CHAPTER III.

WITHOUT CHRIST.

 

MRS. CHERITON did not return from her walk for an hour after Marion left.  She came in looking so brilliantly beautiful that it made her mother's heart ache.  Her eyes always shone like stars, and the rich color crimsoned her cheeks when she was excited either by joy or anger. Eugene, too, seemed overflowing with spirits. His hands were full of toys and sweetmeats, given him, he said, by the nice gentleman. When he threw off his cap, his grandmother noticed that his hair was wet with perspiration, and told her daughter he ought not to sit in the draught; but she retorted with some indifferent reply. Finding she could not induce the child to move, nor to give up the colored candies he was eagerly devouring, with a sigh the grandmother left the room.

 

During the rest of the day, the young mother went about with a smile on her lips, quite absorbed in thoughts of a pleasant nature. Toward night her boy coughed two or three times; but she, usually so ready to take alarm, laughed at her mother's suggestion that he must have taken cold.

 

At an early hour Mr. Alford called to accompany her to the theatre, and poured out such a torrent of flattery at her beauty as quite turned her head.

 

Scarcely bidding her mother good by, she went gayly down the stairs, little imagining what her return would be.

 

The clock was just striking twelve when, in turning the corner of the street, the house she called home came into view. At this hour it was usually dark. Now the hall and her mother's room were brilliantly lighted. Just at this moment a carriage dashed up to the door.

 

"What does it mean?" she cried, in a startled voice, trying to pull her hand from her companion's arm.

 

"When can I see you again?"

 

The insinuating tone was lost on her, for with a sudden fear she had released herself and flown away. Bounding up the stairs, she stopped one instant to gaze into the lighted room. On her mother's lap lay Geenie, struggling for breath. Before them stood the doctor, with a spoonful of medicine in his hand,—just brought by his servant,—which he was vainly trying to force down the child's throat. One of the servants was bringing through another door a foot-tub filled with boiling water, while another was pulling the blanket from the bed.

 

All this the mother took in at one glance, then sprang forward with a loud shriek and threw herself on her knees before her boy.

 

"Mamma, help Geenie! Make the bad man go away! Geenie can't breathe!"

 

"It's the croup," gasped her mother, in reply to her agonized gaze into the child's face, darkened and convulsed with this struggle for breath.

 

"It is a case of life and death," added the physician, in a solemn voice.  "If you love your brother, persuade him to take this medicine."

 

"My brother! He's my boy, my own, my precious child!"

 

Her voice rose to a shriek, as she saw that his features became more convulsed. She cried, she wrung her hands, calling continually, "Eugene, my pet, my darling! I won't give you up! You sha'n't die!"

 

"He will die, and very soon, if you do not control yourself. You must be calm."

 

Addressing one of the servants, who had just returned with the prescription, he ordered Eugene's head to be held, while he forced down the medicine. Then turning to Mrs. Douglass, he said, "Madam, will you try to bring your daughter to reason? Every moment of delay makes the boy's situation more dangerous. With the aid of the servants, I wish to use the steam."

 

He really pitied the child-mother, as he saw her fixed gaze in her son's convulsed face; but he knew that unless vigorous measures were used, a short time would end the struggle. Taking Eugene in his own arms, he directed the girl to wrap the boy in the large blanket and hold him over the boiling water. The other girl was to furnish a fresh supply.

 

Mrs. Douglass tried to persuade her daughter to leave the room; but she would not. She sank into a chair and watched every movement which took place. She seemed suddenly to be turned into an automaton, only that those wondrous eyes flashed so continuously they seemed to light up the room.

 

In half an hour the medicine began to take effect, the terrible sound, never to be forgotten, grew less harsh. The doctor, with his coat off, worked like a hero. It was evident that the steam produced relief in breathing. More and more heavily drooped the child's head, his eyelids closed, the terrible heaving of his breast was more natural. The doctor put his hand under the blanket, found the pulse, and nodded approval.  Without awakening the boy, he put a small powder on his tongue and sat down to watch.

 

Another hour passed. Mrs. Douglass had quietly retired to the next room. Eugene slept still. He had been removed to the sofa. The doctor still waited. The struggle for life had been so great, he did not like to leave his patient till assured that he would have no return of the frightful convulsions. He was a father too, and aside from his desire as a physician to control the disease, he was interested in the unusual circumstances of the patient. At home, he had a daughter growing up, now in her seventeenth year, who looked more fit to be a mother than this passionate girl, who at one moment gave free vent to her frenzied agony, and the next controlled herself so wonderfully that she had sat for hours scarcely daring to breathe.

 

He could not comprehend, skilled as he was in controlling disease, the torture which that poor girl was undergoing from an accusing conscience.  She saw herself at last as in a mirror,—wilful, proud of her outward charms, undutiful to her long-suffering, self-sacrificing mother,—her best friend,—idolizing her boy, but blind to his faults, and not restraining her own temper that she might teach him self-control. Then her thoughts reverted to her absent husband, and conscience, resolved to be heard at last, set before her a catalogue of her offences toward him,—wilful neglect of his wishes, too evident want of affection, etc., which had at last weaned him from her and sent him far away. "Where is he now?" It seemed to her that this question was screamed in her ears. "You drove him wild with your taunts and neglect."

 

At length she remembered the events of the previous night.  How long ago that seemed!  The whispers of flattery that had sounded so sweetly in her ears, how she loathed them now! How she loathed herself, that they could have pleased her! She seemed to herself to have been suddenly snatched away from the very brink of a precipice, and to be frantically seizing some sure support which would prevent her from falling back into the dreadful abyss. Oh, how dark it looked! And yet how eagerly only last night she had rushed toward it!

 

"Oh, my boy! my boy! If you die your mother is justly punished."

 

Mrs. Cheriton had not lived nineteen years with her mother without understanding that this dearest friend was of late governed by different principles from those which controlled her in earlier life. She acknowledged in this dark hour that when all other help had failed, the poor widow, bearing alone her heavy burden of grief and self-reproach, had found comfort and solace in the truths contained in the sacred book hitherto so little prized. God was no longer to her an angry judge, but a tender, loving father, whose heart yearned over her. Jesus Christ was her sympathizing Saviour, who had voluntarily come to earth, suffered poverty, temptation, and ignominy, that he might know how to succor his children in like sorrow.  Many, many times Mrs. Douglass had endeavored to impress these blessed teachings on her daughter; but they only seemed to her like idle tales. Of late, since her acquaintance with Marion Howard, she had been urged to trust in the kind care of One whose eye of love was always watching her; but these faithful words, instead of drawing her heart toward the friend who uttered them, had led her to treat Marion with cold contempt.

 

As is frequently the case with persons in the near prospect of death, the events of the past life flash like lightning through the mind, so in Juliette's agony, circumstances connected with her childhood, youth, and brief married life rushed to her memory with a force and vividness which well nigh overwhelmed her. As she afterward described it, "I seemed to be living my life over again: I was wooed and won. I tasted the purest joy of all when my child was placed in my arms. I sinned and was punished. I went on sinning and repenting. I went headlong into the arms of a destroyer, when a hand was stretched out and saved me. I can never make myself believe that all this occurred in only five hours."

 

At last the physician, who had for some time been dozing in his chair, rose quietly, and, coming toward the rigid figure, said, encouragingly,—

 

"He is sleeping quietly now. Be careful that he does not get a chill. I will be in again at nine."

 

She gazed in his face, scarcely understanding his words, looking so bewildered that he mechanically placed his fingers on her pulse. Her hand was like ice.

 

"He, your child, is better. I am quite hopeful now. You have controlled yourself admirably."

 

"Do you mean that he will not die? That God will not punish me by taking him away?"

 

"Yes, my poor child. I mean that I hope God in mercy intends to spare him to you. He is given to you afresh, to train up to a good and useful life."

 

What a change came over that young face, on which despair had been stamped! The hard eyes softened, the lips quivered, the crimson tide came rushing back, painting cheeks and brow; the whole countenance grew luminous, as with quickened breath the child-mother clasped her hands, exclaiming,—

 

"Oh, how I will love Him! He is so good, and I have been so bad."

 

Forgetful of the physician's presence, or of anything, except that the God, whom she had not loved, had dealt with her in such infinite mercy, she fell on her knees and buried her face in her hands.

 

"Lord, help me! Save me!" she cried. "I have tried living without Thy help. I was all but lost. Do help, dear Lord."

 

These words, so different from what he expected under the circumstances, seemed too sacred for a stranger's ears, and the kind physician silently took his leave, wiping his eyes as he went down the stairs, then walked quickly to his home in the gray dawn of a new day.

 

 

 

CHAPTER IV.

WITH CHRIST.

 

MRS. CHERITON'S trials had only begun.  Eugene's croup was followed by congestion of the lungs, the attack assuming from the first alarming symptoms. He would not bear his mother out of his sight for a moment. Indeed the result of her injudicious fondness showed itself during these sad weeks in a manner which would have been a warning to any one.  Though she deprived herself of sleep, and almost of food, in order to be always at hand to minister to his wants, he showed no gratitude. He exacted everything as a right, and, if there was the slightest opposition to his wishes, he screamed with passion, often exclaiming, "I hate you.  Go away, bad mamma." He would not take medicine from her, shrieking, "You tell lies. You told me it was good and it wasn't. I'll let Miss Howard give it to me: she never tells lies."

 

From Marion, too, he would submit to any treatment, even to the blisters upon his chest. "It will hurt you, Geenie," she said, "but if you don't have it on for a few minutes that dreadful pain will come back. Be a good boy, and I will tell you a nice story about Gypsy."

 

"Will you bring Gypsy to see me?"

 

"Yes, I will."

 

In addition to Eugene's sickness, the doctor's services were in daily requisition for Mrs. Douglass, who had never risen from her bed since the night of her grandson's seizure. The agony of mind she had suffered on account of her daughter, followed so speedily by Eugene's dangerous illness, proved too much for a frame enfeebled by disease. Violent pain in the head was succeeded by nervous chills, until Dr. Danforth became alarmed for her life.

 

Under these circumstances Marion proved her real friendship by spending as much time as possible with the patient sufferer, and thus was at hand when poor Juliette, driven to her wits' end by the insubordination of her darling, was unable to control him.

 

As the young mother had not spoken of the events of that never-to-be-forgotten night, neither Mrs. Douglass nor Marion could account for the entire change in her manners and appearance. They supposed her fright at the sudden illness of her boy had for the time driven all other thoughts from her mind. Indeed, Mrs. Douglass, with many tears, thanked God that in his wonder-working providence he had taken any means to prevent a career of gayety which must have ended in her ruin. It would have been an immense relief to her could she have known that a card with the name "C. W. Alford" had been sent to her daughter the day following Eugene's attack, that the question written with pencil underneath his name, "When can I see you?" had been hastily answered with one word, "Never."

 

Yes, her Father in heaven, more ready to grant our requests than we are to ask them, had indeed answered the Christian mother's prayers, though as yet she knew it not.

 

Through all these anxious, weary days and nights, in the midst of  her duties,—and they were onerous,—Mrs. Cheriton was supported by the thought, "God will help me: he has promised to help those who ask him."

 

In after-days she used to say, "I seemed to be living in a dream. Whenever the thought of Mr. Alford came into my mind, or the recollection of his vague suggestions recurred to me, I shivered, while my cheeks burned like fire. Then the conduct of Geenie, ungovernable and unloving, continually reminded me of another precipice from which I had been drawn back.

 

"On the other hand, I wondered at myself, at the sweet peace which at times filled my soul. How good God has been to me! How kind, how loving, how tender! Sometimes when Geenie slept I found time to read a few verses in the Bible. I found verses written expressly for me: 'Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him.'  'For he knoweth our frame, he remembereth that we are dust.' I could scarcely believe that these precious words were in God's own book. I put in a mark and read them again and again."

 

But it was impossible for such a radical change to take place in Mrs. Cheriton without the fact becoming visible to those about her. Even before her mother noticed anything, the servants talked about it.

 

"She must believe he is going to die," one girl said to another, "else she wouldn't speak so kindly, and thank me as she does."

 

The first thing indicating a change noticed by her mother was one morning, when the chamber-girl, having put everything in order, had left the room, Juliette came from the adjoining chamber with a smile on her face. Approaching the bed, she kissed her mother, saying, softly,—

 

"Geenie is asleep. If you like, I'll read to you," laying her hand on the Bible as she spoke.

 

"Thank you, dear. That would indeed be a pleasure."

 

"Where shall I read? But here is your mark in St. John's Gospel."

 

In a low, and, to her mother, inexpressibly sweet voice, she read the last words of Christ to his disciples, frequently pausing as she read, as though applying the precious words to her own case.

 

Mrs. Douglass lay with her eyes fixed on the pale countenance of the reader, wondering what made her so beautiful. The rich bloom had gone, the dark eyes no longer flashed; but never had there been such a serene smile wreathing the lips.  It seemed to indicate an inward peace.

 

At last, Juliette, raising her eyes from the book met her mother's gaze fixed intently on her.

 

"Can I do anything more for you, dear?" she said, rising and leaning over the bed.

 

"O Juliette! If you could, if you would, pray: we need help so much."

 

There was a momentary struggle in the breast of the young convert, and then, throwing herself on her knees by the bed, she hid her face in her hands and poured out from a thankful heart prayer for Christ's presence, such as he had promised his disciples, and praise for the blessed hope of acceptance and pardon. With the simplicity of a child who has scarcely learned the language of prayer, but whose soul is fully alive to the value of the blessings to be asked for, she plead for wisdom equal to every emergency, grace for every trial her Father in his love might see fit to send. She prayed for her dear mother, so weak and suffering, for her boy, not yet out of danger, that He who loved them better than any earthly love would do for them according to his will.  "But, oh, dear Jesus, who loves little children," she cried, clasping her hands, "if he must die, and it is Thy blessed will, prepare my boy, my poor, neglected child, for heaven. Let him not suffer eternally for his mother's sinful neglect of Thy commands."

 

Then her sobs became so violent that she was obliged to rise hastily and leave the room.

 

Mrs. Douglass closed her eyes, while she murmured the inspired words, "Lord, now let Thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen Thy salvation."

 

"I asked God, and He has heard my prayers. She has learned to pray. That was not her first prayer. O my Saviour, help me to thank Thee as I ought."

 

When Dr. Danforth made his next visit, he found Mrs. Douglass bolstered up in bed, Hepsey, who had for a day or two supplied Marion's place, arranging her still abundant hair. They were engaged in animated conversation when he entered. He had become deeply interested in the strangers, having never forgotten the scenes of the night of his introduction to them. To no one had he ever mentioned the young mother's prayer, the burden of which was help for herself from some great danger, not for relief and returning health to her child.

 

"You are better," he said, cheerfully, after having counted her pulse.

 

"Yes, Doctor, I have had a restorative."

 

"Wine? I wish you had taken it sooner."

 

"No, Doctor. I have heard my daughter pray." The mother's face beamed with joy.

 

"What is so great a beautifier as happiness?" was the doctor's thought. "She looks ten years younger." He spoke seriously, but with the greatest tenderness, saying,—

 

"I have heard her pray, and I think her prayers have been answered. She has borne the trials of these sad weeks with a sweet submission and patience I have seldom seen surpassed."

 

"God has given her grace according to her day."

 

"Yes. He has indeed fulfilled His promise to the widow and orphan."

 

"My daughter is not a widow, Doctor," murmured the patient, her cheeks flushing. "You have been such a kind friend, I may confide so much of our story to you. Juliette was married at the early age of fourteen, and her child was born within the year. Geenie was only a few weeks old when his father left home for England, ostensibly to obtain a situation where he might support his family in the luxuries to which they had been accustomed. We hear from him occasionally, but have never seen him since."

 

"Unnatural monster!" cried the doctor, indignantly. He thought of his own little girl, and wondered how she would endure such a living trial,—she to whom the loss of a pet dog had been the greatest grief she had known.

 

It was a minute or two before he could rally sufficiently to remark, "Eugene is better too. I am sorry to say my patient will soon be dismissing me."

 

"We have so few friends in America, we cannot give up your visits without regret, Doctor. But it is selfish for us to keep you longer than is necessary, when so many need you."

 

"Is a physician to have no friends, then?" queried the doctor, assuming a gruff voice. "You will find it hard, madam, to get rid of me."  Then, with an emphatic shrug of his shoulders, he went away, and drove nearly a mile out of his course, while he was wondering what kind of a man Mr. Cheriton could be who would forsake a wife like Juliette.

 

In another respect the young mother showed that she had taken God's word as the rule of her life. This was in the management of her child. Formerly, when herself provoked at his rudeness or impatient at his exactions, she had dealt him a sudden blow, which, however, always seemed to rouse his combativeness to such a degree that it required much skill to soothe him. She usually had to buy him off from the exhibition of temper by confectionery or some new toys. Now, feeling her own weakness, she daily sought strength from God. She had noticed, too, how easily Mr. Angus and Marion had made him obey, not by blows or threats, but by a firm and gentle kindness, which won his confidence. It was her aim to imitate this method.

 

As soon as he was able to sit up, Eugene felt rather than understood that his mother would no longer submit to be struck in the face or called "bad mamma" when his wishes were crossed. She talked to him, explained that he must obey, that Jesus Christ loved good children, and that she would teach him to pray, and ask this best Friend to help him be good.

 

There is a sacredness in religious teachings which always arrests the attention of a child. No stories are so much delighted in as the stories of Joseph and Samuel and Daniel, and particularly the story of our dear Saviour. Over and over again these stories may be repeated; yet the little one never tires, but will ask new questions concerning the wonderful characters.

 

Juliette had thus a double incentive to read her Bible. She wished to find in the sacred pages strength for daily duties; and she also read for the instruction of her boy.

 

Marion came in one day and found Geenie dressed in a wrapper, sitting in his mother's lap. In her hand she held the Good Book, and they were talking eagerly of the story she had read.  Marion wrote afterwards, in her letter to Mr. Angus, that she seldom had seen a prettier picture,—the beauty of both so softened by the subjects on which they were talking.

 

Marion bent over and pressed her lips to the fair forehead of the young mother, and Eugene made them laugh by imitating her example.

 

"She's nicer than she was," he exclaimed, patting her cheek. "She doesn't tell lies any more. She tells me when the medicine is going to taste badly,—but I take it all the same."

 

After talking for a few minutes with Mrs. Douglass, Marion hurried away, saying to herself,—

 

"What a glorious change! What a purifier and refiner Christianity is! How Mr. Angus will rejoice that Juliette has accepted her Saviour!"

 

Before I close this chapter I must tell the reader that Marion showed Mr. Alford's card to Mr. Lambert the very day Mrs. Douglass had given it to her, only asking whether he knew the man. He did not, but soon found a man of his description was a frequenter of gambling-saloons and other disreputable places of resort, that the name Alford was one of several aliases, and that he was a man wholly unfit to be trusted.

 

To neither Mrs. Douglass nor her daughter did she repeat this information, the change in Juliette rendering it unnecessary.

 

 

 

CHAPTER V.

HOME IN THE STABLE LOFT.

 

"THIS is only a stable, Miss Marion."

 

"The place must be here, Hepsey: the number three hundred and sixty is plainly marked."

 

The young lady reverted to her paper again.

 

"'Esther Cole, three hundred sixty.' Three hundred fifty-eight, the last house is marked. I must inquire."

 

One of the hostlers came forward to the door of the stable.

 

"Do you want a carriage, lady?"

 

"I am looking for a number which ought to be here."

 

"Is it a tenement house you're after, ma'am?"

 

"Yes, and a family by the name of Cole."

 

"It's aloft their house is. Walk right through ma'am, to the ladder beyont."

 

"Thank you," replied Marion, giving him a smile which quite won him. "How very clear your floor is! I was never in a stable before.  Look, Hepsey! See how nicely the carriages are covered; and really there is quite a pretty parlor,—and such a row of whips hanging up."

 

"That room is for ladies and gentlemen to wait while their horses are harnessed, ma'am." The hostler was doing the honors in his best style. They had now reached the ladder, as he called it by which they were to ascend to the room "aloft," and he said, "It's a poor place, ma'am, for a lady the likes of yees."

 

"It's a heathenish place," retorted Hepsey "Not fit for Christians to live in. Are you sure, young man, that the steps are safe?"

 

He laughed merrily, exhibiting a row of even white teeth.

 

"If it's afraid ye are, ma'am," he explained, looking at Marion, "sure I'll bring 'em all down to yees,—every mother's son of 'em."

 

"Oh, no, indeed! We will go up. Many thanks for your courtesy."

 

Her face was all dimpled with smiles as she prepared to mount the steps, while the hostler walked away, saying to himself,—

 

"A rale lady that is. The man that owns her must be a happy one."

 

At the top of the steps a door opened into a large room rudely partitioned off from the hayloft and smelling strongly of the fumes from the stable below. Seven people called this room their home,—father, mother, grandmother, and four children of different ages under eight years. Unlike many who live in more spacious apartments, their hearts were larger than their home, and they had recently welcomed a poor waif thrown upon the cold charities of the world.

 

Esther Sims was an orphan who had been connected with the mission Sunday and sewing schools in which Miss Howard was interested. This lady had never considered her very intelligent, but she had a pretty face, with childish features, and an appealing glance in her deep, gray eyes which made her many friends. Marion had lost sight of her for more than a year, and only the day before her visit to the stable learned her sad story.

 

Not being very happy in the family where one of the mission-school teachers had placed her, she was easily persuaded to leave it for employment in a cigar factory. There she formed the acquaintance of a young fellow by the name of Cole, and soon after was married to him. If she had taken to heart the instructions of her faithful teacher, she would have distrusted the principles of a man whose first act in connection with her was deceit.

 

As they were both infants in the eye of the law, Esther being but sixteen, and her husband to be but eighteen, the clergyman refused to perform the ceremony unless one of the parents, was present and wished it. Leaving her sitting on the steps to the house, he hurried off, and soon returned with a woman who said she was his mother, and who declared her willingness for her bye to be married.

 

They were married, and young Cole took his wife home to a house where he had lodgings, where they had many a laugh about the ease with which he had found a mother in his emergency, he having given the woman twenty-five cents to personate such an individual.

 

Esther's character was so yielding that she got along for a few months without much trouble. She never knew what her husband's business was, and often wondered why it kept him so long into the night. At last he began to abuse her, and grew so irritable that she begged to be taken back to her old place in the cigar factory, where, at least, she had kept herself from starving. Now young Cole had been arrested for burglary, tried, and sentenced to prison for three years, and Esther, innocent, ignorant even of his ever having committed crime, was suspected of being connected with the plot.

 

Even Hepsey, who tried to harden her heart against pity, having been so often deceived, was affected by the utter abandonment to grief of the young girl. She was sitting on a bed of straw, with a child of her sister-in-law across her lap, her head fallen forward on her breast, her tears falling on the sleeping babe's face, seemingly unconscious of the presence of any one.

 

"She's just gone daft with her trouble, poor thing," explained the woman, as she saw the eyes of her visitors fastened on the child-wife.

 

It was difficult to rouse her from her grief. When addressed, she looked up frightened, supposing officers had come to take her to jail. Then, recognizing Miss Howard's kind face, she asked, piteously,—

 

"Will they keep me in prison long?"

 

Mrs. Cole took the babe from her arms, explaining, "I thought maybe 't would divert her thoughts," and then went on to say that Jo, her husband's brother, had always been a bad boy. He had no business to deceive a young girl, and get married when he had no home. That Esther was steady and honest, and was never up to knowing his wicked goings-on. Then she touched her head and pointed to the poor girl in a significant manner. "As to the robbery, she's as innocent of it as a babe unborn."

 

No one could doubt it who witnessed the appealing glance in those wondering eyes; at least Miss Howard did not, but she could not at once decide what course to pursue to clear the child from the suspicion of crime. Having ascertained that Mrs. Cole was willing to keep her for a few days, Miss Howard put a sum of money into her hands, and, promising to do what she could, took her leave.

 

"She's no more guilty than I am," exclaimed Hepsey, indignantly. "That woman thinks she isn't bright, but it's only because she's been cowed down and abused till she darsn't say her soul is her own. I remember her when she was as tidy and spry as the best of 'em."

 

"Why, Hepsey, where did you ever see her?"

 

"At the sewing school, ma'am, where I used to go in yer place while yer was in Grantbury; and Esther Sims, as they called her then, was the most respectful and the best behaved of the whole class."

 

"Hepsey, do you think she could be trained by kindness to be a good servant?" Marion's voice was abrupt in her earnestness.

 

"Indeed I do, ma'am. To be sure, it would take time, but it would be a deed o' mercy, and like as not be the saving of her soul."

 

"Well, my dear, good Hepsey, you have helped me through a great many difficulties. If we can get the poor child away from her surroundings, you shall have the chance to try and save her."

 

Hepsey was startled. This was rather beyond what she had thought of. Presently she asked, abruptly,—

 

"What will she do with her thief of a husband?"

 

"She must be made absolutely free from him, of course. I will take advice about it."

 

"I suppose you're thinking of yer own home in the country, ma'am, and that is where I'm to train her," added Hepsey, with a sly glance into her young mistress's face.

 

A rosy blush was the only reply.

 

 

 

While Marion was hesitating to whom she should apply for advice in regard to poor Esther, Mr. Mitchell came home. He assured her that by the laws of the State the husband's incarceration in prison rendered the wife free from the marriage tie. He also comforted her by saying, that even if Esther were arrested, unless some one appeared against her, the case could not be carried on. Marion, however, with the recollection of the child's look of terror at the very thought of being arrested, was determined to prevent it if possible.

 

Suddenly recalling to mind Mr. Lambert's promise to aid her in her works of charity, she sent James to his house to request him to call at his earliest convenience.

 

When he came, which was almost immediately she was struck with a change in his appearance; and inquired, anxiously,—

 

"Are you ill, sir?"

 

"What makes you ask that? I'm in rollicking health and spirits."

 

She doubted it, however, for even while talking with her he seemed to fall into fits of revery.

 

"What a fool she was to marry so young!' he said, with a sneer; "but, as you say, that can't be helped now. My advice is, let him go to—anywhere that will keep him out of her way. But what is to be done with the child?"

 

"I think Hepsey means to take her," replied Marion, showing all her dimples. "I hope she can be got off without going to court."

 

"Hepsey, hem!  Well, never fear. I'll see the judge and settle that. If he won't believe my word, I'll make him go to the stable, mount the ladder, and see for himself."

 

He leaned back in his chair, laughing heartily but Marion noticed that there was no ring of mirth in his laugh.

 

Suddenly she said, "O Mr. Lambert! Are you acquainted with Mr. Regy? I hear of him everywhere among the poor, and I long to see him."

 

"Better not," he grumbled. "Take my word for it, he is a good-for-nothing fellow. I know him well."

 

"You must be prejudiced, Mr. Lambert. His heart is just as warm as yours; indeed, in many things he must be like you: he delights to relieve suffering and he delights to—to—what shall I call it?"

 

"Call it abuse; that's the right name. He's a hard-shelled old sinner. He tries to salve his conscience by giving away what he don't want. Keep clear of him, as you would of the plague. Now I must be going, or I sha'n't see that judge."