Homes made and marred

MISS LYDIA BROOKS VISITS THE OLD LADY.

"Well, one who is obliged to give up all her time to other people, and can never do as she likes, nor go out, nor take any pleasure. She can never hope to do like—like—one who has not been a servant," hesitated poor Lydia, feeling it rather awkward to explain.

"Like a lady, you mean, don't you, my dear?"

"Not exactly," murmured Lydia, afraid of being drawn too far.

"Not exactly a lady, but a person as much like one as possible. Imitations are not good for much, my dear; and as it didn't please the Almighty to make you, and Milly, and me ladies, we are more respectable as our own natural selves than trying to imitate and seem what we are not. But may I tell you what a servant really is? A good one, of course, I mean."

"Oh, if you choose," said Lydia, feeling much injured by being classed with an old woman, who perhaps had been a servant for anything she knew, and still more offended at the implied suggestion of not being a lady herself.

"Well, a good servant is a favoured, honoured person, who has it in her power to be one of the greatest blessings on earth; to be useful as no other has opportunity to be useful, and whose position and name are adopted by our Lord himself during his life on earth, and used besides to set forth the highest praise He could bestow on one He wished to honour, 'Well done, thou good and faithful "servant!" enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.'"

"But He meant any one who did well; even a lord or a lady might be 'His' servant," said Lydia.

"True, but the approval is not bestowed on the lord or the lady, it is bestowed on the 'faithful servant,' which you and I can be if we will. I expect by-and-by to find that many a lowly Christian servant will take her place in heaven by the side of her master and mistress, or perhaps above them. But assuredly none who set themselves up above service here in the station in which God has placed them, will be likely to see it, or have any part in that place of honour; for it is written, you know, 'He that exalteth himself shall be abased; and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted;' and it must come true either in this world or the next, and perhaps in both."

Mrs. Hayes said no more for some time, leaving her words to work, as she hoped, and Lydia stitched away in silent displeasure. She began to dislike the old lady with a decided ill-will, and determined to hold her own opinions in spite of her.

So, after a while, she began again,—

"You seem to think nobody should try to get on in the world, Mrs. Hayes."

"What is 'getting on,' my dear?" said Mrs. Hayes, gently. "Let us understand each other's words."

"Why, I mean, of course, rising in the world, getting higher and richer, and more respectable, of course."

"Tell me first, my dear, what part of you is to rise—where would you rise to—why seek riches—and in whose eyes would you be respected?"

"Dear me, how particular you are about words!" said Lydia, half inclined to laugh off the pressure she had provoked.

"I always like to make sure that I understand what I'm talking about," said the old lady, quietly; "it saves 'idle words,' and we shall have to 'give account' of our words some day, you know. Come, let me hear how you explain yours. I am an old woman, and not very loveable, I know, but I would gladly help you to a right judgment if you'll let me."

"Oh, I don't see that I've taken up with a wrong one yet," said Lydia, pertly; "but I mean this: improving one's position, taking a place above that one is born in, and associating with higher people; rich enough to do anything you please without considering expense, and be looked up to as of some consequence in the world. That's what I mean. And I could be generous, too, and give away a great deal to charities, and people in distress."

"You have explained yourself very well indeed," said Aunt Hayes; "and now I am quite able to answer your first question. I do 'not' think it desirable to 'try to get on in the world' in that sense, and for those objects."

"And why, pray? It is your turn to explain now."

"I will not answer you as a matter of mere opinion," replied Mrs. Hayes, "because some people don't care for an old woman's opinions; but I will give you the words of those who spoke and wrote for all times, and all persons, and who were safe from errors of judgment in the statements made.

   "'Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus; who being in the form of God thought it not robbery to be equal with God, but made Himself of no reputation, and took upon Him the form of a servant.'

   "'Having food and raiment let us be therewith content; but they that will be rich fall into temptation and a snare, and into many foolish and hurtful lusts, which drown men in destruction and perdition. For the love of money is the root of all evil; which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows.'

   "'Before honour is humility.'

   "'God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace to the humble,' and 'they that walk in pride He is able to abase.'

   "'Let your conversation be without covetousness, and be content with such things as ye have; for He hath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.'

"I could go on, but these are sufficient reasons, I think, against the course you describe. They express the judgment of the Lord God, who knows the true value of things; and as our deceitful hearts propose to us as a good reason for wishing to be rich and important, the power of relieving distress and giving liberally, He has settled that for us too:

   "'Though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor . . . and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.'

   "'If there be first a willing mind, it is accepted according to that a man hath, and not according to that he hath not.'"

"Then what's the good of working, if we ar'n't to wish to get on?" said Lydia.

"Because it is also written,—

   "'Not slothful in business, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord.'

"We are born in the position and under the circumstances which God wills, and in which He will bless and prosper us; and if He chooses to raise us to anything higher, He will provide it, and fit us for it; but, to be planning and struggling after wealth and honour to please ourselves is both ignorant and presumptuous, very irritating to the temper and unsatisfactory to the heart after all. It is just quarrelling with God, and fighting against His providence; and when the end comes, supposing we have succeeded, the most we shall have gained will be wisdom to answer the solemn question once asked by the Lord Jesus,—

   "'What shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?'

"Think of all this, and live for something better than covetousness of things above you. You can serve God where He has placed you, and a queen can do no more."

CHAPTER XV.

SOLEMN FACTS FOR SOCIAL SCIENCE.

"ACCIDENTAL death," said the jury impanneled to inquire into the death of Swinden.

"But it ought to be added, 'while in a state of intoxication,'" said a listener to the evidence given on the inquest.

"Oh, yes, it may be put so, but where's the use? Will it hinder another drunkard from the same fate when he cannot direct his own movements?"

"I am afraid not," said the medical gentleman in attendance; "if warnings were of any use, we have them in abundance. This is the third violent death through drink that I have had to examine into this week, and it makes life seem one perpetual horror. In a case like this, the world hears the fact, and shudders; but draw the curtain, look behind the scenes, and one's disgust and indignation may expend themselves on another object, while a shade of pity for the wretch cut off in an instant through his mad folly may possibly arise."

"Look, there she is," said one of the jurymen who knew the neighbourhood pretty well.

And as he spoke, a woman passed quickly along, dragging by the hand a small, squalid, neglected-looking child. Every one shrank back to make way for her, and she stalked on, looking half fiend, half idiot, through a group of men whose sympathies would have naturally gathered round a bereaved widow and her children, but who drew back from the drunken wife who was partly responsible for her husband's fate.

"She knew his snare, and has been warned of the consequences, but she drank as shamefully as he did, and never had a fireside fit for him to sit down by. She left him to his own devices, well aware of narrow escapes before from the death he has met now. And, while neglecting all her duty to him, and home, and children, who is to acquit her of being the indirect cause of the accident?"

"But, you see, all this 'might' have happened to the drunken husband of a sober wife, and we are not legally able to recognise her in the matter."

"Very true; but, strictly speaking, such deaths are not accidental; they are something between murder and suicide. If he had been sober, he would not have been on the rails, and if he had possessed a good wife, and a peaceful home, he might have been sober. It is well to aim at the beer-shops, but they are not the only sources of the mischief."

The event, which had furnished sad subject of thought to the wise and good, and food for exciting gossip among the inhabitants of the neighbourhood, was of immense use to the widow herself. Lost as she was, by her own deliberate conduct, to all sense of womanly feeling and delicacy of mind, her husband's awful death was to her the seed of a great harvest. She was "the poor widow, whose drunken husband was killed on the railway." She was "left with a family wholly unprovided for, and had only her own exertions to look to for their support."

"Poor thing! As if it were not enough to have led her a life of misery, but he must shock her nearly to death by such an end!" commented one kind-hearted lady, as she tied up a bundle of clothing and sent it, with a present of money besides, to the widow's house.

While others, equally pitiful and generous, gave as their means allowed to this "case of destitution," without coming to see and inquire into it for themselves. It is singular that it seldom enters these gentle hearts to think that the sin and provocation in such "a case" may not have been all on one side.

So Mrs. Swinden towered above all her neighbours on the stilts of her misfortune and bereavement, put on her gifts of faded mourning, and sometimes with one child, sometimes two or three, presented herself at the houses of the gentry, and told her grievous story in her own lying fashion to servants, and mistresses and masters, wherever she could get a hearing, and often young ladies would come down and give from their little store, and servants would find an old garment in their box, and gather round to see the poor woman whose "case" was in all the newspapers.

"Lightly come, lightly go" is a true proverb. Money's worth is only known to those who work for it, and though there is fear of the snare on the other side, yet under any circumstances, those who work and save are infinitely more respectable than those who beg and spend. "If any man will not work, neither shall he eat," is a rule of the Holy Book, dictated by Him who knows what is in us.

Mrs. Swinden did no work, and she ate, or rather drank, as long as her gifts lasted. Then the bundles of clothing melted rapidly away, and articles that the givers only spared because they thought it a duty to help to clothe the naked and consider the poor, were soon piled on the shelves of the pawnshop, and the half-drunken mother would stagger home to throw her children a few pence to get bread for their craving hunger, while she lay down to sleep off the effects of her own indulgence.

The poor child whose brain had given way under the shock caused by the sudden view of its father's mutilated remains, had never been healthy, and for reasons best known to herself, Mrs. Swinden had made it a member of a burial society, and managed to maintain the usual deposit.

Her thoughts took a dreadful turn as she looked on the little pining creature, and felt the maddening power of the drunkard's thirst. And then the child pined more and shrank more; the coarse food she offered it would not digest, however greedily devoured at first, and there were easy ways of accounting for its illness. So its strength all went, and a little shadow of skin and bone quietly yielded up the breath of life, that a mother's loving care might have cherished into health and bloom, and made a strength and staff to her own old age.

She had watched, not to detain the lingering spark of its earthly existence, as watching mothers yearn to do as long as God permits, but in anxious hope of its quicker departure. And when at last the flicker ceased, and the chill of death had settled on the skeleton frame, she laid it out, and set up a great lamentation at the new "stroke" that had fallen upon her.

An unsuspecting doctor gave the necessary certificate, and the burial society paid the money demanded by a member's death; and again Mrs. Swinden was her own heroine.

The club money and the proceeds of begging expeditions were soon exhausted in such hands as Mrs. Swinden's, and again she cast about for means of replenishing her purse. What could she do? Work? Not if she could help it, certainly. Beg? The givers were tired just now, having been well taxed by the two deaths on which she had traded so successfully. Sell something? She looked round; there was nothing left to sell; the room contained little now but the children, and if any one would buy children, she would certainly have sold them. Steal? Ah, but how? From whom? Why, had she not a victim? Was there not somebody who dared not resist a demand if she chose to make it? The bright thought was worthy of her cause, and forthwith she set about it.

"Money I want, and money I must have," she said to herself. "They will trust me no longer, and I can't live without drink."

So she put her widow's bonnet over her straggling hair and unwashed face (she had preserved the bonnet because of the woeful tale it silently told), and drawing the old shawl, on which no pawnbroker would advance a penny, round her shoulders, she went out to pay a visit.

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CHAPTER XVI.

THE BOTTOM OF THE INCLINE.

BENJAMIN FIELD had to answer Mr. Hill's letter, and recent circumstances made him more than ever anxious for his return. But no word or message was to be got from Mrs. Hill, and he was quite undecided how far it would be right to convey his own fears and opinions to the absent husband.

"It may not be so bad as we fear, you know, dear husband," said Ellen, "and if there is real cause for our idea about it, it will be time enough for him to know, when he is here to find a remedy."

Benjamin shook his head. If there were a ray of light, his own gentle wife would be sure to see it; but he was not sanguine.

"I feel a kind of presentiment about her," said he, "she seems so changed. And when once a woman takes to—Well, well, I'll try not to think of it, and write as earnestly as I dare. It's bad enough in a man, and my own experience prevents me from despairing of one—but in a woman. Oh, Ellen! It does seem as if she could never be reclaimed."

Ellen softly repeated the sweet words which had often encouraged her in days and nights of trial about this very sin, and did not limit them to sex or circumstance:

   "'With God all things are possible,'

   "'Able to save to the uttermost,'

   "'Is anything too hard for the Lord?'"

So Mr. Field wrote a few kind lines, saying that things were not looking bright or happy at home; that Mrs. Hill was evidently out of health, but refused her confidence to real friends; that the baby was far from well, and the other children often cried for him to come home; that work was waiting for him, and that all might yet be well if he would return to home and duty.

Though Mrs. Field felt that she was not a welcome visitor, she called as often as she could spare time to inquire after Mrs. Hill and her children. And she could not but observe the discomfort that now seemed common in that once neat and orderly dwelling, nor fail to note the changed manner of the once kind though hasty mother.

The children seemed always in disgrace about something, were often put to bed long before their usual hour, and were frightened at the sound of their mother's voice; while any allusion to their father was followed by a slap or a push, or the denial of something they wished for.

Mrs. Field felt all this keenly, and took refuge over the cradle, where she ventured now and then to make a remark on the baby.

"Wouldn't you just call with this little one at the doctor's, Mrs. Hill?" she asked, persuasively. "She seems to me not to be getting on at all."

"I don't see any need, thank you," said Mrs. Hill; "she is teething, and you know they always have to suffer from that."

"But she is not growing," persisted Ellen, taking the little soft hand, and laying it on her own; "and she does not crow and kick like a child in health, as she used to do."

"It is nothing but her teeth I tell you," said Jane, impatiently. "Surely I ought to know; she is well enough, except cutting teeth so hard."

"Well," said Ellen, with a suppressed sigh, "if she should be worse, I shall be very glad to come and mind her while you get a good-night's rest."

The baby was more fractious than usual that evening, and Mrs. Hill scrupled not to administer a large dose of the opiate, after which she put all the children to bed, went out for a while, and returning, fastened her door, and made herself comfortable by the fire.

Some time in the night, the elder children were awakened by the piteous crying of the baby, which was laid in its mother's bed, near that in which they slept.

"What shall we do, Daisy?" said the little boy, calling his sister by the pet name her father had bestowed upon her. "Shall we try to wake mother?"

Daisy agreed, and they scrambled to the side of the bed to shake and rouse her, but no mother was there.

"Oh, she isn't come to bed yet, and it's quite dark. Let's go and call her."

Baby cried on, in spite of their pattings and hushings, and the two children made their way to the top of the stairs.

"Mother, oh, mother! Please do come; baby's crying so badly."

But no mother came.

"If we could but get the bottle, and give her some medicine," said the boy; "it always makes her quiet. Shall we go down and get it? There's a light down there."

"I wish daddy was here; he'd carry us down," said Daisy, shivering.

"Hush! Mother will hear," whispered her brother.

The little bare feet pattered cautiously down the stairs, and what they saw caused them to scream with fright.

Their mother was sound asleep, leaning over the table, the candle had burned down, with a tall wick which was just on a level with her cap, already singeing in the flame.

"Oh, she'll be burnt!" screamed the boy, springing forward, and snatching the candle away.

And the little girl, forgetting all caution, shrieked to her to awake.

The mother started up at last, looking wild and frightened, sank down again, rubbed her eyes; and perceiving the children standing terrified before her, tried to comprehend what was the matter.

"What in the world are you doing here?" she called out. "Get to bed this moment, or else—" And she rose with a threatening gesture.

"Mother," said the boy, as he retreated, "baby's crying so badly; we only wanted to ask you to come to her."

"I'll teach you to dictate to me, sir," she exclaimed, rushing towards him.

And in terror, they both flew to the stairs, tumbling up at the risk of coming headlong down again.

But the excited woman was behind them, and, giving each a violent shake and toss as they leaped into bed, poor little Daisy was twisted in the sudden fling, and fell against the bed with a shriek of pain.

Her brother smothered her up to stifle her cries, and soothed her as well as he could, but every movement was followed by moans and sobs, until at last she fell either into sleep or insensibility.

The poor baby was dosed again with the abominable opiate as it lay in the bed, for its mother was not sufficiently sure of her footing to lift it up and measure the potion; and when it was quiet again, she felt the need of something soothing for herself from a larger bottle, and then, half undressing, she laid herself down, took the babe close in her arms, and knew nothing more till the morning.

Then the sun beamed in at the window, and on to the form of a pale baby, lying on its sleeping mother's arm, and on to the little bed, where the moans of a suffering child were being soothed by the caresses of her troubled brother. She said something was the matter with her shoulder, and she could not move her arm.

For some time they bore up, until Daisy cried outright with the boldness of a feeling that something ought to be done for her, and that, angry or not, kind or not, mother must awake.

So they called loudly, and Daisy at last insisted that her brother should shake the pillow, or wake the baby, or do something that should not fail to rouse her, and he went to the side of the bed.

"Oh, dear," said he, "baby does look so white and still."

And then he ventured to touch the little cheek, which was cold as marble.

Frightened out of all caution, he shook his mother, crying wildly, "Oh, mother, see what's the matter with baby; she's dead! She's dead!"

Jane sprang up and gazed upon her child with a horrible fear and dread. But He who said "Suffer the little children to come unto Me" had borne away the young spirit to a better home and safer keeping, and only the small shrunken body lay white and still in her trembling arms.

The brother and sister burst into passionate cries, and the mother sat silent and awed. No tears came to her relief. How had it happened? Had she in her stupor overlaid it? Or was it the drug she had given it last night?

She laid it down, and bidding her son get up and run for a doctor, she seemed to resume at once the energy of her character. She kissed and soothed the little girl, bade her be patient, and she would soon see what ailed her arm, prepared a warm bath for the baby, and did everything that former experience and good sense suggested in such circumstances to do.

She set the house in order with activity long strange to her movements. And by the time the doctor arrived, there was not much to cause a suspicion that things had ever fallen out of their proper train.

Of course, the baby was past human skill.

"She died in a fit," Jane said; "it must have been a fit brought on by teething, from which she had been suffering for many weeks."

The doctor agreed, saying that it often happened so. And knowing Mrs. Hill as a most respectable person forsaken by a worthless husband, he would not pain her with many questions, but certified to that effect, and so this, among hundreds of cases of poisoned babies, escaped further investigation.

"But what have we here?" he asked, as Jane brought him to the little bed where poor Daisy lay moaning with pain and sorrow for her baby sister.

"Dislocated," said the doctor, touching the arm; "some rough pranks, I suppose; swollen badly, but we'll soon make it all right. You have had enough to bear at present," said he, kindly, to the mother. "Can't you send for some woman to give me a little help?"

Jane hesitated, and then feeling that she might not keep up much longer, being conscious of a sick, faint sensation creeping over her, whispered hastily to her little son to run as fast as he could, and bring Mrs. Swinden.

The doctor's quick ear caught the name.

"What!" said he. "The woman whose wretched husband was killed on the railway the other day? She shall touch no patient of mine if I know it. I'm surprised that you should think of her."

There was, however, no need for further consideration, for the little, frightened boy, instinctively aware that help and sympathy were to be found at Mr. Field's, had run on from the doctor's house to tell the sad story, and Ellen was not long in following him home. In her arms, the operation rendered longer and more painful by hours of neglect, was quickly performed, and little Daisy afterwards fell asleep.

Mrs. Field then went into the next room, where the baby lay in another kind of sleep, dressed in clean white night-clothes, ready for the little coffin. Jane stood perfectly still, looking down upon the cold, placid face, that now made no appeal for help, or care, or pity. Ellen drew back instantly, feeling that a mother's grief was not to be intruded upon at such a moment.

But Jane heard her step, and raised her tearless eyes. "Come and look," said she, in a strange, dreamy tone of voice. "She died in a fit."

Ellen looked, not at the babe, but at its mother. There was something inexpressibly painful about the unnatural expression of her face, which, as she looked, became whiter and more rigid than before. She moved nearer, and only just in time, for the unhappy woman, clenching her hands, and muttering from between closed teeth, "If he had done his duty, none of these things would have happened," sank down and fainted, by the side of the babe she had sent to its early rest.

CHAPTER XVII.

DELUSIONS DISPELLED.

MRS. HILL had buried her baby, and the close and kind attentions of Mr. and Mrs. Field had kept less faithful friends away, so that the influences for good had for a time another opportunity. But there were days when even they could not be always at hand, and Jane had learned to find resources against thought and conscience.

Matthew did not come, neither had Benjamin Field heard from him again, and the suspense was trying. The sufferings of the little girl, "father's pet," were a perpetual reproach to her unhappy mother, and often she pretended that occupation about her household duties kept her from the child's bedside.

For Daisy was very weak and pale, and did not care to get up, though the doctor had said she might run about again, provided she was careful not to play too roughly.

"And you must mind and not knock her about," said he to her brother, who heard joyfully that his little playmate might come downstairs.

"I don't knock her about," said the boy, his eager smiles turning to indignant frowns; "it was—" He paused suddenly, his face crimsoned, and he hid it in Daisy's pillow.

"Well, my child," said the doctor, "I'm glad to see that you cannot tell a falsehood without feeling ashamed of it. How could your sister get such a hurt except in some rough gambols that you got up to together? Well, well, you'll both be careful in future, I dare say. Mrs. Hill, if you could borrow somebody's perambulator, a ride would do the little maid good."

And so the doctor felt it safe now to give up the case into the mother's hands. Who could bring a sick child round so well as a kind and watchful mother?

Mrs. Hill said nothing. She could not comfortably look her own children in the face, and a sort of fear, almost dislike, sprang up against her own boy, who had so nearly defended himself at her expense.

And had she not allowed a false imputation to rest upon him? How would "he" feel towards "her?" She felt despicable in his eyes, and in her own; and, unsoftened by true penitence, made herself harder and colder than ever.

Daisy begged to lie still; no perambulator was sought for—Mrs. Hill did not like "borrowing;" and there was no improvement. Often the little feverish lips would utter the dear name of "father," and Jane knew that a kind word from her would bring him to that bedside, but she would not speak or write it, and the little one longed in vain. It was affecting to see how the children, in the habit of former days, tried to keep themselves and their room tidy even now.

"Brother, what are you doing?" Daisy asked one day, when he had been very quiet for some time.

"Only cutting out some letters," said he; "I'll show you soon."

So Daisy tried to be patient.

At last, he jumped up from the floor, bringing his slate and showing her some letters cut out of any odd papers or advertisements, such as are constantly left at people's doors.

"You can't read it, Daisy, but I can. I've written it on my slate first to be sure. I've got all the letters, and now I'll read them to you."

So, feeling very proud and happy, he read:—

   "DEAR FATHER, COME HOME; DAISY WANTS YOU."

"Oh, how nice!" cried Daisy, her bright eyes dilating. "Will he come?"

"I hope so. I'm going to make Mr. Field send it in a letter he knows where. I shall stick them on a paper if I can find a bit."

JOSY'S LETTER TO FATHER.

"Will mother let you?" asked his sister, apprehensively.

"I haven't told her; I don't want to," he replied, with a cloudy face. "You mustn't tell her either."

After a long search in every place he could think of, a half sheet of white paper was found; he begged a morsel of gum, and the letters, in tolerable order, were stuck upon it. He was always ready to run on errands when anything was wanted, and impatiently waited his opportunity.

At last it came, and, running into Mr. Field's, he hastily confided the paper to Mrs. Field, begging her to get it sent as soon as possible, for poor Daisy sadly wanted her father, and so did he.

Mrs. Field, deeply touched, clasped the little fellow in her arms, and the tears came into the eyes of both.

"Oh, if mother would do so," said he; "but I must run back." And rubbing away the drops, he set off amidst assurances that the letter should go that day. And it did so.

"Well!" said Daisy, eagerly, as, out of breath, he rushed up to her side.

"It's all right; it will go," said he.

"And father will come and see Daisy again. Oh, brother, but what if I was to go away like baby—would you mind?" said she, softly.

"Oh, Daisy, don't say that; I can't bear it," said the boy, quickly.

"I won't if you don't like, but it was only Jesus taking her away in her sleep, because perhaps He thought mother wasn't—couldn't mind her well enough," she added, hesitatingly.

"But I'm minding you, He needn't come for you," said the brother, anxiously.

"Where's your mother, children?" asked a loud, sharp voice of some one who stood looking on them from the end of the room.

Josy had not latched the door below, Mrs. Hill was not in sight, and the visitor walked up to where she had heard the sound of voices.

"Are you not well yet?" said she, advancing as the children shuffled close together. "Oh, I'm not going to do any harm to you. Where's your mother, I say?"

"I'm here," said Mrs. Hill from below. "Please to come down. Why did you go upstairs?"

"Because I'd a mind to," said Mrs. Swinden, rudely, and turning to go down again.

"We'll shut her out," said the boy, running to close the door. "I can't bear her—the ugly woman! She makes me feel angry and wretched."

But Mrs. Swinden heard the words, rushed instantly back again, and gave the boy a sharp box on the ears, whereupon Daisy screamed with rage and terror, and her brother struck out arms and legs with heedless fury.

Jane was on the point of springing to the rescue, when she checked herself, suppressed her passion, and called from below, "I'm here; come down if you want me. Please don't meddle with the children."

"I'll kill you if you dare to kick at me again, sir," shouted the woman. "A pretty way to bring children up to be sure. I wonder you arn't ashamed of him." And red with anger and exertion with the scuffle, she stood before Mrs. Hill, wondering much that the mother had not come up to take the part of her child.

"I'm sorry if he was naughty to you," said Mrs. Hill, with a strange mixture of pride and fear in her tone. "What is it you want me for?"

"Well, I suppose I can sit down; and though it's daytime, I dare say you can find me something to drink—I'm thirsty-and then I'll tell you."

"I've only my beer that's left for supper," said Mrs. Hill; "you shall have that and welcome."

And she produced a bottle and emptied the contents into a glass, which the woman drank off at one breath.

"I should like some more," said she, impudently.

"I'm sorry; I've no more in the house," said Jane, in a great fright at her behaviour. "But if you would get some for yourself, here's the money for it."

"A paltry sixpence," said Mrs. Swinden, taking it, nevertheless. "Now, we had better have a settling. You must pay me for the gin, and the cordials, and all I've got for you at odd times."

"I don't owe you anything," said Jane; "I paid you every penny you ever spent for me, and more too."

"Oh, no, you didn't; you've lost count, Mrs. Hill. You get plenty of money from your husband, you know; and I am a lone widow, and it's a shame for you to be in my debt. So pay me at once, or something on account."

Mrs. Hill again protested against the claim.

"Very well, take your choice. If you don't pay me, I'll summons you, and expose everything. I'll tell how you went to the Lion for drink, because you were afraid to go again to the Crown. I'll tell how you behaved that night you got drunk the first time, and the trouble I had with you. Ha, ha! Do you think I've forgotten what the pretty, tidy Mrs. Hill looked like? Who'd ever have believed it? Will you pay me now, I say?"

"How much do you say it is?" gasped Jane, white with shame and passion.

"Ten shillings now, for those things I said, and the rest when I can look up the account," said the triumphant woman, maliciously.

"This is the last I will ever give you," said Jane, hastily counting out the sum, almost the last in her possession. "Now go, and never darken my door again."

"That's as I please," said her late friend, saucily, and slowly moving towards the door; "I'll come when I choose. Good-by for the present, and teach your boy better manners than to call ladies ugly, specially when they're such friends as me."

As soon as she was over the threshold, Jane dashed the door close, bolted and locked it, against the jeers and laughter of the "lady" outside, sat down and covered her face, pressing her hands upon her forehead, and groaned, and almost foamed with a frenzy of passion.

Poor Matthew's wish that the proud spirit might be humbled began to be fulfilled now. Oh, what a sense of horrible degradation was crushing her! What frightful shame to lie at the mercy of such a person as this! Bolts and bars could not keep out the bitterness of such a condition as the tempter's insulting mockery had set before her. What could she do?

Oh, had she but cast herself, all helpless and sinful as she was, at the feet of the compassionate Jesus, she might have found peace; peace by the blood that cleanseth from all sin, and the Spirit that renews to holiness; but there is "a sorrow that worketh death," a taste of "the worm that dieth not," and this was gnawing at the heart of the unhappy Jane.

Long she sat swelling with rage and shame. Bitterly she cursed the tempter who had triumphed over her, and there was nothing but despair in the end. She had yielded herself to the soothing influences of a fatal charm, and found herself entangled in the strong meshes of a demon in disguise.

All at once she started up, and rushed to her cupboard. There stood a bottle, nearly full of the strong spirit to which she had begun to resort in secret, and instead of dashing it to fragments, and bursting her bonds, she swallowed glass after glass of it with mad haste, and any action, however wild or shocking, was not too bad for the raving maniac she became.

With incoherent fury, she denounced Mrs. Swinden, and threatened revenge; she kicked and broke her furniture, and threw several things into the fire, tossed the cradle, lately occupied by her lost baby, out into the yard, threw Matthew's chair after it, smashed a whole row of plates on the shelf, and made so fearful a noise that passers-by, failing to open the door, managed to take a look in at the window, and passed on, saying, "It's only a drunken woman!"—The most hateful thing on the face of the fallen earth.

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CHAPTER XVIII.

FRIENDS WORTH KEEPING.

"ROBERT," said a gentlemanly young man about Robert Taylor's own height and age, laying his hand familiarly upon his shoulder, "my father says it is a pity poor Matthew should be pining for his letter, though he is so foolish as not to give his address to the postmaster; it may be some time before he is able to go for it."

"He shall not pine long if it is there, sir," said Robert; "I am going to inquire for it this evening after work; I told my mother this morning not to expect me home until late."

"I thought so," returned the other; "and I mean to go with you, unless you have better company, so expect to see me somewhere about the first turnpike."

Robert was very well pleased, and having brought a change of dress with him to the works, he knew that his companion need not be ashamed of his appearance.

Soon after six o'clock, a light vehicle, capable of holding two people, overtook him at the appointed spot.

Young Mr. Dixon drove briskly on for some time in silence, during which we may take opportunity to say that he was now in partnership with his father, a steady, active man of business, and greatly beloved by all in his employ. The early affection he had felt for the son of the respected foreman had ripened into a strong friendship, which nothing on either side had ever interrupted, and which the excellent sense and self-respect of the workman preserved from intrusion or presumption.

"Robert," said Mr. Archibald, after a while, "you have never asked me anything about certain reports which you must have heard. Don't you care what I do for myself?"

"Yes, indeed, I do care," exclaimed Robert, with a rush of bright colour to his honest face; "and, if I hadn't felt good hope that all is right for you, I should have risked even displeasing you by speaking; but otherwise it was not for me to mention such a subject until you gave me opportunity."

"That's like my honest friend," said the other; "but what is your hope about it, on which you have settled down so satisfactorily?"

"That the young lady is a servant of the Lord Jesus Christ, and, by all I can hear, worthy the love of a Christian gentleman," replied Robert, promptly.

"Then you can congratulate me when I tell you that all is settled, and that our God—yours and mine, Robert—is going to bestow on me His best earthly gift, 'a prudent wife'?"

"Yes, I can and do, with all my heart, sir," said Robert; "I saw you several times attending on that lady, and I could feel no rest until I found out all I could about her."

"And what did you hear, may I ask?"

"Nothing but what is good and right?" said Robert, warmly. "That she is a true Christian, with a sweet and gentle temper, is a self-denying daughter, and an accomplished lady, kind to the poor, and thoughtful for every one about her—such a person as your dear mother will be happy to call daughter-in-law."

"Well done, Robert, I could not have made a better sketch myself," said his gratified friend; "and had it been otherwise, you would have told me your thoughts on a matter so important to my happiness."

"I would, sir: I could not have done otherwise."

"Then, Robert, you will understand the feeling which constrains me to speak candidly to you. I am anxious about you, Robert, and some dear to me are anxious too. Miss Eaton knows our regard for you and your family, and is kindly interested in all I love. She employed a young dressmaker lately, of whom in many respects she did not feel able to approve, and was greatly grieved to hear your name mentioned as the admirer of this pretty but indiscreet young woman. It had been, I was going to say, boasted of before the servants, who told their mistress. I know you too well to suppose you would trifle on such a matter, and I want to know the truth from yourself."

"You shall hear it," said Robert, with a blush of annoyance and indignation at the construction that had already been put upon his conduct; "I do acknowledge that I was attracted by the beauty of Lydia Brooks, and that I have tried to ascertain what sort of disposition and principles belonged to it. I have no notion of falling in love with what merely pleases the eye, but I can't tell what I might do if further knowledge of character satisfied my heart."

"You would then yield the devoted attachment of that heart, I know, Robert, and I want to have it worthily bestowed."

"I do not expect to have it called forth, Mr. Archy," said Robert. "My good Aunt Hayes has taken up the cause, and circumstances are eliciting sufficient to guide me safely, under God's kind providence."

"Then you are not hurt at what I have said? You know, Robert, I would not speak or think disrespectfully of any one dear to you."

"I do know it, and thank you heartily for such real friendship, Mr. Archy; and the only thing that causes me regret is to see a woman so gifted with powers to please, and make somebody's life happy, set upon throwing them away for a little idle vanity."

"She is a selfish, giddy, vain creature, so far as Miss Eaton can ascertain," said Mr. Archibald, warmly; "and to see you choose such a woman would distress me. But we can trust your good Aunt Hayes, and of course I ought to have trusted you also, never to attach yourself to a woman who does not fear God. Only one sees such strange miserable things in this queer world sometimes. I have not selected my wife for her beauty, Robert, though she is lovely enough in my eyes."

"And in every one's else," said Robert, smiling, as he sprang out at the post-office to inquire for the expected letter.

By the open window of the bedroom over Miss Lydia's special apartment, and in spite of the advice of his landlady, sat the invalid lodger, looking very pale and weak yet. His usually curly hair hung lank about his brow, and an expression of anxiety was on his countenance; his tall figure drooped wearily, and altogether Matthew Hill was very much changed for the worse in appearance.

It was a sweet, calm evening, the soft air refreshed him, and many an effort he made to give attention to the little book that lay open on the table at his side.

"It's of no use," he thought at last, closing the book, "I can't pretend to care as I ought for the news from a better world, while I'm longing so hard for some in this." And again he gazed along the road wishing for restored strength to try another journey to the post-office at B—. His young friend had not been to see him either that day, and Mr. Hill felt alone in the world.

Presently, however, a little carriage drove up, and in a few seconds, up three steps at a time came Robert Taylor, and laid two letters before him.

"How kind! How thoughtful!" murmured the grateful man, as he clasped Robert's hand. "Don't go until I have opened them."

"They have been lying for some days," said Robert. "I will wait and see whether you want to answer them to-night."

But Mr. Hill did not hear. He was gazing in mute surprise upon the seven words in printed letters which me his eager eyes on tearing open the first letter.

   "DEAR FATHER, COME HOME, DAISY WANTS YOU."

It was some minutes before the other letter, written by Mr. Field, was opened, and its contents, though cautiously and hopefully worded, impressed the unhappy wanderer with the conviction that some untold evil had befallen.

"Will you have pen and ink? Shall I post a letter for you?" gently asked Robert, thinking the fit of musing had lasted long enough for an invalid.

"To-morrow, if I cannot travel, but I must try," said Matthew. "I cannot say anything now. Will you pray for me? For I am very very miserable, and I deserve it all."

"I don't like to leave you miserable," said Robert, kindly; "but though I can't help you, I know who can. He says,—

   "'Call upon Me in the day of trouble, I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify Me;'

   "'Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and He shall sustain thee;'

   "'Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.'"

And with the last words, Robert softly closed the door, leaving the sick man still gazing on the printed sentence before him.

Left alone, Matthew Hill tried to think, and found the effort only further exhibited the confusion of his mind. Yet over the chaos seemed to float in tender tone the last words of his young friend,—

   "Come unto Me . . . I will give you rest."

   "Come unto Me."

"Oh, I must. I cannot bear this.

   "My God, teach me, hear me, help me!"

He cried, in an agony of distress, and sinking on his knees by the chair in which he had been sitting.

Tears, bitter, miserable tears, forced themselves into his eyes, his hand pressed hard on his burning forehead, and he was conscious of nothing for some time but an intolerable load of remorse and wretchedness.

Was it strange that he thought not now of others' faults or tempers or unkindnesses? He saw something of himself, his cruel desertion of duty, his stubborn pride, his former odious self-indulgence.

"Oh, what a sinful wretch I have been!" he murmured. "Can the good God ever pity or forgive me? Oh! May I but see them again—my poor wife, my darling children! Shame, shame on me, for an unnatural father, an unfeeling husband. Can they ever love me any more?"

Now was poor Matthew indeed humbled. He saw himself now in the light of God's holy word, and lay with all his pride, and self-will, and crushing sense of utter worthlessness before the Cross of Christ. And that was the right place to find help; there hung the only arm that could raise up the fallen. And now was felt the "repentance" that the Prince and Saviour was "exalted" to give. "Remission of sins" was in twin-relationship with "godly sorrow."

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CHAPTER XIX.

IN "THE SHADOW OF A GREAT ROCK."

"I CAN see how it is very well," thought Miss Lydia Brooks. "I know that old woman thinks her nephew admires me, as I know he does too; and so she wants to make a Methodist of me for his sake, that when he makes me the offer, I may be ready to say, 'Yes, if you please,' without any conditions of my own. But I've got a spirit, and a will, and I'll do as I like in spite of her. Dear me, how comfortable it will be to get out of the way of that tiresome Dick, and mother always dinning at me about being tidy, and keeping hours, and so on, and to have nothing to do but amuse myself all the day long. I don't think I shall even make my own things when I'm married. I know what wages he gets, for I got it out of his little brother, and he can afford to keep me like a lady, and he shall; and if he minds me, I'll have him to hold his head as high as any of the best of them."

And the vision went on until Miss Lydia saw herself riding in her own carriage, and her husband, at the very least, master of the Dixons' works; unless, indeed, the young gardener, who was going to be another Sir Joseph Paxton, should make her an offer first. But somehow he was always looking at that Emily Taylor when he had the chance, though what he could see in her was a mystery. She would be just like her old aunt, Mrs. Hayes, and never likely to raise herself in the world.

With these and similar preparations for the charge and management of a working man's home, Miss Lydia tossed her pretty head a good many times in contempt of Milly Taylor and Aunt Hayes. But therewith came the recollection that she was engaged to finish the silk dress that day, and so it came to pass that she was one of the party who met around Mrs. Taylor's tea-table in the parlour that afternoon.

Susan was busy with some cakes of a favourite kind, and Mrs. Hayes was directing some operation of the oven, which the younger Susan had taken in hand, when three young ladies tapped at the door, and were instantly admitted.

"Oh, Mrs. Hayes!" exclaimed one, flying up to the old lady and giving her a hearty kiss. "You're busy, and we must not stay. We only brought Mrs. Taylor some flowers, and mamma says if you like, Milly is to come and have tea with you to-day. Papa told us that Robert is giving Mr. Matthew a drive out for the first time, and that they are coming to take tea here, so we knew you would like to have them all round you: don't you now?"

"Indeed I do like it, and more than like it; I thank my God for it, dear young lady," said Mrs. Hayes. "You know the old woman cannot expect to be here again, at least it isn't very likely."

"Now, don't say that," cried another of the bright girls, saucily patting the firm, rosy old cheek; "I don't want to cry, and I shall if I'm never to see you any more."

"Ah, let us make sure, dear child, that we shall and must meet again, by being friends in the Lord Jesus. You know He is my dear Saviour and Lord: is He yours?"

"Well, I hope so; I don't know. I'm so giddy, they say."

"The more need of such a Friend to lean on and be ruled by," said Mrs. Hayes. "Be sure the Lord is looking for you; for they who told you that you are giddy, maybe told Him too."

"There, Mrs. Hayes, I've set out those flowers prettily, haven't I?" said a third. "And now for mamma's message to you. She says she must have you for a day or two all to herself, and she won't let us in to plague you until after tea; and you are to fix your own day, and we will come for you."

And then, with a kiss from each, and a kind message to Mrs. Taylor, the gay girls departed.

"Bless them, Lord bless them!" said Mrs. Hayes, reverently, as if she meant it. "And let us tell the dear young things who love to show kindness and sympathy to those who are a step or two below them in the ranks of society, that the fervent blessing of an old Christian is no light matter. It may be the prayer that availeth much, and on some future in the stream of time may hover over them with a bounteous answer from Him who never forgets."

"Bless me!" thought Miss Lydia, who had been a listening observer, and used the same word as a senseless expression of wonder. "How much they make of her! And she nothing but an old farm woman!"

"May I see your home, Robert?" Mr. Hill had said to his new friend: "I fancy it is a happy one."

"It is a happy home. God has been very gracious to us all," said the young man, "and I am only waiting the doctor's leave to take you there."

A pleasant little plan was arranged between them, and so it came also to pass that Mr. Hill was a welcome guest that day.

Now it is curious how young people possess themselves of intelligence that does not concern them, but so it is; and Mr. Lewis, the young gardener at Lord Crewe's, found out that Emily Taylor was spending the evening at home. He could not very gracefully invite himself to tea, but as soon as possible afterwards, he made his appearance—dressed, as Miss Lydia remarked to her intimate friend, "for all the world like a real gentleman"—with a new plan he had concocted for warming his greenhouses, and on which he wished to consult Mr. Taylor.

The conversation was easy and pleasant to those who had met for friendly intercourse, and religion did not sit up with a starched frill, like a stranger of olden times invited for duty's sake, and formal enough to scare anybody from wishing its acquaintance, but with its sweet ever-present influence shed peace and cheerfulness over heart and lip.

At last, however, it struck Miss Lydia Brooks that she was playing too insignificant a part in the conversation, and having a combination of clever purposes to answer by a display of her sentiments—a proof of her power over the young engineer, a silencer for presumptuous Mrs. Hayes, and an eclipse of the modest Emily—she took the first opportunity to start a new subject.

"Oh, Mrs. Taylor," she began, in an insinuating tone, "I want to mention to you a little scheme of ours, and which my father and mother hope you will join. There's a cheap excursion train to the old castle at Holme next Sunday afternoon, and it would be so nice to make up a large party to go. We should have tea at the inn, ramble about and see the ruins, and get home by the late train, which is to bring back the excursionists."

"On Sunday, did you say, my dear?" said Susan, thinking it possible she might have been mistaken.

"Yes, on Sunday; 'we' don't think it any harm to take a little country air and a little pleasure on a Sunday; after morning service, of course, I mean. Our duty to God I know should come first." And the young speaker looked round with complacency. What could anybody say after that pious conclusion?

"It is the Lord's day, my dear, and we never require more pleasure than its observance gives us," said Mrs. Taylor, quietly.

"I suppose you like fair play, Miss Brooks," said Mr. Taylor; "but if you grant it, what would become of your excursion and your tea? The clerks at the stations, the engine-driver, the stoker, the guard, the innkeeper, and sundry others employed, may like a little change of air and a little pleasure as much as you do. And if they were to insist upon having it, Sunday excursionists must forego their selfish enjoyments."

"Oh, but father says they would rather have the money than the rest. And if so, we may as well take the benefit such their choice," said Lydia, quite a match, she thought, for narrow-minded arguments.

"Well, then, let us take the right ground at once," said Mr. Taylor, "and admire the wisdom and kindness of Almighty God, who fixed a portion of man's time for resting from the business and things of this world both to recruit his bodily powers and to consider the future state to which all of us are bound, and to worship Him who alone can fit us for the enjoyment of it. If you were to be called to the throne of England, Miss Lydia, and didn't know the hour when the summons would come, would you not like a little time to keep yourself ready for it?"

"Very likely I should," said Lydia, laughing.

"The children of God," continued Mr. Taylor, "have an inheritance laid up for them, 'a crown of life' that nothing can deprive them of; they don't know the minute when they may be called to take possession, and they feel the need, the joy, and the wisdom of having a portion of time separated from the business or pleasures, if you think them such, of this present world, and calmly give up their hearts and minds to things which shall last for ever. In this view of the Lord's day, it is wrong for me to help to deprive others of the same opportunity. If they do not think of their immortal souls, I ought at least to do my part towards reminding them."

"But what if some don't take your view of the day, Mr. Taylor?" said Mr. Lewis. "What if some think that there is now no such command?"

"I might ask you in return," said Mr. Taylor, "how you prove that a law made before man sinned, renewed when God entered into a covenant with a chosen people, and still thankfully regarded by all who are now put into the place of that people, was ever annulled by divine authority."

"Your great example Jesus Christ did not observe it so rigidly," said Lewis; "He was continually in trouble for disregarding it."

"For disregarding the formal observance which Pharisees had substituted for heart-service to the Lord of the Sabbath," said Mr. Taylor; "but because He distinctly taught that 'it is lawful to do good on the Sabbath day,' would you presume to imply that he meant it was unnecessary to do good on other days?"

"Can anybody lend me a Bible?" asked Mr. Lewis. "I know there's a passage that says just what I mean."

Mr. Taylor and Robert each quietly drew a small, well-thumbed Bible from their pockets, while the younger children who were sitting by sprang up and quickly rushed round Mr. Lewis with three more, giving him a choice of size.

After a good deal of turning over leaves, while everybody waited, Robert generously came to the rescue. "Is this it?" said he, handing his Bible opened at the fourteenth chapter of the Epistle to the Romans.

Mr. Lewis took it, and read to himself.

"Ah, yes, thank you, this is exactly what I wanted, and is quite conclusive to my mind."

And he read in a clear, satisfied tone at the fourth verse, picking out the sentences that seemed to suit him.

   "'Who art thou that judgest another man's servant? to his own master he standeth or falleth. One man esteemeth one day above another: another esteemeth every day alike. Let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind.'

"Now, what can be more satisfactory than that? I beg to ask. So you see, Miss Brooks, you have the same authority for your way of enjoying your Sunday as our friends here have for theirs."

Miss Lydia smiled graciously, and thought Mr. Lewis an exceedingly nice, polite young man.

"There is such a thing as handling the Word of God deceitfully, but allow me to say another word before you consider the argument ended," said William Taylor. "You must not treat that book like a dictionary, which gives you the meaning of a word, without any connection with what stands before or after it. The Word of God interprets itself. Let me ask you to observe to whom that chapter is written. It treats of the mutual forbearance of brethren, strong and weak. What brethren? 'To all that be in Rome, beloved of God, called to be saints,' whose 'faith was spoken of throughout the whole world;' who were 'justified by faith,' and had 'peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ;' who were to 'put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make not provision for the flesh to fulfil the lusts thereof.'

"Now, of such it might safely be said, 'He that regardeth the day, regardeth it unto the Lord; and he that regardeth not the day, to the Lord he doth not regard it;' 'for whether we live, we live unto the Lord; and whether we die, we die unto the Lord: whether we live therefore, or die, we are the Lord's.'

"Such are safely free from the judgment of the formalist, who would make religion to consist in 'meat and drink, and observance of holy days, or keeping of Sabbaths,' making everything of the shadow, and losing the substance it pointed to. But none others are addressed here, and to none others does this apostolic argument apply."

"I should say, sir," said Mr. Lewis, coldly, "that the Bible is as much for me as for you."

"A part of it, certainly," said Mr. Taylor, gently. "It only recognises two classes, believers and unbelievers; it has different words for each, and your share of it is according to your place with one or the other. If you ask me, I can truly say before God and my own conscience, that I do keep and highly regard the Lord's day, that I thank Him for it as one of the best blessings of my country and one of the workman's dearest boons. On it by lawful right I claim rest from my daily toil, and opportunity to worship Him among the people 'gathered together in His name;' on it I can instruct my children, arm myself afresh for the duties of life, and enjoy my earthly, while looking forward to my heavenly, home."

"It's all very well for you, sir, I dare say," said Mr. Lewis, somewhat chafed at having no answer ready.

"Well, then, suffer me to ask, Is it equally well with you? Can you say before God and your own conscience, 'I do not care to keep the Lord's day, I disregard it "unto the Lord;" I neither avail myself, and for my pleasure I hinder others from availing themselves, of opportunities for worship and hearing His Word; I like to do my "pleasure on His holy day," not considering it "a delight," or "the holy of the Lord," or "honourable," and all this "unto the Lord;" I speak my own words, and visit my own companions, "unto the Lord;" I disagree with all the Bible says about faith, and love, and service, about glorifying Him, and doing good to the souls of my fellow-creatures, "unto the Lord;" and this negative way of being a Christian man is my offering "unto the Lord," and my way of being ready for the eternal Sabbath in glory with Him?' Say, dear young friend, is this a safe, wise way?"

"You think you have the best of it, I see, Mr. Taylor," said Lewis; "and I don't profess to have the Bible so glib on my tongue; but I have books at home that I could quote to you if I had time, which put matters in a very different light."

"You mean 'darkness,' young man," said Mrs. Hayes, firmly. "To the law and to the testimony, if they speak not according to this word, it is because there is no light in them."

"Now that old woman is down upon him too," thought Miss Lydia; "it's quite too bad."—"Perhaps, Mr. Taylor," she immediately interposed, "you will let the young people judge for themselves."

"Those who are old enough to have judgment," said William; "the others will submit without question to mine."

"Then, Mr. Robert and Miss Milly," she cried, "will you think about my father's plan, and join us?"

"We have been too happy in the way my father has explained to you to wish for any change," said Robert; "and if you fairly represent it at home, Miss Brooks, I think your influence would induce your parents to consider and try it for themselves."

"I am not converted to it yet," said Lydia, flippantly.

The presence of the young gardener and Miss Lydia had marred some of the pleasure of this visit to Mr. Hill, but he was not sorry to have heard such a view of religion from the words and experience of his host. And he resolved with God's blessing to rule his own house in future after such a pattern. This was the happiest home he had ever seen, and the reason he justly ascribed to the fact that it was a Christian home.

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