CHAPTER VII.

GAMES AND ENTERTAINMENTS.

 

ALL this had occurred long before our first introduction to the young lady. She still continued to give lessons in music at Madame La Vergne's school, but received no compensation except in the case of three wealthy pupils. The amount received from these three just defrayed the expense for tuition, etc., for two misses she was educating. One of these, Annie Leman, gave promise of great proficiency in music.

 

Marion had speedy occasion to remember her resolution with regard to Mr. Lambert. She was making some visits in a street crowded with tenement houses, and had for the moment become separated from Hepsey. With a basket on her arm she was trying to make her way up a crazy flight of stairs when she heard a quick step behind her.

 

"You have caused me a pretty race," shouted a man's voice, which she instantly recalled as belonging to her irascible friend. "Good for heart complaint, very!" putting his hand upon his breast and breathing quickly. Possessing himself of her basket, he lifted the cover, and said with a sneer, "Just as I supposed; tea and sugared dainties—ought to be arrested—idiotic—pests to society—humbug—sentiment and nonsense!" He was muttering away, when he caught her look of pity, which rendered him furious.

 

"How dare you come here?" he shouted. "You, who claim to belong to decent society. You, a chit of a girl, alone and unprotected in such a region of filth and pollution."

 

Marion's cheeks flushed with anger, and she was going to retort in a like strain, but something in his appearance checked her.

 

He looked so thin and wan and friendless. Suddenly the anger faded away and with a smile she held out her hand for the basket, saying playfully,—

 

"If you had waited a minute, you would have seen that I am not alone here; and I have good company while you are near to protect me."

 

"Nonsense!" His mouth twitched and she was sure his eyes twinkled at this unexpected retort. When finding herself mistress of the situation, she asked,—

 

"How dare you come here? It is very dangerous," pointing to the staircase, which Hepsey at this moment was trying to climb.

 

"Saw you—thought you—danger—better send police—not fit for one of your sex."

 

He turned off into one of the filthy rooms, and they heard him scolding the inmates as though he enjoyed it.

 

"What a brute!" muttered Hepsey; but Marion Only laughed, adding, "I'm not a bit afraid of him."

 

As they were leaving the court he came up out of a cellar and joined them.

 

"Delightful vicinity; very healthy, too!" pointing to a stagnant pool of filth in which a pig was wallowing. He shrugged his shoulders, chuckling with mirth.

 

"I see you enjoy it as much as we do, Mr. Lambert. It's so good for the spirits to see people enjoying themselves." A group of boys were playing marbles on the uneven pavement, and scarcely moved for them to pass.

 

"Get out of the path," he shouted, striking his cane right and left. "Don't you see you're in the way of your betters?"

 

"Oh, Mr. Lambert!" exclaimed Marion, "you have hurt that boy," as one of the lads put his hand to his head, sending after them a terrible oath.

 

"Pshaw! they're not tender—good for them—business to get out of the way." But when they were about to turn out of the street and parted company, they saw him hurrying back to the group, shaking his cane and shouting, "Wait! Wait!"

 

Curious to know what he would do, Marion went back to the head of the street, and saw the eccentric old man throw a handful of coins to the boys, as he could not get them to wait for another beating.

 

"What a disappointed life he must have had," she said to Hepsey, after walking in silence for some minutes. "I wonder whether he has any heart left."

 

"Not likely, miss," was the brief reply.

 

A few weeks later Marion was having quite a jubilee in her parlors. She had invited all the older classes in the mission school, and was entertaining them with a play called "Shadows." At the end of the back parlor was a wide door across which a white curtain was stretched, and the children sitting in the darkened rooms saw behind the curtain scenes which made them open both eyes and mouth in astonishment. A man was sitting in a chair in a doctor's office and the physician was examining him. First the outside of his head, then the inside, taking out with pincers, one tooth after another and putting them in again, taking from the patient's throat tumblers, plates, long-handled kitchen spoons, a hammer, and at last an umbrella, which had to be pulled and jerked, till the patient shrieked.

 

They were in the midst of all this when Marion heard a familiar voice muttering,—

 

"Fool's play,—miserable waste—time,—money,—better send them to the penitentiary at once."

 

Since their late interview Marion had thought much of the strange, lonely old man, and had nearly made up her mind that he only tried to disguise his real feelings by his outlandish manner.  She gave him her hand cordially, as she said,—

 

"I did not invite you to my party, Mr. Lambert, but I am very glad you came. I was just needing some help.  My doctor in there needs a new patient: come, I will introduce you to him."

 

"Patient, eh! Well, I need a doctor badly enough. What do you want me to do?"

 

"Only to have your head cut off, sir."

 

"Hem! modest request,—very civil, must say. My head is as 'valuable to me as—yours, for instance."

 

But he followed her to the hall, from which they could pass to the room in the rear.

 

"Your head will be restored in as good a condition as it is now," she explained, with an arch smile.

 

Presently the children saw the old gentleman take his seat in the chair, his long beard distinctly visible through the curtain.

 

"What do you complain of?" they heard the doctor ask.

 

"Liver!" shouted the patient. "Haven't slept a wink for ten years."

 

"Not liver, but conscience,—diseased conscience." This was Miss Howard's voice. "It needs reorganizing, sir. It affects the whole body, sir. I shall begin with the head and cut away all the diseased part until we come to soundness, sir."

 

"Is this the way you treat your patients? I'll not stand it. Cut off my head, indeed!"

 

"Absolute necessity, sir. If you wish to be cured, there must be no delay."

 

"Pretty sight for the public,—man minus head."

 

"My salve, sir, my famous Royal Recuperative Salve, known throughout the world, sir, will make your head grow again in a few hours, sir."

 

"Don't believe a word of such humbug; but cut away; something must be done."

 

The spectators held their breath as they saw the knife cut deep into the flesh, then heard the saw cracking the bone, and, presently, after a terrible groan, the head was severed from the body and thrown to the floor.

 

"Just in time, sir," exclaimed the doctor, cheerfully.  "Disease checked in time; heart and lungs, and liver too, all right. Now for the salve!"  They saw him rub the neck thoroughly with ointment from a box, and then the patient was carefully moved from the chair.

 

The children remained in their seats awestruck, but the gas was relit and Miss Howard came into the parlor looking particularly smiling. Wonder of wonders. It was scarcely fifteen minutes before the patient appeared, leaning on the arm of the doctor, his head erect and firm as ever.

 

"Miraculous cure," he muttered. "Yes, I'll write an account for your advertising paper. Head all right; little tenderness here, that's all," pointing to his throat.

 

"Then," said Dr. James, laughing heartily, as he took off his false mustache, "I will bid you good day, sir, and wish you joy of your new head."

 

Mr. Lambert threw himself into a chair and went off into convulsions of laughter.

 

"Outdoes the theatre by all odds. Hurrah for the Royal Recuperative Salve to cure diseased consciences! I'll take twenty bottles! Hurrah!"

 

In the mean time Marion took the children behind the curtain and explained to them the method by which these wonders were accomplished. She recalled James, to show them that he only passed his hand down by the side of the throat, when Hepsey, concealed from view, passed to him tumblers, umbrella, etc., all of which, in the shadow, seemed to come from the throat.

 

The decapitated head was made of pasteboard, cut to resemble an old man with a beard.

 

The apartments occupied by Marion were situated in a fashionable part of the city. Wishing to be entirely independent, and yet desirous of avoiding the publicity of a hotel, she had persuaded Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell, friends of her parents, to hire this house next to a hotel and allow her the entire use of the second floor. Her meals being sent in from the table d'hôte, she could indulge her hospitality without burdening her friends, who were advanced in age. Besides Hepsey, she had a boy of sixteen years, whom she employed in various ways, accompanying her in stormy weather in her visits to the poor, going errands, etc. This boy, Jim, or, as she called him, James Kelly, was one of the first-fruits of her mission work, and, being an orphan like herself, she was deeply interested in his welfare.

 

At the death of her parents, their home in the country was rented, the furniture, with the exception of certain costly articles, pictures, etc., being allowed to remain in the house. These had been brought to the city, and now beautified her pleasant home. Marion had a passion for flowers, and at her own expense had built out from her parlor a small conservatory, which was filled with her favorite plants. One seldom saw her without a bud of some kind doing service for a brooch at her throat; and in her calls upon the sick, a few fresh-cut violets or a sweet rose-bud proved a great help in gaining the confidence she so earnestly sought.

 

Believing, as she did, that our social qualities were given us to be cultivated, our young friend gave frequent entertainments, always supported by the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell. To further her own plans she selected games, encouraged charades, improvised characters, occasionally taking part herself, on which occasions she abandoned herself to the enjoyment with the freshness of a child.

 

"I believe," she responded to a Christian friend, who was taking her to task for encouraging a taste for the theatrical,—"I believe that I have done more good by my charades than I could have hoped for in any other way. In one instance I have in mind, at a critical period for a young favorite, I persuaded her to come to a charade I got up especially for her; and I am satisfied the result was happy. She was in danger of giving way to evil influences; her conscience troubled her; she became very irritable. I had a little talk with her, took her with me to visit a poor family, who were indeed rich in faith, and then invited her to my entertainment. She came to me the second day after and, with a burst of joyful tears, threw herself into my arms, exclaiming,—

 

"'I'm so happy: the struggle is over.  Oh, I can never tell you how I thank you!' She had given up the acquaintance of one who was leading her astray, who would have made her a wretched husband, who had denounced Christians as gloomy fanatics, who considered laughing a sin, etc. My party, mirthful and gay as it was, commended itself to her conscience; even the play itself conveyed to her excited mind a high moral sentiment, as I had intended. She went home, passed the night pacing the floor, while she asked help of God to decide aright. She is now an earnest, cheerful, Christian worker. Unsolicited, she left the fashionable church which she had been attending, and is my powerful alto singer at our mission."

 

 

 

CHAPTER VIII.

PLEASANT PROJECTS.

 

ON Ethel's fifth birthday she claimed the promise of her mother,—that she should sit up to family prayers. Except on Sunday night, when supper was served at an earlier hour than on other days, it was her habit to eat her simple meal of bread and milk and be in bed before the ringing of the supper-bell.

 

Sitting up for prayers was quite an era in her young life. No sooner was the meal concluded than she brought her low chair and placed it close to Mr. Angus. It was the custom to sing a hymn before reading the Scriptures, and the pastor held the book so that Ethel could look on the page with him. As he named the hymn he merely remarked, "It is pleasant to have all join in this social worship."

 

The child, considering herself included in this invitation, as indeed she was, began in a low timid tone to sing her own little hymn, but presently, becoming used to the sound of her voice, sang so loud as almost to drown the tones of the piano, upon which Annie was playing. Over and over again she repeated the words, "Jesus, come and make me good, good, Jesus come and make me good."

 

The tune as well as the words were improvised for the occasion, and did not in the least chord with the notes they were singing. Most of those present smiled, Gardner tittered behind his book and about Mr. Angus's mouth a suspicious twitching was noticed, but no one interfered with the child's evident enjoyment of the occasion.

 

"I'm quite sure," remarked Mr. Angus afterward, as he seated Ethel on his knee, "that Jesus will hear and answer your prayer. Would you like to learn a hymn to sing with us? Ask your sister to teach you one, and you can learn the tune also. You have a very good voice."

 

"A powerful one, certainly," added her father, laughing.

 

Mr. Angus early formed the acquaintance of Mary Falkner, the crippled girl. As Marion had told him, she was truly happy, though at times a great sufferer. In every event of her life she recognized a Father's loving, protecting hand, and was so truly thankful for every favor received that it was a privilege to bestow kindness.

 

On one occasion, when the pastor was sitting by her bedside, realizing, as afterward he insisted, that he was receiving rather than giving consolation, the door softly opened and Marion, unannounced, walked in. Perceiving the visitor, she was retiring when Mr. Angus rose to leave.

 

"Don't go, please," Mary said to Marion, "I was just intending to ask the pastor to pray." 

 

Mr. Angus gave the sick girl his hand when his prayer was concluded saying, as he bent over-her, "Remember your promise to pray for me; pray that, whether led through a stony or a flowery path, I may have my Father's guidance as you have."

 

Marion drew near the bedside as the pastor left the room, and was not surprised at the enthusiasm manifested for him by the cripple.

 

"He is such a kind friend, so humble, so devout. His prayers raise me to heaven; and he is mindful of my earthly wants too. Look here," taking from an envelope a piece of silver, "he always leaves a token behind him, laying it on my pillow without a word,—sometimes a dollar, never less than half a dollar."

 

"I was sure," answered Marion, in a hearty voice, "that he would be a comfort to you. You like him so much, I have a great mind to ask you a question. Have you ever noticed any peculiarity in his prayers or in his manner?"

 

Tears gushed to Mary's eyes which no physical suffering could have forced from them, and, clasping her hands, she exclaimed, "Oh, how I wish I could comfort him! And he says I have. He has a deep, abiding sorrow. It is living sorrow, too. It cannot be grief for the dead. Once he quite forgot that I was present, and he prayed; but it is too sacred to repeat. Oh, how my heart ached for him!"

 

Mary covered her face and wept.

 

"I wish he would unburden his heart to you, Mary. I'm sure you could comfort him. He is a puzzle to me. There is a weight on his spirits. I have seen an expression of agony come over his face when he thought himself unobserved. Well, we can pray God to appear for him. I have never spoken of him in this way before."

 

"Grief is too sacred to meddle with, at least such grief as his, Marion. I have told my Saviour about it."

 

When the young lady left the humble roof she repaired to the station near by to get her satchel, and found Mr. Angus just sending a telegram to the city. He advanced eagerly to meet her, holding out his hand.

 

"You are the very one to advise me," he said, his whole face beaming. "I am a poor physician, but I know something of medicine. I have learned about Mary's case, and I do not feel hopeless of her recovery. You live in the city of New York, and have probably heard of the Home for the Sick."

 

"Certainly I have. I often go there to visit my sick friends."

 

"Then you will agree with me that, if I can procure a place for her in that Christian home, she will have a fair chance for recovery."

 

"Strange I never thought of it before," murmured Marion, as though speaking to herself.

 

"Not at all strange. It did not occur to me till this morning, and I have just written a message to Dr. B-, the superintendent, asking to have a surgeon sent to examine the case. I have myself been an inmate of the Home, and have the most entire confidence in the care and skill she would receive."

 

"Will they send so far, Mr. Angus? I mean, will there not be great expense? Excuse me, but I would advise another plan. Mary is a great favorite of mine; indeed, I am under obligations to her. There is an eminent surgeon in the next town, whom I will take to see her this very day. If he gives us hope, I will go to the hospital at once on my return to the city. I only wish I had thought of it years ago."

 

A curious expression on Mr. Angus's face startled Marion, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, which was strangely familiar to her. It was as though he had said,—"You are taking the matter out of my hands with a vengeance."

 

Marion laughed aloud. "Don't think me officious in meddling with your plan," she urged. "I'm a teacher, you know, and accustomed to give orders."

 

"I shall at least claim the pleasure, Miss Howard, of bearing the expense necessary for placing her in the Home."

 

"I'll see about that." Marion gave one of those arch glances which brought her dimples into full play. When she smiled, it was like a child's face, pure and fresh, and sweet and loving. For one moment, as he gazed, Mr. Angus forgot his burden. There might yet be something bright for him in life. With a deep sigh he shouldered his burden again, and this time it seemed weightier than ever before.

 

They walked in silence for a time, the young lady puzzling herself to account for the strange associations connected with that peculiar expression on Mr. Angus's face which had so startled her. Somehow it was connected with the Home for the Sick. Rousing herself, and forgetting that his thoughts had not followed hers, she asked,—

 

"Is it long since you were an inmate?"

 

"Do you mean of the hospital?"

 

"Yes."

 

"It is five years this very month.  It was there I was healed not only in the body, but the soul. Never did any poor mortal need a divine physician more than I did. Words cannot express my gratitude that a merciful Father directed me to that spot. The faithful chaplain found me weighed to the ground, and persuaded me to allow an Almighty Arm to be placed beneath me. Pardon me," he added, suddenly interrupting himself, "I did not remember that to a stranger this must be a wearisome story. I am not used to forget myself in this way."

 

He turned toward her a face drawn with pain, to meet eyes full of sympathy, and when she murmured softly the words, "I am not a stranger, I am a friend," his feelings almost overcame him.

 

"Thank you," he said, extending his hand, but instantly withdrawing it; then, controlling himself by a visible effort, went on, "I found my Saviour within those blessed walls, and was encouraged both by the pastor and chaplain to hope that, by consecrating my life to the service of my divine Master, I might be useful to some poor soul as burdened as myself."

 

"Has not that hope been fulfilled, Mr. Angus? Has not Jesus Christ kept his gracious promise to you and given you rest? Pardon me, I am a missionary too. I have thought much of you, and prayed for you, as I do for all my friends. I have feared that—that you have not cast all your burden upon Him. You are trying to bear part of it alone. Sorrow or sin He has atoned for and has promised to take. Oh, do give it all up to Him! For your own sake, for the sake of those in your charge, I entreat you, try His love in all its fulness. It cannot, will not, fail you."

 

Her voice trembled in her eagerness. Suddenly catching a glimpse of his pallid countenance, she stopped short in her walk.

 

"You will forgive, you will understand me," she pleaded. "I for a moment forgot that I am too young to advise you."

 

"Miss Howard, even you will turn from me in despair when I ask, can these hands, which have shed the blood of a brother, ever be clean? Even you have seen the mark of Cain on my brow."

 

Startled as she was, Marion realized that in order to give comfort to this burdened soul, she must control herself. With a face blanched, and shaking voice, she repeated the gracious promise,—

 

"'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.' Such a promise holds good, even to the shedder of blood."

 

"Do not understand," he exclaimed, in great excitement, "that it was prompted by malice. It was an accident. I—But the scene is too ghastly to recall. To no mortal have I ever breathed the words before. Into the ears of a merciful God I pour my complaint day and night."

 

Into Marion's eyes came a strange light. The color surged back into her face. Memories of the past, forgotten for years, came rushing over her. She was wholly unaware that she had stopped again, that her eyes were fixed on his, that she was trying to read his very thoughts. It required a great effort to come back to present realities. "I must say something," was her reflection. "Oh, that I was sure! God grant I may be!"

 

"Mr. Angus," she began, her face beaming with a strange expression of hope and tenderness, "forgive me for saying it, you have grown morbid, brooding over your past. With all my heart I thank you for your confidence, which I consider as sacred as the grave. Let me say that I look forward confidently to the hour when the sorrow which has weighed you down to the dust will be driven away like the morning cloud. Pray for that time as though you believed God has power to help you. Have entire faith in His promise."

 

Before he could answer she had turned into side path and was presently lost to view.

 

 

 

CHAPTER IX.

THE DOCTOR'S DIAGNOSIS.

 

ON going to dinner, Marion was not much surprised to hear that the pastor had requested to be excused from the table on the plea of a headache. Mrs. Asbury was preparing tea and toast, which the servant stood waiting to take up on a tray. At this moment Ethel came running up, her face flushed, exclaiming,—

 

"Mamma, may I stay with Mr. Angus? He is sitting in the chair with his eyes shut, and he looks real sick."

 

"I'll carry the tray myself," said Mrs. Asbury, glancing at her husband. "No, Ethel, stay here till I come back."

 

"He is worse than usual," she explained presently, as she brought back the food untouched. "Ethel, dear, as soon as you have eaten, you may go to him. Strange what an influence she has,"—turning to the family. "He asked it as a favor, if I could spare her."

 

Mr. and Mrs. Asbury were so occupied with anxiety about Mr. Angus, whose strength seemed always on the point of giving way, that they did not notice Marion's abstraction. As they were rising from the silent meal, she asked,—

 

"Can I have the horse and buggy, uncle? I want to drive to N—. I am going for Dr. Moore to see Mary Falkner."

 

"Why not ask him to make a professional call on Mr. Angus?"

 

"You might propose it to him, but I doubt whether he would require a surgeon."

 

"That's so; but I mean to have a serious talk with him as soon as he recovers from this attack. It is wicked for him to neglect these warnings."

 

Annie eagerly offered to accompany Marion to N—; but she only desired to be alone to have time to recall fleeting memories, to reconcile coincidences, and decide how it was best for her to make her surmises known to Mr. Angus.

 

She had driven slowly over the four miles to N— before her final decision was reached. It would be cruel to hold out hopes which might prove fallacious. "No, I must go home, to make sure. Then, if it be as I hope and believe what a joy." Marion stopped, wholly unable to express in words the deep emotions which agitated her. All the time she was tying her horse to the post, she was saying to herself,—

 

"Did she mean murder? An accident is not murder."

 

It was with a real effort that she roused herself to tell the physician her errand.  He had just returned from a long drive to visit a patient, and told her he would accompany her at once after eating his dinner, and return in the cars.

 

On the way Marion related all that she knew of Mary's case, and then described the arrangements at the Home for the Sick.

 

Her enthusiasm made him laugh. "I know all about that," he explained. "I was one of the staff of house surgeons there at one time, and I can say it is truly a home. Very few, even of the wealthiest, can command the care and skill which falls to the lot of the poorest patient there. I remember a wealthy lady coming with a valuable servant who had fractured her arm. When the patient was comfortably placed in bed she was leaving the room, when she met Dr. B-, the pastor and superintendent.

 

"'I want to recommend to your special attention the woman I have just brought here,' she began.”

 

"'Certainly, madam,' was his polite answer as he passed into the ward, 'certainly; all our patients have special attention. She shall be well cared for.'"

 

"I have taken many patients there," rejoined Marion, her eye kindling with pleasure. "I should say that if there were any favorites, they are the very sickest and poorest, and sometimes the most repulsive. But after all, the care of their bodies is only one part. They are led to think of the end of life, and in their enforced seclusion, with the most loving influences about them, they often, very often, come to better thoughts of their Maker, and go out with new hopes and new resolutions in regard to life."

 

Dr. Moore was introduced to the patient by Marion, who only said that he had called as her friend, to find out whether she could be relieved by treatment from her spasms of pain. He made a careful diagnosis of her case, after which he gave her some powders for temporary relief, bade her take courage, and returned to Marion, who was waiting in the buggy.

 

"I have been to the station, Doctor," she explained "and there is no train to N- for a couple of hours, so I will take you home. I see by your face that you have good news for me."

 

"Nonsense! A doctor's face goes for nothing. He has to train it to look expressionless, or he would soon get into trouble."

 

"You can't deceive me, Doctor. I know you are going to say she can be relieved."

 

"I will say more. She will always be lame, one limb being shorter than the other, but, with the help of a thick sole to her shoe, I don't see why she should not walk about with as little difficulty as you and I do."

 

Marion gave a cry of joy, clasping her hands. "O Doctor!" she exclaimed, "what a blessed profession yours is! If I were a man I would be a physician before any other calling. I do thank you so much. How soon may I take her to New York?"

 

"I've been thinking," he said, gayly, "of indulging myself with a trip to the city. How would it do for you to see Dr. B— and engage a bed for her, and leave me to take her there?"

 

"Will you, Doctor?" She gave him a glance brimful, overflowing with delight, and he answered,—

 

"Yes, I will do all that. I shall be glad of the opportunity to see the Home once more. Now Marion, I have earned a right to ask you a question. Why don't you get married?"

 

Marion threw back her head and laughed heartily. "Your question is so entirely unexpected, Doctor, that I shall have to think before I answer. Well, first, I am too busy to go about the country and select the right man. Second, I have formed such an elevated idea of the being whom I would be willing to see in that relation, that in case I had leisure I should be appalled at the difficulties in my path. Thirdly, I am just as happy now as I can be. I have my good old Hepsey and James Kelly, and all my poor people to take care of now. I'm sure I can't imagine what I should do, even with my ideal man." The laugh which followed was heart whole.

 

"Nevertheless," urged Dr. Moore, "describe this ideal man to me."

 

"His image is scarcely distinct enough for that. First of all, he must be a man who loves God and his neighbor as himself, as our Saviour has commanded."

 

"Humph! I don't know him, but go on."

 

"He must be both strong and tender, firm and gentle, courageous, kind, and courteous, capable of sympathy both in joy and grief. He must be humble in his opinion of himself."  Here a sudden reflection checked her, and she added, softly, "Not too humble," then came to an abrupt pause.

 

"Appearance and manners," suggested the doctor, without glancing at her.

 

"Poor or rich is of no consequence; but he must have ability. Whatever his calling is, he must excel in it."

 

"Physician preferred, probably."

 

"Ye-es, or some kindred profession."

 

"Lawyer, eh?"

 

"No; oh, no, indeed, not a lawyer!"

 

"Minister to a foreign court, perhaps?"

 

"No, not connected with politics in any way."

 

"There is nothing left but a shoemaker, or a country parson. Merchants of every grade watch the bills in Congress with eagle eyes. But how does he look?"

 

"Like an athlete." Suddenly catching a twinkle in her companion's eye, Marion's cheeks and brow became suffused, and she burst out, "How ridiculous I have made myself! I never thought so much of my husband before in all my life."

 

"I'm well acquainted with him," said the doctor, demurely. "He's all right; even your parents would be satisfied with him."

 

"What can you mean, Doctor?" She was startled now. "Was there ever such a man?"

 

They had reached his home, and he quietly resigned the lines to her hand. Just as he stepped to the ground, he fixed an earnest eye on her as he said,—

 

"The portrait is excellent, even to the too humble."

 

"Doctor! Dr. Moore!" called out Marion, as with an arch smile he was turning away, "you haven't given me your bill. I shall go to-morrow to see Dr. B--, and will write you at once; A friend of Mary's is to bear all expenses of her recovery; and, Doctor, I haven't told you how very, very grateful I am to you."

 

"For approving your choice of a husband?"

 

"You know, Doctor, I was thinking of some thing very remote from an ideal man, whom it is very unlikely I shall ever see. I may tell Mary now, mayn't I?"

 

"Certainly. And in the pleasure you will have in telling her the good news, you will forgive an old friend of your father for making a careful diagnosis of your heart."

 

He gave her another quizzical glance and turned away.

 

"How absurd he is!" murmured the young lady. "How could I have been betrayed into such nonsense? I wonder whether he was in earnest, in saying he knew any one to whom the description would fit. He would be a wonder of goodness, and I—"

 

Here Marion astonished the faithful old horse, who was going on in his quiet jog, by a sudden jerk of the lines and a peremptory order to quicken his pace. On consulting her watch, she found it nearly five o'clock. She must call at the thread and needle store, give Mary the joyful hope recovery, and then hasten home.

 

To one who is always looking to her Father in heaven for the gifts which flow into her daily life it is not surprising, but only an increased reason for gratitude, when unlooked-for mercies are bestowed.

 

So it was with the poor cripple. As Marion cautiously conveyed to her the opinion of Dr. Moore that her suffering might be relieved, and in time perhaps she might be restored to active life and its duties, the quick gasp, the tightened clasp of her emaciated hands, the moistened eye raised in silent gratitude to God, were the only tokens of the fervent thankfulness which almost overcame her.

 

When Marion had explained the doctor's view of her case, she went on: "You must give your pastor the credit of the plan. He was just sending a telegram to the Home when I met him at the station, and—and"—she hesitated, surprised at herself for her reluctance to talk of Mr. Angus—"he offered to bear all the expense of having you conveyed to New York. But I speedily convinced him that I had the first claim to that privilege."

 

"How good God is, raising up friends for me on every side!"

 

"Good by, Mary, for the present. I shall expect to see you very soon in one of the nice beds at the Home for the Sick."