Woodcliff

CHAPTER XIX

"AULD LANG SYNE."

Madeline's presence in New York is soon known among her friends; numberless cards are left at her house, but as her errand is one chiefly of business, she returns but few calls; a few exceptions, however, are made; for she wishes Effie to have some cheerful society.

Occasionally, excursions are made around New York for the purpose of amusing her young friend, for Madeline spares no pains to cheer her drooping spirits.

Roland has returned; he has been absent on exceedingly annoying and troublesome business, and somewhat to throw off care, takes a boat for the bay.

It is a beautiful evening, and has invited a merry party of ladies and gentlemen to take the same excursion.

Roland does not relish the companionship of the light-hearted, and withdraws himself from their neighborhood; not far from where he stands, he observes the form of a lady leaning over the side of the boat; sometimes gazing dreamily upon the water, then upon the heavens above; it looks like a familiar form.

He recognizes the face of Madeline, but avoids recognition, because he wishes to watch her movements. She seems melancholy and abstracted, and hums sadly a familiar air, one that he had taught her; the dear old song of "Auld Lang Syne."

"Does she remember those happy times?" thought the young man, "and surrounded as she is by so much to make her forget those early days; does she still cherish the memory of her boyish friend?"

He observed her wipe a tear silently away, and as she turned to renew her walk, Roland moved towards her, and she recognized the object of her thoughts.

"Mr. Bruce!" "Miss Madeline!" were the hasty salutations, as each extended a hand of welcome.

"How came you here, Miss Madeline?" was Roland's first question.

"I am here with Effie, for advice with regard to her eyes."

"Is she with you to-night?"

"She is not, for she has but little heart for amusement; she insisted on my coming, and I have left her in good company for the evening."

"You were musing, Miss Madeline," said Roland, in a lower voice, "and singing that old Scotch song; did it recall former childish days?"

For a minute, Madeline did not reply; at last she said, "I shall never forget those days; how often do I need just such a friend as I had then."

"There is a friend, Madeline, 'that sticketh closer than a brother;' have you found him yet?"

"I am trying, Roland, but there is much to hinder; my faith is very weak; my heart very deceitful."

"Your Saviour knows that, Madeline; he is not only the 'author, but the finisher of our faith;' if you have any, even as much as the grain of mustard seed, it is of his planting; he only can make it grow; do you look to him daily?" and Roland bent more closely to Madeline, as they paced the deck together.

"I think I have that little grain; but my great infirmities of character do so harass me; my quick impetuous temper make me feel so unworthy. I have no one to strengthen me now as when I went to Maple Lane School."

"Do the temptations of the world draw your heart away from better things, Madeline?"

"I think not; I care for none of them; I want to be a Christian, wholly; to live a better, higher, holier life."

"These are the teachings of the Holy Spirit, Madeline; God will perfect his own work; only do not resist these influences, they are sent from Heaven."

"Lately I wanted your advice so much; I want to do some good at Woodcliff; but I did not know how to begin."

"I have heard, Madeline, about your little school; go on, my young friend, God will guide and bless you."

"How did you hear, Roland?"

"Did you not write to Helen for books and shoes? she told me all about it."

Madeline shrank away at the mention of Helen's name, for she feared that she had been too communicative about herself, but it seemed so like the old times, that she could not resist the opportunity of opening her heart on this one subject.

"Does Helen take any interest in such things?" inquired Madeline.

"Yes, she does now," was the answer; "she is quite a help to me in my 'Home.' I wish that you could do something for us, Madeline."

"How can I work for you away off at Woodcliff?"

"Why, you have a very fertile imagination, and used to be famous at story-telling—can't you manufacture something for the 'News-boys?'"

"I write stories, Roland! why, I never thought of such a thing—but it would be a pleasant thing if I could so write for them, and work for you."

"I want you to work for God, Madeline; you have bright talents, my little friend;" and Roland seemed to have gone back to the days on the sea-shore, and to forget that he was talking to a young lady, the heiress of Woodcliff, instead of little Maddy of Maple Lane School.

Madeline smiled, for it made her very happy to feel that she could, in any way, be a coworker with Roland, and she really felt as if she could make the effort; it was worth trying.

"Must it be very religious, Roland?"

"It must be something to wake up the moral sense of these poor boys, and to point them to a holy life."

"Oh! that is too much for me, Roland; I can, perhaps, write a little story which may please them, and keep them from bad reading."

"Will you promise me to try, Madeline? send it on to me, and I will correct it, and get it ready for the press."

Suddenly Madeline burst out into one of her old fits of laughing; her own ringing, silvery laugh.

"I could not help it, Roland; it seems so strange to think of Madeline Hamilton turning authoress."

"It does not seem strange to me; I always believed that you were born for something very good, Madeline; now I want you to tell me all about your little school, and the poor people around Woodcliff."

And Madeline entered into an animated description of all that had been attempted; so artless, so naive was her account, so modest, and yet so frank, that Roland felt as if he was seated once more by the bright child of the sea-shore; but when he remembered that years had passed since then, and that the broad gulf of wealth and rank forbade the free, charming intercourse of those young days; he checked expressions that would have arisen to his lips, and hushed the wild beating of his heart, awakening to the sense of danger, that attended such an interview as this.

"You promise to write the story, Madeline, remember."

"Yes, I promise anything,"——and she checked the remaining words trembling on her lips,—"to you."

They forgot the passing of time in this sweet communion, until Charles Davenport came up to Madeline, and laying his hand upon her arm, said, haughtily,

"Are you aware, Madeline, how long you have been absent from your party?"

"Are you aware that you are interrupting my conversation with an old friend?"

"An old friend, indeed! May I ask the name?"

"Mr. Bruce, Charles Davenport."

"How long since you resigned your post at college, sir?"

"What post, Mr. Davenport?"

"That which you held when I was a member of that college."

Roland did not answer—indignation was too strong; but Madeline did.

"I understand your insinuation, sir; how dare you insult Roland Bruce? You cannot lower him; you have tried it too often, and failed."

Poor Madeline! aware of the hot blood that was mounting to her face, she covered it with her hands, and murmured,

"Begone, Charles Davenport; you make me forget that I am a woman; I am so ashamed, what shall I do?" and she burst into tears of wounded modesty.

Charles went off whistling.

"Quite a scene with that upstart fellow!"

Roland stood by Madeline, scarcely knowing what to say. He was aware that her innate sense of propriety had been greatly outraged by the words which in her impetuosity she had uttered; he stood silent for one minute, then taking her hand, said,

"I understand your generous nature, Madeline; I thank you more than words can express."

"I am humbled, mortified at my impetuosity; do not think me destitute of modesty, Roland."

"You, Madeline! you know not what you are saying—be satisfied when I say that if the expression of the deepest respect that ever filled the heart of man can relieve your wounded pride, it is all your own."

"Thank you, Roland; I could not bear to lose your respect; let me always deserve that."

Taking her hand, and placing it within his arm, he led her to her party, saying,

"Good night, Miss Madeline; I shall see you and Effie to-morrow;" for Roland felt that this heart-communion was becoming each moment more dangerous.

"Who was that young man?" inquired Mary Trevor; "he is so noble-looking, and what a bow! quite the air of a prince!"

"Poor and proud!" retorted Charles Davenport.

"He is an early friend of mine, Mary. His name is Bruce."

"O yes! he is in Mr. Thornly's office; I have met him there several times; he is a young man of fine talents, and quite an admirer of Helen Thornly; some say more."

Madeline did not reply, but there was something in her heart that night, that made her feel very easy with regard to these rumors; at all events, Roland has lost none of his interest in his youthful friend, and Madeline dreamed about Woodcliff, and Maple Lane School, about the sea-shore, Uncle Peter, and a little shoe.

Next morning, Roland called to see his sister, and was deeply pained at the evidences manifest of the affliction hanging over his darling Effie.

Folding her in his arms, he pressed upon her sweet face the warm kisses of brotherly love.

"Would, darling, that I could shelter you from the woes of life; but Effie, this is not our home; we are seeking a better one; and if for a little while our Father sees fit to close my sister's eyes, I will be eyes and everything else for her."

"I know it, Roland; I am trying to school my heart; I know what is coming; each day the light becomes more dim; but the presence of my Saviour is always with me; I can still, with the eyes of my soul, 'Look aloft.' I have so many blessings, Roland; a pleasant home, good kind friends, a dear, dear brother, such a friend in Madeline, and the hope of Heaven always so bright."

Roland smoothed the soft brown hair, kissed the pale forehead, and lifting up his voice, prayed so fervently for the dear stricken lamb, that Effie was comforted.

A few more days, and the young girls returned to Woodcliff, with the sad certainty that nothing more could be done for Effie.

Roland saw them safely in the cars, and promised to write frequently to his sister.

"Remember your promise," was his last charge to Madeline.

As soon as possible, she made preparations for her new effort; carefully concealing from her father and aunt the nature of her employment.

She was some time deciding whether her hero should be a good or a bad boy; she tried both, but was dissatisfied. At last, she selected one from the very lowest walks of life, and the deepest degradation, raised by the power of Christian love to a post of useful, earnest piety.

As her story progressed, she read each chapter to Effie, who was delighted at the genius manifested by her model friend.

At length it was completed, and sent to Roland; nothing was heard of it for some time. So humble was her sense of its demerits, that Madeline looked daily for the return of her manuscript.

Finally, a letter came to Effie, announcing that all arrangements were made, the book disposed of, and would be out in about two months; but Roland asked what was to be done with the money for the manuscript.

"I never thought of that," said the young girl; "but tell Roland, Effie, to keep the money for the 'Home.'"

When at last the package came, and Madeline really looked upon one of her own productions in print, she could not but smile at her temerity; and when in addition to the book, were also some flattering notices from the press, she was actually surprised.

Papa was in the library—Madeline knocked at the door with a trembling hand; and when her father bade her enter, she stood irresolute with the book in her hand, and a shy smile upon her face.

"What is the matter, daughter? you seem agitated."

"I have something to show you, papa."

"Well! what is it? I am ready."

"This little book, papa."

"Poh! poh! is that all? only a boy's book, Maddy."

"But I know that you'd like to read this one, papa."

"Well, to please my daughter, I'll read it some time; lay it on the table."

"But, papa, I want you to read it now; look at the title-page."

"By Madeline." "Why, what does this mean?"

"It means, dear papa, that this is Mad-cap's book."

"Did you really write this, my child?"

"Yes, I did, papa; I hope it may do some good among the poor boys of New York."

"What next, Maddy?" asked her father, with an amused expression of countenance.

"I must be busy, and this is such pleasant work; you do not object, do you, papa?"

"No, not exactly; but I should not like to have your name handed around as an authoress; I have rather a horror of literary ladies in general; they are so often odd, and I cannot abide an eccentric woman."

"But, dear me, papa, these little unpretending stories are really nothing; they never can make me famous; and really I do not wish for anything but that they may do some good."

Papa read the little book with a feeling of secret pride, quite surprised to see so much talent in his daughter Maddy. At the tea-table, he alluded to the subject.

"Well, what would you think, Matilda, if I should introduce Madeline to her aunt, as a young authoress?"

"Think, Lewis Hamilton! why I should say that you are both crazy. First, a Lady Bountiful, bringing in all the ragged children of the neighborhood, and now a writer of childish books. I am really concerned; if she becomes a 'blue stocking,' I have no hope left; she will grow to be a careless, slatternly woman, just like that Miss Hodges, that used to go about the country with soiled face and hands, carrying her great bag of manuscript under her skirts, fastened around her waist, like saddle-bags. You have no idea, Lewis Hamilton, how these pursuits ruin a woman—your indulgence carries you much too far."

Mr. Hamilton laughed heartily at such a picture.

"Don't alarm yourself, Matilda; I don't think that Madeline will ever reach notoriety like that."

"Why, aunty, I can't see how you could ever dream of such a thing; you know bow I despise a sloven; if I thought that I could ever become such a disgusting person, I would burn my papers at once, and consign my poor little attempts to the oblivion which they may reach in another way; but, dear aunt, really in earnest, I promise you to wash my face and hands, and comb my hair at least once a day, and not to disgrace my name."

Throwing her arms around Aunt Matilda's neck, she kissed her affectionately, and said,

"Now confess, aunty, did not you think first, 'And what will Mrs. Grundy say?' Is not that the truth?" And Maddy was victor as usual of the whole ground; father, aunt, and all who had read her little book.

"Write to your heart's content, Maddy, only avoid those follies which are so often seen."

The little school prospered. Effie aided as far as her strength allowed. Total blindness had spread its dark mantle over the dear girl.

It was truly a mournful sight to behold the desolate orphan, groping her way about the house, feeling by the banisters, and along the walls; or sitting with folded hands, and meek submissive face, generally in Madeline's sitting room.

Her health was evidently on the decline; a feebler step, failing appetite, longings for the better land marked her approach to her Father's house.

She had learned to knit very expertly, even without eyesight, and it was with feelings of humble contentment that she could thus employ her fingers, for many a nice pair of warm stockings were thus provided for their little pupils. Seated in Madeline's favorite room, she could smell the fragrance of the flowers, hear the warbling of birds, and the sweet voice of her dear friend at her daily practice. Her chapter in the Bible was read to her every morning, by Madeline, who would then arrange her chair, get Effie's knitting, and busy herself about her own employments.

"Will you get me a bunch of heather, Maddy? I want it near me; it was my mother's flower, you know."

"Here it is, Effie;" and placing it in her hands, Madeline kissed the sweet pale face, while the blind girl pressed it to her lips with sweet memories of the departed.

"Is it a bright morning, Madeline?" asked the orphan.

"Bright as a May morning can be, Effie; the dew is yet on the sweet flowers, and all is charming and refreshing."

"I can well afford to be contented with my present blindness, Madeline; for I shall soon see the brighter scenes, and pluck the flowers of Paradise; will you sing for me that sweet hymn,

'Thy will be done?'"

and as Madeline poured out the plaintive melody of that touching air, Effie leaned back in her chair, with a sweet placid look of perfect happiness.

"Madeline, it is a precious experience 'to know no will but his,' willing to live, joyful to die; I would live for Roland, but die to be with Jesus and my mother; by-the-bye, Madeline, to-morrow is the day when we may expect my brother; did he not say on Thursday?"

"He did in his last letter to you, and he is a faithful promiser."

Seated in her accustomed place, Effie listens eagerly for every step, for her remaining senses are made more acute by the loss of one; the step on the gravelled walk, then on the piazza, the closing of the front door, the firm tread along the hall, and the voice so beloved, sends a glow of joy over the face of the blind girl, and rising, she gropes her way hastily to the entry, where she is soon folded to the bosom of her "dear, dear Roland."

He gazes sadly for one moment upon the sightless eyes, the pale drooping form, and the hectic bloom on the thin face, and feels that Effie is following their mother to the land of the blessed.

But Roland has a cheerful spirit, and nothing but strong comforting words pass his lips when alone with his little sister. He tells her of his plans, of his success in business, and his News-boys' Home, of incidents connected with the history of several, and amusing accounts of their first entrance upon civilized life.

"Would you believe it, Effie, that one poor little fellow did not know the use of a staircase, and we found him groping up on his hands and feet as he had been accustomed to do by the ladder of his gloomy garret. There was a looking-glass in the matron's room, and the same little fellow was pushing through, thinking it was another room."

Effie laughed at these stories, and thought her brother the most entertaining company that she had ever met.

"Now, brother, tell me all about Madeline's book; did the boys like it?"

"It was the very book for them; they are always asking for 'The Boy in Earnest;' each one is to have a copy on Christmas morning."

Turning to Madeline, he continued,

"You must go on with your stories; the publisher was delighted, and wants more from the same source. I have some matter which I can give you, and you can weave it into the form of a tale for us—you see that my advice was good, Madeline, although you were so afraid to try."

"It is always right, Roland; you never advised me for anything but my good, but you ought to hear Aunt Matilda make fun of these things; she says that I shall forget to wash my face and hands after awhile; do you think that there is really any danger of such a calamity?" and Madeline smiled archly on her friend.

"Not if I may judge by present appearances;" was the reply, as Roland gazed with an admiring look upon the perfect lady-like neatness of hair, dress, and manner that always distinguished Madeline.

"I never could tell what you wear, but I think that your aunt need not wish anything different."

Madeline blushed at the compliment so unusual from the lips of Roland, and made a low mischievous courtesy, with the witchery of former times.

"Thank you, kind sir, you had better take care, lest you make me vain, instead of a 'blue stocking;' and one is as bad as the other."

"Pure motives, Madeline, will make all right; everything in its proper place, but God over all."

A bright blush mantled the young face, and a light beamed from the deep blue eyes, illumining the whole countenance, which Madeline did not care to be wholly revealed, for she dropped the lids hastily, lest the eyes should speak too much.

The Saturday school assembled before Roland returned to New York.

On a visit to Effie, he had the pleasure of being present at one of these gatherings.

Madeline was much embarrassed, and could scarcely proceed with her work in his presence.

Understanding her feelings, he said, kindly,

"Is there anything that I can do, Miss Madeline?"

"If you will make the opening prayer, I should be pleased. I use our forms of prayer, but I would rather hear yours to-day."

Roland poured forth a simple, heart-felt, earnest prayer, remembering all the members of that household, as well as the children kneeling around them. Madeline had never heard him pray, and when he named her as the young teacher of the little flock, she felt that more earnestness marked those petitions, and deeply was she moved by the glowing language of that solemn supplication.

He took Effie's class, and although apparently engrossed by the employment of the hour, watched with deep emotion the humble, affectionate manner with which Madeline performed her duty towards her young pupils.

He did not wonder at their interest, when he glanced at the earnest glow of her lovely countenance, nor at the reverence of the young faces, when he listened to the simple instruction which she endeavored to impart.

At the close, Madeline took her seat at the piano, and played one of her childish hymns, in which they all joined; then the bunch of flowers, as usual, was the kind dismissal.

"Please, ma'am, granny is very bad with the rheumatiz," said little Betsy Smith; "she wants you to come and see her."

"I will come to-morrow, Betsy."

"And please, ma'am," said another, "daddy broke his leg last week; won't you stop at our house?"

Madeline blushed as she saw the expression with which Roland regarded her, as she answered the humble petitioners.

"God bless you, Miss Madeline, in your good work," said the young man, as he warmly pressed her hand; "but this is a novel kind of school in a young lady's sitting-room, in the midst of flowers and music, and such teachers."

"Our accommodations are not suitable, we know; but we hope for something better some of these days."

"The children will be sorry to move away from this," was the quick reply.

"But we can teach so few in this room, and we might as well have more."

Roland was more pleased than he could express with all that he had seen, and when he took his departure, his last words were,

"God bless you, Miss Madeline, and do not forget another book."

CHAPTER XX.

OUT IN THE LIGHT.

It is a bright and beautiful day—Madeline looks tenderly upon the drooping invalid reclining upon the couch in her pleasant sitting-room.

"Will you walk this morning, Effie? the air is so pure and fresh, it will revive you."

She raised her languid head for one moment, and replied,

"I cannot to-day, dear, I am too weak; come read to me some of the precious Saviour's words; they will comfort me."

Madeline selected some passages from the fourteenth chapter of John, those which have cheered so many weary pilgrims on their journey homeward.

"In my Father's house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you; I go to prepare a place for you."

"'Many mansions,' dear Madeline, and one is mine, purchased by a Saviour's blood, ensured to me by his unfailing truth."

Madeline's eyes filled, and her voice trembled as she continued.

"And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also."

"'I will come again,' Maddy; listen to those words; Jesus will come again, and where he is, I shall be also; with Jesus, dearest; with my mother in Paradise; out in the light; no more blindness, no more darkness, but perfect bliss; this is my hope."

Madeline took up the next verse.

"And whither I go ye know, and the way ye know."

"Yes, blessed be God! I know the way; I have known it so long; my mother led my infant steps in that holy way, and I cannot remember when I did not love my Saviour. O, what cause have I to praise my God! While so many are living in sin, dancing merrily in the way to death, his grace has saved me, Maddy; if I had been like others, rich and healthy, I might have been just as thoughtless, just as vain."

Madeline continued until she came to the verse, "Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, and the truth, and the life; no man cometh unto the Father but by me."

"He does not leave us, dear, to grope in darkness, when he says, 'Come unto me;' he leads the way himself; he is the truth; he guides us into all truth; he is the life, Maddy, the life of the immortal soul; through him we have pardon, access to God, and the hope of eternal life sure and stedfast; poor, weak, trembling thing that I am, I can cast my little anchor within the vail, and feel it on a rock. I know that this faith must be divine, for I am such a fearful, timid being, afraid of so many things around me, and yet not afraid to meet a pure and holy God in judgment; this faith must be all his work, Maddy."

With a heart full of sympathy, Madeline continued until she reached the thirteenth verse.

"And whatsoever ye shall ask in my name, that will I do, that the Father may be glorified in the Son. If ye shall ask anything in my name, I will do it."

"'If ye shall ask anything in my name;' think of the promise, Madeline, 'I will do it.' I have believed my Saviour, and I have asked eternal life for you, and my Saviour will, yes dear, he is hearing my prayer, and Roland's too—how often have we prayed together for you."

Madeline's head drooped for one moment, and she could scarcely proceed; but she answered,

"Do you really believe, Effie, that I shall ever be a Christian? that I, proud, self-willed Madeline, shall ever be like the meek and lowly Saviour?"

"Yes, dear, if you, like Mary, will sit daily at his feet, he will teach you; he will make you like himself; and then, Maddy, after all the cares and sorrows of this mortal life are ended, we shall be forever with him."

"Does it ever grieve you to think of leaving this world, Effie?" asked her friend.

"When I think of Roland all alone," and her lips quivered, "then my heart is sad, for he has none but me; but you'll be kind to him, Madeline; you will not forget Effie's brother."

"There is Helen Thornly, Effie; while he has her, he will not be desolate."

"What do you mean, Madeline? Helen is only a kind friend to Roland, nothing more; she helps him in his missionary work, and that brings them much together; there is nobody in the wide world that Roland values as he does you, Maddy; next to me, you are his other sister."

"Did he ever tell you so, Effie?"

"Why no, not exactly; but I know Roland; he can never forget the kindness of his little sea-shore friend, or the sweet intercourse of childish days; he has too much gratitude for that. But Maddy, there is one thing I should like—when I am gone, you can write no more letters for poor blind Effie; how he will miss them! If you would only continue to write to him kind, friendly letters, he would not miss me then quite so much."

Dear innocent little Effie!

Madeline blushed even in the presence of the blind girl, at such a proposition.

"That cannot be, Effie; it would be highly improper for a young lady to be writing letters to a gentleman."

"Pardon me, Madeline, I forgot the difference; I see it cannot be expected; it would be presumptuous in Roland; but still it would be so pleasant; and I don't see why you cannot; just letters of advice, Maddy."

"I advise Roland! why Effie, that would be singular indeed, when nearly all my life he has been my counsellor."

"This is a strange world, Maddy. I know that you would like to write; and just because people are so foolish, you have to be led by their notions; Roland is only like a brother, and I can't see any harm in it at all."

"Dear papa would not approve of such a correspondence, Effie; and besides, Roland has never asked it himself."

"Some of these days, Madeline, you will be thinking of marriage, or some one will think of it for you; I hope that you will ask Roland's counsel, then; I know that he would not like you to marry any one who is not a Christian."

"Why, Effie, you need not trouble yourself about the matter; I am very happy at Woodcliff; I don't know any one that could tempt me away from my father; in fact, I don't think about it at all. Harry Castleton has troubled me sometimes with his offers, but really, I scarcely give it a thought, and least of all with him."

But Madeline smiled at the idea of asking Roland's advice upon such a subject.

"Now, Maddy, sing me one of our sweet hymns."

"What shall it be, dear?"

"'How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord;' that is one of my favorites."

And Madeline sang the beautiful words with touching pathos.

Effie was not able to sit up all that day, but continued in the same happy, tranquil state of mind.

Time wore away—gradually Effie's strength declined.

One day, being a little stronger, she called Madeline to her side, and said,

"Bring me the box, dear, which you will find in my upper drawer," and accordingly Madeline obeyed.

"I have none but you, Miss Matilda, and Roland, Maddy, and I want to distribute my few trifling keepsakes, before I am too weak. My Bible, my breastpin, with my mother's hair, and my little desk, are for Roland; my mourning ring, the gift of Miss Matilda, and the likeness, which you remember we had taken in New York, are both for you; my hymn-book, my knitting-bag and caba, are for Miss Matilda. I bought a little book for each of the servants, when I was in New York; write my name in each. You may do what you please with my clothes; I think, however, it would be well to distribute them among our little scholars—now I have nothing more to do with earth, but just to wait my Father's will; when he is ready, he will send for me."

There was a picture of the Believer's Vision on the wall opposite to where Effie reposed, and as she lay there with folded hands, and sweet expression of perfect peace, Madeline had learned to associate the two, and ever after, would that touching picture speak of Effie.

"Madeline, I promised Roland that I would send for him when the change was near; I think that it will not be many days before I shall be out in the blessed light of Heaven. I asked the Doctor, yesterday, and he told me, Maddy, that it might be a very short time, or a few days, at farthest; will you send for Roland? This is Thursday, and he could be spared better on Saturday and Sunday."

Madeline sent a few hasty lines, and on Saturday afternoon he arrived, pale and sad, for he understood the message.

"You will stay with me, Roland, until all is over?" was the request of the dying girl.

"I have made all my arrangements, and will not leave you, darling."

"I want to see Mr. Hamilton alone, Roland; I have something to say to him; will you tell him, dear?"

Madeline's father had learned to love the gentle blind girl, and when he entered, and saw the gray shadows of death upon her countenance, he could scarcely control his feelings.

"I am going to leave you, Mr. Hamilton, and I want to thank you for all your kindness to poor blind Effie; I shall not be blind much longer, for I am going out of the darkness into the blessed light of Heaven; but I want to tell you, that weak and timid as I am, I am not afraid to die; my trust is in Jesus, and he never leaves me, nor forsakes me. I love you, Mr. Hamilton, because you are Madeline's father, and I want you to be just as happy as I am—warnings have come to you, my good, kind friend, for these many months, and I want you to promise me, dying Effie, that you will seek the Saviour, ere it is forever too late."

Mr. Hamilton bowed his head upon his hands, and replied,

"I often feel, Effie, as if my days would not be very many in this world, for I am much worse than Madeline dreams of. I have not your blessed hope, my dear child, but I know that yours is real, is divine, and I promise you, Effie, to seek your Saviour; does that make you happy?" and Mr. Hamilton stooped down to kiss the pale cheek of the child.

"Happy! yes, Mr. Hamilton, I should be perfectly happy, if I could hope to meet you all up there," and she pointed upward, while a look of seraphic blessedness dwelt upon her face. "Now, send Miss Matilda."

Miss Matilda had avoided being alone with Effie, for she was afraid of death.

Thoughts of the dark grave, the judgment and eternity, were all that she ever associated with the subject.

She entered the room, and took her seat by the couch.

"You are not so very ill, Effie; I have seen persons weaker than you recover." Effie smiled, as she replied, "I have no fears of death, Miss Matilda; my Saviour has taken them all away; I have no desire to live, but for Roland's sake; but I sent for you to tell you how blessed is the Christian's state. My trust is all in my Saviour; and he will not prove untrue to his word. You have been very good to poor orphan Effie, and I want to see you happy. I know you are not happy now—no one can be who does not love God best of all; you will not be offended at me, Miss Matilda, for I shall soon be gone; but I want you to seek the Saviour."

"I am a member of the church, Effie; I don't know what you mean, exactly."

"I mean, dear Miss Matilda, that I want you to have real heart faith in Jesus; faith that makes you love him, trust him, follow him as your best friend."

"Effie, I do believe in him, but not as you do."

"That is what I mean, Miss Matilda; I don't mean just to be a member of the church, and no more; that is not all; I want you to be a member of Christ himself, and that is by faith."

"'Tis like Heaven below,
My Redeemer to know,
    The angels can do nothing more,
Than to sit at his feet
And the story repeat,
    And the dear friend of sinners adore."

Miss Matilda sat bathed in tears, for she had a warm affectionate heart, and could not but love the little lamb who was pleading so sweetly the cause of her Master.

She took the pale and withered hand, and replied, "Effie, there is something about this, different from all that I have ever seen; death always seemed so terrible to me."

"It is only terrible where sin is not pardoned; 'the sting of death is sin.' Jesus has borne it all for me, and to me there is no sting, nor any fear of the grave, because he has lain there, and blessed it, Miss Matilda."

"Would that I had such a trust as this," and she kissed the dear child, and left the room. Sweet was the communion between Effie and her brother. Roland's strong faith, and scriptural knowledge made him a most valuable treasure to the feeble girl, for as the dying hour approached, she had some experience of the conflict between the soul and body, and some slight cloud of darkness in her hour of weakness; but Roland sat by her, watching each change, praying, soothing, repeating words of Scripture, and the hour of temptation passed.

"Out in the light, dear brother; so soon at home with Jesus. Read from the Revelations, Roland;" and in a deep, rich voice, he read,

"'And there shall be no more curse; but the throne of God and the Lamb shall be in it; and his servants shall serve him: And they shall see his face; and his name shall be in their foreheads. And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light; and they shall reign forever and ever.'"

"'And there shall be no night there,' Roland, 'but one eternal, glorious day;' come, Madeline, one more kiss, one more, Roland," and Effie clasped her dying arms around both as she whispered, "Love the Saviour, love Roland as I have loved him, Madeline, love each other, and we shall meet in Heaven."

They arose from that cold embrace, and as Effie lay back upon her pillow, softly, gently the sweet spirit departed; and when Madeline saw that she had gone, forgetting all ceremony, she took Roland's arm, and led him out into the garden, for Effie had departed in Madeline's sitting-room. He walked mechanically to an arbor, with Madeline by his side. One burst of manly grief rent his bosom, for dearly had he loved his gentle sister, and he felt now that he was indeed alone. Almost unconscious of the act, she leaned her head upon Roland's shoulder, and whispered,

"Not alone, Roland; I will take Effie's place."

"You cannot, you cannot, Madeline; not Effie's," and ere he was aware, he passed his arm around her waist, but as instantly released her, as he continued pacing up and down the arbor; "you cannot be my sister, Madeline; I must be gone from here, and then I shall indeed be all alone."

Madeline scarcely knew what to think of his conduct; if it was intended as a casting off her sisterly love, she was indeed mistaken in him; but that she could not believe—what then could he mean?

What was Roland's surprise in the evening of Effie's death to be called out to see a woman in the entry, and who should present herself but Elsie Gibson! They had not seen her for many months.

"Weel, Roland, ye hae lost anither—what ailed the puir bairn?"

"Consumption at last, Elsie, and she had been blind for months before she died."

"She is at rest, Roland—but may I see her remains?"

"Certainly, Elsie," and the brother took the old woman into the room where Effie lay.

"Will ye gi' me a lock o' her hair, Roland? I had a lock o' your mother's, and I want this for the same person."

"For whom, Elsie?" was the quick reply.

"For ane that has a right, Roland, ye'll ken some day," and Elsie was allowed to cut a lock of fair hair, and folding it carefully in paper, she placed it in her pocket.

Roland remained until the day of interment; and accompanied by the members of Mr. Hamilton's family, and the children whom she had taught, he laid the dear remains by the side of her mother, to await the morning of the resurrection.

Nothing further detained him at Woodcliff; indeed, he seemed anxious to be gone.

"Thank you, Miss Madeline, for all your kindness and devotion to my darling sister," was his last farewell.

"Shall I see you again, Mr. Bruce?" was Madeline's inquiry, for she felt an inward conviction that Effie's death had removed the last tie that bound him to Woodcliff.

"I may, perhaps, come down to see about the grave, Miss Madeline, but the world has claims upon me, and I must fulfil them;" then suddenly changing from his cold, constrained manner, to one of deep feeling, he seized Madeline's hand, and pressing upon it one long, fond kiss, he said,—

"Forgive me, Madeline; it is the first, the last that I shall ever press upon that hand. I have had my warning, and I shall never intrude; but you must not forget me, I could not bear it; farewell! farewell!" and ere the astonished girl could reply, he was gone—out of the door, down the avenue—out of sight!

What could it all mean! sometimes so cold, then so impassioned! How could she account for the conduct so strange! She was not aware that Aunt Matilda had discovered that it was owing to Roland's influence that her niece had attempted authorship; nor did she know how much alarmed her aunt had been at the apparent intimacy between Roland and herself: she had witnessed also the scene in the arbor on the day of Effie's death, and resolved to break up the intercourse, if possible; accordingly, on the evening after the funeral, Roland was seated alone in the parlor, when Miss Hamilton entered.

"We shall miss your dear sister, Mr. Bruce, for she was a sweet, gentle girl, and we all loved her, and I suppose that it will be a long while ere we shall see you again; for as Effie is gone, there is no longer any thing to draw you to Woodcliff. If circumstances are somewhat different, it would give me great pleasure to invite you freely to our house, but you know that we must have some regard for the opinions of the world, and as Madeline is now a young lady, it would be the height of imprudence to encourage such an ill-assorted intimacy."

Roland's face flushed crimson—all the fire of his naturally proud temper was aroused; he bit his lips, and remained silent for one minute, then taking his hat, he simply said,—

"Good-evening, Miss Hamilton, I am sorry to have intruded so long; I understand the gulf between Miss Madeline and myself perfectly, you have no reason to fear. I am quite as proud as you."

It was after this interview, that he had taken leave of Madeline. She was distressed, but could not understand what all this seeming inconsistency of conduct meant.

"Brother, I have been really concerned at the intimacy between Madeline and this young man," was the remark of Miss Matilda to Mr. Hamilton. "I have found out the reason why she wrote that book; she would never have thought of such a thing, if it had not been for Roland Bruce; he put it into her head, and forsooth! she must puzzle her brains to publish this book; there is nothing that he has ever hinted, that she has not done; and I actually believe that Madeline may some day so far forget the dignity of her family, as to stoop to such a man as that."

"I have some fears myself, Matilda, for I observed with how much deference Madeline listened to all his remarks, and what deep sympathy she manifested with his grief; and I do not wonder, for he is a most remarkable young man."

"Well, I have put an end to it, brother, without your help. I just hinted to him that as Effie was gone, there would now be nothing to call him to Woodcliff; you should have seen the crimson blush mantling his whole face, and the proud bearing of the youth, as he replied, 'that he should intrude no more.'"

"Does Madeline know any thing about it, Matilda?"

"She does not, for I fear to rouse her spirit."

"And I, too," was her father's reply; "I do not believe that she would tolerate this if she knew it."

"She shall never be any the wiser, and Roland is too proud to tell her; he walked out of the parlor like a prince."

Madeline had another source of disquietude—her father's health seemed rapidly declining, and his spirits very low; so much so, that his physician ordered him to Europe, and rapid preparations were to be made, in order that they might leave America in the early autumn. Mr. Hamilton observed Madeline's great depression, for since Effie's death, he had seldom seen her smile; the old joyousness had vanished from her face, and the elasticity from her step. She was very lonely without her dear young friend, and the hours spent in her sitting-room so much alone, were not calculated to raise her spirits. Her walks were equally lonely; still she rambled to the sea-shore, and old Peter's cabin. In a short time, she had placed a simple marble slab at the head of Effie's grave, and planted some flowers that she had loved around the sacred spot.

One evening she bent her footsteps to the old man's cabin.

"I am glad to see you, Miss Madeline, for Master Roland was here last Monday, and left this little note if you should call;" and he handed her a small slip of paper, on which was written, "A thousand thanks for the sweet memento over my sister's grave; I know whose hand placed it there; the one whose friendship has never failed us, and who never can be forgotten. I hear that you are going to Europe; may God preserve and bless you with his guiding band and sustaining grace, prays now and always, Roland."

Madeline read the little note with tears.

"When was he here, Uncle Peter?" was her first question.

"On Monday last; he came to see about his sister's grave, but found everything done before he got here. You ought to have seen him, Miss Madeline, when he came back from the grave; he sat down there," pointing to a broken chair, "and covering his face with his hands, he sobbed and wept so bitterly. When a man cries so hard, I know there must be some great sorrow."

"What else did he say, Uncle Peter?"

"He asked about you, Miss Madeline,—how you were, when you were here, how you looked, and if you ever spoke of him. He then asked about Mr. Hamilton. I told him how sick he was; he seemed so very sorry, but he did not say one word about Miss Matilda. I asked him if he was not going up to the Hall; but he said, 'No, Effie was gone, and there was nothing to call him there now.' Then he asked when you were going to Europe. I said, 'in about two weeks;' is that correct?"

"Yes, Uncle Peter, if we can get ready for the steamer. Was that all he said?"

"Yes, that was all; and then he went away, and I was so sorry, for he seemed so sad and lonely."

Madeline returned with a bowed head to her home; it was as she had expected. Roland could not come to the Hall, now that Effie was gone.

It was a comfort, however, to visit the old man, and Madeline's calls were frequent.

One evening, strolling quietly along, her thoughts were dwelling sadly on the past, and with dread to the future; she had reached the spot where she sat on the day that she had first met Roland. For one minute she stood, and wiped away a silent tear. Then walking on, with her eyes bent upon the beach, she was conscious of nothing around her, until she reached the old man's cabin. What was her surprise upon entering to see Roland!

He arose with a constrained manner, and said,

"Miss Madeline, I heard that you were going to Europe, and I felt that I must bid you farewell. I have been here once before, but without success—when do you sail?"

"In about a week, Mr. Bruce," was the answer.

"Can I speak to you alone, Miss Hamilton?" and Roland offered his arm, and led her to the old rock, where they had so often sat in the careless days of childhood.

"You are going to cross the wide ocean, Miss Madeline; will be introduced into new scenes, and will be exposed to the blandishments of the gay metropolis of England—do not forget your immortality; do not forget your early friend. I know that they will try to banish me from your memory; but Madeline, by all the tenderness of childhood's days, remember, if not me, remember all that I have told you—you cannot know the loneliness which I have suffered ever since Effie's death, and I cannot bear to think that you can ever forget me. I ask only your friendship, your prayers."

Madeline's voice trembled as she asked,

"Why is it that you come no more to Woodcliff? we should be so glad to see you."

Roland smiled bitterly, as he replied,

"Perhaps so, Madeline; but I have good reasons; you may know them some day. When you go to England, among the rest of your visits, do not forget the benevolent institutions; get all the information that you can; and when you return to America, you will be better prepared to follow out your plans for good; we shall have the pleasure then of knowing that although separated, we are co-workers for the same great end."

They continued in such conversation for some time longer; at length the shadows of evening warned them that it was time to part.

"Farewell, Madeline!" and Roland seized the little hand extended so frankly, pressing it tenderly between both of his own.

"Farewell, Roland; be assured that I shall never forget you, and when I say this, I mean all that I say—God bless you, Roland, forever and ever; he will bring you back to Woodcliff to bless its people. I have never lost that faith, Roland."

At the end of the lane which led to the shore, they parted; and as Madeline walked slowly up the road that led to the gate of her own home, turning back, she still saw Roland gazing after her, and waving his hand, as she vanished up the avenue.

CHAPTER XXI.

SEARCHING FOR SCOTTISH FRIENDS.

"And now for earnest working," thought Roland, as he turned wearily away from the one cherished spot; "it is a hard trial to part from such a friend, but it is evidently my Father's will, that alone I must still pursue my way; I must not indulge in vain regrets, but 'Looking aloft,' I will endeavor to do whatsoever my hand findeth to do with diligence and single-hearted devotion." Day by day, Roland gathered the heavenly manna, and drank of the spiritual rock; thus strengthened, he returned with renewed zeal to the duties of his daily life.

"Whither so fast, my friend?" cried a familiar voice, as he was threading his way along the busy streets of New York. Turning quickly, he perceived his college friend, Edmund Norris. Grasping Roland's hand, he said,

"You are the very one that I want to see; I am going to Europe, and must have a companion; my mother will hear of none but you, Roland; come, old fellow! just say that you will go; I will bear your expenses, and we shall have a grand time together."

"How long will you be absent, Edmund?"

"About one year; perhaps longer."

"What is your plan?"

"I propose visiting the continent, England, Scotland, and Ireland; my mother is not willing to trust her wild son with any one else; when will you give me an answer, Roland?"

"To-morrow, if you will call at my office, No. 12, Beekman street."

This offer seemed most opportune. He had no domestic tie to keep him in America, and here was the opportunity which he had so long desired, to visit his native land, and search for his relations, if any he had left.

"I will go, Edmund," was his reply; "when shall we sail?"

"In the first steamer; I wish to be there early in the fall."

"I shall be ready, Edmund; I can leave my business in the hands of a young man in my office."

The Thornlys were especially sorry to lose the young inmate; and Helen's pale cheek and depressed spirits betrayed the interest which she felt in the young man.

"You will write to Edgar, Mr. Bruce, I hope," was her last injunction. "I should not be surprised if you should meet Miss Hamilton abroad, for they have all gone for her father's health, to consult London physicians."

"Farewell, Miss Helen, I shall always be grateful for your kindness."

Roland did not see the tear which trembled on her cheek, as she turned away to hide her emotion.

When he reached the vessel, a handsome dressing-case, a sea wrapper, slippers, and cap, with the kind regards of Mr. Thornly, awaited him, with the label, "A small acknowledgment of benefits conferred upon Edgar, by his grateful father."

A swift passage across the Atlantic, in very fine weather, brought them to their desired haven. It had been keenly enjoyed by Roland, for the sight of the wide expanse of ocean was exhilarating to a soul like his. When first espying the white cliffs of Dover, he mentally asked, "shall I find any kindred in my native land, or am I still to wander alone in this wide world? Be that as my Father wills; I have kindred there," looking upward, "they await my coming."

He was so young when he first left Scotland, that much of the impression had vanished, and the present, therefore, had all the charm of novelty.

Taking a steamer, they crossed the Channel, and after a short journey on land, found themselves among the crowds of Paris, wending their way alone, in search of lodgings.

Taking rooms together, they soon realized that their surroundings were totally different from America; and curiosity for a few days kept them busy visiting the lions of the brilliant city, and making themselves acquainted with its numerous works of art, and countless attractions.

As soon as Edmund became a little domesticated, Roland took tickets for their attendance upon a course of scientific lectures, in one of the best institutions of the great city.

It was an important advantage to study with such a friend; for Roland's comprehensive mind, and clear intellect took in all that was demonstrated, and many a maze of perplexed reasoning was made clear to Edmund by the keen analysis of Roland's superior powers.

"You must not expect me to visit the vicious amusements of Paris, Edmund, my principles forbid this; but, if you must see all, Mr. Lisle, a young American, of fine moral character, is here, and will escort you; he is a safe guide; I hope that you will see the real tendency of sinful pleasures, and learn to value something higher."

"Just let me tell you, Roland, about the opera," said Edmund, one night, after his return, "it was splendid; the music was enchanting, the Emperor and Empress were both present—what a cold, dead, statuesque face he has! That beautiful woman cannot love him, I am sure; you should see Eugenie, she is truly an elegant woman, and her dress was perfect. I don't believe that there is much love for the Emperor here, for, although the audience noticed his presence, by a 'Vive l'Empereur,' there was no heart in it."

"You only saw the outside of the opera, Edmund; you did not follow the multitude who crowd gambling saloons, and other vicious places of resort after the opera was over. I should be sorry to see you escorted there by any of these gay young Frenchmen; while I feel as if I have no right to put actual restrictions upon your liberty, I trust that you will promise me one thing, Edmund."

"What is that, Roland? You are so reasonable with me, so considerate, that I think I may safely promise."

"You will find that there is no Sabbath in Paris; that is, no Christian Sabbath; people attend to business and seek their pleasure more on that day than on any other. I want you to promise that you will attend upon the Evangelical Chapel on Sunday, and avoid the places of public amusement."

"I can easily promise that, Roland, for I feel shocked myself at what I see."

It was a refreshing season to Roland, when he could turn aside from the gay glittering world around him, and worship his God with many of the wise and good of all Protestant churches. Sometimes American ministers led the devotions of the day, and he could then join in the familiar hymns of his childhood and youth, even in the midst of an infidel and dissolute capital.

"Who is that young man?" said Dr. M. to Henry Lisle, "I have observed his devotional aspect; I think he is a stranger; I really feel as if I should like to make his acquaintance."

"That is a young Scotchman; he has lived most of his life in America, and is here with a friend, whose studies he is directing."

"Do you know him, Lisle? if so, introduce me."

After the services, Dr. M. was made acquainted with Roland, and he began to feel not quite so much alone in the great world.

At the rooms of Dr. M. he was privileged to meet what was really the choice society of Paris. The good and wise frequently assembled at his apartments, and Roland and Edmund were, at all times, welcome guests.

Dr. M. had heard from Edmund something of his history, and having struggled himself in his early days, deeply sympathized with the brave young spirit of Roland Bruce. Sometimes, they were invited to the saloons of French philosophers, but the skeptical spirit, everywhere manifested, led Roland to be very careful how he exposed his young friend to such influences.

The halls of art were crowded with the finest specimens of distinguished artists, both of ancient and modern days; and our young friends spent many hours in examining these wondrous triumphs of human skill. The winter passed rapidly; early in the spring, they visited Switzerland, explored its natural beauties, passed through Germany, sailed upon the Rhine, and recrossing the Channel, found themselves in London, at the opening of the gay season.

Roland was pleased at the improvement manifested in Edmund; he was learning to distinguish between the good and the vile, and his friend felt as if he might trust him while in London, without his supervision, which he knew he must do, when he should visit Scotland, or else leave him in one of the Scottish cities. Roland busied himself for awhile in seeing the sights of London, and in visiting the ragged schools, and other benevolent institutions, by which he gained many valuable hints from those so much longer engaged in such good works.

Taking up the paper one morning, he read a glaring account of a drawing-room, when the Queen of England gave one of her receptions.

A rapturous description was given of the first appearance of Miss Hamilton, a young American. Her beauty, her grace, her manners were descanted upon. The perfect ease of her deportment, as she advanced under the escort of the American Minister, was described; and a brilliant season prophesied for the young heiress of Woodcliff. She was particularly distinguished by the Queen, who, contrary to her general practice, made some especial remarks to her about her country. Madeline's blushing acknowledgment of Her Majesty's notice was much enlarged upon.

Roland read the account with mingled feelings; but pain was uppermost, for he feared that the very novelty of the scene would insensibly draw her heart away from better things.

Edmund having brought letters of introduction was presented on the same day. He came home to Roland in ecstacies of delight.

"You should have seen the blaze of English beauty; but it was nothing compared to the young American, Miss Hamilton; theirs was rich, blooming, rosy, the glow of full redundant health, and the grace and ease of high birth; hers was spiritual! delicate! bewitching! none could tell which was the most beautiful; hair, eyes, coloring, or expression, but one exquisite combination of all that can attract in woman. Then her ease, her simplicity, her apparent unconsciousness, was the theme of every tongue. Her dress was perfect; her pure white lace, with moss-rose buds, and a set of pearls, softened still more her delicate beauty; she managed her train, Roland, as if she had dwelt in the presence of royalty all her life, stepping backward so gracefully, I could imagine the pretty little foot, by the beautiful hand and arm. I declare, Roland, I was proud of our young American. I'll warrant she has a royal nature, royal in its highest sense; you ought to have seen her, Roland. I waited until the drawing-room was dismissed, and stood at the door, to see her handed to her carriage by Lord N——, an elegant young nobleman; did not I envy the fellow, Roland? I'll find out where she stays, and, mark me! I'll have an introduction before the month is over."

Roland was amused at Edmund's enthusiasm, and troubled at the account of the impression made in the world of fashion by his peerless young friend.

"In the gay metropolis, with all her attractions, will she be kept unscathed?" whispered Roland to his heart. "Looking aloft" for her, as well as for himself, he felt the blessedness of remembering her in his daily prayers, and never was Madeline forgotten.

Edmund frequently alluded to his want of success in obtaining Miss Hamilton's direction, but one day, he came in full of glee: "Lisle is here, Roland; he knows Lord N——, and he will inquire of him for Miss Hamilton; he has letters of introduction to some of the nobles of England, and is as much interested as I in trying to find out where she is. The Duke of D—— will give a ball next week, Lisle is invited; he will get an introduction for me before that time, and I shall then meet Miss Hamilton."

Edmund seemed possessed with this one idea of obtaining an introduction to the reigning star.

"Congratulate me, Roland; the Duke of D—— called yesterday on Lisle while I was there; I was introduced as Lisle's young American friend, and to-day I have a card for the ball."

Nothing else was talked of but the coming ball. Edmund's head was full of the anticipated pleasure.

The evening came and passed. Next day, Edmund was in a high state of excitement.

"I was introduced, Roland, to Miss Hamilton, but that was all, I could get no nearer; she was surrounded by admirers—the Duke of D——, and the Earl of M——, Lord B——, and Lord G——, but most of all, Lord N——, were devoted in their attentions. If her young head is not turned by all this, I shall proclaim her a wonder. Lord N—— is a handsome young nobleman, with that respectful deference to ladies, and especially to Miss Hamilton, which I think would captivate such a girl."

Roland was compelled to listen silently, for he had not told Edmund that he had ever seen Madeline; but every word was painful, for he felt the ordeal to be so severe—would she come out unharmed?

"I went last night to the opera, Roland; Miss Hamilton was there, attended by her father and Lord N——. Mr. Hamilton looked so proud of his beautiful daughter, and no wonder; nothing to compare to her could be seen anywhere last night; eye-glasses were levelled at her from all quarters, but I really don't believe that she knew it, and, if she did, she certainly did not betray it."

Roland attended weekly upon the services of the Rev. Mr. B——, a minister of the establishment, simply on account of the earnest spirituality of his preaching.

On the next Sunday, whom should he see advancing up the aisle, in a simple modest dress, with a close bonnet and veil, but Madeline, attended by her father and aunt.

Several pew-doors were opened, but the sexton led them forward to a pew, where sat a young lady and gentleman of high rank.

"That is Lord N——," whispered Edmund to Roland, for he had observed the party.

Madeline was earnest, devout, prayerful, and listened to the sermon with such an humble, serious manner, as to lead Roland to hope that she was yet the simple, earnest child of Woodcliff. Lord N—— and his sister were equally devout, and Roland felt that the deportment of the young man in church was just such as was calculated to please one like Madeline.

It was pleasant to worship God in the same house with his friend, to sing the same hymns, and use the solemn words of the same beautiful service. The service ended, Roland paused a moment at the door, hoping to receive one passing glance, but Madeline walked out, closely attended by Lord N——, who handed the party to their carriage, ere he entered his own; she did not even see Roland. His heart sank, for he could not bear to think himself forgotten.

Edmund still continued to rave about Madeline, telling whenever he met her, and running on in the same strain about her beauty.

The next Sunday, Roland bent his steps to the Ragged School in one of the lanes of London.

When he entered, he was surprised to see several ladies of rank in the audience. It was a novel sight, for there were large numbers present from the very lowest haunts, clothed in rags and filth, even up to those who had adopted some of the customs of civilized humanity.

Far up the room, he thought that he saw a familiar form; he advanced, and attended by Lord N—— and his sister, sat Madeline, in all the sweet simplicity of her girlish days.

She saw Roland, a bright smile welcomed him, and he stepped forward extending his hand, his honest, strong, guiding hand; the very touch was strength to Madeline. No more salutations were exchanged until the close of the services.

"How came you here, Miss Madeline?" was the first question.

"Did you not tell me to visit such places when I came to London, Mr. Bruce?" was the frank, artless answer.

"Thank you, Miss Madeline for the remembrance; have you learned anything by your visits?"

"A great deal, for Lord N—— and Lady Alice are both interested in these good works, and they have told me the various ways by which these poor creatures may be reached."

"London and its gayeties have not then wholly obliterated your desires to do good, Miss Madeline."

"By no means, Mr. Bruce," replied Madeline, with one of her brightest smiles; "I am only anxious to be once more at Woodcliff to put some of my plans into practice."

"How is Mr. Hamilton, Miss Madeline?"

"Rather better; we see that London air agrees with him, and shall, therefore, stay longer in England than we had at first intended."