at our wedding, which will take place on Thursday evening."

"Oh, Frederic! I didn't say so."

"We will also procure a preacher for Maytown, so that you can extend your visit here, and notify Frank of the time of the ceremony."

The young girl darted from the room, and ran up to talk with her aunt.

"Mr. Knowles has deserved your submission to his wishes, my child. It was a severe trial to him to have you leave the country last fall."

"I wish," faltered the blushing girl, "that my return might be kept secret, at least, until after—after the wedding."

"I think we can manage that, my dear."

How glad she always was she consented. Mr. Knowles appeared as well as usual on Wednesday and Thursday morning. But in the afternoon he had a long talk with Frank, who, in answer to Frederic's hasty summons, had just arrived; and afterward complained of extreme languor. He lay on the sofa resting, for an hour or more, and then said he was relieved.

Once or twice Sybil heard him talking to himself: "I am grieved. It is a reproach to religion. It has dishonored Christ."

He referred to Mr. Tracy, of whom Frank had been speaking.

"I wouldn't worry about it, father," Sybil expostulated.

"No," he answered, "the day will come when the chaff will be winnowed from the wheat. Christ will know his own and claim them. There will be no hypocrites in heaven, none to wound the Saviour in the house of his friends."

A cup of tea, which Helen insisted on preparing to his taste, with her own hands, much refreshed him, so that he went through the marriage service with a firm voice.

After the ceremony, he placed his hands on the heads of the new couple, as they instinctively knelt to receive his blessing. And every eye grew moist as they listened to his words of love.

"My son, it will hereafter give you pleasure to remember the testimony of your father. Your dutiful conduct in youth rendered you my joy. Your course in later years has left me nothing to wish for, except that your labors for Christ may be crowned with abundant success. In your sweet home, I have here," imprinting a kiss on Helen's upturned face, "a pledge that you will be richly blessed. She is of all the world your parent's choice for you."

"And mine," murmured Sybil.

"A good wife is from the Lord, my son. Cherish her as His gift."

CHAPTER XXIV.

MONSON P. TRACY.

ON Friday, Mrs. Prescott was busily engaged in her room with her lawyer. Two or three times when Helen sought to gain admittance, Betsey, who stood guard at the door, smilingly remarked, that her mistress had denied herself to all visitors.

The next morning, just as the wedded pair were about to leave for a few weeks, the old lady put into her niece's hand a roll of parchment tied with the ominous red tape.

"I suspected a plot," exclaimed the bride, warmly kissing her aunt. "I suspected it when I saw you closeted with that old lawyer; now I'm sure of it. I don't know what this parchment contains, but if it is intended to make me any richer than I am, I must refuse it. My husband, the Reverend Frederic, does me the honor to say that I'm a fortune in myself, and I wouldn't like to tempt a parson with two fortunes.

"No, aunty," as the old lady refused to take it. "We are young, and willing to work. I had rather be dependent on my husband."

"Helen, you wouldn't refuse, if you knew how my heart was set on this. I am only anticipating a few months, or years, as it may be. All is yours at my death, by another will than mine."

The tear-dimmed eyes and trembling accents affected Helen.

"Well, Frank," she urged, "you are a lawyer, read and tall me what to do."

"Aunt Prescott has made over to you the entire farm, with all her improvements, the furniture, plate, carriages, horses and cattle, with the sole condition of being allowed a living under her paternal roof, with her faithful Betsey to minister to her wants. A sum of money," still reading from the paper, "now invested in railroad stock, and yielding a profitable interest, will be yours at her decease."

"A clergyman should have a home," urged the old lady. "If you deny me this pleasure, my child, you will deprive me of the means of showing how entire is my confidence in you and my nephew."

"I can't refuse a request so worded, dear aunty," faltered the bride, throwing her arms around the old lady's neck; "but please bear witness, every person here, that I accept under protest. Only think, Frederic, that beautiful Alderney heifer is my own, to pet as much as I please."

Everybody laughed, which was much the wiser plan; and then the parties were obliged to separate. The bridal pair took the cars for Niagara and the lakes, leaving Mr. Knowles, with his wife and Sybil, to depart by a later train for Maytown.

Frank returned at once to the city to carry forward sundry investigations in regard to his own and his sister's fortune. He had already ascertained that Mr. Tracy had secured a large sum of money, by making it over to his wife. If it could be proved that this had been done within six months of the failure, closely following the discovery of his fraud, the whole transaction would be illegal.

Monson P. Tracy had been removed from his own house to the Penitentiary. But as his mind was entirely shattered, he did not feel the disgrace. He wondered indeed at the shabbiness of his room, supposing himself at a hotel, and used to complain to the wardens who frequently passed his cell that the waiters neglected their duty, that if they did not look out, he would move to better quarters and bid the public beware of them.

Roswell's absence continued for a long time unexplained, but at last some notorious facts became public.

In the midst of his researches at the bank, etc., Frank Edmond came across a check for twelve thousand five hundred dollars, on Monson P. Tracy, presented and receipted for by his son.

The teller, and even the cashier, well remembered the circumstances connected with the check, it being for a considerable amount, and the young man excessively impatient at the necessary delay, in counting. This check being put into the hands of experts, the signature was pronounced a forgery, and a remarkably skilful one. Of the amount, twelve thousand five hundred dollars, seven thousand was the property of Frank and Helen.

A search for the criminal was commenced at once. And a miniature of him found in his room was placed at the disposal of the chief of police, who caused it to be struck off and printed in all the secular papers, with his name and crime attached.

As I shall have no occasion to refer to Roswell again, I will now add, that a year later he was killed in a street brawl in St. Louis, where he had resided for months, notorious for his crimes, under the alias, Robert Tolman. A coat and vest marked with his full name, were redeemed by a pawnbroker's ticket found in his pocket, and the fact published at once with the sad, but true moral affixed:

"The way of transgressors is hard."

It was the intention of Mr. and Mrs. Frederic Knowles, to pass their honeymoon in travelling. But on receiving a letter from Sybil, stating that her father had fainted in the pulpit, after offering a prayer just before the sermon, they left Montreal, where they were spending a few days at the St. Lawrence, and reached Maytown the third morning following the receipt of the intelligence.

They found the good man looking much as usual, and engaged in writing a sermon for the next Sabbath.

His son warmly expostulated, urging his late feebleness, but though another pastor had been hired to officiate for a few weeks, the silver-haired man expressed an earnest desire to say a few last words to his beloved people.

"Your father eats heartily, and sleeps as quietly as an infant," explained Mrs. Knowles, "but I feel sure he has not long to live. His daily prayer is for the grace of patience, patience to wait God's time."

"I long to be there—" he said to his son, "there with my Saviour. I long to be free from this body of sin, and behold his face in righteousness."

On Saturday evening Helen seated her self at his feet, and sang at his request.

The words she selected were the following:

"Behold the glories of the Lamb,

Before his Father's throne,

Prepare new honors for his name,

And songs before unknown.

Let elders worship at his feet,

The church adore around,

With vials full of odors sweet,

And harps of sweeter sound."

When she had commenced, the young clergyman who was to supply his pulpit entered, and quietly took a seat. Every one present noticed a peculiar expression on the countenance of the old man. It was as if he already heard the heavenly music for which he panted. When her voice ceased, he still listened as if entranced, no one daring to break the silence and call his rapt spirit back to earth.

At length he seemed to become aware of the presence of those so dear to him.

"Glorious vision! Glorious! Glorious!" he repeated, every feature radiant with holy light. "Jesus my Saviour, seated on his throne, receiving the adoration of the saints. Shall I ever be permitted to join them, and unite my voice with theirs in the anthems of praise?

"'Who is this King of glory? The Lord of hosts, He is the King of glory.' Yes, I shall see him, for he has promised it. 'Father, I will that they . . . thou hast given me, be with me where I am; that they may behold my glory,' . . . 'which I had with' the Father 'before the world was.'"

Helen still retained his hand, and yielding to an impulse she could not control, she raised it to her lips, large drops falling upon it from her eyes.

"Do not weep, my child," he exclaimed, in a loud voice. "Rejoice, rejoice that the day of my salvation is near at hand. A wretched sinner will, by God's unspeakable mercy, be converted into a blessed saint."

"But we shall not see your face," she murmured. "We shall so miss the sound of your voice, your counsels and your prayers."

"It will be but for a moment,—" he answered, "a moment in ages of years, an eternity of years. Your mother will very soon follow me, and when you have accomplished your work, we shall unite with thousands of choirs of angels in welcoming you home."

Sybil, who had been sitting bolt-upright, disdaining to exhibit her emotion at what was so evident to all, that dying grace had been bestowed on her beloved father, rose suddenly and left the room. Presently the sound of her violent sobs was distinctly heard, and her brother hastened to her side.

CHAPTER XXV.

DEATH OF A POSSESSOR.

EARLY the next morning, the young minister called to ascertain whether Mr. Knowles still wished to enter the pulpit.

Frederic hastened to the study, but started back at one view of his father's face.

"It shone like that of an angel," he said afterward.

"Yes," he answered, when the young man's question was put to him. "Yes, I do wish it, but I have thrown aside the sermon I had prepared. Helen has given me a text, and I shall speak of the glories of heaven to the redeemed."

On hearing the church-bell, he made ready as usual, his wife with trembling fingers tying the knot in his white cravat as she had done for fifty years. And then arm in arm they proceeded across the well-beaten path to the house of God.

Never will those present forget the occasion. Leaving his wife at the pew-door, his son offered his stronger arm for support, but he refused aid and walked slowly but firmly up the pulpit steps.

Frederic performed the introductory service, gave out the hymns which his father had selected, offered the first prayer, and then sat down.

When the aged man arose and pronounced his text, scarcely a breath disturbed the intense stillness. It was this: "Who is the King of glory? The Lord of hosts, He is the King of glory."

Never, in the days of manhood's prime, had the utterances of the pastor been so impassioned, his voice so clear and sonorous, his style so pure and elevated, his persuasion so powerful.

After depicting the glories of Christ, as the present ruler and king of the church, he dwelt in the most enrapturing strain upon the future revelation of his glory, when he shall have delivered up the kingdom to God, even the Father; when he shall have put down all rule, and authority and power, and have put all enemies under his feet.

The close, with words of tenderness and love, besought every one of his beloved flock to yield submission to this glorious King, and meet him at the right hand of God. This was solemn and affecting beyond description. Weeping and sobbing were heard from every part of the house, and were only restrained by noticing that the customary prayer at the close of the sermon was omitted, and their dearly loved and venerated pastor was spreading his arms to pronounce the benediction:

"Now may the God of peace which brought again from the dead our Lord Jesus Christ make you perfect in every good work."

A few words were spoken to his son and then Frederic repeated the request that the congregation would unite in singing the words:

"Praise God from whom all blessings flow."

Some near the pulpit afterward said they saw their pastor's countenance change as he took his seat, but he leaned forward and rested his head on the cushion. When the doxology was finished, he did not move. The congregation slowly left their slips, as if conscious that this was the last time they should hear warning or entreaty from his familiar voice.

Alas! His lips were already sealed in death. While the praises of God were sounding in his ear, his summons came,—"Friend come up higher!"

Wondering at length at his father's prolonged silence, Frederic gently touched his arm. There was no response. Then a dreadful terror seized him, and kneeling down, he looked into his father's face. What did he see there? Death had come and set his seal, but it was death deprived of his terrors; for a countenance so radiant as his when they reverently bore him out of the church, none ever remembered to have seen. It was as if the sound of the archangel's trump had met his ear, and as if his whole soul was entranced with ecstasy as he welcomed the messenger, sent to summon him home.

Thanks be to God for his unspeakable gift, the gift of one who has given us victory over death and the grave, even our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.

The parsonage, with seventeen acres of ground near it was owned by the good pastor. After the funeral, which was an occasion to be remembered for years, to be dated from and recalled with loving affection, a will characteristic of the writer was found in his desk. It bore date after Frederic's marriage and was as follows:

"I give my soul, redeemed by the blood of Christ from everlasting death, to my Creator.

"I give my body to the worms that will feed upon it, resting on the gracious promise, 'It is sown in corruption, it is raised in incorruption: it is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory: it is sown in weakness, it is raised in power.'

"I give to my beloved wife and my daughter Sybil, all of worldly goods that I have to bestow, assured that He who styles himself the God of the widow, the Father of the fatherless, will never forsake them.

"I give to my beloved Frederic and my beloved daughter Helen and to my other children, a father's love and blessing."

The land near the parsonage was purchased more than fifty years before, at a time when such property was held of little comparative worth. It had gradually risen in value, until now it would command a high price. A new street had been laid out within a few years, the old pastor cheerfully yielding his consent that it be cut directly through his land. This arrangement more than doubled the value of his farm, giving him beautiful sites for houses on both sides.

It was Frederic's proposition that one house lot be sold, and the money put at interest for their immediate necessities. There was no occasion for other change. The farmer, under Sybil's practical training, would till the land and furnish nearly all they needed for their support.

The remainder of the month was passed by the newly wedded pair quietly at the parsonage. All felt it was a privilege to be there where the sound of the father's voice seemed still echoing in the familiar rooms.

But at last other duties called the young pastor away. He went buckling on his harness for his chosen work. He went followed by the prayers of many, that his father's mantle might fall upon him,—that his life experience might be as full of joy, and his death as full of peace.

They went forty miles out of their way to meet Frank in the city. The following letter was the occasion of their visit:—

"DEAR HELEN: I have concluded to take the journey of which I spoke in my last. I have engaged a celebrated geologist to accompany me, and we have provided everything necessary to facilitate our work. I found a piece of ore among some rubbish in Mr. Tracy's sanctum, marked 'lead mine.' My friend declares it a prophet of good for us. Still I do not wish you to be too sanguine. The mine which has swallowed up two thirds of our fortune may prove to be of no value. We expect to start next Monday. I have some painful duties to perform before that, of which I can at present say nothing.

"Your affectionate brother,

"FRANK."

On reaching the city, they drove directly to Mr. Edmond's boarding house. He was out, and it was doubtful when he would return. Much disappointed, they were about to leave a note of farewell for him and hasten to Morrisville by the next train, when the door opened and he entered.

One glance sufficed to convince the visitors that something unusual had occurred.

Frank's face was extremely pale, but there was an expression of satisfaction in his eye for which they could not account.

"You are just in time," he exclaimed, warmly embracing his sister. "There is a chance for you to show yourself a true Christian."

"What is it? Tell me all."

Glancing hurriedly at his watch, Frank threw himself into a chair, exclaiming:

"I must go at twelve, and you will go with me."

"Go where?"

"To the Penitentiary, with Mrs. Tracy. But let me begin my story. I came home the other night, worn and worried with my labors, when my landlady told me there was 'a person' waiting to see me in the parlor. It was Mrs. Tracy, but so changed I should never have recognized her.

"'Perhaps,' she began, 'you will think it strange I should come to you who have lost everything through my husband: but I have no other friend,—at least no one I would like to ask to do so much,—and then,—there is another reason why I think you will do it. You were staying with us, I was passing your door, and I heard you praying, not saying prayers,' she repeated earnestly, 'but praying: and you prayed for him as if you really meant it. If you did mean it, I think you will forgive him and take me to see him.'

"Her request was, as you see, not very intelligible. But her weakened frame, her trembling voice and pallid features so affected me, that I hastened to assure her whatever she required, if it were in my power, I would assist her. I did not calculate upon the effect of my words. She sank down on the floor at my foot, and cried aloud.

"When I had succeeded in partially soothing her, she began the story of her married life, how that little by little their happiness melted away; he, as she invariably called Mr. Tracy, became engrossed in business, writing speeches, etc., until his affection for her seemed wholly gone.

"'It is hard for me to accuse him,' she said hesitating, 'but I'm afraid his kind of religion didn't restrain him from doing whatever he thought for his own interest.'

"At any rate it wasn't of the kind to make him happy. As to his business, he never consulted me, and I never offered any advice. But once I begged him not to annoy Helen with Roswell's attentions. I saw she didn't fancy him, though I think if he could have had a happy home, he would have been a good man. Just before the—the crash,' she said, hesitating, 'he came up to my chamber and put this into my hands.'

"'"There Cynthy," he said, "I've made over this house and fifty thousand dollars to you. If anything happens to me in business, we can live on that."

"'When I heard what had been done, I was frightened, and if I could have got my husband out of the Penitentiary, I wont deny I should have kept the fifty thousand and gone off with him. But since it is as it is, I feel that I can't keep it, and so I brought it to-day.

"'"If he doesn't scorn me. If his prayer was an earnest one," I said to myself, "and he forgives my husband, I'll give it to him." Here it is!'

"I read it, not without emotion, of course, and then I explained to her that the paper wasn't worth a straw to her. But it was worth thirty thousand dollars to me, and fifteen thousand to young Quincy, her husband's other ward. I went to a memorandum book where I had noted down the amount of stock in this bank and that, which had mysteriously disappeared, and I showed her that on her paper the very same bank stock was made over to her for their joint use. I told her too, that Quincy's lawyer had obtained a clue to this very document, and that whenever she went to draw the money, he would pounce upon her as an accomplice in the fraud.

"Poor woman, I really pitied her more than I can express.

"'I knew nothing about it, nothing at all,' she repeated, tearfully. 'I'm so glad I didn't keep it. I never cared to be rich.'

"'Now,' I said, 'tell me how I can help you?'

"She hid her face in her handkerchief and wept.

"'They tell me,' she said, 'that he is not as he was, that he is not a proper subject for the Penitentiary. If you went with a physician, perhaps they would let him out. I'll promise to take care of him. He can't hurt anybody now. I'll work and support him.'

"I'm afraid that will be impossible,' I answered, 'but I will try. I'll see the physician who attends the prisoners, at once, and do all I can for you.'

"She wrung my hand at parting. 'I believe it,' she exclaimed. 'I believe what our minister said once,—

"'"There is a difference between professing religion and possessing it."

"''Tisn't every professor has the right sort. When I heard your prayer, I thought maybe yours was the sort the minister meant, that it might be a support in time of need. I know 'his' didn't help him.'"

CHAPTER XXVI.

END OF THE MERE PROFESSOR.

"POOR woman!" exclaimed Helen, wiping her eyes. "I never saw anything to dislike in her, except that she was Mr. Tracy's wife. I ought to have pitied her for that. And, only think, she loves him still; loves him better for his reverses, and the loss of his mind."

"Did you see Mr. Tracy?" inquired Frederic.

"I went to the Penitentiary within an hour. I can't tell you how her appearance and her devotion to her husband affected me. First, I went to the hospital, where I heard Monson P. Tracy spent the most of his time. He was not there. One of the wardens told me I might possibly find him in the cook's department, or in the blacksmith's shop, where he had taken a fancy to work.

"Then I went to the office of the physician. He told me that the Mogul, as Mr. Tracy was called, proved so harmless that he was allowed considerable freedom. That he often assisted in the kitchen, hanging clothes on the lines, preparing vegetables for the soups, etc.

"While we were talking, I heard a loud shouting, with suppressed laughter.

"'Look!' said Dr. Smalley, pointing to a scene under the window.

"I went forward, and there on a tub turned bottom-side up, stood Monson P. Tracy, haranguing the prisoners in their cells. From every grated window some hardened face might be seen, watching with a grin, the antics of the insane man.

"I listened. He was repeating one of his speeches, with all the bombast and pomp you can imagine. He fancied himself in the Senate chamber, and stopped continually for the applause he expected from his audience of convicts. The sight sickened me, and I turned away in disgust.

"'This is one of his most harmless fancies,' remarked Dr. Smalley. 'I am afraid he has been a very wicked man, corrupt to the core. Sometimes he imagines himself in a prayer-meeting, and makes remarks or offers prayer. Then in half an hour he is describing with a chuckle peculiar to himself' (you remember it, Helen), 'scenes in his past life, the advantage he has taken of others, his own shrewdness in evading the law, etc., etc.'

"'Is his case hopeless?' I asked.

"'If you refer to the recovery of his reason, that is simply impossible. He has softening of the brain.'

"'The Penitentiary does not seem the proper place for him,' I suggested cautiously.

"He looked fixedly in my face a moment, and then said: 'Of course not. He should be in the Insane Asylum.'

"'Would it be a difficult matter to have him transferred there?'

"'I thought, Mr. Edmond,' he exclaimed after a moment's pause, 'that Monson P. Tracy was left in charge of your property and that he was guilty of a breach of trust!'

"'You thought correctly.'

"'Still you wish his situation improved?'

"'As a Christian, Dr. Smalley, I am bound to forgive those who injure me; as a man of common humanity, I could not revenge injuries on an insane convict.'

"He coughed two or three times before he spoke, and walked away to the window where the speechifying continued. Then he held out his hand saying, cordially:

"'Perhaps, Mr. Edmond, you will never be a rich man, but if I can judge of your actions by your treatment of this prisoner, I am sure you will be a very happy one.'

"I then repeated Mrs. Tracy's request and asked him whether it would be safe to confide her husband to her care in case some quiet retreat could be provided.

"'Perfectly so!'

"'Could his discharge be obtained?'

"'Without a doubt, if you and his other wards make such a request.'

"I started to come away when he asked, 'Will you see him?'

"I hesitated and then assented, following the physician through various departments of labor till we came to a shop where there was a forge. Monson P. had donned a blacksmith's leather apron, his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows,—his hair dishevelled and his beard unshorn.

"He knew me at once, and with perfect 'sang froid,' began to talk about the lead mine.

"He had evidently studied the subject, and for a few moments talked rationally. But with one of the sudden changes Dr. Smalley tells me are common with him, he began to chuckle, and then disclosed a plot for defrauding us and others upon which he evidently prided himself, laughing and patting my shoulder meanwhile."

"'I'm a professor you know,' he whispered with a leer, 'and for fifteen years the parson never found me out,—thought me a saint,—almost ready for glory, ha! Ha! Ha! I'll cheat him again. I'll vote for an increase of his salary. I've done it before, or I'll give to the Sunday School, ha! Ha! Ha! I can afford it. I made a clear thousand out of my wards last week. Clever wasn't it?' looking in my face with an unmeaning laugh. 'I'm a professor, and that pays. I couldn't afford to be a possessor as the parson talks about. Could you now?'

"I seized Dr. Smalley's arm and walked away, the insane man shouting after me:

"'Come again! You look like a man I used to know. Come again!'"

"Dreadful! Horrible!" cried Helen, hiding her face.

"My next business was to see Quincy's attorney and through him to get his client's name to my petition for Tracy's release.

"This was more difficult, but I at length accomplished it, after exhibiting the deed Mrs. Tracy had put into my hands. I then went to see a real estate agent to find a tenement suitable for my purpose. This morning he informed me that he had found a cottage fifteen miles from the city, at a very low rent on account of the difficulty of access from the cars.

"Now, Helen," added her brother, starting to his feet, "we are only waiting for you to say you will forgive this man whose iniquities you understood better than any of us; that you will add your name to my petition and we will grant Mrs. Tracy's request to confide her husband to her care."

"It's twelve o'clock, Frank, give me the pen, quick. Shall Frederic sign too?"

"No, only your own name in full. That's right, now come on, the carriage will be here directly. This business off my mind, I can attend to my own."

"I'm proud of you, Frank!" exclaimed Helen, kissing him. "You grow more like dear papa every day."

The sound of wheels drew them all to the door, and in five minutes they were whirling off to Mrs. Tracy's humble home.

She was all ready for them, but seemed terribly embarrassed by seeing Helen and her husband. She held out her hand timidly to the young bride, but Helen threw her arms about the poor sufferer whispering, "I pity you Mrs. Tracy with all my heart."

Frank hurried them off with the assertion: "There is not a moment to lose."

Not a word was spoken until they reached the Penitentiary. Then with a timid, appealing glance in Helen's face, the poor wife said:

"I hope he'll know me. I hope I can make him happy. He's perfectly harmless, they say."

"You had better not alight," urged Frank, coming back to the carriage after a few moments' absence. "I have signed all necessary papers, and he will be here presently."

Mr. Tracy's voice was heard before he left the building. It was loud and distinct as usual. He was bidding the physician good-by and inviting him to spend a few days any time at his country house.

"There is my carriage," he exclaimed, when he came in sight of it. "I would take you now, if you were dressed,—" (the Doctor wore a linen coat), "but I'll send for you any day. Ha! Ha! Ha!"

He did not appear the least astonished to see his wife, though he knew nothing of her coming, he nodded to her and to Helen as he entered, giving the order to the coachman in a loud, authoritative tone:

"Home, driver!"

While Helen was ready to sink with her varied emotions of pity and disgust, and the crushed wife was making almost frantic efforts at self-control, he turned to her with the remark:

"You're dressed in shockingly bad taste, Mrs. Tracy. It is an injury to my credit to have you seen looking like a pauper."

They were all relieved when the carriage stopped at the depot to allow Mr. and Mrs. Knowles to alight. Frederic, noble man that he was, had made up his mind not to leave his new charge until they were safely settled in their own house.

In five minutes after they left the pavements, the insane man was asleep. It was then easy to see the ravages occasioned by disease. Mrs. Tracy gazed at him and wept without restraint.

Mr. Edmond embraced this opportunity to converse with the stricken wife on the uses she might make of her affliction. He told her God was a pitying Father, ready to listen to her prayers.

"I shall never, never, forget your kindness nor your sister's," she repeated again and again. "It has been better than a sermon to me."

Only once again they met, and this was after Mr. Edmond's return from the West. He received a brief note from Mrs. Tracy informing him of her husband's decease. The next train of cars carried him to the nearest station, from which place he secured a conveyance to the cottage.

She looked calmer than he expected, and told him she hoped God had listened to her cries for forgiveness. Mr. Tracy, in their new home, had been subject to fits of depression, and then he would suddenly become exultant, thinking himself in the fill tide of business, and making revelations to her of fraud and deceit such as she never even imagined.

At the last he took to writing, and passed hours every day in penning puffs for his own speeches, which he read aloud to her, as if they were new to him.

His disease advanced for the last few weeks with frightful rapidity. He often lay for hours without moving; and one morning she found him dead in his bed.

Such was the sad end of the mere professor of religion, a dreadful contrast to the peaceful, triumphant death of the possessor of vital godliness.

Only one paragraph more and I have done.

Frank Edmond's investigations at the West, resulted in the formation of a new company to work the lead mine. A fresh vein of ore had been opened, and there was every reason to believe that independent fortunes would richly repay every one of the owners. In the course of five years, a railroad conveyed the ore from the opening of the mine to the market. A large and flourishing town had sprung up in the immediate vicinity, a spire and schoolhouse proved the community to be a Christian one, and Honorable Frank Edmond was sent to Congress to represent the wants of the new State.

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Table of Contents

THE BREACH OF TRUST;

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHAPTER XXII.

CHAPTER XXIII.

CHAPTER XXIV.

CHAPTER XXV.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE