CHAPTER XVI.

RUGGED HILLS FOR WEARY FEET.

Homeless once more, Roland sought an humble refuge, in the house of his friend, the good police officer. Aware of the difficulties which would beset his path, he shrank from encounters with the rough world; for what could one expect who had left an office like Mr. Thornly's suddenly, and could bring no reference?

He made the effort day after day, and although there was so much in his whole bearing that was prepossessing, none were willing to run the risk. Never had his prospects appeared so discouraging, and never had he greater need of all the support of the sweet talismanic words which had guided and strengthened him so long.

Devoting more time to his pen, his contributions to the press were more frequent, and this resource was just now invaluable, as it really did provide his daily food.

In these days of darkness, Roland never passed the poor news boys, or any who earned a precarious living in the streets, without feelings of warmer, deeper interest. Sometimes he would stop to look at some little, tired wanderer, ragged, pale, friendless, sleeping perhaps in a packing-box, in the market stalls, or wherever he could find shelter from the weather, and he would often ask himself,

"Can I do nothing for these poor, homeless children?"

He weighed the matter seriously, and turned attention to the subject, in the articles which he contributed to the daily press.

Writing from a full heart, that had passed through these sorrows himself, his words were eloquent; and on making an appeal to any who would be willing to aid in procuring home and shelter for these poor outcasts, to meet him at his humble lodgings, he waited anxiously for some response.

A week passed. At length a thoughtful-looking man, with very plain garb, sought him at the place appointed.

"I have been interested in your articles, young man; I came to ask what would you propose?"

"I scarcely know, sir; but the misery and exposure of this class haunt me daily, nightly. I have been told that there are three thousand. In a great city like this, there should be a home for such."

"Are you aware that much money would be needed to provide one?"

"I know that, sir; but if it is the Lord's directing, He will provide the money, if we will only use the means."

"Have you time at your disposal?"

"I have a great deal just now, and will do any thing that you propose."

"First, tell me your name."

"It is Roland Bruce; I can show you a letter from the President of the college where I graduated." And trusting the plain, honest, benevolent face, he told his story to the good man, not even reserving the trial at Mr. Thornly's.

Mark Grafton was a keen physiognomist, and an eccentric man; he smiled when he read the letter, for he had fully made up his mind before to trust the open countenance, and fine clear eye of Roland Bruce.

"What I propose is this: I will give you a list of names of influential men, who I know will give their aid in a cause like this; you will call on them in my name, and report progress to me every evening."

Roland was delighted; here was an opportunity to occupy his time with useful employment, to benefit a class for whom his heart had often bled.

He commenced his work with a sanguine, hopeful heart. "Looking aloft," for God's especial blessing, he set out with a bright, animated countenance, and a brisk, elastic step.

Praying daily for guidance, and leaving the cause of his acquittal in the hands of the just and wise, and gracious Disposer of human events, he was willing to leave the time in God's own hands; the event he knew was sure.

He was generally successful—many contributed largely of their means, for he found that the name of Mark Grafton was everywhere a sufficient recommendation. A few presented a cold shoulder, but he had every reason to be grateful, when at the end of a week, he numbered on his list some two hundred subscribers. Mr. Grafton was more than gratified, he was sanguine as to the result. As soon as five hundred subscribers were obtained, they would commence operations.

A house was rented, provided with plain comforts which to houseless wanderers would appear like luxuries; a matron placed at the head, and then came the work of gathering the outcasts.

An advertisement was placed in the daily papers, and several placards on the corners of the streets.

"If boys who clean crossings, or sell matches and newspapers, will meet this evening at No. 42 M—— street, they will find something to their advantage."

Mr. Grafton and Roland waited anxiously—about half a dozen came; accustomed so long to a roving life of freedom, many thought that the advertisement pointed to something which might restrain their liberty, and therefore looked suspiciously at the notice.

Mr. Grafton explained his plans to the boys. Each one connected with the home, must contribute one dollar per week of his earnings, which would be put by in a fund for his own especial benefit, when he should reach mature years. So vicious themselves, they were slow to believe in the truth or honesty of their fellows, and not one at first could be found to agree to the plan proposed.

"I give you a week to think about it, boys—you can stay here all the time, and weigh the difference between a comfortable home, where you will be provided with good reading, careful instruction, pleasant recreations, and the power of laying by some of your money; compare this with a roving life among vicious boys, who often rob you, and who are leading you away farther and farther from ways of peace and respectability, until at last, you may end your days in a prison, and spend eternity with the lost and degraded; if you cannot come into all our arrangements at the close of this week, you must depart, and we offer the same to others."

The boys listened carefully, but doubtingly. Roland spent as much of his time with them as he could spare from his daily duties connected with the Home, and with his pen.

Generally in the evening, he came and talked with them for a couple of hours, listening to their accounts of the day's labors, and reading to them some interesting matter. He was taking care of his Master's cause among these poor forsaken children, and God was taking care of his. Did he doubt it? No—not for one moment.

Time sped on; by degrees, the number of boys increased; they were gaining confidence in their kind friends.

Roland took up his abode among these waifs of humanity. Many trials beset his path, many discouragements; for the deep depravity of a whole life, short though it might have been of these juvenile transgressors, was not to be rooted out in a day, a week, or even a year.

Habit was a strong giant that required the strong antagonism of stalwart efforts; and blow after blow must be levelled against the monster in the strength of Gospel warfare, ere he would show signs of yielding to the attacks.

But Roland's manliness and benevolence were really undermining the citadel of sin, and in a few months he began to see the fruit of their labors.

About fifty boys were now inmates of the Home; they were cleanly, interested in their mental improvement, regular in their attendance upon Gospel ministrations every Sunday; and although, now and then, their hopes were disappointed by the absconding of several, still their progress was onward.

Let us turn for one moment to Mr. Thornly. From the day that Roland left the office, Edgar's spirits drooped. Helen watched him closely; her room was adjoining his; and often, late in the night, she could hear him pacing his room, and groaning, as if in great distress of mind.

Once she opened the door—Edgar was tossing about, and talking in his sleep.

"Go away, Jones," muttered the youth, "I can't get the money; two hundred dollars! two hundred dollars!"

Helen's heart sank within her. She had sore misgivings about her brother, but what was she to do? Could she accuse him without farther proof? Could she bear to see Roland suffering so wrongfully?

Still her brother continued his late hours; seldom in before one or two o'clock in the morning.

Every few days, a man would call to see him; and Edgar always appeared gloomy and distressed after these visits.

Several times he was out; and when Helen asked the name of the person who called so frequently, she found to her grief that it was Jones.

At last, he asked to see Mr. Thornly; then came the dreadful disclosure. Edgar had been gambling to a large amount, and was indebted to this man several thousand dollars.

Mr. Thornly was horror-struck; Edgar bowed down to the dust in shame; Helen overpowered with grief.

"It has come at last, brother. I knew that some dreadful grief was approaching—but is there not something worse than all, that is not yet revealed?"

Edgar turned his blood-shot eyes upon his sister.

"What do you mean, Helen? Do you mean to crush me entirely?"

"No, Edgar, I do not; but I want you to commence anew—give up all your bad associates—do justice to one that you have wronged."

Edgar bowed his head upon his hands.

"I wish that I were dead, Helen; I am too wretched!"

"Edgar, can you not tell me something about the two hundred dollars that sent poor Roland away?"

Edgar was silent; he groaned bitterly; and striking his head with anguish, he paced the floor in agony.

"I can endure this no longer, Helen; I took that money; I was threatened by Jones with exposure, and I took it; how it has burned me ever since!"

"Shall I tell our father, Edgar? it is better for all to come out."

"Do what you please, Helen; I must have relief."

Helen had a hard task to perform, but she was a true sister, and saw no other path by which Edgar could retrace his steps.

Mr. Thornly was almost paralyzed—but reproach was not to be used towards a spirit so crushed as Edgar's; he was suffering enough of agony.

His had been the error of a weak and yielding nature, furnished too abundantly the means of indulgence, rather than the deep duplicity of an accomplished villain.

"Justice must be done to Roland," was the first response of Mr. Thornly.

On the next morning, Roland's eye caught the following notice: "If Roland G. B——, will call at the office of Mr. Thornly, he will hear something important."

"The day of deliverance," thought Roland; and, taking his hat, with a joyful step and overflowing heart, he made his way to Mr. Thornly's office.

His former employer was seated at his desk.

"I have proofs of your innocence, Roland, and I have sent for you to do you justice;" then, with a sadly grieved and humbled spirit, the father recounted the story in as few words as possible.

"I knew that my innocence would be proved," answered the youth, "and I left my cause with God."

"Had you any idea of the truth at that time, Roland?"

"I had, sir; I saw Edgar's slipper near the door, and found his knife under the table, with which he had picked the lock. I saw his depression for days before, and I supposed that some debt was pressing heavily upon him, which he could not discharge."

"And you bore all this quietly, gave up a promising situation, left a comfortable home, and went out upon the world friendless, homeless, without a character, rather than expose my son, or pain his father's heart. Truly, yours is conduct not often met with in this cold and selfish world."

"It was my duty, sir; I could do nothing else; there were only suspicious circumstances, not actual proof."

"And what have you been doing in the meanwhile?"

"I could obtain no employment among lawyers, I have therefore been writing for the press; and been busy in establishing a home for friendless boys, like myself."

"Do you mean the one in which Mark Grafton is interested?"

"I do, sir; it has been a great blessing to me, for instead of dwelling upon my own griefs, I have been trying to lighten those of others, more oppressed than myself."

Mr. Thornly was silent for a moment. He was a worldly man, but this exhibition of Christian principle stirred up the fountains of his heart. Extending his hand, he said,

"Roland, can I ask you to come back again, after all that has passed? It would be to me a personal favor."

"I am but too happy, sir, to take my old desk; I believe that the finger of Providence has pointed me here, and I trust that we shall be mutual blessings to each other."

"Will you forgive my poor son, Roland? he is humbled to the dust."

"Forgive! certainly, sir; nothing is more easy, nothing more delightful."

"Will you do more? I believe that this deep disgrace will be the turning point of a new life with Edgar, if we only encourage him; will you be his friend, Roland?" said Mr. Thornly, laying his hand upon the young man's shoulder, and looking in his face with a father's pleading eyes.

"You may trust me, sir," was the frank, noble answer.

Next morning, Roland took his place in the office once more.

His meeting with Edgar was most painful.

"Say nothing, Edgar," was Roland's first salutation, when the young man sat down, covering his face with his hands.

"I know all—words are unnecessary; all is forgiven, entirely buried between us; henceforth I am your friend."

"Oh! Roland Bruce, language cannot tell what a cordial those few words are to me. I feel so desponding, so crushed; I have no companions, I go nowhere."

"That is better just now, Edgar; but after a little while, you will come and read law with me."

Edgar spent all his time in the office. Roland provided him, at first, with pleasant reading; then, by degrees, he proposed the course which he had pursued himself. Edgar was but too willing to be guided by such a hand, and Mr. Thornly and Helen looked on with speechless gratitude.

Roland was still interested in his homeless boys, and paid his periodical evening visits. It was, indeed, a comfort to see what a marked change was observed in so many.

One day, he was greatly surprised on perceiving a letter addressed to him in printed characters. On opening it, there was a check for one hundred dollars, for the "Home," "from one deeply interested." Where could it come from? was his question. Could it be from Madeline? How would she know about his actions? Suddenly it occurred to him that Helen corresponded with her, and the thought that she might be thus a fellow laborer with him was very sweet, and he encouraged the fancy.

This was, indeed, a turning point in Edgar Thornly's life—from this time, his whole course was changed, and his grateful father could not by words thank his young mentor; actions proved his gratitude.

* * * * * *

At the close of the second year, Roland was admitted to the bar. Mr. Thornly threw all the business in his way that could be thus controlled, and Roland's course was upward and onward.

Twice had he visited Effie during this period, found her happy, but with very weak eyes.

Madeline was never at home when he paid his visits; therefore, she seemed to him almost like one from whose society he was finally shut out.

Practice increased—his sound learning, practical common sense, and deep investigation into the science of law, opened a path of usefulness and honor. It could, however, never be said of Roland Bruce, that he was the lawyer sought out by low criminals, or whose influence could be purchased to legalize crime; for, though heavy fees were offered by such, knowingly, he would not stoop to practices so degrading. He soon obtained the name of "the honest lawyer," and none were more proud of his rising influence and talents, than the generous man who had afforded him so many facilities in his upward course.

"That is an important case, Roland," said Mr. Thornly, after he had described to the latter, what had been placed in his hands.

The man had been charged with murder, and the circumstances by which he was surrounded were overwhelming in their proofs against him. By skillfully managing the case, and obtaining delay, proofs establishing his innocence were obtained at a time when all around the poor man was darkest. The accused man was one universally esteemed; the joy felt at his acquittal was so intense, that, throughout the city, the press complimented the young lawyer for the ingenuity with which he had conducted the trial.

This success brought him into public notice, and restored to the arms of an only and heart-broken daughter, the parent whom she loved. A paper containing the account was sent to Effie, and, handing it to Madeline, who was then at home, the sister's heart was cheered by the warm embrace with which Maddy congratulated the dear girl.

"Did I not say, Effie, that Roland would live to be a great man yet? Won't we be happy to see him here among the Beltons and the Smiths? Effie, do you know why he seems to have forgotten his old friend?" (for a minute she hesitated, and then continued with an averted face,) "does he ever mention Helen Thornly in his letters?"

"O yes! very often, Madeline; he says she is such a lovely girl, he wishes that I knew her; she is a dear friend of his."

"So I have heard, Effie," and Madeline said no more; but, opening the piano, she played several of her old pieces, but especially the favorite "Auld Lang Syne;" then, walking out to the garden, she plucked a rose from her favorite bush, and proceeding back into the house, and up the stair-case, she stopped to listen to the strains of her Eolian harp.

It discoursed sad music that night, or was it the echo of her own spirit?

"I did not think that he would have forgotten me so soon," murmured Madeline; "but so it is, present friends obliterate the memory of the absent. I must try to forget him; but I cannot quite forget the holy teachings of my young days, nor would I if I could—may they remain forever!"

CHAPTER XVII.

MIRAGE, OR MADELINE AFTER A TRIUMPH.

"Well, daughter, I suppose that I must leave my retirement, for this winter at least," said Mr. Hamilton.

"So you promised, papa; I am looking forward to the season with great expectations. Mary Trevor is impatient for us to come early, she has so much in store for me. There are Mrs. Peyton, and Mrs. Rossiter, and Mrs. Starr, all waiting anxiously for us; they give such elegant parties, papa."

Mr. Hamilton looked with an expression of proud exultation upon his beautiful daughter, and anticipated the sensation that the advent of such a bright star would make in the world of fashion.

Madeline was full of eager anticipation, but not heartless; she really regretted the parting with Effie, and the loneliness which she knew the young girl would suffer during her absence; for Mr. Hamilton and Aunt Matilda would both accompany the young heiress.

"I am sorry, Effie, to leave you; but the winter will soon pass; you will busy yourself with looking after the house, with your needle and your books; and write often, dear."

Effie sighed, as she almost whispered,

"Madeline, a great weight is on my heart; I find my eyes daily becoming more and more dim; if the outer world should all be dark to me, what a poor useless being I should be, and what a burden to my friends!"

"Don't imagine such an affliction, dear Effie; Dr. Jenks shall attend to your case at once; but do try to keep up your spirits. I have often thought, Effie, that we ought to try to do something for the people in the neighborhood; there are several families that we have been accustomed to help; I will appoint you my almoner. There are four old persons to be supplied with warm garments and coal for the winter; and three or four invalids that need weekly care. Nanny makes gruel or other comforts for Mary Swain the cripple, and it would be a pleasure to me to know that they are all attended to."

Effie brightened at the prospect of such work, for employment like this was the element of her nature.

"Take good care of my flowers, Effie, especially my rosebush, and when I come back, let me see some roses on your pale cheeks, dear."

"You will not forget me, dear friend, that I know," said Effie, folding her affectionately in her arms, and pressing a loving kiss upon her cheek, she whispered, "do not forget the Blessed Saviour, Madeline; you will be surrounded by a thousand temptations."

A tear glistened in Madeline's eye, but she dashed it aside, and said,

"Effie, don't be distressed about me; some of these days I will be just as good as you can wish, but I must have a peep at the gay world first."

"Some of these days, Madeline; how little do we know about the days appointed us."

The day of departure arrived; the trunks were all strapped; Mr. Hamilton and Aunt Matilda seated in the carriage, and Madeline, folding her humble friend in her arms once more, took her seat by her father.

"Farewell, Effie, be bright and cheerful, dear; we shall soon be back again."

The young girl stood upon the piazza as long as she could see the carriage, and turning into the house with a sad heart, Effie sought and found the comfort that she needed, at the feet of her own dear Saviour.

Let us follow Madeline to the scene of her introduction into the gay world.

Established in an elegant suite of rooms in one of the most fashionable hotels in New York, Madeline and her aunt were busily occupied in giving orders for her winter outfit.

This was Aunt Matilda's element, and neither expense nor pains were spared on the wardrobe of the young lady.

Soon cards from the upper circles of the great metropolis multiplied in the card basket of our young novice.

All was pleasure and excitement, and weeks were occupied in returning these numerous visits, and attending to milliners, dressmakers, &c. Madeline's first appearance for the season was at the ball of Mrs. Rossiter, one of the leaders of fashion in New York.

Attired in the most exquisite taste, for the first time her mother's diamonds adorned her person.

When she entered the elegant room, leaning upon the arm of her father, all eyes were turned towards her, in whispers of admiration.

As she passed, "Beautiful!" "exquisite!" "charming!" greeted her everywhere.

"Let us be seated, papa," murmured Madeline, for the public gaze was oppressive.

She was the centre of attraction the whole evening, her hand sought for in every dance; truly, the young girl was completely bewildered and intoxicated.

And so, night after night, the ovation of flattery was laid at the feet of Madeline Hamilton.

Harry Castleton was among the most devoted of her admirers; but he was simply tolerated, for Madeline saw through the shallowness of his pretensions, and really pitied his contemptible folly.

"Well, papa, who do you think is the reigning star this winter?" said Helen Thornly.

"I do not know much about the gay world now, daughter, for I tired of it long ago; but I suppose every season has its own particular star, that shines a little while, to be eclipsed by another."

"Madeline Hamilton is the theme of every tongue; her beauty, her wealth, her accomplishments, have made her all the ton—the beaux are crazy to be found in her train, and the belles are dying of envy."

"Have you met her anywhere, Helen?"

"Yes, papa, at Mrs. Trevor's—she is splendid in her point lace and diamonds. I wish you could have seen her; and yet she does not seem vain. She always was an artless, impulsive girl; but I think New York will spoil her simplicity."

Roland listened to the remarks, and felt a deeper sinking of the heart, as he realized the ordeal through which Madeline was passing; but still, remembering all the past, and the power of first impressions, he could look upward, and trust that she would yet come out unscathed. Her world was entirely remote from his; they met but occasionally, and that in the street, but seldom at Mr. Thornly's.

The opera, balls, parties innumerable, engrossed her time, but was she happy?

Let us follow her awhile after her evening triumph. She had spent the evening at Mrs. Starr's, one of the gayest parties of the season.

Magnificent dressing, the most costly viands of the table, the most fashionable band of music, scores of admirers, and strains of the most intoxicating flattery met her everywhere. Her triumph was complete.

Was Madeline happy? To have looked at her bright young face beaming with smiles, to have listened to her musical laugh, and sparkling repartee, to have watched her light and airy motions in the graceful waltz, one would have pronounced her the gayest of the gay.

But there was a depth in the heart of Madeline Hamilton which could not be filled by these empty vanities, a thirst for a better life, which could never be satisfied with this mere mirage in the pilgrimage of an immortal.

Wearied and heart-sick, she enters her dressing-room, and seating herself, commences disrobing.

Unbinding her luxuriant hair, she lays aside the glittering ornaments and the faded flowers; leaning her head upon her hands, she weeps over the emptiness of her daily life.

Placing her jewels in a small casket, she opens a little box in her writing-desk; reverently she turns over the leaves of an old book, revealing branches of withered seaweed; and in another corner of the desk, a cluster of common shells. The sight of these simple things opens the flood-gates of her heart; and, pressing the sea-weed to her burning lips, she weeps in the anguish of her spirit.

Memory is busy—back to the sea-shore, the Maple Lane School, the cemetery, the little cottage of the humble widow.

The present is fading—she had had a distant view of the glittering world; she had longed for its pleasures; nearer and nearer had she approached the shining lake where she hoped to quench her thirst; but, stooping down to drink, she had found the world like the mirage in the burning sands of the desert, a mere illusion! a mighty cheat! O! for an hour of those early days! those simple childish pleasures! O! for the teachings of that young Mentor, who so wisely controlled the impetuosity of her high spirit, and tamed the wilfulness of her proud young heart.

She had listened to the tones of flattery, until they had palled upon her ear, and sickened her heart; and for one approving, yea, even one kind reproving glance of the dark eye of Roland Bruce, she would have given all, and more than all that the world had ever given her.

She recalls the holy lessons that had led her young heart to think of better things.

She compares Roland's character with all that she had met in the gay world, and feels that was mere tinsel; his was pure and solid gold.

She touches the simple weeds with fond, caressing fingers, and almost resolves to turn away from the gay, glittering throng.

But alas! the friend of her youth is lost to her.

She believes the tale that Lavinia has so often told, and almost envied Helen Thornly the daily companionship of such a spirit as the one that had forgotten her.

"But I may cherish these dear mementoes yet," sighed Madeline; "they speak of such holy, blessed things, that even the sight of them refreshes me."

Placing them reverently in her desk, she commits herself to God's keeping, and retires to her rest.

The world was fast losing its hold upon Madeline; the power of early teaching was returning.

"Papa, shall we go home early in the season?" said Madeline; "I long for Woodcliff."

"Just as soon as you please, daughter; are you getting tired of the gayeties of New York?"

"I am sick of them, papa; I would rather spend one month at Woodcliff now, where I could ramble by the old sea-shore, sail in my own boat on the clear lake, or ride dear old Selim up and down the lanes, as I used to when a child."

Her father smiled, for he longed for the elegant retirement of his own home; but Aunt Matilda remonstrated.

"Surely, brother, you will not allow Madeline to be so foolish; she might, at least, spend the whole season here."

"She may do just as she pleases, Matilda," was the answer; "I am glad that she retains her love of domestic life, after all the gayety of this winter."

Aunt Matilda sought Mr. Hamilton's private ear.

"I hope that you will not listen to Madeline's folly, brother, after going to so much expense in bringing her out, and when so many of the very first in the land are ready to lay their fortunes at her feet, here you are marring her prospects for a mere whim."

"Really, Matilda, I did not bring Madeline to market, I am not so anxious to be rid of my daughter, and if she is more happy in domestic life than in the gay world, I am only too glad to encourage the feeling. She has seen just what the world is, and has sense enough to understand its hollowness."

* * * * * * * *

Roland is rising rapidly in his profession, still interested in his "Home for the News-boys," and esteemed by his kind and generous patron.

"Do you know, papa," said Helen, one day, "that Madeline is going home; here in the very midst of all her triumphs, she is longing for Woodcliff—so she says, but she always was a strange girl; I don't know what to think of her."

Roland felt a thrill of joy pass through his heart at this intelligence, for it seemed to say that Madeline was not spoiled by the gay world. How he longed to see her, and his wish was speedily gratified.

A carriage stopped at Mr. Thornly's door, which he recognized at once as Mr. Hamilton's—in the next minute, Madeline stepped out, and sent the carriage away. It was not a mere call, then, and he hoped to see her, ere she left New York.

She had come to spend a social evening with Helen, and Roland having the free entrance to the drawing-room at all times, sought his young friend.

"You are going to leave us, Miss Madeline," was his first salutation.

"Yes, I really long for Woodcliff; a peep at New York life has been sufficient."

A bright smile passed over Roland's face. "I was afraid, or rather I thought that you might have been intoxicated by its flattery."

"It is very empty, Mr. Bruce, all mirage and outside show; I want something better; point lace and diamonds, with glitter and show without sincerity, will not satisfy one that once longed for inward peace."

They are sitting apart from the rest, who were engaged in their own conversation.

Roland drew near to Madeline, and in a low tone, he whispered,

"Madeline, do you long for this better life now?"

She blushed deeply at the old familiar name, as she replied,

"Most intensely, Roland; the world has lost its charms for me."

Just then, Helen stepped up, and interrupted the conversation.

"Will you not persuade Madeline to sing?" said the young girl.

"If you will favor us first, Helen;" and Roland led her to the piano, and stood turning over the leaves for her, while she sang.

Was it the tenderness of a lover, or the mere interest of a friend that marked his manner towards Helen? inquired Madeline of her heart.

There was something in the glance of Helen that betrayed more than a common interest. But what meant Roland's whispered words? old affection? or mere brotherly regard for one whom he remembered as a mere wayward child?

After Helen, she took her seat at the piano, and song after song was called for.

With all the simplicity of childish days, she poured forth those strains of thrilling melody, once heard, never to be forgotten.

Roland shaded his eyes to hide the deep emotion which he could not control, when she warbled forth, "Ye banks and braes o' Bonny Doon," with the sweet pathos of her touching voice. He could not answer, even when she turned, and with the innocence of early days, said, in a low tone,

"That was your mother's favorite, Mr. Bruce."

He bowed, but could not reply.

The evening passed; Madeline spoke her farewells to the family.

Roland handed her to the carriage

"Remember me in your daily prayers, Roland."

"God bless you, Madeline, forever and ever; and I feel that he will with his choicest blessings."

"Helen is a sweet girl; I hope that you may be happy."

The carriage drove off—Roland retired to muse upon the evening, and the next day, Madeline was on her road to Woodcliff.

On the following day, a note was delivered to Roland with a check for one hundred dollars for the "Home for the News-boys."

Once more in sight of Woodcliff, Madeline's heart beat warmly towards every object around her dear home.

Effie was on the piazza to meet her, but Madeline was shocked to see the change in the dear girl.

"Oh! how welcome you are, Madeline! I have been so lonely; if it had not been for the poor people that you gave me to take care of, I should have been dreary enough; for Dr. Jenks will not allow me to use my eyes at all."

"I am so glad to be back at the dear old home, Effie."

"Why, you did not stay as long as you intended, Madeline."

"No, I begged papa to bring me home; I have seen enough of New York; I never was made for fashionable life, Effie."

"And you really have come back to us, Madeline, perfectly free, notwithstanding all the fortunes that have been laid at your feet."

"How did you hear all this, Effie?

"Miss Matilda used to write us such descriptions of your numerous conquests, that I often felt as if we had lost you altogether."

"You need never be afraid of such empty-headed fops as I have seen, Effie; I scarcely met a man of sense while I was away."

Madeline felt the need of some strong guiding hand in her present state of feeling; and, after she had been at home a few weeks, begged her father to allow her to visit Aunt Clara once more.

Mr. Hamilton felt as if he could scarcely spare her.

"I shall not stay long, papa; I do so want to see my dear aunt, and she has written for me so often."

"You may go, Madeline, if you will promise me to return in one month; no longer, my daughter; I want you near me, my dear child, for I am not so well as usual."

"Perhaps I had better stay, papa."

"No, Madeline, you can go; if I need you, I will send for you."

On the evening before her departure, she had visited the library, and turning over some familiar books, she came at last to her portfolio, that she had used when a school-girl. Listlessly looking through its contents, a card dropped out, on which was sketched what she was sure was a picture of herself, as she appeared on the evening when she had first met Roland.

It was a spirited little picture; but who had drawn it?

She hurried to Effie, and holding up the card, said,

"Do you know who sketched this?"

"I think it must have been Roland; for one evening when he was here, he was a long time in the library; and I know that he draws beautifully."

Looking on the back of the card, she saw the initials R.G.B., and soon the sweet memento was placed among Madeline's treasures.

Taking Hector as her companion, she sought the dearest spot around Woodcliff, and soon seated on the rock near the old flag-staff, memory wandered over the past.

The incident in the library had touched her deeply; but then that was simply a memory of childhood, and she had doubtless been forgotten since that time, or only remembered as an old friend; for had not Lavinia declared more than once that Roland was actually betrothed to Helen Thornly; for her own cousin had said so.

Ere she left the shore, she visited old Peter. He was living yet, and hastened to meet the young lady whom he had so often seen on the sea-shore.

"Well, dear me! the children will grow to be men and women, it seems; but a little while ago since you and Roland were skipping about here as happy children; now, you are a young lady, and Roland such a fine-looking young man! The last time he was down, he came to visit me in the old cabin—says he, 'Peter, you don't care for that little shoe that is up in the shelf?'"

"No," says I, "it is no use to me, but I kept it a good while because the little girl dropped it here, and she was a bright child, and very good to Uncle Peter."

"Did you give it to him?" inquired Madeline.

"Yes, I did, and he placed it in his pocket, and took it away—a queer fancy for a young man to be hoarding up old shoes."

"Did he ask for one of yours, Uncle Peter?" inquired Madeline, with her old smile of mischief.

"Bless your heart! my young lady, he did not want my old shoes; for he only wanted that one, because it belonged to the little foot that used to run about here on the old beach."

This was pleasant talk, and she wondered if Roland really did think as much of the little shoe as she did of the faded sea-weed that lay hidden in the desk.

"I suppose that he did then," thought she; "but that perhaps was before he knew Helen Thornly."

"Are you comfortable, Uncle Peter?" asked the young girl, before she left the cabin.

"Well, you see, Miss, I should like to have some tobacco; mine is about gone, and it is hard enough to get it sometimes."

"You shall have some, Uncle Peter;" and the next day Madeline sent to the nearest store for a good supply for the old man.

"God bless her bright young face! she always had a warm heart, but a quick, high temper. I wonder how it is now; she'll come all right by-and-bye."

Madeline wondered for several days what Roland had done with the little shoe; but she guessed at last that it thrown away before this.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE EARLY DAWN.

"I shall not leave you long, dear papa," was Madeline's farewell; and Aunt Clara was but too happy to see her dear niece once more.

"I have heard glowing accounts of your winter in New York, Madeline; I really was afraid that you would be wholly intoxicated by its temptations."

"I was for awhile, dear aunt, but I discovered that all was mere mirage; there was an inner life that was wholly starved in that heartless round of folly."

"How did you spend your time, Madeline?"

"In dressing, shopping, singing, waltzing, going to the opera, making and receiving calls, in hearing frothy talk, and scandalous remarks, in listening to the flattery of a score of empty-headed fops, coming home tired at night, sleeping late next morning, and longing for one sight of nature, one true friend, one satisfying portion. Aunt Clara, I learned to loathe the empty life, and I have come to you longing for something better."

Folding her niece in her arms, she imprinted a warm kiss on the fair young forehead, and said,

"There are fountains of living water, Madeline; these only can quench the burning thirst of an immortal spirit."

"I must find them, dear Aunt Clara, for I am fainting for thirst."

Lucy Edmonds was happy again, for dearly did she love the warm-hearted girl. Madeline's openness, her generous heart, her plain bluntness, her perfect transparency of character, charmed her, and contrasted with Lavinia's worldliness and vanity; it was really refreshing to hear her sweet young voice, and see her moving about again in her aunt's household.

This was an important era in the life of Madeline Hamilton, for a great change was passing silently in her moral nature, and a peep into her journal will reveal something of her inner life.

"New York. At length I have seen something of this bright world, of which I have heard so much. Last night was my first appearance at Mrs. Rossiter's ball. Dear papa spared no expense upon my dress; it was exquisite—white silk with point lace, flowers, and my mother's diamonds. I suppose that it was a beautiful vision that dawned upon the world, for the language of flattery and admiration met me on every side; and, must I say it? I was, for awhile, pleased with the cup offered to my lips. Papa was gratified, Aunt Matilda in ecstasies, and I, while in the midst of the gay scene, was enchanted—all was so new, so beautiful, so grand.

"Why did I sigh when I entered my dressing-room, and shut out the world? And yet I did sigh, and said to myself, 'Is this all? Empty heart! what is it longing for? With everything this world can give, but within, an aching void.'

"I have seen Roland, saw him at church, but he did not see me. How calm! how devotional his whole manner! O, for the peace that he enjoys!

"Mr. Grafton called a few days ago to see papa; all his talk was of Roland. Roland's goodness! Roland's benevolence! Roland's talents! It was a pleasant theme—and, when he told about the News-boys' Home, which he had helped to establish, I felt so proud of him. I wonder what made him think so much of the news-boys! could he have been once as poor, as destitute as they? Mr. Grafton hinted it. Poor Roland! what he must have suffered! But why should I feel proud of him? He is Helen Thornly's betrothed; so the world thinks, so Mr. Grafton supposes, and Lavinia Raymond declares.

* * * * * *

"At the opera, last night, the music was divine; but the bewildering acting, the unchaste appearance of the women, the glitter and parade of the audience,—was this what Roland would approve of?

"I lead two lives, one in the outside world, where all is show, and giddy pleasure; another, an inner life, with every fibre of my nature sending out its clasping tendrils to reach something substantial, enduring, satisfying. Like the delicate air-plant fluttering in the breeze, I stretch forward to grasp it, but it is gone. I have not found it yet. Who would believe it, that sees Madeline Hamilton surrounded by flatterers, intoxicated for the moment with the gay blandishments of the world, smiling, waltzing, sparkling in magnificence? Who would believe that, in the silence of the night, she mourns, and weeps, and longs for something better.

"I have heard of that better part, that higher life, from Mrs. Bruce, from Aunt Clara, from Roland. I have seen it in the calm tranquillity of their daily life, in the blessed hopes of a Christian's death.

* * * * * *

"Last night, I was at Mrs. Rossiter's ball; it was superb! but Oh! how hollow! Even while receiving the hospitalities of their hostess, how many heartless ones did I hear whispering disparaging remarks, criticizing the entertainment, and prophesying the downfall of the establishment. I am sick of this folly—would that I were back at Woodcliff, among the green trees, the quiet lanes, the grand old ocean, the solemn cemetery, with dear Effie, my good old Hector, faithful Selim, my pets, my flowers; anything but this heartless, empty show.

"O! what an hour I spent when I retired! I opened my desk, and there lay the dear old sea-weed, given so long ago by my best friend, my childish guide, my model boy—now such a noble man. I pressed them to my burning lips; what would I give for one hour's heart communion, such as we used to love in days that are gone. He could guide me, he could strengthen me, but he is gone, he is another's now. Then I prayed—yes, earnestly—fervently; and I resolved that this empty, frothy, sinful life should end. It must be sinful; it cannot be right that an accountable creature should spend the solemn days of probation in such frivolity.

"Next morning, I told papa that we must go home—Aunt Matilda opposed it—she does not understand me, but Roland does. I met him at Helen Thornly's—something of the old tenderness in his manner; but still there is a gulf between us which seems impassable. But I can cherish the memory of all that he used to be, and all that he has taught me. All that I know of goodness, and high and holy things, I have learned from that beggar boy, as Harry Castleton has dared to call him, and even now! I felt as if I could wither him with my scorn, and certainly annihilated him with one of my haughtiest looks, for I have not seen him since that day. Harry Castleton scorn Roland Bruce! Roland in a cottage, struggling with poverty, as I have seen him, with the grand and lofty spirit of the Gordons; and Harry Castleton, rolling in wealth, the dweller in a palace, would be simply Roland and Harry still.

* * * * * *

"At home again! How I ran about with my winter hood, and water-proof, visiting the old familiar spots, and rejoicing in the presence of my dumb pets. The dear old library—my harp and piano, like faithful friends, seemed to welcome me again; the sweet Eolian sounded out a loud pæan, for sharp March winds swept over its strings, and it, too, seemed rejoicing.

"How shall I occupy my time? There is a great deal here to do. I should like to do some good in the world, and live for something beside myself.

"Could I not gather a little group of poor children, and teach them? Could I not establish something like a parish school? There are so many poor people around us, that only live a wild life,—children of the fishermen. Effie could help me, and we would be so happy together. Then, after awhile, we might perhaps have the services of our own church; I could get a missionary to come here twice a-month from Boston, and then we may have a church of our own; but I must see Aunt Clara first, she can direct me.

* * * * * *

"I am with Aunt Clara again. There is rest in her very smile; the soft silver hair lies so quietly around her mild face; the peace of God breathes in every look and motion. She is so different from Aunt Matilda—she draws me heavenward; Aunt Matilda drags me down.

"Poor aunty! what a pity that she has nothing but the things of this world to lean upon! no wonder that she feels their insecurity. But, dear Aunt Clara, so patient, so peaceful, so happy. I can pour out my whole heart, I can tell her all my thoughts.

"She seems to anticipate all I have to say. How sweet the name of Jesus sounds, uttered by her lips! She talks to me of his tenderness, his fulness, his preciousness, until sometimes I feel, 'None but Jesus!'

"Then clouds come again—I lose my hope, and all is dark. But still I trust that there is some progress in the inner life. I love my Bible; the hour of prayer is precious; the house of God, my chief joy. Nothing will draw me to the world again, I hope; and yet my 'heart is deceitful above all things,' as regards the things of God.

"Lavinia urges me to follow in her sinful, foolish ways; I will not—I have refused her invitations repeatedly, and she tries the power of ridicule. She does not know me, or she would not try the weakness of such a weapon.

"I am too proud yet to yield to such a mode of opposition. Just let me believe myself a Christian, and Lavinia's ridicule will only excite my sorrow.

"The gay world has lost its charms for me, and I care not what Lavinia and her friends may say. She has told me a great deal about Helen Thornly, and has convinced me, that she is, indeed, the chosen companion of Roland's future life—may they be happy! She says that Roland always speaks of me with the affection of a brother, very calmly, but never seems willing to talk about Helen.

"How much of my present state of feeling may arise from this loss of my early friend. If so, how little is this weariness of the world to be trusted! in other circumstances, the power of the world may all return.

"I went to hear Mr. Endicott, Aunt Clara's pastor. What an earnest, faithful sermon! What a picture of our sinful nature he drew! it is all too true. And where is our help? 'Look unto me,' says the Blessed Saviour; do I look unto him? if I did, would not peace visit my bosom?

"Oh! for a living faith! Sometimes I feel as if I really had exercised such trust, and then the merest trifle draws my heart away, and my peace vanishes.

"Lavinia has such power to annoy me—she takes malicious pleasure in bringing all the gossip that she can about Roland—why should I be so disturbed? He is only my friend; I am mortified that I should allow myself to dwell so much upon these circumstances. I had a letter from Helen, yesterday—it was full of Roland—she says if I could know all, I would value him as highly as she does.

"How little does she know of me! What can be the secret which she cannot disclose? She says that it places him among the noblest and the best of men. She writes as if she were on terms of close intimacy with Roland; writes of mending his clothes, attending to his room, helping him in his work among the News-boys. It is evident that she loves Roland Bruce; and how can she do otherwise, living in the house with him on such familiar terms? May they be happy together! But it does seem strange that he can forget his old friend so soon.

"A letter from papa; he is not well—he says that the parlor is so melancholy, the harp so silent; he wishes me to return; I promised him that I would; and nothing can keep me away.

"Aunt Clara is sorry to have me go so soon, but she thinks it is my duty, and bids me depart. I am going, to-morrow—she prayed so earnestly alone with me, that I might be kept from the temptations of the world, and brought really to the feet of Jesus.

* * * * * * *

"I am at home again—papa looks so thin and pale; his spirits are very low—Effie's eyes are no better; I am troubled about the dear girl, more than she is about herself; she seems to live in the spirit of a beautiful hymn.

'Sweet to lie passive in his hands,
And know no will but his.'

"I spent my first evening at the harp, playing for dear papa; he seemed so happy to have me at home again—how fondly he hung over me all the evening!

"What should I be without him? I cannot bear to think of such a time.

"He called me to his side before he retired, and opening a casket, gave me such a beautiful set of emeralds; he is never tired of lavishing gifts upon his darling child.

"To-day Effie was sitting near the window trying to knit a little; she seemed sorely perplexed, frequently dropping her stitches, and scarcely able to take them up again—Aunt Matilda observed her.

"'What are you worrying yourself for, Effie, with that knitting?'

"'I am so tired of doing nothing,' replied the dear girl, while large tears rolled over her cheeks.

"Poor dear Effie! I fear that she is really losing her sight—so patient! so resigned! so ready for the will of her Heavenly Father, whatever that may be.

"Roland had heard of her sickness, and has been to see her—'He was so kind,' Effie says; 'so gentle to his little sister.' She says that he asked a great deal about me. I wonder if he has the little shoe yet—how foolish all this is! I ought not to write such folly.

"I have a great deal of time unoccupied—ought I not to do something for this neighborhood?

"But how shall I begin? In my walk, yesterday, I rambled among the factory children; they seem very poor and ignorant; can I not do something for them?

"Aunt Clara gave me some little books and tracts for just such people; I think I will take some among them.

* * * * * * *

"I went this morning along the factory lane, with my little basket in my hand; the children found that I had pretty books with pictures. Soon they were running after me.

"'Lady, please give me a little book,' cried one little girl. 'Give me one, lady,' 'and me,' 'and me,' sounded out a score of young voices, all eager for a book, or a tract.

"The books were soon all gone, and I had the pleasure of seeing several sit down by the road-side, eagerly examining the pictures, while others ran in to show their mothers what they had got. I think very few can read, for they only looked at the pictures.

"One little curly-headed girl, with bare feet and ragged clothes, came pulling me by the dress.

"'Lady, please come and see my mammy; she is very sick.'

"I followed the child, and found her poor mother extended upon a bed of sickness, with every appearance of want and misery. I questioned her; she had been sick for two months; often in need of food; her two children worked at the factory, and their scanty wages was all that she had.

"'Oh, ma'am! the rich don't know the value of the broken pieces which they throw away; but we know, ma'am.'

"I left her some money, and promised to remember poor Mrs. Donnelly—she had set me to earnest thinking. Her grateful look repaid me for that visit.

"In the next cottage was an old bed-ridden grandmother; in another a cripple; and enough all around to convince me that Madeline Hamilton must not spend an idle life around Woodcliff. Just to think that I have lived so many years in elegance and ease, and all this misery at my very doors. I thought of the parable of the steward, and his Lord's return to reckon. It is true that a great deal was sent out from Woodcliff among the neighboring poor, but it could not be said of us generally, 'I was sick and ye visited me.' I must do something—but how shall it be? I will ask Effie; she knows a great deal about these people. Roland could tell me; his earnest, warm heart, and strong good sense, would see the way at once. It will be so pleasant to know that I am working in the same field with Roland—he, for the misery of New York, and I, for that around Woodcliff. These poor children have no time for school, and yet they are so ignorant; can I teach them in any way? They might stop work on Saturday; I would pay their mother their wages, and they could come to me in the afternoon; they would thus lose no money, and gain much knowledge. I will try, and Effie can help me to gather the children.

* * * * * *

"I went yesterday—six little ones promised to come on Saturday. Aunt Matilda is shocked with the idea of a Miss Hamilton becoming the Lady Bountiful of the neighborhood.

"'What will Mrs. Grundy say?' is ever uppermost with poor aunty.

"I have a room all my own, where I can do just what I please; my pleasant sitting-room, where I can easily manage twelve little girls. I will have some nice desks and benches made, and James can bring them in every Saturday.

"Yesterday my little class came—they were all clean, but several barefoot and ragged.

"They seemed quite bewildered by the pretty things around them. I played a simple hymn, and tried to teach them to say it; but they were struck dumb with amazement. I suppose that they had never seen a piano before.

"I amused them then by telling them a story. Effie took them out in the garden, and gave each a bunch of flowers. They looked so pleased, poor little things! What a pity that I had not known before how cheap a thing it is to make others happy, and that my garden could brighten so many little faces; but I don't think that they were so happy as I—my heart felt so warm, and tears of gratitude would rise, when I remembered all God's goodness to me. There was a warm glow of sunshine around Woodcliff on Saturday afternoon, and it shall come again.

"Effie thinks we had a good beginning; the little ones promised to come next Saturday.

"Aunt Matilda laughs at my new folly, as she terms it, saying, 'that I will soon grow tired of it.'

"Papa says, 'I am glad that Madeline has thought of the children; it will employ much of her time. I sometimes think that we spend a very useless life here at Woodcliff.'

"Aunt Matilda replies, 'I am sure, Lewis, that you cannot expect me to enter into any such plans. I am much too delicate with my nervous temperament; it would drive me crazy to teach little children; and I do think that Madeline Hamilton might find employment more worthy of a young lady.'

"I have written to Helen to send me some shoes for children, and some books, giving her a short account of what we are doing.

"Saturday came again—my six little girls were punctual; but it was a rainy day, and they brought some mud.

"Aunt Matilda was very angry, and said harsh things. I replied haughtily, and with one of my outbursts of temper.

"'Well, Madeline, if this is your piety, I want nothing to do with it.'

"'I don't pretend to piety, aunt; I only want to do some good in the world; and I think that you might help, instead of hinder me.'

"I was ashamed of myself, and deeply depressed for all that day—will I ever learn to bridle my tongue?

"The little ones were glad to get their new shoes—I gave them their first lessons; they were very dull, for they have never been taught anything; and it was hard to keep their eyes from wandering about the room, and out into the garden, for the glass doors of my sitting room open directly on the garden, filled with beautiful flowers. A hymn which they tried to sing, and a bunch of flowers for each, closed the exercises."

* * * * * *

The school went on prosperously for several weeks; the numbers increased to twelve; and Madeline was pleased to see some improvement. Effie taught each one orally verses from the Bible, and simple hymns, for she could not use her eyes at all.

Weekly the young girls visited the factory lane, and soon the poor people learned to look for the visit with great delight.

The sick mother was tenderly cared for; the old grandmother provided with what she needed; the cripple comforted by kind words, and gentle ministrations; and Madeline felt the joy of knowing that she was doing something towards lightening human misery. But Effie's eyes were growing worse; it was deemed advisable to consult a New York oculist; and Madeline was obliged to accompany the young girl.

The Saturday school was for awhile suspended, much to the disappointment of the little ones, for they were very sorry to lose their kind teachers.

Being alone, it was thought proper that they should take up their abode in a private boarding-house, for Madeline could not burden her friend Mary Trevor with the charge of Effie.

But little encouragement was given by the great oculist; and Madeline was now convinced that her friend was doomed to a life of darkness.