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MI NT A.

i'age 330.

*■:.*

„^':

//^

^e ZZ<^'

AUTl

it-in'M,

^<f£e 33'^

JUDGE BURNHAM'S
DAUGHTERS

PANSY

AUTHOR OF "Christie's Christmas," "a hedge fence," "gbrtrudb's

DIARV," "the man of THE HOUSE," "INTERRUPTED," "THE HALL

IN THE GROVE," " AN ENDLESS CHAIN," " MRS. SOLOMON SMITH

LOOKING ON," " FOUR GIRLS AT CHAU ."AUQUA," " RUTH

BRSKINB's CROSSES," " SPUN FROM FACT," " LITTLE

nSHBRS : AND THEIR NETS," " LICHTV-SBVBN,"

BTC, BTC

TORONTO:

WILLIAM BRIGGS, 78 and 80 KING STREET EAST.

Montssal: C W. COATES. HALirAX : S. F. HUESTIS.

Entered aceordinflr to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one thonaand
eight hundred and eighty-eight, by William Brioos, Book Steward of th«
Methodist Book and Publiahing Houie, Toronto, at the Department oi
Agriculture.

vv.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

AFTER SIX YEARS

r one Ihonnuxl
Steward of the
Department oi

CHAPTER n.

PLANTS THAT HAD BLOSSOMED

CHAPTER III.

LOGIC AND INTERROGATION POINTS

CHAPTER IV.

UNWELCOME RESPONSIBILITIES .

CHAPTER VI.

DRIFTING .

CHAPTER VII.

THE UNEXPECTED

• •

• • •

- i

CHAPTER V.

forewarned" and "FOREARMED" . . 51

• • • •

CHAPTER VIII.

SLIPPERY GROUND g^

IV.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER IX.

THE OLD QUESTION

CHAPTER X.

COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING

CHAPTER XI.

"W. C. T. U."

CHAPTER XIII.

THE WISDOM OF THIS WORLD .

CHAPTER XIV.

A TROUBLESOME "YOUNG PERSON" .

CHAPTER XVI.

ON THE MOUNT AND IN THE VALLEY

CHAPTER XVII.

A PLAIN UNDERSTANDING

CHAPTER XVIII.

STORMY WEATHER

lOZ

126

CHAPTER XII.

THE DEED FOR THE WILL .... 138

• • •

150

163

CHAPTER XV.

*'ALL come!" 176

. 188

• • •

201

213

CONTENTS.

138

'SO

163

176

188

20X

CHAPTER XIX.

• lOI m WAITING

CHAPTER XX.

113 a BELATED WORK

126 Im TRANSFORMATION

• •

CHAPTER XXI.

• «

• •

CHAPTER XXII.

DAYS OF PRIVILEGE

• •

CHAPTER XXIII.

O, MAMMA ! GOOD-BV ! "

CHAPTER XXIV.

NEXT MOST

• .

CHAPTER XXV.

A WAITING WORKER

• • •

CHAPTER XXVI.

UNDER GUIDANCE

• •

CHAPTER XXVII.

AT HOME

226

238

251

263

27s

287

299

311

324

213

JUDGE BURNHAM'S
DAUGHTERS

CHAPTER I.

AFTER SIX YEARS.

MRS. BURNHAM stood by the west window
of the long, low-ceiled room, looking out
into the grim and desolate twilight. The day had
been rainy, the clouds having hung low and gray
ever since the early morning, and the faint gleams
of crimson and gold with which the west had tried
to lighten the scene just at sunset, had been quickly
overcast, and gray mist was fast enveloping the
earth once more.

On the street were to be seen only the hurrying
umbrellas of a few belated people, and the fast-
running water from overcharged gutters by the
roadside.

Certainly nothing in the prospect need have
held Mrs. Burnham's steady gaze, yet she stood
quite still and . looked outward with far-reaching
eyes that did not seem to see what was spread
before them. She was not alone ; a small boy in

2 AHEk SIX VKAKS.

kilts and curls hovered restlessly from her side to
the grate, to the south window, to the niche which
held the piano, where the firelight made fantastic
shadows, back to her side again, ever steadily ply-
ing her with questions the while : —

•* Mamma, isn't it time to light the gas ?
Mamma, why don't Seraph and Minta come ?
Mamma, can you see papa coming down the
street ? Mamma, isn't it almost time for dinner ?
O, mamma ! won't you please not look out the
window any more, and come and amuse your little
boy ? he's so tired ! "

With the last appeal Mrs. Burnham turned, a
faint smile appearing on her pale, grave face.

" Is my little boy's tongue tired ? " she asked ;
" mamma doesn't wonder if it is, you have kept
it so busy to-day."

But she moved from the window, waiting only
to draw the curtains close, then crossing the room
with the boy by the hand, dropped into an easy
chair in front of the fire, which suddenly shot up
gleams of light, revealing the fair head of the child
as he leaned against her knee. His thoughts had
taken a new turn.

" Mamma, tongues don't get tired like hands
and feet, do they ? And they don't have to be
washed, and have clothes put on them. Wouldn't
it be a funny thing if they had to wear clothes } "

He laughed merrily at the queerness of his own
conceit, and the mother smiled on him, and played

AFTER SIX YEARS.

lovingly with the curls about his head ; but after a
moment it was almost as trying to the child as the
position by the windoAr had been, for she fixed her
steady gaze on the fire, and seemed to go on with
thoughts which were apart from him.

To his great satisfaction there was an interrup-
tion in the shape of a quick tread down the hall ;
the door swung open, and Judge Burnham ap-
peared, being greeted by the boy with a shout of
delight.

"Glooming in the dark.^" he asked, as he came
forward and touched his lips lightly to his wife's
cheek. " What is the matter with the gas }
Young gentleman, why didn't you light the gas
for your mother } "

This to the happy boy, who was promptly
perched on his shoulder, and, under instructions,
flooded the room with soft yellow light. A beau-
tiful room it was ; evidences of cultured taste and
unlimited means were apparent on every hand.
A long room, which might perhaps have looked
narrow, had not its length been broken into here
and there by graceful alcoves and niches ; car-
peted in tints of green which bordered on the
yellow just enough to suggest the sun at its set-
ting ; reveling in couches and easy chairs and
low rockers, and abounding in books and magazines
and the late papers ; a perfect home room : not
stately nor elegant, only easy and graceful. The
gaslight revealed more plainly the pallor of the

i|tf

/ A

4 AFTER SIX YEARS.

lady's face, and her husband, who studied her
closely for a moment, seemed to notice it.

*' Are you well to-night, Ruth ? I believe you
look paler than ever."

" As well as usual, thank you."

Her voice was low and quiet ; composed, rather
than cheerful.

** The weather is wretched enough to make peo-
ple feel miserable," he said, standing with his back
to the glowing grate, and bringing the boy to a
sitting posture on his shoulder; "and you keep
housed up altogether too much for your health.
Where are the girls ? "

"They went to Madame Reno's reception."

" They did ! " spoken in a slightly startled tone.
"With whom.?"

"They went quite alone. Judge Burnham. I
was given to understand that such was your
pleasure."

The husband laughed slightly.

" Well, hardly my pleasure ; I should prefer, of
course, that they have company. I had forgotten
that this was the afternoon for the reception.
However, I could not have left the office to-day if
I had remembered ; and since you did not go, of
course I suppose there was nothing left for them
but to go alone."

Mrs. Burnham looked up at him half depreca-
tingly, then gave a significant glance at the deep
black of her dress.

i'\

AFTER SIX YEARS.

" You surely did not expect me to attend the
reception, Judge Burnham ? " The sentence closed
with the rising inflection, yet had hardly the tone
of a question.

The Judge turned on his heel with a gesture
that might have meant impatience, opened his
mouth as if to speak, then seemed to think better
of it. After a moment came this sentence with a
half-laugh : —

" No, I cannot be said to have expected it " (with
a marked emphasis on the word ** expected ").
" What I may have desired is another question.
Has this boy been out to-day .-* "

The boy answered for himself.

" No, papa ; it has been an ugly east wind all
day, and mamma was afraid of my cough."

" Nonsense ! You haven't enough cough to hurt
a mosquito. You coddle him altogether too much,
Ruth ; you will have him as frail as a lily."

** He was quite hoarse this morning, Judge
Burnham."

The mother's voice was almost beseeching now,
but the husband did not notice it.

** What if he was ? A child has to breathe, even
when hoarse; and to breathe heated air all day
vitiates the blood and weakens the lungs. Get
your coat and hat, my boy, and I'll take a run
with you on the piazzas ; that will be better than
nothing."

As he spoke, he placed the little fellow on his

JSm^itkm

AFTER SIX YEARS.

I I

feet. But the child, instead of running, turned
anxious eyes on his mother and hesitated.

" I'm afraid it will worry mamma, and I can stay
in the house a whole week if she wants me to."

** Nonsense ! " in a sharp tone now. " Get your
hat at once ; it is not necessary for you to decide
these questions."

Then Mrs. Burnham's voice, lower than before,
quiet, and perfectly controlled, " Don't keep papa
waiting, Erskine ; your little coat is in the lower
drawer in papa's dressing-room — the gray one,
dear."

It was a heavier garment than had been worn as
yet this fall, and Judge Burnham laughed at the
boy for being bundled up like a little old man
when he came back presently robed in the gray
coat.

" I suppose you will not come with us," he said,
his hand on the door-knob.

Mrs. Burnham shook her head and smiled.

" Not to-night, thank you ; I don't like the east
wind ; it seems to me unusually penetrating."

" That is because you have toasted yourself
beside a coal fire all day."

Then the door closed and she was alone. She
sat still, staring straight into that coal fire with
wide-open, grave eyes ; staring away beyond the
fire ; seeing images that drew no smile to her
face ; listening the while to the boy's merry voice,
broken by an occasional cough, as with rapid feet

AFTER SIX YEARS.

;. She

re with

md the

to her

f voice,

)id feet

he tried to keep up with his father's long strides.
The dinner-bell pealing through the house inter-
rupted the promenaders, and at the same moment
a carriage returned the young ladies to their own
door. A little later and the family gathered in the
dining-room. If you have read " Ruth Erskine's
Crosses " you possibly remember the first family
gathering in the Burnham dining-room. If you
do not, may I ask that you will look up the book
and glance over its history, that you may have'the
pleasure of contrasting the two scenes .-*

A more marked contrast, having to do with the
same house and the same people, could hardly
be imagined. Yet I call it the same house more
from courtesy than reality. The framework was
the same, and the old-fashioned ceilings were the
same, but the house had been added to and taken
from, until Mrs. Ferris, whom you will possibly
. remember, recognized it no longer as " the old
place." An L had been built on here, and a bay
window thrown out there, and a side porch added to
the south door, and broad piazzas surrounded the
house. With?^ windows reaching to the floor, and
paint and paper and furniture, had so changed the
original scene that the dining-room of the present,
though having the same floor as the one that
belonged to the past, had no other external that
was the same. A lovely dining-room, with the
table set with every possible modern appointment,
and served by a trained waiter with exquisite care.

rll

I , if

AFTER SIX YEARS.

To these things Ruth Burnham had been used all
her life. But of the three she was really much
less fastidious than were the young ladies, Miss
Seraph and Miss Minta. What pretty girls they
were ! Mrs. Burnham, glancing at them across the
table, could not help thinking so at this moment.
Graceful, well-bred, faultlessly dressed in the very
extreme of fashionable attire, and voluble after
the fashion of society young ladies, over the last
excitement of the day.

"And, papa, that young Pole was there whom
we met at the Harpers, you remember. Seraph
made quite a sensation promenading with him. I
assure you she was the center of all eyes."

" That is not surprising," Judge Burnham said,
bestowing an admiring glance on the tall, graceful
girl, with a wealth of reddish yellow hair arranged
with reference to the latest ideas concerning hair,
which ideas chanced to be very becoming to her
face.

She received her sister's charge and her father's
compliment with equal composure.

** It was all because of the Pole, papa. If I
hadn't been honored with his attentions, I should
have been lost to view entirely. Minta was the
favorite most of the afternoon. That massive Dr.
Dorchester, who offers compliments much as an
elephant might, assured me that * your sister is
even more brilliant than usual to-day, and that is
unnecessary.' "

AFTER SIX YEARS.

The "brilliant " young sister, whose bright eyes
flashed fun and fire at once, went off into a series
of graceful little giggles over this ponderous
comi)limcnt.

" Papa, I didn't say a witty thing this afternoon.
I was studiedly stupid, and they laughed over the
stupidest things as though they were very amusing.
I do think people can be the silliest when they get
[certain ideas into their minds."

" You see what it is to have a reputation, my
I daughter."

Nothing could be fuller of satisfied pride than
Ijudge Burnham's tones. Indeed, it would not
have needed close observation to discover that
this father was both fond and proud of his two
beautiful daughters. Whether he occasionally re-
membered the frights they were when he brought
home his bride, barely six years ago, is doubtful ;
men forget so soon and so entirely, when it is con-
Ivenient and satisfactory to do so. Yet, remember-
ing, I am not sure that he would have thought
it very surprising. He might have looked upon
it as an altogether natural, and to be expected,
[development, from daughters belonging to the
Burnham name and blood. Fifteen and seven-
Iteen very often give little hint of what twenty-one
land twenty-three will be. Mrs. Burnham, how-
lever, remembered ; recalled often, vividly and
lin detail, the picture of those two uncouth, ill-
Idressed, ill-shaped, frightened girls as they came

;:i

4»

AFTER SIX YEARS.

to her in the rag-carpeted front room, not quite
six years ago. She thought of it to-night ; some
sudden motion of the head by the beauty, Miss
Minta, a motion peculiar to her, extreme in its
awkwardness once, softened into an actual charm
now, recalled to Mrs. Burnham the hour and the
scene in all its embarrassing details, and she did
what Judge Burnham in these days never thought
of doing in connection with his daughters : she
drew a long, low sigh.

The dinner-table talk went on in much the
same strain that I have indicated. Who were
at the reception ; who were conspicuous by their
dress, or their manner ; what the Harpers thought J
of the entertainment; why the Tremaines were
not there, and a dozen other trifles discussed
with a zest which belongs only to society lov-
ers. Always the talk was addressed to papa.
Throughout the meal Mrs. Burnham was almost
entirely silent, answering the remarks addressed
to her, by her husband, only in quiet monosylla-
bles. Not apparently, however, for any other
reason than because the remarks themselves called
for no other answer ; these being confined almost
exclusively to questions as to whether she would
have more of this or that delicacy. She gave
careful attention to Erskine's wants, but did not
talk even with him. This, however, was not
noticeable, for the boy had been taught to be
almost entirely silent at the table, and he was

AFTER SIX YEARS.

apparently absorbed in listening to and enjoying
his pretty sisters.

Before the second course was concluded, Miss
Seraph examined her watch with an exclamation
of dismay.

" I did not know it was so late. Papa, we must
call on the Forsythes for a moment to-night ;
Tremaine is to leave town to-morrow morning.
I told him we would call. Now, papa dear, don't
frown ; you really must be the victim to-night. '
Horace Wells wanted to call for us, but Minta
gave him such a decided negative that he didn't
dare to say anything about it to me."

" Well, he is such a bore, papa. I would much
rather have you."

" Thank you, " Judge Burnham said, with a low
bow, and an amused smile. " I am not disposed
to frown, young ladies ; I am quite willing to
attend you. I suppose, Ruth, there is no use in
asking you to join us ? "

Another of those sentences closing with the
rising inflection, yet spoken in a tone which makes
a negative reply almost a necessity.

" O, no! thank you. I will remain with Erskine."

Miss Seraph laughed. " What a question, papa !
I should almost as soon expect one of the marble
busts in the library to go out with you as mamma.
0, mamma ! that reminds me ; Dr. Westwood
asked to-day if you were going into a decline, that
you were seen so little in society."

AFTER SIX YEARS.

:i! ■

" Yes, and I was guilty of the only pun I made
this afternoon, " chimed in Miss Minta. "I told
him you had quite declined society, of late ; that
that was all the decline we knew of."

Judge Burnham did not laugh at this, but be-
stowed a somewhat sharp, searching look on
Ruth's pale face, where a little touch of crimson
was glowing now. " Is Joan disabled, that she
can not have the care of Erskine ?*' he asked, and
there was a curious sharpness in his voice.

" Joan ? O, no ! but I do not choose to leave
Erskine with her, you know. Shall wc adjourn to
the library, Judge Burnham } "

A few moments more and the father and daugh-
ters had departed, leaving mother and' son alone
together.

The boy was very quiet and sweet and loving,
exerting all his small powers for the manifest
purpose of entertaining his mother; and she
smiled on him, and allowed herself to be enter-
tained. It was when he was settled in his lace-
canopied crib in the lovely pink room which
opened out from Ruth's lovely blue one, that he
put up his small hand and patted her cheek, and
said : " Dear mamma, did it worry you to have me
go and walk to-night ? I couldn't help it, you
know ; and I'll try not to cough. I wouldn't have
gone if I could have helped it."

Mrs. Burnham stooped and kissed the full,
sweet lips, and held the caressing hand in a sud-

AFTER SIX YEARS.

jden strong grasp ; but her voice was quick and
firm : " Of course not, my little foolish boy ; it
lis always right to obey papa. Good-night, my
larling."

She went away from him at once, out into the
)luc room, and sat down before the open grate,
land let her hands drop idly in her lap, and let
Igrcat hot tears plash down on the hands. There
Imust be no tears before the large-eyed boy. But
Ithere was no one to watch her now.

!:f1

PLANTS THAT HAD BLUbSOMEU.

CHAPTER II.

PLANTS THAT HAD BLOSSOMED.

NOW you know as well as though I had written
a volume to tell you about it, that Mrs. Judge
Burnham's life had not yet settled into peace.
Indeed, it was so very far from peace, that her
wise-eyed son, child though he was, understood,
perfectly, that his mother was sad-hearted and
troubled. Yet had Mrs. Burnham been called
upon to tell her life story as it had been lived
in the past five years, it would have been diffi-
cult, perhaps impossible, for her to have explained
how she reached the spot where she now seemed
stranded, so insensibly had she drifted thither.
You remember with what strong purpose of soul
she took up life anew, at the bedside of her baby,
when God gave him back to her, after the last
hope had vanished ? She had by no means for-
gotten it. Eagerly, I might almost say fiercely,
had she tried to live the resolves born in that
solemn hour. The sorrowful part of it was, that
her husband had been through no such experience;
had made no such resolves ; did not understand

■■ii':

I'LANTS THAT HAD ULOSSOMIIU.

Ms wife, and had no sympathy with the desire?
that filled her soul. His sorrow had been heav^,
his anxiety intense — or, perhaps, fierce would be
the best word to describe it — but the moment the
strain was over, he was ready to take up life again
where they had dropped it so suddenly when their
tears came upon them. It perplexed and annoyed
him to find that his wife was not ready for this;
that a subtle and t( him utterly inexplicable change
had passed over her.

Once more Mrs. Burnham was struggling with
the problem with which her married life had begun,
namely, " How shall two walk together except they
be agreed }'* Struggling with it, with immensely
greater odds against her than when she first began
this divided life.

You will recall the fact that the husband of a
few weeks* standing had succeeded, with one pleas-
ant pretext after another, in drawing her away
from the prayer-meeting, from the Sabbath-school,
from very regular attendance at church. More
than that, he had even drawn her away from her
i^ible and her daily secret communion with God.
Not suddenly, so that it startled her ; not con-
sciously, perhaps, on his part ; he did not under-
stand these things ; how should he ? He did not
mean to do his wife an injury. But the excuses
were so numerous, so plausible ; the influence was
so steady and so agreeable ; it was so hard to
break away from his plans, even when they jarred

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PLANTS THAT HAD BLOSSOMED.

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her conscience ! The tendency had been always
downward, but so sHght, that it was only dimly
felt. Gradually, too, she had been drawn more
or less into the whirl of society, and found that
Mrs. Judge Burnham had a circle of influence
which was more fascinating than any phase of
fashionable life which had ever been presented to
the girl, Ruth Erskine.

Then had come that holy thing into the inner-
most center of her heart, mother love. You re-
member how she made all interests, even the
Master's, second to this ? And you remember,
perhaps, how closely the shadows had drawn about
her on that evening when the little life almost
went out .-*

Since that time, now nearly five years in the
background, there had been kept up a steady
struggle between her Christian life and her hus-
band's tastes and plans. Not that she had not
tried to explain to him ; but the views which could
not be explained during those first few months of
married life were much harder to explain now.
When she tried to tell him that, as a Christian,
she must, and must not, he confronted her with
the statf^ment that she was a Christian when
he married her, and that she had by no means
obtruded her peculiar ideas so offensively then as
now. When she tried to make him, understand
the solemn experience, lived on her knees, beside
what she had thought was the dying bed of thjir

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PLANTS THAT HAD BLOSSOMED.

child, he assured her that that was fanaticism born
of fright ; and it was beneath a rational woman
to make herself disagreeable to her friends because
she had been worried, by loss of sleep, and the
fear of losing her baby, into taking some rash
and preposterous vows ! And this was quite as
much as he understood about it. How could she
explain ? She ceased to try ; and as much as in
her lay determined to live her divided life, and
yet have peace. But peace was not what Judge
Burnham was waiting for ; he wanted concessions,
land an agreeable companion always with him in
[the life which was most to his tastes.

As the days went by, it became apparent that

[those tastes were almost entirely diverse from his

wife's. Indeed, there were hours when the poor

niQ stood appalled before the thought that they

ieemed to have no ideas in common any more.

She had not imagined that there could be so many

)ccasions of difference. But if he was in earnest,

>o was she.

He did not set about winning ner as gracefully
is he had at first ; he had been too successful,
luring his first attempts, to give him other than a
[eeling of irritation when he thought of those
lays and the ease with which he had accomplished
^hat seemed now impossible. I shall have to
[onfess, also, that Ruth's old obstinacy came
her aid or to her hinderance, as you will ; con-
lessions which she could have made she would

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PLANTS THAT HAD BLOSSOMED.

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not ; and when she might have resisted gently,
gracefully, she often did it sternly, with a deter-
mination to carry her point, which was much more
evident to her husband than v/as the reason for
carrying it.

Thus the breach between them grew and
widened. You are not to understand that they
quarreled openly and sharply ; both were too well-
bred for that. They grew cold toward each other, |
at times almost haughty ; they held endless discus-
sions in cold tones, with abundance of lady-like
and gentlemanly sarcasm distributed through them ; |
they planned in accordance with individual tastes
very often, when each might have planned for the|
other. Oh! there were constant errors which
this poor blundering Christian wife made. She!
needed help from the human side, and she had|
chosen a broken reed to lean upon. Is it any!
wonder that she made mistakes } Not that they I
were necessary in view of her position ; I am notj
excusing her ; she might even under these circum-
stances have gone to the Stronghold and received!
grace sufficient. What I am saying is, that shel
had made life harder for herself than it need have!
been ; in other words, led herself into temptationj
and was reaping some of the consequences.

Meantime, many outside influences came tol
Judge Burnham's aid. For one thing, the gayj
world sought them out in their seclusion ; not]
merely their friends, but the fashionable world

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PLANTS THAT HAD BLOSSOMED.

I itself. The straggling little village to which Mrs.
|]^urnham had been introduced as a bride, would
not have known itself if it had been shown its
own photograph after the lapse of these half-
dozen years. The town had received one of those
[sudden booms common to regions of country near
[great cities. Two rival railroads had built con-
jnecting lines through the place, passing, one of
them, within five minutes' walk of Judge Burn-
lam's grounds, and making it possible to reach
[he city in ten minutes instead of two hours.
'his of itself had established the town on a new
)asis. Then with the railroads had come specu-
lators — thoughtful business men who examined
the river rolling quietly through the outskirts of
the village with an eye not to the aesthetic, but to
)usiness. In a brief space of time stock companies
Ivere formed, and huge factories were rearing
their walls toward the sky. Real estate men
:ame, who bought and laid out town lots, and ad-
vertised them in city markets. And city mer-
chants and lawyers, looking for breathing places
*or their families, came out to view the land
Ind were charmed. "So quiet," they said, "so
[ural, so like the country in every respect, and yet
ji'ithin a few minutes of the city."
They invested forthwith, and builders came at
leir bidding, and great four-storied palaces were
[eared, and the gas company, and the water works
jompany and the sewer company, and I know not

a
^

PLANTS THAT HAD BLOSSOMED.

what other company, followed hard after, and in
an incredibly short time every vestige of country
life had departed. Men who had toiled until their
hairs were white, over a few acres, cut them up
into town lots and retired on small fortunes, and
thirty trains a day roared in and out to accommo-
date this sudden influx of city life. And all along
the river bank for miles out, were rows and rows
of tenement houses, built for the factory opera-
tives who had sprung up as if by magic at the
first sound of the word factory. Judge Burnham's
broad acres which had belonged to the Burnham
name for more than half a century, and yielded
respectable returns from cabbage and potatoes,
brought fabulous prices as ** city lots." Job Fer-
ris, hands in his pockets, mouth wide open in
amazement, stood before two men who were
clinching a bargain for a certain knoll, and finally
expressed his mind : —

"I'm blest if them two city chaps didn't pay
more cash down for that wuthless hill, which has
nothing but a few trees and grass on it, than I
could make out of the field of turnips lying back
of it if I was to raise two crops a year for the
next fifty years ! "

Of course with all this incoming Fashion came
also. Not a few from the fashionable world were
drawn in this direction in the first place from the
knowledge of the fact that Judge Burnham's
" country seat " was there, and " Ruth Erskine

PLANTS THAT HAD BLOSSOMED.

had been so charmed with it that she had gone
there immediately on her marriage, instead of
taking a house in town, as the Judge had sup-
posed she would wish to do."

The lady who used to be Ruth Erskine smiled
gravely when she heard this, and wondered what
her aristocratic acquaintances would have said could
they have seen Judge Burnham's " country seat "
as it looked when she first came to it. This train
of thought always reminded her of his daughters;
and then she would go over again their little past
since she had known them, with a feeling almost
of bev/ilderment. When was it that these girls,
whose beauty she almost felt as though she had
created, stepped quietly, even gracefully, yet with
an air of assurance — which at times amounted to
insolence — beyond her into a life of which they
seemed to think she knew nothing. When was it
that they began to ignore her suggestions and
advice, and go where and when they would, and
wear what they would ? Often with graceful def-
erence to the father, but with an air of apparent
forgetfulness that she belonged to the same house-
hold. In the early months of her acquaintance
with them their deference to her had been almost
painful ; it had seemed to her such a pitiful thing
that young ladies should appear to have no minds
of their own, even in such small matters as how
they should dress for dinner in their own home.
She had looked forward to the time when they

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PLANTS THAT HAD RLC^SOMED.

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would be able to think and plan for themselves,
Now, in looking back, she could not remember
just when that time had come, but that it had
come, was undoubted. In the old days she had
been sometimes troubled, sometimes annoyed,
because it was always she who was consulted,
never the father ; on the few occasions when she
had sent them to him for decisions, they had been
so thoroughly frightened as to vex him almost be-
yond endurance ; and she had therefore abandoned
all efforts to force a natural condition of thinirs,
Now, as I said, this was strangely changed. Papa
was constantly applied to .for opinions regarding
matters about which he might naturally be sup-
posed to know very little ; but as the two bloomed
more and more into beauty and prominence in the
fashionable world — became leaders indeed in their :
circle — Judge Burnham's long slumbering pater-
nal pride was nourished with what might almost be|
called a hothouse growth ; he lavished every adorn-
ment on them which a fastidious taste could sug-i
gest and plenty of money could buy, and seemedj
to enjoy with daily increasing delight their def-l
erence to his judgment as to the color of a ribbon]
or the arrangement of a curl.

The re ult of their combined tastes was often al
picture. Certainly they had blossomed ! The!
lady who ivA surveyed with satisfaction the resultj
of her handiwork on that Sabbath morning when]
they appeared in the first budding of fashionablej

■

m selves,
member
: it had
she had
mnoyed,
)nsulted,
hen she
lad been
nost be-
an cloned
[ things,
]. Papa

PLANTS THAT HAD BLOSSOMED.

attire, looked with a feeling sometimes akin to
dismay on the full bloom of the plants she had
nurtured. The girls had opinions of their own to-
day, and were not timid in expressing them.

Neither were they like their step-mother in their
tastes. Ruth Erskine had not been a leader of
Fashion, simply because she would not be. Fash-
ion, even in the days before conscience seemed to
her to have anything to do with it, had not inter-
ested her. Nor had she been a blind follower of
prevailing styles. Because "they" wore a thing,
had never been a reason for her wearing it.
Neither did she lay aside a style which suited her
merely because it had ceased to be "the rage."
"I wear what I please," had been a sentence often
on the lips of the haughty girl when these ques-
tions were being discussed among her friends. "L
I am perfectly willing that others should wear it or
not, as they choose."

Later in life this independence, which in less
cultured hands might have been somewhat start
ling, toned down into a refinement that aimed to
bestow enough regard to prevailing customs not
to be a person of mark in any way in connection
with them, and yet to enjoy her individual tastes.

Her step-daughters, as I have said, were not like
her. They were quite willing to be marked in the
fashionable world. The very extreme of the pre-
vailing style was what they aimed to represent ;
and if they were the first to adopt "something

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PLANTS THAT HAD BLOSSOMED.

quite new and striking," the more were they
pleased.

To be described in a morning paper as having
worn the night before at Madame Somebody's
reception " the first American representation of a
recent Parisian style, which set off their remark-
able beauty in a striking manner," etc., would have
been a matter of intense disgust to Ruth Erskine ;
io the Burnham girls it was a pleasure.

Such being the case, you are prepared to under-
stand how constantly they differed even in matters
pertaining to costume. And, if you understand
human nature, you also know that it became natu-
ral enough for girls of the type which I think you
discover Judge Burnham's daughters to be, to say,
at first to themselves, then more openly: "Mamma
does not understand these things now ; she is not
in society. Besides, she was always queer; the
Tremaines say so."

Other changes had come to Ruth Burnham.
Her honored father, after struggling for three
years with what was to him poverty, in a way
which had filled his daughter's heart with exultant
pride, and after one year more of such marked
business success as to make many watchful busi-
ness men wonder whether, after all, his way had
been the best, and there v/as such a thing as
reward of honor, was suddenly called to that
" reward " toward which his heart had tended dur-
ing these later years. Very triumphant had been

PLANTS THAT HAD BLOSSOMED.

that home-going ; hushing the outburst of grief
even from the lips of his wife, and making Judge
Burnham repeat to his heart, unconsciously, the
old cry, " Let me die the death of the righteous."

But the desolation the father had left behind him
was very great. His daughter mourned for him
much more than she would have done in those
early months of her married life. With the pass-
ing years and the bewildering changes in her own
home, she had found herself drawn more and more
closely to him.

It was not strange, therefore, that on this even-
ing as she sat alone in the blue room, and let the
tears fall unheeded on her clasped hands, the out-
cry from her lonely heart should be wrung from
her with a low moan : " O, father, father ! if you
could only have taken me with you."

y ,-

ill

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LOGIC AND INTERROGATION POINTS.

CHAPTER III.

LOGIC AND INTERROGATION POINTS.

SUNDAY morning, and a blue sky and sun-
shine ; the rain of the night before quite
banished. So were the tears. Mrs. Burnham,
presiding at the nine-o'clock breakfast-table, looked
no paler than usual, and felt more thankful in her
heart than she had for a long time. The reason
being, that Erskine had coughed but twice during
the long night, though the east wind generally set
him into a perfect storm of coughing about micl-j
night, and she had lain awake until long after that
hour, watching for it. The boy was radiant, also,
this morning ; dressed for church, in a deep blue!
velvet kilt suit, with a white collar, and a knot of
white velvet ribbon at his throat. The young
ladies admitted, when alone, that " mamma showed
exquisite taste in dressing Erskine." The boy was
happy over much the same thought that rested
his mother's heart. He had slipped his plump
little hand lovingly into hers, on the way dovvn|
stairs, and questioned, " Did I cough, mamma } "

"Only two little coughs, my darling ; and those |
were less hoarse than during the day."

LOGIC AND INTERROGATION POINTS.

i reason

Then a gleeful little laugh rang out.

"Goody! I knew I shouldn't; I felt just as
sure ! "

" Why, darling ? "

" Because — that is a secret ; " and he reached
up on tiptoe and whispered in her ear : " I asked
Jesus not to let me cough last night, and worry
you, and he said he wouldn't ; and then, of course,
I knew he wouldn't."

And then the boy was kissed ; long, clinging
kisses, which had in them an element of pain.
Would he grow up to be a comfort, and an inspi-
ration to her, spiritually ? Was this lonely mother
to have help, some day ?

The young ladies were in elegant morning cos-
tumes, made in a style which Ruth particularly
disliked. Still, she admitted that they looked
well in them ; that is, as well as persons could
look in fashions so devoid of grace as she thought
these to be.

" Papa," said Miss Seraph, as she helped her-
self to another muffin, " suppose we go to town to
church to-day ? "

" To town ? What is the attraction there ? "

" Nothing very special ; only Patty Hamlin sings
at Si. Paul's this morning, for the first time this
season ; and I would rather like to hear her."

" I would rather like to see her," declared Miss
Minta, with a little laugh. " I am never so very
particular about hearing her ; but if reports are

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LOGIC AND INTERROGATION POINTS.

correct, her costume will be something remark-
able to-day; her cousm Harold says it is stun-

nmg.

Judge Burnham slightly frowned. " Does young
Hamlin frequently indulge in that style of language
when conversing with ladies, daughter ? "

" What style ? Stunning ? Why, dear me !
that is a very common word."

" So I think ; too common to be agreeable."

** O, papa dear ! Don't you go to being a —
what is the masculine for prude, I wonder .-* Seraph
and I will be undone if you desert us, and get to
be over-nice."

There was a strong emphasis on the pronoun
that referred to him. It marked, even in Judge
Burnham's mind, the thought that his daughter
wished to en>phasize the fact that she considered
her step-mother a prude. He felt that she ought
to be frowned on for such an insinuation ; but she
looked so pretty, and her eyes were full of such a
winning light, and her voice was so tender over
the words " Papa dear," that he merely laughed.
After all, she was young ; and Ruth was very dig-
nified — always had been; he admired it in her;
he would not have her otherwise ; but, of course,
she should be able to make allowances for girls ;
and they meant no disrespect ; those were not the
tones in which disrespect were offered. Never-
theless he smoothed his face into gravity again,
and said : " I confess I do not like slang, especially

I»

LOGIC AND INTEKROr.ATION POINTS.

when addressed to a lady. I would not allow a
youn^^ man to say much to me about 'stunning'
things if I were you."

" IJut about St. I^aul's, papa ; if we are to go,
y(ni must eat your beefsteak faster than that ; we
shall want to take the ten-o'clock train." This
from Seraph.

•'Why, I have no objection, since you young
ladies are both of the same mind." His eyes hap-
pened to look into Erskine's as he spoke, and he
noted the sudden, wistful flash in them ; the boy
was very fond of the cars, and of the city, and,
indeed, of going anywhere with his father.

"Do you want to go to town with us, monkey ? "

The child's beautiful face was very bright for a
moment, then became grave, and his eyes sought
his mother. She was looking steadily at her plate,
not even seeming to hear the conversation ; so,
with a little sigh, he answered : " Not to-day, papa,
thank you ; I will stay with mamma."

'* With mamma ? Well, how do you know but
mamma will come with us ? "

" Oh ! 1 know she won't ; mamma won't ride on
the cars to-day."

There was marked emphasis on the word "to-
day." A chorus of laughter greeted him, and the
little boy's sensitive face flushed. He looked
quickly at his mother to know whether what he
had said was a subject for laughter. But she had
not laughed. She gave him a rarely sweet smile,

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LOGIC AND INTERROGATION POINTS.

and said, " Judge Burnham, will you have another
cup of coffee ? " while Seraph was exclaiming,
"The idea ! " and Minta added : " You dear little
prig ! who have you heard say that ? "

" Not any more, thank you," said Judge Burn-
ham to his wife. Then : " My boy, what is there
wrong about going on the care to get to church ?
We can not walk there, you know."

The child looked puzzled, pained ; turned ques-
tioning eyes from father to mother, then back to
his father's face again. Ruth did not know how
to help him without openly showing discourtesy
to his father.

"I don't know, papa," the baby said at last. "I
mean I don't know why it is wrong ; but I know
mamma thinks so, and that makes it so."

The trio laughed again, and Judge Burnham
said, '' A loyal disciple certainly ; and as good a
logician as the majority of overwise people." Then
he looked at his watch. " Well, Mrs. Burnham,
according to this young champion against error,
you will not join the party for St. Paul's } I advise
you to do so ; I do not believe you are equal to
Mr Beckwith's prosing to-day. I confess I hail
any excuse for getting away."

" Thank you," said Ruth, and she tried to keep
her voice steady, " I do not care to go to St Paul's
to-day." Then she gave the signal for leaving the
table.

An hour later, dressed in deep black, she took

ilia

LOGIC AND INTERROGATION POINTS.

her little boy by the hand and went down the
wide-flagged street to the handsome new church
on the corner, that had taken the place of the
desolate wooden structure that she had found
when she first came. A pretty church it was,
outside and in ; from the handsome stained-glass
windows to the soft Brussels carpet on the floor,
there was nothing to offend an aesthetic taste or
lead worshipers to St. Paul's for relief. The
music, too, if not so artistic as that found in city
churches, was cultivated, and the sweet-toned organ
was well played. Rested and uplifted by the hymn
and prayer, Ruth listened eagerly for the text ;
she felt so in need of help this morning ! It
was suggestive : — ** This beginning of miiacles
did Jesus in Cana of Galilee, and manifested forth
his glory." This heart-burdened woman felt as
though almost a miracle was needed to take the
jarring elements of her life apart and set them into
harmony. No heavy burdens, so-called, but ten
thousand little things, or what in our parlance are
named little :hings, weighed down her heart, fet-
tered her lips, tilled her with a steadily increasing
unrest. If only He would "manifest Hi? glory"
by showing his power in her heart and in her
home, how blessed it would be !

But, alas for Ruth ! she listened in vain for that
which would help her troubled soul. The sermon
was a well-v.^orded, logical argument in proof of
the genuineness of miracles! Helpful, perhaps,

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LOGIC AND INTERROGATION PuiNTS.

for those who needed such proof, if there were
listci.ers of that character. She looked about her
curiously, wondering if any habitual attendants at
that church had doubts in regard to the Bible mira-
cles ! The only one who possibly was skeptical in
this direction, as in many others, was at this mo-
ment listening to the elaborate music in St. Paul's,
and Ruth decided that if he were by her side the
sermon would not have helped him, for the simple
reason that he had not enough interest in the
question to care to be helped. As for herself,
she had full and abiding faith in the fact that the
Christ of Galilee had lavished miracles many and
wonderful upon that favored people eighteen hun-
dred years ago ; wh?' she wanted was a miracle
for her to-day— -in her heart and life.

She went wearily out from the church, bowing
coldly to the people on either side, stopping not
to exchange other salutations with any ; she had
held herself almost entirely aloof from the new
world which had crowded 'a on them, and hardly
more than recoe-nized even old acquaintances who
had become her neighbors. The name given to
this, by many of her old friends, was pride ; for
the sudden rise of property all through that region
had made Judge Burnham, who had been one of
th^ rich men of the city before that time, almost
fabulously wealthy in the eyes of the community ;
and Ruth Erskine had always been "a proud girl,"
they said ; " what else could they expect of Mrs.

! M

LOGIC AND INTHKRUGATK^N POINTS.

fudge Ikirnham ? " Hut Ruth's secret; heart knew
[hat the knowledge of the fact that her choice of
friends would be so entirely opposed to Judge
lurnham's tastes and desires troubled her, and
ihe held back the issue by retiring behind her
liiourning robes.
Also she knew that this condition of things
lust soon be changed. Her very mourning was
re of the elements of courteous contention, if I
lay use such a phrase, between her husband and
crself. She had not wa ^^'"d to wrap herself in
lack for her fatiier. ...vb true that she felt

esolate enough to describe it to the world by the
eaviest crepe it could furnish her ; but, lingering
ver the death-bed scene, remembering the light-
up of her father's face as earth receded from
im and heaven appeared, remembering the smile
f unearthly radiance with which he tinally " en-
ercd in," it had not seemed fitting that she, a
hristian, lookinr, forward to the same entrance
ne (lay, should array herself in r '>oir and mourn
s those who had no bright sidr , r, I'-eir sorrow.
If it were wise or kind to make s'.irh distinc-
ons," she had said to her sister Susan, " I could
rish that society v^ould arrange that thos*" whose
lends have gonc> ,*rithout a gleam of light, into
n unknown future, should wear the crepe and
ombazine, and let us, who r^w the reflection

|f the glory, signalize it b' "^earing

rhite."

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LUtilC AM) INTERROGATION POINTS.

]^ut Judjjje.Biirnham was emphatically of another
mind, lie not only approved of the custom of
wearing mourning, but he believed that it was a
mark of disrespect to the dead not to do so ; and
for his wife to apj)car in any other than the deep-
est crepe for her father would, he argued, be trans-
lated by his acquaintances into a story that there
was some hardness between her father and her
husband in their business relations ; ^.nd in this
way she would actually, if she persii in her
strange ideas, bring disrespect upon the living
husband as well as the dead father.

So Ruth did not persist ; she let her mourning
be of the deepest, gloomiest sort ; and, truth to
tell, was glad to hide her swollen eyes and quiver-
ing lip's behind the heavy crepe veil.

But as the months passed it was made apparent
that no more emphatic had been Judge Burnham's
desire to have the mourning worn than it was to
have it laid aside at the earliest possible moment.
One year, he argued, was as long as they ever
wore mourning for a parent ; and poor Ruth, who
had always hated to do things for no better reason
than because "they" did them, found herself
shrinking from this change with a pertinacity
which sometimes half-frightened her. She could
have summoned her Christian faith to the ordeal
of facing the customs of society, and worn no
mourning at all ; that would have been a tribute
to the fact that her father had gone where they

LOGIC AND INTERROGATION POINTS.

did not mourn ; but to elect a certain clay and
hour in which to appear before the watching
world and say, by one's style of dress, " Now my
days of mourning are over ; my father has been
remembered long enough ; I am ready for the gay
world once more" — from this she shrank so per-
sistently, and dwelt on the disagreeable side of it
so much, that she was growing morbid over it.

This was the way matters stood on this Sabbath-
day, now nearly two years since her father had
exchanged worlds ; and Ruth, knowing that she
must, sooner or later, yield, still hugged her mourn-
in(( robes, and shielded herself with them from the
society which she despised.

Krskine aanced merrily by her side, glad that
I the restraints of the church service were over, and
[he could have his mamma quite to himself.

He and Ruth ate their luncheon alone ; the
I party from the city could hardly arrive before
the three-o'clock train, and would probably lunch
I in some fashionable down-town resort.

Despite the mother's earnest effort to put self in
Ithe background, and make the Sabbath a delight
to her little hoy, she but half succeeded. The
afternoon wore away somewhat heavily to the
restless child, and he broke into the midst of
[Ruth's Bible story with this irrelevant question, —

" Mamma, what makes it wicked to ride in the
[steam cars on Sunday }"

Ruth winced. She had no desire to enter into

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LOGIC AND INTERROGATION POINTS.

minute explanations with this wise-eyed child.
Still he must be answered.

"My darling, don't you remember mamma told
you how the poor men who have to make the cars
go, can not have any Sunday — any time to go to
church, and read the Bible, and learn about God
and heaven ? "

" I know, mamma ; but the cars go all the same,
and the men have to work, and so why can't we
ride on them } They wouldn't have to work any
harder because we went along."

The old questions, always confronting those
who try to step ever so gently on higher ground
than that occupied by the masses ; the specious
argument which is in the mouths of rumsellers
and wine-bibbers and grown-up Sabbath-breakers
all the world over. Surely not so astute a question,
after all, since this baby presents it evolved from
his own b^^y mind. Ruth could not help smil-
ing faintly as she answered : —

** That is true, my boy, but if we kept on taking
the Sunday rides because others did, and because
the train would go anyway, whether we went or
not, how many people do you suppose we would
by our actions set to thinking that perhaps it was
wrong ? And how^ long do you suppose it would
be before the thinking which we set in motion
would help to change the customs of Sunday
trains ? "

Deep questions, these, for a boy who had barely

LOGIC AND INTERROGATION POINTS.

\ a

reached the dignity of five years. But he had
grown up thus far at his mother's knee, and was
accustomed to the grave discussion of all sorts of
questions. The look in his eyes at that moment
showed that he comprehended, at least in a meas-
ure, Ruth's meaning. He changed the line of
argument : "Papa rides on them."

Ruth could hardly suppress a visible shiver.
Here was the sore spot in her life thrusting its
sharp point into her very soul, making it at times
seem almost impossible for her to be loyal to her
husband and true to her child. How was a wife
to answer such a sentence as that ?

"People think differently about these things,
Erskine. You know mamma told you we have to
think about them, and pray about them, and decide
what we shall do, not what somebody else shall do."

" Did papa pray about this and decide } "

" Won't mamm.a's little boy leave papa and
everybody else out of the question just now, except
his own little conscience, and tell me what he
thinks is right }'*

" Well, mamma, tell me this : when I get to be
a man, will I think as you do, or as papa does, do
you s'pose ?"

He will never understand perhaps, this innocent
boy, how his questions probed the mother's heart.
" God only knows," she could not help murmuring,
and arose quickly with a pretense of rearranging
the fire, but in reality to hide the starting tears.

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LOGIC AND INTERROGATION POINTS.

" I mean, mamma," he hastened to explain in a
half-apologetic tone, dimly aware that he had in
some way grieved his mother — "I only mean I
will be a man, you know ; and do gentlemen think
things are right that sometimes ladies think are

wrong

Erskine," Mrs. Burnham said, resuming her
seat and taking both the chubby hands into her
own, " tell me this : Did God write one Bible for
gentlemen and another for ladies ? "

" Why, no, mamma."

"Then let me find a verse in His Bible about
this, for us to read."

The place was found, and the slow, sweet voice
of the child repeated after his mother the earnest
words : " If thou turn away thy foot from the Sab-
bath, from doing thy pleasure on my holy day, and
call the Sabbath a delight, the holy of the Lord,
honorable, and shalt honor him., not doing thine own
ways, or finding thine own pleasure, nor speaking
thine own words, then shalt thou delight thyself
in the Lord, and I will cause thee to ride upon
the high places of the earth, and feed thee with
the heritage of Jacob thy father : for the mouth
of the Lord hath spoken it."

The reading closed with a long-drawn, thought-
ful sigh on the child's part, but the young logician
kept his deductions to himself, for at that moment
the party from the city heralded their return with
the sound of merry laughter.

UNWELCOME RESPONSiniLITIES.

CHAPTER IV.

UNWELCOME RESPONSIBILITIES.

MRS. BURNHAM was entertaining a caller
in her own room ; very few people were
allowed the privilege of coming up to that lovely
blue room which was the special refuge of the mis-
tress of the house. The daughters understood, as
by a sort of instinct, that they were not expected
to intrude here, and the Judge himself always
tapped lightly before entering ; only Erskine was
privileged to come when he would.

But the caller was a special one, even Mrs. Dr.
Dennis, and the two who posed before the world
as dignified matrons were when alone " Ruth " and
" Marion " still. They did not meet very often.
Marion, as the wife of a busy pastor, had, of course,
her many cares, and her almost overwhelming
social duties ; and Ruth had fallen out of the habit
of going even among these old friends very often.
But the old, warm friendship burned strongly, and
as often as they met they assured each other, with
equal earnestness and sincerity of purpose, that
the time between their calls should never be so

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long again. Still it always was, and there was
always, consequently, a great deal to say.

So it was, after Marion had been talking eagerly
for nearly an hour, that she suddenly broke off in
the midst of a sentence, with the words : ** But I
really have not time to tell you that ; it is a lonj;
story, and I have stayed now longer than I meant.
Ruth dear, I came to see you for a special purpose
to-day. I couldn't have come merely for pleasure,
because we are unusually busy with church work
this month ; but I knew I was so old and tried
a friend that I might venture to say a word to you
about that pretty daughter of yours : the younger
one, I think she is."

Ruth's face flushed a little ; the skeletons in her
home — if skeletons they really were — were never
brought out for other eyes to behold. Marion
Dennis saw the flush, and hastened her speech.

*• Of course I run the risk of meddling with
what is none of my business ; but Mr. Dennis said
you would forgive because of the motive, and be-
cause it was I myself. He has great faith in our
old friendship, you see. It is nothing very for-
midable ; only to ask you if you know, if Judge
Burnham knows, just what sort of person that
young Hamlin is with whom Minta rides and
walks occasionally ? Not quite that, either ; for
of course you don't know ; but my errand is simply
to put you on your guard in time."

It was very gently put ; Minta's walks and rides

UNWELCOME RESPONSIBILITIES.

with the younfij man in question were much more
than " occasional."

" I know nothing whatever about him," Ruth
hastened to say, "and I never heard Judj^e Hurn-
haii mention his name ; but I supposed, of course,
he knew the sort of person with whom he allowed
his daughter to associate."

" Well, perhaps not ; indeed, Mr. Dennis says
it is more than probable, engrossed in business as
he is, and looking upon his daughters as children
— all men do that, until they are old enough to be
grandmothers — he has probably not given the
matter a thought ; and, besides. Mi. Dennis says
business men really know comparatively little
about the men with whom they associate intimately.
It is so different with a minister, you know ; he is
the confidential friend of so many people, and
carries the burdens of others so continually, that
he learns to keep his eyes very wide open. More-
over, he came very near having a serious lesson
of his own, you remember ; and that has made
him more watchful over all young daughters, I
think."

" I remember your anxiety about Gracie. How
(lid you manage it, Marion } "

There was a wistful note in Mrs. Burnham's
voice, which did not escape her caller's watchful
ear ; it said, almost as plainly as words could have
done, " I thought I knew all about managing, but
these girls of mine are beyond my control, and I

UNWELCOME RESl'ONSIiilLITIKS.

don't in the least know how to set to wotk to right
anything which may be wrong."

"Oh! I didn't do much of the managing. I
couldn't, you know ; she would resent that, nat-
urally. I don't think we ought to expect from younj;
j)eople much that is against nature. Her father had
to do the talking ; I kept myself as far as possible
in the background, only helping with my wits, of
course, where I could. It wasn't a formidable
thing, though it looked so for a time. Gracie gave
me credit for having more to do with it than I
had ; that was natural, too ; but she recovered, and
I think she has not thanked me for anything more
earnestly than she has for * helping save ' her, as
she expressed it, though, as I tell you, I did very
little. She went to New York, you remember,
and our blessed little Flossy, with her sweet, wise
ways, came to the rescue. Then she met Ralph,
and t.iat helped immensely. * The expulsive power
of a new affection.' I often think of that sentence
in one of our old text books. It works magic with
the human heart, Ru.h."

** How is Gracie } " Mrs. Burnham asked, shading
her eyes with her hand, and trying to keep a long-
ing sense of envy from appearing in her voice ;
Mrs. Dennis had very happy relations with her
step-daughter. If Ruth's experience could only
have been like hers !

" Oh ! she is well ; and happy, and busy. Their
letters would fairly make you tired, Ruth, they

UNWKLCOMIi: RESrONSiniLITIES.

have so many schemes for their young men and
women ; and carry them out, too. It is no day-
dreaming;. Gracie, with her young Ralph, not yet
;i year old, to look after, and her housekeeping
duties besides, accomplishes more for the cause of
Christ in the world than dozens of young wives
do, all about her, who arc boarding, and have not
a care in life."

Mrs. Burnham sighed. Mow much she had
meant to accomplish for the cause of Christ in the
world ! How had it happened that, so young, and
with so much leisure, she had become stranded ?

" But about this young man, " said Mrs. Dennis,
stealing a glance at hf atch and looking .startled.
•' It seems he is very uicaipated ; drinks even to in-
toxication, and that quite frequently. Mr. Dennis
says he has means of knowing that he is carried
helpless to his room three nights out of a week."

•' Is it possible } " Ruth said, in disgust. She
had always shrunk from people who drank liquor
to excess, as belonging to a lower order of beings.

"Yes, it is true. Of course Mr. Dennis took
pains to verify his fears before he mentioned
them ; not that it is anything unusual in a society
man, but then " —

•* Isn't it unusual } You cannot mean that it
is common among young men of the higher
classes } "

" Oh ! you dear child, I am sorry to say it is.
The higher classes are the worse off, perhaps, if

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UNWELCOME RESPONSIBILITIES.

' worse '

to the

scourge

but you

there is any
know " —

Ruth interrupted her again, glancing around in-
stinctively to see if her child was within hearing,
as she said fiercely, almost under her breath : —

** Erskine shall never taste the stuff I "

" She looked around, " said Mrs. Dennis after-
ward, in detailing this conversation to her hus-
band, " with almost the eyes of a tigress suddenly
brought in contact with a danger which menaced
her babies."

" Then you will have to be on the alert, my
dear friend ; it is none too early to begin with your
Mine (Sj-on line, * for I do assure you I am appalled
at the waste of manhood whicli is going on in
secret. I could almost pray, if I had sons, that I
might bury them in their babyhood, lest I should
live to see them stagger home.

*• But perhai^s that is not the worst of this young
man's habits. He is a gambler, as well as a hard
drinker ; almost a professional one ; at least he
uses his skill to decoy others, it is said. But even
that is not what I rame to tell you this morning,
my dear Ruth."

She drew her chair closer, and her voice sank
lower while she to'.d rapidly with as few words as
'■)ossible, a storv of sin which made the matron's
face pale with righteous indignation.

** Now you know, " Mrs. Dennis said, gathering
her wraps about her, " why I dropped everything

UNWELCOME RESPONSIBILITIES.

this morning and came out to you. I knew, of
cours(;, that Judge Burnham must be quite igno-
rant of facts, and that he must be told. And now
I iiave barely time to make my train ; I expected
to have taken the one that went up an hour ago."

Left alone, Mrs. Burnham gave herself up to
painful musings. How should she plan so as to
save her husband's daughter from a possible experi-
ence of misery ? If the relations between herself
and that daughter had been what she had planned
they should be, the way would have been easy.
But now, when she had, in a way which she did not
understand, been put one side, been plainly shown
each day that her influence was less than nothing,
what was there she could do ?

•' Her father had to do the talking," Marion had
said, with a bright smile and a wifely pride in the
reference to her husband, and Ruth would not for
the world have hinted, to another, that this father
was noc in such hearty sympathy with her views
as to talk in accordance with them.

Not even Marion, intimate as they had been,
should ever know from words of hers that there
were any shadows in her married life. Yet all the
same she knew that Judge Burnham did not think
nor feel as s> , did about many things. Still, in
this thing, of course, there would of necessity be
agreement. The man was not a fit acquaintance
for a lady, and the probability was that her hu.s-
band would know how to put an end to the

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UNWELCOME RESPONSIBILITIES.

acquaintance ; she need not borrow trouble over
that. But she shrank from telling him. There
were so many things nowadays to jar his nerves
and spoil their home talks, it seemed a pity to add
yet another. Of course he would be terribly
angry. What father would not ? Perhaps he
would even blame her. Yet surely he could see
how little influence she had. Her musings were
broken in upon by the sound of a clear voice in
the hall below : —

" Kate, tell Miss Seraph if she inquires for me,
that I went to ride with Mr. Hamlin, and that I
will meet her at Chester's at three o'clock."

** Yes'm," returned Kate, and Mrs. Burnham
arose in haste and pulled the bell cord. Kate
appeared almost immediately in answer.

" Kate, has Miss Minta gone out.? '*

"No, ma'am, not yet; she's just going; the
gentleman is waiting in the parlor."

" Ask her to step here a moment, please, before
she goes."

Ten minutes passed, and then Minta's tap was
answered. She swept into the room — a beau-
tiful girl in her perfect-fitting dress of dark-blue
cloth, more plainly made than was usual to her,
and consequently more becoming. The glow cf
youth and health was on her cheek, and as her
bright eyes rested with a sort of astonished inquiry
on her mother, they said almost as plainly :\s words
could have done, "To what am I indebted for

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UNWELCOME RESPONSIBILITIES.

such unusual attention ? " It was true enough,
though Mrs. Burnham did not realize that she had
set, years ago, an excellent example for this indif-
ference on the part of her step-daughters, by being
herself cjuite indifferent in regard to their move-
ments, so long as they were well-dressed and well-
behaved.

"Minta," she began hurriedly, "I want to speak
with you a moment."

" So Kate told me. Please be as expeditious as
is convenient ; I have kept my escort waiting an
unreasonably long time now."

" Hut I do not know that what I have to say
can be told in a few minutes."

She was visibly embarrassed, and did not know
how to commence her appeal. Miss Minta ele-
vated her eyebrows.

" Indeed," she said, the tone being a trifle super-
cilious ; " then perhaps it would be as well to
reserve it for a more convenient hour, since I am
[already being waited for."

" But, Minta, it is about that I wish to speak ; I
jHiean about your escort; i': is Mr. Hamlin, is it
not ? I do not think, that is, I feel quite sure that
|your father would object to your riding with him."

A perfectly foolish way in which to present the
Isubject ; no one could realize this better than she
did herself. The flush on the young lady's face
|was brilliant, and her eyes flashed indignation.
I should like to understand you if I c^in," she

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said haughtily. " Pray, why should my father
suddenly object to my riding with a gentleman
with whom I have rode every other day for a
month or more ? And if he objects, pray why does
he not tell me so, inste?.d of " —

She paused suddenly, for Ruth was regarding
her now with a face calculated to subdue insolence
in speech at least. Her voice was less excited
than before, but colder.

" I beg your pardon ; I was unduly excited in
my anxiety, and made an unfortunate beginning ;
I mean I have recently heard that about Mr. Ham-
lin which leads me to think that your father, when
he hears of it, will have very serious objections to
your continuing his acquaintance, and in his ab-
sence I considered it my duty to warn you."

" And I am expected to be grateful, I suppose ?
Am I to be treated to a dish of this precious
gossip, whatever it is ? "

The girl was very angry ; there was clearly
some reason beside the silly pride of being inter-
fered with, which flushed her cheek, and made her
eyes flash like coals of fire. When Ruth thought
it over in more quiet moments she recognized this
fact; but now she, too, was angry. What right
had this impudent girl who had belonged only to
the backwoods until she brought her forward, to
characterize the conversation between Mrs. Dennis
and herself as gossip ? Still her voice was low
and controlled. There had been that trait about

UNWELCOME RESPONSIBILITIES.

Ruth Erskine, the girl : she had never allowed
herself to speak with raised voice or rapid enuncia-
tion, even when her anger reached a white-heat ;
she had not lost so much power of self-control.

" I have nothing to say beyond the fact that I
liave such information concerning the person in
question as should make a yo'mg lady g' .iteful
tor a warning, presented in time.," she said, look-
ing steadily at the angry girl. " What your father
may see fit to tell you, I cannot say; but I cer-
|tainly shall not trouble with details."

"You are very kind and very considerate ; I am

[sure I ought to go on my knees to thank you ;

meantime, if you have nothing further to offer, I

[suppose I may relieve the impatience of my friend

[who is waiting."

I can give you the words, but the tone in which
they were spoken, and the indescribable manner
thn accompanied them, you must imagine. It
.as the most decided rebellion again.st her inter-
ference which Ruth had ever received. Even at
[hnt moment she thoi^ght of Mrs. Dennis and her
laughter Grace. What would she have said or
lone under circumstances like these ? Would such
circumstances ever have arisen between them ?

Probably not ; I, a quiet outsider, answer for

|er ; because, in the second place, the two girls

fere essentially different ; but also because in the

kst place, Marion had gone to her daughter from

er knees ; gune with a loving, tender, sympathetic

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UNWELCOME KESPONSIBILITIES.

heart, and with infinite skill and patience had
touched the sore point between them.

Miss Minta's hand was on the door-knob when
her mother spoke again ; still in that low, sell-
restrained voice : —

"I have nothing further to say, but I trust we
understand each other ; the world looks upon nie|
as your proper guardian in company with your|
father, however unreasonable or silly that world j
may be ; and therefore in his absence I must ex-
ercise my judgment, and ask you to suspend I
further rides with the gentleman until you havej
your father's sanction ; I shall not, of course, in-
terfere further than that."

The hand was still on the door-knob, but itsl
owner turned and gave a look of mingled rage and|
amazement at her step-mother.

" Do you take me for a complete idiot .'* "

This was all she said, and as the question didl
not seem to require an answer, it received none.!
The door opened and closed with a very decidedl
bang, and in less than five minutes afterward,
Ruth, standing at the front window, saw the blue-
robed maidc jMrefuUy lifted into the handsomel
carnage that stood in waiting, and the costlvl
wrappings were tucked carefully about her by|
young Mr. Hamlin.

FOREWARNED AND "FOREARMED.

CHAPTER V.

"forewarned" and "FOREARMED."

WHEN Judge Burnham let himself into his
own hall that afternoon, it was not his wife
\,\\]o was waiting to meet him, but his daughter
^linta, attired faultlessly, with a studied regard
to his expressed tastes ; even her hair done in just
[he way he liked best, but with traces of tears on
ler beautiful face, and a sort of childlike quiver on
ler pretty chin which was inexpressibly bewitch-
ing: to him.

She reached up both arms, put them around
^is neck, and held up lovely, pouting lips for a
[iss, then suddenly drew back and burst into
iars.

"What in the world does all this mean ? " Judge
iurnham asked, dropping into one of the large
isy-chairs that abounded in the wide hall, and
[rawing his daughter to his side, where she nestled
|er head in his beard and cried gently and becom-
ij;ly " I didn't know such bright eyes as yours
jver had time for showers. Who has been bruising
fy gay little blossom } " and he drew her face
my Irom its hiding-place, and kissed her tenderly.

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FOREWARNED AND " FOREARMED.

" I beg your pardon, papa, I did not mean to
cry ; I know you don't like tears, but I have been
so hurt to-day I could not help it."

" What is it, little sensitive plant ? How did
you manage to have such troublesome feelings, to
be hurt if the east wind blows on them ? " And
for a moment the father went back curiously to
the years that seemed almost centuries away, so
great had been the changes they had wrought ; the
years when these girls of his had been overgrown,
ill-shapen, country frights ; and he reflected com-
placently that their appearance then was evidently
only an embryo condition, and that the real Burn-
ham blood "told" at last. "In childhood they
were like their mother," he told himself compla-
cently ; " but, as they develop, they prove them-
selves to be true Burnhams."

" Papa," the rosy lips close to his, and the voice |
quivering a little, " I don't like to be talked about.

"To be talked about } Of course not ; but 1 1
am afraid it is something that you will have to
endure, my little lady. Such a pretty face as I
yours must of necessity attract attention."

" Ah ! but, papa, I don't mean that." He laughedl
at the sudden sparkle in her eyes, but he did not|
understand how much a part of her life it had be-
come to be admired and flattered ; nor, under-l
standing it, was he well enough versed in the
human heart to realize what an element of danger]
it was.

FOREWARNED " AND " FOREARMED."

" I mean, papa, being gossiped about ill-naturedly,
and blamed for little merry things which have no
harm in them. You can't think how dreadful it is
to a girl to feel that she is been talked over in that
way by people who dislike her."

Judge Burnham's face gloomed instantly.

" Of what are you speaking, my daughter ^
What persons choose to demean themselves by
gossiping about you ^ I should suppose your
father's name was sufficient to protect you."

" In society, of course, papa, I am not afraid of what
jcan be said, because there is nothing to say ; but
[don't you know how two women can get together
and pick a girl to pieces if they choose ? That
Mrs. Dennis has been here all the morning closeted
with mamma, and I can just imagine how she
opened her great big eyes, and wrinkled her fore-
head, and shook her head, and looked owlish and
hateful. She was an old maid, papa, before Dr.
Dennis married her. and she hasn't any sympathy
pith girls, and never had. The Armitages say
[she made the life of Dr. Dennis* daughter per-
fectly miserable, and they were really thankful
when she married. And now she must come pok'
ing herself into my affairs. Do you think I need
stand anything of that kind, papa } "

" Of course not. Mrs. Dennis has nothing
^vhatever to do with our affairs, and her sense of

)ropriety should teach her better than to interfere,
iven if there were anything for her to try to

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FORKWARNKI) AND " FORKARMKI)

mana<;c.

Nothing could be haughtier than JucIljc
Burniiam's tones ; his daughter had touched him
at a sensitive point. lie had always, in a silent
way, resented Mrs. Dennis' influence over his
wife, and had felt, more than once, that he owed
some of the discomforts of his life to the unreason-
able degree of deference which Ruth had for tiie
opinions of both Dr. and Mrs, Dennis ; he was in
no mood to bear patiently with any word from
them.

Nevertheless, he tried to speak reasonably to
his pretty daughter.

"But, my dear little girl, why should you sup-
pose that the ladies spent their time in discussing
you ? Certainly there could be no object in their
doing so. Isn't that a little bit of imagining on
your part ? "

** Oh ! no, indeed ; I have only too good reason |
to believe that I was the subject of their talk,
Mrs. Dennis was no sooner out of the house than I
mamma sent for me, and read me such a lecture as]
I never received before ; and it was so unlike her,
that I knew the source from which it came, even]
before she mentioned her caller's name."

Judge Burnham drew himself to an upright post-
ure, and the frown on his face would have fright-
ened Erskine.

** I do not understand, Minta ; your mamma lect-
ured you ! What was the subject } And she told I
you that she had been advised to such a course ot

FOREWARNED AND " FOREARMED.

action by her friend Mrs. Dennis ! That is hardly
possible ; Mrs. Burnham is a lady ! "

" Not exactly that, papa, but Mrs. Dennis had
been telling her some tiresome story about Mr.
Hamlin ; I am sure I don't know what ; and
mamma said something about it being very im-
proper in you to allow me to ride with him, and said
I should not. And he was waiting for me at that
moment to ride. I told her that as you had never
objected to my going out with him, of course I had
no excuse to offer this morning ; so I went as
usual ; but all the afternoon she has been cold and
clisa.i;reeable ; I know she will tell you a long story
about me ; and I cannot bear to have you think
naughty things of me, papa ; and, O dear ! I am so
miserable. If mamma didn't dislike Seraph and
me so much ! "

It was put into words at last, this tacit disa-
greement between the mistress and the daughters,
wbich had been growing up so long and which
Judge Burnham had dimly felt, rather than real-
ized. He was man enough to wince under it ; he
did not like to hear his wife referred to in that
manner.

" You should not speak in that way of your
mamma, Minta ; she is my wife, remember, and it
is foolish to say that she dislikes you and Seraph ;
there could be no possible reason for such a
feelinf-;."

The beauty sat erect now, and looked full into

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•* FOREWARNED " AND *' FOREARMED."

her father's face with those witching eyes. She
must make the most of this opportunity, for on
her skillful handling of the subject might hang
much of her future happiness, as she, poor silly
girl, viewed happiness.

" Papa, you don't know ; you are very wise and
learned, and Seraph and I are just as proud of
you as we can be ; but there are some things you
don't understand so well as we two girls. Don't
you know mamma is jealous of us ? She wants
you all to herself; she cannot bear to share you
with two young ladies ; it was well enough when
we were children, and she could send us away
when she didn't want us in the room ; but in these
late years it is different; and she — she doesn't
mean to dislike us, perhaps, but she almost can't
help it ; especially when she is influenced in that
waj^ by her friend Mrs. Dennis ; and don't you see
what a temptation it is to find fault with us about
every little thing — our taste and our company
and everything.^ Why, she even sets Erskine
against us ! He told us yesterday that he could
not stay up in our room because mamma would
not like it."

She had stated the truth, this truthful young
lady, but she had omitted to add what Erskine
had, that mamma would not like it, because the
clock was striking the hour when he took his daily
lesson in her room.

Judge Erskine sat appalled before these revela-

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"forewarned" and "forearmed." 57

tions. Was his daughter right ? Was this the
explanation of his wife's coldness and dignity, and
persistent thwarting of his plans and tastes? Was
she even trying to turn the heart of his little son
away from him ?

Minta, watching his face, eager over his possible
thoughts, suddenly put her lovely golden head on
his shoulder in a caressing way, and let her white
and shapely fingers toy with the beard that was
now plentifully streaked with gray, and said in a
sweet and plaintive tone, —

" Isn't it hard, papa, when you are our very own
father and we have only you ? "

Had they had even him before this mother,
whose place the young lady was now trying to
undermine, came into his home ? Was it possible
that neither of them thought of the years of abso-
lute neglect which that father had given them,
until the new wife roused him, rather forced him,
to his duty ?

I really do not think that Judge Burnham
thought of it; men are very queer — some men;
he had let that unpleasant memory drop out of his
life as much as possible. These were his daugh-
ters now, admired, sought after ; even the famous
criminal lawyer congratulated him occasionally on
their exceeding beauty and grace ; why should he'
go back into that awkward past ? As for Minta,
she remembered it well ; she was one of those who
do not easily forget ; on occasion she could have

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FOREWARNED AND " FOREARMED.

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confronted her father with a story which would
have made his face burn with shame ; but she had,
just now, a point to carry ; something must be
done to forestall her step-mother's story, whatever
it was, and leave her free to follow what she
thought was happiness. It was not all pride, the
motive which pressed her forward ; there was an
underlying influence that came from a meaner
nature than b^rs, and which held possession of
her heart.

They were interrupted; Erskine danced through
the hall, sprang toward his father for the caress
which he always claimed, and then delivered his
message.

" Papa, mamma would like to see you in her
loom before dinner, if you please, and if you have
time."

It was a most inopportune moment for Ruth's
summons. The meaning look — half appeal, half
terror — which Minta gave him, did not escape
the Judge's notice. He looked stern enough to
have charged a jury in a case of high crime, but
his manner was kindness itself to Minta.

" I must go," he said, rising, and putting her from
him gently ; " Erskine, tell your mamma I will be
there in a moment ; " and as the child sped away,
he added: "And, Minta, my daughter, I hope to
hear no more of this nonsense, born of over-sensitive
nerves; it is quite natural for you to have them
The Burnhams, unfortunately, are a sensitive race.

FOREWARNED AND " FOREARMED

»f

But your mamma has not the disposition which
you imagine. From the very first of my intimate
acquaintance with ner, she took the deepest inter-
est in you two girls."

His daughter sighed, and looked steadily at him
with those appealing eyes.

*' As for this gossip, whatever it is," he made
haste to say, "of course we desire and will toler-
ate no interference from Mrs. Dennis or from any
outsider. You may rest assured that no other
commands than mine need trouble your con-
science very much."

So saying he ran up-stairs to the blue room.
Ruth was waiting for him with a feverish nervous-
ness, which was of itself calculated to make her
words ill-chosen. She felt the importance of
speaking at oncCj for from her standpoint this
was serious business ; and yet she shrank from it
with a degree of timidity which humiliated her.
Judge Burnham came toward her with his accus-
tomed greeting and spoke carelessly : —

" Erskine said you wanted to see me here.
What can I do for your comfort.?"

"Nothing for me, thank you ; I wanted to speak
to you about Minta. I have heard that to-day
which I am afraid will give you great anxiety.
Judge Burnham, do you know this young Hamlin
with whom she rides and walks ? "

" O, yes ! I know him as the grandson of one
of the most famous lawyers we ever had in the

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FOREWARNED AND " FOREARMED.

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State. Why do you ask ? Has he been so un-
fortunate as to come under the ban of your
displeasure .-*"

He spoke in a bantering tone, with an evident
intention of turning her warning, whatever it was,
into ridicule. It did not serve to quiet her nerves.

" I was aware that you knew his grandfather, "
she said, with heightened color. *' It was about
the young man himself that I was inquiring. I
have not the honor of his acquaintance, so my
personal feelings are not at stake. What I want
is simply to inquire whether you are sure he is the
sort of person you desire as an associate for your
daughter.-^ "

" As to that, I am not so foolish as to suppose
that my daughter is going to gauge all her friend-
ships to suit my individual tastes. The young
man is well enough, I presume."

"Then I am afraid you are mistaken. Really,
Judge Burnham, I wish you would give me your
attention a few minutes. I have that to tell you
which is certainly not pleasant for me to repeat,
but which I think you ought to hear."

For by this time the Judge had passed on into
his dressing-room, and was giving attention to his
toilet.

"I can hear you, " he called, with his face partly
submerged in water ; " proceed with your testi-
mony."

It was not a comfortable way in which to talk ;

" FOREWARNED " AND " FOREARMED.

it did not lessen his wife's discomfort. She made
her words as few and emphatic as possible. By
the time she had finished, he emerged again from
his dressing-room.

"Where did you hear this precious tale .^ " he
questioned, employed, meanwhile, in polishing his
shapely finger-nails.

Ruth felt annoyed, because wit'i her reply came
a deep flush that mounted even to her forehead.
She knew by a sort of instinct that he did not like
her informant.

" Mrs. Dennis came to see me this morning for
the express purpose of warning us of danger," she
replied.
" Very kind, certairdy."

There was that in the tone which was extremely
irritating to excited nerves. The utmost his wife
could do was to hold herself in silence until he
should choose to speak again,

" Your friend Mrs. Dennis must be kept exceed-
ingly busy if she takes the affairs of all the young
people of other parishes on her hands, as well as
attending to her own. Isn't she aware that we
are out of the pale of her ministrations } "

"Judge Burnham, I did not suppose this sub-
ject would impress you as being simply food for
ridicule. Mrs. Dennis s sole motive was the desire
to do as she would be done by."

" I would not question a lady's motives, but her
sources of information may often be at fault.

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FOREWARNED

AND '* FOREARMED.

There is a great deal of gossip afloat in this wicked
world, that true ladies would do well to avoid. I
am sorry Mrs. Dennis thought it necessary to pour
any of this into my wife's ears."

** I hardly know how to answer you."

Ruth's voice was dropping into a still lower
key, and she was struggling hard to maintain her
seif-control.

"You receive this warning in such a different
spirit from what I supposed you would ! Is it
possible that you do not understand Dr. and Mrs.
Dennis well enough to know that they would be
sure of their facts before they came to me with
them ? Do you forget that Dr. Dennis is a cler-
gyman, and that his profession gives him oppor-
tunities ojf knowing what may be unknown to
others ? "

Judge Burnham shrugged his handsome shoul-
ders in a very exasperating way.

" I knew, " he said, *■ that clergymen were rather
given, as a class, to prying into other people's
affairs ; but I was not aware that they managed a
moral sewerage, through which all the scum of the
city had to pass. Upon my word, I should want
to introduce patent 'traps' into my house to keep
out the odor."

And now I am sure you will almost forgive Mrs.
Burnham for being exceedingly angry. Up to
this moment she had occupied her favorite seat in
the room — a low rocker by the south window —

FOREWARN lil)

AM)

FOREARMKD.

but she now arose, and, moving a step or two for-
ward, confronted her husband with steady gaze as
she spoke, ''Judge Burnham, I beg you to remem-
ber that you are spej^king to your wife about the
honored pastor of her dead father ; and that she
will not tolerate such language concerning him
even from you."

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DRiFTING.

CHAPTER VI.

DRIFTING.

A MORE obtuse man than Judge Burnham
was, could have easily seen that he had
gone too far. He did plainly see it ; he had no
intention of hurting his wife's feelings, but his
haughty pride had risen against the thought that
Dr. and Mrs. Dennis had been discussing his
family affairs, and had even drawn his wife into
the discussion. This, coupled with his talk with
Minta, had made him unreasonably angry. He
chose, however, to pass it all off lightly.

He came toward his wife, speaking as nearly as
possible in his natural tone : " My dear xvuth,
don't go into heroics ; sit down and be comfort-
able. I beg your pardon if I hurt your feelings ;
I had no intention of doing so ; it was your own
remark which suggested my unfortunate illustra-
tion. Now, let us understand each other. As to
the share which your friend Mrs. Dennis had in
this matter, I am grateful for her intentions, but
not for the fact. She should not have burdened
you with anything of the kind. If her husband,

DRIFTING.

as a gentleman, has any information which he
thinks I ought to receive, let him communicate
with me, not send his wife to gossip with you ;
pardon the word, my dear, I mean no offense. In
point of fact, I attach exceedingly slight impor-
tance to the information. Young Hamlin is not
absolutely perfect, I suppose ; lew men are ; but
he belongs to an excellent family and cannot
have gotten very far astray without my know-
ing it. The truth is, that clergymen live very
secluded lives — up in the clouds, most of the-
time ; or, if you like the idea better, above the
clouds, in air so pure that they cannot understand
matters which are of the earth, earthy, and are
very poor judges of what is going on. They are
continually given to making mole-hills into mount-
ains. Their ideas of business are simply absurd ;
might do for the angels, but not for mortals. Now,
I hope I have given your friend a sufficiently exalted
character, and also shown you the folly of depend-
ing too much on his opinions."

Ruth had suffered herself to be replaced in her
chair, and had so far overcome her excitement
that she could answer this half-bantering, half-
serious statement with quiet voice and manner.

" I did not present opinions to you. Judge
Burnham, but facts which can easily be proven ;
for I gave you names and dates. I was so far
impressed with the importance of them, that I did
what I could to hold your daughter away from

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DRIFTING.

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association with the villain, at least until you
should know the facts, even to giving what was
equivalent to a command ; but it proved of no
avail."

" I am sorry to hear that." Judge Burnham's
manner was grave now. " Minta should not have
disregarded your expressed wishes. As to com-
mands, we must both remember that the girls are
too old to be treated as children ; being legally of
age, they of course have a right to choose their
society ; but I trust they are too entirely ladies to
often disregard your courteously expressed wishes.
Perhaps we must, in this case, make allowance for
undue excitement under great provocation. If I
am correctly impressed as to family affairs, you
do not often notice what callers the young ladies
have, and as, in my absence, they are shut up to
the necessity of receiving their friends and paying
their visits quite alone, perhaps it is not strange
that they should sometimes make unfortunate se-
lections, nor, indeed, that they should wince under
sudden commands."

" Judge Burnham, am I to understand that you
disapprove of having your daughters receive calls
and pay visits without me ? Are you not aware
that they decidedly prefer my absence ; that, in-
deed, they would resent any attempts of this kind
as an infringement on their liberties } "

Judge Burnham changed the graceful position
which he had assumed, before her, with one arm

DRIFTING.

.67

resting on the mantel, and his handsome eyes
fixed on her. He ran his fingers through his hair
in a weary way, walked to the window and looked
out a moment, then turned back and spoke as one
bored to death.

" My dear wife, it is worse than useless for you
and me to talk all these things over ; I have no
disposition to be a household tyrant toward either
my wife or my daughters. I would have them all
enjoy themselves in their own way, if they can.
That you have chosen a peculiar way, in holding
yourself almost entirely aloof from the society
which naturally seeks us, is, of course, far from
agreeable to me, nor can I fail to see that it does
not contribute materially to your happiness.

" That the girls have become accustomed to
recei- Mg their friends, and visiting them, without
you, is certainly not strange ; what else would you
have them do ? Having perforce educated them
to this course it would be unreasonable to expect
them to look for, or desire, any other way. You
surely know that you have sought your own inter-
ests, and left them to seek theirs until naturally
enough they have done so : and, after all, Ruth,
— it is just as well that we should remember it —
you really are not their mother, you know.

" However, as to society, there is no occasion
for grievance on that score ; I am still in a condi-
tion to be glad of having your company ; whenever
you shall choose to come out of your recluse state,

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DRIFTING.

I promise you society enoup^h, and of a perfectly
unobjectionable stamp. And now, cannot \vc
dismiss all disagreeable subjects and go down to
dinner.-* I think it must be at least ten minutes
since the bell rang."

So this was the end of her honest and painful
effort to serve her husband's daughter !

"After all, you are not their mother, you know."
Yes, she knew it only too well. Did she not
know by the loving, clinging kisses of her own boy
what it was to be really a mother ? Yet what had
she not done for those girls ? Had they known
any other mother than herself ? There was cer-
tainly in their hearts no idol enthroned into whose
place she had rudely come. Minta, at least, did not
remember her mother at all ; and Seraph, but as a
dim and flitting shadow. Why could not these
girls have given to her the loyalty and attention
which a mother has a right to expect at the hands
of grown-up daughters ? Alas for Ruth, that she
did not realize, even yet, how surely some of the
fault was her own ! She had taken hold of duty,
it is true, with stern hands, and ordered their out-
ward lives in a fashion that she had supposed
would mean fairyland to them ; but she had been
content with this. Into their hearts as a central
force moved under the impulse of love, she had
never tried to come. She had not planned to have
the sweets of fairyland intoxicate them until their
brains were too dizzy to look beyond the new,

DRIFTING.

dazzling outward life ; but, left amid its glories to
revel for themselves, what wonder that just this
thiiiL;" happened ? I want to emphasize the thought
just here, that the grave mistake in this step-
mother's life, even now, was in not recognizing
and accepting the fact that part of the fault for
this condition of things was her own. She did not
rec()L;nize it ; it seemed to her that she had done
her duty — full measure, pressed down, and, indeed,
sonietiiues running over — by these girls. Had she
nf)t .i;iven up the joy of that first year of married
lifi ilone with one's husband, for their sakes ?
Had she not pressed their claims firmly and tri-
umphantly, even against his will ? And how had
thev rewarded her for it ?

She could have wept bitter tears, but she did
not ; instead, she went down with her husband to
the waiting dinner, and took her place at the head
of the table, and listened as usual to the chatter of
a hundred gay nothings. Apparently, Minta had
recovered her spirits ; she said not a word to her
step-mother, unless her flashing eyes spoke for her ;
their language was : " You and I have measured
weapons, and, if I mistake not, mine are the keen-
est. There is no use for you to try to poison my
father against me ; I secured the first hearing."
To her father she was all smiles and winning
ways, with a pretty little undertone air of grati-
tude which sat most gracefully upon her.

However, to do Judge Burnham's good sense

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DRIFTING.

strict justice, he was by no means so much at ease
about the young man who had created this breeze
as he cliose to liave liis wife think. Not that he
credited a third of the story that had come to
him. He had much faith in the statements which
he had made, that clergymen knew little or nothing
about the doings of this world ; and he should
quite expect that what was considered fair enough
in the business world, might look black to Dr.
Dennis. Knowing nothing, practically, of the lives
of ministers of the gospel, being unaware to what
extent they are trusted by all sorts of people with
inner histories, how, indeed, the faithful pastor be-
comes, in time, almost a receptacle for all that is
sorrowful or terrible in the circle of his influence,
and by this very process grows keen-sighted, he
actually believed that, of all persons, a clergyman
was the one most likely to be imposed upon.
Still, this young man must be looked after ; he
admitted to himself that it was true enough that
he knew a great deal about his grandfather, and
very little about him. He must make some in-
quiries speedily.

Pending these, he detained Minta in the library
as the others were passing out.

" See here, daughter, about this young Hamlin ;
there is nothing of any importance between you
and him, I hope ? "

" Why, papa, how should there be ? I have only
known him a little over two months."

DKII 'nNG.

" True ; and that is not time enough in which to
develop a special interest, eh ? " and he smiled on
her pleasantly. " I think you cannot be very seri-
ously inclined, and I should not want you to be,
you know, with a stranger."

" Of course not, papa ; nor without telling you
about it either. The girls in our set are very fond
of riding with him because he drives such magnifi-
cent horses, and he seems to be fond of inviting
me, and of course I like it ever so much, because
it is such fun to have all the girls envy me."

" That is the whole story, is it ? Very well ; I
do not find it alarming. But, see here, daughter,
you must make all due allowance for your mamma.
It is genuine regard for your interests that actu-
ates her — nothing else ; she was brought up by a
father who had exceedingly strict — not to say
narrow — views about some things, and of course
his opinions color all her feelings ; as a true lady,
you must respect her views, and even her preju-
dices, as much as you can."

The beautiful lips pouted a little, a very little, not
unbecomingly, and made answer, " Very well, papa,
I'll try ; but I should think she might trust me to
you." The last pronoun pronounced very lovingly.

The father, fed by pride which was the chief
source of his inner strength, smiled on her again,
and dismissed the subject with the mental deter-
mination to look carefully, nevertheless, into this
yoimg man's history without further delay. But

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DRIFTING.

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he did not ; the next v.as an unusually busy day
with him in his office, and at the home dinner-
table Seraph announced in the course of conver-
sation, that the Hamlins were to leave that evening;
for a six weeks' trip to California. The girls had
coaxed their cousin into taking them ; and beside,
his uncle wanted him to go on some business, they
believed ; but he did not like the idea ; he said the
whole thing was a " bore."

** And I agree with him," Minta said, with a
merry little laugh. *^ I'm ever so sorry to have
him go ; he is the only real good company there is
among the gentlemen ; he is so witty, and beside,
he is going to send his horses into the country
while he is gone."

Her father laughed, asked her if she was certain
which she was the more sorry about, the absence
of the gentleman or of his horses ; and then he
told himself that for his part he was glad young
Hamlin was going ; it would give him time to look
up that story more quietly, and see if it had any
foundation ; it was just as well to be careful about
these things, though in six weeks, probably, his
pretty daughter would have transferred her inter-
est, which was evidently slight, to some other
young gentleman who cirove fast horses.

As for Mrs. Burnham, she felt indignant that
the name which had come to be associated in her
mind with disgrace, should be so freely on ;e lips
of father and daujihter.

DRIFTING.

And to show you how little progress she was
really making in her Christian life during these
days, I shall have to confess to you that she said,
as she w^nl: up the stairs that night, that she at
least had done her duty, and should not interfere
again ; no, not if she saw his daughter on the very
verge of ruin. She had made an earnest effort,
and failed. No one certainly could blame her now
ior holding utterly aloof from it all.

I do not think she meant all this. I think she
would have put out her hand promptly enough to
interfere if she had seen danger, and known which
way to move the hand. But that she could harbor
these thoughts, even when action was not required,
will show you (if you are one of those who desire
to be conformed to His image) how feeble the
flame was which burned in this poor heart.

It was Sunday afternoon again ; nearly two
weeks after the domestic ruffle which Mrs. Dennis's
visit had occasioned. Mrs. Burnham was in her
own room with Erskine — a thing which was be-
coming habitual with her on Sunday afternoons.
Indeed, tlie Sabbath had become a day of special
trial to this much-tried woman. Very gradually,
so that she had not realized it at first, a state of
things had crept into her own house which she
utterly disapproved, yet found herself powerless
to control. Attendance at church had not been a
very regular thing of late years, even on her own
part. Much of the time either the weather, or

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DRIFTING.

Erskine's state of health made it necessary, in his
mother's estimation, for him to remain at home ;
and she had made it a matter of principle to remain
with him, both in order that his childhood memo-
ries of the Sabbath might be sweetly associated
with her, and because she had no one in her employ
with whom she was willinr; to leave a child.

The young 1 idies were often so weary of a Sab-
bath — by reason of the late hours of the night
before — as to unfit them for church, even had there
been any desire on their part to attend. When
they had new suits, or when they could arrange
for a trip to the city, or when a stranger was to
preach in their church, they could be depended
upon for morning service. But circumstances
with them were as likely to prove unfavorable as
otherwise. And as the days passed, their rule
might almost be said to be to lounge through the
morning in wrappers and slippers, and go to the
city for a sacred concert at night, if that could be
satisfactorily managed.

Gradually a new programme crept into the after-
noon. At first it was a messenger from the choir
leader, petitioning for special assistance from
Seraph, whose voice was worthy of her name when
she chose to use it, but who by no means chose to
sing often in church. As for being trammeled by a
regular engagement there, her father agreed with
her, that such positions " would better be left for
those who had to earn their own living." Yet

DRIFTING.

when emergencies arose, she would graciously lend
her aid ; and the choir leader, a very aristocratic
young man, was, if the truth be told, quite fond of
creating emergencies, and of being his own messen-
giT to petition. The leading tenor was also very
willing to join in the plea, and when they were
successful, and there was a specially difficult num-
ber to render, what more natural than that they
should drop in during the afternoon and try their
voices together ? This being found necessary
several times, it was thereby discovered that it
would be agreeable to practice occasionally of a
Sunday afternoon, in order to be ready for future
contingencies : and from singing to chatting, the
transition was easy enough.

One afternoon the choii leader brought young
Sherman with him to he' r Miss Burnham render a
solo, and prove what the leader had said ; that her
voice ran clearer on the high notes than did the
celebrated Miss Hamlin's, though she was a pro-
fessional singer. And young Sherman enjoyed
the afternoon, and came again ; at first with a
flimsy excuse of some sort, and then boldly, with
no excuse at all. And he brought Mr. Snowden
with him on occasion, who, if not musically in-
clined, was "away from all his friends and dread-
fully bored with Sundays, and it was only a charity
to help him get through with the hours." Oh ! I
cannot explain how it all was. Mrs. Burnham
understood only this : if the young ladies had

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said, "We are goinj; to have a social gathering on
Sunday afternoons in our parlors, " Judge Burnham
would liave opened his eyes wide, and reminded
them that the customs of the locality in which they
lived were not in accordance with such gatherings,
and, on the whole, it would not be wise ; and it
could have been controlled. But no such thing had
been said, or even hinted. It had all come about
by the most natural processes. And yet the fact
was apparent, at least to the eyes of the lady of
the house, that their parlors on Sunday afternoons
had become lounging places, not only for young,
but middle-aged gentlemen, and occasionally ladies.
Thus much by way of explanation ; it is of one
particular Sunday afternoon that I wish to tell you.

THE UNEXJ'ECTED.

CHAPTER VII.

THE UxNEXPECTED.

TO judge from the sound, a much merrier time
than usual was being enjoyed in the par-
lors: snatches of music not suggestive of wor-
ship, mingled with gay laughter, floated up to
Mrs. Burnham over the broad staircase, servin":
to make Erskine restless and inattentive. He
stopped frequently in the midst of his Bible les-
son to ask : " Whose voice was that } What do you
suppose they laughed at then } Mamma, do you
think that they will sing that song in church to-
night .-* " and dozens of kindred questions. It was
painfully evident that the sounds of mirth below
stairs were more congenial to his ear than the
Bible story above.

Finally came a gentle tap on their closed door,
and the trim young girl whose duty it was to be
always in readiness to do ex rands for everybody,
entered softly : —

"Judge Burnham would like lo have Master
Erskine come down-stairs for a little while, if you
please."

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■11 -y

THE UNEXPECTED.

ii|.

The little boy gave a merry spring from the
hassock where he was kneeling, beside his mother,
but she put out a detaining hand.

" Do you know for what, Kate ? "

" No, ma'am ; he only said, ' Tell Master
Erskine to come to his papa in the back parlor.' "

" Mamma, I must go, mustn't I ? You said I
must always go when papa called."

There was a little quivering of the boy's chin ;
he was evidently much afraid that the promised
pleasure would be spoiled. Still his mother had
no answer for him.

" Who are in the parlors, Kate ? "

" Indeed, I don't know, ma'am ; Dr. Whately is
there, and Mr. Henderson, and I don't know who
else ; the music-room seemed to be quite full."

Mrs. Burnham repressed a little sigh which she
did not wish Kate to hear, and turned to the ap-
pealing eyes of her boy.

*' Certainly you will go, dear, when papa calls ;
but you will come back as soon as you can, will
you not } Remember mamma is all alone."

He gave his gay little promise, too impatient to
be gone to stand still while the tender fingers
brushed his curls, too much a baby to detect the
pathos in those words, "All alone."

Kate was not deaf to them, however ; she gave a
swift, searching look at her mistress, and reported
it in the cook's room that evening as her opinion
that there were " a good many goings-on in this

THE UNEXPECTED.

house that Mrs. Burnham did not like, and she
didn't believe she was altogether happy, with all
her grand ways." And if Mrs. Burnham, careful
as she believes herself to be, does not guard her
sij;hs and her tell-tale face more carefully in the
future, before she is aware, the kitchen of her own
home not only, but many another kitchen will
gossip about her household skeletons.

She set the door wide open after Erskine had
left her, feeling painfully the loneliness, made so
much more deep by the constant hum of conver-
sation which went on below, and putting steadily
back the inclination to bury her face in her hands
and cry, in order to strain her ears to hear, if pos-
sible, what was being said or done to entertain
Erskine. It was the first time her shielding care of
liim on the'Sabbath had been interfered with. She
had wondered sometimes over it, for his father was
very fond of him, and delighted to hear his steady
chatter whenever he had opportunity to "enter-
tain papa." Now the interruption had come in
the shape of a call to the parlor, to join in the
entertainment, or, at least, the amusement of Sun-
day guests. Ruth Erskine's father, long years
before he was a Christian, had frowned upon any
attempt to commonize the Sabbath day. He
might read his newspapers, or, if an intricate ques-
tion was before him, consult his great tomes of
l;i\v, but he did those things decorously, in the
4uii't of his own study, and had not been in the

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THE UNEXFECTKU.

SIR I

habit of inviting even his most intimate friends to
share his home on the Sabbath. Ruth had taken it
for granted, without giving the matter any thought,
that all gentlemen of culture were alike in this
respect, and her husband's utter indifference to
the recent innovations had been a revelation and
an added pain to her.

She saw very little, indeed, of Judge Burnham
on Sundays now, and this, too, had been so gradual
a process that she had not roused to it until it was
an accomplished fact.

Under one pretext and another he was con-
stantly excusing himself from accompanying her
to morning service, and his afternoons were gen-
erally spent in the library, where he indulged him-
self in stray fragments from the current books and
magazines, doing, he said, the only light reading
for which his busy life gave him time. Ruth, who
used to join him there, until she found that his
constant interruptions and outbursts of laughter
over Erskine's quaint remarks, made it impossible
for her to hold the child's attention to his Bible
lesson, had herself set the fashion of going with
the child to her room ; at first she intended it for
but a little while, but on her return to the library,
she so frequently of late found her husband absent
in the parlors, or walking about his grounds, that
she had dropped the custom of seeking him, and
remained all the afternoon in her room. He used
to lounge in, a little before dinner, and have a

more ar

THE UNEXPECTED.

frolic with Erskine, but for several Sundays he had
been engaged in the parlor, and then had gone to
town for an evening service, leaving his wife to
absolute solitude after Erskine was sleeping.

Occasionally Judge Burnhani pronounced him-
self to be too indolent for the city ; and then this
husband and wife, who grew farther apart every
(lay, got through a long evening as best they could.
Judj;e Burnhani, doing a little fragmentary reading
for himself, and a good deal of yawning and sleep-
ing, was generally the one to propose that they
retire early, as he had a hard week before him. A
good deal of this was genuine fatigue, for it was
true that, as he grew older, he absorbed himself
more and more in business, and Ruth heard it from
many outside sources that her husband had taken
very high rank in his profession.

She mourned much over these wasted hours, but
the time seemed to have gone by when she could do
other than mourn. She had offered once to read
aloud to him, and reminded him that he used to
like her reading, but he answered laughingly, yet
with that undertone of sarcasm which she now
heard so much, that that was before such a great
gulf fixed itself between their tastes ; that he be-
lieved each had grown incapable of comprehending
the other's literary tastes ; and she had felt too
wounded to press the question, so they had con-
tinued in their separate ways.

A second interruption came to her on this after-

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•vftvr-ix, J.

THE UNEXPFX'TED.

noon. Kate began, — " Dr. Whately's compli-
ments, and if it was agreeable, he would like to
see her down-stairs a few minutes."

Ruth's face flushed deeply. She was at a loss
to underjitand the meaning of this. Dr. Whately
was not an old friend ; he was a comparatively
new acquaintance, even of her husband. She had
met him by accident one evening in the library,
and had taken an instant dislike to his face and
manner. Since that time his calls had been made
almost entirely on Sabbaths. There could not be
a shadow of professional excuse for his message,
for although he was an M. D., Judge Burnham had
laughingly remarked but a few days ago that he
wore his title as an ornament rather than a badge
of usefulness, and had added that he did not believe
the man had sufficient energy ever to become a
success in his profession. So, although her hus-
band occasionally told Ruth that she grew paler
every day, and ought to consult a physician, cer-
tainly Dr. Whately would not be the chosen one.

Had the gentleman observed her habitual ab-
sence from the parlor on Sundays, and boldly
determined to oblige her to receive him } The
thought made the lady so indignant that she almost
sent an unexplained refusal. Still, he was her hus-
band's guest. What ought she to do ?

" Kate," she asked abruptly of the girl who was
watching her curiously, " is Judge Burnham in the
parlor ? "

THE UNEXPECTED.

" Yes'm ; it was he who sent the message."

" I thought you said it was Dr. WhateTy. Tell
mc exactly what was said, please."

" Why, Judge Burnham came to the door and
spoke to me, and said : 'Take Dr. "VVhately's com-
pliments to Mrs. Burnham, and say to her that he
would like to see her in the parlor.* That is every
word, ma'am."

" Then you may ask Judge Burnham if he will
be kind enough to come to my room for a moment,
I wish to speak with him."

He came immediately, and with an air of con-
cern. Was anything wrong ? Was she not feeling
well ? She waited for no preliminaries.

" Judge Burnham, will you tell me why Dr.
Whately wishes to see me at this time ? "

" Why, really, my dear, I am not sure that I can
supply a motive beyond the obvious one that it is
natural enough for a gentleman to ask to see the
lady of the house. Does it strike you as such an
unusual proceeding ? "

"Very unusual, indeed. Dr. Whately has been
here sufficiently often, I should suppose, to have
discovered that I do not receive calls on Sunday."

'* Upon my word, my dear Ruth, I do not be-
lieve it has ever dawned upon him ; he is not of
that development. I imagine it just occurred to
him that the polite thing to do would be to ask for
the privilege of paying his respects to Mrs. Burn-
ham, and he immediately did so."

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THE UNEXPECTED.

" Then could you not have done me the favor of
explaining that this is not the day on which I
receive guests ? "

Her manner may have been cold and haughty ;
indeed, on reflection, I am sure it was. She felt
very much hurt ; whether the guest had intended
it as an embarrassment or not, surely her husband
was sufficiently conversant with her views to have
shielded her had he chosen to do so. She remem-
bered the days in which, thinking very differently
from her, he would still have guarded her carefully
from any annoyance that he could. I don't think
he remembered them just then. He thought only
that his wife was making herself very disagreeable
abi ut a small matter. He had a way of lifting his
eyebrows, and smiling slightly behind his gray
mustache. It always irritated Ruth, that smile.
It seemed to say to her, " You have put yourself
in a very foolish position, and the only thing left
for you to do is to make your way out of it as
gracefully as possible." He gave her at this mo-
ment that peculiarly irritating look and smile.

" Indeed, Mrs. Burnham, that is expecting al-
most too much of me. I do not pretend to be
able to explain why my wife should consider it a
sin to come down to her own parlor for a moment
and say a courteous good-afternoon to a friend of
her husband's, with whom he has been conversing
for the last half-hour. The peculiar lens necessary
for discovering the heinousness of an action like

•^.

THE UNEXPECTED.

that, even when done on the Sabbath day, has
been by nature denied me, and I must not be ex-
pected to rise to the height of understanding it.
If you have ever so slight a headache, or are indis-
posed in any way, I will bear your regrets with
what grace I can, but to enter into the metaphysics
of the matter, without a direct message from you,
ought hardly to be expected of a sinner like
myself."

He expected her to turn from him in cold indig-
nation, and he proposed to laugh at her a little —
good-naturedly, of course — and then to descend
the stairs and say to his guest that Mrs. Burnham
was not feeling equal to seeing her friends that
afternoon, and begged that the gentleman would
kindly excuse her. He knew just how to do it,
politely, cordially, and was not troubled by any
conscience whatever in the matter. But his wife's
nerves were too sore. She turned from him, in-
deed, and her face burned. But there were other
feelings beside indignation, though enough of that
element was present, or she would not have done
what she did next.

" I beg your pardon," she said ; " I did not know
I was putting too heavy a strain on your courtesy
and kindness ; I will give my message in person."

She swept past him like a queen, and went
swiftly down the stairs. He followed her, still
smiling, the uppermost feeling in his mind being
one of curiosity as to what she would do. His

iiir'

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^■;b

THE UNEXPECTED.

wife was a lady. What could she do except to
receive her caller graciously, of course }

What she did, was to move with the manner of
a princess down the long parlor to the alcove
where Dr. Whately stood by the piano. She ac-
knowledged the presence of the younger guests
only by a dignified inclination of the head as she
went. Her voice was never clearer nor colder than
when she said : —

•' Dr. Whately, my husband wishes me to say to
you in person that it is not my custom to receive
my friends on the Sabbath day. It is a matter
which is very well understood among all my per-
sonal friends. Should you care to call on mc
at any time during the week, it will be my pleas-
ure to meet you, but 1 am sure you will excuse
me to-day."

Judge Burnham was directly behind her, veiling
his astonishment and chagrin as a well-trained man
of the world can do. Ruth turned at once from
the amazed, not to say embarrassed. Dr. Whately
and addressed her husband : —

*• Judge Burnham, will you have the kindness to
excuse Erskine from the parlor } I would like to
take him with me to my room."

" Certainly, my dear, *' the gentleman said, his
voice perfectly quiet ; and he called Erskine in his
usual tone, kissed him graciously, and told him
mamma wanted him now, then attended his wife
quite to the door, and held it open for her to pass,

THE UNEXPECTED.

bowing as she did so, and he was never more
angry in his life.

Poor Mrs. Biirnham ! of all that embarrassed
company below stairs — and I will do them the
justice of saying that they were embarrassed — I
think none were so much to be pitied as the angry
and humiliated woman alone in her room, strug-
gling with her passion and her sense of shame, and
trying to appear as usual before the excited boy,
who was by no means ready to leave the parlors
and come back to the quiet of this upper world.
I " Why could I not have staid, mamma ? Papa
liked to have me there, and they all did, I think.
Seraph kissed me, and said it was nice to have a
little boy to put her arm around. And I was good ;
I didn't talk at all, only when somebody asked me
something. Mamma, I wish I could go back just
for a little while. It is lonesome up here, and I
wanted to hear them sing. Seraph was just going
to sing when you came in."

Poor mother ! If this baby could only have given
her kisses just then instead of coaxing to go away
from her, it would have helped. It was an after-
noon to remember. Poor Ruth was destined to
realize fully that one may shut the doors with
emphasis against tangible guests, and yet receive
a whole troop of miscreants into one's heart who
make havoc with holy time. As the storm of pas-
sion subsided, she had that hardest of all feelings
to contend with — self-reproach. Reason being

[1^ ITiDl*]

THE UNEXPECTED.

allowed once more to take her seat, accused this
Christian woman of having yielded, not to con-
science, but to rage. Possessed with this control-
ling influence she had offered to her husband's
guest what he would consider an insult ; she had
not only given him an utterly false idea of religion
and its power over the human heart, but she had
offended her husband, and justly. Perhaps this
was really the worst sting in Ruth's sore heart ;
that her husband would be justified in utterly con-
demning her action also. And herein lay the
real point of the sting, for at heart this woman
was loyal. She knew the unbelieving husband
would attribute the action to her religion, and per-
sist in doing so, when she realized only too well
that it was the outburst of a moment's ungovern-
able indignation.

SLIPPERY GROUND.

CHAPTER VIII.

SLIPPERY GROUND.

IN point of fact, that was just what Judge Burn-
ham did. The moment he had closed the
door after his wife, he went straight to Dr. Whately
and held out his hand with a winning smile, and
said, in tones distinct enough to be heard through-
out the room : " My friend, I hope you will allow
me to apologize for what must appear unaccount-
able treatment. The fact is, my dear fellow, when
religious fanaticism gets hold of a woman she is
really powerless before it, and I verily believe is
not accountable for her acts. I am the one to
blame ; since I understand how completely this
strange feeling sways my wife I should not have
delivered your message to-day. I beg you will
pardon her, and understand that no discourtesy
was intended ; it would have been the same if you
had been a foreign ambassador."

It was the best he could do for his wife's repu-
tation. He knew this, and he did it well ; and
Dr. Whately, being a gentleman in society, at least
accepted the apology with what grace he could
muster, and outward calm was restored.

I" a»;ii^

iiiii )p

r "

SLirPEKY GROUND.

But there were outgrowths from the storm, as
there always are when passion holds sway for ever
so short a time over the human heart. It had been
said publicly, as Ruth had feared it would be, that
religion must bear the blame for this unladylike
action, and people talked, as people will. Those
least acquainted said : " What a pity it was that
so fine a woman as Mrs. Burnham should be so
completely under the control of fanatical ideas ;
they should think Judge Burnham would almost
fear for her reason ! " Others of them, less chari-
table, said it was all very well for the Judge to
smooth over this little domestic hurricane, and he
did it gracefully, but they believed, if the truth
were told, that the poor fellow was used to them ;
and at any rate, if that was the style, when it came
their turn to marry, they hoped they might be
delivered from a religious termagant, for, in their
opinion, they were the worst kind.

The young ladies talked the matter over with
their father, and said ** Poor papa," and kissed
him ; and said they were " so sorry " for him, and
that he managed it all beautifully ; that they felt
at first as though they should sink through the
floor, or, at least, wished that they could, but he
was so gentle and so courteous, and they were so
proud of him that they really almost forgot to be
frightened and ashamed, because of their pride.
And he felt himself to be a martyr who had borne
himself very well indeed under persecution

gi>

SLIPPERY GROUND.

Still, all this did not serve to make his indigna-
tion against his wife one whit less fierce. Nor did
it serve to help her, when, with flushed cheeks and
eyes that were red with weeping, she turned to
him frankly the first moment that they were alone,
and said, " Judge Burnham, I owe you an apology
for this afternoon's experience ; I beg you will for-
give me ; I ought not to have done what I did."

Judge Burnham was engaged in removing his
dress coat, and putting himself into his dressing-
gown ; he had not seen his wife since the after-
noon. She had sent a message by Kate, to the
effect that she would like to be excused from din-
ner, as she had a severe headache ; and the Judge
had bowed, in reply, and had not gone at once to see
what he could do for the headache, as his courtesy
had always heretofore led him to do. Also, he
had gone with his daughters and some of their
friends to the city for the evening, merely going
through the form of sending Kate to ask if there
was anything he could do for Mrs. Burnham's com-
fort before departing. So now, although it was
nearly eleven o'clock, Ruth was waiting up for
him, and had met him with the sentence I have
given you. He waited to adjust the collar of the
handsome dressing-gown to his mind before he
answered, speaking slowly, coldly, " I should think
there could not be two opinions about that."

" No," said Ruth, controlling an almost irresist-
ible impulse to burst into tears ; " I should not

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SLIPPERY GROUND.

expect any one to think it right, and I am very
sorry that I annoyed you."

" As to that," said the Judge, putting his feet
into some bright slippers that were waiting for
them, "I must bear my own annoyances as best I
can ; but I regret that a friend of mine should be
rudely treated in my own house, at the hands of
my wife. It was not, of course, what could have
been possibly foreseen."

Wasn't it a graceful way of telling her that no
one could have foreseen that she would lay aside
her ladyhood and descend to rudeness ?

Silence for a few minutes, and then the gentle-
man made what he intended to be a gracious state,
ment However, I made what apologies I could
for you, and am glad indeed that the spell, what-
ever it was, is over, and you are returned to rea-
sonable ground once more."

Then was poor Ruth dismayed. Had her at-
tempt at undoing the mischief of the day been
construed into a concession of principle for the
future ? She must explain, at the risk of being
misunderstood.

"Judge Burnham, I am afraid I have not made
my meaning quite clear. I regret exceedingly the
manner of my explanation to-day, but not the ex-
planation. That is, it will be necessary for Dr.
Whately, or any other person who wishes to call
on me, to understand that I do not receive on the
Sabbath ; but I know that I could and should have

Ii(

SLIPPERY GROUND.

made it apparent in some other way, and in a dif-
ferent spirit."

" Mrs. Burnham, suppose we dismiss the •^.ubject,
and retire. We are not likely to agree, however
long we may discuss it, and for myself, I confess
that I am weary of the whole thing,"

And this was the outcome of her attempt at
reconciliation.

A polite gentleman's displeasure can be mani-
fested in unmistakable ways, even toward his wife.
The very extreme punctiliousness with which her
husband attended to the minutest detail of what-
ever pertained to her, marked his cold dignity.
There were none of the little carelessnesses
which are sometimes permitted, even enjoyed,
where there is perfect familiarity and perfect
confidence.

Still, as the days passed, the episode was not
without its fruits, which were apparently healthful.
The lady of the house struggled to show that she
confessed herself, in a sense, in the wrong, and
was willing to do all she could in the way of con-
cession. She came to the parlor now each evening
of her own will, not waiting to be summoned there
by callers who inquired for her. This was a com-
fort, even to the young ladies ; for there were
always among the guests those whom they con-
sidered it a bore to entertain ; and to have mamma
in the front parlor to do the honors, leaving them
free to saunter into the back parlor or the music

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'I.

SLIPMCRY GROUND.

room with favorite ones, was as it should be, in
their estimation.

Judge Hurnham viewed the change with satisfied
eyes, and was by no means unmindful when his
wife made her entrance, in a dark blue dress, in-
stead of the black which she had so long worn.
He complimented her on her appearance — took
a rose from the vase and pushed it through the
meshes of soft lace which she wore. During the
evening he watched her with satisfied eyes as she
entertained his friends ; and, not having any
marked interest in Dr. Whately, confessed to him-
self that he didn't know but he "owed the fellow
a vote of thanks, if this was to be the result of
his impudence." For in his secret heart Judge
Burnham thought that it was bordering on impu-
dence for a comparative stranger to send a special
request to his wife to receive him socially on Sun-
day afternoon out there in the country, where
Sunday calling was the exception, and not the
rule.

The next thing was a dinner party ; not a gen-
eral and massive affair, but a little gathering of
Judge Burnham's special friends, whom he de-
lighted to honor ; such a gathering as had not
been in the house since Ruth's father went away.
And Judge Burnham, watching his wife, who ex-
erted all her powers of entertainment, and over-
hearing one of the judges of the Supreme Court
pronounce her " an unusually brilliant woman, "

SLII'I'KKV UKOUNI).

assured himself that he could endure the momen-
tary embarrassment of that Sunday afternoon pro-
ceeding very well indeed, and was heartily glad
that it had occurred ; that probably Ruth needed
something of the sort to bring her to her senses.
She was certainly a queen among women. Now
that the ice was fairly broken, society should see
what a jewel he had in his keeping.

So, altogether, it was a much-mollified and very
well-contented husband who lounged among the
cushions in the library, after the fatigues of the
successful evening were over, and watched his
wife while she unfastened and placed in water the
flowers she had worn, and which he had himself
selected and arranged for her.

" They were very becoming, " he said ; " I had
no idea that simple flowers would fit your style so
well ; but there was a charming contrast which
just suited me. Your style is rather regal, you
know, and I have always thought of diamonds in
connection with it. Ruth, you were quite like
your old self to-night. The self I used to admire
before I appropriated it ; only more matronly, of
course, as became your years, and more beautiful,
really. I think you ought to be grateful, my dear.
Fe'v women of your age retain their youthful
beauty as you have done."

Ruth laughed in a pleased way. She cared ex-
tremely little for youthful beauty, but she did care
for her husband's admiration ; and it had been so

>;.■*

iiKI''«'n>.ii

SLIPPEKV GROUND.

i I

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long since he had expressed any that she felt her
cheeks flush under the spell of his words. She
was glad over having pleased him. She told her-
self that she ought to have done these things
before ; that she had been selfish and hateful ;
that it was perfectly natural for a man to desire to
receive his friends in his own house, and that if
she had realized how much he desired it, she
would certainly not have waited so long.

She put herself into a white wrapper that was
almost more becoming than her dinner dress, and
came and sat beside him. And he reached for
the tassels of her wrapper and toyed with them,
tossing them back and forth on her hand ; and
finally, possessing himself of the hand, bent the
shapely fingers back and forth at his will, while he
chatted with her about a dozen careless nothings,
as they had not chatted together actually for years ;
and Ruth's eyes were bright and her heart was
glad. She began to see her way out of the mazes
of discomfort which had surrounded her. She was
somewhat astonished that the door of comfort
seemed opening to her by way of the society which
she had so much dreaded. But why not, after all ?
She had enjoyed the gathering herself ; she knew
how to entertain people, and she knew how to
manage her domestic concerns, so that that portion
of the entertainment could always be a success.
What had she been thinking about, all these
months, not to take matters into her own hands

SLIl'PKKV GUOUXI).

and bring to their house, with her invitations, such
people as she would enjoy meeting ? Scarcely a
name on the list which her husband had given her,
but it was an honor to entertain.

Suddenly, into the midst of her complacent
musings, came her husband's voice, —

" By the way, Ruth, have the girls spoken to
you about having a social gathering here, chiefly
of young people ? "

"Well, they will," in response to Ruth's negative
reply ; " they have had it in mind for some time,
and have been quite patient, I must say, for girls ;
I told them that of course while the lady of the
house was in mourning, anything very general in
the way of company would be in bad taste ; but
that as soon as we could comfortably bring it to
pass, they should be gratified. We must do some-
thing especially attractive, I suppose, in return for
their long waiting. I believe I will have Tarrant's
band come out ;. that would be unique, and save
an immense amount of trouble. What is your
judgment about the floors } Would you rather
have the carpets taken up, or simply covered
for the occasion } If you are proposing to make
any changes as to carpets in the spring, perhaps
they might as well be taken up now as at any
time."

To all of which Ruth listened with great sinking
of heart ; she was evidently supposed to be mak-
ing ready for a dancing party, and on a somewhat

:, I

li'

SLIPFEKV (J HOUND.

magnificent scale. She waived the question of
carpet and launched another.

"Judge Burnham, don't you remember that I do
not indorse dancing parties ? "

Her manner was timid, almost appealing ; as one
would speak who dreaded exceedingly to broach
an unpleasant theme ; but the master of the
house neither frowned nor growled ; instead, he
laughed : —

" I don't remember ; there were so many things
that you didn't indorse, you know. How could I
be expected to bear them all in mind ? However,
the girls will not require you to indorse their amuse-
ment, I fancy ; they need you to play the lady hos-
pitable to their guests. You need not be bored
for more than an hour or so, you know."

Poor puzzled lady of the house, trying to walk
two opposite ways at the same time ! She glanced
at the handsome man who was resting so luxuri-
ously among his cushions, then looked down at
her prisoned hand, and sighed ; the way was cer-
tainly bewildering.

She tried again.

" But, Judge Burnham, you do not understand ;
how can I receive guests to my house, and provide
for them an entertainment of which I do not in
the least approve } Would there not be something
dishonorable in that } Beside, I would be placing
myself in a false light before the world."

" But, my dear, you are not expected to approve.

SLIPPERY GROUND.

If one had to approve of all the silliness which
goes on under one's own roof, even during the
giving of a dinner party, it would be a tremendous
strain on one's common sense. You cannot man-
age society, my queen, however much you may
grace it ; and I am willing to own that few women
can match you in that."

She knew he had answered her with sophistry,
and with flattery. Never mind, she would put the
question in another form : —

" Judge Burnham, ought one to offer to others
that which one believes may be a temptation and
a snare } If I think there is actually harm in
dancing, ought I to have anything to do with
providing it as an amusement.?"

" You needn't," with a good-natured laugh ;
" I will engage the band, and have the house put
in proper array, and you may retire to your room
with the first strain of gay music. I will even
engage to lock you in, if you fear the temptation
to indulge will be too much for you."

What reply could she make to this, other than to
look steadily at him with sorrowful eyes } When
his laugh was over, he added, still good-naturedly,
and with a careless yawn : —

" What about dancing, my dear ; wherein lies
the harm } Did you ever post me f If so, I have
fallen from grace. I can not recall a single argu-
ment for your side. Do you want to refresh your-
self by putting me through a course } "

ICX)

SLIPPERY GROUND.

How instantly was Mrs. Burnham carried back
to the days when she was Ruth Erskine ; to
Marion's dingy little upper room in the boarding-
house, to Eurie Mitchell's merry words, haji on one
side of the question, half on the other ; to Flossy
Shipley's sweet young face. How earnestly, Bibles
in hand, had they four discussed this very ques-
tion years ago ? How easily, in the light of Flossy
Shipley's Bible verses, they had settled it ! She
could stem to hear Marion's voice again saying :
"Girls, we have spent our strength vainly. It is
our privilege to get up higher ; to look at all these
things from the mount whereon God will let us
stand, if we want to climb." And they had climbed,
those girls ; they were standing, at least so far as
these trying little beginnings of religious experi-
ence were concerned, away above them, troubled
by them no more. All save herself ; here was
she, after the lapse of years, sitting beside the one
with whom she had spent the most of them, and
he had gotten no farther than the old worn-out
query, " Wherein lies the harm ? " The solemn
question was, Did this tell something of her own
spiritual state ?

R^^"*.
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THE OLD QUESTION.

lOI

CHAPTER IX.

THE OLD QUESTION.

iMl

SHE looked at him curiously, half pitifully. How
should she answer the question in a line with
his moral development } Her look seemed to
amuse and interest him.

" What is it, my dear ? Do you feel in your soul
that I haven't enough mental calibre to compre-
hend the argument ? I'll promise to give the full
powers of my mind to it if you will try me."

"Judge Burnham, do you want your daughters
to be on such familiar terms with the gentlemen
whom they meet in society, as the dance necessi-
tates ? Is your knowledge of human nature such
as to make this desirable, or even wise ? **

He frowned slightly, and his voice was graver
than it had been.

" That sounds badly, Ruth ; it sounds as though
you might be unpleasantly familiar with a human
nature that is below you. You must have learned
that sort of talk from people who think they must
always drag the slums into argument."

" I am not talking about the class of people who

I02

THE OLD QUESTION.

are recognized in society as * the slums.* 1 mean
the Tracys, the Markams, and Mr. Peterson. Do
you want your daughters to dance with them ? "

He had apparently recovered his good humor.

" Oh ! as to that, there are degrees, even in good
society ; I shall want the girls to exercise common
sense, of course, or, failing in that, I will exercise
it for them. I do not advocate indiscriminate
dancing ; if that is what you are after, you are
entirely welcome to the admission."

" Yet the girls dance with these persons ; I have
heard them mention their names in such a connec-
tion. The sole point before us just now is whether
we desire to stamp with our approval amusements
which are liable to such dangers as these, and
which may lead astray young girls who do not
understand enough about the wicked world to see
any danger ahead."

" Mrs. Burnham, has it ever occurred to you
that possibly our daughters may have been led
into dangers because they were left, in a large
degree, to face this society which it seems is such
an ogre, quite without the presence and guarding
counsel of their parents } I have a vivid recollec-
tion of a time when invitations were accepted by
them, and declined by you, by the wholesale ;
while I, being a loyal and well-brought-up husband,
of course, remained with my wife, and left my girls
to dance with whom they would. What about that
responsibility ? "

THE OLD QUESTION.

103

Her cheeks were growing unbecomingly red, but
she answered steadily : —

" You could not expect me to do what my con-
science disapproved, even though you allowed the
girls to go where I could not accompany them.
You knew when you married me. Judge Burnham,
that I professed to be guided by my conscience.
Did I do wrong, do you think, in following its
dictates ?"

" That depends ; a fellow in court the other day
argued that his conscience would not let him see
his wife and children go hungry ; so he stole a
watch in order to feed them. This question of
conscience is very obscure, and miserably mis-
understood. If you were a lawyer, you would
know that the conscience is perverted every day
to meet the demands of some crank."

Her old friends again, how fully they had dis-
cussed the responsibilities of conscience, and the
necessity for educating it. Did her husband sup-
pose that she had not studied and prayed over
these matters ? She was silent, because she did
not know how to reply to his pretense at arguing.
His words seemed beneath her notice. After a
moment's silence, he commenced again.

** I do not quite understand how you came to be
such a slave to fanaticism, Ruth ; it does not seem
like you. Your father had a touch of it, to be sure,
but I think he must have caught it from you, since
you go so far beyond him. It must be an outcrop

104

THE OLD QUESTION.

from some ancient Puritan ; really, my dear, you
ought to study these questions ; such narrowness
is beneath you. Take, for example, that statement
which you are so fond of making — about leading
others astray. Can't you really see that if it
proves anything, it proves too much ? How many
people do you suppose injure themselves everyday
of their lives by gormandizing ? Yet you would
not, because of that, conclude that it was your
Christian duty to give up the use of food."

Oh, astute judge ! To suppose that such baby-
ish sophistry as that could pass with your keen-
brained wife for reasoning ! He waited for her
reply with an air that said : " Now, my fair fanatic,
haven't I put you in a corner ? " But Ruth was
in no haste to respond ; busy memories had hold
of her to-night ; she had gone back again into that
upper room. She could see Flossy's grave, sweet
face, she could hear Marion reading from her little
old Bible. Were the dear girls with her in spirit
to-night trying to help her, that they appeared to
her inner consciousness so constantly .? '*

" I should think,** she said at last, " that the
answer to your question would depend almost
entirely on the importance of food to our bodies.
If the habit of taking food is one that we can lay
aside at will, and still hold our place in the world
and do our work, ought we not to carefully con-
sider and decide whether we should in this thing
set an example which would lead to the injury of

THE OLD QUESTION.

105

others ? Will you let me quote a few words to you
from an old book on which I feed my conscience ? "

And without waiting for a reply, she quoted the
well-remembered words, not as Marion had done,
but making her own substitution :

" * But dancing commends us not to God ; for
neither if we dance are we the better, neither if we
dance not are we the worse. But take heed, lest
by any means this liberty of yours become a
stumbling-block to them that are weak ; for if any
man see thee which hast knowledge, join the dance,
shall not the conscience of him which is weak be
emboldened to dance also ? And through thy
knowledge shall the weak brother perish, for whom
Christ died ? But when ye sin so against the
brethren, and wound their weak conscience, ye
sin against Christ. Wherefore, if dancing make
my brother to offend, I will dance no more while
the world standeth.* "

Judge Burnham turned himself entirely on his
cushions, and gave his wife the benefit of a pro-
longed stare of astonishment.

" Are those words to be found in your Bible
exactly as you have quoted them } "

" Exactly as I have quoted them, save that, of
course, I substitute dancing for Paul's word —
meat — which was the question at issue when he
presented the argument."

"Oh !" spoken in a very significant tone, "quite
a substitute, I should say. Of course, if your con-

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THE OLD QUIiSTION.

science allows you to read the Bible with free
substitutions, you can make it prove anything."

" But, Judge Burnham, really, have I changed
the force of the argument in the least, if you admit
what you and I know to be the case, that there
have been people even this winter, in this city, led
astray through the social dance ? "

It was almost impossible for her to keep her
lip from curling just a little in indignation. She
could seem to hear Marion's voice again as she
said, —

" Now, Eurie Mitchell, you are too bright to
make such a remark as that."

Her husband was also " too bright " for that.

Judge Burnham yawned and turned one of the
pillows and said : —

," What time is it, my dear ? Haven't we dis-
cussed this interesting subject long enough ? You
cannot make the world over if you try ever so
hard. My candid advice to you is not to try.
You will have your peculiar views, I suppose, to
the end of time. Don't let us quarrel about them.
The girls haven't a drop of Puritan blood in their
veins. I'm afraid they will dance to the end of
the chapter, but I will see to it that they choose
partners of perfectly immaculate character. We
have gone a long way astray from our starting-
point, which was, whether we should have the
carpets removed or covered. However, you can
decide that at your leisure. Oh ! by the way, if I

THE OLD QUESTION.

107

were you I would have that little room which we
have been using as a sort of annex to the music
room, cleared and fitted up with card tables.
There are always some who prefer a quiet game to
any other method of passing the time, and that
seems to me the most convenient place for tables.
And now, my dear, don't you think it would be
well for us to close this day ? It has been rather
a fatiguing one ; I'm afraid I shall need another
dinner if we talk much longer."

He smiled pleasantly on her, even stooped and
kissed her, as he rose up to light the gas in his
dressing-room. His manner was certainly very
kind — kinder than it had been for months. But
there was a painful little air of triumph about it,
as one who said : —

" We have begun life on a new basis, my dear.
It is true you insulted a friend of mine, but you
thereby got your eyes opened, and have discovered
that you live in the world and must live in it ; and
you have taken your place in society once more,
and society will show you that she has a groove
in which you must walk. You are her prisoner,
whether you will or not."

And Ruth, as she went slowly, wearily over to
her dressing-case, and began to draw out pins and
let down her hair, sighed heavily, not because she
was subdued, but because she was perplexed.

" I am not a prisoner," she told herself firmly,
*• nor a slave. I am the Lord's free woman. I

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108

THE OLD QUESTION.

am responsible only to Him, and I will not bow my
neck to this yoke of fashionable life. I will not
appear to countenance what I do not approve.
But, oh ! I see discord and weariness of soul before
me, and I do not know which way to turn first.
If only" —

Just here she stopped ; she must always stop at
that point, even in her thoughts. What good to
say now, " If only my husband and I were agreed
as to these matters } " But there did float through
her tired brain the old, solemn question, " How
shall two walk together except they be agreed } "

Away into the night she studied the problem,
and arose the next morning somewhat lighter of
heart. She had resolved to see what genius and
culture could do toward supplanting the usual
amusements of the day. She would petition her
husband to let her give the young ladies a sur-
prise — an entertainment that she would promise
should be altogether unique, and more brilliant
than anything the region had known. She would
do this, with the understanding that every detail
should be left entirely in her hands, and should be
entirely secret until the eventful evening arrived.
Thus guarded, she would see whether it was not
possible for time and skill and money to evolve
an evening's entertainment, even for fashionable
people, which should have no objectionable feat-
ures. Much engrossed by her scheme and ways
of developing it, she roused from a half-dreamy

atte
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THE OLD QUESTION.

109

attention to the usual dinner-table chatter, to alert-
ness and caution.

•' Robert," the host had ordered, " unpack the
case which came out with me this afternoon, and
bring a bottle of it to the table."

" It is a very choice orange wine, my dear," —
this to his wife, as Robert departed to do his
bidding, — "something new about its preparation.
I did not give sufficient attention to understand
what, but Dr. Westwood was enthusiastic over it.
And the point which I did notice was, that he
thought it would be excellent both for you and for
Erskine. It seems he has noticed the boy lately,
and thinks he needs toning up. And he says you
need to enter on a regular course of tonics. He
recommends the use of this orange wine at every
meal, and a little of it as often as you feel any
thirst."

" Erskine is not sick ! "

The mother's voice was not only startled, but
almost pleading in its notes, as she studied the
face of the fair boy at her side.

" O, no ! not sick, but pale and frail-looking.
I told Dr. Westwood that I thought he was too
closely housed ; however, I have no doubt that the
wine will be good for him. You shall make the
first test of its quality, Mrs. Burnham."

By this time he had poured a glass two thirds
full of the liquid, and was himself holding it for-
ward for his wife.

THE OLD QUESTION.

" Thank you," she said, trying to speak in a
perfectly natural tone, " I never use stimulants of
any sort, you remember ; I feel not the slightest
need for them," and she made no movement toward
the offered glass.

" But, my dear, you must allow the physician to
be the judge of that last. I assure you, he was
quite emphatic in his statements ; so much so
that I ordered a case of the wine before going to
my office after meeting him."

" It was very thoughtful, certainly, and I will
be grateful for the intention ; but indeed, I must
decline to drink it. If I am really in need of medi-
cine, a point which I by no means yield, even on
Dr. Westwood's testimony. I prefer to take it in
the privacy of my own room, where I can make all
the wry faces I v/ish, over offensive doses ; not to
mix it with my food. No, thank you, " for he was
still holding forward the glass ; " I must really
decline it ; I have studied into the merits of
orange wine somewhat, and am not an admirer."

Judge Burnham set the glass down at last ; not
quite gently, and his face was slightly flushed ;
both the young ladies laughed lightly, and Seraph
said : —

" Why, mamma, where did you study medicine }
You have one accomplishment which I did not
know you possessed. How convenient it will be
for us ; we shall not need to summon a physician
from the city."

THE OLD QUESTION.

Ill

Mrs. Biirnham made no reply ; indeed, she only
half heard the voluble tongue. She was watching
Judge Burnham with an anxiety which he mierht
plainly have read, had he chosen to look at her.

He had filled a smaller glass about two thirds
full of the wine, and was passing il to bi« son.

*' Here, my boy," he said, in decisive tones, as
though he were issuing a command instead of
offering a luxury, " drink that."

" Erskine, wait ! " His mother's voice, as deci-
sive as the father's, but lower and more controlled.
Then she addressed the father : —

" Judge Burnham, may I beg you to excuse
Erskine from drinking the wine ? There are
special reasons why I would like to talk with you
about it before he takes any."

Judge Burnham was very angry or he would not
have allowed himself to be guilty of the rudeness
which followed.

" After he has obeyed me," he said, in haughty
ton'^'s, " I will be ready to talk with you. Drink
that, my son, immediately."

The startled boy received the glass in his hands,
but his mother's hand was placed quietly over the
top, while she spoke quickly, —

** Erskine, papa will certainly excuse you if we
explain to him that in obeying that direction you
will not only be breaking a promise made to mamma,
but to God."

It A-as his son's questioning, half-frightened gaze.

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112

THE OLD QUESTION.

and the certainty that he was sitting as judge over
the scene, and would be sure to agree with his
mother, which was finally the controlling force in
Judge Burnham's mind.

He struggled for outward composure, and pres-
ently, with a forced laugh, said :

" Oh ! if the case is as serious as that, of course
nothing further can be said at present. But really,
Mrs. Burnham, I think as a family we are a success
in getting up unexpected scenes out of very small
capital. I had not the remotest idea of rousing a
moral earthquake when I went a mile out of my
way this morning to see that the doctor's prescrip-
tion was properly attended to. I think it would
be well for us to come to some understanding in
private about the management of our son."

" I beg your pardon for the publicity of the
scene, " said Ruth ; " it was nothing that I could
have foreseen."

It was the humiliation of this Christian woman
that there were times when silence would have
been golden, in which she coulc* not resist the
temptation to sarcasm.

full

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COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDlNu.

113

CHAPTER X.

COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING.

/^F course the question was not settled. Mrs..
^^ Burnham knew this, and was anxious to
bring it up again, that there might at least be a
full understanding with regard to Erckine. She
began it unwisely as soon as they were alone, be-
fore her excitement had had time to cool. How-
ever, she was quiet enough at first, repeating with
a little more care and courtesy the statement that
she had been sorry for the public discussion, and
had not thought to tell him that she and Erskine
had been talking of these things but a few days
before, and that they had together taken a pledge
never to touch anything that could intoxicate — a
pledge which her husband interrupted her to say
he thought was an " exceedingly foolish and mis-
chievous one. Pledges were serious things, and
should not be mouthed over by a child, ignorant
of what he was about ; " and then, with delicious
disregard of logic, added that he should have sup-
posed she would have had more wisdom than to
have herself set up a barrier in the child's con-
science in re^fard to the medicine which the fam-

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114

COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING.

ily physician had prescribed. Ruth ignored the
logic and the implied compliment to herself, and
held to her point.

" I do not mean to pledge him against the use
of alcohol for extreme illness. Personally, I believe
that medical skill can, if it choose, supply a sub-
stitute for alcoholic poison even in cases were it
used to be considered a necessity. That was what
papa thought, you remember, and I know that we
have very high medical authority to sustain the
belief ; but I am not prepared to set up my judg-
ment against that of an attending physician where
I know there is extreme danger. I do not know
yet what I should do under such circumstances. I
am afraid I should obey the doctor, but in little
every-day aches and pains, and the weaknesses
common to childhood, I am sure there is no ne-
cessity whatever for resorting to alcohol, and that
feature of the subject was decidedly included in
our pledge."

" And I repeat that I think you have been very
foolish in playing with pledges and all that sort of
nonsense ; the word of parents should be the high-
est law a child touches. However, you made a
most unnecessary scene in this case, for orange
wine is free from the ingredient which has come
under the ban of your displeasure."

His wife turned fully toward him then, and re-
garded him searchingly. Was this man ignorant,
really, or did he suppose that she was ?

COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING.

115

" Do I understand you that there was no alcohol
in the preparation of the orange wine which was
on the table to-day ? "

" Well, of course it was fermented, else it would
not be fit to drink ; but the proportion of alcohol
was so slight that a baby might have indulged in
it without harm."

It seemed unnecessary to make any reply to
this, so none was offered. The significant silence
seemed to vex Judge Burnham.

" Suppose we try to understand each other," he
said, speaking more haughtily than before, " Am I
to conclude, from the exhibition we have had to-
day, that whenever you choose to countermand my
orders to the child, you consider yourself quite at
liberty to do so in his presence, to say nothing of
the presence of others ? If you have any such
impression as this," he added, growing more angry
as he proceeded, ** it is quite time we came to an
understanding. I am not a household tyrant, and
have never obtruded my views in regard to the
child ; indeed, while he was a baby, it was my
policy and my practice to leave him almost entirely
in your handj. Perhaps I have carried this policy
too far, and led you to misunderstand me. But
once for all, let me say that I expect full and
implicit and prompt obedience from him, and fail-
ing to receive it, shall certainly require it. I ex-
cused him to-day, because the nature of yoyr
interference was such that no gentleman could do

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COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING.

Otherwise, but for the future, you, being fairly
warned, will not, I hope, force me, at least in
public, to the painful necessity of pressing my
commands contrary to your expressed will."

If he was angry now, and he had grown more so
with each spoken word, how shall his wife's state
of mind be described ? Her blood seemed fairly
to boil in her veins. This entire harangue was so
unlike her husband — was so uncalled for. Had she
not striven earnestly and successfully to instill into
Erskine's mind the importance of unquestioning
obedience to his father ? Had she not put away
her fears and anxieties many a time with stern
h" -1 order to carry out some scheme of the

1 jr's, over which the mother's heart trembled .-*
How utterly unfair and unkind was all this ! Why
should she be spoken to as though she were at best
but a faithful nursemaid, who could be trusted
with the care of the child while he was a baby, but
who must resign her control as he grew older }
There was no time for careful thought, for school-
ing herself to the use of the right words ; she
spoke hastily, almost fiercely.

*' Judge Burnham, I have done nothing to merit
such language as that. I have always taught
Erskine to obey you quite as unquestioningly as
lie did me. You know this to be the case, and
also that I appealed to you to-day to excuse him
from the command, giving you what I thought
was a sufficient reason. Since you are so anxious

COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING.

117

that there should be an understanding between us,
I will try to speak as plainly as you have. I do
mean that my boy shall be kept from the taint or
the touch, or even the smell of alcohol, if deter-
mination and vigilance on my part can accomplish
it. I tell you solemnly that, much as my life is
bound up in his, entirely as I seem to be depend-
ent on him for what happiness 1 have, I would
rather stand beside his open grave, and see hirn
buried in his childish innocence, than that he
should live to be even a fashionable drunkard.
And I warn you that I will not tamely submit to
any tampering with him in this direction ; to any
scheme under pretext of medicine, or tonic ''P ''
whatever name Satan has planned to have' . 3
mixture called. I will take my boy and run away,
before I will endure anything of the kind."

She turned from him the moment the last word
was spoken and left the room, but not quickly
enough to escape his reply, —

" Well, upon my word, this is the most astound-
ing exhibition of Christian fanaticism that I have
seen yet."

The words pierced her ; not because of their in-
tense sarcasm, nor because of the emphasis on the
last word, which was equal to saying that he was
now prepared, however, for anything in that direc-
tion which could be imagined, but because of that
one word Christian. It brought her suddenly back
to the recollection that as she lived religion be-

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COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING.

fore her husband, so he would judge of its power
in her heart. Oh ! miserable life that goaded her
by the very force of her conscience into daily ex-
hibitions that were a disgrace to the name she
wore !

Moreover, when she was quiet enough to think
about it, she began to realize how very difficult
she had made the way for her projected entertain-
ment, which was to supersede and outshine the
fashionable world. Had she not made the attempt
well-nigh impossible } Yet what could she have
done ? She tried to assure her conscience that
she had no business with results ; that she had
but stood squarely up for her principles, as she
was in honor bound to do. But her conscience
was altogether too well educated to be lulled in
this manner ; it insisted on assuring her that it
was not the standing up for principle which could
be criticised, but the manner of doing it.

The next complication came the next morning.
Mrs. Stuart Bacon sent up her card, and would be
glad to see Mrs. Burnham for a few minutes on
important business. Ruth knew her but slightly,
and being in no mood for strangers, was tempted
to declare herself engaged. But that phrase " im-
portant business," conquered, and she went reluc-
tantly to the parlor.

Mrs. Bacon was a middle-aged lady with an ear-
nest face and pleasant voice. Looking at her from
across the aisle of the church, Ruth remembered

COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING.

119

that she had dreamily told herself that sometime
she would like to become better acquainted with
that face. Perhaps this was her opportunity. Yet
this morning she did not think she wanted to be-
come acquainted with anybody. It almost seemed
to her that if she could go quite away from every-
body she had ever seen before, and stay a long
time, she would be glad.

Mrs. Bacon expressed her thanks at being re-
ceived, though the hour was early for calls, and
said she would not abuse the kindness by unnec-
essary detention, but would proceed at once to
business. In the first place, would not dear Mrs.
Burnham join their organization ? Her name had
been on their list for several weeks as one whom
they meant to petition, but she believed the oppor-
tunity had not heretofore occurred. Still, they
confidently looked for her name and support.

" What was the organization } " Ruth questioned,
struggling with the apathy she felt, and trying
hard to bring herself into line with women who
were at work in the world.

"Why, the W. C. T. U., you know," spoken
confidently, as though she would know the mean-
ing of the magic letters in an instant. " Your old
pastor, Dr. Dennis, assured us that he believed we
should find in you a most efficient helper."

But Ruth had been living out of the world.
She could not remember what the letters' meant.
Dreamily, she recalled her Chautauqua experiences,

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COMLNG TO AN UNDERSTANDING.

where the air was full of initials, and tried to fit
some of their meanings to the letters that flowed
so glibly from Mrs. Bacon's tongue, but they
would not fit. The caller must have observed her
blank look, for she hastened to the rescue.

"The Woman's Christian Temperance Union,
you know. I beg your pardon for speaking in ab-
breviations ; we women do it so much in our work
that we forget it is not quite the way to speak to
outsiders. Still, I don't regard you as an outsider ;
I know you are one of us ; an intelligent Christian
mother, in these days, is to be claimed as a matter
of course."

"The Woman's Christian Temperance Union."
Ruth repeated the words aloud, slowly, as if fasci-
nated by them, her face aglow with interest. It
sounded like fellowship, and oneness of thought
and feeling.

" Yes, " Mrs. Bacon said heartily, feeling the
sympathy in her hostess's voice ; ** I knew you
would be interested. We have quite a flourishing
branch here, and have accomplished some very
desirable results;" and she launched forth into an
eager account of their late experiences.

Ruth, listening, felt her enthusiasm die slowly,
and her heart grew cold ; it was of no use to think
of joining these women in their work. She had
never heard Judge Burnham mention the name of
the organization, yet she was as sure as though he
had talked for hours about it, that he would regard

COMING TO AN UXDEKSTANDING.

121

their methods of work, and even their work itself,
ill some of its branches as unladylike and uncalled
for. He had a very pronounced horror of women
whom he regarded as having stepped out of their
sphere. It would be foolish to widen the breach
which was already between them, by identifying
herself with anything of this sort, but she would
like to do it. She knew, of course, a great deal
about the workings of the organization, and had
been more or less interested in its movements in
the years gone by. As soon as she had roused
from her dazed condition she knew what the ini-
tials meant, very well. Some of the doings of the
society she had regarded with disapproval, she re-
membered, but as she swiftly looked back on
them now, she 3aid perhaps the women were justi-
fied in all that they did. No doubt many of them
were mothers.

None of this, however, appeared in her words.
When Mrs. Bacon reached a period, having closed
with a renewal of her invitation, Ruth's reply was
a brief, almost cold negative. She could not join
the organization. She was in sympathy with them,
of course, and respected their work ; every Chris-
tian woman must do that ; but there were excellent
reasons why she could not enroll herself as one of
them.

Mrs. Bacon was disappointed. She had evi-
dently heard, either through Dr. Dennis or from
some other source, that about Ruth which had

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COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING.

•!

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made her confident of success. However, the re-
fusal had been given in such a way as made it
almost impossible for a lady to urge further.

" Well," she said, after a moment's dismayed
silence, " I am sorry. Perhaps you will sec it in
a different light at some other time. Now, let me
come at once to the special business whose need
for haste precipitated, perhaps unwisely, the invi-
tation I have just given you. I feel very sure, my
dear Mrs. Burnham, that you will not put me off
with a negative here. You know, of course, how ear-
nestly we have struggled to keep the sale of liquor
out of this corner of the world ; and because we
do not as yet belong to the city, and because it is
a factory region, we have succeeded ; even the
enemies of total abstinence do not think it wise to
have liquor freely sold where their workmen can
get it, you know. For their sons, strange to say,
they have not so much regard ! Well, up to this
time our young men, if they use the stuff, must go
to the city for it. It is true enough, that with our
constant trains back and forth, this can be very
readily accomplished ; still, it is a sort of safe-
guard to those who have not yet been caught in
the enemy's toils. But now a new danger menaces
us ; it is said that our largest hotel, the Shenan-
doah, has discovered that the law can be inter-
preted in such a manner that it will have a right
to offer liquor to its guests, even though none can
be sold elsewhere within our limits. What do you

COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING.

123

suppose we mothers think of that ? We have sons,
you know, who mingle freely with the guests at
the Shenandoah, and are frequently entertained by
them. Are we to sit quietly by and see that poured
before their eyes daily which we have pledged our
lives to keep from them, if possible ? Do you be-
lieve we ought to do it, Mrs. Burnham ? "

She was strongly excited ; her eyes fairly blazed
with the intensity of her feelings, and every muscle
of her face spoke for her. Ruth remembered that
she had heard this woman's son mentioned as a
young man who was unusually gifted. Was he
also unusually tempted ? She made haste to an-
swer, her heart throbbing in sympathy ; suppose
Erskine were nineteen.

" Assuredly I do think so, my dear madam ; and
if there is anything which you can do, I should
think you would allow no obstacle to prevent your
doing to the utmost."

" Thank you. I knew you were true at heart.
Mrs. Burnham, if there is anything which you can
do for us, will you do it ? "

" After what I have said, you can hardly doubt
the heartiness of my reply to that question ; the
only trouble is, I realize only too well my own im-
potence. I have no influence whatever with the
managers of the hotel ; I have not even a speaking
acquaintance with them ; and, if I had, it would
not give me influence. How is it possible that I
could accomplish anything which you, who have

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COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING.

worked in these lines and understand the methods
so well, could not do much better ? "

" Oh ! my dear, we are far too well trained in our
work to hope anything from hotel managers as a
rule. The men who can consider such a propo-
sition at all, are not of the class that crn be urged
through their moral natures. Liquor-dealing hotel
proprietors have no consciences, I verily believe.
Nothing less impossible than a ' thou shalt not * is
going to effect anything in that direction. Why,
one of these very gentlemen has a son who drinks
to excess every time he goes to the city ; and his
father wants to make it more convenient for him,
it seems."

" Then what can you think 't possible for me to
do under such circumstances } If they have the
law on their side, or if it has been twisted so that
it can appear to be on their side — and I have no
doubt of that last ; for nothing seems to be easier
than to secure a lawyer who is skillful in misinter-
preting law to suit his client — what is there left to
do .? "

" Everything, dear Mrs. Burnham. I am so
glad to hear you speak in that eager way. Don'c
you suppose we recognize you as the power behind
the throne ? I told the ladies I felt sure you would
be on our side ; for, though your boy is only five, the
years go fust ; and they make drunkards of them
now at fifteen ; this is a hurrying age, you know.
I feel sure you will save us from this curse in our

COMING TO AN UNDERSTANDING.

125

midst, dear madam, for the sake of your boy and
mine."

Ruth looked utterly puzzled, and also pained.
What wild scheme had this excited woman in
mind, which she fondly imagined would tide them
over this present danger ?

She spoke low and gently, in the hope of calm-
ing the evident excitement of her guest : —

" I have not the remotest idea what you mean ;
believe me, there is nothing that I would not do to
help, were it in m) power ; but how I can do any-
thing, I cannot imagine."

Mrs. Bacon regarded her curiously, evidently
puzzled in turn.

" Why, my dear Mrs. Burnham," she said at
last, " is it possible that you do not know that
your husband Is the owner of the Shenandoah ?
And that by Ihe terms of the lease, his consent
must be obtained before any liquors can be brought
into the house ? "

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" W. C. T. U.

CHAPTER XI.

W. C. T. U.

I. . c

No, Mrs. Burnham had not known this,
husband's business inter;ii5ts were so exten-
sive, and the pressure of care upon him so heavy,
that even had he deemed it worth mentioning, he
might not have thought of it at an opportune
moment. And, indeed, he was so decidedly a man
who threw off business cares the moment he reached
his own door, and who never even thought of such
a thing as chatting confidentially with his wife
about them, that to have remarked, " The Shenan-
doah property came into my hands to-day, through
the failure of the firm of Bell & Pealer, " would
have had an absurdly inappropriate sound to him.
So Ruth sat silent and appalled before the news.
Her husband the owner of the Si landoah !
This, then, was why she might naturally be sup-
posed to have power In the question at issue ; and
her cheek paled over the realization of how power-
less she was. Her instant change of manner was
not lost on Mrs. Bacon, who shrewdly said to her-
self : "She didn't know it before, and it evidently

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129

makes a difference into whose pockets ^^* -Aredented
are to go. O, me ! who would have supposea
that a Christian woman, with a son to rear, could
stop over considerations like these." And she
was as correct in her conclusions as the majority
of persons are who sit in judgment on the acts of
their brothers and sisters.

Mrs. Burnham spoke at last, slowly, choosing
her words with care ; she had no mind to show the
sorrowful secrets of her home to Mrs. Bacon.

"You give me credit for altogether too much
power, dear madam ; gentlemen are noted, I be-
lieve, for supposing that their wives know nothing
about business, and, in my husband's case, it
would be fair enough ; I profess to know very
little in that line. Besides, Judge Burnham is pre-
eminently a man who does not discuss business
out of business hours ; in proof of which I might
tel' you that I did not know he was the owner of
t e Shenandoah. The utmost that I can do is to
I :. e-it my assurance of sympathy and willingness
to help in whatever way I can ; at the same time
reminding you that I may not be able to accomplish
anything."

Yet as she went wearily up the stairs, after her
caller had departed, she thought that nothing could
be more unpropitious for her schemes in regard to
the evening party than these questions of con-
science which seemed to be pressing in on every
hand.

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* W. ('. T. L'.'

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.iieless, as she thought more about Mrs.
j:>acon*s petition, her courage rose. Judge Burn-
ham might not be a total abstinence man, but he
despised drunkenness ; and being a lawyer, well
versed in the ways of the world, he must know
how disastrous to the interests of a place which
boasted of 't^self as a safe country home for young
people wol! ^ the introduction of that which
did more than anything else to make life unsafe.
Besides — and on this she built strong hopes —
Judge Burnham's pride would be at stake. Would
he want it to go out through these earnest women
that he feared for his rents to such a degree that
he was willing to introduce wines and brandies
as security } It would certainly have an offensive
sound if she put it to him in that light. She
thought so constantly about it, and went over
her arguments so many times, that she worked
herself into a state of feverish haste to have the
interview over. She dreaded it, but went steadily
toward it with much the same feeling that one has
in laying vigorous hold of any cross which must
be borne : ** If this thing must needs be, let me
get through with it as speedily as possible."

Judge Burnham was in his worst mood — courtly,
suave and sarcastic. Yes, he had met some of those
interesting females who went about attending to
other people's business ; one always wondered who
attended, meantime, to their homes. " Women's
Constant Talking Unions " they ought tu be named,

W. C. T. U.

129

the tendency to talk steadily, for an unprecedented
length of time, on subjects of which they knew
nothing, seeming to be a marked feature of their
organization, so far as he h:id observed it. He
had always thought that if he had been so unfortu-
nate as to choose a wife with no more brains than
to join herself to such a company, he might be
justified for once in returning to the old Blue
Laws, and confining her on bread and water until
she came to a better mind. Which particular
member of the troop had honored her with a
call } O, yes ! he had the honor of a speaking
acquaintance with Mrs. Stuart Bacon. He had
supposed her to be remarkable for nothing but a
very ill-shaped mouth, but it seems she had other
accomplishments ; no wonder the mouth was ill-
shaped, since it had such ungraceful work to do.
Yes, he had the honor of being the owner of the
Shenandoah ; it had not entered his mind to object
to the lessee's proposition ; of course the law sus-
tained him ; it would be a return to the Dark
Ages with interest, if a man must be dictated to
as to what he should have for his money at a hotel.
There was nothing unpleasant about it ; nothing
that reasonable people could object to ; merely light
wines, such as orange wine and the like — whole-
some and refreshing beverages for refined people.
The class of guests that patronized the Shenandoah
would not be likely to demean themselves in any
way ; they took care to keep the prices too high

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\V. C. T. U.

for the common ^-^oplc. O, yes ! the same law
admitted light wines to the other, more common
hotels of the place, of course ; but he didn't own
them, and had nothing whatever to do with their
affairs. As for his influence, he imagined that
he should succeed in conducting himself in the
future as in the past, in such a way as to be above
reproach, at least outside of his own family. Of
course Mrs. Stuart Bacon and a few gossiping
women of her clique would talk ; that was their
special forte, as he had intimated ; probably he
would come in for a share of the censure that
they distributed so liberally, but he believed he
was able to endure even that.

In short, Ruth knew, long before the interview
was concluded, that her plea was utterly hopeless.
The very pride on which she had depended seemed
to be a weapon turned against her. His pride
would not permit him to seem to be swerved from
his position one half inch by what he was pleased
to term ** gossiping interference in what did not
concern them." I have not given you an idea of
the half he said. Through the entire interview he
maintained his ironical tone and careless manner,
omitting no opportunity for using the keen sarcasm
in which nature and education had made him an
expert. Maintaining, also, his air of exceeding
politeness and courteous attention, even bending
to draw a wrap closer about his wife, when he saw
that she shivered, and himself rearranging the open

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W. C. T. U.

131

grate fire which he knew was one of her luxuries.
And finally paring with much care an orange, half
of which he presented to her on a fruit plate in
the midst of one of her earnest arguments, with
the smiling statement that perhaps she would not
object to orange juice in that shape, although
she had spurned his other offering meant for her
refreshment.

Altogether, Ruth went from the room more
utterly humiliated than she ever remembered to
have been before.

That she had signally failed, was only too
evident ; that she had nothing but failure to re-
port to the waiting and hopeful ladies, was morti-
fication enough ; but there were deeper reaches to
it than this. How had it happened that she, who
had been so eagerly sought after, so earnestly
and persistently wooed, chosen without a doubt
because she was beloved, how had it come to pass
that after the lapse of years she really had no
more influence with her husband than this ?

Faihngin appreciating her conscientious scruples,
why did he not, at least in a matter of this kind,
involving only money, take pleasure in yielding to
her whims if he pleased to call them so ? She
knew husbands who gratified their wives, from no
higher motives than such as these. Why was not
her wish in these matters a law to him, which
it gave him pleasure to follow ? Long into the
night Ruth questioned, and wept, and prayed and

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132

" \V. C. T. U."

mourned. Nothing was plainer to her than that
even the Christian Hfe for which she thought she
was all the while contending, had been largely a
failure.

She had succeeded only in irritating her husband
by her display of it. It had brought no sunshine
into her home or life. She had not yielded in
places where she could have done so, as well as
not. She had consulted her tastes, instead of her
husband's, even where conscience had had nothing
to say. She had been a painstaking mother, but
even here she had failed. Had she not often let
her morbid fears of what might happen, not to the
soul, but to the beautiful body of the boy, push in
and thwart some cherished scheme d his father's ?

Was it, after all, any wonder that when she
suddenly confronted him with her opinions, and
almost demanded from him actions in accordance
with her ideas, that he should resort to sarcasm
and irony and hold his ground .?

Never had poor Ruth's insulted conscience read
her a sterner lecture than on that weary night.
Humiliating failure ! and the humiliating confes-
sion to her own heart that she was, in a sense, to
blame. And the very hardest of it was, that she
saw no way out. She could not explain these
things to her husband, because he was on such a
different moral plane from herself that he would
utterly misunderstand her ; he would think she
had confessed herself as wrong in principle, and

mmmm^f.

VV. C. T. U.

133

would immediately, as indeed he had already done,
plan for the most impossible concessions to his
views.

But in the meantime, she must put aside all
these burdens and decide just what to do. She
had promised to report the result of her effort.
How should she do it ? She would write to the
ladies ; would explain that her husband had given
his word, before she knew anything about the mat-
ter, and could not withdraw from it honorably.
He had said as much ; could she not repeat it }
and was more detail than this necessary .? Yet
her honest soul revolted from such a statement ;
for she knew at this moment that the matter was
still not so fully settled but that had it been made
to appear for Judge Burnham's interests to change,
he would probably have done so. The furthest she
got at last, was to determine to wait another day
until her intense excitement and pain had had
time to dull a little before she attemp -jd any re-
port. Afterward, she wondered whether even that
had not been a concession to the enemy, which had
caused her more trouble.

In point of fact, two days passed, and still she
had made the waiting and anxious ladies no reply.
As she went down to dinner on the evening of the
second day, she assured herself that she would
write that letter the next morning before ten
o'clock ; but she did not. Life had gone with her
during these two days much as usual. She had

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134

VV. C. T. U.

seen almost nothing of her husband, he having
been detained in town late, by reason of some pro-
fessional perplexity. The young ladies were busy
with their regular routine of society life ; the week
had perhaps been unusually gay, and Ruth and her
boy had spent much time alone.

Was it fate, she wondered, or providence that
led her that evening as they were on their way
down to dinner^ to say with sudden fervor of
appeal to the impressionable boy the words she
did ? They had been standing by the window
watching for papa, and had seen reeling by, a
young man — scarcely that; a mere boy in years —
well-dressed, with the air even then of the well-
bred about him, but with that painful swaying in
his walk that can mean but one thing. And the
boy had been startled, dismayed, and had ques-
tioned eagerly, and returned to the subject again
and again, and the mother, with a terrible pain in
her heart, had recognized the young man as Mrs.
Stuart Bacon's son. On the way down-stairs,
Erskine had put his other question, and then she
had turned to him with this appeal, —

"My boy, promise your mother that you will
never touch a drop of anything that can possibly
make you walk as that young man did ! "

" Why, mamma, I have promised, you know. I
promised you, and I promised God."

" I know it, my darling ; promise again. Mamma
loves to hear the words : Whatever happens, who-

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VV. C. T. U.

135

ever asks you, unless you are very, very sick, and
the doctor, and mamma, too, if I am there, say it
is right."

She could not help that little proviso. And the
boy promised again. Then they went into the
dining-room, and that miserable orange wine was
on the table. It had been on several times since
the first scene connected with it, and the Judge
and his daughters had drank it when they would,
but none had been offered to Mrs. Burnham or the
child.

Judge Burnham was not in an amiable mood.
Heavy wrinkles made seams across his forehead,
and his eyes had an irritable glitter in them. Truth
to tell, he was not so indifferent to the tongues of
a few gossiping women as he would have his wife
imagine, and the Woman's Christian Temperance
Union, while waiting for their report from Mrs.
Burnham, had by no means been idle, and sen-
tences not complimentary to his name had reached
his ears several times during the day. These, in
connection with certain other business perplex-
ities, served to make him less ready than usual to
throw aside care.

I am afraid it must be admitted that it was
pure Maliciousness on the part of Minta that made
her suddenly exclaim, looking at Erskine, " How
thin and pale that child is growing ! He needs
tonics, I believe. Here, Erskine, take a swallow
of this, and see how nice it is ; it will be good for

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136

" W. C. T. U."

And she held toward him her glass of

you,
wine.

It was maliciousness, I suppose, but not very
deep. She was rather fond of a little scene, such
as would call a flush to her step-mother's face, and
give them the benefit of a sharp passage at arms.
She expected nothing more ; but almost in the
same breath with Erskine's " O, no ! thank you ;
I don't want any," came his father's stern com-
mand, —

" Erskine, do as your sister tells you, at once ! "

Then Erskine, trembling under the weight o^
the sternness — he had never been spoken to
that tone in his life before, —

" Oh ! but, papa, I can't ; please excuse me : I
cannot drink any wine."

" Obey me immediately ! "

" Oh ! but, papa, I can't, you know ; I promised."

" Erskine, either obey me immediately, and take
a drink from that glass, or go to my dressing-room,
and wait there until I come."

Trembling, frightened, half-blinded by the rush
of tears, the little boy did not hesitate even for a
second, but went across the room and out of the
door.

It was well that the meal was nearly concluded,
and the servants had left the room. The mother
felt that though her life had depended on it, she
could neither have eaten another mouthful nor
SDoken another word.

W. C. T. U.

^37

As for Minta, to do her justice, she was half-
scared and wholly repentant.

A messenger came just as they left the table
with a business telejjjram for Judf;e lUirnhani. He
detained the boy while he wrote a reply, and Ruth
went with swift steps to his dressing-room.

" Mamma, O, dear mamma ! ** said the frightened
child, " what made papa spc^ak so to me ? Was I
naughty } "

" My darling, did you not keep the promise that
you made to God ? How could that be naughty ? "

" But it made papa angry. Oh ! dear mamma,
what will he do } Will he whip me, do you think,
like the boy in the picture ? "

" My darling, that was a picture of a drunken
man ; you have no such father as that. Papa
does not understand ; he will let you explain, I
think. I will see him myself if I can."

And to the baby's urging that she would stay
with him, she turned resolutely away, assuring him
that that would be treating papa rudely, and that
she would try to see him, and explain what Erskine
meant. But she did not. He went directly to his
dressing-room by way of the library stair-case, and
let himself in at the back door with his key.

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138

"the deed for the will."

CHAPTER XII.

THE DEED FOR THE WILL.

MRS. BURNHAM, failing in her intention
to waylay her husband, returned to her
own room, which opened into the dressing-room.
Too nervous to take a seat, she walked the floor,
anxions, irresolute, miserable. She longed to go
to her child, but would not insult her husband
by seeming to be afraid to leave his son alone
with him. Ominous silence reigned in the dress-
ing-room. Judge Burnham had opened a drawer
somewhat noisily on the moment of his entrance,
but had spoken no word, so far as his wife could
hear. Suddenly on the quiet air came the sound
of a blow, accompanied by a little wailing cry, —

** O, papa, dear papa, please don't ! Mamma
said you wouldn't ; she said you wc ild let me
explain that I couldn't, because I baVw promised
God."

No reply at all from the angry father, save of
the sort which seemed to scar Ruth's very soul.
Her little sheltered darling, who had never before
known what physical i^ain was, except as sickness

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"7 HE DEED FOR THE WILL.

139

had shown it to him I How could his father strike
th^ little delicate hand, and for such a reason !
The wife's whole soul rose up in rebellion.

*• Please, papa, let me tell you about it. Oh !
papa, you hurt me very much."

But there was no reply. Should the mother
rush in, and, before her child, demand that this
insulting demonstration of passion should cease ?
All her ideas of wifely loyalty rose up to object
to this course, but she paced the floor like a caged
lioness, and said aloud, —

" I cannot bear this ; I ought not to bear it."

It was well, perhaps, for all concerned that the
scene was short. Judge Burnham spoke at last a
few low words, which his wife could not catch, and
then immediately entered her room.

Erskine's punishment had been neither prolonged
nor severe. The average boy would probably have
minded it but very little ; would perhaps have been
used to such a mode of correction. But Ruth
knew that her cherished son, with his unusually
gentle and easily-ruled nature, had inherited from
her such a shrinking horror of anything in the
form of a blow, that she felt sure he must be
quivering from head to foot, not with physical
pain, but with a sort of nervous terror, which he
did not understand and could not control. She
wa- no!-, therefore, in a mood to receive her hus-
band's words quietly.

" Mrs. Burnham, I request as a favor that you

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will not see Erskine again to-night ; I have pun-
ished him for disobedience, and told him to go
immediately to bed."

He had seen his wife in various states of mind
in the course of the last half-dozen years, but had
never felt before, and may never again, the blaze
that was in her eyes as she turned them fully on
him, and spoke in low, quick tones :— -

" It is a favor which will not be granted. You
have been cruel and unjust. If you have a moral
nature, you must by this time be ashamed of your-
self. I shall go to my child at once, and make
what reparation I can for his father's injustice."

Then, before he could recover himself sufficiently
to detain her even with a word, she had disappeared
through the door which led into Erskine's fair little
room.

As she had supposed, she found the child sobbing
violently. He had run to his room, by the dressing-
room entrance, the instant his father released him,
and, burying his little brown head in the pillows,
was trembling and moaning, so that one who under-
stood him less than his mother, would have sup-
posed him in mortal pain. In an instant he was
gathered to her arms, covered with kisses and
caresses, and overwhelmed with loving words.
But he could not yet control the tempest ok sur-
prise and pain.

*' O, mamma ! " he sobbed, " O, mamma ! he
did — he did like the man in the picture. You

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141

said he wouldn't, and he did. O, mamma ! what
can I do ? O, mamma ! "

If Mrs. Burn ham should live to be a white-
haired old woman, she will never, I think, for-
get the experiences of that evening. It was not
because the boy had been made to suffer physically.
She had sense enough, even in her excitement, to
understand that the punishment had been what
people accustomed to such ways of dealing with
their children would have called slight ; but there
are pains much deeper than those which the flesh
can endure. She knew only too well that her
child had lost faith in his father. How was it
possible for the thoughtful boy, wise beyond his
years, to think that he had b(-en treated other
than unjustly, especially in the li^jht of the ques-
tions he asked, and the answers she felt obliged to

give }

" Did I do v/rong, mamma } You said I didn't.
But if I didn't, why did papa punish me ? You
said they "punished people who did wrong } "

" My darling, I cannot think that you did any-
thing wrong. You had made a solemn promisf^
Papa did not know it ; did not understand ; he
thought you were disobedient."

" Oh ! but, mamma, I told him. I told him that
I had got down on my knees and promised God
that I never would, and he didn't listen at all.
O, mamma, mamma ! will he punish me every
time I try to keep my promise to God } "

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THE DLED FOR THE WILL.

Do you v/onder that the troubled mother set her
lips hard, and said in her heart, " No, he never
shall ? " But she had grace enough not to say it
aloud. Yet what must she say ?

She drew a low rocker and took the still trem-
bling child in her arms, dipping her hand in cold
water, and then making with it soft, cooling touches
over the heated face and head, and speaking low
and soothingly : —

" My darling, mamma's darling, there are some
things that I cannot explain ; when you are older
you will understand. I do not think papa will
punish you in this way again. When he thinks it
over, he will see that you meant to do right."

Silence for a moment : then the voice went on
firmly. Her decision had been made.

"Erskine, papa doe? not think about some
things as I do, and a? . believe God does, and as
I want you to think. Some day I hope he will,
and you and I must pray every day to the dear
God to make papa his follower in all things. In
the meantime, my darling, what you and I find in
the Bible that God has spoken, we will try to do
alwayS; whether it is hard or easy. Shall we not.-*"

She had never said so much before ; questions
innumerable she had evaded or half-answered, after
the manner of loyal Christian wives, in divided
homes ; now it seemed to her that the time had
come when she must pUinly say, *' There are
things, solemn, all-important things, about which

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143

we are not agreed." But what an admission for a
wife to make i Will she ever forget the pain of
that last question, asked with a little sobbing sigh,
before her baby went to sleep, " Oh ! dear mamma,
why do not papas and mammas both think like
God? '

At the earliest possible hour when a call was
admissible, the next morning, Mrs. Burnham's
card was sent up to Mrs. Stuart Bacon. She had
determined to giv^ her answer in person. She
made no attempt at circumlocution, but came di-
rectly to the point : —

" Mrs. Bacon, I have failed in the work given
me to do ; perhaps you know from your experi-
ences of life that husband and wife are not always
as one where business matters are concerned ; I
think my husband believes his word to be pledged.
No words of mine will express to you the regret
that I feel at my failure. I have not shown my-
self so skillful a worker that you should care to
have me join your ranks, but, at the same time, I
want to say to you that I have changed my mind
since Tuesday. I want to join your Union, and I
pledge my personal support and effort in any direc-
tion where I can be made useful."

So much, at least, for the cause Judge Burnham
had accomplished. He was not a very self-com-
placent man during the days that immediately
followed. His wife's cold, stern words had burned
deeply, and as soon as the first storm of passion

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THE DEED FOR THE WILL

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was over, he could not but acknowledge to himself
that there had been a shade of truth in them.

What a surprising thing that he who had always
prided himself on his liberality of thought and
feeling, who had always good-naturedly argued
that the veriest cranks of society should be al-
lowed to ride their hobbies according to their own
sweet wills, so long as they injured no one; that
he should have so far forgotten himself as to
command a child to do that which was not only
contrary to his mother's teachings, but contrary
to the baby's notions of what a Supreme Being
demanded of him !

Judge Burnham was by no means a Christian
man ; at the same time he was very far removed
from being an infidel. He often smiled, and occa-
sionally he sneered, at some of the ideas belonging
to Christianity ; still, he explained to himself that
his smiles and sneers were for the out-croppings of
ideas belonging to ignorant fanatics, not to the
actual verities themselves. He assured himself
that certain forms of worship were eminently fit-
ting as offered to the Creator by the creature ;
also that certain outgrowths of Christianity were
elevating r.nd worthy of all respect. He assured
himself that he had never objected to his wife's
position as a member of the church. That was
eminently a fitting position for a woman ; it was
the unreasoning submission which she gave to the
demands of fanaticism that disturbed him.

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145

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But that he should have so far forgotten himself
as to allow his child to see that there was a differ-
ence of opinion between them was, he admitted,
ungentlemanly.

Especially was it offensive to him that the differ-
ence of opinion should have shown itself in the
line of a mere appetite ; a thing which should, of
course, be subordinate ; as he thought of it, lie
actually could not he^p curling his lip at himself.
It was of no use trying to restore his self-respect
by saying that the issue between ti'.ern had to be
met, and disobedience punished, no matter how
trifling the occasion ; he was perfectly aware that
he had himself made the issue, made it unneces-
sarily, in a way that he would not have done, had
he not been irritated about something else ; and
that, while it was a trifle to him, it was an in-
tensely serious matter to the child.

On the whole, the gentleman did what might,
perhaps, be called somewhat profitable thinking
during the days that followed.

To his wife he was unfailingly courteous, even
kind, despite her cold, quiet dignity ; he made no
attempt to resent this ; on tne contrary, he even
respected her for it. She had spoken some very
plain words to him — words which stung deeply at
the time, but he could not help the admission that
there was truth in them. You will remember
that he was a successful lawyer ; accustomed to
weighing questions carefully, and giving decisions,

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" THE DEED FOR THE WILL."

and his judgment had given a decision in this case
which by no means acquitted himself. He was
not the sort of man who could frankly say, " I
was in the wrong, I beg you will forgive." Such
a statement calls, for a very high grade of charac-
ter ; calls, perhaps, for Christian character, though
there have been men who knew how to say ** for-
give me " to mortals, not yet having learned to
say it to Christ.

Judge Burnham was not one, but he knew how
to act the words gracefully and persistently. His
little son helped him also to a smaller opinion of
himself ; no trace of resentment lingered on the
child's sweet, bright face. A little touch of shy-
ness there was, a questioning, half-startled glance,
each time he' met him afresn, as though he were
wondering in his child-mind whether he had un-
wittingly given occasion for offense, but, receiving
his father's smile, he sprang joyously into his arms
and lavished kisses as before. They were inex-
pressibly sweet to the father's heart. Ruth, too,
was glad over them. Her own soul had been
hurt, but she did not wish the child to feel a last-
ing sting. He had settled the question for him-
self with the next morning's sunlight. " Mamma,"
he had said, with his brightest smile, " I've thought
it all out ; he did not want me to disobey you and
God, but he had to punish me because I disobeyed
him ; don't you see ? I don't mind it now ; it
didn't hurt me much, only it was so dreadful, you

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THE DEED FOR THE WILL.

147

know. But now that I understand, it doesn't
seem bad."

It was baby logic ; Ruth had to smile over it,
albeit behind the smile there was a tear ; but she
made no attempt to reason the thought away. In
fact, as the days passed, there seemed to be
method in the reasoning. The objectionable wine
was on the table once or twice, but none was
offered to the child ; and, on the third day after
the dinner-table scene, Ruth overheard this order
given by the master of the house, —

" Robert, you need not serve any more of that
wine at table ; Mrs. Burnham doesn't care for it,
and it isn't what I thought it was ; pack it away in
the cellar ; it may be needed sometime."

It was nearly a week afterward that Judge Burn-
ham came home earlier by several hours than was
his custom, and found both his wife and son in the
library, intent over a new book that had many
illustrations. The child sprang to meet him as
usual. Ruth tried to make her greeting cordial ;
she did not want to continue the wall of reserve
that she had raised between her husband and her-
self, but she did not know how to lovvcr it. That
he had pained her unutterably was not to be denied,
but that because of it she was henceforth to show
only cold displeasure, was, of course, folly ; the
more so because of the boy's constant lesson of
confiding love.

So now she closed her book, and made some

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general inquiries as to the day's experiences, try-
ing to make her voice sound free and social. But
Judge Burnham was preoccupied. He set Erskine
down, after a few kisses, and, throwing himself
into a vacant chair across the room from his wife,
drew from his pocket a formidable-looking docu-
ment, bristling with seals, and tossed it to the
child.

" Here, my boy, is a new plaything for you."

** A plaything ! Why, papa, what is it for ? Is
it sealed ? Why, no, it is open, and it is all written
over. How funny ! Is it a great big letter } '*

** Not exactly ; in law we call it a deed."

" And what is a deed .? "

Judge Burnham laughed, and glanced at his
wife.

" It means, in this case, a transfer of property."

" Papa, I don't understand."

" Don't you } That is surprising. Let me see
if I can explain ; a deed, this deed, at least, is to
declare that I am no longer the owner of a certain
piece of property ; that I have given up all right
and title to it from this time forth."

** Why have you done it, papa ? What property
is it, and who has bought it } "

" For good and sufficient reasons ; I am to an-
swer your questions in course, am I not? You
ask three. The property is the house on the
corner of Markam Square, known as the Shenan-
doah ; and it now belongs to a person by the

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149

name of Erskine Powers Burnham. Are you ac-
quainted with him ? "

The flush on the child's face was pretty to see ;
but Judge Burnham was looking at his wife.

" Papa, that is my name ; my whole name ; but
of course you can't mean me ! "

" Why not ? "

" Because — why, papa, could a little boy have
a great big house for his own ? Would you give
it to me ? "

" So it seems. That deed says so ; it needs
only the addition of your mother's name to make
it complete, and I have an idea that she can be
persuaded to sign it."

" But, papa, what will I do with it ? I'm not big
enough, am I ? "

" You will be ; meantime, you can consult with
your mother as to what you will, or will not have
done ; and you might retain me for your legal
adviser ; I will act in that capacity to the best
of my abilities, under your and your mamma's
directions. "

" Mamma," said Erskine, " did you ever hear of
anything so nice } A whole big house ! "

And Ruth, looking past the boy, said, --

" Thank you ; thank you more than words can
tell ! "

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THE WISDOM OF THIS WORLD.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE WISDOM OF THIS WORLD.

AFTER that there was a lull in the Burnham
household. The various excitements of the
days just passed seemed to have been somewhat
like storms, which left the air clearer.

There was, about this time, some letting-up in
the pressure of Judge Burnham's business affairs,
and he was more at home, and exerted himself to
be entertaining to both wife and son. As for
Ruth, she made many concessions in the way of
society life ; went with her husband to several
state dinners that bored her exceedingly, and
even to an elegant breakfast or two, and to one
massive and oppressive evening party, where the
crowds were too great either for dancing or cards ;
and she tormented her conscience, when once
more at home, by asking it in what respect the
evening's entertainments had been lifted higher
because of the absence of these amusements, or
whether it would not have been better to have
danced than to have indulged in some of the chit-
chat which she overheard ; that old pretense of

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151 • ^

logic which she was too tired, just then, to cast
aside, paralleled in folly by the statement, " It is
better to lie than to stccil ; " while one forgets or
ignores the fact that if such a statement could be
proven, it would prove nothing, unless, indeed,
one were driven of necessity to a choice between
those two employments.

As for the young ladies, their life flowed on
in an endless stream of parties, concerts, private
theatricals, and what not. Ruth was indebted
to them for some letting-up of her burdens. It
was their choice not to have the elegant entertain-
ment which was being planned, until toward the
close of the season ; Seraph, who was more out-
spoken on many subjects than her sister, announc-
ing frankly that their object was to see what the
Everetts and the Wheelmans were going to do
before their turn came, as there were hints in the
air of something very unique from those quarters,
and they, the Misses Burnham, were fully resolved
that nothing more brilliant than their own party
should be possible, that season.

So Ruth breathed more freelv because of this
respite, and kept her plans concerning the gather-
ing to herself ; time enough to bring them to the
front, to be perhaps sharply combated, when the
occasion for action was at hand. Meantime, in
her leisure hours, she had some interests more to
her mind than society furnished. She was now a
member of the Woman's Christian Temperance

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THE WISDOM OF THIS WORLD.

Union ; and in their weekly gathering for prayer
she found herself surrounded once more by an
atmosphere of earnest Christian life, that rested
and encouraged her. She had been so long among
people who did not know how to pray, that she had
almost forgotten how busy some women were in
their Lord's vineyard. It was inexpressibly com-
forting to be greeted as one of their number, and
to hear her name mentioned gratefully in their
prayers. It being utterly foreign to her nature to
live ever so slight a deception, she had told her
husband, at the first opportunity, of her joining
herself to this organization ; but it was at a time
when he was undergoing that sharp self-question-
ing which I told you was not without its good
results, and though he winced a little at the infor-
mation, and shrugged his shoulders, and said he
had supposed such organizations were not in ac-
cordance with her taste, yet, on the whole, he bore
the news very well ; there were no crusades in the
air at present, and although it was never safe to
prophesy what a band of women would do, still,
when it came to the point, he felt that he could
probably trust his wife's elegant, high-bred nature
to do nothing incongruous ; that they should meet
to pray each week certainly could not harm any-
body, and, while it was peculiar, of course there
was nothing low about it ; so, if they enjoyed
such occupations, why should they not indulge
themselves ?

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153

Judge Burnham realized that he was just now
in high favor with the leading spirits of this
Union ; their smiles were bright, and their bows
most cordial, when they met him on the street ;
two or three, indeed, had offered him personal
thanks for his intervention in behalf of their
homes ; and though he had gaily disclaimed any
complicity with their schemes, and assured them
that he was no longer the owner of the Shenan-
doah, and therefore not responsible for any of the
whims which had brought about the present state
of ill-humor on the landlord's part, they accepted
this as a graceful joke, and were grateful, all the
same. As for the little new owner of the Shen-
andoah, it had not taken him an hour to learn how
to " instruct his legal adviser" in such a thorough
manner that the guests of that house had still to
look elsewhere for their choice wines.

Mj'tters generally were in the condition of lull
which I have described, when Judge Burnham
came home one evening, later than usual, with
the announcement that he must leave, by the
morning train, for a long, and, he feared, tedious
business trip, that would detain him for perhaps
two months. He spent half an hour in trying to
convince Ruth that she could accompany him,
leaving Erskine in charge of the young ladies ;
but, finding her steadily determined to do no such
thing, he abandoned the idea, and gave himself to
the business of making ready.

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THE WISDOM OF THIS WORLD.

Frequent journeys had been common experiences
of his business life ; but this was a more extended
absence than he had of late been obliged to make,
and Ruth, as she turned from the platform where,
with Erskine, she had watched until the smoke
of his departing train was lost in cloud, felt an
unusual sense of loneliness ; life had been pleas-
anter, during these few weeks, than in a long time
before ; it seemed hard that the pleasantness must
be so soon broken. Erskine begged to wait and
watch the east-bound train, which was even then
whistling in the distance, and among the passengers
who hurried from it his mother saw young Hamlin.
His California trip was concluded, then ; would his
intimacy with Minta be renewed, she wondered,
or had she already found some greater attraction }
And then she told herself resolutely that she
need not worry about that ; she had done what
she could in regard to it ; if they chose to be
intimate friends now, they need not fear inter-
ference from her.

In the leisure from wifely duties which now
came to her, she found herself turning more and
more to the society of the women who composed
the Christian Temperance Union. The prayer
meeting, never very largely attended, was yet the
gathering place for the choice spirits of the Union,
and Ruth found h^erself rested and uplifted when-
ever she came in contact with them. She grew
more and more interested in their plans for meet-

THE WISDOM OF THIS WORLD.

155

ing the enemy, and began to take an earnest part
in some of them. She might never have made
the proposition, but she warmly seconded it, when
one of the ladies said she thought they were
strong enough to sustain a gospel temperance
meeting on Sunday afternoons. Ruth had very
little idea what sort of gatherings these were,
but the name sounded invl^ing. The first meet-
ing was a revelation to her. People came whom
she thought never went to meeting ; and behaved,
some of them, in s".ch a manner as to make her
half feel that they would better not be there.
Wasn't it a sort of sacrilege to permit such con-
duct in a religious gathering ? However, she rose
above this ; if they did not know how to behave
in a gospel meeting, or, knowing, did not care,
surely they needed the enlightening and refining
influences of the gospel in an unusual degree.
Besides, some of them sat quite still, chewed no
tobacco, and listened, especrally when Mrs. Bacon
prayed, as though there was a new power about
them, whose influence they felt. Ruth grew
intensely interested.

Meantime, home-life went on much as usual.
The young ladies were out every evening, and
kept closely to their rooms during the day, when
not riding or paying visits ; so that the lady of the
house saw very little of them. She was relieved
from even the semblance of supervision over their
goings and comings, by the installment of one

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THE WISDOM OF THIS WORLD.

who was supposed to have the right to protect
them.

Mr. Jerome Satterley deserves, possibly, more
than a passing introduction ; yet I find that I have
heretofore not remembered to give him even that.
You are to understand, then, that he had, quite
recently, come into the family life as Miss Seraph's
accepted suitor. Ruth, when informed of it, had
realized, once more, that she certainly was not the
mother of these girls ; had she been, with what an
utter sinking of heart would she have given one
away into the keeping of such a man as Jerome
Satterley ! As it was, she smiled a faint smile,
which had in it the slightest possible curve of
the upper lip, as she said to Judge Burnham,
" People must choose according to their individual
tastes, I suppose."

Yet Mr. Jerome Satterley, in the eyes of the
fastidious, fashionable world, was considered un-
exceptionable. He belonged to one of the old
families of the city, had a reasonable fortune in
his own right, and an unlimited one which would
probably come to him in the future. He was
elegant in dress and manner ; his mustache was
carefully waxed, his shapely hands were cared for
tenderly, and he knew how to hold a lady's fan
or parasol, or attend her to the piano, or the
carriage, or the refreshment room in the most
approved style. In fact, the girls in that stage
of development, when such phrases are used, said

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157

his manners were " perfectly lovely ! '* Yet Mrs.
Burnham, unreasonable mortal, regarded him. with
feelings which were on the very verge of dislike.
He had been well enough when she could pass
him, along with others of his clique, with a cold
bow, or, at most, a dignified "good-evening." But
to be on such terms that he felt privileged to toy
with the spools in her work-basket, and say inane
nothings to her, while he waited for the young
ladies, or to saunter in just before the bell rang,
and announce that he had come to stay to dinner,
and to be obliged to accord to him not only the
attention of a polite hostess, but a semblance of
the familiarity which his position in the family
circle demanded, this was, to the last degree, an
annoyance to Mrs. Burnham.

It was all the more trying, of course, because
Mr. Satterley remained in blissful ignorance of his
inability to entertain or interest his prospective
mother-in-law. Truth to tell, he believed aimself
to be irresistible to all ladies, of whatever age and
position. He considered himself posted on all
subjects, whether in art, literature, or music ; and
unhesitatingly expressed his opinions, with an air
that was intended to quench any opposing views,
from any source whatever. Indeed, so entirely sat-
isfied was he with his own wisdom, that I do not
think he would have hesitated to dispute the most
eminent scientist which the world has produced,
if he ventured a scientific statement not in accord-

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THE WISDOM OF THIS WORLD.

ance with Mr. Satterley's preconceived opinion,
though that opinion might have been adopted
because of a chance remark that he had heard
some one make at the breakfast-table that morn-
ing. In short, Mr. Satterley had an abundance of
the conceit which is the visible sign of superfici-
ality. You will, perhaps, be able to imagine how
trying, to a woman of Mrs. Burnham's stamp, was
anything like familiarity with such a person. She
confessed to herself, with cheeks that burned over
the thought, that such things had power to annoy
her ; that when he began with an, " Oh ! my dear
Mrs. Burnham, I assure you, you are utterly mis-
taken," about some matter, trivial in itself, but
about which common sense would suppose her to
be better posted than he could be, she felt, some-
times, like throwing her book at him.

Especially was it trying to her when he dis-
coursed V rnedly on religious topics, making the
wildest statements, which were without even the
shadow of a solid foundation, and proceeding
gravely to argue about them as the accepted stan-
dards of the Church. Of course he was a young
man, holding " literal views," and "advanced ideas,"
and whatever other term may be coined to dis-
guise indifference or antagonism. And the patro-
nizing way in which he would sometimes say,
*' Why, my dear Mrs. Burnham, I assure you, you
are too cultivated a woman to hold to any such
ignorant absurdities as are inyolved in that belief,"

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159

made Ruth resolve, more than once, that she
would make no reply to any of his platitudes, on
any subject whatever.

"He is in his very babyhood as regards con-
versation," she said to herself, with curling lip.
" Of what use to try to talk with such a person ? "
But when a man asks a point-blank question, it is
very difficult to make no reply.

It was just after one of these emphatig re-
solves, that Ruth sat, silent and annoyed, listening
to Mr. Satterley and Minta, while they merrily
chattered over a sermom that they had heard
preached the night before ; Mr. Satterley was
waiting to escort Seraph to the theater, and this
was Minta's method of amusing him while he
waited. The text of the sermon had been quoted
in a tone which would indicate that that, too, was
food for amusement : " It is appointed unto all
men once to die, and after that the judgment."
After much merriment at ther preacher's expense,
Mr. Satterley attacked Ruth's grave and silent
protest.

" My dear Mrs. Burnham, don't you think such
themes are entirely obsolete, in these days ? "

"What themes.?"

Determined not to discuss this question with
him, the only way seemed to be to ward off his
questions.

" Why, the themes which have to do with old
superstitious ideas of the judgment, and the

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THE WISDOM OF THIS WORLD.

attempt to frighten people into some sort of mys-
terious preparation for the same. I confess that
I thought all such ideas were obsolete among peo-
ple of culture,"

" Do you think that death is obsolete, Mr.
Satterley ? "

" Oh ! death, why, dear madam, that is but a
debt which is paid to the laws of nature."

** Then is there any objection to learning how
to pay it gracefully ? If you are very familiar
with death-beds, you must be aware that there are
different ways of meeting this law ? By the way,
did it ever occur to you that it was a somewhat
bewildering law of nature which takes the little
child to-day, and the old man of threescore and
ten to-morrow ; and it may be a young woman, or
a young man in his prime, the next day ? I could
understand it better as a law, if it were held to
times and seasons, and meddled only with ripened
grain."

He seemed puzzled by her reply, quite different
from what he had expected, and hesitated for a
moment, during which Seraph entered in all the
dazzle of full dress.

** It is well you are come," Minta said ; " mamma
and Jerome are quarreling about death and kindred
cheerful subjects ; there is no telling what the out-
come would have been."

" It is suggestive, to say the least, Seraph, that
your dress is very thin, and your throat even more

THE WISDOM OF THIS WORLD.

I6l

exposed than usual ; and the night is cold. If I
might be allowed to advise, I should say you ought
to wear a warmer garment than that, unless you
desire to court the presence of some of Death's
attendants."

** Mamma," said Minta, with mock seriousness,
•' that is almost a pun ; and about so solemn a sub-
ject as death. I am really shocked ! "

Then Seraph : " A warmer dress would be
more comfortable, I admit, but the trouble is, it
isn't fashionable to wear high-necked garments in
full dress. And you know, mamma, you trained
us to a very careful attention to fashion in all its
details ; we want to do full justice to your early
teachings. As Madame Dupont used to say, * A
young lady who is not aiL fait in . all that regards
the demands of fashion, is dead already.* "

It was a keen-pointed arrow, and it struck
home. Ruth sat and thought about it after she
was left alone, as she had sat and thought many a
day since her work for these girls began to develop
in ways of which she had not dreamed.

She had been careful even of the minutest de-
tails ; she had labored to impress upon the minds
of the uncouth, careless girls the importance of
tints, and shades, and widths, and shapes, and per-
fect fits. How could she know that they would
come to mean so much more to these girls than
she had meant } so much more than they had ever
meant to her ?

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THK WISDOM OF THIS WORLD.

She recalled the day when Susan, having done
for them all she could, the question of boarding-
school was being discussed, and the claims of
Madame Dupont's establishment had been urged
by some of Ruth's fashionable friends. Susan had
said quietly, —

" I know Madame Dupont's girls ; they all learn
how to dance and dress."

Then she, the one who had stood in the place
of mother, had replied : —

" I know her girls have the name of being super-
ficial, but that depends, after all, more on the girls
than on their teacher^ And really, Susan, it
seems absolutely necessary that Seraph and Minta
should go to a school where they give special
attention to grace of movement and refinement of
manner ; they are so deficient in these respects.
Beside, they teach dancing in all boarding-schools,
I suppose."

Susan had said no more, and after further dis-
cussion, the choice was made in favor of Madame
Dupont, and to her the girls were sent for two
years. And Madame Dupont's teachings had
been : " A young lady who is not au fait in all
that regards the demands of fashion, is dead
already."

Ruth's memories ended, as they nearly always
did, with a sigh.

Ill

A TROUBLESOME "YOUNG PERSON.

163

CHAPTER XIV.

A TROUBLESOME "YOUNG PERSON."

ALMOST immediately after Seraph's departure
with Mr. Satterley, Minta had followed,' with
Mr. Hamlin, leaving Mrs. Burnham to the troubled
thought of which I told you.

Mingling with her anxieties was this one which
had to do with young Hamlin. It was all very
well for her to assure herself that she had no
responsibility in the matter, that she had done all
she could ; the fact remained that people were
looking to her to interfere in this intimacy, which
seemed to have been renewed with tenfold vigor
since Mr. Hamlin's return.

Marion had sent her a little note, assuring her
that the very worst might be believed of the stories
which were afloat concerning him, and begging
her to use her influence with Judge Burnham
before it should be too late. " I have no influ-
ence, " declared Ruth ; she was quite alone when
she said it, and would not have repeated it in any
person's hearing for the world. But in her heart
she believed it to be painfully true ; at one time she
resolved to inclose Mrs. Dennis's note in her next

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A TROUBLESOME " YOUNG PERSON

letter to her husband, without comment of any
sort ; but she shrank from doing this, in the belief
that only harm could come of it, and in her miser-
able vacillation as to what was best to do, she did
nothing.

Even though Mrs. Stuart Bacon said to her,
one day, — "Dear Mrs. Burnham, do you know
it is probable that that young Hamlin may be
arrested for securing money under false pretenses ?
Isn't it sad, and his family connections have always
been so eminently respectable ? " Not a word
said Mrs. Stuart Bacon about the young man's
intimacy in her family, but Mrs. Burnham's cheeks
glowed over the thought that this, too, was a warning.

It was in the evening of that day that Mr.
Satterley said to her : " I doubt whether the Judge,
if he were at home, would care to have Minta's
name coupled with young Hamlin's as much as it
is ; there are some ugly stories afloat concerning
him."

" Then why do you not warn her } " Mrs.
Burnham had asked irritably, angry with herself
that, by so much, she must seem to accept his
relations with the family, and also that she must,
by this, admit to him her own powerlessness.
But Mr. Satterley had shrugged his shoulders, and
laughed, and asked her if her experiences with
Minta led her to believe that that young lady was
disposed to receive warnings very graciously.
And then they had been interrunted.

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A TROUBLESOME " YOUNG PERSON.

.65

These two last hints Mrs. Burnham did report
to her husband, with the information that the
young man was becoming marked in his atten-
tions ; that on some pretext or other he and Minta
were together nearly every evening, and that, as
he was well aware, there was nothing which she
could say or do to prevent it. This letter was
sent after Judge Burnham had been absent for six
weeks, and his wife hoped that the hints it con-
tained might hasten his movements.

Meantime, on the evening in question, she was
not left long to solitude. Kate came to her in the
library with a puzzled air. " Mrs. Burnham, there
is a young person in the hall who asked to see you
on special business, and inquired particularly if you
were alone."

" What sort of a young person, Kate ? Some
friend of the young ladies } "

" I don't think so, ma'am ; oh ! no, I am sure it
isn't. She is neat-looking, and civil spoken enough,
but she doesn't belong to them."

"Then I suppose it is some one in search
of employment ; you might take her name and
address, and tell her I will see what I can do for
her, though I am not on that committee."

" If you please, Mrs. Burnham, I don't think
that will satisfy her. I asked her if there was
a message, and if it was something I could do for
her, and not trouble you ; and she said, O, no I
she must see you, and see you quite alone."

1 66

A TROUBLESOME " YOUNG PERSON.

«>

" Poor thing ! it must be some one in distress.
Let her come to the library, and excuse me to any
callers while she is here."

But the "young person " who presently appeared
before her did not look in the least as Ruth had
immediately planned that she should. She was a
girl of perhaps twenty, with a face which under
favorable circumstances might have been beauti-
ful ; as it was, framed in clustering, natural curls,
and set off by eyes which, when they were not
red with recent weeping, must have been very
lovely, she was strikingly interesting. Her man-
ner was so much that of a lady, that Ruth half
rose to meet her, with the ceremony of society cus-
toms, though the exceeding plainness of the young
woman's dress showed that she was not making an
ordinary society call.

" Mrs. Burnham, I believe," she said, in a clear
and not uncultured voice.

" That is my name," said that lady. " Be seated,
please. You have the advantage of me ; your face
is familiar, but I cannot think where I have seen
it."

" I belong at the lace counter in Myers &
Mc Alpine's store ; you have seen me there."

The tone was very assured ; evidently this young
woman remembered her customer. A sudden light
appeared on Mrs. Burnham's face ; she recalled the
pretty young girl who had interested her by courte-
ous 9nd unselfish ways.

I 1 1

A TROUBLESOME " YOUNG PERSON

167

" Be seated," she said again cordially, with a
wave of her hand toward the low rocker, near.
" I am glad you have come to see me ; is there
any way in which I can serve you ? "

" Mrs. Burnham, may I ask you a question which
may seem very rude ? I do not mean it for that."

" The poor child is in some trouble," thought
the lady ; " some diflficulty between her employer
and herself, probably, in v/hich she thinks I can
help her. Well, if I can, I will."

" Ask me whatever you wish," she said aloud,
" and I will answer it if I can," and her smile was
intended to be reassuring. But the question was
utterly unlike what she had expected.

" Mrs. Burnham, is the taller of your two
daughters engaged to be married to Mr. Jerome
Satterley ? " Then as the look of astonishment
on her hostess' face deepened into displeasure,
she added in nervous haste, " I knew you would
consider me a bold, insolent girl, but I have
indeed good reasons for asking ; and I thought I
ought to come to you rather than to any one else."

" Perhaps, if you could give me your reasons for
asking so strange a question upon a subject which
cannot in any way concern you, I might be able
to judge you more leniently."

Mrs. Burnham's voice was coldly dignified now ;
she had an abundance of what, for want of a better
name, we may call family pride ; but the girl made
haste to respond : —

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" Oh ! indeed, madam, it does concern me most
bitterly ; if it did not, I could not have come to
you with it. If you will answer me just that
question, I shall know better how to tell you the
story, and I am sure you will say that I ought to
have asked it."

Mrs. Burnham was puzzled, but the girl was
evidently intensely in earnest.

•' We do not usually speak of such family matters,
save to intimate friends," she said ; " but it is no
secret, I believe, and I see no reason why I should
hesita:e to tell you that Mr. Satterley and Miss
Seraph Burnham are engaged to be married."

"Then, madam, I ought to tell you, so that you,
her mother, can explain to her that he is not to be
trusted."

Even at such a time, Ruth could hardly restrain
a smile of sarcasm over the thought that she was
supposed by any one to be the person to ad^ ise
with and care for Miss Seraph Burnham. But
nothing of this thought showed in her words.

** Indeed ! " she said, with lifted eyebrows, ** that
is a serious charge ; one should know exceedingly
well what one is saying who uses such language
as that."

" Oh ! I know ; I know only too well what I am-
saying. I can give you proof of it ; I did not
come here because I wanted to, or without know-
ing what risk to my own reputation I ran ; but
I thought I could talk with you, because, Mrs.

A TROUBLESOME " YOUNG PERSON.

169

Burnham — " She broke off suddenly, and then,
before Paith could speak, began again, working the
fingers of her ungloved hands together nervously
while she spoke : " I need not make it a long story ;
I have been engaged to that man for nearly a year,
and we were to have been married very soon. When
I tell you this, and then tell you that he left me
without a word of explanation, without any cause,
so far as I know, beyond the one that he found a
face that suited him better, do you not think I
am true in saying that your daughter cannot trust
him.?"

" Engaged to you ! " These were the only words
Mrs. Burnham seemed capable of speaking.

"Yes'm ; engaged to me. It sounds strangely
to you ; I knew it would ; you cannot see how it is
possible that the name of a poor girl like me, a
clerk in a fancy store, should have the right to be
coupled with that of Jerome Satterley. I do not
wonder ; I used to think so myself ; and I said it
was because he was unlike other men — nobler and
better. Mrs. Burnham, you will want proof of
my story ; I can give it ; look, I still wear the
ring he gave me. I am a poor girl, but we are
respectable ; we were not even poor always ; papa
was a wealthy merchant, and Mr. Durand, of the
firm of Durand & Parkman, is my uncle ; mamma
is a widow, and we are poor enough now. I have
been a clerk in a fancy store for three years, help-
ing to support her and the younger ones."

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A TROUBLESOME " YOUNG PERSON

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"And you met Mr. Satterley where ? "

" In New York ; I was a clerk in Jennings', at
the silk counter ; I met him at my uncle's here
in town one evening, and then, when he came
to New York, he called on me, and was good to
mamma and the children ; better than any one in
the world, I thought ; and in a very few weeks he
told me that he had come to New York on purpose
to get acquainted with me ; that he did not care
how poor I was, that he had money enough for
both of us, and that mamma should live again in
the style to which she had been used. He stayed
in New York for four months ; his uncle, Mr. Tel-
ford, is the president of the Grand Street Bank,
and he stayed at his uncle's. When he went
away he was to come again in the spring for me ;
I can show you many letters from him which say
so. Oh ! I could prove it by witnesses if it were
necessary. He talked frankly to mamma; she did
not trust him, and he took it hard, and so did I ;
but mamma knew."

She drew from her pocket a package of letters,
carefully tied with a blue ribbon, and began with
eager haste to untie them, while Mrs. Burnham
questioned her as one in a dream.

" Let me understand ; I thought you were a
clerk here in town."

** I am, madam ; I have been here two months ; I
secured a place ; Mr. Jennings recommended me.
I had not heard from Mr. Satterley in weeks, and I

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A TROUBLESOME " YOUNG PERSON

171

was so miserable, so sure that he was sick, or that
some serious trouble had come upon him, that
I could not rest without trying to find out ; so I
came here ; and I have found out. He does not
know that I am in the city, but I have seen him
almost every day for two months ; and I have
watched him with your daughter until I know she
is going through just what I have been, and I want
to warn her. Believe me, Mrs. Burnham, that is
all I want ; it is not money that I am after. I
never mean to bring any trial for breach of prom-
ise, though the promises were plain enough, and
often repeated ; read that," and she thrust before
her hostess an open letter, which at first glance
could be recognized as Mr. Satterley'» very pecul-
iar writing. As the girl said, the promises were
plain enough, and repeated oftener than for an
honorable man would seem to have been neces-
sary. Ruth, as she read it, could not help thinking
aloud, " This reads like a man who is not accus-
tomed to being believed."

" Does it ? I did not thmk so ; and I believed
in him utterly ; I almost quarreled with mamma
because she could not fully trust him. I used to
lie awake nights, thinking how we — ho and I —
would heap beautiful coals of fire on her head. He
told me I should furnish her room myself, with all
the elegances that money could buy, and that I
should make it exactly like the one she used to
have, if I chose."

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A TROUBLESOME " YOUNG PERSON.

What an evening it was ! The door-bell rang
several times, and Kate came once with a message
from one of the ladies of the Union, who was im-
portunate ; but Ruth waved her imperiously away,
with the assurance that she could see nobody, no
matter whom. Late into the evening the talk
went on. Proof piled on proof, incontestable, that
the elegant Mr. Satterley, with the date of his
wedding day actually set, had turned in swiftness
and silence away from his deliberately chosen
bride, and set himself vigorously to wooing another.

" But I do not understand," Mrs. Burnham said
at last ; " I do not see how he expects to manage ;
he must know that you will hear of it, and that you
can make him serious trouble. Why does he not
at least try to win you to silence ? "

A deep blush overspread the young girl's hitherto
pale face, and she shook her head, as she spoke
quickly : —

" He knows that I will not give him any trouble
in the way you mean ; he trusts me as fully as I
trusted him. If I cannot respect him, I want
nothing of him. But could I let him deceive an-
other as he has me ? In the sight of God, Mrs.
Burnham, all I want is to save her ; I ought to
have spoken before, but I could not believe it pos-
sible. He may be in earnest this time, but what
proof can he give her that he has not given me ? "

Over another question of her visitor, Ruth felt
the blood roll in waves up to her very forehead.

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^71

" Mrs. Burnham, do you think a person who is
a Christian ought to marry one who is not } "

" No," said Judge Burnham's wife steadily, and
without hesitancy ; and then that tell-tale blood
had mantled her face.

** Mamma thinks the same," said the unsuspect-
ing girl, intent only on her own story. " And, oh !
I thought so, too, once, but I gave it up ; I was so
sure I could win him to Christ, and here I could
not even " —

She stopped abruptly, as she had frequently
during the evening. There seemed to be some
sentences that she did not trust herself to finish.
The voice was lower when she commenced again, —

" Sometimes I have thought it was God's pun-
ishment upon me, for putting another in the place
of him."

** It is God's love to you, my friend, in saving
you from a miserable life." The words were im-
pulsive, but they came from the heart's depths.

She sat and thought long about it all, after her
guest had gone ; sat even until she heard the
merry voices of the returning young ladies and
their attendants. Then she gathered in haste
the work and the magazine that had long before
dropped from her hands, and made a retreat to the
privacy of her own room. She had much to think
about. What part was she to play in this pitiful
tragedy of human life which had been so unex-
pectedly thrust in upon her }

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" YOUNG PERSON."

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She had promised the poor little clerk at the
lace counter that she would do what she could
toward warning, or, as she phrased it, " saving "
her daughter Seraph.

Her daughter ! What a miserable mockery of
words ! If she were in very truth her daughter,
if her spirit burned within her, would not the girl
recoil in horror from a life so utterly false as this .''
Yet did she expect it of her ? '

She sat late into the night, trying to plan how it
would all be ; what she should say to Seraph, and
also, more important, what Seraph would say to
her, and what the outcome of it all would be.

Would it humiliate the girl more, she wondered,
to have the knowledge of her promised husband's
false nature come through her lips } Yet who could
tell it if she did not .'* The father was away, and
there was certainly need for haste, if anything was
to be accomplished. Though what could she hope
to accomplish } Yet in the name of their common
womanhood she could not let this one, to whom
she stood before the world in the place of mother,
go on in ignorance of the hollowness of the staff
she was trying to lean upon.

Ruth pitied her, and pitied herself for the part
she was to bear in the drama, and fell into a
troubled sleep at last, still uncertain how to per-
form her task.

Still uncertain, in fact, the next morning, when
opportunely alone with Seraph soon after break-

A TROUBLESOME " YOUNG PERSON

• »

175

fast, and mindful of her promise to let not another
day pass without warning her, she began with a
hurried " Seraph," spoken in a tone of such evi-
dent perturbation as to cause that young lady to
turn from the flowers she was arranging, and an-
swer a wondering and inquiring, " Weil ? "

And then Ruth wished she had not spoken, and
knew not what words to put next.

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CHAPTER XV.

"all come !

DO you know a young girl by the name of
Hollister — Estelle Hollister?"

" Never heard of her." The reply was made in
that tone of easy indifference which says, " She
is nothing to me, and I have no interest whatever
in her story."

" She is in charge of the lace counter at Myers
& McAlpine's."

"Oh! a pretty girl, with yellow-brown hair.^
Yes, I noticed her ; I remember somebody called
her Estelle ; she admires me, I fancy/' with a
little half-conscious laugh at this tribute to her
beauty ; " she waits on me as though I were a
queen."

" Did you ever hear Mr. Satterley mention her ? "

"Jerome? Certainly not. He has no special
interest in pretty girls in the abstract, I believe."
Again that indifferent tone and half-conscious
laugh.

" He knows her, " said Mrs. Burnham, and the
tone was so significant as to cause an angry flush

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•' ALL COME !

177

on Seraph's face, and a haughty inflection in her
voice as she said, —

" What do you mean ? "

It may not have been a wise way of commenc-
ing ; Mrs. Burnham, as she thought it over after-
ward, felt sure that it was not, but at all events
the subject was fairly opened ; there could be no
waiting now for a more favorable time. She went
through the story steadily, with admirable brevity,
and yet with telling distinctness ; she had studied
the points which could not be challenged, -and
presented them clearly, yet with as few words as
possible ; if she had been a very tender, real
mother, she might have made the statement more
tenderly ; with pitiful, loving words slipped in be-
tween the wounds she felt obliged to make, but
lihe could hardly have done it more skillfully with
a view to letting her victim know the truth,
with as little torturous circumlocution as possible.
She was conscious of a great pity for the girl to
whom she was speaking ; if she really loved the
man, it would be a terrible blow ; in any case, it
would be galling to her pride.

She did not know whether to be glad or sorry
that they were interrupted by the sudden entrance
of Minta, before there was opportunity for a word
in reply. Then Ruth went away to her own room
to think it over, and wonder what sort of an explo-
sion she had set in train. She found that her
knowledge of Seraph was not sufficient for her to

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determine with any feeling of certainty what her
course would be. That she was capable of being
very angry was unquestionable, but on whom her
anger would be visited, was a matter of doubtj, and
more or less anxiety. It was, therefore, in the
expectation of some sort of moral upheaval that
Mrs. Burnham passed the remainder of the day ;
and she might be said to be prepared for almost
anything when Seraph's voice held her in the
library that evening just before dinner.

" Mamma, we were interrupted in the midst of
your exciting tale this morning. I was sorry, for
I wanted to ask you whether you intended to take
Jerome into your confidence, also."

"I do not understand you," was Ruth's cold
reply ; the extreme flippancy of the young lady's
words and manner led her to expect nothing but
rudeness from this interview.

"Why, I thought my language was pluin. I
mean, do you intend to tell him about the young
woman with whom yuu are on confidential terms,
or have you engaged to enlighten only me ? "

" Do not you intend to tell him ? "

" I ! why should I ? My lady did not take
refuge with me ; it was you she honored with her
confidence."

" Seraph, there is really no reason why you
should speak of the subject in this manner. I
told you a sorrowful story, this morning, because
I thought it must told ; and I did it with as little

I v

" ALL COME !

179

; her
)eing
1 her

;, and
1 the
. that
day;
Imost
n the

dst of
ry, for
o take

s cold
lady's
g but

an.

younc,
I terms,

It take
1th her

fy y^^

ler. I
lecause
little

pain tp you as I knew how ; and only because,
judging you as one woman of honor judges another,
I felt it was yjur right to know it."
** And what do you expect me to do } "
" I do not presume to dictate, or even advise ; I
promised the poor girl that I would warn you, and,
as well as I knew how, I have done so ; there my
responsibility ceases. You will do, it is to be
hoped, what you think you ought. If I thought I
Would be understood, I would express to you what
I certainly feel — my deep pain that you should
have been so deceived ; but as it is " —

Seraph interrupted her hurriedly. " But as it is,
there is no need for anything of that sort ; I am
sure I feel grateful for your sympathy, but I think
it misplaced ; you and I look at a great many
things from different standpoints ; this is one of
them. I do not think Jerome is the worst man in
the world merely because he has had a little flirta-
tion with a shop girl ; I do not suppose it is by
any means so important a matter as she has made
you believe. Girls of that stamp always think a
gentleman wants to marry them if he lifts his
hat to them in passing ; in any case, it is all over
now, and I do not see why I should make him and
myself uncomfortable by mentioning it. You say
the girl doesn't want money, but a handsome
present will go far toward making life brighter to
her, I have no doubt, and one of these days I will
see that she receives it. I tell you this that you

IE,

1 80

" ALL COME !

»»

may see I can be sympathetic as well as yourself.
What I want to say to you is, that I would
prefer your not mentioning the matter, even to
papa ; I don't see any occasion ; if the silly girl
had come to me with her complaints, it would
have been much more sensible in her, I think."

What was a woman of Mrs. Burnham's character
to reply to a woman of such a character as this ?
She stood before her dismayed ; she really had
not supposed that society could build in a few
short years so fair and false a structure.

" I have nothing further to say,'" she replied at
last ; " I did not promise to tell the shameful story
to any one but you ; whether I ought to do any-
thing more I have not yet decided ; it is not so
pleasant a theme that I shall like to dwell upon it.
I will only remind you that it may not be wise to
keep your father in ignorance of it, in view of
your approaching marriage ; the poor girl may
have friends who will not be so considerate as
herself, and your father's services as a lawyer may
be needed, in which case it might be well to have
him forewarned."

A swift look of mingled pain and anger was
the only reply that Seraph had opportunity to
make to this, for her mother passed her and
went immediately to the dining-room. Dinner
was served at once, and Jerome Satterley was
one of the family party. Seraph chatting with him
as gaily as usual, while the woman who had been

" ALL COME !

»i

i8i

t'i

fill

rself.
vould
-n to

y girl

would

iracter

this?
ly had

a few

plied at
ul story
do any-
not so
upon it.
wise to
view of
;irl may
[erate as
yer may
to have

acquainted with the fashionable world for years
found herself too shaken, and distressed, and angry,
to talk with any one. The only comment on this
was made by Mr. Satterley as the door closed be-
tween them, while Seraph and he made their way
to the music room. "What is the matter with
Mrs. Judge.? Have I displeased her more than
usual, in any way ? It seems to me that the word
* glum ' would about fit her disposition to-night."
And Sepaph's gay, sweet laugh rang out a& she
said: — "There's no accounting for mamma's
moods, as you will learn when you come to know
her better."

Mrs. Burnham did not know what Seraph did,
but for herself she knew she avoided even the
street on which Myers & McAlpine's store was
located ; it made her heart throb with indignant
pain even to think of the sorrows and wrongs of
the fatherless young girl who toiled there.

And the days went by, and still Judge Burnham
did not return. Ruth did not even know whether
or not he received her words of warning ; he was
constantly moving from point to point, and his
letters had great difficulty in finding him ; he
wrote frequently, always with the same story —
unexpected delay and the hope that his exile was
now nearly over. Matters were in this state on a
certain Sabbath afternoon in March, when Ruth
left her home to go to the " gospel temperance
meeting " in a state of great perturbation. The

imiiv^,

'i •

I82

((

ALL COME

I t

reason for this was twofold. In the first place,
much to her own astonishment, she had been per-
suaded into allowing herself to be named as leader
of the meeting. You who were well acquainted
with Ruth Erskine will remember that this would
have been a startling innovation to her, even in
her girlhood, and the matron had not developed
in those directions. It had been a very great trial
to her to consent to taking her turn with the
others ; rather, the few among the others who
were willing to share this responsibility. Still,
she was not lacking in moral courage, you will
remember, and her conscience, being closely ques-
tioned, could give her no sufficient reason why she
should refuse to share in a work whose object she
approved. Once pledged, she made what prepara-
tion she could for the formidable work.

The second source of anxiety she tried hard to
hold in the background until the hour of her trial
should be over. It grew out of a briefly-\vordecl,
bewildering sort of note, from Marion, brought
her by a special messenger, but an hour before.

Dear Ruth :

Forgive my importunity, but the time has come when you must

really interfere in regard to that intimacy, even to the extent of

issuing commands if need be, until her father returns. I will not

trust myself to be more explicit on paper, but Mr. Dennis wislies

me to assure you from him that he believes it will be a matter of

lifelong regret with you if you do not protect her now. Do not

delay another day.

In great haste,

Mar 'UN.

4 •'

** ALL COME !

• •

183

place,
1 pei-
eader
lintecl
would
^en in
eloped
It trial
th the
s who
Still,
ou will
y ques-
i?hy she
lect she
)repara-

hard to
ler trial
vorded,
rought
[before.

you must

I extent of

I I will not
nis wishes
I matter of

Do not

S'^

" Protect her ! " As if she did not know that
Minta would tolerate no attempt at protection from
her! What was she to do? If Judge Burnham
were only at home ! If Mr. Satterley were — but
of what use to mention him ! Ruth had only con-
tempt for him. But it was the hour for the meet-
ing, and she must put this thing away for a little
time longer ; when the strain of the next two
hours was over, she would have time to think.

As she hurried along the street, a little late, and
much annoyed thereat, her eye fell upon some-
thing that caused her added annoyance. The
committee of arrangements were but mortals, and,
therefore, mistakes of judgment, as well as of taste,
ought to have been pardonable ; but Ruth was in
no mood to grant pardon as there flamed at her
from the lamppost, in what seemed to her pain-
fully conspicuous letters, the announcement :

GOSPEL TEMPERANCE MEETING

AT BURNHAM HALL.
TIME, 8 O'CLOCK SHARP.

ALL COME!

MRS. JUDGE BURNHAM WILL PRESIDE.

To Ruth's excited fancy, it seemed as though
her name was shouted at her by those great
staring letters. From every lamp-post it flamed
out. This was entirely an innovation ; no leader's
name had been announced before. Why should

mtm.

f f

IR'IWI^

f ■

1 84

" ALL COME ! "

those hateful capitals be forced upon her ? On
the whole, she reached the hall in a very excited
frame of mind, and it took all the influence of the
opening hymns and prayer to reduce her to some-
thing like composure. The hall was unusually
full ; Ruth thought there were more men present
than she had ever seen there before. Her voice
sounded strangely to herself as she read the Bible
verses which she had selected as the foundation of
her talk, but the listeners, to judge by the entirely
quiet, respectful attention they gave her, were satis-
fied. It was a novel situation ; at first the leader
seemed able to think only of the loud beating of
her own heart, and, while she was reading the last
verse but one of her selections, she realized that
she could not recall a single word of the sentences
that she had prepared for her introduction ; but
the very last verse took hold upon her thoughts ;
stilled her wild excitement, helped her to feel that
she was permitted to be God's messenger to these
men and women, many of whom showed plainly
by their faces that they knew him not. "Thus
saith the Lord, Stand in the court of the Lord's
house, and speak unto all the cities of Judah,
that come to worship in the Lord's house, all
the words that I command thee to- speak unto
them ; diminish not a word : if so be they will
hearken, and turn every man from his evil way
. . . and thou shalt say unto them, Thus saith
the Lord."

" ALL COME !

»»

185

The wonder and solemnity of the fact that God
had given her a message to deliver here, held her
by its power. The one thing which she now
desired, was to speak just the words which he
commanded. Her language was very simple. She
not only could not recall the carefully-prepared
phrases which she had meant to use, but she
ceased to try. Out of the fullness of her con-
viction that they were men and women who
needed God, and that he was waiting to receive
them, she spoke. The room was very still. The
women who were with her on the platform listened
with a sort of hushed awe. They forgot to be
nervous ; to wonder whether that young man in the
corner who was chewing tobacco, meant mischief ;
to whisper together as to what had better be sung
when the speaker was through, or to do any of the
little restless things that in their nervous anxiety
they were generally led into doing. Suddenly,
Ruth, in the middle of a sentence, her whole heart,
she thought, centered in a desire to lead some one
to feel his need of a Saviour, came to a dead pause.
Every vestige of color fled from her face, leaving
her white and motionless, like a marble statue.
Mrs. Stuart Bacon half rose in alarm. Was she
going to faint } Oh ! what would they do ? Down
near the door, or, at least, not more than three seats
from the door, at the extreme end of the long hall,
seated between certain rough-looking men who had
crowded in late, was Judge Burnham. Mrs. Stuart

; I

, !

' ' s 4

' !

i' 1

U^^i^i

1 86

"ALL COME !

>•

Bacon had seen him when he came in. She had
nudged Mrs. Parkman's elbow, while Ruth was
reading those Bible verses, and had whispered
that she did not know Judge Burnham had re-
turned, and she must say it was a very beautiful
tribute to his wife's influence, for him to lay aside
his prejudices sufficiently to come and hear her.
But Ruth had not seen him until that supreme
moment, when the sight of him took from her the
words she was about to speak, and brought her
with a rude shock back to earth again. It all
passed in a moment, and Mrs. Bacon sank back in
her chair with a relieved sigh. Ruth had forgotten
the s"*^tence she was uttering. Never mind ; that
stri. power as of God took hold of her again ;
said to her, speaking low, so no ear but hers could
hear : —

*' You are God's messenger ; you are to speak
to these men all that God has commanded you ;
you are to diminish nothing ; you may never have
another opportunity. What human being ought
to influence you now ? Say unto them, * Thus
saith the Lord.' "

It takes much longer to tell it than it did to
think it. Before some had even noticed the hesi-
tation, the clear, cultured voice went on : —

" Young man, God is speaking to you ; he wants
you ; wants you to-day ; wants your brains, and
your strength, and your influence, for himself.
Why do you v/ait ? You know you need him.'

" ALL COME !

187

There was a movement on the very last seat ; a
sort of undertone disturbance ; two younr; men
pushing each other, chuckling, speaking almost
aloud in their amusement. Judge Burnham arose,
went with a light tread over to the last seat, and
sat down close beside the rougher of the two
young men. The disturbance ceased. The clear
voice went on, gathering firmness. The move-
ment had not disturbed her, neither had the mut-
tering of the two bent on mischief. She had for
the time being gotten above it all. The women
seated on the platform looked at one another, and
nodded in satisfaction. They could see each
other's thoughts : " It was splendid in Judge Burn-
ham to do that ; he is not going to have his wife
treated rudely." They should not wonder if he
could be won into coming every Sabbath. What
a stroke of genius it was to have secured Mrs.
Burnham as a co-laborer ! Besides, who had im-
agined that she could talk like this }

So much we know about people's hearts. Judge
Burnham was never in a more rebellious turmoil
against his surroundings and environments than
at that moment. He could have told them a curi-
ous story about his coming to that meeting.

f ; '1(1

i',t

l88 ON THE MOUNT AND IN THE VALLEV.

CHAPTER XVI.

ON THE MOUNT AND IN THE VALLEY.

IT was Ruth's own letter of warning reaching
him at a late hour on Saturday, having been
sent after him from various post-offices where he
had left addresses, that finally brought him home
on the Sunday c;xpress, instead of stopping off at
Shoreham and waiting for the midnight train, as
he had planned.

A few hours, more or less, might not make any
difference ; but then possibly it might ; and being
a business man, accustomed to weighing with
scales that were turned sometimes by very slight
causes, he resolved to postpone his business at
Shoreham and go home at once.

On the journey he had been more or less an-
noyed ; several political discussions with other
Sunday traveleic had ruffled him considerably;
then he had been obliged to listen to and explain
away a very much distorted edition of the story
connected with the Shenandoah and its change of
owners. Very wild, and what he considered very
silly, reports about his having changed his politi-

ON TUli MOUNT AND IN THK VALLICY.

189

cal basis came to his ears, and he was obliged to
refuse congratulations from one side, and smooth
the feelings of a ruffled constituent on the other.
Altogether, when he stepped from the platform
of the train at his own station he was in the mood
to wish that he had not been such a fool as to
cater to his wife's whims, and so make all this talk
about the Shenandoah ; and to wi^h especially
that he had never heard of such an organization
as the Woman's Christian Temperance Union.

Imagine him, then, walking rapidly up town,
makmg an effort to throw off his ill humor and be
ready to greet his family graciously, confronted by
those flaming letters on the lamp posts, the bulletin
boards, in every conspicuous place possible : —

GOSPEL TEMPERANCE MEETING

AT BURNHAM HALL.
TIME, 3 O'CLOCK SHARP.

ALL COME!

I; !t

** They even have my name dragged in, because
I happen to own the building. I'll have that hall
named something the first thing I do to-morrow,"
muttered the irate man ; and then he rubbed his
eyes, and shaded them from the glare of the after-
noon sunlight and looked again. Those large
letters, could he believe his eyes or his senses !

MRS. JUDGE BURNHAM WILL PRESIDE.

190 ON THE MOUNT AND IN THE VALLEY.

It was hard on him, really. I will not have you
entirely unsympathetic with him ; if you do not
try to understand the people who are of another
world than yours, to — in short, " put yourselves
in their places " occasionally, how do you expect to
be other than narrow and cold in your charities ?

This was entirely contrary to all his precon-
ceived ideas of propriety, as well as utterly out of
line with his sympathies. It was also very unlike
Ruth ; no one understood that better than she did
herself ; she, as you know, had been through a con-
flict on account of it ; she had taken up the work
as a duty, a cross from which she shrank ; her
husband having neither words in his vocabulary
could not be expected to understand how it was
possible for this sentence to refer to his wife.
Yet what other Mrs. Judge 3urnham was there in
the city, or in the world, for that matter } This
mystery must be looked into without delay. He
drew out his watch ; it was now fifteen minutes
past three, and that odious Burnham Hall was but
four blocks away ; he must go and see for himself.
And this was what had given Mrs. Stuart Bacon a
chance to nudge her companion's elbow, and smile
her surprise and approval when the great man
entered the hall.

He went forward the moment the closing hymn
was sung, with a smile of greeting on his face, and
a hand held out to Ruth. "You did not expect
me in your audience, I fancy ? "

ON THE MOUNT AND IN THE VALLEY.

191

" Hardly, " said Ruth, "since I thought you still
hundreds of miles away ; but you do not need to
hear ixie say I am glad, though the surprise, for a
moment, nearly took my breath away."

She seemed not in the least embarrassed, and
was giving only half attention to him, her eyes,
meantime, following the movements of a roughly-
dressed young man, who appeared to hesitate, in
doubt just what to do. He advanced a few steps,
then turned and stood irresolute. Just as Judge
Burnham had possessed himself of his wife's heavy,
fur-lined cloak, and had said, " You would do well
to wait until you reach purer air before you don
this," she turned abruptly from him, made a
quick dash forward, and laid her hand on the
frayed coat sleeve of the young man. " May I
speak just a word with you.^" he heard her ask,
and then he stood and waited, with what grace he
could, while the voice dropped too low for even his
strained ears ; and he could only watch. The
young man's eyes were bent on the floor, but his
face was working under the spell of some powerful
emotion ; he even put up his hand and furtively
brushed away a starting tear as Ruth talked and
her husband chafed. What an insufferable piece
of folly it all seemed to him ! His wife standing
there in eager, low-toned speech with an uncouth
fellow, smelling of tobacco and cheap whiskey ;
actually keeping her light hold on his arm with
that shapely hand of hers ! More than that, at

'i t

•i I

V '•.

192

ON THE MOUNT AND IN THE VALLEV.

some response of the fellow's, given with apparent
energy, and a lifting of his eyes, a light such as
even he had never seen before, broke over the
face, whose every expression he thought he knew,
and then the ungloved hand met that hard, red one
in a firm and evidently cordial grasp. It was but
a few minutes, though it seemed almost hours to
the waiting husband ; then she turned to him
again, the peculiar light still in her eyes.

** I am ready now," she said ; and they went
down the stairs with the noisy crowd, and had
walked nearly the length of a block before Judge
Burnham broke the silence.

" It occurs to me that this is an entirely new
departure."

"Very," said Ruth gently ; " I never did such a
thing before in my life ; I did not imagine that I
possibly could."

Even now she was preoccupied. She was hardly
giving a thought to the one to whom she was speak-
ing, or to the probable effect of the entire scene on
his nerves. The simple truth was, she had just
been brought face to face with a new and solemn
joy, which is unlike any other joy to be experi-
enced this side of heaven ; which is understood
only by those who have experienced it, and which
can no more be described than one can describe
the air we breathe, or the heaven to which we are
going. She had been permitted of the Lord to
speak such words as had moved the soul of a

ON THE MOUNT AND IN TIIK VALI.EV.

193

young man — a young man who was in peril —
whose widowed mother was even now mourning
for him as one lost to her and to God. He had
been moved more than merely emotionally ; that
tremendous potentate that rules destinies — the
human will — had spoken.

** I will do it," the young man had said, and the
tone and the look that accompanied the words, and
above all the answering witness of her own soul,
made her sure that the decision which had to do
with time and eternity had been made.

And she had been the instrument ! It was the
first time in her life that she had ever been so
distinctly chosen and used. Was this a time for
wondering what a man who belonged outside the
camp would have to say to her, even though that
man was her husband ? There were humiliations
enough ahead, but this was her moment of ex-
altation.

Her manner irritated Judge Burnham. How
could it be otherwise .-* He did not understand it.
Was she trying to show him how utterly indif-
ferent she was to his wishes ?

" We should have agreed perfectly in that
opinion," he said with marked significance. " I
confess I had not the least idea that you could
possibly do anything of the sort. Is it a proper
time to ask how you came to make such an un-
pleasant discovery ? "

" As what } " she asked gently, but with infinite

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194

ON THE MOL'N'J AND IN THE VALLEY.

Stupidity. She had not been following him enough
to understand him. She was thinking what an
evening it would be to that boy's mother when
she heard the news.

" As that you were endowed with the peculiar
qualities which make it possible for a woman to
step on to a public platform and harangue an
audience of coarse men and low-bred women ? "

Certainly these words were not easily misunder-
stood. Ruth flushed under them, but still her
voice was gentle, unusually so, —

" I did not harangue them, I think ; I was only
talking to them about the power of Jesus Christ
to save, and I felt so keenly that they needed sav-
ing, as to forget all other considerations."

" What do you think of that ? " he asked, almost
fiercely.

They were passing one of those odious posts,
with its flaming letters. They looked as much as
a foot in length to Ruth as her eye caught them
now.

" I do not like it at all," she said hastily. *" I
do not understand why they did it. At first I was
really angry, but I do not mind it so much now."

" I am sorry to hear it. Will it impress you in
any degree if I tell you that I mind it very much
indeed } It was the first greeting which I received
on my arrival, and if I had caught the fellow put-
ting one of them up, I should have kicked him
into the road. I know why they did it. They

ON THE MOUNT AND IN THE VALLEY.

195

like to have your name bandied about the town, as
it will be to-night, in the mouth of every low
saloon keeper, and the drunken habitues of his
house. It adds to their importance to know that
they have done something which will set the vul-
gar world a-gap. ' Anything for notoriety ' is their
motto."

The flush had died away from Ruth's face ; she
was growing very pale. This was a rapid descent
from the mount whereon she had been standing.
Only a moment before she had felt as though
earth and its commonplaces could not touch her
again, because she had been permitted for a mo-
ment to stand face to face with Jesus Christ.
Yet here was the keen, cruel world at her very
elbow.

They had been walking rapidly. Unconsciously
Judge Burnham had quickened his pace with every
angry word he. spoke, and by this time they had
reached their own door. He applied his night latch,
held open the door with his accustomed courtesy
for his wife, then closing it quickly, stooped and
kissed her, and held her with his arm while he
spoke : —

" Ruth, I am angry ; I don't think I was ever
more so. It seems to me I have been unfairly
treated ; as if you must understand me better
than this afternoon's scene would indicate. But
I have been long away, and have missed you
sorely. I have been looking forward all day to

K-'if'

1 ,

•lH

ili I

'.I

196 ON THE MOUNT AND IN THE VALLEY.

the pleasure of meeting you. It was hard on a
man to have to meet you where, and as I did.
But I do you justice, even now, in my indignation.
I give you credit for not being of the same spirit
with this notoriety-loving crowd, though you have
somehow fallen among them. I know the power
of religious fanaticism. I have studied it more or
less as I came in contact with it in the line of my
profession ; I even know that it has been carried
to such excess before now that the doors of lunatic
asylums have had to close on its victims. I trust
I may have strength of mind enough to shield you
from great harm. You will bear me witness that
I have not often laid commands on you of any
sort ; that in theory and practice I believe in
the utmost freedom of individual will between
husband and wife, that is compatible with true
dignity ; but you have really forced me, uninten-
tionally, I fully believe, but none the less really,
to say to you that it is somethi'ng more tl an my
request — much more, indeed — that you should
never enter the doors of such a place again as
that one in which I found you this afternoon.
Now let me beg that you will make a complete
change of dress, both for your sake and mine.
Let us get rid of any reminder of the offensive
scene. Positively, Ruth, even the lace on your
sleeve smells of bad tobacco."

Mrs. Burnham went up the winding staircase
with a slow, weary air ; all the pulses of her life

f: i

ON THE MOUNT AND IN THE VALLEY.

197

d on a

I did.
nation,
e spirit
)u have

power

nore or

; of my

carried

lunatic

I trust
leld you
ess that

of any
lieve in
DCtween

th true
ininten-
really,

an my
should

gain as

ernoon.

3mplete
mine.

ffensive

>n your

[aircase
ler life

seemed to have stopped beating. Yet thought was
all the time very busy. She had been brought
suddenly down to the level of the commonplace
again, with questions to settle which must be
thought about.

Just how far was she bound to obey her husband's
dictation in this matter ? For, though courteously
phrased, it amounted to nothing less than dicta-
tion. Was she bound in honor to withdraw from
this bit of Christian work to which her soul- had
responded ? Must she even give up the hour spent
with those Christian women in their place of prayer ?
Had not the Lord called her to the work } Had
he not honored her in it, and were her husband's
claims to be put before his ? If she had really
been the human means of saving a soul this after-
noon, was not that return enough to enable her to
endure all the disagreements of life and the dis-
comforts arising therefrom ?

But, on the other hand, had the Lord called
her to do just this thing, whether her husband
approved or not ^ There were so many things of
which he did not approve, yet about which there
was no question, which she must do, of course,
that perhaps, when it was possible to yield, one
ought. She did not know, and found that she
could not decide just where the "ought" came
in. It was easy to tell what one wanted to do.
She would like to go down to her husband that
moment, and say to him that she was sorry their

•[•!:|

iifi'

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ilin:M,

198

ON THE MOUNT AND IN THE VALLEY.

two ways did not agree, but that in this way which
she had chosen, and which had its reward, and
which she loved with all her soul, she should cer-
tainly walk. Ruth Burnham of yesterday would
have done so, but the Ruth Burnham of to-day
had been on the mount with God for a little
while, and found somewhat to her bewilderment,
that all her judgments of men and things were
softened, and that even such questions as these
must be looked at in the light of unselfishness.

Meantime, she slowly made the entire changes
in her dress which had been called for. This
much, at least, she could do ; she was glad there
was no question in her mind about it. She smiled
somewhat curiously over the discovery that her
recent experiences had made her look at even so
trivial a thing as this in a different light. Yester-
day she would have said that she was sorry her
dress did not suit him, but it really was the most
appropriate garment she had, for the hour, and
she must ask him to be content with it. To-day
such a response looked humiliatingly hateful. Had
she really been a disagreeable Christian through
all these years ?

At last she came to this conclusion : that no
decision in regard to the other matter was possi-
ble now ; she must put it aside with steady will,
until such time as she could be alone to think,
and to discover just where that solemn "ought"
belonged. At present there was other work for

ON THE MOUNT AND IN THE VALLEY.

199

her — disagreeable work; there was that letter
of warning from Marion in her pocket. Must it
be shown to her husband ? She shrank from
this with an aversion of which she was ashamed,
though she recognized the reason ; it was because
she did not want to hear these friends of hers criti-
cised, sneered at, perhaps ; but what a humiliating
thing that she must expect for them such treat-
ment at her husband's hands !

On the whole, you will not think it was a pleasant
home-coming, after her hour of exaltation.

Yet I want to tell you that the last thing she
did, before joining her husband in the library, was
to kneel in her place of prayer, and thank God for
the clasp of that rough, red hand, and the decision
in the voice, as it said to her, " I will do it."
Above all the turmoil of conflicting anxieties rose
the note of joy for this new soldier added to the
ranks of her King.

Erskine was in the library, in full tide of joy
over his father's return. There could be no doubt
as to the heartiness of this welcome, and Judge
Burnham was enjoying to the full the eager kisses
and extravagant delight of his boy. There were
no vexed differences of opinion here to mar the
pleasure ; at least, there were none which appeared
on the surface.

He arose, on his wife's entrance, smiled as he
gave her a swift survey, and noted that she was
dressed in his favorite colors, said "Thank you"

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2CX) ON THE MOUNT AND IN THE VALLEY.

in a very expressive tone, and drew an easy chair
for her close to his own. Evidently, he considered
the matter that had come between them, already
settled.

The talk flowed on, on different topics, during
Erskine's presence, he taking a liberal share in it
all. From the music room came the hum of voices,
interrupted frequently by a sharp, dry cough. Judge
Burnham glanced anxiously in that direction from
time to time, and once interrupted himself to say,
" It seems to me that Seraph's cough is worse than
usual."

"It is much worse," Ruth said; "she has ex-
posed herself cruelly during the past two weeks,
and to-day is quite feverish."

" Who is with her in the music room ? "
" Mr. Satterley ; I think no one else. Have you
not seen her } "

" O, yes! she came to me for a moment."
He arose as he spoke, lifted Erskine to the ceil-
ing and down again, then said, with a sigh, " Well,
popinjay, run away now to Joan ; mamma and I
must do some talking without your interruption."

A PLAIN UNDERSTANDING.

201

CHAPTER XVII.

A PLAIN UNDERSTANDING.

ELL," he said again, as the door closed
after Erskine, " I received your letter with
its inclosures, which were as clear as the reports
of professional detectives, and reminded me some-
what of them. What do you gather from it all ?
What are the reports, and from what source do
they come ? "

" I know very little, Judge Burnham, save what
that letter tells you ; people do not speak plainly
to me ; the air seems to be full of vague rumors ;
even Mr. Satterley, as I told you, is disposed to
offer a warning."

" Even Mr Satterley ! You speak as though he
were the last person from whom you would expect
propriety ; we, as a family, seem singularly un-
fortunate in our choice of friends ; none of them
suit your tastes. What does Satterley mean ? At
least, you could question him."

" You are mistaken ; I was less willing to ques-
tion him than I would have been some of the
others ; and he did not choose to enlighten me
further than I told you."

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A PLAIN UNUKkSTANDING.

t*1

And by this time Ruth had decided to say
nothing about that letter from Marion, which lay
hidden in her pocket. What did it tell, more than
he already knew ?

Judge Burnham shook himself impatiently, as
though he would give much to shake off the whole
disagreeable subject.

" I suppose I must look into the rumors," he
said, taking long strides up and down the room.
** I worked myself into almost a panic last night,
thinking it over, and rode all night, and lost per-
haps a thousand dollars or so by not stopping off
at Shoreham ; I had a sort of impression that
there might be a crisis pending, though I am sure
I don't know why ; but the reports were so vague
as to afford ample food for the imagination, if one
gave them any hearing at all. I suspect I was
foolish to notice them ; but to-morrow, after I
have looked into matters at the office, I will see if
I can find out whether it is a case of black-mail, or
simple meddling. It is hard if a man cannot have
one evening of rest in his own home, Sunday at
that. Seraph really coughs dreadfully. I'll have
Westwood come out in the morning and see her."

" Don't delay another day," said the warning
letter in Ruth's pocket. She drew it forth reluc-
tantly. "I have nothing beyond what I wrote
you, save this, which came to me this afternoon.
I suppose you will attach no importance to it,
however." \

?»

A PLAIN UNDERSTANDING.

203

He read it through hastily, his face glooming
over it.

" Why didn't you show it to me at first ? " he
demanded. " How can I tell whether to attach
importance to it or not ? Unless Dennis is a born
fool, he would not send such a message to a woman
without having some show of reason. At least, I
will see him, and demand an explanation. I'll go
in on the next train."

"But Dr. Dennis will be in the midst- of his
evening service," Ruth said, dismayed, she hardly
knew why.

" Well, evening service will not last all night, I
suppose. If you had told me when I first came,
I could have caught him before service began ;
now I shall have to wait until it closes, and then
wait for the midnight train, I presume. Pretty
hard on a man who has been traveling every night
for a week."

Judge Burnham was rarely so ungentlemanly as
this ; he must be very much worried, Ruth thought,
and she busied herself, without further words, in
certain little attentions for his comfort. His last
words as he closed the door were : —

" Seraph ought to attend to that cough to-night.
Tell her to take some hot lemonade, and retire
early ; I'll have Westwood call the first thing in
the morning."

But Seraph came to the dinner-table, half an
hour afterward, looking not at all ready to retire.

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204

A PLAIN UNDERSTANDING.

She was in very rich evening costume, of the sub-
dued sort that the fashionable world assumes when
it wants to do honor to the proprieties of the Sab-
bath, and yet be as elegant as possible.

" You are surely not going out to-night ! " Ruth
exclaimed, rather than asked, noting the flush on
the cheeks which was deeper than health produces,
and the quick movement of the hand to her side
when she coughed.

" I surely am. If you were musically inclined,
you would know that to-night is the great treat of
the season at St. Peter's. Where is papa .'* I
thought he would want to hear Fenwood sing."

" He went to town on the six o'clock train,
though I do not think he will attend St. Peter's.
But, Seraph, really, excuse rn.y persistence, but you
look ill enough to be in bed. Your father heard
your cough, and was troubled ; he wished me to
ask you to take hot lemonade, and r<;tire early."

Seraph laughed musically.

" I shall probably retire early ; quite early to-
morrow morning, unless we are so fortunate as to
make the eleven o'clock train, and I do not suppose
we can ; it is a long drive from St. Peter's to the
station."

Ruth was so thoroughly convinced of this danger
of venture into the chill night air, especially as a
sleety, northwest rain had set in, that she at-
tempted a further remonstrance.

" If I were Mr. Satterley, I should protest ear-

A PLAIN UNDERSTANDING.

20!

nestly against this exposure. Seraph, I am sure
your father would not approve ; he said he should
call Dr. Westwood early in the morning."

" Mr. Satterley knows better, mamma, than to
interpose authority ; even married women do not
obey, unless they choose, as you will certainly bear
me witness ; and as for failing in hearing Fenwood
sing, just because papa is nervous about a cough,
is not to be thought of. I should go to-night if I
were sure of taking so much cold that I could not
appear again this season."

Judge Burnham did not return on the midnight
train. Ruth's cathedral clock tolled three just
ao lie entered her room. His state of mind the
next morning might have been described by Mr.
Satterley's word " glum." He made not the slight-
est attempt at conversation, either in his room or
at the breakfast table ; and in reply to Minta's
statement that Seraph was not able to lift her
head from the pillow, said he was not surprised ;
that she was alive, was the only matter for aston-
ishment there could be this morning : and so far
forgot himself as to add, even in the presence of
Robert, who was waiting on the table, that he
should think if there had ever been any justification
for interference in the plans of the young ladies, it
would have made itself apparent last night ; that
he was simply amazed when he saw Seraph in
town. Then he turned to Minta before she had
calmed the gleam of merriment in her eyes over

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206

A PLAIN UNDERSTANDING.

this public rebuke of her step-mother, ''Where

were you before you joined your sister at St. Peter's
last night?"

" Why, I was in several places. I lunched with
AUie Powell, and went from there to hear the an-
them at the Clark Place Cathedral."

"With whom.?"

" Why, papa, with the one in whose charge I
was, of course. I stayed in town on Saturday
with Ellice Farnham."

" Robert, " said Judge Burnham, suddenly re-
turning to the proprieties long enough for that,
"we do not need any further serving. Mrs.
Burnham, can he be excused ? "

Then, before the door was fairly closed after
him, —

" That answer does not enlighten me as to your
escort ?"

"Why, papa, you know surely, without my tell-
ing you, that I was with Mr. Hamlin. Didn't you
see us together } "

"Did you leave home in his company .?"

" No, sir ; certainly not. I "old you I went
home with Ellice Farnham on Saturday. She was
here to lunch, and I went into town with her."

" And met Hamlin at her house ? "

" Yes, sir ; he was there to dinner."

" By appointment, I suppose } "

Minta's face had grown unbecomingly red under
this fire of cross-questioning. At last she spoke : —

kVhere
Peter's

d with
he an-

large I
iturday

nly re-

)r that,

Mrs.

;d after

to your

ly tell-
In't you

|l went
>he was
jr.

under
)ke: —

A PLAIN UNDERSTANDING.

207

" Papa, what does all this mean ? What if I
had engaged to dine at a friend's in company with
other guests ? It is nothing more than I do con-
stantly. I do not understand you."

" It means that you have been warned several
times during my absence against this particular
young man, and that you have chosen to pay no
attention to the warnings, though they came, some
of them, from a source which I should not suppose
any young lady of intelligence would overlook. It
also means that you are to have nothing to do
with this indiviuual from this time forth ; neither
to dine with him, nor ride with him, nor speak to
him if he presumes to call."

Evidently Judge Burnham did not understand
his daughter.

" Papa," she said, speaking steadily, though her
face had now grown very pale, " I do not know
what right you think you have for ordering me
about as if I were a child. I obeyed you like a
slave, for years, I know ; and trembled before you,
even at a time when you were treating me in a
way that the commonest kitchen girl does not ex-
pect. But that time is past. I discovered long
ago how insufferably I had been treated ; and al-
though you have done what you could to make me
forget it, I have not. I can tell the story very
distinctly if I have occasion ; and if you expect the
slavish obedience to your orders that you used to
receive when I had been kept in such ignorance

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208

A PLAIN UNDERSTANDING.

that I did not know my rights, you will be dis-
appointed ; for I am of age, and shall do as I
please."

If he did not understand the character of his
daughter, neither had she correctly gauged him.
The angry and insolent address had the (to her)
unexpected effect of quieting his outward excite-
ment. The habits of years resumed their sway.
He was again the watchful, wary lawyer who had
an enemy to hold in check, and interests to guard.

*' Really," he said, and a half-quizzical smile was
on his face, " ought I to apologize, do you think,
for forgetting that I had a young woman to deal
with, instead of a naughty child who deserved
punishment ? I had for the moment forgotten the
lapse of years. I will order my speech more care-
fully. You are of age, it is true ; so, you will
remember, am I. And this is my house, and the
funds that enable you to live your free and
hitherto apparently satisfactory life are mine. You
are at liberty to choose. If you prefer the society
of those whom I utterly disapprove, you will seek
that society outside of my house ; neither need
you return to it after having enjoyed yourself
among your chosen friends. Since you have
chosen to refer to the past in a manner that would
almost seem to cover a threat, I will admit that my
memory is also good, and that when I returned
after a prolonged absence abroad, to find that you
were utterly unfit, mentally and physically, for

!' t' Ir :

A PLAIN UNDERSTANDING.

209

e dis-
as I

companionship with me, I did the only thing I
knew how to do, furnished your guardians un-
stintedly with money, and left you to yourself
until my wife appeared on the scene, and showed
me what years of careful training could do to
make you fit companions for people of culture.
If you prefer now to prove that we were both mis-
taken, and that your preferences are for the low in
character and the degraded in life, you wilT, of
course, be at liberty to make the facts as plain as
you choose. The social positions of Mrs. Burn-
ham and myself are, perhaps, you are aware, quite
equal to any strain that even you may put upon
them.

" After this very plain understanding, I will
take the trouble to add — what you hardly deserve
— that I have convinced myself of the utter worth-
lessness of the person under discussion, as I would
have taken pains to show you had I not felt, be-
cause of knowledge that came to me last night
from outside sources, that you had already received
warning enough to satisfy any reasonable woman ;
but I will add mine. The stories that you have
heard are undoubtedly true, and more are true
than you know unything about. The man is not
fit for a respectable woman to acknowledge with a
bow. If, even after your exceedingly improper
language this morning, you conduct yourself prop-
erly, we will let the memory of it drop, and your
position in our home shall be in the future what it

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A PLAIN UNDERSTANDIxXG.

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has been in the past. You are at liberty to choose.
You will observe that, after all, I have not acted
the part of an excused guardian to a young woman
who was of age, but of an indulgent father, being
willing to condone even almost unpardonable in-
solence, because I attribute it to the undue ex-
citement of the moment. And now, I trust we
fully understand each other."

He arose as he spoke, and turned toward his
wife.

'* I beg your pardon, my dear, for this long
detention at the breakfast-table ; do not expect
me to luncheon ; we are on the eve of an explosion
in the business world, which will bring ruin to both
character and bank accounts in certain directions.
I found last night that this matter involved more
than I had imagined possible. I will send West-
wood out to look after Seraph."

He had talked himself into apparent good humor.
His parting bow and " good-morning " to Minta
were, if not fatherly, at least courteous, and he
only smiled when she vouchsafed no reply.

" She will come to her senses when she has had
time to think," he said to Ruth, who followed him
to the hall, with a face full of anxiety. " I had no
idea she was so full of fire. I am afraid, my dear,
you have had more to bear from her than I had
imagined possible. But this miserable business,
when we are well over with it, will be beneficial to
her, perhaps. The scoundrel will be safely lodged

r to choose.

not acted
ung woman
Lther, being
donable in-
; undue ex-

I trust we

toward his

)r this long
, not expect
an explosion
; ruin to both
in directions,
nvolved more
1 send West-
good humor.
" to Minta
ious, and he

reply.

she has had
[followed him
« I had no
[aid, my dear,
|r than I had
Ible business,

beneficial to
[safely lodged

A PLAIN UNDERSTANDING.

211

in prison before many days. O, yes ! it is as bad
as it can be, in every way. The misery of it is
that our name must be dragged somewhat into the
slime. I had no idea she was so much in his
society ; if your friends had not been so afraid of
their communications, we might have kept our-
selves out of the denouement. I can furnish my
lady with particulars, by to-morrow, which will
startle her. No, money will not help him ; in the
first place, there is none ; he has involved his uncle
in utter financial ruin."

" Don't be alarmed," in answer to his wife's
anxious suggestion that he did not yet understand
Minta, that she might be on the verge of some
desperate step ; " I understend her well enough to
know that she will hardly take any steps to-day ;
she is not an idiot ; she has plenty of Burnham
blood in her veins. Angry, she is, without doubt ;
but solitude, and time for reflection, will compose
her nerves."

" But, Judge Burnham, if she should really be
attached to the man — how can you know what in-
fluence he may have over her ? I wish she was to
be in your care to-day."

" Attached ! Nonsense ! She is attached to his
fine horses, and the gay life he has shown her ; and
her pride is roused ; that is the extent of the mis-
chief. Besides, the man will be too busy to-day
to think of her. I tell you, there is to be an earth-
quake which will take him off his feet ; and he is

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212

A PLAIN UNDERSTANDING.

unprepared for it. However, I will add a word of
emphasis, to quiet your fears." And he opened
the dining-room door again. Minta had risen
from the table, and was standing at the window,
with her back to the door.

" My daughter," he said, his voice a trifle kinder
than it had been before, " I trust you fully under-
stand me that if you choose to remain under my
roof, and look to me as your father for protection,
you are under commands to have no communi-
cation in any form with any person by the name
of Hamlin, or with any person connected with
him. I will explain more fully to you after a
day or two."

She neither moved nor in any manner indicated
that she had heard a word. But the moment the
door was closed, she turned toward it a pair of
flashing eyes, and said, " Will you, indeed ? No
doubt you will enjoy the explanation.'

)rd of

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ifter a

dicated
nt the
air of

? No

STORMY WEATHER.

213

CHAPTER XVIII.

STORMY WEATHER.

FROM the hall, Ruth went directly to i-nquire
as to Seraph's condition, and found work for
mind and hands. The girl was in a burning fever,
her whole frame racked with an incessant cough ;
and she lay with both hands pressed to throbbing
temples. It was evident, even to Ruth's inexperi-
enced eyes, that she was seriously ill, and that
much valuable time had probably been already
lost.

She dispatched a special messenger at once for
Dr. Westwood, and busied herself until his arrival,
in using what remedies or alleviations she could
think of.

He came sooner than she had dared to hope,

her

messenger

having: found him on the road.

He at once made it evident that he did not con-
sider himself as having been called a moment too
soon, and for the next hour Ruth was absorbed in
arranging to have his minute instructions carried
out. He was so manifestly planning for a very
serious fight with disease, that she was solemnized

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214

STORMY WEATHER.

by the thought, and for the time being all minor
matters were laid aside.

The speed with which a well-ordered house can
accommodate itself to a change of circumstances,
would make an interesting study for the curious.
Before noon of that busy day, a large back room
which had a southern exposure, and was not so
crowded with dainty furnishings as were the young
ladies' rooms, had been, under the doctor's supervi-
sion, prepared for the sick girl, and she had been
carried there, and a professional nurse installed.
The lady of the house drew a long breath of relief
as she came slowly down the stairs, having received
the final directions of the tall quiet, self-sufficient
young woman who had swiftly obeyed the doctor's
summons, and laid aside her things with the air of
one who had always belonged just in that room.
Ruth had the feeling that she had been dismissed ;
it brought with it a sense of relief ; the responsibil-
ity was lifted from her shoulders. It brought with
it, also, a touch of pain, recalling as it did the grave
facts of her life ; if she were in truth the mother
of that sick girl, or if she held in her heart the
place which some second mothers won, no hired
nurse could possibly supersede her there. As it
was — and then the touch of pain came again.

Meantime, there were other things to think
about. Where was Minta, and how was this dis-
tressing phase of their life to end ? She believed
she knew the girl better than her husband did ;

t ■' !

STORMY WEATHER.

215

she by no means expected a quiet yielding to his
commands ; but just what form the rebellion would
take would depend, probably, on what advice she re-
ceived from Mr. Hamlin. And then Ruth thought
with a sudden start of dismay, that in her anxiety
and pre-occupation there had been opportunity for
plenty of communication between the two. Now
that she stopped to think of it, it was strange that
in all the arrangements for Seraph's comfort, her
sister had taken no part. She went hurriedly to
her room and knocked, wondering the while, what
excuse she should make for intruding ; but no
answer was returned to her knock. She went to
the parlors to find them deserted ; in the music
room Kate was dusting.

" Do you know where I can find Miss Minta ? **
Ruth asked, trying to keep her voice as usual.

" She has gone out, ma'am ; she went several
hours ago."

" Was she alone } " The tone was hurried, and
an eager quiver of anxiety showed in the voice.

" Yes'm ; she was alone when she left the house ;
she told me that she would probably not be in to
lunch. I told her the doctor was here, and that
Miss Seraph was pretty sick, and she said yes,
she knew it ; I thought perhaps she was going on
some errand for Miss Seraph."

" Probably that is the case," Ruth said, turning
away, with a startled fear, nevertheless, that it might
not be.

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STORMY WEATHER.

For the rest of the day she tormented herself
with a hundred nameless fears and wonderings.
What ought she to do ? Was it important that
Judge }3urnham should know of the girl's absence?
Should she telephone him ? But how absurd to
send him a message that Minta had gone out for a
walk ! How insulting to the girl, if she had really
gone, as Kate surmised, on some business for the
sick sister !

It would not do to telephone anything like that.
Perhaps she might go herself to town, and give her
message in person. But it was not probable that
Judge Burnham would be in his office ; he had
hinted of business that involved others ; she did
not know where to look for him ; and when, with
much trouble, she found him, what had she to say
but that his daughter was very sick, and she had
left her with hired attendants only, while she
came to tell him that the other daughter was out
walking } Such a course was not to be thought
of. Well, then, suppose she wrote him a note and
sent it by a special messenger ? And then she
had visions of the messenger going from office
to court room, to the offices of brother lawyers,
asking many questions, following the busy man
from point to point, coming upon him perhaps in
the midst of his most distracting anxieties, inter-
rupting him with a note which had simply to tell
that Minta had gone out, leaving word that she
might not be back to luncheon ! The whole thing

STORMY WKATIIl'.R.

217

began to look absurd to her. And as, later in the
day, Seraph grew worse, rather than better, and
the professional nurse was glad to have her to
hand this thing and remove that, she put asitle
the other anxiety and gave herself to helpfulness.

Nobody lunched, finally, except Erskine and the
nurse. It was drawing near to the dinner hour
before Ruth could get away again for a moment's
rest. Her first inquiry was for Minta ; she had
not returned, nor had any message come from her.
About these bare facts there was nothing of
necessity to rouse anxiety ; to Kate it had merely
the air of an every day occurrence.

Mrs. Burnham was still in morning attire ; there
had been no time to think of dress. Judge Burnham
would not like this ; it was one of the points on
which he was fastidious to a fault. His wife won-
dered whether there would be time to make some
changes before he came ; and then he came. Mr.
Satterley was with him, and Ruth noted that he
looked worn and anxious ; she wondered if he-had
heard of Seraph's illness, and if he really cared
for her enough to be troubled ; Judge Burnham
did not even seem to notice the morning dress.
" Where is Minta } " were his first abrupt words,
without even the ceremony of a bow.

" She has gone out, " trying to speak as usual.

" Gone out ! Where > "

" I do not know ; she went while I was other-
wise engaged, and left no message for me ; Kate

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says she told her she might not return to
Inncheon."

" Engaged ! Do you know what you are talking
about ? Is it possible you have let her disappear,
without any knowledge of her whereabouts ? "

He had never spoken in this manner to his wife
before ; Ruth controlled her voice, and her feel-
ings ; he was evidently either terribly angry, or
terribly alarmed. " Judge Burnham, you forget ;
had I any right to control her movements, or power
to intercept them ? "

" Right ! power ! You do not know what you
are saying ! I tell you you should have locked
her in her room, if need be, rather thpn let her
slip away" —

She interrupted him. "Judge Burnham, you are
speaking very loud, and unnecessarily exciting the
servants ; I am expecting Minta every moment ;
you surely know it is nothing unusual for her to
be late ; meantime, Seraph i? very ill."

At this information, Mr. Satterley gave a start
of dismay. " Seraph ! " he echoed, •* v\ hat is the
matter ? " But Judge Burnham's excitement was
not quieted.

" I cannot help it, " he said irritably, " illness is
the very least of our calamities ; if the other one
were sick with the small-pox, even, we should have
cause for thanksgiving. I tell you I am afraid she
has gone to destruction. The fellow has escaped
us, somehow ; just when we thought we had the

STORMY WEATHER.

219

net securely laid ; he received information from
some source, and has disappeared. When did
Minta go ? What did she take }"

At which point he turned abruptly and strode
through the hall into the library. Ruth waited
only to answer a few of Mr. Satterley's anxious
questions, then followed her husband. He had
gone to his dressing room ; the exclamation which
he gave, the moment he opened his toilet case,
brought her to his side. He had a sealed letter in
his hand, from which he tore the envelope savagely.
Ruth looked over his shoulder as he read :

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Dear Papa :

I was going 10 tell you something this morning, but you were
in such haste and so savage that I hadn't opportunity. We had
planned a lovely little surprise, Mr. Hamlin and I ; we didn't tell
anybody about it, save the necessary persons, just for the fun of the
thing ; we meant to have a very original entertainment connected
with it as soon as you reached home ; but you have quite spoiled
our plans by your fierceness. And since I am a dutiful daughter,
in spite of your insinuations this morning, and want to do my best
to obey you ; and since it is quite impossible for me to have " no
communication in any form with any person by the name of
Hamlin, " for the simple reason that that happens to be my own
name, I will do the next best thing, at which you so kindly hinted,
rmd take myself out of your house until such time as you may
wish to see my husband and myself. If you really need proof of
my statement, you might consult the Rev. Charles Stevens, rector
of St. Stephen's, who lives at Southside, near the Greene Street
Chapel. An obscure little place in which to be married, I admit,
but the fun of the secrecy lay in obscurity.

Vour devoted daughter,

Minta Burnham Hamlin.

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STORMY WEATHER.

It was a hard blow ; I am sure you will not be
surprised that Judge Burnham felt it too in his
very soul. He had not been a very watchful
father, certainly, when his children were young ;
he had almost deserted them, with a disposition
that grew out of pure cowardice, during the period
of their disappointing girlhood ; but he had not
lavished time and attention and money on them
for the last half-dozen years for nothing. As it
began to dawn upon him that they were not onV
to be endured, but were actually subjects tor cor
gratulation, his interest in them deepened ; and,
as the years v.ent by, and they became objects of
general admiration, you will remember his pride
in, and ambition for them, knew no bounds. All
the more this feelhig setined to sway him, because
it came with the force of a discovery, after he
had resigned himself to nothing but humiliation
in connection with them. He did not na.ae the
feeling pride, and I have no doubt that affection
had somewhat to do with it ; a great deal, perhaps,
during these later years ; one cannot lavish so much
on any person, without feeling, to say the least,
a deepening interest in the person, and besides,
the "Burnham blood" of which this man as so
fond, was certainly in their veins. Still it was his
pride which had received a death blow. It was
bad enough to have the name of a man who proved
to be not only a villain, but an unsuccessful one,
mentioned in the daily papers in connection with

STORMY WEATHER.

221

his daughter. He had even thought, during this
busy day, of making an effort to suppress the
items which whenever he had a moment of leisure
seemed to float before him. Such, for instance, as
" It seems that young Hamlin spent the evening
before the discovery, in company with Miss Burn-
ham, the youngest daughter of Judge Burnham of
the firm of Burnham, Bacon & Co."; or, " It is
said that young Hamlin frequently enjoyed the
hospitalities of Judge Burnham's elegant home,
and presumed to be on friendly terms with his
beautiful daughters," or any other of the dozen
offensive ways of gossiping about such matters,
which newspaper reporters seem so thoroughly to
understand He had thought, for a few moments,
quite seriously of attempting to make it v. orth
the while of these leading reporters to keep his
daughter's name out of the accounts, but had
finally abandoned the idea as ben'^ath his dignity.
" \Ii:cr all," he said to himself, ** what does it
rr M. f ? The fellow was intimate in dozens of
lead: !-• families ; and that he admired my daughter
so much more than any of the others, is not so
unusual a thing as to cause surprise. I think I
will let this part of the annoyance shape itself
as it may ; it will soon be forgotten." And he
had worked the harder toward getting matters in
■ .ainforthe grand expose. And then had come
i-iat sudden discovery of flight ; a flight accom-
plished so boldly and gracefully as to awaken no

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STORMY WEATHER.

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suspicion in the minds of any looker-on, that
more than an afternoon ride with the lady of
his choice was being planned. And then had
followed Judge Burnham's unspoken fears, that
the lady, about whom there seemed to be very
contradictory accounts, might be his daughter ;
though he really did not believe that such a thing
was possible ; he believed that the young lady's
pride wou. ^"oM her back from such a step; and
then had coi the rush home, to relieve what he
told himself were perfectly groundless fears ; that
a man like that of course had intimacies with
women of whose very names a daughter of his
was ignorant ; and then had come this final blow,
in the shape of a half-comic, wholly heartless
letter, with that name attached, " Minta Burn-
ham Hamlin ! " The unsullied Burnham name
linked at last with that of a gambler and a forger !
Certainly the father was to be pitied ! A great
deal of work had to be done in the next few days ;
much that Judge Burnham had labored hard, all
that first day, to accomplish, he labored equally
hard to prevent, in the days immediately follow-
ing. The man who was his daughter's husband,
who had joined his name and story irrevocably to
hers, was to be dealt with differently, if possible,
from the one who had simply, under a mistaken
idea of his character, been admitted to the house
as a passing acquaintance. It was not that Judge
Burnham felt any softening of heart, any pity for

STORMY WEATHER.

223

the daughter who had so wronged him ; his efforts
were n >t so much to shield her, as to keep the
Burnham name as much away from the public as
possible. Therefore he withdrew charges which
he had meant to push, and was silent where he
had meant to speak plainly, and paid large sums
of money to purchase the silence of others, in
regard to certain points. Therefore it was, that
by dint of tremendous effort, not only on his part,
but on the part of others, friends of young Hamlin,
and by processes known to lawyers, this breaker
of the laws escaped the verdict of justice, and
was able to take up his abode in the same city
where his evil deeds had largely been accom-
plished. Thus much' settled. Judge Burnham
took exceeding pains to have it understood that
his motive for his share of the work had not been
pity for the sinner, but pity for himself ; that
now he was quite through with the whole matter.
Mrs. Hamlin was no longer to be considered as a
daughter of his ; he did not want to see her again,
nor to hear of her in any way ; she had chosen
between them, and must abide by the decision.
He ordered certain trunks and boxes to be packed,
and sent by express, to the boarding house where
the newly married couple were now staying, and
with them sent a note, briefer than the one Minta
had written, but in every sense of the word digni-
fied, in which he had distinctly stated that from
this time forth all communication between her and

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STORMY WEATHER.

the family to which she had heretofore belonged,
was to cease ; that he had done what he could to
save her husband from the prison life which he so
richly deserved ; and that in doing this, he had
performed the last service for one who was once
his daughter, that she need ever expect at his
hands.

This was hard on the young scoundrel of a
husband ; he had not so reasoned it out, when
all these plans were formed in his mind. He had
not known Judge Burnham in the days when his
daughters were ignored and neglected ; he had
believed that the father's heart was inextricably
wound about this beautiful daughter, in particular ;
and that, after a few angry^words, and a few tears
and a few sobbing petitions on her part for for-
giveness, she would be restored to her place again,
aud his falling fortunes be retrieved and set on
a firm basis. He had meant that this should
be done without other unpleasantness than would
necessarily be involved in learning that there had
been a private marriage ; he had intended that
the Burnham wealth should save him from a
public exposure ; it had been the lawyer's vigor-
ous onslaught, during that one day, which had
brought about the end with a precipitancy entirely
unnecessary. That Judge Burnham might have
avoided all this publicity, had been made only too
pic'n by the speed with which he quieted the
storm he had raised, the moment he found that

STORMY WEATHER.

225

his own name must suffer — in only a secondary
degree — whatever disgrace came to the name of
Hamlin. It was all bitterness, and weariness of
soul ; and Judge Burnham aged under it.

Meantime, perhaps it was almost a relief to his
angry spirit that Seraph continued very seriously
ill, and that he had to put aside his bitter thoughts,
and hurt pride, and think of and help care for her
in many ways.

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226

WAITING.

CHAPTER XIX.

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WAITING.

FOLLOWING all this turmoil, and pain, and
anxiety came a let up. The severity of
Seraph's disease spent itself, or the skill of the
doctor triumphed ; the professional nurse went her
way ; she was too important a factor in this dis-
ease-stricken world to spend her time in coaxing
back to ordinary health again, one from whom the
immediate danger threatening had bten withdrawn.
Other homes were waiting for her, where anxious
mothers and fathers stood helplessly about, build-
ing all their hopes of happiness on the efforts that
doctor and skilled nurse were making. Such a
life has its compensations ; one could see that the
nurse was used to these experiences, hungered for
them almost. From the first hour when her skilled
eye detected the watched-for change for the better
in Seraph, her interest in her began to abate ; and
when the doctor told her of a case of typhoid, that
was in very special need of services such as hers,
she was in almost heartless haste to be gone. It
was a sickly spring, and professional nurses were

ain, and
erity of
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ivent her
this dis-
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Such a
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T skilled
e better
.te ; and
md, that
as hers,
one. It
ses were

WAITING.

227

in demand. With her went much of the comfort
of Seraph's room, and ^^early all of Ruth's peace of
mind.

An ordinary nurse who could be depended upon
to give the invalid thoughtful care, seemed well-
nigh impossible to secure ; notwithstanding the
fact that jc.Jge Burnham offered such fabulous
wages that the kitchen entrance was besieged all
day with applicants, there was some hopeless ob-
jection to every one of them ; of the few who- were
tried as a last resort, not one stayed through the
third day, and still the slow convalescence went
on, and the interviewing of applicants mingled
with Ruth's heavier duties of trying to reign in
the invalid's room. Nothing more utterly weary-
ing had ever come to her than this period of rest-
less waiting and distasteful working. There were
days when her life seemed almost unbearable ; she
had had tastes of such different work ; she had so
rested herself in those Sabbath temperance meet-
ings ; she had been so helped by the weeki_y meet-
ings for prayer ; she had felt that in these directions
lay work that she could accomplish in the name of
the Lord whom she loved. She chafed under this
utter removal from such influences, and questioned
wearily as- to why it should have been permitted.
During the sharpness of Seraph's illness, under
the pressure of possible danger, she had not felt
in this way ; but to be obliged to spend her time
in trying to play the part of nurse to an exacting

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WAITING.

invalid who did not enjoy her ministrations, or,
leaving Kate in charge — who was trying to do
double duty — go to the kitchen and question and
cross-question an applicant, whom she felt with
that acute inner consciousness which a woman
much disciplined in this way comes to possess,
would not do at all ; or, if her summons came,
instead, from the parlor, say over again for the
dozenth time that day, ** We think she is gaining
slowly, thank you," or, "she is not quite so well to-
day, had a restless night," or yet another phase of
the same story, "she is about as she was yesterday,
thank you ; we see very little change from day to
day ; she will not get much strength, we fear, until
settled weather ; " all this was wearying to her in
the extreme. Neither was she when doing her
utmost a successful nurse ; with the most earnest
desire to be kind and thoughtful, she did not under-
stand the hundred little things that can never be
taught, and which help to make the difference
between the successful attendant and the good-
hearted bungler. For instance, she had an exas-
perating fashion of bringing the utterly distasteful
business of eating before the sick girl, by the use
of that irritating question, " What will you have
for your dinner to-day?" or that almost equally
trying one, " Don't you think you could take a
little chicken broth now } "

Ruth had never been sick in her life, with that
depressing sickness and weakness that continues

WAITING.

229

day after clay, though the disease has been van-
quished ; she knew nothing by experience about
the nervous state of mind and stomach that impels
an invalid under such circumstances to say, " No, I
don't want any chicken broth, either now, or ever ;
and you will be kind enough never to mention the
words to me again." So she went on with her
honest attempts, and privately thought Seraph the
most childish, as well as the most disagreeable of
invalids, because she was irritable and capricious
over the veriest trifles.

Moreover, this choice nurse made that trying
mistake of reasoning from her own standpoint,
instead of attempting to put herself in the sick
one's place ; and becau^, when she was sick her
head ached, and the light was unpleasant to her,
she was always drawing the curtains, and screening
the fire, and making the room dim and quiet, when
Seraph's head did not ache, and her eyes were
strong, and she hated dark rooms, and one of her
employments which she best liked was to watch the
glowing coals in the open grate fire. All these
little things made it harder, both for Seraph and
for Ruth. The latter had still another anxiety
that was in its way harder than any of the others.
During these days she saw comparatively little of
Erskine ; she could not even attend to his lessons,
which had been one of the pleasures of her life ;
it was useless to undertake to interest a child in
a reading lesson, when she was liable to be called

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WAITING.

three or four times in the course of the half-hour
to the kicchen, or the sick room, or the parlor ;
moreover, the half-hour, even, in which to com-
mence this pleasant work was very hard to secure.
It was not that there was so much to do ; if there
had been crowding employment for hands and
mind, it would have been, in a sense, easier ; it
was the wearing thought that when she was down-
stairs she ought perhaps to be up, and that when
she went for a little walk with Erskine, she ought,
possibly, to be at home, that tried Ruth's nerves
to their utmost ; and there seemed to be no way
out of the maze ; daily was Erskine left to the ca*"
of a servant, to an extent that his sheltered li..
had not known before.

Neither was her husband a source of strength to
this much tried woman. She saw little of him, it
is true ; he seemed more than ever engrossed in
business ; but that little was most unsatisfactory.
He was moody, even with Erskine, and disposed to
be as nearly fault-finding as his habit of couitesy
would allow with Ruth herself.

Despite an evident attempt not to do so, he still
let his thoughts linger much over their recent
family disgrace ; too gentlemanly to blame Ruth
in distinct language, he yet made frequent refer-
ences to the misfortune of his having been from
home just at that time ; to the certainty that he
could have discovered what was going on, and been
able to prevent it ; he hinted that if her friends

WAITING.

231

had been more outspoken, less afraid of involving
themselves in uncomfortable consequences, all the
misery might have been saved. He openly de-
clared that the mistake of their lives had been in
not keeping close guard over Minta on that last
day.

Ruth, who had great pity for him in her heart,
because she believed that the father's heart must
have received a blow something akin to what it
would be to her if Erskine should desert her, held
herself entirely quiet during those outbursts, not
even once reminding him that if he had long ago
heeded the plain warnings of her friends, instead
of sneering at them, all might have been well ; but
it was, perhaps, not in human nature not to re-
member this fact, and say it over occasionally to
herself.

Nor was he particularly sympathetic with his
wife over her home burdens ; he did not realize
what the daily strain was to her ; he assured her
that she was extremely foolish not to have all the
help she needed ; that it was nonsense to suppose
that plenty of help could not be had ; he could al-
ways secure as many men servants as he wanted,
that there was no reason in her being so exacting ;
and that Seraph ought not to be indulged in her
whim of taking violent dislikes to persons without
reasonable excuse ; and on the whole, Ruth de-
cided that the less he knew about home, at this
time, perhaps the better it would be for them both.

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232

WAITING.

So the wearing days went on, Seraph seeming
neither to gain, nor to lose, and the future stretch-
ing out before them apparently as barren of
comfort as the present.

Of course some change must come to them ;
they alwa}/s came sooner or later ; nothing ever
stayed for any length of time just as it was, but
what would the change be }

It came in an unexpected manner ; perhaps that
is the common way in which they come.

Dr. Westwcod followed Mrs. Burnh^.m from the
invalid's room, one morning, where he had been
giving his usual sentences intended to be cheering,
to the effect that it would not always be March,
nor even early in April, and that the warm spring
days would come, before many weeks, when lioused-
up people could venture forth into strength-giving
air and sunshine ; and then he had called for the
usual glasses and spoons, and made his mixtures,
and given his directions, and said his courteous
"good-morning," and then followed Ruth as she
went away, in answer to a summons from down-
stairs, and as the door of Seraph's room had closed
after him, had said, " I \/ould like a word with you,
Mrs. Burnham, if you please." And Ruth had
halted, and thrown open the dooi I Judge
Burnham's up-stairs study, and followed him in,
somewhat wonderingly. Dr. Westwood was not
one of her favorites ; they exchanged as few words
as possible.

WAITING.

233

He closed the door carefully, and drew a chair
for the lady, then came directly to the point.

" I do not know, madam, what your views may
be in regard to plain speaking, under the circum-
stances in which we find ourselves ; I always
leave such matters to the family ; my responsibili-
ties are sufficiently heavy, without shouldering
them ; I think Miss Burnham is entirely deceived.
Is it your will that she should remain so ? "

" I do not understand, " faltered Ruth, her face
growing pale over she knew not what. Was it
possible that Dr. West wood meant Mr. Satterley,
and was there a new shadow coming over this much
tried home, even now ?

" Why, of course you know, my dear madam,
that it is only a question of time, and a much
shorter time than I had at first supposed ; but
Miss Burnham evidently looks forward confidently
to regaining her health."

"And do you mean — do you think she will not
recover strength eventually .-* I do not know what
you mean. Dr. West wood ! "

" Is it possible you do not know that the disease
is what is sometimes called quick consumption ;
and that it is making rapid advance } "

" Yoli do not mean, doctor, that she is going to
die ! "

" I beg your pardon, Mrs. Burnham ; I did not
know that you also were deceived ; I have be^n
very abrupt."

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234

WAITING.

There was both dismay and pity in his voice,
for the pallor of Ruth's face was very apparent
now, and in her surprise and consternation, she
felt giddy and faint ; she reached forward for the
chair she had declined, and leaned against it.

"No matter," she said, "tell me plainly now,
what you mean ; if I understand you, we have cer-
tainly been very much deceived."

"There is little more to tell, " he said, speaking
gently, and evidently greatly surprised over her
manner of receiving his news ; " I will be perfectly
frank, as is my custom, when the circumstances of
the case will admit.

"Miss Burnham may linger through the late
spring, but this morning I have my doubts even
as to that ; she is failing more rapidly than I had
supposed probable ; and it occurred to me that it
might not be the wish of the family to have her
kept in ignorance of the true nature of her dis-
ease. I had not supposed that Judge Burnham
and yourself shared her hopes, and that must ac-
count for an abruptness which I can plainly see
has been cruel ; I beg you will forgive me, and un-
less I can serve you in some way, I will not
intrude longer."

He was very polite, very ceremoniously kind,
and he bowed himself away, and within the next
hour told a brother physician that the gossip which
had been afloat so long about Mrs. Burnham and
her step-daughters not getting on comfortably

WAITING.

235

together, was all false ; so far, at least, as the sick
one was concerned ; that he had rarely seen an
own mother more overwhelmed with the news that
her daughter was going to die, than was Mrs.
Burnham.

He was right ; Ruth was overwhelmed. No
thought of such a conclusion as this had entered
her mind since those first days when Seraph had
been acknowledged to be alarmingly ill ; when the
disease had reached its crisis, Ruth had supposed
the danger passed ; and, all unused to illness as
she was, had continued ignorant, even in the daily
presence of a disease which, to the experienced
eye of the physician, was making rapid advance.
She was more than overwhelmed ; she was dis-
mayed. Seraph Burnham going to die ! to die
soon ! Why, it was appalling! nld any one be

more unready for death than she r How was it
possible for one like her to go up before the
Judge ! It seemed to Ruth, afterwards, that, dur-
ing that first half-hour after the doctor left her
alone, she came face to face with a realizing sense
of death, and the judgment, for the first time in
her life ! And the thought that a soul with which
she had had to do for yeart:, was going swiftly for-
ward into those scenes, all unprepared, seemed
almost to paralyze her with terror.

She could not give way to these feelings long.
There was much to be done ; she had forgotten
her summons to the kitchen ; had forgotten also

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WAITING.

that the sick one was left alone ; but she was not
left lonj;' in forgctfulness. An imperative summons
came to her, and sending Kate to Seraph, she
put aside her strange terrors as best she could,
and tried to listen coherently to the voluble tongue
whose owner had presented herself in the hope of
being engaged as nurse and attendant. All the
time the bewildered mistress was saying to her-
self, ** She will not do; she vvill not do at all ; if
there were no other reason, she is not the person
to attend one who is going to die."

When at last she had schooled herself into out-
ward calm, and forced herself to return to Seraph,
that young lady threw her again into consternation.

'* Mamma," she said, turning on her couch and
looking full into Ruth's face, •* I heard the doctor
ask to speak to you, this morning, and I know it
was something about me ; it would be a great
satisfaction to me if you " ould tell me just what
he said."

How was this appeal to be answered } Ruth
had not thought about it she had pv.l it away
sternly as something which must, among other
grave things, be decided, but not until she had
time to think ; here it was confronting her, and it
could be answered now only by dismayed silence.

" I do not want to be treated like a child," said
Seraph, speaking coldly. " If the di ctor had any
information to give which concerned me, I think
he might have given it directly to me ; but since

WAITING

237

he did not choose to do that, I ask you as a favor
to tell me exactly what he said."

** I will tell you," said Ruth hurriedly, startled
at the sound of her own voice, " I will tell you at
another time, not now ; I haven't time now, that
is, I have not thought how to" — and there she
stopped. What a terrible bungle she was making
of this terrible thing ! Oh ! what ought she to say ?
If there were only some one else to take this awful
responsibility. Still Seraph questioned her with
those great beautiful eyes. " You have c.lmost
told me," she said, " you might as well finish ; he
says I am not going to get well. Isn't that it ?
Now tell me this ; does he think I am going to
die soon ? "

'* He thinks," said Ruth, and her lips trembled,
" he is afraid — O, Seraph ! "

** Never mind," said Seraph. " I understand ;
you need not tell me any more ; go away, and
leave me alone." And she turned her face to the
wail, and lay perfectly still.

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BELATED WORK.

CHAPTER XX.

BELATED WORK.

THE days that immediately followed this rev-
lation were strange ones to Mrs. Burnham.
Long afterwards she looked back upon them, and
wondered that her over-strained brain did not reel
under the intensity of the excitement.

Her life had been unusually shielded from any
experiences connected with death. Her father, it
is true, had lingered in his sunny room on the
borders of the other world for weeks, but Ruth's
daily visits to him were filled with not only the
tenderest but the brightest memories ; always he
was in the sunshine ; ready to cheer and en-
courage her ; so full of bright anticipations for
himself, that it had not seemed possible to think
of the word death in connection with him, and the
final scene had been such a jubilant entering in,
that she could only feel afterward as though she
had a glimpse of eternal life.

But this was different — so utterly different.
It was not that Seraph made any visible sign of
fear, or of rebellion ; such was not her nature ; but

this rev-
urnham.
lem, and
not reel

rom any
father, it
I on the
Ruth's
nly the
[ways he
and en-
ions for
Ito think
and the
jring in,
lugh she

lifferent.

sign of

ire ; but

BELATED WORK.

239

that she had a fierce battle to fight in her own
heart was only too apparent.

Her face changed alarmingly in the course of the
next few days ; took on the worn, haggard loolc of
extreme illness and anxiety, and wrung Mrs. Burn-
ham's heart whenever she saw it with a pain unlike
any that she ever felt before. A human soul in
peril, and she the only person near who knew the
one sure way for safety, yet feeling powerless to
lead to it. She was made to feel, during^ those
first days, that she hat! managed the trust that the
doctor had imposed on her in an utterly irrational
manner.

Judge Burnham was at first angrily incredulous ;
it was utter nonsense that a girl who had been in
splendid health up to the time when she had caught
a violent cold should sink into a rapid consumption.
That disease was not in the Burnham family ;
they were, as a family, noted for strong constitu-
tions. The thing was incredible ; Westwood was
nervous, or careless, or mistaken, at least ; they
must have counsel ; he wondered that the physi-
cian had not attended to this before if he really
feared danger. And a solemn council of eminent
physicians was held, although Dr. Westwood as-
sured the father that in his judgment it was unnec-
essary and useless. So indeed it proved ; there
was no dissenting voice. Dr. Westwood, on his
part, expressed himself privately to Mrs. Burnham
as being extremely shocked over the effect that

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240

BELATED WORK.

the news had had upon his patient, and did not
hesitate to say that he feared she had been too
abrupt. The only reply he made to her explana-
tion that Seraph had overheard his own words, and
precipitated the tidin<;s upon herself, was to gravely
repeat his fear that she had been too abruptly told,
and to wish that they had kept their knowledge to
themselves. As for her husband, he angrily blamed
her for exciting Seraph in any such manner ; said
he should have supposed her judgment might have
served her better than that. But Ruth could for-
give much to the disappointed father during these
trying days ; these were his daughters, and in
strangely different, and in strangely unthought-of
ways he was losing them both. Meantime, there
came into her heart a genuine pity for Mr.
Satterley. Let him be what he ould — a subject
only for contempt heretofore — there was no deny-
ing the fact that the dignity of a terrible sorrow
was upon him. He came and went a dozen times
a day, always with that look of misery deepening
about him, which told of a sudden and bitter dis-
appointment settling down on his soul.

Ruth, watching him, being waylaid many times
during the day to answer his eager questions, felt
convinced for the first time, that at least one thing
in his life had been genuine. He loved the woman
who was now his promised wife. Was this swift
coming sorrow a portion of his retribution for the
past } Her manner toward him grew gentle, al-

BELATED WOKK.

241

aid not
3en too
;xplana-
rds, and
crravely
tly told,
ledge to
' blamed
;r ; said
^ht have
ould for-
ng: these
, and in
lought-of
ne, there
I for Mr.
subject
no deny-
sorrow
en times
eepening
)itter dis-

ny times
ions, felt
me thing
e woman
his swift
.n for the

most, in spite of herself ; he might have been
guilty of that which had led her to despise lum,
but he was suffering now too greatly to make her
want to add one feather's weight to the blow.

So she took care to speak an encouraging word
when she could, and let voice and manner tell
him that her heart ached over his burden, and
grew nearer to liking him during these brief en-
counters than she had imagined it possible she
ever could.

And still she carried about with her hourly, a
burden different from that of others, but heavy
and bitter. How to reach this girl, whose life was
slipping so rapidly away ; how to help her with
that important suggestion of Infinite help, before
it should be forever too late — this was the question
and the longing that so grew upon her that it was
becoming almost insupportable. Could she bear to
live, and walk about these familiar rooms, and order
their belongings, reminded all the time of one who
had been with her, years and years, and had gone,
and feel that because of her unfaithfulness the
going had been rayless of hope }

A professional nurse was installed once more ;
the disease having now taken a sufficients^ serious
form to awaken the respect of those important
persons. Ruth had more leisure, and less respon-
sibility ; more time, therefore, to break her heart
over what she, alone of all that household, felt and
feared. She betook herself to prayer. Such eager,

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242

BELATED WORK.

.1 • I

longing cries for this soul as it seemed to her the
Lord must hear ; and of course he heard ; but his
answer was to reveal to her herself.

The scales that had blinded her for years fell
off, and she realized only too plainly that much of
the unhappiness of her life she had brought upon
herself. She had done her duty by her husband's
daughters, ** good measure, pressed down," often-
times " running over " ; but she had never loved
them, nor tried to love them. She had mentioned
their names many times in her prayers, but she
had never prayed for them in her life, with the
heart-wrung cry with which she now almost hourly
brought this one to the notice of the Healer. It
came at last to be almost the cry of Israel of old,
" I will not let Thee go except " — realizing, oh ! so
fully her mistakes, realizing that had she lived be-
fore them a different life in every way, both of
these who had made her life miserable might be
to-day living for Christ ; yet she cried out to
the great Physician, ** Nevertheless, for thy sake,
Lord."

It was several days after she had begun to pray
in this manner that her anxiety expressed itself in
words. She was alone with Seraph, the nurse
having taken advantage of a quiet hour, to secure
some much-needed rest.

She began by almost timidly suggesting that the
pastor of the church at the corner had called the
day before, and indeed called often ; would not

BELATED WORK.

243

' H

Seraph, some morning when she was feeling pretty
well, like to have him come up and see her ?

Silence followed, lasting so long that Ruth
thought her question was not going to be an-
swered ; then, in a cold, constrained voice : " I
don't know why I should care to see him. I do
not feel in the least acquainted with him ; the only
time I ever saw him alone, was that day he called,
when you were not at home, and Kate thought you
were ; and he spent ten minutes in asking me about
the last concert ; which soprano, in my judgment,
was the better, and whether, on the whole, I
thought Miss Nelson's voice was as good as her
cousin's, who used to sing that part ; I don't feel
any particular desire to see him. I have lost my
interest in concerts."

It all came over Ruth then, so pitifully — the
pale face, save for those fateful spots of crimson
high on the cheeks, the hollow-sounding voice
which told only too plainly that the singer would
sing no more ; the short breath, which made her
pause frequently between even short sentences,
and the apathetic voice, hinting of interest lost
in almost everything. She had meant to be very
quiet, very careful about exciting her charge, and
she was not given to tears ; nevertheless, they lilled
her eyes now, as she came over to the invalid chair
which was stretched back almost like a bed, and
knelt beside it and touched the white hand lying
idly on her lap, and spoke low, and tremulously ; ,

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244

BELATED WORK.

" Seraph, I want to say something to you ; I feel,
oh ! more than I can ever express, how far short of
all that I ought to have been, I have seemed to
you. I have lived before you the Christian life
in such a way as to lead you to feel that there was
no reality in it, and no comfort to be had from it ;
and as though I cared little whether you walked
that way or not. This I realize, and I want to
tell you what a mistake it all is ; there is a vital
personal union with Christ which is able to make
up for the loss of all other things ; there is a
heaven so glorious that we cannot even in our
wildest flights, imagine it ; I know, for I saw my
father bid good-by to this world, and the glory on
his face as the light of the other dawned upon
him, was not to be mistaken ; then I know, by my
own experience, that Christ is able to give such
strength and comfort as are to be found nowhere
else ; and if I, such a miserable Christian as I
have been, can be sure of this, and I am, ought
you not to believe it ? If I could tell you how I
long to have you take the rest which this Friend
stands ready to offer, if I could give you any idea
of the consuming desire I have to see you sheltered
in his arms of love, and have Him undo some of
the mischief which my cold and careless life has
done, I almost think you would, in very pity for
me, turn your thoughts and hopes to Him."

It was not what she had meant to say ; there
was not a word spoken of all that which she had

BELATED WORK.

245

; I feel,
short of
;med to
tian life
lere was
from it ;
1 walked
want to
s a vital
to make
lere is a
n in our
saw my
glory on
ned upon
w, by my
ive such
nowhere
ian as I
|m, ought
ou how I
s Friend
any idea
sheltered
some of
life has
pity for

i»

iy ; there
she had

lain awake and planned, the night before. It had
not, at that time, seemed to Ruth wise to speak
of herself at all, for she believed that Seraph
was too indifferent to her to care what she felt ;
and here she was almost basing her plea on the
strength of the pain which she felt for this dying
girl!

Neither was the answer she received in any
degree what she had planned for. She had thought
that there might be, possibly, indignation, or sar-
casm, or coldness ; or perhaps no attempt at reply ;
and indeed this last seemed, for a few moments,
what was to be.

Seraph lay back and looked at her, with no trace
of emotion on her face, with apparently no quicken-
ing of her pulses ; yet presently she spoke, slowly,
in a half-curious tone, as one might who was mak-
ing out a puzzle : —

" I almost believe you have been in earnest all
the time. I thought your religion was a sham ;
worn as one would wear a fashionable dress,
because in your very high and exclusive circle
it was the fashion not to be fashionable in a
worldly way, but to be religious. I did not think
you cared whether Minta and I, or even papa, ever
had any religion or not ; save so much for papa as
would admit him into the fashionable exciusiveness
where you belonged ; we didn't think you wanted
us there ; but I half believe we were mistaken all
the while."

'■"ill

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246

BELATED WORK.

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These sentences were spoken slowly, almost
impersonally ; as if she were not referring to
herself and that other woman who knelt before
her.

But Ruth was too intensely in earnest now to
have this strange language or this utterly indiffer-
ent manner prevent her message.

" I do not wonder," she said, " I do not wonder
at anything which the mistakes of my past life
may have led you to think ; it has all been wrong.
I was never a hypocrite ; I was simply a half-
hearted Christian ; yet half-way as I was, I tell
you in all sincerity I could not have lived my liic
at all, it seems to me, without Christ. What I
want now more than anything else in life — so
much that it seems to me I would willingly die
to secure it — is to have you give yourself into his
keeping, and learn from Him all that He can be
to a soul. O, Seraph ! will you do this } Will you
forget all about me, and turn your thoughts to
Him > "

Again there was no response. Seraph's eyes
were dry and her face composed, though her step-
mother's was wet with fast-falling tears. A long
time it seemed to the excited woman that she
waited, not daring to say more, to other ears than
God's, but praying, oh ! in an agony of appeal for
an answer of peace.

" I'll tell you, mamma, who I should like to have
come and stay with me a little while ; and that is

ly:

f ilE

i'? <'

BELATED WORK.

247

Susan Erskine." That, at last, »/as the answer
she received.

Ruth rose up, then, brushing the tears hastily
from her face, and in that instant she was shown
another revelation of her heart. She thought she
had been to its utmost depths ; but in the light
of this experience she saw that she had not only
wanted this soul saved, but had wanted the Master
to let her be the instrument in His hands ; and
that it hurt her to have herself, in effect, pushed
aside, and another messenger called after. It was
an instant's revelation, and the sudden revulsion
of feeling which it caused passed almost as quickly
as it had come.

" It is a good thought," she said humbly.
" Susan could help you ; she always helped me.
She is teaching, but perhaps a substitute could be
found. I will write to her this evening ; no, I will
have your father telegraph, if you like ; that will
save you from so long waiting ; I feel almost sure
she can arrange to come."

" Then send for her ; she is the only one I can
think of in the world whom I would like to see."
And Seraph had turned her head away from her
mother, and closed her eyes.

Then the nurse came, and Ruth went away —
went to her own room, and locked the door, and
went on her knees. She spoke no audible word ;
but knelt there long, and rose up quieted.

Money is a potent factor in this world. Susan

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248

BELATED WORK.

Erskine was three hundred miles away ; was hold-
ing an important position in an important school ;
and it was in the middle of the term. When Judge
Erskine died, and the old home was broken, many
plans had been discussed as to what would be done.
Ruth wanted Susan, and would have been willing
to agree to almost any arrangement which would
keep her in the family ; but no one knew better
than Susan that the mother would not be at rest
in Judge Burnham's household. That she did not
fit it gracefully, and that she jarred on the nerves
of the master, and, for the matter of that, on the
mistress as well, although her heart was full of
grateful love toward her now. Susan did not dis-
cuss many plans; she kept her own counsel; but
had, in the course of a few weeks, announced that
mother and she were going back "home"; to
the neighborhood where they had lived so long ;
that her old position was waiting for her, and
mother had many friends there, and in every re-
spect she believed it would be best. And Judge
Burnham had said that Susan Erskine was the
m-^^t sensible woman of his acquaintance; that
he had always thought so. Nevertheless, he sent
the telegrams which Ruth suggested, with prompt-
ness, and added other and expressive ones about
the importance of having the invalid's wishes re-
spected ; and about the fact that any salary desired
might be offered for a substitute, if Susan would
but come ; so Susan came.

''^^

BELATED WORK.

249

To her mother, she said, —

" I think I ought to go ; for I used to have
influence with the poor girl ; and now that she is
going to die, I may be able to help her."

"Of course you ought to go," said Mrs. Erskine.
" What are schools, where they teach grammar
and things, when a body comes almost to the end,
and needs the kind of help that we were put into
the world to give ? Poor '".hing ! what an everlast-
ing pity it is that she put off the only important
work in life until life was pretty nigh over. But
there ! I'd 'a* done the same, myself, poor fool
that I was, and would be doing it yet, I dare say,
if it hadn't been for your father. And to think
that maybe that girl will see him in a little while !
I could most feel like asking her to take a message
for me, if I was going along. I'm getting to be
an old woman, Susan, and I do feel kind of home-
sick after your father once in a while, now that's
a fact ; it isn't as though I had had him all his
life, you know, for I hadn't ; Ihere was a good
deal of wasted time."

And Susan, who had steadily given her life to
the care and comfort of her mother, smiled on her
cheerily, and said, —

" Never mind, mother, you and father will have
time enough together to make up for it all, one of
these days."

"That's the living truth," said the old lady with
a smile on her homely face, suggestive of the peace

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250

BELATED WORK

of heaven ; and while she trotted about, packing
her daughter's trunk, she sang in a quavering
voice, and on a high key, —

" When we've been there ten thousand years

Bright shining as the sun ;
We've no less days to sing His praise,

Than when we first begun."

TRANSFORMATION.

251

CHAPTER XXI.

TRANSFORMATION.

BUT because Susan Erskine came, Mrs. Burn-
ham did not therefore find herself banished
from the invalid's room. Instead, she was drawn
there more than before ; and, indeed, from the hour
when she made her pitiful appeal to Seraph, the
two had seemed to be on a different footing ;
no further words had passed between them, but
Seraph had seemed less indifferent to her coming
and going, and had shrunken less from receiv-
ing attentions at her hands. She even smiled
occasionally on her now, and once inquired as to
whether her incessant coughing, the night before,
had disturbed her mother. It was not usual for
Seraph to appear, at least, to care who was dis-
turbed by her.

At another time she said, smiling gratefully on
Susan who was arranging pillo'xs in that deft way
which some attendants seem to know by instinct,
and others never learn, " It is so nice to have Susan
here, mamma ; it was so good of you to think about
it, and bring it to pass."

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252

TRANSFORMATION.

All these little things were very unlike Seraph.

Moreover, as the days passed, Ruth distinctly
saw another change ; unmistakably, Seraph's face
was taking on that look of rest and peace which
can come — at least at such times as those she
was rapidly nearing — from only one source. The
haggard lines were being smoothed ; the apparent
apathy which had followed the days of unnatural
excitement, was also gone ; she had roused to
some degree of interest in the affairs of others.
She inquired for Erskine, who had long been
banished from the sick room, because his sister
had no desire to see him, and he now made daily
visits. Occasionally, his happy little laugh was
heard to ring out from the sick room, and when
some one went in haste, lest the invalid should be
disturbed, she would be found smiling on him.
Yet these were days full of solemnity to Ruth ;
she had never before lived, as it were, in the
presence of j. soul at the time when it opened
the door and let in the Heavenly Guest ; she had
never before watched the process of transforma-
tion go on. It might have been unusually rapid
in this case, because the time was short ; but
Ruth stood often awed before it ; this marvelous
change of even the lines on the wasting face.
"And the hardness of his face is changed."

She came to that verse one morning in hei
somewhat hurried reading, and stopped over it as
something which she had never seen before ; and

TRANSFORMATION.

253

raph.
;inctly
s face
which
se she
The
parent
latural
sed to
others.
r been
i sister
le daily
rh was
d when
buld be
n him.
Ruth ;
in the
opened
he had
forma-
rapid
t; but
irvelous
face.

I in hei
;r it as
|e ; and

thought of it the instant she entered Seraph's
room, an hour afterwards. " It is true," she said
within herself ; " the ' hardness ' of her face is
changed; that exactly describes the process."
Then she wondered if any infidel had ever watched
this steady change in a human face, and what he
thought could be at work in the heart, transform-
ing the life.

** Conformed to his image," this was another
sentence over which she had lingered, and which
she applied afterwards, feeling awe-stricken.

What an amazing thing it was that this girl
should be singled out from the family for such an
experience, such an honor as this ! ** Getting
ready to go abroad." Those words were spoken
in her hearing, one day, in regard to an acquaint-
ance of Seraph's; and Ruth thought of it con-
stantly as the days passed. ** So is she," she said
to herself, looking, the while, at Seraph; '* get-
ting ready to be presented at court ! Oh ! more
than that ; she is the bride getting ready for the
bridegroom and the palace. What a marvelous
thing it is ! How do we ever succeed in thinking
about, or caring for anything else, with this in
view ? " And the fascinations of that room in-
creased upon her. It was not that Seraph said
much, said anything, indeed, except to Susan, in
the confidential talks which Ruth knew they had ;
it was rather that Ruth allowed her imagination
full play when she was in the presence of this

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254

TRANSFORMATION.

one who was evidently slipping away from earth.
Others beside herself saw, or felt the changes ;
Mr. Satterley, who had obstinately refused to
believe that nothing could be done for the sick
one, and had hoped against hope, and begged that
this remedy and that might be tried, and such and
such an authority consulted, followed Ruth from
the room one morning, when it had seemed to her
that Seraph looked unusually quiet and reposeful,
and dropping into a chair at the further end of the
hall, gave himself to a perfect abandonment of
grief. ** I've given up," he said when at last he
could speak ; ** I could not believe it possible that
she was not going to get better ; but I can see
that she isn't ; some strange change has come to
her ; she is not like herself ; she talks as though
she did not even care to get w^i. Can anything
have happened to make her tired of living ; to, to
— change her so ? "

"It isn't that," Ruth said; "it isn't that she is
tired of this life, but " — and then she attempted to
speak the King's language to this man of alien
birth. He did not understand her ; he was per-
plexed, pained, almost angry that anything should
or could reconcile this woman whom he loved to
satisfying her soul with another love ; could make
her willing to glide away from him into a mysteri-
ous world.

Gradually there was coming to be a very pleasant
understandins: between Mrs. Burnham and her

TRANSFORMATION.

255

1:1

step-daughter. Seraph smiled on her, now, in
return for service, and sometimes said ** Thank
you," in grateful tones ; and once she caught her
hand and said earnestly," You were right, mamma ;
there is One who can make up for the loss of
everything else ; it seems very strange that He
should be willing to do it for me, but He is, and
has, and I knew you would be glad."

After that Ruth looked at her and thought
about her with a feeling which might almost have
been called envy. This young woman, who a few
days ago had spoken of Jesus as though he were
an indifferent stranger, now evidently belonged to
him in a sense of which she, the disciple of years,
knew nothing. Why should her education pro-
gress so fast ? What was there in Heaven for her
to do, that she should be so swiftly hurried through
the earth journey, and sheltered in the sunny
home ? It was new experience in every way to
Ruth, and she studied it, and prayed over it, and
spent as much time as she could with the one who
had seemed suddenly to rise to heights above her ;
to draw closer each day to the Great Source of
strength and power. They had little, half-confi-
dential talks together sometimes. Seraph speaking
out suddenly, after long, quiet moments, revealing
in a brief sentence, perhaps, glimpses of the past
which were very revelations to Ruth ; making her
understand what she had had to contend with
in her hard and unsuccessful struggle with life.

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256

TRANSFORMATION.

'111,

m .

"When we first went to school," said Seraph,
" the girls used to laugh at us ; they thought we
could not be serious, Mintii and I, when we talked
about you, and told how kind you were, and what
you had done for us, and how much you planned
for our pleasure. They made all sorts of fun of us
when they found that we really meant it ; they
said we were the greatest simpletons they had
ever met ; that the idea of step-mothers really
caring for grown-up daughters was too absurd to
be credited ; that, in the verv nature of things, we
were, and must be, rivals ; that you had stolen
papa from us, and we must take the consequences,
of course, but as for pretending to think a great
deal of you, that was too silly for girls as old as
we were, and a great deal more of that sort of
nonsense," would Seraph add, somewhat wearily,
as her strength began to fail, *' It was most
ridiculous in us to be influenced by such talk. I
cannot think how we came to be such idiots, but
we were. Poor Minta was inclined, I think, to
have a low opinion of the world in general, and
being constantly under such influences, and hear-
ing stories all the time about unhappy homes, and
heartless second mothers — there were half a
dozen girls in the school who were step^daughters
— we actually came to believe that their experience
was ours, or must be, in the course of time ; and
we came home prejudiced, you know, or with eyes
so blinded by false lights that we could not see the

TRANSrOKMATION.

257

,:f L

irapb,
ht we
talked
I what
tanned
1 of us
; they
2y had
really
surd to
[igs, we
stolen
^uences,
a great
5 old as
sort of
wearily,
,s most
talk. I
Lots, but
ink, to
|ral, and
d hear-
les, and
half a
.ughters
»erience
,e ; and
[ith eyes
see the

real. We have been very hateful, mamma, but we
were honestly so."

She was too tired to say more, or to hear other
than soothing words. " Never mind," the step-
mother said. •• Don't worry over it now. Seraph.
I, too, have been to blame — greatly to blame ; I
can see it plainly now, but I can say, like you,
that I was honest. I meant to do the best for you
that I could. No, I am not going to let you talk
any more ; you are to shut your eyes, and not even
think. You and I will both remember that we be-
long to One who understands hearts."

But when she was alone again, the step-mother
went all over it in sorrowful indignation, and be-
gan to realize as she had not before, the irrepa-
rable mischief that false and foolish tongues had
wrought for her.

" You had stolen papa from us." This, in brief,
was the silly and false idea that she began to under-
stand was talked before children about their second
mothers, until it was little wonder that they came to
look upon the relation with blinded eyes, as Seraph
had said. And she, who had rushed into it with such
utter self-abnegation, such determination to make
home what it should be for these two daughters,
had ignored the world and its false tongues, had
held herself aloof from it, and been so determined
to win by the superiority of her own plans, that it
was no wonder she had failed.

" I could have loved Seraph," she said, the tears

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TRANsFUKMATlON.

•I" !'i

falling fast ; as she brushed them away, " I could
have loved her, and have won her to love me, if I
had held her from the false and fashionable world,
and held up Christ before her with such power as
to win her to him."

And the confidential relations so long in estab-
lishing themselves between these two grew apace.

" Mamma," Seraph began one day when they
were alone for a moment, '• there is something I
want very much, and I do not know whether I can
have it. Did you ever tell papa about that young
woman — that Estelle, you know ? "

" No," said Ruth quickly, her face flushing. It
had been one of her anxieties in the earlier days of
this sickness that she had not done so, and that
she could not determine whether she ought or not ;
of late, she had put it aside. " No ; I have never
mentioned the matter to him in any way."

" And do you think — I mean, I do not know that
there is any need for doing so now. Is there } "

There was a marked emphasis on the word
now. It was putting into plainer language than
she had before, even to Ruth, the thought that she
was so nearly done with all these things ; that
stories about them, fraught with solemn import
but a few months ago, could be allowed to drop
quietly into silence. Ruth turned toward her,
her eyes dim with tears, and her voice tremulous,
but she answered, —

No ; I do not think there is.'

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TRANSFORMATION.

259

I could

me, if I
e world,
ower as

n estab-
w apace,
en they
lething 1
ler I can
it young

hing. It
;r days of
and that
fit or not ;
ave never

"Well, mamma, I want to see her. I want to
have a little talk with her quite alone, and not have
any one know it. Do you think I might ? "

Ruth smiled now, a loving, in fact, a thankful
smile ; this was to her one of the indications of
discipleship. " I'll manage it," she said.

And that afternoon, having sent the nurse home
fur a two hours* vacation, she said to Susan, " I've
no doubt you consider yourself authority here, but
it is a mistake ; you are under orders. I'm in
conspiracy with this little girl, and she has a
young friend coming to see her, with whom she
wants to talk quite alone. We are both to be ban-
ished ; I shall stay in the next room, within sound
of the bell, but 'you may go to the garden, or to
the music room, or where you will, so that you
consider yourself banished until you receive a
special summons hither."

" Very well," Susan said, entering into the as-
sumed gaiety of the moment with the quick-witted-
ness of one who understood that she was expected
not to understand. " I suspected mischief when
you were so anxious to have the nurse take a holi-
day, but I did not suppose it was so far-reaching
as this ; however, I am all submission."

And Seraph, as she caught Ruth's eye, smiled,
and said, " Thank you," in a low tone, full of

meanmg.

For an hour, the two of whom Mr. Satterley
had asked the same momentous question, and

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TRANSFORMATION.

J il'

received from each a solemn Yes, were alone
together. But what the favored one, who yet was
going away to a country whence they never return
to fulfill earthly vows, said to the one who had
been cast aside for her sake, is known only to
Him to whom all hearts are open. It was Ruth
who met the young girl at the door, when she
came in answer to her summons, and showed her
to Seraph's room ; and when, an hour afterward,
Seraph's bell rang, it was Ruth again who showed
her guest out, noting only that her eyes were red
with weeping.

No questions were asked by any one. Kate, who
had met the girl in the hall below, and attended
her to the door, volunteered the information in
the kitchen, that it was " some young thing who
was fond of Miss Seraph ; a sewing girl," she
•guessed." And Susan, who knew better than
most persons when silence was golden, said noth-
ing at all. As for Seraph, the only word she had
to offer, was given to Ruth as she took the glass
of water from the wasting hand. Seraph's cheeks
glowed, perhaps, a little more than usual, but her
eyes were bright, and there was no hint of tears
about her face ; she laid her fingers gently on
Ruth's hand, and said, " Mamma, thank you."
That 'vas all.

Mr. ^ptterley came and went as usual, perhaps
even o^xner than bjfore, and his face still wore
the same haggard 1 )ok of pain ; and Ruth, watch-

^i#.

TRANSFORMATION.

261

vcre alone
■ho yet was
ever return
le who had
vvn only to
t was Ruth
-, when she
showed her
r afterward,
who showed
yes were red

. Kate, who
md attended
formation in
g thing who
g girl/' she
better than
n, said noth-
ord she had
ok the glass
aph's cheeks
sual, but her
int of tears
s gently on
thank you."

iual, perhaps

:e still wore

uth, watch-

ing them bothj and seeing this life tragedy drawing
toward its close, lelt more sympathy and sorrow
for the man than she had once imagined would be
possible.

He had been heartless, and yet it appeared that
he had a heart, and that he wa'- being taught what
it was to suffer. Not long after this there came
to Ruth another appeal for help.

" Mamma, I wish I could see Minta."
And Ruth, her eyes flashing sudden resolutio^i,
yet kept her voice quiet as she said, —

"I will see if I cannot bring that to pass with-
out more delay."

She went very soon thereafter in search of her
husband, feeling angry with herself that she had
endured so long the present state of things.

In order to understand it, you will need to be
reminded that Judge Burnham had always been
a man of overweening pride, and that he had
allowed UiinseU to bi so swayed by this feeling
as to be at times incapable of controlling it.

That his heart had been trampled upon, and
rudely stung by his daughter Minta, was true ;
and that his pride had received such a blow that
he could not rally from it, was also true. Smart-
ing under this, you will remember how he had
issued his stern mandate that his second daughter
should never again enter his door ; that she was
from this time forth no daughter of his, and he
would have the world know that he disowned her.

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262

TRANSFORMATION.

A proufi man is also a very obstinate man, and
thR)ii<;h all those weeks of suffering, and fast fail-
ing; bodily powers on the part of his only other
daut;hter, he had held steadily to this resolution,
notwithstanding the fact that Seraph had herself
appealed to him to be allowed to see her sister.

Anything else ; nothing that money could buy,
or time and care produce, were to be withheld.
It seemed, as the days went by, as though he must
have spent hours in studying as to what might
tempt Seraph's tastes. He brought home delicacies
which she was too ill to touch ; books and pictures
that she could only smile on, wearily, flowers of
so rare and heavy a perfume that they had to be
banished from her rooms, to give her air ; every-
thing that a lavish expenditure and highly cult-
ured tastes could furnish was at her command,
save this one wish of her heart to see and talk
with the sister from whom she had never before
been separated.

Over this petition he shut his firm lips and
shook his obstinate head ! Mrs. Hamlin was no
daughter of his, and therefore of course could be
no sister of Seraph's, any more.

Yet, on this morning of which I write, his wife
went down to him in his private study with deter-
mination gleaming in her eyes.

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DAYS Ol- PRIVILEGE.

26^

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CHAPTER XXII.

DAYS OF rklVILEGE

JUDGE BURNHAM," she said, beginning as
was her habit, without circumlocution of any
sort, " I am going to send for Minta, to-day, to
come to her sister. Seraph mourns for her, and
ought to have her wish. I will wait until you
have gone to town for the day, if such is your
desire ; but even that I think is unwise ; however
much she may have displeased you, M'nta is still
your daughter, and this is he: father's house " —

He interrupted her hastily. ** I have explained
to you, Mrs. Burnham, that she is from henceforth
no daughter of mine."

His wife's voice was very steady, having that
determined quality in it which helps to calm some
forms of excitement.

" But that, Judge Burnham, is simply nonsense ;
of course you and I know that the parental relation
is not one which can be put on and off at will ;
Minta is a disobedient and ungrateful daughter,
if you will, but she is still your daughter, whether
you will or not ; you can treat her as though she

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DAYS OF PRIVILEGE.

were nothing to you, but that will not destroy
the relationship ; it will be simply yielding to the
desire to act an unnatural part. Still, I do not
ask you to send for her, unless you think you
ought ; I simply say that I am going to let her
know to-day how ill her sister is, and ask her to
come and see for herself."

" And what if I say that, as this is my house,
and I am supposed to be its master, I forbid any
such proceeding ; that I decline to allow her to be
invited here on any pretext whatever ? "

His wife came toward him and laid her hand on
his arm with a little caressing movement peculiar
to herself, and not often indulged ; she was an
undemonstrative woman.

" Even then," she said, very gently, " I should
disobey you, because I know your true self better
than you do ; and I know how swiftly the days
are coming when you would bitterly regret such
words. Seraph is very ill, Judge Burnham ; she is
failing rapidly ; it will do no good to blind your
eyes to this fact ; she has never been separated
from her sister before, and she misses and mourns
for her ; it is unnatural and cruel not to allow,
and even urge Minta to come to her, under such
circumstances ; no one will see this more plainly
than you, one of these days ; it is simply that you
do not realize how short the time is."

His lips quivered almost beyond • his control
when he spoke again. ** I have not meant to be

DAYS OF PRIVILEGE.

265

cruel, but I have been cruelly treated ; any father
would admit that ; still, as you say, we do not
want to deny Seraph anything, though I cannot
think she is so ill as you suppose ; she seemed to
me quite bright this morning. I will lay no com-
mands on you, of course. I did not mean that, but
there are ceitcin things that must not be expected
of me. If Minta personally cared for my forgive-
ness, she could, at least, ask it ; could say that she
had done me grievous wrong ; and I do not think
until she docs so much, that I am called upon to
notice her in any way. The invitation to her to
call here must not come from me ; it must be dis-
tinctly understood that I do not endorse it ; I
merely tolerate it for Seraph's sake. And one
command I will issue : that man whom she calls
her husband must not step his feet inside my
doors."

His voice had grown stern again, and as he had
already made more of a concession than Ruth
had expected, and as she could see no reason wliy
any consideration should be shown the man who
ha*: deliberately carried out a plan to rob a home,
she made no reply to this other than the general
one tliat of course she would carry out his wishes
as well as she could, and went away to write her
note to Minta, then, to tell Seraph what she had
done, and to regret, for the next four or five hours,
that she did any such thing. It became apparent
that Seraph had missed her sister more than any

266

DAYS OF PRIVILEGE.

of those about her had realized, and the hope of
seeing her, coupled with the thought of the long
waiting that there must still be, unnerved her to
such a degree that the doctor, when he made his
morning call, was alarmed at the state of her pulse,
and scolded the nurse roundly for allowing her
charge to be excited about anything.

All this added greatly to Ruth's anxiety and
dismay, when the messenger who had been dis-
patched with her note returned, bringing a written
reply, instead of the girl for whom she was now
anxiously watching. It was addressed to herself,
and was brief and to the point : —

Mrs. Judge Burnham:

Madam :
I will not take time to thank you for the extreme courtesy of
your remarkable invitation to my father's house, nor to explain to
you how fully I recognize your skillful hand in it all. I will simply
say that the invitation must come from my father, and must include
my husband, or it will be paper wasted. I will venture to send
my love to Seraph, and to hope that she will soon be well enough
to ride into town and visit me, when I will promise to give her a
much more cordial greeting than I should evidently receive in my
father's house.

Yours, in vivid remembrance,

MiNTA Burnham Hamlin.

Over the contents of this letter Ruth stood
appalled. What was now to be done with the ex-
cited invalid ? Judge Burnham was away for the
day ; she did not even know just where to reach
him, nor, indeed, if he were at home could much

DAYS OF PRIVILEGE.

267

'■■1

be expected from him immediately on the receipt
of such an epistle as that. While she was still in
a state of wretched indecision as to how to manage,
Susan came in search of her ; Seraph had asked
for her, and seemed restless over her prolonged
absence ; so Ruth went at once, and was immedi-
ately questioned : —

" Mamma, you have had some word from Minta,
I can see it in your face. Won't you just let me
read the letter for myself, if she wrote } I under-
stand Minta so well ! Things that might sound
strangely to you, would be plain to me. Will you
let me have it, mamma } "

All this was so unlike the Seraph of Ruth's
acquaintance that she felt half bewildered, and
without more ado, gave the letter into her hands.
Then, during its reading, tormented herself as to
whether this were not the very worst thing that
could have been done.

There was a heightened color on the girl's cheeks
when she gave it back, but her voice was steady.

"Never mind, mamma ; that was a p-'etty hard
letter for you to read, but there is more than Minta
involved in it. He will not let her come ; I under-
stand how it is. He has a very great influence over
her, and he is selfish — intensely selfish. I used to
tell her that, before I knew that she cared for him so
much ; she does care, mamma — it isn't all naughti-
ness. We will let it go for the present ; she does
not understand, you see. She thinks I am going

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268

DAYS OF PRIVILEGE.

to get well, and come and sec her, and she thinks
if she holds out, papa will receive him, too ; in a
few days, perhaps, we can make her understand
how it is with me. I would not send again, mamma,
for papa's sake ; it is very hard for him, too, and I
am so sorry. How very different things get to
looking in a few weeks' time ! We have both made
it very hard indeed for you and papa, and we did
not dream it. You must remember that, mamma ;
we did not understand at all. We were fools. I
wonder if Minta will wait until she lies where I do,
before she realizes it .-* That was one reason why
I wanted to see her."

" Never mind," said Ruth in her turn. ** Do
not think about it any more now ; you are tired,
and I understand ; I understand much better than
you suppose I do. There are two sides to it ; I,
too, was a fool in many ways, and, like you, I did
not mean it." Then she stooped and kissed the
girl for the first time in years, and her eyes were
filled with tears, and her throbbing heart said,
" If we could only begin all over again from the
beginning ! "

Seraph was quieter after that. The sense that
Minta had refused to come to her, and had replied
only with insulting words, seemed to tone her im-
patience to see her. She counselled waiting for a
day or two. " I will write her a little note myself,
to-morrow, 'perhaps," she said, "if I am strong
enough, and then she will understand better ; and

DAYS OF PRIVILEGE.

269

I do not blame papa for not wantinj^ that man to
come. I never knew anytliinj.;" of his plans ; I cHcl
not think he would dare to do as he has. Papa
understands that, does he not .-* " And Ruth as-
sured her tenderly that papa had no words of
blame for her. But Seraph thought much about
it all ; this was evident, from the words she fre-
quently spoke to Ruth, never to any one else.
"Mamma, people do not mean all the things they
say. You know that, don't you .-* I don't know
but you do ; I have come to think so. That time
you said you were sorry for me, do you remem-
ber — when you told me about Estelle .-* I know
now that you meant it, but I didn't think so then.
And I said things, many and many a time, that I
did not mean. I did about her ; I pretended not to
care, and I said it was a little matter. There was
not any of that true."

" I understand," said Ruth, and her voice was
very humble. She had not understood, she told her-
self ; she had not understood this girl at all ; she
had called her simply heartless, when perhaps her
heart was breaking.

There was another who insisted on knowing just
what had been done about the summons to Minta,
and on seeing her reply ; and had tossed it down
with a haughty, "That is just what I expected. I
hope you have sufficiently humiliated us before
her, and will be content to let her take the road
she has chosen."

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270

DAYS OF PRIVILEGE.

** Seraph says she cannot now do as she will/*
interposed Ruth meekly, but her husband answered
her only by a sharp " Nonsense ! " And remem-
bering Minta's determined will in the past, she
said no more. It is possible that these two would
both have been wiser could they have heard the
words that passed between the young husband
and wife on the receipt of Ruth's note. She had
worded it carefully, trying not to give offense, and
at the same time to make plain to the girl that she
must come alone ; and the husband had thrown
it aside with much more vim than Judge Burnham
used with the reply, and had said in an angry
voice : " Insufferable woman ! If it were not for
her, you would be in your rightful place in your
father's house ! The idea that she should dare to
tell you that you may come home, but you must
come alone ! If you do not resent that with
scorn, y»u are more of a coward than I take you
to be."

" I wonder if Seraph is really very sick," faltered
the wife. " Do you hear nothing about it in town }
Couldn't you ask some one ? "

" Sick ! Of course — she isn't ; it is simply a
ruse to get you away from me, and then proceed
to crushing me ! That precious father of yours
could do it, and would like nothing better, es-
pecially with your lovely step-mother to crowd
on."

" Oh ! but, Harold, you said yourself that papa

DAYS UF I'KIVILECJE.

271

withdrew proceedings against you, and that that
was the reason you could stay in town."

•' Yes ; and why did he do it ? Because I was
sharp enough to get hold of you. He would have
crushed me as willingly as he would a worm, but
for that ; if it had not been for his impertinent
interference in my affairs I would never have
gotten into such an intolerable scrape. He may
thank himself for the publicity of the whole thing.
But his name is involved now, in spite of himself,
and a man like him, who is all but consumed with
personal vanity, will do a good deal for the sake of
shielding one who belongs to him. I tell you,
Minta, I understand all this perfectly ; he has a
deep-laid scheme to separate us, and to ruin me ;
he has power enough to do it, even though I am
not to blame, save in supposing that he had a
heart. I don't depend on that organ any longer,
I assure you, but I do on his pride. When he
finds that you can be as firm as he thinks he is,
and will have all, or nothing, his consuming desire
to appear well in the eyes of the community, will
get control, and he will receive us both in the way
he ought.

"Send back such an answer as this letter de-
serves, ant', wait patiently ; I know the world, and
your precious father has a very large share of it
grown into the place which he calls his heart. I
do not believe there is anything the matter with
Seraph but a severe cold ; in fact, I know there isn't.

I •

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IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

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1.0

|2£ 12.5

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2.2

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IL25 i 1.4

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Sciences

Corporation

r^ ; V/EST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 145S0

(716) 872-4503

^X^\

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272

DAYS OF PRIVILEGE.

She can come to us in a few days, and that will do
much to smooth the way ; it will not look well to
have the daughter on familiar terms with us, and
the father not speaking to us. But there is one
thing to remember " — this last sentence was added
with gathering sternness, as he saw the look of
doubt and anxiety on Minta's face: — "mark my
words, if you condescend to notice them in any
way, so long as they ignore me, you choose be-
tween us, and must take the consequences. I say
that distinctly, knowing just what I mean, and you
know that I am a man of my word."

He a man of his word, and moving at large
among men simply because of the forbearance of
those to whom he had been false ! His wife knew
this, or at least knew that he was in disgrace with
business men. He told her that he had been un-
fortunate, and that it was her fatherV ill will that
had forced evil upon him ; but she was painfully
conscious of the fact that there were men whom
her father's ill will could not injure, and that there
was something very wrong about it all ; yet with
the strange and pitiful inconsistency of the human
heart, she felt for this man whom she yet coulc
not quite respect, a sentiment which in her igno-
rance she named love ; and it held her in submission
now, while she wrote, under his guidance, and
partly at his dictation, the letter over which Ruth
had stood appalled.

Yet she cried when her husband left her alone,

DAYS 01- PKIVILECiE.

■^71

will do
well to
us, and
; is one
IS added
look of
lark my
\ in any
oose be-
3. I say
and you

at large
arance of
vife knew
race with
been un-
will that
painfully
icn whom
[hat there
yet with
e human
et coulc"
ler igno-
libmission
[nee, and
Ich Ruth

er alone,

bitter tears, and wished she could see Seraph
"just for a few minutes "and judge for herself
wheth'jr she were really ill ; and, altogether, was
miserible enough to have moved the pity of a
harder-hearted man than Judge Burnham,

For several days following these experiences an
apparent change for the better seemed to be taking
place in the sick room. Seraph appeared stronger
than she had for some weeks, and her ap[)ctite
that had almost entirely failed, returned ; and her
father, each time he saw her, remarked upon some
token which was to him evidence of returning
health. As for Mr. Satterley, he began to talk
hopefully of the marvelous effects that a pro-
longed stay in California, or in the far South,
frequently had on invalids, and to hint that in a
few weeks Seraph might be strong enough to take
the journey by easy stages ; and only the doctor
and the professional nurse fully realized that they
were simply passing through one of those decep-
tive lulls so common to the disease in question.

Meantime, Susan received an earnest summons
back to her post, and Seraph agreed to her de-
parture with a quiet smile.

" We shall miss you very much," she said cheer-
fully, ** but I do not need you in the terrible sense
that I did before you came. A few weeks make
such a difference in things ! Everything is differ-
ent; mamma and I can manage nicely together, if
you ought to go."

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274

DAYS OF PRIVILEGE.

So Susan kissed her — long, clinging kisses — •
and whispered good-bys, and went away. And
Ruth spent long hours, to be always remembered
afterwards, in that sick room.

There was often about the room now an atmos-
phere which aw'ed her, — it was growing so increas-
ingly apparent that a Presence, unseen, yet potent
in His influences, had taken possession, and was
steadily transforming this life.

There were moments when Ruth would stand
looking at her charge almost reverently, absorbed
in the thought of the coming changes. " She is
going away," she said to herself. *' In a few days
she will see the Lord, and talk with Him face to
face ; and be with Him forever and ever ! A few
weeks ago she did not know Him at all ; and now
she has gotten so far ahead of me, that sometimes
it almost seems as though she already had speech
with Him such as I cannot understand. It is
all very wonderful ! And these are my days of
privilege ! "

And I may also make an exception of Mrs.
Burnham ; for she knew, as well as did the doctor
and the nurse, that in a very little while Seraph
Burnham was going away.

"o, mamma! good-by !

275

sses —
, And
mbered

L atmos-
increas-
t potent
md was

Id stand
ibsorbed
'< She is
few days
[11 face to
\ A few
and now
,metimes
,d speech
Id. It is
days of

of Mrs.
Ihe doctor
le Seraph

CHAPTER XXIII.

"0, mamma! good-by!

THERE came a day, and it came suddenly at
the last, as those days nearly always do,
when Mrs. Hamlin sitting alone and discontented
in her third-story room in a down-town boarding
house, received this imperative message, brought
by a special messenger boy :

If you want to see Seraph once more, you must come imme-
diately ; there is not an hour to lose. Ruth Burnham.

Yet even then she was not prepared for the
facts. Her husband had heard reports of the
marked improvement in Seraph's case, and had
not failed to repeat them to his wife, without at
any time letting her know the serious nature of
the disease, though he himself was well aware
of it, and built some hope on the fact that Judge
Burnham would, before very long, have but one
daughter left to him.

He had carried his wife out of town with him
for a few days, the better to keep her in ignorance
of what might be going on in her home, and also

i> I

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4 I \

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■■: ' \

2/6

*'o, mamma! good-by!"

to prevent the possibility of her being urged there
without him. They had returned but the night
before, and he had been gone from the house
but a few moments when this startling summons
came. She did not believe it, but it filled her
with alarm. What if Seraph were really very ill
and wanted to see her, could she ever forgive
herself for staying away ? Besides, she longed
so for a sight of her ; and she believed in her
heart that her husband was not only cruel, but
foolish in keeping them apart. What possible
harm could come to him through her going to
see her sister once in awhile } Had she not shown
him how little influence her family had over her,
as compared with him, when she left them at his
bidding } While she was thinking these thoughts
she made swift changes in her dress, having taken
a resolution to go home at once and learn for her-
self just how much she had to fear. She was
beginning to learn, even thus early in her married
life, that her husband could be both cruel and
false ; it was possible that he was being false to
her in this ; she would see for herself.

So without more delay than was necessary, she
stepped from the train at the old familiar station
which it seemed to her she had not seen before
in years, entered her father's carriage which was
in waiting, and was driven rapidly to her former
home. No one met her at the door ; no one was
waiting to receive her in the hall ; she ran rapidly

"o, mamma! good-by !

277

;ed there
ho night
tie house
summons
filled her
[y very ill
IT forgive
le longed
d in her
cruel, but
t possible
going to
not shown
over her,
lem at his
thoughts
ing taken
rn for her-
She was
ler married
cruel and
,g false to

issary, she
^ar station
^en before
krhich was
|ier former
ko one was
[an rapidly

up-stairs, frightened, and yet unbelieving. Kate
met her in the hall above, grave-faced, low-voiced.
" You can go right in," she murmured, and inclined
her head toward the large cheerful room at the
south end, and Minta pushed open the door noise-
lessly, and entered.

She had thought that she would rush at ontetoher
sister and wrap her arms about her — whatever the
faults of these two may have been, they had loved
each other — but she did not do as she had planned.
Instead, she stopped, frightened, in the doorway,
her breath coming in great heavy throbs v/hich
seemed to make her faint. Her father stood at
one side of the great French bedstead which had
been drawn forward almost in front of the open
window where the soft spring sunlight was coming
in. Near the foot of the bed stood the doctor,
watch in hand, but doing nothing, saying nothing,
impressing one by the very attitude in which he
stood, with the thought that all doing was done,
so far as his profession was concerned, and that
he was now waiting — for what ? A strange woman
was at the other side of the bed, looking intently,
as were all the others, at the face lying quiet on
the pillow, and bending over, very near to her, was
Mrs. Burnham. All these things Minta, in the
doorway, felt rather than saw ; felt also the deathly
pallor of that face on the pillow with closed eyes ;
so still she lay that she might even now be dead,
for all indication she gave of life.

( t

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o, mamma! good-by!"

There was one other in the room ; at first Minta
did not see him. He was kneeling close to the
form on the bed, somewhat shielded from view by
Mrs. Burnham. He had one quiet hand clasped
in both his own, but his face was buried in the
same pillow on which the moveless head rested,
and only the long-drawn, shuddering breath which
he occasionally drew, gave token that he was more
conscious of what was passing than was the lovely
body over which they were keeping their solemn
watch.

No one spoke to Minta. Judge Burnham gave
one swift glance toward her, then turned his eyes
instantly back to that quiet face, his own growing
perhaps a shade paler than it had been before.
At that moment Mrs. Burnham noticed her, and
moving slightly to make room, signed to her to
approach. It was just then that the head on the
pillow stirred once more ; the lips parted in a
smile, which even Minta, all ignorant as she
was, felt was not of earth. Her eyes opened
wide, looked upward for a moment, as if reaching
beyond the confines of the room — of the earth,
indeed — then, returning, rested for a moment on
her step-mother's face ; the smile grew rtiore radiant
still, and her voice, always sweet, was filled now
with an unearthly sweetness, but all she said was,
*' O, mamma ! good-by ! " and Seraph was gone.

Even in that supreme moment, Minta's first im-
pulse was to turn a look of unutterable astonish-

"o, mamma! good-by!**

279

St Minta
e to the
1 view by
I clasped
;d in the
d rested,
ith which
was more
the lovely
ir solemn

ham gave
1 his eyes
n growing;
en before,
d her, and
to her to
iad on the
irted in a
it as she
s opened
reaching
the earth,
oment on
re radiant
ifilled now
said was,
.s gone,
i's first im-
astonish-

ment upon her step-mother. What miracle was
this, that the last ineffable smile, and the last
tender word of this passing soul, should be given
to her } Something like the same thought came
to Ruth herself, and brought with it such a sense
of personal loss as a few weeks before she would
not have supposed it possible she could feel in
such a connection. You probably know all about
the experiences of the next few days without words
from me. It is a sorrowful fact that the scenes
associated with the house of mourning are too com-
mon personal experiences to need description.

It was a grand and solemn funeral. I use the
two words thoughtfully ; the grandeur being of that
subdued kind which marks the home not only of
wealth, but of culture. Judge Burnham was not
the man to spare expense on any occasion, cer-
tainly not now ; so the beautiful clay from which
the soul had departed was adorned by every art
known to skilled management, and was almost
literally embowered in flowers. It was, of course,
a time of painful excitement and unrest ; the
very grief of one of the mourners having so much
about it that was unnatural, as to wear heavily on
the nerves of the others. The poor sister, you
will remember, was utterly unprepared for such
scenes as these. Ruth had made several efforts
during the passing days, to send her positive
knowledge of Seraph's state, but owing to her
absence from home, and to her husband's wish

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280

O, MAMMA ! GOOD-«y!

»t

that she should not know the truth, she had been
successfully kept in ignorance. The bitterness of
her sorrow, and remorse were now pitiful to see.
All the more terrible were they because no one
seemed able to offer her a word of consolation.
Ruth, of course, dare not speak at all. Judge
Burnham made no attempt to do so, acted, indeed,
as though he did not know this other daughter of
his was in the house, yet that he was aware of it,
was apparent when he roused himself once to this
stern statement : " Remember, Ruth, if that man
dares to come to my door with inquiries, he is not
to step inside on any pretext whatever. I lock to
y6u to see that my commands in this matter are
obeyed to the letter, and remember that in this
ching I will not be trifled with."

Then, indeed, she ventured one protest : " But,
Judge Burnham, she is his wife — made so by the
laws of God and man. Since this thing is done,
and she is to live with him, would it not be wise at
such a time as this to allow him to come and speak
to her if he will ! "

Then she was glared upon with a fierceness that
startled her. " You do not know what you arc
talking about," he said at last. " No ; it would
not be better to do any such thing. He has no
right to be her husband ; he is a perjured villain,
and he knows it ; he has deceived her as well as
me, but she chose her own lot, and must abide by
it ; so will I abide by my determination, and I re-

O, MAMMA ! (lOOD-BY !

281

peat it : under no pretext whatever shall that man
step inside my door. If she wants him yet, she
must go to him. I have no power to control her,
but I have power to hold myself aloof from him
and from her, since she has chosen between us,
and I shall do so. And, Ruth, I would be j^ratcful
to you if you would not mention this thing to me
again."

And then Ruth knew, more fully than she
had before, that this fierce nature was entirely
unsubdued.

It was not the time to say it, nor, indeed, was
there any use in ever saying it, but it was not in
her nature not to recall once more the fact that he
had allowed this man, over whose very name his
face now darkened, to lounge in his parlors even-
ing after evening in friendly relations with the
daughter who had finally yielded to his influence,
and had not only made no sign of disapproval, but
had sneered at the warnings that came to him.
What right had he to be surprised or dismayed at
the result ?

But he was destined to hear more on this hate-
ful subject. His daughter, under the spell of a
written communication from her husband, made
successful effort to waylay her father while Seraph
still lay in unearthly beauty in that back parlor, and
with tears and sobs and pitiful appeals which were
sufficiently honest to carry much weight with them,
besought him to forgiye her, to reinstate her once

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282

" O, MAMMA ! GOOD-nV ! "

more in the home she had missed, and see how
dutiful and loving and comforting she could be to
him. Very humble she was and penitent. And
he, with all the father stirred within him, with the
memory of the fact that she was now the only
daughter left him, yet resisted the touch of her ca-
ressing arms, and held aloof from her, and walked
the floor, his face still stern, but his chin quavered,
and his eyes were dimmed with a film of tears.
At last he spoke : —

" I have not meant to be severe. I have be-
lieved myself to be a very indulgent father ; too
indulgent, I have had reason to think, during these
later months of my bitter experience ; had I been
less so, yoi would never have been drawn into the
toils of the man who stole you from me. You
chose between us, however, after you were duly
warned, and by me, and I had meant that you should
abide by your choice ; but there are other argu-
ments than those you bring to-night, that have
been influencing me of late ; some of them might
surprise you if 1 gave them. 1 will not go into
details how ; I will merely say that I have re-
solved to do what I thought I should never do
— offer you your home again. It is a desolated
and disgrac "d home ; disgraced by your own act,
and the Burnham name never wore a stain before ;
but, despite it all, if you choose to come back to
the home and the name, and pledge yourself never
to hold another conversation with the man who

"o, mamma! Goon-BY !

283

has wronged us all, I will receive you again as
my daughter, even in the face of a gaping world.
Also, I will take measures that will forever pre-
vent your being annoyed by the man who would
like to claim you for the sake of the money
that he thinks will be yours. The idea of the
villain's supposing that one cent of my money will
ever pass through his hands!" Even at such a
time Judge Burnham could not keep the subdued
tones of voice that became the house, but let them
rise into anger with the last sentence.

I am inclined to think he misunderstood his
daughter as entirely as it is possible for a man to
misunderstand a woman. She, too, lost her self-
control, and gave free reign to her passionate
tongue. She had not been for weeks in the con-
stant society of a bad man without having been
influenced thereby, and many of the bitter things
that she poured out in her wrath she believed to
be true. She told her father that he was under the
spell of a woman who hated her, and who had
hated the daughter lying dead in the next room,
and who had made both their lives bitter for them
all these years. That it was she who had so preju-
diced him against her husband that he would
allow himself to be neither reasonable ner even re-
spectable in the eyes of the world. And then she
assured him that she knew how things looked to
this terrible ogre, the world, of which he was so
afraid, and that he might be entirely certain the

>•

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284

*' O, MAMMA ! GOOD-BY !

world should hear just how a father, led around by
a second wife, could be made not only to so em-
bitter the life of one of them, that she welcomed
the grave as a release, but could actually bring
himself to all but forcing the other to give up her
husband and her married name, in return for being
received again into a home which she hated ; and
then she assured him that she had chosen and was
glad to^Yemember that she had, and that nothing,
ever, not even the honor of being recognized be-
fore the world as belonging to the Burnham race,
should make her desert her husband even for a
day ; that she would go back to him that very night,
and that she wanted nothing from this house, or
from the people to whom it belonged, from this
time forth.

He listened to this outburst of mingled passion
and pain at first in a kind of bewilderment, then,
as she made some accusations, which, in the light
of his recent experiences, he knew were absolutely
false, his anger rose almost to white heat ; but as
her passionate torrent of words went on, gathering
force as they were poured out, he reached the
point where his well-trained self-control began to
assert its power, and, deceiving her by the very
calm with which he listened, he waited before her
in absolute silence, until she paused for breath.

" Are you quite through } " he asked at last,
when she had been silent for a moment ; "because
if you are not, I would advise you to continue ; it

((

O, MAMMA ! c;OOD-BV !

285

might not be wise to go from here with any pent-
up torrent of anger such as you have exhibited ;
an outburst in other places might be more dan-
gerous than it will be here. I am glad you have
told me all this ; it makes plain much that I have,
of late, suspected ; it reveals some thmgs to me
much more clearly than I could have hoped to
understand them from any source ; but if you
have really nothing further to say, I will add just
a few plain words, very easy to be understood.
You may, since you are in the house, if you choose,
remain during the funeral services of my daughter.
As soon after that hour as you can conveniently
do so, I shall have to ask you to leave my house ;
and I wish you distinctly to understand that you
are not to return to it at any time nor under any
pretext. I understood you to say that you had
chosen between us ; very well ; you had the oppor-
tunity, and can blame no one but yourself for
having made use of it ; what I require is that you
shall abide by your decision. From this time
forth I will not trouble you to call me by the
name which has sheltered you all these years, and
you need not even burden your conscience by
thinking of me as your father ; you have my full
permission to disown me entirely, and to say to
the world whatever you and your precious husband
please. The probability is, you will learn in time
that my reputation will be equal to the shock of
even the withdrawal of his favor. Now, as it is

iif

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■; {,

286

((

O, MAMMA ! GOOD-BY !

getting late, I will not detain you further, but will
bid you good-night, Mrs. Hamlin."

He opened his library door, and ceremoniously
bowed his daughter out. And the other daughter
lay but a few steps from them — her face still
glorified by that gleam from heaven, which had
rested on it — embowered in flowers.

! f 1

"NEXT MOST.

287

CHAPTER XXIV.

! ■!

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"NEXT MOST

AMONG the flowers that were strewn in pro-
fusion all about the casket where Seraph
rested, was a single spray of tuberoses, lying
somewhat by itself and as close as possible to the
face of the beautiful sleeper. It filled the room
with that rare fragrance that belongs only to the
tuberose. Mr. Satterley, who had been in the
room alone for nearly an hour, taking that long
last look which almost rends the human heart in
sunder — taking it with the consciousness that dust
and darkness and decay are now to claim this
treasure for its own — had turned away at last, and
then turned back, and, lifting the spray of roses,
had broken a single perfect bloom from its stem,
and placed it within the velvet folds of a tiny case
that held Seraph's pictured face, then returned it
to his breast pocket, and replaced the spray, so
that it almost touched the fair marble cheek.

Ruth, who had been about to enter the room,
drawing suddenly back when she saw its occupant,
had been a witness to this last uct ; a pitiful smile

l^^'il

2S8

((

NEXT MOST.

hovered about her mouth for a moment. The spray
of tuberoses had a history which Mr. Satterley did
not know. Did she whose unconscious clay lay be-
fore him know the story ? In the world to which
she had gone, did they know of all these little ten-
der, pitiful things that arc constantly happening
here ?

Barely two hours before had Mrs. Burnham
herself opened the piazza door in answer to the
timid knock of a trembling hand, and had come
face to face with Estelle Hollister.

The girl's eyes were swollen with recent weeping,
and there were heavy dark rings under them, which
told of long night vigils, and tears.

" May I look at her," she had asked eagerly,
'* and may I lay this spray of flowers beside her ?
I know she loved tuberoses ; I have seen her wear
them often. O, Mrs. Burnham ! I am so sorry for
you all ; and so sorry for — for him."

And Ruth, for the moment unable to speak,
knowing no words, indeed, which would fit the
pitiful strangeness of the moment, inclined her
head in silence toward the closed door, with its
significant badge of crepe, and left the two alone
together. And this was the spray of flowers from
which Mr. Satterley had picked one bloom to wear
close to his heart.

They had planned very carefully for the funeral
hour. Mr. Satterley had been reminded that Minta
would be dependent on him for care ; but nothing

" xNEXT MOST.

289

le spray
rley did
y lay be-
o which
ttle ten-
ppening

Uirnham
r to the
ad come

weeping,
m, which

eagerly,

jide her ?

ler wear

sorry for

speak,

1 fit the
ned her
with its

o alone

ers from

to wear

funeral

lat Minta

nothing

took place as it was planned. Minta, after that
last stormy scene with her father, refused to stay
another hour in the house ; refused to be present
at the funeral services next day, but went in haste
and in an^er to the husband for whose sake she
had left them all ; and Judge Burnham was held
all the dreadful morning in the grasp of relent-
less pain. A peculiar form of nervous headache,
of which he was sometimes a victim, and against
which he had struggled all the previous night, in-
creased upon him to such an alarming degree that
when the hour for the public service arrived, he
was under the influence of a powerful opiate, and
therefore mercifully unconscious alike of bodily
and mental pain. So it came to pass that the step-
mother attended by Mr. Satterley were the only
recognized mourners who followed Seraph Burn-
ham out from her father's house.

It seemed a strange house to Ruth to live in
after that. She wandered through the deserted,
silent rooms, throwing them open to light and air,
caring for the many dainty and delicate things
left behind, with painstaking fingers that almost
quivered with a sense of dread.

How was it that she, who had for years felt no
responsibility, and but little interest in this part of
the house, had come to be the sole care-taker here ?
How swift and terrible had been the changes
which had left her free and lonely in her own
house ! No danger now of being disturbed day

i»

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290

NEXT MOriT.

or night by inopportune outbursts of merriment,
or the sound of gay young feet ; the house was
still — very still.

Its mistress folded, and wrapped, and marked
and laid away package after package of pretty
trifles that had belonged exclusively to Seraph ;
and while she worked there fell many a tear born
of that mos' sorrowful of all sorrowful memories
— what "might have been."

She had been so very late in finding out what
she and Seraph might have enjoyed together !
She had so utterly failed in regard to Minta ; and
though she reminded herself that the two were,
and had always been, very unlike, yet in the light
of her recent revelations, she could not but feel
that possibly, had she managed all things differ-
ently, all results might have been different.

Those were lonely days, the ones which followed
She could not settle to anything ; indeed she could
not find anything satisfactory on which to settle.
Society did not claim her, of course ; there were
endless' proprieties connected with it to be ob-
served, but it released her from personal inflic-
tions in many ways. Still she did not find it by
any means so pleasant to be alone as she had once
supposed it would be. She was very much alone ;
Judge Burnham absorbed himself in business even
more than was usual ; and when at home was
gloomy to an almost alarming extent ; indeed, if I
should call him morose, it would perhaps be the

((

NEXT MOST.

291

srriment,
3use was

1 marked
of pretty
Seraph ;
tear born
memories

; out what
together I
linta; and
two were,
n the light
ot but feel
ngs differ-
ent.

:h followed
i she could
to settle.
there were
to be ob-
»nal inflic-
f\nd it by
le had once
uch alone ;
iness even
home was
Indeed, if I
ips be the

more fitting word. That he was a rebel against
all the recent family trials, was only too apparent.
Minta he did not mention at all. Whether he
knew anything about her, or her circumstances,
Ruth could not determine ; for it did not seem to
her wise to break the ominous silence in which he
chose to wrap himself. His mention of Seraph
was always in the way of bitter regret. Had she
been sent from home at once, when she first began
to cough, all might have been well. Had there
been somebody besides a deceiving idiot for a
doctor, they might have known in time what
was feared, and prevented it. Had Seraph been
properly guarded from exposure she need never
have taken such an alarming cold. He did not
know, of course. How could men be expected to
keep guard over these things } It was the woman's
place. Girls were careless, of course ; they always
were ; it was mothers who watched. "If — " And
it was about at such a point that he usually had
the grace to stop. Ruth often wondered whether,
had he continued, he would have said, " If the
girls had only had a mother ! " But she was very
pitiful toward him ; she had some realization of what
it must be for a father to lose, thus suddenly, and
thus painfully, the hold which he thought he had
on two who were his own. As often as she looked
at Erskine, she shuddered over the possibilities
which the future might hold in shadow, waiting
for her.

I.i

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u I .

292

NEXT MOST.

■ i

Then, too, she realized that the bright side to
these heavy clouds her husband did not see at all.
It seemed an infinite pity that he could not, at
least at times, absorb himself as she could, in
the wonder of the thought that Seraph Burnham
was to-day singing among the angels. She had
been gone only a few weeks ; yet how much she
must already know about those things of which
her father was totally ignorant, and concerning
which Ruth herself could only vaguely conjecture.
Yet the conjecturings grew daily more interesting
to her. And in the leisure which had come upon
her, she found herself reading and studying much
about the possibilities of that other world which,
because of the experiences in Seraph's room, had
come near to her. She collated in logical order
all the words which the Bible has to offer in
regard to it, and was, as many another Christian
has been, delighted to find that the grand old Book
told so much, and amazed to think that she had
not, long ago, learned all it had to tell on such
an absorbing subject. As the weeks passed, and
she still remained in uncertainty as to how to
use her leisure, this method of exhaustive Bible
study grew into a fixed habit.

Day after day she was occupied in familiarizing
herself with proof texts in regard to this or that
doctrine, or duty, and in so arranging and illumin-
ing them with incident or story that Erskine would
"be interested and helped. If he had but known it,

T I

" NEXT MOST."

293

side to
:e at all.
[ not, at
ould, in
Jurnham
She had
luch she
)f which
ncerning
njecture.
teresting
nie upon
ing much
Id which,
com, had
cal order

offer in
Christian

old Book
she had
on such

ssed, and
how to

ive Bible

liliarizing

Is or that

illumin-

me would

mown it,

these were growing days for Erskine. He delighted
in being with his mother ; in her having, once
more, abundant leisure for his needs ; and it mat-
tered very little to him how she planned to have
the leisure occupied, so that he could share it with
her. So the golden head and the mature one were
often and often bent over the large and elegantly
illustrated family Bible, and the two drank in
wisdom together. " Erskine will never be puzzled
as to the right or wrong of many questions which
have disturbed me," Ruth said to herself with
infinite satisfaction. " He will have a clearly de-
fined 'thus saith the Lord,' to settle them for
him."

Meantime, the ladies of the Temperance Union
were watching Mrs. Burnham with no little anxiety.
The brilliant career which they had marked out
for her, and which had been so signally com-
menced, had been arrested, you will remember,
almost immediately thereafter.

The ladies thought that her public work had
been held in check only by the series of providen-
tial circumstances which had followed each other
in her home.

But Ruth knew, even as you and I do, that had
not these startling experiences come into her life,
her career, so far at least as regarded the public
meetings, would doubtless have suddenly closed.

It was one of the questions which perplexed her
now, how far she was justified in letting her

»■ 1

''I
'N.J

1 , i !

■t I

294

"NKXT MOST."

luisbaiurs prejudices liokl her back from work
which she knew she would enjoy, and in which
the Lord had once ^iven her a signal token of his
approval. She held the ladies at bay, and held
her own decision in the background, while she
tried to study with unprejudiced mind, the entire
subject. The ladies were very hard to answer ;
they were importunate. " My dear Mrs. Burnham,
why will you not come next Sunday and help us .-*
You cannot think how we have missed you !
There are so very few of us, you know, to bear
burdens of this sort. There are plenty who are
willing to give nioney, and time ; to carry around
petitions, to distribute literature, and to serve on
social committees ; but when it comes to speaking
a few words to the poor fellows about their souls,
or even to leading in prayer, the only answer we
can be sure of is, ' I pray thee have me excused ! *
I don't understand why it is," would Mrs. Stuart
Bacon conclude with a weary sigh ; and then, after
a moment, return to the charge : "And, dear Mrs.
Burnham, since that first Sabbath when you
helped us so grandly, we have been depending on
you. Of course we did not expect you, while
family cares and afflictions were resting so heavily
on you, but now that the Lord has taken those
duties out of your hands" —

It was very hard for Mrs. Burnham, in the face
of such appeals, to make answer to the effect that
Erskine needed her, or that Judge Burnham, who

Ni:XT MOST.

295

was nearly always at home on Sabbath afternoons,
would be lonely if she should leave him for an
hour. She knew such words must sound painfuliy
trivial to women at work among souls who were
in immediate and desperate need.

The very fact that she was giving reasons which
were not, after all, the real ones, made this truth-
ful woman wince, and stammer, and feel and
appear ill at ease ; and the ladies went away
pained and puzzled. And the weeks went. on, and
the summer waned, and another autumn was
nearly upon them, without there having been any
definite settlement in this Christian woman's mind
as to what work she would do for her King.

Not that she was idle ; it had been to her a
summer of study. Certainly she was furnishing
her brain for some encounter with error ; and
because of her connection with, and interest in,
the Woman's Christian Temperance Union, her
studies had almost without plan on her part, devel-
oped in that direction. She had gone into the hall
on that Sabbath afternoon with no very clear idea
as to what she thought in regard to the political or
indeed any other working aspect of the temper-
ance question. Had she been asked, that day,
what she thought of high license, or of no license
at all, or whether she believed prohibition would
prohibit, or whether she thought constitutional
prohibition was feasible, she could only have
replied in vague general ways that she never

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296

" NEXT MOST."

wanted her boy to touch, or taste, or handle alco-
hol in any form, and that if we were really to love
our neighbors as ourselves, she was in duty bound
to take that same stand for other boys. Thus
much she knew, even in her ignorance. But on
that September afternoon, as she sat with the
evening paper in her hand, and her fine face aglow
with a feeling very like contempt for the astute
member of Congress who had written a remarkable
article on the folly of the proposed temperance
movement, she said aloud, speaking, Erskine
thought, to him, since he was the only other occu-
pant of the room : '• What utter illogical, nauseating
nonsense ! I'd like to reply to that man ! "

" What has he said, mamma ? "

"Why, some false and silly things against the
temperance movement, pnd against the temperance
workers, Erskine. They are so silly that they
could be very easily answered, by one who was
thoroughly posted as to facts ; and yet they have
such a semblance of truth that they will help to
lead astray many who have not studied facts."

She was not trying to make the little boy under-
stand ; she was simply thinking aloud, as she so
often did during these months of comparative soli-
tude. But the boy, being so constantly with his
mother, and sharing, in a degree, all her studies
and all her interests, had come to understand much
better than even his mother knew. What sug-
gested to his wise little heart the next remark.^ —

" NEXT MOST.'

297

er occu-

Mamma, how do you know hut God wants you
to stand up in a hi^ churcli, or somewhere, and
explain all about it to people who have not studied
facts?"

The rich blood glowed over the mother's face in
an instant. Was the thought somewhat like a
revelation to her heart ? Did God want her to do
anything like this } Hut what would Judge Hurn-
ham say to work of such a character, even in its
meekest developments ?

" Don't you think He may want you to do it,
mamma .'* "

" Do you think ladies ought to do such work,
Erskine > "

She did not know why she said it ; she laughed
at herself for her folly even while she spoke.
What should the baby know about such questions }

" Why not, mamma, if God wanted them to }
Wouldn't a true lady do anything for God } "

Certainly this was high ground. Could she, with
all her added years and wisdom, hope to reach
higher .'' Nay, was she really prepared to reach
so high }

She went back instantly to the old painful query.
What would her husband say ? " I'll tell you what
God wants," she said, speaking with sudden fervor ;
"He wants, and I want, more than anything else
in this world, to have papa give himself to Christ.
If we could only have that, Erskine."

** Why, yes," said Erskine, speaking with slow

• I

m ''

298

"next most."

gravity, apparently surprised at her sudden fervor,
** I know that, and I speak to God about it all the
time, and He knows we want it most ; but then, He
wants us to think about the next most, too, doesn't
He ? "

And from that hour Ruth tried, with a new
energy, to come to a decision as to what her " next
most " ought to be.

A WAITING WORKER.

299

CHAPTER XXV.

A WAITING WORKER.

YET, in the days that immediately followed, had
Mrs. Burnham been questioned in regard
to her hopes for her husband's change of views,
she would have admitted that they were never at
a lower ebb.

Even as regarded his acquiescence in, or endur-
ance o5, almost any form of active Christian work
for herself, she was almost hopeless. The question
that seemed pressing for decision was. How far
must she allow deference for his opinions to hold
her passive ? Meantime, he grew, if possible, more
gloomily unreconciled to the quiet ot the house ;
and it seemed to his wife that they could not even
take an evening walk without meeting something
that added to the bitterness of his unrest.

They were lingering together in the park, just
as twilight was falling. The walk had been of her
proposing, and was one of her many devices for
drawing him, if possible, away from some brooding
care or anxiety ; she could not be sure of what
nature it was, and while she suspected that it might

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300

A WAITING WORKER.

have to do with his daughter Minta, she did not dare
to question ; her sole hope was to rest him from the
burden for awhile. He had consented, half-apa-
thetically to the walk, only stipulating, somewhat
sharply, that Erskine should not be of the com-
pany ; declaring himself to be in no mood for a
child's incessant questionings.

So Erskine, to his great grief, had been left at
home, and the two had wandered aimlessly through
the park, on whose beauty the touch of another
autumn was already beginning to settle. Ruth
had left her husband's side and gone forward a
few steps to examine more closely some gay foli-
age plants abdut a fountain, when she saw, on the
opposite side of the driveway, two familiar forms.
It took but a glance to recognize Mr. Satterley,
but the lady she had to study carefully before she
could be sure that it was Estelle Hollister.

Younger she looked, and prettier, than Mrs.
Burnham had ever seen her before ; and as she
listened to what her companion was saying, the
soft pink flush on her face could be distinctly seen.
At that moment the two tur.ed suddenly, and met
her eyes. Both faces flushed, and, as if by com-
mon consent, they stood quite still in the walk.
Ruth bowed cordially, and then Mr. Satterley
seemed to recover himself, and, bowing low in re-
ply, moved on. It was but a moment afterwards
that, rising up from the shrub over which she had
bent, Mrs. Burnham saw that the girl had broken

A WAITINC; WORKER.

301

away from her companion and was coming toward
her.

She was evidently in the habit of being as
simply direct in what she had to say as was Ruth
herself. She began at once, without waiting to
reply to the cordial *' Good-evening ! " that accom-
panied Ruth's outstretched hand. ** Mrs. Burnham,
do you think it wrong for me to be taking a walk
with him ? He asked me to come out here, where
it was quiet, and where he could talk with me
undisturbed. He has not forgotten — we have
neither ot us forgotten ; there are some things,
you know, that people cannot forget. But he says
she asked him to talk with me, and tell me some
things that she wanted me to understand — and I
promised her to — to forgive him, you know."

Mrs. Burnham could hardly forbear a smile. It
was a duty which the poor little thing was so
manifestly willing to perform ; yet she was so con-
scientiously desirous of doing only the right thing,
and of paying the utmost deference and respect
to the memory of the one who was gone. She
hastened to speak her reassurance : ** My dear
girl, why should it be wrong, unless, indeed, you
are wronging yourself.^ Miss Burnham has gone
where none of these things can touch her any
more. I should think there could be no impro-
priety in Mr. Satterley's carrying out her wish in
regard to seeing you ; but if you would really like
my advice for yourself, if I were you, I would go

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A WAITING WORKER.

■V

home to my mother, without delay, and be guided
by her as to anything in the future ; you owe it to
her, and to yourself."

" I mean to," said Estelle, with half a smile, and
wholly a sob. " Good-by ! and thank you."

Meantime, Mr. Satterley had joined Judge Burn-
ham, and the two had been speaking together,
apparently of matters about which both were in-
different. He acknowledged Mrs. Burnham's com-
ing toward them only by another low, grave bow,
and immediately turned away. Judge Burnham
did not speak a word for the next five minutes ;
then he said, in a voice which seemed to have
taken on an added tinge of bitterness, " It seems
to me Satterley has sought and found consola-
tion very early, for one who was so nearly broken-
hearted as he."

" They are friends of long standing," Ruth said,
simply and gently ; there was no need now, to say
more. The grave had closed over all necessity for
revealing that chapter which would be only an
added sting to the father's heart. Ruth smiled to
think that she could be loyal to both husband and
daughter and do no harm. And as they walked
on in silence, in the gathering darkness, it almost
seemed to her that she could hear again that
singularly flute-like voice, and once more it said,
" Mamma, thank you." Their next encounter was
a business friend of Judge Burnham's, and an im-
portant business conference must needs be held

A WAITING WORKER.

303

then and there ; and as Ruth stood aside, and
waited, there came to her presently a bit of life
that was all her own. A plainly dressed young
man who looked as though he might be a mechanic,
but who lifted his hat to her with the air of a gen-
tleman, stopped before her in the pathway.

" I beg your pardon, Mrs. Burnham, for speaking
to you ; you do not know me, I suppose, but I
know you so well, and have so much for which to
thank you, that it seemed to me I could not let
this opportunity pass."

The twilight had fallen very fast ; the face
before her was but dimly defined ; Ruth's first
impulse was to draw back; and step quickly to her
husband's side, but he was close at hand. What
was there to fear } Why not learn what the man
meant ? "

" I think you must be mistaken in the person," she
said, with gentle dignity. " I am sure you have no
occasion to give me thanks."

" Indeed I have ; I ask God daily to bless you
forever. But for you, I shudder to think what the
next step would have been."

A sudden, sweet memory came to Ruth.

" You are that young man to whom I spoke that
Sunday }" she said, hesitating, throwing both hope
and doubt into her voice.

" I am that young man to whom you, on that
never-to-be-forgotten Sunday, made plain as day-
light the way to eternal life. I thought you ought

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A WAITlNli WOKKKR.

to know that I kept my promise to go straight to
the Lord Jesus and ckiim his help. And I got
it, bless his name ! I belong to Him now in life
and death."

Was ever sweeter music than this offered to a
Christian's ears ? There were only a few more
words after that. Inquiries as to the young man's
plans and prospects. He was doing well ; he had
found, already, that to be a servant of the Lord,
meant more than a hope of Heaven ; it meant very
much for this life also. He said this with a smile
which she could feel, rather than- see ; it sounded
in his voice. Then he had thanked her again ;
strong, hearty words, and had told her that he
knew she must be going on with her work ; he
felt sure God had called her to the saving of
young men who were, like himself, almost lost.
Only a few minutes, but when she turned. Judge
Burnham was alone ; was waiting for her ;• and it
did not need the firm grasp with which he drew
her hand through his arm, to tell her that he
must have overheard the last words, and was
annoyed.

" You seem to have acquaintances of all sorts,"
he said haughtily, " and to be fated to meet them
to-night. Let us get out of this park as soon as
possible. Pray who was that young fellow who
presumes to speak to you so familiarly ? "

" He was not familiar, Judge Burnham ; nothin
could have been more deferential than his tone.

Til

A VVAITINC \V()KK.1:K.

305

il^

^ht to
I got

111

life

cd to a
v more
; man's
he had
; Lord,
int very
a smile
sounded
• again ;
that he
[)rk ; he
iving of
)st lost.
:1, Judge
and it
e drew
that he
,nd was

ll sorts,"
let them
I soon as
low who

nothing
is tone.

He is a young man whom I met at the Gospel
meeting."

"I thought you did not attend those meetings."

" I have not since that one Sunday, which you
must rememher."

" Oh ! and this was the tobacco-smelling fcHow
with whom you were kind enough to talk. If he
has not improved in his habits, it is well we were
surrounded by so much fresh air."

" He has improved. He is a servant of the
Lord Jesus Christ, and I am glad over it, with a
gladness which I wish you could understand."

" Thank you for all kind wishes ; and I presume
it is hardly necessary to remind you again, that I
will not, on any account, have you meet familiarly
with those people, nor allow your name to be
associated with theirs."

And Mrs. Bflrnham went home from her walk
more hopeless, in regard to some things, than she
had been before ; but more sure than ever that
she must decide, and speedily, as to her " next
most."

And then, suddenly, unexpectedly, Judge Burn-
ham went away again. Another member of the
firm was to go, but sickness detained him, and
the business was important, and complicated, and
tedious. It involved much travel, and long delays,
and Ruth was left more utterly alone than ever
before in her life. There were no young ladies
this time to almost bewilder her with their comings

'r\t

I Ml

306

A WAITING WORKER.

and goings ; there were no sounds of gay society
life in the great silent house. Even Mr. Satterley
was not there to make occasional calls, out of
respect to the family tie which had once existed.

He was going to New York on business which
might detain him for some time, so he told her
when he called to say good-by ; and Mrs. Burnham,
who knew that Estelle Hollister had gone home,
wondered as to the nature of the business, and
was somewhat anxious, and silent. It made her
smile, and yet almost humiliated her, to find that
even Mr. Satterley was missed. There was a
painful sense of not belonging to anybody, which
sat heavily upon this lonely woman. As often as
she wandered through the lonely halls of her hand-
some house she wondered what could be done
with it. Since society had shrouded it in crepe
and passed it by, to what use could those large
silent rooms be put which would reflect honor on
the One to whom all hers was consecrated ? Ah !
therein lay the secret of the difficulty. She must
say "our rooms ; " if only she could say "all ours is
consecrated," how plainly would the answer to this
painful riddle glow before her ! She knew a dozen
beautiful things which might be done with cultured
consecrated homes. Did she not know all about
Flossy Shipley Roberts, and the " green room,"
and all the schemes to which it was consecrated ^
This was certainly her " most," and though she
clung to her one weapon, the power of prayer.

A WAITING WORKER.

307

and though she daily, even as Erskine had said,
"talked with God abi)Ut this," kept it before Him
that it was this which she wanted most, yet cer-
tainly her heart was very heavy and her faith was
weak.

Her husband had gone before there had been
time for that long talk with him which she had
planned. She had meant to say, in all gentleness
and yet in plainness, that the time had certainly
come when she could no longer fold her hands in
graceful idleness, to please his tastes ; she must
find her appointed niche in the Lord's great work-
shop, and do her part. She had meant to ask —
very humbly — what there was that he was willing
to have her undertake. She would like to go to
that woman's Gospel meeting ; it was there the
Lord had met her, and told her what to say for
Him ; and she felt that she could do such work as
this again ; but if for any reason he shrank from
that particular form of work, and was yet willing
that she should undertake some other, that would
be honest work, she would not press her wishes
against his will ; only this must be understood :
she was bound by command and covenant to work,
in some direction, and felt that she could wait no
longer. Even while she thought it out — what she
would say, and what he might possibly reply, and
if so, what she could answer — there came to her
that same sad memory over which she winced, as
in mortal pain. Her husband might say to her, if

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3o8

A WAITlNti WOKKICK.

he understood these thinjijs well enough to use
their language : " The Lord gave you work to do ;
he placed two young girls in your special care —
gave you all the appliances with which to work,
and bade you shape, and mould, and train them for
Himself; and you failed Him! To one of them
He reached out loving arms, and snatched her
from the perils of the life in which you had started
her feet, and took her to Himself ; but the other —
where is the other?" There was no danger that
Judge Burnham would speak any of these terrible
truths to his wife ; but there was also no need ;
her own conscience knew how to press them home
with tremendous power. Still she was in earnest
now, and she must not longer make the mistake of
sitting idle, glooming over the past, while present
opportunities ran to waste. But there had been
no time for that talk with her husband. He had
been gone for several weeks, when Mrs. Stuart
Bacon sent up her card, one morning, with a pen-
ciled request that she might be seen if possible,
as her business was urgent.

" I do not want to see her," said Mrs. Burnham,
aloud, and incautiously, rising from the low chair
against which Erskine had leaned while he made
careful attempts over the figures which had been
set him to add.

"Why not, mamma .^ " said this wide-eyed ques-
tioner, who was not held to rigid rules during
school hours, his mother being his sole teacher.

A WAITING VVOKKF.R.

3<^

o use
;o do;
:are —
work,
cm for
[ them
id her
started
ther —
cr that
terrible
) need ;
y\ home
earnest
stake of
present
ad been
He had
Stuart
1 a pen-
Dossible,

irnham,

)W chair

\Q made

id been

id ques-
during
lacher.

"Because," said Ruth, still speaking out her
troubled thoughts, rather then addressing Krskine,
" she will want me to do what I cannot."

"Don't you know how, mamma?"

"O, yes ! " with a half-smile on her face over the
question while she lingered to arrange her dress ;
" I may know how to do it, but there are other diffi-
culties in the way."

"Don't you think it ought to be done ?"

" Indeed I do ; " this reply was given with energy.
Erskine paused, pencil in hand, curly yellow head
dropped a little on one side, and gravely consid-
ered this problem which was more puzzling to him
than the column of figures ; at last he reached a
solution : " Then, mamma, I should think if it
ought to be done, and you know how, that God
would want you to do it."

Whereupon the mother laughed again, albeit her
eyelashes were moist, and kissed her young logi-
cian, and went down to Mrs. Bacon.

But that lady, who was generally clear-brained
and hurried, delayed the special reason for her call
in a most trying way. She talked about the last
Sabbath's meeting with earnestness, indeed, but
forgot even to hint of the pleasure it would have
been to have had Mrs. Burnham's help. She
told a long story about a young girl whom she had
taken into her family under circumstances of pecu-
liar distress, and how deep was her interest in the
matter, and how much there was in just such lines

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A WAITINr. WORKKR.

that needed doinj;. Under other circumstances,
Ruth wouhl liave been deeply interested in the
story ; but it was at this time so manifestly beinp;
told to cover an embarrassment over sometliinj;
not yet reached, that to the listener it was simply
irritating.

When her caller, having exhausted the story,
went back to the weather, waxing eloquent over
the beauty of the morning, Ruth felt almost like
saying that if her errand was really no more im-
portant than it appeared, she would like to be
excused.

And then at last Mrs. Bacon broke off in the
midst of a statement that the air reminded her of
a certain September morning in Italy, to say : —

" But, dear Mrs. Burnham, to tell you the truth,
I did not come to you this morning to talk about
the weather. I want to ask you to forgive me for
what I earnestly hope is unnecessary interference
on my part, and then to tell you plainly what I
have heard."

UNDER GUrDANCE.

CHAPTER XXVL

Ill

UNDKR GUIDANCE.

I KNOW it is possible that you may have heard
the same reports, but I told Mr. Bacon this
morning that I did not believe you knew anything
about it ; and I was just going to try to do as I
would be done by." A nervous little laugh fin-
ished the sentence, and then Mrs. Bacon launched
a question that covered the ground over which she
had just gone. " Do you know anything of Mrs.
Hamlin's circumstances, niv dear Mrs. Burnham .^"

*' I have not heard from her, or of her, since she
left her father's house, on the evening before her
sister was buried," Ruth said, with steady voice,
but rising color. The unnatural relations that now
existed in the disorganized family were sources of
continual embarrassment to her.

" I was sure of it," affirmed Mrs. Bacon, with
an air of relief. '• I was sure that your kind heart
would lead you to act in the matter, now that in
your husband's absence the responsibility falls on
you. Well, my dear, I will not make a longer
story than is necessary. It is said that her hus-
band has gone from bad to worse. He has been

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312

UNDER GUIDANCE.

gettirg into very dangerous relations again with
certain men ; gambling, you know, and — well, I
am afraid, forging notes. Mr. Paeon thinks it
will hardly be possible to save him from state
prison this time. We have also heard that he has
kept his wife in a very straightened condition.
They have changed boarding places several times,
even in these few months, and always, I am told,
of necessity, because they were in arrears with
board. And only last night I hea^d, from what, I
am afraid, is a reliable source, that he had deserted
her, and that she was really in very destitute
circumstances."

" Do you know where she is to be found } "

It was the only question that Ruth's lips seemed
able to frame.

" Yes, I do ; I took special care to learn. She
is on Court Street, away down toward the river, in
one of those long houses, on the third floor back.
I don't wonder you start, Mrs. Burnham ; it is
terrible to think of Judge Pnrnham's daughter in
a tenement house on Court Street, isn't i*: } How-
ever, you will be able to right all that. If the
man must really go to prison, why, tne poor thing
will be rid of him, at least."

She had risen as she spoke, and was Jrawing
her wrap about her with the air of one who had
done her part in the best way she knew. And
Ruth, quivering in every ne'-ve, with a sense of
shame, for her husband's sake, yet had sense

UNDER GUIDANCE.

313

enough to feel that this good woman had done the
best that the circumstances would admit ; had
really said the only comforting thing that could be
said, even though what comfort there was must
grow out of the fact of there being prisons for
convicted criminals. Verily, Minta Burnham had
chosen for herself !

What to do was the imperative question staring
Ruth in the face, demanding immediate reply.
She was by no means so clear of her course, or of
her ability to accomplish, as Mrs. Bacon seemed to
be for her. Of course something must be '^one.
A daughter of Judge Burnham's could not be left
in a Court Street tenement house alone !

Yet would she, at Ruth's request, and under her
care, go elsewhere } And if so, where was the
suitable place for her, and what was the next step
to take }

It was all bewilderment ; and while she strug-
gled with it, she could not tell v%rhether to be glad
or sorry that Judge Burnham was absent. If he
were at home, he would know just what to do ; but
were not the chances that he would do the wrong
thing .' Yet what was the right thing }

Troubled exceedingly by these and kindred
questionings, she yet made herself ready with all
speed, for a journey to town. Erskine came, ques-
tioning : Why were they not to have a geography
lesson .? Why was she going to town ? Could he go
along ? He would like to go to the city very much.

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UNDER GUIDANCE.

i t;

No, his mother said, he could not go with her
this time, because she had something to do in
which he would be in the way. What was that ?
he wanted to know. And smiling faintly over the
apparent incongruity of her statements, she con-
fessed that she did not know what she was going
to do.

'* Why, mamma ! " he said, in great amaze.
" Then how can you do it ? "

She couldn't, she explained, not until .she
learned She was to trv to find out what vmr t ^
wise and right thing to do in a matter of ^leac
perplexity.

Over this statement Erskine considered for a
moment, then came his wise, sweet question, that
went to the root of "things : " Why don't you ask
God to tell you } "

" I will," she said, turning toward him with a
smile that yet was very close to tears. It was
a surprising thing, when one stopped to look at it.
She, a Christian woman, hurrying to an emergency
that she consciously did not know how to meet, yet
taking no time to consult, not only the acknowl-
edged Source of all wisdom, but One who had
graciously said, "Ask of Me." She held out her
hand to Erskine, and the two knelt in tneir accus-
tomed place of prayer, while Erskine voiced the
request that the dear Lord Jesus would show
mamma just what He wanted her to do.

Do you know now .^" he asked her cheerily, a

^ith her
:o do in
as that ?
over the
she con-
as going

; amaze.

ntil she

of gieac

ed for a
tion, that
: you ask

n with a
It was
ook at it.
nergency
meet, yet
acknowl-
who had
1 out her
iir accus-
)iced the
lid show

jeerily, a

UNDER GUIDANCE.

315.

moment after. Evidently there had not entered
the child's mind a question ?s to her doing, without
fail, whatever the Lord Jesus wanted done. ** Has
He told you yet, mamma } "

" Not yet," she said, smiling over his lesson on
faith.

" O, well ! He will, I'm sure He will, and He'll
do it in time."

And in the light of this earnest assurance she
went to her task.

The lower part of Court Street was not used to
carriages such as the one which Mrs. Burnham
summoned to her aid ; there was much staring
from behind half-closed blinds, and the noisy fol-
lowing of certain ragged little boys and girls who
felt no need of blinds to hide behind. The stairs
were somewhat narrow and somewhat .steep ; and
a very slatternly girl, from whose contact Ruth
carefully held her dress, toiled upward just ahead
of her to show the way. "^inginess increased upon
them as they mounted, and the third story back
was destitute of anything like comfort. A well-
'<:nown voice answered Ruth's hesitating tap, and
still uncertain what to do, or how to make known
he errand — if she had one — she entered, and
stood face to face with Minta Hamlin.

"Oh! it is you." This was her greeting, in-
tense astonishment bristling in every letter, and
then the two women stood and looked at each
other. Certainly the situation was striking. Sev-

•■li

l.i

'{ V\

1:1

-'4
il

'■ I

i i
t
I

. 316

UNDER GUIDANCE.

eral times in their lives had these two confronted
each other under sufficiently startling circum-
stances, but neither perhaps had ever felt it more
than at this moment. The beautiful girl of Mrs.
Burnham's memory had changed even in these
short months. Her face was almost deathly pale,
even in this moment of excitement ; and her hair
was pushed straight back from her forehead, in
unbecoming plainness. She wore a dark silk dress
which r ' once been pretty, but which was now
drabbled . d torn ; the lace of one sleeve hung in
careless frays, the skirt was daubed with some-
thing which looked like paint, and one elbow
was worn to a decided hole. The furniture of
the bare and cheerless room matched the dress of
its mistress ; shabby remnants ot by-gone finery,
is a sentence which sufficiently describes it. And
in this room Minta Hamlin, who in her father's
house was accustomed to all the elegancies, and
to all the trained attention that money will fur-
nish, was evidently preparing, with very insufficient
appliances, to do some washing for herself. A
small hand bath tub filled with suds, occupied
a perilous position on a slippery chair that was
once upholstered in hair-cloth, and a pile of
soiled clothing lay on the floor. That the girl
looked miserably ill would have been apparent to
the most casual observer ; and the hollow cough
which she frequently gave reminded Mrs. Burn-
ham each time she heard it, of Seraph.

"■»!"

UNDER GUIDANCE.

317

** Well," she said at last, after that prolonged
silence, accompanied by a haughty stare, ** to what
a. a I indebted for this most unexpected honor ?
You did not send up your card, so I was not
prepared ; I thought it was my landlord."

Even then there was a mocking smile on her
face, as of one who could almost enjoy the embar-
rassment, because of the fact that it must be a
very embarrassing moment to the other person.
Just then came a knock at the door, quite unlike
Ruth's timid one ; sharp, and imperative. The
opening of the door, almost immediately after-
ward, threw Ruth just back of it, and the intruder
did not see her. He was a young man, with an
impudent face, and a voluble tongue.

" I have called once more for the money," he
began, " and we may as well understand one
another this time ; I don't propose to climb these
stairs again for nothing. Either you give me the
month's rent now, or else you walk out of this flat
without any more delay. People cannot expect to
rent furnished flats with nothing but promises ;
and I have instructions to " —

He did not finish his sentence. All the Erskine
blood, which in its way was certainly as intense
as any that belonged to the house of Burnham,
seemed to boil in Ruth's veins as she heard her
husband's daughter thus familiarly and insolently
addressed. It increased her indignation to dis-
cover that the girl-woman who confronted the

ii'%

3i8

UNDER GUIDANCE.

1;!

man was pallid with terror, and evidently felt
herself to be in his power. " He'll do it in time,
mamma ! " Erskine's last assuring words, mingling
with his good-by kisses, seemed to sound in her
ears. Did God tell her what to do in this crisis
of her life .-* She thought of it wonderingly after-
wards — the painful doubt of the moment before,
the instant decision flashing upon her from some-
where.

" You forget yourself strangely, sir," she said,
stepping with the air of a princess from behind
the half-open door. " If you have any claim on
this lady you may present your bill at Judge Burn-
ham's office, 263 Fourth Street, to-morrow morning
at ten o'clock, and it will be paid."

The alarmed young man made confused efforts
to apologize, to explain ; but he might as well
have attempted to address an iceberg.

There could be no explanation, the lady said,
which could justify the use of such language to
a woman ; all she wished of him was to retire.
Which he did in haste and dismay.

And then Ruth speedily forgot him in the un-
expected work she found for thought and hands.
The poor haughty girl who had tried to be so self-
sufficient, and so daring in her insolence, had sud-
denly felt her strength giving way ; the room spun
dizzily around her, then grew dark and wavered in
that sickening fashion which is the last conscious
feeling that the victim to a fainting fit remembers,

UNDER GUIDANCE.

319

y felt
i time,
ngling
in her
J crisis
T after-
before,
L some-

e said,
behind
aim on
3 Burn-
lorning

efforts
Ls well

[y said,
lage to
retire.

the un-
hands.

Iso self-

id sud-

spun

lered in
iscious
Imbers,

and but for Ruth's sudden spring to her side, she
would have fallen. It was very unpoetical, what
followed. Ruth could not get her charge to a
chair ; the utmost that her strength could accom-
plish was to lay her gently on the dingy carpet,
then look about for water. The soapsuds in the
bath tub was the only liquid at hand ; there was
no help for it but to dip her hastily ungloved
hand into the foam and bathe the pallid face
with it.

It was well, perhaps, for all concerned, that
there was no disinterested looker-on to view
the ludicrous side of this scene ; it was really the
first conscious thought of the proud girl as she
came slowly back to life. She darted a suspicious
glance at her step-mother, and attempted to push
her ministering hand away, and rise to a sitting
posture. But Ruth, as she splashed the soapy
water right and left, was too manifestly absorbed
in ministering, to the best of her powers, to have
room for any other thought.

"You are better now.^" she said inquiringly.
" Oh ! I would not try to move just yet ; let me
put my arm under your head, so, and lie still just
a few minutes longer."

The tone v/as gentle, soothing ; as she might
have spoken to a frightened child. And Minta,
who had never in her life, save in these five miser-
able weeks just past, known what it was to think
of and plan for her own necessities ; and who was

:|i

;• ill*

ii i

320

UNDER GUIDANCE.

amazed, and frightened, and miserable in every
possible way, struggled for just another minute to
regain her haughty voice and speak her repelling
words, then suddenly covered her white face with
both hands, and burst into a perfect storm of
tears.

" Poor child ! " said her step-mother, wholly
sympathetic and pitiful; "poor frightened child!
I do not wonder you were overcome. The wretch,
to dare to speak to you as he did ! Never mind ;
he has gone away, and will be quite sure not to
return." Then, from that mysterious inner Source
of Strength, there came to her, not by thinking it
out, but, someway, entirely as a matter of course,
what to do. She spoke as though the matter had
been planned for weeks. *' I have a carriage at
the door ; as soon as you are able to move, it will
do you good to get into the open air. This room
is stifling. We will drive directly home. I will
just lock this door, and send Mrs. Barnes tcf attend
to everything. Come, Minta, I would try not to
cry so much ; it will take your strength, and you
need it to get ready."

She had not meant to go home, this angry girl
who had not yet sufficiently reached her right
mind not to suppose herself ill-treated in some
way. She had not expected to have the chance to
go, during these later weeks ; but she assured
herself bitterly that if she were to have the chance,
she would spurn it with scorn. She had been sur-

UNDER CIUIDAN'CE.

321

prised to see her step-mother, but, true to her
plans, had tried to summon the scorn. But she
was utterly alone ; her husband for whom she had
risked everything, had cruelly deserted her, un^ler
circumstances of peculiar misery. She was en-
tirely without money or friends ; she was in a
strange part of the city, the very noises of which
kept her in a state of fear day and night. She
was faint for lack of proper food ; she had despised
her supper the night before, and loathed her break-
fast that morning ; she had not known what she
could say to the landlord's agent when he called
again, and she had gotten ready that tub of soap'
suds, and made her pitiful preparations to was' ,
under the dim impression that when he should
turn her into the street, it would be better for her
to have clean clothes to carry ; but as she lay there
limp and helpless on the floor, with the absurd
incongruity of one's thoughts in moments of high
excitement, she remembered the little heap of
soiled clothes, and it seemed to her that she could
never, never get them washed. And then there
came another knock at the door, and she had so
far recovered as to make a desperate effort to
struggle into the small cane-seat rocker, the only
touch of comfort which the room held. It was
Ruth who answered the knock, and held open the
door in dignified silence while the woman who had
the general charge of all these " flats " stood and
looked at her m open-mouthed astonishment, and

*iS

•f

■i\}

tl.

'j! r

r •

( m.

1 .1 •

322

UNDER GUIDANCE.

finally said, " Oh ! I didn't know." What she did
not know was not explained ; it might have taken a
very long time.

Mrs. Burnham was a woman who, however she
might question and delay, on ordinary occasions,
in an emergency knew just what to say. The
present seemed to her an emergency.

" Do you want anything ? " she asked with gentle
dignity ; and the woman murmured that she
thought she heard a noise and didn't know but
— and then she stopped.

" You did not know but you might help us,"
finished Ruth pleasantly. " Thank you ; you can.
Mrs. Hamlin is not well ; she has been quite faint,
but is better now, and I want to take her away
immediately. If you will see that the halls and
stairs are clear of idle children, so we can reach
the door, and my carriage, without annoyance, I
will take care that you are paid for your kindness.
I will lock Mrs. Hamlin's room and take the key
with me. I shall send my housekeeper io attend
to her property here, as soon as possible, and after
that you may let the proper persons know, if you
please, that the room is vacant."

The miserable young wife could not have told,
afterwards, how it was that she, who had meant to
be so independent of her home, should have been
th'is easily managed. But she felt so weak and
faint, and the thought of getting out of that dreary
room into the fresh air was so inspiriting, and her

UNDER GUIDANCE.

she did
I taken a

:ver she

casions,

The

h gentle
lat she
low but

:lp us,"
^ou can.
te faint,
IT away
ills and
n reach
ance, I
ndness.
:he key-
attend
id after
'y if you

323

fn a7her '" P''"^P' ^"^ matter-of-course

girl was lymg back among the cushions, bein^
whirled toward her old home, before she Zd
rallied enough to think what she must do next

As for Mrs. Burnham, the uppermost thought
in her mind was one of surprise that there could
have been any doubt as to wnat to do

» '

re told,
leant to
e been
ak and
dreary
md her

324

AT HOME.

CHAPTER XXVII.

AT HOME.

WITH Mrs. Hamlin, the feeling of irrespon-
sibility, of yielding to the inevitable, con-
tinued after she reached home. She was very
miserable, but the quiet beauty of her old room,
with its familiar belongings, rested her ne' s,
though she did not know it.

She was a deserted wife, disgraced, penniless,
broken-hearted, yet the bed was so soft, and its
coverings were so pure, and the pillows were so
fair !

She let hot tears soil their purity, but still she
buried her face in their depths with a feeling that
all these belongings fitted her, as those with which
she had had to do of late did not. And being very
tired, as well as very miserable, she quite soon
forgot her sorrows in sleep.

But with Mrs. Burnham the case was different.
She was alone in the library, and the reaction
from all the day's excitement was upon her.
There was time for her to think over what she
had done, and to imagine some of the results which

AT HOME.

325

might follow. It was not that she doubted the
wisdom of her movements thus far ; she was still
upheld by the calm assurance that what she had
done was the thing to do ; but she could not, even
with this assurance, keep her over-tired brain from
surmising results. What would her husband say ?
What would he do ? Nothing apparently was
more firmly impressed upon his mind than the
fact that he had disowned his daughter, and here
she was domiciled in her old room ! Would Judge
Burnham tolerate this innovation ? From his
wife's knowledge of him, gleaned by many experi-
ences during the years, hhe did not believe he
would. And yet it had seemed to her the one
thing to do.

There was nothing for her but straightforward
action in the line which was plain to her. Judge
Burnham's duties she could not shoulder for him.
But certainly the next thing for her was to write
him a plain statement of affairs as they now stood.
It was not an easy letter to write ; she avoided the
central feature of it longer than was her fashion.
She told the absent father much about Erskine,
and his sweet, bright ways, and much even about
the common details of home life, before she
brought herself to the sentence : " And now, I
have something to tell that will alarm and pain
you. I heard to-day some very startling news.
What will you think when I tell you that " — she
held her pen, at this point, and considered. She

it ;

iii

326

AT HOME.

had often spoken to Judge Burnham about " the
girls," she had often, of late years, said "your
daughters," but now there was only one, and
the circumstances were such that to say " your
daughter" seemed almost to insult him. How
should she manage the sentence ? Her face, as
she held her pen, waiting, and looked away into
space, with thoughtful yet resolute eyes, would
have been a study for a painter.

Did not this woman realize that she had deliber-
ately and of her own will, introduced once more
into her home that which had been its chief dis-
cordant element in the past } No ; after careful
deliberation i think I may say to you that she
realized at last that such was not the case. Either
you have been a thoughtless reader, or I have
failed of my purpose, if you have not discovered
that Ruth Burnham has reached higher ground
than that on which her feet ever trod before.

It is not easy to explain just how much that
sentence means. It was not that she had reached
serene heights, where daily pettinesses could not
disturb her more. It was not that she was not
keenly alive to thp discomforts — to call them by
no stronger name — that would probably come to
her through this latest movemc of hers, but it
does mean that she was keenly aiive to her mis-
takes in the past, and believed them to have been
the chief sources of her unh?^piiiess. One of
them she knew had been a persistent effort to

AT HOME.

327

carry her own burdens even after she had been
to the Cross, and professed to leave them there.
And another of them had been a persistent deter-
mination to do her own planning, even after she
had asked the Lord to plan for her.

These two mistakes she had resolved to make
no more. And it was the thought that the One
to whom Erskine had appealed for help had assur-
edly told her what to do, that held her eyes and
her heart quiet, even though, so far as her fore-
knowledge went, there were seas of trouble yet
to cross.

Suddenly she bent over her paper, and the pen
moved on. " What will you think when I tell you
that our daughter Minta is at this moment in her
old room, sleeping quietly ? I went for her this
morning and brought her home. I found her in
a very third-rate house on Court Street. Think of
it ! She is not well ; has a cough that reminds me
painfully of Seraph. It seems that her miserable
husband deserted her some weeks ago : left her
quite without money in this wretched ' flat * that he
had rented on Court Street. Her meals were
brought up to her, prepared by a woman who
rented the kitchen, and made her living by serving
the occupants of the rooms with badly-cooked
food. When I found her, she was on the eve of
being turned out of even this refuge, by the land-
lord's agent, because she owed for two weeks'
rent ! None of them seemed to be aware of her

328

AT HOME.

relationship to us. Of course I knew that she
must come home at once. She was very willing
to do so, for she felt sick and frightened. A line
from Mr. Bacon, received since I reached home,
informs me that there is very little doubt but that
Hamlin, on whose track detectives have been ever
since he fled the city, has been arrested, and is
now in confinement, awaiting trial. It is forgery
again. Mr. Bacon thinks there will be no possi-
bility of his escaping justice this time. I have
not told poor Minta this, and do not know how to
tell her. I thmk I will wait for advice from you.
Meantime, your heart would ache for her, if you
could see her. She is very pale, and has grown
alarmingly thin. I think the poor girl has suf-
fered more than perhaps we shall ever know. It
frightens me to think of her having been alone
in that part of the city, and she so young, and
still so beautiful." And then had followed a few
sentences expressive of her loneliness in his ab-
sence, and her hope that these days of separation
were nearly over. And then this weary woman
closed her writing desk with a little sigh, because
her heart could not escape wondering what he
would say to it all.

There was also perplexity as to the very next
day. She could not determine what would be
Minta's line of action. Whether she would remain
the palv"^, passive woman she was now, or whether
she would rebel, and insist on escaping ever so

■i

AT HOME.

329

lat she

willing

A line

1 home,

►ut that

en ever

and is

forgery

) possi-

I have

how to

m you.

if you

grown

las suf-

)W. It

alone
g, and

a few
his ab-
araticii
woman
>ecause
hat he

y next
uld be
remain
hether
ver so

kind a control of her movements. Or, whether,
indeed, she would assume that she had rights in
that home equal, if not superior, to those of the
woman who had brought her here.

Ruth could not but admit that this last state
would be more like the Minta Burnham of her
acquaintance than either of the others ; and, in
view of her father's present position, would work
disastrously for the girl.

Having wearied herself after this fashion, im-
agining scenes that might take place, she suddenly
remembered, with a smile of relief, that the part
♦hat it was impossible for her to arrange, she had
** right to leave.

I think it was, perhaps, as well for both these
women that the next morning found the younger
one quite ill.

The programme for that Jay, at least, was plain.
Dr. Westwood must be sent for, and the role ot
decided invalidism must be carried out. It prrved
that the same line of action would do for several
days. Minta was not alarmingly ill, but the doctoi
counseled quiet, and utmost care ; and R ith, in
arranging for tea and toast and lemonade, and
various cooling drinks, and seeing to it that ' cr
patient was made comfortable in many way^, had
little time for troubled imaginings. As for Minta,
the necessity for arking to have the glass or the
handkerchief handed to her, or the pillow moved ;
and for saying "Thank you " frequently, overcame

I'll

■.'if

330

AT HOME.

much of the painful embarrassment with which
the new day began ; and for the most part she
was quiet and submissive. As the days pc^ssed,
and she grew better, and was, presently, able to
sit in the large easy chair, and watch the passers-
by, on the street below, it became evident that
she was very much subdued. One circumstance
contributed largely to this result. Mrs. Bu»"nharn,
in looking over a trunk of packed away treasures,
in search of something for which Minta had asked,
came suddenly upon a little box of Seraph's, that
had not been opened. It closed with a spring
that Ruth did not understand ; but as she held it
in her hand, it appeared that her fingers must have
touched the hidden spring, for it flew open, and
on the top lay a letter addressed to Minta, in her
sister's familiar writing. Ruth, much moved,
ceased her search, and carried the letter at once
and in silence to the pale-faced girl lying back
among the cushions ^f the easy chair. She did
not know, either th a\ nor afterwards, what words
Seraph had spoken for her last ones ; but Minta's
eyes were red with weeping when she '-aw her
again, and her voice seemed gentler, and her man-
ner more subdued, after that time. It became
apparent that she also had anxious thoughts about
the future. She asked often for word from her
father. When was he coming ? Did he know
that she was there ^ What hnd he said ? And
once, she asked did Ruth think "papa would

AT HOME.

331

allow her to remain at home, after all that had
been?" And Mrs. Burnham, whose heart was
daily growing more full of pity for this deserted
wife, who — even though she had sinned, was also
certainly much sinned against, and who, though
her love was so misplaced, and so entirely selfish
in its exhibition —had yet, in a sense, loved the
ma:i who had deserted her, felt that she would
give much to be able to answer a hearty Yes to
this hesitating question, and did not know how to
reply. Her husband maintained an ominous silence
in regard to the news she had sent him. His let-
ters came as regularly as usual, but they were
shorter, and she fancied colder. He was crowded
with care, and some anxiety. He hoped to get the
complications straightened out before very long ;
she did not need the assurance that he would be
at home as soon as possible ; and then had fol-
lowed messages for Erskine, very tender and
fatherly, but not a word for, or about, Minta in
any way. He seemed to have simply ignored her
story. This boded no good for the future. There
was nothing now but to wait, with what patience
they could. Each day it became evident to Mrs.
Burnham that she was settling into the position
held so long ago : looked upon by Minta ?s the
intercessor between her and an indignant father ;
and each day she grew more doubtful about her
ability to perform her part. Judge Burnham was
cruelly proud ; he had been cruelly stabbed, and

332

AT HOME.

very publicly too ; he had publicly disowned his
daughter. Would his pride ever let him ac-
knovvled{j;e her again ? More and more tlie wife
felt that this household nceiled other than human
power to settle it into anything like peace. Her
cry for help from the Omnipotent became daily
more earnest. There was notably in her exj^c-
rience a certain Sabbath evening when her prayer
rose into the realm which perhaps might be rever-
ently called " wrestling."

And then, one morning, when all the air was
crisp with frost, and the earth was aglow in its
latest autumn finery, came a telegram from Judge
Burnham to his wife. Could she join him in
Westford by the noon train, to return that even-
ing .'* Now Westford was a little city, but an
hour's riile from their own greater one. Ruth
had often been there, and there was nothing about
the telegram in itself, to cause her anxiety. She
was frequently summoned to that, or neighboring
towns, to meet her husband on business — to
sign an important paper, to tell her version of a
bit of news that had been supposed trivial, but
which had suddenly, in the light *of events, grown
important.

It ought to have been simply a satisfaction that
Judge Burnham was at last so near home as this.
But about everything which could happen, during
these days, there was an undertone of anxiety. It
was an almost humiliating fact, but Ruth felt that

AT IIOMK.

333

she was somewhat in disgrace with her own hus-
band, and dreaded while she looked forward to
meeting him. Of course she must obey the sum-
mons ; but she looked wistfully at ICrskine, and was
half-ashamed to think how much she would like to
be able to make herself think it sensible to take the
child with her. He, too, was wistful. He never
approved of his mother's absences from himself.
He asked her the same question in many forms :
" Was she sure and certain and positive that slie
would return that very truly night ?" and " Would
she bring papa home with her ? " Over this last
Ruth considered. The telegram was ambiguous,
after the manner of those two-sided messengers.
Did it mean that she could return that night or
that they both would ? She did not know ; the
utmost she could say to Erskine was, that she
would come, unless something which they could
not foresee, or help, prevented ; and that she
would certainly "bring papa home" if she could.
And then she went away with all speed.

Judge Burnham was on the platform before the
train fairly halted ; his greeting was warm, but
he seemed preoccupied and in great haste. He
hurried her into a carriage.

" I have to go at once to an important gather-
ing," he explained. ♦* Will you mind coming in
with me } I shall not be detained over a half-
hour ? "

" Is it a court house ? " she asked, as the car-

■1 ,

334

AT HOME.

riage drew up before a large building. "Will
there be ladies present, Judge Burnham.'*

'* No," he said, " it was not a court room, but
a public hall. O yes ! there would be plenty of
ladies ; but he should have to leave her, and go to
the platform."

There was nothing unusual about this ; he had
often to go to the platform when there were gather-
ings for the discussion of public interests.

He seated her, in the closely filled hall, and
hurried forward ; he was evidently being waited
for. He had only time to lay aside his hat,
and exchange a few words with a gentleman who
stepped toward him, book in hand, and then Ruth
watched her husband as he took the book, and
came forward to the centre of the platform and
began to read.

And this was what he reaa, —

" There is a fountain filled with blood,

Drawn from Immanuel's veins ;
And sinners plunged beneath that flood,

Lose all their guilty stains,
I do believe, I now believe that Jesus died for me.
That on the cross He shed His blood
From sin to set me free."
■i

Can I tell you anything about it, do you suppose —
the tumult of amazement and of joy surging in his
wife's soul }

She felt her face grow pale, and then red, under
the power of her emotions. She held herself, by

AT nOME.

335

main force of will, quiet on the seat, when it
seemed to her she must spring up before them
all and shout for joy. Those words read by the
voice which was to her the finest in the world —
read with such a peculiarly marked emphasis on
the personal pronouns as to tell her, even if his
reading them at all under such circumstances had
not done it, that he had made of this a personal
matter.

" I do believe, I now believe that Jesus died for me f «

She said the lines over in exultant undertone,
emphasizing the words as he had done, while the
great company burst into song. This was surely
the noon prayer meeting, about which she had
heard much, and which she had never before
attended.

Almost with the last note of song mingled
Judge Burnham's voice again, and he said, " Let
us pray." His wife bowed her head on the seat
before her, and her whole frame shook with emo-
tion. She did not know afterwards whether she
prayed, or cried, or laughed.

"I know," she said, long afterwards, telling
Erskine about it, " I know I sai(' Hallelujah ! if
that is praying."

An elderly lady seated beside her regarded the
slight figure draped in mourning with an air of
tender sympathy ; and when, a few moments after.

■m

336

AT HOME.

wards, there came from the leader of the meeting
an invitation for those who would like to learn
the way to Christ, to rise, that they might be
especially remembered in prayer, the old lady
touched her arm and whispered : —

"Won't you stand up, dear? It will help you
ever so much."

Then Ruth turned toward her a radiant face, in
which smiles were mingling with falling tears, and
shook her head as she whispered back : —

" I know the way. Isn't it glorious }*' But she
could never give a very lucid account of that noon
prayer meeting.

There were other gentlemen who entered the
same carriage with them, and there was opportu-
nity for only an exchange of smiles between her
husband and herself, until they reached a hotel,
and he had ordered and secured a private room.
Then he took her in his arms and kissed her,
his face indicating too deep feeling just then for
words.

** It is a long story, my dear," he said, when they
were calmer, ♦* or rather, it has been a long, long
battle on my part, and could be summed up in a
few sentences. It began, oh ! long ago, but it has
been marked by a few very decisive incidents.
That Sunday afternoon meeting — I never forgot
it, Ruth, nor your way of putting the facts ; you
were logical, and your conclusion was inevitable,
and I was angry that it should be so, I silenced

7rwssmmmmmmmiisifsi^»m.m^^.^m,m^

AT HOME.

337

you, but not my own conscience ; I never got
away from it. Then came our troubles, and your
attitude through them all. You were different,
some way, from what you ever were before. It
angered, while it awed me. I knew you were
controlled by a power that I did not understand.
About that time, too. Seraph told me many things
that I did not know before ; I began to realize
something of what you had borne through the
years. And then, Ruth, you knov/ that I saw
Seraph die.

" But the final appeal," he continued after a
moment's silence, "the final appeal came in that
letter which I did not answer. The thought that
you could voluntarily open your home again, after
what you had borne, and I, her father, had dis-
owned her ! I cannot tell you all that it said to
me. Neither will I try to tell you now about the
conflict. It is a little too recent to speak of it
calmly. Yet I will tell you this, Ruth ; I reached
a point last Sunday night when I felt sure that
the decision must be made then and there, for
eternity.

" I have struggled with this question for years,
and affected skepticism whenever that was the
most convenient way of stifling conscience, and
affected indifference when my heart was fairly
on fire ; and hidden behind inconsistencies of
others, and all that sort of flimsiness; but last
Sunday evening it was as if the Lord himself

33«

AT HOME.

Stood by me and said, * Just this one more time,
my friend, I offer myself as your advocate.' It
all came over me in an instant, Ruth, how often
He had done it before, and how certain I would be
to offer my services but once to any man living,
and I — well, my dear, I surrendered. Some time
I'll tell you all about it. But now, let us have
some dinner, and then get home. I was coming
this afternoon ; I expected to reach you by the
three o'clock train, but I had to stop here on busi-
ness, and I met my old college friend. Maiden ; he
is here conducting these noon meetings ; and when
he heard how it was with me, he insisted that I
should stay and lead this meeting and tell the
business men where I stood. I had determined
not to write to you ; I wanted to tell my story ;
but when he pressed this matter, it occurred to
me that it would be only a fair return for the sur-
prise you gave me that Sunday, you know, to
telegraph you to meet me here, and take you
to prayer meeting with me ; I'm glad I did. Your
face was an inspiration. I shall never forget how
it looked while I was reading that hymn. What a
glorious hymn it is ! "

" Did you bring papa home } " It was Erskine's
clear ringing voice which sounded down to them
from the upper hall the moment he heard the grat-
ing of the latch key in the street door. " Did you
bring papa home } " And the next instant he was
flying down the stairs.

AT HOME.

339

)re time,
:ate.' It
ow often
would be
n living,
)me time
us have
1 coming
1 by the
on busi-
Iden; he
nd when
d that I
tell the
:ermined
y story ;
urred to
the sur-
now, to
ike you
1. Your
get how
What a

rskine's
to them
:he grat-
Did you
t he was

And while the poor young frightened wife was
nervously walking up and down the hall above,
and wondering and fearing how she should meet
her father, Judge Burnham gathered his boy into
his arms, and said between the kisses, in a voice
which quivered with feeling, —

" Yes, my boy, at last she has brought your papa
home ! "

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