Chapter XV: Our Ingleside

ESTHER COLE had received two letters, or rather notes, from her husband since the one she wrote him; but now months had passed without a word in answer to her regular weekly letter. Mr. Angus was greatly interested in the young wife who was so patiently enduring her trials, and insisted that she ought to be allowed to follow the dictates of her own conscience in regard to her connection with her husband.

Day after day Esther looked for a letter, but looked in vain. At length, pitying her too evident disappointment, Mr. Angus wrote to the chaplain of the prison, making inquiries in regard to the man. The letter, about which he had said nothing, was answered immediately, and contained a slip cut from an Auburn paper. Joseph Cole, with three of the worst prisoners, had escaped from their confinement early one dark night. They had nearly killed a watchman who ran to give notice, and had so far escaped justice.

The chaplain added that the criminals had been subsequently traced to New Orleans, where a gang of roughs had been seized for arson and murder. On the trial it was proved that the younger and apparently the most hardened had a number of aliases, but that his real name was Joseph Cole.

"My poor, trusting Esther!" exclaimed Marion to her husband, "this will end your faith in your husband's reformation. This will settle the question of your return to him."

But greatly to her surprise, and to the surprise of all Esther's friends, though she mourned so deeply over Joseph's sins that her cheeks grew colorless and her eyes looked into yours more wistfully than ever, she yet held fast to her belief that God had power to touch the hardest heart, and that in answer to her importunate prayers He would, in His own good time, lead him to penitence and a godly life.

"Whether he ever comes back to me or not is of little consequence, ma'am," she said, as Marion was trying to comfort her. "I don't think I shall live many years, but, oh, I do long for him to know how God can comfort people! What would I do now, ma'am, if I were without Christ, as I once was? If poor Joe only had Christ, he would be happier than he ever was in his life, even though he is in his cell."

The last was said with a piteous sob, which went to the listener's heart far more than the loudest wails.

And here we must leave our humble friend. We know that God did fill her heart with such thoughts of Himself, of His pitying tenderness toward all His creatures, that she was comforted under the bitterest sorrow a Christian can be called to endure,—the unworthiness of those we love. We leave her to the gracious sympathizing Saviour.

Glancing forward a few years, I am sure the reader will be pleased to learn that Neddy Carter is fulfilling the promise of his childhood. Meeting him in the street, one would never imagine that he is indebted to artificial supports for his ability to go from place to place, while his clear, brown eyes, looking you so straight in the face, his open brow, and abundant, wavy locks, interest the most casual observer.

If he were asked, "Who is the happiest youth in this great city?" he would, without hesitation, answer,—

"It would be hard to find a happier boy than I am since my mother goes with me regularly to church."

He is and will be for years to come a protégé of Mr. Lambert, who has given over a sum of money to proper guardians for the purpose of educating him.

The library building is finished, the shelves are lined with books selected by the pastor, who is the chairman of the library association, and a company of ladies and gentlemen appointed for the purpose. The hall above, forty feet by sixty, is fitted up with a curtain, foot-lights, etc., but can never be used except with the consent of Mrs. Marion Howard Angus. After many discussions, the name "Howard Hall" is conspicuous over the desk, but our old friend Marion is eager to assure every one who points to it that it is a memorial, not to herself, but to her father.

A very pleasant circumstance in connection with the library is that Mary Falkner, now confirmed in health and activity, was unanimously chosen librarian, with a salary large enough to support herself and her mother.

One more scene, and I have done.

Accompany me, dear reader, up this smoothly gravelled walk to the elegant mansion at the summit of Church Hill. Notice as you pass that luxurious vine winding itself so lovingly around the pillars. The slip from which it has grown was brought by Mr. Angus from the old Ingleside homestead.

Although it is June, the mornings are cool, and as we push open a French window and step in from the wide, uncovered piazza, we see an open fireplace, with a few embers smouldering away on the high brass and irons. There is an air of refinement and cosey, homelike comfort about the room that we would like to describe, but something of still greater interest attracts us.

Sitting on a low chair near the fire is a young girl, whom we soon recognize as the little Ethel we loved so dearly. As we have seen her so many times, she is still hovering over a cradle, but this time the occupant is a living, breathing, cooing, jumping, heart-winning baby.

At this moment the little one is sleeping. Ethel gazes lovingly at the fair countenance, the rosy lips moving in pleasant recollection of the sweets it has tasted, the long, curly lashes resting on the plump cheek, and acknowledges to herself that live babies are a great improvement on dolls.

Now voices are heard in the hall. Just as a lady and gentleman enter, a carryall drives to the door. The gentleman has on his arm sundry wraps, an afghan, a tiny cap being daintily held on his outstretched fingers. There is a new expression on his features, and we can scarcely believe that this tall athlete, this noble-looking man, with a smile on his lips, which looks as though it belonged there, is the same gentleman whom we first knew as Harold Angus.

But how shall I describe our Marion? The eyes are as bright, the dimples still in view, but the whole face is flooded with a new light. It is the mother love.

She takes little Stella from the cradle, uttering those soothing sounds which even the youngest babies so well understand, and dresses her for the ride, Ethel, meanwhile, looking on in wondering admiration.

They are going to the station to meet their dear friends, Dr. and Mrs. B-, from the Home for the Sick, and when they have driven around the town, intend to bring them home for a quiet Sunday.

And this is our Ingleside.