Chapter III (1)

ON Christmas Day, while her grandfather was safe in his room taking his afternoon nap, Lily resolved to surprise him, as well as commemorate this wonderful Christmas. Bringing out her store of pressed ferns and autumn leaves, together with some evergreens she had supplied herself with, she turned the little house into a bower of beauty. Vines festooned the pictures, and vines of bright autumn leaves ran along the gray walls. Evergreens wreathed the doorways, and chrysanthemums bloomed out unexpectedly from everywhere. She prepared the table in spotless old damask and shining silver, for their six o'clock dinner—sumptuous repast, by the way, which was not often indulged in, these days.

When all was done she put on a dress that she did not often have occasion to wear in her workaday world—a white cashmere, her grandfather's favorite. She put roses in her hair and at her belt, for grandpa's favorite flower was a rose. Then trembling with delight at the success of her plans, she tinkled the little bell and waited for him. He, too, had made some little attempts at festivity; had exchanged his dressing-gown for his best black coat. And now when he came into the room, ablaze with light, with odors of heliotrope and roses in the air, and a lovely vision in white demurely waiting to receive him, sweeping a low courtesy with "A merry Christmas to you, sir; happy and oft this day return to thee," he rubbed his old eyes in amazement and thought time had gone back forty years. There were two lookers-on in this scene, Gretchen standing just inside the kitchen door, her face in a broad smile of delight, and a gentleman who was guilty of pausing just for a moment on the porch, taking advantage of a forgotten uplifted curtain to enjoy the exquisite picture. He murmured "Beautiful!" but whether it referred to the charming room, the faultless table, the lovely girl, or the grand old man, who can tell?

He came in presently, bearing a basket of rare fruits; oranges, white grapes and bananas, which he presented with a "Merry Christmas" to Mr. Winthrop.

"You have friends with you?" he said, glancing about him.

"Oh, no, indeed! My little girl got up all this festive appearance to please her old grandfather. If you would honor us so much, Mr. Thornton, what pleasure it would give us could you remain and take a seat at our table. A friend is the only article we lack to make our Christmas a happy one."

So sincere an invitation needed little urging, especially as the guest experienced a sudden consciousness of the truth that in all the world there was not a table or a company that he would prefer. It was a most enjoyable Christmas dinner; not alone because the fare was delicious and delicate, but that these three, meet as often as they might, never lacked either topics or thoughts for conversation.

In the course of the evening, as they were discussing plants, Mr. Winthrop turned to Lily, saying, "My dear, take our friend out and show him that rare rose that opened to-day. I think there is not another plant like it in this country."

"Here is something finer than roses," Lily said, pausing at the entrance of the greenhouse by pots of English violets, white with blossoms.

"They are wonderfully sweet," he said, bending over them, "but I have a great partiality for their less pretentious American sisters, sturdy little souls, who push up green leaves through the snows fairly, and open their blue eyes smilingly in all sorts of weather. They are not exclusive, either; they make up for what they lack in fragrance by scattering themselves about the woods so that poor people may have them as freely as water or air."

"I can show you some of those, too," she said. "I brought them from the woods for the sake of old times. Here is my pet corner."

This was a moss-covered rock, the water trickling over it, tall ferns behind it, and clusters of wood violets nestling at the foot.

"This is a bit of the woods, you see, Mr. Thornton, except that the ferns are in pots, and the violets in boxes. Will not these violets be astonished when they wake up in this strange place instead of down by the stump in the woods where I found them?"

It seemed that Mr. Thornton's lips opened of themselves to say, "Yes, I very well remember the day."

And Lily, just then, remembered the day, too, and the curious circumstance that had often puzzled her—the maple branch broken off and laid in her path, and yet no one appeared to be in the woods but herself. "Was Mr. Thornton there, too?" She gave him a quick look, but he was absorbed in studying the violets with a perfectly grave face, and she put the idea from her as absurd.

"He is very absent-minded," she told herself; "is in haste to be gone, and considers me tiresome."

He came over again to the English violets and took long breaths of their sweetness, then said, "I have a friend who calls this her flower, and these blossoms are not more fragrant than is her spirit. Will you kindly cut a few for her?" And drawing out his watch, "It is quite time I was gone." He took his violets, lingered again outside, admiring the beauty of the scene. Everything was clear-cut against a cloudless sky and white moonlit earth.

"Gloriously beautiful, is it not?" he said. "Think of looking up at such a sky as that,—

"'In the solemn midnight, centuries ago,'

"searching for the one star."

"Think of seeing a multitude of angels appear in such a sky," she said, with upturned face.

The pure, rapt expression and the white robes made her companion fear for an instant that she would vanish out of his sight, and he involuntarily drew her hand through his arm and moved on.

"After all, Mr. Thornton," she said, "my thoughts are rather on the earth than the sky, to-night. 'Peace on earth, good will to men.' I've been singing it all day. The Lord has been very kind to us this Christmas. He sent us this lovely home for our very own—Grandpa told you, did he not? See it in the moonlight! Does it not look like a dear little gray dove nestled down among the snows and the evergreens?"

It was a glowing face Mr. Thornton turned to her. These were precious words to hear, and he rejoiced that his secret had been well kept.

In lieu of other friends this young florist held much converse with her flowers, fairly investing them with souls. She went back to them now, and looked them over lovingly.

"He has a friend who loves white violets," she told them. "Do you suppose she is like him?" but the perfumed breath did not answer.

"You darling!" to a white rose, "I'm so glad you have come; I have watched for you so long; perhaps she is like you, my queen," and she touched her lips to the delicate petals. "What if she were like you, Madam Camelia, in stiff white silken robes, or you, Lady Calla, beautiful, and white, and cold—not sweet? What if she be some little plain, humble creature like you, my mignonette, he would love her none the less, I am sure. But none of you tell me about her. You pansies, in your new purple and buff velvets, you are full of thoughts. Is she wise and good? She must be like him," she whispered to the heliotrope, putting her face down amid its sweetness, "or he could not have called her life fragrant." She put a sharp, quick check just then on both tongue and fancies, and reminded herself that she was taking an unwarrantable amount of interest in Mr. Thornton's affairs, and had enjoyed the evening far too much for one who had made such resolutions as she had. What a happy evening it had been! She had forgotten to put on her mantle of reserve when she donned her white cashmere. She had shown such pleasure at his coming, too, and so he was obliged to take early leave to impress it upon her that it was not she he sought; that his visits were purely benevolent. Speaking of his friend, too, as if to say, "Be careful, do not set your heart upon me." She felt vexed with herself. She talked no more to the flowers, but went about preparations for the next day's work with a resolute, business-like air. She clipped off blossoms energetically, and made them swiftly into little knots or graceful handfuls for the next day's market, for people would need flowers, even though Christmas had come and gone. Somehow the day had left a weight upon her spirits, indefinable and vague, but the very touch of the soft flowers and the cool green leaves calmed her, and brought sharp rebukes from her conscience. What ingratitude! It should end up in gladness, this day of days to them, and she shut the door on all disturbing thoughts, and broke out in song—snatches of old Christmas hymns. If she had but known that the violets travelled as fast as they could go to "The Old Ladies' Home," and gave out their fragrance by the bedside of an invalid who loved English violets as she did no other flower, because it was a breath from her native land; had she known, too, that the giver of them hastily plucked out a few before he parted with them, carefully placed them in an inner pocket, then stored them among his treasures when he reached home!

Life had settled down in the cottage to calm content. Mr. Winthrop seemed to have forgotten that he was ever other than a dweller in a humble home, with no more important business than sorting flowers and pruning plants.

Sturdy Gretchen was still at her post, maid of all work. In the time of the deepest trouble Lily had told her she must go as they had no means of paying her, but she shook her faithful head, saying, "No, no, I will stay. I haf leetle money, petter days come for you. You die if I leaf you; you haf so too much work; you good to me, I not go," whereat Lily bestowed upon her a warm embrace, thus forging the last link that bound her in loving servitude to the family.

By many skillful manœuvres Mr. Thornton had contrived to have his own gardener relieve them of much of the drudgery in the greenhouse, assuring Mr. Winthrop that the man must have more to keep him from idleness. Mr. Thornton himself was the best patron the greenhouse had, paying his own prices, which were exorbitant. One might suppose he furnished flowers for all the weddings and parties in the city. Certain it is that all his friends, and public charities with which he had to do, were kept well supplied. Plants, too, bloomed in attic windows that had been bare, and every old lady in the "Home" had her pet in the shape of a plant of his giving.

The winter was gliding away, and Mr. Thornton still spent long evenings at the cottage. He did not longer conceal from himself the fact that it was not benevolence alone that drew him thither, nor because a fireside and a welcome from a genial old friend awaited him. He had come to know that while he enjoyed Mr. Winthrop's conversation, and the room was as cosy as ever, yet there was a painful void about it all unless a maiden stole in, dropped the curtain, shaded the lamp, stirred the fire and sat in the corner opposite him, where his eyes might often meet hers; indeed she could converse well with her eyes, and give one a tolerable impression of her thoughts and convictions without spoken words, as they thoughtfully gazed into the fire, rested in smiling affection upon her grandfather, or flashed an appreciative look at some word of his own. If he had sometimes made reply to a profound opinion of Mr. Winthrop's in words that were floating through his mind, they might have been these:—

"A sweet attractive kinde of grace,
A full assurance given by lookes,
Continuall comfort in a face
The lineaments of Gospell bookes."

And yet he had by no word or look to her given a sign of all this. The truth was, Mr. Thornton had been engaged in an intricate though delightful study. His heart was pleading to go in a certain direction, and he, holding it back, declared it never should, unless reason and conscience approved.

There was a cause for this excessive caution. He had seen much hollowness and deceit in society, had found a low standard among young ladies themselves, and their pleasure being so universally the aim of life, that he was tempted to believe that sterling worth in womankind had died with his mother and grandmother. Moreover, he had in early manhood a bitter experience; had been carried captive by a beautiful face, and came near linking his life to one who proved to be empty-headed and empty-hearted, and yet she was fair as an angel, and counterfeited all virtues and graces most admirably. It was a keen disappointment, and inclined him to place no confidence in mere appearances. And so he had watched this lovely flower unfolding day by day before him, hardly daring to hope that the self-sacrifice, the consecration and sweetness were genuine, trembling lest some day he should discover the hideous blight spot.

It had come to be a matter of course that as often as Mr. Thornton came, he carried away a knot of white violets for his friend, and Lily, while she made it up with care, made up also a pretty little romance. She pictured his friend a fair, sweet creature, arrayed in garments of finest texture and softest tints, with rare old laces and jewels, and a hint odor of violets always about her. How blest and happy must she be, having the right to wait and watch for him, to be glad at his coming—always with her flowers! How lovely she must be when that rare, delicate fragrance typified her to him!

If sometimes while she worked, a tear sparkled on the white blossoms, she dashed off the intruder and took herself sternly in hand. What was this? Was she growing envious? Jealous? What? Ah! She must look well to her heart, treacherous heart repining at another's happiness. This was only momentary weakness that nobody guessed aught of—that she did not admit even to herself. She still went her daily rounds, cheerful, trusting, thankful, looking with brave eyes into the future that promised only a life of toil.

It so happened that Mr. Thornton sometimes sought her in the greenhouse, as the evening waned and she did not appear; but she seemed absorbed in her work, and determined to take for granted that it was a purely business call with a pertinacity that was both amusing and annoying; annoying in that the chief subject of Mr. Thornton's perplexed musings in these days was, not what estimate to put upon her, but to discover, if possible, what one she put upon him.

One evening he strayed in and laughingly declared that she "must suspend industry for a time, and turn cicerone, as there were doubtless many points of interest in her flowery kingdom that he had not yet visited."

The enthusiastic florist was always pleased to do this, much more when one could open up such treasures of riches on any theme as could this devout student of nature. And so, all unawares as they went about, she was drifted into a sea of most delightful talk. They discussed families and the different members, as if people and not plants were being analyzed. He described some of the curious relatives of these families that he had met in foreign lands. Then they came down to the broad plane; the wonderful variety in form, color and fragrance, of God's beautiful creations, the thought of us in it all; and here there were so many things to be said, such perfect harmony of thought, that the talk flowed on and on, until Lily had forgotten that she was to maintain a dignified reserve toward this friend of her grandfather's. They came at last to clusters of lilies of the valley—just putting forth creamy bells.

"Dear little hardy things," Mr. Thornton said, bending over them. "These are petted children, but their poor relations come trooping out before winter has fairly left us. They are my favorite lilies, so brave and sweet and modest."

"You surely forget," Lily said, "that the lily family is a large one."

"Yes, I know. There's that immense one, all purple and gold and crimson; you may admire it in the distance. Then the day lilies are sweet, but they are stiff and ungraceful. The tiger lilies are showy, but mere show never commends itself to me; they have no fragrance."

"You forget the queenly calla."

"No; she is grand and beautiful, with stately manners, but you cannot take her right into your heart like these tiny creatures. These fit everywhere. They may fasten the bride's veil or strew the dead baby's pillow. You may give a handful to a beggar, or lay them in a sick, weak hand, and their perfume will steal softly up and bring comfort. They are such drooping, graceful bells, humbly hiding away in their green. I repeat, I love them best. Will you give me a few for my friend? She, too, is a lover of them."

Lily was vexed at herself that her cheek just then took on the hue of the rose that it brushed against.

"His 'friend!' alway that friend. Why did she seem like an unwelcome spectre?"

While she clipped the stems and put them together, he talked on.

"I said these were the flower of flowers to me; I should have excepted one other."

Has she not been so occupied in controlling the disturbance that "my friend" aroused, she would have noticed a quality in the tones that had not been there before, as well as the look that searched her face when she raised her eyes, after a little pause, with "Well?"

"This flower that I have in mind is a very hardy one, also. It will flourish in almost any climate; indeed, the more rocky the soil, and the rougher the winds that blow upon it, the more beautifully it develops."

"That is strange," she said, intent on fashioning her bouquet.

"What is stranger still, it blooms all the year round."

"Is it fragrant?"

"Wonderfully so. Not a flower that ever I saw can compare with its delicate fragrance."

"What color is it?"

"White, with a delicate flush of rose."

"It must be lovely," she said, holding off her flowers to get the effect of the arrangement. "Where are those flowers found?"

"They are very rare. I never saw but one."

"Did you say it was a lily?"

"A lily."

"Where did you see it, Mr. Thornton?"

"Not far from this very spot, in the woods, under a maple tree, one autumn day, was where I first saw it," he said, looking into her eyes.

And now the cheeks took on the rose hue again and went down among the green leaves. In a flash it came to her—his meaning—and the maple bough in the path; it was he, then, who broke it off and left it there for her.

What words these would be to her if it were not for this bouquet she was making that reminded her of "his friend." What right had he, though, to trifle with her, making her show all her heart in her face?

Without speaking, she hastily broke off a few white violets, twisted them together, and, with the lilies, pushed them toward him, saying coldly: "Here are your friend's flowers. Excuse me, Mr. Thornton, but I must go in. I think my grandfather is waiting for me—" "As your friend probably is for you," she wanted to add.

Mr. Thornton did not seem quenched in the least, but he smiled in the darkness as he walked behind the cool little lady into the house, while the full meaning of white violets and "your friend" dawned upon him.

Here was another bright leaf in the unfolding of this rare flower—she would have none of what rightfully belonged to another.

As Mr. Thornton took leave of her grandfather, he said to Lily,—

"Do you feel like performing a charitable deed to-morrow? Will you go with me to see a dear old saint who has not long to live, and who would be cheered, no doubt, by a visit from you?"

She hesitated a moment, and her grandfather answered for her:

"Why, certainly she will go; she never refuses a call of that kind. You can go to-morrow, can't you, dear?"

And Lily answered "Yes" to her grandfather, but did not look at Mr. Thornton, not even when he said "that he would call for her at four, and would she please have some cut flowers ready for him?" Then he said "Good-night!" and went.

It was not a very good night for her, though. She went over and over that strange evening. How happy and how miserable it had been! He probably meant nothing, after all, but a joke, and her foolish vanity had made so much of it; but then, he looked so much more than he said. What right had he to do that? Was he, after all, nothing but a trifler?

And what if she were mistaken, and he had no friend of the sort she had imagined? Ah! That thought made her heart stand still when she remembered the words he had but just spoken, the grave, tender tones, and earnest looks. But there were the white violets, and he had said she was like them—this friend.

She was ready punctually when the carriage came, with a bouquet she had prepared for the old lady and the flowers he had ordered. The talk on the way did not extend beyond the beauty of the day and the objects they happened to pass. Arriving at the "Old Ladies' Home," they were at once taken to the room of the invalid.

Aunt Phœbe, as all her friends called her, had a calm, pleasant face, with gray hair parted beneath a white muslin cap, and eyes that did not seem to belong to a sick person, they were such cheerful, satisfied eyes. She had given her best days to Christian service, and "had now sat down to rest a bit before she went home," she said. Her face broke into a smile at sight of Mr. Thornton, as if he were a welcome visitor.

"Aunt Phœbe," he said, "I have brought you my friend, Miss Winthrop; Miss Winthrop, this is Aunt Phœbe—my friend."

"Are you feeling bright to-day?" he asked, putting into her hand—with as courtly grace as if she were a duchess—the bunch of white violets. As he did so, he bestowed on Lily one look that meant many words; then he left her free to do much thinking while he gave his attention entirely to Aunt Phœbe.

They talked of books and men and women and work. They spoke glad words to each other of Christ and Heaven, and Hope and Love. Somehow as Lily listened she found herself repeating, "I believe in the communion of saints."

They rose to go, and Lily bent forward and whispered a word of love as she put the roses and heliotrope in Aunt Phoebe's hand.

"Bless you! Dear child," whispered back the old lady. "I've known you this long time. You are a dear flower yourself. I've got more good in looking at your young face while you sat here, never speaking a word, than from some very long speeches." The last few words reached Mr. Thornton's ears, who said:

"That is a blow aimed at me," then taking up the basket of flowers, "Will you come with me, Miss Lily, and help me distribute my blessings?"

So they went, knocking at each old lady's door, leaving handfuls of flowers, and receiving in return benedictions. "But why did you not tell me?" Lily said, "and I would have made them into bouquets."

"Because they enjoy them best in this shape; they love to sort them over and arrange them as they please. Then some have favorite flowers, and I let them choose."

Here, then, was where the rare flowers went that Mr. Thornton purchased. How many revelations were being made!

On the way home Mr. Thornton gave the history of Aunt Phœbe, as well as that of "The Home," its organization, management, workings, etc., leaving nothing whatever for Lily to say, for which she was thankful.

He simply said "Good-night!" when he left her at her own door, and drove away, giving no sign that he ever expected to come back. He came, though, two hours afterward; he guessed where he should find her: in the greenhouse, by the lilies. He came over to her and asked,—

"How did you like my friend? Did she look as you expected her to?" The vision of his friend that her imagination had pictured came up before her in such ludicrous contrast to the reality that she laughed merrily, and Mr. Thornton joined it. There was no more talking in enigmas after that.

While the moonbeams fell upon their heads like a benediction, there were more revelations, as each read pages that no other eyes had looked upon. The tale was long, but the violets, nor the nodding roses, nor the lily bells ever breathed a word of it to anybody.

Weeks afterward it occurred to Lily to ask Mr. Thornton what the "H" in his name represented.

"Hathaway," he promptly responded, and immediately knew that his secret was out.

Lily and her grandfather exchanged wondering looks.

"Is it possible that you are—that you can tell me—who the friend is to whom I am so much indebted?" Mr. Winthrop said, his voice trembling with emotion.

"Thy Heavenly Friend," said Mr. Thornton reverently.

"MY AUNT KATHERINE."

———

"IT is perfectly absurd that she should occupy the best room in the house. What difference can it possibly make to an old lady where she is, so she is comfortable? She ought to be thankful that you allow her to stay here at all."

This was said in an excited tone, by a tall, thin lady with thin lips and flashing, light blue eyes.

Her husband was a silent man, with a horror of discord. It had taken him but a short time to discover that the only means of avoiding it was to let his new wife have her own way, so he held his peace and looked out of the window, and the lady went on.

"If she had any delicacy, she would not wish to remain now that she has no possible claim upon you. There is the 'Old Lady's Home,' why could she not go there? It is a magnificent building, with beautiful rooms."

New wife though she was, she had overshot the mark this time. The tall silent man drew himself up two inches taller and answered sternly:—

"Laura, you are mistaken! My mother-in-law will always have a claim upon me. As long as I have a home she shall share it with me. What do you take me for? As if I would ever turn my Margaret's mother out upon charity! She is, besides, very dear to me for her own sake. She is a remarkable example of unselfishness, and that is a rare quality in this world."

There were two stings in this speech, which was a long one for Mr. Agnew. The selfish woman who heard it bit her lip in vexation, and all the jealousy in her nature rose up at the words "My Margaret"; jealous of that other wife who had been in her heavenly home for five years; whose husband, albeit, was more to be pitied now than when she first left him desolate; because he was that phenomenon—over which men and angels might weep—a true, noble man, joined for life to a selfish, heartless, coarse-grained woman, and that of his own deliberate choice. If some men should shut their eyes and marry the first woman they happened to open them on, they could not make more fatal mistakes than they do.

When Margaret Agnew selected this particular room for her mother it was because it was large and convenient and sunny; because one window looked off to distant hills, and another one to the busy street, while from another you stepped into the flower garden. It was, it is true, in many respects the best room in the house, and into it was gathered whatever of comfort and beauty the loving daughter could devise.

As soon as the second Mrs. Agnew stepped into the house she set covetous eyes on this room and resolved, to use her own elegant language,—"that she would oust the old lady from that."

Whatever such women resolve to have, they usually get. After the rebuff on the part of her husband she did not again approach him on the subject, but planned the attack differently. By means of hints and disagreeable thrusts she managed to make the sensitive old lady feel quite ill at ease until she was established in one of the back chambers. It was a dreary room. She missed the cheerful outlook, and it was not easy, with a slight lameness, to get up and down stairs, but, for peace's sake, she forebore to complain. So skillfully was everything managed that it was several days before her son-in-law knew of her removal; then he was indignant, and insisted that she must return, but this she would not consent to do. She even displayed so much cheerfulness that he was deceived into thinking she preferred the change. It was a hardened nature that could not be won by her sweet spirit. She was like her Master; she followed her copy closely; "when she suffered she threatened not," and she had much to bear: a system of petty annoyances that only female ingenuity could devise.

After she had passed through this furnace and suffered loneliness and desolation, another crisis in her life arrived. Mr. Agnew fell suddenly ill. While his life hung in the balance and reason was shaken, his wife induced him to make his will, leaving to herself the whole of his property. Then he died, and the chief emotion that throbbed in the heart of his widow and hid behind the blackest and deepest crape was—triumph!

Not for worlds would Mr. Agnew have so arranged his affairs had it not been that in his half-delirious state he was subject to the will of another. He had always intended to settle a competence upon Mrs. Lyman—his mother-in-law. He had expected to live years yet. Who does not?

Mrs. Agnew lost no time. As soon as the funeral services were over she questioned Mrs. Lyman as to her plans for the future. The poor old lady felt bewildered at having to make any plans, so lovingly had she been cared for all her life. She had scarcely realized as yet that her one protector was gone; above all, that he had made no provision for her. Homeless and penniless and nearly seventy years of age, where should she go? What should she do? Where would a helpless being go in straits but to the One who plans and governs our lives? And thither she went. She well knew the road. Old friends gathered about her with kindly offers of aid, but she believed she saw her path plainly, and declined their many invitations to tarry with them for a time. She had a little money of her own, enough to insure her entrance into the "Home for Aged Women," and there she determined to go. Mrs. Lyman had occasionally driven with her daughter through the grounds of the "Home." She had admired the stately edifice, and remarked that it was a grand charity; she had also contributed to it; but it had not entered her mind that she was ever to become one of its inmates. She thought of it that afternoon as the carriage which conveyed her there wound slowly up the avenue. The trials of the past few days had been peculiarly sharp. She had gone out from the dear home, with its precious memories, forever. She could not, without contention, claim even her daughter's gifts to herself; contend she would not, so she left them: so many things that almost had a tongue to speak of other days. There were no tears in her eyes, and the old face was placid as she leaned back and looked up at rows and rows of windows. She even repeated to herself some favorite lines:

"That's best which God sends.
'Twas his will; it is mine."

The room Mrs. Lyman shortly found herself in was a strong contrast to the one her daughter had carefully fitted up for her. It was spotlessly clean and trim; the walls were high and white, the furniture of the plainest, the floors bare except for the strip of carpet by the bed and one by the window, where the occupant would be supposed to sit in the cane-seat rocker. It depended entirely on one's previous surroundings what her first impressions of life in this place would be. Old Mrs. Carter, who had lived at sixes and sevens all her life, with scarcely a corner that she could call her own, thought her room was next to Heaven itself. To Mrs. Lyman it simply looked bare and dreary. The buzz in the long dining room, mingling with the clatter of cups and spoons, was cheerfulness itself to Mrs. Carter, while to Mrs. Lyman's refilled ears and sensitive nerves it was positively distressing. It was trying to her, too, to mingle with all sorts of natures, to listen to garrulous complaints and garrulous stories from gossipy old women. She would much have preferred to shut herself in with her books and her own thoughts, but she did not. Her Master was always kind and helpful to the most uncongenial people; so would she be, for his sake. Necessarily, though, it was a lonely, monotonous life for her. Old friends were too remote and too busy to remember her often.

One afternoon she sat at her window looking down into the street, when a carriage drew up, and a young lady stepped lightly out. The coachman handed her a basket of flowers, and she almost ran up the broad stone steps, with that childlike eagerness of manner which is in refreshing contrast to the languid air of many of her class.

Mrs. Lyman listened eagerly as her fresh young voice was heard in the hall. The golden hair, and eyes as blue as the hyacinths she carried, brought to her visions of another girl as bright and graceful. Just so she looked, years ago, her dear lost Margaret. Then the mother's heart went back over the girlhood and womanhood of her darling, and just as she was wondering how it was possible for Robert Agnew ever to have fancied he loved that other woman, when his life had been so blessed with Margaret, there came a knock at the door, and the matron brought in the bright-haired girl with her flowers, saying:—

"Mrs. Lyman, I have brought Miss Harlowe in to see you. She's come on ahead to tell you that spring is coming some day."

She looked sweet and fair enough to be spring's herald in very truth, coming in, as she did, out of the snow and sleet of the winter day, roses in her hands and roses on her cheeks, looking up almost shyly into the face of the stately old lady.

Each regarded the other for a moment with surprise and admiration, and Esther Harlowe, yielding to a sudden impulse, reached up and left a kiss soft as a rose leaf on the faded old cheek; then selecting the choicest of the roses, begged her to accept them.

They both forgot themselves. The young lady forgot that she was being kind to a "poor old body" in "The Old Lady's Home."

This dignified, handsome old lady was surely one of the friends of their family. And Mrs. Lyman, too, imagined for a moment that she was welcoming a young visitor to the Agnew mansion. They fell into conversation as naturally as if this were the case, and, in the short interview, they gained more than a glimpse of each other's lives.

"How strange that you should be here," Esther said. "I have often passed Mr. Agnew's house; perhaps you were sitting at the window looking out. But isn't it dreadful to you? How can you endure it?"

"No, not 'dreadful,' dear; sometimes it is a little lonely, and this way of living is all new to me; but I daresay I shall soon get accustomed to it. I ought to feel continually grateful that when I am old and poor, there is such a place provided for me."

"How can you, when you have lived so differently? I'm sure I should die. I knew you didn't belong here as soon as I saw you. It is a shame!"

"If God put me here, I must belong here, child. He makes no mistakes," the old lady said, smiling at her visitor's impetuous manner.

"But how can you be so calm and good about it? I should think you would go distracted."

"I wonder if she will understand," Mrs. Lyman said, after searching the young face a moment; then asked, "Did you ever read these lines?—

"'To will what God doth will, that is the only science
That gives us any rest.'

"The secret of calmness is in that: having God's will our will. It is called a science, you see, and it is deep and difficult, or rather, people make it so. It takes some of them years to learn it. I learned it very slowly myself, but once acquired, it is forever after easier to bear hard things. It does bring peace."

"Oh! Show me how to learn it, then," said Esther, tears starting to her eyes. "There are so many hard things in my life."

"Poor dear! Have they come to you so early?" The motherly voice and pitying eyes were like sunshine to this girl who was not much more than a child, and whose heart was hungry.

"I suppose it is because I am so wicked," Esther said, hesitatingly, "but I am afraid I never can feel as you do about God's will. Perhaps it is his will that I shall go through terrible troubles. It frightens me, and I can't want to have his will done."

"Is there anybody whom you dearly love," said Mrs. Lyman, "in whom you have unbounded confidence, feeling sure that he will always do right?"

"No, there is nobody," Esther answered sadly; then flushing a little as she realized the confession she had made, added,—

"I did have somebody once—my darling mother—but she is gone. She always did right."

"How did you feel about her plans for you? Were you fearful she would always be inventing something wherewith to torture you?"

"My dear, lovely mother! No, indeed. She was always thinking of my happiness."

"And yet she was obliged to thwart your own plans and wishes often, I presume. Did you rebel?"

"O, no I was always obedient to my mother. I loved her so, I would not have grieved or displeased her for the world."

"There it is, my dear!—the whole secret. When once we love God with all the heart, it is sweet to do or suffer his will."

"But I never have thought of God in that way. He seems majestic and glorious, but I think I fear him more than I love him. I cannot realize that he loves me either."

"It will help you greatly, my dear, to take the Bible and Concordance and go through the words 'Love' and 'Father;' then you may see and 'believe the love that God hath for us.' He has tried very hard—has written it plainly all through the Book to make us understand that he is truly our Father. Call it mother love if that makes it plainer to you: think that he feels toward you as your mother did; Father, as God uses it, stands for father and mother both. It is the tenderness of mother joined to the protecting care and greater strength of father."

"I must go now, the carriage has come," Esther said, rising hastily, "but I shall never forget your talk. I am sure it will do me good. I came here to-day with the flowers because Dr. Foster preached about giving a cup of cold water for Christ's sake, to some of his children; and I couldn't think of anybody to carry one to but some of these old ladies; I didn't think I was going to have my reward so soon. It was so nice to find you; you seem like my own dear grandma who died when I was a little child. I am coming often to see you; may I?" And the sweet face smiled up into hers.

"Yes, indeed, my dear, and I thank you with all my heart for coming. No cup of cold water could have refreshed me more than this visit, if I had been famishing for some,—and these roses!—" taking a long breath of them as she spoke,—"each one is a separate blessing."

As the carriage rattled over the city streets in the dusk Esther's aunt and cousin, fresh from shopping, discussed laces and silks while she leaned back and thought of Mrs. Lyman, her heart thrilling with the new thought that God loved her as her mother loved her.

At last her Cousin Sophy said:—

"What are you dreaming about, Esther? Where have you been all this while?"

Esther started as the cold, fault-finding tones broke in on her reverie and said evasively, "I went to the 'Old Lady's Home,' you know."

"Been there all this time?—Impossible! Will you never be like other people?"

Miss Sophy Ward had passed her first youth and was growing sharp and severe, especially toward girls who were guilty of being nineteen. She took it upon herself to keep strict watch over every thought, word and deed of her young cousin who had lived with them since the death of her mother. Esther dreaded the lecture that she knew was forthcoming, so she began eagerly to try to divert attention from herself.

"O, Cousin Sophy! you have no idea what a lovely old lady I found there." Not even the curl that distorted Miss Sophy's lip just then prevented her from going on.

"She looks as I should imagine an angel might,—I always thought if I made pictures of angels they should be dear old grandmas, and not girls. Her hair is like fine white silk, and waves beautifully. Her eyes are hazel, and they are not old eyes a bit—they are bright and clear. She wore a dove-colored dress, and a soft white mull handkerchief about her neck. And do you know, she is Mrs. Agnew's mother; you remember we saw, Mr. Agnew's death in the paper a few months ago."

This last piece of information had the desired effect, for mother and daughter indulged in a bit of gossip concerning it, but Miss Sophy presently returned to the charge.

"It is perfectly incomprehensible," she went on, "what you find in a company of poverty-stricken old women to interest you. But then, your mother always had just such tastes; never so happy as when she was poking about in some alley or hovel, among miserable people."

If the light had not faded, Cousin Sophy might have seen Esther's cheek pale and flush, and her lips press closely together to keep herself from saying what she should not. But she did not see it; she went on and on in an exasperating manner. Her mother added a word occasionally by way of endorsement and emphasis, and poor Esther had the grace to keep silence, half-wishing that she were an old woman, too, so that she could live where Mrs. Lyman did.

In her uncle's luxurious home there was everything to make life desirable—everything but love and peace. When either mother or daughter was in ill humor Esther was the escape valve. They lectured her on behavior, dress, and the Christian virtues. They criticised all she said and did and thought, and judged her without mercy.

During the last few months, however, it had begun to dawn upon them that the girl was grown up, and possessed decided tastes and opinions of her own. She was becoming a person of more importance, too, because of very pointed attentions bestowed upon her by Mr. Clifford Langdon. He was the son of one of the oldest families—handsome, agreeable, literary, rich. If they sought the world over, where could be found a more desirable husband for Esther? He might have captivated the girl's fancy, perhaps, if she had not heard her aunt and cousin ring the changes on his name until she almost wearied of it. In their eyes he was a paragon. They exhorted her to do this, and not to do that, as Mr. Langdon had very fastidious tastes, and they openly expressed their astonishment that so incomparable a person should do her the honor to notice her.

All this naturally had the effect of causing a girl like Esther to avoid him and to declare that it was a matter of indifference to her what Mr. Langdon thought. She wished for no more critics.

That gentleman was as much in love with Esther as he ever could be with anybody besides himself. Since first he had been conscious of existence, he had never forgotten himself long enough to be absorbed in anything or anybody. His own pleasure was the chief end of his life. Yet he had no vices; his narrow, cold nature did not tempt him in the direction that larger natures are tempted. The world called him a fine, moral young man. They did not know he was selfish, domineering and conceited; his nearest friends would scarcely admit it to themselves. He enjoyed ruling over anything; he took pleasure in his many pets when a boy, chiefly for the sake of training and ordering about a parrot, or dog, or pony; and a tyrannical master he made. As a man, he retained the characteristic. At this time he had just returned from a four years' course of study in Europe, his education completed, and his self-conceit intolerable. He felt competent to sit in judgment upon the creations of genius in art and literature or in anything under the sun, as well as to direct, advise, suggest and control the mental food of all the young ladies of his acquaintance. He at once became an oracle among them. The book he approved was largely read, and the book he condemned was shunned. Whoever differed in opinion from him he considered devoid of fine taste. Solomon must have had this young man in mind when he wrote, "Seest thou a man wise in his own conceit, there is more hope of a fool than of him."

When Mr. Langdon met Esther, he pronounced her a "fine creature," and declared he would like the training of her, much as he would have spoken of Frisk, his black colt. He was not aware that he needed to be put in training himself and taught by Mr. Ruskin how to reverence womanhood.

That she seemed indifferent to him was all the more reason for choosing her. It was refreshing to find a girl who required to be won, and did not hold her heart in her hand ready to bestow it for the asking.

It was a gloomy, rainy afternoon in autumn that Esther, sitting alone in the library, was surprised by a call from Mr. Langdon. She was smarting under some hateful words of Sophy's, and thinking drearily that there was not a single person on the earth who cared very much whether she lived or died, when, behold! here came one, offering love, home, an honorable name, everything that a woman's heart could ask.

Ether was amazed. She had believed that Mr. Langdon simply admired her, as he did a score of others. She was too young and unworldly to weigh for a moment the advantages of position offered. He said he loved her, and that was what her heart hungered for. Nobody had told her so since her mother died. The tide of her feelings began to turn. How kind and good he seemed. How could she ever have thought him otherwise? Then she found herself in a whirl of thought. She was so very grateful to him, but how could she marry anybody? Not for a great many years yet, at least. Of course she must marry somebody—an orphan girl like her. Perhaps she was beginning to care for him, for her feelings toward him had changed within a few minutes. Still, it was all so different from what she had thought it would be when that time should come in which somebody brave and true would say these words to her. Was he brave and true? Was he? Oh! If she had not to settle a great question. It frightened her, and she was not glad, as she had dreamed she would be, nor happy as girls in books were; but real life was never quite up to books and stories, and Aunt Maria and Sophy would never forgive her if she refused him, and—and—he said he loved her. What should she say to him, sitting there looking down at her, waiting for her answer? What could she say? "O, mother! What would you have me say?"

She made a lovely picture in the large chair before the fire, its light glancing on her hair, her head leaning on her hand, the face sweet and serious, like a troubled child's, and the eyes almost tearful. Mr. Langdon resolved to have her painted in just that attitude immediately. Her hesitation and long silence did not in the least annoy him; he attributed it to maiden coyness. It almost amused him, he felt so sure of her. It never entered his mind that she could refuse him, or, indeed, that anybody could. And she did not; she promised she would be his wife—when one hour before the thought of such a thing had never come into her heart. So lightly and hastily are lifelong covenants entered into!

Mr. Langdon was ten years older than Esther. He had always fancied that he should choose a wife much younger than himself, it would be so delightful to mould her unformed nature; in short, to make her over to suit himself. So he set himself to the pleasant task at once. He had not tact enough to wait until he had won the right, as he would say.

He was pedantic himself, so he wished his wife to shine in literary society—to be able to discuss all isms and ologies, the merits and demerits of all standard authors, ancient and modern, and quote freely from their works. He brought her books and set her tasks, and made her recite to him as if she were a schoolgirl. If she read aloud, he criticised her elocution. If she played for him with ever so much taste and skill, he found fault with the selection or gave a lecture on style and delicacy of touch. Even the tenderest love ballad did not escape. It was analyzed and measured by square and compass till all the sweetness had gone out of it, and Esther felt vexed at having sung it, or her voice was pronounced to be too sharp, the tones not pure; she must begin at once to take lessons of some excellent master.

Esther bore it all meekly enough at first because of those precious three words he had spoken to her. It was a wonderful, sacred thing, somebody to love her, and she would endure much on that account even though her own heart did not respond as she had striven to make it. And, to tell the truth, she was slowly awakening to the fact that their spirit and aims were so very unlike, that clashing was inevitable. Mr. Langdon was more like a mentor than a lover, and she had an unpleasant consciousness of being managed, and of continually yielding her will to his, even in the matter of a ride, or a walk, or an evening's entertainment, for it was contrary to his rule to do anything, or go anywhere, that was not perfectly convenient and agreeable to himself.

They were not in sympathy on many points. She loved books and study and music for themselves, but scorned the thought of learning anything for the mere sake of displaying it. The pedantic airs Mr. Langdon assumed used to amuse her, now, they mortified her.