Woodcliff
Date: 2025-07-26T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Christian life -- Fiction; Love stories; New England -- Fiction; Conduct of life -- Fiction; Bildungsromans

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Woodcliff

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Title: Woodcliff

Author: Harriet B. McKeever

Release date: July 26, 2025 [eBook #76570]

Language: English

Original publication: Philadelphia: Lindsay & Blakiston, 1864

Credits: Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WOODCLIFF ***

WOODCLIFF.

BY

HARRIET B. McKEEVER,

AUTHOR OF "EDITH'S MINISTRY," "SUNSHINE," "FLOUNCED ROBE," ETC.

PHILADELPHIA:
LINDSAY & BLAKISTON.
1865.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by
LINDSAY & BLAKISTON,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States
for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

STEREOTYPED BY J. FAGAN & SON.      PRINTED BY SHERMAN & CO.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I.—The Sea-Shore
II.—A Ride on Horseback
III.—Maddy's Triumph
IV.—Too Proud to Bend
V.—Youthful Visions
VI.—A Scotch Matron
VII.—The Cottage and the Hall
VIII.—Boston Relatives
IX.—Home Again
X.—Sunshine at the Hall, Shadows at the Cottage
XI.—A Mother's Life Sorrow
XII.—Stars in the Night Season
XIII.—Driftwood
XIV.—Excelsior
XV.—Strife
XVI.—Rugged Hills for Weary Feet
XVII.—Mirage, or Madeline after a Triumph
XVIII.—The Early Dawn
XIX.—"Auld Lang Syne"
XX.—Out in the Light
XXI.—Searching for Scottish Friends
XXII.—Mist on the Mountain
XXIII.—Graham Hall
XXIV.—Wings Clipped that had Commenced to Soar
XXV.—Parting from English Friends
XXVI.—The First Link Lost and Found
XXVII.—Hearts' Ease
XXVIII.—Seaweed
XXIX.—Beatitudes
XXX.—Fellow Heirs of the Grace of Life
XXXI.—Reunion

WOODCLIFF.

CHAPTER I.

THE SEA-SHORE.

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

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

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

But we will not anticipate sorrows, sweet child!

Bright days of happy childhood are before thee!

She certainly dreams of nothing yet but joy, and hope, and love.

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

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

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

But little difference is there between these children and men of larger growth—for these are gathering pebbles, and men are gathering dust.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am afraid that you are hurt."

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

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

Charles and Harry stood by sneering.

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

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

"My name is Roland Bruce," was the answer.

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

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

"But when you are struck, I think that you ought to defend yourself."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Aunt Matilda," continued the child, "what is a nobleman—nature's nobleman?"

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

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

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

"Well, aunt, I suppose then that you call Charles Davenport a gentleman?"

"Why, to be sure I do."

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

"To be sure I would, child; why, what is he?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II.

A RIDE ON HORSEBACK.

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

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

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

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

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

Aunt Matilda often remonstrated against these wild rides, but all in vain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You might have killed your cousin, young gentlemen," answered Roland.

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

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

"Begone! you ragamuffin! We want none of your help."

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

Seeing Roland master of the field, the two boys sneaked away, and Madeline said,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You are hurt, my boy," said Mr. Hamilton.

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

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

"You must come in, my boy, and have remedies applied at once."

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

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

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

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

Mr. Hamilton was sadly puzzled to know what to do with his wild little daughter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Madeline sought her maid, Nanny, into whose ears she poured all her grievances.

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

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

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

She could not help smiling at Nanny's simplicity, and said,

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

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

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

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

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

Dancing about the room, in a sweet clear voice, she commenced singing,

Away, away to the woods for me,
Away, away to the dear old sea;
Away up the hills, and down the lanes,
As I give to Selim the lightest reins.

Then away we scamper in many a race,
Giving old Hector a good wild chase;
Books and slates are very good things,
But Mad-cap would rather dance and sing.
Away, away to the woods for me,
Away, away to the dear old sea.

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

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

"Why, how do you do it, Miss Madeline?"

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

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

CHAPTER III.

MADDY'S TRIUMPH.

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

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

"Prosser, my dear," corrected the father.

"Oh, yes, I forgot—Miss Prosser; do you give hard lessons, Miss Prosy?" continued the child.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes she would teaze Miss Prosser with endless questions.

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

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

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

"Don't you want to be an intelligent woman, Madeline?"

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

"Aren't you going to study this morning?" continued Miss Prosser.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You need not mind, Miss Prosser, if I do not complain."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lady smiled at this acknowledgment of weakness; but her resolution was taken.

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV.

TOO PROUD TO BEND.

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

"Miss Madeline, a poor boy wants to see you at the door."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Have you any books, Miss Madeline?" continued the boy.

"Books! why I have more than I can count—all kinds of books."

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

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

"I've read about him, Miss Madeline, for my mother has told me so much about Scotland—both my parents were Scotch."

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

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

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

"Where is your school, Roland?" asked the child.

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

"Is Mr. Norton cross, Roland?"

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

"Have they more teachers than one?"

"Yes—Mr. Norton the principal, Miss Adams the first assistant, and Miss Corning second."

"Are there many scholars, Roland?"

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

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

Madeline was sorry when Roland turned to go home.

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

"Now, papa, I want you to promise me something."

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

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

"I must make some inquiries first, Mad-cap," answered her father.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I presume in Miss Corning's; she has the youngest children."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She is not here to-day, Miss Madeline!"

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

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

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

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

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

"How do you do, Miss? Please tell me your name."

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

"My name is Mad-cap Hamilton," answered the child.

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

All this time Madeline was convulsed with laughter, and could scarcely answer.

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

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

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

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

"I had something else to do," was the quick reply.

"Do you expect to go home without reciting them?"

"Certainly, Miss Corning! I cannot learn them all in school."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roland's eye flashed, as he replied:

"I wrote them all out, and placed them in my desk, yesterday afternoon."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After school, Roland hurried over to Madeline.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V.

YOUTHFUL VISIONS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roland could not but smile at her wild fancies, and replied,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Had we not better turn our steps homeward?" asked Roland.

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

"Is there any shelter, Madeline?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you ever see a mountain, Maddy?" inquired Roland.

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

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

"Were you not afraid, Roland, to be there all alone?"

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

"I wonder if I shall ever see a mountain, Roland?"

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

"How long since you were in Scotland, Roland?" asked Madeline.

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

"What is a manse, Roland?"

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

"What is a kirk, Roland?"

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

"'Who was king then, mother?' I inquired.

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

"'Did he hurt God's people?' I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'Take her away,' shouted the Captain; 'the old parson must die.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Will you try to sing one with me, Maddy?"

"Yes, I would if I only knew one."

"I will teach you one, Maddy, if you will try-.—I know that you will like it;" and Roland dictated the words of the following Scotch song:

"Scots, wha hae wi Wallace bled!
Scots, wham Bruce has often led!
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie!

"Now's the day, and now's the hour:
See the front of battle lour:
See approach proud Edward's power—
Chains and slaverie!

"Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!" &c.

CHAPTER VI.

A SCOTCH MATRON.

Mrs. Bruce had seen many sorrows. She had married Stephen Bruce chiefly to please her father.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How fare the bairns, Mrs. Bruce? Where is Roland?"

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

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

"Did you know my father, Elsie?" asked the boy, surprised.

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

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

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

"There, mother!" said Effie, "is the boy that brought the package."

"What package?" asked Elsie.

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

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

Elsie looked pleased and said,

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

"Why, do you know who he is?" asked Mrs. Bruce.

"I dinna say sae, Mrs. Bruce."

Elsie arose hastily and took her leave.

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

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

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

"Where have you been so long, Elsie?" asked Mrs. Bruce.

"I hae been far awa', tending on a sick friend; but he's better now—that is, better in body, but sore stricken in mind."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roland returned wondering how it was that they seemed to constantly connected with Elsie Gibson—some mysterious links which he could not trace, certainly bound them together.

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

* * * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hanging between the windows was a small portrait of a venerable man.

"Whose likeness is that, Mrs. Bruce?" asked the child.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How does he go? Has he a little cart?" asked Madeline.

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

"Is that all you have to live on, Mrs. Bruce?"

"No, my dear, I sew and knit for several of the neighbors."

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

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

"What are you making, Effie?" inquired Madeline.

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, I must go now. I learn good lessons here, Mrs. Bruce; you'll let me come and see you often—may I?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good-bye, Mrs. Bruce," said the child, and away she ran.

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

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

"There is not much for us here, dear mother."

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

"Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning Providence,
He hides a smiling face."

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

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

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

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

"This is a beautiful place, Miss Madeline," remarked the boy.

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

"I will not talk to you, if you call me Miss."

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

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

"Was your mother a Christian, Madeline?" asked the boy.

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

"Do you ever think of dying, Madeline?" asked her friend.

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

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

"Do you believe in him, Roland?" asked the child.

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

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

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

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

"Why; what do you mean, Maddy?"

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

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

"What is that rock, Roland?"

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

While talking thus, Elsie Gibson joined them.

"What are ye talking aboot, children?" asked the woman.

"Roland was showing me how to find the blessed way, Elsie."

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

"You like Roland, Elsie, don't you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Bruce invited Maddy in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Woe to Roland, when her mischievous fits were upon her!

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

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

"Oh, Roland, is it you? come into the parlor."

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

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

Roland opened the pages, and Madeline's joy was unbounded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VII.

THE COTTAGE AND THE HALL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Roland looked around delighted; he had never seen so many books together before.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What! pass by these lovely roses, and take that little flower!"

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

"You shall have a plant to take home to your mother, Roland."

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

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

"How beautiful, Madeline!" exclaimed the boy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I remember, I remember
The house where I was born—
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day;
But now I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away."

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

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

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

"Do not faint, Mademoiselle, I know what I am about."

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

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

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

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

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

"Good evening, sir," replied the lady haughtily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * * * *

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

"Why, Mad-cap, what makes you ask that question?"

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

"Why, what do you want to do with poor Bob, Maddy?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It cannot be, Miss Madeline; the gift is too costly."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where were you going, this morning, Maddy?" inquired her friend.

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

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

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

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

"What do you do on Sunday, Roland?"

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

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

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

"I'll ask him, Roland; what do you do there?"

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

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

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

Maddy turned an earnest look upon Roland's face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday evening came, and Maddy, mounting her father's lap, said,

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

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

"It is, indeed, papa, something very good—just say yes; that's a dear, good papa."

"Very well, Maddy, I say yes—now open the paper."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And now, what does my little daughter want?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am sorry, Miss Madeline, that you saw fit to send me on such a chase. It will do for rich people to waste their time—I have something else to do."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where have you been, Roland?" asked his mother.

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

"I need not tell you what is your duty, Roland."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VIII.

BOSTON RELATIVES.

"Which way, Maddy, this vacation?" asked Mr. Hamilton.

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

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

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

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

"What kind of a looking person is Aunt Clara, papa?"

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

Maddy was full of anticipated pleasure; but there was one drawback—she did not like to leave her friends at the cottage.

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

"There is one request I have to make, Madeline."

"What is that, Mrs. Bruce?"

"That you will bring me back your likeness."

"That I will, if you want it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In due time, Maddy, accompanied by her father, started on her trip.

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

Aunt Clara folded Maddy affectionately in her arms, and turning to Mr. Hamilton, with much feeling, remarked—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Lucy, will you give us some music?" said Aunt Clara.

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

Lucy Edmonds had a sweet voice, and sang several songs most charmingly.

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

"Madeline," said Aunt Clara, "did not Lavinia stay with you some months?"

"Yes, ma'am, she was at Woodcliff three months."

"Is it kind, Maddy, to ridicule her? You know that she is your cousin, and has been your guest. Never mind Lavinia, Maddy, I would rather hear some of your music."

"I would play willingly, Aunt Clara, but I only know a few simple songs."

She sat down with such an artless, winning manner, that Aunt Clara listened with peculiar delight, not only on account of the manner with which she complied, but with feelings of deep emotion, as the rich music of her remarkable voice reminded her of the sister whom she had lost.

"Do you like Scotch songs, Aunt Clara?"

"Yes, my dear; will you sing one?" and Maddy sang with peculiar sweetness—

"Ye banks and braes o' bonny doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair,"

but when she sang in her own touching way,

"I am wearing awa', Jean,"

Mrs. Edmonds could not restrain the starting tears, for it was her sister's favorite song.

About nine o'clock, a bell was rung, which assembled the family for prayers. The two servants, with Mr. Hamilton, Lucy, and Madeline, composed the worshipers. Lucy took her seat at the piano, and played an evening hymn, in which all present joined; and Aunt Clara's soft impressive voice read the Scriptures, and a solemn form of evening prayer, which committed all present to the care of the Good Shepherd. All was serious, and yet there was a sweet cheerfulness about the whole household, which had a most harmonizing influence upon our little girl.

"Good-night, my love," said the kind aunt, as she kissed the niece; "Lucy will show you to your room."

There was a dear little chamber adjoining Aunt Clara's room, which had been fitted up for Madeline. It was a gem of a child's sleeping-room—a pretty green carpet, the dearest little bedstead and wash-stand, the prettiest little bureau, and neatest chairs, a hanging-shelf filled with such nice books—pure white curtains, the sweetest toilet set, and pictures of domestic scenes of innocent and happy childhood. It was charming! So thought Madeline as she looked around. And when she saw the little Bible and hymn-book, which were placed upon a table near her bed, she felt that Aunt Clara had forgotten nothing that could make her good and happy.

The first bell awoke our little girl, and in a few minutes, Lucy peeped in to see what progress she was making. She was soon dressed, and, after a few verses in the Bible, and a short prayer of simple words, Maddy met good Aunt Clara in the breakfast-room. Smiling and serene, she kissed her little niece; and, after the morning devotions and breakfast were over, Aunt Clara, taking Madeline by the hand, went up to her chamber.

"Now, my dear niece, there are a few things which I wish you to do, after the chambermaid has attended to the ordinary care of your room. I want you to keep everything in perfect order, putting up your comb and brush, hanging up your dresses, and putting away everything that you are not using; neatness is invaluable to a woman, and I hope that you have been accustomed to these things."

Maddy smiled, and said, "I don't think that I ever hung up a dress in all my life; Nanny did everything of that kind for me; but I'll try to remember, if I can."

"So I suppose, Madeline; but it is a good thing to learn to wait upon yourself. After a while, we will take a ride; I want to show you the environs of Boston."

The child was enchanted with all that she saw; her innocent expressions of delight amused Aunt Clara, and brought back many a train of tender thought, as her enthusiasm recalled the image of her mother.

When she reached home, she found that Lavinia Raymond had been to see her.

"Is not this foolish, Aunt Clara, for Lavinia, who is only a little girl, to leave her card for her cousin? She is a real dunce to put on such airs."

"Stop, Madeline; it is your cousin, and you should not indulge in such free remarks."

"But, Aunt Clara, I would not say one word behind her back, that I would not to her face; I've told her many a time that she was a simpleton."

"Do you expect to go through this world, Maddy, telling everybody what you think of them?"

"If I don't by my words, I must by my manners; for I cannot, for the life of me, be polite to people whom I do not like; that seems deceitful, Aunt Clara."

"No, Maddy, you are mistaken; courtesy is due to all—you may form very erroneous opinions of people; and there could be no social intercourse if all the thoughts that pass through our minds, are to be obtruded at all times upon persons whom we may not choose to fancy."

Next day, Lucy and Madeline called upon Lavinia.

"What did you mean, Lavinia, by leaving your card the other day?"

"Why, Madeline, that is the fashionable way of paying visits!"

"Poh! Lavinia, we are nothing but little girls; and it is just ridiculous for us to be playing the woman."

Lucy could not but smile at her homely bluntness, and thought that her mamma would have some trouble before she could tame the spirits, or discipline Madeline's voluble tongue.

In a day or two, Aunt Clara invited a few choice little girls to take tea with our young friends. They were pleasant children, just such as Madeline liked, fond of play, and not too old to talk about dolls. Lavinia, who was one of the party, looked down upon the rest with supreme contempt, and when asked to join in their childish plays, could only answer, "No, I thank you; pray excuse me."

Lucy Edmonds exerted herself to the utmost: joined in their plays, and when they wanted to dance, played several cotillons for their amusement. Aunt Clara brought out some childish games, and in her own sweet winning manner, made one of the company.

Madeline passed a delightful evening. After the children had gone, she hung around her aunt, as if wanting to say something.

"What is it, Maddy? Have you not something to tell me?"

Seating herself on a little stool at her aunt's feet, she said, "How is it, Aunt Clara? I heard that you were so stern and cold, and that you thought it a sin even to smile. I thought that I should be so afraid of you; then you let us dance, and I always thought that good people did not dance. I am not at all afraid of you, Aunt Clara, and I love you so much more than I do Aunt Matilda."

"You have made some common mistakes, Madeline; the world likes to cast reproach upon the children of God, and so they represent us as dull and gloomy; but the Bible does not, Maddy. The righteous there are always spoken of as the only happy people in the world—merriment belongs to the days of childhood, Madeline, and if the joy of the spirit leads the feet to a dancing motion, let it be so; only let it stop when childhood has passed away; more serious duties, cares, and joys then have claims upon us."

"You let Lucy dance, then, Aunt Clara?"

"Yes, Madeline, here at home if she wishes to; but dancing-schools and children's balls, and all these foolish displays, I entirely discourage."

"What will you do, aunt, when Lucy is a grown-up lady?"

"I am trying all that I can to give Lucy a strictly religious education, and, by the blessing of God, I expect that she will be a Christian; that will regulate all the rest, Madeline. Lucy will not then need the vain amusements of the world to make her happy—when the butterfly bursts its shell, it feeds no more upon the food which satisfied the grub, but honeyed sweets alone suits its new nature; so with the child of God, Maddy, who can say,

"Let worldly minds the world pursue,
It has no charms for me;
Once I admired its follies too,
But grace has set me free."

"Well, dear aunt, if all pious people were just like you, I think that everybody would want to be Christians; but there was Miss Molly Tibbs, with a face as long as my arm, and a mouth drawn up like a persimmon, she thought it was a sin to laugh, and that pink was a wicked color; just think of that, Aunt Clara, the sweet color of the lovely rose wicked! Did you ever hear such stuff? But wasn't she a vixen! scolding from morning till night—tormenting her little brothers and sisters, and making everybody unhappy around her."

"Poor lady! What a pity that she had not studied the character of our blessed Master, whose whole errand upon the earth was to make men happy."

On the first Sunday after her arrival she accompanied Aunt Clara and Lucy to church. It was a solemn service, and the minister was an earnest, faithful preacher of the simple gospel. When the sweet organ rolled through the church with its swell of heart-stirring music, Madeline was carried away, for she was not accustomed to the organ in their humble village church.

"Was not that lovely music, Aunt Clara?" asked the child; "it is so different from our country choir. I could listen all day to music like that; and the voices, Oh! how that lady's sounded; it seemed to ring, Aunt Clara, just like a sweet bell, and then it rolled up and up, and I could follow it all round the roof—it seemed to carry us right up to Heaven."

Sunday was a happy day at Aunt Clara's. She wore her brightest smile on that blessed day, and everything around her household breathed of the sweet calm within that holy bosom. In the corner of the parlor stood a harp closely covered. Madeline had often wondered who played upon the instrument, and at last ventured to ask Aunt Clara.

"I was very fond of the instrument, Madeline, and used to play upon it in the happy days when my husband and children were with me; but since then I have never touched it."

"Will you not let me hear some of its sweet strains, Aunt Clara? I never heard the harp," asked Madeline.

"It is out of tune, Maddy; but to-morrow I will send for the tuner, and you shall be gratified."

"Whose pictures are those, Aunt Clara?" asked the child, as she stood gazing at the portraits of two lovely children, a boy of twelve, and a girl of nine years of age.

"That is my Edward, Madeline, and that is my sweet Agnes; they have been among the blessed ones seven years now; they were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their death they were not divided. Only one week separated them. Edward was taken first with scarlet fever, and Agnes followed him in one short week. Oh! Madeline, these were dark hours when I laid my darlings in the grave; but they were lambs of Jesus' flock, Maddy, and the comfort came. Jesus healed my wounds with his own gracious hand. I can say now, 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.'"

"What a sweet face Agnes has! She looks so pure, just like a sweet lily of the valley."

"That's what we used to call her, Maddy, for she was just as lovely as those sweet lilies. Look here, my child," and Mrs. Edmonds opened a little book which contained a number of dried flowers. "These she gathered the last year of her sweet life, and pressed them for her mother; they are so precious, Madeline. Come up stairs, my dear, I want to show you something else," and Aunt Clara led the way to a small room that was always locked. "This was my darlings' play-room, Maddy."

A baby house, a rocking horse, some hanging shelves filled with books, several dolls, a little bureau filled with dolls' dresses, and a box of carpenters' tools—all these sweet mementoes were there. But that which touched Madeline most, was the last Christmas tree that the mother had ever dressed. There it was, with all its little keepsakes from various friends.

"Oh! Aunt Clara, did it not break your heart to part with both?"

"It would have done so, my child, but for the grace which bade me look upward, when the first storm of grief had passed, and I could look up at the crown of glory, the palms of victory, and the white robes of the upper world; then by degrees my grief was stilled, and I have found comfort in lightening the griefs of my fellow-sufferers, and spreading the flowers of love along the path of other children, as I would have done for my own darlings."

"That's what makes you so good to Lucy, dear aunt," answered Madeline.

"Lucy is a great blessing, dear; she is so thoughtful for her years. I think she never forgets my sorrow, and is always trying to make up for the loss of those who have gone before."

"Why, aunt, I never should have thought that you had seen so much trouble, you are always so smiling and happy."

"Maddy, there are some of the marks of the grief that wrung my heart," and she pointed to the silver hair, so fine, so soft, "it turned white in one night, my child."

Madeline felt a deeper reverence for her dear aunt from that day, and by every means in her power tried to show her love for her afflicted relative. And in return, Aunt Clara learned to love most tenderly the wild child of nature committed for a time to her care. The next day, the tuner was sent for, and in the evening, Aunt Clara entertained Madeline with some exquisite sacred music on the harp.

"I have often heard papa talk about the harp, he is so fond of that instrument. Would it not be a great surprise if I could learn the harp without his knowledge? he would be so delighted."

"We will see about it, Maddy."

Next day, Mrs. Edmonds engaged one of the best teachers in Boston, and laid out a daily plan for her little niece as well as Lucy, for she well knew that idleness is the bane of happiness.

"Line upon line, and precept upon precept," was, however, the discipline which she had constantly to exercise in training the wayward nature of her interesting charge.

One day Aunt Clara looked over the banisters, and saw her little niece talking very earnestly to a poor woman at the front door.

"Come here, Madeline, I want to speak to you."

"Wait a minute, aunt," said the child, "I will be there directly."

"Who is that woman, Maddy?"

"I don't know, aunt; but she is so poor and ragged. She has five children, and no husband, and they are starving to death."

"How do you know that, my child?"

"Why, aunt, she said so," replied Maddy, with an earnest look.

"What did you give her, my child?"

"All that was in my purse, aunt."

"And how much was that?"

"Only two dollars, aunt, and that is so little to buy clothes and food for so many."

"You had better not give money in that way, my child."

Mrs. Edmonds went to the door, took the woman's address, and promised to call upon her the next day. Accordingly she went, but no such person lived there, or could be heard of in the neighborhood. Madeline was sadly chagrined, when she found that the woman had told such a dreadful falsehood.

"So you see, my dear, it is not best to give money at the door; it is always advisable to visit such cases."

"What a shame! Aunt Clara, for that woman to be so wicked; she might prevent us from giving to one who is really deserving."

"So it is, my dear; but we have to learn some very sad lessons in this wicked world."

Madeline frequently visited Lavinia, not because she wished to do so, but simply on the ground of relationship, and Lavinia frequently sent for her. One morning, a servant rung the bell, and left cards for Madeline and Lucy, from Lavinia Raymond for the next Tuesday evening, announcing herself at home at eight o'clock.

"Aunt Clara, must we go? I don't want to go to any such parties of would-be men and women."

"I suppose that you must go, Maddy; you will give great offence to your Aunt Raymond, if you do not."

"I am not going to dress up in anything but a simple muslin, aunt, and if she don't like it, I don't care."

"That is the most becoming for a little girl; it is what Lucy will wear."

The evening arrived, and Lavinia was quite shocked at the plebeian simplicity of Madeline and Lucy.

"Why did you not wear one of your silk dresses, Madeline? this is a full dress party. I think you might have paid me the compliment."

"I came as a little girl, Lavinia, not as a young lady."

"You are the greatest simpleton that I ever saw, Madeline, with a father rich enough, and indulgent enough to give you anything you want, and you care no more for dress than a little country girl."

"That is just what I am, Lavinia."

The sight of so many over-dressed children aping all the airs and graces of grown men and women amused our little girl, and no sooner was she at home, than she commenced mimicking the folly that she had witnessed.

"Aunty, there was one of the most terrible gluttons there among these would-be ladies that I ever met with. She ate of everything upon the table, every variety of ice-cream and cake, and jelly, and confectionery; she ate oysters, and drank champagne; and to crown all, she filled her pockets with choice bon-bons; and when the candied fruit-basket was broken, took her share of that. I wonder how she got home; I know that she was deadly sick, for she looked as pale as a ghost. I'd rather sail on the lake back of our house with two or three little girls, than go to a dozen grand parties like that. You ought to have seen Lavinia, Aunt Clara, flounced to the waist, quantities of jewelry, hair dressed by a fashionable hair-dresser, and she bowed and courtsied about all the evening, as if she were twenty-one, instead of thirteen."

"My dear Madeline, will you ever remember that you were entertained last evening by Lavinia, and that you should not indulge in such free remarks?"

"I can't help it, Aunt Clara; I hate affectation, and despise flirts; a flirting child is perfectly horrid."

"These are strong expressions, my dear child; I do not think that the occasion calls for them."

"I expect, aunt, that I shall have to take Lavinia home with me. Aunt Raymond hinted it last night; but I must have Lucy; shan't I, Aunt Clara?"

"We will see, my dear; I should like Lucy very much to spend a few weeks in the country. I think that she needs the change."

"Will you go with me to-morrow to a good artist? I promised to take some of my likenesses home. Mrs. Bruce would be so disappointed."

"And who is Mrs. Bruce, Maddy?"

"She is one of my best friends, but she is very poor, aunt; she has to do plain sewing, and go to market for her living; she has two such good children, one named Roland, he is so good and so wise; they have taught me so much, Aunt Clara; and then she has a daughter Effie, such a dear girl; they are Scotch people, aunt, you would like them so much."

"Is Mrs. Bruce a lady, Maddy?" asked her aunt.

"A lady, aunt! I don't know what to say; she has nothing that any other lady has; she has a very mean home, common clothes, and they are one of the poorest families around Woodcliff; but there is something about her, aunt, not at all like the common poor; she is educated, refined, polite, pious—yes, aunt, she must be a lady—sometimes I think Roland must have been a relation to the great Bruce, he is such a hero."

Madeline succeeded in getting some really good pictures of herself; giving one to Aunt Clara, and one to Aunt Raymond, she reserved the remainder for dear friends at home.

"Here is a letter, Aunt Clara, from dear papa; he will be here in two weeks, and says that Lavinia and Lucy must be ready to go home with us—you will not object, dear aunt?"

"No, Maddy, Lucy can go." Madeline was very happy at the idea of returning to Woodcliff, though sorry to leave her beloved aunt. She had made surprising improvement on the harp, and regretted the loss of her lessons.

Mr. Hamilton had but a short time to stay; therefore, on the next morning after his arrival, the party turned their faces towards Woodcliff.

"Good-bye, dear aunt," sobbed Maddy; "I shall not soon forget the sweet lessons I have learned here; you will keep my secret, won't you, aunty?"

"You'll come to me, Maddy, should sorrow overtake you; Aunt Clara always has a warm corner at her hearthstone for her little niece."

CHAPTER IX,

HOME AGAIN.

And so they drove off. Arrived at Woodcliff, Maddy returned to her old pursuits and pleasures. It was a happy little group that gathered that evening at the widow's cottage. Madeline, anxious to take the promised picture, invited her cousins to accompany her.

"Not I," answered Lavinia; "you must really excuse me; Lucy can do as she pleases, but I have no taste for such plebeian associates."

"Every one to her taste," replied Maddy. "Come, Lucy, let us go."

It was a warm welcome that was extended to them, and when Madeline handed her picture to Mrs. Bruce,

"Thank you, my dear child," was the quick answer; "you could have brought me nothing which I shall so much value; it is such a perfect likeness."

"I am glad that you are pleased, Mrs. Bruce; and I am so happy to be at home again."

"Have you had a pleasant visit, Madeline?"

"Yes, indeed, I have learned such sweet lessons from my precious Aunt Clara; she is so good, and so happy. She lives religion, Mrs. Bruce; she does not talk it as some people do; but pray excuse me, and here is my cousin Lucy who has come down to stay with me."

"I am glad to see her for your sake, Madeline; but here come Roland and Effie; how glad they will be!"

"I'll just hide behind the door, don't tell;" and in a minute she had concealed herself, until the children were fully in the house.

Suddenly springing out from her concealment, Effie could not restrain her joy, and folded Maddy in a heart-warm embrace, while Roland, with beaming eyes, extended both hands, and said, with deep emotion, "You are welcome, Maddy, back among us. Woodcliff is nothing without you."

Madeline kept her young friends constantly busy going from place to place, and showing them all the amusements around the Hall.

Lucy was enchanted; for, being simple-hearted, nothing pleased her so much as the charming scenes of nature; but Lavinia's tastes were so much perverted, that green trees, shady lanes, quiet skies, and even the grand and glorious ocean, had no charms for her.

One afternoon, the three girls, accompanied by Hector, took their accustomed walk to the sea-shore. Madeline was in high spirits, and mounted the highest rock, leading her cousins after her; she skipped about from point to point, and at last clambered down the sides of the little cove, which was easily crossed at low tide. In the excitement of their play, running races with Hector, they had rambled far up the beach, forgetting entirely the rising tide. Maddy, in her wild frolic, had taken off her shoes and stockings, and had amused herself by wading in the water. Evening was approaching, and when they returned, they found it impossible to cross; the tide had risen so high, that the cove was entirely impassable. Madeline was now alarmed, for there was no other way of return but by the cove; fortunately, she had left her hat tied to the flag-staff, and with the quickness of thought she called Hector, and throwing a stick across the cove, sent him in search; he dashed through the water, and stood barking loud upon the other side, for he seemed to understand their danger—up and down he ran, then up to the top of the rock as if to search for some one; at last, he came bounding back, as if to tell good news; his bark was no longer one of alarm, it was one of joy.

"Hector has found some one," said Madeline; "I know his ways, he does everything but talk."

Lavinia began to wring her hands. "What shall we do? we can't stay here all night."

"I should not like it much, Lavinia," replied Maddy; "but I think that somebody is coming."

In another minute, Roland appeared on the top of the rock.

"Don't be alarmed; I'll bring help soon;" and, dashing through the water, he took Madeline in his arms, saying,

"Don't be afraid, I can carry you; it is not far across, and nothing else can be done."

The water by this time had reached his armpits, but as Madeline kept quiet, he succeeded in landing her in safety on the other side. It was not so easy to carry the others. Lucy was older and larger, but willing to be directed by Roland, she also crossed in safety; and Hector manifested his joy at each landing, by barking loudly and licking the hands of the young ladies, especially his pet Madeline.

But Lavinia's folly had nearly cost her life; first by her ridiculous airs while the water was rising, then her fears about her delicate dress, then her squeamishness about allowing Roland to carry her. At last, he had to say,

"There is not another minute to lose," and, seizing Lavinia without her consent, he commenced the crossing. The water was now above his shoulders; Lavinia writhed, and struggled, and screamed; Roland tried to pacify her, but in vain.

"I cannot hold you, miss, unless you are quiet."

But it was all in vain—and in the struggle, Roland tripped in the water, and Lavinia fell from his arms; for a moment, she disappeared; Roland, too, in his efforts to reach her, was struggling under the water. Hector sprang into the water, and in another minute, was carrying the silly girl to the shore.

Madeline was in agony, her cheek pale as death, for Roland had not yet risen; in another second, her fears were relieved; he regained his feet, and soon reached the shore in safety.

Lavinia was dreadfully frightened; her mouth filled with sea-water, and her clothes drenched with the bath.

"How did you find us, Roland?" asked Maddy.

"Hector's bark alarmed me; I traced you by your shoes on the rock, and your hat upon the flag-staff."

"How can we thank you, Roland?" continued the child; "what should we have done without you?"

Lucy too, returned her thanks; but Lavinia, in whose behalf he had incurred the most risk, coldly replied:

"How could you let me drop, sir? I have spoiled my handsome dress, and my new shoes."

Roland did not answer; but Madeline replied with a flashing eye,

"Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Lavinia Raymond? when Roland really risked his life to save yours. Have you no thanks?"

"Thanks for what? spoiling my beautiful dress?"

"Lavinia Raymond, you are a fool! I have no patience with you!"

"Oh, Maddy! don't talk so; think of dear Aunt Clara," said Lucy.

"She makes me so mad, I can't help it."

Roland, by this time, had disappeared, having gone to one of the cottages on the beach, and found that Lavinia could get dry clothes there.

There was no time to be lost; the party hurried to the hut; Lavinia had to endure the mortification of being dressed in the clothes of the fisherman's daughter, and all the party to ride home in an old cart. There was nothing else to be done, and by this time, our changing, impulsive Maddy had forgotten all her indignation towards Lavinia, and was in a perfect gale of merriment at the ludicrous figure which they made in the old ricketty cart.

"Really, Miss Raymond, no one would know you in this queer dress. We would make a fine tableau, would we not, Lucy?"

It was some time before Madeline escaped again to the shore, for her father was really alarmed at the result of this dangerous excursion.

Maddy began to long for her harp lessons. Having confided her secret to Aunt Matilda, they began to wonder how they should continue to go on without Mr. Hamilton's knowledge. Most unexpectedly, an opportunity offered.

"What says my little daughter about parting with papa for a few months?" said Mr. Hamilton.

"Why, papa; where are you going?" replied the child.

"I am called, suddenly, to Europe, and will be gone four or five months."

"How can we do without you, papa?"

"The time will pass very rapidly, Maddy; you will still continue at school, and Mademoiselle will go on with the French lessons at home."

The next week Mr. Hamilton departed. Aunt Matilda hired a harp from Boston, and engaged the same teacher to come twice a week to give lessons, as there was a railroad sufficiently near to make this practicable. Madeline devoted herself most assiduously to her music lessons, for she was determined to surprise her father on his return. Her talent was remarkable, and progress accordingly rapid.

She was so much occupied, that she saw but little of the Bruces, for during the stay of her cousins, her father had given her permission to stay from school. Roland missed his little friend, and wondered what was keeping her so long away. Still, occasionally he met her on her accustomed walks and rides, but always in company with her young friends, and a passing bow or smile was all that he received.

One autumn evening, however, in his rambles, Madeline suddenly stood before him.

"How do you do, Roland?" said the child, extending her hand, "it seems so long since we have had one of our pleasant chats."

"How long will your friends stay, Maddy?"

"Some weeks longer, Roland, and I am so busy; do you know that I am taking harp lessons to surprise papa? He will be gone some months yet, and when he returns I shall be able to play. Would you like to hear me, Roland?"

"Yes, Madeline, if it were possible."

"How did you spend your time when I was in Boston, Roland?"

"I went regularly to Woodcliff every Saturday, and took advantage of Mr. Hamilton's permission to use his library, and all the leisure moments I had, I employed in reading; it was not much, but I used to sit up one hour later, and thus read a great deal."

"What books did you choose, Roland?"

"The lives of wise and good men, Maddy, especially such as had to endure hardships in their youth; and I found that most of these great men had to struggle in their early years; and I found too, Maddy, that those who left the brightest mark in the world were believers in the blessed Bible; others made impressions while they lived, but they are almost forgotten now; but Christian philosophers and statesmen are those whom God honors."

"How is it, Roland, that all your thoughts and words seem filled with the Bible? Other boys are not like you."

"Because it was my daily food; rising up, and lying down, in the house, and by the wayside, it is, Maddy, our household book; and you need not wonder that all my life has been so constantly under the power of its heavenly truths."

"I wish that I loved the Bible as you do, Roland; I have seen so much of its power at dear Aunt Clara's—she is such a lovely Christian; but I love to read other books so much better—will you come up next Saturday, Roland?"

"Yes, Maddy, I have a book to bring home—will you not let me hear some of your music then?"

"Certainly—I know two or three pretty pieces which I think you will like so much."

"I must go now, Maddy, for my mother will want me; good-bye, get ready to come to school soon;" and with these words, Roland turned towards his home.

Saturday came, and Madeline was tuning her harp at an early hour, in expectation of her young friend.

When Roland arrived, she was practising one of her sweetest pieces, and calling him into the parlor, she played all that she knew, while Roland stood enchanted with the music that he had never heard before.

"I have learned one hymn, Roland, for you, because I knew that you like sacred music;" and she sang with touching sweetness an evening hymn.

Lavinia Raymond was watching outside of the piazza the performance in the parlor, and as Roland passed out on his way home, the sneer with which she greeted him, was but a repetition of the insolence of other meetings.

"Madeline, are you really such a dunce as to let yourself down to that beggar boy?" asked Lavinia, as she entered the house.

"Listen to me, Lavinia; the Bruces are my friends, poor as they are; I honor and love them all, and you shall not sneer at them when I am near—you are not worthy to mention even the name of a Bruce."

"Quite theatrical, Madeline!—you would make an excellent actress; the flashing eye, the glowing cheek, the lofty head, and the proud step would very well suit a queen."

"Be silent, Lavinia, I will not submit to your insolence;" and Madeline haughtily left the room.

In a few minutes she entered, and extending her hand, said,

"Lavinia, forgive me; I was very rude to a guest, but you provoked me."

"You may enjoy your friends for me, Madeline; but I must say that I am sorry to see you throwing your attentions away upon plebeians."

"I am not doing so, Lavinia; it makes me happy to do anything for people so good as they are, for I do believe that they are the real children of God. I would that I were half so good."

CHAPTER X.

SUNSHINE AT THE HALL; SHADOWS AT THE COTTAGE.

Morning, noon, and night, was Madeline inventing some new scheme of fun and frolic, never, however, neglecting her harp.

Mademoiselle generally managed to get about half of her lessons; Aunt Matilda did not interfere, for Maddy had company, and could not be expected to study much.

"You know, aunt, that it would be the height of impoliteness, and I could not expect the girls to take lessons; to be sure, Lucy does, as a matter of choice."

This was sufficient, and Madeline's all-powerful arguments prevailed.

Poor M'lle Fouladoux was often sorely tried, and Fanfan was her only comfort.

Occupied with her young friends, Madeline knew but little of the shadows gathering over her friends at the cottage.

It was all sunshine at Woodcliff; for thus far, Maddy's life had been all a bright summer day; but it would have been quickly dimmed, if the young heiress had known the sorrows that were threatening her humble friends.

Mr. Hamilton had formerly lived in the South, and having freed the servants who lived with him, he had brought his house-domestics to his Northern home. They were strongly attached to their master's family, and Madeline, especially, was their idol.

Nanny thought nothing could surpass her young mistress in beauty, or grace, or smartness, and many a cup of flattery was administered by this faithful, but foolish servant.

"Girls, I think that we shall have some rare sport this fall; Jim, the coachman, is quite smitten with our Nanny; they shall have a wedding, and I'll be mistress of the ceremonies. You ought to see the darkies dance;" and Madeline mimicked to the life what she had often seen in the kitchen.

"Will they be married here?" inquired Lavinia.

"Yes, indeed; they shall be married in our dining-room, and I'll dress Nanny's head myself."

Madeline watched her opportunity, and questioned Nanny about the affair.

"Lor' bless you, young missus, what put this ere in your head? Jim is jest a perticelar friend."

"Yes, I know, Nanny; you need not try to deceive me," answered the child.

"Well, Miss Maddy, what do you all think of Jim?"

"He's a clever fellow, Nanny, and we are all willing."

"Well, then, Miss, I mout as well tell; we are gwan to be married in about a month."

"You shall have a nice wedding, Nanny; I'll give you your wedding suit; you shall be married in the dining-room; get your bridesmaids and groomsmen, and you shall have a grand time, Nanny."

Maddy was a busy little bee during the next month; the evening at length arrived, and the guests assembled in the dining-room waiting for the bride and groom. Maddy had been superintending the bride's dress; but having completed that, with her cousins, joined the company in the parlor. The minister stood waiting at the head of the room. At length the bridesmaids and groomsmen appeared, then Nanny and the groom. She was dressed in white, with low neck and short sleeves, and her head encircled by a wreath of large red roses. The ceremony proceeded. When about half through, Jim, supposing it ended, turned to kiss his bride.

"Not yet," said the minister.

"Oh, well! so far, so good. Go on, Massa."

When the ceremony was ended, they took their seats among the congratulations of their numerous colored friends, and with the imitative quickness of their race, the manners of ladies and gentlemen were most amusingly copied in Mr. Hamilton's dining room.

"Why, Miss Nanny, you're quite brilliance to-night," said one of the groomsmen.

"Who are you calling Miss Nanny, Bill?" said the other groomsman, tittering, "that is Miss Roberts now."

Nanny hung her head bashfully, and, looking up at Jim, said,

"That name sounds mighty quar."

About ten o'clock, a nice supper was announced in the servants' sitting room, and it was really amusing to our young folks, to see the airs with which the colored gentlemen handed out the belles to the supper table.

"We're much obliged to you, Miss Madeline," said Jim, "for this party, for we know that you got it up for us."

"I hope that you will make Nanny a good husband, Jim, for she is a good girl. I won't let you be cross to her."

After supper, a number of songs enlivened the evening, and a serenade at a late hour, in which four voices joined, wound up the affair.

Madeline had heard nothing of the Bruces for several weeks, excepting by a few casual words in the Sunday-school room, for Lucy and she still attended. On the following Sunday morning, Maddy thought that Roland looked very sad, and Effie was not present.

"What is the matter, Roland?" asked the child.

"Oh, Madeline! dear mother is so sick; she seems to be growing weaker every day."

"Don't get disheartened, Roland; you know what you have often said to me, 'Look up for help.'"

"Yes, I know, Madeline; but the loss of my mother would be such a great calamity, that I cannot always look up. Sometimes, I cannot trust the promises; then I get so weak, I can scarcely hold up my head."

"I am sorry, Roland. Is there anything that I can do for her?"

"Come and see her, Madeline, that would cheer her up."

"I have been detained by company, Roland, that is all the reason."

"Yes, I know that; we can't expect you to leave them often."

"I will come soon, Roland; I am so very sorry."

Madeline kept her word, but her high spirits were suddenly saddened, when she saw the pale face and trembling hands of her kind friend. Mrs. Bruce was sitting up endeavoring to sew, but the marks of languor were so apparent, that a chill settled around Maddy's heart, and she feared that Roland must soon lose this dear mother.

"You are not well, Mrs. Bruce," said the child, as she took her friend's extended hand.

"No, my dear, flesh and heart are failing; but 'God is the strength of my heart, and my portion for evermore.' While he is left, I am perfectly at peace."

Madeline looked upon the placid face, and the sweet smile of trusting faith that lit the features of her friend, and thought how precious was that holy trust.

"I know now, Mrs. Bruce, what you mean by looking up; how happy you must be."

"If I looked down upon myself, Maddy, with all my weakness and sin; or if I looked upon my dear children, who may soon be left motherless, my heart would sink; but when I look upward at the rest in store for those who love God, and at the sure promises to the children of the righteous, I can even rejoice in tribulation, because, my dear, they work patience, experience, and hope."

Madeline glanced at Roland and Effie—the former was regarding his mother with a look of loving reverence, as though he partook of her lofty hope; but poor, delicate Effie sat with her head bowed upon her hands, and the big tears rolling down her sweet face. Madeline drew the weeping child towards her, and, passing her arm around her, whispered,

"Don't cry so, Effie; your mother may get better, and we will always be your friends."

"I know that, Madeline; but where shall I ever find another mother?"

Maddy returned with a saddened spirit, for with all her sanguine nature, she could not but fear that deep sorrow was settling around the cottage household. Not a day passed, without some little delicacy from Woodcliff; sometimes by Madeline's own hand, or else sent by a servant.

Lucy frequently accompanied her cousin in her visits, but Lavinia never—she could not stoop to such a condescension.

In all her letters to her father, Maddy never forgot her humble friends, and, in return, Mr. Hamilton directed that every comfort should be supplied to the declining mother.

After a few weeks, Mrs. Bruce appeared to rally once more, and hope revived the spirits of all who loved her. Madeline especially was greatly elated, and was sure that her dear friend was recovering. With the revival of her hopes, her high spirits rose again.

"Don't be alarmed, Roland, your mother will soon recover," and Maddy yielded to the delusion with full confidence.

Roland was now called to bear a heavy burden, for the support of the family fell chiefly upon him. Busy in their little garden, he toiled with a cheerful spirit, and found his donkey and cart a great treasure, for now he could go into market three times a week with the produce of his little plot of ground. It pained him sorely to leave school, but duty called, and the obedient spirit submitted. The delicacies from the Hall kept his mother well supplied, and with the strong faith of a Gordon, he could labor, wait, and even rejoice. The boy of seventeen, under the discipline of trial, and the teaching of a holy mother, seemed to have reached the maturity of riper years; and Mrs. Bruce felt that she might lean upon him with affectionate trust, as the instrument which God had chosen to cheer her declining days.

Autumn was now rapidly closing around them, and Madeline, with her elastic step and bird-like voice, frequently crossed the door-sill of the cottage, always lighting it up with her bright, hopeful face, and leaving behind her the sweet echoes of her own joyous nature.

Full of hope for her friends, her merry spirit kept the family all alive at the Hall. Her young friends were to stay until Christmas, and Madeline promised them great sport should there be snow enough for a sleigh-ride.

Tony Willikins, her warm admirer at school, often stepped in at Woodcliff to pay his respects, and having seen Mademoiselle at church, and met her occasionally in her walks with Madeline, that prankish little girl had contrived to bring about quite an intimacy between the two. Many a bouquet that was sent for Madeline was conveyed to Mademoiselle, with Tony's compliments; and Tony himself was often chagrined, on seeing the French teacher innocently wearing the flowers intended for the roguish child.

Tony had somehow learned a few French phrases, and, much to the amusement of our young friends, he made a barbarous use of his slim stock of language, not at all aware of his false pronunciation.

His salutation of "Maddymorthelle," always set our young friend in a titter; and his persevering efforts taxed Mademoiselle's French politeness to the utmost.

Poor Tony was a complete butt for Madeline and Lavinia, and many a joke did they play upon the unconscious youth.

One afternoon, Tony paid them a visit in what he considered splendid costume.

He had been told that small-clothes were to be the fashion that winter, so, to be ahead of all others, had ordered a new suit of clothes; and presented himself at Woodcliff in black tights, with black silk stockings, pumps, silver knee and shoe buckles, and, to crown all, a pair of blue glasses, which he had been told was becoming; he wore also a fancy-colored guard ribbon, and a diamond pin. Tony thought himself irresistible; and when Madeline entered the parlor, and saw the ludicrous figure, it was next to impossible to restrain her laughter.

At that moment, fortunately, Fanfan performed some of her amusing pranks, which gave Maddy an opportunity of indulging her risible faculties, and if Tony had not been such a weak youth, he might have seen that the laugh continued much longer than Fanfan's oft-repeated tricks could call forth.

"Mith Madeline, I want to thow you my new guard ribbonth," and Tony opened a package which contained every imaginable color.

"Which do you think the prettieth, mith?"

"I like blue; that is my favorite color."

Immediately Tony changed his scarlet guard for a blue one; and, much to the amusement of the young girls, he continued,

"Blue ith my color now."

"Won't you sing, Tony?" asked Madeline.

"Yeth, if Maddymorthelle will play for me. What shall I thing, mith?"

"'How can I leave thee!'" answered Madeline, with a merry twinkle.

"That is tho affecting, mith; I am afraid that I can't get through it, but I'll try."

Mademoiselle took her seat at the piano, and Tony commenced with a lisping, languishing tone to sing. Madeline was convulsed with laughter; and Tony, who saw her handkerchief covering her face, thought that she was deeply affected, and said,

"We had better not finith the thong, Maddymorthelle; it affecth Mith Maddyth' nervth."

Madeline could stand no more; jumping up, she ran out of the room to indulge her burst of laughter, which could no longer be restrained.

Lucy did not sympathize with the jokes played upon Tony, for his weakness was his misfortune; and with her correct principles, she could no more ridicule that, than she could a blind, deaf, or lame man; but Madeline had not yet learned to ask about the right or wrong of an action, the impulses of the moment yet ruled the child. Sometimes, the thought would cross her mind, that it might not be just right, but the love of fun prevailed over her light scruples.

* * * * *

The cold increased, and one morning, Madeline ran into Lavinia's room, saying,

"Get up, Lavinia, here is a grand snow-storm! Now for our promised ride."

They watched the progress of the storm anxiously; all day and night it continued, and by the next morning, the sleighs began to fly around the neighborhood.

At that moment, a sleigh stopped, and Tony, dismounting, invited the young ladies to take a ride.

"I will call about four o'clock, and we will ride up to the White Houth, take thupper, and return by moonlight."

Maddy ran to her aunt to obtain her consent, which was given on condition that she should make one of the party.

Accordingly, at the appointed hour, furred, tippeted, and well protected from the cold, our party set off in high glee.

"You can manage those spirited horses, I hope, Tony?" said Aunt Matilda.

"Don't be afraid, ma'am; I have driven them many a mile, and never had an acthident yet."

The ride was splendid, Madeline in wild spirits, and the whole party affected by her merry sallies.

Arrived at the White House, Tony ordered a supper, and, after a lively dance in one of the parlors, in which all joined but Lucy, they sat down to a nice supper, and then started for home.

There was a number of sleighs on the road, all travelling at full speed; Tony's animals were not to be passed. A large sleigh came dashing by. Tony tried to check the wild animals, but all in vain—on they rushed. Miss Matilda was in an agony of terror.

Utterly unable to manage them, they galloped on madly, till, bringing up on a snow-bank, they upset the party on the road-side, and raced furiously on, until overtaken by several men, who came to the rescue, and, after some time, succeeded in quieting the excited horses.

Miss Matilda was in a state of dreadful alarm; Mademoiselle Fouladoux deploring the condition of little Fanfan, who had accompanied the party; Madeline laughing at the adventure; Lavinia provoked; and Lucy quietly awaiting the return of Tony.

When the youth at length appeared, Mademoiselle threw up her hands, exclaiming, piteously,

"Oh, Monsieur Willikins! take us home; ma pauvre Fanfan will take a dreadful cold."

Tony wrapped the dog up in his foot muff, and proceeded home as rapidly as they could go with safety.

"We have had a jolly time, Mademoiselle," exclaimed Madeline. "I think the upset was the best part; none of us were hurt, and it was only a good joke after all."

Little did Maddy know of the sorrow that was wringing the young hearts at the cottage. Not having heard for several days, the next morning Madeline started to see her friends. On entering the house, no one was visible; all was quiet, and she proceeded up stairs to the widow's chamber. Propped up with pillows, with a face as pale as the white sheet, and laboring for breath, she beheld her humble friend. Effie was sitting on one side of the bed, close to her mother, and Roland was reading the Bible to his declining parent.

"'Let not your heart be troubled; ye believe in God, believe also in me; in my Father's house are many mansions.'" He stopped for one moment, but Madeline said, "Go on, Roland;" and, with his own rich voice, he proceeded to repeat a Psalm, "'I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help.'"

"My help cometh even from the Lord, who hath made heaven and earth," responded the mother, with uplifted eyes and hands clasped over her panting breast.

"Come here, Madeline, my dear child," said the fading Christian; "you see that it will not be long before I shall go home, and be no more seen; but remember what I tell you, that God is a sufficient refuge in this hour of trial, and the Saviour of sinners my all in all!"

"Can you look up still, dear Mrs. Bruce?" asked Madeline, with deep solemnity.

"Yes, my dear child; I know that he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep. 'He will not suffer the sun to smite thee by day, nor the moon by night,' that is the promise, Maddy, and I believe it with all my heart; 'his rod and his staff they comfort me.'"

"You will get better yet, Mrs. Bruce, I am sure," answered the child, "for I know that Roland and Effie pray for you, and God has promised to answer prayer."

"Yes, he will answer us, when we ask with submission to his will; his will now is made clear and plain, my days on earth are drawing swiftly to a close. I am ready and willing to depart and be with Jesus, which is far better than to stay here; but to leave my darlings, Maddy, is a sore trial. You will not forget them, dear, when I am gone."

"Forget your children! Never! I know none that I love so well; and so long as I live, they will find me, little Madeline, their true friend."

"Bless you! my dear child, for those kind words; they cheer my heart. I look upon them as an answer to my prayer; for this morning there was an hour of darkness, when I thought of them, especially of Effie; but now I can keep my eyes fixed upon Heaven, and bid adieu forever to earthly cares."

Effie was weeping bitterly, her mother turned her face towards her and said,

"Do not distrust our Heavenly Father, my child; he will comfort and sustain you; he has sent this dear little friend to us in our hour of sorrow." Turning to Madeline, she continued, "Tell your father, Maddy, that we shall never forget his kindness; for weeks your family physician has been attending me, sent by your father; he has done all that he can, but vain is the help of man."

Madeline was deeply impressed by the lesson of that solemn hour, for she had never been so near the presence of death before. From that hour, she spared no pains to administer to the comfort of her precious friend.

Betty, the old cook, was a kind-hearted woman, and daily prepared some little delicacy grateful to the invalid, which Madeline and Lucy took with their own hands.

Deep was the sorrow settling down upon the heart of Roland Bruce; for his mother was parent, friend, guide—his only earthly stay. When he looked into the wilderness of life without his mother, it did indeed seem a desolate, dreary waste. He sat looking upon the pale face regarding him with such a look of unutterable love.

"Roland, come sit by me; I have much to say to you while I have strength to speak."

He arose and seated himself close by his mother's side. "You are seventeen now, my son, with almost the character of a man; and, blessed be God! I believe that you are his dear child."

Roland took his mother's hand, and while tears rained over it, he replied,

"To you, dear mother, under God, I owe all that I am. I can never forget the lessons of wisdom, truth, trust in God, and heroic endurance that you have taught me by examples from the Bible, from the world, and especially from our own honored race."

"You must never forget your lineage, Roland; you are not descended from those who derive their greatness from outward show, magnificent adornment, or the pomp and equipage of courts. Your ancestors were trained in the humble manse, in the lowly cottage, among the rude mountains of Scotland, and their grandeur was moral only. They were born in the days when to be a spiritual Christian was to hold life very cheap—the spirit of those days has always distinguished our race, for in every generation, there has been a witness for God among the Gordons."

"I have never forgotten it, mother," answered Roland. "I think it is that which makes me think so little of the pomp of this world. I have never felt at all impressed by what I have seen at Woodcliff, because I contrast it all with the humble tomb-stone in that Scottish glen, and with all else that you have told me of the name of Gordon."

"I believe, my son, that God destines you for something good and great. Roland, remember what I mean by great; not rich or grand in earthly goods, or even in intellectual culture merely, but great in deeds of benefit to your race; in order to reach that point, spare no pains to obtain a good education."

"How shall I, mother? it is what I long for; but I have no money, no means, no influence. I am all alone."

"Where there is a will, there is a way, Roland. I do not wish you to have money or influential friends; I want you to have trust in God; this is the motto I leave with you, my son, 'Looking aloft;' remember it is your dying mother's motto; when discouraged, turn to that, and I am sure that you will prosper."

"Oh, mother! how shall I live without you? your voice is like a trumpet to me; it stirs the very depths of my soul; and when you speak, it seems as if I could dare anything. I never shall forget my feelings when you bade me read the inscription on the tomb-stone of our martyred ancestors; my soul seemed to take a great leap, and really to swell within my childish form. I felt as if I never could be low, or mean, or grovelling after that, and so I feel to-day; but what will it be when you are gone?" and Roland bowed his head and wept.

She laid her hand upon his head and said: "When I am gone, Roland, these memories will be with you, I know, 'to keep your soul from blight.' I have perfect confidence that God will keep his promise to me, and to you; he will guide you, I am sure; and though you may have sore trials, he will sustain my Roland, and make him a blessing to the world—too many twilight hours of consecration, too many seasons of dedication has my Father witnessed when Roland's name was itself a prayer, to allow one moment's doubt—not one of those sacred hours will ever be forgotten by our covenant-keeping God."

"Ob, what I am losing in you, my mother!"

"It is God's will, my son; perhaps by cutting you loose from all earthly dependence, he designs to cast you wholly upon himself—this is the way that you are to learn the blessedness of 'looking aloft.' Think what others have done who have risen from the humblest walks of life, and do likewise; only let all be done for the glory of God, not for your own exaltation, Roland. If it is ever in your power, I wish you to visit your home in Scotland; you have an aunt and cousin living there; there is some property also, and I think that it will be to your advantage to seek out your relations. There is an old friend of mine whom I should like you to see, Malcolm Graham; he would be a valuable friend. Above all things, get a good education; stop at no sacrifice; shrink from no labor."

Roland listened to his mother's words as though it were a voice from Heaven, and to him it was; for the message of that hour guided all his earthly destiny. He rose with reverence; his feelings were too deep for utterance; pressing a kiss on either cheek, and on the calm pale forehead, he left the room, and bowed by his bed-side, poured out his young soul in fervent prayer.

"What has been done, by the blessing of God, shall be done again," said Roland to himself—"'looking aloft,' trusting in God, I can do all things."

The resolution of that silent hour was sublime; it was known to none but God; but doubtless a record was entered in the book of God's remembrance which was never blotted out, never revoked; and the name of Roland Bruce was seen by angels signed to that recorded dedication, and sealed by the precious blood of the Redeemer.

From that day, the setting of life's sun to Mrs. Bruce was slow, sure, but glorious.

"One more charge, Roland," said the mother, after an hour's converse; "be faithful to Effie; I need scarcely tell you that; but she is a delicate flower, and must be tenderly cherished, Roland; and after I am gone, in my top drawer, tied with a black ribbon, you will see a package; it is for you, Roland: I can trust you with your mother's history."

Elsie Gibson had been absent for months from the neighborhood, but one evening suddenly she appeared at the cottage. She seemed much agitated on hearing how ill Mrs. Bruce was, and asked to see her.

Conducted to the dying chamber, and standing by the bedside, she took the pale withered hand that lay upon the bed-clothes, and said:

"Mary Bruce, this is a solemn hour; I trust that you are at peace with God."

"Blessed be my Saviour's name! I am; I have no fears for the future, no anxiety for the present; death is swallowed up in victory."

"Is there any message that you would send to any of your Scotch friends, Mary? I may go to Scotland ere long. Is there anything upon your mind, Mary?"

"There is no one near, Elsie, is there?" anxiously inquired the invalid.

"There is no one, Mary; we are all alone."

"If you ever see my brother or any of my relations, give my love, and tell them how happy were my dying moments—and now, Elsie, you knew my husband in former days—do you know that sometimes I have felt that he was not dead. He was so singular, sometimes I thought he was deranged; he became so gloomy in latter years, that I have thought perhaps he is not dead; we never heard of it certainly, and then the supplies which I received so long must have come from him."

"If he were alive, would you send him any message?"

"I should like to tell him that I freely forgive any unkindness which he showed to me. He had sore trials to rend his heart, and so had I, Elsie. If he is alive, and has forsaken his family, I forgive him that too; because, if he is, I believe that it was done in an hour of great depression, perhaps insanity."

Elsie listened earnestly to these words; a faint smile passed over her face, as she replied:

"I ken something o' your story, Mary; it was a sad one; very much like the song o' 'Auld Robin Gray;' but your sorrows are amaist owre, Mary; and on the ither side, a' will be plain and clear."

A few more days, and the ministering angel called for the faithful mother, and bore her peacefully, happily, over the swellings of Jordan, to the bosom of the Redeemer whom she loved.

Roland stood in the presence of the dead with solemn, tender dignity; for he felt that no common loss was his in parting with such a friend and counsellor in life's trials and sorrows; but his hopes of reunion were so strong, so bright, that time appeared but as a little span, at the end of which he should again meet the spirit of that sainted parent.

Effie was not so strong—poor, timid, loving child! It seemed to her as if life would weep itself away in the first burst of anguish that filled the chamber of the dead.

Aunt Matilda undertook the expenses of the widow's funeral, and the family at the Hall joined the humble procession.

Elsie Gibson was a sincere mourner, and made many mysterious remarks which none could explain.

About a week after the funeral, Roland and Effie bent their steps to the village grave-yard. When they came in sight of the grave, what was their surprise! to see Elsie and a man wrapped up in a heavy cloak, in earnest conversation. He stood with his handkerchief to his face, as though deeply affected; but as soon as Elsie perceived the approach of the two, she hurried away with her mysterious companion.

They were both surprised, and wondered who it could be thus interested in their mother. They were paying their last visit ere disposing of the furniture at the cottage.

Aunt Matilda had offered Effie a home, where she was to make herself useful with her needle. Roland was preparing to obey his mother's request of seeking an education. All was ready for his departure, and Madeline sent for him to come up to the cemetery in the evening. When reaching his mother's grave, there sat Madeline on the humble mound, at the head of which was placed a simple head-stone of white marble, with his mother's name and age inscribed, with the sweet words, "Asleep in Jesus."

"Is this your work, Madeline?" asked the boy.

"Yes, Roland; it was the last thing that I could do for you; you have been a faithful friend to me, and it is a small return."

"I cannot tell you, Madeline, how grateful I am for this act of kindness; it was a trial to me to think that my mother must lie in the grave without any sign to mark the place of her burial."

"When do you leave us, Roland?"

"Just as soon as my little stock at the cottage is disposed of; it is of very little value, but after all our debts are paid, what is left is for Effie, I can take care of myself. I shall be all alone in the great world, Maddy, but it will be a comfort to know that you, my little friend, will not forget me."

Madeline's eyes filled with tears. "That cannot be, Roland; all that I know of anything that is good and holy began with you; when I first knew you, I scarcely knew the difference between right and wrong."

"There is one thing I want you to promise, Maddy, and that is to read your Bible morning and evening, praying for God to help you to understand what you read."

"That is a small request, Roland, and I promise that I will let nothing interfere with the duty."

"May our Father bless you, Maddy, and have you always in his holy keeping. I shall never cease to pray for you."

"Where are you going, Roland?"

"To college, Maddy, where I hope to gain a classical education. My mother charged me to strive for that, and with my eyes fixed upon heaven, I hope to succeed."

"Have you any money, Roland?"

The boy smiled as he replied, "In the bank of Heaven, Maddy."

"What do you mean by that, Roland?"

"I mean that there are promises made to God's children—dear mother has always told me that God's word can never fail—so his bank can never break, Maddy."

"I shall miss you, Roland, when my naughty fits come. I shall want you to show me how to conquer myself."

"You must not lean on any human arm; there is one strong arm, Maddy; the one that conquered sin, Satan and death."

"That is Jesus, Roland. I wish that my faith in him was just like yours."

"Pray, Maddy, that he would give you faith; he is the author and finisher of our faith. Do you remember any of the little songs that I have taught you, Maddy?"

"Yes, Roland, I remember them all; I shall get the music, and learn them perfectly now."

"Let us sing together our last song, Maddy," and Roland's rich voice, with Madeline's sweet, clear notes, joined in the dear old song,

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
In days o' lang syne!
For auld lang syne, my Jo,
For auld lang syne;
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne."

Maddy's voice trembled, and ere they reached the last verse she bowed her head and wept.

Roland put his hand in his pocket, and drew out the likeness which Madeline had brought from Boston for his mother.

"Here is the face of my kind little friend," said the boy, "I shall often talk to it when far away."

"I have nothing but the sea-weed and the shells to look at, Roland; but in my heart the memory of all the wise and precious things which you have taught me."

"It is time for me to go now, Maddy. Good-bye; I am sure that we shall meet again."

Madeline looked up with such a bright smile through her tears, and said.

"Remember, Roland, what I have always said, that you will come back to Woodcliff a great man; and I shall be so glad to see the upstarts around us bowing down to Roland Gordon Bruce, the son of poor widow Bruce. Good-bye, Roland; I shall never forget the lessons of Maple Lane School, or the happy days that we have spent together." Giving her hand to Roland, they exchanged a parting clasp, and Madeline turned to leave the cemetery.

Roland sat down upon his mother's grave, and watched the childish form until she was seen no more; then, bowing his head upon his hands, he could no longer restrain the silent tears that would chase each other down his cheeks.

"Thus fade my earthly friends," sighed the boy; "first my mother, then Madeline, this precious little friend, then Effie, my darling sister, next, and I shall be alone—a waif upon the wide, wide world; but no, not a waif while God lives and my Saviour reigns, for, blessed be his name! I can trust him still."

The little stock at the cottage was soon disposed of, and after all their mother's debts were paid, nothing remained but a few dollars, which Effie insisted Roland should take with him in his first encounter with the world. Effie was comfortably settled at Woodcliff, Roland stayed at old Peter's cabin a day or two, and Lucy and Lavinia had returned to Boston.

"A letter from papa, dear aunt," exclaimed Maddy; "he is in New York, and will be here to-night," and she was nearly wild with delight. "Won't I surprise him with a morning serenade on my harp!" and she had it brought into the room adjoining her father's, that she might awake him in the morning with her music.

There was no more composure for Madeline during the whole of that day—busy in her father's chamber, and in the library to see that all was prepared for his comfort, adding, as the last touch, some sweet flowers for both rooms. Madeline tried to settle herself to some employment, but all in vain, until she uncovered her harp; practising some of her best pieces, she spent the rest of the morning in preparing for her serenade. Evening at length arrived, and with it her dear father. Folded once more in his arms, Madeline was perfectly happy for the moments following his arrival.

The evening was spent in showing the beautiful things that Mr. Hamilton had brought for Madeline and her aunt; nor was Effie forgotten by the kind man.

"Something will arrive to-morrow, Maddy, that I could not bring with me, on account of its bulk; I know that it will please you best of all."

Handsome dresses, laces, gloves, and jewelry were lavished upon the idolized child.

Mr. Hamilton was a happy man, once more seated in the midst of his family—fatigued, he retired early to rest; and, rising early in the morning, stood at his window to enjoy the beauty of a magnificent sunrise. While quietly looking upon the scene, he thought that he heard the sound of very low, sweet music; for a moment, it ceased; and he thought that he must have been mistaken; but again it swelled out in deep rich chords of melody, accompanied by a charming voice—it seemed very near, certainly in the next room. Opening the door, what was his surprise to see Madeline, in her night-dress, seated at a harp, performing most delightfully, and singing a song of welcome for her father. He listened in delighted silence until the close, then exclaimed,

"Why, my daughter! what does all this mean? How in the world did you accomplish all this without my knowledge?"

"It was commenced in Boston, papa; and during your absence, I have applied myself diligently, determined to surprise you."

"Well, truly! I think that the fairies must have been very busy, Maddy, both with you and me."

"Why with you, dear papa? Have you been learning too, without my knowledge?"

"You will know to-day what I mean, dear; but really, you could have done nothing that could have pleased me better, than this pleasant surprise."

Mr. Hamilton seemed to be very frequently at the front door, watching evidently for an arrival; at length, Madeline's curiosity to know what was coming, was about to be satisfied, for a wagon turned into the avenue, bringing a very large and singularly-shaped packing-box.

It was brought into the house and soon opened, when, to Madeline's surprise, an elegant French harp appeared.

Throwing her arms around her father's neck she exclaimed,

"Thank you, dear, dear, papa; this is just what I wanted! How in the world did you know it?"

"Did I not tell you, Maddy, that the fairies must have been very busy? But, candidly, I have always intended that you should study my favorite instrument, and have brought you one of the finest that I could obtain in Paris."

"Is it not delightful that I have been taking lessons, papa? Now I can send away the old harp, and have my own."

For some weeks, Madeline was busily occupied with her beautiful instrument; but Mr. Hamilton was obliged to yield at last to the conviction, that he must part for a few years with his darling child, if she was ever to be properly educated for the sphere in which she was destined to move, for, under the weak guidance of Aunt Matilda, that could never be.

As soon as he could obtain the co-operation of good Aunt Clara, a suitable boarding-school was solicited, and, after due preparation, Madeline was sent from home, to remain until her education should be completed. It was a sore trial to both parent and child, and the parting nearly overcame the resolution of the father, who could scarcely endure the loneliness of Woodcliff without his darling. Poor Effie would also be very lonely, but Aunt Matilda was really kind at heart, and imposed nothing upon the young girl, but what she was fully competent to perform.

CHAPTER XI.

A MOTHER'S LIFE SORROW.

Madeline had been gone for some days, and Roland had nearly completed his arrangements. He saw much of Effie, for the few remaining hours were precious to both.

"Effie, meet me this evening in the cemetery, I wish to read you our mother's manuscripts."

Effie promised. The last evening had arrived, and the orphans met upon their mother's grave, for the sad farewell. Roland untied the black ribbon, and commenced reading:—

"When you read these lines, my dear children, my mortal remains will be sleeping in the quiet grave, but I myself shall be with Jesus, and that is enough of bliss for an immortal spirit. I have thought it wise to make you acquainted with the history of my early life. You know that my father was the minister of the parish where I was born. He was a wise and holy man, and gave me all the advantages of a good education. My mother died when I was young, but my Aunt Ellen, my father's sister, came to take charge of the manse, and to bring up the motherless children. She was an excellent woman, and faithfully performed the part of a mother.

"I had a cousin, named Malcolm Graham, to whom I had been most tenderly attached from my earliest childhood. We had roamed our native mountains, and sailed upon our Scottish lakes together; we had walked from earliest days to the house of God in company, had sang from the same hymn-book, and had joined the church on the same day. We sang the same Scottish songs, loved the same wild stories of our martyred ancestors. In fine, we were as one soul; no love was ever purer, holier, deeper than that which filled our young hearts for each other.

"My father and my aunt were blinded; they had been so accustomed to look upon us as brother and sister, that nothing could have surprised my father more, than when Malcolm came to ask that the current of our lives might henceforth flow in one calm, holy channel.

"'It canna' be, Malcolm; you are owre near akin; I could na' ask the Master's blessing upon sic a union.'

"'Oh, Uncle Gordon, ye canna' break your Mary's heart, by sic an answer?'

"'Why did I na' ken this before? I might ha' seen it a'.'

"Malcolm pleaded his cause earnestly; my father loved us both tenderly. At the end of a week, he gave his unwilling consent, on the ground that, as he had blindly allowed the intimacy, he had not the heart to say nay, and we were betrothed.

"At the same time, Stephen Bruce, the son of my father's most intimate friend, renewed his addresses, for since I had grown to early womanhood, he had twice a-year, offered his hand, and been refused. This was the man that my father favored. He was a reserved and rather gloomy man, but his love for me was an all-absorbing passion. He had a good moral character, was well off in the world, and moreover, was the son of my father's bosom friend. Malcolm was poor in the possessions of the world, but rich in all that could ennoble and dignify a man. There was but little prospect of his rising in the world, in an obscure part of Scotland. An opportunity offered for him to enter upon a lucrative situation in China; he accepted; my heart sank within me, for I felt that a wide ocean would soon separate us, and I feared that I should never see the face of Malcolm Graham again.

"My father encouraged the step. I could see the secret joy of Stephen Bruce, and I felt as if I could never consent. But Malcolm was young and hopeful; he saw at the end of his long exile, a sweet happy home among our native mountains, where we should share life's joys and sorrows; and, at last, I became reconciled to the thought.

"We parted at the sweet trysting place where we had so often met in the happy days of our young affection. On the banks of the lake, near our quiet home, stood a clump of old trees, whose branches dipped gracefully in the placid water.

"Thither we walked slowly to spend our last sad hours. I wore the light blue snood of a Scottish maiden, which somewhat confined my curls.

"'Shall I hae one, Mary?' asked my cousin.

"I cut one from my head, and tied it with a piece of the blue ribbon of my snood.

"Malcolm placed it in a little pocket-book, and laid it away in his bosom.

"After hours of silent weeping, he bade me farewell, and I felt as if a load of lead sank down into my heart, as I watched his retreating form until he vanished from my sight.

"For two years, letters came regularly; all bright, encouraging, hopeful; he was fast acquiring a fortune, and would return in another year. In the meanwhile, Stephen Bruce increased his assiduities; I could not banish him from the house, because he was the son of my father's friend. In another year, a letter announced that Malcolm would sail in the ship Neptune for Liverpool, and that I might expect him in October, when I must be ready to fulfil my vow. I was a happy creature then; all the intervening time was passed in making my simple preparations.

"Aunt Ellen was a thrifty housekeeper, and took great pride in the quantity of bed and table-linen which her niece must have. I was occupied chiefly with my wardrobe. My father did not seem much rejoiced, for he had never given up his Scotch prejudice against the marriage of first cousins; but he was a man of too much integrity to break a given promise. The summer passed, the falling leaves were musical to me, for they brought October; the month passed, but no news of the Neptune. November passed in the same manner. December began to drag its cold and dreary days along, but still no news. At length, one morning, my father entered the family parlor with a grave countenance, and a newspaper in his hand. 'Ellen, will you come into my study?' said my father to my aunt.

"My heart gave a sudden bound; for I had long been so anxious, that even the fluttering of a leaf would affect me. I saw my father's face; it was ominous. Aunt Ellen returned, and sitting down by my side, she said, tenderly, 'Mary, can ye bear bad news?'

"'What is it, Aunt Ellen?' I replied, starting to my feet; 'tell me, tell all; anything is better than suspense.'

"She laid her hand upon my young head, and softly smoothed the rippling hair that lay upon my forehead and down my temples.

"'The Neptune has foundered at sea, Mary, and Malcolm Graham is among the missing.'

"I heard no more; for hours I lay stunned and insensible; for weeks, between life and death. At length, a good constitution, under the direction of a wise but inscrutable Providence, triumphed, and I awoke to take up the duties of my daily life with a sad and chastened spirit.

"My father redoubled his kindness; but it was evident that Malcolm's removal was a relief.

"The only request I made was: 'Do not allow Stephen Bruce to visit the manse; I could not bear it.'

"My request was complied with. During all this time, I never wholly lost my hope; I would say to myself: 'Among the missing, not the lost; Malcolm may yet be alive.'

"Two years of silent sorrow passed—the light of my life had gone out. I busied myself about my father's house, my brother's clothes, and in the duties belonging to me, as the minister's daughter; but joy had passed away.

"I seldom saw Stephen Bruce, excepting at church; but I knew that my father visited him. Occasionally I met him by the road-side, but he never joined me.

"This delicacy of conduct gained my respect; and when my father at last requested, for his own sake, that the son of his old friend might visit him, I consented; for my father had been very kind to me.

"He came occasionally, was always polite and respectful to me, nothing more.

"At the close of the third year, after Malcolm's loss, my father called me to him, and said: 'My daughter, I hae tried to be considerate and kind to ye; I hae placed nae compulsion upon your inclinations; now, I hae ane request to make; will ye not allow Stephen to renew his addresses? He is just as devoted to you as ever; he has luved ye faithfully for ten years, ever since yer childish days. If his devotion and worth can na overcome yer repugnance, or rather indifference, I hae nae mair to say; but it would please yer father if ye would allow him to renew his visits to ye personally.'

"'Give me a week to think of it, father; that is all I ask.'

"At the end of that time, I agreed to my father's proposal. I felt that all my love was in the deep ocean buried with Malcolm Graham, and that duty must henceforth rule my life; to please my father only, I consented. Stephen was very considerate, but I saw that the same devotion filled his heart. He was so anxious to please, so humble, so undemonstrative, that I could not but pity him. I treated him with kindness, and sometimes even with tenderness; then he was so grateful for the smallest act, that it touched my woman's heart.

"At last, when in trembling tones he ventured once more to urge his suit, I did not discourage him; I simply told him to wait. "'Bless ye, Mary! e'en for that,' was the grateful answer.

"At the close of the fourth year, I consented to become his wife. He wept in the fulness of his joy, and my father was happy; but the name of Malcolm Graham could never be mentioned in his presence. If by chance it was, dark frowns would lower on his brow, and it was at all times a forbidden subject.

"He was a kind husband, and I tried to be a faithful wife; but in the twilight gloaming there were times when the memory of my cousin poured over my heart like a flood.

"The next year after our marriage, you were sent, Roland, to form a new tie between us. You were a lovely babe, and your mother was proud of the sweet infant that smiled upon her from his cradle.

"Stephen Bruce was a handsome man, Roland, and you were like him; the same profusion of dark hair, the same dark eyes; but there was always about you, Roland, an open frankness, that never characterized your father. He was constitutionally reserved and taciturn, often gloomy.

"Our married life flowed smoothly along for two years. We lived at the manse; for my father could not part from his only daughter. He was very fond of little Roland, and the presence of a baby in the house was a sunbeam across his path.

"One very stormy winter evening, I was rocking my little boy to sleep, singing some sweet cradle-song. The wind howled fearfully without, and the snow came down in heavy drifts. I heard a footstep on the little porch in front of the manse; it seemed to be a man knocking off the snow before entering.

"The family dog gave a familiar bark of joy, and a voice that I thought drowned in the deep ocean said: 'Down, Shep! down, sir.' My heart stood still. The next moment, the door opened, and Malcolm Graham stood before me. He extended his arms.

"'Mary! Mary!' he cried, 'hae ye na welcome?'

"I started to my feet; I am sure that my eyes must have glared with terror. I sank upon the chair by the side of the cradle, and pressing my hand upon my heart, continued gazing. I was speechless with terror and grief.

"'What is in that cradle, Mary?'

"'It is my child, my babe, Malcolm.'

"'Tell me its name, Mary Gordon.'

"'Roland Gordon Bruce,' I answered, in trembling tones.

"He struck his head with both his hands in anguish—'Hae I come home for this? Oh, Mary! how could ye sae forget me?'

"'I thought you dead, Malcolm; and by this marriage, I have made my father happy.'

"'Look here, Mary!' said the wretched man. Opening his vest, he took out an old worn pocket-book, from which he drew the lock of golden hair, tied with the faded ribbon of the maiden's snood, that I gave him on the night of our parting.

"'I hae never parted with it, Mary, and it shall go wi' me to my grave.'

"I was near fainting; no words can paint the anguish of that hour.

"'Go, Malcolm, go; you must not be seen here. I cannot even shelter you from the storm. I can pray for you, Malcolm, but we must meet no more.'

"My cousin advanced—before I could prevent it, he clasped me to his bosom, pressed one last kiss upon my icy forehead, and in another minute was gone.

"Alas! alas! just as he passed out, my husband entered. He knew him—it was Malcolm Graham, the one whom he had always feared as his rival in the affections of the one he loved.

"'How dare he enter this house?' was the first salutation.

"'He thought that I lived here yet as Mary Gordon, husband. You have no reason to fear either him or her whom you call by the sacred name of wife.'

"He was pale with anger; fire shot from his dark eyes. I was terrified. I walked up to Stephen Bruce, and laid my hand upon his arm.

"'Stephen, am I not your wedded wife? wedded in the sight of Heaven! do you think that I, Mary Gordon, the descendant of heroic martyrs, can ever forget her plighted faith, plighted before God's holy altar?'

"'No, Mary, you will not forget your duty as a wife; but your heart is wi' Malcolm Graham, your early luve.'

"'Stephen, Malcolm is dead to me—we shall never meet again. I do not wish him to cross our path.'

"From that hour our domestic peace was at an end. The family malady had certainly made its appearance in the case of my unhappy husband. I was kind, affectionate, attentive to all his wants. I hushed the voice of memory, and learned to be even cheerful in the performance of daily duties. I looked upward daily, hourly, Roland, and I was sustained in my hour of trial.

"I begged my father to see Malcolm, and tell him to keep out of my husband's way. He explained all to the unhappy man, and related his sad story.

"He had been wrecked, taken prisoner, and landed in Algiers, without the possibility of communicating one line to his friends.

"In company with six others, after an absence of seven years, he had made his escape. He promised my father to leave the country, for he saw that with the fancy which had seized my husband's brain, nothing else could restore domestic harmony. Accordingly he went, but the evening before, I was sitting in the parlor of the manse. It was autumn—the windows were open, and I was alone. I saw the figure of a man walking slowly up the path that led to the house. He crossed the porch, and for one minute, stood gazing in at the window. It was Malcolm Graham. He held up once more the golden lock.

"'Farewell, Mary; I cannot gae without your blessing.'

"'God bless you forever and ever,' was the reply which burst from my trembling lips. He walked hastily away, stood at the gate for one moment, waved his hand, and was gone.

"I hoped for peace now that he had left the country. While he was in Scotland, your father would sit for hours gloomy and silent without exchanging a word; then he would suddenly take his hat, and set out to search for Malcolm, imagining that he was always lurking about the manse. And even after he had gone, I could not regain his confidence.

"The memory of my poor cousin was the shadow in your father's life, the ghost that haunted him day and night.

"Malcolm was gone for several years, but your father never wholly recovered his spirits.

"In the meanwhile, Effie was born, and the duties of daughter, wife and mother fully engrossed my daily life.

"When you were about nine years old, Malcolm suddenly returned. He was now a rich man; he bought a home, furnished it, and took home a widowed sister and child to preside over his household.

"Life had disciplined his Christian character; he was cheerful and serene. It made me happy to hear that he was foremost in all the schemes for good around the neighborhood, and the name of Malcolm Graham was everywhere revered.

"He was often called 'the good old bachelor,' for though many mammas would have liked to place their daughters at the head of his establishment, it was evident that no such thoughts ever disturbed the dreams of 'good Uncle Malcolm.'

"From the time that he returned, your father's gloom and restlessness increased. The mania had seized upon him again, and nothing would do, but that the wide ocean must separate his wife from the country where Malcolm lived, although we had no kind of social intercourse. We met at church, and that was all. Much to my aged father's grief, hasty preparations were made to go to America.

"He was devoted to me and my dear children, and could not bear the thoughts of my leaving home and dear friends to embark upon the ocean, and go to seek a home in a strange country, with a man so gloomy and suspicious as your father had become.

"But during all these trials, my God sustained me, and while conscious of being in the path of duty, I was even cheerful.

"We left Scotland; for awhile we lived comfortably, and your father's malady seemed to diminish. One drawback there was always to my happiness, and that was, that your father seemed so anxious to break up all connection with Scotland, that I was not allowed to write home for months, for fear that I should hear something about Malcolm.

"At length he returned to Scotland, for the purpose of settling his affairs, and making America his permanent home. On the voyage back again, the vessel was lost, and no word was ever heard from him again.

"About this time, poor Elsie Gibson appeared among us. I never could understand why or how it was, but she always seemed acquainted with our affairs, and interested in all that concerned us. There came regular remittances, they seemed to come from New York, and were left at our door in the evening. At last I observed that Elsie Gibson appeared among us in a day or two after these packages came, and always contrived to find out about their safe arrival. At last they ceased altogether, and then came the days of poverty and trial, which you, my darlings, have patiently shared. I wrote home frequently, but received no answers.

"Several times there have been mysterious visits at night around our dwelling; once or twice have I seen the figure of a man peeping in at our window, and many other circumstances have led me to conjecture that your father may yet be alive, and that Elsie Gibson knows something about him. She told me that your dear grandfather died soon after your father disappeared, and although we heard once or twice from Aunt Ellen, that ceased also, and I fear that she is no more.

"If it is in your power, Roland, I wish you to seek your friends in Scotland; there must be some left. I have told you this sad story, my dear children, first because I want to warn you both of forming connections for life, with any one, for any other reason save that of deliberate heartfelt choice. I acted from what I supposed to be duty; it was productive of happiness to none concerned.

"And another reason is, that by telling you my supposition that your father may yet be alive, Roland may try all that is in his power to find out the truth, and to comfort that afflicted parent, for if he is in the land of the living, he is in sorrow, of that I am sure.

"Nothing beside death could separate him so permanently from us, but the malady which I have always dreaded. And now, my dear children, let me once more bid you, in every hour of sore affliction through which you may be called to pass, look upward; upward for direction, upward for comfort, upward for hope. God is 'the Father of the fatherless;' remember the sweet promise, 'When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up.' I can leave you in his gracious care. 'May he guide you with his counsel here, and, after that, receive you to glory.'

"I have done with earthly care and sorrow. I wait for you, my loved ones; I know that you will come to me, and that with our precious Saviour throughout eternity we shall rejoice as much in the sorrows that we have suffered, as in the joys vouchsafed, if they have helped to bring us home to glory.

"I need not say, do not forget your mother; I know that you will not. Keep close to your Saviour. Let your motto always be, 'Looking aloft,' 'Looking aloft;' through joy and through sorrow, still 'Looking aloft.'"

After closing the manuscript, both the orphans sat weeping upon their mother's grave.

"How quietly she sleeps! dear, tried, and patient mother!" said Roland. "How blessed is her rest in that world of peace and love! Do not weep so, Effie, God is in Heaven; do not lose sight of his promises; have they ever failed, dear sister? He will take care of us, he will guide us, I know, if we put our trust in him."

"I am so weak, Roland; since I have lost our mother, I feel as if I was all alone in the wide world; and now you are going too."

"But I shall come back, Effie; I may have a great many trials and disappointments, but I can trust the hand that guided Noah, and Daniel, and Elijah, that delivered Peter, and so many of his dear servants; and Effie, don't let us doubt his love, when, to make the promises sure, he gave up his dear Son, and nailed him to the cross to make his word, 'Yea and Amen.'"

"I'll try, Roland, to be trustful as you; but I am a weak and timid disciple."

"Just think, Effie, that every drop of precious blood was just like setting the seal to all the blessed promises; and do you believe that the Saviour who could die for us would ever forget us?"

"How you comfort me, Roland; your words are always so kind, so strong."

"Don't let us forget our sainted mother's motto, Effie, 'Looking aloft!' Oh, what blessedness in such a holy trust!"

While seated thus, Roland perceived Elsie Gibson advancing towards them. When any change was about to take place in their earthly destiny, there was always the same old friend. They could not fathom the mystery; but so it was.

"And sae ye are aboot to leave us, Roland," said the old woman; "ye are the chiel o' mony prayers, and belang to the race o' the righteous. I dinna fear for ye, my bairn."

"I do not fear, Elsie; I am almost penniless, but the promises are all the same."

"I hae something for ye, Roland," continued the old woman, and taking a gold watch from her pocket, she continued, "It is your ain; dinna part with it, my son."

Roland examined it, and found inside the case the initials of S.B. It was a handsome article, and Roland's wonder was unbounded. S.B., what could that mean? And how was it that Elsie Gibson, so poor a woman, could afford to give him a watch?

"Where did this watch come from?" asked Roland, "and what right have I to such a gift?"

"Dinna fash yoursel aboot it, Roland; it is by right your ain, and some day ye'll ken how——. I shall like to hear o' your welfare, my dear bairn."

"I thank you, Elsie, for your kindness to us all. God will bless you, I am sure."

"May the widow's God be wi' ye, Roland, thro' a' your wanderings in the wilderness," and shaking hands warmly with both the orphans, she vanished from the cemetery. None had ever traced the old woman to her home, if home she had.

"Farewell now, Effie," said her brother, as he folded his sister in a warm embrace.

She could not speak, but lay on his bosom overpowered with the grief of parting.

"Take me home, Roland," said the poor child, and they walked in silence to the gate at Woodcliff. One more embrace in silence, one long, agonized kiss, and Effie turned up the avenue with a heart too full for utterance.

Mother, brother, Madeline—all gone. Nothing was left to the desolate orphan but her Father in Heaven.

CHAPTER XII.

STARS IN THE NIGHT SEASON.

Out on the wide, wide world. Roland could not but feel the loneliness, as at the early dawn, with nothing but a few clothes packed up in an old carpet bag, and a few dollars in his pocket, he turned his face away from what had once been home. It had cost him, youth that he was, many an anxious thought and weary hour of toil, to help to keep it up; but it was the dear spot where a mother smiled and a sister cheered his return.

He had paid his last visit, fastened the cottage windows, locked the door, and turned to leave the little home. But what is that lying on the front porch? it looks like a familiar object. He stoops to pick it up. It is a little book that his mother daily used, "Clark on the Promises." Many a pencil mark is on its pages, and many a finger print pressed there by a hand that lies mouldering in the grave. He lays it away among his treasures, and turns his footsteps towards the sea-shore.

The lonely dashing of the waters at that early hour sounded so drearily, and recalled most forcibly the beautiful lines of Tennyson.

"Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, oh sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

"O, well for the fisherman's boy
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay

"And the stately ships go on,
To their haven under the hill,
But oh, for the touch of a vanished hand!
And the sound of a voice that is still.

"Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, oh sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead,
Will never come back to me."

He mounted the rock once more, leaned against the flagstaff, and looked out dreamily upon the wide expanse of ocean, emblem to him of the untried world beyond. Then he turned to look upon the spot where he had first seen Madeline in all her childish grace. It had been a sweet dream with which to commence his young life—a peep into a home of elegance and refinement—a year's communion with a fresh young spirit, so free, so wild, so guileless. Some pleasant thoughts stirred in the soul of the youth, and caused a smile to flit across his face, as he felt that perhaps he might have awakened in that bright child some incipient longings after a better life.

Then his thoughts turned to the reality; the hard, stern reality, the battle of life, so soon to commence.

"These bright things are not for me," sighed Roland; "they might enervate my character. God knows that it will be better schooled in the path which strikes the steel within. What a precious talisman my dear mother has left me, 'Looking aloft!' upward where I see the works of the Creator, the smiles of God; upward, where I see the path trodden by all the good and great of the earth; you shall never be ashamed of your son, mother." The word "mother" was spoken audibly, the holy name stirred up the depths of Roland's soul, and he wept aloud.

It was but a moment of indulgence; for, taking up his carpet-bag, he commenced his journey on foot. And whither? like faithful Abraham, he went out, not knowing whither he went.

He had heard of a neighboring college about one hundred and fifty miles off, where the President, himself a self-made man, had sympathy with struggling aspirants.

"I can but try," thought the youth; "I'll go trusting, and I may succeed."

All day long he journeyed with a springing, elastic step, for hope was strong within him. He stopped to take his meals, and to read a verse or two in his mother's precious book of the promises. When evening approached, Roland began to cast about for a night's lodging. He did not want to spend his money, he had so little; that he must keep for his books. But what to do? He could not sleep out upon the ground, it was too cold.

Not far off, he perceived a neat-looking farm-house. Two or three children were playing about in the front lawn; the mother, a pleasant looking woman, came to the door, and with such a kind, cheerful voice called in her little ones to tea, that Roland felt she will not refuse me a place in her barn. I can but ask. He walked directly up to the front door with a firm, manly step, and knocked. The mistress of the house appeared.

"I called to ask, ma'am, if you will allow me to sleep in your barn to-night; I have walked twenty miles to-day, and have no place where to rest."

Mrs. Romaine was really a kind woman, but here was a stranger, "Would it be safe?"

"Where is thee going, my boy?"

"I am on my road to College, ma'am, and I have yet one hundred and thirty miles to travel."

"Going to College, my son, and no means to pay for a night's lodging; thee must be a brave boy to start on such an errand."

"My mother told me to stop at nothing to get a good education; it was on her death-bed, madam, and I will do any thing to obtain such a blessing."

"Don't thee know it takes money to go through college? But thee must be tired; come, sit down, my son; what is thy name?"

"Roland Bruce."

"How does thee expect to get through, Roland?"

"I can work, madam," said Roland, with a bright smile. "I am very strong, and very willing; and I have my mother's motto to work by."

"What is that, Roland?"

"'Looking aloft,' madam; it is a strong tower."

He was in New England, where sympathy with one thus anxious was sure to meet a response.

"Thee can stay with us, Roland, to-night, but not in a barn; we have a little room where thee can sleep. But come in, thee must be hungry."

And the kind woman led her guest out to the tea-table, where a comfortable repast was already spread.

"What can thee do, Roland, in the way of work?"

"I can make fires, black boots, saw wood, etc.; and, I suppose that there must be plenty of such work in a college."

"But suppose the boys look down upon thee, Roland?"

"I can afford to let them, if I get all the knowledge I want; they won't do it always; I am above getting angry at them, madam."

"Thee is a strange boy, Roland; so humble, and yet so proud, too."

"I am afraid that there is not so much humility as there seems to be about me; for all this stooping down is but to rise at last; I shall be thinking of that all the time."

"When thee is ready, I will show thee thy room, Roland."

They sat and chatted pleasantly for another hour, and, when Roland saw the family making preparations for retiring, he followed his kind hostess to a snug little room, opening out on a front balcony.

Roland was too full of earnest thought for sleep; so, taking a chair, he seated himself alone on the balcony.

The family had all retired; quiet reigned around. It was a clear, cold night, and the bright stars shone out, and spangled the heavens with their radiant constellations Roland looked upward, and listened to their voiceless eloquence.

How long had they continued their silent march of glory?

Centuries had rolled by, and year after year had they travelled the same wondrous circles, with the same marvellous precision. The north star had pointed the mariner on the stormy deep, to his desired haven. Orion, with his glorious belt of stars, on the same day of the month, at the same hour, might ever be seen in the same point of the heavens; the beauteous Pleiades, obedient too, wheeled in their wondrous course. Ursa Major, at all times, might be looked upon as a familiar friend; and amid them all, the grand planets had joined the mysterious dance of the universe. Orbit within orbit, sun beyond sun, each the centre of other solar systems, had wheeled into their wondrous revolutions; obedient to the same laws, without confusion, without noise, (for great works are ever noiseless,) from century to century; and to-night, guided by the same Omnipotent hand, amid the unceasing silent whirl, Roland sits and listens to their eloquent teachings.

"These are material things," thought Roland, "destined at last to be rolled up like a scroll and pass away, but I am an immortal. These transient orbs are the objects of His unceasing care, and shall I, an immortal being, fear to trust my all in His wise and gracious hands? His providence, with its myriad of wheels, is just as surely guided as are these heavenly orbs. I remember the night when my mother showed me these bright constellations, and the very lesson that she taught me. I can look upward to-night, and recall it all. Stars in the night season speak comforting words. It seemed dark night when I left Woodcliff, but the stars are shining around my path, as well as in the heavens; for was it not the good providence of God that led me to this sweet chamber, when all I hoped for was a barn?"

Thus communed Roland with the starry heavens, and, after having committed himself in perfect trust to the care of his Heavenly Father, he laid him down and slept in peace. "So he giveth his beloved sleep."

By the dawn of day he was astir, and after an early breakfast, prepared once more for his journey.

"Thee will have a pleasant day, Roland; it is clear and cold, and bracing to a young frame like thine."

Roland bade his kind hostess good-bye with a grateful heart.

"You have cheered me with your kind words, Mrs. Romaine, and the blessing of the orphan's God will be upon you."

"Farewell, Roland; I hope thee will be successful; many of our great men have started just as thee has."

Roland did not draw upon his provisions again until the middle of the day, when to his surprise he found that a large stock of substantials had been added to his store.

Twice in the course of his journey he slept in a barn; he had met with some rough treatment, but enough of kindness to show that a good Providence was guiding his steps.

At the close of the sixth day, Roland came in sight of the college walls.

A number of the students were strolling on the lawn in front of the building. Several scrutinized him closely, but Roland walked steadily forward, with head erect, and firm step.

"Here, I say, Charley, what do you think of the new arrival?" said George Stanley to a companion; "extensive trunks, hey!"

Roland turned a moment; there was something in his eye that Charley did not relish, and he moved away.

At length he reached the President's room, and was directed to be seated.

After a short time, a small man, with rather an uninviting aspect, appeared.

"What is your business, my boy?" asked the President.

"I am seeking an education, sir," replied Roland, in a direct, straight-forward manner.

"Who is your father, sir?"

"I have none, sir."

"Your mother?"

"I am an orphan, sir."

"Your friends? I mean responsible persons, sir."

"I have none, sir."

"Your means?"

"None at all, but these hands, feet, and head, sir."

"I am afraid that we cannot take you."

"I will do anything, sir; I will saw wood, make fires, black shoes, anything but cheat, sir. I won't say that I can pay you, as some might promise, for I never can."

Dr. Kingsley was an eccentric, but a really noble-hearted man; he had taken one glance at Roland which had interested him, and his questions had been put to try him.

He had marked the fine dark eye, the expansive brow, and the sweet, but firm-set mouth; he had listened to the straight-forward appeal of the youth; it brought back his own early struggles, and he felt as if such a boy had a right to an education of the highest order.

"Are you aware, my young friend, how trying is the position which you propose? If you are mentally and morally superior, are you willing to be treated as an inferior, and perhaps sometimes scorned?"

"I can brush away gnats, sir," replied Roland, with an expressive toss of his hand; "for I am a Scotch boy, with Scotch pride enough to sustain me. If they scorn me for doing right, what care I?"

"What is your name, sir?"

"Roland Gordon Bruce, sir."

"A fine name—the Gordons were distinguished among Scottish martyrs, if I mistake not."

"They were, sir; and I trust that I shall never dishonor the name I bear."

"You can come, Roland," said Dr. Kingsley, in a softer tone of voice.

Roland had endured the hard tone of scrutiny with calmness; but the free consent was more than he could bear. He rose suddenly to his feet, seized Dr. Kingsley's hand, and with a glowing cheek, and eye suffused with feeling, exclaimed—

"Thank you, dear sir; I have no words to express all that I feel."

Dr. Kingsley turned his head away, for he did not care that Roland should see his emotion, but continued—

"Where is your baggage, sir?"

"It is there, Dr. Kingsley," said the boy, smiling, and pointing to his carpet-bag; "that contains all my worldly goods."

"And where are your books, Roland? that is an expensive item," continued the President.

"I have none, sir. I have about five dollars, sir; will that suffice?"

"We shall see, Roland."

Dr. Kingsley had a sudden call for his handkerchief. Blowing his nose violently, he recovered his equanimity.

He sent for the Janitor—"Show this boy to the small attic room, No. 70, and see that he is well attended to, Mr. James. Remain here one moment, Roland;" and the good man hurried Mr. James out into the hall—"Be kind to this boy; he is made of noble stuff—don't let the fellows impose upon him; he is poor as a church mouse; but he is proud, and brave as a lion."

Mr. James conducted Roland to his little attic, where he soon deposited his worldly goods; and at the ringing of the supper-bell, made his first appearance among the world of students. He took a seat appointed at the foot of the room, at a side-table, among the younger boys, and glanced around him. His clothes were mean and shabby, compared with any by whom he was surrounded; but there was a quiet manly air of independence, as he sat with head thrown back, one arm leaning upon the table, and a calm straight-forward look in his eagle eye, that repelled insolence; and Roland was allowed to sit among them in silence, but without any welcome from the boys.

After supper, as it was yet the time of freedom, many of the students strolled out upon the lawn. Roland took his seat under a large oak tree, alone in the great crowd.

A handsome boy, dressed in the height of fashion, advanced towards our novice.

"You look lonely, sir; may I ask your name?"

"Roland Bruce—and yours?"

"Edmund Norris. Now come and take a stroll with me."

Roland joined his young companion. Several of the boys tittered at the patronage.

"Ned can do as he pleases," said George Stanley; "but I am a little more cautious about my acquaintances; I dare say he is only a charity boy; I saw the poor, mean carpetbag that he brought."

Edmund Norris was a petted child of wealthy parents, but he had a warm, noble heart; and remembered the day when he came as a stranger among so many. His great fault of character was want of firmness, easily led, and generous to a fault; consequently, he was a great favorite—a dangerous distinction for a college boy, with plenty of money.

"You'll soon get acquainted with the boys that are worth knowing," said Edmund.

"I came only to study," answered Roland; "so that I can have my books and a quiet corner, I care not for the roughness of outward circumstances."

"You'll find Dr. Kingsley a fine old fellow; he's hard upon us lazy ones, keen-eyed as a fox, none need try to deceive him."

"I like his few words, and kind deeds," answered Roland.

"Don't get home-sick—that is a horrid feeling, and all have it at first. I dare say when you go to your room, you will go to sleep with moistened cheek, thinking of mother and home."

"I have neither home nor mother; I am almost alone in this wide, wide world—none but a sister can I claim in America—good night, Mr. Norris."

Roland returned to his room with a grateful heart. Another star had arisen upon his night-season, and, as he looked out upon the spangled heavens, they seemed to smile upon the bright young aspirant, as he sank to sleep.

Next morning, his examination took place, his studies were appointed, and his duties in the house defined.

When he took the boots the first time from the students' doors, many of them were in the passage.

"I told you that he was only a charity student," said George Stanley; "he's to be our boot-black, I see—it's a capital joke, by jingo! with his princely airs."

But though performing these menial offices, his deportment in the class-rooms, and his superior recitations, commanded respect, in spite of the slurs cast upon him by mean spirits.

He had marked out his course, notwithstanding all that might be done, steadily to perform his duties, to avoid the students generally, and, above all things, to employ all his leisure time in preparing for his recitations.

It was a hard lot that Roland Bruce had chosen—it took him several hours at night to clean the boots, although he was aided by a little fellow in the employ of the institution; before the dawn of day, he was busy carrying up wood and making the fires, aided by the same little fellow.

He allowed himself but six hours' sleep, and husbanded his time so carefully, that, with all his hard labor, he really accomplished more than half the students in the college.

Added to his industry, Roland's talents were of no common order, and the faculty soon perceived that the humble boot-black of the college, would carry off most of its honors.

"Holloa, Boots!" exclaimed George Stanley one morning, as Roland was passing through the halls with wood for the rooms.

He passed on without noticing the insolence. As he returned, Stanley was at the door.

"Here, Boots! I want to see you."

"When you speak to me as you ought, I am ready to listen," answered Roland, with quiet dignity.

"Well, Mr. Bruce, I want to say to you, that you don't polish my boots well."

"Complain to the authorities, Mr. Stanley," and Roland passed on.

"Proud as Lucifer! I wish I could humble him, with his grand airs of superiority," said Stanley, as he banged the door of his room.

"You humble him!" answered Edmund Norris; "a pigmy might as well try to reach the sun."

"Why, what is he, Norris? but a mere boot-black for the college. I won't stand his pride."

"Go to the recitation room, if you want to see what Roland Bruce is—there is not a fellow in the college that can compete with him, notwithstanding all his hard labor."

"I suppose that he is a prince in disguise, Norris, from the airs which he puts on."

"He has done nothing to offend you, Stanley, and yet you take every opportunity to insult him. I tell you, sir, that I know Roland Bruce—neither you nor I could have the independence which he exhibits; and, so far from humbling him, in my estimation, it exalts him; though I know that I never could reach it—I could not saw wood and black shoes for my education."

When the students met again in the dining-hall, Norris stepped up to Roland, and said,

"Your seat is by me henceforth at the table."

"How is this?" inquired Roland, surprised.

"I made the request, that's all; you shall be treated properly."

Several of the students frowned on finding themselves so near to "Boots," as they termed him; when speaking of, not to Roland Bruce.

"How long since you were knighted, Sir Edmund?" asked Stanley; "I find that you have taken your place among the sons of chivalry."

"If I am entitled to the name for righting the oppressed, very well, I am Sir Edmund Norris."

Roland, with his quiet dignity of demeanor, really did not look very much in need of patronage; although truly grateful to the generous young soul, who was always his champion.

Our young student had secured the universal respect of the faculty—Dr. Kingsley was his firm, tried friend; he furnished him with all his necessary text-books, so that the five dollars were yet untouched. Mrs. Jennings, the matron, was extremely kind, looking after his little stock of clothes, keeping them as neat as possible, and not unfrequently adding a collar or two, a handkerchief, or a pair of stockings to his scanty wardrobe.

"Can't you stop in my room a minute, Roland?" said the good lady.

"I thank you, my dear madam, but I really have no time to day."

"Always busy, my son; may you be rewarded for your patient industry."

"Thank you, my good, kind friend;" and Roland's heart swelled with emotion, for he had heard but one kind womanly voice since he had lost his dear mother, and that was good Mrs. Romaine's.

"There is a box for you, Roland," said the janitor; and, much to his surprise, he found quite a large box in his little attic, accompanied by a letter from sister Effie; so full of love and tender recollection, that, for a moment, it quite unmanned him.

"You will find many useful things, dear Roland; don't ask how I got them; my own hands made the shirts and hemmed the handkerchiefs; they come to you from a very dear friend. The suit of clothes comes from Mr. Hamilton, who has heard of your course at college, and who was quite chagrined that you should go without seeing him; but the shirts and handkerchiefs are a secret."

Roland opened the box, and there he found a suit of clothes, half a dozen shirts, stockings, and handkerchiefs, with other valuable and necessary things.

He bowed his knee before his Father in Heaven, and blessed him for the gift, for really his old clothes were completely worn out.

Stars in the night season shining still around him—why should he ever doubt?

Edmund met him with a beaming countenance in the dining hall, not that he cared any more for Roland in his neat mourning suit, but it did please him to see his friend taking his seat among his fellows, in the garb of a gentleman.

Who could have sent the shirts and handkerchiefs? but one kind friend could he think of, and that was Madeline Hamilton. He knew that whatever she desired, was granted to her by her indulgent father. It was pleasant to be thus remembered—but how humbling to Roland's pride, who longed to work for all his needs!

Roland really loved his warm-hearted friend, Edmund Norris, but he saw that he was wasting both time and money. Night after night would he sit up until a late hour, indulging in card-playing and champagne. He was constantly resolving to change his course, but he had no power to put his resolutions into practice. The term was rapidly passing away, the time for examination drawing nigh, and Roland feared that his friend would utterly fail.

Edmund was often late at chapel and recitation, and yawning and listless all day.

Roland's mind was soon resolved as to duty.

"Shall I see you this evening, Edmund, after supper, on the lawn?" said the faithful friend.

"I will be there," was the reply.

True to his promise, Roland awaited his coming.

"I am aware what you have to say, Roland," said the young man; "you want to read me a lecture upon my evil ways; is it not so?"

"I have no right to lecture you, Edmund; but I cannot see you ruining all your prospects, and throwing away every advantage, without remonstrance."

"I know it is all true, Roland; but what is a fellow to do? Just as soon as I go to my room for study, three or four of my chums follow me, and there is no rest until I open my door, and then come the champagne and the cards, and night after night is spent in this way. I am always resolving, but can bring nothing good to pass."

"Are you happy, Edmund? Does conscience acquit you? What would your father say! Can you bear to be disgraced at the close of the term?"

Edmund bowed his head, and replied, "I am a miserable fellow! None of these things really satisfy me; but what can I do? I have too much money, Roland; I want to turn over a new leaf. I have a thought," and, taking his pocket-book out of his pocket, he continued, "take it, Roland; keep it for me; when I really need money, I will ask for it, and give a strict account."

"Really, Edmund! that seems very much like a child."

"Well, Roland, that is just what I am; a weak, spoiled child, and I must be treated as one; if I am to study, I must put it out of my power to waste my time."

Roland took the trust smiling, and said, "You will not complain, Edmund, if I sometimes refuse your demands."

"That is the bargain, Roland; I think that I can keep my promise."

The young man really did close his doors upon all his idle friends, and commenced a new course.

"Shall I come to your little attic, Roland, to study? No one will follow me there."

"Certainly, my friend;" and Edmund found the quiet of the distant room, and the presence of his studious friend, a great help to his new resolutions.

"Boots" was making rapid progress in his studies. Many were jealous of his talents, and feared him as a rival; but with the one great end in view, he was turned aside by nothing.

Roland's manly Christianity was overcoming all enmity excepting with mean grovelling spirits. Stanley still delighted to make thrusts at him, for he could not but acknowledge his superiority.

One morning, he stopped at Stanley's door for his boots; they were not outside; he knocked—a faint voice answered, "Come in."

Roland entered, and poor Stanley lay on the bed, burning with fever, and tossing from side to side in agony.

"What is the matter, Stanley?" asked Roland.

"I have suffered agony all night; my head aches and burns, and my whole frame is shaking with chills."

"I am sorry for you, Stanley; it is bad to be sick without a woman's care and kindness; shall I bathe your head?"

Roland brought a basin of cool water, washed the poor fellow's face, combed his hair, and laid cloths wet with cool water on his burning head.

"I will send the doctor, Stanley; you need advice."

Going immediately to the matron, he informed her of the case, sent for the physician, and returned to Stanley's room, where he stayed cooling his head until the doctor arrived. It was a serious case, and needed great care, the physician said.

All others avoided the sick room for fear of a contagious disease, and poor Stanley would have suffered greatly, perhaps have lost his life, had it not been for Roland's care.

He received the doctor's orders, saw that his medicines were given at the proper time, and spent as much of his time as possible by Stanley's bed-side; that, however, could not be long with all his other duties; but Stanley was never left alone, for the Janitor's boy stayed with him; and by Roland's minute directions, he was properly attended to.

Stanley was very ill for three weeks; when convalescent, he called Roland to his bed-side, and said,

"How could you do so much for me? I have never said a kind word to you since you came here."

"'When thine enemy hunger, feed him; when he thirsts, give him drink; for in so doing, thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head.'"

"Whose words are these, Roland?"

"The words of Jesus, Stanley."

"Are you one of his disciples? I thought you were too manly for that, Roland. I have always thought that that will do for old women and children; not for men."

"You are mistaken, Stanley; a Christian is the highest order of a man."

"Will you forgive me, Roland? I have been a mean puppy to you."

"Forgive, Stanley! Certainly. You have been thoughtless, but I hope not unfeeling."

"You have conquered George Stanley, Roland, and woe to the fellow that dares speak against you."

"I am so happy, Stanley, to see you getting better; but do not thank me; thank your Father in Heaven; he is the giver of life and health."

"Another star in the night season," thought Roland. "If I can only do some good to poor Stanley, I shall be satisfied."

Edmund kept his resolution—to be sure one evening he stayed rather longer than usual in Roland's room, as though having something to say.

"Roland, I want some money," said the youth.

Roland smiled. "For what, may I ask?"

"Oh, never mind this time, Roland; I want it; it's mine, and that is enough."

"But where is your promise, Edmund? You remember that you agreed to tell me what you meant to do with it."

"There's a new arrival, Roland, an old friend of ours, and I want to give a treat."

Roland smiled again. "I cannot consent, Edmund; it breaks the contract."

"Well, I've made myself a little boy, indeed; can't have my own—I must have five dollars."

"You can't to-night, Edmund; come to me to-morrow morning, and we will talk about it then; it was your own proposition, and you must abide by it; it has been a great benefit thus far; you have not missed a recitation for three weeks; I am not going to see all your good resolutions thrown to the winds."

Edmund retired not very well pleased, but could not gainsay one word that Roland had uttered.

Next morning, he came with a bright face.

"You were right, Roland, and I wrong; you know how to manage me, I see that."

The close of the year arrived—Roland occupied the highest place in the college, and Edmund passed a respectable examination, thanks to his faithful friend.

"There has been partiality shown to 'Boots,'" said Robert Thornton; "I don't believe that he deserves all the honors."

CHAPTER XIII.

DRIFT-WOOD.

Farewells are spoken—trunks are strapped—Roland's carpet-bag is well packed, filled by good Mrs. Jennings, for she has discovered that he returns on foot.

Sleeping in barns, occasionally at farm-houses, at last he finds himself in sight of Woodcliff; he passes Maple Lane school on his way, and remembers the bright young face that used to smile upon him so kindly, and the reverent folding of her little hands, as Maddy listened to the teaching of her young mentor, so meek under his reproofs, so fiery and impetuous with all others. He wondered how it was now. On, on, past the cottage home, past the cemetery, he finds himself at the gate of Woodcliff.

Walking up the familiar avenue, old Hector bounds to meet him, for he was a staunch friend of Roland Bruce. Effie hears the noise, and runs out to see what is the matter.

A glance at the tall young man is sufficient. It is her own dear, dear brother! and in another minute, Effie is pressed to the warm heart of her only relative. Roland holds her off, and looks anxiously at his dear sister. Is she really paler, thinner; or is it the mourning-dress that makes her look so pallid?

"Are you well, Effie?" asks the anxious brother.

"Oh, yes, Roland, and so happy; they are all so good to me here. Miss Matilda will not let me overwork myself, and Mr. Hamilton is so kind."

"Do you ever hear of Madeline, Effie?"

"Oh, yes, frequently; and she always asks about you, Roland; she is just as glad as I am when you are successful at college."

"Has she been at home lately?"

"She was here at vacation; but it does not take place at the same time with yours."

"Has she grown much, Effie?"

"Very much; she is growing tall, and so beautiful. You know, brother, that I always thought that there was nobody so pretty as Madeline."

"Is she like she used to be, Effie?"

"Not so wild, brother; but just as sweet and affectionate. She used to go every day to see the rose-bush that you planted together, and she was always singing the Scotch songs that you taught her. Where will you stay, brother?"

"At old Peter's; that will do very well for me, Effie. Before I return to college, I am going to the White Mountains; I want to see them so much, and the journey on foot will do me good."

"How about your clothes, brother?"

"Oh, yes, you little rogue, you thought that I could not guess your secret. Why, who else would send me the new shirts and handkerchiefs but Madeline? You had no money, Effie, and she is the only one that cares for me."

Effie smiled. "You've guessed right, brother. When she was at home she gave me the money, and I made them all. What a happy little thing she was when they were done! She skipped about, and danced like a merry little kitten. 'Roland shall look like a gentleman at college,' she said; 'and I know there's not one ahead of him there.'"

"Effie, do you remember our dear mother's last message? Oh, what a comfort it has been to me! 'Looking aloft!' whenever I have felt as if my heart would sink, I have remembered those sweet words, Effie, and they have made me so strong."

"So have I, Roland. I am often very lonely, brother, and sometimes very weak. Sometimes I feel as if my life will be a short time; then the dear words come, 'Looking aloft!' and I think of all that they mean, and they make me happy."

"Shall we go into the conservatory, Effie?" asked her brother.

"Oh, yes; I have taken good care of her flowers, Roland; and that Scotch heather is always so pretty!"

Effie led her brother to the old spot. The flowers were in full bloom. Roland plucked a branch from Madeline's own rose-bush, and another from the heather, and turned away. Next, he entered the library, and on opening one of the book-cases, there lay a glove of his little friend; and in one of the books, a pressed branch of sea-weed.

"I may have these, Effie?"

"Oh, yes; they are of no use to Madeline."

Roland laid them carefully away, and then turned to seek old Peter.

"I shall see you soon again, Effie. Good-bye, now."

"Good-bye, dear brother. I am so glad that you have come."

"Is that you, my lad?" said old Peter. "I'm right glad to see your young face once more."

"Can you let me stay a few days with you, uncle Peter?"

"Why, yes, boy; but ours is a poor place; we can't do much for you."

"It will be well enough. I shall only be here for a few days."

Roland rambled around among the old familiar scenes, and towards evening, returned to the sea-shore. Seating himself upon the rock where he had passed so many happy days, he gazed out upon the wide ocean. The music of its waves was sad, depressing. It spoke of the past; for the future it had no voice. As he mused, a log of drift-wood floated by. How solitary it seemed! All alone! floating on the wide ocean, drifting whither the tide would wash it up at last.

"Is that like me?" thought Roland. "Am I so lonely in this wide world? Am I such a creature of chance?" No human voice was near to answer the question of his soul. The night birds sang their melancholy song around him, and it was an hour of deep sadness.

"Why should I indulge in such a train of thought?" inquired Roland of his heart. "This is the language of despondency, almost of despair. Am I indeed nothing but driftwood?—so useless, so solitary!" Looking upward, the bright fair moon was sailing overhead so serene! so pure! so silent! With her voiceless majesty she answered, and the mother's dying whispers came like sweet music to banish the language of despair:

"'Looking aloft, Roland!' 'Looking aloft!' I will not be the drift-wood of human life. I will seek to fit myself for my place on this great globe, and, obedient to my Maker's laws as is that placid moon, I shall with his blessing move on as surely to my destiny; happy to serve my God here, and enjoy the fulness of His presence hereafter. Float on, thou worthless log! thou shalt not symbolize my fate! Sail on, thou placid moon! Let my course in life be steady, calm, obedient, as thine."

The voice within quickened his pace as he walked up and down the beach, repeating the Psalm of Life:

"Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
'Dust thou art, to dust returnest,'
Was not spoken of the soul," &c. &c.

Turning his steps towards Uncle Peter's cabin, he slept the quiet sleep of recovered trust and confidence in God.

Next evening he sought his mother's grave. How soothing were the words upon that marble head-stone! "She sleeps in Jesus." And how sweetly did they speak of the dear little friend that placed them there! He had not been seated long before Elsie Gibson made her appearance. She seemed delighted to meet Roland again.

"Weel, Roland, the days o' youth are passing away, a'maist a mon. Ye're the vera image o' ane I luve weel; may ye be a happier mon than he."

"Whom do you mean, Elsie?"

"It matters na, my bairn; I'm glad to hear sic a good account o' ye, Roland, at the college; there's a great wark before ye, my son, may ye live to do it weel."

"Elsie," said Roland, "do you know anything about my father?"

"I used to ken a' aboot him, Roland, in days lang syne, when we were baith young."

"Do you know where he is now, Elsie?"

"Why should ye ask sic a question, Roland? do ye na ken that the vessel in which he sailed was lost?"

"I have heard so, Elsie; but strange thoughts have crossed my mind lately."

"They are silly thoughts, Roland; ye maun think o' yer father as dead. Good-bye, Roland, I maun be awa'."

Roland turned his steps again towards Woodcliff. This time he asked Effie to let him sit alone in the library for a few minutes. He turned over many volumes, which he knew Madeline was in the habit of reading, and in many a page he found her mark. Taking up a small portfolio which contained many scraps of paper, listlessly he sketched the sweet face as he first saw Madeline on the sea-shore with Harry, Charles, and the other children. Roland had cultivated his taste for drawing, and had made a striking pencil-sketch of the scene. Placing it almost unconsciously back in the portfolio, he left the room, and, crossing the hall, met Mr. Hamilton.

"Why, Roland, I am rejoiced to see you. How greatly you have grown,—almost a man!"

"Yes, sir; time makes changes."

"How are you progressing at college, Roland?"

"Very well, sir; there is one of our catalogues," handing one to Mr. Hamilton.

"This is good news, Roland. I hope, my boy, that you will continue to reap such high honors. Stay, and dine with us, Roland."

It was the first time that he had ever been invited to Woodcliff as a table-guest, and with a modest blush, he accepted the courtesy. It pleased him to find that Effie's place was also at the family table, and with the well-bred ease of a native gentleman, he took Mr. Hamilton quite by surprise.

"Madeline would like to see you, Roland; she was at home last vacation, and has greatly improved; you would scarcely recognize little Mad-cap; she is so much more sober."

"Does she sing as much as ever?" asked Roland.

"Yes, her voice is splendid; she shall have the best masters that I can find, Roland. But do you know, boy, that I like the old ballads she used to sing, more than the opera-style, which is now so fashionable?"

Before Roland took his leave, Mr. Hamilton sought a private opportunity to speak to him.

"Is there anything that I can do for you, Roland?"

He grasped Mr. Hamilton's hand warmly, as he answered, "I am already your debtor, sir; and found your gift of inestimable value."

"You were kind to my little daughter, Roland; and I am always at your service."

Roland bowed, and took his departure.

"That is a remarkable youth, Matilda," said Mr. Hamilton, as he closed the door. "I don't know what to make of him; brought up wholly in a cottage, without the advantages of refined society, he has more of the manners of a gentleman than either Harry Castleton or Charles Davenport. He must have had a remarkable mother, and the soul within must be of the noblest mould."

"But really, brother, I don't think it well to encourage the intimacy between this youth and our Madeline. He is growing to be a man, and an attractive one to such a romantic child as yours. You really talked of her to-day to Roland as if he were her equal."

"Really, Matilda, you are simply ridiculous; he is actually a plebeian, and Madeline patronizes him; it has rather amused me to see her independence."

"I don't approve of the levelling system, Lewis Hamilton. Let each one keep his place in society; no good comes of these intimacies."

"I am not afraid, Matilda. I think our Maddy has a good share of pride—enough to keep her from low associates."

"I tell you, Lewis, that Roland Bruce has more influence over that proud and wayward child than any other living person,—a word from him, a look of reproof, I am told, had more power to check her impetuous nature, than all the teachers of Maple Lane school."

"Well, Matilda, he has never taught her anything wrong; she is greatly improved since she knew the Bruce family."

"You are certainly possessed, brother, with a spirit of contradiction; but I have borne my testimony,—you must have your own way. I have said all that I mean to."

Roland's was rather a sad walk back to old Peter's cabin. He felt that he was rapidly approaching the years of manhood, and that Madeline would soon step over the sweet days of childhood, and enter the enchanted ground of young maidenhood. Then, the difference in their social position would raise the barrier over which he dare not step; and Madeline Hamilton and Roland Bruce would henceforth belong to different worlds.

It was a hard thought; but Roland had seen enough, and known enough of worldly pride, to feel that this was so. Not with Madeline herself, for she was too much a child of nature for that; but he must not allow her to incur the displeasure of her father, but especially her aunt, by forgetting the broad gulf between them.

On his next visit to Woodcliff, he was struck with something peculiar in the look of Effie's eyes.

"Your eyes look weak, Effie. I fear that you sew too closely; is it not so?"

"They do annoy me sometimes, Roland; they get so dim that I can hardly use them."

"Do take care of them, sister; any disease of the eye is such a great calamity."

"It would be a sore affliction to lose my sight, Roland; then indeed I should find it difficult to look upward."

"Don't let us forget, Effie, that whatever befalls us, comes from our Father's hand, and must be a part of the training by which He means to fit us for the better world."

"It is a comfort, dear Roland, to feel that God cannot do wrong—if we could only trust him always."

At that moment, Nanny called Effie.

"Here is a letter from Miss Madeline."

"I am so glad that it came while you were with us, Roland," said Effie, as she broke the seal.

She read it hurriedly, and said—

"Here is something about you, Roland;" and she read the quotation.

"I suppose that you hear often from Roland; I should like to know what he is doing—tell him that little Maddy is growing to be quite a studious, serious girl. My chief companion here is Lucy Edmonds; she is a dear, sweet friend; I wish that I were like her. I am learning a great deal of new music, but I have not forgotten any of my old Scotch songs. Take care of my rose-bush, Effie: I mean the one that Roland planted; I hope that it will not die. Be kind to old Hector for my sake, dear old fellow! Now that I am away, I think more of Roland's good lessons than I did when at home; I am sure that I shall never forget them."

Effie handed the letter to Roland, which he read quite through.

"She will be surrounded by snares, Effie, when her education is finished; with all her wealth and beauty, I tremble for Madeline; but still I do not believe that the world will wholly spoil our little friend."

"When will you leave us, Roland?" asked his sister.

"In two days, I think; I have brought up my clothes for you to look over, Effie; so soon as that is done, I shall take up my line of march."

"Will you walk all the way, Roland? it is so far."

"I am used to that, Effie; indeed I prefer it; for I can stop where I please, enjoy all that is beautiful, and rest when I am tired. Don't be afraid of me, little sister; I am very brave and strong."

His preparations were soon made.

"Effie, you don't know what a comfort you are to me—while I have you, I cannot feel alone. Some of these days we shall have a dear little home, where you shall be the household fairy, and your brother the guide and strong arm of his precious sister."

"Take care of yourself, dear Roland; don't be so daring; I don't believe that you ever think of danger."

"I shall climb the highest mountain, Effie, it is such a pleasure to conquer difficulties; and I will bring back to you the beautiful ferns and mosses of the mountains—then you can make one of your pretty baskets for Madeline."

Folding her once more to his heart, Roland took his final leave.

"I shall be back in a few weeks, Effie; good-bye for a little while;" and looking back, he kissed his hand, and smiled upon his dear sister.

Effie looked after her brother with an admiring gaze, and thought "How handsome he is! What a noble walk! God bless my dear, dear brother."

CHAPTER XIV.

"EXCELSIOR."

Happy season of bright joyous youth! It nerved Roland's springing step, flushed the glowing cheek, brightened the dark eye, and gushed forth in cheering song upon the early morning air.

The past for awhile faded, the future was left in the hands of the kind Father, and the youth revelled in the freedom of the present moment.

On through the charming scenes which led him to the place of his destination; sometimes, by the roadside where bloomed the neat little homes of New England, all with their pretty porches entwined with flowers of every hue; then, through the thick woods where happy birds carolled around his path; again by the river's brink, with the bright sky overhead, and in the sweet consciousness of an interest in all these beauties of creation, Roland could look up and say, "My Father made them all."

At length he stopped at the foot of the mountain which it was his ambition to reach.

Large numbers like himself were preparing for the ascent, but none on foot, save our young aspirant.

On through thick green foliage, and over rocky paths, he pressed his way, occasionally stopping to rest under some shady canopy.

Frequently in company with youthful parties, whose merry chatter disturbed the thoughts which began to crowd upon Roland, as the ascent brought frequently to view some new scene of beauty and grandeur.

As he pressed on, the journey became still more toilsome and difficult, the road stony and rough; and Longfellow's Excelsior came fresh upon his memory. Seating himself for awhile, he repeated audibly the beautiful lines.

The fresh mountain air inspired him with renewed courage and determination, and, starting once more, he strained every nerve in his efforts to scale these steep mountain heights.

The voices of the travellers on horseback became fainter every moment, until at length he was left in perfect solitude upon these dizzy heights. After many struggles over rocks, and by the brinks of deep ravines, Roland found himself upon the top of Mount Washington. The wind was blowing fiercely; he could scarcely keep his feet; the howling of its blasts through the deep solitudes, and wild whistling music among the tall green pines, together with the cold air, which almost cut his cheeks, and made him draw his coat more closely around him, almost banished the thought that at the foot of the mountain glowed the heat of summer.

He was highly favored, for it was a bright sunny day, and the atmosphere perfectly transparent. With cheeks tingling from excitement, and blood stirring in every vein, he stood entranced amid the glorious scenery. He felt that he had conquered, and the consciousness nerved the young soul for further efforts. This suited the tone of his character, and prefigured the temper with which he would in future fight the battle of life.

He looked around—grandeur marked every feature. Beneath him lay the great world, the theatre of future conflicts. The busy cities, the rivalries, the sins of men, the trials of the way, the din of battle, the "Slough of Despond," the "Giant Despair,"—but here certainly was also a glimpse of the "Land of Beulah."

Above, the glorious sky, so vast, so magnificent! around him, the scenery which no pencil could ever fully paint. Deep ravines, towering peaks of glory, falls of water dashing down the dizzy heights, and beyond! peak piled on peak, stretching as far as eye could reach, a whole amphitheatre of glorious mountains.

A voice within answered to the voice around; it was the same which had spoken to him in the days of childhood, when standing in one of his native glens, among the rude mountains of Scotland, he had listened to the story of his martyred ancestors.

His soul swelled then, child that he was, with lofty emotions. It swelled now with fuller, deeper majesty, as he listened to the voice of God among these mountains; and on through life, that voice will follow Roland. He took out his little Testament and read, "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help." And again,

"As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so the Lord is round about his people."

"Need I look farther?" asked Roland of his soul. "God is here! My God! My Father!"—and, bowing his head, he lifted up the voice of prayer, and here amid these mountain solitudes, made a fresh covenant with the God of his martyred fathers. In this hour of rapt communion, he remembered Effie, his orphan sister, and Madeline, the dear little friend of his early youth.

Here, surrounded by these glorious mountains, in this vast solitude, it was easy to imagine the glories of that mountain of the Lord, when his people gathered home once more, should rest in peace; and when in the glories of the latter days, wars and tumults, strife and discord, sin and misery, should forever cease.

"Upon the frontier of this shadowy land,
We, pilgrims of eternal sorrow, stand.
What realm lies forward with its happier store
Of forests green and deep,
Of valleys hushed in sleep,
And lakes most peaceful? 'Tis the
Land of Evermore.

"Very far off its marble cities seem—
Very far off—beyond our sensual dream—
Its woods, unruffled by the wild winds roar:
Yet does the turbulent surge
Howl on its very verge
One moment—and we breathe within the
Evermore.

"They whom we loved and lost so long ago,
Dwell in those cities, far from mortal woe,
Hunt those fresh woodlands, where sweet carollings soar.
Eternal peace have they:
God wipes their tears away:
They drink that river of life which flows for
Evermore.

"Thither we hasten through these regions dim;
But lo, the wide wings of the seraphim
Shine in the sunset! On that joyous shore
Our lighted hearts shall know
The life of long ago:
The sorrow burdened past shall fade for
Evermore."

There was nothing but the shelter of a rude shed, but so enraptured was our young traveller that he resolved to stay.

In the evening, the screams of the wild mountain birds added to the grandeur of the scene; and often could be seen in the air, sailing along in graceful swoops, the American eagle, proud emblem of our country's glory. In the deep night season, the growling of wild animals, the howling of the winds, whose deep sighs through the ravines, filled the whole air with music—not sweet and silvery, but grand, majestic, overpowering; for nature has her deep bass as well as her rich tenor, and her sweet warbling treble. Here was the effect of the deep bass of harmonious instruments; and to crown all, distant thunder rolled from cliff to cliff, echoing until lost in the distance, and Roland looked on, and listened in eloquent silence. His visit was drawing to a close—how could he descend from such heights of grandeur, to the busy, bustling world again?

But duty called; packing up his little all, and gathering the ferns and mosses in a box which he had brought for the purpose, he commenced his descent. Not soon should he forget the inspiration of these vast solitudes, away from man, alone with God. He buckled on his armor, and with a brave spirit sped to the foot of the mountain.

Roland had heard much of the beauty of the charming lake Winnipiseogee, which lay on the route to the mountains, and thither he resolved to tarry for awhile.

Arriving in the evening, he rambled along its beautiful margin, the glorious mountains spanning the horizon, here adding features of beauty, there of grandeur.

It was a great transition from such wild magnificence, to this placid beauty; the calm lake, the pretty little hotel, the boating parties on the clear water, the refined society, the grassy banks with the fine old trees that formed so many bowers of shade, for here it was really summer; all this was soothing, not stirring as the mountain tops.

Day by day, musing, sketching, rambling, or rowing about in the little boat, owned by the family, he enjoyed nis summer recreation.

One evening, returning from one of these excursions on the lake, stepping on shore, whom should he encounter but Edmund Norris.

Seizing Roland's hand, he exclaimed, "Why, my good fellow! how came you here?"

"On foot, Edmund!" said Roland, smiling.

"But where are you staying?"

"At that little cottage, Edmund."

"Go, pack up your duds, Roland, and come with me, I can't do without you."

"Who is in your party, Edmund?"

"Only my mother and sister."

"They would consider me an intruder, Edmund; besides, it is impossible, I can't stay at a hotel."

"And why not, sir? I think I know, Roland; I will not take any denial—you have done me infinite service, and I can never repay you. I must introduce you to my mother, Roland; she is anxious to know you," and placing his friend's arm within his own, he hurried him off to the hotel.

"My friend, Roland Bruce, mother, my sister, Miss Norris," and Roland bowed to a very pleasant looking middle aged lady, and an interesting young girl, in the person of Jessie Norris.

"We are glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Bruce," replied the mother, at the same time extending her hand; "this is a meeting that I have long desired."

The summer passed rapidly, and the party separated for their respective destinations.

Edmund would not hear of Roland's return on foot, consequently they travelled together to the point nearest Woodcliff, and there they parted, mutually pleased; Edmund to his home, and Roland back to Woodcliff, to pay a short parting visit to Effie.

"We shall meet at college, Roland," said Edmund.

"Yes, and it must be a hard working year; I can only go two terms after this."

Another week near Woodcliff, and Roland prepared for toil again.

"I have come, dear Effie, to say farewell for awhile," aid Roland. "I have brought you some beautiful ferns and mosses, and when I come again, I will expect to see the basket."

"I can make two, Roland, one for each window in the drawing room; Madeline will be so pleased,—they are both for her."

"Come, Effie, let us sing our mother's favorite hymn," and the orphans sang with sweet voices, and full hearts,

"God of our fathers, by whose care,
Thy people still are blest;
Be with us through our pilgrimage,
Conduct us to our rest."

"Now, sister, let me go for one minute up the staircase; don't come with me, I want to be alone."

Roland stood upon the landing, and listened to the sweet murmurs of the Eolian harp. The summer wind swept lightly over the strings, and seemed to sigh, "farewell, farewell;" but for a moment, a stronger breeze swept over them, and higher, fuller arose the aerial music, and "aloft, aloft" they whispered.

He descended with a smile, and said,

"Now, dear Effie, I am ready; God forever bless my darling sister; don't forget 'Looking aloft! Looking aloft.'"

She smiled through her tears, and said,

"I'll try, dear Roland, but I am not so strong as you."

Back again on the first day of the term, Roland was warmly welcomed by the faculty.

He returned bravely, cheerfully, to his self-imposed service of drudgery; but the presence of many new members subjected him again to the same ordeal through which he had passed the first half of the former year.

The same diligence and fidelity, the same faithful friendship for Edmund, the same honors at the close, marked the second year; and at the period of vacation, another visit to dear Effie, to the familiar spots around Woodcliff, and he was anticipating a return for the last year to finish his college course.

"You cannot imagine, dear brother, how delighted Madeline was with the baskets—'did he gather them with his own hands, Effie?' she used to ask me day after day, and I saw her place a few of the ferns which I had saved, away in one of her school books. 'Thank Roland for me,' was her last message; 'tell him I expect to see him a great man, delivering orations, or public speeches, at any rate, at Maple Lane, yet.'"

Roland smiled, as he said, "The same little enthusiast yet."

"Little! brother! why, you forget, you have not seen Madeline for two years; she is no longer a little girl; she is fifteen now, and unusually tall for that age. I don't believe that you would call her Maddy now."

Roland's countenance fell; for this innocent hint had brought again most forcibly the conviction that the approach of womanhood was building a gulf which could not be passed, and the sweet intimacy of playful childhood could be no more renewed.

His third year at college was a season of rapid progress. On his return, Dr. Kingsley sent for Roland to his private room.

"You have been well tried, my son," said the good man. "I have looked upon your course, Roland, with pride; shall I say it to a boy? with reverence. Not one of fifty would have borne the indignities of your position, and risen above them all, as you have; you shall be rewarded. The offices which you have performed so nobly will be given to another, little Jack, the Janitor's nephew, and another boy hired for the purpose; you, Roland, shall have all your time for study."

Roland was a manly boy, but with a warm, tender heart. His eyes filled with tears of gratitude.

Seizing Dr. Kingsley's hand, he pressed a warm kiss upon its wrinkled surface, and said,

"Words cannot thank you, Dr. Kingsley, for all your goodness; the training of this college is more than a fortune to me."

"You must not lavish all your thanks upon me, Roland. Edmund Norris has told me all your trials, all the insults which you formerly received; he has told me of all your patient endurance, and noble return of good for evil. Mrs. Norris is wealthy, she has offered to place you exactly by the side of her son, bearing all your expenses, and occupying the same room. I judged you by myself, and thought that you would rather be indebted to the college. You will occupy the room with Edmund; but we must have the honor of educating Roland Bruce."

"You will be repaid, my dear sir, for all your kindness and delicacy. Oh! how faithful are the promises of God: 'Looking aloft' was the motto which my dear mother left me on her death-bed; I have tried to act upon it; and endeavoring to do my duty, have looked upward for God's blessing, and have never been disappointed."

Dr. Kingsley straitened himself up, put on a sterner look, took off his spectacles, that seemed suddenly to become moistened, and jerking his handkerchief out of his pocket, blew his nose violently, saying,

"I have a bad cold, Roland; I don't know how it came, but I did not feel it until you came into the room."

Roland smiled, for Dr. Kingsley did not like it to be known what a warm sympathetic heart beat under that cold, and somewhat stern exterior.

Roland's position, this year, was a happy one; and Edmund was about as much the gainer as he.

Rooming together, Roland's powerful example was a strong incentive to the young man; and though often tempted to relax, what at first was a severe task, became first a habit, then a pleasure.

A secret plot for some forbidden pleasure was again agitating among the wild ones.

"You need not ask Ned Norris to join us," said one of his former companions, "he's among the saints now; he dare not say that his life is his own when Roland Bruce is about. I don't care much about his company, but it is deucedly inconvenient to miss his purse, it was always open in former days—but old 'Boots' has the charge of him now, and there is no use of asking him to join this spree."

"Do you dare call him 'Boots' again?" said Stanley, doubling his fist, "I told you all that I'd knock the first fellow down that insults Roland Bruce; there is not one here fit to wipe his shoes."

"How came you to turn round so soon, Stanley? you were among the most bitter of his enemies," said Thornton.

"When you all stood off from me as if I were a leper, Roland Bruce quietly, nobly took care of me; he watched me on my sick bed, as if I had been his friend, instead of his enemy; and do you think that I'll ever hear you speak against such a fellow as that?"

The chief offender slunk away, evidently frightened.

"You never told me so, Stanley; it must have been before I came."

"I tell you now, Brown, Roland shall be treated as a gentleman, so long as I am in this college; so clear out, or I may knock you down."

Brown crawled away, and Roland was everywhere in the ascendant.

Many envied him his quiet superiority; but all respected the studious youth that was carrying off so many of the honors.

His path was henceforth a pleasant one, until one morning, whom should he see among the new students but Harry Castleton and Charles Davenport!

Roland's appearance was that of a gentleman; for, although he had not the changes which some had, he always contrived to appear genteel.

After breakfast, Roland advanced to the young men, and politely extended his hand. Charles, with a supercilious air, turned on his heel, saying,

"You are mistaken, sir; we do not know you."

Roland had acted the part of a gentleman and a Christian, and he left the young men to imagine that they had humbled him.

They soon observed his intimacy with Edmund Norris, whose family they had met elsewhere. Determined to annoy him still farther, they sought the first opportunity of speaking alone.

"Do you know this young Bruce?" said Harry.

"Yes, sir, I have good cause to know him; he has saved me from many a false step and wicked companion."

"Do you know his origin?" continued Harry.

"I know that he is Scotch, and had a good mother."

"His mother was a common huckster, and he no better than a beggar; he lived in my uncle's neighborhood, and I have seen him many a time with old patched clothes, and scarcely a shoe to his feet."

"Indeed!" said Edmund. "I know that he is very poor; he has told me much of his history. You have told me now how poor he is—shall I tell you how noble he is in the estimation of all true hearts in this college? You are at mean work, sir, but you will not harm Roland Bruce; he is above your mark, sir. Good morning, Mr. Castleton."

Edmund saw that the two were cultivating the intimacy of several of the upstart boys, sons of the merchant princes of New York, with gold watches, full purses, fashionable wardrobes, empty brains, and cold, sordid souls.

Brown was one of them—a mean, cowardly fellow, who had not forgotten the attack of Stanley, and was glad to find allies in the two new students.

"There comes Boots," said Brown, one evening to Harry Castleton.

"Whom do you mean?" was the quick reply; and Brown pointed to Roland, who was walking in the lawn, arm in arm with Edmund Norris.

"Why do you call him 'Boots,' Brown?"

"I'll whisper the story to you—do you know that in the first two years that he was here, he earned his education by blacking boots, carrying up wood, making fires, &c., and now he has the presumption to hold himself up above us fellows, and the faculty really place him constantly before us as a pattern to follow."

"That is a good joke," answered Castleton; "I'll remember that story—a common boot-black! 'pon my word! brought here among gentlemen! Faugh! I shall smell boots every time I pass him."

The next week, a drawing was on the wall in the passage to the recitation room, representing a boy blacking boots, and underneath written "Boots" at his profession; and another picture of a boy with a basket of boot-blacking and brushes, receiving a diploma; under which was written "Boots graduates, ready to practise on gentlemen's feet." Roland and Edmund saw the low proceeding—they did not notice it; but, on going out of the hall, Castleton and Davenport passed close to the young men.

"Don't you smell boots, Davenport?" said Castleton.

Stanley was near; he heard the insult, as also did Norris.

Instantly, the two were surrounded; and Stanley, enraged, said,

"I will bear it no longer; you shall not insult Roland Bruce;" and he gave Castleton a violent blow in the face. Edmund, too, joined the fight. Castleton and Davenport tried to defend themselves, but in vain; surrounded by several of the boys, they received a sound drubbing.

Roland was distressed—he was a brave boy, and though he knew that in the anger of the combatants he was likely to become entangled in the broil, he stepped forward, and placing himself between Edmund and Castleton, he said,

"Edmund, I beseech you, come with me; it is not worth minding—leave these boys to themselves; they do not harm me."

"Go away, Roland; I must punish them in a way which they will never forget."

Roland, however, persevered, and succeeded in drawing away his friend.

The boys each had black eyes, swollen faces, and torn coats for their reward.

They did not again try the same game, but their hatred of Roland was by no means lessened; it was rather increased.

The term drew rapidly to a close—Roland was looking forward anxiously to his embarkation on the theatre of human life. He knew that he had nothing but his education, and simple trust in God. That was enough for his confidence. He graduated with high honors. Edmund was to stay another year, and grieved to part with his friend.

Dr. Kingsley congratulated Roland warmly—

"You have done nobly, sir," said the President; "your friends may well be proud of you."

"You forget, my dear sir, I have but two, who care particularly for my success, and they are both young girls; one my sister, and the other a little friend."

The good President gave him warm parting counsels, and on shaking his hand for the last time, said,

"Remember, you have friends at college; your Alma Mater will always be proud of her son."

The young men were all busily occupied, and full of eager anticipations. Vacation had arrived, and all had some dear home circle waiting for them, but Roland. He had none; and, on the waste of life, sometimes he could not but feel like a waif among the multitude, but never long.

"Looking aloft" was the general tone of his brave spirit. With five dollars in his pocket-book, he prepared to leave the college; and, on opening it, he found ten dollars more, with the pencilled words—

"You have been a faithful banker; accept this from Edmund."

Taking leave of his kind friends, he turned his face towards Woodcliff, and Effie looked with pride upon her dear brother, as she read the diploma over and over again.

"Would not our dear mother be happy, Roland?" said the young girl; "you have accomplished her desires; may all the rest be fulfilled, dear brother."

CHAPTER XV.

STRIFE.

"Where are you going, Roland?" asked Effie, with an anxious face.

"I think to New York, sister."

"Have you any money, Roland?"

"But very little, sister, excepting in the bank of Heaven;" was the reply, and yet Roland smiled, it seemed so daring to set out on life's journey so penniless.

"I have five dollars, brother, you must take it; Miss Matilda gave it to me for some very fine work which I have just finished for Madeline;" and away ran Effie to bring her pocket-book, and attempted to empty its contents into Roland's hand.

Roland shrank from the gift. "I have fifteen dollars, Effie, that must do until I reach the great city."

"What do you expect to do, Roland?"

"I shall see when I reach New York."

"How shall I write to you? I shall be so anxious."

"I will write first, and let you know where I am."

"Give me your valise, brother," and Effie placed in it some sandwiches, which she had prepared with her own little hands.

With a hasty farewell, and a brother's warm kiss, Roland turned his face towards the great metropolis, brave, hopeful, trusting, still "Looking aloft." Oh! what need of the talisman now!

Sometimes a good-natured farmer would give him a lift on the road; and, at the end of one week, he found himself, weary and lonely, entering the great city. One dollar was all that was left in his pocket-book.

Rambling listlessly up Broadway, the multitude depressed him; for he felt himself friendless indeed, in this vast surging crowd.

Passing Trinity Church, he perceived it open, for it was the time of the evening service. The sound of the organ cheered his spirits, and, joining in the solemn service, for awhile he forgot his worldly cares, and worshipped the Unseen.

Perceiving a gentleman mounting the steeple, Roland followed, with the injunction from the sexton not to stay too long, for he should wish to close the church. The gentleman took a hasty glance, but soon descended, leaving Roland to his meditations.

What a busy, bustling crowd below! Did they, indeed, belong to the one great brotherhood of man? Each one pushing his own way, apparently so regardless of his neighbor's motions; some to happy, smiling homes; some to dens of poverty and misery; many to haunts of sin. And the streets so filled with carts, carriages, omnibuses, and cars, all threading their way so skilfully through the thronged thoroughfare.

The solitudes of the grand mountains was to be alone with God; the dreariness of this human crowd was oppressive, and here, away in the lofty steeple, near the clouds, far above the din and press of this great multitude of humanity, he felt that he could breathe once more.

Glancing over the vast city, the numerous steeples all around him reminded him that he was among Christians. "So many Christians!" thought Roland, "and not one knows me; but then every Sunday, in these houses dedicated to God, they pray for the fatherless and the homeless, and I am one."

So deeply was he engrossed in thought, and so soothing was the quiet of this retreat from the busy world, that Roland forgot how time was passing. The crowd diminished, evening shadows rendered objects below somewhat indistinct, and the fair moon appeared to light the heavens. Sailing majestically along, sometimes hidden by clouds, then emerging again into all her calm beauty, Roland could not but compare her course to the journey of God's dear children through this wilderness: sometimes obscured by sorrow, yet always coming forth again into the calm, clear sky of perfect peace.

Roland remembered that he had no place where to lay his weary limbs that night, and he repeated some of the promises.

"When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up."

The heavens seemed to smile upon him; he felt that he was God's own child, and repeated solemnly, "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven, give us this day our daily bread," his heart was comforted; and he descended the dark stair-case with the same feeling of security as if he had pressed the hand of his Heavenly Father guiding him safely along.

When he reached the church, he found it locked; he had stayed so long, the sexton had forgotten him, but he was not afraid—afraid in God's dear house, with the soft, sweet moon shining on him through the stained window-glass! Oh! no—there was a sense of sweet security pervading his heart, and, laying himself down in one of the cushioned pews, he slept the sleep of perfect security in the Father above.

Locked up until the time for the morning service, the sexton was both surprised and displeased at the sight of the tenant in rich Mr. Seldin's pew. Roland apologized, but the old man was surly, and hurried him out of the church.

He was hungry and thirsty, so the first thing that he sought was some food. Furnishing himself with some crackers and cheese, and refreshing himself with a drink of water, he commenced his first day's battle with life.

Up and down the long, crowded streets, in the stores, at the offices, along the wharves, he sought in vain for some employment. Hundreds of just such applications were refused daily. All asked the name of some friend, he had none to give but Dr. Kingsley. Some smiled at his answers when asked what he could do.

"He could keep books, copy law-papers, go errands, clean pavements, sweep out offices, any thing that would give him the means of an honest livelihood."

Night came, but without a shelter. It was late, and he was weary, so, turning into one of the market-houses, he had no other resource.

On one of the stalls lay a poor boy, pale and emaciated. Roland saw that he was sick, so placing his valise under his head, over which he had thrown some soft garment, he laid himself down to sleep by his brother's side. "He has more need than I," thought Roland, as he resigned the softer pillow to the poor boy. Presently a police-officer came along.

"What are you about here, you young rascals? Have you been out on a plundering job?"

Roland raised his head and said, "I do not think, sir, that you will find this poor boy to be a vagrant; and, as for myself, I am poor and homeless, that is all."

"New York is a bad place for a young chap like you to be in, without a home."

"I know it, sir; I have walked all day, searching for work, but have found none; can you tell me what to do?"

"I saw an advertisement for a boy in a printer's office, perhaps you may do; but I am afraid that you are too old."

"If you will be so good as to give me the direction, I will go in the morning, and see what success I shall have."

After eating sparingly of his little stock, Roland started to find the printer's office.

"We do not take boys without references; you are too old for us at any rate," and Roland was disappointed again. Roving about, he asked permission to saw wood, to clean pavements, and obtained a few such jobs; but his heart was sinking; the promises were fading, and, at the close of the third day, wearied and heart-sick, the same officer met Roland again in the same market-place.

"What! my boy, still roving about?" said the man.

"I have walked for three days, and all that I could find to do was to saw some wood, and to clean a few pavements. I have but a few cents left, where shall I turn?"

"Come home with me, I believe that you are an honest boy; you shall not sleep out in the street again."

And Richard Green took Roland with him to his comfortable little home.

"Here, wife, give this poor fellow a good supper and a comfortable bed, he has come to this great city without money or friends; we must do something for him."

Martha Green was a rough woman, with a kind, womanly heart; she had a son, about Roland's age, away at sea, and she wiped her eyes with her hard, wrinkled hand, as she asked,

"Have you a mother, my son?"

The question opened the flood-gates penned up in the poor youth's heart, and, manly as he was, weakened by suffering and hunger, he could not restrain the tears that would burst forth, as he replied,

"No, Mrs. Green, my mother is in heaven; I should be doubly grieved if I thought that she knew of the trials of these few hard days."

The good woman busied herself about the neat kitchen, and soon invited Roland to a warm and comfortable meal. A cup of warm coffee, some nicely cooked meat and potatoes, with home-made bread and butter, was a luxury which he had not seen for weeks; and when, at last, he lay down in the snug room on a clean bed, with everything around him so comfortable, language could not express the gratitude which filled his heart at the gracious answer to his prayer.

Cheered by the sympathy of these humble friends, Roland set out again with renewed hope.

Rambling about from street to street, his eye was at length attracted by a sign, which directed him to the "Noon-day Prayer Meeting."

Taking his seat among the worshippers, he was pleased to see Richard Green, his humble friend, among the company. He felt that God was there, and deeply, earnestly, did Roland pray for guidance.

"I was glad to see you there, Richard," said Roland.

"Why, you see, my son, I've been one of the roughs in my time; but, since I've been coming here, I find that there's something else to do in this world beside getting bread and meat. I see a great deal in my line to make me hate the ways of sin, for it always brings misery; so I've given up all my bad ways, and, by the help of God, I'm bound for Canaan."

They walked back again to the officer's home, and, picking up the paper, Roland perceived an advertisement—"Wanted, a boy to clean a lawyer's office, go errands, etc., with the privilege of reading law in the office."

After dinner, he called upon Mr. Dean. He was questioned closely as to his previous knowledge, his handwriting, etc. Roland showed his letter from Dr. Kingsley, speaking in the highest terms of his character and acquirements. Mr. Dean was a shrewd man, and soon made an engagement with Roland.

Grateful to his dear Heavenly Father, Roland passed a happy day, and wrote immediately to Effie, telling her of his good fortune, and giving her his direction.

Ere entering upon his labors, he walked down to the Battery. All was so refreshing—the quiet water so peaceful, its gentle murmurs calmed his fevered brow, and, "Looking aloft" once more with cheerful hope, he mused gratefully upon the past, hopefully upon the future.

"How I should like Madeline to know something of my good fortune," thought he; "but would I like her to know of my poverty? my misery? Would I like her to know that I had to sleep out two nights in the market-house, and then dependent for shelter on a police officer?"

Roland winced under these bitter thoughts.

"The gulf is wide, indeed—when she emerges into the gay world, she will forget the poor boy at Woodcliff."

The next morning, Roland entered upon his duties; they were endless—cleaning the office, making fires, running errands, copying law papers, early and late, left but little time for reading law; perhaps one hour a day was all that he could save from his unceasing toil.

Having considerable literary taste, he wrote frequently, after retiring at night, articles for the daily press.

They always seemed acceptable, and the Editor, who really delighted to encourage young genius, advertised, "If the person, writing over the signature of Randolph, will call at the office, he will hear something to his advantage."

Roland called—the Editor was interested.

"You must not write, my young friend, gratuitously. I will compensate you for your articles; send me a weekly contribution, and I will remunerate you."

Roland was surprised and grateful—not aware of his own merits, he had regarded these efforts simply as means of improvement, and had not dreamed of compensation.

He made the agreement with the Editor, and then, being questioned as to his present employment, his kind friend saw that he was overworked, and undervalued. In a week or two, the friendly editor sent for Roland again, and said,

"I have spoken to a distinguished lawyer of this city, who is fond of bringing out young men; he is interested in your story, and if you will wait a few minutes, he will call here."

In a short time, a gentleman, with a manly bearing, and a bright, quick glance, entered the office.

A short conversation with Roland completed the agreement, and, as he was only engaged temporarily at Mr. Dean's, it was soon announced that he must get another in his place, for in a week more he would leave for a more lucrative situation.

Roland soon found himself among people infinitely more refined, for Edgar and Helen Thornly were both attractive young persons.

Edgar had just returned from college; a gay young fellow, whose chief occupation in life was the pursuit of pleasure; and Helen, a lovely young girl, not long home from boarding-school.

Treated in all respects as an equal, he found the home circle at Mr. Thornly's peculiarly agreeable, and in return for these benefits, rendered at all times most faithful service to his generous employer.

Roland often felt concerned for the petted son of Mr. Thornly; for furnished constantly with a full purse, he had ample opportunity of enjoying the pleasures of the gay world, and was becoming very rapidly one of the fast young men of New York. It was true that he had a desk at his father's office, but it was seldom occupied for any length of time by the young man; for late hours at night made corresponding hours in the morning; and, in the afternoon, a drive with a fast horse generally closed the day.

Mr. Thornly occasionally remonstrated.

"Just wait a little, father; you know that I have been shut up so long at college, that it seems hard to go to work as soon us I come home. I will be a smart lawyer yet."

"Brother," said Helen, "whom do you think I met to-day in Broadway? my old school-friend, Madeline Hamilton; she is in New York, spending the Christmas vacation with Mary Trevor."

"Won't you invite her here, sister? I feel quite anxious to see your 'queen of beauty.'"

"You need not try to captivate Madeline; she is as proud as Juno, and so far, quite indifferent to beaux."

"She'll have plenty of admirers, sis, when she bursts upon the world with all her wealth and beauty."

Roland heard the announcement of her presence in New York with mingled feelings—she was a young lady now, how would she meet the old friend of his childish days?

"Roland, are you fond of music?" asked young Thornly.

"Extravagantly, but I have never heard any of the celebrated singers."

"We are going to the opera to-night; will you accompany us?"

Roland was a novice in the world of New York, and thinking only of the music, he consented, and accompanied the party.

Bewildered at first with the delicious music, he scarcely thought of the adjuncts; but the uncovered forms, the freedom of the actresses, the sentiments of the opera translated into English, shocked his sense of delicacy; and when he looked around at the crowds of fair young faces, looking and listening without a blush to much that was enacting before them, he felt convinced that this was no place for a Christian youth, and resolved accordingly.

Near them, was seated a party of young persons deeply interested in the performance. One especially attracted him—the deep blue eyes, the profusion of soft brown hair, the sweet expressive mouth, were certainly like those of his little friend; but in the tall, graceful girl before him, he scarcely could believe the evidence of his senses, when the silvery voice revealed fully Madeline Hamilton.

He had not seen her for four years, and the sparkling, bewitching child had merged into the lovely, blushing maiden of sixteen.

During one of the recesses between the acts she arose, and stood facing the party near her.

Roland caught her eye; she looked earnestly, then smiled, and, with a bow of high-bred courtesy, recognized her old friend.

Roland felt that Madeline was no longer a child; he returned her bow with equal politeness.

Next morning, at breakfast, Helen discussed with her father all her arrangements for an evening party the following week.

Roland made one of the company, and watched anxiously for each arrival, expecting every minute to see the friend of his childhood.

A ringing silvery laugh, as tripping feet passed up the staircase to deposit her wrappings, announced the presence of Madeline, the little Mad-cap of the sea-shore.

She entered—a simple girlish dress became the young maiden; for she remembered that she was yet a school-girl.

She bowed gracefully when introduced to the company—a bright blush and a smile acknowledged the acquaintance of Roland Bruce.

He advanced—"How are you, Miss Madeline? It has been a long time since I saw you. When did you arrive in New York?"

A casting down of the eyes, and the slightest quiver of a mischievous smile, crossed the bright young face.

"Last week, Mr. Bruce. I am spending my vacation with my friend, Miss Trevor."

"When do you expect to return?"

"In about ten days. One more year will complete my school-life."

"Then for the gay world, I suppose, Miss Madeline;" and Roland smiled somewhat sadly.

"Yes, that is our intention. We shall spend my first winter in New York."

"You have not forgotten the lessons at Woodcliff, I trust, Miss Madeline?"

Madeline turned her face away, and bending her eyes upon the ground, said,

"I must speak the truth; I fear, that those lessons have lost much of their power."

"Are you happy now as then, Miss Madeline?"

"Not when I stop to think; but I have not much time for that."

Listening seriously to Roland's earnest words, with eyes bent, and hands folded reverently as of yore, the Roland and Madeline of Maple Lane School stood once more revealed.

"Madeline, the piano is waiting for you," said Helen; and leading her young friend to the instrument, she interrupted the conversation.

Dashing off into one of the most beautiful of the many variations of fine old pieces, she ran through several brilliant compositions, until at the close of "Auld Lang Syne," she accompanied it with her charming voice, in all the melting tenderness of former days.

Roland was inexpressibly touched.

"She has not quite forgotten those early days," thought the youth.

* * * * * * *

Edgar Thornly gave his father much uneasiness, for his indolence increased, his nightly dissipations became more reckless—moreover, he seemed gloomy and abstracted.

One day, a gentleman called to pay Mr. Thornly a fee of two hundred dollars. He placed it in his desk, and put the key in his pocket. Roland and Edgar were both present. It was the duty of the former to lock the office every evening; but on this occasion Edgar tarried.

"Is it not time to lock the office?" said Roland.

"I suppose so," was the answer; but still he lingered.

At last Roland said,

"I have an engagement, Edgar, and must lock up."

"Can't I do it, Roland?"

"No, Edgar, your father directed me to see it locked always before I leave."

"You are mighty particular, Roland;" and, taking his hat, Edgar left the room.

Just before Roland closed the office finally, James, the waiter, entered the room to replenish the fire.

"Be quick, James, I have an engagement."

The man soon finished his work, and left the room. Roland locked the door, and took his departure, placing the key in his pocket.

The next morning, Mr. Thornly wanted the money; on opening the desk, the lock was picked, and the money gone—who could have taken it?

The waiter was called, and inquiries made of him.

"The last one I saw there was Mr. Bruce," said the man; "nobody has been there since."

Edgar testified the same.

"I saw it just before I left the room," said Roland. "I saw you put the money in the drawer, Mr. Thornly; I was the last person in the office; I locked the door and put the key in my pocket; when I looked for the key this morning it was gone, and when I went down to the office, it was already open."

"I was up first this morning," said the cook; "I was in the cellar under the office, I heard some one moving about in stocking feet; I thought it was very early, but I supposed it was Mr. Bruce, and did not go to see who was there."

Roland could have told that he saw one of Edgar's embroidered slippers close by the office door, and that when he entered, the gas was left burning, and a knife, which he had often seen Edgar use, lying under the table.

Roland felt the perplexity of his situation; he knew that suspicion pointed towards him, but he could not clear himself without involving his employer's son.

Just as he felt himself so happily, so usefully employed, it was a hard thing to be cast again upon the world, and under such circumstances.

The breakfast was eaten in silence; the business of the day pursued in the same formal manner. Edgar avoided being alone with Roland, and the atmosphere of the whole house was stifling.

Before closing the office, Roland begged for a few minutes conversation with Mr. Thornly.

"I feel the terrible suspicion which rests upon me, Mr. Thornly; I cannot stay here, a suspected man; painful as the task is, I must go."

"It is doubtless so; but, Mr. Bruce, I have placed unlimited confidence in you, sir; I know not what to think."

"Your confidence has never been abused, sir; the day will come when my innocence shall be established; in the meanwhile, I can wait."

"What will you do, sir, without a reference?"

"I do not know; but you will not make the affair public? let me beg of you for many reasons not to do so."

"I promise you not to do so; but do not send any one to me until the affair is cleared up, I cannot recommend you; it is all a mystery."

"You are not going, Roland?" said Helen Thornly; "I can't bear to see you so insulted, so wronged."

"Thank you, Miss Helen; but you must see that circumstances around me are very dark—I can only declare my innocence, and leave it all for Providence to proclaim my honor."

"My father will be the loser, Roland; I have my own thoughts, and I will never rest until I find out the truth."

"It has been a pleasant home, Miss Helen, but I must leave it; my dear mother left me a precious motto on her eath-bed, 'Looking aloft.' It has comforted me in many
a weary hour; it is my refuge now."

"Packing up his clothes immediately, he took a respectful leave of all, thanking Mr. Thornly for all his kindness.

"It will be right some day, Mr. Thornly; I can trust and wait," were Roland's last words.

Out again upon the cold world, Roland deposited his clothes with his friend Richard Green, and, weary and sad, walked down to the Battery.

He had not paced the bank long, when Madeline, in company with several gay young friends, passed by; her careless, joyous laugh jarred upon his lacerated feelings, and her ceremonious salutation completed the depression of that weary day.

Could she have known the sorrow of that noble heart, would she have passed so coldly?

No—although the poison of a letter received that day, from Lavinia Raymond, rankled in her proud young heart.

Roland paced the bank until midnight—midnight around, and midnight within the tried young spirit; for faith could not grasp the promises at once, in that hour of anguish.

CHAPTER XVI.

RUGGED HILLS FOR WEARY FEET.

Homeless once more, Roland sought an humble refuge, in the house of his friend, the good police officer. Aware of the difficulties which would beset his path, he shrank from encounters with the rough world; for what could one expect who had left an office like Mr. Thornly's suddenly, and could bring no reference?

He made the effort day after day, and although there was so much in his whole bearing that was prepossessing, none were willing to run the risk. Never had his prospects appeared so discouraging, and never had he greater need of all the support of the sweet talismanic words which had guided and strengthened him so long.

Devoting more time to his pen, his contributions to the press were more frequent, and this resource was just now invaluable, as it really did provide his daily food.

In these days of darkness, Roland never passed the poor news boys, or any who earned a precarious living in the streets, without feelings of warmer, deeper interest. Sometimes he would stop to look at some little, tired wanderer, ragged, pale, friendless, sleeping perhaps in a packing-box, in the market stalls, or wherever he could find shelter from the weather, and he would often ask himself,

"Can I do nothing for these poor, homeless children?"

He weighed the matter seriously, and turned attention to the subject, in the articles which he contributed to the daily press.

Writing from a full heart, that had passed through these sorrows himself, his words were eloquent; and on making an appeal to any who would be willing to aid in procuring home and shelter for these poor outcasts, to meet him at his humble lodgings, he waited anxiously for some response.

A week passed. At length a thoughtful-looking man, with very plain garb, sought him at the place appointed.

"I have been interested in your articles, young man; I came to ask what would you propose?"

"I scarcely know, sir; but the misery and exposure of this class haunt me daily, nightly. I have been told that there are three thousand. In a great city like this, there should be a home for such."

"Are you aware that much money would be needed to provide one?"

"I know that, sir; but if it is the Lord's directing, He will provide the money, if we will only use the means."

"Have you time at your disposal?"

"I have a great deal just now, and will do any thing that you propose."

"First, tell me your name."

"It is Roland Bruce; I can show you a letter from the President of the college where I graduated." And trusting the plain, honest, benevolent face, he told his story to the good man, not even reserving the trial at Mr. Thornly's.

Mark Grafton was a keen physiognomist, and an eccentric man; he smiled when he read the letter, for he had fully made up his mind before to trust the open countenance, and fine clear eye of Roland Bruce.

"What I propose is this: I will give you a list of names of influential men, who I know will give their aid in a cause like this; you will call on them in my name, and report progress to me every evening."

Roland was delighted; here was an opportunity to occupy his time with useful employment, to benefit a class for whom his heart had often bled.

He commenced his work with a sanguine, hopeful heart. "Looking aloft," for God's especial blessing, he set out with a bright, animated countenance, and a brisk, elastic step.

Praying daily for guidance, and leaving the cause of his acquittal in the hands of the just and wise, and gracious Disposer of human events, he was willing to leave the time in God's own hands; the event he knew was sure.

He was generally successful—many contributed largely of their means, for he found that the name of Mark Grafton was everywhere a sufficient recommendation. A few presented a cold shoulder, but he had every reason to be grateful, when at the end of a week, he numbered on his list some two hundred subscribers. Mr. Grafton was more than gratified, he was sanguine as to the result. As soon as five hundred subscribers were obtained, they would commence operations.

A house was rented, provided with plain comforts which to houseless wanderers would appear like luxuries; a matron placed at the head, and then came the work of gathering the outcasts.

An advertisement was placed in the daily papers, and several placards on the corners of the streets.

"If boys who clean crossings, or sell matches and newspapers, will meet this evening at No. 42 M—— street, they will find something to their advantage."

Mr. Grafton and Roland waited anxiously—about half a dozen came; accustomed so long to a roving life of freedom, many thought that the advertisement pointed to something which might restrain their liberty, and therefore looked suspiciously at the notice.

Mr. Grafton explained his plans to the boys. Each one connected with the home, must contribute one dollar per week of his earnings, which would be put by in a fund for his own especial benefit, when he should reach mature years. So vicious themselves, they were slow to believe in the truth or honesty of their fellows, and not one at first could be found to agree to the plan proposed.

"I give you a week to think about it, boys—you can stay here all the time, and weigh the difference between a comfortable home, where you will be provided with good reading, careful instruction, pleasant recreations, and the power of laying by some of your money; compare this with a roving life among vicious boys, who often rob you, and who are leading you away farther and farther from ways of peace and respectability, until at last, you may end your days in a prison, and spend eternity with the lost and degraded; if you cannot come into all our arrangements at the close of this week, you must depart, and we offer the same to others."

The boys listened carefully, but doubtingly. Roland spent as much of his time with them as he could spare from his daily duties connected with the Home, and with his pen.

Generally in the evening, he came and talked with them for a couple of hours, listening to their accounts of the day's labors, and reading to them some interesting matter. He was taking care of his Master's cause among these poor forsaken children, and God was taking care of his. Did he doubt it? No—not for one moment.

Time sped on; by degrees, the number of boys increased; they were gaining confidence in their kind friends.

Roland took up his abode among these waifs of humanity. Many trials beset his path, many discouragements; for the deep depravity of a whole life, short though it might have been of these juvenile transgressors, was not to be rooted out in a day, a week, or even a year.

Habit was a strong giant that required the strong antagonism of stalwart efforts; and blow after blow must be levelled against the monster in the strength of Gospel warfare, ere he would show signs of yielding to the attacks.

But Roland's manliness and benevolence were really undermining the citadel of sin, and in a few months he began to see the fruit of their labors.

About fifty boys were now inmates of the Home; they were cleanly, interested in their mental improvement, regular in their attendance upon Gospel ministrations every Sunday; and although, now and then, their hopes were disappointed by the absconding of several, still their progress was onward.

Let us turn for one moment to Mr. Thornly. From the day that Roland left the office, Edgar's spirits drooped. Helen watched him closely; her room was adjoining his; and often, late in the night, she could hear him pacing his room, and groaning, as if in great distress of mind.

Once she opened the door—Edgar was tossing about, and talking in his sleep.

"Go away, Jones," muttered the youth, "I can't get the money; two hundred dollars! two hundred dollars!"

Helen's heart sank within her. She had sore misgivings about her brother, but what was she to do? Could she accuse him without farther proof? Could she bear to see Roland suffering so wrongfully?

Still her brother continued his late hours; seldom in before one or two o'clock in the morning.

Every few days, a man would call to see him; and Edgar always appeared gloomy and distressed after these visits.

Several times he was out; and when Helen asked the name of the person who called so frequently, she found to her grief that it was Jones.

At last, he asked to see Mr. Thornly; then came the dreadful disclosure. Edgar had been gambling to a large amount, and was indebted to this man several thousand dollars.

Mr. Thornly was horror-struck; Edgar bowed down to the dust in shame; Helen overpowered with grief.

"It has come at last, brother. I knew that some dreadful grief was approaching—but is there not something worse than all, that is not yet revealed?"

Edgar turned his blood-shot eyes upon his sister.

"What do you mean, Helen? Do you mean to crush me entirely?"

"No, Edgar, I do not; but I want you to commence anew—give up all your bad associates—do justice to one that you have wronged."

Edgar bowed his head upon his hands.

"I wish that I were dead, Helen; I am too wretched!"

"Edgar, can you not tell me something about the two hundred dollars that sent poor Roland away?"

Edgar was silent; he groaned bitterly; and striking his head with anguish, he paced the floor in agony.

"I can endure this no longer, Helen; I took that money; I was threatened by Jones with exposure, and I took it; how it has burned me ever since!"

"Shall I tell our father, Edgar? it is better for all to come out."

"Do what you please, Helen; I must have relief."

Helen had a hard task to perform, but she was a true sister, and saw no other path by which Edgar could retrace his steps.

Mr. Thornly was almost paralyzed—but reproach was not to be used towards a spirit so crushed as Edgar's; he was suffering enough of agony.

His had been the error of a weak and yielding nature, furnished too abundantly the means of indulgence, rather than the deep duplicity of an accomplished villain.

"Justice must be done to Roland," was the first response of Mr. Thornly.

On the next morning, Roland's eye caught the following notice: "If Roland G. B——, will call at the office of Mr. Thornly, he will hear something important."

"The day of deliverance," thought Roland; and, taking his hat, with a joyful step and overflowing heart, he made his way to Mr. Thornly's office.

His former employer was seated at his desk.

"I have proofs of your innocence, Roland, and I have sent for you to do you justice;" then, with a sadly grieved and humbled spirit, the father recounted the story in as few words as possible.

"I knew that my innocence would be proved," answered the youth, "and I left my cause with God."

"Had you any idea of the truth at that time, Roland?"

"I had, sir; I saw Edgar's slipper near the door, and found his knife under the table, with which he had picked the lock. I saw his depression for days before, and I supposed that some debt was pressing heavily upon him, which he could not discharge."

"And you bore all this quietly, gave up a promising situation, left a comfortable home, and went out upon the world friendless, homeless, without a character, rather than expose my son, or pain his father's heart. Truly, yours is conduct not often met with in this cold and selfish world."

"It was my duty, sir; I could do nothing else; there were only suspicious circumstances, not actual proof."

"And what have you been doing in the meanwhile?"

"I could obtain no employment among lawyers, I have therefore been writing for the press; and been busy in establishing a home for friendless boys, like myself."

"Do you mean the one in which Mark Grafton is interested?"

"I do, sir; it has been a great blessing to me, for instead of dwelling upon my own griefs, I have been trying to lighten those of others, more oppressed than myself."

Mr. Thornly was silent for a moment. He was a worldly man, but this exhibition of Christian principle stirred up the fountains of his heart. Extending his hand, he said,

"Roland, can I ask you to come back again, after all that has passed? It would be to me a personal favor."

"I am but too happy, sir, to take my old desk; I believe that the finger of Providence has pointed me here, and I trust that we shall be mutual blessings to each other."

"Will you forgive my poor son, Roland? he is humbled to the dust."

"Forgive! certainly, sir; nothing is more easy, nothing more delightful."

"Will you do more? I believe that this deep disgrace will be the turning point of a new life with Edgar, if we only encourage him; will you be his friend, Roland?" said Mr. Thornly, laying his hand upon the young man's shoulder, and looking in his face with a father's pleading eyes.

"You may trust me, sir," was the frank, noble answer.

Next morning, Roland took his place in the office once more.

His meeting with Edgar was most painful.

"Say nothing, Edgar," was Roland's first salutation, when the young man sat down, covering his face with his hands.

"I know all—words are unnecessary; all is forgiven, entirely buried between us; henceforth I am your friend."

"Oh! Roland Bruce, language cannot tell what a cordial those few words are to me. I feel so desponding, so crushed; I have no companions, I go nowhere."

"That is better just now, Edgar; but after a little while, you will come and read law with me."

Edgar spent all his time in the office. Roland provided him, at first, with pleasant reading; then, by degrees, he proposed the course which he had pursued himself. Edgar was but too willing to be guided by such a hand, and Mr. Thornly and Helen looked on with speechless gratitude.

Roland was still interested in his homeless boys, and paid his periodical evening visits. It was, indeed, a comfort to see what a marked change was observed in so many.

One day, he was greatly surprised on perceiving a letter addressed to him in printed characters. On opening it, there was a check for one hundred dollars, for the "Home," "from one deeply interested." Where could it come from? was his question. Could it be from Madeline? How would she know about his actions? Suddenly it occurred to him that Helen corresponded with her, and the thought that she might be thus a fellow laborer with him was very sweet, and he encouraged the fancy.

This was, indeed, a turning point in Edgar Thornly's life—from this time, his whole course was changed, and his grateful father could not by words thank his young mentor; actions proved his gratitude.

* * * * * *

At the close of the second year, Roland was admitted to the bar. Mr. Thornly threw all the business in his way that could be thus controlled, and Roland's course was upward and onward.

Twice had he visited Effie during this period, found her happy, but with very weak eyes.

Madeline was never at home when he paid his visits; therefore, she seemed to him almost like one from whose society he was finally shut out.

Practice increased—his sound learning, practical common sense, and deep investigation into the science of law, opened a path of usefulness and honor. It could, however, never be said of Roland Bruce, that he was the lawyer sought out by low criminals, or whose influence could be purchased to legalize crime; for, though heavy fees were offered by such, knowingly, he would not stoop to practices so degrading. He soon obtained the name of "the honest lawyer," and none were more proud of his rising influence and talents, than the generous man who had afforded him so many facilities in his upward course.

"That is an important case, Roland," said Mr. Thornly, after he had described to the latter, what had been placed in his hands.

The man had been charged with murder, and the circumstances by which he was surrounded were overwhelming in their proofs against him. By skillfully managing the case, and obtaining delay, proofs establishing his innocence were obtained at a time when all around the poor man was darkest. The accused man was one universally esteemed; the joy felt at his acquittal was so intense, that, throughout the city, the press complimented the young lawyer for the ingenuity with which he had conducted the trial.

This success brought him into public notice, and restored to the arms of an only and heart-broken daughter, the parent whom she loved. A paper containing the account was sent to Effie, and, handing it to Madeline, who was then at home, the sister's heart was cheered by the warm embrace with which Maddy congratulated the dear girl.

"Did I not say, Effie, that Roland would live to be a great man yet? Won't we be happy to see him here among the Beltons and the Smiths? Effie, do you know why he seems to have forgotten his old friend?" (for a minute she hesitated, and then continued with an averted face,) "does he ever mention Helen Thornly in his letters?"

"O yes! very often, Madeline; he says she is such a lovely girl, he wishes that I knew her; she is a dear friend of his."

"So I have heard, Effie," and Madeline said no more; but, opening the piano, she played several of her old pieces, but especially the favorite "Auld Lang Syne;" then, walking out to the garden, she plucked a rose from her favorite bush, and proceeding back into the house, and up the stair-case, she stopped to listen to the strains of her Eolian harp.

It discoursed sad music that night, or was it the echo of her own spirit?

"I did not think that he would have forgotten me so soon," murmured Madeline; "but so it is, present friends obliterate the memory of the absent. I must try to forget him; but I cannot quite forget the holy teachings of my young days, nor would I if I could—may they remain forever!"

CHAPTER XVII.

MIRAGE, OR MADELINE AFTER A TRIUMPH.

"Well, daughter, I suppose that I must leave my retirement, for this winter at least," said Mr. Hamilton.

"So you promised, papa; I am looking forward to the season with great expectations. Mary Trevor is impatient for us to come early, she has so much in store for me. There are Mrs. Peyton, and Mrs. Rossiter, and Mrs. Starr, all waiting anxiously for us; they give such elegant parties, papa."

Mr. Hamilton looked with an expression of proud exultation upon his beautiful daughter, and anticipated the sensation that the advent of such a bright star would make in the world of fashion.

Madeline was full of eager anticipation, but not heartless; she really regretted the parting with Effie, and the loneliness which she knew the young girl would suffer during her absence; for Mr. Hamilton and Aunt Matilda would both accompany the young heiress.

"I am sorry, Effie, to leave you; but the winter will soon pass; you will busy yourself with looking after the house, with your needle and your books; and write often, dear."

Effie sighed, as she almost whispered,

"Madeline, a great weight is on my heart; I find my eyes daily becoming more and more dim; if the outer world should all be dark to me, what a poor useless being I should be, and what a burden to my friends!"

"Don't imagine such an affliction, dear Effie; Dr. Jenks shall attend to your case at once; but do try to keep up your spirits. I have often thought, Effie, that we ought to try to do something for the people in the neighborhood; there are several families that we have been accustomed to help; I will appoint you my almoner. There are four old persons to be supplied with warm garments and coal for the winter; and three or four invalids that need weekly care. Nanny makes gruel or other comforts for Mary Swain the cripple, and it would be a pleasure to me to know that they are all attended to."

Effie brightened at the prospect of such work, for employment like this was the element of her nature.

"Take good care of my flowers, Effie, especially my rosebush, and when I come back, let me see some roses on your pale cheeks, dear."

"You will not forget me, dear friend, that I know," said Effie, folding her affectionately in her arms, and pressing a loving kiss upon her cheek, she whispered, "do not forget the Blessed Saviour, Madeline; you will be surrounded by a thousand temptations."

A tear glistened in Madeline's eye, but she dashed it aside, and said,

"Effie, don't be distressed about me; some of these days I will be just as good as you can wish, but I must have a peep at the gay world first."

"Some of these days, Madeline; how little do we know about the days appointed us."

The day of departure arrived; the trunks were all strapped; Mr. Hamilton and Aunt Matilda seated in the carriage, and Madeline, folding her humble friend in her arms once more, took her seat by her father.

"Farewell, Effie, be bright and cheerful, dear; we shall soon be back again."

The young girl stood upon the piazza as long as she could see the carriage, and turning into the house with a sad heart, Effie sought and found the comfort that she needed, at the feet of her own dear Saviour.

Let us follow Madeline to the scene of her introduction into the gay world.

Established in an elegant suite of rooms in one of the most fashionable hotels in New York, Madeline and her aunt were busily occupied in giving orders for her winter outfit.

This was Aunt Matilda's element, and neither expense nor pains were spared on the wardrobe of the young lady.

Soon cards from the upper circles of the great metropolis multiplied in the card basket of our young novice.

All was pleasure and excitement, and weeks were occupied in returning these numerous visits, and attending to milliners, dressmakers, &c. Madeline's first appearance for the season was at the ball of Mrs. Rossiter, one of the leaders of fashion in New York.

Attired in the most exquisite taste, for the first time her mother's diamonds adorned her person.

When she entered the elegant room, leaning upon the arm of her father, all eyes were turned towards her, in whispers of admiration.

As she passed, "Beautiful!" "exquisite!" "charming!" greeted her everywhere.

"Let us be seated, papa," murmured Madeline, for the public gaze was oppressive.

She was the centre of attraction the whole evening, her hand sought for in every dance; truly, the young girl was completely bewildered and intoxicated.

And so, night after night, the ovation of flattery was laid at the feet of Madeline Hamilton.

Harry Castleton was among the most devoted of her admirers; but he was simply tolerated, for Madeline saw through the shallowness of his pretensions, and really pitied his contemptible folly.

"Well, papa, who do you think is the reigning star this winter?" said Helen Thornly.

"I do not know much about the gay world now, daughter, for I tired of it long ago; but I suppose every season has its own particular star, that shines a little while, to be eclipsed by another."

"Madeline Hamilton is the theme of every tongue; her beauty, her wealth, her accomplishments, have made her all the ton—the beaux are crazy to be found in her train, and the belles are dying of envy."

"Have you met her anywhere, Helen?"

"Yes, papa, at Mrs. Trevor's—she is splendid in her point lace and diamonds. I wish you could have seen her; and yet she does not seem vain. She always was an artless, impulsive girl; but I think New York will spoil her simplicity."

Roland listened to the remarks, and felt a deeper sinking of the heart, as he realized the ordeal through which Madeline was passing; but still, remembering all the past, and the power of first impressions, he could look upward, and trust that she would yet come out unscathed. Her world was entirely remote from his; they met but occasionally, and that in the street, but seldom at Mr. Thornly's.

The opera, balls, parties innumerable, engrossed her time, but was she happy?

Let us follow her awhile after her evening triumph. She had spent the evening at Mrs. Starr's, one of the gayest parties of the season.

Magnificent dressing, the most costly viands of the table, the most fashionable band of music, scores of admirers, and strains of the most intoxicating flattery met her everywhere. Her triumph was complete.

Was Madeline happy? To have looked at her bright young face beaming with smiles, to have listened to her musical laugh, and sparkling repartee, to have watched her light and airy motions in the graceful waltz, one would have pronounced her the gayest of the gay.

But there was a depth in the heart of Madeline Hamilton which could not be filled by these empty vanities, a thirst for a better life, which could never be satisfied with this mere mirage in the pilgrimage of an immortal.

Wearied and heart-sick, she enters her dressing-room, and seating herself, commences disrobing.

Unbinding her luxuriant hair, she lays aside the glittering ornaments and the faded flowers; leaning her head upon her hands, she weeps over the emptiness of her daily life.

Placing her jewels in a small casket, she opens a little box in her writing-desk; reverently she turns over the leaves of an old book, revealing branches of withered seaweed; and in another corner of the desk, a cluster of common shells. The sight of these simple things opens the flood-gates of her heart; and, pressing the sea-weed to her burning lips, she weeps in the anguish of her spirit.

Memory is busy—back to the sea-shore, the Maple Lane School, the cemetery, the little cottage of the humble widow.

The present is fading—she had had a distant view of the glittering world; she had longed for its pleasures; nearer and nearer had she approached the shining lake where she hoped to quench her thirst; but, stooping down to drink, she had found the world like the mirage in the burning sands of the desert, a mere illusion! a mighty cheat! O! for an hour of those early days! those simple childish pleasures! O! for the teachings of that young Mentor, who so wisely controlled the impetuosity of her high spirit, and tamed the wilfulness of her proud young heart.

She had listened to the tones of flattery, until they had palled upon her ear, and sickened her heart; and for one approving, yea, even one kind reproving glance of the dark eye of Roland Bruce, she would have given all, and more than all that the world had ever given her.

She recalls the holy lessons that had led her young heart to think of better things.

She compares Roland's character with all that she had met in the gay world, and feels that was mere tinsel; his was pure and solid gold.

She touches the simple weeds with fond, caressing fingers, and almost resolves to turn away from the gay, glittering throng.

But alas! the friend of her youth is lost to her.

She believes the tale that Lavinia has so often told, and almost envied Helen Thornly the daily companionship of such a spirit as the one that had forgotten her.

"But I may cherish these dear mementoes yet," sighed Madeline; "they speak of such holy, blessed things, that even the sight of them refreshes me."

Placing them reverently in her desk, she commits herself to God's keeping, and retires to her rest.

The world was fast losing its hold upon Madeline; the power of early teaching was returning.

"Papa, shall we go home early in the season?" said Madeline; "I long for Woodcliff."

"Just as soon as you please, daughter; are you getting tired of the gayeties of New York?"

"I am sick of them, papa; I would rather spend one month at Woodcliff now, where I could ramble by the old sea-shore, sail in my own boat on the clear lake, or ride dear old Selim up and down the lanes, as I used to when a child."

Her father smiled, for he longed for the elegant retirement of his own home; but Aunt Matilda remonstrated.

"Surely, brother, you will not allow Madeline to be so foolish; she might, at least, spend the whole season here."

"She may do just as she pleases, Matilda," was the answer; "I am glad that she retains her love of domestic life, after all the gayety of this winter."

Aunt Matilda sought Mr. Hamilton's private ear.

"I hope that you will not listen to Madeline's folly, brother, after going to so much expense in bringing her out, and when so many of the very first in the land are ready to lay their fortunes at her feet, here you are marring her prospects for a mere whim."

"Really, Matilda, I did not bring Madeline to market, I am not so anxious to be rid of my daughter, and if she is more happy in domestic life than in the gay world, I am only too glad to encourage the feeling. She has seen just what the world is, and has sense enough to understand its hollowness."

* * * * * * * *

Roland is rising rapidly in his profession, still interested in his "Home for the News-boys," and esteemed by his kind and generous patron.

"Do you know, papa," said Helen, one day, "that Madeline is going home; here in the very midst of all her triumphs, she is longing for Woodcliff—so she says, but she always was a strange girl; I don't know what to think of her."

Roland felt a thrill of joy pass through his heart at this intelligence, for it seemed to say that Madeline was not spoiled by the gay world. How he longed to see her, and his wish was speedily gratified.

A carriage stopped at Mr. Thornly's door, which he recognized at once as Mr. Hamilton's—in the next minute, Madeline stepped out, and sent the carriage away. It was not a mere call, then, and he hoped to see her, ere she left New York.

She had come to spend a social evening with Helen, and Roland having the free entrance to the drawing-room at all times, sought his young friend.

"You are going to leave us, Miss Madeline," was his first salutation.

"Yes, I really long for Woodcliff; a peep at New York life has been sufficient."

A bright smile passed over Roland's face. "I was afraid, or rather I thought that you might have been intoxicated by its flattery."

"It is very empty, Mr. Bruce, all mirage and outside show; I want something better; point lace and diamonds, with glitter and show without sincerity, will not satisfy one that once longed for inward peace."

They are sitting apart from the rest, who were engaged in their own conversation.

Roland drew near to Madeline, and in a low tone, he whispered,

"Madeline, do you long for this better life now?"

She blushed deeply at the old familiar name, as she replied,

"Most intensely, Roland; the world has lost its charms for me."

Just then, Helen stepped up, and interrupted the conversation.

"Will you not persuade Madeline to sing?" said the young girl.

"If you will favor us first, Helen;" and Roland led her to the piano, and stood turning over the leaves for her, while she sang.

Was it the tenderness of a lover, or the mere interest of a friend that marked his manner towards Helen? inquired Madeline of her heart.

There was something in the glance of Helen that betrayed more than a common interest. But what meant Roland's whispered words? old affection? or mere brotherly regard for one whom he remembered as a mere wayward child?

After Helen, she took her seat at the piano, and song after song was called for.

With all the simplicity of childish days, she poured forth those strains of thrilling melody, once heard, never to be forgotten.

Roland shaded his eyes to hide the deep emotion which he could not control, when she warbled forth, "Ye banks and braes o' Bonny Doon," with the sweet pathos of her touching voice. He could not answer, even when she turned, and with the innocence of early days, said, in a low tone,

"That was your mother's favorite, Mr. Bruce."

He bowed, but could not reply.

The evening passed; Madeline spoke her farewells to the family.

Roland handed her to the carriage

"Remember me in your daily prayers, Roland."

"God bless you, Madeline, forever and ever; and I feel that he will with his choicest blessings."

"Helen is a sweet girl; I hope that you may be happy."

The carriage drove off—Roland retired to muse upon the evening, and the next day, Madeline was on her road to Woodcliff.

On the following day, a note was delivered to Roland with a check for one hundred dollars for the "Home for the News-boys."

Once more in sight of Woodcliff, Madeline's heart beat warmly towards every object around her dear home.

Effie was on the piazza to meet her, but Madeline was shocked to see the change in the dear girl.

"Oh! how welcome you are, Madeline! I have been so lonely; if it had not been for the poor people that you gave me to take care of, I should have been dreary enough; for Dr. Jenks will not allow me to use my eyes at all."

"I am so glad to be back at the dear old home, Effie."

"Why, you did not stay as long as you intended, Madeline."

"No, I begged papa to bring me home; I have seen enough of New York; I never was made for fashionable life, Effie."

"And you really have come back to us, Madeline, perfectly free, notwithstanding all the fortunes that have been laid at your feet."

"How did you hear all this, Effie?

"Miss Matilda used to write us such descriptions of your numerous conquests, that I often felt as if we had lost you altogether."

"You need never be afraid of such empty-headed fops as I have seen, Effie; I scarcely met a man of sense while I was away."

Madeline felt the need of some strong guiding hand in her present state of feeling; and, after she had been at home a few weeks, begged her father to allow her to visit Aunt Clara once more.

Mr. Hamilton felt as if he could scarcely spare her.

"I shall not stay long, papa; I do so want to see my dear aunt, and she has written for me so often."

"You may go, Madeline, if you will promise me to return in one month; no longer, my daughter; I want you near me, my dear child, for I am not so well as usual."

"Perhaps I had better stay, papa."

"No, Madeline, you can go; if I need you, I will send for you."

On the evening before her departure, she had visited the library, and turning over some familiar books, she came at last to her portfolio, that she had used when a school-girl. Listlessly looking through its contents, a card dropped out, on which was sketched what she was sure was a picture of herself, as she appeared on the evening when she had first met Roland.

It was a spirited little picture; but who had drawn it?

She hurried to Effie, and holding up the card, said,

"Do you know who sketched this?"

"I think it must have been Roland; for one evening when he was here, he was a long time in the library; and I know that he draws beautifully."

Looking on the back of the card, she saw the initials R.G.B., and soon the sweet memento was placed among Madeline's treasures.

Taking Hector as her companion, she sought the dearest spot around Woodcliff, and soon seated on the rock near the old flag-staff, memory wandered over the past.

The incident in the library had touched her deeply; but then that was simply a memory of childhood, and she had doubtless been forgotten since that time, or only remembered as an old friend; for had not Lavinia declared more than once that Roland was actually betrothed to Helen Thornly; for her own cousin had said so.

Ere she left the shore, she visited old Peter. He was living yet, and hastened to meet the young lady whom he had so often seen on the sea-shore.

"Well, dear me! the children will grow to be men and women, it seems; but a little while ago since you and Roland were skipping about here as happy children; now, you are a young lady, and Roland such a fine-looking young man! The last time he was down, he came to visit me in the old cabin—says he, 'Peter, you don't care for that little shoe that is up in the shelf?'"

"No," says I, "it is no use to me, but I kept it a good while because the little girl dropped it here, and she was a bright child, and very good to Uncle Peter."

"Did you give it to him?" inquired Madeline.

"Yes, I did, and he placed it in his pocket, and took it away—a queer fancy for a young man to be hoarding up old shoes."

"Did he ask for one of yours, Uncle Peter?" inquired Madeline, with her old smile of mischief.

"Bless your heart! my young lady, he did not want my old shoes; for he only wanted that one, because it belonged to the little foot that used to run about here on the old beach."

This was pleasant talk, and she wondered if Roland really did think as much of the little shoe as she did of the faded sea-weed that lay hidden in the desk.

"I suppose that he did then," thought she; "but that perhaps was before he knew Helen Thornly."

"Are you comfortable, Uncle Peter?" asked the young girl, before she left the cabin.

"Well, you see, Miss, I should like to have some tobacco; mine is about gone, and it is hard enough to get it sometimes."

"You shall have some, Uncle Peter;" and the next day Madeline sent to the nearest store for a good supply for the old man.

"God bless her bright young face! she always had a warm heart, but a quick, high temper. I wonder how it is now; she'll come all right by-and-bye."

Madeline wondered for several days what Roland had done with the little shoe; but she guessed at last that it thrown away before this.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE EARLY DAWN.

"I shall not leave you long, dear papa," was Madeline's farewell; and Aunt Clara was but too happy to see her dear niece once more.

"I have heard glowing accounts of your winter in New York, Madeline; I really was afraid that you would be wholly intoxicated by its temptations."

"I was for awhile, dear aunt, but I discovered that all was mere mirage; there was an inner life that was wholly starved in that heartless round of folly."

"How did you spend your time, Madeline?"

"In dressing, shopping, singing, waltzing, going to the opera, making and receiving calls, in hearing frothy talk, and scandalous remarks, in listening to the flattery of a score of empty-headed fops, coming home tired at night, sleeping late next morning, and longing for one sight of nature, one true friend, one satisfying portion. Aunt Clara, I learned to loathe the empty life, and I have come to you longing for something better."

Folding her niece in her arms, she imprinted a warm kiss on the fair young forehead, and said,

"There are fountains of living water, Madeline; these only can quench the burning thirst of an immortal spirit."

"I must find them, dear Aunt Clara, for I am fainting for thirst."

Lucy Edmonds was happy again, for dearly did she love the warm-hearted girl. Madeline's openness, her generous heart, her plain bluntness, her perfect transparency of character, charmed her, and contrasted with Lavinia's worldliness and vanity; it was really refreshing to hear her sweet young voice, and see her moving about again in her aunt's household.

This was an important era in the life of Madeline Hamilton, for a great change was passing silently in her moral nature, and a peep into her journal will reveal something of her inner life.

"New York. At length I have seen something of this bright world, of which I have heard so much. Last night was my first appearance at Mrs. Rossiter's ball. Dear papa spared no expense upon my dress; it was exquisite—white silk with point lace, flowers, and my mother's diamonds. I suppose that it was a beautiful vision that dawned upon the world, for the language of flattery and admiration met me on every side; and, must I say it? I was, for awhile, pleased with the cup offered to my lips. Papa was gratified, Aunt Matilda in ecstasies, and I, while in the midst of the gay scene, was enchanted—all was so new, so beautiful, so grand.

"Why did I sigh when I entered my dressing-room, and shut out the world? And yet I did sigh, and said to myself, 'Is this all? Empty heart! what is it longing for? With everything this world can give, but within, an aching void.'

"I have seen Roland, saw him at church, but he did not see me. How calm! how devotional his whole manner! O, for the peace that he enjoys!

"Mr. Grafton called a few days ago to see papa; all his talk was of Roland. Roland's goodness! Roland's benevolence! Roland's talents! It was a pleasant theme—and, when he told about the News-boys' Home, which he had helped to establish, I felt so proud of him. I wonder what made him think so much of the news-boys! could he have been once as poor, as destitute as they? Mr. Grafton hinted it. Poor Roland! what he must have suffered! But why should I feel proud of him? He is Helen Thornly's betrothed; so the world thinks, so Mr. Grafton supposes, and Lavinia Raymond declares.

* * * * * *

"At the opera, last night, the music was divine; but the bewildering acting, the unchaste appearance of the women, the glitter and parade of the audience,—was this what Roland would approve of?

"I lead two lives, one in the outside world, where all is show, and giddy pleasure; another, an inner life, with every fibre of my nature sending out its clasping tendrils to reach something substantial, enduring, satisfying. Like the delicate air-plant fluttering in the breeze, I stretch forward to grasp it, but it is gone. I have not found it yet. Who would believe it, that sees Madeline Hamilton surrounded by flatterers, intoxicated for the moment with the gay blandishments of the world, smiling, waltzing, sparkling in magnificence? Who would believe that, in the silence of the night, she mourns, and weeps, and longs for something better.

"I have heard of that better part, that higher life, from Mrs. Bruce, from Aunt Clara, from Roland. I have seen it in the calm tranquillity of their daily life, in the blessed hopes of a Christian's death.

* * * * * *

"Last night, I was at Mrs. Rossiter's ball; it was superb! but Oh! how hollow! Even while receiving the hospitalities of their hostess, how many heartless ones did I hear whispering disparaging remarks, criticizing the entertainment, and prophesying the downfall of the establishment. I am sick of this folly—would that I were back at Woodcliff, among the green trees, the quiet lanes, the grand old ocean, the solemn cemetery, with dear Effie, my good old Hector, faithful Selim, my pets, my flowers; anything but this heartless, empty show.

"O! what an hour I spent when I retired! I opened my desk, and there lay the dear old sea-weed, given so long ago by my best friend, my childish guide, my model boy—now such a noble man. I pressed them to my burning lips; what would I give for one hour's heart communion, such as we used to love in days that are gone. He could guide me, he could strengthen me, but he is gone, he is another's now. Then I prayed—yes, earnestly—fervently; and I resolved that this empty, frothy, sinful life should end. It must be sinful; it cannot be right that an accountable creature should spend the solemn days of probation in such frivolity.

"Next morning, I told papa that we must go home—Aunt Matilda opposed it—she does not understand me, but Roland does. I met him at Helen Thornly's—something of the old tenderness in his manner; but still there is a gulf between us which seems impassable. But I can cherish the memory of all that he used to be, and all that he has taught me. All that I know of goodness, and high and holy things, I have learned from that beggar boy, as Harry Castleton has dared to call him, and even now! I felt as if I could wither him with my scorn, and certainly annihilated him with one of my haughtiest looks, for I have not seen him since that day. Harry Castleton scorn Roland Bruce! Roland in a cottage, struggling with poverty, as I have seen him, with the grand and lofty spirit of the Gordons; and Harry Castleton, rolling in wealth, the dweller in a palace, would be simply Roland and Harry still.

* * * * * *

"At home again! How I ran about with my winter hood, and water-proof, visiting the old familiar spots, and rejoicing in the presence of my dumb pets. The dear old library—my harp and piano, like faithful friends, seemed to welcome me again; the sweet Eolian sounded out a loud pæan, for sharp March winds swept over its strings, and it, too, seemed rejoicing.

"How shall I occupy my time? There is a great deal here to do. I should like to do some good in the world, and live for something beside myself.

"Could I not gather a little group of poor children, and teach them? Could I not establish something like a parish school? There are so many poor people around us, that only live a wild life,—children of the fishermen. Effie could help me, and we would be so happy together. Then, after awhile, we might perhaps have the services of our own church; I could get a missionary to come here twice a-month from Boston, and then we may have a church of our own; but I must see Aunt Clara first, she can direct me.

* * * * * *

"I am with Aunt Clara again. There is rest in her very smile; the soft silver hair lies so quietly around her mild face; the peace of God breathes in every look and motion. She is so different from Aunt Matilda—she draws me heavenward; Aunt Matilda drags me down.

"Poor aunty! what a pity that she has nothing but the things of this world to lean upon! no wonder that she feels their insecurity. But, dear Aunt Clara, so patient, so peaceful, so happy. I can pour out my whole heart, I can tell her all my thoughts.

"She seems to anticipate all I have to say. How sweet the name of Jesus sounds, uttered by her lips! She talks to me of his tenderness, his fulness, his preciousness, until sometimes I feel, 'None but Jesus!'

"Then clouds come again—I lose my hope, and all is dark. But still I trust that there is some progress in the inner life. I love my Bible; the hour of prayer is precious; the house of God, my chief joy. Nothing will draw me to the world again, I hope; and yet my 'heart is deceitful above all things,' as regards the things of God.

"Lavinia urges me to follow in her sinful, foolish ways; I will not—I have refused her invitations repeatedly, and she tries the power of ridicule. She does not know me, or she would not try the weakness of such a weapon.

"I am too proud yet to yield to such a mode of opposition. Just let me believe myself a Christian, and Lavinia's ridicule will only excite my sorrow.

"The gay world has lost its charms for me, and I care not what Lavinia and her friends may say. She has told me a great deal about Helen Thornly, and has convinced me, that she is, indeed, the chosen companion of Roland's future life—may they be happy! She says that Roland always speaks of me with the affection of a brother, very calmly, but never seems willing to talk about Helen.

"How much of my present state of feeling may arise from this loss of my early friend. If so, how little is this weariness of the world to be trusted! in other circumstances, the power of the world may all return.

"I went to hear Mr. Endicott, Aunt Clara's pastor. What an earnest, faithful sermon! What a picture of our sinful nature he drew! it is all too true. And where is our help? 'Look unto me,' says the Blessed Saviour; do I look unto him? if I did, would not peace visit my bosom?

"Oh! for a living faith! Sometimes I feel as if I really had exercised such trust, and then the merest trifle draws my heart away, and my peace vanishes.

"Lavinia has such power to annoy me—she takes malicious pleasure in bringing all the gossip that she can about Roland—why should I be so disturbed? He is only my friend; I am mortified that I should allow myself to dwell so much upon these circumstances. I had a letter from Helen, yesterday—it was full of Roland—she says if I could know all, I would value him as highly as she does.

"How little does she know of me! What can be the secret which she cannot disclose? She says that it places him among the noblest and the best of men. She writes as if she were on terms of close intimacy with Roland; writes of mending his clothes, attending to his room, helping him in his work among the News-boys. It is evident that she loves Roland Bruce; and how can she do otherwise, living in the house with him on such familiar terms? May they be happy together! But it does seem strange that he can forget his old friend so soon.

"A letter from papa; he is not well—he says that the parlor is so melancholy, the harp so silent; he wishes me to return; I promised him that I would; and nothing can keep me away.

"Aunt Clara is sorry to have me go so soon, but she thinks it is my duty, and bids me depart. I am going, to-morrow—she prayed so earnestly alone with me, that I might be kept from the temptations of the world, and brought really to the feet of Jesus.

* * * * * * *

"I am at home again—papa looks so thin and pale; his spirits are very low—Effie's eyes are no better; I am troubled about the dear girl, more than she is about herself; she seems to live in the spirit of a beautiful hymn.

'Sweet to lie passive in his hands,
And know no will but his.'

"I spent my first evening at the harp, playing for dear papa; he seemed so happy to have me at home again—how fondly he hung over me all the evening!

"What should I be without him? I cannot bear to think of such a time.

"He called me to his side before he retired, and opening a casket, gave me such a beautiful set of emeralds; he is never tired of lavishing gifts upon his darling child.

"To-day Effie was sitting near the window trying to knit a little; she seemed sorely perplexed, frequently dropping her stitches, and scarcely able to take them up again—Aunt Matilda observed her.

"'What are you worrying yourself for, Effie, with that knitting?'

"'I am so tired of doing nothing,' replied the dear girl, while large tears rolled over her cheeks.

"Poor dear Effie! I fear that she is really losing her sight—so patient! so resigned! so ready for the will of her Heavenly Father, whatever that may be.

"Roland had heard of her sickness, and has been to see her—'He was so kind,' Effie says; 'so gentle to his little sister.' She says that he asked a great deal about me. I wonder if he has the little shoe yet—how foolish all this is! I ought not to write such folly.

"I have a great deal of time unoccupied—ought I not to do something for this neighborhood?

"But how shall I begin? In my walk, yesterday, I rambled among the factory children; they seem very poor and ignorant; can I not do something for them?

"Aunt Clara gave me some little books and tracts for just such people; I think I will take some among them.

* * * * * * *

"I went this morning along the factory lane, with my little basket in my hand; the children found that I had pretty books with pictures. Soon they were running after me.

"'Lady, please give me a little book,' cried one little girl. 'Give me one, lady,' 'and me,' 'and me,' sounded out a score of young voices, all eager for a book, or a tract.

"The books were soon all gone, and I had the pleasure of seeing several sit down by the road-side, eagerly examining the pictures, while others ran in to show their mothers what they had got. I think very few can read, for they only looked at the pictures.

"One little curly-headed girl, with bare feet and ragged clothes, came pulling me by the dress.

"'Lady, please come and see my mammy; she is very sick.'

"I followed the child, and found her poor mother extended upon a bed of sickness, with every appearance of want and misery. I questioned her; she had been sick for two months; often in need of food; her two children worked at the factory, and their scanty wages was all that she had.

"'Oh, ma'am! the rich don't know the value of the broken pieces which they throw away; but we know, ma'am.'

"I left her some money, and promised to remember poor Mrs. Donnelly—she had set me to earnest thinking. Her grateful look repaid me for that visit.

"In the next cottage was an old bed-ridden grandmother; in another a cripple; and enough all around to convince me that Madeline Hamilton must not spend an idle life around Woodcliff. Just to think that I have lived so many years in elegance and ease, and all this misery at my very doors. I thought of the parable of the steward, and his Lord's return to reckon. It is true that a great deal was sent out from Woodcliff among the neighboring poor, but it could not be said of us generally, 'I was sick and ye visited me.' I must do something—but how shall it be? I will ask Effie; she knows a great deal about these people. Roland could tell me; his earnest, warm heart, and strong good sense, would see the way at once. It will be so pleasant to know that I am working in the same field with Roland—he, for the misery of New York, and I, for that around Woodcliff. These poor children have no time for school, and yet they are so ignorant; can I teach them in any way? They might stop work on Saturday; I would pay their mother their wages, and they could come to me in the afternoon; they would thus lose no money, and gain much knowledge. I will try, and Effie can help me to gather the children.

* * * * * *

"I went yesterday—six little ones promised to come on Saturday. Aunt Matilda is shocked with the idea of a Miss Hamilton becoming the Lady Bountiful of the neighborhood.

"'What will Mrs. Grundy say?' is ever uppermost with poor aunty.

"I have a room all my own, where I can do just what I please; my pleasant sitting-room, where I can easily manage twelve little girls. I will have some nice desks and benches made, and James can bring them in every Saturday.

"Yesterday my little class came—they were all clean, but several barefoot and ragged.

"They seemed quite bewildered by the pretty things around them. I played a simple hymn, and tried to teach them to say it; but they were struck dumb with amazement. I suppose that they had never seen a piano before.

"I amused them then by telling them a story. Effie took them out in the garden, and gave each a bunch of flowers. They looked so pleased, poor little things! What a pity that I had not known before how cheap a thing it is to make others happy, and that my garden could brighten so many little faces; but I don't think that they were so happy as I—my heart felt so warm, and tears of gratitude would rise, when I remembered all God's goodness to me. There was a warm glow of sunshine around Woodcliff on Saturday afternoon, and it shall come again.

"Effie thinks we had a good beginning; the little ones promised to come next Saturday.

"Aunt Matilda laughs at my new folly, as she terms it, saying, 'that I will soon grow tired of it.'

"Papa says, 'I am glad that Madeline has thought of the children; it will employ much of her time. I sometimes think that we spend a very useless life here at Woodcliff.'

"Aunt Matilda replies, 'I am sure, Lewis, that you cannot expect me to enter into any such plans. I am much too delicate with my nervous temperament; it would drive me crazy to teach little children; and I do think that Madeline Hamilton might find employment more worthy of a young lady.'

"I have written to Helen to send me some shoes for children, and some books, giving her a short account of what we are doing.

"Saturday came again—my six little girls were punctual; but it was a rainy day, and they brought some mud.

"Aunt Matilda was very angry, and said harsh things. I replied haughtily, and with one of my outbursts of temper.

"'Well, Madeline, if this is your piety, I want nothing to do with it.'

"'I don't pretend to piety, aunt; I only want to do some good in the world; and I think that you might help, instead of hinder me.'

"I was ashamed of myself, and deeply depressed for all that day—will I ever learn to bridle my tongue?

"The little ones were glad to get their new shoes—I gave them their first lessons; they were very dull, for they have never been taught anything; and it was hard to keep their eyes from wandering about the room, and out into the garden, for the glass doors of my sitting room open directly on the garden, filled with beautiful flowers. A hymn which they tried to sing, and a bunch of flowers for each, closed the exercises."

* * * * * *

The school went on prosperously for several weeks; the numbers increased to twelve; and Madeline was pleased to see some improvement. Effie taught each one orally verses from the Bible, and simple hymns, for she could not use her eyes at all.

Weekly the young girls visited the factory lane, and soon the poor people learned to look for the visit with great delight.

The sick mother was tenderly cared for; the old grandmother provided with what she needed; the cripple comforted by kind words, and gentle ministrations; and Madeline felt the joy of knowing that she was doing something towards lightening human misery. But Effie's eyes were growing worse; it was deemed advisable to consult a New York oculist; and Madeline was obliged to accompany the young girl.

The Saturday school was for awhile suspended, much to the disappointment of the little ones, for they were very sorry to lose their kind teachers.

Being alone, it was thought proper that they should take up their abode in a private boarding-house, for Madeline could not burden her friend Mary Trevor with the charge of Effie.

But little encouragement was given by the great oculist; and Madeline was now convinced that her friend was doomed to a life of darkness.

Roland was not in New York when they first arrived, having gone to a neighboring town on important business. Madeline was devoted in her attendance upon Effie; reading to her, and in every way that affection could invent, trying to turn her thoughts from herself. Effie was, however, in habits of daily self-communion, schooling her young heart to what she felt was coming. "God help me!" was her constant cry; and when was that feeble prayer ever disregarded by the dear Father in Heaven?

CHAPTER XIX

"AULD LANG SYNE."

Madeline's presence in New York is soon known among her friends; numberless cards are left at her house, but as her errand is one chiefly of business, she returns but few calls; a few exceptions, however, are made; for she wishes Effie to have some cheerful society.

Occasionally, excursions are made around New York for the purpose of amusing her young friend, for Madeline spares no pains to cheer her drooping spirits.

Roland has returned; he has been absent on exceedingly annoying and troublesome business, and somewhat to throw off care, takes a boat for the bay.

It is a beautiful evening, and has invited a merry party of ladies and gentlemen to take the same excursion.

Roland does not relish the companionship of the light-hearted, and withdraws himself from their neighborhood; not far from where he stands, he observes the form of a lady leaning over the side of the boat; sometimes gazing dreamily upon the water, then upon the heavens above; it looks like a familiar form.

He recognizes the face of Madeline, but avoids recognition, because he wishes to watch her movements. She seems melancholy and abstracted, and hums sadly a familiar air, one that he had taught her; the dear old song of "Auld Lang Syne."

"Does she remember those happy times?" thought the young man, "and surrounded as she is by so much to make her forget those early days; does she still cherish the memory of her boyish friend?"

He observed her wipe a tear silently away, and as she turned to renew her walk, Roland moved towards her, and she recognized the object of her thoughts.

"Mr. Bruce!" "Miss Madeline!" were the hasty salutations, as each extended a hand of welcome.

"How came you here, Miss Madeline?" was Roland's first question.

"I am here with Effie, for advice with regard to her eyes."

"Is she with you to-night?"

"She is not, for she has but little heart for amusement; she insisted on my coming, and I have left her in good company for the evening."

"You were musing, Miss Madeline," said Roland, in a lower voice, "and singing that old Scotch song; did it recall former childish days?"

For a minute, Madeline did not reply; at last she said, "I shall never forget those days; how often do I need just such a friend as I had then."

"There is a friend, Madeline, 'that sticketh closer than a brother;' have you found him yet?"

"I am trying, Roland, but there is much to hinder; my faith is very weak; my heart very deceitful."

"Your Saviour knows that, Madeline; he is not only the 'author, but the finisher of our faith;' if you have any, even as much as the grain of mustard seed, it is of his planting; he only can make it grow; do you look to him daily?" and Roland bent more closely to Madeline, as they paced the deck together.

"I think I have that little grain; but my great infirmities of character do so harass me; my quick impetuous temper make me feel so unworthy. I have no one to strengthen me now as when I went to Maple Lane School."

"Do the temptations of the world draw your heart away from better things, Madeline?"

"I think not; I care for none of them; I want to be a Christian, wholly; to live a better, higher, holier life."

"These are the teachings of the Holy Spirit, Madeline; God will perfect his own work; only do not resist these influences, they are sent from Heaven."

"Lately I wanted your advice so much; I want to do some good at Woodcliff; but I did not know how to begin."

"I have heard, Madeline, about your little school; go on, my young friend, God will guide and bless you."

"How did you hear, Roland?"

"Did you not write to Helen for books and shoes? she told me all about it."

Madeline shrank away at the mention of Helen's name, for she feared that she had been too communicative about herself, but it seemed so like the old times, that she could not resist the opportunity of opening her heart on this one subject.

"Does Helen take any interest in such things?" inquired Madeline.

"Yes, she does now," was the answer; "she is quite a help to me in my 'Home.' I wish that you could do something for us, Madeline."

"How can I work for you away off at Woodcliff?"

"Why, you have a very fertile imagination, and used to be famous at story-telling—can't you manufacture something for the 'News-boys?'"

"I write stories, Roland! why, I never thought of such a thing—but it would be a pleasant thing if I could so write for them, and work for you."

"I want you to work for God, Madeline; you have bright talents, my little friend;" and Roland seemed to have gone back to the days on the sea-shore, and to forget that he was talking to a young lady, the heiress of Woodcliff, instead of little Maddy of Maple Lane School.

Madeline smiled, for it made her very happy to feel that she could, in any way, be a coworker with Roland, and she really felt as if she could make the effort; it was worth trying.

"Must it be very religious, Roland?"

"It must be something to wake up the moral sense of these poor boys, and to point them to a holy life."

"Oh! that is too much for me, Roland; I can, perhaps, write a little story which may please them, and keep them from bad reading."

"Will you promise me to try, Madeline? send it on to me, and I will correct it, and get it ready for the press."

Suddenly Madeline burst out into one of her old fits of laughing; her own ringing, silvery laugh.

"I could not help it, Roland; it seems so strange to think of Madeline Hamilton turning authoress."

"It does not seem strange to me; I always believed that you were born for something very good, Madeline; now I want you to tell me all about your little school, and the poor people around Woodcliff."

And Madeline entered into an animated description of all that had been attempted; so artless, so naive was her account, so modest, and yet so frank, that Roland felt as if he was seated once more by the bright child of the sea-shore; but when he remembered that years had passed since then, and that the broad gulf of wealth and rank forbade the free, charming intercourse of those young days; he checked expressions that would have arisen to his lips, and hushed the wild beating of his heart, awakening to the sense of danger, that attended such an interview as this.

"You promise to write the story, Madeline, remember."

"Yes, I promise anything,"——and she checked the remaining words trembling on her lips,—"to you."

They forgot the passing of time in this sweet communion, until Charles Davenport came up to Madeline, and laying his hand upon her arm, said, haughtily,

"Are you aware, Madeline, how long you have been absent from your party?"

"Are you aware that you are interrupting my conversation with an old friend?"

"An old friend, indeed! May I ask the name?"

"Mr. Bruce, Charles Davenport."

"How long since you resigned your post at college, sir?"

"What post, Mr. Davenport?"

"That which you held when I was a member of that college."

Roland did not answer—indignation was too strong; but Madeline did.

"I understand your insinuation, sir; how dare you insult Roland Bruce? You cannot lower him; you have tried it too often, and failed."

Poor Madeline! aware of the hot blood that was mounting to her face, she covered it with her hands, and murmured,

"Begone, Charles Davenport; you make me forget that I am a woman; I am so ashamed, what shall I do?" and she burst into tears of wounded modesty.

Charles went off whistling.

"Quite a scene with that upstart fellow!"

Roland stood by Madeline, scarcely knowing what to say. He was aware that her innate sense of propriety had been greatly outraged by the words which in her impetuosity she had uttered; he stood silent for one minute, then taking her hand, said,

"I understand your generous nature, Madeline; I thank you more than words can express."

"I am humbled, mortified at my impetuosity; do not think me destitute of modesty, Roland."

"You, Madeline! you know not what you are saying—be satisfied when I say that if the expression of the deepest respect that ever filled the heart of man can relieve your wounded pride, it is all your own."

"Thank you, Roland; I could not bear to lose your respect; let me always deserve that."

Taking her hand, and placing it within his arm, he led her to her party, saying,

"Good night, Miss Madeline; I shall see you and Effie to-morrow;" for Roland felt that this heart-communion was becoming each moment more dangerous.

"Who was that young man?" inquired Mary Trevor; "he is so noble-looking, and what a bow! quite the air of a prince!"

"Poor and proud!" retorted Charles Davenport.

"He is an early friend of mine, Mary. His name is Bruce."

"O yes! he is in Mr. Thornly's office; I have met him there several times; he is a young man of fine talents, and quite an admirer of Helen Thornly; some say more."

Madeline did not reply, but there was something in her heart that night, that made her feel very easy with regard to these rumors; at all events, Roland has lost none of his interest in his youthful friend, and Madeline dreamed about Woodcliff, and Maple Lane School, about the sea-shore, Uncle Peter, and a little shoe.

Next morning, Roland called to see his sister, and was deeply pained at the evidences manifest of the affliction hanging over his darling Effie.

Folding her in his arms, he pressed upon her sweet face the warm kisses of brotherly love.

"Would, darling, that I could shelter you from the woes of life; but Effie, this is not our home; we are seeking a better one; and if for a little while our Father sees fit to close my sister's eyes, I will be eyes and everything else for her."

"I know it, Roland; I am trying to school my heart; I know what is coming; each day the light becomes more dim; but the presence of my Saviour is always with me; I can still, with the eyes of my soul, 'Look aloft.' I have so many blessings, Roland; a pleasant home, good kind friends, a dear, dear brother, such a friend in Madeline, and the hope of Heaven always so bright."

Roland smoothed the soft brown hair, kissed the pale forehead, and lifting up his voice, prayed so fervently for the dear stricken lamb, that Effie was comforted.

A few more days, and the young girls returned to Woodcliff, with the sad certainty that nothing more could be done for Effie.

Roland saw them safely in the cars, and promised to write frequently to his sister.

"Remember your promise," was his last charge to Madeline.

As soon as possible, she made preparations for her new effort; carefully concealing from her father and aunt the nature of her employment.

She was some time deciding whether her hero should be a good or a bad boy; she tried both, but was dissatisfied. At last, she selected one from the very lowest walks of life, and the deepest degradation, raised by the power of Christian love to a post of useful, earnest piety.

As her story progressed, she read each chapter to Effie, who was delighted at the genius manifested by her model friend.

At length it was completed, and sent to Roland; nothing was heard of it for some time. So humble was her sense of its demerits, that Madeline looked daily for the return of her manuscript.

Finally, a letter came to Effie, announcing that all arrangements were made, the book disposed of, and would be out in about two months; but Roland asked what was to be done with the money for the manuscript.

"I never thought of that," said the young girl; "but tell Roland, Effie, to keep the money for the 'Home.'"

When at last the package came, and Madeline really looked upon one of her own productions in print, she could not but smile at her temerity; and when in addition to the book, were also some flattering notices from the press, she was actually surprised.

Papa was in the library—Madeline knocked at the door with a trembling hand; and when her father bade her enter, she stood irresolute with the book in her hand, and a shy smile upon her face.

"What is the matter, daughter? you seem agitated."

"I have something to show you, papa."

"Well! what is it? I am ready."

"This little book, papa."

"Poh! poh! is that all? only a boy's book, Maddy."

"But I know that you'd like to read this one, papa."

"Well, to please my daughter, I'll read it some time; lay it on the table."

"But, papa, I want you to read it now; look at the title-page."

"By Madeline." "Why, what does this mean?"

"It means, dear papa, that this is Mad-cap's book."

"Did you really write this, my child?"

"Yes, I did, papa; I hope it may do some good among the poor boys of New York."

"What next, Maddy?" asked her father, with an amused expression of countenance.

"I must be busy, and this is such pleasant work; you do not object, do you, papa?"

"No, not exactly; but I should not like to have your name handed around as an authoress; I have rather a horror of literary ladies in general; they are so often odd, and I cannot abide an eccentric woman."

"But, dear me, papa, these little unpretending stories are really nothing; they never can make me famous; and really I do not wish for anything but that they may do some good."

Papa read the little book with a feeling of secret pride, quite surprised to see so much talent in his daughter Maddy. At the tea-table, he alluded to the subject.

"Well, what would you think, Matilda, if I should introduce Madeline to her aunt, as a young authoress?"

"Think, Lewis Hamilton! why I should say that you are both crazy. First, a Lady Bountiful, bringing in all the ragged children of the neighborhood, and now a writer of childish books. I am really concerned; if she becomes a 'blue stocking,' I have no hope left; she will grow to be a careless, slatternly woman, just like that Miss Hodges, that used to go about the country with soiled face and hands, carrying her great bag of manuscript under her skirts, fastened around her waist, like saddle-bags. You have no idea, Lewis Hamilton, how these pursuits ruin a woman—your indulgence carries you much too far."

Mr. Hamilton laughed heartily at such a picture.

"Don't alarm yourself, Matilda; I don't think that Madeline will ever reach notoriety like that."

"Why, aunty, I can't see how you could ever dream of such a thing; you know bow I despise a sloven; if I thought that I could ever become such a disgusting person, I would burn my papers at once, and consign my poor little attempts to the oblivion which they may reach in another way; but, dear aunt, really in earnest, I promise you to wash my face and hands, and comb my hair at least once a day, and not to disgrace my name."

Throwing her arms around Aunt Matilda's neck, she kissed her affectionately, and said,

"Now confess, aunty, did not you think first, 'And what will Mrs. Grundy say?' Is not that the truth?" And Maddy was victor as usual of the whole ground; father, aunt, and all who had read her little book.

"Write to your heart's content, Maddy, only avoid those follies which are so often seen."

The little school prospered. Effie aided as far as her strength allowed. Total blindness had spread its dark mantle over the dear girl.

It was truly a mournful sight to behold the desolate orphan, groping her way about the house, feeling by the banisters, and along the walls; or sitting with folded hands, and meek submissive face, generally in Madeline's sitting room.

Her health was evidently on the decline; a feebler step, failing appetite, longings for the better land marked her approach to her Father's house.

She had learned to knit very expertly, even without eyesight, and it was with feelings of humble contentment that she could thus employ her fingers, for many a nice pair of warm stockings were thus provided for their little pupils. Seated in Madeline's favorite room, she could smell the fragrance of the flowers, hear the warbling of birds, and the sweet voice of her dear friend at her daily practice. Her chapter in the Bible was read to her every morning, by Madeline, who would then arrange her chair, get Effie's knitting, and busy herself about her own employments.

"Will you get me a bunch of heather, Maddy? I want it near me; it was my mother's flower, you know."

"Here it is, Effie;" and placing it in her hands, Madeline kissed the sweet pale face, while the blind girl pressed it to her lips with sweet memories of the departed.

"Is it a bright morning, Madeline?" asked the orphan.

"Bright as a May morning can be, Effie; the dew is yet on the sweet flowers, and all is charming and refreshing."

"I can well afford to be contented with my present blindness, Madeline; for I shall soon see the brighter scenes, and pluck the flowers of Paradise; will you sing for me that sweet hymn,

'Thy will be done?'"

and as Madeline poured out the plaintive melody of that touching air, Effie leaned back in her chair, with a sweet placid look of perfect happiness.

"Madeline, it is a precious experience 'to know no will but his,' willing to live, joyful to die; I would live for Roland, but die to be with Jesus and my mother; by-the-bye, Madeline, to-morrow is the day when we may expect my brother; did he not say on Thursday?"

"He did in his last letter to you, and he is a faithful promiser."

Seated in her accustomed place, Effie listens eagerly for every step, for her remaining senses are made more acute by the loss of one; the step on the gravelled walk, then on the piazza, the closing of the front door, the firm tread along the hall, and the voice so beloved, sends a glow of joy over the face of the blind girl, and rising, she gropes her way hastily to the entry, where she is soon folded to the bosom of her "dear, dear Roland."

He gazes sadly for one moment upon the sightless eyes, the pale drooping form, and the hectic bloom on the thin face, and feels that Effie is following their mother to the land of the blessed.

But Roland has a cheerful spirit, and nothing but strong comforting words pass his lips when alone with his little sister. He tells her of his plans, of his success in business, and his News-boys' Home, of incidents connected with the history of several, and amusing accounts of their first entrance upon civilized life.

"Would you believe it, Effie, that one poor little fellow did not know the use of a staircase, and we found him groping up on his hands and feet as he had been accustomed to do by the ladder of his gloomy garret. There was a looking-glass in the matron's room, and the same little fellow was pushing through, thinking it was another room."

Effie laughed at these stories, and thought her brother the most entertaining company that she had ever met.

"Now, brother, tell me all about Madeline's book; did the boys like it?"

"It was the very book for them; they are always asking for 'The Boy in Earnest;' each one is to have a copy on Christmas morning."

Turning to Madeline, he continued,

"You must go on with your stories; the publisher was delighted, and wants more from the same source. I have some matter which I can give you, and you can weave it into the form of a tale for us—you see that my advice was good, Madeline, although you were so afraid to try."

"It is always right, Roland; you never advised me for anything but my good, but you ought to hear Aunt Matilda make fun of these things; she says that I shall forget to wash my face and hands after awhile; do you think that there is really any danger of such a calamity?" and Madeline smiled archly on her friend.

"Not if I may judge by present appearances;" was the reply, as Roland gazed with an admiring look upon the perfect lady-like neatness of hair, dress, and manner that always distinguished Madeline.

"I never could tell what you wear, but I think that your aunt need not wish anything different."

Madeline blushed at the compliment so unusual from the lips of Roland, and made a low mischievous courtesy, with the witchery of former times.

"Thank you, kind sir, you had better take care, lest you make me vain, instead of a 'blue stocking;' and one is as bad as the other."

"Pure motives, Madeline, will make all right; everything in its proper place, but God over all."

A bright blush mantled the young face, and a light beamed from the deep blue eyes, illumining the whole countenance, which Madeline did not care to be wholly revealed, for she dropped the lids hastily, lest the eyes should speak too much.

The Saturday school assembled before Roland returned to New York.

On a visit to Effie, he had the pleasure of being present at one of these gatherings.

Madeline was much embarrassed, and could scarcely proceed with her work in his presence.

Understanding her feelings, he said, kindly,

"Is there anything that I can do, Miss Madeline?"

"If you will make the opening prayer, I should be pleased. I use our forms of prayer, but I would rather hear yours to-day."

Roland poured forth a simple, heart-felt, earnest prayer, remembering all the members of that household, as well as the children kneeling around them. Madeline had never heard him pray, and when he named her as the young teacher of the little flock, she felt that more earnestness marked those petitions, and deeply was she moved by the glowing language of that solemn supplication.

He took Effie's class, and although apparently engrossed by the employment of the hour, watched with deep emotion the humble, affectionate manner with which Madeline performed her duty towards her young pupils.

He did not wonder at their interest, when he glanced at the earnest glow of her lovely countenance, nor at the reverence of the young faces, when he listened to the simple instruction which she endeavored to impart.

At the close, Madeline took her seat at the piano, and played one of her childish hymns, in which they all joined; then the bunch of flowers, as usual, was the kind dismissal.

"Please, ma'am, granny is very bad with the rheumatiz," said little Betsy Smith; "she wants you to come and see her."

"I will come to-morrow, Betsy."

"And please, ma'am," said another, "daddy broke his leg last week; won't you stop at our house?"

Madeline blushed as she saw the expression with which Roland regarded her, as she answered the humble petitioners.

"God bless you, Miss Madeline, in your good work," said the young man, as he warmly pressed her hand; "but this is a novel kind of school in a young lady's sitting-room, in the midst of flowers and music, and such teachers."

"Our accommodations are not suitable, we know; but we hope for something better some of these days."

"The children will be sorry to move away from this," was the quick reply.

"But we can teach so few in this room, and we might as well have more."

Roland was more pleased than he could express with all that he had seen, and when he took his departure, his last words were,

"God bless you, Miss Madeline, and do not forget another book."

CHAPTER XX.

OUT IN THE LIGHT.

It is a bright and beautiful day—Madeline looks tenderly upon the drooping invalid reclining upon the couch in her pleasant sitting-room.

"Will you walk this morning, Effie? the air is so pure and fresh, it will revive you."

She raised her languid head for one moment, and replied,

"I cannot to-day, dear, I am too weak; come read to me some of the precious Saviour's words; they will comfort me."

Madeline selected some passages from the fourteenth chapter of John, those which have cheered so many weary pilgrims on their journey homeward.

"In my Father's house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you; I go to prepare a place for you."

"'Many mansions,' dear Madeline, and one is mine, purchased by a Saviour's blood, ensured to me by his unfailing truth."

Madeline's eyes filled, and her voice trembled as she continued.

"And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also."

"'I will come again,' Maddy; listen to those words; Jesus will come again, and where he is, I shall be also; with Jesus, dearest; with my mother in Paradise; out in the light; no more blindness, no more darkness, but perfect bliss; this is my hope."

Madeline took up the next verse.

"And whither I go ye know, and the way ye know."

"Yes, blessed be God! I know the way; I have known it so long; my mother led my infant steps in that holy way, and I cannot remember when I did not love my Saviour. O, what cause have I to praise my God! While so many are living in sin, dancing merrily in the way to death, his grace has saved me, Maddy; if I had been like others, rich and healthy, I might have been just as thoughtless, just as vain."

Madeline continued until she came to the verse, "Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, and the truth, and the life; no man cometh unto the Father but by me."

"He does not leave us, dear, to grope in darkness, when he says, 'Come unto me;' he leads the way himself; he is the truth; he guides us into all truth; he is the life, Maddy, the life of the immortal soul; through him we have pardon, access to God, and the hope of eternal life sure and stedfast; poor, weak, trembling thing that I am, I can cast my little anchor within the vail, and feel it on a rock. I know that this faith must be divine, for I am such a fearful, timid being, afraid of so many things around me, and yet not afraid to meet a pure and holy God in judgment; this faith must be all his work, Maddy."

With a heart full of sympathy, Madeline continued until she reached the thirteenth verse.

"And whatsoever ye shall ask in my name, that will I do, that the Father may be glorified in the Son. If ye shall ask anything in my name, I will do it."

"'If ye shall ask anything in my name;' think of the promise, Madeline, 'I will do it.' I have believed my Saviour, and I have asked eternal life for you, and my Saviour will, yes dear, he is hearing my prayer, and Roland's too—how often have we prayed together for you."

Madeline's head drooped for one moment, and she could scarcely proceed; but she answered,

"Do you really believe, Effie, that I shall ever be a Christian? that I, proud, self-willed Madeline, shall ever be like the meek and lowly Saviour?"

"Yes, dear, if you, like Mary, will sit daily at his feet, he will teach you; he will make you like himself; and then, Maddy, after all the cares and sorrows of this mortal life are ended, we shall be forever with him."

"Does it ever grieve you to think of leaving this world, Effie?" asked her friend.

"When I think of Roland all alone," and her lips quivered, "then my heart is sad, for he has none but me; but you'll be kind to him, Madeline; you will not forget Effie's brother."

"There is Helen Thornly, Effie; while he has her, he will not be desolate."

"What do you mean, Madeline? Helen is only a kind friend to Roland, nothing more; she helps him in his missionary work, and that brings them much together; there is nobody in the wide world that Roland values as he does you, Maddy; next to me, you are his other sister."

"Did he ever tell you so, Effie?"

"Why no, not exactly; but I know Roland; he can never forget the kindness of his little sea-shore friend, or the sweet intercourse of childish days; he has too much gratitude for that. But Maddy, there is one thing I should like—when I am gone, you can write no more letters for poor blind Effie; how he will miss them! If you would only continue to write to him kind, friendly letters, he would not miss me then quite so much."

Dear innocent little Effie!

Madeline blushed even in the presence of the blind girl, at such a proposition.

"That cannot be, Effie; it would be highly improper for a young lady to be writing letters to a gentleman."

"Pardon me, Madeline, I forgot the difference; I see it cannot be expected; it would be presumptuous in Roland; but still it would be so pleasant; and I don't see why you cannot; just letters of advice, Maddy."

"I advise Roland! why Effie, that would be singular indeed, when nearly all my life he has been my counsellor."

"This is a strange world, Maddy. I know that you would like to write; and just because people are so foolish, you have to be led by their notions; Roland is only like a brother, and I can't see any harm in it at all."

"Dear papa would not approve of such a correspondence, Effie; and besides, Roland has never asked it himself."

"Some of these days, Madeline, you will be thinking of marriage, or some one will think of it for you; I hope that you will ask Roland's counsel, then; I know that he would not like you to marry any one who is not a Christian."

"Why, Effie, you need not trouble yourself about the matter; I am very happy at Woodcliff; I don't know any one that could tempt me away from my father; in fact, I don't think about it at all. Harry Castleton has troubled me sometimes with his offers, but really, I scarcely give it a thought, and least of all with him."

But Madeline smiled at the idea of asking Roland's advice upon such a subject.

"Now, Maddy, sing me one of our sweet hymns."

"What shall it be, dear?"

"'How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord;' that is one of my favorites."

And Madeline sang the beautiful words with touching pathos.

Effie was not able to sit up all that day, but continued in the same happy, tranquil state of mind.

Time wore away—gradually Effie's strength declined.

One day, being a little stronger, she called Madeline to her side, and said,

"Bring me the box, dear, which you will find in my upper drawer," and accordingly Madeline obeyed.

"I have none but you, Miss Matilda, and Roland, Maddy, and I want to distribute my few trifling keepsakes, before I am too weak. My Bible, my breastpin, with my mother's hair, and my little desk, are for Roland; my mourning ring, the gift of Miss Matilda, and the likeness, which you remember we had taken in New York, are both for you; my hymn-book, my knitting-bag and caba, are for Miss Matilda. I bought a little book for each of the servants, when I was in New York; write my name in each. You may do what you please with my clothes; I think, however, it would be well to distribute them among our little scholars—now I have nothing more to do with earth, but just to wait my Father's will; when he is ready, he will send for me."

There was a picture of the Believer's Vision on the wall opposite to where Effie reposed, and as she lay there with folded hands, and sweet expression of perfect peace, Madeline had learned to associate the two, and ever after, would that touching picture speak of Effie.

"Madeline, I promised Roland that I would send for him when the change was near; I think that it will not be many days before I shall be out in the blessed light of Heaven. I asked the Doctor, yesterday, and he told me, Maddy, that it might be a very short time, or a few days, at farthest; will you send for Roland? This is Thursday, and he could be spared better on Saturday and Sunday."

Madeline sent a few hasty lines, and on Saturday afternoon he arrived, pale and sad, for he understood the message.

"You will stay with me, Roland, until all is over?" was the request of the dying girl.

"I have made all my arrangements, and will not leave you, darling."

"I want to see Mr. Hamilton alone, Roland; I have something to say to him; will you tell him, dear?"

Madeline's father had learned to love the gentle blind girl, and when he entered, and saw the gray shadows of death upon her countenance, he could scarcely control his feelings.

"I am going to leave you, Mr. Hamilton, and I want to thank you for all your kindness to poor blind Effie; I shall not be blind much longer, for I am going out of the darkness into the blessed light of Heaven; but I want to tell you, that weak and timid as I am, I am not afraid to die; my trust is in Jesus, and he never leaves me, nor forsakes me. I love you, Mr. Hamilton, because you are Madeline's father, and I want you to be just as happy as I am—warnings have come to you, my good, kind friend, for these many months, and I want you to promise me, dying Effie, that you will seek the Saviour, ere it is forever too late."

Mr. Hamilton bowed his head upon his hands, and replied,

"I often feel, Effie, as if my days would not be very many in this world, for I am much worse than Madeline dreams of. I have not your blessed hope, my dear child, but I know that yours is real, is divine, and I promise you, Effie, to seek your Saviour; does that make you happy?" and Mr. Hamilton stooped down to kiss the pale cheek of the child.

"Happy! yes, Mr. Hamilton, I should be perfectly happy, if I could hope to meet you all up there," and she pointed upward, while a look of seraphic blessedness dwelt upon her face. "Now, send Miss Matilda."

Miss Matilda had avoided being alone with Effie, for she was afraid of death.

Thoughts of the dark grave, the judgment and eternity, were all that she ever associated with the subject.

She entered the room, and took her seat by the couch.

"You are not so very ill, Effie; I have seen persons weaker than you recover." Effie smiled, as she replied, "I have no fears of death, Miss Matilda; my Saviour has taken them all away; I have no desire to live, but for Roland's sake; but I sent for you to tell you how blessed is the Christian's state. My trust is all in my Saviour; and he will not prove untrue to his word. You have been very good to poor orphan Effie, and I want to see you happy. I know you are not happy now—no one can be who does not love God best of all; you will not be offended at me, Miss Matilda, for I shall soon be gone; but I want you to seek the Saviour."

"I am a member of the church, Effie; I don't know what you mean, exactly."

"I mean, dear Miss Matilda, that I want you to have real heart faith in Jesus; faith that makes you love him, trust him, follow him as your best friend."

"Effie, I do believe in him, but not as you do."

"That is what I mean, Miss Matilda; I don't mean just to be a member of the church, and no more; that is not all; I want you to be a member of Christ himself, and that is by faith."

"'Tis like Heaven below,
My Redeemer to know,
The angels can do nothing more,
Than to sit at his feet
And the story repeat,
And the dear friend of sinners adore."

Miss Matilda sat bathed in tears, for she had a warm affectionate heart, and could not but love the little lamb who was pleading so sweetly the cause of her Master.

She took the pale and withered hand, and replied, "Effie, there is something about this, different from all that I have ever seen; death always seemed so terrible to me."

"It is only terrible where sin is not pardoned; 'the sting of death is sin.' Jesus has borne it all for me, and to me there is no sting, nor any fear of the grave, because he has lain there, and blessed it, Miss Matilda."

"Would that I had such a trust as this," and she kissed the dear child, and left the room. Sweet was the communion between Effie and her brother. Roland's strong faith, and scriptural knowledge made him a most valuable treasure to the feeble girl, for as the dying hour approached, she had some experience of the conflict between the soul and body, and some slight cloud of darkness in her hour of weakness; but Roland sat by her, watching each change, praying, soothing, repeating words of Scripture, and the hour of temptation passed.

"Out in the light, dear brother; so soon at home with Jesus. Read from the Revelations, Roland;" and in a deep, rich voice, he read,

"'And there shall be no more curse; but the throne of God and the Lamb shall be in it; and his servants shall serve him: And they shall see his face; and his name shall be in their foreheads. And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light; and they shall reign forever and ever.'"

"'And there shall be no night there,' Roland, 'but one eternal, glorious day;' come, Madeline, one more kiss, one more, Roland," and Effie clasped her dying arms around both as she whispered, "Love the Saviour, love Roland as I have loved him, Madeline, love each other, and we shall meet in Heaven."

They arose from that cold embrace, and as Effie lay back upon her pillow, softly, gently the sweet spirit departed; and when Madeline saw that she had gone, forgetting all ceremony, she took Roland's arm, and led him out into the garden, for Effie had departed in Madeline's sitting-room. He walked mechanically to an arbor, with Madeline by his side. One burst of manly grief rent his bosom, for dearly had he loved his gentle sister, and he felt now that he was indeed alone. Almost unconscious of the act, she leaned her head upon Roland's shoulder, and whispered,

"Not alone, Roland; I will take Effie's place."

"You cannot, you cannot, Madeline; not Effie's," and ere he was aware, he passed his arm around her waist, but as instantly released her, as he continued pacing up and down the arbor; "you cannot be my sister, Madeline; I must be gone from here, and then I shall indeed be all alone."

Madeline scarcely knew what to think of his conduct; if it was intended as a casting off her sisterly love, she was indeed mistaken in him; but that she could not believe—what then could he mean?

What was Roland's surprise in the evening of Effie's death to be called out to see a woman in the entry, and who should present herself but Elsie Gibson! They had not seen her for many months.

"Weel, Roland, ye hae lost anither—what ailed the puir bairn?"

"Consumption at last, Elsie, and she had been blind for months before she died."

"She is at rest, Roland—but may I see her remains?"

"Certainly, Elsie," and the brother took the old woman into the room where Effie lay.

"Will ye gi' me a lock o' her hair, Roland? I had a lock o' your mother's, and I want this for the same person."

"For whom, Elsie?" was the quick reply.

"For ane that has a right, Roland, ye'll ken some day," and Elsie was allowed to cut a lock of fair hair, and folding it carefully in paper, she placed it in her pocket.

Roland remained until the day of interment; and accompanied by the members of Mr. Hamilton's family, and the children whom she had taught, he laid the dear remains by the side of her mother, to await the morning of the resurrection.

Nothing further detained him at Woodcliff; indeed, he seemed anxious to be gone.

"Thank you, Miss Madeline, for all your kindness and devotion to my darling sister," was his last farewell.

"Shall I see you again, Mr. Bruce?" was Madeline's inquiry, for she felt an inward conviction that Effie's death had removed the last tie that bound him to Woodcliff.

"I may, perhaps, come down to see about the grave, Miss Madeline, but the world has claims upon me, and I must fulfil them;" then suddenly changing from his cold, constrained manner, to one of deep feeling, he seized Madeline's hand, and pressing upon it one long, fond kiss, he said,—

"Forgive me, Madeline; it is the first, the last that I shall ever press upon that hand. I have had my warning, and I shall never intrude; but you must not forget me, I could not bear it; farewell! farewell!" and ere the astonished girl could reply, he was gone—out of the door, down the avenue—out of sight!

What could it all mean! sometimes so cold, then so impassioned! How could she account for the conduct so strange! She was not aware that Aunt Matilda had discovered that it was owing to Roland's influence that her niece had attempted authorship; nor did she know how much alarmed her aunt had been at the apparent intimacy between Roland and herself: she had witnessed also the scene in the arbor on the day of Effie's death, and resolved to break up the intercourse, if possible; accordingly, on the evening after the funeral, Roland was seated alone in the parlor, when Miss Hamilton entered.

"We shall miss your dear sister, Mr. Bruce, for she was a sweet, gentle girl, and we all loved her, and I suppose that it will be a long while ere we shall see you again; for as Effie is gone, there is no longer any thing to draw you to Woodcliff. If circumstances are somewhat different, it would give me great pleasure to invite you freely to our house, but you know that we must have some regard for the opinions of the world, and as Madeline is now a young lady, it would be the height of imprudence to encourage such an ill-assorted intimacy."

Roland's face flushed crimson—all the fire of his naturally proud temper was aroused; he bit his lips, and remained silent for one minute, then taking his hat, he simply said,—

"Good-evening, Miss Hamilton, I am sorry to have intruded so long; I understand the gulf between Miss Madeline and myself perfectly, you have no reason to fear. I am quite as proud as you."

It was after this interview, that he had taken leave of Madeline. She was distressed, but could not understand what all this seeming inconsistency of conduct meant.

"Brother, I have been really concerned at the intimacy between Madeline and this young man," was the remark of Miss Matilda to Mr. Hamilton. "I have found out the reason why she wrote that book; she would never have thought of such a thing, if it had not been for Roland Bruce; he put it into her head, and forsooth! she must puzzle her brains to publish this book; there is nothing that he has ever hinted, that she has not done; and I actually believe that Madeline may some day so far forget the dignity of her family, as to stoop to such a man as that."

"I have some fears myself, Matilda, for I observed with how much deference Madeline listened to all his remarks, and what deep sympathy she manifested with his grief; and I do not wonder, for he is a most remarkable young man."

"Well, I have put an end to it, brother, without your help. I just hinted to him that as Effie was gone, there would now be nothing to call him to Woodcliff; you should have seen the crimson blush mantling his whole face, and the proud bearing of the youth, as he replied, 'that he should intrude no more.'"

"Does Madeline know any thing about it, Matilda?"

"She does not, for I fear to rouse her spirit."

"And I, too," was her father's reply; "I do not believe that she would tolerate this if she knew it."

"She shall never be any the wiser, and Roland is too proud to tell her; he walked out of the parlor like a prince."

Madeline had another source of disquietude—her father's health seemed rapidly declining, and his spirits very low; so much so, that his physician ordered him to Europe, and rapid preparations were to be made, in order that they might leave America in the early autumn. Mr. Hamilton observed Madeline's great depression, for since Effie's death, he had seldom seen her smile; the old joyousness had vanished from her face, and the elasticity from her step. She was very lonely without her dear young friend, and the hours spent in her sitting-room so much alone, were not calculated to raise her spirits. Her walks were equally lonely; still she rambled to the sea-shore, and old Peter's cabin. In a short time, she had placed a simple marble slab at the head of Effie's grave, and planted some flowers that she had loved around the sacred spot.

One evening she bent her footsteps to the old man's cabin.

"I am glad to see you, Miss Madeline, for Master Roland was here last Monday, and left this little note if you should call;" and he handed her a small slip of paper, on which was written, "A thousand thanks for the sweet memento over my sister's grave; I know whose hand placed it there; the one whose friendship has never failed us, and who never can be forgotten. I hear that you are going to Europe; may God preserve and bless you with his guiding band and sustaining grace, prays now and always, Roland."

Madeline read the little note with tears.

"When was he here, Uncle Peter?" was her first question.

"On Monday last; he came to see about his sister's grave, but found everything done before he got here. You ought to have seen him, Miss Madeline, when he came back from the grave; he sat down there," pointing to a broken chair, "and covering his face with his hands, he sobbed and wept so bitterly. When a man cries so hard, I know there must be some great sorrow."

"What else did he say, Uncle Peter?"

"He asked about you, Miss Madeline,—how you were, when you were here, how you looked, and if you ever spoke of him. He then asked about Mr. Hamilton. I told him how sick he was; he seemed so very sorry, but he did not say one word about Miss Matilda. I asked him if he was not going up to the Hall; but he said, 'No, Effie was gone, and there was nothing to call him there now.' Then he asked when you were going to Europe. I said, 'in about two weeks;' is that correct?"

"Yes, Uncle Peter, if we can get ready for the steamer. Was that all he said?"

"Yes, that was all; and then he went away, and I was so sorry, for he seemed so sad and lonely."

Madeline returned with a bowed head to her home; it was as she had expected. Roland could not come to the Hall, now that Effie was gone.

It was a comfort, however, to visit the old man, and Madeline's calls were frequent.

One evening, strolling quietly along, her thoughts were dwelling sadly on the past, and with dread to the future; she had reached the spot where she sat on the day that she had first met Roland. For one minute she stood, and wiped away a silent tear. Then walking on, with her eyes bent upon the beach, she was conscious of nothing around her, until she reached the old man's cabin. What was her surprise upon entering to see Roland!

He arose with a constrained manner, and said,

"Miss Madeline, I heard that you were going to Europe, and I felt that I must bid you farewell. I have been here once before, but without success—when do you sail?"

"In about a week, Mr. Bruce," was the answer.

"Can I speak to you alone, Miss Hamilton?" and Roland offered his arm, and led her to the old rock, where they had so often sat in the careless days of childhood.

"You are going to cross the wide ocean, Miss Madeline; will be introduced into new scenes, and will be exposed to the blandishments of the gay metropolis of England—do not forget your immortality; do not forget your early friend. I know that they will try to banish me from your memory; but Madeline, by all the tenderness of childhood's days, remember, if not me, remember all that I have told you—you cannot know the loneliness which I have suffered ever since Effie's death, and I cannot bear to think that you can ever forget me. I ask only your friendship, your prayers."

Madeline's voice trembled as she asked,

"Why is it that you come no more to Woodcliff? we should be so glad to see you."

Roland smiled bitterly, as he replied,

"Perhaps so, Madeline; but I have good reasons; you may know them some day. When you go to England, among the rest of your visits, do not forget the benevolent institutions; get all the information that you can; and when you return to America, you will be better prepared to follow out your plans for good; we shall have the pleasure then of knowing that although separated, we are co-workers for the same great end."

They continued in such conversation for some time longer; at length the shadows of evening warned them that it was time to part.

"Farewell, Madeline!" and Roland seized the little hand extended so frankly, pressing it tenderly between both of his own.

"Farewell, Roland; be assured that I shall never forget you, and when I say this, I mean all that I say—God bless you, Roland, forever and ever; he will bring you back to Woodcliff to bless its people. I have never lost that faith, Roland."

At the end of the lane which led to the shore, they parted; and as Madeline walked slowly up the road that led to the gate of her own home, turning back, she still saw Roland gazing after her, and waving his hand, as she vanished up the avenue.

CHAPTER XXI.

SEARCHING FOR SCOTTISH FRIENDS.

"And now for earnest working," thought Roland, as he turned wearily away from the one cherished spot; "it is a hard trial to part from such a friend, but it is evidently my Father's will, that alone I must still pursue my way; I must not indulge in vain regrets, but 'Looking aloft,' I will endeavor to do whatsoever my hand findeth to do with diligence and single-hearted devotion." Day by day, Roland gathered the heavenly manna, and drank of the spiritual rock; thus strengthened, he returned with renewed zeal to the duties of his daily life.

"Whither so fast, my friend?" cried a familiar voice, as he was threading his way along the busy streets of New York. Turning quickly, he perceived his college friend, Edmund Norris. Grasping Roland's hand, he said,

"You are the very one that I want to see; I am going to Europe, and must have a companion; my mother will hear of none but you, Roland; come, old fellow! just say that you will go; I will bear your expenses, and we shall have a grand time together."

"How long will you be absent, Edmund?"

"About one year; perhaps longer."

"What is your plan?"

"I propose visiting the continent, England, Scotland, and Ireland; my mother is not willing to trust her wild son with any one else; when will you give me an answer, Roland?"

"To-morrow, if you will call at my office, No. 12, Beekman street."

This offer seemed most opportune. He had no domestic tie to keep him in America, and here was the opportunity which he had so long desired, to visit his native land, and search for his relations, if any he had left.

"I will go, Edmund," was his reply; "when shall we sail?"

"In the first steamer; I wish to be there early in the fall."

"I shall be ready, Edmund; I can leave my business in the hands of a young man in my office."

The Thornlys were especially sorry to lose the young inmate; and Helen's pale cheek and depressed spirits betrayed the interest which she felt in the young man.

"You will write to Edgar, Mr. Bruce, I hope," was her last injunction. "I should not be surprised if you should meet Miss Hamilton abroad, for they have all gone for her father's health, to consult London physicians."

"Farewell, Miss Helen, I shall always be grateful for your kindness."

Roland did not see the tear which trembled on her cheek, as she turned away to hide her emotion.

When he reached the vessel, a handsome dressing-case, a sea wrapper, slippers, and cap, with the kind regards of Mr. Thornly, awaited him, with the label, "A small acknowledgment of benefits conferred upon Edgar, by his grateful father."

A swift passage across the Atlantic, in very fine weather, brought them to their desired haven. It had been keenly enjoyed by Roland, for the sight of the wide expanse of ocean was exhilarating to a soul like his. When first espying the white cliffs of Dover, he mentally asked, "shall I find any kindred in my native land, or am I still to wander alone in this wide world? Be that as my Father wills; I have kindred there," looking upward, "they await my coming."

He was so young when he first left Scotland, that much of the impression had vanished, and the present, therefore, had all the charm of novelty.

Taking a steamer, they crossed the Channel, and after a short journey on land, found themselves among the crowds of Paris, wending their way alone, in search of lodgings.

Taking rooms together, they soon realized that their surroundings were totally different from America; and curiosity for a few days kept them busy visiting the lions of the brilliant city, and making themselves acquainted with its numerous works of art, and countless attractions.

As soon as Edmund became a little domesticated, Roland took tickets for their attendance upon a course of scientific lectures, in one of the best institutions of the great city.

It was an important advantage to study with such a friend; for Roland's comprehensive mind, and clear intellect took in all that was demonstrated, and many a maze of perplexed reasoning was made clear to Edmund by the keen analysis of Roland's superior powers.

"You must not expect me to visit the vicious amusements of Paris, Edmund, my principles forbid this; but, if you must see all, Mr. Lisle, a young American, of fine moral character, is here, and will escort you; he is a safe guide; I hope that you will see the real tendency of sinful pleasures, and learn to value something higher."

"Just let me tell you, Roland, about the opera," said Edmund, one night, after his return, "it was splendid; the music was enchanting, the Emperor and Empress were both present—what a cold, dead, statuesque face he has! That beautiful woman cannot love him, I am sure; you should see Eugenie, she is truly an elegant woman, and her dress was perfect. I don't believe that there is much love for the Emperor here, for, although the audience noticed his presence, by a 'Vive l'Empereur,' there was no heart in it."

"You only saw the outside of the opera, Edmund; you did not follow the multitude who crowd gambling saloons, and other vicious places of resort after the opera was over. I should be sorry to see you escorted there by any of these gay young Frenchmen; while I feel as if I have no right to put actual restrictions upon your liberty, I trust that you will promise me one thing, Edmund."

"What is that, Roland? You are so reasonable with me, so considerate, that I think I may safely promise."

"You will find that there is no Sabbath in Paris; that is, no Christian Sabbath; people attend to business and seek their pleasure more on that day than on any other. I want you to promise that you will attend upon the Evangelical Chapel on Sunday, and avoid the places of public amusement."

"I can easily promise that, Roland, for I feel shocked myself at what I see."

It was a refreshing season to Roland, when he could turn aside from the gay glittering world around him, and worship his God with many of the wise and good of all Protestant churches. Sometimes American ministers led the devotions of the day, and he could then join in the familiar hymns of his childhood and youth, even in the midst of an infidel and dissolute capital.

"Who is that young man?" said Dr. M. to Henry Lisle, "I have observed his devotional aspect; I think he is a stranger; I really feel as if I should like to make his acquaintance."

"That is a young Scotchman; he has lived most of his life in America, and is here with a friend, whose studies he is directing."

"Do you know him, Lisle? if so, introduce me."

After the services, Dr. M. was made acquainted with Roland, and he began to feel not quite so much alone in the great world.

At the rooms of Dr. M. he was privileged to meet what was really the choice society of Paris. The good and wise frequently assembled at his apartments, and Roland and Edmund were, at all times, welcome guests.

Dr. M. had heard from Edmund something of his history, and having struggled himself in his early days, deeply sympathized with the brave young spirit of Roland Bruce. Sometimes, they were invited to the saloons of French philosophers, but the skeptical spirit, everywhere manifested, led Roland to be very careful how he exposed his young friend to such influences.

The halls of art were crowded with the finest specimens of distinguished artists, both of ancient and modern days; and our young friends spent many hours in examining these wondrous triumphs of human skill. The winter passed rapidly; early in the spring, they visited Switzerland, explored its natural beauties, passed through Germany, sailed upon the Rhine, and recrossing the Channel, found themselves in London, at the opening of the gay season.

Roland was pleased at the improvement manifested in Edmund; he was learning to distinguish between the good and the vile, and his friend felt as if he might trust him while in London, without his supervision, which he knew he must do, when he should visit Scotland, or else leave him in one of the Scottish cities. Roland busied himself for awhile in seeing the sights of London, and in visiting the ragged schools, and other benevolent institutions, by which he gained many valuable hints from those so much longer engaged in such good works.

Taking up the paper one morning, he read a glaring account of a drawing-room, when the Queen of England gave one of her receptions.

A rapturous description was given of the first appearance of Miss Hamilton, a young American. Her beauty, her grace, her manners were descanted upon. The perfect ease of her deportment, as she advanced under the escort of the American Minister, was described; and a brilliant season prophesied for the young heiress of Woodcliff. She was particularly distinguished by the Queen, who, contrary to her general practice, made some especial remarks to her about her country. Madeline's blushing acknowledgment of Her Majesty's notice was much enlarged upon.

Roland read the account with mingled feelings; but pain was uppermost, for he feared that the very novelty of the scene would insensibly draw her heart away from better things.

Edmund having brought letters of introduction was presented on the same day. He came home to Roland in ecstacies of delight.

"You should have seen the blaze of English beauty; but it was nothing compared to the young American, Miss Hamilton; theirs was rich, blooming, rosy, the glow of full redundant health, and the grace and ease of high birth; hers was spiritual! delicate! bewitching! none could tell which was the most beautiful; hair, eyes, coloring, or expression, but one exquisite combination of all that can attract in woman. Then her ease, her simplicity, her apparent unconsciousness, was the theme of every tongue. Her dress was perfect; her pure white lace, with moss-rose buds, and a set of pearls, softened still more her delicate beauty; she managed her train, Roland, as if she had dwelt in the presence of royalty all her life, stepping backward so gracefully, I could imagine the pretty little foot, by the beautiful hand and arm. I declare, Roland, I was proud of our young American. I'll warrant she has a royal nature, royal in its highest sense; you ought to have seen her, Roland. I waited until the drawing-room was dismissed, and stood at the door, to see her handed to her carriage by Lord N——, an elegant young nobleman; did not I envy the fellow, Roland? I'll find out where she stays, and, mark me! I'll have an introduction before the month is over."

Roland was amused at Edmund's enthusiasm, and troubled at the account of the impression made in the world of fashion by his peerless young friend.

"In the gay metropolis, with all her attractions, will she be kept unscathed?" whispered Roland to his heart. "Looking aloft" for her, as well as for himself, he felt the blessedness of remembering her in his daily prayers, and never was Madeline forgotten.

Edmund frequently alluded to his want of success in obtaining Miss Hamilton's direction, but one day, he came in full of glee: "Lisle is here, Roland; he knows Lord N——, and he will inquire of him for Miss Hamilton; he has letters of introduction to some of the nobles of England, and is as much interested as I in trying to find out where she is. The Duke of D—— will give a ball next week, Lisle is invited; he will get an introduction for me before that time, and I shall then meet Miss Hamilton."

Edmund seemed possessed with this one idea of obtaining an introduction to the reigning star.

"Congratulate me, Roland; the Duke of D—— called yesterday on Lisle while I was there; I was introduced as Lisle's young American friend, and to-day I have a card for the ball."

Nothing else was talked of but the coming ball. Edmund's head was full of the anticipated pleasure.

The evening came and passed. Next day, Edmund was in a high state of excitement.

"I was introduced, Roland, to Miss Hamilton, but that was all, I could get no nearer; she was surrounded by admirers—the Duke of D——, and the Earl of M——, Lord B——, and Lord G——, but most of all, Lord N——, were devoted in their attentions. If her young head is not turned by all this, I shall proclaim her a wonder. Lord N—— is a handsome young nobleman, with that respectful deference to ladies, and especially to Miss Hamilton, which I think would captivate such a girl."

Roland was compelled to listen silently, for he had not told Edmund that he had ever seen Madeline; but every word was painful, for he felt the ordeal to be so severe—would she come out unharmed?

"I went last night to the opera, Roland; Miss Hamilton was there, attended by her father and Lord N——. Mr. Hamilton looked so proud of his beautiful daughter, and no wonder; nothing to compare to her could be seen anywhere last night; eye-glasses were levelled at her from all quarters, but I really don't believe that she knew it, and, if she did, she certainly did not betray it."

Roland attended weekly upon the services of the Rev. Mr. B——, a minister of the establishment, simply on account of the earnest spirituality of his preaching.

On the next Sunday, whom should he see advancing up the aisle, in a simple modest dress, with a close bonnet and veil, but Madeline, attended by her father and aunt.

Several pew-doors were opened, but the sexton led them forward to a pew, where sat a young lady and gentleman of high rank.

"That is Lord N——," whispered Edmund to Roland, for he had observed the party.

Madeline was earnest, devout, prayerful, and listened to the sermon with such an humble, serious manner, as to lead Roland to hope that she was yet the simple, earnest child of Woodcliff. Lord N—— and his sister were equally devout, and Roland felt that the deportment of the young man in church was just such as was calculated to please one like Madeline.

It was pleasant to worship God in the same house with his friend, to sing the same hymns, and use the solemn words of the same beautiful service. The service ended, Roland paused a moment at the door, hoping to receive one passing glance, but Madeline walked out, closely attended by Lord N——, who handed the party to their carriage, ere he entered his own; she did not even see Roland. His heart sank, for he could not bear to think himself forgotten.

Edmund still continued to rave about Madeline, telling whenever he met her, and running on in the same strain about her beauty.

The next Sunday, Roland bent his steps to the Ragged School in one of the lanes of London.

When he entered, he was surprised to see several ladies of rank in the audience. It was a novel sight, for there were large numbers present from the very lowest haunts, clothed in rags and filth, even up to those who had adopted some of the customs of civilized humanity.

Far up the room, he thought that he saw a familiar form; he advanced, and attended by Lord N—— and his sister, sat Madeline, in all the sweet simplicity of her girlish days.

She saw Roland, a bright smile welcomed him, and he stepped forward extending his hand, his honest, strong, guiding hand; the very touch was strength to Madeline. No more salutations were exchanged until the close of the services.

"How came you here, Miss Madeline?" was the first question.

"Did you not tell me to visit such places when I came to London, Mr. Bruce?" was the frank, artless answer.

"Thank you, Miss Madeline for the remembrance; have you learned anything by your visits?"

"A great deal, for Lord N—— and Lady Alice are both interested in these good works, and they have told me the various ways by which these poor creatures may be reached."

"London and its gayeties have not then wholly obliterated your desires to do good, Miss Madeline."

"By no means, Mr. Bruce," replied Madeline, with one of her brightest smiles; "I am only anxious to be once more at Woodcliff to put some of my plans into practice."

"How is Mr. Hamilton, Miss Madeline?"

"Rather better; we see that London air agrees with him, and shall, therefore, stay longer in England than we had at first intended."

This was a short, but pleasant interview, and Roland felt cheered by the few hasty words dropped by Madeline.

Passing through the streets of London one day, he observed Madeline in a carriage with the lady whom she styled Lady Alice—it was evidently a nobleman's carriage by the coronet on the pannels. He sighed as he thought of the great distance between them socially, but could not resist the opportunity of watching the carriage, which stopped at the door of a store; the ladies dismounted, and entered the store; waiting for them to return to the carriage, Roland inquired whose carriage it was, and the direction of their residence. Having obtained information, he walked to the spot, and saw the elegant mansion where Madeline was staying—what folly! thought he, to suppose that she can ever regard me in any other light than an humble friend; but it is a pleasure to see her. He had not stood many minutes, ere he perceived a lady's form standing near the drawing-room window; she looked out, but not observing Roland, who stood concealed behind a tree.

Soon he heard voices, for the window was open; and in a few minutes more, the rich melody of Madeline's notes, singing a new and brilliant piece. He stood sorrowfully, for why should he thus haunt her dwelling to hang upon a voice, which the friendship of early days had given him a right to hear still in the intimate communion of a congenial spirit. It seemed a cold barrier of society which thus shut him out, and which he sometimes felt he must dare to batter down.

The season was passing rapidly; and Roland began to prepare for his northern tour. Edmund had concluded to accompany him, for he had not made the progress in Madeline's acquaintance that he desired.

His journey through England was truly delightful—like a beautiful garden, every corner was highly cultivated; gentlemen's country seats, noblemen's splendid palaces and parks, picturesque villages, and shady, green lanes everywhere met his eye, and though unlike the grand features of American scenery, the panorama had all the charm of a lovely picture of domestic ease and elegance, the charm which dwells so especially among English homes. Stopping awhile at the Lakes of Westmoreland, they explored its exquisite beauties, so often the subject of the painter's pencil, and the poet's pen; and passing on, travelled more rapidly, until they reached Edinburgh; visiting many spots of historic interest. Roland stayed a few days, and then turned his face towards his native hills, leaving Edmund in Edinburgh, until he should hear from him.

CHAPTER XXII.

MIST ON THE MOUNTAIN.

November, with its chilly winds, finds Roland a traveller in Scotland. He has the directions given by his mother, and has to cross a mountain region in a stage, ere he reaches his native village. It is a lonely journey, for he is the only passenger; and a heavy Scotch mist is rapidly falling over the dreary landscape; distant mountains are first enveloped, then trees and bushes, and last even the scattered houses along the road-side, until all is darkness and gloom.

He had heard of a Scotch mist, but could never have conceived of anything so murky, so dense, and yet behind it all was the bright and cheering sun. So is the experience of human life, often enveloped in heavy clouds, shrouded in darkness; yet beyond, God our Father sits guiding the changes of our destiny.

Evening approached—no human beings could be seen; and nothing disturbed the solitude, save the muffled lowing of the cattle through the heavy atmosphere, the bleating of sheep, and the faint tinkling of the bells which they wear to direct their guides.

No signs betokened their approach to human habitations; as yet no beacon pointed to his native village, and there may be no voice of kindred to welcome him to his mother's home. So impenetrable was the darkness, that the stage stopped for the night. It was a gloomy period in Roland's young life—but never did the brave spirit forget his motto; "Looking aloft!" through mist, through clouds and darkness, he slept the blessed rest of perfect trust. He woke in the morning to see the first bright rays of the rising sun beaming through his shutters; opening them, Roland looked out upon a scene of surpassing grandeur; lofty mountains in the distance, range after range, over which the sun was rising in all his majesty, thick heavy woodland wearing the dusky hues of autumn, flocks of sheep under the care of their guides, here and there the shepherds' huts, and over all, the bright sunlight flooding the landscape with his glory, and tinging the clouds of mist with prismatic hues, as they rolled away, and mingled with the higher atmosphere, leaving the landscape all revealed.

Roland was cheered by the sight. "So may it be at last with my destiny," thought the youth; "if I seek God's glory in all, he will fulfil his promises." After a hearty breakfast of hot bannocks and milk, Roland resumed his journey, and referred to the driver for information concerning the rest of his journey.

"How far are we from Glendale, driver?"

"Aboot tharty mile or mair, I ken."

"Do you know the family of the Gordons?"

"Do ye mean the family o' the auld minister, David Gordon?"

"The same," was Roland's reply.

"The auld minister bae gane to his rest these mony years; I dinna ken how lang syne."

"His son and daughter?" continued Roland.

"Baith gane hame."

Roland bowed his head, for now he felt his desolation.

"Is there no one there, driver, who can give me any information concerning them?"

"Yes, there is the auld servant, Jennie Scott; she lives near by the auld manse."

In a few hours, Roland found himself approaching his native village; he had some remembrance of these familiar scenes; the lake where he had rowed in his childhood with Uncle Alick, the manse with its grove of old trees, and the kirk not far off, he found were realities that had their picture hung up in the halls of memory.

Stopping at the village-inn he sought out the old servant. Knocking at the cottage door, a face somewhat familiar presented itself. "Is this Jennie Scott?" asked Roland.

"It is so, please your honor; will ye sit doon, sir, in my humble cottage?"

"Do you remember Roland Bruce, the little son of Mary Gordon, Jennie?"

"Do I remember the bairn that I nursed so lang in these auld arms? Can I e'er forget the bonny chiel? Mine were the first arms that held him after he breathed the breath o' life—can ye tell me ony thing aboot the lad?"

"He stands before you, Jennie," and Roland seized the hand of his old nurse, while she threw herself upon his bosom, and wept for joy.

"It canna' be,—he was sic a wee bairn when I saw him last, and now sic a braw an' winsome mon. Bless the Lord! O, my soul, for a' his guidness to his auld servant."

Roland then told the old woman something of his history, and what had brought him to Scotland.

"Ye've came too late, my son; the auld minister has been dead these ten years. O, he greeted sair for ye, my bairn. Miss Ellen died in twa years after that, and Mr. Alick twa years ago; ye've nae mother's kin in Scotland, that I ken, Roland."

"And none in America, my old friend, my mother and sister both sleep in Jesus, and I am alone in the wide world; but then, God is my Father—can I visit the old manse, Jennie?"

"Yes, my bairn, I keep the key, for I gang owre there every few weeks to luik after the furniture, and to keep it a' clean."

"How is it, Jennie, that it is not inhabited?"

"Why, Mr. Alick ordered, when he died, that it sud be kept closed for three years, and if nane came to claim it then, that it might be sold, for it belanged to the auld minister, Roland, and Mr. Alick hoped that the right heir might come some day."

Jennie led the way to the old homestead, and as they advanced, tears would force themselves into Roland's eyes, as he recognized the familiar porch, and one old tree, where he had so often played. She opened the shutters, and let in the light of day. All was in a state of perfect neatness and order.

The family-parlor was so comfortable, from which a glass door opened into the minister's study.

How sacred it appeared! The study-table where he had prepared so many sermons for his flock—the old arm-chair where he had sat—the couch where he had reclined when weary—the book-case, with its shelves of devotional books, and the best authors of the Scottish Church; and on the study-table, his old Bible marked from the Old to the New Testament by his own venerable hands. In a table-drawer, lay his spectacles, the inkstand that he used, and even the pen with which he wrote.

"Look here, Roland! at this carpet," said Jennie, as she pointed to the spot so worn by the old man's knees, for he always knelt in one particular place. "This is a sacred room, Roland, an' I hae always been sae happy to ken that nae stranger has e'er come in here amang the auld minister's books."

From the study, they passed into his mother's room.

There stood the cradle, and the rocking-chair, in which she had sat, to nurse her babes.

Jennie took up her apron to wipe her old eyes as she said,—

"How mony times hae I seen Mary Gordon, when she thought naebody saw her, weep owre the cradle, as she rocked her babes to sleep; but she was a guid woman, Roland, an' a true an' faithful wife. Is yer father living, my son?"

"That is a hard question to answer, Jennie; it has always been said that he was lost at sea, but strange things have happened to make me sometimes think he may yet be alive."

"He was aye a sad an' gloomy mon, Roland; I sud na wonder if he were crazed at last."

"Can you tell me anything about Malcolm Graham, Jennie? I must see him soon."

"He lives aboot twenty miles frae here, up on the side o' the mountain; he is called far an' nigh 'guid Uncle Malcolm;' he only lives to do guid, Roland; he has charge o' a' your property, an' can tell ye a' that ye need."

The place where they stood was full of sad memories, and the longer he remained, the more familiar he became.

"Why here, Jennie, is the very wheel-barrow that Uncle Alick brought me all the way from Edinburgh; many a time have I filled it with pebbles, and emptied them into the lake," and Roland picked up the toy, and regarded it tenderly, even as an old friend.

"Let us go now, Jennie, for I must make some preparations to visit Uncle Malcolm."

"Ye maun gang amang some o' your grandfather's people first, Roland; they wud be sair grieved if ye gang awa' without seeing them."

"I will stay over the Sabbath, Jennie, if you can keep me at your little cottage, for I want to go to the old kirk, where my mother worshipped God."

The weeds in the little garden around the house, and the neglected look of the grounds, spoke volumes to Roland's heart of the dear ones who had vanished from the old manse, and of the busy hands now silent in the grave.

"What is that, Jennie?" said Roland, as he observed a little mound under an old tree, with a piece of board at the head.

"Read the words, Roland, an' ye'll see what lies buried there."

"Here lies old Shep, the faithful dog; for twelve years he served his master."

"I remember him, Jennie; many a time has he carried me on his back."

"This auld place is fu' o' death, Roland, but it is just as fu' o' hope; for a' wha hae gane before, hae died the death o' the righteous; an' they a' sleep in the Lord."

Roland spent the days between this and the Sabbath in rambling about, and in company with old Jennie visiting his grandfather's parishioners. They all expressed great joy on seeing the young man, and observed universally the likeness to his father.

"But he has nane o' the gloom," said the old sexton; "he has the same black hair an' dark e'en, but the look is a' upward an' bright, as if he walked wi' his grandfather's God."

On the Sabbath day, in company with old Jennie Scott, he walked up the aisle of the old kirk. She was a proud woman on that day—for was not she walking wi' her minister's grandson? the handsomest, the noblest, an' the best o' a' the young men around Glencoe?

He sat in his mother's seat, and used the old book which contained her name. On the fly-leaf was written—

"Malcolm Graham, sailed on the first day of March, 1807. May God be with him to bless and keep him."

On another leaf was written—"Mary Gordon, married to Stephen Bruce, Oct. 1st, 1811. May God bless the union with peace."

Roland's tears dropped over these silent memorials, but it was a blessed thought that all the cares and trials of that beloved mother were over forever; and as he now joined in the psalms which she had often sung in the pew of her own kirk, so he hoped in the church triumphant to sing with her and Effie the song of Moses and the Lamb.

After the service, he visited the graves of his kindred, and with true delicacy, none of the plain Scotch people intruded upon his solitude, as he stood in silence around the sacred spot. "What a blessing to have godly ancestors!" thought Roland; "followed all my life by earnest prayer, God has shielded and blessed me thus far with the knowledge of himself as my reconciled Father in Christ Jesus."

Many were the warm greetings which met him at the church gate; and many the blessings that were showered upon him by the people who loved the memory of their dear old minister.

"I must go, Jennie," said Roland, when Monday morning came. "I am anxious to find Uncle Malcolm."

"Ye will see me again before ye return to America?"

"O, yes, Jennie; I will be sure to return."

It was a cold, bleak morning, when he started.

"I think we are going to hae a snow-storm, Roland; had ye na better wait a day or twa?"

"I think not, Jennie; I can get along very well;" and he would not hear of farther delay.

"I ken the signs around these dark mountains, Roland; we shall hae a heavy fa' o' snaw before nicht—the stage will only tak' ye within three miles o' Malcolm's house, an' it will be a dark journey on foot in a snaw-storm."

"God is with me, Jennie; I must go."

"Fare ye weel! my bairn, till we meet again," said the old woman.

Taking up his carpet-bag, and seeing his trunk carefully deposited, he started on his journey.

It was a raw, chilly morning; he had provided himself with a tartan plaid, and wrapping himself in its heavy folds, he took his seat in the stage. The wind sighed heavily as though a storm was really brewing.

"We shall hae to plew through heavy drifts before we reach the end o' our journey," said the driver.

As they ascended the road, the animals were well aware of what was coming; and the wild mountain birds screamed around them with foreboding warnings.

In a short time, the snow commenced falling; at first, skurrying in little gusts of driving wind, then more and more thickly, until they were in the midst of a heavy mountain storm.

The atmosphere was filled with the flakes, which, driven by fierce winds, drifted on the side of the road.

More and more difficult became the travelling; the poor jaded horses could scarcely drag the vehicle through the piles of snow.

Stopping for dinner at a road-side inn, the landlord looked out upon the storm with a serious countenance.

"It is a pity, young mon, that ye cam' oot in sic a storm; it will be fearfu' before nightfa'; perhaps ye had better bide wi' us until the mornin' breaks."

"No, I must push on;" for Roland was not one to be daunted by difficulties.

"Hae ye ever been oot in a Scotch snaw-storm on the mountains, my lad? Ye dinna' ken what ye hae to encounter."

"I have not," was the reply; "but I shall only have three miles to walk, and that will be easier, I think, than riding."

"Walk in sic a storm! I am sorry for the mon that tries it this dark night."

The stage started; the storm increased; it was a weary drag through the piled up snow: and yet it was still falling thicker, faster, while the wind was raging; frequently, the horses had to pause; and it was late, indeed quite night, when they halted at the stopping place.

The driver directed Roland how to find the road to Graham Hall; indeed, to be sure that he had the right start, he walked with him some distance, until he was fairly on the track.

It was up a by-road that he was now walking. He was directed to go straight-forward until he came to a gate, that led directly to Malcolm's house, about one mile distant. It was a weary journey, more difficult than he had imagined; the beating of the snow in his face, and the tremendous power of the wind against which he was struggling, frequently overpowered him; and he had to stand still with his back to the storm, to recover himself for fresh efforts; his feet were growing benumbed, his mouth stiffened, and the feeling of weariness almost compelling him to lie down to sleep, was creeping slowly over him. Still he persevered, and roused all his energies to shake off the lethargy.

In his carpet-bag, he remembered a small flask of wine which Jennie had thoughtfully placed there; taking a mouthful, he felt revived. But he certainly ought to be near the gate; he had walked so long, and yet he could find none. He must be lost—what was now to be done? He stood silent for a minute, prayed for guidance, strained eyes and ears for some direction. At last, he heard the bark of a dog; he did not seem very far off. Roland whistled, and advancing a few steps farther, he thought he saw a light, very dim in the midst of the falling snow, but still there was really a faint glimmer; he tried to follow it, and as he advanced, it became brighter; then he felt that he was in the right path to a human habitation. He hallooed, as loud as his failing strength would allow, several times; the light moved, another light was visible; it was certainly approaching; in a minute, a dog bounded through the drifts, and barked loud and long. "Dinna' be alarmed," cried a man's voice, "he is only telling us that he has found ye." In another second a man appeared with a lantern.

"Ye hae been oot in a sair storm, my friend; follow me, an' I will bring ye to a safe harbor."

"I am searching for Malcolm Graham," was the reply.

"Hoot awa', mon! ye are far oot o' the way; it is a guid thing that I found ye in time."

Taking Roland by the arm, he led him forward through the drifts, to the door of his humble cottage, where his good wife stood waiting her husband's return.

"Throw me my tartan, wife," cried the man; "here is a lost traveller, an' I am ganging to guide him to Graham Hall; gi' the dogs the lanterns; come, Jack, come, Joan," continued the man, as he fastened the small lanterns with reflectors, around the dogs' necks. "We are safe enow, sir, for these tykes ken every turn o' these mountain roads."

They bounded off with a cheery bark, and threading their way skilfully by the side of the drifts, our travellers followed the lights with quickened pace.

Bright lights beaming from several windows suddenly burst upon them. "We are at Graham Hall, sir," said the shepherd; and hastily stepping up on the front piazza, he rapped loud with the iron lion's head that served for knocker at the great hall door. The master presented himself. "Why, Sandy Armstrong, what brought ye oot in sic a night as this?"

"I hae found a lost traveller searchin' for Graham Hall, sir; an' I hae brought him safely to ye; but he is sairly worn oot."

"Come in, sir, and we shall soon see what the warm fires and blankets o' Graham Hall can do for ye, my young friend."

"Guid night, sir," said Sandy, and Roland thanked the kind man for his safe escort.

"Won't ye tak' some warm negus, Sandys?" said the master.

"Thank ye kindly, sir, but I maun hasten back; the snow is falling still heavily."

Roland stood for one minute, in the midst of a large hall, while the master removed his tartan, knocked the snow off his boots, and hung his cap upon the pegs, where the master's hunting-dress, his powder-horn, and game-bag, indicated his love for mountain sports. A set of antlers mounted the hall-door, and some hunting pictures adorned the wall.

"Ye are weak and sick, sir," was the kind salutation; "tak' my arm," and Malcolm Graham led Roland into a bright family room, where a large wood fire blazed upon the hearth of a Franklin stove—the rich, dark carpet, the heavy oak furniture, old fashioned chairs, and pictures of Highland scenery gave an air of charming comfort to the apartment, which was truly grateful to the sick and jaded traveller.

"Lie down, sir, on the couch;" and Malcolm beat up the soft chintz cushions with the tenderness of a woman, as he laid Roland down on the comfortable lounge. Perceiving that Roland made several attempts to speak, the master continued,

"Dinna talk, there is plenty o' time for that; I will be back in a minute," and speedily returning, he sat down by the side of the young man, watching his motions.

"Here, brother, is the negus," said a lady, opening the door slightly; and Malcolm handed it to Roland. The warm drink speedily restored vitality to his frame; then taking off his boots, his kind host rubbed his feet briskly, dropping cheering words as he performed the service. By this time, Roland was sufficiently recovered to look around him; and first he glanced at the tall and noble-looking man that waited upon him. The dark gray eyes expressed a world of feeling, and the mouth, though firm, was loving as a woman's. 'Tis true that the fine head was partially bald, and the hair that remained was silvered with marks of time, but there was that about Malcolm Graham that won Roland's heart at once.

"Do you know, sir, whom you are befriending?" was Roland's first remark.

"No, sir, a' that I ken is that ye are a stranger, an' I took ye in."

"It is fitting that you should know—my name is Roland Bruce, sir."

Malcolm's color changed, as, seizing the young man's hand, he exclaimed: "Mary Gordon's son! I thank thee, O, my Father!" and Malcolm hid his face in his handkerchief to conceal the storm of mixed emotions which swept over his countenance, and shook his frame.

"I came from America to search for my relations; but I find none of my mother's kindred left. I am truly alone in the wide world; she bade me search for you also."

"Not alone, Roland; Mary's son is my especial care, and my heart opens wide to receive ye; come to my arms, my son, and let me press my lips upon yer young brow."

For that warm embrace, the friendship of future years was sealed, and the two were no more strangers.

Malcolm opened the door and called, "Annie, I hae some one to introduce to ye," and his sister, Mrs. Lindsay, entered the room.

"This is Mary Gordon's son, Annie; ye will luve him for my sake."

The lady greeted him warmly. "Ye are welcome to our fireside, Roland; but ye maun be very hungry;" and the good lady hastened away, to order a warm supper for the weary guest.

The door opened softly, and a young face peeped shyly in.

"Come in, Annot," said her uncle; and a little fairy of fifteen, with a profusion of light, curly hair, and a dancing step, advanced shyly to the couch.

"Shake hands wi' Mr. Bruce, Annot; he has come to stay wi' us, my luve; he is the chiel o' a vera dear friend of Uncle Malcolm."

"I am glad to see ye, sir; I luve ilka body that Uncle Malcolm loves."

Another applicant for introduction, in the form of a large family dog that lay ensconced on a rug by the fire, had long been asserting his claims to notice, by repeatedly putting up his shaggy paw, and looking up in his master's face, for his share in the ceremonies.

"I maun na' forget auld Lion, Roland; come here, auld fellow!" and the dog, wagging his tail, put up his rough paw to salute Roland; at the same time, expressing his satisfaction by a low growl, that he meant to be musical—at any rate, it expressed good-will.

Soon a neat-looking Highland girl entered, and spreading the table, she placed upon it sundry grateful viands.

"Hannah!" said Mrs. Lindsay, "tell Dugald to kindle a fire in the minister's room."

"And now, Roland, see if ye can tak' some supper," said the master, as he led his young friend to the table.

He ate sparingly of the profusion spread around him, for his appetite had not yet returned, but the feeling of perfect comfort was such a rest, that it was refreshment enough for Roland, for some hours at least.

"We shall not keep ye late to-night, Roland; ye need rest, and, to-morrow, ye shall tell me a' your story."

A bell summoned the family for evening worship; two or three Highland men and women came in from the kitchen, and took their seats reverently with the family. Annot opened the piano, Malcolm read a chapter in the Bible, with some simple comments; Annot played a beautiful Psalm, in which all joined heartily; and the master concluded the exercises by a solemn, earnest prayer, in which Roland was most affectionately remembered.

Taking a light, he said, "Come, Roland, I will tak' ye to yer room;" and Malcolm led the way to a bright cheerful chamber, where a glowing fire blazed upon the hearth, for the master was a great advocate of wood fires.

A warm feather bed, plenty of blankets, with chintz curtains, an easy rocking-chair, and writing-table, made up a whole of home comforts, such as Roland had never, in all his life, enjoyed before.

Fixing the lamp with old bachelor exactness several times before it suited him, Malcolm left the room, saying,

"Is there onything that ye want, Roland? dinna be afraid to ask."

"Nothing, sir; I am perfectly comfortable; good-night, sir."

"Guid-night;" and Malcolm left him to the quiet of his thoughts. Having allowed him time for his devotions, and preparations for repose, Malcolm entered once more.

"Here is a bowl o' negus, my son, it will na' harm ye after sic a freezing as ye hae had;" and Malcolm insisted on his drinking down the whole.

"Now, guid-night, Roland;" and Malcolm laid his hand in blessing upon the young head, as he continued,

"God bless ye, and gi' ye refreshing sleep."

He lay awake some time, for Roland's emotions were of that delicious character which none can realize but those who have been thus suddenly transported from a scene of danger and suffering to one of perfect rest and safety. The howling of the wind without, and the beating of the snowdrifts against the window-panes, were strongly contrasted with the light of the glowing fire illumining some Scripture pictures on the wall, the warm, soft bed, and the sweet atmosphere of Christian love by which he was surrounded. Truly, "the Lord giveth his beloved sleep!" and such a sleep was Roland's.

"We did na' wake ye early, Roland;" said his friend, who came at last to see if he was stirring, "for we kenned that ye needed rest; how do ye fare this morning?"

"Perfectly well and happy," was the answer.

"Well, I will leave ye now; as soon as ye are ready, come down to the breakfast-room."

Roland poured out his heart in earnest, grateful prayer, dressed himself, and appeared before the family quite another man.

A smoking breakfast of good, hot coffee, venison, beef-steak, hot bannocks, muffins, and boiled eggs awaited him; and, on this occasion, he did ample justice to the tempting viands.

"We have delayed worship, this morning, on your account, Roland;" and immediately after breakfast, the same company again assembled, the same sweet music, Scripture reading, and fervent prayer of the night before.

"Come, look out upon the landscape, Roland," said the master, as he led the young man into the family parlor, and turned aside the heavy curtains that he might see the picture without.

The sun was shining in all his glory upon the landscape—mountains of snow were piled up everywhere, glistening in the sunbeams, which were reflected in prismatic colors in the icicles pendant from the branches of the trees. Such a scene Roland had never before witnessed, and, to his temperament, it was full of exhilaration.

"Now, my son, I am ready for your story;" and Malcolm led the way to his own private room, directing that he should not be disturbed that morning.

It was a cozy little apartment, with secretary, writing-table, book-cases well filled, comfortable chairs, a cushioned lounge, and a bright wood fire.

A bust of Sir Walter occupied one niche, and Burns another. A picture of Abbotsford, another of Melrose Abbey, and one of Burns' Highland Mary, adorned the walls; and a flute, with piles of music, lay upon a stand in the corner of the room. Horns of deer branched over the windows, and several figures of Scottish knights, in bronze, adorned the mantel-piece. Everywhere, the house was furnished with the quiet comforts, and even elegancies, of a Scotch gentleman.

Lion was here, of course; for at all times, he was allowed free access to Malcolm's apartments, and no more faithful friend ever followed the fortunes of a master, than good old Lion.

CHAPTER XXIII.

GRAHAM HALL.

It was a morning fraught with deep and painful memories, for as Roland related the story of his mother's trials, and his own struggles with poverty and suffering, Malcolm's manly heart was stirred within him; and when he read the manuscript which Mrs. Bruce had left, floods of memory overpowered him for one moment, for it took him back so painfully to the days of his youth.

"But she is at rest noo, Roland; there ne'er was a purer, holier heart in the form o' woman, than that which beat in the bosom o' Mary Gordon. I should hae made her happy, Roland, but God willed it otherwise, an' I am content; but how is it that she could hae suffered so much, with sic friends in Scotland? Did she na write home?"

"She did, frequently, Uncle Malcolm; for the first year we received answers; then we were surrounded by mystery; we could not imagine how it was, but at last, my mother thought that death must have removed her relatives, and she ceased to write."

Malcolm opened a small drawer that was kept carefully locked, and lifting an old pocket-book, took out a lock of golden hair, and a piece of faded blue ribbon.

"That is to be buried with me in my grave, Roland; it is a' that is left to me, on earth, o' Mary Gordon; but I believe that we shall meet in Heaven; for, Roland, we were made for each other, and shall hold communion yet; here is a perfect likeness o' your mother, when she was sweet Mary Gordon;" and Roland gazed upon the picture with feelings of loving reverence.

It was a bright young face, with deep blue eyes, and a profusion of light curly hair; innocence marked its general expression, but in the eyes there was a look of high and holy inspiration, such as she never lost.

"If ye should outlive me, Roland, that is yours; your name shall be placed upon the back; would that I could hae kenned my boy in the days o' his adversity; and now I hae ane request to make, and it is this; ca' me always Uncle Malcolm; would that I were mair to ye."

"That will be very easy, dear Uncle Malcolm; for I feel as if I had indeed found not only a friend, but a relative; but it is better that I had not known you before; the very discipline of my life has called out qualities which prosperity could never have fostered."

"That talisman, Roland, has been your a', it has been the making o' Mary Gordon's son. 'Looking aloft!' O, what blessedness in those holy, strengthening words! It shall be placed upon her miniature, Roland."

When Roland related the early struggles of his life in New York, the trials at college, the weariness of hope deferred, his "News-Boys' Home," Malcolm sat with head bowed upon his hands, and when he had finished his recital, he clasped Roland in his arms, and said,—

"Ye are indeed the chiel o' Providence; be my son, Roland, for I love ye as my ain."

But little was said concerning his early friend, Madeline, but even the few passing words spoke volumes to Malcolm Graham.

Bowing down together before the mercy-seat, Malcolm poured out his soul in earnest prayer for the youth kneeling by his side, and Roland took up the language of supplication and praise, and from a full heart poured out his gratitude. Arm in arm they left the study, and the servants wondered what the master had found in the lost traveller of the night before.

"I have some inquiries to make about Aunt Douglass, for I am strongly inclined to believe that my father still lives; I think perhaps that she may know something of him."

A painful expression passed over Malcolm's face, as he replied,—

"I can direct ye, Roland, but dinna gae yet; stay wi' me a few days; I want to tell ye aboot a' my plans, and as soon as the travelling will allow us, I hae mickle to show ye o' Highland life."

The next day brought Roland acquainted with Uncle Malcolm's daily habits. A part of each morning was devoted to Annot's studies, a part to superintending general business, keeping accounts, and a portion to regular systematic reading.

Sometimes Uncle Malcolm indulged in sporting, a part of the amusements of Scotch gentlemen.

Friday evening came, and after supper, the master said,

"Dugald, bring in the books an' get ready for the meeting," and the old servant soon returned with additional seats, and a large number of hymn books.

"We hae a meeting o' my tenants every Friday, Roland; we are vera far frae ony kirk, an' I hae to be minister to them, for they can only attend the quarterly communions."

Soon the people began to assemble; rough Highlanders, with their wives and elder children came flocking in.

Malcolm sat at the head of a long table, and as each one saluted him, it was manifest with what feelings of affectionate reverence good Uncle Malcolm was regarded by his humble people. A chapter from the Bible with some familiar remarks just to the point for his hearers, several beautiful Scotch psalms, in which all joined earnestly, and then a prayer from Malcolm, and another from Roland, closed the evening.

Several remained behind to ask advice; some about their business, their families, their spiritual needs, their cares and sorrows, their disputes and difficulties; and the kind words dropped by the good steward of his Master's goods, testified to the fidelity with which he discharged his holy trust.

Daily did Malcolm and Roland ride around among his humble dependents, and a book for one, a tract for another, some pecuniary help for others, marked all these visits.

"You see, Roland, that I am pretty busy for an old bachelor; I could na' live without employment. Then we hae some pleasant society here, although we live so far apart. When the gentry visit us, it is to stay several days, sometimes weeks at a time, for the latch o' Graham Hall is always up."

On Sabbath afternoon, a company of little ones flocked to the Hall, and Malcolm, Mrs. Lindsay, and Annot were the teachers on these occasions. It was quite a pleasant treat to Roland to aid in the good work.

In the evenings, Annot entertained them with her sweet Scotch songs, and Roland frequently accompanied her with his deep, rich voice, and Uncle Malcolm with his flute.

Malcolm often wondered what he should do when Roland would leave him, for every day he learned to love him, not only for Mary Gordon's, but for his own sake.

"We shall hae to ask for your room to-night, Roland," said Mrs. Lindsay, "for the minister is coming, and he always occupies that room."

"It makes no difference to me, dear Madam; put me anywhere that suits you."

The Rev. Mr. Murray was a fine specimen of a Scotch minister, grave, earnest, faithful; he was always welcome among his humble mountain parishioners, and came quarterly to look after their welfare.

"Are there ony ready for the Lord's supper, Mr. Graham?" inquired the minister.

"I think there are four; they will be here next Sabbath, when ye can examine them."

There was a large gathering at Graham Hall on that holy day, for notice had been given that the minister was coming.

He preached an earnest, faithful sermon, somewhat longer than Roland had been accustomed to, for an hour and a half were given up to that exercise; long prayers, and long psalms made the occasion tedious to one not accustomed to such services, but the people did net complain, although it brought their dinner two hours later than on other days.

In the afternoon, the minister examined several candidates for the Lord's Supper, which was to be administered on the following Sabbath, and paid a just tribute to the fidelity with which they had been instructed by the minister's earnest helper. Mr. Murray stayed all night, and gave some wise spiritual advice to Roland before he took his departure.

"He seems to be a chiel o' God," said Mr. Murray, "and can come to the sacrament, if he wishes, next Sabbath; it must be pleasant to hae sic a guest."

"He is a descendant o' the Gordons, Mr. Murray, and a chiel o' earnest prayer."

"They were aye a godly race, Mr. Graham, an' mony an ancient martyr bears their name."

On the following Sabbath, Malcolm, Roland, Mrs. Lindsay, and Annot started at early down in one carriage, and all the servants in a large, comfortable wagon; the house was closed for the day, for in Scotland these sacrament days occupy the whole Sabbath.

Arrived at the place of concourse, large numbers were seen coming in all directions; carriages, wagons, people on horseback and on foot, hurried to the service, for as it occurred so seldom, it was a great occasion to devout Scotch people.

Owing to the numbers, the services were out of doors; a table was spread under large shady trees, and temporary seats provided for the occasion.

A long sermon was preached, but full of power; long prayers, but full of unction; deep, sonorous, stirring psalms were sung by the great multitude, and Roland thought of the songs of the redeemed in the Revelations, where the hallelujahs were compared to the voice of many waters. The effect was sublime under these old trees; young men and old, mothers, maidens, and little children all joining in the solemn chorus, with the heavens for their canopy, and the green sward for their carpeted aisles.

"'Neath cloistered boughs each floral bell that swingeth,
And tolls its perfume on the passing air,
Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth,
A call to prayer!

"Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column,
Attest the feebleness of mortal hand;
But to that fane, most catholic and solemn,
Which God hath planned!

"To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder,
Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply,
Its choir, the winds and waves, its organ thunder,
Its dome, the sky!"

But here was the voice of God's ambassador, and the presence of the Holy Ghost, and Roland listened and worshipped with solemn awe in nature's grand cathedral.

In the intervals between the services, the people assembled in serious groups under the trees to eat their meals, for all who lived at a distance had come with the intention to spend the Sabbath.

No lightness was manifest among the crowds, for Scotch people are proverbial for their reverence for the Sabbath. The minister mingled occasionally with his people; but none, not even the little children, seemed to forget that it was the holy Sabbath. At the close of the solemn day, Malcolm and his family returned to their mountain home, doubtless benefitted by the exercises of this holy service.

"We have had a pleasant day, Uncle Malcolm," said Roland, "but would it not be better if the services were not quite so long? I observed many old people nodding in the afternoon."

"It would be doubtless better, but the customs of the old Scotch church are very hard to remodel. The good Dr. Chalmers has done much in the way of reform, but it has not reached us yet."

"What a noble witness for the truth is that good man! There is but one such man in our age, Uncle Malcolm; at least but one given to an especial branch of the Christian church."

"Yes, Roland, the Church of England has her Bickersteth; the Baptist, her Robert Hall; the Methodist, her Wesley; and a' seeking one great end, the glory of the Saviour, and the spread of his kingdom. What a blessed day that will be, when these sects shall pass away, and we shall be truly one in Christ, once more the simple primitive Christians of Antioch!"

And thus they fulfilled the blessed command of their Master, talking of the things of his kingdom, until like the disciples on their way to Emmaus their hearts burned within them with emotions of holy love. Where the fountain is full, the streams will gush forth naturally, freely, healthfully.

"It is a fine day, Uncle Malcolm," said Roland, on the following Monday; "can we go to-day to visit the glen where my martyred ancestors lie?"

"I was thinking o' it mysel', Roland; the weather could na' be better, hard roads, and clear sharp air—it is a long ride frae' here, and we will set out early—hae the carriage ready, Dugald, and a basket o' provision; we will gae in aboot an hour."

It was a splendid ride over these mountain roads, winding around in their ascent to heights whence there were vistas charming in their grandeur even at this season; then descending into rural glens where the cottages of the peasantry ever and anon met their view. "There is Castle Kennicott, Roland;" and Malcolm pointed to a miserable range of buildings, so dilapidated that his companion smiled at the name.

"There lives old Sir Peter Kennicott; he is a specimen o' an auld Scottish laird, vera poor, and vera proud; his wife, Lady Catherine, and three daughters, make up his household; they visit us two or three times a year, and living as they do in the seclusion o' their Highland home, ken but little o' the ways o' the rest o' the warld; they are vera amusing wi' their quaint auld-fashioned manners; but Lady Catherine is a guid woman, and much esteemed."

Beguiling the way with pleasant chat, in a few hours they reached the spot they sought for. Dismounting, they stood around the lowly grave—the same ruined chimney, the same grand old trees, the same dark and sombre glen, where no human habitation was visible, recalled the picture so deeply engraved upon the memory of Roland.

"We stood just here, Uncle Malcolm," (and Roland almost whispered, for he felt in the midst of solemn associations,) "when my mother told me the story of old David Gordon and the sweet Lilian, and I think from that day my childish soul took a great leap in its existence, and I never could forget the thoughts which stirred within me, as I remembered that my ancestors were among the holy band of Christian martyrs."

"It is a great honor, Roland, to be descended frae those who will hereafter be kings and priests unto God."

"What a cruel being man must be that can slay such innocence as slumbers here!"

"And yet it is frae oot sic dreadful scenes o' bluidshed that great principles to bless our race arise; the struggles between right and wrong are often ushered in by the gibbet, the stake, or the battle-axe."

"O, what a happy time that will be, Uncle Malcolm, when the nations shall learn war no more! when man shall love his brother man."

"It is coming, Roland; sure as God's word is true, sic a day will dawn upon the earth."

Hours were spent around the humble grave, for both felt the inspiration of the scene.

"I hae something mair to show ye, Roland; here is ane o' the caves where our fathers used to hide in those dismal days; and mony a time in the midst o' baptismal or sacrament seasons in these lonely glens, at the sound o' the tramp o' Claverhouse and his troopers, would they hae to fly to these damp and gloomy shelters."

"How solemn must have been the worship of these days, Uncle Malcolm; ever on the borders of eternity, they must always have sounded like funereal hymns in these solitudes!"

"And yet how much we hae read o' their heroic spirit, their brave endurance, and their triumph over death! I can imagine strains o' victory always mingling wi' a martyr's hymn."

When they arrived at home, letters from Edmund awaited Roland; he seemed to be growing tired of travelling alone. Uncle Malcolm, with his accustomed hospitality, immediately wrote a few lines of cordial invitation to Graham Hall.

"Wha' hae we here?" asked Mrs. Lindsay.

Roland looked out, and, lumbering up the road, came a large old-fashioned carriage, with two fat, lazy horses.

"It is Sir Peter," continued the lady; and soon the party stopped at the door.

"How fares it wi' ye a'?" said the old man, as he stepped slowly from the carriage, and warmly shook the master's hand.

Lady Catherine followed, and then the three daughters, with their pets—Miss Juliana, with her cat; Miss Winnie, with a fat lap-dog; and Miss Jacky, with a large parrot, brought to her from abroad by a sailor cousin. Sundry bandboxes, and a trunk, indicated that they meant to stay for some days at least. The three ladies had all passed the hey-day of youth, for the youngest was thirty at least. Miss Juliana, the eldest, having passed two seasons at Edinburgh, was the only one who pretended to the manners of a lady; she still preserved carefully the wardrobe of those youthful days for extra occasions, such as a visit to Graham Hall. On this day, a worn-out travelling dress, made in the fashion of twenty years ago, looked rather antiquated; but the narrow purse of Kennicott Castle made a virtue of necessity.

Sir Peter, clad in the costume of ancient times, with his bob-wig and powdered hair, his small clothes, and silver knee and shoe-buckles, his three-cornered hat, and silver-headed cane, with a coat whose pockets were large enough to hold a change of clothing, presented a most grotesque appearance, and really might have been mistaken for a person rigged out for a dramatic scene. Lady Catherine was equally antique. After the ceremony of introduction, they were escorted to their rooms; and nothing more was seen of them until dinner-time, when their appearance at the table indicated the employment of the morning.

Miss Juliana was arrayed in a youthful dress of light blue silk; and, as the eldest, wore the old family jewels, which certainly were not of the most costly kind. Her hair was dressed in the most youthful style; but artificial rose-buds could not conceal the gray locks, or hide the shrivelled cheeks. She carried a fan, with which she performed certain singular manœuvres, which she considered the very tip of the haut-ton.

Miss Juliana was the oracle of the family; for had she not been in Edinburgh for two seasons? and ought she not to know the fashions of high life?

Miss Winnie was fat and coarse, with high cheek bones, large hands and feet, freckled skin, and red hair; she certainly did not pretend to be the beauty of the family.

Miss Jacky, the "Baby," as they still called her, was considered the "beauty."

A small figure, with a profusion of light flaxy hair, tortured into curling, light complexion, with high color, unmeaning china-blue eyes, and pursed-up little mouth, distinguished her from her sisters.

They were all bent upon Baby's making a great match; therefore, all the finery of the past generation, that remained in the old family chest, was kept especially for her. A heavy crimson brocade for winter, that stood alone, was made up with low neck and short sleeves; and in summer, one light pink taffeta was likewise remodelled. One wreath of roses for her hair, one string of pearls for the neck, with ear-rings to match, one pair of soiled kid gloves for the hands, and one pair of narrow pointed slippers, made up Baby's wardrobe, and this she had worn on her visits to Graham Hall, and Douglass Manor, ever since she was eighteen; and now, alas! Baby was thirty.

She had sung the same songs, danced the same Scotch reels, said the same pretty silly things; charming only to her family, and yet Baby was not married.

Sir Peter had long thought that a seat at the head of the table at Graham Hall, would be the very thing for Baby, but unfortunately, the master did not concur in sentiment.

"Annot, my dear, come sit by me," said the sweet young lady, for she knew that Malcolm dearly loved his little niece. Baby was devoted in her attentions to the child, but it all seemed lost upon Malcolm, who was busily engaged in talking to Sir Peter about the cattle and the sheep during the late snow storm. "I lost ten o' my best sheep, Mr. Graham," remarked the old man.

"I did na lose ane, Sir Peter," was the answer, and Malcolm dropped many hints which might have been useful, if the old man had not been too indolent to profit by them.

The politeness of the household was much taxed by their efforts to entertain their guests; for there were just four subjects of conversation for the four ladies.

Lady Catherine discussed household economy; Miss Juliana, her visit to Edinburgh, twenty years ago, an unfailing subject; Miss Winnie, her pet lap-dog, with all his wonderful tricks; and Baby, "The Children of the Abbey," and the "Sorrows of Werter."

It was in vain that Mrs. Lindsay tried to divert the channel of conversation to better things; back to the old worn-out sayings and doings of their little world they would come.

All the ladies employed themselves in knitting while they talked. Lady Catherine knit stockings for the winter; Miss Juliana mitts innumerable; Miss Winnie, tippets of all sizes; and Baby tidies and mats for parlor and chamber.

Knit! knit! knit! talk! talk! talk! Truly a visit from Kennicott Castle was a trial to Christian patience! And then, the darling pets! Miss Juliana's pet cat fought with the master's noble dog; Miss Winnie's lap-dog tried to tear out the eyes of Annot's little kitten; and Baby's parrot screamed night and day, "Polly wants Baby! Polly wants Baby!" Then Miss Juliana's cat must have sweet milk three times a day, and the most delicate pieces of meat cut up very fine; Miss Winnie's lap-dog must be fed upon cream; and Baby's parrot could open her cage-door, and help herself to whatever she liked upon the table. This was great fun to Baby, but disgusting to others, who could not bear a dirty parrot walking over the dinner-plates. Miss Juliana played two old marches, Miss Winnie two old pieces, and Baby three songs exactly.

They all attended punctually upon the family devotions, and then Malcolm could pray that all who knelt around that altar should set their affections upon things above, and not on the vain and fleeting things of earth; their frivolity pained him, and the good master tried many ways to do them good.

He talked to the ladies about schools for the poor children, and about comforts for their parents.

"Dear me!" said Miss Juliana, "Mr. Graham you would na' expect us to stoop to these wild Highlanders; why! they are na' mair than savages!"

"And sae they will continue, my dear Madam," ("Madam!" Miss Juliana did not like that,) "if you will na' step forward to their help; and in sic a lonesome place, I should think it would be pleasant wark."

"Why, Mr. Graham, it would take twa hunters ilka morn to catch the wild things; on the tops o' the highest hills, down in the deepest glens, hidden amang the steep rocks, we might as well try to tame the wild animals as these rough, outlandish children o' the crags."

"Try, Miss Juliana, gi' them something for the body, and, after awhile, they will come to ye for something for the mind."

Miss Juliana yawned, "It is sae mickle work, Mr. Graham, for a high-born lady; I could na' think of sic a thing."

For two weeks the visitors remained; but no visible progress was made by Baby, and the party turned their faces homeward.

"Ye will return our visit soon, Mr. Graham; bring yer young friend wi' ye; we canna promise mickle at Kennicott, but we will mak' ye welcome."

"Thank ye, Sir Peter, when we hae leisure, we will accept your kind invitation."

The old carriage was brought up, Sir Peter and Lady Catherine comfortably seated, followed by Miss Juliana and her cat, Tabby; Miss Winnie and her dog, Charley; and Baby with her talking Poll, screaming, as she went, "Poll wants Baby;" with sundry band-boxes and trunks, filled with the old finery, to be packed away for future occasions; while the ladies would now assume their tartan plaid and woollen hose, until making another visitation.

Mrs. Lindsay gave one long, expressive breath; good Uncle Malcolm smiled with a look of relief, and little Annot clapped her hands as she hugged up her pet kitten, and said, "Now, tittens! that horrid dog is gone, and ye shall hae some peace o' your life."

In a few days, Edmund arrived, and received a hearty welcome from the master of Graham Hall. Soon domesticated, he revelled in the comforts of the hospitable mansion; and day after day, seated by the blazing fire of the family-room, he would rub his hands with delight, exclaiming,

"This is living, Roland! How shall I ever content myself in that Babel of a city after these grand mountains, these noble trees, this free life out-of-doors, and this glowing, warm-hearted hospitality within!"

"It is a charming home, indeed!" was Roland's reply, "the very perfection of that sweet word; though so cold without, one feels all the time here in the midst of a warm glow of Christian love, and hearty welcome."'

"What a charming piece of simplicity is that dear little Annot, Roland! So fresh! so naive! After the glitter of New York belles, she is really captivating; and then her music—why, she warbles sweetly as a mavis."

Roland smiled as he replied, "Where is Miss Hamilton, Edmund?"

"O, she is out of my reach! a bright divinity that I may worship in the distance! But this little Scotch mountain girl! innocent child that she is, charms me daily more and more, with her winning ways, and her sweet, loving eyes."

"Take care, Edmund, how you allow yourself to become enchanted; for you may never see Scotland again."

"That is not so certain, my dear sir, for I have had a taste of Highland life that I shall never forget; and this sweet face I must see again."

Roland found that he must seek out his aunt; therefore, in a day or two, Uncle Malcolm and he sat out for Douglass Manor, leaving Edmund behind to seek his own pleasures. It was a long two-storied stone mansion, that had long been in the family, and therefore dignified by the name of "The Manor."

Mr. Graham inquired for the mistress; asked into the parlor, they awaited her arrival.

In a few minutes, a tall lady, with pleasing aspect, and dignified address, entered the parlor.

"Ye are welcome, Mr. Graham; it is a long time syne I hae had this honor."

"I cam' to introduce a family connexion, Mrs. Douglass."

The lady looked earnestly at Roland, a change passed over her countenance, as she advanced towards the young man, and taking his hand, she said,—

"I dinna ken what to think, but surely ye are vera like my brother Stephen, lost so lang ago."

Malcolm had left the room.

"I am Roland Bruce, your brother's son, Aunt Douglass; you are the first relative that I have met in Scotland."

She grasped his hand, and drawing him to her, kissed him affectionately.

"My dear nephew! This is joyful indeed! Nane o' my kindred hae I left on earth, but yoursel'!"

Roland then related his story to his aunt; she was deeply moved; as soon as he mentioned the name of Elsie Gibson, she exclaimed,

"Is it possible that Elsie is in America? We missed her years ago, but nane could tell whate'er became o' her."

"What relation does she bear to us?" inquired Roland.

"Roland, she luved your father dearly, an' had he married her, he wud hae been a happier mon; but he was aye like one crazed on the subject o' Mary Gordon."

"My mother made him a good wife, Aunt Douglass; she was most faithful and devoted."

"Yes, Roland, I ken a' that to be true; but her heart was na wi' her husband."

"It was with no one else, Aunt Douglass; I wish that you could have known my dear mother."

At the end of their interview, Mrs. Douglass was convinced that her brother was yet alive.

"I will gae wi' ye, Roland, when ye return to America; I maun find my brother, for our property is yet unsettled, although my father has been dead these four years; ye maun stay wi' me, Roland, it is sic a pleasure to see a branch o' my ain hoose," and Aunt Douglass affectionately laid her hand upon the young man's shoulder.

"Looking aloft!" thought Roland, "how many of my prayers and hopes have been fulfilled! I will never distrust a gracious God, so true to all his promises."

Malcolm left Roland with the promise to come once more to Graham Hall ere he left the country.

Mrs. Douglass busied herself in preparing all the documents necessary ere she left Scotland, and after having shown her nephew all that was interesting around the Manor, she started, with her nephew for Malcolm's home.

"Would it not be better, Uncle Malcolm, to settle my mother's estate before I leave Scotland? I should like to dispose of it, for my future home will be in America."

"I will attend to all that, Roland; I have taken charge o' a' ever syne the death o' your kindred; indeed, it is sold already."

Uncle Malcolm did not then tell Roland that he was himself the purchaser, and had given a higher price than any stranger would have done.

In a short time, all was arranged; Roland received a handsome price, and old Jennie Scott was sorely distressed at the thought of a stranger in the old manse.

"Dinna trouble yourself, Jennie," was Malcolm's word of comfort; "it will be the manse still, a guid minister shall abide there, and Jennie shall be the woman o' a' wark there yet."

She kissed Malcolm's hand,—"Ye're a guid an' faithfu' mon, Mr. Graham, an' God will bless ye evermair."

The time of parting had arrived—Roland was grieved to leave the dear shelter of Graham Hall, for it was indeed to him a home, and its master a kind and generous father. Mrs. Lindsay, too, had been like a dear mother, and little Annot clung around him, and cried at parting with "dear Cousin Roland."

Edmund could not leave the dear home-circle of Graham Hall without deep regret; and as he bade a sorrowful farewell to artless Annot Lindsay, and held her little hand fondly within his own, he whispered,

"I shall come again, Annot, and then we shall have the pleasant walks and rides once more."

She dropped her sweet eyes on the ground, then raising them to Edmund's face, swimming in tears, she replied,

"I shall miss ye, Mr. Norris, so vera, vera much; but ye'll come again, an' I'll learn so mony new songs just for ye, an' nane ither."

Annot stood at the window looking at the carriage as it turned away; and ere it vanished out of sight, a familiar face smiled at her from the back of the carriage, and a hand waved a last farewell, that she knew was Edmund's.

Soon in London, Malcolm took lodgings for himself, Mrs. Douglass, and his young friends; and many pleasant visits did they pay together among the homes of the destitute; and many useful hints were given by the wise and faithful friend to Roland and Edmund. Riding out one day, Mr. Graham perceived a carriage passing close by their side. It contained two ladies, one remarkable for her beauty. She looked startled, blushed, smiled, waved her hand, and was gone.

Roland was deeply agitated,

"Who was that, Roland?" inquired his friend.

"That was Madeline Hamilton, Uncle Malcolm," and Roland dropped his eyes beneath the earnest look of his friend.

"Ye never told me that she was in London, Roland."

"No, Uncle Malcolm, I did not."

"And why, my son, may I ask?"

"I am not on terms of intimacy with Miss Hamilton now."

"How is that, Roland?"

"She does not belong to my world, Uncle Malcolm; so her relatives think."

Uncle Malcolm bit his lip, as he replied slowly,

"Does Madeline think sae, Roland?"

"I think not; she is simple-hearted, truthful as a child, above all that is sordid, or worldly; but they may spoil her here in London."

Malcolm read at once the whole of Roland's secret.

"Ye could keep up intercourse wi' Miss Hamilton if ye please, Roland?"

"I think I could, Uncle Malcolm; but I would not tempt her from the path of duty."

Malcolm Graham smiled, a bright and happy smile; for in the future, he saw a path so high! so blessed for his dear young protégé. "Looking aloft!" in the right sense thought Malcolm, "and God will take care o' his interests, for time and eternity."

"Roland, my boy, trust in God; for he will make a' things work together for your good. Seek first the kingdom o' God and his righteousness, and a' these things shall be added unto ye; all these things, Roland—whatever is for your real good."

CHAPTER XXIV.

WINGS CLIPPED THAT HAD COMMENCED TO SOAR.

Madeline is in a new atmosphere; silken fetters bind her feet, and amid the novelty of scenes so different from those at home, gradually the world acquires an ascendancy over her young heart, which almost ceases to converse with itself.

Her journal has long been laid aside; but one very rainy day she opens its pages, and contrasts her present state with the past. Madeline is humbled; taking up her pen, she resumes a record of past events and emotions. She made her entries for only a few weeks after her arrival.

"London, May 10th.—What a new world surrounds me! Ah, so novel, so different from New York! I am in a constant whirl of excitement, with scarcely time for thought. We have brought letters of introduction from Mr. Leighton and Mr. Trevor to the American minister, which bring us at once within the pale of London life among the haut-ton. Aunt Matilda is delighted; quite in her element; papa pleased because we are, but he looks very pale and languid.

* * * * * * *

"Yesterday was the great day; I was presented to the Queen by the American minister. I wanted to see Queen Victoria, because she is a rare example of a good wife and mother in a royal circle. It was a magnificent scene; such a crowd of well-developed, rosy young ladies; such splendid dressing, high-breeding, and courtly grace, I have never before seen! I understand now something about the rich glow of English beauty; but the Queen interested me most. She is not handsome, but there was a benevolent glow upon her face when she addressed me personally, and said some kind things about my country. I could have kissed her hand, but I suppose that would not have been courtly etiquette, and so I had to content myself with performing the difficult ceremony of bowing out backwards; I did not fall, and that is all I can say about the manner.

* * * * * * *

"I am busy in returning calls, visiting dress-makers, &c., for we are invited to a ball at the Duke of D——'s. I wonder if I ought to go, and leave papa; Aunt Matilda insists, and papa wishes it; it will take place next week.

* * * * * * *

"Well! I have been to the grand ball; a great crowd, magnificent rooms, superb dressing, a train of admirers, scarcely room to dance, but unable to accept all the invitations; introduced to the Earl of N——, a refined and courtly English nobleman; his wife, the Countess, is peculiarly pleasing; and his daughter, the Lady Alice, charming; a sweet, artless English girl, just making her first appearance in gay life. I don't believe that she relishes it much. Lord N——, the son, is the most pleasing gentleman that I have yet met in London; modest, unassuming, gentlemanly, and intelligent, and sufficiently good-looking to captivate the majority of young ladies. His attentions are acceptable, because they are so perfectly respectful, so unobtrusive.

"This family pleases me more than any I have seen; they must be among the best specimens of English nobility.

"Aunt Matilda is so intoxicated, by moving among nobles, that I cannot help laughing; and I fear that she will make the impression that she is really not accustomed to good society; there is so much fuss and folly about her movements. I ought not to write this of Aunt Matilda, for she is so good and kind to me; only too anxious about the number of conquests, and I shrewdly suspect that she is meditating one herself.

"Dined yesterday at the Earl of N——'s, in company with papa and Aunt Matilda; quite a family dinner, as dear papa avoids much company. I think it is a Christian family, for the good earl asked a blessing at the table so reverently. It is the perfection of a refined household; all so easy, so quiet, and in such exquisite taste; and the conversation was so improving; no frivolity, but a high-toned intelligence, that made it really a privilege to be one of the party. I find that they do not mingle much with the gay world, but as pilgrims and strangers, they are 'in the world, but not of the world.' I am thankful that we have made such an acquaintance.

"After dinner, Lady Alice led the way to the drawing-room, and, in company with her brother, entertained us with some delightful music, and showed us some very fine engravings of English scenery.

"I have been to an English opera; the music was fine, the company brilliant, and the scene altogether fascinating. In the course of the evening the Queen of England entered; when the whole audience arose, and the orchestra played with great spirit 'God save the Queen.' Her Majesty acknowledged the compliment by a gracious bow, and a warm, benevolent smile; no wonder that her subjects love her so truly. These late hours are killing to devotion; I come home so tired, that my prayers are lifeless and formal. I wonder if papa is lonely when I am away; he says not, for he is very fond of reading. I think that he reads the Bible habitually now. When I ask him anything about himself he smiles, and says that 'he will be better soon.'

"Lady Alice is very kind; their carriage is always at our disposal; she has taken us to Westminster Abbey, St. Paul's, the Parks, the Zoological Gardens, the British Museum, and the Picture Galleries; I could spend days at the latter.

"My good aunt has taken great pains to let it be known that we are really related to the Duke of Hamilton; poh! poh! that is so foolish! We are truly altogether American, and what care we for noble birth!

"Last Sunday, in company with Lady Alice, I visited one of the Ragged Schools in M—— Lane. I had no conception before of the place. A very large room, crowded with children; some clad in rags and filth, others were civilized; but there was a look of sensuality among them that was so revolting. It was a pleasant sight to see so many of the higher classes, filled with the spirit of the loving Master, seeking these degraded children. I was surprised to see the Lady Alice take her seat so humbly among a company of such rough, half-clad girls; and pleased to see the look of grateful respect that rested upon the face of more than one, as they listened to the instructions of their gentle teacher.

"'Do you teach here weekly, Lady Alice?' I asked as soon as she had done. 'That is my privilege, Miss Hamilton, when I am in London,' was the modest reply.

"'Could you not find a position among some not quite so degraded?'

"'Yes; but then so few comparatively are willing to come here; and then you know, Miss Hamilton, that our Master did not scorn the lowest sinner.'

"I was silent, for Lady Alice had set me to thinking.

"Suddenly, I was surprised by the sight of a familiar form; at first, only the back; but I could not be mistaken—he turned, and it was indeed Roland Bruce! How did he ever come here?

"He advanced, and extended his warm, strong hand; the touch was magnetic—how it revived the dear old days around Woodcliff! How strong it seemed! Just like the staff of my childhood; not only the staff, but the sceptre to which I willingly bowed. He inquired how I came here, and I told him.

"'Did I not promise you that I would visit such places?'

"He looked so pleased, and then told me why he was in England, and that he expected, ere he returned, to visit Scotland.

"The earl's family attend the church under the ministry of the Rev. Mr. B——, not for its grandeur, but purely for the simple evangelical preaching of its earnest pastor; but my aunt goes with the Duke of D—— to a more fashionable church, where the elite attend, but where there is little but the form of piety.

"It is a great privilege to attend upon such a ministry as Mr. B——'s, for it draws my thoughts away from earth.

The earl's family are all members of the Church of England. Last Sunday, all four partook of the communion. I felt so lonely, so conscience-stricken when they all arose and left me in the pew. After church, Lord N—— said to me with such real concern upon his fine face—

"'I am sorry, Miss Hamilton, to find that you are not a follower of the Redeemer; why is it so?'

"I could not answer for one minute, but at last replied—

"'I ought to be, I know; but I am so unworthy, so worldly!'

"'So am I unworthy, Miss Hamilton; but Jesus is all my righteousness. I cannot bear to see you, one so'—and he stopped; 'I cannot bear to see you any thing but a Christian.'

"'Thank you, Lord N——; how is it that, surrounded by so much to draw the heart from God, your family are all so different from the rest of the world?'

"'In the world, but not of the world, Miss Hamilton, is my answer; and all the difference consists in this—that by the grace of God only, we are what you see.'

"What a lovely specimen of piety in high life is here! 'Tis true, that not many of the great ones of the earth are called to be children of the kingdom; but there are some.

"Lord N——'s remark has led me back to the days of former seriousness. Am I grieving the Spirit of God by my worldliness? 'Ye cannot serve God and mammon' is the Saviour's teaching; may I feel its power.

"The earl's family are going down to Parkhurst Manor, their country-seat, and have invited us to accompany them. Aunt Matilda would rather stay amid the dissipation of London life; but I am weary of it, and so glad to go into the country; and then it will be better for papa, dear papa! I wonder if he is any better.

* * * * * *

"Parkhurst Manor.—What a charming home! The entrance to the mansion is through a splendid park of trees of ancient growth, and the grounds most beautifully kept; the smooth green grass, the branching elms meeting over the avenue which leads to the house, forming such a cool, green arbor; the sporting deer meeting us everywhere, some looking at us with a startled look in their soft, brown eyes, and others so docile that they walked close by the side of the carriage; but the smile of the honest gatekeeper at the Lodge was the best welcome, as he opened the gate, taking off his hat, and saying—

"'You are welcome back to the manor, my Lord.'

"'Thank you, James; I hope you are all well at the Lodge.'

"In another minute, two rosy little girls ran across the road, and, dropping a courtesy before the carriage, said—

"'Welcome back, my Lady, we are so glad to see you; is Lady Alice there?'

"The young lady smiled upon the little things, and replied—

"'Come up to the Hall to-morrow, I have something for you, my little girls,' and the carriage drove on.

"The house is a large and elegant mansion; I scarcely know of what style of architecture, but much of it is ancient; the wings are of more modern style, the windows all opening out on to the lawn. From the second story, verandahs surround the mansion, filled with most rare and exquisite flowers. The grounds are laid out with the utmost taste in winding paths; at the back of the house is a calm lake, on which float a number of graceful swans; pavilions, rustic seats, and rural bridges over several small streams which flow through the grounds, and shrubbery of the choicest kind adorn the walks; in fine, nothing is wanting to make this another Eden of delight. I revelled in the sights and sounds around me with inexpressible pleasure; but the sweetest sight of all was the meeting between the parents and their dear children, who came running to greet them; two sons, the one nineteen, the other seventeen, with two younger girls, so artless! so simple hearted!

"'Dear papa! dear mamma! you have come at last! Now, it is dear old Parkhurst! You have come to stay, have you not, mamma?' and the little Ladies Julia and Mary seized their dear mother's hands, as if afraid that she would run away again. Sweet, precious picture of domestic bliss!

"The children were not in the habit of sitting at the table; but this was a holiday, and all assembled that evening around the family board, as a great treat, in company with their tutor.

"But, although brimful of joy, the little girls knew how to be quiet, and contented themselves with looking at their beloved parents and dear brother and sister; and the young men joined very modestly, but seldom, in the general conversation. I sat near the little girls, and once I heard them whisper to each other about the books which mamma had promised, and the dolls from Lady Alice.

"The countess glanced kindly, but reprovingly, at the children, as she said—

"'My little girls are forgetting mamma's rules at the table; there must be no whispering.'

"'Excuse us, dear mamma,' replied the Lady Julia, 'we were wondering about the books and dolls.'

"After supper, a bell summoned us to evening worship in the chapel, whither the countess led the way, and the tutor, who is a young clergyman, conducted the devotions, while Lady Alice presided at the organ. Thanks for the return of the parents were included in the service, and, at the close, the dear children were dismissed with a loving kiss from both parents.

"Happy household! trained thus from infancy for Heaven, what a calm and holy atmosphere prevails everywhere at Parkhurst! The echoes of sweet Sabbath chimes ever softly ringing, and sanctifying the simpler acts of its daily life. I am so glad to be here; such a contrast to many of the gay and worldly families of London, where all seem bent upon ignoring entirely their immortality.

"The next morning after our arrival, the family carriage and three fine horses were drawn up before the door.

"'We want to show you some of the beauties around Parkhurst,' said the earl, 'and concluded that the young people would prefer the saddle. I presume that you ride, Miss Hamilton; we English people are famous riders.'

"Lord N——, Lady Alice, and I mounted; papa and Aunt Matilda occupied the landau with the earl and countess. We had a most delightful excursion among the green lanes of 'old England,' breathing the cool morning air. It is, indeed, a garden of sweets; the high cultivation everywhere, the country residences, the rural cottages, all with their flowers and trees, and the reverence with which the family of the earl was everywhere greeted, made this ride highly gratifying. I find a most regular, systematic household, the heads of the family each having especial hours of retirement; the children their periods of study, recreation, and out-door exercise. After morning worship, the family scattered to their several avocations.

"'You are at home, Miss Hamilton,' said Lady Alice, leading the way to the library; 'I read two hours daily, a course laid down by my former tutor, and I presume that you would like to do the same. Mamma visits the school-room daily, and makes inquiries of the tutor about the children, but she does not interfere; she has one in whom she places perfect confidence, and she aids, not thwarts, his plans for their improvement; the exercises of the school-room are no more disturbed than if they were all away at school. Mamma is too sensible for that.'

"We chose our books, took our seats at separate tables, and enjoyed two delightfully private hours—'tis true that Lord N—— knocked at the door, and just peeped in once.

"'No admission, brother,' said the Lady Alice, with an arch smile; 'we are very busy now; you know that we all read at this hour; go get your books, like a good boy,' and springing from her seat, she opened the door wide, threw her arms around her brother's neck, and kissed him, saying, 'now go, Alfred.'

"'This is the way she rules me, Miss Hamilton; I dare not disobey my precise little sister; so adieu, ladies!'

"Two hours at the piano closed the studies of the Lady Alice. I observed a harp in the drawing-room, and while she was occupied in the music-room, I took advantage of the time, to refresh my almost forgotten pieces. I had brought some new music with me, and was glad to find that I had so much leisure.

"'I suppose that I may venture to intrude,' said Lord N——, at the close of my practice; and another hour was spent in entertaining my young host, who is a passionate lover of music, and who accompanied me with the flute.

"Out on the verandah, Lady Alice observed, 'There come my little girls from the Lodge,' and running to her room, she brought out several books, and a new dress for each. Little Mary and Bessie Bond were modest children, and as they dropped a courtesy to their young lady, she handed them the gifts which she had brought.

"'Thank you, Lady Alice, you are very good,' said the elder.

"Dinner at five, where a select number of friends joined our party. The breakfast costume is simple lawn or muslin wrappers, with a pretty cap for the countess; but the dress for dinner was more elegant—rich silk dresses, with low neck and short sleeves, hair handsomely arranged, with rich head-dresses for the elder ladies, simpler for the young, and a moderate addition of fine jewelry.

"There was much more ceremony at this meal, though nothing was oppressive; it was felt to be the etiquette of high-bred English life. The conversation was general, improving, entertaining; personalities were strictly avoided, and it was evident that the earl had gathered around him a party of pleasing, intelligent, refined English people; even two or three frivolous young ladies were held in check by the general tone of sentiment.

"We walked in the Park after dinner, and the game-keeper amused us highly by a summons to his feathered charge. Making a certain call, in a moment crowds of rooks were seen emerging from their own domicile, which was quite a large building for birds only. They clustered around him, on his head, his shoulders, his hands, and wherever they could obtain a footing, while crowds congregated around his feet, making their own peculiarly coarse, unpleasant cawing; indeed, there seemed to be quite a familiar intimacy between him and his dark-feathered favorites.

"At another call, the deer came bounding towards him; it was such a pretty picture of the power of kindness over the dumb creation; it pleased me especially, for I do so love the world of animals. I found that I might pat the gentle fawns, and by a few kind words draw them towards me, rubbing their pretty heads against my hands, and looking up in my face with their confiding, soft brown eyes. I thought of the time when 'the wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and the calf and the young lion, and the fatling together; and a little child shall lead them.' Happy period of millennial blessedness! for then the fiercest will have parted with their savage nature. This day was a pretty general picture of the daily life at Parkhurst Manor—so domestic! so purifying! so elevating! Then the sweet worship of the chapel! By what holy ties does this family seem bound together! thus privileged to worship God as one family. It has its soothing effect upon my spirit—everything here draws one upward, even surrounded as we are by wealth and elegance. God is in all, and over all. This is the perfection of human life.

* * * * * *

"Yesterday was Sunday at Parkhurst—what a holy day! The children take their meals with us on that day. No late hours on that sacred morning—so quiet, so refreshing was the sweet early morning hour!

"The earl paused after the blessing was asked—

"'Now, my children, for our texts.' The father and mother reverently repeated theirs; Lord N——, and Lady Alice followed, then each of the children repeated seriously the Sunday text. It was a touching lesson; this reverence for God's holy word! This was practical obedience to the command which says,

"'And thou shalt teach them diligently unto thy children, and shall talk of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way, and when thou liest down, and when thou risest up.'

"As I listened, I could easily understand how much they must learn in a whole year.

"'Our children are very anxious to remember all these texts, Miss Hamilton,' said the earl; 'they also learn a daily text with their instructors, and once a month repeat all to me; all who remember them perfectly, are rewarded with a handsome book; you have no idea how their library grows in this way, and what a stock of Scripture knowledge they obtain.'

"Soon upon the quiet Sabbath air, stole the sweet chimes of the village-bells; and when we started, in every direction might be seen the villagers in their best attire, crowding to the house of God. It was a pleasant picture to see the dear children of the Manor in their simple white dresses, straw-hats, and white ribbon, with the daintiest little rosebuds for face trimmings; and the lowly, gentle reverence with which they all joined in the service of the Church of England, did touch my heart so deeply. Then so many of the earl's tenants were there, and all his domestics excepting such as were positively necessary at home, who took their turn at the afternoon-service. The services were delightful in that quiet country church, and the sermon earnest, faithful, Christlike. After church, the family of the earl remained a short time; many of the parishioners received his friendly greetings, and the kind salutations of the good countess; but it was not for this that they remained. The earl took my hand, and led me to that part of the church where a marble slab pointed out the final resting-place of the earl's family.

"Among other inscriptions, I read: 'Sacred to the memory of Augusta, eldest daughter of the Earl and Countess of N——, aged eighteen—Asleep in Jesus.'

"The parents stood awhile in silence by the vault; the mother wiped a silent tear, and the earl, turning to me said,—

"'My dear Miss Hamilton, I brought you here to impress the lessons of mortality; there is much around you, my dear young lady, to draw your thoughts to earth; but here you see the young, the gifted, the rich, the beautiful must lie down at last in the silent grave; let this moderate your estimate of the things of time and sense, and teach you to set your young affections chiefly on things above. The dear one who lies there had early learned the lesson; she was a Christian, she died in the Lord, and we shall meet her again.'

"We turned away; I can never forget that impressive lesson. We returned with serious thoughts to the carriage, and I felt 'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.'

"The conversation at dinner turned upon the subject of the sermon; it was cheerful, subdued, befitting the sacred day. No Sunday rides, no Sunday visiting, but all breathed of holiness and heaven.

"After dinner, we all assembled in the drawing-room, and before evening worship, all joined in singing hymns, and other sacred music.

"Lady Alice played, Lord N—— accompanied with the flute; and all, old and young, father, mother, tutor, governess, and children joined in the sweet hymns.

"As we sang, I thought—what memories are here for these dear children! Even though they may lose these precious parents—will they not follow them always 'to keep their souls from blight?'

"Sweet Christian Sabbath! I never spent such before.

"It had added another step to the family-ladder, and hung another link to the golden chain; by one mounting upward, and by the other united, to the family of the redeemed in Heaven. Its holy chants, heavenly hymns, and solemn prayer seem here to go with us through the cares and trials of the Mondays and Tuesdays of this mortal state; until blotting out all earthly days, the earthly and heavenly Sabbath glideth into one—one eternal day of holy rest.

"And thus it seems at Parkhurst—the spirit of the Sabbath is with us all the week.

"On Monday, I observed an unusual number of persons coming up the avenue, generally of the poorer classes.

"Curiosity led me to ask Lady Alice, 'What brings so many to-day.' 'If you will come with me, I will show you, Miss Hamilton,' and she led me to her mother's small room, where, seated at a table, she seemed awaiting her visitors.

"On the table stood a writing-desk, and by her side a pocket-book, evidently containing money.

"'Sit down, Miss Hamilton,' said the countess.

"Each one had her tale to tell, of sorrow, difficulty, or poverty. The countess listened patiently, kindly to all, gave judicious Christian advice, and bestowed upon a certain number her weekly allowance for the aged, the sick, the struggling with life's cares and toils.

"I could not describe the deep respect which I felt for this lady in high rank, so surrounded by temptations to selfishness; turning aside so humbly, so gently, to listen to the tales of sorrow and privation, from the humble poor. They evidently regarded her as a superior being, and I could but say 'What has grace wrought!'

"Upon inquiry, I find that this is the habit of the countess, on every Monday morning, to meet the women of the neighborhood, while her husband appoints another day to meet the men for the same purpose.

"What an influence must this exert for good! I find that even the children have their Saving Fund from which to draw for their charities; for during the interview, Lady Julia entered modestly, and said,

"'Dear mamma, here is our money for the little girls,' and the good countess smiled upon her daughter, as she replied,

"'Mrs. McBride and Mrs. Rhyle want Sunday dresses for their little girls, that they may go to Sunday-school, and this is just enough, Julia.'

"The child looked very happy as she tripped away, and Mrs. Rhyle said, 'What a sweet young lady she is!'

* * * * * * *

"Yesterday, the good pastor dined with us; the conversation was all about plans for good among the people; and it could scarcely be seen which was most interested, the good pastor, or the noble earl, in their benevolent schemes.

"The wife was an interesting English lady, and much of the side talk between the mothers, was about the dear children of the Parsonage; for the good countess loved the gentle wife of the humble pastor, and knew that this was the subject that pleased her most.

* * * * * * *

"I have such a pleasant room adjoining the Lady Alice, both opening to a verandah, where we spend much of our time among the flowers. My room is daily supplied with the most exquisite, which Betty, my English maid, brings every morning, with 'the compliments of Lord N——.' She always seems amused; but it is just politeness, and as such, I receive them.

"But lately, I have been a little disturbed; Lady Alice sometimes throws out gentle hints, and Lord N—— is more than polite, I fear; I should be so sorry, for I do esteem him so highly.

"This morning he was passing under the verandah; looking up, he said, smiling, 'May I join you, sister?' and receiving permission, he came up through a back staircase, and joined us on the verandah.

"'You look very much like Flora, Miss Hamilton, among these flowers; they are so bright, and you so much like their queen.'

"This was the first direct compliment that Lord N—— ever paid me, and I know that I blushed. I did not reply, for I am awkward at answering compliments. I simply turned the subject, but he selected a moss rose-bud.

"'Will you wear my flower, Miss Hamilton?' he whispered, in a lower tone.

"I knew not what to say.

"'With pleasure,' was my reply, 'if you will give the same to Lady Alice.'

"'Then you will seem like sisters; thank you, Miss Hamilton.'

"I had not perceived the use that he might make of my answer, and I was therefore silent.

"Lady Alice was greatly pleased when she placed her bouquet in the bosom of her dress; I was rather annoyed when I looked at mine—she whispered,

"'Would, dear Madeline, that it were so.'

"I must be circumspect; not for worlds would I wound the hearts of these dear friends.

"They are dear as valued friends, for they have been a great blessing to me; I must pay them with truth and candor; and yet this passing fancy of mine may only be the result of personal vanity; I will banish the whole from my memory, ashamed that it ever entered my foolish brain. Aunt Matilda does annoy me, she says so many silly things when I am alone with her; if she continues to talk so about Lord N——, it will destroy all our friendly intercourse, and I shall have to go back to London. I am so afraid that she will make her fancies plain to the family, and that would be more than I could endure.

"Yesterday we had company to dinner; the conversation turned upon England and America. One gentleman was evidently prejudiced, and spoke disparagingly of our country. I felt the blood rise to my face, for he did not speak the truth. The good earl came to the rescue.

"'Have you ever been in America, Sir Edward, or met many of its people?'

"'I have not,' was the reply, with some embarrassment.

"'Then, I think, sir, that you should withhold your judgment with regard to our American cousins; some of the most intelligent, frank, and gentlemanly persons that I have ever met, have come from that country.'

"'I have read travels, my lord, and have received my impressions from such writers as Dickens, Mrs. Trollope, &c.'

"'Indeed, Sir Edward, I never was more heartily ashamed than when I read Dickens's book; after receiving so many hospitalities, to return them with such prejudiced accounts of his sojourn,—I for one do not believe them; I have met some of the American clergy, and authors, and other distinguished men, and, as a true and loyal Englishman, I can say that I have never met more refinement, intelligence, or sterling worth, than among the Americans.'

"'Thank you, my lord,' I replied, for I could no longer keep silent; 'it has always seemed so strange that there should be any rivalries between us, for are we not the same people? the same language, the same descent, and the same religious faith? For my part, I am willing to acknowledge the great debt we owe to England. From her, we have our finest authors, the very gems of literature; from her, the noblest specimens of philanthropy and genius; and from her, our Christian faith, and the very formulas in which we worship God.' I blushed, and drew back, for I had not been aware how long a speech I was making, until I saw the look of approbation in the earl's countenance, and the warm glow upon Lord N——'s.

"'These are noble sentiments, Miss Hamilton,' said the good earl. 'I was always sorry for the obstinacy of George the Third; for through him we lost those colonies which are now merged into so great a nation.'

"'But perhaps,' remarked my father, 'we might not have been what we are, if we were still under monarchical rule; our free institutions have spurred on enterprise of every kind, and started us as a nation far ahead in many things.'

"'I am a true, staunch Englishman,' replied the earl, 'and am not willing to own that anything can be better than the mild and beneficent rule of our gracious Queen Victoria, under the good constitution of old England. I think you Americans are too fast, and are growing to be so large, as almost to become unwieldy; this is what I fear for America; her very freedom may be abused.'

"'We are a driving people, my lord, fast in every way; in enterprise, in business, in habits of living; in fine, I fear, with you, too fast; too reckless in modes of making money; and in many quarters I see signs of corruption, which must bring upon us God's judgments; I fear, my lord, sometimes for the future of my beloved country, for God rules among the nations, as well as among individuals.'

"'May God preserve America to be a bright example of a fine, intelligent, and virtuous people,' said the good earl; 'and now, Mr. Hamilton, let me give you a toast—

"'America, the stalwart child of Old England—may they go side by side, in all that is good, and great, and glorious!'

"And then my father responded,

"'Queen Victoria, and the realm of Great Britain—may she long be spared to bless her great dominions.'

"Both toasts were drunk standing.

"Sir Edward sat rather silent for the rest of the meal, and the good earl patted me kindly on the head in the drawing-room, and said,

"'Yours is a warm and noble heart, Miss Hamilton; may it find its mate in good old England.'

"What does the earl mean? I hope nothing with reference to his son; I should be truly distressed.

"Another bunch of flowers from Lord N——; they are very, very sweet; but I laid them by the side of the old withered sea-weed, and their charm was gone.

"Ah, Roland! do you cherish the little shoe and the child's picture yet!

* * * * * * *

"My father is worse, I see it daily; he is losing his spirits, and the earl seems distressed.

"Am I to lose my father, my dearest earthly tie? He sent for me to-day to come to his room. He looked so sad, sitting in his large easy chair. He took me on his lap, as when I was wild little Mad-cap. 'Madeline, my daughter, I sent for you, because I have much to say. I am not so well, my child; indeed, the signs in my case warn me that I have not much longer to live. I have arranged everything for you; you are left independent, with none to trammel you, and the power to choose your own guardian. I can trust you, Madeline, in all things; I could have wished to leave you under the care of a wise and faithful companion, worthy of my daughter; but that is a subject in which I shall not bind you; you are free to choose there wholly for yourself. I shall not live, Madeline, to cross the ocean.' O, how my heart sank! I bowed my head on his dear shoulder, and wept convulsively. 'Do not speak so, dear papa, I cannot bear it,' was my answer.

"He smoothed my hair, impressed warm kisses on my cheek, and soothed my troubled spirit with kind and loving words. 'And now, Madeline, with regard to higher subjects, I would say that my residence in this holy family has not been in vain. I have long been in the habit of reading the Scriptures; the good earl has manifested the deepest interest in my spiritual welfare; he visits me every evening in my room; and it is owing to his influence that I have been led to consider the need of preparation for another world. I have renounced all dependence upon my moral life, and look only to the Blessed Saviour for salvation in the world to come. It is my desire, Madeline, to testify my faith in His atoning sacrifice next Sunday, in the village church, at the table of our Lord; are you not ready, my darling, to accompany me in the solemn act?' I could not answer my father, for mingled feelings of joy and sorrow filled my heart; floods of happiness at the humble declaration of his faith, and unspeakable sorrow at the thought of parting from one so beloved. I promised my dear parent to think upon the subject, for I had lately longed for the blessed privilege.

"I sought the room of the countess, and confided to her the subject of our conversation.

"'Would you like to see our pastor, Miss Hamilton?' was the kind suggestion, and the good lady sent for her faithful guide.

"He was so good, so gentle, so Christ-like that I could easily tell him the whole history of my inner life.

"'Are you resting wholly, my dear Miss Hamilton, upon the merits of the Redeemer for salvation?'

"'Wholly, entirely, my dear sir, from the bottom of my heart I can say, "None but Jesus."'

"'Are you willing to devote yourself, soul and body, to your Master's service, my child?'

"'That is my desire, and has long been the language of my heart.'

"'Then come, and welcome, to the table of the Lord, my dear child; Jesus will not reject such as you.'

* * * * * * *

"Last Sunday, for the first time, by my father's side, I bowed at the table of my Lord and Master; received the emblems of His dying love, and promised to be His forever. O, what a precious privilege! And then by the side of my dear father. Now we are one in the most sacred of all bonds. After church, the countess pressed a warm kiss upon my cheek, and said, 'One in Jesus, dear Madeline;' the Lady Alice pressed my hand in silence; and Lord N—— looked so very happy.

"Bless God for this sweet sanctuary of a Christian home! My father says that we must go back to London; and when we reach there he will tell me why, saying, 'Trust all to God, dear Madeline; whatever he wills is right.' Aunt Matilda is pleased with the idea; for the quiet of country life does not suit her. She is only sorry at leaving Lord N——, but says that 'he will soon follow us.' I wish that she would not talk such folly, nor such nonsense about old Lord C——, who was really quite devoted to aunty when in London."

CHAPTER XXV.

PARTING FROM ENGLISH FRIENDS.

The noble park and green lanes of Parkhurst, with all its elevating joys, were soon to be exchanged for private lodgings in a crowded city; and Madeline's spirits sank as she contemplated a return to London with her beloved parent; for she could no longer blind herself to the fact that day by day he was fading from her sight.

Standing alone, on the evening before her departure on the verandah, where she had spent so many happy hours, she was indulging in mournful reveries; she should probably see this beautiful park, this happy home, these charming scenes no more.

While musing thus, Lord N—— passed under the verandah.

"May I come up, Miss Hamilton?"

"If you wish, my Lord; I am alone, and would be glad to see you."

The step of the young man was not gay and joyous as on other days, and Madeline perceived that he wore a serious, saddened countenance.

"You leave us, to-morrow, Miss Hamilton; may I ask a place in your remembrance?"

"I shall never forget the pleasant hours at Parkhurst, Lord N——, or the dear friends that I have made in this happy home."

He was silent for one moment, and then with deeper feeling said,

"But may I not ask a particular place in your remembrance, a nearer, dearer than a passing acquaintance, that will be forgotten in a day?"

"I do number you, my lord, among my most valued friends; and I shall never forget you personally."

"Ah, Madeline! the memory will not be to you what it will ever be to me—the one green spot in life, which I shall cherish so fondly."

She bowed her head, and was silent; for painful emotions were stirring in her heart, and tears were crowding beneath the drooping eyelids.

"Madeline, we may not meet again; I cannot let you leave us without asking, is there any hope that I may obtain the rich love of your noble, fresh young heart?"

She turned a frank look upon the young man, while her eyes swam in tears, as she replied,

"I cannot deceive you, Lord N——; my deepest respect and warmest friendship are yours, but my love I cannot give."

"Why, Madeline? does another possess that which I would make any earthly sacrifice to obtain?"

"That is a delicate question, Lord N——; my hand is free, but my heart has long been" (and she blushed as she uttered the words) "interested in another. I never knew until to-day how much, how deeply. This is a painful confession, but due to you, my lord; for had it not been so, I could not have been insensible to worth like yours."

He bowed over the fair young hand extended in friendship, and replied—

"May you be happy, Madeline! happy in love as pure, as devoted as mine. I will not say that my heart is broken; that is the language of a silly, brainless man; nor will I say that my hopes are crushed, for God our Father rules on earth, as well as in Heaven, and his will is not what I had hoped. I submit, I trust, with patience, and by-and-bye, I doubt not, will see the reasons why I have been disappointed in my first affection."

"He will guide you, I doubt not, my lord, in all the events of life; and one so benevolent, so useful, so noble as you, cannot be unhappy; for there is too much in this wicked world for Christians to do, to spend their lives in vain regrets."

"We are one in Christian hope, Madeline, and that is a comfort; one in all schemes of good for our fellow-men."

"Will you pray for me, Lord N——? Sore trials are before me, and I need a Saviour's grace to sustain me in what is surely coming."

"You are before me morning and evening, Madeline; and, though separated by the wide ocean, I shall remember you whenever I bend the knee to my Father in Heaven."

"We shall be friends, Lord N——," continued Madeline, as she extended her hand.

"Yes, Madeline; after a while, true and faithful friends. I shall rejoice when you are happy, and be sad when you are afflicted."

They were not aware of the passage of time until Lady Alice was heard calling, "Madeline, where are you? Papa and mamma sent me to look for you. Come to the drawing-room, we must have some music to-night," and she ran hastily up to the verandah, and drew away her young friend, saying—

"Brother, I think you are very selfish; we want Madeline to-night, as it is her last evening at Parkhurst."

Lord N—— did not answer, and Madeline followed Lady Alice, deeply pained at the disappointment which she knew would fill all that family circle.

She took her seat at the harp, but begged to be excused from singing, for she could scarcely trust her voice to speak.

Lord N—— seated himself at a distant window, shading his eyes with his hand. Lady Alice stood by her side, and Madeline played in her most touching style many of her beautiful pieces.

"Some of your sacred music, Miss Hamilton," said the earl, "for that suits the tone of our feelings," and she played some exquisite variations from the hymn, "I would not live alway."

Every heart was full; silence reigned among them.

"Now, one hymn of hope, Madeline," said the countess, and all the group joined in the sweet words—

"How firm a foundation! ye saints of the Lord!"

and, supported by the others, she too poured forth her wondrous notes in strains of melody, while the rich chords of the harp accompanied the choir of voices.

They parted sadly that night, and the next morning early, left with feelings of deepest sorrow the sweet shelter of Parkhurst Manor.

"We shall see you in London, Madeline," said Lady Alice, "for you will need us, dear."

A great change awaited our young friend; quiet lodgings and the rooms of an invalid were exchanged for the spacious accommodations and elegant ease of the home they had left. Aunt Matilda was sadly discontented, and shrewdly suspected what had taken place at Parkhurst.

"Madeline, I have a right to know; I am sure that Lord N—— loves you deeply. Have you rejected him? Are you such a blind, silly girl?"

"Do not ask me, aunt; surely I have a right to some privacy of thought and action."

"You cannot deny it; you have rejected one of the first offers in Great Britain, and you are just a fool, and nothing else, Madeline Hamilton!"

"Would you have me give my hand without my heart, Aunt Matilda?"

"A fiddlestick for a heart, Madeline, when a coronet was laid at your feet, to turn away—I know what for; I am so ashamed for you, that I cannot utter all I think. Now I am sure that you love that beggar-boy; for nothing else could make you reject such a splendid match as the son of an English earl."

"Spare me, dear aunt, and let us talk of something else; when dear papa is so ill we have enough to think about."

She could not forgive her niece, and seldom exchanged any thing but the merest words necessary for daily duties—cold, constrained, often harsh. She took the first opportunity to acquaint Mr. Hamilton with the facts of the case. He was both surprised and grieved, for he had seen with pleasure the growing attachment of the young nobleman.

"Madeline, how is it that you rejected Lord N——? Few young ladies would turn away from such an offer. I had hoped that his goodness and mental worth, not to speak of his lovely family, would have certainly won your heart."

"Do not let us talk about it, dear papa, I do not love Lord N—— as I should a husband; he is a dear friend, but nothing more."

"I cannot account for it, Madeline, unless your heart is previously occupied; if so, should you not tell your father?"

"I am bound to no one, dear papa; just let me wait upon you, and administer to your comfort, that is all I ask."

"Remember what I have said, Madeline; it would have made me very happy if you could have accepted this young man, not on account of his noble birth, or wealth, but just for his modest, manly piety and worth. But in this matter you must choose for yourself, and God will bless my daughter."

After a consultation of eminent physicians, the painful alternative was proposed to Mr. Hamilton. When they had gone, he sent for his daughter. "Madeline, you remember that I told you in all things we must trust in God; you have now great occasion for that holy confidence. I have never told you until now the nature of my disease. It has been a long and painful process that has brought me to the crisis; an operation is necessary, my child;" observing Madeline's pallid face, he continued, "do not be alarmed; all is in the hands of a wise and gracious God. It may be successful, or I may sink under the operation; but nothing else can be done, and we must prepare our minds; it will be speedily over, there will be no very long suspense. Be the end what it may, I trust that I am prepared; my hopes are all upon the 'Rock of Ages.'"

"When will it take place, papa?" asked the trembling girl.

"In about ten days," was the answer; "and now, darling, we will talk no more about it; to-morrow will be Sunday; you must go to church, Madeline, and have prayers offered for me; Aunt Matilda will stay with me."

It was a season of sweet and holy refreshment to the young pilgrim, for she needed the heavenly manna for her weary, anxious spirit. Passing out of church, what was her surprise to see Roland, the friend of her youth, standing at the door in company with two gentlemen; the one elderly, of noble presence, and the other a young gentleman, of whom she had no remembrance. Roland advanced, extended his hand, and said—

"How is it that you are here alone, Miss Hamilton?"

"My father is very ill; my aunt is staying with him, and he sent me to have prayers offered for him. I need them, oh, how much! remember me, Mr. Bruce."

Madeline was pale and worn, and Roland was touched by the expression of deep sorrow upon her fair young face. He took the little hand as in days of yore, and said, in low tones—

"Do you dream, Miss Hamilton, that I can ever forget you at a throne of grace? You are always remembered there and everywhere."

Roland then hastily introduced his friends, but Uncle Malcolm had recognized the young lady that he had once met before in a carriage. A glance at the earnest gaze of Roland, and at the downcast blush of Madeline, caused a smile to flit across the face of the good man, as he remembered the days of his youth, and the sweet blushes of Mary Gordon in the first days of their innocent, unhappy love.

"Where are you staying, Mr. Bruce?" asked the young lady; "I may need your presence ere long."

Roland gave his address, and they parted.

"Well, Roland Bruce!" said Edmund, "of all the sly fellows that I have ever met, you exceed—here have I been prating to you of Madeline Hamilton's beauty, and behold, she is an old acquaintance!"

Roland smiled, as he replied, "Yes, I knew her in America, ever since she was ten years old; and I am therefore somewhat acquainted with the young lady."

"And why, then, do you not visit your old friend?"

Roland's countenance fell, and drawing himself proudly up, he replied, "We will change the subject, if you please, Edmund."

When Madeline returned, she sought her father's room.

"Papa, I met Roland Bruce, to-day, at church; he seemed so concerned to hear that you were sick."

"What is he doing in London, Madeline?"

"He is in attendance upon a young man whose studies he is directing."

"I should like to see him, Madeline; he is a noble fellow, and has been a kind friend to my little girl; I do not think that he was very well treated by your aunt; but as eternity approaches, my daughter, the distinctions of life melt away. I did not want to dismiss him from our house—send for him to-morrow, and tell him to bring his friend, Mr. Graham, with him."

On the morrow, a few lines summoned him to the sick room, but without Mr. Graham. Shocked at the change in Mr. Hamilton, he took his withered band, and seating himself by his side, he said, "These are hours of weakness, dear sir, and need a strong support."

"They are, Roland; I feel flesh and heart failing, but I can say God is now the strength of my heart—your dear patient sister was the little messenger that brought the first whispers of the Spirit, Roland; I never forgot her dying words."

For a minute, the brother was silent; but seizing the pale hand, and pressing it warmly, he replied,

"Oh! Mr. Hamilton. What joyful news! my little Effie! was she, indeed, the messenger to you? wonderful are the ways of God!"

"Yes, Roland, and I have always wanted to tell all that those words have done for me. I felt that her faith was real; from that day, I have been reading my Bible with earnest prayer, and it has revealed to me a Saviour, all-sufficient for the darkest hour, all-merciful to the greatest sinner—will you pray with me, Roland?" and the young man bowed down by the side of Madeline, at her father's bed-side, and poured out an earnest, heartfelt prayer.

"There will soon be a painful trial, Roland; will you be with us when the day arrives?"

"I promise, Mr. Hamilton;" and Roland retired.

He was frequent in his visits to the sick-room, introducing, also, Uncle Malcolm, whose strong, fervent faith, and Scriptural wisdom, was an unspeakable blessing to the suffering man.

"To-morrow is the day, Roland; bring your friend;" and Mr. Hamilton pressed the strong hand of his young friend.

What was Roland's surprise, to see Madeline pale, composed, and steadfast, by the side of her parent's bed, awaiting the physicians.

"Can you bear this trial, Miss Hamilton?" was Roland's whispered inquiry.

"I cannot leave my father; who else should sustain him but his own daughter? I have prayed for strength; it is mine, Roland;" for in the deep feelings of the moment, she dropped the ceremonious title which she had used of late.

The surgeons arrived—instruments were prepared; the sufferer calm and tranquil; Madeline heroic as a loving woman should be; Roland, full of sympathy for her; Malcolm strong, tranquil, prayerful.

"My daughter, is it not too much?" whispered her father.

"For you, my father? can anything be too much? I can bear all;" and she kissed the dear face with steadfast lips.

Close by her father's side, with restoratives in her hand, she remained throughout the whole painful trial; cold, and pale as marble.

Roland stood near her, and Malcolm on the other side, with eyes closed, and heart uplifted to God in prayer.

"It is all over," said the principal surgeon.

"How?" whispered Madeline, to Roland.

"Safe, Madeline! It has been successful."

The tension had been too much; the strong heart of love gave way to the woman's weakness; the reaction was too great; and Roland, perceiving her falling, lifted her tenderly in his arms—the first time that he had pressed her form so closely since the days of childhood; imprinting one warm, pure, and tender kiss upon the sweet, pale face, he laid her quietly upon the couch in the next room. Aunt Matilda was there in anxious suspense.

"Is it over, Mr. Bruce?" asked the lady.

"All is well, madam, thus far, but Miss Hamilton needs your care;" and he bathed the face of the unconscious girl with the cologne that he had brought from the next room.

"I will perform these offices, sir; you are not needed here,"—and dismissing him haughtily from the room, she proceeded to loosen the clothes, and apply restoratives. The fainting was deep and long, and hastily she called a physician from the next room.

Yielding to remedies, in a few more minutes, some gasping words, and a heaving of the chest, indicated returning consciousness.

The eyes unclosed—"How is my father, sir?"

"Quite composed," was the reply; "he needs perfect quiet; do not see him just yet; there must be no emotion; when you are entirely restored, you can attend him."

"When can you pronounce him out of danger?"

"We cannot tell for twelve hours what will be the result."

Madeline lay quiet for another hour, her lips moving constantly in prayer; at length she arose. "I am better, aunt; give me a glass of wine; I must return."

"I am afraid, my dear child, that it is too much."

"No, aunt, I cannot stay here—see! I can walk firmly; I am perfectly restored;" and she passed quietly into the next room. Stooping over her father, she pressed one long, loving kiss upon his dear face.

"Do not speak; I shall not leave you, dear papa, again."

Malcolm watched with deep interest the strong love that filled the heart of Madeline; and coming to her side, he said,

"My dear young lady, is your strength equal to this great demand? I am ready to stay, and Roland will aid me."

She smiled as she replied,

"But you are not his daughter, his Madeline."

Mr. Hamilton slept apparently in perfect peace. Madeline watched him with untiring patience and hope. Whenever he stirred, she was directed to administer, in small doses, the stimulants that were ordered by the surgeons.

"What is the danger?" inquired Madeline; "he seems so quiet."

"The want of reaction; sinking of the vital powers, my dear young lady."

"Is there any reaction yet?" asked she, with a trembling voice.

"None whatever," replied the surgeon, as he sat holding the pulse—"but it may come yet; there is a great difference in constitution."

Mr. Hamilton was evidently in a state of insensibility, which Madeline mistook for sleep.

"You had better administer the wine, my dear," was the surgeon's direction.

"Will it not disturb his sleep, sir?"

"Not at all, my dear child."

And Madeline from time to time offered a tea-spoonful of wine to the exhausted man, only a part of which he appeared to swallow.

Hours rolled on—Roland saw the quiet agony of the devoted daughter, as no symptoms for the better appeared.

"Shall I take your place, Madeline, for a few minutes?" whispered Roland, as he beckoned to Mr. Graham to lead her to an open window; and while she stood there, leaning upon the shoulder of this good man, Roland continued watching, and dripping the wine drop by drop.

Mr. Graham whispered—"Luik unto the Rock that is higher than we, dear Miss Hamilton," for he saw what was approaching. "There is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother; trust him, my dear young friend;" and while she leaned so confidingly upon the strong man, he whispered earnest words of fervent prayer for the dear father stretched upon that bed of languishing, and for her so soon to be bereaved, that she was comforted and strengthened. "Take me back to my father's side, Mr. Graham. I must not leave him."

The twelve hours had passed—no signs of returning consciousness had yet appeared.

The surgeon beckoned to Malcolm Graham to come into the next room.

"It is all over, sir—there is scarcely any pulse—he may recover consciousness, but he is passing away. God help the daughter; you must prepare her."

Madeline had seen the signal. "Let me go, Roland; I must know the worst;" and hastily she followed Mr. Graham. He was standing by the side of the mantel-piece, with his head bowed upon his hands, and strong emotion was shaking his frame. He perceived Madeline. Taking her by the hand, he led her kindly to the couch—they were alone. Placing his fatherly arm around her, he said with a caressing voice, "Lean on me, my child;" and he tenderly smoothed the soft brown hair, that lay dishevelled around her face.

"God is trying ye, my dear; ye hae lately given yoursel' to him; ye and yer dear father. He is going to tak' him first; can ye say, 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken awa', blessed be the name o' the Lord?'"

Her head sank lower, lower; she had fainted—Malcolm laid her down tenderly as a woman, and knelt by her side, administering restoratives, chafing the cold hands, and lifting up his heart in prayer.

She opened her eyes—a sweet, sorrowful smile passed over her face, as she whispered, "It is a hard trial, but the Lord's will be done; my father is a Christian, and I can say now, he is thine; take him, dear Lord, to thyself; but O, Mr. Graham! this human heart! How lonely will it be! My father was parent, mother, brother, friend!"

"Comfort will come, my dear child, if ye are ane o' the Saviour's fold; he is afflicted when ye are sad, has borne all yer sorrows, carried all yer griefs."

"Now, let us return, Mr. Graham," and Madeline took her place again by her father's side.

A few more silent hours passed—about midnight, there was some motion visible in the form that lay there so deathly still. Slowly he unclosed his eyes, and raising his hand, said,

"Where is my daughter, my Madeline?"

"She is here, dear papa," was the quick response.

"Kiss me, darling; I am in the midst of the dark valley, just passing over, Madeline; but 'his rod and his staff, they comfort me.'"

She stooped over the dear parent; he folded her fondly to his heart; then held her off; looked at her one minute with unutterable love; then pressed upon her cheek the cold kisses of lips that were chilled in death.

"You have been a comfort to me always, Maddy; you will meet me, darling, in the better world; be true to your dear Saviour, Madeline."

"Do you suffer, dear papa?" was the affectionate, anxious question.

"Not at all; perfect peace! perfect peace! God be praised!" and in another minute, the spirit of Lewis Hamilton had departed to its rest.

"Tak' her, Roland," said Mr. Graham, as he saw the drooping form of the afflicted daughter. Tenderly he led her to the adjoining room, and whispered words of Christian sympathy and love, in her hour of sore trial. Aunt Matilda had remained in the room with her brother, until the last moment, and had then sought her own room.

"O, Roland! you know what I have lost," said the poor girl.

"Yes, Madeline, but think of his everlasting gain;" and Roland sat with Madeline's dear hand clasped in his, as in the days of yore.

* * * * * * *

Lady Alice had heard of the bereavement, and accompanied by her brother, she sought the house of the mourner, at the earliest period after the funeral was over. Roland was there, and Lord N—— needed none to tell him of the deep love that dwelt in the heart of Roland Bruce for the orphan girl. But there was something in the humble, deferential manner of the young man, which led Lord N—— to wonder if he were really an accepted suitor.

And for Roland himself—when the first hours of sorrow had passed, and all were trying to return to their accustomed pursuits, more than ever did he feel the vast difference between himself, the poor young lawyer, just launching upon the theatre of life, and the rich young heiress of Woodcliff, the idol even in noble circles.

What could Madeline ever be to him, but the sweet child that he had trained, the young girl that he had watched so carefully, and the noble woman whom now he reverenced? He was allowed access to the house, because Aunt Matilda had now no authority over Madeline, and independent as she always was, she would not allow dictation here; but only as a friend he came, and Madeline felt that it was so. Once more she sought the house of God, where she had been accustomed to worship. Clad in deep mourning, she took her seat among the worshippers, and listened to the Gospel message, with a full and trusting heart.

It was a communion season, and as she bowed around the chancel, she did not perceive, until she was returning to her seat, that Lord N——, Roland, and Mr. Graham had all knelt at the same table. It was a very sweet and soothing thought that here they could all hold blessed communion with their common Saviour; and though Uncle Malcolm and Roland were of different sects from herself, they were all one in Christ Jesus, "one faith, one hope, one baptism."

Lady Alice was about to return to Parkhurst; but ere she went, she came to bid farewell to Madeline, who was soon to return to America.

"I am sorry, dear, that you cannot be my sister, but I shall always love you; it is a great disappointment to us all, but especially to my dear Alfred. I have brought you our likenesses, Madeline, with our hair woven on the back; you can cherish us as friends, dear."

"You do not blame me, Lady Alice, I hope; I esteem your brother more than any one that I have met in England; and for yourself, dear friend, I shall love you always, just as if you were my sister—you will promise to write frequently, will you not? I have something for you, Alice," and Madeline brought out a lovely miniature, a perfect likeness of herself.

"Thank you, Madeline; I never saw any thing more beautifully painted—now, farewell! be sure to write often; but be assured that I do not blame you; for as I am sure that you must love another, I have nothing more to say; nothing else could prevent you from loving my dear brother."

And thus they parted, these two young girls who had learned to love each other so well.

Lord N—— came also ere he left the city.

"I may call you Madeline, may I not? for I am trying to school myself to look upon you as a dear friend; I could not let you go without a farewell, sad though it may be."

"I am glad to see you, my lord, and hope to hear of your welfare through your dear sister."

"I think that I have seen my rival, Madeline, in the young man that I have met here; and I do not wonder; that noble brow, on which sits enthroned the lofty intellect, the only signet of true nobility, and that manly form, I could not but admire, while I dare not, as a Christian, envy."

"You are mistaken, Lord N——; Mr. Bruce is but my friend."

"He will be more, Madeline, before many years; and may God bless you both, I shall ever pray. Farewell! dear Madeline, for I may say that in parting," and he wrung the fair hand, on which he printed a warm farewell kiss, and was gone.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE FIRST LINK LOST AND FOUND.

With a sad heart, Madeline turned her face homeward, for no kind father would brighten Woodcliff again. Uncle Malcolm accompanied them to the steamer, which was to sail for Liverpool on the ninth of September. Malcolm had become deeply attached to the noble youth who was to be the companion of their voyage. Laying his hand upon Roland's shoulder, he gave him his blessing, and placing a packet in his hand, said, "Dinna forget, Roland, this is but your first visit; I maun see ye again, my son," and turning to Madeline with a moistened eye, he added,—"Farewell! my dear young leddy, ye will na neglect my boy, my Roland, I am sure; may God forever bless and comfort ye wi' his choicest gifts."

Madeline bowed her head over the warm and honest hand, as she replied,

"Roland has been my friend and brother ever since I was ten years old; such friendships are not soon forgotten, Mr. Graham."

Bidding Miss Matilda and Edmund a courteous farewell, he took leave of Mrs. Douglass cordially, and left the vessel.

Their passage must necessarily be a sad one; for on board were the remains of Mr. Hamilton, and they could not but be solemn in the presence of the dead. When fairly out at sea, Roland opened the packet placed in his hand by his good friend, and found to his surprise, a scrip containing shares in the Bank of London to the amount of six thousand pounds, accompanying which was the following note:

"To Roland, from a friend that loves him well, assured that he will be a good steward of his Father's gifts." Examining his trunks, he perceived that there was one more than he had brought, with his name on it, and a key hung to the strap—what could it mean? On unlocking it, he found a set of valuable law-books, a full suit of handsome black cloth, a complete set of shirts, neckcloths, gloves, hats, in fine, all that a gentleman needed; and, in addition, a small case which, on opening, contained a very valuable gold watch; and another, with Uncle Malcolm, Mrs. Lindsay, and Annot's pictures.

He was overpowered with gratitude, first to the God of his fathers, and then to the noble friend whom he had raised.

"Looking aloft!" whispered Roland, with a full heart, "I know now my mother's meaning; O, what a legacy she left her son on that death-bed! From what depths of poverty have I been raised! To what a post of honor and prosperity! To God alone be all the glory! When she bade me trust Him, I did not know the noble friend that was then awaiting for me among my native hills, I did not then know Malcolm Graham; but God knew where he was, and led me to him. May he give me grace to be a faithful steward of His many gifts."

Aunt Matilda was still very haughty to Roland, and distant to Mrs. Douglass; for she could not brook the companionship of the "common class," as she styled these, after the society of nobles; she was rather more condescending to Edmund Norris, for she had learned that he belonged to the upper circles of New York.

Madeline was much alone, and, in her deep mourning dress, forbade any approach to light or trifling intercourse.

One evening, having sought a secluded part of the vessel, Roland followed her, and found her looking down into the deep and solemn ocean.

"May I intrude, Madeline?" for they had both agreed to drop the formal titles of ceremony.

"You are welcome, Roland, welcome always; for I spend many sad hours in this lonely vessel, and can never forget the sacred relics that are with us."

"That is a solemn thought, Madeline, but do not let us think of the silent dust; let us look upward to the blessed rest of the immortal part."

"How grandly sublime, Roland, is this rolling ocean! so deep! so vast! so boundless! It reminds one of eternity. I never look down upon its dark waters without hearing from its dashing waves the murmurs of another world; how many have sunk in this deep abyss, and passed hence to their eternity!"

"Do you remember, Madeline, how we used to listen to its music at Woodcliff, when we were boy and girl? What fancies we used to have!"

"Yes, truly! we were singular children, Roland; I was a giddy little kitten; but no one knows what deep and solemn thoughts used to visit me even then;" and turning a bright glance upon Roland's face, "I think the first that I ever remember was from words uttered by you, the boy-sage, as I think now that you always were."

Roland felt his heart throb with emotions of delight at these tender reminiscences, and replied,

"Then you still remember, Madeline, the intercourse of those childish days."

"Remember, Roland! Yes; they will be remembered in the world to come; for your words, your mother's, and dear Effie's are the only ones whose impressions have ever influenced my life."

"What a blessed thought, Madeline! that dear Effie should have so impressed your dear father."

"Yes, Roland, it was a call of mercy; but I knew nothing of it then."

"God leads us by a way that we know not, Madeline; what a blessed thing it is to trust Him! When my mother first taught me these talismanic words, I did not know their power; but I have learned since what they mean. 'Looking aloft,' upward in all things, in sorrow, in perplexity, in adversity, in prosperity, for guidance, for blessing, for comfort; I can trust Him for everything now. When, with her weak and trembling voice, she bade me in that hour of affliction, 'Look aloft,' when my boyish heart sank within me at the prospect of being all alone, I did not know, Madeline, of the dear friend, Malcolm Graham, waiting for me in Scotland; nor did he know of me, but we were waiting for each other; for God knew, Madeline; and He knows and will guide all else that shall befall us;" and then he proceeded to relate some of the most important features of Malcolm's history.

And thus the hours were beguiled until a late time for retiring.

Aunt Matilda called, "Madeline, it is growing late;" and Roland, taking her arm, and placing it within his own, led her to the cabin-door, where he bade her "Good night."

"You seem much interested in the conversation of that youth, Madeline; it is not very proper for a young lady to be sitting alone until so late an hour with a young man."

Madeline's old spirit flushed her cheek, and tightened the proud lip; but she checked herself, as she replied,

"Aunt Matilda, I am not a child now; my actions are free, I believe, of control, so long as I do nothing that I am ashamed of; I always was, and shall be, interested in the conversation of Roland Bruce, and shall consider myself at liberty to talk with him when I please."

"O, I dare say, miss, that he is much more interesting than Lord N——; I have no patience with you, Madeline, to cast away a coronet for such a man as this."

"Aunt Matilda, you must not use such language to me; Roland is to me a very dear friend, and nothing more."

"You cannot say, Madeline, that he had nothing to do with your rejection of Lord N——."

"I cannot be questioned, Aunt Matilda; but I will never slight, or cast aside a friend like Roland Bruce;" and Madeline sought her rest with a disturbed spirit, for she feared that she had spoken improperly to her aunt, and resolved to apologize next day.

She was stirring early in the morning; and, with the old innocence of childhood, she went to her aunt's state-room, and said,

"Aunty, let me in; I have something to say to you."

Aunt Matilda could not resist the pleading voice, and opened the door.

"I am sorry, dear aunt, for what I said last night; will you forgive little Mad-cap's hot speech? it is some of the old temper, aunty, that will get the mastery; when I can sit more humbly at Jesus' feet I shall be better, I hope."

Aunt Matilda kissed the dear girl fondly, as of old, saying,

"I forgive you, my dear; you are the same little coaxing witch that you were when a child; I wonder if you'll ever be anything else."

"I hope I shall always be innocent and truthful as a child, aunty; but I think that it is time I had learned to govern myself more like a woman."

Mrs. Douglass was charmed with the simplicity and frankness of the young heiress; and, although much slighted by Aunt Matilda, Madeline's kindness amply compensated for this lack of courtesy.

"I believe, Madeline, that you would associate with any one," said Aunt Matilda; "however low born or obscure, it matters not to you."

Madeline smiled, as she replied,

"You need never fear, dear aunty; for the vulgar and coarse-minded I despise, though dwelling in a palace; it is 'mind that makes the man;' so you see I come home true American, though I have mingled with the nobles of England."

"Don't you think that the earl's family were lovely and refined?"

"Yes, dear aunt; but I did not love them for their rank; it was for their worth, their education; and, dwelling in a cottage, they would be the same; we saw some, I think, even among the higher classes in England, that were not remarkable for refinement; for instance, the fat baroness that we met at our dress-maker's; don't you remember her vulgar airs when she tried to impress us with her style?"

"Yes; but then you know that she had not always belonged to the haut-ton; she was one of the 'nouveaux riches.'"

"In fine, Aunt Matilda, she was not a genuine lady, and never could be made one; whereas, Mr. Graham is one of nature's noblemen that I used to talk about when a little girl, and he never can be anything else; I have met with a few others just like him, dear aunt;" and Madeline smiled rather archly upon Aunt Matilda.

"She'll never be cured of her plebeian notions," said the lady, with u sigh, as she turned away, "and it all comes from associating with these Bruces."

Madeline smiled again as she took the arm of Mrs. Douglass, and commenced her walk upon the deck.

"I am afraid that we are going to hae a storm," said the latter; "the sky is vera threatening, and the wind sighs heavily, as if mischief were brewing."

"It must be a grand spectacle, Mrs. Douglass, to see the war of the elements; I think that I should like to be in a storm, if it were not too violent."

"What are the signs, Davie?" said Mrs. Douglass to a sailor standing near.

"We shall have squalls before morning, ma'am. Mother Cary's chickens are flying around, and the wind comes from a stormy point of the compass."

Aunt Matilda became nervous as she watched the dark clouds gathering from so many different quarters, and heard the growling of the distant thunder. The wind rose higher and higher, the waves swelled until they rolled and surged in heavy billows in the wake of the ship, which commenced pitching and tossing from side to side; the rain descended in torrents, and, through the speaking-trumpet, the loud tones of the captain giving his orders, and the running to and fro of the seamen, increased the fears of the ladies.

"What do you think of the storm, captain?" inquired Madeline.

"We shall have a fierce tempest, my dear young lady; but we have a good strong ship, don't be alarmed."

Aunt Matilda betook herself to the cabin, and, covering herself up in her berth, trembled with apprehension. Mrs. Douglass and Madeline committed themselves quietly to the care of their Father in Heaven, and Roland paced the deck, with his eye turned anxiously upon the warring elements, and ever and anon walking near the cabin door, hoping to see something of Madeline.

"Is that you, Miss Hamilton?" said the young man, as he thought he distinguished her standing at the cabin door, in the dim light below.

"Shall I come up, Mr. Bruce? it is very close in the cabin."

"Throw on a cloak and hood; I want you to see the storm."

Madeline joined Roland on deck, and, looking around, was awe-struck at the scene. The wind was whistling through the canvas, and the ship reeling to and fro like a drunken man, seeming, to Madeline's fears, almost unmanageable.

"Is there danger, Roland?" she asked, clinging closer to his protecting arm.

"There is always danger in a storm like this, and none are safe but those who are anchored on the Rock of Ages, Madeline," and Roland drew her closer to him, and threw his arm around her to keep her from falling.

"This is a grand spectacle, Roland; we never saw the ocean in such a ferment. How insignificant we seem! how powerless!"

"You remember, Madeline, the sublime verses from the Psalms of David, where he describes the life of the seaman? 'For he commandeth and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof. They mount up to the heaven, they go down again to the depths: their soul is melted because of trouble. They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wits' end. Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and he bringeth them out of their distresses. He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still.'"

Madeline listened to the rich, deep voice repeating these beautiful words, until, calm and tranquil, she leaned upon that strong arm for security, knowing how he trusted in the Lord. But the hurricane increased, the rain beat fearfully around them, the waves rose mountain high, and, washing over the deck, compelled them to seek shelter below.

"Shall I come in, Madeline?" asked Roland, when he reached the cabin door.

"Yes, yes, Mr. Bruce! come in, don't leave as!" called out Aunt Matilda, who was suffering agonies. "We shall all be lost! oh, hear the wind, how it howls! And how the vessel rocks! Listen! listen, Mr. Bruce, to the crackling timbers! Can the vessel stand this storm?" and Aunt Matilda wrung her hands in despair.

"Be calm, my dear Miss Hamilton," was Roland's answer; "let us commit ourselves to God, there is safety no where else," and he knelt down in the midst of the anxious company, and, in earnest words of fervent trust, he called upon the God of the tempest, and still "Looking aloft," was calm.

Presently, the ship gave a heavy lurch, and rolled over on her side; all were thrown violently down on one side of the cabin, but she did not right again. Edmund Norris ran to the ladies' cabin, for he felt the fearful danger.

"We are going, Mr. Norris!" called Aunt Matilda; "we are sinking, I am sure! O; God, have mercy! have mercy!"

"Not yet, my dear madam. The captain has ordered the main-mast sawed away, and then we shall probably right again."

Roland, seated on the floor of the cabin, held Madeline in his arms. Not a word escaped her lips, for she was quietly reposing upon the promises of her Saviour.

"We are in great danger, Madeline; are you resting upon the Saviour, dearest?" and Roland bent down in agony over the pale face that lay upon his bosom.

"I know it, Roland, but perfect trust fills my heart; and if we go down in the deep water, it is with you, my dearest friend, and we shall enter Heaven together, and never go out again."

It was an hour when the ceremonies of life were all forgotten, and Roland pressed a warm kiss upon the cold forehead and the pale lips that were whispering these precious words. In another minute the ship righted, and the cheers of the sailors resounded throughout the ship.

"Let us thank God, Miss Hamilton," said Roland, as he turned to Aunt Matilda; "for I hope that the storm is subsiding," and he poured out, in their midst, an earnest thanksgiving for the deliverance which he trusted was near. Gradually the storm abated, and, towards morning, the waves sank to their ordinary bed, and the vessel went on her way. A temporary mast had to be erected, but, as they were nearing port, little anxiety was felt.

Madeline blushed when she next met Roland, for she feared that, in the hour of danger, she had betrayed too much; but the sweet remembrance of his whispered words had banished all remaining doubts, and now she knew that Lavinia's tales about Helen Thornly must all be false; for Roland and honor were to her but one name. Edmund Norris had witnessed the scene in the storm, and understood now the silence of his friend whenever he had mentioned the name of Madeline Hamilton.

They were now nearing port. In a few days, speeding up the bay, they were at home. Roland took lodgings for himself and aunt in New York, and Madeline prepared to return to Woodcliff.

"You will go with us, Roland," said Madeline; "we must look to you to aid us in the last said offices for dear papa," and the young man accompanied the party.

"You will come on to see us, Mrs. Douglass," was Madeline's last farewell.

It was a sad return; for, instead of the beloved father, nought remained but the sacred dust to be consigned to the silent grave. The servants gathered in reverence in the hall, as the family entered. Joy at their return was mingled with deep sorrow, for they had all loved kind Mr. Hamilton.

In two days, arrangements were made for the interment; and, in the midst of his own people, and the surrounding neighborhood, he was laid by the side of his departed wife, and the service that he had loved whispered its sublime consolations over his grave. Roland returned to New York, and resumed the active duties of his daily life.

Not long after Madeline's arrival, the old took, coming to her sitting-room, asked to see her for one moment.

"Miss Madeline, there was a strange woman here the other day, inquiring when you would be at home; she spoke some queer language, I don't think it was an Irish tongue, and she called herself Elsie."

"Did she say that she would come again, Betty?" inquired Madeline.

"Yes; I told her when you were expected, and she said that she would come soon. She was very tired and hungry, and I gave her a good supper; that was right, was it not, Miss Madeline?"

"Yes, Betty, do not turn any one away that wants something to eat from Woodcliff; we have a great deal to spare, and it is such a blessed thing to give."

In about a week, Mrs. Douglass came down to pay a visit. Aunt Matilda was polite, for she was too kind-hearted to be rude in her own home.

"Have you heard any thing from Mr. Bruce's father?" inquired Madeline.

"Nae, not yet; but I hae advertised in several papers, an' hope that I may get some tiding afore lang."

"It is strange that he should have left his family so suddenly, Mrs. Douglass."

"He was aye an odd mon, Miss Hamilton, prone to fits of melancholy, an' we often feared that he wud gang crazy."

After she had been a few days at Woodcliff, an old woman called to see her; in going to the hall, what was Mrs. Douglass' surprise to see Elsie Gibson! whom she immediately recognized.

"Is that ye, Elsie?" said the lady, grasping her hand.

"I'm owre glad to see yer face, ma'am; you were aye like yer brither Stephen."

"Can ye tell me ony thing aboot him, Elsie? I hae a fancy that he is still amang us; and I maun find him."

"It hae been a lang time syne he cam to this country, Mrs. Douglass, an' his family had na seen him for years."

"There is property in Scotland which canna be settled until we find the heir, Elsie, an' if ye ken ony thing aboot him, will ye na tell his sister?"

"His loss was published in the papers in America. Mrs. Douglass, an' that is a' that I can say, ma'am."

Elsie would say no more, and spent the rest of her time in making inquiries after her kindred in Scotland.

"Are ye na ganging home, Elsie?" continued Mrs. Douglass, "there is a comfortable hoose waiting for ye wi' your sister, and she is sair grieved that ye bide sae lang awa'."

"As soon as my wark is done in America, I will gang to my ain people, for I hae greeted sair for them; but my wark is na finished yet; fare ye weel, ma'am, I shall see ye ance mair," and Elsie took her departure.

Mrs. Douglass returned to New York, and still continued her advertisements, for it was all that she could do. After she had been there some months, a note reached her from a family in Newark, requesting her to call, as they could give her some information with regard to the person of whom she was in search.

Mr. and Mrs. Antrim were a Scotch couple living quietly outside of Newark, having resided for twenty years in America—Mrs. Antrim, a neat, elderly person, received Mrs. Douglass cordially.

"I saw your advertisement, madam, and it struck me that I might give you some information concerning your lost friend."

"It is my brother, madam, wha is subject to fits of derangement, an' wha I think is in America."

Mrs. Antrim described a mysterious man who had long lived in their neighborhood.

Mrs. Douglass listened with deep interest, for she was sure that she had found her brother.

"When was he here last, Mrs. Antrim?" she inquired.

"Last Monday, and said that he would come this week."

"Can ye accommodate me wi' board for a few weeks?"

"I think that we can; we are not in the habit of taking lodgers, but if it will be the means of bringing this poor man back to his family, I will do it cheerfully."

"I dread seeing him, Mrs. Antrim, for if he kens the face o' his sister, he will ne'er come again."

"We must be very cautious; do not address him, Mrs. Douglass, take no notice of him. I have a little grandson of whom he is very fond; he is the only one that can make him talk; we must watch for opportunities."

Mrs. Douglass provided herself with a pair of green spectacles, and a very plain Quaker dress, that completely metamorphosed her, for the bonnet so entirely hid her face, that her own relations would not have recognized her; this she was to wear whenever the strange visitor should appear.

In a few days, Mrs. Antrim came up to Mrs. Douglass' room.

"He is coming, you had better change your dress."

Mrs. Douglass did not appear until tea-time; she then quietly took her seat at the table, and had time to scrutinize the strange guest. Years had made great changes; the tall form was bent, the black hair was thin, and streaked with gray, the bright eye was dim and wandering, the once rich, dark complexion sallow, and the cheeks hollow and shrivelled; an uncertain flickering smile played around the lips once so stern and firm; but there was no mistaking Stephen Bruce—there was the marked finger, the same voice, and the remains of the same brother that had once sat by her side at her father's board. He talked but little, for he saw that there was a stranger present. The little grandson was at the table.

"Sit by me, George," said the man, as he drew the child next to him, and continued, "shall I gie him some o' these cakes, Mrs. Antrim?"

"Yes, Robert, but not many."

"Where hae ye been a' this week, my little mon? ye hae na' been to see auld Robert ance."

"I have been sick, Robert, and grandma would not let me go out."

The boy was about ten years did, the age that Roland was when his father had disappeared, and had the same dark eyes and hair. The man smoothed the dark hair as he said,

"He is just like ane I luve, Mrs. Antrim."

Mrs. Douglass could scarcely control her feelings, and finding that her food was almost choking her, she arose hastily, and left the room.

"Where has the strange woman gane, Mrs. Antrim? Did I frighten her awa'? What does she wear that bonnet for?"

"She has had weak eyes, and is not very well, Robert."

"I heard her speak aince, Mrs. Antrim; I think that I hae heard the voice afore; let me see," and he placed his finger upon his lip, as he continued, "I can na' remember, but I hae heard it somewhere."

He left soon after tea, and Mrs. Douglass, deeply agitated, declared that it was her lost brother.

"What do you want to do, Mrs. Douglass?"

"To tak' him hame wi' me to Scotland; our property can na' be settled until he gaes."

"I fear that you will have great trouble before you can do this."

Several visits were paid, but still no progress towards acquaintance; at last one day, he said suddenly to Mrs. Antrim,

"Is that a Quaker lady? She seems very quiet, not ane o' the clattering kind o' women. I hae twa books which I ken would please her,—the lives o' George Fox an' William Penn; I wonder if she would come up to my little cottage."

This was wonderful for Robert Duncan, but he seemed to regard the quiet lady with a sort of pity. Mrs. Antrim communicated the news to Mrs. Douglass, and with many charges to conceal her emotion, they walked up to the humble home. It had but two rooms, very plainly furnished—on one side of his sleeping-room hung a shelf of books.

"Will ye sit doon, ma'am?" said Robert to the Quaker lady, and bringing the volumes spoken of, he continued, "I thought that ye might like these books, ma'am; wud ye like to read them?"

Mrs. Douglass replied, in a low tone; "If thee will lend them to me, Robert."

He tried to look under her bonnet, as he said, "It is vera like her voice."

"Whose voice, Robert?" asked Mrs. Antrim

"It dinna matter, ma'am, it can na' be; for she is far awa'."

While they were looking over the other books, two pictures fell out from between the leaves of one. It was but a glance—but it was Mary Gordon's face, and Roland's when a lovely child. Mrs. Douglass was thrown off her guard; she seized the pictures.

"Where did ye get these, Robert Duncan?" and the man, alarmed, gathered up the pictures, and hurried off into the next room. Before they left the cottage, he came back, and with the suspicious glance of returning insanity, said,—

"What do ye ken aboot these pictures? hae ye e'er seen them before?" and before she could reply, Robert had rushed out of the cottage, into a woods near by, and as they returned home, they saw him peeping with a dark countenance at them from behind some trees.

"I fear that we shall not see him soon again," said Mrs. Antrim; "he will have one of his dark spells, and we must let him seek us now."

For weeks no tidings were heard of the poor man, and Mrs. Douglass began to fear that her mission was fruitless. It was some time before he appeared at church again, and bent on avoiding them, he went out at a side door, and they did not force themselves upon his notice.

For several weeks it was the same—Mrs. Antrim hoped, however, that the loneliness of the cottage would bring him to their fireside in search of his little friend George.

A salutation at the church-door, and a walk home with Mrs. Antrim, was the first encouraging sign; and the next afternoon, Robert was seen coming slowly up the garden path.

"I think you had better not appear, Mrs. Douglass, until he asks for you," said the hostess.

"I could na' stay awa' frae little George any mair, Mrs. Antrim; how fares the bairn?"

"He has been asking for you every day, Robert."

The poor man looked pleased, as he caressed the little fellow.

After a few more visits, he asked for Mrs. Douglass.

"Where is the Quaker lady, Mrs. Antrim?"

"She will be here directly, Robert," and Mrs. Douglass appeared without her bonnet; a simple cap alone covered her fine dark hair.

Robert looked long and earnestly at the face, as though he were studying the resemblance to some one whom he had known.

"Did ye always live in America, ma'am?" inquired he.

The question was unexpected.

"I hae been here for some time, Robert."

"Yer dialect is Scotch, ma'am; hae ye iver lived in Scotland?"

"That is my native land, Robert."

No more conversation passed at this time, and he took his leave.

Absent again for some weeks, they sent to inquire, and found that he was very sick.

"I will mak' a desperate trial, Mrs. Antrim; there hae been no progress yet in my mission; an' I maun try anither mode; let me gae this time to see him."

"You may go, Mrs. Douglass, and may God be with you."

Throwing off her Quaker dress, she assumed her former garb, and tremblingly proceeded to the cottage. Robert was very sick; confined entirely to his bed.

She entered, took off her bonnet, and advanced to the bedside.

"Stephen Bruce! my brother Stephen! dinna ye ken yer sister?"

The countenance of the sick man darkened, as he replied,

"Wha are ye that come to fash a puir sick mon by calling him by a wrang name?"

"Dinna ye ken yer ain sister Annie, Stephen?"

"My sister Annie is in Scotland," replied the man, thrown off his guard.

"She is by yer side, Stephen, yer ain loving, faithfu' sister; she has crossed the deep ocean to find ye, an' God be praised, she has na' come in vain."

"Why do ye seek me, Annie? I am but a puir wretched mon; ye canna' want sic a brother."

"Ye are sair distraught, Stephen; I cam to tak' ye hame, that ye may get yer ain, my brother."

"Nane wad want to see a mon that had forsaken wife an' bairns as I hae done, Annie."

"Just consent to gang wi' me, Stephen."

But no words could change the determination of Stephen Bruce; he listened moodily to all his sister's arguments; but all was in vain.

She took her departure, and her heart sank within her when she heard the bolts slide, fastening doors and windows against another entrance.

She sent each day to inquire; he was getting better; but no inducements could persuade him to open his door to the family at Mrs. Antrim's, not even to little George.

In a few days, the cottage was forsaken; and Stephen had vanished from the neighborhood. Thus the link so lately found was lost once more.

In vain Mrs. Douglass sought for tidings; there was no clue whatever to his movements.

"I hae no hope but in Elsie Gibson, Mrs. Antrim; I think that I shall see her soon."

Advertisements were again inserted in the newspaper; but still no news.

At length Elsie made her appearance.

"I hae found my brother, Elsie, an' lost him again; can ye tell me where he is?"

"I need na' be so secret noo, as ye ken that he lives; he has a strange dislike towards his kin, but I hope that we may ow'rcome it, for he is na sae bad as he was."

"Where is he, Elsie?" asked Mrs. Douglass.

"He is aboot tharty miles frae here, wi' an auld woman, who is kind to him."

"What led ye to this country, Elsie?"

"Ye ken the history o' my early days, Annie Douglass; and ye ken fu' well that Elsie ne'er forsakes the ane she luves, though Stephen luved anither. When the tidings o' his loss reached Scotland, I greeted sair for him wha lay buried in the deep sea; but when he appeared suddenly amang us, I saw that his puir mind was a' shattered, for he seemed dark an' gloomy, and could na' bear the sight o' Malcolm Graham. He was aye jealous o' that stricken mon; an' had the notion that Malcolm yet luved his wife wi' a fond an' tender luve. He hid himsel' frae his friends, got some o' his money secretly, bound me by a solemn oath to keep his secret, and then started again for America to watch his wife. I kenned that he was crazy; an' leaving a comfortable hame, where I had enow to live on weel, I cam' owre here; found puir Stephen separated frae his wife and bairns, an' wandering aboot wi'out a hame. I could na persuade him to gae back to his wife; but he employed me to see that their wants were weel supplied. I went out to sarvice, for I had nae ither way to live. At last, the money he had brought was gane; he had become so much warse that he could na' tell me how to write to Scotland; then cam' the dark days. I had to wark vera hard to find a hame for puir Stephen; the only thing that I am sorry for was that I agreed to stop the letters which Mary sent to Scotland, for he was beset wi' the notion that, in this way, she could hear frae Malcolm; an' he was niver at rest until I brought the letters, an' he destroyed them in my sight. Then he seemed a little better; for he felt that he had closed the door for aye between his pure an' holy wife an' the mon that she had luved sae truly. But Stephen luved her a' the time. I used to tak' him sometimes several lang mile just to get a glint o' Mary an' her bairns in her humble cottage. I led him to her grave, an' I saw him weep bitter tears owre the green sod, and owre the grave o' his daughter, Effie; an' I hoped that the warm tears wad wash awa' the cloud owre the puir brain; but it is there yet, Annie; an' I ken o' only ane ither way to lead him hame. I hae told him meikle aboot his son Roland; he luves that boy wi' a' a father's pride; if he could see him, he might prevail on him to gang back to Scotland. I hae helped to bear Stephen's sorrows, Annie, an' a' the pay I ask is just to see him happy; an' that is my mission here, Annie; when I see him wi' his ain people ance mair, an' his puir stricken heart at rest, then I shall gang hame again, an' spend the rest o' my life in preparing for my last journey."

Mrs. Douglass listened with many tears to this sad story, and agreed with Elsie in the fancy that Roland only could persuade his father to return.

She lost no time in writing; Roland came at once, and the three set out to find the heart-broken man.

Elsie entered first. "Stephen, I hae brought a friend, whom ye wad luve to see, an' wha wad luve to see ye."

"Wha is it, Elsie? wha can want to see sic a mon as I?"

"Yer son Roland; as soon as he heard where ye are, he left all, an' is here, langing to see his father."

"Elsie, how can he e'er forget the days o' poverty an' woe that I hae brought upon his mother?"

"He is a Christian, Stephen; he has forgiven a' the past, an' a' that he wants noo is to see his father, an' be a guid an' faithfu' son to him, as he was aye to his departed mother."

"Bring him in, Elsie; I maun see my boy."

Roland entered, and before he could prevent it, Stephen had crawled out of bed, and lay prostrate at the feet of his son.

Roland instantly raised him from the ground.

"Do not kneel to me, my father; I came to seek you as a loving, faithful son."

"I can na look upon yer face, yer young noble face, Roland, for I am na worthy o' sic a son."

"Dear father, let us forget the past; my mother would smile upon this reunion, and now your sorrows are all over; I will cherish and keep you as a true and loyal son."

Stephen Bruce could not resist the generous appeal, but lifting up his voice, the poor man wept; the fountains of the great deep of feeling were broken up, and stormed the bosom of the heart-broken penitent.

Elsie Gibson stood by—poor, faithful Elsie; her mission was accomplished; her woman's unselfish love was all repaid. She knelt by the side of the bed, and wept long and quietly, for hers were the tears of grateful, happy feeling. Roland beckoned to his aunt.

Stephen raised his head, the pale lips quivered, as he said, "come, sister Annie, we are a' as ane again;" and stretching out his arms, he folded in the embrace of a brother's love, the twin-sister of his early days. There was no more need to persuade Stephen to return to Scotland; his anxiety to secure to this honored son all his rights, made him eager to set sail, that he might, in some measure, atone for past neglect.

"You will return to America, my father, as soon as all is settled."

"Yes, my son, I can na' be parted ony mair; I maun look to ye, my boy, for the strong arm; for I am a puir broken doon auld mon, auld before my time;" and Stephen folded his son in his arms with feelings of deepest reverence and love. Elsie! poor faithful Elsie, stood in weeping silence.

"Fareweel, Elsie! guid an' faithfu' friend! ye hae been true through the darkest days, an' God will bless ye;" and Stephen laid his hand upon her head, as he said, "True an' faithfu' may we a' meet abuve." As soon as possible, arrangements were made to leave America; farewells exchanged; and Roland, hastening from the ship, could still glance upward, and say, "Looking aloft!"

CHAPTER XXVII.

HEARTS' EASE.

Foreign travel, association with Malcolm Graham, and abundant opportunity in Paris, London, and Scotland, for improvement, had done much for Roland. It was seen in his daily life, in his professional career, and in the polished grace always attendant upon a highly-cultivated mind, and a heart purified by holy principles.

Roland was henceforth among the leading members of the younger barristers of the great metropolis; for although but few could be found to adopt his principles of action, none failed to respect his character.

Mr. Thornly's patronage was generously extended to the young man, and the society met at his house was from among the choice families of the crowded city.

Edgar was still cheering his father's heart by the evident improvement in his moral character, and earnest devotion to study.

Mr. Thornly could never forget the debt of gratitude which he owed to Roland; and for Helen, alas! it had been a dangerous privilege to dwell in the house with Roland Bruce.

He is now a prosperous man—but does he forget the humble friends who had sheltered him in the days of his deep adversity? No—for no sooner had he returned to New York than he remembered Richard and Martha Green.

Prosperity warms and expands a noble heart, and only chills the sordid—and from the open purse of this child of Providence, many liberal donations found their way to the "News-Boys' Home." A valuable library now filled the book-case in the reading-room, and none knew the generous donor; but no boy spending his quiet evenings in useful reading could experience half of the delicious pleasure that Roland enjoyed, when sitting among them, hearing and answering their questions; remembering that his means had contributed the larger number to the shelves.

Roland's name often appeared in the public prints in connection with important law cases, and never without abundant praise; but remembering the source whence all came, he was not high-minded, but grateful; for it was God who gave him intellectual power and influence; the God who in one moment could lay his finger on that active brain, and produce universal chaos.

Entering the reading-room one evening, Roland perceived a stranger, evidently a gentleman, sitting at the table; he raised his head on Roland's entrance.

"Why, Stanley! is this you, my good fellow? Where did you come from?"

"I have been in New York some time, Roland, pursuing my studies; and seeing your name in the papers, I have been trying to trace your steps. I am interested in these good works, and coming to visit this institution, I found that you were among its laborers, and have waited to see you."

"It does me good, Stanley, to see your honest face once more."

"And I am no less glad to meet you, Roland," shaking him heartily by the hand; "I was a wild chap in those college days."

"Yes, Stanley; but you were a whole-hearted fellow, even when you were doing wrong."

"Those days are over, Roland,—what would you say if I were to tell you that I am now among the saints, though the very humblest of them all?"

"What would I say, Stanley? Is it really so? Give me your hand, your old honest grasp, and let me clasp it as a Christian brother. How was it, Stanley? Tell me all about the great change."

"It is told in a few words—the first sermon that I ever really heard, was preached at my sick-bed, by one who lived the Christian—it sank right down into my very soul; it spoke volumes to me; it haunted me night and day; for then I began to feel that I really was a miserable sinner. I tried to silence the voice, but it spoke deeper, louder. It followed me into the very dens of dissipated city life. God be praised that it did! I could obtain no rest. Suddenly, I gave up my evil ways, and my bad companions; and at a supper, where many of them were gathered, I publicly renounced them all—they were amazed; they tried the power of ridicule; but they knew Stanley, and soon left me to myself. I found peace in Jesus, and I am not ashamed, Roland, of the gospel of Christ—unworthy as I am, I am preparing to be an ambassador of him whom I once derided and persecuted."

For a moment Roland was silent. He remembered the earnest, fervent prayers, which he had poured out in behalf of Stanley; the answer had been long delayed, but it had come at last. They left the room arm in arm, Christian brothers. Roland was full of joyful anticipation, for he knew the earnest character of this young man, and believed that, like a second Paul, he would preach the everlasting gospel.

Introducing him into the family of Mr. Thornly, he was frequently in his society, and found what he had long desired, a fellow-laborer in his Master's cause.

Helen was interested in the bold young champion of truth, for she was herself becoming daily more devoted to the cause of the Redeemer, less assimilated to the spirit of the world. With her father's full consent, she took an open stand with the friends of Jesus, and from that day, her course was upward and onward in the Christian life.

Madeline occasionally visited New York on business, for she was still engaged in writing her little books—entirely separated from the gay world, not only by her mourning dress, but by deliberate choice, she was only found in the domestic circles of intimate friends. She was still annoyed by the public attentions of Henry Castleton, for personal vanity had made him blind to the positive aversion of his cousin Madeline.

Lavinia is now on a visit to New York, and is spending an evening at Helen Thornly's, in company with a few friends, among whom is Henry Castleton. The conversation turns upon a party where the two had met.

"Really!" said Lavinia, with a toss of her proud head, "go where you will, one must meet with the parvenues of society; did you observe that Miss Digby dressed out in her diamonds and point lace, for such a small social party?"

"Yes," replied Harry, "I could scarcely restrain a smile, when I was introduced to her; who is she, Miss Raymond?"

"She is the daughter of old Digby, the great confectioner; he has retired from business, and lives in grand style, with his carriages, and his town and country house; but you can see the vulgarity of the people, for who but a Digby would ever have thought of diamonds at such a party?"

"And who was that little Miss Austin? I mean the one dressed in simple white, seated in the corner?" asked Lavinia.

"I don't know," was Harry's reply, "but she was evidently a lady; so quiet! so refined! with such a low sweet voice, and dressed in such excellent taste—did you observe how much attention was paid to her?"

"Yes, I wonder who she is; the Browns, the Starrs, and the Carsons were very polite to her; and you know that they are really our first people; she must be somebody, for she had such a distinguished air."

Helen let them run on with their folly, and then quietly remarked with a meaning smile,

"Miss Austin is a governess in the family of the lady whom you were visiting; her father was a sea-captain, and her mother conducted a young ladies' school for many years; indeed, until her death; her daughter, who is highly accomplished, is obliged to earn her own living—she is a lady of great worth and intelligence, and, happily, is with a family who knows how to value such gifts."

Helen and Madeline were both amused at the disconcerted expression upon the faces of Harry and Lavinia.

"Really!" said the latter; "I never was more mistaken in all my life, for I took her for a lady of high rank."

"What are we coming to?" responded Harry, "when the daughters of confectioners and teachers can aspire to mingle with the best circles? I should not wonder if shoemakers and tailors would creep in. Indeed, I have met with one who was formerly a common boot-black in society where I visit; I am amazed at his presumption, for Roland Bruce was nothing more."

Madeline could restrain herself no longer—for although Helen tried to hold her down, she arose with dignity from her chair, while a crimson glow covered her whole face, and regardless of the presence of strangers, she said,

"And do you presume, Harry Castleton, to look down upon such persons as Miss Austin and Roland Bruce? you, with your empty head!" (and she tapped her pretty head with unconscious scorn,) "and they with their noble character, and brilliant powers of intellect—I am sorry for you, Harry, with such a pretty little figure! and such a paltry little soul! Will it ever grow beyond a pigmy's? Roland Bruce will shine among the great and good, when you are entirely forgotten."

Harry withered beneath her rebuke; and even Lavinia, whose lip curled in contempt, for the moment looked awe-struck.

Madeline stood with her back to the door, facing the glass; she was too much excited to look forward, or she would have seen the figure of Roland standing irresolute at the door, for he had heard all; and stood, not knowing whether to advance or retire.

It was a picture for an artist, as he appeared listening to the impassioned words bursting from the lips of Madeline Hamilton. Roland towering above all present in height, with his broad expansive brow, on which sat enthroned a lofty intellect, the signet of true nobility; his fine dark eye, and firm, but sweetly expressive, mouth, his cheek glowing with the feelings of the moment; and Madeline, in all her youthful grace and beauty, with cheek suffused, and burning eye, her hand extended towards Harry Castleton, who durst not raise his eyes to hers—the room was silent—suddenly Madeline raised her eyes, and in the mirror opposite she saw the figure of Roland standing behind her, and covering her blushing face with her hands, she sat down, overwhelmed with shame. Roland advanced, with great dignity, towards Helen Thornly.

"Will you favor us with some music, Miss Helen?"

She advanced, glad to break the painful silence.

Roland did not, for some minutes, approach Madeline; he understood her feelings, and spared her the pain of drawing any further notice towards the sorely mortified girl. When a suitable opportunity offered, he quietly took his seat by her side; he saw that she was suffering, for whenever she raised her eyes, they were moistened with tears, and her lips trembling with emotion.

"Do not distress yourself, Madeline," whispered the young man, "be calm if you can; if you cannot, I will lead you to the other room."

"Don't speak to me, Roland, I an ashamed of myself; such a burst of passion in this public place! I wish I were in my room; I am not fit to meet this provoking young man."

"I thank you for the generous defence; but another time, Madeline, I will say more to you about it."

"You despise me, Roland, I know that you do; for I despise myself."

"Despise that warm and generous heart, Madeline! Never! do not entertain the thought for one moment; but I must leave you now; we are too much observed. I will call to-morrow, if you will walk with me to the Battery."

Crossing to another part of the room, he found himself near Lavinia Raymond, and bowed politely.

"Miss Thornly sings well, does she not, Miss Raymond?"

Lavinia looked surprised, as though not acquainted with the gentleman, and made no answer.

"Her voice is very sweet, and she sings with much feeling," he continued.

Miss Raymond deliberately turned her back, murmuring, "Impertinent!" and crossed to the other side of the room.

Roland smiled, for Madeline's warm and generous defence had filled his heart with secret rapture, although he could have wished that it had not drawn upon her so much notice.

The evening passed unpleasantly, for Madeline's mortification and self-reproach were too deep to be easily forgotten; she had exposed herself in the presence of so many witnesses, had given way to an unchristian burst of temper, publicly wounded a cousin whom she should have tried to benefit, and, she was sure, must have lost the respect of Roland Bruce.

Roland's quiet dignity of manner had won for him golden opinions, and Harry had failed again in humbling the man whom he both feared and hated.

Lavinia was again disappointed; for the company generally had treated the one with marked distinction, the other with entire forgetfulness and contempt.

Late in the afternoon of the next day Roland called; Madeline was ready, but shy, reserved, abashed.

They walked almost in silence until they reached the Battery; then seating themselves under the shade, Roland addressed the mortified girl,

"What is the matter, Madeline? you seem so silent; are you displeased with me?"

"No; not with you, but with myself; I thought that I had learned to control my impulsive temper, Roland; but I find that I have made no progress. I own that I was all wrong yesterday, but I have done the same before; and on the first provocation, I am tempted, and overcome again."

"Your motive, Madeline, was noble; and, as Miss Austin was not present to defend herself, it was generous in you to be her champion."

Madeline looked her thanks to Roland, for she saw how he was trying to reconcile her to herself, and understood the delicacy with which he approached the subject.

"For myself, Madeline," and he spoke in lower tones, "you were always the same noble, frank, and generous friend; but you will allow me also the privilege of a friend; you know I have always laid a gentle rein upon your neck, Madeline; and you formerly yielded to the friendly check; may I still do the same?"

"Say all that you think, Roland, fully, freely, as you used to do; only don't excuse me."

"I wish that you would learn to restrain those open expressions of your feelings; they make you enemies, and they are not in accordance with the spirit of the Gospel."

"I know it, Roland; I am so glad that you do not praise me; I should not respect you if you did; but how am I to become meek and lowly? I, passionate! proud! wilful Madeline? I want to be humble, I long to be holy."

Roland took the little hand gently, kindly, as of old, and held it between his own; bending his eyes upon the ground, he repeated, "'Come, learn of me, for I am meek and lowly in heart, and you shall find rest unto your soul.'"

"How, Roland, can I learn of Jesus?"

"Sit at his feet every day, Madeline; study his holy character, pray for his blessed spirit; you have trusted him with the justification of the immortal soul; trust him also in the work of sanctification; he is the author of both; of the former by himself; of the latter by his spirit."

She bowed her head, and wept.

"O, Roland! sometimes I fear that I am not among the justified ones; if I were, would not the fruits be more manifest?"

"Have you any hope of Heaven apart from Jesus, Madeline?"

"No, Roland, 'Jesus only,'" and this she said with deepest feeling.

"That is faith, Madeline, and it is faith that justifies; this faith works godly sorrow for sin, earnest longing for holiness, deep humiliation; do you not experience these?"

Madeline looked up through her tears with such a smile of hope—

"Yes, Roland, ever since yesterday I have been in the dust, repenting of my sin, and longing, praying for holiness; and then I am so sorry for Harry Castleton; I wounded him so deeply, I behaved so shamefully."

Roland, looked upon the weeping girl, almost with the feelings of a parent towards a child; there certainly was compassionate tenderness in his face, and lowly reverence in that of Madeline, as he laid his hand in blessing upon the drooping head.

"I am going to ask Harry's pardon, Roland; I cannot be happy until I do; and then, by God's help, I will never be unkind to him again; he is not gifted like some others, and it was mean to reproach him with it; I know that he has always loved me, and I ought to be grateful; is it not strange that it makes me so angry, when it is not so with some others—I wonder why it is, Roland?" and the artless look with which she uttered these innocent words, caused a smile to pass over his face, for she was a child in some things yet.

"Is not this pleasant talk? just like 'Auld Lang Syne,' Roland, when you used to lecture little Mad-cap, and when she used to like the lectures so much better than other people's praises."

"Yes, it is too pleasant, Madeline; I wonder if you have cherished the mementoes of those childish days as I have? do you know this handkerchief, Madeline?" and Roland took out of his pocket a soiled cambric handkerchief, stained with blood.

She looked at him with great surprise.

"Why, where did you get that dirty handkerchief?"

"Don't you remember the first day that we met upon the shore, that you wiped my face with your handkerchief? I have kept it ever since, and would never have it washed; to-day I was looking among some old relics, and put it in my pocket, intending to place it again among my treasures."

Madeline blushed as she looked at the handkerchief, and smiling, she said,

"They were very happy days; what a merry child I was! so spoiled! so wilful! I wonder if I am any better now."

"You were a very charming child, Madeline, and I never can forget the little friend of the sea-shore. Here is another relic!" and he held up a lock of golden hair, which she had given him in those childish days.

"Were we not very happy, Roland? now I am so much older—we have both seen sorrow, you the most; and I too have tasted of the cup—and now it is so solemn to live, Roland, to have the charge of so much property, and to be responsible as a steward for all that God has given to me. Papa told me that I might choose my own guardian; I have no male relations, and no one but you—will you not take charge of my estate, Roland?"

"It is a great responsibility, but I cannot well decline it; I shall be but too happy if I can serve you."

"I want some one to teach me how to take care of it, and how to use it for the good of my fellow-creatures. I saw such a beautiful example in the Countess of N—— and her noble husband; they seemed just to live to do good to their own family, and the people all around them. I have commenced my little school again, and it is growing fast; I shall soon want a teacher; then I must have a reading-room for the factory-men, a missionary for the neighborhood, and, after a while, a dear little church of my own."

Roland listened to the young enthusiast with a glowing heart, for she was running on with a smiling face, and such an earnest, happy expression.

The tears were gone—April had passed, and smiling May fanned its breezes around the two, as they sat under those shady trees.

She was playing with a sprig of hearts'-ease while she was talking.

"What a sweet flower you have, Madeline!"

"Yes, it is one of my favorites; I have so many at Woodcliff."

"Won't you give it to me, Madeline?"

"What! my hearts'-ease, Roland! There, take it; I wish it were not so faded."

Placing it in a button-hole of his coat, he smiled as he said,

"That is an emblem of yourself, Madeline, or what you used to be—my own little hearts'-ease."

"Well, truly! Roland Bruce paying compliments! Take care, good sir; don't become a flatterer."

"I speak truth, Madeline; but let us talk a little more about this trust that you wish me to undertake—are you very careful about your accounts, Madeline? you should make a regular entry of every day's expenditure, calculate your income, put apart so much for your charities, and so much for your daily wants—but never run into debt."

Madeline began to smile.

"Well, good sir! it seems so funny for little Mad-cap to be sitting here listening to a lecture from her guardian, little Roland of the Maple Lane School—you are getting on pretty fast, I think, and it will not be long before we hear that eloquent speech that I have so often talked about."

Roland was suddenly depressed; for when he looked upon the young heiress of so large an estate, and himself, her guardian, he felt more than ever repelled from thoughts that would sometimes rise up in his heart with visions of domestic bliss.

There was so much of artless, tender interest in Madeline's manners, that often the thought would cause a thrill of rapture as hope whispered, "She loves me, this peerless child of Nature! this fresh, guileless young heart! But it cannot be—be silent, foolish heart! But it is a joy to guide, to counsel, to comfort, even to hear her voice," and gradually he sank into silence.

Madeline's spirits were gay—taking Roland's arm, they walked home quietly together.

It had been a happy hour! But Roland awoke as from a dream, when Madeline named her property; with that, came the incubus that always lay as a shadow between him and his darling's warm young heart. Chilled by its icy breath, he remained quiet.

"Why are you so silent, my good sir?" inquired Madeline; "it seems that you have left all your spirits at the Battery."

"I was looking some very painful thoughts right in the face, Madeline; there are some things that I must get accustomed to, but it is not an easy task."

"Can I help you, Roland?" and she turned a kindly look upon his troubled face.

"You, help me, Madeline! No—it is beyond your power," and he looked deeply pained.

"There is nothing, Roland, that I would not do, to lighten your cares, if I only knew what they were."

"Never mind, my good little friend, there is a refuge for every care; I have tried it very often, and it has never failed—no, not once."

By this time, they had reached the door of Madeline's stopping-place.

"Good evening, Madeline, God bless you!"

"I shall see you to-morrow, Roland—shall I not? I will then tell you all about Harry."

"Yes, I will see you,"—and Roland turned away to kiss the sweet little bunch of hearts'-ease, murmuring, "not for me! would that she were penniless;" while Madeline went up-stairs, humming a low, soft tune, as she whispered, "What a dear, kind guardian!" Would she have echoed Roland's wish, had she known this to be the only barrier between two pure young, loving hearts?

True to her sense of right, she sent a short note without delay to Harry Castleton, requesting the favor of an early call next morning.

Harry loved Madeline as much as his weak nature would allow him to love any one beside himself, and had borne much contempt from her even meekly; therefore, he obeyed the summons, wondering what change had come over his proud cousin.

"I sent for you, Harry, to apologize for my conduct; I am heartily ashamed of it—it was unwomanly, unchristian, and uncalled for. I hope, Cousin Harry, that you will forgive me; you know what a proud, high temper I have, and must attribute all that I said to that infirmity."

Harry looked amazed—he had never before seen Madeline so humble herself to any body, and he wondered what it really could mean.

"I was to blame too, Madeline; I know how my speeches provoke you, and I believe that I uttered them for that very purpose. I receive your apology freely, I hope that you will accept mine. I cannot help my feelings about Roland Bruce, for I do believe that it is he only that prevents your return of my warm affection."

Madeline bit her lip, for hasty words were coming again, but she restrained them, and replied,

"You are mistaken, Harry, I feel for you the interest of a cousin; nothing else could possibly be entertained; but you will never have to complain again of unkind conduct at my hands; I have been too deeply humbled. I do wish you well, cousin Harry; I would like to see you caring more for better things; then at least, you would have my respect."

"Madeline, if you had always been thus kind, I might have been a better man; your scorn has embittered me; but words like these soften my heart, and waken better feelings, even in vain and trifling Harry Castleton."

They spent an hour in friendly conversation, and Madeline was greatly relieved, when she parted amicably from her cousin.

A familiar step soon followed upon Harry's departure, and Madeline, with her own mischievous smile, said,—

"Now, Roland, have I not been a good girl? I made an humble apology to Harry, for all my naughty ways, and I think that my venerable guardian must be satisfied with his protégé."

Roland smiled, and answered,

"Follow out your own convictions of right at once, Madeline, as you have done in this case, and you will not go very far astray."

"I would have done the same willingly before all that room full, Roland, that they might have known how heartily ashamed I was?"

Roland looked upon this fascinating combination of innocent, frank child-nature with true earnest womanhood, and felt convinced that the world would never spoil this fresh young soul.

"You look very sad, to-day, good sir; has any thing happened to distress you?"

"Nothing now, Madeline; I have only had to tame down some wild, ungoverned fancies."

"Here are some of my papers ready for my sage guardian; when I get home, I will send the rest."

Roland winced again; for this bundle of parchment reminded him of the night's sore struggle—he could not now see Madeline with the mere regard of a true friend, for the silent hours of midnight communion had fully revealed the state of his heart.

CHAPTER XXVIII

SEAWEED.

The witcheries of the world were rapidly losing their power over Madeline Hamilton—but Nature, calm, beautiful, bright, became more dear, more elevating to her child—for had she not always been her nursing-mother even from earliest childish days?

There was perfect harmony between the fresh guileless nature and the green trees, the smiling sky, the deep blue ocean, and the sweet voices among which she rambled; and deeper, fuller than ever was the joy swelling in her young heart, when she could look upward and say, "My Father made them all."

From the deep fountains of her new nature gushed out streams of love, for all that God had made; for the more that she loved God, the truer, and more spiritual became her love for her fellow-men. Then the intimate relations between herself and Roland, the dear companionship, the old feelings of perfect trust and reverence, and the tender interest which enveloped her in such a mantle of protection, dwelt with her daily; and neither needed words to tell how truly they were one, nor with what unconscious, mysterious knowledge, they had read each other's hearts. Roland could not but feel "she loves me," and Madeline needed no language to make her understand how precious was the sacred bond which united their warm young hearts.

The little children that assembled around her still in her Saturday-school, and her class on Sunday, all felt the sweet attraction—the dwellers at the cottages, Aunt Matilda, and the people in the kitchen, all realized that a warmer glow of love kindled in the young face, and sweeter words were breathed from her lips.

Madeline was really living—for the heart had found objects on which to bestow its benevolence, and the feeling, day by day, was deepening, widening, as she felt truly "Jesus loves me, and I love him."

As the guardian of her worldly concerns, she received frequent letters from Roland, full of kind advice and strengthening words. He had laid down for her a plan which she was eager to carry out, and it was a pretty picture to see the young girl with her little basket of books, tracts, and domestic comforts, sallying forth daily among her humble dependents. Hours for devotion, household cares, for reading, music, for exercise, for benevolence, were systematically arranged, and as carefully carried out; and while Aunt Matilda was yawning over want of occupation, and imagining headaches, indigestion, and countless other evils, Madeline scarcely found time for her numerous duties. She was very happy; for even while she missed the smile of her dear father's approval, was she not blessed with the assurance of his unspeakable gain? and did she not hope to join him at last in the better world, to part no more forever?

Her cheek bloomed with brighter tints, her eye beamed with holier love, and her lips told tales of sweet inward peace and joy, drawn from the deep wells of salvation. She was learning some of Mozart's and Beethoven's finest music on her harp, and some sacred melodies for her voice; for she knew the style that pleased Roland, and was scarcely aware how all her occupations were mingled with the name of that precious friend. Sometimes, doubts and difficulties would obtrude themselves when reading the Scriptures, and then she would wish for her faithful guide.

"Get Mr. Bruce's room ready, Mary," said Madeline to the chambermaid; "he will here to-morrow," and she spent much of her time in preparations for the welcome visitor.

Aunt Matilda found that although her niece treated her with respect and affection, in the choice of her guardian she had exercised the liberty which her father had given her, and the good lady had quietly to submit. The respectful reverence with which Roland treated Madeline's aunt almost disarmed her opposition to this intimacy, and would have done so entirely, could she have divested herself of the fear that Roland might some day be more than guardian. After tea, Madeline led Roland to the drawing-room.

"I have learned some new music just for you, guardian," and she played some of her finest pieces with exquisite taste and execution.

"How can people like polkas and waltzes after such music as this?" said Roland; "it seems to speak so truly the language of the soul."

"I have some beautiful sacred melodies, and I want you to learn them to sing with me, guardian, your voice is so good."

It was amusing to see Madeline assume the office of teacher, and when he would make mistakes, with an arch expression around her mouth, to hear her say—

"What a dumb scholar! don't you see that you are singing the wrong note? I am so glad that there is something I can do better than you."

It was a laughing lesson, with Roland's blunders, and Madeline's pretended reproofs, and the pat of the little hand on his head when he succeeded.

"Don't be affronted, guardian, for I really do entertain a profound respect for you, though not much wholesome fear; that is rather out of my sphere, good sir."

After sundry trials, they succeeded admirably, and Madeline's sweet treble, with Roland's rich tenor voice, made truly delightful music.

"That's a good boy, Roland! you shall have a treat for your performance," and Madeline ordered a tête-a-tête supper before retiring, with just such viands as Roland liked.

"Shall I see you to-morrow in the library, Madeline?" was Roland's request, as he bade "good-night."

"Yes, at nine o'clock; I shall be occupied until that time."

A full hour was spent in transacting some business attendant upon his office, and, at the close, Madeline, with a sweet, serious face, seated herself on a lower seat by the side of her guardian.

"I have wanted you lately, Roland, I have been so troubled when reading the Scriptures; I don't know what can be the matter, but my mind has been so disturbed by doubts and difficulties, that they have clouded my peace, and perplexed me so much."

"Are they connected with your duties, Madeline?"

"No, Roland; they are about deep, inscrutable mysteries that I cannot understand," and Madeline, from a full heart, poured out all her tale of doubts and trials into the ears of one ever ready and able to counsel and aid her trembling steps.

On Sunday morning, Roland accompanied Madeline, opened the services of the Sunday-school, and aided in teaching; in the afternoon, by the side of his young friend, and using the same book, he joined in the beautiful service which she loved, for he had outlived the prejudices of his childhood, and had learned to love goodness and truth wherever he saw it, or under whatever garb, and could now easily make allowances for the deep aversion of those days of persecution to the rigid ritualism which laid such heavy burdens upon the consciences of Christian men.

While he remained at Woodcliff, one hour each morning was spent in studying the word of God, and his clear explanations greatly aided the young believer.

"This is a pleasant evening, Madeline; shall we walk down to the shore? I must see the dear spot before I return to New York."

"Wait a minute, Roland, I must get my hood and scarf; it is a little damp. Old Peter will be glad to see us, and I have something for him."

"So have I," answered Roland. "He must be growing very old, for he was an aged man when we first came to Woodcliff, and that is seventeen years ago; I am now twenty-six."

"And I twenty-one; and yet, Roland, I do not feel more than sixteen; I enjoy life as much as then, and I have just the same faith in goodness as I had at that age."

They soon found themselves at the dear trysting place, and, seated on the rock, they gazed in silence upon the grand old ocean. Madeline was the first to speak.

"Does it seem possible, Roland, that eleven years have passed since you stood there," pointing to a spot near them, "defending the poor little things who had lost their diamonds?"

"And yet, Madeline, if we measure time by events, what a long life mine would seem! So full of trial, of blessing, and of stirring incident! What finger-posts of Providence have marked my way!"

"How strange are its wondrous dealings, Roland! I ran down to the shore that evening with my dog Hector, just for a merry race and a wild romp with my good old playmate, and I found you—then a poor, threadbare boy, with a grand and noble soul—be still, Roland" (for he was about to speak), "I felt what was hidden under your worn-out jacket, child that I was; and I found such a friend! eternity only will reveal what you have been to wild, impulsive Madeline;" turning, with her young face all glowing, she added, "I fought your battles then, Roland, and I have done so ever since, for my childish instincts read truly."

"There are some scenes, Madeline, written upon the tablets of memory with a diamond pen, and that afternoon was one; the face of the bright child, with her generous impulses and her scorn of meanness, the stained handkerchief, and the tender touch of the dimpled hand have been with me ever since; to this have been added the bright, wild, untamed intellect that interested me in Maple Lane School, the docile pupil coming to me with such winning grace. I see the folded hands and downcast eyes even now; the mischievous little sprite that loved bewitching pranks; the gay young girl who, amid all the blandishments of wealth, still nobly cheering my way; the riper woman, with her noble heart, at last bowing at the foot of the cross, and pouring out its love on all around her. These, Madeline, have been with me always—cheering, blessing, soothing."

"All this, Roland, under the leading hand of a wondrous Providence, you have done; sometimes I was led away, but for what a short period! These early lessons are never forgotten; and even in England, where I was surrounded by so much more to tempt, my heart, true as the needle to the pole, turned back with all its freshness to those early memories and their teachings."

Roland sat in silence for a moment, his heart filled with unutterable love—could it be duty to throw from him this gem of priceless worth, this young, warm, guileless woman's heart? and yet as a flash darted through his brain, the thought that would obtrude—as her guardian, acquainted with the extent of her possessions, might he not be thought selfish, mercenary?

"And now you see, good sir, you are my grave and reverend guardian, and must know all about your ward," and Madeline flashed upon him one of her arch glances of mischief; "if a young lady has offers of marriage, I suppose that she ought to tell her guardian—is not that so?" and she continued, smiling, "and always ask his advice about such matters, for I have something of the kind to tell now."

Roland dropped his eyes, and moved away from the young lady, lest she should see his emotion, and replied seriously, "I shall always be interested in whatever concerns you, Madeline, and will advise here, as elsewhere, truly, faithfully."

"Well! to begin—Harry Castleton is one of my devoted—he has offered himself three times, and has as often been refused; for you know, guardian, that I could never love him, but I am going to treat him better; I have made a good beginning; what do you think of him for Madeline?"

"Think, Madeline! I should never cease to mourn over such a union—it could never be."

"Amen!" said Madeline, archly; "and then there was Mr. Livingston, of New York, that all the belles were dying for; a man of wealth, rank, fashion, and intelligence; not caring much for the gay world—what do you think of him?"

"Did you love him, Madeline?"

"No—not exactly; and I used to think it was very strange! he was so handsome and attractive! but what do you say about him?"

"I could not approve of him either."

"Why, guardian! you are grim, and hard to please—well! then there was Tony Willikins; poor Tony! when I was a wild young thing, I took a ride with Tony, and he asked me about his future establishment; about his house, his carriage, his grounds, his furniture; and I gave my opinion—well, to be sure! he built just such a house, ordered just such a carriage, and then came, and asked me to live in his house, and ride in his carriage. I almost laughed in his face; and when I refused, he said that I had encouraged him, because I described the house, and recommended the carriage; I did not think that he was quite such a dunce, but I really felt sorry for Tony; I did not mean any harm—now, guardian, what do you think of Tony Willikins?"

Roland smiled at the story, and replied,

"I should object no more to this poor fellow with weak intellect, and affectionate heart, than I would to a rich brainless fop, without a heart."

"When I went to England," and Madeline's face assumed a more serious, tender expression, "I was introduced to the family of the Earl of N——; it was all that a Christian family ought to be, and there I spent some of the happiest hours of my life. I was domesticated in that household for many weeks, and became much attached to Lady Alice, the eldest daughter. Lord N——, the eldest son, was a bright example of a young English noble; refined, intelligent, pious, and of an extremely prepossessing appearance; we were associated daily; Roland, he learned to love me with all the depth and tenderness of a true, manly nature. I never knew an hour of deeper sorrow, than when compelled to say to that outburst of a warm affection, 'only friendship can I return;' now, guardian, what would you think of him?"

They were sitting very near the edge of the shore, and as the waves washed up the sea-weed, Roland took up a bunch, and handing it to Madeline, said,

"You remember these flowers of the ocean—how often have I gathered them for you?"

"Remember them!" and Madeline opened a small pocket-book, from which she took a few faded weeds, "Ah! how often have these memorials spoken to me, Roland; once I placed them by the side of the splendid bouquet, that Lord N—— used to send me daily—and oh! the difference."

"O, Madeline! dare I hope that the giver of these faded weeds was dearer than Lord N——, with all his grandeur and his goodness?"

Madeline turned her deep expressive eyes upon Roland's face, as she replied, in trembling tones,

"Nothing else could have made me insensible to the worth of Lord Alfred N——; these faded weeds, the sea-shells, the sketch I found once in the library, were more precious to me, more fondly cherished, than all the gifts of gold that have ever been laid at my feet."

"Can such blessedness be mine? the wealth of such a heart?"

"And mine, dear Roland! it seems too much of earthly good to know that you are all my own, not only as my friend, but my dearest, truest love."

"And can you, with all your wealth and attractions, turn from so much, and give your heart to me? I have not much to offer, Madeline; it is true that my dear friend, Uncle Malcolm, placed me above the reach of need, but nothing compared to the heiress of Woodcliff; I fear the judgment of your aunt; would that you were penniless."

"I want nothing but yourself, Roland; only your pure and noble self; have we not loved each other always? and yet there was a time when I was afraid of Helen Thornly."

"And when I was afraid of Lord N——; for I saw his worth, and his attractions, Madeline; and knew that you were with him daily while I was absent."

"What would your father think of such a choice, Madeline?"

"He was willing, in such a matter, to trust his daughter; dear, noble father! he respected you, Roland, always; and I believe, if he were living, he would smile upon us."

"Look at me, darling!" said Roland, "let me see those dear eyes, those truthful, earnest eyes, just turned on me, as full of love and tenderness as in days gone by;" (for Madeline had dropped her head, and bent her eyes upon the ground.)

She raised them to Roland's face, and in the deep look of perfect trust and tenderness, he saw what that hour had revealed to him. Taking both hands within his own, and looking up to heaven, he prayed that God would bless this sweet union of two young souls that had been so long as one.

"This is a love, Madeline, which will stretch forward to eternity; it will be companionship on earth in all that is pure and holy, to be perfected in the world above."

One sweet, pure caress, one fond kiss sealed this heart union; and taking her arm within his own, they turned their steps homeward.

"Let us just listen for one moment to the music of the ocean, Roland; it is a grand old organ, with its deep, mysterious chords; it has murmured many solemn hymns for us, many a varied melody—sometimes gentle summer lullabies, sometimes wails like funeral dirges—what does it waft us to-night?"

"Nothing but soft, sweet hymns of harmony, Maddy; bidding us praise our Father and our God."

Old Peter had been watching the young people, in whom he was so much interested; he saw the deep-absorbing interest of that interview; the tender caress, and the slow step as they moved away, and he said to himself,

"This is just what I thought would come of hoarding up old shoes. God bless them! they are a dear young pair, and deserve to be happy. What a handsome couple they will make! And they are both so good! It puts me in mind of Becky and me in our young days," and the old man wiped a moistened eye with his rough coat-sleeve.

Tea was long over when they reached home, but they wanted no supper; and Aunt Matilda was out of patience at the monosyllables which she received as answers, for both seemed wholly engrossed with each other.

"Let us go to the library," whispered Madeline; and as they stood before the portrait of her father it seemed to look upon them, with all the benignity of expression that dwelt upon the face of Mr. Hamilton.

"It smiles upon us, Roland! does it not? I know my dear father too well not to be assured that he would bless us; let us kneel before his picture;" and as they bowed solemnly in the library, Roland poured out his heart in earnest, fervent prayer, for God's choicest blessings upon them both.

After an evening spent in happy converse, the hour of separation came too soon.

"Let us listen to the Eolian to-night, Roland;" and Madeline led him to the stair-case; standing there together, it discoursed soft, sweet strains, for the evening was balmy and pleasant, and the wind fanned gentle breezes among the foliage of Woodcliff.

"How soft! how sweet, Roland, the harp is to-night! it seems to breathe only of happiness and peace; sometimes it has been so wild, so sad, when I have been in trouble! I wonder if it does not just echo the voice within."

"Doubtless it is so, Madeline; to-night the serenade is very sweet; if the fairies play among the strings, they must know all about us, dear."

"It is a pretty fancy, and cannot harm us, Roland; I don't believe it, you know; but then there are many things I don't believe which it is pleasant to think about."

"You must be careful, dear, in these flights of fancy, that they do not depart from truth."

"Well then, Roland, we will banish the fairies, though they were long the friends of my childhood, and substitute the good, real angels, and think that the sweet music is mingled with theirs."

"Good-night, Madeline, may they guard your slumbers;" and Roland clasped the little hand fondly, and impressed the kiss of pure affection upon the fair young brow.

Madeline's dreams were pure and holy that night, for was she not the chosen companion of the man whom she most loved and honored on earth?

Next morning, she acquainted her aunt with what had taken place. She was not surprised, but deeply disappointed.

"I cannot understand you, Madeline, to reject such a man as Lord N——, and to choose one so low-born, so obscure as Roland Bruce; but you must have your own way; you were always a wilful child!"

"You will learn to think differently some day, aunty; when you know Roland, you will find out true nobility."

"Next Sunday will be our communion day, Roland; you will stay, can't you?" said Madeline.

"I will try; by writing a few lines, I can be spared that long."

There were but few as yet gathered into that little fold; but it was a blessed hour, when the two bowed together at the table of their Master, and consecrated their united lives to his holy service.

There had been a parlor organ hired for their little church, and as they together joined in the high praises of the Trisagion, their spirits seemed to soar beyond the things of time and sense, and to prostrate themselves together before the throne of God and the Lamb.

"This is living," said Roland, as they walked homeward together; "loving God supremely, and each other fondly, for Jesus' sake, with the sweet hope of eternal union, when the cares and sorrows of life are ended; this is living, Madeline. God is love, and is best pleased when his creatures are most like him."

"I used to think, Roland, that it was a sin for mortals to love each other, and it once troubled me sorely, when I began to think of becoming a Christian."

"Just study the life of Christ, dear, and the teachings of the disciple whom Jesus loved the best, the loving John; his epistles are full of heavenly love, and you will never make that mistake again; for remember, that he teaches the duty of the highest exercise of Christian love, when he says, 'That we ought to lay down our lives for the heathen.'"

"How that view draws us to the blessed Saviour! How different from the teachings of those who would represent God as seated far away, upon the throne of the Universe, forbidding the approach of his erring children."

"Always think of God, Madeline, as a loving Father, whom you may always approach to plead the merits of his Son; he is ever ready to look upon you graciously in the face of Jesus, our Redeemer."

"What precious hopes, dear Roland, does the gospel hold out to us! union with Christ forever, and intimate soul-union with each other in a world where there can be no change, no parting, no decay."

"Let us bless him, dearest Madeline, for these holy hopes, and show that we love him, by lives devoted to his service; by-the-bye, do you know that I begin to like your service better than our own? so much that is sublime is taught by its offices. It seems to be an echo of the voice within. How lofty is the language of the Trisagion! I could almost have imagined the worship of the spirits before the throne, crying 'Holy! Holy! Holy!' and could look forward to that time, when, as disembodied spirits, we shall join with those who have gone before; with patriarchs, and prophets; with martyrs, and apostles; with 'the spirits of the just made perfect;' with my mother, Effie, and your own dear father, in praising the God who has brought us safely home."

"I am glad that you feel so, Roland, for I have decided preferences for my own forms of worship; though I can hold communion with Christians of every name, who truly love my Master."

Monday morning came, and with it, return to daily cares and duties.

"Madeline, I brought old Peter a warm over-coat for winter, one that I have done with; I forgot to say anything about it that evening;" and Roland smiled.

"And I forgot a Bible with large print, and a pair of good spectacles; I had them with me, but I forgot them too."

"I hope that we may be excused this time, Madeline; our hearts were engrossed by each other. Farewell, dearest, write daily," continued Roland, "or rather keep a journal, and send it to me twice a week; I want to know everything about you, where you go; all that you think and feel are precious to me now."

Madeline blushed rosy red, as she found herself folded in a warm embrace, and returned modestly the kiss of affection which was pressed upon her lips.

"Pray for me, Roland, every day and every night; we can meet there, dearest;" and Madeline stood upon the piazza watching him as long as she could see him, and returned the wave of the hand, ere she retraced her steps back to the library.

Letters from Lady Alice had just reached Woodcliff; for Madeline had been in constant correspondence with her valued English friends. They were particularly welcome, for in one was announced the approaching marriage of Lady Alice to Lord Elmore, and several hints about Lady Lucy Hampton and her brother Alfred; concluding with a warm invitation to make a bridal visit to England.

On Roland's next visit, he brought a warm letter from good Uncle Malcolm, congratulating him on his prospects of domestic happiness, and insisting on a visit immediately after his marriage.

"I do not think it at all improbable, Madeline, for I have business which calls me to Scotland," said the young man.

Mr. Bruce was expected daily, and Madeline obtained a promise that his first visit in America should be to Woodcliff.

In a few days he landed at New York, and met with a warm welcome from his son.

"Are you really glad to see me, Roland?" asked the poor man, as he looked up in his face with a sad, wistful expression.

"I am really glad, my father; I have a carriage ready for you, and bright, pleasant rooms."

No pains were spared to make him happy, and under the wise, affectionate treatment of his son, Mr. Bruce really seemed to be losing much of that sad and moody state of mind which had so long afflicted him. As soon as he could be prevailed upon to go, Roland took him to Woodcliff, and introduced him to his intended daughter-in-law.

Madeline received him with a warm, affectionate welcome; and although shy at first, under the influence of her kind manners and sweet music, he became daily more social and tranquil.

After singing several hymns to please him, he walked up to Madeline, and laying his hand upon her head, he said,—

"Thank ye, my dear, ye hae ta'en a deal o' trouble to please an auld mon—ye are to be my daughter, are ye na!" and stooping down, he pushed back the rich folds of hair, to look more earnestly on her sweet young face, and then kissed the pure, calm forehead.

"I will try to make you a good daughter, sir," and she kissed the withered hand that was held out to her. From this time, quite an intimacy sprang up between the two, for the music had driven away the evil spirit for a time.

"She is vera luvely, Roland, amaist as luvely as yer mither was at her age—be kind to her, my boy; ne'er suspect yer wife; but be sure that ye hae her heart—are ye sure o' that, Roland!"

"Yes, father, she has never loved any one else, she is all my own!"

"Happy son! happy Roland!" whispered Stephen, as he took his son's arm, to walk out on the piazza.

As Madeline took leave of the old man, she said,

"You will come again, dear sir, will you not?"

"Yes, my child, this hae been a pleasant visit; ye are guid an' kind, an' I luve ye, my daughter."

* * * * * * *

Aunt Clara is on a visit to Woodcliff, and finds her most sanguine hopes realized in what she sees of Madeline's daily walks of usefulness, and many a time, with tearful eyes, exclaims,

"What hath God wrought!"

"Aunt Clara, I have been thinking a great deal about the men here; there is a very large number among the factories, and in the cottages of the fishermen. They very seldom come to our Sunday services, but waste their vacant time in lounging about idly, and in drinking what they have earned through the week. I have thought of a reading-room where we could supply good reading for the evenings, and keep them away from bad company; but I don't know how to go about it; I cannot go among men, that would not be exactly feminine, and I cannot bear all the expense myself."

"Would it not be well, Madeline, first to bring the matter before some of the gentlemen of the neighborhood?"

"That is exactly the way, Aunt Clara; I'll send for Roland, he shall make the speech—I'll give notice in the Sunday-school, and then I'll send notices around to the principal gentlemen, to meet at the Sunday-school room."

Madeline was full of her new plan, and put it into practice immediately—notifying the Sunday-school, sending for Roland, and canvassing the neighborhood thoroughly, by means of the messengers. Ten days were allowed to prepare for the meeting; she talked about it in the Sunday-school eagerly, for the ungodliness of the men was sorely distressing to her benevolent spirit.

Roland came—the evening arrived, the room was lighted early, and Madeline watched eagerly for an audience. A few strolled in, some of the mothers of the children, some of the young ladies, and a few of the children's fathers; but this was not what Madeline wanted—it was nearly eight o'clock, and but two gentlemen, one the old minister of Roland's church, the other, a gentleman somewhat interested in the morals of the neighborhood. After a while, a half dozen more came, then three or four more, until about one dozen were present; at last, quite a party of young ladies and gentlemen took their seats, and the meeting commenced.

Roland had acquainted Mr. Stewart with the object of the meeting, and requested him to state it to the audience, and open the exercises with prayer. Interest had brought but few, curiosity the larger number.

After the opening exercises, Roland arose. His name had not been announced; but while he spoke, the rich, manly voice, and quiet dignity of manner at once enchained attention; and as he proceeded to describe the wants of the neighborhood, and the necessity of some efforts by which to benefit the working classes, gradually his manner increased in warmth; and when he alluded to the days when as a boy athirst for knowledge, he had sat on these benches, and had often longed for the use of a well-assorted library, there was a general buzzing among the young people.

"Who can it be?" said Minnie Smith.

"Why, don't you remember Roland Bruce?" replied Lizzie Belton.

"It cannot be possible—that elegant looking man, Roland Bruce! then such a speaker! I can't believe the evidence of my own senses."

"I know his eye, Minnie, I knew him as soon as I looked at him—I heard the other day that he is quite a distinguished lawyer in New York."

"Well, dear me! who ever could have believed it?"

"Why, Madeline Hamilton believed it—or else she never would have taken so much interest in him—proud minx! she always said that he'd be a great man yet."

"Let us listen, Lizzie, we are losing his speech;" and the young girls stopped talking, to listen to his eloquence. He represented the wants of the working man, said he had an intellect demanding food, as well as a body; that he had a right to both; he believed that many might be reclaimed and elevated, if those more favored would lend a helping hand, and recognise the one great fact of brotherhood—on this he spoke feelingly, for he had felt deeply. In glowing words, he enlarged upon the advantages of useful reading, appealed to those who employed these men; and asked if they would not make better workmen, more faithful laborers, more moral and intelligent, if conscious that there were hands stretched out, saying, "Come my brother, I will help you."

All listened respectfully; and at the close, the gentlemen present contributed something, those of large means liberally, and Madeline had the pleasure of seeing her scheme likely to prosper. After all had subscribed, "M. H——" modestly added one hundred dollars to the list. "Who is he? Who is he?" was the question whispered all round when the meeting was over.

"A young man by the name of Bruce, I think," was the reply of Mr. Belton.

"I can tell you, gentlemen," said Mr. Stewart, his former minister; "he was once a boy in the Sunday-school of my church, and a member of Maple Lane School, very poor, very humble, but an excellent son, a devoted brother, an earnest Christian, with bright talents, all exercised for his Master. He is a child of Providence, gentlemen, raised to what he is by a blessing upon a mother's piety and manly trust in God."

Several went forward, and shook him warmly by the hand.

"We are proud of our Maple Lane boy, sir; your minister has told us something of your history."

Lizzie Belton and Minnie Smith looked quite abashed, hiding their faces as Madeline proudly took Roland's arm, and left the room. As soon as they were out of hearing, she exclaimed—

"There, Roland, don't say that I am not a prophetess; I knew the day would come when you'd make these silly upstarts feel ashamed of themselves. I felt proud of you to-night, Roland, for I saw that they were mortified as soon as they knew who it was. I suppose that they would like to obtain the notice of Roland Bruce now."

"Madeline, is not this very much of the old leaven?"

"Yes, I suppose it is, guardian; but it was in this very room where they used to be so mean, and I could not help the feeling. They have heard you make your speech in Maple Lane School, and it did some good, too; I am thankful for that. Now I'm going to prophesy a little more—don't shake your wise head, good sir, at my folly—you'll be an 'Honorable' yet. I expect to address letters to the 'Honorable Roland Bruce, U.S. Senate.'"

Roland burst out laughing.

"Of all the scheming little heads that ever sat upon the shoulders of a woman, yours exceeds. What possesses you, Madeline?" and Roland laughed again most heartily; "how can you ever dream of such a thing? I shall never be a politician."

"No, I know that, I should be very sorry for that; but worth and talent sometimes meets its reward, even here."

"Madeline, I have but one ambition,—to serve my God faithfully in whatever station he appoints, and to walk hand in hand with one of the purest and loveliest of God's creatures in the path that leads us home to Heaven."

CHAPTER XXIX.

BEATITUDES.

A mariner on the broad, mysterious ocean is sailing homeward; he has encountered many fearful storms, laid by wearily in exhausting calms, and steered safely amid rocks and shoals, with the blessed haven still in sight of faith's eyeglass. He is nearing home; chart and compass awaken a thrill of hope and love, as they point so surely to the same familiar outline of approaching land. A small speck, as of a distant star, is gleaming on him through the atmosphere; sometimes very faint, then brighter, clearer, fuller, until the beacon of the light-house, with the steady brilliancy of a small, well-defined orb, speaks to his heart the one sweet word of "Home."

He speeds on swiftly, steadily, with canvas spread to the breeze, and finds himself anchored at last in quiet waters, waiting for the pilot to take him into port. The vessel lies peacefully upon the rippling waves, the air is scarcely moving, the sails flap lazily, and the scream of the sea-bird is exchanged for the softer melodies of birds nearer land, as they fly low with their song of welcome. The sails are now taken in, and the sailors are singing songs of home; the air is full of music, for the murmurs of the gentle waves, the light spray dashing slowly against the sides of the vessel, whose rocking lullaby is scarcely perceptible—all murmur harmonious notes to the hearts of the weary, home-sick mariners; the captain, assured that "all's well," goes below to dream of home, of clasping arms, warm kisses, and words of holy love. They have reached the latitude of a seaman's blessedness, "near home." Thus far, too, has Roland sailed upon the voyage of life; his bark has ridden safely through storm and calm, through rock and shoal, with the beacon light of faith and hope always shining bright above him, and looking thus steadily aloft, he, too, has reached the quiet waters of the "Beatitudes." He reads much in that sweet chapter of "the sermon on the mount," and, from the depths of a blissful experience, feels what Jesus means when he pronounces the word "blessed" upon the children of his love.

"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."

The poor before God—has he not realized the blessedness of that kingdom, which is joy, and peace, and love in the Holy Ghost? He loves to dwell separately on these beatitudes; as the miser lingers over the "unrighteous mammon," so Roland muses over his heavenly treasures, fearful lest one should fade away from the grasp of faith.

"Blessed are the meek," says our dear Lord, "for they shall inherit the earth."

The meek—those contented with their earthly lot, only anxious for the favor of God—they shall truly inherit the earth now with their spirit of contentment, and hereafter, in the days of millennial glory, when the saints shall truly possess the renovated earth—and with his spiritual growth hath not the Master blessed Roland in basket and in store? and even if he had not, would not the spirit of humble piety be to him a richer boon than the wealth of the Indies?

He has reached these quiet waters, and dwells among the regions of the "Beatitudes." Is not Roland happy? and may not all who thus cast themselves upon the good providence of God, while steadily pursuing duty, be equally blessed? Jesus' words have meaning; let us prove their power.

Roland is the same active, energetic, earnest man, rising daily in public estimation, while seeking only the favor of God. Days of deeper trial may yet come, but God in his wisdom chooses their time. While walking in the footsteps of Daniel, nought is needed but the discipline of Daniel.

"Do you know, Roland, that they are talking of you for the Legislature?"

The question was addressed to him by Edmund Norris, who was greatly interested in his friend's success.

"Nonsense, Edmund!" was the reply; "I should never please the politicians. I am no party man, and would never stoop to the tricks of men in office."

"There is really a chance for you, Roland, and I don't see why corrupt men are to be allowed always to rule the land. I think high-minded, honorable men are greatly to blame for not taking more interest in public affairs; they could do much towards purifying our halls of legislature, as well as our courts of justice."

"I have plenty to do here in my private walk, Edmund, and can thus exercise a silent influence among my fellow-men."

In a few days, Roland found that all was not merely Edmund's talk, for a party of gentlemen waited upon him to see if he would allow his name to be used in the next election. He listened quietly to their propositions.

"What do you expect, gentlemen, of your representative?"

"That he would by all measures advance the prosperity of his State."

Roland smiled, saying—

"According to the views of a certain party."

"Certainly; he is bound to represent those who send him."

"Then I suppose that he is expected to attend to many little matters of private interest; that is frequently attended with much trouble. What will he receive for such offices?"

"He may pocket many a cool five hundred in this way, if he is only accommodating."

"Supposing that his judgment and conscience should both be opposed to the views of his constituents on some points, what would be expected?"

"That he would waive such inconvenient things in the way of politics, and always consult the interest of his party."

"Then you expect him, in a free country, to give up his own independence. Is that so, gentlemen?"

"Of course—he cannot be a public man, and preserve that. The independence of a politician is only read in the Constitution of the land; it has no real existence—he has sold it."

"Then, farewell, gentlemen—I am a foreigner by birth, but an American by choice. I revere the men who framed our Constitution, and am willing to be guided by its noble teachings. I cannot consent to your proposition of making it a dead letter in my case, nor can I surrender the inestimable rights of manhood. I thank God for my conscience, and my judgment; I will not hoodwink the one, nor act against the dictates of the other. I am a freeman. If ever I fill a public station, it will be as an independent man, to advance the right, the just, the true only. I am not your man; I would be of no earthly use to individuals—the 'cool five hundred' cannot buy me."

"We are sorry, Mr. Bruce," replied the speaker; "with your talents, you could reach any post of honor that you choose; but with your romantic notions, you are throwing away a golden opportunity."

"This would be no post of honor to me, gentlemen; there are others more private, more influential, that involve no sacrifice of principle; I have chosen such, and have the sweet approval of my conscience; I cannot barter that for any earthly good," and he laid his hand impressively upon his heart.

"We honor your integrity, but it will not do in a world like ours—good-morning, sir."

"Good-morning, gentlemen—God is wiser than man, and by his laws will I be governed."

Edmund was disappointed at the result of this interview.

"And so you rejected the offers that I spoke of, Roland; I think that you carry your high-flown notions too far—you might easily have accepted such a position, and not have compromised your principles in the least."

"We differ in sentiment, Edmund; and the day will come, when you will agree with me—experience is a great teacher."

"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." This beatitude spoke volumes to Roland that night, as he sank to quiet slumbers; for peace soon follows sacrifice.

In the exercise of Christian principles, Roland was a happy, prosperous man, for wealth smiled upon him in the daily increase of his practice; and though he occupied no place of public trust, he was much more honored in the omission than in the gift.

* * * * * *

Madeline is now in New York, whither she has been called on important business.

"Shall we take a sail this evening?" asked Roland.

"Nothing would be more pleasant; let us go early, and return by moonlight."

The sail on the quiet waters of the bay was one of those periods of heart communion which are among the purest joys of earthly intercourse.

The world shut out; the low whispers of this evening hour, as they sat apart, indicated the deep feelings of each young heart.

They sat watching the passing vessels, some sailing out, others coming in from the sea; craft of all kinds and sizes gliding by them so gently, all containing pilgrims on the waters of life.

"Roland, do you ever think how much these little boats resemble the voyagers of mortality?"

"Yes, Madeline, all bound to the ocean of eternity; we are sailing with them, dearest—it seems very sweet and peaceful—what a sad thought that so many may be speeding on the voyage which ends in a fearful wreck at last!"

"How blessed are we, dear Roland, to feel that our little barks are guided by a gracious hand! for we know who steers them on so safely."

"Do you realize the presence of that precious Saviour, Madeline? I have been lately studying the sermon on the mount; have you ever thought, dear, of the full meaning of the Saviour's word, 'blessed?'"

"And I have been reading in the same, dear Roland; and think that I am learning, slowly, the meaning of those precious 'beatitudes'—as I bend at my daily devotions, and read the holy book; as I walk among my poor dependents in the green lanes at Woodcliff, or worship in the school-room of Maple Lane, I feel the murmured benediction, and know now what Jesus means, when he says those precious words, 'blessed' are they who exercise these holy emotions."

Roland sat in silence for a few moments, and then continued,

"Our little barks are now in quiet waters, dearest—why should they be any longer separated? or rather when shall we occupy the same vessel, and sail together on the same stream?" and Roland took the little hand within his own, and listened for the answer.

She smiled archly, as she replied,

"Our present life is very happy, Roland; the married people say that these are the happiest days—why then should we wish to bring them to a close so soon?"

"Do you really think so, Madeline?" said Roland, as she turned away to hide her blushes, "do you believe any such thing? don't you know that we would both be happier were our destinies united? and then, dearest, remember, that I have no home,—a parlor and two rooms are not home, Madeline. I brought you here this afternoon just to ask, how much longer must I go alone?"

"It is a shame to tease you, Roland, but the old feeling of mischief is very tempting—now, I suppose, that you want to bring my liberty to an end; to put aside the lover, with his sweet whispered words, and to begin the husband, with his tones of authority. 'Madam, I wish it so,' and 'Madam, you must not do this,' and 'Madam, you must not do that;' is it not so, Roland?"

He understood the little artifice, by which she evaded an answer, and smiled again, as he replied,

"You are afraid of no such thing, Madeline; you know your power, and the deep love that fills my heart; do not trifle when I want a serious answer."

She laid her little hand quietly within the grasp of the strong, firm man, and said,

"Take me, Roland, I am yours for life—through weal and woe, in sickness and in health, until death us do part."

The moment of levity had passed.

"When shall I call you mine?"

"In two months from to-day, Roland; will that suffice, dearest?"

"Why should it be two months? I cannot understand what you ladies have to do—what is the use of such an extensive wardrobe? It is just as easily made up afterwards. I could be ready in a day, Madeline."

"And you really would deprive me, Roland, of a young bride's pleasure—it is such a joy to prepare a wedding trousseau!"

"You don't think so, Madeline, for I know no one who cares so little for the fripperies of dress as you—now what is the reason for delay?"

"To be serious then, Roland; Aunt Matilda has some peculiar notions about these matters; and since I have not pleased her altogether in my choice, I think it is due to her to consult her wishes in this one thing—she would never hear to any thing else, I know."

"Well, then! be it so—two months from to-day; that is the decision."

The spirit of mischief returned.

"Don't you pity the poor thing, with the proud spirit, giving herself away to such a grand Mogul, with all his strict notions of right and wrong? I am afraid that she will beat her wings against the bars of her cage."

"Do you really fear the bonds of matrimony, Madeline?"

"With you, dearest? no—you may lead me where you will; for I know that it will always be in paths of holiness and love."

"Here then is the token of our union!" and Roland placed upon her finger the ring of betrothal, and then kissed the dear hand that lay so confidingly clasped in his.

"Now, Madeline, I have something to show you; it is too dark to read it now, but I can tell you what it is. I want you only—Madeline, without her dowry; she only is the object of my love. I have drawn up this document, in which all your estate is secured to yourself forever; so that I can be wholly cleared from any suspicions of sordid motives—your wealth has always been a drawback, and long withheld me from seeking your hand."

"And do you think, Roland Bruce, that I would marry a man whom I could not trust with everything that is mine? What! separate interests between man and wife! are we not one, Roland? one in love, in hope, in pursuits, one in the hopes of a better world; and shall we not be one in all things pertaining to this mortal life? No, Roland—what is mine, is yours—yours to direct, to manage, to control—we are one in all things, Roland, I will hear to nothing else; I do not want to read that paper; I am blushing while I think of it."

Roland was silent a moment, from the depth of his emotions.

"Your confidence shall never be abused, my own precious Madeline; we will try to use these gifts as stewards for our Master, and I feel assured that he will bless us."

The return home was full of sweet reflections; for amid the music that swelled, and then died away from passing pleasure boats, there came a voice over the quiet waters, which pronounced them "blessed," and they heard its blissful whispers.

We will leave them to this hour that comes but once in mortal life; and will not anticipate the discipline that must purge away the remaining dross of imperfect human character, until presented faultless before the throne of God.

* * * * * * *

Aunt Matilda resigns herself to the necessity of such a marriage, and busies herself in the preparations, for she is determined that there shall be a grand wedding at Woodcliff. There is much to do, for the young pair are to sail for Europe immediately after their marriage. Lavinia Raymond is shocked at such a degradation, and declares that neither she nor her mother will countenance such a sacrifice by their presence; Harry Castleton and Charles Davenport are disgusted when they hear of their new cousin, and several young ladies around Woodcliff utterly surprised.

"It may do for Madeline Hamilton to take such a step, she can afford it," said Lizzie Belton; "but for any of us, we should lose caste at once."

The wedding day arrived. It was a bright and beautiful morning in the month of May. Madeline arose early, and sat quietly at her chamber window looking out upon the beauteous prospect;—all creation smiled; so felt the young girl—the birds carolled their sweetest songs around the window; flowers bloomed everywhere in rich abundance; the sky was clear, for but a few fleecy clouds floated over the landscape.

"This is my wedding day," whispered Madeline, "would that my dear father were here to bless his daughter; but he is in a better land, where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage."

She bowed her head, and prayed in solemn silence for herself, and for him who was henceforth to be her partner in the journey of life; and after the sweet hour of communion with God, descended to the breakfast room; the only marks of emotion visible, the blushing cheek, quivering lip, and dewy eyes. George Stanley and Helen Thornly, with Edmund Norris and Lucy Edmunds, acted as groomsmen and bridesmaids.

We need not say that the bride was lovely, nor the groom imposing in his appearance—a full flowing dress of white satin, and a cloud of exquisite lace, through which gleamed diamonds and orange blossoms, enveloped the fair bride.

The Bishop of the diocese officiated; for as yet, there was no minister settled in the neighborhood. It was no empty ceremony of mere show for Madeline—she would have prefered a more quiet wedding—but almost unconscious of the presence of so many, she took her solemn vow before God. A sweet smile of happiness played around her mouth, bright rose-tints shone through the bridal veil, and the eyes, when raised to her husband's face, expressed pure and holy confidence, with perfect love. Roland's deportment was calm, dignified, reverential—he looked upon the fair being at his side, as one committed to his love by God himself, and deeply solemn were the vows made on that day, before the marriage altar.

Madeline's first glance was for Roland's father, who was standing near.

"Bring him here, Roland." She took the pale hand, and presented her cheek to him, saying,

"Love me, dear father, you have a daughter now;" and Stephen Bruce looked down upon the fair face and smiled sadly, as he replied,

"Be happy, my dear children, happier than I hae been."

George Stanley was to be ordained in the autumn; and the married pair looked on quietly, pleased on seeing so many indications of an incipient attachment between the young man and their friend Helen.

"Would it not be pleasant, Roland," said the young wife, "to have them near us, George for our minister, and Helen for the pastor's wife?"

"I suppose, dear, that we are for marrying all good people; but seriously, I do believe that my friend George is deeply interested in our little Helen."

Laying aside her wedding-dress, they met at the supper table as a social family party; and after tea, Madeline ringing a bell, summoned the household to the library.

Roland took his place at the table as head of the family, and with a serious, manly voice, addressed a few words to those present; then reverently read a chapter in the Bible, making a few serious remarks,—Madeline led the singing with the accompaniment of a parlor organ, and Roland closed the service by an earnest, fervent prayer.

Returning to the drawing-room, Madeline excused herself a moment, and leading her husband to the landing at the head of the stairs, she said,—

"I want to hear what the Eolian says on our wedding-day, Roland—how soft! how peaceful are its murmurs, dear!"

"Yes, Madeline—the air itself is very soothing, and then our feelings of calm and tranquil blessedness are reproduced on the sweet harp."

"I am a little more fanciful than you, dear—I must believe in the ministry of angels; you know, Roland, that we are told that they are ministering spirits, and that they encamp around the dwellings of the righteous. I believe, dear, in your prayer to-night, that you invoked their presence; it is a sweet fancy that they may breathe upon these chords of unearthly music."

"If so, Madeline, they are discoursing charmingly to-night—for I can imagine nothing in this weird music, with its mysterious strains, but sounds of peace, and joy, and love."

The only drawback to their happiness was the thought of leaving old Mr. Bruce behind them; but a knowledge of his sorrows had interested Aunt Matilda, and her kind heart led her to promise to take good care of the old gentleman.

He seemed quite pleased with the idea of living in the country; Roland left a number of charges with him, and it was a grateful thought that he could be useful to his son.

Susan Grant was appointed teacher of Madeline's little school; and old Mr. Bruce spent his evenings generally at the reading-rooms, acting as librarian.

Accompanied by Stanley and Helen, they reached New York; taking leave of them, they sailed in the first steamer for Liverpool; and, after a quick passage across the ocean, reached their destined port. Hurrying on, they found themselves in the great metropolis of England; the Earl of N—— was out of town; anxious to see her friends, Madeline made no stay in London, but proceeded directly to Parkhurst.

Their journey was through a charming country, at a most lovely season of the year, when spring flowers were abundant; the hawthorn hedges in full bloom; and all nature rejoicing in the fresh green of a spring-time in England.

Madeline's emotions were rather embarrassing as she drew near to Parkhurst; and when the porter at the lodge opened the gate, and she found herself really driving up the avenue, her emotion was visible.

Roland smiled as he read the speaking face; and taking her hand, he said,

"Madeline, you are trembling."

"Yes, Roland; I am thinking of the last evening I spent here; it is nearly three years ago, and I dare say that it is all forgotten; but these scenes revive the memory most powerfully."

Arriving at the manor-house, their names were sent up; and, in another minute, the Lady Alice came running in to greet her beloved friend.

"Welcome, dearest Madeline! I have been so sure that you would come;" and she embraced the young bride with the warmth of old friendship.

"My husband, Lady Alice;" and Roland bowed to the noble lady, with all the grace of courtly ease.

"You are welcome to Parkhurst, Mr. Bruce, for Madeline's sake."

"How came you here, Lady Alice! I supposed that you were married ere this."

"I have been a wife, Madeline, six weeks, and am now making a visit to my mother; you will see Lord Elmore at dinner;" ringing the bell, she called a servant, directing him to show the visitors to the room which she pointed out.

Madeline ran to the window to look out upon the familiar objects; the same gentle deer, the cawing of the dear old rooks, the bloom of the same sweet flowers, and the deep shade of the same old trees, just seemed as if she had left them but yesterday.

"Is it not charming, Roland?" said the young wife, "and then, when you see the dear family, you will not wonder that I call this happy home another Eden."

Descending to the drawing-room, the countess was there ready to receive them.

"And so, Madeline, my love, you come to us as a bride," was the warm salutation, as she kissed the blushing cheek, and then turned gracefully to greet her husband.

"You have obtained a prize, my dear sir; I hope that you will cherish her tenderly."

Roland bowed over the fair hand, as he replied,

"I believe, my lady, that I know her value."

The hour for dinner arrived; the earl gave them a hearty welcome; and Lord Frederic, who was now a fine young man, received them with all due courtesy.

"Where is Lord N——?" thought Madeline, but she did not ask.

"My brother is out riding with Lady Lucy; we expect them every minute," said his sister; "and now, Madeline, let me introduce you to my husband, Lord Elmore;" and a pleasant-looking young man, with a quiet face of goodness, bowed in return to the smile of Madeline.

In a short time, Lord N—— entered, with the Lady Lucy leaning upon his arm; he was taken by surprise, blushed slightly, but advancing to Madeline, he said,

"Lady Lucy, allow me to introduce you to our friend, Mrs. Bruce, formerly Miss Hamilton, of whom you have heard me so often speak."

The young lady, with a very sweet smile and blush, extended her hand to the married pair.

Seated at the table, the conversation became general. Lord N—— was polite, kind, friendly to Madeline; but it was plain that the gentle Lady Lucy engrossed all the more tender attentions.

"How long since you were married, Mrs. Bruce?" asked Lord N——.

"About five weeks, my lord; we left Woodcliff immediately, and are on our way to Scotland."

"You will pay us a visit, dear Madeline," said the Lady Alice, "ere you go further; I shall hear no denials."

Madeline looked towards her husband.

"Can we spare the time, Mr. Bruce?"

"I think so; we are not to be hurried in our movements."

After dinner, Lord N—— uncovered the harp; and leading Madeline forward, said,

"I have heard no such strains as you produced ever since you left us, Mrs. Bruce; you will favor us this evening."

"Most gladly, my lord; have you any choice?"

"None at all; all your music is charming."

Lady Lucy sat near the harp, for she was enraptured with the performer, and no less with the sweet strains produced by Madeline's dainty fingers, as they wandered so gracefully among the harp-strings.

"I wish that I could play as you do, Mrs. Bruce; Lord N—— is so passionately fond of music; I am trying to learn, and hope that I shall succeed."

"Do you understand the piano, Lady Lucy?"

"I think that I do."

"Then there will only be the difficulty of learning how to manage the instrument, which will require diligent practice: will you not play a piece?"

With unaffected ease, she took her seat, and played with much taste a simple little air, and turning around, artlessly, to Madeline, said,

"Do you think it worth while for me to learn?"

"Indeed I do," was the quick reply; "you have taste, correctness of touch, and will soon acquire skill."

"We will come to the harp to-morrow morning alone," said the young lady, "and see what we can do; perhaps you will point out my errors."

"Certainly, my dear lady; I shall be but too happy to render you any aid."

Lord N—— was pleased with the social chat, and when he had the opportunity, said to Madeline,

"Is she not charming? so artless! and yet so intelligent and good!"

"She seems to be a lovely person, Lord N——; may I congratulate you in the possession of such a heart?"

"You may, Mrs. Bruce; she will soon be mine."

Next morning, the young ladies met in the drawing room, and Madeline took great pleasure in directing the hour's practice; and as long as she stayed at Parkhurst, the Lady Lucy availed herself of the generous aid of the youthful visitor; mutually pleased with each other, these were happy hours.

A visit to Elmore Hall completed their stay in England. Leaving her pleasant friends, Madeline enjoyed the fine country through which they passed on their way to Scotland.

Stopping in their journey wherever there were spots of historical interest, or beautiful scenery, their northern tour occupied some weeks. Madeline's naive and enthusiastic expressions of delight were fully appreciated by the fine taste of her husband.

* * * * * * *

"Whom hae we here?" said Uncle Malcolm, as he heard the wheels of a carriage driving up to the door.

"They are travellers frae a distance, uncle," said Annot Lindsay, "for they hae a large number o' trunks."

Malcolm could think of but one such party, and hurrying out, the beaming faces of the young pair greeted him from the carriage window.

In a moment Roland was pressed to his heart, and Madeline most affectionately welcomed to the Highland Hall.

"How lang hae ye been in England, Roland?" inquired Mr. Graham.

"About three months."

"And did na let us know, Roland! How is that?"

"We wanted to surprise you, my good sir; and then we had a great deal to see, and we knew that you would hurry us on to Scotland; but we are going to pay you the longest visit."

Uncle Malcolm took Madeline's hand.

"May the dear Lord bless ye, my sweet young leddy! ye hae made a noble choice, an' I doubt na will be a happy wife."

"The wife of Roland Bruce must be blessed, Uncle Malcolm; I have known him for more than eleven years, and always loved him even from a child."

Madeline looked around her with wondering eyes, for all was so different from the calm features of English landscape. High mountains, clothed with dark, rich foliage, and the rough lineaments of the Scottish Highlands, so totally unlike the picturesque country through which she had so lately passed. But it had great charms—even the novelty made it attractive. Then this Highland home of a Scotch gentleman was so comfortable; such a warm glow of welcome shone upon her everywhere, that the young heart was full of happiness, and the bright face dimpled with rosy smiles.

And Annot Lindsay was so piquante! so fresh! so guileless! Her airy little figure, soft blue eyes, and profusion of light ringlets shading her sweet young face, were not her only charms. The warm heart that beat under her blue boddice, and the musical voice that greeted Madeline with such a simple, earnest welcome, gained the heart of the young bride at once; for soon after supper, the two were seated side by side, on the soft sofa of the family room, quite at home; Annot holding Madeline's hand, and looking on her face with evident admiration.

"Madeline, I luve ye," whispered the young girl, as she drew closer to her, and leaned her pretty head upon her shoulder—"wunna ye be my sister, Madeline? for I ne'er had ane."

She returned the caress of the lovely girl.

"That is just my case, Annot, and I can easily adopt you as my little sister; for I shall not return to America without you."

"What will Uncle Malcolm say to that?"

"Oh! I am wonderful at coaxing; ask Roland about that."

While this episode was acting upon the sofa, Uncle Malcolm had raised the piano.

"It has been tuned on purpose for ye, dear; now, sister Lindsay, I am going to gie ye a treat;" and the good man led Madeline to the instrument.

"Scotch music first," said the host.

"I know a great deal, Uncle Malcolm, for I learned it to please Roland."

And Madeline threw out her whole soul that night, and poured forth such strains of melody as melted every heart—even old Lion drew closer to the instrument, looking wistfully in the face of the performer.

Then came several fine sacred pieces, which particularly accorded with the tastes of the family at Graham Hall.

After evening worship, Mrs. Lindsay led her guests to their room, for she perceived that they were wearied with their journey.

"You have made great improvements, Mrs. Lindsay," said Roland, as he looked around.

"Yes—Malcolm wad hae everything renewed; he went to London himsel', so that a' should be right."

"He has made this a charming room, indeed," said Roland; "one would scarcely wish to leave it."

"That is just what we should like, Roland, but we canna wish for sic' happiness; guid night,"—and she kissed the cheek of the young wife, and departed.

In the freedom of the country, the three young people ran about with the gay spirits of childhood, searching out the fine points of picturesque views, and bringing in every variety of novel plant. Roland often laughed at Madeline's blunders, who, being unacquainted with Scotch vegetation, frequently gathered weeds for flowers.

The purple tints of the Scotch heather met them everywhere, and Madeline could easily understand why it was so dear to Mrs. Bruce; for was it not almost the carpet of the Scotch highlands? Many were the pleasant excursions which Uncle Malcolm devised for their amusement—a visit to the old manse, and another to the kirk, where Madeline stood in silence with Roland, amidst the memories of his childhood.

"We must see Jennie," said her husband; and the old woman, who now lived at the manse, was summoned to the parlor.

"An' this is yer bonny bride, Roland! may she aye be a blessed wife! she's a bright young bird! wad na yer mither hae luved her weel?"

"I am glad to see you at the manse, Jennie."

"Yes, Roland—but the dear ones that made its sunshine, hae a' gane; an' a' that I can do is to remember."

"You will meet them again, Jennie."

"Yes, i' the land that's far awa', hinney—when this puir body hae done wi' cares an' toils, we shall a' rejoice together."

"Here is something for you, Jennie; a warm winter dress; we remembered you on our way."

"And I too," said the young wife, as she unrolled a soft tartan cloak.

Jennie dropped a courtesy, as she said,

"These are just what I wanted—it wad hae' been a lang time ere I could hae' bought the like; thank ye kindly, my bonny bairns."

They turned to go—"Stay, Roland; I hae yer mither's hymn-book; I found it i' the auld kirk, an' I kenned that nae body wad luve it half sae weel."

Roland took the precious relic, and bade farewell.

"God bless ye, my bairns; an' bring ye hame to the blessed kingdom;" were the parting words of old Jennie.

* * * * * * *

Alone they stood around the grave of Lilian Gordon; and Madeline, amid the deep solitude of the solemn scenery with nought but the murmurs of the rustling winds, and the gurgling of mountain brooks to disturb the silence, could sympathize with the emotions so often described by Roland, on that sacred spot.

"Here were kindled the first feelings of ancestral pride, Roland;" said the young wife.

"Yes, Madeline, I can say with the poet Cowper,

"'My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise—
The son of parents passed into the skies.'"

"Here, too, was kindled your dislike of the Church of England."

"That is true—and can you wonder? I was but a child, then, with all the strong feelings of a Scotch education—I knew nothing of the noble specimens of piety, learning, and the true catholic spirit which distinguish the Church of England in modern days; I doubt if you could find a persecuting Laud now."

"It makes me so happy, my husband, to hear you express such sentiments; for I should be very sorry to find a gulf between us, on such a subject."

"But, really, Madeline, in spite of all these old grievances, I do prefer, in many things, the church of your love—it suits my spirit; the solemn order of its ritual, the fervent tone of its devotion, baptized by the Spirit of God, breathed throughout these sacred offices, seem to me so much more worthy of the solemnity of public worship offered to the Deity, than the rude irreverent speech which shocks a devotional, humble spirit; the trouble is just here—people are tempted to rest in forms, and where there is not a spirit of heartfelt piety, these may degenerate into mere lip-service."

"Yes, Roland, that is true—but do not all persons who lead public exercises have their own forms almost stereotyped? and our choice must, sometimes, not always be, between crude, irreverent, tedious prayers, and the wisdom, piety, and experience, of some of the purest spirits of the Reformation. I could close my eyes, sometimes, and say who was praying, if I did not know the voice, I am sure. What a blessing it is that we can both stand on such a broad platform, as to embrace all who love our Lord Jesus Christ, in sincerity and truth—my heart turns instinctively to all such with a warm throb, and wherever I see the lovely features of the Master, I am conscious of a love above all this earthly scaffolding."

"There was much in the spirit of the old Covenanters to admire and revere, Madeline; their heroic endurance and patience placed them by the side of the noblest martyrs; and many of them will, doubtless, be very near the throne of our dear Lord in that day, when he gathers in his own elect."

"For that I love their memory, Roland; but there was much in the spirit of their great leader, Oliver Cromwell, that did not seem to me to accord with the spirit of Christ."

"He lived in days so different from ours that we can scarcely realize what qualities such times could call forth."

They were seated by the side of Lilian's grave, and, with hands clasped, they sang

"Blest is the tie that binds
Our hearts in Christian love;
The fellowship of kindred minds
Is like to that above."

After a few moments of delicious silence, Roland looked upward towards the distant hills.

"It is growing late, dear; we must not keep our good friends waiting;" and reluctantly they turned away from the hallowed spot.

* * * * * * *

Time sped too rapidly; for the intercourse of the congenial spirits which dwelt at Graham Hall was just such as completely represented the idea of domestic happiness. Riding about with Uncle Malcolm, interested in his various schemes of business or benevolence, Roland was content; and Mrs. Lindsay, Madeline, and Annot formed a happy trio around the domestic fireside.

The simplicity of the young wife endeared her tenderly to good Mrs. Lindsay; for while she daily gave Annot her music lesson, she left no opportunity of gathering from Mrs. Lindsay's experience practical knowledge for her own housekeeping. With her clean, white apron, she was often seen by the side of that good lady, when making any of her nice dishes, or putting up the various comforts for winter use. Many a time did Roland peep in on these occasions, smiling at the pretty figure, with sleeves rolled up, and dainty fingers busily at work with the pastry and cakes, the pickles or jellies of good Mrs. Lindsay.

Sometimes he would run in, and whisper some words which would cover Madeline's face with blushes, and she would reply,

"Send him away, Mrs. Lindsay; he is growing to be such a flatterer; he'll make me vain and foolish."

She gathered thus a number of valuable recipes from the kind hostess, and looked upon her visit to Graham Hall as the most useful of all since she had left home.

"A letter from Edmund!" said Roland, one morning, at the breakfast-table; "he says that he envies us this visit, for he never was so happy, in all his life, as when at Graham Hall; there's something here about our little Annot that I know she'd like to hear;" and Roland glanced mischievously at the blushing face of the young girl.

"I dinna care onything about it, Roland; it's just a shame to tease me sae;" and Annot ran away from the table in a hurry to attend to some business that she remembered suddenly.

When Roland had a private opportunity, he whispered in her ear,

"Edmund wonders if sweet Annot Lindsay remembers the pleasant walks and rides, the quiet evenings, and mossy bunks round Graham Hall; he can never forget them, he says, for the linnet that sang those pretty Scotch songs so sweetly is ever haunting his path."

Annot listened with downcast face, for she was conscious of remembering them quite as tenderly.

"Do you know, Annot, that I have obtained Uncle Malcolm's consent to spare you just one year? you are going with us to Woodcliff; he consents, because he thinks that the journey will be of great use to you, Annot; he wishes you to be one year with my Madeline."

"Am I really going!" and she clapped her little hands with delight.

"I shall be sae happy;" then speedily changing countenance, "but what will Uncle Malcolm an' dear mother do without me? I fear that they will be sae lonesome."

A farewell visit to Aunt Douglass and Elsie Gibson closed their sojourn in Scotland.

Pleasant things must have an end. After a few weeks of busy preparation, Annot was ready; and the hitherto happy party were very silent around the breakfast-table, where they met for the last time.

The parting hour had arrived; trunks all ready, the farewell blessing given, and the last adieux silently exchanged from full hearts and weeping eyes.

Annot threw herself upon the bosom of her mother, then of dear Uncle Malcolm, with a burst of feeling; and was placed silently in the carriage by the side of Madeline, who folded the young girl in her arms, and said,

"Be comforted, Annot; you are going with those who love you dearly."

"I ken it a', Madeline; but I am leaving the dearest far behind."

As they passed the familiar scenes of her daily life she still looked out with weeping eyes.

"Farewell, dear Scotland! how bonnie her dark-brown hills appear to me!"

A short voyage brought the party to America, and, without delay, to Woodcliff.

"There, Annot, is our dear, dear home!" said Madeline, as they drove up the avenue of noble elms.

"It is a lovely spot, dear! but how different from Scotland!"

Aunt Matilda, Mr. Bruce, and the servants were all in waiting; for the long absence of six months had prepared the way for a warm welcome. Aunt Matilda could never tire of looking at her dear niece, and Mr. Bruce hung upon the arm of his son with the same old reverential love, his voice trembling with joyful emotion.

"I hae missed ye day and night, Roland, but I hae done a' that ye told me, an' a' is just as ye wish it."

The novelty of the scenes around her revived Annot's spirits, and she was soon the merry little sunbeam of the house. Aunt Matilda was delighted with the Highland lassie, and was never better pleased than when she could draw her away from all the rest, and hear her tales about Scottish life, and scenery, and people; the old superstitions had their charm for her, and many a time Madeline enjoyed a quiet laugh at the expense of Aunt Matilda. As soon as Edmund heard of the arrival, he hastened to Woodcliff; but what was his surprise to see Annot Lindsay in America! She was no longer the pretty, innocent child of fifteen, with her sweet voice and winning ways, but a lovely girl of eighteen, with the simplicity of a child and the deeper nature of a woman. She had grown wonderfully, but was still a little Highland maiden; the same soft eyes and ever-changing color, the same graceful form and tripping step, the same luxuriant flow of golden ringlets and tender, bewildering voice. He was completely taken by surprise. He could not call her Annot now—this young and charming woman.

"Miss Lindsay, I am delighted to see you again; this is indeed an unexpected pleasure," and Edmund touched respectfully the hand so bashfully extended, and, as soon as possible, Annot sought the shelter of a quiet corner, where she thought herself secure from observation. But not so. Edmund was soon again by her side, and would take no denial when begging for some of her sweet Scotch songs.

She was an artless little thing, and, without farther persuasion, took her seat at the piano, and revived the old memories with her sweet voice, now so much fuller, deeper, richer than three years ago.

"I ken some mair music, Mr. Norris," and Annot proceeded to sing some of her more fashionable music.

"Let us keep to the old songs, Miss Lindsay; they are the sweetest by far."

"What are you about now, Edmund?" said Roland.

"I am in business just to please my mother; but I despise mercantile concerns; I shall never be a successful merchant."

"We shall see you often now, Edmund, I suppose," said Roland, archly emphasizing the word now.

"I think that is very likely," dryly answered Edmund, with a significant smile.

CHAPTER XXX.

FELLOW-HEIRS OF THE GRACE OF LIFE

"This is a trial," said Roland; "business calls me to New York, and it will never do for me to be running down daily to Woodcliff; I should be half of my time on the road. In the busy season, I shall have to content myself coming every other day, unless we take boarding in the city."

"Do you desire it, Roland? your wishes shall guide me, although I should be sorry to leave dear Woodcliff; life is so very different in that gay metropolis."

"I think that we had better remain here; we will go to the city for a few weeks in the winter, that Annot may see some of the lions that we have to show her."

Still the child of Providence, Roland rose step by step, until we find him occupying posts of honor and trust, a self-made man, such as thrive best in America. Life was very charming at Woodcliff; but Madeline felt that it was time to furnish her young charge with some useful pursuits, so one morning after breakfast she summoned her to her sitting-room.

"Well, Annot, now you have run about like a wild bird for a few weeks, suppose that we arrange some plans for improvement, dear; that is what Uncle Malcolm wishes, you know."

"An' that is just what I desire, Madeline."

"I have written to one of the best teachers of music in Boston, and, as it is but a few hours' ride, he can come twice a week to give you lessons, and you will have abundant time for practice; then I am going to ask your help in the Sunday-school, and will give you ten families among the factory people to visit."

"Thank ye, dear Madeline; I hae always led a busy life, and I wad na be happy in a state o' idleness."

The neighborhood around Woodcliff was rapidly increasing; the factories had brought many new families, both of the working classes and their employers; and the healthy, pleasant climate, the vicinity of the sea, and the beauties of fine scenery, had attracted also many summer residents, who were building picturesque cottages all around in the pleasant lanes, on the hill-tops, and some nearer to the sea-shore, where there was now a prospect of good bathing. Consequently, the Sunday-school and the congregation rapidly multiplied. Madeline began to think that it was time to think about her favorite plan in earnest; there must really be a church at Woodcliff.

It was a very happy household that dwelt beneath its roof; but there must be something to disturb its quiet, for, to Madeline's surprise, Lavinia wrote to say that Lucy and she were coming on a visit to Woodcliff. A slight shade of annoyance passed over the face of the young lady as she wondered what would bring Lavinia, after her conduct at the time of her marriage; but Madeline was a Christian and a lady, and sent an acknowledgment of the letter, with the information that a room was ready for their reception. They arrived—Lavinia, the same vain and frivolous girl; Lucy, the same gentle, pious friend. A handsome wardrobe, with every variety of fashionable folly, was intended to impress Annot Lindsay, but it failed signally; for it simply excited her wonder, and offended her pure and lady-like taste. Remarks were never made upon the subject except by Lavinia herself, and Annot generally contrived to introduce some more profitable conversation.

We will sit down with the family at a breakfast scene. Always attired with the neat simplicity of a lady, Madeline had not yet learned to appear before her husband with dishevelled hair, untidy costume, or any neglect of ladylike habits; and yet she was busier now than when Aunt Matilda expressed the fear that such might be the case; for, in her leisure moments, she still scribbled privately for the news-boys; but she had learned to live by system, thanks to the master of the family.

"Roland, will you want the horses to-day?" asked the wife.

"I think not; do you wish to ride, Madeline?"

"Yes; I have a visit to pay; I have never returned Mrs. De Coursey's call."

"I think that I shall have to refuse my wife the use of the horses to-day."

Madeline changed countenance—to be refused! and before Aunt Matilda and Lavinia, it was really too bad. She began to tap her little foot under the table, and to play impatiently with her spoon.

"Why can I not have the horses, if you are not going to use them, Roland?"

"I do not wish my wife to cultivate the acquaintance of Mrs. De Coursey; she is not a proper associate for a pure-minded lady."

"Why, what is the matter with Mrs. De Coursey? for my part, I think that she is charming; so sweet in her manners, so generous in her charities!"

"Have you ever seen her ride with her husband, Madeline?"

"I cannot say that I have," was the reply.

"Have you not seen her riding repeatedly with that infamous George Sinclair, Madeline?"

"I think I have, but he is her cousin; is he not?"

"Perhaps so; but in the absence of her husband, she is much too free with gentlemen generally."

"And so you really refuse me the horses, Roland?"

"Do not let us talk about it now, my love; after breakfast, I will explain my reasons more fully."

Roland looked deeply pained, Madeline angry and mortified, Lavinia Raymond contemptuous, and Aunt Matilda utterly surprised. It was the first ripple on the matrimonial surface.

The meal passed in silence—husband and wife were thoroughly uncomfortable. After Madeline had washed her silver and glass, as was her custom, she proceeded, with a dejected step, to her favorite room.

Roland followed—she was sitting in silence before her secretary, leaning her head on her hand, while she could not conceal the tears that were stealing through her fingers.

"My dearest wife," said the young man, "have I pained you?" and he seated himself by her, winding his arm around her waist, and kissing away the tears, as they fell drop by drop from her eyes.

She did not answer; conscience was busily at work, for she felt that she had been wrong.

"Can you not trust me, love? would I refuse you any thing which I know was for your real good? but when the honor of my pure and noble wife is concerned, then I must be the husband, Madeline. Do you know that Mrs. De Coursey is not visited, even in New York, by any of the really pure and good?"

"I did not know it, Roland, but I wish that you had refused me when alone; it was so mortifying to be treated just like a——child!" and she sobbed out the latter word, and threw herself upon his bosom; "and then to see the look of triumph and contempt in Lavinia's face, and surprise and pain on Aunt Matilda's."

"What need you care, my love, for the opinions of the world, if you only know that you are right? It is right to avoid the society of the impure, and it is right to be guided by your husband—is it not, dear?"

Madeline turned her eyes full upon Roland's noble face, so full of sorrow, and tender feeling. He had fully conquered; and she wound her arms around his neck, as she whispered,

"Forgive me, dear Roland, you are always right—this is just some of the leaven of my old hateful pride."

"And you the same sweet, ingenuous wife—do you think that I will ever allow any thing to approach you, Madeline, that can even breathe upon your reputation, or your happiness? now, darling—be comforted;" and he kissed again and again the half-smiling, tearful face.

Madeline began to laugh, a little hysterically, at first, but at last the showers passed away, and she was herself again.

Opening her secretary, she took out a draft of a church, which she had brought from England, a copy of the pretty Gothic building at Parkhurst.

"I want to ask your advice, Roland, about this church; you won't refuse me dear, will you?"

"It is very pretty, Madeline; but I think that we must have something added that is a little more useful."

"O, yes! it wants a Sunday-school—we cannot have that in a building like this, without spoiling the proportions."

"We can have a building by itself of the same style, and then, you know, that there must be a parsonage."

"Yes, that is fixed—no church without a house for the minister; I think the time has come to set about building—but it will cost a great deal of money."

"I will give a thousand, Madeline, out of my own means—I mean from my practice."

"Can we not give two thousand, Roland?"

"I think so, but we must be careful, dear, not to go beyond our ability, though our means are abundant; now, darling, come sit by me a moment," and Roland drew the young wife by his side upon the sofa, while he said softly,

"Do you not sometimes regret your loss of liberty, Madeline? just tell me, darling, truly."

"Never, Roland, in the depths of my heart—there may he ripples of the old pride disturbing the surface of my happiness; but the quiet ocean of love cannot be ruffled by these little passing winds," and she kissed her husband fondly; then rising said, "wait a minute, I must get my bonnet and mantle, for I have some purchases to make to-day."

Returning soon, every trace of sadness had vanished, and with the old arch look of mischief in her face, she entered saying, with a mock reverence of profound obeisance,

"'Most potent, grave and reverend signior!
My very noble and approved good master,'
If I have in aught offended your lordship,
I most humbly beg your gracious pardon—
The very head and front of my offending is in this;
That wilful woman like, I, like a fractious child,
Have sought to have my way, and not my lord's.
But now I lay down the weapons of my rebellion,
And Desdemona-like, bow to my lord Othello,
And say just love me well, my lord, and I am happy."

and as she concluded, placing her hand gracefully upon her heart, she made another mocking obeisance; the long, drooping eyelashes hiding the gleams of mischief that lurked in ambush. While she spoke these words with such a winning grace, Roland looked and listened with admiring gaze. It was the bewitching child of the sea-shore, and the wild woods yet, that stood before him, with her bright look of mischief gleaming from her deep blue eyes, and dimpling her expressive mouth. He kissed the glowing cheek with fondest love, as he replied,

"Well done! my love, where did you get that fine speech?"

"An imitation of Shakspeare, my lord; I was just seized with a fit of mischief, and thought that I would be sweet Desdemona—have I succeeded, Roland?"

"Admirably—now, what have you to ask, my darling? I know that there must be something behind this pretty acting."

"Why, just this—to show that we are all right again, just take me this morning to the store, and this evening to the hill above Glendale; I want to show you a fine site for our church."

"My plans were all different for to-day; but you must carry me where you please, Desdemona."

"That's noble, my lord Othello; now as soon as you can get the carriage, I am ready."

In a little while the carriage drove up, and Lavinia was utterly surprised to see Madeline, with beaming eyes and glowing cheek, handed in by her husband.

Kissing her hand to those on the piazza, she drove off in high spirits, and Lavinia said,

"Madeline lets that man lead her just where he pleases; I am astonished that a girl of her spirit should be so tame—refuse her own horses! I should like to see the man that could do that by me."

"It is mutual leading, Lavinia," replied Lucy. "I never saw a more perfect union."

They rode happily along, their intercourse the dearer for the gentle agitation that had disturbed it—but let young married persons beware that they stir not these ripples too often, for they may raise tempests at last.

Lengthening their ride, they remained away for two hours, and Madeline was happy in having her husband at home all day. After an early tea, another pleasant ride to Glendale, closed the day.

Arrived at the spot, Madeline led her husband to the top of a hill, commanding a fine view of the whole country. On the brow of this eminence stood a grove of fine old forest trees, that looked as if they had grown there on purpose to shade the pretty church; on the slope of the hill, facing the south, was an extensive lawn descending gradually to a babbling stream, bordered on either side by wild shrubbery, and fine old trees, dipping their branches into the winding creek; pretty vines hung in graceful festoons among the branches, forming charming resting-places for the strollers on the banks of this rural stream.

To the left was one broad rolling hill, rising in gentle swells, until it was lost in the distant outlines of misty blue hills.

This one eminence was partly covered with fine forest trees, crowning it to the very top; and on the slopes at the foot of the hill were pretty rural cottages, surrounded by shade trees, cultivated fields, and thick clumps of woods. From one broad opening, peeps out the dearest little miniature home, so like a bird's nest of love; as far as eye could reach, for miles the country was one beautiful garden of gentle hills and dales, and extensive woodlands; adding the picturesque feature of a dark stone bridge over a neighboring stream. The whole landscape was dotted with fine farms, gentlemen's country-seats, and quiet rural homes; and bounding this whole charming picture, on every side, were ranges of low hills, fading away in the distance in tints of misty blue.

Viewed at sunset, it was a picture never to be forgotten—the whole landscape was flooded in a halo of glory; the deep crimson of the setting sun illumined the sky, and hung his veil of splendor over every hill; gradually it changed to deeper hues, then to rich purple and gold, tinging the trees with the reflected glow of sunlight; slowly the hues faded, until the landscape was enveloped in the sombre drapery of solemn evening.

"What a place for thought and study, Roland! This must be the site for our church; we will call it Calvary; it shall be Gothic, with a Sunday-school, and parsonage to correspond; we must have a good minister; I have set my heart on George Stanley, he has been just ordained; write to him, Roland; he might as well come down at once; and if he becomes interested, he can help us to collect the funds, for it will cost a large sum of money. The house must be Glendale Parsonage, and I think Helen will be the lady; don't you, Roland?"

"I have no doubt of it; they are constantly engaged in the same good works, and seem just suited to each other; he so strong and self-reliant, she so gentle and dependent."

Madeline had passed a happy day; and, on their return, Lavinia and Lucy were walking on the piazza. There was something so tender in the manner of the young husband, as he lifted her from the carriage, and so confiding in the deep blue eyes of the wife, that Lavinia was full of wonder.

"I wonder how long the honeymoon will last," said Lavinia, as she observed the perfect reconciliation of the married pair.

"I think for life, Lavinia," was Lucy's reply; "there are depths of love and earnest piety in both characters; and such links are not easily broken."

"For my part, I don't believe in such romantic notions, Lucy; give me a handsome house and carriage, plenty of servants, and a long purse of money, with a comfortable, easy husband, who will let me take my path, and he choose his, and that is all that I care for."

Madeline and her husband, seated in the library, were looking over some accounts connected with their charities; and, after an hour devoted to business, she took her seat on a low ottoman at Roland's feet; and leaning her head upon his knee, occasionally she looked up in his face, with the true love of a wife shining in her expressive eyes, while he laid his hand caressingly upon the soft brown hair.

"We are very happy, Roland," said the young wife, "and sometimes when I read of the discipline of God's children, I tremble lest it should be necessary to visit our nest of love."

"We must never forget, my wife, that we are but pilgrims, seeking another, that is, a heavenly country; let our great object be to glorify God, to love him supremely, and then we can trust him with all our future. Looking aloft! dear, always, through joy and through sorrow, that is the way to happiness and peace."

"How different, Roland, is the bond that unites us, from the cold and selfish world! no wonder that there are so many wretched marriages, when so few are founded upon the holy principles of the Gospel. Ah, how many, when days of indifference and neglect overtake them, sigh for a love that never existed!"

"If people would only study the epistles of the disciple whom Jesus loved, and form their heart unions from such high and holy sources, how different would be the loves and friendships of poor humanity!"

And thus holy was the heart communion of this true union.

"Do not forget, Roland, to write to Stanley to-morrow, and bring him down with you next week to see the field of labor; it will be such a privilege to have a church of our own."

"Now, dear, it is time for worship;" and Roland rang the bell which summoned his family to the library.

While he reverently read and expounded the Holy Scriptures, all listened with deep seriousness; Madeline always conducted the singing; and guests and servants felt the value of that banner of security thus daily spread over the family circle at Woodcliff. Even Lavinia was obliged, much against her will, to pay the homage of deep respect to the character of Roland Bruce.

The Eolian discoursed sweet music on that calm evening, as, arm in arm, Roland and Madeline stood near the open window.

Edmund's visits to Woodcliff were much more frequent; a piece of music for Annot, an hour's private talk with Roland, or a book for Madeline, all served as so many pleas for weekly visits; until, at last, Edmund was always expected on Saturday night, to return with Roland, on Monday, to the city.

Tired of the frivolity of fashionable life, his heart turned with delight to the home-circle of his friend, and he often wondered if he should ever be blessed with such a happy household.

Annot had learned to listen for his footstep, and to blush when his hand was upon the door-knob; always ready with some new music, or a plate of especially choice fruit. Edmund gradually found that the lovely Scotch lassie was necessary to his happiness; and the heads of the family did not discourage the intimacy, for Roland knew his worth; had watched his progress, and saw the gleams of spiritual life as they developed themselves in his young protégé.

Therefore, when Edmund invited Annot to a walk on the piazza, to a ramble on the sea-shore, or by the placid lake, to an evening ride in the quiet lanes, there was no opposition; it rather pleased both husband and wife to see the dawn of a virtuous attachment, so elevating to the character of a young man.

Lavinia brought her visit to a close, for the tranquil pleasures and useful pursuits at Woodcliff did not suit the worldly tastes of her vitiated heart.

Stanley and Helen accompanied Roland on his next Saturday's return.

A long talk in the library between Roland and his friend about the parish seemed to have ended harmoniously; for after an early tea, the four took a ride to Glendale, for it was but a mile from Woodcliff.

Stanley was enraptured with the beautiful view from the hill-top, and Helen more quietly enjoyed the scene.

"There, Mr. Stanley, will be a part of your parish," said Madeline, as she pointed to the numerous pleasant homes scattered in all directions from one to five or six miles distant; "many of these people go nowhere to church, and if we should plant one in their midst, I doubt not that we could soon raise a prosperous congregation; the good Bishop of our Diocese is very anxious for such an effort, for his family have a summer-cottage here; we have already about one hundred in regular attendance, and large numbers of summer residents could worship with us—we have a prosperous Sunday-school with twelve teachers, and a Parish school under the care of an excellent young person, Susan Grant."

Stanley listened with deep interest

"The call seems inviting, Mrs. Bruce, and nothing would please me more than a home amidst just such a people; what do you say, Helen?"

At this direct and sudden appeal she blushed deeply—for, as yet, only surmise had connected the two names.

"I think that it would suit you exactly, Mr. Stanley; this quiet, shady hill, looks so inviting to thought and study."

Madeline could not resist the temptation as she whispered,

"And you, dear Helen, for the pastor's good little wife."

The sweet face was suffused with blushes, as she replied,

"Would you advise it, Madeline?"

"By all means, my dear girl; Stanley is the very companion for you, my little lily."

This was all side-talk, while the gentlemen were engaged in conversation of a more practical character.

The end of the conference was that Stanley should enter at once upon his labors, and that active measures should be taken without delay towards the erection of a church. He preached on Sunday to quite a large congregation; and the manly, earnest character of his sermon, so full of the unction of a pure gospel, made a deep impression; Roland heard many saying as they left the school-room,

"I wish that we could have him for our minister."

Stanley soon came among them as their own pastor, and until his own home was ready he took up his abode at Woodcliff. The church was quickly planned, an architect and builders upon the spot, and under the energetic perseverance of Roland and Stanley, it went forward rapidly.

Daily did the character of Stephen Bruce's piety deepen; his mind would probably never regain its tone, for it had been shattered too long and powerfully for perfect restoration. He was very busy in riding daily to the church; for although of another sect, he was interested in all of Roland's plans, and reported daily progress, with all the simple-hearted pleasure of a child.

Susan Grant, the little girl for whom Roland stood as the youthful champion, was now an excellent young woman, and had charge of the parish school, while Philip acted as librarian for the reading-room; and the affectionate daughter had actually lightened her dear mother's cares, and brightened her happy home, not, however, by gathering diamonds, but by scattering seeds of knowledge. November was now approaching, and Madeline remembered her promise to Annot, that she should visit the city for a few weeks; accordingly, the three took up their abode at one of the best hotels. Visiting all the celebrated places in and around New York, Annot was pleased for awhile, but her chief delight was in the happy evenings that she and Edmund could now spend together.

At the end of six weeks, Annot came to Madeline with a pleading look upon her face—"Shall we return to Woodcliff, dear?"

"I am glad to hear you make the request, Annot, for I must be there by Christmas; and so you have seen enough of this great city, my dear, and love the quiet of the country yet?"

"Luve it, Madeline! I dinna ken how I could e'er be happy in a great city. Sic a bustle, an' sic a round o' folly, I ne'er could endure."

"And what, then, will you and Edmund do? You know his business is in New York."

Annot hung her pretty head, and blushed as she replied,

"There is nae positive bond between us, Madeline."

"Not that of devoted hearts, Annot?"

"I did na say that exactly; but it wud na be right to make an engagement o' that sort without Uncle Malcolm an' dear mother's consent."

"Have you ever written to them, dear, upon the subject?"

"Oh, yes, Madeline! I ne'er hae ony secrets frae them; they want us baith to wait until Edmund sees Uncle Malcolm. I hae been here noo quite a year. I canna gae hame alone. In the spring, Mrs. Norris, Jessie, an' Edmund, are all going to Europe, an' I shall accompany them."

"You have every prospect of happiness with Edmund Norris, but I don't know what Uncle Malcolm will say about parting with his darling niece."

"Is it na strange, Madeline, that I could feel willing to leave dear Uncle Malcolm, the guid friend o' a lifetime, an' my precious mother, who has luved me sae fondly, to come awa' wi' a stranger, that I hae only kenned intimately for one year? and yet I am willing; I could go ony where wi' Edmund, to the north or south pole. Does it na seem amaist a shame, Madeline, to say sae?" and Annot blushed rosy red, as she hung her head down bashfully.

"I know all about that, Annot—it is not strange, dear, for does not the Bible say, that a 'man shall leave his father and mother, and cleave to his wife, and they twain shall be one flesh?' and it is just the same with the wife; so don't distress yourself, little dear; it is the ordering of our Father."

Christmas Eve at Woodcliff—what a bright, happy time! The parlors, library, dining and sitting rooms, are all dressed with evergreens, winter flowers and vases, in which the Scotch heather lifts its pretty purple flowers among brighter blossoms; and a table with a large white cover stands in the middle of the library, which has been most carefully locked for the last week.

In the back parlor stands a Christmas tree (on the top of which rests the Christmas angel), hung with numberless little gifts, and decorated with red holly berries, lady-apples, colored glass globes, and a profusion of variegated wax candles.

On a small table are spread piles of fancy covered books.

This has been the work of Madeline and Annot since their return from New York; interesting several families in the neighborhood, they have gathered together a large quantity of presents for the children of the Sunday-school.

They are determined to have a happy Christmas at Woodcliff. Early in the evening, the rooms are lit, and the ladies dressed. Madeline, in Roland's favorite brown silk, with lace collar, and sleeves, with no ornaments save a branch of ivy leaves and scarlet berries in her hair, and a handsome carbuncle set, that her husband had presented—Annot, in a pale blue dress, with a delicate lace frill around the neck and sleeves, and a few white camelias in her golden ringlets, that hung so gracefully around her shoulders.

Standing in eager expectation near the window, they listened for the approach of their guests.

"I hear the carriage," said Madeline, for it had been sent to the station to bring the expected company.

Hastening out to the piazza, she welcomed her friends; Roland had brought out Edmund, with his mother and sister, and Helen Thornly.

"Well, this is beautiful, indeed!" said Roland, as he glanced around at the preparations. "I think we Scotch people lose a great deal in not making more of this joyous season; but really, Madeline, have not the fairies been at work?"

"No, dear, neither fairies nor angels have had anything to do with it, not even Santa Claus; human hands planned all."

"I know better, darling," whispered Roland; "a household angel has gathered these lovely flowers, and lit up this bright festival; my household angel, Madeline."

The ladies were soon disrobed, and ready to join the cheerful party in the dining-room, where a genuine Christmas dinner was prepared. After they had done full justice to the viands, Roland exclaimed, smiling,

"And what is to be done with this Christmas tree? are we going back to the days of childhood, Madeline?"

"You'll see after a while," was the arch reply, as the folding doors were closed between the rooms.

In a few minutes, the tramp of little feet on the piazza, and the buzz of children's voices, announced an arrival—ere they entered, the children, under the guidance of Philip and Susan Grant, sang a sweet Christmas carol.

They were then admitted into the front parlor, and strange to behold were the large staring eyes, and open mouths of the wondering children, who had never seen such grandeur before!

A sweet Christmas hymn, sung by ladies' voices, was heard in the room beyond, and when the door suddenly opened, and the sight of the splendid tree, illuminated from top to bottom, burst upon them, they could no longer restrain their expressions of delight. The girls clapped their hands, and the boys stamped their feet, as they exclaimed,

"Oh! goody gracious! I never saw anything like that!"

"Just see the heap of apples!" said one little girl.

"Just look at that pretty doll!" said another.

"Look at them ere glass things! I wonder what they are."

"There's a gun!" said a boy.

"And there's a top!" said another; "and such a heap of things!"

"And there's a whole pile of books!" said another.

"Look at the bags of sugar-plums!" said a fat little urchin. "Hurrah for the sugar-plums!" and the little fellow turned a summerset, and rolled over and over on the floor.

After considerable trouble, they were all reduced to order, and Roland held a hat, and gave each child a card with a number on it. Madeline took her stand by the tree; one by one she took down the gifts, and, calling out the number, each happy child came forward to receive the present. Each child had also a bag of sugar-plums and a book to take home, and a large slice of Christmas cake for present enjoyment.

"Now, dear children," said Madeline, "we sent for you this morning to wish you all a happy Christmas. This is the dear Saviour's birthday, when he came down to make children happy. He gave a Christmas gift to all, and that was himself. Now, because he was so full of love, the people who love Jesus want to do something like him, and so they give presents to their friends to show their love; each little gift that you have in your hands, my little ones, is a gift of love. Now, if any of you have a sick brother or sister, or little friend, who could not come to-day, don't eat all your sugar-plums or cake, but save some for them to show that you love them. The night that Jesus was born, the angels sang in the clouds over the plains of Judea; now let us sing our Christmas hymn," and Annot played, while Madeline led the singing, in which all joined.

"While shepherds watched their flocks by night,
All seated on the ground,
The angel of the Lord came down,
And glory shone around," &c.

It was a happy company that hurried home that night through the sharp, frosty air, to tell about the wonderful tree, and the beautiful things at Woodcliff.

Which was the happier? the little children, as they went home with their pretty gifts, or the young mistress of Woodcliff, who hung the Christmas tree to make them happy?

"And now for Blue Beard's room," said Madeline, as she led the way to the library and unlocked the door.

A bell summoned the household; and as she uncovered the table with a bright, beaming face, Roland looked upon his young wife, and felt that he was indeed a proud and happy man.

"Now first, my lord and master, as a true and loyal wife," and Madeline spread out a beautiful wrapper made by her own hands, and, putting it on her husband, said—"Why it fits beautifully! it suits the library exactly; and here's a pair of the prettiest slippers, worked by Annot, and a cap and scarf for winter nights in the cars, by Aunt Matilda. Now aren't you a rich man, sir? make your prettiest bow to the lady of the house, sir."

As Roland obeyed the command in the most graceful manner, he whispered words that made Madeline's cheeks glow with innocent pleasure.

"A rich man, dearest! I do not envy the richest man in Christendom, Madeline."

"What did he say, Madeline?" said Edmund; "there must be none but public speeches to-night."

"Just a little sweet flattery, Edmund; let me enjoy it," and she threw her head slightly back, smiling archly on the speaker.

Mr. Bruce was particularly pleased with his nice wrapper from Madeline, and beautiful Bible with fine large print, and gold spectacles, from Roland; Aunt Matilda with her handsome breastpin from Madeline, and pretty watch from Roland.

"Here's my offering, Madeline," said her husband, as he opened a small case, and produced an elegant watch and chatelaines; "your old watch is not so good as formerly, dear, and I have got the very best that New York could afford."

Madeline looked a world of thanks. Lastly, came the servants, who, one by one, advanced to receive their gifts from the hands of their beloved young mistress.

Aunt Matilda was rapidly losing her prejudices against Roland; but, not willing to allow herself conquered, she attributed her change of manner to the conviction that he really was of gentle birth at last. Without her consent, he was gaining daily complete ascendency even over her pride, yet she often wondered whether he were not more than he pretended. One evening, seated together in the familiarity of family intercourse, Aunt Matilda turned suddenly to Roland, and said—

"Are you sure, Roland, that you are not distantly connected with the ancient Bruce? I have often thought you must be; for you certainly could not have got your carriage and manners from the common classes. Bruce and Gordon are grand names; I think that you must have had noble relatives in some of the branches."

Roland smiled, as he replied—

"Can you not believe, Aunt Matilda, that God can choose a vessel of common clay, and, by his grace, endow it with high qualities, if he pleases? or must all your ideal great men be of the purest porcelain?"

"I cannot help thinking, Roland, that there must have been some porcelain among them, even though you may not know it, or care for it if you do."

"All I can boast, Aunt Matilda, in the way of pedigree, is that my ancestors, as far back as I can trace them, were a hardy race of plain Scotch farmers, shepherds, and mountaineers, among whom were always found faithful, earnest ministers of the Lord Jesus; their greatness consisting only in heroic deeds of calm and patient endurance in the cause of truth and holiness."

Madeline smiled archly, as she asked—

"Aunty, what great deeds have the noble Hamiltons ever achieved? I have never heard of any. I believe their grandeur consisted wholly in their birth, in spending lives of idleness, and wasting their fortunes—which, I believe, drove my grandfather to this country a poor man—and in passing away from the world without recording one of their names among those who wrought heroic deeds or benefited the human family. Is it not so, aunty?"

Aunt Matilda was silent for a moment, but, with a mortified expression, said, at last—

"You must allow that there is something in noble birth, Madeline."

"Not apart from goodness, aunty; for I have set up my husband against all such pretensions."

"Well, you need not be telling everybody about Roland's birth, anyhow."

"I certainly shall take no pains to conceal it, Aunt Matilda; I am too proud of Roland Bruce himself."

"And so am I, Madeline; but I am not going to tell everybody about his early days."

"Conquered at last!" said Madeline, laughing heartily, as Aunt Matilda left the room.

"She cannot let go her prejudices, Madeline; but she is a very kind-hearted aunt to both of us."

In the early spring, Annot returned to Scotland in company with the Norrises; she was sorely missed at Woodcliff, but warmly welcomed by Uncle Malcolm and Mrs. Lindsay, who could not but realize that she was greatly improved by her sojourn with Madeline. It was a sore trial to the good man to resign his beloved niece to any one, especially to one living in a foreign land; but, true to his noble character, seeking the happiness of those he loved, he said—

"Take her Edmund, she is yours; but ye maun leave her with us a year ere ye claim her hand, and visit us as often as ye can."

"I know the sacrifice, dear Mr. Graham, but you need not fear to trust your darling to me; we are all in all to each other, and, I trust, humbly desire to live for a better world."

"I canna separate young hearts, Edmund; I know the pang, and can ne'er inflict it on another."

A pleasant visit of a few months, daily increased Uncle Malcolm's respect for Edmund Norris, and he felt before he left Graham Hall, that in him he had found another dear son.

"I do not think that I shall always lead a city life, dear sir; our tastes are for the country, and as soon as it can be possible, that shall be our permanent home."

"Would that it could be in Scotland, Edmund; I should be so happy to have ye with me."

"That is a subject for future thought, dear sir; my mother's wishes must be consulted."

The young pair bade farewell with the sweet hope of meeting again; but O, how long! for one whole year! and what might not happen? How many hearts have asked the same sad question?

CHAPTER XXXI.

REUNION.

The church is finished—old Mr. Bruce is delighted, for he fancies that he has had much to do with its completion.

Stanley is settled as the pastor, and ministers with great acceptance. The day has arrived for its opening, the ringing of the bell summons the worshippers from all quarters; and Madeline, with her bright and happy face, has taken charge of the choir, and sweet is the music which from grateful hearts rolls through the solemn edifice.

At the close of the first Sabbath evening, the family of Woodcliff are gathered in the drawing-room.

"How many do you number among your communicants, Stanley?" asked Roland.

"About eighty," was the reply.

"You may record me as another, Stanley, for as the head of a family, there must be no division in that important matter; and I can be very happy in worshipping with you, my dear friend, in your own solemn and holy forms of worship."

"Thank you, dear Roland," said the wife, "this is so pleasant to have you with me as a fellow-communicant; we have been for a long time fellow-pilgrims, but this outward union is peculiarly gratifying."

"You must make some allowances, dear, for my still liking a good old-fashioned doctrinal sermon, even if it is pretty long; and therefore, father and I must go once a day to the church of our ancestors, for that is all that I have to remind me of good old Scotland."

"Certainly, dear Roland, and I shall go with you; good Mr. Stewart and I have always been the very best of friends; he is on excellent terms with our own pastor, for he is one of God's dear people, and I love him as such."

Madeline is very happy, for she is busy in fitting up the pretty parsonage of Glendale; as soon as the finishing touch shall be given, Helen will take her place there, as the pastor's gentle wife.

Early in the autumn, the preparations were completed, and Stanley has brought his bride to the pleasant home.

"What a beautiful study!" said Helen, as she looked around at the neat furniture; "such a complete table for a minister! such a pretty book-case! and so well filled! such a comfortable lounge! and cosy rocking-chair! I really think, husband, that I shall often bring my work here, when you are not too much occupied."

"You will be welcome any day after twelve o'clock, Helen; for I must be alone until then. I have a system to live by. In the afternoon we shall ride out to visit my people, for I must make you acquainted with the humblest."

"What a happy work is ours, dear husband! laboring together for that blessed kingdom which is to prevail upon the earth, and at last to sit down at the marriage-supper of the Lamb."

At the appointed time, Edmund brought home his young Scottish bride, and settled in New York for the winter, spending their summers near Woodcliff; Annot retaining her connection with the church of her fathers, but often worshipping at Calvary, with the friends that she loved so well.

* * * * * * *

Ten years have passed—their rolling cycles bringing the changing seasons—spring, with its fresh young buds of life, summer with its ripening fruits, autumn with its fading glories ready to drop into the lap of winter; nursed tenderly through the night of nature, until the children of another spring proclaim their joyous advent, by the swelling buds, the winged songsters, the smiling skies, the music of babbling brooks, and balmy breath of the resurrection season.

This, without the walls of Woodcliff—within also, there is growth, harmony with the visible works of the Divine renovator. The little seed planted so long ago by feeble boyish hands has germinated; often seeming almost lifeless; hidden from the light and the sun, but not from the great husbandman, who has watched its mysterious life. First the little sprout, then the delicate leaflets so tender and faintly green, then the stronger plant. Thus hath it been with the spiritual world at Woodcliff—the Divine workman invisible, the work so silent, yet so powerful!

"The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth: so is every one that is born of the Spirit."

The changing culture appointed each day, each hour, each minute, on to the very latest breath of mortal life, by the great husbandman of immortal fruits.

Under the eye of the glorious three, the silent, wondrous work is going on. The Father, planning the scheme of man's redemption; the Son, executing it by sacrifice of himself; the Spirit, with his powerful breath vivifying the sleeping germs.

And then the glorious harvest, when the reapers come to gather in the sheaves! O, blessed day of jubilee, when Jesus comes! There has been but little of the discipline of sorrow thus far in the life of Madeline. That refining process was deemed best for Roland in his early days—now, a long season of sunshine hath succeeded, and the deeper incisions of grafting and pruning are reserved for future years.

Blessed are they who wait in patience on the hand of the wise and loving cultivator!

Ten years have passed over husband and wife, each year deepening and purifying their love.

Each anniversary of her wedding day, Madeline has learned to look under her pillow for some sweet token of affection. A faithful likeness of himself, finely set, a handsome pin with his mother and sister's hair, a rich diamond ring, with united initials engraved within the circlet, and various other dear mementoes, have marked each returning wedding day.

Three lovely children are added to the domestic circle; Malcolm Graham, a boy of seven, Mary Gordon, a child of five, and Lilian, a sweet prattler of three years, fill the halls of Woodcliff with their merry voices. One lovely boy, their little Lewis, sleeps in the quiet cemetery, and the infant spirit has formed another tie to beckon the parents heavenward.

Another anniversary morning has arrived, and the pictures of her household darlings greet Madeline on her first awaking.

"This is indeed a treasure!" said the happy wife, "how perfect is the likeness! you could have given me nothing that can please me better! and now, dear, here is my own little keep-sake for this happy day," and Madeline produced a beautiful miniature of herself, in the bloom of her ripe womanhood.

"Ten years, Madeline, have passed, and I can say truly 'how much the wife is dearer than the bride,'" and Roland fondly kissed the sweet lips, and calm, pure forehead, of the one he loved so well.

Stephen Bruce grows cheerful in the society of his grand-children, and seems to be renewing his youth among these dear prattlers; his piety is becoming more and more simple-hearted, more like that of a little child.

Roland is daily growing more influential; and notwithstanding his high principles of integrity, after a few years, there is found virtue enough to send him to the Senate of the United States, and Aunt Matilda is becoming quite reconciled that Madeline should be the wife of a Senator.

At Washington in winter, Madeline is too truly a mother to leave her children at Woodcliff, and too faithful, as a wife, to part from her husband; consequently, the house is left under the care of a housekeeper, and the family-circle take up their abode at the capital.

Madeline's attractions draw around her a number of admirers, who are anxious to bring her into their circle as a new star; but devoted to her calling as wife and mother, she simply returns the calls of the leaders of fashion, and resolutely avoids the frivolity of the giddy world. Aunt Matilda is sadly chagrined, for she had anticipated Madeline's triumphs with great exultation.

"I cannot consent, dear aunt, to such a life," replied the wife to her remonstrances; "if I were running this round of folly, what would become of my household darlings?" and steadily, she pursued the quiet tenor of her beautiful life. Occasionally, she accepted invitations to dinner-parties, always being there the centre of attraction.

One pleasure she felt that she must indulge in, for whenever she knew that her husband was to speak in Congress, Madeline was always one of the most attentive listeners to his eloquence, ever on the side of the right, the true the good.

"What were you musing about this morning, Madeline?" said her husband; "I saw you in the gallery surrounded by so many ladies, all busily engaged in conversation, and you in such a deep brown study."

She smiled as he replied, "I was thinking, Roland, about my childish days; and was seated in memory by the lake at Woodcliff, when tired of playing with my gold-fish, I used to amuse myself by throwing in pebbles, and watching the little circles, as they widened in their course, until I could trace them no longer. I thought, Roland, of the boy on the shore at Woodcliff; I saw you just as you stood that day when first I met you; I traced all your course, comparing it to the little pebble thrown carelessly into the lake, drawing one circle of influence round the spoiled child at Woodcliff, then beyond, at college, another round Norris and Stanley, then around Helen Thornly, another around my dear father through your own sister Effie, then a broader, wider circle, embracing the poor, neglected news-boys of New York, and encircling Woodcliff; and now a broader still around the country that you serve, until I am lost in wonder, and can trace it no farther; truly human influence is a wonderful agent, and we ought both to exclaim 'What hath God wrought!'"

"How little did we know, dear wife, of the power of my mother's blessed words, when she bade me 'Look aloft;' I listened to them, then, as simply comforting; I have learned since how they have guided my path as a beacon light, to beckon me onward."

A servant entered, interrupting the conversation.

"Mr. Bruce, a gentleman wishes to see you," and Roland entering the parlor, is greeted by the fast friend of his college days, Dr. Kingsley.

"How are you, my son?" said the good man, as he heartily shook Roland's hand.

"I came to congratulate you on your success to-day, for I was in the Senate Chamber and heard your speech; I cannot tell how my old heart swelled with pride as I listened, and remembered you, Roland, as one of my sons. I always knew that you would leave your mark upon the world, and do honor to your Alma Mater."

"I can never cease to thank you, Dr. Kingsley; for had you turned me away, I had no other resource."

"And then, Roland, the world would have lost a noble laborer in the cause of all that is good and true."

"You will not reject other poor aspirants, my good friend, for there are many struggling spirits who need just such a hand as yours to guide, and such a heart to sympathize."

Introducing his old friend to Madeline, an hour's pleasant intercourse closed the interview, with a cordial invitation to the good man to visit them at Woodcliff.

"Congress will adjourn to-morrow night," said Roland.

"Then for dear Woodcliff," answered Madeline; "are you not glad, father?" turning to old Mr. Bruce.

"Yes, indeed, there is sae much that needs my care, an' I am tired o' this noisy, bustling place; but I am glad that I came; for I canna be separated frae the bonnie darlings."

Immediately on the close of the session, they turned their faces homeward, and a joyful party met once more around the domestic fireside. The winter curtains were yet up, for it was cold and cheerless out of doors, and a warm fire and cheerful supper greeted them, with Stanley and his wife ready to welcome them home again. The next morning, Roland came in from the library with the delightful news, that Uncle Malcolm and Aunt Lindsay were coming to pay a visit to America.

"The best room shall be prepared for dear Uncle Malcolm," said Madeline, and she busied herself in making ready for the good old friend.

"They will be here in three weeks, at the farthest," said Roland, "and we must have a nice lounge, and rocking-chair put in his room, plenty of books, and a secretary; for Uncle Malcolm could not be happy without his usual pursuits."

Annot was sent for, with her husband, and two sweet children, little Roland and Anna, the one five, the other three years old.

"I can scarcely wait," said the anxious daughter, "for it is seven years since I hae seen my mother."

One evening Roland arrived from New York with the news that the steamer was below.

"They will be here to-morrow or next day," was the answer to Annot's anxious questions.

Merry as a kitten, she was never tired of telling her little ones that Grandma and Uncle Malcolm were coming.

Old Mr. Bruce and his grandchildren were playing on the front lawn—little Malcolm driving his sister Lilian in a small carriage; and grandfather amusing himself by keeping close to their side, to keep them from danger.

Suddenly, Mary cried out,

"There comes the carriage!" and the little girls ran rapidly into the house with the news; while Malcolm, holding his grandfather's hand, stood in anxious expectation of the arrival.

The carriage stops—Annot is folded in the arms of her dear mother, and Uncle Malcolm grasps warmly the extended hands of Roland and Madeline.

"Welcome a thousand times to Woodcliff, dear uncle!" exclaims Roland; and Stephen Bruce also advances with a timid step, but placid smile, to greet the new comers.

"What little boy is this?" asks the good man, as he lays his hand on the head of Roland's son, standing by anxious to be noticed by the stranger.

"This is Malcolm Graham," answered the happy father.

Mr. Graham changed countenance, and whispered,

"How came this, Roland? I aye thought it strange that ye did na name him Stephen."

"My father named the boy himself."

Uncle Malcolm smiled gratefully at this token of entire forgetfulness of the painful past, and lifting the dear child in his arms, kissed him fondly, as he laid the hand of blessing on his dark brown hair.

While Madeline is presenting her other darlings, Annot's eyes are moistened with happy tears, as she leads little Roland and Anna up to their grandma and uncle, who pronounce them "darling pets," and the proud young mother is full of innocent delight.

Changes have taken place in all the party—ten years have added many silver hairs to Malcolm Graham's noble head, but to him they are indeed a crown of glory.

Mrs. Lindsay is stouter and more matronly—Madeline has exchanged the bewitching charms of young girlhood for the ripe beauty of a queenly woman, retaining still the brightness and vivacity of early youth, and the arch expression of her lovely face.

Roland is a noble man of thirty-seven, with a fine, commanding figure, the same dark eagle eye, and sweet expressive smile of benevolence.

Annot is no more the lovely child, with her wealth of golden ringlets falling round her face and shoulders; but the blooming wife in the first flush of sweet young womanhood.

Seated between the two, Uncle Malcolm takes the hand of each, saying,

"Here are baith my daughters! well, ye are making Uncle Malcolm an auld mon, wi' yer bairns skipping around me; but I hope that my heart will ne'er grow old."

"You will never grow old in feeling, uncle," said Madeline; "and we are so happy to have you with us; but you must be tired; come, Annot, let us show Uncle his room."

Each taking an arm, they led him to his pleasant chamber; Annot retiring with her mother, and Madeline busying herself about Uncle Malcolm.

"Here is a warm winter wrapper, and a pair of chamber slippers; I knew that you would like them, uncle."

The old gentleman sat down in his comfortable chair; and, looking around on all the arrangements of his room, with the bright fire lighting up the whole, said,

"Well, Madeline! this is comfort! ye will spoil the auld mon among ye."

"No danger, dear uncle," as she kissed the calm forehead; "we can never do too much for you, for are you not my husband's dearest, warmest friend?"

Sweet was the incense of gratitude and praise that ascended from the family altar that night, as Uncle Malcolm led the devotions, and Madeline conducted the singing of the hymn.

The next morning, after breakfast, Uncle Malcolm called Roland aside, and said,

"Tak' me to the spot most sacred in America;" and, alone, they proceeded, with solemn step, to the cemetery.

Standing at the foot of his mother's grave, the strong man stood for some minutes in silence, reading the inscription on the humble tomb-stone; then Uncle Malcolm, overpowered by the floods of sad and touching memories, lifted up his voice, and wept aloud. Roland stood with his arm around the old man, and whispered,

"We must not mourn for her, dear uncle, a blessed spirit around the throne."

"I dinna, Roland; but I could na but feel how happy I should hae made her; how I wad hae sheltered her frae the rough world; for while I was enjoying a' that wealth could gie, my puir Mary was suffering years o' penury an' toil."

"It is past, dear uncle; through all her trials she enjoyed the peace of God, which passeth all understanding; and there is the blessed hope of reunion; do you not think that we shall know each other in the better land?"

"I do, my son, confidently hope to meet that blessed spirit, purified an' full o' holy love, where there shall be nae mair parting; while I live, Roland, I shall luve her memory," (and he took out of his pocket-book once more the lock of golden hair,) "that must be buried wi' me, Roland."

None asked where Uncle Malcolm had been, for the serious and tender expression that dwelt upon his face, and softened the tones of his voice throughout the day, spoke volumes.

Interested in all the benevolent schemes around Woodcliff, Malcolm rode out with Roland; and, with a full heart, listened to the account of all their plans for good. On Sunday he attended the church at Glendale; and as he listened to the Christian statesman, seated so humbly before his large class of young men, he could not but bless God for the grace which had so faithfully directed the footsteps of this good steward of his Master's gifts.

As he watched the earnest look, the respectful reverence, the deep interest of the youth who surrounded Roland, he rejoiced in the inward conviction that none of this good seed would fall to the ground unblessed; and many a tale of sacred influence and private benevolence reached the ears of Uncle Malcolm in his private visits among the people of Woodcliff, for Roland was not one to blazon his own good deeds.

"We hae had a blessed day!" said the good man, at the close of a Sabbath-day at Woodcliff; "what a holy privilege we hae enjoyed in worshipping a common Saviour!" for they had attended on the services of each church, and had heard faithful discourses from both ministers.

"Stanley seems a maist devoted mon," said Uncle Malcolm, "how meikle o' Christ there is in his sermons!"

"Yes, that is the secret of his success; while he does not neglect nor undervalue the scaffolding of the Christian church, the whole power of his ministry is to lead sinners to build their hopes upon the corner-stone, Christ Jesus our Lord."

"It seems to me, Roland, when the heart is filled with luve to the Master, an' a sense o' the danger o' immortal souls, men canna spend their time in preaching sae meikle on these minor things. I hae felt, syne I hae been amang ye, perfect communion o' spirit, for I hae heard naught but Jesus, an' him crucified."

"I have often thought, dear uncle, how sweet is this communion of saints! How blessed is the feeling that every Sunday so many pilgrims are worshipping the dear Redeemer in the great cathedrals of vast cities, and the lowly temples of the village lanes of good old England; the solemn worship of its ancient church mingles with that of its American child, throughout the length and breadth of this vast country; while the prayers and hymns of Christians mingle daily from the hills of Scotland, and the green island of the shamrock. All over the world the songs of pilgrims, on their heavenward march, roll up to Heaven; and, dear uncle, when you are in Scotland, we can still commune in spirit; you, in your fathers' venerable church, and we in the one we love."

"'Tis a vera holy bond, Roland, an' wae be to the Christian who can allow bigotry or intolerance to chill sic holy worship."

"Let us never forget, dear uncle, the tie of Christian brotherhood as the dearest and purest of all earthly bonds."

"I could na bear to think o' parting, my son, if I did na realize this sacred bond o' union."

Many such hours of hallowed intercourse were spent between these two noble spirits, so elevated above the common masses of humanity.

Little Malcolm is a child of promise; and the parents are teaching diligently the first great lesson of obedience to their children; not a day passes without its lessons: "Line upon line, precept upon precept," looking upward for God's blessing, both parents train their dear children in paths of obedience, truth and love. Little Mary is a gentle, loving child; but Lilian is a repetition of Madeline, happily under the controlling influence of wise and loving guidance. Aunt Clara is daily ripening for the skies.

Lavinia, the same vain, frivolous devotee of fashion, no longer young, still unmarried, is rapidly becoming that most unhappy of all miserable beings, a censorious and disappointed old maid.

The declining years of Stephen Bruce are calm and tranquil; surrounded by a family who encircle him with tender, affectionate reverence, his latter days are his best; and he is passing on to "the rest that remaineth," full of calm unshaken trust in his Saviour. Stanley has gathered round him a devoted flock; and Helen is the happy wife of a tender husband, the mother of a lovely family, the helper of her husband's labors; sharing in his cares and sorrows, as well as in his joys.

Glendale is a blessed sanctuary, and Calvary Church the centre of a holy influence in the midst of the homes of Woodcliff.

Harry and Charles have not learned wisdom yet, for their youth was one of folly, and they are reaping the fruits, in advancing years, of uselessness and discontent; affections withered, intellects wasting, time flying, and their Lord coming for his reckoning—such is the life of thousands—who can bear to read their everlasting destiny? "Cast ye the unprofitable servant into outer darkness."

Uncle Malcolm's visit is drawing to an end, and he seeks an occasion of private conference with Edmund.

"My son, I feel as if I canna gae hame wi'out ye and Annot; I am growing auld, Edmund, an' the cares o' life begin to weigh heavily upon me; why na move yer family to Scotland?"

"It would be just the life that I should love, Uncle Malcolm; for years I have longed for the country. I am not calculated for commercial pursuits, and I know that Annot would only be too happy to be once more in her dear old home; there is but one difficulty—my mother would so mourn over the separation."

"I hae enow to occupy us baith, Edmund; an' there are sae mony openings for usefu'ness, I am sure that we should be happy together. Then I am anxious that Annot's bairns should be trained in Scotland, for their inheritance will be there."

Edmund spoke to Annot on the subject.

"Can it be, dear Edmund? I hae sae langed for a return to my ain land, an' I agree perfectly wi' Uncle Malcolm that Scotland is the hame for our bairns."

Mrs. Lindsay most earnestly added her influence, and Mrs. Norris, convinced that it was for Edmund's worldly prosperity, finally consented. American friends were pained to miss the dear faces of Annot's family from among their circle, but both Roland and Madeline saw that it was right.

Uncle Malcolm had learned to love his little namesake, and, on the evening before their departure, took the child into his own room, and, after warm, affectionate counsels, prayed with the dear boy for God's blessing on his childhood and his youth. Going to his secretary, he brought out a handsome rosewood writing-desk, completely furnished.

"This, my boy, is frae Uncle Malcolm; as soon as ye are auld enow, I hope that ye will mak guid use o' it. Ye will find i' the stable, too, a dear little pony that I hae bought for my namesake to ride; he is quite safe, an' papa will teach ye how to ride; ye maun ca' him Selim, after mamma's pony."

"Thank you, dear good Uncle Malcolm; I'll try to be a good boy, and then you won't be sorry for these gifts," and the boy kissed the good old man again and again.

Going down stairs, he called the little girls to his side.

"Noo, Mary, what do ye think that Uncle Malcolm has for his bonnie lassie?"

"I know just what I want, uncle."

"What is it, my bairn? dinna be afraid to tell."

"I want a pretty baby-house, uncle, for Lilian and me."

Uncle Malcolm smiled pleasantly, and, taking the hands of the little girls, led them into the library, and there was the sweetest baby-house, entirely furnished with such a handsome outfit, and, seated on chairs in another part of the room, two beautiful dolls from Aunt Lindsay. They were quite beside themselves; Mary in quiet wonder, and Lilian skipping about the room in ecstasy.

"Noo, mamma, I hae only ane request to mak, an' that is, should these little lassies quarrel aboot these gifts, please deprive them o' their use for ane whole month; but I hope that they will na be sae naughty."

Both the children thanked good Uncle Malcolm, and, kissing each other, made faithful promises not to dispute about the pretty gifts. The day of parting had arrived; always painful, but doubly so now, as it removed a dear family from the midst of this circle of friends, with but little prospect of meeting again on this side of the better land.

"God bless ye! my ain dear children," said Uncle Malcolm, as he laid his hand upon the heads of Roland and Madeline; "let us aye remember the precious words o' our departed saint, 'Looking aloft,'" and tears trembled in the eyes of the good man as he tenderly repeated the blessed words.

The carriage drove off with a tearful company, and Roland, kissing the lips and encircling the wife with his sustaining arm, led her in to the library.

"This is life, dear Madeline; there must be partings here. Reunion, lasting and eternal, must be beyond this mortal shore."

Life still rolls on at Woodcliff. Roland and Madeline have not yet reached the perfection of existence; but, as far as mortals can, theirs is truly living—living that life on earth which shall be perfected hereafter in the kingdom that is coming.

'Tis true that these are the creations of fiction—ideal man and woman—but let none say that such can never dwell in mortal flesh. Christ came to make such. There is not one trait exhibited here, but is commanded in the Gospel, and from which can be drawn grace to form just such characters upon the earth. Such monuments of grace have walked the earth like angels, and such there will be again; for there is a time coming, when the world will be filled with such lively stones, in the glorious temple that shall hereafter be erected on the earth. Why should not she who writes, and they who read, seek to be one of these highly-polished living stones?

'Tis true that to mortal vision, this blessed kingdom does not seem very near; for throughout the world are sounds of war, and tumult, and confusion; man slaying his brother man on many fields of combat, and the sweet dove of peace and love far, far away; but there are yet some left on earth in whose bosoms dwell, by bright anticipations, the spirit of the millennium; above this strife and tumult, dwelling in a world of their own, with folded hands, uplifted eyes, and hearts whose pulsations are one eternal prayer. Precious witnesses for the kingdom of peace, and love, and holiness, yet to come! To come! Blessed be God! to come! And this little pilgrim band whom we have followed so long, still "Looking aloft," and seeing Him who is invisible, may confidently look for that everlasting glorious kingdom.

"Looking aloft!" blessed talisman against the spirit of worldliness, selfishness, and strife of every kind! "Looking aloft!" It inspired Noah when sheltered safely in the ark, calm and happy amidst the overwhelming deluge of wrath. It calmed the trusting heart of holy Daniel in the den of lions, stilling their angry growls, and closing their bloodthirsty jaws. It sustained David in the hour of his darkest trials, and, centuries ago, inspired those sublime Psalms of holy confidence which multitudes still sing in their pilgrimage as they are marching home. It wakened the songs of triumph in the prison of Paul and Silas, and cheered the great apostle beneath the uplifted axe of the bloody Nero.

It lit up smiles of joy and peace upon the faces of that holy band of martyrs who were stoned, sawn asunder, and burned at the fiery stake, when even woman's earnest eye and childhood's tender glance were turned calmly upward to the glorious Saviour; and from the stake and the block the martyr's gaze of faith pierced the heavens, as, "Looking aloft," they saw Him who is invisible.

Blessed talisman! sufficient for those dark and stormy days, it is enough for all life's woes, and cares, and sorrows. It hath sustained Roland Bruce in the days of poverty, trial, and bereavement; and hath brought him into the quiet waters of usefulness, peace, and love, with "the promise of the life that now is, and of that which is to come" all fulfilled. Hand in hand with the chosen partner of his joys and sorrows, we bid them both farewell; with the certainty that such a union will be peaceful and blessed while they tread life's changing scenes, and, in the world to come, will be crowned by blissful, eternal reunion, so long as their motto, beaming from the pole-star of hope, remains "LOOKING ALOFT."

THE END.

[Transcriber's note: there are several instances of Madeline taking off, or putting on, her "flat". It's unknown if a flat is a type of hat, or if it's a typographical error for "hat". All instances have been left as printed.]

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Table of Contents

- WOODCLIFF.

- CHAPTER I. THE SEA-SHORE.

- CHAPTER II. A RIDE ON HORSEBACK.

- CHAPTER III. MADDY'S TRIUMPH.

- CHAPTER IV. TOO PROUD TO BEND.

- CHAPTER V. YOUTHFUL VISIONS.

- CHAPTER VI. A SCOTCH MATRON.

- CHAPTER VII. THE COTTAGE AND THE HALL.

- CHAPTER VIII. BOSTON RELATIVES.

- CHAPTER IX, HOME AGAIN.

- CHAPTER X. SUNSHINE AT THE HALL; SHADOWS AT THE COTTAGE.

- CHAPTER XI. A MOTHER'S LIFE SORROW.

- CHAPTER XII. STARS IN THE NIGHT SEASON.

- CHAPTER XIII. DRIFT-WOOD.

- CHAPTER XIV. "EXCELSIOR."

- CHAPTER XV. STRIFE.

- CHAPTER XVI. RUGGED HILLS FOR WEARY FEET.

- CHAPTER XVII. MIRAGE, OR MADELINE AFTER A TRIUMPH.

- CHAPTER XVIII. THE EARLY DAWN.

- CHAPTER XIX "AULD LANG SYNE."

- CHAPTER XX. OUT IN THE LIGHT.

- CHAPTER XXI. SEARCHING FOR SCOTTISH FRIENDS.

- CHAPTER XXII. MIST ON THE MOUNTAIN.

- CHAPTER XXIII. GRAHAM HALL.

- CHAPTER XXIV. WINGS CLIPPED THAT HAD COMMENCED TO SOAR.

- CHAPTER XXV. PARTING FROM ENGLISH FRIENDS.

- CHAPTER XXVI. THE FIRST LINK LOST AND FOUND.

- CHAPTER XXVII. HEARTS' EASE.

- CHAPTER XXVIII SEAWEED.

- CHAPTER XXIX. BEATITUDES.

- CHAPTER XXX. FELLOW-HEIRS OF THE GRACE OF LIFE

- CHAPTER XXXI. REUNION.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE