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 [HE] [BRARY 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CAT [FORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 7'
 
 LIST OF SERIES. 
 
 I. HIDDEN WINGS, AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 n. SOWING THE WIND, AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 III. SUNSHINE AT HOME, AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 IV. THE PEACEMAKER, AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 V. NOT ANYTHING FOR PEACE, AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 VI. AFTER A SHADOW, AND OTHER STORIES.
 
 THE PEACEMAKER 
 
 OTHER STORIES.
 
 "I don't bflieje, Grandpa, you ever did see anything 
 so sweet."
 
 THE PEACEMAKER, 
 
 AKD 
 
 OTHER STORIES. 
 
 BY T. S. ARTHUR. 
 
 NEW YOKK: 
 
 J O II X R. A X I) K K S N,
 
 Entered, according- to Act of Congress, In the year 18<W, 
 By SHELDON & CO.. 
 
 'n Ihe Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
 Southern District of New York.
 
 > p 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 * FA 
 
 THE PEACEMAKER. ....... 9 
 
 II. 
 
 A CRIPPLE FOR LIFE. ....... 27 
 
 III. 
 
 GOD HELP THE POOR. ....... 38 
 
 IV. 
 
 As YOU HAVE OPPORTUNITY. ...... 61 
 
 V. 
 
 COMPENSATION. . . . . . .65 
 
 VI. 
 
 HE LOST HIS REWARD . . 83 
 
 VII. 
 
 GRANDPA AND HIS DARLING 101 
 
 (7) 
 
 1117714
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 UNFOROOTTEN WRONG. ....... 106 
 
 IX. 
 
 AS WE FORGIVE OCR DEBTORS. . . 120 
 
 X. 
 
 GIVING TO THE POOR. . 136 
 
 XI. 
 
 His OWN ENEMY . 155 
 
 XII. 
 ONLY WORDS 167 
 
 XIII. 
 
 WHAT Dip HE LEAVE. ....... 185 
 
 XIV. 
 
 THE MOTHERLESS EOT. ....... 196 
 
 XV. 
 
 OIL ON THE WATERS OF PASSION 202 
 
 XVI. 
 AN INDIGNATION VISIT. .... . . 219
 
 THE PEACEMAKER, 
 
 AND OTHER STORIES. 
 
 I. 
 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 "REPEAT that again," said Mr. Folsotn, his 
 face losing color. 
 
 "His words were, 'lie is no better than Ju 
 das.' " 
 
 " Meaning me?" 
 
 " Yes, you." 
 
 "Plain talk that, neighl>or Willanl ! " Mr. 
 Folsom's eyes had in them an angry gleam. 
 
 u 1 call it plain talking, sir. It strikes me 
 that a man may search a good while In-fore 
 discovering a harder saying. To compare one 
 willi Judas, is going to the top noti li <;t invec 
 tive."
 
 10 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 "He'll be sorry for it," said Mr. Folsom, in 
 a threatening manner. 
 
 "If he had spoken of me after that fashion," 
 replied Mr. Willard, " I rather think he would 
 understand, before a great while, what is meant 
 by the words, 'repenting in dust and ashes.' 
 Why, just think of it! To say that a man is 
 no better than Judas, is to say that he is capa 
 ble of doing the most wicked things. Words 
 have a meaning in them, neighbor Folsom ; and 
 words like these cannot fail to leave u strong 
 impression against you, even in the minds of 
 those who take them with many grains of al 
 lowance. Judas! Why, it's terrible! The 
 more I think of it, the more indignant I feel. 
 Judas, indeed ! Judas ! " 
 
 "And, I suppose he had something to say 
 ul. out thirty pieces of silver," remarked Mr. 
 
 " O, of course. Men never betray one an 
 other, except to gain some advantage." 
 
 "Infamous!" exclaimed Mr. Folsom. 
 
 "You may well say infamous. And such 
 tilings, neighbor Folsom, should not be lightly
 
 THE PEACEMAKER. H 
 
 passed over. Every man owes it to the com 
 munity, as well as to himself, to punish such 
 slanderers as they deserve. I trust that you 
 will make thorough work in the present case." 
 
 "Trust me for that, neighbor. I have stood 
 between trouble and William Clark more tlian 
 once in my life, because I pitied the man, and 
 thought him honest and well-meaning, though 
 weak and hasty. But now I will be the trouble 
 nearest to him. He needs a lesson, and I will 
 be his teacher." 
 
 "And, pray, don't spare the rod or ferule." 
 
 "Not I," answered Mr Folsom, in a cruel 
 tone. 
 
 Here the neighbors parted. An hour or two 
 afterwards, Mr. Folsom was talking with an 
 other friend and neighbor, whose name was 
 Harding. They had met for the transaction of 
 business. After matters were arranged to mu 
 tual satisfaction, Mr. Folsom said, 
 
 " What would you do if a man were to say 
 that you were no better than Judas, and would 
 betray your best friend for thirty pieces of sil 
 ver ? "
 
 12 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 "Make him take back his words, or punish 
 hitn as he deserves." 
 
 "How punish him?" asked Mr. Folsom, with 
 some betrayal of eagerness. The very thought 
 of revenge was sweet to him. 
 
 " That would depend upon the man's charac 
 ter and standing. I might sue him for slander. 
 But who has been assailed after this bad fash 
 ion ? " 
 
 "1 have been." 
 
 You ? " 
 
 "Yes." Mr. Folsom closed his lips firmly, 
 knitted his brows, and looked the very picture 
 of righteous indignation. 
 
 "By whom?" 
 
 "By a man I have often befriended William 
 Clark." 
 
 " Clark ! Is it possible ! " 
 
 " It is even so." 
 
 " What possessed him to talk in this way?" 
 
 " I was witness in a case where my evidence 
 favored his adversary, and so damaged his cause 
 that he lost it. I felt sorry for him, because 1 
 think he should have gained the suit, light
 
 THE PEACEMAKER. 13 
 
 being on his side. But I could only testify ac 
 cording to my knowledge in the case ; and it 
 so happened that nearly all the knowledge I 
 possessed came to me from Mr. Clark himself." 
 " And so he called you a Judas ? " 
 " Yes." 
 
 " A hard saying, Mr. Folsom." 
 "It is ; and one calculated to do me harm." 
 " So I should think much harm." 
 " He shall suffer for it. No man in the com 
 munity has been a warmer friend to Clark than 
 I. He is an indiscreet, hasty man, as you know, 
 and never gets on long without meeting trouble 
 in some shape. Whenever things have gone 
 wrong with him, he has come to me, and I have 
 taken great pains to help him into the right 
 
 way again. And now to turn on me after this 
 
 * 
 
 fashion is an unpardonable offence." 
 
 '"It looks like it, certainly," responded Mi : . 
 Harding, speaking merely from his external 
 thought; "and I think it will do him good to 
 feel that outrages of this character must not go 
 unpunished." 
 
 Mr. Harding separated from his indignant
 
 14 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 friend, and thought but little of what had passed 
 between them, until evening found him in a 
 state of mind different from that which had 
 ruled him through the day. As memory re 
 called one incident after another, he came to 
 the brief conversation held with Mr. Folsom on 
 the subject of Mr. Clark's alleged slanderous 
 remark, and was turning the matter over in his 
 mind, when these words suddenly came into his 
 thoughts : 
 
 "Blessed are the peacemakers." 
 
 An instant change in his state followed. 
 "Blessed are the peacemakers," he repeated to 
 himself, looking at the divine sentiment with a 
 feeling of reverence. 
 
 " Did I pour the oil of peace on these troubled 
 waters?" he said to himself, "or only meddle 
 with strife, and fan the flames of discord ?" 
 
 Mr. Harding was far from being satisfied in 
 his mind. He had counselled punishment, and 
 not forgiveness. Instead of trying to heal the 
 breach, he had only made it wider. 
 
 "Blessed are the peacemakers." He could 
 not get away from the words. They seemed aa 
 if spoken especially to him.
 
 THE PEACEMAKER. 15 
 
 Not far from the dwelling of Mr. Harding was 
 1he residence of Clark, whose free speech, as 
 reported, had, with cause, excited the indigna 
 tion of Mr. Folsom. Now Clark was a quick 
 tempered man, who often said things in the 
 heat of passion that were repented of in cooler 
 moments. Mr. Harding knew him well, and 
 understood him thoroughly. 
 
 "I must see this hasty, indiscreet man to 
 night," said Mr. Harding, after vainly trying to 
 get the thought of him out of his mind. " There 
 are two aspects in every case, and as I have 
 permitted myself to express an opinion on this 
 one from only a partial view, every consideration 
 of justice requires me to look upon the other 
 side. Instead of pushing men deeper into trou 
 ble with their fellow-men, it is our duty to 
 withdraw them, if possible, from false positions. 
 \Ve must be peacemakers, not abettors of dis 
 cord." 
 
 So Mr. Harding, to ease an unquiet con 
 science, put on his hat and stepped round to 
 the residence of his neighbor. 
 
 " What's the trouble between you and Mr.
 
 16 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 Folsom?" he asked, after the few words of 
 greeting were over. 
 
 " There is no trouble between us that I know 
 of. Who said there was trouble?" Clark 
 looked surprised. 
 
 "Didn't you affirm that he was no better than 
 Judas, and would betray his friend for thirty 
 pieces of silver?" 
 
 " Me ? " There was unfeigned astonishment in 
 the man's face. 
 
 "Yes, you." 
 
 "Preposterous ! Why should I say that?" 
 
 " He was a witness in the case you lost." 
 
 Clark looked thoughtful, and a little serious. 
 
 "Yes, he was a witness; and it was through 
 his testimony that I lost." 
 
 "And you were angry about it, and in the 
 heat of passion called him a Judas." 
 
 "I was angry, but never called him a Judas. 
 Who says that I did ? " 
 
 "I cannot speak as to his informant; but 
 somebody has repeated this offensive language 
 as coming from you." 
 
 " That somebody has lied ! " exclaimed Clark,
 
 THE PEACEMAKER. 17 
 
 indignantly, all the fire of his quick nature 
 burning suddenly in his face. "Mr. Folsom 
 has been a kind friend, and I owe him gratitude 
 for many services, which his late disservice 
 does not cancel. For me to compare him with 
 Judas would be infamous." 
 
 "Could he have testified differently in your 
 case ? " asked Mr. Harding. 
 
 "Perhaps not," was admitted. 
 
 " He was under oath." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Did he say a word more than the responsible 
 position of a witness required ? " 
 
 Clark thought for a little while, and then an 
 swered, 
 
 " No ; I presume not." 
 
 "Then you cannot blame him." 
 
 "I do not blame him, Mr. Harding. When a 
 man loses a case that he knows to be a just 
 one, and through the evidence of a man from 
 whom he expects good instead of evil, it is hard 
 not to feel some disturbance hard not even 
 to feel incensed against him. I was blind with 
 indignation for a little while, I will admit ; and I 
 2
 
 18 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 may have spoken with indiscreet freedom of Mi 
 Folsom. But I deny, in toto, that 1 compared 
 him with Judas." 
 
 " To whom did you speak of lam ? " asked 
 Harding. 
 
 " Let me see ; " and Clark looked into his 
 memory of the circumstance. "There's Mr. 
 Will'ird ; he came among the first, after the 
 jury had given a verdict, to s3 T mpathize with 
 me in my loss. ' It was the testimony of Fol 
 sorr* that ruined your case,' said he. My answer 
 was, that I had believed him my friend ; and I 
 added something about saving me from my 
 friends, and I would take care of my enemies 
 mere words such as we utter sometimes, when 
 excited, without considering their meaning." 
 
 "And you arc sure nothing was said about 
 Judas?" 
 
 " Certain." 
 
 "Think again. Recall, if posible, everything 
 that passed between you. We may get at the 
 root of the matter here. What did Willard 
 reply to your remark about saving you from 
 your friends?"
 
 THE PEACEMAKER. 1M 
 
 "Let me see." Clark thought for some mo 
 nieuts. U O, uo \v I have it: 'We never expect 
 betrayal at the haiid of a friend.' That was hu; 
 reply." 
 
 "And what did you say to this?" asked Mr. 
 Harding. 
 
 " It is all clear now," said Clark. " My 
 answer was, 'The Judas spirit is not dead yet.' 
 But I never meant to apply the words to Mr. 
 Folsom. It was a mere sentiment in response 
 to Willard's remark." 
 
 "So I can understand. And, now that we are 
 down to the bottom of this matter, suppose we 
 o together and see Mr. Folsom, and put him 
 right. The sun has gone down on his wrath ; 
 but it should not rise thereon." 
 
 " With all my heart ! " answered Clark. " The 
 quicker a false impression like this is done away, 
 the better for all parties." 
 
 At the time this conversation was going on, 
 
 Mr. Willard and Mr. Folsom were tosr^' :, in 
 
 the house of the latter. They v :>rs 
 
 ^f a benevolent society. " i- 
 
 nttee, for the f
 
 20 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 submitted to them. After its discussion and 
 settlement, the thoughts really uppermost in the 
 mind of Mr. Folsorn, came forth in words. 
 
 "I've scarcely thought of anything else to 
 day," he said, " but that infamous language of 
 Clark's. I only wonder that you kept it from 
 me so long. Slanderous speeches of the kind 
 do a person great injury. It isn't a trifle to say 
 of a man that he would betray his friend for 
 thirty pieces of silver." 
 
 This was giving to a mere inference the hard 
 shape of a fact. Mr. Willard had weakly as 
 sented to the inference ; and now it had taken 
 the form of an allegation. It was on his lips 
 to exonerate Mr. Clark from this part of the 
 offence, but he lacked the manliness and honesty 
 to do so. 
 
 "I've been his friend in a great many in 
 stances," Mr. Folsom went on in his blind anger. 
 "But he will now find me on the other side. I 
 inherit from my forefathers some decided traits 
 of character am warm as a friend, but bitter 
 as an enemy. And so he will find me." 
 
 " K'e was excited in consequence of his loss,"
 
 THE PEACEMAKER 3* 
 
 said Willard, throwing in a mollifying sen 
 tence. 
 
 " No excuse ! No excuse ! I testified only 
 to the truth, as he knew, and would have per 
 jured myself if I had made any other state 
 ment." 
 
 "Yes, yes. No blame can attach to you. 
 Clark would have done the same if your posi 
 tions had been reversed. It was an outrage in 
 him." 
 
 "And shall find its punishment, or my name 
 is not Folsom," was the revengeful answer. 
 
 "Two gentlemen wish to sec you," said a 
 servant, coming to the door of the room ill 
 which they were seated. 
 
 " Who are they ? " 
 
 "One of them gave his name as Clark." 
 
 "I wouldn't see him," said Willard, his face 
 Hushing, and its expression changing. 
 
 "Why not?" Mr. Folsom looked at him 
 sharply. A suspicion Hashed through his mind. 
 
 "I wouldn't hold any intercourse, face to face, 
 with a man who h;id slandered me after his 
 fashion. Send him t.> your lawyer. r
 
 22 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 Mr. Folsom reflected for a little while, and 
 then said to the servant, 
 
 " Show the gentlemen up." 
 
 "Hadn't I better retire?" said Mr. Willard, 
 tiding. 
 
 "You? By no means! Of all living men, 
 you are the one to be present at the interview. 
 Sit down again." 
 
 Willard sat down, looking anything but com 
 fortable. Nothing more was said until the vis 
 itors, Clark and Harding, entered the room. 
 The former was merely recognized by a distant 
 nod, while the latter was warmly welcomed. 
 Seats were offered and taken ; after which came 
 nearly a minute of silent embarrassment on all 
 sides. 
 
 " We Hud Mr. Willard here very opportunely," 
 said Harding, speaking first. 
 
 "Why so?" asked the gentleman referred to, 
 moving in his chair uneasily. 
 
 " Because I think that, through you, we may 
 get at the real merit of this trouble between 
 two men who, I am sure, have no real cause to 
 be angry with one another. Mr. Folsimi," and
 
 THE PEACEMAKER. J 
 
 the speaker turned to the gentleman now ad 
 dressed, " since talking with you to-day, I have 
 felt sure there must be sonic mistake, and in 
 order to satisfy myself, called an hour ago upon 
 our friend Clark, who denies having used the 
 language attributed to him." 
 
 "He cannot deny it," spoke out Mr. Willard, 
 in a firm voice. 
 
 " What did I say?" asked Mr. Clark, repress 
 ing the excitement he felt, and looking calmly 
 at Mr. Willard. 
 
 "Sometning about Judas," was answered. 
 
 "What about Judas?" 
 
 Willard did not answer promptly, but showed 
 considerable disturbance. 
 
 "You said Mr. Folsom, here, was no better 
 than Judas, didn't you?'' lie stammered a 
 little in his speech. 
 
 "Mo, sir!" was the emphatic answer. "JL>ut 
 I will tell you what I did say, fur 1 remember it 
 with great distinctness. I was stung at losing 
 my case. ::nd did not, for the moment, feel very 
 kind towards Mr. Folsom here, through whoso 
 testimony, fairly given 1 will admit, 1 lost my
 
 24 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 suit. You came to me, and said, 'It was tht, 
 testimony of Folsom that ruined your case.' 
 You remember that?" And he looked at Mr. 
 Willard. 
 
 "I can't say that I do," was gruffly answered. 
 
 "No matter. I remember it distinctly. To 
 this I said something about saving me from my 
 friends, and you answered, 'We never expect 
 betrayal at the hand of a friend.'" 
 
 "You are certain of that?" Mr. Willard's 
 memory was clear, as the warmth of his coun 
 tenance showed. 
 
 " Positive ! " 
 
 " And then what did you say?" asked Willard. 
 
 " I said, 'The Judas spirit is not dead yet.' " 
 
 "There, that's just it! What more would 
 you have?" And the speaker looked trium 
 phantly at Mr. Folsom. 
 
 "Considerable more, to make out the ease as 
 it stood a little while ago," said the latter, 
 calmly. "And now, what of the thirty pieces 
 of silver?" 
 
 "As 1 live, Mr. Folsom." replied Clark, "no 
 euch \vords ever passed my lips ! And if any
 
 THE PEACEMAKER. 2 
 
 mail so alleges, he is false ! As to the Judas 
 part, I merely gave a responsive sentiment, not 
 for an instant meaning to apply it to you. Thai 
 such an application might be made, I see ; and 
 no one regrets, more than I do, that it has been 
 made. Show me how I can undo the wrong you 
 have suffered, if any, and I will act promptly." 
 
 Mr. Folsoni at once gave a hand to Clark, 
 saying, 
 
 " I comprehend it all. Your explanation 
 covers the whole ground." Then, extending 
 his other hand to Mr. Harding, he added, with 
 feeling, 
 
 " Blessed are the peacemakers ! " 
 
 His eyes next turned, severely, upon the al 
 most abject Mr. Willard : 
 
 " And for him who stirreth up strife among 
 his friends and neighbors, the contempt of good 
 men ! " 
 
 "Sir!" exclaimed Willard, rising, "you forget 
 yourself." 
 
 Mr. Folsom only bowed with low formality, 
 but kept his keen, rebuking eyes steadily lixcd 
 on the others face.
 
 26 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 " Good evening," said Willard, moving to 
 wards the door. 
 
 " Good evening, sir," was returned coldly, ,uid 
 the man retired. 
 
 "I wish," said Mr. Folsom, turning to Mr. 
 Harding, and taking his hand, " that we had 
 more peacemakers among us, more men who 
 love to see reconciliation better than strife. 
 This setting of friend against friend is dreadful, 
 and comes from an evil spirit. I could not 
 help rebuking Willard harshly, for my indig 
 nation against him was strong. If I have made 
 of him an enemy, so let it be. I would have 
 been false to my appreciation of his conduct 
 if I had said a word of lighter meaning."
 
 A CRIPPLE FOR LIFE. 
 
 II. 
 
 A CRIPPLE FOR LIFE. 
 
 "HAVE you noticed that poor little fellow on 
 crutches at the white house in Marion Street ? " 
 said one of three ladies who were spending an 
 afternoon together. 
 
 " Yes, and it was just in my thoughts to speak 
 of him," was answered. "I noticed the child 
 yesterday. What a sweet, patient face he has I 
 He can't be more than ten years old." 
 
 " And a cripple for Irfe ! " said the third lady. 
 
 Her two friends turned their eyes upon her 
 with looks of inquiry. 
 
 "You know him?" remarked one of them. 
 
 "O, yes. His name is Albert Owings ; son 
 of Mr. Edward Owings, one of the best men iu 
 our town." 
 
 " Has he been long a cripple ? " 
 
 " About a year." 
 
 "How did it happen? Had he a fall?"
 
 28 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 "I will tell you about it if you care to listen. 
 The story is a sad one, and, but for its lesson 
 and warning, I would not revive it now." 
 
 The two ladies drew closer to the speaker, 
 and she went on. 
 
 " Little Albert was a favorite with everybody 
 who knew him. He had a sweet temper, and 
 artless, winning ways, from the first. When but 
 three years old, he was the pet of the neighbor 
 hood. But nothing seemed to spoil him. As 
 he grew older, he did not become rude and 
 boisterous like too many children ; and yet he 
 was full of life, and loved to romp and play as 
 well as any. 
 
 " Year after year was added to his life. The 
 birthdays came and went, until he w;u nine 
 years old. The children's birthdays are always 
 kept in Mr. Owings's house. I am intimate with 
 the family, and was one of the few outside 
 friends who were invited to drop in after tea 
 I promised myself a pleasant evening, for I 
 knew the charmed circle into which I was 
 going. 
 
 "Jt was early ij autumn, and the days were
 
 A CRIPPLE FOR LIFE. 29 
 
 growing shorter. Darkness had fallen when I 
 stood at Mr. Owings's door. I found the family 
 in much distress and alarm. Albert had gone 
 with a neighbor's son to visit a friend of his 
 mother's, who lived half a mile from the city, 
 and word had been received that he had fallen 
 from a tree, and was too much hurt to walk 
 home. Mr. O wings and his mother had just 
 left in a carriage, taking the doctor with them. 
 
 "For over an hour we waited in painful anx 
 iety. Then the father and mother returned, 
 bringing the poor boy with them. A bed, oil 
 which he was lying, had been placed in the 
 carriage. He was helpless, and in great suffer 
 ing. It took us a long time to get him out of 
 the carriage, and up stairs to his bed, for the 
 slightest movement of his body made him cry 
 out with pain. No bones were broken, but the 
 doctor said there were serious internal injuries. 
 From the hips down he was paralyzed. He 
 could move his arms, but not his legs. 
 
 "O, that was a sad, sad night ! Albert's suffer 
 ing was so great, that anodynes had to be given 
 V* f "re he could get ease or sleep."
 
 30 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 " How did it happen ? " asked one of the ladies. 
 "He fell from a tree, you said?" 
 
 " I will answer your question as nearly as I 
 can in Albert's own words. One day, about a 
 week after the accident, I was sitting with the 
 poor boy, who lay helpless in bed, free from 
 pain, I am glad to say, when I asked him to 
 tell me just how it all happened. A slight 
 color came into his pale face, and a look I 
 could not understand into his eyes. His moth 
 er, who was sitting by, noticed this change in* 
 his countenance. 
 
 "'Tell us all about it, my son,' she said, as 
 she leaned over him. 'I don't know yet just 
 how it was.' 
 
 "He put his arms around her neck, and held 
 her face close to his for over a minute. On 
 releasing her, I saw that his eyes were wet, and 
 had a look of doubt and trouble. 
 
 "'You were not doing anything wrong, I 
 hope, Albert,' said his mother. 
 
 " ' No, ma'am,' he answered quickly. ' Nothing 
 that I knew to be wrong. But maybe some 
 body else was.'
 
 A CRIPPLE FOR LIFE. gi 
 
 "'Who?' 
 
 "Ho did not reply, but looked from his moth 
 er's face to mine in an uncertain way. 
 
 "'Who was doing wrong, dear?' asked his 
 mother. 
 
 "'Mrs. Kline, may be.' 
 
 " ' How ? ' 
 
 " ' When she gave me that glass of currant 
 wine.' 
 
 " ' A glass of currant wine I You didn't tell 
 mo of that before ! ' 
 
 " ' No, ma'am.* 
 
 "'Why, Albert?' 
 
 "'I don't know, mamma. It seemed as if I 
 couldn't.' 
 
 " I shall never forget the sadness of his large, 
 bright eyes as they rested on his mother's face. 
 
 "'Tell me all about it now, darling. Don'c 
 keep back anything.' 
 
 "'I won't keep back a word, mamma,' he said. 
 'It was just this way that it happened. We 
 went out to Mrs. Kline's, Willy Lawson and I, 
 is you said we might. And Mrs. Kline seemed 
 o glad to see us. I told her it was my birth-
 
 32 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 day, and then she seemed more pleased, and 
 kissed me, and stroked my hair, and patted rny 
 cheeks, and said I must have something in honor 
 of the day. I didn't know what she meant 
 until she brought in a waiter with cakes and 
 three glasses of wine. "It won't hurt you," she 
 said. " It's only currant wine. I made it my 
 self." So I took one glass and Willy another. 
 " Here's to your good health, and many happy 
 returns of the day," said Mrs. Kline, taking 
 the other glass and drinking. We drank, too, 
 and ate as much cake as we wanted. Then we 
 went out to play.' 
 
 "*Was it a full glass of wine?' asked Mrs. 
 Owings, a choking in her voice. 
 
 "'Brimful,' answered the boy. 
 
 "'And you drank it all? ' 
 
 "'Yes, ma'am, every drop.' 
 
 " ' And what then ? ' 
 
 "'O, it burnt all down inside cf me like tire, 
 and made my face red, and set my knees trem 
 bling. It got up into my head, too, and made 
 it feel so large and strange ! 1 was hot all over. 
 So I went down t<> the spring-)ioi"=e and washed
 
 A CRIPPLE FOR LIFE. 33 
 
 my face iu the cool water; and that made me 
 feel better. We sat there, Willy and I, playing 
 in the brook. We built a little dam, and sailed 
 bils of wood and bark oil the water. After 
 a while Mrs. Kline came out, and said she was 
 afraid we'd get our clothes wet, and muddy, and 
 told us there was a chestnut tree in the woods 
 back of the house, and she thought the burrs 
 were beginning to open, and drop the nuts. So, 
 off we ran to the woods, and found the tree. 
 But, though we saw the great bunches of chest 
 nut burrs hanging up on the limbs, not a single 
 nut could we find on the ground. We threw 
 stones and sticks, but didn't knock any down, 
 they were so high. "If it wasn't such a big tree 
 I'd climb it," said Willy. "I'm not afraid/ 1 said 
 I, feeling just as bravo and strong as if I'd been 
 a man. So at the tree I went, Willy helping 
 me, until I could get hold of the lowest limb 
 and pull myself up. I don't know what made 
 mo do it, for I never tried to climb a big tree like 
 that before in all my life. I've thought about 
 it, since lying here, ever so much, and I think 
 it must have been the wine that made me do it, 
 3
 
 34 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 I heard papa say ouce that when wine was in the 
 wit was out. And I'm sure the wit was out of 
 my head, or I'd never have gone up that chest 
 nut tree. When I got on to the limb, which 
 was almost as big as a tree itself, I felt as hot 
 all over as when I drank the glass of currant 
 wine. My arms and legs were trembling, and 
 my head buzzing and turning round. I had to 
 shut my eyes, and hold on to the limb to keep 
 from falling. 
 
 "'After a while I felt better, and then stood 
 up on the limb and reached to one above, pull 
 ing and scrambling until I got to a higher place. 
 Then the trembling and turning in my head 
 came again, and I had to hug my arms about a 
 limb to keep from dropping right down. I was 
 "way up now, ever so far from the ground, as 
 high as a second-story window. Then it came 
 over me, all at once, how I was to get down ; 
 and I felt so scared and weak, and my head 
 went round so, that I couldn't hold on. One of 
 my feet slipped, and I felt myself going. O, it 
 was dreadful ! I didn't know anything after that, 
 until I found myself in bed at Mrs, Kline's, and
 
 A CRIPPLE FOR LIFE. 35 
 
 she ciying and going on ; and then it all came 
 hack to me.' 
 
 " We sat, Mrs. O wings and I, for a good while 
 after the child had finished his story, not speak 
 ing a word, until he said, 'I'm sure it was the 
 wine, mamma. I'd never thought of climbing 
 the tree, if it hadn't been for the wine. Some 
 how I wasn't just myself after I drank it. But 
 don't be angry with Mrs. Kline ; she wanted to 
 honor my birthday, and didn't think it would 
 hurt me.' 
 
 " We looked at each other for a few moments. 
 Mrs. Owiugs tried to speak, but her voice 
 choked in the effort. Her boy, crippled for 
 life, lay before her, and the hand that had struck 
 him down was the hand of one who loved him. 
 It had been lifted in kindness, alas ! what mis 
 taken kindness ! " 
 
 The lady ceased. Over the faces of her two 
 friends there fell shadows of pain. Both of 
 them sat, with eyes cast down, for a long while. 
 
 " That a cause so light should work so sad a 
 disaster!" said one of them, at length, si 
 
 O 7 
 
 deeply as she spoke.
 
 30 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 "A cripple for life! And all from a single 
 glass of currant wine, offered in honor of his 
 birthday!" said the other, echoing the sigh of 
 her friend. "Why !" she added, the color coin 
 ing suddenly into her face, and then as suddenly 
 fading out, "I did that very thing to a dear 
 little nephew only a week ago ! And now I 
 remember, that he came near being run over by 
 a horse on his way home ; and that when I asked 
 him about it, he said he couldn't just tell how 
 it was, but he kind of forgot himself, and didn't 
 think about taking care, as he always did when 
 crossing a street. It never came to me until 
 this moment, that the wine had confused his 
 little brain." 
 
 "If it has power to confuse the brains of 
 strong men," answered the lady who had told 
 the story of Albert's fall from a chestnut tree, 
 " how much more the weak and delicate brains 
 of children ! " 
 
 " What a warning ! " exclaimed the other. "I 
 will uevc-r give even the lightest wine to a child 
 again." 
 
 "Men as well as children have been made
 
 A CRIPPLii ^^x. LIFE. 37 
 
 cripples for life through a glass of wine offered 
 by a friendly hand," said the lady. " There is 
 no safety when the brain is stimulated above 
 its healthy action. No one can tell the moment 
 when life or limb may depend on the cool head 
 and steady hand ; when the slightest confusion 
 of mind may bring terrible disaster. Let us, 
 then, who have so much influence over the cus 
 toms of society, set our faces against this thing 
 of offering wine to our friends. We can work 
 a great reform if we will. Taking this poor 
 crippled child as a text, we may preach temper 
 ance sermons to men, women, and children of 
 such force that none can withstand us. What 
 say you, friends?" 
 
 And they all joined hands, promising to set 
 their faces against a custom so full of danger. 
 And they kept their word. Many bottles of 
 currant wine, and blackberry wine, and cherry- 
 bounce, were emptied on the ground by these 
 ladies, and also by others to whom they preached 
 their temperance sermons. The text, whenever 
 announced, was sure to gain attentive listeners, 
 and rarely failed to work conviction.
 
 38 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 III. 
 
 GOD HELP THE POOR. 
 
 " WHAT a terrible night ! " exclaimed Mrs. 
 Creighton, as she drew aside the heavy damask 
 curtains, and looked out. 
 
 The snow had been falling for several hours, 
 and the air was yet filled by myriads of flakes, 
 that whirled in wild eddies through the narrow 
 streets, or came in rattling gusts against the 
 windows. Great drifts were piling up steadily 
 against doorways, and on the lee of corner 
 houses, and in all places where some barrier 
 turned the strong wind aside in its onward 
 march. From a high, piping treble, down to 
 the lowest muttering base, the tempest-voice 
 ran up and down the scale ; now in tones and 
 halftones; now in chords; and now in shud 
 dering dissonance. 
 
 Mr. Creighton came and stood by the side of 
 his wife, at the window of their luxurious home, 
 and looked out upon the stormy night.
 
 GOD HELP THE POOR. 39 
 
 "I pity those who are compelled to go 
 abroad," he said, 
 
 "And those who have no homes," added his 
 wife. 
 
 " And the poor, who have no fire in their 
 dwellings." 
 
 " No fire, and on such a ni<?ht as this ! " Mrs. 
 
 1 O 
 
 Creighton turned and looked into her husband's 
 face with an expression of doubt, fear, and pity. 
 " Surely, none are in this extremity ! " 
 
 "Hundreds, I fear, even in our Christian 
 city," replied her husband, as he moved from 
 the window, and sat down in front of the grate. 
 "Hundreds," he added in a thoughtful, con 
 cerned way. " With everything around us so 
 warm, comfortable, and luxurious, it is difficult 
 to realize the fact, that many, very many, are 
 now cold and hungry. Poor, sick women, and 
 tender children, crouching in firelcss rooms, or 
 by hearths on which the last red embers aro 
 dying." 
 
 "Don't, husband, don't!" exclaimed Mrs. 
 Creighton, lifting her hands, and turning her 
 face away. "I shudder at the bare imagination 
 of such things."
 
 40 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 "If we shudder at the imagination of such 
 things, what must it be to suffer the reality?" 
 said Mr. Creighton, not even making an effort 
 to push the subject fr<m his thoughts. 
 
 " God help the poor ! " ejaculated his wife, in 
 a tone of pity. 
 
 " Yes, God help them ! " was the low, earnest 
 response. 
 
 There followed a silence of some moments, 
 when Mr. Creighton said, 
 
 " When did you see Mrs. Bayle? " 
 
 " Not since last week." 
 
 " How was she then ? " 
 
 " She looked pale and weak. I gave her some 
 tea, and a loaf of fresh bread." 
 
 "And you haven't seen her since?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " When was it we sent her that half ton of 
 coal?" 
 
 " I can't remember. But, now I think of it, 
 Hannah told me, day before yesterday, that Mrs. 
 Bayle came round, when I was out, and asked 
 for a bucket of coal." 
 
 "Did she get it?"
 
 GOD HELP THE POOR. 41 
 
 u Yes ; Hannah gave it to her." 
 
 a That was two days ago ? " 
 
 Yes." 
 
 Mr. Creighton sighed, and sat looking into 
 (he grate for nearly a minute without speaking. 
 
 "I feel troubled about that woman, and her 
 little children," he said, at last. "Just think, 
 if they should be without food or fire on a 
 night like this!" 
 
 " O, that can't be ! " answered his wife. 
 
 "It is possible, Allie. Such things have been. 
 Women and children have perished with cold, 
 even in our city." 
 
 "Don't talk about it. You give me the heart 
 ache." 
 
 Mr. Creightou arose, and commenced walking 
 the floor in a disturbed manner. 
 
 "I declare, Edward," said his wife, "you have 
 destroyed all our home comfort for the evening 
 by these dreadful images your fancy has created. 
 Let us be thankful for the good we have, and 
 show our thankfulness in its enjoyment." 
 
 Mr. Creighton did not answer, but kept on his 
 movement, back and forward, across the room. 
 He was thinking of pf**r M***. Baylo.
 
 42 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 "We must finish 'A Tale of Two Cities' to 
 night," said his wife, taking up a volume. "Sit 
 down, Edward, and I will read. We are at the 
 storming of the Bastile." 
 
 But Mr. Creighton did not pause in his rest 
 less walk. The reading began, and was contin 
 ued for ten or fifteen minutes. 
 
 " What a wild, fearful picture ! " said Mrs. 
 Creighton, letting the volume fall into her lap. 
 "Such word-painting is wonderful." 
 
 She looked up at hor husband, and saw, at a 
 glance, that he had not been listening. 
 
 "I don't believe," she said, in a slightly an 
 noyed tone, "that you have heard a single page 
 that I have been reading." 
 
 "To tell the truth, Allie, I don't think I have," 
 was frankly answered. 
 
 "Not very complimentary to me or the au 
 thor." 
 
 "On the contrary, Allie, I acknowledge my 
 interest in both. But just now I can think of 
 nothing else but Mrs. Bayle and her children." 
 
 "We cannot help them to-night, Edward. 
 The storm is too wild for any one to go abroad.
 
 GOD HELP THE POOR. 41 
 
 Leave them in the hands of God. He will take 
 care of them." 
 
 "How will he take care of them?" 
 
 Mr. Creighton stood still, and looked stead 
 ily into his wife's face. Her eyes fell beneath 
 his glance of earnest interrogation. 
 
 "How will God take care of them, Allie, if 
 they are without fuel and food to-night?" 
 
 She did not answer, and he added, 
 
 "Not by sending coal and bread through super 
 natural agencies, but by putting it into the heart 
 of some human being to go to their succor. 
 When you said, 'God help the poor!' the 
 thought of Mrs. Bayle and her children came 
 instantly into my mind, and I cannot put it away. 
 I must see to them this night." 
 
 "O, no, no, Edward! You cannot go out in 
 such a dreadful storm." 
 
 As if to give force to her words, the tempest 
 shrieked wildly, and the fast-falling snow drove 
 its fine crystals rattling against the windows. 
 Mr. Creightou pushed aside the curtain and 
 looked out. The whirling flakes filled the air 
 like a cloud. He could hardly see across the 
 street.
 
 44 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 "You mustn't think of going out, Edward,' 
 said his wife, as she came to his side, and drew 
 her arms around him. 
 
 "Alice, you said just now, 'God help the 
 poor ! ' and spoke from genuine pity. He can 
 not help them, except by human hands. I feel 
 so strongly that my hands are needed for help 
 to-night, that 1 could not hold back were the 
 storm twice as violent. I have warm garments 
 to protect me from the cold. I have health, 
 strength, and a stout heart in humanity's cause, 
 I trust. Allie, I must go. No sleep could 
 weigh down my eyelids to-night if I remained 
 in uncertainty about this poor woman and her 
 children." 
 
 And resolutely putting aside all remonstrances, 
 Mr. Creighton prepared himself to go out. On 
 passing into the street, the gust swept fiercely 
 into his face, taking his breath for a moment, and 
 causing him to stagger back several paces. But, 
 recovering himself, he leaned a little forward, 
 bracing to the wind, and plunged away through 
 snow-drifts that half buried him at times. The 
 small tenement in which Mrs. Bayle lived stood
 
 GOD HELP THE POOR. 45 
 
 several squares distant, in a narrow court. 
 Thither he made his way, as rapidly as he could 
 move through all the manifold obstructions that 
 retarded his progress. He found the court 
 almost blocked up with snow, which the wind 
 had swept from the roofs above, and piled up in 
 the narrow space between the houses. On gain 
 ing the one in which Mrs. Bayle lived, he saw 
 no lights in the windows, though the shutters 
 were open. He put his hand on the door, and 
 pushed it open. All was silent within. He 
 spoke, but no voice answered, and there came 
 no sound to his ears. Then, going out quickly, 
 he shut the door, and, crossing the court, 
 knocked where a light gleamed, out from a 
 window. 
 
 " Who's there ? " It was a woman's voice thai 
 called. 
 
 He knocked agai,u. 
 
 "Come in," said the same voice. 
 
 Mr. Creightoii pushed open the door, and 
 entered a small room, in which a woman sat 
 
 She was alone. 
 Excuse my intrusion," he said, noticing thai
 
 46 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 bis appearance surprised and startled her. "But 
 I want to ask about a Mrs. Bayle who lives in 
 this court. Have you seen her to-day?" 
 
 "No, sir; I don't think I've seen her around 
 to-day," answered the woman. 
 
 " She lives nearly opposite ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "It's all dark there," said Mr. Creighton. "I 
 opened the door and spoke, but no one an 
 swered." 
 
 "I hope she isn't sick or dead," remarked the 
 woman, with some concern of manner. " I don't 
 know what would become of her four little 
 children." 
 
 "We must see after them," said Mr. Creigh 
 ton, in a decided way. "Will you let me have 
 a candle, and some matches?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. H And the woman laid down her 
 work. 
 
 " And go over with me ? " 
 
 ''Yes, sir," Then she went to the stairs, and 
 called, "Jake, come down here ! A gentleman's 
 culled to see about Mrs. Bayle, and I'm going 
 ov< r there wilt* him."
 
 GOD HELP THE POOR. 47 
 
 The rough voice of a imm answered to this 
 summons, and some heavy feet were heard mov 
 ing on the floor above. Before their owner 
 made his appearance, however, Mr. Creighton 
 and the woman were across the court. 
 
 On lighting a caudle in the chilly room which 
 they had entered, they saw only a table, two 
 old chairs, and the black, fireless stove on the 
 hearth. 
 
 " Mrs. Bayle ! " called the woman, going to 
 the stairs that led to the single room above. 
 But no answer came. 
 
 " We must go up," said Mr. Creighton. And 
 they passed to the chamber. 
 
 "Save us!" exclaimed his companion, as she 
 held up the wavering candle. " They're all 
 here ! " 
 
 As she spoke, the light fell upon a woman's 
 white, deathly face. She was lying on a bed 
 with such scanty covering that the chill air could 
 scarcely have failed to reach her vitals. The 
 forms, but not the faces, of three children were 
 seen also. 
 
 "Mrs. Bavle !'' This time the somi'l reached
 
 48 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 her dull senses, and she opened her eyes, that 
 shone glassy in the light. 
 
 "Are you sick, Mrs. Bayle?" 
 
 " Yes," was the faint answer. 
 
 The children, half awake from cold, now 
 pushed up their heads from beneath the cover 
 ing, and one of them said, anxiously, 
 
 " Ain't we going to have any supper to-night, 
 mamma ? " 
 
 A great sob came up at this from the sudden 
 ly touched heart of Mr. Creighton. 
 
 "Yes, you shall have your supper to-night," 
 answered the woman. "Lie still, and keep 
 warm for a little while." 
 
 "I can't keep warm," answered the child. "O 
 dear ! it's so cold ! " 
 
 Setting down the caudle, the woman said, 
 
 "I'll run over and get a comfortable, and Jake 
 shall bring a bucket of coal, and make a fire in 
 the stove down stairs, that will soon warm the 
 house." And she hurried away. In a few 
 moments she was back again with thick cover 
 ing for the bed, which she laid over the 'woman 
 and her children, and as her briskly-moving hand
 
 GOD HELP THE POOR. 49 
 
 tucked ill the warm comfortable all around, she 
 said, 
 
 "Now lie still until we get a fire made, and 
 your supper ready." 
 
 "God help the poor!" said Mr. Creighton, 
 with tear-filled eyes, as he went down stairs. 
 The woman heard him, for, in his emotion, he 
 had spoken aloud, and she answered, 
 
 u A great many people say that, sir ; and yet 
 no help comes. It doesn't put bread into chil 
 dren's mouths. It doesn't feed the hungry and 
 clothe the naked, sir." 
 
 "But God may inspire willingness in human 
 hearts," replied Mr. Creighton, "as he has done 
 to-night, and thus help them. And but for this 
 willingness which he gives, no help would come. 
 So, I say still, God help the poor! " 
 
 "He must have put it into your heart," said 
 the woman; "for if you hadn't come, these poor 
 souls might have perished before daylight." 
 
 "Perhaps," answered Mr. Creighton, as he 
 took out his purse. Then adding, "Here is 
 money for Mrs. Bayle. Will you ,see that she 
 IMS everything needed to-night?" 
 4
 
 fc THE PEACEMAKKK. 
 
 "I will, sir, as if she were my own sister," 
 replied the woman, with an earnestness of tone 
 that left Mr. Creighton in no doubt. 
 
 "And so, God help the poor!" said he, as he 
 passed out again into the stormy night, and took 
 his way homeward. 
 
 "O, Edward!" exclaimed Mrs. Creighton, as, 
 after more than half an hour of anxious sus 
 pense, her husband came in with a quick step, 
 bright eye, and ruddy countenance. "I'm so 
 glad you are home again ! It has stormed hard 
 er than ever since you left. How did you mid 
 Mrs. Bayle?" 
 
 "Without food, fire, or light," he answered. 
 "I think death would have found her and her 
 children, mayhap, if God had not sent me to 
 their relief. It is God who really helps the 
 poor, Allie. We are only the instruments in his 
 hands. May we always be willing!" 
 
 "As you have been to-night," said Mrs. 
 Creightou, with a new impression of her hus 
 band's character in her heart. And she laid he! 
 hand in his, and looked lovingly into a face that 
 was all alive with manly feeling.
 
 AS YOU HAVE OPPORTUNITY. 51 
 
 IV. 
 
 AS YOU HAVE OPPORTUNITY. 
 
 MR. FRAZIER sat reading in his counting- 
 room. He was in the midst of a piece of 
 interesting news, when a lad came to the door 
 
 O ' 
 
 and said, 
 
 "Do you want a boy, sir?" 
 
 Without lifting his eyes from the paper, Mr. 
 Frazier answered "No," to the application, and 
 in rather a rough way. 
 
 Before the lad reached the street, conscience 
 had compelled the merchant to listen to a re 
 buking sentence. 
 
 "You might have spoken kindly to the poor 
 boy, at least," said Conscience. "This is AH 
 opportunity." 
 
 Mr. Frazier let the paper fall from belore nis 
 eyes, and turned to look at the lad. lie was 
 smalt, not twelve years old, to appearance, 
 poorly attired, but clean. The merchant tapped
 
 52 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 against one of the windows in the counting- 
 room, and the boy glanced back over his 
 shoulder. A sign from the merchant caused 
 him to return. 
 
 "What did you say just now?" 
 
 "Do you want a boy, sir?" The lad repeated 
 the words he had spoken, hesitatingly, a few 
 moments before. 
 
 Mr. Frazier looked at him with a suddenly 
 awakened interest. He had a fair, girlish face .; 
 dark brown eyes and hair ; and though slender 
 and delicate in appearance, stood erect, and 
 with a manliness of aspect that showed him 
 to be already conscious of duty in the world. 
 But there did not seem to be much of that 
 stuff in him that is needed for the battle of life. 
 
 "Take a chair," said Mr. Frazier, an invol 
 untary respect for the lad getting possession of 
 his mind. 
 
 The boy sat down, with his large, clear eyes 
 fixed on the merchant's face. 
 
 "How old are you?" 
 
 "I was twelve, sir, last month," replied the boy. 
 
 u What splendid eyes ! " said the merchant to
 
 AS YOU HAVE OPPORTUNITY. 53 
 
 himself. "And I've seen them before. Soft, 
 dark, and lustrous as a woman's ! " 
 
 Away back in the past the thoughts of Mr. 
 Frazier went, borne on the light from those 
 beautiful eyes, and for some moments he forgot 
 the present in the past. But when he came 
 back into the present again, he had a softer heart 
 towards the stranger lad. 
 
 "You should go to school for a year or two 
 longer," he said. 
 
 " I must help my mother," replied the lad. 
 
 "Is your mother very poor?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; and she's sick." 
 
 The lad's voice shook a little, and his soft, 
 woman's eyes grew brighter in the tears that 
 filled them. 
 
 Mr. Frazier had already forgotten the point 
 of interest in the news after which his mind was 
 searching when the boy interrupted him. 
 
 <I don't want any one," said Mr. Frazier, 
 "but may be I might speak a good word for you, 
 and that would help, you know. I think you 
 would make an honest, useful lad. But you 
 are not strong."
 
 54 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 " O, yes, sir, I'm strong ! " And the boy 
 stood up in a brave spirit. 
 
 The merchant looked at him Avith a steadily 
 increasing interest. 
 
 "What is your name?" he asked. 
 
 " Charles Leonard, sir." 
 
 There was an instant change in the merchant's 
 manner, and he turned his face so far away that 
 the boy's eyes could not see its expression. For 
 a long time he sat still and silent, so long that 
 the boy wondered. 
 
 "Is your father living?" Mr. Frazier did not 
 look at the boy, but still kept his face away. 
 His voice was low, and not very even. 
 
 " No, sir. He died four years ago." 
 
 " Where ? " The voice was quicker and firmer. 
 
 "In London, sir." 
 
 " How long since you came to America?" 
 
 "Two years." 
 
 "Have jou been in this city ever since?" 
 
 "No, sir. We came here with my uncle a yeai 
 ago. But he died a month after our arrival.'' 
 
 u What was your uncle's name ? " 
 
 " Mr. Hoyle, sir."
 
 AS YOU HAVE OPPORTUNITY. 55 
 
 There came another long silence, in which the 
 lad was not able to see the merchant's counte 
 nance. But when he did look at him again 
 there was such a new and kind expression in the 
 eyes, which seemed almost to devour his fiice, 
 that he felt an assurance in his heart that Mr. 
 Frazier was a good man, and would be a friend 
 to his mother. 
 
 "Sit there for a little while," said Mr. Fra 
 zier ; and turning to his desk, he wrote a brief 
 note, in which, without permitting the lad to 
 see what he was doing, he enclosed two or three 
 bank bills. 
 
 "Take this to your mother," he said, handing 
 the note to the lad. 
 
 "You'll try and get me a place, sir won't 
 you?" The boy lifted to him an appealing 
 look. 
 
 "O, yes. You shall have a good place. But 
 stay ; yoi haven't told me where you live/' 
 
 "At No. Melon Street, sir." 
 
 "Very well." Mr. Frazier wrote down the 
 street and number. "And now take that note 
 to your mother."
 
 56 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 The merchant did not resume his newspaper 
 after the lad departed. He had lost all icterest 
 in its contents. For a long time he sat, with 
 his hand shading his face, so that no one saw 
 its expression. If spoken to on any matter, he 
 answered briefly, and with nothing of his usual 
 interest in business. The change in him was 
 so marked, that one of his partners asked if he 
 were not well. 
 
 "I feel a little dull," was evasively answered. 
 
 Before his usual time Mr. Frazier left the 
 store and went home. As he opened the door 
 of his dwelling, the distressed cries and sobbings 
 of a child came with an unpleasant shock upon 
 his ears. He went up stairs with two or three 
 long strides, and entered the nursery, from 
 which the cries came. 
 
 "What is the matter, darling?" he said, as 
 he caught the weeper in his arms. " What ails 
 my little Maggy?" 
 
 O, papa! papa!" sobbed the child, clinging 
 to his neck, and laying her wet face close to 
 Lis. 
 
 "Jane," said Mr. Fra/ier, looking at the
 
 AS YOU HAVE OPPORTUNITY. 57 
 
 nurse, and speaking with some sternness of 
 manner, "why is Maggy crying in this man 
 ner?" 
 
 The girl looked excited, but pale. 
 
 " She's been naughty," was her answer. 
 
 "No, papa! I ain't been naughty," said the 
 child, indignantly. "I didn't want to stay here 
 all alone, and she pinched me and slapped me 
 so hard. O, papa ! " And the child's wail 
 rang out again ; and she clung to his neck, 
 sobbing. 
 
 "Has she ever pinched and slapped you be 
 fore?" asked the father. 
 
 " She does it 'most every day," answered the 
 little girl. 
 
 "Why haven't you told me?" 
 
 She said she'd throw me out of ihe window 
 if 1 told ! O, dear ! O, dear ! Don't let her 
 do it, papa ! " 
 
 " It's all a lie !" exclaimed the nurse, passion 
 ately. 
 
 "Just look at my poor leg, papa." The child 
 said this in a hushed whisper, with her lips laid 
 close to her father's ear.
 
 58 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 Mi. Frazier sat down, and baring the child's 
 log to the hip, saw that it was covered with blue 
 and greenish spots all above the knee ; there 
 were not less than a dozen of these disfiguring 
 marks. He examined the other leg, and found 
 it in the same condition. 
 
 Mr. Frazier loved that child with a deep ten 
 derness. She w r as his all to love. Her mother, 
 between whom and himself there had never been 
 any true heart-sympathy, died two years before ; 
 and since that time his precious darling the 
 apple of his eye had been left to the tender 
 mercies of hired nurses, over whose conduct it 
 was impossible for him to have any right obser 
 vation. He had often feared that Maggy was 
 neglected, often troubled himself on her ac 
 count, but a suspicion of cruelty like this, 
 never came into his imagination as possible. 
 
 Mr. Frazier was profoundly disturbed ; but 
 even in his passion he was calm. 
 
 "Jane," he said, sternly, "I wish you to leave 
 the house immediately ! " 
 
 " Mr. Frazier " 
 
 " iSiiencc ! " He showed himself BO stern and
 
 AS YOU HAVE OPPORTUNITY. 59 
 
 angry, even in his suppressed utterance of the 
 word, that Jane started, and left the room in 
 stantly. 
 
 Mr. Frazier rang the bell, and to the waiter 
 who answered it said, 
 
 " See that Jane leaves the house at once. I 
 have discharged her. Send her trunk wherever 
 she may wish it taken. Here is the money that 
 is due. I must not see her again." 
 
 As the waiter left the room, Mr. Frazier 
 hugged his child to his heart tightly again, and 
 kissed her with an eagerness of manner that was 
 unusual with him. He was usually fond, but 
 quiet, in his caresses. Now, the sleeping im 
 pulses of a strong heart were all awake and active. 
 
 In a small, back chamber, sat a pale, sweet- 
 faced, patient-looking woman, reading a letter 
 which had just been left for her by the post-man. 
 
 "Thank God !" she said, as she finished read 
 ing it, and her soft, brown eyes were lifted up 
 ward. "It looked very dark," she murmured, 
 "but the morning has broken again." 
 
 A light, quick step was on the stairs, and the 
 door was pushed hastily open.
 
 60 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 " Charles, dear ! "^ 
 
 The boy entered with an excited countenance. 
 
 " I'm going to get a place, mother ! " he cried 
 to her, the moment his feet were inside the 
 door. 
 
 The pale woman smiled, and held out her hand 
 to her boy. He came quickly to her side. 
 
 " There is no necessity for your getting a 
 place now, Charles. We shall go back to Eng 
 land." 
 
 "O, mother!" The boy's face was all aglow 
 with sunbeams. 
 
 "Here is a letter from a gentleman in New 
 York, who says that he is directed by your 
 uncle Wilton to pay our passages to England, if 
 we will return. God is good, my son. Let us 
 be thankful!" 
 
 Charles now drew from his pocket the note 
 which Mr. Frazier had given him, and handed it 
 to his mother. 
 
 "What is this?" she asked. 
 
 "The gentleman who promised to get me a 
 place told me to give it to you." 
 
 The woman broke the seal. There wore three
 
 1 fj YOU HAVE OPPORTUNITY. 61 
 
 bank bills, of ten dollars each, enclosed, and 
 this brief sentence written on the sheet of 
 paper : 
 
 " God sent your son to u true friend. Take 
 courage. Let him come to me to-morrow." 
 
 "Who gave you this?" she asked. Her pale 
 face was growing warm with sudden excitement. 
 
 "A gentleman. But I don't know who he 
 n y as. I went into a great many stores to ask if 
 they didn't want a boy, and at last came to the 
 DUO where the gentleman was who sent you this 
 letter. He spoke roughly to me at first, and 
 then called me back and asked me who I was, 
 and about my mother. I told him your name, 
 and how father had died, and you were sick. 
 Then he sat a good while, and didn't say any 
 thing ; and then he wrote the note, and told me 
 he would get me a place. He was a kind-look 
 ing man, if he did speak roughly at first." 
 
 "Did you see what name was on the sign?" 
 
 "I never thought to look," replied the ''y, 
 u I was so glad when I came away. But I can 
 go straight to the place." 
 
 "1 will write the gentleman n note thanking
 
 02 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 him for his kindness, and you must take it to 
 him in the morning. How light it makes my 
 heart feel to know that we are going back to 
 dear England ! God is good to us, my son, and 
 we must be obedient and thankful." 
 
 Just a little before the evening twilight fell, 
 word came up to the woman that a gentleman 
 had called and wished to see her. 
 
 "Go and see who it is, Charles," she said to 
 her son. 
 
 " O, mother ! It's the gentleman who sent 
 you the note ! " exclaimed Charles, in an under 
 tone, coming back quickly. " And he wants to 
 see you. Can he come up?" 
 
 There was the hasty glance of a woman's eyes 
 around the room, to set; if everything was in 
 order, then a few slight changes in attire. 
 
 " Ask him to come up, my son," she said, and 
 Charles went down stairs again. 
 
 A man's firm tread approached the door. It 
 was opened, and the- boy's mother and the boy's 
 new-found friend looked into each other's faces. 
 
 "O, Edward!" fell from her lips, in a quick, 
 ui prised "oice ; and she started from her chair,
 
 AS YOU HAVE OPPORTTXITY. 63 
 
 and stood, strongly agitated, before him. He 
 advanced, not speaking until he had taken her 
 hand. 
 
 "Florence ! I never thought to see you thus ! " 
 He said it in a calm, kind, evenly modulated 
 voice, but her ears were tinely enough chorded 
 to perceive the deep emotion that lay beneath. 
 He said it, looking down into the dark, soft, 
 tender brown eyes. "But I think there is a 
 providence in our meeting," he added. 
 
 They sat down and talked long together, 
 talked of the times gone by, and of the causes 
 that separated them, while their hearts beat only 
 for each other of the weary years that had 
 passed for both of them since then of the 
 actual present in their lives. 
 
 "I have a motherless child," he said at last 
 "a tender little thing that I love, and to-day I 
 find her body purple with bruises from the cruel 
 hand of a servant ! Florence, will you be a 
 mother to that child? You have a noble boy, 
 who is fatherless ; let me be to him a father. 
 O, Florence ! there has been a great void in our 
 lives. A dark and impassable river has flowed
 
 64 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 between us for years. But we stand, at last, 
 together, and if the old love fills your heart as 
 it fills mine, there are golden days for us in the 
 future." 
 
 And so it proved. The lady and her son did 
 not go back to England, but passed to the mer 
 chant's stately residence, she becoming its mis 
 tress, and he finding a home there, and a truer 
 father than the one he had, in former years, 
 called by the name. 
 
 " Do good as you have opportunity." Only a 
 week before the lad's application to the mer 
 chant had this injunction been urged, in his 
 hearing, by an eloquent preacher, and the words, 
 coming to his thought, led him to call back the 
 boy after his cold, almost unkind, repulse. 
 
 Many times he thought of the incident after 
 wards, and of the small event on which such 
 life-long issue hung, almost trembling in view 
 of what he might have lost had that slight oppor* 
 tunity for doing good been neglected.
 
 COMPENSATION. 
 
 COMPENSATION. 
 
 THE case was hopeless for the sick girl. 
 Health had departed, never to return again. 
 Life opened in her blossomy spring-time with 
 a fair, sweet promise. The sun was bright, the 
 air soft and balmy,. the earth smiling with flow 
 ers. But the morning soon became overcast. 
 At first, the sun was hidden ; then the rain be 
 gan to fall " into her life," and then from the sky, 
 once so lucid and serene, fell a storm that deso 
 lated the land. 
 
 At fifteen, Celeste Williams to whom rav 
 ishing glimpses of the world, out into which her 
 feet were gathering up strength to carry her, 
 came through flower-hung vistas drooped sud 
 denly. The tint of roses left her cheeks; the 
 beautiful roundness of form and features depart 
 ed ; the light of a glad spirit went out of h( 
 eyes. To the smile, that made rainbows ovc 
 5
 
 (56 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 her face, pain's rigid aspects succeeded. Ah, 
 yes ! the case, as we have said, was hopeless for 
 the sick girl. Health had departed, never to 
 return again. 
 
 "There is one compensation in all this," was 
 the remark of some who stood on the outside 
 of some who were not very deeply versed m 
 life's true philosophies. " Her parents have 
 wealth. They can surround her with all things 
 to divert and interest her mind. How much 
 worse it might be ! Ah, happy for the young 
 sufferer is it that her friends are not poor ! " 
 
 So it would seem. Thare are very few per 
 sons who would not have assented to this view. 
 And yet nothing that wealth could bring the 
 pale sufferer reached the seat of bodily or men- 
 tal pain with anything but the most temporary 
 relief. After the first year of sharp assault, 
 during which the citadel of health was taken, 
 and its walls thrown down so that they might 
 never be rebuilded again, the crippled life, 
 which Had lain in still prostration for a time, 
 began to gather up its few remaining powers, to 
 battle with a slowly-renewing vitality, and to
 
 COMPENSATION. 
 
 live again but in what an imperfect condition 
 compared with the former one ! 
 
 It was thought a great gain when Celeste 
 could bear to be lifted from the bed, and sit 
 for half an hour, propped up with cushions, 
 in a great easy-chair. Ho\v hopeful were the 
 faces that gathered around her! After a while, 
 improvement went on so far that she could sit 
 up for the greater part of each day. But there 
 the better progress stopped. Weeks and months 
 beyond this gave but little change for the better. 
 Almost every day the doctor came, but his skill 
 was at fault. He could not dislodge the enemy, 
 which had gained too secure a possession. 
 
 And now came that readjustment of things, 
 extern! to the life of Celeste Williams, which 
 was to try her most severely. Not able to keep 
 up with her compeers, she must be left behind ; 
 and left, for all the wealth of her parents, in a 
 dreary, soul-fretting, impatient, rebellious isola 
 tion. Her sisters' lives soon grew out of sym 
 pathy with her life; and the distance between 
 them so rapidly increased, that they became 
 little better than strangers to each other. Only
 
 68 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 tho mother of Celeste kept near to her i i patient 
 love. But she was not a wise woman. Her 
 life was in the sensuous plane. She could not 
 get below the surface of things so as to compre 
 hend the mental states and mental needs of her 
 child. All her ministrations, therefore, never 
 reached beyond things palliative, and of course 
 temporary. She sought to amuse, divert, to 
 interest in books, music, and the like. But 
 these had power over the pale-faced sufferer 
 only for a little while ; nay, they often made 
 the sense of deprivation more acute, and hurt 
 instead of helping. 
 
 ^And so, in time, poor Celeste became a weary 
 burden to herself and every one. Nothing hav 
 ing been denied to her that money could pro 
 cure, she had reached out, under the excitement 
 of a restless dissatisfaction, grasping at this 
 object and that, until almost everything within 
 her reach had been tried, and thrown aside 
 her poor heart growing sadder and more dissat 
 isfied at the failure of each new experiment. 
 
 Moody, fretful, ill-natured, and self-torment 
 ing, at eighteen Celeste Williams had alienated
 
 COMPENSATION. 69 
 
 nearly all but the mother's heart; and ofi that 
 heart she lay as a heavy burden. 
 
 One day Mrs. Williams was talking with a 
 friend about her invalid daughter, and mourning 
 over her unhappy state. 
 
 "If she were only patient," she said, "only 
 made an effort to be cheerful sometimes. But 
 I am weary with complaint. She suffers pain, 
 I know, and pain is hard to bear. She is shut 
 out from all pleasure, and the young heart lives 
 on pleasure. Her sisters go and come at will ; 
 but she cannot move even from the bed, or her 
 chair, without a hand to lean upon. Her imagi 
 nation is constantly excited with descriptions of 
 all those enjoyments upon which young life 
 enters with such a zest, but the taste of them 
 even is denied to her. I pity the poor child in 
 my heart, but cannot find any way to help her." 
 
 " What does she do through all her weary 
 days?" asked the friend. 
 
 " Do?" There was surprise in the questioning 
 voice of Mrs. Williams. "Why, nothing!" 
 
 "Don't she read?" 
 
 "Not much. A novel amuses her now and
 
 70 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 then, or, I might say, excites her with its rep 
 resentation of active life-scenes into which she 
 can never enter, and leaves her in a more un 
 comfortable state of mind than when she opened 
 it:! pages." 
 
 "Then, for most of her time, she sits idly in 
 her chair, or lies, wasteful of all time, upon 
 her bed?" 
 
 " She sits or lies through all the days and 
 nights of her life. She can neither stand nor 
 walk, so there is no alternative. But idleness 
 or time-wasting can hardty be predicated of one 
 in her condition." said Mrs. Williams, both tone 
 and manner repelling the intimation that ap 
 peared in the lady's question. 
 
 It came, then, into the lady's mind that she 
 understood Celeste's case better than her mother, 
 and that she might help the miserable girl to 
 acquire some better and happier state. So she 
 said, 
 
 * I must go up and see your daughter. A new 
 face and a new voice may interest her for a little 
 while, and that will be so much gained." 
 
 "It is kind in you," replied Mrs. Williams,
 
 COMPENSATION. 71 
 
 gratefully, for not often did her visitors express 
 any desire to see the sick girl who was hidden 
 away in one of the chambers above. "She 
 doesn't see many new faces." 
 
 They went up stairs. The visitor, whose 
 name was Mrs. Baldwin, was struck, on enter 
 ing the room where Celeste sat with her hands 
 lying idly in her lap, by the weary sadness 
 which overlaid all other expressions in her 
 almost colorless face. It affected her with a 
 most tender pity. In the large, dark, beautiful 
 eyes, that fixed themselves in a kind of mute 
 appeal upon her face, she read something more 
 than selfish fretfulness, something that made 
 her heart yearn towards the helpless, almost 
 hopeless, sufferer, who found no compensation 
 in all the elegance, and ease, and external means 
 of comfort by which she was surrounded. 
 
 To ask her about her bodily condition and 
 sensations was the natural introduction of con 
 versation ; but Mrs. Baldwin dwelt upon them as 
 lightly as possible, at the same time that she 
 appeared to feel much sympathy with the in 
 valid. While talking with her in a cheerful
 
 72 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 way, us soon as she could pass to some cheer 
 ful subject, Mrs. Baldwin drew from her pocket 
 a small bit of worsted knitting which had been 
 commenced in a leisure moment, and, without 
 remarking upon it, began, while yet talking, to 
 loop, dexterously, the pink zephyr over the 
 needle points. She saw the eyes of Celeste go 
 to her hand and dwell there, and she saw, in a 
 little while, a kindling look of interest. Then, 
 in a familiar way, she leaned towards her, and 
 held the knitting so that she could examine it. 
 
 "How sweetly it is done ! " said the girl, in a 
 tone of interest, as she examined the evenly- 
 drawn threads, and noted the graceful form that 
 the work was taking. "For what is it de 
 signed ? " 
 
 " For a light scarf. I saw one the other day 
 that pleased me, and mean to have one just like 
 it," 
 
 Celeste looked up into her face with something 
 of wonder. There was a new spirit in this. If 
 her mother or one of her sisters had seen an 
 article of dress that pleased them, money might 
 have procured it, but skilful hands never.
 
 COMPENSATION. 73 
 
 The busy fingers of Mrs. Baldwin went on 
 again, and Celeste watched them, while a gleam 
 of interest brightened in her wan face. 
 
 " How fast you do it ! " she said. 
 
 Mrs. Baldwin knitted more slowly, that Ce 
 leste might see the particular manner of looping 
 the threads. 
 
 "Is it hard to learn?" asked Celeste. 
 
 "O, no. I think it very easy. See here;" 
 and she leaned again towards the sick girl, speak 
 ing very kindly. "You loop this thread of 
 worsted over the needle, just so, and then slip 
 the other needle through the loop, and draw the 
 thread so. Now I will do it again. You see 
 how regularly the work is laid down, loop by 
 loop, in that simple manner, and what a light, 
 graceful thing is produced." 
 
 ** Why, it isn't difficult ! " exclaimed Celeste, 
 her face actually brightening. 
 
 "It's the easiest thing in the world," replied 
 Mrs. Baldwin. " Take the work into your own 
 hand, and try to make the stitches." 
 
 " O, no," interposed the uncomprehending 
 mother. " Don't let her spoil your work, out of 
 sheer good nature."
 
 74 THE PEACEMAKER 
 
 Celeste, who was sensitive, drew back, and 
 the light went out of her face. 
 
 "No danger of spoiling it," answered Mrs. 
 Baldwin. "Come, dear, I want to see you try. 
 I like to have people interested in what I am 
 doing. There, take the needles, so ; " and she 
 put the work into Celeste's hands. " Now loop 
 the thread over the right hand needle yes, 
 that's the motion and now take off the loop 
 with the other needle, and draw it up close to 
 the body of the work. Right ! I couldn't have 
 done it better myself. Now make another loop 
 yes now take it off so. Right again! 
 Didn't I tell you it was easy?" 
 
 There was an actual glow in the sick girl's 
 pale face, as her mind, following eagerly her 
 fingers, quickened her pulses, and sent the 
 feeble blood in fuller currents to the surface. 
 
 "You will tire yourself," said Mrs. Williams, 
 not yet understanding the meaning and use of 
 what was before her eyes. But Mrs. Baldwin 
 
 "Keep on, my dear. That stitch is as well 
 laid down as I could do it myself. And so is
 
 COMPENSATION. 75 
 
 that and that. Why, how true your hand is ! 
 You must have done this kind of work before." 
 
 But Celeste said no and said it with a 
 pleased smile. The compliment to her skill 
 was gratifying. 
 
 "I think this kind of work would interest 
 you," said Mrs. Baldwin. 
 
 "I'm sure it would," answered Celeste. 
 "Won't you get me some needles and zephyr, 
 mother?" 
 
 "Nonsense, child!" answered Mrs. Williams. 
 " That's only a fancy. You'd tire of it in half 
 an hour." 
 
 "Don't believe anything of the sort," said 
 Mrs. Baldwin. "It's fascinating kind of work. 
 Arc you really in earnest, dear?" looking with 
 kind encouragement at Celeste. 
 
 "I'm sure I should like it," replied Celeste. 
 
 Mrs. Baldwin sat for a moment or two, as if 
 thinking about something. 
 
 "Suppose I leave this piece that I've just 
 commenced." she then said. " It's very simple, 
 and you have already learned the stitch." 
 
 "You are so kind!" Celeste looked with au
 
 "6 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 expression that was almost grateful into tin 
 lady's face; and then, turning her eyes down 
 upon the worsted in her hands, plied the long 
 needles with the earnestness of a child who hud 
 found some new amusement. 
 
 " Shall I come in to-morrow and see how you 
 are getting along?" asked Mrs. Baldwin, as she 
 arose to leave. 
 
 " Do ; I shall be so pleased ! " In what a 
 cheerful tone the invalid spoke a tone so new 
 to the mother's ears that she turned her eyes, 
 vvonderingly, on her face. 
 
 For more than an hour after Mrs. Baldwin 
 left her, Celeste knitted on, feeling so much 
 interest in what she was doing that she forgot 
 all pain, discomfort, or weariness. Then, tired 
 by the exertion, she let her hands fall in her lap, 
 and, closing her eyes, leaned her head on the 
 cushions that lined her chair, feeling a deep in 
 terior peace and satisfaction of mind that she 
 had not known for months perhaps years. 
 After resting for a while, she resinned her knit 
 ting again ; apd so, with intervals of rest, kept 
 on through most of the day. As she saw thu
 
 COMPENSATION. 77 
 
 scarf growing under her hands, she experienced 
 a pleasure that was altogether new. 
 
 "How is your daughter?" asked Mrs. Bald 
 win, on the next day. 
 
 " I can hardly answer that question," replied 
 Mrs. Williams. "Better, I should think, if 
 change of temper is any index. But, I'm afraid 
 she'll wear herself down with that worsted knit 
 ting." 
 
 "Ah ! then she hasn't tired of that?" 
 
 "O, dear, no! She's completely carried away 
 with it ! I never saw the like ! " 
 
 Poor, hungry, starving invalid ! Her mind 
 had been consuming itself for lack of that mitri- 
 tioii which is only to be found in some kind of 
 useful employment; and now, that food was 
 given, she sat long at the repast, though tho 
 fare was humble. There was real enjoyment to 
 her in seeing the delicate, fabric growing under 
 her dexterous fingers, and already she was an 
 ticipating the pleasure that would crown her 
 work when she could throw the finished scarf 
 over her mother's shoulders, 
 
 A smile played around the lips of Celeste, ant)
 
 78 ' THE P E A C M A K E H . 
 
 light beamed from her eyes, when she saw Mrs, 
 Baldwin. 
 
 "Haven't I been industrious?" she exclaimed, 
 as she held up the long piece of work which she 
 had accomplished. 
 
 "Is it possible? Why, this is marvellous!" 
 said Mrs. Baldwin. "And how well it is done ! 
 Really, better than my part ! You must have 
 enjoyed your work, dear." 
 
 "Enjoyment is the right word," returned Ce 
 leste. "Yes, I really enjoyed it; and I must 
 thank you for having furnished me with a new 
 pleasure." 
 
 " You have the matter all in your own hands 
 now," said Mrs. Baldwin, after she had retired 
 with Mrs. Williams from the sick girl's room. 
 "It was something to do, through the day's 
 weary hours, that Celeste wanted. Something 
 for her thought to rest on with interest." 
 
 "But she'll soon grow tired of this," returned 
 the mother. "It's only the novelty of tho thing 
 that interests her now." 
 
 "Not the novelty alone, be assured, my 
 friend,'' s:'.M Mrs. Baldwin. "The ploasi:re she
 
 COMPENSATION. 711 
 
 finds in this work has a deeper source. In 
 obedience to will and thought, her fingers are 
 creating a form of beauty. She sees it growing 
 into the perfect whole her fancy has already pic 
 tured, and the desire for completeness is so 
 earnest that she loses the old sense of misery 
 that so long burdened her young life. Don't, 
 let me beg of you, discourage her in the least. 
 Praise her work, and, when it is finished, en 
 courage her to do something more. I will call 
 to see her every few days, and show her new 
 articles and new stitches. There is no end to 
 the variety of things which may be produced by 
 netting and crochet needles." 
 
 "I wish I could feel as hopeful as you do," 
 said the mother, who was too much of a world 
 ling and excitement lover to comprehend the 
 value of useful work to one imprisoned like her 
 child. "But she can't knit and crochet all the 
 time." 
 
 " If half or one third of her time," replied 
 Mrs. Baldwin, "is thus employed, just see what 
 she gains. Forgetfulness of pain and life-weari- 
 ne-s for the time; and a now zest for books, oj
 
 80 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 some light amusement within her reach, during 
 other portions of the day. My dear friend, it 
 is useful employment that the mind hungers for, 
 and, without such employment, there can be no 
 mental repose, no true sense of pleasure, no 
 interior satisfaction. People in health, and with 
 means at command, try to substitute recreations, 
 excitements, changes of scene, and all that, for 
 tvork, and succeed in getting along after a 
 fashion ; but life proves even to them a weari 
 ness and disappointment. They are not happy, 
 nay, not even cheerful. If this be so with men 
 und women in health, who can 'enjoy life,' as 
 idle pleasure-seeking is usually called, how 
 wretched must the idle, aimless, useless in 
 valid be, whose world is limited by the walls of 
 oer chamber ! If, then, my friend, you love your 
 child, seek to interest her in doing something 
 useful with her hands. Help her to turn her 
 self-tormenting thought outwards upon real 
 things in which interest may be taken. In this 
 wa y> you may lead her out of her old self, and 
 make her, instead of the wretched girl she has 
 been in times past, the happiest member of your 
 household."
 
 COMPENSATION. 81 
 
 The sceptical mother could hardly keep back 
 a smile at the friend's enthusiasm. But time 
 made the prediction true. Mrs. Baldwin was 
 too wise and good a woman at heart to let the 
 work of blessing a human soul rest in so fair a 
 beginning. Every few days she called to see 
 Celeste, and always showed such an interest in 
 what she was doing, that her visits were seasons 
 of real enjoyment. 
 
 By the time Celeste finished one article, she 
 had her mind reaching out with a desire to take 
 up some fascinating novelty in the same direc 
 tion ; and so the days and weeks and month.>3 
 went by, and the invalid, instead of wearying, 
 grew more absorbed in the work of creating 
 forms of use and beauty. And now she could 
 read with a new and healthier interest, and 
 listen to descriptions of what was passing in the 
 gay world without envy, or restless longings 
 after the unattainable. The sisters, who had 
 shunned the fretful, ill-natured girl, now began 
 to feel drawn towards her, and to find in her 
 sweeter spirit an attraction that drew out their 
 tender love. How often, now, did she look upon 
 6
 
 82 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 them in tear-glistening pleasure, as she saw the 
 airy zephyr-work she had made floating like 
 rainbow tissues around them, and feel glad in 
 their grace and beauty ! 
 
 And so, day after day, the invalid's chamber 
 grew brighter in the sunshine of a cheerful, 
 loving spirit. It had not been in the power of 
 wealth, nor of all the advantages that wealth 
 could bring, to send a ray of light through the 
 darkness that veiled the sick girl's heart. Her 
 needs were on a level with the needs of all God's 
 children, rich or poor, and help could only come 
 to her through the same door that it comes to 
 all the door of useful occupation. This: is the 
 great panacea for the mind diseased.
 
 HE LOST HIS REWARD. 83 
 
 VI. 
 
 HE LOST HIS REWARD. 
 
 " THERE'S a lady in the parlor, sir." 
 Mr. Convvay looked up from the table at 
 which he sat, with the pages of an account-book 
 open before him, and, knitting his brows slight 
 ly, like one who felt annoyed at being disturbed, 
 said, 
 
 "Did she send a card, or give her name?" 
 "No, sir," replied the servant. 
 "Why didn't you ask her name, then?" Mr. 
 Conway's brows fell into deep lines. 
 
 "I did, sir. But she said she was a stranger." 
 " What kind of a looking woman is she ? " 
 " She's dressed in mourning, and has a veil 
 over her face. Looks as if she were poor, sir." 
 " Poor ! " muttered Mr. Conway to himself. 
 "Some widow with ten children, no doubt, come 
 to offer me the privilege of supporting them and 
 her into the bargain.''
 
 84 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 w Shall I say that you will see her, sir? " 
 
 " No ; tell her I'm engaged." 
 
 The servant turned to leave the room. Be 
 fore he had reached the door, Mr. Conway 
 said, 
 
 "Stop a moment, Edward." 
 
 The man came back a few steps. 
 
 " I shall have to see her, I suppose. I won 
 der who she can be, and what she wants?" 
 
 " Shall I go down and ask again for her name, 
 sir?" 
 
 "No use in that, if she's a stranger," replied 
 Mr. Conway. " Say that I will be down." 
 
 " Dear me ! " grumbled Mr. Conway to him 
 self, "I am pestered to death with beggars of all 
 classes, genteel and uugenteel. This is another, 
 without doubt. A strange woman, dressed in 
 shabby mourning. Of course she belongs to the 
 tribe." 
 
 In this spirit Mr. Conway went down to the 
 parlor to meet his visitor. His aspect was win 
 try enough when he entered wintry enough 
 to kill any young hope-blossoms that might be 
 half-expanded in the mind of this stranger. She
 
 HE LOST HIS REWARD. 85 
 
 arose as he entered, and, drawing aside her veil, 
 showed the pale, wasted countenance of a woman 
 not past thirty years of age. All her features 
 were delicately cut, and there was a depth and 
 beauty in her large hazel eyes that struck even 
 the hard man who stood half-scowling before 
 her. 
 
 "I am a stranger to you, sir," she said, in a 
 hesitating voice, "and must apologize for this 
 intrusion ; but it sometimes happens that we are 
 placed in circumstances which leave us no al 
 ternative but to do what at other times would 
 be almost impossible. It is so with me now ; 
 and this must be my only excuse for calling." 
 
 "As I suspected," said Mr. Conway to himself, 
 as, with cold politeness, he desired the lady to 
 resume her seat. 
 
 "/am a stranger to you," she added, after 
 both were seated. "But my husband was one 
 of your early friends. His name was Glasgow." 
 
 " Glasgow ? Glasgow ? " Mr. Con way repeated 
 the name in a tone of inquiry. 
 
 "You were college friends," said the lady. 
 
 "O, ah, yes. I remember Fred Glasgow,"
 
 86 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 There was a partial lighting up of Mr. Con way's 
 face. 
 
 " He was my husband ; and I often heard him 
 speak of you, so often and so kindly, that I 
 naturally came to feel towards you as a fiicud. 
 He died a year ago." The lady's voice faltered, 
 and she turned her face away to hide the waves 
 of feeling that were passing over it. 
 
 "And Glasgow is dead! Poor fellow!'' said 
 Mr. Co u way, with a rude familiarity of speech, 
 and in a tone of half pity, that wounded the 
 gentle, loving heart in which the image of a 
 dead husband was enshrined as a sacred thing. 
 
 "Fred Glasgow." "Poor fellow." This was 
 
 O 
 
 the way in which that old friend, of whom she 
 had heard so often, spoke of her honored hus 
 band, now invested in her mind, by death, with 
 saintly attributes. 
 
 " Where did he die ? in this city ? " asked 
 Mr. Conway. 
 
 "Xo, sir. He died in L ." 
 
 "This state?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. He was a physician." 
 
 "Ah? I was not aware of that. The truth is,
 
 HE LOST HIS REWARD. 87 
 
 when men get fairly immersed in business, they 
 lose sight of school-boy days and school-boy 
 friends." 
 
 Mr. Conway spoke coldly. Love of gain had 
 long ago burned out all the pleasant memories of 
 early time and early friendships ; and he heard 
 of Frederick Glasgow's death with scarcely an 
 emotion of regret, except for the fact that his 
 widow had come to annoy him. 
 
 "Forgive me, then," said the visitor, rising 
 with a cold dignity of manner, and drawing her 
 veil over her face. " Your memory was so 
 green and fragrant in the heart of my husband, 
 that I thought it must be the same with you." 
 
 Then, bowing, she was moving towards the 
 door, when Mr. Conway, rebuked by her words 
 and manner, stepped forward quickly, and 
 
 "I beg pardon, madam. Nothing was farther 
 from my thoughts than to wound you." 
 
 And he laid his hand on her arm, and led her 
 back to the seat from which she had arisen. 
 Mr. Conway felt ashamed of himself. lie had 
 been rude, almost brutal, to this wonu-.n, ;il! tbo
 
 88 THE PEACEMAKEE. 
 
 circumstances of the case considered. He had 
 looked upon her as a mere speculator on his 
 purse, who came with the argument of a dead 
 husband, formerly his friend, to enforce her de 
 mand. But he felt that he had not only been 
 mistaken, but had betrayed himself before a lady 
 who had risen, by her reaction upon his con 
 duct, into a position that extorted a deferential 
 respect. 
 
 "I beg pardon, madam," he repeated. "We 
 get rough ways, sometimes, in our hard contact 
 with men and things in this world. But it is 
 only on the outside. I remember your husband 
 now, as if we had met but yesterday. We were 
 close friends at college. But our ways in life 
 took different courses, and we never met again 
 after leaving our Alma Mater. And so he has 
 been living as a physician in L ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir." The widow did not withdraw her 
 veil. 
 
 "I wonder he never wrote to me." That was 
 a mere hypocritical pretence, Mr. Conway. 
 
 " He often spoke of doing so ; but thought 
 yon might be deeply absorbed in business, and,
 
 HE LOST HIS REWARD. 89 
 
 therefore, in 110 mood to return to the pleasant 
 days and companions that were so warmly re 
 membered by him," was answered. 
 
 "Nothing would have given me more pleas 
 ure." Not true, Mr. Conway, and you know it. 
 Is the widow deceived ? No ; she is too clear- 
 seeing a woman for that. She understands these 
 sentences to be mere words. She has read you 
 by a few clear indices, Mr. Conway, and knows 
 you, as to quality, if not as to your varied as 
 pects of character, as well as if she had been 
 reading you for years. 
 
 There followed a time of silence. Of course, 
 iu calling upon this old friend of her husband's 
 the widow had a purpose. Mr. Conway sat in 
 expectation. But the purpose was not declared, 
 nor even glanced at remotely. Mr. Conway 
 now asked a few leading questions. But they 
 brought only direct answers. Then the lady 
 arose again, and said, in natural embarrassment, 
 for her position was far from being easy or 
 agreeable, 
 
 "I have already intruded on you too long, and 
 must again ask to be forgiven for a liberty that I 
 should not have take;?."
 
 90 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 " Not yet, Mrs. Glasgow, not yet. Be seated 
 again, I pray you." And Mr. Couway would 
 not let her retire. How could he, under the 
 circumstances? "You have not yet stated the 
 object of your visit. Can I serve you in any 
 thing?" 
 
 Mrs. Glasgow sat down again, but didn't reply 
 until the question, "Can I serve you in any 
 thing?" was repeated. 
 
 "You can serve me, if you will." Yet even 
 in the tones that conveyed this sentence to the 
 ears of Mr. Conway was apparent an internal 
 rejection of all service from him. 
 
 "In what way, madam?" Mr. Conway tried 
 to seem interested, and willing to serve. But 
 his selfish heart relucted, and his voice betrayed 
 his reluctance. 
 
 "I will state my case plainly, Mr. Conway," 
 said the widow, now fully self-possessed. "But 
 you must not feel in any way constrained to 
 serve me, after you know how it stands. Thus 
 it is with me. My husband died just as he was 
 beginning to secure a good practice, and left me 
 with five little children to care for. I had noth-
 
 HE LOST HIS REWARD. 91 
 
 ing but our household furniture, and a few bills 
 for medical services due my husband. Only one 
 way of support offered, and that was by giving 
 musical instruction. This resource has barely 
 sufficed for our humblest wants, and my health 
 is slowly but surely giving way under exposure 
 and excessive fatigue. It is plain to myself and 
 to my friends that I cannot keep up much 
 longer. 
 
 "At this crisis, a new avenue to useful and 
 more adequately remunerative employment has 
 opened before me ; but certain difficulties are in 
 the way of entrance that I cannot remove with 
 out help from a stronger hand than mine. There 
 is a well-patronized seminary for young ladies 
 in L , which the present owner, in conse 
 quence of ill health, is about to transfer to a 
 successor. All my friends are desirous that I 
 should take the institution, and the principal is 
 willing to pass it o-ver into my hands if I can 
 accede to the terms. But " 
 
 She stopped. 
 
 " What arc the terms ? " asked Mr. Con way. 
 
 "Twelve hundred dollars for the furniture and
 
 92 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 good will. Five hundred paid down, and the 
 balance in one, two, and three years." 
 
 " Debt, debt ! Bad, Mrs. Glasgow, bad ! " said 
 Mr. Conway. 
 
 "Not so bad as starvation, sir, or the break 
 ing up of my family, and the scattering of my 
 children among strangers. The profits of the 
 school are good ; and I feel myself competent 
 for the place." 
 
 " And the five hundred dollars are in the way, 
 madam?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " Haven't you friends in L who can raise 
 
 the amount for you ? " 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 " Hum m m ! " Mr. Conway looked down 
 at the floor. "Five hundred dollars is a good 
 deal of money, ma'am." He didn't say, "To 
 throw away ; " but the words were in his 
 thoughts, and Mrs. Glasgow knew it, from his 
 tone and manner. It seemed like a desecration 
 of her husband's memory, to bring it in between 
 herself and this man as an incentive for him to 
 give the help of which sre stood so much in 
 need.
 
 HE LOST HIS REWARD. 93 
 
 * I know it is, sir," she answered, rising again, 
 and, this time, passing quickly across the room, 
 and escaping through the door ere he had time 
 to intercept her. 
 
 " Has the woman really gone ? " said Mr. Con- 
 way, in a fretful, annoyed manner, as he stood 
 alone in the parlor. " I hardly expected to get 
 rid of her so easily as this. Five hundred dol 
 lars ! It's lucky for me that I hadn't many 
 college friends, if all their wives are to come 
 down on me after this fashion. Glasgow was 
 clever enough in his way ; and I liked him. 
 Dead ! Poor fellow ! I wish he'd been more 
 thrifty. Left five children in a state of desti 
 tution. Pity they hadn't died with him. As 
 for his widow, she seems pretty high-strung. 
 But I'm rid of her, thank fortune ! " 
 
 Not so well rid of hor as he supposed. Mr. 
 Conway was a man of large fortune, and five 
 hundred dollars added or subtracted from his 
 bunk account could in no way affect his happi 
 ness, except as it touched his love of money, 
 which was strong; but five hundred dollars to 
 the widow was a matter of almost infinite im-
 
 94 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 portance. In spite of his efforts to push the 
 thought of her, and the five little children of his 
 old friend, from his inind, it kept constantly 
 returning to him ; and with the thought came 
 the pressure of considerations connected with 
 the case, that made it almost impossible for Mr. 
 Conway to pass it by. So, on the next day, he 
 wrote a letter to a friend in L , making in 
 quiries in a confidential way about Mrs. Glasgow. 
 The answer confirmed all she had said, and 
 closed by saying, that if he could help her in 
 any way, it would be a real charity. 
 
 Now if this letter had spoken lightly of her, 
 or conveyed an unfavorable impression, Mr. 
 Conway would have felt pleasure in the fact, 
 as releasing him from the pressure of an obliga 
 tion in the case, which impelled him to do a 
 thing that went entirely across the grain. 
 
 " Confound the woman ! " ejaculated Mr. Con- 
 way, a few days after the receipt of this letter, 
 as he sat thinking over Mrs. Glasgow's visit, and 
 the information she had then given him in regard 
 to her situation. " Confound the woman ! What 
 possessed her to come to me? I shall have to
 
 HE LOST HIS REWARD. 95 
 
 lend her or., in other words, give the five 
 hundred dollars, and the thing might as well be 
 done at once." 
 
 So Mr. Co 11 way drew a check for the sura that 
 has been mentioned, and enclosed it to Mrs. 
 Glasgow, with this brief note : 
 
 " DEAR MADAM : I enclose you a check for 
 five hundred dollars, the amount required to 
 secure the school of which you spoke to me. 1 
 trust it is in good time. 
 
 "Yours, respectfully, 
 
 "THOMPSON CONWAY." 
 
 "There," he said, as he sealed and directed 
 this note ; " I've done my part. She's a high- 
 strung lady ; perhaps she will return the check. 
 Let her. I rather hope she will." 
 
 The cold, unsympathizing letter was penned 
 with this covert wish in his heart. He meant 
 that it should be as a gulf between them, making 
 impossible all future approaches from the widow. 
 He helped her in her great need, but laid upon 
 her, at the same time, purposely, an cpprcssive 
 sense of obligation.
 
 96 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 The check was not returned. In this Mr. 
 Conway was disappointed. On the third day 
 after sending it came an acknowledgment of its 
 receipt, in these words : 
 
 "THOMPSON CONWAY, ESQ. 
 
 " DEAR SIR : I have your favor enclosing a 
 check for five hundred dollars. My first impulse 
 was to return it, for I know that you send it 
 under constraint ; and had not the dear faces of 
 my fatherless children looked into mine at the 
 moment, admonishing me not to push aside the 
 help that God had placed in my way, I should 
 have acted on that impulse. I thank you for 
 the timely aid, and will restore the sum at the 
 earliest possible moment, which lies not, I trust, 
 very far away in tho future. I wish, sir, for 
 your sake and for mine, that you had laid me 
 under this great obligation in a different spirit, 
 so that my heart could have blessed you as a 
 generous benefactor, and the old memory of you 
 rested pleasantly side by side with the memory 
 of my beloved husband. Ah, sir, it has been 
 well said that the manner of conferring an
 
 HE LOST HIS REWARD. 97 
 
 obligation often takes away the sense of obliga 
 tion. It is so, to a great extent, in the present 
 case. I take the money as from God, not 
 really from you, and give to him my tearful 
 thanks. 
 
 "Yours, &c., 
 
 "ADALINE GLASGOW." 
 
 "Insult!" exclaimed Mr. Conway, throwing 
 the letter from him into the fire. " A base in 
 sult ! I thought myself a weak fool when I sent 
 the money, and now I know it." He did not 
 get over his anger for that day, nor for many 
 days ; and always, afterwards, the thought of 
 Mrs. Glasgow, and the benefit he had conferred 
 upon her, produced unpleasant feelings. 
 
 The timely receipt of five hundred dollars 
 enabled Mrs. Glasgow to secure the proprietor 
 ship of the seminary, which she conducted with 
 so much intelligence, judgment, and skill, that 
 its reputation advanced under her administra 
 tion, and, by the end of two years, she was in 
 a condition to cancel the debt to Mr. Conway. 
 That gentleman had been kept advised, froi 
 
 time to time, by the friend in L to whou 
 
 7
 
 98 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 he had written, making inquiries about Mrs. 
 Glasgow, of the widow's success. 
 
 "You never did a truer act of charity in your 
 life than when you helped this excellent lady," 
 wrote his friend on one occasion. Then, such 
 remarks as these were contained in his letters : 
 "Her orphaned children will have cause to bless 
 you, as their benefactor, so long as they live." 
 "It was a generous thing in you, Mr. Conway." 
 " The memory of such deeds is, in the mind, a 
 perennial spring of satisfaction." "Good acts 
 are heaven-invested treasure.'" "You will have 
 your reward, not only in this world, but in the 
 world to come." 
 
 But all these sentences were as gall to the 
 heart of Mr. Conway. He felt them as mock 
 ery, and rejected them with impatience. Ho 
 had not helped the widow from kindness of 
 feeling, but from the pressure of constraint. 
 Circumstances had so shaped themselves that 
 he could not well avoid doing what he had 
 done ; and, instead of pleasure in the deed, he 
 felt only bitterness and anger. A little over 
 two years from the time he had so ungraciously
 
 HE LOST HIS REWARD. 99 
 
 helped the widow of his old friend, came a letter 
 from her enclosing the sum he had loaned her, 
 interest added. She wrote thus : 
 
 "DEAR SIR: At last, under the blessing of 
 One who is the widow's and the orphan's friend, 
 I am cable to return you the money loaned me 
 over two years ago. It has been of great ser 
 vice more than I shall ever be able to 
 express in words. I thank you for the timely 
 aid. God has made you the instrument of good 
 beyond what you will ever know, and I pray 
 that he may reward you with sweet remem 
 brances. 
 
 Gratefully, 
 
 " ADALINE GLASGOW." 
 
 
 
 "Stuff! cant!" said Mr. Con way, tossing the 
 letter from him with an impatient manner. 
 Then, crushing the draft which it had contained, 
 with the grasp of a man who felt that he had 
 something real in possession, he added, "I never 
 expected to see this again." 
 
 Did he feel comfortable? How was that pos 
 sible? He had his money biu.'k, yet the blessing
 
 100 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 of a good deed came not as his reward. Interest 
 had been added. But what were sixty dollars 
 to the imperishable memories that might have 
 been his memories like living springs of pleas 
 ure to his soul? God had made him the unwill 
 ing instrument of good ; and his unwillingness 
 had robbed him of his reward. 
 
 Mr. Couway'g case is only an illustration. \y\) 
 are all made instruments of good to others in 
 some degree. Alas, for us, if, like him, we lose 
 our reward I
 
 GRANDPA AND HIS DARLING. 101 
 
 VII. 
 
 GRANDPA AND HIS DARLING. 
 
 "I DON'T believe, grandpa, you ever did see 
 anything so sweet. It's got blue eyes, and they 
 open and shut; and its hair is real, and curls 
 all over its head. O, it's lovely ! " 
 
 " I'm not so sure of that," said grandpa. " I've 
 seen a great many sweet and lovely things in 
 my time." 
 
 *' O, but nothing so sweet as Fanny's doll, 
 grandpa I Nobody ever did see anything sweeter 
 than that." 
 
 "I did once, I know," answered grandpa, 
 speaking so confidently that little Florry looked 
 up into his face, and said, 
 
 "Tell me about it, won't you?" 
 
 " It's just four years since I first saw it." 
 
 " O, that's a great while ago, grandpa. As 
 long as four Christmases." 
 
 " Four times as long as from one Christmas to 
 another, you mean."
 
 102 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 " I s'pose so ; you know how to say it best, 
 grandpa." 
 
 " You think it a long time from one Christmas 
 to another ? " 
 
 " O, dear, yes ! It's a dreadful long time ! 
 'Twon't never come again, seems to me." 
 
 " Just as surely as my little girl lives, will 
 Christmas be along by and by ; so she must wait 
 patiently. There is something good for her in 
 every day ; something to make her happy ; and 
 if she enjo} T s every day's good things as she re 
 ceives them, she will be the happier at Christmas 
 when it comes." 
 
 "And now tell me what you saw four years 
 ago," said Florry, laying her head down against 
 her grandfather, to listen. 
 
 " Well, you shall hear all about it. ft had 
 blue eyes, and they opened and shut, and its 
 hair was real, and curled all over its head; and 
 it was just a hundred times sweeter than Fanny's 
 doll." 
 
 "O, grandpa! It must have been a real livo 
 baby !" cried Florry, starting up. 
 
 "So it was; a real live baby. Its blue eyes
 
 GRANDPA AND HIS DARLING. 103 
 
 were so clear ahd bright, that you could see your 
 own face in them; its cheeks were softer than 
 any velvet, and the bloom on them purer than 
 the bloom on apple blossoms ; and its mouth 
 O, its mouth was so sweet, that we troubled the 
 darling with our many kisses ! And such dear 
 little hands ! One said they were like crumpled 
 rose leaves, and another called them pink shells ; 
 but they were something more than rose leaves 
 or pink shells to me when they clasped them 
 selves around my fingers, and I felt the warm 
 love in them running away to my heart." 
 
 And when grandpa said this, he could not 
 help putting his arms around Florry, and hug 
 ging her ever so tightly. 
 
 "Had it any name?" asked Florry. 
 
 "O, yes. We gave it a name. We called 
 it " 
 
 "What, grandpa?" 
 
 "Florry." 
 
 " 0, dear ! It was me, then ! I was the baby ! " 
 
 " Yes, darling. Four years ago the good 
 Lord gave you to us as a little helpless baby, 
 but so sweet and pure that just to look at you
 
 104 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 was to have our hearts filled with love. Now, 
 do you know why he let you be born into the 
 world?" 
 
 " That I might be good, and go to heaven? Is 
 that it, grandpa?" 
 
 "Yes. But what is heaven ?" 
 
 " It's away up where God lives with the angels, 
 isn't it?" 
 
 "God is everywhere," said grandpa. "He is 
 right near to us now, though we can't see him. 
 And so are his angels." 
 
 A look of wonder came into Florry's face ; 
 then it grew serious. Her eyes wandered out 
 of the window, and over the fields and water and 
 hills beyond, and then came back to her grandpa. 
 It wasn't all clear to her. She had heard many 
 times of God, and heaven, and the angels ; but 
 had always thought of them as afar off, or up very 
 high. 
 
 "Is heaven all around us, grandpa?" she 
 asked, almost holding her breath. 
 
 " God is everywhere present, and his angels 
 dwell with him, and round about him." 
 
 Still the child looked puzzled. It was more 
 than she could take in.
 
 GRANDPA AND HIS DARLING. 105 
 
 " You are too little to understand about this," 
 grandpa said. " When you are older it will be 
 all plain. Only think of God as always near 
 you ; and think of him as a kind and loving 
 Father, who w r ants you to be good, so that you 
 can be happy ; for only the good are happy." 
 
 Florry again leaned her head back upon her 
 grandpa's bosom, and he laid his hand in among 
 the curls of sunny hair ; and so they sat by the 
 open window, in through which the soft June 
 airs came, both thinking of heaven and the 
 angels, and both so near to them that a deep 
 peace, passing all understanding, rested on theii 
 souls.
 
 106 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 UNFORGOTTEN WRONG. 
 
 IT is remarkable how few persons, in regulat 
 ing their conduct towards others, take memory 
 into account memory, that fixes states of 
 mind into permanent conditions. Intensity of 
 feeling may be said to be the measure of im 
 pressions which remain ; and few feelings are 
 more intense than those created by the infliction 
 of wrong. 
 
 Upon young persons, and those in humble 
 stations, these wounds, that rankle in the mem 
 ory, are ofteuest inflicted. It rarely seems to 
 occur to those who give them, that the young 
 attain maturity in a few years, and take their 
 places in society as men and women, often pros 
 perous and powerful. Nor does it occur to them 
 that the memory of wrong will not die. 
 
 " I can't understand it," said Marcus Williams, 
 a gentleman past middle life, who sat sober and
 
 UNFORGOTTEN WRONG. 1Q7 
 
 thoughtful at his desk, on which, among other 
 papers and letters, was a note from his lawyer. 
 " Why should he be so bitter against me ? Why 
 should he set his heel upon me, and in so vin 
 dictive a spirit? What wrong have I done to 
 the man?" 
 
 He opened the note, and read it a second time. 
 
 "I regret to say," it ran, "that Mr. Konig 
 proves to be wholly impracticable. Nothing 
 whatever can be done with him. He will sign 
 nothing concede nothing talks only of the 
 pound of flesh. Unfortunately, he holds a con 
 siderable amount of your paper, which, in some 
 cases, as I happen to be informed, he has bought 
 within a week from parties to whom you gave 
 it, at from sixty to seventy cents on the dollar. 
 The whole of this he is determined to press to 
 judgment. If the claims held by him were 
 small, the other creditors, all of whom are 
 friendly and reasonable, would consent to his 
 being bought off, or secured, so that your busi 
 ness could be saved. But, as matters now stand, 
 I don't see anything short of a. general assign 
 ment."
 
 108 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 Mr. Williams drooped his head, and sat fo 
 some time in a half-paralyzed state of mind. 
 He was in the toils of a cruel man, and saw no 
 way of escape. But why should Mr. Konig thus 
 seek his ruin? Only a faint remembrance of 
 him, as a .young man in the store of a merchant 
 with whom he had dealings many years before, 
 remained with Mr. Williams. A shade of some 
 thing unpleasant dimmed this remembrance ; but 
 the recollection of any circumstance that could 
 throw a shade it was impossible to recall. His 
 next observation of him was as commission mer 
 chant on the wharf, in copartnership with the 
 son of his former employer. After this he was 
 thrown into contact with him occasionally ; but 
 Konig always maintained a distant air, never 
 smiled when it became necessary to hold brief 
 personal intercourse in the way of business, and 
 had a coldness of manner that invariably repelled. 
 All this had aifected Mr. Williams unpleasantly ; 
 but he set it down to the score of temperament, 
 not personal feeling. 
 
 Now it flashed upon him that enmity lay be 
 neath all this. Why, else, should the man seek
 
 UNFORGOTTEN WRONG. 109 
 
 to get him into his power, in order to destroy 
 him? Mr. Williams dwelt on this new phase 
 which his trouble had assumed, looking at it 
 from all sides, and trying to comprehend its 
 meaning. Carefully did he search through his 
 memory for some incident that might have been 
 misconstrued ; but on no leaf in his book could 
 he find the record of such an incident ; and he 
 closed it in doubt and perplexity. 
 
 "I will see him," was the first conclusion to 
 which Mr. Williams came. Pride, and a native 
 sense of independence, held him a long time 
 back from this determination. But Mr. Wil 
 liams was a man in whom reason was the con 
 trolling power ; a man of self-discipline, and 
 great moral vigor. Whatever he saw to be right, 
 that he compelled himself to do, in the face of 
 pleading weakness or writhing pain. 
 
 " If I have, at any time, unwittingly injured 
 or wronged him, and his present course is stimu 
 lated by revenge, it is best for both of us that 
 I should know it, and offer sudi atonement as 
 may be in my power. If a spirit of vindictive- 
 ness lie at the bottom of his action now, that
 
 HO THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 spirit will hurt him more vitally than any exter 
 nal injury he may work upon me ; and so there 
 rests on me a double responsibility. If I can 
 save him from acts inspired by an evil will, and 
 myself and others from the consequences of those 
 acts, every just and humane consideration im 
 pels me to make the effort, and I will do it." 
 
 And so, forcing back all the specious reason 
 ings of pride, Mr. Williams took an early oppor 
 tunity to see Mr. Konig. He found him alone 
 in the parlor of his own house. It was evening. 
 He had chosen the place and the time, because 
 he hoped thus to secure a more favorable state 
 of mind than would be possible during a busi 
 ness hour, and with business surrouudings. To 
 his question, "Is Mr. Konig at home?" the ser 
 vant had answered in the affirmative, and shown 
 him into one of the parlors, where he found the 
 man who had assumed towards him the attitude 
 of an enemy. 
 
 The surprised " Good evening, sir ! " of Mr. 
 Konig was almost savage in its repellent cold 
 ness. From an instinct of good breeding, Mr. 
 Williams extended his hand ; but it was not 
 taken.
 
 UNFORGOTTEN WRONG. HI 
 
 "Well, sir?" The voice of Mr. Konig was 
 sharply imperative. 
 
 " I have called to ask a few questions," said 
 Mr. Williams. His voice, weak on the first two 
 or three words, was cairn and firm, yet courte 
 ous, in completing the sentence. 
 
 "Sit down, sir," growled Mr. Konig, pushing 
 a chair towards his visitor. 
 
 The chair was taken, and the two men sat 
 down, facing each other. 
 
 " Have I ever wronged or offended yon in any 
 thing, Mr. Konig?" 
 
 "Yes, sir!" was the sternly spoken answer. 
 Revenge flashed from the man's eyes. 
 
 "When?" 
 
 " When ! Have you forgotten ? " 
 
 Mr. Williams dropped his eyes, and searched 
 back through his memory. 
 
 "If I had ever meditated wrong against you, 
 Mr. Konig, I could not have forgotten. As it 
 is, I remember nothing. Speak out plainly." 
 
 " You are twenty years my senior," said Mr. 
 Konig. 
 
 "Probably."
 
 112 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 "Twenty years ago I was a poor young man, 
 and you a man of property. I was obscure and 
 humble; you on the top wave of prosperity. 
 And you treated me with arrogance and con 
 tempt pushed me aside with a sneering super 
 ciliousness, the humiliation of which has never 
 for an hour been forgotten or forgiven. I said 
 that, sooner or later in life, my time would 
 eome ; and I have waited and looked for it 
 through many years. Even boys can feel, sir. 
 And the stung spirit of a proud and sensitive 
 boy never loses consciousness of the smart. I 
 have meant to pay you back, sir; to punish a 
 wanton outrage ; to teach you a lesson that 
 would last." 
 
 A cruel triumph sat on the face of Mr. Konig. 
 
 " Will you give the occasion? I am wholly at 
 fault." 
 
 Mr. Williams was self-possessed, mild, and 
 firm. 
 
 "Twenty years ago, you passed an evening 
 at the house of Mr. Baldwin. Is that occasion 
 remembered ? " 
 
 After thinking back for some moments, Mr. 
 Williams said " Yes."
 
 UNFORGOTTEN WRONG. 113 
 
 "I was there," said Mr. Konig. 
 
 " I do not remember." 
 
 u But I do ; and that was the occasion on 
 which I received an insult from your hands! 
 which stung me almost to madness. It went 
 down to the quick, sir hurt deeply fes 
 tered ; and has never healed over." 
 
 "I am pained to hear this," replied Mr. Wil 
 liams ; " and do solemnly affirm, that I never 
 entertained an unkind feeling towards you, and 
 cannot now recall the circumstance to which you 
 refer. Your feelings, at the time, must certainly 
 have magnified an unintentional offence, and 
 given it too dark a color." 
 
 "No, sir. The insult was designed, and I 
 took it as it was meant." 
 
 " Will you repeat what then occurred ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir. You and 1, Mr. Baldwin, and the 
 President of the Union Bank, were conversing 
 on the subject of finance. Mr. Baldwin favored 
 a National Bank as the only means through 
 which we would ever get a stable currency and 
 uniform exchange. You and Bourdon, who 
 8
 
 114 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 was then President of the Union Bank, took the 
 other side of the question, and against a govern 
 ment bank. Now, though quite a young man, 
 I had read and thought a great deal on this sub 
 ject, and was better posted than most men of 
 twice my years. And so it was natural, and 
 perfectly proper, that I should give my opinion, 
 which I did, with some of that ardor natural to 
 young men. As I pushed aside, with facts and 
 figures, one of your feeble assumptions, you 
 turned short upon me with these cutting sen 
 tences I remember every word, and the depre 
 ciating contempt of your manner, as you waved 
 towards me an impatient hand: 'Too deep 
 water for you, my young friend ! Take my 
 advice, and study Gouge, Gallatin, and Raguet 
 for six months or a year. By that time, you 
 will be less self-asserting and opinionated.' 
 And with these words, you turned off with a 
 superior air, went on talking with the other two 
 gentlemen, and manifested as little regard for 
 me as if I had not been present. I tell you, sir, 
 the arrow went deep, and the barb has not beeu 
 extracted ! "
 
 UNFORGOTTEN WRONG. H5 
 
 " May I extract it now?" said Mr. Williams, 
 in a subdued voice, as he arose from his chair, 
 and looked down upon a face that was dark 
 with anger, and quivering from remembered 
 pain. 
 
 "You cannot ! " was sternly answered. 
 
 " Say not so. I may extract the barb, though 
 I fail to heal the wound ; and that will be some 
 thing in the line of reparation. I do not remem 
 ber to have used the language just repeated ; but 
 I will not question the exactness of your report. 
 Twenty years ago I was less considerate of 
 others less careful of their feelings than I 
 have since learned to be. If excited by opposi 
 tion, I was apt to speak with little choice of 
 words. Time has taught mo better, and brought 
 many sober hours in reviewing the past. We 
 are all weak at some point, Mr. Konig ; each of 
 us, like St. Paul, has an easily besetting sin ; 
 and when, from wrong acts, all that is left to 
 us is confession and repentance, shall we grant- 
 less to each other than we hope to receive from 
 God?" 
 
 The two men looked at each other in silence
 
 116 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 for nearly a minute. Konig was hard, proud, 
 and revengeful. For years he had nursed the 
 hope of one day getting Williams in his power, 
 and requiting him tenfold for what he had suf 
 fered, and he was loath, now, to give up 
 the sweet morsel that was rolling under his 
 tongue. 
 
 "Let me leave you with this thought," said 
 Mr. Williams, seeing that no reply was medi 
 tated. "If we punish vindictively a wrong 
 done to us under the blind impulse of sudden 
 feeling, do we not go below, instead of rising 
 in true manliness above, our adversary? Is not 
 loss to ourselves, instead of gain, involved?" 
 
 Still there was no answer. Mr. Williams 
 moved towards the door. Konig sat with his 
 hard eyes now withdrawn from the other's face, 
 and cast upon the floor. The calm dignity 
 shown by Mr. Williams, even in the acknowl 
 edgment of wrong, was having its effect. He 
 stood before his enemy in a new light, and 
 showed a quality of soul that rebuked him. 
 
 "You have me in your power, Mr. Konig," 
 said Mr. Williams, as he stood with the partly
 
 UNFOliGOTTEN WRONG. 117 
 
 opened door in his hand. "For myself, I do 
 not ask your mercy. But others must be in 
 volved in the ruin you meditate. No man 
 stands alone in this world, and no man can 
 be stricken down without many staggering un 
 der the blow that prostrates him. Worse than 
 all will be the hurt to your own life, if, under 
 the motive of revenge, you pursue the course 
 adopted. And so, I pray you, forbear!" 
 
 Mr. Konig sat alone. His visitor had de 
 parted. The interview had not left him in a 
 calmer state. Instead of this, a strange tumult 
 had taken possession of his mind. There was 
 war in his members. Right impulses were 
 struggling with evil passions ; a long meditated 
 triumph was finding obstruction in the very 
 hour of sweet fruition. Even as he lifted his 
 hand to pluck and taste the tempting fruit, 
 which, in ripening, had so pleased his eyes and 
 filled him with anticipated joy, a voice of warn 
 ing came to his ear, and the word " Forbear ! " 
 held him, half surprised, half fearful, back from 
 the pulpy clusters. 
 
 All through the remainder of that evening,
 
 118 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 all through the nearly sleepless night that suc 
 ceeded, the strife went on. In the stillness of 
 later hours, ere daylight broke, his perturbed 
 soul found rest, and, when awakened by the 
 kiss of morning, a spirit of forgiveness was in 
 his heart ; and not only a spirit of forgiveness, 
 but a sense of shame shame for the cruel 
 wrong he had sought to inflict out of revenge 
 for an insult given twenty years before, in a 
 moment of excited feeling. 
 
 "Mr. Konig has withdrawn all opposition to 
 the arrangement, and will come in with the 
 other creditors." 
 
 Mr. Williams read these lines in a note from 
 his lawyer twice, to make sure of their mean 
 ing. What a sense of relief followed ! He 
 had been for hours in the face of great peril, 
 with no means of escape in view. In a moment 
 of time, unheralded, relief came, and he stood 
 in safety. 
 
 "Wrong, wrong," so he talked with himself, 
 " how inevitable are thy retributions ! Acts, 
 whether good or evil, become living powers,
 
 UNEOKGOTTEN WRONG. H9 
 
 which, moving by inherent laws in a circle, 
 return to bless or curse the actors. If, in our 
 entrance upon life we comprehended this, what 
 pains and repentances, what losses, and suffer 
 ings, might be saved I "
 
 120 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 IX. 
 
 AS WE FORGIVE OUR DEBTORS. 
 
 WHEN a mere lad, we were struck with the 
 remark of an eminent physician, and have 
 thought of it hundreds of times since. His 
 collector, in making returns, reported as value 
 less an account against a gentleman who had 
 recently failed in business. 
 
 "The bill is good for nothing," said the col 
 lector. M has sunk everything, and is 
 
 now with his family on the world, penniless." 
 
 The physician took the bill, quietly tore it in 
 pieces, and then, turning to the unfortunate 
 debtor's account, wrote across it, " Settled." 
 
 " Rather a losing business that," remarked the 
 collector. 
 
 " 1 hope to be able to say the Lord's Prayer as 
 long as I live," was the physician's calm reply. 
 '"Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debt 
 ors.' When we say that prayer, my friend, it
 
 AS WE FORGIVE OUR DEBTORS. 121 
 
 behooves us to look into our hearts, and ask 
 ourselves how we forgive our debtors. ' With 
 what measure ye mete it shall be measured to 
 you again.' " 
 
 Yes, hundreds of times since then, in our 
 world-experience and contact with men, have 
 we thought of that physician's remark. But 
 very few have we met, who, like him, could 
 say the Lord's Prayer without asking for a 
 curse instead of a blessing; for, if the Lord 
 forgave their debts as they forgive their debtors, 
 their chances of eternal salvation would not be 
 worth the fraction of a mite. 
 
 This defect of forgiveness is not confined to 
 the non-professor to him whose lips repeat 
 not daily the holy words of that holy petition. 
 So far as our experience and observation go, 
 they who profess to have "had much forgiven, 
 because they had sinned much," are as rigid in 
 their exaction of the uttermost farthing, as the 
 men who assume no sanctity of life or conver 
 sation. We speak here in general terms. There 
 are noble exceptions in both classes; but not, 
 \ve are inclined to believe, in one more than in
 
 122 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 the other. With an individual of the former 
 class we have now to deal. We do not intend 
 to be hard with him ; we shall not exaggerate 
 his defects; for his purposes are good, and, 
 when he sees what is evil, he honestly strives 
 to overcome it. But self-love and self-interest 
 blind us all. They blinded Mr. Harvey Green, 
 notwithstanding he had passed from "death unto 
 life," and had the evidence of the change in the 
 fact that he " loved the brethren." 
 
 Harvey Green was a shrewd man of business 
 honest in all his dealings, yet ever exacting 
 his own. He took no advantage of others, and 
 was very careful not to let others take advantage 
 of him. While acting on the precept, "Owe no 
 man anything," he never lost sight of a debtor, 
 nor rested while the obligation remained in 
 force. A very natural result was, that Harvey 
 Green prospered in the things of this world, 
 not that he became very rich, but so well oft* as 
 to leave no reasonable want unsupplied. 
 
 It so happened, a few years ago, that a man 
 named Wilkins, after an unsuccessful struggle 
 with fortune, continued through six or seven
 
 AS WE FORGIVE OUR DEBTORS. 123 
 
 years, failed in business. Few men had toiled 
 harder, or suffered more ; and when, at last, he 
 yielded to the pressure of iron circumstances, 
 he sunk down, for a season, prostrate in mind 
 and body. Everything that he had was given 
 up to creditors, the property paid but a small 
 percentage on their claims, and then he went 
 forth into the world, all his business relations 
 broken up, and, under the heavy disadvantage 
 of his situation, bravely sought to gain for his 
 large dependent family, things needful to their 
 sustenance and growth in mind and body. 
 
 Among his creditors was Green. Now, Wil- 
 kins belonged to the same church that numbered 
 Green among its members. When the latter 
 heard of the failure he was much disturbed, 
 although the sum owed him was not above four 
 hundred dollars. On reflection, he grew more 
 composed. 
 
 " Wilkins is an honest man," said he to him 
 self. "He'll pay me, sooner or later." 
 
 It did not take long to sell off, at a ruinous 
 sacrifice, the stock of goods remaining in Iho 
 hands of the debtor, for he threw no impediment
 
 124 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 in the way of those who sought to obtain their 
 due. 
 
 "Ah, my friend," said the latter, on meeting 
 with Green a few days after the closing up of 
 his insolvent estate, " this is a sad business ! 
 But, if God gives me strength, I will pay off 
 every dollar of this debt before I die. An 
 honest man can never sleep soundly while he 
 owes his neighbor a farthing." 
 
 " The right spirit, brother Wilkins ! " answered 
 Green ; " the right spirit ! Hold fast to that 
 declaration, and all will come out straight in 
 the end. Though I can't very well lie out of 
 my money, yet J >vill be patient until you are 
 able to pay ma. I always said you were an 
 honest man ; aiKl am sure you will make good 
 my words." 
 
 "God helping me, I will," said the debtor. 
 His voice trembled and his eyes grew moist. 
 O, how dark all looked in the future ! What 
 a cloud was on his path ! What a weight of 
 grief, mortification, and despondency on his 
 heart ! 
 
 The two men parted, and each took his home-
 
 AS WE FORGIVE OUR DEBTORS. 125 
 
 ward way - the debtor and the creditor. The 
 one with countenance erect, self-complacent 
 feelings, and elastic step ; the other sad and 
 depressed. 
 
 That night Mr. Green prayed "Forgive us our 
 debts, as we forgive our debtors." Yet scarcely 
 had the words died on his lips, ere he was musing 
 on the chances in favor of his ever receiving 
 from the penniless Wilkins the few hundred 
 dollars owed him by that unhappy individual. 
 There was no sympathy for him in his heart; 
 no thought of his terrible prostration of spirit ; 
 nothing of pity and forgiveness. A selfish re 
 gard for his own interest completely absorbed 
 all humane considerations. 
 
 Time passed on. Mr. Wilkins was no drone. 
 An earnest, active man, he soon found employ 
 ment not very remunerative at first, but still 
 sufficiently so to enable him to secure many 
 comforts for his family, and to provide for their 
 education. 
 
 One, two, three years glided by. With the 
 growth of his children his expenses increased, 
 and kept so close a tread upon his income that
 
 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 he had not been able to pay oft' any of the old 
 obligations ; although he never lost sight of 
 them, and never ceased to feel troubled on ac 
 count of their existence. 
 
 "O, debt, debt, debt!" he would often sigh 
 to himself. " What would I not give to be able 
 to say, I owe no man anything ! ' But witli my 
 large family and limited income, what hope is 
 there?" 
 
 This was his depressed state of mind one day 
 when Mr. Green called in to see him. Many 
 times before this the unhappy man had been 
 reminded of his debt. 
 
 "Plow are you getting on?" inquired the 
 creditor, fixing his eyes steadily upon poor Mr. 
 Wilkins, who felt a sense of suffocation, and 
 slightly quailing before his tyrant. 
 
 "I have much to be thankful for," meekly 
 answered the debtor. "My health has been 
 good, and I have had steady employment." 
 
 " You are living very comfortably." 
 
 "And we are grateful to a kind Providence for 
 our blessings." 
 
 " Your salary is one thousand dollars ? "
 
 AS WE FORGIVE OUR DEBTORS. 127 
 
 " It is ; and I have six children to support." 
 
 "You ought to save something. I've been 
 easy with you a long time ; it's three years now, 
 and you haven't offered me one cent. If you'd 
 paid me five or ten dollars at a time, the debt 
 would have been lessened. I wish you would 
 begin to make some arrangement. You ought 
 to save at least two hundred dollars from your 
 salary. I know plenty of men who get only 
 eight hundred dollars a year, and have as large 
 families as yours." 
 
 The eye of Mr. Wilkins dropped wearily to 
 the floor ; he felt as if a heavy weight had been 
 laid upon his bosom. He made no reply, for 
 what could he say? 
 
 "I have always upheld you as an honest man," 
 remarked Green, in a tone of voice that implied 
 an awakening doubt as to whether this view of 
 the debtor's character were really correct. 
 
 "That is between God and my own con 
 science," said Wilkins, lifting his eyes from the 
 floor, and looking with some sternness into the 
 face of his persecuting creditor. 
 
 "For your own sake, I trust you will keep
 
 128 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 a clear conscience," returned Green. "As for 
 the present matter between us, all I wish to 
 know is, whether you mean to pay my debt ; 
 and if so, when I may expect to receive some 
 thing." 
 
 "How much is the debt?" asked Wilkins. 
 
 "It was three hundred and seventy dollars 
 at the time of your failure. Interest added, it 
 now amounts to four hundred and fifty," said 
 Green. 
 
 " There were other debts besides yours." 
 
 " Of course there were ; but I have nothing to 
 do with them." 
 
 "The whole amount of my indebtedness was 
 twenty thousand dollars. The yearly interest 
 on this debt is more than my whole income. 
 I cannot pay even the interest, much less the 
 principal." 
 
 "But you can pay my small claim if you will ; 
 you could have paid it before this time if the 
 disposition had existed. You talk of conscience ; 
 but I'm afraid, brother Wilkins, in your case 
 there is a very narrow foundation of honesty for 
 conscience to rest upon. I don't put much faith
 
 AS WE FORGIVE OUR DEBTORS. 129 
 
 in the professions of men who live after the 
 fashion you live, and yet refuse to pay their 
 debts. I'm a plain-spoken individual, and you 
 now have my mind freely." 
 
 The tone and manner of the creditor were 
 harsh in the extreme. 
 
 "Perhaps," said Wilkins, with forced calm 
 ness, " there may be less of dishonesty in my 
 withholding than in your demanding." 
 
 " Dishonesty ! Do you dare ? " The creditor's 
 face flushed, and his lips quivered with indig 
 nation. 
 
 "There are ten creditors in all," said Wilkins, 
 with regained composure. "Let me put to you 
 a question. I owe John Martin six hundred 
 dollars. Suppose I had six hundred dollars, 
 and little prospect of ever getting any more, 
 and were to pay the whole of it over to John 
 Martin, instead of dividing it equally between 
 you and all the creditors, would you deem the 
 act right on my part? Or, would you think 
 Martin really honest, if he were to crowd and 
 chafe me, until, in very desperation, as it were 
 I gave him the whole of what mainly belongei
 
 130 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 to others? Would you not say that he had 
 possessed himself of your property? I know 
 you would. And let me say to you plainly, that 
 I do not think your present effort to get me to 
 pay oft' your claim entire, regardless of others 
 equally as much entitled to be paid as yourself, 
 at all indicative of unselfishness, or a spirit of 
 genuine honesty. If I have any money to pay, 
 it belongs equally to all my creditors uot to 
 any one of them exclusively." 
 
 To be turned upon thus by a man who was in 
 debt to him to be charged with a dishonest 
 spirit by the poor creature whose relations to 
 society he regarded as essentially dishonest 
 this was too much for the self-complacency of 
 Mr. Green. He rose up quickly, saying, in a 
 threatening tone, 
 
 " You will repent of this insult, sir ! I have 
 forborne for years, believing that you were really 
 honest ; but for this forbearance I now meet 
 with outrage. I shall forbear no longer. You 
 are able enough to pay me, and I will find a way 
 to compel yon to do so." 
 
 Left alone with his troubled thoughts, poor
 
 AS WE FORGIVE OUK DEBTORS. 13] 
 
 Mr. Wilkius felt not only humiliated and wretch 
 ed, but alarmed for the integrity of his house 
 hold. There was no way in which his creditor 
 could extort the sum due him, except by seizing 
 upon his household furniture. That Green 
 would do this, he had but too good reason to 
 fear, for he had done it in other cases. His 
 fears proved not altogether groundless. On the 
 very next day, a sheriff's writ was served on him 
 at the suit of Harvey Green. 
 
 " What do you propose doing ? " asked Wil- 
 kins, on meeting with his creditor u few days 
 afterwards. 
 
 " Get my money ! " was answered, sternly. 
 
 " But I have nothing." 
 
 " We will soon see about that ! Good morn- 
 ing." 
 
 Mr. Green imagined that the indignation felt 
 towards Wilkius was directed against his dis 
 honest spirit ; was, in fact, a righteous indigna 
 tion, when its spring was in cupidity and wounded 
 pride. 
 
 It was the day before the trial of his cause 
 against Wilkins, when he expected to get judg-
 
 132 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 ment by default, as no answer had been made 
 by the defendant in the case. And it was his 
 purpose, as it had been from the beginning, to 
 order an execution so soon as the matter was 
 through the court, and seize upon any property 
 that could be found. 
 
 Evening came, and Mr. Green sat, with his 
 children around him, in his pleasant home. A 
 sweet little boy knelt before him, his pure hands 
 clasped in prayer, while from his lips came, 
 musically, the words taught by the Lord to his 
 disciples, " Forgive us our debts, as we forgive 
 our debtors." 
 
 There seemed a deeper meaning in the words, 
 murmured by innocent childhood, than had ever 
 before reached his perceptions. His thoughts 
 were stirred ; new emotions awakened. The 
 prayer was said, the little one arose from his 
 knees, and lifted his rosy lips for the good-night 
 kiss. 
 
 "Father," said he, turning back, aftei going 
 across the room, " I'm not going to let Harry 
 Williams pay me for that sled. It got b? 4 oke ul 1 
 to pieces the next day after I let him havo it.'
 
 AS WE FORGIVE OUR DEBTORS. 133 
 
 "He bought it from you," said Mr. Green. 
 
 "I know he did ; but Harry's mother is poor, 
 and he only gets a penny now and then. It will 
 take him a long, long time to save a dollar; and 
 then the sled is broken, and no good to him. 
 I have a great many more nice things than he 
 lias, and why should I want his pennies when 
 he gets so few ? " 
 
 "What made you think of this?" asked the 
 father, who was touched by the words of his 
 child. 
 
 "It came into my mind just now when I was 
 saying my prayer. I prayed, 'Forgive us our 
 debts, as we forgive our debtors.' Now, Harry 
 Williams is my debtor, is he not ?" 
 
 "Yes, my son." 
 
 " Well, if I don't forgive him his debt, how 
 can I expect God to forgive me my debt? If I 
 pray to him to forgive me as I forgive Hurry, 
 and 1 don't forgive Harry at all, don't I ask God 
 not to forgive me, father?" 
 
 The child spoke earnestly, and stood with his 
 large, deep, calm eyes fixed intently on his 
 father's face. Almost involuntarily Mr. Green 
 repeated the words,
 
 134 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 "'If ye forgive not men their trespasses, 
 said our Saviour, ' neither will your Father for 
 give your trespasses.' " 
 
 "I'll forgive Harry the debt, father. I'm sure 
 he isn't able to pay for the sled ; and I have a 
 great many more nice things than he has. If I 
 don't do it, how can I ever pray that prayer 
 again?" 
 
 " O, yes, yes ! Forgive him the debt, by all 
 means ! " replied the father, kissing his boy. 
 
 That evening was spent by Mr. Green iu 
 closer self-communion than he had known for 
 many years. The words of his child had come 
 to him like rebuking precepts from heaven, and 
 he bowed his head, humiliated and repentant, 
 resolving to forgive in the future as he would be 
 forgiven. 
 
 On the morning that followed, as Mr. Wilkins, 
 from whose mind the cloud had not lifted itself, 
 who was yet trembling for the home of his 
 children, was passing from his door, a lad 
 placed a letter in his hand. He knew the face 
 of the boy from its likenesss to that of Mr, 
 Green.
 
 AS WE FORGIVE OUR DEBTORS. 135 
 
 "More trouble," he sighed to himself, as he 
 thrust the note into his pocket. 
 
 An hour afterwards he opened it, and, to his 
 bewilderment and surprise, found within his 
 account fully drawn out, and receipted with the 
 signature of Harvey Green. Below the receipt 
 was written, "I stand rebuked. I must forgive, 
 if I hope to be forgiven." 
 
 It was with difficulty that Wilkins could re 
 strain a gush of tears, so great was his instant 
 revulsion of feeling. Ah, if Harvey Green could 
 have seen his heart at that moment, his debt 
 would have been paid fourfold. No amount of 
 money poured into his coffers could have pro 
 duced such a feeling of heavenly delight.
 
 136 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 X. 
 
 GIVING TO THE POOR. 
 
 "DIDN'T Brown give anything?" said Mr, 
 Ward. 
 
 " Not a dime," was answered. 
 
 " What excuse did he make ? " 
 
 " O, he said something about the harm that 
 is done by indiscriminate almsgiving. I hardly 
 kept patient enough to hear him to the end." 
 
 "All stuff!" said Mr. Ward. "A mere ex 
 cuse for parsimony." 
 
 "So I felt. Well, well! Some men's hearts 
 are made of iron." 
 
 " You told him how destitute poor Mrs. Folger 
 was?" 
 
 O, yes ! " 
 
 "And he didn't put his hand in his pocket?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Very well. Let Mr. Brown pass. We can 
 do without him. God's poor are all around us, 
 and if we neglect our duty, he will not forget."
 
 GIVING TO THE POOR. 137 
 
 "I couldn't help looking around the room," 
 was answered to this, "and noticing its com 
 fortable arrangements. Cushioned easy-chairs, 
 lounges, soft carpets, and warm curtains. Mr. 
 Brown, in wrapper and slippers, sitting by the 
 glowing grate, was the picture of sellish enjoy 
 ment. Poor Mrs. Folger ! I thought of her, 
 shivering with her half-clothed children by a 
 few coals. Well, well ! Some have their good 
 things here, and some their evil things. But 
 there will be a reversion of this order in the 
 time to come. Money seems to harden some 
 people's hearts. The more they get, the less 
 human they become. What is a dollar or two 
 to Brown ? Nothing ! It would not have been 
 missed from his purse, nor abridged a single 
 comfort. But, to Mrs. Folger and her poor 
 children, the sum would have brought food and 
 warmth. The difference is striking and signifi 
 cant. I am sorry for Mr. Brown. He has lost 
 an opportunity of laying up treasure in heaven." 
 
 And so they talked, sitting in judgment on 
 Mr. Brown. Of his comfortable surroundings, 
 we have had a passing glimpse. Let us see how
 
 138 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 it really is with Mrs. Folger, who lives not far 
 away, in a narrow court, amidst the children of 
 poverty. We enter a small room, almost unfur 
 nished. There is an old pine table, with one 
 leaf broken off; three chairs, and a wooden 
 bench, and a small, cracked stove, in which 
 carpenters' refuse is burning. Sundry garments 
 hang against the walls, or lie in the corners. 
 Cracked or broken dishes, unwashed, cover the 
 table and mantel-piece. It is a scene of disorder 
 and filth. And in the midst, sitting with idle 
 hands, is Mrs. Folger. Her attitude expresses 
 a nerveless state of mind ; her face is troubled. 
 Three children hover about the stove. One of 
 them is a stout, sensual-looking boy, over four 
 teen years of age. The other two are girls 
 their ages eight and ten. 
 
 "You'll have to go back, John," says the 
 mother, in a tone of pitiful remonstrance. " I'm 
 sorry, but there's no help for it." 
 
 John's face darkens. 
 
 "If you had to get up and go off in the cold, 
 as I do, every morning " 
 
 "I know it's hard, my son. I pity you,"
 
 GIVING TO THE POOR. 139 
 
 breaks in the weak, irresolute mother. "But 
 what are we to do? Starve? You must go 
 back, John." 
 
 "I can never stand it, mother. My back 
 aches from the time I go into the shop until I 
 come out again. And Mr. Grind is a Turk. 
 He knocks the boys about, and drives them to 
 death. They say he killed a boy last winter. 
 I'm so 'fraid of him, that I tremble all over 
 whenever he comes near me. Yesterday he 
 caught me by the hair and pulled me half across 
 the room. O, dear ! I can't stand it mother, 
 and I won't!" 
 
 The mother began wringing her hands in a 
 distressed way. Just then came a knock at her 
 door, which, not moving, she answered by a 
 loud " Come in ! " A woman entered. Mrs. 
 Folger arose instantly, with a slightly confused 
 manner, for the visitor's attire was that of a 
 person quite above her social condition. 
 
 "Is your name Folger?" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am/' The tone was faint and pit- 
 eons, and the face in keeping with the voice. 
 "Won't yon sit down?" And Mrs. Folger
 
 140 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 brushed a chair, that stood in the middle of th< 
 room, with her dirty apron, it needed the 
 operation, and handed it to the lady, whose 
 quick eyes were taking in everything almost at 
 a glance. 
 
 "Are you sick?" was inquired, in a calm, 
 searching voice. 
 
 "No, ma'am, not just sick; but I never feel 
 very well." 
 
 "Is this the way in which you live all the 
 while?" The visitor glanced around the room 
 again. 
 
 "Yes, ma'am. Poor people can't have things 
 like the rich." 
 
 "They can be clean and neat, and make the 
 most of what they have. Water costs nothing, 
 and an hour a day expended on a room like this 
 would keep it sweet and in order. Are these 
 your children?" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am." Still plaintive, almost whining. 
 
 " How old is the boy ? " 
 
 "Fourteen." 
 
 " Why isn't he at work ? " 
 
 "He's had a pl.ice, ma'am, but he left it yes-
 
 GIVING TO THE POOR. 141 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " They worked him so hard, and treated him 
 so dreadfully, that he couldn't stand it. They 
 treat poor boys worse than dumb beasts, some 
 times." 
 
 The lady eyed the boy for a few moments, 
 and then said, 
 
 "He doesn't look as if he'd been very badly 
 used. What's your name, sir?" 
 
 "John," answered the boy. 
 
 " Where have you been at work ? " 
 
 " In a hat factory." 
 
 " How much did they pay you ? " 
 
 " Two dollars and a half, ma'am." 
 
 Why did you leave ? " 
 
 The boy stammered a lame excuse. 
 
 "That won't do," said the lady. "You must 
 go back to your place again. A boy that's 
 afraid of work will never make a man worth 
 anything. Send him back to his place, Mrs. 
 Folger,, and be thankful that he has something 
 to do this hard winter. There are hundreds 
 nroundi yon, men and boys, who haven't a 
 of work. And now, let mo ask what
 
 142 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 you are doing in the way of supporting your 
 self and children?" 
 
 The woman's manner began to grow uneasy. 
 She didn't feel comfortable in the presence of 
 this unsympathizing visitor. 
 
 "I haven't any work just now," she answered. 
 
 "How comes that? What kind of work have 
 you been doing?" 
 
 "I took in washing and ironing, but I'm a 
 weakly woman, and it was so dreadful hard on 
 me that I had to give it up." 
 
 " Can't you sew ? " 
 
 "Yes, ma'am, but bending over that kind of 
 work gives me a pain in my breast." 
 
 "And so you sit down in idleness and dis 
 order, and encourage the same vices in your 
 children;" this was said in an undertone, so 
 that the woman alone might hear the rebuke. 
 "This won't answer, Mrs. Folgcr. Send your 
 boy back to his place, and let him have the ben 
 efits and protection of useful employment. Go 
 to work yourself. Put your rooms in order, 
 and keep them so. Try and live like a decent 
 woman. This is shocking ! What do vou ex-
 
 GIVING TO THE POOR. 
 
 pect your children to become, if raised in idle 
 ness, disorder, and dirt? Teach your little 
 girls to be tidy and industrious ; and this, by 
 example. Let them see their mother always 
 busy, and always making the best of every 
 thing. Old and young are happiest when use 
 fully employed. Work is no hardship, but u 
 blessing. Send John back to his place, that he 
 may grow up a useful, industrious boy, and help 
 you at the same time. He's stout and strong, 
 and can bear a little rough usage, if it must 
 come. But don't encourage him to complain. 
 Let him understand that he's got to hold on to 
 his place. It will be best for him it will make 
 a man of him. So arouse yourself, Mrs. Folger ! 
 You and John are able to work, and take good 
 care of yourselves. And these little girls can 
 help in a great many ways, if you show them 
 how. All you need is a willing spirit." 
 
 And the visitor arose and departed, without 
 offering the smallest aid beyond the reproof and 
 injunctions we have recorded. 
 
 "You'll have to go back, John; there's no 
 help for it," said Mrs. Folger. Ilor voice had
 
 144 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 in it a firmer quality. She hud arisen under the 
 force of a new spirit which had been awakened, 
 and was moving about the room, putting things 
 in order, and preparing to wash up the dishes, 
 which had not been touched since their last meal. 
 " We've nothing but your wages to depend on ; 
 and, anyhow, idleness is bad for boys. I don't 
 want you on the street again. I've had trouble 
 enough with you already. So go right away 
 back to the shop before some one else gets your 
 place go right away ! " 
 
 John demurred, feebly, but made preparations 
 for obeying. He was putting on his overcoat, 
 when another rap \vas heard on the door. Mr. 
 Ward came in. The destitute condition of this 
 family had been made known to him by some 
 one who saw only the surface of things, and the 
 relation had drawn largely on his sympathies. 
 So, acting under a blindly benevolent impulse, 
 he had collected some twenty dollars, and now 
 came on his mission of blessing to the poor. 
 Mr. Brown, from wbftm, through the medium 
 of a friend, he had anticipated a liberal dona 
 tion to his fund, gave nothing, as we have seen,
 
 GIVING TO THE POOH. 145 
 
 and was harshly judged for withholding. Ex 
 pressions of surprise and pity fell from the lips 
 of Mr. Ware?, as he glanced around the room. 
 
 "This is a hard way to live!" he said, in a 
 tone of commiseration, speaking half to himself 
 and half to the woman. 
 
 "Indeed it is hard!" Mrs. Folger's dirty 
 apron went to her eyes. Her voice Was choked 
 by feeling; tears came readily to view. John 
 instinctively put off his overcoat, and laid aside 
 his cap. 
 
 "Have you no coal?" asked Mr. Ward, as he 
 glanced to the stove and saw the carpenters' 
 shavings strewn around. 
 
 "No, sir," whined the woman. 
 
 " Bless me ! that is hard ! " And Mr. Ward 
 drew out his pocket-book. " Is this your boy?" 
 looking towards John. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Well, here my lad. Take this five-dollar 
 bill, go to one of the coal-yards on Broad Street, 
 and order a ton of coal for your mother." 
 
 John's overcoat went on quickly, and, taking 
 the banknote, he started on his errand. 
 10
 
 146 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 "Hi! Where you going?" A boy, old 
 than John, hailed him as he turned the fi. it 
 corner. 
 
 "Down to the coal-yard. Come go 'long." 
 
 The boy joined him. " Going to buy coal?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " How much ? " 
 
 "A ton." 
 
 " Whew ! Got the money ? " 
 
 "Yes, indeed! See!" And John displayed 
 the five-dollar bill. They walked a little way 
 in silence, the companion plotting evil. I^e 
 was farther away from the right path thki 
 John. 
 
 "A whole ton, did you say?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes, a whole ton." 
 
 "I'll tell you what I did once." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "They sent me for a ton of coal, and I bought 
 only three quarters. So I had a dollar and a 
 levy all to myself." 
 
 "And didn't they find it out?" John's eyos 
 grew larger, and his voice was excited. 
 
 "No. The three quarters went for a ton, and 
 nobody was any the wiser."
 
 GIVING TO THE POOR. 147 
 
 The tempter prevailed, and John shared with 
 him the price of a quarter of a ton of coal ! 
 
 Mr. Ward made a few general inquiries of 
 Mrs. Folger, after sending John away ; and 
 taking all that she said for granted, handed her 
 over fifteen dollars, the balance of his collections 
 and contribution ; and, telling her to make her 
 self and children comfortable, retired, feeling 
 that he had done a most benevolent action. He 
 passed the home of Mr. Brown on his way back 
 from this errand of mercy, and, glancing up at 
 the windows, said, in his thought, 
 
 " It is easier for a camel to go through the eye 
 of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the 
 kingdom of heaven." 
 
 As he went by, the visitor who had called a 
 little while before him at the widow's miserable 
 home, sat talking with Mr. Brown. 
 
 " Any help there," she is saying, " will do 
 harm rather than good. Mrs. Folger and her 
 oldest boy are able to earn all that is really 
 needful. But she is lazy and neglectful of her 
 home and children, and he, like most boys, 
 would rather play than work. If you help
 
 148 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 them, she will fold her hands, and he will go 
 upon the street. The spur of hunger and cold 
 are needed there. Take it off, and the family 
 will grow up idle and vicious." 
 
 Mr. Brown sighed. "Hunger and cold are 
 hard drivers, Margaret." 
 
 "But not so hard as vice and crime. Work is 
 no hardship, but a blessing. The bread that 
 is earned is sweeter to the taste. Mrs. Folger 
 will be happier at toil that goes even beyond her 
 strength, than she now is, sitting in idleness. 
 Don't give her a dollar." 
 
 " How is old Mrs. Lyon ? " was inquired. 
 
 "Feeble, but always employed. Out of the 
 dollar a week that you supply for worsted and 
 crochet cotton, she produces three or four dol 
 lars' worth of work, which, so far, she has been 
 able to sell. She lives right comfortably, and is 
 cheerful and hopeful." 
 
 " And Mrs. Talbot how is she getting 
 along?" 
 
 " As well as could be expected, under the cir 
 cumstances." 
 
 " Five little children are a heavy burden on a 
 poor woman," said Mr. Brown.
 
 GIVING TO THE POOR. 149 
 
 " Heavier on some than on others. Mrs. 
 Talbot lacks energy and forecast, and is easily 
 discouraged. But she loves her children, and 
 would die for them, if that were demanded. 
 You pay her rent, and supply her with fuel. To 
 go beyond that would, I think, injure rather than 
 benefit her. She has to keep busy in order to 
 get plain food, and plain food is better for them 
 than luxuries." 
 
 Mr. Brown sighed, as he answered, "We 
 think plain food all right for the children of 
 poor people, but would we like to set our own 
 children down to such fare ? " 
 
 " Plain food would be better for them. It is 
 weakness, not genuine kindness, that causes us 
 to set unhealthy luxuries before our children. 
 There is a great deal of wrong thinking on this 
 subject of the poor," continued the lady. " We 
 forget that true enjoyment is not from the ex 
 ternal condition, but from the mind's state and 
 quality ; and that useful occupation alone puts 
 a man in that orderly condition with society 
 through which God can lead him into the ways 
 of true happiness. Every one must do some
 
 150 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 service. If it be of a low and material nature, 
 ministering only to the body's grosser needs, it 
 will be poorly paid. If more skilled, the return 
 will be larger. But, in all cases, it is best that 
 the individual should earn his bread, whether 
 the loaf be brown or white. It will be sweeter 
 for the toil. Faithful service the always doing 
 up to the ability is sure to meet with increas 
 ing compensation. It is the grudged, reluctant, 
 inadequate service that is such a hinderance to 
 the poor; and our duty to them is not in alms 
 giving, but in teaching them how they can be 
 more faithful and energetic in doing the work 
 that is committed to their hands. In most cases 
 our gratuities do more harm than good." 
 
 A week passed. Mr. Ward was at his door, 
 key in hand, just about entering, when a little 
 girl, thinly dressed, in soiled finery, ran up, and 
 said, 
 
 " O, sir ! Mother sent me round to ask if you 
 wouldn't come there." The child had a fright 
 ened look. 
 
 " Who's your mother? " 
 
 u Mrs. Folger," was answered.
 
 GIVING TO THE POOR. 151 
 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 "O, sir, the policeman's carried our John off, 
 and says he'll be sent to the House of Refuge ! " 
 
 " What's John been doing? " 
 
 "I don't know. Mother wants you to come 
 there." 
 
 Mr. Ward had felt very comfortable in mind 
 about Mrs. Folger. His thoughts had turned to 
 her very often, and with a feeling of self-com 
 placency. The ton of coal, and fifteen dollars, 
 were tc transform the miserable apartment in 
 which he saw her with her children into a kind 
 of Paradise. Many times had he contrasted his 
 own benevolent action in this case with the 
 "heartless indifference " of Mr. Brown, his rich 
 neighbor, and self-approval and self-complacency 
 nestled in his heart. Now he was disturbed 
 from his tranquillity. Here was a nc\v aspect 
 of affairs, not by any means agreeable. He 
 hesitated a few moments, and then went with 
 the child. As he walked along he observed her 
 more carefully. She had on a soiled, but gay 
 colored frock ; and around her waist was a broad 
 ribbon, wilh long ends at the bide.
 
 152 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 "Where did you get that dress?" inquired 
 Mr. Ward. 
 
 " Mother bought it." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "Next day after you were at our house." 
 
 "She did?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. Me and Susie were invited to a 
 party at Mrs. Cooper's, next door; and mother 
 said we should look as well as anybody's chil 
 dren and so we did. Mother sat up all night 
 to get 'em done." 
 
 " So you and Susie both had new party dresses 
 and sashes?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; and new shoes," glancing down 
 at a pair of thin slippers. 
 
 Mr. Ward began to feel some risings of the 
 natural man. He found Mrs. Folger in great 
 distress, crying and wringing her hands. After 
 a great deal of questioning, he got down to the 
 simple truth in the case, not omitting the fact 
 that John had supplied himself with spending 
 money in the way already mentioned. One dis 
 honest act lends to another. Idleness and the
 
 GIVING TO THE POOR. 153 
 
 companionship of vicious boys drew him into 
 further temptation, and on that afternoon he 
 had been arrested, with another lad older than 
 himself, for the crime of robbing a till. On 
 clearly understanding the case, and ascertaining, 
 besides, that Mrs. Folger had already spent 
 nearly the whole sum placed in her hands, com 
 passion changed to indignation. 
 
 " Let him go to the House of Refuge ! It's 
 the best place for him. He may come out an 
 honest, industrious boy ; but, under your man 
 agement, only a miracle can save him from the 
 State Prison or gallows." 
 
 And so saying, our impulsive philanthropist 
 turned from the weak, miserable mother, and left 
 her in her sorrow and despair. It was his hand 
 that had drawn her from the safe way of self- 
 dependence ; his blind benevolence that had 
 removed a pressing necessity for the boy's re 
 turning to his work, and, in the idle days that 
 followed, crime wrought an irreparable disaster. 
 There had been no wise discrimination in giving; 
 and there was, now, no pity in his heart, as he
 
 154 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 turned away, saying to himself, " I'll never do a 
 kind act again as long as I live ! " 
 
 So act, usually, your selfish philanthropists, 
 who give from weak impulse, instead of a true 
 benevolence.
 
 HIS OWN ENEMY. 155 
 
 XI. 
 
 HIS OWN ENEMY. 
 
 "You have enemies, and they are seeking 
 your destruction." 
 
 "No man knows that better than I do. They 
 have dogged my steps for years. There's Ma 
 son, he never lets an opportunity for thrusting 
 at me pass. He's done me a world of harm." 
 
 "I think you are in error in regard to Mr. 
 Mason. He is your friend, not your eneniy." 
 
 The minister said this with a deliberateness of 
 utterance that marked his view of the case. 
 
 " My friend ! " There was bitter contempt in 
 the speaker's voice. "Heaven save me from a 
 troop of such friends ! They would soon con 
 sign me to the depths of perdition." 
 
 "Wrong, all wrong, Mr. Slade. The spirit 
 that prompted your words just now is far more 
 your enemy than Mr. Mason, or any other living 
 mortal."
 
 156 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 "You speak in an unknown tongue," was 
 answered. 
 
 "If this be so, let me suggest that your hap 
 piness and safety in life depend greatly on your 
 becoming acquainted with its significance. You 
 have enemies ; so have all men. But, they are 
 within. A man's worst foes are in his own 
 household." 
 
 " They are not in my family ! " The rejection 
 of this idea was emphatic. 
 
 " But they are in your heart, Mr. Slade ; that 
 is the household to which I refer. And the 
 enemies that gain admittance there, are your 
 worst enemies the only ones, in fact, who can 
 do you serious or permanent injury. Reflect 
 calmly for a little while. Look away from 
 individuals and circumstances, and draw your 
 thoughts inward. Personify, if you can, the 
 states of mind by which you are most strongly 
 influenced, and see if they do not hurt you more 
 than anything that has ever come from the out 
 side ? Are you not a self-tormentor, and a real 
 enemy in heart, towards those whom you im 
 agine in league against you? A real enemy,
 
 HIS OWN ENEMY. 157 
 
 because you retaliate and try to do harm? I 
 have met, a few times in my life, with men who 
 were haunted, as you are, with the singular 
 notion that they had hosts of enemies in the 
 world, when the trouble was within and not 
 without. People who desired to be their friends, 
 were misapprehended and thrown off, or assailed 
 vindictively, under an entirely false judgment; 
 and you must not be hurt with me for saying 
 that I fear you are in a similar hallucination." 
 
 "O, no! O, no, Mr. Howard! I am under 
 no such hallucination." The imputation was 
 rejected with some warmth, but not in a way to 
 show that he was offended at the clergyman's 
 plainness of speech. 
 
 "Pardon me for still thinking that you are," 
 was answered. " Take the case of Mr. Mason, 
 for instance. You call him an enemy." 
 
 "I do and know him to be one. He's in 
 jured me in numberless ways." 
 
 "Mention one instance." 
 
 Mr. Slade did not answer promptly. For al 
 most a minute he stood casting about in his 
 mind, and thei; said, in a dogged kind of man 
 ner,
 
 158 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 "He's injured me in my business and my 
 reputation, by exciting prejudices against me. 
 I know him better than you do." 
 
 "A single fact is worth a dozen inferences, 
 Mr. Slade. Come down to a single fact. Put 
 your hand upon the wrong that he has done. 
 Let us convict him by his acts : these are sub 
 stantial witnesses." 
 
 " He set Carter against me Carter, who was 
 one of my best customers. I'll never forgive 
 him for that, if I live a thousand years." 
 
 It so happened that the very individual spoken 
 of came that instant in sight. Howard stepped 
 to the door, and, as he approached, held out his 
 hand, and said, 
 
 " Come in a moment. I want to say a word ? " 
 
 From Carter's manner, it was plain that he 
 would have preferred passing on, but the min 
 ister drew firmly on his hand, and he entered the 
 store of Mr. Slade. The two men looked rather 
 shyly at each other, and nodded a cold recogni 
 tion. There was no offer of the hand from either 
 side. 
 
 "You know friend Mason?" said the minister.
 
 HIS OWN ENEMY. 159 
 
 "As well as the next man," replied Carter, in 
 an oft-hand .way. 
 
 " See him frequently ? " 
 
 " Yes ; almost every day." 
 
 " He talks rather hard against our neighboi 
 Slade." 
 
 "Mason?" There was a tone of surprise in 
 Mr. Carter's voice. 
 
 "Yes, Mason." 
 
 "Never in my hearing," was Carter's unhesi 
 tating reply. 
 
 " Did you never hear him speak of me ? " 
 Slade's manner was excited, and his tone sharp. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Of course you have ; and it wasn't anything 
 good that he had to say." 
 
 " On the contrary," answered Mr. Carter, " I've 
 heard him speak kindly, and say, in defending 
 you from just censure, that you were more an 
 enemy to yourself than any one else." 
 
 "Didn't he prejudice your mind against me?" 
 demanded Slade, still under much excitement. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Who did then?"
 
 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 "Yourself, and no one else. When you at 
 tempted a wanton injury, I was both hurt and 
 offended." 
 
 "I never attempted to injure you." 
 
 " Stop, sir. Facts are stubborn things. I am 
 a school director." 
 
 The minister noticed a change in the coun 
 tenance of Slade. Carter went on : 
 
 " And was elected over you and two others in 
 our ward, who were nominated for the same 
 office. At once I saw a change in your manner. 
 You could not tolerate the man chosen by your 
 fellow-citizens as better qualified than you were 
 to fill a post of honor and responsibility, and. 
 from that hour considered him as your enemy. 
 You sneered at the choice, and depreciated me 
 right and left; and not content with this, as- 
 Bailed my official conduct, which was honest, if 
 I know myself, in the newspapers." 
 
 "Who says that I did?" Slade's face was 
 crimson with tell-tale blood. 
 
 "1 called on the editor, through whose sheet 
 the assault on me was made public, and learned 
 from him that you were the author of that as-
 
 HIS OWN ENEMY. 161 
 
 sault. I explained to him that you had been a 
 candidate for the same office, and gave him such 
 irrefutable evidence as to the wrong done me, 
 that he made my defence himself. What then ? 
 You wrote another communication, more bitter 
 and exaggerated than the first, which was sent 
 to me, and which I burned. No real harm came 
 to me; but you damaged yourself seriously. 
 You were more your own enemy than mine. A 
 man who is right with his conscience, Mr. Slade, 
 need be in no trouble about enemies, for he is 
 triple armed against them. Now you know why 
 you lost my custom, and why I have held my 
 self at a distance. As for Mason, he is about 
 the best friend you have, and is always suggest 
 ing excuses for your ill-natured conduct. Your 
 hand seems to be against every man ; and I only 
 wonder that every man's hand isn't against you 
 and such will be the case before long, if you 
 don't mend your ways. Get right inside, and all 
 will go well enough on the outside. Look on 
 other men kindly, and you will then begin to 
 understand how others can bear you as kindly 
 regard. Be forbearing and apologetic in respet 
 H
 
 162 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 to others, and you will comprehend the possi 
 bility of a like spirit in return. Take off your 
 distorting spectacles, aud look upon your fellows 
 with a clear and manly vision. You will be 
 happier, and more prosperous, my word for it. 
 Good morning. I have spoken plainly, and may 
 it do you good ! " 
 
 Carter bowed to Slade and the clergyman, 
 and retired. The latter gazed at each other in 
 silence for a few moments. The anger had gone 
 out of Slade's face ; and he looked cowed, aud 
 discontented. 
 
 " Your own worst enemy, I see." Mr. How 
 ard spoke soothingly, yet in a tone of admoni 
 tion. "The foes you have most to dread are, 
 as I before remarked, of your own household. 
 Overcome and cast them out, and all will be 
 well. Let them remain, and they will destroy 
 inward peace and outward prosperity. But 
 why have you cherished the thought that Mason, 
 in particular, is an enemy, ever on the alert to 
 do you harm? Have you done or said anything 
 to excite his enmity? Men are not usually our 
 enemies from an instinct of antagonism. Most 
 of them desire amitv nr.rl cr < d u ill."
 
 HIS OWN ENEMY. 163 
 
 Slade was silent. 
 
 " I fear, as was intimated in the beginning of 
 our conversation, that your own heart is not 
 right towards your fellow-men, my brother." 
 Mr. Howard was kind but earnest, so as not to 
 give offence, yet penetrate, if possible, to the 
 region of conviction. 
 
 " I have talked out pretty freely against Ma 
 son, and it is but natural to infer that some kind 
 friend has repeated my words." 
 
 " Why did you talk against him ? " 
 
 "Because I disliked him, and believed him 
 doing all in his power to injure me." 
 
 "Yet you have the testimony of Mr. Carter, 
 that he speaks well and not ill of you." 
 
 "I couldn't have believed it," said Sladc, an 
 intimation of doubt in his voice. 
 
 "My friend," the clergyman spoke with 
 great seriousness, " accept the lesson you have 
 just received, and profit by it. You have en 
 emies, bitter and deadly ones, who, sleeping 
 not night nor day, arc bent on accomplishing 
 your ruin." 
 
 A shadow of concern fell over the countenance
 
 164 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 of Slade. His thought went back instinctively 
 to the idea of outward enemies, flesh and blood 
 enemies, against whom he had always stood 
 armed for battle. But his friendly monitor 
 swept that illusion aside. 
 
 "These enemies," was continued, "are evil 
 spirits, flowing into and exciting evil affections. 
 They have already destroyed your peace, and 
 will, unless you cast them out, destroy your 
 soul. Constantly they direct your thoughts to 
 other and imagined enemies, while they work on 
 you their will, and rob you of that precious love 
 of the brethren, without which there can be no 
 love of God, or salvation in heaven. I speak 
 of God, of salvation, and of heaven, because my 
 high calling as a minister gives me the care of 
 immortal souls, and my duty is to help men 
 light against subtle, malignant, deceiving spirits, 
 who are ever seeking their destruction. Culti 
 vate feelings of good-will towards your neigh 
 bors ; desire prosperity for them as well as for 
 3 r ourseif ; acquiesce in all public sentiments that 
 discriminate against you in favor of another, 
 believing that nothing invidious to yourself lies
 
 HIS OWN ENEMY. 165 
 
 in the discrimination, but only the recognition 
 of more suitable qualities in another. We are 
 not alike fitted for particular places in life, and 
 our selfish desire to gain a position may lead us 
 to an over-estimate of our fitness in comparison 
 with others. The decision made against us will 
 not be, in these cases, an expression of enmity 
 or ill-will, but a simple election on the ground 
 of superior fitness. I am very sure that if I had 
 been a voter in your ward for school director, 
 I would have given my ballot for Carter ; but, in 
 doing so, I would have expressed no dislike for, 
 or opposition to you as an individual. It would 
 simply have been a choice founded on my esti 
 mate of respective fitness ; and for you to have 
 regarded me as governed by personal dislike, or 
 any feeling of hostility, would have been doing 
 me a great wrong." 
 
 " Perhaps I am over-sensitive," remarked 
 Sladc. "But if you knew how much I have 
 been persecuted " 
 
 " Don't let your thought go in that direction 
 at all, my friend," said Mr. Howard, interrupting 
 him. "Don't think of persecution, or enmity,
 
 166 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 or ill-will. Be right with yourself, and just to 
 all men, and outside enemies will soon vanish 
 like the morning cloud and the early dew. 
 Cultivate feelings of kindness and good-will for 
 others ; seek to help rather than to hinder them ; 
 to excuse instead of magnifying their faults ; and 
 you will soon find that you have troops of friends 
 where you now see only persecuting enemies. 
 Above all, look inward for your real foes ; for 
 the true disturbers of your peace, and sworn 
 destroyers of your life. Unless you put all the 
 powers of your soul in battle array, and fight 
 against them, as the children of Israel were com 
 manded to fight against the Canaanites, even to 
 their utter extermination and banishment from 
 the land, they will make life here bitter and 
 burdensome, and drag you down to everlasting 
 perdition in the world to come. These are the 
 only enemies to be feared, and I pray you, my 
 friend, to cast them out ! "
 
 ONLY WORDS. 167 
 
 XII. 
 
 ONLY WORDS. 
 
 Two women, a mother and her daughter, sat 
 together in a small room, meagrely furnished. 
 They had on mourning garments ; but the gloom 
 of their habiliments was not deeper than the 
 gloom of their faces. 
 
 "What are we to do, Alice?" said the mother, 
 breaking in upon a long silence. 
 
 "If we were only back again in dear West- 
 brook ! " fell longingly from the daughter's lips. 
 
 "Yes, if But Westbrook lies more than a 
 thousand miles distant. It was a sad day for us, 
 my child, when we left there. We have had 
 nothing since but trouble and sorrow." 
 
 Tears flowed silently over the mother's face. 
 
 "If I could only get something to do," said 
 Alice, "how willingly would I work! But no 
 one wants the service here that I can give." 
 
 "We shall starve, at this rate ! " spoke out the
 
 168 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 mother, in a wild kind of way, as if fear had 
 grown suddenly desperate. 
 
 Alice did not reply, but sat very still, in an 
 abstracted way, like one whose thoughts have 
 grown weary in some fruitless effort. 
 
 "I dreamed last night," she said, looking up 
 after a while, "that we were back in Wcstbrook, 
 and in our old home. That dear old home ! 
 How plainly I saw everything ! I sat at the 
 window, looking out upon the little garden in 
 front, from which the air came in filled with the 
 odor of flowers ; and, as I sat there, Mr. Fleet- 
 wood came by, just as it used to be ; and he 
 stopped, and said, ' Good morning, Alice,' in that 
 kind way with which he always spoke to me. I 
 cried, when I awoke, to find it was only a 
 dream." 
 
 "Ah, if there was a Mr. Fleet wood here!' 
 sighed the mother. 
 
 " Suppose you write to him," suggested Alice. 
 "The thought comes this moment into my mind. 
 I am sure he would help us. You know what 
 an excellent man he is." 
 
 "I will do it this very day," replied the
 
 ONLY WOKDS. 109 
 
 mother, with hope and confidence in her voice. 
 " Isn't it strange that he was not thought of 
 before? Some good spirit gave you that dream, 
 Alice." 
 
 And the letter was written. It ran as fol 
 lows : 
 
 "EDWARD FLEETWOOD, ESQ. 
 
 " MY DEAR SIR : I write to you under circum 
 stances of great extremity. Since we left West- 
 brook for this distant region we have known 
 only trouble. Sickness and losses met us on 
 the very threshold of our new home ; and death 
 came at last to complete the work of sorrow and 
 disaster. Six months ago my husband died, 
 leaving me with three children, and in circum 
 stances of great extremity. How we have 
 managed to live since that time I can hardly 
 tell. We have suffered many privations ; but 
 worse things are approaching. We have no 
 friends here. None to help, advise, or care for 
 us. Alice you remember my daughter Alice 
 has tried to get something to do. She is 
 willing to work at anything to which her
 
 170 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 strength is equal. But, so far, she has been 
 unsuccessful. What are we to do? It looks 
 as if actual starvation were coming. I write to 
 you remembering your kindly nature, your 
 warm and human heart. O, sir, can you not 
 help us? It is the voice of the widow and 
 fatherless that cries unto you. Alice dreamed 
 of you last night, and we have taken it as a 
 suggestion and an omen. Forgive me for this 
 freedom ; but, when imminent danger threatens, 
 we reach out our hands for succor in any direc 
 tion towards which hope points us. I shall wait 
 in trembling eagerness your reply. 
 "Yours, in sorrow and hope, 
 
 "ALICE MAYNARD." 
 
 Let us follow this letter to Westbrook, and 
 note the manner in which it is received. We 
 find it in the hands of Mr. Fleetwood, who has 
 read it through, and is sitting with a troubled 
 look on his kind face. 
 
 "There is no help in me," he says at length, 
 folding up the letter and laying it aside. "Poor 
 Mrs. Maynard ! Is the day indeed so dark ?
 
 ONLY WORDS. 171 
 
 God knows how willingly I would help you if it 
 were in my power. But misfortune has not 
 come to you alone. It has passed my threshold 
 also, and the threshold of thousands besides. 
 Westbrook has seen some sad changes since 
 you went away. 
 
 " Dreamed of me ? " he goes on, after a pause ; 
 " and you have taken the dream as a suggestion 
 and an omen? Alas, my friend I It is not a 
 good omen. Some spirit has mocked you with 
 a delusive dream. There is no help in me. 
 None none ! For I am staggering under my 
 own burdens : I am in fear all the day long 
 lest the evil that threatens my home should fall 
 upon it. May God help and comfort you ! I 
 cannot." 
 
 Mr. Fleetwood took the letter from the table 
 on which he had placed it, and laid it in a 
 drawer. "Poor Alice Maynard ! " he sighed, 
 as he shut the drawer and turned away. All 
 day long the thought of that letter troubled him. 
 How could he answer it? What could he say? 
 It was an eager, expectant cry for help ; but he 
 had no help to give. The widowed mother had
 
 172 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 asked him for bread ; and how could he offe 
 her mere words in return cold, disappointing 
 words ! 
 
 For two days that letter remained in the 
 drawer where he had placed it. 
 
 " It is no use," he would say, as the thought 
 of it now and again intruded. "I cannot bring 
 myself to write an answer. Say what I will, 
 and the language must seem to her but heartless 
 sentences. She cannot understand how greatly 
 things have changed with me since she went 
 out from Westbrook. If she does not hear 
 from me she may think her letter miscarried. 
 She, like the rest of us, is in God's hands, and 
 he will take care of her. We are of more 
 value than the sparrows." 
 
 But this could not satisfy Mr. Fleetwood. He 
 had a conscience, and it would not let him omit 
 a plain duty without reproof. 
 
 "If you have no money to give, offer her kind 
 and hopeful words," said the inward monitor. 
 "Even the cup of cold water must not be 
 withheld." 
 
 Unable to make peace with himself, Mr. Fleet-
 
 ONLY WORDS. 173 
 
 wood at last sat down to answer the widow's 
 letter. He wrote a brief, kind, suggestive 
 note ; but, after reading it over twice, tore it 
 up, saying, as he did so, 
 
 "It reads like mockery. She asked me for 
 bread, and it seems like giving her a stone." 
 
 Then he tried it again, but not much more to 
 his satisfaction. This answer he was also about 
 destroying, but he checked himself with the 
 words, 
 
 "I might pen forty letters, and the last 
 would read no better than the first. Let this 
 one go." 
 
 And he folded, sealed, and directed it. The 
 next mail that left Westbrook bore it away for 
 its remote destination. Let us return to Mrs. 
 Maynard. 
 
 "We should have had an answer from Mr. 
 Fleetwood two days ago, Alice." 
 
 The daughter sighed, but did not answer. 
 
 " What time does the mail from the east come 
 in, Alice?" 
 
 "At four o'clock." 
 
 " Aud it is five now ? "
 
 174 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 "Yes, ma'am." 
 
 " Won't you put on your bonnet and step over 
 to the post-office ? " 
 
 Alice went, but returned, as on the two pre 
 vious days, with nothing in her hand. 
 
 "No letter?" said Mrs. Maynard, as she 
 came in. 
 
 " None," was the sadly-spoken reply. 
 
 "O, why has he not written? If help come 
 not from Mr. Fleetwood, there is no help for us 
 in this world." 
 
 Another day of waiting, in which that deferred 
 hope which maketh the heart sick trembled like 
 the light of a taper flickering in the wind, passed 
 wearily away. At five o'clock Alice was at the 
 post-office again. And now a letter was placed 
 in her hand, directed to her mother, and on the 
 envelope she read, with a heart-bound, the word 
 " WESTBKOOK." Not fleeter than her footsteps 
 was the wind as she ran back home. 
 
 " A letter, and from Westbrook ! " she cried 
 out, eagerly, as she entered the room where her 
 mother sat anxiously awaiting her. 
 
 The hands of Mrs. Maynard shook as she
 
 ONLY WORDS. 175 
 
 opened and unfolded the long hoped-for an 
 swer. It was brief, and its contents fully 
 understood in a few moments. Alice, whose 
 eyes were tixed eagerly upon her mother while 
 she read in silence, saw her countenance change, 
 grow pale, and the look of hopeful expectation 
 die out utterly. Then, as the letter dropped to 
 the floor, her hands were held up against her 
 face so as to hide it from view, and she sat with 
 the stillness of one who had been paralyzed. 
 Taking up the letter, Alice read, 
 
 " MY DEAR MADAM : Your letter has troubled 
 me deeply ; and the more so, because it finds 
 me wholly unable to give that help of which you 
 stand so much in need. Since you left West- 
 brook things have greatly changed with me and 
 many others. I have lost nearly all of my prop 
 erty, and find myself in straitened circumstances. 
 It pains me to write this; not so much on my 
 own account as on yours, for it will come to you 
 with a chill of disappointment. But you and I 
 and all of us are in the hands and under the care 
 of One who kuowcth our wants, and who hear-
 
 ]76 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 eth even the young ravens when they cry. You 
 have a Father in heaven, dear madam, and a 
 Father who has not forgotten you. Look to 
 him, and hope in him. He will not forsake 
 you in this great extremity. The earth is his, 
 and the fulness thereof. All hearts are his, and 
 I am sure he will turn some hearts to you in 
 kindness. There is no night without a succeed 
 ing day. The morning cometh as surely as the 
 evening. Look up, and trust in God. He has 
 something for all his children to do : something 
 for you to do, and your hands will find the 
 work. It rnay now be lying, all unseen, around 
 you. 
 
 "It is in my heart to offer deeds instead of 
 words ; but I can only give of what I possess. 
 May the widow's Husband and the orphan's 
 Father succor you in the hour of peril ! 
 "Your friend in heart, 
 
 "EDWARD FLEETWOOD." 
 
 "He writes kindly," said Alice, as she finished 
 reading the letter; "and there is comfort even 
 in words, when they come from the lips of a 
 friend."
 
 ONLY WORDS. 177 
 
 " Words do not feed the hungry nor clothe the 
 naked," answered Mrs. Maynard, in some bitter 
 ness of tone. 
 
 She had scarcely said this, when the door of 
 the room in which they were sitting was pushed 
 open, and a boy about ten years old, barefooted 
 and meagrely clad, came in with a pitcher in 
 one hand and a small basket in the other. 
 
 "Mother sent these, Miss Maynard," he said, 
 with a pleased smile on his face. The pitcher 
 was filled with new milk, and there was a loaf 
 of bread, hot from the oven, in the basket. 
 "She says, please accept them." 
 
 "Your mother is very kind, Henry," replied 
 Mrs. Maynard. "Tell her that I'm very much 
 obliged to her." 
 
 "And she's very much obliged to you," said 
 the boy. 
 
 "For what, Henry?" 
 
 "Don't you know?" And the boy looked at 
 her in a pleased way. 
 
 Mrs. Maynard shook her head. 
 
 "Don't you remember, one day, when I was 
 over here, that you asked me if I could read?"
 
 178 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 " I've forgotten." 
 
 " We haven't, then, mother and I. You isked 
 me if I could read, and I said no. Then you 
 told me that I must learn right away ; and you 
 got a book and showed me my A B C's ; making 
 me go over them a good many times, until I 
 knew them all by heart. Then you gave me 
 the book. I have studied in it almost every 
 day, and now I can spell in two syllables." 
 
 " And this is why your mother sent me such a 
 nice loaf of bread and a pitcher of new milk ? " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am." 
 
 "You can't read yet?" 
 
 "No, ma'am." 
 
 "Then you must bring your book over, and 
 let me give you another lesson." 
 
 "O, will you?" A light like sunshine came 
 into the boy's face. 
 
 "Yes, Henry, and with pleasure. You may 
 come every day if you will." 
 
 "May I? O, that will be good! And, Mrs. 
 Maynard " Henry checked himself. He evi 
 dently wished to go a little farther. 
 
 "What is it, Henry?" said Mrs. Maynard,
 
 ONLY WORDS. 179 
 
 " May I bring Katy along sometimes ? She 
 wants to learn so badly. She 'most knows her 
 letters." 
 
 " Why, yes, Henry. Bring Katy by all means. 
 Alice will teach her." 
 
 Henry glanced towards Alice, as if not fully 
 satisfied in regard to her view of the case. But 
 she gave him an assuring smile and word, and 
 the boy ran home with light feet to tell the good 
 news. 
 
 "What does this mean, Alice?" said Mrs. 
 Maynard, looking at her daughter with a coun 
 tenance through which a dim light seemed break 
 ing. 
 
 "It may be true what Mr. Fleetwood says," 
 replied Alice ; " the work that God has for us 
 to do may be now lying, all unseen, around 
 us." 
 
 "This is no mere chance," remarked Mrs. 
 Mnynard, in a thoughtful way. 
 
 "Don't you remember," said Alice, "how often 
 dear father used to say that there was no such 
 thing as chance? that the hand of Providence was 
 in every event? I felt, while reading Mr. Fleet-
 
 180 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 wood's letter, as if it was father who was speak 
 ing to us." 
 
 Mrs. Maynard shut her eyes, and sat very still 
 for many moments ; then she opened the letter, 
 which she held in her hand, and read it through 
 slowly. 
 
 "It reads differently now. I am sorry for Mr. 
 Fleetwood. It is hard, when years lay upon us 
 their long accumulating burdens, to find earthly 
 props suddenly removed. Poor man ! It seems 
 as if he ought to have been spared. What he 
 had to give he has given freely, and I thank him 
 with grateful feelings. Yes, I have a Father in 
 heaven, and I will look up to him in these days 
 of darkness. He will show us the way. Who 
 knows but the path is now opening before us?" 
 
 "My own thought, mother. There are more 
 than forty children in this town who are growing 
 up in as much ignorance as Henry Auld and his 
 sister. Their parents will not or cannot send 
 them to school. These children have immortal 
 souls, and almost infinite capacities, that will be 
 developed for good or for evil. They are God's 
 children. Let us care for them, and God will
 
 ONLY WORDS. 181 
 
 oare for us. Let us take this loaf of bread and 
 this pitcher of milk as the sign of God's provi 
 dence towards us. I feel, dear mother, that such 
 trust will not be in vain. Mr. Fleetwood's let 
 ter has turned the channel of my thoughts in a 
 new direction. May God reward him for all he 
 has said to us in this our time of need, and said 
 so kindly and so wisely ! " 
 
 The daughter's hope and faith flowed into the 
 mother's heart. They were not indolent, self- 
 indulgent women. All they asked was to be 
 shown their work ; and now, in their eyes, it 
 seemed to be lying all around them. 
 
 On the next day, Henry Auld came over with 
 his sister Katy, and received the promised 
 lessons. 
 
 "Do you know any other little boys and girls 
 who wish to learn how to read?" asked Mrs. 
 Maynard, as the children were going away. 
 
 U O, yes, I know a good many," replied Henry, 
 and then stood waiting to hear what would come 
 next. 
 
 Bring them along when you come to-mor 
 row," said Mis. Maynard. "It will be as easy 
 to teach half a dozen aa two."
 
 182 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 "Won't Tom Jones be glad, though!" she 
 heard Henry say to his sister as they went out 
 through the gate. 
 
 Three months went by, and yet Mr. Fleet- 
 wood received no response to the answer which 
 he had given to Mrs. Maynard's imploring letter. 
 He did not remember distinctly what he had 
 written. He only knew that he had sent her 
 mere words when she asked for deeds. He 
 never thought of her without a troubled feeling. 
 
 " How cold and heartless that letter must have 
 seemed ! " he would say to himself sometimes. 
 " Ah, if she really knew how it was with me ! 
 If she could see into my breast, poor woman ! 
 But she is in the hands of God, and he is the 
 friend who sticketh closer than a brother." 
 
 At last there came a reply to his words of en 
 couragement and hope, which, though flowing 
 warm from his heart, seemed to grow so cold in 
 the utterance. Mrs. Maynard wrote, 
 
 " MY DEAR SIR : More than four months ago 
 you wrote to me, 'You have a Father in heaven, 
 dear madam, and a Father who has not forgotten
 
 ONLY WORDS. 183 
 
 you. Look to him, and hope in him.' And 
 you said also, ' He has something for all of his 
 children to do ; something for you to do, and 
 your hands will find the work. It may now be 
 lying, all unseen, around you.' My heart blesses 
 you, sir, for those hopeful, suggestive words. 
 Yes ; God had work for me to do and it was 
 lying, even when I wrote to you in my fear and 
 despair, all around me, though unseen by my 
 dull eyes. Like apples of gold in pictures of 
 silver were your fitly spoken words. I had 
 taught a child his letters, and his poor but 
 grateful mother sent me in return a loaf of bread, 
 and a pitcher of milk for my children. Your let 
 ter and this offering, in God's providence, came 
 together. I had the text and illustration side by 
 side. There were many ignorant children in 
 our town, said Alice and I, one to the other, 
 and they are God's children. Let us teach more 
 of them, as we taught this child, taking that loaf 
 of bread and offering of milk as a sign that Gotl 
 will provide for us in the work. We did not 
 hesitate, but acted on the suggestion at oner. 
 And 'now we have over thirty poor little rhildreu
 
 184 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 under our cure, and we have not wanted for bread. 
 Some of the parents pay us in money, some in 
 provisions, and some do nothing in return. But 
 we take all children who come. Yesterday we 
 had notice from the Town Council that an ap 
 propriation of one hundred dollars a year had 
 been made out of the public funds for the sup 
 port of our school ! Does not the hand of a 
 wise and good Providence appear in all this? 
 O, sir, I cannot too warmly thank you for the 
 wise words of that timely letter. God bless you 
 for having spoken them ! 
 
 " Gratefully yours, 
 
 "ALICE MAYNARD." 
 
 " Only words ! " said Mr. Fleetwood, as he 
 folded the letter, with moist eyes. " Only 
 words ! They seemed such a cold and heart 
 less return for good deeds, asked pleadingly and 
 in tears, that I had to compel myself to write 
 them. Yet see their good fruit! If we cannot 
 ilo, 1ft us speak kindly and hopefully at least. 
 I will not I'orirrt the lesson."
 
 WHAT DID HE LEAVE? 185 
 
 XIII. 
 WHAT DID HE LEAVE? 
 
 " THAT'S a large funeral. I counted thirty -two 
 carriages." 
 
 " Yes, sir. It's the funeral of Mr. Ellis. He 
 died very rich." 
 
 "How much did he leave?" 
 
 "A large amount of money, sir; I don't know 
 how much. Some say half a million of dollars ! " 
 
 "His death is considered a great loss to the 
 community, I presume." 
 
 "Loss, sir?" The man to whom I was speak 
 ing looked up into my face with the air of one 
 whoie mind was not exactly clear as to my 
 meaning. 
 
 " Yes. A man of his wealth must have heen 
 a very useful man." 
 
 "Useful? I don't know that he was particu 
 larly useful. He was rich, and didn't care much 
 for anybody but himself."
 
 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 "Still, with his ample means," said I, "even 
 though caring only for himself, he must have 
 been the promoter of large industrial enterprises, 
 through which many were benefited." 
 
 The man shook his head doubtfully. 
 
 " What did he do with his money ? " 
 
 "I never heard of his doing anything with it 
 particularly," was the unsatisfactory answer. 
 
 " Money must be used in order to make it 
 productive. Was he in no business?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "What, then, did he do with himself?" 
 
 "O, he was always about after bits of property 
 that had to be sold. He was sharp for bargains 
 in real estate." 
 
 "Ah, I see how it was. Then he did find use 
 lor his money?" 
 
 "In that way he did. But when a piece of 
 property came into his hands, there was an end 
 to its improvement. He let other people im 
 prove all around him, and thus increase the 
 value of what he owned ; so that he grew richer 
 and richer every day, without putting his hand 
 to anything, or benefiting anybody."
 
 WHAT DID HE LEAVE? 187 
 
 " This was your million man ? And so all he 
 has left are these property accumulations ? " 
 
 "All." 
 
 "Then his death is not regarded as a public 
 calamity ? " 
 
 "No, indeed, sir! It is considered a public 
 benefit." 
 
 " How so ? " 
 
 "He has a couple of sons, and a couple of 
 sons-in-law, who will scatter much faster than he 
 saved. The moment they come into possession 
 of his estate, it will be divided, and lots of 
 ground, which ought to have been improved 
 years ago, will be sold, and covered with hand 
 some buildings, thus giving trade and industry 
 a new impulse. Why, sir, he has been a dead 
 weight on our town for years ; growing richer 
 and richer through other people's enterprise, and 
 yet not adding a building himself, or in any way 
 serving the common good." 
 
 " I thought," said I, " from the long array of 
 carriages, that death had taken, in this instance, 
 a valued, and now lamented citizon." 
 
 " Mere ostentation, sir. But nobody is de-
 
 188 THE PEACEMAKEK. 
 
 ceived. There are plenty of idle people, who 
 are pleased to ride in funeral carriages. Old 
 Ellis will be put away with a grand flourish ; but 
 that will be the last of him. The black makes 
 all the mourning, -sir." 
 
 " But, surely," said I, " his children are not 
 without natural aftection? You do not mean to 
 say that theirs is only the semblance of sorrow ? " 
 
 "It is my opinion, sir, that they are glad in 
 their hearts. Why not? He stood, hard and 
 unyielding as iron, between them and the wealth 
 they desired to possess. He was cold, sour- 
 tempered, and repulsive ; crushing out, by his 
 manner and conduct, all natural affection. They 
 had too much policy to quarrel with him of late, 
 though the time was when hot words were said 
 to pass between them." 
 
 "There are no gleams of light in your picture," 
 said I. 
 
 "I copy from nature, and can only give what 
 I see," he answered. "There are deep valleys 
 where the sunlight never comes, as well as gold 
 en-tinted landscapes." 
 
 "I see another funeral," said I, looking towards
 
 WHAT DID HE LEAVE? 
 
 a distant part of the cemetery. " There are but 
 two carriages ; yet I see a long line of mourners 
 on foot. Do you know who they are burying?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Not a rich man ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 "There is no need of asking what he has left. 
 It is the burial of a poor man." 
 
 " Yes, of a man poor in this world's goods ; 
 but, so far as his means went, he was princely 
 in his munificence. His death, sir, is a public 
 loss." The man's face brightened as he spoke. 
 
 " You knew him ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir; knew him well. He was a rope- 
 maker, working his ten hours every day, and 
 earning just nine dollars a week. But those 
 nine dollars seemed an inexhaustible fund for 
 good. He had no wife and children of his own 
 to love and care for. They went, years ago, to 
 the blessed land where he is now following them. 
 So, after supplying his own humble needs, the 
 rope-maker h:id five dollars every week left over 
 for investment. He did not put this in the Sav 
 ings Bank, nor buy tumble-down houses for the
 
 190 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 poor to live in at a rent of fifty per cent, on their 
 cost, nor take up barren lots to hold for an 
 advance in price, consequent on neighboring im 
 provements. No ; his investments were made in 
 a different spirit, as you shall see. 
 
 "First, he paid regularly, every week, to a 
 poor woman in his neighborhood, who had two 
 children to support, and who could not leave 
 them to go out to work in families, the sum of 
 three dollars, as teacher of little boys and girls 
 whose parents were unable to send them to 
 school. Two hours in the morning, and two in 
 the afternoon, these poor children received in 
 struction. He was their benefactor, and hers 
 also ; for it was one of his sayings, that we must 
 make the right hand help the left hand. His 
 means of doing good were small, and so he made 
 them go as far as possible." 
 
 " He was a noble fellow ! " said I, in admira 
 tion of this poor rope-maker. 
 
 "Tom Peters yes, there was fine stuff in his 
 composition, if his hands were dark and bony, 
 and if his clothes did smell of pitch and rosin." 
 
 " He has left tender and fragrant memories."
 
 WHAT DID HE LEAVE? 
 
 u He has, sir. That long line of funeral attend 
 ants are all true mourners. There is no sham 
 there ! " 
 
 "And what else did he do with his money?" 
 I asked, growing interested in the rope-maker. 
 "He had two dollars a week, still, for dispensa 
 tion." 
 
 " Yes. Let me see. For one thing, he paid 
 a boy half a dollar a week to read two hours 
 every evening to a poor blind woman ; and in 
 order that this reading might not be given to a 
 single pair of ears alone, he took care to have 
 the fact known, that as many as chose might 
 come and listen. The consequence was, that 
 more than a dozen persons met, every evening, 
 in the blind woman's room, to hear what was 
 read. This suggested to Tom the way in which 
 another half dollar might be usefully invested. 
 The men in the rope- walk were mostly in the 
 habit of spending their evenings in taverns. 
 Tom found another lad who was a tolerably good 
 reader, and paid him half a dollar weekly to read 
 aloud two hours, each evening, for such of his 
 fellow-workmen as he could induce to assemble
 
 192 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 for the purpose. He began with three ; soon 
 increased to ten ; and when I last heard of the 
 matter, over twenty men met nightly to hear the 
 boy read." 
 
 "Admirable!" said I, with enthusiasm. "Ad 
 mirable ! I never heard of a wiser investment. 
 And he had one dollar left ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " How was that disposed of? " 
 
 "In ways innumerable. I cannot recount 
 them. The good Tom Peters managed to do 
 with that dollar is almost fabulous ; not, of 
 course, as to magnitude, but as to variety. It 
 seemed to duplicate itself, like the widow's oil 
 and meal, whenever drawn upon. Yon were 
 always hearing of some good acts in which a 
 dispensation of money was involved ; of a poor 
 woman helped in making up her rent ; of a 
 dainty sent to a sick neighbor ; of a pair of shoes 
 to a barefoot boy in winter ; or of a book to a 
 child. Why, sir, Tom Peters has left behind 
 him enough good deeds to endow a whole cal 
 endar of saints ! " 
 
 "So I should think, after what you have said 
 of him."
 
 WHAT DTD HE LEAVE? 193 
 
 "And yet, sir, remember, he only earned nine 
 dollars a week ! " 
 
 "I remember that very distinctly," I answered. 
 "Yes, sir, his death is indeed a public calamity. 
 It is no figure of speech to say that his grave 
 will be watered by tears." 
 
 "None, sir, none. He will be sorrowed for 
 by hundreds, and his memory will be greener 
 and more fragrant as the years pass by. He 
 built his own monument before he left us of 
 good deeds." 
 
 I parted from the stranger ; and as I walked 
 from the cemetery, I said to another man who 
 stood by my side while I looked at a fine piece 
 of emblematic statuary, 
 
 " They have been burying a rich man ? " 
 
 "Yes," was coldly responded. 
 
 "What did he leave?" 
 
 " Nothing but money." 
 
 "They have been burying a poor man, also?" 
 
 " Tom Peters." A light broke over the man's 
 face. 
 
 "But he had not even money to leave,*' 
 said I. 
 
 13
 
 194 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 K But something far better," answered the man, 
 in a tone of rebuke. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Good acts, which, like good seed, will repro 
 duce themselves a thousand fold. Tom Peters 
 earned just nine dollars a week ; Edward Ellis, 
 Esq." there was a cutting contempt in his 
 tones "was worth, it is said, a million of dol 
 lars ; yet the humble rope-maker did, while liv 
 ing, a hundred times the most good with his 
 money, and leaves an estate that shall go on in 
 creasing in value through countless years. But 
 the estate of old Ellis will not pass to the third 
 generation. Tom Peters had the true riches, 
 sir, that are imperishable. People ask, when a 
 man like Ellis dies, ' What property has he left 
 behind him?' But when one like our good 
 rope-maker passes away, the angels ask, ' What 
 good deeds has he sent before him?' That is 
 the difference, sir, the immeasurable difference, 
 between the two men. One, in giving, made 
 himself rich ; the other, in withholding, became 
 miserably poor; so poor, that his memory ia 
 green in no man's heart."
 
 WHAT DID HE LEAVE? 195 
 
 I turned from the cemetery with some new 
 impressions stirring in my mind, and the ques 
 tion, "What kind of a legacy will you leave?" 
 pressing itself home to my thoughts. 
 
 " Let it be good deeds rather than money ! " 
 I said, half aloud, in the glow of earnest feeling, 
 and went back again into the living, busy, stir 
 ring world, to take up the laboring oar which I 
 had laid down, in weariness, for a brief season, 
 and bend to my work with a serener spirit, and, 
 I trust, a nobler life-purpose.
 
 11)6 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 THE MOTHERLESS BOY. 
 
 ONE day the door of my sitting-room was 
 thrown suddenly open, and the confident voice 
 of my little sou Harvey thus introduced a 
 stranger : 
 
 " Here's Jim Peters, mother ! " 
 
 I looked up, not a little surprised at the sight 
 of a ragged, barefoot child, with whose face, 
 neck, and hands, clean water had for some time 
 been a stranger. Before I had time to say any 
 thing, Harvey went on : 
 
 " He lives round in Blake's Court, and hasn't 
 any mother ; and I want you to give him a pair 
 of my shoes, and my gray cap, and some of my 
 clothes. I've got plenty, you know." 
 
 My eyes rested on the child's face while my 
 boy said this. It was a very sad little face, 
 thin and colorless ; not bold and vicious, but 
 timid, and having a look of patient suffering.
 
 THE MOTHERLESS BOY. 
 
 Harvey held him firmly by the hand, with the 
 air of one who bravely protects the weak. 
 
 " No mother ! " said I, in tones of pity. 
 
 "No, ma'am, he hasn't any mother. Have 
 you, Jim?" 
 
 "No," answered the child. 
 
 " She's been dead ever so long ; hasn't she 
 Jim?" 
 
 "Yes, ever since last winter," he said, as he 
 fixed his eyes, into which I saw the tears coming, 
 upon my face. My heart moved towards him, 
 repulsive as he was because of his rags and 
 dirt. 
 
 "One of God's little lambs, straying on the 
 cold and barren hills of life," said a voice in my 
 heart. And then I felt a tender compassion for 
 the strange, unlovely child. 
 
 "Where do you live?" I asked. 
 
 " Round in Blake's Court," he replied. 
 
 "Who with?" 
 
 "Old Mrs. Flint; but she doesn't want me." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "O, 'Because I'm nothing to her, she says; 
 and she doesn't want the trouble of me." Ho
 
 J98 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 tried to say this in a brave, don't care sort of 
 way, but his voice faltered, and he dropped his 
 eyes to the floor. How pitiful he looked ! 
 
 "Poor child ! " I could not help saying aloud. 
 
 Light flashed over his pale face. It was 
 something new to him, this interest and com 
 passion. 
 
 "One of God's little lambs." I heard the 
 voice in my heart saying this again. Nobody to 
 love him ; nobody to care for him. Poor little 
 boy ! The hand of my own child, my sou who 
 is so very dear to me, had led him in through 
 our door, and claimed for him the love and care 
 so long a stranger to his heart. Could I send 
 him out, and shut the door upon him, when I 
 knew that he had no mother and no home ? If I 
 heeded not the cry of this little one, precious in 
 God's sight, might I not be thought unworthy 
 to be the guardian of another lamb of his fold, 
 whom I loved as my own life? 
 
 "I've got heaps of clothes, mother; a great 
 many more than I want. And my bed is wide. 
 There's room enough in* the house; and we've 
 plenty to eat," said Harvey, pleading for the
 
 THE MOTHERLESS BOY. 199 
 
 child. I could not withstand all these appeals. 
 Rising, I told the little stranger to follow me. 
 When we came back to the sitting-room, half an 
 hour afterwards, Jim Peters would hardly have 
 been known by his old acquaintances, if any of 
 them had been there. A bath and clean clothes 
 had made a wonderful change in him. 
 
 I watched the poor little boy, as he and Harvey 
 played during the afternoon, with no little con 
 cern of mind. What was I to do with him? 
 Clean and neatly dressed, there was a look of 
 refinement about the child, which had nearly all 
 been hidden by rags and dirt. He played gen 
 tly, and his voice had in it a sweetness of tone, 
 as it fell every now and then upon my ears, that 
 A r as really winning. Send him back to Mrs. 
 Flint's, in Blake's Court? The change I had 
 wrought upon him made this impossible. No, 
 he could not be sent back to Mrs. Flint's, who 
 didn't want the trouble of him. What then? 
 
 Do the kind hearts of my little readers re 
 peat the question, " What then?" Do they want 
 very much to know what has become of little 
 Jim Peters?
 
 200 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 It is just a year since my boy led him in from 
 the street, and Jim is still in our house. No 
 one came for him. No one inquired about him. 
 No one cared for him. I must take that last 
 sentence back. God cared for him, and by the 
 hand of my tender-hearted son brought him into 
 my comfortable home, and said to me, " Here 
 is one of my lambs, estray, hungry, and cold. 
 He was born into the world that he might be 
 come an angel in heaven, but is in danger of 
 being lost. I give him into your care. Let me 
 find him when I call my sheep by their names." 
 
 Not by a voice, dear children, speaking 
 through my outward ears did he say this. But 
 these thoughts came into my mind, and I knew 
 that he sent them. And so I drew the shivering 
 estray into the warm fold where my own lamb 
 dwelt, and there he has been ever since. 
 
 As I finished writing the last sentence, a voice 
 close to my ear said, "Mother." I turned, and 
 received a loving kiss from the lips of Jim. He 
 often does this. I think, in the midst of his 
 happy plays, memory takes him back to the suf 
 fering past, and then his grateful heart runs over,
 
 THE MOTHERLESS BOY. 201 
 
 and he tries to reward me with a loving kiss. I 
 did not tell him to call me u mother." At first 
 he said it in a timid, hesitating way, and with 
 such a pleading, half-scared look, that I was 
 touched and softened. 
 
 "She isn't your real mother," said Harvey, 
 who happened to be near ; " but then she's good, 
 and loves you ever so much." 
 
 "And I love her," answered Jim, with a great 
 throb in his throat, hiding his face in my lap, 
 and clasping and kissing my hand. Since then 
 he always calls me " mother ; M and the God and 
 Father of us all has sent into my heart a moth 
 er's love for him ; and I pray that he may be 
 mine when I come to make up my jewels in 
 heaven.
 
 202 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 XV. 
 
 OIL ON THE WATERS OF PASSION. 
 
 "I HAVE been badly treated very badly!" 
 said Arnold Williams, speaking to a friend, with 
 much excitement of feeling. 
 
 " So I think," was answered, " and I do not 
 wonder that yon are indignant." 
 
 " It was so wanton ! " 
 
 " Which but increases the provocation." 
 
 "If we had been alone when he said it, I 
 wouldn't have cared. But the remark, taking 
 time and place, was offensive in the highest 
 degree." 
 
 "I would have knocked him down on the 
 spot," said the friend. 
 
 " A thing I was tempted to do, but controlled 
 myself." 
 
 "The lesson would have done him good, and 
 been a warning to young gentlemen of his class 
 to put their tongues under better discipline."
 
 OIL ON THE WATERS OF PASSION. 203 
 
 "I didn't spare him, you may be certain. I 
 always pay such obligations on the spot. He'll 
 scarcely forget my cutting answer to his ungen- 
 tlemanly remark. It. went home as surely SL% 
 the thrust of a sword." 
 
 " So far so good. My words would have 
 pierced him like a pistol shot. If he had tried 
 that sport on me, I would have sent a friend to 
 him before ten o'clock the next morning." 
 
 "If he had possessed any spirit," said Wil 
 liams, "he would have sent a friend to me ere 
 this ; for I disgraced him before all the com 
 pany." 
 
 The story of this rupture between two young 
 men who had been fast friends for years is told 
 in a few words. They had met in a small com 
 pany of ladies and gentlemen,, who were discuss 
 ing the matter of fancy dresses to be worn at a 
 private costume party t;o which all were invited. 
 Williams was perpjexed in regard to his own 
 selection, and,, as, usually happens on such occa 
 sions, each one of the company had some sug 
 gestion to make. He listened, objected, anc' 
 declined in a half-amused, half-serious manner.
 
 204 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 when a young man named Hogan, with whom ho 
 was on very friendly terms, said, without reflec 
 tion, and with a friendly presumption on their 
 intimacy, 
 
 "Go in the character of a gentleman, Wil 
 liams. That will be entirely new." 
 
 He expected this little sally of wit to be re 
 ceived with a laughing response by his friend ; 
 but not so ; it happened to come just in the 
 wrong time and place, for there was a young 
 lady present, into whose ears he wished no such 
 words of rude familiarity to enter. His face 
 flushed instantly, and fire flashed from his eyes. 
 He was overcome with an angry spirit. 
 
 "A true gentleman," he retorted, sharply, 
 "never forgets himself." 
 
 "Did you mean that for an insult?" inquired 
 Hogau, his whole manner changing. 
 
 "I meant the words for you, and you can tako 
 them as yon please," was answered, roughly. 
 
 Hogan turned away and left the company, 
 and Williams felt too embarrassed and uncom 
 fortable to remain. 
 
 Dich of fho young mrn told his own story,
 
 OIL ON THE WATERS OF PASSION. 205 
 
 and with his own coloring, and the friends of 
 each condemned the other's conduct iir terms 
 of unmeasured denunciation ; thus widening the 
 distance between the estranged friends. 
 
 "If he had been a gentleman at heart, he 
 never would have taken offence," said one of 
 the friends of Hogan. " You happened to touch 
 him in a tender spot." 
 
 "If he had been a gentleman he never would 
 have insulted me on that slight provocation," 
 replied Hogan. "He knew, as well as I did, 
 that my words were only spoken in jest. There 
 is something wrong at the bottom of his charac 
 ter. We never know men until we take them 
 unawares." 
 
 "You did not mean to wound or insult him." 
 
 " Me ! No ; the kindest feelings were in my 
 breast." 
 
 " But he meant to insult you." 
 
 "Undoubtedly. He thrust at me with a 
 malignant spirit." 
 
 "Seeking to disgrace you in the eyes of all 
 who were present." 
 
 " Yos, I saw :md felt that." .
 
 206 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 " Make him apologize." 
 
 "He will never do it," said Hogan. 
 
 " He must. An insult is never wiped out ex 
 cept by apology or punishment. Make me 
 your friend in the case, and I will see you 
 through the whole affair, right." 
 
 "I am in your hands," replied Hogan, though 
 in a manner that said, plainly enough, " I wish I 
 were out of your hands." 
 
 There was a third person present during this 
 interview, who listened, but said nothing. No 
 appeal was made to him, and he expressed no 
 opinion. Seeing the course things were about 
 taking, and wishing to have nothing to do in 
 such affairs, he withdrew himself. But he could 
 not thrust the matter from his thoughts ; and 
 the more he pondered it the more troubled he 
 felt. He knew both Williams and Hogan very 
 well. They were young men of good charac 
 ters and right feelings in the main. The 
 parents of both were living ; and both had sis 
 ters, and a wide circle of friends. The incite 
 ment to a hostile meeting between the two, on 
 so slight a provocation a meeting likely to end
 
 OIL ON THE WATERS OF PASSION. 207 
 
 in the death of one or both of them seemed 
 to him such a fiendish outrage, that the thought 
 of it, when fully presented, made his blood 
 curdle. 
 
 "If Williams should fall into the hands of u.s 
 bad an adviser," he said, "the most disastrous 
 consequences may follow." 
 
 Then it was suggested in his thought that it 
 was his duty to see Williams and volunteer his 
 friendly offices, in order to prevent another, less 
 discreet, from gaining an influence over him. 
 But he tried to thrust aside the suggestion. It 
 was a business in which he preferred to have no 
 hand. If people would quarrel and fight, let 
 them exhaust their bad passions upon themselves. 
 Still his mind would not rest. The dreadful 
 consequences likely to flow from the utterance 
 of a few angry words formed themselves into 
 palpable images in his mind, and haunted him 
 with horrors. He saw the two men going forth 
 to a hostile meeting, saw them take their fatal 
 position, saw the deadly aim, and heard the 
 death-dealing shot; and, still more, saw the 
 manly form of Arnold Williams prone upon the
 
 208 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 ground, bleeding and lifeless. A cold shudder 
 ran to his heart, He could repress right im 
 pulses no longer. 
 
 "i must see Williams, and prevent these awful 
 consequences," he said, and acted without delay 
 from this better resolution. He found the 
 young man alone. Instead of doing as every 
 one else had done, add fuel to the flame of his 
 anger, he soothed his chafed feelings, and sug 
 gested, but delicately and remotely, palliating 
 thoughts that were not without their influence. 
 He was yet with him when the friend ( ?) of Ho- 
 gan called, and m a manner calculated to increase 
 the bad feelings of Williams, put in the demand 
 of his principal for an apology. Williams was 
 about flinging back an offensive refusal, when 
 his friend said, quickly, so as to forestall him, 
 
 " Let me act for you in this matter, which is 
 now assuming a more serious aspect." Then, 
 speaking to the representative of Hogan, he 
 said, " I will see you at your office in an hour." 
 
 The latter expressed approval, and immedi 
 ately retired. A deep, troubled silence followed 
 his withdrawal.
 
 OIL ON THE WATERS OF PASSION. 209 
 
 "What is to be done?" Williams was first 
 to speak. 
 
 "Have you confidence in my judgment and 
 discretion?" asked the friend. 
 
 "I have," was the unhesitating answer. 
 
 "Will you be guided by me?" 
 
 " I must first know in what direction you pro 
 pose guiding me." 
 
 " Your honor must be preserved inviolate," 
 sa ; d the friend. 
 
 "It must," was the firm reply. 
 
 "All true honor lies in right principle and 
 right action. All else is but tinsel and dross." 
 
 Williams looked earnestly into the face of his 
 friend. 
 
 " There was a first wrong, somewhere, in this 
 unhappy business." 
 
 "There was, and that wrong was with Hogau. 
 He meant to insult me." 
 
 "On the contrary, he says that he meant 
 neither to wound nor insult you ; that he mere 
 ly spoke with thoughtless jesting, while the 
 kindest feelings were in his heart." 
 
 " Who heard him say this? " 
 14
 
 210 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 I did." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "Not an hour ago." 
 
 " Why, then, has he sent me this demand for 
 an apology ? " 
 
 "Through the bad advice of a pretended 
 friend, whose evil designs I wish to make fruit 
 less. And now, Williams, let me ask you one 
 question, Did you not mean to wound and 
 insult Hogan, when you replied to his untimely 
 jest?" 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "Which, then, was most in the wrong?" 
 
 Williams was silent. 
 
 "Intention gives quality to every act," said 
 the friend. " Hogan affirms that the kindest 
 feelings were in his heart when he spoke ; you 
 that you meant to wound and insult." 
 
 Williams bowed his head, and let his eyes rest 
 upon the floor. The calmly-spoken, truthful 
 words of a real friend had brought conviction 
 to his mind. 
 
 "What shall I do?" There was a troubled 
 tone in his voice, and a troubled look in hia 
 countenance.
 
 OIL ON THE WATERS OF PASSION. 211 
 
 "Do right." 
 
 "What is right?" 
 
 "It is always right, noble, honorable to re 
 pair a wrong." 
 
 " He demands an apology." ' 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " I cannot apologize under a threat." 
 
 "A high moral courage asks only what is 
 right, and does right in the face of all prejudice, 
 misapprehension, or reproach. The bravery that 
 withstands false opinion is deepest laid." 
 
 " I am not brave enough to apologize at this 
 stage of the affair," said Williams, gloomily. 
 "Friends and enemies would brand me as a 
 coward." 
 
 " Suppose he were to withdraw the chal 
 lenge?" 
 
 Williams was silent. 
 
 "You thought he meant to insult you," said 
 the friend. 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "And was, therefore, indignant. Now, sup 
 pose Hogan were present in this room, and were 
 to say that he only uttered a thoughtless jest,
 
 212 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 and did not design the slightest offence. What 
 would you do?" 
 
 "Withdraw the words I uttered." 
 
 " Enough ! How long will you remain here ? " 
 
 "As long as you desire. I have accepted 
 your friendly offices in this matter, and am in 
 your hands. But don't commit me in anything. 
 I am no coward." 
 
 " You may trust me safely. I will protect 
 your honor as fully as if it were my own." 
 
 Instead of going to the false friend, or second, 
 of Hogan, the friend of Williams called upon 
 Hogan himself. 
 
 " If I heard correctly," he said, "you remarked 
 a little while ago that in advising Williams to go 
 in the character of a gentleman, as something 
 entirely new, you only spoke thoughtlessly and 
 in jest." 
 
 " It was only designed as a pleasantry. How 
 could he have seen it in any other light? Our 
 intimacy warranted, I thought, the familiarity. 
 It seems that I was mistaken." 
 
 " He must have believed you in earnest, or he 
 never would have retorted in a manner that was 
 offensive. Who were present?"
 
 OIL ON THE WATERS OF PASSION. 213 
 
 " Miss Wilkins, Mary Hart well, Florence 
 Adair, and two or three young men besides 
 ourselves." 
 
 " Ah, I see the trouble now ! " said the friend 
 of Williams. 
 
 "I am in the dark," replied Hogan. 
 
 "He wishes to appear well in the eyes of 
 Florence Adair." 
 
 "I am sorry he made himself look so ill 
 Miss Adair was disgusted at his ungentlemanl, 
 retort." 
 
 " I think you were both wrong," said the 
 young man, not appearing to notice this last 
 remark, "he most of all; but you wrong in 
 venturing upon a witty thrust that might occa 
 sion unpleasant feelings." 
 
 " I was wrong in that, I know," replied 
 Ilogan. 
 
 " And, therefore, as the originator, even with 
 out design, of this unhappy misunderstanding, 
 is it not your duty to take the lirst step towards 
 a reconciliation?" 
 
 Ilogan was in no way prepared for a sugges 
 tion like this, and looked at the young man in 
 mute astonishment.
 
 214 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 " He insulted me grossly ; and that forecloses 
 the matter," said Hogau, at length, speaking 
 with some indignation in his voice. 
 
 "Not wantonly," said the other; "he thought 
 you had offered him an insult, and, on the im 
 pulse of the moment, resented it, as you would 
 have done." 
 
 "Nothing was farther from my mind than to 
 offer an insult." 
 
 " But he believed differently. And you must 
 admit that the language used, however witty, 
 was scarcely allowable, time and circumstances 
 considered." 
 
 " I admit all that, and have blamed myself a 
 hundred times since for my thoughtlessness." 
 
 "Why not, then, say so to Williams? My 
 word for it, he will instantly retract his own 
 offensive language." 
 
 "But 1 have demanded an apology from him," 
 said llogan. 
 
 "Don't, let me beg of you, as a friend, place 
 yourself in a wrong position. True honor re 
 spects the rights of others. Don't forget that 
 you and Williams have been friends for years.
 
 OIL ON THE WATFRS OF PASSION. 215 
 
 You know him intimately, and know that he 
 must have been thrown strangely off of his 
 guard when he applied to you such unjust 
 language. But it was your act that threw him 
 off of his guard ; and now th.it you are hurt by 
 his impulsive action, you should not complain 
 too loudly, nor feel too bitterly. Take but one 
 step in the right direction, and all will be well." 
 
 Hogan saw with different eyes. Since the 
 unhappy event that separated him from his 
 friend, this was the first instance in which 
 any one had sought to throw oil upon the 
 troubled waters of passion. 
 
 "I know," said the friend, -that Williams 
 deeply regrets the language applied to you in 
 sudden anger." 
 
 " How do you know ? " 
 
 " From his own confession." 
 
 The struggle in the mind of Hoga-i between 
 pride and right feelings was vigorous, but 
 brief. Right conquered. 
 
 "Will you bear a word from me to Wil 
 liams?" he said. 
 
 " Why not bear it yourself? "
 
 216 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 Hogan started in new surprise. 
 
 " Impossible ! " 
 
 " Why not let this reconciliation be complete ? 
 See your old friend face to face. I will go with 
 you. There is kindness in his heart, as there is 
 in yours. He is a man of honor and principle. 
 So are you. Friends grow not thick on every 
 bough. Do not, then, give up a true friend for 
 the false ones who are so ready to widen this 
 breach and drive you asunder forever. Come ! " 
 
 A few minutes later, and the suddenly es 
 tranged friends stood face to face. 
 
 "Williams," said Hogan, as he reached out his 
 hand, "I only jested. There was no temptation 
 for me to offer an insult, for I valued you too 
 highly as a friend. Forgive the indiscretion." 
 
 Almost wildly his hand was seized, as a voice, 
 tremulous with feeling, made answer, 
 
 "It is I who should ask forgiveness, for a sud 
 den anger was in m\ heart, and I meant to 
 wound. I recall the words to which my foolish 
 lips gave utterance. Can you forget them?" 
 
 "They are forgotten, my friend," was nobly 
 answered, " and I shall class him with my cue-
 
 OIL ON T.HE WATERS OF PASSION. 217 
 
 mies who seeks to recall them to my recollec 
 tion." 
 
 At the appointed hour, the friend whose good 
 offices had brought this unhappy affair to so 
 pleasant a termination entered the room of the 
 fiery-tempered young man whose evil genius 
 prompted him to advise the most extreme meas 
 ures. Hogan was with him. 
 
 " I am pleased to say," remarked the latter, 
 " that we have settled this unfortunate business." 
 
 " Indeed ! " The second might well look sur 
 prised. "How? Did Williams apologize ?" 
 
 "No, but I did." 
 
 " You ! " The young man stepped back a 
 pace or two, looking blank with astonishment. 
 
 "Yes. I gave the first offence." 
 
 " But he insulted you ! " 
 
 "He has withdrawn it." 
 
 "First?" 
 
 "No. I apologized first, because my offence 
 was first. The moment I said that I had no 
 intention of wounding him, that I had spoken 
 only in jest, he seized my hand, and made 
 the amplest retraction. We are friends again.
 
 218 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 And now, let me thank you for the offer of 
 .service recently made and accepted. But let 
 me, in all kindness, say, that I do not think you 
 acted wisely or humanely. Had I suffered your 
 counsels to prevail, the saddest consequences 
 might have followed. Hereafter, instead of 
 seeking to inflame anger, be the healer and the 
 pacifier. Instead of stirring up strife between 
 men and brethren, pour, rather, the oil of peace 
 on the troubled waters of passion."
 
 AN INDIGNATION VISIT. 219 
 
 XVI. 
 
 AN INDIGNATION VISIT. 
 
 i 
 
 "Ir Ruthy Ann Johnson said that, she's no 
 lady ! " The black eyes of Mrs. Pendergrass 
 flashed fire. 
 
 " Well, she did say it, and a little more." 
 
 Very quiet and very insinuating was the voice 
 that said this. It came from a little woman, who 
 looked almost too insignificant for a mischief- 
 maker. 
 
 " That my Hester was as ugly as sin ! " 
 
 " Her very words." 
 
 "What else did she say, Miss Perkins? " 
 
 " Why, she said that she could make a better 
 face out of dough." 
 
 Mrs. Pendergrass dropped the work she held 
 in her hands. Her face grew red as scarlet. 
 This was the crowning indignity. All the 
 insulted mother in her rose up in angry indig 
 nation. "A better face out of dough!" No
 
 220 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 wonder Mrs. Pendergrass was "stirred up," to 
 use her own words, " from the very bottom." 
 
 " Very well, Mrs. Ruthy Ann Johnson ! Very 
 well, madam ! Very kind and very neighborly 
 talk, upon my word ! " 
 
 "I wouldn't be excited about it," said Miss 
 Perkins, in her quiet way. " She's talked as 
 bad about me ; but I let it pass." 
 
 "You ain't Maria Pendergrass," was the mean 
 ing response. " A better face out of dough ! 
 Give me patience 1 But never mind I'll have 
 it out with her ; see if I don't ! " 
 
 "Ruthy Ann likes to talk," remarked Miss 
 Perkins, making an effort to soothe the feelings 
 she had spurred into excitement. " She's a little 
 glib with her tongue, you know, and is always 
 trying to say smart things. I heard her use 
 them very same words about Phoebe Jenkins, 
 not six weeks gone by. Phoebe is dreadfully 
 homely, you know, and has no more expression 
 in her face than a turnip. I was excessively 
 amused, and have laughed over it a dozen times 
 since. I think she was only talking for talk's 
 sake when she referred to Hester."
 
 AN INDIGNATION VISIT. 221 
 
 "1 don't care what she was talking for," re 
 plied Mrs. Peudergrass, sharply, " but I can tell 
 her this much, she's got to keep her glib tongue 
 off of me and mine. Hester is as good looking 
 as any of her brats. Wait till I see her ! " 
 
 Miss Perkins tried to lay the storm she had 
 raised ; but Mrs. Pendergrass was touched in a 
 very tender point. She had received a wound 
 which no words of the mischief-making gossip 
 could heal. When her husband came home at 
 dinner-time, she told him, with much feeling, 
 about what Mrs. Johnson had said. Mr. Pen 
 dergrass, whose temperament was as different 
 from that of his wife as December is from June, 
 treated the matter very indifferently. 
 
 " I never considered our Hester much of a 
 beauty," he said. "But she's a good girl, which 
 is best of all. As to her being ugly as sin, 
 that is a mere extravagance of expression, some 
 times indulged in by thoughtless people, such as 
 Mrs. Johnson. It amounts to nothing, and I 
 would let it pass as the idle wind." 
 
 "Indeed, and I'll not let it pass, then. No 
 body has a right to talk so about my Hester.
 
 222 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 I shall tell Ruthy Ann Johnson a piece of rny 
 mind." 
 
 "You'd better not, Maria. No good will come 
 of it. You'll only make an enemy of her," said 
 Mr. Pendergrass. 
 
 " I don't care ! " The black eyes of Mrs. Pen 
 dergrass burned like coals of fire. " I'd rather 
 have such a woman for my enemy than my 
 friend." * 
 
 "Never make an enemy, even of a dog, 
 Maria. It isn't good policy. Enemies are al 
 ways dangerous." 
 
 But there was no use in talking to Maria Pen 
 dergrass. Passion had usurped the throne of 
 reason. 
 
 About four o'clock in the afternoon, Mrs. 
 Pendergrass started for the house of her offend 
 ing neighbor, a woman of equal spirit with her 
 self. Not the slightest forewarning had Mrs. 
 Johnson of the intended visit. She was sitting 
 with her basket in a chair by her side, engaged 
 in the important work of darning stockings, 
 whon Mrs. Pendergrass came in with a bustling, 
 impressive air, and a face of no very mild 
 aspect.
 
 AN INDIGNATION VISIT. 223 
 
 "Good afternoon, Mrs. Pendergrass," said 
 Mrs. Johnson, pleasantly, rising as she spoke ; 
 "I'm glad to see you." 
 
 " No, you ain't ! " was the unexpected answer 
 to this cheerful salutation. 
 
 " What's the matter ? What do you mean ? " 
 said Mrs. Johnson, stepping back a pace or two, 
 while her face became as scarlet. 
 
 "Just what I say," was replied. "You ain't 
 glad to see me, you mean hypocrite ! " 
 
 Mrs. Peudergrass, at the very outset, went 
 quite beyond herself. She had thought over all 
 the words she would say, and they were to be 
 calmly spoken, but wi f 'a a very cutting edge 
 upon them. But on meeting the neighbor who 
 had so deeply offended her, memory and self- 
 possession fled, and instead of asking, as she 
 had intended doing, whether Mrs. Johnson had 
 spoken thus and so about her daughter Hester, 
 she weakly and foolishly replied with insult to a 
 kind welcome. 
 
 " Let me be what I am, no lady would use 
 such language in the house of a neighbor," sal 1 
 Mrs. Johnson.
 
 224 THE PEACEMAKER 
 
 " You are no lady ! Yon you hypo- 
 crite ! " 
 
 Mrs. Peudergrass was blind with passion. 
 
 Mrs. Johnson was a large, strong woman, 
 while Mrs. Pcndergrass was of rather diminu 
 tive stature. Outraged by this sudden, and for 
 all she could see, wholly unprovoked, assault, 
 the former advanced suddenly upon her violent 
 neighbor, and grasping her firmly by one of her 
 arms, led her to the front door, and thrusting 
 her out into the yard, said, as she unclasped her 
 vice-like hand, 
 
 " Don't let me see you again until you know 
 how to behave like a decent woman." And the 
 door was shut in her face. 
 
 Maria Pendergrass was bewildered, confound 
 ed, and doubly outraged by this violent assault 
 upon her person; exceeding, as it did, a thou 
 sand-fold, in her estimation, the wrong already 
 inflicted through the person of her daughter. 
 There was scarcely any wicked thing that sr j 
 would not have felt inclined to do, by way 
 of retaliation, on the spur of the moment, had 
 the opportunity been presented. One tempta-
 
 AN INDIGNATION VISIT. 225 
 
 tioii was, to throw stones and break her neigh 
 bor's windows ; another was to kill a pet lamb, 
 that happened to be lying on the grass-plat be 
 fore the door ; and another was to trample on a 
 flower-bed, in which some choice and valued 
 plants were just beginning to unfold their tender 
 leaves in the genial sunshine. 
 
 But she refrained ; not in consequence of a 
 preponderance of right sentiments, but because 
 the act would too feebly express her great indig 
 nation. 
 
 The fiercer the tempest, the sooner it is over. 
 Violent passions quickly exhaust themselves. 
 By the time Mrs. Pendergrass reached home, 
 the thermometer of her feelings had lost many 
 degrees. The range was far below fever heat. 
 
 We cannot say that she felt particularly well 
 satisfied with her own performances in the rather 
 serious comedy at Mrs. Johnson's, which reached 
 so sudden a termination. She had studied her 
 part thoroughly, but, on the stage, forgot even 
 the opening passages, and blundered in conse 
 quence most terribly. Instead of helping mat 
 ters any, she had made them ten times worse, by 
 15
 
 226 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 presenting herself as an assailant, instead of one 
 demanding explanation and redress. 
 
 " I'm glad I didn't break her windows, nor 
 kill her pet lamb, nor trample on her flower 
 bed ! " 
 
 Mrs. Pendergrass said this to herself, quite 
 soberly, as she sat alone in her room, less than 
 half an hour after her return from that fruitless 
 indignation visit. 
 
 " Now, haven't I gone and made a fool of my 
 self? " she added, with a depressing sense of 
 humiliation, as the remembrance of what she had 
 said and done presented itself with mortifying 
 distinctness. "What must Ruthy Ann Johnson 
 think of me? She'll tell her husband, of course ; 
 and he's a fiery, hot-headed little whiffet, and will 
 be after Pendergrass for explanation. I'm mad 
 at myself. Why didn't I talk to her right? I 
 hud it all laid out ; every word was in its place. 
 I'm a fool ! Maria Pendergrass, you are a fool ! 
 There I " 
 
 Very meekly did Maria Pendergrass bear this 
 self-denunciation ; though, had anybody else 
 dared to express a similar estimate of her char-
 
 AN INDIGNATION VISIT. 227 
 
 acter, she would have given a very different ex 
 hibition of her quality. 
 
 "I wish Miss Perkins had staid at home and 
 minded her own business ! " 
 
 Ah ! that is the reward your tattling mischief- 
 maker usually receives in the end, even from 
 those whose ever-open ears invite the tale of 
 evil. 
 
 "I've heard it said that she will stretch the 
 truth, and it's as likely as not that she's done so 
 in this case. What if Mrs. Johnson never said 
 anything of the kind? Or what if Miss Perkins 
 denies having told me ? " 
 
 These were sober considerations. 
 
 " I've put my foot into it, and no mistake ! " 
 
 Rather a coarse comparison, Mrs. Pcuder- 
 grass, but forcible and true. People who make 
 indignation visits generally do that thing. Your 
 experience is quite up to the average of such 
 experiences. 
 
 Mrs. Pendergrass could not summon sufficient 
 courage to speak with her husband about the ex 
 citing event AN hich had occurred. She meant to 
 do so, in order to prepare his mind for a return
 
 228 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 indignation visit from Mr. Johnson, which she 
 was very certain would be made before the even 
 ing closed. Momently, from the time he came 
 home at sundown until ten o'clock relieved her 
 anxious suspense, was she in expectation of this 
 visit from Mr. Johnson. 
 
 The next morning found Mrs. Pendergrass in 
 rather a sober state. She could not look back 
 upon the events of the preceding day with any 
 feeling of self-approval. Her behavior at Mrs. 
 Johnson's was certainly of an extraordinary 
 character, as was also the treatment which she 
 had received. Every passing hour she looked 
 for some message from Mrs. Johnson, or for the 
 visit of a friendly neighbor to inquire about the 
 strange stories that were buzzing through the vil 
 lage. But the entire morning passed without her 
 seeing a living soul besides her own family. 
 
 As for Mrs. Ruthy Ann Johnson, the subsi 
 dence of her disturbed feelings was almost as 
 sudden as the excitement which had extin 
 guished, in a moment, every fraction of self- 
 control. When she grasped the arm of Mrs. 
 Pendergrass, and thrust her violently from her
 
 AN INDIGNATION VISIT. 229 
 
 house, she was angry beyond measure. When 
 she turned back from the shut door, and sat 
 down by the basket of stockings from which she 
 had started away on being so roughly assailed by 
 her neighbor, the whirlwind of passion was over, 
 and l)o wing her face upon her hands, she wept 
 violently. The provocation she had received was 
 great, but she did not look back upon it in any 
 spirit of self-justification. 
 
 The afternoon wore away, and evening brought 
 the return of Mrs. Johnson's husband. She 
 wished to talk with him about the unpleasant 
 affair, but he was an excitable and not very wise 
 little man, and she feared to trust him with her 
 version of the story, lest he should do some 
 thing that would only make matters worse. So 
 she had to bear the burden of unpleasant thoughts 
 alone. 
 
 Like Mrs. Pendergrass, she passed most of 
 the next day in a condition of unhappy suspense ; 
 every moment expecting some annoying mes 
 sage, or visit in company with interested friends, 
 from the neighbor she had handled so roughly. 
 She did not go out to see any one, for she really
 
 230 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 felt ashamed to look a neighbor in the eyes, aftef 
 she had disgraced herself by such unwomanly 
 conduct. No one came near her all day, and 
 this she regarded as unmistakable evidence that 
 Mrs. Pendergrass had been all over the village, 
 giving her version of the story. 
 
 The third day brought no change in the aspect 
 of things, and no special comfort to either of 
 the unhappy ladies. Both felt disgraced in the 
 eyes of their neighbors, and each was angry with 
 the other for having provoked her to unseemly 
 anger. 
 
 In the mean time, Miss Perkins was gliding in 
 and out among the various families in the village, 
 smooth of tongue, insinuating, yet all-seeing and 
 all-hearing. On the fourth day, Mrs. Johnson's 
 came in turn. She received her usual welcome, 
 but soon saw that her friend every lady in the 
 town was her "friend" seemed ill at ease, and 
 was under considerable restraint. Every mo 
 ment, Mrs. Johnson expected to hear some ques 
 tion or remark on the subject of her late trouble 
 with Mrs. Pendergrass. But not the slightest 
 allusion was made thereto. This was strange.
 
 AN INDIGNATION VISIT. 231 
 
 Mrs. J. could not understand it. What had 
 Mrs. Pendergrass said? Something very dis 
 creditable, or else Miss Perkins would not be so 
 silent on the subject a silence evidently meant 
 to save her feelings. At last, unable to bear 
 this suspense any longer, Mrs. Johnson deter 
 mined to open the way for Miss Perkins, by 
 . saying, 
 
 "When did you see Maria Pendergrass?" 
 
 "Well, let me think." Miss Perkins spoke 
 almost indifferently. " It is now three or four 
 days, I believe, since I was there. Yes, now I 
 remember. It's just four days. I saw her on 
 Tuesday." 
 
 That was the memorable day ! 
 
 " In the morning, or afternoon ? " inquired Mrs. 
 Johnson. 
 
 " It was in the morning. W T hy do you ask ? " 
 And Miss Perkins looked curiously at her friend. 
 
 Mrs. Johnson's eyes dropped to the floor. 
 
 " You haven't seen her since ? " 
 
 Mrs. Johnson looked up with a more confident 
 manner. 
 
 " Not since ; nor have I heard of her being out
 
 232 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 anywhere, which is a little curious, now I come 
 to think of it, for she goes about a great deal s 
 you know. As Mrs. Jenkins says of her, 
 * She's always on the run.' " 
 
 " Maybe phe's sick," remarked Mrs. Johnson. 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder ; for I don't know of any 
 thing but sickness that would keep her three 
 days in the house. By the way," added Miss 
 Perkins, smiling, " don't you remember that fun 
 ny speech you made about her Hester once ? " 
 
 No; what was it?" 
 
 " I've laughed about it a hundred times since ; 
 it was so ludicrous, and yet so true. Hester, 
 you know, is as homely as mud." 
 
 " She's not handsome, certainly," replied Mrs. 
 Johnson. " But she's good ; and that is worth 
 far more than beauty." 
 
 "Just what you said, afterwards, to take the 
 cutting edge off your funny speech." 
 
 " What was the speech ? I have entirely for 
 gotten it." 
 
 " You said that you could make a better face 
 out of dough. Ha ! ha ! " 
 
 "It was thoughtless and unkind, and by no
 
 AN INDIGNATION VISIT. 233 
 
 means expressed my true feelings towards the 
 child. Ludicrous ideas often present themselves 
 to my mind, and I have the bad habit of clothing 
 them in language at times when it were better 
 to be silent." 
 
 " Somebody who heard you say this was kind 
 enough to tell Mrs. Pendergrass." 
 
 " O, no ! " Mrs. Johnson looked surprised 
 and grieved. 
 
 " It's true ; and she was very angry about it." 
 
 "I don't wonder," said Mrs. Johnson. "It 
 was thoughtless in me to make the remark, but 
 wicked in the one who repeated it." 
 
 " Wicked and malicious," replied Miss Per 
 kins, who thus thought to divert all suspicion 
 from herself. 
 
 After that, conversation flagged. 
 
 "I wonder if Mrs. Pendergrass is sick?" 
 MYS. Johnson had been silent for some minutes, 
 aiu the remark evidenced considerable interest. 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder," said Miss Perkins. 
 
 " Suppose we call over and see her." 
 
 To this Miss Perkins assented, and Mrs. John 
 son made herself ready with particular despatch.
 
 234 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 "How's your mother?" Miss Perkins asked < 
 Hester, who opened the door for them. 
 
 " She's right well. Won't you walk in ? " 
 
 You may be sure Mrs. Pendergruss started 
 when she saw them, and turned all manner of 
 colors. Mrs. Johnson, as she advanced towards 
 her, said, 
 
 "Will you answer me a question, Mrs. Pen- 
 dergrass?" She spoke calmly and respectfully. 
 
 " Certainly : say on ; " was answered, with 
 some little show of offended personal dignity. 
 
 " Who told you that I had spoken unkindly of 
 your daughter ? " 
 
 " Miss Perkins," was the firm answer. 
 
 " O, no no, Mrs. Pendergrass ; you forget. 
 It wasn't me; you forget." Miss Perkins was 
 all in a flutter. 
 
 "Not at all. My memory is very clear on the 
 subject. You were my informant, and nobody 
 else." 
 
 "What did she say?" inquired Mrs. Johnson. 
 
 " Why, that you said my Hester was as ugly 
 as sin." 
 
 "I never used the language, nor anything like 
 it," was positively answered.
 
 AN INDIGNATION VISIT. 235 
 
 "O, but Mrs. Johnson, did you not say that, 
 you could make " 
 
 "Yes, Miss Perkins, I did utter that thought 
 less, silly speech ; I regretted it in a moment 
 afterwards. And I also said that she was good, 
 and that was best of all. Did you tell that, 
 also?" 
 
 " No, Mrs. Johnson, she did not, evil mischief- 
 maker that she is ! " said Mrs. Pendergrass, ris 
 ing, and extending her hand. 
 
 Mrs. Johnson grasped it, and replied, 
 
 " Forgive my foolish speech, that had in it no 
 real meaning, and would have done no harm if 
 there had been no evil tongue to bear it to your 
 ears." 
 
 " And forgive my hasty words, uttered in 
 blind passion," said Mrs. Pendergrass. " I hav<s 
 been sufficiently punished." 
 
 " And so have I. As for your Hester, I have 
 always liked her ; and have said, many and many 
 a time, as Miss Perkins well knows, for I have 
 said it to her, that I wished my Ruthy was as 
 thoughtful of her mother, and as kind among hey 
 brothers and sisters. As to good looVs, I don't
 
 236 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 think there is anything to boast of on my sido 
 of the house. Ruthy is plain enough, I am sure ; 
 and if you couldn't make as good a face out of 
 putty, I wouldn't give much for your skill." 
 
 A gleam of kind feeling threw its warm rays 
 over the flushed countenance of Maria Fender- 
 grass. The outraged mother was fully satisfied. 
 She saw that neither ill will nor contempt had 
 darkened the mind of her neighbor, who had, as 
 every one knew, " a funny way of speaking " 
 sometimes, but meant no harm, and was a true 
 woman at heart. 
 
 In a few moments, a change came over the 
 face of Mrs. Pendergrass, as her thoughts took 
 a new direction. A sudden fire flashed in her 
 small, black eyes ; her brows fell, and her flexi 
 ble lips took a firm, angry curve. Turning to 
 the astonished and confused Miss Perkins, she 
 said, sharply, 
 
 "And now, my lady, you shall have a piece 
 of my mind! you tattling, mischief-making, 
 wicked " 
 
 Mrs. Pendergrass was losing herself, and 
 would have gone quite passion-blind agnin, had
 
 AN INDIGNATION VISIT. 231 
 
 V 
 not Mrs. Johnson laid a hand firmly upon her 
 
 arm, and said, 
 
 " Maria ! Maria Pendergrass ! Don't waste 
 words on her. She isn't worth a decent woman's 
 indignation ! " 
 
 She grasped her neighbor just in time, as a 
 drowning man is sometimes caught and saved at 
 the last instant of immersion, and drew her back 
 to the dry ground of reason and self-possession. 
 
 Eight, Kuthy Ann. Right. Thank you 
 for the timely words." And Mrs. Pendergrass 
 caught her breath, like one who had been on 
 the verge of suffocation. "I must say this, how 
 ever ; " and she turned again to Miss Perkins. 
 
 " Don't darken my door again. You have 
 done so once too often." 
 
 Miss Perkins arose, and, turning meekly away, 
 retired slowly, and with the air of one who had 
 been deeply injured. 
 
 ** The sneaking hypocrite ! " ejaculated Mrs. 
 Pendergrass. 
 
 "I would have liked her better if she had 
 shown fire and fight," said Mrs. Johnson. " But 
 your secret detractors are always spiritless cow-
 
 238 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
 ards. Let her go ! She is not worth, as I have 
 said, a decent woman's indignation; and I am 
 vexed when I think that her smooth tongue and 
 false heart were able to arouse into such angry 
 turbulence the feelings of two women who had 
 been friends from girlhood up to middle life. 
 And now, Maria, if you hear of any more of my 
 foolish speeches, come to me in all friendly 
 frankness ; not as you did " 
 
 "Don't fear another indignation visit, Ruthy 
 Ann ! " said Mrs. Pendergrass, interrupting her 
 neighbor. " I'll never make such a fool of my 
 self again never ! " 
 
 " Have you spoken of it to any one ? " asked 
 Mrs. Johnson, a little gravely. 
 
 No ; have you ? " 
 
 " Not even to my husband. I was too much 
 ashamed of myself." 
 
 "Good!" said Mrs. Pendergrass; "it is our 
 own secret." 
 
 "And our own it must remain. By its mem~ 
 ory we will be faster friends." 
 
 Many a good laugh had they afterwards to 
 themselves, about the skill of Mrs. Johnson in
 
 AN INDIGNATION VISIT. 239 
 
 making faces out of dough and putty, and over 
 that ludicrous indignation meeting, which both 
 had the good sense to forgive, and the humor to 
 enjoy. 
 
 They were friends, though within an ace of 
 being made enemies for life, as thousands are 
 made, by thoughtless words, too freely, yet in 
 nocently, spoken. It is the tattler who is the 
 real social criminal. Her offence is capital, and 
 there should be no reprieve.
 
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