Holden with the Cords

PART THIRD.

THE IN-GATHERING.

I.

UNFOLDINGS.

Spring was abroad in the land. No one could tell just when she had stolen into the woods and gardens, and begun her pleasant labors, but there was no question about the fact of her presence and industry. Everywhere, there were the tender green of newborn foliage, and the varied odors of opening buds and blossoms. The new leaves of the ilex trees had quietly pushed off the old ones. The hedges were thick-sown with the white stars of the Cherokee rose. The passion-vine trailed its purple garments along the fences. Houstonias spread a soft blue haze over the grass. Wild plum and cherry trees flung drifts of fragrant snow along the road side. The air was faint with perfume from the ivory censers of the magnolia, swinging dreamily overhead. Wherever a vine could cling and climb, there was a seemingly miraculous outburst of foliage and flowers; every dry stick and stem became a leafy thyrsus, every crumbling stump a green and garlanded altar.

Mrs. Lyte's great, irregular thicket of a garden was quick to feel the genial influence, and to twine and twist itself into a denser tangle than ever. Rose bushes laughed the virtue of economy to scorn, with their perfumed affluence of pink and crimson and yellow. Pomegranates burst into scarlet flames; mimosas tossed aloft feathery balls of many hues. Jessamines and honeysuckles, holding up vases of gold, to catch every sunbeam, ran hither and thither at their own sweet will. So did tiny green lizards, with scarlet throats, and swift chameleons, with curious intelligent eyes. The air was tuneful with the flight and song of bees and humming-birds, cooing doves, and shining-winged spindles. Manifold, in truth, were the garden's delights: varied sound and color and perfume, cheerful radiance and gentle gloom, unobtrusive companionship and soft seclusion, were all to be found within its pleasant compass.

And, as the days grew long and warm with the Spring's advance, Bergan now and then, growing weary of the confinement and monotony of his office, took his Blackstone, or Kent, or whatever might be the legal authority under examination, and gave himself the refreshment of an hour's reading, in one of the garden's shady, sequestered nooks. Doing this, one sultry afternoon in May, the drowsy influence of the atmosphere, and the soothing murmurousness of the insects' song, soon proved too potent for the logical connection of the learned legal thesis; there were unaccountable gaps between fact and deduction; and, going back to pick up the broken thread, Bergan lost it altogether. Sleep had stolen upon him through the dusky foliage, and she held him fast until the latest sunbeam, through a convenient aperture in the verdant walls, laid its light finger on his eyelids.

Waking suddenly, but completely, hushed voices, proceeding from a neighboring thicket, met his ear.

"Impossible, Felix."

"But, Astra,—"

Had there been danger in those low, earnest accents, Bergan could scarcely have started up more quickly and cautiously, nor have fled from them faster. As he expected and desired, the low boughs closing and rustling behind him, made what followed inaudible. He was loath to hear another word. He felt almost guilty for having heard so much. Those subdued, confidential tones, those quietly spoken Christian names, had, of themselves, been a startling revelation. For, notwithstanding her frank, easy, affable deportment toward those who came within her sphere, Astra Lyte knew well how to hedge herself round with a maidenly dignity that kept familiarity at a distance. She was not the kind of girl whose Christian name finds its way easily to unaccustomed lips. Despite his own residence, for a considerable time, under the same roof, and the frank and friendly intercourse which had grown out of it,—despite, too, the fact that Mrs. Lyte often called him her son, and Cathie was wont to spring to his arms as to those of a brother,—it had never occurred to himself to call her anything less formal than "Miss Lyte." Nor would it have done to Dr. Remy, he felt sure, without the sufficient warrant of a close and tender relation. This premise being established, the conclusion that such a relation existed was unavoidable.

And, looking back over the events of the past few weeks, Bergan was amazed to see with what an amount of corroboratory evidence he was unexpectedly furnished. Not only did numberless glances, tones, and actions, bearing directly upon the case, start suddenly into view, but, just as the landscape through which one passes presents new outlines, new features, and a new sentiment, in a backward survey, so these things assumed new faces and a new meaning, in his review of them. Once or twice, of late, it had occurred to him that Astra was scarcely at her ease, in Dr. Remy's presence; he now understood that this constraint came of affection, fearful of betraying itself, and not, as he had imagined, of some newborn distrust or dislike. Anterior to this, he had observed that the doctor's visits to Miss Lyte's studio were much more frequent than formerly, and that he was making an obvious enough attempt to commend himself to her favor by a more cordial and constant interest in her work, as well as by exercising a more careful circumspection over his conversation. His cynicism vanished, or veiled itself, before the rich glow of her enthusiasm. His satire spared her generous ambition. His scepticism, though not less frank, was less hostile and inveterate; and often it resolved itself into a kind of weary and wistful sadness, as if it were less a choice than a misfortune, and would gladly exchange itself for something better, if it only knew how. At such times, Bergan himself was sensible of a singular charm in his conversation, a kind of autumn-night splendor; chill, lustrous moonlight, mystical shadow, and vague mournfulness, blending into one, irresistible fascination. No doubt, Astra had been made to feel it still more keenly; no doubt, too, she had been led to believe that whatever was amiss in the doctor's beliefs would yield readily to her influence,—that he would prove scarcely less plastic in her hands than the clay wherewith she was wont to deal so cunningly.

Yet Bergan could not help wondering a little at the doctor's ready success. Astra's genius, he thought, should have saved her from any hasty bestowal of her affections. He did not know that, in this regard, a woman of genius differs little from the most commonplace of her sisters. She gives her affections as trustfully, and flings herself away as freely, as the silliest of them all.

Having gotten to this point in his meditations, and also to the middle of the open field, back of the garden, Bergan could not help turning and looking toward the thicket, the neighborhood of which he had so hastily quitted. His face grew troubled and anxious, as he gazed. Was Doctor Remy anywise worthy of the heart that he had won? Bergan shook his head ruefully, as he asked himself this question. Without intent or wish of his own—in spite, even, of some strenuous efforts to the contrary—a deep distrust of the doctor had rooted itself in his mind. Though it gave but scanty justification of itself to his intellect, and was not allowed to show itself in his actions; though, now and then, he made a sturdy effort to uproot it, and cast it out, as an ungenerous return for kindness, or something that looked like it; it, nevertheless, kept its ground, and quietly strengthened itself there. It did not fail, now, to thrust itself into view, as a partial answer to his question. The bright spring landscape, with its crowded leaf and bloom, and its rich promise of fruit, seemed to darken with a shadow from Astra's future, as thus revealed to him. Must the promise of seed-time and harvest fail, then, only in the moral world?

Though Bergan, driven by a nice sense of honor, had fled so precipitately from the voices and the neighborhood of the lovers, there is no reason why the reader may not return thither, and see what is to be learned from their conversation.

"I cannot think it right," said Astra, "to leave mother in ignorance any longer."

"Do you think, then," asked Doctor Remy, reproachfully, "that I would ask you to do anything wrong?"

Astra hesitated for a moment. Perhaps it then and there occurred to her, for the first time, that the doctor's standard of right was likely to differ from her own, in the same ratio as his religious faith.

Doctor Remy did not wait for the tardy answer. Putting his arm round Astra, he drew her head on to his shoulder. The movement might have been prompted by tenderness; none the less, it had the effect to take his face out of her line of vision.

"All my life long, Astra," said he, in a deep, moved tone—(it is often easier to put a desired note into the voice, than a corresponding expression into the face)—"all my life long, I have had a strange desire to be trusted,—trusted implicitly. Faith without sight—blind, unquestioning faith—is to me one of the most beautiful as well as desirable things on earth; all the more so, perhaps, that it is not given to me to feel it. But it has always been my dream, my hope, to inspire it. In my ideal picture of the woman whom I should love, it was always her consummate, irresistible charm. Must I now make up my mind to do without it?"

Astra was touched. "If it did not seem to be wrong!" she exclaimed.

The doctor shook his head. "That is not trust," said he, "at least, not the trust that I mean. Who can so order circumstances that they shall never seem to condemn him? But the faith of which I speak, having once assured itself of the integrity of its beloved, never again admits it to be an open question."

Astra was silent. The doctor heaved a heavy sigh. "I see that I am not to realize my ideal," said he. "Well, it cannot be helped. I will give you the explanation that you need. Perhaps, being satisfied, in this instance, that I have a good reason for what I do, you will be able to trust me hereafter."

"I will, indeed I will!" exclaimed Astra, eagerly.

"The worst of it is," pursued the doctor, "that you compel me to betray a trust—your mother's trust."

Astra's cheek flushed. She had been miserable at the idea of keeping anything from her mother; was she, then, the one really excluded from confidence?

"Stay," said she, proudly, "I do not wish to hear anything that my mother desires to conceal from me."

"Then," replied the doctor, "it is impossible for me to explain why our engagement must not be made known, at present, to your mother."

Astra looked bewildered, as well she might, at this apparently inscrutable complication.

Doctor Remy seemed to take pity on her perplexity. "Listen, dear," said he, "and you will soon understand. Your mother consulted me professionally, a fortnight since."

Astra's cheek grew white with sudden fear. "What is it?" she gasped.

"There is no immediate danger," said the doctor, "and may not be, for years, with due precautions. But there is a tendency to heart disease; and it is imperative, just now, that she should not be agitated. And this, Astra, is the reason why she must not hear of our engagement, for some time to come."

Astra looked down thoughtfully. "I think you are mistaken," said she. "I believe it would be a relief to her to know that my future is in such good hands."

"Doubtless, that would be the ultimate effect," replied Doctor Remy; "but there would be emotional excitement, at first, more than is good for her;—so much that I, as a physician, am bound to forbid it."

Astra could not but admit that the prohibition was just. Mrs. Lyte had seemed very fragile and feeble, of late. Astra had urged that application to Doctor Remy which, it now appeared, her mother had made, but in regard to the results of which she had chosen to keep silence,—from a loving wish, probably, to save her daughter from unavailing anxiety. Astra's heart swelled at the thought.

"Are you sure," she asked, "that there is no immediate danger?"

"As sure as one can be, in such cases—if she is kept quiet."

"And is there any probability that the disease may be eventually cured?"

"There is a possibility,—with the same indispensable condition."

Doctor Remy waited for a moment, in order that Astra might be duly impressed with this answer; then, he asked with a kind of proud humility;—

"Have I justified myself, in this matter?"

"Forgive me," said Astra, penitently. "Of course I never really distrusted your motives; I only fancied that my duty to my mother could not be affected by them."

"You see," suggested Doctor Remy, "how easy it is to be misled by appearances, even with the best intentions. The faith, of which I used to dream, would never have fallen into that error."

"I will try to have it, hereafter," said Astra.

"And yet," returned Doctor Remy, "you will doubtless insist upon a further explanation of the reason why I do not wish our engagement to be known to the outside world."

"Indeed, I shall not," returned Astra, glad of an opportunity of proving that she was neither so distrustful, nor so curious, as he believed. "Of course, the outside world must wait till mother is informed; she has the right to the first telling. If you have any other reason for keeping the matter secret, I do not seek to know it."

Could Astra have seen the look of triumph in Doctor Remy's face, she would have been startled. But he only said, quietly,—

"Thank you for so much trust." And, after a moment, he added,—"As you say, it is your mother's right to know first. Of course, then, you will not indulge in any confidences to intimate friends."

"Certainly not," said Astra, a little surprised. "Indeed, I have none,—except, perhaps, Carice Bergan."

"I would not mention it, even to her," said the doctor.

"I do not intend to," replied Astra, decidedly. "But I must go in; mother will miss me."

II.

THE FOUNDATIONS FAIL.

Astra's light form being quickly lost behind the intervening foliage, Doctor Remy turned slowly and meditatively toward his office; which, inasmuch as it had been built for the use and behoof of the late Doctor Lyte, possessed its own door of convenient communication with the garden.

Given opportunity, social equality, and a fine, unremitting tact, and it would seem that any man can marry any woman, whose affections are free. Else, it would be hard to understand how Doctor Remy could have found his way into the heart of Astra Lyte; unless indeed, as is frequently the case, their very dissimilarity should have constituted a principle of attraction; character has its own laws of effective contrast. Astra was enthusiastic, generous, affectionate, with strong religious instincts and aspirations; Doctor Remy was cold, selfish, austere, without reverential sentiment, and, in matters of faith, an utter sceptic. But these traits need not be supposed to have exhibited themselves to Astra in their naked unloveliness. To her imagination, doubtless, they took the fairer form of a calm temperament, and great force and firmness of character, allied to a keen and critical intellect; which last must needs be allowed to take its own appropriate time and road to belief (except as it seemed willing to owe something to her loving guidance). And Astra was of the age and character which are most prone to fall down and worship human intellect; failing, as yet, to understand that it is, in itself, of the earth earthy, and really noble and admirable only as it is enlightened by the spirit of God. She was dazzled and fascinated by the extent and variety of Doctor Remy's attainments, and the range and freedom of his ideas. To talk with him was like drawing the curtain and opening wide the window on a wintry evening, admitting free, frosty air, and giving a far outlook over bleak, white hills and leafless forests. Nor did it alarm her that the air was much too fresh and chill to be breathed long with comfort or safety, and the landscape drearily bare and skeleton-like, since the doctor was always ready, at her slightest sign, to drop window and curtain, and turn back with her to warmer precincts and gentler themes.

And so, it had come to pass that, as Doctor Remy walked up the shady garden walk, he had good reason to congratulate himself upon the success, thus far, of his plans. Not only was Astra won, but she had consented to keep silence about the wooing, for awhile. Thus he was saved from the awkwardness of having to account to Mrs. Lyte for his unwillingness to have the engagement made public. It would be difficult to invent a reason likely to commend itself to her judgment; yet it was out of the question to give her the real one,—namely, his reasonable doubt whether he should be altogether acceptable to Major Bergan as the future husband of that gentleman's heiress, and so, in some sense, as his heir; and his consequent fear lest the will in her favor should be set aside. Such a confession might give a mercenary tinge to his suit, in Mrs. Lyte's eyes, which he wisely deprecated. So far as he knew, neither she nor her daughter had ever heard of the Major's declaration of his gracious intentions toward the latter; or, if they had, they regarded it only as a meaningless ebullition of his rage at Bergan Arling. Such, in truth, would the doctor himself have thought it, except for certain later inquiries respecting Miss Lyte, put to himself by the Major; which seemed to show that the matter had not escaped his memory. Besides, in consideration of the Major's bitter resentment toward his brother and nephew,—extending, apparently, to everybody connected with either,—no more eligible heir to the Bergan estate was to be found, than Astra Lyte. If the Major had made his will, as he threatened, there was no one, in the whole Bergan connection, with so strong a claim upon his favorable consideration.

Here the doctor paused, for a moment, in his slow walk. "If!" he muttered, peevishly. "To think that the whole thing turns on a miserable 'if!' I must contrive some way of finding out whether that will—or any will—was ever made. There must be no defective nor missing links in this chain, nothing to invite the meddling of the cursed fate which has followed me so long. The Major must not be permitted to die, one of these days,—by the interposition of Providence and delirium tremens, or something vastly like it,—and leave me with an abortive plan and a portionless fiancée. To be sure, I should not be long in getting rid of the latter, but there would be no help for the former."

His soliloquy had brought him to his office door. Suddenly bethinking himself, then, that a certain patient had been overlooked in the catalogue of the day's duties, he called for his horse, and set out to make good the omission.

His road led past the Bergan estate. As he was galloping swiftly onward, absorbed in his own reflections, he heard an energetic "Halloo!" Pulling up his horse, and looking back, he beheld Major Bergan leaning over a small gate, which opened into the fields near the quarter.

"Are you deaf?" was his angry salutation, duly emphasized with an oath. "Here I've been hollering after you, till I'm black in the face. I wish I had saved myself the trouble!"

"All the fault of my horse's hoofs," replied the doctor, good-humoredly, as he turned his horse toward the gate; "they made such a clatter under me that I could not well hear anything else. How can I serve you?"

Major Bergan hesitated. Apparently his business did not come readily to his lips.

"Perhaps you are on your way to a patient," he finally observed, as if he would be well enough suited to find an excuse for not broaching it at all.

His reluctance only stimulated the doctor's curiosity. "The case is not urgent," said he, carelessly; "by and by, or even to-morrow morning, will do just as well. There is no reason why I should not be entirely at your service—as I am."

"Come in, then," returned the Major, in a tone that was far from gracious; but swinging open the gate, nevertheless, for Doctor Remy's admission.

The latter dismounted, led his horse through, and slipping the bridle over his arm, walked by the Major's side to the cottage. On the way, the latter vouchsafed a brief explanation of his wishes.

"I've been thinking a good deal of the advice that you gave me awhile ago," said he, "and—and—I've concluded to make my will. So, seeing you riding by, just as my mind was full of the subject, it occurred to me that I might as well call you in, and have the thing over with."

"And a very sensible decision," returned Doctor Remy, as quietly as if he were not filled with unexpected delight that the information which he had hoped to gain only at cost of some deep and difficult scheming, was thus placed within easy reach. "I only wonder that you have not done it before."

"I don't see why I should," replied Major Bergan, sharply; "I've always been strong and hearty,—what had I to do with making wills? And, now that I think of it, what have I to do with it now? I'm not in a decline yet, by any means."

"So much the better for your work," replied Doctor Remy, composedly. "Deathbed wills are often contested. No one will question your soundness of mind, at present."

"I should think not," said the Major, decidedly. "If he did, he wouldn't be apt to doubt the soundness of my sinews,—I'd horsewhip him into instant conviction."

"Are you provided with witnesses?" asked the Doctor, when the Major's chuckle had subsided.

"Witnesses? How many does it want?"

"Two are necessary."

The Major mused for a moment. "I can have them here by the time they are needed," said he. "My new overseer at Number Two will do for one, and I'll send for Proverb Dick for the other. Step into the cottage, and make yourself at home for a moment, while I see about it."

Doctor Remy flung himself into the first chair that presented itself, and sank into a fit of thought. A vague disquietude oppressed him, notwithstanding that events seemed to be shaping themselves so much in accordance with his wishes. He believed himself to be on the eve of victory, or at least of a certain measure of present success which would insure victory; but both religion and philosophy, he knew, were agreed in representing human expectations as of the nature of the flower of the field, in various danger from the frost, the knife, and the uprooting wind. To this general testimony he could add the special confirmation of his own experience. Like most men, Doctor Remy had the sobering privilege of looking back upon a career of which the successes were few, and the failures and disappointments many. The track of his earthly pilgrimage, thus far, he bitterly thought, was tolerably well strewn with wrecks and abortions.

A better man, trying to spell out the meaning and tendency of his life by the aid of a higher inspiration, might have found some comfort in the review, nevertheless. He might have discovered some evidences of harmony and design amid seeming discord and confusion, some solid foundations showing underneath abortive ruins, some steady inward growth of patience and strength and hope, in lieu of an outward harvest of earthly possessions. He might have discerned, with awe and humility, that sometimes he had builded better than he knew, because building in accordance with a certain overruling design, of which he now first began to catch faint and partial glimpses. But such consolation was not allowed to Doctor Remy. In his past, all was incomplete, confused, and unsatisfactory. He had not gained what he sought, and nothing better had come to him through its loss. For many years of time, and an uncommon measure of talent, he had scarce anything to show of what he considered life's highest prizes—wealth, position, influence. He set himself seriously to discover why. And, for one moment, he, too, had a chill perception of a certain unity and sequence in the debris left behind him, unperceived before; which seemed to show that, though he had served his own ends but poorly, he had none the less helped to forward some extended scheme, whereof he had known nothing at the time, and could now discern only the most fragmentary outline. But Doctor Remy quickly shook himself free of this notion, with a smile at his own absurdity.

Why, then, he asked himself, had he failed? Because of his mistakes, no doubt. Let every man bear the blame of his own acts, and not try to throw it off on his neighbors, or that convenient scapegoat, Providence. Looking back, he could discern many a point (and notably one), where he had committed a grave error. But his mistakes had been his instructors, nevertheless. He had gained from them knowledge that should stand him in good stead yet. To his former qualities of boldness, energy, perseverance, and skill, he now added the experience that could use them to better effect. It would be strange, indeed, if he could not henceforth command success.

He had just reached this conclusion when Major Bergan joined him. Ample provision of lights, paper, pens, and ink, being then placed upon the table, together with the inevitable brandy bottle, the two gentlemen sat down opposite each other, and Doctor Remy began his task of drawing up the will. He first wrote the usual legal preamble, in a clear, rapid hand, and read it aloud for Major Bergan's approval. Some small legacies followed, taken down nearly verbatim from the Major's dictation. Doctor Remy then waited, for some moments, with his pen suspended over the paper, while the Major seemed trying vainly to arrange his thoughts.

"I don't quite know how to word the next," said he, at length, "you must put it into shape yourself. I hold a mortgage of the place where Catherine Lyte lives; and I want it cancelled, at my death, in her favor, or, if she does not survive me, in favor of her daughter Astra."

"You surprise me," remarked Doctor Remy, as he began to write; "I have always understood that the place was free from incumbrance."

"You understood wrong, then," replied Major Bergan. "Though, for anything that I know, Catherine Lyte may think so herself. You see, Harvey got into difficulties eight or nine years ago, and I lent him money, and took a mortgage on the place. He kept the interest paid up until his death; and since then, nothing has been said to me about either interest or principal; from which I concluded that Catherine did not know of the fact. And as I felt sorry for her, I decided to say nothing about it myself, as long as I was not in need of the money, nor likely to be. But it will not do her any harm to know, after I am dead, that I have been kinder to her than she knew of."

Doctor Remy looked up with a smile. "I suspect," said he, "that it would not be well for her to offend you."

"I don't know about that," replied Major Bergan, complacently. "She did offend me, when she took my nephew in; and I came pretty near foreclosing then. But Maumer Rue convinced me that she could not afford to refuse a good offer for her rooms; and moreover, as Harry only had his office there, and took his meals at the hotel, she need not have much more to do with him than I did, if she did not choose."

Doctor Remy did not think it necessary to enlighten the Major in regard to Bergan's familiarity with the family of Mrs. Lyte, since such a disclosure must needs militate directly against his own ends. He silently put the Major's wish into correct legal phrase and form, and then lifted his head with the question;—

"What next?"

Major Bergan's face grew grave and troubled. Thus far, it had been easy work, merely giving away what he did not care for, and should not miss. But now that the bulk of his property, real and personal, was to come in question, he groaned inwardly at the necessity of bequeathing it to any one. Did it not represent all the hopes, energies, labors and results of his whole life? What a naked, shivering, miserable soul he would be without it! He had a feeling that he should never be quite certain of his own identity, in eternity, without the houses and the lands, the negroes and the gold, for which he had lived in time.

"Well!" said Dr. Remy, by way of reminding him that he was still waiting.

The Major frowned; nevertheless, after another moment, he resumed his dictation.

"I give and bequeath," said he, slowly, "my house known as Bergan Hall, with all the lands thereto pertaining, including the rice-plantation known as 'Number Two;' also my three houses in the town of Berganton; also my block in the city of Savannah; also my negroes, horses, mills, and plantation implements; also, my household furniture and other personal property, including all bonds, mortgages, moneys, and all other property whereof I die possessed, to——-"

Doctor Remy had written down the items of this comprehensive inventory with a delight that he could scarcely keep from shining out in his face; and he now held his pen over the paper, while the Major paused, in real enjoyment of so timely an opportunity for pleasurable recapitulation and anticipation. The pause being a long one, however, he finally raised his eyes to the rugged features opposite, and saw that they were tremulous with emotion. Words, too, soon began to break from the Major's lips, according to the habit which had grown upon him in his solitude;—he had forgotten for the time, that he was not alone.

"He is the natural heir, as Maumer Rue insists," he muttered, "and the only one justified by the old family precedents. But," he went on, as Dr. Remy began to tremble, vicariously, for Astra's prospects, "he left me without so much as saying 'good bye;' he did just what he knew I was most bitterly opposed to; and he has never come near me since. No, he shall not have it!—he never shall have it, in spite of Maumer Rue's prophecies—I'll take care of that!"

And he began to repeat slowly, "bonds, mortgages, moneys, and all other property whereof I die possessed, to—to—"

Again he paused.

"Why can't he say 'to Astra Lyte,' and done with it?" thought Dr. Remy, impatiently, as he suddenly checked his pen in the midst of the first curve of the letter A.

The Major made another effort;—"To my niece, Carice Bergan," he concluded, with a sigh.

Doctor Remy's face fell so suddenly, that it attracted the Major's attention.

"Well! what is the matter now?" he demanded, sharply.

Doctor Remy could not immediately answer. His mind was in a whirl of confusion, disappointment, and anxiety. Mechanically, he put his hand to his brow; and the gesture helped him to a plausible explanation.

"A sudden pain," said he, in a low, shaken voice; "I have felt it several times of late. Wait a minute, it will soon be over."

And covering his eyes with his hands, he addressed himself at once to the task of answering the difficult question;—

What is to be done now?

It was well for him that he was accustomed to think rapidly and clearly, in the immediate presence of danger, that he was tenacious of purpose too, and that his instinct, in the midst of overthrow and ruin, was to commence at once to rebuild. Yet, for some moments, not an available suggestion presented itself, not a shadow of help for the exigency that had so unexpectedly arisen.

"Then, suddenly, a thought came to him, and with it, a gleam of hope. He took his hands from his eyes, and looked the Major gravely in the face.

"Before we go any farther," said he, "I feel bound in honor to make a confession. If I had supposed that writing your will was going to put me in such an awkward position, I should certainly have desired you to look elsewhere for a lawyer. However, it cannot be helped now. Well, the truth is"—he stopped for a moment, as if to overcome an excessive reluctance,—"the truth is, I have long admired your niece; and now, as my practice is steadily increasing, and I think I could take care of a wife, I had made up my mind to ask permission to pay her my addresses."

Major Bergan uttered a prolonged "Whew!" and settled himself back in his chair. "That alters the case, certainly," said he, after a brief consideration of this new phase of the matter.

"I am glad to hear it," exclaimed Dr. Remy, eagerly. "Pray—if it is not too selfish in me to ask it—pray give Bergan Hall to the next most eligible claimant, and leave me Miss Carice."

The Major raised his eyebrows, and leaning forward, fixed his eyes on Doctor Remy, as if he had found a new and interesting subject of study.

"Do you mean to say," he asked, gravely, "that you would rather have Carice without Bergan Hall than with it?"

"Decidedly," replied Doctor Remy. "I prefer an equal match to an unequal one. I prefer to be credited with honorable motives, rather than mercenary ones. I don't want to be a pensioner on my wife's bounty. It is doubtful if I could ever make up my mind to address the heiress of Bergan Hall. And thus, you see, if you persist in making Miss Bergan your legatee, you are playing the mischief with my hopes and plans."

Major Bergan continued to stare, thoughtfully, at the doctor. He was beginning rather to like this disinterested suitor.

"Have you any reason to think that Carice favors you?" he asked, finally.

Doctor Remy hesitated. "I really don't know how to answer that question. If I should say 'yes,' in view of the 'trifles light as air,' from which I have ventured to draw some slight encouragement, I should seem, even to myself, to be a conceited ass; and yet, if you would only be good enough not to throw Bergan Hall into the scale against me, I should not be absolutely without hope."

Major Bergan gave a short laugh. "Who will know," he asked, "that Carice is to have Bergan Hall? I expect you to keep my counsel in this matter. That is why I asked you to do the business. I had an idea that you were closer-mouthed, both by nature and training, than those lawyers in Berganton."

"I shall know it," replied Doctor Remy, virtuously, answering the Major's question, and taking no notice of the compliment which followed it. "And I shall know, too, that the heiress of Bergan Hall, if she were aware of her position, might reasonably expect to find a better match than a mere country physician."

"On my soul," exclaimed the Major, heartily, "I think she might 'go farther and fare worse!' Go on, doctor and win her, if you can;—you have my best wishes for your success. Leave Bergan Hall out of the question; indeed, it may never come into it, after all. Carice may refuse you——"

("Little doubt of that," thought the doctor.)

"I may alter my will a dozen times, or make a new one,—"

("You will have to be in a hurry, if you do," thought the doctor again, grimly.)

"At any rate, I expect you to frame that one so that Carice's husband, whoever he may be, can have no control whatever over the property. It is to be hers, and her children's, only. So scribble away there, at your best pace, or Proverb Dick will be here before we get through."

"But your brother Godfrey,"—began Doctor Remy, in despair, racking his brains for some consideration that would be likely to shake the Major's purpose.

"My brother Godfrey," interrupted Major Bergan, sternly, "has nothing to do with this matter. I don't give the property to him, but to Carice. Perhaps, on the whole, I had better just give her a life-interest in it, and then have it go to her eldest son, who shall take the name of Bergan, and be christened Harry. Yes, that will be the better way. Write it down so."

"But"—began Doctor Remy again.

"Save your 'buts,' until we get through," broke in Major Bergan, sharply. "I tell you, Carice shall have the place. If you don't want her with it, you can let her alone. And if you can't, or won't, write my will to suit me, I'll scud for some one who can and will."

This threat effectually silenced Doctor Remy. It was essential that the matter should not be taken out of his hands, till he had satisfied himself that it could in nowise be turned to his account. "If it comes to the worst," said he to himself, "it is something to have the document in my own handwriting. That gives me a better chance to furnish a substitute, at need."

With the rigid self-control that always characterized him, therefore, he now put aside, as far as might be, his own hopes and plans, and set himself diligently to the work of completing the will, in accordance with the Major's instructions, and to his entire satisfaction. He did not even move a muscle when, in due time, the Major dictated a paragraph to the effect that if Carice should not survive him, or should die without issue, the estate should fall to a distant cousin, now in Europe, whose sole claim to his consideration appeared to be that he bore the family name. The doctor was proof against any further shocks, this evening. Fate had done her worst for him, in forcing him to write "Carice Bergan," where he had confidently expected to write "Astra Lyte," and to find his account in so doing.

At the end of an hour, three closely written sheets lay upon the table, ready for the signatures of the witnesses, whenever they should appear; and the Major, drawing a long breath of relief, to see his lugubrious business so nearly finished, applied himself to the brandy bottle for appropriate refreshment. Doctor Remy sat silent, abstractedly toying with the pen that had been making such havoc with his plans.

Suddenly he raised his eyes to Major Bergan's face with the question;—

"How did that medicine suit you?"

"Admirably," replied the Major. "I have had one attack since you were here,—a tolerably severe one, too,—but the second powder acted like a charm."

"The second powder!" thought the doctor. "I am afraid that I gave him too many! At that rate, if chance favors him, he may hold on for a year, or more."

He was opening his lips for another remark, when the door shook under a vigorous rap; and scarce waiting for the Major's invitation, Dick Causton entered.

III.

BUILDING ANEW.

The new comer opened his eyes wide at sight of Doctor Remy, and the table littered with writing materials; and looked with evident curiosity at the closely written sheets of the will, the character of which he seemed at once to discover or divine.

"I see," said he, sententiously, nodding his head,—"'Our last garment is made without pockets.'"

Major Bergan shivered as if he had felt a chill breath from the mouth of a tomb. It was hard to be so often reminded that he and his possessions must soon part, with small prospect of meeting again.

"If you must quote proverbs, Dick," he exclaimed peevishly, "pray don't quote such cold-blooded ones as that!"

"How could I help it, when 'it came to my hand like the bow o' a pint stoup?'" answered Dick Causton coolly, with his eyes fixed hungrily on the Major's brandy bottle.

The hint was successful. Bottle and glass were immediately placed within his reach, and he made haste to warm and quicken his age-frosted blood with a deep draught of the potent liquor. It was both strange and sad to see how his eye brightened, his face grew more animated, his figure became more erect, his whole frame seemed to gather vigor and energy, under its influence, while his air became, if possible, more mean and slouching than before. It was as if he felt conscious himself, and knew that any beholder would be sure to discover, that his proper strength and manhood had long since died out of him, and he was now drawing unworthy breath and life from a source of which he was thoroughly ashamed, though unable to do without it.

Major Bergan, meanwhile, briefly explained why he had sent for him, adding, in a tone that was meant to be courteous, but narrowly escaped condescension;—

"I knew that you would be glad to do a favor to an old friend like me, Dick."

"Certainly," replied Richard Causton, heartily; "especially as I suspect that I shall also be doing a favor to my young friend, Mr. Arling. 'He that loves the tree, loves the branch,' you know."

Major Bergan frowned. "I don't see what my nephew has to do with it," said he, surlily.

Dick Causton gave him a look of surprise. "De vrucht valt niet ver van den stam," said he, shaking his head. "That is to say, The fruit falls near the stem. It isn't nature for a man to leave his property away from his own blood. It isn't right, either, in my opinion."

"I am not going to leave mine away from my blood," replied Major Bergan, austerely; "though, if I were, I do not see that it is anybody's affair but my own."

"Nor I either," rejoined Dick Causton, coolly, "unless your dead ancestors should imagine it to be theirs. Os demos á os suyos quieren,—The devils are fond of their own,—and so, doubtless, are the saints, if any such are to be found in your pedigree. It is reasonable to suppose that they would all prefer to see their earthly possessions go down in the channel marked out by nature. Anyway, I'm right glad to know that Mr. Arling is to have his rights, some day, fine fellow that he is! I've always had a kindness for him, ever since I first gave him a lift, on his way to you."

Major Bergan looked very grim. "Yes, Mr. Arling will have his rights," said he, with stern emphasis,—"I've seen to that."

Dick Causton glanced from the Major's face to the will, with an instinctive feeling that all was not right, but could make nothing of either. The one was dark and impenetrable; the other was upside down, from his point of view. Apparently, nothing invited attack but the brandy bottle. That, he was glad to see, was not yet empty.

"I am wasting words," said he, shrugging his shoulders. "A chose faite conseil pris. 'Advice after action is like medicine after death'—or brandy after one has ceased to be thirsty."

"Take another glass," said Major Bergan.

Dick obeyed with alacrity. The dram was scarcely swallowed, ere a tap at the door announced the arrival of the overseer from "Number Two,"—a tall, lank, taciturn Texan, whom the Major had recently taken into his employ, as a short cut to that avoidance of the rice fields which Doctor Remy had recommended.

The ceremonies of signing and sealing the will immediately followed. Dick Causton was greatly disappointed that the document was not read in his hearing, as he had expected.

"Never buy a pig in a poke, nor sign a paper without reading it," said he, as he took the pen into his hand. "How am I to tell what will I really signed, if I know nothing of the contents? However, it's your risk, not mine," he added, hastily, seeing that Major Bergan was beginning to look impatient. And, forthwith, he bent his energies to the task of writing his name in a large, angular, and very tremulous hand; and then shook his head dubiously over the result.

"It looks like nothing that ever I wrote before," he remarked, as he laid down the pen. "But Hund er hund om han er aldrig saa broget,—A dog, is a dog whatever be his color,—and so, a signature must be a signature though it wiggle across the paper like a tipsy eel. Perhaps I shall know it by that token, when I see it again. But I can't promise."

"I shall know mine," observed the overseer, confidently, as he lifted the pen.

Doctor Remy leaned forward with sudden interest. The name was written in commonplace fashion enough, but it was finished with an odd, complicated flourish.

"Do you always sign your name in that way?" he asked.

"Always."

"It looks very difficult; yet you seemed to do it with much ease. Let me see the process again." And he pushed a piece of paper over to the man, who, gratified to find his skill so heartily appreciated, scrawled it all over with his sign-manual, in wearisome repetition. The paper was then passed from one to another, for a brief examination, and was finally left in the hands of Doctor Remy; who first began absently to roll it round his fingers, and ended by tearing it in three or four pieces, in a fit of apparent abstraction. Nobody noticed that one of these found its way into his pocket as a thing of possible utility, in the future.

He then rose. "I am sorry to be obliged to go so soon," said he, courteously, "but a physician's time is not his own. Good evening, Major Bergan, I am always at your service, and in any capacity. Good evening, Mr. Causton, doubtless, we shall meet again."

Dick glanced at the brandy bottle, and, seeing that it was empty, was taken with a sudden fancy for the doctor's society.

"I'll walk along with you, doctor, at least as far as our road is one," said he, rising. "Good company makes short miles."

"I came in the saddle," answered Doctor Remy, "but we can be companions as far as the gate, if you like."

Nevertheless, the pair did not separate at the gate. Their conversation had become too interesting, apparently, to both; and Dick Causton continued to walk on by the side of the doctor's horse.

It was late when he reached his cabin, that night. Very suggestively, too, he reeled across the threshold, and, missing the bed, deposited himself heavily on the floor.

"Tidt meder man ei did som man vil skyde, A man does not always aim at what he means to hit,"—he muttered, resignedly, merely changing his position for a more comfortable one, and dozing off to sleep.

Somewhere, on the way—or out of it—apparently, he had found a supplementary brandy bottle, and had not left it until it was as empty as the Major's.

It was late, too, when Doctor Remy laid his head on his pillow, that night. And, perhaps, in all Berganton, there was no wearier nor sadder man than he. One apparently well-constructed plan had just gone to pieces in his hands, without note of warning. Another was now to be built up out of the fragments, pitilessly rejecting whatever had been an element of weakness in the first. Already, its outline had begun to shape itself dimly against his mental horizon. Yet he did not allow himself to linger upon it to-night. With the rigid self-control which he habitually exercised, he put aside disappointment, care, and hope, and soon slept as soundly as if no anxiety rested on his mind, no stain on his conscience.

He was early astir. With the morning light came quickness and clearness of thought. His scheme began to look more distinct and feasible. By way of getting it in hand at once, he tapped lightly at the door of Astra's studio.

He was somewhat surprised to find her before an easel, palette and brushes in hand. She smiled and blushed at his approach.

"I know what you would say," she began, apologetically,—"'A Jack at all trades,' et caetera, but I really wanted color for this subject." She pointed to her canvas. "Do you recognize it?"

"I can see that those are Miss Bergan's eyes," replied Doctor Remy;—"all else is delightfully vague and suggestive."

"And what eyes they are!" exclaimed Astra, admiringly,—-not without a pleasant perception, too, that she had succeeded wonderfully well in putting them on canvas.

Doctor Remy did not answer immediately. He was regarding the portrait with a gravity that Astra could not understand,—unless, indeed, his thoughts were elsewhere. Nevertheless, when he spoke, it was sufficiently to the point.

"Yes, they are very fine eyes," said he. "And Miss Bergan is altogether very pretty,—in an uncommon style, too. It is surprising that she has remained heartfree so long."

Astra looked at him with soft, smiling, amused eyes. "Heartfree! As much as I am," said she.

Doctor Remy gave her a questioning look.

"I am not going to tell you anything about it," said she, laughingly. "Use your eyes, sometimes, in watching your neighbors, as I do."

"Who is my neighbor?" asked Doctor Remy, smiling.

"The proper question!" laughed Astra. "In this case, you need not journey beyond this roof, to find him."

Doctor Remy's eyes lit with a sudden, strange gleam. "Do you know it is so?" he asked, quickly.

"Ho, I cannot quite say that;—I doubt if she knows it herself yet. But I believe it, all the same."

Doctor Remy watched her absently for some moments, then made a few curt, critical remarks about her work, bade her a cool good morning, and withdrew.

Astra looked after him, with a troubled, wondering expression.

"What has come over him?" she asked herself. "How have I offended him? Or was it only my fancy that he seemed so cold and strange?"

Before Doctor Remy began his professional rounds, that morning, he had sketched, in outline, the main features of a new plan for the acquisition of Bergan Hall. The minor details he wisely left to the suggestions of time and circumstance.

One of these proved to be very close at hand. As he drove mechanically through the principal street of Berganton, revolving various probabilities and possibilities in his mind, and trying to make some provision for each, he espied Miss Ferrars coming up the sidewalk,—easily recognizable, at almost any distance, by her peculiarly mincing and swaying gait. In all similar encounters with the slightly faded maiden,—whom he shrewdly suspected of designs upon his bachelor liberty,—it had been his wont to slide swiftly past, with a low and deprecatory bow, suggestive of his deep regret that the urgency of his haste denied him the pleasure of stopping to inquire after her health. On this occasion, therefore, she was agreeably surprised to see him rein his horse up to the sidewalk, with the obvious intention of speaking to her. Perhaps her heart beat a little more quickly, as she stopped to listen.

Apparently, however, he had nothing of more importance to communicate than a commonplace enough observation about the heat of the weather, and a friendly caution not to walk far in so fervid a sunshine as was flooding the town with its golden waves. Then, he gathered up his reins, as if to signify that his say was said, and he was ready to proceed. Nevertheless, he lingered a moment longer, to add, carelessly,—

"By the way, I ought to acknowledge that you were right, and I was wrong, the other day. It is not the first time that man's reason has had to admit the superior correctness, as well as quickness, of woman's intuition."

Miss Ferrars looked both pleased and puzzled. "It is very good of you to say so," she answered, simpering;—"but really, I can't think what you allude to."

"When you called at my office, a few days ago," explained the doctor, "you did me the honor to confide to me your impressions with regard to my friends, Miss Lyte and Mr. Arling. I thought you were mistaken, and told you so. It turns out, however, that the mistake was on my part, not yours. I was really blind—not wilfully so, as you had the charity to suppose. I mention the matter the more readily because it must soon be patent to everybody. Good morning."

And without waiting for a reply, Doctor Remy courteously lifted his hat, and went his way, with a curious smile on his lips.

"That last intimation ensures speed," said he to himself. "Miss Ferrars will do her best to be beforehand with the news. Before to-morrow morning, it will be known throughout the town. Then, I can easily manage so that it shall reach the Major's ears, and—by the help of my loving commentary—produce the desired effect. Astra must be gotten out of the way, for the present, at least. So must Arling; last night's business convinced me that he is more dangerous than I imagined. The Major deceives himself, but he does not deceive me; his bitterness towards his nephew is nothing more than piqued and smothered affection,—affection undergoing fermentation, as it were, and certain to work itself clear and sweet, in time. If Arling remains in the neighborhood, the Major will soon be seizing upon some pretext for a reconciliation. Failing of that, Miss Carice is certain to inherit his estate; just because he wooed—and did not win—her mother, some twenty-five or thirty years ago! No doubt, a marriage between the two would suit him exactly, if he once got hold of the idea. Yes, Arling must be gotten rid of. But how?"

He bent his brows moodily. Some expedient, apparently, soon suggested itself to him, and was immediately rejected with a shake of the head.

"No, not that way," he muttered. "I'm determined against actual, point-blank crime, so called,—except as a last resource. Besides, it is not necessary; I only want to get rid of him until the Major is dead, and Miss Carice is my wife. There must be some way to dispose of him, by lawful means, if I could only hit upon it! Really, if there were a Devil, as some people believe, he would strain a point now in my favor! At all events, I think I see my way clear with Astra."

He was silent, for an instant; his brow grew sombre with unwonted regret.

"Poor Astra!" he murmured, as he drove into the cathedral-like gloom of the far-stretching pine barren,—"I am really loath to give her up! But her chance of the Hall, I see now, is not worth a picayune. And it won't do to trust to the possibility of substituting a manufactured will for the real one, as long as I cannot find out where the latter is deposited. The Major was very close-mouthed about that matter. No, Miss Carice is my safest resort. Yet Astra would suit me much better, on the whole." And once again, looking absently up the long, columned vista of the narrow road, he murmured regretfully;—

"Poor Astra!"

IV.

A SERMON.

The next day was Sunday. It came to the earth, as it comes always, with kindly, hallowed hands full of blessings, but found not everywhere hearts and minds open to receive them. Carice Bergan, to be sure, knelt in her accustomed place, in the little church of her fathers, with a face which might almost have rivalled that of an angel in its bright peacefulness, and with all the windows of her soul plainly open to the heavenly sunshine. Bergan Arling, too, conscious that each one of these holy days had its own special gift or grace for him, its own kind and measure of spiritual food, which he could ill afford to lose, knelt in his proper place, and reverently lent his full, rich voice to swell the solemn flow of common prayer, or the harmonious burst of choral praise. And Mrs. Lyte, in her widow's weeds, looking upward in spirit, to the long peace of Paradise, and the shining faces of the redeemed, was glad to believe in "the communion of saints," and rejoiced in the day that was both a foretaste and a promise of the "life everlasting." Even Astra Lyte, though suffering from a vague and nameless depression,—a burden of which, as yet, she felt only the weight and chill, without comprehending, or daring to try to comprehend, whence it came or what it meant,—was sensible of a dim delight, and possibly a latent helpfulness, in the sweet and solemn influences of the day and the place. Here and there, moreover, a soul bowed under the weight of recent affliction, or shaken with the terrors of a newly-awakened conscience, was both awed and glad to be able to give itself audible expression in words so fit and forcible as those of the Confession and the Litany, and thankful if it might pick up so much as a crumb of pardon and peace from the Master's bountiful table.

But, to Doctor Remy, paying an unwilling tribute to public opinion by showing himself at church, on this morning, after many weeks of absence, and leaving it to be inferred that, but for his professional duties, he would be seen there regularly; to Miss Ferrars, mingling solemn words of confession and penitence with frivolous thoughts of dress and gossip; to Dick Causton, slinking shame-facedly into the rear pew, to listen to the conclusion of the sweet, old, familiar hymn, the first sounds of which had fallen enticingly upon his ear, as he was staggering up the street;—to these, and many others like them, doubtless, Sunday brought only present irksomeness and future condemnation.

The hymn being finished, Mr. Islay ascended the pulpit, and, laying his manuscript open before him, looked round on the crowded congregation, with serious, almost melancholy, eyes. Perhaps he sought, amid those upturned faces, for some sign of human sympathy, to lighten a little his heavy sense of responsibility; perhaps he wondered to which of these souls his words were now to prove a savor of life unto life, and to which, a savor of death unto death. Deep and clear, and full of a solemn music, his voice broke the silence.

"In the fifth, chapter of Proverbs, and in the twenty-second verse, it is written:

'HE SHALL BE HOLDEN WITH THE CORDS OF HIS SINS.'"

Three faces were at once alive with interest. Doctor Remy, indeed, gave a slight and almost imperceptible start, as if his intellect not only, but his memory or his conscience, had felt an awakening touch. Bergan Arling merely fixed his eyes more intently on the speaker, with the aspect of a man who was glad to find that the coming discourse was likely to link into, and carry on, some previous train of thought. As for Dick Causton, the word "Proverbs" was sufficient to command his earnest, and even critical, attention. He believed that he knew a good deal about proverbs himself; he had made a lifelong study of their characteristics and principles of interpretation; he had often declared those of Solomon—such as were strictly proverbs—to be of the best; he would stay and hear what a tyro like Mr. Islay had to say about this particular one.

This, briefly, was what the clergyman said.

"Many texts are like rosebuds. They have a simple form, and an obvious signification. But if you steep them in the dew of meditation and the sunshine of faith, they begin to unfold meaning after meaning, as the rosebud petal after petal; and in the centre there is a golden heart,—the gracious blessing of God on the fervent and prayerful spirit, and the inquiring and teachable mind. Let us pray that the text which we are considering, may prove such an one to each of us.

"A man's sin is sure to find him out. It may have been committed in secret, muffled thickly with caution, and finally buried deep under time and distance and circumstance; it may remain hidden for years; it may have been forgotten, except for an occasional dark moment, by the sinner himself; yet, some time, some day, what seems to be a chance, but is truly a providence, lifts the veil, and takes hold of the clue,—or death throws the lurid light of his inverted torch over the dark transaction,—and the liar, the thief, the adulterer, the murderer, or whatever may be the miserable man's miserable name, is brought to the bar either of human or divine justice. And there is no escape. The bands of his iniquity are around him; they bind him hand and foot; he is holden with the cords of his sins.

"This is perhaps the first and most obvious meaning of the text. It assures us that, 'though punishment be lame, it arrives.' It warns us not to make cords which are certain to be used, some day, for our own binding.

"But men are apt to think lightly of a remote evil. The present monopolizes their fears, as it does their labors. Moreover (they say), there are dozens of little, everyday sins, which entail no such fearful consequences. Let us see how our text bears upon these points.

"Sin is not a simple, but a complex, thing. It is a cord twisted of many threads, and some of them begin very far back. A man is seldom taken in the toils of a sudden, single temptation, or bound with the cords of an utterly unimagined and unpremeditated sin. He has made the way and work easy to each of them, by yielding to preliminary temptations, and carelessly allowing the binding of preparatory sins. He is holden with the cords of the evil thought to the unhallowed desire and the foul gratification. He is holden with the cords of that seemingly venial sin to this final burden of guilt and shame, by that unbridled passion to this startling, terrible crime. The slender cord draws the stout one after it: at sight of that, the man may start and shrink, but he is already half-bound, and his resistance is feeble. Having taken the first step, he is committed to the second; having admitted the premise, he is bound to the logical conclusion. Here, as before, he is holden with the cords of his sins.

"Moreover, there are few things stronger, for good or ill, than habit. And every sin, however small, may begin an evil habit, and is sure to confirm one. Round and round goes the slender cord, till it binds as strongly as a chain of iron. One part after another yields to the subtle, stealing influence; first, the will succumbs; then, the reason; finally, the conscience. Day by day, good ceases to attract, and evil to repel. Day by day, the right becomes more difficult, and the wrong easier. The habit soon becomes fixed; the man is firmly bound. To the side of evil, and the service of Satan, he is holden with the cords of his sins.

"Again: If thought be the spring of action, action is also the spring of thought. If it be true that, 'as a man thinks, he is,' so it is true that as he is, he thinks. Thought is by turns cause and effect. If a man's sins are the result of his evil thoughts, so his evil and erroneous thoughts are sometimes the result of his sins. He cannot long continue to think right if he act wrong. After breaking the Sabbath awhile, he ceases to think of it as a holy day. After committing murder, he ceases to regard life as sacred. Violating human law, it becomes a terror instead of a protection. Defying the Divine law, he soon denies its authority. Sin distorts his views, as well as his life. The truths of religion lose their clearness to his mind with their power to influence his action. Doubts, scepticism, infidelity, find an open door, and an easy road, to his heart. If a man would keep fast hold of his Christian faith, let him take care to order his actions, as far as possible, in conformity to its precepts. But, on the other hand, let him give free rein to his appetites and ambitions,—yea, even to the commission of absolute crime,—if he wishes to become a mocker and an infidel, without love of God or man, without correct views of time or clear ones of eternity. For, to all these things, he will be sure to be holden with the cords of his sins.

"Finally; All men love liberty. But sin, though it may seem, at first, to be the wildest liberty, soon proves to be the narrowest bondage. The sinner is the slave of appetites, of habits, of thoughts, that are hard task-masters; and the wages of which are every kind of death. For there are many kinds,—social, political, moral, before the final, everlasting death;—and one, or all, of these, he is sure to taste, as the reward of his faithful service of Satan. His health is undermined, or his reputation destroyed; his fortune is dissipated, or his gold corroded in the using; he is shaken with the terrors of conscience, or hardened into the semblance of stone; he is without adequate consolation in the day of trouble, and without strengthening hope in the day of death; but his slavery is abject and absolute. He neither will nor can escape. He is holden with the cords of his sins.

"Thus you will see, beloved, that our text has a word of solemn warning for the present, as well as for the future. The holding of sin is to be dreaded in life, not less than at death. One sin holds fast to another. Single sins twist together into the strong cord of habitual sin. The sinful act draws after it evil thoughts and loose opinions. Sin is a continual, daily bondage, as well as a final retribution.

"Beware then, oh, ye young! how you bind yourselves with cords of sinful thoughts, or habits, or opinions, or passions, to the exclusion of that blessed liberty which is in Christ Jesus. Beware, oh, ye adults! how you go on adding sin to sin, and cord to cord, till you are bound hand and foot, thought and will, body and soul; and are finally cast down to perdition, in bonds of your own industrious forging—holden with the cords of your sins!

"But,—do you say?—we are all sinners, we are all 'holden,' how are we to break from the cords of our sins? Go to Christ. At His feet, all bonds are broken, all slavery ends. He leads captivity captive, and His service is perfect freedom. He is our righteousness, and the man that trusteth in Him, shall no more be holden with the cords of His sins."

Such was the substance of the sermon. But in the delivery, there was a warmth and an earnestness, a happiness of expression and illustration, and a deep solemnity, that held the congregation spell-bound with interest, to the end!

Perhaps no one had listened more attentively, or humbly, than Bergan Arling. So recently had he felt the irksome holding of the cords of his sins! And he would still, no doubt, be holden to their consequences, all the days of his life, if not to their guilt.

As for Doctor Remy, there was an unusual pallor in his face, when he rose, at the singing of the last hymn. But it was quickly gone; he came out of the church with much of his usual cold, composed demeanor. His sins had held him too long to loosen their stricture at one transient quake of conscience.

Dick Causton had listened for some time with marked attention, and apparent approval. Then, a kind of haze had slowly bedimmed his sight and beclouded his brain. When the congregation came down the aisles, he was fast asleep, with his head drooping heavily on his breast. If anything could have added to the effect of the sermon, this sight ought to have done so. Most certainly, poor Dick was "holden with the cords of his sins."

When the church was empty, he was shaken rudely by the sexton, and turned out, muttering caustic proverbs by way of retaliation.