THE CLIMBERS.

PUBLISHED BY THE
AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY
150 NASSAU-STREET, NEW YORK.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by the American Tract Society, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.

THE CLIMBERS

I.

“It’s of no use, and what’s more, I don’t believe it’s right,” said Mr. Jeffries, “this filling every boy’s head with thoughts of rising in the world. It looks all very well in books; but is quite a different thing in reality. I tell you what, it’s doing a mighty deal of damage in the world. Why, it’s almost impossible for anybody that wants help to get any of the right sort. Once find a boy that has any grit in him, and he’s off as soon as he can scrape up enough money to go to school with. There’s that stable-boy of mine, as good a little fellow as I’d ever care to have; but in the room of playing like other boys, when he has a moment’s leisure, he’s off to the barn with a book in his hand. I’ve told him many a time ’twould be the ruin of him; but he seems to take to it as naturally as a duck does to water;” and the little hotel-keeper looked around complacently.

“I thought that was the very spirit that was commendable in this country, Mr. Jeffries,” said I, turning my gaze from the mountain towering above us to the face of my host. “Hope is the grand incentive to the American boy, the hope of knowing more, and doing better for himself and others, than his father and grandfather did before him. Look around you and see who are the men of the present; ten to one they are poor men’s sons. They felt that they could do something, and they accomplished it.”

“It looks all fair, I allow; but the thing is carried too far; it makes them discontented and unsteady, changing from one thing to another. In my opinion, if you want to make any thing in the world, you must stick to one thing. It is an old saying, ‘A rolling stone gathers no moss.’”

“True; but may not these poor boys have a higher aim and purpose, and carry it out quite as effectually as if it required no changes? Your stable-boy may have mapped out, vaguely perhaps, his future, and to reach it must make use of such stepping-stones as come within his reach. He does his work well, does he not?”

“Oh, there’s nothing to say against him, only I don’t like to see him always reading; he can’t go by a newspaper—and my wife keeps them hung up by the side of the roller—without stopping for a bit, catching as a hungry horse does at a spear of grass or hay that comes within his reach. I give him pretty good wages for a boy, and the women folks patch up his clothes and see that he has plenty to eat. It seems to me that he ought to be contented and happy, with jests and frolic like the rest, in the room of being shut up with his book. And then, to cap all, I went into the barn the other day, and there he was perched up on the haymow, talking away and making gestures just as the parson does. I could not keep from laughing, and he came down and skulked away looking sheepish enough.”

“You have interested me in this boy, Mr. Jeffries. Who, and what is he? Where did you find him?”

“Oh, his father lives up among the mountains, a thriftless, good for nothing creature, who spends all his earnings in whiskey. The mother was a delicate ladylike woman; my wife thought a heap of her; and when she died, she made us both promise to look after her children.”

Just then a showy carriage was driven round from the stable, and a sprightly lad jumped quickly down, and stood holding the lines respectfully while the owner made ready to start. He was a tall, slight young man, whom I had noticed in the hotel as excessively talkative, flush with his money, drinking and smoking freely, and interlarding his conversation with now and then an oath. He came out with a swagger, followed by a little crowd of idlers. Mr. Jeffries broke off the thread of conversation, giving the hand of his guest a prolonged shake.

“Always glad to see you when you come this way, Robinson; you will always find the bar just the same; I never keep any thing but the best.”

“That’s a fact; the best mint julep I’ve had in a long time.”

While the leave-taking was going on, I was eagerly scanning the face of the stable-boy. My heart ached for him as he stood there, the little torn straw hat just covering the mass of dark hair, that had apparently not seen a comb for days, the great heavy locks clustering over a broad well-formed forehead, above delicately curved eyebrows with long brown lashes. But the eyes were hidden; I could only imagine what they must be from the profile of the face, the straight nose, somewhat deep upper lip, and well-turned chin. Still and straight he stood, and almost as motionless as though carved out of marble: yet not a dead, passive statue; his very stillness had a life in it, just as the framework of machinery is still while the movable parts are running swift as thought can follow.

Down the steps and into the buggy the young gentleman passed, and as the lines were handed him he tossed a silver coin to the stable-boy, but so carelessly that it glanced from his shoulder, rolled across the porch and down a crack in the floor before he could stop it.

“It’s gone, Marston; better luck next time,” said Mr. Jeffries with a patronizing air. The boy bit his lips, while the eyelids quivered, and turning on his heel was out of sight in an instant.

It was not in my heart to talk any more. Life was new to me; I was myself trying to make my way upward in character and life. Just through college, my health failed, and I was told to try mountain air and exercise. My meagre purse would not allow of my gratifying my benevolent feelings, and still every day there were just such cases occurring. “Work yourself out” had been my motto. No doubt Marston Howe would adopt the same. A rough, thorny way he will find; the feet will become weary, the hands torn and bleeding; still, if he wills he will succeed. It is better to wear out than to rust out; better be a climber than a cumberer; and though we seem never fully to attain our desires, let not the heart grow bitter and misanthropic, moody and uncharitable. Success is sure if we try for it. Let me whisper this to Marston Howe, and I have then done him all the good I can. Looking up I saw the doctor’s buggy coming slowly round the curve of the mountain, and a moment after it drew up, while a kindly face looked out. “How is this invalid of mine? Almost ready to go home?”

“Nearly ready, doctor,” and my eye caught sight of the stable-boy with his pail of water for the doctor’s horse.

“That’s right, Marston,” said Mr. Jeffries; “the doctor’s horse don’t like to pass here without something,” but the doctor did not notice the hint.

“You are fond of books,” I said to Marston as he held the pail for the horse to drink; “I have one in my pocket which I think will please you. It is called ‘Self Helps,’ and will show you how others have worked and struggled to become good and useful men. I hope that is what you wish to do.”

“I shall try for it,” he answered in a clear tone, while his grey eye brightened as he grasped the book. “Aim to do right, Marston, and what you do, do well; perhaps we shall meet again.”

Quick as an arrow he bounded round the corner, and the doctor’s pony trotted leisurely down the mountain with us.

It had been a glorious afternoon, and I had taken a longer stroll than usual; resting at the little mountain house, while the doctor visited a patient further up the mountain.

“Do you know any thing of Marston’s family, doctor?” asked I, when we finished what we had to say of the immediate landscape.

“Not much. The mother was a well-educated gentlewoman, above the majority in these parts; she died soon after I came here, and her husband soon married a real vixen. They say he spent every thing in whiskey after that, and these two children, Marston and Jennie, live with Mr. Jeffries, a good-natured man in his way, but mightily puffed up with his success in that hotel. He has a good many boarders in summer, and is making a great deal of money.”

By this time pony had struck into a quicker pace; the road was more familiar, or he scented the corn crib, and his master let him have the rein.

The next day I left the mountains, but not without a thought of Marston Howe, and an earnest wish that he might succeed.

Poor, and dependent on his own labor, there was something in his case that reminded me strangely of my own; and more than once I felt my heart throb with a quicker beat as I thought of what might be in store for him, had he the courage ever to undertake what I saw from his look he so earnestly craved.

Still, with constant effort, untiring self-denial, and inflexible purpose, the height might be won. The germs of the future harvest must be planted before it can be gathered in. Slow and difficult might be the ascent, and many a time the feet might falter in the way, and the heart well-nigh break, while weakness, prejudice, and passion hinder the progress of the eager soul.

One look to God, however, and obstacles vanish, doubts dissolve. His strength is never denied those that ask him. Marston Howe’s mother was a Christian. His cradle was consecrated by her prayers, and the little son she left behind her was still the object of divine love and care. Such thoughts comforted me. He must go up through the narrow defile of labor, the rocky strait of necessity; but he will overcome: the mother’s prayers will not be lost.

Years have passed since that summer day: we have both been climbers; both began at the same level, the only difference being that I had the start by some half a score of years; difference enough when starting in the race, but hardly perceptible when standing, as we both now do, nearer the top than the bottom of the ladder.

Last summer I again met with Marston Howe; and for the sake of the climbers who have suffered and striven, and of others who are still suffering and striving, I am induced to tell his story as nearly as he told me as I can well remember it.

II.

Of my early life I cannot remember much before we went to the mountains, and still I have always had a vague remembrance of a pleasant home surrounded with tall trees, a fountain bubbling up and catching the sun’s rays in a thousand bewildering forms, sweet flowers, and singing birds; while in my own little room there was a curious round glass with rock and moss at the bottom, where the gold fish flashed their beauty through the crystal water. Then there were days indistinct and shadowy, when the glory and beauty had gone, where I hardly knew, and we had another home—my mother, Jennie, and I.

My father I had seldom seen, and now I saw less of him than before. I did not so much wonder, for it was not home to me, that little brown house perched like a bird’s nest on the shelf of the mountain. I did not like it, and often used to ask my mother why we were there. She never used to answer me; but putting her arm around me drew me closely to her, kissing me over and over again, while the tears fell on my face, but saying nothing.

It was not so with Jennie, the pretty golden-haired baby that I used to rock in a nice little crib in our first home. Then we had pretty carpeted floors, and I could ride my pony all day in a room made on purpose to play in.

But when I grew older I saw it all, and understood why my mother pressed me to her heart and wept. I then knew what made my father reel and stagger so as he came up the path; and why, when Jennie put up her hands, and crowed out her evening welcome, he took no notice of her, and one night came very near crushing the little creature as he fell over the threshold. Oh, sad, sad days, when he was so cross, declaring the house was cold and cheerless, or the rooms were so bare of comfort—when he went to the village at the foot of the hills every morning, and if he did not come back at night, mother took Jennie in her arms, and we went after him.

In this way we lived till Jennie was five years old; then mother grew sick, and for days lay on the bed so white and still, Jennie curling up beside her, putting her little chubby cheek close to the thin pallid one, while I dug up raspberry roots and boiled them into broth for mother and the baby to eat.

One day she spoke less frequently; I thought she was asleep, and walked about very carefully so as not to wake her: at length she looked up, beckoned me to her, put her arms about my neck, and kissed me. “Whatever happens,” she said, “you must be a good boy, Marston. You are now almost ten years old; you will take good care of Jennie, and never let her leave you.”

“I will, mother; but what makes you talk so?” and I cried aloud in grief and fear.

“I am very sick, Marston, and I may die. If I do, you will take care of Jennie; promise me.”

“Yes, mother; but you will not die. God must not—”

“Hush, my son; God knows what is best; you will always remember to love and obey Him.”

“How can I, mother, if he takes you? You are all we have in the world. What will Jennie and I do without you? No, mother, if he is good, he will not do this;” and I buried my face in the pillows. My poor sick mother put her thin arms about my neck, and drew me still nearer, her hot cheek meeting mine.

“God is good, my child, and still I must leave you. Mother would not tell you any thing that was not so. You believe me, Marston?”

“I believe you, mother,” I cried passionately, “but I cannot let you go; if you go, I must go with you.”

“No, Marston, you must stay to take care of Jennie and your father. Jennie is such a little girl, what would become of her without you?”

“Will it make you happier, mother, if I take care of Jennie?” and I kissed her white cheeks again and again.

“Yes, my son, I shall be very happy if you will promise to be a good boy, and take care of your little sister for Christ and for me.”

“I will promise; I will be good, mother,” and my tears were dried.

Invested with a new dignity as the protector of my little sister, I must be a man; and I took up Jennie and fed her from the one little china bowl that remained to us of our old home.

Weary with the effort of talking, my mother fell asleep, looking so calm and placid; while I rocked the baby, and watched her quiet breathing.

Presently a neighbor came in, and bending over the bed asked how long she had been sick.

“Two weeks,” I answered.

“Poor thing; why didn’t she send for the doctor?”

“She thought she should be better soon,” I replied, laying Jennie down on the foot of the bed; and going softly to my mother, I gently kissed the pale forehead.

“Marston, promise,” and she opened her eyes.

“I do, I will, mother.”

“Dear me, Mrs. Howe, why did you not send for me? your husband told me this morning that you were sick; and as soon as we had dinner, I came right up.”

“I knew there was no help for me. If it was not for leaving my children—”

“Don’t be troubled, Mrs. Howe. It isn’t much that I have, but such as it is they shall have a part.”

Slowly the sun went down, and as the darkness rolled up the mountain father came home. He was steadier than usual, and for the first time he seemed sorry that mother was sick; took her hand kindly in his, and bent over the pillow and kissed her.

“Only get well, Mary, and I will stay at home always.” It was all he could say, the tears choked him.

“I am very sick, Robert. You will do this for the children,” and her eyes closed.

All night the two watched by her bed, Mrs. Jeffries and father; while Jennie nestled in my arms, occasionally putting up her mouth for a kiss, thinking it was mother.

I lived an age in that night, and how many resolves I formed and plans laid of what I would do, and how I would care for that one little sister.

Alas, I had to learn that he who wins must walk through rough places; that the sweet rest for which we long is only given to those who have been prompt in duty, resolute against temptation, strong in faith, patient in the hour of trial. Alas for the weary feet that must walk through the world without a mother’s guidance.

Before morning Jennie and I were alone, while my poor father was stricken into soberness.

Three months passed. My father was much steadier, stayed more at home, and was no longer cross and overbearing; for hours would he read to us, then taking Jennie on his knee, sing her to sleep.

“If mother could only see him,” I said frequently to myself. I had not known he was so handsome, for he kept himself much better, and looked like a new man. Then at night he would put us in bed, and sometimes sit down by himself, or go out looking so good and happy; I did not understand it.

One day I had been down to Mrs. Jeffries with Jennie, and Mr. Jeffries asked me what I would think if my father gave me a new mother. I told him that could not be; we could not have but one mother, and our mother was dead.

“But what if your father marries again?”

I went home in tears. Cheerless as our home was, I could not bear that another should enter it. It was no place for a good woman to come, and I felt it so. It was not long, however, before I found the reality of what I feared. My father, on the strength of his good looks, married a pretty, showily dressed woman, and brought her to our mountain home. Very kindly he introduced us; but she did not so much as kiss either of us. I grew indignant, and could have darted out of the house, but for my remembered promise to my mother.

A year, and she had turned us out, while a baby of her own nestled in her arms, and our father was nearly as bad as ever. Jennie had always been a delicate little thing, or my new mother would not so readily have parted with her. But my father, with all his waywardness, always said to her that we should not be parted.

We knew no one but Mrs. Jeffries, and she kindly consented to take us in; while her husband allowed me to hold the horses, and after a time to drive them to and from the stable.

In this way I gained something. The first winter I was there I went to school eighteen days; not enough to learn much, and still enough to give me a thirst for more. The schoolmaster was a lame man that lived near the school-house, and directly on my way.

Thin and scant my clothes were, and I used sometimes to go in and warm myself. What a different atmosphere pervaded his home: his mother, a sweet woman, with soft braids of still brown hair about her face, while her mild blue eyes reminded me of my own mother, and not unfrequently the tears would start as she inquired kindly for my little sister.

Charles Brisbane was to be a clergyman; and when he read and prayed with us every morning, it seemed the easiest thing in the world to be good, and I wondered why my father had not been just such another good man. And when at the close of the day he talked to us of the dear Saviour, who came down to earth, took upon himself our nature, suffered and died to redeem us, I resolved that I would love and trust and serve him; and then I thought he would take care of Jennie and me, and make my father a sober man. Then I used to shut my eyes, and dream all sorts of pleasant things, longing for a world where the people loved each other and did right, and where death would never come.

My dear mother seemed to be very near me whenever Charles Brisbane was talking; and when I went back to Mr. Jeffries’ it did not seem so hard to do the little errands that were always ready for me.

Jennie was beginning to do something for Mrs. Jeffries, who herself took the lead in her own house-work; and of course could not be expected to do more for us than to see that we had plenty to eat, were tidy, and not actually ragged.

I remember stopping one day at Mr. Brisbane’s, and how I longed to be able to go to school regularly; and could not but say this in rather a fretful mood.

“I am sorry that you cannot come, Marston; but remember that you can learn, wherever you are.”

“How so?” said I.

“By reading and studying at home. Improve all your time; always have a book in your pocket or on a shelf near you.”

“But I have no books.”

“I am going to give you some. Here is the Geography you studied at school, and your Arithmetic. True, you are just commencing, but with occasional help, I have no doubt you will get on finely. Come to school when you can; but when kept at home by Mr. Jeffries, do not fret over it. Do your work faithfully, and look forward. God helps those who help themselves. He will not leave you, my boy.”

How strong and happy I felt as I climbed up the hill-side to Mr. Jeffries’ house. I forgot the dark, cold mornings when I had to rise at four o’clock, and make paths through the snow; and help feed the stock and see to the horses, the poor patient brutes waiting until an opening could be made in the trough, or the snow melted. Then there were pigs to feed, and corn to shell for the poultry, and the kitchen to sweep; and by the time I had done it was nearly noon, and too late for school that day. And Jennie would climb up into my lap, and tell me not to cry; and I would read my Geography to her very much as, the last summer, I had read Jack the Giant Killer, Babes in the Wood, Robinson Crusoe, and Sinbad the Sailor; her blue eyes looking up wonderingly as she nestled still closer, laying her white velvet cheek to my brown one.

Dear little comforter, much as I loved her, my heart rebelled not a little at the loss of school-hours. Still I did not forget Mr. Brisbane’s words, so that I neither cried nor murmured outwardly, studying every moment I could get, and repeating my lesson aloud to Jennie, who in her turn began to study geography, and to make figures on my slate.

My writing lesson I suffered the most in. But Mrs. Jeffries had a sister that visited her occasionally, and when there, Miss Grimshaw condescended to set me copies; so that between my duties at home, Mr. Brisbane, and Miss Grimshaw, I made considerable advancement.

Mr. Jeffries scolded not a little whenever he saw my books, and one day actually tossed them out of the window, where Molly the cook rescued them from a mischievous puppy, minus one of the covers. I could have cried over this; but the leaves were all there, and afterwards Mrs. Jeffries gave us two chairs and a little table in her linen closet; and as this was the tidiest place in the house, and above all, never entered save by Mrs. Jeffries, we were for a time uncommonly happy.

While I had my books and a chair in the linen closet, Jennie had a few pots of geraniums and tea-roses that Mrs. Brisbane had sent her, and which she nurtured with great care. Never shall I forget the look of distress on the little face, when one morning she had watered them tenderly, taxing her strength not a little to set them where they would have all the benefit of the sun, watching them with delight, counting the buds on the rose-bush, and thinking of the little bouquets she would be sure to make, first for me and then for Mrs. Jeffries, putting one in Miss Grimshaw’s room by way of surprise. All at once Mr. Jeffries came through the room, and seeing the little girl idle for the moment, with one sweep of his hand landed the rose-bush in the middle of the yard, the stem broken and the opening buds torn. There was not a tear, not a word of complaint as she stole up to the linen closet and laid the ruined stem in my hands, hiding her face on my shoulder, and trembling like an aspen.

“Who has done this, Jennie?” said I hurriedly, and in a passion.

“Don’t be vexed at him; it was Mr. Jeffries. He’ll be sorry to-morrow.”

“But this was yours; what right had he to touch it? I will go and ask him;” and I flung down my book and started up.

“No, Marston, you must not anger him. It is all the home we have; and if you vex him, he may turn us away, or at least not let you have this nice little closet to study in.”

There was something in Jennie’s philosophy that quieted me a little; and drawing her to my side, I tried first to command myself and then comfort her. Excited as the poor child was, she soon fell asleep; and not seeing any thing but the clean white linen in the room, I took off my coat and spread it on the floor, and laid her down. Accustomed to a hard bed, she did not waken. Try as I would, I could not study, but sat looking at the broken rose-bush and then at the thin, troubled face of the sleeper, the blue lids swollen, and the delicate veins plainly perceptible about the throbbing temples.

“How could he do it? By what right deny this little child the only treasure she possessed?” and I was getting into a passion again, when Mrs. Jeffries entered.

She read it all at a glance; went out and brought a quilt and a pillow for Jennie, and taking up the broken stalk, looked at the roots.

“It will live. There is another pot, Marston, and if you will fill it with fresh mould, I will help you. Its beauty has gone for the present, but it will grow again.”

I did not move or stir, my anger was too deep. She laid her hand on my shoulder, and kindly said, “You can’t be sorrier than I am, Marston. I saw it all: but you wont be angry; Mr. Jeffries will be sorry to-morrow.”

“Just what Jennie said; but that wont help it.”

“It may, Marston; at least it will not do any good to be angry about it. I know you wont, Marston.”

“No, I will not be angry;” and at once I went to work filling the pot. Mrs. Jeffries cut off the broken part, put the buds the least injured in a little china vase filled with salt and water, and set them on a shelf in the little attic where Jennie slept. I did not see Jennie again till my work was done at night, when she said cheerily,

“Mrs. Jeffries says it will grow again. It was very good of her, wasn’t it, Marston?” and she nestled by my side, and together we studied our geography.

When the warm weather came, the schoolmaster and his mother went away, and we never saw them afterwards. When the June sun was glowing, and the soft winds wafted the fragrant breath of flowers up through the mountain gorges, Mr. Jeffries’ house was once more filled with visitors; and I was not unfrequently called upon to show some gentleman or lady the best views, as they were called, until I became familiar with the beauties and glories of nature, and felt their genial influence thrilling me with a new and indefinite pleasure.

Sometimes I was brought face to face with the storm in the mountain passes, while thunder and lightning shook and vibrated through them, rolling slowly down the sides of the mountain and echoing along the valley in terrific grandeur.

One day in the heat of summer a gentleman came up, saying to Mr. Jeffries that it was his intention to remain for a week; that he had come out of the city expressly for mountain air and scenery, and that he wished to make the best use of his time. His name was Kirby, and he had not been there a day before I felt that he was another Charles Brisbane—the same views, the same hopes, the same manner characterized them; and after my work was done in the morning, it was my privilege to join him in his rambles, provided I returned in time to have every thing in readiness for the night. What made this arrangement still pleasanter, Jennie was permitted to go with us whenever it was not too far, while Mr. Kirby would tell us stories of mountains over the sea.

I remember, one evening, we were flinging our lines in a little brook that ran gurgling along through the green grass like a silver serpent, when Mr. Kirby told us of the Rosenlani glacier in such glowing language, that we seemed to see distinctly the pale sunshine dancing on its sharp peaks of frosted silver, its blue ice caverns, its fringe of firs, with hanging ledges of short crisp grass, and giant masses of grey rock, and the sudden shower of snow from falling avalanches. Then he unrolled a map, and pointed out the jagged pyramid of the Wetterhorn, and told us of the people that lived there; and by the time we returned, in season to have our trout for supper, we had learned more of the geography of Switzerland than we should have learned from poring over books for a long time.

“To-morrow,” said Mr. Kirby, “we must go up to the highest point of the mountain. I am afraid my little Jennie must stay at home.”

“Why so, Mr. Kirby?” and Jennie pressed to his side; “I like to be with you and Marston.”

“I should like to have you go, but I am afraid it would make you sick; it will be a hard walk for us. If I give you a nice story to read, it will interest you quite as much; and when we come back, you shall tell us all about it. Besides, Miss Grimshaw is to teach you how to hem that new handkerchief. You will be contented to stay now, wont you?”

“If you think it best,” and the long brown lashes drooped over the blue eyes.

The next morning I was up earlier than usual; but not before Jennie, who insisted on sharing my labor, feeding the pigs, and then scattering corn to the poultry, and throwing wheat to the few pigeons that circled about the premises.

“I do want to go with you,” she said as she kissed me good-by; but Mr. Kirby was there with the neatly bound book he had promised, and the tears were soon dried, Jennie looking the last look as she ran up to her attic to lay aside her treasure, till the moment when her work should be done and Mrs. Jeffries should give her permission to do what she pleased.

“Shall you have patience to climb?” asked Mr. Kirby as we stood at the base of the tallest peak, its jagged sides covered with stunted shrubs and shelving rocks as far as the eye could reach, a veil of clouds and mist resting on the summit.

“I shall like it exceedingly. You forget that I am accustomed to climbing.”

“What was it that Miss Grimshaw called you and Jennie the other day?”

“The Climbers.”

“Yes, and the name rather pleased me,” continued Mr. Kirby. “Heights are to be won every day, and our stand-point to-day should be in advance of what it was yesterday. We are, or should be, all climbers, using every incident, occasion, and advantage as a stepping-stone to something better.”

“I fear some of us are doing it at a snail’s pace; a lifetime of such climbing as mine would not amount to much.”

“You remember the hare and the tortoise,” said Mr. Kirby, “and which won the race. The hare started off as some people would to go up this mountain; but he soon grew weary, and lay down to rest. The tortoise began as he could hold out, and the end justified his wisdom.” I now understood why Mr. Kirby was walking leisurely.

“When I was a lad,” continued he, “I often visited my grandfather, who lived on a farm in the country. On one occasion he hired two men to work in the harvest-field. One man looked at the small field of wheat contemptuously, and declared it his opinion the job had better be given to one; he could do it all himself before sundown. Still my grandfather insisted on the two, and accordingly they began. One worked furiously, and at noon he was far in advance of his companion. As the hot hours passed his arm grew nerveless, his back felt as though it was broken, his limbs ached, and his head felt like bursting. Long before sundown he had to withdraw to the house of the farmer; while his companion, who had husbanded his strength, was left to finish the field alone. Patience when we commence is quite as needful in intellectual as in physical effort. The end of the race tells who wins.”

“There is a good deal of consolation in that,” I ventured to remark. “Climbing hills I can easily do; but I am sometimes afraid that is the only climbing that will be allowed me.”

“Not if you wish another. Obstacles vanish before a strong and resolute will.”

“But circumstances, Mr. Kirby.”

“Look behind you, Marston, and you will see that while walking and talking at our leisure, we have been advancing all the time, and have in reality made a very perceptible ascent. The valley looks like a green thread, and the few buildings that we see like pigeon-houses.”

“Yes, indeed; we get along better than I expected. We’ve been steadily at it, that’s all.”

“That is it, Marston, steadily at it. Perseverance is sure, sooner or later, to overcome.”

“And if we have a plan, and steadily follow it, shall we succeed?” I asked.

“Almost sure to do so; not by one endeavor, not by two, but by years of perpetual toil and labor. Climbers have more to contend with than those who sit still in the valley. Do you begin to weary, Marston?”

“Oh no; but the path is much rougher, and I slip backward instead of getting forward.”

“Now you see why I took this staff tipped with a sharp iron. It will help us when the way is slippery. Give me your hand; it is hard work, but nothing good is achieved without labor.”

At length we reached a cliff which, projecting boldly into our path, rose like a dark grey wall to bar our advance.

“What shall we do now?” I asked; “go back?”

“Never do that, unless you are out of the way,” said Mr. Kirby. “We must get up just as we have come so far, by climbing. But it is so steep on this side, we shall have to go round.” After a short pause to ascertain the most favorable point, Mr. Kirby with his iron-tipped staff proceeded to put his advice into practice. Each step was carefully taken, another, and another; while, as we advanced, helps arose on all sides: here was a twig, there a rock, and there a secure place for the feet; and without any great fatigue, and almost before we were aware, we stood on the top of the enormous mass that but a short time before had loomed up threateningly.

“You see where we are,” said Mr. Kirby. “Remember, and never give up when you undertake any thing. Stop only sufficiently long to make sure of the way, and then advance, one step at a time. You see here how clearly one step prepares the way for another; so it will ever be. Oaks are strengthened by wind and storm; so men grow firm by combating with difficulty and opposition.”

“I don’t see how that can make them strong,” I said; for I did not clearly understand the import of his words.

“I do not mean strong in body merely, although this might follow, but strong in spirit, more resolute to do, more determined to endure. If boys possess this quality, they will be pretty sure to make strong, reliable men, able to take a position in the world and have an influence among men. But look; what a splendid view we have from this point;” and Mr. Kirby looked over the broad panorama with an eye that seemed to see the Deity in his works; and from the top of that table rock he told me of his own life, of the obstacles in his way, the poverty and destitution that he had known: “And still by climbing, just as we have been doing to-day, I have made some progress; and if I keep on—”

“What will you make?” I asked in my eagerness.

“What would you say if you knew I had no higher ambition than to be a clergyman?” looking at me with a half smile in his clear dark eye.

“I think I should be a lawyer, if I was in your place, Mr. Kirby.”

“A lawyer; why so?”

“Why, there’s a better chance to rise in the world. It must be very nice to sway men as easily as lawyers do; and then there’s a chance of one day being senator or judge.”

“It must be very pleasant, you say, to sway men as lawyers do. Do you not think it equally good to sway men as clergymen do? It is the lawyer’s business to help men out of temporary difficulties. It is the clergyman’s business to show men a better way: first to show them their condition as sinners, then to tell them of the precious Saviour who died to redeem them, and who will not only save them from temporary difficulties, but raise them to an eternity of happiness. Is there any thing more glorious than this, Marston?”

“I hardly know, sir. It has always seemed to me I should like to be a lawyer. Yet it must be pleasant, as you say, to make people better.”

“I hope you will always think so, Marston,” and Mr. Kirby gathered some wild flowers. “They will remind us of the walk. Flowers have the happy power of always calling our best thoughts to the surface.”

“It would seem your best thoughts are always there, Mr. Kirby.”

“On the contrary, my best thoughts are sometimes out of sight entirely. I have to be very watchful over myself. I am too readily given to despondency, and not willing to trust and be bright and cheerful when it looks dark and lowering.”

“Is it our duty always to be bright and glad?” I asked.

“I think so, Marston.”

“But if every thing goes wrong with us?”

“Every thing cannot go wrong with us, if we love and trust the Saviour, for he has said that all things shall work together for our good.”

“That is what mother used to say. I always wondered how she could.”

“Because she trusted him, and this trust made her cheerful and happy.”

“If we go to the top,” I ventured to say, “we must be going;” and again the dry moss rustled beneath our feet. We had not gone far before dark clouds began to scud over the sky, portending a sudden storm.

“Had we not better return?” I asked.

“We are much nearer the top than the bottom of the mountain,” said Mr. Kirby. “If a storm should come, it would reach us before we could get half way down. You are not afraid of a storm, Marston.”

“Not of mere rain; but this is no place as to the wind, to say nothing of thunder and lightning.”

“All these are in His keeping. We are the objects of his love.” He had hardly finished speaking, when a fearful gale swept down the mountain, and nearly bore us away with it. The rain quickly followed, while the thunder was startling, with its quick, sharp reports, then rolling along in one continued roar till lost in the distance.

“This will not last long,” said Mr. Kirby, and took shelter under a great rock, drawing me after him. How long we stood there I hardly know, for the dense mass of black clouds floating so near us, carried swiftly by the winds, rolling and unrolling their rugged edges, fringed with the lurid glare, was the most fascinating spectacle that I had ever witnessed.

After explaining to me the different strata of the atmosphere and some of the causes of this sudden change in the clouds, Mr. Kirby spoke of that great day of storm and dread, when there would be some to cry for the mountains to cover them from the wrath of the Lamb, and others to whom He would be as the shelter of a great rock.

Then we stepped out from under the rock. The shower was over, and we again advanced. For a time the ascent was more precipitous than any that we had met before, while the wet boughs, brushing against our faces, would have seriously disturbed a less persevering spirit than Mr. Kirby’s.

Among the remembrances of that day were the tiny pools and cascades, filled to overflowing during the shower. Then there were spots of soft green beds of beautiful moss, and short, steep acclivities, such as would hardly afford footing for the chamois or gazelle.

At length we stood at the top. Here, on the very summit of the mountain, was a lovely little lake, its water clear as crystal, where the clouds could see their beauty reflected without comment or obstruction.

How proud and happy I felt. The work was done. I had often looked up, but never before attempted going to the top. Once decided upon, it was done. Would it be as easy with every thing else?

Scarcely had we turned from the lake, when the sun came out, rolling up the floating mists into wool-like drapery of clouds, revealing a panorama of surpassing grandeur.

Beneath us lay a succession of hills, shelving down to the valley, while further in the distance were green fields, with farm-houses looking hardly bigger than mole-hills, with the river winding on to the ocean like a long blue thread; and the ocean itself, whose boundary I could not define, was an object of strange wonder to me. Ignorant as I was, I could not understand the strong emotion that thrilled me, depriving me entirely of the power of speech.

“How beautiful He hath made them all;” and Mr. Kirby lifted his hat, and stood uncovered, awed by the glorious majesty around him. As I looked at him, I felt a still stronger yearning for something higher and nobler. That hour, I am persuaded, was a turning-point in my life. New hopes fluttered into being; new resolves were registered; new purposes were to be maintained; and a strong confidence was born within me, that the Lord would not leave me desolate.

Mr. Kirby talked of God’s exceeding great love, and how he never turned any away, even the poorest and weakest, that might call upon him for aid. He also told me several wonderful things of the mountains, and the transformation continually going on in them; and then of Hugh Miller, and the ways by which he had achieved his great work.

It surprises me now, when I think how much was crowded into that one day. It was to me like a new revelation; the very air was full of a new life; I breathed freer than I had done for months. A new path was opening, and I felt strong to tread where others had gone before—others as poor and friendless as I was. Oh that we could always keep ourselves on the mountain heights of faith and hope.

With Mr. Kirby near to prompt and encourage me, I forgot my ragged clothes and rimless hat, and that my shoes were old and patched—forgot, or rather did not know, that to become learned as he was would require years of time and a great deal of money, a commodity that I knew little about. My heart was light and buoyant. I thought I could do it, and hope began to trill a measure that was henceforth to ring on all through my life.

The sudden shower had rendered fresh and green each leaf and flower, while the bright sun-rays had transmuted the drops to brilliant diamonds, suspended in lavish profusion from tree and shrub, catching and reflecting its light in countless forms of splendor.

Just then a wren flew out of a thicket, and settled on a low spray just in our path. With a sweep of my hand I could have reached the fearless little songster, fresh, bright, glad, offering its tribute to the Creator.

“Shall not we thank him too?” said Mr. Kirby; and suiting the action to the word, he knelt, and placing one hand upon my bowed head, implored God, for Christ’s sake, to have compassion upon me, to make me a child of God, to forgive my sins, and to give me a teachable spirit, that I might be willing to be led, and might, through the influence of his grace, grow up to be a good and useful man.

This was the first time that anybody had ever prayed alone with me, save my mother; and it brought her so forcibly before me, that I could not keep down the sobs.

Going home, I asked Mr. Kirby if we should ever see him again.

“It is not probable,” he answered. “It is very possible that I may be sent abroad; and if so, we may never meet again; but whether we meet or not, I shall think of you, Marston, and pray that we may both live so as to meet in heaven.”

Jennie saw us coming, and bounded over the brook that ran at the back of the house and across the pasture to meet us, breaking out into a glad welcome, telling us that she had finished the book, and nearly hemmed the handkerchief. “Here it is,” holding it up for inspection.

“Very well done,” said Mr. Kirby, shaking it out, and examining it attentively. “Now, my little friends, I want you both to remember this day. It may be the last chance I shall have to speak to you alone. Do your duty wherever you are. Let your first question be, Is it right? and then never turn back, nor be discouraged. Do this, and you will advance, just as we did in climbing the mountain to-day, one step at a time; so by one act of duty at a time, one good purpose well carried out, success will follow.” Then putting his hand on each of our heads, “Give your hearts to Christ now; love and serve him. Wherever I go, I shall think of you, and shall hope you are workers for him, let your surroundings be what they may.”

III.

Full of my new resolves, I went about my evening’s work, followed closely by Jennie, telling me all the time about her book. While listening to the charming story, I forgot, and put brindle into the black cow’s place. No sooner done, than Mr. Jeffries, who had a quick eye, sent me spinning across the stable floor, and Jennie into the house and up to her attic, where I found her an hour afterwards, with tears still on her cheeks.

“Don’t cry about it, Jennie;” and I drew up a little rocking-chair I had made for her out of an old one, and took her in my arms. “It was careless in me; I should have seen what I was about.”

“He said afterwards it would not have been much matter if the cattle had remained so all night. Oh, if we only had a home, like other children, Marston. I wonder why we haven’t;” and she nestled her brown head on my shoulder, and tried hard not to sob any more. Just then a sharp voice came up from the kitchen, and for once I felt like resisting. I was tired, my work was all done, and I sat quite still, holding Jennie tightly. Again and again the call.

“We must go, brother; Mr. Kirby said we must do what we have to do well, and then God will open a path for us. I do hope he will; don’t you?” Kissing my angry cheek, she put away her book, and ran down the narrow stairs. Brushing off the tears, I followed as quickly as possible.

“You’ve forgotten your wood, boy; this comes of reading books. If you don’t quit it, you can’t stay here, I can tell you;” and Mr. Jeffries stormed till he was tired, and then walked into the bar-room.

“Don’t mind his being cross, Marston,” said Mrs. Jeffries soothingly; “he’s not quite himself to-night; to-morrow he’ll be sorry.”

Tired as I was at bedtime I could not sleep, the day had been so pleasant notwithstanding the fatigue. I had listened to Mr. Kirby, and thought it would be easy to be good; and then he had prayed that I might be led. But before my work was done I had become angry and cross, and half questioning God’s goodness because Jennie and I had not a home, with some one to love and take care of us.

I went to the window where I could see the distant hills, the very mountain the top of which we had reached by continued effort. “Nothing is gained without labor,” Mr. Kirby had said. How easy it would be to do right, I thought, if we could always live with such people; and I looked up to the stars twinkling to each other in their beauty.

My heart was full, and yearned for sympathy; and to comfort myself, I went back and lived the cheering scenes of my life over again—calling up every word and look of my dear mother, then all Mr. Brisbane had said, and now Mr. Kirby, and my books, of which I could count several.

In going up the mountain Mr. Kirby had often caused me to look behind me, in that way getting an idea of the ascent we were really making. So in looking over the past I could see that I had made some advance, and insensibly my thoughts grew clearer. Again I looked up to the heavens; but I knew but little of God’s love. His precious promise was to me then a sealed voice. Still, there was a feeling of quiet stole over me, something that spoke comfort, for I went to sleep.

The next morning Mr. Kirby left, and I had so much to do, and so many calling upon me at once, that I had no time to tell him what I had resolved to tell him, namely, how forgetful I had been, and what a passionate feeling had swept over me. I meant to try and do better, but I had no time to tell him.

“Do right, Marston, and study all you can,” had been his last words. Mr. Jeffries was very kind, and as if to make amends for the last night, gave me an hour to myself after dinner. Taking our books, Jennie followed me to a flat rock under a gnarled apple-tree, and on a broken slate I pored over my sums, while she studied geography. Then I heard her lesson, and she questioned me in arithmetic; for with less instruction she was further advanced than I was. After that, we read the book Mr. Kirby had given her. It was a simple, unvarnished sketch of every-day life, with allusions that I could understand, and experiences so like my own that more than once I stopped to dry my eyes.

We had just finished, and were talking it over, when who should come across the garden but our father? We had not seen him in a good while, and there was something so kind in his look and manner, that we started at once to meet him.

“So you have not quite forgotten me,” he said, as Jennie kissed him and I clung to his hand.

“We can never do that, pa.” He sat down on the rock and held us to him, with his arms close around us.

“Are you willing to come home, Marston? You are getting to be a large boy, and can help me now; and I am going to try to do better.”

Had it not been for my new mother I should have jumped at the idea of going with my father; but when I thought of her my heart struggled against it. Again Mr. Kirby’s words came to my mind: “Do right, Marston.” Something told me it was right, if my father was trying to make a better man, to help him. So I answered resolutely,

“If you think it best, father; but I want to go to school, and do something better by and by.”

“That is what I want you to do, my son; and I will try and help you.”

He was sober, and spoke so kindly, we both cried when he kissed us good-by, and said he knew he had not been as good to us as he ought to have been since we had no mother. Dear father, it was a long time since we had seen him so kind; and it was to be a still longer time before we should see him so kind again.

“You will come down to-morrow night, children.”

“Yes, father.”

This arrangement did not suit Mr. Jeffries; but he said nothing against it, while his wife shook her head. “The same old story; it will be as bad as ever in a week,” she said to herself.

The next day, the last we stayed at the Jeffries’, a traveller presented me with a book entitled “Self Helps,” and never a miser rejoiced more over his treasure than I did when I caught sight of its contents. So there had been hosts of poor boys trying just as I was for something better; and at last they found it; so should I.

At sunset Jennie and I walked back to our old home. Our new mother received us kindly, and the baby crowed and clapped his hands, seeming to regard us as old acquaintances.

The days and weeks passed, and it was the middle of autumn. There was a little corn to be gathered, and a few potatoes to be dug; but father’s good promises had all vanished. He was not cross, neither did he often scold, but he stayed from home; and when he was there, he was too stupid to care for any of us.

Winter came, and I attended a school nearly a mile from us; but this time we had no such friend as Charles Brisbane. The teacher seemed to know that we were poor and miserable; and when I went in late, as I almost always did, he was sure to give me a sharp reprimand. In vain it was to rise at four o’clock: there was fire to make, there were paths to shovel, the cow to milk, and breakfast to get; for my new mother would not rise until the room was warm, and this in our house could not be till the fire had been burning a good while.

Poor little Jennie had to stay at home entirely. Still she studied, and Miss Grimshaw out of the kindness of her heart sent us each a slate for her Christmas present. Never were more acceptable gifts, and I question if any Christmas since has brought us more pleasure, brightened as it was by two new slates.

The winter proved to be unusually severe; the snow deeper than for years. We managed to live, how I hardly know. There was plenty of wood that could be had for the cutting; but I had not sufficient strength to accomplish much in this way, and had to content myself with drawing up fallen timber, and branches that the wind had scattered. Towards spring, father was gone more than ever, sometimes not coming home till late at night; and then not till Jennie and I had taken the lantern and gone down to the village after him.

One night he was later than usual; the day had been unusually bleak, a heavy snow-storm setting in before noon, and by sunset we could hardly wade through it. Ten o’clock, and our mother for the first time grew uneasy; the baby was asleep; she left Jennie to rock the cradle, and giving me the lantern, we started for the village.

We had not made half the distance before we were covered with such a thick mantle of snow as to render it necessary to stop and shake ourselves; but my step-mother had a resolute will, when she chose to put it in force. In vain I counselled her to return, and let me go alone; finding she could not be persuaded, I waded through, making as good a path as possible, holding up my lantern so that father could see it if he was really on the way.

It was twelve o’clock when we reached the village; the lights were nearly all out, only one room was open, and that was the fatal one that tempted him so often from home.

“No, your father is not here,” they said in answer to my inquiries. “He started for home before night. It is such a terrible storm, he may have stopped on the way.”

“More likely that he has fallen in the snow,” said mother; “it is frightfully cold, and the wind is drifting it in heaps.”

There were few words spoken as we went back. The storm had somewhat subsided, and far as the eye could reach spread out before us one mass of fleecy whiteness.

How our hearts thrilled, and then stood still, as we passed an eminence where the snow lay high and uneven: under that white covering father might be buried.

“Here is an uneven track,” and mother pointed to a pile of snow at the foot of the hill, and very near our own door. I held up the lantern, but for a moment could not move onward. So near us, and still we had gone so far! Nerving myself at last, I followed the steps, now filled with snow, but still perceptible.

It was as we feared. He had started for home, and had reached the foot of the hill, when he fell, too chilled or too insensible to rise.

Oh the agony of that night! He was our father, and deeply as he had erred, we loved him. Such a terrible death, and we knew not where to look for comfort.

IV.

Jennie and I were alone now, for our new mother had taken her babe and gone back to her parents. What could we do? I thought of others who had worked out of just such extremities, and resolved that I would seek employment, but not of Mr. Jeffries.

So making myself as tidy as possible, and curling Jennie’s hair over my fingers as I had seen my own mother do, we shut the door of our mountain home, and walked resolutely down to the village. Sure of success, I kept Jennie laughing as I portrayed the future in glowing colors, telling her of all that I would do, and the pretty home that I would make of my own, where we would always live together, with plenty of books and flowers—her sweet blue eyes looking up with such a glad earnestness.

“It will be better than the story in the book, wont it?”

Our first call was on Miss Grimshaw. She was a milliner in the village, and her one shop window was full of pictures of highly dressed women, whose feathers, bonnets, and flowers made a great impression upon her customers, to say nothing of the awe Jennie and I felt in the presence of such magnificence.

Miss Grimshaw received us very cordially; and when I told her we wanted work together, she shook her head.

After thinking a while, she said with sincere tenderness, “Jennie had better stay with me. She is too delicate to do heavy work; I will give her a light task, and let her have several hours to study every day: and it is very probable that you can find employment in the village; so it will not be much of a separation.”

It was soon settled that Jennie should remain with Miss Grimshaw; and I went to look out for myself elsewhere. Fortunately the grocer who lived directly opposite wanted a boy; and after examining me a little in arithmetic, and also asking me to write his name and my own, he finally said,

“You may try, although I will not promise to keep you a single day.”

Every little village has its great man; and the village of Claverton, nestled at the foot of the green hills, was not without its rich man, Esquire Clavers being the original proprietor from whom it took its name.

He was a little wiry man, with sparkling eyes and a hooked nose, spare thin hair, and whiskers thickly sprinkled with grey, and a voice that sounded any thing but musical, especially to the poor.

Very precise in his toilet was Esquire Clavers; his linen was always unexceptionable, his watch chain of the largest dimensions, and from it dangled a massive seal and gold key, while his gold-headed cane seemed almost a part of himself, for never was he seen without it. He lived in a two-story yellow house at the head of the principal street, and the people looked up to him with a deferential air given to no other person, not even the minister.

Mr. Willett, the grocery keeper, was the next on the list; and it not unfrequently happened, as his front shop was the largest one in town, that it proved the rendezvous for politicians and news-mongers—Esquire Clavers being of course the main speaker in the assembly, and the oracle in matters of opinion in all Claverton.

It was spring, but not yet sufficiently warm to do without fires; accordingly there was a trio around the stove the very morning I commenced my work.

“I see you’ve got a new boy,” said Jared Peat the tailor.

“On trial just,” answered Mr. Willett.

“Not of much account, I’ll venture; a chip of the old block,” continued Jared.

“Smart as a steel-trap,” said Esquire Clavers, “but altogether too fine notions in his head. If a boy would be any thing, he must work for it. It’s of no use trying to work and study too; one or the other will be done badly. Jeffries was telling me of his being there; he could hardly take a horse to water without having a book along to read while the horse was drinking. For my part, I wouldn’t give him his salt if he works in that manner.” Esquire Clavers had said it, and of course I should find little time for books so long as I should be in Mr. Willett’s employ.

I had heard that Esquire Clavers had once been poor, and I could not but ask myself, Has he forgotten? or was it not so dark and hard to him as it is to me?

Presently a customer asked for molasses, and I went into the back room to draw it, Mr. Willett hastening after me.

“You should not fill the measure quite full, boy.”

“She asked for a quart, sir;” and I looked up, feeling sure he had not understood, as I held but a quart measure.

“I know, but we never fill it quite full; it might run over, you know; and when you stop it, see that not a drop is lost.”

He walked about, apparently finding something to do, but in reality watching me. I saw the direction of his eye; and filling my measure, with care that it did not run over, and that not a drop was lost, I emptied it into the poor woman’s jug.

“Never stop to drain it; make quick work; somebody else will want you;” and I followed him into the front room.

“I see he gives good measure,” Mr. Willett said to Jared Peat as he resumed his place at the fire.

“Oh yes, such people are always honest.”

“I don’t know about that,” answered Esquire Clavers. “His father was an honest man, though open-handed and generous, and I have heard say was at one time a gentleman. It’s a pity he drank so.”

They did not seem to mind me at all, and still I felt pleased, although saddened, to hear my father called an honest man, and that at one time he had been in better circumstances. Thus thinking, and wishing that I knew more of his early life, I leaned against the counter, and weighed and tied up sundry packages; for this was, Mr. Willett said, my first work, to tie packages handsomely.

On the day went. My hands were not idle, yet not unfrequently I found my thoughts straying into the future. The vision loomed up with a sudden brightness, a path tending onward in spite of difficulties and temptations.

I did not know what trials would rise up from unseen places, what snares and pitfalls where the flowers grew brightest. But I remembered Mr. Kirby had said, as he climbed the mountain, “One step at a time; and so in life. Do what you have to do well, and God will open a path to something better.”

Little did I then see what He was to do for me; little did I then understand my duty to him; but I thought of him, and felt a certain sense of reliance, a feeling of security, which I have since vainly endeavored to understand.

Near sunset, and just as I was balancing the question, wishing and still fearing to ask Mr. Willett’s permission to study in the evening, Jennie came in, her bright, happy face looking still prettier in a light blue sun-bonnet that Miss Grimshaw had given her. I had only time for a kiss when she asked for Mr. Willett. I showed her to his desk, when she stepped forward and laid a tiny note before him. I saw that his face lit up with a glad surprise, and his eyes sparkled with pleasure as he laid it down.

“Yes, tell her I’ll come.” I afterwards discovered it was an invitation to tea. Mr. Willett was a devoted admirer, and the little milliner held his heart as he did his purse, tightly. What was said I never knew; but the next morning Mr. Willett said if I was faithful and did my work well, I could study every evening with Jennie, and Miss Grimshaw would hear our lessons.

That night was an era in my life, and very happy and hopeful was I as I crossed the street to the little side door Jennie had told me to enter. Here I found a comfortable room, a round table in the centre of the floor, with our two slates, an arithmetic, and geography; for Jennie had every thing in readiness, including a tallow candle in a white porcelain holder, the bottom shaped like a leaf, which Jennie thought was a marvel of beauty. In the corner was seated grandma Grimshaw, a stately looking woman with silver hair combed low on the forehead, white muslin cap with long embroidered tabs, and spectacles.

“And this is Marston,” said she, taking my hand as I came in. “I’ve heard Eliza speak of you as a good boy. She used to know your ma;” and soon Miss Grimshaw came out of the front room, laid her hand on my head, and said,

“You shall study two hours if you like, and then I will hear your lesson.” I tried to stammer out my thanks, but something choked down my words. “That is nothing, Marston. I used to want to study, but I had no chance. I like to read, and I am familiar with arithmetic; I can help you there as well as any one;” and she was gone.

“Eliza don’t get much time,” said her mother; “but she likes to help others; and she used to think so much of your mother.”

Brushing away the tears that would come at the mention of my mother, I turned to my slate. The first three rules I could understand perfectly, but long division troubled me. I was sure to make some mistake that would require me to go over and over again, and not unfrequently did I feel inclined to throw it aside. But one look at my “Self Helps,” and I worked away as resolutely as ever.

At nine Miss Grimshaw came in, heard Jennie’s lesson in geography, then questioned me in arithmetic, and explained till the difficulties had all vanished. Then we read for half an hour; at the expiration of which she shut our books.

“I promised Mr. Willett you should be there five minutes before ten.”

“This is better than the boy in the book,” said Jennie, reaching up on tiptoe to kiss me good-night.

It had been a busy day and evening, and I was tired. Still I had made some advance, and at this rate it would not be long before I should master arithmetic. I slept in a little back room; but weary as I was, I could not at once quiet my thoughts; so I lay and watched one little star as it stole across my window, and wondered if my mother could know how and where I was, and that I did try to care for Jennie, although we could not sleep under the same roof.

As spring came forward, the ordinary business of the day remained quite the same, but how many pleasant things I had to think of. Long division did not trouble me any more, neither did fractions; I was beginning to understand interest, and my handwriting had much improved. There was also a sensible difference in my outward appearance, and Jennie grew in loveliness each day. How proud I was of that little sister; and never did we go to church or Sabbath-school, but I wondered if mother could know it.

When the summer heats were on us there was less to do, and sometimes I got a walk with Jennie among the hills. A year had made a great difference with both of us, while the mountain was just the same; and we often thought of our last walk there, and of dear Mr. Kirby.

“If he could only know how kind Miss Grimshaw is to us,” said Jennie. “It is God that puts it into her heart, isn’t it? and not for our sakes, but for Christ’s sake. I used to think it was for mother’s sake; but Christ died for us.”

Dear little comforter; her heart was full of sweet thoughts, while I was ambitious for her; and this, together with Mr. Kirby’s words, kept me from being gloomy and desponding when I fancied Mr. Willett was impatient or exacting: “Do your work well, and God will open a path to something better.” This gave me courage and strength; so that while I worked in the present, I lived in the future.

One day I was sent to Esquire Clavers’ with a basket of groceries he had ordered. As I went up the walk, Frank, his oldest son, a boy of about my own age, was on the piazza, a spot embowered in roses and honeysuckles, reading; a little girl in a blue lawn dress, with long golden curls framing her face like a picture, reclined near him, her head resting on the neck of a large Newfoundland dog. From the open window the pleasant tones of a piano floated out on the air, and involuntarily I stopped to listen. Frank looked up, and seeing me, came down the avenue to meet me.

“What have you here? Oh, teas and things for mother. Do you like music? Come, go in and hear sister play.”

“I should be glad to,” I answered, “but I was told to return immediately.”

“Five minutes wont be missed; come in.”

“Not now, Frank,” for I thought of what Mr. Kirby had said; and handing my basket to the servant, I took up Frank’s book.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Latin,” he answered; “and a grand old language it is;” and he began reading aloud.

“Where do you go to school?” I asked.

“To the Rockdale academy. Have you never heard of it? It is vacation now. We shall commence again in September. Oh, we have great times there. I wish you would join us; you’d like the boys: some of them study, and some are up to all sorts of fun.”

“I wish I could go,” I answered musingly.

“Well, why can’t you? it’s only four miles from here.”

I did not dare stay another moment; and taking my basket, I turned, with a hasty good-by to Frank. Since the vacation commenced, he had visited the grocery almost every day, and very fond he seemed of all sports and amusements.

This boy has a home, I said to myself sadly, and parents to watch over him; he does not have to look after himself; and his little sister is no better than Jennie; and again I dared to question why Frank Clavers had so much, and we were so destitute. But whatever feelings swayed me for the moment, the controlling idea was still the same: “Do what you do well, and God will open a path.”

Even then God was preparing a surprise that would melt me into tears. For several days Miss Grimshaw had been saying that I was getting all she knew of arithmetic; and when September came, she surprised me by asking how I would like to go to the Rockdale academy.

“Oh, so much, Miss Grimshaw; but it is four miles from here, and—”

“It is only three miles by the river road, which is by far the pleasantest. Three miles is not such a long walk for a boy like you.”

“Oh no, Miss Grimshaw; but you forget there is no school at night.”

“You are not going at night, but in the morning early;” and my white face, as she told me afterwards, frightened her into exclaiming at once,

“Mrs. Jeffries says that she will board you; that is, she will send me enough during the winter of such things as we need to pay the expense of your board; and you are to go to Rockdale.”

I had no words, and Jennie seated herself on my knee, and kissed away the tears. “I am so glad, brother; I only wish I could go too.”

“The walk is entirely too long for Jennie,” said Miss Grimshaw, who overheard the last remark; “but you can help her some, and in this way she will advance nearly as well as though at school all the time.”

“We shall get on very nicely. I cannot sufficiently thank you, Miss Grimshaw.”

“It is not all my work, Marston. Mrs. Jeffries had quite as much to do with it; she is anxious that you should both go to school.”

V.

A great day it was when I started for the academy. With the amount received from Mr. Willett, Miss Grimshaw had provided me with a neat outfit, and also had enough left for a few new books.