Chapter IV: Some People Who Were False Friends (3)

Mrs. Irving changed her residence, putting many hundred miles between her new and the old home, so that Vida might begin life anew, as she phrased it, without embarrassment. In a large hotel in the great city, with seaside and mountain trips, parties and operas was much more to Vida's taste than dull life in a quiet parsonage, and she expected to play the role of a pastor's wife.

With her mother as chaperon she led a gay life, going, coming, revelling at will in her freedom. As before her marriage, she attracted much attention. Admired and courted, suitors innumerable paid her homage. But a positive nature and strong will asserted themselves here. Only such attentions as befitted a wife to receive were tolerated. She knew the law did not count her free; and if she had analyzed her secret heart, there was no true reason why she cared to be free. No face she met had power to quicken her pulses or extract from her a second thought. The inner heart had long ago been pre-empted, but the blind wilful creature knew it not. The face most often seen in her dreams; the voice that whispered in her ear; the sad dark eyes that seemed to follow her reproachfully, belonged to none of the gay gallants about her. Her previous history being unknown she was a problem in that circle.

There came a change. Mrs. Irving's health began to fail. The eminent physicians far and near were consulted in vain; and as the symptoms became more denned and alarming, Vida could not shut her eyes to the fact that her mother was in a most critical state. She was a devoted daughter, though the weeds of selfishness, fostered by the mother's hand, at times almost overtopped filial affection. Now she shut herself in from society and devoted herself to her mother with unremitting care. Every whim of the invalid was gratified.

One day, after weary months of suffering, she said: "O Vida dear, I would pray to die, if I were not afraid."

"Why afraid, mother? I'm sure you've been a member of a church these many years, and a faithful attendant on its services, and you have been kind to the poor and such a dear mother," said Vida, caressing her. "I don't think you need be afraid."

"O child, that will not stand in the great day. Don't mention anything I've done or been, I beg you," moaned the poor mother. "I've been nothing but a miserable worldling. Now I'm almost through with it all, and I've no peace or comfort. It's all dark, dark. O what shall I do?"

"Let me send for Dr. Hines," said Vida.

"O I cannot talk to him. He's a stranger; and I'm so weak. What must I do, O what?"

Vida had been a member of the same church. But now she sat wrapped in gloom, feeling powerless to help, yet longing to comfort her dying mother. In the midst of her sad thoughts as she sat watching, while gentle slumber had stolen for a moment over the mother, she remembered the words of a text she had heard her husband preach from, "What must I do to be saved?" The sermon was all gone.

"If it asks that question in the Bible, it must answer it," she thought. So finding a Bible, she sat down to search for the old answer to the old question.

"Reading the Bible, dear?" said her mother, opening her eyes.

"Oh, mother, mother, I've found the answer."

The plain short direction was read; the mother repeated it over feebly. "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved."

"Read about Him, O do," and she seemed to summon soul and body to listen, as Vida, led doubtless by the Spirit, read here and there of Him who died for us. Day after day the reading went on; and while the mother slept, the daughter pondered the wonderful words she had read; preached to her for years, apprehended by her only just now. Her heart was filled with horror and fear at her treatment of such a Saviour; at her daring to number herself among his people; then that heart melted as she read of his love and pity, and casting away her robe of self-righteousness for the first time in her life, she knelt before Him a heart-broken, contrite sinner. He took the burden from her heart and gave her "peace."

While she still bowed at the bedside, praying her whispered prayer that her dear mother might "see Jesus," that mother put out her thin hand and laid it on the golden head, murmuring:

"Dear daughter, I believe in the Lord Jesus Christ; He has forgiven me. It is all peace, peace. Thank Him."

And Vida's clear, low tones of thanksgiving came to her dying mother sweet as the voice of angels, whose song soon burst upon her ear.

How clear an "evidence of Christianity" is this. A soul exchanging pride, haughtiness, and rebellion for humility and submission. Vida, meekly bowing to the storm that burst over her head, and filled with joy and peace that had not been hers in the brightest hour of worldly pleasure. It was not so hard, with this new-born love and trust, to see the grave close over that dear mother. It was gilded with the light of that day when "we shall rise again."

In these hours of bereavement Vida's heart went out with a longing cry for her husband. The love that she had stifled and called dead was there, deeper and purer. Now that she had been brought by this divine mystery unto full sympathy with him, he was the one soul on earth whose love she craved.

Perverse human heart! Here she was, no one to control her actions, possessed of wealth, youth, beauty, freedom to journey to other lands, and revel in the grand and beautiful of nature and art, yet the one only thing she desired, or that would satisfy, was to creep back into the niche she had filled in that other heart, that large, pure soul that she had thrust from her in her wicked folly and blindness. Now she would devote her life to searching for him, if indeed he were still living, and the doubt brought a keen pang; or had he, too, thrust her out and barred the door, so that she might never more enter? Or--worse than death--had he given the place to another, as she bade him do? It was a weary search, with this terrible uncertainty shrouding it. She advertised in mystical language, so none but he could comprehend it. She examined the church records of the denomination with which he was connected, but found no clue there.

She attended conventions where large companies of ministers were in session, and eagerly looked them over, hoping and praying that her eyes might fall on that one that her heart asked for. It was growing exciting and absorbing, this strange search. She frequently visited towns where a popular preacher or lecturer was announced, and made one of the vast throng that passed about him; then, taking a favourable position, rapidly scanned the upturned faces, wondering, meanwhile, what that strange, subtle something is, by which we recognise each other; that unerring consciousness, so that among ten thousand faces, could we view them one by one, we know at a glance that the one we seek is not there; we do not stop, and doubt, and compare--we know.

She humbled herself to the very dust, and wrote letters far and near to his ministerial friends, that brought only sorrowful replies. And now there came a remembrance that he had often spoken of the far west as a wide and promising field for labour; that some time he should like to go there and build up a church. He might have gone there now. So, with this forlorn hope, she started westward; spending the summer journeying, stopping over the Sabbath at straggling villages, and visiting different churches. Wearied out at length, she recalled the fact that an uncle had removed, with his family, to the south-west, several years before.

She searched out their whereabouts and hastened thither, intending to spend but a brief season. But yielding to their entreaties she remained through the autumn. It was now drawing near to Christmas, and still she lingered. She was growing hopeless, and that pleasant home filled with boys and girls was a diversion from her grief.

"Do, cousin Vida, go with me to-day, won't you?" asked Harry, a bright boy of fourteen. "I know a splendid place about ten miles from here, where we can get some evergreens; I want to trim up the house for Christmas just as we used to in New York State. I'll take the spring waggon and the ponies, and we'll go--you and I--all alone, and bring home lots of greens, all cut off in short branches."

"You forget," his mother said, "that your cousin is not used to riding in spring waggons over rough roads, and ten miles will be a long drive for her."

"There are some red berries there, too," went on Harry, as if he had not heard the objections, "and moss, and long vines that the frost hasn't found yet; besides it's a grand day to ride."

"You dear boy," said Vida, "I'll go for half of the inducements you offer." She was only too glad to fall in with any plan that diverted her sad thoughts.

The drive lay for a long distance through the lovely open country, the grass in many parts still green as in midsummer, and over all the perpetual sunshine of that region. A soft golden light that even in mid-winter glorifies the commonest object; bright skies, balmy air, and her lively companion, cheered even Vida's drooping spirits.

Arrived in the woods, Harry ran here and there with joyful enthusiasm, now climbing a tree like a squirrel, then darting into a thicket for mosses. They loaded the waggon with green boughs and filled their basket with treasures of moss and lichens, and the gay-plumed birds flitted about with hospitable little chirps, welcoming their visitors to their bowers of green. As each became more intent in adding to their store they became separated. Vida was a little distance behind a low, thick growth of trees, disentangling a long vine of bitter-sweet, when she heard a voice that thrilled her very soul. There was just one voice like that in all the world. Trembling, she bent her head and peeped through the branches. One swift glance and she knew him--her husband.

A strong self-control prevented her from swooning or crying out in her great joy. Shaking like a leaf, yet holding firmly to a tree-trunk, she gazed into the dear face. It was paler and thinner, there were dark rings under the eyes, but the finely-curved mouth had the same calm, sweet expression that told of peace within.

How like a king among men he looked, as he stood there, his hands filled too with mosses and lichens, looking kindly on the boy and talking interestedly. She never realised her utter folly so keenly as at this moment. How she longed to fly to him and fall at his feet in sorrowful confession. Two things kept her back: no eyes must witness their first meeting, and another dreadful thought--what if it were too late. What if he had taken her at her word and loved another.

She had not been a woman of the world so long for naught. She was an adept in hiding her heart far out of sight. When Harry returned she could calmly ask him, "Whom he had found in that out-of-the-way place?"

"Why, don't you think!" said Harry, "among all the other precious things in these woods I've found a minister. Wish we could put him right on top of our boughs and things, and carry him home too, for Christmas. Wouldn't mother be glad to see him, though! He preaches every Sunday in a log church right down hereaways, and the people come from all round the country to hear him. He looks as if he could preach, too. Such eyes as he has, that look you through and through. Say, let's you and me go to hear him next Sunday, will you?"

"Yes, I will!" Vida said, with such fervour and emphasis that Harry gave her a keen look and wondered why she had a bright red spot in each cheek. He wondered more before they reached home, for his cousin laughed and sung in childlike glee, and was sad and silent by turns. Her restlessness could not wait until the Sabbath. The excitement and suspense were unendurable.

Confiding in her aunt, it was arranged between them that Moses, the old coloured man of all work, should accompany her to Cedar Vale the next afternoon. Just what she would do when she reached there was not clear to her, but stay away she could not.

When the children were well off to school again after the nooning, Vida, mounted on a fleet little pony, attended by her trusty guide, rode quietly away. Her heart beat wildly when they drew near the settlement. They came at last upon the church, standing in a lovely grove of maples. The door stood slightly ajar. At a little distance from it Vida dismounted, and directed Moses to wait there for her. She had a consuming desire to look into the church where her husband preached, to stand a moment in the very spot where he stood Sabbath after Sabbath.

She stepped softly in, and there, kneeling by the little pulpit, his head bowed upon the desk, was--her husband!

Timidly and slowly, as one who has no right, she noiselessly drew near and knelt beside him. Stranger eyes may not look upon a scene so sacred; but the two souls bowed together before that altar came nearer to heaven than mortals often get.

Had not the waning light warned them that they were still upon the earth, they might never have tired of looking into one another's eyes, and telling each to each the experiences of that lifetime they had lived since their separation, and striving to put into words the depths of joy that crowned this blessed hour.

Before they left the church they knelt again in that sacred spot, and each in low fervent words poured out thanksgivings, craving a blessing on their reunited lives, and, by a mutual and irresistible impulse, both spoke again their marriage vows before the Lord, in his temple.

When they rode away that Christmas Eve on their second bridal tour, the setting sun, smiling through the trees and slanting across their pathway, fell on them like a benediction. Slowly and dreamily they went on their way, willing that this ride over crackling twigs and rustling leaves, with the soft, light of the dying day closing about them, should go on for ever. The earnest admiring gaze of the husband brought girlish blushes to the face of the bride. He was drawing contrasts; the sweet humble face and the simple adornings of her who rode by his side, made a fairer picture than the queenly lady of haughty airs and magnificent attire, who seemed to have passed out of existence.

Never was fairer Christmas tide than this, in that merry household; those memorable evergreens festooning it as a bower--and a romance--a poem--lived out--not written. There were no costly gifts, and yet, gifts the most precious--two souls given back to each other. If the joy bells in their hearts but had voice, their silvery ringing would have filled all the land.

"Vida, can you be happy here until spring?" Mr. Eldred asked, a few days after Christmas. "My work would suffer, I fear, were I to leave it now."

"Why leave it in the spring, dear Thane? Let us stay here always, in this beautiful, quiet place, where the people love you so, and--I did not tell you yet," Vida said, half shyly, "but my money is not mine any more. I gave it all to the dear Lord, I would like to build a pretty church with some of it, and here we will stay and work, you and I together. I can help you now, Thane--a little. Don't you like my plan?" she said, anxiously, when he did not speak.

"My darling, you have made me so happy that I could not speak," he said, after a little. "I wish it above all things--to go on with my work here, and a new church is so much needed. How strange that you should be willing to stay, and that we can work together! Oh, Vida! I prayed--with faith, I thought--but I never dreamed of an hour like this; surely 'It has not entered into our hearts to conceive the things which God has prepared for them that love Him--in this life.'"

There was another sensation in an audience when the pastor of the log church brought in his wife, for naught so fair and sweet had ever gladdened their rustic eyes before. The singing that day was mostly solo, or at least, duets. Her pure, birdlike voice filled the church, and what could they do but listen, wondering meanwhile whether it might not be a lark, or an angel come down for a season.

When a teeming, busy town covered the prairie, and the heel of agriculture and commerce crushed out the wild flowers, the log church was preserved as a memorial, while the spire of the handsome new one was eagerly pointed out, its story treasured and handed down to children's children.

These two spent their happy lives ministering to this simple people, their hearts and hands so filled with work that they had no time to sigh for the privileges of more cultivated surroundings. The pastor's wife was the warm friend and sympathizer of the common people, and her name was singularly appropriate--Vida--well-beloved.

HOW A WOMAN WAS CONVERTED TO MISSIONS.

The poor women and girls are so taken up with cleaning their houses and dishes, and preparing their daily meals, that they will not give themselves up to thinking in the least. So writes Miss Blunt concerning the women of India. It was something of the same sort that prevented Mrs. John Williams from giving herself up to thinking, or from thinking about anything but her own private affairs. Not that Mrs. Williams gave herself up to scrubbing doors and windows and cleaning pots and pans with her own hands, but she was "taken up" all the same. When Christ was a babe on earth there was no room for him in the inn, so to-day many a heart is so full that Christ and his cause are turned out. If a heart is full how can it hold more? Do not suppose that there was no thinking done by Mrs. Williams. She superintended all her work and did much of her own sewing; as her family was not small and her income not large, and she kept but one servant, it took a vast deal of thinking and worrying to keep the Williams family up to the standard, which was one not of neatness and comfort simply, but that she should live in the same style as those of her friends whose incomes were possibly twice as large as her own, that her children's clothes should be just as fine and as fashionably made as theirs, that she herself should be able to make as good an appearance as the best when she went into society, that her parlour should be furnished as far as in her lay, with all the elegance and taste that the law of the fashionable world required. This was the grand aim to which she bent all her energies.

Mrs. Williams was a member in good and regular standing of an orthodox church. She regularly occupied her pew in the sanctuary, and when she had no other engagement, attended the weekly prayer-meeting, but the most persistent and zealous member of the "Ladies' Foreign Missionary Society" had never succeeded in inducing her to attend their monthly meetings, but just once. She took pains to explain it carefully to her conscience that she believed in Foreign Missions, but that didn't prove that it was necessary for her to spend a whole afternoon each month hearing dry reports and "papers" about countries with outlandish names. What good did that do anyway? It was mysterious--how ladies could do justice to their families and spend so much time out. As for herself she could scarcely keep up with her calls. But then! they neglected their families, of course they did; women that were always on a committee for something or other, and running off here and there to all kinds of meetings. Very likely, too, it just suited some women to get up on a platform before an audience, and read a "paper" or "report." It was just a little leaning to Woman's Rights. She believed in a woman keeping in her own sphere, and for her part she craved no such notoriety. She had always noticed, too, that the women who gave themselves up to those things seemed to lose all regard for their appearance. Now it really was a duty one owed to their friends, to dress well, and some of those missionary women were wearing their last year's bonnets; and dresses of the styles of three or four years back--perfect frights!

She did not see the need of women having a society by themselves either. Probably they raised just as much money before the ladies got to making such a fuss about it, it all came out of their husband's pockets anyway. Her husband always had contributed to Foreign Missions, and always would probably (it's true he did, a dollar a year!) and was not that just as well as for her to be bothering her head about it?

"There!" said Mrs. Williams, one bright afternoon in April, as she glanced from her window. "There comes that Mrs. Brown. I know what she's after. She wants me to go to that stupid missionary meeting. I suppose this is the afternoon for it. I promised her I would go again some time--sorry I did too. That's just as much sense as some persons have; think that one can drop everything and go to a missionary meeting--in the spring of the year, too, when there is so much sewing to be done;" and she hastily instructed Bridget to tell Mrs. Brown that she was "engaged." So Mrs. Brown went on her way to the meeting, and sat in heavenly places, and had her heart stirred with new love and zeal, while Mrs. Williams sat at home, and worked diligently on a dress for her young daughter, an elaborate dress of frills, and lace, and embroidery, and many weary stitches. At the close of the day she congratulated herself that she had accomplished a fine afternoon's work.

There were whole seas of sewing to be waded through, Mrs. Williams said, before she could have any spare afternoons. There was the dressmaking, all her own dresses to be remodelled after the present style, besides new ones (when Mrs. Williams had a dressmaker in the house--to use her own words--she "almost worked herself to death") then there was all the other sewing. It really was appalling to think of the amount of ruffling and tucking and side-pleating and puffing that must be gone through, before the summer wardrobes of herself and her little daughters would be completed. There was the house-cleaning, the smallest detail of which required her personal supervision, for Mrs. Williams was elaborate throughout; all her housekeeping was squared up to certain fine lines. If she ever had a morsel of time from these things, stern necessity compelled her to spend it in fancy work; for tidies, and soft pillows, and bracket-covers, and stand-covers, and mats were indispensable. When Mrs. Williams was asked to subscribe for "Woman's Work for Woman," she assured them that she knew already all about woman's work that she desired to.

It was done at last--the spring sewing and the house cleaning, and the summer heats had come. The day was warm, and Mrs. Williams, in a cool white wrapper, had established herself on the parlour sofa with a book. She had neglected to tell Bridget that she was not at home, and just as she was in the most absorbing part of one of George Eliot's absorbing novels, a caller was ushered in. "Mrs. Brown! that missionary woman again! Was ever anyone so persecuted before?" Here she had just come to a breathing spell, where she had hoped to take a little rest and comfort, and now she must be annoyed. To go, was out of the question. It was too hot; and besides, she did not in the least feel like going to a meeting of any sort. She wanted to finish her book; so she told Mrs. Brown that she was very much worn out with over-exertion, and the day was so warm that she would not venture out. She should probably fall asleep in the meeting if she went. It seemed that even when there came a time that work did not fill Mrs. Williams' heart, Satan was on the alert to pre-empt it, and keep her from all Christian activity. How he must rejoice at each new withe he fastens over the heart he covets. Here was a large-hearted, energetic, skilful woman--thoroughly consecrated. She would be a power for Christ. Mrs. Williams was not a hard-hearted woman, but she found no time to listen to the sorrowful story of those who know not God. She knew very little of it at all, and like her heathen sisters, was so "taken up" that she "could not give herself to thinking."

When the rage for decorating and the mania for pottery seized the female mind, it began to dawn across Mrs. Williams' perceptions that all her belongings were exceedingly plain, that she positively needed, and must have two large vases for the parlour at least. She lay awake thinking about it a good part of the night. Something must be done. The expensive imported ware was out of the question--beyond the limits of her purse at present. Mrs. Williams was a woman of resources, who seldom failed to rise to the necessity of the occasion; and from her inner consciousness she evolved a perfectly delightful plan. When a young girl at school, she had taken lessons in oil colours, and possessed not a little artistic ability. Why not manufacture her own pottery and decorate her own china? That was a most inspiring idea; she could scarcely wait for morning to appear, so eager was she to put her plans into execution. She would go into the city, get a few instructions and some materials, "then we shall see what we shall see."

The next day was a harbinger for a hot day; but what of that? What would not one undergo when pottery was in question? So she spent the sultry-summer days examining all the different styles of vases with the same eager minuteness that an amateur milliner studies hats on "opening day." Her vases should be precisely like that elegant pair of Copenhagen ware that cost fifty dollars. Then this ambitious, energetic, deluded woman went home, and proceeded to shut herself in her room, and dabbled in paint from morning till night. Her enthusiasm arose to such a pitch, that she neglected her sewing and her calls; and after she had produced a really creditable pair of vases, she was stimulated to go on. She painted lovely little bouquets on her tea-set, and decorated everything in the house from china to coal-scuttle.

About this time Mrs. Williams received an invitation to a party, not an unusual thing, but this was a very select affair; the very highest stratum of society. She was holding a counsel with herself, and doing some very close thinking on the all-important subject of her wardrobe, and she came to the usual feminine conclusion that "positively" she had "nothing to wear," when she was interrupted by a call from the collectors of the missionary society--the faithful, punctual collectors, whose visits were as sure as the sun and the dews. Mrs. Williams had decided that self-defence required her to become a member of that society, afford it she must, in some way. Her bills for the pottery had amounted to a considerable sum, home industry notwithstanding, and the fact stared her in the face that she must have a new silk for that party--but it was plain she had dodged those collectors just as long as she could.

What a relief it was to learn that only ten cents a month constituted one a member of the society. She answered quite graciously that she should be most happy to throw in her mite. If Mrs. Williams could have had a peep into the collectors' books, and have seen that Mrs. A. and Mrs. B. subscribed fifty cents a month, and that Mrs. C. and D. subscribed one dollar a month, and others whom she copied and followed were even benevolent to the amount of two or three dollars a month, then Mrs. Williams would have compassed sea and land to procure the money, before she would have allowed her name to be among theirs with, that small amount set after it. She suggested that she pay the whole sum at once. "What was the use of troubling them to call every month;" and when they said they preferred to have it in monthly payments, she thought within herself, "Now, that is just like women; they have no business capacity, most of them, travelling up and down, wasting their time, making twelve trips for what they might accomplish in one;" which hasty censure upon her own sex was only another proof that she had not "given herself up to thinking;" certainly not on the philosophy of giving.

Having disposed of the collectors, Mrs. Williams sallied forth on a shopping expedition, in high spirits at having come off so easily, and yet a placid feeling in her conscience that now she had contributed to "foreign missions." She spent the morning in weighing the merits of this piece of silk and that, and finally purchased a dress, rich and costly, and some soft filmy laces of marvellous beauty at a marvellous price. If her poor weak conscience made a protest it was silenced by "I must have it." Who shall say that the heathen are all in Africa or China, or the islands of the sea?

And so the busy days went on, dressmaking, house-cleaning, calling, canning, pickling, parties, pottery, and fancy work, time for it all. How could one think much about such far-away interests as heathen women when her hands and heart were so full?

Sometimes we call such "Marthas," and make light of the fact that we have loaded ourselves down with such heavy burdens, and take comfort in the thought that one of the women whom Jesus loved was in the same condemnation; but we forget that her anxious housewifely cares were for Jesus. Dare we say as much for ours?

One morning Mrs. Williams was not bustling about with her usual activity. She sat in her own room with a grave, troubled face. She was in deep thought, and it was not some scheme for adding to her wardrobe, or the furnishings of her house, that formed the subject of her meditations. Perhaps the days are not past when the Lord speaks to a soul "in a dream, in a vision of the night, when deep sleep falleth upon men." Mrs. Williams was not a nervous woman, full of strange fancies, and her dreams heretofore had been passed by as idle phantasies of the brain, but the remarkable and solemn one of the previous night could not be so dismissed, and like one of old, her "spirit was troubled."

In her dream, the day had come for her to die, and leave her busy work for evermore. She could recall it all most vividly, the flash of surprise, the anguish, the feeling that she was not ready, the swift searching of her heart to find her hope, the feeble despairing cry, Oh Christ, forgive me! the weeping friends, not heeded in the all-absorbing thoughts, "What is this? Where am I going?"

Then the sinking away, the last gasp, and eternity opened! In the distance there dawned upon her vision the glory of the city, the golden gates, the crowns, the harps, the white-robed throng, the wonderful music thrilling her soul. As she tremblingly approached the gate, her heart gave a bound, for that kingly One could be no other than Christ the Lord, the one she loved years ago before the world got hold of her. Surely he would recognise her; but when she timidly ventured nearer, and spoke his name, there was no smile of welcome, no "Come, ye blessed;" the look was cold, the face averted. In tears and agony she begged an angel to open the gates and let her in. When he asked her whence she came, and by what right she hoped to enter, she murmured out that she belonged to Christ's church when she was on earth. Then he bade her come with him. He lifted a veil and said, "Look!"

There were rooms filled with beauty, opening into each other, and stretching off into the distance. There was rich furniture, carpets of softest velvet covered the floors, mirrors and paintings filled the walls; there were exquisite vases of delicate tints and graceful forms, finest statuary, innumerable and endless articles of ornamentation, and, lying about in rich profusion, were costly silks and glittering satins and rare laces; jewellery flashed out here and there; diamonds and pearls and all precious gems in beautiful settings, novels in costly binding, food delicate and tempting in abundance and variety. "It was for such as these," the sad voice of the angel said, "that you bartered your soul; these are the things you coveted and toiled for in your earth-life."

How perfectly empty and unsatisfying it all looked to her now, with that glorious city in full view, and the shining ones gathered about their King; their hallelujahs rising in grand chorus to "Him who loved them and washed them in his blood." In deep distress she begged to be allowed to go in where the Saviour was. Then the angel lifted another veil.

There were the dark places of the earth spread out before her; millions upon millions of human beings bowing before idols, little children cast into cruel flames, and women, sad, wretched women, a whole world full of them; besides those, there were the poor, degraded, ignorant ones of her own city.

"Did you ever read in your Bible, said the angel, 'Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to Me?'"

Deep horror seized upon her, for memory brought before her, as in letters of fire, that other word in her own Bible--that awful word, "depart."

Mrs. Williams needed no Daniel to interpret her dream. Unlike the one of the King of Babylon it brought her in brokenness of spirit to the feet of her Saviour; and he who said, "A new heart will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you," was faithful to his promise.

The woman, who left her room after hours of heart-searching and confession before God, came out of that room with "the new spirit"--a consecrated soul, henceforth to be obedient to the Master's slightest wish. The whole aim of her life was changed, her pursuits, her style of living. She found, too, ample time to do the Lord's work, and to "look well to the ways of her household," and the Lord gave her much service for him, and the work was very sweet.

Does he not wait to give to any of us who have been half-hearted laggard Christians, this "new spirit," this anointing whenever we shall give our whole hearts to him. Then shall it be "joy, nor duty," then we shall say, My tongue, dear Lord, to speak for Thee, my hands to minister to Thee, my feet to run Thine errands.

MRS. LEWIS' BOOK.