Chapter III (4)

"Oh! I want rest," she cried; and falling upon her knees breathed her first prayer, "I come, I come. O, save me, Christ Jesus!" Without even realizing that this was prayer, she poured out all her heart before Him. "I know not how long I did talk to Him," she told some one afterward; "a long time it was, but I had so much to tell Him I could not stop. And when I get up from my knees, my trouble be all gone! I feel so light it seems to me I could fly. When I look out the window I say, 'O, what a world! So beautiful! The sky so blue, the trees so grand and the flowers so bright! I wonder I never see the glory before.' Then something say, 'It is wrong for you to be so happy When you are such a sinner,' so I try to get back the big heavy load, but I cannot; I can only sing for joy."

Secure in her newly found peace, Juana watched unceasingly for her husband's return, eager to tell him the good news.

"Paul is very wise," she told herself, "he will not have so hard a time to understand as I. He will soon see when he comes to read the dear book that God lives; then he will love him, and he will get rest to his soul and stay much at home, and then so happy will we be."

In a few days Paul came, bringing as he always did loving greeting. He was not insensible to the fact that it was a pleasant thing to have such comfortable headquarters, and a pretty creature ready to minister to him, glad to obey his slightest nod, for Juana, spirited maiden though she was, had found in Paul her master, bending her head meekly to the reins that were not always silken, or guided by a gentle hand; consequently her married life had flowed on without a ripple of discord, and thus far conscience had put in no parleying voice. Why would she not gladly please and obey him? Was not her Paul the embodiment of manly beauty, grace and goodness?

"My love doth so approve him, that even his stubbornness, his checks and frowns have grace and favor in them," was the honest feeling of this deluded soul.

It was pitiful to see her childlike trust thrown back upon itself when she first told Paul the glad secret that she had been keeping for him, pouring out with sweet enthusiasm the story of her struggles and triumphs. Paul sat like a stone giving no word or sign of sympathy, but as she went on pledging undying faith and love to her new master, he grew darkly angry, and then, when eager to justify herself and convince him, she placed in his hands her Bible, saying, "Do, dear Paul, read about the wonderful Christ Jesus for yourself; you will see it is all true," he dashed the book from him and strode out of the room.

Juana picked it up with a low cry of pain and a tender clasping of it to her heart, as if it had been human and was hurt, too.

The young husband would have been jealous indeed, could he have seen her hasten to her chamber, and tell all her sorrows in another ear than his own.

He waited sullenly for Juana to come to him with penitential tears, and promises that she would certainly abjure any faith that did not meet his perfect approval. He waited in vain, though, and was not a little puzzled by the gentle sad dignity of her manner. He finally resolved to treat the whole affair as a bit of childish nonsense, and little by little in the gayeties that should surround her, she would forget her new whims.

To please her husband Juana accompanied him once to the theatre, and spent one night whirling in the dance. Then this pagan girl's conscience asserted itself clearly and unmistakably. She was not thrown into a bewildering state of perplexity such as troubles young converts in our Christian land. She needed not to consult the authorities of any church, or inquire of wise theologians "what she must give up" if she became a disciple. Her heart in absolute self-abandon had turned to Christ, as naturally and gladly as the flower to the sun, and the way was not clearer for the dews and life-giving rays to reach the tiny blossom, than for his slightest wish or suggestion to reach and control his child. She knew, without settling it by a process of argument, that Christ and worldly pleasures are antagonistic, and that whoever merges heart and soul in the one must give up the other. To her surprise and delight she found, too, that the keen relish for scenes of revelry had left her. How could it be otherwise? Christ had come into her heart. By a law of natural philosophy, two bodies cannot occupy the same space at the same time; so, by a law of divine philosophy, Christ and the world cannot occupy a soul at the same time; and every spiritually-minded Christian is acquainted with that law, either by sad or sweet experience.

Paul Everett loved his young wife as well as he was capable of loving anything besides himself. Like many weak, tyrannical natures, he rejoiced in a sense of ownership concerning her, and in the hitherto complete submission of her will to his. What, then, was his astonishment and anger when she told him, as gently as she could, that her conscience would not allow her any more to attend balls and theaters, or engage in several other forms of amusement which used to delight her?

What wonderful transformation was this? A wild, frolicsome girl, a doll, a plaything, suddenly discovering that she had a conscience, and asserting her right to rule her own soul, even daring to have a thought contrary from his!

"What do you mean by such foolishness, Juana?" he demanded.

What a heart of stone he had that it did not melt when the dark eyes, filled with tears, turned pleadingly up to his, and the stammering tongue in pretty, crooked words, said: "The Lord, Christ Jesus, he is my Master," and Juana's tongue lingered lovingly over the word—she had lately learned it in English, and it meant so much to her—"I fear, oh! very much, to not please Him; I must follow what He says to me here," and both small hands clasped themselves over her heart.

Paul's answer was a torrent of invectives and reproaches, ending with—"I am your master! You are to obey me and none other." And then he stooped lower, close to her ear, and whispered words that he knew would be terrible to her: "If you do not, I will cast you off!"

It was not will-power, nor strength of purpose—inherited from any ancestor, either Spanish or Mexican—but grace divine, that enabled Juana to maintain outward calmness, though her cheek blanched, and lift her soul to her Lord, breathing a solemn vow to be faithful to Him, come what would.

When Paul was angry, he came nearer to being in earnest than at any other time. He hated "religionists," and was determined not to have the wings of the pretty bird he had caught clipped by such fanaticism. Moreover, he wished to be the God himself to whom she bowed down. He would brook no rival. So he ordered her to give up her Bible reading and her praying, and cast her faith to the winds, expecting to be meekly obeyed; but Juana, although nearly heart-broken at his displeasure, remained firm, and when he saw that neither commands, threats, nor persuasions availed with her, he was furious, and resolved to leave her to herself, hoping that by an unusually protracted absence, loneliness would bring her to terms.

"I shall soon return if you write me that you will be perfectly obedient," Paul had said, as he rode away, and now Juana, in the glory and beauty of the summer afternoon, sat on that upper balcony watching him disappear through the great gateway—gone and she alone in her sorrow. "What if he never came up that flower 'broidered path again? Her Paul was firm, he would not relent." (The poor, blind child did not know that Paul was stubborn instead of firm.)

Martyrs of all ages have cheerfully given up their lives, but who shall say which is most heroic—to be torn limb from limb, or to tear the heart from its clay idol? To give the body to be burned, or through the slow-going years yield the heart to the crucible for His sake?

Weary days, and weeks, and months passed, and still Paul remained away, but the heart of the young disciple, though it often fainted, did not fail. Her Bible was her constant occupation, and the blessed Saviour her friend and guest, for he did abide at her house and in her heart; so that the loneliness was not so great as Paul imagined. He received many letters from her, but with no word of retraction. She plead for his return, begging him not to cast her off. She would do anything for him but deny or displease "the dear Christ Jesus." "He do make me happy even in my sorrow," she wrote. This was more than the vain man could bear; as if Juana should be made happy by anything when he was absent!

Paul's next letter brought news that made the blood stand still in the heart of the young wife. He was to leave that part of the country for years, perhaps forever. Whether they ever met again depended on herself. When she was ready to give up her religion she might write to him to a certain address and it would be forwarded, otherwise he wanted to hear nothing from her. She need not try to seek him out, neither should she have any word from him. It may have been that Paul came to this cruel decision more easily from just having received news that Juana's old aunt had died, and had willed the bulk of the estate to the church, leaving her niece but a small sum on account of her apostasy from the faith. It was all this elegant young man could do to maintain himself, with his refined and luxurious tastes. How, then, could he be burdened with a portionless wife? He had not planned in that way.

For weeks after this blow Juana lingered between life and death. As strength returned she prayed to die. She said over and over in her anguish, "I can never, never live without him."

She did not die. The Lord had a work for her. When fully recovered, a wild desire took possession of her to look again upon the face of her husband. She must go to the United States, his home. She might find him, he might forgive her, or, joyful possibility, he might change. She could not change, but she must see him once more. Disposing of her small property, she started on her unknown way, and after a dreary journey arrived—a stranger in a strange land. Wearily she traversed the cities mid towns, till courage and purse were well-nigh spent. The search proved fruitless, and her heart was sore and almost rebellious. Faint and ready to perish—did some one speak her name? "Child, come unto me, I will give you rest." And then Juana's heart leaped, and she answered quickly, "Master." Then were her eyes opened, and she knew that the Lord was with her, knew, too, that she had again been setting up in her heart a clay idol in his place. When she sorrowfully sought forgiveness, he showed the "vividness of His mercy," and gave her not only comfort, but an overcoming faith which enabled her to lay herself and her husband at his feet with, "Thy will be done."

In loving submission she asked now, "What wilt Thou have me to do?" And for answer came the thought of her country in bonds of Romanism and idol worship. Her heart yearned over its darkness and misery, but what could she do for it now, far away in a strange land, with very little money left? Soon, however, the divine plan began to unfold itself! As she walked the city street one day and passed a church, the door stood invitingly open, and the sound of singing reached her ear. Juana was always attracted by music. As other ladies were passing in she followed and took a seat among them. It proved to be a woman's missionary meeting. After the hymn came reports and papers on different subjects. Some of these were very long and dull, and read in such low tones that she understood scarcely nothing of what was said; but then, the faces of those good women rested her, and she was sure it was a good place to be. Besides, they sang often, and that was sweet, and then, they prayed. Ah! Now she felt at home, she could understand that. After prayer, a lady spoke in clear, distinct tones a few words about Mexico. She did not read, she talked. Her sentences were not long and fine, her words were short and simple, and Juana comprehended them. She listened as if spell-bound, and then forgetting all else but her commission and her country, stood up and with downcast eyes and timid tones, said, "Ladies, Mexico is my dear country. Let me say one little word for her?" It was only a few sentences, in broken words, but never was appeal more effective as she pleaded with them to "send help now, for they are dying every day, and they know not Christ Jesus at all."

Then, half-frightened at what she had done, she sank into her seat. But the ladies begged her to go on, to talk as long as she would, persuading her to come up to the front. At first the consciousness of so many eyes fastened upon her was confusion, but presently, forgetting everything else, she told them the simple story of her conversion. The eloquent face and vivid words, with pretty foreign accent, as she described her despair and her joy, stirred the hearts of those women to their depths. What a fair field for work was Mexico if gems such as this young stranger were hidden away there.

The fire thus kindled rapidly spread. Juana went from church to church, and the tide of enthusiasm rose high, gifts flowed in, and many hearts turned warmly to the "land of the sun," as this young wife, a miracle of God's grace, told the tale of his redeeming love, and in broken, eager words, pleaded with tears for "my dear Mexico."

Gladly would these Christians have sent her through the land that by this means the hearts of many of her Christian sisters might be reached and moved to lay upon the altar themselves or their treasures.

The Master, though, had other work for Juana. He had her return to her native country, and in her own tongue tell her own people the good news, and she obeyed, glad that He counted her worthy to do this work for Him. She came out poor and friendless. She went back laden with treasures; means to carry on the work, and followed by the prayers and loving farewells of hosts of God's people.

To-day in her musical mother tongue, Juana in her own fair city, tells the glad story, and hungry souls are hanging on her words. While she works her prayer goes up that Paul may become "a new creature in Christ Jesus," and that the glad day will dawn when he shall come and work by her side. Let us have faith to plead it with her, believing that the Divine Alchemist can transmute even such worthless material into a saint.

Patiently, trustingly, Juana is waiting. Through all her sorrows she has come to "the valley of blessing," to rest and peace, and the song she loves best to sing, is—

"Emptied, that He might fill me,
As forth to His labor I go,
Broken, that so unhindered
His life through me might flow."

TEN BUSHELS.

———

MRS. LYMAN was in the kitchen superintending dinner. She was but a young housekeeper, so there was a certain amount of anxiety connected with making even a kettle of soup. She stirred and tasted and put in another shake of pepper and another pinch of salt, and said to her maid of all work, who stood by watching the process:

"I do wish I had an onion to put in it; soup is not very good without an onion flavor."

The remark was made more to herself than to Barbara, whose knowledge of English was somewhat limited. If it had not been, and if she had known the way and it had not been too late, she might have gone down town and bought some onions. As those obstacles were all in the way, the soup must needs go without.

When the six o'clock dinner was spread in the very prettiest dining room that can be imagined, the table glittering in its new silver, and the soup smoking in the tureen, the master of the house—a young man who had only enjoyed the privilege of sitting at the head of his own table for a couple of months—took it all in, as his own tastes were capable of doing. The savory odors, the cheery room, the careful attention to every detail of comfort and beauty, and then the slight figure opposite him, an embodiment of dignity and grace—he found nothing lacking in it all.

"This soup is not quite perfect," the young wife said, as she began to serve it, "I had no onions to put in it. I wish you would order some when you go down town to-morrow, Philip; they are nice just now for boiling, too."

This young couple had compared views on Browning and Ruskin, but not on onions. They had long ago discussed poetry, philosophies, and art, as well as architecture and house furnishings, and they had found hitherto that their tastes were in most delightful accord. Mrs. Lyman was not prepared, therefore, for the frown that contracted her husband's handsome brows as he ejaculated:

"Onions! Don't mention them. Excuse me from that purchase, please. They are abominable; not fit for human beings to eat. They ought to be banished from every respectable table."

"I beg your pardon," Mrs. Lyman answered, with rising color, "but all do not agree in such a sweeping denunciation. Many of the best physicians consider them most nutritious and healthful."

"Well, at all events, I shall not have my house polluted with the vile things. If there is anything that reminds one of a third-rate boarding-house, it is to get a whiff of onions the moment you enter the front door. It is vulgar and low. I can't see how any one of refined tastes can touch them. I hope you are not an onion eater, Nettie, because if you are, I fear you will have to abstain; I cannot abide them."

Now Mrs. Annette Heyward Lyman was exceedingly fond of onions. She was not of the sort to declare that she was "passionately fond of them," but she did think a nice dish of boiled onions, pretty white ones, swimming in hot milk and butter, was just the thing to go with—stewed chicken, say. Then, she enjoyed thin slices of raw onions cut into vinegar; and crisp, green-topped young ones, dipped in salt and eaten with bread and butter, were just delicious. And yet, if Philip had mildly hinted that he had a special aversion for that vegetable, she would have declared, "I will eat no onions while the world standeth." But to attack them in this sharp way, to declare them vulgar, and, above all, to dictate to her what she should or should not eat, as if he were her master, and to say "my house!" it was too much, and she answered in an icy tone that "she must beg leave to differ; to her mind the onion was a most delicious vegetable, and she must reserve for herself the right of choice in this and in other matters."

Their first quarrel! And all about an onion! What cares Satan whether it be an apple or an onion, so that he spoil the Edens?

There were many more words quite as pungent as onions, and then there fell a silence between them that was not broken after Barbara had lighted the gas in the parlor, and drawn the table under the drop-light, and they were seated with books and newspapers. There was no reading done, but much ugly thinking. One line of it ran after this fashion:

"Strange that so delicate, refined a nature should have a taste for that vile, flagrant, odious onion!" A wretched discovery, that his wife should be fond of that for which he had always felt disgust! And evidently she did not mean to give them up, not even for his sake. Was she selfish and proud and obstinate and—and high-tempered? Had he been mistaken in her character and her regard for him?

The wife meantime was recalling an opinion long ago expressed by a friend, who said that Philip Lyman possessed a domineering spirit and was bound to rule all connected with him. She, herself, had never believed it, but this looked like it—wishing her to give up whatever he did not fancy, and hinting that she would be obliged to. Indeed! He would find that she did not drive well; no, indeed. If her husband had observed the glowing cheeks and flashing eyes just then he would have been justified in concluding that she was "high-tempered."

And now came a break in this uncomfortable state of things in the shape of Mr. John Lyman, on a business trip; "could only spend the night with his brother. He was sorry to spoil their evening together." He would have been sorrier had he known they had not spoken for just two hours.

Annette soon retired, leaving the brothers to talk over home affairs while she went to her room to indulge in the luxury of grief. How dark it all looked. Philip was changing. Perhaps he was sorry they were married. He had the same as said she was vulgar and coarse. He was fastidious; she could never please him; they would have dreadful quarrels, for she could not submit to be ordered. And now the tears that had been stored up all these bright years fell in most surprising showers, until sleep had got the better of them.

The morning was a hurrying time; the brother must get down town for the early train. A hasty good-by with averted eyes, and Philip was gone. As he lunched near his office, two miles away, he would not be at home again until night.

A long, unhappy day before Annette! She felt ten years older than yesterday morning, when Philip had come all the way back from the gate to put a rose in her hair. She wished she could see her mother; she wished she could go off where Philip wouldn't find her in years; that is, she thought she did. Oh! What a wretched world it was. Poor foolish child! But she had only lived twenty little years.

Mr. Philip Lyman alone in his office, tried to settle himself to his usual duties, but he felt ill at ease and uninterested. Finally he threw down his pen, tipped back in his chair, and locked his fingers together at the back of his head, a favorite thinking attitude. His eyes wandered out the window, resting on white clouds sailing through the sky. Perhaps the deep blue reminded him of Nettie's eyes, or the wrapper she had worn that morning. However it was, he soon fell to confessing to those soft clouds.

"What a consummate idiot! She thinks me a tyrant, and rude and selfish. She ought to be vexed at me. As if I should make over her tastes, and try to control her. I was rude and hateful and unkind. Contemptible!"

And with that he seized his hat and dashed down-stairs into the street. He went straight to a market, bought a peck of onions and ordered them sent home. An unpoetical peace offering, he reflected, but the most appropriate for him under the circumstances. But stop, those were red onions. This fact was brought to his consciousness by observing on the sidewalk a basket of unusually fine white ones; and she had especially wished white onions. Immediately he stepped in and bought a peck of those.

As he walked along, filled with the peaceful consciousness of having made some atonement, he spied a wagon filled to the top with clean shiny-skinned, white onions. "They really look attractive," he said to himself. Then there darted into his mind a new idea. What if he should prove to Annette what a magnanimous, self-denying being he really was, and take to eating the obnoxious things himself just to please her; be a philosopher, a stoic, and will to like what he detested?

There must be no half-way work about this act of self-abnegation; he would provide a generous supply. Now that he thought of it, autumn was just the time to lay in a supply of vegetables. What had he been thinking of, buying only a peck? Nov, how many was a good quantity—enough to last all winter? That was a conundrum. He had dim memories of ten bushels of this and that stored in his father's cellar. True his father had a large family. But then, they should have a great many visitors. The proprietor of the wagon stared when he heard the order, but his business was to sell onions. If Philip Lyman was complacent before, he was jubilant now in contemplation of his virtues. He bounded up the stairs, resolving to go home at noon, surprise Nettie, and "make up." He was a monster to have left her in such a cold way. He was obliged to abandon that plan, though, having already lost so much time.

Annette meantime had been aroused from her despondent mood by the first installment of onions. Onions have healing properties, everybody knows. They began to prove efficacious in this case. Philip wanted to show her that he was sorry, she reasoned, and had taken this way to do it. It was just as delicate and kind as if the onions had been flowers,—she ignored the fact that they were red. While her spirits were being thus soothed and comforted, the second peck of onions arrived. This was perplexing. Why had he done that? Ah! These were white, and he had recollected that she liked white ones. How thoughtful and good! How unselfish and candid and noble to own himself wrong, and she—had been foolish and wicked to get angry at nothing.

She was just beginning to feel that life was worth living, when another man presented himself announcing that he had brought some onions. Annette assured him there was some mistake, as they had sufficient for a long time. But he affirmed most strenuously this was the spot, producing the directions in her husband's handwriting. Then Annette told him that she must countermand the order; that she positively wished for no more onions.

"But ye see I got my pay for 'em," he answered, with a horrible grin, whereupon the discomfited young woman retired into the house and the triumphant onions went into the cellar.

Tramp, tramp, and roll, roll. Would he never have done? He seemed like an arch fiend, sent to torment her. If she could but have known the soliloquy he of the onions carried on as he went back and forth, and that he took a malicious delight in getting the better of her, it might have turned the tide of her rising wrath into a laugh. When a laugh comes in, wrath goes out.

"That's jest the way with wimmin folks—headstrong! They think they know a leetle the most about everything. The young feller likes onions, I s'pose, and she don't, and she's 'tarmined he sha'n't have 'em. I'm glad she's got a boss. She needs it."

By the time the tenth bushel was deposited all Annette's late estimates and decisions had been reversed. Of all despicable acts this was the climax—to send a whole load of those horrible things, as if to say, "Grovelling creature, can't live without onions! Take them!" It was just a simple exhibition of spite and sarcasm. She would never have believed he could do so cruel a thing. Since she was a child she had not been so angry. It was a lofty, scornful anger that did not vent itself in tears. Besides, the tears were all used up.

Snatching her hat and mantle, she went out into the air to try to calm herself. On and on she went out into the country, dreading to return. Finding herself within half a mile of her cousin's house, she decided to call in order to get away from her thoughts. It proved the right place for that purpose. Little Harry had become suddenly ill, and the distracted mother welcomed her gladly. The two worked over him all the afternoon. As night came on Annette felt that it would be cruel to leave until there was some ray of hope. So she wrote a note to her husband, briefly and coldly explaining her absence. A passing boy agreed to deliver it, but it never got beyond his own pocket.

Toward evening Barbara began to wonder what kept her mistress, and decided to take matters into her own hands and get up a dinner. Seeing the large bin of onions in the cellar, she said within herself, "This is what she all time want; I will cook some!" During the process of cooking she made many trips to the front door to watch for her lost mistress. Each time she left all the doors open behind her, and so thoroughly perfumed the whole house with the odor of the dinner.

In the city Paul had picked up an old college friend and persuaded him to stay over a train and dine with him. As he ushered his friend into the pretty house, with a pardonable pride, it was somewhat taken down by the unmistakable odor that greeted him.

"Onions! As I live," he said to himself, "and Merwin is such a fastidious fellow! However, wait till he sees Annette." So he went in haste to bring her.

Upstairs and down and in the garden he searched. She was not to be found. This was a new departure—to be away on his return. He told his friend she had probably been detained—would be in presently.

Chagrined and mortified almost beyond his power to conceal, after waiting an hour, he was obliged to invite his friend to a table without a hostess. The first cover he removed disclosed a dozen huge specimens of that obnoxious, ill-odored vegetable that had caused their unhappiness. He forgot his heroic resolve and shut it with emphasis—not to-night would he eat onions. It was unlike the delicate tact of his wife to have ordered them cooked that night, while she was still ignorant of what had passed in his mind.

Barbara was not yet perfect. The dinner both in cooking and serving missed the supervision of the mistress. The host was ill at ease and absent, and was not sorry that his guest soon bade him good-by.

And now Philip grew positively uneasy, and proved himself not a whit behind a woman in the power to conjure up dire probabilities. Perhaps she had slipped from that high bank where they sometimes walked along the river! And he rushed out through the garden and over the fields till he stood on the bank amidst the gathering shadows and peered remorsefully into the dark waters. What if somebody had abducted her; had brought word that he was ill and had carried her off! That thought was maddening. Then he remembered her one relative in that vicinity—her cousin.

No public conveyance went that way, and in hot haste, he started on foot. His speed astonished himself. Breathless and panting, he arrived and was about to ring, when, obeying an impulse, he stepped to the side porch and looked through the vine-covered window. Yes; surely, there was Annette! A little group near the open fire; she kneeling by a low chair, her bright head bending over little Harry, who lay in his mother's lap.

The first feeling was of relief and gratitude. She was safe. And then, it was his turn. There came surging over him, like a hot breath from a furnace, a wave of anger, and he strode away. His hasty glance had not shown him the death-like pallor on the baby face, nor the anxious expressions of the others. His conclusion was that the baby was being made ready for bed, and the two were admiring his pretty pink toes.

On he went in the darkness, his resentment gathering force at every step. Here she had deliberately planned to put him to torture. How little she must care for him when she would allow him to spend a whole night in anxiety. He had supposed her nature to be gentle and forgiving, and here she had treasured up a few hasty words and was intent on revenge. He had made concessions, and she had scorned them. Alas! He had not the dimmest suspicion that those ten bushels of concessions were just what widened the breach. He walked the floor for hours, then flinging himself on a lounge, toward morning chopped into a heavy sleep.

The result of the night's meditation was a decision that the next advance toward reconciliation must come from Annette herself. Just as he was about starting for the office in the morning, Annette was driven up to the door. They looked at each other in silence. He lingered a moment to see if she had any explanations to offer, and she waited in the hall hoping that possibly he had repented of the odious conduct of yesterday and was willing to confess it. Silence is not always "golden;" the proverb is misleading. If he had but asked, "Why did you go away?" Or she had said some pleasant word! But, no; they passed each other in grim silence.

Another day of gloom and despair for both. This unwonted strain, added to the night's watching, brought upon Annette a nervous headache, so that by the time of Philip's return she could not raise her head. It was fortunate. But for this they might have gone on till happiness was wrecked. Annette, with spirited little head erect, sailing through the house, was to be considered somewhat differently from this one, her head on a pillow, racked with pain. No mother could have cared for her more tenderly and skillfully than Philip. Throwing his resentment to the winds, he administered to her for hours until she fell into a quiet sleep.

In the morning, with the pain all gone, explanations were in order. It was hard to tell which was the more astonished as the misunderstandings of each began to come out.

"And you did not go away to have revenge on me?" "And you did not send home all those onions just to tease me?" were some of the questions asked. Then the ludicrous side began to appear, and they laughed long and merrily.

"Whatever shall we do with all those onions?" queried Annette when she found her breath.

"We will make sweet fragrance to our names by means of them," said Philip. "We will send gifts to the poor—always of onions. We will become famous as philanthropists, and our eccentric charities will be the theme of succeeding generations. But, Nettie, I wish you would make a picture of some of those silvery-skinned onions. We will hang it up in the dining room, and it shall teach us wholesome lessons that nobody else can read but just us two. Shall teach me not to forget the 'small sweet courtesies of life.'"

"And shall teach me," said Annette humbly, "'that anger dwells in the bosom of fools.'"

"And that 'greater is he that ruleth his own spirit than he that taketh a city,'" added Philip.

"My darling," he said, as their lips met in the kiss of reconciliation, "let us never again misinterpret, misjudge, or lose faith in each other, whatever comes."

MISS WHITTAKER'S BLANKETS.

———

MISS RACHEL WHITTAKER, as the years went by, found herself sole occupant of the old family homestead. Father and mother had lived their long honored lives, finished their work, and entered into rest. Brothers and sisters had one after another made for themselves new homes and gone their different ways. Miss Rachel had passed safely through the romances of youth and settled down to sober middle-aged life. She had also resisted all persuasions of friends to sell the old place and make her home with some one of the various families. "Because there is no man in the case," said Miss Whittaker, with a slightly contemptuous emphasis on the "man," "is no reason why I should not have a home of my own."

So life went on in the old Whittaker mansion with the same zest and order as if the household numbered a half-dozen, instead of a single lone female and her servant. There was the same punctilious regard to times and seasons. The house-cleaning paroxysm invariably came on a certain day of the month, the Monday's wash flapped in the wind, and the Saturday's baking sent forth spicy odors as regularly as they had done for the last forty years. The cellar continued to be stocked each autumn with "Mercers" and "Pink-eyes," with "Greenings" and "Spitzenbergs," with "Golden Pippins" and "Pound Sweets." The closet shelves contained their due amount of riches: rows of jars and glasses, filled with peaches, pears, quinces and jellies. In short, everything pertaining to good cheer was literally brimming over.

And Miss Rachel fed her chickens, counted her eggs, watered her plants and pattered upstairs and down, or sat in her large, sunny room and read her books and magazines, or clicked her knitting needles to the ticking of the tall old clock. Or she gathered a few friends about her for a social tea drinking, or, flung wide the doors of the old house to a troop of nieces and nephews. It was not alone that Miss Whittaker was fond of company, but it was pleasant to keep up the old customs. It was a pitiful attempt to bring back, as far as possible, the old times. It was easier when gay chatter and merry prattle filled the rooms, to see the white-haired father and mother as of old in their arm-chairs by the fireside. The most prosaic have a vein of sentiment somewhere. Rachel Whittaker's took this form; she guarded with a reverence that amounted to idolatry every object and principle belonging to those two. Her father's old hat occupied the identical peg on which he himself hung it the last time he went out; and mother's darning basket stood on the little stand, with balls and thimble and glasses; the needle stuck in the ball of blue yarn just where her own fingers placed it so long ago. And so, housekeeping was something more than ministering to her own wants or entertaining friends; it was having things go on as "they" would like to see them go on.

This devoted daughter was careful, as well, to direct the family benevolences into the well-worn channels in which they were accustomed to run. The church subscription and the contributions to home and foreign missions, and the various "Boards," were as faithfully attended to as if good Squire Whittaker still sat at the head of his pew.

She even loved and perpetuated her father's prejudices, and was too apt, like him, to have more sympathy for the unfortunate in Booroboolagha, than for those at her own door. She was prone to set all these down as "drunken" or "shiftless." However, she had not much opportunity to cultivate the grace of charity in home work, as nearly all the little community were well-to-do.

One of Miss Rachel's duties as a good housekeeper was to see that the large stock of bedding, packed away in trunks and closets, was aired at frequent intervals. It was more than abundant for the needs of a large family—and the Whittaker family was a large one when gathered in the old home at Thanksgiving and the holidays. One day in early winter—"just the right sort of a day for airing bedclothes, so warm and bright," Miss Rachel declared—the lines in the yard were filled with blankets, quilts, comfortables, etc., and the piazza roofs were adorned with feather beds and pillows.

Among the passers-by was Mrs. Barnes. She lived in the little gray, weather-beaten house just under the hill. She was neither shiftless nor drunken, yet she was pitifully poor, and was a widow as well, with three little children. She could "dig," though to "beg" she was ashamed, and managed by hard work and much pinching and stinting to piece out a living. What a tempting sight was this goodly array to the half-frozen woman!

Nobody knew but herself how hard she had tried to get enough bedding together for the winter; how she had saved every old scrap and pieced it up and eked out the cotton with newspapers that she had secured from Miss Rachel; and yet, with all that, the old house was so open it was going to be hard work to keep warm in the long, cold nights.

She stood and looked at those soft double blankets and thick comfortables, and said to herself, "What a thing it must be, eh, to have such lots of bedclothes; to pile on as many as you please and be warm as toast all night! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—I don't know how many blankets, double at that, and ever and ever so many comfortables, besides quilts and spreads. And there she is with all them warm things and nobody to keep warm but herself, and here I be, with three little children and no warm things. Oh dear! Why couldn't the two 'a' gone together, I should like to know." Then she brushed away a tear with the corner of her shawl and went on her way.

Miss Whittaker sat near the side window and noticed that the Widow Barnes stopped and looked over the fence. Somehow she didn't like to see her standing there, her thin dress blowing in the wind, her faded old shawl drawn close about her, and with such anxious-looking eyes fixed on those blankets. But now the obnoxious figure in the old shawl moved on, and Miss Rachel could once more give her undivided attention to a very difficult piece of embroidery she was engaged in making for a fair.

That very night winter began in earnest. The north wind and the frost went out hand in hand. They built bridges over streams, made rocky roads, and crept in here and there, unbidden and unwelcome. They found their way to Miss Rachel's chamber, but she got a victory over them by simply reaching out her hand and drawing over her self a soft comfortable.

The same unmerciful couple visited the poor as well as the rich; they crept into the cracks and crannies of the Widow Barnes' little house. She awoke with chills creeping over her, and got up and hunted about in the dark for something more to put over the two little girls in the trundle-bed, who had once or twice sleepily called out "cold!" She tucked her shawl and their old sacks about them, then snuggled little Bessie close in her arms and "wished for the day."

The frost and the wind had their own way all through the following day. It was a gloomy prospect for the night to Mrs. Barnes. She had hoped before cold weather set in to manage in some way to get more bedclothes. A fire all night was out of the question. As a forlorn hope, she put on her hood and shawl and went towards night, up the hill to Miss Whittaker's. Why, she scarcely knew. There was the least glimmer of a prospect that she might get some plain sewing to do, or, "Who knows," she told herself, "but that Miss Whittaker will say, 'Mis' Barnes, here is an old comfortable; if you can make it useful, you are welcome to it.' Oh! if she only would." And while the poor woman struggled up the hill against the wind she was unconsciously concocting a suitable reply to such a gracious proposition.

Miss Rachel had an excellent habit of employing her odds and ends of time in reading. By means of it she kept up familiar acquaintance with old authors.

To-night, after the lamps were lighted—and there were yet a few minutes before tea—she took a dip into "Thomson's Seasons." She was just reading:

"See, winter comes to rule the invested year,
Sullen and sad with all his rising train,
Vapors and clouds and storms."

* * * * * * *

"'Tis done! dread winter spreads his latest glooms,
And reigns tremendous o'er the conquered year,—"

when the kitchen door opened and Mary admitted Mrs. Barnes. What a heavenly place that room, with its warmth and brightness, seemed to this other woman. Miss Rachel laid aside her book and gave kindly attention to her poorer neighbor. They talked about the weather, how very early the cold had come on, how sharp the wind had been all day, and what an exceedingly cold night last night was.

"I put everything I could lay my hands on over us, and yet we shivered in our beds," Mrs. Barnes said.

Then Miss Rachel suggested that the house was probably open, and gave some valuable advice as to the best method of making doom and windows weather-proof. "Stop up all the chinks, and I think you will be more comfortable," she said; and then added that she was sorry she knew of no work for her. It was very difficult to get anything to do in the winter time. Had she not better try to put out her children and go into some nice family herself? It would be a great deal better all round.

Mrs. Barnes got up hastily, then, and said she must go. She wanted to say that if she could get work to do she could take care of her children without help from anybody, but something choked her, so that she could not speak. This was the horrible thing that was always staring her in the face—to part with the children. Must she come to it, just for want of a little help over this hard spot?

She pushed out into the cold and darkness, and went on her way, slowly and heavily. "I most hope she'll be cold herself some time, just to see how it feels," she murmured, half aloud, as she caught the last glimpse of Miss Rachael's light, in the bend of the road. "Why couldn't she let me have a couple of old comfortables and pay for it in work? I don't want to beg, goodness knows, but I'll have to come to it, for all I see."

Miss Whittaker was not so hard-hearted as she might seem. All the time Mrs. Barnes was talking, she was engaged in consultation with herself as to whether there was anything in the way of bedclothes that she could possibly spare. She did not wish to commit herself, so she made no promises, but she inwardly resolved that on the morrow she would take a look to that end.

Accordingly, the next morning found her with her head in chests and closets amid piles of blankets and the like. It was astonishing how many beds one woman, who lived all alone, had to provide for.

That pile was for Sister Martha's bed, that for Elvira's, that for Brother Ephraim's. Then, suppose they should all come at once and bring a couple of children apiece; they never had yet, but then they might, and if they did, at least six beds would need to be made ready; and if the weather should prove to be very cold at the time, why, it would take an enormous amount of covering, and it was always best to be ready for emergencies. Then there were certain quilts that she would not part with under any consideration, even though they were somewhat faded. The "album" quilt contained precious association of all the Whittaker family. The "wheel within a wheel" mother pieced and quilted; "the birds in the air" she pieced herself, beginning at the early age of four. As for common comfortables, it was needful to have a good many to spread over feather beds and mattresses.

There! It was done. Miss Rachel had gone laboriously through them all, and yet nothing had been found that was in any way suitable to bestow upon the Widow Barnes.

Dinner time came now, and she put them all away with—"I will see about it some other time." Ah, how many good things Satan hinders with that salve to the conscience—"some other time"!

After the cold came the snow, pouring out from the sky one ceaseless, silent stream for three days and nights. It piled itself in huge drifts in roadways, hid the fences, and—most buried the little house in the hollow. The widow occupied her time in shovelling snow before her doors and windows, lest they should be buried entirely. Her thoughts, meantime, were gloomy and sad. She knew about the God who hears the young ravens when they cry, but she did not believe He would hear her, and—like many more of his children—when trouble came, stopped her ears to gracious promises and fell into sullen gloom.

Miss Whittaker was a prisoner, too, in her cheery rooms. She was pleasantly employed, though; she knit bright socks for Martha's baby boy, made up a store of mince pies and fruit cake, and read a new book called "Snow Bound." In short, she was altogether comfortable and happy, or would have been but for one thing. And that thing was not snow; she liked that. What disturbed Miss Rachel's serenity during those few days, was, that she could not shake off a feeling of uneasiness with regard to the Widow Barnes. Her face, pale and worn, kept coming up before her, and the words, "We shivered in our beds," sounded in her ears. Then all the texts in the Bible she had ever read about the poor kept coming and going through her brain. She was a diligent reader, and her memory was good. When she would fain have entertained herself recalling the musical flow of—

"Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,
And the winter winds are wearily sighing,"

she could think of nothing but—

"Blessed is he that considereth the poor, the Lord will deliver him
in time of trouble."

Or,—

"If any of you see a brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels
of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him?"

She was not unmindful of the poor; she had helped Mrs. Barnes in various little ways. Why must she feel so condemned? she asked herself again and again.

With fair weather came the cold again; came stealing down upon the sleeping world like a thief in the night. Miss Rachel was unusually tired and slept very soundly, so that she did not waken even when the fire on her hearth had died out, and the cold become so intense in her room that the windows were frost covered, and the breath of the sleeper went up in little clouds of smoke. She stirred uneasily several times, and was just awake enough to know that she was cold, and not awake enough to bestir herself and get more covering. For a few minutes she lay in that half-waking state, thinking she ought, and would, and must rouse up and get more blankets. Finally, she thought she had done so and slept on.

Very soon after that she found herself far away from her own home, trying to walk over a floor of solid ice. She gazed about her in horror! The place was a large, deep pit, lighted by a lurid glare. Whichever way she turned her eyes, she saw nothing but ice, icy floor and icy walls, smooth and shining like glass. She clutched at them to save her sliding steps, but there was nothing to hold to; her hands slipped and she fell in a heap on the floor. She looked wildly above her for a way of escape. At the top of the pit she saw pretty rooms, with bright fires and happy-looking people sitting about sewing, reading and chatting. She shrieked for help, but they only shook their heads and went smilingly on with their occupations.