Chapter IV: Part 4

“The ills that I have undergone in this life have been dealt out to me drop by drop, and I have tasted all their bitterness. I saw her fade rapidly away: beautiful and more beautiful, and most angelical to the last.

“I seemed to care for nothing; the world was a blank to me. I abandoned all thought of the law. I went into the country, but could not bear the solitude, yet could not endure society.... I seemed to drift about without aim or object, at the mercy of every breeze; my heart wanted anchorage. I was naturally susceptible, and tried to form other attachments, but my heart would not hold on; it would continually recur to what it had lost; and whenever there was a pause in the hurry of novelty and excitement I would sink into dismal dejection. For years I could not talk on the subject of this hopeless regret; I could not even mention her name; but her image was continually before me, and I dreamed of her incessantly.”

“For time makes all but true love old;
The burning thoughts that then were told
Run molten still in memory’s mould,
And will not cool
Until the heart itself is cold
In Lethe’s pool.”

The memory of Ann Rutledge never faded from the heart of Abraham Lincoln. Years after her death he was heard to say, “My heart lies buried in the grave of that girl. I can never be reconciled to have the snow, rains, and storms beat upon her grave.”

Gruff Samuel Johnson worked in his garret, a most inconvenient room, after his “Tetty” died, because, said he, “In that room I never saw Mrs. Johnson.” Her wedding-ring was placed in a little box, and tenderly kept till his death.

Michael Angelo’s devotion to Vittoria Colonna will be told, perhaps, even after the wonderful statues of Day and Night are lost or destroyed. “He bore such a love to her,” said his pupil Condivi “that I remember to have heard him say that he grieved at nothing so much as that when he went to see her pass from this life he had not kissed her brow or her face, as he kissed her hand. After her death he frequently stood trembling and as if insensible.”

All lovers of art know of Saskia, whose life was to Rembrandt like the transcendent light he threw over his pictures; whose death left him forever in the shadow of shadows.

If men give such affection as these men gave,—and tens of thousands do,—then the affection is worth the most careful consideration; accepted, if possible, with gratitude that one has been thought worthy of homage; refused, if necessary, with the utmost delicacy and kindness.

Young women sometimes, perhaps because of youth, do not realize the far-reaching influence of what the world is pleased to jest about as “love affairs.”

An acquaintance of mine, pretty, intelligent, and reared by a Christian mother, became engaged to two young men at the same time. One of course was refused, with, to him, bitter heartache. She married the other, led a wretched life with him, and finally was divorced.

Another received for years the attention of a worthy and wealthy young man. Another young man visited her, for whom she possibly had a preference. Both offered themselves to her, and both were accepted, she doubtless hoping to choose later the one who pleased her best. Both discovered her plan, were indignant, and left her to make other conquests.

These cases are far from isolated. I do not believe they arise from the heartlessness of women, but from lack of thought and care. A man can offer a woman nothing higher than a sincere love. While she need not assume that men who offer her attention wish to marry her, it is a mistake to keep one’s eyes shut, and open them only to find that a heart has been hurt temporarily, and perchance permanently. Good common-sense as well as principle are necessary in matters pertaining to hearts.

DUTY.

“JAMES, I hear you are getting interested in Martha Wenham!” said good old Mrs. Matthews, tremblingly, to her only son, as they sat by the fire one evening after he had returned from a hard day’s work.

He had been her only support for four years, ever since her kind husband died. His sister Nellie, sweet but fragile, had leaned upon his strong arm for help, for she was unable to support herself.

Mrs. Clayton, a neighbor, had been over telling James’s mother what she had heard about the young people: that they had been seen to walk very leisurely home from singing-schools and prayer-meetings, and that, at the last church picnic, he and Martha, regardless of all the others, had sauntered off to a cool, cosey nook, and were seemingly very happy and very much absorbed, as people are wont to be under such circumstances. Martha was a very excellent girl, the daughter of a well-to-do village merchant, would make one of the best of wives, and James would be fortunate to win her; but poor Mrs. Matthews saw herself and Nellie cast upon the world, for in case James married he could no more than support his wife and the little ones that would probably be born to them. He had been a faithful son, leaving school and books that he loved, to work with his hands and earn his bread. He had been able to pay their rent, get them a few neat clothes, and buy all necessary food.

Sometimes he seemed rather quiet, as though he longed again for the school days, that he might realize his ambition to be a prominent man in the world. When either mother or daughter caught a glimpse of any such feelings, they tried to make the home pleasanter for him. Mrs. Matthews baked things he liked, and Nellie took a little picture from her scantily furnished room to hang in his, or gathered a few flowers for his table.

No wonder the dependent mother spoke anxiously about his interest in Martha Wenham.

“Yes, I like her very much, mother. I think she is the noblest girl I ever saw!”

Mrs. Matthews trembled more and more. She wanted to ask him if he ever thought of marrying her, but she could not.

Finally, after long silence, James said, as though he had been weighing the thing in his own mind, “Do you think she would make me a good wife, mother?”

“I—I think she might, James, but what would your poor mother do?” and the tears gathered in her eyes. “I’m afraid I’m a burden, James! Don’t you wish there were no obstacles in the way? Oh, James, I wonder God arranged it so!” and the fond mother could have longed to be out of the way, that her boy’s happiness might be completed.

James Matthews’s big heart was full. He had never thought of leaving his mother, and, though he loved Martha, duty was first with him always; so he put his hard hands upon his mother’s gray head and kissed her, bidding her not to fear; that he should never leave her, and that she was better than all the Marthas in the world, and as for Nellie, he’d work his fingers off for her before any other girl should take her place.

That night there was a timid knock at Martha’s door, and James Matthews was cordially welcomed. Several times before all the commonplaces were talked of he tried to tell her his errand in coming, but his courage as often failed. Martha broke the ice for him when she said, “I think, James, that day spent at the picnic was the pleasantest of my life.” What could be more delightful than to hear from her own lips the very confession he had longed to hear—that his presence was a pleasure to her, that she perhaps in some measure returned his affection?

“It was a very happy one to me,” responded James. “I have often wondered if it gave you pleasure. Martha, perhaps you do not know that I have loved you for a long time, and perhaps it is wrong for me to tell you of it, seeing that I cannot marry anybody.”

“And why not?” said Martha, a blush spreading over her fair face and losing itself in her golden hair.

“Because my mother and sister are dependent upon me, and as long as they live—and I hope it may be many years—I shall take care of them. I could love you always without marriage, but that is the only bond that can keep you mine alone and forever. Others will be seeking one so good as you are. I could not ask you to be engaged, for you might wait for years before I was able to support a third in our home, and support you as nicely as I should wish to do. You have had too many comforts to receive poverty at my hands.”

“You know I am young, James, only seventeen, and I can wait a great many years for you. I love you very much, and I have a good home to wait in; so what matter, so long as we are near each other? I’ll wait until I’m an old lady, James, if need be.”

The noble girl had answered as her pure heart had prompted.

Many a man knows how rich, and happy, and satisfied James Matthews felt that night as he came home in the moonlight. How strong his arms felt for work, and how strong his good principles seemed!

He could do anything now for mother and sister—make any sacrifice; for did not one wait for him whose encouragement was more than money, to live with whom for one year even would recompense for a score of years of labor?

Mrs. Matthews and Nellie grew happier as they saw him so cheerful, and as his wages increased with his larger experience, and more of the comforts of life were obtained, Nellie, with less anxiety and more ease, grew better.

Two years had passed, and changes had come to Martha Wenham. Her father was dead, his property gone, and her health impaired by long and weary care of him. What was left for her but to claim the hand of him for whom she had waited these two years? Refusing all others, she had been true to him. Now came the time of trial to both.

Martha was helpless, and had nowhere to look but to him. His heart clung to her now more than ever, but who could support the two who seemed to be left providentially on his hands? Many an evening he passed with her, feeling every time as though the day of parting, if it must come to that, would be unbearable; finally he resolved to marry her, take her to his home, and do all in his power for the three. It could be only a scanty subsistence he could earn for them, and by taking another upon himself, would he not spoil the happiness of them all? He might have but one meal a day for himself, and he was willing; but what poor reward for the girl who had lost so many good places in life to share penury with him!

“James, I have a plan to propose to you, though you may not second it, and indeed I do not know if it be right or best,” said Martha to him one night. “William Stillson, you know, has loved me from the time we were children together, and has always been a warm friend to me, even after I refused him. In these days of anxiety and prospective want, he has offered me again himself and his lovely home. I respect him, James, but you have my heart and he knows it. All rests with you. Shall I marry him, and thus free you from what must necessarily be a burden?”

James could not answer, and when she put her cheek upon his and held his hand, he said, “Oh, Martha, I cannot give you up!”

“My will is yours,” she said, and kissed him good-night.

It troubled him after he came home. She might be so comfortable with William, so cramped with him. His duty was plain before him. He took a pen and paper and hastily wrote:

MY MARTHA: I release you! I know what is best for you! Marry William and be happy. There is no other course. I shall be happy because you are. My blessing go with you.

Your
JAMES.

Four weeks after, Martha, a woman through her sufferings, and true to her womanhood in acting honestly, gave her hand to William Stillson, promising to be his faithful wife. James heard the words that separated them forever, and seemed to grow stronger for his duties at home. He never visited her, but when she bore a beautiful boy to her husband, he felt that he might love the child, and this wee one became his plaything for many a month, until they moved to a distant part of the country. Then, for the first time, though he missed the boy and the sweet face of the mother, he was no longer under restraint. He could have her in his thoughts better than in his sight.

Many a year went by quietly, even happily, to James, for we find our highest happiness in doing our daily duties. He had earned his mother and sister a lovely home, which is much for any man single handed to do; was respected in the community, well read through his industry and perseverance, and a genial and good-principled citizen.

Nellie had married a widower with several motherless children, and she was doing for others what had been done for her. Then the good mother, when her time was fully come, died and was buried, and James was left alone.

Everybody supposed he would marry now; wondered why he was a bachelor! All the married ladies pitied him for their daughters’ sakes, and ladies of uncertain ages looked wistfully in his direction. An old lady kept his house neatly, while in books and memories and social converse his days went by rapidly.

One morning the house went through an extra cleaning and arranging. An old schoolfriend, a bachelor like himself, was coming to spend several days with him, and the good housekeeper, a spinster herself, but old enough to be the mother of both of them, could not help feeling a little tremulousness with regard to the new-comer. James secretly felt more than ordinary interest in his coming, from the fact that Mrs. Stillson lived in the same place.

“I believe I have a friend in your vicinity,” said James to his friend the first evening, at the supper table.

“Ah! I suppose some flame—a maiden lady about your age, probably.”

“No. A Mrs. Stillson I refer to. We were very excellent friends when we were young.”

“Indeed! I know her very well. Have done considerable law business for her since her husband’s death. She has four children and in quite straitened circumstances.”

James Matthews felt a sudden increase of circulation about his heart.

She was free to wed him now, if she would, he thought to himself. Now he could be a father to those children, and do for them all he had longed to do for her.

When the lawyer went home, much to his surprise Mr. Matthews accompanied him.

The knock at Mrs. Stillson’s door was answered by a bright, noble-looking boy of eighteen. The mother, with the same sweet face as in her girlhood, was called in.

“Oh, James!” she said, and the tears gathered in her eyes. “I am so glad to see you once more!”

Perhaps she thought he held her hand too long and earnestly for a man who probably had a wife and children at home.

“I have thought,” she added, “if I could only see you in our present circumstances, you might be induced to take our youngest, a boy of six, and adopt him as your own.”

“Martha, may I take the boy, and take his mother with him?” said James Matthews, his heart almost too full for utterance.

The cheek was laid to his as in other days, and the old answer given, “Your will, James, is mine!”

He was satisfied now, with a happiness interwoven with it that none knew, except those who have waited long and been rewarded. The old housekeeper felt a little unpleasantly when a lady and four children were so suddenly added to their family, but soon recovered her equilibrium, and did everything for their comfort, living with them until she died.

There was considerable gossip for a time. Everybody knew now why he had not married earlier. The maiden ladies were quiet, the married ladies very polite, and James and Martha very happy in themselves and in their children.

WAIFY.

“HEAVENS, a baby! Who brought such a speck of humanity to lay at my cold door? There is no love in my heart. The thing will die with me. I’ll tuck it down in the corner of the cave for to-night.”

Giles Mortimer laid the bundle on a rough pine table, put the candle close beside it, and one by one took off the garments folded about it—took them off with the same care and fear of touch as a naturalist in preparing the wings or feet of a fly for microscopic examination. He half raised it in his arms, then laid it down, walked around the cavern with a vague knowledge of a near presence, came back, took it up slowly and held it by the firelight.

It had a delicate girl-face, with half-quivering lips, and a little body perfect in proportions. Who was she? Some mother must have cared for her as long as strength or life lasted, for she was now fully ten months old. What should he do with the little waif? This triangular cave was his home. The green turf above it shut out scorching sun and chilling snow; the rude door before its opening made it seem secure from danger; the mortar he had put about the sides, the tall prairie grass he had matted over the ground floor, the old stove he had brought thither, the rustic chair he had made from the surrounding forests, and the Indian blankets he had bought for his bed, all made it comfortable, though gloomy.

Such a place might suffice for him, but how could an infant grow into grace and beauty here, leaning ever towards the light of the outer world, and longing for love that must be the elixir of life to woman?

The lips that before quivered with fear now opened with hunger. He laid her down, went out to a log box adjoining the cave, coaxed his goat to a fresh supply of milk, and the babe drank from his hand, nestled her head against his breast, and slept. She was not tucked away in a corner, but rested next his heart through that long night.

Giles Mortimer was written fatherless and motherless in boyhood. A pleasant home was sold, a small sum of money laid away, and a youth just needing a father’s care and mother’s affection was thrust upon the charities of the world. He soon found employment in a factory, and there, day by day, when others walked and laughed upon the highway, he worked and looked beyond to a successful future, saved his money carefully, dressed simply, and in a few years had nearly enough to defray the expenses of three years’ study. College days followed. Those four years brought head and hand work to Mortimer. By forethought and exertion he gained the privilege of sweeping the college chapel, took the agency of books and pictures in vacation, and in numerous other ways partially paid for his education. His companions loved him for his geniality, and admired him for his broad grasp of mind and manly soul.

Life looked full of promise. Towards what should it tend? The professions were full. Among those who held out the gospel of life to the famishing, there were too many whom Christ had never called with His especial calling. There were lawyers at every corner quarrelling for a petty office, or looking over dusty books while sighing for the bright skies. There were teachers who needed to be taught. Chemistry, geology, and philosophy had so many votaries that only one in a century rose to eminence, and the remainder, in unsatisfying mediocrity, plodded on with little happiness to themselves and still less to others.

He turned to business. Here was an opening to gain honorable power by effort of will, by energy of hand, and by vigor of mind. There was beauty to him in the smoke that curled now lazily, now swiftly, from the chimneys of a hundred manufactories. If he could not be a merchant prince to give with blessed munificence one hundred thousand dollars for homes for the poor, he might have a home for some one who loved him, and many mites to scatter in the alleys of the great cities.

With Giles Mortimer’s man-physique and mind there was a woman’s sensitiveness, and a will that could not always bear the shock of opposition. A mountain is not all quartz, studded with jasper and amethyst, nor is it all trap, brown and coarse. All lives are elements from God’s great storehouse, and earth a crucible which melts and moulds. He needed what most men need, the stimulus of love to give position or wealth or fame; the encouragement of a voice that has inspiration in it; the touch of a hand that carries hope in its pressure; the look of an eye that shines like a lone star on a dark night. He had seen some who might have walked beside him, but for his fear of taking them from a hall to a hovel.

He went to a strange city. Counting-rooms were filled, and clerkships engaged for months in advance. He knew no trade, or he might have worked and given honor to that. At last he obtained a place in a hardware establishment, and for two years, on a small salary, the student did uncongenial work to live; then the firm failed, and he was again adrift. He would have loved manufacturing; he would have been proud to have aided America with the labor of his brain and hands combined; but the old question, the one that has settled upon and crushed so many young men, came back—“What business can be carried on without money?”

Many men have struggled through poverty up to affluence. Many more have struggled in it down to a grave. There are not wanting those who tell us that every man may succeed, if he will; and yet ninety of every hundred who enter the whirlpool of trade are lost.

Like many others, when his heart was saddest he sang—sang like Carligny, who was dying when he made Paris intoxicated with his wit. No publisher was obtained for his poems; he had not found that spring that opens all portals—a name. Every house was already filled with manuscripts, every journal with hastily-written fragments. A living earned by writing was one that too often gave straw for a bed, and bread and water for food. He was growing tired of the battle. There were no victories—all defeats. Perhaps he lacked proper training of self; perhaps the now weakened physical had dimmed the mental; perhaps circumstances without were as strong as the powers within. Men were no longer brothers to him. He sighed for the freedom of solitude, stepped one evening on a freight train going West, and, careless for the future, went forward to an unknown fate. He crossed foaming Lake Erie; flat, woody Michigan and its lake; passed through Milwaukee with its forests and few inhabitants, where now rises one of the loveliest cities of the West, out into the uncivilized country. The land was rolling, with here and there a prairie shut in by a border of oak or cotton-wood trees. The lakes—long Pewaukee; graceful Pine; clear Kotchee, that makes the highway an arch and circles under it; and Neponset, with green, scalloped bank and a tree in each scallop reflected by the waters—all these were like oases to him.

He reached the Indian village, Oconomowoc, and stood at the foot of the peninsula that almost touches the island. On one side was a lake bordered with hawthorn, on whose bank a neat church now stands; on the other, five lakes, some small, one seventeen miles in length, surrounding islands covered with spruce and hemlock and oak. Hills, with their outcropping quarries of limestone, stood out against the blue sky. Back of this landscape, one of the most beautiful of the West, he found a cave worn into the mountain—a gloomy place, but free from dampness, and comfortable for one who had no care for humanity.

Occasionally he made friends with an Indian and asked him to his hut, but this was rare. They looked upon him as a pale-face who, having vexed the Great Spirit, was repenting in solitude. He spent his days in wandering and study. He learned the geological history of the place from the hieroglyphics God puts upon the rocks for man to read. He pressed hundreds of flowers, and knew what Jehovah had intended for the gardens of the growing West. He wrote some, and grew happy in his isolated existence; yet there was no flow of animal life within him, no leaping of the heart for joy. The past was a sealed book; the present written with the indifference of a stoic; and the future a blank leaf with no desire to write upon it.

Such was Giles Mortimer when a tender child was laid before him—a magnet to draw out a heart.

He called her Waify. For days and weeks he dressed her, washed her delicate clothes with his own hands, fed her, and made a wagon of rough boards and drew her to the lakes, that she might dabble her hands and feet in the clear waters. Soon the baby lips, as if taught by angels, said “Papa!” and the man’s affections swept back upon him as a flood. He kissed her again and again, and she, all unconscious of the reason, put her fingers in his hair and beard, and laughed with that merry laugh that makes most homes, even in their decay, full of the echoes of childhood. A new look was born into his face, a look of manly protection, as though a soul was given to his charge.

Six months came and went. Little feet strolled outside the walls. She seemed to look vainly for something to play with, gathered blades of grass and flowers in her creeping, and showed a longing for a fuller life. Mortimer saw it, aroused his sleeping ambition, put out the fire in the old cave, put Waify into the wagon, with a blanket about her that he might keep in memory the first night she slept under it, tossed his half dozen books and small bundle of clothes at her feet, and started for the city. Kind people gave them a shelter at night, and Waify made friends everywhere.

To the home of a lady he had known among the early settlers of Milwaukee he carried his precious charge, and started this time for business with a strength and energy that knew no failure. There were some struggles, but at length a place was found with a land-broker. The city was growing rapidly. Small pieces of land were purchased as by economy some money was saved.

After many months of labor a small house was hired, a pretty play-room arranged for the wee Waify, a good servant obtained, and Giles Mortimer was a happy man. No longer hating the world or its people, but having grown strong from obstacles overcome, he had sympathy for others and a genial look and manner that gave him the fascination of a woman.

Every night Waify came a little way to meet him. Then by the firelight he told her cheery stories, made rabbits for her on the wall, and with her on his knees thanked God for something human to love.

School life began. A tiny primer was purchased, and Mortimer, more the man than ever, taught her the alphabet. “A” she remembered from two rivers and a brook across. “B” was a river with two little crooked ones, and “C” stood for the cave. Every summer since they lived in the city he had taken her thither and showed her where she used to live.

“Here is the place where you were, Waify; here the table where I put my baby; here the old stove where I warmed your milk; here the green grass where you played.”

“Pretty! pretty!” said Waify. “Kind papa to take care of me! Papa, when Waify dies will you bury her here among the flowers, and make a big ‘C,’ for cave, on the stone?”

A hurried kiss was the answer, while a shock that seemed like a premonition struck every nerve.

“Will you, papa? Will you?” pleaded the child. “Right here where the double daisies grow?”

“The garden will be gone, Waify.”

“But won’t you keep it for me, and bring me here?”

“Yes, darling. Yes, little one!” and they went home, the one light-hearted with the prospect of school again, the other saddened with a thought that seemed a prophecy.

A few days of joyous life went by. The little school-girl seemed less fond of play, more clinging to her adopted father, more thoughtful; then a slow fever, that seemed to have been inherited rather than the result of contagion, came on, and Waify, now scarcely out of her babyhood, was going to sleep through a long night.

Giles Mortimer watched her by day and by night, speechless; brought the toys she loved, and laid them beside her; brought the blocks of letters, and she took the “C” and put it under her pillow.

“Papa, we’ve had nice times together. Who’ll be your little girl when Waify goes? Everybody has little girls. Perhaps somebody’ll bring you one.”

While he blessed God that she had been given to make him the man he was, he asked for no other in her place.

“But you must stay, Waify. I couldn’t be happy without you.”

“No, papa, I must go to ask God about my mamma, and perhaps I’ll come back and tell you.”

How little do children know of the land from whence there is no return!

The day looked for, dreaded, came.

“Where’s the ‘C,’ papa?”

Clasping this tightly with one hand and Mortimer’s with the other, looking sadly at the tears upon his cheeks, then joyfully out into the space, she said, “Kiss Waify!” and was dead.

Giles Mortimer’s heart was mangled. The only thing he loved was taken.

There was a quiet gathering, and then he, with the sexton, took the little one to the cave, dug a grave under the daisies in the very centre of the garden, put a little tablet above it, and upon it the large marble “C” that stood for cave, and went back to his duties to work faithfully because her memory was something like her presence. The house was desolate, but sacred because Waify had been there. Business was interesting because entered upon for her; life was blessed because she had lived. Prosperity came to him. He loved other children, but there was only one Waify.

She had done her work. Through her love a man had known and found his manhood—had taken his true place in the world, in genial intercourse, in business power, in Christian benevolence. He has grown in position with the growth of a large city, but he still calls it home where a heart is buried, by the cave in Oconomowoc.

Perchance God told Waify of her mother, or told the mother of her child, for, weeks after her death, Giles Mortimer found upon the grave a touching token of a mother’s love—a wreath of immortelles wrought into the word “Mother.”

THE BLACK AND TAN.

MRS. HENSON sat with her three children at their frugal supper. The house was neat, but very plain, and the dress of the children showed that they were only a trifle above actual want.

James, a boy of ten, sold newspapers and earned a little. Helen, between eight and nine, could help about the house when her mother was absent cleaning or washing, and Mary, seven, was the baby of the household, and the one for whom all the others sacrificed.

“Did you earn much this week, James?” said the mother, who had been a widow for several years. “You know I have been sick, and we can’t meet the rent this month, and we didn’t last month. I don’t know what we shall do,” said Mrs. Henson, in a tone of confidence with James, although she did not expect that her three small children could help her solve the problem. She knew that work alone would solve it, and this she was not always able to obtain, and had been too ill to labor even if the work were before her.

“I tried hard,” said the brown-eyed, slender boy, “but I didn’t sell as many papers as I do sometimes. I ran just as fast, but somehow I didn’t get so many customers, and there weren’t so many extras. You know a lady once in a while slips a nickel into your hand for a paper and won’t wait for change, and that helps a fellow along. But I didn’t have much of that last week. I didn’t spend anything for myself, either.”

“No, you wouldn’t do that. We all save for each other since father died. We shall get over these hard places when you are a little older.”

“Couldn’t you borrow of the lady on the hill who gave me the shoes?” said Helen. “She seems very nice, and she is rich.”

“She has been good to us,” said the mother, “but I hate to bother her. One can wear out generous people by too constant asking for aid.”

“I’ll tell you what to do, mamma,” said little Mary; “we’ll sell the black and tan to the big gentleman who always speaks to me so kind.”

“Oh, no!” said all the other voices together. “Blackie was given to you, and you have played with her, and we couldn’t spare her. She eats very little, and you love her very much. She is the life of the house, she is so frolicsome.”

“But he would pay money for her, and I could spare her if I had to. You said, mamma, we might be turned out of the house, and then what would Blackie do for a home? I think she would be happy in a big house, and we would give the man the basket she sleeps in, so she would be contented and remember us, too.”

“Well, who would take her to the gentleman?” said Mrs. Henson. “I fear he would think it foolish.”

“I will take her,” said the child.

In the afternoon Mary wended her way to the mansion, with Blackie and the basket, and asked for the Hon. Mr. Colebrook. That gentleman rarely had time to see adults, but he would not refuse a child.

When he entered the room he found little Mary Henson with her basket and her dog, her eyes very red with weeping, and the dog whining as though she had heard the whole plan of separation from those she loved in the poor home.

“I’ve brought you my Blackie, sir, to sell her to you. Mamma needs money for rent, and as you are rich I thought you would like to buy her. She will love you very much, and kiss your face. She always sleeps with me, and perhaps she would sleep with you.”

“And can you spare her?” said the millionaire. “I fear she would cry for her former home. It seems to me that you have been crying.”

“Oh, yes, I did cry some when I kissed her the last time, and mamma and Helen and James all cried, because, you see, Mr. Colebrook, she is all we have to love!”

“Well, what do you ask for her?”

“I don’t know. Mamma owes ten dollars for rent for the two months. I think, maybe, if you would pay that for her you could pay half now, and the landlady might wait for the other half, because she would know you would surely pay. I thought of selling Blackie to her, but Blackie needs a very nice home. Mme. Wainwright gave her to me, so you see Blackie comes from a good family, sir, and puts up with our poor home because we all love her so.”

“Well, I will take her,” said Mr. Colebrook, “and if she cries I will send for you to comfort her.”

All this time Blackie was laying her head close to the child, as much as to say: “We will not be separated.” When the millionaire attempted to take her she growled, and then looked plaintively toward her little mistress.

“He’ll be very good to you, Blackie,” said the child, who could not stop her tears. She wanted to sell the dog, and yet if she could only have the money and Blackie too! But that was impossible.

“I have no little girl to pet the dog,” said the great man, “and I fear she will be lonely. You must come and see her,” and he put the ten dollars into the child’s hand, bade her good afternoon, and closed the door on a very sad little heart. Blackie crouched down in her basket as though the fine house were of no importance, and whined piteously for the little girl who had left her.

Mary sobbed all the way home, but she clasped the ten dollars tightly, and was thankful that they could all have a house over their heads for a little longer.

“I’ve brought the ten dollars, mamma,” said the child, and she laid it in her mother’s lap and stole away to weep alone over her sorrow.

Mrs. Henson was very sad over the matter. If she could earn but ten extra dollars! But she could not. The dog was probably not worth over a quarter of that sum, and the rich man had bought her just to help the family. Well, Blackie would have a home of luxury, and that was a comfort.

Hon. Mr. Colebrook had become interested in the child, and called at the little home a few days later to see how the widow and her family were prepared to meet the coming cold weather.

He asked for Mary. She was not well, the mother said, and had no appetite. “I suppose she misses Blackie,” said Mrs. Henson, “though she never speaks of her.”

“And the dog misses her, too, for she will neither eat nor play,” said Mr. Colebrook. “I hope she will be better soon, for she is a winsome little creature. We are already fond of her.”

“We are glad to have her in so good a home,” said Mrs. Henson.

“How do matters look for the winter?” said the man of means. “Is the rent provided for, and the coal in the cellar?”

“I think we can get along now, since you kindly paid the rent for two months. I am in better health, and James seems to be selling more papers.”

When Mr. Colebrook had gone Mary stole out to ask about Blackie. She could not go to see the dog,—that would give pain to two,—but she was eager to hear about her mute little playmate.

“Mr. Colebrook says Blackie will not eat much and misses you greatly,” said Mrs. Henson. A smile crept over the child’s face as she said: “I thought Blackie really loved me. I would go to see her if she wouldn’t feel bad when I came away, and I mustn’t make her heart ache.”

“Oh, I think she’ll forget about us all soon, and enjoy her new home very much!” said Helen.

“I think not,” said Mary. “Blackie never forgets. She never did.”

It was late in the autumn, and Mrs. Henson was too busy with work to think much more about a dog. James was up early and home late, and Helen’s little hands were more than filled with work too hard for a child.

Christmas was near at hand, and the rich and the poor were planning according to their means for a merry time. Mrs. Henson’s presents must necessarily be small, and along the line of the absolutely necessary. James must have boots, Helen a simple dress, and Mary some mittens, with a bag of parched corn, a little candy, and a few nuts.

Mr. Colebrook did not forget the widow’s family. He sent coal, a barrel of flour, some money for rent, and some articles of clothing for the children. There was one quite large package for Mary. What was in it nobody could imagine, though Mrs. Henson was in the secret. Finally a low whining was heard; the box was hastily opened, and out sprang Blackie into Mary’s lap, and kissed her over and over again. The child cried, and Blackie nestled her face against Mary’s neck and cried also. She was home again as a Christmas present, and she liked the plain home better than the grand one.

“Did you really want to come back, Blackie,” said Mary, “and sleep with me again, and not be rich and great any more?” and Blackie wagged her tail and whined approvingly, as though it were the happiest Christmas of her life.

THE CHRISTIAN HUNTER.

“THIS IS Mr. Graham, a leader in our church work,” said Miss Ward, as she introduced the fine-looking young man to her friend Miss Warburton.

“Oh, yes!” said the person addressed. “I remember seeing you at the lakes last summer. What a pleasant company we had at the hotel!”

“Yes, but I went especially for the shooting. Such fine game up there! Birds of many kinds, ducks, and now and then a deer. I went just for sport, though I didn’t care much about the things after they were shot. We went fishing one day, and the fish were so small we let a quantity die in the bottom of the boat rather than carry them home. We had quite an excitement one day when we found we had killed a robin and her youngsters were in a nest close by with open mouths.”

“What did you do with the little birds?” said Miss Warburton.

“Oh, they had to starve, of course!”

“And did you bring home the mother bird?”

“No, she was pretty badly hurt, and couldn’t live long. We had so many ducks and other things that we couldn’t carry all of them.”

“Don’t you feel badly to leave a wounded robin or duck to die slowly?”

“Oh, we men haven’t women’s hearts, Miss Warburton, or we shouldn’t shoot at all, I fear!”

“I never could see how a Christian man could find pleasure in giving pain. I know some of our professing Christians have hunted buffaloes on the American plains, and left them to die, just for the sport of killing, as some of the English hunters do in South Africa. And I suppose some who hunt foxes, and find pleasure in seeing dogs catch and tear them to pieces, profess Christianity.”

“Well, you ladies are eager to ride fast and get the brush.”

“I should not be. I would not take the tail of the fox after the poor thing had been frightened nearly to death before capture. We think bull-fights in Spain, where animals are killed for sport, brutal and wicked; but we seem to think that where foxes are killed for sport it is only a pleasant and exhilarating pastime. Does the size of the animal make the difference?”

“I think, Miss Warburton, you would deprive us of all pleasure. Nothing is more bracing than the eager run with the dogs over fields and fences, and the rivalry in reaching the game first is very exciting.”

“And the next day or the next week you come back and lead a prayer meeting, and urge us to be gentle and tender, and trust in Him who lets not even a sparrow fall to the ground without his notice! I think Cowper was right when he said—

“‘I would not enter on my list of friends
(Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,
Yet wanting sensibility), the man
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.’”

“But, Miss Warburton, you must remember that animals are killed for food for you and me, and for others.”

“That should be done as humanely as possible, Mr. Graham. Our stock-yards and places for killing animals should all be under the most careful city or State supervision. We can easily brutalize people. At first, most men and women shrink from inflicting pain or shedding blood, but even those high in church or State can become callous to cruelty.”

“I fear you wouldn’t approve of letting ministers and presidents have a little fun from shooting.”

“No, not if that ‘fun’ took even birds away from their young, and helpless creatures were shot for the mere pleasure of shooting. The Princess of Wales, thanks to her womanly heart, has helped to put an end to pigeon-shooting for sport, and balls are found to answer the purpose.”

“This is getting personal. I fear you will not enjoy having me lead our meetings and asking sinners to become converted.”

“You are quite right, Mr. Graham. Some persons may not feel as I do, but for myself it greatly lessens the force of your words or prayers. I have spoken plainly because I believe your killing for sport has a bad influence over others. To me it does not seem consistent with your profession of kindness and love to all of God’s creatures. I hope you are not offended.”

“Oh, no, far from it! You have set me thinking. It has been thoughtlessness on my part, for as a leader in Christian things I want to do what is right.”

LOVE’S CHRISTMAS GIFT.

“I THINK George Thomas is fond of Edith, for he comes to the house often, and always gives her a delicate deference which shows his appreciation of woman.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Sinclair in reply to his wife, “Thomas is a good fellow, a hard worker, economical, and worthy of any girl, though of course he isn’t rich. That doesn’t matter, however, for I have enough for Edith. I’ve often wondered why he didn’t offer himself.”

“I can’t imagine,” replied his wife, “except that he does not earn enough to support Edith in the way she has been accustomed to live. Young men are unduly sensitive about that, when often the young woman would value a true affection more than a fine house and surroundings. I am sure Edith is fond of him, for although she says nothing her face and manner show it.”

“I don’t see how we can help matters, wife. Probably time will settle it.”

But time did not settle it, for Edith Sinclair, for some unexplained reason, was growing pale and listless. Something was wearing her nerves, and at last she was really ill. Naturally frail, and loving one to whom she could not make known her feelings, the repression, uncertainty, and perhaps surprise that no word was spoken finally culminated in her illness.

A physician was called, a woman who had long been the friend of the family; she divined some trouble that was not apparent to the world. One morning when she came, taking Edith’s hand she said, “Dear, I think something is worrying you. Would you mind telling me so that I can help you, perhaps?”

“There is nothing to be done, doctor,” said the girl sadly, as tears came into her large, dark eyes. “I have everything in this beautiful home, but I don’t care for it.”

“But what would make you happy—to go away for a time and have change of air and scenery?”

“No, I would rather stay here. I am too tired to go away.”

“Edith, I must tell you what I think is the truth. You love Mr. Thomas, and are unwilling that he or anybody should know it.”

“I admire him very much,” said the girl slowly.

“But why have you never let him see that you liked him?”

“I couldn’t do that, doctor. He knows that we are good friends.”

“Has he ever spoken of marriage?”

“No.”

“Would you marry him if he asked you?”

“If he loved me—never without.”

“What if I should find out his feelings for you?”

“Oh, not for the world, doctor! Let that come of his own free will if at all.”

“But you are ill, child, and you are letting the matter prey upon your strength and health. Mr. Thomas is a noble young man, and I believe is fond of you.”

“We must wait, doctor. I shall be better soon.”

Mr. Thomas called a few days later, but Edith was too ill to see him, and he left his regrets with her parents. He went home sadly to think of his future. He loved Edith, he was happy in her refined society, but his salary was not large, and he could not support her as he desired. She would tire of the home he could give her, and be unhappy, he thought. He called again, but as before was unable to see Edith.

He finally resolved to talk with her parents and tell them of his love for her, and why he had waited until he was better able to provide for her; but she was an only child, and he hesitated to commit himself. Others liked her, and he loved her too well to take her into privation. Besides, the parents, while they liked him, might not be at all willing to give him their daughter. He would talk with her physician, and she, a woman, would know whether Edith were really interested in him.

He called upon Dr. Mary Armstrong as soon as possible.

“I have come to ask about my friend, Miss Sinclair,” he said, as he sat in the physician’s parlor. “Is she better?”

“No, she does not mend at all. There seems to be some weight upon her heart or life that is breaking her down.”

The blood came to the young man’s face, but how could he know that “the weight” upon her heart meant love for him! Perhaps he was too presuming. After an awkward silence he said, “Doctor, I must confide in you. I love Miss Sinclair, but I have never had the means to marry her. I have had a mother and sister to make a home for, and I could not ask another to share my poverty. I do not know that Edith returns my affection, though we have had a delightful friendship together.”

“She loves you, I feel sure,” said her doctor, “and I think your mistake has been that you and she have not had an understanding sooner. Edith is a sensitive, lovely girl, delicately reared, and almost too careful of the conventionalities of life, or she would have shown her love for you.”

“Do you think the time has come to tell her that I love her?”

“Perhaps not just yet. I will tell her of our conversation and make her ready for the meeting.”

Young Thomas went away with a lighter heart than he had had for months. At last Edith would know all and wait for him, if she loved him.

Dr. Armstrong came every day to the Sinclair home, but the sick girl grew no better. Soon after this talk with Mr. Thomas the doctor said to Edith, “I have had a visit from your friend, and, just as I expected, he loves you, but has never asked your hand in marriage because he has so many cares at home and a small salary.”

The white face grew eager and flushed with color. “I told him,” Dr. Armstrong continued, “that he had made a mistake in not having an understanding with you, and then both could wait for marriage if circumstances made such waiting wise. Do you want to see him, Edith?”

“Yes, as soon as I am a little stronger. I feel too weak to-day.”

Several days passed, and strength did not return rapidly, but a new peace had come into Edith’s life, for she loved and was beloved, and then there was a happy meeting of the two lovers, but a quiet one of few words and promises.

Weeks and months went by, during which time hope and love worked the same miracle that has been wrought thousands of times since the world began.

Edith walked in the sunshine of a new day and a new life of restored health and vigor. The autumn leaves took on their color, and red showed itself again in the young girl’s cheeks.

When Christmas day came, that precious day of giving and receiving, George Thomas and Edith Sinclair gave themselves to each other for life.

AN UNFORTUNATE SAIL.

“THE SUNSET is so lovely we might take a row on the ocean,” said Mr. Farneaux to the young lady who was walking beside him.