Woodcliff

CHAPTER XIII.

DRIFT-WOOD.

Farewells are spoken—trunks are strapped—Roland's carpet-bag is well packed, filled by good Mrs. Jennings, for she has discovered that he returns on foot.

Sleeping in barns, occasionally at farm-houses, at last he finds himself in sight of Woodcliff; he passes Maple Lane school on his way, and remembers the bright young face that used to smile upon him so kindly, and the reverent folding of her little hands, as Maddy listened to the teaching of her young mentor, so meek under his reproofs, so fiery and impetuous with all others. He wondered how it was now. On, on, past the cottage home, past the cemetery, he finds himself at the gate of Woodcliff.

Walking up the familiar avenue, old Hector bounds to meet him, for he was a staunch friend of Roland Bruce. Effie hears the noise, and runs out to see what is the matter.

A glance at the tall young man is sufficient. It is her own dear, dear brother! and in another minute, Effie is pressed to the warm heart of her only relative. Roland holds her off, and looks anxiously at his dear sister. Is she really paler, thinner; or is it the mourning-dress that makes her look so pallid?

"Are you well, Effie?" asks the anxious brother.

"Oh, yes, Roland, and so happy; they are all so good to me here. Miss Matilda will not let me overwork myself, and Mr. Hamilton is so kind."

"Do you ever hear of Madeline, Effie?"

"Oh, yes, frequently; and she always asks about you, Roland; she is just as glad as I am when you are successful at college."

"Has she been at home lately?"

"She was here at vacation; but it does not take place at the same time with yours."

"Has she grown much, Effie?"

"Very much; she is growing tall, and so beautiful. You know, brother, that I always thought that there was nobody so pretty as Madeline."

"Is she like she used to be, Effie?"

"Not so wild, brother; but just as sweet and affectionate. She used to go every day to see the rose-bush that you planted together, and she was always singing the Scotch songs that you taught her. Where will you stay, brother?"

"At old Peter's; that will do very well for me, Effie. Before I return to college, I am going to the White Mountains; I want to see them so much, and the journey on foot will do me good."

"How about your clothes, brother?"

"Oh, yes, you little rogue, you thought that I could not guess your secret. Why, who else would send me the new shirts and handkerchiefs but Madeline? You had no money, Effie, and she is the only one that cares for me."

Effie smiled. "You've guessed right, brother. When she was at home she gave me the money, and I made them all. What a happy little thing she was when they were done! She skipped about, and danced like a merry little kitten. 'Roland shall look like a gentleman at college,' she said; 'and I know there's not one ahead of him there.'"

"Effie, do you remember our dear mother's last message? Oh, what a comfort it has been to me! 'Looking aloft!' whenever I have felt as if my heart would sink, I have remembered those sweet words, Effie, and they have made me so strong."

"So have I, Roland. I am often very lonely, brother, and sometimes very weak. Sometimes I feel as if my life will be a short time; then the dear words come, 'Looking aloft!' and I think of all that they mean, and they make me happy."

"Shall we go into the conservatory, Effie?" asked her brother.

"Oh, yes; I have taken good care of her flowers, Roland; and that Scotch heather is always so pretty!"

Effie led her brother to the old spot. The flowers were in full bloom. Roland plucked a branch from Madeline's own rose-bush, and another from the heather, and turned away. Next, he entered the library, and on opening one of the book-cases, there lay a glove of his little friend; and in one of the books, a pressed branch of sea-weed.

"I may have these, Effie?"

"Oh, yes; they are of no use to Madeline."

Roland laid them carefully away, and then turned to seek old Peter.

"I shall see you soon again, Effie. Good-bye, now."

"Good-bye, dear brother. I am so glad that you have come."

"Is that you, my lad?" said old Peter. "I'm right glad to see your young face once more."

"Can you let me stay a few days with you, uncle Peter?"

"Why, yes, boy; but ours is a poor place; we can't do much for you."

"It will be well enough. I shall only be here for a few days."

Roland rambled around among the old familiar scenes, and towards evening, returned to the sea-shore. Seating himself upon the rock where he had passed so many happy days, he gazed out upon the wide ocean. The music of its waves was sad, depressing. It spoke of the past; for the future it had no voice. As he mused, a log of drift-wood floated by. How solitary it seemed! All alone! floating on the wide ocean, drifting whither the tide would wash it up at last.

"Is that like me?" thought Roland. "Am I so lonely in this wide world? Am I such a creature of chance?" No human voice was near to answer the question of his soul. The night birds sang their melancholy song around him, and it was an hour of deep sadness.

"Why should I indulge in such a train of thought?" inquired Roland of his heart. "This is the language of despondency, almost of despair. Am I indeed nothing but driftwood?—so useless, so solitary!" Looking upward, the bright fair moon was sailing overhead so serene! so pure! so silent! With her voiceless majesty she answered, and the mother's dying whispers came like sweet music to banish the language of despair:

"'Looking aloft, Roland!' 'Looking aloft!' I will not be the drift-wood of human life. I will seek to fit myself for my place on this great globe, and, obedient to my Maker's laws as is that placid moon, I shall with his blessing move on as surely to my destiny; happy to serve my God here, and enjoy the fulness of His presence hereafter. Float on, thou worthless log! thou shalt not symbolize my fate! Sail on, thou placid moon! Let my course in life be steady, calm, obedient, as thine."

The voice within quickened his pace as he walked up and down the beach, repeating the Psalm of Life:

"Tell me not in mournful numbers,
    Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
    And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
    And the grave is not its goal;
'Dust thou art, to dust returnest,'
    Was not spoken of the soul," &c. &c.

Turning his steps towards Uncle Peter's cabin, he slept the quiet sleep of recovered trust and confidence in God.

Next evening he sought his mother's grave. How soothing were the words upon that marble head-stone! "She sleeps in Jesus." And how sweetly did they speak of the dear little friend that placed them there! He had not been seated long before Elsie Gibson made her appearance. She seemed delighted to meet Roland again.

"Weel, Roland, the days o' youth are passing away, a'maist a mon. Ye're the vera image o' ane I luve weel; may ye be a happier mon than he."

"Whom do you mean, Elsie?"

"It matters na, my bairn; I'm glad to hear sic a good account o' ye, Roland, at the college; there's a great wark before ye, my son, may ye live to do it weel."

"Elsie," said Roland, "do you know anything about my father?"

"I used to ken a' aboot him, Roland, in days lang syne, when we were baith young."

"Do you know where he is now, Elsie?"

"Why should ye ask sic a question, Roland? do ye na ken that the vessel in which he sailed was lost?"

"I have heard so, Elsie; but strange thoughts have crossed my mind lately."

"They are silly thoughts, Roland; ye maun think o' yer father as dead. Good-bye, Roland, I maun be awa'."

Roland turned his steps again towards Woodcliff. This time he asked Effie to let him sit alone in the library for a few minutes. He turned over many volumes, which he knew Madeline was in the habit of reading, and in many a page he found her mark. Taking up a small portfolio which contained many scraps of paper, listlessly he sketched the sweet face as he first saw Madeline on the sea-shore with Harry, Charles, and the other children. Roland had cultivated his taste for drawing, and had made a striking pencil-sketch of the scene. Placing it almost unconsciously back in the portfolio, he left the room, and, crossing the hall, met Mr. Hamilton.

"Why, Roland, I am rejoiced to see you. How greatly you have grown,—almost a man!"

"Yes, sir; time makes changes."

"How are you progressing at college, Roland?"

"Very well, sir; there is one of our catalogues," handing one to Mr. Hamilton.

"This is good news, Roland. I hope, my boy, that you will continue to reap such high honors. Stay, and dine with us, Roland."

It was the first time that he had ever been invited to Woodcliff as a table-guest, and with a modest blush, he accepted the courtesy. It pleased him to find that Effie's place was also at the family table, and with the well-bred ease of a native gentleman, he took Mr. Hamilton quite by surprise.

"Madeline would like to see you, Roland; she was at home last vacation, and has greatly improved; you would scarcely recognize little Mad-cap; she is so much more sober."

"Does she sing as much as ever?" asked Roland.

"Yes, her voice is splendid; she shall have the best masters that I can find, Roland. But do you know, boy, that I like the old ballads she used to sing, more than the opera-style, which is now so fashionable?"

Before Roland took his leave, Mr. Hamilton sought a private opportunity to speak to him.

"Is there anything that I can do for you, Roland?"

He grasped Mr. Hamilton's hand warmly, as he answered, "I am already your debtor, sir; and found your gift of inestimable value."

"You were kind to my little daughter, Roland; and I am always at your service."

Roland bowed, and took his departure.

"That is a remarkable youth, Matilda," said Mr. Hamilton, as he closed the door. "I don't know what to make of him; brought up wholly in a cottage, without the advantages of refined society, he has more of the manners of a gentleman than either Harry Castleton or Charles Davenport. He must have had a remarkable mother, and the soul within must be of the noblest mould."

"But really, brother, I don't think it well to encourage the intimacy between this youth and our Madeline. He is growing to be a man, and an attractive one to such a romantic child as yours. You really talked of her to-day to Roland as if he were her equal."

"Really, Matilda, you are simply ridiculous; he is actually a plebeian, and Madeline patronizes him; it has rather amused me to see her independence."

"I don't approve of the levelling system, Lewis Hamilton. Let each one keep his place in society; no good comes of these intimacies."

"I am not afraid, Matilda. I think our Maddy has a good share of pride—enough to keep her from low associates."

"I tell you, Lewis, that Roland Bruce has more influence over that proud and wayward child than any other living person,—a word from him, a look of reproof, I am told, had more power to check her impetuous nature, than all the teachers of Maple Lane school."

"Well, Matilda, he has never taught her anything wrong; she is greatly improved since she knew the Bruce family."

"You are certainly possessed, brother, with a spirit of contradiction; but I have borne my testimony,—you must have your own way. I have said all that I mean to."

Roland's was rather a sad walk back to old Peter's cabin. He felt that he was rapidly approaching the years of manhood, and that Madeline would soon step over the sweet days of childhood, and enter the enchanted ground of young maidenhood. Then, the difference in their social position would raise the barrier over which he dare not step; and Madeline Hamilton and Roland Bruce would henceforth belong to different worlds.

It was a hard thought; but Roland had seen enough, and known enough of worldly pride, to feel that this was so. Not with Madeline herself, for she was too much a child of nature for that; but he must not allow her to incur the displeasure of her father, but especially her aunt, by forgetting the broad gulf between them.

On his next visit to Woodcliff, he was struck with something peculiar in the look of Effie's eyes.

"Your eyes look weak, Effie. I fear that you sew too closely; is it not so?"

"They do annoy me sometimes, Roland; they get so dim that I can hardly use them."

"Do take care of them, sister; any disease of the eye is such a great calamity."

"It would be a sore affliction to lose my sight, Roland; then indeed I should find it difficult to look upward."

"Don't let us forget, Effie, that whatever befalls us, comes from our Father's hand, and must be a part of the training by which He means to fit us for the better world."

"It is a comfort, dear Roland, to feel that God cannot do wrong—if we could only trust him always."

At that moment, Nanny called Effie.

"Here is a letter from Miss Madeline."

"I am so glad that it came while you were with us, Roland," said Effie, as she broke the seal.

She read it hurriedly, and said—

"Here is something about you, Roland;" and she read the quotation.

"I suppose that you hear often from Roland; I should like to know what he is doing—tell him that little Maddy is growing to be quite a studious, serious girl. My chief companion here is Lucy Edmonds; she is a dear, sweet friend; I wish that I were like her. I am learning a great deal of new music, but I have not forgotten any of my old Scotch songs. Take care of my rose-bush, Effie: I mean the one that Roland planted; I hope that it will not die. Be kind to old Hector for my sake, dear old fellow! Now that I am away, I think more of Roland's good lessons than I did when at home; I am sure that I shall never forget them."

Effie handed the letter to Roland, which he read quite through.

"She will be surrounded by snares, Effie, when her education is finished; with all her wealth and beauty, I tremble for Madeline; but still I do not believe that the world will wholly spoil our little friend."

"When will you leave us, Roland?" asked his sister.

"In two days, I think; I have brought up my clothes for you to look over, Effie; so soon as that is done, I shall take up my line of march."

"Will you walk all the way, Roland? it is so far."

"I am used to that, Effie; indeed I prefer it; for I can stop where I please, enjoy all that is beautiful, and rest when I am tired. Don't be afraid of me, little sister; I am very brave and strong."

His preparations were soon made.

"Effie, you don't know what a comfort you are to me—while I have you, I cannot feel alone. Some of these days we shall have a dear little home, where you shall be the household fairy, and your brother the guide and strong arm of his precious sister."

"Take care of yourself, dear Roland; don't be so daring; I don't believe that you ever think of danger."

"I shall climb the highest mountain, Effie, it is such a pleasure to conquer difficulties; and I will bring back to you the beautiful ferns and mosses of the mountains—then you can make one of your pretty baskets for Madeline."

Folding her once more to his heart, Roland took his final leave.

"I shall be back in a few weeks, Effie; good-bye for a little while;" and looking back, he kissed his hand, and smiled upon his dear sister.

Effie looked after her brother with an admiring gaze, and thought "How handsome he is! What a noble walk! God bless my dear, dear brother."

CHAPTER XIV.

"EXCELSIOR."

Happy season of bright joyous youth! It nerved Roland's springing step, flushed the glowing cheek, brightened the dark eye, and gushed forth in cheering song upon the early morning air.

The past for awhile faded, the future was left in the hands of the kind Father, and the youth revelled in the freedom of the present moment.

On through the charming scenes which led him to the place of his destination; sometimes, by the roadside where bloomed the neat little homes of New England, all with their pretty porches entwined with flowers of every hue; then, through the thick woods where happy birds carolled around his path; again by the river's brink, with the bright sky overhead, and in the sweet consciousness of an interest in all these beauties of creation, Roland could look up and say, "My Father made them all."

At length he stopped at the foot of the mountain which it was his ambition to reach.

Large numbers like himself were preparing for the ascent, but none on foot, save our young aspirant.

On through thick green foliage, and over rocky paths, he pressed his way, occasionally stopping to rest under some shady canopy.

Frequently in company with youthful parties, whose merry chatter disturbed the thoughts which began to crowd upon Roland, as the ascent brought frequently to view some new scene of beauty and grandeur.

As he pressed on, the journey became still more toilsome and difficult, the road stony and rough; and Longfellow's Excelsior came fresh upon his memory. Seating himself for awhile, he repeated audibly the beautiful lines.

The fresh mountain air inspired him with renewed courage and determination, and, starting once more, he strained every nerve in his efforts to scale these steep mountain heights.

The voices of the travellers on horseback became fainter every moment, until at length he was left in perfect solitude upon these dizzy heights. After many struggles over rocks, and by the brinks of deep ravines, Roland found himself upon the top of Mount Washington. The wind was blowing fiercely; he could scarcely keep his feet; the howling of its blasts through the deep solitudes, and wild whistling music among the tall green pines, together with the cold air, which almost cut his cheeks, and made him draw his coat more closely around him, almost banished the thought that at the foot of the mountain glowed the heat of summer.

He was highly favored, for it was a bright sunny day, and the atmosphere perfectly transparent. With cheeks tingling from excitement, and blood stirring in every vein, he stood entranced amid the glorious scenery. He felt that he had conquered, and the consciousness nerved the young soul for further efforts. This suited the tone of his character, and prefigured the temper with which he would in future fight the battle of life.

He looked around—grandeur marked every feature. Beneath him lay the great world, the theatre of future conflicts. The busy cities, the rivalries, the sins of men, the trials of the way, the din of battle, the "Slough of Despond," the "Giant Despair,"—but here certainly was also a glimpse of the "Land of Beulah."

Above, the glorious sky, so vast, so magnificent! around him, the scenery which no pencil could ever fully paint. Deep ravines, towering peaks of glory, falls of water dashing down the dizzy heights, and beyond! peak piled on peak, stretching as far as eye could reach, a whole amphitheatre of glorious mountains.

A voice within answered to the voice around; it was the same which had spoken to him in the days of childhood, when standing in one of his native glens, among the rude mountains of Scotland, he had listened to the story of his martyred ancestors.

His soul swelled then, child that he was, with lofty emotions. It swelled now with fuller, deeper majesty, as he listened to the voice of God among these mountains; and on through life, that voice will follow Roland. He took out his little Testament and read, "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help." And again,

"As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so the Lord is round about his people."

"Need I look farther?" asked Roland of his soul. "God is here! My God! My Father!"—and, bowing his head, he lifted up the voice of prayer, and here amid these mountain solitudes, made a fresh covenant with the God of his martyred fathers. In this hour of rapt communion, he remembered Effie, his orphan sister, and Madeline, the dear little friend of his early youth.

Here, surrounded by these glorious mountains, in this vast solitude, it was easy to imagine the glories of that mountain of the Lord, when his people gathered home once more, should rest in peace; and when in the glories of the latter days, wars and tumults, strife and discord, sin and misery, should forever cease.

"Upon the frontier of this shadowy land,
We, pilgrims of eternal sorrow, stand.
What realm lies forward with its happier store
            Of forests green and deep,
            Of valleys hushed in sleep,
And lakes most peaceful? 'Tis the
            Land of Evermore.

"Very far off its marble cities seem—
Very far off—beyond our sensual dream—
Its woods, unruffled by the wild winds roar:
            Yet does the turbulent surge
            Howl on its very verge
One moment—and we breathe within the
            Evermore.

"They whom we loved and lost so long ago,
Dwell in those cities, far from mortal woe,
Hunt those fresh woodlands, where sweet carollings soar.
            Eternal peace have they:
            God wipes their tears away:
They drink that river of life which flows for
            Evermore.

"Thither we hasten through these regions dim;
But lo, the wide wings of the seraphim
Shine in the sunset! On that joyous shore
            Our lighted hearts shall know
            The life of long ago:
The sorrow burdened past shall fade for
            Evermore."

There was nothing but the shelter of a rude shed, but so enraptured was our young traveller that he resolved to stay.

In the evening, the screams of the wild mountain birds added to the grandeur of the scene; and often could be seen in the air, sailing along in graceful swoops, the American eagle, proud emblem of our country's glory. In the deep night season, the growling of wild animals, the howling of the winds, whose deep sighs through the ravines, filled the whole air with music—not sweet and silvery, but grand, majestic, overpowering; for nature has her deep bass as well as her rich tenor, and her sweet warbling treble. Here was the effect of the deep bass of harmonious instruments; and to crown all, distant thunder rolled from cliff to cliff, echoing until lost in the distance, and Roland looked on, and listened in eloquent silence. His visit was drawing to a close—how could he descend from such heights of grandeur, to the busy, bustling world again?

But duty called; packing up his little all, and gathering the ferns and mosses in a box which he had brought for the purpose, he commenced his descent. Not soon should he forget the inspiration of these vast solitudes, away from man, alone with God. He buckled on his armor, and with a brave spirit sped to the foot of the mountain.

Roland had heard much of the beauty of the charming lake Winnipiseogee, which lay on the route to the mountains, and thither he resolved to tarry for awhile.

Arriving in the evening, he rambled along its beautiful margin, the glorious mountains spanning the horizon, here adding features of beauty, there of grandeur.

It was a great transition from such wild magnificence, to this placid beauty; the calm lake, the pretty little hotel, the boating parties on the clear water, the refined society, the grassy banks with the fine old trees that formed so many bowers of shade, for here it was really summer; all this was soothing, not stirring as the mountain tops.

Day by day, musing, sketching, rambling, or rowing about in the little boat, owned by the family, he enjoyed nis summer recreation.

One evening, returning from one of these excursions on the lake, stepping on shore, whom should he encounter but Edmund Norris.

Seizing Roland's hand, he exclaimed, "Why, my good fellow! how came you here?"

"On foot, Edmund!" said Roland, smiling.

"But where are you staying?"

"At that little cottage, Edmund."

"Go, pack up your duds, Roland, and come with me, I can't do without you."

"Who is in your party, Edmund?"

"Only my mother and sister."

"They would consider me an intruder, Edmund; besides, it is impossible, I can't stay at a hotel."

"And why not, sir? I think I know, Roland; I will not take any denial—you have done me infinite service, and I can never repay you. I must introduce you to my mother, Roland; she is anxious to know you," and placing his friend's arm within his own, he hurried him off to the hotel.

"My friend, Roland Bruce, mother, my sister, Miss Norris," and Roland bowed to a very pleasant looking middle aged lady, and an interesting young girl, in the person of Jessie Norris.

"We are glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Bruce," replied the mother, at the same time extending her hand; "this is a meeting that I have long desired."

The summer passed rapidly, and the party separated for their respective destinations.

Edmund would not hear of Roland's return on foot, consequently they travelled together to the point nearest Woodcliff, and there they parted, mutually pleased; Edmund to his home, and Roland back to Woodcliff, to pay a short parting visit to Effie.

"We shall meet at college, Roland," said Edmund.

"Yes, and it must be a hard working year; I can only go two terms after this."

Another week near Woodcliff, and Roland prepared for toil again.

"I have come, dear Effie, to say farewell for awhile," aid Roland. "I have brought you some beautiful ferns and mosses, and when I come again, I will expect to see the basket."

"I can make two, Roland, one for each window in the drawing room; Madeline will be so pleased,—they are both for her."

"Come, Effie, let us sing our mother's favorite hymn," and the orphans sang with sweet voices, and full hearts,

"God of our fathers, by whose care,
    Thy people still are blest;
Be with us through our pilgrimage,
    Conduct us to our rest."

"Now, sister, let me go for one minute up the staircase; don't come with me, I want to be alone."

Roland stood upon the landing, and listened to the sweet murmurs of the Eolian harp. The summer wind swept lightly over the strings, and seemed to sigh, "farewell, farewell;" but for a moment, a stronger breeze swept over them, and higher, fuller arose the aerial music, and "aloft, aloft" they whispered.

He descended with a smile, and said,

"Now, dear Effie, I am ready; God forever bless my darling sister; don't forget 'Looking aloft! Looking aloft.'"

She smiled through her tears, and said,

"I'll try, dear Roland, but I am not so strong as you."

Back again on the first day of the term, Roland was warmly welcomed by the faculty.

He returned bravely, cheerfully, to his self-imposed service of drudgery; but the presence of many new members subjected him again to the same ordeal through which he had passed the first half of the former year.

The same diligence and fidelity, the same faithful friendship for Edmund, the same honors at the close, marked the second year; and at the period of vacation, another visit to dear Effie, to the familiar spots around Woodcliff, and he was anticipating a return for the last year to finish his college course.

"You cannot imagine, dear brother, how delighted Madeline was with the baskets—'did he gather them with his own hands, Effie?' she used to ask me day after day, and I saw her place a few of the ferns which I had saved, away in one of her school books. 'Thank Roland for me,' was her last message; 'tell him I expect to see him a great man, delivering orations, or public speeches, at any rate, at Maple Lane, yet.'"

Roland smiled, as he said, "The same little enthusiast yet."

"Little! brother! why, you forget, you have not seen Madeline for two years; she is no longer a little girl; she is fifteen now, and unusually tall for that age. I don't believe that you would call her Maddy now."

Roland's countenance fell; for this innocent hint had brought again most forcibly the conviction that the approach of womanhood was building a gulf which could not be passed, and the sweet intimacy of playful childhood could be no more renewed.

His third year at college was a season of rapid progress. On his return, Dr. Kingsley sent for Roland to his private room.

"You have been well tried, my son," said the good man. "I have looked upon your course, Roland, with pride; shall I say it to a boy? with reverence. Not one of fifty would have borne the indignities of your position, and risen above them all, as you have; you shall be rewarded. The offices which you have performed so nobly will be given to another, little Jack, the Janitor's nephew, and another boy hired for the purpose; you, Roland, shall have all your time for study."

Roland was a manly boy, but with a warm, tender heart. His eyes filled with tears of gratitude.

Seizing Dr. Kingsley's hand, he pressed a warm kiss upon its wrinkled surface, and said,

"Words cannot thank you, Dr. Kingsley, for all your goodness; the training of this college is more than a fortune to me."

"You must not lavish all your thanks upon me, Roland. Edmund Norris has told me all your trials, all the insults which you formerly received; he has told me of all your patient endurance, and noble return of good for evil. Mrs. Norris is wealthy, she has offered to place you exactly by the side of her son, bearing all your expenses, and occupying the same room. I judged you by myself, and thought that you would rather be indebted to the college. You will occupy the room with Edmund; but we must have the honor of educating Roland Bruce."

"You will be repaid, my dear sir, for all your kindness and delicacy. Oh! how faithful are the promises of God: 'Looking aloft' was the motto which my dear mother left me on her death-bed; I have tried to act upon it; and endeavoring to do my duty, have looked upward for God's blessing, and have never been disappointed."

Dr. Kingsley straitened himself up, put on a sterner look, took off his spectacles, that seemed suddenly to become moistened, and jerking his handkerchief out of his pocket, blew his nose violently, saying,

"I have a bad cold, Roland; I don't know how it came, but I did not feel it until you came into the room."

Roland smiled, for Dr. Kingsley did not like it to be known what a warm sympathetic heart beat under that cold, and somewhat stern exterior.

Roland's position, this year, was a happy one; and Edmund was about as much the gainer as he.

Rooming together, Roland's powerful example was a strong incentive to the young man; and though often tempted to relax, what at first was a severe task, became first a habit, then a pleasure.

A secret plot for some forbidden pleasure was again agitating among the wild ones.

"You need not ask Ned Norris to join us," said one of his former companions, "he's among the saints now; he dare not say that his life is his own when Roland Bruce is about. I don't care much about his company, but it is deucedly inconvenient to miss his purse, it was always open in former days—but old 'Boots' has the charge of him now, and there is no use of asking him to join this spree."

"Do you dare call him 'Boots' again?" said Stanley, doubling his fist, "I told you all that I'd knock the first fellow down that insults Roland Bruce; there is not one here fit to wipe his shoes."

"How came you to turn round so soon, Stanley? you were among the most bitter of his enemies," said Thornton.

"When you all stood off from me as if I were a leper, Roland Bruce quietly, nobly took care of me; he watched me on my sick bed, as if I had been his friend, instead of his enemy; and do you think that I'll ever hear you speak against such a fellow as that?"

The chief offender slunk away, evidently frightened.

"You never told me so, Stanley; it must have been before I came."

"I tell you now, Brown, Roland shall be treated as a gentleman, so long as I am in this college; so clear out, or I may knock you down."

Brown crawled away, and Roland was everywhere in the ascendant.

Many envied him his quiet superiority; but all respected the studious youth that was carrying off so many of the honors.

His path was henceforth a pleasant one, until one morning, whom should he see among the new students but Harry Castleton and Charles Davenport!

Roland's appearance was that of a gentleman; for, although he had not the changes which some had, he always contrived to appear genteel.

After breakfast, Roland advanced to the young men, and politely extended his hand. Charles, with a supercilious air, turned on his heel, saying,

"You are mistaken, sir; we do not know you."

Roland had acted the part of a gentleman and a Christian, and he left the young men to imagine that they had humbled him.

They soon observed his intimacy with Edmund Norris, whose family they had met elsewhere. Determined to annoy him still farther, they sought the first opportunity of speaking alone.

"Do you know this young Bruce?" said Harry.

"Yes, sir, I have good cause to know him; he has saved me from many a false step and wicked companion."

"Do you know his origin?" continued Harry.

"I know that he is Scotch, and had a good mother."

"His mother was a common huckster, and he no better than a beggar; he lived in my uncle's neighborhood, and I have seen him many a time with old patched clothes, and scarcely a shoe to his feet."

"Indeed!" said Edmund. "I know that he is very poor; he has told me much of his history. You have told me now how poor he is—shall I tell you how noble he is in the estimation of all true hearts in this college? You are at mean work, sir, but you will not harm Roland Bruce; he is above your mark, sir. Good morning, Mr. Castleton."

Edmund saw that the two were cultivating the intimacy of several of the upstart boys, sons of the merchant princes of New York, with gold watches, full purses, fashionable wardrobes, empty brains, and cold, sordid souls.

Brown was one of them—a mean, cowardly fellow, who had not forgotten the attack of Stanley, and was glad to find allies in the two new students.

"There comes Boots," said Brown, one evening to Harry Castleton.

"Whom do you mean?" was the quick reply; and Brown pointed to Roland, who was walking in the lawn, arm in arm with Edmund Norris.

"Why do you call him 'Boots,' Brown?"

"I'll whisper the story to you—do you know that in the first two years that he was here, he earned his education by blacking boots, carrying up wood, making fires, &c., and now he has the presumption to hold himself up above us fellows, and the faculty really place him constantly before us as a pattern to follow."

"That is a good joke," answered Castleton; "I'll remember that story—a common boot-black! 'pon my word! brought here among gentlemen! Faugh! I shall smell boots every time I pass him."

The next week, a drawing was on the wall in the passage to the recitation room, representing a boy blacking boots, and underneath written "Boots" at his profession; and another picture of a boy with a basket of boot-blacking and brushes, receiving a diploma; under which was written "Boots graduates, ready to practise on gentlemen's feet." Roland and Edmund saw the low proceeding—they did not notice it; but, on going out of the hall, Castleton and Davenport passed close to the young men.

"Don't you smell boots, Davenport?" said Castleton.

Stanley was near; he heard the insult, as also did Norris.

Instantly, the two were surrounded; and Stanley, enraged, said,

"I will bear it no longer; you shall not insult Roland Bruce;" and he gave Castleton a violent blow in the face. Edmund, too, joined the fight. Castleton and Davenport tried to defend themselves, but in vain; surrounded by several of the boys, they received a sound drubbing.

Roland was distressed—he was a brave boy, and though he knew that in the anger of the combatants he was likely to become entangled in the broil, he stepped forward, and placing himself between Edmund and Castleton, he said,

"Edmund, I beseech you, come with me; it is not worth minding—leave these boys to themselves; they do not harm me."

"Go away, Roland; I must punish them in a way which they will never forget."

Roland, however, persevered, and succeeded in drawing away his friend.

The boys each had black eyes, swollen faces, and torn coats for their reward.

They did not again try the same game, but their hatred of Roland was by no means lessened; it was rather increased.

The term drew rapidly to a close—Roland was looking forward anxiously to his embarkation on the theatre of human life. He knew that he had nothing but his education, and simple trust in God. That was enough for his confidence. He graduated with high honors. Edmund was to stay another year, and grieved to part with his friend.

Dr. Kingsley congratulated Roland warmly—

"You have done nobly, sir," said the President; "your friends may well be proud of you."

"You forget, my dear sir, I have but two, who care particularly for my success, and they are both young girls; one my sister, and the other a little friend."

The good President gave him warm parting counsels, and on shaking his hand for the last time, said,

"Remember, you have friends at college; your Alma Mater will always be proud of her son."

The young men were all busily occupied, and full of eager anticipations. Vacation had arrived, and all had some dear home circle waiting for them, but Roland. He had none; and, on the waste of life, sometimes he could not but feel like a waif among the multitude, but never long.

"Looking aloft" was the general tone of his brave spirit. With five dollars in his pocket-book, he prepared to leave the college; and, on opening it, he found ten dollars more, with the pencilled words—

"You have been a faithful banker; accept this from Edmund."

Taking leave of his kind friends, he turned his face towards Woodcliff, and Effie looked with pride upon her dear brother, as she read the diploma over and over again.

"Would not our dear mother be happy, Roland?" said the young girl; "you have accomplished her desires; may all the rest be fulfilled, dear brother."

CHAPTER XV.

STRIFE.

"Where are you going, Roland?" asked Effie, with an anxious face.

"I think to New York, sister."

"Have you any money, Roland?"

"But very little, sister, excepting in the bank of Heaven;" was the reply, and yet Roland smiled, it seemed so daring to set out on life's journey so penniless.

"I have five dollars, brother, you must take it; Miss Matilda gave it to me for some very fine work which I have just finished for Madeline;" and away ran Effie to bring her pocket-book, and attempted to empty its contents into Roland's hand.

Roland shrank from the gift. "I have fifteen dollars, Effie, that must do until I reach the great city."

"What do you expect to do, Roland?"

"I shall see when I reach New York."

"How shall I write to you? I shall be so anxious."

"I will write first, and let you know where I am."

"Give me your valise, brother," and Effie placed in it some sandwiches, which she had prepared with her own little hands.

With a hasty farewell, and a brother's warm kiss, Roland turned his face towards the great metropolis, brave, hopeful, trusting, still "Looking aloft." Oh! what need of the talisman now!

Sometimes a good-natured farmer would give him a lift on the road; and, at the end of one week, he found himself, weary and lonely, entering the great city. One dollar was all that was left in his pocket-book.

Rambling listlessly up Broadway, the multitude depressed him; for he felt himself friendless indeed, in this vast surging crowd.

Passing Trinity Church, he perceived it open, for it was the time of the evening service. The sound of the organ cheered his spirits, and, joining in the solemn service, for awhile he forgot his worldly cares, and worshipped the Unseen.

Perceiving a gentleman mounting the steeple, Roland followed, with the injunction from the sexton not to stay too long, for he should wish to close the church. The gentleman took a hasty glance, but soon descended, leaving Roland to his meditations.

What a busy, bustling crowd below! Did they, indeed, belong to the one great brotherhood of man? Each one pushing his own way, apparently so regardless of his neighbor's motions; some to happy, smiling homes; some to dens of poverty and misery; many to haunts of sin. And the streets so filled with carts, carriages, omnibuses, and cars, all threading their way so skilfully through the thronged thoroughfare.

The solitudes of the grand mountains was to be alone with God; the dreariness of this human crowd was oppressive, and here, away in the lofty steeple, near the clouds, far above the din and press of this great multitude of humanity, he felt that he could breathe once more.

Glancing over the vast city, the numerous steeples all around him reminded him that he was among Christians. "So many Christians!" thought Roland, "and not one knows me; but then every Sunday, in these houses dedicated to God, they pray for the fatherless and the homeless, and I am one."

So deeply was he engrossed in thought, and so soothing was the quiet of this retreat from the busy world, that Roland forgot how time was passing. The crowd diminished, evening shadows rendered objects below somewhat indistinct, and the fair moon appeared to light the heavens. Sailing majestically along, sometimes hidden by clouds, then emerging again into all her calm beauty, Roland could not but compare her course to the journey of God's dear children through this wilderness: sometimes obscured by sorrow, yet always coming forth again into the calm, clear sky of perfect peace.

Roland remembered that he had no place where to lay his weary limbs that night, and he repeated some of the promises.

"When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up."

The heavens seemed to smile upon him; he felt that he was God's own child, and repeated solemnly, "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven, give us this day our daily bread," his heart was comforted; and he descended the dark stair-case with the same feeling of security as if he had pressed the hand of his Heavenly Father guiding him safely along.

When he reached the church, he found it locked; he had stayed so long, the sexton had forgotten him, but he was not afraid—afraid in God's dear house, with the soft, sweet moon shining on him through the stained window-glass! Oh! no—there was a sense of sweet security pervading his heart, and, laying himself down in one of the cushioned pews, he slept the sleep of perfect security in the Father above.

Locked up until the time for the morning service, the sexton was both surprised and displeased at the sight of the tenant in rich Mr. Seldin's pew. Roland apologized, but the old man was surly, and hurried him out of the church.

He was hungry and thirsty, so the first thing that he sought was some food. Furnishing himself with some crackers and cheese, and refreshing himself with a drink of water, he commenced his first day's battle with life.

Up and down the long, crowded streets, in the stores, at the offices, along the wharves, he sought in vain for some employment. Hundreds of just such applications were refused daily. All asked the name of some friend, he had none to give but Dr. Kingsley. Some smiled at his answers when asked what he could do.

"He could keep books, copy law-papers, go errands, clean pavements, sweep out offices, any thing that would give him the means of an honest livelihood."

Night came, but without a shelter. It was late, and he was weary, so, turning into one of the market-houses, he had no other resource.

On one of the stalls lay a poor boy, pale and emaciated. Roland saw that he was sick, so placing his valise under his head, over which he had thrown some soft garment, he laid himself down to sleep by his brother's side. "He has more need than I," thought Roland, as he resigned the softer pillow to the poor boy. Presently a police-officer came along.

"What are you about here, you young rascals? Have you been out on a plundering job?"

Roland raised his head and said, "I do not think, sir, that you will find this poor boy to be a vagrant; and, as for myself, I am poor and homeless, that is all."

"New York is a bad place for a young chap like you to be in, without a home."

"I know it, sir; I have walked all day, searching for work, but have found none; can you tell me what to do?"

"I saw an advertisement for a boy in a printer's office, perhaps you may do; but I am afraid that you are too old."

"If you will be so good as to give me the direction, I will go in the morning, and see what success I shall have."

After eating sparingly of his little stock, Roland started to find the printer's office.

"We do not take boys without references; you are too old for us at any rate," and Roland was disappointed again. Roving about, he asked permission to saw wood, to clean pavements, and obtained a few such jobs; but his heart was sinking; the promises were fading, and, at the close of the third day, wearied and heart-sick, the same officer met Roland again in the same market-place.

"What! my boy, still roving about?" said the man.

"I have walked for three days, and all that I could find to do was to saw some wood, and to clean a few pavements. I have but a few cents left, where shall I turn?"

"Come home with me, I believe that you are an honest boy; you shall not sleep out in the street again."

And Richard Green took Roland with him to his comfortable little home.

"Here, wife, give this poor fellow a good supper and a comfortable bed, he has come to this great city without money or friends; we must do something for him."

Martha Green was a rough woman, with a kind, womanly heart; she had a son, about Roland's age, away at sea, and she wiped her eyes with her hard, wrinkled hand, as she asked,

"Have you a mother, my son?"

The question opened the flood-gates penned up in the poor youth's heart, and, manly as he was, weakened by suffering and hunger, he could not restrain the tears that would burst forth, as he replied,

"No, Mrs. Green, my mother is in heaven; I should be doubly grieved if I thought that she knew of the trials of these few hard days."

The good woman busied herself about the neat kitchen, and soon invited Roland to a warm and comfortable meal. A cup of warm coffee, some nicely cooked meat and potatoes, with home-made bread and butter, was a luxury which he had not seen for weeks; and when, at last, he lay down in the snug room on a clean bed, with everything around him so comfortable, language could not express the gratitude which filled his heart at the gracious answer to his prayer.

Cheered by the sympathy of these humble friends, Roland set out again with renewed hope.

Rambling about from street to street, his eye was at length attracted by a sign, which directed him to the "Noon-day Prayer Meeting."

Taking his seat among the worshippers, he was pleased to see Richard Green, his humble friend, among the company. He felt that God was there, and deeply, earnestly, did Roland pray for guidance.

"I was glad to see you there, Richard," said Roland.

"Why, you see, my son, I've been one of the roughs in my time; but, since I've been coming here, I find that there's something else to do in this world beside getting bread and meat. I see a great deal in my line to make me hate the ways of sin, for it always brings misery; so I've given up all my bad ways, and, by the help of God, I'm bound for Canaan."

They walked back again to the officer's home, and, picking up the paper, Roland perceived an advertisement—"Wanted, a boy to clean a lawyer's office, go errands, etc., with the privilege of reading law in the office."

After dinner, he called upon Mr. Dean. He was questioned closely as to his previous knowledge, his handwriting, etc. Roland showed his letter from Dr. Kingsley, speaking in the highest terms of his character and acquirements. Mr. Dean was a shrewd man, and soon made an engagement with Roland.

Grateful to his dear Heavenly Father, Roland passed a happy day, and wrote immediately to Effie, telling her of his good fortune, and giving her his direction.

Ere entering upon his labors, he walked down to the Battery. All was so refreshing—the quiet water so peaceful, its gentle murmurs calmed his fevered brow, and, "Looking aloft" once more with cheerful hope, he mused gratefully upon the past, hopefully upon the future.

"How I should like Madeline to know something of my good fortune," thought he; "but would I like her to know of my poverty? my misery? Would I like her to know that I had to sleep out two nights in the market-house, and then dependent for shelter on a police officer?"

Roland winced under these bitter thoughts.

"The gulf is wide, indeed—when she emerges into the gay world, she will forget the poor boy at Woodcliff."

The next morning, Roland entered upon his duties; they were endless—cleaning the office, making fires, running errands, copying law papers, early and late, left but little time for reading law; perhaps one hour a day was all that he could save from his unceasing toil.

Having considerable literary taste, he wrote frequently, after retiring at night, articles for the daily press.

They always seemed acceptable, and the Editor, who really delighted to encourage young genius, advertised, "If the person, writing over the signature of Randolph, will call at the office, he will hear something to his advantage."

Roland called—the Editor was interested.

"You must not write, my young friend, gratuitously. I will compensate you for your articles; send me a weekly contribution, and I will remunerate you."

Roland was surprised and grateful—not aware of his own merits, he had regarded these efforts simply as means of improvement, and had not dreamed of compensation.

He made the agreement with the Editor, and then, being questioned as to his present employment, his kind friend saw that he was overworked, and undervalued. In a week or two, the friendly editor sent for Roland again, and said,

"I have spoken to a distinguished lawyer of this city, who is fond of bringing out young men; he is interested in your story, and if you will wait a few minutes, he will call here."

In a short time, a gentleman, with a manly bearing, and a bright, quick glance, entered the office.

A short conversation with Roland completed the agreement, and, as he was only engaged temporarily at Mr. Dean's, it was soon announced that he must get another in his place, for in a week more he would leave for a more lucrative situation.

Roland soon found himself among people infinitely more refined, for Edgar and Helen Thornly were both attractive young persons.

Edgar had just returned from college; a gay young fellow, whose chief occupation in life was the pursuit of pleasure; and Helen, a lovely young girl, not long home from boarding-school.

Treated in all respects as an equal, he found the home circle at Mr. Thornly's peculiarly agreeable, and in return for these benefits, rendered at all times most faithful service to his generous employer.

Roland often felt concerned for the petted son of Mr. Thornly; for furnished constantly with a full purse, he had ample opportunity of enjoying the pleasures of the gay world, and was becoming very rapidly one of the fast young men of New York. It was true that he had a desk at his father's office, but it was seldom occupied for any length of time by the young man; for late hours at night made corresponding hours in the morning; and, in the afternoon, a drive with a fast horse generally closed the day.

Mr. Thornly occasionally remonstrated.

"Just wait a little, father; you know that I have been shut up so long at college, that it seems hard to go to work as soon us I come home. I will be a smart lawyer yet."

"Brother," said Helen, "whom do you think I met to-day in Broadway? my old school-friend, Madeline Hamilton; she is in New York, spending the Christmas vacation with Mary Trevor."

"Won't you invite her here, sister? I feel quite anxious to see your 'queen of beauty.'"

"You need not try to captivate Madeline; she is as proud as Juno, and so far, quite indifferent to beaux."

"She'll have plenty of admirers, sis, when she bursts upon the world with all her wealth and beauty."

Roland heard the announcement of her presence in New York with mingled feelings—she was a young lady now, how would she meet the old friend of his childish days?

"Roland, are you fond of music?" asked young Thornly.

"Extravagantly, but I have never heard any of the celebrated singers."

"We are going to the opera to-night; will you accompany us?"

Roland was a novice in the world of New York, and thinking only of the music, he consented, and accompanied the party.

Bewildered at first with the delicious music, he scarcely thought of the adjuncts; but the uncovered forms, the freedom of the actresses, the sentiments of the opera translated into English, shocked his sense of delicacy; and when he looked around at the crowds of fair young faces, looking and listening without a blush to much that was enacting before them, he felt convinced that this was no place for a Christian youth, and resolved accordingly.

Near them, was seated a party of young persons deeply interested in the performance. One especially attracted him—the deep blue eyes, the profusion of soft brown hair, the sweet expressive mouth, were certainly like those of his little friend; but in the tall, graceful girl before him, he scarcely could believe the evidence of his senses, when the silvery voice revealed fully Madeline Hamilton.

He had not seen her for four years, and the sparkling, bewitching child had merged into the lovely, blushing maiden of sixteen.

During one of the recesses between the acts she arose, and stood facing the party near her.

Roland caught her eye; she looked earnestly, then smiled, and, with a bow of high-bred courtesy, recognized her old friend.

Roland felt that Madeline was no longer a child; he returned her bow with equal politeness.

Next morning, at breakfast, Helen discussed with her father all her arrangements for an evening party the following week.

Roland made one of the company, and watched anxiously for each arrival, expecting every minute to see the friend of his childhood.

A ringing silvery laugh, as tripping feet passed up the staircase to deposit her wrappings, announced the presence of Madeline, the little Mad-cap of the sea-shore.

She entered—a simple girlish dress became the young maiden; for she remembered that she was yet a school-girl.

She bowed gracefully when introduced to the company—a bright blush and a smile acknowledged the acquaintance of Roland Bruce.

He advanced—"How are you, Miss Madeline? It has been a long time since I saw you. When did you arrive in New York?"

A casting down of the eyes, and the slightest quiver of a mischievous smile, crossed the bright young face.

"Last week, Mr. Bruce. I am spending my vacation with my friend, Miss Trevor."

"When do you expect to return?"