Interrupted

But she said it with a long-drawn sigh. This was work that was utterly distasteful to her, and she saw but little hope of accomplishing anything by attempting it.

She wanted to fight the demon of alcohol wherever found—at least, she had thought that she did; but who would have supposed that it could bring her into such strange contact with Mrs. Russel Ansted?

In order that you may understand why this plan of rescue had suggested itself to Alice Ansted's mind, it will be necessary to explain that the acquaintance which had been commenced by accident had been allowed to mature into what might almost be called friendship.

At least, it had pleased Mrs. Ansted to encourage the intimacy between her young people and the attractive music-teacher.

"It is not as though she had been simply a music-teacher, and nothing else, all her life," was Mrs. Ansted wont to explain to her city friends. "She is a daughter of the Boston Benedicts, and, of course, her opportunities have been rare. She is simply faultless in her manners; the girls learn a great deal from her, and are devoted to her, and she really is a charming companion. You know in the country we have no society."

So Claire had been made almost oppressively welcome to the lovely house on the hill, and the sleigh or the carriage had been sent for her many times when she could not go, and in many kind and pleasant ways had the entire family sought to show their interest in her society. Mrs. Ansted, indeed, patronized her to such an extent that Alice had made herself imagine that in this direction might be found the light which would open the mother's eyes to certain things which she ought to see and did not.

Claire did not share her hopes. She had always felt herself held back from real heart intimacy with the fair and worldly woman; had always detected the tinge of patronage in the kindness shown her, and had even smiled sometimes at the thought of how the very attentions which she received placidly, and, in a sense gratefully, would chafe her hot-headed young sister Dora. It had given her joy of heart and cause for gratitude to realize that she herself had been lifted above such chafings. There were trials in her lot, but Mrs. Ansted's patronage was not one of them. Still it made her feel that little would be gained by attempted interference in her family affairs. Under the circumstances, she felt herself intrusive, yet determined to submit and thereby convince Alice of her willingness and powerlessness. The most she had to fear was a little drawing up of the aristocratic shoulders, and a cold and courteous hint that some things belonged exclusively to the domain of very close friendship.

It was on the following Saturday that opportunity offered for an attempt. Claire was spending the day with the Ansteds; the invitation had come from the mother, and was unusually cordial. Louis was in town, would probably remain over the Sabbath, and the girls were lonely. The mother did not know how much more readily the invitation was accepted because Louis was in town.

They were in Mrs. Ansted's own sitting-room. The young girls had been called to the sewing-room at the mandate of the dressmaker, and Alice, telegraphing Claire that now was her opportunity, slipped away. Have you ever observed how much harder it becomes to set about a delicate and embarrassing duty when circumstances have been carefully made for you, and you are left to stare in the face the thought "I am to do this thing, now; it is expected of me?"

Immediately Claire began to feel that it would be preposterous in her to try to advise or enlighten Mrs. Ansted. But that lady unconsciously helped her by asking:

"Did you ever meet Mr. Harold Chessney in Boston? I believe he calls that his home, though he is abroad a great deal. I wish he were abroad now, instead of planning an excursion to the Rocky Mountains and all sorts of out-of-the-world places, and putting Louis into a fever to accompany him. I have a horror of those Western expeditions entered into by young men. Louis will not go contrary to my approval, however, so I need not worry about it. It is a great comfort to a mother to have a dutiful son, my dear."

"It must be," Claire hastened to say, but added that she should think it would be a delightful trip for a young man, and a rare opportunity to see his own country. She was not personally acquainted with Mr. Chessney, but she had heard him very highly spoken of.

"Oh, he is perfection, I suppose," Mrs. Ansted said carelessly; "too perfect, my dear, for ordinary flesh and blood. He is very wealthy and very eccentric; has innumerable ways for wasting his money on savages, and all that sort of thing. I should really almost fear his influence over Louis, he is such an impressible boy. Harold might fancy it his duty to become a home missionary." This last was spoken with a little satisfied laugh, as though Louis Ansted's position was too well assured, after all, to suggest any reasonable fears of his sinking to the level of a home missionary! The matron speedily composed her face, however, and added:

"Harold is a magnificent man, I have no doubt, and if Louis were a young man of depraved tendencies and low tastes, probably I should hope for nothing better than to exile him for awhile with such a guard; but in his position, and with his prospects, the idea is, of course, absurd. I don't know what fancies Alice has in mind, the child seems quite to favor Louis' going. Alice is a little inclined to be fanatical, I am afraid, in some things. I hope you will not encourage such tendencies, my dear. I have seen with pleasure that she is becoming more interested in religion, and disposed to help poor Bud, though she has chosen some foolish ways of doing that—but still it is quite as it should be to rouse to the importance of these things; I have been pained with her indifference in the past. However, we should not carry anything to extremes, you know."

They were not getting on. Claire did not feel like a diplomatist. She was disposed to be straightforward. Would not simple truth serve her purpose in this case? At least, it would be less humiliating than to try to worm herself into family confidences. So she spoke her plain question:

"Mrs. Ansted, has it never seemed to you that it would be well for Louis to get away for a time from some of his associates who tempt him in the direction in which he is least able to bear temptation?"

Plain English was not palatable, or else it was not understood. Two red spots glowed on the mother's cheek, but her eyes were cold.

"And what is that, if you please? I was not aware that my son was particularly susceptible to any temptation."

Could this be true? Did she not know that he was tempted to reel home at midnight like a common drunkard? If so, what an awful revelation for a stranger to make!

Claire hesitated, and the lady looked steadily at her and waited. Simple truth should serve her again; it would be insulting to offer anything else.

"Mrs. Ansted, you will pardon me for referring to it, but I know from your son's own statements that he is tempted in the direction of liquor, and that he finds it hard to resist these temptations, and I am afraid he is in great danger. If I were his mother, and had confidence in this Mr. Chessney, I should beg him to go out with him, and break away from his present surroundings."

She was deceived in the mother—in the calm with which she listened to these words. She did not cry out like one amazed and hurt, nor did she look like one who was being shocked into a faint; and Claire, watching her, hurried on, determined to make her disagreeable revelations as brief as she could, and then to get away from the subject. Surely the mother could not feel much humiliated before her, when she confessed that she had received these intimations from the son.

But directly her voice ceased, the mother arose, her own tones low and ladylike as usual:

"I am not aware, Miss Benedict, that our kind treatment of you can have furnished any excuse for this direct and open insult. I did not know that you had succeeded in securing my son's confidence to such a degree that he had been led to traduce his friends. I can not imagine his motive; but allow me to say that yours is plain, and will fail. The lady to whom Mr. Louis Ansted has been paying special attention for years, can not be thrown off, even by his taking a trip to the Rocky Mountains; and if you hope to ingratiate yourself in the mother's heart by trying to arouse her fears, you have made a grievous mistake. My daughters are evidently more susceptible, and I now understand some things that were before mysterious to me.

"I am sorry for you, Miss Benedict. I can well imagine that it is a hard thing to be poor; but it is a pity to add disgrace to poverty. You have been unwise to try to work up fanatical ideas on my son. We are none of us temperance fanatics."

There was a dangerous fire in Claire's eyes, but she struggled to keep back the words that hurried forward, clamoring to be spoken. This woman before her was old enough to be her mother, and was the mother of a young man whom she would try to save.

Besides, she had the force of habit to help her. The controlled voice which belongs to the cultured lady, even under strong provocation, was as much a part of her as it was of Mrs. Ansted.

"I will pass by your personalities, Mrs. Ansted, as unworthy of you, and ask you to pardon my apparent intrusion into family affairs, on the sole ground that I have come into possession of some knowledge concerning your son's danger which I have reason to believe you do not possess, and I thought I ought, as a Christian woman, to warn you."

Mrs. Ansted was already repenting of some of her words—beginning, that is, to realize that she had been unnecessarily insulting to a guest in her own home, and one whom her son, as well as her daughters, liked and admired. She was not less angry, but more controlled.

"Possibly you mean well," she said, dropping into the patronizing tone which was habitual, "and I may have spoken too plainly, in my haste; a mother's feelings, when she considers the characters of her children insulted, are sometimes not sufficiently held in check. We will conclude, Miss Benedict, that your motive was good, though your words were unfortunate, and your conclusions unwarrantable. My son is entirely capable of taking care of himself. If you are really sincere in supposing him to be in danger, because he takes an occasional glass of wine, it only proves you to be lamentably ignorant of the customs of polite society. And now I must beg you to excuse me. Excitement always wearies me, and I feel that I must lie down for awhile. I presume my daughter will be in soon."

And Claire was left alone to gather her startled thoughts and determine what to do next. She was greatly excited. In all her imaginings of a mother's heart, nothing of this kind had occurred.

It had been a serious failure, as she had feared it would be, but not of the kind which she had planned.

She looked about her for paper on which to write a line to Alice; then determined that she would do no such thing, lest Alice might have to bear blame in consequence.

She would just slip quietly away, and go home and think. It was not clear in her mind what ought to be said to Alice. She had been insulted, and by Alice's mother, and she could not longer remain a guest in the house; but perhaps it was not necessary that Alice should know all this. She must wait, and think, and pray.

At least, it would not be wise to make any expression about Mrs. Ansted until she could think less bitterly of the words spoken to her; for it is by no means a pleasant thing to be misjudged, and it is especially difficult to keep one's mouth closed when one has that to tell which would silence all the hints forever. It had required all the self-control which Claire possessed not to tell Mrs. Ansted to ask her son whether the insinuations which had been flung at her meant anything. Certainly she was not in the mood to have an interview with Alice.

She hastily and quietly possessed herself of her wraps, and stole out of the house and down the avenue which had in the few weeks past become so familiar to her. Bud saw her from the distant stables, but he only made her a most respectful bow. It was no strange sight to him. He knew that she came and went often during these days; he did not know she was thinking that in all probability she would never walk down that avenue again.

There is no use explaining to you that she cried when she reached home; cried bitterly, and with a perfect abandon, as though her heart were broken. She was young and had not had many hard words to bear, and all her sharp thrusts from life had come upon her lately; her knowledge of human nature had been increasing with painful rapidity, and there were times when she shrank from it all, and wanted to go to her father.

But after the crying—or, indeed, in the very midst of it—she prayed: for herself first—she felt so sore, and ill-used, and friendless; then for Louis Ansted—the special danger and the special friendlessness of a man with such a mother, took hold of her with power, and at last she prayed for the mother; not at her, but for her.

There is a way of praying about a soul with whom we are offended—or, at least, we call it praying—which is simply pouring out one's knowledge of that person's shortcomings in an almost vindictive way before the One whom we almost unconsciously feel ought to come to our help and administer rebuke. Claire honestly prayed for Louis Ansted's mother. Her eyes must be opened, but how? Must it be that they were to be opened by the utter ruin of her only son?

That this might not be necessary, Claire prayed, and rose up presently, almost forgetful that she had received deep wounds, and quite ready to shield that mother's shortcomings from her children.

CHAPTER XXIV.
RECOGNITION.

As for the pulpit, it was "real," without any paint about it, and so neat, and pretty, and graceful, that the girls had exhausted all adjectives on it. And really, the stove-pipe, though it wandered about according to some wild freak that was considered necessary in order to "draw," did not look so objectionable now that it was real Russia; and nothing could glow more brilliantly than the stoves, which smoked no more. Engineer Bud had been a success.

Still, I know that I can not make you realize the difference in that church. Unless you were there on that dreary winter morning when Claire Benedict first looked upon it with utter sinking of heart, and then were there again on that spring morning, and caught the breath of the flowers, and saw the shimmer of awakened life over everything within and without, you will never understand it. Unless, indeed, you look up some other man-forsaken sanctuary, and try the delightful experiment of transformation.

There were those in South Plains who knew and felt the difference.

They gathered softly, the worshipers, the men on tiptoe, though they need not have done that, for the heavy carpet gave back no sound of footfall, but it was one of their ways of expressing admiration and reverence. They gave quick, admiring, amazed glances about them, then riveted their eyes, as the workers had meant they should, on the motto which glowed before them, strung from lamp to lamp in some spirit-like fashion which those unacquainted with the management of silver ware cannot comprehend, and which made the triumphant announcement: "The Lord is in his holy temple." And I tell you that, so much has the outward and tangible to do with our spiritual vision, there were those present who grasped this stupendous fact for the first time.

The organ squeaked no more. It had only been a matter of a drop of oil which quieted that, and yet that congregation had actually sat under its squeak almost for years! So many things in this world squeak for the want of a thoughtful hand to administer a drop of oil!

Then the choir—that almost hardest thing in country or city to manage successfully—had been transformed. There had been no violent wrenches; occasionally it happens that a combination of circumstances bring about unlooked-for and delightful results. The discordant alto had married, bless her, and gone to another town; the flatting tenor had sprained his ankle, poor man, and must needs abide at home. The tremendous bass had that rare quality, common-sense, and discovered on the evening of the concert that South Plains had taken a musical prize, and was himself the one to propose that Miss Benedict and her class should be invited to join the choir; and further, that Miss Benedict should be requested to drill the choir, and had put himself under training, and his voice being really grand, he bade fair, under culture, to become the power in song that God designed.

I do not know whether it was accident, or a blessed design, that the much astonished, much-encouraged, young-old minister, in a new coat which was an Easter gift from the young men of his congregation, read the hymn—

"The Lord reigneth, and this is his holy temple, and I am his chosen mouthpiece to this people: I had almost forgotten it, but it is so." Then when that reconstructed choir rolled out the words, led by the centre voice of exquisite melody and power, the worshipers felt the sentiment of the hymn fill their hearts, and admitted that they did love her gates, and that they must rouse up and show their love as they had not done heretofore.

Ah! there was more in that church that day than new carpet, and new furniture, and paint, and paper, and light and beauty. These were all well enough, and Claire Benedict's sense of the fitness of things rejoiced in them all. But what were they to the thrill in her heart as she heard the minister read among the names announced for reception into the visible communion of the church, that of Hubbard Myers. There were some who did not know to whom the name belonged; and it was not surprising, for Hubbard Myers had been called only Bud for so many years, the wonder was that he remembered his name himself.

There had been great astonishment among some, and not a little shaking of heads, when Bud presented himself as a candidate for church-membership. It had not been supposed that he had intellect enough to understand the meaning of the step. There was close questioning on the part of the minister, not for himself alone, but for the enlightenment of others; but before the examination closed, more than one of the listeners drew out their red handkerchiefs, and blew their noses suspiciously, and at last, one of the most stolid of them remarked:

"It is my opinion, brethren, that the boy has been taught of God, and I think we would do well to accept him without any further delay." And they did.

There were other trophies. Where would be the church of Christ without its living, working members? One who was pledged to prefer Jerusalem above her chief joy, had not been, and in the very nature of the case, could not have been, content with toiling simply for the outward adorning of the temple.

A history of the quiet work which had been done in hearts during that one winter would fill a volume. I have but given you a hint of it here and there. The head of the Church has the complete record. There is perhaps little need that I should try to give you even scattered notes of it. Yet there was one name which made the tears come very near to falling, as Claire listened for it, fearful that it might not come, and at the same moment hopeful for it. It was only a transferral from a church in the city to membership with the one at South Plains, and it was only Alice Ansted. Her parents were not even present in the church. But Claire knew that a visible union with the church of Christ meant to Alice Ansted to-day what it never had before. And she knew that the two girls, Fanny and Ella Ansted, who sat and cried, in the pew beside Alice, were only left out because parental authority had asserted itself, and said they were not to come. Claire knew that they had united themselves with the great Head, and were members of the church in the "Jerusalem which is above and is free." They could afford to bide their time.

And there was another still which gave Claire's heart a peculiar thrill of joy. Not that his name was read, or that many, as yet, knew about Satan's defeat with him. It had been recent, and the public recognition of the fact was yet to come. But the Lord Jesus Christ knew, for he had been the victor.

It was only the night before, as they were about to leave the reconstructed church, and Mary Burton, with a long-drawn breath of repressed excitement, had declared that everything was ready for to-morrow, and that the victory was complete, that Harry Matthews had bent toward Claire and murmured:

"Miss Benedict, there has been another victory. You will know that it is far more wonderful than this. He has 'undertaken' for me."

There had only been time to grasp his hand and flash back an answer from sympathetic eyes, but there was a song in her heart this morning over the news. Occasionally she glanced at Harry, and told herself that she would have known, just to look at him, that the highest experience this life has for us had come to him.

The little church was unusually full on this triumphant morning, and yet most of the faces were known to Claire. Strangers were not frequent at South Plains. Yet there was one, a gentleman, who gave that reverent heed to the service which even among strangers distinguishes those who really join in worship from those who merely look on. This man joined, and with his heart. Claire was sure of it. It was this man that Harry Matthews watched, a satisfied smile on his face the while. Harry could imagine just how surprised the stranger was.

On the evening before, when he had reached his room, after giving his wonderful news to Claire, instead of finding it in darkness, his kerosene lamp had been turned to its highest capacity, and a gentleman sat in front of his little stove, feeding it from time to time, apparently for the sole purpose of brightening the somewhat dismal room.

"Halloo!" had been Harry's greeting.

"Just so," was the quiet response. "You did not know you had company, did you, my boy?"

And then there had been such eager grasping of hands, and such lighting up of faces, as evinced the satisfaction of both parties at meeting. For this was Harry Matthews' favorite uncle, and he must lately have come from the home where Harry's mother waited for him.

Of course there was a high-tide of question and answer at once. It was not until an hour afterward that Harry reached the subject of which he had instantly thought, on seeing his uncle.

"Uncle Harold, didn't you know the Benedicts?"

"What Benedicts?"

"Why, the Boston ones. Sydney L. He failed, and died, less than a year ago, don't you remember?"

"I remember. I knew him well. I met him abroad."

"And didn't you know his daughter?"

"I knew that he had a daughter, and, in fact, I think I saw her once; but we were not acquainted."

"Why, I wonder?"

"Why?" with a slightly-curious laugh. "There might be many reasons, I am sure. Boston spreads over a good deal of ground. Besides, you know I never spent a great deal of time in Boston, and I am not a society man. Why do you ask?"

"No reason in particular; only the lady is here, and I thought if you were old acquaintances, it would be pleasant to meet her."

"Here in South Plains! What in the world is she doing here?"

"Teaching music."

"I wonder if this is where she has hidden herself! I occasionally hear queries as to what has become of her, but I believe I never met a person who knew. No, I don't suppose there would be any mutual pleasure in a meeting. I may be said to be a stranger. I have not the least idea how she looks; and I may never have met her, though I think I did somewhere. I remember having a passing interest in seeing how a daughter of Sydney Benedict would look. He was a grand man, but I suspected that his daughter was a butterfly of fashion. She lived in the very centre of that sort of thing, and her father was supposed to have immense wealth. I suppose she is a poor, crushed little morsel, done up in crape and disappointment. I am always sorry for music-scholars who have to take broken-down ladies for teachers. Still, I don't know but I would like to shake hands with her for her father's sake. Have you met her?"

"I should say I had! but I don't believe you ever have. You couldn't draw such a queer picture of her as that, if you had ever seen her. She doesn't wear crape at all. Somebody told me she did not believe in mourning for people who had gone to heaven; at least, not in putting on black clothes and looking doleful, you know. And as to being crushed! why, uncle Harold, she is the brightest, sweetest, grandest girl I ever heard of in all my life."

"Possible!" said his uncle, with a good-humored laugh. "Why, my boy, she must be several years older than you! What does this mean?"

"Oh, nonsense!" was the impatient reply of the excited young man. "It is just as evident as can be, that you don't know what you are talking about. If you had been here this winter, and watched things work, and known the hand that she had in it all, why—look here! you wait until to-morrow; I can show you a few things, I fancy."

Whereupon he immediately closed his lips; and although his uncle pretended to be extremely curious, and to be unable to wait until morning for light, no hints or questions could draw out further information in the same direction.

CHAPTER XXV.
DANGERS SEEN AND UNSEEN.

"The only regret I had, when I found that I could drop off at South Plains and spend a day or two, was that it was Saturday, and the Sabbath would have to be spent in that forlorn little box where you go to church. I have vivid recollections of the day I spent with you a year ago. Harry, my boy, I don't like to think of your Sabbaths being passed amid such unpleasant surroundings. I shall be glad when your engagement here closes. You don't think of renewing it, I hope? I have plans which I want to talk over with you to-morrow?"

But Harry had been too full of the surprise in store, to make any reply to these questionings, other than to say:

"Come on, uncle Harold; I sing in the choir, and I promised to be there in good time."

None the less was he watching for that first look, and it satisfied him. He wanted to laugh outright, but of course he did no such thing; instead, he seated his amazed relative in one of the best pews, then took his place in the choir, all of his face save his eyes in decorous repose.

All the bright Sabbath afternoon they sat together, uncle and nephew; the one an eager narrator, the other an attentive listener. Every step of the colossal plan, as it appeared to others, and was matured and carried out by the unfaltering zeal of Claire Benedict, was detailed for the uncle's benefit. And certainly Claire's reputation did not suffer in the young man's hands. He could not help glorifying her. None knew better than he, what she had been to him; but of this more sacred story he as yet said nothing. Its time was to come.

"Why, uncle Harold, you remember Bud," he burst forth afresh after a moment's silence, "that queer fellow who worked for the Ansteds; he came down here that night you spent here last spring, with papers, you know, for Mr. Ansted, and you talked with him a little, and laughed so over his queer notions. Remember?

"Well, sir, that fellow is simply made over! It is a great deal more wonderful than the church! We used to think he was not more than half-witted. I'll tell you what it is: I shouldn't wonder if it turned out that he was double-witted. You didn't recognize his name to-day, of course; it is a wonder that he did himself. Hubbard Myers, that's the boy. Yes, sir, he has joined the church; and a help he will be to it, too. Uncle Harold, you ought to hear him pray! He says queer things even in prayer; at least, they sound queer; but in spite of yourself you can not help wondering sometimes whether it is not because he has gotten ahead of all the rest, and sees things that they don't understand. I believe he thinks Miss Benedict is an angel sent here from heaven to help him. That's no wonder, though; perhaps she is; anyhow, she has helped him as well, and perhaps better than a real angel could have done; and she is the first one who ever took any notice of him, or remembered that he had a soul."

It is no special wonder that the uncle was deeply interested in this story. It told more than Harry suspected. How came this gay young nephew, who had cost him many sleepless nights, to be sufficiently familiar with a prayer-meeting to know who prayed, or how? He studied the bright face before him most attentively. It was changed, certainly; he had felt the change in the boy all day. What was it? How much did it mean? There had certainly been need for change. It made his heart beat fast to think of Harry's mother, and the possibility of news for her such as would make her feel young again.

"Harry," he said gently, "do you know, I half hope that I have not heard the best yet of this wonderful story; that there has been another 'making over.' How is it, my boy?"

A bright flush mantled Harry's face as he bent his eyes closer over the paper on which he was scribbling his own and his uncle's names with all sorts of flourishes.

Suddenly he raised his head, and looked full into the kind eyes bent wistfully on him, and smiled:

"I don't know why I should hesitate to tell you that, I am sure," he said, speaking in a firm, manly tone. "It is true enough. I have been made over, I believe. Certainly nobody ever needed it more, and nobody ever struggled harder against it, as you very well know. At least, you know part; but I have been lower down than you think, uncle Harold. Talk about angels! I know that I don't see how any angel can ever do more for me than Miss Benedict has done! I've engaged for life as a servant of the Lord Jesus Christ. And I owe more to Miss Benedict, this minute, than I do to any human being, not excepting even you and my mother."

The uncle was out of his chair by this time, one hand on the shoulder of his dear boy, while he held out the other, which was promptly grasped; but he could not speak yet, and he could not see for the tears. This young fellow was very dear to him, and the waiting had been long.

"God bless you!" he said at last, his lips quivering, and unable to utter another word.

When he could speak again he said:

"My dear boy, have you told your mother?"

"Not yet," said Harry, his eyes shining, "but you can be sure that I am going to. You see, Uncle Harold, the articles of surrender were only signed, sealed and delivered, night before last in the middle of the night. Since then I have not had a moment's time that belonged to me; but I'll write her such a letter as she has never had from me."

While the uncle walked the parlor of the boarding-house, and waited for his nephew to make ready for evening service, he had some questions to settle which were personal. He became aware of the fact that he had certainly jumped to conclusions regarding some of the workers in the Master's vineyard which were apparently without foundation. Here was this Miss Benedict. He had heard her name mentioned frequently in the days gone by, and always as one of the dependences of the church to which she belonged; and yet he had always thought of her with curling lip. "Workers!" he had told himself, being mentally very sarcastic, "yes, didn't all the initiated know what that meant when applied to a fashionable young lady who lived in an elegant home and mingled with the fashionable world? It meant that she helped at the fancy fairs, and festivals, and bazaars, and what not? Worked them up, probably, with all their accompanying train of evils. It meant that she was a district visitor, perhaps, and left a tract on 'Redeeming the Time' in a home where they were starving for lack of employment, and needed a loaf of bread." He had seen workers of that sort, and he found it difficult to feel for them anything but contempt. The thing for which he was now to take himself to task was the fact that he had classed Claire Benedict among these, knowing nothing of her, meantime, save that she was a member of a fashionable up-town church; and that, too, after knowing her father, and singling him out as a man among thousands. The simple truth was, that he had imagined a character of which he disapproved, and named it Claire Benedict, and then let himself disapprove of her heartily.

"The sole thing that I know about the young woman is that she was once wealthy, and on this account I have judged her as I have; and I find that it is what I am apt to do." This is what he told himself as he walked the length of that little parlor, and waited. He was much ashamed of himself. "It is an excellent standpoint from which to judge character," he said, severely. "If there is any justice in it I must be a worthless person myself. I wonder how many people are setting me down as one who merely plays at Christian work, because my father left me one fortune and my old aunt another!"

I am glad that this man had this severe talk with himself. He needed it. The truth is, he was very apt to judge of people in masses; as though they were specimens, and belonged to certain types.

The conclusion of his self-examination at this time was, that he declared that if one third of what Harry thought about this young person was true, it had taught him a lesson. He went to church that evening apparently for the purpose of studying the lesson more thoroughly; at least, he gave some attention to the organist. He had recognized her in the morning, because she had eyes like her father; and this evening he decided that her head was shaped like his, and that she had the firm mouth and yet sweet set of lips that had characterized the father, and he told himself that he might have known that the daughter of such a man would be an unusual woman.

After service was concluded, he walked deliberately forward and claimed acquaintance with Sydney Benedict's daughter. The glow that he brought to her face, and the tender light which shone in her eyes, when he mentioned that dear father's name, gave him a glimpse of what the daughter's memories were.

Harry came up to them eagerly, having been detained by the pastor for a moment.

"You have introduced yourself, Uncle Harold, I see. Miss Benedict, I wanted my Uncle Harold to know you for very special reasons."

Uncle Harold was unaccountably embarrassed. What a strange thing for that boy to say! and what did he propose to say next? But Claire relieved the embarrassment, and plunged him into a maze of questioning, by the sudden, eager interest which flashed in her face with the mention of his name.

"Are you Harold Chessney?" she asked as though a new thought came to her with the union of the two names, "and are you going to the Rocky Mountains?"

"I am Harold Chessney," he said, smiling, "and I have in mind a trip to the Rocky Mountains, if I can make my plans in that direction what I wish. But why this should be of interest to you passes my comprehension." Of course this last he thought.

She did not leave him long in doubt.

"Is Louis Ansted going with you?"

"He is if I can prevail upon him to do so. That is part of my errand here at this time, and has to do with the plans I mentioned." And now his face plainly asked the question: "Why do you care?"

She seemed to answer the look.

"He needs to go, Mr. Chessney. He needs help; such help as perhaps you can give him. I don't know. Something must be done for him, and that soon. Mr. Chessney, I hope you will succeed."

There was no time for more. Alice Ansted came up, and claimed the stranger as an acquaintance, and stood talking with him for a moment and expressed extreme anxiety that he should find her brother in the city the next day.

"He is somewhere in town, but we never know where. Still, I could give you a dozen addresses, at any one of which you might find him. I hope you will not return without seeing him."

"I shall not," Mr. Chessney said, decidedly. "Is he inclined to accompany me, do you think? Has he mentioned to you my designs?"

"Yes, and would go if it were not for—Mr. Chessney, if you could make mamma understand. No one seems able to. Claire Benedict has tried and failed; and what she fails in, perhaps can not be done. I don't know, but something must be done, and that speedily."

Almost Claire Benedict's words repeated. The newcomer walked home in almost silence. As they neared Harry's door, he said:

"What is young Ansted about just now?"

"Drinking hard, sir; he is running down hill very fast. If you don't get him away with you, I am afraid he will go to the dogs in a hurry."

"Is he still on terms of special intimacy with the VanMarters?"

"Well, as to that, I do not know. Things look mixed. He rails against Willis VanMarter once in a while, when he has been taking enough to make him imprudent, and Miss Alice seems to have broken with them altogether; at least, Willis does not come out any more, I think, and Miss Alice is not in town often; but Mrs. Ansted seems to be as intimate with them as ever, and Louis goes there with his mother. I don't know anything about it, but it looks like a house divided against itself. If I had such a mother as Louis Ansted has, I don't believe I would try to be anybody."

"Mothers don't seem to count for much sometimes, my boy."

"You mean with their sons, and I dare say you mean me, Uncle Harold; but it is not true. My mother always counted for ten times more than you think. It was she who held me back. If Louis Ansted had a tenth part of the craving for liquor that I have, with his mother to push him, he would have been gone long ago, beyond reach. I don't know but he is now. He has been going down very fast in the last few weeks."

"What is the accelerating cause?"

"That I don't positively know. Partly, it is the natural result of a bad habit indulged, I suppose; but there are other influences at which I can guess. Still, it is pure guesswork. I am not in any one's confidence, except when Louis has been drinking too much, he says to me things that he would not want me to know if he were sober, and those, of course, I don't repeat. I think that his mother is bent on this union of the two houses, VanMarter's and theirs, and I think neither Louis nor Miss Alice are of her mind in the matter; and I think, moreover, that Louis would rather have an hour of Miss Benedict's society than a lifetime of Miss Eva VanMarter's, and I don't think he can get what he wants. Now, isn't that an interesting little romance for a young fellow like me to think out, especially when I don't know a thing about it? The only fact is that Louis Ansted is in great danger, and nobody seems to have much influence over him—at least, nobody who uses it in the right direction."

"His sister seems to be roused. I was surprised to hear her speak as she did."

"His sister is not the woman she was when you saw her last. She has been under Miss Benedict's influence all winter."

"Evidently you incline to the belief that Miss Benedict is a remarkable woman," his uncle said, with a slight laugh. "Why has she not been exerting her influence to help poor Louis?"

"She has tried as hard as a woman can. But, Uncle Harold, she is not the sort of woman to promise to marry a man merely to save him from becoming a drunkard."

"I should hope not," Mr. Chessney answered promptly.

CHAPTER XXVI.
AN ESCAPED VICTIM.