Page 349

[Illustration: SHE WAS FINISHING A LETTER TO SEND BY THE STEAMER, WHEN DR. ROSS WAS ANNOUNCED. Page 349]

 

 

 

CHAPTER IX.

TRUE FRIENDSHIP.

 

IT was a sultry August day. Most of Miss Howard's acquaintances were out of the city. She had just returned from Grantbury, and was finishing a letter to send by the steamer, when Dr. Ross was announced.

 

"One minute, Doctor," pleaded Marion, sealing her letter and ringing for James to take it to the post; "now I will have a glass of lemonade for you in a trice."

 

"I met Hepsey," he said, "or I should not have known you were at home."

 

"Your call is very opportune, sir," said Marion smiling, as she added, "I want to ask about Annie Leman. Is she as good a teacher as you expected?"

 

"Next to yourself, Miss Howard," bowing formally, "I do not know her equal."

 

"Then you will add your influence to mine to secure for her the position I am about to resign in Mrs. La Vergne's school?"

 

"With great pleasure, if you will promise for Miss Leman that she will still teach my daughters. But why do you resign?"

 

Marion had more than once asked herself whether she were treating her father's old friend with sufficient frankness in not telling him of her engagement to Mr. Angus; and now his question gave her the opportunity to do so; so with rosy cheeks she said,—

 

"I'm going to leave the city before long."

 

"Not permanently, I hope?"

 

"I am going to be married, Doctor."

 

"Wh-e-e-w-w!"

 

Marion laughed till all her dimples came into view.

 

"To whom, in the name of wonder?"

 

"To a clergyman, a country parson."

 

"Just like you. I might have known no other man would have dared aspire. Well, tell me all about it. You'll ask me to the wedding, of course. Is he presentable, in person, I mean?"

 

"You shall have a chance to judge for yourself, Doctor. I will tell you one thing about him. He has recently declined a call to a large church in London, with a generous salary, preferring to remain with his country flock; and when they offered to make the support received from them equal to the other rather than to lose him, he declined that, too, insisting that there would be so many calls for money in connection with church work that he preferred they would give that way."

 

The Doctor laughed. "I see he has found out the method to gain your confidence. Where is the parish? I shall expect an invitation to visit you and hear your parson preach."

 

"When I have a home of my own, Doctor, you will always be welcome."

 

"Thank you. You are a good girl; and if you can say my old friend, Dexter Howard, would approve this new arrangement, I must give my consent. I wish you weren't going out of the city, though. What will all your poor people do?  By the way, I'm forgetting in my astonishment at the news what I came for. Did you know Mr. Lambert was sick, confined to his room?"

 

"I'm very sorry to hear it."

 

"That isn't the worst of it. He charges you with being the cause."

 

"Charges me? What have I done? I have not even seen him for weeks, and supposed him out of the city."

 

"He has been in bed. He is hollow-eyed and nervous to a degree—that is not particularly agreeable to his household, I imagine. I can't make out whether the man is out of his mind, or what is the matter with him. When he had berated you as much as I thought prudent, I apologized in your name; was sure you had no intention, and so forth; but he only grumbled the worse. He was sure you did mean it; and if you saw him you would do it again. I couldn't make out what you had done, except that he said you had hurt his feelings."

 

"Oh, I know now!" exclaimed Marion, with a breath of relief. "I'm so glad, so very glad!"

 

"Glad? He said you would be, but I indignantly denied it."

 

"May I go and see him, Doctor? Please let me."

 

"I don't believe he would admit you."

 

"Yes, he would. I must go, dear Doctor. So you may as well say yes."

 

The physician looked her keenly in the face, as though considering, when she interrupted him by a burst of feeling, eyes moist, lips tremulous, as she exclaimed,—

 

"I'm so glad! It's just what I've been praying for."

 

"Hem! Well, I hope you'll continue to be glad when you see him."

 

"Oh, Doctor, you've lived in New York a long time. Do you know anything about his early history?"

 

A shake of the head was the only answer at first, then, after a pause, "He is a native of this city, I think; and, by the way, one of his most fidgety crotchets now is about making a will. Shall he make a will? If he does, who shall he leave his money to? Is there a boy by the name of Carter? Neddy Carter?"

 

"Yes, his feet were crushed and had to be amputated. Mr. Lambert has been a generous friend to him, but the boy knows him only by the name of Regy."

 

"Whew! you don't say that the eccentric individual known as Regy is Mr. Lambert in disguise. Why, the manner in which the man abused him this very morning was a caution."

 

"I feel quite sure they are the same," replied Marion, laughing.

 

The doctor lay back his head in perfect amazement. At last he said, "Lambert and old Regy the same. It's the richest joke of the season. What can be his motive? Did you ever hear of an adventure in Richmond in which he figures prominently?

 

"No, sir."

 

"He was passing a few days there, when one morning early he signalled to an omnibus to stop. Two or three vehicles were in the way, so that when the driver was able to draw up toward the curbstone Regy stood back twenty feet or so. He came on growling and stood outside, berating the driver for not attending more promptly to his signal.

 

"I'll have you dismissed, you rascal,' he shouted, his arm upraised, when he happened to notice the driver's face. It was drawn with pain. Regy jumped up on the box without another word, learned that the driver's wife lay dying at home, dismissed him at once, and drove the omnibus himself all day. Then he found the house where the driver lived. The wife was dead and the children mourning over her cold body. Regy went to the office, got the driver off for a week, paid the funeral expenses, and then secured a place for the man on a farm, his oldest daughter keeping house.

 

"Those were exactly the facts, as I was told them by a gentleman from Richmond."

 

"It was just like him," said Marion, with a merry laugh. "I wonder what his motive is for disguising his real nature. Now, Doctor, warm as it is, I must go to see him."

 

It was, however, with a quickened beat of the pulse that, after her ring at the door-bell, she awaited admittance to the spacious, old fashioned house.

 

The servant was a man who had been in Mr. Lambert's employ for many years. He recognized Miss Howard, but was doubtful whether his master would see any one.

 

"Tell him I have just heard of his sickness and am very anxious to see him. Stay, wait a minute!" she cried, with a sudden resolve, "say that I want to tell him a piece of news personal to myself."

 

Even when she sat in the parlor she heard the loud growling of the master as the servant announced a guest.

 

It was several minutes before the man came back, with a troubled countenance, to say that Mr. Lambert would see her. "I told him he'd better not," he explained, "and that set him that he would. He's very, very bad to-day, miss; perhaps you'd better say nothing to cross him. I'll be close at hand if you want me."

 

For one instant her courage failed, then with an earnest lifting up of her heart to God for help she ascended the stairs and passed into the room.

 

Mr. Lambert had often surprised her with his eccentricities, but never so much as now. He was lying dressed in a suit of white duck, on a luxurious lounge, his face almost as colorless as his dress, and altogether so changed that she felt a disposition to scream. He held out his hand, saying in a most polished manner, "You must excuse me, my friend, for not rising. I am quite reduced by illness."

 

Trying not to show her surprise, Marion cordially seized his hand and drew a chair close to his side.

 

"I'm so sorry I didn't know it before; I'm a very good nurse, and you must let me try my skill on you."

 

His chin began to twitch with his efforts at self-control, so she added at once, hoping to change the current of his thoughts, "We've been such good friends that I know you will be glad to hear some news about me from myself. I'm going to change my name soon." Her cheeks, dyed with blushes, explained her meaning.

 

"Is it to that bow-legged donkey you've pledged yourself," he shouted, starting from his pillow. "If it is, I protest!"

 

"No, indeed, it is not he," she laughed, understanding to whom he referred, as he had warned her against him. "My friend is a clergyman, a real, working Christian. I must tell you how I first met him."

 

She related the incident of selling him the gloves, at which he laughed heartily, and when she went on to tell what Mr. Angus wished to do for his people, he caught her hand and gave it a hearty shake, saying, "He's the kind. I'll consent to that."

 

"You must treat me as you would a daughter," she said, putting her hand on his forehead, "and tell me when you're tired of hearing me talk. Don't you like to hear reading?"

 

"Sing," he said, "sing something lively."

 

She sang several secular songs, and then one beginning,

 

"Jesus, Thou art all compassion,"

 

which brought the tears to his eyes.

 

"Another," he said, briefly, when her voice ceased.

 

"Yes, Mr. Lambert, I'll sing a favorite hymn, which I am sure you will like.

 

"'Lord, lead the way the Saviour went

By lane and cell obscure,

And let love's treasures still be spent,

Like His, upon the poor.

Like Him through scenes of deep distress,

Who bore the world's sad weight,

We, in their crowded loneliness,

Would seek the desolate.

 

"'For Thou hast placed us side by side

In this wide world of ill,

And that Thy followers may be tried,

The poor are with us still.

Mean are all offerings we can make,

But Thou hast taught us, Lord,

If given for the Saviour's sake,

They lose not their reward.'"

 

When she sang the last lines he suddenly covered his face, but while she was hesitating how to begin a conversation on another subject, he exclaimed, irritably,—

 

"It's no use trying to make one's self believe what he knows can't be true."

 

"I am sure of that, dear friend."

 

"You, sure? Then how am I to blame for not believing?"

 

"Suppose I was stricken down with want. I was dying of hunger. Just before me there is abundant supply of food, but I can't raise myself to get it; my weakness has rendered me powerless. You come in, and seeing my condition, point to the food.  I can't see it, or I can't reach it.  'Try,' you say. I try, but fall back.  'Ask me, and I'll give it to you.' You kindly urge this upon me, but I refuse. 'No, I don't believe it's for me. That food is for somebody else'; and so I lie there and die for want of the food, stubbornly resisting every motive you urge—that it is free to all, the only condition being that I ask for it.

 

"That is a very weak illustration of what we, as sinners before God, do continually. Christ has provided an abundant feast; we are starving for want of that very food. He graciously invites us, 'Come without money and without price,' but we persist in saying, 'I know it can't be true. That food looks inviting, but it is not for me.' Now comes in the gracious Spirit, with His soft, pleading voice. He repeats Christ's words, 'I came not to call the righteous, but sinners.'  'To Him give all the prophets witness, that through His name whosoever believeth on Him shall receive remission of sins,'—shall be welcomed to the feast; and by it be restored to life."

 

One hand covered Mr. Lambert's face, and through the fingers Marion saw the tears trickling down.

 

"I'm tired, perhaps you've stayed long enough," he said softly.

 

She rose at once, gazed in his face, longing to comfort him.

 

"Stop a minute. Pray for a poor old sinner, who has never before had a daughter to comfort him."

 

Her breath almost stopped. "Can I pray before him?" But before he noticed her hesitation she was on her knees at his side. Like a little child, running to his father whose arms were outstretched to fold her in his embrace, so she ran to her Heavenly Father, and told Him all her desires for this dear friend. She asked the Saviour to reveal Himself to the poor, desolate heart, wearied with carrying its burden alone. She pleaded with the gracious, waiting Spirit to help him open his heart to this dearest and truest of friends; that the Holy Spirit would take of the things of Christ, and show them unto him; that, like the man dying of hunger, he might ask for the food from the abundant supply before him, and be filled.

 

Poor Mr. Lambert! He wholly lost control, and, before she rose from prayer, sobbed without restraint. As she took his hand to wish him good by, he looked up into her face with such a pitiful expression that it almost overcame her.

 

"Oh," she exclaimed, "do trust Him!  He is waiting for you to say, 'Lord, I believe!'"

 

 

 

CHAPTER X.

NEDDY CARTER'S MISSION.

 

WHEN Neddy Carter was carried from the hospital, he was at once admitted to one of the mission schools; but he begged so hard that he might still make his home with his mother that he was permitted to do so. He said nothing of his motives in preferring a bed on a pile of straw to a comfortable cot in the mission house, but he had a strong motive, which soon began to appear.

 

Unassisted and even unknown to his best friends, he gathered a few little ones in his mother's garret, and then repeated to them the instructions he had gained. Perhaps his pleasant blue eyes, gazing so frankly into theirs, had made him a favorite before; or it might be that the sight of him, wheeling about in his chair, enduring so bravely the great trial that had come upon him gave him influence over his companions. At any rate, he had influence and he used it to win them to better paths.

 

Miss Howard learned something of this, and was so rejoiced at it that she resolved to visit him in his home. She had never been there since the day of Neddy's accident, when, with Hepsey's help, she had had him conveyed in the ambulance to the hospital.

 

This visit occurred on the Sunday afternoon following her call on Mr. Lambert, described in the last chapter. It so delighted her that she longed for Mr. Lambert to know how the boy he had befriended was using his influence for Christ.

 

On Thursday of the following week she called upon the sick man, and found he was out for a drive. Sitting in his room, she wrote him a hurried note, asking him to accompany her to see a mutual friend on Sunday afternoon, enclosing in the note a piece of poetry she had selected for him. She left the whole with the servant, requesting an answer to be sent to her house.

 

Let us look upon Mr. Lambert as he enters his chamber, leaning upon the arm of his valet. The note has been placed in plain view from his lounging chair, and he notices it as soon as he has taken his seat.

 

"Who sent that?" he asks.

 

The tone is much softer than when Marion called last. Perhaps his sickness has weakened him.

 

"Miss Howard called, sir, and finding you out, wrote her errand."

 

"Glad I was away." Even while uttering the words he felt that they were untrue.

 

He took the note in his hands,—thin, bony hands, showing his sickness. "Get me some gruel," he said, "I'm tired, and shall try to sleep."

 

"Shall I say you cannot see any one?"

 

"How many times must I repeat that I see no one but the doctor?"

 

Page 366

[Illustration: "WHO SENT THAT?" HE ASKS. Page 366]

 

"There is an answer required to the note."

 

As soon as he was alone he tore open the envelope, took out the half-sheet on which Marion had copied a beautiful extract from Schiller, laid it without reading on his knee, and then, slowly adjusting his glasses on his forehead, began to read.

 

"After all," he said to himself, "I needn't have dreaded it so much. I was unnecessarily alarmed. I thought she meant to bring another sledgehammer to bear on my conscience. Yes, I'll go and see our mutual friend. I wonder who it is."

 

He took up the other paper and read,—

 

Dear Friend,—

 

I came across these "words of strength" from our favorite

Schiller's poems, and thought of you while reading them.

That they may prove real words of strength to you is the earnest

prayer of an attached friend.

 

MARION HOWARD.

 

"There are three lessons I would write,

Three words as with a burning pen,

In tracings of eternal light,

Upon the hearts of men.

 

"Have hope. Though clouds environ now,

And gladness hides her face in scorn,

Put thou the shadow from thy brow,

No night but hath its morn.

 

"Have faith. Where'er thy bark is driven—

The calm's disport, the tempest's mirth—

Know this: God rules the hosts of heaven,

The inhabitants of earth.

 

"Have love. Not love alone for one,

But man as man thy brother call,

And scatter, like the circling sun,

Thy charities on all.

 

"Thus 'grave these lessons on thy soul,

Hope, Faith, and Love; and thou shalt find

Strength when life's surges rudest roll,

Light when thou else were blind."

 

Notwithstanding the twisted and gnarled branches of this old oak, there was a time, years back, when it was a straight and vigorous young sapling. It was beautiful to behold, and gave promise of becoming a lofty, stalwart tree, under which many might find refreshing shelter. On this thrifty sapling grew an ugly wart, called by some horticulturists jealousy. At first it might have been removed without injury to the tree, but it was not. It grew and grew, diffusing it: poison through all the cellular tissues, until it became deformed, disfigured, and unsightly.

 

Strange, but true, this process of degeneration had been going on in the character of Mr. Lambert, until, at the time we first knew him, there was only one trait left of his original nature. This was a peculiar, unquenchable tenderness of feeling toward the poor and distressed. Suspicious as he had become of all around him, ever toward the very ones he was trying to save from their own thriftlessness or crime, this one trail urged him on to give relief; and in this way kept alive one of the healthiest avenues to real goodness, even though his charities were often accompanied by a torrent of reproach.

 

It was this trait, so congenial to Marion Howard, which drew her to him and led her to suppose he was actuated by love to his Divine Master. In this she was mistaken. In his inmost soul Mr. Lambert accused God of having dealt hardly with him, more hardly than he deserved. He had been wounded in the house of his friends. When his heart had been most vulnerable, there it had been pierced. He had never forgiven nor forgotten the blow. Sometimes, when the recollection of all he had been made to suffer came upon him, he hated himself that he did not revenge himself on all mankind. "I owe no man anything," was one of his favorite mottoes; but after he became acquainted with Marion Howard he did not take much comfort from it. How closely after their first meeting he had watched her! How he longed to find her halting! But no, her motions were too transparent. She had genuine love to God as her Father, to Christ as her Saviour, and it was from this love her kindness to all around her sprang. This he had been forced to acknowledge when analyzing her character. It unsettled him and made him more irritable. Sometimes, when he found himself softened under her influence, he would recall all the injuries heaped on him,—injuries that had blasted his happiness forever.

 

In his early days he had been a ripe scholar, a graduate from one of our best colleges. He had read on many subjects, and among others on the subject of Christianity. He had read in the Old and New Testaments, but his heart remained cold in the midst of sacred fire.

 

At times in his life he had taken pleasure in railing and ranting against everything sacred. In connection with the holiest Bible teachings he had used the words "bigotry" and "humbuggery" and "cant," till he almost convinced himself that what he said was true. Almost, but not quite. There was still a spark of truth left in him, if only it could be ignited. He had been thinking of these questions when he called on Marion and asked whether she believed in churches, dogmas, etc. Her words, the earnestness, the assurance she expressed that the Gospel of Christ was indeed good news to men, that in order to live a good life we must believe on Him and follow His example, came home to his heart. He could not shake off the fear that he had been mistaken. He lost his sleep, and at last became so nervous and unsettled, so irritable and unmanageable, that his valet insisted he should summon a physician.

 

This was his state when Marion came to his bedside. After she left he called for pen and ink, and wrote out, as well as he could recall it, every word of her prayer. This he put in his pocketbook and read over many times in a day, never without tears. The gracious Spirit of God was near, watching, waiting to be gracious.

 

How many times in the course of the few days following he put Marion's character to the severest test! He applied the touchstones of love, charity, and good-will, and found she answered to them all. Yes, her life was a good one, even judged from his standpoint. She did not act from a desire for the praise of men, but from a genuine love to Christ, and a desire, in her humble manner, to do good to those around her. Her note found his heart more tender than it had been for years, more amenable to good influences. He was not likely to refuse any request she might make, even to the half of his kingdom. He sent her word that he would be ready to accompany her at the time appointed.

 

On Sunday morning the weather was so extremely sultry that Marion doubted the expediency of taking an invalid to a hot, unventilated attic where the air must necessarily be vitiated. Indeed, she was herself oppressed with such debility and general lassitude as disinclined her for any exertion. But Sunday was one of her busiest days. She had a Bible class in the morning with her own servants and those living with Mrs. Mitchell, church at eleven, and her mission school in the afternoon, to which she usually devoted two hours. Then church in the evening. Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell being in the country, she felt that the Bible class was more than ever important to their servants.

 

It had been her intention to call for Mr. Lambert in her carriage on her way home after the mission school, but, considering the intense heat had just resolved to postpone her visit to Neddy Carter till another Sunday, when she heard the welcome sound of distant thunder.

 

Before it was time to start for church, the heavy shower had cleared the air and revived her drooping energies.

 

Neddy Carter's home was only a few blocks from the Five Points mission. Miss Howard's carriage was no novel sight in that vicinity, but, notwithstanding, a group of boys and girls gathered around, gazing with open mouths as the old gentleman alighted —and followed the lady slowly up the steps.

 

Nothing could have happened more favorably for her project. The room was full, as not only the little ones, but their fathers and mothers, drawn to the room by the singing, had crowded in, filling up even the open door. From an adjoining tenement Miss Howard procured a chair for Mr. Lambert, which she placed in the passage, and an unpainted stool for herself. An opening hymn had been sung, and then the children united in repeating with the young teacher the Lord's Prayer.

 

Peeping through a space formed by a man's uplifted arm, Mr. Lambert could see the crippled boy seated in his wheeled chair, in front of group of wondering children. His back was toward the door, but the spectator could easily imagine the expression of fervor there would be in his soft brown eyes, the sweet serenity of the brow as he talked to them on the subjects he held most dear.

 

"You said I might tell about Jesus being born in a stable to-day," began one little boy, raising his hand.

 

"You may tell it now," Neddy said, in a cheerful voice.

 

Questions and answers followed, showing that many present had been told of the love of Jesus Christ, even for the most sinful; and then the little missionary, wholly unconscious that others beside the inmates of the neighboring tenement houses were present, with a little wave of the hand to command silence, began,—

 

"I'm going to tell you the story our teacher told us at the mission school to-day, and then we will sing our favorite hymn.

 

"A great many years ago there was a rich man. He had two sons. One was good and one was bad. I guess it was the youngest that was bad. He didn't like to work. The other helped his father on the big farm. Teacher said he thought the good one went around and told the servants what to do, and was not afraid to work himself. They had cows and calves and sheep, and all kinds of animals, I guess.

 

"By and by the lazy one said he was tired of staying at home. He wanted to travel, and he asked his father to give him his part of the money and let him go. His father said yes. So the father and the good son went on together for a great many years. They were pretty happy, but not very. Can you guess why?"

 

"Maybe the father was a sorrering for the boy who had quit his home," murmured a mother in the farthest corner of the room.

 

"That's a good guess.  Yes, that was the reason he wasn't happy. He loved his boy and he didn't like to have him away."

 

"Why didn't he get a letter writ?" questioned a man who was holding a child on each knee.

 

"I don't know," answered Neddy. "I'm sorry I didn't ask teacher that. P'r'aps he didn't know where to send the letter. But now I'm going to tell you about the bad son. He had a whole bagful of money, and he thought it would last him forever. So he kept buying things and spending his money till one day he put his hand in his bag and it was all gone, every bit. He was hungry, but he had not a penny to buy food. He didn't dare to kneel down, as we do, and say, 'Our Father, give us this day our daily bread,' because he had been awfully wicked, getting drunk and lying and swearing, and doing everything bad. You can't guess, any of you, what he did at last. Why, he was that hungry he had to hire out to a farmer who kept pigs, and he watched his chance when nobody was looking, to steal some of the pigs' food. Before this he used to wear gay clothes, now he was all in rags. One day he sat down on a stump of a tree. He was awful homesick. He was tired of being so bad. He thought about his old home, and how kind his father used to be, and what good things he had to eat, He remembered how the men working on the farm had enough to eat. All at once he began to cry, 'I wish I was home. I'm awfully lonely way off here, and nobody speaks a kind word to me. Nobody gives me even the pigs' food. I'm ragged, too, and filthy. Oh, what a fool I was to leave my dear old home!'"

 

"He cried and sobbed, but nobody pitied him."

 

"Say, Neddy, did he die among the pigs?" asked a big girl, putting a finger in her eye to keep the tears back.

 

"I'm coming to the good part now. After he'd been crying a good while, and feeling real sorry he had been so wicked, he thought he heard a voice asking,—

 

"'Why don't you go home?'"

 

"'Oh, father wouldn't have me back!'"

 

"'Yes, he would. He loves you still.'"

 

"'Loves me! Can it be true? Then I'll go right off.' So he got up off the stump and started. Teacher didn't say how far it was, but at last he came to a place where he could see his home.  His heart beat dreadfully. 'Will he take me in? Will he?' Now I'm going to tell you the very words he told himself he would say to his father. Teacher made us all learn them, 'cause she said every one of us could say them to God, our Heavenly Father.

 

"'And he arose, and came to his father. But when he was yet a great way off, the father saw him, and had compassion unto him, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him. And the son said unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son.

 

"'But the father said to his servants, Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him, and put ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet. And bring hither the fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat, and be merry: for this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.'"

 

"Is that 'ere a true story? You don't say he took him right back again?  Whew! I guess he was glad he went home."

 

"There's only one thing more," added Neddy, when the astonishment had somewhat subsided. "Teacher said that the good father in the story means God. Everybody who wanders away from being good, is like the bad son. Just as quick as we are sorry and ask Him to forgive us, He will. She said that we must remember that He is ready just as quick as we say we're sorry.

 

"Now we'll sing, and then the school is done. You must all begin with me,—

 

"I am so glad that our Father in heaven

Tells of His love in the book He has given,

Wonderful things in the Bible I see,

This is the dearest, that Jesus loves me.

 

"Though I forget Him and wander away,

Still He doth love me wherever I stray

Back to His dear loving arms would I flee,

When I remember that Jesus loves me.

 

"Oh, if there's only one song I can sing,

When in His beauty I see the great King,

This shall my song in eternity be,

Oh, what a wonder that Jesus loves me."

 

During the whole exercises, Marion had been aware that her companion was deeply affected. She had refrained from looking at him, but now, as the school was breaking up, she asked,—

 

"Shall we stop and speak to him?"

 

"No, no! I must get home. I'm too ill to be here."

 

She had ordered the carriage to be back in an hour, and was glad to see that it was at the door. They were seated in it and driving off before the crowd came tumbling down the stairs.

 

Mr. Lambert sank back in his seat, looking so pale that his companion was really alarmed. She said nothing, however, but fanned him continually till they reached his own door. She herself alighted and rang the bell for the valet to assist his master, who muttered to himself,—

 

"Whatever he's been up to, he looks like death."