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Title: Mabel Wynn

or, "Those boys"

Author: Faye Huntington

Release date: June 6, 2024 [eBook #73786]

Language: English

Original publication: London: George Routledge and Sons, Limited

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MABEL WYNN ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

MABEL WYNN

OR

"THOSE BOYS"

BY

FAYE HUNTINGTON

LONDON

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, LIMITED

BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL

GLASGOW, MANCHESTER, AND NEW YORK.

CONTENTS.

CHAP.

I. THE CONSECRATION

II. WORK

III. OPPOSITION

IV. THE WATCHWORD

V. CONFLICT

VI. SURRENDER

VII. A REFORM

VIII. A PRAYER ANSWERED

IX. FRAGMENTS OF TALK

X. HERBERT'S TRIAL

XI. THE BOY'S MEETING

XII. A LESSON OF WAITING

XIII. A CIRCLE BROKEN

XIV. DUNCAN FOLLOWS HIS OWN DEVICES

XV. DOCTOR MYERS "LENDS A HAND."

XVI. THE INGATHERING

XVII. ALMOST WITHIN

XVIII. TROUBLES

XIX. A BATCH OF LETTERS

XX. LEWIE AMESBURY'S CREED

XXI. DECISIONS

XXII. SOWINGS

XXIII. WHAT THEY SAID ABOUT IT

XXIV. WHERE WE LEAVE "THOSE BOYS."

MABEL WYNN.

CHAPTER I.

THE CONSECRATION.

"My all is on the altar."

WESTVILLE had a new sensation. Deacon Griffin, earnest Christian man as he was, ever ready to use tongue, hand and money for the cause of Christ, shook his head, and said he didn't know about these things. There was so much danger of falling into the ways of the world; the Church must be wary of innovations.

Then good Mrs. Culver had opposed the plan, and determined to stand aloof. What was the use in making a stir! They had gone on for years without such an affair, and for her part, she didn't believe in new-fangled notions.

However, in spite of strong opposition, a few brave hearts persevered and carried the matter forward, and Westville had its first "Sunday-School Institute." These few feeling the want of more labourers, sensible of their own want of knowledge as to the best mode of carrying forward the work, invited one whose life is devoted to the cause to give a course of instruction upon topics connected with the work, hoping to be themselves better fitted for their duties, and trusting that others might be led to enter the same field of labour.

Many, like Deacon Griffin, looked upon Sunday-schools as especially for children; some, like Mrs. Culver, clung to the old ways. As a child she had recited her seven verses Sabbath after Sabbath, without question or comment on the part of her teacher; brought her penny for the mission fund, and carried home a library book, or perhaps a copy of the "Dayspring" or "Messenger," and had about as much idea as a kitten what all or any part of it meant; and she taught her class in very much the same way. True, in maturer years, the precepts and promises stored in her mind had an influence upon her heart and life. As if Christ's precious words were not for little children to carry in their hearts as well as in their memories!

In those three days, much work was done for the Master. With instruction, discussion and earnest talk were mingled many prayers and much praise. The interest growing, the audience increasing in numbers, until at the last session, the great church was filled to its utmost capacity, and many hearts were throbbing with emotion. New thoughts had found their way into the minds of gray-headed old men, and to some of them it now seemed a grand thing this idea of a whole congregation coming together for the study of God's word. And old men and women almost through with church-going, the middle-aged, busy fathers and mothers, and the young, enthusiastic and eager, pledged themselves to the work and joined in the consecrating hymn. It was grand and solemn, that chorus of hundreds of voices. Many of feeble faith were encouraged, slothful souls were quickened, while to some, it was the hour of a new and entire consecration to Christ. As the song died away, the voice of the leader, smooth and clear, filled the house.

"Father in heaven," he prayed, "we thank thee for this evidence that thou hast been with us, directing and guiding us by thy Spirit. We know not what vast results may grew out of our efforts to advance thy cause, and we are content to leave the knowledge with thee. Thou hast heard our solemn consecration. Wilt thou enable us to keep the vow? May we all feel its solemnity and importance, and may each of us be faithful to our promise. Wilt thou bless these thy children, who work together here? May they work hand to hand in Christian love and forbearance, illustrating in their lives the truths they teach. May they be patient and persevering, untiring and full of the spirit of devotion. May they have all needed wisdom and every Christian grace, and may thy blessing so crown their efforts that multitudes shall throng the streets of the beautiful city led into the upward way by these thy servants. And though we no more meet together here, at last, dear Christ, we shall be together and always with thee. Amen."

CHAPTER II.

WORK.

"O thou whose call our hearts has stirr'd!

To do thy will we come."

"I'm here," began Mabel Wynn, in her bright way, presenting herself promptly the next Sabbath at the superintendent's desk. "You know I am a fresh recruit. I shall make a poor show, but I'm ready for drill. Where shall I go?"

Mr. Clarke looked at her earnestly for a moment. He knew her only as the daughter of the richest man in Westville, a man who was prompt to serve Christ with his money, but whose time, strength and influence were given to the world. He knew that Mabel came to church regularly, dressed handsomely, and was a sort of a leader among the young ladies. He knew, too, that she was a professed friend of Christ, but he did not know the earnest and unselfish purpose of her heart to work for the Master. Mrs. Wynn called her daughter odd. "One of Mabel's freaks," or "just one of her odd whims," she would explain to her friends.

If to live for a purpose, if to do one's work with earnestness, if to seek out opportunities for doing good, if to carry the spirit of Christ into every day's living—in short, if to be a sincere, consistent Christian, if this is to be odd, then Mabel was odd. As a child she had been a Sunday-school scholar, but as she grew up, she had yielded to her mother's persuasions and discontinued her attendance.

"It was such an inconvenience," explained Mrs. Wynn. "So tiresome to remain after service, and such a trouble to send back the carriage. Thomas did not like it at all."

But now Mabel determined that circumstances must yield; fortunately Thomas had departed, and a very obliging Michael reigned over the stables.

Thus she stood ready and willing, while Mr. Clarke deliberated a moment. His first impulse was to send her to Dr. Eaton's class of young ladies, and this was just what she expected—indeed she had at first intended to take her place there at once, but some of her mother's teachings in regard to observing the proprieties under all circumstances, impelled her to report herself at headquarters. But they were short of teachers; so many of those who had come in for the first time, had asked for a scholar's place, that old classes were overflowing and new ones had to be formed.

While Mr. Clarke deliberated, a scene of confusion across the room attracted his attention. A thought struck him. "Who knows but she may be able to do something with those boys? Anyway they must have a teacher to-day." And with a smile for the eager face before him, he nodded in the direction of the five unruly boys.

"Mr. Clarke," began Mabel, then stopped suddenly.

"Well?"

"Nothing. I forget that it is my business to obey a superior officer. I'll go."

As the opening exercises went on, Mabel had time to still her throbbing heart and lift her soul to God for help. She had not thought of becoming a teacher at once, and what to say or do first, was a puzzling question. She tried to remember what they did in those days so long ago when she went to Sunday-school. Then she tried to recall some of the instructions of the past week, but she could think of nothing that would exactly fit the case. Dissimulation was no part of her nature, and when the time came, she turned toward the class; but what a class it was!

Five bright-looking boys, combed and brushed and neatly dressed, but the element of quietness seemed entirely wanting. There they were—five bobbing heads, five pairs of elbows pushing this way and that, five pairs of shuffling feet, five pairs of eyes and ears, open and eager to take in any sight or sound that might be turned into fun. Evidently they understood all the boy-tricks in the catalogue. Now and then a head would be thrown back with a peculiar spasmodic jerk, and when the cause was looked for, another boy's arm would be found quietly resting upon the back of the seat, thrown lovingly around his neighbour's. Of course the owner of the arm had nothing to do with it. Suddenly the small boy at the end of the seat found himself on the floor, a concerted pushing along the line having brought about the catastrophe. There were pinching and nudging and treading upon toes, and winking and laughing, and much whispering. Altogether a scene of disorder. And these five active, eager minds were to be fed—those five souls to be led to Christ! What a work for some earnest disciple! No wonder that Mabel's heart almost quailed. But she said, simply and frankly,—

"Boys, Mr. Clarke has sent me here to be your teacher to-day, but I am not prepared to teach the lesson, and I don't know the ways of the school. You will have to teach me, I guess. How many have learned the lesson? All of you?"

There seemed to be something remarkably fun-provoking in the question, for the boys were very merry over it.

"Dear me, how they do act!" thought Mabel. "What shall I do with them?" But she kept all signs of her dismay out of her face, and put the question to them individually.

Perry Morse "hadn't looked at it." Henry Trafton "had not been there in a good many weeks, and didn't know what the lesson was." Lewie Amesbury had learned it. Herbert Bradford and Duncan McNair had only looked it over a little.

"Very well, Lewie, then you are the one to lead off. The rest of us will open our Bibles and do the best we can with reading and looking out the references."

But it turned out that there was no Bible in the class, except Mabel's. Here was a new trouble—no lesson, and no books to refer to! The next expedient was for the teacher to read a paragraph, and request the class to repeat it in concert; but their attempt to do this created much merriment, and seemed to attract the attention of those around them; so that plan was abandoned, and she simply read over the whole lesson, and tried to give a paraphrase of it. Then to Lewie,—

"What struck you most in the lesson?"

At this Henry giggled and whispered.

"Say, Lewie, do you hit back when you are struck? Fighting ain't allowed here."

Lewie gave a reproving nudge at his neighbour's sides, and looked steadily at his boots. Evidently he had not learned the lesson with reference to ideas, and Mabel was obliged to make her own points, and, as she afterward said, they were too hastily whittled to be very pointed. Yet the time slipped away pleasantly, and Mabel's parting word was—

"Well, boys, I'm glad I came. We've had a nice time; at least I have. Now, won't you study up the lesson for next Sabbath, and be sure to bring your Bibles?"

Mr. Clarke always kept an eye on those boys, and as he glanced towards them now and then he saw that they were a trifle less restless than usual, and that one or two seemed somewhat interested in what the teacher was saying. That was all he saw. He had been praying for a teacher for that very class, all the while trying to pick one according to his own idea of fitness, and one after another had failed until he almost despaired. As yet he had no thought that God had sent this young girl as the answer to his prayers, and during the week that followed this first Sabbath of Mabel's teaching, he sought out one whom he fancied would fill the place, and urged him to take the class, but was met by a decided refusal; and so it came about that another Sabbath found them teacherless. They were all prompt. Three of them had their Bibles. Perry Morse had forgotten his. Henry Trafton never owned one.

"I wonder who we'll have to-day?" said Perry.

"I don't know. Maybe Professor Mills," answered Duncan, while a laugh went round at the Professor's inability to cope with their fun-loving propensities.

"I wish we could have Miss Wynn," said Lewie.

"Oh, yes!" said Henry, sneeringly. "You like her, of course. She praised you a little."

"She didn't do any such thing. I'll leave it to the boys if she said one word that sounded like it," answered Lewie, with some spirit.

"Well, she looked it, anyway; but you needn't get wrathy over it. I don't care if she did, you are welcome."

"Don't quarrel," said Herbert; "I liked Miss Wynn because she didn't put on airs and pretend to be so very wise. She just talked pleasant, and the kind of talk that a fellow could understand. I vote for Miss Wynn."

"Well, Herb, go and ask Mr. Clarke, before he picks out somebody with a face as long as your arm and a voice to match."

Mabel had chanced to meet Dr. Eaton at the door and accepted his invitation to take a seat in his class, and here Mr. Clarke sought her.

"Dr. Eaton," he said, "those boys want Miss Wynn. I am sorry to take her away, and glad, too."

The colour mounted quickly to Mabel's forehead, and she exclaimed,—

"Why, Mr. Clarke, I really don't know how to teach."

"Can't help that! They want you, and if they can't have what they want, they won't stay."

"Miss Wynn," said the superintendent, when Sunday-school was over that day, "you'll have to keep that class!"

CHAPTER III.

OPPOSITION.

"I am with you alway."

MABEL'S friends exclaimed and protested against this new freak. Her father and mother insisted that her health was insufficient; that the tax upon her nervous system would be too severe; that she already had duties enough at home and in society to fill up her time. Mr. and Mrs. Wynn belonged to that large class of professing Christians, who, whenever the call comes for more labourers in the vineyard, talk largely of home duties and influence in society, the demands of their position, and the like, excusing their worldly-mindedness with this sort of twaddle about "the claims of society."

As for Mabel's health, an incessant round of parties, picnics, pleasure excursions, making calls and entertaining company, was never supposed to overtax her nervous system. It was only when she was compelled to step outside the world of fashion that her parents' anxieties were awakened. They never connected the days of languor, headache, and lassitude with late hours and excitement. The "claims of society" never overtax body or mind!

"But, father," said Mabel, "I think this is one of the duties I owe to society—to help those boys into right ways, if I can, so that they may be its ornaments when they get to be men."

"That's just what I object to!" interposed Mrs. Wynn. "Those boys! If you had chosen a class of sweet little girls, it wouldn't be quite so bad. But those rough, uncouth boys! Why, they'll hang about you, step on your dress, use your fan, handle your parasol, speak to you in the street, and annoy you in a dozen different ways."

Mabel smiled at her mother's list of the unpleasant features of the case. It would be such a terrible thing to have Herbert Bradford or Lewie Amesbury lift his cap gracefully, as either of them knew how to do, and accompany the act with a smiling, "Good morning, Miss Wynn!"

Then, too, she remembered that young Mr. Cranson had stepped upon her dress at the picnic, and tore off a yard or two of ruffling, and Dr. Myers had played with her fan, as one or more broken splints would testify, and her mother had not seemed to look upon either as unpardonable offences. But young Mr. Cranson was the son of a millionaire, and Dr. Myers was—ah! Well, he was Dr. Myers! Perhaps he will speak for himself.

Mrs. Wynn continued, not noticing Mabel's amused look—

"Besides, you won't be able to manage them. I've heard Mr. Clarke say it was the worst class in school. They have had I don't know how many teachers within the last six months. The last was Professor Mills. I shouldn't think you would undertake where he had failed."

It was true, that class of bright-eyed, eager-faced boys had the reputation of being the most unmanageable set in the school, and Mabel know it. She answered—

"Mother, I did not choose—" She hesitated. Should she speak of the entire consecration she had made of her young life to the cause of Christ? Would they understand her if she told them that she believed God had called her to that very class? It was only a moment: then she went on—

"If I give myself to the Sabbath-school work, or any other work for the Master, it is not for me to choose the place. If I am called to this post, I shall, in some way, be made equal to it."

"But, Mabel," continued her mother, "it will be so very inconvenient. You cannot walk home, and Michael will not like driving back for you. If you persist in this absurd notion, I suppose I shall have to give up going to church, for I cannot endure the fatigue of remaining to Sabbath-school."

"O mother! It won't be so bad as that. The church is only half-way to the seminary, and I used to walk to school and home again every day in pleasant weather, and I ought not to have grown so delicate in two years as to be unable to walk a quarter of a mile. I do it very often now when out calling or shopping."

"Yes, I know; but there will be rainy Sundays, and besides the dinner hour will interfere. Dear me! I do wish you would give up the ridiculous notion. Everything will be turned upside down if you persist."

Mabel was slightly amused at the idea of her mother's well-ordered establishment being so easily reversed. Then she looked grave as she thought if it were a music lesson, or a dancing lesson, or a croquet club, at any hour of any week-day, breakfast, dinner, or supper would speedily adjust itself to the arrangement. Of so much more apparent importance were these things than the grand work of saving souls, of training the young for the life in this world and for that which is to follow, and which is eternal! Dinner or the Master's work—which shall take precedence?

"Mother," she said, calmly, "there are always difficulties in the way of any undertaking of importance, and I suppose that it is a part of our business to overcome or push them aside. As for rainy Sundays, you and father very seldom go out in unpleasant weather, and I think Michael will help me over that difficulty. As for dinner, I'll take a lunch and wait for supper."

Mrs. Wynn had other objections to urge, or thought she had.

"How obstinate you are, Mabel! I don't want you turned into a prim young woman, going about with your arms full of Testaments in black covers, and Tract Society publications without any covers at all, mixing up with all sorts of people, and getting put on committees and appointed as delegate to conventions, and all that sort of thing. And then if one of those horrid boys gets the measles or mumps, he will be sure to send for you to visit him instead of the minister. Don't be a fanatic, I beg of you."

Mabel made no reply, and her mother continued—

"I don't want to be understood as being opposed to Sunday-schools. I think them a very good thing in their way, and you know that your father is very liberal in giving for the cause. But there are plenty of people to carry them on—people who have nothing else to do—people who are not in society, and who make the concerts, excursions, and such things a sort of substitute for the entertainments of our circle. For them it is all very well, but as for you—"

"As for me, mother," interrupted Mabel, "I beg your pardon for rudeness, but I want to finish that sentence. As for me, I believe that I ought to help. It is Christ's work, and I have no real excuse for standing idle. I want you to consent, just as you would if I proposed to join Professor Mills's Greek class. Let me try it for a few months. It may not be so annoying as you think."

Mr. Wynn had occupied himself with the morning paper while this talk went on, but he had not been so absorbed as to lose the drift of the arguments. Mrs. Wynn really fancied that she had used powerful arguments, while Mabel had but one to urge. "I think I ought," was sufficient for her, and to this her father now responded,—

"'As he thinketh in his heart so is he.' I think, Helen, you'll have to yield the point. Mabel's one argument really outweighs all ours. Let her try it."

Mabel looked her thanks, and the ever-courteous Mr. Wynn bowed himself out, and hurried away to the store.

"There!" exclaimed his wife. "I might have known how it would be. However strongly your father may be set against any of your odd fancies, he is sure to come around, and you get your own way at last. I only wonder that you were not entirely spoiled, for you have had everything you wanted ever since you were born."

"That's so, mother," laughed Mabel. "And who gave me the gilt toilet set to play with, and the inlaid work-box for a doll-house, and let me handle those choice prints that show my fingermarks until this very day? Who coaxed father into giving me a gold watch as soon as I was fairly in my teens, and how did I get the white pony, and a host of other things? I guess somebody besides father would have to own to part of the spoiling."

"Oh, but those were reasonable things compared with some of your whims. But never mind now, the question seems to be settled, so we won't talk any more about it. Just run and tell Miss Moore that she may finish the blue poplin skirt this morning, and I will be in about eleven to have the grosgrain fitted."

Thus Mrs. Wynn dismissed the subject and turned to one more agreeable; and after all, the whole matter seemed so very unimportant, not worth making a fuss over. Very likely Mabel would soon tire of her undertaking. Anyway, she did not propose to trouble herself further about the affair. Mrs. Wynn was somewhat inclined to aristocratic ideas, and somewhat chary of her welcome and favours to those outside of "our set." Then, too, she had a horror of fanaticism; and while she rejoiced that Mabel had early taken her place among Christ's disciples, she thought her too enthusiastic, feared she would be over-zealous, and was distressed with apprehension lest some of the proprieties of their circle should be disregarded. She did not see that Mabel was making high attainments in the Christian life, that God was fitting her to do him service. It seemed a lowly place to which he had called her. Was it?

CHAPTER IV.

THE WATCHWORD.

"Without thy guiding hand we go astray."

"NOTHING else at present, thank you. You may put these with the articles Mr. Wynn has selected, and he will be in this afternoon to complete the order. Come, Mabel; dear, are you ready?" And Mrs. Wynn turned from the gentlemanly proprietor of the picture store, and addressing the last words to her daughter, prepared for her departure, drawing her handsome wraps a little closer, and giving a premonitory shiver.

Mabel was busy with a quantity of engravings, and replied,—

"Just wait a few moments, please. I want to select a few of these for the boys."

"Oh, those boys! I really believe you are more interested in making purchases for them than for yourself!"

"How can you think so, when I have already supplied my own wants in this line?" responded Mabel.

"Well, there are other wants to be provided for, I suppose you know. We are to go to Stewart's next to look at those shawls. I hope you will be able to give your attention to that matter," said Mrs. Wynn, a little impatient at the delay.

"Yes, mother, I promise to give my mind to shawls for a whole half hour if necessary. Only don't hurry me now, please."

"But we must hurry," was the reply. "We have only three hours more before we leave, and a great deal to do yet."

Mr. Wynn had come to New York for a stock of winter goods, and his wife and daughter had accompanied him to make purchases for themselves. Mabel always enjoyed such trips. She liked the whizz and whirr of the city; she liked to watch the hurrying stream of people, to spend a morning in an art or book store, to go to the park—in short, she enjoyed the sights and novelties as all residents of quiet country villages enjoy such occasional visits. She even shocked her mother by insisting that she positively enjoyed riding in the street cars. "Because," she said, "it is the very best place to see what sorts of people fill up this world."

But nowadays, she was always on the look-out for something to help her in her work for "those boys," as Mrs. Wynn always designated them. Having accepted the position of teacher, she took up the work with great interest and energy. Those boys were to carry through life the impress of her instructions. Would it be for good or ill? More than that—their characters were being formed for eternity. To lift them above low pleasures, evil thoughts and sinful habits; to teach them how best to use their powers, how to avoid failure, and make their lives a real success; to educate them for Christ—this was her work; for this she girded herself with much fervent prayer and faithful study; to this end, she sought a mere complete consecration to Christ, knowing that her own life should be the exponent of the religion she would teach them, realizing that an example of holy living is more than much teaching.

Some of them were nearing the age when boys think they are too big to go to Sunday-school, and their teacher resolved if possible to keep them, so their teacher was continually seeking to strengthen her hold upon them. Whenever and wherever she found anything she could make available as a means to the end she had in view, she seized upon it. Sometimes the merest trifle would give rise to a thought or plan, and she would say, "I must work that up for the boys."

And that morning in the picture room, she had caught an idea from a conversation which was going on over a portfolio of "Views on Venice." The gentleman of the party was evidently familiar with the scenes which these "Views" represented, and Mabel grew interested in his remarks. He was saying,—

"These paths, one can't call them streets, are fearfully narrow and tortuous. There is just one thing to prevent a stranger from getting hopelessly lost in the tangle of crossings and twistings. The principal footpath is of white marble, and this leads directly to the Ponte di Rialto. So one has only to keep to this white line to come out all right. And I have often thought," continued the speaker, whom Mabel now recognized as Dr. V., an eminent Sunday-school worker, "how the life of Jesus, pure and perfect, leading straight on to the goal of our aspirations, is laid before us in the Gospels, a sure guide for our feet amid the crooked ways of life."

That was all. At that moment, the clerk brought the articles for which she was waiting, and claimed her attention. But an hour or two later, having disposed of the shawl question, and various other matters in the way of laces, ribbons, gloves and the like, she had time to finish out her list of Christmas gifts for her class. It was a Bible this time for Henry Trafton, who did not own one. Not that his parents were too poor to buy one for their son, but they had never thought anything about it. In their handsome parlour a family Bible, in Turkey leather and gilt clasps, reposed upon a cushion that was a marvel of needlework and patience, and Mrs. Trafton had a smaller volume which she kept upon her private book-shelf. But Henry came Sabbath after Sabbath without a book, and read the lesson out of his neighbour's Bible. No wonder he never had a lesson!

As Mabel made her selection, a thought of the fragment of the conversation which she had just heard flitted through her mind, and her eye alighted upon the words, "I am the way," and then "None cometh unto the Father but by me," she exclaimed, "That's the very thing!"

"What did you say?" asked the attendant, wondering.

"Oh, excuse me; I'll take this, and this," and to herself she said, "I must learn not to talk loud when I speak to Mabel Wynn. But that is just the thing for our class motto. 'Follow the White Line.' If I could only manage the cards, if I were a bit of an artist, I could get them up myself. I must manage it."

She did. The cards with the motto printed in the style of the illuminated texts—which she had been looking over, failing to find just the right thing for her purpose—were ready by Christmas—small ones for book marks, and larger, handsomer ones in pretty frames. They were hung upon the tree of many fruits which the school met to enjoy and appropriate, and each boy received a private letter explaining the motto and containing words of earnest warning and affectionate entreaty. They were invited to take Christ as a pattern and more than this, to accept him as a Saviour.

When they came to talk it over together, the teacher said, "I hope you will all adopt it as your own motto. It is my earnest prayer that we may all make our lives as near like Christ's as possible. We shall need to 'watch and pray' if we would keep the path he has laid down, for there are many turns in this life and many things to draw us out of the narrow way. But none of you have said how you like it."

"I like it," said Lewie Amesbury. "At school, day schools, I mean, teachers are always holding up some great man for a pattern, but I think it is a great deal better to have a perfect pattern. I s'pose we can't be perfect, but we ought to try and live as near the rules Christ laid down as we can."

Lewie was the "best boy" in the class, always prompt, always ready with the lesson, always quiet, looking grave over the frolics and tricks of the other boys, giving assent to the truth presented, and seeming ready to follow the right course. But did he really love the Saviour?

Herbert Bradford spoke next.

"I like the motto well enough, but it wouldn't be honest for me to adopt it entirely. I don't want to be a Christian now, and that is what it means, isn't it?"

"It leads to that, certainly," answered Miss Wynn; "but, Herbert, will you tell us of one point in which you would not like to be like Jesus? We read that 'Jesus increased in wisdom and stature, and in favour with God and man.' That was while he was yet a boy. You would not object to follow such an example? When he grew to manhood, he entered upon that work for which he came, 'Led by the Spirit.' Listen to this," and Mabel turned over the leaves of her Bible, and read,—

"'The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me; because the Lord hath anointed me to preach good tidings unto the meek; he hath sent me to bind up the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound; to proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord, and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all that mourn; to appoint unto them that mourn in Zion; to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the Spirit of heaviness; that they might be called trees of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that he might be glorified.' What a grand mission! And how perfectly and beautifully fulfilled! If we take up the study of Christ's life here on earth, as I proposed to you, we shall see how desirable it is to follow closely the example of our Divine Master."

After giving out the next lesson, which was to be a study of some of the prophecies regarding the Saviour, Mabel said,—

"And now remember the watchword and 'follow' closely. Whenever you are tempted or puzzled during this week, ask yourself—What would Christ say? Will you do that? Herbert, will you, so far as you can, let Him settle the questions that come up this week?"

It seemed a simple thing, and Herbert promised. Little did he think, that before another Sabbath, he should meet and decide the most important question that could come to him in his life.

CHAPTER V.

CONFLICT.

"Justice and Mercy for my life

Contend! Oh, smile and heal the strife."

"YES, I was thinking of that. We will talk it over when we come together this evening. Just tell Deacon Griffin about it now, won't you? I want to speak to one of the boys. Excuse me." And Mr. Earle hurried down the aisle and out of the door.

"Herbert, one moment, please."

Herbert Bradford turned back to meet his pastor, wondering but pleased, for Mr. Earle was a favourite with the young people of his congregation, and his influence over them was something remarkable. He had that rare and happy faculty of making the shyest and most awkward schoolboy among them feel quite at ease in his presence, and the timid, self-conscious girl ceased to feel the hot blood mounting to her forehead, and forgot that she had two hands to be properly folded, and, too, he knew how to draw out hidden conversational powers, often quite astonishing the possessors themselves.

"I have a letter here from Tom Nichols," he said, as he joined Herbert. "I suppose you would like to read it?"

"Yes, sir, I always like Tom's letters. I wish he was back here. He is a capital fellow!" said Herbert, with enthusiasm.

"Yes, Tom is a fine boy, and his letters are always pleasant. But you will find this one different from any he ever wrote before. There's good news in it, Herbert," said Mr. Earle, with a little ripple of joy in his voice that was testimony as to the excellence of the "news."

Herbert looked up with a bit of wonder in his eyes; then, as it flashed upon him what the good news might be, he dropped his head and a sad look crept over his face. Mr. Earle's way led up the street and Herbert's down; so they parted at the first corner, without further talk, only the minister said, as he turned off—

"I wish, my boy, that you could write me just such a letter."

The other boys had gone on, and Herbert walked slowly along, opening the letter and reading it on the way. A part of it ran thus:

"DEAR FRIEND:—I've done it! A week ago tonight I made a resolve that I would turn square about and serve God the rest of my life. I was quite afraid that he would not have me for his own, I had resisted so long: for he has been calling me almost ever since I can remember, and I have been promising, and putting off, until I began to think that maybe he would just turn around and put me off. But I found out by my Bible that he is always ready to receive any and all that come, and now I know it, I feel it, that he has accepted me, that Christ is my Saviour and Friend. I am very glad that I did not wait any longer.

"If I should live to be an old man, I should not have any too much time to work for Jesus. I want to go right to work for him. I wish you would tell me how. We have a very good minister here, but I do not feel as well acquainted with him, and he does not know or understand me as you do. I want to thank you for your faithfulness when I was with you; and will you forgive me that I was so careless and ungrateful? . . .

"I wish I could see the boys. Tell them from me that I wish they would begin right away to serve Christ. It is not dull or gloomy work. I never was so happy. There are some nice boys here, and we have a pleasant Sunday-school class and a good teacher, but I don't believe I shall ever like any boys quite as well as some of the Westville boys. I pray for them every day. I want them to love Jesus.

"Your friend,

"TOM NICHOLS."

Mr. Nichols and Mr. Earle were old friends, and when the first-named gentleman went abroad with his invalid wife for a protracted stay, Tom came to Westville to stay with Mr. Earle. He had belonged to that troublesome Sunday-school class, and was about the most mischievous boy in it. His fun would out at the most unseasonable times, and the boy-loving Mr. Earle was sometimes troubled and puzzled us to the best way of managing his charge. But the faithful work was accepted, the earnest prayers answered, and on this Sabbath morning, the good pastor came before his people with a new courage, an increased strength, brighter hopes and stronger faith. One more soul saved! The door of another young heart thrown open to Christ! Another young life consecrated to the Lord's work! No wonder that there was an unusual emphasis put upon the selections, more earnestness in the prayers and thanksgiving, and an unwonted vigour thrown into the preaching, so that Deacon Griffin said to his wife, as they rode homeward,—

"I don't understand our pastor's mood to-day. I thought I could detect a sort of an undertone of triumph running through all the services this morning. And for my part, things look very gloomy. The state of religion in our church seems to be at a low ebb."

"I noticed it too," replied Mrs. Griffin. "When he read, 'I will praise the Lord with my whole heart in the assembly of the upright and in the congregation,' it seemed as if he really had something unusual to thank God for; but I haven't heard of any encouraging signs."

"No, I should think not," responded the deacon, sadly. "'Pears to me if Mr. Earle had thought of the big crowd they had up to Wynn's sociable night, and the half dozen we had at prayer-meeting Thursday night, he couldn't have read and preached so jubilant like. Some of the psalms of confession or lamentation would have seemed more suitable in these times. I don't know what he meant."

He found out that evening. A few faithful ones were in the habit of communing together for half an hour before evening service, for a little talk with each other and with God over the interests of the kingdom, and here Mr. Earle told them of the news that had gladdened his heart, and of one or two things that had occurred in their midst, causing him to hope that God was not far from them.

"We will watch more closely, work more diligently and pray more earnestly," said the pastor.

"Yes, we will!" exclaimed Deacon Griffin, whose whole heart—and it was a large one—was warmed by this bit of sunshine; and such a prayer as he then and there offered! Such thanksgiving! Such entreaty! Surely God must have heard.

Meantime a great tumult arose in Herbert Bradford's heart as he read Tom's letter. Tom a Christian! It could not be; and he read the letter over, to make sure that he had taken in its meaning. Yes, it was so.

"That wild boy! And he loved fun so, too! And I was going there next summer. Now we won't ever have any more good times, and he will always be dinging at me about this thing; and Mr. Earle, he wishes, and Miss Wynn, she—well, she don't say much. I suppose she knows a fellow can't stand it; but she means it. I think most every Sunday that she will bring some of us around before long, in spite of ourselves. My! How her face would glow! It would be almost worthwhile, just to see how glad she would be. That was a splendid letter she wrote last week. I almost made up my mind then to do as Tom has—turn right about. Pshaw! I can't. I don't want to, either. There's time enough five years from now.

"Is there?"

He was just passing a house where a bit of crape and white ribbon fluttered from the door-knob, and perhaps that suggested the question. Anyway, it had thrust itself in, and refused to be put aside; and Herbert found in the course of that week that to get back to his old state of careless indifference, he would have to fight his way through a host of questions, suggestions, and facts that came up from he knew not where, meeting him at every turn.

Of late, he had fallen into the habit of spending an hour or more of Sabbath afternoon over the next Sabbath-school lesson. He certainly made a great show of being studious, bringing out all the commentaries, Bible dictionaries, and books of reference that the house afforded. To-day he was out of sorts, declaring to himself that he was half a mind not to go near the class again. Anyway he wasn't going to study, he didn't want to see or hear of a Bible, he would read his library book—it looked interesting.

Dragging an easy chair into the recess of a bay window, he settled down in it, saying to himself, "Now, I won't think of Tom nor Mr. Earle again to-day," and began to read. But relief from his troublesome thoughts did not come that way. In the very first chapter, he was met by a boy as restless and unsatisfied as himself, and not finding him a very agreeable companion, he threw down the book, and then yawned and oh deared, then went after a dish of apples, then to the store-room for a lunch, though he had just been to dinner.

On his way back, he looked into the dining room to see what time it was. "Only four o'clock! Three hours to evening service! What shall I do with myself? I suppose I may as well go at that lesson. It won't be any worse than doing nothing. I can't stop thinking. I wish I could!"

The books were soon brought out, and study commenced. He began picking out prophecies concerning Christ in the book of Isaiah. Pencil and paper were called into use, and he went on busily and contentedly for a while, though now and then a verse made him think of Tom, and Mr. Earle, and Miss Wynn, and what he knew they were all praying for, the thing he knew he ought to do, but didn't want to, and didn't mean to. All the glorious prophecies and abundant promises given to the world through the inspired writer were not for him that day. Though he copied and arranged them, realizing something of their beauty and significance, he felt that he had no part in them. Suddenly he started, laid down his pencil and shut his Bible, then opened and read again—

"'The way of peace they know not; and there is no judgment in their goings: they have made them crooked paths; whosoever goeth therein shall not know peace.'"

In running over the chapter, to see if it contained any special reference to the Messiah, his eye had rested upon this verse; and it seemed as though the idea of crooked paths, contrasted with the white line he had promised to follow, met him everywhere. That promise! He already saw where it would lead him, and the thought of it greatly disturbed him. He left his books and went up to his own room in search of diversion. There the framed motto met him as he opened the door. He turned, shut the door quickly, and went down-stairs again, and wandered from room to room until his sister Julia exclaimed—

"Why, Bertie! What does ail you? You don't stay put anywhere."

"I don't know. I guess I'm tired of Sunday," answered Herbert.

"Well, I never knew you to act so before; and it is like all the Sundays, isn't it? Just so much church and Sunday-school, and just so many hours between, and cold meat and pickled oysters for dinner, because Bridget had gone to her church; mamma reading the 'Meditations,' and papa poring over a big book, and you and I—Oh! I've got a splendid book; don't you want to read it? It is about a boy—"

"Oh, one of those awful good boys, I suppose," interrupted Herbert, with an emphasis that said, "I don't want to hear anything about your 'good boys.'"

"No, sir!" returned Julia. "He was a real hateful boy—a great deal hatefuller than you are when you tease me."

"Indeed! He must have been hateful. I think I'll take a dose."

"But," said Julia, laughing, "I suppose I ought to tell you that he did most all of his bad things before the book begins, and in the first chapter somebody spoke a word that made him stop short off and turn right about."

But Herbert was gone, banging the door after him. What was the matter with people and things to-day? What possessed everybody and everything to bring up the very thoughts he was trying to get rid of? We all know that when our attention is turned to any particular subject, we are astonished at the frequent recurrence of things that seem to bear upon that very point. Herbert imagined that a very unusual combination of events had conspired to rob him of peace.

Only a few days ago, during the discussion of some school affair, Perry Morse had said to the boys, "You needn't worry about that; Herbert Bradford always keeps his promises." And Herbert had been rather proud of being known as a boy who could be relied upon.

Now here was that foolish promise to Miss Wynn. He had promised to let Christ decide all questions that might come up for decision, and here at the outset was Christ himself saying, "Follow me;" and to Herbert this meant a full surrender, and that he was not ready to make. He went to evening service with his father and Julia, and of course, in his state of mind, he thought Mr. Earle preached right at him. "He might just as well have called my name straight out," he said to himself.

The days that followed were not very pleasant ones. He could not get rid of his troublesome thoughts. In the morning, he longed for night, that he might go to sleep and forget everything; but when night came, he dreaded to go to bed, for he was tormented with the fear that he should never wake up again in this world. Wednesday was New Year's. The boys had arranged a grand skating party. Though one of the foremost and most enthusiastic planners, Herbert had suddenly lost his interest in the frolic. Still he meant to join them, and came down to the river just as a group were strapping their skates, all talking and laughing, full of glee. One, Johnny Davis, stood a little aloof looking rather sober.

"Don't you skate to-day?" asked Herbert, coming up to him with his skates over his shoulder.

"No!" answered the boy shortly. "There's never any good times for me. My old skates have given out entirely, and I cannot afford a new pair. I thought I'd come down and see the boys off; but I'd better have stayed at home," and he choked a little at the thought of his poverty.

"No," said Herbert, "it's a good thing you came. My skates are aching for a chance to cut that ice; so, if you will take charge of them, I'll be much obliged. I don't feel like going."

He turned and ran up the street before the astonished boys understood what he was about.

"Well, Johnny," said Lewie Amesbury, "that's good for you; but for the life of me, I can't make out what the fellow means. He has acted like sixty all the week!"

While the boys were puzzling over his queer behaviour, Herbert was walking rapidly up the street, thinking in this wise:

"A pretty mess I've made of it! What will the boys say? And what would they say if they knew that I was afraid to go on the ice? Yes! Actually afraid. Fool and coward that I am. But they won't think of that, for I have often been down the river when the ice bent and cracked under me. But I couldn't go to-day, though it is thick and strong. The fact is, I am afraid to die; and it seems as though death was lurking around somewhere, waiting for me. This question will have to be settled pretty soon, or I shall be crazy. Dear me! What did I promise for, and why did Tom's letter come just then, and why did everything happen just in the way it did. There's Mr. Earle now! I've got to meet him—there's no dodging that!"

CHAPTER VI.

SURRENDER.

"Here is my heart."

INSTEAD of passing on, Mr. Earle turned quietly about and walked back with Herbert, chatting upon indifferent matters in his usual entertaining way. Pretty soon he said—

"Why, I thought you boys were all off down the river this morning?"

"Not all of us," answered Herbert. "I'm here."

"I see you are. But I thought the new skates were for this occasion?"

"Well, they were; but I let another boy take the job of scratching the ice. I—well, I changed my mind about going."

"Humph! I should think so."

A minute or two after Mr. Earle said, suddenly—

"Herbert, can I help you any?"

"I don't know. I guess not."

"But you need help."

"Perhaps," answered Herbert, briefly.

"You know I am your friend, and that I shall be glad to help you," said Mr. Earle.

"If you could tell me how to get rid of a promise, without either keeping or breaking it, and how to forget things that I don't want to think of, I'd like it. But I suppose you can't do that," said Herbert, trying to laugh, but not succeeding very well.

"If I could," replied his pastor, "I might be doing you an injury. I think we shall find a better way. Let us hear how the case stands."

Herbert had thought that he would not talk with Mr. Earle for anything in the world, but now he burst out with it all.

"It's about Tom's letter, and your sermon, and our class motto, and a promise I made to Miss Wynn about it, and—I suppose I'm very wicked, and I know God is angry with me."

"No, Herbert, you are angry with God. You are angry because He has sent the Holy Spirit to lead you to the Saviour. He is doubtless angry with your sin and rebellion, but He loves you, and would save you. He wants to make you his friend; He asks your love, and you refuse it; and worse still, you are angry because He asks it. Isn't that the way of it?"

"I suppose so. I suppose it is a dreadful thing to say, but I don't want to be a Christian."

He expected his friend would be shocked at his assertion, and was surprised at the quiet reply.

"Well, in that case, why trouble yourself any more about it?"

"But I know I ought to be."

"Oh, that's it? Well, Herbert, I must say I am a little surprised. I thought you were always ready to do whatever you were sure you ought. Did you want to milk Mrs. Brown's cow every day for a fortnight while she was laid up with a sprained ankle?"

"No; but you know I was partly the means of her getting hurt, and I thought I ought to help her."

"Exactly. And I suppose you don't always want to obey the rules at school, but you know you ought to do so; and judging from the public reports, you do what you ought, not what you want to do. I saw you at the wood-pile last Saturday. I don't imagine that you wanted to do it, for I never saw a boy who liked to saw wood, and I am pretty sure your father did not compel you (you see I know his way), but you knew you ought. Isn't that all true?"

"Yes, but this is different."

"Different? Yes, in a sense." And now Mr. Earle's voice grew deep and solemn. "It is an act for eternity, an act that decides the colour of all your future, an act that ranks you with the sons of God or with the children of wrath! It is different! A priceless gift—life everlasting, a mansion in the beautiful city of our God, a pure heart, a crown of glory, all freely offered! And you turn away, saying, 'I know I ought to accept all these, but I really don't want them.' Suppose you say to your father, 'I know I ought to be very grateful for all you do for me; I ought to be glad to honour you, but I don't want to be called by your name.'"

"But, Mr. Earle," said Herbert, "I've been called by my father's name always. I belong to him, and have always had his care."

"And haven't you always had God's care? Haven't you always belonged to Him, body and soul? Refusing to take the glorious gift of free pardon through Christ doesn't change that at all. Though you grieve Him by rebellion, you belong to Him. And if you are not called by his name, it is because you will not own Him as your God and Saviour. But, Herbert, why not be a Christian?"

"Oh, there are a good many reasons," answered Herbert. "For one thing, I don't like to begin right here where I have always lived. If I were going to a new place, I could take a stand without its seeming queer."

"If somebody should offer you a splendid fortune," said Mr. Earle, "I suppose you would say, 'I don't want this known here where I have always lived. It would seem queer if I should have or do anything different from the old way. I think I had better wait until I go somewhere else before I accept the gift.' Nonsense, Herbert! You are not that sort of a boy. Now I know you pretty well, and I can give the why note about as accurately as you could yourself. You have an idea that to be religious is to be dull.

"Why, some of the most earnest Christians I know are among the most merry-hearted people I meet. To be a Christian is to be at peace—to have joy and gladness in the heart. Then you are looking too far ahead, thinking there is this or that cross that you can never take up, this or that duty that you can never perform. You look up at the mountain and think, 'I cannot scale these heights: there is no use in starting.' You forget, rather, you have never experienced, the love that lightens the burdens, smooths the hard places, and gives strength for every hour. Take up the work that lies before you to-day, and do not worry about what may be required of you to-morrow or next day. I trust that you will find your way to peace, but it will not be by shaking off your serious thoughts.

"But what were you saying about your class motto and a promise to Miss Wynn?" asked the minister, after a moment's pause.

Herbert explained as well as he could the idea embodied in the class motto. Mr. Earle listened attentively, and as he caught the idea, he exclaimed—

"Beautiful! Beautiful! A while line indeed, pure and perfect, and so plain that we need not mistake." Then referring to the promise, he asked, "But, Herbert, what did you think when you promised Miss Wynn? It isn't like you to make a rash promise."

"No," answered Herbert, "I thought I knew what I was about. I'll tell you. I quarrelled with Fred Easton about a seat in the school-room, and I thought of that, and knew that I ought to give in; then father had promised to take Julia and me out for a ride on Monday; I wanted to go to the glass-works, and Julia wanted to take three or four more and go over to Carter's to tea. We had almost quarrelled about it, and when Miss Wynn asked me to promise to refer everything to Christ, I remembered that, and decided to give up, because Julia gave up to me last time father took us out. It was just such little things that I had in mind."

"I see," said Mr. Earle, smiling. "You committed yourself, expecting only a slight skirmishing, not looking for the grand battle, and your ideas of honour will not allow you to break your word, though you had no intention of promising so much. Well, my boy, there is but one way out of it. Make an unconditional surrender. Go to Christ and say, 'I am ready to follow wheresoever thou leadest, even into the thickest of the conflict.' With such a leader you will not faint nor fall."

The two had walked up the street until they reached the church, when Mr. Earle, taking a key from his pocket, turned in at the gate, saying, "Come in, Herbert," and the boy had followed. There was to be an evening service, and the fire was already built in the lecture room. Mr. Earle drew forward one of the two arm-chairs for his companion, and occupied the other himself, and their talk went on for a little while. Very quietly and pleasantly the pastor discoursed of the wonderful theme—the new birth—making clear to the boy's mind the simple truths of Christianity, sweeping away mists of error, piercing clouds of fear, and pointing to the one Source of light.

"I sometimes think," said he, "that it is no wonder so many stumble at the very threshold of the kingdom. We have surrounded the idea of conversion with such mystery, and darkened the entrance way to the new life with theories and doctrines, and a mind unused to solemn thoughts shrinks away from trying to penetrate the mysteries of the change. It is a solemn hour when a life is voluntarily given into God's keeping, the hour of the soul's surrender. And God's work in the heart is a mystery. But our part is so easy and simple, and the change in the life and habits comes about so quietly and naturally, that we are astonished to remember our dread of this life. It is a great and solemn change; I want you to realize that, but I want that you should also remember that your part of the work is very slight, and that your benefits are very incalculable."

This interview, which Herbert dreaded and shrank from, closed with an earnest prayer. Mr. Earle said, "Now, Herbert, what shall I say to Christ for you?"

For a full minute Herbert looked straight into the stove, and Mr. Earle waited. The good man seemed to understand the boy, and know when to speak and when to wait. At length, with tears in his voice and eyes, Herbert said, "You may tell him that I am ready to follow."

They had risen from their seats, and now Mr. Earle threw an arm over the boy's shoulders and exclaimed, "My boy! My boy! My brother in Christ!" And, standing thus, he poured out his heart, not in words of entreaty, as he had thought to do, but in joyful thanksgiving.

As for Herbert, a strange calm had succeeded the tumult of the last few days. It seemed as if he had stepped into a new world. As he was leaving the room, he said, "Well, I have said I was ready to follow Christ, and I am, but I don't know the first step to take."

Mr. Earle had just drawn out his watch. Holding it up, he answered, "Take it toward home, eat your supper and feed your rabbits, and remember that you may as truly and really follow the Master in these every-day affairs us though you proclaimed the gospel from the pulpit. In fact, Herbert, you may sometimes find that it will require more grace to take up the common duties of life in the right spirit than to minister at the altar."

Herbert went home with a light step, and never once thought of the skating party, nor of the surprise his early return would occasion. He met Julia in the hall.

"Why, Bertie!" she began, "back already? I thought you were going to skate home by moonlight." Then anxiously, "Anything happened?"

"Yes," answered Herbert. "But you needn't be scared; nothing has happened to the skaters that I know of. The fact is, I didn't go."

"Didn't go!" echoed Julia. "Then where have you been?"

Herbert hesitated. Should he—could he tell her all about it now. It was so new, he had not got used to the deep peace and the strange happiness. Could he talk about it? How should he tell her? She waited for an answer; but as he looked up before he spoke, she exclaimed—

"What is it? I never saw you look that way before!"

"How? What way?"

"Why, you look so—so—as if the sunshine had got inside, and was pouring out through your eyes, and your mouth, too," she said, laughing.

"I guess you've hit it, Jule. I—I'll tell you about it. I have been talking with Mr. Earle, and I—you know about the motto. Well, it's no use pretending to follow, I'm going to do it in real earnest. I thought to-day was a good time to settle it, and it is done. Christ is now my Leader."

"O Bertie," said Jule, softly, "I am so glad!"

"Why, Julia! Do you love him too?" asked Herbert, wondering.

"Why, I've always loved him, but I didn't know that it was just loving and trusting him, and trying to please him, that gave people the name of Christians, until Mr. Earle explained it to me. Oh, won't Miss Wynn be glad!"

"Where have you been this afternoon?" asked Mr. Bradford as he came in to tea.

"With Mr. Earle, sir," answered the boy, promptly.

"Ah! You were in good company, then," said his father, passing on to the dining room.

As they left the table, Herbert said, "Father, if mother is willing, I would like to take Julia down to church tonight. You know it is lecture night."

"Very well."

As Herbert went up-stairs, he said to himself, "I couldn't tell father right out that I have found Jesus, but maybe he will see. If I follow Him as I ought, he must see."

Mr. Earle telegraphed a quick look to Mabel when Herbert and Julia entered the lecture room before the evening service had begun. Mabel caught the glance; also one from Herbert, and his happy look, and said to herself, "They know something that I don't; I must find out; I can't wait. Oh, if it should be that God has heard me, and answered even before I had expected!"

As they passed out after the meeting closed, a low voice said, "Is it a happy New Year?" and the quick response was "Yes;" brief, but full of meaning, and understood by the happy teacher.

As Mr. Earle had hoped, God came very near to them in the weeks that followed. Many were brought into the kingdom. Five of Miss Joslyn's class of eight girls were led to give their hearts to Jesus. Bright, laughing Lou was a faithful teacher. The girls loved her, and clustered about her so that one could hardly tell which was teacher and which was taught (and, indeed, what Sunday-school teacher is there who does not feel that they themselves are taught many valuable lessons by their class?). She had been their teacher for several years, labouring earnestly for them, and now she had her reward in part.

But Miss Wynn's class, excepting Herbert Bradford and one other, stood aloof. If Mabel was surprised that her prayer for Herbert was answered, much less was she prepared for Henry Trafton's avowal of love for the dear Redeemer. He had appeared the most unpromising boy in the class, and she had found it difficult to make him comprehend her instructions; but he heard the call; he understood the plain command, "Follow me," and straightway he obeyed. The others were diligent and attentive, but closed their hearts against Him who, entering in, would mike their lives complete, their happiness secure.

CHAPTER VII.

A REFORM.

"Whatsoever thy hand findeth."

THROUGH many improvements had come in with the fresh growth of interest in the Sunday-school cause, Mr. Clarke had not yet seen his way clear to the establishment of regular teachers' meetings for prayer and study. Occasionally a meeting to talk over ways and means would be appointed, with the invitation extended to all interested in the school. The result of the call would be a thin attendance, the talking done by Superintendent Clarke, Deacon Griffin and Dr. Myers, with now and then a word from Deacon Holt and Mr. Earle. These proposed measures, discussed them, and then decided upon them, though, as a form, the questions might be put to vote, the popular side calling up two or three hands from the back seats.

It was some months after Mabel joined the working force of the school that one of these meetings was announced. To talk over the interests of the infant class and other matters connected with the school, Mr. Clarke had said, "Tuesday evening at seven o'clock," repeating the latter part of the announcement with considerable emphasis. Promptly at the hour Mabel Wynn was at the door. To her surprise she found it locked. She stood a moment in doubt, looking up and down the street, then seeing Lou Joslyn across the way she joined her.

"Why, Lou," she began, "is the meeting given up?"

"I think not. Why?"

"There is nobody there and the door is looked."

Lou laughed as she answered, "Oh, is that all? You are too early by half an hour!"

"That can't be," answered Mabel; "the meeting was to be at seven o'clock, and it is ten minutes after now."

"Oh, well, you see they come when they get ready. You'll soon find out. There's Deacon Griffin now; he has the key, and he will unlock the door, and go away. Deacon Holt will come pretty soon, and look in, and go away; then Mrs. Culver and Mrs. Gibson will go in, and wait, taking the opportunity to talk over the state of things in the church, and outside, too. Dr. Myers will come next, with the evening paper; he will lean against the fence and read while he waits. About half-past seven, Mr. Clarke will be on hand (he has tried the door once before you came); the deacons will come back, and a few more will drop in, and the meeting will begin."

"Dear me!" said Mabel, at the close of Lou's rattling explanation. "What shall I do? I don't like promenading up and down the street waiting for meeting to begin, and I don't like to go there and sit alone in that great forlorn room."

"I was going to call upon Mrs. Lewis," responded Lou, "but if you like, we will go in now and set a good example for the minister and the deacons."

"Is that the way you always do at your meetings?" asked Mabel, as she and Lou walked down the street toward Mr. Wynn's store, where Michael was to wait for her. "Don't any of the lady teachers ever say anything?"

"Why, no! That is, not aloud," answered Lou, laughing.

"I declare," continued Mabel. "I could hardly keep still. There were half a dozen things I wanted to ask, and one or two suggestions I should have made; but I was a newcomer, and no one else said anything, so I didn't dare."

"Well, you see," explained Lou, "when we have any plan we talk to Mr. Clarke beforehand; get things all worked up, you understand, and he pushes them through if he can. Then if any new idea comes up, we whisper it over, and somebody beckons to Dr. Myers, and he tiptoes over, listens to a whispered argument, and tiptoes back. Then pretty soon, he gets up and says, 'It has been suggested,' &c. Then we ladies nod and smile, and are very much gratified that our ideas are getting an airing."

Mabel was much amused at Lou's absurd way of putting it, though judging from the meeting she had just attended it was exactly true.

"Well," she said, "it is a queer way of doing things."

"So it is, Miss Wynn," said Mr. Clarke, coming up behind them. "Can't you and Lou bring about a reform?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Lou. "I am not of the stuff reformers are made of. New ways are so uncertain. We are all used to the old plan, and it works very well. We are pretty sure of getting our way, and I think it is the whispered consultations that bring it about."

"No doubt of it. I would not break those up for anything," responded Mr. Clarke, mischievously, as he hurried forward to overtake Deacon Holt.

One or two more meetings after the same pattern roused Mabel to action. First she talked it over with Lou, who liked her proposition "immensely," and to whom she said—

"I do not wish to push myself forward, and if you, who are an old teacher, will talk it over with the others, the lady teachers, I mean, and enlist them, I am sure we can bring it about."

"Splendid!" exclaimed Lou. "And we won't let the gentlemen know a thing about it until it is all done.

"Of course," continued the merry girl, "Mrs. Culver won't like it. She never wants us to get out of the old track."

Mabel had noticed that they all were free enough to express their opinions when they were clustered about the door or gathered in somebody's parlour, and she said to Lou— "If we only had a cozy little room where we could come together without so much stiffness, and talk over our affairs, we might get along better; but that great bare room chills everybody."

"That's so," replied Lou. "These straight, hard benches put 'yes, ma'am,' and 'no, ma'am,' into me, and scare everything else out."

Connected with the lecture room was an apartment that had been originally intended for a pastor's study, but owing to Mr. Earle's preference for a study in his own house, the room had long been unused except as a sort of lumber room. It had a bay window, the walls were unsoiled, the carpet stored away in a box, the curtains rolled up and shoved behind a book-case. The plan was to fit up this room as a church parlour. Miss Joslyn succeeded in her mission, though Mrs. Culver, as she had predicted, did not approve of church parlours, and declined to lend her assistance.

Armed with the proper authority, as well as with brooms and brushes, the other lady teachers entered upon the work of renovation. The stock in hand having been looked over, it was found that the carpet, though somewhat moth-eaten, could be made quite respectable; the curtains would do very well. Then arose the question of chairs, tables, &c. Of course the first thing thought of was a subscription or a church collection.

Now Mabel knew her father would give liberally if called upon; but she remembered the opposition she had met with when she entered upon her work, and thought it wise not to ask him, and was silent, waiting for Lou to speak. Said that young lady—

"I hate to go around and ask people for money."

"But," said Mrs. Gibson, "what will you do? We can't do it all ourselves."

"I know that," replied Lou; "but there are different grades of beggars. I don't know but it may be more respectable to beg for money, but those who go about asking for old clothes are more successful."

"I don't come at your idea yet," said Miss Fox. "Do you propose that we beg for old clothes, and sell them for money?" she asked, laughing.

"Not exactly," was the reply, and Lou proceeded at once to unfold their plan, which being approved was adopted.

In pursuance of this plan, she and Mabel sallied out the next morning to make a round of calls. Their first visit was at the house of Mr. Riggs, a wealthy manufacturer.

"Mrs. Riggs," said Mabel, "we want two chairs! We don't care for new ones, but they must be such as you would not be ashamed to have in your sitting room. They need not be alike, but must be comfortable."

It was a strange request, made without explanation; but Mr. Riggs turned at once to his wife.

"What can you spare, Lucy?"

Mrs. Riggs looked amused, and said—

"I wish, Mabel, that you had asked for the whole of the library furniture. I could spare that as well as not. I've been trying to coax Henry to get new for some time. Go in and make your selection."

"We could take the whole off your hands, and not encumber ourselves at all," responded Lou; "but we'll leave part for the next beggar."

"Well, Lucy, let the girls have what they want, and you may order the new furniture at once," and they proceeded to the library.

"What are those girls about!" exclaimed Mrs. Riggs, as they took their leave, after the easy chair and a pair of brackets had been promised.

"I'm sure I can't guess," responded the gentleman. "I should not think of trying to unravel any of Mabel's mysterious doings."

The next call was at Deacon Holt's.

"One chair here," said Mabel, as they waited upon the step. Making known their errand, they were answered by a hearty laugh from the good-natured deacon.

"Do tell! Are you girls going to set up house-keeping on your own hook?"

"You've guessed pretty close, and we want all our friends to furnish their own chairs, so that they will always be welcome."

Their requests were everywhere the same. "One or two chairs, new or old, easy and not shabby." Later in the day they all met at the new parlour to compare their lists of gifts, and found that enough had been donated to furnish the room handsomely. Mabel had instructed Michael to appear with the express wagon at four o'clock, and he was sent off with the list.

Two days later the room was ready for use. A dozen chairs, a sofa, a small round table which Mr. Riggs had added, some pictures and brackets, made a very pleasant and cosy parlour out of the old lumber room. A few camp chairs were stored in a closet, to be brought as occasion required.

Thus it happened that Westville had a church parlour.

CHAPTER VIII.

A PRAYER ANSWERED.

"For pain is not the end of pain."

MR. TRAFTON kept a livery establishment which was extensively patronized by gay and fashionable people—people to whom the Sabbath was a day of pleasuring—and it was through this Sabbath-breaking that Henry Trafton's trial of faith was to come. It so happened that about the time of the summer school vacation they were short of help at the stables, and as Henry understood the management of horses remarkably well for a boy of fourteen, he was drafted into service. He was fond of horses and rather liked the employment, until one Sabbath morning a party wished to be driven to the lake, fifteen miles away.

"But, father," said Henry, "I can't go to-day."

"I'd like to know why?"

"Why, it's Sunday, and I must go to Sunday-school."

"Must, eh? Who says you must?" asked his father, half angrily.

"'Well, I always do. I—I never thought of driving out Sundays," said the boy, in a troubled tone.

"Well, suppose you never did think of it? The time has come now to do it. Don't let's have any nonsense about it," was the impatient reply.

Henry went to his mother with his trouble, who reasoned that it was necessary work, that it was their business, that it was a proper and useful business. He was not responsible for the way in which the party spent the day. He need not join in their frolics. And while they had their sail on the lake, he could rest in the grove and study the Bible lesson. It was very different from going for his own pleasure. If they kept horses to let, they must let them out on the Sabbath. If they let them to young Reeves to go to his mission school at the Ridge, could they refuse to drive young Golden and his friends to the lake? Should they dictate to their customers the direction and object of their drives?

This reasoning did not satisfy the boy. It was all a muddle. He could not tell exactly what would be the right way to conduct the business, and, besides, obedience to his parents was one of his strong points. If his father would not yield, he must. These were miserable Sabbaths. Sometimes he ventured to remonstrate, then his father grew angry, declaring that he should not go to Sunday-school any more even when he was at liberty.

"A pretty piece of business! Teaching a boy to set himself up for authority!"

"Father," said Henry, softly, "It is the Bible that is up for authority."

"Oh, you needn't quote Bible to me. I reckon I understand that quite as well as you do, or your saintly teacher. You have never been too nice to eat the bread or wear the clothes bought with the Sunday earnings of the horses and their drivers. Seems to me you are making extra fine distinctions. And, too, I wonder if your pious friends down there know any difference between my money and other people's? They are glad enough to have me pay twenty-five dollars for a pew that I never sit in, and in return they put nonsensical notions into your head. I believe in religion, but I don't believe in that kind. The whole concern is a humbug."

Now Mr. Trafton did not think any such thing as he indicated in his last remark. He did believe the very truths which had been put into Henry's heart through the teachings of the Sunday-school, though he had so long practically denied the gospel that it was only now and then that his conscience stirred, and then he grew bold and defiant.

Henry was very unhappy. He went to evening service, but hurried out to avoid an interview with Miss Wynn. Reaching home he went directly to his own room. He took his Bible, turned over the leaves, read a few verses here and there. There were plenty of promises, plenty of verses, that had comforted him at other times; but it seemed that there was no word for him now, and he closed the book, saying, "There's no promise to Sabbath-breakers, and that is just what I am. But father says it is not wicked, that it is necessary. And Mr. Brown came for a carriage to go to the springs this evening, and he is a member of our church. If he could go to ride instead of going to evening service, is it wrong for me to obey father and go off in the daytime? Dear me, I don't know anything about it. Anyway I can't stand it much longer. If God only would hear me."

And then the perplexed and troubled boy prayed, "O God, my Father, help me. I want to do right, but I am so miserably weak and cowardly that I am afraid to resist my father's will. O God, don't let me be so tempted. Take away my trouble. Deliver me out of this dark place. Please to show my father how wrong it is, and do not let him ask me to drive out any more upon the Sabbath." This was the burden of his prayer, not "Give me strength to follow the right," but "Deliver me out of my trouble."

Were the events of the week in answer to that prayer?

Wednesday morning Mr. Trafton said—

"Henry, a gentleman, a stranger in town, wants to go out to Crandall's. You may take the black horse and a light buggy and drive out for him."

"O father, that horse! Can't I have Lady Bess?"

"No; Mrs. Jenks wants Bess to drive out by herself this afternoon, and you will not be back in time," replied Mr. Trafton, adding, "You needn't be afraid to drive the black; he has been very sober lately. I am not afraid to trust you with him."

"Oh, I don't mind. I had a little rather drive Bess, but it's no matter."

As Henry was starting out his father said—

"See here, Henry, it is the day of the picnic, isn't it?"

"Yes," responded Henry; "but I don't care a great deal. It is a nice drive out to Crandall's. I think I shall enjoy it."

"Yell, I guess you can have the day's earnings for your lesson fund."

"Oh, that's grand! Thank you."

Henry Trafton cared very little for books; he hated study, and the weekly school reports showed a wretchedly low standing in his classes, but his knowledge of some particular branches was remarkable; for instance, natural history and physical geography. Some one once expressed surprise at this, when he responded, "I learned those things from pictures."

The walls of his room were covered with pictures; his table was strewed with them; his trunk and drawers were full; they overflowed and spread through the house; he carried them in his pocket and between the leaves of his books; pictures of all sorts and sizes, bought with his pocket-money, torn from magazines, cut from newspapers, and not a few drawn by himself, some in pencil and some in coloured crayons. It was plain that he was a lover of art. Whether he had a talent for picture making remained to be seen. He was anxious to take some lessons of an artist who had a studio in town, and his father, who thought it the merest nonsense and waste of time and money, had finally consented, provided Henry should save his pocket-money to pay for the lessons.

As the now delighted boy harnessed the spirited horse, he said, "Old fellow, the money you'll earn to-day will be a heavy lift for me. Five dollars! Whoa! You needn't prance about as if the ground wasn't good enough for you to step on. You're likely to get considerable of it into your shiny coat before night. I s'pect we'll make the dust fly, won't we, old fellow?"

In the course of that afternoon, a man came to the house to say that the horse which Henry had driven had just come panting to the stables without driver or carriage, and with part of the harness dragging, and that one of the men had gone out on horseback to look for the castaways.

"And," said the man, "I had just come from the depot with the carriage, and so I drove right up here, thinking maybe you'd want to follow. One can't tell what may have happened."

Mr. Trafton only delayed to go to the kitchen and give a few hasty orders. "You need not tell Mrs. Trafton," he said. "If anything serious has occurred, I will come or send some one to tell her."

Just as he was stepping into the carriage, Dr. Myers passed. "Here, doctor, we may need you. Just go along with us," was the abrupt invitation, which was promptly accepted.

It was a sad and almost silent party that came back two hours later. Very slowly and carefully the driver guided his horses; very tenderly Mr. Trafton supported his suffering boy, and very anxious was the expression of every face. The stranger, who had escaped with a sprain or two and a few bruises, stated that the horse had been very restive all day, but that Henry had managed him remarkably well until, on their return, frightened at a peddler's cart, he sprang down a steep bank, overturning the buggy, landing the gentleman upon the opposite bank, while Henry, holding on stoutly, was dragged some distance over brush and stones. He was insensible when picked up, but he had revived a little before reaching home, though not able to speak.

When Dr. Myers had made an examination of his patient's state, he said, "Mr. Trafton, I should like to have you call in a more experienced surgeon. I do not feel willing to take the responsibility of treating the case without counsel. If you will call Dr. Maxwell, and if his diagnosis agrees with mine, we shall all feel better satisfied."

"Tell me," began the father, and stopped, unable to ask the question.

"I do not think," replied the doctor, "that your son will die; but I tell you frankly that his injuries are very serious."

And the poor man understood then, quite as well as he did a week later when Dr. Maxwell told him, that his boy could never walk again without a crutch.

When gently and tenderly Dr. Myers told Henry the sad truth, he only said, "No matter, I don't think I shall mind so very much." Then seeing the doctor's look of surprise, he added, "I have just found out that God has his own way of answering prayers, and when we don't ask for the right thing, or forget to say, 'Thy will be done,' it seems as though he just took us at our word and gave us what we asked for, but it comes a little differently from the way we expected."

"You don't mean that you think your lying here with your broken bones is an answer to prayer! I'm sure I wouldn't pray any more in that case!" The speaker was Aunt Harriet, a sister of Mr. Trafton, who had come to help care for the sufferer. One might know by the tone in which she spoke that she knew nothing of the power of prayer.

"O auntie," said Henry, "I wouldn't stop praying, but just learn to pray right. I can't tell all that God means by this, but it puts an end to a great trouble. I had been praying over it, but I never once asked for help to follow the White Line—" (glancing at the framed motto which hung at the foot of the bed) "straight through it all. I just begged God would take away the trouble, and I rather think," he continued, smiling faintly, "that he has."

Dr. Myers interposed. "I must not let you talk too much, my boy. I think God has you in his keeping, and is leading you onward. This trial may prove the greatest blessing of your life. Good morning, now. Rest all you can."

"Blessing," muttered Aunt Harriet, as she followed the doctor into the next room for directions. "I must say it looks like it, having to hobble through life on a stick, with no chance to do anything or be anything."

"I think, Miss Trafton," responded the doctor, "that you will see it quite differently by and bye. It seems sad, but I am not sure that Henry's chances of doing and being something worthwhile are not better than they were a fortnight since. I met him three or four weeks ago, and a more discouraged, dispirited appearing boy I don't often see. He did not tell me the trouble he speaks of, but I think I guessed it. There are worse troubles than broken bones."

At the gate the doctor met Mabel Wynn. "You'd better not go in now," he said, "the boy needs rest."

"How is he to-day?" she asked.

"Improving," he replied. "And, Mabel, he looks and talks like one who has been lifted up to a higher plane than a good many of us have reached."

"Does he know?" she asked.

"Yes, I have just told him. He says it is all right. He has never uttered a complaining word from the beginning. Somehow I can't help thinking that he will grow to have a rarely beautiful Christian character."

"And I have been so anxious about him!" said Mabel. "So faithless. I have sometimes almost doubted if he really understood what it means to be a Christian. He always seemed interested and attentive; but I feared he did not comprehend the truth. And of late he has often been absent front the class, and seemed to avoid an explanation. I could not understand it at all. But," she added, after a pause, "I suppose it was not necessary that I should. God takes care of his own."

"Yes, he does," replied the doctor. "But, Mabel, he sometimes makes use of us in doing it. Perhaps your anxieties and your fears for your pupil made you more careful to explain the truth and make the way to Christ plain. Do you know, I think that motto a particularly happy thought, if they only get the sentiment into their hearts?"

Here their ways parted, and Mabel went home with a lighter heart than she had carried for many days, she had been so anxious for her pupil.

It was Saturday evening, a month after the accident. Mr. Trafton answered a ring at the door, and found it was young Golden, who had brought a basket of grapes for the invalid.

"Come in and present them yourself. Henry will be glad to see you," said Mr. Trafton.

"Thank you, I will."

Henry was now able to take a half-sitting posture, propped up by pillows, and was allowed to receive his friends. The three chatted cheerfully, even gaily, for some time. At length Mr. Golden turned to Henry.

"Well, I suppose you won't be ready to drive a party of us out to the lake to-morrow?"

The boy's cheeks flushed a little as he replied, smiling—

"Hardly."

The young man continued, turning now to Mr. Trafton—

"I would like to have a carriage to-morrow. We want to start at six. Can you accommodate us?"

"I am sorry," was the reply, "to refuse, Mr. Golden; but we have lately passed a resolution down at the office to let no more horses upon the Sabbath for secular business or pleasure excursions."

"Why, Mr. Trafton! Really—I—! You are not in earnest?"

"In serious earnest. Our notice was put in the 'Standard' this morning, and also posted on the doors at the office and the stables," replied Mr. Trafton.

"Really, this is very astonishing! What does it mean? Aren't you afraid your business will fall off seriously?" asked Mr. Golden.

"I presume it will. But you see I wanted to do something to please my boy here, and hit upon this thing."

"Too bad! I wish you could accommodate us this once. It will be a great disappointment, as our party is all made up."

"I am sorry for your disappointment," was the reply. "I meant to have got the notice in the paper early in the week, but by an oversight of Dalton's, it was omitted."

"Well, all I have to say," said Mr. Golden, half angrily, "is that you will lose by it. It is an unheard of proceeding. Mon who expect the public to patronize them must try to please the public."

At this indirect threat Mr. Trafton smiled, and replied—

"I am not obliged to continue this business. If it fails me, I can saw wood."

As the gentleman was the owner of a fine block of houses, which brought him a good rental, the danger of his being reduced to wood-sawing for a livelihood did not appear very imminent.

"Anyway," he continued, "I have decided to try the experiment."

As he came back, after showing his visitor out, Henry exclaimed—

"O father, I am so glad!"

A little while after, he said—

"I am glad I wasn't hurt on Sunday."

"So am I! It was the thought of what I must have suffered had it happened upon some of those Sabbaths when I sent you off so against your conscience that first led me to think of giving up Sunday business."

As he was bidding his father good night, Henry whispered—

"Do you know, father, what beautiful promises there are in the Bible for those who hallow the Sabbath?"

CHAPTER IX.

FRAGMENTS OF TALK.

"Step by step the journey's taken."

SUNDAY-SCHOOL was over. Mr. Clarke had shaken hands with the last teacher; answered the last question; smiled upon this or that group as he passed down the aisle; stopped a moment to speak a word of welcome to a new scholar; and then walked briskly up the street to overtake Miss Dare, who looked so tired to-day, as if she needed an encouraging word, a word which Mr. Clarke knew how to speak. The teachers had done their class-work for the day, whether well or ill, and gone their various ways; the sexton had closed the shutters and locked the door, but still that group of boys lingered.

A year had gone by since that Sabbath when Mabel Wynn was first sent to them. Two more had been added to their number, Arthur Knapp and Willy Loring, but one was not there, and the boys grew sad whenever Henry's name was mentioned; for it was now well understood that he would never be strong again. Arthur Knapp was a newcomer, and they had stopped to talk a little and get acquainted. Something had gone wrong with Perry Morse, and he was pulling at Herbert Bradford's sleeve, saying—

"Come, Bert; if you are going my way, come along."

"Don't be in a hurry; I want to talk a little while," replied Herbert.

Perry started down the walk, halted half-way, and turned back.

"You are so awful particular," he said, "I shouldn't think you'd think it quite the thing to stand there gossiping. Seems to me your white line has a good many curves in it. It leads you in a curious way."

"You are mistaken," responded Herbert. "The line is straight, but the trouble is, we boys get away from it—I mean I do."

"I should think you'd better speak for yourself," was the half-surly remark of Perry.

"Miss Wynn talked solemn to-day, didn't she?" broke in Willy.

"Yes, and you made a baby of yourself," said Perry, who seemed disposed to say hateful things.

Sensitive little Willy flushed and drew back, but Duncan McNair flashed out, saying—

"I tell you what it is, Perry Morse, I'd rather be a baby than a stone; and another thing, I don't think it is very good manners to be gazing about, or winking at somebody across the aisle, while Miss Wynn is talking."

"Nobody asked for your opinion upon good manners," retorted Perry.

"Come," said Herbert. "There will be a quarrel here, if we don't look-out."

"All your fault," growled Perry. "We should have been half-way home, if you had not been so slow."

Herbert gathered up his books as if about to start. A small box marked "Willing Workers" attracted Arthur's attention.

"Is that your class name?" he asked.

"Ha, ha!" laughed the provoking Perry. "Better be called 'Willing Idlers.' Class collection last month, thirty-five cents! That's a good one! I'd parade the name."

"Well," said Lewie Amesbury. "I was ashamed. Can't we do better next quarter? Let's pledge ourselves to do more."

"How much more?"

"Oh, make it the biggest of all!" said Perry.

"Suppose we calculate a little," said Lewie. "There are six of us, and twelve Sundays in quarter. Suppose we each give five cents a week—five times twelve are sixty, and six times sixty are three hundred and sixty. Three dollars and sixty cents! That would do. Miss Wynn would make it up to four dollars."

"Better make it up ourselves," said some one.

"Well, let's do it! All in favour of giving four dollars next quarter, say I."

There were fire prompt "I's."

"Arthur Knapp, why didn't you vote?" was asked.

"Because I am not sure that I can give so much," was the timid reply.

"Well, some of us will have to give more to make it up. I have plenty of money. I can put in more as well as not," said Perry, grandly.

The boys were used to his boasting and did not mind.

Lewie had a new idea. "I've heard," he said, "that it is a good rule to give one-tenth of a person's income. Who will do that—give one-tenth of all we get to the fund?"

"I will!" exclaimed one and another, until all seemed to agree.

"Well, here is the beginning," and Lewie turned out his pockets, counting his money rapidly. "Sixty-seven cents! I won't cheat the missionaries out of half a cent—here are seven cents." Duncan, following his example, handed over eleven cents to the treasurer. The rest had empty pockets, though Perry said he had five dollars at home.

"All right," said Duncan. "Hand over your fifty cents to-morrow morning. Jolly! Won't it count up?"

"I reckon you needn't count up quite so fast; I guess I see myself giving fifty cents to your eleven! I guess!"

"But that is according to the pledge."

"I don't care. I sha'n't do it. There goes Uncle John. I'll go home with him and get my dinner. Bert, you can talk until night, if you want to!"

"What is the matter with Perry to-day?" asked Lewie Amesbury.

"I don't see as anything unusual is the matter," responded Duncan. "I believe he likes to be as hateful as possible."

"Thinketh no evil," said Herbert softly.

"Well—I know, but I can't help it, he does provoke me so."

"Is not easily provoked," continued the same soft voice.

"Dear me!" said Duncan. "If you saw as much of him as I do, you'd get provoked. He never seems to care for anybody but himself, and don't mind hurting other folk's feelings one bit. A body can't stand everything."

"Beareth all things . . . Suffereth long."

"O Bert, you are determined to throw that lesson at me in pieces. Well, I own I haven't much of that precious article so much talked about to-day. I know people who do deal largely in it, get on a great deal better; somehow it smooths off a great many sharp edges. But when I can see as plain as day that a person means to be hateful (I am not talking about Perry Morse now), or says things that aren't true, or is tricky and dishonest, how am I going to think no evil?"

"I think Miss Wynn explained that a great deal better than I can," said Herbert. "You know she said we ought to have our hearts so full of love that we would be ready to think the very best of everybody; to put the best instead of the worst construction upon their acts, and remember that they may have a true motive in many things that seem to us altogether wrong."

"It was a beautiful lesson," said Willy Loring. "It made me feel as if I should never say or think evil of anybody again."

"Oh, you dear little innocent!" exclaimed Duncan. "It isn't necessary for you to turn over a new leaf. I'd like to hear you burst out with something dreadful about somebody just for once. Do you know, little one, that you are altogether too good now? Don't, I beg of you, go to getting any better. We shall all suffocate with goodness before long. But since Perry spoke of dinner I feel my need; so come on, Bert, I'll go around your way."

These two started off, leaving the others to go their ways, which they did at once.

Not long before this, the class had been talking of "opportunities," and now as they walked up the street, Herbert said to himself, "I wonder if this is my opportunity."

Duncan always seemed so careless. Could he say anything that would make him think? If Miss Wynn had failed, should he try? At length he said, not so much because he meant to use his opportunity as by way of saying something—

"Dunny, did you ever notice that, no matter what the lesson is about, Miss Wynn always brings the talk around to Christ?"

"Why, no. I never thought about it particularly," replied Duncan. "The fact is, I don't always pay attention."

"And you'll own that after the lecture you gave Perry," said Herbert.

"Oh, I just said that to give him a chance to explode. I know he was dying for an excuse. I don't pretend to do better myself," replied Duncan. "Hang it!" he continued. "I must have fun."

"But there are things that are better than fun," remarked Herbert.

"Yes, I know. Dinners, for instance!"

"Dear me," thought his friend, "he won't be serious." But he began again, this time coming to the point at once.

"Say, Danny, won't you be in earnest about following Christ?"

"Couldn't think of it at present," was the light reply. "I've got too many things on hand just now. Besides, it must be hard work. Christ was all the time going about preaching and helping folks. Everybody can't do that—somebody must stay at home; and if I should set out in earnest, I might be bothered to know whether I belonged to the preachers or the stay-at-home-ers."

"O Duncan! But don't you remember what Mr. Earle said in his sermon the other Sunday, that we could preach Christ in our homes sometimes to more purpose than we could in the pulpit?"

"I reckon my father wouldn't thank me to turn his house into a preaching chapel," said Duncan, laughing.

"But you know what he meant," replied Herbert. "Just to let our light shine."

"Well, you just go ahead with your lantern and light me along."

Herbert could not say another word, his heart was full, and presently Duncan said—

"Don't bother yourself, Bertie. Maybe some day I shall think as you do; but I really can't sober down just yet. Good-bye;" and he turned in at his father's gate.

As Herbert walked on alone, he said softly, "Dear Jesus, I wanted to do something for thee. I tried, but I failed. But I want Duncan to be thy disciple, and wilt thou send some one to say just the right word? He leads the boys at school, and if he were only a Christian, he could do so much to help others along. Don't let him slip away from the right path. Dear Saviour, hear my prayer for my friend."

Meantime Mabel and her friend Lou Joslyn walked home together. Lou taught a class of little girls—ten of them. Among them were Julia Bradford and Duncan McNair's sister Jenny. While the boys thought Miss Wynn perfection, the girls were equally certain that Miss Joslyn was the very best teacher in the world, and occasionally an excited discussion took place concerning this matter, ending of course, as such discussions generally do, each party sticking to their point. Both were earnest, faithful teachers, and they often took counsel together, comparing their experience, and laying out plans for further effort.

To-day Mabel was perplexed.

"I don't like," she said "the way our missionary collections are managed. I don't mean that the money is not taken care of and sent where it does good; but the trouble is, the scholars have no interest in the matter. Our class collection is almost nothing, and while I am mortified, I can't blame the boys, for after the quarterly report of the amount collected, they never hear anything more about it. Willy Loring asked me to-day where the money went to."

"That is just what my little girls are always asking," said Lou. "And you know it goes in with the church collection, and is divided up among the half dozen boards that we are supposed to be interested in; and where poor little Jenny's pennies finally find their destined work is more than I can tell. If I should grow pathetic over suffering Persia, or try to awaken an interest in these mission schools in Turkey, or tell them about the young Zulu that our church has undertaken to educate, Julia Bradford would be sure to ask, 'Are you certain that our money goes there?'"

"That is it," replied Mabel. "They want to know exactly what is done with it; and I wish we could have a different arrangement."

"I wish so too," responded Lou. "I did speak to Mrs. Culver about it a while ago, and she thought that it was best as it is; that the children ought to be trained to give from principle; that they understood perfectly well that it was given for the support of missionaries among the heathen, and that ought to satisfy them."

"Well," said Mabel, "that may satisfy Mrs. Culver's young ladies, but it does not satisfy my boys."

"Nor my girls; and I tell you, Mabel, we will have something done about it."

"We will try anyway," returned Miss Wynn. "I'm going to see Dr. Myers about it."

"I suppose you think it will go, if he takes hold of it," laughed Lou.

"Things generally do," was the quiet reply.

They walked on in silence for a few moments; then Lou spoke in a soft tone—

"Do you know, Mabel, I think that several of my little girls have learned the sweet lesson of trust in Jesus? I have known for a long time that Julia Bradford sang 'Jesus loves me' as if it had a meaning for her; and now there are three more who can join her. You don't know how glad I am."

"Yes, I do. I remember how I felt when Henry and Herbert made the decision," replied Mabel. "But why should the work stop there? Do you know," she continued, "I sometimes think that perhaps that motto was a mistake. I am afraid that some of the boys have fallen into the error of supposing that an outward observance of the rules and precepts which Christ laid down is sufficient. In their outward lives, they follow closely, but so far as I can judge, their hearts have not been opened to the Saviour. I try to make them understand how worthless is such service; but so far God seems to withhold his blessing. Pray for us, Lou."

"But you are aware, no doubt, that your plan will meet with opposition? Mrs. Culver, for one, will object to a change," said Dr. Myers the next afternoon, when Mabel had broached the subject of a Sunday-school missionary society.

"I know, but it seems as though the matter was of sufficient importance to warrant a moderate amount of pushing. It is very essential that our pupils be taught the right way of giving, and as the matter is at present conducted it is very difficult to interest them in the subject, especially the younger ones."

"Just so," replied the doctor. "Mr. Clarke has spoken of it, and I think we had better make a move. We will talk it over a little quietly, as we meet the other teachers, and see what can be done at the next meeting."

"Another thing," said Miss Wynn. "I am troubled about Perry Morse. He has grown very careless and reckless in manner, and I fear I am losing what little hold I have had upon him. Perhaps you may have an opportunity to influence and help him, when he would be quite beyond my reach. You will look-out for him?"

"Certainly, I will. I have noticed something of that recklessness. Perry has good capabilities, but I think his home-training is in fault. You have a new scholar in your class?"

"Yes, Arthur Knapp. Do you know anything of the family?"

"Not much," replied the doctor. "I was called there professionally. They seem to be quite poor. The father is employed in Miller's shop. He inquired about our schools, and said, as Arthur must go to a trade in the spring, he wanted to send him to a good school through the winter."

"Do they attend church?" asked Mabel.

"I conclude that they have not been church-going people. I invited them to our church, and Mr. Knapp was out last evening."

"I must call there at once," and taking the address from her friend, Mabel proceeded to carry out the intention.

Mrs. Knapp was a pale little woman, with a fretful and careworn expression. She was prepared to receive her visitor with pleasure, for Arthur had found things very much to his liking the previous day. Someway—neither of them knew how—Mabel walked right into the woman's heart, and soon found herself listening to the story of her trials, not the least of which seemed to be the boy Arthur.

"He was always a hard child to manage," said the mother. "He has a violent temper, and was always getting into trouble at school. If the boys provoked him, he would fly at them in a rage, and would just as quick fight a big boy as one of his own size; so he was always coming home with a bruised head and torn clothes, until we took him from school."

"I thought he appeared like a very pleasant boy," said Mabel.

"So he is, only when he is angry. If he could only control his temper! Sometimes I think perhaps we have not managed right. His father is very strict, and never overlooks any little fault in the children."

At this point, there came from the next room the sound of angry voices, and Mrs. Knapp stepped out to quell the disturbance.

"What is this all about?"

"Willy has put my dolly in a pail of water."

"Well! She got my pictures first, and made pencil marks on 'em."

"Helen!" said the mother. "Pick up those cards and give them to Willy."

"I sha'n't! Do it yourself!"

"No more of that! Obey me instantly, or I'll punish you," threatened Mrs. Knapp. "And, Willy, you may go out and fill the wood-box."

"I ain't ageing to fill the old wood-box. You can wait until Arthur comes," was the dutiful reply.

Mabel could not avoid hearing this colloquy, and even the mother's deep sigh reached her ear.

"The children have been out of school so long," said Mrs. Knapp, on re-entering the room, "that they have grown quite unmanageable. I must send them soon."

"I remember," said Mabel, smiling, "that I always got into mischief when I had nothing to do. Mother was always contriving things for me to do."

"But I haven't time for that," returned the mother, quickly. "There are so many things that must be done; so much that must be contrived."

Mabel was not prepared to solve the problem that vexes the lives of so many mothers—how to meet all the demands made upon them; or, if this is not possible, how to decide what shall be crowded out—so she said nothing, but soon took leave, pitying the mother and pitying the children, and wondering if there was any way to help them.

The next call was upon the Lorings. Willy was the pet and plaything of a group of grown-up brothers and sisters. These belonged to what Mrs. Wynn denominated "our circle," and were pleasant, agreeable people, without apparent thought of anything beyond the good things of this life.

"So you've coaxed Willie into your Sunday-school class!" said Louise, the gayest and prettiest of the group. "He is too good to live already."

"Well, we can't spare him just yet," said her sister Henrietta; "so don't go to making a saint of him. But, really, Mabel, aren't you a little fanatical upon that subject?"

"Hardly that," said Mabel; "though I think it a very important subject, and I am, perhaps, more interested in the work than in anything else in the world."

"Indeed!" laughed Louise. And, arching her eyebrows, she asked, "Isn't Dr. Myers still an inhabitant of this world?"

"Hush, Louise," interposed Henrietta. "Such allusions are not becoming."

"O, Mabel don't mind. But, seriously, have you declined Mrs. Granger's invitation because you would not leave your Sunday-school class?"

"That was my principal reason," replied Mabel.

"I am so sorry!" replied her friend. "It would be so pleasant to be in the city together. I shall spend the most of the winter with Cousin Fanny. Why, Mabel, think how nice it would be! Mrs. Granger moves in the highest circles!"

"I know—socially speaking—but—" Mabel hesitated. She felt, as she often did when talking with her mother, that her friends would not understand her should she explain all her motives. However, she went on after a moment's pause, "The atmosphere of Aunt Granger's home is not calculated to promote Christian growth. If I was called to go there, I should expect supplies of grace sufficient to withstand the many temptations; but if I ran away from my work here, for the sake of worldly pleasure, I should not look for God's blessing."

"Dear me! What notions you do have. If you are so anxious for work, as you call it, I suppose there is plenty in the city," said Louise almost pettishly.

"Very likely; but I might not get a chance at it; and don't you remember, Louise, that I always had a way of holding on to things?"

"Yes, I know; and I suppose there's no use in saying any more about it."

It must not be supposed that it cost Mabel Wynn nothing to decline her aunt's flattering invitation to spend six months in her beautiful home. She was fond of society, and the prospect of a whole winter in the city was very delightful; but, as she said, "she could not see her way clear to accept;" and I do not think she ever regretted her sacrifice.

CHAPTER X.

HERBERT'S TRIAL.

"Stand by your conscience, your honour, your faith."

IT was a gala day in Westville. The people had gathered in crowds to attend the county fair. From "up the creek" and down the valley, from over the ridge and far up the mountain, from every nook and corner for miles around, they came in waggon-loads and car-loads. Fathers and mothers with troops of children came in family carry-alls; young men and maidens in carriages "just big enough for two," all out for a day's pleasuring.

To some of them, it was the one holiday of the year, to which they had looked forward for months. Many had brought the savings of the summer to spend in necessities or finery. Westville was full to overflowing. The fair grounds were full, the streets were full, the hotels and stores were full.

The speaker of the day announced to the few of the great crowd who could catch the words of wisdom which he poured out for a whole hour, that the "show was a success." And no doubt it was. Surely all the requisites were there—the products of farm and dairy, of orchard and garden, big squashes and overgrown pumpkins, golden butter and creamy cheese, luscious fruits and rare flowers, tidies and bed-quilts, wax fruit and feather flowers, the beautiful and the grotesque, marvels of skill, ingenuity, and patience. All trades and professions were represented; all grades of animals, from the high-bred pride of the dairy to the pet bantam chickens.

The balloon went up and out of sight of the wondering and admiring crowd. The "side shows," the steel-pen man, and the patent-rights man, and the ginger-bread and pop-corn boys, had each their share of patronage, and the merchants shared largely in the benefits of the occasion. Every clerk was at his post, with eyes and ears for half a dozen customers at once.

A showily and not very tastefully dressed girl stood at one of the counters in Mr. Wynn's store, looking over a box of nets for the hair.

"Are these the newest fashion?" she asked, holding up one of gay chenille, studded with glittering white beads.

Herbert Bradford was behind the counter, and he answered, frankly—

"No; these are not worn now. Very plain ones like this are the most stylish," and he held up a bit of fine netting that you might pack into a thimble. "But," he added, "we sell those very cheap if you like them."

"Oh, no!" quickly rejoined the girl. "If they are out of fashion, I am sure I don't want one, though the red one is powerful pretty," and she looked at it longingly; "but I want all my things right in the fashion."

Then she asked for other goods, and Herbert showed her the best styles, as he would, had it been Miss Mabel herself. Mr. Wynn was at the next counter, and watched the proceedings with disapproving glances. Finally dress silks were called for, and Herbert was about to open a drawer of new goods, when Mr. Wynn interfered.

"Excuse me, Herbert, but will you run up to the fourth story and tell Jenks to hasten, for customers are waiting? I will take your place while you are gone."

Herbert returned in time to hear his employer assuring the girl that the gay plaid silk which he had brought up from the depths of a drawer of old goods was "one of the most stylish patterns, very desirable, his own daughter had a dress nearly like it," (he should have added, "ten years ago"), "just the colours she ought to wear," and more of the same sort.

Herbert was astonished at what he heard, and more so when, after the customer had left with her gay dress-pattern, Mr. Wynn turned to him and said—

"Now, Herbert, when a customer like that comes in, it is the time to get off old goods. Those people that come from up the mountain know nothing about the styles, and we always depend upon selling our old stock out to that class of customers. That chenille net would have pleased the girl better and wore longer than the one she bought, and she would have taken it, if you had not been silly enough to tell her nobody wore them now."

"But she asked me if they were fashionable," said Herbert.

"Of course she did," returned Mr. Wynn. "They always ask such questions, and part of your business is to know how to answer them. We always have a great many of that class here upon holidays, and if you are shrewd, you may make large sales of goods desirable to be disposed of, and which will satisfy them quite as well as goods that are more constantly called for. You need not look so grave about it. Don't you see that we can sell these goods for less money, and often suit their tastes far better. And if they are satisfied, what is there wrong about it?"

Herbert made no reply, but the thought in his mind was, "I can't do it. I can't say a thing is so when it isn't."

A few days later, a similar circumstance occurred. Mr. Wynn was much displeased, and said, "I cannot allow this. If I have occasion to speak of the matter again, I shall feel obliged to ask your father to take you away."

Herbert had thought over the subject and prayed over it, and made his decision. "Mr. Wynn," he said, "I am sorry to displease you, but I think the only right way for me to do is to speak the truth, and I must do it, if I say anything."

Mr. Wynn was angry, but he was always calm and dignified; he said, quietly, "Very well; call things by whatever name you please. Your father placed you here to learn the business, but if you already know so much more than I do about the proper mode of conducting it, there is no necessity of your remaining here any longer. You are free to go at once. I will see your father this evening."

Poor Herbert! Discharged! Disgraced! He had not anticipated quite that. In resolving to do right, he had expected that God would stand by him and reward him for his faithfulness to the truth. He had asked God to show him the right way and to keep him from all evil as he walked therein. He had looked for deliverance in the hour of trial. Had God failed to hear?

He, too, had yet to learn something of God's ways of answering prayer. Mr. Bradford's office was two or three doors down the street from the store, and Herbert went at once to his father with his story, telling it in a straightforward style, without a word of exaggeration or blame. "Father, did I do right?" he asked.

Mr. Bradford hesitated. He was called an honest man; he called himself a Christian, and though less worldly-minded than Mr. Wynn, he had not Herbert's ardent love of truth, but he could not look in his boy's face and say that he preferred to have him retain his position at the expense of falsehood and trickery. When he spoke, it was with an embarrassed laugh.

"Well, Herbert, your idea about it is well enough, I suppose, but if I were a poor man, and you were depending upon your position for your bread, I should say you were rather over-nice. You will have trouble to find another place after being turned away from the largest store in town."

"I don't know as I want another place; I don't care about learning the business, if lying belongs to it," said Herbert, with some excitement.

"Tut! Tut! Boy, you mustn't be squeamish. There is considerable in the art of putting things." After a pause, he continued, "You know, Herbert, that I am not anxious about the matter. It was your own choice; I should much prefer to have you come into the office here."

As for Mr. Wynn, he was more disturbed by the event than he cared to own. He had been pleased with Herbert in most respects, and had resolved upon promoting him as fast as practicable, with a view to giving him a permanent position in the store.

"Queer, isn't it, that a fellow would spoil his prospects by such a bit of nonsense?" he said that day at dinner time. "I suspect, Mabel, it is some of your work."

"What, father?"

"Why, that boy Herbert thinks he knows all about the principles of business, and in carrying out his theories has forfeited his place, that is all."

"O father!" said Mabel, "Have you discharged him?"

"Well, yes. I tell you, Mabel, this mixing all sorts of fanciful ideas up with the matter of earning one's bread, won't answer. Herbert will find that success don't run in the same track with his sentimental religious notions. Business is one thing and religion is another."

"I confess that such seems to be the prevalent opinion," said Mabel, "but I—well, I like to see people carry their religion with them, not lay it upon the shelf. Our faith is given us to help over hard places, and if one does not keep it about him continually, it is pretty sure to be out of call when most needed. As for Herbert, if I have taught him this, I have not quite failed in my work."

"I supposed you were at the bottom of it, but I did not expect you to own it quite so readily," replied Mr. Wynn, with unusual warmth. "I don't think I shall be in a hurry to take another boy from your class."

"Well, father," responded Mabel, "all I can say is, that I have simply tried to show them what the life and teachings of Christ mean; and if Herbert has found anything required of him that conflicts with his understanding of the spirit of the gospels, you cannot wonder that he should be unwilling to conform to the requirements of the business."

"All a notion! All a notion! No need of being so strict. Besides, these people who are so over-nice, sometimes find that they have smutted their fingers in spite of their carefulness. And I can tell you that Master Herbert will find that such places are not vacant every day. He will have to drop some of his whims before he gets very high up in the world."

Mabel said softly,—

"'His delight is in the law of the Lord; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.'"

"Yes, yes! You quote Bible, but I quote facts," said Mr. Wynn.

"And don't you think that the facts will prove the Bible true."

"Of course the Bible is true, child, but not to be taken literally. Now look at old Jackson over there at the distillery. He hasn't much regard for Bible rules. I suspect that your nice distinctions between right and wrong would be quite too fine for his dull vision; but it looks very much as though the work of his hands was prospered; now don't it, Mabel?"

"That depends on what you call prosperity," replied Mabel. "I don't suppose that good Mr. Frink, old and poor as he is, would change places with Mr. Jackson. It was only the other day that, speaking of the abundance of work that had come in, he said, 'The Lord Lath dealt bountifully with me, Miss Mabel.' But I suppose that if things ended with this world, we might sometimes conclude that the wicked had the best of it. But 'riches profit not in the day of wrath.'

"Things don't come out quite straight," she continued; "but I can't help thinking that the Lord does repay, even in this life, those who delight to do him honour."

"Well, my dear, your theories are all very fine; but if you were a business man, you would find that a little coarse, rugged common sense mixes in very well in the concerns of this life."

"And is this life all?" asked Mabel.

Mr. Wynn had left the table, and at the last question, he said, with a forced laugh, something about a "woman's last word," and bowed himself out politely as ever; but, if the truth was told, he was slightly dissatisfied with himself, with Mabel, with the world generally, and especially with boys.

I suspect that he wished with all his heart that Herbert was back again in his place; for of course, he knew that the boy who braved his displeasure for the sake of the right as he saw it (that was the way Mr. Wynn put it) would make a trusty clerk. Besides, they were short of help, and now he must look-out for a new boy. What a bother these strict notions were! And what a nuisance such a tender conscience must be!

For his own part, Mr. Wynn was usually very well satisfied with his religion. It served him well as to reputation, it answered for Sundays, and, no doubt, would do for a dying day. He was willing to take the benefits of it; but as for personal work for the Master—why, that was for the ministers and deacons and women; only he couldn't see that there was any need of his daughter's enlisting in the cause.

I said he was willing to take the benefits. Of real personal religious experience, he knew very little. Once—a long time ago—he lived for a few months a different life—a life that now seemed to him like a dream. The spirit of worldliness had soon taken possession of his heart, and, gradually smothering the Christian graces that were springing up, now reigned supreme.

CHAPTER XI.

THE BOYS' MEETING.

"His grace descends; and, as of old,

He walks with men apart,

Keeping the promise, as foretold,

With all the pure in heart."

THE experiment of a church parlour had proved a success. Both old and young found it a pleasant place for all sorts of church gatherings. The occasional teachers' meeting having been fully attended, and the discussions more free when held in the cosy, home-like little room, Mr. Clarke was encouraged to make regular appointments, and the teachers now met weekly for study and conference; and it could no longer be said that the talking was all done by two or three.

Here, too, teachers could meet their classes; and it was for this that Mabel Wynn came down to the church one evening about the time of Herbert Bradford's trouble at the store. She sat at the cabinet organ which had been added to the furnishings of the room, and around her were clustered the seven boys. It was not often that one was absent from this meeting—their own meeting. Mabel had long been the church organist, and of late, it was her custom to come down half an hour before the time of the Saturday evening rehearsal to meet any or all of her class.

It was an informal gathering. The boys dropped in, sometimes singly, sometimes by twos and threes, sometimes one came and went before the others appeared. It was not exactly a prayer-meeting, though there were prayers; nor exactly a conference-meeting, though many conferences were held. It was just the "boys' meeting." They talked of their trials (for boys do have trials), their perplexities, their wants, their failures and their triumphs, and they received—always sympathy, often help and counsel.

Doubtless good Mrs. Culver would have sighed over the worldliness of some of their talk, for Mabel was trying to teach these young friends of hers to put Christ into everything, to let his teachings, his words and his example get such a hold upon their young hearts, that in all their work and in all their play, the spirit of the gospel should be the controlling power.

Tonight they were all there, and as their leader played the accompaniment, they sang the hymn—

"Stand up! Stand up for Jesus!"

Then, while every head was bowed, Mabel uttered low and reverent words—

"Jesus, dear friend, we have come here to talk with Thee and with each other. Some of us have reached the hard places, and we need help and counsel. Some of us have been sorely tried, and we need help to go forward. Let our hearts be strengthened, our faltering steps steadied and upheld, and our weak faith increased. Let us realize that Thou art with us, leading our thoughts and inspiring our words. We do need Thy help, dear Christ. Answer us by Thy spirit and through Thy word. Give unto each of us as we are in need. Amen."

"Since we were here last week—" she said, taking Deacon Griffin's arm chair, while the boys took their favourite or characteristic positions—Perry Morse walked over to the further side of the room and established himself in the handsome easy chair which was a part of Mr. Riggs's gift; Willy Loring nestled upon a cushion at Mabel's feet; Herbert Bradford stood leaning against the organ, as he had done while they sang, but now he shaded his face with his hand and turned a little away from facing the boy across the room in the easy chair; the other boys formed a group around a small table—

"Since we met last week," Mabel was saying, "one of us has met a sharp trial, a temptation has been bravely met and conquered, a pleasant hope, perhaps a darling ambition, has been quietly set aside for the sake of right. You all know of the matter to which I refer; but, as I understand that there are several versions of the affair afloat, to set the matter right with you all, I will just say that Herbert lost his place simply because he refused to comply with one of the requirements which conflicted with the teachings of the gospel. There was no quarrel, no misunderstanding, just a disagreement as to the right and wrong of an established method of doing business. We must honour our friend for standing up firmly for the truth, and thank God that he gave him strength to live up to his convictions."

Turning to Herbert, "I have wanted to tell you that you have had my sympathy and my prayers. I know something of the cost of your course, of your disappointment and mortification. It has been a sore trial; but, Herbert, remember that Christ knows all about it, and he will not forget."

"Thank you," said Herbert. "It was your making things so plain that led me to take the stand I did. As you have just said, I refused to do what was required of me because I thought it was not right, not according to what Christ taught. Was that standing up for Jesus? We have sung that hymn a great many times, and I never thought much about it until tonight; now it seems as if I knew a little about what it means.

"But," he continued, after a moment's hesitation, "I don't want any of you to be deceived. I don't think I did meet the temptation very bravely. I am almost afraid I should not have had courage to do as I did, if I had thought it would turn out so. I prayed about it, and told God all my trouble; and while I promised to obey him, I asked to be shielded from the consequences, and I expected that Mr. Wynn would yield the point. I was quite astonished when I found that I was discharged. I thought God had forsaken me. I don't think so now. I believe he has only taken his own way to answer me, and that some time, I shall find out what it all means."

"It is a lesson we all have to learn," said Mabel, "this—that God does not always give us just what we ask for, because he sees a better way. Sometimes we wait long enough for the light that shows us what it all means. We are dull at learning these lessons of discipline, unless the Spirit enlightens us. But it may be that some of the whys are not meant for us to know until our trial is over. What is it, Willy?"

"I don't understand," replied the boy, whose questioning face Mabel had observed. "What did Herbert mean about standing up for Jesus? I thought that meant to speak in prayer-meeting, join the church, or maybe take his side when anybody spoke against him; but I don't see as there was anything said about Jesus or religion."

"Suppose, Willy, that your teacher, Miss Payne, gives out certain rules and counsels to guide her pupils during study and play hours, and suppose that Lewie here says to himself, 'No matter about the rules; they don't apply over on this side the fence, anyway. I shan't mind anything about them.' But you think, 'I am sure she meant us to do so and so, and I am going to carry it out;' and you both act according to your ideas and resolutions; neither of you say a word about Miss Payne, but are you not standing up for her honour and authority when you make her rule your guide?"

"I see," exclaimed Willy. "It is the principle, the truth."

"'I am the way, the truth,'" quoted Lewie.

"But, Miss Wynn—" began Willy, and stopping suddenly, his cheeks reddened.

"Well, what is it?"

"Will you please excuse me if I say something?"

"Why, that is just what we want you to do, dear boy," said Mabel kindly.

"I know; but what I want to say don't sound quite respectful—that is, I am afraid it won't."

"I understand," interrupted Mabel, smiling, "and I will excuse it. Go on."

"Well, you know the commandment says, 'Honour thy father.' Now is it just right for you to take sides against your father?"

Mabel's cheek flushed, and her voice trembled slightly, as she answered—

"I am glad you put your question, Willy. The Book says, too, 'Children, obey your parents in the Lord;' and also, 'He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me.' We must, if we are Christians, put Christ first, and regulate our lives according to the tenor of the gospel, though we may sometimes be obliged in doing so to oppose the will of those in authority. The word of God is our highest authority. But in this matter, my father knows that I take Herbert's view of the right, and he does not try to bind my conscience."

"It seems to me," said Perry Morse—and his position in his great sleepy-looking chair seemed to indicate that he would be glad if somebody would take the trouble of making conscientious decisions for him—"it seems to me that older and more experienced persons should know better than us boys what is right and what is wrong, and that we ought not to set our judgment up against theirs."

But Mabel remembered that Perry had a will of his own when he chose to exercise it, and a quiet smile accompanied her reply.

"Perry, that argument would have more force if it came from a boy who was always willing to listen to the opinions of older people, and ready to heed their counsels."

The boys laughed, and Perry looked a little embarrassed, but she continued, "Suppose we take up one or two of Christ's sayings, and see how it would do to put your conscience in another's keeping. This, for instance, 'Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy soul, and thy neighbour as thyself.' Who will help you to obey that command? Upon whom can you shift the responsibility, if you fail to fulfil the obligation?

"Or this, 'Do unto others as ye would that they should do unto you.' How will another's judgment or experience serve you here? Who knows so well as yourself what you would desire under the same circumstances? Of course there are times when we need the counsel and advice of our friends. But, after all, the decision rests with our own consciences. The Word and the Spirit are given to enlighten and guide; and we should keep our consciences tender and pure, that they may not fail us in the hour of doubt and temptation. Led by the Spirit, we are sure to go right, but human counsel may lead us astray."

"How shall we know for certain?" asked Willy.

"By the gospel test," answered Miss Wynn. "Bring all doubtful questions to the Book, and settle them by its measure. This is only another way of bringing out our motto.

"My dear boys," continued the teacher, after a few moments, "I am always very glad when I see you trying to order your lives according to the spirit of our chosen motto. But I am often disturbed by the fear that some of you may make a merit of your following. I want to make you understand that a mere outward observance of the precepts given us is not sufficient. Christ asks for a complete surrender of self, a laying aside of selfish motives, a belief and trust in Him as a present Saviour. To really and truly follow Christ, we must first accept the pardon he offers us. Scorning that, refusing to be first reconciled to Him, how can we render acceptable service?"

As they separated after singing again, Lewie Amesbury walked away with an incredulous look upon his face, and his thoughts ran on something in this wise: "I'm sure I don't quite know what Miss Wynn is driving at. She tells us to follow Christ, and then says it is of no account after all. As for accepting pardon, I can't see what a fellow wants to be pardoned for, if he keeps on about right. Seems to me that it's kind of an unfair thing to haul him up, when he is doing his very best, and tell him it all goes for nothing. Folks that belong to the church always talk just so. If some people that I know would try living up to the Bible, maybe they would find out whether it amounts to anything or not. I'd like to have the experiment tried in our house. Seems to me that a little following would make a pleasanter home of it."

And the incredulous look changed to one of sadness. Lewie's home was not a happy one. She who had made its brightness had several years ago been called from earth, and the woman who filled her place seemed to care very little for the comfort of the lonely boy. While professing to follow Christ, she followed the world, and unlike the mild and gentle teacher, she was harsh and uncharitable in her opinions, cold and haughty in her manner. Selfish and worldly, the religion of Christ manifested in her life did not recommend itself to her stepson.

"Oh, yes," she would say, "Mr. Earle is a very good man, no doubt, but quite too strict for the place he occupies. There are so many people of wealth and culture in our church who will not be pinned down to such narrow notions. A man who could adapt himself to the wants of the people would be more successful." As for Mabel Wynn, she was "absurd and fanatical. It must be a great trial to Mrs. Wynn to see her go on in the way she does. There's Mr. Amesbury's son Lewie. She is trying to make a saint of him, and has succeeded so well that his long face drives me half wild. Really I don't believe in making such a fuss about one's religion. I never make a parade of what little I possess."

Mrs. Amesbury has spoken for herself: We will not judge her further; but we need not be surprised that with a few exceptions, Lewie did not believe in "church member's religion." Having adopted the watchword of the class, he was in a sense trying to follow. Studying carefully the life and character of Christ, he fancied that he could model his own after that perfect pattern.

CHAPTER XII.

A LESSON OF WAITING.

"Shall we grow weary in our watch,

And murmur at the long delay,

Impatient of our Father's time

And his appointed way?"

"How do you like your new clerk?" asked Mrs. Wynn, as she poured out the coffee one morning few months later.

"Pretty well," replied her husband. "He is teachable and improves; he has made some good sales already. To be sure he is not quite so prompt nor so industrious as Herbert, but then few boys are. I will say that for Master Herbert, if only he had not been quite so certain that his own way was the best. It would have been a costly experiment, but I should have liked to have kept him, just to see how far he would carry his notions, and what they would amount to."

"His way? His notions?" thought Mabel. "Why don't father say God's way?" But she did not speak her thought. She know it was useless to argue the question, and she was only too thankful that her father allowed her liberty of conscience, and seldom interfered with her plans.

The new clerk with whom Mr. Wynn had just expressed his satisfaction was Perry Morse, who now filled the place made vacant by Herbert Bradford's dismissal, notwithstanding Mr. Wynn had declared his determination not to take another boy from Mabel's class. It came about naturally enough. Mr. Morse had intimate business connections with Mr. Wynn, and the vacancy occurring just us he was looking about for a position of the sort for his son, the place was easily secured, to the present satisfaction of all parties. Very likely Mr. Wynn never knew that Perry belonged to those boys, or had forgotten a resolution made in a moment of intense disgust and vexation.

Mabel had listened eagerly for the reply to her mother's question (a question she would not have put herself for a small fortune). She was not surprised at the answer. Yet some way it saddened her, and as she went up to her room when breakfast was over, the old questions came up, "Have I done all I could for my class? Why does failure seem to be written upon my work?"

She had met with many discouragements of late. Having determined to remain at her post through the winter, she had laboured diligently and prayerfully for her beloved class with little apparent success. True, Herbert went steadily forward in the path he had chosen, and quiet, thoughtful Willy was ever anxious to know and to do the will of Christ; then there was the suffering Henry, whose faith grew stronger and brighter. Surely the heart of the teacher might have rejoiced over these souls saved!

But the others seemed slipping away from her and from Christ. Satan was determined to have them, and Mabel sometimes thought that everything conspired to favour the enemy's plans. Something had gone wrong with Mr. Morse. There had been a warm debate in regard to some proposed Sunday-school measure. Perhaps it was the question of "old or young first in the distribution of library books," or it may have been in regard to the propriety of electing a lady to fill the office of assistant superintendent. I cannot say that it was not some really important question. At all events, as one of the defeated party, Mr. Morse was displeased, and declared that "if Dr. Myers was going to run the school, he would do it without any of his (Mr. Morse's) help," and by way of punishing the offenders, he absented himself. Perry had just reached the age when boys (some boys) are apt to think themselves too old to go to Sunday-school, and now that he had his father's example before him, he became very irregular in attendance.

In vain, Mabel sought him out and redoubled her efforts to interest him. He would not be interested, only when the little quiet talk among the teachers and Dr. Myers's energetic moves had done their work, and the Sabbath-School Missionary Association was formed, with Mr. Burns (a member of Dr. Myers's class) as president, Miss Joslyn secretary, and Perry Morse treasurer. He condescended to accept his appointment, and made a great display of business, but paid little attention to the main work of the hour.

As for Lewie Amesbury, he was diligent as ever, but drew his self-righteousness more closely about him, spoke bitterly of those who, proposing to live by faith and to be actuated by love for Jesus, failed in their lives to honour their Master—as he expressed it—"Keeping their religion for communion Sundays, and doing like other people the rest of the time." His interest in sacred themes, his study, his following, was all of the intellect, his heart was untouched; as Mabel said often and sadly to herself, "I cannot reach him."

With Duncan McNair, it was different. He had no interest of any sort. He came to Sunday-school sometimes with and sometimes without a lesson; he came because he liked to be with the boys, liked Miss Wynn, liked the library books, and, like every other boy in the congregation, he liked Mr. Earle. But first in his list of saints and heroes was Dr. Myers, who had once helped him out of some boyish scrape; for that matter, somebody might have a chance to help him out of a scrape almost any day, for he was generally in one. His mother had died so long ago that he scarcely remembered her. He had been petted and spoiled as well as cared for, by his grandmother, until she too, was called away when he was twelve years old. Since then, he had lived at home with his father and the housekeeper.

Judge McNair was a wealthy and influential lawyer, and a man of much culture, both intellectual and spiritual. Duncan was his only son, and of late, from being more constantly with the boy, he noticed with pain the careless habits of thought and speech which he had been suffered to acquire. He said, too, that though openhearted and generous, Duncan was wilful and passionate, and that very few people seemed to have any influence over him. From the first, Mabel was one of these few; but though he was always ready to serve her, he would not listen to serious conversation. Scenting the most distant approach to it, he brought out his keenest weapons of nonsense and adroitness, and invariably managed to turn aside every attempt at a personal appeal.

Just once that winter, Mabel grew hopeful. It was the Sabbath of the Week of Prayer. She had gone from her closet to her class; gone with the lesson not more in her mind than in her heart, and had taught as one who teaches for eternity. Duncan forgot to be nonsensical. Lewie seemed to realize that there might be a depth of meaning in their watchword which he had not fathomed, and even Perry was less alive to the importance of his official duties. Referring to the notices of religious services every evening during the week, the teacher expressed the hope that they would all attend the meetings, and was gratified at the promptness with which they responded to the request.

But it turned out that of all the class, only Herbert and Arthur Knapp were present upon Monday evening. Some trifle kept Perry away, Mrs. Amesbury sent Lewie upon an errand to her milliner, and Duncan forgot all about the meeting until it was too late; his father being out of town, he was not reminded by him as he would otherwise have been. As for Miss Wynn herself, she was detained at home by an attack of nervous headache. So it chanced that none of those four heard of a singular discussion which arose at the close of the evening's service, nor of the result. It appeared that a popular lecturer, who regarded not the appointments of the "Evangelical Alliance," proposed to occupy Tuesday evening in speaking in the hall upon a scientific subject, and Mr. Morse suggested that the meeting for that evening be given up. Though Mr. Earle and others were opposed, the majority were in favour of the arrangement, and carried that point. They argued that a great many would go to the lecture anyway who ought to go to the meeting, if there were one, and it was better to give it up entirely.

Said Mr. Earle, "If it were a question of making an appointment there might be room for hesitation, but in the case of one already made, and by us at second hand, I must protest against recalling the notice."

But, as I have said, the majority ruled, and the lecturer was sure of an audience. Strangely enough, Mr. Morse did not speak of the matter at home. It is not so very strange either, for Mrs. Morse never went out evenings, and Perry was not supposed to be interested in prayer-meetings. Ah, if we only knew sometimes what people were interested in!

"Want to go to the lecture tonight, Perry?" asked Mr. Morse at tea-time. "I'm going to get tickets. Get one for you?"

"No, sir. I've another engagement," answered Perry.

"Better give it up. This will be best one of the season."

"Well, I don't care about going," replied Perry.

And a little later, he started out to go to a prayer-meeting! As he reached the corner, he stopped suddenly, saying to himself, "Catch me stalking in there alone. I'll just run around and see if Art will go."

"Why couldn't father have told me?" he exclaimed, ten minutes later, when Arthur Knapp had explained the state of affairs.

Ah! Why couldn't he? It is safe to say that if he had, Perry might have gone to the lecture instead of a worse place, and the first downward step would not have been taken that night. And, to go a little further back, why couldn't he have been satisfied with things as they were, letting the meeting have its chance. Then, perhaps, it might have been an upward step.

Lewie and Duncan met somewhere in the street, and decided to go to meeting together, but soon learned that there was none to go to; and presently they met Miss Wynn coming from the darkened church, herself quite in the dark.

"I wonder what it means," she said. "I thought there was to be service every evening!"

"So there was," Lewie replied. "I couldn't come last night, but I came tonight, to keep my promise. But it seems that science is better than religion—for some folks," he added quickly, as Mabel said, "O Lewie!" in a troubled tone.

"Don't be cross about it," said Duncan. "If they had only known that you and I were coming, they'd had a meeting sure. We'll let them know beforehand next time. They didn't expect us out, you know."

"But I don't understand," said Mabel.

"Why, you see," replied Lewie, "Professor A. is going to demonstrate the problem of the man in the moon's mode of existence, or some other puzzle, so the meeting is given up. I suppose people can sing and pray any evening, but they can't hear Professor A., except tonight. Still I think it is queer, and the Week of Prayer, too!

"I tell you, Miss Wynn," he continued, "things are a great puzzle to me. If prayer is so important that a week is set apart for it, and the whole world turned into a great prayer-meeting, I should think that Professor A. might go without an audience, rather than the meeting be given up. It appears that it is not considered of much consequence after all. Shall we go to the lecture, Miss Wynn?"

"I think not," she replied. "We will be consistent, anyway. I am quite puzzled about the matter, but I will venture to assert that you will not find Mr. Earle, nor several others I might mention, at the hall tonight; and I have no doubt there will be a great deal of closet prayer this evening. And, Lewie, you know this doesn't prove anything against the power and importance of prayer. It may show that too low an estimate is put upon its value, but nothing more."

"Well, Lew," said Duncan, as they reached Mr. Wynn's store, where Mabel sought an escort for her homeward walk, "what are we going to do now? I'm afloat."

"Upon a sea of nothingness?" asked Lewie. "Well, I don't know, I'm sure. Hang around a spell, and then go home, I suppose."

"Hang around!" repeated Mabel to herself. "Yes, and be snapped up by Satan in some of his guises. No, that won't do," and her thoughts travelled quickly, seeking a remedy for the evil. She had intended to go directly home and spend the evening in her own room, but now she changed her mind very suddenly.

"See here," she said, "suppose we go around and spend an hour with Henry Trafton."

"All right! Superexcellent!" exclaimed Duncan. "If we can't go to prayer-meeting, we will visit the sick. What say, Lew?"

"I don't care. Yes, I'd like it," answered Lewie.

Henry, who had so far improved as to be able to move about his room by means of an invalid's chair, welcomed them warmly, and they spent a quiet evening together, safe from the vices and temptations of the street.

But where was Perry Morse? Sauntering down street, he met Nick Turner, an out-and-out loafer, who called out—

"Halloo! I say, Morse, how do you happen to be in the street this time of day?"

How the fellow dared to address Perry Morse, haughty as he generally was, in that familiar tone and manner, must remain unexplained. Almost any other time, Perry would have answered shortly, "That's my affair," and passed on; but tonight he was out of tune; he had missed the lecture for nothing, and being in search of amusement, he replied—

"I got leave of absence to go to church, because I thought that was the style; but it seems the fashion has changed, so I'm out."

"Ho! That's it! Well, just you follow me, and I'll show you a tall thing or two, that will throw your sort of fun in the shade."

A dingy back room, half a dozen boys around a table, a pack of dirty cards, a bottle and some glasses. Nick knew they waited for him, but he knew better than to take Perry Morse into that den, so he turned in at Murphy's saloon, where everything was bright and enticing. It was a rather expensive place, to be sure, but then it was not often he had such a companion, and perhaps in the end it would pay. They found dominoes and dice, and whatever else belongs to the gambler's craft, and they found cigars and liquors, and silver and cut glass, and obsequious attendance. But why try to describe the gilded haunt of sin, or recount the story of the evening? Late that evening, Perry groped his way to his room, his pockets empty and his head—well, something ailed his head—something was the matter the next morning with head, hands, and limbs. Could it have been the wine?

In vain, Miss Wynn looked for the boys of her class the next evening. Excepting Herbert and Willy, none of them appeared at church during the remainder of the week, and when she met them on the Sabbath, all signs of any special interest had vanished. Then it was that these souls resting heavily upon her, she grew weary and faint, until remembering that the work was Christ's, and that surely he must have far more interest than she could have, she took heart again, saying, softly, "In thine own time and way, O God!" Mabel was learning to wait.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE CIRCLE BROKEN.

"Jesus, when my soul is parting

From this body frail and weak,

. . . . Thine, my Saviour,

Be the name I last shall speak."

"WELL, Herbert, what are you going to do now?" asked Mr. Earle sometime during that winter. "Are you going to fit for college?"

"Oh, no!" replied Herbert. "I am going to become a merchant, of course. I shall not give up for one failure. Father is on the look-out for a position for me."

"Study the matter carefully and prayerfully, Herbert. The Lord sometimes thwarts our plans to try us, sometimes to turn us."

"Of course I make it a subject of prayer," replied Herbert.

Mr. Earle, though he had his plan and hope for the boy, did not think it wise to say more at that time, and his slight hint was quite unnoticed. Herbert, like a great many other people, had first made up his mind, and afterwards asked God to guide and direct him, which meant, if he had but known it, to help him on in the way he had chosen. But older and wiser Christians often do the same thing.

As Mr. Bradford had predicted, it was not easy to secure another desirable situation in Westville. Mr. Wynn was popular, and the other merchants thought, if they did not say it, "There must have been something back of that story. Of course, Mr. Wynn would shield the son of his friend, and they have hushed up the matter."

After one or two trials, Mr. Bradford gave up the idea of getting a place at present, and decided to send Herbert to school. Herbert was disappointed, and begged to be allowed to go to the city, where a friend had offered him a position; but his mother was an invalid, and pleaded so hard for a year or two more at home, that the offer was declined. He was a good scholar and fond of books, but had never inclined to a profession; his father wished to make him a lawyer, but he had a decided repugnance to that profession.

"A year or two longer at school will do no harm," said his mother, "and perhaps something will offer by that time."

And as it seemed the only thing to do, he pursued his studies in the same classes with Lewie and Arthur. If nothing more of good had ever grown out of his dismissal from Mr. Wynn's store, the advantage which Arthur Knapp derived from Herbert's companionship would of itself have shown that there was design in what seemed only a misfortune. Arthur's associates had hitherto been of a different stamp. He had never been placed alongside of one whose life was ordered by Christian principle. He had no idea that a boy who was trying to follow Christ could be such a pleasant companion. Gradually Herbert gained an influence over him, and his disputes (which were sure to be angry ones) with the boys grew less frequent, and he had less trouble with the teachers; rather they had less trouble with him. And as school-life grew more tolerable, the home life was less tempestuous, and frequently Arthur carried home so much sunshine that it lasted all the evening.

Then the months rolled away with few noticeable changes until the third year of Miss Wynn's connection with the class was ended. Once in the time, Herbert had gone into a store in a neighbouring town, but was soon recalled by the alarming illness of his father, and before he could be spared from the invalid's side, the vacancy was filled. But his city friend had again offered him a position, his mother had consented, and he was going soon.

Affairs had so far brightened with Mr. Knapp that he had been able to keep Arthur in school a year longer than he had expected, but he had now been some months away working at a trade.

Greater changes were coming. Things never stay long in the same position even apparently. The Lorings had just returned from the seaside, where they went in June with Willy, who was failing in health. At first there seemed to be an improvement. He sent pleasant, boyish letters to his "dear Miss Wynn," telling her of his returning strength—letters that were running over with a quiet happiness, a happiness that had its foundation in a childlike trust in the dear Saviour.

Later, he had not been so well. A note from his sister informed Mabel that "Willy wished to thank her for her kind letters, but he was not quite strong enough to write."

At last they brought him home, and Mabel, calling as soon as she learned of the arrival, was met by Miss Louise, whose sad pale face told of nights of watching and of hope almost gone.

"The doctor says he may linger until the leaves fall," she said, in answer to Mabel's inquiries; then with a passionate outburst, "O Mabel, it is cruel, cruel, to take away our darling! This is your kind, loving God!"

Mabel sat down beside her friend, offering no word of reply, no attempt at consolation, knowing too well how worse than useless are words when the soul first tastes the bitterness of death, remembering her own hour of darkness, for once in Mabel Wynn's young life, death had come very near taking away a bright earthly hope. So she waited until Louise grew calm and spoke again.

"Willy has several times said he should not get well, but we thought it a fancy, until this morning Dr. Myers told us the same. But I won't give up yet. He must get well."

"Louise, dear friend—" began Mabel.

"Oh, I know what you are going to say. You Christians talk about submission to the will of God, but I don't see that the most do not rebel quite as often as we do."

"Does Willy?" asked Mabel, softly.

"No; but he is unlike any one I ever knew. The darling! I cannot give him up. You need not talk resignation to me."

"I will not," returned Mabel. "You mistook my intention. Until you look upon God as your friend you cannot say, 'Thy will be done.' I think you will grow to feel differently; but just now I only wanted to say that in your grief, you must not forget what awaits him, how he will be welcomed in the other world, how more than all you have hoped for him here will be realized there. He is very dear to me. I have watched him ripening for the time of his ingathering, and I feel sure that he is Christ's very own."

"I know, I know he is!" exclaimed Louise. Then with sudden vehemence, "I wish I were, I wish I were!"

Mabel was startled. The bitterness with which Louise had spoken of God's dealings and her rebellious mood had seemed to indicate that she was far from desiring to have aught to do with Christ. Louise felt the want of a strong arm, and she knew that Jesus did support his followers in their hours of trial. She knew that Willy and Mabel had a source of strength which she had not, and a sudden longing to possess it came over her.

"'Come unto me,'" repeated Mabel, "'Every one.' 'Whosoever will.' You see there is only acceptance, and you may step into the kingdom and take your inheritance of love, peace, comfort and strength."

"Will you go up and see Willy now?" asked Louise, presently.

It was a quiet but cheerful interview. Willy said—

"I am glad you have come. I wanted to thank you, while I have strength, for all you have done for me. You made the way to Christ so plain that I think I found him two years ago. I have been trying to follow ever since. The white line leads to a bridge, and I have almost reached it. Sometimes people talk about the dark waters of the river of death. But Christ's love stretches all the way across. I think it is strong enough to carry me over," he said, smiling.

Mabel was not the only one who went out from the presence of the dying boy comforted and strengthened. He lingered a month or two, until dark, chilly November, and while he had strength to speak, his constant theme was Christ. Once, when his sister Louise had performed some little service for him, he said—

"Thank you, Louise. I shall not need that many times more."

"Oh, my darling!" she returned. "Why must we give you up?"

"Because Jesus wants me," he answered. Looking wistfully at her, he continued, "Ever since I learned to know Jesus, I have been praying for you particularly. I did not forget the rest, but my great longing was for you. It seemed as if you needed Christ so much."

Tears and sobs almost choked the words which Louise whispered.

"And, Willy, I sometimes think I have found Him. A great peace has lately come into my heart. I have hardly dared to hope that it is the peace of God; but it seems to grow out of a trust in His love."

"O my sister! And you'll never give up until they are all brought to Christ?"

One morning a message came. Willy was failing rapidly. Would Mabel come?

"We felt that we could not be alone to-day," said Miss Loring. "Mamma is quite overcome, and my sisters are so unused to care. If you will think for us, we shall be grateful. Send for anybody you choose."

So it happened that Mabel Wynn, who had always been friendly with the Lorings, but not intimate, stood by her beloved pupil at the last, wiped his damp brow, responded to the faint request, "Sing of Jesus," supported the fainting mother; and, finally, when Willy had fallen asleep, planned, arranged, and executed numberless minor details that somebody must always attend to when death is a guest in the house.

During the next day, she stood for a moment beside the young sleeper, when the door opened and Louise came and stood beside her.

"He was young to die," said the sister sadly.

"Yes," said Mabel. "But do you know, Louise, I cannot connect the thought of death with him. It is as though he were sleeping now, and by-and-by 'twill be as though he had just gone out of sight, and was waiting somewhere ahead for us. Dear child! He need to ask a great many questions as to what I thought about heaven. I remember one thing seemed to trouble him; he did not know anybody there, and it would all be so strange—he would feel so shy.

"I said, 'But, perhaps, before you go, you may have a great many friends there.'

"'Perhaps so,' he said.

"Then I told him that any way Jesus would be there, and he asked, 'Do you suppose that Jesus would notice a little fellow like me?'"

"Darling!" said Louise, bending over her idol. "You've received your welcome!"

The circle was indeed broken! Willy gone! Herbert and Arthur away from home. Henry rarely able to be present, and Perry coming only occasionally. Only Lewie and Duncan were regularly and promptly in their places. But, except the one for whom she had now no need to labour, Mabel still counted them hers, still sought to bring them all to Christ.

When Herbert and Arthur went away, they carried notes of introduction to Sabbath-school superintendents, and frequent letters testified of her continued interest in their welfare. Calling on Mrs. Knapp one day, that lady said,—

"Arthur writes that he hears from you sometimes. I am very glad that you take the trouble to write to him. I am sorry to say that Arthur is not as steady as we could wish. I hope he will improve, and I depend a great deal upon your influence over him."

Poor woman! She had not yet learned to depend upon Christ, and Mabel said—

"My dear Mrs. Knapp, my letters, my influence are worth very little to Arthur, compared with what a praying mother would be to him. And the rest of your children—you need Christ for them."

"I know it," said Mrs. Knapp. "There was a time, a great many years ago, when I hoped I was a Christian; but I don't know. It is a long while since I have had any religious privileges, and with so many cares, I got in the way of neglecting prayer, and reading the Bible, and now I suppose I'll just go on so."

"I hope not," said Mabel, quickly. "I come in to-day on purpose to invite you to the afternoon prayer-meeting in the church parlour. I will come around to-morrow afternoon with a friend who will take you, and I will stay with the children."

Thus smoothing the way, she gained her point. It was after spending a few hours with those ungoverned children that Mabel said (talking to herself), "How much that family need Christ!"

This was precisely the remark she had made after calling upon the Lorings. Yet the Knapps and Lorings are not the only people who turn away from Him who would supply their great need!

CHAPTER XIV.

DUNCAN FOLLOWS HIS OWN DEVICES.

IF anyone supposes that Mabel Wynn had found a smooth and even pathway laid out for her during these years, that person is mistaken. A great many things annoyed and tried her. The atmosphere of her father's house was in a high degree worldly, and sometimes it seemed to her that all spiritual growth must be smothered. Her parents had always been very indulgent, and this fact had only made it harder to oppose their wishes when these conflicted with her ideas of duty.

If Mrs. Wynn was disturbed when Mabel quietly ripped an extra ruffle from a new costume, and laid aside an unusually gay hat, or when she chose to spend her money for Sabbath-school helps; when she declined to attend card and dancing parties, or parties of any sort, whenever they interfered with more important duties; when she put aside her aunt's invitation to spend the winter in the city, from conscientious motives—that lady considered it the climax of absurdities when the exasperating young woman refused young Mr. Golden's offer of marriage.

"I declare," she said, "Mabel Wynn, you are enough to drive one distracted! Your whims and ridiculous notions quite outweigh your common sense. You always were an absurd child, but since you got bewitched with those boys, and so mixed up with Sunday-school people, you have grown positively fanatical. I am out of all patience! What more can you want? Young, handsome, rich, of fine connections, well educated, and, I presume, moral character, and you throw it all over, for what reason nobody knows. Hard as I have worked to bring it about, too!"

"My dear mother, I am sorry that you have troubled yourself. If you had consulted me beforehand, I could have told you how utterly useless it was. But really I do not see that all your recommendations do not apply to Judge McNair, except, maybe, that he is not so very young. And as to his moral character, you have no need to take it upon presumption. I believe he is remarkable not only for strict integrity, but for earnest devotion to Christ."

"What's the use of talking! You know he is not one of my sort; but, as usual, you have won over your father, and I suppose I must consent with what grace I may. Since you won't marry Mr. Golden, and Dr. Myers is out of the question, I'd as lief it should be Judge McNair as anybody. He does rank high in his profession, that is one consolation."

And straightway, Mrs. Wynn set herself about planning and ordering an extensive wardrobe for the bride-elect. Just one more "whim" she had yet to gratify. Mabel had chosen to be married quietly at home upon Thanksgiving morning, which certainly was not quite in keeping with Mrs. Wynn's ideas. The only daughter of the rich man ought to have a grand wedding, and it was so commonplace to choose Thanksgiving. "It was only ordinary country people who did that."

"But," said Mabel, "if it is not a matter of thanksgiving, then I won't be married at all; if it is, then it must be very proper to choose that day."

And that day was chosen.

"Oh, dear!" sighed Jenny McNair, coming in from school about a week before Thanksgiving. "What a horrid lonesome house this is! It is the worst place when I come in at night after being with the girls all day. Nobody to speak to, nobody to welcome me. I wish—"

"What do you wish, my daughter?" asked Judge McNair, who unexpectedly appeared at the parlour door, while Jenny talked to herself as she threw off her wraps in the hall.

She hesitated, then spoke out quickly, with something in the tone that begged pardon for her suggestion.

"I just wish you'd get me a mamma! I'm sick and tired of living so. Nobody to fix my clothes or curl my hair, help me out with my lessons, or do anything that I want done. All the girls are talking about Thanksgiving, going to have family parties, and everything nice." Looking up, she saw a curious smile on her father's face.

"Well, Jenny," he said, "come in here, and I'll tell you something. I mean this shall be a real Thanksgiving for you and Duncan."

It was a very pleasant little talk they had, and at the close Jenny said—

"Does Dunny know?"

"Yes, I told him this afternoon," replied her father, a little sadly; however, the sad inflection escaped Jenny's notice, so busy was she with her own glad thoughts. Duncan did not appear at tea-time. Jenny wondered, and Mr. McNair looked troubled but made no remark.

As soon as his father left the house, Duncan came down from his room.

"Why, Dunny," exclaimed Jenny, "are you sick? Nancy has carried away the things. Shall I bring you some tea?"

"No!" replied Duncan, shortly, tilting his chair and thumping his head against the wall, a trick he had when he was particularly out of humour.

Suddenly Jenny remembered something pleasant.

"O Dunny, isn't it perfectly splendid?"

"What?" asked Duncan, testily.

"You needn't pretend not to understand. Papa said he had told you. Won't it be lovely?"

"Just like a girl! Bought up with a new dress, I suppose," growled Duncan.

"Why, Duncan McNair, you act as if you didn't like it."

"Well, I don't, and I didn't suppose you'd be such a goose. I think it's just mean, that's what I think," said Duncan, pounding the wall energetically.

"Well," responded Jenny, "if you knew how much I need somebody to take care of me, you wouldn't you think me a goose."

"I can take of myself," replied Duncan, adding, in an undertone, "and I will, too;" then raising his voice, "I'll tell you just what I think about this piece of business;" but as we already understand the drift of his thoughts upon the subject under consideration, we will not repeat the exposition of his sentiments, given in no very choice or gentle terms.

Finally Jenny interrupted.

"Stop, Duncan! What would Miss Wynn say if she heard you go on at that rate?"

To this, he made no sort of reply, but gathering his books together, pretended to study. Sure enough, what would she say? He was half a mind to go and tell her his trouble. It was Wednesday evening; she would be at the prayer-meeting; he could step in, and be ready to join her when the meeting closed. So strong was the prompting, that he actually started, and gained half the distance to the church, when he was met and diverted from his purpose by Perry Morse, who had tickets for some second or third rate exhibition at the Hall. At first Duncan declined the invitation, upon which Nick Turner, who was with Perry, said—

"Better come along while you have a chance. Going to have a new administration up at your house, I hear. Likely the first move will be to shut down on this sort of thing."

"I don't imagine the new administration will affect me much," replied Duncan.

"That's the kind. But we are late; come on!" And they hurried forward, Duncan with them.

The next morning Duncan said—

"Father, I really wish you would let me go to Uncle John's. This is the second special invitation I have had. And you must not blame me, but I would rather be away on Thanksgiving Day."

"I am sorry," replied his father, "that you cannot fall in with our plans. We expected that you and Jenny would be present at the ceremony, and after dinner we would all come back here together. But, perhaps, in your present mood, it may be as well for you to go. If you feel differently, you can return the first of the week. I am sorry, Duncan, that you are so unhappy about this. I had counted upon your hearty approval of my choice."

Why in the world couldn't Judge McNair have once mentioned the name of his choice?

The next morning, Duncan departed, and Jenny went with her father to call upon the future Mrs. McNair, making what excuse she could for Duncan. She came home more delighted than ever. Very busy was she during the next few days, arranging and rearranging the rooms, preparing little devices of welcome, selecting her gifts, hurrying the dressmaker and hindering everybody.

Meantime Duncan and his cousin Joe were having long talks. Duncan had recounted his troubles, and found Joe a sympathizing listener.

"I wouldn't stand it if I were you."

"I am not going to. I wish I could get something to do here in Caryl. I don't intend to go back to Westville at present."

"Do you mean that?" asked Joe eagerly.

"Yes, I mean it."

"Well, now, say; suppose we go off together! I'm sick of this place. It is awful poky anyway. I just want to see the world."

"But will your father let you go?" asked Duncan, in surprise.

"Will your father let you go?" repeated Joe, laughing.

"I sha'n't ask him."

"And I sha'n't ask him," again repeated Joe.

The next four or five days were full of planning. Wonderful were their imaginary adventures. Nu thought of failure entered their heads. Of course they must succeed. In what? In being independent, of course. Joe brought out a book filled with sketches of successful men who, when mere boys, had started out with empty pockets and determined purposes. Of course they should come out all right. If only somebody had been there to suggest to the foolish fellows that running away from good homes was not characteristic of these noble boys. How to get away without exciting suspicion was a question which required considerable study.

"How shall I ever got my trunk to the depot?" pondered Joe.

"Mine isn't half full," said his cousin. "Put your things in with mine; that will fix that part of the business, and we shall have to trust to luck for the rest."

Friday morning, Duncan started for home. As he was saying "Good-by" to his friends, Joe called out from the steps—

"Good-by all! If I don't come back, you may know that I have gone with Duncan."

As he had repeatedly declared his intention of going home with his cousin, the family finally settled upon this conclusion when he did not appear at dinner time.

Truth is, Joe Aiken was a wild boy, and used to having pretty much his own way, going and coming as he pleased; but this was the first time he had launched out so boldly for a sail upon an unknown sea. Of course their destination was New York, which they reached the same evening. Joe suggested that as they had a pretty good supply of money (he had not hesitated to help himself from his father's desk), they should spend a few days in having a good time, seeing the sights and getting acquainted with the city, meantime looking out for work.

Duncan had objected to going to New York, saying that it would be inconvenient to meet Herbert Bradford. But Joe said, "Fudge! We might stay in the city ten years and never light upon anybody we ever saw before. I can tell you there is no place like New York to get lost in. And that's what we want, isn't it?"

No place like New York to get lost in!

Duncan began to feel the truth of this before he had been there twenty-four hours; and in the little time that elapsed before he saw Westville again, he many times feared that he was lost indeed. For Duncan's heart was tender, and his affection for the home friends strong. He had left home and entered upon this mad course in a fit of angry excitement. He had known one or two second-mothers who were unworthy to hold that place, and measured all by their standard; besides, he did not like the lady whom he supposed his father was about to bring to his house; and in his blindness, he thought he was justified in his resentment and rebellion.

What those boys did, where they went, what scenes they looked upon during the days of their sojourn in the city, never exactly transpired.

Jenny once asked, "Dunny, did you go to Central Park when you were in New York?" and received for reply, "Better not ask any questions about that, Jenny. I can tell you I came pretty near going to destruction!"

CHAPTER XV.

DR. MYERS "LENDS A HAND."

"Now make us strong, we need Thy deep revealing

Of trust and strength and calmness from above."

AT Westville, Thursday's programme was carried out. A quiet wedding, a small dinner party, after which, the newly married pair quietly established themselves in their own home.

Upon Friday, Mr. McNair received Duncan's note, which ran thus:

"CARYL. Tuesday.

"DEAR FATHER:—This is to say that you need not make a commotion about my coming back. It might hurt Mrs. McNair's pride to have it noised about that her son is a runaway. I think I will defer paying my respects to that lady until I have time to prepare my speech. You need not inquire for me at Caryl. I shall not be there. When I have anything worth saying, I'll write.

"DUNCAN."

The strong man groaned as he read this apparently heartless note.

"My poor boy! My poor foolish boy! May God help us!"

Already Jenny and her mother had begun to wonder when Dunny would come, and Judge McNair shrank from imparting the sorrowful news he had just received. If it were only possible to find him and bring him back, without ever revealing the truth; but where should he look for him—how trace him out? Where could he have gone without money?

Here a thought ran through the father's mind. Duncan had a small sum in the Savings Bank, deposited in his own name, a little legacy from his grandmother, with a few savings of his own. An inquiry brought out the fact that he had drawn this the day he went away.

There was not the slightest clue as to the direction his wanderings had taken. Possibly he might be traced from Caryl, but not likely—so the bewildered man thought; the strong man, the far-seeing lawyer, the clear-headed judge was at his wits' end. Things looked very dark to him, until he had talked it over with his wife and Jenny, who, though terribly shocked and pained, were hopeful.

"We must find him and bring him back," said Mrs. McNair. "Some one ought to go to Caryl, and see what can be learned there. He could hardly stay there four or five days, and let fall no hint of his plans."

"True, true," responded the judge, and while they were talking and planning, Nancy announced that Dr. Myers was in the parlour.

"Just the one to advise with!" said Mabel.

Going to meet his guest, who had called to pay his respects to the bride, Mr. McNair said—

"You find us in trouble," and then suddenly he asked—

"Can you leave town tonight upon a mission of great importance?"

Much astonished, the doctor replied, "Why, this is a sudden proposal; but, if necessary, I might. But to go where, and stay how long?"

"I will explain," which Mr. McNair proceeded to do, adding, "If you could start tonight, and return to-morrow noon, I could be ready to follow a clue, should you find one. The widow Fletcher's case is to be argued to-morrow, and I should not feel justified in leaving unless absolutely necessary. I could trust you."

"Thank you—I will go."

Upon taking leave of the McNairs, Dr. Myers went directly to the office of his friend and counsellor, Dr. Maxwell.

"Doctor, could you do me a favour?"

"I certainly will, if I can," replied Dr. Maxwell. "You have done me too many to allow a refusal."

Explaining that a sudden and imperative call would take him out of town for a longer or shorter period, he requested the doctor to take charge of his patients. This matter being arranged, he wrote the following note:

"MR. CLARKE:—I am suddenly called from home. Doubtful if I return for Sunday. Please look up a teacher for my class. I suggest Mrs. Bradford, but I have not time to see her.

"My mission is an important one. Ask God to go with me.

"Your brother in Christ,

"L. N. MYERS."

A few more hurried preparations, and he was off by the 11 o'clock express.

The next day Judge McNair received this telegram:—

"Off for New York. Slight clue. Wait for a letter.

"L. N. MYERS."

A few hours later, a letter came, written on board the train:—

"DEAR FRIENDS:—I reached Mr. Aiken's house before breakfast. Found your nephew Joe had gone off with Duncan. Supposed to have returned to Westville. Left on Wednesday. Mr. Aiken and myself went to the depot to make inquiries. Neither the ticket-agent nor the baggage-master remembered them, and I was about giving up in despair, when a ragged boy with a basket of peanuts on his arm said—

"'Bese you axin about Joe Aiken and another boy? 'Case Joe bought a lot of peanuts, and t'other fellow dropt his ticket, and I picks it up. It was a New York ticket, and I hollers,—

"'"Here, city bug, is your ticket—'taint no good to me. I've had enough of that kind of livin'."

"'It's no livin' at all, sir.'

"This is all my clue, but it is all we need for the present. I trust that the way will be opened to success, just as fast as I can get over the ground. Dear friends, do not despair. God is our refuge and a very present help. If you think best to come on to New York, meet me at the Metropolitan; but unless you are too anxious to stay at home, it may be as well to wait for Monday's message. I shall post this at the next stopping place, hoping that you will get it tonight. I know your prayers are following me, and I have strong faith that I shall bring Duncan back with me.

"Yours,

"L. N. MYERS."

Monday evening another telegram came:—

"Be of good cheer—we are on the right track."

And two days later:—

"All right; look-out for us at 6 o'clock."

In telling Mr. McNair of the search, Dr. Myers said—

"Judge, I brought your boy home; but I hate to tell you where I found him. Your pure, innocent boy had a narrow escape. Some day I should like to show him the Christian side of New York. He has seen enough of its dark side."

From long residence and several years' practice of his profession in New York, Dr. Myers knew much of the ins and outs of the city, and was prepared to follow up the slightest clue, and slight indeed that was. He had taken the 10 o'clock express from Caryl, the same the boys had travelled upon four days previous. As he was nearing the end of his journey, the thought occurred to him that possibly the conductor might remember the boys, and addressing that official upon his next round, he entered into conversation with him, and presently said—

"I would like to ask if you noticed two boys travelling over this road together on Wednesday—one a sandy-haired fellow, about fifteen years old, wearing an overcoat of the light shade so fashionable; the other a little older, with dark hair."

"Yes, I remember them," replied the conductor quickly; "and I set them down as runaways, too. Just before we got into the city, one of them, the dark-haired one—Joe, his companion called him—asked me to direct them to a respectable boarding-house, and I said, 'Boys, the best boarding-house you can find is your own home.' I did hate to see two such boys going in there alone as strangers; but I directed them to what I knew to be a decent house. This is all I can tell you about them. I conclude I guessed right, and they were runaways?" continued the man.

"Well, yes, they left home clandestinely. Will you give me the address you gave them? Possibly it may be of service. Thank you. I hope they have met with more of your sort to direct them to good places."

"May be," returned the man; "but I am afraid some of the imps of Satan have got hold of them before this." With which comforting remark, he moved on.

It was 5 o'clock Saturday afternoon when Dr. Myers stepped from the car, and taking a carriage, drove directly to the street and number given him by the conductor.

"Yes, two such boys had been there—stayed one day and left, saying it was too far up town. Didn't know where they went, or anything about them. They paid their bill, and an expressman took their trunk."

Undismayed, the doctor went to work; hunted up a detective, stated his case, adding, "Those boys are in the city, I feel sure—they must be found at any cost."

Then he sought out Herbert Bradford. To him, he said,—

"Herbert, your old friend Duncan is in this city, and I am looking for him. It seems a hopeless search, but with God's blessing, success is sure. I want you to make it a subject of special prayer, that he may be restored to his home at once."

Need we say that the Sabbath that followed was a day of much prayer? Indeed, Dr. Myers's life was a prayer—whatever he did, wherever he went, an earnest asking for God's presence and blessing attended his movements. And now, as he walked the streets, gazing eagerly at every red-headed boy and every light overcoat, he repeated,—

"'Some trust in horses, some in chariots; but we will remember the name of the Lord our God.'"

Monday afternoon, the officer appeared, saying,—

"I think I have a clue, sir. They were with a party that went over the river yesterday, and they are stopping at one of those dens on C— Street. I know the fellow that seems to be showing them around, and he is a hard one, too. But I reckon we'll get hold of them tonight."

But they did not "get hold of them" that night. Another twenty-four hours of anxious waiting and watching rolled away before Dr. Myers laid his hand upon Duncan McNair's shoulder, and said, with unmistakable sincerity—

"How are you, my boy? I'm glad to see you!"

Probably not even Judge McNair himself would have succeeded as well in overcoming Duncan's unwillingness to go home; for although the foolish fellow had seen about enough of this wonderful city (no wonder, when he had only seen the wicked side), he was yet loth to go back.

As for Joe, the doctor was armed with the necessary legal authority, a foresight of his father's, and for him, he had no choice; but as for Duncan, his hold upon him was stronger than more legal power; it was the influence which a thoroughly good man and a boy-lover must ever exercise over boys like Duncan. As I have hinted before, Dr. Myers was his hero and saint, and he had only to say, "Duncan, I cannot go back without you. I promise you one thing, if matters do not go on well at home, and you are not happy there, I will do all I can for your relief; but now I want you to go with me," and Duncan went.

Once, as they neared home, Duncan ventured to say,—

"Do they know—people, I mean—about my going off?"

"I cannot say," returned the doctor. "I came away so suddenly, but I presume it is not generally known; but you need not mind; you have only to say frankly that you were foolish and mistaken, and are sorry for it. That won't be very hard, will it?"

"No," replied Duncan slowly. "But do you suppose Miss Wynn knows about it?"

"Miss Wynn!" repeated his friend with a puzzled expression. "Why, of course she knows."

"I wish she didn't. She will be disappointed in me," said Duncan sadly. "She will think it is a queer way to follow. Anyway, doctor, you won't tell her where you found me! I couldn't bear to have her know."

Once more, he referred to "Miss Wynn" in a way that puzzled the doctor, until a sudden light burst in upon him. He was about to speak, then checked himself with the thought, "I won't enlighten him. I shall rather enjoy his surprise; but how could he have made such a mistake?"

At the junction where they changed cars, they were met by Mr. Aiken, whom the doctor had summoned by telegraph, and who took his son in charge, much to the relief of all.

Arriving at Westville, they were welcomed at the depot by Judge McNair, who greeted his son as though he had just returned from an ordinary journey.

"Isn't father splendid?" whispered Duncan to his friend in the momentary absence of the judge. "He seems just as glad to see me as if I were the best boy in the world."

"Of course," replied the doctor.

"You are to come home with us to tea, doctor," said the judge.

Jenny was watching, and flew out to meet them. Returning her kiss of welcome, Duncan said,—

"If you please, father, I'll run up to my room before I go into the parlour."

"Certainly; but don't be long. I presume tea is waiting."

The boy ran up-stairs, pushed open the door of his room, and was inside before he noted the strangeness of everything—that is, almost everything. There was his familiar motto at the foot of the bed, and some other familiar personal belongings. But there was fresh paper on the walls, new curtains at the windows, and in place of the old torn matting on the floor, there was a carpet soft to the foot and warm in colours, an easy chair, and under the gas-light, a small table with crimson cover, and upon it a handsomely-bound copy of the Book. A note lay beside it, which he picked up. It ran thus:—

"Mother and Jenny have been very happy in refitting the room for our dear Dunny. We hope he may be as happy in it. Here you can bring your friends for quiet visits, or come alone for communion with the Friend who is above and beyond any other friend."

Duncan whistled.

"Well, now, that is nice; but I didn't suppose she cared anything about that Friend. I thought folks who did showed it, and I never saw her at church in the world. Well, I promised Dr. Myers that I would try and make the best of it, and I am going to. This is a jolly room, anyway!" As he turned to go down, his eye fell upon a little photograph of herself which Mabel had given him some time before, and he sighed, "If it had only been her now!"

In the parlour, Judge McNair had said, "We have got our boy back again, and that must do for tonight. Some other time the doctor may tell his story."

And they were chatting of other things when Duncan entered. Rising and passing his arm around him, his father said,—

"Duncan, will you welcome your mother as she welcomes you?"

The bewildered boy looked from one to another, and gasped, "Miss Wynn! Mother! What—why? Oh! Why didn't somebody tell me?"

And breaking from his father's embrace, he rushed from the room.

Tea waited some time that evening. There were explanations to be made, soothing words to be spoken, and tears to be dried. It may be doubted if Dr. Myers enjoyed the surprise much after all, for he said,—

"I am sorry, Duncan, that I did not correct your mistake; but I was not quite sure that you were in the dark. But how came you to make such a blunder? Whom did you suppose your father was to marry?"

"I thought it was Miss Carver. The boys hinted at it a good while ago. Besides I thought—you were going to marry Miss Wynn."

"Mistake number two," laughed the doctor. "See here," drawing forward a lady whom Duncan had not noticed as making one of the group, "this is the future Mrs. Myers."

The lady was Lou Joslyn.

"But," persisted Jenny, "I am sure, Dunny, we talked about it, and you must have been told who it was."

"Yes, we talked about it, I know; but no one ever mentioned the name. I suppose," he added humbly and sadly, "it all grew out of my getting angry and making a fuss before father finished his story." And turning to Dr. Myers, "I know you told me once that my temper would play me a shabby trick some day."

CHAPTER XVI.

THE INGATHERING.

"Look again! the fields are whitening,

For the harvest time is near."

AGAIN the Lord seemed about to bless his church at Westville in the outpouring of his Spirit, in deepening the experience of those already Christ's disciples, and in leading others to grasp his offered hand.

The week after Willy Loring's death, his sister Louise glided into the Thursday evening prayer-meeting and took her place beside Mabel; again she came; then she slipped into the young people's meeting, where she found her voice to speak of the new hopes that were growing up in her heart out of the great peace that had fallen upon her life.

Next Mr. Loring came to church with his daughter upon a Sabbath evening, much to the surprise of all who knew him, for he was one of those who ignored religion in his life and conversation. But there he sat listening to Mr. Earle's sermon. Now, had the good pastor known that Mr. Loring was coming to church he would have preached a very different sermon. However, the Lord must have known it; and as Mr. Earle had both in public and in private asked the Lord whom they worshipped to take the direction of the day's services, it may be supposed that it was just the sermon needed, especially as Mr. Loring afterwards remarked that it was that sermon which led him to think seriously upon the claims of Christ. He continued to attend church, and one evening, he arose and said—

"My friends and neighbours, you have known me for an irreligious and worldly man. I hope henceforth to be known as a humble disciple of Christ. I have much to learn. Bear with me if in weakness and ignorance I stumble, and pray that strength and wisdom may be given me."

What a thrill ran through the little company met in sadness for prayer. In sadness because Christ had seemed to withdraw from them, and lo! He was here in their midst. What wonder that a voice took up the glad song—

"Thine, O God, be all the glory."

This was the beginning of a glorious revival. Night after night the people came together—Christians to pray and tell the wonderful story of Christ's love, and many came to listen; some who had heard the story again and again without realising its meaning for them; to others, who came drawn by curiosity, the story had almost the freshness of a now and unread book. There were many who, hearing the Spirit's call, yielded at once, and quickly found their way into the kingdom, while others hesitated upon the very threshold, drawn back by sin's strange power, and only entering after repeated struggles.

The whole church was awakened, ready and eager for work. Men stopped in the street or gathered at the corners to talk of the meetings, to say how the work was going on, to urge attention to the soul's interests, and to plan how best they might reach those yet outside the blessed influence. Women ran in to spend an hour in each other's parlours or kitchens, as the case might be, forgetting that there were such things as ruffles and ribbons, charades and tableaux, while their talk ran upon the love of Christ and the ways of doing his work.

For many weeks the people lived in an atmosphere of prayer, and there was a glorious ingathering. The anxious teacher who had been waiting so long for God's blessing upon her work hoped that now the time had come when the rest of her class should enter the Master's service. It seemed that now when so many were entering in, these could not stay out; and yet, though she watched and prayed, there were no signs of their coming!

Duncan had found the new home life very pleasant. No reproaches (except those of his own conscience) had met him, and his visit to New York was scarcely referred to. For this, he endeavoured to show his gratitude by exemplary conduct. He refrained from grumbling with Jenny, and storming at Nancy when she forgot to keep his breakfast warm; he was oftener prompt in coming down to breakfast, in time for breakfast, in time for prayers; his reports from school were of a higher grade, and so marked was the general improvement that Judge McNair said to his wife—

"You have no idea how that boy has improved. I am quite hopeful that he will turn out well."

"Are you?" replied Mrs. McNair. "I was never otherwise than hopeful of him. But I am very anxious to see him a Christian. I cannot feel at all satisfied with any improvement that falls short of that."

"Can't you persuade him to attend the meetings?" asked her husband.

"I have thus far failed. If I understand his disposition, it will not do to urge him very much—that would drive him the other way. He always has some excuse. I heard Jenny ask him tonight if he didn't want to go with her and Julia Bradford, and he refused flatly."

Mr. McNair looked troubled, but quickly brightened, saying—

"Well, there is One whose pleadings are more powerful than ours, and who knows how to find a way into his heart. We will ask Him to come and plead with our boy."

Oh, what earnest prayers went up from those anxious and waiting hearts! At that very hour, while these were praying for him, Duncan was in his room. He had not had such a fit of ill-humor in a month. He had snapped at Jenny because she asked him to go to church; he had kicked his dog because of Jenny's suggestion of church, and growled at Nancy for the same reason, and here he was snapping and growling at the walls or window curtains, without any earthly excuse for doing so.

When his growls shaped themselves into words, he said, "I won't go to meeting! There! Everybody's at me about it. I can't walk along the street without hearing somebody say, 'Go to church tonight.' I think the folks here might be satisfied with the new leaf I've turned over; but it seems they are not. So they have got Jenny and Jule Bradford to do a sharp thing. Now that's what I call a sharp dodge! I sha'n't go! I heard a man say to-day that there was no use in resisting. If a fellow once got into one of those powerful meetings, he'd be carried right along up to the gate of the kingdom in spite of himself. I don't want to go to heaven that way. When I get ready, I'll step in all by myself. My! What would Joe say to the idea of my turning saint? I know just what he would say. He'd make use of his favorite—; but his ugly words wouldn't sound well in this pretty room; with the old matting and dingy walls they might have corresponded. It was a capital idea of the new mother's, fixing up this den. But as for those meetings, I won't go!"

Duncan had paused directly before the little table under the gas-light, and at that moment, he saw a bit of folded paper lying beside the Book. Taking it up, he read, "Duncan, will you refuse Christ? It is his call." Just at that moment the church bell began to toll, and to Duncan every stroke was equivalent to the words, "He calls!" "He calls!"

For a moment he stood still, then he went swiftly down the stairs, took his overcoat and cap from the hat-rack, and joined the group in the sitting room, who were putting on their wraps.

"Come, girls, hurry up, if you are going under my escort."

Can you account for his sudden change of purpose? Does any one think it strange that the little note left there for him should attract his notice just as the church bell was about to strike. Remember, they had been praying for him down-stairs, committing him into the hands of One who understood his words and knew how to time the double call.

Duncan knew very little about the character or order of the meetings. If he thought about it at all, he supposed that they were going to a preaching service in the church, instead of which he found himself in the lecture room and parlour adjoining. Dr. Myers came towards him, and taking his hand in both his, said earnestly—

"Duncan, I'm glad to see you here! Suppose you go into the parlour. You'll find Mr. Earle there."

Now Mr. Earle was the very last person in the world whom Duncan McNair wished to find just then; however, somewhat bewildered, he obeyed the suggestion. As he entered, he heard Mr. Earle say, as in response to some one who had been speaking—

"Blessed news! Another wanderer brought home!"

Then, as he saw the newcomer, he continued—

"Ah! Duncan, we've been waiting a long time for you. We are very glad you've come at last. Will you take this seat?" indicating a chair near his own.

The boy went forward wondering. This was not at all his idea of a prayer-meeting. Both rooms were nearly filled.

Deacon Griffin had charge of the meeting in the outer room. His father and mother, Dr. Myers, Mr. Clarke, and others, were there, singing praises and rendering thanks for the gifts already bestowed, seeking the continued presence of the Spirit with its renewing power, and speaking words of instruction and counsel to some of the young converts who were there, ready to take up the Master's work, only asking to be shown how.

In the room where Duncan was seated were Willy and Helen Knapp, Alice Trafton and Mr. Trafton himself, besides many more of Duncan's schoolmates and acquaintances.

"'Well, Mr. Trafton," Mr. Earle said, turning back to continue the talk Duncan's entrance had interrupted, "I think you quite understand the step you have taken. I hope that you will join the working force at once. We need you. If you will stop a minute after church, I have a hint to give you to start on. And so, Willy, you, too, have quite made up your mind to belong to Christ?"

"Yes, sir; but I don't know what to do."

"What to do," repeated Mr. Earle, smiling kindly. "Why, my boy, you've nothing to do. Christ has done it all. He takes you just as you are. You have but to trust in Him."

"Yes, I know," returned Willy. "I don't mean just that. He has forgiven me and made me his own, and now I am different, I ought to live different. I mean I don't know how I ought to live. It is just as you said, sir. I want to do something to please Jesus, but I don't see anything that I can do."

"I understand you now," Mr. Earle replied; "and I think I can help you. Suppose that to-morrow morning when you fill the wood-box and sweep the paths, or bring the pail of water, you go about it with the thought that it is the work Christ has given you to do, and do it promptly and cheerfully. I think the Saviour will be pleased with the service. Then I suppose, like all school-boys, you like to play tricks on your mates—now, if you remember the rule Jesus gave, you will drop the paper ball before you send it flying across the school-room, aiming at somebody's nose; you would not like to be in the place of that other boy, nor of the teacher. These are little things, but if you are faithful, God may call you to do greater work for him. And how is it with Helen?" turning to the little girl.

"Oh, sir, I am very happy. I asked Jesus this morning to help me to be good-natured this day, and I think he did. I told mother that Willy and I hoped we were Christians, and she said she was very glad, and she wished she was one herself. I am praying for her and for father."

"We will all pray for them. Well, Alice, there was a very sad-looking little girl sitting in that seat last evening; but I see a very happy face tonight. What has become of the sadness?"

"It has all gone out of my heart, and that's the reason it don't show in my face, I suppose."

"Yes. Have you any idea what drove it out?"

"Yes, sir," Alice replied. "I think it was Christ himself. I felt so bad last night that I cried all the while you were preaching. Helen sat with me, and she was so happy, and that made me more miserable. I thought I was left out. When I went home, I went straight to Henry's room, and told him all about it. Then I knelt down by his chair, and he prayed for me, and I think Christ heard him, and that he has forgiven my sins; and with the sin all washed out, I couldn't be sad, you know!"

Duncan listened in amazement. Here were these children, three or four years younger than himself, rejoicing in sins forgiven, and starting out in the Christian life. When Alice spoke of her sins being forgiven, he said to himself, "Whew! If that little innocent puss had sins to forgive, what kind of a reckoning would I have?"

There were others to testify for Christ, and some who had not yet heard the sweet, gentle voice, saying, "Fear not, I have redeemed thee." Behind Mr. Trafton sat a young man who was greatly agitated. While the rest were singing, Mr. Earle went over and sat beside him.

"Nicholas," he said, "don't you find Christ yet?"

"No," returned the young man, choking with emotion, "I can't find Him, and if I could, I don't believe it would do any good. He wouldn't pay any attention to such a wicked fellow as I am."

"I'll agree to that, if you will find any account of his turning away from anybody."

"Are you sure He never turned anybody away?" asked the poor fellow. "May be they didn't tell of it."

"We have his word for it:

"'Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out.'"

As Mr. Earle went on repeating the precious promises, Duncan leaned forward to see who he was talking to, and, to his utter astonishment, discovered that it was Nick Turner!

He began to take in some idea of the extent and power of the work that was going on. True, he had heard many details, or might, if he had listened to conversations that went on around him, but he had failed to comprehend more than that there were meetings which a great many people called very interesting.

He felt something of the solemnity that rested upon all present, and when Mr. Earle knelt and prayed for Nick, he found himself wondering how he should feel if it was himself that was being prayed for. He listened eagerly to all that followed, until fearing he might become interested in spite of himself, he resolutely set about turning his thoughts away from the place. Suddenly the bell rang out for the preaching services. Mr. Earle laid his hand upon Duncan's shoulder to detain him, then, turning to Willy and Helen, he said—

"If you feel so anxious about your parents becoming Christians, I suppose you are willing to make some sacrifice for it. Are you not?"

"Yes, sir," said Willy.

"I think so," Helen said thoughtfully.

"Well, suppose that to-morrow evening you two offer to stay with the two little ones, and let your father and mother come to the inquiry meeting. Don't decide now, but think and pray about it. Good night."

To Duncan, "Well, my boy, is your decision made?"

"I haven't made any decisions lately," was the reply. "I didn't even decide to come here tonight."

"Ah! But since you are here you are not sorry?"

"No—I guess not."

"And you'll come again?—Will you?"

"I don't know—perhaps I will."

"Duncan, will you, if God permits, meet me here at a quarter before six to-morrow evening? We shall be alone then, and I would like to have a long talk with you. You may bring a friend if you like. Will you come?"

Duncan could not refuse, and gave his promise, which he wanted to take back the next minute. Mr. Earle's sermon that evening was a solemn appeal to the hearts of those who still refused Christ's invitation, and Duncan felt that the truths presented reached him—he saw his guilt and danger—indeed, I am not certain that he had not seen it before—but hitherto he had been quite determined to resist for the present. Now he was not so certain; perhaps it would be better to settle the matter now, if he only could.

It was so awkward to start; he had made a good many remarks about the "revival they were getting up," and it would seem queer to come around now and join in with the rest. He couldn't do it. As yet, his class at the seminary had not been broken into; they all stood out firmly against the call, and he wouldn't be the one to break the ranks. But then he had been to an inquiry meeting. What would they say to that? And he had promised to go again! Then, again, it might be, as Mr. Earle had said, that this was his very last opportunity. He remembered Willy Loring, and thought, what if he had waited for this time! He began to see where he stood, but was unwilling to take the step that would plant him upon the rock.

The next day a spirit of insubordination ran through his class-room, and it was plain from what corner it emanated. Never had Duncan McNair seemed so full of fun and frolic. He was quite determined to forget and make everybody else forget the position into which he had been led. Lessons were failures, ridiculous notes and outrageous caricatures were slyly handed about, causing subdued explosions of laughter. Had Professor Mills had charge of that department, serious trouble must have ensued; but Professor Harris understood the boys better than they understood themselves, and quietly watched and waited. Toward the close of the day's session, Duncan captured a note intended for his neighbour, reading it with a flushed and angry face.

"I must prevent an outbreak there," thought the teacher. "That boy has been in a state of excitement all day, and he won't stand much more."

A little while after, he said—

"McNair, I have discovered the error in your work. If you will stop a moment and make the correction, we will overlook the mistake, as your statement is correct."

Then, when the work was done, "Duncan, if it is not a breach of confidence, will you tell me what was in that note that made you so angry at Clarence Golden?"

"It was an insult to one of the best friends I have in the world," answered the boy, flushing again. "I'd fight any day for Dr. Myers's honour, and Clarence knows it. I think he will keep out of my way, and he'd better, too."

"Duncan, would you fight for your Saviour's honour?" Receiving no reply, Professor Harris continued, "Dr. Myers cannot be a better friend to you than Christ has been, and yet you do not hesitate to offer Him a gross insult, despising and rejecting his friendship, without which you are lost."

The conversation was not prolonged. There were others waiting to speak to the teacher, into whose ears he was sure to drop some word of warning or encouragement. Duncan walked slowly home. All the fun and frolic gone, his heart was burdened with a sense of his sin. It was true; all that Dr. Myers had done could not be compared with Christ's sacrifice.

And yet that very day he had ridiculed Christians and scoffed at things that belong to Christ's kingdom. How it all appeared to him now! Could he hope for pardon—might it not be too late? In his own room, he waited for the hour which Mr. Earle had set for their interview, for which he was now as anxious as he had been averse. Half-past four! An hour and a quarter to wait, when he was not sure of a minute. Inconsistent follow! Yesterday he had scorned the idea of any help whatever, thinking to make his way alone to the mercy-seat, when he should decide to start; and now he was depending entirely upon Mr. Earle. Why didn't he kneel right down there and give his heart to Jesus? This was the very thought which presently occurred to him.

And when, an hour later, he met Mr. Earle, and that gentleman said, smiling, "Well, shall I talk to you, or you talk to me?"

He replied—

"I have not much to say, only to answer your question of last night as to the decision being made. I think, sir, that I have made it. I do not feel sure that Christ has forgiven and received me, but I am very sure that I want to be his."

Again the glad pastor said fervently, "Thank God!"

CHAPTER XVII.

ALMOST WITHIN.

"He called me once again,

Pleading that He had precious things to say."

VERY soon after it became manifest that the Holy Spirit was in an especial manner present with the people of Westville, the clerks from Mr. Wynn's store began to drop into church after "closing time," which was perhaps half an hour before the dismissal. Soon one and another got leave to go earlier, and at length, finding that almost everybody went to church, the merchants entered into an agreement to close their places of business an hour earlier, that their employes might have the full benefit of the extra services. The interest among that class of young men was very general.

If Mr. Wynn had found it inconvenient to have one earnest Christian clerk in his employ, he was likely to have more trouble of the same sort, for five out of his six clerks came out squarely for Christ. The sixth was Perry Morse. Like the rest he had gone regularly to church, and listened with deep interest to the preaching. Like the rest he had heard the call to forsake sin and follow Christ. For many days he was grave and thoughtful; he slipped into the inquiry meetings, and once in the congregation, he spoke of his desire to become a disciple of Jesus Christ. One evening in particular he was deeply impressed. Mr. Earle had a long conversation with him, saying afterward to Dr. Myers—

"That boy seems almost ready to step in, yet there is something holding him back. If I could only get at it! It will be a sad thing if he comes so near only to draw back."

Since that first evening when Perry went with Nick Turner to Murphy's saloon, he had gone steadily downward, not swiftly—he was too cautious for that—but surely. He had found the allurements of that glittering trap of Satan's quite too strong to be passed over and resisted. He had long been a frequent visitor, and cards and wine had grown as familiar to him as anything connected with his home life, and the excitement of the one and the stimulus of the other seemed almost necessary to his existence. But now for a little time he had withdrawn from this haunt, and was apparently giving his whole thought to the work of seeking God's favour. Still days passed, and he held back. Nick Turner, his old crony, had forsaken the path they had been walking together, and now he was trying to persuade Perry to turn from it altogether.

"I can never forget," he said, "that I was the one to lead you into sin. If I could only undo it all. Perry, won't you break off and come with us?"

"Oh, I don't mind that sort of thing much," replied Perry. "You need not feel any remorse about it. Doubtless I should have found my way there some time. Besides, I can assure you, Nick, it is something else that keeps me from becoming a Christian. There is something stronger than the attractions of Murphy's saloon that holds me back. There, don't ask—you won't find out. I thought I'd tell you, that you needn't be fretting over your share in the work, if I go to the bad wholly."

When Mr. Earle asked, "Perry, could you give up evil associates, strong drink, and gambling?" Perry winced slightly at the plain words, but answered very decidedly—

"Yes, sir. I've got past that. The very thought of those things is a horror to me. But—there are other things in the way."

"Do you imagine that there will ever come a time when the way will seem perfectly clear?" asked the pastor.

"Perhaps not; but if I could got around one or two things it wouldn't be so hard; but I can't get around them. I'd have to go right through."

"Perry, there is nothing it would not be worthwhile to give up—no duty too hard, no cross too heavy, for the sake of God's favour. Don't let anything keep you from grasping the hand that Christ holds out to you. And let me tell you that the very things you dread will seem very different to you when the cloud of God's displeasure is lifted, and you walk in the sunlight of sin forgiven."

"I can't do it, Mr. Earle. I want to be a Christian, I surely do, but I'm afraid I can't. No matter—don't think any more about me. Work and pray for somebody else, and let me go."

"No," replied Mr. Earle, "we can't let you go. You will not be so foolish. Whatever your stumbling block may be, Christ will help you to pass it—only ask Him to help you."

Perry went home and spent a night of conflict. It did seem that there never were so many things to hinder a boy from coming to Christ. Satan contested every step of the way. Perry had gained many points, but here was this thing, the something that Mr. Earle could not come at. It loomed up before him, darkened the way, seeming to shut him out of heaven. To be sure there was a way through it, as he said. It was right through it. But could he do it?

Could he go to Mr. Wynn and tell him that a year ago when he had charge of the books for a few days, during the brief illness of Morris Clarke, he had made false entries to cover up a theft he had committed? It was a small sum, and apparently had never been missed; and he had almost forgotten it himself, until now his quickened and tender conscience kept it continually before him. The money went, with a great deal more, to pay gambling debts. Doubtless his father would replace it, but, of course, dismissal would follow disclosure. And this wasn't all. While treasurer of the Sunday-school missionary society he had used some of the funds intrusted to him. If he could only quietly refund this money and the other, and have no noise made about it!—but this thought gave him no comfort.

In the first place, he could not very well do it; and besides he felt that God required that he should confess his sin—and here was his stumbling block. Here he halted, as we have said, for days. Thinking it over and over, he remembered Mr. Earle's earnest:

"Don't let anything keep you from Christ."

And finally he resolved, hard as it would be, that he would go to Mr. Wynn the first thing in the morning and tell him the story and accept the consequences. Now it never occurred to him that as a Christian man, Mr. Wynn was bound to forgive a repenting brother, and unite his own prayers with his for the forgiveness of a holy God. Of course it didn't! Mr. Wynn's life was not calculated to awaken any such thought. A man to whom business and religion are entirely distinct affairs is likely to have a great deal of the one and very little of the other, and to be the last person who would kneel down in his private office and pray for an erring clerk. So Perry made up his mind to face his anger; at least he thought he made it up; but he forgot to plead with Christ for help that his steps should not falter, that his courage might not fail, that Satan might be restrained from throwing any further hindrances in his path.

He went down to breakfast and drank his coffee in silence, until Mr. Morse addressed him—

"Perry, have you ever spoken to any one about that black horse that I sold to Davis? I mean about any defect in him."

"No, sir, I think not," replied Perry, wondering.

Mrs. Morse laughed as she said—

"I don't think you needed to ask that question. Did you ever in your life know Perry to acknowledge that anything he had an interest in was not quite perfect?"

"I know he is a great boaster of his own perfections," replied the father. "I shouldn't wonder though if somebody might find a flaw or two in him if they looked sharp. Eh, Perry! But about the horse. It will be just as well if you don't know anything about it. Understand?"

"Not quite. Why?"

"Nothing, only Davis threatens to sue for damages, so I hear. He asked no questions about the horse, and I wasn't bound to tell all I knew unless asked. That's what Lawyer Bradford says. Davis had known the horse longer than I had. It was raised within two or three miles of his place. If he should make a fuss, it would be as well if you know nothing about it."

"Of course, you wouldn't want Perry to tell a downright lie about it," said Mrs. Morse; and little Charlie wondered if downright lies were any different from other lies.

"Why, no—certainly not. But he never drove the horse—what can he know? I'll trust him to get around it. Of course if he should have to come upon the stand and testify, he would have to tell the truth about it. But if he don't know anything about it, he will not be likely to be called upon."

Perry wondered if a lie in the court-room was really so much worse than a lie in somebody's parlour or breakfast-room; but then Perry's conscience was tender just then.

Perry's resolution had not gained strength by this little conversation, and his father's hint at his own possible imperfections disturbed him somewhat. What would he say when he knew all? Oh, if Perry's father had lived nearer to Christ, and if Perry had gone first to him with his confession! He was walking straight on toward the private office where he expected to meet Mr. Wynn, when he was stopped by that gentlemen.

"Morse, see here—some goods belonging to your department have just come in. I want to show them to you. There—aren't those beauties?" displaying some laces. "Now see if you can tell the difference. Is there any?"

"I should be a dull scholar not to have profited by the lesson you gave me on laces," returned Perry, smiling; "but the imitation is so like the real that I am almost afraid to call it so."

"Just so! Just so!" said Mr. Wynn. "Now, Morse, I am going to take a set of these up to Mrs. Wynn, and when you show the others you can say that Mrs. Wynn has a set like them—they are very like, you see. And you understand, you are not to show them both to the same customers. Mrs. Golden or Mrs. Amesbury would detect a difference very quick, but Mrs. Longseam would never know whether she paid ten dollars for a collar exactly like Mrs. Wynn's or not. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir, I understand," said the clerk to his employer; then as that individual turned away, he continued to himself, "I quite understand that it is no worse for me to take twenty-five dollars of your money than for you to take ten dollars from a poor woman for an article that isn't worth five, because she never will know any better. Yes, I understand. You and father call yourselves Christians, and I don't know as it will pay for me to humble myself for the sake of being like you, and I sha'n't do it. My secret is safe now, and I'll keep it. I'd like to know how Lester, and Clarke, and all the rest of them, are going to get along here. I can tell them that religion hasn't any chance for a foothold in this store. They'll have to give in at last; then they won't be any better off than I am."

A customer interrupted this one-sided talk, and he had no farther opportunity for meditation during the day. Indeed he would have avoided anything of the sort. He said he had "stopped thinking; he guessed it would do as well to let things slide along;" and by way of doing his part, he did not go near the church that evening, but went back to Murphy's, and reeled home toward midnight with just sense enough left to remember his broken resolutions.

As he kicked off his boots and groped about for a match, he muttered, "Well, this is different from last evening! And to think that all my hard work to bring myself up to the confessing point has just ended in smoke! Everything knocked over by the wonderful consistency of two church members! Well, if it hadn't been for father and Mr. Wynn, I should have spent this evening differently, I presume. Humph! I guess so! For all I know I might have spent it in jail. Mr. Wynn would have been as likely to take that course as any other. My! What a mountain I made of it last night! It wasn't such a great affair, after all. I have done extra work enough to earn that money a dozen times over; and as for religion, I don't want the kind that some folks have, and in my position, I couldn't very well manage any other. Heigh ho! I'm sick of Westville. I wish I had Herbert's chance in New York. He is a lucky dog. It was dull at Murphy's without Nick. I must try to coax him back."

With which resolve Perry tumbled into bed and snored off into a stupid sleep that lasted so long that he was late at the store, and Mr. Wynn wondered "how much longer those meetings were to be kept up. The excitement was spoiling the clerks. He had given them their evenings, and now they took the mornings of their own accord."

"Who takes?" asked Morris Clarke, respectfully. "I cannot remember that any of us have been late before for a month. I can assure you, Mr. Wynn, that the meetings don't make a fellow into, and they do help one to do better work; and as for excitement, there is very little of that element."

"Oh," returned Mr. Wynn, "I never yet knew a person to acknowledge that he was excited."

"But, Mr. Wynn," said young Lester, "don't you approve of such things? I thought you were a member of Mr. Earle's church."

"So I am. But, my boy, it does not follow that I indorse all of Mr. Earle's measures."

"It seems to me," said Morris Clarke, "that these meetings are the Lord's measures."

"Well, well, doubtless you think so. I only hope they won't infringe upon business. 'Diligent in business,' you know, is just as much a command as a great many other passages that much stress is put upon."

"Yes, sir. And, Mr. Wynn, that is just what we boys mean to be. We have decided for Christ, and we find it to be a part of our Christian duty to do our very best at whatever we are set about, and we promise to be faithful to your interests. In our inexperience, we shall doubtless make missteps in trying to follow Christ, but we hope that you will bear with us, and out of your longer experience in Christian living show us when we go wrong."

If Morris Clarke had meant to be sarcastic, he could scarcely have done better than in this last remark. Mr. Wynn show young disciples how to walk! And yet he was sincerely glad that these young men were converted. If only they would not be over-zealous, and this was what he said, stammering a little. Religious conversation was not easy for him.

"Well, boys, I am glad that—to know—to hear —it is a very good thing to start while you are young. I hope you will all hold out. I'm very glad. But I want to warn you against fanaticism—a quiet, even sort of thing is what I like in religion. Yes, I am very glad."

Perry Morse stood a little apart during this talk, and as Mr. Wynn moved away he said, following him—

"Sir, I didn't go to church last night. I wasn't well this morning. That's how I was late."

"Never mind. I was a little worried over a missing letter, and spoke a little sharper than I intended. But how is it that you didn't go to church? Aren't you one of them?"

"No, sir."

"Ah, better go with the rest, Perry. Little as I approve of what are called revival meetings, I would not for the world hinder any one from becoming a Christian."

"You've hindered me," thought Perry as he went forward to show the laces to a wealthy customer.

And so Perry Morse drew back. His father wondered why it was that in this ingathering his son was left out, and as months went by, Mr. Wynn complained of Perry's dissipated habits, and neither of them dreamed how near he had come to the gate of the kingdom, nor suspected that they had helped to turn him back to indifference and sin.

CHAPTER XVIII.

TROUBLES.

"I dared not look on the long way before;

I dared not look on the dark way behind."

Six months later, Judge McNair and his wife were dining at the Wynn mansion. Mrs. Wynn had exquisite taste, and also plenty of money at her command: consequently the finishing and furnishing of that dining room was a rare combination of beauty and comfort. The hangings were of the palest of green tints, the carpet wonderfully like the rich moss into which our feet sink in our summer rambles, the pictures few and appropriate, the chairs of a graceful pattern; flowers filled one window with colour and the room with delicate fragrance, while an open fire at the farther end dispelled the chill and gloom of a November day. The table appointments were perfect, and the cook had done her part well.

There was no extra display—the daughter of the house had come to spend the day with her mother, and the judge had been invited to an informal dinner. No doubt they ought to have been very bright and happy, all of them. Mabel and her mother had passed a very cheery morning, and Judge McNair came in smiling and genial as ever; but the host wore a vexed and pained expression, which did not altogether pass off as the dinner progressed. When they came to the wine, which, as usual, Mabel and her husband declined, Mr. Wynn said—

"I believe you are right, judge. If I had a boy, I'd do the same."

"But, father," said Mabel, "you have young men in your employ."

"I'm not responsible for my clerks' habits," Mr. Wynn returned; "and, besides, they don't sit at my table."

"I have no doubt but that they perfectly understand your views and practices on the temperance question, though they never saw you take a glass of wine; but, father, it seems to me that you are to a certain degree responsible for them."

"I hope not," he answered quickly. "I don't want to be held responsible for Perry Morse's dishonesty, which has just come to light. I declare I don't know when I have been so sorry for anybody as for Mr. Morse; but I couldn't help it, I had to discharge him."

"Why, Mabel!" said Mrs. Wynn. "He was one of your famous boys, wasn't he?"

"Yes," replied Mabel sadly.

"Humph! I wonder you didn't instil in him some of the first principles of honour," growled Mr. Wynn.

"You mean," returned Mabel, with a touch of sarcasm, "you wonder why I didn't teach him the happy medium. It seems there is one. Queer that Herbert should have been discharged for being too strict, and Perry Morse for being too loose."

"Herbert Bradford was discharged for disobeying orders; but Perry Morse was sent adrift because he is a drunkard and a gambler, and took my money to pay his gambling debts. If his father had not been an old friend, I'd have lodged the boy in jail, and I am not sure that I should not have been more in the way of duty if I had done so."

"Give him another chance," said Judge McNair quietly.

"Another chance at the money-drawer?" Mr. Wynn asked, laughing. "No, I can't do it. Morse must find some other berth for his scapegrace; but I am really sorry for them. I declare," turning to his daughter, "I don't see how you happened to make a failure of him. I thought all those boys were going to turn out paragons. It seems that Perry was too much for you, eh?"

"I do not give Perry Morse up for lost yet," returned Mabel. "The freshness and purity of his boyhood may be sadly marred, but he may make a good and useful man. I have worked hard for him, but Satan has been busy too."

"Do you know what Morse thinks of doing with him?" asked the judge.

"No; he spoke of his brother's establishment near Dunkirk, and thought perhaps he would take him."

"What is the business?" asked his wife.

"Manufacturing leather—in other words, a tannery."

"Do you mean that Mr. Morse would be so unwise as to set a boy of Perry's peculiar tastes and temperament to work at that disagreeable business?" exclaimed Mabel.

"Why not?" returned Mr. Wynn. "I presume you would prefer the odour of hides and tan-bark to that of whisky. Anyway, the fellow wants bringing down."

"I don't think so. He needs lifting up. He is a proud, fastidious fellow. I dare say you would never find him at Smith's den around the corner, nor over the railroad at Bacon's, but always at Murphy's, where Satan takes especial pains to be agreeable and fascinating to boys of Perry's stamp. He would never have become a drunkard, if he had been forced to buy his liquor at Smith's. He will rebel against any such plan as you suggest."

"But, Mabel, don't you see that he has forfeited all claim to a consideration of his tastes and inclinations?"

"No, I don't see. Doubtless he has gone very far astray; but I don't feel at all sure that he may not be reclaimed, and under proper influences led into the right way."

"I don't know what you mean by proper influences," retorted Mr. Wynn. "His father and mother, as you know, are Christian people, and I have no doubt have tried to train their son up in the way he should go."

"Unfortunately Christian people sometimes make sad mistakes, and Perry is one of those persons who are sharp to detect inconsistencies in the lives of professing Christians, and turn them to account in excusing their own faults. I can't help thinking that if the atmosphere of his home had been more truly Christian, if love to Christ had been the ruling motive in every day's affairs, if the life, the labour, and the conversation had been of and for Jesus, Perry Morse might have turned out differently. That's what I mean by proper influences. Influences that lead to Christ, not away from Him. It would be very far from my intention or desire to judge Mr. and Mrs. Morse," continued Mrs. McNair; "but we all know what has been the tenor of their walk and conversation, and only the faithful are sure of the promises."

"Well, all I have got to say about it," returned Mr. Wynn, "is that the fellow has been taught at home and at church better than he has done, and his common sense might have told him that the way he has been going on must lead to ruin first or last. The scamp has only himself to blame as I can see."

"Now, if we allow that (which I do not), suppose one should give him a chance to thank somebody for a helping hand, so that he gets back to a safe path, wouldn't it be better than letting him go on down hill, because it is his own fault that he started?"

"It might be, if he showed any signs of wanting to turn about; but I can tell you, my dear, coaxing won't do any good in his case, he is too hardened."

Mabel said no more, but her thoughts were busy while her father and Mr. McNair branched off upon a less painful topic.

Meanwhile Perry, sullen and defiant, listened to his father's reproaches, which were neither few nor mild.

"To think that a son of mine should be a drunkard! A man of my position in both business and religious circles! Young man, it is positively outrageous!"

"Father," said Perry, with a sneer, "I wouldn't find so much fault with my own work if I were you. If I am a drunkard, you made me one."

"I made you one! What an abominable story to invent! Pray tell me how I, a temperance man, succeeded so admirably in the work you credit me with."

"I don't know what you mean by being a 'temperance man;' but I do know that when Mr. Spencer was here lecturing upon temperance, he one Sunday spoke to the Sunday-school, and after he had spoken a while, he asked all who would promise to abstain from intoxicating drink to rise. Almost everybody in the church rose, and I was just going to get up with the rest of our class, when I looked over and saw you keeping your seat, and I thought that if you didn't think such a pledge was right for you, of course it wouldn't be for me. And that is how I came to be a drunkard, sir! If I had taken that pledge, I should have kept it."

For a moment Mr. Morse was confounded, but recovering himself, he said—

"Of course that is nonsense, Perry. You know very well that I do not believe in total abstinence pledges, but that I do believe in temperance. There is a vast difference between an occasional glass of wine, or even an habitual glass, and this drinking to excess, frequenting saloons, and being brought home dead drunk."

"Won't you please to tell me how a fellow is going to know just where temperance ends and intemperance begins?" asked Perry, in a sarcastic tone.

"I should think you had tried the experiment times enough to find out for yourself," retorted his father sharply.

"I reckon you'll have some trouble to lay the rest of your confounded follies upon my shoulders," he said, after a pause. "You can't accuse me of training you in the art of gambling. I never played a game of cards in my life—or stole a dollar," he added bitterly.

"Perhaps not," returned the boy, stung to madness. "But who bet fifty dollars on the election last fall? And maybe cheating isn't stealing, but—"

"Perry!" exclaimed Mrs. Morse. "Won't you stop? I cannot endure it."

Perry turned toward the pale little woman who, exhausted with grief, lay upon the lounge listening to this talk.

"Yes, mother, I will stop; but isn't it hard to be reproached for learning a lesson too well?"

I think Mr. Morse had it in his heart to strike his son to the floor, but he restrained himself, remembering his plan, which would bring a sweeter revenge, and to Perry a more bitter punishment.

"You'll soon be under another teacher, young man," he said quietly. "I have just written to brother John, and if he will take you, I'll apprentice you to him for the next two years."

"Father!" exclaimed Perry, in utter dismay. "You won't do that?"

"I will do just that!"

"I will never go there."

"We shall see."

"But, father, you are not in earnest? I'd sooner die."

"Oh, no, people are not so ready to die. And pray what objection have you to my plan? I should suppose you would be glad to hide yourself somewhere."

"Not in a tan-vat!" said Perry. "Father, I don't like the business—that is my objection."

"Of course it is a coming down; but remember, you brought yourself down."

"But it is such dirty work."

"Afraid of dirt, eh? Perry, you are too proud for your present position. If I were you, I'd be thankful for any work that is respectable, and not mind if it is not as—"

"I'm not afraid of dirt, but I hate it; and as for pride, I'll prove to you it is not that, by doing any kind of clean work, even if it is sawing wood. But I never will go into Uncle John's tannery."

Mr. Morse repeated his cool "We shall see," and left the room. Mrs. Morse said—

"You'd better not oppose your father now. He feels your fall into sin very deeply. Perhaps he will be more yielding after a little while."

"It isn't so much the sin that he cares about as the disgrace," said Perry. "I tell you, mother, if I had not gone so far, it would have been all right. A gentleman tippler, a parlour gamester, a sharp money-getter—these pass muster."

"My son, you are unreasonably bitter toward your father."

"And isn't he unreasonably bitter toward me?"

"Oh, I don't know, I don't know," moaned the poor woman; "but don't quarrel. I can't bear it. Oh, Perry, how could you go so wrong? You certainly have been taught better."

"Yes, mother, I have had a mixed sort of education; and, unfortunately, I found some of the lessons easier than others. But, after all, I think you and father are making a great fuss about something that happens every day. I've done no more than half a dozen rich men's sons that I could name."

The poor mother turned her face to the wall; she did not know what to say to her boy; she only partly understood him, but she began to realise faintly that there had been a fault in his training, that the seed which had brought such bitter fruit might have been of their own sowing. Unconsciously and ignorantly on her part the evil had been wrought; but was she not to blame for this very unconsciousness and ignorance? Alas! She had followed Christ afar off, and so her children had failed to see manifested in her life the beauty of holiness. And, too, now in her troubles, her Saviour seemed afar off, so far that she could not carry her grief to Him, and she had no strength to call out that He might hear and draw nigh. Poor mother!

CHAPTER XIX.

A BATCH OF LETTERS.

"How many lives made beautiful and sweet

By self-devotion and by self-restraint!"

THAT which they said of Perry Morse was true. He had been brought home dead drunk; he had neglected his business and taken his employer's money to pay his gambling debts, and he was only seventeen! The reproaches which his father had heaped upon him had roused a spirit of defiance and stubbornness; yet he was not altogether hardened, as was shown by the tears he shed over a note he received the next morning. It ran thus:

"DEAR PERRY:—Could you come and see me a little while this afternoon? I would like to have a little quiet talk and consultation upon a matter of interest to you, and think that we may have a better chance to be alone here. Shall we say at three o'clock?

"Your friend,

"MABEL MCNAIR."

But Perry found himself unable to accept this invitation. The course he had been pursuing had undermined his health, and the excitement and shame of the last day or two had quite used up his strength. He lay upon the lounge, with throbbing head and fever pulse. By the following morning, Mrs. Morse was thoroughly alarmed, and would have a physician.

Mr. Morse said, "Very well. If you are anxious, I'll send up Dr. Maxwell."

"I don't want Dr. Maxwell," said Perry, overhearing the remark. "I'll have Dr. Myers, if anybody. Dr. Max. is fussy."

"Well, you won't have Dr. Myers, I can assure you," replied Mr. Morse.

"Dr. Maxwell is our family physician," said Mrs. Morse soothingly. "It would not be treating him well to call any one else."

"I don't know why," said Perry. "If I like Dr. Myers better, I should think I might have him."

"The things you like don't always happen to be the best," replied Mr. Morse significantly, as he closed the door after him.

An hour after this, Dr. Maxwell made his visit. He found his patient sullen and silent. Surprised, he turned to the mother for an explanation.

Embarrassed and pained, Mrs. Morse said hesitatingly, "The truth is, Perry took a freak into his head to want Dr. Myers, and I have not been able to reason it out of him."

"Of course not," returned the kindly old doctor. "He is not in a state to be reasoned with. Why in the world wasn't Dr. Myers called?"

"Why, you know you are our family physician, and Mr. Morse did not think it would be right to employ any one else," replied Mrs. Morse, conscious that she was telling only half the truth.

"Fudge! That's being over particular. I'm too old a man to be jealous or troubled by any such thing. I'll send Dr. Myers up myself," said the doctor, rising to go.

"Oh, no, don't do that; at least, not until you have seen Mr. Morse—I—he—well, I think my husband does not quite approve Dr. Myers."

"Well, I do, but I'll see Morse. Good morning."

Mr. Morse was surprised and a little alarmed when Dr. Maxwell entered his store that morning.

"See here, Morse," began the visitor, "you made a mistake. I wasn't wanted up at your house."

"Just as I thought," returned Mr. Morse, "but my wife is nervous and easily alarmed, and I called you to pacify her."

"Not that, not that," said the doctor quickly. "There's need enough of a physician's service, but I am not the one to help the boy. It seems he wants Dr. Myers, and he is the man to go to. I was going to send him up myself, but your wife thought I'd better see you first."

"I do not employ Dr. Myers," said Mr. Morse, with emphasis. "I have confidence in your skill and am satisfied to trust him with you."

"Thank you, but it won't do. The boy is in no state to be reasoned with or crossed; he wants Dr. Myers, and Dr. Myers he must have."

"But I tell you I won't have him."

"Not when I assure you that I consider him a perfectly reliable physician, and that I would trust my own son with him?"

"Not even upon that assurance."

The good old man was puzzled and troubled, too. After a brief silence, he said slowly—

"Mr. Morse, I do not understand you. You and Dr. Myers are members of the same church, and yet you seem to hold bitterness toward him. I do not understand that. Further than this, you will let your son die, perhaps, for lack of the help which the man you dislike can give, because you happen to dislike him. I do not understand that. I did not prescribe for your son, and I shall not. It is of no use. He must be soothed and quieted. My visit was an injury to him. But of course you must do as you think proper. Good morning."

Turning back from the door, Dr. Maxwell added, "If it would be a satisfaction to you, I will agree to call often enough to watch the progress the disease is making, and will counsel with the doctor. But something must be done at once."

Though Mr. Morse was becoming alarmed by the doctor's earnestness, he retained his almost surly manner as he replied, "Well, I have placed him in your care. If you prescribe a heavy dose of Dr. Myers, I suppose we shall have to submit, however unpleasant."

Dr. Maxwell found his friend just returned from his morning round of calls, and he was soon sitting beside the sick boy, holding his burning hand in his own cool one, while he spoke gentle soothing words.

For a few days fever and delirium raged, then came a slow convalescence. Dr. Myers came often, and sat long beside his patient trying to cheer him and drive away a gloom that hung over him. Perry rarely smiled; his mood seemed between sullenness and despair. One day the doctor said—

"Perry, my boy, you don't gain as fast as I wish you did. You must try to cheer up; it is low spirits that keeps you back."

"There is always something keeping me back," returned Perry.

"Supposing you were to break loose and take a fresh start. Which is it? Are you brooding over the past, or dreading the future?"

"Both."

"Well, you can't undo the past, but you know how it can be wiped out."

Perry looked up inquiringly.

"The blood of Christ," said the doctor softly.

Perry shook his head.

"True, some of the consequences of sin must follow you, but your future will be very much what you make it."

"No, it won't. It will be just what father makes it," said Perry bitterly.

"Outwardly, perhaps so; but that need not affect the real, the inner life. True living is of the soul, and, Perry, if you would cease to work against Christ, and begin working with and for Him, then you would begin to live. Don't waste these hours of quiet in useless regrets and miserable forebodings, but go to Jesus with all your burden of sin, take the pardon that awaits you, and leave the future with Him. Can't you do this?"

Perry again shook his head. "I don't mind telling you," he said, "that I am sorry for the past, and I would like to be different, but it is of no use to try; they won't give me a chance."

This is only a bit of that talk. To all Dr. Myers's arguments and entreaties, Perry continued to respond, "It is no use to try." Yet it seems not to have been altogether in vain. Some faint glimmer of hope must have reached the boy's heart, for he grew more cheerful, and gained strength correspondingly, and in the course of a week was able to come down-stairs.

Lying upon the lounge in the sitting room, while the family were at dinner, he overheard a fragment of conversation which sent the blood capering through his veins, and set heart and head to throbbing violently. Mr. Morse was saying, "I suppose I had better write to John. He will be waiting for an answer. Probably Perry will not be able to go for a month yet."

"I should think not sooner, perhaps not then," replied his wife. "But hadn't you better wait a little before you make any decisive answer? I do not think Perry will be willing to go."

"Can't help it. Of course, I have his welfare in mind, and I think it is the best thing to do. He is ruined for Westville, and a stranger would not take a boy without recommendations. As for not liking it, he will get over that after he is once fairly at work."

Forgetting how weak he was, the unhappy boy started to go to the dining room to enter an indignant protest, but sank upon the threshold limp and white. Then there was consternation, running for restoratives, a swift messenger for the doctor, and it must be confessed upon Mr. Morse's part an uncomfortable feeling that he was to blame for what might prove a serious relapse. And so it turned out. At the end of a month, instead of going to work in Uncle John's tannery, the invalid, muffled in shawls and tippets, was taken out in the doctor's carriage for an airing, and when another four weeks had passed, he was pronounced fit for work.

Meantime this bit of correspondence had been going on:—

"NELSON, Dec. 10.

"MY DEAR BROTHER:—Harvey is about leaving me to go West. Can you send me a good clerk to fill his place, or one to grow into it, not a fresh hand, but one with some knowledge of the business. You know what Harvey's position has been. For the present, I shall take more care and work upon myself, but I want to get some one who can be trusted as I have trusted him. If you can find an honest fellow, let me know at once.

"Yours as ever,

"DAVID MCNAIR."

"WESTVILLE, December 12.

"DEAR BROTHER DAVID:—I have in mind a clerk for you, and fine accountant, a good salesman, but not otherwise up to your requirements.

"David, good boys can get places any day, but one who has been discharged for dishonesty is in a bad fix. And the worst is, there are so few who are willing to give such a boy a chance to redeem himself. This boy is a mate of Duncan's, and was a member of my wife's class in Sunday-school, and I am much interested in him. I have offered him a place in my office, but his inclinations are still for a mercantile life.

"Now, can you find it in your heart to do your Master a service by giving this young fellow an opportunity to begin life anew? I hope you will consider it, I need not add prayerfully, knowing as I do your habit. There is no immediate hurry. He has been ill and is just getting about. Let me hear at the end of a week. And may Christ through his Spirit guide you to decision in accordance with his will.

"Your brother,

"ROBERT MCNAIR."

"NELSON, Dec. 20.

"BROTHER ROBERT:—I think my duty has been made plain to me. The Lord has so prospered me that I have no need to be anxious about money affairs, so that I have more time to give thought to this work; and just at present, I find here nothing especial to put my hand to (mind, I say nothing especial—there is always the ordinary, every-day work for Christ); so it seems to me that perhaps I may be his chosen instrument to help the boy you speak of, by bearing with his faults, correcting his mistakes, and strengthening his good purposes.

"Harvey has decided to remain until spring. If your young friend comes, he will board with us and room with Harvey. As to salary . . . if he should remain with me and fill Harvey's place, of course the pay would be the same that he receives. If this is satisfactory, he may come as soon as he is able.

"Yours, &c.,

"DAVID."

It was Dr. Maxwell who undertook to set this proposition before Mr. Morse. That gentleman's opposition was at first very decided. He had made the proposal which his brother had accepted, and he would much prefer not to retract anything. However, Perry was so averse to the idea, he was willing to promise him a release at the end of a specified time, if he should not become reconciled to it. The truth was, his brother was wealthy, and had offered to do well by his nephew. Perry would be a rich man in a few years, and it was all nonsense this being afraid of a little dirt.

"It is a good deal of dirt instead of a little," laughed the doctor. "Of course that sort of work has to be done, but you must remember that you have always encouraged Perry's fastidiousness, and love of neatness and pleasant surroundings has become a part of his very nature, so that if you insist upon forcing him into such uncongenial work, I really believe it will have a bad influence upon his mental and moral character. Now he has a chance to retrieve the past, and seems ready to make the attempt. I beg of you don't put a straw in his way."

Now Mr. Morse's word had always been decisive in his family. When he said a thing was to be, or not to be, that ended discussion, and he hated to give in. Finally Dr. Maxwell said, "See here, Morse, that boy is not pronounced convalescent yet, and I believe he is under my care. I recommend the air of Nelson. Don't you dare to disobey your family physician!"

"I suppose you'll have your way," said Mr. Morse, laughing a little, and really glad to have the mutter settled. He had been very angry with Perry, and in wrath had fallen upon this plan of punishment, and afterward it had seemed a good thing in a money point of view; so you see he had several reasons for holding on to his idea.

Before his departure, Perry went to bid the McNairs good-bye. This was the first opportunity for that quiet talk which his friend had suggested in her note so many weeks previous, and now they had but a few moments together, and the subject was altogether different from that which she had in mind then.

"Perry," she said, "when you were too ill to know any of us, I stood beside you with a very sad heart. It seemed to me that I must have sadly failed in trying to show you the way to Christ, and I promised God then, that if he would spare you, I would never give up until you came to Christ. Remember always that I am praying for you, that the burden is ever upon me. I know you are going away armed with many good resolutions, but I do not feel that you are safe so long as you trust in yourself."

In the course of a few months, Mr. Morse received from his son fifty dollars to repay Mr. Wynn's loss.

"I have never," he wrote, "used money more to my satisfaction than I do in repaying this. It is a great relief to be able to make retribution. Now I wish I could forget all about that miserable business, but I don't suppose I ever shall. I am perfectly contented here. Mr. McNair expresses himself as very well satisfied with my work, and I think he has considerable confidence in me. I have often wondered if he knew of my reputation. I hardly think he did—at least he has never made the slightest reference to it. You can tell mother that this is a no-license town, and there is not a liquor-saloon within five miles of here."

About this time he wrote to Dr. Myers:—

"MY DEAR FRIEND:—I received your letter the other day. Yes, I am contented here. Harvey went away two months ago. He is a splendid fellow. I can't help thinking that he ought to have been a minister. I said so once, and he replied that Christian merchants were needed. I can tell you, business is done here on Christian principle. I'd just like to tell Mr. Wynn that a man can do a thriving business and be perfectly true and fair. There are three clerks of us, and I don't know what Mr. McNair would say if one of us should sell an article for what it is not, or recommend a thing one bit higher than it will bear. I believe that man loves the truth as he does his own life. The least little bit of a lie would be terrible to him. Mrs. McNair and Emily are very pleasant. Emily is twelve years old. We are reading German together. Her father said I might find it useful, as the German population is very large about here.

"In answer to your question, Am I following Christ? I have to say, not as you mean. I am different from what I was in Westville. I feel that I am changed in many ways. I do not think that I could be induced to taste a bit of liquor, or touch a card, or take a penny that did not belong to me. I do not shun religious people and religious services as I did once. When Harvey was here, I always joined him in reading and prayer, but I know that I am not a Christian. I almost wish I were. But you remember I told you once there was always something to hold me back. I can't tell just what it is now; only I think that if I did start, and then did not follow any closer than some Christians I know, I should not be better off than I am now. I don't want to say anything hard of any one, but I will tell you that I was almost a Christian once, and was turned back by those who profess to be living for Christ. I thought I could do as well as they could any day without being a Christian, and I think so still.

"Now there is Dr. Maxwell. He is not a church member, but how kind and patient he was when I abused him. He took my part all the way through, and I know well enough that I shouldn't be here to-day if it had not been for him. He couldn't be better if he belonged to forty churches. I am much obliged to you for writing to me. I wonder why you were always so kind to us boys?"

"Your friend,

"PERRY MORSE."

It was perhaps a year later that Perry's employer wrote to his brother a letter, from which I copy a sentence or two.

"We have had a precious work of grace in our midst. Of my Bible class of twenty young men, all but two are now professing Christians. One of these two is your young friend, Perry Morse. He seems to linger just on the threshold. He has been attentive and interested, but will not come in. I am pleased with him in a business way. He is honourable and upright. It seems sad that he will imperil his soul by this strange halting."

Not yet was the burden lifted from the heart of the praying teacher.

CHAPTER XX.

LEWIE AMESBURY'S CREED.

"Our eyes see dimly till by faith anointed."

HERBERT BRADFORD remained in New York about four months, when he was thrown out of business by the failure of the firm by which he was employed. Again he returned to Westville disappointed.

"I think it is queer, the trouble I have in getting into business," he said to his old friend and companion, Lewie Amesbury. "You never seem to have any trouble of any sort. I wonder what you would do, if you were disappointed and thwarted every time you tried to do anything that seemed likely to amount to something."

"I wonder what you would do, if you were disappointed and thwarted about a dozen little things every day," responded Lewie, laughing. "My life isn't so smooth and easy as you imagine; but I have got into a way of letting go of a good many annoying things, and trying new plans. Maybe I should do the same in more important cases."

"I can't lie around and do nothing," said Herbert, "so I may have to take up something else. Just for the present I am going to help father with a quantity of copying; but this is only to fill up the gap. Have you decided what to do?"

"Oh, I shall study law. I expect to enter Princeton next fall. I wish you were going. I suppose you could be ready if you studied hard until then?"

"Yes, I suppose so, and father would like it. He has always wanted me to be a lawyer, but I don't incline that way."

"You are not obliged to be a lawyer," said Lewie, laughing.

"I know," returned Herbert, "but my ambition has been to become a rich merchant—not that I should care to be just a rich man and nothing more, but I'd like to do good in the world, and if I had money, I could be so much more useful. I'd like to help poor people, build churches and send out missionaries, and that sort of thing."

"I see; that's all very nice to want to do, and maybe you'll reach that point; but I think you are made to travel by a roundabout road."

"That's so," returned Herbert. "As I said, failure is written upon everything that I undertake. I'm sure I don't know what to do."

"Ask God!" said Mr. Earle, who in passing caught the last sentence without at all guessing the drift of the conversation, but such was his thought and practice to ask God for direction in all things, and the reply came readily in reply to Herbert's bewildered tone and words. He only halted an instant, then passed hurriedly on to catch the train that was puffing and snorting in the depot, seemingly in haste to be gone. It was seed by the wayside in a literal sense, but it was also seed sown on good ground.

"What a queer man Mr. Earle is," said Lewie.

"He is a thoroughly good man," returned Herbert. "Perhaps you call that queer?"

"Well, rather; such men are rare, I confess. But I was thinking how queer to ask God whether you should be a merchant or a lawyer."

"Don't you suppose God cares?" asked Herbert, upon whose mind the thought had just flashed that he had never asked God any such thing.

"I don't know; but if He cares enough to interfere, He will do so without your asking."

"Don't you believe in prayer?" questioned Herbert, in a troubled tone.

"I don't disbelieve in it. I suppose it has its place and its uses; but I don't believe that it will make any difference with your business arrangements whether you pray about them or not. Now didn't you pray over that affair at Mr. Wynn's store and you got your leave of absence for all that!—And I suppose you prayed when you went to Dayton's, and when you were in New York, and yet here you are without a situation, no better off than as if you had never prayed at all."

"What do you think prayer is for, then?"

"Why, I suppose that some people find comfort in it," returned Lewie. "I suppose you do, and Mr. Earle, and my father. I suppose there is such a thing as a kind of communion with God, and I presume that people who are so privileged gain spiritual strength, and that helps them over hard places. I know father smooths the tangles out every morning so far as they concern him; but as for things really being any different, I never could see that. Now, Herbert, did you ever get what people call a direct answer to prayer?" Lewie asked presently, and Herbert replied,—

"Yes, more than once—answers so direct that no power on earth could convince me that I was mistaken. I'll tell you of one instance which I think was remarkable. It was connected with the lawsuit against the widow Blake's place. You remember that it was Tom Allan's testimony that proved her claim. Father was her lawyer, and he had been very much troubled, because nobody knew what had become of Tom Allan. He hadn't been heard from in five or six years, and there was no hope unless he could be found.

"I felt so sorry for Aunty Blake that I couldn't keep the matter out of my mind; and I began to pray about it, asking God to let the truth come out by revealing Tom's hiding place. One day mother sent me over across the river to see if old Betsy could come and clean house. The old lady was trying to read a letter from her boy Jake, and as her eyes were poor, she asked me to read it for her. I fairly shouted over it.

"He said, 'Tom Allan turned up here the other day, and we have gone into partnership,' &c.

"I forgot all about the house-cleaning, and rushed up to the office. Father says I came in like a whirlwind. Now you need not tell me that it just happened, because I don't believe it. Betsy said she hadn't heard from Jake before almost in two years, but you see that letter came just at the right time."

Lewie laughed a little incredulous laugh, and said, as he turned off to go to his home—

"Well, now, suppose you study out a reason for your own ill-luck."

"I intend to," was the reply.

A week later, he said—

"Lewie, it is all clear to me now. I had just made up my mind to be a merchant. I don't think I ever prayed at all on that point, but I was so presumptuous as to ask God to bless me in a decision which I had made without consulting Him. I begin now to think that this constant thwarting of my plans means something."

"So you've been studying up the case as I advised," said Lewie, with a slight sneer, which Herbert did not mind. He was used to Lewie. They did not think and feel alike upon religious subjects, but they always spoke freely to each other.

Lewie went regularly to church and Bible class (the remaining members of the old class having been transferred to Dr. Myers's class, while Mrs. McNair took charge of the younger scholars), the old motto still hung in a conspicuous place in his room, and he assured himself whenever he looked at it that he was following, even closer than many who bore the name of Christian. Did he call himself a Christian? We will see what he thought about it.

Herbert had returned home to find Westville in the midst of the spiritual awakening of which we have already written something. Mr. Earle had the rare faculty of understanding how to set people to work, and in a quiet, unostentatious way Herbert was soon earnestly engaged in the work of winning souls for Christ. It was through him that Nick Turner was led to place himself within reach of the means of grace. It was he who brought Willy and Helen Knapp to the children's meeting, and, too, it was he who rejoiced with Henry Trafton when his young sister Alice gave her heart to Christ, and his father owned Him as his Saviour. And after Duncan's conversion, a prayer-meeting was started among the boys at the seminary, and here Herbert found work. In the three years that had gone by since he gave his heart to Christ, he had tried to do his Master service as he found opportunity, but it seemed that he had never found so grand an opening for labour as now, and never before had his heart been so full of love for souls.

Mr. Earle watched him with gladness, yet with anxiety. He felt that by his providence God was calling Herbert to devote himself entirely to the work of spreading the gospel, and he waited longingly for the time when the Spirit should show the boy the meaning of those things that puzzled him now.

But to go back to what we were saying about Lewie Amesbury's thoughts, as to whether he might call himself a Christian or not. One evening, after many had spoken, old Christians out of their rich experience, and young converts out of hearts all aglow with love, Mr. Earle said—

"I have no doubt; that many, perhaps nearly all, here, would be glad to testify for Christ tonight, and if there were time, or if it were prudent to remain, we would gladly listen to their testimony; but us we cannot do this, I have a request to make. Will all who would like to speak for Christ, all Christians, and all who are willing now to accept Christ's terms of discipleship, and be known henceforth by his glorious name, will all such rise, and thus swell the crowd of witnesses?"

Every seat in that large audience-room was occupied, as were the benches and camp chairs put down in the aisles; and as Mr. Earle ceased speaking, the great congregation seemed to rise with one mind. But there were a few who retained their position, looking straight before them or down at the floor, feeling, doubtless, some embarrassment at being so small a minority. Indeed it must have required more courage to sit quietly in their places than to rise on that occasion. And Lewie was one who braved it out; and this is what he said about it as he walked home with Herbert:—

"I don't like some of Mr. Earle's measures. I think that was a very unwise course he took tonight. It is not very pleasant for a person to be forced to express his views whether he wants to or not."

"I don't understand how there can be anything objectionable in it," returned Herbert. "If one is a Christian, he certainly can have no objection to being known as such, and if one is not a Christian, he will not wish to sail under false colours. If you don't like your position, Lewie, it is a good time to take a new and safer one."

"I am satisfied with my position," said Lewie, "but I don't like to be placed in a false one. I don't class myself with those you call Christ's enemies, but I know very well that Mr. Earle didn't mean me when he called upon Christians to rise, so I sat still, like George Hawley and the rest of the set—fellows that lie and swear, and don't know the meaning of the word honour."

"Lewie! What do you mean, anyway? If you are not Christ's enemy, and if you will not acknowledge yourself as his friend, what are you?"

"I never said I wasn't his friend, only as I was put in a false position. I think I am a great deal better Christian than some who stood up there tonight, but as long as I can't talk about repentance and faith and that sort of thing, I suppose I mustn't call myself one."

"I don't understand you yet," said Herbert, perplexed and sorry. "What do you mean by being a better Christian when you don't pretend to repent of sin or to have faith in Christ?"

"Why, I mean this: In the first place, I try to do just as well as I can always. I've studied that Sermon on the Mount, and I make it my guide. And I don't know as I have done anything to repent of; and as for faith, I don't know what you mean. I believe in Christ, of course, and follow Him, too. You see, Bert, I am not your sort, but if I do what I think is right, God can't require anything more."

"I feel that you are wrong," said his friend, "though I don't suppose I could convince you. But won't you read that guide over again, and see if you haven't neglected something, and then remember that God requires perfect obedience?"

"I don't believe that God requires impossibilities," returned Lewie.

"If he only requires what we are able to perform, why did Christ take up the work of our salvation?" asked Herbert, us they parted at the gate.

One could scarcely find a flaw in Lewie Amesbury's outward life. He walked straight through the temptations that beset the boys of Westville, es in other places, and in the midst of which so many fell. At home he was vexed and annoyed, misunderstood and reproached. Yet, keeping silence, he was patient and thoughtful of others' comfort. He was industrious and studious, respectful in the house of God, and a thoroughly gentlemanly boy, growing in manliness and rapidly advancing intellectually. He only needed the crowning gift, the one thing needful, to round his character out into perfect proportions. Lacking this, what but failure could he make of his life ultimately!

Yet he was not like the young man who went away sorrowful; he had never seemed troubled about the interests of eternity, always dismissing the subject with the utmost unconcern.

"And you are not coming with the rest to-morrow?" The speaker was Tom Nichols, who was spending a few days with his old friends, and he referred to the fact that a large number, the fruits of a recent revival, were about to unite with the church. He was addressing Lewie, who replied, somewhat coldly—

"No. I have attended some of the meetings, but I have had very little interest in the matter. My time and thoughts have been very much engrossed with other things."

"Weightier matters?" asked Tom meaningly.

"Everyday duties," replied Lewie. "I suppose you call those mighty; at least you will acknowledge that they ought to receive attention."

"Certainly, after the one all-important duty has been disposed of. You remember it says, 'Seek ye first the kingdom.'"

"And that is in your creed-chapter," said Herbert, who was present.

"Well, boys, I don't see these things as you do. My ideas of what is required of us are different from yours. Herbert, you and I have the same motto, but we read it differently and go our ways accordingly. This is mine. Good night."

CHAPTER XXI.

DECISIONS.

"All to leave end follow Thee."

THERE were many changed households in Westville. Perhaps nowhere was the change more marked than in the homes of the Lorings and the Knapps.

"How much they need Christ," was Mabel's thought months ago; but now He is with them an ever-present Friend and Helper.

At the Lorings's, the proud and haughty father has become a humble learner at the feet of the Great Teacher, led there through sorrow and bereavement. Willy's short life had not been fruitless. He brought a blessing to the home he left so early, and where his were the only prayers ever offered. The family altar has been established, the lonely mother is comforted, and Louise rejoices in her Saviour's love.

At the Knapps's, there is peace and harmony. The children are obedient and respectful, the tried mother has found a rest, and the stern father, remembering God's patience and long-suffering as exercised toward him, has grown more gentle and forbearing toward his children.

Mr. Earle's request that Willy and Helen should remain at home with the little ones while their parents came to church gave Helen much trouble. What! Stay at home from those precious meetings! How could she get on without the help and instruction which she found there? Mr. Earle could not have thought how much she loved to be there, nor how much she needed to hear him talk. She carried a very sober face to school the next morning, and brought it home with her at night—at least she started with it. She stopped a few minutes at Mr. Trafton's, and while Alice went to get a book for her, she sat in Henry's room.

"You find the meetings very pleasant, do you not?" he said.

"Oh, yes, indeed. I wouldn't miss them for anything."

"Ah!" returned Henry, smiling, "I've missed a great many; but I have had some meetings here a great deal more precious than any I ever attended anywhere else."

"Why, do you ever have a meeting here?" asked Helen.

"Yes," he replied, still smiling. "When the rest are away, my Saviour meets me here, and teaches and comforts me. If one can go to church, of course he can't look for a blessing by staying at home; but if kept at home by sickness or duty to others, Christ will not forget, especially if the sacrifice be a willing one. Alice is calling you."

"What a patient boy Henry Trafton is," thought Helen; "and how perfectly happy he looked when he talked about the visits of his Saviour. I wonder—I will!"

"Mother," she said, on reaching home, "I'll stay at home tonight, and you can go to church."

"And if father will go with you, I'll stay, too," added Willy.

Mr. Earle had not forgotten to send a special reminder to Mr. Knapp's shop that afternoon, and God blessing the efforts put forth in his name, both parents were ere long rejoicing in sins forgiven, and Helen felt that she had gained by her sacrifice.

And where was the son and brother while these at home were coming within the fold? To show that he was not forgotten, I copy a part of a letter written about this time.

"WESTVILLE.

"MY DEAR ARTHUR:—I have in my possession a little note which you wrote to me two years ago. In it you say, 'I think I love Jesus. I am trying to follow the White Line.'

"My dear boy, are you still following on? I have feared much for you. I know very little of your associations and habits; but, oh, I do know that temptation must come to every one, and that we all need to be faithful and on our guard. Sometimes the tempter creeps in under disguises, and we fail to recognise him until we have fallen. My dear Arthur, I want you for Christ, I want you to be a comfort to your parents, a help to your brothers and sisters, an example to your companions, a blessing to the world. Are you? Are you doing God's work? You remember what I used to tell you about honouring Christ everywhere, at home, in the street, in places of business, as well as in the sanctuary. If we love Him we shall delight to do Him honour.

"If you have drawn back, if you are not following Christ, let me entreat you to no longer tamper with your salvation. It would be a terrible thing to slide back a little too far, to be a little too late. Don't risk your soul in that way. I have wished that you were here while so many are coming to Christ; but He is just as near to you where you are, if you will only reach out and take hold of his outstretched hand. Will you?

"I do not know just how to advise you because I know so little of your life at present. It may be that you do not always find your associates pleasant. It may be that they are not always safe companions. Shun their evil ways, seek opportunities to do them good, but beware of following their examples. It may be that your employers sometimes seem hard or unjust. Let me say that the world is full of just such little fretting things, and if we allow them to fret and annoy us, we shall never have a moment's peace. We are never going to find a place here that will be free from annoying circumstance. And it is just in this way that we prove that we are one with Christ. If we bear our trials, do our work, taking the good and ill together, as coming from our Father's hand, accepting with a spirit of obedience and consecration whatever comes to us, we shall find our hearts growing restful. Then shall our lives be peaceful and full of good works.

"Your friend,

"MABEL MCNAIR."

To this letter Arthur made answer:—

"DEAR TEACHER:— . . . I do not dare to call myself a disciple, though I think I do love the Saviour. But I wander so often and so far. It seems that I have no strength to resist temptation, and yet if it were not for Christ's love drawing me back, I must have gone to ruin long ago. I wish I could cut loose from my sins, but it does seem sometimes as though Satan was determined to have possession. I have no time to grow in grace, for I am continually wandering and then repenting. I should like to make a public profession of my love for Jesus, but I dare not, I should so soon dishonour the name. I am not worthy to take the Christian name. I belong to a Bible class here, but it is not like the dear little class in Westville. I miss the Saturday evening talks.

"Do you think that Christ will accept me? Dare I come to his Supper? I should like to come home in the spring, and join the church with the rest, if I was only fit. I know you pray for all of us boys. I wish we were all following. Will you pray especially for me, that I may be strengthened to resist temptation?

"Your loving pupil,

"ARTHUR KNAPP."

A long letter was written in response to this, but I will quote only a sentence or two:—

"My dear boy, the only fitness required for the step you desire to take is a humble, childlike trust in Christ. If you feel your own weakness, remember in Him is strength; if you realise that you are sinful, remember that it was to save a lost and sinful race that He came; if you feel that you really love the Saviour, and that He is your only hope, you need not fear to come."

With great hesitation, with many doubts and fears, Arthur came. Mabel rejoiced, though her joy was dimmed by the thought of the two who would not come, and she prayed as she had often before—

"My whole dear class for Jesus!

Oh, let not one be lost."

Tom and Herbert had many long talks during the visit of the former. Very soon after his conversion, Tom had asked, "Lord, what wilt Thou have me to do?" And the answer had come to him as it comes to all who ask in sincerity. By his providence and by his spirit God had said, "Go, proclaim the gospel of my Son, Jesus Christ."

In the experience of the last few months, and, indeed, in his whole Christian life, Herbert began now to see a hand pointing him to the same course; and his talks with Tom, their comparison of experience and feelings, had strengthened his growing conviction that his early choice of a life-work had been a mistake.

Tom had gone. Mr. Bradford and Herbert were busy at the office, Herbert writing in the private office, his father talking with clients in the outer room. Presently a low, soft voice attracted the attention of the copyist.

"I am looking for work," said the lady to whom the voice belonged, and whom Mr. Bradford recognised as the daughter of a once wealthy, but lately insolvent manufacturer. "My penmanship has always been considered as something remarkable for an unprofessional; and my choice of work would be something which would call this one talent into use. I have called to ask you if you do not need a copyist."

Mr. Bradford began a reply to the effect that he was sorry, but for the present his son was acting in that capacity; but was interrupted by a call from the inner office.

"Father! Excuse the interruption, but will you step here? I am quite ready," he continued, in a low voice, "to resign in favour of Miss Dean. I—in short, I have decided to accept your offer of a college course."

"And give up a business life?"

"Yes; that is—I think I must be about my Master's business."

"Ah! The ministry?" questioned Mr. Bradford.

"Yes, sir. I think I ought. You do not object?"

"No," a little doubtfully. "I knew Mr. Earle had his eye upon you."

"Mr. Earle! He has never spoken a word to me about it. I was going to consult him this afternoon; but I should have spoken to you first, if Miss Dean had not called."

Mr. Bradford had been sincerely sorry; and now he was sincerely glad, because of the answer he had to give the waiting lady, and as Miss Dean herself was very glad to hear the favourable decision, there were several persons in that very desirable state of mind.

To tell the truth, Herbert had anticipated some little opposition upon his father's part. He had been bent upon a mercantile life, and had with some difficulty won his parents' consent, and he expected to be accused of fickleness. Then he fancied that he had foreseen several arguments which his father would use to prove that he should study law, in case he made a change, and he had prepared himself to answer these; but to his surprise, he had no use for his counter arguments. As Mr. Bradford hinted, he was not unprepared for this announcement, and he was not so worldly as to wish to keep Herbert from the path of duty.

"It seems strange," said Herbert, in the course of his talk with Mr. Earle, "that, if you had this in mind, you should never have spoken of it to me."

Mr. Earle smiled.

"I knew the matter was in safe hands. I might be mistaken, and I was sure that if the Lord really wanted you for this work, he would make it known to you in his own good time."

As I am writing of decisions, I will record one more. I have somewhere said that Nick Turner was an out-and-out loafer. He worked when obliged to, and the rest of the time, he smoked, drank, and gambled. His father was a well-to-do farmer, living half a mile from the village. Kindly old Mr. Turner and his sweet-faced wife were growing old and sad faster than their years warranted. Years do not bow one down to the earth like the carrying of a heavy heart; and what burden can weigh heavier upon a parent's heart than the living death of the first-born?

Nick's help upon the farm counted for very little; consequently his father was astonished at a remark he made one morning.

"Father, if Gibbs wants Jonas, you may as well let him go. I'll take his place for the summer. I would like to go West next year, if you will help me off; but for the present, you may depend upon me."

"Can I depend upon you?" asked the father gently, but meaningly.

"Yes, sir. I think so. You know that I am not just the boy I was a few weeks ago. At least I hope so."

"Yes; I know. I know, Nicholas, that you are not the same. Thank God for it. I only meant—Well, I am afraid you will get tired of work; and it will be bad for me to lose the chance of keeping a steady hand. But if you say you'll stick to it, I'll trust you. Thank God, I have my boy back again."

It was a simple affair that took Herbert Bradford out to the farmhouse one afternoon two months previous to this conversation. The apples from the Turner orchard were famous, and Mr. Bradford had sent Herbert out to engage a few bushels, to be brought in when convenient. Yes, they could spare a few, the old man said, and Nicholas might as well drive down then, and Herbert could ride with him. That was the young Christian's opportunity, and out of the few earnest words spoken during that drive grew the little talk that ended with, "Thank God, I have my boy back again!"

CHAPTER XXII.

SOWINGS.

"And thy soul may see the value

Of its patient morns and eves,

When the everlasting garner

Shall be filled with precious sheaves."

IT was a bright summer day, just after dinner. Julia Bradford stood in the front doorway, waiting for her particular friend Alice Trafton. Her broad-brimmed sun-hat lay upon the stop, and she was putting lines in her young face in the desperate effort to make sense out of what seemed to her a senseless paragraph in her despised Cæsar.

"Dear me!" she thought, closing the book. "I can't do anything with it. I suppose Herbert would help me, but I won't ask him now while Mr. Amesbury is here. I don't like him much. I wonder why it is that Bertie is so fond of him? I suppose it is because they are such old friends, but they are so very unlike. Lewie is nice, that's certain, and that is just the trouble; he thinks that being nice and proper, kind and generous, and all that, is going to open heaven's door. What puzzles me is, what did Christ come for, if we can live so as to merit God's favour?

"Oh, I am glad I haven't got to depend upon my good deeds as a ladder to climb into heaven upon. It would be too short to reach the threshold, and what would I lean it against? But that is just what Mr. Amesbury is depending upon. I heard him say so yesterday. Why don't somebody try to reason him out of such a dreadful mistake? I suppose that would not be easy. Why don't Alice come? What a silky, shiny hat that is, and that duster hasn't a wrinkle in it. The fellow always looks as though he were done up fresh every morning. But, nice as he is, I can't quite like him. There's something lacking."

Here she returned to her Latin puzzle for a few moments, then leaned out to look for Alice, and suddenly, as if a new idea presented itself, she threw down the book and sprang up the staircase. Returning a moment later, she took the shiny hat from the rack and slipped a folded paper under the lining, with an inaudible, "If it please Thee, O God, in thine own time, let this see the light and do its work."

Replacing the hat, she picked up her own, and went down the walk to join her tardy friend.

Herbert and Lewie were at home for their summer vacation, and as Lewie did not find his home more congenial, but rather less so, as the years went by, he had fallen into the habit of spending much of his time at the Bradfords's, and this is how it happened that the speckless hat and unwrinkled duster were hanging upon the hall rack upon that particular summer day.

"Am I late?" asked Alice, as she came hurrying down the street. "You see father had a letter that we were all interested in, and I stayed to talk it over. Uncle Philip has written to invite Henry to make his home with his family in New York this next winter, and I am to go to take care of him. He is to paint in the studio of some great artist, and I am to take organ lessons. Isn't it splendid?

"Uncle Philip," she continued, "took the pictures father sent him to the artist, and he said they showed a remarkable talent. You know Henry only took one quarter's lessons of Ledlie. Oh, I am so glad! Of course I am glad that I am going, but it is for Henry that I care the most; he has waited so long and patiently for the opportunity, and now that it has come, he is just as quiet as ever, but I can't keep still. Say, Julia, don't you think it is lovely?"

"I should have said so several minutes ago, if you had given me a chance," returned Julia, laughing. "I am very glad indeed. When do you go?"

"The first of October, and this is the third week in August. Only six weeks to get ready!"

"It is fortunate that it is no longer. Westville couldn't hold you a great while."

"Oh, I shall quiet down presently, and settle to planning and contriving, turning things wrong side out and upside down, sponging, piecing and stretching, in the effort to get up a presentable wardrobe with the least possible expense."

"You talk as if your father was a poor man," said Julia, with another laugh.

"Well, I suppose he could give me all I want, but I like to be economical. Mother says she got in the way of it in the first years after father gave up letting horses upon Sunday. You know business fell off, and Henry's sickness cost so much that I suppose they felt very poor, but father says he has never been sorry that he took that stand. I have heard him say that it was his first step toward becoming a Christian."

"I think it was real noble in your father to take such a stand," said Julia, with enthusiasm. "Such things always make me feel jubilant; and this reminds me, Bertie had a letter from Nick Turner this morning. You remember, he went West a year ago. He says—"

But while Julia tells the story in her way, we will read for ourselves what he says:—

"MY DEAR FRIEND:—Seeing you were so kind as to write to me, and as you requested an answers, I will try to do as you wish, though I am not much of a writer. I write home to the old folks pretty often and manage to make them understand what I mean, but it is just as it is in talking. With some folks the words slip out easy like, and sound all smooth and regular, while other, blunder along, getting in the wrong words, or the right ones in the wrong places, and I happen to be one of the blunderers with the pen. I can do some things a sight better than I can write letters.

"How did I happen to come out here? Well, you see there are a good many reasons. The Westville folks never could forget that I had been Nick Turner the loafer, and it wasn't pleasant for a fellow to hear it whispered, 'He was one of the worst characters in the town. I'm afraid he won't hold out.' 'I hope he is really sincere, but he has been so dissipated that his old habits may prove too strong.' Now, that's what I did hear whispered, and I thought I would come off out here where I could have a fair chance. If I'd a been needed at home, I'd a stuck it through, but if Em's husband took hold of things there, I was only in the way, so I just swung off, and I'm awful glad I did. This is a grand country to draw breath in, and I've got just the snuggest slice off the prairie that ever a man looked at. This is going to be a grand farming country.

"You ask if I have the means of grace here. Well, I have my Bible, and a Saviour to pray to, if that's what you mean; but if you mean ministers and churches and Christian people, we haven't them here. There is work for a missionary. I hope you'll get through your Greek and Hebrew, and all that, as soon as possible, and come out here and talk to these fellows just as you did to me that night I took the apples home for you. There wasn't a bit of Greek in that talk, but for all that, it hit just right, and I thank God to-day for sending you to me.

"Another question you ask, What am I doing for Jesus? I can tell you what I am trying to do. I board with a man who owns the next bit of prairie to mine, and it isn't much like home, I can tell you. I missed mother's bread and butter the first meal I ate here, but I missed father's blessing the most, and the next time when we got to the table, I said, 'See here, mister, if you'd just as lief, I'd like to say a bit of prayer over the victuals. I've been used to it at home, and it don't seem right not to do it.'

"'Pray away,' was what he said, and I opened my mouth, and I think God put the words into my heart, for they were never my own rough words. Since then I always say them at every meal, and I think the folks are getting to like it, for if I am behind time, they always wait. Then I try to speak a word for Christ when it comes right, and the boys—here are ten or twelve in the neighbourhood—all hang on to me just as they did in Westville, when I was such a bad sinner that I led them the wrong way. Well, every Sunday we get together. There is a little cabin on my land, and we generally go there, and I try to tell them about the Saviour, and about God's laws, and all the good things that I know.

"All this isn't much to do, but you see I ain't a scholar. I can't explain things very well, but I can read to them what the Bible says, and tell them what Christ has done for me, and then I can pray; one needn't be a Greek scholar to pray. Thank God, anybody that has wants can pray, and God can understand if one don't get the words all in straight. Last Sunday the man I board with, and another member, came in. I felt a little kinder queer, for Mr. Blake has been to the Assembly, but I said to Nick Turner, 'Now, don't be ashamed of Christ, and upset all the work you've been trying to do by running away,' and he answered back, 'I ain't ashamed of Christ; it is my blundering way of reading and talking that I'm ashamed of;' but I said again, 'You are mistaken; you talk to these same men by the hour about farming, and never think of your blunders; you know you are speaking truth,—do it as well as you can, and leave the rest with God.'

"When we broke up, Mr. Blake said to me, 'I want to thank you; you have made me ashamed of myself. I used to be a church member at the East, but I guess I left my religion there, or lost it here; anyway, I never thought of doing as you are doing.'

"I have written all this to let you see how much you are needed here, but I suppose you can't come for several years, if you thought it was the place for you; but can't you send us somebody? There is a grand chance for somebody to work for Christ."

Ah! And wasn't that somebody doing his work well? Who shall say that Nick Turner was not chosen of God to preach his gospel to these people? At least he was preparing the way for the coming missionary.

"How happy Herbert must be to think that he was the means of Nick's conversion to Christ. Oh! If I could save one soul, I'd be willing to sacrifice a great deal—at least I think I would." It was truthful Alice who said this.

"I think of this very often," returned Julia. "I do not know that I have ever done anything like that, I mean anything that has really helped any one. I have tried to lead my schoolmates to Jesus, but my efforts do not seem to be blessed."

"I don't suppose that you always know for certain; maybe when we get to heaven, we shall find out that God has accepted our work, and maybe some souls will thank us then for the right word."

"Perhaps so," said Helen a little sadly. She was thinking of her little effort just put forth. Would it bear fruit?

Just here I may as well record a bit of a talk that occurred a few days before Henry and Alice went to New York. Mrs. Trafton had a slight illness, and Dr. Myers was called in. Aunt Harriet, who had remained with her brother ever since she came to nurse Henry when he was first injured, was full of rejoicings over her nephew's prospects, and detailed the plans for Dr. Myers's benefit, prophesying that he would become famous. The doctor listened with a queer smile.

"I am very glad indeed," he said. "And now, Miss Trafton, do you see how this has come about? You remember, perhaps, that once you could not discover the loving Hand that destroys to build up; you could not understand how what seemed a great calamity might prove a blessing."

"No, I couldn't, and I am not sure of it yet. Don't you suppose that Henry would have made just as good an artist if he had two sound legs and a strong back?"

"No, I don't," replied the doctor. "He might have painted pictures as a recreation, but his work in all probability would have been found in connection with that livery stable, and you know that the business at that time was not conducted upon Christian principles, and perhaps but for this, which we call a calamity, that might never have been changed. Henry might have sustained his Christian character through it all, but it would have been a hard and dangerous path. But suppose, what is not at all likely, that he had been allowed to follow his inclinations and had become an artist, he could never have done the work he will now. The growth of heart and mind which has come through suffering, and could come in no other way, will tell upon his work; his pictures will have a character purer and nobler than he could have given them had not his own soul been purified by these years of discipline."

CHAPTER XXIII.

WHAT THEY SAID ABOUT IT.

"Young soldiers of the cross, beware!

A watchful foe besets thy way."

THE carrier had just thrown the Westville "News" in at Deacon Griffin's front door. The good old man had rubbed his spectacles with his red and white spotted silk handkerchief, drawn his arm chair a little nearer the window, unfolded the limp sheet, and read a few moments, before he exclaimed—

"Can it be possible? Will the Lord suffer it?"

"What is it?" asked the soft-voiced woman who was darning the deacon's stockings in the other arm chair before the other window.

"Just hear this!

"'The Charles Dickens Society will hold their Annual Reunion at Waden's Hall, on Wednesday evening, January 6. Their friends are invited to attend. A company of amateurs will perform several popular plays. Musicians will be in attendance, and the hall will be cleared for dancing at an early hour. An elegant collation will also be provided. Proceeds to be applied to the Library Fund.

"'Single Tickets, 1 dollar. Lady and Gentleman, 1 dollar, 50 cents.

"'GEORGE BARNES,          DUNCAN MCNAIR,

"'JOHN PETERS,                FRANK LESTER,

"'ELMER GREEN,               IRA BAKER.

"'Committee.'

"There! Can you make anything out of that but conformity to the world, unless it is worse? It seems to me like going right over to the enemy's ranks. What are we coming to? Here are two of our young brothers, to whom we must soon commit the gospel standard, giving their names and their labour to this unholy thing!"

"O, father, don't say that," said the soft-voiced woman. "Maybe it isn't so bad as you think, or as it looks at first. Sometimes things seem worse than they really are. And you know there have been a good many things, first and last, which you have condemned as worldly, which have turned out to be real spiritual helps. You remember how sorry you were that we gave Mabel Wynn a chair for the church parlour, because you thought it was going to introduce worldliness into the church, and you know we could hardly get along now without that room. Then remember the time we had the convention—"

"Yes, I remember. I opposed that, and I was wrong. It proved a great blessing, and I confessed my mistake. But, wife, you can't make this out to be an affair that a Christian should be mixed up with. It is a matter of worldly amusements of the most pernicious sort. Theatricals and dancing!"

"But young folks—don't be too hard on them. You danced yourself when you were young."

"So I did, so I did, and nearly lost my soul by it. It makes me shudder to think of our young people getting as near the brink of the precipice as I did. No, no, mother, these things are not for Christ's followers. 'If any man love the world the love of the Father is not in him.' One must have wandered a long way before he reached the point where he could engage in such an enterprise. Perhaps," he added, with a sigh, "we older Christians have not been watchful enough over these our young brothers. We have let the world get a hold upon them, which a little more vigilance upon our part might have prevented."

"Duncan," said Judge McNair, as his son came into the office that afternoon, "haven't you made a great mistake?"

"Where, and how? What do you mean?"

"Just this. Four years ago this winter you promised to live only for Christ. You covenanted with God and with his people, accepting God's terms, and promising to walk worthily of the Christian name; accepting the fellowship of the Church, agreeing to avoid whatever might be a stumbling block for others, or in any way bring reproach upon Christ's name and people. This at least is the spirit of your vows. Strange that you should have publicly renounced them."

"Why, father, what do you mean?"

"Why, there in that paper you range yourself with the world," replied Judge McNair.

"I thought you approved of the object of our society. I consulted you before I joined it."

"I do approve of it—at least I supposed that I did; but it seems that you have objects of which I was not aware. I approve of the library scheme, but I would sooner have given fifty dollars for the fund than have had you engaged in an affair of this sort."

"But, father," expostulated Duncan, "aren't you a little too strict? Don't you think that such rigid notions are apt to repel outsiders?"

"Duncan, if we who profess to be following Christ are in no wise different from those who are walking in the ways of sin, how shall we recommend our faith? If, through fear of repelling, we fail to attract, what have we gained? There is a great deal of that sort of talk nowadays, but I think it is all wrong. We are expressly enjoined to 'come out from the world,' to 'love not the world,' to 'be not conformed to the world.' If these words mean anything, they mean that you and I, and all who are the disciples of Christ, have no part in that which must come under the head of worldly dissipation. Duncan, I am very sorry about this matter; it will be a stumbling block to many."

"But I shall not join the dancers, and my duties as one of the committee relate to the literary part of the entertainment."

"The theatricals! Yes. Ah, my boy, it's all alike. You indorse the whole, and it is not the dancing or the theatricals in themselves. It is this element of worldliness that pervades the entire plan of the entertainment. The spirit of conformity to the world has crept into the Church at large in just this way, undermining and destroying spirituality."

"There is another thing," continued Judge McNair. "It is to be upon Wednesday evening. Five or six years ago, I knew a boy who thought it a very inconsistent thing when the church decided to omit a prayer-meeting on account of a scientific lecture at the hall. Where is your consistency now?"

"But would you cut us off from recreations?" asked Duncan, ignoring the judge's last remark.

"Not at all," was replied; "but I would discriminate between recreations and amusements. The propriety of one who professes to do all to the glory of God engaging in anything, simply as amusement, may be doubted. There is a wide range from which a Christian may choose his recreations; and when used as a needed rest, relief or exercise of body or mind, are right and proper; but when we carry them so far that they become dissipations, we may conclude that we have gone beyond our limit."

Just at that moment Mr. Earle looked in. He only asked—

"Duncan, did you ask God what you'd better do about it?"

Ah! Duncan had not been living very near to God lately. Here was the trouble; this was how he had become entangled in this affair, which had in it not a single element of spirituality. Talk about carrying one's religion with them through the week-days as well as the Sundays! One may carry his Christian faith and practice into his palatial store, or into his dingy, dark grocery-store, keep it with him in shop or stall, but do people ever carry it with them into scenes of frivolity and dissipation? What place has the Christian faith in the ball-room?

The family at the Golden mansion were at dinner. Clarence Golden, Duncan McNair's old crony, was at home for the holidays. It was he who said—

"Well, I suppose all you good people are going to the hall tonight? I suppose it is the best thing a fellow can do up here in this stupid town. Amateur acting! That will be something to see, I imagine. You'll go, I presume?" addressing the question to his sister-in-law, whom we have known as Louise Loring.

"I think not."

"Why not? Will it be any more stupid than staying at home?"

"I shall not stay at home."

"Where—oh, yes, I remember, it is Wednesday evening. That's your evening out," he said, laughing. "Well, there'll be time to go after. I presume the entertainment will last through the night. I'll wait for you. Or do you expect your husband will be home in time?"

"I do not expect him, and I should not go in any case. I never attend entertainments of that sort."

"Oh, but, Louise, this must be all right; at least two of your saintly sort are among the managers."

"I am sorry for that, Clarence, but it does not change my opinion."

As the rest of the family left the table, these two lingered, and Clarence said—

"Well, Louise, I'll tell you frankly I had begun to think there was something in this religion of yours, and to wish I had a little of it about me; but this upsets it all. I cannot feel any great confidence in a faith that makes so little difference in its disciples. I used to think I saw a great change in Duncan, and ever since that winter when he was converted, I have had a sort of wish that I had gone over to that side then. But nowadays, he seems very like the rest of us sinners."

Mrs. Golden's heart was very sad. She liked her young brother-in-law, and earnestly desired to see him numbered with Christ's friends, and it seemed very discouraging that he should be turned back by the inconsistency of one who professed to love the Saviour. The sadness was in her voice as she spoke.

"Clarence, do you think the error lies in the faith itself, or in the mistaken lives of those who profess it?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. It appears to me that there should be in it a power that would prevent such mistakes and inconsistencies."

"You are right. I can assure you that there is a strength and wisdom that comes through faith in Christ, which will be given to us in measure according to our love and obedience. I cannot explain how your friend Duncan has made what I feel, with you, is a great mistake; but, Clarence, this world, the things seen and of to-day, are very alluring."

As the young man rose to go, she added—"The Christian faith is worth having, Clarence, if you only would look away from human frailties and take Christ into your heart and life!"

He shook his head.

"There are enough half-way Christians already; and I don't suppose that I should be any more in earnest than the rest of them."

He went half-way down the hall thinking of Louise's sad face. Turning back, he said—

"See here, sister, I'd just as lief go to church with you tonight, if you want me."

"I do want you," she said, with a meaning smile.

A copy of the Westville "News" found its way into the little room where Herbert and Lewie were spending the last year of their college course. Lewie having undertaken to read the news items for Herbert's benefit as well as his own, lighted upon the announcement which was causing such a commotion at home. A long discussion followed, but I will only repeat the conclusion.

"Well, you see, Herbert, that Duncan's religion is not so very different from mine, after all. He professes something more, but his practice does not agree. I think I'll wait until I see more consistency upon the part of others, before I get dissatisfied with my own way of thinking."

And yet Duncan feared that stricter living would repel others!

So many had expressed their sorrow and disapprobation that Duncan wondered at Dr. Myers's silence. Though he met him every day, he did not refer to the matter; and much as the young man desired to hear his views, he dared not ask a question. He was just leaving the office on Tuesday evening when he met the doctor.

"Ah! Here you are!" said the gentleman. "I'm glad to find you. It saves me a walk up to the house. You remember Dr. Grovesner, to whom I introduced you once in Now York?"

"Yes, indeed I do! I should not be likely to forget one who impressed me in the way he did. Wasn't he a grand man?

"I tell you," he added, laughing, "he is one of the few men I could reverence."

"Well, I remembered your enthusiasm, and this is what I came for. Dr. Grovesner has been making a tour in the West, and I have just received a telegram which says he will stop here to-morrow, from noon until the leaving of the night express. Now, will you meet him at tea to-morrow? He is the man who has done more for me than anybody else in the world, and I would like to have you get the benefit of his society, even for a short time."

What would Duncan McNair not have given to have been free to accept that invitation? He heartily wished the reunion had been in South Africa or some remote region, else that he had a less important part in the carrying out of the programme. It would never do to desert now, he thought. Every minute would be occupied; there was no chance to slip in at the doctor's, and if there were, what pleasure would it be with his mind in such a whirl of excitement? He understood his friend too well to suspect that it was a scheme contrived in order to punish him. He must make some reply, and he stammered out—

"I'd like to meet your friend, but—I—you know there's doings at the hall. I shall have to be there."

"I know, but I thought perhaps you could get off. Are you so very much needed there?"

"I suppose there is no one who could take my place now. I wish I could, but I can't. You'll have to excuse me. Thank you very much for thinking of me."

"I'm sorry, very sorry, Duncan. Good night."

In the doctor's tones there was more than a passing regret that he could not have his young friend's company to tea, and Duncan heard all they expressed.

Duncan McNair was not the sort of person to keep a journal. Generally, he kept his inmost thoughts to himself, except when he talked to the pavement or the window curtains, or some other inanimate thing without the power of revealing secrets. If he had made a true record of his spiritual life at that time, and we had been privileged with a peep at the pages, we might have found records like these:—

"Spent this day without prayer.

"Haven't had time for a single verse.

"Went to prayer-meeting tonight for the sake of appearance; found it dull; wonder what the reason is?

"A prayerless day. I spend a great many such.

"It is a fact that if I am following Christ at all, it is afar off. How did I ever get so nearly out of sight of the Leader? I hardly ever read or pray in my closet nowadays.

"Worldly duties and pleasures give me no time for spiritual growth."

How soon a prayerless Christian finds he has lost his hold upon Jesus! I have written a prayerless Christian! The words sound very strangely. If you call yourself a Christian, and yet are living without prayer, would it not be well to stop and inquire what right you have to the name? And this was the question that was presently brought home to Duncan's conscience. Just now he was too busy, too much engrossed with pleasure seeking, to give place to the duty of self-examination.

The next morning after the reunion, he met Mr. Earle.

"Good morning."

"Good morning, sir."

"Well, Duncan, did it pay?"

"I can't tell, sir," replied Duncan lightly. "We haven't reckoned up the accounts yet."

"Just so! Perhaps you'll find it a little troublesome getting in all the loss and gain, eh?"

Duncan was disturbed and annoyed. "What a fuss people do make about a small matter," he said, talking to the pavement now, for Mr. Earle had not lingered for any further conversation.

And when the next Sabbath evening, the pastor took for his text the old and awfully solemn words—

"What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?"

He recalled Mr. Earle's suggestion of a difficult reckoning; and, listening to the fearful truths presented, the conviction came over him that, after all, it was hardly worth the while to risk the loss of the Saviour's friendship for miserable and unsatisfying worldly pleasures.

Duncan McNair might have appropriated the words of the Psalmist,—

"As for me, my feet were almost gone; my steps had well nigh slipped."

But the loving Saviour with pitying eye was watching for the wanderer's return; not only watching, but calling.

It might have been a week later that Duncan was one morning hurrying down Elm Street upon a rather unusual errand. Mrs. McNair had the headache, and, being unable to fulfil a promise previously made, had chosen Duncan as her deputy.

Having no reasonable excuse to offer, he accepted the appointment graciously, but as he walked rapidly down the street, as if to have the business over with, he thought, "This is a queer thing to ask me to do. I sha'n't know a word to say. I wonder if a fellow ought to look very sober and solemn? Wonder if the boy is very sick?"

Halting at the door of a small house, he rapped. A sad-faced woman came to the door, to whom he said—

"Mother, Mrs. McNair, is sick this morning, and I came to inquire after the sick boy, and to bring this—" handing a small parcel.

"Thank you. Walk in."

As Duncan entered and sat down, he heard a feeble voice in the next room say, "Has she come?"

"No, Davy," the sad-faced woman replied. "She is sick, but she sent you this jelly and some oranges."

"They are very nice; she is very good, but I wanted to see her," was the reply of the sick boy. "Won't she come at all?"

"Please, sir," said the mother to Duncan, "will you walk in and see my poor boy? He is disappointed at not seeing the lady. Maybe you could say a word to comfort him."

"Are you her son?" asked the invalid.

"Yes," replied Duncan, smiling.

"Then maybe you know Jesus?"

"Yes," a little doubtfully this time.

"The lady your mother has told me about Him, and she always prays to Him, and I thought maybe you had learned how. I pray a little when I am alone, but I don't know how very well, and I am so weak it tires me to think of the words. I guess He hears me, though; but when she prays, it seems as if Jesus came and stood right by us, and that's the reason I wanted her. Call you pray?"

"Not like her," answered Duncan.

"I'm sorry," said the boy, so sadly that his visitor grew sad and sorrowful likewise.

"I should think you'd learn," continued Davy. "I have learned a little myself, but I want some one that knows Him better than I do to ask Jesus to receive me when I go."

"But my mother will probably be able to come and see you in a day or two."

"I don't think I shall be here. The doctor says I may die suddenly. It will be all right, I suppose. I can trust Him. But—don't you think you could speak to Him?"

Duncan's thoughts were in a perfect tumult. What could he do? Whatever possessed him to come here? He might have known better. Could he resist the pleading voice and eyes of the sufferer? But should he dare to pray now and here, when he had not prayed in his closet for weeks! Only last Thursday evening, at the young people's meeting, he had declined to lead in prayer, saying to the leader, "I can't tonight;" and saying to himself, "I'm a miserable hypocrite: I call myself a Christian, and yet I don't dare to pray."

But Davy waited, watching him with those great eager eyes.

He must say something, but he could not pray.

"Don't you want me to sing for you?" he asked.

"Oh, yea, I'd like that, it you can't pray."

So Duncan sang a sweet little hymn, and when it was ended, acting upon a new idea, he slid down upon his knees beside the dying child, and said—

"Jesus, friend of sinners, I would speak to Thee for this sick boy. Wilt Thou come and stand very near to him, and support him as he goes from this life into the next? He loves and trusts Thee. Do not let his faith falter; do not withdraw thyself from him until he goes to be where he shall ever dwell in Thy presence."

The words were few, but the longing heart was satisfied, and the feeble voice just whispered,—

"He heard—he came."

Duncan hurried away, the tumult in his soul in no degree stilled. He had fought many hard battles with that fiery temper and headstrong will of his, but never had he passed through such a struggle as that day witnessed. In the evening, he went again to the young people's meeting. Without waiting to be asked this time, he said, "Last Thursday evening, I refused to pray. The truth is, I dared not pray as a Christian, and I was not prepared to humble myself and confess my sin. Tonight I am ready to acknowledge that I have wandered far from the white line which I have so long professed to follow, but I am glad to say that I think I have found the true path again. I will tell you how I got astray. Worldly pleasures enticed me, and I set aside the apostolic command, 'Be not conformed to the world.' Let us pray."

But Clarence Golden was not there to hear the confession of error, and years after, the thought of Duncan would bring a curl to his lip, and the bitter reflection, "I was nearer to being a Christian that winter than ever before or since, and if Duncan had been true, I might have been saved three years of doubt and scepticism."

CHAPTER XXIV.

WHERE WE LEAVE "THOSE BOYS."

"Men are only boys grown tall."

LEWIE AMESBURY was packing up. His college days were over. Herbert had already gone, expecting to return to enter the theological school. But as Lewie's leave-taking was supposed to be final, his preparations for departure took more time. Two or three fellow students were in the room helping, saying "good-bye," talking over their late triumphs, or lounging listlessly about.

From the dark corner of the closet, Lewie had just brought out a medley of garments, dusty, worn, and old-fashioned. Fairly aching for a frolic, Fred Torrey seized upon the veritable hat that once hung upon the rack in Mr. Bradford's hall, speckless and glossy.

"Hurrah!" he exclaimed, as he fished out the shabby old thing. "Here's an old acquaintance! Say, Amesbury, how did you feel when you first put that hat on?"

"Try it on and see for yourself," was the curt reply.

"Oh, it would fit Baker here better," and Torrey attempted to put the battered old hat upon Baker's head; but that young gentleman suggested "spiders," and tossed it from him, whereupon a very undignified scuffle ensued, and the "old acquaintance," banged and bruised, was kicked back and forth until Fred Torrey conceived the brilliant idea of turning it inside out. Suddenly, he exclaimed—

"Well, now, this is rich! Say, Amesbury, when did you turn tract distributor? Must have lent your hat to Bradford sometimes. Pretty piece of literature for you to carry about!"

"What is it?" asked two or three voices.

"Just be quiet, will you? I can't deliver my sermon in such a din."

Then he proceeded to read out the solemn appeal. The little messenger which Julia Bradford had so long ago sent to speak words of warning, which she found in her heart but could not bring to her lips, had at last come forth from its hiding place.

Lewie had not been engaged in the frolic, and he now turned from the box of books which he was packing, saying—

"Come, Torrey, we've had enough of that. What have you got, and where did you get it?"

"Oh, yes! What and where! It is some of your own treasures. I supposed you'd be willing to share your good things. Never mind, I can get a supply from the Tract Society, I suppose."

To which piece of nonsense Lewie made no reply, but reached out his hand for the yellow and worn paper, which Torrey relinquished, saying—

"Come on, Baker, if we make those calls, and get off by the five o'clock train, we've got to hurry."

Lewie was left alone with the dingy tract in his hand. As soon as his visitors were out of hearing, he walked over to the door, turned the key, and leaving his books half packed, sat down to read the message that he could not turn away from. The language was simple and commonplace, but the truths were awfully solemn. He had heard them all before—heard them from the pulpit, read them in the Bible, partly assenting and partly denying, but never led by them into a real experience of the power of Christ's love. But now and here was God's time and way to answer the prayers of teacher and friends; and when Lewie Amesbury, the self-satisfied moralist, read,—

"Remember that there is no salvation in any other, no other name given under heaven whereby we must be saved; only by casting yourself upon him, renouncing self-righteousness and self-dependency, can you hope for salvation—"

How mean and miserable his past life looked to him! And he had presumed to set aside Christ's atonement as quite unnecessary in his case, building his hopes for eternity upon his own good works! "No salvation in any other." He had not entirely denied Christ, but he had not made him a Saviour. In his own thoughts, he had endeavoured to follow Christ's precepts. Now there seemed a great lack in his life. What should fill it? This was the question that absorbed his thoughts for many days; but the answer came as it comes to those who really seek.

Three months afterward, Fred Torrey was hurrying down Broadway when a voice arrested him.

"See here, Tor, if it isn't a life, or a million that is at stake, suppose you stop and speak to an old crony?"

"Ah, Baker, glad to see you. I have no special need of haste, though I have several things to do this afternoon. I'm off to-morrow."

"For Europe? Does Amesbury go with you?" asked Baker.

"Amesbury? Haven't you heard? He has gone back with Bradford to study for the ministry."

"Amesbury study for the ministry!" repeated Baker. "You are quizzing."

"Not at all. It is the solemn truth, queer as it seems."

"Well, a sudden turn around I should say."

"I have a note from him," said Torrey: "Let me see—no, I haven't it about me. He says that the purposes of his life have changed, that he just begins to see the real meaning of Christ's life and death, and more in that strain. He is evidently in earnest. If I had time, I'd look into the matter. There must be something in a religion that wins over a fellow like Amesbury."

"I know reckless sort of sinners like you and me are apt to go from one extreme to another, but steady, cautious fellows of his stamp are hard to turn. I wonder what did it?"

"I'm sure I don't know—though I can't help thinking that that dirty, dingy tract that I resurrected had something to do with it."

"I shouldn't wonder," said Baker thoughtfully; then the conversation drifted to other topics.

The years passed away, four more of them. Mrs. Judge McNair, just seated in her mother's room, was saying,—

"No, I won't take off my hat. I mustn't stop long. Father said you were not well last evening, so I thought I must run up a few moments, if I did not get everything done."

"Oh, you expect your boys!"

"Why, mother," laughed the younger lady, "do you forget that they are grown-up, really men doing their work among men?"

"Well, I suppose so. But how large a party do you intend to have?"

"Only about twenty—Mr. and Mrs. Earle, Dr. Myers and Lou, Mr. Golden and Louise, and a few more."

"When are Herbert and Jenny to go?"

"In about a week," replied Mabel. "Mr. Turner is very urgent. It is wonderful what a work that man has done. They have a little church quite finished, and a part of the salary pledged; and six or seven years ago there was no such thing known as the Sabbath. One or two who had been church members at the East, but who had been living away from Christ, awakened by his example, and took hold of the work with him. It is remarkable how God raises up his workers."

"But don't you feel that it is a great pity that Jenny and Herbert should bury themselves way off there?"

"I don't think it is a pity at all," returned Mrs. McNair, with earnestness. "It seems a grand field for labour. I am glad they are called to it. It seems that Nicholas has had his thoughts turned toward Herbert as their future minister almost ever since he went out there; but Herbert was quite decided about remaining at the East, until lately the indications of Providence have seemed so pointed that he could not refuse to go. The Lord seems to guide him by baffling his own plans, and shutting him up to one path."

"Ah! Mabel, you are just as queer as ever!"

"Queer, is she? Well, I wish we were all as queer!" The last speaker was Mr. Wynn, who had just entered. "I'd be glad to find the satisfaction in religion that you do, Mabel."

"Ah! Father, I am sure that if you looked there for satisfaction as earnestly as you do to the world, you would find it."

"Perhaps so. Well, I am going to retire from business next year; then I shall have time to pay more attention to religious matters."

Mabel did not reply, only smiled sadly, as she thought how persistently her father separated the things that ought to go together.

Presently Mrs. Wynn exclaimed,—

"Why, Mabel, what a company of ministers you'll have! Tom Nichols and Herbert and young Amesbury, besides Mr. Earle."

"Well, child," said Mr. Wynn, "you did pretty well to train up two preachers from that class."

"Two! Why, father, they are nearly all preachers. All but one, and I expect that he will be. There's Arthur Knapp away in Colorado, and if his life is at all what his letters indicate (and he is no hypocrite), he is preaching Christ most effectively. I insist that every Christian man and woman ought by their daily living to hold up Christ as the one perfect pattern and the only Saviour. Then there's Henry Trafton, his pictures are lessons of truth and purity. The one the judge bought last winter is as good as a sermon to me whenever I look at it, which is pretty often. And Duncan is growing more like his father every year."

"It is a fact, those boys have turned out well. I thought one while that Perry Morse would go to ruin sure, but his father tells me he is doing well. As for that matter, I believe they were rather a hard set. How did you manage them, Mabel?"

"In the first place, they were not a 'hard set' at all. They were just like any other half dozen boys, and I never managed at all. I had faith in them and faith in God's promises. I tried to teach them what it was to follow Christ, and to show them how much easier and better to follow closely than afar off."

"But," continued Mrs. McNair, rising, "I really must not stop. Mother, do you think you will be able to come over this evening?"

"Oh, yes," Mr. Wynn answered for her. "We will look in at your 'ministers' meeting.'"

Upon her way home, Mabel took a letter from the office. Here it is:

"MY DEAR FRIEND:—I have very pleasant things to write. In those dark days just before I left Westville, I never expected to see such good times as these. God has dealt very mercifully with me. In my time of disgrace and despair, he raised up kind friends for me, and in those years since, he has followed me with loving-kindness, and yet I have not been mindful of him. If I have led a different life since I came here, it was not from love to Christ. If I have outwardly kept pretty near the white line, it was because it seemed the better way in a worldly point of view. But for several months I have been dissatisfied with my life and its motives. I seemed to need something higher.

"At last the long, weary struggle over, I yield to Christ a loving service, and accept the joy and peace which fills my need. Yesterday I joined with his own people in the holy communion. I mean to be earnest and true. I trust that I shall still be one for whom you pray.

"You will doubtless be interested in hearing of some of the new business arrangements. Your good brother-in-law has taken me into partnership. He reckons my youth and business capacity as an offset to his money capital. He proposes to retire from active life (so far as the store is concerned) and leave the business in my care. You will see how he trusts me. Once I should have been very vain of such a trust, now I look to Christ for grace to sustain it. I should like to be in Westville while Herbert and Lewie are there, but I think I cannot leave at present. May God go with them and bless them in their work.

"As ever, your old pupil,

"PERRY MORSE."

"At last! Oh, I knew God would not fail me. He never has!"

With this thought, Mrs. McNair slipped her letter back into its envelope, smoothed her hair and went down to dinner.

And so they were all following at last. As they were far from perfection as boys, so they are far from being perfect men. It takes years of Christian living and learning before we reach that higher plane where grace so abounds that sin has no foothold. But for fine specimens of noble Christian manhood, you need not go outside the little circle of "Those Boys," who have found that their chosen motto, while it is narrow as regards being of the world, is yet broad in all Christian aims.

THE END.

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Table of Contents

MABEL WYNN

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHAPTER XXII.

CHAPTER XXIII.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE