Chapter I

ES,” said Mrs. Hammond, a little sigh in her voice as she spoke, “Mr. Hart is going with us; I don’t know how long he will stay. I’m afraid there is very little on Monteagle to hold him.”

Two children sat on the extreme end of the broken steps; one was pale, thin, hollow-eyed and sorrowful. The other was rosy-cheeked, chubby, and dirty. The pale one was perhaps twelve years old; the other, somewhat younger.

“Only hear that name!” said the hollow-eyed girl. “Monteagle! doesn’t it make you feel cool just to think it over?”

“I didn’t think it over,” said Rosy Cheek. “What is it, and where is it?”

“I don’t know where it is,” spoken very wearily, as though it was an effort to speak at all. “In Heaven, maybe; the word sounds like it. Monteagle! it must be high, and cool, and still. I wonder what it feels like to be cool and still? Oh! how _hot_ it is! O dear me!”

There was such a world of longing and weariness in the sentence, that Mrs. Hammond turned and looked curiously at the girl; then uttered a little exclamation of surprise, and perhaps dismay.

“Who is that girl, and what is the matter with her?”

The man who was busy with a troublesome strap which had to do with Mrs. Hammond’s phaeton, glanced up for a moment, then said:

“That is my girl, ma’am, if you mean the pale one. There ain’t anything the matter with her now, only weakness, the doctor says. She’s had the fever—been dreadful sick. There was a spell when I thought she wouldn’t pull through, nohow, but she did, up to a certain p’int, there she stopped, and there she hangs—jest crawls about all day; doesn’t eat nothing, and doesn’t sleep nights, only off and on, you know. I dunno what to do with her.”

Mrs. Hammond looked again at the girl who had dropped into a listless attitude, a very photograph of discouraged weakness. The rosy-cheeked younger one in a much soiled dress had slipped away. Mrs. Hammond looked from the girl to the low, small, tumble-down building on the steps of which she sat, imagined the room in which she must spend her nights, imagined the table at which she must sit down to eat her “nothing,” and murmured, “Poor thing!” with another long-drawn sigh.

How could one be expected to gain strength in such a home as that must be?

“Who takes care of you and your daughter?”

She had turned again to the man at the carriage. He gave a short half-laugh as he answered slowly: “Well, as to that, what care we get we have to give to ourselves. Her and me live alone; since the boy went to work for his board, at the meat market, I’ve took care of her the best I could, since she got on her feet again; and when she was sick, the neighbors was kind. The doctor was, too—uncommon kind; stayed the most of two nights himself, and brought his woman once or twice to see her; but she’s gone now, up to Monteagle, along with the rest of the world. I suppose it is cool up there, ma’am?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Hammond, with another sigh. “It is cool there; poor thing! I don’t see how she is ever to get well in such a place.”

This last, in undertone; then louder: “She is Northern born, too, I think you said?”

“Who, ma’am, the girl? O yes; we’re from the North.”

It was the man’s turn to sigh now. “We come down here to try the climate for her mother—but it didn’t do; we came too late, or something. The mother died the very next summer, and we’ve had to pull along alone. There, ma’am, I think that buckle is all right now; it won’t come out again of itself in a hurry. It’s lucky I happened to be around; it might have made you trouble. Why, no, ma’am, I don’t want no _pay_ for a job like that; it didn’t take ten minutes, and it ain’t in my line anyhow.”

“What can she do when she is well?” asked Mrs. Hammond, holding out the shining silver.

“What, my girl? Why, as to that, I dunno as she can be said to know how to do anything. She works along as well as she can; and we make out to live, but you see it is pretty nigh four years since her mother died; and she was a young thing then. She ain’t had no chance. I ain’t got no change, Mis’ Hammond, and I don’t want no pay, neither.”

“I don’t want change, Mr. West; it is worth a dollar to me to know that all the buckles and straps are in order. I shall leave that matter of hauling the dirt in your hands, then. It can be done just as well while I am away; Mr. Hart will be back and forth, I presume, and he can direct you if you need any directions; good-morning!” And the little pony phaeton drove away.

As the fat little white pony carefully drew the carriage around the curve, his mistress heard a weak, petulant voice say: “O father, it is _so_ hot; I don’t know what to do.”

“Poor thing!” said Mrs. Hammond for the third time, “I don’t know what she will do. It _is_ very warm indeed. She thinks Monteagle sounds like Heaven. I presume it would seem almost like Heaven to her. If there was anything she could do”—and then Mrs. Hammond looked at her watch, and spoke sharply to the fat pony, and they went to the house at a brisk trot.

It was a lovely home. Before even the pony turned in at the tree-lined carriage drive which wound quite around the house, you would have known by the air of quiet elegance which hung gracefully over everything in sight, that you were coming to a home that commanded money and culture. In the wide handsome hall everything was in order, and the rooms opening from them were cool, and dark, and elegant. Yet Mrs. Hammond as she dropped sun hat and umbrella on a white sofa, and trailed her white morning shawl over the soft carpet toward an easy chair, said: “O dear! it is warm _everywhere_. I wish we were on the mountain this minute.” Even as she spoke, she thought of that hollow-eyed West girl again. When, after a few minutes of rest, she mounted the long winding flight of stairs to the nursery, the sight which met her eyes was not calculated to cool her.

Miss Ethel Hammond was on an investigating tour. At this particular minute she belonged in a wide white crib rolled into the coolest, shadiest corner of the northwestern veranda, eyes closed, lovely face shaded from intruding bugs and flies by a network of delicate creamy lace, and Jennette, the nurse, within easy range of the treasure. Where Jennette was just now, was not apparent, but Miss Ethel was certainly not in her crib. Her eyes were very wide open, and she had the room to herself.

By dint of much energy, she had succeeded in pulling one of the heavy chairs before the object of her most intense desire, and, climbing in, was in the act of leaning forward to grasp it, when Mrs. Hammond opened the door. “It” was a rare and wonderfully mounted clock, heavy enough to put Ethel’s busy inquiring brain at rest forever, should the strong little hands succeed in pulling it over on her; or, failing in that, should she lose her balance and pitch head-first against the corner of the cruel marble.

No time for exclamations; rather, enough presence of mind to avoid them. With swift, silent steps she moved across the room; a long room, and seeming to the startled mother miles long, just then. A moment more and she had the wide-awake, energetic, struggling, disappointed baby in her arms. So near to its life-purpose only to be thwarted!

The first thing the mother did, was to kiss Ethel; though her mouth was wide open, and from it were issuing loud, disappointed yells.

The next thing was to think aloud: “That is as much confidence as I was afraid I could place in Jennette. She is good for ruffling, and tucking, and ironing the baby’s dresses, but not for watching her.”

The next was to say within her heart, “I should think _she_ might be able to help keep a baby out of mischief.”

But this last thought was not about Jennette.

SOME REMARKABLE WOMEN.

S.—SMITH, MRS. HANNAH WHITALL.

ORN and reared in a Quaker home, educated in a Quaker school, and for many years holding her membership in the sect known by that name, Mrs. Smith has been characterized as “a Friend indeed.” Of her father and herself, this has been said: “He was a bright, cheery, joyous, yet Cromwellian soldier, clapped by mistake under the broad brim of a Quaker, but this extinguisher was never able to hide his gladsome piety, and the daughter is her father over again.”

Her husband is a partner in the firm of Whitall, Tatum & Co. And just here I want to tell you something which I learned the other day regarding the temperance principles of this firm. Their business is the manufacture of white glass; theirs being the largest establishment of the kind in the world. So consistent and loyal to the cause of temperance are these men, that no orders for glass ware are accepted from men who will use the bottles and glasses for rum in any of its guises!

Doubtless they sometimes lose money by refusing large orders, but it is a fact that it sometimes costs something to be consistent. Nevertheless, let us be consistent—it pays in the long run! Mrs. Smith is well known to the world of Christians as H. W. S. You may have seen in your mother’s workbasket, or found slipped between the leaves of her Bible or other favorite book of devotion, little tracts bearing this signature.

She has for many years been accustomed to give expositions of Scriptures, sometimes going to obscure country churches of a Sabbath evening, then again speaking to thousands gathered in an immense hall in London. Of her powers as a public speaker, an English paper says: “Her freshness, her profound insight, are as remarkable as her surprising fluency.”

I think it was in a little paper called _Times of Refreshing_, that an article appeared which described the effect of her addresses upon an audience as something remarkable. Saying that, however old and worn the topic, she by her vigorous way of presenting the truth seemed to make it over new, and the secret of her power is given in five words: “consecrated talent and careful research.”

One of her children says of her: “She seems to me perfectly unselfish, and this she carries into the smallest details.” Of how many of us can this be said, I wonder!

Speaking of the sorrows and the bereavements which Mrs. Smith has been called to bear, Miss Willard says: “To the praise of that dear name above all others, let it be said, this Christian heart knows, proves, illustrates, always, in all life’s changeful discipline, the victory that overcometh even faith. No sentence is so familiar to her friends from those dear smiling lips that open but to speak brave and tender words, as ‘I cannot be unhappy, for I always have God.’”

Mrs. Smith is also known to the world as the Superintendent of the Evangelistic Department of the W. C. T. U. Does that need explanation? You all know what sort of an organization the W. C. T. U. is. Well, one of the first questions which came to the noble Christians who banded themselves together to fight the monster vice of intemperance was this puzzling one, How shall we reach the masses? Men bound by the chains of the drink habit were not likely to come voluntarily within their influence. Then there was but one answer to the question: “Go to them!” And they went, and it is this work of carrying the Gospel story to the poor drunkard, that we call evangelistic work. Mrs. Smith tells us how she became identified with the W. C. T. U. At the time of the Crusade she was in England, engaged in her work of Bible exposition, but when she heard through the newspapers of the wonderful outpouring of God’s spirit upon her countrywomen, her soul was stirred, and she seemed to hear the voice of her Master calling upon her for a consecration to the work, and she says, “sitting before an English fire in our London house, I joined that Crusade.”

She said: “Those women are my sisters, and their work is my work from this time forward until my death.” Again she says: “I consider the W. C. T. U. one of the grandest instrumentalities for good the world has ever known.”

Can you tell why I have selected Mrs. Hannah Whitall Smith to stand in this list of Remarkable Women?

/* FAYE HUNTINGTON. */

OUR ALPHABET OF GREAT MEN.

V.—VINCENT, REV. JOHN H., D. D.

HAVE written down the name of the “great man” which I have chosen to stand in this Alphabet, and here I pause as I reflect that to many of you his face and form and speech are familiar. You have seen him upon the platform and upon the avenues of Chautauqua and Framingham, and in other places. Some of you have welcomed him at your own homes; his smiles and his talks are among the things which will be always, so long as you live, a pleasant memory. What can I tell you about him that you do not already know? Yet I am not willing that another name should take the place of this, and therefore we will talk a little together of this friend of the young people, and idol of the older people.

Dr. Vincent’s early home was in the Sunny South. “In the land of orange blossoms and magnolia groves,” he first saw the light. Six years of his life were spent in the home of the flowers; then the family came North and settled in Pennsylvania. Like the mothers of many of our great men, John H. Vincent’s mother might fill a worthy place in our list of Remarkable Women.

She is described as “patient, amiable, living as though she belonged to heaven rather than earth. Often at the twilight hour, especially on Sundays, she would take her children to her own room, and there sweetly and tenderly tell them about the life to come, and point out their faults and spiritual needs.”

Mrs. Bolton in her sketch of Dr. Vincent published two or three years since, gives some amusing incidents of the childhood of our Great Man. I quote from memory, but I think it is she who tells the story of the boy of six years gathering the children of the neighborhood, and after getting them quiet by threatening them with the lash of a whip, he would preach to them. And so far did his zeal carry him, that upon one occasion he tore into several parts a small red-covered hymn book, which he valued as the gift of his pastor, and distributed the pieces through his audience, doubtless thinking it highly important that all should be supplied with hymn books. Whether they all sang together from the different parts of the book given them, we are not informed.

Very early in life the boy seems to have decided that he would _do something with his life worth while_; that he would do that which should help others, and realizing that there is a world to be saved, he grew up with the hope of one day becoming a minister. His studies were carried on for a time at home, afterwards at a neighboring academy. Later he engaged in teaching, continuing his studies by himself, and finally he had fitted himself for college. Not every boy would have the will and perseverance to carry on a course of study while teaching six hours or more each day. However, he did not finish his college course. Not for any want of persistence, neither did he consider such a course unimportant. But he was anxious to be about his Master’s work, and thus it was that before he was twenty-one years old he set out to preach “on a thirty-mile circuit, over the mountains and through the valleys of Luzerne County, Pennsylvania.”

He travelled on horseback, studying and thinking out his sermons as he journeyed. Everybody, young and old, were glad to see his bright, smiling face and feel the warm grasp of his hand. It has been said that “he never shook hands with the tips of his fingers, nor preached dry sermons.”

It was during this period of his life that his mother whose parting words when he went out into the world were, “My son, live near to God; live near to God,” went to be with God. One near the throne in heaven, the other living near the throne on earth; is this the secret of John H. Vincent’s success in the Lord’s vineyard?

At length he became a pastor, preaching for a few years in New Jersey, afterwards in the vicinity of Chicago. But all the time he was busy with plans of an educational character. These plans which were at first carried out in the establishing of Saturday afternoon classes of young people, called Palestine Classes, with the purpose of studying about the Holy Land, have at length developed a Chautauqua. I need not tell you about Chautauqua; about the C. L. S. C., nor about the C. Y. F. R. U.; you do not need to be told about the town and country clubs, nor about the society of Christian ethics. Many of you have listened to those Sunday afternoon talks in the Children’s Temple, and afterwards gone to the vesper service in the Hall of Philosophy.

I ought to tell you that although Dr. Vincent postponed his college course, he never gave it up, but outside college walls, he continued his studies by himself, even in the midst of a busy life, until by regular examinations he took his degrees, and also passed through the regular theological course of study of the Methodist Episcopal Church, to which denomination he belongs.

To the boys especially I recommend the study of the life and character of Dr. Vincent. A gentleman remarked in my hearing the other day, “probably no man living is exerting a wider influence over the hearts and minds of the young people than Dr. Vincent!” And I thought, what a responsibility! and how thankful the fathers and mothers should be that he is just the man he is; that his influence is ever on the side of truth and right; that his aim is to uplift, and that Christ is ever the centre of his thought. To see and hear Dr. Vincent is to understand something of the secret of his power. The sympathy which manifests itself in every look and tone, the enthusiasm with which he enters into his work, and which tides him over the hard places, and the personal magnetism—which makes you, whether you will or not; these qualities, sanctified and consecrated, make the man a power for good.

/* FAYE HUNTINGTON. */

/*
_Volume 14, Number 4._ Copyright, 1886, by D. LOTHROP & CO.
_November 27, 1886._
*/

THE PANSY.

THE LITTLE RED SHOP.

BY MARGARET SIDNEY.