Transcriber's Note

A full list of Martha Finley's books has been moved to the end of this book.

Mildred and Elsie.

BY

MARTHA FINLEY,
(Martha Farquharson,)

AUTHOR OF THE "ELSIE BOOKS," "MILDRED KEITH,"
"MILDRED AT ROSELANDS," "SIGNING THE
CONTRACT," ETC., ETC.

"Through suffering and sorrow thou hast pass'd,
To show us what a woman true may be."—
J. R. Lowell.

"A lovely being scarcely form'd or moulded,
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded."—
Byron.

NEW YORK:,
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY,
PUBLISHERS.

Copyright, 1881, by Dodd, Mead & Company.

Mildred and Elsie.

[CHAPTER I.]

"'Tis beautiful when first the dewy light
Breaks on the earth! while yet the scented air
Is breathing the cool freshness of the night,
And the bright clouds a tint of crimson bear."
Elizabeth M. Chandler.

"A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth and love."
Byron.

Morning was breaking over the landscape; a cool, refreshing breeze, laden with woodland sweets and wild birds' songs, softly kissed Mildred's cheek and awoke her.

She started up with a low exclamation of delight, sprang to the open window, and kneeling there with her elbow on the sill and her cheek in her hand, feasted her eyes upon the beauty of the scene—a grand panorama of wooded hills, falling waters, wild glens and forests and craggy mountains, above whose lofty summits the east was glowing with crimson and gold.

Another moment and the sun burst through the golden gate and began anew his daily round, "rejoicing as a strong man to run a race."

The brightness of his face was too dazzling for Mildred's eyes, and her gaze fell lower down, where wreaths of gray mist hung over the valleys or crept slowly up the mountain sides. Presently it rested on one of the nearer hill-tops, and a sudden, vivid blush suffused her cheek, while a sweet and tender smile shone in her eyes and hovered about her lips.

But a sigh quickly followed, smile and blush faded away, and she dropped her face into her hands with a low-breathed exclamation, "Oh what shall I do? What ought I to do?"

There was a question of grave importance awaiting her decision—a decision which would in all probability affect the happiness of her whole future life on earth; yea, who should say its influence would not reach even into eternity?

She longed to take counsel of her mother, but that mother was far distant, and the question one the girl shrank from putting upon paper and trusting to the mails.

But a dearer, wiser, even more loving friend was close at hand, and to Him and His Word she turned for guidance.

Subdued sounds of life came to Mildred's ear ere she closed the Book; servants were astir setting the house to rights and preparing breakfast for the numerous guests, most of whom still lingered in the land of dreams.

Mildred made a rapid but neat toilet, then stole softly from the room, promising herself a stroll through the grounds while yet the quiet and dewy freshness of early morning lingered there.

In one of the wide cool porches of the hotel a young man paced to and fro with hasty, agitated step, glancing up again and again with longing impatience at the windows of a certain room on the second floor. Pausing in his walk, he drew out his watch.

"Only a brief half-hour!" he sighed. "Am I not to see her at all?"

But at that instant there stepped from the open doorway a slight, graceful, girlish figure in a dainty white muslin, a bunch of wildflowers in her belt, a broad-brimmed straw hat in her hand; and with a low exclamation, "Ah, at last!" he hurried to meet her.

She started slightly at sight of him and sent a hurried glance this way and that, as if meditating flight.

"O Mildred, don't run away! why should you avoid me?" he said entreatingly, holding out his hand.

There was a scarcely perceptible hesitation in her manner as she gave him hers.

"Good-morning," she said softly. "Is anything wrong? I think you look troubled."

"Yes, I am called away suddenly; must leave within the hour; a dear, only sister lies at the point of death."

His tones grew husky and her eyes filled with tears.

"Oh what sad news! I am so sorry for you!" she murmured.

He drew her hand within his arm and led her down a shaded alley.

"It is in your power to give me unspeakable comfort," he said, bending over her. "You wear my flowers; O dearest! is not that a whisper of hope to me? You have decided in my favor? is it not so?"

"O Charlie, don't ask me! I—I have not been able yet to see that—that I may—that I ought—"

"To follow the dictates of your heart? Is that what you would say?" he asked, as she broke off abruptly, leaving the sentence unfinished. "O Mildred! you cannot have the heart to refuse me this one crumb of comfort? We must part in a few moments—when to meet again neither of us knows. You have refused to pledge yourself to me, and I will not ask it now—though I solemnly promise you—"

"No, don't," she interrupted, struggling with her tears; "I would have you free—free as air; since I—I can promise nothing."

"I will never marry any one but you," he said with vehemence. "If I cannot win you, I will live single all my days. But you do care for me? You do love me? O Mildred! one word, only a word or a look, that I may not go away on my sorrowful errand in utter despair. Only assure me that I have won your heart, and I shall never abandon hope that this barrier may some day be removed."

She could not refuse him: she had not power to hide either her love or her grief that they must part; both had their way for a short space.

He had led her into an arbor whose sheltering vines would screen them from prying eyes; and there clasped in each other's arms, heart beating against heart, his bearded lip softly touching again and again her cheek, her brow, her quivering lips, they passed the few precious moments that yet remained to them.

He was gone; and as the last echo of his departing footsteps died away upon her ear there came over Mildred such a sense of utter desolation as she had never known before. Sinking down upon a rustic bench she hid her face in her hands, and for a few moments allowed her full heart to ease itself in a burst of weeping.

But this would not do; the breakfast hour drew near, and though it had been of late her aunt's custom to take that meal in bed, her uncle would expect to see her in her usual place at the table, and his keen eye would be quick to detect the traces of tears. The cousins, too, would notice them and not scruple to inquire the cause.

She hastily dried her eyes, rose, and leaving the arbor, strolled about the grounds, resolutely striving to recover her wonted cheerfulness.

She had made the circuit once, and again neared the arbor, when she heard her name called in sweet, childish treble, "Cousin Milly, Cousin Milly!" and as she turned in the direction of the sound, little Elsie, closely followed by her faithful mammy, came bounding toward her with a letter in her hand.

"Grandpa said I might bring it to you. Ain't you so glad, cousin?" she asked; and the missive was put into Mildred's hand, the sweet baby face held up for a kiss.

Mildred bestowed it very heartily, taking the little one in her arms and repeating the caress again and again, "Very glad, darling," she said, "and very much obliged to my pet for bringing it. Is it time to go in to breakfast, Aunt Chloe?"

"Massa Dinsmore say you will hab time to read de lettah first, Miss Milly," replied the nurse, dropping a courtesy.

"Then I will do so," Mildred said, re-entering the arbor.

"May mammy and Elsie stay wis you?" asked the baby girl coaxingly.

"Yes indeed, darling," Mildred said, making room for the child to sit by her side.

"Dere now, honey, keep quiet and don't 'sturb yo' cousin while she reads de lettah," cautioned Aunt Chloe, lifting her nursling and settling her comfortably on the bench.

Mildred had broken the seal, and was already too much absorbed in the news from home to hear or heed what her companions might be saying.

Elsie watched her, as she read, with loving, wistful eyes. "Did your mamma write it, cousin?" she asked, as Mildred paused to turn the page.

"Yes, dear; and she sends love and kisses to you, and wishes I could take you home with me when I go. Oh, if I only could!" And Mildred bent down to press another kiss on the sweet baby lips.

"Maybe my papa will let me go, if grandpa will write and ask him," returned the child, with an eager, joyous look up into Mildred's face. "But I couldn't go wisout mammy."

"Oh no! if you should go, mammy would go too; you can't be separated from her, and we would all be glad to have her there," Mildred said, softly caressing the shining curls of the little one, glancing kindly up into the dusky face of the nurse, then turning to her letter again.

It was with mingled feelings that she perused it, for though all was well with the dear ones beneath her father's roof, and the thought of soon again looking upon their loved faces made most welcome the summons home which it brought, there was sorrow and pain in the prospect of soon bidding a long farewell to the darling now seated by her side—the little motherless one over whom her heart yearned so tenderly because of the lack of parental love and care that made the young life seem so sad and forlorn, spite of all the beauty and wealth with which she—the little fair one—was so abundantly dowered.

As she read the last line, then slowly refolded the letter, tears gathered in her eyes. Elsie saw them, and stealing an arm round her neck, said in her sweet baby tones, "Don't cry, Cousin Milly. What makes you sorry? I loves you ever so much."

"And I you, you precious, lovely darling!" cried Mildred, clasping the little form close and kissing the pure brow again and again. "That is just what almost breaks my heart at the thought of—oh why, why don't you belong to us!" she broke off with a half-stifled sob.

A firm, quick step came up the gravel walk, and Mr. Dinsmore stood looking down upon them.

"Why, what is wrong? not bad news from home, I hope, Milly?"

"No, uncle; they are all well, and everything going smoothly so far as I can learn from my letter," she said, brushing away her tears and forcing a smile.

"What then?" he asked, "Elsie has not been troubling you, I hope?"

"Oh no, no, she never does that!"

"Breakfast has been announced; shall we go and partake of it?"

"If you please, sir. I am quite ready," Mildred answered, as she rose and took his offered arm.

"Bring the child," he said to Chloe; then walking on. "What is wrong, Milly? there must have been a cause for the tears you have certainly been shedding."

"I am summoned home, uncle, and glad as I shall be to see it and all the dear ones there, again, I can't help feeling sorry to leave you all."

"I hope not. Dear me, I wish we could keep you always!" he exclaimed. "But when and how are you to go?"

"Mother wrote that a gentleman friend—our minister, Mr. Lord—will be in Philadelphia in the course of three or four weeks, spend a few days there, then go back to Pleasant Plains, and that he has kindly offered to take charge of me. Mother and father think I should embrace the opportunity by all means, as it may be a long time before another as good will offer."

"And doubtless they are right, though I wish it had not come so soon."

"So soon, uncle?" Mildred returned brightly. "Do you forget that I have been with you for nearly a year?"

"A year is a very short time at my age," he answered with a smile.

But they were at the door of the breakfast-room, and the topic was dropped for the present, as by mutual consent.

[CHAPTER II.]

"O my good lord, the world is but a word;
Were it all yours, to give it in a breath,
How quickly were it gone."
Shakespeare.

The end of the week found the Dinsmores and Mildred in Philadelphia, very busy with sight-seeing and shopping. Each one of the party was to be furnished with a suitable outfit for fall and the coming winter, and Mildred had a long list of commissions from her mother.

Mrs. Dinsmore showed herself keenly interested in the purchase of her own and her children's finery, languidly so in Mildred's; these procured, she immediately declared herself completely worn out and unfit for further exertion.

No one regretted it; Mildred had learned to rely to a great extent upon her own taste and judgment, and with Mr. Dinsmore's efficient help succeeded quite to her satisfaction in filling out the remainder of her list.

To him fell the task of buying for his little granddaughter, and Mildred was not a little gratified by being taken into his counsels and invited to assist his choice of materials and the fashion in which they should be made up.

Spite of some drawbacks to her pleasure, principally caused by Mrs. Dinsmore's infirmities of temper, Mildred thoroughly enjoyed her stay in the City of Brotherly Love.

It was drawing to a close, when, on coming down from her room one morning and entering the private parlor of their party, she was met by a joyous greeting from little Elsie.

"O Cousin Milly, I'm so glad! Grandpa has got a letter from my papa, and my papa says Elsie must go and buy some pretty presents for all the folks at your home. Isn't that ever so nice?"

"Thank you, darling, you and your papa," Mildred said, stooping to caress the child. "He is very kind, and I know your generous little heart can find no greater pleasure than in giving to others."

"She's a Dinsmore in that," her grandfather said with a proud smile; "they have always esteemed it the greatest luxury wealth can purchase. And Elsie is fortunately abundantly able to gratify herself in that way, and her father has given her carte blanche (subject to my approval, of course); so, my dear, you are not to object to anything we may take it into our heads to do."

He patted Elsie's curly pate as he spoke, and looked smilingly into Mildred's eyes.

"You are very kind now and always, uncle," the young girl responded, returning his smile and blushing slightly; "and I don't know that I have a right to object to anything that is not done for myself."

The entrance of Mrs. Dinsmore and her children simultaneously with the bringing in of breakfast, put a stop to the conversation.

"Well, Mildred, if it suits your convenience, we will set out at once upon this final shopping expedition," her uncle said as they left the table; and her consent being given, he directed Chloe to make Elsie ready to accompany them.

The child was in her element as they went from one store to another, and she chose, with the assistance of her grandfather and cousin, her gifts to Mildred's parents, brothers, and sisters.

At length they entered the largest jewelry establishment in the city, and Mr. Dinsmore asked to be shown some of their best gold watches for ladies.

"I am commissioned to select one for a lady friend," he said to Mildred in a grave, half-preoccupied tone as the jeweller promptly complied with his request, "and I want your assistance in making a choice."

"But I am no judge of a watch, uncle," she returned; "Elsie here could select about as well as I."

"Elsie shall have her say about it, too," Mr. Dinsmore said, looking smilingly from one to the other. "All I want from either of you is an opinion in regard to the outside appearance, while this gentleman and I will judge of the quality of the works."

They presently made a selection of both watch and chain satisfactory to all parties. Elsie chose a plain gold ring for Mildred, and one for each of her sisters, and they left the store.

Elsie whispered something to her grandfather as he took his seat beside her in the carriage.

He shook his head. "Wait till we get home," he said rather curtly; "we are going now to choose the new piano."

It was for the drawing-room at Roselands, and he took Mildred with him to try the instruments and tell him which she thought the best and finest toned.

Mildred was equally charmed with several—two in particular—and they had some little difficulty in fixing upon the one that should be ordered to Roselands.

"I will leave it undecided for to-day," Mr. Dinsmore said at length, "and will call again to-morrow."

On the way to their hotel, and when arrived there, little Elsie seemed all eagerness, yet kept it in check in obedience to an occasional warning look from her grandfather.

Mildred went directly to her room to remove her bonnet and shawl, then sat down in a low chair by the window to rest and think while awaiting the summons to dinner.

She had scarcely done so when there was a gentle tap, as of baby fingers, at her door, and Elsie's sweet voice was heard asking in eager, excited tones for admittance.

"Yes, darling, come in," Mildred answered; and the door flew open and the child ran in, closely followed by her mammy.

The small hands held a jewel-case, and the large, soft brown eyes were full of love and delight as she hastened to place it in Mildred's lap, saying, "It's for you, cousin; my papa said in his letter that Elsie might buy it for you."

She raised the lid. "See, Cousin Milly, see! Aren't you so glad?"

There lay the watch and chain they had helped Mr. Dinsmore select that morning.

A watch was a far greater luxury in those days than it is now, and this a costly and beautiful one. Mildred could scarcely believe the evidence of her senses; surely it must be all a dream. She gazed at the child in dumb surprise.

Elsie lifted her pretty present with dainty care, threw the chain round Mildred's neck, and slid the watch into the bosom of her dress; then stepping back a little to take a better view, "See, mammy, see!" she cried, clapping her hands and dancing up and down in delight, "doesn't it look pretty on cousin?"

"Jus' lubly, honey. Don't Miss Milly like it?"

Aunt Chloe's look into Mildred's face was half reproachful, half entreating. Could it be possible that her darling's beautiful, costly gift was not appreciated?

"Like it?" cried Mildred, catching the child in her arms and covering the little face with kisses, a tear or two mingling with them to the great wonderment of the little one; "like it? Oh it is only too lovely and expensive to be bestowed upon me! Sweet pet, you should keep it for yourself. Cousin Milly ought not to take it from you."

"Yes, papa did say so in his letter. Grandpa read the words to Elsie. And when I's big enough I is to have my mamma's watch."

"But it cost so much," murmured Mildred half to herself, as she drew out the watch and gazed at it with admiring eyes.

"My chile hab plenty ob money," responded Aunt Chloe, "and houses and land and eberyting ob dis world's riches; and she lubs you, Miss Milly, and ef you don' take dat watch and chain she will most break her bressed little heart. Won't you, honey?"

The child nodded, and the soft eyes gazing into Mildred's filled with tears. It was impossible to resist their eloquent pleading.

"Then cousin will accept it with her heartiest thanks, and value it more for the sake of the dear little giver than for its usefulness, its beauty, or its cost," Mildred said, taking Elsie on her lap and holding her in a close, loving embrace. "Dear little girlie," she murmured tenderly, "cousin will never intentionally rob you of the smallest pleasure or plant the least thorn in your path."

Another light tap at the door, and Mr. Dinsmore joined them. "Ah! that is right," he said with a smiling glance at the chain about Mildred's neck.

"Uncle, it is too much. You should not have allowed it. How could you?" Mildred asked half reproachfully.

"I only obeyed orders," was his laughing rejoinder. "Horace feels, as I do also, that we owe a debt of gratitude to your mother—to say nothing of the affection we have for you all; and he knows from the reports I have given him of his child that he could not afford her a greater gratification than the permission to do this. Beside, you have been extremely kind to her, and ought not to object to her making you some small return in the only way she can."

"O uncle! her love and sweet caresses have more than recompensed the little I have been able to do for her, the darling!" cried Mildred, heaping fresh caresses upon the little fair one.

Mr. Lord called that afternoon to report himself as arrived in the city, and to inquire if it were Mildred's intention to accept his escort on the homeward journey. His stay would necessarily be short—not more than two or three days.

Mildred met him with outstretched hand and eyes shining with pleasure. She had been so long away from home, was so hungry for a sight of anything connected with Pleasant Plains, that had she unexpectedly encountered Damaris Drybread she would very probably have greeted her with something like affection.

She perceived no change in Mr. Lord, except that he had a new set of teeth; he seemed to her in all other respects precisely what he was when she bade him good-by a year ago; but he was astonished, bewildered, delighted at the change in her. He had always admired her fresh young beauty, but it was as though the sweet bud had blossomed into the half-blown, lovely rose, with just a few of its petals still softly folded.

He blushed and stammered, answered her eager queries about old friends, and all that had been going on in Pleasant Plains since she left, in the most absent-minded way, and scarcely took his eyes from her face. In short, so conducted himself as to make his feelings toward her evident to the most careless observer.

"Mildred," said Mrs. Dinsmore, when at last he had taken his departure for that day, "if I were your mother you should stay from home another year before I would trust you to travel with that man!"

"Why, aunt, you cannot think him anything but a good man!" exclaimed the girl in astonishment.

"Humph! that's a question I don't pretend to decide. But don't, I beg of you, let him persuade you on the way that it is your duty to marry him. If he can only make you believe it's your duty, you'll do it whether you want to or not."

Mildred's cheek flushed hotly. "O Aunt Dinsmore!" she cried, "he could never be so foolish! why, he is old enough to be my father, and so wise and good; and I but a silly young thing, as unfit as possible for the duties and responsibilities of a—"

"Minister's wife," suggested Mrs. Dinsmore, as the young girl broke off in confusion. "Well, I don't know about that; you are pious enough in all conscience. But, Mildred, you positively must reject him; it would be a terribly hard life, and—"

"Aunt, he has not offered, and I believe, I hope, never will. So I am not called upon to consider the question of acceptance or rejection."

"That was very rude, Miss Keith—your interrupting me in that way," Mrs. Dinsmore said, half in displeasure, half in sport. "Well, if you will allow me, I shall finish what I had to say. I've set my heart on seeing you and Charlie Landreth make a match. There! why do you color so, and turn your head away? Charlie likes you—is in fact deeply in love, I feel perfectly certain, and doubtless will follow you before long. You may take my word for it that he would have proposed before we left the springs if it hadn't been for that sudden summons to his dying sister."

Mildred made no reply; she had kept her face studiously averted, and was glad that the entrance, at that moment, of a servant with a letter for Mrs. Dinsmore gave her an opportunity to escape from the room.

[CHAPTER III.]

"And 't shall go hard,
But I will delve one yard, below their mines,
And blow them at the moon."
Shakespeare.

The sun was just peeping over the tops of the tall city houses as Mildred entered the carriage which was to convey her to the depot. Mr. Dinsmore and little Elsie—the two whom it was a grief of heart to her to leave—were with her; Mrs. Dinsmore and the others had bidden good-by before retiring the previous night, and were still in bed.

"Elsie, darling, won't you sit in cousin's lap?" Mildred said, holding out her arms to receive the child as her grandfather handed her in at the carriage door.

"No, no! she is much too heavy, and there is abundance of room," he said hastily.

"But I want to hold her, uncle," returned Mildred, drawing the little one to her knee. "I love dearly to have her in my arms, and this is my last chance."

"As you will, then; a wilful woman will have her way," he said lightly, as he settled himself on the opposite seat and the door closed upon them with a bang.

The rattling of the wheels over the cobblestones, as they drove rapidly onward, made conversation next to impossible; but Mildred was not sorry: her heart was almost too full for speech. She clasped little Elsie close, the child nestling lovingly in her arms, while they mingled their caresses and tears.

At the depot, too, where there was a half hour of waiting, they clung together as those who knew not how to part. Elsie's low sobs were pitiful to hear, but she stood in too great awe of her grandfather to indulge in any loud lament.

He, however, did not reprove her, but seemed to quite compassionate her grief, and tried to assuage it with promises of gifts and indulgences; for Mildred had succeeded to some extent in softening his heart toward the motherless little one—which she now perceived with joy and thankfulness.

His kindness to herself had been uniform from the first, and continued to the last moment. Not till he had seen her on board the train, and made as comfortable as possible, did he resign her to the care of Mr. Lord; then, with a fatherly kiss and an affectionate message to her mother, he left her.

As the train moved slowly on, she caught a last glimpse of him, and of Aunt Chloe standing by his side with the weeping Elsie in her arms.

Mr. Lord essayed the office of comforter.

"That is a sweet child, Miss Mildred, a very sweet child. And Mr. Dinsmore seems a noble man. These partings are sad—especially so when we are young; but let the thought of the dear ones to whom you are going, and of the better land where partings are unknown, console and cheer you now."

Mildred could hardly have commanded her voice to reply, and was glad the increasing noise of the train relieved her of the necessity for doing so, but she dried her eyes and resolutely forced her tears back to their fountain, calling to mind the lessons on the duty of cheerfulness taught her by her mother, by both precept and example.

And oh, it was joy to know that each mile passed over was bearing her nearer to that loved monitor! What a cheering thought was that! and scarcely less so the prospect of seeing Aunt Wealthy, with whom she and Mr. Lord were to spend a few days; Lansdale being not far out of their route in crossing Ohio.

At that day there was no continuous line of railroad from Philadelphia to Pittsburg. They traveled sometimes by canal, sometimes by stage, passing over the mountains in the latter. This proved the most exciting and perilous part of the journey, the roads being almost all the way very steep, and often lying along the edge of a precipice, to plunge over which would be certain, horrible death.

Much of the scenery was grand and beautiful, but the enjoyment of it greatly interfered with by the sense of danger. Many a time Mildred's heart seemed to leap into her mouth, and she sent up a silent but strong cry to God that he would keep the horses from stumbling, their feet from treading too near the verge.

There was one afternoon so full of terror of this kind, and importunate prayer for preservation, that she felt she could never forget it to the day of her death should she live to the age of Methuselah.

The stage was full: the back seat was occupied by our heroine and a young mother with a babe in her arms and another little one by her side; the remaining seats were filled with gentlemen.

"That fellow is drunk and in a terribly bad humor," remarked one of the latter, as the driver slammed the door to upon them and mounted to his perch.

"In no fit condition to guide those horses over the steep and narrow passes that lie between this and our next halting-place," added another uneasily. "You had an altercation with him, hadn't you, Blake?" addressing the first speaker.

"Yes, Mr. Grey, I had; what business had he to hurry us off in this style? Why, we were scarcely seated at the dinner-table when he blew his horn, and we all had to run to avoid being left."

"Quite true."

"That's so," assented several voices.

"And the same thing is repeated again and again, until it has become quite unbearable," Blake went on, his eyes sparkling with anger; "we pay for our food and have no chance to eat it."

"There seems to be some collusion between the innkeepers and drivers for the purpose of defrauding travelers," remarked Mr. Lord.

"Are we not going very fast?" asked the young mother, turning a pale, anxious face toward the last speaker.

"Yes, dangerously so." And, putting his head out of the window, he called to the driver, mildly requesting him to slacken his speed.

The reply was a volley of oaths and curses, while the whip was applied to the horses in a way that made them rear and plunge frightfully.

They had been toiling up a steep ascent, and now were skirting the mountain side, a high wall of rock on the one hand, a sheer descent of many hundred feet on the other.

Blake glanced from the window with a shudder, and turning a ghastly face upon the others, "We shall be hurled into eternity in another minute," he said, in a hoarse whisper.

Then voice after voice was raised, calling to the driver in expostulation, warning, entreaty.

"You are risking your own life as well as ours," cried one.

"I tell you I don't care!" he shouted back, with a fearful oath; "we're behind time, and I'll lose my place if I don't make it up. I'll get you to C—— by half-past five, or land you in h—ll, I don't care which."

"O my children, my poor little children!" cried the mother, clasping her babe closer to her breast and bursting into tears. Then, in a sort of desperation, she thrust her head out of the window and shrieked to the man, "For the love of Heaven, driver, have mercy on my poor babes!"

The man was probably a father, for that appeal reached his heart, hardened as it was: there was instantly a very sensible diminution of their fearful velocity, though the stage still rolled on at a dangerously rapid rate; keeping them all in terror until at length it drew up before the door of a tavern; where they were to halt for their supper.

The gentlemen made haste to alight. Mr. Lord handed out Mildred, then the mother and her children.

"You must be very tired, ladies," he said, following them into the parlor of the inn, which was very plainly furnished with rag carpet, wooden chairs and settee, and green paper window-blinds, nothing tasteful, nothing inviting, except an appearance of order and cleanliness.

"Yes, sir, I am dreadfully tired," the strange lady answered, dropping into a chair and setting her babe on her knee, while she drew the older child to her side and wiped the tears from its cheeks, for it was sobbing pitifully; "that was a fearful ride, the jolting and shaking were bad enough, but the fright was ten times worse. And we're almost starved," she added. "My little Mary is crying with hunger. I hope they'll give us time to eat here. Do you know, sir, how soon the stage starts on again?"

"I will step out and inquire; also how soon the supper will be ready," Mr. Lord said, moving toward the door.

"Can I do anything for you, Miss Mildred?" he asked, pausing upon the threshold. "You are looking wretchedly pale and fatigued," he added, in a tone of concern.

The other gentlemen had gone to the bar-room; but at this moment Blake came to a window of the parlor, looking out upon a porch which ran along the whole front of the house. He looked red and angry.

"It seems the same game is to be repeated here," he said, addressing Mr. Lord; "the supper is not ready and the stage will leave in half an hour. There is every appearance of rain too; the night will be cloudy and dark, making travel over these mountains doubly dangerous. I propose that we all decide to remain where we are over night and let the stage go empty. If the whole party will agree in doing so, 'twill serve the rascal right, and perhaps teach him a useful and much needed lesson. What do you say, sir? you and your—daughter?"

"My lady friend," stammered Mr. Lord, coloring violently. "What do you think of the plan, Miss Mildred?"

Her cheek, too, flushed a rosy red as she answered eagerly: "Oh, let us stay, by all means! I'm sure it would be better a great deal, than risking our lives on such roads at night."

"Just what I think," said the other lady, "and my little ones are too tired to travel any farther to-night. I shall stay whether the rest do or not. I intend that the children and I shall have a chance to eat one full meal at any rate," she added to Mildred, as the gentlemen walked away together.

The call to supper followed almost immediately upon the announcement that no one would leave in the stage that night.

With the keen appetites they brought to it, our travellers found the fare excellent—good bread and butter, baked potatoes, ham and fresh-laid eggs.

Mr. Lord, seated between the two ladies, was very kind and attentive to both, but as usual did some absurdly absent-minded things.

"Do you really prefer salt to sugar in your coffee, Mr. Lord?" asked Mildred demurely, but with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, as she saw him draw the salt-cellar toward him and dip his teaspoon into it.

She had stayed his hand just in time. "Oh no, certainly not," he said, laughing to cover his confusion as he hastily emptied the spoon into his saucer. "It is a very pleasant evening," he remarked, sugaring his potato.

"Do you think so?" said Mildred, listening to the dash of the rain against the window, for the threatened storm had come. "Then I suppose, like the Shepherd of Salisbury Plains, you are pleased with whatever kind of weather is sent?"

"Certainly we all should be," he said. "But I was not aware till this moment that it was raining."

Mildred presently becoming interested in some talk going on between her opposite neighbors, had for the moment almost forgotten Mr. Lord's existence. She was recalled to it by a hasty movement on his part. He suddenly pushed back his chair, rose, and walked out of the room.

A glance at his saucer, half full of coffee, then at the laughing eyes of the other lady, enlightened our heroine as to the cause of his sudden exit.

"Salted coffee is not, I find, particularly palatable," he remarked, coming back and resuming his seat. "I am a sadly absent-minded person, Miss Mildred; you should watch over me and prevent such mistakes, as my mother does at home."

"I really do not feel equal to so arduous an undertaking," was her sprightly rejoinder.

"This is a lonely spot, not another house in sight, they say," remarked the mother of the children to Mildred, as they returned to the parlor. "I am timid about sleeping alone in a strange place, and should like to have a room adjoining yours, if you do not object, are not afraid of being so near a lioness and her cubs," she added, with a slight laugh. "I am Mrs. Lyon."

Mildred gave her name in return, and expressed entire acquiescence in the proposed arrangement, and being much fatigued with their journey they presently retired.

They were up and dressed betimes to make sure of their breakfast before the early hour at which the stage was to leave. But they were treated to a repetition of former experiences. The meal was delayed, and they had been scarcely ten minutes at the table when they heard the roll and rumble of the wheels and the loud "Toot, toot!" of the driver's horn, as the stage swept round from the stables and drew up before the tavern door.

There was a hasty swallowing down of another mouthful or two, a hurried scramble for hats, bonnets, and parcels, a crowding into the vehicle, and in a moment more it was toiling up the mountain side.

The appetite of no one of the party had been fully satisfied, and there was a good deal of grumbling and complaining from this one and that.

"I tell you, friends," said Blake, "it is high time there was a stop put to this thing. I have an idea in my head, and at the next stopping place, if we are hurried off in the usual style, I want you all to follow my example. If you will, these rascally fellows will find themselves outwitted."

"What is it?"

"What's your plan?" queried one and another, but the only answer was, "Wait and you will see, gentlemen."

"There is one thing I have thought of," Mrs. Lyon said to Mildred, "I'll have my own and the children's bonnets on always before we are called to the meals. If there should be some soiling of ribbons, it will be better than going hungry."

This driver was sober and quiet; the ride, in consequence, less trying than that of the previous afternoon. Between twelve and one they halted for dinner at another country inn.

There was, as usual, a little waiting time, then they sat down to an abundant and very inviting meal, but had not half satisfied their appetites when roll of wheels and toot of horn again summoned them to resume their journey.

Every eye in the party turned upon Blake. He sprang up instantly, seized a roast chicken by the leg with one hand, his hat in the other, and ran for the stage.

"All right!" cried Grey, picking up a pie. "I'll send the plate home by the driver, landlord," he shouted back, as he, too, darted from the door.

Looking on in dumb astonishment, the landlord saw bread, rolls, butter, pickles, cheese, and hard-boiled eggs disappear in like manner, and before he could utter a remonstrance the stage was whirling away down the mountain, not a passenger left behind, nor nearly so much food as would have remained had they been permitted to finish their meal at the table.

"Outwitted this time, sure as I'm born!" he muttered at length, turning back into the deserted dining-room and ruefully eying his despoiled board.

His wife came hurrying in from the kitchen.

"So they're off, and we'll have our dinner now. But," and she stared aghast at an empty platter. "I say, Jones, where is that chicken? Didn't I tell you that was for ourselves, and you wasn't to put a knife into it?"

"Neither I did," he answered half savagely, "and it's all the worse for us, seein' they've carried it off whole, and if I'd a cut it there might a ben part left on the plate."

"Carried it off!" she cried. "Well, I never! and it was the nicest, fattest, tenderest bit of a spring chicken ever you see!"—and with a groan she began gathering up the empty dishes.

"Take that newspaper out of my coat pocket and spread it over my knees, won't you, Grey?" said Blake, the moment they were fairly seated in the stage. "Now your jack-knife, please, and I'll carve this fowl. I fear it'll not be very scientifically dismembered," he went on, when his requests had been complied with, "but sufficiently so to enable me to make a tolerably equal distribution. What is your choice, ma'am?" addressing Mrs. Lyon.

The result of their coup d'état was a very comfortable, enjoyable meal seasoned with many a merry jest over the discomfiture of the foe, and the makeshifts they themselves were put to for lack of the usual table appliances.

[CHAPTER IV.]

"Alas! my lord, if talking would prevail,
I could suggest much better arguments
Than those regards you throw away on me,
Your valor, honor, wisdom, prais'd by all.
But bid physicians talk our veins to temper
And with an argument new-set a pulse,
Then think, my lord, of reasoning into love."
Young.

By the time they reached Lansdale, Mildred was weary enough to be very glad of a few days' rest; rest whose delights were doubled and trebled by being taken in the society of her dear old aunt.

The travellers were received with the warmest of welcomes, Mildred embraced over and over again, and Mr. Lord repeatedly and heartily thanked for bringing her.

"Dear child, how you are improved!" Aunt Wealthy said the first moment they found themselves alone together.

"Have I grown, auntie?" Mildred asked with an arch smile, laying two shapely, soft white hands on the old lady's shoulders and gazing lovingly into her eyes, as they stood facing each other on the hearth-rug in front of the open fire-place in Miss Stanhope's cosey sitting-room; for it was a cool rainy evening, and the warmth of a small wood fire blazing and crackling there was by no means unpleasant.

"Not in height, Milly," Miss Stanhope answered, giving the young girl a critical survey, "nor stouter either; but your form has developed, your carriage is more assured and graceful, your dress has a certain style it lacked before, and—But I must not make you vain," she added, breaking off with her low musical laugh. "Come tell me all about your uncle Dinsmore and his family."

"And little Elsie, the sweet darling!" sighed Mildred. "Aunt Wealthy, she is a perfect little fairy: the sweetest, most beautiful creature you ever laid eyes on."

"Ah! I only wish I could lay eyes on her," the old lady rejoined. "Does she resemble her father in looks?"

"Not in the least: she is said to be the image of her mother;" and from that Mildred went on to dwell with minuteness and enthusiasm on all the charms of the little one, arousing in her companion a very strong desire to see and know Elsie for herself.

That subject pretty well exhausted, Mildred could talk of something else, and found a great deal to tell about the other Dinsmores, her own experiences in the South, and the incidents of her late journey.

They had seated themselves on a sofa. Mr. Lord, suffering from an attack of sick headache, had retired to his own apartment directly after tea, leaving them to the full enjoyment of each other.

"And have you come back heart whole, Milly, my dear?" asked the old lady, smiling into the eyes of her young relative and softly stroking the hand she held.

The question brought a vivid blush to the fair young face.

"Excuse me, dear child; I do not wish to pry into your secrets," Aunt Wealthy hastened to say.

"No, no, auntie dear, I do not consider it prying, or wish to keep my affairs from your knowledge. You and mother are the two I wish to confide in and consult."

And with many blushes, sighs, and now and then a few quiet tears, Mildred poured out the whole story of Charlie Landreth's and her own love for each other, and the barrier between them: Aunt Wealthy listening with deep interest and heartfelt sympathy.

"Don't despair, dear child," she said, caressing the narrator in tender, motherly fashion, "and don't give him up. We will join our prayers in his behalf, and the Lord will, in his own good time, fulfil to us his gracious promise to those who agree together to ask a boon of him."

"Yes, auntie, I do believe he will," Mildred responded, smiling through her tears, "if we pray in faith; for in asking for the conversion of a soul we shall certainly be asking that which is agreeable to his will. And yet—O auntie! it may be long years before our prayers receive the answer, and I—I may never see him again!"

"'Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,'" repeated Miss Stanhope in low, soft tones. "Milly dear, try to leave the future in the hands of Him who has said, 'I have loved thee with an everlasting love; I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.'"

Both mused in silence for a little; then Miss Stanhope said, turning with a slight smile toward her young relative, "Milly, child, you are very attractive to the other sex."

Mildred colored and looked down. "Aunt Wealthy," she said, "I hope you do not think me a coquette?"

"No, child, no! I'm quite sure you are too kind-hearted to enjoy giving pain to any living creature."

"That is true, auntie; and for that reason I wish none would care for me in that way but the one I can care for in return."

"Yes, and therefore I wish"—Miss Stanhope paused, then in answer to Mildred's inquiring look concluded her sentence—"that some other escort had been found for you."

Mildred's cheek crimsoned. "Aunt Wealthy!" she exclaimed, "do you—do you really think he cares for me in that way? Oh I hope not. Aunt Dinsmore said something of the sort, but I hoped she was mistaken."

Miss Stanhope's only answer was a meaning smile and a slight shake of the head.

"Then, Aunt Wealthy, you must help me to avoid being left alone with him!" cried Mildred in a tone of apprehension and annoyance; "and I do hope there will always be other passengers in the boats and stages, so that he will have no chance to say a word."

"I'll do what I can, child; cling as close to me as you will, but you may rest assured he is bound to speak and have it out with you, sooner or later."

"He shall not if I can prevent him. How can he be so extremely silly! But indeed, Aunt Wealthy, I think you must be mistaken. He surely has too much sense to fancy me."

"You won't be rude, Milly? you won't forget the respect due to him as your minister?"

"Not if I can help it. Aunt Wealthy, you must help me by not leaving us alone together for a single moment."

"But, my dear, how are my household affairs to be attended to?"

"When we are all together and you want to leave the room, just clear your throat and give me a look, and I'll go first. Then you can readily excuse yourself on the plea of domestic matters calling for your attention; and he may amuse himself with a newspaper or a book until we rejoin him."

Miss Stanhope laughingly agreed to the proposed programme, and they carried it out during the whole visit.

Mr. Lord was very desirous to see Mildred alone, but found every effort to that end frustrated. Miss Stanhope seemed always in the way, and Mildred would accept no invitation to walk or drive unless her aunt was included in it. He had formerly considered the aunt quite a charming old lady, but changed his opinion somewhat at this particular time. Though undoubtedly a most excellent woman, and without a superior as a hostess, it was a decided bore to have to listen to and answer her talk when he was longing for a private chat with Mildred.

He bore the trial with what patience he might, comforting himself with the hope of a favorable opportunity for his wooing somewhere on the journey from Lansdale to Pleasant Plains.

Mildred was dreading the same thing, and fully resolved to prevent it if possible. Therefore, when the stage drew up for them at Miss Stanhope's gate, it was with very different feelings they perceived that it already contained several passengers.

"Safe for the present, auntie," whispered the young girl, as they folded each other in a last, lingering embrace.

"You can't expect to be so fortunate always," returned the old lady in the same low key, and with a humorous look. "Be sure to let me have the whole story in your next letter."

It was staging all the way now. Sometimes they travelled day and night; sometimes stopped for a few hours' rest and sleep at a wayside inn. It was on Monday morning they left Lansdale, and the journey was not completed until Saturday noon.

Through all the earlier part of the route they had plenty of company, the stage being always pretty well filled, if not crowded. Most of their fellow-travellers proved intelligent and agreeable, some, both ladies and gentlemen remarkably so; and the tedium of the way was beguiled by talk, now grave, now gay, and embracing a wide range of topics.

On one occasion a discussion arose on the propriety and lawfulness of intermarriage between Christians and worldlings. Some took the ground that it was a mere matter of choice; others that it was both dangerous and sinful for a follower of Christ to marry any other than a fellow-disciple, or one who was esteemed such.

Of these latter Mr. Lord was one of the strongest and most decided in the expressions of his sentiments and convictions, quoting a number of passages of Scripture to sustain his views.

During the whole of the conversation Mildred was a silent but deeply interested listener, her heart sinking more and more with each word uttered by Mr. Lord; for as her pastor and spiritual instructor, his expressed convictions of truth carried great weight with her, and seemed to widen the gulf between herself and him who was the choice of her heart.

Her only comfort was the hope that some day the barrier might be removed; but ah! many long years might intervene, and who should say that in the mean time Charlie would not grow disheartened and weary of waiting; or, incredulous of the love that could keep him waiting, allow some other to usurp her place in his affections?

These were depressing thoughts, and throughout the remainder of the journey they filled Mildred's mind almost constantly. It was only by a determined effort that she could shake them off and talk of other things.

In the course of that day and the next, which was Friday, the other passengers dropped off one by one, until, to her dismay, she found herself alone with Mr. Lord for the first time since they had left Lansdale.

The last to leave them was an elderly lady who had been occupying the back seat along with Mildred since the stage had started that morning. When it drew up before her door, Mr. Lord alighted and politely handed her out. On getting in again, instead of resuming his former seat, he took the one she had just vacated.

Mildred's heart gave a throb and the color rushed over her face, for she foresaw what would follow. Still she would foil him if possible, and perhaps their numbers might be presently again augmented as they rolled onward.

With that last thought in his mind also, the gentleman was disposed to seize his opportunity instantly. He cleared his throat, turned to his companion, and opened his lips; but with her back toward him she was gazing eagerly from the window.

"Look, look at those maples!" she cried; "was there ever more gorgeous coloring? How perfectly lovely the woods are! And the weather is delightful to-day. October is the pleasantest month of the year for travelling, I think."

"Any month and any weather would be pleasant to me with you for my companion," he said, "and nothing, my dearest girl, could make me so supremely happy as to secure you as such for the whole journey of life."

She feigned not to have heard or fully understood. "I for one have travelled quite far enough," she responded, still keeping her face toward the window. "I'm tired of it, and of being so long away from the dear home-circle. Oh, I am so glad that I shall be with them to-morrow, if all goes well!"

"God grant it, dear Mildred; I shall rejoice in your happiness and theirs, but—"

"Oh see!" she interrupted, pointing to a group of trees near the roadside, "what brilliant reds and yellows! And there! what a beautiful contrast those evergreens make!"

"Yes; God's works are wonderful and his ways past finding out," he answered devoutly, then kept silence; while for some minutes Mildred rattled on, hardly knowing or caring what she was saying so she might but avoid the necessity of listening to and answering the proposal he was evidently so desirous to make.

But his silence disconcerted her, he did not seem to hear her remarks, and at length she found herself too much embarrassed to continue them. For five minutes neither spoke, then he made her a formal offer of his heart and hand, which she gently but decidedly declined, saying she felt totally unfit for the position he would place her in.

He said that in that he could not agree with her; he had never met any one who seemed to him so eminently fitted for the duties and responsibilities he had asked her to assume. "And he loved her as he never had loved and never could love another. Would she not reconsider? Would she not be persuaded?"

She told him she highly esteemed him as a man and a minister, that she felt greatly honored by his preference, but could not love him in the way he wished.

"Ah," he said, "what a sad blunderer I am! I see have spoken too soon. Yet give me a little hope, dear girl, and I will wait patiently and do my best to win the place in your heart I so ardently covet."

She could not bring herself to acknowledge that that place was already filled, and he would not resign the hope of finally winning her.

During the rest of that day and the morning of the next he treated her to frequent, lengthened discourses on the duty of every one to live the most useful life possible, on the rare opportunities of so doing afforded by the position of minister's wife, and on the permanence and sure increase of connubial love when founded upon mutual respect and esteem, till at length a vague fear crept over her that he might finally succeed in proving to her that it was her duty to resign the hope that at some future day the barrier to her union with the man of her choice would be swept away, and to marry him on account of the sphere of usefulness such a match would open to her.

She heard him for the most part in silence, now and then varied by a slight nod of acquiescence in the sentiments he expressed, yet even from these scant tokens of favor he ventured to take courage and to hope that her rejection of his suit would not prove final.

It was a great relief to her that they were not alone for the last ten miles that lay between them and Pleasant Plains.

[CHAPTER V.]

"Nor need we power or splendor,
Wide hall or lordly dome;
The good, the true, the tender—
These form the wealth of home."
Mrs. Hale.

Could that be home—that pretty, tasteful dwelling, embosomed in trees, shrubs, and vines? Mildred was half in doubt, for the house itself seemed to have grown as well as the vegetation that environed it. But yes, the stage was stopping: and there were father and Rupert at the gate, mother and the rest on the porch; every face beaming a joyous welcome.

How Mr. Lord envied them as the stage whirled him rapidly away, out of sight and hearing of the glad greetings!

We will not attempt to describe these: there were close embraces, tears of joy, low-breathed words of tenderness and love, of gratitude to Him who had preserved a beloved child in all her journeyings, and brought her to her home again in safety and health; and there were shouts of delight from the little ones, to whom it seemed half a lifetime since sister Milly went away.

"How we have missed you! and, oh, how glad we are to have you back again!" her mother said, looking smilingly at her, but with glistening eyes.

"She's changed," said Rupert, regarding her critically; "she's prettier than ever, and—and something else."

Zillah supplied the word—"More stylish."

"And you! why, you are a young lady!" exclaimed Mildred, gazing at her in astonishment.

"I'm fifteen, and taller than you, I do believe," returned Zillah, laughing and blushing.

"And how you're all grown!" Mildred went on, glancing round the circle.

"Except father and mother," laughed Rupert. "Haven't I nearly caught up to father in height?"

"So you have, and I shall be very proud of my big brother."

"Well, I declare, if you hain't come at last—thought you never was a comin'!" exclaimed a voice in Mildred's rear; and as she turned quickly about, a toil-hardened hand seized hers in a grasp that almost forced from her a little cry of pain.

"Yes," she said, "I have, and am very glad to find you here, Celestia Ann. You kept your promise."

"A heap better'n you did yours. Why you stayed more'n as long agin as you said you was agoin' to when you went off. Had a good time?"

"Yes; but I'm very glad to get home."

"So you'd ought to be. You look right down tired; and I reckon you are all that, and hungry, too. Well, I'll have dinner on table in about ten minutes;" and with the last word she vanished in the direction of the kitchen.

A look of expectant delight was on every face of the group about Mildred as the mother, saying, "Come, dear child, you will want to get rid of some of the dust of travel," led the way from the room, the others all following.

"Why, the house has grown too," was the young girl's delighted exclamation, as she was ushered into an apartment she had never seen before—large, airy, neatly and tastefully though inexpensively furnished; white muslin curtains at the windows, a snowy counterpane on the bed; everything new and fresh except the books in the hanging shelves on the wall, and some little ornaments which she recognized as her own peculiar property.

"Yes," her father answered, smiling fondly upon her, "so much so that we shall now have abundance of room, even with our eldest girl at home, and we hope it will be a very long while before she will want to run away again."

"Yes, indeed, father dear," she said, putting her arms around his neck; "oh, if you only knew how glad I am to get back!"

"This is your room, Milly; do you like it?" the children were asking in eager tones.

"Yes, yes, indeed! it is perfectly lovely! But, mother, it ought to be yours; it is larger and cheerier than yours."

"Ah! you are assuming to know more than you do, my child," laughed Mrs. Keith. "I, too, have one of the new rooms—there are six in all—and it is in every respect quite equal to this. But make haste with your toilet, for the dinner bell will soon ring."

They lingered at the table, eating slowly, because there was so much talking to be done—such pleasant, cheerful chat.

Then came the opening of Mildred's trunk, and the distribution of the purchases she had been commissioned to make, and of her own modest gifts to father, mother, brothers, and sisters, and the more expensive ones from Aunt Wealthy and the Dinsmore relatives. Of these last, little Elsie's were by far the most costly and valuable.

The children were wild with delight, the parents quietly happy in their pleasure, and gratified with the remembrances to themselves.

Mildred exhibited her watch and chain, calling forth exclamations of intense admiration and hearty congratulations.

"O sister Milly, how lovely!" cried Zillah; "I never saw anything so beautiful, and I'm so glad you have it! I don't believe there's another lady in town who has a gold watch."

"No, I presume not," returned Mildred, gazing down upon it with a pleased, but rather absent look, "and it is extremely pretty; yet not half so beautiful as the dear little giver." And then she launched out into the warmest of eulogies upon little Elsie—her loveliness of both person and disposition.

"She must have loads of money to buy you that splendid watch, and all these things for the rest of us," remarked Cyril.

"Yes, indeed! I'd like to be in her place," said Ada.

"I wouldn't," said Mildred; "and I don't believe you would, Ada, if you quite understood her position."

"Why?" the children asked, clustering close about their sister, with looks of surprise and eager interest; "tell us why. It must be nice to be so rich; to own houses and lands, and all sorts of things."

"Do not be too sure of that," said their father; "though poverty has its trials, wealth brings cares, and cannot of itself give happiness; in fact, it has sometimes proved a curse to its possessors. Remember our Saviour said, 'How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of God.'"

"Yes," added Mrs. Keith; "and in another place he says, 'Take heed and beware of covetousness; for a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth.'"

"But some rich people are good, aren't they?" queried Cyril. "I'm sure Milly said Elsie was."

"But she's just a baby girl," put in Don, "and maybe she'll get bad by the time she grows up."

"Now, boys, keep quiet, can't you? and let's hear what Milly's going to tell," said Ada.

Mildred glanced at the nearly emptied trunk, the piles of clothing on the bed and chairs, and shook her head. "Another time, children; I ought to be putting these things in place in the wardrobe and bureau."

"Oh! you're too tired. Sit down in the rocking-chair and rest while you talk, and I'll help you afterward to arrange your things," Zillah said; and with a word of thanks Mildred yielded.

Taking Annis on her lap, and glancing with a half smile from one eager, expectant face to another, "What would any one of you sell all the rest for?" she asked.

Several pairs of young eyes opened wide with astonishment. "Why, Milly, what a question!" "Not for anything!" "Not for all the world! You know we wouldn't!" were the answering exclamations; and then there were loving looks exchanged, and Don gave Fan a hug, while Cyril squeezed her hand and patted Annis on her curly head.

"It would be dreadfully lonesome not to have any brothers or sisters!" he said, with a long-drawn sigh of satisfaction.

"Little Elsie has none," said Mildred. "But what if we had no mother, children?"

"Milly, don't! what makes you say such things!" cried Fan, hastily releasing herself from Don, and running to her mother to hide her face in her lap with a half sob.

"No; what's the use?" Zillah asked huskily, while Ada's eyes filled and the boys looked distressed, as though the idea was too painful to contemplate.

"Just to convince you that little Elsie is not so much to be envied by us. She has no mother, has never seen her father, and does not know whether he loves her or not."

"Does she show any desire to see him?" asked Mrs. Keith, stroking Fan's hair.

"Oh yes, mother! yes, indeed! She talks a great deal about him, often wishes he would come home, and is never more interested than when he is the theme of conversation."

"I hope her grandfather and his wife love and fondle her?"

"Not at all; they treat her with almost unvarying coldness and neglect!" Mildred said, her eyes sparkling with indignant anger.

Then she went on to tell of various acts of injustice and oppression to which the little girl had been subjected since her coming to Roselands, and to give a pathetic description of her loneliness and unsatisfied yearning for the love of her kindred. In conclusion, Mildred asked, "Now would any of you change places with her?"

"No, no, indeed we wouldn't! Poor dear little thing! we're very sorry for her," the children cried in chorus.

"Mother, mayn't Elsie come here and be your little girl 'long with us?" asked Annis.

"I should gladly take her, darling, if I could," Mrs. Keith answered; "but she belongs to her father, and it is he who directs where she shall live."

"Tell us some more, Milly; tell about that beautiful Viamede," entreated Ada, putting an arm coaxingly round her sister's neck.

"Some other time; but now I must really go to work and finish my unpacking."

"No, you must go into another room and lie down for an hour or two," said her mother. "You need rest and sleep; and your sisters and I will set things to rights here."

Mildred objected. "Mother, dear, I have come home to ease your burdens, not to add to them."

"And which will you do by wearing yourself out and getting sick?" asked the mother, with a merry look and smile. "Set these younger ones a good example by prompt obedience to my direction. We want you bright for a good long talk after tea."

"But, mother, you always have so much to tax your time and strength, and—"

"Run away now, without another word," was the playful reply. "I'm neither busy nor tired this afternoon."

So Mildred went, slept soundly for a couple of hours, and toward tea-time came down to the sitting-room, looking quite rested and refreshed; very sweet and pretty, too, they all thought, in new and tasteful attire, and with her glossy brown hair becomingly arranged.

She found her mother and the older girls sewing.

"How nice you look!" Zillah said, surveying her admiringly. "That's a lovely dress, and made so prettily! Will you let me have mine made like it?"

"Yes, indeed, and help you make it, too. Mother, how have you managed with the sewing while I've been gone?"

"Pretty well, Milly. Zillah has become quite a needle-woman, and Ada does remarkably well, too, considering her imperfect sight. Housework suits her best on that account. They are dear, helpful girls—both of them."

"Milly, Milly," cried Cyril, rushing in from the grounds, "come and look at our gardens, and our hens and chickens, before it grows too dark."

"The gardens aren't much to look at now," laughed Zillah.

"But she can see pretty well what they have been, and we'll tell her the rest," returned Cyril, leading the way.

"Come, girls, we'll all go," Mrs. Keith said, folding up her work; "the rest of the afternoon and evening shall be a holiday, in honor of our wanderer's return."

There was, in truth, little to exhibit in the gardens now, save a few late-blooming fall flowers; but Mildred admired them, and listened with interest to the accounts given of what had been raised by each little worker during the past spring and summer.

And there was really a large flock of fowls, all in fine condition, promising plenty of eggs and poultry even through the cold winter months; for Rupert had built a snug hen-house to protect these feathered friends from the inclemency of the weather.

"Now this way, Mildred; I want to show you the vines I've trained over the front porch," Rupert said.

As they stood looking at the vines, the front gate opened and shut, and a firm, elastic step came quickly up the walk. Mildred turned and found an old acquaintance at her side.

"Wallace—Mr. Ormsby!" she exclaimed, offering her hand in cordial greeting, though the rich color surged over her face with the sudden recollection of his parting words, spoken a year ago.

"No; keep to the first name, please," he said in an undertone, as he grasped her offered hand. "Excuse so early a call, but I did not know how to wait. It seems an age since you went away."

"We are always glad to see you, Wallace," said Mrs. Keith. "You must stay and take tea with us; it is nearly ready. Come, we will all go in now, for the air is growing chilly."

Ormsby was by no means loath to accept the invitation. Mildred seemed to him lovelier than ever, and his eyes were constantly seeking her face, when politeness did not require him to look elsewhere. Enchanted anew by her charms of person, manner, and conversation, he lingered for an hour or more after tea, watching, hoping for an opportunity to breathe some words into her ear which should reach no other.

But parents, brothers, and sisters clustered about her, and soon other neighbors began to drop in to bid her welcome home—Dr. Grange and his daughter, Claudina Chetwood and her brother Will, and one or two others of those who were most intimate with the family. Then a look from Mr. Keith reminding Wallace of an important paper which should be drawn up that evening, he took a reluctant leave.

He paused an instant at the gate to glance back regretfully at the brightly lighted parlor windows and the comfortable-looking group within, of which Mildred was the centre.

A tall, muscular figure was approaching from the opposite direction as Ormsby, turning away with a sigh, hurried down the street toward Mr. Keith's office. There was an exchange of greetings as the two passed each other. "Good-evening, Mr. Ormsby." "How d'ye do, Sheriff?"—and each hastened on his way.

The next moment the tall man was standing where Wallace had been but now, gazing intently in at the same group; though, in truth, he scarcely saw any but that central figure—the graceful, girlish form so tastefully attired; the bright, sweet face, full of animation and intellect. He could not take his eyes from her—great, dark eyes, hungry and wistful—as for many minutes he stood resting his left hand on the top of the gate, the right arm hanging at his side.

At last, with a sigh that was almost a groan, he, too, turned and went on his way.

"She's prettier than ever—the sweetest thing alive," he murmured half aloud, "and I'll never forgit how good she was to me in that awful time when even my mother couldn't stand by me. But, for all that, 'tain't no ways likely she cares enough for Gote Lightcap to so much as ask if he's alive or no."

[CHAPTER VI.]

"Ah me! for aught that I could ever read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth."
Shakespeare.

The callers departed to their own homes. Mr. Keith called the household together, and, as usual, closed the day with prayer and praise and the reading of the word of God.

The good-nights were exchanged, and presently Mildred sat alone in her own room, slowly taking down her wealth of rich brown hair, while thought, half troubled, half pleasurable, was busy in her brain.

A gentle tap on the door, then it was softly opened, and her mother stood by her side.

Instantly the dreamy look left Mildred's eyes, and they were lustrous with love and joy as she lifted them to the sweet face bending over her.

"Darling mother!" she cried, hastening to rise and bring forward the easiest chair in the room, "I'm so glad you have come. I am longing so for one of our old quiet talks."

"Ah! I knew it," Mrs Keith said, taking the chair; "I saw it in your eyes, dear child, and am as anxious for it as yourself. Oh, it is nice to have you at home again!"

"And so nice to be here. Mother dear, there have been times when I felt in sore need of your wise, loving counsels."

Shaking out her abundant tresses, she seated herself on a cushion at her mother's feet and laid her head in her lap, as she had been wont to do in childhood's days.

"Then I trust you carried your perplexities to a wiser Friend, whose love is even greater than that of the tenderest mother," Mrs. Keith said, gently caressing the silken hair and the blooming cheek.

"Yes, mother. Ah! what could I have done without that Friend?"

Then, with blushes and tears, she poured out the story of her love, and her refusal to engage herself, because the chosen of her heart was not a Christian man.

Mrs. Keith was a little surprised, a trifle disappointed. "I had almost set my heart on having Wallace for my future son-in-law," she remarked in a playful tone, "and no such objection could be brought against him."

"No," said Mildred, half averting her blushing face; "he is good and noble and true—a sincere Christian, I do believe, and I heartily respect and like him; but, O mother! why is it that the course of true love never will run smooth?"

"I think it does sometimes; at least often enough to prove the rule."

"I was in hopes it might have been out of sight out of mind with Wallace," Mildred said presently.

"No; Cupid's arrow had gone too deep for that. But perhaps it may prove so with the other, and you may yet learn to care for poor Wallace."

"No, mother; I am sure, quite sure, that I can never give him anything but the sisterly affection that is already his. Mother, I know girls who think it must be a delightful thing to have a number of lovers, but I don't find it so, there is so much that is painful and perplexing connected with it."

"Perplexing, my child!"

"Yes, mother. Do you—do you think it can ever be the duty of one who cannot marry the man of her choice to become the wife of another because it will open to her a wider sphere of usefulness?"

"Why that question, Mildred?" asked Mrs. Keith, in grave surprise.

"Because Mr.—Mr. Lord thinks I ought—that it is my duty to—to marry him; and though he did not convince me, he—he made me afraid it might be."

A very mirthful look had come into Mrs. Keith's eyes.

"My dear, silly little girl," she said, bending down to get a better view of the blushing face, "why did you not tell him you are quite unfit for the position he offered you?"

"I did, mother," Mildred answered, with sincere humility, "but he—still insisted. He has somehow formed a very mistaken opinion of me."

"That is a pity; but we will not let him sacrifice himself. I shall utterly refuse consent, and so will your father."

"But don't you think him a good man?" Mildred asked, lifting her head and gazing into her mother's eyes with a look of mingled relief and perplexity.

"Very good, but very unsuitable in disposition and in years for a husband for you, or a son-in-law for me. His absent-mindedness would put a great deal of care on your young shoulders. But, my dear child, leaving the question of his character and suitableness in other respects entirely out of sight, the fact that you prefer another is quite sufficient of itself to make your acceptance of his suit both foolish and wrong. Nothing can make it right for man or woman to marry one while his or her heart turns more strongly to another. As to his argument that thus a wider sphere of usefulness would be opened to you, all I have to say is, that it is not, cannot ever be right to do evil that good may come."

Mildred drew a long sigh of relief. "O mother, I am so thankful that you take that view of it! and I am sure it is the right one. You have lifted half my load, but—"

"Can you not cast the other half on the Lord?"

"I do try to. But, mother, what do you think? would it be wrong for me to—"

"Follow the dictates of your heart?" Mrs. Keith asked, as Mildred paused, leaving the sentence unfinished. "My child, that is a question for you to settle with your own conscience. You have God's holy word to guide you, and in answer to prayer he will give you the guidance of the Spirit also. I will only say that it cannot be other than a dangerous experiment for a Christian to enter into the closest of earthly relations with one who is living for this world alone."

"Especially one so weak and ready to wander out of the way as I," sighed the young girl.

"Well, darling, you are young enough to wait; and let us hope all will come right at length. Ah! we may be sure of it, for 'we know that all things work together for good to them that love God; to them who are the called according to his purpose.' But it is growing late, and you ought to be resting after your long journey." And with a tender good-night they parted.

Mr. Lord filled his own pulpit the next day, both morning and evening, preaching with acceptance to his flock.

Mildred attended both services, but carefully avoided meeting the speaker's eye during the sermon, and slipped out of the church as quickly as possible after the benediction was pronounced. Each time she was delayed a little in her exit by the necessity of stopping for a shaking of hands and the exchange of a few words with friends and neighbors who stepped forward to greet and welcome her home; but others were crowding about the minister with the same kindly intent, and thus unconsciously assisted in her desired avoidance of him.

She was little less anxious to escape Wallace Ormsby, but in that was not so successful: he walked by her side in the morning, as far as their roads lay in the same direction; yet as Don held fast to one of Mildred's hands and Fan to the other, his talk was only on topics of general interest, the sermon, the Sunday-school, etc.

In the evening, as she stepped into the vestibule, she saw Wallace waiting near the outer door, and read his purpose in his eyes. She turned to Zillah, who was close beside her, seized her hand, and, holding it fast, whispered in her ear, "We'll walk home together. Be sure to keep close to me."

Zillah nodded with a roguish smile, and, to Wallace's no small annoyance, did as requested. Offering one arm to Mildred, he could do no less than ask Zillah to take the other, which she did with alacrity. And all the way home she kept up a constant stream of talk, Mildred listening with inward amusement, Wallace wondering whether it was with a purpose, and wishing she was somewhere out of earshot of what he wanted to say to her sister.

The Keiths neither paid nor received visits on the Sabbath: so he bade the girls good evening at their father's door, and quietly wended his way to his lonely bachelor quarters over the office; while the girls, listening to his departing footsteps, exchanged a few words of congratulation on the one side and thanks on the other, mingled with a little girlish laughter at his expense.

"Mother," said Mildred, as they were about separating for the night, "I will be up in good season to-morrow morning and get breakfast, as Celestia Ann will of course be busy with her washing."

"Indeed you'll do no such thing," cried Zillah. "Ada and I will get breakfast and dinner to-morrow, and you're not to so much as put your nose into the kitchen. You're to play lady for a week at least, while you look on and see how nicely we can manage without you."

"I've played lady long enough, and—"

"Mother, isn't it to be as I've said?" demanded Zillah, not giving Mildred time to conclude her sentence.

"Yes, Milly, you and I can find enough to do out of the kitchen for the present, and we will let these young cooks have a chance to show what they can do," Mrs. Keith said, looking from one to the other with a proud, fond, motherly smile.

"I like to cook," put in Ada. "Milly, I can make nice cakes and desserts; they all say so. And Zillah and I made pickles and preserves this fall, mother only overseeing and telling us how. Celestia Ann wanted to turn us out of the kitchen and do it all herself, but mother said no—we must learn how."

Monday morning found the Keith household like a hive of cheerful, busy bees. Mrs. Keith and Mildred, busied together in the dining-room, washing and putting away the breakfast china and silver, which were never allowed to go into the kitchen, laid plans for the fall and winter sewing.

"I have been learning to cut and fit, mother," Mildred said; "taking lessons of one of Aunt Dinsmore's servants who is excellent at it; so now, if you like, I shall fit all the dresses of the family, beginning to-day with Ada's and Zillah's calicoes."

"I'm very glad, my dear," Mrs. Keith replied, "for really there is not a competent dressmaker in town. But I see I shall have to take care that you do not overwork yourself," she added, with an affectionate smile.

"Mother," said Zillah, putting her head in at the door, "we're nearly out of salt and sugar both. Who shall go for them?"

"Cyril and Don; it is a lovely day, and they will enjoy the walk. Mildred, there will be some little articles wanted about our dressmaking; suppose you go also and select them. The walk will be good for you, and you will like to see how the town has grown in your absence."

Fan and Annis put in an eager plea to be permitted to be of the party.

Mildred demurred. "I'm afraid, Annis, darling, you can't walk fast enough. Sister Milly wants to come back quickly because of the sewing."

"Never mind that; we will not deprive the darling of so great a pleasure merely to save a few minutes," the mother said, with a loving smile at the little, disappointed face, which instantly grew bright again. "Linger a little on the way, Mildred, and enjoy the sweet air and the beauty of the woods. These things were given for our enjoyment."

"Dearest mother! always so kind and thoughtful for each one of us," Mildred whispered, bending over her mother's chair to kiss the still fresh and blooming cheek.

Mildred had returned to her home entirely restored to health, and full of the old energy, and with a desire to accomplish a great deal in the way of relieving her mother's cares and burdens and promoting the material interests of each member of the family of loved ones. She had planned to do a certain amount of sewing that day, and was eager to begin; but she was learning the difficult lesson of readiness to cheerfully yield her own plans and wishes to those of others, remembering that "even Christ pleased not himself."

With a face bright and sweet as the lovely October morning she made herself ready and set out on her errand; Fan clinging to one hand, Annis to the other, while the two little brothers now brought up the rear, now hastened on in front, or trotted alongside, as inclination dictated.

"Yonder comes the sheriff; we'll meet him in a minute," said Cyril presently.

"Who is sheriff now?" asked Mildred.

"Gotobed Lightcap. He's learned to write with his left hand, and they 'lected him sheriff last week. Everybody voted for him because they were so sorry for him. Wasn't it nice? Mother says the folks in this town are the kindest people in the world, she thinks."

"Yes, it was nice and kind," Mildred responded, looking a little curiously at the tall, broad-shouldered, masculine figure approaching from the opposite direction. In dress, in gait, in the intelligence of his countenance, he was an improvement upon the Gotobed of two years ago.

In another moment they had met. He lifted his hat with his left hand and bowed a little awkwardly, while a deep-red flush suffused his swarthy face.

Mildred colored slightly too, but greeted him cordially and without any other show of embarrassment, inquiring after his health and that of his family.

"We're all as well as common, thank ye, Miss Keith," he said, devouring her face with his eyes, "and I hope you're the same, and as glad to git back as all your friends is to see ye."

"Thank you, I do find it nice to be at home again," she responded, bowing and passing on.

Their way lay past her father's office. Ormsby, looking up from the deed he was drawing and catching a glimpse of her graceful figure as it hurried by, sprang up and stepped to the door just in time to see her go into Chetwood & Mocker's.

He was on the watch for her as she came out again, and waylaid her with an invitation to drive out with him that afternoon.

"Thank you," she said, with a winsome smile; "I fully appreciate your kindness, but—don't you think, after my long vacation, I ought now to stay at home and work? I had planned to do a good deal of sewing to-day."

"But the weather is so fine, and we ought to take advantage of these lovely days, which will so soon be gone," he said persuasively. "Let the sewing wait; 'twill be just the thing for the stormy days that will soon be upon us. I may come for you?"

"Yes," she answered, laughing and nodding good-by.

Zillah met her at the door, her eyes dancing with fun. "Mr. Lord's in the parlor with mother, and you're wanted there too."

"Oh, dear!" sighed Mildred; but, throwing off her hat in the hall, she went at once to meet the dreaded ordeal.

The gentleman rose on her entrance, and with beaming eyes and outstretched hand came eagerly forward to greet her. "My dear Miss Mildred, I have been telling your mother of my plans and wishes, and asking her consent and approval of my—the proposal I made to you the other day; and—"

"And she has declined to give them?" Mildred said, allowing him to take her hand for an instant, then hastily withdrawing it, her eyes seeking her mother's face, while her own flushed crimson.

"Yes, I have been trying for the last half hour to convince Mr. Lord how entirely unsuitable you are for the place and position he offers you," Mrs. Keith answered in a grave, quiet tone. "Come and sit down here by me," making room for her on the sofa by her side, "and we will try together to convince him."

"That will be no easy task," remarked the middle-aged lover, as Mildred hastened to accept her mother's invitation; then, standing before them and fixing his eyes admiringly upon the blushing, downcast face of the maiden, he went on to plead his cause with all the force and eloquence of which he was master.

He spoke very rapidly, as if fearful of interruption, and determined to forestall all objections, Mildred listening in some embarrassment and with much inward disgust and impatience.

These changed directly to almost overpowering mirthfulness, as the man, perhaps finding his false teeth, to which he was yet not fully accustomed, impeding his speech to some extent, in his intense interest in his subject, hardly conscious of the act, jerked them out, twirled them about in his fingers for an instant, then with a sudden recollection thrust them in again, his face turning scarlet with mortification and the last word faltering on his tongue.

Controlling her inclination to laugh, Mildred seized her opportunity. "Mr. Lord," she said, with gentle firmness, "please do not waste any more words on this subject, for I have no other answer to give you to-day than that which I gave before. Nor shall I ever have any other. I highly respect and esteem you, feel myself greatly honored by your preference, but—it is utterly out of my power to feel toward you as a woman should toward the man with whom she links her destiny for life."

With the last word she rose and would have left the room, but he intercepted her. "Not now, I suppose. Ah, my foolish impatience, which has a second time betrayed me! But I will wait—wait years, if—"

"It is useless, quite useless, I assure you," she interrupted, in some impatience. "To convince you of that, I will acknowledge that—that my heart has already been given to another."

Hiding her blushing face in her hands, she hurried from the room, leaving to her mother the task of consoling the rejected suitor.

Mrs. Keith afterward reported that he stood for a moment as if struck dumb with surprise and dismay; then muttering, "Wallace Ormsby—it must be he," was rushing bare-headed from the house, when she called him back and gave him his hat, with a consolatory word or two, which he did not seem to hear, as he merely turned about without replying, and walked rapidly away with the hat in his hand.

Mildred, hurrying to the privacy of her own room with cheeks aflame and an indignant light in her brown eyes, found herself intercepted by Zillah.

"Good girl not to say yes," cried the latter gayly, putting her arm round Mildred's neck and kissing her.

"What do you mean, Zillah? You don't know anything about it," Mildred said, repulsing her slightly and averting her face.

"Yes, I do. Mr. Lord's been asking you to marry him—I knew by his looks that that was what he came for—and I'm glad you won't have him. He's nice enough as a minister, but too old and ugly and awkward for a husband for my pretty sister Milly. Wallace Ormsby would be far more suitable, in my humble opinion," she added, with a merry twinkle in her deep blue eyes.

Mildred looked at her and took a sudden resolution. "Come in here," she said, pushing open her room door. "Zillah, can you keep a secret?"

"Suppose you try me," was the laughing rejoinder.

"I will. I am sure I may trust you."

So Zillah presently knew how matters stood between her sister and Charlie Landreth, and Mildred felt that she had another hearty sympathizer, and was safe from any more teasing about Wallace Ormsby from that quarter.

As for the latter, he of course improved his chance as they drove together that afternoon over the prairies and through the beautiful autumn woods; and Mildred had the painful task of crushing his hopes as she had already crushed those of her older admirer.

[CHAPTER VII.]

"A mighty pain to love it is,
And 'tis a pain that pain to miss;
But of all pains, the greatest pain
It is to love, but love in vain."
Cowley.

"O Wallace, forgive me! Not for worlds would I have hurt you so if—if I could have helped it." Mildred's voice was full of tears, and she ended with a sigh that was half a sob.

His head was turned away so that she could not catch so much as a glimpse of his face.

"It is just what I expected when you went away," he answered huskily; "but I don't blame you. I've always known I wasn't half good enough for such a girl as you."

"No, don't say that!" she cried, almost eagerly; "you are good enough for anybody, Wallace; you are noble and true and brave; and father says that with your talent and industry you are sure to make your mark in the world."

"What do I care for that now?" he returned bitterly. "You have been my inspiration, Mildred; it was for you—to win you and to make you rich and happy—that I have studied and toiled and planned, and now you are lost to me!" he groaned.

"O Wallace!" she murmured softly, "I had hoped yours was a higher ambition—that you had consecrated your time, talents, everything, to Him who gave them, and whose love is better beyond comparison than any or all earthly loves."

"You are right," he said, after a moment's silence, and his voice was low and humble, "it ought to be so; it shall be so henceforward. But—O Mildred, Mildred, what happiness can there be in life without you!"

"I will be your sister, Wallace; I have a real sisterly affection for you."

"I ought to be thankful for even that—I shall be some day; but O Mildred! now it seems like giving me a crumb when I am starving—so famished that nothing less than a whole loaf will relieve the dreadful pain. And this other fellow that has won you away from me—will he—will he be taking you away from us soon?"

"No, Wallace, not soon, perhaps never," she answered in low, quivering tones.

He turned and faced her with an inquiring look. "I have misunderstood. I thought you said the—the affection was mutual."

"I will tell you all about it," she said after a moment's embarrassed silence. "I think I owe you the confidence as some slight amends for the pain I have unwillingly caused you."

Then in a few words she told him just how matters stood between Charlie Landreth and herself, withholding only the name of her favored suitor.

When she had finished, silence fell between them for many minutes. Mildred's eyes were cast down, Wallace's gazing straight before him or taking note of the inequalities of the road. They were nearing the town when at last he spoke again.

"I thank you for your confidence, dear Mildred, (you will let me call you that this once?) You know I shall never abuse it. I am sorry for your sake that he is not all you could wish. But don't let it make you unhappy. I couldn't bear that. And I hope and believe it will all come right in the end."

"Wallace, how good and noble you are!" she cried, looking at him with eyes brimming with tears. "We will always be friends—good, true friends, shall we not?" she asked, almost beseechingly, holding out her hand to him.

He caught it in his and pressed it to his lips with a low, passionate cry, "O Mildred! and can I never be more than that to you!"

An hour later Mrs. Keith found her eldest daughter in her own room, crying bitterly.

"My dear child! what is the matter?" she asked in concern.

"O mother, mother, I seem to have been born to make others unhappy!" sobbed Mildred.

"I have often thought you were born to be the great comfort and blessing of your mother's life, and have thanked God with my whole heart for this his good gift to me," the mother responded, with a loving caress; and a glad smile broke like sunlight through the rain of tears.

"Mother, what a blessed comforter you are!" sighed Mildred, resting her wet cheek on her mother's shoulder. "Mother, Wallace loves me and seems almost heart-broken because I—I cannot return it. And he is such a dear, noble fellow, too—worthy of a far better wife than I would make!"

"We must try to convince him of that, and make him glad of his fortunate escape," Mrs. Keith said in her playful tone.

Mildred laughed in spite of herself, but a little hysterically; then growing grave again: "But, mother, he does really seem heart-broken, and it is dreadful to me to have caused such suffering to one so deserving of happiness."

"I do not doubt it, my dear, and I feel for you both; but trouble does not spring from the ground; all our trials are sent us, for some good purpose, by that best and dearest of all friends, who knows just what each one of us needs, and never makes a mistake. I am sorry for you both, but I do not think either is to blame, and I believe you will come out of the trial better and happier Christians than you would ever have been without it.

"Now, dear child, I shall leave you, that you may be able to spend a few minutes with that best Friend before joining us downstairs. Try to cast all your care on Him, because he bids you do so, and because it is for your happiness."

Mildred followed the kind, wise advice; then, having done what she could to remove the traces of her tears, hastened to join the family at the tea-table in answer to the bell.

Her mother adroitly contrived to take the attention of the others from her, and no one noticed that she had been weeping.

The faces and the chat were cheerful and bright, as was almost invariably the case in that family circle, and the joy of being among them again after so long an absence soon restored Mildred to her wonted serenity.

They discussed their plans for study and work for the coming fall and winter months. The town was still destitute of a competent teacher; efforts had been made to procure one from the Eastern States, but as yet without success; therefore Mildred proposed to resume her duties as governess to her younger brothers and sisters: she could assist Rupert, too, in some branches, and wished to perfect herself in some, and to improve her mind by a course of reading.

Then, as always, there was the family sewing, beside various housekeeping cares of which she desired to relieve her mother.

Zillah listened with a mirthful look to Mildred's long list, and at its conclusion asked, with a merry laugh, "Is that all, Milly?"

Mildred echoed the laugh, and blushingly acknowledged that it was very much easier to plan than to execute, and she feared she should fall very far short of accomplishing all she desired.

"Yes," said her father, "but it is best to aim high, for we are pretty sure never to do more than we lay out for ourselves, or even so much."

"But if Milly undertakes all the work, father, what are Ada and I to do?" queried Zillah, in a sprightly tone.

"She'll be glad enough before long to let us help with it," remarked Ada quietly. "If she'd had breakfast and dinner to get to-day she couldn't have walked out this morning; and I don't think she could have taken time to drive out this afternoon if she had been the only one to help mother with the sewing."

"No, that is quite true," said Mildred, smiling at Ada's serious face, "and I'm delighted to find what helpful girls you two have become, for there is abundance of work for us all."

"Enough to leave us no excuse for idleness," added the mother, "but not so much that any one of us need feel overburdened; for 'many hands make light work.'"

"Especially when the head manager knows how to bring system to her aid," concluded Mr. Keith, with an affectionate, appreciative glance at his wife.

"Yes," she rejoined brightly, "very little can be accomplished without that, but with it I think we shall do nicely."

The little ones were asking when lessons were to begin.

"To-morrow, if mother approves," answered Mildred.

Her father smiled approval, remarking, "Promptness is one of Mildred's virtues; one we may all cultivate with profit."

"I quite agree with you, Stuart," Mrs. Keith said, "and yet it is sometimes best to make haste slowly. Mildred, my child, you have had a long, wearisome journey, and may lawfully rest for at least this one week."

"And we all need our new clothes made up," remarked Ada. "Mother, have Milly make your black silk dress first."

Mildred and Zillah chimed in at once, "Oh yes! certainly mother's dress must be the very first thing to be attended to."

"I can fit it to-night," said Mildred.

"And I cut off the skirt and run the breadths together," added Zillah.

"Come, come, you are entirely too fast," laughed Mrs. Keith. "I will not have any one of you trying her eyes with sewing on black at night. We will all work this evening on the calicoes begun to-day, and Milly shall fit a calico for me before she tries her hand on the silk. But we will give this week to sewing and reading. Cyril can read nicely now, and he and Rupert shall take turns reading aloud to us. Lessons shall begin next Monday."

Aside from her desire to be as helpful as possible to her dear ones, Mildred felt that constant employment for head and hands was the best earthly antidote for her present griefs and anxieties. So she plunged into study and work, and gave herself little time for thought about anything else, and her mother, understanding her motive, not only did not oppose, but encouraged her in that course.

Some new books she had brought in her trunk proved a rare treat to the entire family, and work, enlivened now by the reading of these and now by cheerful chat, was decidedly enjoyable.

There were many calls, too, from old friends and acquaintances, and so the week slipped away very quickly and pleasantly.

Saturday's mail brought Mildred a letter from Charlie Landreth, which gave her both pain and pleasure.

The ardent love to her that breathed in every line sent a thrill of joy to her heart; yet it bled for him in his deep grief for the loss of his sister; grief unassuaged by the consolations of God.

Her prayers for him went up with increased fervor. Earnestly, importunately, she besought the Lord to comfort him in this great sorrow, and to make it the means of leading him to a saving knowledge of Christ Jesus.

Then she sat down and answered his letter with one that through all its maidenly modesty and reserve breathed a tender sympathy that was as balm to his wounds, a cordial to his fainting spirit, when at length it reached him.

Mildred desired to have no secrets from her wise and dearly-loved mother; both Charlie's letter and her own were carried to her, and the latter submitted to her approval ere it went on its mission of consolation.

This communication from him whose love found a response in her own heart did good service in banishing from her mind, in great measure, disturbing thought about the other two.

For some weeks they absented themselves from the house, then gradually resumed their former intimacy with the family, Mildred meeting them, when compelled by circumstance, without embarrassment, but avoiding a meeting when she could without seeming to do so purposely.

[CHAPTER VIII.]

A DELIGHTFUL SURPRISE.

"There is a letter, my dear, which concerns you quite as much as myself," Mr. Keith said, putting it into his wife's hand. "It gives information which perhaps, for several reasons, it may be as well for us to keep to ourselves for the present," he added, with a smile. "That is why I kept it back until now that we are alone."

They had retired to their own room for the night, and the little ones who shared it with them were fast asleep.

"From Uncle Dinsmore!" Mrs. Keith exclaimed, recognizing the hand-writing at a glance.

Her husband watched her face with interest and some curiosity as she read, a slight smile on his lips and in his eyes.

She looked up presently with hers shining. "How good, how wonderfully good and kind they always are!"

"Almost too kind," he responded, his face clouding a little. "At least I wish there was no occasion for receiving such favors. I should have been tempted to decline, had I been consulted beforehand. But it would hardly do now that the goods are almost here. We could not well send them back."

"No; certainly that is not to be thought of for a moment," she said, lifting to his, eyes smiling through tears. "We must follow the Golden Rule, Stuart, and accept their kind assistance in educating our children just as we would wish them to accept ours were our situations reversed."

"Yes," he said, heaving a sigh, "doubtless you take the right view of it; but—ah! Marcia, wife, 'it is more blessed to give than to receive.'"

"It is indeed, my dear husband, and we will not refuse them that blessedness now, but receive their kindnesses in the spirit in which they are offered, hoping that we may have our turn some of these days. Shall we not?"

He gave a silent assent. "Do you not agree with me that it will be well to keep the matter a secret from the children until the boxes arrive?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, indeed! we will not let even Mildred know. It will be such a delightful surprise to her, dear child! for though she has uttered no word of complaint, I am sure it must have been a great disappointment to her that you could not furnish her with a piano this fall to enable her to keep up her music. Now she can do that and teach her sisters too."

"And her playing will be a great treat to us all," added Mr. Keith, with a smile that spoke volumes of fatherly affection and pride in his first-born.

"And then the books! what delightful times we shall have over them!" she added, her eyes sparkling; "what a help they will be in cultivating our children's minds! I think our dear girl must have completely won her way into the hearts of my uncle and cousin Horace."

"As her mother did before her," he responded, with a light happy laugh.

When preparing to leave Ohio for the wilds of Indiana, Mr. Keith had sold most of their heavy articles of furniture, among them the piano. Its loss had been greatly lamented in the family, especially by the older girls and Rupert. The purchase of another had become a darling project with him, and to that end he had worked and saved till he had now quite a little hoard, earned mostly by the sale of fruits, vegetables, and fowls of his own raising; his mother paying him for these at the market price, and whatever surplus he had finding ready sale at the stores.

The lad was very industrious and painstaking, generally very successful in what he undertook—as such people are apt to be—and while generous to others spent little on himself.

Since Mildred's return, the desire for a piano was stronger than ever: there was not one in the town, nor an organ, or any kind of keyed instrument; so that there was no chance for them to hear her play and judge of her improvement; and worse still, she would be in danger, from want of practice, of losing all she had gained. But pianos cost a great deal in those days, and Mr. Keith could not just now spare the money to make the purchase and pay the heavy cost of transportation.

Money was scarce in that region then, business carried on very largely by barter. This made it easier for him to be at the expense of enlarging his house than to pay for something that must come from a distance.

There was little or no fretting or complaint over this state of things, but the children often talked longingly of the good time coming, when father would be able, with the help of what they could earn and save, to send for a piano.

That time seemed to be brought a little nearer by an act of thoughtful kindness on the part of their dear Aunt Wealthy. She had set apart from her income a certain sum which she engaged to send to their mother, at regular intervals, to be divided among them as pocket-money. The dear old lady could hardly have devised anything that would have given more pleasure. The news, as announced by Mildred on the day of her arrival, was received with demonstrations of wild delight, and evidently the little ones now considered themselves moneyed individuals, taking great pride and pleasure in consulting together, or with father and mother, as to the disposal of their incomes.

This opened up to the careful Christian parents a new opportunity for the study of the natural character of each of their children, and the curbing of wrong inclinations, whether toward extravagance or penuriousness.

One day, several weeks after Mildred's return, Rupert came in near the dinner hour, and drawing his mother aside, whispered something in her ear. There was a look of covert delight in his face, and his eyes sparkled as he added, "One's long, low and broad, mother; can only be one thing, I think—just the thing we're all wanting so much. But where could it come from?"

"Where do you suppose?" she answered merrily. "Well, the instant you are done your dinner you may go down and see them brought up."

"But father said it was your wish and his to make it a complete surprise to the children."

"Mildred included?" laughed his mother; "you are so much older than she. I will manage it. They shall all be out of the way while we unpack."

Mr. Keith came in presently, and with his arrival the call to dinner.

Mildred looked curiously at Rupert several times during the meal, wondering at his unaccustomed air of importance, the half-exultant, meaning glance he now and then sent across the table to one or the other of their parents, and the haste with which he swallowed his food and hurried from the table and the house, having asked to be excused, as he had business of importance to attend to.

"Dear me, what airs!" laughed Zillah, as he whisked out of the room. "One would think he was a man, sure enough."

"Girls," said Mrs. Keith, "I want you to take the little ones out for a walk this afternoon. It is a bright day and the walking good, and if you are all well wrapped up, you will not feel the cold."

"Not if they go at once," put in Mr. Keith.

"Run away and make yourselves ready, all of you."

"The party will be large enough without me, won't it, mother?" queried Mildred. "You know I have a piece of sewing on hand that I am very desirous to finish before night."

"Let it go, child; you need air and exercise far more than I do the dress," was the kind and smiling rejoinder.

Then came a chorus of entreaties from all the children that mother would go too.

But she would not hear of it, had a matter of importance to attend to at home; perhaps, if to-morrow should prove pleasant, she would go with them then.

And so with smiles and merry, loving words she helped to make them ready and sent them on their way.

Barely in time, for hardly were they out of sight when a wagon drove up with two large, weighty looking boxes. Rupert and two men, beside the driver, were in the vehicle also, and it took all their strength, with Mr. Keith's added, to lift and carry the boxes into the house.

"Oh, it is a piano! I know it is!" cried Rupert, as they set down in the hall the box he had described to his mother.

"A pianer did ye say?" queried one of the men, as for a moment they all stood panting from their exertions and gazing down upon the burden they had just deposited upon the floor. "Let's get it open quick then, for I never see one in my life."

Rupert ran for the hatchet, and in another five minutes the lid was off the box, and all remaining doubt vanished.

"It is, it is!" cried the lad, fairly capering about the room in his delight. "Oh, what a joyful surprise for the girls and all of us! But where on earth did it come from? Father—"

"I had nothing to do with it, my son," Mr. Keith asserted with a grave earnestness that precluded the idea that he might be jesting.

The boy looked bewildered, then disappointed. "There's been some mistake, I'm afraid. Perhaps there's another family of our name somewhere in this region, and—"

But his mother whispered a word in his ear and his face grew radiant. "Is that it? O mother, how good they are!"

"Let's git the thing out and see what it's like," said the man who had spoken before.

The others eagerly assented, and set to work at once, Mr. Keith giving assistance and directions, Mrs. Keith pointing out the place in the parlor where she wished it to stand.

"You kin play, I 'spose, Mrs. Keith. Won't you give us a tune?" was the eager request when their task was ended.

Smilingly she seated herself and played "Yankee Doodle" with variations.

They were delighted. "First-rate!" commented the one who seemed to act as chief spokesman of the party. "Now, ma'am, if you please, won't you strike up 'Hail Columby.'"

She good-naturedly complied, added "Star Spangled Banner," then rose from the instrument.

They thanked her warmly, saying they felt well paid for bringing "the thing" in.

"You must come in again some day, if you enjoy hearing it," she said with gracious sweetness. "I think you will find my daughter a better performer than I am."

"Yours is plenty good enough for us," they answered, bowing themselves out.

"It is a very sweet-toned instrument," she remarked, running her fingers over the keys; "a most magnificent present. How delighted Mildred and the rest will be!"

"I am eager to witness it," her husband said with a smile. "It is indeed a most valuable gift, and nothing could have been more acceptable."

"They're the kindest, most generous relations anybody ever had," added Rupert emphatically. "What's in that other box? shan't we open it now?"

"Books," answered his mother. "Yes, we may as well open it and spread them out ready for Mildred's inspection. Most of them belong to her."

This done Mrs. Keith again seated herself at the piano.

The young people had taken a pretty long walk, moving briskly to keep themselves warm, for the November air was frosty, and were now returning in gay spirits, eyes sparkling and cheeks glowing with health and happiness, while the tongues of the little ones ran fast, and a joyous shout or a silvery laugh rang out now and then; for the greater part of their way lay not through the streets of the town, but on its outskirts—along the river bank, through the groves of saplings, and over still unoccupied prairie land. When they came where there were houses and people to be disturbed by their noise, their mirth subsided a little, and they spoke to each other in subdued tones.

As they drew near home, unaccustomed, surprising sounds greeted their astonished ears.

"Oh, what's that music?" cried the little ones, "such pretty music!"

"Why, it sounds like a piano!" exclaimed the older ones; "but where could it come from?" and they rushed tumultuously into the house, even Mildred forgetting the staid propriety of her years.

The parlor door stood open, and—yes, there it was—a beautiful piano, mother's skilful fingers bringing out its sweetest tones, father and Rupert standing enraptured close beside her, and Celestia Ann, sleeves rolled up, dish-towel in hand, eyes dancing, and mouth stretched in a broad grin, stationed at the farther end.

"Well, I never! where on airth did the critter come from?" she exclaimed just as the others came upon the scene. "I never see the like, I never did!" she went on. "I just ran down town of an arrant, and I'd come home again and in the back door and begun to wash up them dishes, when I heered this agoin', and come in to find out what under the sun was agoin' on."

But no one seemed to hear a word she said; the children were jumping and careering about the room in frantic delight, clapping their hands, pouring out questions and exclamations. "Oh, aren't you glad? aren't you glad?" "Isn't it a beauty?" "It's just too nice for anything!" "Who did send it?"

Mildred stood silently gazing at it, her eyes full of glad tears. Father and Rupert were watching her, taking no notice of the others.

"Well, dear?" her mother said, whirling about on the piano stool and looking up into her face with tender, loving eyes.

"O mother, it is too much!" she cried, the tears beginning to fall. "Uncle Dinsmore sent it, I know; and I do believe it's one of the very two I liked the best of all we saw. He bought the other for themselves and this for us."

"For you, dear; but indeed it is, he says, not his own gift, but Cousin Horace's. The books are from him—our kind, generous uncle." And she pointed to them where they lay piled high upon the table.

"Books too!" Mildred exclaimed in increased astonishment and delight.

"Yes, he has marked out a course of reading for you—subject to your father's and my approval—and sent the necessary books and some others beside."

While his wife was speaking Mr. Keith had drawn near and put an arm about Mildred's waist; and now she fairly broke down, and hiding her face on her father's shoulder, sobbed aloud.

The children were immediately awed into silence. They gathered around her, asking in half-frightened tones, "Milly, Milly, what's the matter? are you sorry the piano's come? We thought you'd be so glad."

"And so I am," she said, lifting her head and smiling through her tears.

Her mother vacated the stool, her father seated her thereon, and hastily wiping away her tears, she sent her fingers flying over the keys in a lively merry tune that set the children to jumping and dancing more wildly than before.

[CHAPTER IX.]

"Labor in the path of duty,
Gleam'd up like a thing of beauty."
Cranch.

"My dear child, you have improved wonderfully," Mrs. Keith said, as Mildred concluded a much longer and more difficult piece of music than the one with which she had begun.

"She has indeed! I'm quite proud of her performance," echoed Mr. Keith.

"She does make terrible fine music," put in Celestia Ann; "but I wisht she'd stop a bit, or them dishes o' mine 'll never git washed."

"And I must go to the office," said Mr. Keith, looking at his watch, and glancing about in search of his hat.

"And I to my sewing," added Mildred, rising.

The children entreated somewhat clamorously for more, but yielded their wish at once on mother's decision that they must wait till after tea.

"Oh, the books!" cried Mildred, springing toward them with an eager gesture. "But no," turning away with a half sigh, "I must not take time to even look at them now."

"Yes, you may," her mother said smilingly; "glance at the titles, and dip in here and there, just to whet your appetite; read this note from your uncle, too, and then we can talk over your plans for mental culture, while busy with our needles."

"Always the same kind, indulgent mother," Mildred said, with a look of grateful love. "I will do so, then, and try to work fast enough afterwards to make up for lost time."

Half an hour later she joined her mother and sisters, who were all sewing industriously.

"Such a nice note, mother. Shall I read it to you?"

"Yes, if you like. I always enjoy uncle's letters."

"It sounds just like his talk," Mildred said when she had done reading, "saying the kindest things half jestingly, half earnestly. But the idea of his thinking I must have wondered that he gave me no special parting gift!—when he was all the time heaping favors upon me."

"But it was Cousin Horace who gave the piano," said Ada.

"Yes; uncle the books. And now I must strive to show my appreciation of their kindness by making the best possible use of both presents."

"For your own improvement and that of others," added her mother. "I want you to lend them, one at a time, to Effie Prescott and poor Gotobed Lightcap."

"What about him, mother?" Mildred asked, taking up her sewing. "The children told me he had been elected sheriff."

"Yes; I was very glad. He deserves every encouragement, for he is trying hard to educate himself, and I really hope some day may be able to enter one of the learned professions."

"Poor fellow!" Mildred exclaimed feelingly, tears starting to her eyes as memory brought vividly before her the sad scenes connected with the loss of his right hand, "he is welcome to the use of any or all of my books. I will gladly do anything in my power to help him."

"Now, suppose we talk about ourselves and our own affairs," Zillah suggested in her sprightly way. "I'm extremely anxious to learn to play on that lovely piano, but don't see how either you, mother, or Milly is to find time to give me lessons, for you are both busy as bees now from morning to night."

"And I want to learn too," put in Ada imploringly.

"So you shall, dears, both of you, if you continue to be the good, industrious, helpful girls you have been for the past year," the mother said, with her cheery smile. "Milly and I will manage it between us. Almost all our winter clothes are made now, so that we will not need to give so much time to sewing as we have for the past month or more."

Mildred seemed to be thinking. "I believe we can manage it," she said presently. "I hear the recitations from nine to eleven now, you know; we must begin at eight after this, and then from ten to twelve can be spared for the two music lessons."

"And the afternoons and evenings you must reserve for yourself—your exercise, study, reading and recreation," added Mrs. Keith, "while I oversee the practicing and the preparation of lessons for the next day. Two music lessons a week to each will be all sufficient. Yes, I am sure that with system and rigid economy of time—making good use of each golden minute as it flies—we can accomplish all that is necessary, if not all that is desirable."

Again a few moments of thoughtful silence on Mildred's part, then, "Mother," she said, "do you think I ought to take that Sunday-school class? I don't feel fit, and—and besides, it will take a good deal of my time to attend right to it—prepare the lessons, and occasionally visit the children through the week."

"I would have you consider the question carefully and prayerfully, and in the light of God's holy word, which is our only rule of faith and practice, daughter. 'As we have therefore opportunity, let us do good unto all men.' 'He that winneth souls is wise.'"

"But, mother, I am not wise."

Mildred's tone was low and humble.

"'If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.' Ask for it and search the Scriptures for it, for we are told, 'The entrance of thy word giveth light; it giveth understanding to the simple.' And while you study it for the benefit of others, you will be cultivating your own soul—a matter of even greater importance than the culture of your intellect."

"And I could not do the first without at the same time doing the last."

"No; that is very true. Also I trust, daughter, that your great motive for improving your mental powers is that you may thus be prepared to do better service to the Master?"

"I hope so, mother; it is, if I know my own heart," Mildred said, looking up with shining eyes. "I know it is said that duties never conflict, yet it does seem sometimes as though they did."

"As, for example?" and her mother's eyes smiled encouragingly and sympathizingly into hers.

"Why, there is the weekly church prayer-meeting to take one whole evening out of the six."

"Only from an hour to an hour and a half," corrected Mrs. Keith.

"But it breaks into the evening so that one can hardly do much with the leavings," Mildred said with a slight laugh. "And then the young girls' prayer-meeting breaks up one afternoon of every week, and besides—O mother! it is a real trial to me to lead in prayer, and I am sure to be called on."

"I hope you will never refuse," Mrs. Keith said gently, and with a tender, loving look. "We should never fear to attempt any duty, looking to God for help, for it shall be given, and a blessing with it."

"It is a great cross to me."

"Greater than that the Master bore for you?"

"Oh no, no! nothing to compare to it, or even to what many a martyr and many a missionary has done and borne for him."

"And is it not a blessed privilege to be permitted to do and bear something for his dear sake?" Mrs. Keith asked with glistening eyes, and in tones trembling with emotion.

"O mother, yes!" And Mildred's head bowed low, a tear fell on her work.

"O my darling, be a whole-hearted Christian!" the mother went on, speaking with intense earnestness, "consecrate yourself and all you have to the Master's service—time, talents, influence, money—everything you possess. He gave himself for us; shall we hold back anything from him?"

"Oh no! But mother—"

"Well, dear?"

"Shall I not do better service by and by, perhaps, by now giving my whole time, energy, and thought to preparation for it?"

"Do you find that you can always do a given amount of mental work in a given space of time?"

"No, mother; sometimes my brain is so active that I can do more in an hour than at some other times I can accomplish in a day."

"And cannot He who made you, and gave you all your mental powers, cause them at any time to be thus active? My child, he never lets us lose by working for him; in some way he will more than make it good to us. 'He that watereth shall be watered also himself.' 'Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and His righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.'"

Mildred looked up brightly. "I think—I am sure you are right, mother; and I will take up all those duties, trusting to the dear Master to help me with them and with my studies. My time is his as well as all else that I have."

"'Yes, ye are not your own, for ye are bought with a price; therefore glorify God in your body and in your spirit, which are God's.'"

"Who, mother?" asked little Fan, playing with her doll near by.

"All God's children, my child."

"I want to be one, mother. But who bought them? and what with? what price?"

"Christ bought them, dear, with his own precious blood."

"Mother," said Ada softly, "how good he was! I wish I could do something for him; but I'm not old enough to teach in Sunday-school, or pray in the prayer-meeting."

"No, darling; but you can pray at home, kneeling alone in your own room, and join with your heart in the prayers at family worship and at church; you can pray in your heart at any time and in any place; for yourself and for others. In his great kindness and condescension God listens to our prayers at all times, if they come from the heart, and just as readily to those of a little child as to those of the wisest and mightiest of men."

"O mother, I'm glad of that! but if I could do some work for him I'd love to do it."

"Do you remember, dear, that once when Jesus was on earth the people asked him 'What shall we do that we might work the works of God?' and Jesus answered and said unto them, 'This is the work of God, that ye believe on him whom he hath sent.'"

"That was Jesus himself," the child said thoughtfully, staying her needle in mid air, while her eyes sought the floor. "Mother, could you tell me just what is meant by believing on him so as to be saved? It can't mean only believing all the Bible says about him is true, because it tells us 'the devils also believe, and tremble.' I heard father read it from the Bible at worship this morning."

"Yes, my dear child, it does mean much more than that," the mother said, and silently asked help of God to make it clear to the apprehension of all present, even to little Annis, who leant confidingly against her knee, the blue eyes gazing earnestly into her face.

"The devils know the truth, but they don't love it," she said; "God's children do: they are glad that he reigns and rules in all the universe; but the devils gnash their teeth with rage that it is so, and would tear him from his throne if they could."

The two little boys were in the room, Cyril whittling, Don poring over a new book that Mildred had brought him from Philadelphia. The one shut his jack-knife, the other his book, and both drew near to listen.

"Jesus didn't die for them, did he, mother?" asked Cyril.

"No, my son, there is no salvation offered them, and God might justly have left us in the same awful condition; but of his great love and mercy he has provided a wonderful way by which we can be saved. 'For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.'

"Faith is another word that means the same as believing. The Bible tells us that without faith it is impossible to please God; also, that the faith which availeth anything worketh by love. 'Unto you, therefore, which believe, he (that is, Jesus) is precious.' The faith that pleases God and will save from sin and eternal death, loves the Lord Jesus Christ, and trusts for salvation only in what he has done and suffered for us."

"We can't do anything to save ourselves, mother?"

"We can not do anything to earn our salvation; we can have it only as God's free, undeserved gift. We have all broken God's holy law, but Jesus kept it perfectly in our stead. Our sins deserve God's wrath and curse, both in this life and that which is to come, for it is written, 'Cursed is every one who continueth not in all things which are written in the book of the law to do them;' but Jesus has borne that curse for all his people. 'Christ hath redeemed us from the curse of the law, being made a curse for us.'"

"I should like to have that right kind of faith if I knew just how to get it, mother," said Ada.

"'By grace are ye saved, through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God,'" quoted Mrs. Keith. "Ask for it, my child. Jesus said, 'Every one that asketh, receiveth;' and again, 'If ye shall ask anything in my name I will do it.'"

"You know, my child, that though we cannot see him, he is always near. Go to him in prayer, confess your sins, tell him that you are altogether sinful by nature and by practice, and can do nothing at all to deserve his favor; but that you come in his name, and pleading what he has done and suffered for you, because he has invited you so to come. Ask him to take away your wicked heart and give you a new one full of love to him; accept his offered salvation from sin and hell; give yourself to him and he will take you for his own; for he says, 'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.' He will give you true faith and true repentance—sorrow for sin because it is displeasing to God; a sorrow that will lead you to hate and forsake it, and to be a follower of God as a dear child, doing him service from the heart, striving to please, honor, and glorify him in all things; not that you may be saved, but because you are saved."

"But what can a little girl like me do for him, mother?"

"Or a boy like me or Cyril?" added Don.

"Christ is our example, and one thing the Bible tells us of him is that when he was a child on earth he was subject to his parents; that is, he obeyed and honored them. You must do the same by yours, if you would be his disciples. There are few, comparatively, whom God calls to do what men consider great things for him, but if we do faithfully each little every-day duty—it may be only to learn a lesson, to sweep or dust a room, to make a bed, go on an errand, or something else quite as simple and easy—because we want to please and honor him; he will accept it as work done for him. Men can judge only from appearances—God sees the heart, the motives; and according as they are good or bad is he pleased or displeased with our acts."

"Mother," cried Ada, looking up with a glad smile, "how nice that is! Any work must be sweet when we think of God watching and being pleased with us for doing it just as well as we can because we love him."

"Yes, daughter, love is a great sweetener of labor of whatever kind it may be."

[CHAPTER X.]

"True faith and reason are the soul's two eyes,
Faith evermore looks upward and descries
Objects remote."
Quarles.

Mr. Keith and Wallace Ormsby were busy, each at his own desk; unbroken silence had reigned in the office for the last half hour, when suddenly dropping his pen and wheeling about in his chair, the elder gentleman addressed the younger:

"Why, how's this, Wallace? I haven't seen you in my house or heard of your being there for weeks; what's wrong?"

Wallace, taken by surprise, could only stammer out rather incoherently something about having had a good deal to do—"correspondence and other writing, studying up that case, you know, sir."

"Come, come, now, you're not so hard pushed with work that you can't take a little recreation now and then," returned his interrogator kindly; "and really I don't think you can find a much better place for that than my house; especially since Mildred's at home again."

"That is very true, sir," said Wallace, "but—I'd be extremely sorry to wear out my welcome," he added, with a laugh that seemed a trifle forced.

"No fear of that, Wallace; not the slightest," Mr. Keith answered heartily: "why, we consider you quite one of the family; we can never forget how kindly you nursed us in that sickly season. And we've a new attraction."

"Yes, sir, so I heard. A very fine instrument, isn't it?"

"Yes; if we are judges. Come up this evening and hear Mildred play. I think she has really a genius for music; but that may be a fond father's partiality."

The invitation was too tempting to be declined: it had taken a very strong effort of will to enable the love-sick swain to stay so long away from his heart's idol, and now under her father's hospitable urgency his resolution gave way.

"Thank you, sir; I shall be delighted to come: and I have no doubt Miss Mildred is quite as fine a performer as you think her," he said; and each resumed his pen.

Mrs. Keith, with strong faith in the wisdom of the old adage, "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," always insisted upon each member of her household taking a due amount of recreation. The older girls would sometimes, in their eagerness to finish a piece of work or learn a lesson for the morrow, be ready to take up book or sewing immediately on leaving the tea-table; but their mother put a veto upon that, and by precept and example encouraged a half hour of social chat, romping with the little ones, or gathering about the piano to listen to Mildred's playing: and often a little time before tea was given to music both vocal and instrumental, every one, even down to little Annis, frequently taking part in the latter.

This season of mirth and jollity was over for the evening, Mrs. Keith had taken the younger children away to put them to bed, Zillah and Ada were at their tasks in the sitting-room; but Mildred still lingered at the piano, feeling that she had need of practice to recover lost ground.

Mr. Keith listened a little longer, then remarking that he must see Squire Chetwood about a business matter, donned hat and overcoat and went out.

Rupert stood beside his sister, turning the pages of her music and praising her execution. "I'd like all the town to hear you," he said. "I should prefer a much smaller audience," she returned, laughingly. "Ru, did you remember to mail that letter?"

"No, I didn't!" he cried, in some consternation.

She drew out her pretty watch.

"There's time yet," he said, glancing at its face; "so I'm off."

Hurrying out of the front door, he encountered Ormsby in the porch.

"Hollo! is that you, Wallace?" he cried. "A little more and there'd have been a collision. Haven't seen you here for an age! been wondering what had become of you. Well, walk right in. You'll find Milly in the parlor. But you must excuse me for awhile as I've a letter to mail."

He held the door open as he spoke, and having seen the caller inside, hastily shut it without waiting for a reply to his remarks, and rushed away.

The parlor door stood ajar. Wallace tapped lightly; but Mildred, intent upon her music, did not hear, and he stole quietly in. He stood for a moment almost entranced by the low sweet tones of voice and instrument.

Mildred was thinking of Charlie, and her voice was full of pathos as she sang—

"'When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted,
To sever for years.'"

A deep sigh startled her and she turned hastily to find—not Charlie, but Wallace regarding her with eyes full of despairing love mingled with tender compassion.

He saw that her eyes were full of tears, and coming quickly to her side took her hand in his.

"Dear Mildred, I can't bear to see you unhappy," he said, in low, tremulous tones. "Don't grieve, it will all come right some day. Ah, if only I could have won your heart!" and again he sighed deeply.

"It's the old story, 'the course of true love never will run smooth,' and we can only be sorry for each other," she returned with forced gayety, and hastily wiping away her tears. "Take a seat, won't you, and I'll give you something more cheerful than that sickly sentimental stuff you caught me singing. That is, of course, if you wish to hear it;" and she looked up into his face with an arch smile.

A tete-a-tete with him at that time was not desirable—would be rather embarrassing; she wanted to avoid it, and heartily wished some one of the family would come in immediately; therefore was not seriously displeased at the sudden and unexpected entrance of Celestia Ann.

This very independent maid-of-all-work came bustling in, dressed in her "Sunday best" and with a bit of sewing in her hand.

"Good-evenin', Mr. Ormsby," she said, nodding to him; then turning to Mildred: "I declare, Miss Mildred, your playin' is so powerful fine I couldn't noways stand it to set out there in the kitchen while the pianner was a goin' in here and nobody to listen to it. You see I thought you were alone; but I reckon Mr. Ormsby won't mind me."

Wallace was too well aware of the value of the woman's services and the difficulty of retaining them to make any objection. He merely nodded and smiled in reply to her salutation; then turning to Mildred answered her with, "Indeed I should be delighted. In fact your father invited me to call this evening for the express purpose of listening to your music, and," he added in a whisper, "though I feared my visit might not be altogether welcome to you, I had not the courage to deny myself so great a pleasure."

"There was no occasion," Mildred said, in the same low tone: "we all want you to feel yourself quite at home here. You'll excuse the intrusion of—"

"Oh, certainly: I understand it."

Celestia Ann had seated herself beside a lamp burning on a distant table, and was industriously plying her needle.

"Come, give us a lively toon, Miss Milly, won't ye?" she said. "'Yankee Doodle,' or 'Hail Colomby,' or some o' them toons folks dances to."

"Which or what will you have, Mr. Ormsby?" asked Mildred.

"I?" he said, with a smile; "oh, I own to sharing Miss Hunsinger's partiality for our national airs, and am well satisfied with the selections already made."

Mildred gave them in succession.

A tall man with a book under his arm stood in a listening attitude at the gate. Mrs. Keith, seeing him from an upper window, came down and opened the front door.

"Good evening, Mr. Lightcap," she said in her pleasant voice, "won't you come in out of the cold?"

"I come to fetch back your book, Mrs. Keith," he said, moving toward her with long strides, "and I thought I'd not disturb the folks in your parlor by knockin' whilst that music was agoin'. I'm a thousand times obleeged fer the loan o' the book, ma'am;" and he handed it to her, then lifted his cap as if in adieu.

"No, no; don't go yet," she said. "I have another book for you, and you must have some more of the music, if you care to hear it, without standing in the cold to listen."

Her pleasant cordiality put him at his ease, and he followed her into the parlor.

Mildred was playing and singing "Star Spangled Banner," Wallace accompanying her with his voice, both so taken up with the business in hand that they did not perceive the entrance of Mrs. Keith and Gotobed until they joined in on the chorus; when Mildred looked up in surprise and nodded a smiling welcome to the latter.

"Tell you, that's grand!" he exclaimed at the close, his face lighting up with patriotic enthusiasm; "there's somethin' mighty inspirin' about them national airs o' ourn. Don't ye think so, Mrs. Keith?"

"Yes," she said, "they always stir my blood with love for my dear native land, and awaken emotions of gratitude to God and those gallant forefathers who fought and bled to secure her liberties."

"Ah!" he sighed with a downward glance at his mutilated arm, "I can never lift sword or gun for her if occasion should come again!"

"But you may do as much, or even more, in other ways," she responded cheerily.

"I can't see how, ma'am," he returned, with a rueful shake of the head.

"'Knowledge is power;' intellect can often accomplish more than brute force: go on cultivating your mind and storing up information, and opportunities for usefulness will be given you in due time," she answered with her bright, sweet smile; then turned with a cordial greeting to Lu Grange and Claudina and Will Chetwood, ushered in at that moment by Celestia Ann, who now took her departure to the kitchen—probably thinking Miss Mildred had listeners enough to be able to spare her.

The piano was a new and powerful attraction to the good people of Pleasant Plains, and all the friends and acquaintance of the Keiths, as well as some whose title to either appellation was doubtful, flocked to hear it in such numbers that for two or three weeks after its arrival Mildred seemed to be holding a levee almost every evening.

"How my time is being wasted!" she sighed one evening as the door closed upon the last departing guest.

"No, dear, I think not," responded her mother, with an affectionate look and a kindly reassuring smile; "you are recovering lost ground—perfecting yourself in facility of execution, and giving a great deal of pleasure; and it is no small privilege to be permitted to do that last—to cheer heavy hearts, to lift burdens, to make life even a little brighter to some of our fellow creatures. Is not that so?"

"Yes, mother, it is, and yet I find it very trying to have my plans so often interfered with."

"Ah! my child, we must not allow ourselves to become too much attached to our plans," returned Mrs. Keith, with a slightly humorous look and tone, and passing her hand caressingly over Mildred's hair; "for all through life we shall be very frequently compelled by circumstances to set them aside."

"Is there any use in making plans, then?" the girl asked half impatiently.

"Surely there is. If we would accomplish anything worth while, we must lay our plans carefully, thoughtfully, wisely; then carry them out with all energy and perseverance: yet not allow ourselves to be impatient and unhappy when providentially called upon to set them aside. 'It is not in man that walketh to direct his steps;' and we ought to be not only willing to bend to God's providence, but glad to have him choose for us."

"Ah, yes, mother—yes indeed!" Mildred murmured, a dewy light coming into her eyes; "if one could only always realize that he sends or permits these little trials they wouldn't be hard to bear; for it is sweet to have him choose for us."

It so happened that this was the last of that trial of Mildred's patience. A storm set in that night which lasted for several days, keeping almost everybody at home; then came weeks of ice and snow, making fine sleighing, skating, and sliding; thus furnishing other and more exciting amusement to the residents of the town, both old and young.

The Keiths took their share in these winter pastimes—Mildred as well as the rest: often doing so to please her mother rather than herself, yet always finding enjoyment in them.

'Twas a busy life she led that winter, and by no means an unhappy one, spite of the obstinate refusal of the course of true love to run smooth.

It came to a rougher place, to deeper, swifter rapids, in the ensuing spring.

Through all these months of separation she and Charlie had kept up a correspondence, though at somewhat irregular and infrequent intervals. A much longer time than usual had now passed, and yet her last letter to him remained unanswered. She was secretly very much disturbed in mind, sorely troubled lest some evil had befallen him, though not permitting herself to doubt for a moment that his love for her remained as strong and fervent as ever.

At last a letter came. Rupert brought it from the office at noon, and handed it to her with a meaning smile, a twinkle of fun in his eyes.

"Something to brighten this dull, rainy day for you, sis," he said gayly.

"Thank you," she returned, flushing rosy red, and her heart giving a joyous bound as she slipped the missive into her pocket.

"What! not going to read it after the long journey it has taken to reach you?" he asked, lifting his eyebrows in mock astonishment.

"Not now, it will keep; and I must get mother's toast and tea ready for her—there'll be barely time before father comes in to dinner."

"How is she?"

"Better, but not able to be up yet. These bad headaches always leave her weak, and I shall try to persuade her to lie still all the afternoon."

With the last word Mildred hurried away to the kitchen.

The morning had been a very trying one: it was Monday, the day of the week on which Celestia Ann always insisted upon doing the family washing without regard to the state of the weather. She prided herself on getting her clothes out early and having them white as the driven snow, and her temper was never proof against the trial of a Monday-morning storm.

There had been a steady pour of rain since before daybreak, and the queen of the kitchen consequently in anything but an amiable mood. A severe headache had kept Mrs. Keith in bed, and to Mildred had fallen the task of guiding and controlling the domestic machinery and seeing that its wheels ran smoothly.

She had had several disputes to settle between Ada and Zillah on the one side, and the irate maid-of-all-work on the other; also much ado to induce the younger children to attend to their lessons, and then to keep them amused and quiet that her mother might not be disturbed by their noise, and through it all her heart was heavy with its own peculiar burden; besides, atmospheric influences had their depressing effect upon her spirits, as upon those of the others, and more than once a sharp or impatient word, repented of as soon as uttered, had escaped her lips.

"An undeserved blessing," was her remorseful thought at sight of the letter. "It may be ill news to be sure—oh if it should!—yet anything is better than this terrible suspense."

But that must be borne until she could snatch a moment of solitude in which to end it.

Zillah, stooping over the kitchen fire, looked up hastily as her sister entered. "You've come to get mother's dinner, Milly? Well, here it is all ready," pointing to the teapot steaming on the hearth, beside it a plate of nicely browned and buttered toast.

"O you dear good girls!" was Mildred's response as she glanced from the stove to the table, upon which Ada was in the act of placing a neatly arranged tea tray.

"As if it wasn't the greatest pleasure in the world to do a little for mother!" exclaimed the latter half indignantly. "You needn't think, Milly, that the rest of us don't love her just as well as you do."

"I meant no such insinuation," Mildred said, half laughing. "I'm sure our mother deserves the greatest possible amount of love and devotion from all her children. But may I claim the privilege of carrying up the dinner you two have prepared?"

"Yes: I suppose it's no more than fair to let you do that much; but you needn't expect me to think it's any great goodness," Ada answered, putting the finishing touches to her work, and stepping aside to let Mildred take possession of the tray.

"Certainly nothing is farther from my thoughts than claiming credit for any service done to mother," Mildred answered good-humoredly as she took up the tray and walked away with it.

With quick light step she passed up the stairs, and entering her mother's room with almost noiseless tread, was greeted with a smile.

"I am not asleep, dear; and the pain is nearly gone," Mrs. Keith said, speaking from the bed in low, quiet tones.

"I am so glad, mother, and I hope a cup of tea will complete the cure," Mildred answered softly, setting down her burden on a little stand by the bedside and gently assisting her mother to a sitting posture.

"A dainty little meal! My dear child, you are the greatest possible comfort to me!" Mrs. Keith remarked presently, as she handed back the empty cup.

"But it was Zillah and Ada who prepared it to-day, mother," Mildred returned, ever careful to give others their just due, though her eyes shone.

"Yes, they are dear girls too," the mother said; "I am greatly blessed in my children: but I was thinking more of the freedom from care given me by having you here to take the head of affairs. The others, though doubtless equally willing, are still too young for that. So I could never give myself up to the full enjoyment of a headache while you were away," she added in her own peculiarly pleasant, sportive tone and manner.

"I cannot half fill your place, mother dear; I have not half your wisdom or patience," Mildred said with a blush and sigh.

"You exaggerate my virtues, Milly; I can imagine from past experience how your patience may have been tried to-day. Well, dear, if there has been a partial failure, do not let that rob you of your peace. 'Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him;' and though he cannot look upon sin with any degree of allowance, yet when we turn from it with true repentance and desire after holiness, pleading the merits of his dear Son as our only ground of acceptance, we find him ever ready to forgive. What a blessing, what a glorious privilege it is that we have, in that we may turn in heart to him for pardon and cleansing the moment we are conscious of sin in thought, word, or deed!"

"Yes, mother; I do feel it so. And how strangely kind he often is in sending joys and comforts when we feel that we deserve punishments rather," Mildred said with tears springing to her eyes, as she drew out her letter and held it up.

"From Charlie!" Mrs. Keith exclaimed, with a pleased smile. "My darling, I am very glad for you. I hope it brings good news."

Mildred turned it in a way to show that the seal was not yet broken, answering in low, tremulous tones, and between a smile and a sigh, "I have not found out yet. It must wait for a quiet after-dinner half-hour."

"My brave, patient girl!" Mrs. Keith said tenderly, passing a hand caressingly over Mildred's hair and cheek. "Let mother share the joy or sorrow, whichever it brings."

Mildred brought but scant appetite to the meal, which seemed to her an unusually long and tedious one; but she was able to control her impatience and give due attention to the comfort of father, brothers and sisters, until at length she found herself at liberty to retire for a season to the privacy of her own room.

Her hand trembled and her heart beat fast between hope and fear as she drew the letter from her pocket and broke the seal. What if it brought ill news—that Charlie was in trouble, or that his love had grown cold! Had she strength to bear it?

Oh, not of herself! But there was One who had said, "In me is thine help." "Fear thou not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee."

One moment's silent pleading of His gracious promises, and she had grown calm and strong to endure whatever His providence had sent. Tears dropped upon the paper as she read, for Charlie was indeed in sore trouble. The first few sentences read as though the writer were half frenzied with distress.

"He had lost everything," so he wrote; "both his own and his uncle's property had been suddenly and completely swept away, and the shock had killed the old gentleman—his only near relative—leaving him friendless and alone in the world; utterly alone, utterly friendless; for he could not hope that she who had refused him in prosperity would be willing to share his poverty. Nor could he ask it. But never, never could he forget her, never love another."

Then under a later date, and in apparently calmer mood, he continued:

"I am about to leave the home of my childhood and youth; it passes to-day into the hands of strangers, and I go out into the wide world to seek some way of retrieving my broken fortunes. With youth, health and strength, and a liberal education, surely I need not despair of finally attaining that end, though it will doubtless take years of toil and struggle; but when it is accomplished you shall hear from me again: nay, you shall find me at your feet, suing for the priceless boon I have hitherto sought in vain. I will not despair, for my heart tells me you will be true to me even through many long years of separation—if such fate has decreed us—and that in answer to your prayers the barrier between us will one day be swept away."

"Share his poverty! Ah, would I not if I might!" Mildred cried half aloud and with a burst of tears. "What greater boon could I ask than the privilege of comforting him in his sorrows! O Charlie, Charlie, you have given no address, and so put it out of my power to offer even the poor consolation of written words of sympathy, of hope and cheer!"

No one came to disturb Mildred in her solitude; she had time for thought and for the casting of her care upon Him who was her strong refuge, whereunto she might continually resort.

Mrs. Keith had not left her own room, and downstairs the two elder girls were busied with their needles, while Rupert kept the younger children quiet with kite-making and a story, moved thereto partly by a good-natured desire for their amusement, but principally through affectionate concern for mother and elder sister.

Mrs. Keith lay on her couch, thinking, a little anxiously, of Mildred, when the door opened and the young girl stole softly to her side.

"Is it ill news, my darling?" the mother asked in tender, pitying accents, glancing up compassionately at the dewy eyes and tear stained cheeks.

"I will read you his letter, mother. You know I have no secrets from you, my loved and only confidante," Mildred answered a little tremulously, and stooping to press a kiss on her mother's lips.

Then seating herself, she unfolded the sheet and read in low tones, which she vainly tried to make calm and even.

"Ah, mother, if only he were a Christian!" she exclaimed with a burst of uncontrollable weeping.

"Do not despair of seeing him such one day," her mother returned, laying a gentle, quieting hand on that of the weeper. "God is the hearer and answerer of prayer; the answer may be long delayed, for the trial of your faith, but it will come at last."

"What is Charlie waiting for?" sighed Mildred. "How strange that he cannot see that God's time for the sinner to come and be reconciled to him is always now! Ah, I do so want him to know the comfort of casting all his care on the Lord—the blessedness of the man who trusts in him!"

"Yes, it is a strange delusion! It is one of Satan's devices to persuade men to put off this most important of all transactions to a more convenient season, which he knows will never come. But, dear child, we will unite our prayers on Charlie's behalf to Him who has all power in heaven and in earth, and who has graciously promised, 'If two of you shall agree on earth as touching anything that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven.'"

[CHAPTER XI.]

"Ah! what is human life?
How, like the dial's tardy moving shade,
Day after day slides from us unperceiv'd!
The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth;
Too subtle is the movement to be seen;
Yet soon the hour is up—and we are gone."
Young.

"Mother, he seems to imply that I am not likely to hear from him again for years," Mildred remarked, half in assertion, half as asking her mother's understanding of the drift of young Landreth's communication.

"Yes, I think so," Mrs. Keith responded in gentle, pitying tones. Then more brightly and cheerily, "But perhaps, dear, that certainty is better—will be less trying—than a constantly disappointed looking for of letters."

Mildred gave a silent assent, while a tear rolled quickly down her cheek. She dashed it hastily aside. "Mother, dearest mother, you must help me to be brave and cheerful, not letting this disappointment and anxiety spoil my life and make me a burden to myself and others," she whispered tremulously, laying her head on her mother's pillow and gazing lovingly, but through gathering tears, into those dear eyes.

"I will, my poor darling," returned Mrs. Keith in moved tones, putting an arm about her daughter's neck and drawing her closer till cheek rested against cheek; "and there is One who, with all power at his command, and loving you even more tenderly than your mother does, will give you such help and consolation in this sore trial as she cannot give."

"I know it; I am sure of it," murmured Mildred. "I can trust him for myself—though the way looks dark and dreary—but—O mother, it is not so easy to trust for Charlie!"

"Perhaps, dear, that is one reason why this trial is sent you: trust for our dear ones as well as for ourselves is a lesson we all need to learn."

"And to teach me patience, which is another lesson I greatly need and am very slow to learn," sighed Mildred. "'The trying of your faith worketh patience. But let patience have her perfect work.' Oh, shall I ever be able to do that!"

"Yes, at last; I am assured of it: 'being confident of this very thing, that he who hath begun a good work in you will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ.' 'In all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us.' And trusting in him, living near to him, in the light of his countenance, we may have, we shall have great joy and peace in spite of tribulations."

"And those I know all must have in one way or another," said Mildred a little sadly, "because we are told in Acts, 'we must through much tribulation enter into the kingdom of God;' and Jesus told his disciples, 'In the world ye shall have tribulation.'"

"But, he added, 'Be of good cheer: I have overcome the world,'" Mrs. Keith said with emotion, a joyous light shining in her eyes.

"Mother," said Mildred, "I once heard the assertion that God's people were peculiarly marked out for trouble and trial in this world; that they must expect to have more than was allotted to worldlings. Do you think that is true?"

"No, I find no such teaching in Scripture, nor has experience of life taught it to me. 'Many sorrows shall be to the wicked, but he that trusteth in the Lord, mercy shall compass him about.' 'Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivereth him out of them all.' 'O fear the Lord, ye his saints, for there is no want to them that fear him!' 'Godliness is profitable unto all things, having promise of the life that now is, and of that which is to come.' The Bible is full of the blessedness of those who fear and trust the Lord."

"'Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth,'" quoted Mildred doubtfully.

"Ah, yes; the afflictions of the righteous are the loving discipline of a tender Father, while upon the incorrigibly wicked he pours out his fury in judgments that bring no healing to their souls—only retribution for the sins unrepented of and unforgiven. 'Upon the wicked he shall rain snares, fire and brimstone, and an horrible tempest: this shall be the portion of their cup.'"

The door opened softly and Ada looked cautiously in.

"That is right, dear," Mrs. Keith said, greeting the child with a loving smile; "come in and give mother a kiss. The pain is quite gone, and I am going to get up now and dress for tea."

"Don't, mother, unless you feel quite, quite strong and well," the little girl entreated, receiving and returning a tender caress. "I'm so glad you are better (oh, it isn't nice to have to do without mother! though I'm sure Milly has tried her very best to fill your place). I wouldn't have come here—because I was afraid of disturbing you—but there's a boy down stairs asking if Milly will go and watch to-night with a sick woman—Mrs. Martin. Claudina Chetwood's to watch, but there ought to be two, he says, and they don't know of anybody else for to-night. She's been sick so long that 'most everybody is worn out."

Professional nurses were unknown in the town, and in time of sickness the only dependence for needed attention, outside of the sufferer's own family, was upon the kindness of neighbors, and as a rule they were exceeding kind.

Mrs. Martin's health had been declining for many months; for weeks she had been confined to bed and in a condition to need constant watching and waiting upon.

The Keiths had scarcely a speaking acquaintance with her, but that made no difference when help was needed.

"Do you feel equal to the task, Mildred?" asked her mother. "I shall be sorry to have you lose your night's rest; but you can make it up to-morrow. I am not likely to have a return of the headache, and when I am 'to the fore' you can be spared, you know," she added sportively, and with a world of motherly pride and affection in the look she bent upon her first-born.

"Yes, mother; it will not hurt me, and I can't hesitate when duty seems so plain," Mildred answered cheerfully. "How soon do they want me, Ada?"

"He says about nine o'clock. Mrs. Prior's going to stay till then. I'll go down and tell him they may expect you;" and with the last word Ada left the room.

Mrs. Keith had left the bed for a low seat before her toilet table, and Mildred was softly brushing out and arranging her still beautiful and abundant hair, very tenderly careful lest too rude a touch should cause a return of the torturing pain.

"Poor, poor woman!" sighed Mrs. Keith, thinking of Mrs. Martin.

"Is she considered very dangerously ill, mother?" asked Mildred.

"Mrs. Prior was telling me about her yesterday," Mrs. Keith answered. "Dr. Grange says she has not long to live; but worst of all, Milly, she is dying without hope."

"O mother, how terrible! And has no one tried to lead her to Jesus? has no one told her of his great love and his power and willingness to save?'"

"Yes, months ago, while she was still up and about her house, Mrs. Prior and others tried to talk to her about her soul's salvation, but she refused to listen, angrily telling them she was too weak to trouble herself with trying to think on that subject now, and must wait until she grew stronger; and all the time growing weaker and weaker. My child, I'm glad you are to be with her to-night, for who knows but you may find a fitting moment in which you may speak a word that God may bless to the saving of her soul."

"How glad I should be to do it," Mildred answered with emotion, "but I am so young and foolish and ignorant! Mother, how can I hope to succeed where older and wiser people have failed?"

"'Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit, saith the Lord of hosts.' He often works by the feeblest instrumentalities, and may see fit to use even you, my dear girl. Ask his help and his blessing upon your effort, remembering his promise, 'If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.'"

"I will watch for an opportunity, and you will help me with your prayers, mother?"

"You may be sure of that, dear child."

"But, O mother! how very much better you could speak to her than I."

"I doubt it, Milly; for the work must be of God, or it will come to naught; and he can as readily make use of your mind and tongue as of mine. Don't rely on yourself; don't forget that you are only an instrument."

In spite of a very honest and earnest determination to be cheerful under this new trial of her faith and patience, and to bear her own burden according to the scriptural command, Mildred seemed to her father a little sad-eyed and paler than her wont, as he looked at her across the tea table.

"My child," he said, "I hear you are expecting to watch with the sick to-night, but really I'm afraid you are not able to do so; you do not look well."

"Appearances are sometimes deceitful, you know, father," she returned, with an effort to be bright and lively. "I am quite well, and if fatigued to-night can rest and sleep to-morrow."

"Well," he said, only half convinced, "lie down until it is time for you to go."

"Yes, Mildred, if you can get an hour or two of sleep before your watch begins, it will be a great help," said her mother. "We will call you at nine."

"Half-past eight, if you please, mother. I want to be there in time to ask directions of Mrs. Prior before she leaves."

Mildred was not sorry to seek the quiet and solitude of her own room, but she scarcely slept. She seemed to have but just fallen into a doze when Rupert knocked at her door to say that it wanted but ten minutes of the time she had set for starting, and he was ready to see her to her destination.

"I'm glad you came early," was Mrs. Prior's greeting, "for indeed I ought to be at home seeing to things there. They're pretty sure to go at sixes and sevens when I'm away; and even if my boarders don't growl about it, 'tain't treatin' 'em exactly fair. But I'll not leave you alone with her. Claudina'll be here directly, and I'll stay till she comes."

"Oh, thank you!" Mildred said. "I shouldn't like to be left alone with any one who is so ill, and I shall need to be told just what I'm to do. How is she now?"

"Can't last much longer, poor thing," Mrs. Prior returned with a sad shake of the head; "she's dreadful weak and short o' breath, and awful afraid to go. Dear, dear, to think of anybody putting off preparation to the last minute when they know they've got to die, and after that the judgment! And she won't allow a minister to come into the house, or let anybody say a word to her about her soul. Several has tried; I have myself, but it's no use. Perhaps if she'd been approached in the right way at first, it might have been different. Damaris Drybread was the first, I believe, to say anything to her; and between you and me, though Damaris means well, she's not always over wise in her way of doing what she considers her duty. But there! I must run back to her. She oughtn't to be left alone a minute. Come into the sitting-room and take off your things."

The door into the next room, where the invalid lay, was open, and Mildred could hear her moaning and complaining in hollow, despairing tones, Mrs. Prior answering in cheerful, soothing accents.

Presently Mrs. Prior stepped back to the door and beckoned Mildred in.

"This is Miss Keith, Mrs. Martin," she said. "She and Miss Chetwood will watch with you to-night and do all they can to make you comfortable."

"Yes, you're all very kind. I know you'd help me if you could; but nobody can give me a minute's ease, and nobody knows what I have to suffer," moaned the sick woman, gazing piteously into the fresh young face bending over her.

Mildred's eyes filled with tears, and she opened her lips to speak, but was stopped by a hasty exclamation: "Hush! don't say a word! don't talk to me! don't ask me any questions! I won't hear it! I can't bear it! I'm too weak."

"I can only pray for her," was Mildred's thought as she turned sorrowfully away and hastened to the outer door, where some one had rapped lightly.

It was Claudina, and after giving them the necessary instructions Mrs. Prior left them to their melancholy duty.

As there was not more to be done than one could easily attend to, she had advised them to take turns in watching and sleeping. There was a lounge in the sitting-room, where one might rest very comfortably; Claudina stretched herself on it and almost immediately fell asleep, Mildred having chosen the first watch.

The latter established herself in the sickroom in an arm-chair by the bedside. She had brought a book, but the night lamp did not give sufficient light for reading.

The invalid slept fitfully, tossing, moaning, and sighing in her sleep, and still more during her moments of wakefulness.

Mildred had never felt wider awake, so strangely, fearfully solemn it seemed to sit there alone, waiting the coming of the angel of death to one who shuddered and shrank at his approach. Again and again while the dying woman slept her watcher knelt by the bedside and poured out fervent though silent petitions on her behalf. And for Charlie too; for her thoughts were full of him as well, and oh! at that moment it seemed a small matter that they might never meet on earth, could she only have the blessed assurance that eternity would unite them in another and better world.

"What's that you're doing?" asked the patient, waking suddenly. "Oh, I'm in awful distress! Rub me with some of that liniment, won't you?"

Mildred complied, doing her best to give relief to the physical suffering, and crying mightily in her heart to the Great Physician for the healing of the sin-sick soul.

Oh, the distress and anguish in those hollow, sunken eyes, and expressed in every lineament of the wasted features!

The bony hand clutched wildly at Mildred's dress and drew her down close, while the pale lips gasped, "I'm dying, and I'm not prepared! But I can't think—I'm too weak. I must wait till I get stronger."

"Oh no, no! come now to Jesus! He waits with open arms to receive you," cried Mildred, the tears coursing fast down her cheeks. "He died to save you, and he is able and willing to save to the uttermost all who come to him. Come now."

"Too late, too late! I'm too weak! I can't think! Don't talk to me any more."

Mildred's ear barely caught the faintly breathed words, and with the last the hollow eyes closed, whether in sleep she could not tell.

She found herself growing very weary, and the hands of the clock pointed to a half hour past the set time for her vigil. She stole softly into the next room, roused Claudina, and took her place.

Her last thought as she fell into a dreamless slumber was a prayer for the two for whom she had been so importunately pleading.

She had not slept more than a moment when a hand was laid on her shoulder, and Claudina's voice, trembling with fright, said, "Mildred, Mildred, O Mildred, she's gone!"

"Who?" she asked, starting up only half awake.

"Mrs. Martin. I was rubbing her, and she moaned out, 'I'm too weak. I can't think. I must wait till I'm stronger,' and with the last word turned her head, gasped once, and was gone."

Claudina shuddered and hid her face. "O Mildred," she whispered, "those words of our Saviour are ringing in my ears, 'What shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul?' As a girl her head was full of dress and beaux and having a good time; as a married woman—keeping the best table, the neatest house, and helping her husband to get on in the world. She had no time to think about her soul until sickness came, and then she said she was too weak, she must wait to grow stronger."

They clasped each other's hands and wept silently.

Presently there was a sound of some one moving about the kitchen. "The girl's up," said Claudina, rising from her kneeling posture beside the lounge. "I'll go and tell her, and she'll let Mr. Martin know. O, the poor, motherless baby!"

She left the room, and Mildred, starting up, saw through the crack at the side of the window-blind that the sun had risen and Mrs. Prior was at the door, come to inquire how the sick woman was.

Through the sweet morning air, pure and bracing after yesterday's showers, Mildred walked home, full of solemn, anxious thoughts: Charlie was a wanderer, she knew not whither, his absorbing desire and anxiety to retrieve his broken fortunes. "Oh that he would seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness!" Henceforward that should be the burden of her prayer for him, for herself, for all her dear ones.

Then her heart was filled with a great thankfulness for the spared lives of all these. Some of them had already made preparation for that last, long journey which, sooner or later, every son and daughter of Adam must take, and to the others time was still given.

[CHAPTER XII.]

"Awake in me a truer life,
A soul to labor and aspire!
Touch thou my mortal lips, O God!
With thine own truth's immortal fire."
Sara J. Clarke.

Yes, it was joy and gladness just to be alive this sweet spring morning. The swift-flowing river gleamed and sparkled in the sunlight; the forest trees on the farther side were touched with a tender yellow green; the grass along the wayside and in the dooryards was of a deeper, richer hue, and spangled thickly with violets and dandelions, and the peach and cherry trees in the gardens were in full bloom; the air was filled with fragrance, and with the twittering of birds, the ripple of the water, and other pleasant rural sounds.

The music of glad young voices came pleasantly to Mildred's ear as she reached her father's gate, and Fan and Annis, who had been stooping over the flower-beds, came bounding to meet her with a joyous greeting.

"How is mother?" was her first question.

"Well; she's downstairs in the sitting-room cutting out sewing work."

"Yes; she's sure to be busy," Mildred said, hurrying into the house, bidding good-morning, as she passed, to Ada, who was sweeping the front porch.

Every one was busy with a cheerful, energetic activity; Zillah preparing breakfast, while Celestia Ann put out her clothes to dry; Rupert milked the cow, and the younger boys fed the chickens.

"Mother! so early at work after your sickness yesterday," Mildred said in a tone of affectionate remonstrance as she entered the sitting-room.

"Yes, daughter dear, there is need, and I am quite able for it," Mrs. Keith answered, looking up with a cheery smile. "And you are not looking so worn and jaded as I feared to see you. Did you get some sleep? and how is the poor sick woman?"

"Yes, ma'am, I slept several hours, and am feeling pretty well. Mrs. Martin died about half an hour ago—very suddenly at the last. Claudina was with her. I was asleep."

Mildred's eyes filled and her voice was husky with emotion as she told of the solemn event.

A silent shake of the head was the only answer she could give to her mother's next question, whether the dying woman had given any evidence that she was putting her trust in Christ.

A look of sadness and pain came over the face of the Christian mother also, while her heart sent up a silent, fervent prayer on behalf of her dear ones, that each of them might be found at last hidden in the Rock of Ages.

"My dear child," she said to Mildred, "let us look upon this sad event as a solemn warning to us to be more faithful and constant in the work of striving to win souls to Christ; remembering that 'the night cometh, when no man can work.' Ah! can I be sure that I am utterly guiltless of the blood of this woman, to whom I never spoke one word of warning or entreaty?"

"Mother, don't blame yourself!" cried Mildred in almost indignant surprise. "You had not even a speaking acquaintance with her."

"But, my dear, I might have had. I could easily have found some excuse for calling upon her in her sickness, had I not allowed myself to be too much taken up with other cares and duties."

"But you can't do everything and take care of everybody," said Mildred with affectionate warmth; "and you are always at some good and useful work. It is I who ought to take the lesson to heart. And, God helping me, I will," she added, in low, earnest, trembling tones. "O mother, I feel this morning that the things of this world are as nothing compared with those of the next, and I want to show by my life that I do feel so! I want to spend it wholly in the Master's service, particularly in winning souls; for, oh! the awful thought of one being lost."

That these were no idle, lightly spoken words, was proven as days, weeks, and months rolled on, by the ever-growing consistency of Mildred's daily walk and conversation; her constant effort to bring her daily life into conformity to the divine precept, "Whether therefore ye eat or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God;" and that other, "As we have therefore opportunity, let us do good unto all men, especially unto them who are of the household of faith."

The members of the home-circle were the first to feel the change in Mildred. She could hardly have made herself more helpful than she had long been, but her cheerfulness was more uniform, and the younger ones found her more patient with their shortcomings, more ready with sympathy and help in their little trials and perplexities. They soon learned to carry them to her as readily as to their best and kindest of mothers. They thought their eldest sister very wise, and liked to consult her about their plans. This gave her many an opportunity to influence them for good, and very rarely was it neglected.

Spring was a very busy season with them all; within doors house-cleaning and a vast amount of sewing—so many new garments to be made, so many old ones to be renovated and altered to suit the increased stature of the growing lads and lasses; outside the gardening, the making everything neat and trim, and the care of the poultry.

Lessons were intermitted for two or three weeks, to give the older members of the family time for their unusual labors, while the children revelled in the delights of digging, planting, and sowing, looking after their sitting hens and tending their broods of little chicks. There was a great deal of healthful pleasure gotten out of the little plots of ground appropriated in severalty to Cyril, Don, Fan, and Annis, and hardly less from their fowls; besides, the young owners were learning habits of industry and thrift; also the enjoyment of being able to give to the Lord's cause of that which had cost them something.

A beggar was a thing almost unknown in the town, and there were very few people poor enough to be objects of charity; but it was nice, the children thought, to have something of their very own to put into the church or Sabbath-school collection, especially when it was to go to buy Bibles and pay for sending missionaries to the poor benighted heathen.

The cause of missions was dear to the hearts of the parents, and they were training their children to love and work for it.

Rupert was the principal gardener and manager of outdoor matters. He had full charge of the fruit and vegetable garden on his father's ground, and it flourished under his care. But not content with that, he had his own lot and Mildred's—which he undertook to cultivate upon shares—ploughed up, then sowed them with corn, potatoes and melons.

He had his mother's talent for system; and, making the best use of every spare moment, an early riser, industrious, energetic, and painstaking, he managed to do all this without neglecting the studies, in preparation for college, which he was still pursuing with Mr. Lord.

He even found time for setting out trees and shrubs, and digging up the flower-beds in the front and side yards; doing all the hard work needed there, then giving them into the care of his mother and the older girls, who contrived to spare to the pleasing task an occasional half hour morning and evening, finding it a rest from almost constant toil with the needle.

Cheerfully busy as Mildred was from morning to night, Charlie was seldom absent from her thoughts: she followed him in imagination through all his wanderings, the unbidden tears often springing to her eyes as she dwelt upon the loneliness and hardships he was doubtless called to endure; her only comfort that she might constantly plead for him with that almighty Friend who knew it all, and was ever near to both herself and her loved one.

She hoped, she prayed, that Charlie might be restored to her, with the barrier to their union removed; but most of all, that whether she should ever see him again on earth or not, he might inherit eternal life.

Her father and mother, Rupert, and Zillah were the only members of the family who knew anything of the matter; the others never so much as suspected that their bright, kind, helpful, sympathizing sister Milly was burdened with a secret sorrow or care.

Nor did she make a confidante of Claudina Chetwood, Lu Grange or Effie Prescott, though on intimate terms with all three.

Effie's health had improved since the Keiths first made her acquaintance, but she was still feeble and often ailing. She was a girl of fine mind, very fond of reading, and very thankful to these good neighbors for their kindness in lending her books and periodicals. And she greatly enjoyed a chat with Mrs. Keith or Mildred, for which the borrowing and returning afforded frequent occasion.

She came in one morning while they were hard at work over the pile of spring sewing.

"Good-morning, ladies. Don't let me disturb you," she said, as Zillah dropped her work and rose hastily to hand a chair. "I see you are very busy, and I came to ask if you would let me help. I should enjoy spending the morning chatting with you all, and might just as well work while I talk; and I have brought my thimble," taking it from her pocket as she spoke.

"That is a very kind offer, Miss Effie, and we will be glad to have you. Take yon easy-chair and chat with us as long as you will," Mrs. Keith said, with her pleasant smile; "but that, I think, will be quite sufficient exertion after your walk."

"Yes, indeed; you must get quite enough of sewing at home," said Zillah; "it takes so many, many stitches to make even one garment, and such lots of garments to clothe a family at all respectably."

"Yes," answered Effie in a sprightly tone, "but I am fond of my needle and can use it a good deal without injury. Mildred, I see you are working buttonholes—my especial pride and delight. Won't you hand that waist to me, and find something else to occupy your fingers?"

"Do you like to make them?" asked Mildred in a tone of genuine surprise. "It is my perfect detestation. Therefore I find myself sorely tempted to accept your generous offer."

Before Mildred's sentence was completed the work had exchanged hands, Effie taking playfully forcible possession.

"My dear girl, you have a real genius for the business!" Mildred exclaimed presently. "How rapidly and nicely you work them! two done in less time than I should take for one, without doing it half so well."

Effie's eyes sparkled. "Generous praise, Mildred," she said; "but you can well afford to allow me the credit of doing one little thing better than you do it."

"I dare say there may be many others in which you excel me."

"No, I don't believe there's any other; and oh, when I hear you play the piano I feel as if I'd give anything in the world if I could play even half as well."

"Would you like to take lessons?"

"Shouldn't I!" cried Effie, with emphasis. "But, dear me, there's no use thinking of it, as I'm not likely ever to have the chance."

"I'd rather give a music lesson any day than work buttonholes," remarked Mildred laughingly; "and oh, the quantities of them to be made in this family! Effie, why shouldn't we exchange work occasionally?—an hour of instruction on the piano for an hour's sewing? Don't you think it would do, mother?"

"Capitally, if you are mutually satisfied."

Effie's face was sparkling with delight. "Oh, do you really mean it?" she cried. "Why, I'd gladly give two hours' sewing for one of music lesson, and am sure it would be worth it."

"No," said Mildred, "I think not, considering what a swift and neat needlewoman you are."

"Not much worldly wisdom in either of you, I think, my dear girls," remarked Mrs. Keith with an amused smile.

"But there's a difficulty I had not thought of," said Effie. "I have no piano to practise on."

"You shall have the use of mine."

"Thank you. I gladly accept your kind offer if I may pay for that also with my needle."

Effie spent the day with her friends, and before leaving had come to an arrangement with Mildred perfectly satisfactory to both, and taken her first lesson.

Just at its close, before the two had left the piano, Claudina and Lu came in, and, hearing what Mildred had undertaken, earnestly begged that she would add them to her class.

"Father is very anxious for me to learn," said Claudina, "and was wondering, the other day, if it would do to ask you to take me as a scholar. He said you could set your own price; he'd willingly pay it; but as you have no need to make money for yourself he was afraid to propose it. Now, Milly dear, would you be offended? Of course we should feel that you were doing us a favor, even though you let us pay for it."

"No; I don't feel at all offended," Mildred said, laughing and blushing, "and I'd be glad to do anything in my power to gratify you, girls, or your fathers; but I really haven't time."

"Then I suppose we'll have to give it up," remarked Lu with a sigh; "but I do wish this town could afford a music teacher, for I've set my heart on learning to play."

"When spring house-cleaning and sewing are done you won't be so very busy, Milly," suggested Claudina.

"Yes, very nearly if not quite as busy as now, for then I take up my governessing again."

"You're the best sister and daughter I ever heard of," was Claudina's comment.

Tea was just over, and Mrs. Keith stepped out to the kitchen for a consultation with Celestia Ann on the all-important subject of the morrow's breakfast and dinner. Returning to the sitting-room, she found her three girls again plying their needles.