CHAPTER XI.

A MOTHER'S LIFE SORROW.

Madeline had been gone for some days, and Roland had nearly completed his arrangements. He saw much of Effie, for the few remaining hours were precious to both.

"Effie, meet me this evening in the cemetery, I wish to read you our mother's manuscripts."

Effie promised. The last evening had arrived, and the orphans met upon their mother's grave, for the sad farewell. Roland untied the black ribbon, and commenced reading:—

"When you read these lines, my dear children, my mortal remains will be sleeping in the quiet grave, but I myself shall be with Jesus, and that is enough of bliss for an immortal spirit. I have thought it wise to make you acquainted with the history of my early life. You know that my father was the minister of the parish where I was born. He was a wise and holy man, and gave me all the advantages of a good education. My mother died when I was young, but my Aunt Ellen, my father's sister, came to take charge of the manse, and to bring up the motherless children. She was an excellent woman, and faithfully performed the part of a mother.

"I had a cousin, named Malcolm Graham, to whom I had been most tenderly attached from my earliest childhood. We had roamed our native mountains, and sailed upon our Scottish lakes together; we had walked from earliest days to the house of God in company, had sang from the same hymn-book, and had joined the church on the same day. We sang the same Scottish songs, loved the same wild stories of our martyred ancestors. In fine, we were as one soul; no love was ever purer, holier, deeper than that which filled our young hearts for each other.

"My father and my aunt were blinded; they had been so accustomed to look upon us as brother and sister, that nothing could have surprised my father more, than when Malcolm came to ask that the current of our lives might henceforth flow in one calm, holy channel.

"'It canna' be, Malcolm; you are owre near akin; I could na' ask the Master's blessing upon sic a union.'

"'Oh, Uncle Gordon, ye canna' break your Mary's heart, by sic an answer?'

"'Why did I na' ken this before? I might ha' seen it a'.'

"Malcolm pleaded his cause earnestly; my father loved us both tenderly. At the end of a week, he gave his unwilling consent, on the ground that, as he had blindly allowed the intimacy, he had not the heart to say nay, and we were betrothed.

"At the same time, Stephen Bruce, the son of my father's most intimate friend, renewed his addresses, for since I had grown to early womanhood, he had twice a-year, offered his hand, and been refused. This was the man that my father favored. He was a reserved and rather gloomy man, but his love for me was an all-absorbing passion. He had a good moral character, was well off in the world, and moreover, was the son of my father's bosom friend. Malcolm was poor in the possessions of the world, but rich in all that could ennoble and dignify a man. There was but little prospect of his rising in the world, in an obscure part of Scotland. An opportunity offered for him to enter upon a lucrative situation in China; he accepted; my heart sank within me, for I felt that a wide ocean would soon separate us, and I feared that I should never see the face of Malcolm Graham again.

"My father encouraged the step. I could see the secret joy of Stephen Bruce, and I felt as if I could never consent. But Malcolm was young and hopeful; he saw at the end of his long exile, a sweet happy home among our native mountains, where we should share life's joys and sorrows; and, at last, I became reconciled to the thought.

"We parted at the sweet trysting place where we had so often met in the happy days of our young affection. On the banks of the lake, near our quiet home, stood a clump of old trees, whose branches dipped gracefully in the placid water.

"Thither we walked slowly to spend our last sad hours. I wore the light blue snood of a Scottish maiden, which somewhat confined my curls.

"'Shall I hae one, Mary?' asked my cousin.

"I cut one from my head, and tied it with a piece of the blue ribbon of my snood.

"Malcolm placed it in a little pocket-book, and laid it away in his bosom.

"After hours of silent weeping, he bade me farewell, and I felt as if a load of lead sank down into my heart, as I watched his retreating form until he vanished from my sight.

"For two years, letters came regularly; all bright, encouraging, hopeful; he was fast acquiring a fortune, and would return in another year. In the meanwhile, Stephen Bruce increased his assiduities; I could not banish him from the house, because he was the son of my father's friend. In another year, a letter announced that Malcolm would sail in the ship Neptune for Liverpool, and that I might expect him in October, when I must be ready to fulfil my vow. I was a happy creature then; all the intervening time was passed in making my simple preparations.

"Aunt Ellen was a thrifty housekeeper, and took great pride in the quantity of bed and table-linen which her niece must have. I was occupied chiefly with my wardrobe. My father did not seem much rejoiced, for he had never given up his Scotch prejudice against the marriage of first cousins; but he was a man of too much integrity to break a given promise. The summer passed, the falling leaves were musical to me, for they brought October; the month passed, but no news of the Neptune. November passed in the same manner. December began to drag its cold and dreary days along, but still no news. At length, one morning, my father entered the family parlor with a grave countenance, and a newspaper in his hand. 'Ellen, will you come into my study?' said my father to my aunt.

"My heart gave a sudden bound; for I had long been so anxious, that even the fluttering of a leaf would affect me. I saw my father's face; it was ominous. Aunt Ellen returned, and sitting down by my side, she said, tenderly, 'Mary, can ye bear bad news?'

"'What is it, Aunt Ellen?' I replied, starting to my feet; 'tell me, tell all; anything is better than suspense.'

"She laid her hand upon my young head, and softly smoothed the rippling hair that lay upon my forehead and down my temples.

"'The Neptune has foundered at sea, Mary, and Malcolm Graham is among the missing.'

"I heard no more; for hours I lay stunned and insensible; for weeks, between life and death. At length, a good constitution, under the direction of a wise but inscrutable Providence, triumphed, and I awoke to take up the duties of my daily life with a sad and chastened spirit.

"My father redoubled his kindness; but it was evident that Malcolm's removal was a relief.

"The only request I made was: 'Do not allow Stephen Bruce to visit the manse; I could not bear it.'

"My request was complied with. During all this time, I never wholly lost my hope; I would say to myself: 'Among the missing, not the lost; Malcolm may yet be alive.'

"Two years of silent sorrow passed—the light of my life had gone out. I busied myself about my father's house, my brother's clothes, and in the duties belonging to me, as the minister's daughter; but joy had passed away.

"I seldom saw Stephen Bruce, excepting at church; but I knew that my father visited him. Occasionally I met him by the road-side, but he never joined me.

"This delicacy of conduct gained my respect; and when my father at last requested, for his own sake, that the son of his old friend might visit him, I consented; for my father had been very kind to me.

"He came occasionally, was always polite and respectful to me, nothing more.

"At the close of the third year, after Malcolm's loss, my father called me to him, and said: 'My daughter, I hae tried to be considerate and kind to ye; I hae placed nae compulsion upon your inclinations; now, I hae ane request to make; will ye not allow Stephen to renew his addresses? He is just as devoted to you as ever; he has luved ye faithfully for ten years, ever since yer childish days. If his devotion and worth can na overcome yer repugnance, or rather indifference, I hae nae mair to say; but it would please yer father if ye would allow him to renew his visits to ye personally.'

"'Give me a week to think of it, father; that is all I ask.'

"At the end of that time, I agreed to my father's proposal. I felt that all my love was in the deep ocean buried with Malcolm Graham, and that duty must henceforth rule my life; to please my father only, I consented. Stephen was very considerate, but I saw that the same devotion filled his heart. He was so anxious to please, so humble, so undemonstrative, that I could not but pity him. I treated him with kindness, and sometimes even with tenderness; then he was so grateful for the smallest act, that it touched my woman's heart.

"At last, when in trembling tones he ventured once more to urge his suit, I did not discourage him; I simply told him to wait. "'Bless ye, Mary! e'en for that,' was the grateful answer.

"At the close of the fourth year, I consented to become his wife. He wept in the fulness of his joy, and my father was happy; but the name of Malcolm Graham could never be mentioned in his presence. If by chance it was, dark frowns would lower on his brow, and it was at all times a forbidden subject.

"He was a kind husband, and I tried to be a faithful wife; but in the twilight gloaming there were times when the memory of my cousin poured over my heart like a flood.

"The next year after our marriage, you were sent, Roland, to form a new tie between us. You were a lovely babe, and your mother was proud of the sweet infant that smiled upon her from his cradle.

"Stephen Bruce was a handsome man, Roland, and you were like him; the same profusion of dark hair, the same dark eyes; but there was always about you, Roland, an open frankness, that never characterized your father. He was constitutionally reserved and taciturn, often gloomy.

"Our married life flowed smoothly along for two years. We lived at the manse; for my father could not part from his only daughter. He was very fond of little Roland, and the presence of a baby in the house was a sunbeam across his path.

"One very stormy winter evening, I was rocking my little boy to sleep, singing some sweet cradle-song. The wind howled fearfully without, and the snow came down in heavy drifts. I heard a footstep on the little porch in front of the manse; it seemed to be a man knocking off the snow before entering.

"The family dog gave a familiar bark of joy, and a voice that I thought drowned in the deep ocean said: 'Down, Shep! down, sir.' My heart stood still. The next moment, the door opened, and Malcolm Graham stood before me. He extended his arms.

"'Mary! Mary!' he cried, 'hae ye na welcome?'

"I started to my feet; I am sure that my eyes must have glared with terror. I sank upon the chair by the side of the cradle, and pressing my hand upon my heart, continued gazing. I was speechless with terror and grief.

"'What is in that cradle, Mary?'

"'It is my child, my babe, Malcolm.'

"'Tell me its name, Mary Gordon.'

"'Roland Gordon Bruce,' I answered, in trembling tones.

"He struck his head with both his hands in anguish—'Hae I come home for this? Oh, Mary! how could ye sae forget me?'

"'I thought you dead, Malcolm; and by this marriage, I have made my father happy.'

"'Look here, Mary!' said the wretched man. Opening his vest, he took out an old worn pocket-book, from which he drew the lock of golden hair, tied with the faded ribbon of the maiden's snood, that I gave him on the night of our parting.

"'I hae never parted with it, Mary, and it shall go wi' me to my grave.'

"I was near fainting; no words can paint the anguish of that hour.

"'Go, Malcolm, go; you must not be seen here. I cannot even shelter you from the storm. I can pray for you, Malcolm, but we must meet no more.'

"My cousin advanced—before I could prevent it, he clasped me to his bosom, pressed one last kiss upon my icy forehead, and in another minute was gone.

"Alas! alas! just as he passed out, my husband entered. He knew him—it was Malcolm Graham, the one whom he had always feared as his rival in the affections of the one he loved.

"'How dare he enter this house?' was the first salutation.

"'He thought that I lived here yet as Mary Gordon, husband. You have no reason to fear either him or her whom you call by the sacred name of wife.'

"He was pale with anger; fire shot from his dark eyes. I was terrified. I walked up to Stephen Bruce, and laid my hand upon his arm.

"'Stephen, am I not your wedded wife? wedded in the sight of Heaven! do you think that I, Mary Gordon, the descendant of heroic martyrs, can ever forget her plighted faith, plighted before God's holy altar?'

"'No, Mary, you will not forget your duty as a wife; but your heart is wi' Malcolm Graham, your early luve.'

"'Stephen, Malcolm is dead to me—we shall never meet again. I do not wish him to cross our path.'

"From that hour our domestic peace was at an end. The family malady had certainly made its appearance in the case of my unhappy husband. I was kind, affectionate, attentive to all his wants. I hushed the voice of memory, and learned to be even cheerful in the performance of daily duties. I looked upward daily, hourly, Roland, and I was sustained in my hour of trial.

"I begged my father to see Malcolm, and tell him to keep out of my husband's way. He explained all to the unhappy man, and related his sad story.

"He had been wrecked, taken prisoner, and landed in Algiers, without the possibility of communicating one line to his friends.

"In company with six others, after an absence of seven years, he had made his escape. He promised my father to leave the country, for he saw that with the fancy which had seized my husband's brain, nothing else could restore domestic harmony. Accordingly he went, but the evening before, I was sitting in the parlor of the manse. It was autumn—the windows were open, and I was alone. I saw the figure of a man walking slowly up the path that led to the house. He crossed the porch, and for one minute, stood gazing in at the window. It was Malcolm Graham. He held up once more the golden lock.

"'Farewell, Mary; I cannot gae without your blessing.'

"'God bless you forever and ever,' was the reply which burst from my trembling lips. He walked hastily away, stood at the gate for one moment, waved his hand, and was gone.

"I hoped for peace now that he had left the country. While he was in Scotland, your father would sit for hours gloomy and silent without exchanging a word; then he would suddenly take his hat, and set out to search for Malcolm, imagining that he was always lurking about the manse. And even after he had gone, I could not regain his confidence.

"The memory of my poor cousin was the shadow in your father's life, the ghost that haunted him day and night.

"Malcolm was gone for several years, but your father never wholly recovered his spirits.

"In the meanwhile, Effie was born, and the duties of daughter, wife and mother fully engrossed my daily life.

"When you were about nine years old, Malcolm suddenly returned. He was now a rich man; he bought a home, furnished it, and took home a widowed sister and child to preside over his household.

"Life had disciplined his Christian character; he was cheerful and serene. It made me happy to hear that he was foremost in all the schemes for good around the neighborhood, and the name of Malcolm Graham was everywhere revered.

"He was often called 'the good old bachelor,' for though many mammas would have liked to place their daughters at the head of his establishment, it was evident that no such thoughts ever disturbed the dreams of 'good Uncle Malcolm.'

"From the time that he returned, your father's gloom and restlessness increased. The mania had seized upon him again, and nothing would do, but that the wide ocean must separate his wife from the country where Malcolm lived, although we had no kind of social intercourse. We met at church, and that was all. Much to my aged father's grief, hasty preparations were made to go to America.

"He was devoted to me and my dear children, and could not bear the thoughts of my leaving home and dear friends to embark upon the ocean, and go to seek a home in a strange country, with a man so gloomy and suspicious as your father had become.

"But during all these trials, my God sustained me, and while conscious of being in the path of duty, I was even cheerful.

"We left Scotland; for awhile we lived comfortably, and your father's malady seemed to diminish. One drawback there was always to my happiness, and that was, that your father seemed so anxious to break up all connection with Scotland, that I was not allowed to write home for months, for fear that I should hear something about Malcolm.

"At length he returned to Scotland, for the purpose of settling his affairs, and making America his permanent home. On the voyage back again, the vessel was lost, and no word was ever heard from him again.

"About this time, poor Elsie Gibson appeared among us. I never could understand why or how it was, but she always seemed acquainted with our affairs, and interested in all that concerned us. There came regular remittances, they seemed to come from New York, and were left at our door in the evening. At last I observed that Elsie Gibson appeared among us in a day or two after these packages came, and always contrived to find out about their safe arrival. At last they ceased altogether, and then came the days of poverty and trial, which you, my darlings, have patiently shared. I wrote home frequently, but received no answers.

"Several times there have been mysterious visits at night around our dwelling; once or twice have I seen the figure of a man peeping in at our window, and many other circumstances have led me to conjecture that your father may yet be alive, and that Elsie Gibson knows something about him. She told me that your dear grandfather died soon after your father disappeared, and although we heard once or twice from Aunt Ellen, that ceased also, and I fear that she is no more.

"If it is in your power, Roland, I wish you to seek your friends in Scotland; there must be some left. I have told you this sad story, my dear children, first because I want to warn you both of forming connections for life, with any one, for any other reason save that of deliberate heartfelt choice. I acted from what I supposed to be duty; it was productive of happiness to none concerned.

"And another reason is, that by telling you my supposition that your father may yet be alive, Roland may try all that is in his power to find out the truth, and to comfort that afflicted parent, for if he is in the land of the living, he is in sorrow, of that I am sure.

"Nothing beside death could separate him so permanently from us, but the malady which I have always dreaded. And now, my dear children, let me once more bid you, in every hour of sore affliction through which you may be called to pass, look upward; upward for direction, upward for comfort, upward for hope. God is 'the Father of the fatherless;' remember the sweet promise, 'When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up.' I can leave you in his gracious care. 'May he guide you with his counsel here, and, after that, receive you to glory.'

"I have done with earthly care and sorrow. I wait for you, my loved ones; I know that you will come to me, and that with our precious Saviour throughout eternity we shall rejoice as much in the sorrows that we have suffered, as in the joys vouchsafed, if they have helped to bring us home to glory.

"I need not say, do not forget your mother; I know that you will not. Keep close to your Saviour. Let your motto always be, 'Looking aloft,' 'Looking aloft;' through joy and through sorrow, still 'Looking aloft.'"

After closing the manuscript, both the orphans sat weeping upon their mother's grave.

"How quietly she sleeps! dear, tried, and patient mother!" said Roland. "How blessed is her rest in that world of peace and love! Do not weep so, Effie, God is in Heaven; do not lose sight of his promises; have they ever failed, dear sister? He will take care of us, he will guide us, I know, if we put our trust in him."

"I am so weak, Roland; since I have lost our mother, I feel as if I was all alone in the wide world; and now you are going too."

"But I shall come back, Effie; I may have a great many trials and disappointments, but I can trust the hand that guided Noah, and Daniel, and Elijah, that delivered Peter, and so many of his dear servants; and Effie, don't let us doubt his love, when, to make the promises sure, he gave up his dear Son, and nailed him to the cross to make his word, 'Yea and Amen.'"

"I'll try, Roland, to be trustful as you; but I am a weak and timid disciple."

"Just think, Effie, that every drop of precious blood was just like setting the seal to all the blessed promises; and do you believe that the Saviour who could die for us would ever forget us?"

"How you comfort me, Roland; your words are always so kind, so strong."

"Don't let us forget our sainted mother's motto, Effie, 'Looking aloft!' Oh, what blessedness in such a holy trust!"

While seated thus, Roland perceived Elsie Gibson advancing towards them. When any change was about to take place in their earthly destiny, there was always the same old friend. They could not fathom the mystery; but so it was.

"And sae ye are aboot to leave us, Roland," said the old woman; "ye are the chiel o' mony prayers, and belang to the race o' the righteous. I dinna fear for ye, my bairn."

"I do not fear, Elsie; I am almost penniless, but the promises are all the same."

"I hae something for ye, Roland," continued the old woman, and taking a gold watch from her pocket, she continued, "It is your ain; dinna part with it, my son."

Roland examined it, and found inside the case the initials of S.B. It was a handsome article, and Roland's wonder was unbounded. S.B., what could that mean? And how was it that Elsie Gibson, so poor a woman, could afford to give him a watch?

"Where did this watch come from?" asked Roland, "and what right have I to such a gift?"

"Dinna fash yoursel aboot it, Roland; it is by right your ain, and some day ye'll ken how——. I shall like to hear o' your welfare, my dear bairn."

"I thank you, Elsie, for your kindness to us all. God will bless you, I am sure."

"May the widow's God be wi' ye, Roland, thro' a' your wanderings in the wilderness," and shaking hands warmly with both the orphans, she vanished from the cemetery. None had ever traced the old woman to her home, if home she had.

"Farewell now, Effie," said her brother, as he folded his sister in a warm embrace.

She could not speak, but lay on his bosom overpowered with the grief of parting.

"Take me home, Roland," said the poor child, and they walked in silence to the gate at Woodcliff. One more embrace in silence, one long, agonized kiss, and Effie turned up the avenue with a heart too full for utterance.

Mother, brother, Madeline—all gone. Nothing was left to the desolate orphan but her Father in Heaven.

CHAPTER XII.

STARS IN THE NIGHT SEASON.

Out on the wide, wide world. Roland could not but feel the loneliness, as at the early dawn, with nothing but a few clothes packed up in an old carpet bag, and a few dollars in his pocket, he turned his face away from what had once been home. It had cost him, youth that he was, many an anxious thought and weary hour of toil, to help to keep it up; but it was the dear spot where a mother smiled and a sister cheered his return.

He had paid his last visit, fastened the cottage windows, locked the door, and turned to leave the little home. But what is that lying on the front porch? it looks like a familiar object. He stoops to pick it up. It is a little book that his mother daily used, "Clark on the Promises." Many a pencil mark is on its pages, and many a finger print pressed there by a hand that lies mouldering in the grave. He lays it away among his treasures, and turns his footsteps towards the sea-shore.

The lonely dashing of the waters at that early hour sounded so drearily, and recalled most forcibly the beautiful lines of Tennyson.

"Break, break, break,
    On thy cold gray stones, oh sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
    The thoughts that arise in me.

"O, well for the fisherman's boy
    That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
    That he sings in his boat on the bay

"And the stately ships go on,
    To their haven under the hill,
But oh, for the touch of a vanished hand!
    And the sound of a voice that is still.

"Break, break, break,
    At the foot of thy crags, oh sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead,
    Will never come back to me."

He mounted the rock once more, leaned against the flagstaff, and looked out dreamily upon the wide expanse of ocean, emblem to him of the untried world beyond. Then he turned to look upon the spot where he had first seen Madeline in all her childish grace. It had been a sweet dream with which to commence his young life—a peep into a home of elegance and refinement—a year's communion with a fresh young spirit, so free, so wild, so guileless. Some pleasant thoughts stirred in the soul of the youth, and caused a smile to flit across his face, as he felt that perhaps he might have awakened in that bright child some incipient longings after a better life.

Then his thoughts turned to the reality; the hard, stern reality, the battle of life, so soon to commence.

"These bright things are not for me," sighed Roland; "they might enervate my character. God knows that it will be better schooled in the path which strikes the steel within. What a precious talisman my dear mother has left me, 'Looking aloft!' upward where I see the works of the Creator, the smiles of God; upward, where I see the path trodden by all the good and great of the earth; you shall never be ashamed of your son, mother." The word "mother" was spoken audibly, the holy name stirred up the depths of Roland's soul, and he wept aloud.

It was but a moment of indulgence; for, taking up his carpet-bag, he commenced his journey on foot. And whither? like faithful Abraham, he went out, not knowing whither he went.

He had heard of a neighboring college about one hundred and fifty miles off, where the President, himself a self-made man, had sympathy with struggling aspirants.

"I can but try," thought the youth; "I'll go trusting, and I may succeed."

All day long he journeyed with a springing, elastic step, for hope was strong within him. He stopped to take his meals, and to read a verse or two in his mother's precious book of the promises. When evening approached, Roland began to cast about for a night's lodging. He did not want to spend his money, he had so little; that he must keep for his books. But what to do? He could not sleep out upon the ground, it was too cold.

Not far off, he perceived a neat-looking farm-house. Two or three children were playing about in the front lawn; the mother, a pleasant looking woman, came to the door, and with such a kind, cheerful voice called in her little ones to tea, that Roland felt she will not refuse me a place in her barn. I can but ask. He walked directly up to the front door with a firm, manly step, and knocked. The mistress of the house appeared.

"I called to ask, ma'am, if you will allow me to sleep in your barn to-night; I have walked twenty miles to-day, and have no place where to rest."

Mrs. Romaine was really a kind woman, but here was a stranger, "Would it be safe?"

"Where is thee going, my boy?"

"I am on my road to College, ma'am, and I have yet one hundred and thirty miles to travel."

"Going to College, my son, and no means to pay for a night's lodging; thee must be a brave boy to start on such an errand."

"My mother told me to stop at nothing to get a good education; it was on her death-bed, madam, and I will do any thing to obtain such a blessing."

"Don't thee know it takes money to go through college? But thee must be tired; come, sit down, my son; what is thy name?"

"Roland Bruce."

"How does thee expect to get through, Roland?"

"I can work, madam," said Roland, with a bright smile. "I am very strong, and very willing; and I have my mother's motto to work by."

"What is that, Roland?"

"'Looking aloft,' madam; it is a strong tower."

He was in New England, where sympathy with one thus anxious was sure to meet a response.

"Thee can stay with us, Roland, to-night, but not in a barn; we have a little room where thee can sleep. But come in, thee must be hungry."

And the kind woman led her guest out to the tea-table, where a comfortable repast was already spread.

"What can thee do, Roland, in the way of work?"

"I can make fires, black boots, saw wood, etc.; and, I suppose that there must be plenty of such work in a college."

"But suppose the boys look down upon thee, Roland?"

"I can afford to let them, if I get all the knowledge I want; they won't do it always; I am above getting angry at them, madam."

"Thee is a strange boy, Roland; so humble, and yet so proud, too."

"I am afraid that there is not so much humility as there seems to be about me; for all this stooping down is but to rise at last; I shall be thinking of that all the time."

"When thee is ready, I will show thee thy room, Roland."

They sat and chatted pleasantly for another hour, and, when Roland saw the family making preparations for retiring, he followed his kind hostess to a snug little room, opening out on a front balcony.

Roland was too full of earnest thought for sleep; so, taking a chair, he seated himself alone on the balcony.

The family had all retired; quiet reigned around. It was a clear, cold night, and the bright stars shone out, and spangled the heavens with their radiant constellations Roland looked upward, and listened to their voiceless eloquence.

How long had they continued their silent march of glory?

Centuries had rolled by, and year after year had they travelled the same wondrous circles, with the same marvellous precision. The north star had pointed the mariner on the stormy deep, to his desired haven. Orion, with his glorious belt of stars, on the same day of the month, at the same hour, might ever be seen in the same point of the heavens; the beauteous Pleiades, obedient too, wheeled in their wondrous course. Ursa Major, at all times, might be looked upon as a familiar friend; and amid them all, the grand planets had joined the mysterious dance of the universe. Orbit within orbit, sun beyond sun, each the centre of other solar systems, had wheeled into their wondrous revolutions; obedient to the same laws, without confusion, without noise, (for great works are ever noiseless,) from century to century; and to-night, guided by the same Omnipotent hand, amid the unceasing silent whirl, Roland sits and listens to their eloquent teachings.

"These are material things," thought Roland, "destined at last to be rolled up like a scroll and pass away, but I am an immortal. These transient orbs are the objects of His unceasing care, and shall I, an immortal being, fear to trust my all in His wise and gracious hands? His providence, with its myriad of wheels, is just as surely guided as are these heavenly orbs. I remember the night when my mother showed me these bright constellations, and the very lesson that she taught me. I can look upward to-night, and recall it all. Stars in the night season speak comforting words. It seemed dark night when I left Woodcliff, but the stars are shining around my path, as well as in the heavens; for was it not the good providence of God that led me to this sweet chamber, when all I hoped for was a barn?"

Thus communed Roland with the starry heavens, and, after having committed himself in perfect trust to the care of his Heavenly Father, he laid him down and slept in peace. "So he giveth his beloved sleep."

By the dawn of day he was astir, and after an early breakfast, prepared once more for his journey.

"Thee will have a pleasant day, Roland; it is clear and cold, and bracing to a young frame like thine."

Roland bade his kind hostess good-bye with a grateful heart.

"You have cheered me with your kind words, Mrs. Romaine, and the blessing of the orphan's God will be upon you."

"Farewell, Roland; I hope thee will be successful; many of our great men have started just as thee has."

Roland did not draw upon his provisions again until the middle of the day, when to his surprise he found that a large stock of substantials had been added to his store.

Twice in the course of his journey he slept in a barn; he had met with some rough treatment, but enough of kindness to show that a good Providence was guiding his steps.

At the close of the sixth day, Roland came in sight of the college walls.

A number of the students were strolling on the lawn in front of the building. Several scrutinized him closely, but Roland walked steadily forward, with head erect, and firm step.

"Here, I say, Charley, what do you think of the new arrival?" said George Stanley to a companion; "extensive trunks, hey!"

Roland turned a moment; there was something in his eye that Charley did not relish, and he moved away.

At length he reached the President's room, and was directed to be seated.

After a short time, a small man, with rather an uninviting aspect, appeared.

"What is your business, my boy?" asked the President.

"I am seeking an education, sir," replied Roland, in a direct, straight-forward manner.

"Who is your father, sir?"

"I have none, sir."

"Your mother?"

"I am an orphan, sir."

"Your friends? I mean responsible persons, sir."

"I have none, sir."

"Your means?"

"None at all, but these hands, feet, and head, sir."

"I am afraid that we cannot take you."

"I will do anything, sir; I will saw wood, make fires, black shoes, anything but cheat, sir. I won't say that I can pay you, as some might promise, for I never can."

Dr. Kingsley was an eccentric, but a really noble-hearted man; he had taken one glance at Roland which had interested him, and his questions had been put to try him.

He had marked the fine dark eye, the expansive brow, and the sweet, but firm-set mouth; he had listened to the straight-forward appeal of the youth; it brought back his own early struggles, and he felt as if such a boy had a right to an education of the highest order.

"Are you aware, my young friend, how trying is the position which you propose? If you are mentally and morally superior, are you willing to be treated as an inferior, and perhaps sometimes scorned?"

"I can brush away gnats, sir," replied Roland, with an expressive toss of his hand; "for I am a Scotch boy, with Scotch pride enough to sustain me. If they scorn me for doing right, what care I?"

"What is your name, sir?"

"Roland Gordon Bruce, sir."

"A fine name—the Gordons were distinguished among Scottish martyrs, if I mistake not."

"They were, sir; and I trust that I shall never dishonor the name I bear."

"You can come, Roland," said Dr. Kingsley, in a softer tone of voice.

Roland had endured the hard tone of scrutiny with calmness; but the free consent was more than he could bear. He rose suddenly to his feet, seized Dr. Kingsley's hand, and with a glowing cheek, and eye suffused with feeling, exclaimed—

"Thank you, dear sir; I have no words to express all that I feel."

Dr. Kingsley turned his head away, for he did not care that Roland should see his emotion, but continued—

"Where is your baggage, sir?"

"It is there, Dr. Kingsley," said the boy, smiling, and pointing to his carpet-bag; "that contains all my worldly goods."

"And where are your books, Roland? that is an expensive item," continued the President.

"I have none, sir. I have about five dollars, sir; will that suffice?"

"We shall see, Roland."

Dr. Kingsley had a sudden call for his handkerchief. Blowing his nose violently, he recovered his equanimity.

He sent for the Janitor—"Show this boy to the small attic room, No. 70, and see that he is well attended to, Mr. James. Remain here one moment, Roland;" and the good man hurried Mr. James out into the hall—"Be kind to this boy; he is made of noble stuff—don't let the fellows impose upon him; he is poor as a church mouse; but he is proud, and brave as a lion."

Mr. James conducted Roland to his little attic, where he soon deposited his worldly goods; and at the ringing of the supper-bell, made his first appearance among the world of students. He took a seat appointed at the foot of the room, at a side-table, among the younger boys, and glanced around him. His clothes were mean and shabby, compared with any by whom he was surrounded; but there was a quiet manly air of independence, as he sat with head thrown back, one arm leaning upon the table, and a calm straight-forward look in his eagle eye, that repelled insolence; and Roland was allowed to sit among them in silence, but without any welcome from the boys.

After supper, as it was yet the time of freedom, many of the students strolled out upon the lawn. Roland took his seat under a large oak tree, alone in the great crowd.

A handsome boy, dressed in the height of fashion, advanced towards our novice.

"You look lonely, sir; may I ask your name?"

"Roland Bruce—and yours?"

"Edmund Norris. Now come and take a stroll with me."

Roland joined his young companion. Several of the boys tittered at the patronage.

"Ned can do as he pleases," said George Stanley; "but I am a little more cautious about my acquaintances; I dare say he is only a charity boy; I saw the poor, mean carpetbag that he brought."

Edmund Norris was a petted child of wealthy parents, but he had a warm, noble heart; and remembered the day when he came as a stranger among so many. His great fault of character was want of firmness, easily led, and generous to a fault; consequently, he was a great favorite—a dangerous distinction for a college boy, with plenty of money.

"You'll soon get acquainted with the boys that are worth knowing," said Edmund.

"I came only to study," answered Roland; "so that I can have my books and a quiet corner, I care not for the roughness of outward circumstances."

"You'll find Dr. Kingsley a fine old fellow; he's hard upon us lazy ones, keen-eyed as a fox, none need try to deceive him."

"I like his few words, and kind deeds," answered Roland.

"Don't get home-sick—that is a horrid feeling, and all have it at first. I dare say when you go to your room, you will go to sleep with moistened cheek, thinking of mother and home."

"I have neither home nor mother; I am almost alone in this wide, wide world—none but a sister can I claim in America—good night, Mr. Norris."

Roland returned to his room with a grateful heart. Another star had arisen upon his night-season, and, as he looked out upon the spangled heavens, they seemed to smile upon the bright young aspirant, as he sank to sleep.

Next morning, his examination took place, his studies were appointed, and his duties in the house defined.

When he took the boots the first time from the students' doors, many of them were in the passage.

"I told you that he was only a charity student," said George Stanley; "he's to be our boot-black, I see—it's a capital joke, by jingo! with his princely airs."

But though performing these menial offices, his deportment in the class-rooms, and his superior recitations, commanded respect, in spite of the slurs cast upon him by mean spirits.

He had marked out his course, notwithstanding all that might be done, steadily to perform his duties, to avoid the students generally, and, above all things, to employ all his leisure time in preparing for his recitations.

It was a hard lot that Roland Bruce had chosen—it took him several hours at night to clean the boots, although he was aided by a little fellow in the employ of the institution; before the dawn of day, he was busy carrying up wood and making the fires, aided by the same little fellow.

He allowed himself but six hours' sleep, and husbanded his time so carefully, that, with all his hard labor, he really accomplished more than half the students in the college.

Added to his industry, Roland's talents were of no common order, and the faculty soon perceived that the humble boot-black of the college, would carry off most of its honors.

"Holloa, Boots!" exclaimed George Stanley one morning, as Roland was passing through the halls with wood for the rooms.

He passed on without noticing the insolence. As he returned, Stanley was at the door.

"Here, Boots! I want to see you."

"When you speak to me as you ought, I am ready to listen," answered Roland, with quiet dignity.

"Well, Mr. Bruce, I want to say to you, that you don't polish my boots well."

"Complain to the authorities, Mr. Stanley," and Roland passed on.

"Proud as Lucifer! I wish I could humble him, with his grand airs of superiority," said Stanley, as he banged the door of his room.

"You humble him!" answered Edmund Norris; "a pigmy might as well try to reach the sun."

"Why, what is he, Norris? but a mere boot-black for the college. I won't stand his pride."

"Go to the recitation room, if you want to see what Roland Bruce is—there is not a fellow in the college that can compete with him, notwithstanding all his hard labor."

"I suppose that he is a prince in disguise, Norris, from the airs which he puts on."

"He has done nothing to offend you, Stanley, and yet you take every opportunity to insult him. I tell you, sir, that I know Roland Bruce—neither you nor I could have the independence which he exhibits; and, so far from humbling him, in my estimation, it exalts him; though I know that I never could reach it—I could not saw wood and black shoes for my education."

When the students met again in the dining-hall, Norris stepped up to Roland, and said,

"Your seat is by me henceforth at the table."

"How is this?" inquired Roland, surprised.

"I made the request, that's all; you shall be treated properly."

Several of the students frowned on finding themselves so near to "Boots," as they termed him; when speaking of, not to Roland Bruce.

"How long since you were knighted, Sir Edmund?" asked Stanley; "I find that you have taken your place among the sons of chivalry."

"If I am entitled to the name for righting the oppressed, very well, I am Sir Edmund Norris."

Roland, with his quiet dignity of demeanor, really did not look very much in need of patronage; although truly grateful to the generous young soul, who was always his champion.

Our young student had secured the universal respect of the faculty—Dr. Kingsley was his firm, tried friend; he furnished him with all his necessary text-books, so that the five dollars were yet untouched. Mrs. Jennings, the matron, was extremely kind, looking after his little stock of clothes, keeping them as neat as possible, and not unfrequently adding a collar or two, a handkerchief, or a pair of stockings to his scanty wardrobe.

"Can't you stop in my room a minute, Roland?" said the good lady.

"I thank you, my dear madam, but I really have no time to day."

"Always busy, my son; may you be rewarded for your patient industry."

"Thank you, my good, kind friend;" and Roland's heart swelled with emotion, for he had heard but one kind womanly voice since he had lost his dear mother, and that was good Mrs. Romaine's.

"There is a box for you, Roland," said the janitor; and, much to his surprise, he found quite a large box in his little attic, accompanied by a letter from sister Effie; so full of love and tender recollection, that, for a moment, it quite unmanned him.

"You will find many useful things, dear Roland; don't ask how I got them; my own hands made the shirts and hemmed the handkerchiefs; they come to you from a very dear friend. The suit of clothes comes from Mr. Hamilton, who has heard of your course at college, and who was quite chagrined that you should go without seeing him; but the shirts and handkerchiefs are a secret."

Roland opened the box, and there he found a suit of clothes, half a dozen shirts, stockings, and handkerchiefs, with other valuable and necessary things.

He bowed his knee before his Father in Heaven, and blessed him for the gift, for really his old clothes were completely worn out.