CHAPTER X.

A RAY OF HOPE.

 

THE family were all seated at the tea-table when Mr. Angus came in from the street. He apologized for being behind time by saying that a parishioner had sent for him, and it was a longer walk than he expected. His countenance bore marks of excitement, but he entered into conversation with the others, and seemed desirous of averting attention from himself.

 

After family prayer, which directly followed supper, he rose as though he was going to retire when Ethel caught his hand, saying,—

 

"My Marion is going to sing a hymn before I go to bed. Please stay and hear it."

 

Marion had already commenced, and, without noticing who was near her, went through the hymn.

 

"We give thee but thine own,

Whate'er the gift may be,

All that we have is Thine alone,

A trust, O Lord, from Thee.

 

"May we Thy bounties thus

As stewards true receive.

And gladly as Thou blessest us,

To Thee our first-fruits give.

 

"Oh hearts are bruised and dead,

And homes are bare and cold,

And lambs for whom the Shepherd bled

Are straying from the fold!

 

"To comfort and to bless,

To find a balm for woe,

To tend the lone and fatherless,

Is angels' work below.

 

"The captive to release,

To God the lost to bring,

To teach the way of life and peace,

It is a Christ-like thing.

 

"And we believe Thy word,

Though dim our faith may be,

Whate'er for Thine we do, O Lord,

We do it unto Thee."

 

"I propose an amendment, as the congressmen say," she urged, pleasantly, as she saw Mr. Angus. "Please stay and sing with us, and then I have some pleasant news for you."

 

He joined her instantly at the piano, though she saw that he did so reluctantly. She turned to the all-inspiring words,—

 

"All hail the power of Jesus' name!

Let angels prostrate fall."

 

From the tones of his voice, as one verse followed another, she could detect the change in his feelings. In the last stanza it was evident his religious fervor had triumphed over his sadness. The tones, rich and clear, thrilled Marion's heart strangely. Happening to meet his eye as she was closing the book, she saw there evidence of an elevation of soul, as though the sentiments of the hymn had roused him from his gloom.

 

"Thank you," was his low response.

 

"I expect to leave early in the morning," she said. "I shall go immediately to see Dr. B———. Dr. Moore is very hopeful in regard to Mary's cure, though she may always walk lame. She was very grateful that you had thought of sending her to the Home for the Sick."

 

"I am delighted, Miss Howard. You have indeed been an angel of mercy to the poor girl. She speaks of your thoughtful kindness as one of the chief blessings of her life."

 

"Isn't it fortunate that Dr. Moore was once house physician there? and he will convey her to the city himself. No, Mr. Angus," as he held out his purse, "we cannot permit you to have all the pleasure, though we gladly share with you. You have done your part in suggesting the possibility of her restoration, and she has a friend who will defray all expenses.  By the way, if you can spare the time, she would be glad of a call from you before she leaves home."

 

"Duties never conflict, Miss Howard. If you were not so busy among your pupils, etc., I would express a wish that you would visit a distressed family I saw to-day. They are in deep waters, and need a kind friend of their own sex."

 

"Who are they?"

 

"Mother, daughter, and grandson,—one of the most beautiful boys I ever saw. The mother is ill, I fear on the verge of consumption. The daughter, whom I conclude is a widow, is too young and beautiful to be left to make her own way in the world. The boy, Eugene, won my heart at once, and under a sudden impulse I asked the mother to give him to me: I am fond of children."

 

"I can easily believe that," she said, with one of her smiles, which always made his heart so warm. "If I were not very good-natured I should reproach you with winning away Ethel's love from me. Isn't she a darling?"

 

For answer he bent down and pressed a kiss on the warm, red lips held up so temptingly to his. The child at this minute had come into the room to bid him and Marion good night; having done so, she danced away again, hugging Frances, her favorite dolly, in her arms.

 

"'Of such is the kingdom of heaven,'" murmured the pastor, his eye following her fairy-like figure; "and we are told that unless we are like them, we cannot be admitted to that glorious home."

 

After a pause he added, "Eugene interested me deeply, but not at all in the way Ethel does. He is as full of mischief as he can hold; nothing ethereal about him. He is earthly even in his beauty, while Ethel seems just fresh from heaven. Dear child! I have learned many a lesson from her."

 

"You have interested me deeply in your friends, Mr. Angus. I wish now I could stay another day at least, but I cannot."

 

Recalling the business which sent her home so soon, there was an earnestness in her voice, as she repeated, "Oh, no, I cannot stay!" that rather surprised her hearer. Meeting the questioning glance, it was as much as the impulsive girl could do to check herself from saying,—

 

"I go for your sake, to give you that which will restore peace to your heart."

 

"But I hope to be so successful in my business that I can come again soon. I will ask Aunt Asbury to visit them, if you wish."

 

"It is not a case of poverty,—at least I think not. The mother—she seems very young—needs sympathy and counsel; she would only take it from one she loved."

 

He seemed to be urging a duty upon her, though he did not so intend it; and Marion grew excited, wondering whether she ought to write Dr. B— about Mary, and postpone her other business for another day.

 

"I wish I knew which was my duty: I have set my heart on something. I ought not to have delayed it so long. I have been forgetful of a sacred charge, and I wish to atone for it as soon as possible."

 

She gazed wistfully in his face, longing to give him a ray of the hope she felt almost sure was in store for him,—almost, not quite. "If, after all, I am wrong, and he is not the one, it would be inexcusable in me to excite hopes only to crush them."

 

"Miss Howard," he began, unable to endure the sight of her distress, which by turns suffused her cheeks and blanched them, "can you not trust me to decide for you?"

 

"In almost any other case but this, I could. It would be cruel to tell you now." She stood one moment, her hands tightly clasped, her eyes fixed on the carpet; then, with a sudden change, she looked smiling in his face as she said,—

 

"Give me the exact direction to your protégé's, and I'll go to-morrow morning. I can write this evening to Dr. B—."

 

"Uncle Asbury," inquired Marion later in the evening, and when no one but her uncle and aunt were present, "have you ever mentioned before Mr. Angus that I have any other income than what I earn from teaching?"

 

"Not a word. He considers you suffering from extreme poverty, and quite worries himself over the time you lose during your visits to us. If you press me to tell you the whole truth, he is anxious lest your love for dress and jewels should involve you in serious pecuniary embarrassment. He considers that rich silk and point-lace collar, though extremely becoming, quite beyond your means."

 

"Nonsense! Now do be serious. I don't want anybody to know, and especially strangers like Mr. Angus, that—"

 

"You can, if you choose buy up half our congregation, to say nothing of the poor minister.  No, I won't tell him that."

 

"Don't tease the child, pa," put in Mrs. Asbury, though laughing herself.

 

"It is from the clergyman especially you wish this important information kept," questioned the gentleman, his eye twinkling.

 

Marion looked really annoyed. "I see I must explain," she began. "There are some poor people I am going to help. He offered, from his salary, I suppose, to pay Mary's expenses to the city, etc. I told him a friend would supply the means, and I don't wish him to think I am the one."

 

"On the principle of the left hand hiding from the right, I suppose. Yes, I see." With a mischievous glance, he turned to his newspaper, and Marion, informing her aunt that she intended to make a call on a sick lady in the morning, and had postponed her return till afternoon, bade them good-night and retired to her chamber.

 

Passing Ethel's room, she found to her surprise that the child was still awake.

 

"Please come in a minute, Marion: I must get up again. I can't remember whether I have said my prayers. I feel prayers in here," putting her hand to her breast, "and I can't go to sleep."

 

"Well, darling, get up, and I'll kneel with you."

 

Ethel began with—

 

"Now I lay me down to sleep,"

 

followed with the Lord's Prayer, then began her own simple petitions.

 

"Bless me, dear God, and make me as good as Jesus wants me to be. Bless papa and mamma and Mr. Angus, and all those I love, and keep them all from sin and from crying. I thank you for giving me such a kind papa and mamma. I thank you for sparing them to me so long. I hope you will spare them as long as you think it is safe, but if you don't think it safe to-morrow or next day, thy will be done."

 

The little head was scarcely on the pillow, when Marion, much amused by the child's mode of expressing her submission, ran back to the parlor to repeat it. As she entered she heard Mr. Angus's voice asking permission to use the buggy at an early hour to go to a distant part of the town. Seeing her, he explained that, as she had been kind enough to delay her return to New York in order to visit this distressed family, he wished to make arrangements to take her there.

 

"It is in a part of the town with which I am least familiar," he added, "and I should find difficult to direct any one."

 

"I am sorry," said Marion, frankly.  "I know your rule about your morning hours for study.  I would delay my return longer, but it is impossible."

 

And it had seemed impossible ever since she had agreed to make the morning visit to his protégés.

 

"If he only knew," she said to herself again and again, "how much depends on my going home. I am confident that package is somewhere among my papers; and yet it is so strange that I have not seen it for years. I had forgotten entirely that I had it in possession. I did sympathize deeply with that poor, friendless girl, an orphan, as I had so lately become; but, with so many different protégés on hand,—so many orphans and others whom I have taken to that blessed Home,—she had passed entirely out of mind, until that peculiar smile of Mr. Angus and the expressive shrug of his shoulders brought her up before me. Let me think. When I left Uncle Williamson's, my letters, papers, etc., were all packed up and sent to my present home. Strange I haven't seen them. No, some were sent here."

 

She gave a scream of joy, and, running to the kitchen for a hand-lamp, called a servant to go with her to the attic, where a box marked with her name was stored.

 

At the breakfast-table, when Mrs. Asbury remonstrated against her niece's plans, while she looked so pale and haggard, no one present, and least of all the pastor, suspected that it was interest in his future which had kept her till midnight searching among her papers for what she could not find, that disappointment and bitter regret that she had not more carefully guarded so sacred a trust had caused her many tears.

 

To add to her embarrassment, Mr. Asbury, just as he rose from the table, approached her and said, "Marion, I fear it is your pecuniary situation which troubles you. Promise me that you will apply to me in any need."

 

"Why, pa!" began Annie in surprise; but she never finished her sentence. Marion, noticing that Mr. Angus was within hearing, gave her cousin a warning glance, coolly said to her uncle, "I promise," and then walked away.

 

 

 

CHAPTER XI.

AN APPEAL FOR SYMPATHY.

 

THE family to whom Mr. Angus wished to introduce Miss Howard lived in a small cottage in the outskirts of the town of N-.

 

On their way thither he repeated the impression they had made upon him,—that they had seen better days.

 

"I have been enough among the poor in New York," he said, warming, with the subject, "to be sure that these are not of the kind who would ask for assistance, even though they were suffering. I am eager to know how they will impress you."

 

He turned to look in her face, which seemed to be unusually thoughtful, but with a bright smile, she explained,—

 

"I was trying to reconcile irreconcilable facts. For instance, I know a gentleman in New York who has more leisure and money than he knows what to do with, and I was wondering why I should be so very busy and have so little time for work that I like best."

 

"I have solved worse puzzles than that, Miss Howard. Can you not imbue your friend with love for your favorite work? Gentlemen with too much leisure are not to be classed with the most favored beings."

 

"He is one of the most wretched men I know, sarcastic and cynical to such a degree that his society is shunned by every one; and yet I can't help pitying him. I believe that he has a passion for making himself appear worse than he is. I have taken a fancy," she added, with a hearty laugh, "to try some experiments on him."

 

"Of what nature?"

 

"Why, I have been told again and again that he has no heart. I am applying tests to find out the fact for myself; so far, that important organ seems to be in a state of ossification; but I am not discouraged."

 

"If I were your uncle, I should warn you that ossified hearts, when wakened from their torpor, sometimes become dangerously active,—I mean dangerous for their own happiness."

 

Marion's eyes twinkled with mirth. "I do not fear too much activity, I fear too little. But is not that the house?"

 

Mr. Angus had told her the child was beautiful; but this had by no means prepared her for the lovely, enchanting face which burst upon her as, advancing into the room, a boy of three or four years sprang out from an inner apartment.

 

"Oh, you darling little fellow!" she cried, catching him in her arms, and bestowing kiss after kiss upon him. So absorbed was Marion in delight and wonder that she did not notice the entrance of a young lady from a door in the opposite direction, until the voice of Mr. Angus saying, "Miss Howard, Mrs. Cheriton," roused her to present realities.

 

"Excuse me," she began, cheeks and chin dimpling with amusement. "I forgot that I was a stranger,—everything in my admiration for—." She interrupted herself to place the child on the floor; but he had no idea of being abandoned so suddenly. He clung tightly around her neck, his face sparkling with mischief.

 

"Genie, don't tease the lady." The mother's voice was soft, and she spoke with a pretty accent; but the boy paid not the slightest attention to his mother's mild suggestion. He clung to his new friend, occasionally holding himself off far enough to look in her face.

 

Catching a glimpse of Mr. Angus's tall form standing over near the door, his hat in his hand, keen appreciation of the scene stamped on every feature, Marion's color surged to her very brow. She whispered, "Go to the gentleman now, Genie," and put the boy to the floor.

 

"Will you take a drive with me, Eugene?"

 

This being soon arranged, Mr. Angus carried the child to the buggy, merely saying to Marion,—

 

"I will be back in half an hour."

 

Mrs. Cheriton looked so very youthful that it was hard for Marion to believe she could be the mother of Eugene. She was very beautiful, of the Southern type of beauty,—large, liquid eyes, regular features, abundant tresses of blue-black hair, which on the present occasion were wound gracefully around her head, arched eyebrows, and a pleasant smile when she addressed you. This tout ensemble the visitor took in at a glance, and all the time she was asking herself, "Shall I like her?"

 

After speaking for a moment of Eugene, Marion said,—

 

"Mr. Angus tells me your mother is very ill."

 

"Yes; and she has heard your voice. Will you go to her?"

 

"Gladly."

 

On the bed, but raised almost to a sitting posture, lay a lady. One glance proved her to be such. There was an air of refinement and culture about her which proved her to belong to the best-educated class of society.

 

She met Marion's sympathetic glance with an earnest gaze, as though she would read what manner of spirit she was of; then a beaming smile lighted her whole face, as she said softly,—

 

"You are very welcome, my dear."

 

"I felt then," said Marion afterwards to her aunt, "as though I could take her right into my heart of hearts." What she did at the moment to show what she felt was to bend over and press her lips to the pale cheek of the sufferer.

 

A few words of explanation as to her present visit,—of sorrow that it must be a hurried one,—and then Marion said,—

 

"I am sure you will not consider my question prompted by curiosity, if I ask, why are you here in this out-of-the-way part of the town?"

 

"Necessity compels it, my dear. I need perfect quiet."

 

"Would you prefer the city?"

 

"Greatly, in many respects, if I were well."

 

"You could have a physician near you there."

 

"No physician can avail me now,—at least such is my belief."

 

"Except the great Physician."

 

An expression of heavenly peace stole over the wan face. She held Marion's hand in a closer grasp, as she said fervently,—

 

"God be praised! He has applied healing balm. My sins, which were many, are forgiven. Oh, if you knew all, you would not wonder that I look forward with longing to the hour when he will call me home!"

 

"You would feel like a poor sailor I found just redeemed from the very depths of woe. He was singing from morning to night,"—

 

"'Love I much, I'm much forgiven; I'm a miracle of grace.'"

 

Marion's clear voice as she sang the lines rang through the room.

 

"Will you sing a hymn for me, Miss Howard?"

 

Without a moment's hesitation the young began one which was a favorite with herself.

 

"Whate'er my God ordains is right;

His will is ever just;

Howe'er he orders now my cause,

I will be still and trust.

He is my God:

Though dark my road,

He holds me that I shall not fall,

Wherefore to him I leave it all.

 

"Whate'er my God ordains is right;

He never will deceive.

He leads me by the proper path,

And so to him I cleave,

And take content

What he hath sen

His hand can turn my griefs away,

And patiently I wait his day.

 

"Whate'er my God ordains is right;

Though I the cup must drink,

That bitter seems to my faint heart,

I will not fear nor shrink.

Tears pass away

With dawn of day;

Sweet comfort yet shall fill my heart,

And pain and sorrow all depart.

 

"Whate'er my God ordains is right;

My Light, my Life is he,

Who cannot will me aught but good,—

I trust him utterly;

For well I know,

In joy or woe,

We soon shall see, as sunlight clear,

How faithful was our Guardian here.

 

"Whate'er my God ordains is right;

Here will I take my stand,

Though sorrow, need, or death make earth

For me a desert land.

My Father's care

Is round me there;

He holds me, that I shall not fall,

And so to him I leave it all."

 

Before she had ended, the door softly opened and was left ajar.

 

Marion started at the sound of wheels. "There is Mr. Angus!" she exclaimed; "but I cannot go yet. I feel as though I had known you all my life. I have to go to New York to-day. I want you to go to the city. Why will you not come to me? I have room for all of you. Yes, that will be best. It will be next to having my mother with me. I can insure you a quiet room. Will you come?"

 

Mrs. Douglas closed her eyes; tears called forth by such kindness from a stranger, trickled through the eyelids. Striving for self-control she said,—

 

"Mr. Angus told me you were an angel of mercy. Never did any strangers in a strange land need friends more than we do. I have prayed night and day that my heavenly Father would raise up for my poor Juliette and Eugene Christian friends. He has answered my prayers. I will consider your proposal to go to New York, where board within our means can perhaps be obtained near you. For Juliette's sake I would be glad to be there."

 

"I regret so much that business of importance calls me home to-day, but I will find a place at once, if you will not accept my invitation. I am sure I can promise for Mr. Angus that he will be a good friend to you and attend to your removal."

 

"Mamma, I'm going home with Mr. Angus," shouted Genie, bursting into the outer room. "I'm tired of staying here."

 

"Miss Howard,"—the voice was so full of solemnity that Marion bent over the bed again to listen, her breath coming quickly,—"you do not seem like a stranger. Mr. Angus told me I might confide in you. If I had time and strength I would tell you the sad story of my past life. I was gay and thoughtless, living for this world alone. I have been justly punished. Some time, if God gives me strength, I would like to tell you my sad story. If, after you know all, you are willing to be a friend to the dear ones I leave behind, the only burden left me will be removed."

 

"I will gladly listen."

 

With moistened eyes she had just answered, when Mrs. Cheriton opened the bedroom door, saying, "Your husband has returned, madam, and asks whether you are ready."

 

Marion bent over the bed and kissed the sick lady, glad to hide her blushing cheeks caused by Mrs. Cheriton's blunder. Then saying,—

 

"Please explain that Mr. Angus is only my friend. I shall see you again before long," hastened to the door.

 

Eugene was still in the arms of the clergyman and it required much persuasion on the part of his mother to coax him to remain with her.

 

 

 

CHAPTER XII.

MARION'S SICKNESS.

 

THE drive back to town was a silent one, and not until they were within a short distance from home was a word spoken. Mr. Angus seemed absorbed in thought, and his companion, with the added care of the friends she had just left, was little inclined for conversation. A sigh from her at last caused the gentleman to ask,—

 

"Have I done wrong in bringing to your notice these strangers?"

 

"No, sir. No, indeed. What a dear old lady she is! And not very old either. Sorrow, I imagine, more than time, has aged her. Eugene is a perfect dream of boyish beauty."

 

"What of the young mother?"

 

Marion sighed again. "I don't know.  I have been trying to decide. I have seen somebody whom she resembles. She does not attract me as her mother does."

 

"Eugene scarcely has a feature like hers."

 

"No, he is more like you than like her."

 

She had entirely forgotten her high praise of the boy's beauty; but a little twitching about the muscles of his mouth proved that he remembered and was far from displeased.

 

"Do you know," she asked quickly, as they drew up to the door of her uncle's house, "that I am going to take your new parishioners to New York? For some reason, Madam Douglass prefers being there, and I have promised for you that you will aid them in their removal."

 

"Pecuniarily, do you mean?"

 

"Certainly not. Only as a friend, in getting to the right train, etc.;  but even that is not necessary: Uncle Asbury will attend to it."

 

"Just as you please, Miss Howard."

 

She sprang from the carriage without giving him an opportunity to help her, and ran into the house. His voice, so sad and cold, had hurt her. Seeing no one in the hall, she went in haste to her own room, to pack her satchel for her journey home, saying to herself meanwhile,—

 

"If he knew all that I do, and all that I can guess about his sad past, and how shamefully I have neglected my promise to that poor, dying girl, he would be justified in never speaking to me at all."

 

At the dinner-table Marion gave a description of Madam Douglass and Eugene, merely mentioning Mrs. Cheriton as the boy's mother; and easily won a promise from her aunt to go and see them. "I wish, aunty," she added, after the conversation had turned to another subject, "that you would notice whether Mrs. Cheriton resembles any one you know. Her eyes haunt me. I have tried in vain to account for the resemblance."

 

Once on the train, Marion acknowledged to herself the need of rest. With one hand to her throbbing temples, she took memorandum book and pencil from her pocket. Two visits to some very destitute families ought to be paid, and Hepsey must take her place for this time. She noted down the following words: "Board for three, not too far away. Home for the Sick. Letter to Dr. Moore. Search for lost package."

 

The carriage, with James on the box with the driver, met her at the station, as she had telegraphed him to do. Seizing a letter from Dr. B-, she read hastily, and, finding that Mary could be received at once on the recommendation of Dr. Moore, countermanded her order to be driven to the hospital, and said "Home." Here she only remained long enough to dash off a letter to Dr. Moore, enclosing the one from the superintendent, and then went to Mrs. Mitchell for advice about a boarding-place. Four or five were advertised as desirable situations; and Marion, putting by her anxiety to begin her search for the package, hurried off in the carriage to examine for herself. Two or three hours were consumed in going from one house to another, finding each that she visited more unsuitable than the one before it, and at last only engaged rooms conditionally, in a private family, recommended to her by a friend, whom she met near the door. Enclosing the street and number to her aunt, she requested that Madam Douglass might be informed of the place and price, and an answer returned at once.

 

Hepsey was just about starting on her mission when she caught a glimpse of her young mistress, and exclaimed, in great excitement,—

 

"You are ill, and have not told me. I must see you in bed before I go out."

 

It was indeed true that a terrible lassitude had been stealing over her ever since the excitement of the morning. For two nights she had scarcely slept, and since breakfast she had barely tasted food.

 

"A cup of tea will revive me," she said, trying with a smile to allay Hepsey's too evident anxiety.

 

Then feeling herself grow more languid, she said, aloud,—

 

"I can't give up now. I must find that package, I must, if I search all night."

 

The tea was brought and eagerly swallowed, but the temples still throbbed, and at last the young girl reluctantly acknowledged that she felt ill and must rest for a few hours.

 

Hepsey quietly laid off her bonnet and shawl, called James, and gave him the address of the poor she was going to visit, with directions as to procuring them food, etc., and then devoted herself to her young mistress.

 

An hour later Marion woke from the heavy sleep into which she had fallen with a shriek of distress. Her eyes were wide open, but she did not recognize the faithful nurse who was bending over her. A physician was instantly summoned, who found her in a high state of mental excitement.

 

"How long has this been coming on? I ought to have been called earlier," he said, in some irritation.

 

"She only returned from the country this afternoon," explained Hepsey.

 

He went back to the bedside, re-examined the pulse of his patient, listened to her incoherent mutterings, and then said gravely, "She has symptoms of a contagious fever. I have had a few cases already among the poor."

 

"James has just returned from an errand to one of her protégés, a mission boy. He had just been buried, and a flag was hung from the window to prevent people from entering."

 

"Well, if people will go round to these filthy haunts, they,—but it's no use to think of that now. I'll do my best to save her. I'll have a flag out here, unless you will promise that no one shall come in: perfect quiet is a necessity."

 

Hepsey promised, but the next morning, after a short absence from the room, she found a young lady sitting by the bed, bathing the hot temples of the sufferer.

 

"I have come to stay," she said softly, as she rose and beckoned Hepsey into the hall. "Mrs. Mitchell told me last night how ill she is, and I have come prepared to act as nurse. You will let me help you"; and the young girl gazed wistfully in Hepsey's face.

 

It was Annie Leman, a favorite protégé of Marion, whom she was educating for a music teacher, and, looking in her earnest face, Hepsey had not the heart to deny her request.

 

"We'll see what the doctor will say," she murmured, and then they both returned to the room.

 

What the doctor said at first sight of this girlish figure was, "I won't have her here." What he said after the second day was, "What could we do without her?"

 

And so the sun rose and set while in that quiet room the fever raged, for Marion had been in the full vigor of health, and the heated blood rushed rampant through her body. Sometimes she tried to spring from the bed, calling out,—

 

"I must find it," or "Here it is," and laughed aloud for joy. At other times she lay for hours in a heavy stupor, while rich and poor besieged the door with inquiries concerning her.

 

Among others who came was Dr. Moore. He had safely conveyed Mary Falkner to the Home for the Sick, where he learned from Dr. B— that Miss Howard was dangerously ill, and went at once to her house to learn who was her physician, when they came together to see her.

 

Marion woke suddenly, to find her old friend from N— bending over her. A momentary consciousness caused her to call him by name, and then, associating him at once with her friends in Grantbury, she said,—

 

"Tell him there is hope," then fell back into heavy sleep. Every morning came a bunch of cut flowers of the choicest varieties from Mr. Lambert, with a request to Mrs. Mitchell to be informed whether "any change had taken place in Miss Howard."

 

Day after day as it passed proved to all Marion's friends that the young girl who glided so noiselessly around the bed was possessed of a native skill just fitting her to take a part in the struggle between life and death going on in that chamber. She was never seen to sleep, and yet she never seemed weary. Not a movement of that prone figure escaped her notice, not an order or prescription of the physician was forgotten. When the doctor asked in wonder,—

 

"What sustains you?" her brief answer was, "Love, sir. Love and gratitude. She deserves from me all that I can give her."

 

Hepsey told Mrs. Asbury, who came from Grantbury to see her niece,—

 

"We have all cause to thank God for sending Miss Annie here. The doctor says, if our dear Marion lives through this dreadful time, it will be the loving care, which, with the blessing of God, has brought her through."

 

If Mr. Lambert believed what he was so fond of affirming, that the poor are a thankless set, who will steal your purse the minute your back is turned, his faith in this assurance might have been shaken by the genuine sorrow manifested during Miss Howard's illness.

 

One instance of affection and gratitude he was himself a witness of. He was approaching Miss Howard's door early one morning with a bunch of exquisite blossoms in his hand, carefully shielded from sun and wind by the tissue paper covering, when he saw a little girl approaching from the opposite direction. She had on a thin shawl, which she held out from her person as though shielding something precious. Curiosity prompted the gentleman to watch and see what she was going to do. He held back till she ran down the basement steps and timidly rang the bell of the lower door of Mr. Mitchell's house.

 

Cautiously he stepped forward, and saw her hold out one little pink.

 

"Will you please give the kind lady this?" she asked, in a pleading tone. "When I was down with fever, she brought me a beautiful bush all covered with flowers, and she told me how to water it, and put it in the sun. This flower came out last night. There are no more, or I would have brought them. She's been ever so good to mammy and me."

 

There were tears in her voice as she spoke, and the listener, grumbling under his breath at his own folly, put up his finger to prevent a tear from falling from his own eye.

 

"What's your name?" asked the woman at the door.

 

"Nanny Morse,—she'll know."

 

"Well, I'll see that she has it,—if it's only to hold in her poor, unconscious fingers," she added, as the child, after an earnest "Thank you, ma'am," turned away.

 

Mr. Lambert afterwards confessed that he felt like throwing his costly flowers into the street. He did not, however; he rang the bell, delivered them to James, the servant in waiting, received the sadly spoken message, "No change, sir," and then hurried away, muttering,—

 

"World upside down; just my luck; only girl in all the crowd worth that," snapping his finger; "and she going—"

 

He stopped suddenly at sight of the little flower-girl again.

 

She was talking to a disreputably dressed lad, who, with a rimless cap stuck on one side of his head, was evidently annoyed at the detention.

 

"Don't go, Jack. 'T would grieve her, even in heaven, if she knew you'd turn back to the bad after all she's done for yer."

 

"I'm hungry, and if I go home mammy'll beat me, sure."

 

"No, she won't, Jack,—not when I tell her about the kind lady. Come, go with me."

 

"Take this and buy a cake," exclaimed Mr. Lambert, thrusting some silver pieces into Nanny's hand.

 

Not waiting for any thanks, he strode off in the opposite direction, muttering, "Old fool! Just like you! Meddling, always meddling."

 

After using his handkerchief vigorously, he went on: "What business is it of mine, if she dies to-day? I don't care. Yes, that's a lie: you do care, you old sinner! You only say that because you're so hateful,—you know you care. You'll never see another like her. There!"