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:2/^^^ €> -e-^ f^/W i^ a-M- f d ,

iTi>rs» Clara a. Meaver

THIS BOOK

IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED
BY
THE AUTHOR.

HILL-CREST.

liY

MRS. FLEWELLYN.

" O love ! so hallowing every soil
That gives the sweet flower room,
Wherever nursed by ease or toil
The human heart takes bloom.
Plant of lost Eden from the soil

Of sinful earth unriven,
White blossom of the trees of Grod
Dropped down to us from heaiven.''~Whittier.

TORONTO :

COOPER & CO, PUBLISHERS.

iMDCCCXCIV.

Kntered, accordinjf to the Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one
thousand eight hundred and ninety-four, by Cooper Sl Co., Toronto, at the
Department of Agriculture, at Ottawa.

CONTENTS.

ClIAITKK. I'AOE.

I. Hill-Crest ------ 9

TI. Mrs. Kenyon 2:5

ITI. Pride and Poverty 43

IV. At the Parsonage ----- 56

V. The Fire 87

VT. Love's Younc; Dream - - - - - 102

VTI. "In Prison, and Ye Came Unto Me" - 119

VIII. In Denver - 138

IX. "Sick, and Ye Visited Me" - - - 168

X. Robert McDonell's Story - - - - 186

XI. "SeaIiching for Silver and Find. . . Jold" 199

XII. Forgiven - - - . . . - 219

XIII. At Lake View - - . . . 234

XIV. Conclusion - 249

PREFACE.

\ olden times when frioiid would send message to
llriend, he took from the cote a dove, and concealing-
under its wing the little missive, opened the window
and sent it I'oilh, to carry the wor<ls of love or warn-
ing : an<l I doul)t not that many a fervent prayer
went up into the blue heavens after the (juivering
pinions, that the hii'd's Hight might he attended with
safety.

Dear ri'a<ler, from the cote of my experience, where
is gatliei*e<l my own bitter trials — my memories, my
loves, my ambition — I have taken this little book,
and with a tender prayer for its safe arrival, have
sent it forth. Under ij)s wing is the message I would

have you read ; it is tied with the thread of a story :
it lies close to the warm, throbbing heart of humanity,

PREFACE.

hidden among the soft feathers of love and unselfish
friendship.

As it comes to your window tapping for admittance,
do not stop to look at its storm-beaten plumage, or
question the advisability of taking into your own
cosy dove-cote this strange pilgrih of the air.

The message, I say, is liiddcn ; and if after a caivful
search you find and take into your life the swtM't
lesson, and it brings to your heart the peace and
happiness it has brought to mine, 1 will be fort^vei*
thankful that I said to the litth- book, "Go forth."

ThK AlTHOH.

HILL-CREST.

CHAPTER I.

HILL-CllEST.

HE liouso was ol<l ami fast ^oiii^ to de-
cay ; nothing had been done in the
way of repairs for the last (jiiarter of
a century. The hill on which it stood
would have furnished an eligible site
lor a palace, whose outlines, viewed from any direction,
^ould have stood out in relief a^^ainst the sky ; and
Ihis prominence made all the more marked the ravages
>f time and the lack of harmony with the surrounding
^indscape. The present owner had built it accoruing
jo his means (a very commendable thing to do) when
[he land was cheap, but competent workmen hard to
jet ; and having lived there comfortably so long, he
'as determined, notwithstanding flattering offers to
lell, that he would end his days in the same conspicu-
)us habitation.
The house, I say, was old. In the time of which I
rite, the rough-cast, as it was called, had begun to
jet tired of clinging to the lathing so long, and had
2

■ 1.

HILL-CREST.

broken off in lar^e patches here an<l there, <^ivin^ the
oM liouse a most forlorn appearance. The rooms,
lai'<;e and with low ceilings, had an air of cosy home-
liness eas}^ to feel, ])ut hard to describe. Between the
fi'ont of the house and the street, fron) which three
steps led up to the ^ate, was a little yard, filled in
sunnner with all the old-fashioned varieties of flowers,
from spider-eye and bachelor button to h.earts-a-
bleedin^ and bottles-of -all-colors. But the ornament
ot* the ancient dwelling was the sweet jessamine that
completely covered its walls. The long graceful vines
wound themselves lovingly around the small-paned
windows, and reached up to the roof in a protecting
way as if it felt some of the family pride in trying
to conceal from inquisitive eyes the real state of
delapidation into which the beloved old home had
fallen.

At the back of the house all was difterent ; the hill
sloped away from the stone basement, leaving the
doors and windows too far up to coax a vine or shrub
to reach even the lower casement. Some lilac bushes
had been planted in the hope of covering at least the
stone wall, but the dryness of the earth at so high
an eminence and the strong west winds had been too I
much for even these hardy bushes to get above a |
stunted growth. The doc^' on this side was like an
observatory, yielding a view of the farms and factor-
ies, streams and bridges, miles away into the distance.
The old grist-mill lying in the valley, with its very
high chimne}^ seemed like a doll's house, and the
pond at the side a small dish of water.

HTLL-CREST.

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A narrow, crooked lane ran along one side of the
inounds down into tlie hollow, where it turned and
came out by tlie niiil, and joined the main street of
the village, with its stores and liotels. So you see
that Hill-Crest stood high and dry, not only a})ove
its neighbors, but out of the way of the small bustle
that was going on in this thrifty little town.

In winter the boys and girls of the village would
bring their sle<ls and ride down hill by the hour, tilling
>the frosty air with their mei'iy shouts: an<l on moon-
light nights the hill was one moving mass of hiniianity,
Jinany of the neiglibors, whose ycjuth was long past,
^heartily joining in the sport, which, they declared,
(lid them more good than a doctor's prescription.

I will not attempt to describe the inside of the
house, or to give you a glimpse of the home life, until
I you have had an introduction to its inmates.

Robert McDonell was an Irislnnan ])v birth, but
coming to America when a young man, and marrying
Mil woman of American birth and parentage, he had
very soon dropped his native habits, and with that
I adaptability so characteristic of his countrymen,
])ecame an American in every sense of the word,
loving the land of his adoption with a loyal patriot-
ism that is often found wanting in those born on her
isoil. He had never gained nuich of this world's
goods. Perhaps it was in part due to his feeling no
I need of many luxuries, and having no yearning for
[power or fame, he lived an honest, industrious life,
frei; from the care and strife that is sure to sur-
I round one of higher aspirations. He and his four

HILL-CREST.

iiujilierUiss (lau<;'hters and a maiden si.stor of his wife
constitutt'il the household. We say tluit liis (hiiighters
were niotlierless, but Aunt Elizabeth, wlio liad lived
with them so long, always declared, when the subject
was mentioned, that they had lost nothing in that
particular, as she had made so many sacrifices for
them and had done so much for their comfort that
she was at a loss to know what people meant who
sympathized with them. Elizabeth Williams was a
" character," a little past middle age, but so well pre-
served that she would easily be taken for no more
than thirty, tall and graceful, witli black eyes and
hair, a clear complexion, and withal that air of
queenly dignity which impressed one at first sight
with the idea that her life had been spent in wealth
and ease. How much she supplied a mother's place
in that home our story will serve to determine.

Kathey, the eldest of the McDonell girls, was the
beauty of the family, and consequently the aunt's
favorite. She was of medium height, with brown,
curling hair and roguish blue eyes, a perfectly rounded
form, and so graceful of movement as to draw more
than a passing glance. Her father always called her
Kathleen, looking at her sometimes in a way that led
one to surmise that some other Kathleen in the long
agor-perhaps a sister or a friend — had something to
do with his christening his first-born by that most
poetical of names.

Edith, the second daughter, was just as unlike her
sister as it was possible for anyone to be ; tall and
slender, with a grave, gentle face, dreamy blue eyes.

HILL-CREST.

and a ])i-()a(l, Icnv forelu'ad. Tliere was aLoiit lior an
air of languor, but never of impatience, and siie was
ever ready to take up the next task in life with a
self-forgetful diligence that made for her so many
friends not only among her own sisters, for whom
she always found plenty to do, but also among the
sick or suttenng in all the neighborhood. She was
eighteen and Kathey twenty, and though so unhke
in look and temperament, they w^ere always the best
lof friends, clinging together as only motherless girls
|will, each preferring the other, and yielding to the
)ther the claim of possessing the more beauty.

Next to Edith, comes Grace. She may be described
fas a i"odel of perfect physical health and strength,
[just tiiv. right height for her weight of about one
hundred and thirty -five pounds; plump but not fat;
fair but not chalky ; rosy but not red ; her eyes were
dark hazel, and her beautiful hair closely wound
about her head. Imagine this picture and you have
a perfect conception of what Grace McDonell was at
sixteen years of age. In manner she had a certain
habit of throwing back her head when engaged in
conversation, which gave you the impression that she
was pleased with the whole world, and with herself
in particular.

The youngest of the four girls was Bertliy. Nature
had evidently exhausted her gifts of grace and beauty
on the three elder sisters, and nothing remained for
Berthy but a muddy dark complexion and a lot of
black hair, always frowsy and untidy. She was
fifteen years old, but anyone would have supposed

I .'i

I "I-

! ' ,1

^^W

i: i

HILL-CREST.

her several years younger, for slie was so small. As
the youngest of the family slie should have been tl'
pet and favorite; on the other hand, she was generally
neglected by all, and as a result she had formed the
habit of going off by herself, making companions of
the flowers, talking to imaginary friends, an<l building
innumerable air castles. This was why she was called
" a queer child."

It was Berthy who gave to their home, in one of
her flights of romantic fancy, the name of Hill-Crest,
making all the family roar with laughter at the idea
of so high-sounding a title for their rather shabby
homestead.

I have said that Robert McDonell did not care for
riches, but he was the only member of the family so
minded. While the girls did value their own good
names " as above rubi(}s," yet there were times when
the economy they were obliged to practice was very
galling to their proud natures. But they never said
anything to convey the idea to their father that they
were not contented with the home he liad provided
for them ; and he, coming home at nightfall and
finding everything cheerful and pleasant, did not stop
to think that nearly all the comforts of his home were
due to the busy hands of the daughters he was priding
himself on supporting in comfort and ease.

It was Grace's willing hands and strong arms that
hung the paper in the little parlor and made the car-
pet that covered the floors, and with the money that
Kathey had earned in making a dress for a friend
who had admired one of her own which her deft

HILL-CUEST.

tin<:jors liad planiuHl, slic li{i<l l)()n<:j]it tlio djiinty pic-
tures and wliito curtains; and E<litli had netted a
U)\v tidies and lainbre(|uins, and so, witli the bright
polislied ^rate and a home-made vase tilled with dried
ferns and cat-tails which Berthy had gathered, the
parlor presented quite a cosy appearance. But when
friends complimented the girls on their success, Aunt
Elizabeth would lean back in her easy chair and tell
them how hard she had worked and planned to bring it
aVjout, and end by saying that she did not know what
the girls, poor dears, would do if anything happened
that she should be obliged to leave them. They all
understood perfectly well what the anything was that
she w^as referring to, and often wondered themselves
why she did not marry and have a home of her own,
seeing that she was such an excellent manager.

Hill-Crest never looked more beautiful than on the
June morning of which I write, with the jasmine in
full bloom and the sun just peeping at the wild morn-
ing-glories that grew abundantly around the east
wing of the house. The dainty bell-shaj^ed flowers
came out in great profusion long before the dew had
dried on leaf or stem. How much these flowers re-
mind us of our own plans and aspirations ; how con-
fident we are sometimes that we will show to the
world all that we think or feel that we are able to do ;
and how like the sharp rays of the sun are the criti-
cisms that wither by word and glance our best efforts,
until in a little while our hopes are all dead as the
Howers are faded and forgotten; but the seed germ is
there still, which the blazinpf sun serv

only tc
and make fit for the time of gathering by-and-by.

I pen

I i^n

\i4

HiLL-CKfiST.

Berthy was up early tliat morning. 8b o did not
always rise early, for although she loved the early
morning, and would have liked to spend this most
delightful time communing with the birds and flowers,
yet there was always plenty of work to be done, and,
as there was no servant, a large share fell upon her
unwilling shoulders. But this morning she was sure
that she had heard her father and Kathey talking about
a letter and some one coming, and after her father had
gone she had heard Kathey sighing several times in a
way that had awakened her pity. Stimulated, too,
by a little natural curiosity, she was anxious to see
what it was all about ; the first thing that caught her
eye was the letter, and as there are never any secrets
in the McDonell household, we will just look on while
Berthy eagerly reads it.

" Green Cliff.

" Dear Brother, — It seems a long time since I have
heard anything from you or your family, in fact, not
since Kathey was here two years ago. I supp ^sed, of
course, the young people would keep u^, the corre-
spond ^iice, but it seems they have not, and you realize,
I am sure, that my time is fully occupied. I write
now to ask if it would be convenient to have Gerald-
ine and Roger stay with you for a while during the
warm weather. They think it would be a great
benefit to their health and spirits to spend the summer
in the hilly region of your home.

" Please send reply at your earliest convenience,
and oblige, Your Brother,

"William McDonell."

To say that Berthy was delighted is but to give a

IllLL-CRfisT.

I'aint idea of that youn^ lady's ecstasy. She admired
and almost reverenced a person of education, and she
Is new that Roger had just retiirne<l from college, and
h.iving herself such a limited knowledge of college
students, she supposed he would be continually talk-
ing of what he had learned while there. So holding
the let^ er still in her hand, she flew into the kitchen
where Kathey had called her sisters together to talk
the matter over, and was very much surprised to find
tliat what had caused her so much joy Vas a source
of grief to the older ones. Kathey was saying as
she entered, " I did not want to hurt father's feelings
by saying we could not have them, for you know how
fond he is of his bi'other, although they don't see
each other as often as they might."

'* Well," said Grace in her practical way, " we shall
have to go right to work and get ready for them, that
is all."

" But you girls do not know," said Kathey in a
distressed tone, " how perfectly grand their place is,
with servants, and horses and carriages ; and Geraldine
is one of the kind that really despises a person who
is poor and has to work for a living. You remember
luy telling you that she said if she were poor and had
to work she would shut herself up in a room and
starve to death," and Kathey wiped her eyes with so
forlorn a look that it seemed as if the starving pro-
cess would not cause as much agony as she was called
on to endure at this moment.

Robert McDonell's brother William had begun life
in the same humble way as he had, and the woman he

■4 "

!' i:^

li;

••• ' f

;( 1

HILL-CIIEST.

married was as poor as him.self. But fibont five years
before my story opens a rich, miserly old uncle of
Mrs. McDonell had died and left her the whole of his
property. They had two childi'en at the time, a
daughter and a son. What William McDonell lacked
in business ability, he made up in conceit. He wanted
the whole country to believe him a much wealthier
man than he was ; so he built a beautiful residence,
hired an army of servants, his own family not lifting
so much as a hand to wait upon themselves. While
there were plenty to partake of Mr. McDonell's hos-
pitality, still there were some hard-headed business
men who knew that the factory he owned could
not warrant such a system of extravagance, and pre-
dicted a " come down " in the near future. If Mr.
McDonell had any forebodings he did not take any
one into his confidence, or deign to receive any advice
or interference in the matter of his affairs ; and so we
find him at this time, to all appearance, a very prosper-
ous manufacturer, with a supreme disdain for those
less fortunate than himself. It is not surprising
therefore that the younger members of his brother's
family thought of their rich uncle ns a being whom
Providence had especially favored.

" If we could get some new things before they
come," suggested Grace, in a more subdued manner,
" we could manage the wc k all right. I could do the
cleaning, and Bertby could do a good share of the
cooking, and Kathey and Edith could entertain the
company.'"

" But how are we to get the new things?" siid Edith,

HILT.-CREST.

her sad face looklnc^ a shade paler. " You know tliat
Aunt Elizabeth .says she has got to have her new silk
dress this week, and have it made, and that will take
all of the money that father can spare and all of
Kathey's time to make it."

"Just let Aunt Elizabeth wait fo- her dress, the
selfish old thing, ' said Berthy, speaking up for the
first time. When she did speak, she always talked
until she was through, no matter how much her
sisters tried to hush her, and there was no exception
this time. There never was any love between Aunt
Elizabeth and Berthy. Aunt Elizabeth could not
admire her looks, and with a nature like hers where
beauty was everytliing, it was no wonder that she
orew to hate the uncomely girl, and that Berthy, with a
child's quick perception, saw why she was disliked,
and also its unreasonableness. Accordingly her fiery
temper often blazed out in a way that fairly fright-
eiuid I^er more docile sisters, and although she rep nted
in secret for her harsh and bitter words, yet there
was no time in which she felt free to confess her
contrition, and so the natural gulf kept widening
until it had grown impassable.

Of course it had to be settled that the cousins
would come, for the father wanted them, and that
was enough. He had left orders that morning that
the required invitation be sent, and when later in the
clay Kathey and Aunt Elizabeth went out to select
the new dress, Berthy was asked to answer the letter,
and to be sure to give them a warm welcome. She did
not need this last injunction, for being so interested

' 1.:?

■ Hi
ii

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■I

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9
5

1 •

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HlLL-CREST.

in tlie college youth slie was only too j^lad to have
thoni come.

In due time the letter was written, and Berthy, in
some measure wantin<^ to make up for their poverty,
f^ave them a hearty welcome, using all the high-flow-
ing language of which she had command, and finished
by saying " Welcome, thrice welcome to Hill-Crest."

Kathey had no idea what kind of letter Berthy
would write. She knew it would contain an earnest
invitation from a true heart, and that is why she had
asked her to write it, for she could not bring her-
self to do so hypocritical a thing as ask any one to come
to her home whom she did not want. When she re-
turned home that afternoon and found that the letter
had been written and despatched, she gave herself no
more uneasiness on the ibject.

It was late in the day before Berthy had finished
her last household task and was free to roam at her
will. The sun was just setting as she ran down the
winding hill path, and reaching the little stile below
the well, she could not help pausing to admire the
scene. Before her all was green and beautiful ; from
her seat no home but her own was wholly visible, but
the chimnies of others could be seen here and there
peeping through the trees. Even the white trodden
path down the hillside looked to her (who had seen
so little that was beautiful) so picturesque that she
fell to wondering why her sisters and aunt were so
discontented with everything about the place.

" If we had a new house like Mrs. Parker's would
they like it any better?" she asked herself. "I

HILL-CHEST.

1 1

wouM not, and Mrs. Parker said, when .she asked me
for suidlower seed and holly-hock roots, tliat hor phxce
looked so new it made her home-sick. Why are
people always wantinj^ sometliinj^ they cannot f^et ^ I
have often heard the ^irls say how nice it would he if
I'ncle William and Geraldine and Ro^er would he
more friendly with us."

IJerthy remend)ered well her cousin Roger, who
lijid visited them more than five years ago. He was
fond of teasing her, but she liked him, and when she
lieard that his father had become rich, she was
<,dad for his sake, not thinking it would make the
slightest difference in their friendship. But she had
never seen him since, although his home was only
twenty miles away, and Roger had promised her if
he ever got rich he would buy a horse and come to
see her every week. Then she thought of the time
when she heard he had gone to college ; somehow she
always cried when thinking of that. It wus hard for
her not to be able to have those adva tages which
make a person good and wise, and it filled her rebel-
lious little heart with bitter thoughts, robbing the
landscape and her beloved Hill-Crest of all its beauty.

The sun had set and the twilight had deepened into
dusk, and Berthy was still sitting on the little step
that crossed the fence into the lane, her head leaning
against the high post. She did not hear the light
footsteps coming down the walk until a grey -gloved
hand was laid on her hair in a caressing way, and a
soft voice said close to her ear, " What is thee dream-
ing "about?"

?■*

* f

11 ILL-CREST.

" Oil ! i.s it you ? I did not hear you coinlnji^," said
Borthy, daHhin^ tlio tears from her cheeks for fear
her Quaker friend would see them and ask wliy they
were there. Hut it was nearly dark, so she was able
to hide the traces of her emotion, and she told Mrs.
Kenyon of the news at their house, and also explained
that she had started to pay her a call but had sat so
lon[^ on the fence that she guessed she would ^o in
now, because it was almost bedtime. Mrs. Kenyon
thought so, too, and so they parted.

CHAPTER II.

MRS. KENYCJN.

S Mrs. Kenyon will appear several tin os
in connection with the inmates of Hill-
Crest, it may be well to give the reader
a glimpse of her life. Her maiden
name was Peabody. Her father, a
minister in the Society of Friends, took great care
that liis children should learn early in life not only to
believe in God, but to trust in His onniipoten; love
und power ; and while he taught them that toil was
necessary and beneficial, yet his words to them were
{ilways, " Be careful for nothing." One of the favorite
pictures in Mrs. Kenyon's house had been given her
hy her father, and represented f field of exquisitely-
colored lilies, with a group of angels hov3ring over
tliem, while beneath was the inscription " ehold the
lilies."

Prudence had grown up with the consciousness of
God's watchful care over her so much that now as
she began to look forward to life's close, it was not
with regret over a life of disappointment and loss,
but ever with the feeling that in some way she had

HILL- CHEST.

been a part of G jd's great plan, working through her
for His own great glory and Iter present and future
peace and happiness.

Three beautiful children had blessed her union with
Henry Kenyon, a Quaker, like herself. Two of them
liad been laid to rest with the father in the quiet
cemetery, and the remaining one, a girl of seventeen,
was all that was left to cheer the mother in her lone-
liness, although through the unselfishness of the
Christian woman's heart, the daughter had been
allowed to attend an academy many miles distant,
that slie might receive an education such as would fit
her for L^elf-maintenance, which her mother knew
would be necessary.

When Mr. Kenyon died he left his wife a small life
annuity, and the deed of the house and lot she now
occupied. Her home during his life had been in
Philadelphia, and she had many warm friends there,
but when she came to Summerville to dispose of her
property she liked the location so well, it seemed
pleasant and homelike, that she decided to stay. Ac-
cordingly we find her at this time of writing an
inmate of the pretty cottage nestled among the trees
by the little brook which furnishes the mills and
factories with water power, then, flushed with its own
importance, it rushes noisily past Mrs. Kenyon's par-
lor window, on through the adjoining meadow, and
away out of sight to other fields of usefulness.

Mrs. Kenyon had not lived long in the Brook-side
cottage before she made the acquaintance of Berthy
McDonell. One day when out in her little garden

MRS. KENYON.

she heard some one crying, and following the sound
had come close to the fence which with a narrow strip
of land divided the brook from her own grounds.
There, sitting on a mossy stone close by the water's
edge, was a little girl that looked not more than
ten (although she was fourteen years old at that
time), with her face buried in her hands, weeping
in a most uncontrollable manner. Mrs. Kenyon
knew in a moment that the girl had come here to be
alone, and therefore she did not disturb her until she
had gone through the gate and sat down by her side,
then taking one of her hands from her face, said, in
that sweet, coaxing way that was so natural to her —
the same gentle tones she had always used to her
own little ones :

" Tell me, my dear, what troubles thee ? "
It was like the voice of an angel to Berthy, and in
her wild impulsive way she at once told this kind
woman a!' of her troubles, how she wanted to go to
school, and had to stay at home and do the house-
work ; and how hard she tried to be good, and what a
miserable failure she made of it ; and what a bad
temper she had, and how she thought sometimes that
her sisters hated her ; and added that she did not care
if Aunt Elizabeth did, because she did not want her
to like her. She poured out her grief in a torrent of
words that nearly took the breath of the quiet little
Quaker woman.

Mrs. Kenyon let her talk until her very vehemence
had exhausted her. When she stopped, after saying
she could not be good, Mrs. Kenyon ^aid in th§
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HILL-CREST.

simplest manner possible, " Did thee ever ask God to
help thee to be good ? " This was something entirely
new to Berthy. Of course she thought she knew all
about God and religion, and if she had been asked if
she said her prayers, could have answered promptly
that they were never forgotten. She could have said
further that her father always attended church. He
had never asked any of his daughters to go with him,
perhaps thinking of that subject as he did of education,
that it was not needed for girls. Be that as it may,
Berthy never had so direct a question put to her, or
one that seemed so hard to answer. I do not know
that she expected Mrs. Kenyon to speak at all ; she
was glad to have some one to tell her own troubles to,
but when her listener spoke, there was a tone of mild
reproof in her voice that seemed to say, " Are you
sure you have left nothing undone on your part ? "
In an instant her tears were dried, although their
traces were plainly visible on her reddened cheeks.
After thinking a few minutes, she said honestly,
" Would that do any good ? "

" He is our Father, thee knows," said Mrs. Kenyon,
" and has promised to hear His children when tliey
cry unto Him. Thee is trusting Him every moment
of thy life."

" Oh," said Berthy, " I am not trusting Him at all.
I do not know how to trust Him."

" Is thee not sure the sun will rise to-morrow, and
is not God able to manage thy little, unruly heart as
well as this great universe ? "

It was all so plain and so easily understood that

UBS. KENYON.

Berthy wondered why she had never thought of it
in that light before. She sat for a long time looking
away off over the fields, but not seeing anything
before her eyes. All she could think of was the heart
that Mrs. Kenyon had spoken of, and she remembered
how often it had ached, and how she had wished she
knew of some one who she was sure loved her, and
who would be patient enough to listen to what seemed
to her the experience of a very sad life. But then
this dear woman had not offered herself as a friend,
but just simply pointed to God in so confident a way
that Berthy seemed for a moment to forget her very
existence, so intent was she thinking of her great
need of that help which had been held out to her.

With a long, quivering sigh she turned and looked
at her companion, and a half smile lit up her face as
she said, " I thank you, ma'am, for speaking so kindly
to me ; I feel better now, and think I will go home.
Would you mind telling me how I can ask God to
make my heart better ? " There was something so
childlike and innocent in the question that it made
^Irs Kenyon feel for a moment p,s if she herself was
not competent to direct this young disciple to Christ.
But remembering the blessed words, " My grace is
sufficient for thee," she put her arm tenderly around
tlie little girl, and told her of tlie many times in her
own life when the way had seemed dark, how she
had found Jesus such a precious friend, and that
alone in her closet, it did not matter what language
she used, for she knew that God was looking in the
heart, and if we only trust Him He will do more for
us than we are able to ask.

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The touch of the hand, and the pressure of the
encircling arm was so new and sweet to the tired,
excited cliild that she was completely overcome and
dropping her head on the shoulder of the little
Quakeress her tears burst forth again, but this time
they were refreshing, and relieved her overburdened
heart.

Mrs. Kenyon held her there long after the sobbing
had ceased, and then did not seem in any hurry to
release her. Taking out her own dainty handkerchief
to wipe the tear-stained face, and giving her a little
pat on the cheek, she said cheerfully, " Now run home,
dear, and when thee feels sad next time seek thy
closet instead of this lonely place ; but always remem-
ber that God is able and willing to hear thee."

It is unnecessary to add that after this interview
Mrs. Kenyon and Berthy became the best qf friends.
The meeting at the brookside was never mentioned
between them, but each felt that the other remem-
bered it, for Berthy knew that the books her friend
gave her to read were selected with especial reference
to her need ; and Mrs. Kenyon saw that Berthy was
making a superhuman effort to control her temper
and also to learn all the precepts and to heed the
gentle reproofs she had given her.

Almost every evening after her work was done
Berthy would run down the lane, if only for a few
minutes, to talk with Mrs. Kenyon, who soon learned
to know from the expressive face of her visitor how
things were going at home, and though asking no
questions could soon draw put a confession of somQ

Mrs. kenyon.

hard-fought battle in which she was sometimes vic-
torious, but oftener defeated.

Her sisters could not imagine why Berthy so much
enjoyed her new friend's society, and Aunt Elizabeth
said boldly that she ought to be kept away from
there, as there never was any style or pride about that
"young one," and it would not improve her any to
be associated with that plain old woman. But the
"plain old woman" did not hear any of these remarks,
and the sisters and father were not interested enough
in the " young one " to care very much ; consequently
the intimacy was kept up to the great joy of Berthy
and the entire satisfaction of Mrs. Kenyon.

After Aunt Elizabeth's new dress had been bought
and made, her interest in the expected guests revived
somewhat and she told the girls that they indeed
had nothing fit to entertain those people with (a fact
they very well knew), and she was surprised that
their father would expect them to make the attempt.
It always hurt them to hear anything said which
seemed to cast a reflection on their hard-working
father. But Miss Elizabeth Williams did not think it
neccL^ary to be careful in her selection of words when
anything disturbed her peace of mind, and there was
nothing that could so effectually upset her accustomed
tranquility of temper as the thought of having to
endure what she was pleased to term " a domestic
disgrace."

She became so excited and miserable on the subject,
declaring that she must either speak to Robert or

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write to Green Cliff and tell them not to come, that
Kathey finally persuaded her to go on a long-promi.sed
visit to her cousins in New York and stay the entire
sunnner, in which case she at least would be spared
the humiliation the remaining members of the family
were compelled to undergo. So, taking another por-
tion from the already much depleted treasury she
started on her journey, saying to her friends, when
bidding them good-bye, that she had worked so hard
and had so much care on her mind that this visit was
absolutely necessary, hinting that it was according to
her physician's orders that she was going, although
no medical man during the past live years had had an
opportunity even to think of her, so perfect had been
her health.

After the departure of this relative the work of
getting ready went on with greater rapidity and
success, now that the most glaring points of poverty
were in a measure allowed to be forgotten and the con-
trast likely to be noticed by the more favored guests
not spoken of so often. The girls began the prepara-
tions as though they were delighted with the prospect
of the addition to their home circle. Many things had
to be changed and made over to present a suitable
appearance, and they all worked with a will, even Mr.
McDonell taking hold with an unusual enthusiasm,
perhaps learning for the first time how much he was
indebted to his daughters' ingenuity and good taste
for his home comforts.

Time passed very rapidly, and the end of June was
reached. The first of July had been the time men-

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Mils. KEN YON.

tioiHid for the carrival of the cousins. Among those
at Hill-Crest who had worked hardest to make the
old house presentable was Berthy. It seemed that
she was responsible for their coming, as she was the
only one that from the beoimiing had anticipated any
])leasure in the event. What delightful days those
were to her, getting ready for real summci* visitoi's.
All the objectionable bits of furniture and odd pieces
of old china that were used in the household for
economy's sake had been carefully packed away, an<l
the best and newest of everything brought out and
displayed to the greatest advantage. It gave the
home she loved such a holiday appearance that what-
ever she was asked to do she did it promptly and
well. Her sisters wondered sometimes what could
have happened to Berthy to make her so unusually
industrious, but they had no time to speculate on so
insignificant a subject, so it passed for the most part
unnoticed.

All through the busy weeks of toil Kathey had
seemed so depressed in spirits that at last Edith could
stand it no longer, and putting her arms around her
one night when they had retired to their room after
a hard day's work, she asked her if she was tired out,
or what was the matter, that made her so unlike her
usual bright self. Of course, Edith realized that
the strain oii her sister's nerves had been very great,
taking the care, as she had been compelled to do,
all through the planning and fixing that had been
going on. Still she thought that beneath all the
present anxiety there was some other reason why her

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face had continually worn that sad, dejected look.
This had been a very great mystery to her most
anxious sister, and she had kept silent on the sub-
ject as long as she could, giving Kathey, as she
supposed, time and opportunity to unburden her
heart. As time went on and the cloud seemed to
grow darker instead of passing away, as Edith had
hoped it would, she had on the night mentioned made
bold to ask her sister what it was all about, and the "ice
being broken," Kathey gladly told the sympathizing
one all that oppressed her and made her so miserable.

When two years before she had visited at her
Uncle's home, she had become acquainted with a
young man whose name was Harold Huntington.
He and his invalid mother lived in a beautiful
residence not far from Green Cliff, in a lovely retired
spot near the lake, surrounded by delightful grounds
and every comfort that his immense wealth and
exquisite taste could provide.

He had formed one of the party which Kathey and
her cousins were invited to join ; the chief pleasure of
the day had consisted in horse-back riding, and as
Kathey was the only girl of the company who had
dared to mount his spirited young horse, they had
become very good friends.

They had about four miles to ride on the smooth
country road, and when the party was all ready, and
when it was discovered that none of the young ladies
present but Kathey could be persuaded to ride this
high-mettled steed, it was settled at once that no less
a personage than the rich and talented Harold Hunt-
ington, of Lake View, would be her escort.

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Mils. KENYON.

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And what a day tliis proved to Katlioy. The
weatlier was delightful, riding one of her favorite
sj)orts, and then with the novelty of tliis first taste of
the congenial r^ociety for which she had lonj^ed, and a
<rallant beau at her side, it seemed like a dream of
fairy land. As the hojse felt the touch of her dainty
whip, he plunged forward in a way that made all the
timid lady equestrians utter little screams of fright.

Kathey was too well balanced, and, in fact, too
happy to allow so small a thing to upset her, so set-
tling herself more firmly in the saddle, she gave the
horse another slight tap with her whip, and away she
went flying down the road before any of the gentle-
men could even reach her side. But the spirited, hand-
some beast was well broken, and as soon as he found
that his master was on his back, he became as docile
as one could desire. After Kathey had brought
him into subjection, she turned round and cantered
back to the surprised group, her cheeks flushed with
excitement, her curls tossed into careless confusion,
her laughing, roguish eyes sparkling with fun. She
seemed the picture of girlish innocence and beauty,
so at least Harold Huntington thought, as he rode up
to her side and congratulated her on her " pluck."
How he admired a brave woman, one who is not
forever afraid of something. He was a great manly
fellow himself, and was willing at all times to
render service to the fair sex, but up to his present
age, which was twenty-five, he had seen so much
of the clinging sort of woman, who seemed to
think she was born to be taken care of, and who

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hlLL-CllEST.

proforrod an idle exi.steiice to active UHefulnosH, that
it was decidedly refresliin^ to see this yonn^ j^irl on
a strong liorse, brin^^ino- liim under her control ho
completely. The youn^ people of the party exchanged
glances ; they could easily see that this youn^ lady
had done in five minutes by her bravery what all the
^irls in the connuiuiity had been trying to do for the
last two years with beauty and flattery and money,
and that was to win the heart of the young master
of Lake View.

After that day Mr. Huntin<rton was a frecjuent
visitor at the home of William McDonell. When he
first called, of course Geraldine went into the parlor to
receive and entertain him, but after a few minutes he
asked for Miss Kathey, and Geraldine discovered that
he had not come to see her. Although she did not
care particularly for him, still she knew it was the
greatest wish of her father's life that she should
marry Harold Huntington, and when he showed a
decided preference for her cousin, it will not be
wondered at that the whole family seemed a little
cool towards her.

Kathey, had come with the intention of staying
several months, Mr. McDonell had said to his
brother, when he invited her to his place, " Let
the girl come, Rob ; it will do her good, and
perhaps she may make a good match, for there
are a lot of young fellows around here, farmers'
sons, you know, who would be able to give her a good
home." Kathey had heard nothing of this and came
because she was invited, and when her uncle had

Mrs. kenvoK.

Hcemed to her a little (Hstant, .she did not know that
ho was afraid that she was making lier niatcli not
(juite to his liking, so she wrote to her father tliat
she had stayed lon^ enou<]jli and wante<l to <^o home,
and when she left she was not invited to conn* a^ain.

The evening before she stai'ted for home, Mr.
Huntin<.(ton called and sai<l to her, " I came to ask
you to ^o with me to my home, my mother is anxious
to see you, for she has heard you spoken of so
often."

Katliey felt the blood rush to her face in a most
imcomfortable way, but accepted the invitation. She
did not exactly want to ask how his mother had
heard anything about her, and so she turned the
subject and said she was going home the next day.
He Heemed very much surprised, but after asking
wliere her home was, and how she was going, he
offered, in a very polite way, to take her, saying that
Geraldine and Roger could go with them, and he
would take the large carriage and his dappled team
and driver. They would start very early so that
he could be at his own home again at night, as his
mother's health was so poor he did not want to leave
her longer than a day.

Kathey liked the arrangement, and told him so in
her own simple way, and so the plan was left to be
settled by her cousin's consent, which she had no
doubt would prove satisfactory. They had reached
his home by this time, and a more delightful place it
had never been Kathey 's good fortune to see.

Two long rows of locust trees in full bloom

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HlLL-CRESt.

bordered the drive-wa^^ from the main road to the
liou.se, and the ground oyHttir .shells that the horses
were crinichiii^ under their feet, formed a <^listenin^
white road, which led up past the broad shady
verandah. Everything was graceful and ai'tistic.
A lar^e urn here filled to overflowing with some
natural wild flowers, two or three rough grey
stones in another place rolled together, held a
beautiful pale-green fern spreading its thin hair-like
leaves out to catch the sunshine, and a d.trk English
ivy clinging around the carved posts of the upper
balcony, all gave the impression of natural beauty.

Kathey's admiration was so genuine and undis-
guised that Harold could not help feeling that here
was a nature fresh and pure, and it seemed to
delight him to be able to give her a glimpse of all
he had done in and around his home to make it
the lovely place it was.

When Kathey had heard him spoken of as rich
and talented, she did not ask in what line his
talents ran. When she had spent an hour in his
home, and had seen his work, sketches of landscapes,
and bits of statuary, and had listened to his descrip-
tion of the work he had planned to do in the future,
she did not need to ask why he was called talented.

His mother, she found in a darkened room, but with
everything that loving hands could do, or a devoted
son think of to bring comfort to one so fondly cher-
ished ; and when, the pale invalid took her hand, and
told her in her faint voice, how she had wanted to see
her, and said, "I know I will like you, because Harold

MRS. KENYON.

and myself always like the same people, our tastes
are ho much alike."

And then she referred to her love of flowers, and
horses, and in every way j^ave Kathey to understand,
much to her delight, that she had been made a
subject of conversation betwet i the mother and
son. What did it all mean ? She had not dared to
ask hersidf why this young man had paid her so
much attention since she came into his neighborhood,
nor had she trusted herself to think how he had
helped to make her visit the dream of bliss it ha<l
been. But when she heard his mother say so
much about her, that none but he could possibly
have told her, it Cashed on Kathey 's mind in a
bewildering sense of ecstasy that she was to him
perhaps more than a mere friend, and with it came
the knowledge that henceforth this man would be a
part of her very existence.

The gathering twilight hid the confused blushes
that would have been almost unbearable to* Kathey's
sensitive nature. How long this pleasant visit might
have lasted, or to what extent the mutual under-
standing might have been carried, we can never
know, for just as the servant brought in the light,
the rumble of wheels was heard, and Mr. McDonell's
coachman was announced, saying he had been sent
for Kathey, as some young ladies had called to bid
her good-bye.

Harold insisted upon taking her home. But
Kathey, knowing well how his mother depended on
Jiis company the long evening, said he should not

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take the trouble, and added playfully that it would
be too bad for James to take the empty carriage back
to Green Cliff. So Harold handed her into her
uncle's carriage, and bade her good-bye, pressing her
hand in such a lover-like manner, that Kathey could
not but know that had he been permitted to drive

with her back to her uncle's, that perhaps . She

did not finish the thought, but leaned back in her
seat and indulged in day dreams too pleasant, too
sweet for description.

When Kathey arrived at the McDonell residence,
the young ladies had grown tired of waiting for her
and had gone home ; and when she very naturally
inquired who they were, Geraldine did not make her
any satisfactory answer, and seemed so angry about
something, that Kathey did not refer to th ^ subject
again.

Before the family retired for the night, Kathey
thought it proper to mention the plan that had been
arranged for her going home on the following day.
It had seemed so delightful that it did not occur to
her that any one could object, but no sooner had she
mentioned it, than her uncle flew into a spasm of
rage. Laying down the paper he had been reading
since her entrance, he declared he would have no
such fcolishness going on, that he had plenty of
horses to take her home, that they had brought her
very comfortably, and it would seem very queer if
they failed in strength so soon, adding, with that
cutting sarcasm that only an Irishman knows how to
command : " Of course my horses are ^.ot the blooded

MRS. KENYON.

beasts that are in the Huntington stables, but they
do nie very well, perhaps because I have never been
used to any better."

Kathey could not reply, and felt that in some way
she had offended the whole family. Mrs. McDonell
arose and swept out of the room, saying to her
husband as she was going, " This is just what I
expected, but you will never listen to me." Her
remark enraged her spouse so much that he walked
the floor backward and forward like a caged tiger;
and yet he did not seem to care to tell why such a
small incident had so shaken him up. But at last
stopping in front of the nearly speechless Kathey,
and looking at her over the top of his gold-rimmed
glasses in a way that was calculated to impress her
with the force of the command, said, " Miss Kathleen
McDonell, you will find my carriage and horses at
the door at six o'clock to-morrow morning ; be ready
to go home to your father at that time, and mind
that you do not say anything to him of what has
occurred to-night," and without any more words he
left the room, of which Geraldine and her cousin
were now the only occupants. There was a silence
of about ten minutes. Kathey could only wonder
about all this excitement, over what seemed to her a
very natural thing to do.

She had been so happy in her friendship with Mr.
Huntington that she did not fully realise until it
had become so noticeable, that Roger had in her
presence called his sister to account, saying, " Dene,
what is tilt? matter with you ? Don't you know how

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HILL-CREST.

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to treat any one decent ? " To which Geraldine had
answered, " If folks don't like me they know what
they can do." And Kathey had decided then and
there what she would do, and had written to her
father accordingly.

As they sat in the parlor, Geraldine was the first
to speak. " Kathey," she said, " it would be out of
the (juestion for you to take Mr. Huntington to your
place, now that you have seen his home, I should
think you Vvould realise it. Just imagine his
disgust after one look at that old tumble-down
castle ; he never knew us before we lived here, and
he supposed we and all of our relations were rich,
cultivated people. * Of course you have not dressed
very well since you came here, but then he might
think that was the fault of your taste ; but to take

him to your place . Oh ! dear me, we shall be

disgraced forever, and we brought you here for kind-
ness, and now to think you would do so mean a
thing is too bad, too bad." These words struck
Kathey like the lash of a whip. No one could
possibly feel the disgrace of poverty more keenly
than she did, and the comparison of the old house
at home with the elegant residence at Lake View
was like the sharp sting of a serpent in her very
heart.

" No," she said, rising to her feet, and speaking for
the first time, " Harold Huntington shall never see my
liome, nor will I ever bring reproach on my relatives
by asking him to go there."

Her tiruniesH lasted her until she i*eached her owii

I 1

MRS. KENYON.

room, and then her courage gave way, and throwing
herself on the bed, burst into passionate sobs.

All the happy weeks of her visit came back to her.
Each tone of that one voice seemed to add another
poisoned dart to her already acute agony ; and then
the thought of that very night, how near she had
been hearing from his own lips the words of love her
lieart would have so rejoiced to listen to. When she
thought of this her tears were dried, and she sat up to
try and consider what an awful thing she was saved
from. "Ah!" she told herself, "If he, to-night, had
asked me to be his wife, and I had consented, as
perhaps I should, not thinking of home at all, and
he then had found out how poor we were, and had
despised me"; and she remembered how he had said
once to her, that he could forgive a person for any-
thing but deceit ; and then she thought she had acted
deceitfully, representing herself as a rich relative of
the successful McDonell's. She did not mean to do
it, but as Geraldine hinted, folks supposed she was
rich, and laid her poor clothes to a lack of taste on
her part. The blood rushed to her face, as she
thouo^ht of the faultless suits she had seen Mr. Hunt-
iiigton wear, and could imagine what he thought of
her if, as she supposed, he considered her a young
lady of means, who preferred those old-fashioned
liome-made dresses to the elegant costumes the other
girls wore.

"Oh! it was terrible;" and Kathey spent the entire
night crying over her fate. She did not now blame
any of her uncle's family for the position they had

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HILL-CREST.

taken, and would gladly have told them so if she had
had an opportunity. But when after her sleepless
night she went down in the morning, only James was
to be seen sitting in his place on the carriage-seat, so
she was whirled ofi' towards home ; bidding good-bye
to all her past pleasure, and resolving that for the
future she would try to be a mother to her younger
sisters, though for herself love and happiness were
at an end.

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CHAPTER III.

PRIDE AND POVEllTY.

OW that we have learned a little of
the past history of Kathey, we can
better understand her thoughts and
feelings as she unburdened her heart
to Edith.

" Oh ! Edith," she says, " you know I told you about
a young man I n^et at uncle's when I was there, and
how he wanted to bring me home, and I stole away
for fear he would come ; but I did not tell you all.
I did not tell you that I loved him ;" and here she
hid her face in her hands and wept aloud. As soon
as she became calm again, she told her sister all about
her visit to his mother, and his lovely home, and his
work as an artist, and she did not forget, girl-like, to
mention his fine manly figure and dark expressive
eyes, and his good Christian character. While Edith
was astonished at this story, she had never heard
before, she could not help wondering what all this
that happened two years ago }aad to do with her
sister's present trouble. But she waited patiently for
her t > proceed, knowing very well that now the
revelation had begun, nothing would be kept back.

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Kathey continued : After she had come home, she
liad bought papers that were published near his place,
and had learned that he had taken his mother to a
health resort in Germany, and later had read that
his mother had died and was buried in that foreign
country, it being the lady's wish to be buried where
she died. The papers had given full details concern-
ing the funeral ; also telling how much the son had
done for his invalid mother, and dwelling at length
on his estimable character and wonderful talent as
an artist ; the next paper had mentioned that he had
decided to go to Kome to study the best works of art,
and would not return to his native land for a number
of years. "And now," said Kathey, her tears gushing
forth afresh, " I read in the paper I got the day we
received that letter from uncle William, that Mr.
Harold Huntington had returned from abroad, but
would not be at his home until autumn, as he intended
spending the summer with relatives in the vicinity of
Summerville ; and to think it should be at just the
time that Geraldine and Roger are here, when he
might see them and find out where we live, and the
old house is a great deal worse looking now than it
was then. Oh! dear, it does seem sometimes as if I
cannot stand it."

Edith tried to console her sister as best she could,
telling her that very likely these relations of his
were some of the Hursts or Jacksons that lived so
grandly three or four miles away from the village.
But she could not help thinking, and so she told her
sister, that if he were such a good Christian as every-

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PRIDE AND POVERTY.

body called him, perhaps lier heinj^ poor would not
make so much diti'erence as she had feared.

But Kathey would not have it that way at all ; her
main thought was to keep him from seein*^ how poor
they were, and more especially that they should not
be humiliated during their cousins' visit.

After many weeks of preparation the day arrived
for the guests to make their appearance. Everything
that could be done to make them comfortable had
sbeen done. As the time drew near Bertliy's interest
increased until it amounted to a sort of delighted
frenzy. She flew hither and thither, collecting all of
the presentable books and arranging them in conspic-
uous places, to give the college young man the im-
pression that there were some members of the family
at least that were studious. Of course her books
did not please her very well, she would liave been
glad to have exchanged Rarey's Modern Art of Horse
Taming for a volume of Shakespeare, or Mother
Goose, and Anderson's Fairy Tales for a set of
Dicken's works or Paradise Lost ; but as that could
not be done, she contented herself with turning the
titles of the objectionable books toward the wall, and
slipping a gay ribbon book-mark between the leaves
of the Pilgrim's Progress, thinking that someone
might have the idea that her sisters were making it a
study, although she very well knew that neither of
them had even as much as touched it except when
Grace had disturbed the dust on its faded green covei*
with her wisp of turkey feathers.

And now everything w^as ready. Just as Berthy

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thought of this and st(3])pe(l to take a Icjok around,
her eyes fell on lier own form in tlie mirror, and well
she might pause, for a more dilapidated-looking little
girl itwouldbe hard to find. In her unselfish interest for
the comfort of the visitors and the credit of the house-
hold, she had completely forgotten herself, a thing she
was very apt to do. Often when dressed in her
best if anything interested her or enlisted her sym-
pathy, she never stopped to think of her clothes until
her attention was called to the fact by one of her
more careful sisters, who had little patience with her
constant forgetfulness of keeping herself neat. But
now she surveyed herself in the glass and remembered
that she had on her best dress but had worn it all day,
and had climbed over the fence to get some wild flags
that she had wanted to make a bouquet to put in Ger-
ald ine's bedroom, and gone wading through the brook
to find some stones to lay inder the parlor table. Within
an hour her cousins would be here and she not fit to
see them. She was still gazing in the glass when she
heard Edith's voice calling her and she turned slowly
to obey the sound.

If she had forgotten herself there was one that had
not forgotten her, for going into her sister's room
what should she see but a befrilled and beribboned
dress lying on the bed ready for her to put on.

Edith had worked early and late to make it out of
one of her own, using some ribbon that Kathey had
thrown away, but which dyed over looked very well.

Berthy's first thought was to throw her arms
around her sister's neck and thank her for her thought-

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PRIDE AND POVERTY.

fiiliiesH, but just at that nionieiit Grace, wlio vva.s
standing by and probably tliiiikiiif]^ this a good time
to teach her careless sister a lesson, said, in a remon-
strating tone, " Now, do see if you cannot be careful
of that dress, and not get it all soiled and torn the
first time you wear it.

Berthy's fiery temper was ablaze in a moment. In
spite of all her gratitude to Edith her resentment
toward Grace was so great that she promptly told her
she would not take any better care of this than she
ever had of her dresses, and then relapsed into sullen
silence, while Edith proceeded to put the dress on her
and told her to hurry and get her hair combed before
the company came.

All this spoiled the enjoyment the girl would natur-
ally have felt with her new dress, " for now," she
argued with herself, " if I am careful Grace will think
it is because she told me to be, and I will not be
ordered around by her ; and if I am not careful Edith
will think I do not care much for her present."

These were the hard places in Berthy's life, and
although her Quaker friend would have told just
where to go for strength to decide what to do, still in
her rebellious little heart there was so much self-will
that she preferred the pain she was suffering to the
giving in, as she called it, when her better nature pre-
dominated. While making her .slf presentable with
brush and comb she heard the tramp of horses' feet
on the little bridge, and looking out saw at a short
distance down the street her uncle's magnificent
carriage and horses approaching. Of course Bertliy

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HiLT.-CUEST.

expected to see sometlnDf]^ very ^rand in tlie way of a
turnout, but tliis was so fai* ahea<l of anything slie
liad ever seen tliat her breath was coniph't(^ly taken
away. She was very anxious to ^vt a close view and
yet, with her natural timidity, <lid not want to be
seen. She ran out, and hiding herself in the heavy
branches of an old lilac bush growing near the front
gate had an opportunity to see all the splendor and
not be seen herself.

She had barely time to reach her hiding place be-
fore the spirited team dashed up to the stepping stone,
the door flew open and Roger's handsome face looked
smilingly out.

He remembered well when he had visited here in
his boyhood, and did not expect to find the place any
difTerent, but, with his natural love of fun, he could
not let the opportunity pass without teasing his sister
on the prospect of a summer outing.

" Oh ! " he said, springing to the ground, " make
haste to alight, we have arrived at Hill-Crest," and
striking a theatrical attitude said, in a tragic voice,
" Welcome, thrice welcome to Hill-Crest."

Berthy recognised the words she had used in her
letter and knew in a moment that they were being
made fun of, and all of her pleasure in their arrival
was completely spoiled. She sat still for a long time
after the carriage had gone and the guests had been
welcomed into the house by her sisters. She did not
want to see them now, she felt sure that when Roger
saw her he would think of that letter again, and if
he did not laugh at her, it would not be because he

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PRIDE AND POVERTY.

(lid not feci like it: uikI she had bikeii such pains
with the writin<j^ and s[)ellin<i^, an<l had copied it over
to ^et it Just ri<j^ht, and then to think it should he
Ro<;er that made fun of her, Ro<^er, who she had
expected would he so ^bid to see her, and from whom
she hopt^d to learn so nuich. As usual she blami-d
herself for attemptiuf^ to write a letter at all, or for
not asking some one to look it over before it was
mailed, but now it was too late, and she was reapiiig
the reward of her folly. The tears were flowing fast
when she heard Roger and Grace talking close to her.
(» race was saying, " I cannot imagine where she is ;
when we heard the carriage, she was the first to run
out to meet you."

Berthy knew they were talking about her, and it
somewhat soothed her grief to know that perhaps
Roger had asked for her. So when he and Grace
returned to the house she crept out of her leafy bower
(but not without tearing one of the bows of ribbon
from her dress sleeve) and went quietly into the
house. She thought she would go to her room and
mend her dress and wash the tear-stains away, but,
on reaching die side-door, she met Roger face to face.
" Oh ! " said he, " here is the little runaway now.
Why were you not on hand to welcome me ? " He
did not say anything about " Hill-Crest," or the
letter, and he seemed so glad to see her, and so full
of life and spirits, that Berthy was soon laughing at
his witty speeches, and so thoroughly enjoying his
company, that all thoughts of her late vexation were
forgotten.

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III

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HILL-CIIKST.

Roj^in* was a strong, acUvc-h Miking y<>^^"K n"i'^
hutvveeii iiinotccii and twenty. His hlonde liair,
cut cl()H(3ly Ik^IiIikI, I'l;!! in cui'ly rin<^H on his broad,
full forehead, and hi.s eyes were sucli a dark bhie,
tliat with the niiscliief always in them, they appeared
almost black. His face was entirely guiltless of
beard, and but for the existence of certain weak lines
around the mouth and chin, he might be called a tine
specimen of young manhood.

Geraldine was what the world is pleased to call a
society belle. Handsome she certainly was. A pure
blonde, with a pink and white complexion ; graceful
in form, and with such soft beautiful hands, that they
made you wonder what they were for. She did
not seem to know herself, for she held them in a
way that reminded one continually of their useless-
ness.

Strange to say she seemed to be very glad to be at
Hill-Crest. She kissed all her cousins, and was so
friendly with her uncle, that h lared " she had

improved very much indeed," .d he thought her

" a very fine girl."

Her large trunks were filled with so many elegant
dresses, that when they were taken out, there did not
seem to be room enough for them in the house.
Morning wrappers, with extensive trains ; tea-gowns,
that were a perfect bewilderment of lace and ribbon ;
heavy satin and velvet carriage dresses, all made the
girls wonder when and where she was going to wear
them. Then there was such an array of hats and bon-
nets and gloves and jewelry, that it seemed as though

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PKIDE AND POVEKTY.

a wliolc raiicy stoi'c was jihout to \m) Htjiitc*! in tin;
Hinall, sliabby house. All this was a ri'velatioii and a
HUpruiiu) delight to JJerthy, who never thou<;ht of
contrastintij it with their own scanty wai'(lro})es,
until lier attention was called to tlie fact by some
remarks from (Jrace. Grace deli<^hted in tine clothes,
and often thought if she could have a good supply of
well-made dresses of rich material and fashionable
cut it would be all she recjuired in this world to
make her perfectly happy. Yet that youn*^ ki<^ly ^''i*^
such an adept in arranging her hair, and selecting
colors that harmonized with her bright complexion,
and fitting her plump form with natty waists and
delicate if inexpensive laces, that her friends always
spoke of her as stylish, and she herself felt at
times, that all the turning and pinching she had to
practise, did not matter so long as the result was
so gratifying. Then, too, there were no very grandly
attired people in Sunnnerville, and that in itself helped
to make her more contented with the things in the
way of personal adornment which Providence had
seen lit to send her.

But this shower of beautiful finery that Miss
Geraldine brought into the humble home completely
upset the equilibrium of Grace and Berthy, who
looked at it with feelings, if not of envy, at least
of longing desire.

But Kathey and Edith felt it a personal insuP.,
remembering the sharp things that Geraldine had
said to Kathey on the occasion of her visit to Green
Cliff; but, of course, this, as well as everything else in

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o2 HILL-CRE^T.

connection with the present event, had to be borne
with «as ^ood ^race as possible.

Roger seemed to grasp tlie situation at once, and
wlien liis sister floated into the parlor on the evening
of their arrival in a superb dinner dress of pearl-
grey satin trimmed with point lace and a profusion
of coral-pink ribbon, he took occ* ion to say when
alone with her, " Dene, if I were you I would not
sling on so nuich style, when you know the girls here
cannot afford to have such nice dresses as you have ;
it is down right mean."

But this sage advice was lost on the fashionable
and selfish Geraldine, wlio only gave her head a toss,
and told him she would do as she liked, and when
she wanted to hear his opinion on the subject she
would ask for it. And though Roger exerted himself
to seem very much at home, and kept carefully
packed in his trunk his best suit of clothes, he did
not succeed in convincing his sister that this display
of grandeur was not only contemptible, but was also
a breach of etiquette. As she was forever trying
to impress on him as a matter of great importance
the correct rules of society, it rather pleased the
unpolished Roger to refer to her own short-comings
in that line.

After the first day and evening at Hill-Crest, the
family seemed to settle down to at least a fair appear-
ance of comfort. Grace and Berthy took upon their
young but exp rienced shoulders the entire care of
the nouse work, leaving Kathe : and Edith the much
harder task of entertaining cousin Geraldine. As

PRIDE AND POVERTY.

for Roger, he kept close to the younger girls, as was
evinced by the frequent peals of laughter heard
from the kitchen. He proved to be far different
from wha-t Berthy had imagined. Instead of the
lessons in philosophy and science that she had hoped
to learn, she heard how he had beaten the entire class
at a rowing match, displaying the prize with a great
deal more pride than he manifested in speaking of his
scholastic honors, although he had come off* second to
none in that line. But, like all young people who are
educated for no particular purpose, he did not set a
proper value on what would have been a source of
pride to some aspiring young student who had been
less favored.

The questions that Berthy had intended to ask were
entirely forgotten in the novelty of trying to teach
liiin to make a lemon pie or bake a sponge cake. He
declared he wanted to know how to cook as he in-
tended to take a trip to the Rocky Mountains ; and as
he knew he could not get along with the Indian way
of doing things, he thought it best to possess a
knowledge of cookery before he went.

This is only a specimen of the way Roger rattled
on, telling the girls all sorts of unreasonable things
with such a sober face and matter-of-fact air, that
sometimes they were led to believe there was some
truth in his statement, but when he saw there was
any danger of his stories sounding too real he could
always add a word or two that settled the question
of their veracity at once. He had a wonderful gift
of language, and could mimic anyone whom he ever

ill

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HILL-CREST.

heard speak, from Edwin Booth in heavy tragedy to
ol<l Mrs. Handle calling her chickens,

Geraldine told Kathey that she was completely
discouraged with Roger ; he had not a particle of
style about him, and that she did not dare tell him
any secret, for as likely as not if she did he would
tell on her, and it had made her so much trouble.
Kathey wondered why she had any secrets and what
they could be to cause her so much vexation.
• But, although Roger seemed so boisterous all the
girls liked him, for they were learning ' o know his
true character and to find that he had a good heart,
with tastes and feelings as fine as their own ; and in
so far as style was concerned he possessed what was
much better, a self-respect that, although undeveloped
and without dignity, was so much a part of his gener-
ous nature that he despised a mean thing in even h's
best friends, and with a decided voice and gesture
to match would denounce it or turn it to ridicule on
the spot. This was why Geraldine felt so discouraged
with him. She had been brought up by her fashion-
able mother to believe that a girl's first duty was to
marry well ; and that if she used every means in
her power to that end, even stooping to deceive and
prevaricate, it was all a part of the correct plan to
get a husband. Aiming at this mark, it was no
wonder that her better nature was stifled an<l her
views of life distorted. God pity the children of such
mothers. They begin life at a disadvantage, witli
wrong ideas of what they owe to themselves and to
their Creator, and living as they do in an atmosphere

PRIDE AND POVERTY.

of deception and false pride, they imbibe so much of
its poison that it accompanies them through life and
renders them suspicious of others, making a farce of
all that is good and holy in this world, and completely
shutting out of their hearts all true faith and trust in
the divine realities of the world to come.

In the case of Roger, he had become so surfeited
with outward show and the keeping up of appear-
ances (as his mother was pleased to call her striving
after popularity) that he sought to shake off all
restraint by not acceding to any of their plans for his
own advancement or his sister's future welfare, and,
to use his own words, he had decided " to paddle his
own canoe," His mother not (juite understanding
what he me .nt by that bit of silly song just left him
out of her own and her daughter's confidence, never
stopping to consider how much he needed her watch-
ful care at this critical period in his life.

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CHAPTER IV.

AT THE PARSONAGE.

ERE is a note for Edith," said Grace,
coming into the parlor one morning
about a week after the arrival of the
cousins. " Where is she ? "

" In her room," said Kathey, " mak-
ing those hats for Mrs. Howell's little girls. I sup-
pose the note is from her. They are going away to-
morrow."

" Yes, it is from her, and she wants Edith to go
over to the parsonage right away," answered Grace,
going in search of her sister.

" Who is Mrs. Howell, and what has Edith got to
do with the family at the parsonage ? " asked Gerald-
ine, appearing more interested than was usual with
her.

"Oh!" said Kathey, "the minister does not receive
a very big salary, and there is quite a large family to
support, and, although we are not members of his
church, we, or rather Edith, help Mrs. Howell with
the children's sewing. They are going away to visit
some ****iends, and the two girls had none but their
winter hats to wear, and sq Edith undertook to make

'1 '9

AT THE PARSONAGE.

tliem each one with some material that Mrs. Parker
irave her. Mrs. Parker is a member of that church
and feels very deeply the disgrace of her pastor's
family not being respectably dressed."

" Well," said Geraldine, " if I were Edith I would
not worry myself about their business. It is enough
for her to do the sewing for your family without
sewing for any poor preacher's children." Just at that
moment Edith came into the room dressed for a walk,
with a large bandbox in her hand. She looked particu-
larly lovely that morning in a pale heliot ope muslin
dress, her hair combed back from l\sr broad forehead, a
large black chip hat shading her face and giving her
an air of quiet modesty which seemed to suit so well
with her errand, that Roger could not but enquire, in
a sly undertone, as though not meant for Edith to
hear, if Mrs. Howell's health was good, and intimated
tliat he thought Edith would make a splendid wife
for a minister.

This last remark caused the girls all to roar with
laughter, as they thought of the corpulent old parson
in connection with Edith.

The parsonage was some little distance from Hill-
Crest beyond the main part of the village. It was set
back from the street, shaded by large trees in a little
garden, unpretentious but comfortable, and Edith
always enjoyed going there.

This morning as she entered the gate, and was seen
by the girls bringing the new hats, she was greeted
by screams of delight so long and loud that the
mother hurried to the front door to see what had,

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HILL- CREST.

happened to her darlings to make them beliave in so
unladylike a manner. When she caught sight of her
friend's smiling face she laughed, too, and taking her
hand led her into the study instead of the parlor,
where, to Edith's surprise, she found not only Mr.
Howell but a young gentleman seated at the table
writing. As soon as the ladies entered and the chil-
dren had been sent to the nursery .with the bandbox,
Mr. Howell proceeded to shake hands with Edith
and introduce Mr. Montgomery to her, and explain,
"that this young gentleman, just from the Theo-
logical University, would occupy his pulpit during his
absence.

It was all done so quickly that she had scarcely
time to think what she was saying or to whom she
was speaking until she found herself seated in a cosy
chair, with Mrs. Howell telling her why she sent for
her and why she wanted her to meet Mr. Montgomery
before they went away. " You see," said that lady,
" we have a sick family on our hands ; they are mem-
bers of our church who joined last winter, and are
very poor people, and the worst of it is that there are
none of our ladies that feel as if they cared to do any-
thing for them, for they think them impostors, you
know ; but, of course, they have got to be looked
after by some one, and as I am going away for a few
weeks, I thought I would just ask you to drop in once
in a while to see if there was anything they needed.
They live near your place on the commons."

Edith having recovered her breath by this time,
asked Mrs. Howell what th^ n^me of the family was,

AT THE PARSONAGE.

tliat she might try and locate them, as they were
hving so near her home. " Smith," was the answer,
given in so confidential a tone that she laughed
outright and was joined by the other occupants of the
room.

But Edith knew very well that the family referred
to was none other than the shiftless Josh Smith,
I lis wife and little crippled son. They had been the
bone of contention in her own family for the past five
years. They had insisted upon coming to Hill-Crest
for charity whenever they needed it, which was very
often ; and, although the girls gladly gave them all
they could spare from their own scanty larder, yet
Aunt Elizabeth was both indignant and scandalized
whenever the shabby mother or the crutches of the
cripple were heard at the back door. " We have
nothing to giv^e," she argued; " we. haven't enough for
ourselves, and it does not look well to see them hang-
ing around, and besides the more you give them the
less they will work. The father is a lazy, good-for-
nothing scoundrel, or he would not let his family
beg." Aunt Elizabeth had never seen the man she
w as speaking of, for when there was any begging to do
he always let his wife or son do it, and as that was the
only business they ever had at Hill-Crest, it did not
seem necessary that he should become acquainted
there himself. He was one of the sort who thought
manual labor was the worst of all disgraces, and when
from pure necessity he was drivin to it, he tried to
make the excuse that he was doing it either to accom-
modate his employer, or it was a piece of work that

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HILL-CIIEST.

no one but himself was able to do. Of course he was
ridiculed and laughed at by everyone in the village,
but it did not make a particle of difference with him.
He had a fair education, and what little he did earn
was expended on his own wardrobe. He always wore
gloves and a necktie, and if what he said could be
believed, he had been well brought up ; but he had
lost everything except his pride in his position as a
gentleman of leisure and in his personal appearance.

It was rtimored that he was not always honest, and
so, when good Mr. Howell succeeded in getting him
into the church fold, he felt he had done the com-
munity a very great favor, which up to this time
they did not seem to fully appreciate.

Edith congratulated herself that Aunt Elizabeth
was not at home, so she could promise freely that she
would try to do something for the unfortunate
family, especially when she learned that the mother
and boy were both ill with pneumonia.

Mrs. Howell was so gratified when she received
her promise, that she thanked her over and over
again, and turning to Mr. Montgomery, said in one of
her sweetest tones, " Now, Charley, I want you to
stand by Miss McDonell, and help her all you can ;
that is the reason I brought her in here this morning,
80 you could get acquainted a little before I go
away."

Mr. Montgomery answered, with a bow to Editli,
" that he would be delighted to be of any assistance
to her," and said " he thought the Smiths were fortu-
nate in having two such staunch friends as Mrs,

AT THE PARSONAGE.

Howell and herself." Edith, in thankinf]^ him,
ol)served for the first time what a really fine-look-
in<^ youn^ man he was. He had a large full fore-
head and clear-cut features, a little pale from in-
door work, but with a strong, decided look, that
made one think that the Church had a minister who
would fight for her rights as well as preach the
blessed Gospel of Love. As Edith looked into
his face, there came to her mind the words that
Roger had said less than an hour ago. How
provoking to think of them now. It caused her to
blush and feel so uncomfortable, that she said she
would have to go, as she was very busy with some
work at home ; and although Mrs. Howell urged her
to stay for lunch, and she would have been delighte<l
to accept the invitation, her self-possession was
completely gone, and she knew she would be embar-
rassed all the time she spent in Mr. Montgomery's
company, all owing to that foolish boy Roger.
Pshaw ! why did those stupid words- keep in her
mind all the way home, and why did they seem to
fix themselves on the trees and sky, and every-
thing that met her gaze ? And what had Mr. Mont-
gomery to do with her ? Perhaps he was married or
engaged already. " I am getting foolish, I guess,"
she said, as she turned into her own home.

Air castles were an unknown luxury in the Mc-
Donell family, where all was labor and plain reality.
The many duties lay so thickly in their path that
there was no time to step aside for pleasant places
or congenial thoughts and fancies.

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After Editli ha<l bidden her friends at the Parson-
age ^ood-bye and gone lionie, Mrs. Howell called the
children to show their papa what beautiful hats they
had given them. Of course she knew that M!S.
Parker furnished her friend the lace and ribbon and
flowers that they were made of, but she also knew
that it was Edith who had suggested the need of it
to the wealthy parishioner, and when the proud
mamma had exhausted herself in praising the dainty
head-gear and the self-sacrificing friendship of " that
dear, lovely Edith," it was Mr. Howell's turn to ask
why she did not say those words of commendation
while the girl was there to hear them. At this
r«jmark his wife held up her hands in astonishment.
*' Why, my dear husband, have I not told you often
enough that those girls do not like to have anyone
refer to their work. You see they are the best, the
truest girls I have ever known, but there is just one
thing about them that I consider a grievous fault,
" and that," said Mrs. Howell, lowering her voice
almost to a whisper, " is their pride." " Well," said
Mr. Montgomery, leaning back in his chair and fixing
his keen black eyes on the face of Mr. Howell, " is
that a fault ? " He did not mean to ignore the pas-
tor's wife, but that subject was one of so much import-
ance to him, and he had studied it so much when
alone, that now it had been mentioned in the presence
of his old and experienced friend, he was anxious to
get some light on this point, and therefore he put the
question direct : " Is pride a fault, and how far can
that pride be carried safely ? "

AT THE PARSONAGE.

Mr. Howell was a little surprised at liis young
friend's intense interest, but was always glad to
discuss anything with him pertaining to Christian
character.

'* I do not ({uite understand you," he said, '' pride is
not always consistent with reason, but you speak of
a certain kind of pride, please explain yourself."

" It is the pride of position, a sort of self-respect,"
said Mr. Montgomery, rising to his feet, for he felt he
could make himself understood better when standing.
" Those girls Mrs. Howell spoke of seem to think
that their work shows too plainly that perhaps
necessity has something to do in making them pro-
ficient, and I ask if it is right to nurture such pride,
or to try with God's help to root it out of our
natures ? "

" Well," said the old man slowly, " I have thought
a great deal on that subject myself, and have come to
the conclusion that if there was more of that kind
of pride, or independence, we will call it, the world
would be the better. That is the stuff in a man that
will make him economize rather than parade his
poverty. It is what you see in a woman that makes
her cover the short-comings of her husband, instead of
making it a town scandal ; and, although in some
cases it is carried too far, as are a great many
admirable traits of character, still, in itself, it is a
good thing. Those McDonell girls," he continued,
" as I understand it, are very poor. The father,
honest and industrious though he is, cannot earn
enough to keep them as they should be kept. They

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ar(! willing to do anything to help him along, but in
a little place like Suinnierville there is no gi^itecl
woi'k foi* young ladies to <lo, and so tlu^y Just stay at
home and economize, hiding their poverty ; and I am
afraid they are becoming morbidly sensitive about
it. Too bad, too bad," said the old man, speaking
more to himself than to his companion.

Just at this time Mrs. Howell, who had left the
room when the gentlemen became so much interested
in their discussion, appeared again and announced
lunch, and so the conversation ended. But Mr.
Montgomery's mind had been stirred up and he 'could
not forget the young lady whom he had seen and
towards whom he felt himself .drawn ; he told himself
it was because her life in some respects was so much
like his own. Pride and poverty, poverty and pride,
it seemed to him, had been his portion all his life
through. Poverty he had known in his youth, when
he was working hard to get an education ; he
succeeded in saving enough to take him into college,
but when he could have gone on to the coveted goal
his money was all gone, and then came his battle with
pride. A young man immensely wealthy had made
his acquaintance in the class room ; they had become
warm friends, " chums," as they delighted to call each
other. He knew in part his friend's difficulty, and
offered him the money to take him through, but this
the proud Charley would not accept, although he
knew very well that he had wounded the feelings of
his generous comrade by refusing the offer.

All these thoughts came back to him now, and

AT tME PARSONAGE.

o:ccn.sin(^ Inmst'lf from the dining room, hv put on liis
hat and wandered otl* down to the brook un<U'r the
shade of th(^ trees wliere he couhl think without bein<(
disturbed.

He had conHecrate<l liis life to the ministry, and lie
loved the church of his choice with a passicmate
devotion. It was not selfish indultj^ence he craved at
the hands of fortune. But he could see so many
places where, with unlimited means, he could <lo so
nmch for his blessed Master, stronc^, persevering
ambition seemed sometimes to overwhelm him with a
desire for great wealth. He knew that this was not
ri<^ht, that the God he was trying to serve would give
him all of this world's goods that he needed to make
him a useful ambassador in His cause, and would
withhold anything that would hinder the free course
of the Holy Spirit's desired influence in his heart.

He knew these things, I say, and yet there were
times ^ike the present, when he had become interested
in this womanly young girl, that he longed for many.
" Why do I want it ? " he asked himself, " surely I am
not in love, I do not want a fortune to lay at her feet.
And yet he could not but confess to himself that it
would be very sweet to feel that she cared for him
(just a little) and then with a decided gesture of his
closed hand, he said almost aloud, " I will never ask
her nor any other woman to share this galling poverty."
He had reached the water's edge by this time. The
broad smooth surface lay glistening in the afternoon
sunshine ; away to the left he could see a part of the
busy mill, and hear a faint murmur of its noisy wheel,

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and as he looked into the clear water at his feet, he
could not but compare the pond to his own life.
" Here I am kept in one place. But for the lack of
money to finish the studies I have commenced, in a
short time I could stand where my voice would be
heard and appreciated ; and then with increased
influence, how much good I might be able to do. But
now, with the exception of a call once in a while to
fill a vacancy for a country parson, I am literally
standing still, just like this sheet of water held here
by that strong stone wall, that the mill wheel may
have the benefit of its power."

He gazed long into the placid depths of the pond
The rustling of the leaves overhead, the musical
ripple of the tiny wav-elets that flowed along among
the smooth little stones, seemed to breath such an air
of quiet contentment that even the restless perturbed
spirit of the young man became soothed, and sinking
down on the green bank he tried to bring his thoughts
into subjection to the will of God. For, in spite of
all his yearning after knowledge and his ambitious
desires, he had a strong faith in the loving hand that
was leading him onward and upward, and his constant
prayer was to be kept patient and submissive.

He had learned that a close contact with nature
was the best remedy for a discontented mind, and so
he staid there communing with nature and with
nature's God until the day was far spent.

When he arose to go, the sun had set, and the
twilight was fast deepening into darkness. He had
taken no note of time and was surprised to find it so

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AT THE PARSONAGE.

late, especially as he remembered that Mr. Howell
w{is going away very early in the morning, and would
probably have a great many things to tell him
concerning the charge he was leaving on his hands.

The iron foundry with its roaring furnaces had
stopped work for the day, but the great archway that
crossed the road leading from the brook path to the
village was wide open. Two or three tired workmen
with empty dinner pails were just leaving the build-
ing as Mr. Montgomery passed through on his way
to the street, and one of them said to his companion,
in a voice loud enough to reach the ear of the young
man, " It is very easy for preachers to be telling us
how we ought to live, and there that youngster has
been sitting on the bank up yonder for the last halt*
(lay, doing nothing at all, and just think of the sweat
we have dropped in that time, eh. Jack ! " The
youngster referred to was pondering the words in his
mind and wondering if the mechanic would lik^ to
change places with him, when he heard the. sound of
carriage wheels crossing the bridge. He stopped to
let it pass, but the sleek light-stepping team was
Ijrought to a sudden halt, and a familiar voice called
out, " Why, Charley Montgomery, what are you doing
here ? "

Peering into the carriage, for it was too dark to see ,
plainly, he was met by the smiling face of his old college
friend, Harold Huntington, who grasped his hand v/ith
such fervor that he was in danger of losing that useful
member altogether. Mr. Huntington literally dragged
his friend into the carriage ; he seemed to think if he

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HiLL-CflESf.

relaxed his hold on his hand, he would disappear into
thin air.

" I knew your figure and walk, old boy, as soon as
I caught a glimpse of you. Where have you been
keeping yourself ? I have been home from Europe for
the last three months, and could not find you any-
where. I had a mind to put a detective on your
track.

The joy of the meeting was mutual. Charley
Montgomery had no friend he so much loved and
respected as this young man ; they had roomed to-
gether from choice at the college, both stood equal in
honors, and though their positions in life were differ-
ent, they never seemed to feel it.

Harold was the idol of his mother, and with her
fond indulgence and the courting he received from
society would have been completely spoiled but for
the purifying influence of this friend.

He tried to make Charley know that he was in-
debted to him so that he would receive something at
his hands, but the pride of the less fortunate one was
so great that Harold soon learned it would break
up their friendship altogether if he pressed it too
much, and so he contented himself by spending his
money less lavishly on himself, that his friend
might not be made to feel how much difference there
was in their worldly advantages.

As soon as the first greeting was over, Charley told
his companion how and where he was employed. He
had a position in a university, where he ta^'ght all
day and studied half the night, having the use of the

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AT THE PARSONAGE.

library, one of the best in the country. Then he
added, laughingly, " I get an invitation to fill a
vacancy in some country pulpit, and ko I have a
chance to try my clerical powers on an unsuspecting
congregation of some little church, that is what brings
me here now." Harold heaved a sigh and Charley
laughed again, saying, " Is that sigh for me or the
people of the congregation ? " Just then the car-
riage rolled into the street where the parsonage
stood, and as it was getting late, he sprang out, pro-
mising Harold he would see him again, as not more
than half of his time would be taken up by the
duty he had to perform during the absence of the
minister.

Harold, of course, had all the time there was, and
he looked forward with much enjoyment to the
pleasant companionship of his friend.

" Where are you going, Berthy ? " said Roger, seeing
her going out with her hat on. • .

" To see Mrs. Kenyon," was the answer. " I have
not been there for more than a week, and I used to
go every day almost before you came."

" What is the matter with my going, too ? "

" There is nothing the matter w^ith your going that
I know of," said his cousin, laughing, " if you care
to go."

At this Roger snatched his hat, lying on the floor
near at hand, and walked out with his cousin. The
fact was he was beginning to tire of the (juiet life he
was leading at tji 1-Crest, and to wonder why he

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HILL-CREST.

came here at all. He had only been home from school
a few weeks and was having a jolly time with the
boys in his own neighborhood. Nothing to do but
enjoy himself. They would take his little steam
yacht and sail a few miles up the lake to a large
town, where they would tie up and go ashore and
attend the theatre ; or if they went in the morning,
in time to see a horse race, all the better. There were
no ropes on him, he said, and if tliey stayed three
days instead of one, it did not make any difference,
there were no questions asked at home. But all at
once his father had taken a notion that he must go
with his sister to visit relations, and he did not under-
stand it. Of course he had gotten along pretty well
so far, but he was beginning to be restless, and now
as he walked along down the green lane at Berthy's
side, he said to her in a somewhat absent-minded way,
" Don't you get sick of staying in this sleepy little
town all the while ? There is nothing going on to
interest a fellow. No one does anything but work,
so far as I can see." i

Berthy looked him squarely in the face and
answered promptly, " That is just what I think, and
Aunt FUzabeth has scolded me often for saying it. I
get tired of doing the same things over and over
again every day. It seems as if we lived in a little
corner of the world, and do not know anything that
is going on outside of our home. I feel sometimes
tempted to run away ; but when I feel like that. I go
and have a nice long talk with Mrs. Kenyon, and she
tells me so sweetly that the outside world is full of

AT THE PARSONAGE.

wickedness, and that I must be contented wliere God
has phiced me, that I feel all right again and go on
with my work."

" I hope she will not preach me any sermons on
contentment," said Roger, as Berthy rang the door
bell, looking as if he had a mind to run, but his cousin
assured him that her friend w^as a lovely old woman,
and would not say anything to hurt his feelings. It
was a delightful summer evening, and the air was
filled with the perfume of the roses growing by the
porch. Although Berthy w^ent to the front door, she
knew very well that she would be apt to find Mrs.
Kenyon on the back verandah, where it was always
pleasant with the comfortable easy chairs and soft
matting under foot, but she had a stranger with her
to-night, and so she thought it best to go to the hall
door. As the servant girl opened the door, the sound
of laughter came to them from the sitting room.

" I wonder who is here," thought Berthy, as she
was ushered into the parlor to await fihe coming of
lier hostess.

" I am glad to see thee, also to greet thy friend,"
.said the Quakeress, as she entered the room and was
introduced to Roger.

" I have a pleasant surprise for thee, Berthy," and
turning to the little girlish figure at her side, said,
with a gleam of lovelight in her eyes, " This is my
daughter Rachel, just come home to-day from school,
after being gone more than a year."

The young girls greeted each other as old friends
might have done, Mrs, Kenyon had mentioned

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Berthy iriany times in her letters, and talked of Rachel
so much to Berthy that they were pre})ared to become
fast friends as soon as they met. But when the old
lady would have introduced Mr. McDonell to her
daughter, it was her turn to be surprised, for, as that
young man took the hand of the pretty Rachel, he
assured her mother that they had had the pleasure of
meeting before.

And then followed an explanation of how Roger
had rescued her from a dog that had almost fright-
ened her to death ; and another time he had secured
for her some wild flowers that she wanted very
much, and nearly lost his balance reaching over a
cliff to get them. The school that Rachel Kenyon
attended and Roger's college were only a short dis-
tance apart, and the young people often met at the
homes of friends, or at picnics, and so had become
very well acquainted. The evening passed away
pleasantly. Rachel played and sang delightful little
songs, and Roger joined in with his clear tenor, and
then Mrs. Kenyon called for some hymns and, of
course, they could all sing them. Even Berthy found
herself singing heartily Old Coronation and Bethany,
with Roger holding the book for her and Rachel
playing the accompaniment. It was all like a glimpse
of heaven, and when the hour for departing came she
was afraid she would awake and find it a dream.

There were great plans made for the coming weeks,
in which the young people would be much together,
and it appeared now as if Roger would not find the
time hanging heavily on his hands, if he took the
girls to all the places he promised,

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AT THE PARSONAGE.

" I must spend the most of my time at home as
mamma and I have been parted so long," said Rachel,
putting her arm lovhigly around her mother's neck.
" We will have a great deal of visiting to do in the
time to come, but then I do not intend to go away
again ev^r, doli* " said the girl, caressing the grey
head that leaned against her shouVler. They were
all standing Imt Mrs. Kenyon, who sat in an eas\'
chair, with hei' daughter near her. There was a
sliarp pain in Berthy's heart, as she witnessed this
evidence of love between mother and daughter ; and
tlie look of sadness was not lost on her Quaker
friend, for she put out her hand and drew Berthy to
her, as she answered her daughter, " No, we will not
l)e parted again very soon I hope, but we must have
Berthy with us, for she has been like my own child
while thee has Ijeen away."

These words were ver^^ sweet to the motherless
girl, and she tried to thank her friend, but could not
say what was in her mind, and so she pressed the
kind hand that held hers, and was silent.

Roger was delighted at having met again with
Rachel Kenyon. His boyish heart had gone out to
lier at their first meeting — how well he remembered
it. Being off on a hunting tour one day with one or
tw of his friends, they had become separated. The
large fox-hound belonging to one of the professors,
bounded on ahead. The dog had never seen a fox in
his life, and did not know that the boys brought him
along just as they did their guns, to match their
shooting jackets and high top-boots. He thought
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wlieii he saw a little j^irl run I'ruiii liini and climb
hastily up into the branches of a tree, that the right
thing for him to do was to bark at her with all his
might, until some one came to gi\ e him further advice
or assistance ; and accordingly when Roger heard
him making such a noise and went to see what it was
about, he found the pretty brown eyes of the little
Quaker lassie streaming with tears, and her white
hands clutching the limb of an old tree that
threatened every moment to break and let her down
into the jaws of what seemed to her the most savage
canine she had ever seen. As soon as the dog
heard Roger's voice he ran to him, wagging his tail,
and jumped up about him, as much as to say, "Tliere
is your game, I kept it until you came." Roger pro-
ceeded to help the young lady out of her uncomfort-
able position, and sympathising with her at being
so badly frightened, went with her to a pool of
water, and bathed her poor, bleeding hands, and tore
his own linen handkerchief in strips to bandage them
with, and when he was walking out into the road-
way, he realised that he had by his side one of the
daintiest little ladies he had ever seen. Her hair was
a golden brown, and her complexion clear ; hei'
cheeks and lips always rosy, were now a vivid scarlet
from her recent excitement. She looked to him the
very pink of perfection.

And was it any wonder that when he met her
again, and she recognised him with a little girlish
blush, that he should be indeed her devoted knight,
risking his very life for the little cluster of wild

AT THE PARSONAGE.

flowers we have already mentioned, or that simple-
hearted Ray should look upon him as the bravest and
handsomest youth she had ever met. There was no
thought in their innocent young hearts of anything
but the present enjoyment in each other's society.

This all happened a year ago, but now, as they
met again, there was a little conscious embarrassment
that they had not felt in each other's company
before.

It seemed a new life was opening for Berthy.

Mrs. Kenyon had intimated that her daughter
could consider her a friend, and she was so lovely and
sweet. There was only one drawback to her com-
plete felicity, and that was her lack of the pretty
dresses she already noticed that Rachel wore, which
contrasted with her own shabby attire. There were
other eyes that had noticed the same thing, for as
she and Roger were walking home, he said, in his
abrupt way, " Say, cousin, I have never given you a
present since I have been liere, have I ? Now, I want
to give you one, and I don't know" what you would
like best, so here is some money and you can get
anything you want," and before Berthy could refuse
or accept, he thrust into her hand a bank note.
" There, take it for a present you know, yours truly,
Roger McDonell," he added with that mock gravity
that amused her so much. And so she put the crisp
bill into her pocket, telling him she had not expected
a present, but thinking all the time how many
things she could get for a dollar.

She hurried into her room on reaching the house,

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and found (Jrace already in bed ; then she tried to
tell her all that liad happened that evening, but as
the present came last in her recital she could not
make a connected story of it. Snatching the money
out of her pocket, cried, " There, see what Roger
gave me to buy a present with," and unfolding it,
disclosed to her sister's gaze, not a one but a ten
dollar bill. Hei* surprise was even greater than
Grace's, althougli that young lady was neaHy
paralyzed. She sat up straight in bed, and they
looked at each other in open-eyed wo der for at
least two minutes before either could speak, and then
Grace, who had recovered her breath first, assured
her sister that it was all a mistake, he woidd never
have given her so nmch : he probably had taken
from his pocket the wrong bill.

They talked far into the night cm this and kindred
subjects. They were good company for each other,
f(jr while Grace was always contented with herself
and surroundings she, in an indirect way, helped to
make the uneasy Berthy see that she might be worse
off than she was, and if the thought did not bring
content, it at least produced a sort of thankfulness
that served to make her less inclined to find fault
with her hum-drum life at Hill-Crest.

When the girls told Roger in the morning of the
mistake he had made, he only laughed at them, and
insisted upon Berthy 's keeping the money : but just
as they were talking Kathey chanced to pass, and
hearing them mention the amount shq scolded him
soundly for giving away his money, and insisted

AT THE PAUSONAOE.

so strongly on liis taking it back, that 1h; was com-
pelled to do so : although later in the <lay he gave
it again to Berthy, telling her to keep it for him, as he
would spend it foolishly if he had it.

He thought in his heart that she would perhaps
huy herself something with the money. He <lid not
know how strong the girl was to resist tt^mptation,
having all her life been schooled by necessity, nor did
he think that the time would come when he would
need this money more than Berthy had ever needed
it. But we will not anticipate.

After Harold's first meeting with his friend he did
not let a day pass without seeing him. He had come
to Sunnnerville for a particular reason, had put up at
the best hotel in the place, and spent h's time in
walking or driving around the country. The society
columns in the paper said he was visiting relatives,
and he had not cared to contradict the statement ;
the fact was, that since his return froln Europe there
had settled on him an uneasiness which his friends
attributed to the death of his mother, and he felt that
his empty, lonely home had something to ao with it.
But his mind, coni^'nually turning toward this little
village, told him moro plainly that there was some one
there that he very much desired to see, and a mystery
that he felt was worth clearing up : but now he was
on the ground, he seemed as far as ever from finding
out the whereabouts of the one he sought, or the
reason of the sudden disappearance of his truant lady
love.

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He had asked Geraldine (Jii tlie luoniiiig ot* Kathey's
departure wliat it meant, but that diplomatic youn*;'
hidy's aiiHVver had never .siiemed (piite Hati.sfactory,
and after his pi-ide and indi<^nation had timc^ to
cool, he th()u<;ht long and earnestly on the su])ject ;
then he resolved to go to Sununerville and stay there
until he should arrive at the correct solution of what
was to him a very trying problem. He had not
lacked attention from charming girls, but there was
ever before his mind the bright vivacious Kathey,
the saucy curl of the proud lip, and the mischievous
sparkle of the blue eyes, with the ready sympathy and
reserved modesty that made her, in his opinion, a
very queen among women. Then he knew she
was one that must be wooed. He did not expect
any advances from her, and although he was almost
angry at the manner in which she had slipped away
from him when she must have known he was on
the eve of a declaration, still he was beginning to
think there was a mystery about it, and he had set
himself to work to find it out.

" There is no use in my asking Charley anything
about a girl," he said to himself one morning as he
was going to call on his friend, " for it is not likely
he has seen one since he came here, he never did
care for the society of the fair sex. What a strange
fellow he is. I wonder if it is because he is so much
interested in religion. Ah ! hang it, I am going to
give him a piece of my mind when I get a chance.
Of course, it is all right to belong to a church ; I
am a church member myself, but this sacrificing

AT THE PARSONAGE.

eveiytliin^' that is pleasant in-

Hello! old Fellow,
T was just ^oinf>^ to your, place, and ^ettin^ my
little piece all ready to speak, when 1 saw you," said
Harold as hv turned ; corner and met his friend face
to face. "Where are you ^oing so early .^"

"I am goin^- to see a sick woman and her boy.''
" There you ^o again, that is jiist what I was
thinking of as I came along. What is the use of
your burying yourself alive in this everlasting strife
to preach the GospeW" said his friend in a grieved,
(juerulous tone of voice, that was very unusual with
him. " Stop," he said, as Charley would have answered.
" I am going to have my say. There are fifty places
you can till just as well as not, and I have influence
enough to get you any one of them, if you would give
up this wild-goose chase after notoriety in the pulpit.
Of course, religion is all right," he added, as he noticed
the reproving expression on the young minister's
face ; " but you can serve God and be something
besides a pale, bloodless expounder of Bible history.
What a lawyer you would make, with your fine stage
presence, good voice, and masterly command of
language. You ought to be pleading at the bar
this minute for the life of some poor, condemned
wretch." So much in earnest had he become, and so
certain that this last argument would turn his friend's
mind, that he grasped him by the arm and looked
him full in the face, as if demanding an immediate
surrender.

" Oh 1 " said Charley, in a voice as calm as his face
was sefeije," I am willing to use all the power I have

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in ple.iding the cai*8e of sinners at a higher tribunal
than thofje of tliis earth."

Harold did not answer, there was nothing for him
to say. He was not convinced, but he liad so
exhausted himself in his own veliement language
that he needed time to rest.

Charley contiinied : " If there wei'e more pleading
at the bar of God tliere would be less occasion for
it in the unjust courts of meiL But come, do not
let us stand here, people will think we are quarrel-
ling. I promised Mrs. Howell that I would look
after this poor family while she was gone. There
is a Miss McDonell, a friend of hers, who is takin<
care of them, I believe, and I half expected she would
send for me before this time, but as she has not I
thought I would go there this morning, Mr. Howell
will be home to-morrow, and his wife will think I
have not kept my promise to her." When Harold
heard the name of McDonell it aroused his interest
at once, and when Charley asked him if he cared
to go with him he very promptly consented, much
to the surprise and amusement of his companion.

The little house stood alone on the conmions, with-
out trees or fence. The broken windows and sagging
doors told of extreme poverty an<l destitution. The
two young men walked (juietly up to the door, which
was opened to Mr. Montgomery's knock by a tall,
g"*aceful gixl in a blue gi igiiam dress and white apron,
whoni he introduced to Mr. Huntington as Miss Y .-
Donell.

" How are the sick ones to-day :* " asked Charley,
in a hushed tone of voici'.

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AT THE PARSONAGI:.

" The little l)oy died in tlie iiioht," was the stai-tliiio-
answer, " and tlie doctor says that Mi's. Smith cunn()t
live lono-. I am so ^hid you came," continued Edith.
]\Irs. Adams and myseH" are all alone, an<l do not
know what to do. We have been liere all niiifht. Mrs.
Snuth will not let me leave her ;i miinite."

Harold looked ai-oun<l. It was a strange experi-
ence tor him, he had often gi\en money to help the
poor, but had vdways been careful not to come in
contact with them. Not so with his friend, who
seemed to be perfectly at ease, and assurin<i^ the pale,
a<j;itated girl that the churcli people would undoubt-
edly come to the rescue, he turned to the bed whereon
lay the emaciated form of the dying woman.

" You are very sick, my dear sister," he said, taking
her thin hand in his, and speaking in a voice as ten-
der as a w^oman's. "Is there anything I can do for
you ^

" Who are you?" she asked, looking at him in a
soi't of dazed wonder.

" I am the preacher who is taking Mr. Howell's
place while he is aw y."

"Oh ! When is Mr, Howed connna' home ? I wish
he was here now."

" He will be home to-morrcnv."

" To-morrow ! / shall not be here, 1 shall be dead by
that time." She lay for a few moments with closed
yes, an<l when she spoke aga'J i her voice sounded a
ti'ifle weaker than before.

"I would like to have Mr. Howell pray for me once
more before I go"

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" Shall I pray for yon { " said Mr. Montgomery, in
a gentle, soothing tone.

* Yes, yes : but Mr. Howell knew 1 was a poor lost
siinier, and his prayei-.s always did nie so much good,
but may be God will hear you," and she closed her
eyes again and folded her hands on her breast.

Without any seeming preparation Charley knelt
by the poor, shabby bedside and, lifting his face
heavenward, poured out his soul in prayer for this
woman who had ju-t acknowledged herself " a poor
lost sinner." He thanked God for hl.j mercy in taking
the little child first, that he might be waiting with
his redeemed, blood-bought spirit, freed from the
dwarfed-crippled body — waiting ^o receive the care-
worn, patient mother to scenes of endless bliss ; and
then he asked for a blessing on the lonely father, and
prayed that great good might come to him through
what seemed a dark cloud of affliction. Nor did he
forget the self-sacrificing young girl who had labored
so patiently for these, Christ's little ones.

When he had finished, the pale face of the dying
woman was lit up w^ith an almost angelic smile. " I
am not afraid to die now ; all seems bright and clear,
thank God."

Edith was weeping softly, and Mrs. Adams, who
w^a^ sitting by the dead boy, was sobbing aloud-
Harold stood motionless, his eyes riveted upon the
floor, his arms folded On his breast. He seemed lost
in thought, but when Mr. Montgomery arose to go he
seemed to recover himself, ar^d, turning to Edith, said, ■
V I will send the undertaker to do all that is necessary /

AT THE PARSONAGE.

here. " At the same time placing in her hand a
twenty dollar gold piece, he said, " Buy anything you
need to make the woman comfortable while she
hves. , ,

When they had reached the street Charley was the
first to speak. " I tell you, tiarold, it nuist be an
immense amount of satisfaction to be able to do what
you did to-day."

" Don't mention it, Charley ; the undei-taker's bill
and that bit of gold were nothing to what you left in
tliat house. To see that soul made lit for heaven
while you were there on your knees, showed me that
I never understood what true religion meant before.
Forgive me for what 1 said to you this morning.
What is all the wealth of this world to a man who
can -pray sucli a prayer as you uttered there at that
bedside ; it seemed as if you just grasped the arm of
the Almighty."

As he spoke he looked into the young minister's
face, and was surprised to see such a look of pain and
sadness when he expected to see him not proud, per-
liaps, but at least gratified by his words of apprecia-
tion.

" Harold," and his voice was tremulous with emotion,
"I know you say only wliat is in your heart, and I
also know that you expect me to be pleased with your
words of approval, and thei'e is not a person on this
earth whose good opinion I value more than I do
yours: and further, if you ^ad said half as much con-
cerning a sermon or an article 1 had preached or
vvritten, I should be profuse with my thanks, but

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HILL-CREST.

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when anyone mentions my prayer it is different.
There is a feeling right liere that I caiuiot describe
(and he phiced liis hand on Ivis heart), as if you had
been eaves-dropping an<l were taunting me with what
you liad lieard. Don't tliink I am ungrateful, old
friend ; it is only a notion, perhaps no one feels as I
do, but you know wiiat a hard life I luive had, and I
know, if you don't, how this looking to (jJod in prayer
have been all 1 have had sometimes to keep me from
suicide, and, though I would be glad to have you de-
I'ive the same comfort from it that I have, I could not
wish my worst enemy to go down the depths I did in
order to find that great and glorious relief.

" Forgive me if I have hurt your feelings, but I I'eel
very strongly on this subject, and sometimes go so far
as to think I ought to give up the practice of audible
prayer altogether."

" No, no," said Harold ; " don't think of it for a
moment. It is the voice of the tempter." It sounded
({ueer to hear the same young man saying this who, a
few minutes before, had tried to persuade his friend
to give up his calling, but he was thoroughly in
earnest, and neither of them noticed the change that
had so quickly taken place. "1 have nevei* heard you
preach," he added, " but if you have the same power

in that " he stopped a little confused. " Well,

Charley, you have found your vocation, and I will be
the last of your friends to disconi-agt^ you from goino-
on, even if this blind, blundering worhl does not
accord to you the meed of praise that you deserve."

They had now reached the parsonage, Charley lj«^d

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AT THE PARSONAGE.

§5

to see about the arrangements for Willie Smith's
funeral, and Harold walked on to the undertaker's
office to tell him to take char<^e of the little boy's
remains, and send him the bill.

He met tlie doctor in the door way, and stopped
and asked him how long it would be before Mrs.
Smith would require a like service. The little
M. D. was so impressed with the tine appearance
of Mr. Huntington, that he promised him he w^ould
call at the Smith's home and give her case his
whole attention, from this time cm; but when he
hurried into the dilapidated house a tVnv hours later,
liis services were not recjuired, for with the same
sweet smile on her face she had worn since morning,
her soul had gone up to join the gloritied spirit of her
baby, at the feet of their Heavenly Father.

The mother an<l little l>oy were buried in one coffin.
Mr. Howell came home in time to preach the sermon
to an overflowing church. All of the mend)ers
turned out and expressed their satisfaction that Mrs.
Smith, poor soul, had been saved at the recent
ivvival.

Hearse and carriages, and plumes and flowers were
not wanting : Mr. Huntington paid for everything
without a murmur at the price, even giving the doctor
a generous fee.

When it was all over, and he saw the poor, weak,
iiiist'rable Joshua standing by the newly-made grave,
he turned to Charle}^ and said, " What can we do
i*oi- that poor fellow ^ He is not capabb^ of looking
'dhvr himself."

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HILL -CREST.

"No," suid Charley, and the people herealumts have
no pity for him ; come, K^t us see what he needs most,
I know you ai-e just pining to do another generous
act."

When Joshua w^as interviewed he whimpered some-
thing al)out having a brother in (volorado, and he
would go there if he had the money, wliereupon
Harold furnished what was needed, and bidding him
God speed, had the satisfaction the next day of seeing
him start for the irolden west.

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CHAPTER V.

THE FIRE.

ERALDINE, <lo you know the young
man who paid the funeral expenses
for the Smith's is none other than
Harold Huntington," said Rcger, the
morning following the events recorded
in the last chapter. " . .w him last night on the
street and told him vou were here, and invited him
to call, and he is coming to-night. He had that young
preacher with him. Phew! But he is a fine-looking
fellow, Harold cannot hold a candle to Kim. I invited
him, too, but he said he was going away this morning.
The girls heard all this in silence. Roger seemed
so perfectly at home in their house that it did not
occur to him that he had no right to invite anyone he
chose to come there ; but when no one spoke he
looked from one to the other in surprise, and said,
"bo seemed awfully ijlad to come, and I don't know
HiS 1 should have invited him, if he had not given me
such broad hints, and then he urged Mr. Montgomery
to come, too, but he declared lie would have to go back
to his work, saying, duty before pleasure had always

l=, ^4

HILL-CHEST.

l)eeii liis motto, an<l lie thought it always would be,
l)ut h(^ told me to remember him to Miss McDonell.'

" I suppose that means Kathey, as she is the eldest,"
said Berthy. Hit just then seeing- the blushing face
of Edith, every eye was turned upon her, so much to
the discomfort of that young lady that she made hei'
exit, followed by Kathey, whose eiubarrassment,
though just as great, was uinioticeil , y anyone but
Geraldine, and she thought best to make no inference
to it.

When the sisters weiv alone in theii' room they
stood for a few moments in confused silence. There
had been so nuich to do for the last few davs that
they had scarcely time to speak together. Edith did
not think she dai'.'d to mention the vouno- minister's
name, for wliat was he to her i

But she knew Kathev's heart secret. She knew
how that brave girl had refused to go anywliere this
sunnnei- for fear she would chance to see the one who
was dealer to her than life.

Edith had felt all the time that her sister's fears
were unfounded, and now that she liad seen and
spoken with him, had looked into his face, and had
learned by his generosity how truly noble he was, she
was glad that there was an opportunity^ for them to
meet again. She did not wonder that her sister loved
him ; perhaps she too might have admired him more
had she seen him alone, but she told herself that with
Mr. Montgomery present it was not possible anyone
could think much of Mr. Huntington, although he was
such a splendid type of manly beauty.

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THE FIRE.

Kathey was the first to speak after they had made
sure they were alone.

" Edith," she said, '* Mr. Huntington must not come
here to-night."

" Oh ! Kathey,' said her sister, impatiently, " You
are carrying your pride too far. I met Mr.
Huntington — " she paused, not wanting to tell where,
" hut," she continued, " I believe he loves you yet, for
he seemed so delighted when he was introduced to
me, and I know it was not on my account."

To say that Kathey was surprised would be only to
give a faint idea of the emotion her sisters' words had
caused.

" Where did you see him, pray ? "

Then followed in detail all that had passed at the
parsonage and at the house of death.

Roger's words that morning were the first that
Kathey had heard of Harold's whereabouts, and to
think that her sister and he should become acquainted
under such circumstances was, indeed, remarkable.
But although Edith told all this to try to persuade
her sister to let him come to their home it was of no
use, for she turned to the table and liastily wrote a
note, savini^ that it would not be convenient to have
him call, as they had other engagements. She said,
as she handed it to Edith to post, " I should not care
so nmch if it was not for Geraldine, who is forever
talking about him, and saying how proud he is, and
parading our poverty. I do not believe she would
stay here to-night if he came, she would be so
mortified."
7

HILL-CHESr.

If Kathcy liad heard what GeraWine was saying
to Roger about that time she wotiM liave changed
her rniiid.

As soon as the girls had left the room Oeraldine
tuined to her brother and said, " Oh ! Roger, I am so
glad you invited Mr. Huntington here to-night. You
know that papa does so want me to encouiage him.
He is very rich and could help papa so much, and if
he does not get help soon he will have to close the
mill, and that means ruin to us ; but if Harold and I
could make a match," she added, laughingly, without
the least sign of shame at so cold-blooded a transac-
tion, " it would be all right and save poor papa from
the disgrace of breaking down."

" So that is what you came here for this sunnner,
is it ? Well, if I had known that I would not have
come with you. I do liate match-making, and you
and father and mother are always at it. You do not
love Harold at all, and yet you would marry him just
for his money — it is contemptible."

" Roger McDonell, you are just as hateful as you
can be. I cannot tell you anything but you go off
in one of your goody, goody spells. A person would
think you were a saint to hear you talk. I will
never tell you anything again. But," said his sister,
changing her voice to a coaxing tone, " you w411 not
tell the girls what I said ; promise me, Roger, you will
not."

But Roger would not promise. Although he did
not intend to tell, he liked to make his sister think
he would, which worried her so much, that when

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THE FIRE.

Katlu'}/ next looked into tlio I'ooni (icraldine was

crying, and of* course hei" cousin thought it was

because of the expected visit that evening, and it

lu']i)ed to strengthen her detei'niination that the

offending party should not come, altliough lu^r own

lieart was bnuikitig for a sight of* the beloved

face.

Edith went to the Post-office and saw, Just as she

was turning the corner, the old stage starting for
the depot. Mr. Montgomery had already taken his
seat, Mr. Huntington was bidding him good-bye, and
])()th raised their hats to her, and in another moment
slie was in the Post-office. A sad, lonely feeling
came over her as she heard the rumbHng old stage
coach rattle off* up the road, it seemed as if she
was angry with some one, but she did not know with
wliom it could be.

Just then Mr. Huntington strolled leisurely in
through the broad door-way, and going up to her,
offered her his hand in the most cordial manner
possible. He never looked to better advantage tlian
he did this morning, in his light sunnner suit and
soft brown felt hat and gloves to match. He strongly-
impressed Edith as a gentleman of wealth and
refinement, but there was something so unaffected
and natural about him that she could not imagine
him looking with critical eyes on those less favored
than himself, and when he spoke of parting with his
friend, and she saw a suspicious moisture in his big,
lionest eyes, it settled the fate of Kathey's note. At
once she crushed it back into her pocket, and asking

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HILL-CHEST.

for some postage stamps, bade the young gentleman
good-bye, and going straight liome gave to the
kitchen fire what Kathey had intended sliould
separate her forever from the man she loved.

The McDonells always dined at twelve o'clock,
which was the hour that the father could best be at
home, and so the girls planned to have something
choice for that meal. To-day it was a game dinner
that was set bL3fore the family. Roger had shot some
wild fowl the day before, and he and Berthy had
dressed them. Berthy delighted in cooking, which
was the only part of house work she cared to do.
Perhaps she did not know why she preferred it to
any other, but the reader can easily see that with the
craving for love that was part of her nature, it was
very plain that any triumph in the culinary art
would bring forth words of praise that more than
repaid her for doing her best in that line.

Just as the household had all assembled to discuss
the mid-day meal there was a sharp knock at the
front door, and when it was answered it brought the
intelligence that there was a telegram for Roger. It
ran thus : " Come home. A fire last night. Mill
burned.' Father not expected to live."

When Geraldine heard it she went into violent
hysterics.

Roger paced the floor not knowing what to do.
But Mr. McDonell, though shocked for a moment,
(juickly rallied, knowing that prompt action was
necessary. He said in a firm voice, " We must go
immediately, it is too fq,r to drive. We will take the

THE FIRE.

afternoon train, and by wiring aliead, will be able to
be at your place to-night. I do not understand how
William's life could be endangered by the burning of
the mills, but we shall see, as I intend to go with you
and Geraldine. Come, girls, get her clothes packed
up, there is no time to lose."

And in less than an hour from the time the news
came, Mr. McDonell, Roger and Geraldine were on
their way to witness they knew not what. When
Geraldine was ready to go, although in such
apparent trouble, she said apart to Kathey, " I
wonder if Mr. Huntington will care to come now
that I am going away."

" No," said Kathey, " he will not come, I wrote him
not to."

And so Geraldine was satisfied on that score.

As the anxious party neared the scene of the late
conflagration everyone they saw was talking of it,
and the remarks caused Robert McDonell so much
anxiety that he could not wait until he arrived at
his journey's end without making inquiries.

While waiting at the depot for the carriage, he saw
a man who had been at the place, and upon asking
him the particulars in regard to the cause of the
calamity, this was the story he heard : " You see that
woolen mill was supposed to be a big paying thing.
W^illiam McDonell was one of those close-mouthed
fellows, no one ever knew his business, and then his
family putting on so many airs, and all that, made the
workmen think he was making a little too much out of
their labor ; it don't do to go on in that style, you

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HILL-CREST.

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know. Well, it was when the son came home from
college the trouble commenced : he had to have a
steam yacht fitted up For him, and he live<l pretty
fast. One day as the men wer(» resting at noon the
book-keeper was asking young Ro^er what he intended
to do now he had finished his education.

" Oh ! " said he, "I will not have to do anything. I
guess the old man can make enough out of them
fellows to keep me without work." He did not know
that they heard him, and I don't think he meant it,
for he is as good a boy as you will find in a day's
travel. But, you see, the men wen* mad in a moment,
and one of them particularly, who had known Bill
McDonell when he was a poor workmen like himself,
had been threatening and trying to set up the men to
go out on a strike, and when he heard what Roger
said he muttered something b'tween his teeth about
pride taking a fall and some one else working for
their bread. The men all felt there was something
going to happen, and [ guess that McDonell got a
hint of it, for he sent his son away about two weeks
ago, and thought that would probably put an end to
the trouble ; and may be it would, but yesterday he
cut the men's wages, and some of them could hardly
live on what they got any way. Well the upshot of
the matter was, that last night the whole thing was
fired, set in two or three places.

" When McDonell saw the flames he was like a
maniac, he rushed from the house (you know it is
about a quarter of a mile from the mills) with scarcely
any clothes on, made for the office, and before anyone

tHE FIRE.

»s

could hold him back, he was inside of the l)uniin<^
building, and wluni he was carried out by th(.' firemen
half dead, he wanted to ^o back as soon as he ^ot his
l)re:ith, tellint»; the men if he did not save the papers
in the office, he was a ruined man. People are
bet^iimin^ to find out he was not so prosperous as he
made believe.

" He was as proud as Lucifer, and foolish too, not
to let his men know more of his circumstances, and
they would have had more sympathy for him, and
this thing perhaps would never have happened."

It was with a heavy heart that Robert McDonell
went on to his brother's home. When he got there,
the first thing that met his eyes was a heavy knot of
crape on the door. It was all over.

The doctor said it was the intense excitement,as much
as his injuries by the fire, that had caused his (U'ath

Nothing was saved. After the funeral, the house
and furniture, horses and carriages, were sold at public
auction, and it did not pay half the demands of the
creditors. Geraldine and her mother clung together
in helpless despair. Some of their friends offered them
a temporary home, which they gladly accepted ; and
lloger went with a friend of his to a distant town to
see if he could find any work, as he realized for the
first time that he would have to do something to
support himself.

Hill-Crest seemed very quiet after the departure of
the guests. Grace and Berthy felt lonely when they
thought of the gay fun-loving Roger, but no one
mourned the loss of Geraldine.

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HlLL-CUESt.

As the afternoon began to wear away, Edith became
uneasy. She did not feel that she had done wrong in
burning the letter entrusted to her care, and yet her
honest nature despised deceit of any kind. Down in
lier heart slie felt that if Kathey could see Mr.
Huntington, as she had seen him, she would not
accuse him of any false pride, for Edith uhought that
pride of wealth and surroundings was false ; she
remembered, too, how Mr. Montgomery had told her
of the friendship that existed between himself and
Harold, an<l had dwelt on the <lifFerence in their
jiositions, and had said in his enthusiastic convincing
way, that liis friend was true-hearted and generous to
a fault. It was on the morning of the funeral at the
Smith's that they had this talk. Edith had reason, of
which Mr. Montgomery knew nothing, to be glad
to hear these words of praise for Harold, and
when she showed so much interest in what he was
saying he felt, perhaps for the first time in his life, a
little pang of jealousy; but he quickly put it aside
and continued the conversation.

As they were standing by the aide of the coflin,
admiring the beautiful white lilies that lay on the
bosom of the unconscious sleepers Charley said, " How
like Harold those flowers look ; his seems a soul that
prosperity cannot spoil. He has been surrounded all
his life with the beauties of nature and art. And all
he seems to tliink of is how he can make others happy
by sharing his luxuries with them. There is nothing
that makes me lose confidence in myself so much as

THE FinE.

totliink that (Jod has oot to keep me poor that I may
be made useful."

Edith liad pondered lonj^ on tliese wonls, and slie
had tried to brin^ lierself to tell her sister all the
things he had said concerning Harold, but she could
not without disclosin^^ her own feelings regarding this
young man : and there seemerl something so sacred in
her thoughts of him that she could not tell her sister
anything he had said to her, but treasured them in
her heart alone. While she w.is thinking of these
things, and contemplating the advisal)ility of confess-
ing to her sister how she had burned her letter,
there came a sharp knock at the <loor, and in a
moment Harold was standing in the parlor, holding
the hand of the surprised, but evidently pleased
Kathey. Edith saw them from her room, and took
plenty of time to put away some work she had been
engaged upon, and laid aside her apron and arranged
her hair a little ; so that at least ten minutes had
elapsed before she made her appearance, and then she
feigned surprise at finding company.

Was she a hypocrite ? Well, if so, she was at least
a loving one : and it was a long time after before she
was permitted to know how much her interest in this
love affair interfered with her own.

Kathey was saying something about it being a dis-
appointment for him not to find Geraldine there,
when Edith entered, but he assured the young ladies
that he had not come expressly to see Miss Geraldine;
and then the subject of the fire was talked of a little,
but the trio were too happy just at present to dwell

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Hir.L-CREST.

1 (

on HO gloomy a subject, and the conversation turnei]
very naturally to inoro conji^cnial topics.

Harold spoke of his friend, and if he and Kathey
had been less absorbed in their own affairs they womM
have noticed how eagerly Edith listened to everything
relatint( to Mr. Montgoineiy's life past and present,
and his outlook for the future, which Harold
seemed to think was a little dubious.

" He is one of the men of whom this world is not
worthy," he said. " When I look at him and see what
a sacrifice he is making for the good of others, just
simply that he may save souls and advance the cause
of the Gospel, I am lost in wonder There is some-
thing in him that ordinary Christians have not.
When he was ten years old his father and mother
both died. He was adopted by a farmer; he worked
in the fields, drove cows and cut wood for the next
five years, studying all the time, with the chance of
only four months schooling in the winter, until the old
farmer told him he had education enough, and he
could not go to school any more. This struck him
like a thunderbolt. He was only fifteen years old,
and had not a friend in the world. He told me it was
then he offered his first prayer to God." Harold
arose and walked the floor to hide his emotion. " It
seemed the turning point in the boy's life," he con-
tinued. ' The next morning he left the farm and
went to the city, and he has worked his way ever
since. Poor Charley, it has had a different effect on
him than it would have on most men. I am afraid I

THE FTRK

.should have come out an infidel instead of the pure,
true-hearted Christian he is."

The ^irla were very much interested in the recital.
Katliey had never seen the youn^ man, and she was
tliinkin^ more of the way his friend was praising him,
and how noble he looke<l at this time, than of the
perfections of the less favored Charley.

" And has he no friends now," asked Edith, witli
tears in her eyes, '* who could help him to something
better than teaching a class of juniors at the Uni-
versity r

" That is just it," and Harold sat down again.
" He is that kind of fellow who often let pride
get the better of judgment. Now, I am willing to
admit that pride (self-respect as he calls it) is a good
tiling, but I know there are those who would deem it
a privilege to help him, yet he will not accept one
cent for himself. It is all wrong on his part."

The girls exchanged glances, and Kathey said, in a
low, but firm tone, *' I beg pardon, but are you sure
that you are competent to sit in judgment in a matter
you know so little about ? "

There was a spirit of antagonism in the sentence,
HO new to this petted child of fortune that it
awakened in him a keen interest for the girl who
dared to say it.

" Well," said he, " perhaps I am talking . "condom,
hut, of course, I can tell what I would do if placed in
like circumstances."

*' What you think you wc ^ do, which you might

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100

HILL-CREST.

BSr

find would be very different from wliat you woul<l
really do."

Mr. Huntinj^ton looke<l a little piqued at her per-
siHtent contradiction, but it only increased his love
and esteem for her, and made him aware of the fact
that she liad improved in strong womanly (jualities
as well as in personal appearance, especially when he
remembered that she was defending the pride of his
absent friend, although a stranger to her. They both
laughed now, an<l Harold apologized for becoming so
vehement on a subject that could not possibly interest
entire strangers as it <lid him. Edith longed to hear
more, but did not again refer to the subject.

When Harold reached his own room that night he
felt pretty well convinced that the reason Kathey had
slipped away from him two yeai*s ago was in some
way cormected with the McDonell's of Green Cliii'
Geraldine had said something about Kathey 's being
so full of notions and fickle-minded, anci he had taken
it for granted that such was the ctise ; but now he
found her in her true position, at the head of her
father's household, taking the care of a mother on her
young shoulders, self-reliant and dignified. He loved
her when he knew her at the age of eighteen, a
happy, roguish girl, and he would then have made her
his wife, and petted and cared for her, not letting a
breath of vexation creep into her life, and keeping his
own troubles, if he had any, from reaching her. This
was the picture he always loved to look at. " But
then," he would add, " I want some good, reliable
friend to go to when I need counsel and advice, and,

THE FIRE.

101

oF courso, slie could not bo of any uhc to me in tliat
capacity."

But now lie thou<^ht differently. *' What better,
truer counsellor would a man need than this good,
brave woman with no interest apart from his own,
standing by his side through life, he to share her
cares and anxieties, and she ever ready with counsel
and sympathy for him ? Could they not be all in all
to each other ;* "

He believed now, with simple faith, that they had
been kept apart by what seemed to him an unjust
fate ; then he would have married her ; now they
would marry each other.

1 1

i.Mt

CHAPTER VI.

LOVES yoUNfi DREAM.

•JHEN the old sta^e coach turned away
towards the depot on the morninj^ of
Montgomery's departure he felt h(3
was not leaving Sumuierville exactly
as he came. He had only been there
two weeks, and with the exception of meeting with
his old friend Harold, everything had gone just as he
expected. As he thought of Harold, he looked back,
and saw him talking pleasantly with Edith at the
Post-office door. She was looking at the elegant 3^oung
man in a way that brought the hot blood rushing to
Charley's temples with a force that told him more
plainly than words could have done, that there in
that door- way, clad in the dainty drab serge walking-
dress, was the one who had made his stay in that
little village so different from what he had expected
it to be ; but he felt he was a fool to think of this
young lady as anything but a passing acquaintance.
How he chided himself for his folly ; he so poor
he could scarcely clothe himself decently, not even
respectably, compared with Harold.

the
hii
He
com

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LOVES Y()ITN(J DUKAM.

103

Ho I()()k(Ml away ott* oviir tlu' HcMh, trying to think
what a wide worhl this was, ami woiulorin^ if in it
soniowhcre there v s not a ])hicH' he niij^ht call honu',
ami fool that there was one heart that beat for him
alone.

" Here I am aj^aiii wishing for something that it is
not God's will for me to have," he siiid to himself
impatiently, as the stage stopped and he walked
towards the ticket office. While the agent was mak-
ing the change he was thinking how ghul he would
he if that ticket would take him to the Pacific coast,
instead of to the teaching and studying at the Uni-
versity; and yet how ungrateful he was. Had he not
])een very glad when that position was offered him (*
And how kind the Professor had been to him, and
how kind everyVjody was to him. How the dear
Church people in Sunnnerville had said the most
flattering things when he bade them good-bye on
the last night he had preached to them, and made
him promise he would co^ne again at Christmas-time.
He had promised then, thinking he would be glad to
come, but now he did not want to see Summerville
again. It seemed that all the worldly ambition that
he had tried so hard to conquer was annoying him
since he had come here, and so he decided that he
liad better stay away, and he would forget in time
all the vexation he had endured. He was on the
train by this time, and taking out his Bible he read
on and on, finding relief and comfort in the study he
so much loved.

He had an engagement to fill in another small

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104

HILL- CREST.

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place, that would occupy a few weeks of his time
before the University opened for the fall term, and
he went direct to tliat place now, and did not hear
anything from his friend until he arrived at his
boarding-house, the week before his regular school
work began. There he found two letters aw^aiting
him. One he knew was from Harold, and he opened
it first. It ran thus :

" Dear Friend Charlie, — I write to say that I am
the happiest fellow alive.

" Next week I go to my home to make the cage
ready for the beautiful wild bird I have been so
fortunate as to capture. The old house has been
shut up too long, and now I am going to have it
opened and made fit for the happy bride who has
promised to enliven it with her presence. I suppose
you think I have gone daft, as the Scotch say, but if
a man has a right to do or say a foolish thing once in
his life, I believe when he is in love is the most
proper time. Perhaps you would like to know wdio
the young lady is that has succeeded in making me
so happy. It is none other than Miss McDonell.
There is quite a romance connected with our engage-
ment, which we will be delighted to tell you when
you visit us at our home at Christmas-time. We
both join in sending you this invitation with our
love. * "^ H. H."

Montgomery never once raised his eyes from the
page until he had finished reading all of his friend's
letter, and when he did, it was to go back and read it
all over again. He was not surprised, he told him-
self, and it wo-s the best thing that could be done foi'

LOVES YOUNG DREAM.

105

both of them ; and yet he was not ([uite imsel-
fisli enough to say tliat lie was j^'lad, even for their
sakes.

He arose and walked tlie floor for at least an hour.
He knew now that he loved Edith McDonell with
a love that could never be transferred to an-
other: and he had not tlie least doubt that it was
slie whom Harold meant. He did not know that she
had an elder sister. Mrs. Howell introduced a little
c(irl to him in Church one night, and said it was
Edith's sister, but he had scarcely thought of her at all,
except to notice how unlike EtKth she was, and that
was all of the family he had ever seen. " A romance
indeed," how it all came back to him now ; how
anxious Harold was to go to Smith's cottage as soon
as he heard the name of Miss McDonell, and how
she started and blushed when she was introduced to
him, and how he had almost asked Roger for an in-
vitation to call at the house. He threw himself into
a chair, and tried to think calmly, what a good thing
tliis marriage would be, how much Harold loved her,
how could he help it ! Then he arose, and paced the
door again.

Just then there was a tap at the door and his land-
lady entered with a pitcher of water, and when she
retired, she said to her daughter, " I tell you it is hard
work for them teachers, they look as if they wdre
worried to death, studying so hard in them fusty old
books. Well, I am glad I am not educated, although
it does give a sort of polish to a person," and the
good soul bustled about and tried to think of some-

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106

HILL-CREST.

thing nice that Mr. Montgomery would like for his
supper. When an hour later he came down into the
dining-room with the same careworn look on his hand-
some face, she hurried to tell him how glad she was
to have him back again, at the same time putting on
his plate a brown flakey biscuit, with its accompani-
ment of clear white honey, that seemed as if it would
tempt the appetite of anyone.

His nature was so transparent that the darkness
of his own soul only helped to reflect the good deeds
of those around him, and when in the deepest trouble
himself, he could see the more plainly the kindness
shown him, and he turned on Mrs. Jones so thank-
ful a face, that she could not refrain from asking him
if anything had occurred to cause him trouble. He
bowed his head for a moment, and then said as he
looked up, " Oh, I am always wanting something the
Lord thinks I am better without : and I am making
myself unhappy, when I ought to be singing prais* s
to God for His goodness." His supper was soon
eaten, and when he went out of the dining-room and
met the motherly women again, he grasped her hand
and said, with quivering lip, " Pray for me that I may
be patient."

" That I will," she said huskily, wiping her eyes
with her apron.

He did not think of the other letter until he saw
it lying on his table unopened the next morning. The
hand writing was strange to him ; he opened it with
scarcely any curiosity, and glanced at the signature :
it was from Joshua Smith. " He needs help, poor

LOVE S YOUNG DREAM.

107

fellow, no doubt, but he has applied to the wrong man,
it* it is money he wants." This is the letter :

Rev. Mr. Montgomery:

"Denver, Colorada.

" Dear Sir, — I came here, as you know, about two
months ago. My brother is in business, but as I
could not do anything in his line, he secured for me
a very good position with an old gentleman in failing
health, who is a namesake of yours.

"I said to him one day that I knew a man by that
name, and told him where. He said he had a brother
that died about fifteen years ago ; he had a wife, but
he never knew whether they had any children or not;
and then I praised you up all I could, and he was so
interested that he put it in the hands of a lawyer,
and he wrote to the place where Mr. Montgomery's
brother lived, and found out that there was a boy ten
years oiva and a girl one week old when the mother
died. The lawyer told him yesterday that you were
found, but that he could not find the girl. Perhaps
you know something about her. The old man says
lie does not care for the girl, but be wants you to
come at once. He is very rich and all alone in the
world.

" You will probably hear from the lawyer, but I
wanted to tell you first myself.

"Yours truly,

"Joshua Smith."

Here was great news from an unexpected source.
Mr. Montgomery held the open letter in his hand,
and did not know whether to believe it or not ; while
he sat pondering on the contents and trying to recall
to mind something that would help him to the truth
of the matter, he heard the postman's whistle, and in

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108

HILI.-CHEST.

anothei* minute the lawyer's letter was put into his
hand. Let us look at this more business-like if less
sincere epistle.

" Denver, Colorado.
" Mu. Charles Monkjomerv :

''Dear !Sii\ — I write to say that I have been
engaged for some time in looking up your relationship
with a client of mine in this place, by name John
Montgomery, and being satisfied that you are his
nephew, son of his brother Charles, I write at his
re([uest to inform you that he would like to see you
in this city as soon as you can conveniently make the
journey.

"He wishes me to say that it is impossible for him
to write, or go to your place, as his health would not
permit it.

" Yours respectfully,

" Richard Raymond."

" P. S. — It will be very much to your advantage to
come immediately. If you need any pecuniary help
I shall be happy to accommodate you."

This last letter settled all doubts in the mind of
the young man, and he began to make his preparations
at once. He had not begun his work as teacher for
the present term, and so he had no scholars to whom ho
must bid good-bye, yet he was pleased and made sad
by the warm pressure of the hand he received fnjm
the professors s^d teachers, who, though rejoicing in
his good luck, much regretted his departure. But he
was ready at last ; his List good-bye was to Mrs.
o Dnes, who cried outright, assuring him that she
would pray for him as long as she lived, and she

love's young dream.

109

aiMed, " I (lid not think there was any real ^ovaI
christian preachers until I met you. 1 thouglit them
all hypocrites."

How much he would have liked to see Harold
hefore he went so far away. H(^ had been like a
})rother to him always, and he had needed liis friend-
ship so much ; his own life was so lonely.

Then he thought of his little sister. Where would
he find her ? She must be fifteen if alive. He was
at the depot now, and as a group of laughing, merry
girls went by, he looked after them wondering what
his sister would be like when he should find her.

He felt that he was going away from whc^e she
was most likely to be found, and yet it was all he
could do : but he decided as soon as he arrived at his
journey's end to begin an active search for the lost
one, that she might share the good, if there was any,
or at least that he could give her his love and
protection, and she in return would love him as a
sister. How good the word sounded to him. He had
often thought of her, but had never been in a position
to do what his heart most craved.

Now that he is on his way to the bright, beautiful
citv of Denver we shall leave him while we look at
the inmates of Hill-Crest.

When we left Harold and Kathe^, they had met
for the first time in two years ; now we find them in
tile beautiful month of October, all mystei'ies cleared
away, and the last preparation completed. To-morrow
is to be their wedding day.

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110

HILL-CREST.

They do not think, as they sit together in the
twilight, that there is an unhappy soul in the
universe. It was a warm, pleasant night, so they
went out under the shadow of the vines, and seating
themselves on a rustic seat, looked at each other as
only lovers can.

In the parlor Edith was trying to entertain a young
man whom Harold brought with him that afternoon
to act as groomsman at the marriage, Edith being
chosen by her sister for bridesmaid.

Adolphus VanArsdaie was not exactly the kind
of man Harold Huntington would have ch sen
for an intimate friend, but he had looked on Mr.
Huntington as a sort of guide to help him in matters
concerning American society, about which he was
anxious to learn.

They had met for the first time in England, and
Adolphus, then scarcely nineteen, had been completely
taken with the "clever American," as he called him.
He tagged him wherever he went," and der»lare ' that
when .e was his own boss he would go to the States
to live.

He was a good, respectable young man : had been
all his life nurtured by guardians and tutors ; he had
no immediate relatives, but had an immense fortune,
which would be his own when he was twenty-one
years old. He said to Harold, when he bade him good-
bye on the wharf at Liverpool, that as soon as he
came of age he would turn his property all into money
aiid go to America, and settle as close to Mr. Hunting-
ton's place as he could get. There were tears in the

LOVES YOUNG DREAM.

Ill

boy's eyes as he said this, and TTaroId, knowiiijnr the
strong love for friends wlncli exists among the English
people, felt sure that he would keep his word ; and
therefore, he was not surprised, when going home
from SummtTville, he found Adolphus at Lake View,
ready to receive him.

Harold was glad to see him, and felt a certain
sense of duty toward the inexperienced youth who
iia<l so much money and so little experience. He
advised him not to think of buying a house and estab-
lishing himself until he became better acquainted
with the country. To this Adolphus readily assented.
But when he heard that Green Cliff*, the grounds ad-
joining Lakeview, were for sale, he became uinnan-
ageable, and Harold went with him, and the home of
the McDonell's was transferred into the hands of the
wealthy young Englishman. Not knowing exactly
what step to take next, he accepted his friend's invi-
tation to stay for a while at least in his home. And
so it came about when Harold had made all other
arrangements for the coming wedding, he had written
to Edith tl at, with her permission, he would ask
Adolphus VanArsdale to act as best man.

It would be very difficult to tell which of the young
men was the more delighted over the coming event.
There was nothing too grand for the occasion. Adol-
phus felt that this was the highest honor his friend
could bestow upon him, and Harold was more than
repaid for the favor by the joy the young man
evinced.

They had driven up on the afternoon before the

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112

HILL-CREST.

eventful day, and so now we find Kdith niakin<; her-
self as agreeable as possible to the guest, while Harold
and Kathey, though so absorbed in each other, are
not oblivious to the scene before them.

" If Charley could have answered nie in time I
should have offered him Adolphus' place," said Harold
to Kathey ; " but he was right in my house, and so I
asked him, and he is very much delighted. He is
carried away with style, but that is his only
fault ; he is honest, an<l his character is as pure
as crystal. He will be at our place a great deal and
you will use your influence to lea<l him to a higher
aim in life, won't you, dai'ling ? " said Harold, leaning
his head against the brown curls. " I am not going
to be selfish, and I believe I love you better when I
think how much you have done for your father's
family. It must have been hard to stand in the place
you have for the last twelve years.

" When we see a young mother with a family of
children looking to her for guidance it seems perfectly
natural, and we expect her mother's love is going to
carry her through ; but to see a young girl taking the
entire care of a lot of disobedient I'ttle motherless
waifs seems too bad, because it is no plan of hers that
put this burden upon her."

These words seemed to Kathey the sweetest that
her lover had ever said to her.

It is good to know for ourselves that we have done
our duty, but words of a; ?eciation from lips we love
are like springs of cooling water in the barren desert.

" Oh," said Kathey, " I do not know that I always

,ce

Loves yol'ng Dheam.

113

accepted tliis responsibility in the spirit yon ^ive me
cre<lit for ; and although I was vciy anxious that tlu»
<rirls should have an education, I think that Edith
did more than I for the real comfort of the family.
Yet, when I think of it, I f^uess we all contribut«id
oui' share, for it is Grace who, for the last few years,
has kept father's clothes in ordei" nd always antici-
pated liis every wish."

" And what of Berthy ^ " said Harold, laughing.

"Oh, i^erthy, Berthy — she is the problem of the
family. While we tried to be contented with what
we had, she never was, l)ut was always yearning foi-
an e<lucation and slipping away with a book that
she could not understand a word of, and it made
so much trouble. I think she ought to have had an
opportunity to go to school, but father and Aunt
Elizabeth would not hear of it. When she di<l go it
was surprising how rapidly she learned, but she never
thought of anything else, not even of her personal
apoearance, and that disgusted aunt so much that
she would make her stay at home to punish her. I
do not know whether it would have been right or not
to encourage her in so burying herself in her books."

Kathey did not tell how hard slje herself had
worked to pay for her sister's tuition in a select
school, and perhaps would never know how gfateful
Berthy was to her for the sacrifice she had made.

But she talked on of the family at home with a
freedom of thought which she would have considered
impossible a year ago.

Harold kept silent, for he liked to hear her talk.

114

HILL-CREST.

|l|t:

There was a pure vein of unselfish wonmnliness in
lier conversation which made him congratulate him-
self that he had been able to secure so worthy a life
companion, and it also made him have a better opinion
of his own goodness that he should love this girl as
passionately as he did.

The morning of the wedding was everything that
could be desired in the way of beautiful fall weather.
The early frost had turned to gold and crimson the
maple trees that adorned the village streets. Here
and there a sturdy oak and hickory showed more
gold and still retained a dash of green ; but the
maples had changed their dress at the first intiu.ation
of winter, knowing that the beauty of the autumn
was largely due to them. Late flowers were bloom-
ing in the garden ; dahlias and china-asters had come
out late, that Flora's devc jes might not miss so much
the fragrant rose or favorite lily.

The marriage service was to be performed very
early in the morning, that the bridal party might
liave time to go to Lake View before night, where a
reception awaited them.

Adolphus was up early, for there was so much de-
pending on him. His new suit had been taken out
the night before, and brushed until not a speck of dust
could *be seen on the fine cloth.

" It is all right," said Grace to Berthy. " I like to
see a young man particular about his personal ap-
pearance."

" But," said Berthy," " it is all he thinks about, he
has not one moment to spare for anything else. I

in I)
lia(

SUIIJ
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it a
then
depe
S(
totli

LOVES YOTTNO DREAM.

115

<li(l HO wjint to ask liiiii about IhhJoui'iu'V from En^lainl,
liut he is HO abnorluMl in InniHelf that lu' nearct'ly
knowH a word that anyone says to him. And then
he does not appear very well after all : it keeps him
all the time brushing; off imaji^inary dust and feelinj^
his hair to see if it is on his head, and he loses sight
of everything that is going on around him. No won-
der he knows so little, if he is well educated."

" Well," said Grace, " what is education for if it is
not to make a person appear well in society, and if
they allow themselves to become a slouch in order to
get an education I don't see what use it is to them."

Berthy was beaten for the time, as she always was
by her sister's practical arguments, although it did
not make any difference in her way of thinking or
habits of dress.

Aunt Elizabeth had returned home. She had heard
of the wedding, and would have liked to make Kathey
l)elieve that in some way she had been instrumental
in bringing it about ; lait this she could not do, as she
ha<l fled from the impending disgract >f the previous
sunnner, when Geraldine and Roger were expected.
It seemed to her very foolish now, as she thought of
it and learned that they were much poorer than
themselves, having not even a home, but being
dependent on the kindness of friends for a shelter.

So she had wixtten herself to invite the McDonell's
to the wedding, and had received an answer only yes-
terday, saying that Geraldine had been so fortunate
us to get a position as saleswoman in a dry goods
store, where she thought she could earn enough to

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support lierself and mother, so slio could not come.
Tliere was not a word C()neernin<^ Ro^cr, and Berthy
wondered what liad iu'coiiie of h'un.

Wlieii the wedding f^uests had taken their leave
(only a few intimate fi'iends of the families hein^*
invited) the house seemecl very lonely. Edith had
^one with her sister to her new honu', nuich to the
delight of Mr. VanArsdale, who was tryinj^ his best
to fall in love with her.

Mr. and Mrs. Howell had linjifered a few moments
to talk to Ml". McDonell and the remaining meml)ers
uf the family, hut now they, too, had gone.

Berthy went into the parloi' to get a bouquet she
intended to give to Mrs. Kenyon, and was tying it
with a bit of white ribl)on, when a shadow in the
doorway caused hei* to look up, and there stood
Roger, smiling at her in the old, familiar way, just
as if three months had not elapsed since he stood
there before.

"Oh, Roger ! how glad I am to see you. Where did
you come from ? And why didn't you get here in
time for the wedding ? "

She poured out all she had to say in hei' impulsive
way, without giving him time to answer. But h«^
waited until she had finished, and then told her: first,
that he had been all over the country since his father
died trying to make a living. He had done all kinds
of things ; " But I tell you, Berthy," he said, " it comes
hard on a fellow to have to work when he does not
know how to do anything."

His cousin could see that there was a great change

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117

in Ro^er, ami, youn^ as she was, h\\v did not think he
had ini])r()V(Ml any.

His clothi'H looked a litth' worn, and he ha<l a sort
ol" eai'cK'ss aii* that filh'd the «^iiTs kiml heart with
pity.

" We ivceived a h'ttei' from Geialdine V'estei*(hiv,
and she is ^oinj^ to Ik' a saleswoman in a dry goods
store," said Berthy. " Why don't you get some such
])()sition :* '

'• Oh, I can't sell dry goods : I don't know how, and
I get so tired of getting up every moi'ning and going
to work, seeing other fellows having a good time, run-
ning around witli nothing to <lo. And then, I wonder
what is the use of my working since no one cares foi*
nie now," said he, despondently. " The very hoys I
used to give money to and take them out for a week
at a time in my yacht will hardly notice me now,
and it makes me mad and discouraged."

It pained Eerthy to hear him say these things, and
slie laid her hand on his (they were sitting on the
sofa) and said, " Roger, do not say there is no one to
care for you ; you have a mother," and she put great
emphasis on the word. It had always seemed to her
that to have a mother was th . acme of human bliss.
But her cousin only laughed a cold, hard laugh, such
as one hears sometimes from an old won v^- worn man,
hut seldom from a boy of nineteen. The girl drew
hack from him ; she did not understand the meaning
of that laugh, but she did not like the sound of it. It
seemed so unlike the bright, mirthful merriment that
she remembered so well.

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11!

Roger noticed the movement and the expression on
her face, and hastened to say, " My mother does not
care a straw for me. Two weeks ago I was sick, and
went where she and Geraldine have rooms, and she
scolded all the time I was there. After I went to bed
Geraldine gave me some cough medicine, but mother
never came near me, and in the moi'ning I got up and
went away. As I was going she said, if I got a situa-
tion to let her know, as she had to depend upon
Geraldine and me for her support. And she makes it
warm for Dene, I tell you. She says if she had tried
she might have been married to some rich man by
this time, and they might have had a good home.
Oh ! when I hear so much talk about ' mother-love,'
ii makes me tired. There is just as much difference
in women as there is in men, and every one knows
that all men are not good fathers."

" I do not know anything about a mother myself,"
said Berthy, " only what I have seen of Mrs. Kenyon's
love for Ray, and sometimes I have to try real hard
to keep from being jealous of her, they seem so happy
together."

" Don't mention her, if you please, as the ordinary
mother ; she is the exception, not the rule."

Roger stayed all night v/ith his uncle, and the girls
tried to persuade him to stay longer, but he said he
had promised to meet a fellow he knew at a little
town about six miles from Summerville, who had said
he could help him to make some money, and so Roger
must go, as money was the thing he most needed at
present.

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CHAPTER VII.

"IN "RLSON, AND YE CAME UNTO ME."

AS there ever a little village without a

t^ossip ? We have tried so far to

ignore their very existence ; but candor

demands that at least Mrs. Crosby be

brought into this narrative. She lived

a short distance from Hill-Crest, and although she

was never invited to call or visit at Mr. McDonell's

house, yet she contrived to go there once in a while,

as she told the girls that she believed in-being friendly.

The fact that Kathey ivas married and gone, and she

liad never suspected that there w^as a wedding on

land, would serve to double her diligence in the

future.

Aunt Elizabeth was secretly glad to have her come.

Secretly, I say, because she did not dare to say she

enjoyed her company, for fear the girls would think

her coarse and uncultured ; but when the little woman

came in and revealed some hidden skeleton from a

• *
neighbor's closet, and gave such undivided attention

to Miss Elizabeth's statements concerning things she

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wanted the people of the village to know or believe
about herself, she was particularly gratiHed, and would
say after she was gone, ' Now, Mrs. Crosby will have
something to tell : she is a very dangerous person,
and you girls nmst be careful what you say to her.
Of course I must use her well, she has such a slander-
ous tongue, and if she gets angry at anyone there is
nothing too bad for her to say."

About a week after Roger had gone from the home
of his uncle, Mrs. Crosb}^ came in one morning to
make a call, or rather to get a receipe for ginger
cookies.

Sh? was a first-class housekeeper: every part of
her work was done in the right time, with the feeling
no doubt that all the neighbors were looking critically
at her as she did at them. It behooved her, she
thought, to keep her house always ready for
inspection.

" You see," she said this morning, speaking rapidly,
" I had a most inagni/icent recipe, but Selina
Bonesteel, wluen they had them Rogers to see them
this summer, came and borrowed it, and I ran over
there this morning, while John was eating his break-
fast, to got it. Selina met me at the door (I went
around to the front for, as I told John, there was a
light there until after twelve o'clock last night, and I
thought they might have company again, so if I went
to the front door I might perhaps see who it was).
As I said, Salina met me and said, kinder short like,
that she had lost it, and shut the door bang in my
face ; and, Elizabeth Williams, would you believe it,"

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"IN PRISON, AND YE CAME UNTO ME." 121

slie continued, speaking slowly now and emphasizing
every word, " that Selina Bonesteel was all dressed up
in a netv hroion silk dress. I tell you it means
something. John said when I told him, that perhaps
her fellow, that young Rogers, was the one that was
arrei^ted and brought here to jail yesterday, he heard
his name was Rogers, any way. So I hailed the paper
boy and bought a paper from him, just to see if it
was really so," and Mrs. Crosby produced the morning
paper from the depths of her pocket, and handing it
to her friend said, " there, read the police news, and
tlien we will know all about it." She was not able
to read herself, and as Miss Elizabetli could not see
the fine print without glasses, and would not let Mrs.
(yrosby know she had to wear them, the paper was
given to Berthy to read. The two ladies could not
stop talking at once, they were "wound up," and had
to run a while before they could listen to what Berthy
liad to read to them, and it was just as well ; for wJiat
the girl saw in the police news so paralyzed her that
for a moment she could hardly see the paper, but the
women had run down now, and were waiting for her
to give them another impetus for talk. But while
they waited the sound of wheels were heard, and
springing to the window, Mrs. Crosby saw Clinton
Rogers and Selina Bonesteel flying past in a carriage,
with white veil and gloves, their smiling faces
denoting so much happiness, that . she forgot the
paper and police column and the ginger cookies
entirely, and rushed out of the house to tell Mrs.
Moore, her other neighbor, that Selina Bonesteel was

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HILL- CREST.

actually married, and she had seen her weddimj
dress, and it was brown siU\

Aunt Elizabeth was so much interested herself uhat
she ran to the front window to see -i she could get
another glimpse of the bride, but they were gone
before she could get there, and so she sat down in a
rocking chair, to rest from her unusual exertion.

Berthy was left alone. She clutched the paper in
her hand, scarcely daring to believe what her eyes so
plainly saw. " Two young men, Walter Rand and
Roger McDonell, were arrested at Domimville on
Saturday for working a wheel of fortune at the county
fair; they were fined ten dollars. Rand paid, but
McDonell was brought here and lodged in the jail."
This was what Berthy was staring at in the paper
when Aunt Elizabeth came bick into the room.

Seeing the girl still standing where she had left
her, she snatched the paper out of her hand with the
remark, " It seems to me that when you get hold of a
paper or book you don't know what you are doing.
It is a blessing that you have some one to keep you
from making such a fool of yourself as you would
like to, if you had your own way. Now, go and see
if you cannot find something to do besides
reading."

It was nothing new for Berthy to have thesu
things said to her, and at any other time they would
have been met with a re-ponse equally as sharp.
But this morning her thoughts were so much taken
up with what she had just read that her aunt's
rebuke passed unnoticed. Her only thought just

"IN PRISON, AND YE CAME UNTO ME." 123

now was, how she could keep the terrible disgrace a
secret, or how she could help her cousin out of that
dreadful place ; it made her shudder to think
of it.

She picked up the paper and went away to her
own room, and sat down to think the matter over.
Her heart seemed nearly breaking ; Roger had been
in prison all night, and whde she was sleeping in a
soft bed he was lying on a hard floor.

" Poor Roger, poor Roger ! " and her tears fell fast
as she thought of what he had said about his mother
not caring for him.

" What had he now to live for, with the disgrace of
a night spent in prison, always before him. A
night ! surely it might be many nights ; and then, like
a flash of sunlight, she thought of the ten dollars that
RDger had given her. She had it yet, and had
intended to give it to him when he was there, but
somehow she had been afraid it would hurt his
feelings.

What would she do now ? How could she get the
money into his hands ? She was pondering on the
subject when Grace came to tell her there was some-
one in the parlor who wanted to see her.

Berthy went slowly out into the dining-room, and
stopping at the glass to see how her eyes looked, heard
Aunt Elizabeth telling some one that she had more
trouble with Berthy than all the rest of the girls.
" It's all on account of her being so fond of reading.
If she could be kept from seeing a book or paper she
might, perhaps, become quite useful. Only this

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HILL-CREST.

morning she stood tor nearly half an hour with t le
morning paper in her hand, and when I felt it my
duty to remind her of the time she was spending so
foolishly she just snatched up the paper and ran into
her room, and we could hear her cry with all her
might. Oh, she is very hard to manage. I hope, if
she ever gets married, her husband will just set dow^n
his foot that he will not have a bit of reading
matter in the house. It is the only way there is of
getting any work out of her." Berthy's first impulse
was to rush in and tell the visitor what she had to
endure ; but as she opened the door and saw the
sweet face of Ray Kenyon, her tempei- cooled some-
what, and when that young lady greeted her warmly,
giving her a kiss on the cheek, and scolding her at
the same time for keeping her waiting so long,
Berthy was restored to good humor at once.

Aunt Elizabeth seemed very angry when she
promised to go and spend the day with Mrs.
Kenyon, Rachel was obliged to go away and did not
want to leave her motht^r all alone. This was her
business with Berthy, and as the two girls went away
together Aunt Elizabeth vented her wrath by saying
she guessed the Kenyon's did not amount to much or
they w^ould not be so taken up w^ith Berthy.

When Rachel had gone and Berthy and Mrs. Ken-
yon had settled themselves for an afternoon visit, the
keen eyes of the Quaker matron saw in the face and
spirit of the young girl, that there was something
amiss, and with her usual sagacity set about finding
a- way to comfort and instruct. Berthy had seemed

"IN PRISON, AND YE CAME UNTO ME." 125

I or

[n-

very happy of late, with a prospect of a chance to
study all Rachel's books an<l witli the refined com-
panionship of these worthy people. And then, too, a
bit of good luck had come to her father. About two
weeks before Kathey was married a letter had been
sent to him, enclosing a check for five hundred dollars,
saying that the person sending it owed him a debt of
gratitude, and that he should use the money and not ask
any questions. And what had surprised his youngest
daughter most was that her father insisted on her
having a good supply of clothes provided at once. Of
-course, she enjoyed this immensely, but would have
been indignant had she known that he also hinted
that she ought to be sent to school, and that Aunt
Elizabeth had used her influence to prevent it. But
she had never heard of the good fortune that had
nearly fallen into her hands, and so was very happy
with what she did receive of the timely present to her
father.

Berthy did not want her old friend to know any-
thing concerning Roger's whereabouts, for she thought
he and Rachel were more to each other than the
mother had ever suspected, and if Rachel found out

about it . Oh, it made her sick to think of it, and

it also made her so quiet and absent-minded that
afternoon that her hostess finally asked her if there
was mything the matter.

Berthy thought at first she would say there was
not, or plead a headache (that " scape goat " that is so
universally used for all the heartaches that flesh is
heir to), but when she looked in the kind, motherly

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126

HILL-CREST.

face, tliere was sometliin^ in it that made a lie impos-
sible and wrung from her unwilling lips the whole
story of Roger's crime and penalty.

Mrs, Kenyon had expected to hear some of Berthy's
own short-comings told with more than necessary
pathos, but here was something that very closely con-
cerned herself. She had not been blind to the feeling
that the young man had inspired in her daughter, but,
like the wise mother that she was, did not seem to
notice any growing sentiment between the young
people while watching the development of what
might in a few years become the turning point in
both of their lives. She had liked Roger, and had
not regretted the loss of his father's money. " For
now," she argued with herself, " he will have an op-
portunity to cultivate the talents that I am sure he
has, but having his every want supplied his energies
would never be used."

Berthy, in her characteristic way, had told Mrs.
Kenyon everything, all Roger had said about his
mother and his aimless life.

It was a revelation to that true Christian woman ;
and she thanked God in her heart that she had been
kept free from the folly of fashionable life, if it was
to rob a mother of her holiest mission — her children's
love and welfare.

" Berthy," said the Quakeress, " what thee has told
me has surprised me very much, and I do not know
what God would have me to do in this matter, or if I
could do anything ; but I will ask thee that thee will
not tell Rachel or anyone about it, and if, after taking

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''IN PRISON, AND YE CAME UNTO ME" 127

it to God in prayer, I can see any way I can help the
poor lad I am wilHnjjf to follow it. It is a very sad affair,
and one a woman can hardlv deal with." She looked
at the little brass clock on the mantle, and said, in
a husiness-like tone of voice, '" Rachel will be home in
an hour, and if thee will leave me alone now, I will
be prepared by that time to say what can or cannot
be done for the V)oy."

There was no choice for Berth} but to bid her friend
good-bye, and take herself back to her home. She felt
(juite certain that the conscientious Quakeress would
devise some plan for the release of her unfortunate
cousin. She knew by wliat she had read in the paper
that money would be all that was necessary to get
him clear ; but she had not made this known to Mrs.
Kenyon, so that lady did not understand fully what
would be required ; but, with the habit she had formed
early in life of taking all matters to God in prayer,
she went to her room as soon as Berthy was gone and,
kneeling at her bed-side, asked her 'wise Counsellor
what she could do for this worse-than, motherless boy.
She felt as she bowed there a great love coming into
her heart for the erring one. She felt almost a
mother's eagerness that this hour of affliction might
be to him an awakening of thoughts that would lead
to his soul's salvation. While she prayed there came
to her mind thoughts of her own boy, who was sleep-
ing now in Peace Cemetery, and she gave a little
start as she remembered that to-day was the anniver-
sary of his birthday, and if he were living he would
be twenty — just about Roger's age. Some friends

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bll.L-CltESt.

had said to lier wlien he died, that perhaps he was
.saved from something worse than death, but the fond
mother could not believe that any harm could ever
come to her l)e loved bal)y with her protecting care
always about him; she knew less of the world then
than now, and she thought as she looked at her angel
child so still and white in his little casket that no-
thing could ever reconcile her to his loss ; but now, aftei*
a lapse of eighteen years, she bowed her head to God's
will, and thanked Him fervently for taking the
" sweet innocent " to himself when He did. It was a
consoling thought that he was in heaven now, safe
from sin or temptation.

When she arose from her knees there was in her
heart an overwhelming desire to do something for the
young man in so forlorn a condition. But this good
woman did not exactly know what to do. As she sat
down in the low chair by the little work table, the Bible
that was always lying there caught her eye, and she
opened it with the same spirit that had actuated her
when she prayed for guidance, just saying as she took
the precious book into her hand, " Speak, Lord, for thy
servant heareth." As the words of the twenty-fifth
chapter of Matthew met her gaze she wondered if she
was a wise or foolish virgin, and then read on to the
parable of the talents, and asked God in her heart
to help her to use ber's aright. This was one of
her favorite chapters, and she had nearly forgotten
the purpose for which she had taken up the book,
when her eyes suddenly came to the appro'priate
words, " I was in prison, and ye came unto me," Here

"IN PRISON, AN1) YE (.'AME UNTO ME."

129

was the ineHHa^c : it was tlu' voice of the Master, she
flared not di.sohey, and a.s she sat there with the hook
in her hand her (hin^hter came infco the room.

" What, mother, are you all alone ^ Where is
Berthy i "

"Oh! she went home some time a^o, hut I have
heen reading, and have not been lonely."

And then Rachel began telling her mother how
Fortunate she had l)een to secure the promise of a
department in the village school to teach for the com-
ing winter. Her mother was sincerely thankful for
this, and they sat down to their supper with minds
at rest as to the means of the income which it was
necessary to provide.

They had scarcely finished eating when, with a light
tap on the sitting room door, Berthy came smilingly
in and took a seat with them.

" You naughty girl," said Rachel, " why did you run
away before I came home ? I have a notion now not
to tell you what good luck I have ' had this after-
noon."

" Do not blame Berthy," said Mrs. Kenyon, smiling
at her daughter's saucy face, " it was my fault, I think.
I wanted to read, and so perhaps was not very good
company."

Berthy saw that Rachel did not know anything
about their afternoon talk, and thought it best that
she should be kept in ignorance as to the cause of it,
as long as possible ; and so she began to ask her ques-
tions concerning her school. They chatted on for
an hour, to all appearances free from any thought

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HILL-CUE^sT.

beside what they were HtiyiM^, hut Bei*thy\s heart wns
heavy all the time, thiiikinj)^ of the inmate of one cell
of the county jail.

Before she went home Mrs. Kenyon took theoj)|)or-
tunity (while Rachel ran up stairs to ^vt a hook to
show Berthy) to say that she herself would <;o to the
jail in the morninf^ and have a talk with Roger.
Berthy was very grateful, and shipped into her hand
the ten dollar bill, done up in a little package, with her
own name written on it. She i.ad no time to give
her friend any message for him, as Rachel that minute
came back into the room, and after a little more talk,
she bade her friends good-bye and went home.

The next morning about ten o'clock, as Grace was
out sweeping off the walk she said to Berthy, " Just
look at Mrs. Kenyon going down street. I never saw
her look so * Quakery ' as she does this morning, all
in grey." And as Berthy looked out, she thought so
too, but knew perfectly well why she had taken the
pains to appear a little more prim, for did she not
realize that the errand she was on demanded the
recommendation of that quiet garb ?

Mrs. Kenyon did not see the girls, but walked on
briskly until she came to the large iron gate that
closed the yard surrounding the county buildings.
It had always been a part of the town that she had
carefully avoided. It made her sad to look at those
barred windows, and think that anyone was kept
here away from liberty ; but now, as she neared the
place, although in no hurry to view the misery she
expected to see inside, she was, nevertheless, anxious

"IN PRISON, AND YE CAME UNTO ME." 131

to ^o on her way nnd carry vvlmt consolation she*
could to him she had come to cond'ort and advise.

When she made known hei* errand to the man in
charge^ she was handed over to the turnkey, who
received her very politely, and led the way to the
inner court He was a tai", tinely-huilt youn^ man,
and as he walked before Mrs. Kenyon throuMj the
lontr, narrow passa^^e that separated the court-house
from the outer door of the jail, she could Uv.^t hut
notice how proudly he carried himself, with his
shoulders thrown hack and head ercict. She wondei'ed
if this was so respcmsihle and exalted a position that
he could possibly feel the dignity of it enough to
cause that coii .cious importance. But when, with a
great clanging of keys and unbolting of bars, they
were at last admitted into the corridor, and she had
time to witness the shrinking servitude of the men
and l)oys that were there, she did not wonder that
this young official felt his position as one of personal
honor, seeing so many submitting daily to his
authority.

Roger was in his cell. Although the door was
open he did not care to come out and mingle with the
others, some ot. whom had been there before so many
times that they did not mind the confinement, and
had ceased to care for the disgrace.

He was lying on his couch, but sprang up as the
turnkey slapped him on the shoulder and said in a
sharp voice, " Here, young man, is a lady come to see
you." Mrs. Kenyon was trembling violently. When
she entered the prison-door it seemed so strange that

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HILL-CREST, f

she should be in such a place at all, and stranger still,
that she had come to see 'i young man whom a lew
months before sh^ had invited to her house as an
equal in social standing with her own family ; and
when she saw him now, in that little dark hole, it
seemed to her that what strength she had summoned
to her aid would utterly forsake her.

Roger was the first to speak. He had learned a
good many things since he had been here. On Sun-
day a minister and some young men from a Christian
society had come to the jail, and had sung and prayed
with the prisoners. Roger, at home, had been taught
to believe that all a preacher wanted was money and
popularity, and as he knew very well that there was
neither of these to be found in this place he was
beginning to learn that there were other motives
deeper and more sacred. So he was not so much
surprised to see this little Quaker woman standing in
his cell as she was to find herself there, and yet he
would rather have had almost anyone else see his
misfortune than the mother of Rachel. He thought
that she, too, knew of his disgrace, and had perhaps
asked her mother to come. The thought cut his pride
like the sharp edge of a knife, but he would not seem
ungrateful, and so he held out his hand to her, and
said in a choking voice, " You are very kind to come
and see a poor fellow like me."

As Mrs. Kenyon took his hand in hers and sat
down on the hard couch by his side all her embarrass-
ment left her, and she talked to him freely of the
situation, listening patientij to the story that sounded

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"IN PRISON, AND YE CAME UNTO ME."

133

SO reasonable. He had all his life seen these different
modes of gambling used at public gatherings; had
heard people say that there was a law against them,
but it was .never enforced, and perhaps it would not
have been in his case, but some young farmer, who
wanted to make a " haul," as he expressed it, had bet
heavily on the turn of the wheel. Fortune had gone
against him, and so out of revenge he had suddenly
become wonderfully conscientious, saying, " That this
sort of lawlessness ought to be punished." Therefore
the wheel-of-fortune boys were handed over to the
proper authorities, with what result we already know.

Roger had acknowledged his part in the affair, but
did not tell his friend how sorely he needed the
money that he expected to make out of the transac-
tion, nor did he mention how his partner had paid
his own fine and gone on, leaving him to serve out
his time in prison.

After they had talked over the misfortune, and
Mrs. Kenyon had heard and sympathized with all
that Roger had to te?l her, she took out her little
Bible, and said in her sweetest tone, " Now we will
try and find out in what way God is using this cir-
cumstance to bring a blessing to thee. For, of course,
thou and I know we are children of a wise Father,
and he never does anything without a purpose, and
though it seems to us now, there is nothing in this
hut dire aflfliction, yet it is done to benefit us in some
way. We will first seek the cause, and then prayer-
fully accept tlie lesson." And opening the Book at
the 69th Psalm, she read of David's affliction. As

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134

HILL- CREST.

she read the eighth verse, " I am become a stranger
unto my brethren, and an alien unto my mother's
children," Roger buried his face in his hands, and his
whole frame shook with intense emotion.

She read on until the twentieth verse, " Reproach
hath broken my heart, and I am full of heaviness. I
looked for some to take pity but there was none, and
for comforters but I found none."

Then turning to the one hundred and third Psalm
she read the encouraging words written there in a
cheerful voice, at the same time smoothing the curly
locks of the bowed heal with her soft hand, saying,
when she was through, " This is what God intends
you to receive. Remember the words : ' Like as a
father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them
that fear him.' Those that fear and love God are his
own children, and he will take care that no harm
comes to them, or any trouble that He will not give
them grace to bear."

They sat in silence for some time, and then Roger
raised his head and looked into the face of the woman
by his side. " Do you think if I prayed to God He
would hear me and make me as good a Christian as
you are ? " he said, speaking so earnestly that it
thrilled her heart with pity.

"Yes, yes ,a better Christian, a more useful one. A
young man like thee, with bright talents, and good
health and a finished education, what might thee not
hope to do for Christ, besides merely being saved thy-
self r

"Oh!" said Roger, "if I could only save myself

IN PRISON, AND YE CAME UNTO ME.

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135

from ever committing any more sin and keep clear of
ba<l company, and — and — "he said, " if I only had a
friend or money to help me, then I would have some-
thing worth living for, but the way seems so dark."
And he dropped his head in his hands again

" Thee cannot save thyself, but if thee will look to
Christ and trust in Him, He will be the best friend
to thee."

She intended to pray with the penitent once before
she went, but just then the turnkey made his appear-
ance, again telling them that the time was up, and
stood there rattling his bunch of keys, while Mrs.
Kenyon bade Roger good-bye and put into his hand
the package that Berthy had given her for him, and
in another moment she was out in the yard. She was
crying softly, and as the official was leaving her he
said, " It is too bad the chap can't raise the money to
pay his fine. He could soon earn it if he once got
out."

Mrs. Kenyon turned an enquiring face on the man,
and he saw that she did not fully understand what
lie meant, for she said : " I thought he was put in for
the crime of gambling!"

" So he was, Mrs., but you see if he had the money,
ten dollars, as the other fellow had, he could have
paid his fine and he need not have come here. '

" So he was put in prison for his poverty, not for

lis cnme

" Well — not exactly that," said the man getting
very red in the face. " Of course that is the law, ten

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136

HILL- CREST.

!fl|

dollars tine or sixty days' imprisonment. He had no
money, so he had to be sent up."

" Poor boy ! No money, no friends," said Mrs.
Kenyon, at the same time taking out her little pocket-
book and giving to the official the required ten dollars.
" Here, pay the fine and let him go, but it does seem a
queer way to raise the moral standard of* a com-
munity."

When Roger was left alone it did seem to him that
his burdens were greater than he could bear. He
threw himself on his bed, if a prison cot can be called
by so respectable a name, and gave an almost heart-
broken wail. He realized for the first time that what
he had lacked all his life was the Christian influence
of a good mother. How well he remembered that the
boys used to say to him, " I tell you, McDonell, you
have got the right kind of an old woman at your
house. She is not forever worrying about your long
goings and short comings, like ours." And he had
thought himself it was kind of jolly that she let him
have his own way so much. But now he knew if she
had loved him as she ought she would have been
anxious on his account, as any fond mother is ; and
now that he was in trouble, how sweet it would be to
feel her caressing hand on his head as he had felt the
hand of that blessed old woman as she sat by his side.
There was a great diflference between these two
women, and it suddenly dawned on his mind that
it was the love of God in the heart of one and the
love of the world in the heart of the other that made
the difference

ini
ibe
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Ihat
the
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"IN PRISON, AND YE CAME UNTO ME." 137

All the afternoon Roger wrestled with himself, the
conviction growing stronger in him each moment that
he ought to make a complete surrender of his will to
the will of God. As the shadows began to creep into
the corner of the old jail and the last ray of sunlight,
fade away it seemed his life was going out forever,
and falling on his knees in his darkened cell he cried
to God for mercy and forgiveness in so contrite a
heart and voice that the angels at the throne of
heaven must have heard and bewailed his agony.
Half the night his soul was bowed before God in
humble submission ; but at last a great peace came to
him, and he felt his prayers had been answered, and
he lay down on his couch to rest in the consciousness
that there was before him a new life opening. And
he was comforted in the thought that henceforth he
was God's child, and as his eyes closed in sleep the
last words he thought of were those of the Psalm :
" Like as a father pitieth his children."

As the morning sun peeped through the grated
window of the prison and shone into cell No. 4 it lit
up with a halo the curly locks of hair that lay on the
peaceful sleeping brow of Roger McDonell, and there
we will leave him for the present.

Mil

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CHAPTER VIII.

IN DENVER.

HEN we last saw Charley Montgomery
he was on his way to claim relationship
with an old man whom he had never
seen. It seemed a very proper thing
to do, however, as this friendless uncle
of his needed his companionship, and if he liked him
and would help him to pursue his studies by the aid
of the money he was reported to have such an abund-
ance of there would be in reality mutual benefit.

As he entered the depot on the day and hour desig-
nated in his last letter the first face he saw was that
of Josh Smith. It was well that he knew the features,
for his appearance was so changed that I think there
were times when Joshua himself found it difficult to
recognize in the well-dressed and stylish gentleman
the shabby-genteel individual of Summer ville noto-
riety. Certain it was that, although he never for a
moment was ashamed of the name of Smith, he
declared he had long been disgusted with the old-
fashioned cognomen of Joshua, and begged his friends

IN DENVER.

139

to call him Tlieodore instead. So wlieii Charley met his
friend and was handed a card, bearing the inscription
on its smoothly polished surface, "Theodore J. Sndth,
Esq.," he grasped the situation and Theodore's hand
at the same time and said, " I am glad to see you, Mr.
Smith." A carriage and span of glossy black horses
were in waiting to take them to the residence of John
Montgomery, a beautiful brown-stone house in the
vicinity of Highland Park. Its solid grandeur told of
the wealth of the retired inmate.

As he was shown into tlio broad hall a servant met
him with the request that he would go at once to her
master's room. Charley demurred at this, as he was
dusty and scarcely felt that he was presentab^3 in a
gentleman's drawing room ; but the woman came
close to him and said in a whisper, " You had better
go just as you are, he is very odd and may not like
to be kept waiting." In the carriage Theodore had
said to him, " You will find the old man very odd."
But as he did not say any more, Charley had entirely
forgotten it, until he got this reminder from the
woman at the door. So he stopped for a moment at
the mirror resting on the hands of a marble cherub
in the hall, brushed his hair, and then signified to the
servant his readiness to be led in to meet his august
relative.

The room occupied at present by Mr. Montgomery,
senior, was at the very back of the house, but on the
ground floor. There was a long hall almost as dark
as night and several richly furnished rooms through
which to pass. At last a large baize-covered door

.,1' it!

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140

HILL-CREST.

was carefully opened, and a rush of sunlight revealed
to the young man the interior of his uncle's private
apartment. Reclining on a sofa was an old man,
probalply seventy-five years of age, and in another
part of the room, sitting in a stiff high-backed chair,
was a younger man. They were both dressed in
black, and seemed very much excited about some-
thing at the moment the visitor entered. The woman
that had shown Mr. Montgomery into the i-oom closed
the door behind him, and retired saying not a word.
It was a very embarrassing position for a stranger,
and Charley felt just a little vexed at being used in
this way. To be ushered into this elegantly furnished
parlor without having time given him to prepare a
suitable toilet, and to be left standing in the middle
of the floor without so much as an introduction
seemed to him as though he was being treated as
an intruder, and he was ready to resent it.

" I beg your pardon," he said, addressing the elder
man, " I understood this was the apartment of John
Montgomery, am I right ? "

" You are, sir, and is this Charles Montgomery ? "
" It is," said Charley, " at your service."
" Humph 1 " said his uncle, " sit down until I look
at you," at the same time shoving a chair toward him
with his foot.

It was all so strange a proceeding that it became
ludicrous, and Charley laughed as he took his seat
preparatory to being looked at.

" Does my personal appearance have anything to
do with my identity," he said good humoredly.

IN DENVER.

141

" No, not your personal appearance, perhaps," was
the gruff answer, " but your personal inclinations
have got a sight to do with nie ; and I may as well
tell you at once that if what I have heard about you
of late is true I will have nothing to do with you, if
you are my brother's son."

" And what have you heard, may I ask ? " said
Charley, his face reddening at the implied insult.

" Well, I have heard that you were studying to be
a preacher, and if that is so you will have to give it
up, that is all," he said, modifying his first assertion
somewhat.

" Well, you have heard the exact truth, I have been
studying now for two years, and in another year I
shall be ordained. If my life is spared it will be
devoted to this work, and I trust that nothing will
prevent my finishing the course I have mapped out."
He said it in a proud, independent manner, as one
who liad no idea of changing his mind or purpose.

The old man arose from his seat on the sofa and
stood before his nephew, his tall form bent forward
and his keen black eyes shining with suppressed
passion.

" Do you mean by that, that you will not give up
preaching for anything I can offer ? Do you realise
what you are throwing away ? "

" This is not the first time in my life that I have
been tempted with gold, a "»d I say to you now what
I have said before, that no mere worldliness can
tempt me to disobey the call of the Gospel."

" Bosh," said the old man, " I hate preachers, and I

i>i

14^

hill-crest,

lil

hate the churches, and I hate everything." He threw
himself back in a big chair, and unbuttoned his coat
and vest, and breathed hard, as tliougli liis last
remark ha<l somehow smotliered him. Charley felt
a growing pity for the man, here in his old age
saying he hated everything, and he looked at the
other gentleman in an inquiring way, which made
him feel that he was called upon for an explanation
the old gentleman did not seemed inclined to give.

" You see, sir, my friend here has very peculiar
views in regard to religion," said that gentleman in a
smooth low voice. " and we were speaking before you
came in concerning your profession. It seems that
Theodore did not mention it when he was telling Mr.
Montgomery about you. You say you have not been
ordained yet; now, let me advise a compromise."

Charley by this time surmised that the man was
Richard Raymond, the lawyer, and he was right.
He had been the friend and business manager of
John Montgomery for the last ten years, and had got
along with the peculiar, passi6nate old man as no one
else had been able to do. When the latter heard that
his only brother's son was alive and would come and
live with him he was delighted, but he gave Mr. Ray-
mond to understand that his business would still be
in his hands as formerly.

When the shrewd lawyer advised a compromise it
was only to give the younger man a hint to leave the
subject of contention out of the question for a while,
for it was very plain that his uncle could not live long,
and with the possession of the immense wealth he would

((

IN DENVER.

143

the

undoubtedly receive lie could then pursue whatever
he cliOHe. He evidently did not know Charley in
thinking he could prevaricate in any way. The young
preacher did not seem to notice the remark of Mr.
Raymond about a compromise, but was very anxious
concerning the condition ot* the infuriated old
man.

" I should be glad," said the lawyer, arising and
throwing open the window, "to be able to see you
at peace on this point, for I think you could be of
great help and comfort to each other, and the subject
at issue is too trifling a one to cause a rupture of
friendship, not to say a severing of relationship."

" It is no trifling subject to me," said John
Montgomery, his breath coming easier, " I have been
imposed upon and cheated and robbed by Christians
all my life. This city is full now of rascally
preachers, going around building high churches
and begging for the poor, and putting the money in
their own pockets, the lazy scoundrels." Charley
knew there was no use in arguing, for the man was
not in the mood to listen to reason, so he sat
silent.

" How did it ever happen that you thought of being
a preacher ? " and his uncle's voice sounded a little
more composed, but still scornful.

How gladly at any other time, in a more congenial
company, would Charley Montgomery have told how
he had heard the call, and how successful he had been
in the little time he had devoted to this work. Had
not his friend Harold said to him that he did not

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144

HILL- CREST.

>l "

);. :?J

understand true religion, until he saw him in the
miserable .home of the Smith's? He could count a
score of young men that ha<l accepted Christ through
his instrumentality. Did lu; want any better proof
that he nnist continue in the way which the Lord had
marked out for him ^ Of course there were times
when the way seemed closed up, but he had always
found that it was his own fault in something he had
done or said in an unguarded moment that had caused
what he was sometimes tempted to attribute to divine
Providence.

With the sceptical sneering face of his uncle so near
him waiting for a reply to his own impudent question,
he did not purpose to lay himself open to further
ridicule, so he arose to his feet in a calm, dignified
manner and said, " It is my calling, that is all."
There was something in the tone he used that
forbade further (juestionings, and, he continued,
addressing his uncle, '* I believe there is no use of
prolonging this interview. I am free to say we
have both been disappointed ; you have probably
been to great expense oking me up, and I have

lost an opportunit" ,vork in coming here, which

I will not be likely oo get again ; but we both have
lived long enough to know that life is made up of
just such vicissitudes, so we can only make the
best of this experience, and profit by its lesson if
possible." And turning to the lawyer he said, in
the same calm voice, " Will you please ring for
some one to show me out ? " There was a tone of
command and settled purpose in the request, that.

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m DENVER.

145

jilthou^li trivial, must be obuycMl, and nce()r<lin<^ly a
woman soon appeared to take tlie youn^" man ont
of the houHe, wiiicK he lia<l entered less than an
hour before with tlu^ feeHn<^ that it was to be his
liome for tht^ future. He did not spend a moment
in biddinjj^ his ii^exl relative ^ood-bye, but just
bowed himself out in the same way he would have
done from the presence of a mere stran<i^er ; and in
a few minutes mon^ was on the street.

The afternoon was far spent, an<l as Charley
found himself standing' alone in that strange city
a feeling of utter desolation took possession of him.
He had not been prepared for any such calamity as
this. To come here and be companion to his father's
only brother had been all he had thought of. Now,
here he was among perfect strangers, no place to go,
and with scarcely any money.

To do him justice he had not thought of himself
while his uncle was berating the religion he professed,
but now as he had time to consider his situation he
found it very discouraging indeed.

He stood for a few moments looking up and down
the street; here and there a light flashed out>
warning him of the approach of night. Where would
he go, what would he do ? He now remembered
that perhaps the servants would see him standing
there and wonder at it ; so he walked away, thinking
how very surprised they looked when he came out.
But he had no time to think of these insignificant
matters ; the question was, " What shall I do to get a
living here, and where shall I stay to-night ^ " As h*^

146

HILL- CREST.

thought of this he drew from his pocket the last of
his money, only two or threo dollars, which would
soon disappear ; but he would not despair, the text
came to him almost like a human voice, " I will never
leave thee, nor forsake thee." He strode on the length
of one block, and had just turned the corner, when he
heard his name called, and turni g hastily saw, a few
steps behind him, his uncle's lawyer.

As that gentleman overtook him he said, good
naturedly, " You are a very fast walker ; I have almost
had to run to keep up with you. I want you to come
with me to my home, where we can talk this matter
over without the fear of interruption. Your uncle is
a very queer old man, but very good at heart, and I
think if you could thoroughly understand each other,
there would be no difficulty at all between you. Of
course, you will both have to give up some personal
preferences, but that is always expected in a case of
comradeship. For instance, you have set your mind
on making the ministry your calling in life, and your
uncle does not approve of it ; on the other hand, he is
very much prejudiced against religion in general.
My advice to both of you would be, for you to give
up the study of the gospel, and for Mr. Montgomery
to respect your feelings in regard to your duty as a
private member of a church, and as time goes on
you wi/I be more likely to come into the same
way of thinking than if either of you adhered to
youi- own personal views."

*' Yes," said Charlie, " we should in that way, as
you say, be very likely to have the same views, but

hu]

his

moi

had

and

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IN DENVER.

147

which do you think would be the more apt to kad
the other ? "

Mr. Eaymond did not like this way of putting it,
but he was too agreeable to appear to notice the
reproof of his companion's remark, and very adroitly
turned the subject.

At this moment they reached his door. As he rang
the bell, a smile lit up his naturally grave face, and
he said, in a rather apologetic tone, '' My family do
not expect anyone with me, and you must excuse any
confusion you may have to encounter." It was well
he mentioned it as he did, for at that moment the
door was thrown open, and a boy and girl and dog
all rushed into his arms at once. " Oh, papa, Paddy is
home ! Paddy is home ! " the children both screamed
at once, the dog in the meanwhile trying to drown
their voices with his own loud bark. Mr. Raymond
pushed and carried the trio into the house, laughing,
perhaps, more at the expression on Mr. Montgomery's
face than at any joy he might feel at the return of
the said " Paddy." , As soon, however, as the young
people realized that a stranger was present they
betook themselves into the back parlor, and Mr.
Raymond conducted his friend upstairs and showed
him into an elegantly appointed chamber, telling him
to make himself as much at home as possible, and
hurried away downstairs, just as Charley discovered
his own large travelling trunk. He stood for a
moment perplexed, but quickly remembered that he
had left it standing in the hall at his uncle's house,
and had forgotten to order it to be removed, and when

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HILL-CREST.

ilT:

Mr. Raymond had invited him to his home he had
probably seen to it that his belongings were sent with
him. Without any more speculation, Charley pro-
ceeded to dress himself in the line suit of black
he had bought when he decided to come to Denver.
He sighed now as he put it on, for he regretted this
expenditure, since his present position was sc» different
from what he had anticipated. When he was dressed,
however, with a change of clean linen, the effect was
so gratifying that he would have been more than
human not to have been pleased with his personal
appearance. As he went downstairs, his host met
him in the hall, and said, with a mischievous twinkle
in his eye, " You found everything all right, did you ? "

" Yes," said Charley ; " I was surprised that you
had my trunk sent here, for I confess I had forgotten
it myself, and was very glad to get something I
needed out of it."

" Well, I thought it would be a little time before
we could settle this business of yours, and in the
meantime I wanted you near me, and I thought you
might perhaps have in your trunk a sermon or two
which would prevent your uncle from sleeping if he
knew they were in his house."

They both laughed as they entered the parlor,
where they found Mrs. Raymond and her two daugh-
ters and niece talking gaily on some interesting
theme. As Mr. Raymond presented Mr. Montgomery
to his wife he noticed what an elegant-looking
woman she was, and how proud her husband seemed
to be of her.

his

IN DENVER.

149

She was some years younger than he. Her silvery-
gray hair was rolled in a high puff' above a broad,
intellectual forehead. She had a sweet, cheerful expres-
sion in lier face that won her way to a stranger's
heart at once. Her daughters were two beautiful girls
in their teens, and the niece, who looked like her aunt,
w^as also a very handsome young lady. Altogether
they formed a delightful company. There w^as no con-
fused silence after the gentlemen entered. The ladies
invited Mr. Montgomery into their conversation by
asking him which he thought was nicer for a gradu-
ating dress, Japanese silk or Swiss muslin. Of course
Charley gave his advice in a way that he knew would
cause them to laugh at his ignorance of the entire
subject. Miss Maud Raymond had graduated the
year before and Ethel would graduate this year, so
the matter of a suitable dress was of great importance
to them. Just here dinner was announced. Mr.
Raymond offered his arm to his niece, Charley took
Mrs. Raymond, and the girls foUow'ed, talking wi Ji
each other still about the dress. How" pleasant it all
seemed to him, and how different his legal friend
appeared here, in the genial atmosphere of his own
home, from what he had supposed him to be when
he first saw him sitting in that stiff-backed chair at
his uncle's house.

After the meal was over and the ladies had gone
back into the parlor, Mr. Raymond asked his guest
into the library, that they might talk freely on the
subject that brought them together.

" Now," said the lawyer, as soon as they were

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150

HILL-CREST.

seated in tlie cosy room, " we may as well look at
the matter squarely. Your uncle cannot live long.
I would not say this to you in this way if I had
reason to believe that there was any love between
you, but I know you are comparative strangers."
Charley knew this, too, and could not take exception
to the lawyer's words ; still it seemed a cold-blooded
transaction to sit there and discuss the old man's
length of days ; but he bowed assent, and his legal
adviser continued. " He has changed his will at least
five times. Once it was to a college that he was
going to leave his money, and then for some reason
he decided to change it, and leave it to endow a public
library to be called by his name; then a charity home
received his sympathies for a short time, and the
document was made in their favor ; again, just before
you came, he gave a large sum to one of the churches
for the purchase of a chime of bells, and intended to
leave the same denomination the balance of his
wealth. Then he heard that one of the trustees had
inquired of his physician how long he was going to
live, and, of course, he was mad at once, and changed
the will in your favor ; and I suppose it will have to
be changed again to-morrow, unless you succeed in
making friends with him."

Mr. Raymond waited for Charley to speak, but
after a few moment's pause he resumed by saying,
" He is, of course, a very obstinate old man, and it will
take a great deal of thoughtfulness on your part to
y "ng about a reconciliation, after what transpired
tg-day. What is your plan ? "

IN DENVER.

151

bo
id

to
ed

*' I have not formed any plan at all. What has
occupied my thoughts most of the time since I left
his house, was whether I had better stay here and
try to get work or to go directly back."

" Oh, nonsense, nonsense," said his companion, you
have no idea how wealthy your uncle is. It is well
worth taking a little trouble for ; but, as I say, he is
peculiar, and will have to be managed carefully. I
suppose you thought showing him your independent
spirit would bring him to terms, but pardon me if
I tell you that I do not think it was e:.:ictly the best
plan with him, though with s^me men it would have
done."

" Mr. Raymond," said Charley, leaning towards
him with a flushed face, " let us thoroughly under-
stand each other before we go any farther. My uncle
said plainly that he hated churches and preachers
and would have nothing to do with them. And I, for
my part, have decided to make the Church my life
work, and all he can say or offer will not shake
my determination or change my purpose in the
least. . And as I have reason to believe he will not
alter his views any, I cannot see how a reconcilia-
tion is going to be brought about."

" You do not pretend to say that you will absolutely
throw up all hopes of your uncle's money for the
sake of preaching the gospel ? " and the lawyer stared
at the young man as if he were a natural curiosity.
. "I mean that identical thing,'' said Charley, setting
his lips firmly together. There was silence for a few
minutes, for this was something new for his lawyer-

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152

HILL-CREST.

ship. Money liad been his own aim in life, and
though he now possessed many tliinti^s tliat money could
not buy, still he considered it was one ot* the most im-
portant agencies for the promotion of happiness, and
could not understand why anyone in his senses could
put so insignificant a thing as religious preference in
the way of the vast wealth of which this young man
was so nearly in possession.

" There is just one thing that would tempt me to
make another appeal to my uncle, and that is if I
thought I might be of any use to him. It is a very
sad thing to see a man of his age crying out against
all foims of religion and churches, when he will be
called upon so soon to try their realities. I do not
remember my father very plainly, for I was only ten
years old when he died, but theru was something in
the voice and manner of my uncle that reminded me
of hiui, and has saddened me ever since."

" Well," said Mr. Raymond, brightening up at this
concession from his companion, " that is just what I
said. If you would give up to your uncle's way of
thinking, until you got into his good graces, you
might be able to do him a great deal of good, and for
yourself perhaps find a true friend.

" Yes, I might, as you say, make for myself a good
friend and benefactor, and if he would remember me
in his will it would be indeed a good thing for me ;
but I am afraid that leaning toward his views would
do iiie and the cause I represent more harm than his
money could balance."

"I don't believe I understand you clearly. I

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IN DENVER,

153

supposed when you stood up so manfully for religion
this afternoon that you did it to test your uncle's love
for you, or to make him feel a sort of reverence for
your opinion, but now when I hear you weighing his
money against your prospects as a preacher it seems
to me ludicrous ; you must realiz*^ that the income
from your uncle's estate is more than thrice the
amount of any clergyman's salary in this country."

Mr. Raymond arose as he spoke, and thrusting his
hands into his pockets strode rapidly up and down the
room in a most excited manner. " And," he continued,
as he came to a halt in front of this improvident
young man, " if after his death you cared to make
for yourself a name as a minister or a philanthropist,
what an excellent opportunity you would then
have."

This last sentence stung Charley into almost
uncontrollable anger. " I can see, Mr. Raymond, that
you do not understand me yet, if you think for a
moment that I have chosen this profession for the
sake of popularity. It has been very far from my
thoughts ; but I can excuse you on the ground that
you first made my acquaintance as a fortune-seeker,
and I will explain right here that I received your
letter at a time when I was smarting under a deep
disappointment and was pining for a change. So I
. gladly caught at the opportunity it offered of putting
a number of miles between myself and the existing
surroundings. I hope you will give me the credi^, at
least, of being truthful, when I say to you that I did
not give the money a thought, but did feel that I
U

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154

HILL CREST.

would perhaps have the comforts of a home. But,
how much I regret coming here and losing the place
I was in (which, though not very lucrative, was at
least independent) God and myself only know." He,
too, was standing as he said this to the lawyer, and
his fine voice and earnest manner gave an expres-
sion of determination to his words that made
further argument seem out of the question.

" When I said just now," he continued, " that I
might be of some use to my uncle, I had no thought
of bringing down my standard of principle, for I
think he has seen too much of that, and it has
helped to make a sceptic of him. When Christians
say in church that the world cannot offer anything to
compare with the riches of the Gospel, and the next
day sell their birth-right for a mess of pottage, they
prove one of two things, that there is no God, or that
they have never known him, and are merely repeat-
ing what they have heard some one else say."

Mr. Raymond could not but confess to himself that
his young friend's place was in the pulpit. But this
matter of reconciliation with the uncle was his
business, and he must see to it.

So he took his seat again and said, " You are
right when you say the poor old man has been
made a sceptic by half-hearted Christians. There
is a point right here that a great many good people
lose sight of, and that is, that the rich see more of
the bad side of humanity than they do of the good ;
they never need charity, and therefore they never get
a sight of its beauty.

'iill

IN DENVER.

t " "
loo

"If they are treated kindly by anyone it is gener-
ally followed by a request for help of some kind, and
if they do give anything to the poor or unfortunate
it is not received very gratefully, from the fact that
the recipient knew that it did not require any self-
denial on the part of the donor. How often you
hear it said of such gifts, ' Oh ! they did not feel it ;
they could have given twice as much if they had
wanted to.' Do you see ? " said Mr. Raymond, looking
his companion sharply in the face, as if he would
compel him to see as he did, " I suppose it is the price
that mortal men have to pay for their luck in getting
so much of the desired dust."

It seemed now that these two men were better
friends since they had shown to each other some of
their own convictions of conscience, but they were
no nearer an agreement than before they entered the
library. Just at this moment Lulu put in her curly
golden head and said, in her sweet, baby voice: " The
two hours are up, and now yon must come and play
chess with cousin Blanche ; you know you promised,
and she is waiting for you."

Mr. Raymond was the father of his family in an
instant. The sight of that chubby, dimpled face
could drive out of his mind at any time the most
intricate legal question. He caught the little girl in
his arms and kissed her passionately, and turning to
Charley, said proudly, " I tell you, Montgomery, there
are things in this hard, old world that are dearer than
gold." to which his friend bowed assent as they
entered the parlor.

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HILL-CREST.

It was a custom in the Raymond household to
spend an hour in the latter part of the evening
together, and while Mr. Raymond and Miss Blanche
played chess, Mr. Montgomery found himself very
well entertained by tlie other members of the family.
Little Dick, or " Richard the Second," as his sisters
called him, told the guest how Paddy the dog had ran
away, and his father had found him down the street
and sent him home. And Lulu explained that his
name was Padreweska, and they called him Paddy
for short, and said he belonged to her uncle who was
now dead, and that was why they all loved him so
much. They were a pleasant, intelligent family, and
as Charley looked at the smooth-faced lawyer, sitting
there seemingly so absorbed in that innocent amuse-
ment, his wife near him and his children there, all
enjoying the peace and blessedness of this delightful
home, it occurred to him that here was an incentive
to work which many men lacked. Men in this
position sometimes soothe their consciences with the
thought that if the greed for gain does seem to be a
mania with them, the way they are using it, in
bringing so much comfort to those dependent on
them, is a good excuse for its indulgence.

The next morning as Charley was leaving the
dining-room Mr. Raymond said to him, " I have my
phaeton at the door, would you like to go for a drive
with me ? It is a nice morning, and a good time for
you to see more of the city."

Charley thanked him, and in a few moments they
were moving along the streets behind a swift pair

IN DENVER.

157

of handsome chestnut horses. Mr. Raymond himself
hohling the reins and enjoying the praise that Mont-
gomery was bestowing on the span of well-kept
trotters. He was an active, industrious man, and
when he went out for pleasure he did not want any
one to drive his horses but himself. He had intended
when he started out that morning, to have a further
talk with Charley concerning his prospects, and if he
found him relenting toward his uncle they would then
drive around to the old man's residence, and perhaps
be able to fix up matters between them without any
more delay. Mr. Raymond knew John Montgomery
thoroughly (or thought he did), and was convinced
that the " giving-in " would have to be on the part of
his nephew ; so he had taken this drive with the
intention of talking over the young man, if possible,
to be more amenable to his uncle's views.

They whirled along the avenue, and were just
turning off toward the river when Mr. Raymond
heard his name called, and stopped his horses by
the side of the Rev. Mr. Darlington's vehicle.

" Good morning," said that gentleman to his
lawyer friend, "I suppose you have not heard of
the distressing news I received from Canada ? "

" No ; is it anything serious ? "

" I had a telegram this morning that my brother
was dying, and I must go immediately."

" That is very sad. Is there something I could do
for you to help you off, or attend to some of your
lousiness here while you are obliged to be away ? "

" No, I cannot think df any service you could

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HILL-CREST.

render me, though I thank you for the kind offer. I
am in a strait, however. You know I am without a
colleague at present, and cannot think ot anyone
that I can get to fill my place in the church to-
morrow. I have never left my congregation without
providing for them a pastor, and although this is an
extreme case, yet I hesitate to close my church.
There are a great many strangers in the city, and all
of the churches will be well filled. I have no time
to see anyone, and I must take the twelve o'clock
train to-day. He seemed to be speaking to himself
more than to his listeners, not thinking that his friend
could be of any use to him in a matter of this kind,
and was surprised when Mr. Raymond said, " Per-
haps my friend here could assist you, as he is one of
your fraternity. Mr. Darlington let me introduce to
you Mr. Montgomery." The carriages stood very
close together, so the gentlemen shook hands cordially.

" I should deem it a great favor to myself and
congregation, Mr. Montgomery, if you would occupy
my pulpit to-morrow."

" I am not an ordained minister yst, and am only a
student, though, if I can fill your place to-morrow I
should be only too glad. As you go away so soon I
shall have to trust to our mutual friend here for
guidance."

" That is all right," said Mr. Darlington, " I will
leave all necessary orders with the sexton, and Mr.
Raymond will take you to the church. I shall have
to leave you now, as my time is very limited; good-
bye, and thank you very much."

I 1

m DENVER.

159

While tlio men were talking the lawyer was think-
ing, and the result wa.s that he did not say anything
to Charley about his uncle that day, but assured him
that he and his family would be very glad to enter-
tain him for a few days, especially as he had promised
to do so great a favor for their friend and pastor,
Mr. Darlington. As Charley sat in his cosy room
preparing his sermon for the next day, it came to his
mind how fortunate it was that he had provided
himself with a new suit of clothes, that he might
appear respectable to the fashionable congregation he
expected to address the following day ; surely there
was the hand of God in all his ways.

About an hour before the family were ready for
church, Mr. Raymond said to them, " I have to go out
for a walk this morning before church time, and I do
not think I can be back in time to go with you, but I
shall probably be at the church, as I want to hear Mr.
Montgomery." The girls pouted and said it was just
too mean for anything, but Mrs.- Raymond assured
them that they would do nicely, as one gentleman in
the carriage was sufficient, and laughingly declared
that she would sit by Mr. Montgomery herself, just to
make them jealous.

The heavy tones of the grand organ were pealing
softly as Charley ascended the steps that lead to the
pulpit. He knew that the large church was full, and
that every eye was on him. The galleries far up in a
circle were one mass of faces. He did not look to see
this, for there was no need ; the flutter of fans, the
gentle rustle of silk, the light but firm tread of the

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HtLL-CRtSt.

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ushers, all told him that this magnificent edifice was
filled to repletion with human souls like his own.

As he bowed his head in prayer for a few moments,
he asked that to each waiting heart his words might
bring a message of peace or warning as they most
needed. There was a certain satisfaction to him in
the silent prayer he offered before that vast assembly;
he wanted them to know where he looked for the
words of strength that he intended to give them.

When he turned his face toward the people his
mind was so taken up with his subject that he had no
thought of wlio were his listener's. Once he thought
of the Raymond's as Lulu's curly heail bobbed up in
her seat, and at another time in a stream of purple
light that came in through the stained glass windows
he thought he saw the face of Mr. Raymond, but he
was too busy with the temptations of Christ as com-
pared with our own to think of any individual. He
had chosen this subject because he knew he could do
it justice, having gone through so many temptations.
How well he could sympathize with the human side
of his blessed Master !

He felt, as his congregation did, that he was at his
best. Some would say that it was the bracing Rocky
Mountain air, others that the high arched roof made
it '^asy to be heard ; but he knew by experience that
when God had a great work for him to do. He fitted
circumstances to aid him in the completion of that
work.

When the family returned and were going in to
dinner, Mr. Raymond came home, seemingly in the

In DENVEll.

lf)l

best of spirits, and whon he congnitulatcMl the
preacher on his sermon, the hitter was much surprised,
and said, *' 1 did not know you were there, although I
remember thinking I saw you ; but the cliurch was
so dark that the faces were too indistinct for me to
recognize anyoiu; but Luhi, whose yellow curls looked
like little dancing stars," and Charley pulled one of
the silken ringlets to make her hear what he was
saying ; whereupon she said promptly, '* I think it is
naughty for folks to talk about <lancing on Sunday."

When they were coming home from the evening
service Mr. Raymond said to hinj, " Is there any
danger of a preacher becoming vain C'

" Not unless he is very handsome," said Charley.

" No, but I mean when a large crowd comes out to
hear him, so that people stand and many are turned
away, as happened to-night, does it not make him
vain of his powers ? "

"That is a subject I do not study very n^ach.
When a farmer has a good crop of corn he is glad,
but not vain, for he knows too well who sends the
sunshine to m.ake it grow."

Mr. Raymond was silent for p, few moments, and
then said abruptly, " Did you know that your uncle
was at church this morning and heard your sermon?"

" No," said Charley, starting up in his seat, " was
he?"

" Yes, he was ; and I do not know whether I did
right or wrong in taking him. When you promised
Mr. Darlington yesterday that you would preach for
him, I thought while you were talking that I would

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162

HlLL-CREST.

persuade him to go and hear you. So, this morning I
went over to his place and, after a good deal of coax-
ing, he at last got ready and went with me."

" Well," said Charley, when his friend stopped,
" what did he say ? "

" That is the strangest part of it ; he did not say a
word all the way back to his house. I said pleas-
antly, as we got into the carriage, in an ofF-hand way,
' The lad is pretty smart after all, isn't he ? ' He
mumbled something under his breath and never said
another word. When I got out of the carriage at
the street corner he said, in an absent-minded way,
' Bring him around to-morrow.* Of course I knew he
meant you, and I was glad to hear him say that much ;
but to-night as I came out of church I met Theodore,
and asked him how Mr. Montgomery was, and he said
he had kept his bed all day, would not eat nor have
the doctor, and so I say I am afraid I did wrong in
taking him out this morning. It seems strange for
him not to want the doctor, as that is generally the
first one he wants to see if he is ai all sick."

" We had better go there now, perhaps," said Char-
ley, " before we go to your place."

" No, I guess not. He said I should come to-morrow
and bring you with me, and he is always so particular
about those little matters."

" You can do as you like, but I feel it my duty to
go there to-night. He is an old man, and if anything
should happen to him I would never forgive myself
for neglecting this opportunity of seeir^ him, now
that he has expressed a willingness to have me come."

IN DENVER.

163

" But it would make no difference with you, as his
will is made in your favor and he has not had it
changed."

"It is not my prospects, but his own that I am
thinking of," said Charley, trying to speak calndy,
for he knew the lawyer did not intend those personal
remarks as an insult, and yet he could scarcely
receive them in any other light. He called to the
driver to let him out at the next turning, for he was
determined to see his uncle that night.

But Mr. Raymond stopped him, saying, " Oh ! if
you will go, I am going with you, but I give you
warning that you may not be allowed to see him
to-night, or to-morrow either for that matter, since
you will not obey his commands."

" I will take the chances so far as I am concerned,
though I do not want to be the cause of any trouble
between yourself and him. You have been his friend
and counsellor so long."

** Set yourself at rest on that sc6re. I will keep in
the background, so that he shall not know that I am
here. I am too well acquainted with him to rush
uninvited into his presence." This last hint was lost
on Charley, who was so intent on trying to do some-
thing for the soul's good of this irate old man. They
had reached the house now, and were going up the
steps when they met Theodore coming out. It was
fortunate, and Charley hastened to ask him concern-
ing his uncle's health.

" He is still in bed, very restless, talking to himself
all the time. < thought I heard him praying, but as

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164

HiLL-CRfiST.

iS' 4

he never does that, I must have been mistaken. I
was just going to tell the doctor how he is and ask
his advice. He has not been sent for."

" Then, do not go for the doctor until I have seen
him," said Charley eagerly. " I am going in now,
and vvant you to take me to his room."

" Oh," said Theodore, " I could never do that,"
holding up his hands, " it would be more than my
place is worth."

Charley looked helplessly about him. Was every-
one so much afraid of this man ? Mr. Raymond
rather enjoyed the situation, and he thought his
obstinate friend would be able to see what kind of
man he had to deal with. They were in the hall
now, and Charley took from his pocket a card, and
wrote on it,

" I v/ant to see you to-night ; I go east early in the
morning.

" Charley Montgomery."

And handing it to the half -frightened man, he said,
a trifle impatiently, " Give him that, and I will abide
by his decision."

The man took it and disappeared through the
draped doorway.

" I wrote that I wanted to see him to-night, as I
was going east in the morning," said Charley, turning
to the lawyer, who, he thought, had a right to know
all that was said or ^one on this occasion.

" But you do not intend to go?" said that gentleman,
a little testily.

FT" I

IN DENVER.

165

" I certainly do if I cannot see him now. There is
no use in my staying here any longer. I may be able
to get back the work I laid down when I came here,
and it is the best thing I can expect at present."

As Mr. Raymond was going to speak the curtains
parted, and the face of Theodore was seen, with his
hand beckoning, and in another moment the lawyer
was alone in the hall, and seated himself to await
further developments.

When Theodore presented himself at the bedside of
his master, it was with great trepidation, and he
hardly dared speak ; but Mr. Montgomery looking up
at him, asked what he wanted.

And so of course he had to tell, and knowing that
the old man could not read the writing in the dim
light with his old eyes, read for him the message,
adding in a trembling voice, "He is waiting in the
hall."

" Tell him to come," was all the old man said. But
it was enough, and he guided his friend through the
winding halls and up the cushioned stairs, and
brought him to the bedside of his aged relative,
where, closing the door carefully, the two men were
left alone.

It was a time long to be remembered by them both.
As Charley approached the bed wliereon the old man
was lying there was nothing in his heart but pity for
him, who, andd all the grandeur of his surroundings,
was alone and friendless.

As the invalid saw the strong, manly figure of the
young man near his bedside, there came to him an

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166

HILL-CREST.

overwhelming sense of his own weakness, and he
stretched out his trembling hand toward his nephew
in a way that showed how much he needed his pro-
tection and kindly sympathy.

Charley took the cold, quivering hands between his
own warm palms, and said, anxiously, " Are you feel-
ing sick to-night ? "

His uncle said in answer, " I have been sick ever
since you came. I thought you ought to give up
everything if I willed you my money, and I thought
you a fool because you wanted to preach ; but when I
heard you this morning talk of how much Christ had
sacrificed for us, and how he was tempted, and had
resisted for our sakes, as I sat there I knew you felt
every word you said. Oh ! my old heart is broken.
He added bitterly, " I have spent my whole life get-
ting gold, and now it mocks me. I could not look at
the silver on my dinner-table to-day, its glitter seemed
like evil faces grinning at me. I would be glad to
die, but I know I am not fit to be in the presence of
the man Christ that you pictured so plaiidy to me
this morning. I have said and done all in my power
all my life against the Church of God, and now I feel
that the worst hypocrite whose name is on her books
is better prepared for heaven than I am. I could go
down on my knees to ask your pardon for what I said
to you the other day."

" No, no," said Charley, his voice husky with
emotion ; " you shall not ask my pardon for anything
you said to me, for at the time you were saying it I did
not feel it a personal matter ; but you will understand

IN DENVER.

167

me now when I tell you that anything uttered against
the Church that I love so much is like another cruel
thorn in the crown of my blessed Lord." He regretted
this remark as soon as it had left his lips, for it
seemed to cause so much agony of soul to his already
heart-broken listener.

But the young man himself was deeply moved by
this ^confession from his uncle, and could not be
expected to exercise much self-control on an occ; non
like this ; however, there was a feeling of exultation
in his heart to see that the man before him was so
deeply penitent, and he hastened in his next words to
show him how willing and glad Christ would be to
receive him in the contrite spirit he now manifested.

It was nearty an hour since they came
together, and they were still holding each other's
hands, when Theodore made his appearance and
asked if Mr. Raymond's carriage should wait any
longer.

John Montgomery said promptly : " No, send it
away, we do not want it to-night." And Mr.
Raymond knew when Theodore told him what his
master said, and how he was holding his nephew's
hand and looking into his face, that Charley
Montgomery had made no mistake in choosing the
Gospel in preference to his uncle's money, for now he
was sure of both.

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CHAPTER IX.

" SICK, AND YE VISITED ME."

IVE long years, freighted with joy Miid
sorrow and vahiable experience, have
passed over the heads of the family
at Hill-Crest, and over those of their
friends whose hearts and fortunes are
connected with them.

Harold and his happy wife and family are living
in their beautiful home at Lake View, the family now
consisting of a strapping boy and a baby girl^
whose blue eyes had only seen the light two short
months ago, the care and admiration of their proud
parents. When Kathey became mistress of Lake
View her first visitors were Geraldine and her mother.
They had both felt it very deeply that Kathey had
taken the man for her husband whom it seemed to
them a richer girl ought to have had ; and if their
position in society had been what it once was they
would probably have carried their resentment to the
point of an actual simb. But, as it was, their best course
was one of intimacy with Kathey, who felt very sorry

i«i;

"SICK, AND YE VISITED ME.*'

169

ivmg
now
girl,

for her aunt and cousin when they told her how home-
sick they had been, and how hard it was for them to
l)e ranked with working-people. Of course she
remembered tliat Geraldine had once said tliat she had
rather die than work for a living, and she believed her,
but was too kin<l to mention it now, knowing that life
is sweet, an<l rather to be preferred than death by
starvation.

Harold did not tell his wife how much her cousin
liad done to prevent his ever seeing her, nor how slight-
ingly she had always spoken of her to him; but when
Kathey said one day that, with his consent, she would
offer them a home, he told her he was afraid her kind
heart was blinding her eyes. "For," he added, "you
cannot help but see they are jealous of you, and you
know it is never safe to have in your home a jealous
person ; for your very kindness to them only serves
to luu'tui-e the green-eyed monster, and give him more
power for an attack." So, accordingly they went their
way, working at what they could get to do and doing
without what they were not able to earn.

At Hill-Crest there was very little change.
Robert McDonell was five years older, but was not
much changed in appearance. To his friends his
tongue had a little more of the Irish brogue of former
days, but he still declared himself as young as
ever.

Edith spent a good portion of her time with

her sister at Lake View, and could have been

mistress of Green Cliffe had she accepted the

many offers that Adolphus delighted to give her. I
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HILL-CREST.

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say the many, for they had become periodical. He
declaring that " No " was not an answer to his
proposition, and would immediately say (after receiv-
ing what to anyone else would have been a final
dismissal) that he would come again for an answer,
and then go off for another trip or tour of inspection,
as he called it. It was well known \:\ the vicinity of
Lake View that Edith could at any time call to her
side the wealthy Adolphus, for he did not try to conceal
his feelings in regard to the matter, and some of her
friends thought her very foolish not to accept so good
an offer. But when she heard any of those disagree-
able hints, she thought of the face of a certain college
student which her brother-in-law had painted and
hung in his home, and which she often said was his
best piece of work ; that gentleman felt flattered by
the words of praise, and never surmised that it was the
subject and not the workmanship that called her so
often to look at the handsome portrait.

There was not so much change in Grace as in
the other McDonell girls, for she was always contented
with what she had, and the last few years being more
prosperous than formerly, there were in the home at
Hill-Crest many new comforts and even luxuries.

Berthy was less absorbed in study than formerly.
She was now ^learning that it is more noble to
put in practice what we do know than to strive
unceasingly for knowledge with no particular object
in view. Her life was broadening out. There had
come to her opportunities to do good to others, which
she had gladly accepted. A class of unruly boys in the

: !l:

"SICK, AND YE VISITED ME."

171

Sabbath School had been taken by her, in the Hpirit of
self- forgetful devotion, and the niiniHter praised her for
the success she had in subduinor their turbulent
natures to a fair degree of order. But, as usual, at
home there was a misunderstanding. Her own
family could not see why, if she wanted to be so
good, she could not find more to do in the household,
where so many little things needed her care ; and she
did not realize herself that it was her craving for
appreciation and words of praise which she never
received at home that made her so willing to work
outside.

Here, though she often found much to discourage
her efforts, there was always that courteous, respectful
treatment which was so satisfactory to her nature
and made her so happy.

Her friendship for the Kenyon's had increased as
the years had passed, and Rachel and herself had be-
come more to each other than they could themselves
demonstrate. Mrs. Kenyon had in the last two years
failed in health very rapidly ; her daughter had begged
her to have a consultation of doctors, other than those
living in Sunnnerville, but the peaceful x^uiet woman
dreaded to alan^i her daughter by having physicians
who would tell her what the real cause of her sickness
was, and believing herself that there was no cure for
her complaint, she did not want to disclose to her
affectionate daughter that a creeping but almost pain-
less cancer was eating her life away. But, as the
beautiful fall weather came on and she did not get any
better Rachel would not be silent any longer, butwent

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to the family phy.sieianherHelf, and said: "I nniHt have
aiiotlicr <l()ct()i', unless you can <1() my mother more
good than you are now doing."

"Miss Kenyon, there is only one tiling that will save
your mother's life, and I am afraid that it is too late
for that; I mean an operation."

"For what?" said Rachel, staring at him like one
in a dream.

" For the cancer that she has had for a " — hut he did
not finish the sentence, for the girl lay prone at his
feet. " Oh, oh," sai<l the little man, " I di<l not realize
what I was saying."

After he brought her back to consciousness he told
her tenderly that he himself had been trying to per-
suade her mother to subnnt to an operation ; and
added, that if she could be taken to a good private
hospital she would have better care and would be
more likely to rally from the shock, which would be
attended by the most danger.

Rachel knew the very place, near their old home
in Philadelpliia, and when she mentioned the name it
so pleased the doctor that she seemed herself quite
encouraged. When she bade him good-bye they had
both decided that her mother must go the following
week, as every day they delayed but lessened her
chance for recovery.

When Rachel told her mother what the doctor had
said, and what she so much desired her to do, and
the girl seemed so confident of success, she said, in
her own quiet way: " Well, if thee thinks best I will
go. I want to be buried in the cemetery by my

1!!

"SICK, AND YE VISITED ME."

173

loved ones, an<l I will be there if tiie optn'ation does
not prove HUCceH.sful." She was looking- out of the
window, thi'on^'h the branches of the waving* willow
tree as she spoke, tid <lid not see the an<^uish on her
daughter's face that her words were causing, until a
low cry made her turn and I'ealize how teri'ihle a thin"'
it would l)e to this lonely ^irl for her mother to die.

" ])() not weep, my darling. Forgive n»e for saying
this to thee to hui't thy feelings. It is selfish of me I
know to want to go and leave thee, hut I have been
parted so long from thy father an<l the babes that it
seems to me that I am counting the days until 1 see
them again, and when I think of })eing with Christ,
and seeing Him face to face, when I have felt His
presence near me so many times, it is such rapture,
that I find myself saying, 'Oh, that I had the wings
of a dove, for tlien would I fly away and l)e at rest.'"
Her arms were around her daughter as she spoke, her
face was lifted up, and a glow" was on every feature
that seemed to come from the very skies. It was hard
to mourn for such as she. The gaunt spectre of death
does not seem to have anything to do with their de-
parting souls, and Rachel felt that she herself was the
solfish one for wanting to keep her dear mother here,
within the very sight of the heavenly home.

It was a great shock to Berthy when she heard the
true cause of Mrs. Kenyon's sickness, but her young,
hopeful nature thought her life might be spared, and
urged Rachel to take her at once to Philadelphia, that
she might receive the treatment and cure that they
thought w^ould spare to them, for a few" years at least.

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the life of one HO (l(!arly loved, for it wuh hanl
to tell wliieli of the ^irls had tl)(; ^r<;at(ii' elaiin on the
affection of tlic; moth(!rly Quak<n'eHH. Berthy felttliat
but for ]u'r kind, rcHti'ainin^' hand sh(; would never
have found for lier soul tin; strength and conifoi't of a
religious experience, and the Christian saint knew that
she was wi(3ldin^ an influence for ^ood on the fassion-
at(;, wilful girl that she hei xdf could not realize ; and
then, too, there was room in her heart for more tlian
her own belov(;d daughter and she had taken in the
poor, misuiKhiJ'stood child, and felt thankful that God
had given lier this w(jrk to do for His sake.

Ill a wc'ik from the day that Racliei liad called on
the doCiOJ" all the arnmgeriients wen; made, and they
vv(jre ready to start for tl^e gn^at '' /' tliat w(juld hold
for tfiem the ))alance of lif(3 an(i death.

The school tliat Rachel liad taugfit so accc^ptahly foi'
more than four yeai's (and out of th(; salary r«;ceiv(H]
she liad laid hy tin; sum that would now pay th(;ir
expenses in the months to come;) had been provided
with another tfjaclier. 1'he litthi cottag<; was close' and
the canary bij-d and Maltese cat w<;i'e taken by Bi^rthy
to her liome, to be car(;d for until they returnel.

It seeuKsd vttry lonely rt Hiil-(yr<;st wh(!n(;ver B(;rthy
th<jught of or looked toward tin; empty houK; of Ray
Kenyon and her mothei'.

Sho had promised to look aft(;r eveiything about
the liouse, and many tim<;s she went tluii**; a.V'ne, un-
lock(;d t)i(3 door, an<l sat for a wliih; in th<; cnair that
they had said so many times was li<;rs n^ad fiom
Rachel's b(K)ks, and brushed the dust off the fm-niture,

"SICK, AND YE VISITED ME.

175

and (jiico or tvvic<! IjjuI vvrittciii a lett(;r to lier friend on
her own writing desk, saying in it, "1 can almost see
you moving around tlie }iouse,(jveryt}nn<^ is so ufitui'al."
She was lio[>in^ to hf^ar ^oo<l news all tli<; tinu;, and
tlie first two or three lettei's W(;r(i full of (;ncoura^-e-
inent, ])ut th(ii-<j oairu; a time wlw^n she did not receive
any woi'd for a week, and she vvi'()te and did not ^et
an answer. But on(; morning a letter, ))lu)'red and
l)lotte<l toi'l h<!r that Iwaclnjl's moth<!r was fast sinkin<^,
and the ('loctor's j^avc Imm- no hoj)e, and {uMcmI, " I wish
you wei-c with wic." About m, w(H;k h<!fon; this lett(!i'
cam(} Fj(!rthy had rec(5iv(Ml nin('t(M;n ^ohi dollai"s as a
bir'thdaypi'esciut from Harold and Kathey.sayino- it was
one for each year of hei' life. She kn(;vv they liad put
it in this way so that she would not feel ofi'ended he-
cause they had f^iv<'n hei* mont.'y, instead of something
else. How much morci pleasfjd she wouhl have been
with som(3 article that they liad chos<;n to suit In^r
taste, showing that they harl studi(;d her wisJKjs. TlK'y
ha<l bi'ou^lit (jJrace on her biithday a pi'ctty blu<! silk
dress, and Kathc^y ha<l said, whim sh(i thanked In^r for*
it: " W(; knev. you W(.uld be deli^htrd with it, foi' you
WitVii always fond of l>iu(!, and you nev(!r hav<; had a
silk <lr<iss; now, liave it ir)ad(;^to suit you and it will
1)(; lovely."

Herthy I'ejoiced with her sist(;)' and thought of lier
own birthday so close at hand, an<I »vond(;red wliat
they would l)ring lier. But wh(;n the day came and
sIk; ^ot a letter and a little box containing the ^old,
sIh; was sadly disappr>int»;d. ^J'h(; letter said: "Wc; did
not know what yon would lik(; to have.' "Why did

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HILL- CREST.

tliey not know ? There are many things I love :
one of Harold's little rustic landscapes, or r book."
Then when she thought of it, it seemed queer that
none of her family had ever given her a book, and
they all knew that she loved books so much. But
they had sent her a present, and she would not appear
ungrateful, so she took the little box containing the
money and showed it to her father and the rest of the
family, and tried to seem interested.

Edith advised her to Imy a nice silk dress ; her
father told her to put it in the ])ank, and Grace said :
" I know what you will buy witli it, you will spend it
all for books."

" Yes," said Aunt Elizabeti , " and not comb her hair
or change her dress until they are all read througli. '

And so her present brought her more sorrow than
joy, and when she laid it away it was with the feeling
that she never wanted to see the hateful gold again.
But, now as she sat crying with Ray Kenyon's letter
in her hand, she remembered that the money would
take her to Philadelphia, and she would be able to see
Mrs Kenyon before she died, and be near Ray to com-
fort her. When she mentioned her intention to
the rest of the family they thought her crazy to go
off there. Why, the Kenyon's were no relations of
theirs ; what in the world did she want to go there for ?
Of course they knew she had the money: l)ut, as Grace
said, it would take all that to Iniy her a tea-gown to
wear in the sick room and a suitable dinner dress to
appear at the table in the boai'ding-house. And Aunt
Elizabeth said, " Oh, she doesn't care how she looks."

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SICK, AND YE VISITED ME.

177

But the father stopped them by saying, " She can go
if she wants to : Berthy is not like the rest of you, and
there is no use in contradicting her all the time and
making' her an<l yourselves trouble."

So the next morning, without any extra prepara-
tion, Berthy set off to see her friends and stay by
them in their deep affliction.

Rachel did not thiidv when she said in her letter
that she would like to have her there that Bertliy
would come, but when on the evening of the next day
she was greeted by her friend her heart was tilled
with thankfulness.

She had come straight to the private hospital,
which she found to be a large house with everything
so quiet and homelike that she felt comfortable at
once, and proceeded to make herself as useful as pos-
sible. She told the matron why she came, and said,
" If I can help nurse Mrs. Kenyon I shall be glad, as
she has been a mother to me ever since I have known
her."

To this the woman replied, " We need more nurses
than we have and will gladly find you work to do."
At the end of a week Berthy had proven herself such
good help, and as Mrs. Kenyon did not need all of the
girl's time, she was asked to put on the grey dress
and white cap of the institution and go into the
adjoining room and wait on a young man <lying with
consumption, telling her that the nurse's dress kept
the sick ones from asking questions, as they would be
likely to do if she wore her own clothes.

As she dressed herself in that prim costume she

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HILL- CREST.

smiled, thinking how it contrasted with the outfit
Grace thought it necessary for her to have. She
knew now she could stay as long as Mrs. Kenyon
lived, and be near Rachel when the end came.

Poor Ray ! Those were sad days for her, waiting for
the visit of the death angel. Her mother never said
a word to her about dying after the talk they had in
their own home, but she knew that her mother had
no thought or desire to get well. Rachel read to her
and watched by her in the night when she seemed to
be sleeping sweetly, and tried to feel, as slie knew her
mother did, that it was God's will that she should go
home first.

Once she had asked her daughter to sing to her, but
Rachel could not keep her voice steady, and so she
had not asked her again. The next morning after
Berthy had taken charge of the young man as his
nurse, he said to her: "I expect a friend of mine to-
day. He comes every Thursday and stays all the
afternoon with me. The other imrse used to take
that time to rest or go out, for we like to be alone,
you know ; he is a good hand to give medicine, and
then he is such a nice singer all of the patients like to
hear him. He has been out of town for four weeks,
but he is home again now, and will l)e here to-day."

'' I will be glad," said Berthy, " to spend my time in
Mrs. Kenyon's room. It is 'he next to yours, and I
suppose 1 can hear your friend sing to you when he
comes."

So she got everytliing ready for the use of die
young man's friend, and when she lieard him coming

"SICK, AND YE VISITED ME."

179

up the stairs she slipped into the next room and pre-
pared to spend a quiet afternoon witli lier friends.
Mrs. Kenyon seemed better than usual to-day and was
inclined to talk a little.

The girls would sometimes borrow hope when those
days came to her, but they were generally followed
by several days of extreme lassitude, and then they
thought they would never be deceived again. But now
they were building hope on the same shaky founda-
tion, and really became quite cheerful themselves when
they saw the invalid in such good spirits. They were
talking on some interesting subject w^hen their
attention was called from what they w^ere saying by
the sound from the next room of a soft, tenor voice
singing the old familiar hynni, " Abide with Me."
Thev listened as the comfortinfic words were so dis-
tinctly heard. Mrs Kenyon clasped her hands and
closed her eyes and seemed to be drinking in all of
its loveliness; as the last verse was sung,

Swift to its close ebbs out life's little dav,
Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away,
Heavyn's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee ;
In life and death, O Lord, abide with me !

lounng

she drew a long (juivering sigh, not of sorrow but of
ecstacy. Then followed other hymns, sometimes all
the words would be sung, but often one verse only.
As the singer began the first verse of Bethany, Rachel
leaned towar<l her friend and said, in a low voice :
" vVhose voice is that like ^ It is just the way he used
to speak the words." Berthy knew whonu»he meant,

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180

HILL-CREST.

l)ut (lid not speak. Ah the 113^1111 was finished Mrs.
Kenyon opened her eyes and asked who it was that
was singing, and Berthy told her all slie knew about it.

Tliere was a longer pause and the sick woman
seemed impatient to have it begin again. " Berthy,"
she said, " will thee ask that young man to come in
here and sing to me ? There are some hymns that I
think of that he has not sung, and I want to hear
them."

Rachel's cheeks were flushed and lier eyes were
sparkling like <liamonds. " Yes, go," she said, and
Berthy went.

As she closed the door behind her and stepped into
the other room, her felt slippers made no noise on the
floor, and she had time to look at the occupant of the
chamber before he was aware of her presence. Stand-
ing at tlie window measuring out a dose of medicine
was a tall, broad-shouldered, light-complexioned young
man, older than Berthy had expected to see, for the
sick boy, who was scarcely eighteen, had called him
his friend : but this man must have been twenty-five,
for a heavy blonde moustache completely covered his
mouth and part of his chin. His profile was all that
could be seen as he was standing between the window
and the door, and now he turned to the bed to
administer the dose that he liad prepared, he raised
the sick boy up carefully, holding his head against his
broad breast, until a coughing spell had passed away,
and then gave him the medicine, with the remark,
" Now, you are all right, old man." Berthy recognize<l
the voice in an instant, and as he turned away from

SICK, AND YE VISITED ME

181

the bed and faced her it proved to he, as she expected,
none other than her cousin, Roger McDonell. He was
perhaps more surprised to see her in a nurse's gai'h
than slie was to find liini deahng out medicine and
singing' in a hospital: but he had more presence of
mind tlian slie had, and, after shaking hands with her,
said to the sick boy, " This is my cousin, I have not
seen her for five years ; we will take a walk on the
balcony, and will come in again soon," and not giving
her time to speak, drew her hand through his arm
and stepped out on the verandah.

" Now," said he as they were alone, " I want to
ask what brought you here in this dress ; is it
necessity, or only a fad ? "

It sounded so like the Roger of old, to have him
saying this to lier. , ■ i she laughed at his look of
surprise, but when she stopped to explain why she
was here there was no thought of merriment for either
of them. She told her story as briefly as possible,
and added that Mrs. Kenyon had sent her in to ask
him to come and sing to her.

" And she did not know who I was, and Ray is
here with her mother ? " he said, speaking as to
himself, " Berthy,'' and he turned a white^agitated
face to his cousin, " I cannot go in there until they
know who it is they have asked to come. Go and
tell them and I will await your return here. I never
expected to see Ray Kenyon again when I left
Summerville."

Berth}^ did not make him any answer, but went
into Mrs. Kenyon's room, and told her who it was

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HILL-CREST.

I..1

tliat liad charmed tlieiu with his Hweet voice, and
waited for further orders. Rachel w^as out of the
room and Mrs. Kenyon said simply, " It seems strange
that he should be here at this time, but his songs
were for Christ," and she paused a moment, and
then said, " tell him I want him to come in and
see me."

It seemed an age to Roger ^cfore Berthy came
back ; he paced up and down the l)alcony, not
daring to hoj^e and yet wishing every moment that
he might be permitted to speak for himself words
that he felt would exonerate him in the eyes of
his quaker friend at least, if not those of her
daughter. His cousin touched him on the arm and
told him to come, and together they went into the
adjoining room.

Mrs. Kenyon stretched out her hand to him, and
said, in a voice full of hidden meaning, " I was sick,
and ye visited me." Roger could not reply, but
pressed the white liand he held to his lips tenderly
and reverently. Slie saw that he was deeply moved,
and liked him better for the feeling he manifested.
Racliel thought his emotion was due to a feeling
of mef at the sig^ht of her mother's sickness.
When he greeted her she could not restrain her
tears, and turning away she buried her face on the
shoulder of the faithful Berthy, and wept bitterly.
It was a sad meeting for them all. Many times
Roger had thought of these kind friends ; he was
so young and light-hearted when he first knew
them, and he had g;one through so nmch since

"SICK, AND YE VISITED ME."

183

then of bitter experience. He knew lie had profited
by the lesson his youthful folly had taught him,
but down deep in liis lieart were the wounds
unhealed, an<l though he valued more tlie sootliing
bahn of friendship on that sore place, yet it was
always tender to the sharp stabs of unkind or
unthinking thrusts of sarcasm. He did hot know
now how far Mrs. Kenyon intended to trust him.
She had invited him to-day into the compau}^ of
her daughter, but he could not take advantage of
the whim of an invalid to further his own wishes.
He realized as he sat tliere that his boyish love for
this girl had grown a\ ith his growth, although five
years had elapsed since they last met, and now
when he had found her again he did not think he
was worthy to so much as look at her pure
loveliness. He was too honorable to attempt to
renew her ac([uaintance until she knew him as he
now was, and yet he shrank from the thought of
her knowing of that dreadful night in Sunnnerville
jail.

There was no singing that afternoon, but when
he was going away Mrs. Kenyon made him promise
to come again soon. He promised her, but added,
" I cannot neglect the boy in the other room, for
he is all alone in the world, and the doctor says he
cannot live the week out." The next afternoon
saw him back at the hospital again; he could not
stay away now.

Arthur Wade did not expect him so he Avent
directly to Mrs. Kenyon's room. One of the hired

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184

HILL-CREST.

nurses was with lier. They had persuaded Rachel
to go and lie down as slie had been up so much
tlie nio-lit before. Mrs. Ivenyon had been veiy tii'ed
all the morning, but felt a little stronger now, and
was glad to see her young frien<l again. When he
was seated by her bed si<le, she said to the nurse,
" Thee can go away and I'est. I will sen<l for thee
when Roger goes home."

As soon as they were alone she looked at him
and said, " ] can see there is a change in thee, tell
me how it came about."

Roger was glad she asked the (juestion, and
proceeded at once to thank her for the part she
had taken in securing his release and also told her
how he ha<l wrestled with himself and had come
oft' conqueror. Then he told her of the money that
Berthv had sent him, addinii' that he thought when
he opened the little package and found the same
ten dollar bank note that he had given her, that she
meant it as a I'eminder that she never wanted to see
him again, because of his disgrace. He went on
rapidly to relate all his adventures, how he tried
to get work, and how he had failed many times, until
at last he got a situation unpacking boxes in a
wholesale stoie, and the proprietor found out that
he was well educated and w^as trying to live a Christian
life among the rough men and boys he was working
with, and he had sent him ^ "^ to keep books in
a branch store. " After that," continued Roger, " I
got right along. I am leader now in the church
choir, and I have lots of friends among the boys.

"SICK, AND YE VISITED ME."

185

vhen

same
she

o see
oil
,rie(l
intil
in a
that
stian

rkiiig
iks in

;r, " I
hurch
boys.

Wl hoM a mission meeting every Sunday afternoon.
It was at one of these that I became ac(|uainte(l
with Artliur, wlio is sick in there, and when I
found out he had no friends, I tell you I knew
how to pity him : and so I got him in here, and
we fellows chip in and pay his way."

Mrs. Kenyon would have corrected anyone else for
using these slang phrases in her presence, but in
Roger she seemed to think there was nothing to
blame. She saw a very great improvement in his
speech and manner, so she could afford to wait until
his own good sense taught liim better words to use.
While they were talking Rachel came into the room.
Her (juick blush on seeing who was there told her
mother very plainly that the old preference for this
young man had not entirely died out, and some look
or manner conveyed to Roger evidently the same
idea, for he prolonged his stay and looked so jubilant
when he went away that a casual oV)server would have
thought he had been attending a wedding reception
instead of calling on the sick.

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CHAPTER X.

ROBERT m'DONELL's STORY.

HERE is a gentleman in the parlor asking
to see father, said Grace McDonell one
morning to Edith, as that young lady
was trying to teach her little nephew to
read. " Will you go in ? I am so busy
I cannot sit there until father comes, and it would not
look well to leave a stranger alone."

So Edith arose to go, but Master Harry did not
like to be left in this unceremonious manner, and
boldly declared his intention of going also. Accord-
ingly he went, but when he got inside the door his
boldness forsook him somewhat, and he clung bash-
fully to his aunt's dress skirt.

Sitting with his back to the light Edith saw, as she
thought, a perfect stranger, and said by way of
apology for coming in, " You were waiting to see Mr.
McDonell, were you not ? "

'' Yes," said the gentleman, rising and advancing a
few steps towards her, " I received a letter from him,

she
of
Mr.

ROBERT M'DONELL's STORY.

187

and came to see hiiii as he requested." The boy hanging
to her hand, made E<lith feel a Htth^ embarrassed, and
she liad not looked the caller in the face, but when
she heard the clear, strong voice she knew so well,
she looked up quickly and met the dark, earnest eyes
of her old friend, Mr. Montgomery. He did not otter
her his hand until she gave him hers, and then he did
not seem particularly glad to see her. But she was
glad to see him, and begging him to be seated, took a
chair herself, with Harry still by her side, and said
cordially, "I did not know you were in Summerville.
When did you come ? "

" Last night," he said shortly, and there was silence.

" You have been living in Denver, we heard."

" Yes, I have lived there since I went from here,
five years ago."

" You like the West better than you do this part of
the country ? " And Edith glanced at him shyly,
thinking how handsome he had grown, and wonder-
ing, with a little heartache, if he was married.

" Yes, I like the West very much."

He was thinking how little change there had been
in Edith. He had expected to see her looking well,
for he thought as Harold's wife her life would be all
sunshine, but he was not prepared to see this young,
girlish wife of five years, and, of course, that must be
her boy. How much he looked like Harold, and how
proud the father must be of him.

The silence grew oppressive, and Edith made one
more attempt to converse with her companion.

" You have not seen Harold since you came, have

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188

Hri.L-CREST.

you ? This is his boy, do you think he looks like
him ? "

To this long sentence he replied, " No, I«have not
seen him ; i!& he in Summerville ? "

" Yes, he and Kathey came yesterday. They are in
the dining-room ; I will call him." And in a few
moments Harold came into the parlor.

Charley did not know whether he was glad or sorry
to see his friend; he had never answered his last
letter, and when he had written and congratulated
him on his marriage, it had only been a few lines,
nothing like the long letters they had always
exchanged. But now, as he saw him coming leisurely
through the doorway, all his old love for him returned
in an instant, and following his first impulse he
grasped him by the hand, to the surprise of Harold,
saying, " How are you," before that gentleman could
think who was greeting him so warmly. *

" Well, if this is not a genuine surprise party I
would like to know what it is."

" You are evidently the surprised party, for your
wife told me you were here, so I am not surprised."

Just then Kathey came into the room, and Harold
said, " You have met my wife, you say ? "

But Charley was a little mixed, as the boy ran to
his mother and said, " Oh, mamma, who is dat man
papa is so glad to see."

"I do not believe I have," said the perplexed
preacher, getting very red in the face, and feeling that
he had got turned around somehow ; but his confusion
passed unnoticed.

< '! ifl

ROBERT M'DONELl/s STORY.

189

Mrs. Huntington said very sweetly: "I have lieard
my husband speak of you so often that I seem to know
you very well. I do not remember you when you
were staying at Mr. Howell's here in the village, but
my sister met you, I believe."

He was soon at ease chatting with Harold and the
ladies. They were all talking at once, as friends long
parted do, when Mr. Mcl3onell made his appearance.

" Father, this is Mr. Montgomery ; he has called to
see you," said Edith.

As the old man took the hand of the younger he
was trembling visibly, and his face was very pale.

" You are the son of Charles Montgomery, are you ?
I need not ask, for you are exactly like him."

" Did you know my father so well ? " asked Charley
eagerly, not answering the first question.

" Know him ? Do I know myself ? There was
never a man I knew better ; we crossed the ocean
together, and together faced the hardships of a new
country. I did not feel I could give up to you what
he had entrusted to my care until I saw you and made
sure you were enough like him to do the right thing."

Harold arose and said to his wife and Edith, " We
will leave them alone."

"No," said Mr. McDonell, "you may as well all know
what it is that brings this young man here. Sit down ;
it is not a very long story," and he went to the door
and called Grace. " I want them all to hear what I
have got to say." When they were all seated, he
continued: "I and Charles Montgomery came to this
country together all alone, and we managed to keep

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190

HILL-CREST.

as close to each other as possible until he was
married. The little farm he got with his wife was in
the State of Pennsylvania. I came here, and we
were parted for the first time, but we kept up a
correspondence, and once in a while we visited each
other. He married a Quaker preacher's daughter,
whose name was Rachel Peabody. She was a little
pale, sickly woman, but as good as gold." Charley
listened eagerly to these words of praise of his
sainted mother. " It is nineteen years ago last
month since I and my wife went to pay a visit to
Charles Montgomery. We had not heard from him for
quite a while, and thought to surprise them. When
we got there we found the little woman very sick,
with a baby girl only a few days old. Well, we got
there on Wednesday, and on Sunday night she died,
leaving her baby and her older boy. That boy was
you," he said, looking at Charley. " The question
was, Who would take the baby ? Poor Monty, as I
always called him, was nearly crazy ; his love for his
wife was more like worship than anything else, and
now she was gone he did not know what to do.
Then my wife said to me, * Bob, let us take the baby.
He will be better satisfied to give it to us than to
anyone else, and he has the boy to look after.' My
wife was kind-hearted, the tears were streaming
down her cheeks when she said this, for she thought
of the little mother's regrets at leaving the baby, and
she had promised her she would see that the child
should be well taken care of. So, you see, she thought
it her duty to take the child. There is only one thing,

""1

tlOBfiRT M'DONELLS STORY.

191

I said, that prevents me from taking har, and that is
the talk of the neighbors at home, who will say w^e
had enough of our own without adopting another.
* Oh,' said she, ' we will fix that, let us go to my
brother's and stay a while longer, and when we go
home, we will tell the folks it is my own, and so it is,
for the dying woman gave it to me.' Thus it was
^ arranged, and in less than a year your father was
killed by being thrown from a horse, and was buried
before I heard of it. A farmer, I believe, took the little
farm, and was to keep the boy until he came of age."
" That is the old scoundrel that would not let you
go to school," broke in Harold, but Charley cast a
look of reproach on him, and Mr. McDonell con-
tinued, " I never heard of you until three weeks
ago, when I read in the paper that the Rev. Charles
Montgomery wanted to know of the whereabouts of
his sister, and I answered the advertisement, not
letting anyone of my family know anything about
it. Of course, I had some faith in the reverend that
was to your name, but still I wanted to see you, for
your father's sake."

The girls were waiting in breathless suspense to
hear what had become of the sister their guest had
been searching so long for, and listened intently to
the next words of their father, " Oh," he said,
suddenly, as if remembering something, " I did get
a letter that I supposed to be from you. About
five years ago I got five hundred dollars and a letter
that said it was from some one that owed me a debt
of gratitude."

19^

tilLL-CRIiST.

" It was not from me," said Charley.

" Then, I do not know who sent it, unless it was
the farmer, as he had all of the property that your
father left."

Harold seemed a little uneasy when the money
was first mentioned, though, if the credit of it would
be given to his friend Charley, he could keep silent,
but to have that rascally old farmer pose as a man
who would give back to the orphan daughter of
Charles Montgomery the rightful share of her father's
property, and to hear him praised for the magnani-
mous deed, was too much ; he could not stand it,
and said abruptly, " Do not worry about that money,
the man that sent it to you ow^ed you another debt
of gratitude, very different from the one you are
thinking of." And all of the company knew in an
instant where the money came from.

Mr. McDonell was confused for a moment, but
seeing the look of intense interest on all their faces,
said, " I suppose you are anxious to know where the
girl is now ? Well, she is in Philadelphia, visiting a
sick friend."

"Berthy, Berthy," burst from the lips of all the
family at once, and when the father bowed his
head in assent, there was a hush for at least three
minutes.

" I am disappointed at not finding her here now,"
said Charley, a little surprised at the consternation the
girls seemed to manifest at the thought that this girl
was his sister. There was nothing said in reply, until
he said again, " When do you expect her home ? "

ill

llOBERT M'DONELL's STORY.

193

" When is she coming," said Mr. McDonell, turning
to Edith.

" We do not know exactly. The woman she went to
see is very sick in a hospital, and when Berthy wrote,
she said she would stay until the end, and, of course,
the end meant her death."

" In a hospital," said Charley, " is she acting as a
nurse ? "

They knew so little about it, that none of them
attempted to answer his eager question.

Finally Mrs. Huntington tried to explain the
situation, seeing the embarrassment of the others,
but could not throw much light on the subject,
and Mr. McDonell only complicated matters by say-
ing, in a tremulous tone of voice, " I have done the
best I could for the girl, but she was never like my
own, always different." Charley did not say any-
thing more concerning her, but asked for the address
of the place where she was staying, and declared his
intention of going there immediately, to which there
was no reply. He thought there was something
wrong. When he listened to his old friend's story of
his adopting the little girl, he thanked God in his
heart that she had been allowed the companionship
of this refined family, and but for the close resem-
blance of Grace to her father, he might have thought
her the one he was looking for, but x^^ w he learned
that his sister was away in a large city, all alone,
with strangers in a hospital. They did not know
what position she occ» d, for in giving him her
address, Edith had said, • 1 do not think she is board-

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194

HILL-CREST.

i: Fi

. I, I

ing out of the institution, but I do not know ; you
will find the Kenyons there, and they will know all
about her."

Ah he was taking his departure Harold said to him,
" Mr. McDonell feels sorry that you should not find
your sister here when you came. He said they did
not want her to go, but she had taken such a liking
to that Kenyon girl and wanted to be with her, he
had finally given his consent."

" But that is four weeks ago, and, as I understand
it, she cannot stay in the hospital, and they do not
know where she is l)oarding, and then there is such
an air of mystery about the whole thing I am filled
with apprehension."

" O ! " said Harold, seeing his friend's look of con-
cern, " She is all right. I guess those people she is
with are nice, respectable folks."

" You guess ? Then you do not know them?" The
expression of disdain and contempt in his voice was
like a sharp blow, and Harold recoiled as if he had,
indeed, been struck.

"Well, as Mr. McDonell says, she is not like the
other girls, and I suppose she would have her own
way.'*

" I will find out by to-morrow at this time where
she is and what she is like. Poor, little sister ! her
path, too, has been rough to her feet." There were
tears in Harold's eyes as he bade his friend good-bye?
but he could not think of any words of comfort.

After Mr. Montgomery was gone there was a great
deal of speculation concerning his first impression of

ROBERT M'DONELI/S STORY.

195

Berthy. Grace declared that if she had taken her
advice and got Hoine good clothe.s she would present
(juite a nice appearance before her new V)rother.
But Edith said: " You forget that if she had got the
clothes she would not have gone at all, for it would
have taken all her money." The father shook hia
head and seemed sad. Only Kathey said there was
nothing to regret, they had done all they could for
the girl they had supposed to be their sister.

It was with a heavy heart that Charley Montgom-
ery turned his face toward the city of " Brotherly
Love." Late in the afternoon he took his seat in the
train. He could have waited until morning, but when
he was alone and had time to think he Ijecame so
restless that he thought it would be better for him to
keep in motion. He was sorry now that he had not
been more considerate when at the home of his
father's friend, who had done so much for his friend-
less sister.

But why did they all act so queer when they found
out that he was her brother, and acknowledged them-
selves that they were scarcely at all acquainted with
the people they had let her go to visit, not one of
them being sure what disease the woman was dying
with. Berthy was only nineteen years old and,
brought up in that select household, would have very
little experience and certainly no clear views as to the
propriety of forming new friends. It was a problem
that he could not solve, and it only increased his
desire to see and judge for himself. He could not be
blamed for not looking after her earlier, for he

■,r-

lOG

HILL-OIIESH

had heard for the firHt time to-day that his father
had left something for his chihh'tin. Tlie Mr.
Brooks that he lived with had always made him feel
that the home he had with him was one of chanty ;
and when the little boy ran away he said to himself,
" The first money I earn I will send to pay him for
taking care of me." But as he grew old<'r and under-
stood better the value of labor, he knew i it the close-
fisted old man had made enough out of him to pay for
all he had ever given him. Through the yeai-s that he
had been trying to support himself and get the educa-
tion that was as necessary to his existence as the air he
breathed, he could not spare the time or money to
make the search that was required. During the five
years that he had been in Denver his thoughts had
been almost constantly with his sister, who, he felt,
had just as good a right as he had to the advantages
and luxuries he was enjoying; but whenever the sub-
ject was mentioned to his uncle the old man would
say, " Oh ! Charley, don't bring a girl here, for we are
happier by ourselves. I will soon be gone, and then
you can find her and make a great lady of her if you
wish to." And so it went on until a year before, when
John Montgomery died.

The first work Charley began after his uncle's
death, although now a regularly ordained min-
ister with a large church on his hands, and with
all the work and anxiety that the position implies,
was to consult his lawyer in regard to the best method
of finding his sister. Richard Raymond did not at-
tempt to advise him to leave the girl alone and keep

ROBERT M'DONELL's STORY.

197

for himself her share of his uncle's money. He knew
him well enough now to know that such advice would
be thrown n ,• v.and he advised his friend that the best
course would be to advertise in the State and county
papei*s where his father lived and died. So it came
about, after a year's advertising^, that Mr. McDonell
had seen the name in a paper, and had sent an answer
with the result above recorded.

As the train neared the great city and the night be-
gan to give place to dawn there was scarcely a person
awake in the compartment that Charley occupied.
He took from his pocket the address of the hospital,
and reading it again, put it back. He could not think
of anything wilfully wrong in the life or inclinations
of this sister he ha(i so longed to see, and he remem-
bered how glad he was to find that the McDonell's
knew about her. All the wav from his home to theirs
he had pictured to his mind a refined, graceful young
lady, who would be a joy to him, and he could be to
her what he thought every woman was entitled to, a
natural protector. It never occurred to him that his
sister could have unsatisfied ambitions like his own.
If he had found her in the McDonell home /ith a
dainty piece of crochet in her hand and a neat morning
costume like he had seen Edith wearing, there would
never have entered his masculine heart a l)it of sym-
pathy for her, but he would almost have envied her
the peaceful life she had lived while he was battling
through a selfish world for the education and privi-
leges he felt his due. He leaned back in his seat and,
with closed eyes, waited for the end of the journey.

I \

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198

HILL-CRKST.

They had been running very fast all night. This
suited the impatient traveller, but now as his stopping
place was so close at hand he listened eagerly to hear
if there was any slacking of speed. He never remem-
bered what he thought just then, for a great clash
and roar made him start up, and a whizzing sound as
of escaping steam — then all was a blank.

CHAPTER XL

" SEARCHING FOR SILVER AND FINDING GOLD."

HEN Charley Montgomery again tried
to open his eyes he found that a thick
bandage was tied very tightly over
them, and the hand he raised to remove
it was taken gently by a soft one and
held down, so that he could not move it again ; and
when he would have raised his left hand he discovered
that the pain caused by the movement was so severe
that he was compelled to groan aloud.

" Where am I and what is the matter ? " he asked,
feeling that the owner of the soft hand was somewhere
within sound of his voice.

" You have been very sick and are in the home of
kind Friends, who will take care of you until you get
well. Now, do not talk or try to move, for your arm
and head have been hurt, and you will get well more
quickly if you keep quiet."

There w^as only one thing for him to do, and that
was to obey, and so he lay still for a few minutes. A
drowsy feeling came over him and he slept until he

il'i ,1, :

[ '

1''' !

1 '

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fl:

200

HILL-CREST.

was awakened by some one talking near him. He
recognized the voice as the one he had heard
before, but the other was strange to him; it was a low,-
girlish tone that said, " You know in novels the young
men always fall in love with their nurses."

*' Perhaps this one will as his eyes are bandaged so
he cannot see her," said the voice he remembered
so well, and then they both laughed in a smothered
tone, as if holding something over their mouths.

" Come, let us sit by the window, he is sleeping, and
I can watch him from there." And Charley could
hear all they said though some distance off*. " The
doctor says he can sit up and have his eyes unbandaged
to-morrow, if I can keep him quiet to-day. It is a
week yesterday since he was brought here, and if he
sits up to-morrow in another week he will be able to
go away."

" Will you be glad or soriy to have him go ? "

" Oh ! I don't know, I suppose he will be glad to
see that sister he is talking about all the time. The
doctor said it was probably something he had on his
mind that kept him delirious so long."

" Why, what did he say about her ? "

" He kept saying ' I will find her and take her home
with me,' and then he would start up and say ' You
have got to tell me all about her.' And again he
would say so pitifully, 'Poor, little sister! I will take
care of you.' Yesterday he tried to sing the doxology,
and this morning he said ' Let us all unite in
prayer.' "

" Perhaps he is a preacher, or travelling evangelist,"

'11 niTiiB

ome
You
he
ake

ogy,

in
list,"

" SEARCHING FOR SILVER AND FINDING GOLD." 201

said the other :" hut, what can he mean hy talking^
ahoiit his sister?"

" I do not know, unless it is some one that has run
away, and he is looking for her."

" It does not seem to me that I would want to run
away from such a hrother as he."

Said the nurse, " How strange it nuist seem to have
a brother, 1 often thought I would like to have one."

" That is another one of your aspirations, is it ?

You are always wishing for something you cannot

' have, and now you have thought of something that is

an utter impossibility." And they both laughed

again.

And the nurse said again, " I have not done so much
wis^ lUg since I came here, have I ? To tell the truth,
I am uappier than I ever was in my life."

" Well, you are a strange girl, if waiting on the sick
makes yovi happy," said the other.

And the nurse spoke again and said, " Do not
misunderstand me, please. I do not think nursing my
vocation, but it is better than housework and the
hum-drum existence I have always led."

Charley thought just here that he was eaves-drop-
ping, and so made a move to let his nurse know he
was awake.

She came to the bed innnediately, and raising up

his head gave him a dose of bitter medicine, and then

shook up his pillows in a tender motherly way, and

laid him down again. It was a novelty to lie here

and be waited on by a woman he had never seen.

The visitor went out of the room, and he could feel
14

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I'll

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II'!

202

HILL- CREST.

the soft cool hand of his niUT;e on his forehead, and
the breatli of a gently swayed fan on his fevered face.
So lie spoke in spite of the ordei's he had received, ar' ^
begged for a drink. He was not very thirsty. l)ut he
wanted to let his attendant. know that he had returned
to consciousness, and perhaps he did enjoy being
waited upon by the un.seen presence at his bed side.
A cool refreshing glass of water was brought in, and
while drinking it a step was heard, and a low, but
distinct voice said close to him, " Oh ! I see he is better,"
and his wrist was grasped by the unmistakable touch
of a doctors hand. " Yes, 3^es, much better."

" Well, my friend," speaking to the patient, " how
do you find yourself to-day ? "

"It is ichere I find myself that puzzles me most."
" Ha, Ha ? " laughed the doctor, in a voice he would
not have allowed anyone else to use in a room occupied
by the sick. " That is what you are thinking about
is it ? Then your nurse has not enlightened you.
Well you were one of those unfortunate ones in the
late railway accident, and had a cut between your eyes
and an arm broken. We could not find any address
about you, only a little slip of paper, on which was
written the name of this hospital. I said when I
found it, ' here is a young man that has provided for
his own entertainment, but when you were brought
here none of the people knew anything about you, but
they very kindly allowed you to stay. And this young
lady has taken such good care of you, that you are
much better to-day than I expected to find you at the
end of another week."

SEA.RCHING FOR SILVER AND FINDING GOLD

203

ace.

t he
med
ieir»j»;
side.
, and
, but
tier,"
touch

" how

)Bt."

rvvould
iupied
about
d you.
in the
r eyes
ddress
;h was
hen I
ed for
rought
ou, but
young
ou are
at the

" Is it necessary for me to keep this bandage over
my eyes any longer ?" said Cliarley, remembering the
girl's words concerning its removal.

" Now you speak of it, 1 did intend to take it otf
to-morrow, but as you are so much better, I believe I
will try the effect of a dim light. Close the blinds,
please, miss," said the doctor, and he proceeded to
untie and unpin the troublesome bandages. " There,"
he said, as the large l)lack eyes opened and looked him
full in the face, " I guess you will not want that on
again," handing the folded napkin to the nurse.
" Now, bring me a bowl of water and towel, hold it
please on this side," motioning her to a place close to
him. " I will not trouble you long," and he proceeded
to wash the wound on the pale forehead. While the
practised hand of the doctor was thus performing its
duty, the newly opened eyes were looking at the girl
holding the bowl. What he saw was a small, dark
face with a pair of earnest brown eyes, full of
sympathy and anxiety. The white cap above
the black hair added to the raven hue of the
latter. Her figure was small and plump, and
fitted by the plain grey dress, with its tight sleeves,
showed only the costume of a hospital nurse. But
this was the girl that wished she had a brother, and
had said she did not like housework. It was a
revelation to Charley ; he thought all women liked the
care of a house, and regretted the necessity of having
to leave it for anything else.

The doctor was through with his call and ready to

204

HILL CREST.

ilii

go, when Charley asked him how long it would be
before he could sit up.

" Oh, you can sit up any time now, there is nothing
to prevent you. Of .course, you will have to be care-
ful of your arm ; it is broken above your elbow, but
it is doing nicely, and in a few weeks you will be as
good as new," and laughing at his own wit, he bowed
himself out of the room. The i?urse felt safe now to
leave her patient for a little while, so when she heard
the bell ring, she went to the dining-room, and after
eating her own supper brought to him a dainty lunch
on a tray. She was surprised when she entered the
room to find the bed vacated. As she stopped in
wonder, a voice from the arm-chair said, " The man is
clothed and in his right mind," and looking towards
the window she saw her patient dressed and sitting
there, evidently enjoying himself. She, too, enjoyed
the joke, although at her own expense, and drew a
small table to his side and proceeded to give him his
supper.

" ^low long have I been here, said her companion.

" One week yesterday. I did not think you would
be able to wait on yourself so soon after being so
sick."

Charley laughed. " Oh, I have my right arm and
can stand on my feet, and now I can see, I will not
trouble you for so much attention, as I suppose your
services are needed by those less fortunate."

" I am not a regular nurse, but have taken charge
of this room because the one that had it was away to
recuperate her own health."

" SEARCHING FOR SILVER AND FINDING GOLD." 205

■] ^'If

irge

Charlr'y looked at lior wlnlo slu' was speaking, an<l
a thought caiue to liini that ina<le him ask (juickly,
" Do you know anyone ii. this house now hy tlie
name of Kenyon ? "

" Yes," was tiie answer, " 1 know tliem well, a sick
woman and her daughter who is waiting on her.
They occupy the next room. Do you want to see them ?"

" Well, it was with a friend of theirs I had husiness,
a Miss Berthy McDonell : do you know her ?"

" That is my name," was the timid reply.

" Well, then, I suppose you are my sister," said
Charley, looking into her flushed face earnestly.

" Your sister," said Berthy, springing up and
retreating a few steps from him. " What <lo you
mean ? I have no brother. I am the daughtei* of
Robert McDonell, of Sunnnerville. '

He was sorry he had told her so abruptly. She
was trembling an<l frightened at what she heard,
never for a moment giving it credence. He had said
all kinds of foolish things when he was delirious, but
with his eyes covered she had not minded. But now^
as he v» as looking at her so intently, she was afraid
she had a maniac on her hands, and was looking
around for some means of escape, when the door
opened and her cousin Roger came in on tip-toe.
" How is your — well, if it isn't Montgomery, the
preacher, that is here." And he recognized his old
acquaintance.

" I thought all the time it was someone I knew, but
that white rag over your eyes bothered me like sixty
and I could not make you out."

206

HILL- CREST.

Before he had time to say any more, Berthy had
him by the arm and whispered in his ear, " You nmst
not talk to liim, he is so delirious ; he took me for his
sister just now."

" He doesn't look crazy. Are you sure he is ? "

" No, I am not crazy," said Charley, laughing.
" Sit here, McDonell, and let me tell you what I have
got to say." And in as few words as possible he told
the two surprised ones his story. Berthy did not
know whether she was glad or sorry. In the week
that she had t^-ken care of this young man she
had told herself many times that he seemed near to
her.

In the nigl^%,s she bathed his head and chafed his
cramped hands and feet, he did not seem like a
stranger at all, but she thought it was because he was
so good, and he talked of his sister so much. Now,
as she thought of this the tears would come, and sit-
ting down by his side, her face buried on the arm of
the chair, she wept as though her heart would break.
Her brother put his arm around her ; he did not know
what to say. Roger's eyes were filled with tears, and
to hide his emotion he went to find Rachel and tell
her what had happened. As he met her in the hall,
the spirit of mischief, always predominating in him,
prompted him to say that Berthy had made a " mash "
on her patient, and they were getting so spooney that
he had left the room, ^'f course, the girl would not
believe anything so absurd about her friend, and
knowing as she did how Roger delighted in teasing
his cousin, she, of course, scouted the idea. He

' h'

" SEARCHING FOR SILVER AM) FINDING GOLD." 207

declared he was tellin^jj the truth, and said, " If you
do not beHeve me, just come and see for youi'self,
although, I must acknowledge, it is very humiliating
to have to prove everything I say because you have
taken it into your perverse little head to doubt my
veracity. To punish you for so heinous a crime I
shall demand an apology f; /Ui you the moment I
have proved the truth of my statement." By the
time he had delivered his speech they were at the
door, and Rachel was laughing so hard that she was
afraid some one would hear her. She expected to see
Berthy bathing the sick man's head, or fanning him,
and was surprised to see him sitting up in a chair, the
bandage off his face, and Berthy sitting by him, her
head leaning on his shoulder, and to complete Roger's
triumph, as they opened the door Charley kissed his
sister tenderly. The look of mingled surprise, indig-
nation and sadness that overapread the face of
Rachel so gratified her companion that he could
hardly refrain from shouting aloud, and had to bite
his moustache to keep quiet.

When he could command his voice, he said, as
Rachel seemed on the point of crying : " We will go
in and give them both a good blowing up. They will
be a disgrace to the whole institution." •

She drew back, saying in a whisper, " No, we will
not go in." But Roger would not let her escape, and
in a moment more she was laughing and crying at the
news just as Berthy herself had done.

" So you are the sister that we thought had run
away ? " said Rachel. " And you have got one of your

il"!

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208

HiLL-CRteSt.

wishes, at least, for it was only to-day that you wei'e
wisliin^ you luul a l)r()tliei'."

" AtkI the hrotiier is ln'oken completely down l»y tlu;
weight ol' his I'espousihility," said Ro^er.

" Oh, do he (juiet," said Ray, thinkin*^ that perhaps
this stranger nii^ht not enjoy Roj^er's original jokes,
but Charley laughed lieartily, an<l said " I suppose you
can sympathize with mv, for you held the responsible
position of cousin long enougli to know a little of its
weight : allow me to congratulate you on its recent
removal," and he extended his hand, which Roger
shook with mock gra>^ity. It was all so ridiculous,
that the merriment became general, even Berthy her-
self smiling at the gay sally : for she very well knew
that the young men were trying to cheer her up, and
put her at ease in her new position.

Rachel, remend)ering that she had left her mother
with a friend wlio had called, arose quickly to go back
to her charge, and Rogei" went with her, leaving the
newly found relatives alone.

There was much that Charley wanted to say to his
sister, but she would not allow him to talk any more,
seeing how pale and tired he looked, although as
anxious as himself to heai* more about her future home
in the West. After he had lain down on his couch to
rest, Berthy stole away to see if, when alone, she could
realise what had happened to her. She knew it meant
a separation from her old friends and her home at
Hill-Crest. Then this brother was a comparative
stranger, though he did not seem like one. These
thoughts came to her in rapid succession, as her

" SEARCHIN(J KOK SILVEIl AND FINDINfi GOLD." 20 )

as
[ne

to
lid
lilt

at
ive

ise

ler

thou^lits generally <li<l : Imt un(U'nu»ath tht'in all there
was a ft^elin^ of exultation, a sensation of rdcas**, tiiat
sti'e!i^thene(l each moment, and every ohject she
looked at si'eme(l to convev^ to hei* heart the one word —
freedom. Free from drud<;'ery, free to I'ead and study,
and see the wonders of this wonderful world.

Her past life was fast slippinj,^ away from her,
and in the short time that ha<l intervened since her
new relationship was made known, a life-time of
lon<:;ed-f()r ph*asures liad passed before her imagina-
tion.

When Racliel went back to her mother she found
her very restless, owin^, perhaps, to tlie \ou^ visit from
her friend ; hut wlien the sick w^oman saw Roger she
smiled, and holding out her hand, she said : " Sing to
me." It pleased both the young people to know, as
they did, how nuich Mrs. Kenyon w^as learning to
depend on Roger for comfort. With his natur-
ally jubilant disposition, it seemed a little strange
thao his presence could be at all useful in an invalid's
chamber. But he brought that t eerfulness with him
that made her feel that the way was made less dreary
for her daughter, and that alone would suffice to make
him a welcome guest at the dying woman's bedside, and
then his soft, clear voice was alw^ays ready with a
hymn. Or he would read for any length of time,
never seeming weary, or thinking of anything but the
pleasure he was bringing to the aged saint, wdio would
soon be beyond the ministi*ations of earthly kindness.
Now, as he sat by her side she said to him : "If my
own boy had lived, he would have been just thine age,

; *i ..; I

I "

210

HILL -CREST.

and T wonder if lie would have taken as inucli troul>l«>
for mo as thou luiHt."

"I owe more to you than I can ever hope to re'pay,"
Haid Ro^er, "and what little comfort I can he to you
gives me moi*e pleasure than you are ahle to realise.
I needed all my life the influence that you have
thrown aro\nid me, and I dai'e not think of my lonely
life when I shall he deprived of it."

Thei'e was silence for a few minutes, then Mrs.
Kenyon said : " Berthy is a ^ood fi'it^nd to thee, and
now as she will shortly go hack to her honie again,
will need thy friendship, as her people do not seem
to understand her as we have learned to do ; and I
feel convinced that with proper companions and sym-
pathetic encouragement, she will become a good and
useful woman. Perhaps she is not very brilliaTit, and
certainly not handsome, but she is one that will leave
the world better for having lived in it." Roger looked
at Rachel, his face glowing with suppressed eagerness
to tell of Bertliy's changed fortune, and receiving a
nod of approval, told Mrs. Kenyon what had come to
the life of their mutual friend. Rachel did not think
the simple narrative would excite her mother very
much, especially as Roger prepared the way so care-
fully by saying that Berthy had never seemed like the
other young ladies at Hill-Crest ; but when he had
finished and said, " Now we will have to think of her
as Berthy Montgomery, instead of McDonell." His
listener gave a start, and said in a voice louder than
she had been won't to use for many a day, " Mont-

ai
in

U J,'

"SEAIlCHlNr, FOR SILVER AND FINDINO GOLD."

211

iif!

lad

Lis
lan
mt-

^omcry, did you say ? Ih she tlic dau^litt'i* of CharloH
Montgomery ?"

'* Yes, ' said Ro^er, "and hei* brother's name is
Charles, too, for Harold always called liim Charley.

"Then slie is my sister Rachel's own child,"

The (^xcitemei ^ was too much for her weakeiietl
frame, and a sinking spell f(3llowed that threatened to
end in innnediate death. Although Rachel ha<l Ion<;*
since ^ivei up all hope of her mothei-'s life, yet she
now blamed hei>udf for allowing- this story to be told
to her, and still here was somethin<»; that ui^ht to l)e
known. It did seem that one revelation followed an-
other HO rapidly that it was almost too much for those
that were well to endure. All ni^ht the ])eath An^el
seemed to hover near, ready to carry away the spirit
from her fainting, trend)ling body. Ro^er had taken
Berthy away from her brother's side \ou^ enough to
tell her what Mrs. Kenyon had said, for he felt it
would be doing a great wrong to let this woman die
before she knew that the one she had loved so well in
life was indeed her own mother's sister.

But they thought best to let Charley get a little more
strength before he was made aware of it. As the
morning began to dav n, Mrs. Kenyon became more
cahn, and fell into a refreshing slec

The doctor, who had been all night with her, and
knew the cause of the alarming condition, said to the
anxious group, " She is better now, and if on iawaken-
ing she remembers what you w.re talking about I
would advise you to let Mr. Montgomery and his
sister see her at once; for you must realize," he coa-

llli

'1=

T Hd

I ^

11,

• f I'

I ■■
i

212

HiLL-CREST.

tinued, turning to Rachel, " that it i.s only a question
of a few (lays at most with her. I am very sorry to
say these things, but chink it is })etter that you should
he prepared : and I want to say fuither, that I am glad
to see you surrounded hy friends, and I congratulate
you on finding so good a man as Mr. Montgomery for
a cousin. He is, indeed, a relative to be proud of. I
have seen his name mentioned a score of times in the
papers as one of the leading divines in the city where
he lives."

*' Will he be able to come in here if my mother
wishes to see him ? "

" Oh ! yes, he is all right. The reason we tied a
bandage over his eyes was on account of the cut on
his forehead, and then his head was a little hurt.
But with the exception of his broken arm, there is
nothing the matter with him now. His life and
habits have always been so pure that there is not a
particle of disease about him. I never look into his
face, that the word " noble " does not present itself to
my mind. I wish we had more young men like him."
And the doctor hurried aw^ay, reproving himself for
spending so much time moralizing. There was no
perceptible change in Mrs. Kenyon all that day, nor
(luring the night following.

In the meantime, Berthy had told her brother of
the addition to the family tree ; and although he
had never seen the aunt, he knew by the kindness
she had shown his sister that she must be a good
woman, and he felt drawn towards her.

Berthy, in telling him how much the Kenyons had

of
he
Iness
good

had

" SEARCHING FOR SILVER AND FINDING GOLD." 213

done * for her, made known to his alert perceptions
that there had really been very little effort on the
part of the McDonells to study tht3 wants and wishes
of the adopted daughter; buL when he hinted at the
cause of her loneliness, he found that he had here a
defender for the family he had almost been inclined
to blame for his sister's unhappiness. She would not
allow him for a moment to think the refinjd, lady-
like girls were anything but kind and considerate to
her.

She told of the times she had hurt their feelings by
saying that she would never settle down to be a
household drudge, and thought, the moment the words
were out of her mouth, that but for their assuming
that lowly position there would be no home comforts
for any of the family. In the matter of an education,
hers was far superior to that of any of the others,
and she added, " Now, as 1 get older, I do not wonder
that there seemed to be no way for me to obtain
knowledge, as I think 1 would have. carried it to the
point of fanaticism, and God knew me better than I
knew myself."

Charley was beginning to know his sister's disposi-
tion better, and comparing it, as he did, with his own,
he was glad to see that she, too, had learned to rest
on the almighty strength of God's love.

He knew that such natures as theirs must know
that a loving Father had built this barrier between
them and their ambitious aspirations, and that He
did it for their good, or they would have beaten out
their lives long ago on its unyielding bars.

^ :m

'11,

M. ■■

214

HILL-CREST.

lliil

m m\\

! ■

.i\. ■ \ \

" Where did you learn that sweet secret of submis-
sion ? I was older than you are before I accepted it."

" From my spiritual guide," said Berthy, smiling and
motioning toward the rOom occupied by her Quaker
friend.

" Then you have, indeed, much to be grateful to
her for. I meet a great many life-long Christians
who do not seem to understand what I mean by the
Fatherhood of God ; it is the only true source of
happiness."

He then went on to tell her something of his past
life ; how many struggles he had, and how mercifully
he had been led through them all. " I have always
felt that in God's hand I was the instrument sent to
save the soul of poor Uncle John ; that was the
strongest temptation I ever had to resist.

" There I was in a strange city, with only a few
dollars in the world, and not enough to pay my
board a week. I felt I had some right to his money,
for I was his legal heir ; but he denounced all forms
of religion, and declared I should not have anything
to do with the ministry if I lived with him. His
lawyer, after kindly inviting me into his house,
adWsed me to lay aside my radical views, and accept
the home and money he, too, thought I had a right to
expect. I tell you it was a battle I found hard to
tight, but the victory more than paid for the conflict.
The last two years of my uncle's life were those of
perfect peace. He knew he had been selfish and
worldly, and he tried to make amends by doing all
the good he could before he died. After he became

"SEARCHING FOR SILVER AND FINDING GOLD." 215

of
and

all
kame

almost lielpless, I often carried him in my arms to
the carriage, where, lying among soft cusliions, we
would go to some poor quarter of the city, and while
I pointed a dying soul to Gol, he, with his money,
would provide for their temporal needs.

"I cannot tell which was the more comforted — they
by the receiving, or he by the giving. Often coming
home, when I asked him if he was tired, his answer
would be, ' Oh, I have not thought of myself at all.
I can see him now as he looked on one occasion, when
we found in an old shanty a Union soldier sick,
without food or lire ; uncle sent a boy for supplies.
The boy and I built a fire, made the man some tea,
andbrous^ht him some food, but he would not eat it until
he was lifted up on his knees, so that he could thank
God for these mercies, and pray for a special blessing
on the saint that had been sent to him with these
comforts.

" Uncle's face was a study. It seemed to me that
all the hard, stern lines that had so disfigured him,
were smoothed out that day, and they never came
back again. He told me going home that he never
was happier in his b*fe, and said, ' Charley, my boy,
it was your standing firm that made me first think
tlig^j^ii»«Was something in religion, and now I have
tested it and know there is everything in it.'

" We looked after the old soldier until he died
(which was only a few weeks after we first found
him), holding uncle's hand in his, and saying with the
simplicity of a little child, ' Good-bye, old comrade ;
we will meet beyond the picket line.'

216

HILL-CREST.

I '. i

IP'

" How thankful I have always been that I could
be with uncle to the last. He depended so iriudi on
me for care, and yet he would not al ,w me to leave
a single duty undone that the Church required. You
know the month following my arrival in Denver I
was given a place in Mr. Darlington's church as his
colleague, and uncle was just as anxious to have me
make a good impression on my audience as I was to
make it.

" Mr. Raymond used to laugh, and say, ' It pleases
me to see the pride your uncle takes in you. H e said
to me when alone, * I am afraid Charley will become
vain and conceited, the people are making too much
fuss o\'er him,' and at the same time he himself was com-
pletely carried away with the fact that he had the
honor to be an uncle of the popular young preacher.'
Mr. Raymond is a lawyer and can flatter as well as
reprimand a client," contiimed Cliarley, fearing lest
his sister would think him a boaster. But
there was not the sliglitest danger of her thinking
any evil of him who, in her eyes at least, was perfec-
tion. Seeing her so interested in his work he
continued : " There is always an opportunity in
Colorado for any amount of Christian work ; a great
many men with weak lungs go there every year to
see if the bracing air will not restore them to health.
Some do get better, - and some go too late, and often
arrive there without money or friends, to die, perhaps
in a hospital. The ladies of the church make them a
special care, taking them little comforts, writing letters
to their fiiends, and in some cases praying for and

#1%

"SEARCHING FOR SILVER AND FINDING GOLD." 217

:ir r

uers
and

with them. I go as often as I can, and encourage the
members of my cliurch to do the same."

" May I go with you, when we get there ? I just
love to do anything of that kind," said Berthy, her
eyes sparkling with the eager question.

" Why, yes: I would be glad to have you go for the
boy's sake and for the sake of the example ? "

" The example ? " and she looked a little puzzled.

" Have all your good works been done simply for
the pleasure of doing them ? " he asked.

" I never did much for the good of humanity, but I
have always felt that in some way, what I have done
would perhaps make up for my own shortcomings."

'* Wliat do you call your work here in this place ;
you have had other patients besides me, have you
not ? "

" Yes, a young man died in this room whom I
waited on for two weeks ; he was buried the day
before you came."

" I think my little sister has unconsciously l)een
preparing herself for the duties that lay before her,"
said Charley, his heart full of thankfulness that he had
found in her just the qualities of mind and heart that
he most loved and admired. " But, do you never have
any thoughts of worldly pleasure ? "

"I never felt that I was really prepared for the society
that I wanted to mingle with. I would rather be alone
than to associate with uneducated people, and I cannot
meet those who are educated as an equal, so I
preferred to remain out of society altogether."

" You shall have your taste for cultivated associa-
te

1 :l : i

is!

ll'lli

il,

li ■

'' , 1

218

HILL-CREST.

h\i

tion satisfied when we go to our home, for I have
gathered around me just the class of people that you
speak of. There are many strangers coming and
going continually in a city like the one I live in, and
I, like you, am always anxious to meet men of talent
and intellect, and my friends knowing so well what
pleasure the acquaintanceship will afford me, feel free
at any time to bring to my house any such that they
chance to meet. I make only one stipulation, and
that is they must be believers in God. I have no time
to listen to agnostic theories." He continued: " If you
.wish to attend school, you may, or if you prefer it, I
will get you a governess at home."

Berthy's face glowed with anticipation ; she felt it
was like a dream of fairyland, and her heart was full
of gratitude. Her brother seeing it, said, " I think we
both have much to thank God for. I expected to find
a good sister, but I did not dare to hope for the
congenial spirit that I have really discovered in her.''
He waited for some comment, but none came ; her
emotion would not allow her to speak. "I find,"
he added, " that in searching for silver I have found
gold."

tP^

' Ti

CHAPTER XII.

FORGIVEN.

EARLY two weeks had elapsed since
Charley Montgomery had left Hill-
Crest. Robert McDonell felt that in
some way he had not made a good
impression on the son of his old friend. He knew he
could not blame the young man for having some
misgivings in regard to his sister, and it seemed strange,
too, as he himself thought of it, how little the whole
family had thought it necessary to look after Berthy.
She, from childhood, had seemed capable of managing
her own affairs, and almost to resent any interference
on their part, so that it had become a settled habit in
the Household to let her have her own way in every-
thing pertaining to self-government.

But now as a stranger appeared on the scene and
inquired what this indifference meant, it was a question
hard to answer, and Mr. McDonell said all he could say:
" That she was not like his own," but realized while
he was saying it that there was no satisfaction in any

220

HILL-CREST.

such explanation. After Charley had been ^one niore
than a week and no letter* had come to them, a Hoi*t of
gloom seemed to settle down on the family. The
father asked every night if they had heard from
Berthy, and when the answer came that they had not,
he would sigh heavily ; but perhaps no one member
of the household felt the silence more than Edith
When Harold and his family returned to Lake View,
she would not go with them as she had intended, but
remained at Hill-Crest, thinking that in a few days
Berthy and her new brother would come, • and
she wanted to be there when they came. But, as the
days passed and no word was received from them, she
began to think they had gone back to Denver without
coming to bid them good-bye. When she told her
father and Grace of her suspicions they both thought
there might be something in it, and Grace wondered
if the brother had bought Berthy any new clothes
before he took her to that large city. It troubled
her kind heart to think how he would feel on seeing
his sister for the first time, (if she could only have
been there to prepare her for the meeting how happy
she would have been), and Mr. Montgomery was so
well dressed himself. There was not a part of his
elegant attire that had escaped her scrutiny, from his
glossy beaver hat to the toe of his well-fitting boot.
" He is one that understands what his position requires
of him," and Grace threw back her head in a way
that indicated much more of her thoughts on the
subject than her words had implied. Her opinion in
regard to this young man so pleased Edith that,

: T

FORGIVEN.

221

way
the
n in
ihat,

though iiHually (|uiet, she became quite interested in
her sister's remarks, and they both looked forward to
meeting liim again.

Aunt EHzabeth had gone on a visit to New York
and did not know anything about the change in tlie
family affairs, as there was very little correspondence
between them when she was away. As the days
passed and no word came from Berthy, the remaining
members of the McDonell home began to make
preparations for their regular Thanksgiving visit to
Lake View. The father would never consent to leave
his home at Christmas, and so the girls had it
arranged that they should all go to Kathey's home
the week before Thanksgiving, and return home in
time to prepare an old-fashioned Christmas dinner for
the father's comfort. Harold and Kathey, and little
Harry often came with them, and as this year there
was one more Huntington to bring along the girl?
looked forward to an unusually merry Christmas.
They felt sure that when Mrs. Kenyon died, Rachael
would have to come home to make some arrangements
concerning her school, so they waited to hear in this
way something about the brother and sister. But the
day before their departure, the young lady who had
taken Rachel's place in the school called at Hill-Crest,
and told them that she was going to teach there all
winter, as the trustees had received a letter from
Rachel saying she would not take the school again.
Harold had left an invitation for Charley to come
with Mr. McDonell and the girls to spend Thanks-
giving at Lake View, and was therefore very much

i i

II ■Hi

ii^ 151

lli'':

I
§

222

HILL-CREST.

1 1 .

surprised and disappointed to have them come alone.
When they told him the Montgomery's had not been
heard from he telegraplied at once to know what it
all meant, and received a reply that Mrs. Kenyon
was dead and would be buried that afternoon, and
that the next day tliey might expect Charley, his
sister and his cousin to be with them at Lake View.

" Mrs. Kenyon was dead.'' The words were simple
enough, and did not surprise the people who read
them, but no words could convey to the , minds of
those who knew her an adequate idea of what the
going out of that beautiful life really was.

When she rallied from the death -like stupor that
succeeded the sinking-spell, her first words were,
" Can I see my sister's children ? " and Rachel
hastened to tell them of her mother's recovered
consciousness. As soon as Charley looked into the
face of his aunt he knew that her life was passing
away very rapidly, and he therefore sought to say
the words of comfort that the time would warrant ;
but as soon as she saw him she seemed to gain
strength for the occasion, and although her voice was
changed and very weak, she told him many things he
had longed to hear of his father and mother's Chris-
tian life, and their love for each other, adding that
they had both died while she and her husband were
travelling in Europe for the latter's health^ and' that
upon her return she could not find i e children.
While she was talking she kept a tight hold on
Berthy's hand, as though she would have her know

FORGIVEN.

223

that she loved her tliough she could not take her eyes
from the face of her wister's handsome son. " Thou
art like thy father, so strong and with such a brave
look. Berthy will have a true friend : she does not
need a protector ; she never desires to do wrong, and
can always take care of herself, but thee will love her
when thee knows how grateful she is for every kind
word or look."

Charley put his arm around his trembling sister,
and said : " We both thank you for leading her to
Christ and helping her to do what she has done for
His glory."

" Oh," said the dying woman, " I am glad to hear
thee say that. She v.dll yet do much for the Master."

Then she took her daughter's hand and pressed it
to her lips and looked around the room as though
there was some one else she expected to see. Rachel
thought 3he knew whom her mother wanted, but she
was so overcome with grief that she did not dare to
trust her voice, for she was anxious to hear every
word from the beloved lips, feeling sure they would
be the last she would ever hear from them on earth.
The door opened softly and Roger came to the bed-
side. As soon as Mrs. Kenyon saw him a smile lit up
her face, and she reached for his hand. Rachel tried
to draw hers aw^ay, thinking her mother had some
words of advice or counsel for him alone, but her
hand was retained and put in that of the young man,
and with what seemed to bo her last breath the
mother and loving counsellor said sweetly, " You both
have my blessing." Roger could scarcely keep from

life

224

h ILL-CREST.

'}'.

! ■,

weeping aloud, ho threat was his emotion, but he
mastered his feelings. Knowing how well the sainted
woman loved to have him sing, he commenced, in a
tremulous but clear voice,

" Christian, the mom brealcH sweetly o'er thee,
And all the midnight shadows flee."

As he sang her eyes closed. He felt the hand that
was laid on his grow colder, bu^ it did not terrify
him. He held tightly the little warm, quivering hand
of Rachel, and felt that his own could keep her from
realizing any terror in the presence of what did not
seem to him like an ordinary death.

When Roger had finished the verse, Charley said,
putting his hand on the placid brow, " It is over."

There was no uncontrollabJe weeping. It did not
seem right in the presence of this quiet, angelic form,
to burst forth in loud, wailing cries. Rachel turned
from the bed as the matron and nurses came in, and
Roger led her out into the open air. Charley and
Berthy went back to the room they occupied, and all
that was mortal of the beloved Quakeress was left to
the respectful ministration of strangers.

" Oh, you have come at last. I am nearly starved.
The lire would not burn and I did not have any tea
for my dinner, and I am almost crazy with a head-
ache."

" Well, never mind, I shall soon have the fire burn-
ing, and see, I have brought some nice peaches for
your supper."

FOlKilVEN.

225

" Oh, ycH, ' iieviir luind,' that is all very well for
you to say. I think I ouf(ht to mind, sitting here all
day alone and no one to .speak to." And the old
woman groaned and rubbed her head in a fretful,
peevish w^ay that was very annoying to the younger
woman.

The rooms were small and scantily furnished, and
were at the very top of a cheap tenement house in a
large city. The inmates were unknown and uncared
for by the other inhabitants of the Rookery, as the
old building was called.

Geraldine McDonell and her mother had taken
rooms in a better part of the city, but soon found that
the expense of living was so great that they had to
bring down their desires to their means, which were
very limited. When Geraldine had been offered a
position in a dry -goods store as sales w^oman she, of
course, expected to receive a good salary. She argued
that girl clerks in stores dress like ladies, and there-
fore they must receive very high wages, but when she
was given such small pay and complained to the other
girls about it, they only laughed and said :

" We do not always tell how little we make, but let
those outside think what they please. Some of us
have fathers or brothers that pay our board, and all
we make we have to dress ourselves with."

And so poor Geraldine saw there was no use in say-
ing any more, but reduced the expense of her ow^n
and her mother's living, and tried to get along as best
she could. The work was not so hard, but her mother
w^orried and tormented her terribly, always taunting

41" I

Ml:

"1
'<t\\ '

I 't

226

HILL-CREST.

her with her lack of management, or blaming her for
not doing better at the store so she could get more
wages. All this Geraldine bore with silent apathy.
She never in her life had said a saucy, impudent word
to her mother. In fact, she had always thought her
the most sensible and cool-headed woman in the
world, and had been led by her all her life, falling in
with any plan that diplomatic lady saw fit to suggest.
Many times they had laughed together about some
deceitful piece of business that had brought about the
desired result, and congratulated themselves on their
forethought. But now the case was quite different.
Geraldine saw that her mother had no real love for
her, that she was willing to see her work day and
night to bring her comfort and ease, and that she did
not regret the losti of their mone^- for lier children's
sake, but only for her own. She never spoke of Roger
except when she wanted something Geraldine could
not buy for her, and then ^he would begin to wonder
where that ungrateful boy was and why he did not
bring or send her some money. It was begin-
ning to dawn upon the mind of Geraldine that her
past life had all been a mistake.

One day she was telling some of the girls in the
store how wealthy her father had been, and saying " I
never thought I should have to work for my living."
One of the girls answered her in a practical, straight-
forward way, " Well, I have never been rich, or had
any chance for a higher place than I now occupy, but
I would like to know whv you did not learn some-
thing thoroughly — music, Oi. painting, or drawing, or

FORGIVEN.

227

an accomplishinent of some kind — that would now
furnish you with a good-paying employment, instead
of having to work wit^ those like us that never had
an opportunity for anything better."

Geraldine could not answer. She remembered well
how the German professor had said to her that she
ought to cultivate her talent for music. But her mother
had told him promptly that all her daughter desired
was to be able to play a few pieces well that she
might appear in society as other girls did ; and so it
was settled that she was to receive a smattering of
music and a dozen other things, not having enough
knowledge of any of them to be of much use to her.

To-night as she came home she stopped at the post
office and got a letter (the postman did not visit her
portion of the city), and after her mother had drank
her tea and found fault with it, and said the peaches
were sour and not fit to eat, and otherwise made
herself generally disagreeable, Geraldine thought of
the letter. It was from Kathey, asking them to
come and spend Thanksgiving at Lake View. As
soon as the name of the place was mentioned Mrs.
McDonell flew in a rage, pouring out her wrath as
usual on her daughter with the same words she had
used so often, that if Geraldine had had any sense at
all she could have married Harold herself, instead of
fooling around until he had taken that girl of Bob's,
and saying that Kathey was smart enough to catch
him while she was looking en. This last was too
much. Geraldine knew that Kathey had not ma-
noeuvred for him at all, but had simply won him by

'■'i: if

'I ii;

228

HILL-CREST.

if'
Iff I

1 '. i

1 '

her unassuming, innocent way and honest womanli-
ness. Turning to her mother she told her so. This
was the first time she had ever answered any of her
abusive language, and she added, " The reason Roger
does not care to come home is because he has become
so tired of deceit. Now," she said, as her mother did
not make any reply, " we will turn over a new leaf
and try to be at least honest in word and thought.
It is very nice of Kathey to invite us to her place at
all, for Harold knows, if she doesn't, that we did all
we could to keep them apart, and now she is so well
situated, it is a wonder to me that she speaks to us.
We would not if the tables were turned. She is a
noble. Christian woman, and I am going to tell her
when I go there that she deserves all the happiness
she is enjoying. I despise myself when I think how
I used to dress in my best, and did it only to make
them feel bad, because they had nothing to compare
with it. Roger told me at the time that it was
not right, but I was doing your bidding then, and
now you are paying me for it."

Mrs. McDonell was speechless. She had never
heard her daughter say so much on any subject, and
it seemed as if the very earth had risen up to reprove
her for her folly and wickedness. She looked at
Geraldine in surprise, and wondered where she had
conceived such queer ideas. When she thought of
this girl's changing her mode of thinking to one of
forgiveness and charity it seemed that there was
already at her very feet a chasm that could not be
crossed. She had said that she was done with deceit,

FORGIVEN.

229

and surely that would mean that the daughter was
taking the same gi'ound the son had, and it meant for
her complete desertion. With this thought her tears
flowed freely, and Geraldine relapsed into silence.
There had ;iever been any demonstration of affection
between the two, and now the ice of reserve could not
be broken even by a mother's tears ; so the evening
passed as many others had, with no word of love to
smooth the sharp points of poverty or make the
battle for an existence any the less hard.

On the morning of the funeral Rachel arose quietly*
before Berthy awoke, dressed herself, and stole out on
tiptoe to take a last farewell of her mother at an hour
when no one would disturb her. There was no one
in the hall as she passed through, but as she came to
the door of the room where her mother lay she could
hear some one crying. Who could it be? Charley
had gone to a hotel the night before. Berthy was
sleeping, and sher had heard the matron go away be-
fore she left her room ; but opening the door carefully
she saw Roger kneeling by the casket, his face buried
in the v/hite lilies he had sent the day before, crying
as a boy would have done for his own mother. Rachel
went quickly to his side and would have spoken to
him, but her own heart was too full, and she sank
down by him and they both wept together. Roger was
the first to regain his composure. He had tried to
cheer her since her mother's death as best he could,
and had kept his own sorrow under control that he
might be better able to do so. When they arose and

230

HILL-CREST.

I;)'

stood by the lovely sleeping form, Roger said, as he
looked down into the sad little face by his side: "Your
mother was more to me, Ray, than I can ever tell."

She did not answer. It never seemed strange to
her that anyone should love her dear mother.

His past life came back very clear to his mind as he
looked on the quiet face of the Quakeress. He had
always felt since that terrible day in the jail that he had
her prayers, and now as he stood by her side he felt
lonely indeed.

Rachel took from her pocket a little Bible. The
edges were frayed and the leather worn rough by con-
stant use, and she looked up at her companion and
said, in an apologetic tone, her voice low and tremulous,
" I am going to put her Bible in her hand ; it seems so
much a part of her that I think it ought to be — ."
But before she could say any more Roger had taken
the book from her hand and, pressing it to his lips,
said :

" No, do not put it in the ground ) give it to me, I
owe my soul's salvation to this little book."-

The face that the girl turned toward him was so
full of inquiry, that he did not doubt any longer
that her mother's visit to him in his hour of trouble
and disgrace was unknown to her.

He did not stop to wonder why it was kept a secret.
Berthy, too, had known all about it at the time. Often,
when he would have told Rachel of his great love for
her, this one dark cloud in his past life came up so
plainly before him that he felt it was a mean thing to
do. Her mother had done for him what she would

FORGIVEN.

231

probably have done for any other boy in his place,
and he would not presume on that kind deed to offer
himself as an equal in her family ; but, when with her
dying hand she had joined theirs, he had taken hope,
and now to know that through all these years she had
never told her daughter anything of his crime and
folly, argued well for him so far as the mother's
faith was concerned. But he would never ask Ray
Kenyon to link her pure, spotless life with his until he
had told her all, and heard her words of forgiveness.

It was not exactly the time or place for a declara-
tion of love, but Roger knew that Ray was waiting
for an explanation of his words concerning the little
Bible, so he took her hand and said, " Come down into
the parlor, and I will tell you all about it."

This room had been intended for the private use of
the matron and family at the hospital, but after the
first few weeks of the Kenyon's stay there it had been
offered them for their use at any time they saw fit.

Now, as Roger and Ray entered the room the late
November sunshine was streaming through the
window. There was a bright fire shining behind the
polished grate, and the warm crimson curtains and
velvet- cushioned chairs and sofas all seemed so invit-
ing and home-like that it inspired the sinking spirit of
the young man to make a full confession, and trust to
her love and goodness for forgiveness, if for nothing
more. So, drawing a settee in front of the cheerful
blaze he sat down by her side and told her all, not
sparing himself in the least, but saying in conclusion,
" Now, you know all about nje, can I ever hope to live

liim

H "

232

HILL-CREST.

;i.

lit

a pure enough life to feel that I am worthy to say
more to you than I have said now ? "

She looked at him with a world of love in her face,
and said simply : " Your sin was against God, not
against me, and if he has forgiven you I will. I know
my mother did love you and believed you good and
noble, for she said so to me less than a week before
she died."

I have said that Roger did not intend to say any
words of love to Ray at this time, but his great, warm
heart could not hold back the passionate yearning he
had felt for this girl so long, and now with her sweet
face so close to his, and her words of forgiveness and
approval ringing in his ears, he was not responsible
for taking her in his arms and kissing her flushed
face, while he poured out his love in a very torrent of
words. There was no spirit of the coquette in honest
Ray, and, shy and timid as she was, he knew his love
was returned. The past seemed slipping away from
him, and in its place a happy present and bright
future was all their own. They sat there a long time.
At last Rachel said :

" It does not seem right for us to be so happy and
mother so lately gone from us."

" No," said Roger, " it would not seem right if we
did not know she is happy, too. We will love each
other better that we know she loved us both."

When they heard the breakfast-bell ring they
started guiltily, having no idea how much time had
elapsed since they had come into the parlor. Roger
went away, and Rachel joined Berthy at the table.

FORGIVEN.

233

There was inucli to do. Charley mooii appeared with
the telegram. It had been sent to him, in care of the
hospital, and he asked the girls how he should answer
it. Rachel had never been to Lake View, though
Berthy had often told her what a grand old place it
was. It was arranged that she should go with them,
and Charley answered the telegram in the way we
have mentioned, knowing that Harold would not be
able to understand who the cousins could be.

'^^^

slit

\\'%

lad
rer
He.

CHAPTER XIII.

AT LAKE VIEW

S Charley thought of going to Lake
View his mind naturally turned to the
object of his daily thoughts and nightly
dreams. Any other but he would have
staid at Hill-Crest until he knew from
his adored whether he could hope or despair, but with
the strong sense of duty that pervaded his whole
being, he felt he must first make sure of the where-
abouts of his sister before he had any right to deter-
mine his own fate. Now, that this matter was settled
so satisfactorily (and he, too, was beginning to realize
that he was bomg favored in many ways with bless-
ings he had felt in early life would never be his), he
allowed himself pleasant anticipations in meeting
again at the home of his friend the one woman that
had been to him more than all others.

As the train neared the depot and Berthy caught
sight of the Huntington carriage, she could scarcely
wait to be handed out, for there, with his chubby
face surrounded by golden-brown curls, and his whole
form wriggling in the hands of Edith, was her little

AT LAKE VIEW.

235

[ught
:cely

|ubby
rhole

I little

nephew Harry, screaming with delight at the first
view of Aunt Berthy. She did not reahze how
much she loved the baby boy until she felt his arms
around her neck and his cold nose pressing her face.
She held him hugged close all the way to Lake View.

Kathey was very busy, and Harold had some
important business on hand, so they had asked Edith
to go to the depot to meet the guests, a thing she was
very glad to do, and as Harry was so delighted at the
return of Berbhy he was allowed to go, too.

When they were all seated in the carriage, Charley
proceeded to tell of the accident that had befallen
him, and how he had first seen his sister in the garb
of a nurse, saying, as he noticed the look of pity in
Edith's eyes, " Oh, she gave me the best of care, but
thought I was crazy when I called her my sister.'

" I think we all feel a little unsettled on that sub-
ject," said Edith, smiling at Berthy, " and think some-
times of contesting your right to her. Possession,
you know, is nine points in the law, and we held that
for nineteen years, though I must confess that the
change of ownership has improved her very much."

" Well, of course, I cannot judge of that, as I first
made her acquaintance with my eyes covered, which
the young lady herself thought was very fortunate."

This was the first hint he had ever given the girls
that he had overheard them talking the first day of
his convalescence, and they looked at each other as
much as to say, " What did he hear ? " This look of
consternation pleased him so much that he told Edith
what they said, keeping back very prudently Berthy's

236

HILL-CKEST.

1 !

r t-

allusion to her home life, but imitating Ray's voice
when chiding her for useless wishing.

Edith laughed heartily, but remembered just here
that Ray had lost her mother since she had last seen
her, and felt a sense of guilt at not mentioning it
before.

As that subject did not seem to suit the general
good-feeling of the pai'ty she very wisely forbore
referring to it, but said to Mr. Montgomery: " Oh, you
did not bring the cousin that you spoke of in your
telegram."

" Yes, I did, allow me to present to you Miss
Rachel Kenyon."

" What ! I did not know you were so fortunate as
to lind Rachel among your own relatives," and she
looked at him in surprise.

" I did not know she w^as a cousin of mine until I
had made my sister's acquaintance."

He did not think it necessary to go into detail con-
cerning the development of their identity ; but said
abruptly, " Roger is doing well in Philadelphia, isn't he ?"

" Roger 1 have you seen him ? "

" Oh, yes," said Berthy, before her brother could
answer, " he is in a large book store there. He came
to see us every day we were at the hospital, and his
was the last familiar face we saw at the depot."

" We have not heard anything from him for five
years or more. Kathey invited his mother and sister
to spend Thanksgiving ; they wrote yesterday they
would come, but never mentioned his name, I wonder
if they know where he is ? "

AT LAKE VIEW.

237

ill

five
jister
they

"I asked him a few days ago," said Charley, "if he
ever saw his family, and he said no. He seems to
think they do not care anything for him. I do not
know them, but it is queer his mother should not
have any love for him. " He says," added Charley,
laughing, "they are too much 'stuck' on style to think
of him."

" How like Roger that sounds, but I think if he saw
them now he w^ould not accuse them of being stylish.
Geraldine has to work very hard to support her
mother," said Edith.

" Roger told me," said Berthy, always ready to
defend the absent, " that w^hen he received a larger
salary he was going to help Geraldine support their
, mother ; he said he thought it his duty."

" That sounds hard," said Charley, " to hear a son
talk of duty, with no love ; duty to clear his own
conscience, and no love to make the act a pleasure."

" It is her own fault that he does not love her," and
Berthy's eyes grew black with suppressed indignation.

" We will admit all that," said her brother, " but it
is none the less sad. Roger is a noble fellow, and
will do the right thing by her if he is given an
opportunity. I am sorry his mother does not
appreciate him better. It is a painful fact that
parents do not always study the characters of their
children. There is not a young man in the city of
Philadelphia that is living a purer, better christian
life than Roger McDonell."

" Christian ! " said Edith, in a surprised tone, " then
he has become one very lately.

^38

HlLL-CHfiST.

ilii

" About five years aj^o," said Ray, speaking for the
first time.

" Oh ! that is since we knew him, but it did not
seem to me he could ever be a christian, lie was so
fond of fun."

" Do vou think the love of fun ought to prevent
one from being a follower of Christ ? Some kinds of
fun are very beneficial to both soul and body,' said
Charley.

"Yes," said Edith, blushing, as the keen, direct
(juestion was put to her ; " we can, perhaps, become
Christians and yet retain our love of enjoyment to a
certain degree. But do you not think that an
inordinate love of worldly amusement lias kept a great
many people from making a profession of religion ? "

'* Undoubtedly it has, and yet if they cannot see in
the service of God a greater pleasure than selfish
indulgence, there is nothing to be gained by
Christianity in general, or the person in particular.
There is a great mistake '^ my mind, in the efforts the
churches are makir' .arnish amusement for the

young people of congregation ; they can never

hope to rival the world in that respect, and keep
sacred the church rules, and therefore their attempts
only meet with ridicule from those they are seeking
to benefit. Let the unconverted once understand that
there is rest and peace in the Christian life, and they
will only be too glad to avail themselves of the
opportunity it affords. There is not so much seeking
for pleasure in this world for its own sake as we are
apt to think, but it is a desire to drown care that

AT LAKE VIEW.

239

the

:ing

are

impolH HO many to places of anniHenient : and if tliey
could be made to know, I say, tliat in a life hidden
with Christ in God there is complete innuunity from
worldly care, I do not believe the churches of
America would be able to hoKl the throng of weary
workers that would come asking to be admitted."

" And do you think it was this desire for rest that
brought Roger into the church when he was so
young ? "

" I do not know the circumstances of his conversion,"
and Charley looked at Berthy, while* slie answered.

" It was very similar to a need of rest ; he was
lonely, and felt he had no friends, and was in deep
trouble at the time he accepted Christ."

Edith's eyes were filled with tears, but she dashed
them away and thought no one noticed them, as just
at that time Harry sprang up and exclaimed, " Now,
we are home ; come, Aunt Berfie, and see my new

As the carriage stopped at the porch Harold and
Kathey were there to welcome them, and, like Edith,
wanted to know whei*6 the cou'sin was, and the story
had to be gone over again about this new relatives.
They were both delighted to see how much Charley
appeared to love his sister in^ the^.littlp time he had

known her. /AV'iJ.; . . t.,, ..>i>^ ;

When he- n^et/M,!*, McDpliell, he took him by the
hand an(j. a^k^ *to be' forgiven for the way he had
seemed to inleiakQ thjeir treatment of Berthy. They
were alone in the drawing room, and Charley saw the
old man was deeply affected, and hastened to i -*, " I

V, I i

111

240

HlLL-CREST.

II
ft

feel as if I could never repay you for the kindness
you did my poor father and mother in taking the
helpless babe into your heart and home ; and I know
it meant sacrifice on your part many times to keep in
your family this child. Will you not let me show in
a small measure my gratitude by giving you something
more substantial than empty woias of thanks ?"

" No, no/' said the warm-hearted Irishman, " I dare
not let you give me a cent of pay, for my wife said to
me the day before she died : ' I know God will raise
up friends for my motherless children,' and I
knew she was thinking of what we had done for
Berthy when she said it, so I will not spoil her work
of charity by taking money from man for the work
she did for God."

Charley could not press the matter any farther, but
assured his friend that he should always stand ready
to do anything in his power for the kindness shown
his sister, and added, laughing : " She is so much like
myself that I do not think we will ever quariel."

" Who is that Yankee walking up and down the
garden path with Miss Edith ? " said Adolphus, coming
into Harold's studio one morning and pointing in the
direction of the chrysanthemum-bordered walk that
could be plainly seen from the window.

" Hello, my boy, when did you arrive ? " said Harold,
on heaving his friend's voice close to his side.

" Just this minute. I am all dusty and wanted to
get a bath and change my clothes before I met your
family, so I asked the servant to show me upstairs

AT LAKE VIEW.

241

Id,

before she announced my arrival. But you have not
answered my question."

" Oh," said Harold, looking out of the window, " that
m Charley Montgomery, you have often heard me
speak of him."

"The preacher that you said was so poor and
proud ?"

" The same."

" I did not expect to see such a fine fellow as this ;
why, he looks like a gentleman."

"So he is, in the American sense of the w^ord."

" Yes, but you know w^hat I mean, he has not the
appearance of one who has ever known toil or poverty
— and then his clothes."

" Is that the reason you called him a Yankee when
you first came in?"

" That is the very reason ; I can tell one wherever I
see him. We English get the best clothes we can to
make us appear well, but you fellows have a way of
putting on anything, so that you seem to be making
the suit look well, instead of the suit making you look
well. I don't understand it."

" Come, come," said Harold laughing, " no more of
your flattery. One would think you had just paid a
visit to Blarney Castle;" but he saw the young man was
very much in earnest, and also knew why Mr. Mont-
gomery's personal appearance was so troubling him.

There was a grieved look on his usually expression-
less face, and he said, "I am not flattering, I am
simply stating the truth as it has forced itself on my
mind ever since I have been in the * blooming country.'"

242

HILL-CREST.

- )■

i.iH

u.?

I! uv

And he walked off into his own room with the air of
one who had been most cruelly deceived.

Harold looked again into the garden and could not
doubt but Adolphus had seen the gallant, tender
^ manner in which Charley folded around Edith a
scarlet shawl he had taken from the hand of Nettie
(the nurse girl), but could not feel the p:ty for
Adolphus that he would if he had not thought it was
his pride and ftot his heart that was touched.

The weather was beautiful. Although it was the
day before Thanksgiving the sun had co- le out warm
and bright in the morning, making one think that it
was not so near winter after all, but Mr. McDonell
shook his head when the girls were rejoicing over the
prospect of the nice warm days to come, and said :
*' This is only a pet day ; there will be a storm before
to-morrow."

And Charley said : " Then it behooves us to take
advantage of it. Will you go with me, Edith, and take
a farewell look at the chrysanthemums ? I saw the
gardener with some suspicious looking weapon this
morning in their vicinity, and am afraid before night
he will have them rooted out of the ground." Edith,
nothing loth, had gone with him just as Adolphus,
having driven from the station in a hired conveyance,
, made his appearance at Lake View.

When Harold first brought home his, bride he had
intended to spend the winters in the city, but after
one season there Kathey said to him : " Would you not
rather stay at Lake View ? There is too much of an
air of moving in this change twice a year ; and then

AT LAKE VIEW.

243

our country home is quite comfortable and we do not
care for fashionable society. We can really be to-
gether by ourselves more here."

" I thought you would enjoy the change," he said,
kissing her fondly. " As for myself, there is no place
on earth I love so much as this home."

So it was settled. The house in town was sold and
Lake View became the permanent residence of the
Huntingtons. In the fall, as the nights began to grow
longer and the air outside a little more crisp, Kathey
would have the white curtains exchanged for those of
a warmer hue, and cover the pale ecru-colored carpets
here and there with large oriental rugs, and have
brough '. into the sitting-room soft plush-covered
chairs and sofas. With the windows filled with palms
and flowering plants, the house seemed to defy the
inclement weather, no matter how much the wind
howled among the stately trees or tossed up the huge
blocks of ice in the lake. As tlie holiday season ap-
proached they always managed to draw around them
a select circle of friends, young and old, who delighted
in visiting at the elegant home of Mrs. Harold Hunt-
ington, who knew so well how to entertain and to
make every one feel at home. It was a settled custom
with this hospitable family to give a Thanksgiving
party every year. The Misses McDonell were always
there at that season, and it had become a habit to
issue at least a hundred invitations to the young
people of the neighborhood to assemble at Lake View
at an early hour on the evening of Thanksgiving Day,
where they were sure of a royal good time.

■ III

'2U

filLL-CREST.

* n

I'i

Harold and Katliey felt a little disturbed on the
subject this year. They did not expect to have
among them anyone that had so lately buried a
friend, and Mrs. Kenyon was an aunt to Charley and
Berthy, as well as a n)other to Rachel, but the
invitations were out, and there was expected Signor
Selaska from Boston, a musician Harold had become
acquainted with in Russia, and Adolphus was more
than ready to do his part in entertaining the guests.
What could be done ? As they were asking each
other this question (^harley came into the library
where they were talking to get a book.

" Here," said Harold, " is some one who probably can
help us out of our dilemma ? "

" How deep are you in ? Very much depends on
that." And he held up his arm from which he had
removed the bandage that morning.

" O !" said Kathey, laughing, " it will not need any
physical strength. Sit down here and let me tell you
all about it."

When she had made the situation known, Charley
said quickly: " What kind of a party is it going
to be ? "

" We call it," said Harold, "a Thanksgiving recep-
tion, but, between ourselves, we think we are helping
to build up thus a sentiment for pure, healthy amuse-
ment. When we had the first one the young people
did not see how they could pass an evening without
dancing, or cards, or games of any kind, but when
the}^ got here and found the room filled with flow^ers
and paintings, the tables full of odd curios I had

; I

AT LAKE VIEW.

245

gathered in iny travels, and a band of jubilee singers
and an elocutionist from New York, they came to the
conclusion that there would have been no time to
dance or play games of any kind. We have made it
a point, too, to bring out the conversational powers of
our guests in a way that has surprised them; elves,
and which could never be done by allowing them to
become interested in the usual way of passing an
evening. Kathey has also insisted on the young

ladies being properly clothed " • Imt he did not

finish the sentence, for his wife pui her hand over his
mouth.

Charley caught his meaning, however, and, looking
into Mrs. Huntington's blushing face, said : " I see, I
see ; ybu did not want any cases of pneumonia foU
lowing your party." They all laughed at the implied
hint,

" Well," he continued, " if said party is on the plan
you, describe I cannot see why .you are to make any
changes on our account. As for Rachel, I know she
would feel badly if she knew that you contemplated it
for a moment."

Just then a merry laugh was heard in the hall, and
Charley laughed too, as he said, " That is Berthy ; her
laugh is infectious. I tell her I never wait to hear
what she is laughing at, for I know it is something
good, so I get ready to enjoy it with her. I tell you,
I am glad to take her home with me to wake the
echoes in the old house."

At this moment the door was thrown open, and
Berthy rushed in. " He is here," she called, as soon

246

HILL-CREST.

!■': '. "''i

"tit

as she saw who was in the room, and Grace came in
after her with an open letter in her hand.

" We have been hunting all over the house for you,
Charley," she said ; " such fun ! Aunt Elizabeth is
married ! "

** Then, there is nothing for me to do if the cere-
mony is over."

" No ; but we want to know if you are acquainted
with her husband, he is from Denver. Read the
letter Grace," and Berthy seated herself on the arm
of her brother's chair, and Grace began :

" My Dear Niece, — I have some news for you that
will surprise you very much. I was married yester-
day to a gentleman from Denver, Colorado. He was
boarding at the house of a friend of my cousin's, where
we went one evening to take tea, so I became acquainted
with him, and in less than two weeks we were
married. Of course, I am very particular about my
personal appearance, and looked extremely well that
evening, and he has told me since that he fell in love
with me at first sight. I tell you this to let you girls
know how important it is for a lady always to look
well. (" She meant that for me," said Berthy). His
name is Theodore J. Smith. He is a retired gentle-
man, living on the interest of his money."

" Do you know him ? " said Berthy, looking into
lier brother's face.

" Why, it is my Theodore," said Charley, " you
, know I told you about his writing to me when my
uncle wanted me to come to Denver."

" Oh, I thought it was Josh. Smith you said ? "

" Theodore J." said Charley, laughing at the

AT LAKE VIEW.

247

puzzled faces around him. " He said when he went
West he decided to drop the name of Joshua, it
sounded so much like his past life."

" I wonder," said Kathey, " if Aunt Elizabeth
recosfnized him ? "

" I was thinking of that," said Harold, " and do
you think he has any money ? "

" My uncle willed him two thousand when he died,
and I persuaded him to invest it out there where he
could get eight per cent., and I suppose that is the
interest he has made her believe he is living on. A
rather scanty support for a retired gentleman with a
wife, unless he intends to work at something, which
I very much doubt."

" No," said Grace, " he would rather beg than work.
But it seems as if Aunt Elizabeth must have known
him, so she could not be so foolish as to depend on
anything iie says."

" He would never tell her who he was if he could
possibly conceal his identity ; he is deceitful enough
for that," said Charley. " That is one reason why I
did not keep him after uncle died, I could not trust
him out of my sight."

" Oh," said Berthy, " they are well mated," she, too,
is full of deceit, and perhaps has told him a lot of
lies. I tell you my sympathies are with Theodore,"
and she laughed again, all the family joining in.

When Kathey and Grace heard Berthy discussing
Aunt Elizabeth, it seemed to bring to their minds so
many things they had nearly forgotten, and made the
change in the girl they had called sister so much

248

HILL-CREST.

more apparent. Surely this could never be Berthy
Hitting on the arm of her brother s chair, her loot
swinging in such an easy, careless manner, one hand
holding on to the back of the chair, and the other
toying with an expensive watch chain that was
dangling from her belt.

They knew why their aunt had always disliked
Berthy so much ; but as they looked at her now, in a
neatly-fitting dark blue dress, with its trimmings
of cardinal velvet, her eyes sparkling with merriment,
her parted lips showing a line of white teeth, they
wondered that they had ever considered her homely ;
yet they had, for Kathey had said many times,
" There is no use trying the effect of nice clothes
on Berthy, for they seem to be thrown away." What
was it then that had wrought this change ?

As if in answer to her thoughts, Berthy caught
sight of her brother's arm, " Oh, Charley," she said,
" Where is the sling for your arm ? " "I * slung ' it
away so I could hug my new sister," he said, as he
put his arm around her.

Kathey knew by the light in the dark face that
those w^ords of love and endearment were what she
had needed all her life to bring out not only the
beauty of her face but the glow of soulful interest
in everything that was good and noble, and she
chided herself that she had allowed the little, mother-
less girl to starve in her very presence, when a v ord
of kindness or love would have been to her as daily
food.

CHAPTER XIV.

CONCLUSION.

lat
jhe
,he
est

he
er-

HE morning of Tlianksgiving Day was
ushered in with the storm that Mr.
McDonell had predicted. Sometime
in the night the wind rose to a gale,
the air turning cold so rapidly that
when the rain began to fall fine, sharp snow flakes
came with it, filling the air with a driving hurricane
that was blinding to meet and clinging to everything
it touched. *

" Where is Wiggens ? " said Harold, as he met the
family at breakfast, " I want to congratulate him on
the prompt arrival of the storm he forecast."

Mr. McDonell enjoyed the joke, but said, " I guess I
am the only one to be congratulated, for if this
weather keeps up I am afraid your party to-night
will not have a very large attendance."

" Oh," said Kathey, " the young people will all be
here, it is the horses that are to be pitied in a time
like this."

" Who are they that have to be met at the depot ? "
asked Harold.
17

250

HILL-CREST.

<« «ij;,

Signer Selaska at twelve o'clock, and Aunt Mc-
Donell and Geraldine at seven," was the answer-
" They wrote me that they would not come any
sooner, as they could not leave the city until this
morning. Geraldine has only the chance of two
holidays — to-day and to-morrow."

There was a wof Id of preparation to be made late
the night before ; an express box had arrived for
Charley. He did not tell the girls it had come ; for, as
he said on making it known to them now, he was
afraid Berthy would become so excited she would not
be able to sleep. They all knew what the box con-
tained, for the first day Berthy arrived at Lake View
Edith took her away to her own room and said to
her : " There will be a party here Thanksgiving night,
and as all of the guests will be paying you more
attention than usual on account of the change that
has come to you I would like to have you look as
nice as you can. Now, what are you going to wear ? "

" Oh ! Edith, take me in hand, you know I cannot
think of anything that would be suitable."

But there was very little time, and she must have
a dress ; so, after consulting Kathey and Charley, the
girls had gone to the city, a distance of about twenty-
five miles, and had a day of shopping that had
resulted in an abundance of parcels being brought
home with them and four or fivo dresses left at the
head dress-making establishment, to be sent to Lake
View as soon as completed. Accordingly the box
had arrived, but Grace declared she would have slept
better if she had known the dresses were in the house,

CONCLUSION.

251

for she WHH afraid they would not come, as dn^sH-
makers were ho apt to disappoint their customers.
Charley enjoyed the novelty of opening t)ie box with all
the female members of the household gathered around
him ; even the servients, after supplying the necessary
hammer and hatchet, thought they had a right to in-
spect the contents. One after another of* the nobby
costumes were taken out and commented upon.
Madam Larrilard had pinned a little note to each
garment to tell how a change could be made if needed.

First, he pulled out a dark green cloth travelling
suit trimmed with mink fur, and a neat brown walk-
ing dress with a natty little jacket to match ; then a
grey flannel trimmed with bands of black velvet
ribbon, and cut steel buttons ; the next was a pretty,
plain black-silk dress, the only one Charley had
suggested (what man does not like to see a woman
dressed in black silk ?); but the crowning feature of
the whole was a dress carefully fastened to the side of
the box with tapes, a garnet velvet trimmed with
ruchings of the same shade of silk, the front of the
waist prettily draped with cream lace.

Berthy's eyes sparkled as she saw these beautiful
dresses displayed for her admiration and approval,
but when the girls all, with one voice, asked her to try
them on one after the other, until they saw how each
one become her, she cast on her brother such a look
of entreaty, that he knew in a moment what it meant,
and said quickly, with perhaps a little sarcasm :
"You do not know Berthy if you think, she likes to be
looked at, even to have her clothes admired ; but I

252

HILL-CREST.

hope that she will overcome her bad opinion of her
own personal appearance as she gets older, and knows
how blind the eyes of love are." By the time all the
finery had been carried upstairs and the empty box
disposed of luncheon was announced, and all went
into the dining room, where, to their surprise, they
found already at the table, not only Signor Selaska,
whom they expected to meet, but no less a personage
than Aunt Elizabeth. When her nieces greeted her
and expressed their surprise, that lady explained that
she was sure she would find them all at Lake View^
so she had come here for a few days, while Mr. Smith
went to Sunnnerville to secure a house as they
expected to make that village their future home. She
had arrived on the same train with the Professor, and
finding the Huntington carriage in waiting they came
at the same time. There were no more questions
asked or answered now, the foreign gentleman being
the centre of attraction for the time being ; but later
in the day when all the family were gathered in the
drawing room, Adolphus having taken the signor into
the library to make some enquiries concerning
England, where he had lately been travelling, Grace
said to her aunt, " I suppose your husband will visit
old friends in Summerville until you meet him
there."

Mrs. Smith seemed delighted that the subject was
again mentioned, and spreading out the folds of her
new brown satin dress skirt (probably a present from
Theodore) said, " I think he has no acquaintances in
the village, so he will probably remain at the hotel

CONCLUSION.

253

until I arrive. He thinkH of buying a lot and build-
ing a house. It was my choice to live in Sununerville,
for I always liked the place and people, with a few
exceptions. Of course, I will expect to go in a better
chiss of society when I return, and very likely that
of itself will cause some jealousy, as it always does.
A person must expect those things, it is the price of
success," and the lady leaned back in her chair and
heaved a sigh at the depravity of human nature. A
visible smile went around the room that threatened
each moment to break iiito an audible laugh, and
Harold haslened to enquire what business Mr. Smith
expected to go into in the village.

'! Oh," said Mrs. Smith, (piickly, " his nu'ans
are all invested in a Colorado land association,
and the interest is all he expects to use," and she
added, " he ma}^ not like the place, it never looks very
well to a stranger, you know."

Mr. McDonell thought she had furnished enough
amusement for the company and said, impatiently :
" Joshua Smith is not a stranger in Summerville."

" Joshua 1 did you say ; my husband's name is
Theodore," and she said it with so much emphasis
that it ought to have ended all controversy, but it
did not.

The old man said with equal vehemence, " then his
name is Theodore Joshua, for he is the same man that
lived there five years ago, and his wife and little boy
are buried there. We all knew him. If you want
further proof, ask Charley, he knew him well in
Colorado."

254

HILL-CREST.

She had risen to her feet, and now faced him. He
could not help but feel sorry for her, though she was
in her pride getting ready to trample under her feet
every one in her native village less favored than she
supposed herself to be.

But he answered quietly, " Your husband went to
Colorado a few months before I did, and it was through
him that my uncle found out that I was his brother's
son, and therefore I have always felt very grateful to
Th3odore for his kindness."

He said this last to set her at ease, but it was of
no use ; she stared at him as one in a dream, the ex-
ultation in her face dying out and giving place to a
look of mingled disgust and despair. All the terrible
things she herself had said, and all she had heard
others say of him, seemed ringing in her ears. For,
with the memory of that little house on the commons,
and the recollection that it was Harold that had given
him the money to take him away, came the words of
the villagers who hoped he would never come
back again. All this came to her in a rush of feeling^
that was so overwhelming, she could only drop back
into her chair and, covering her face with her hands
exclaim: " Have I married Josh Smith ?"

The storm instead of abating had increased in
violence. At about four o'clock it was almost impos-
sible to see a few yards in advance. Fortunately no
guests were expected on that train, but Kathey was
worrying about the later trip at seven. Harold had

CONCLUSION.

255

just returned from the ntables, where he had given
the coachman orders to blanket the horses well,
when the girl appeared at the sitting room door and
said : " There is a gentleman in the hall who wants to
see you. He is almost frozen, I believe." Harold
hurried away to ascertain who the unlucky mortal
was, and, to his surprise, he encountered in the veri-
table snow-man at the door Roger McDonell.

When he had parted with Ray at the depot one week
ago, he did not know when he would be able to see
her again.

He had her promise to be his wife, but he could not
ask her " to name the day," for he knew his salary
was not sufficient to support a wife as he felt she had
a right to be supported. Rachel was willing to wait
any length of time, feeling sure their love for each
other would never grow less by the enforced separa-
tion. ,

But Roger wanted her nes^r him, and knew it
would be impossible for her to remain in Philadelphia
any longer, and he, too, had a fear that Berthy w^ould
persuade her to go to Denver. In the days ^ihat fol-
lowed her departure he grew very gloomy, and felt
that in being parted from the object of his affections
that life was hardly worth living. The young men
in the store noticed it, as did the proprietor, and
thinking something had ^*^ne wrong said to him^:
"McDonell, you do not seem as cheerful as usual.
What is the matter ? " < , \ ,

" Well," said Roger, looking up quickly, " I did not
suppose my feelings were so plainly shown by m\

256

HiLL-CRESt.

i.il'i

manner, but the fact is I have been thinking I would
have to make a change. Do not think me iTngrateful,
but I am not earning enough for my present needs.
When I came here four years ago, the salary seemed
all 1 could expect, but now I am twenty-five years old,
and although the position I occupy could be filled by
anyone for the money you pay to me, and, therefore, I
cannot ask for more, still I think I ought to look for
something better."

The proprietor arose, and laying his hand on Roger's
shoulder, said, in a kind, fatherly tone of voice, " You
have more than filled the position you held, and we have
been intending to raise your salary, but you seemed
so contented and happy that we did not say anything
to you about it. But I tell you now if it is more
money you want or a change I will see that you have
both. We want to send a man to the old country in
the spring to look after our interests there and would
like to have you go. How does the prospect suit
you ?

Roger grasped the hand of his kind employer and
told him he would be delighted to remain in his pres-
ent position, and thanked him for the interest he was
taking in him ; adding, in his impulsive, straightfor-
ward way, that he had always tried to do his duty
by him, as he needed his friendship as much as his
money.

The man laughed and said : " A fine-looking fellow
like you ought not to be friendless or homele' a long.
There are scores of nice girls who would make you a
happy home."

CONCLUSION.

257

As soon as the words had escaped his lips he saw
he had touched a responsive chord, and laughing
again heartily said, " I wish you luck, my boy ; I
know how it is. I was young once myself." This
was on the afternoon before Thanksgiving Day and
Roger could hardly wait until morning, so anxious
was he to see his lady-love and tell her of his good
fortune. So on the next day we find him at Lake
View covered with snow, having walked from the
depot, but with such a warm heart and happy face
that the whole house seemed more cheery for his un-
expected presence.

The elegant rooms were one blaze of light and
color, and every nook and corner was filled with ga;y,
blooming plants, enabling the guests to forget the
dreariness of the approaching winter. The bright,
pretty costumes of the young ladies, showing in sharp
contrast to the black, masculine attire at their side,
made a picture at once pleasant and gratifying to host
and hostess.

The grand square pianoforte occupied a place
in the centre oarlor, that on occasions like this
there might be an opportunity for the guests not only
to hear but to see those who presided.

The professor had favored the company with sev-
eral very fine selections. Then followed a song by a
young lady, which was very much enjoyed.

Charley had heard enough of Roger's voice in the
sick room at I^v rs. Kenyon's bedside to feel sure that
he could sing elsewhere, and told Harold to call upon

258

HILL-CREST.

him. Roger, always willing to contribute his share
to the enjoyment of any company he chanced to be
in, selected a piece of music and asked Signor Selaska
to play his accompaniment.

As thit gentleman took his seat and glanced at the
open page before him, he turned to the young man
and said in a tone of warning, " It takes a good voice
to sing ' The Day Is Done.' "

" I guess I can raise it," said Roger, enjoying the
sedate Russian's trepidation.

" And a thorough knowledge of the rules of music,"
he said, again looking at the reckless aspirant in a
way that was intended to intimidate him, if possible.

But Roger failed to take any hint, but said care-
lessly: "The people are waiting."

The professor struck the piano with the air of one that
felt he had done his duty, whatever was the consequence.
As the clear voice took up the tune his professorship
seemed to be listening rather than playing, but when
th3 first pause came he suddenly remembered himself
and threw his whole soul into the work as though
oblivious of all around him. There was a perfect
stillness in every part of the house. Those who were
fortuiiate enough to be able to appreciate the excel-
lent rendering of the song -were spellbound by its
magic, and those who could not see any beauty in it
were kept silent by the reverent attention of the
others.

Near the door was a slight rustle, and Mrs. Mc-
Donell and Geraldine appeared. Having arrived late,
they were entering the room just as Roger began

CONCLUSION.

259

eel-
its

n it
the

singing. Some one thought the ladies were trying to
get a nearer view of the gentleman at the piano, and
kindly but noiselessly gave them a seat. But they
could only see his back as he stood there.

He looked indeed a son that any mother might be
proud of, but the old woman sitting there in her
rusty silk dress, her cap not all that she would have
desired, and gloves not exactly new, did not know
that it was her son who was holding the refined,
intellectual company, as it were, in breathless wonder
and admiration with his fine, cultivated voice. Nor
did his sister recognize him until the music stopped,
and Signer Selaska sprang from the seat and said, in
an excited manner : " Tell me whom I have had the
pleasure of playing for ? "

Roger answered him laughing : " It is Roger Mc-
Donell, at your service, sir."

The young people gathered around him, begging
for another song, but the professor must enquire
where he lived, and scold him for burying himself in
a church choir, and tell him over and over again
there was a fortune in his voice. All this Geraldine
heard, before she realized that perhaps her mother
did not know who it was that was creating so much
excitement, and then the thought came to her that
she might make a scene if she met her son here. So
the girl arose, and telling her mother they had better
go into the drawing-room, where it was cooler and less
crowded, led that lady away before she was aware why
it was done. As they were passing through the door-
way they met Adolphus. He was not enjoying jiim-

260

HILL-CREST.

self very well. That preacher, as he persisted in call-
ing Mr. Montgomery, kept close to the side of Edith,
who looked particularly lovely in a white cashmere
dress, with corsage bouquet of pale-pink rosebuds,
and when he would have attached himself to Grace,
he was preceded by a young lawyer from a neighbor-
ing town, and so poor Adolphus was nursing his
wrath and declaring to himself that he would leave
the " hlooTYiing country " When he met Geraldine
and her mother coming out of the parlor he was
struck by the lovely face and figure of the young
lady.

" Can I do anything for you ? " he said, seeing an
anxious look on the fair face.

" I am taking my mother to where it is cooler, it is
very much crowded in here."

Let me take you to the conservatory," said the
gallant Adolphus, offering the old lady his arm. Geral-
dine was delighted with his courteous attention. She
had never met him, but when he had found them a
comfortable seat and brought a dish of vanilla ice, he
introduced himself as Mr. Huntington's friend, s^pA
she was very glad to say she was a cousin to Mrs.
Huntington. Now, as the old lady expressed a desire
to return to the parlor, her daughter thought she had
better tell her who was there, but before she had time
to put her thoughts into words the}' heard some one
laughing, and in another moment Roger and Ray
came in and looked around for a place to rest and
talk. As soon as he saw his mother he rushed to her
side, and extending his hand asked her if she knew

CONCLUSION.

261

Irs.
iire
lad
Ime
me
Lay
md
Iher
lew

him. Perhaps, in the five years they liad been parted
he had never felt any yearning to see her face, but
now, as he looked at her and saw how faded and old
she had become in that time, his heart smote him for
his neglect of her, and made him feel that in the
future he would be more mindful of her than he had
been in the past.

As he stood there she looked up helplessly at lum,
and Geraldine could not repress her tears as she said,
" Oh ! mother, it is Roger." When he heard his sister's
voice he turned quickly, and taking her in his arms
kissed her passionately. Mrs. McDonell by this time
seemed to realize who it was, and with a little pitiful
cry dropped her head on her son's shoulder.; he put
his strong arms around her, holding her there until
she had become quiet, and then said, as he reached his
hand toward Geraldine : " I have been selfish and
unfeeling to stay away from you both so long."

Adolphus never for a moment forgot his duty as a
gentleman, so now he went to the side of Miss Kenyon
and offered her his arm, saying: " We will take a walk
in the rose corridor," and together they went out leaving
the family by themselves.

Roger felti very conscience stricken, but Geraldine
said to him : " We have all acted foolishly in the past,
and have learned some valuable lessons ; let us not
waste time in useless regrets, the past is behind us,
and I do not feel that mourning over it will do any
good. Tell us, brother, of your life now, it will be
more intercvsting than the blame you are so ready to
t^^ke on yourself,"

262

HILL-CREST.

m
1

It sounded new and strange to him to liear liis
sister say these things, and the mother realized it, for
she said, " O Roger, Geraldine is not Hke she used to
be ; she goes to church, and is becoming very religi-
ous, and — "

*' Mother," he said, interrupting her, " when we had
wealth w^e turned our backs on all that was good and
noble, so it is very plain to me that God took the
stumbling block out of our way, so we could find His
path to walk in."

" And have you joined the Church, too ? " said the
weak, trembling voice;

" Joining the Church is the least part of my Christian
experience. I am trying with God's help to live for
His glory."

Geraldine pressed the hand she held and said : " I
am so glad. I wish we might be together, you could
help me to do right, the way seems very dark some-
times."

" I will and can help you now."

And he told them of his prospects, and also his
great love for Rachel Kenyon, and liow she had
promised less than two hours ago, to go back with
him to Philadelphia as his wife, and he continued: "I
will try and make some arrangements so you can go
with us."

Just then Adolphus and Rachel returned, and as
Mrs. McDonell was so exhausted with the excitement
of meeting Roger he persuaded her to retire for the
night, and he went with her to her chamber door and
asked Nettie to stay by her until she was asleep.

CONCLUSION.

263

• Adolphus had admired Geraldine very much wlien
he first saw lier, and now wlien he returned to tlie
conservatory and found the traces of tears on her
sweet face, his heart was completely gone.

They went back to the parlor again just in time to
join the procession to the dhiing room, and he consid-
ered himself very fortunate in securing so handsome a
partner. As they were leaving the table Charley said
to Edith : " Mr. VanArsdale is really very pleasant
when you get to know him; I never saw him so
agreeable as he is to-night."

The next morning at eight o'clock the family all
gathered in the front parlor, where the decorations
were still hanging. Signor Selaska sat at the piano,
and at a signal began playing Mendelsson's wedding
march. In through the ivy-trimmed archway came
Roger and Rachel and took their place under a canopy
of drooping ferns, followed by Berthy and Geraldine,
Adolphus acting the part of best Inan. The Rev. Mr.
Montgomery, with an impressive service, joined to-
gether those two loving hearts by the holy marriage
ceremony.

Rachel knew she would soon be parted from
Berthy, and taving no other friend she cared to make
her home with, yielded to Roger's passionate entreaty
to go back with him. He told her of the lonely week
he had passed, of the encouraging words of his
employer, and of his present good fortune and future
prospects, but most of all of his great need of her
companionship. Her own heart yearning for his
sympathy and protection, made it seem to her the

264

HILL-CREST.

right thing to do, and so, without the usual prepara-
tions of an elaborate trosseau, the Httle, modest Quaker
maiden was taken into tlie heart and home of tlie man
that to her was all the world.

" I never performed a marriage ceremony that gave
me more pleasure than the one lihis iM^rnmg," said
Charley as he met Harold in the hall, after the
congratulations were over and the happy couple were
preparing to depart on their journey. "They seemed
to belong to each other."

Harold laughed, and putting his hand on his friend's
side said, " How does the old bachelor's heart feel
after witnessing the happiness of this other man ? "

" Happiness for myself has always been a secondary
thought with me. To a man like you, where every-
thing seemed to fall into your outstretched hands, my
life may seem a little hard, but I have been so accus-
tomed to bringing happiness to others that I forget
sometimes that I ever had a hr.man heart to satisfy.
Roger's supreme delight this morning, I suppose, is
only a faint reflection of what yours was on a similar
occasion."

" By the way, Charley," said Harold quickly, not
replying to his friend's last remark, " I want to ask
you before you go away what it was I did to offend
you when we were together in Summer ville five years
ago. I knew you were angry with me about some-
thing, but never could surmise what it was."

Charley laughed, but did not answer until his friend
spoke again and said : " My wife told me never to
mention it to you, for she w«ts iifr£i,id it would result

Je
wl

CONCLUSION.

2G5

Lar

iiot
isk
md
iars
le-

ind
to

IsuH

ill a rt'iiewal oF the old it'ud. She is iiiniK'iisclv i'ond
of you, and said only yoKtrrday that nhv hoped we
might always be friends."

He was lookintj at ("liarlev earnestU' as he said
this, perhaps fearino- ]\v JkkI made a mistake in allud-
ing to the misunderstanding of the past. But Ik^
need not have made himself uiieasv on that score, as
the confused manner of his friend led him to think
there had really been no grounds for the coolness that
had come between them. Yet he was anxious to
know wliat it was, and waited for the answer he felt
he had a right to ex])ect. Charley knew Harold well
enough to be sure he would not let the matter rest,
now he had commenced the subject, until it was all
explained ; so he threw back his head with the look
of one at bay and said :

" Well, if there is no getting around it, I will tell
you plainly that I thought it was Edith you married."

" Whew-ew-ew," said Harold, arid then burst into a
loud laugh " And when di<l you find out the differ-
ence ?

" Not until I went to Hill-Crest to find Berthy."

His friend looked sober and said: " Oh ! that is too
bad. And all thuse five years you nursed your
wrath ? '*

" No, no, I was not mad at all, but just thought as
I always have that you were the fortunate one, and
tried to wish you all the happiness in the world ; but
you cannot wonder that I did not feel like receiving
letters from you sounding the praises of the only
woman I had ever loved and realizing that she was
18

206

HILL-CREST.

anotlier man's wife. Tliere, I liave made a full coii-
foHsioii," lie a(lfle<l, lan^lnn<Lr, " are you satisfied ? "

Harold was ^oin^ to speak, but at just that moment
the subject of theii* i*emai'ks ran down the stairs and
turned into the library. Harold caught her by the
arm and said, " Charley wants you," at the same time
giving his friend a look of mischievous intelligence,
and walked away.

Edith turned an unsuspecting face to Mr. Mont-
gomery, who said (quickly (not wanting to give his
benedict friend the satisfaction of thinking he had
left him in a predicament), " That (jueen cactus we
were looking at yesterday is going to bloom soon.
Come with me and see if you think it will to-night."
As they passed Harold on their way to the conserva-
tory he said to Edith, " Perhaps you will find a king
out there instead of a (lueen."

^ " It is a (jueen / am looking for," said Charley, and
closed the door before Harold could reply.

At two o'clock in the afternoon, the bridal party
were ready to take their leave of Lake View.

Roger and his " wee wifie " had persuaded Gei'al-
dine to go with them to their new home, her brother
having written himself to tell her employer she
would not return to the store. When Adolphus
heard this arrangement he decided he would go with
them, as he had always admired the city of Philadel-
phia very much.

Mrs. McDonell would stay at Lake View until her
daughter's return. Roger said to her when bidding

CONCLUSION.

267

ll-
le

fh
1-

her good-bye: "Perhaps, mother, there are better days
in store for us than we have ever known, not in a
worldly sense, but !». the sense of having earnec] our
share of prosperity, coming up as we have out of
great tribulation." The old lady could not rejoice in
his present circumstances as a mother would who had
done all in her power to encoui'age and help him to
a higher life, and was therefore the moi'e to be pitied;
that she knew she had no right to si ire this pro-
sperity which he, in liis unsellish devotio i, was will-
ing to bestow on her. She did not sp 'ak, but sighed
heavily when Signor Selaska congiatul.ited her on
her son's talent and fine voice.

There was a great deal of merriment when the
carriage came around to take the happy couple away.
Grace and one of the other girls, who had come in to see
them off, provided themselves with enough rice and
old shoes to express the good luck th«\y wished in
their hearts w^ould attend them througli lifo.

Berthy tried to keep cheerful, but when ^he bade
Ray good-bye her courage gave way at the parting
with her cousin, and they wept in each other's arms.

V.'hen the carriage had driven away, Charley took
his sister into the back parlor for, he said, he had some-
thing to tell her that he hoped would reconcile her
somewhat to the parting with Rachel. When they were
seated he said to her: "I have been thinking that it
was too bad to take you away from all of the girls
you so long loved as your sisters, and I realize that
you can hardly think of me as a brother, we have
only been together a few weeks."

^68

HILL-CREST.

" But I do," said Berthy, '* I don't want you to think
that I am going to feel lonely with you ; but Ray and
myself have been such good friends, and then it is
such a long way from my home to hers we shall
never see each other again," and her voice was choked
with sobs.

**Do not say that little siste ' it is only a short
ride on an express train, and now you have the
money to travel with, I will expect to see you come
into my study any morning and say : "I am going to
run across to Philadelphia to-day, have you any word
to send ? "

She could not help but laugh at the pleasant
picture her brother had drawn, ar ' dried her
eyes as she looked into his happy face, ,tnd asked if
that was what he intended to tell her.

" No," he said, " I have asked Edith to go to Denver
with us, how does that suit you ? "

" I .would rather have Grace, why did you not ask
her ? "

' Well," said her brother, looking down, " I did not
feel that it would be quite right to ask lier, for I ha-l
nothing to offer her for the sacj'ifice she would have to
make in leaving her home.'"

" And what have you offered Edith to pay her for
going ? " said his sister, looking at him in innocent
wonder, he enjoyed her surprise as he said: "Oh! J
have offered her all I have to give anyone on earth —
my home, m^ fortune and my heart." Just for a
moment she wondered what could he m.ean, and then
thre .7 her arms around his neck and exclaimed : " Oh

Conclusion.

269

Charley you ,nean you are jfoiug to n.arry her I
then tokl lier l>ow loi. he had loved Edith, and how

and go wxth h,m to his Western home, wakinir him
happy by saying she, too, had loved him all tl " year"
he^^had been thinking of her as the wife of anrthe"

There is little more to tell. When Charley Mont-
gomery asked Mr. McDonell for his daughters hand
the old man smile,! and said. " Would you be taS.
another of my girls ? " but added, more soberly, " th rf

arrvthaH; "' "f "-* ^ -"^ -ner'see hi
Zifhl • T r* "'^' °'^' ^■"'^"''- You are very
much hke lum, a httle more of a gentlen.an perhaps
but no better at heart, if you are a preacher ^ '

THE KiVD.