out of the fog a story of the sea c. k. ober introduction by dr. wilfred t. grenfell foreword since i am permitted to consider myself in some way responsible for this narrative's being put on record, it is with the very heartiest good will that i accept the publishers' kind invitation to write a brief foreword to it. i have, during twenty years, been working against a problem that i recognized called for all--yes, and more, than--i had to give it. for i have been endeavoring, through my own imperfect attainments, to translate into undeniable language on the labrador coast, the message of god's personal fatherhood over and love for the humblest of his creatures. during these years, often of overwork, i have considered it worth while to lay aside time and energy and strength to improve the charting and pilot directions of our devious and sometimes dangerous waterways. how much more gladly shall i naturally avail myself of any chance by which to contribute to the knowledge of that seemingly ever evasive pathway leading to that which to me is the supreme motive power of human life--faith in the divine redeemer and master. the best helps to reach the haven we are in search of, over the unblazed trails of labrador, are ever the tracks of those who have found the way before us. just such to me is this simple and delightful story of mr. ober's. it has my most hearty prayers for its unprecedented circulation. wilfred t. grenfell. [illustration] old salts the lure of the sea prevailed, and at nineteen i shipped for a four-months' fishing trip on the newfoundland banks. these banks are not the kind that slope toward some gentle stream where the weary fisherman can rest between bites, protected from the sun by the shade of an overhanging tree; they are thirty to forty fathoms beneath the surface of the atlantic ocean, a thousand miles out from the massachusetts coast. the life that had long appealed to my imagination now came in with a shock and a realism that was in part a disillusionment and in part an intense satisfaction of some of my primal instincts and cravings. old salts are more picturesque and companionable spinning yarns about the stove in a shoemaker's shop than they are when one is obliged to live, eat and sleep with them for four months in the crowded forecastle of a fishing schooner. an ocean storm is a sublime spectacle, witnessed from a position of safety on the land; but a storm on the ocean, experienced in its very vortex from the deck of a tiny fishing boat, is thrilling beyond description. "ships that pass in the night" make interesting reading; but if they pass near you, in a foggy night, on the banks, they are better than the muezzin of the moslem in reminding a man that it is time to pray. i recall with vividness the scene on such a night, and still feel the compelling power of the panic in the voice of the mild-mannered old sea dog on anchor watch, as he yelled down the companionway, "all hands on deck." in six seconds we were all there; and there was the great hulk of a two-thousand-ton ship looming up out of the night. she had evidently sighted our little craft just in time to change her course, and was passing us with not more than a hundred and fifty feet to spare. i can see them tonight, as they vanished into the fog--three men and a big newfoundland dog, looking over the rail and down on us who, a moment before, were about to die. storm, fog, icebergs, cold, exposure, the alert and strenuous life, with his own life the forfeit of failure, are a part of the normal experience of a deep sea fisherman. two members of our crew were father and son, uncle ike patch and his son, frank. the old man had been a fisherman in his youth, but had been on shore for thirty years. when we were making up our crew, frank caught the fishing fever and wanted to go, and his father decided to go along with him. they were out in their dory, one foggy day, and when the boats came back to the vessel from hauling their trawls, uncle ike and frank were missing. we rang the bell, fired our small cannon, shouted and sent boats out after them. as night came on, we were huddled together in the forecastle, wondering about their fate, while the old fishermen told stories of the fog and its fearful toll of human life. it seemed a terrible thing for the old man and his boy to be out there, drifting no one knew where; and though we were accustomed to danger, there was a gloomy crew and little sleep on our schooner that night. in the morning the weather cleared and soon our missing boat came alongside; we received them as men alive from the dead. they had found shelter on another fishing vessel that happened to be lying at anchor not more than two or three miles away. there was reason for our solicitude, for we knew very well that a large proportion of the men who get adrift in the fog are never found alive. shortly before this experience we had spoken a gloucester vessel and learned that her crew had picked up, a short time before, one of the boats of a provincetown schooner that had been adrift four days. one of the two men was dead and the other insane. each day brought its own dangers, which the fishermen met as part of the day's work, thinking little of them when they were past, and ready for whatever another day might bring. but four months is a long time to be out of sight of land, on a fresh fish and "salt hoss" diet, with molasses instead of sugar in your tea, and fresh water too much needed for drinking purposes to waste in personal ablutions. we all swore that we would never go to sea again; and when, after gliding into harbor in the night, we looked, one clear september morning, on the seemingly unnatural green of the grass and trees of the old north shore, i said to myself, "this is god's country, if there ever was one, and i, for one, will never get out of sight of it again." but i had tasted fog and brine, and the "landlubber's" lot was too monotonously tame for me. the next spring saw me on the deck of the same schooner headed for the newfoundland banks, the home of the codfish and the fog. a seafaring ancestry and a boyhood spent within sound of the surf doubtless had much to do with my love of the salt water. my grandfather was one of six brothers who were sea captains, and our family had clung to the north shore of massachusetts bay almost since the first white settler had moored his bark in that vicinity, more than two hundred years before. my boyhood home was originally a fishing town, since changed to manufacturing, and was fragrant with traditions of the sea. many of the neighborhood homes in which i visited as a boy had souvenirs of the ocean displayed on the mantelpiece or on the everlasting solitude of the parlor table. there were great conch shells that a boy could put to his ear and hear the surf roaring on the beaches from which they had been taken; articles made of sandalwood; curiously wrought things under glass; miniature pagodas; silk scarfs; bow-legged idols; and a wonderful model of the good ship dolphin, or of some other equally staunch craft, in which the breadwinner, father or son, had sailed on some eventful voyage. these had all been "brought from over sea," i was told, and this gave me the impression that "over sea" must be a very rich and interesting place. but the souvenirs of the sea were not as interesting to me as its survivors. we had in our town, and especially in our end of it, which was called "the cove," a choice assortment of old sea dogs who had sailed every sea, in every clime--had seen the world, in fact, and were not averse, under the stimulus of good listeners, to telling all they knew about it and sometimes a little more. scattered through the cove were many little shoemakers' shops, into which, especially in the long winter evenings, these old salts would drift. there around the little cylinder stove, with its leather-chip fire, leaking a fragrance the memory of which makes me homesick as i write about it, they would swap their stories of the sea, many of which had originally been based on fact. these old derelicts--and some of the younger seafaring men--were better than dime novels to us boys, for we could always question them and draw out another story. some of them were unconscious heroes who had often risked their lives for their comrades and the vessel owners; and for the support and comfort of their families no dangers or hardships had seemed too great to be undertaken or endured. we boys held these old salts in high esteem, and never forgot to give to each his appropriate title of "captain" or "skipper," as the case might be. we also occasionally had some fun with them. we never thought of any of them as bad men, though some of them, by their own testimony, had lived wild and reckless lives. one or two, according to persistent rumor, had carried out cargoes of new england rum and brought back shiploads of "black ivory" from the west coast of africa. not a few of them were picturesquely profane. old skipper tom bowman had a very original oath, "tender-eyed satan!" which he must have had copyrighted, as he was the only one that i ever heard use it. we boys would sometimes bait him, provoking him to exasperation, that we might hear it in all its original force and fervor. [illustration: old salts are more picturesque and companionable spinning yarns about the stove in a shoemaker's shop than when one is obliged to live, eat and sleep with them] we knew his habits well. he eked out a scanty sustenance by fishing off the shore and would frequently come in on the ebb tide and leave his boat half way up the beach, going home to dinner and returning when the flood tide had about reached his boat, to bring it up to its moorings. so one day we dug a "honey pot" by the side of his boat, at the very spot where we knew he would approach it, covered it over with dry seaweed and about the time he was due we were lying out of sight, but within earshot, behind the rocks. he drifted down, at peace with all the world, went in over the tops of his rubber boots, and then, for one blissful moment, we had our reward. some of these old salts were so thoroughly salted, being drenched with the brine of many stormy voyages, that they kept in good condition well beyond their allotted time of three score years and ten. some were of uncertain age, but were evidently well beyond the century mark, as proved by the aggregate time consumed on their many voyages, the stories of which they had reiterated with such convincing detail. one of these, captain sam morris, was patiently stalked by the boys through a long season of yarn spinning, careful tally being kept. when the tale was complete, the boys closed in on him. "how old are you, captain sam?" "oh, i dunno, i ain't kep' count." "are you seventy?" "i swan! i dunno." "well, you were on the old dove with skipper jimmie stone, weren't you?" "sartin." "you were on the constitution, when she fought the guerriere, weren't you?" how could he deny it? "well, weren't you with captain lovett on four of his three-year trading voyages to australia and china?" "course i was." "how about those trips 'round the horn, on the clipper ship 'mary jane' from '49 to '55?" "i was thar." they kept relentlessly on down the list, and then showed him the tally. allowing for infancy, an abbreviated boyhood on land, and the time they had known him since he had quit the sea, he was one hundred and thirty-five years old. the showing did not disconcert him, however. he was interested, but he had told those stories so often and had come to believe each of them so implicitly that he could not doubt them in the aggregate. he simply exclaimed: "well, i'll be darned! i feel like a young chap o' sixty." but while some of these old sailors liked to "spin yarns" and some had their frailties, they were, as a rule, strong characters, rugged, honest, courageous, unselfish--real men, in fact, whose sterling qualities stood out in strong contrast against the unreality of many timid and non-effective lives about them. it was not their romancing, but their reality, and the achieving power of their lives that appealed to me as a boy, and i was drawn to the kind of life that had helped to produce such men. then, too, the ocean itself, with its immensity, its mystery, its moods, the danger in it, and the man's work in mastering it, was almost irresistibly attractive to me. on graduating from high school i declined my father's offer to send me to college, thinking that the life i had in view did not require a college education. then he made me a very attractive business proposition, but it looked to me like slavery, and what i wanted most was freedom. my father and mother were both christians, but i had become skeptical, profane and reckless of public opinion. i had left home for a boarding house in the same town at eighteen, and at nineteen i had slipped the moorings and was heading out to sea. adrift my second trip to the banks was made in response to the same kind of impulse as that which drives the nomad out of his winter quarters in the springtime or brings the wild geese back to their summer feeding grounds. to one who really loves the ocean, the return to it after a period of exile on the land, is an indescribable satisfaction. there was at least one of our crew who experienced this emotion as our staunch little craft turned her nose to the blue water, and with all sail set and lee rail almost under water, leaped away from the petty restrictions of the shore into the practically limitless expanse of the atlantic. in a week we were on the fishing ground and sentiment gave way to business. our schooner was a trawler, equipped with six dories and a crew of fifteen, including the skipper, the cook, the boy and two men for each boat. each trawl had a thousand hooks, a strong ground line six thousand feet long, with a smaller line two and a half feet in length, with hook attached, at every fathom. these hooks were baited and the trawl was set each night. the six trawls stretched away from the vessel like the spokes from the hub of a wheel, the buoy marking the outer anchor of each trawl being over a mile away. i was captain of a dory this year, passing as a seasoned fisherman with my experience of the year before. my helper or "bow-man" was john hogan, a young irishman about my own age, red-headed, but green at the fishing business. john's mother kept a little oasis for thirsty neighbors, in a city adjacent to my home town, and his father was a man of unsteady habits. but john was a good fellow, active and willing, and, though he had not inherited a rugged constitution, he could pull a good steady stroke. soon after we reached the banks, a storm swept our decks and nearly carried away our boats. as a result, the dories, particularly my own, were severely strained and leaked badly. for two weeks, however, we had no fog, but on the morning of the second of june, just as we went over the schooner's side and shaped our course for our outer buoy, a bank of fog with an edge as perpendicular as the side of a house moved down on us like a great glacier, though much more rapidly, shutting us in and everything else out from sight. it was ugly and thick, as if all the fog factories from grand manan to labrador had been working overtime for the two weeks before and had sent their whole output in one consignment. we had just passed our inner buoy when the fog struck us, but we kept on for the outer buoy, as was customary in foggy weather, since it was safer to get that and pull in toward the vessel, rather than take the inner buoy, pull out, and find ourselves with a boatload of fish and ugly weather over a mile from the vessel. we had our bearings, i had often found the buoy in the fog and believed that we could do it again. we kept on rowing and knew when we had rowed far enough, though we had not counted the strokes; but we found nothing. "guess we have drifted too far to leeward; pull up to windward a little. that's strange, we must have passed it, this blamed fog is so thick. what's that over there?" we zigzagged back and forth for some time and then realized that we had missed it and must go back to the vessel and get our inner buoy. this seemed easy, but we found that it is as important to have a point of departure as it is to have a destination, and not knowing just where we were we could not head our boat to where the vessel was. we shouted, and listened, rowed this way and that way but not a sound came to us through the fog, although we knew that the boy must be at his post ringing the bell, so that the boats could hark their way back to the vessel. i learned afterward that the tide that morning was exceptionally strong. i had noted its direction and made allowance for it, before leaving the schooner, but we were where the gulf stream and the arctic current are not very far apart and the resulting tides are strong and changeable. we were in the grip of two great elemental and relentless forces, the impenetrable fog, cutting off all our communications, and the strong ocean current sweeping us away into the uninhabited waste of waters. from my experience of the year before, i knew what it meant to be lost in the fog on the banks, practically in mid-ocean; i understood that if the fog lasted for a week or ten days as it sometimes did, especially at that season of the year, it was a fight for our lives. i soon realized that we were lost and that the fight was on. we were certainly stripped for it, without impedimenta, no anchor, compass, provisions, water, no means of catching fish or fowl, and with rather light clothing, as we were dressed for work and not for protection against cold. but youth is optimistic and claims what is coming to it, with a margin for luck, and we started on our new voyage of discovery with good courage and a cheerful disregard of the hardships, dangers and possible death in the fog, with which and into which we were drifting. it would not be strictly accurate to say that we saw nothing during all the time we were adrift, but the things we saw were of the same stuff that the fog was made of. early in the first day i saw a sail dimly outlined in the misty air. i called john's attention to it with a shout, and he saw it too, but, as we rowed toward it, the sail retreated and then disappeared. we thought that this was strange, for the wind was not strong enough to take a vessel away from us faster than we could row, and we were near enough to make ourselves heard. soon, the sail appeared again, and again we shouted and rowed toward it, and again it glided away from us and disappeared, and again, and again, through the seemingly endless procession of the slow-moving hours of that first day, we chased the phantom ship. when night came on, there came with it a deepening sense of loneliness and isolation. the night was also very cold, the chill penetrated our thin clothing, and we were compelled to row the boat to keep ourselves, not warm, but a little less cold. the icebergs coming down on the arctic current hold the season back, and early june on the banks is much like april on the massachusetts coast. we tried to sleep lying down in the bottom of the boat with our heads in a trawl tub, but we were stiff with cold, the boat leaked badly, and it was necessary to get up frequently and bail out the water. the thought also that we might drift within sight or sound of a vessel, or within sight of a trawl buoy, made us afraid to sleep. the night finally wore away, the second day and night were like the first, the third like the first and second and the fourth day like another "cycle of cathay." these four days and nights were like solitary confinement to the prisoner, the grim monotony and lack of incident contributing to the cumulative effect and accentuating the sense of helplessness and isolation. there was nothing to relieve the situation. we were like an army lying in trenches in the face of the enemy, waiting for the enemy's move. the fourth night we were startled by the sound of the fog horn of a sailing vessel. the wind was blowing almost a gale. we listened to get the direction, then sprang to the oars and rowed hard to intercept her, shouting, listening, rowing with all our strength, and willing, if need be, to be run down, in the chance of being seen and rescued. the horn finally sounded so near that it seemed that we could almost see the vessel, and we felt sure that they could hear our call. but our hearts sank as the sounds grew fainter and soon we were alone again with the wind and fog. the fifth day we heard the whistle of an ocean steamship. "we can surely head this one off," we thought, but she quickly passed us, too far away to see or hear. it was a bitter disappointment as this floating hotel, full of warmth, food, water, shelter and companionship, for the lack of each and all of which we were perishing, rushed by, so near, yet unconscious and unheeding, in too great a hurry to stop and listen to our cry for help. i have thought of this since, as i have hurried along with the crowd in the street of a great city and wondered, if we stopped to listen, what cry might come to us out of the deep. the fifth night the sea was running high. we were drifting with a trawl tub fastened to the "painter" as a drag to keep the boat headed to the wind, when it began to rain. i spread my oil jacket to catch the water, and we waited until we could collect enough for a drink, watching the drops eagerly, as we had tasted neither food nor water since leaving the vessel five days before. just as we were about to drink, however, our boat shipped a sea, filling the oil jacket with salt water, and there was no more rain. every day we passed great flocks of sea fowl floating on the water, coming frequently almost within an oar's length, but always just out of reach. we were in worse condition than the ancient mariner, with food as well as water everywhere about us, and not a morsel or a drop to eat or drink. thirst is harder to endure than hunger, and yet hunger finally wakes up the wolf; and the time comes when even the thought of cannibalism can be entertained without horror. about this time john asked me, "well, what do you think?" "oh," i said, "i think that one of us will come out of it all right." he started, as if he thought that i had premature designs on him. "you need not be afraid," i said, "i'll not take advantage of you." he knew that i was the stronger and perhaps thought that if i felt as he did, his chances were very small. the sixth day, john seemed like a man overwhelmed with the horror of a situation that had gotten beyond his control. he cowered at the opposite end of the boat and had said nothing for a long time. finally he opened a conversation with a person of whose presence i had not been conscious. "jim," he said, "come, give me a piece." "jim who?" i asked. "piece of what? where is he?" "jim woodbury," he answered, "don't you see him? there he is, hiding under that oil jacket. he's been there over half an hour, eating pie, and he won't give me any." i tried to laugh him out of his delusion, but the thing was real to him. soon he jumped up and said: "i'm going on board; i'm tired of staying out here." "how will you get there?" i asked. "walk," he answered, "the water ain't deep," and he started to get overboard. i caught him and pulled him back into the boat, not any too soon, for if he had gone overboard, the sharks would probably have gotten him, for they were not very far away. every now and then i had seen their fins cutting the surface of the water, as they patrolled back and forth, waiting their time, or ours, as if they knew that it was only a question of time. soon john started again to get overboard. this time i punished him so severely that he did not try it again. after that, i had to keep my eye on him constantly. his ravings about food were not particularly soothing to my feelings, for i was as hungry as he, only not so demonstrative about it. the seventh day drifted slowly by and the fog still held us captive. for a week we had had no food, no water, and scarcely any sleep; having our boots on continuously stopped the circulation in our feet with the same effect as if they had been frozen; we were chilled to the bone; my boat mate was insane. since the whistle of the steamship had died away in the distance, two days before, no sound had come to us out of the fog but the voices of the wind and the swash of the waves. i knew the chart of the banks and had a general idea as to where we were. there is a great barren tract on the banks where few fish are found and fishermen seldom go, and we had drifted into this man-forsaken place. i had almost said "god-forsaken" too, but something began to shape itself in my mind about that time, that makes it difficult for me now to say this. rather, as i look back on our experience, i feel more like claiming fellowship with the "wanderer" who called the place of his hardship "bethel" because it was there, at the end of self and of favoring conditions, that he found god. the pilot i was near "the end of my rope"--i was not frightened, or discouraged; my mind was perfectly clear; i was not stampeded. of course, i had thought of god and of prayer, but i was a skeptic, as i supposed, and considered both not proven. but the steady contemplation of the probability of death, for seven successive days, under conditions that compelled candor, raised questions that skepticism could not answer, and gave to my questions answers that skepticism could not refute. there comes a time, under such conditions, when common sense asserts itself and sophistry fails to satisfy. since i made this discovery in my personal experience, i have learned that my case was not peculiar, but in keeping with a general law in human experience, long understood and admirably stated in the 107th psalm. such words as these have come "out of the depths" and it is sometimes necessary to go down into the depths to prove them to be true. "they wandered.... in a solitary way; they found no city to dwell in. hungry and thirsty, their soul fainted in them. then they cried unto the lord in their trouble, and he delivered them out of their distresses, and he led them forth by the right way, that they might go to a city of habitation.... such as sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, being bound in affliction and iron; because they rebelled against the words of god, and contemned the counsel of the most high: therefore he brought down their heart with labor; they fell down and there was none to help. then they cried unto the lord in their trouble, and he saved them out of their distresses. he brought them out of darkness and the shadow of death, and brake their bands in sunder..... they that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters; these see the works of the lord, and his wonders in the deep. for he commandeth, and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof. they mount up to the heaven, they go down again to the depths: their soul is melted because of trouble... they are at their wits' end. then they cry unto the lord in their trouble, and he bringeth them out of their distresses. he maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. then are they glad because they be quiet; so he bringeth them unto their desired haven." i had drifted into the "secret place," the door was shut, and it was the right time and place for me to pray. i saw that my life had been a failure, that i was absolutely worthless, and that, if death came then, there was not one good thing that i had ever done that would survive. in fact, i could think of nothing in my life that was worth remembering. i was not so much concerned about my own salvation as for another chance to live and to do an unselfish work in the world. and so i did what i thought then (and think still) was the only sane thing to do, i signaled for the pilot. that night the rain came. i spread my oil jacket and caught an abundance of water of which we drank deeply. with this refreshment came new hope and new courage for the final struggle, if safety could be gained that way. i reviewed the situation and considered one by one the possible courses we might take. we seemed to be shut in to three things. the first possibility was to row to land; but the nearest land, the newfoundland coast, was nearly three hundred miles away, and i decided that we did not have the time or the strength to reach it. the second possibility was to be picked up by a passing vessel; but this did not look encouraging, for two had already passed us. the third and last hope was to find a fishing vessel at anchor, and within a reasonable distance. this last possibility seemed almost probable. but _how_ probable? possibly within ten miles, probably within twenty-five, certainly within _fifty_, some fishermen were plying their trade, but _where_? there are thirty-two points of the compass, and by deviating one point at the center, a distance of fifty miles would bring us ten miles out of the way at the circumference. we could row fifty miles, but we cannot take chances. yet there is a snug little fishing craft out there on the rim of the circle, waiting for us to find her! but _which way_ shall we go? i finally decided that this was a problem for the pilot, and i left it with him, satisfied that he understood his business and that if he had any orders for me, he knew how to communicate them. the eighth day came, and with it came an impulse to row the boat in a certain direction. this impulse was not unlike the thousands that had come to me before. there was nothing about it to indicate that its source was any higher than my own imagination. if this was a voice from above the fog, it was certainly a still, small one. it was unheeded at first, not unrecognized. reason said that to conserve our strength we should sit still and wait for the lifting of the fog. fear whispered that if i obeyed the impulse, we might be rowing directly away from safety. but the impulse persisted and prevailed. "get up, john," i said, "we have a day's work ahead of us. we are going to row off in this direction." john responded automatically, fear acting in place of reason, but he was soon exhausted and lay down again. i kept on, however, resting now and then, and returning to the oars with the thought that fifty miles was a long distance and that we had a very small margin of time to our credit. our course was with the wind, and nature worked with us all that eighth day and on into the night, as the pressure on me drove us toward our goal. about the middle of the eighth night i realized that i had reached the limit of my fighting strength. john was in worse condition than i, for i still had hope, but my hope was not in myself. then i talked the situation over with the pilot. we had nowhere else to go; we had come as far as we could; our time was nearly up--what of the night? and what of the morning? john was asleep; the world was a long way off: the sea and the mist seemed to have rolled over us and to have buried us ten thousand fathoms deep. but "out of the depths i cried," and i found the communication open. between midnight and dawn the fog lifted and from the overhanging clouds the rain fell gently through the remainder of the night. john lay in his end of the boat, but i sat watching. finally, as if in response to some secret signal, the darkness began its inevitable retreat and, as the night horizon receded, out of the gray of the morning, growing more and more distinct as the shadows fell away, appeared a dark object less than two miles distant, nebulous at first, then unmistakable in its character. it was a solitary fishing vessel lying at anchor, toward which we had been rowing and drifting unerringly all through the night and the day before. there it was! only a clumsy old fisherman, but it was the best thing in all the world to us, and it was anchored and could not get away! i do not recall the experience of any tumultuous emotion as this messenger of hope appeared on our horizon, but we knew that we were safe. how easy it is to write this simple word of four letters! but, to realize it, one must have a background of despair. since that morning, the words "safe," "safety," "salvation," have always come to me freighted with reality. it is doubtful if any of the vessel's crew had seen our boat, as it was scarcely daylight and such a small object lying close to the water would not be readily discernible. i had thought, a few hours before, that my strength was entirely exhausted, but the sight of the vessel called out a reserve sufficient for the final effort. as i slowly brought our boat alongside, some of the crew were in evidence, getting ready for their day's work, and they seemed perplexed to account for our early morning call. but, when we came close to the vessel, our emaciated appearance evidently told the main outlines of our story. they called to the others in a foreign tongue and the whole crew crowded to the rail. one strong fellow jumped into our boat and lifted john up while others reached down to help. then, with their assistance, i tumbled on board, stiff with cold and with feet like stone. they gave us brandy and took us to the warm cabin where breakfast was being prepared and it is difficult to say which was more grateful, the smell of food or the warmth of the fire. john was put into the captain's bunk. it was a good exchange for he was not far from "davy jones' locker." we had been on board only a few hours when the fog rolled back again and continued for some time afterward. the vessel was a french fishing brig from the island of st. malo in the english channel. none of the crew understood english and neither of us could speak french, but they understood the language of distress and kindness needs no interpreter. the captain showed me a calendar and pointed to the tenth of june, and when i pointed to the second he evidently found it hard to believe me, but john's condition helped to corroborate my statement. they let us eat as much as we wished, but nature protected us, for the process of eating was so painful at first that i felt like a sword swallower who had partaken too freely of his favorite dish. fortunately, also, our hosts were living the simple life. their menu consisted chiefly of sliced bread over which had been poured the broth of fish cooked in water and light wine, the same fish cooked in oil as a second course, bread and hardtack, and an occasional dish of beans, which seemed to be regarded by them as a luxury. they had an abundance of beer and light wine and in the morning before going to haul their trawls, coffee was served with brandy. cooking was done on a brick platform, or fireplace, in the cabin, and the captain, the mate and all hands sat around one large dish placed on the cabin floor and each helped himself with his own spoon. a loaf of bread was passed around, each cutting off a slice with his own sheath knife. but notwithstanding simple food, frugal meals and primitive conditions, the hospitality was genuine and against the background of our recent hunger, thirst and general wretchedness, the place was heaven and our hosts were angels in thin disguise. in about ten days we were brought into st. pierre, the french fishing town on the small rocky island of miquelon, off the newfoundland coast, the depot of the french fishing fleet and the only remaining foothold for the french of the vast empire once held by them between the north atlantic and the mississippi valley. the american consul took us in charge, sending us to a sailors' boarding house and giving each of us a change of clothing. in another week we were sent on by steamer to halifax, consigned to the american consul at that port. there john's feet proved to be in such bad condition that it was necessary to send him to the hospital, and, as gangrene had set in, a portion of each foot was amputated. he was "queer" for several weeks, but, with returning physical health, gradually recovered his mental equilibrium. after a few days in halifax, i was sent on by steamer to boston, bringing the first news of either our loss or our rescue. on reaching my home town i did not go to a boarding house; there was plenty of room for me in the home and i was contented to stay there for a while. the old salts received me as a long-lost brother, and while the official notice was never handed me, i was made to feel that somewhere in their inner consciousness i had been elected a regular member of the amalgamated society of sea dogs, and was entitled to an inside seat, if i could find one, about the stove of any shoemaker's shop in the cove. the banks were revisited in memory, and all the old fog experiences were brought out, amplified and elongated as far as possible, but it was conceded that we had established a new record in the nautical traditions of the cove. it took several years for me to inch my way back to physical solvency from the effects of my exposure, and this delayed the carrying out of my plans, to which my fishing trips had been a prelude. the strange thing that i now have to record is that i soon forgot, or willfully ignored, my whole experience of god, prayer and deliverance, and became apparently more skeptical and indifferent than before. the only way i can explain this is that i had not become a christian, and my dominant mental attitude reasserted itself when danger was past. i practically never attended church. my position and influence, however, were not merely negative; i was positively antagonistic to christianity, and this attitude continued up to the april following. [illustration: dave lived in a beautiful old place near the shore and i had been in the habit of spending many of my sundays with him] but while i forgot, i was not forgotten. god had begun a work in me, the continuation and completion of which waited on my willingness to cooperate, and the most powerful force in the world, that of believing and persistent prayer, was being released in my behalf. my mother was a woman of remarkable christian character, with rare qualities of mind and heart, knowledge and love of the scriptures, and a deep and genuine prayer life. notwithstanding my lack of sympathy with her in the things most fundamental, she had confidence that the tide would turn with me. her confidence, however, was not based on me. she knew the lord and understood that it was not the sheep that went out after the shepherd who was lost until it found him. so she kept a well-worn path to the place of prayer. she was wise and said little to me on the subject, but i knew her life and what it was for which she was most deeply solicitous. she had taught me from the bible as a boy, and many a cold winter night, though weary with a day filled with household cares, she had come to my room and "tucked me in" with prayer. my attitude toward christianity in the winter following my second fishing trip on the newfoundland banks was different from that of the year before. then i had been a skeptic, as i assumed, and declined responsibility for what to me was unknown and seemed to be unknowable. but, in the meantime, something had happened that had lifted this whole question with me from the realm of speculation to that of experience. the pilot's response to my signal might, for the time, be ignored, but it could not be forgotten. but, by deliberately putting aside my convictions of god, prayer and deliverance, treating them as if they had no existence in fact, i had introduced an element of distrust of my own mental processes. the will had taken the place of judgment, and the result was confusion; i was in the fog. i never attended prayer meeting, but one sunday night i was passing the chapel where such a meeting was being held. i had been there with my mother, as a boy, and while the meetings were "slow," they were pervaded with a true devotional spirit and a something real, though to me intangible and difficult to describe. whether i was influenced by the memory of these boyhood glimpses into the spiritual world, or by the spirit of the scoffer and the cynic possessing me at that time, or by the still small voice that had pointed the way to safety only a few months before, i never fully knew, but i went in. the room was filled with people and a meeting was in progress, during which two men, old neighbors, whose lives i knew well, told the story of their recent conversion. one was skipper andrew woodbury, a man of blameless life, but who had lived sixty-five years without religion. the other was my uncle by marriage, twenty years my senior, a close personal friend and familiarly called "dave." i had been in the habit of spending many of my sundays with him, as he was a non-church goer, companionable, genuine and open-hearted as the day. it was evident that he had found something that he wanted to share with his friends, and while i made light of it at the time, his testimony made a profound impression on me. toward the close of the meeting the leader gave the invitation to those "who want to become christians" to rise. no one stood up. then he came within closer range and invited those "who would like to become christians," but still no one responded. i was becoming interested and was almost disappointed when no one answered to this second invitation. then he put up the proposition to those "who _have no objections_ to becoming christians." "he will get a lot of them on this call," i said to myself, but to my surprise, no one stirred. "well," i thought, "this is too bad, but why couldn't i help him out? i have no objections to becoming a christian," and i stood up. i slipped out of the meeting ahead of the crowd, but in my room that night before i went to bed, i found myself on my knees, trying to pray. i did not succeed very well. "oh, what's the use?" i said, "there's nothing in it." but i lay awake far into the night, thinking, feeling the beating of my heart, wondering what kept it going and "what if it should stop suddenly?" but in less than a day these impressions had passed. i laughed them off and kept on in my own way. for six weeks i steered clear of dave, but i did not want to lose his friendship, and then, too, i was rather curious to find out what, if anything, he had really discovered. so, one sunday morning in early april, i drifted down to his home, as i had done so many times before. i stopped at my father's house on the way, and after a short visit, went on to dave's. it was a pleasant morning, and i left my overcoat at home, as i had but a short distance to go. dave lived in a beautiful old farmhouse near the shore, overlooking the harbor, and our sunday program had been walking along the beach, or sitting around the house smoking, eating apples, drinking cider and killing time in the most unconventional way possible. "it's too bad," i thought, "that dave has got religion, it spoils all our good times"; but i was hoping to find him less strenuous on the subject than when i had heard him in the chapel six weeks before. but dave's conversion was so genuine and his enthusiasm so real that it was impossible for me entirely to resist and beat back the impact of his testimony. i concealed my impressions, however, and told him that no doubt he needed it, it was probably a good thing for him, i wouldn't say a word to discourage him, but as for me, i did not need that kind of medicine. he urged me to go to church with him, but i declined his invitation so positively that he did not renew it. "i'll walk along with you as far as the corner," i said, but when we came to the point of parting an impulse came to me to go with him. "walk slow, dave," i said, "i'll go in and get my coat and go to church with you." we were both surprised, he, because he had given up all hope of my going with him, and i, because ten seconds before i had no thought of going. i have often thought of it since, and never without a sense of profound thankfulness for the impulse that came to me that bright sunday morning, at the parting of the ways. i went with dave to church that morning, came back and spent the afternoon with him and went with him again to the evening service, after which i remained for personal conversation. dave had exhausted his ammunition, but the man who talked with me had been practicing the christian life for twenty-five years and was a man of fine personality, culture and business experience. he knew the gospel and also knew human nature, and mine in particular, while i knew that he was genuine. "charlie," he said, "don't you think it is time for you to be a christian?" "no," i answered, "i can't be a hypocrite; i can't pretend to believe what i don't believe." "what is there that you can't believe?" "well, there is the bible, for instance." "don't you believe the bible?" "about as i believe robinson crusoe." "do you think the trouble is with the bible, or with yourself? don't you think that, if you had faith, as a christian man, the bible would be a different book to you?" "that looks easy; of course, if i had faith i would be just as you are. but how can a man believe what he does not believe?" "did you ever hear about prayer?" "yes, i have heard something about it." "don't you think that there is something in it?" "yes, i am inclined to think there is." (i could not honestly deny it in the light of my experience.) "well, don't you think that if you were to pray to god for faith, god would give it to you?" this question touched the spring of memory, and conscience showed me what it thought of me. i was ashamed of my littleness and of my unscientific attitude of mind in wilfully ignoring the greatest facts of my experience, and i was also ashamed of my ingratitude. and so, in an unguarded moment, that is, in a moment when my will was off its guard and my judgment asserted its right to be heard, i gave my answer to the question and the answer was, "yes, i believe that he would." and then came the question, "won't you do it?" this question precipitated the fight of my life. i do not remember how long my friend waited for my answer, but judging from the struggle in my mind, it must have been a long time. what would it mean for me to answer this question in the affirmative? first, it would mean the sacrifice of my independence; next, it would mean fellowship with a lot of so-called christians, whose christianity was not of a manly type; third, it would mean a step in the dark, and this seemed to me to be unreasonable. on the other hand, it might mean the winning of something better than that which i called independence; it might also mean fellowship with the really great characters of the christian church, and these men had always appeared very attractive to me. with this last thought came the question, how did these men live the victorious life? and it was clear to me that they lived it by faith. then came the thought, how did they begin to have faith? and it seemed to me that this step in the dark, which i hesitated to take, was probably the very step by which these great men had passed from a life of unbelief to their victory of faith. this last thought came as a revelation. it had always seemed to me that faith was an experience of the emotions or a satisfying of the intellect, and that one might _obtain_ faith by the _initiative of the will_ was a new idea to me. if this was true, the step in the dark was not unreasonable but scientific and psychological. i was certainly in the dark then. it could be no darker if i went forward in the path to which my friend invited me. i decided therefore to take the step and to pray for faith, hoping that in the process i should find a christian experience. and so i answered, "yes, i'll do it." my friend prayed with me and then i prayed, but all that i could say was "lord, show me the way." i was not conscious of any special interest, i had simply willed to pray and wanted to believe. i had won the fight with myself, however, to the extent of getting the consent of my will to pray and to trust, but i realized that the battle with myself was only begun and i knew also that i had another fight ahead of me, or a series of them, with the conditions that hemmed me in and seemed to make the christian life impracticable. one of these adverse conditions was my relations with the men in my boarding house. how could i go back and tell them that i had decided to do the thing that i had ridiculed and scoffed at in their presence? of course this was pure cowardice; i was afraid of their ridicule. but the break was made easier for me than i feared it would be. i found on entering the smoking room of the boarding house, that "uncle dick moss," a rank spiritualist, had the floor. he was on his high horse and was charging up and down the room in the midst of a bitter and blatant ingersollian tirade against christianity and the bible. the crowd was cheering him on. the day before, this probably would have amused me and i might have followed him, supporting his arguments, or rather assertions--there were no arguments. but during the twelve hours that had just passed i had been facing realities and uncle dick's exhibition disgusted me. so when he had quieted down, i decided that it was time for me to run up my colors. if the break had to come, it had better come then. "uncle dick," i said, "you have been talking about something that you don't know anything about. here you are swallowing spiritualism, hook, bob and sinker, and having trouble with the bible and the only religion that can do the business that we need to have done. the trouble with you is that you are afraid that the bible will upset your spiritualism, and you don't dare to investigate the bible and stand by the result of your investigation. i'm tired of this whole business, and i have made up my mind to investigate the bible and, if it is what i think it is, to try to live by it. i am going to be a christian." a shout and a laugh went up. i was called "deacon," and it was suggested that i lead in prayer or at least make a few remarks. but i had said enough to put myself on record and it was hardly to be expected that they would take me seriously on such short notice. when it came time to go to bed i felt that in order not to be misunderstood i must pray in the presence of my roommate. he was a cynic and a nothingarian and i felt sure that he would neither understand nor appreciate it. it was hard to bring it about, as he kept on talking in a way that seemed to give me no opportunity to turn the subject naturally. i was tempted to let it pass, but felt that, if i did, it would be fatal to my new-formed purpose. so finally, in almost an agony of awkwardness, i blurted out, "jim, i don't care what you think about it, i'm going to pray." jim proved to be entirely mild and agreeable about it, however, and gave me his blessing in a patronizing sort of a way. the next day i burned my bridges behind me by packing my trunk and going home. up to this time i was conscious of nothing unusual. what things had taken place i had done myself and it had been entirely within my own option and power to do or not to do them. i had received the testimony of at least four witnesses of the fact of conversion and the reality of the christian life; i had relaxed the opposition of my will and given my judgment a chance to act; i had taken advice from experience; i had prayed; i had turned my face toward the christian life; i had cut loose from conditions unfriendly to christian experience, and i was trying to be a christian. but i was still in the fog. for the next three days i worked very hard trying to be a christian. i attended a meeting each night, rose for prayer, prayed, did everything i was told to do, and as much more as i could think of. the burden of my prayer and of my requests for prayer was that i might have faith. i wanted to get something that i thought every christian had, or must have in order to be a christian, and so far as i knew, i was willing to pay the price. but nothing resulted, except the natural weariness from my own exertions. i was still in the fog. the fifth day was "fast day," a good old new england institution, with a prayer meeting in the morning, which i attended and at which i rose for prayer. in the afternoon was a union service, with a civic or semi-religious topic, but i attended it, as i did not want anything to get by me that might contribute to the solution of my problem. there was scarcely anything about the service that was calculated to make a spiritual impression. the address was poor, as also was the music. i tried to follow the argument, but finally gave it up and began to think about that which had been uppermost in my mind for the five days past. the thing baffled me; the object of my quest had eluded my every effort to grasp it. the experience of the five days was new, but it contained nothing but that which could be accounted for by purely natural causes. i reviewed the whole period to see if i had left out any essential part of the formula. was it possible that my skepticism had been well founded, that there was nothing in the so-called "christian experience" after all? it was about four o'clock in the afternoon of the fifth day since i had set my face toward the christian life and i was still in the fog. but i was weary with the effort, and as i thought it over, i said to myself "what are you trying to do?" and the answer was, "i am trying to be a christian." then it dawned upon me that _trying_ was not _trusting_; that, if i succeeded in my effort, i should have only a self-made product and not the religion of the bible and that it was unreasonable for me to expect the results of faith before exercising faith itself. i was stumbling at the very simplicity of faith. i was working to win what god was waiting to give, while my latent faculty of faith, the greatest asset in personality, was lying worthless through disuse. i thought of my experience on the ocean, when finally, helpless to help myself, i had left my whole problem with the pilot and he had taken command and brought us through to safety, and so i deliberately gave up the struggle and said to myself, "it is right for me to serve god and to live for him, and i will do it whether i have what they call an 'experience' or not." and, having settled the question, i dismissed it and waited for instructions. [illustration: it came as quietly as the daylight comes when the night is done] and then something happened, for, from without, surprising me with its presence, like the discovery of a welcome but unexpected guest, there came into my life a deep, great, overflowing peace. i had never known it before, and therefore i could not by any possibility have imagined it; but, i recognized it as something from god. it was not sensational, it came quietly; as quietly "as the daylight comes when the night is done." it was not emotional, unless it was in itself an emotion. but emotions are transient and this had come to stay. with the peace, there came also something that seemed to be a reinforcement of my life principle, an achieving power, a disposition to dare and an ability to do that which hitherto had seemed impossible; and the petty pessimism of the past gave way before this new consciousness. with this deep incoming tide of peace and power came a clearing of the mental atmosphere, and i saw that the fog had lifted. when i saw this, i said to myself quietly, "i think i am a christian," and almost immediately added, "i am a christian!" the fog had passed, and the drifting was over; i had come within sight of land. what land it was i did not then know, but it proved to be a new world. how great it is i do not yet fully understand, but i have been exploring it thirty years and i think it is a continent. transcribed from the alexander hislop & company edition by david price, email ccx074@pglaf.org the dairyman's daughter. by legh richmond. author of "the annals of the poor," etc. edinburgh: alexander hislop & company. edinburgh: printed by schenck and m'farlane, st james square. chapter i. it is a delightful employment to discover and trace the operations of divine grace, as they are manifested in the dispositions and lives of god's real children. it is peculiarly gratifying to observe how frequently, among the poorer classes of mankind, the sunshine of mercy beams upon the heart, and bears witness to the image of christ which the spirit of god has impressed thereupon. among such, the sincerity and simplicity of the christian character appear unencumbered by those obstacles to spirituality of mind and conversation, which too often prove a great hindrance to those who live in the higher ranks. many are the difficulties which riches, worldly consequence, high connexions, and the luxuriant refinements of polished society, throw in the way of religious profession. happy indeed it is (and some such happy instances i know), where grace has so strikingly supported its conflict with natural pride, self-importance, the allurements of luxury, ease, and worldly opinion, that the noble and mighty appear adorned with genuine poverty of spirit, self-denial, humble-mindedness, and deep spirituality of heart. but in general, if we want to see religion in its most simple and pure character, we must look for it among the poor of this world, who are rich in faith. how often is the poor man's cottage the palace of god! many can truly declare, that they have there learned the most valuable lessons of faith and hope, and there witnessed the most striking demonstrations of the wisdom, power, and goodness of god. the character which the present narrative is designed to introduce to the notice of my readers, is given _from real life and circumstance_. i first became acquainted with her by receiving the following letter, which i transcribe from the original now before me:- "rev. sir, "i take the liberty to write to you. pray excuse me, for i have never spoken to you. but i once heard you when you preached at --church. i believe you are a faithful preacher, to warn sinners to flee from the wrath that will be revealed against all those that live in sin, and die impenitent. pray go on in the strength of the lord. and may he bless you, and crown your labour of love with success, and give you souls for your hire. "the lord has promised to be with those whom he calls and sends forth to preach his word to the end of time: for without him we can do nothing. i was much rejoiced to hear of those marks of love and affection to that poor soldier of the s. d. militia. surely the love of christ sent you to that poor man! may that love ever dwell richly in you by faith! may it constrain you to seek the wandering souls of men with the fervent desire to spend and be spent for his glory! may the unction of the holy spirit attend the word spoken by you with power, and convey deep conviction to the hearts of your hearers! may many of them experience the divine change of being made new creatures in christ! "sir, be fervent in prayer with god for the conviction and conversion of sinners. his power is great, and who can withstand it? he has promised to answer the prayer of faith, that is put up in his son's name: 'ask what ye will, it shall be granted you.' how this should strengthen our faith, when we are taught by the word and the spirit how to pray! o that sweet inspiring hope! how it lifts up the fainting spirits, when we look over the precious promises of god! what a mercy if we know christ, and the power of his resurrection in our own hearts! through faith in christ we rejoice in hope, and look in expectation of that time drawing near, when all shall know and fear the lord, and when a nation shall be born in a day. "what a happy time when christ's kingdom shall come! then shall 'his will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.' men shall be daily fed with the manna of his love, and delight themselves in the lord all the day long. then, what a paradise below they will enjoy! how it animates and enlivens my soul with vigour to pursue the ways of god, that i may even now bear some humble part in giving glory to god and the lamb! "sir, i began to write this on sunday, being detained from attending on public worship. my dear and only sister, living as a servant with mrs ---, was so ill that i came here to attend in her place and on her. but now she is no more. "i was going to intreat you to write to her in answer to this, she being convinced of the evil of her past life, and that she had not walked in the ways of god, nor sought to please him. but she earnestly desired to do so. this makes me have a comfortable hope that she is gone to glory, and that she is now joining in sweet concert with the angelic host in heaven to sing the wonders of redeeming love. i hope i may now write, 'blessed are the dead which die in the lord.' "she expressed a desire to receive the lord's supper, and commemorate his precious death and sufferings. i told her, as well as i was able, what it was to receive christ into her heart; but as her weakness of body increased, she did not mention it again. she seemed quite resigned before she died. i do hope she is gone from a world of death and sin, to be with god for ever. "sir, i hope you will not be offended with me, a poor ignorant person, to take such a liberty as to write to you. but i trust, as you are called to instruct sinners in the ways of god, you will bear with me, and be so kind to answer this wrote letter, and give me some instructions. it is my heart's desire to have the mind that was in christ, that when i awake up in his likeness, then i may be satisfied. "my sister expressed a wish that you might bury her. the minister of our parish, whither she will be carried, cannot come. she will lie at ---. she died on tuesday morning, and will be buried on friday, or saturday (whichever is most convenient to you), at three o'clock in the afternoon. please to send an answer by the bearer, to let me know whether you can comply with this request, "from your unworthy servant, "elizabeth w---." i was much struck with the simple and earnest strain of devotion which this letter breathed. it was but indifferently written and spelt; but this rather tended to endear the hitherto unknown writer, as it seemed characteristic of the union of humbleness of station with eminence of piety. i felt quite thankful that i was favoured with a correspondent of this description; the more so, as such characters were at this time very rare in the neighbourhood. i have often wished that epistolary intercourse of this kind was more encouraged and practised among us. i have the greatest reason to speak well of its effect, both on myself and others. communication by letter as well as by conversation with the pious poor, has often been the instrument of animating and reviving my own heart in the midst of duty, and of giving me the most profitable information for the general conduct of the ministerial office. as soon as the letter was read, i inquired who was the bearer of it. "he is waiting at the outside of the gate, sir," was the reply. i went out to speak to him, and saw a venerable old man, whose long hoary hair and deeply-wrinkled countenance commanded more than common respect. he was resting his arm upon the gate, and tears were streaming down his cheeks. on my approach he made a low bow, and said: "sir, i have brought you a letter from my daughter; but i fear you will think us very bold in asking you to take so much trouble." "by no means," i replied; "i shall be truly glad to oblige you and any of your family in this matter, provided it be quite agreeable to the minister of your parish." "sir, he told me yesterday that he should be very glad if i could procure some gentleman to come and bury my poor child for him, as he lives five miles off, and has particular business on that day. so, when i told my daughter, she asked me to come to you, sir, and bring that letter, which would explain the matter." i desired him to come into the house, and then said: "what is your occupation?" "sir, i have lived most of my days in a little cottage at ---, six miles from here. i have rented a few acres of ground, and kept some cows, which, in addition to my day-labour, has been the means of supporting and bringing up my family." "what family have you?" "a wife, now getting very aged and helpless, two sons and one daughter; for my other poor dear child is just departed out of this wicked world." "i hope for a better." "i hope so, too, poor thing. she did not use to take to such good ways as her sister; but i do believe that her sister's manner of talking with her before she died, was the means of saving her soul. what a mercy it is to have such a child as mine is! i never thought about my own soul seriously till she, poor girl, begged and prayed me to flee from the wrath to come." "how old are you?" "near seventy, and my wife is older; we are getting old, and almost past our labour, but our daughter has left a good place, where she lived in service, on purpose to come home and take care of us and our little dairy. and a dear, dutiful, affectionate girl she is." "was she always so?" "no, sir: when she was very young, she was all for the world, and pleasure, and dress, and company. indeed, we were all very ignorant, and thought if we took care for this life, and wronged nobody, we should be sure to go to heaven at last. my daughters were both wilful, and, like ourselves, strangers to the ways of god and the word of his grace. but the eldest of them went out to service, and some years ago she heard a sermon at --church, by a gentleman that was going to ---, as chaplain to the colony; and from that time she seemed quite another creature. she began to read the bible, and became sober and steady. the first time she returned home afterwards to see us, she brought us a guinea which she had saved from her wages, and said, as we were getting old, she was sure we should want help; adding, that she did not wish to spend it in fine clothes, as she used to do, only to feed pride and vanity. she said she would rather show gratitude to her dear father and mother, because christ had shown such mercy to her. "we wondered to hear her talk, and took great delight in her company; for her temper and behaviour were so humble and kind, she seemed so desirous to do us good both in soul and body, and was so different from what we had ever seen before, that, careless and ignorant as we had been, we began to think there must be something real in religion, or it never could alter a person so much in a little time. "her youngest sister, poor soul! used to laugh and ridicule her at that time, and said her head was turned with her new ways. 'no, sister,' she would say; 'not my _head_, but i hope my _heart_ is turned from the love of sin to the love of god. i wish you may one day see, as i do, the danger and vanity of your present condition.' "her poor sister would reply, 'i do not want to hear any of your preaching; i am no worse than other people, and that is enough for me.' "'well, sister,' elizabeth would say, 'if you will not hear me, you cannot hinder me from praying for you, which i do with all my heart.' "and now, sir, i believe those prayers are answered. for when her sister was taken ill, elizabeth went to mrs ---'s to wait in her place, and take care of her. she said a great deal to her about her soul, and the poor girl began to be so deeply affected, and sensible of her past sin, and so thankful for her sister's kind behaviour, that it gave her great hopes indeed for her sake. when my wife and i went to see her, as she lay sick, she told us how grieved and ashamed she was of her past life, but said she had a hope through grace that her sister's saviour would be her saviour too; for she saw her own sinfulness, felt her own helplessness, and only wished to cast herself upon christ as her hope and salvation. "and now, sir, she is gone; and i hope and think her sister's prayers for her conversion to god have been answered. the lord grant the same for her poor father and mother's sake likewise!" this conversation was a very pleasing commentary upon the letter which i had received, and made me anxious both to comply with the request, and to become acquainted with the writer. i promised the good dairyman to attend on the friday at the appointed hour; and after some more conversation respecting his own state of mind under the present trial, he went away. he was a reverend old man; his furrowed cheeks, white locks, weeping eyes, bent shoulders, and feeble gait, were characteristic of the aged pilgrim. as he slowly walked onwards, supported by a stick which seemed to have been the companion of many a long year, a train of reflections occurred, which i retrace with pleasure and emotion. at the appointed hour i arrived at the church, and after a little while was summoned to the churchyard gate to meet the funeral procession. the aged parents, the elder brother, and the sister, with other relatives, formed an affecting group. i was struck with the humble, pious, and pleasing countenance of the young woman from whom i had received the letter. it bore the marks of great seriousness without affectation, and of much serenity mingled with a glow of devotion. a circumstance occurred during the reading of the burial service, which i think it right to mention, as one among many testimonies of the solemn and impressive tendency of our truly evangelical liturgy. a man of the village, who had hitherto been of a very careless and even profligate character, went into the church through mere curiosity, and with no better purpose than that of vacantly gazing at the ceremony. he came likewise to the grave, and, during the reading of those prayers which are appointed for that part of the service, his mind received a deep, serious conviction of his sin and spiritual danger. it was an impression that never wore off, but gradually ripened into the most satisfactory evidence of an entire change, of which i had many and longcontinued proofs. he always referred to the burial service, and to some particular sentences of it, as the clearly ascertained instrument of bringing him, through grace, to the knowledge of the truth. the day was therefore one to be remembered. remembered let it be by those who love to hear "the short and simple annals of the poor." was there not a manifest and happy connection between the circumstances that providentially brought the serious and the careless to the same grave on that day together? how much do they lose who neglect to trace the leadings of god in providence, as links in the chain of his eternal purpose of redemption and grace! "while infidels may scoff, let us adore." after the service was concluded, i had a short conversation with the good old couple and their daughter. she had told me that she intended to remain a week or two at the gentleman's house where her sister died, till another servant should arrive and take her sister's place. "i shall be truly obliged," said she, "by an opportunity of conversing with you, either there or at my father's, when i return home, which will be in the course of a fortnight at the farthest. i shall be glad to talk to you about my sister, whom you have just buried." her aspect and address were highly interesting. i promised to see her very soon; and then returned home, quietly reflecting on the circumstances of the funeral at which i had been engaged. i blessed the god of the poor; and prayed that the poor might become rich in faith, and the rich be made poor in spirit. chapter ii. a sweet solemnity often possesses the mind, whilst retracing past intercourse with departed friends. how much is this increased, when they were such as lived and died in the lord! the remembrance of former scenes and conversations with those who, we believe, are now enjoying the uninterrupted happiness of a better world, fills the heart with pleasing sadness, and animates the soul with the hopeful anticipation of a day when the glory of the lord shall be revealed in the assembling of all his children together, never more to be separated. whether they were rich or poor while on earth, is a matter of trifling consequence; the valuable part of their character is, that they are kings and priests unto god, and this is their true nobility. in the number of now departed believers, with whom i once loved to converse on the grace and glory of the kingdom of god, was the dairyman's daughter. about a week after the funeral i went to visit the family at ---, in whose service the youngest sister had lived and died, and where elizabeth was requested to remain for a short time in her stead. the house was a large and venerable mansion. it stood in a beautiful valley at the foot of a high hill. it was embowered in fine woods, which were interspersed in every direction with rising, falling, and swelling grounds. the manor-house had evidently descended through a long line of ancestry, from a distant period of time. the gothic character of its original architecture was still preserved in the latticed windows, adorned with carved divisions and pillars of stone-work. several pointed terminations also, in the construction of the roof, according to the custom of our forefathers, fully corresponded with the general features of the building. one end of the house was entirely clothed with the thick foliage of an immense ivy, which climbed beyond customary limits, and embraced a lofty chimney up to its very summit. such a tree seemed congenial to the walls that supported it, and conspired with the antique fashion of the place to carry imagination back to the days of our ancestors. as i approached, i was led to reflect on the lapse of ages, and the successive generations of men, each in their turn occupying lands, houses, and domains; each in their turn also disappearing, and leaving their inheritance to be enjoyed by others. david once observed the same, and cried out, "behold, thou hast made my days as an hand-breadth, and mine age is as nothing before thee: verily every man at his best state is altogether vanity. surely every man walketh in a vain show; surely they are disquieted in vain: he heapeth up riches, and knoweth not who shall gather them" (psal. xxxix. 5, 6). happy would it be for the rich, if they more frequently meditated on the uncertainty of all their possessions, and the frail nature of every earthly tenure. "their inward thought is, that their houses shall continue for ever, and their dwelling-places to all generations: they call their lands after their own names. nevertheless, man being in honour abideth not: he is like the beasts that perish. this their way is their folly; yet their posterity approve their sayings. like sheep they are laid in the grave; death shall feed on them; and their beauty shall consume in the grave from their dwelling" (psal. xlix. 11-14). as i advanced to the mansion, a pleasing kind of gloom overspread the front: it was occasioned by the shade of trees, and gave a characteristic effect to the ancient fabric. i instantly recollected that death had very recently visited the house, and that one of its present inhabitants was an affectionate mourner for a departed sister. there is a solemnity in the thought of a recent death which will associate itself with the very walls, from whence we are conscious that a soul has just taken its flight to eternity. after passing some time in conversation with the superiors of the family, in the course of which i was much gratified by hearing of the unremitted attention which the elder sister had paid to the younger during the illness of the latter. i received likewise other testimonies of the excellency of her general character and conduct in the house. i then took leave, requesting permission to see her, agreeably to the promise i had made at the funeral, not many days before. i was shown into a parlour, where i found her alone. she was in deep mourning. she had a calmness and serenity in her countenance, which exceedingly struck me, and impressed some idea of those attainments which a further acquaintance with her afterwards so much increased. she spoke of her sister. i had the satisfaction of finding that she had given very hopeful proofs of a change of heart before she died. the prayers and earnest exhortations of elizabeth had been blessed to a happy effect. she described what had passed with such a mixture of sisterly affection and pious dependence on the mercy of god to sinners, as convinced me that her own heart was under the influence of "pure and undefiled religion." she requested leave occasionally to correspond with me on serious subjects, stating that she needed much instruction. she hoped i would pardon the liberty which she had taken by introducing herself to my notice. she expressed a trust that the lord would overrule both the death of her sister and the personal acquaintance with me that resulted from it, to a present and future good, as it respected herself and also her parents, with whom she statedly lived, and to whom she expected to return in a few days. finding that she was wanted in some household duty, i did not remain long with her, but left her with an assurance that i proposed to visit her parents very shortly. "sir," said she, "i take it very kind that you have condescended to leave the company of the rich and converse with the poor. i wish i could have said more to you respecting my own state of mind. perhaps i shall be better able another time. when you next visit me, instead of finding me in these noble walls, you will see me in a poor cottage. but i am happiest when there. once more, sir, i thank you for your past kindness to me and mine, and may god in many ways bless you for it." i quitted the house with no small degree of satisfaction, in consequence of the new acquaintance which i had formed. i discovered traces of a cultivated as well as a spiritual mind. i felt that religious intercourse with those of low estate may be rendered eminently useful to others, whose outward station and advantages are far above their own. how often does it appear that "god hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty; and base things of the world, and things which are despised, hath god chosen, yea, and things which are not, to bring to nought things that are: that no flesh should glory in his presence" (1 cor. i. 27-29). it was not unfrequently my custom, when my mind was filled with any interesting subject for meditation, to seek some spot where the beauties of natural prospect might help to form pleasing and useful associations. i therefore ascended gradually to the very summit of the hill adjoining the mansion where my visit had just been made. here was placed an elevated sea mark: it was in the form of a triangular pyramid, and built of stone. i sat down on the ground near it, and looked at the surrounding prospect, which was distinguished for beauty and magnificence. it was a lofty station, which commanded a complete circle of interesting objects to engage the spectator's attention. southward the view was terminated by a long range of hills, at about six miles distance. they met, to the westward, another chain of hills, of which the one whereon i sat formed a link; and the whole together nearly encompassed a rich and fruitful valley, filled with cornfields and pastures. through this vale winded a small river for many miles: much cattle were feeding on its banks. here and there lesser eminences arose in the valley, some covered with wood, others with corn or grass, and a few with heath or fern. one of these little hills was distinguished by a parish church at the top, presenting a striking feature in the landscape. another of these elevations, situated in the centre of the valley, was adorned with a venerable holly tree, which had grown there for ages. its singular height and wide-spreading dimensions not only render it an object of curiosity to the traveller, but of daily usefulness to the pilot, as a mark visible from the sea, whereby to direct his vessel safe into harbour. villages, churches, country-seats, farm-houses, and cottages were scattered over every part of the southern valley. in this direction, also, at the foot of the hill where i was stationed, appeared the ancient mansion, which i had just quitted, embellished with its woods, groves, and gardens. south-eastward, i saw the open ocean, bounded only by the horizon. the sun shone, and gilded the waves with a glittering light that sparkled in the most brilliant manner. more to the east, in continuation of that line of hills where i was placed, rose two downs, one beyond the other, both covered with sheep, and the sea just visible over the farthest of them, as a terminating boundary. in this point ships were seen, some sailing, others at anchor. here the little river, which watered the southern valley, finished its course, and ran through meadows into the sea, in an eastward direction. on the north the sea appeared like a noble river, varying from three to seven miles in breadth, between the banks of the opposite coast and those of the island which i inhabited. immediately underneath me was a fine woody district of country, diversified by many pleasing objects. distant towns were visible on the opposite shore. numbers of ships occupied the sheltered station which this northern channel afforded them. the eye roamed with delight over an expanse of near and remote beauties, which alternately caught the observation, and which harmonised together, and produced a scene of peculiar interest. westward, the hills followed each other, forming several intermediate and partial valleys, in a kind of undulations, like the waves of the sea, and, bending to the south, completed the boundary of the larger valley before described, to the southward of the hill on which i sat. in many instances the hills were cultivated with corn to their very summits, and seemed to defy the inclemency of weather, which, at these heights, usually renders the ground incapable of bringing forth and ripening the crops of grain. one hill alone, the highest in elevation, and about ten miles to the south-westward, was enveloped in a cloud, which just permitted a dim and hazy sight of a signal-post, a lighthouse, and an ancient chantry, built on its summit. amidst these numerous specimens of delightful scenery i found a mount for contemplation, and here i indulged it. "how much of the natural beauties of paradise still remain in the world, although its spiritual character has been so awfully defaced by sin! but when divine grace renews the heart of the fallen sinner, paradise is regained, and much of its beauty restored to the soul. as this prospect is compounded of hill and dale, land and sea, woods and plains, all sweetly blended together and relieving each other in the landscape; so do the gracious dispositions wrought in the soul produce a beauty and harmony of scene to which it was before a stranger." i looked towards the village in the plain below, where the dairyman's younger daughter was buried. i retraced the simple solemnities of the funeral. i connected the principles and conduct of her sister with the present probably happy state of her soul in the world of spirits, and was greatly impressed with a sense of the importance of family influence as a means of grace. "that young woman," i thought, "has been the conductor of not only a sister, but, perhaps, a father and mother also, to the true knowledge of god, and may, by divine blessing, become so to others. it is a glorious occupation to win souls to christ, and guide them out of egyptian bondage through the wilderness into the promised canaan. happy are the families who are walking hand in hand together, as pilgrims, towards the heavenly country. may the number of such be daily increasing!" casting my eye over the numerous dwellings in the vales on the right and left, i could not help thinking, "how many of their inhabitants are ignorant of the ways of god, and strangers to his grace! may this thought stimulate to activity and diligence in the cause of immortal souls! they are precious in god's sight--they ought to be so in ours." some pointed and affecting observations to that effect recurred to my mind, as having been made by the young person with whom i had been just conversing. her mind appeared to be much impressed with the duty of speaking and acting for god "while it is day," conscious that "the night cometh, when no man can work." her laudable anxiety on this head was often testified to me afterwards, both by letter and conversation. what she felt herself, in respect to endeavours to do good, she happily communicated to others with whom she corresponded or conversed. time would not permit my continuing so long in the enjoyment of these meditations, on this lovely mount of observation, as my heart desired. on my return home i wrote a few lines to the dairyman's daughter, chiefly dictated by the train of thought which had occupied my mind while i sat on the hill. on the next sunday evening i received her reply, of which the following is a transcript:- "sunday. "rev. sir, "i am this day deprived of an opportunity of attending the house of god to worship him. but, glory be to his name! he is not confined to time nor place. i feel him present with me where i am, and his presence makes my paradise; for where he is, is heaven. i pray god that a double portion of his grace and holy spirit may rest upon you this day; that his blessing may attend all your faithful labours; and that you may find the truth of his word, assuring us, that wherever we assemble together in his name, there he is in the midst to bless every waiting soul. "how precious are all his promises! we ought never to doubt the truth of his word; for he will never deceive us if we go on in faith, always expecting to receive what his goodness waits to give. dear sir, i have felt it very consoling to read your kind letter to-day. i feel thankful to god for ministers in our church who love and fear his name; there it is where the people in general look for salvation; and there may they ever find it, for jesus' sake! may his word, spoken by you, his chosen vessel of grace, be made spirit and life to their dead souls. may it come from you as an instrument in the hands of god, as sharp arrows from a strong archer, and strike a death-blow to all their sins. how i long to see the arrows of conviction fasten on the minds of those that are hearers of the word and not doers! o, sir! be ambitious for the glory of god and the salvation of souls: it will add to the lustre of your crown in glory, as well as to your present joy and peace. we should be willing to spend and be spent in his service, saying, 'lord, may thy will be done by me on earth, even as it is by thy angels in heaven.' so you may expect to see his face with joy, and say, 'here am i, lord, and all the souls thou hast given me.' "it seems wonderful that we should neglect any opportunity of doing good, when there is, if it be done from love to god and his creatures, a present reward of grace, in reflecting that we are using the talents committed to our care, according to the power and ability which we receive from him. god requires not what he has not promised to give. but when we look back and reflect that there have been opportunities in which we have neglected to take up our cross, and speak and act for god, what a dejection of mind we feel! we are then justly filled with shame. conscious of being ashamed of christ, we cannot come with that holy boldness to a throne of grace, nor feel that free access when we make our supplications. "we are commanded to provoke one another to love and good works; and where two are agreed together in the things of god, they may say: "'and if our fellowship below in jesus be so sweet, what heights of rapture shall we know when round the throne we meet!' "sir, i hope mrs --and you are both of one heart and one mind. then you will sweetly agree in all things that make for your present and eternal happiness. christ sent his disciples out, not singly, but two and two, that they might comfort and help each other in those ways and works which their lord commanded them to pursue. "it has been my lot to have been alone the greatest part of the time that i have known the ways of god. i therefore find it such a treat to my soul when i can meet with any who loves to talk of the goodness and love of god, and all his gracious dealings. what a comfortable reflection, to think of spending a whole eternity in that delightful employment--to tell to listening angels his love, 'immense, unsearchable!' "dear sir, i thank you for your kindness and condescension in leaving those that are of high rank and birth in the world, to converse with me who am but a servant here below. but when i consider what a high calling, what honour and dignity god has conferred upon me, to be called his child, to be born of his spirit, made an heir of glory, and joint heir with christ, how humble and circumspect should i be in all my ways, as a dutiful and loving child to an affectionate and loving father! when i seriously consider these things, it fills me with love and gratitude to god, and i do not wish for any higher station, nor envy the rich. i rather pity them if they are not good as well as great. my blessed lord was pleased to appear in the form of a servant, and i long to be like him. "i did not feel in so happy a frame for conversation that day, nor yet that liberty to explain my thoughts, which i sometimes do. the fault must have been all in myself; for there was nothing in you but what seemed to evidence a christian spirit, temper, and disposition. i very much wished for an opportunity to converse with you. i feel very thankful to god that you do take up the cross, and despise the shame: if you are found faithful, you will soon sit down with him in glory. "i have written to the rev. mr ---, to thank him for permitting you to perform the burial service at ---, over my dear departed sister, and to tell him of the kind way in which you consented to do it. i should mention that your manner of reading the service on that day had a considerable effect on the hearers. "pray excuse all faults, and correct my errors. i expect in a few days to return home to my parent's house. we shall rejoice to see you there. "from your humble servant in christ, "e--w---." it was impossible to view such a correspondent with indifference. i had just returned from a little cottage assembly, where, on sunday evenings, i sometimes went to instruct a few poor families in one of the hamlets belonging to my parish. i read the letter, and closed the day with thanksgiving to god for thus enabling those who fear his name to build up each other in faith and love. of old time, "they that feared the lord spake often one to another: and the lord hearkened and heard it; and a book of remembrance was written before him for them that feared the lord, and that thought upon his name." that book of remembrance is not yet closed. chapter iii. the mind of man is like a moving picture, supplied with objects not only from contemplation on things present, but from the fruitful sources of recollection and anticipation. memory retraces past events, and restores an ideal reality to scenes which are gone by for ever. they live again in revived imagery, and we seem to hear and see with renewed emotions what we heard and saw at a former period. successions of such recollected circumstances often form a series of welcome memorials. in religious meditations the memory becomes a sanctified instrument of spiritual improvement. another part of this animated picture is furnished by the pencil of hope. she draws encouraging prospects for the soul, by connecting the past and present with the future. seeing the promises afar off, she is persuaded of their truth, and embraces them as her own. the spirit of god gives a blessing to both these acts of the mind, and employs them in the service of religion. every faculty of body and soul, when considered as a part of "the purchased possession" of the saviour, assumes a new character. how powerfully does the apostle, on this ground, urge a plea for holy activity and watchfulness! "what! know ye not that your body is the temple of the holy ghost which is in you, which ye have of god, and 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" (1 cor. vi. 19, 20). the christian may derive much profit and enjoyment from the use of the memory, as it concerns those transactions in which he once bore a part. in his endeavours to recall past conversations and intercourse with deceased friends in particular, the powers of remembrance greatly improve by exercise. one revived idea produces another, till the mind is most agreeably and usefully occupied with lively and holy imaginations. "lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain, our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain; awake but one, and lo, what myriads rise! each stamps its image as the other flies; each, as the varied avenues of sense delight or sorrow to the soul dispense, brightens or fades: yet all with sacred art control the latent fibres of the heart." may it please god to bless, both to the reader and the writer, this feeble attempt to recollect some of the communications i once enjoyed in my visits to the dairyman's dwelling! very soon after the receipt of the last letter, i rode, for the first time, to see the family at their own house. the principal part of the road lay through retired, narrow lanes, beautifully overarched with groves of nut and other trees, which screened the traveller from the rays of the sun, and afforded many interesting objects for admiration in the flowers, shrubs, and young trees which grew upon the high banks on each side of the road. many grotesque rocks, with little trickling streams of water occasionally breaking out of them, varied the recluse scenery, and produced a romantic and pleasing effect. here and there the most distant prospect beyond was observable through gaps and hollow places on the road-side. lofty hills, with navy signalposts, obelisks, and lighthouses on their summits, appeared at these intervals; rich cornfields were also visible through some of the open places; and now and then, when the road ascended a hill, the sea, with ships at various distances, was seen. but for the most part shady seclusion, and objects of a more minute and confined nature, gave a character to the journey and invited contemplation. how much do they lose who are strangers to serious meditation on the wonders and beauties of nature! how gloriously the god of creation shines in his works! not a tree, or leaf, or flower, not a bird or insect, but it proclaims in glowing language, "god made me." as i approached the village where the good old dairyman dwelt, i observed him in a little field, driving his cows before him towards a yard and hovel which adjoined his cottage. i advanced very near him without his observing me, for his sight was dim. on my calling out to him, he started at the sound of my voice, but with much gladness of heart welcomed me, saying, "bless your heart, sir, i am very glad you are come; we have looked for you every day this week." the cottage-door opened, and the daughter came out, followed by her aged and infirm mother. the sight of me naturally brought to recollection the grave at which we had before met. tears of affection mingled with the smile of satisfaction with which i was received by these worthy cottagers. i dismounted, and was conducted through a neat little garden, part of which was shaded by two large overspreading elm trees, to the house. decency and order were manifest within and without. no excuse was made here, on the score of poverty, for confusion and uncleanliness in the disposal of their little household. everything wore the aspect of neatness and propriety. on each side of the fire-place stood an old oaken chair, where the venerable parents rested their weary limbs after the day's labour was over. on a shelf in one corner lay two bibles, with a few religious books and tracts. the little room had two windows; a lovely prospect of hills, woods, and fields appeared through one; the other was more than half obscured by the branches of a vine which was trained across it; between its leaves the sun shone, and cast a cheerful light over the whole place. "this," thought i, "is a fit residence for piety, peace, and contentment. may i learn a fresh lesson for advancement in each, through the blessing of god, on this visit!" "sir," said the daughter, "we are not worthy that you should come under our roof. we take it very kind that you should travel so far to see us." "my master," i replied, "came a great deal farther to visit us poor sinners. he left the bosom of his father, laid aside his glory, and came down to this lower world on a visit of mercy and love; and ought not we, if we profess to follow him, to bear each other's infirmities, and go about doing good as he did?" the old man now entered, and joined his wife and daughter in giving me a cordial welcome. our conversation soon turned to the loss they had so lately sustained. the pious and sensible disposition of the daughter was peculiarly manifested, as well in what she said to her parents as in what she more immediately addressed to myself. i had now a further opportunity of remarking the good sense and agreeable manner which accompanied her expressions of devotedness to god and love to christ, for the great mercies which he had bestowed upon her. during her residence in different gentlemen's families where she had been in service, she had acquired a superior behaviour and address; but sincere piety rendered her very humble and unassuming in manner and conversation. she seemed anxious to improve the opportunity of my visit to the best purpose for her own and her parents' sake; yet there was nothing of unbecoming forwardness, no self-sufficiency or conceitedness in her conduct. she united the firmness and solicitude of the christian with the modesty of the female and the dutifulness of the daughter. it was impossible to be in her company, and not observe how truly her temper and conversation adorned the principles which she professed. i soon discovered how eager and how successful also she had been in her endeavours to bring her father and mother to the knowledge and experience of the truth. this is a lovely feature in the character of a young christian. if it have pleased god, in the free dispensation of his mercy, to call the child by his grace, while the parent remains still in ignorance and sin, how great is the duty incumbent on that child to do what is possible to promote the conversion of those to whom so much is owing. happy is it when the ties of grace sanctify those of nature. the aged couple evidently regarded and spoke of this daughter as their teacher and admonisher in divine things, while at the same time they received from her every token of filial submission and obedience, testified by continual endeavours to serve and assist them to the utmost of her power in the daily concerns of the household. the religion of this young woman was of a highly spiritual character, and of no ordinary attainment. her views of the divine plan of saving the sinner were clear and scriptural. she spoke much of the joys and sorrows which, in the course of her religious progress, she had experienced; but she was fully sensible that there is far more in real religion than mere occasional transition from one frame of mind and spirits to another. she believed that the experimental acquaintance of the heart with god principally consisted in so living upon christ by faith, as to aim at living like him by love. she knew that the love of god toward the sinner, and the path of duty prescribed to the sinner, are both of an unchangeable nature. in a believing dependence on the one, and an affectionate walk in the other, she sought and found "the peace of god which passeth all understanding;" "for so he giveth his beloved rest." she had read but few books besides her bible; but these few were excellent in their kind, and she spoke of their contents as one who knew their value. in addition to a bible and prayer-book, "doddridge's rise and progress," "romaine's life, walk, and triumph of faith," "bunyan's pilgrim," "allein's alarm," "baxter's saint's everlasting rest," a hymnbook, and a few tracts, composed her library. i observed in her countenance a pale and delicate hue, which i afterwards found to be a presage of consumption; and the idea then occurred to me that she would not live very long. time passed on swiftly with this interesting family; and after having partaken of some plain and wholesome refreshment, and enjoyed a few hours' conversation with them, i found it was necessary for me to return homewards. the disposition and character of the parties may be in some sort ascertained by the expressions at parting. "god send you safe home again," said the aged mother, "and bless the day that brought you to see two poor old creatures, such as we are, in our trouble and affliction. come again, sir, come again when you can; and though i am a poor ignorant soul, and not fit to talk to such a gentleman as you, yet my dear child shall speak for me; she is the greatest comfort i have left; and i hope the good lord will spare her to support my trembling limbs and feeble spirits, till i lie down with my other dear departed kindred in the grave." "trust to the lord," i answered, "and remember his gracious promise: 'even to your old age i am he; and even to hoary hairs i will carry you.'" "i thank you, sir," said the daughter, "for your christian kindness to me and my friends. i believe the blessing of the lord has attended your visit, and i hope i have experienced it to be so. my dear father and mother will, i am sure, remember it; and i rejoice in the opportunity of seeing so kind a friend under this roof. my saviour has been abundantly good to me in plucking me 'as a brand from the burning,' and showing me the way of life and peace; and i hope it is my heart's desire to live to his glory. but i long to see these dear friends enjoy the power and comfort of religion likewise." "i think it evident," i replied, "that the promise is fulfilled in their case: 'it shall come to pass, that at evening time it shall be light.'" "i believe it," she said, "and praise god for the blessed hope." "thank him too, that you have been the happy instrument of bringing them to the light." "i do, sir; yet, when i think of my own unworthiness and insufficiency, i rejoice with trembling." "sir," said the good old man, "i am sure the lord will reward you for this kindness. pray for us, old as we are, and sinners as we have been, that yet he would have mercy upon us at the eleventh hour. poor betsy strives much for our sakes, both in body and soul; she works hard all day to save us trouble, and i fear has not strength to support all she does; and then she talks to us, and reads to us, and prays for us, that we may be saved from the wrath to come. indeed, sir, she is a rare child to us." "peace be unto you and all that belong to you!" "amen, and thank you, dear sir," was echoed from each tongue. thus we parted for that time. my returning meditations were sweet, and, i hope, profitable. many other visits were afterwards made by me to this peaceful cottage, and i always found increasing reason to thank god for the intercourse i there enjoyed. an interval of some length occurred once during that year, in which i had not seen the dairyman's family. i was reminded of the circumstance by the receipt of the following letter: "rev. sir, "i have been expecting to see or hear from you for a considerable time. excuse the liberty i take in sending you another letter. i have been confined to the house the greater part of the time since i left ---. i took cold that day, and have been worse ever since. i walk out a little on these fine days, but seem to myself to walk very near on the borders of eternity. glory be to god, it is a very pleasing prospect before me. though i feel the workings of sin, and am abased, yet jesus shows his mercy to be mine, and i trust that i am his. at such times "my soul would leave this heavy clay at his transporting word, run up with joy the shining way to meet and prove the lord. "fearless of hell and ghastly death, i'd break through every foe; the wings of love and arms of faith would bear me conqueror through." my desire is to live every moment to god, that i may through his grace be kept in that heavenly, happy frame of mind that i shall wish for at the hour of death. we cannot live nor die happy without this, and to keep it we must be continually watching and praying: for we have many enemies to disturb our peace. i am so very weak, that now i can go nowhere to any outward means for that help which is so refreshing to my spirit. "i should have been very happy to have heard you last sunday, when you preached at ---: i could not walk so far. i hope the word spoken by you was made a blessing to many that heard it. it was my earnest prayer to god that it might be so. but, alas! once calling does not awaken many that are in a sound sleep. yet the voice of god is sometimes very powerful when his ministers speak, when they are influenced by his holy spirit, and are simple and sincere in holding forth the word of life. then it will teach us all things, and enlighten our mind, and reveal unto us the hidden things of darkness, and give us out of that divine treasure 'things new and old.' resting on god to work in us both to will and to do of his good pleasure, we ought always to work as diligent servants, that know they have a good master, that will surely not forget their labour of love. "if we could but fix our eyes always on that crown of glory that awaits us in the skies, we should never grow weary in well-doing, but should run with patience, and delight in the work and ways of god, where he appoints us. we should not then, as we too frequently do, suffer these trifling objects here on earth to draw our minds from god, to rob him of his glory, and our souls of that happiness and comfort which the believer may enjoy amidst outward afflictions. if we thus lived more by faith on the son of god, we should endeavour to stir up all whom we could to seek after god. we should tell them what he has done for us, and what he would do for them if they truly sought him. we should show them what a glorious expectation there is for all true believers and sincere seekers. "when our minds are so fixed on god, we are more desirous of glorifying him, in making known his goodness to us, than the proud rich man is of getting honour to himself. i mourn over my own backwardness to this exercise of duty when i think of god's willingness to save the vilest of the vile, according to the dispensations of his eternal grace and mercy. oh, how amiable, how lovely does this make that god of love appear to poor sinners, that can view him as such! how is the soul delighted with such a contemplation! they that have much forgiven, how much they love! "these thoughts have been much on my mind since the death of ---. i trust the lord will pardon me for neglect. i thought it was my duty to speak or write to him; you remember what i said to you respecting it. but i still delayed till a more convenient season. oh, how i was struck when i heard the lord had taken him so suddenly! i was filled with sorrow and shame for having neglected what i had so often resolved to do. but now the time of speaking for god to him was over. hence we see that the lord's time is the best time. now the night of death was come upon him; no more work was to be done. if i had done all that lay in my power to proclaim reconciliation by christ to his soul, whether he had heard or no, i should have been more clear of his blood. but i cannot recall the time that is past, nor him from the grave. had i known the lord would have called him so suddenly, how diligent i should have been to warn him of his danger. but it is enough that god shows us what _we_ are to do, and not what _he_ is about to do with us or any of his creatures. pray, sir, do all you can for the glory of god. the time will soon pass by, and then we shall enter that glorious rest that he hath prepared for them that love him. i pray god to fill you with that zeal and love which he only can inspire, that you may daily win souls to christ. may he deliver you from all slavish fear of man, and give you boldness, as he did of old those that were filled with the holy ghost and with power! "remember, christ hath promised to be with all his faithful ministers to the end of time. the greater dangers and difficulties they are exposed to, the more powerful his assistance. then, sir, let us fear none but him. i hope you will pray much for me a poor sinner, that god will perfect his strength in my weakness of body and mind; for without him i can do nothing. but when i can experience the teaching of that holy one, i need no other teacher. may the lord anoint you with the same, and give you every grace of his holy spirit, that you may be filled with all the fulness of god; that you may know what is the height and depth, the length and breadth of the love of god in christ jesus; that you may be in the hand of the lord, as a keen archer to draw the bow, while the lord directs and fastens the arrows of conviction in the hearts of such as are under your ministry! "i sincerely pray that you may be made a blessing to him that has taken the place of the deceased. i have heard that you are fellow countrymen. i hope you are, however, both as strangers in this world, that have no abiding place, but seek a country out of sight. pray excuse all faults, "from your humble servant in the bonds of the gospel of christ, "e--w---." when i perused this and other letters, which were at different times written to me by the dairyman's daughter, i felt that in the person of this interesting correspondent were singularly united the characters of an humble disciple and a faithful monitor. i wished to acknowledge the goodness of god in each of these her capacities. i sometimes entertain a hope that the last day will unfold the value of these epistolary communications, beyond even any present estimate of their spiritual importance. chapter iv. the translation of sinners "from the power of darkness into the kingdom of god's dear son," is the joy of christians and the admiration of angels. every penitent and pardoned soul is a new witness to the triumphs of the redeemer over sin, death, and the grave. how great the change that is wrought! the child of wrath becomes a monument of grace--a brand plucked from the burning! "if any man be in christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new." how marvellous, how interesting is the spiritual history of each individual believer! he is, like david, "a wonder unto many;" but the greatest wonder of all to himself. others may doubt whether it be so or not; but to him it is unequivocally proved, that, from first to last, grace alone reigns in the work of his salvation. the character and privileges of real christians are beautifully described in the language of our church, which, when speaking of the objects of divine favour and compassion, says: "they that be endued with so excellent a benefit of god, be called according to god's purpose in due season; they through grace obey the calling: they be justified freely: they be made sons of god by adoption: they be made like the image of his only-begotten son, jesus christ: they walk religiously in good works; and at length, by god's mercy, they attain to everlasting felicity." such a conception and display of the almighty wisdom, power, and love, is indeed "full of sweet, pleasant, and unspeakable comfort to godly persons, and such as feel in themselves the working of the spirit of christ mortifying the works of the flesh, and their earthly members; and drawing up their minds to high and heavenly things: it doth greatly establish and confirm their faith of eternal salvation, to be enjoyed through christ, and doth fervently kindle their love towards god." nearly allied to the consolation of a good hope through grace, as it respects our own personal state before god, is that of seeing its evidences shed lustre over the disposition and conduct of others. bright was the exhibition of the union between true christian enjoyment and christian exertion, in the character whose moral and spiritual features i am attempting to delineate. it seemed to be the first wish of her heart to prove to others, what god had already proved to her, that jesus is "the way, the truth, and the life." she desired to evince the reality of her calling, justification, and adoption into the family of god, by showing a conformity to the image of christ, and by walking "religiously in good works;" she trusted that, in this path of faith and obedience, she should "at length, by god's mercy, attain to everlasting felicity." i had the spiritual charge of another parish, adjoining to that in which i resided. it was a small district, and had but few inhabitants. the church was pleasantly situated on a rising bank, at the foot of a considerable hill. it was surrounded by trees, and had a rural, retired appearance. close to the churchyard stood a large old mansion, which had formerly been the residence of an opulent and titled family; but it had long since been appropriated to the use of the estate as a farm-house. its outward aspect bore considerable remains of ancient grandeur, and gave a pleasing character to the spot of ground on which the church stood. in every direction the roads that led to this house of god possessed distinct but interesting features. one of them ascended between several rural cottages, from the sea-shore, which adjoined the lower part of the village street. another winded round the curved sides of the adjacent hill, and was adorned both above and below with numerous sheep, feeding on the herbage on the down. a third road led to the church by a gently rising approach, between high banks, covered with young trees, bushes, ivy, hedge-plants, and wild flowers. from a point of land which commanded a view of all these several avenues, i used sometimes for a while to watch my congregation gradually assembling together at the hour of sabbath worship. they were in some directions visible for a considerable distance. gratifying associations of thought would form in my mind, as i contemplated their approach, and successive arrival within the precincts of the house of prayer. one day, as i was thus occupied, during a short interval previous to the hour of divine service, i reflected on the joy which david experienced, at the time he exclaimed: "i was glad when they said unto me, let us go into the house of the lord. our feet shall stand within thy gates, o jerusalem. jerusalem is builded as a city that is compact together: whither the tribes go up, the tribes of the lord, unto the testimony of israel, to give thanks unto the lord" (psa. cxxii. 1-4). i was led to reflect upon the various blessings connected with the establishment of public worship. "how many immortal souls are now gathering together, to perform the all-important work of prayer and praise--to hear the word of god--to feed upon the bread of life! they are leaving their respective dwellings, and will soon be united together in the house of prayer. how beautifully does this represent the effect produced by the voice of 'the good shepherd,' calling his sheep from every part of the wilderness into his fold! as these fields, hills, and lanes are now covered with men, women, and children, in various directions, drawing near to each other, and to the object of their journey's end: even so, many 'shall come from the east, and from the west, and from the north, and from the south, and shall sit down in the kingdom of god'" (luke xiii. 29). who can rightly appreciate the value of such hours as these?--hours spent in learning the ways of holy pleasantness and the paths of heavenly peace--hours devoted to the service of god and of souls; in warning the sinner to flee from the wrath to come; in teaching the ignorant how to live and die; in preaching the gospel to the poor; in healing the brokenhearted; in declaring "deliverance to the captives, and recovering of sight to the blind." "blessed is the people that know the joyful sound; they shall walk, o lord, in the light of thy countenance. in thy name shall they rejoice all the day, and in thy righteousness shall they be exalted." my thoughts then pursued a train of reflection on the importance of the ministerial office, as connected in the purposes of god with the salvation of sinners. i inwardly prayed that those many individuals whom he had given me to instruct, might not, through my neglect or error, be as sheep having no shepherd, nor as the blind led by the blind; but rather that i might, in season and out of season, faithfully proclaim the simple and undisguised truths of the gospel, to the glory of god and the prosperity of his church. at that instant, near the bottom of the inclosed lane which led to the churchyard, i observed a friend, whom, at such a distance from his own home, i little expected to meet. it was the venerable dairyman. he came up the ascent, leaning with one hand on his trusty staff, and with the other on the arm of a younger man, well known to me, who appeared to be much gratified in meeting with such a companion by the way. my station was on the top of one of the banks which formed the hollow road beneath. they passed a few yards below me. i was concealed from their sight by a projecting tree. they were talking of the mercies of god, and the unsearchable riches of his grace. the dairyman was telling his companion what a blessing the lord had given him in his daughter. his countenance brightened as he named her, and called her his precious betsy. i met them at a stile not many yards beyond, and accompanied them to the church, which was hard by. "sir," said the old man, "i have brought a letter from my daughter: i hope i am in time for divine service. seven miles is now become a long walk for me: i grow old and weak. i am very glad to see you, sir." "how is your daughter?" "very poorly, indeed, sir: very poorly. the doctors say it is a decline. i sometimes hope she will get the better of it; but then again i have many fears. you know, sir, that i have cause to love and prize her. oh, it would be such a trial; but the lord knows what is best. excuse my weakness, sir." he put a letter into my hand, the perusal of which i reserved till afterwards, as the time was nigh for going into church. the presence of this aged pilgrim, the peculiar reverence and affection with which he joined in the different parts of the service, excited many gratifying thoughts in my mind; such as rather furthered than interrupted devotion. the train of reflection in which i had engaged, when i first discovered him on the road, at intervals recurred powerfully to my feelings, as i viewed that very congregation assembled together in the house of god, whose steps, in their approach towards it, i had watched with prayerful emotions. "here the rich and poor meet together in mutual acknowledgment, that the lord is the maker of them all; that all are alike dependent creatures, looking up to one common father to supply their wants both temporal and spiritual. "again, likewise, will they meet together in the grave, that undistinguished receptacle of the opulent and the needy. "and once more, at the judgment-seat of christ, shall the rich and the poor meet together, 'that every one may receive the things done in his body, according to that he hath done, whether it be good or bad'" (2 cor. v. 10). "how closely connected in the history of man are these three periods of a general meeting together! "the house of prayer--the house appointed for all living--and the house not made with hands eternal in the heavens. may we never separate these ideas from each other, but retain them in a sacred and profitable union! so shall our worshipping assemblies on earth be representatives of the general assembly and church of the firstborn which are written in heaven." when the congregation dispersed, i entered into discourse with the dairyman and a few of the poor of my flock, whose minds were of like disposition to his own. he seldom could speak long together without some reference to his dear child. he loved to tell how merciful his god had been to him, in the dutiful and affectionate attentions of his daughter. all real christians feel a tender spiritual attachment towards those who have been the instrument of bringing them to an effectual knowledge of the way of salvation: but when that instrument is one so nearly allied, how dear does the relationship become! if my friend the dairyman was in any danger of falling into idolatry, his child would have been the idol of his affections. she was the prop and stay of her parents' declining years, and they scarcely knew how sufficiently to testify the gratitude of their hearts, for the comfort and blessing which she was the means of affording them. while he was relating several particulars of his family history to the others, i opened and read the following letter:- "sir,--once more i take the liberty to trouble you with a few lines. i received your letter with great pleasure, and thank you for it. i am now so weak, that i am unable to walk to any public place of divine worship: a privilege which has heretofore always so much strengthened and refreshed me. i used to go in anxious expectation to meet my god, and hold sweet communion with him, and i was seldom disappointed. in the means of grace, all the channels of divine mercy are open to every heart that is lifted up to receive out of that divine fulness grace for grace. these are the times of refreshing from the presence of the lord. how have i rejoiced to hear a faithful and lively messenger, just come, as it were, from communion with god at the throne of grace, with his heart warmed and filled with divine love, to speak to fallen sinners! such an one has seemed to me as if his face shone as that of moses did with the glory of god, when he came down from the mount, where he had been within the veil. may you, sir, imitate him, as he did christ, that all may see and know that the lord dwelleth with you, and that you dwell in him through the unity of the blessed spirit. i trust you are no stranger to his divine teaching, aid, and assistance, in all you set your hand to do for the glory of god. "i hope, sir, the sincerity of my wishes for your spiritual welfare will plead an excuse for the freedom of my address to you. i pray the giver of every perfect gift, that you may experience the mighty workings of his gracious spirit in your heart and your ministry, and rest your all on the justifying and purifying blood of an expiring redeemer. then will you triumph in his strength, and be enabled to say with the poet: 'shall i through fear of feeble men, the spirit's course strive to restrain? or, undismay'd in deed and word, be a true witness for my lord? 'awed by a mortal's frown, shall i conceal the word of god most high! how then before thee shall i dare to stand? or, how thine anger bear? 'shall i, to soothe the unholy throng, soften thy truths and smooth my tongue, to gain earth's gilded toys, or flee the cross endur'd, my god, by thee! 'what then is he whose scorn i dread, whose wrath or hate makes me afraid? a man! an heir of death! a slave to sin! a bubble on the wave! 'yea, let men rage, since thou wilt spread thy shadowing wings around my head: since in all pain, thy tender love will still my sure refreshment prove. 'still shall the love of christ constrain to seek the wand'ring souls of men; with cries, entreaties, tears to save, and snatch them from the yawning grave. 'for this, let men revile my name, no cross i shun, i fear no shame: all hail reproach, and welcome pain, only thy terrors, lord, restrain!' "i trust, sir, that you see what a glorious high calling yours is, and that you are one of those who walk humbly with god, that you may be taught of him in all things. persons in your place are messengers of the most high god. is it too much to say, they should live like the angels in all holiness, and be filled with love and zeal for men's souls? they are ambassadors in christ's stead to persuade sinners to be reconciled to god. so that your calling is above that of angels: for they are _afterward_ to minister to the heirs of salvation; but the sinner must be _first_ reconciled to god. and you are called on from day to day to intercede with man as his friend, that you may win souls to christ. christ is ascended up on high, to intercede with his father for guilty sinners, and to plead for them the merits of his death. so that christ and his faithful ministers, through the operation of the blessed spirit, are co-workers together. yet without him we can do nothing: our strength is his strength, and his is all the glory from first to last. "it is my heart's prayer and desire, sir, that you may, by a living faith, cleave close to that blessed exalted lamb of god, who died to redeem us from sin--that you may have a sweet communion with father, son, and spirit--that you may sink deep in love and rise high in the life of god. thus will you have such discoveries of the beauties of christ and his eternal glory, as will fill your heart with true delight. "if i am not deceived, i wish myself to enjoy his gracious favour, more than all the treasures which earth can afford. i would, in comparison, look upon them with holy disdain, and as not worth an anxious thought, that they may not have power on my heart, to draw or attract it from god, who is worthy of my highest esteem, and of all my affections. it should be our endeavour to set him always before us, that in all things we may act as in his immediate presence; that we may be filled with that holy fear, so that we may not dare wilfully to sin against him. we should earnestly entreat the lord to mortify the power and working of sin and unbelief within, by making christ appear more and more precious in our eyes, and more dear to our hearts. "it fills my heart with thankful recollections, while i attempt in this weak manner to speak of god's love to man. when i reflect on my past sins and his past mercies, i am assured, that if i had all the gifts of wise men and angels, i could never sufficiently describe my own inward sense of his undeserved love towards me. we can better enjoy these glorious apprehensions in our hearts, than explain them to others. but oh how unworthy of them all are we? consciousness of my own corruptions keeps me often low; yet faith and desire will easily mount on high, beseeching god that he would, according to the apostle's prayer, fill me with all his communicable fulness, in the gifts and graces of his spirit; that i may walk well-pleasing before him, in all holy conversation, perfecting holiness in his fear. "if i err in boldness, sir, pray pardon me; and in your next letter confirm my hope, that you will be my counsellor and guide. "i can only recompense your kindness to me by my prayers, that your own intercourse with god may be abundantly blessed to you and yours. i consider the saviour saying to you, as he did to peter, 'lovest them me?' and may your heartfelt experience be compelled to reply, 'thou knowest all things, and thou knowest that i love thee supremely.' may he have evident marks of it in all your outward actions of love and humanity, in feeding his flock, and in the inward fervour and affection of all your consecrated powers; that you may be zealously engaged in pulling down the strongholds of sin and satan, and building up his church, sowing the seeds of righteousness, and praying god to give the increase; that you may not labour for him in vain, but may see the trees bud and blossom, and bring forth fruit abundantly, to the praise and glory of your heavenly master. in order to give you encouragement, he says, 'whosoever converteth a sinner from the error of his way, shall save a soul from death;' and that will increase the brightness of your crown in glory. this hath christ merited for his faithful ministers. "i hope, sir, you will receive grace to be sincere in reproving sin, wherever you see it. you will find divine assistance, and all fear and shame will be taken from you. great peace will be given to you, and wisdom, strength, and courage, according to your work. you will be as paul: having much learning, you can speak to men in all stations of life, by god's assistance. the fear of offending them will never prevent you, when you consider the glory of god; and man's immortal soul is of more value than his present favour and esteem. in particular, you are in an office wherein you can visit _all_ the sick. man's extremity is often god's opportunity. in this way you may prove an instrument in his hand to do his work. although he _can_ work without means, yet his usual way is by means; and i trust you are a chosen vessel unto him, to prove his name and declare his truth to all men. "visiting the sick is a strict command, and a duty for every christian. none can tell what good may be done. i wish it was never neglected, as it too often is. many think that, if they attend the church--the minister to preach and the people to hear--their duty is done. but more is required than this. may the lord stir up the gift that is in his people and ministers, that they may have compassion on their fellow-sinners, that they may never think it too late, but remember that while there is life there is hope. "once more, i pray, sir, pardon and excuse all my errors in judgment, and the ignorance that this is penned in; and may god bless you in all things, and particularly your friendship to me and my parents. what a comfort is family religion. i do not doubt but this is your desire, as it is mine, to say: 'i and my house will serve the lord, but first obedient to his word i must myself appear: by actions, words, and temper show that i my heavenly master know, and serve with heart sincere. 'i must the fair example set; from those that on my pleasure wait the stumbling-block remove; their duty by my life explain, and still in all my works maintain the dignity of love. 'easy to be entreated, mild, quickly appeas'd and reconciled, a follower of my god: a saint indeed i long to be, and lead my faithful family in the celestial road. 'lord, if thou dost the wish infuse, a vessel fitted for thy use into thy hands receive: work in me both to will and do, and show them how believers true and real christians live. 'with all-sufficient grace supply, and then i'll come to testify the wonders of thy name, which saves from sin, the world, and hell, its power may every sinner feel, and every tongue proclaim! 'cleans'd by the blood of christ from sin, i seek my relatives to win, and preach their sins forgiven; children, and wife, and servants seize, and through the paths of pleasantness conduct them all to heaven.' "living so much in a solitary way, books are my companions; and poetry, which speaks of the love of god and the mercies of christ, is very sweet to my mind. this must be my excuse for troubling you to read verses which others have written. i have intended, if my declining state of health permit, to go to --for a few days. i say this, lest you should call in expectation of seeing me, during any part of next week. but my dear father and mother, for whose precious souls i am very anxious, will reap the benefit of your visit at all events. "from your humble and unworthy servant, "e--w---." having read it, i said to the father of my highly valued correspondent: "i thank you for being the bearer of this letter; your daughter is a kind friend and faithful counsellor to me, as well as to you. tell her how highly i esteem her friendship, and that i feel truly obliged for the many excellent sentiments which she has here expressed. give her my blessing, and assure her that the oftener she writes, the more thankful i shall be." the dairyman's enlivened eye gleamed with pleasure as i spoke. the praise of his elizabeth was a string which could not be touched without causing every nerve of his whole frame to vibrate. his voice half faltered as he spoke in reply; the tear stood in his eyes; his hand trembled as i pressed it; his heart was full; he could only say, "sir, a poor old man thanks you for your kindness to him and his family. god bless you, sir; i hope we shall soon see you again." thus we parted for that day. chapter v. it has not unfrequently been observed, that when it is the lord's pleasure to remove any of his faithful followers out of this life at an early period of their course, they make rapid progress in the experience of divine truth. the fruits of the spirit ripen fast, as they advance to the close of mortal existence. in particular, they grow in humility, through a deeper sense of inward corruption, and a clearer view of the perfect character of the saviour. disease and bodily weakness make the thoughts of eternity recur with frequency and power. the great question of their own personal salvation, the quality of their faith, the sincerity of their love, and the purity of their hope, are in continual exercise. unseen realities, at such a time, occupy a larger portion of thought than before. the state of existence beyond the grave, the invisible world, the unaltered character of the dead, the future judgment, the total separation from everything earthly, the dissolution of body and spirit, and their reunion at the solemn hour of resurrection--these are subjects for their meditation, which call for serious earnestness of soul. whatever consolations from the spirit of god they may have enjoyed heretofore, they become now doubly anxious to examine and prove themselves, "whether they be indeed in the faith." in doing this, they sometimes pass through hidden conflicts of a dark and distressing nature; from which, however, they come forth, like gold tried in the furnace. awhile they may sow in tears, but soon they reap in joy. their religious feelings have then, perhaps, less of ecstasy, but more of serenity. as the ears of corn ripen for the harvest, they bow their heads nearer to the ground. so it is with believers; they then see more than ever of their own imperfection, and often express their sense of it in strong language; yet they repose with a growing confidence on the love of god through christ jesus. the nearer they advance to their eternal rest, the more humble they become, but not the less useful in their sphere. they feel anxiously desirous of improving every talent they possess to the glory of god, knowing that the time is short. i thought i observed the truth of these remarks fulfilled in the progressive state of mind of the dairyman's daughter. declining health seemed to indicate the will of god concerning her. but her character, conduct, and experience of the divine favour increased in brightness as the setting sun of her mortal life approached its horizon. the last letter which, with the exception of a very short note, i ever received from her, i shall now transcribe. it appeared to me to bear the marks of a still deeper acquaintance with the workings of her own heart, and a more entire reliance upon the free mercy of god. the original, while i copy it, strongly revives the image of the deceased, and the many profitable conversations which i once enjoyed in her company and that of her parents. it again endears to me the recollections of cottage piety; and helps me to anticipate the joys of that day when the spirits of the glorified saints shall be reunited to their bodies, and be for ever with the lord. the writer of this and the preceding letters herself little imagined, when they were penned, that they would ever be submitted to the public eye. that they now are so, results from a conviction that the friends of the pious poor will estimate them according to their value, and a hope that it may please god to honour these memorials of the dead, to the effectual edification of the living. "rev. sir, "in consequence of your kind permission, i take the liberty to trouble you with another of my ill-written letters; and i trust you have too much of your blessed maker's lowly, meek, and humble mind to be offended with a poor, simple, ignorant creature, whose intentions are pure and sincere in writing. my desire is that i, a weak vessel of his grace, may glorify his name for his goodness towards me. may the lord direct me by his counsel and wisdom! may he overshadow me with his presence, that i may sit beneath the banner of his love, and find the consolations of his blessed spirit sweet and refreshing to my soul! "when i feel that i am nothing, and god is all in all, then i can willingly fly to him, saying, 'lord, help me; lord, teach me; be unto me my prophet, priest, and king; let me know the teaching of thy grace, and the disclosing of thy love.' what nearness of access might we have if we lived more near to god! what sweet communion might we have with a god of love! he is the great i am. how glorious a name! angels with trembling awe prostrate themselves before him, and in humble love adore and worship him. one says, 'while the first archangel sings, he hides his face behind his wings.' unworthy as i am, i have found it by experience, that the more i see of the greatness and goodness of god, and the nearer union i hope i have had with him through the spirit of his love, the more humble and self-abased i have been. "but every day i may say, 'lord, how little i love thee, how far i live from thee, how little am i like thee in humility!' it is nevertheless my heart's desire to love and serve him better. i find the way in which god does more particularly bless me, is when i attend on the public ordinances of religion. these are the channels through which he conveys the riches of his grace and precious love to my soul. these i have often found to be indeed the time of refreshing and strengthening from the presence of the lord. then i can see my hope of an interest in the covenant of love, and praise him for his mercy to the greatest of sinners. "i earnestly wish to be more established in the ways, and to honour him in the path of duties whilst i enjoy the smiles of his favour. in the midst of all outward afflictions i pray that i may know christ, and the power of his resurrection within my soul. if i were always thus, my summer would last all the year, my will would then be sweetly lost in god's will, and i should feel a resignation to every dispensation of his providence and his grace, saying, 'good is the will of the lord: infinite wisdom cannot err.' then would patience have its perfect work. "but, alas! sin and unbelief often, too often, interrupt these frames, and lay me low before god in tears of sorrow. i often think what a happiness it would be, if his love were so fixed in my heart, that i might willingly obey him with alacrity and delight, and gradually mortify the power of self-will, passion, and pride. this can only arise from a good hope, through grace, that we are washed in that precious blood which cleanses us from every sinful stain, and makes us new creatures in christ. o that we may be the happy witnesses of the saving power and virtue of that healing stream which flows from the fountain of everlasting love! "sir, my faith is often exceedingly weak. can you be so kind as to tell me what you have found to be the most effectual means of strengthening it? i often think how plainly the lord declares--believe only, and thou shalt be saved. only have faith; all things are possible to him that has it. how i wish that we could remove all those mountains that hinder and obstruct the light of his grace; so that, having full access unto god through that ever-blessed spirit, we might lovingly commune with him as with the dearest of friends. what favour doth god bestow on worms! and yet we love to murmur and complain. he may well say, what should i have done more that i have not done? or wherein have i proved unfaithful or unkind to my faithless backsliding children? "sir, i pray that i may not grieve him, as i have done, any more. i want your counsel and your prayers for me in this matter. how refreshing is the sight of one that truly loves god, that bears his image and likeness! "but delightful as is conversation with true believers on earth, whose hearts are lifted up to things above, yet what is this to that happy day which will admit us into more bright realms, where we shall for ever behold a god of love in the smiling face of his son, who is the express image of his father, and the brightness of his glory! then, if found in him, we shall be received by the innumerable host of angels who wait around his throne. "in the meantime, sir, may i take up my cross, and manfully fight under him who, for the glory that was set before him, endured the cross, despised the shame, and is now set down at his father's right hand in majesty! i thank you for the kind liberty you have given to me of writing to you. i feel my health declining, and i find a relief during an hour of pain and weakness in communicating these thoughts to you. "i hope, sir, you go on your way rejoicing; that you are enabled to thank him who is the giver of every good gift, spiritual, temporal, and providential, for blessings to yourself and your ministry. i do not doubt but you often meet with circumstances which are not pleasing to nature; yet, by the blessing of god, they will be all profitable in the end. they are kindly designed by grace to make and keep us humble. the difficulties which you spoke of to me some time since, will, i trust, disappear. "my dear father and mother are as well as usual in bodily health; and, i hope, grow in grace, and in the knowledge and love of jesus christ. my chief desire to live is for their sakes. it now seems long since we have seen you. i am almost ashamed to request you to come to our little cottage, to visit those who are so far beneath your station in life. but if you cannot come, we shall be very glad if you will write a few lines. i ought to make an excuse for my letter, i spell so badly: this was a great neglect when i was young. i gave myself greatly to reading, but not to the other; and now i am too weak and feeble to learn much. "i hear sometimes of persons growing serious in your congregation. it gives me joy; and, if true, i am sure it does so to yourself. i long for the pure gospel of christ to be preached in every church in the world, and for the time when all shall know, love, and fear the lord, and the uniting spirit of god shall make them of one heart and mind in christ our great head. your greatest joy, i know, will be in labouring much for the glory of god in the salvation of men's souls. you serve a good master. you have a sure reward. i pray god to give you strength according to your day. "pray, sir, do not be offended at the freedom and manner of my writing. my parents' duty and love to you are sent with these lines from "your humble servant in christ, "e--w---." epistolary communications, when written in sincerity of heart, afford genuine portraits of the mind. may the foregoing be viewed with christian candour, and consecrated to affectionate memory! chapter vi. travellers, as they pass through the country, usually stop to inquire whose are the splendid mansions which they discover among the woods and plains around them. the families, titles, fortune, or character of the respective owners engage much attention. perhaps their houses are exhibited to the admiring stranger. the elegant rooms, costly furniture, valuable paintings, beautiful gardens and shrubberies, are universally approved; while the rank, fashion, taste, and riches of the possessor, afford ample materials for entertaining discussion. in the meantime, the lowly cottage of the poor husbandman is passed by as scarcely deserving of notice. yet perchance such a cottage may often contain a treasure of infinitely more value than the sumptuous palace of the rich man; even "the pearl of great price." if this be set in the heart of the poor cottager, it proves a gem of unspeakable worth, and will shine among the brightest ornaments of the redeemer's crown, in that day when he maketh up his "jewels." hence the christian traveller, while in common with others he bestows his due share of applause on the decorations of the rich, and is not insensible to the beauties and magnificence which are the lawfully-allowed appendages of rank and fortune, cannot overlook the humbler dwelling of the poor. and if he should find that true piety and grace beneath the thatched roof which he has in vain looked for amidst the worldly grandeur of the rich, he remembers the declarations in the word of god. he sees with admiration, that the high and lofty one that inhabiteth eternity, whose name is holy, who dwelleth in the high and holy place, dwelleth with _him also_ that is of a contrite and humble spirit; and although heaven is his throne, and the earth his footstool, yet, when a house is to be built, and a place of rest to be sought for himself, he says, to this man will i look, even to him that is poor and of a contrite spirit, and trembleth at my word. (_see_ isa. lvii. 15; lxvi. 1, 2.) when a house is thus tenanted, faith beholds this inscription written on the walls, _the lord lives here_. faith, therefore, cannot pass by it unnoticed, but loves to lift up the latch of the door, and to sit down and converse with the poor, although perhaps despised, inhabitant. many a sweet interview does faith obtain, when she thus takes her walks abroad. many such a sweet interview have i myself enjoyed beneath the roof where dwelt the dairyman and his little family. i soon perceived that his daughter's health was rapidly on the decline. the pale, wasting consumption, which is the lord's instrument for removing so many thousands every year from the land of the living, made hasty strides on her constitution. the hollow eye, the distressing cough, and the often too-flattering red on the cheek, foretold the approach of death. what a field for usefulness and affectionate attention on the part of ministers and christian friends is opened by the frequent attacks, and lingering progress, of _consumptive_ illness! how many such precious opportunities are daily lost, where providence seems in so marked a way to afford time and space for serious and godly instruction! of how many may it be said, "the way of peace have they not known;" for not one friend ever came nigh to warn them to "flee from the wrath to come." but the dairyman's daughter was happily made acquainted with the things which belonged to her everlasting peace before the present disease had taken root in her constitution. in my visits to her, i went rather to receive information than to impart it. her mind was abundantly stored with divine truths, and her conversation was truly edifying. the recollection of it must ever produce a thankful sensation in my heart. i one day received a short note to the following effect:- "dear sir, "i should be very glad, if your convenience will allow, that you would come and see a poor unworthy sinner. my hour-glass is nearly run out; but i hope i can see christ to be precious to my soul. your conversation has often been blessed to me, and i now feel the need of it more than ever. my father and my mother send their duty to you. "from your obedient "and unworthy servant, "e--w---." i obeyed the summons that same afternoon. on my arrival at the dairyman's cottage his wife opened the door. the tears streamed down her cheek as she silently shook her head. her heart was full. she tried to speak, but could not. i took her by the hand, and said: "my good friend, all is right, and as the lord of wisdom and mercy directs." "oh! my betsy, my dear girl, is so bad, sir. what shall i do without her? i thought i should have gone first to the grave, but--" "but the lord sees good that, before you die yourself, you should behold your child safe home to glory. is there no mercy in this?" "o, dear sir! i am very old and very weak, and she is a dear child, the staff and prop of such a poor old creature as i am." as i advanced, i saw elizabeth sitting by the fireside, supported in an arm-chair by pillows, with every mark of rapid decline and approaching death. a sweet smile of friendly complacency enlightened her pale countenance as she said: "this is very kind indeed, sir, to come so soon after i sent to you. you find me daily wasting away, and i cannot have long to continue here. my flesh and my heart fail; but god is the strength of my weak heart, and, i trust, will be my portion for ever." the conversation was occasionally interrupted by her cough and want of breath. her tone of voice was clear, though feeble; her manner solemn and collected; and her eye, though more dim than formerly, by no means wanting in liveliness as she spoke. i had frequently admired the superior language in which she expressed her ideas, as well as the scriptural consistency with which she communicated her thoughts. she had a good natural understanding; and grace, as is generally the case, much improved it. on the present occasion i could not help thinking she was peculiarly favoured. the whole strength of gracious and natural attainments seemed to be in full exercise. after taking my seat between the daughter and the mother (the latter fixing her fond eyes upon her child with great anxiety, while we were conversing), i said to elizabeth: "i hope you enjoy a sense of the divine presence, and can rest all upon him who has 'been with thee,' and has kept 'thee in all places whither thou hast gone,' and will bring thee into 'the land of pure delights, where saints immortal reign.'" "sir, i think i can. my mind has lately been sometimes clouded, but i believe it has been partly owing to the great weakness and suffering of my bodily frame, and partly to the envy of my spiritual enemy, who wants to persuade me that christ has no love for me, and that i have been a self-deceiver." "and do you give way to his suggestions? can you doubt amidst such numerous tokens of past and present mercy?" "no, sir; i mostly am enabled to preserve a clear evidence of his love. i do not wish to add to my other sins that of denying his manifest goodness to my soul. i would acknowledge it to his praise and glory." "what is your present view of the state in which you were before you felt seriously concerned about the salvation of your soul?" "sir, i was a proud, thoughtless girl, fond of dress and finery; i loved the world, and the things that are in the world; i lived in service among worldly people, and never had the happiness of being in a family where worship was regarded, and the souls of the servants cared for either by master or mistress. i went once on a sunday to church, more to see and be seen than to pray or hear the word of god. i thought i was quite good enough to be saved, and disliked and often laughed at religious people. i was in great darkness; i knew nothing of the way of salvation; i never prayed, nor was sensible of the awful danger of a prayerless state. i wished to maintain the character of a good servant, and was much lifted up whenever i met with applause. i was tolerably moral and decent in my conduct, from motives of carnal and worldly policy; but i was a stranger to god and christ; i neglected my soul; and had i died in such a state, hell must, and would justly, have been my portion." "how long is it since you heard the sermon which you hope, through god's blessing, effected your conversion?" "about five years ago." "how was it brought about?" "it was reported that a mr ---, who was detained by contrary winds from embarking on board ship, as chaplain to a distant part of the world, was to preach at church. many advised me not to go, for fear he should turn my head; as they said he held strange notions. but curiosity and an opportunity of appearing in a new gown, which i was very proud of, induced me to ask leave of my mistress to go. indeed, sir, i had no better motives than vanity and curiosity. yet thus it pleased the lord to order it for his own glory. "i accordingly went to church, and saw a great crowd of people collected together. i often think of the contrary states of my mind during the former and latter part of the service. for a while, regardless of the worship of god, i looked around me, and was anxious to attract notice myself. my dress, like that of too many gay, vain, and silly servant girls, was much above my station, and very different from that which becomes an humble sinner, who has a modest sense of propriety and decency. the state of my mind was visible enough from the foolish finery of my apparel. "at length the clergyman gave out his text: 'be _ye_ clothed with humility' (1 pet. v. 5). he drew a comparison between the clothing of the body with that of the soul. at a very early part of his discourse, i began to feel ashamed of my passion for fine dressing and apparel; but when he came to describe the garment of salvation with which a christian is clothed, i felt a powerful discovery of the nakedness of my own soul. i saw that i had neither the humility mentioned in the text, nor any one part of the true christian character. i looked at my gay dress, and blushed for shame on account of my pride. i looked at the minister, and he seemed to be as a messenger sent from heaven to open my eyes. i looked on the congregation, and wondered whether any one else felt as i did. i looked at my heart, and it appeared full of iniquity. i trembled as he spoke, and yet i felt a great drawing of heart to the words he uttered. "he displayed the riches of divine grace in god's method of saving the sinner. i was astonished at what i had been doing all the days of my life. he described the meek, lowly, and humble example of christ; i felt proud, lofty, vain, and self-consequential. he represented christ as 'wisdom;' i felt my ignorance. he held him forth as 'righteousness;' i was convinced of my own guilt. he proved him to be 'sanctification;' i saw my corruption. he proclaimed him as 'redemption;' i felt my slavery to sin, and my captivity to satan. he concluded with an animated address to sinners, in which he exhorted them to flee from the wrath to come, to cast off the love of outward ornaments, to put on jesus christ, and be clothed with true humility. "from that hour i never lost sight of the value of my soul, and the danger of a sinful state. i inwardly blessed god for the sermon, although my mind was in a state of great confusion. "the preacher had brought forward the ruling passion of my heart, which was pride in outward dress; and by the grace of god it was made instrumental to the awakening of my soul. happy, sir, would it be, if many a poor girl, like myself, were turned from the love of outward adorning and putting on of fine apparel, to seek that which is not corruptible, even the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, which is in the sight of god of great price. "the greater part of the congregation, unused to such faithful and scriptural sermons, disliked and complained of the severity of the preacher: while a few, as i afterwards found, like myself, were deeply affected, and earnestly wished to hear him again. but he preached there no more. "from that time i was led, through a course of private prayer, reading, and meditation, to see my lost estate as a sinner, and the great mercy of god through jesus christ in raising sinful dust and ashes to a share in the glorious happiness of heaven. and o, sir, what a saviour i have found! he is more than i could ask or desire. in his fulness i have found all that my poverty could need; in his bosom i have found a restingplace from all sin and sorrow; in his word i have found strength against doubt and unbelief." "were you not soon convinced," i said, "that your salvation must be an act of entire grace on the part of god, wholly independent of your own previous works or deservings?" "dear sir, what were my works before i heard that sermon, but evil, carnal, selfish, and ungodly? the thoughts of my heart, from my youth upward, were only evil, and that continually. and my deservings, what were they but the deservings of a fallen, depraved, careless soul, that regarded neither law nor gospel? yes, sir, i immediately saw that, if ever i were saved, it must be by the free mercy of god, and that the whole praise and honour of the work would be his from first to last." "what change did you perceive in yourself with respect to the world?" "it appeared all vanity and vexation of spirit. i found it necessary to my peace of mind to come out from among them and be separate. i gave myself to prayer; and many a happy hour of secret delight i enjoyed in communion with god. often i mourned over my sins, and sometimes had a great conflict through unbelief, fear, temptation, to return back again to my old ways, and a variety of difficulties which lay in my way. but he who loved me with an everlasting love, drew me by his loving-kindness, showed me the way of peace, gradually strengthened me in my resolutions of leading a new life, and taught me, that while without him i could do nothing, i yet might do all things through his strength." "did you not find many difficulties in your situation, owing to your change of principle and practice?" "yes, sir, every day of my life. i was laughed at by some, scolded at by others, scorned by enemies, and pitied by friends. i was called hypocrite, saint, false deceiver, and many more names which were meant to render me hateful in the sight of the world. but i esteemed the reproach of the cross an honour. i forgave and prayed for my persecutors, and remembered how very lately i had acted the same part towards others myself. i thought also that christ endured the contradiction of sinners; and as the disciple is not above his master, i was glad to be in any way conformed to his sufferings." "did you not then feel for your family at home?" "yes, that i did indeed, sir; they were never out of my thoughts. i prayed continually for them, and had a longing desire to do them good. in particular, i felt for my father and mother, as they were getting into years, and were very ignorant and dark in matters of religion." "ay," interrupted her mother, sobbing, "ignorant and dark, sinful and miserable we were, till this dear betsy--this dear betsy--this dear child, sir--brought christ jesus home to her poor father and mother's house." "no, dearest mother; say rather, christ jesus brought your poor daughter home, to tell you what he had done for her soul, and, i hope, to do the same for yours." at this moment the dairyman came in with two pails of milk hanging from the yoke on his shoulders. he had stood behind the half-opened door for a few minutes, and heard the last sentences spoken by his wife and daughter. "blessing and mercy upon her!" said he, "it is very true: she left a good place of service on purpose to live with us, that she might help us both in soul and body. sir, don't she look very ill? i think, sir, we sha'n't have her here long." "leave that to the lord," said elizabeth. "all our times are in his hand, and happy it is that they are. i am willing to go. are not you willing, my father, to part with me into _his_ hands who gave me to you at first?" "ask me any question in the world but that," said the weeping father. "i know," said she, "you wish me to be happy." "i do, i do," answered he; "let the lord do with you and us as best pleases him." i then asked her on what her present consolations chiefly depended, in the prospect of approaching death. "entirely, sir, on my view of christ. when i look at myself, many sins, infirmities, and imperfections cloud the image of christ which i want to see in my own heart. but when i look at the saviour himself, he is altogether lovely; there is not one spot in his countenance, nor one cloud over all his perfections. "i think of his coming in the flesh, and it reconciles me to the sufferings of the body; for he had them as well as i. i think of his temptations, and believe that he is able to succour me when i am tempted. then i think of his cross, and learn to bear my own. i reflect on his death, and long to die unto sin, so that it may no longer have dominion over me. i sometimes think of his resurrection, and trust that he has given me a part in it, for i feel that my affections are set upon things above. chiefly, i take comfort in thinking of him as at the right hand of the father, pleading my cause, and rendering acceptable even my feeble prayers, both for myself, and, as i hope, for my dear friends. "these are the views which, through mercy, i have of my saviour's goodness; and they have made me wish and strive in my poor way to serve him, to give myself up to him, and to labour to do my duty in that state of life into which it has pleased him to call me. "a thousand times i should have fallen and fainted, if he had not upheld me. i feel that i am nothing without him. he is all in all. "just so far as i can cast my care upon him i find strength to do his will. may he give me grace to trust him till the last moment! i do not fear death, because i believe that he has taken away its sting. and o, what happiness beyond! tell me, sir, whether you think i am right--i hope i am under no delusion. i dare not look for my hope in anything short of the entire fulness of christ. when i ask my own heart a question, i am afraid to trust it, for it is treacherous, and has often deceived me. but when i ask christ, he answers me with promises that strengthen and refresh me, and leave me no room to doubt his power and will to save. i am in his hands, and would remain there; and i do believe that he will never leave nor forsake me, but will perfect the thing that concerns me. he loved me, and gave himself for me; and i believe that his gifts and calling are without repentance. in this hope i live, in this hope i wish to die." i looked around me, as she was speaking, and thought--surely this is none other than the house of god, and the gate of heaven. everything appeared neat, cleanly, and interesting. the afternoon had been rather overcast with dark clouds; but just now the setting sun shone brightly and somewhat suddenly into the room. it was reflected from three or four rows of bright pewter plates and white earthenware, arranged on shelves against the wall; it also gave brilliancy to a few prints of sacred subjects that hung there also, and served for monitors of the birth, baptism, crucifixion, and resurrection of christ. a large map of jerusalem, and a hieroglyphic of "the old and new man," completed the decorations on that side of the room. clean as was the whitewashed wall, it was not cleaner than the rest of the place and its furniture. seldom had the sun enlightened a house where order and general neatness (those sure attendants of pious poverty) were more conspicuous. this gleam of setting sunshine was emblematical of the bright and serene close of this young christian's departing season. one ray happened to be reflected from a little looking-glass upon her face. amidst her pallid and decaying features there appeared a calm resignation, triumphant confidence, unaffected humility, and tender anxiety, which fully declared the feelings of her heart. some further affectionate conversation and a short prayer closed this interview. as i rode home by departing day-light, a solemn tranquillity reigned throughout the scene. the gentle lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep just penned in their folds, the humming of the insects of the night, the distant murmurs of the sea, the last notes of the birds of day, and the first warblings of the nightingale, broke upon the ear, and served rather to increase than lessen the peaceful serenity of the evening, and its corresponding effects on my own mind. it invited and cherished just such meditations as my visit had already inspired. natural scenery, when viewed in a christian mirror, frequently affords very beautiful illustrations of divine truths. we are highly favoured when we can enjoy them, and at the same time draw near to god in them. chapter vii. it is a pleasing consideration that, amidst the spiritual darkness which unhappily prevails in many parts of the land, god nevertheless has a people. it not unfrequently happens, that single individuals are to be found who, though very disadvantageously situated with regard to the ordinary means of grace, have received truly saving impressions, and through a blessing on secret meditation, reading, and prayer, are led to the closest communion with god, and become eminently devoted christians. it is the no small error of too many professors of the present day, to overlook or undervalue the instances of this kind which exist. the religious profession and opinions of some have too much of mere _machinery_ in their composition. if every wheel, pivot, chain, spring, cog, or pinion, be not exactly in its place, or move not precisely according to a favourite and prescribed system, the whole is rejected as unworthy of regard. but happily "the lord knoweth them that are his;" nor is the impression of his own seal wanting to characterise some who, in comparative seclusion from the religious world, "name the name of christ, and depart from iniquity." there are some real christians so particularly circumstanced in this respect, as to illustrate the poet's beautiful comparison:- "full many a gem of purest ray serene the dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; full many a flower is born to blush unseen, and waste its sweetness on the desert air." yet this was not altogether the case with the dairyman's daughter. her religion had indeed ripened in seclusion from the world, and she was intimately known but to few; but she lived usefully, departed most happily, and left a shining track behind her. while i attempt a faint delineation of it, may i catch its influence, and become, through inexpressible mercy, a follower "of them, who through faith and patience inherit the promises." from the time wherein i visited her, as described in my last paper, i considered her end as fast approaching. one day i received a hasty summons to inform me that she was dying. it was brought by a soldier, whose countenance bespoke seriousness, good sense, and piety. "i am sent, sir, by the father and mother of elizabeth w---, at her own particular request, to say how much they all wish to see you. she is going _home_, sir, very fast indeed." "have you known her long?" i inquired. "about a month, sir. i love to visit the sick; and hearing of her case from a person who lives close by our camp, i went to see her. i bless god that ever i did go. her conversation has been very profitable to me." "i rejoice," said i, "to see in you, as i trust, a _brother soldier_. though we differ in our outward regimentals, i hope we serve under the same spiritual captain. i will go with you." my horse was soon ready. my military companion walked by my side, and gratified me with very sensible and pious conversation. he related some remarkable testimonies of the excellent disposition of the dairyman's daughter, as they appeared from recent intercourse which he had had with her. "she is a bright diamond, sir," said the soldier, "and will soon shine brighter than any diamond upon earth." we passed through lanes and fields, over hills and through valleys, by open and retired paths, sometimes crossing over, and sometimes following the windings of a little brook, which gently murmured by the road-side. conversation beguiled the distance, and shortened the apparent time of our journey, till we were nearly arrived at the dairyman's cottage. as we approached it, we became silent. thoughts of death, eternity, and salvation, inspired by the sight of a house where a dying believer lay, filled my own mind, and, i doubt not, that of my companion also. no living object yet appeared, except the dairyman's dog, keeping a kind of mute watch at the door; for he did not, as formerly, bark at my approach. he seemed to partake so far of the feelings appropriate to the circumstances of the family, as not to wish to give a hasty or painful alarm. he came forward to the little wicket-gate, then looked back at the house-door, as if conscious there was sorrow within. it was as if he wanted to say, "tread softly over the threshold, as you enter the house of mourning; for my master's heart is full of grief." the soldier took my horse, and tied it up in a shed. a solemn serenity appeared to surround the whole place; it was only interrupted by the breezes passing through the large elm-trees, which stood near the house, and which my imagination indulged itself in thinking were plaintive sighs of sorrow. i gently opened the door; no one appeared; and all was yet silent. the soldier followed; we came to the foot of the stairs. "they are come," said a voice, which i knew to be the father's "they are come." he appeared at the top. i gave him my hand, and said nothing. on entering the room above, i saw the aged mother and her son supporting the much-loved sister: the son's wife sat weeping in a window-seat, with a child on her lap; two or three persons attended in the room to discharge any office which friendship or necessity might require. i sat down by the bed-side. the mother could not weep, but now and then sighed deeply, as she alternately looked at elizabeth and at me. the big tear rolled down the brother's cheek, and testified an affectionate regard. the good old man stood at the foot of the bed, leaning upon the post, and unable to take his eyes off the child from whom he was so soon to part. elizabeth's eyes were closed, and as yet she perceived me not. but over the face, though pale, sunk, and hollow, the peace of god which passeth all understanding, had cast a triumphant calm. the soldier, after a short pause, silently reached out his bible towards me, pointing with his finger at 1 cor. xv. 55, 56, 58. i then broke silence by reading the passage, "o death, where is thy sting? o grave, where is thy victory? the sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin is the law. but thanks be to god which giveth us the victory through our lord jesus christ." at the sound of these words her eyes opened, and something like a ray of divine light beamed on her countenance, as she said, "victory, victory! through our lord jesus christ." she relapsed again, taking no further notice of any one present. "god be praised for the triumph of faith!" said i. "amen!" replied the soldier. the dairyman's uplifted eye showed that the amen was in his heart, though his tongue failed to utter it. a short struggling for breath took place in the dying young woman, which was soon over; and then i said to her,-"my dear friend, do you not feel that you are supported?" "the lord deals very gently with me," she replied. "are not his promises now very precious to you?" "they are all yea and amen in christ jesus." "are you in much bodily pain?" "so little, that i almost forget it." "how good the lord is!" "and how unworthy am i!" "you are going to see him as he is." "i think--i hope--i believe that i am." she again fell into a short slumber. looking at her mother, i said, "what a mercy to have a child so near heaven as yours is!" "and what a mercy," she replied, in broken accents, "if her poor old mother might but follow her there! but, sir, it is so hard to part!" "i hope through grace by faith you will soon meet, to part no more: it will be but a little while." "sir," said the dairyman, "that thought supports me, and the lord's goodness makes me feel more reconciled than i was." "father, mother," said the reviving daughter, "he is good to me--trust him, praise him evermore." "sir," added she, in a faint voice, "i want to thank you for your kindness to me--i want to ask a favour; you buried my sister--will you do the same for me?" "all shall be as you wish, if god permit;" i replied. "thank you, sir, thank you. i have another favour to ask: when i am gone, remember my father and mother. they are old, but i hope the good work is begun in their souls. my prayers are heard. pray come and see them. i cannot speak much, but i want to speak for their sakes. sir, remember them." the aged parents now sighed and sobbed aloud, uttering broken sentences, and gained some relief by such an expression of their feelings. at length i said to elizabeth--"do you experience any doubts or temptations on the subject of your eternal safety?" "no, sir; the lord deals very gently with me, and gives me peace." "what are your views of the dark valley of death, now that you are passing through it?" "it is _not_ dark." "why so?" "my lord is _there_, and he is my light and my salvation." "have you any fears of more bodily suffering?" "the lord deals so gently with me, i can trust him." something of a convulsion came on. when it was past, she said again and again: "the lord deals very gently with me. lord, i am thine, save me--blessed jesus--precious saviour--his blood cleanseth from all sin--who shall separate?--his name is wonderful--thanks be to god--he giveth us the victory--i, even i, am saved--o grace, mercy, and wonder--lord, receive my spirit! dear sir, dear father, mother, friends, i am going--but all is well, well, well--" she relapsed again. we knelt down to prayer: the lord was in the midst of us, and blessed us. she did not again revive while i remained, nor ever speak any more words which could be understood. she slumbered for about ten hours, and at last sweetly fell asleep in the arms of that lord who had dealt so gently with her. i left the house an hour after she had ceased to speak. i pressed her hand as i was taking leave, and said "christ is the resurrection and the life." she gently returned the pressure, but could neither open her eyes nor utter a reply. i never had witnessed a scene so impressive as this before. it completely filled my imagination as i returned home. "farewell," thought i, "dear friend, till the morning of an eternal day shall renew our personal intercourse. thou wast a brand plucked from the burning, that thou mightest become a star shining in the firmament of glory. i have seen thy light and thy good works, and will therefore glorify our father which is in heaven. i have seen, in thy example, what it is to be a sinner freely saved by grace. i have learned from thee, as in a living mirror, who it is that begins, continues, and ends the work of faith and love. jesus is all in all: he will and shall be glorified. he won the crown, and alone deserves to wear it. may no one attempt to rob him of his glory! he saves, and saves to the uttermost. farewell, dear sister in the lord! thy flesh and thy heart may fail; but god is the strength of thy heart, and shall be thy portion for ever." chapter viii. who can conceive or estimate the nature of that change which the soul of a believer must experience at the moment when, quitting its tabernacle of clay, it suddenly enters into the presence of god? if, even while "we see through a glass darkly," the views of divine love and wisdom are so delightful to the eye of faith, what must be the glorious vision of god, when seen face to face? if it be so valued a privilege here on earth to enjoy the communion of saints, and to take sweet counsel together with our fellow-travellers towards the heavenly kingdom, what shall we see and know when we finally "come unto mount sion, and unto the city of the living god, the heavenly jerusalem, and to an innumerable company of angels, to the general assembly and church of the firstborn, which are written in heaven, and to god, the judge of all, and to the spirits of just men made perfect, and to jesus the mediator of the new covenant?" (heb. xii. 22-24.) if, during the sighs and tears of a mortal pilgrimage, the consolations of the spirit are so precious, and the hope full of immortality is so animating to the soul, what heart can conceive, or what tongue utter its superior joys, when arrived at that state where sighing and sorrow flee away, and the tears shall be wiped from every eye? such ideas were powerfully associated together in my imagination as i travelled onward to the house where, in solemn preparation for the grave, lay the remains of the dairyman's daughter. she had breathed her last shortly after the visit related in my former account. permission was obtained, as before, in the case of her sister, that i should perform the funeral service. many pleasing yet melancholy thoughts were connected with the fulfilment of this task. i retraced the numerous and important conversations which i had held with her. but these could now no longer be maintained on earth. i reflected on the interesting and improved nature of _christian_ friendships, whether formed in palaces or in cottages; and felt thankful that i had so long enjoyed that privilege with the subject of this memoir. i then indulged a selfish sigh for a moment, on thinking that i could no longer hear the great truths of christianity uttered by one who had drunk so deep of the waters of the river of life; but the rising murmur was checked by the animating thought: "she is gone to eternal rest--could i wish her back again in this vale of tears?" at that moment the first sound of a tolling bell struck my ear. it proceeded from a village church in the valley directly beneath the ridge of a high hill, over which i had taken my way. it was elizabeth's funeral knell. the sound was solemn; and in ascending to the elevated spot over which i rode, it acquired a peculiar tone and character. tolling at slow and regular intervals (as was customary for a considerable time previous to the hour of burial), the bell, as it were, proclaimed the blessedness of the dead who die in the lord, and also the necessity of the living pondering these things, and laying them to heart. it seemed to say: "hear my warning voice, thou son of man. there is but a step between thee and death. arise, prepare thine house, for thou shall die and not live." the scenery was in unison with that tranquil frame of mind which is most suitable for holy meditation. a rich and fruitful valley lay immediately beneath; it was adorned with cornfields and pastures through which a small river winded in a variety of directions, and many herds grazed upon its banks. a fine range of opposite hills, covered with grazing flocks, terminated with a bold sweep into the ocean, whose blue waves appeared at a distance beyond. several villages, hamlets, and churches, were scattered in the valley. the noble mansions of the rich, and the lowly cottages of the poor, added their respective features to the landscape. do any of my readers inquire why i describe so minutely the circumstances of prospect and scenery which may be connected with the incidents i relate? my reply is, that the god of redemption is the god of creation likewise; and that we are taught in every part of the word of god to unite the admiration of the beauties and wonders of nature to every other motive for devotion. when david considered the heavens, the work of god's fingers, the moon and the stars which he has ordained, he was thereby led to the deepest humiliation of heart before his maker. and when he viewed the sheep, and the oxen, and the beasts of the field, the fowl of the air, and the fish of the sea, he was constrained to cry out, "o lord, our lord, how excellent is thy name in all the earth!" (ps. viii. 1.) i am the poor man's friend, and wish more especially that every poor labouring man should know how to connect the goodness of god in creation and providence, with the unsearchable riches of his grace in the salvation of a sinner. and where can he learn this lesson more instructively than in looking around the fields, where his labour is appointed, and there tracing the handiwork of god in all that he beholds? such meditations have often afforded me both profit and pleasure, and i wish my readers to share them with me. the dairyman's cottage was rather more than a mile distant from the church. a lane, quite overshadowed with trees and high hedges, led from the foot of the hill to his dwelling. it was impossible at that time to overlook the suitable gloom of such an approach to the house of mourning. i found, on my entrance, that several christian friends from different parts of the neighbourhood had assembled together, to pay their last tribute of esteem and regard to the memory of the dairyman's daughter. several of them had first become acquainted with her during the latter stage of her illness: some few had maintained an affectionate intercourse with her for a longer period. but all seemed anxious to manifest their respect for one who was endeared to them by such striking testimonies of true christianity. i was requested to go into the chamber where the relatives and a few other friends were gone to take a last look at the remains of elizabeth. it is not easy to describe the sensation which the mind experiences on the first sight of a dead countenance, which, when living, was loved and esteemed for the sake of that soul which used to give it animation. a deep and awful view of the separation that has taken place between the soul and body of the deceased, since we last beheld them, occupies the feelings; our friend seems to be both near, and yet far off. the most interesting and valuable part is fled away: what remains is but the earthly perishing habitation, no longer occupied by its tenant. yet the features present the accustomed association of friendly intercourse. for one moment we could think them asleep. the next reminds us that the blood circulates no more: the eye has lost its power of seeing, the ear of hearing, the heart of throbbing, and the limbs of moving. quickly a thought of glory breaks in upon the mind, and we imagine the dear departed soul to be arrived at its long wished-for rest. it is surrounded by cherubim and seraphim, and sings the song of moses and the lamb on mount sion. amid the solemn stillness of the chamber of death, imagination hears heavenly hymns chanted by the spirits of just men made perfect. in another moment, the livid lips and sunken eye of the claycold corpse recall our thoughts to earth, and to ourselves again. and while we think of mortality, sin, death, and the grave, we feel the prayer rise in our bosom--"o let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his!" if there be a moment when christ and salvation, death, judgment, heaven, and hell, appear more than ever to be momentous subjects of meditation, it is that which brings us to the side of a coffin containing the body of a departed believer. elizabeth's features were altered, but much of her likeness remained. her father and mother sat at the head, her brother at the foot of the coffin. the father silently and alternately looked upon his dead child, and then lifted up his eyes to heaven. a struggle for resignation to the will of god was manifest in his countenance; while the tears rolling down his aged cheeks at the same time declared his grief and affection. the poor mother cried and sobbed aloud, and appeared to be much overcome by the shock of separation from a daughter so justly dear to her. the weakness and infirmity of old age added a character to her sorrow, which called for much tenderness and compassion. a remarkably decent-looking woman, who had the management of the few simple though solemn ceremonies which the case required, advanced towards me, saying: "sir, this is rather a sight of joy than of sorrow. our dear friend elizabeth finds it to be so, i have no doubt. she is beyond _all_ sorrow. do you not think she is, sir?" "after what i have known, and seen, and heard," i replied, "i feel the fullest assurance that while her body remains here, the soul is with her saviour in paradise. she loved him _here_, and _there_ she enjoys the pleasures which are at his right hand for evermore." "mercy, mercy upon a poor old creature, almost broken down with age and grief! what shall i do? betsy's gone! my daughter's dead! o, my child! i shall never see thee more! god be merciful to me a sinner!"--sobbed out the poor mother. "that last prayer, my dear, good woman," said i, "will bring you and your child together again. it is a cry that has brought thousands to glory. it brought your daughter there, and i hope it will bring you thither likewise. god will in nowise cast out any that come to him." "my dear," said the dairyman, breaking the long silence he had maintained, "let us trust god with our child; and let us trust him with our ownselves. 'the lord gave, and the lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the lord!' we are old, and can have but a little further to travel in our journey, and then--" he could say no more. the soldier, mentioned in my last paper, reached a bible into my hand, and said--"perhaps, sir, you would not object to reading a chapter before we go to the church?" i did so; it was the fourteenth of the book of job. a sweet tranquillity prevailed while i read it. each minute that was spent in this funereal chamber seemed to be valuable. i made a few observations on the chapter, and connected them with the case of our departed sister. "i am but a poor soldier," said our military friend, "and have nothing of this world's goods beyond my daily subsistence; but i would not exchange my hope of salvation in the next world for all that this world could bestow without it. what is wealth without grace? blessed be god! as i march about from one quarter to another, i still find the lord wherever i go; and, thanks be to his holy name, he is here to-day in the midst of this company of the living and the dead. i feel that it is good to be here." some other persons present began to take a part in our conversation, in the course of which the life and experience of the dairyman's daughter were brought forward in a very interesting manner. each friend had something to relate in testimony of her gracious disposition. a young woman under twenty, who had hitherto been a very light and trifling character, appeared to be remarkably impressed by the conversation of that day; and i have since had reason to believe that divine grace then began to influence her in the choice of that better part, which shall not be taken from her. what a contrast does such a scene as this exhibit, when compared with the dull, formal, unedifying, and often indecent manner in which funeral parties assemble in the house of death! as we conversed, the parents revived. our subject of discourse was delightful to their hearts. their child seemed almost to be alive again, while we talked of her. tearful smiles often brightened their countenances, as they heard the voice of friendship uttering their daughter's praises; or rather the praises of him who had made her a vessel of mercy, and an instrument of spiritual good to her family. the time for departing was now at hand. i went to take my last look at the deceased. there was much written on her countenance. she had evidently died with a smile. it still remained, and spoke the tranquillity of her soul. according to the custom of the country, she was decorated with leaves and flowers in the coffin: she seemed as a bride gone forth to meet the bridegroom. these, indeed, were fading flowers, but they reminded me of that paradise whose flowers are immortal, and where her never-dying soul is at rest. i remembered the last words which i had heard her speak, and was instantly struck with the happy thought that "death was indeed swallowed up in victory." as i slowly retired, i said inwardly, "peace, my honoured sister, be to _thy_ memory and to _my_ soul, till we meet in a better world." in a little time, the procession formed: it was rendered the more interesting by the consideration of so many that followed the coffin being persons of a devout and spiritual character. the distance was rather more than a mile. i resolved to continue with and go before them, as they moved slowly onwards. immediately after the body came the venerable father and mother, {116} bending with age, and weeping through much affection of heart. their appearance was calculated to excite every emotion of pity, love, and esteem. the other relatives followed them in order, and the several attendant friends took their places behind. after we had advanced about a hundred yards, my meditation was unexpectedly and most agreeably interrupted, by the friends who attended beginning to sing a funeral psalm. nothing could be more sweet or solemn. the well-known effect of the open air, in softening and blending the sounds of music, was here peculiarly felt. the road through which we passed was beautiful and romantic. it lay at the foot of a hill, which occasionally re-echoed the voices of the singers, and seemed to give faint replies to the notes of the mourners. the funeral-knell was distinctly heard from the church tower, and increased the effect which this simple and becoming service produced. we went by several cottages; a respectful attention was universally observed as we passed: and the countenances of many proclaimed their regard for the departed young woman. the singing was regularly continued, with occasional intervals of about five minutes, during our whole progress. i cannot describe the state of my own mind as peculiarly connected with this solemn singing. i never witnessed a similar instance before or since. i was reminded of elder times and ancient piety. i wished the practice more frequent. it seems well calculated to excite and cherish devotion and religious affections. music, when judiciously brought into the service of religion, is one of the most delightful, and not least efficacious means of grace. i pretend not too minutely to conjecture as to the actual nature of those pleasures which, after the resurrection, the reunited body and soul will enjoy in heaven; but i can hardly persuade myself that melody and harmony will be wanting, when even the sense of hearing shall itself be glorified. we arrived at the church. the service was heard with deep and affectionate attention. when we came to the grave, the hymn which elizabeth had selected was sung. all was devout, simple, animating. we committed our dear sister's body to the earth, in full hope of a joyful resurrection. thus was the veil of separation drawn for a season. she is departed, and no more seen, but she will be seen on the right hand of her redeemer at the last day; and will again appear to his glory, a miracle of grace and a monument of mercy. my reader, rich or poor, shall you and i appear there likewise? are we "clothed with humility," and arrayed in the wedding-garment of a redeemer's righteousness? are we turned from idols to serve the living god? are we sensible of our own emptiness, and therefore flying to a saviour's fulness to obtain grace and strength? do we indeed live in christ, and on him, and by him, and with him? is he our all in all? are we "lost and found," "dead and alive again?" my _poor_ reader, the dairyman's daughter was a _poor_ girl, and the child of a _poor_ man. herein thou resemblest her; but dost thou resemble _her_ as she resembled christ? art thou made rich by faith? hast thou a crown laid up for thee? is thine heart set upon heavenly riches? if not, read this story once more, and then pray earnestly for like precious faith? but if, through grace, thou dost love and serve the redeemer that saved the dairyman's daughter, grace, peace, and mercy be with thee! the lines are fallen unto thee in pleasant places! thou hast a goodly heritage. press forward in duty, and wait upon the lord, possessing thy soul in holy patience. thou hast just been with me to the grave of a departed believer. now, "go thy way, till the end be; for thou shalt rest, and stand in thy lot at the end of the days." footnotes: {116} an interesting account of a visit made to the dairyman, appeared in the _christian guardian_ for october 1813, and which is here inserted:-"it has rarely, if ever, fallen to my lot to trace the gracious dealing of god with greater advantage or delight, than in the narrative of the dairyman's daughter: and as the isle of wight had evidently furnished the author with the scenery he has so finely touched, i concluded that the pious subject of the little memoir had resided there, and determined that, when i next visited that delightful spot, i would make inquiry respecting her. at the close of april last year, i had occasion to go there. at the village of b--i had the good fortune to learn her name, and the situation of the cottage that had been honoured with her residence and death; and being told that the old man, her father, whose name is w---, still lived there, i determined to find out his humble dwelling, and obtain an interview with the aged dairyman. "it was with feelings not to be described that i visited the spot which had been so peculiarly honoured by the gracious presence of the most high. on inquiry, i found that elizabeth w--died about eleven years ago; that her mother followed her in the same year; that one of her brothers (whom i did not see) lived in the same cottage; and that her father was about eighty years of age. the venerable old man appeared to wonder at the feelings of a stranger, but seemed thankful for my visit, and wept as i made past scenes again pass before his view. i was happy to find that his hopes were built upon the rock of ages; that his sure trust was in the redeemer of sinners. we talked of the kind attentions of the rev. mr ---, of the happy death of elizabeth, of the wondrous grace of god; and when i bade him farewell, and reminded him how soon he would again see his daughter, not, indeed, encompassed with infirmity, and depressed with disease, but "shining as the sun in the firmament," the poor old man wept plentifully, and little would he be to be envied who could have refrained. i looked back on the cottage until it could no longer be seen, and then went on my way rejoicing. 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[illustration: cover] joel: a boy of galilee. works of annie fellows johnston the little colonel series (_trade mark, reg. u. s. pat. of._) each one vol., large 12mo, cloth, illustrated the little colonel stories $1.50 (containing in one volume the three stories, "the little colonel," "the giant scissors," and "two little knights of kentucky.") the little colonel's house party 1.50 the little colonel's holidays 1.50 the little colonel's hero 1.50 the little colonel at boarding-school 1.50 the little colonel in arizona 1.50 the little colonel's christmas vacation 1.50 the little colonel: maid of honor 1.50 the little colonel's knight comes riding 1.50 mary ware: the little colonel's chum 1.50 mary ware in texas 1.50 mary ware's promised land 1.50 the above 12 vols., _boxed_, as a set 18.00 * * * * * the little colonel good times book 1.50 the little colonel doll book--first series 1.50 the little colonel doll book--second series 1.50 illustrated holiday editions each one vol., small quarto, cloth, illustrated, and printed in color the little colonel $1.25 the giant scissors 1.25 two little knights of kentucky 1.25 big brother 1.25 cosy corner series each one vol., thin 12mo, cloth, illustrated the little colonel $.50 the giant scissors .50 two little knights of kentucky .50 big brother .50 ole mammy's torment .50 the story of dago .50 cicely .50 aunt 'liza's hero .50 the quilt that jack built .50 flip's "islands of providence" .50 mildred's inheritance .50 other books joel: a boy of galilee $1.50 in the desert of waiting net .50 the three weavers net .50 keeping tryst net .50 the legend of the bleeding heart net .50 the rescue of the princess winsome net .50 the jester's sword net .50 asa holmes 1.00 travelers five along life's highway 1.25 the page company 53 beacon street boston, mass. [illustration: "'then take yourself out of my sight for ever'" (_see page 96_)] _new illustrated edition_ joel: a boy of galilee by annie fellows johnston author of "the little colonel series," "big brother," "ole mammy's torment," "asa holmes," etc. with pictures by l. j. bridgman [illustration] boston the page company publishers _copyright, 1895_ by roberts brothers _copyright, 1904_ by the page company _all rights reserved_ eleventh impression, october, 1910 twelfth impression, march, 1915 thirteenth impression, march, 1918 the colonial press c. h. simonds co., boston, u. s. a. publisher's preface in this volume, it has been the purpose of the author to present to children, through "joel," as accurate a picture of the times of the christ as has been given to older readers through "ben hur." with this in view, the customs of the private and public life of the jews, the temple service with its sacerdotal rites, and the minute observances of the numerous holidays have been studied so carefully that the descriptions have passed the test of the most critical inspection. an eminent rabbi pronounces them correct in every detail. while the story is that of an ordinary boy, living among shepherds and fishermen, it touches at every point the gospel narrative, making joel, in a natural and interesting way, a witness to the miracles, the death, and the resurrection of the nazarene. it was with the deepest reverence that the task was undertaken, and the fact that the little book is accomplishing its mission is evinced not only by the approval accorded its first editions by so many, from bible students to bishops, but by the boys and girls here and in distant lands. list of illustrations page "'then take yourself out of my sight for ever'" (_see page 96_) _frontispiece_ "he looked down at phineas, and smiled blissfully" 34 "'i peeped out 'tween 'e wose-vines'" 82 "not a word was said" 104 "'we talked late'" 139 "'you but mock me, boy'" 184 "a dark figure went skulking out into the night" 203 "'the stone is gone!'" 233 joel: a boy of galilee. chapter i. it was market day in capernaum. country people were coming in from the little villages among the hills of galilee, with fresh butter and eggs. fishermen held out great strings of shining perch and carp, just dipped up from the lake beside the town. vine-dressers piled their baskets with tempting grapes, and boys lazily brushed the flies from the dishes of wild honey, that they had gone into the country before day-break to find. a ten-year-old girl pushed her way through the crowded market-place, carrying her baby brother in her arms, and scolding another child, who clung to her skirts. "hurry, you little snail!" she said to him. "there's a camel caravan just stopped by the custom-house. make haste, if you want to see it!" their bare feet picked their way quickly over the stones, down to the hot sand of the lake shore. the children crept close to the shaggy camels, curious to see what they carried in their huge packs. but before they were made to kneel, so that the custom-house officials could examine the loads, the boy gave an exclamation of surprise. "look, jerusha! look!" he cried, tugging at her skirts. "what's that?" farther down the line, came several men carrying litters. on each one was a man badly wounded, judging by the many bandages that wrapped him. jerusha pushed ahead to hear what had happened. one of the drivers was telling a tax-gatherer. "in that last rocky gorge after leaving samaria," said the man, "we were set upon by robbers. they swarmed down the cliffs, and fought as fiercely as eagles. these men, who were going on ahead, had much gold with them. they lost it all, and might have been killed, if we had not come up behind in such numbers. that poor fellow there can hardly live, i think, he was beaten so badly." the children edged up closer to the motionless form on the litter. it was badly bruised and blood-stained, and looked already lifeless. "let's go, jerusha," whispered the boy, whimpering and pulling at her hand. "i don't like to look at him." with the heavy baby still in her arms, and the other child tagging after, she started slowly back towards the market-place. "i'll tell you what we'll do," she exclaimed. "let's go up and get the other children, and play robbers. we never did do that before. it will be lots of fun." there was a cry of welcome as jerusha appeared again in the market-place, where a crowd of children were playing tag, regardless of the men and beasts they bumped against. they were all younger than herself, and did not resent her important air when she called, "come here! i know a better game than that!" she told them what she had just seen and heard down at the beach, and drew such a vivid picture of the attack, that the children were ready for anything she might propose. "now we'll choose sides," she said. "i'll be a rich merchant coming up from jerusalem with my family and servants, and the rest of you can be robbers. we'll go along with our goods, and you pounce out on us as we go by. you may take the baby as a prisoner if you like," she added, with a mischievous grin. "i'm tired of carrying him." a boy sitting near by on a door-step, jumped up eagerly. "let me play, too, jerusha!" he cried. "i'll be one of the robbers. i know just the best places to hide!" the girl paused an instant in her choosing to say impatiently, although not meaning to be unkind, "oh, no, joel! we do not want you. you're too lame to run. you can't play with us!" the bright, eager look died out of the boy's face, and an angry light shone in his eyes. he pressed his lips together hard, and sat down again on the step. there was a patter of many bare feet as the children raced away. their voices sounded fainter and fainter, till they were lost entirely in the noise of the busy street. usually, joel found plenty to amuse and interest him here. he liked to watch the sleepy donkeys with their loads of fresh fruit and vegetables. he liked to listen to the men as they cried their wares, or chatted over the bargains with their customers. there was always something new to be seen in the stalls and booths. there was always something new to be heard in the scraps of conversation that came to him where he sat. down this street there sometimes came long caravans; for this was "the highway to the sea,"--the road that led from egypt to syria. strange, dusky faces sometimes passed this way; richly dressed merchant princes with their priceless stuffs from beyond the nile; heavy loads of babylonian carpets; pearls from ceylon, and rich silks for the court of the wicked herodias, in the town beyond. fisherman and sailor, rabbi and busy workman passed in an endless procession. sometimes a roman soldier from the garrison came by with ringing step and clanking sword. then joel would start up to look after the erect figure, with a longing gaze that told more plainly than words, his admiration of such strength and symmetry. but this morning the crowd gave him a strange, lonely feeling,--a hungry longing for companionship. two half-grown boys passed by on their way to the lake, with fish nets slung over their shoulders. he knew the larger one,--a rough, kind-hearted fellow who had once taken him in his boat across the lake. he gave joel a careless, good-natured nod as he passed. a moment after he felt a timid pull at the fish net he was carrying, and turned to see the little cripple's appealing face. "oh, dan!" he cried eagerly. "are you going out on the lake this morning? could you take me with you?" the boy hesitated. whatever kindly answer he may have given, was rudely interrupted by his companion, whom joel had never seen before. "oh, no!" he said roughly. "we don't want anybody limping along after us. you can't come, jonah; you would bring us bad luck." "my name isn't jonah!" screamed the boy, angrily clinching his fists. "it's joel!" "well, it is all the same," his tormentor called back, with a coarse laugh. "you're a jonah, any way." there were tears in the boy's eyes this time, as he dragged himself back again to the step. "i hate everybody in the world!" he said in a hissing sort of whisper. "i hate'm! i hate'm!" a stranger passing by turned for a second look at the little cripple's sensitive, refined face. a girlishly beautiful face it would have been, were it not for the heavy scowl that darkened it. joel pulled the ends of his head-dress round to hide his crooked back, and drew the loose robe he wore over his twisted leg. life seemed very bitter to him just then. he would gladly have changed places with the heavily laden donkey going by. "i wish i were dead," he thought moodily. "then i would not ache any more, and i could not hear when people call me names!" beside the door where he sat was a stand where tools and hardware were offered for sale. a man who had been standing there for some time, selecting nails from the boxes placed before him, and had heard all that passed, spoke to him. "joel, my lad, may i ask your help for a little while?" the friendly question seemed to change the whole atmosphere. joel drew his hands across his eyes to clear them of the blur of tears he was too proud to let fall, and then stood up respectfully. "yes, rabbi phineas, what would you have me to do?" the carpenter gathered up some strips of lumber in one hand, and his hammer and saws in the other. "i have my hands too full to carry these nails," he answered. "if you could bring them for me, it would be a great service." if the man had offered him pity, joel would have fiercely resented it. his sensitive nature appreciated the unspoken sympathy, the fine tact that soothed his pride by asking a service of him, instead of seeking to render one. he could not define the feeling, but he gratefully took up the bag of nails, and limped along beside his friend to the carpenter's house at the edge of the town. he had never been there before, although he met the man daily in the market-place, and long ago had learned to look forward to his pleasant greeting; it was so different from most people's. somehow the morning always seemed brighter after he had met him. the little whitewashed house stood in the shade of two great fig-trees near the beach. a cool breeze from the galilee lifted the leaves, and swayed the vines growing around the low door. joel, tired by the long walk, was glad to throw himself on the grass in the shade. it was so still and quiet here, after the noise of the street he had just left. an old hen clucked around the door-step with a brood of downy, yellow chickens. doves cooed softly, somewhere out of sight. the carpenter's bench stood under one of the trees, with shavings and chips all around it. two children were playing near it, building houses of the scattered blocks; one of them, a black-eyed, sturdy boy of five, kept on playing. the other, a little girl, not yet three, jumped up and followed her father into the house. her curls gleamed like gold as she ran through the sunshine. she glanced at the stranger with deep-blue eyes so like her father's that joel held out his hand. "come and tell me your name," he said coaxingly. but she only shook the curls all over her dimpled face, and hurried into the house. "it's ruth," said the boy, deigning to look up. "and mine is jesse, and my mother's is abigail, and my father's is phineas, and my grandfather's is--" how far back he would have gone in his genealogy, joel could not guess; for just then his father came out with a cool, juicy melon, and jesse hurried forward to get his share. "how good it is!" sighed joel, as the first refreshing mouthful slipped down his thirsty throat. "and how cool and pleasant it is out here. i did not know there was such a peaceful spot in all capernaum." "didn't you always live here?" asked the inquisitive jesse. "no, i was born in jerusalem. i was to have been a priest," he said sadly. "well, why didn't you be one then," persisted the child, with his mouth full of melon. joel glanced down at his twisted leg, and said nothing. "why?" repeated the boy. phineas, who had gone back to his work-bench, looked up kindly. "you ask too many questions, my son. no one can be a priest who is maimed or blemished in any way. some sad accident must have befallen our little friend, and it may be painful for him to talk about it." jesse asked no more questions with his tongue; but his sharp, black eyes were fixed on joel like two interrogation points. "i do not mind telling about it," said joel, sitting up straighter. "once when i was not much older than you, just after my mother died, my father brought me up to this country from jerusalem, to visit my aunt leah. "i used to play down here by the lake, with my cousins, in the fishermen's boats. there was a boy that came to the beach sometimes, a great deal larger than i,--a dog of a samaritan,--who pulled my hair and threw sand in my eyes. he was so much stronger than i, that i could not do anything to him but call him names. but early one morning he was swimming in the lake. i hid his clothes in the oleander bushes that fringe the water. oh, but he was angry! i wanted him to be. but i had to keep away from the lake after that. "one day some older children took me to the hills back of the town to gather almonds. this rehum followed us. i had strayed away from the others a little distance, and was stooping to put the nuts in my basket, when he slipped up behind me. how he beat me! i screamed so that the other children came running back to me. when he saw them coming, he gave me a great push that sent me rolling over a rocky bank. it was not very high, but there were sharp stones below. "they thought i was dead when they picked me up. it was months before i could walk at all; and i can never be any better than i am now. just as my father was about to take me back to jerusalem, he took a sudden fever, and died. so i was left, a poor helpless burden for my aunt to take care of. it has been six years since then." joel threw himself full length on the grass, and scowled up at the sky. "where is that boy that hurt you," asked jesse. "rehum?" questioned joel. "i wish i knew," he muttered fiercely. "oh, how i hate him! i can never be a priest as my father intended. i can never serve in the beautiful temple with the white pillars and golden gates. i can never be like other people, but must drag along, deformed and full of pain as long as i live. and it's all his fault!" a sudden gleam lit up the boy's eyes, as lightning darts through a storm-cloud. "but i shall have my revenge!" he added, clinching his fists. "i cannot die till i have made him feel at least a tithe of what i have suffered. 'an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth!' that is the least that can satisfy me. oh, you cannot know how i long for that time! often i lie awake late into the night, planning my revenge. then i forget how my back hurts and my leg pains; then i forget all the names i have been called, and the taunts that make my life a burden. but they all come back with the daylight; and i store them up and add them to his account. for everything he has made me suffer, i swear he shall pay for it four-fold in his own sufferings!" ruth shrank away, frightened by the wild, impassioned boy who sat up, angrily staring in front of him with eyes that saw nothing of the sweet, green-clad world around him. the face of his enemy blotted out all the sunny landscape. one murderous purpose filled him, mind and soul. nothing was said for a little while. the doves as before cooed of peace, and phineas began a steady tap-tap with his hammer. a pleasant-faced woman came out of the door with a water-jar on her head, and passed down the path to the public well. she gave joel a friendly greeting in passing. "wait, mother!" lisped ruth, as she ran after her. the woman turned to smile at the little one, and held out her hand. her dress, of some soft, cotton material, hung in long flowing folds. it was a rich blue color, caught at the waist with a white girdle. the turban wound around her dark hair was white also, and so was the veil she pushed aside far enough to show a glimpse of brown eyes and red cheeks. she wore a broad silver bracelet on the bare arm which was raised to hold the water-jar, and the rings in her ears and talismans on her neck were of quaintly wrought silver. "i did not know it was so late," said joel, rising to his feet. "time passes so fast here." "nay, do not go," said phineas. "it is a long walk back to your home, and the sun is very hot. stay and eat dinner with us." joel hesitated; but the invitation was repeated so cordially, that he let jesse pull him down on the grass again. "now i'll tickle your lips with this blade of grass," said the child. "see how long you can keep from laughing." when abigail came back with the water, both the boys were laughing as heartily as if there had never been an ache or pain in the world. she smiled at them approvingly, as she led the way into the house. joel looked around with much curiosity. it was like most of the other houses of its kind in the town. there was only one large square room, in which the family cooked, ate, and slept; but on every side it showed that phineas had left traces of his skilful hands. there was a tiny window cut in one wall; most of the houses of this description had none, but depended on the doorway for light and air. several shelves around the walls held the lamp and the earthenware dishes. the chest made to hold the rugs and cushions which they spread down at night to sleep on, was unusually large and ornamental. a broom, a handmill, and a bushel stood in one corner. near the door, a table which phineas had made, stood spread for the mid-day meal. there was broiled fish on one of the platters, beans and barley bread, a dish of honey, and a pitcher of milk. the fare was just the same that joel was accustomed to in his uncle's house; but something made the simple meal seem like a banquet. it may have been that the long walk had made him hungrier than usual, or it may have been because he was treated as the honored guest, instead of a child tolerated through charity. he watched his host carefully, as he poured the water over his hands before eating, and asked a blessing on the food. "he does not keep the law as strictly as my uncle laban," was his inward comment. "he asked only one blessing, and uncle laban blesses every kind of food separately. but he must be a good man, even if he is not so strict a pharisee as my uncle, for he is kinder than any one i ever knew before." it was wonderful how much joel had learned, in his eleven short years, of the law. his aunt's husband had grown to manhood in jerusalem, and, unlike the simple galileans among whom he now lived, tried to observe its most detailed rules. the child heard them discussed continually, till he felt he could neither eat, drink, nor dress, except by these set rules. he could not play like other children, and being so much with older people had made him thoughtful and observant. he had learned to read very early; and hour after hour he spent in the house of rabbi amos, the most learned man of the town, poring over his rolls of scriptures. think of a childhood without a picture, or a story-book! all that there was to read were these old records of jewish history. the old man had taken a fancy to him, finding him an appreciative listener and an apt pupil. so joel was allowed to come whenever he pleased, and take out the yellow rolls of parchment from their velvet covers. he was never perfectly happy except at these times, when he was reading these old histories of his country's greatness. how he enjoyed chasing the armies of the philistines, and fighting over again the battles of israel's kings! many a tale he stored away in his busy brain to be repeated to the children gathered around the public fountain in the cool of the evening. it mattered not what character he told them of,--priest or prophet, judge or king,--the picture was painted in life-like colors by this patriotic little hero-worshipper. here and at home he heard so many discussions about what was lawful and what was not, that he was constantly in fear of breaking one of the many rules, even in as simple a duty as washing a cup. so he watched his host closely till the meal was over, finding that in the observance of many customs, he failed to measure up to his uncle's strict standard. phineas went back to his work after dinner. he was greatly interested in joel, and, while he sawed and hammered, kept a watchful eye on him. he was surprised at the boy's knowledge. more than once he caught himself standing with an idle tool in hand, as he listened to some story that joel was telling to jesse. after a while he laid down his work and leaned against the bench. "what do you find to do all day, my lad?" he asked, abruptly. "nothing," answered joel, "after i have recited my lessons to rabbi amos." "does your aunt never give you any tasks to do at home?" "no. i think she does not like to have me in her sight any more than she is obliged to. she is always kind to me, but she doesn't love me. she only pities me. i hate to be pitied. there is not a single one in the world who really loves me." his lips quivered, but he winked back the tears. phineas seemed lost in thought a few minutes; then he looked up. "you are a levite," he said slowly, "so of course you could always be supported without needing to learn a trade. still you would be a great deal happier, in my opinion, if you had something to keep you busy. if you like, i will teach you to be a carpenter. there are a great many things you might learn to make well, and, by and by, it would be a source of profit to you. there is no bread so bitter as the bread of dependence, as you may learn when you are older." "oh, rabbi phineas!" cried joel. "do you mean that i may come here every day? it is too good to be true!" "yes; if you will promise to stick to it until you have mastered the trade. if you are as quick to learn with your hands as you have been with your head, i shall have reason to be proud of such a pupil." joel's face flushed with pleasure, and he sprang up quickly, saying, "may i begin right now? oh, i'll try _so_ hard to please you!" phineas laid a soft pine board on the bench, and began to mark a line across it with a piece of red chalk. "well, you may see how straight a cut you can make through this plank." he picked up a saw, and ran his fingers lightly along its sharp teeth. but he paused in the act of handing it to joel, to ask, "you are sure, now, that your uncle and aunt will consent to such an arrangement?" "yes indeed!" was the emphatic answer. "they will be glad enough to have me out of the way, and learning something useful." the saw cut slowly through the wood; for the weak little hand was a careful one, and the boy was determined not to swerve once from the line. he smiled with satisfaction as the pieces fell apart, showing a clean, straight edge. "well done!" said phineas, kindly. "now let me see you drive a nail." made bold by his first success, joel pounded away vigorously, but the hammer slipped more than once, and his unpractised fingers ached with the blows that he had aimed at the nail's head. "you'll soon learn," said phineas, with an encouraging pat on the boy's shoulder. "gather up those odds and ends under the bench. when you've sawed them into equal lengths, i'll show you how to make a box." joel bent over his work with almost painful intensity. he fairly held his breath, as he made the measurements. he gripped the saw as if his life depended on the strength of his hold. phineas smiled at his earnestness. "be careful, my lad," he said. "you will soon wear out at that rate." it seemed to joel that there never had been such a short afternoon. he had stopped to rest several times, when phineas had insisted upon it; but this new work had all the fascination of an interesting game. the trees threw giant shadows across the grass, when he finally laid his tools aside. his back ached with so much unusual exercise, and he was very tired. "rabbi phineas," he asked gently, after a long pause, "what makes you so good to me? what makes you so different from other people? while i am with you, i feel like i want to be good. other people seem to rub me the wrong way, and make me cross and hateful; then i feel like i'd rather be wicked than not. why this afternoon, i've scarcely thought of rehum at all. i forgot at times that i am lame. when you talk to me, i feel like i did that day dan took me out on the lake. it seemed a different kind of a world,--all blue sky and smooth water. i felt if i could stay out there all the time, where it was so quiet and comforting, that i could not even hate rehum as much as i do." a surprised, pleased look passed over the man's face. "do i really make you feel that way, little one? then i am indeed glad. once when i was a young boy living in nazareth, i had a playmate who had that influence over me and all the boys he played with. i never could be selfish and impatient when he was with me. his very presence rebuked such thoughts,--when we were children playing together, like my own two little ones there, and when we were older grown, working at the same bench. it has been many a long year since i left nazareth, but i think of him daily. even now, after our long separation, the thought of his blameless life inspires me to a higher living. yes," he went on musingly, more to himself than the boy, "it was like music. surely no white-robed priest in the holy temple ever offered up more acceptable praise than the perfect harmony of his daily life." joel's lips trembled. "if i had ever had one real friend to care for me--not just pity me, you know--maybe i would have been different. but i have never had a single one since my father died." phineas smiled, and held out his hand. "you have one now, my lad, never forget that." the strong brown hand closed in a warm grasp, and joel drew it, with a grateful impulse, to his lips. ruth came up with wondering eyes. she could not understand what had passed; but joel's eyes were full of tears, and she vaguely felt that he needed comfort. she had a pet pigeon in her arms, that she carried everywhere with her. "here," she lisped, holding out the snowy winged bird. "boy, take it! boy, keep it!" joel looked up inquiringly at phineas. "take it," he said, in a low tone. "let it be the omen of a happier life commencing for you." "i never had a pet of any kind before," said joel, in delight, smoothing the white wings folded contentedly against his breast. "but she loves it so, i dislike to take it from her. how beautiful it is!" "my little ruth is a born comforter," said phineas, tossing her up in his arms. "shall joel take the pigeon home with him, little daughter?" "yes," she answered, nodding her head. "boy cried." "i'll name it 'little friend,'" said joel, rising with it in his arms. "i'll take it home with me, and keep it until after the sabbath, to make me feel sure that this day has not been just a dream; but i will bring it back next time i come. i can see it here every day, and it will be happier here. oh, rabbi phineas, i can never thank you enough for this day!" it was a pitiful little figure that limped away homeward in the fading light, with the white pigeon in his arms. looking anxiously up in the sky, joel saw one star come twinkling out. the sabbath would soon begin, and then he must not be found carrying even so much as this one poor little pigeon. the slightest burden would be unlawful. as he hurried on, the loud blast of a trumpet, blown from the roof of the synagogue, signalled the laborers in the fields to stop all work. he knew that very soon it would sound again, to call the town people from their tasks; and at the third blast, the sabbath lamp would be lighted in every home. fearful of his uncle's displeasure at his tardiness, he hurried painfully onward, to provide food and a resting-place for his "little friend" before the second sounding of the trumpet. chapter ii. early in the morning after the sabbath, joel was in his accustomed place in the market, waiting for his friend phineas. his uncle had given a gruff assent, when he timidly asked his approval of the plan. the good rabbi amos was much pleased when he heard of the arrangement. "thou hast been a faithful student," he said, kindly. "thou knowest already more of the law than many of thy elders. now it will do thee good to learn the handicraft of phineas. remember, my son, 'the balm was created by god before the wound.' work, that is as old as eden, has been given us that we might forget the afflictions of this life that fleeth like a shadow. may the god of thy fathers give thee peace!" with the old man's benediction repeating itself like a solemn refrain in all his thoughts, joel stood smoothing the pigeon in his arms, until phineas had made his daily purchases. then they walked on together in the cool of the morning, to the little white house under the fig-trees. phineas was surprised at his pupil's progress. to be sure, the weak arms could lift little, the slender hands could attempt no large tasks. but the painstaking care he bestowed on everything he attempted, resulted in beautifully finished work. if there was an extra smooth polish to be put on some wood, or a delicate piece of joining to do, joel's deft fingers seemed exactly suited to the task. before the winter was over, he had made many pretty little articles of furniture for abigail's use. "may i have these pieces of fine wood to use as i please?" he asked of phineas, one day. "all but that largest strip," he answered. "what are you going to make?" "something for ruth's birthday. she will be three years old in a few weeks, jesse says, and i want to make something for her to play with." "what are you going to make her?" inquired jesse, from under the work-bench. "let me see too." "oh, i didn't know you were anywhere near," answered joel, with a start of alarm. "tell me!" begged jesse. "well, if you will promise to keep her out of the way while i am finishing it, and never say a word about it--" "i'll promise," said the child, solemnly. he had to clap his hand over his mouth a great many times in the next few weeks, to keep his secret from telling itself, and he watched admiringly while joel carved and polished and cut. one of the neighbors had come in to talk with abigail the day he finished it, and as the children were down on the beach, playing in the sand, he took it in the house to show to the women. it was a little table set with toy dishes, that he had carved out of wood,--plates and cups and platters, all complete. the visitor held up her hands with an exclamation of delight. after taking up each little highly polished dish to admire it separately, she said, "i know where you might get a great deal of money for such work. there is a rich roman living near the garrison, who spends money like a lord. no price is too great for him to pay for anything that pleases his fancy. why don't you take some up there, and offer them for sale?" "i believe i will," said joel, after considering the matter. "i'll go just as soon as i can get them made." ruth spread many a little feast under the fig-trees; but after the first birthday banquet, jesse was her only guest. joel was too busy making more dishes and another little table, to partake of them. the whole family were interested in his success. the day he went up to the great house near the garrison to offer them for sale, they waited anxiously for his return. "he's sold them! he's sold them!" cried jesse, hopping from one foot to the other, as he saw joel coming down the street empty-handed. joel was hobbling along as fast as he could, his face beaming. "see how much money!" he cried, as he opened his hand to show a shining coin, stamped with the head of cã¦sar. "and i have an order for two more. i'll soon have a fortune! the children liked the dishes so much, although they had the most beautiful toys i ever saw. they had images they called dolls. some of them had white-kid faces, and were dressed as richly as queens. i wish ruth had one." "the law forbids!" exclaimed phineas. "have you forgotten that it is written, 'thou shalt not make any likeness of anything in the heavens above or the earth beneath, or the waters under the earth'? she is happy with what she has, and needs no strange idols of the heathen to play with." joel made no answer; but he thought of the merry group of roman children seated around the little table he had made, and wished again that ruth had one of those gorgeously dressed dolls. skill and strength were not all he gained by his winter's work; for some of the broad charity that made continual summer in the heart of phineas crept into his own embittered nature. he grew less suspicious of those around him, and smiles came more easily now to his face than scowls. but the strong ambition of his life never left him for an instant. to all the rest of the world he might be a friend; to rehum he could only be the most unforgiving of enemies. the thought that had given him most pleasure when the wealthy roman had tossed him his first earnings, was not that his work could bring him money, but that the money could open the way for his revenge. that thought, like a dark undercurrent, gained depth and force as the days went by. as he saw how much he could do in spite of his lameness, he thought of how much more he might have accomplished, if he had been like other boys. it was a constant spur to his desire for revenge. one day phineas laid aside his tools much earlier than usual, and without any explanation to his wondering pupil, went up into the town. when he returned, he nodded to his wife, who sat in the doorway spinning, and who had looked up inquiringly as he approached. "yes, it's all arranged," he said to her. then he turned to joel to ask, "did you ever ride on a camel, my boy?" "no, rabbi," answered the boy, in surprise, wondering what was coming next. "well, i have a day's journey to make to the hills in upper galilee. a camel caravan passes near the place where my business calls me, as it goes to damascus. i seek to accompany it for protection. i go on foot, but i have made arrangements for you to ride one of the camels." "oh, am i really to go, too?" gasped joel, in delighted astonishment. "oh, rabbi phineas! how did you ever think of asking me?" "you have not seemed entirely well, of late," was the answer. "i thought the change would do you good. i said nothing about it before, for i had no opportunity to see your uncle until this afternoon; and i did not want to disappoint you, in case he refused his permission." "and he really says i may go?" demanded the boy, eagerly. "yes, the caravan moves in the morning, and we will go with it." there was little more work done that day. joel was so full of anticipations of his journey that he scarcely knew what he was doing. phineas was busy with preparations for the comfort of his little family during his absence, and went into town again. on his return he seemed strangely excited. abigail, seeing something was amiss, watched him carefully, but asked no questions. he took a piece of timber that had been laid away for some especial purpose, and began sawing it into small bits. "rabbi phineas," ventured joel, respectfully, "is that not the wood you charged me to save so carefully?" phineas gave a start as he saw what he had done, and threw down his saw. "truly," he said, smiling, "i am beside myself with the news i have heard. i just now walked ten cubits past my own house, unknowing where i was, so deeply was i thinking upon it. abigail," he asked, "do you remember my friend in nazareth whom i so often speak of,--the son of joseph the carpenter? last week he was bidden to a marriage in cana. it happened, before the feasting was over, the supply of wine was exhausted, and the mortified host knew not what to do. six great jars of stone had been placed in the room, to supply the guests with water for washing. _he changed that water into wine!_" "i cannot believe it!" answered abigail, simply. "but ezra ben jared told me so. he was there, and drank of the wine," insisted phineas. "he could not have done it," said abigail, "unless he were helped by the evil one, or unless he were a prophet. he is too good a man to ask help of the powers of darkness; and it is beyond belief that a son of joseph should be a prophet." to this phineas made no answer. his quiet thoughts were shaken out of their usual routine as violently as if by an earthquake. joel thought more of the journey than he did of the miracle. it seemed to the impatient boy that the next day never would dawn. many times in the night he wakened to hear the distant crowing of cocks. at last, by straining his eyes he could distinguish the green leaves of the vine on the lattice from the blue of the half-opened blossoms. by that token he knew it was near enough the morning for him to commence saying his first prayers. dressing noiselessly, so as not to disturb the sleeping family, he slipped out of the house and down to the well outside the city-gate. here he washed, and then ate the little lunch he had wrapped up the night before. a meagre little breakfast,--only a hard-boiled egg, a bit of fish, and some black bread. but the early hour and his excitement took away his appetite for even that little. soon all was confusion around the well, as the noisy drivers gathered to water their camels, and make their preparations for the start. joel shrunk away timidly to the edge of the crowd, fearful that his friend phineas had overslept himself. in a few minutes he saw him coming with a staff in one hand, and a small bundle swinging from the other. joel had one breathless moment of suspense as he was helped on to the back of the kneeling camel; one desperate clutch at the saddle as the huge animal plunged about and rose to its feet. then he looked down at phineas, and smiled blissfully. [illustration: "he looked down at phineas, and smiled blissfully"] oh, the delight of that slow easy motion! the joy of being carried along without pain or effort! who could realize how much it meant to the little fellow whose halting steps had so long been taken in weariness and suffering? swinging along in the cool air, so far above the foot-passengers, it seemed to him that he looked down upon a new earth. blackbirds flew along the roads, startled by their passing. high overhead, a lark had not yet finished her morning song. lambs bleated in the pastures, and the lowing of herds sounded on every hill-side. not a sight or sound escaped the boy; and all the morning he rode on without speaking, not a care in his heart, not a cloud on his horizon. at noon they stopped in a little grove of olive-trees where a cool spring gurgled out from the rocks. phineas spread out their lunch at a little distance from the others; and they ate it quickly, with appetites sharpened by the morning's travel. afterwards joel stretched himself out on the ground to rest, and was asleep almost as soon as his eyelids could shut out the noontide glare of the sun from his tired eyes. when he awoke, nearly an hour afterward, he heard voices near him in earnest conversation. raising himself on his elbow, he saw phineas at a little distance, talking to an old man who had ridden one of the foremost camels. they must have been talking of the miracle, for the old man, as he stroked his long white beard, was saying, "but men are more wont to be astonished at the sun's eclipse, than at his daily rising. look, my friend!" he pointed to a wild grape-vine clinging to a tree near by. "do you see those bunches of half-grown grapes? there is a constant miracle. day by day, the water of the dew and rain is being changed into the wine of the grape. soil and sunshine are turning into fragrant juices. yet you feel no astonishment." "no," assented phineas; "for it is by the hand of god it is done." "why may not this be also?" said the old man. "even this miracle at the marriage feast in cana?" phineas started violently. "what!" he cried. "do you think it possible that this friend of mine is the one to be sent of god?" "is not this the accepted time for the coming of israel's messiah?" answered the old man, solemnly. "is it not meet that he should herald his presence by miracles and signs and wonders?" joel lay down again to think over what he had just heard. like every other israelite in the whole world, he knew that a deliverer had been promised his people. time and again he had read the prophecies that foretold the coming of a king through the royal line of david; time and again he had pictured to himself the mighty battles to take place between his down-trodden race and the haughty hordes of cã¦sar. sometime, somewhere, a universal dominion awaited them. he firmly believed that the day was near at hand; but not even in his wildest dreams had he ever dared to hope that it might come in his own lifetime. he raised himself on his elbow again, for the old man was speaking. "about thirty years ago," he said slowly, "i went up to jerusalem to be registered for taxation, for the emperor's decree had gone forth and no one could escape enrolment. you are too young to remember the taking of that census, my friend; but you have doubtless heard of it." "yes," assented phineas, respectfully. "i was standing just outside the joppa gate, bargaining with a man for a cage of gold finches he had for sale, which i wished to take to my daughter, when we heard some one speaking to us. looking up we saw several strange men on camels, who were inquiring their way. they were richly dressed. the trappings and silver bells on their camels, as well as their own attire, spoke of wealth. their faces showed that they were wise and learned men from far countries. "we greeted them respectfully, but could not speak for astonishment when we heard their question: "'where is he that is born king of the jews? for we have seen his star in the east, and have come to worship him.' the bird-seller looked at me, and i looked at him in open-mouthed wonder. the men rode on before we could find words wherewith to answer them. "all sorts of rumors were afloat, and everywhere we went next day, throughout jerusalem, knots of people stood talking of the mysterious men, and their strange question. even the king was interested, and sought audience with them." "could any one answer them?" asked phineas. "nay! but it was then impressed on me so surely that the christ was born, that i have asked myself all these thirty years, 'where is he that is born king of the jews?' for i too would fain follow on to find and worship him. as soon as i return from damascus, i shall go at once to cana, and search for this miracle-worker." the old man's earnest words made a wonderful impression on joel. all the afternoon, as they rose higher among the hills, the thought took stronger possession of him. he might yet live, helpless little cripple as he was, to see the dawn of israel's deliverance, and a son of david once more on its throne. ride on, little pilgrim, happy in thy day-dreams! the time is coming; but weary ways and hopeless heart-aches lie between thee and that to-morrow. the king is on his way to his coronation, but it will be with thorns. ride on, little pilgrim, be happy whilst thou can! chapter iii. it was nearly the close of the day when the long caravan halted, and tents were pitched for the night near a little brook that came splashing down from a cold mountain-spring. joel, exhausted by the long day's travel, crowded so full of new experiences, was glad to stretch his cramped limbs on a blanket that phineas took from the camel's back. here, through half-shut eyes, he watched the building of the camp-fire, and the preparations for the evening meal. "i wonder what uncle laban would do if he were here!" he said to phineas, with an amused smile. "look at those dirty drivers with their unwashed hands and unblessed food. how little regard they have for the law. uncle laban would fast a lifetime rather than taste anything that had even been passed over a fire of their building. i can imagine i see him now, gathering up his skirts and walking on the tips of his sandals for fear of being touched by anything unclean." "your uncle laban is a good man," answered phineas, "one careful not to transgress the law." "yes," said the boy. "but i like your way better. you keep the fasts, and repeat the prayers, and love god and your neighbors. uncle laban is careful to do the first two things; i am not so sure about the others. life is too short to be always washing one's hands." phineas looked at the little fellow sharply. how shrewd and old he seemed for one of his years! such independence of thought was unusual in a child trained as he had been. he scarcely knew how to answer him, so he turned his attention to spreading out the fruits and bread he had brought for their supper. next morning, after the caravan had gone on without them, they started up a narrow bridle-path, that led through hillside-pastures where flocks of sheep and goats were feeding. the dew was still on the grass, and the air was so fresh and sweet in this higher altitude that joel walked on with a feeling of strength and vigor unknown to him before. "oh, look!" he cried, clasping his hands in delight, as a sudden turn brought them to the upper course of the brook whose waters, falling far below, had refreshed them the night before. the poetry of the psalms came as naturally to the lips of this beauty-loving little israelite as the breath he drew. now he repeated, in a low, reverent voice, "'the lord is my shepherd; i shall not want.' oh, rabbi phineas, did you ever know before that there could be such green pastures and still waters?" the man smiled at the boy's radiant, upturned face. "'yea, the earth is the lord's and the fulness thereof,'" he murmured. "we have indeed a goodly heritage." hushed into silence by the voice of the hills and the beauty on every side, they walked on till the road turned again. just ahead stood a house unusually large for a country district; everything about it bore an air of wealth and comfort. "our journey is at an end now," said phineas. "yonder lies the house of nathan ben obed. he owns all those flocks and herds we have seen in passing this last half hour. it is with him that i have business; and we will tarry with him until after the sabbath." they were evidently expected, for a servant came running out to meet them. he opened the gate and conducted them into a shaded court-yard. here another servant took off their dusty sandals, and gave them water to wash their feet. they had barely finished, when an old man appeared in the doorway; his long beard and hair were white as the abba he wore. phineas would have bowed himself to the ground before him, but the old man prevented it, by hurrying to take both hands in his, and kiss him on each cheek. "peace be to thee, thou son of my good friend jesse!" he said. "thou art indeed most welcome." joel lagged behind. he was always sensitive about meeting strangers; but the man's cordial welcome soon put him at his ease. he was left to himself a great deal during the few days following. the business on which the old man had summoned phineas required long consultations. one day they rode away together to some outlying pastures, and were gone until night-fall. joel did not miss them. he was spending long happy hours in the country sunshine. there was something to entertain him, every way he turned. for a while he amused himself by sitting in the door and poring over a roll of parchment that sarah, the wife of nathan ben obed, brought him to read. she was an old woman, but one would have found it hard to think so, had he seen how briskly she went about her duties of caring for such a large household. after joel had read for some little time, he became aware that some one was singing outside, in a whining, monotonous way, and he laid down his book to listen. the voice was not loud, but so penetrating he could not shut it out, and fix his mind on his story again. so he rolled up the parchment and laid it on the chest from which it had been taken; then winding his handkerchief around his head, turban fashion, he limped out in the direction of the voice. just around the corner of the house, under a great oak-tree, a woman sat churning. from three smooth poles joined at the top to form a tripod, a goat-skin bag hung by long leather straps. this was filled with cream; she was slapping it violently back and forth in time to her weird song. her feet were bare, and she wore only a coarse cotton dress. but a gay red handkerchief covered her black hair, and heavy copper rings hung from her nose and ears. the song stopped suddenly as she saw joel. then recognizing her master's guest, she smiled at him so broadly that he could see her pretty white teeth. joel hardly knew what to say at this unexpected encounter, but bethought himself to ask the way to the sheep-folds and the watch-tower. "it is a long way there," said the woman, doubtfully; joel flushed as he felt her black eyes scanning his misshapen form. just then sarah appeared in the door, and the maid repeated the question to her mistress. "to be sure," she said. "you must go out and see our shepherds with their flocks. we have a great many employed just now, on all the surrounding hills. rhoda, call your son, and bid him bring hither the donkey that he always drives to market." the woman left her churning, and presently came back with a boy about joel's age, leading a donkey with only one ear. joel knew what that meant. at some time in its life the poor beast had strayed into some neighbor's field, and the owner of the field had been at liberty to cut off an ear in punishment. the boy that led him wore a long shirt of rough hair-cloth. his feet and legs were brown and tanned. a shock of reddish sunburned hair was the only covering for his head. there was a squint in one eye, and his face was freckled. he made an awkward obeisance to his mistress. "buz," she said, "this young lad is your master's guest. take him out and show him the flocks and herds, and the sheep-folds. he has never seen anything of shepherd life, so be careful to do his pleasure. stay!" she added to joel. "you will not have time to visit them all before the mid-day meal, so i will give you a lunch, and you can enjoy an entire day in the fields." as the two boys started down the hill, joel stole a glance at his companion. "what a stupid-looking fellow!" he thought; "i doubt if he knows anything more than this sleepy beast i am riding. i wonder if he enjoys any of this beautiful world around him. how glad i am that i am not in his place." buz, trudging along in the dust, glanced at the little cripple on the donkey's back with an inward shiver. "what a dreadful lot his must be," he thought. "how glad i am that i am not like he is!" it was not very long till the shyness began to wear off, and joel found that the stupid shepherd lad had a very busy brain under his shock of tangled hair. his eyes might squint, but they knew just where to look in the bushes for the little hedge-sparrow's nest. they could take unerring aim, too, when he sent the smooth sling-stones whizzing from the sling he carried. "how far can you shoot with it?" asked joel. for answer buz looked all around for some object on which to try his skill; then he pointed to a hawk slowly circling overhead. joel watched him fit a smooth pebble into his sling; he had no thought that the boy could touch it at such a distance. the stone whizzed through the air like a bullet, and the bird dropped several yards ahead of them. "see!" said buz, as he ran to pick it up, and display it proudly. "i struck it in the head." joel looked at him with increasing respect. "that must have been the kind of sling that king david killed the giant with," he said, handing it back after a careful examination. "king david!" repeated buz, dully, "seems to me i have heard of him, sometime or other; but i don't know about the giant." "why where have you been all your life?" cried joel, in amazement. "i thought everybody knew about that. did you never go to a synagogue?" buz shook his bushy head. "they don't have synagogues in these parts. the master calls us in and reads to us on the sabbath; but i always get sleepy when i sit right still, and so i generally get behind somebody and go to sleep. the shepherds talk to each other a good deal about such things, i am never with them though. i spend all my time running errands." shocked at such ignorance, joel began to tell the shepherd king's life with such eloquence that buz stopped short in the road to listen. seeing this the donkey stood still also, wagged its one ear, and went to sleep. but buz listened, wider awake than he had ever been before in his life. the story was a favorite one with joel, and he put his whole soul into it. "who told you that?" asked buz, taking a long breath when the interesting tale was finished. "why i read it myself!" answered joel. "oh, can you read?" asked buz, looking at joel in much the same way that joel had looked at him after he killed the hawk. "i do not see how anybody can. it puzzles me how people can look at all those crooked black marks and call them rivers and flocks and things. i looked one time, just where master had been reading about a great battle. and i didn't see a single thing that looked like a warrior or a sword or a battle-axe, though he called them all by name. there were several little round marks that might have been meant for sling-stones; but it was more than i could make out, how he could get any sense out of it." joel leaned back and laughed till the hills rang, laughed till the tears stood in his eyes, and the donkey waked up and ambled on. buz did not seem to be in the least disturbed by his merriment, although he was puzzled as to its cause. he only stooped to pick up more stones for his sling as they went on. it was not long till they came to some of the men,--great brawny fellows dressed in skins, with coarse matted hair and tanned faces. how little they knew of what was going on in the busy world outside their fields! as joel talked to them he found that cã¦sar's conquests and hero's murders had only come to them as vague rumors. all the petty wars and political turmoils were unknown to them. they could talk to him only of their flocks and their faith, both as simple as their lives. joel, in his wisdom learned of the rabbis, felt himself infinitely their superior, child though he was. but he enjoyed his day spent with them. he and buz ate the ample lunch they had brought, dipped up water from the brook in cups they made of oak-leaves, and both finally fell asleep to the droning music of the shepherd's pipes, played softly on the uplands. a distant rumble of thunder aroused them, late in the afternoon; and they started up to find the shepherds calling in their flocks. the gaunt sheep dogs raced to and fro, bringing the straying goats together. the shepherds brought the sheep into line with well-aimed sling-shots, touching them first on one side, and then on the other, as oxen are guided by the touch of the goad. joel looked up at the darkening sky with alarm. "who would have thought of a storm on such a day!" he exclaimed. buz cocked his eyes at the horizon. "i thought it might come to this," he said; "for as we came along this morning there were no spider-webs on the grass; the ants had not uncovered the doors of their hills; and all the signs pointed to wet weather. i thought though, that the time of the latter rains had passed a week ago. i am always glad when the stormy season is over. this one is going to be a hard one." "what shall we do?" asked joel. buz scratched his head. then he looked at joel. "you never could get home on that trifling donkey before it overtakes us; and they'll be worried about you. i'd best take you up to the sheep-fold. you can stay all night there, very comfortably. i'll run home and tell them where you are, and come back for you in the morning." joel hesitated, appalled at spending the night among such dirty men; but the heavy boom of thunder, steadily rolling nearer, silenced his half-spoken objection. by the time the donkey had carried him up the hillside to the stone-walled enclosure round the watch-tower, the shepherds were at the gates with their flocks. joel watched them go through the narrow passage, one by one. each man kept count of his own sheep, and drove them under the rough sheds put up for their protection. a good-sized hut was built against the hillside, where the shepherds might find refuge. buz pointed it out to joel; then he turned the donkey into one of the sheds, and started homeward on the run. joel shuddered as a blinding flash of lightning was followed by a crash of thunder that shook the hut. the wind bore down through the trees like some savage spirit, shrieking and moaning as it flew. joel heard a shout, and looked out to the opposite hillside. buz was flying along in break-neck race with the storm. at that rate he would soon be home. how he seemed to enjoy the race, as his strong limbs carried him lightly as a bird soars! at the top he turned to look back and laugh and wave his arms,--a sinewy little figure standing out in bold relief against a brazen sky. joel watched till he was out of sight. then, as the wind swooped down from the mountains, great drops of rain began to splash through the leaves. the men crowded into the hut. one of them started forward to close the door, but stopped suddenly, with his brown hairy hand uplifted. "hark ye!" he exclaimed. joel heard only the shivering of the wind in the tree-tops; but the man's trained ear caught the bleating of a stray lamb, far off and very faint. "i was afraid i was mistaken in my count; they jostled through the gate so fast i could not be sure." going to a row of pegs along the wall, he took down a lantern hanging there and lit it; then wrapping his coat of skins more closely around him, and calling one of the dogs, he set out into the gathering darkness. joel watched the fitful gleam of the lantern, flickering on unsteadily as a will-o'-the-wisp. a moment later he heard the man's deep voice calling tenderly to the lost animal; then the storm struck with such fury that they had to stand with their backs against the door of the hut to keep it closed. flash after flash of lightning blinded them. the wind roared down the mountain and beat against the house till joel held his breath in terror. it was midnight before it stopped. joel thought of the poor shepherd out on the hills, and shuddered. even the men seemed uneasy about him, as hour after hour passed, and he did not come. finally he fell asleep in the corner, on a pile of woolly skins. in the gray dawn he was awakened by a great shout. he got up, and went to the door. there stood the shepherd. his bare limbs were cut by stones and torn by thorns. blood streamed from his forehead where he had been wounded by a falling branch. the mud on his rough garments showed how often he had slipped and fallen on the steep paths. joel noticed, with a thrill of sympathy, how painfully he limped. but there on the bowed shoulders was the lamb he had wandered so far to find; and as the welcoming shout arose again, joel's weak little cheer joined gladly in. "how brave and strong he is," thought the boy. "he risked his life for just one pitiful little lamb." the child's heart went strangely out to this rough fellow who stood holding the shivering animal, sublimely unconscious that he had done anything more than a simple duty. joel, who felt uncommonly hungry after his supperless night, thought he would mount the donkey and start back alone. but just as he was about to do so, a familiar bushy head showed itself in the door of the sheepfold. buz had brought him some wheat-cakes and cheese to eat on the way back. joel was so busy with this welcome meal that he did not talk much. buz kept eying him in silence, as if he longed to ask some question. at last, when the cheese had entirely disappeared, he found courage to ask it. "were you always like that?" he said abruptly, motioning to joel's back and leg. somehow the reference did not wound him as it generally did. he began to tell buz about the samaritan boy who had crippled him. he never was able to tell the story of his wrongs without growing passionately angry. he had worked himself into a white heat by the time he had finished. "i'd get even with him," said buz, excitedly, with a wicked squint of his eyes. "how would you do it?" demanded joel. "cripple him as he did me?" "worse than that!" exclaimed buz, stopping to take deliberate aim at a leaf overhead, and shooting a hole exactly through the centre with his sling. "i'd blind him as quick as that! it's a great deal worse to be blind than lame." joel closed his eyes, and rode on a few moments in darkness. then he opened them and gave a quick glad look around the landscape. "my! what if i never could have opened them again," he thought. "yes, buz, you're right," he said aloud. "it _is_ worse to be blind; so i shall take rehum's eyesight also, some time. oh, if that time were only here!" although the subject of the miracle at cana had been constantly in the mind of phineas, and often near his lips, he did not speak of it to his host until the evening before his departure. it was just at the close of the evening meal. nathan ben obed rose half-way from his seat in astonishment, then sank back. "how old a man is this friend of yours?" he asked. "about thirty, i think," answered phineas. "he is a little younger than i." "where was he born?" "in bethlehem, i have heard it said, though his home has always been in nazareth." "strange, strange!" muttered the man, stroking his long white beard thoughtfully. joel reached over and touched phineas on the arm. "will you not tell rabbi nathan about the wonderful star that was seen at that time?" he asked, in a low tone. "what was that?" asked the old man, arousing from his reverie. when phineas had repeated his conversation with the stranger on the day of his journey, nathan ben obed exchanged meaning glances with his wife. "send for the old shepherd heber," he said. "i would have speech with him." rhoda came in to light the lamps. he bade her roll a cushioned couch that was in one corner to the centre of the room. "this old shepherd heber was born in bethlehem," he said; "but since his sons and grandsons have been in my employ, he has come north to live. he used to help keep the flocks that belonged to the temple, and that were used for sacrifices. his has always been one of the purest of lives; and i have never known such faith as he has. he is over a hundred years old, so must have been quite aged at the time of the event of which he will tell us." presently an old, old man tottered into the room, leaning on the shoulders of his two stalwart grandsons. they placed him gently on the cushions of the couch, and then went into the court-yard to await his readiness to return. like the men joel had seen the day before, they were dressed in skins, and were wild-looking and rough. but this aged father, with dim eyes and trembling wrinkled hands, sat before them like some hoary patriarch, in a fine linen mantle. pleased as a child, he saluted his new audience, and began to tell them his only story. as the years had gone by, one by one the lights of memory had gone out in darkness. well-known scenes had grown dim; old faces were forgotten; names he knew as well as his own, could not be recalled: but this one story was as fresh and real to him, as on the night he learned it. the words he chose were simple, the voice was tremulous with weakness; but he spoke with a dramatic fervor that made joel creep nearer and nearer, until he knelt, unknowing, at the old man's knee, spell-bound by the wonderful tale. "we were keeping watch in the fields by night," began the old shepherd, "i and my sons and my brethren. it was still and cold, and we spoke but little to each other. suddenly over all the hills and plains shone a great light,--brighter than light of moon or stars or sunshine. it was so heavenly white we knew it must be the glory of the lord we looked upon and we were sore afraid, and hid our faces, falling to the ground. and, lo! an angel overhead spake to us from out of the midst of the glory, saying, 'fear not: for, behold, i bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. for unto you is born this day in the city of david a saviour, which is christ the lord. and this shall be a sign unto you; ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.' "and suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising god, and saying, 'glory to god in the highest, peace on earth, good-will toward men!' "oh, the sound of the rejoicing that filled that upper air! ever since in my heart have i carried that foretaste of heaven!" the old shepherd paused, with such a light on his upturned face that he seemed to his awestruck listeners to be hearing again that same angelic chorus,--the chorus that rang down from the watch-towers of heaven, across earth's lowly sheep-fold, on that first christmas night. there was a solemn hush. then he said, "and when they were gone away, and the light and the song were no more with us, we spake one to another, and rose in haste and went to bethlehem. and we found the babe lying in a manger with mary its mother; and we fell down and worshipped him. "thirty years has it been since the birth of israel's messiah; and i sit and wonder all the day,--wonder when he will appear once more to his people. surely the time must be well nigh here when he may claim his kingdom. o lord, let not thy servant depart until these eyes that beheld the child shall have seen the king in his beauty!" joel remained kneeling beside old heber, perfectly motionless. he was fitting together the links that he had lately found. a child, heralded by angels, proclaimed by a star worshipped by the magi! a man changing water into wine at only a word! "i shall yet see him!" exclaimed the voice of old heber, with such sublime assurance of faith that it found a response in every heart. there was another solemn stillness, so deep that the soft fluttering of a night-moth around the lamp startled them. then the child's voice rang out, eager and shrill, but triumphant as if inspired: "rabbi phineas, _he_ it was who changed the water into wine!--this friend of nazareth and the babe of bethlehem are the same!" the heart of the carpenter was strangely stirred, but it was full of doubt. not that the christ had been born,--the teachings of all his lifetime led him to expect that; but that the chosen one could be a friend of his,--the thought was too wonderful for him. the old shepherd sat on the couch, feebly twisting his fingers, and talking to himself. he was repeating bits of the story he had just told them: "and, lo, an angel overhead!" he muttered. then he looked up, whispering softly, "glory to god in the highest--and peace, yes, on earth peace!" "he seems to have forgotten everything else," said nathan, signalling to the men outside to lead him home. "his mind is wiped away entirely, that it may keep unspotted the record of that night's revelation. he tells it over and over, whether he has a listener or not." they led him gently out, the white-haired, white-souled old shepherd heber. it seemed to joel that the wrinkled face was illuminated by some inner light, not of this world, and that he lingered among men only to repeat to them, over and over, his one story. that strange sweet story of bethlehem's first christmas-tide. chapter iv. next morning a goodly train set out from the gates of nathan ben obed. it was near the time of the feast of the passover, and he, with many of his household, was going down to jerusalem. the family and guests went first on mules and asses. behind them followed a train of servants, driving the lambs, goats, and oxen to be offered as sacrifices in the temple, or sold in jerusalem to other pilgrims. all along the highway, workmen were busy repairing the bridges, and cleaning the springs and wells, soon to be used by the throngs of travellers. all the tombs near the great thoroughfares were being freshly white-washed; they gleamed with a dazzling purity through the green trees, only to warn passers-by of the defilement within. for had those on their way to the feast approached too near these homes of the dead, even unconsciously, they would have been accounted unclean, and unfit to partake of the passover. nothing escaped joel's quick sight, from the tulips and marigolds flaming in the fields, to the bright-eyed little viper crawling along the stone-wall. but while he looked, he never lost a word that passed between his friend phineas and their host. the pride of an ancient nation took possession of him as he listened to the prophecies they quoted. every one they met along the way coming from capernaum had something to say about this new prophet who had arisen in galilee. when they reached the gate of the city, a great disappointment awaited them. _he had been there, and gone again._ nathan ben obed and his train tarried only one night in the place, and then pressed on again towards jerusalem. phineas went with them. "you shall go with us next year," he said to joel; "then you will be over twelve. i shall take my own little ones too, and their mother." "only one more year," exclaimed joel, joyfully. "if that passes as quickly as the one just gone, it will soon be here." "look after my little family," said the carpenter, at parting. "come every day to the work, if you wish, just as when i am here; and remember, my lad, you are almost a man." almost a man! the words rang in the boy's thoughts all day as he pounded and cut, keeping time to the swinging motion of hammer and saw. almost a man! but what kind of one? crippled and maimed, shorn of the strength that should have been his pride, beggared of his priestly birthright. almost, it might be, but never in its fulness, could he hope to attain the proud stature of a perfect man. a fiercer hate sprang up for the enemy who had made him what he was; and the wild burning for revenge filled him so he could not work. he put away his tools, and went up the narrow outside stairway that led to the flat roof of the carpenter's house. it was called the "upper chamber." here a latticed pavilion, thickly overgrown with vines, made a cool green retreat where he might rest and think undisturbed. sitting there, he could see the flash of white sails on the blue lake, and slow-moving masses of fleecy clouds in the blue of the sky above. they brought before him the picture of the flocks feeding on the pastures of nathan ben obed. then, naturally enough, there flashed through his mind a thought of buz. he seemed to see him squinting his little eyes to take aim at a leaf overhead. he heard the stone whirr through it, as buz said: "i'd blind him!" some very impossible plans crept into joel's day-dreams just then. he imagined himself sitting in a high seat, wrapped in robes of state; soldiers stood around him to carry out his slightest wish. the door would open and rehum would be brought forth in fetters. "what is your will concerning the prisoner, o most gracious sovereign," the jailer would ask. joel closed his eyes, and waved his hand before an imaginary audience. "away with him,--to the torture! wrench his limbs on the rack! brand his eyelids with hot irons! let him suffer all that man can suffer and live! thus shall it be done unto the man on whom the king delighteth to take vengeance!" joel was childish enough to take a real satisfaction in this scene he conjured up. but as it faded away, he was man enough to realize it could never come to pass, save in his imagination; he could never be in such a position for revenge, unless,-that moment a possible way seemed to open for him. phineas would probably see his friend of nazareth at the passover. what could be more natural than that the old friendship should be renewed. he whose hand had changed the water into wine should finally cast out the alien king who usurped the throne of israel, for one in whose veins the blood of david ran royal red,--what was more to be expected than that? the messiah would come to his kingdom, and then--and then--the thought leaped to its last daring limit. phineas, who had been his earliest friend and playfellow, would he not be lifted to the right hand of power? through him, then, lay the royal road to revenge. the thought lifted him unconsciously to his feet. he stood with his arms out-stretched in the direction of the far-away temple, like some young prophet. david's cry of triumph rose to his lips: "thou hast girded me with strength unto the battle," he murmured. "thou hast also given me the necks of mine enemies, that i might destroy them that hate me!" a sweet baby voice at the foot of the steps brought him suddenly down from the height of his intense feeling. "joel! joel!" called little ruth, "where is you?" then jesse's voice added, "we're all a-coming up for you to tell us a story." up the stairs they swarmed to the roof, the carpenter's children and half-a-dozen of their little playmates. joel, with his head still in the clouds, told them of a mighty king who was coming to slay all other kings, and change all tears--the waters of affliction--into the red wine of joy. "h'm! i don't think much of that story," said jesse, with out-spoken candor. "i'd rather hear about goliath, or the bears that ate up the forty children." but joel was in no mood for such stories, just then. on some slight pretext he escaped from his exacting audience, and went down to the sea-shore. here, skipping stones across the water, or writing idly in the sand, he was free to go on with his fascinating day-dreams. for the next two weeks the boy gave up work entirely. he haunted the toll-gates and public streets, hoping to hear some startling news from jerusalem. he was so full of the thought that some great revolution was about to take place, that he could not understand how people could be so indifferent. all on fire with the belief that this man of nazareth was the one in whom lay the nation's hope, he looked and longed for the return of phineas, that he might learn more of him. but phineas had little to tell when he came back. he had met his friend twice in jerusalem,--the same gentle quiet man he had always known, making no claims, working no wonders. phineas had heard of his driving the moneychangers out of the temple one day, and those who sold doves in its sacred courts, although he had not witnessed the scene. the carpenter was rather surprised that he should have made such a public disturbance. "rabbi phineas," said joel, with a trembling voice, "don't you think your friend is the prophet we are expecting?" phineas shook his head. "no, my lad, i am sure of it now." "but the herald angels and the star," insisted the boy. "they must have proclaimed some one else. he is the best man i ever knew; but there is no more of the king in his nature, than there is in mine." the man's positive answer seemed to shatter joel's last hope. downcast and disappointed, he went back to his work. only with money could he accomplish his life's object, and only by incessant work could he earn the shining shekels that he needed. phineas wondered sometimes at the dogged persistence with which the child stuck to his task, in spite of his tired, aching body. he had learned to make sandal-wood jewel-boxes, and fancifully wrought cups to hold the various dyes and cosmetics used by the ladies of the court. several times, during the following months, he begged a sail in some of the fishing-boats that landed at the town of tiberias. having gained the favor of the keeper of the gates, by various little gifts of his own manufacture, he always found a ready admittance to the palace. to the ladies of the court, the sums they paid for his pretty wares seemed trifling; but to joel the small bag of coins hidden in the folds of his clothes was a little fortune, daily growing larger. chapter v. it was sabbath morning in the house of laban the pharisee. joel, sitting alone in the court-yard, could hear his aunt talking to the smaller children, as she made them ready to take with her to the synagogue. from the upper chamber on the roof, came also a sound of voices, for two guests had arrived the day before, and were talking earnestly with their host. joel already knew the object of their visit. they had been there before, when the preaching of john baptist had drawn such great crowds from all the cities to the banks of the jordan. they had been sent out then by the authorities in jerusalem to see what manner of man was this who, clothed in skins and living in the wilderness, could draw the people so wonderfully, and arouse such intense excitement. now they had come on a like errand, although on their own authority. another prophet had arisen whom this john baptist had declared to be greater than himself. they had seen him drive the moneychangers from the temple; they had heard many wild rumors concerning him. so they followed him to his home in the little village of nazareth, where they heard him talk in the synagogue. they had seen the listening crowd grow amazed at the eloquence of his teaching, and then indignant that one so humble as a carpenter's son should claim that isaiah's prophecies had been fulfilled in himself. they had seen him driven from the home of his boyhood, and now had come to capernaum that they might be witnesses in case this impostor tried to lead these people astray by repeating his claims. all this joel heard, and more, as the earnest voices came distinctly down to him through the deep hush of the sabbath stillness. it shook his faith somewhat, even in the goodness of this friend of his friend phineas, that these two learned doctors of the law should consider him an impostor. he stood aside respectfully for them to pass, as they came down the outside stairway, and crossed the court-yard on their way to the morning service. their long, flowing, white robes, their broad phylacteries, their dignified bearing, impressed him greatly. he knew they were wise, good men whose only aim in life was to keep the letter of the law, down to its smallest details. he followed them through the streets until they came to the synagogue. they gave no greeting to any one they passed, but walked with reverently bowed heads that their pious meditation might not be disturbed by the outside world. his aunt had already gone by the way of the back streets, as it was customary for women to go, her face closely veiled. the synagogue, of finely chiselled limestone, with its double rows of great marble pillars, stood in its white splendor, the pride of the town. it had been built by the commander of the garrison who, though a roman centurion, was a believer in the god of the hebrews, and greatly loved by the whole people. joel glanced up at the lintel over the door, where aaron's rod and a pot of manna carved in the stone were constant reminders to the daily worshippers of the hand that fed and guided them from generation to generation. joel limped slowly to his place in the congregation. in the seats of honor, facing it, sat his uncle and his guests, among the rulers of the synagogue. for a moment his eyes wandered curiously around, hoping for a glimpse of the man whose fame was beginning to spread all over galilee. it had been rumored that he would be there. but joel saw only familiar faces. the elders took their seats. during the reading of the usual psalm, the reciting of a benediction, and even the confession of the creed, joel's thoughts wandered. when the reader took up his scroll to read the passages from deuteronomy, the boy stole one more quick glance all around. but as the whole congregation arose, and turned facing the east, he resolutely fixed his mind on the duties of the hour. the eighteen benedictions, or prayers, were recited in silence by each devout worshipper. then the leader repeated them aloud, all the congregation responding with their deep amen! and amen! joel always liked that part of the service and the chanting that followed. another roll of parchment was brought out. the boy looked up with interest. probably one of his uncle's guests would be invited to read from it, and speak to the people. no, it was a stranger whom he had not noticed before, sitting behind one of the tall elders, who was thus honored. joel's heart beat so fast that the blood throbbed against his ear-drums, as he heard the name called. it was the friend of his friend phineas, _the rabbi jesus_. joel bent forward, all his soul in his eyes, as the stranger unrolled the book, and began to read from the prophets. the words were old familiar ones; he even knew them by heart. but never before had they carried with them such music, such meaning. when he laid aside the roll, and began to speak, every fibre in the boy's being thrilled in response to the wonderful eloquence of that voice and teaching. the whole congregation sat spell-bound, forgetful of everything except the earnestness of the speaker who moved and swayed them as the wind does the waving wheat. suddenly there arose a wild shriek, a sort of demon-like howl that transfixed them with its piercing horror. every one turned to see the cause of the startling sound. there, near the door, stood a man whom they all knew,--an unhappy creature said to be possessed of an unclean spirit. "ha!" he cried, in a blood-curdling tone. "what have we to do with thee, jesus of nazareth? art thou come to destroy us? i know thee, who thou art, the holy one of god!" there was a great stir, especially in the woman's gallery; and those standing nearest him backed away as far as possible. every face was curious and excited, at this sudden interruption,--every face but one; the rabbi jesus alone was calm. "hold thy peace and come out of him!" he commanded. there was one more shriek, worse than before, as the man fell at his feet in a convulsion; but in a moment he stood up again, quiet and perfectly sane. the wild look was gone from his eyes. whatever had been the strange spell that had bound him before, he was now absolutely free. there was another stir in the woman's gallery. contrary to all rule or custom, an aged woman pushed her way out. down the stairs she went, unveiled through the ranks of the men, to reach her son whom she had just seen restored to reason. with a glad cry she fell forward, fainting, in his arms, and was borne away to the little home, now no longer darkened by the shadow of a sore affliction. little else was talked about that day, until the rumor of another miracle began to spread through the town. phineas, stopping at laban's house on his way home from an afternoon service, confirmed the truth of it. one of his neighbors had been dangerously ill with a fever that was common in that part of the country; she was the mother-in-law of simon bar jonah. it was at his home that the rabbi jesus had been invited to dine. as soon as he entered the house, they besought him to heal her. standing beside her, he rebuked the fever; and immediately she arose, and began to help her daughter prepare for the entertainment of their guest. "abigail was there yesterday," said phineas, "to carry some broth she had made. she thought then it would be impossible for the poor creature to live through the night. i saw the woman a few hours ago, and she is perfectly well and strong." that night when the sun was setting, and the sabbath was at an end, a motley crowd streamed along the streets to the door of simon bar jonah. men carried on couches; children in their mother's arms; those wasted by burning fevers; those shaken by unceasing palsy; the lame; the blind; the death-stricken,--all pressing hopefully on. what a scene in that little court-yard as the sunset touched the wan faces and smiled into dying eyes. hope for the hopeless! balm for the broken in body and spirit! there was rejoicing in nearly every home in capernaum that night, for none were turned away. not one was refused. it is written, "he laid his hand on every one of them, and healed them." that he might not seem behind his guests in zeal and devotion to the law, the dignified laban would not follow the crowds. "let others be carried away by strange doctrines and false prophets, if they will," he declared; "as for me and my household, we will cling to the true faith of our fathers." so the three sat in the upper chamber on the roof, and discussed the new teacher with many shakes of their wise heads. "it is not lawful to heal on the sabbath day," they declared. "twice during the past day he has openly transgressed the law. he will lead all galilee astray!" but galilee cared little how far the path turned from the narrow faith of the pharisees, so long as it led to life and healing. down in the garden below, the children climbed up on the grape-arbor, and peered through the vines at the surging crowds which they would have joined, had it not been for laban's strict commands. one by one they watched people whom they knew go by, some carried on litters, some leaning on the shoulders of friends. one man crawled painfully along on his hands and knees. after awhile the same people began to come back. "look, quick, joel!" one of the children cried; "there goes simon ben levi. why, his palsy is all gone! he doesn't shake a bit now! and there's little martha that lives out near aunt rebecca's! don't you know how white and thin she looked when they carried her by a little while ago? see! she is running along by herself now as well as we are!" the children could hardly credit their own sense of sight, when neighbors they had known all their lives to be bed-ridden invalids came back cured, singing and praising god. it was a sight they never could forget. so they watched wonderingly till darkness fell, and the last happy-hearted healed one had gone home to a rejoicing household. while the fathers on the roof were deciding they would have naught of this man, the children in the grape-arbor were storing up in their simple little hearts these proofs of his power and kindness. then they gathered around joel on the doorstep, while he repeated the story that the old shepherd heber had told him, of the angels and the star, and the baby they had worshipped that night in bethlehem. "come, children," called his aunt leah, as she lit the lamp that was to burn all night. "come! it is bed-time!" his cousin hannah lingered a moment after the others had gone in, to say, "that was a pretty story, joel. why don't you go and ask the good man to straighten your back?" strange as it may seem, this was the first time the thought had occurred to him that he might be benefited himself. he had been so long accustomed to thinking of himself as hopelessly lame, that the wonderful cures he had witnessed had awakened no hope for himself. a new life seemed to open up before him at the little girl's question. he sat on the doorstep thinking about it until his uncle laban came down and crossly ordered him to go to bed. he went in, saying softly to himself, "i will go to him to-morrow; yes, early in the morning!" strange that an old proverb should cross his mind just then. "boast not thyself of to-morrow. thou knowest not what a day may bring forth." chapter vi. when joel went out on the streets next morning, although it was quite early, he saw a disappointed crowd coming up from the direction of simon's house on the lake shore. "where have all these people been?" he asked of the baker's boy, whom he ran against at the first corner. the boy stopped whistling, and rested his basket of freshly baked bread against his knee, as he answered:-"they were looking for the rabbi who healed so many people last night. say! do you know," he added quickly, as if the news were too good to keep, "he healed my mother last night. you cannot think how different it seems at home, to have her going about strong and well like she used to be." joel's eyes brightened. "do you think he'll do anything for me, if i go to him now?" he asked wistfully. "do you suppose he could straighten out such a crooked back as mine? look how much shorter this leg is than the other. oh, _do_ you think he could make them all right?" the boy gave him a critical survey, and then answered, emphatically, "yes! it really does not look like it would be as hard to straighten you as old jeremy, the tailor's father. he was twisted all out of shape, you know. well, i'll declare! there he goes now!" joel looked across the street. the wrinkled face of the old basket-weaver was a familiar sight in the market; but joel could hardly recognize the once crippled form, now restored to its original shapeliness. "i am going right now," he declared, starting to run in his excitement. "i can't wait another minute." "but he's gone!" the boy called after him. "that's why the people are all coming back." joel sat down suddenly on a ledge projecting from the stone-wall. "gone!" he echoed drearily. it was as if he had been starving, and the life-giving food held to his famished lips had been suddenly snatched away. both his heart and his feet felt like lead when he got up after awhile, and dragged himself slowly along to the carpenter's house. [illustration: "'i peeped out 'tween 'e wose--vines'"] it was such a bitter disappointment to be so near the touch of healing, and then to miss it altogether. no cheerful tap of the hammer greeted him. the idle tools lay on the deserted workbench. "disappointed again!" he thought. then the doves cooed, and he caught a glimpse of ruth's fair hair down among the garden lilies. "where is your father, little one?" he called. "gone away wiv 'e good man 'at makes everybody well," she answered. then she came skipping down the path to stand close beside him, and say confidentially: "i saw him--'e good man--going by to simon's house. i peeped out 'tween 'e wose-vines, and he looked wite into my eyes wiv his eyes, and i couldn't help loving him!" joel looked into the beautiful baby face, thinking what a picture it must have made, as framed in roses it smiled out on the tender-hearted one, going on his mission of help and healing. with her little hand in his, she led him back to hope, for she took him to her mother, who comforted him with the assurance that phineas expected to be home soon, and doubtless his friend would be with him. so there came another time to work by himself and dream of the hour surely dawning. and the dreams were doubly sweet now; for side by side with his hope of revenge, was the belief in his possible cure. they heard only once from the absent ones. word came back that a leper had been healed. joel heard it first, down at the custom-house. he had gotten into the way of strolling down in that direction after his work was done; for here the many trading-vessels from across the lake, or those that shipped from capernaum, had to stop and pay duty. here, too, the great road of eastern commerce passed which led from damascus to the harbors of the west. so here he would find a constant stream of travellers, bringing the latest news from the outside world. the boy did not know, as he limped up and down the water's edge, longing for some word from his absent friends, that near by was one who watched almost as eagerly as himself. it was levi-matthew, one of the officials, sitting in the seat of custom. sprung from the same priestly tribe as joel, he had sunk so low, in accepting the office of tax-gatherer, that the righteous laban would not have touched him so much as with the tip of his sandal. "bears and lions," said a proverb, "might be the fiercest wild beasts in the forests; but publicans and informers were the worst in cities." one could not bear witness in the courts, and the disgrace extended to the whole family. they were even classed with robbers and murderers. no doubt there was deep cause for such a feeling; as a class they were unscrupulous and unjust. there might have been good ones among their number, but the company they kept condemned them to the scorn of high and low. when a jew hates, or a jew scorns, be sure it is thoroughly done; there is no half-way course for his intense nature to take. so this son of levi, sitting in the seat of custom, and this son of levi strolling past him, were, socially, as far apart as the east is from the west,--as unlike as thorn and blossom on the same tribal stem. matthew knew all the fishermen and ship-owners that thronged the busy beach in front of him. the sons of jonah and of zebedee passed him daily; and he must have wondered when he saw them throw down their nets and leave everything to follow a stranger. he must have wondered also at the reports on every tongue, and the sights he had seen himself of miraculous healing. but while strangely drawn towards this new teacher from nazareth, it could have been with no thought that the hand and the voice were for him. he was a publican, and how could they reach to such depths? a caravan had just stopped. the pack-animals were being unloaded, bales and packages opened, private letters pried into. the insolent officials were tossing things right and left, as they made a list of the taxable goods. joel was watching them with as much interest as if he had not witnessed such scenes dozens of times before, till he noticed a group gathering around one of the drivers. he was telling what he had seen on his way to capernaum. several noisy companions kept interrupting him to bear witness to the truth of his statements. "and he who but a moment before had been the most miserable of lepers stood up before us all, cleansed of his leprosy. his skin was soft and fair as a child's, and his features were restored to him," said the driver. joel and levi-matthew stood side by side. at another time the boy might have drawn his clothes away to keep from brushing against the despised tax-gatherer. but he never noticed now that their elbows touched. when he had heard all there was to be told, he limped away to carry the news to abigail. to know that others were being cured daily made him all the more impatient for the return of this friend of phineas. the publican turned again to his pen and his account-book. he, too, looked forward with a burning heart to the return of the nazarene, unknowing why he did so. at last joel heard of the return, in a very unexpected way. there were guests in the house of laban again. one of the rabbis who had been there before, and a scribe from jerusalem. now there were longer conferences in the upper chamber, and graver shakings of the head, over this false prophet whose fame was spreading wider. the miracle of healing the paralytic at the pool of bethesda, when he had gone down to jerusalem to one of the many feasts, had stirred judea to its farthest borders. so these two men had been sent to investigate. on the very afternoon of their arrival, a report flew through the streets that the rabbi jesus was once more in the town. their host led them with all the haste their dignity would allow, to the house where he was said to be preaching. the common people fell back when they saw them, and allowed them to pass into the centre of the throng. the rabbi stood in the doorway, so that both those in the house and without could distinctly hear him. the scribe had never seen him before, and in spite of his deep-seated prejudice could not help admiring the man whom he had come prepared to despise. it was no wild fanatic who stood before him, no noisy debater whose fiery eloquence would be likely to excite and inflame his hearers. he saw a man of gentlest dignity; truth looked out from the depths of his calm eyes. every word, every gesture, carried with it the conviction that he who spoke taught with god-given authority. the scribe began to grow uneasy as he listened, carried along by the earnest tones of the speaker. there was a great commotion on the edge of the crowd, as some one tried to push through to the centre. "stand back! go away!" demanded angry voices. the scribe was a tall man, and by stretching a little, managed to see over the heads of the others. four men, bearing a helpless paralytic, were trying to carry him through the throngs; but they would not make room for this interruption. after vainly hunting for some opening through which they might press, the men mounted the steep, narrow staircase on the outside of the building, and drew the man up, hammock and all, to the flat roof on which they stood. there was a sound of scraping and scratching as they broke away the brush and mortar that formed the frail covering of the roof. then the people in the room below saw slowly coming down upon them between the rafters, this man whom no obstacle could keep back from the great physician. but the paralyzed hands could not lift themselves in supplication; the helpless tongue could frame no word of pleading,--only the eyes of the sick man could look up into the pitying face bent over him, and implore a blessing. the scribe leaned forward, confidently expecting to hear the man bidden to arise. to his surprise and horror, the words he heard were: "son, thy _sins_ be forgiven thee!" he looked at laban and his companion, and the three exchanged meaning glances. when they looked again at the speaker, his eyes seemed to read their inmost thoughts. "wherefore think ye evil in your hearts?" he asked, with startling distinctness. "whether is it easier to say to the sick of the palsy, thy sins be forgiven thee; or to say, arise, and take up thy bed, and walk? but that ye may know that the son of man hath power on earth to forgive sins," here he turned to the helpless form lying at his feet, "i say unto thee, arise, and take up thy bed, and go thy way unto thine house." the man bounded to his feet, and picking up the heavy rug on which he had been lying, went running and leaping out of their midst. without a word, laban and his two guests drew their clothes carefully around them, and picked their way through the crowd. phineas, who stood at the gate, gave them a respectful greeting. laban only turned his eyes away with a scowl, and passed coldly on. "the man is a liar and a blasphemer!" exclaimed the scribe, as they sat once more in the privacy of laban's garden. "only god can forgive sins!" added his companion. "this paralytic should have taken a sin-offering to the priest. for only by the blood of sacrifice can one hope to obtain pardon." "still he healed him," spoke up the scribe, musingly. "only through the power of satan!" interrupted laban. "when he says he can forgive sins, he blasphemes." the other pharisee leaned forward to say, in an impressive whisper: "then you know the law on that point. he should be stoned to death, his body hung on a tree, and then buried with shame!" it was not long after that joel, just back from a trip to tiberias in a little sailing-boat, came into the garden. he had been away since early morning, so had heard nothing of what had just occurred; he had had good luck in disposing of his wares, and was feeling unusually cheerful. hearing voices in the corner of the garden, he was about to pass out again, when his uncle called him sternly to come to him at once. surprised at the command, he obeyed, and was questioned and cross-questioned by all three. it was very little he could tell them about his friend's plans; but he acknowledged proudly that phineas had always known this famous man from nazareth, even in childhood, and was one of his most devoted followers. "this man phineas is a traitor to the faith!" roared laban. "he is a dangerous man, and in league with these fellows to do great evil to our nation." the scribe and the rabbi nodded approvingly. "hear me, now!" he cried, sternly. "never again are you to set foot over his threshold, or have any communication whatsoever with him or his associates. i make no idle threat; if you disobey me in this, you will have cause to wish you had never been born. you may leave us now!" too surprised and frightened to say a word, the child slipped away. to give up his daily visit to the carpenter's house, was to give up all that made his life tolerable; while to be denied even speaking to his associates, meant to abandon all hope of cure. but he dared not rebel; obedience to those in authority was too thoroughly taught in those days to be lightly disregarded. but his uncle seemed to fear that his harsh command would be eluded in some way, and kept such a strict watch over him, that he rarely got beyond the borders of the garden by himself. one day he was all alone in the grape-arbor, looking out into the streets that he longed to be in, since their freedom had been denied him. a little girl passed, carrying one child in her arms, and talking to another who clung to her skirts. it was jerusha. joel threw a green grape at her to attract her attention, and then beckoned her mysteriously to come nearer. she set the baby on the ground, and gave him her bracelet to play with, while she listened to a whispered account of his wrongs through the latticed arbor. "it's a shame!" she declared indignantly. "i'll go right down to the carpenter's house and tell them why you cannot go there any more. and i'll keep watch on all that happens, and let you know. i go past here every day, and if i have any news, i'll toss a pebble over the wall and cluck like a hen. then if nobody is watching, you can come to this hole in the arbor again." the next day, as joel was going in great haste to the baker's, whither his aunt had sent him, he heard some one behind him calling him to wait. in another moment jerusha was in speaking distance, nearly bent double with the weight of her little brother, whom she was carrying as usual. "there!" she said, with a puff of relief, as she put him on his own feet. "wait till i get my breath! it's no easy thing to carry such a load and run at the same time! how did you get out?" "there was an errand to be done, and no one else to do it," answered joel, "so aunt sent me." "oh, i've got such news for you!" she exclaimed. "guess what has happened! your rabbi jesus has asked levi-matthew to be one of his followers, and go around with him wherever he goes. think of it! one of those horrid tax-gatherers! he settled his accounts and gave up his position in the custom-house yesterday. and he is getting ready for a great feast. i heard the butcher and the wine-dealer both telling about the big orders he had given them. "all the publicans and low common people that are his friends are invited. yes, and so is your friend the carpenter. think of that, now! he is going to sit down and eat with such people! of course respectable folks will never have anything more to do with him after that! i guess your uncle was right about him, after all!" both the little girl's face and manner expressed intense disgust. joel was shocked. "oh, are you sure?" he cried. "you certainly must be mistaken! it cannot be so!" "i guess i know what i see with my own eyes, and hear with my own ears!" she retorted, angrily. "my father says they are a bad lot. people that go with publicans are just as unclean themselves. if you know so much more than everybody else, i'll not trouble myself to run after you with any more news. mistaken, indeed!" with her head held high, and her nose scornfully turned up, she jerked her little brother past him, and went quickly around the corner of the street. the indignation of some of the rabbis knew no bounds. "it has turned out just as i predicted," said the scribe to laban, at supper. "they are nothing but a set of gluttons and wine-bibbers!" there was nothing else talked of during the entire meal. how joel's blood boiled as he listened to their conversation! the food seemed to choke him. as they applied one coarse epithet after another to his friend phineas, all the kindness and care this man had ever given him seemed to rise up before him. but when they turned on the nazarene, all the stories joel had heard in the carpenter's house of his gentle sinless childhood, all the tokens he had seen himself of his pure unselfish manhood, seemed to cry out against such gross injustice. it was no light thing for a child to contradict the doctors of the law, and, in a case of this kind, little less than a crime to take the stand joel did. but the memory of two faces gave him courage: that of phineas as it had looked on him through all those busy happy hours in the carpenter's home; the other face he had seen but once, that day of healing in the synagogue,--who, having once looked into the purity of those eyes, the infinite tenderness of that face, could sit calmly by and raise no voice against the calumny of his enemies? the little cripple was white to the lips, and he trembled from head to foot as he stood up to speak. the scribe lifted up both hands, and turned to laban with a meaning shrug of the shoulders. "to think of finding such heresy in your own household!" he exclaimed. "among your own children!" "he is no child of mine!" retorted laban. "nor shall he stay among them!" then he turned to joel. "boy, take back every word you have just uttered! swear you will renounce this man,--this son of perdition,--and never have aught to say well of him again!" joel looked around the table, at each face that shone out pale and excited in the yellow lamplight. his eyes were dilated with fear; his heart thumped so in the awful pause that followed, that he thought everybody else must hear it. "i cannot!" he said hoarsely. "oh, i cannot!" "then take yourself out of my sight forever. the doors of this house shall never open for you again!" there was a storm of abuse from the angry man at this open defiance of his authority. with these two cold, stern men to nod approval at his zealousness, he went to greater lengths than he might otherwise have done. with one more frightened glance around the table, the child hurried out of the room. the door into the street creaked after him, and joel limped out into the night, with his uncle's curse ringing in his ears. chapter vii. phineas, going along the beach that night, in the early moonlight, towards his home, saw a little figure crouched in the shadow of a low building beside the wharf. it was shaking with violent sobs. he went up to the child, and took its hands down from its wet face, with a comforting expression of pity. then he started back in surprise. it was joel! "why, my child! my poor child!" he exclaimed, putting his arm around the trembling, misshapen form. "what is the meaning of all this?" "uncle laban has driven me away from home!" sobbed the boy. "he was angry because you and rabbi jesus were invited to levi-matthew's feast. he says i have denied the faith, and am worse than an infidel. he says i am fit only to be cast out with the dogs and publicans!--and--and--" he ended with a wail. "oh, he sent me away with his curse!" phineas drew him closer, and stroked the head on his shoulder in pitying silence. "fatherless and motherless and lame!" the boy sobbed bitterly. "and now, a homeless outcast, blighted by a curse, i have been sitting here with my feet in the dark water, thinking how easy it would be to slip down into it and forget; but, rabbi phineas, that face will not let me,--that face of your friend,--i keep seeing it all the time!" phineas gathered the boy so close in his arms that joel could feel his strong, even heart-beats. "my child," he said solemnly, "call me no more, rabbi! henceforth, it is to be _father_ phineas. you shall be to me as my own son!" "but the curse!" sobbed joel. "the curse that is set upon me! it will blight you too!" "nay," was the quiet answer; "for it is written, 'as the bird by wandering, as the swallow by flying, _so the curse, causeless, shall not come_.'" but the boy still shook as with a chill. his face and hands were burning hot. "come!" said phineas. he picked him up in his strong arms, and carried him down the beach to abigail's motherly care and comforting. "he will be a long time getting over the shock of this," she said to her husband, when he was at last soothed to sleep. "ah, loyal little heart!" he answered, "he has suffered much for the sake of his friendship with us!" poor little storm-tossed bark! in the days that followed he had reason to bless the boisterous winds, that blew him to such a safe and happy harbor! * * * * * over on the horns of mount hattin, the spring morning began to shine. the light crept slowly down the side of the old mountain, till it fell on a little group of men talking earnestly together. it was the preacher of galilee, who had just chosen twelve men from among those who followed him to help him in his ministry. they gathered around him in the fresh mountain dawn, as he pictured the life in store for them. strange they did not quail before it, and turn back disheartened. nay, not strange! for in the weeks they had been with him, they had learned to love him so, that his "follow me," that drew them from the toll-gate and fishing-boat, was stronger than ties of home and kindred. just about this time, phineas and joel were starting out from capernaum to the mountain. hundreds of people were already on the way; people who had come from all parts of judea, and beyond the jordan. clouds of dust rose above the highway as the travellers trudged along. joel was obliged to walk slowly, so that by the time they reached the plain below, a great multitude had gathered. "let's get close," he whispered. he had heard that those who barely touched the garments of the strange rabbi were made whole, and it was with the hope that he might steal up and touch him unobserved that he had begged phineas to take him on such a long, painful walk. "there is too great a crowd, now," answered phineas. "let us rest here awhile, and listen. let me lift you up on this big rock, so that you can see. 'sh! he is speaking!" joel looked up, and, for the second time in his life, listened to words that thrilled him like a trumpet call,--words that through eighteen hundred years have not ceased to vibrate; with what mighty power they must have fallen when, for the first time, they broke the morning stillness of those mountain wilds! joel forgot the press of people about him, forgot even where he was, as sentence after sentence seemed to lift him out of himself, till he could catch glimpses of lofty living such as he had never even dreamed of before. round by round, he seemed to be carried up some high ladder of thought by that voice, away from all that was common and low and earthly, to a summit of infinite love and light. still the voice led on, "ye have heard that it hath been said, 'an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.'" joel started so violently at hearing his own familiar motto, that he nearly lost his balance on the rock. "but i say unto you that you resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.... ye have heard that it hath been said, thou shalt love thy neighbor, and hate thine enemy. but i say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you." poor little joel, it was a hard doctrine for him to accept! how could he give up his hope of revenge, when it had grown with his growth till it had come to be as dear as life itself? he heard little of the rest of the sermon, for through it all the words kept echoing, "bless them that curse you! do good to them that hate you! pray for them which despitefully use you!" "oh, i can't! i can't!" he groaned inwardly. "i have found a chance for you to ride home," said phineas, when the sermon was over, and the people began to file down the narrow mountain paths. "but there will be time for you to go to him first, for healing. you have only to ask, you know." joel took an eager step forward, and then shrank back guiltily. "not now," he murmured, "some other time." he could not look into those clear eyes and ask a blessing, when he knew his heart was black with hate. after all his weeks of waiting the opportunity had come; but he dared not let the sinless one look into his soul. phineas began an exclamation of surprise, but was interrupted by some one asking him a question. joel took advantage of this to climb up behind the man who had offered him a ride. all the way home he weighed the two desires in his mind,--the hope of healing, and the hope of revenge. by the time the two guardian fig-trees were in sight, he had decided. he would rather go helpless and halting through life than give up his cherished purpose. but there was no sleep for him that night, after he had gone up to his little chamber on the roof. he seemed to see that pleading face on the mountain-side; it came to him again and again, with the words, "bless them that curse you! pray for them that despitefully use you!" all night he fought against yielding to it. time and again he turned over on his bed, and closed his eyes; but it would not let him alone. he thought of jacob wrestling with the angel till day-break, and knew in his heart that the sweet spirit of forgiveness striving with his selfish nature was some heavenly impulse from another world. at last when the cock-crowing commenced at dawn, and the stars were beginning to fade, he drew up his crooked little body, and knelt with his face to the kindling east. "father in heaven," he prayed softly, "bless mine enemy rehum, and forgive all my sins,--fully and freely as i now forgive the wrong he has done to me." a feeling of light-heartedness and peace, such as he had never known before, stole over him. he could not settle himself to sleep, though worn out with his night's long vigil. [illustration: "not a word was said"] hastily slipping on his clothes, he tiptoed down the stairs, and limped, bare-headed, down to the beach. the lake shimmered and glowed under the faint rose and gray of the sky like a deep opal. the early breeze blew the hair back from his pale face with a refreshing coolness. it seemed to him the world had never looked one half so beautiful before, as he stood there. a firm tread on the gravel made him turn partly around. a man was coming up the beach; it was the friend of phineas. as if drawn by some uncontrollable impulse, joel started to meet him, an unspoken prayer in his pleading little face. not a word was said. for one little instant joel stood there by the shining sea, his hand held close in the loving hand of the world's redeemer. for one little instant he looked up into his face; then the man passed on. joel covered his face with his hands, seeming to hear the still small voice that spoke to the prophet out of the whirlwind. "he is the christ!" he whispered reverently,--"he is the christ!" in his exalted feeling all thought of a cure had left him; but as he walked on down the beach, he noticed that he no longer limped. he was moving along with strong, quick strides. he shook himself and threw back his shoulders; there was no pain in the movement. he passed his hands over his back and down his limbs. oh, he was straight and strong and sinewy! he seemed a stranger to himself, as running and leaping, then stopping to look down and feel his limbs again, he ran madly on. suddenly he cast his garments aside and dived into the lake. before his injury, he had been able to swim like a fish, now he reached out with long powerful strokes that sent him darting through the cold water with a wonderful sense of exhilaration. then he dressed again, and went on running and leaping and climbing till he was exhausted, and his first wild delirious joy began to subside into a deep quiet thankfulness. then he went home, radiant in the happiness of his new-found cure. but more than the mystery of the miracle, more than the joy of the healing, was the remembrance of that moment, that one little moment, when he felt the clasp of the master's hand, and seemed wrapped about with the boundless love of god. from that moment, he lived but to serve and to follow him. chapter viii. high up among the black lava crags of perea stood the dismal fortress of macherus. behind its close prison bars a restless captive groped his way back and forth in a dungeon cell. sometimes, at long intervals, he was given such liberty as a chained eagle might have, when he was led up into one of the towers of the gloomy keep, and allowed to look down, down into the bottomless gorges surrounding it. for months he had chafed in the darkness of his underground dungeon; escape was impossible. it was john baptist, brought from the wild, free life of the desert to the tortures of the "black castle." here he lay at the mercy of herod antipas, and death might strike at any moment. more than once, the whimsical monarch had sent for him, as he sat at his banquets, to be the sport of the passing hour. the lights, the color, the flash of gems may have dazzled his eyes for a brief space, accustomed as they were to the midnight darkness of his cell; but his keen vision saw, under the paint and purple of royal apparel, the corrupt life of king and court. pointing his stern, accusing finger at the uneasy king, he cried, "it is not lawful for thee to have thy brother's wife!" with words that stung like hurtling arrows, he laid bare the blackened, beastly life that sought to hide its foulness under royal ermine. antipas cowered before him; and while he would gladly have been freed from a man who had such power over him, he dared not lift a finger against the fearless, unflinching baptist. but the guilty herodias bided her time, with blood-thirsty impatience; his life should pay the penalty of his bold speech. meanwhile he waited in his cell, with nothing but memories to relieve the tediousness of the long hours. over and over again he lived those scenes of his strange life in the desert,--those days of his preparation,--the preaching to the multitudes, the baptizing at the ford of the jordan. he wondered if his words still lived; if any of his followers still believed on him. but more than all, he wondered what had become of that one on whom he had seen the spirit of god descending out of heaven in the form of a dove. "where art thou now?" he cried. "if thou art the messiah, why dost thou not set up thy kingdom, and speedily give thy servant his liberty?" the empty room rang often with that cry; but the hollow echo of his own words was the only answer. one day the door of his cell creaked back far enough to admit two men, and then shut again, leaving them in total darkness. in that momentary flash of light, he recognized two old followers of his, timeus bar joram and benjamin the potter. with a cry of joy he groped his way toward them, and clung to their friendly hands. "how did you manage to penetrate these roman-guarded walls?" he asked, in astonishment. "i knew the warden," answered benjamin. "a piece of silver conveniently closes his eyes to many things. but we must hasten! our time is limited." they had much to tell of the outside world. pilate had just given special offence, by appropriating part of the treasure of the temple, derived from the temple tax, to defray the cost of great conduits he had begun, with which to supply jerusalem with water. stirred up by the priests and rabbis, the people besieged the government house, crying loudly that the works be given up. armed with clubs, numbers of soldiers in plain clothes surrounded the great mob, and killed so many of the people that the wildest excitement prevailed throughout all judea and galilee. there was a cry for a national uprising to avenge the murder. "they only need a leader!" exclaimed john. "where is he for whom i was but a voice crying in the wilderness? why does he not show himself?" "we have just come from the village of nain," said timeus bar joram. "we saw him stop a funeral procession and raise a widow's son to life. he was followed by a motley throng whom he had healed of all sorts of diseases; and there were twelve men whom he had chosen as life-long companions. "we questioned some of them closely, and they gave us marvellous reports of the things he had done." "is it not strange," asked benjamin the potter, "that having such power he still delays to establish his kingdom?" the captive prophet made no answer for awhile. then he groped in the thick darkness till his hand rested heavily on benjamin's arm. "go back, and say that john baptist asks, 'art thou the coming one, or must we look for another?'" days passed before the devoted friends found themselves once more inside the prison walls. they had had a weary journey over rough hills and rocky by-paths. "what did he say?" demanded the prisoner, eagerly. "go and tell john what ye saw and heard: that the blind receive sight; the lame walk; the lepers are cleansed; the deaf hear; the dead are raised; and the poor have the gospel preached unto them." the man stood up, his long hair hanging to his shoulder, his hand uplifted, and his eyes dilated like a startled deer that has caught the sound of a coming step. "the fulfilment of the words of isaiah!" he cried. "for he hath said, 'your god will come and save you. then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf shall be unstopped. then shall the lame man leap as a hart, and the tongue of the dumb sing!' yea, he _hath_ bound up the broken-hearted; and he shall yet 'proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them that are bound, to proclaim the acceptable year of the lord!'" then with both hands clasped high above his head, he made the prison ring with the cry, "the kingdom is at hand! the kingdom is at hand! i shall soon be free!" not long after that, the castle blazed with the lights of another banquet. the faint aroma of wines, mingled with the heavy odor of countless flowers, could not penetrate the grim prison walls. nor could the gay snatches of song and the revelry of the feast. no sound of applause reached the prisoner's ear, when the daughter of herodias danced before the king. sitting in darkness while the birthday banqueters held high carnival, he heard the heavy tramp of soldiers' feet coming down the stairs to his dungeon. the great bolts shot back, the rusty hinges turned, and a lantern flickered its light in his face, as he stood up to receive his executioners. a little while later his severed head was taken on a charger to the smiling dancing girl. she stifled a shriek when she saw it; but the wicked herodias looked at it with a gleam of triumph in her treacherous black eyes. when the lights were out, and the feasters gone, two men came in at the warden's bidding,--two men with heavy hearts, and voices that shook a little when they spoke to each other. they were timeus and benjamin. silently they lifted the body of their beloved master, and carried it away for burial; and if a tear or two found an unaccustomed path down their bearded cheeks, no one knew it, under cover of the darkness. so, out of the black castle of macherus, out of the prison-house of a mortal body, the white-souled prophet of the wilderness went forth at last into liberty. for him, the kingdom was indeed at hand. * * * * * meanwhile in the upper country, phineas was following his friend from village to village. he had dropped his old familiar form of address, so much was he impressed by the mysterious power he saw constantly displayed. now when he spoke of the man who had been both friend and playfellow, it was almost reverently that he gave him the title of master. it was with a heavy heart that joel watched them go away. he, too, longed to follow; but he knew that unless he took the place at the bench, phineas could not be free to go. gratitude held him to his post. no, not gratitude alone; he was learning the master's own spirit of loving self-sacrifice. as he dropped the plumb-line over his work, he measured himself by that perfect life, and tried to straighten himself to its unbending standard. he had his reward in the look of pleasure that he saw on the carpenter's face when phineas came in, unexpectedly, one day, dusty and travel-stained. "how much you have accomplished!" he said in surprise. "you have filled my place like a grown man." joel stretched his strong arms with a slight laugh. "it is a pleasure to work now," he said. "it seems so queer never to have a pain, or that worn-out feeling of weakness that used to be always with me. at first i was often afraid it was all a happy dream, and could not last. i am getting used to it now. where is the master?" joel asked, as phineas turned towards the house. "he is the guest of simon. he will be here some days, my son. i know you wish to be with him as much as possible, so i shall not expect your help as long as he stays." "if i could only do something for him!" was joel's constant thought during the next few days. once he took a coin from the little money bag that held his hoarded savings--a coin that was to have helped buy his revenge--and bought the ripest, juiciest pear he could find in the market. often he brought him water, fresh and cold from the well when he looked tired and warm from his unceasing work. wherever the master turned, there, close beside him, was a beaming little face, so full of love and childish sympathy that it must have brought more refreshment to his thirsty soul than either the choice fruit or the cooling water. one evening after a busy day, when he had talked for hours to the people on the seashore who had gathered around the boat in which he sat, he sent away the multitude. "let us pass over unto the other side," he said. joel slipped up to andrew, who was busily arranging their sails. "let me go, too!" he whispered pleadingly. "well," assented the man, carelessly, "you can make yourself useful, i suppose. will you hand me that rope?" joel sprang to obey. presently the boat pushed away from the shore, and the town, with its tumult and its twinkling lights, was soon left far behind. the sea was like glass, so calm and unruffled that every star above could look down and see its unbroken reflection in the dark water below. joel, in the hinder part of the ship, lay back in his seat with a sigh of perfect enjoyment. the smooth gliding motion of the boat rested him; the soft splash of the water soothed his excited brain. he had seen his uncle laban that afternoon among other of the scribes and pharisees, and heard him declare that beelzebub alone was responsible for the wonders they witnessed. joel's indignation flared up again at the memory. he looked down at the master, who had fallen asleep on a pillow, and wondered how anybody could possibly believe such evil things about him. it was cooler out where they were now. he wondered if he ought not to lay some covering over the sleeping form. he took off the outer mantle that he wore, and bent forward to lay it over the master's feet. but he drew back timidly, afraid of wakening him. "i'll wait awhile," he said to himself, folding the garment across his knees in readiness. several times he reached forward to lay it over him, and each time drew back. then he fell asleep himself. from its situation in the basin of the hills, the galilee is subject to sudden and furious storms. the winds, rushing down the heights, meet and clash above the water, till the waves run up like walls, then sink again into seething whirlpools of danger. joel, falling asleep in a dead calm, awoke to find the ship rolling and tossing and half-full of water. the lightning's track was followed so closely by the crash of thunder, there was not even pause enough between to take one terrified gasp. still the master slept. joel, drenched to the skin, clung to the boat's side, expecting that every minute would be his last. it was so dark and wild and awful! how helpless they were, buffetted about in the fury of the storm! as wave after wave beat in, some of the men could no longer control their fear. "master!" they called to the sleeping man, as they bent over him in terror. "carest thou not that we perish?" he heard the cry for help. the storm could not waken him from his deep sleep of exhaustion, but at the first despairing human voice, he was up, ready to help. looking up at the midnight blackness of the sky, and down at the wild waste of waters, he stretched out his hand. "_peace!_" he commanded in a deep voice. "_be still!_" the storm sank to earth as suddenly as a death-stricken raven; a great calm spread over the face of the waters. the silent stars shone out in their places; the silent sea mirrored back their glory at his feet. the men huddled fearfully together. "what manner of man is this?" they asked, one of another. "even the wind and the sea obey him!" joel, looking up at the majestic form, standing so quietly by the railing, thought of the voice that once rang out over the night of creation with the command, "let there be light!" at its mere bidding light had flowed in across the darkness of primeval night. just so had this voice thrilled the storm with its "peace! be still!" into utter calm. the child crouched at his feet, burying his face in his mantle, and whispering, in awe and adoration, "he _is_ the christ! he is the son of god!" chapter ix. after that night of the voyage to the gadarenes, joel ceased to be surprised at the miracles he daily witnessed. even when the little daughter of jairus, the ruler of the synagogue, was called back to life, it did not seem so wonderful to him as the stilling of the tempest. many a night after phineas had gone away again with the master to other cities, joel used to go down to the beach, and stand looking across the water as he recalled that scene. the lake had always been an interesting place to him at night. he liked to watch the fishermen as they flashed their blazing torches this way and that. a sympathetic thrill ran through him as they sighted their prey, and raised their bare sinewy arms to fling the net or fly the spear. but after that morning of healing, and that night of tempest, it seemed to be a sacred place, to be visited only on still nights, when the town slept, and heaven bent nearer in the starlight to the quiet earth. the time of the passover was drawing near,--the time that joel had been looking forward to since phineas had promised him a year ago that he should go to jerusalem. the twelve disciples who had been sent out to all the little towns through galilee, to teach the things they had themselves been taught, and work miracles in the name of him who had sent them, began to come slowly back. they had an encouraging report to bring of their work; but it was shadowed by the news they had heard of the murder of john baptist. joel joined them as soon as they came into capernaum, and walked beside phineas as the footsore travellers pressed on a little farther towards simon's house. "when are we going to start for jerusalem?" was his first eager question. phineas looked searchingly into his face as he replied, "would you be greatly disappointed, my son, not to go this year?" joel looked perplexed; it was such an unheard of thing for phineas to miss going up to the feast of the passover. "these are evil times, my joel," he explained. "john baptist has just been beheaded. the master has many enemies among those in high places. it would be like walking into a lion's den for him to go up to jerusalem. "even here he is not safe from the hatred of antipas, and after a little rest will pass over into the borders of the tetrarch philip. we have no wish to leave him!" "oh, why should he be persecuted so?" asked joel, looking with tear-dimmed eyes at the man walking in advance of them, and talking in low earnest tones to john, who walked beside him. "you have been with him so much, father phineas. have _you_ ever known him to do anything to make these men his enemies?" "yes," said phineas. "he has drawn the people after him until they are jealous of his popularity. he upsets their old traditions, and teaches a religion that ignores some of the laws of moses. i can easily see why they hate him so. they see him at such a long distance from themselves, they can not understand him. healing on the sabbath, eating with publicans and sinners, disregarding the little customs and ceremonies that in all ages have set apart our people as a chosen race, are crimes in their eyes. "if they only could get close enough to understand him; to see that his pure life needs no ceremonies of multiplied hand-washings; that it is his broad love for his fellow-men that makes him stoop to the lowest classes,--i am sure they could not do otherwise than love him. "blind fanatics! they would put to death the best man that ever lived, because he is so much broader and higher than they that the little measuring line of their narrow creed cannot compass him!" "is he never going to set up his kingdom?" asked joel. "does he never talk about it?" "yes," said phineas; "though we are often puzzled by what he says, and ask ourselves his meaning." they had reached the house by this time, and as simon led the way to its hospitable door, phineas said, "enter with them, my lad, if you wish. i must go on to my little family, but will join you soon." to joel's great pleasure, he found they were to cross the lake at once, to the little fishing port of bethsaida. it was only six miles across. "we have hardly had time to eat," said andrew to joel, as they walked along towards the boat "i will be glad to get away to some desert place, where we may have rest from the people that are always pushing and clamoring about us." "how long before you start?" asked joel. "in a very few minutes," answered andrew; "for the boat is in readiness." joel glanced from the street above the beach to the water's edge, as if calculating the distance. "don't go without me," he said as, breaking into a run, he dashed up the beach at his utmost speed. he was back again in a surprisingly quick time, with a cheap little basket in his hand; he was out of breath with his rapid run. "didn't i go fast?" he panted. "i could not have done that a few weeks ago. oh, it feels so good to be able to run when i please! it is like flying." he lifted the cover of the basket. "see!" he said. "i thought the master might be hungry; but i had no time to get anything better. i had to stop at the first stall i came to." at the same time the boat went gliding out into the water with its restful motion, thousands of people were pouring out of the villages on foot, and hurrying on around the lake, ahead of them. the boat passed up a narrow winding creek, away from the sail-dotted lake; its green banks seemed to promise the longed-for quiet and rest. but there in front of them waited the crowds they had come so far to avoid. they had brought their sick for healing. they needed to be helped and taught; they were "as sheep without a shepherd!" he could not refuse them. joel found no chance to offer the food he had bought so hastily with another of his hoarded coins,--the coins that were to have purchased his revenge. as the day wore on, he heard the disciples ask that the multitudes might be sent away. "it would take two hundred pennyworth of bread to feed them," said philip, "and even that would not be enough." andrew glanced over the great crowds and stroked his beard thoughtfully. "there is a lad here which hath five barley loaves and two small fishes, but what are they among so many?" joel hurried forward and held out his basket with its little store,--five flat round loaves of bread, not much more than one hungry man could eat, and two dried fishes. he hardly knew what to expect as the people were made to sit down on the grass in orderly ranks of fifties. his eyes grew round with astonishment as the master took the bread, gave thanks, and then passed it to the disciples, who, in turn, distributed it among the people. then the two little fishes were handed around in the same way. joel turned to phineas, who had joined them some time ago. "do you see that?" he asked excitedly. "they have been multiplied a thousand fold!" phineas smiled. "we drop one tiny grain of wheat into the earth," he said, "and when it grows and spreads and bears dozens of other grains on its single stalk, we are not astonished. when the master but does in an instant, what nature takes months to do, we cry, 'a miracle!' 'men are more wont to be astonished at the sun's eclipse, than at its daily rising,'" he quoted, remembering his conversation with the old traveller, on his way to nathan ben obed's. a feeling of exaltation seized the people as they ate the mysterious bread; it seemed that the days of miraculous manna had come again. by the time they had all satisfied their hunger, and twelve basketfuls of the fragments had been gathered up, they were ready to make him their king. the restlessness of the times had taken possession of them; the burning excitement must find vent in some way, and with one accord they demanded him as their leader. joel wondered why he should refuse. surely no other man he had ever known could have resisted such an appeal. the perplexed fisherman, at jesus's command, turned their boat homeward without him. to their simple minds it seemed that he had made a mistake in resisting the homage forced upon him by the people; they longed for the time to come when they should be recognized as the honored officials in the new kingdom. many a dream of future power and magnificence must have come to them in the still watches of the night, as they drifted home in the white light of the passover moon. many a time in the weeks that followed, joel slipped away to his favorite spot on the beech, a flat rock half hidden by a clump of oleander bushes. here, with his feet idly dangling in the ripples, he looked out over the water, and recalled the scenes he had witnessed there. it seemed so marvellous to him that the master could have ever walked on those shining waves; and yet he had seen him that night after the feeding of the multitudes. he had seen, with his own frightened eyes, the master walk calmly towards the boat across the unsteady water, and catch up the sinking peter, who had jumped overboard to meet him. it grieved and fretted the boy that this man, of god-given power and such sweet unselfish spirit, could be so persistently misunderstood by the people. he could think of nothing else. he had not been with the crowds that pressed into the synagogue the sabbath after the thousands had been fed; but phineas came home with grim lips and knitted brows, and told him about it. "the master knew they followed him because of the loaves and fishes," he said. "he told them so. "when we came out of the door, i could not help looking up at the lintel on which is carved the pot of manna; for when they asked him for a sign that they might believe him, saying, 'our fathers ate manna in the wilderness!' he answered: 'i am the bread of life! ye have seen me, and yet believe not!' "while he talked there was a murmuring all over the house against him, because he said that he had come down from heaven. your uncle laban was there. i heard him say scornfully: 'is not this the son of joseph, whose father and mother we know? how doth he now say, "i am come down out of heaven"?' then he laughed a mocking little laugh, and nudged the man who stood next to him. there are many like him; i could feel a spirit of prejudice and persecution in the very air. many who have professed to be his friends have turned against him." while phineas was pouring out his anxious forebodings to his wife and joel, the master was going homeward with his chosen twelve. "would ye also go away?" he asked wistfully of his companions, as he noted the cold, disapproving looks of many who had only the day before been fed by him, and who now openly turned their backs on him. simon peter gave a questioning glance into the faces of his companions; then he pressed a step nearer. "lord, to whom shall we go?" he answered impulsively. "thou hast the words of eternal life. and we have believed, and know that thou art the holy one of god." the others nodded their assent, all but one. judas iscariot clutched the money bags he held, and looked off across the lake, to avoid the searching eyes that were fixed upon him. these honest galileans were too simple to suspect others of dark designs, yet they had never felt altogether free with this stranger from judea. he had never seemed entirely one of them. they did not see in his crafty quiet manners, the sheep's clothing that hid his wolfish nature; but they could feel his lack of sympathetic enthusiasm. he had been one of those who followed only for the loaves and fishes of a temporal kingdom, and now, in his secret soul, he was sorry he had joined a cause in whose final success he was beginning to lose faith. the sun went down suddenly that night behind a heavy cloud, as a gathering storm began to lash the galilee and rock the little boats anchored at the landings. the year of popularity was at an end. chapter x. abigail sat just inside the door, turning the noisy hand-mill that ground out the next day's supply of flour. the rough mill-stones grated so harshly on each other that she did not hear the steps coming up the path. a shadow falling across the door-way made her look up. "you are home early, my phineas," she said, with a smile. "well, i shall soon have your supper ready. joel has gone to the market for some honey and--" "nay! i have little wish to eat," he interrupted, "but i have much to say to you. come! the work can wait." abigail put the mill aside, and brushing the flour from her hands, sat down on the step beside him, wondering much at his troubled face. he plunged into his subject abruptly. "the master is soon going away," he said, "that those in the uttermost parts of galilee may be taught of him. and he would fain have others beside the twelve he has chosen to go with him on his journey." "and you wish to go too?" she questioned, as he paused. "yes! how can i do otherwise? and yet how can i leave you and the little ones alone in these troubled times? you cannot think how great the danger is. remember how many horrors we have lately heard. the whole country is a smouldering volcano, ready to burst into an eruption at any moment. a leader has only to arise, and all israel will take up arms against the powers that trample us under foot." "is not this prophet, jesus, he who is to save israel?" asked abigail. "is he not even now making ready to establish his kingdom?" "i do not understand him at all!" said phineas, sadly. "he does talk of a kingdom in which we are all to have a part; but he never seems to be working to establish it. he spends all his time in healing diseases and forgiving penitent sinners, and telling us to love our neighbors. "then, again, why should he go down to the beach, and choose for his confidential friends just simple fishermen. they have neither influence nor money. as for the choice of that publican levi-matthew, it has brought disgrace on the whole movement. he does not seem to know how to sway the popular feeling. i believe he might have had the support of the foremost men of the nation, if he had approached them differently. "he shocks them by setting aside laws they would lay down their lives rather than violate. he associates with those they consider unclean; and all his miracles cannot make them forget how boldly he has rebuked them for hypocrisy and unrighteousness. they never will come to his support now; and i do not see how a new government can be formed without their help." abigail laid her hand on his, her dark eyes glowing with intense earnestness, as she answered: "what need is there of armies and human hands to help? "where were the hosts of pharaoh when our fathers passed through the red sea? was there bloodshed and fighting there? "who battled for us when the walls of jericho fell down? whose hand smote the assyrians at sennacherib? is the lord's arm shortened that he cannot save? "why may not his prophet speak peace to jerusalem as easily as he did the other night to the stormy sea? why may not his power be multiplied even as the loaves and fishes? "why may not the sins and backslidings of the people be healed as well as joel's lameness; or the glory of the nation be quickened into a new life, as speedily as he raised the daughter of jairus? "isaiah called him the prince of peace. what are all these lessons, if not to teach us that the purposes of god do not depend on human hands to work out their fulfilment?" her low voice thrilled him with its inspiring questions, and he looked down into her rapt face with a feeling of awe. "abigail," he said softly, "'my source of joy,'--you are rightly named. you have led me out of the doubts that have been my daily torment. i see now, why he never incites us to rebel against the yoke of cã¦sar. in the fulness of time he will free us with a breath. "how strange it should have fallen to my lot to have been his playmate and companion. my wonder is not that he is the messiah; but that i should have called him friend, all these years, unknowing." "how long do you expect to be away?" she asked, after a pause, suddenly returning to the first subject. "several months, perhaps. there is no telling what insurrections and riots may arise, all through this part of the country. since the murder of john baptist, herod has come back to his court in tiberias. i dislike to leave you here alone." abigail, too, looked grave, and neither spoke for a little while. "i have it!" she exclaimed at length, with a pleased light in her eyes. "i have often wished i could make a long visit in the home of my girlhood. the few days i have spent in my father's house, those few times i have gone with you to the feasts, have been so short and unsatisfactory. can i not take joel and the children to bethany? neither father nor mother has ever seen little ruth, and we could be so safe and happy there till your return." "why did i not come to you before with my worries?" asked phineas. "how easily you make the crooked places straight!" just then the children came running back from the market. abigail went into the house with the provisions they had brought, leaving their father to tell them of the coming separation and the long journey they had planned. a week later, phineas stood at the city gate, watching a little company file southward down the highway. he had hired two strong, gayly-caparisoned mules from the owner of the caravan. abigail rode on one, holding little ruth in her arms; joel mounted the other, with jesse clinging close behind him. abigail, thinking of the joyful welcome awaiting her in her old home, and the children happy in the novelty of the journey, set out gayly. but phineas, thinking of the dangers by the way, and filled with many forebodings, watched their departure with a heavy heart. at the top of a little rise in the road, they turned to look back and wave their hands. in a moment more they were out of sight. then phineas, grasping his staff more firmly, turned away, and started on foot in the other direction, to follow to the world's end, if need be, the friend who had gone on before. it was in the midst of the barley harvest. jesse had never been in the country before. for the first time, nature spread for him her great picture-book of field and forest and vineyard, while abigail read to him the stories. first on one side of the road, then the other, she pointed out some spot and told its history. here was dothan, where joseph went out to see his brothers, dressed in his coat of many colors. there was mount gilboa, where the arrows of the philistines wounded saul, and he fell on his own sword and killed himself. shiloh, where hannah brought little samuel to give him to the lord; where the prophet eli, so old that his eyes were too dim to see, sat by the gate waiting for news from the army, and when word was brought back that his two sons were dead, and the ark of the covenant taken, here it was that he fell backward from his seat, and his neck was broken. all these she told, and many more. then she pointed to the gleaners in the fields, and told the children to notice how carefully israel still kept the commandment given so many centuries before: "when ye reap the harvest of your land, thou shalt not wholly reap the corners of thy field, neither shalt thou gather the gleanings of thy harvest. and thou shalt not glean thy vineyard, neither shalt thou gather every grape of thy vineyard, thou shalt leave them for the poor and the stranger." at jacob's well, where they stopped to rest, joel lifted jesse up, and let him look over the curb. the child almost lost his balance in astonishment, when his own wondering little face looked up at him from the deep well. he backed away from it quickly, and looked carefully into the cup of water joel handed him, for more than a minute, before he ventured to drink. the home to which abigail was going was a wealthy one. her father, reuben, was a goldsmith, and for years had been known in jerusalem not only for the beautifully wrought ornaments and precious stones that he sold in his shop near the temple, but for his rich gifts to the poor. "reuben the charitable," he was called, and few better deserved the name. his business took him every day to the city; but his home was in the little village of bethany, two miles away. it was one of the largest in bethany, and seemed like a palace to the children, when compared to the humble little home in capernaum. joel only looked around with admiring eyes; but jesse walked about, laying curious little fingers on everything he passed. the bright oriental curtains, the soft cushions and the costly hangings, he smoothed and patted. even the silver candlesticks and the jewelled cups on the side table were picked up and examined, when his mother happened to have her back turned. [illustration: "'we talked late'"] there were no pictures in the house; the law forbade. but there were several mirrors of bright polished metal, and jesse never tired of watching his own reflection in them. ruth stayed close beside her mother. "she is a ray of god's own sunshine," said her grandmother, as she took her in her arms for the first time. the child, usually afraid of strangers, saw in rebecca's face a look so like her mother's that she patted the wrinkled cheeks with her soft fingers. from that moment her grandmother was her devoted slave. jesse was not long in finding the place he held in his grandfather's heart. the old man, whose sons had all died years before, seemed to centre all his hopes on this son of his only daughter. he kept jesse with him as much as possible; his happiest hours were when he had the child on his knee, teaching him the prayers and precepts and proverbs that he knew would be a lamp to his feet in later years. "nay! do not punish the child!" he said, one morning when jesse had been guilty of some disobedience. abigail went on stripping the leaves from an almond switch she just had broken off. "why, father," she said, with a smile, "i have often seen you punish my brothers for such disobedience, and have as often heard you say that one of solomon's wisest sayings is, 'chasten thy son while there is hope, and let not thy soul spare for his crying.' jesse misses his father's firm rule, and is getting sadly spoiled." "that is all true, my daughter," he acknowledged; "still i shall not stay here to witness his punishment." abigail used the switch as she had intended. the boy had overheard the conversation, and the cries that reached his grandfather as he rode off to the city were unusually loud and appealing. they may have had something to do with the package the good man carried home that night,--cakes and figs and a gay little turban more befitting a young prince than the son of a carpenter. "who lives across the street?" asked joel, the morning after their arrival. "two old friends of mine," answered abigail. "they came to see me last night as soon as they heard i had arrived. you children were all asleep. we talked late, for they wanted to hear all i could tell them of rabbi jesus. he was here last year, and martha said he and her brother lazarus became fast friends. ah, there is lazarus now!--that young man just coming out of the house. he is a scribe, and goes up to write in one of the rooms of the temple nearly every day. "mary says some of the copies of the scriptures he has made are the most beautifully written that she has ever seen." "see!" exclaimed joel, "he has dropped one of the rolls of parchment he was carrying, and does not know it. i'll run after him with it." he was hardly yet accustomed to the delight of being so fleet of foot; no halting step now to hinder him. he almost felt as if he were flying, and was by the young man's side nearly as soon as he had started. "ah, you are the guest of my good neighbor, reuben," lazarus said, after thanking him courteously. "are you not the lad whose lameness has just been healed by my best friend? my sisters were telling me of it. it must be a strange experience to suddenly find yourself changed from a helpless cripple to such a strong, straight lad as you are now. how did it make you feel?" "oh, i can never begin to tell you, rabbi lazarus," answered joel. "i did not even think of it that moment when he held my hand in his. i only thought how much i loved him. i had been starving before, but that moment he took the place of everything,--father, mother, the home love i had missed,--and more than that, the love of god seemed to come down and fold me so close and safe, that i knew he was the messiah. i did not even notice that i was no longer lame, until i was far down the beach. oh, you do not know how i wanted to follow him! if i could only have gone with him instead of coming here!" "yes, my boy, i know!" answered the young man, gently; "for i, too, love him." this strong bond of sympathy between the two made them feel as if they had known each other always. "come walk with me a little way," said lazarus. "i am going up to jerusalem to the temple. or rather, would you not like to come all the way? i have only to carry these rolls to one of the priests, then i will be at liberty to show you some of the strange sights in the city." joel ran back for permission. only stopping to wind his white linen turban around his head, he soon regained his new-found friend. his recollection of jerusalem was a very dim, confused one. time and time again he had heard pilgrims returning from the feasts trying to describe their feelings when they had come in sight of the holy city. now as they turned with the road, the view that rose before him made him feel how tame their descriptions had been. the morning sun shone down on the white marble walls of the temple and the gold that glittered on the courts, as they rose one above the other; tower and turret and pinnacle shot back a dazzling light. it did not seem possible to joel that human hands could have wrought such magnificence. he caught his breath, and uttered an exclamation of astonishment. lazarus smiled at his pleasure. "come," he said, "it is still more beautiful inside." they went very slowly through solomon's porch, for every one seemed to know the young man, and many stopped to speak to him. then they crossed the court of the gentiles. it seemed like a market-place; for cages of doves were kept there for sale, and lambs, calves, and oxen bleated and lowed in their stalls till joel could scarcely hear what his friend was saying, as they pushed their way through the crowd, and stood before the gate beautiful that led into the court of the women. here lazarus left joel for a few moments, while he went to give the rolls to the priest for whom he had copied them. joel looked around. then for the first time since his healing, he wondered if it would be possible for him to ever take his place among the levites, or become a priest as he had been destined. while he wondered, lazarus came back and led him into the next court. here he could look up and see the holy place, over which was trained a golden vine, with clusters of grapes as large as a man's body, all of purest gold. beyond that he knew was a heavy veil of babylonian tapestry, hyacinth and scarlet and purple, that veiled in awful darkness the holy of holies. as he stood there thinking of the tinkling bells, the silver trumpets, the clouds of incense, and the mighty songs, a great longing came over him to be one of those white-robed priests, serving daily in the temple. but with the wish came the recollection of a quiet hillside, where only bird-calls and whirr of wings stirred the stillness; where a breeze from the sparkling lake blew softly through the grass, and one voice only was heard, proclaiming its glad new gospel under the open sky. "no," he thought to himself; "i'd rather be with him than wear the high priest's mitre." it was almost sundown when they found themselves on the road homeward. they had visited place after place of interest. lazarus found the boy an entertaining companion, and the friendship begun that day grew deep and lasting. chapter xi. "what are you looking for, grandfather?" called jesse, as he pattered up the outside stairs to the roof, where reuben stood, scanning the sky intently. "come here, my son," he called. "stand right here in front of me, and look just where i point. what do you see?" the child peered anxiously into the blue depths just now lit up by the sunset. "oh, the new moon!" he cried. "where did it come from?" "summer hath dropped her silver sickle there, that night may go forth to harvest in her star-fields," answered the old man. then seeing the look of inquiry on the boy's face, hastened to add, "nay, it is the censer that god's hand set swinging in the sky, to remind us to keep the incense of our praises ever rising heavenward. even now a messenger may be running towards the temple, to tell the sanhedrin that it has appeared. yea, other eyes have been sharper than mine, for see! already the beacon light has been kindled on the mount of olives!" jesse watched the great bonfire a few minutes, then ran to call his sister. by the time they were both on the roof, answering fires were blazing on the distant hilltops throughout all judea, till the whole land was alight with the announcement of the feast of the new moon. "i wish it could be this way every night, don't you, ruth?" said jesse. "are you not glad we are here?" the old man looked down at the children with a pleased smile. "i'll show you something prettier than this, before long," he said. "just wait till the feast of weeks, when the people all come to bring the first fruits of the harvests. i am glad your visit is in this time of the year, for you can see one festival after another." the day the celebration of the feast of weeks commenced, reuben left his shop in charge of the attendants, and gave up his entire time to joel and jesse. "we must not miss the processions," he said. "we will go outside the gates a little way, and watch the people come in." they did not have long to wait till the stream of people from the upper countries began to pour in; each company carried a banner bearing the name of the town from which it came. a white ox, intended for a peace-offering, was driven first; its horns were gilded, and its body twined with olive wreaths. flocks of sheep and oxen for the sacrifice, long strings of asses and camels bearing free-will gifts to the temple, or old and helpless pilgrims that could not walk, came next. there were wreaths of roses on the heads of the women and children; bands of lilies were tied around the sheaves of wheat. piled high in the silver vessels of the rich, or peeping from the willow baskets of the poor, were the choicest fruits of the harvest. great bunches of grapes from whose purple globes the bloom had not been brushed, velvety nectarines, tempting pomegranates, mellow pears, juicy melons,--these offerings of fruit and flowers gleamed all down the long line, for no one came empty-handed up this "hill of the lord." as they drew near the gates, a number of white-robed priests from the temple met them. reuben lifted jesse in his arms that he might have a better view. "listen," he said. joel climbed up on a large rock. a joyful sound of flutes commenced, and a mighty chorus went up: "i was glad when they said unto me, let us go into the house of the lord. our feet shall stand within thy gates, o jerusalem!" voice after voice took up the old psalm, and reuben's deep tones joined with the others, as they chanted, "peace be within thy walls, and prosperity within thy palaces!" following the singing pilgrims to the temple, they saw the priests take the doves that were to be for a burnt-offering, and the first fruits that were to be laid on the altars. jesse held fast to his grandfather's hand as they passed through the outer courts of the temple. he was half frightened by the din of voices, the stamping and bellowing and bleating of the animals as they were driven into the pens. he had seen one sacrificial service; the great stream of blood pouring over the marble steps of the altar, and the smoke of the burnt-offering were still in his mind. it made him look pityingly now at the gentle-eyed calves and the frightened lambs. he was glad to get away from them. soon after the time of this rejoicing was over, came ten solemn days that to joel were full of interest and mystery. they were the days of preparation for the fast of the atonement. disputes between neighbors were settled, and sins confessed. the last great day, the most solemn of all, was the only time in the whole year when the high priest might draw aside the veil, and enter into the holy of holies. with all his rich robes and jewels laid aside, clad only in simple white, with bare feet and covered head, he had to go four times into the awful presence. once to offer incense, once to pray, to sprinkle the blood of a goat towards the mercy-seat, and then to bring out the censer. that was the day when two goats were taken; by casting lots one was chosen for a sacrifice. on the other the high priest laid the sins of the people, and it was driven out into the wilderness, to be dashed to pieces from some high cliff. tears came into joel's eyes, as he watched the scape-goat driven away into the dreary desert. he pitied the poor beast doomed to such a death because of his nation's sins. then came the closing ceremonies, when the great congregation bowed themselves three times to the ground, with the high priest shouting solemnly, "ye are clean! ye are clean! ye are clean!" joel was glad when the last rite was over, and the people started to their homes, as gay now as they had been serious before. "when are we going back to our other home?" asked ruth, one day. "why, are you not happy here, little daughter?" said abigail. "i thought you had forgotten all about the old place." "i want my white pigeons," she said, with a quivering lip, as if she had suddenly remembered them. "i don't want my father not to be here!" she sobbed; "and i want my white pigeons!" abigail picked her up and comforted her. "wait just a little while. i think father will surely come soon. i will get my embroidery, and you may go with me across the street." ruth had been shy at first about going to see her mother's friends; but martha coaxed her in with honey cakes she baked for that express purpose, and mary told her stories and taught her little games. after a while she began to flit in and out of the house as fearlessly as a bright-winged butterfly. one day her mother was sitting with the sisters in a shady corner of their court-yard, where a climbing honeysuckle made a cool sweet arbor. ruth was going from one to the other, watching the bright embroidery threads take the shape of flowers under their skilful fingers. suddenly she heard the faint tinkle of a silver bell. while she stood with one finger on her lip to listen, lazarus came into the court-yard. "see what i have brought you, little one," he said. "it is to take the place of the pigeons you are always mourning for." it was a snow-white lamb, around which he had twined a garland of many colored flowers, and from whose neck hung the little silver bell she had heard. at first the child was so delighted she could only bury her dimpled fingers in the soft fleece, and look at it in speechless wonder. then she caught his hand, and left a shy little kiss on it, as she lisped, "oh, you're so good! you're so good!" after that day ruth followed lazarus as the white lamb followed ruth; and the sisters hardly knew which sounded sweeter in their quiet home, the tinkling of the silver bell, or the happy prattle of the baby voice. abigail spent many happy hours with her friends. one day as they sat in the honeysuckle arbor, busily sewing, ruth and jesse came running towards them. "i see my father coming, and another man," cried the boy. "i'm going to meet them." they all hastened to the door, just as the tired, dusty travellers reached it. "peace be to this house, and all who dwell therein," said the stranger, before phineas could give his wife and friends a warmer greeting. "we went first to your father's house, but, finding no one at home, came here," said phineas. "come in!" insisted martha. "you look sorely in need of rest and refreshment." but they had a message to deliver before they could be persuaded to eat or wash. "the master is coming," said phineas. "he has sent out seventy of his followers, to go by twos into every town, and herald his approach, and proclaim that the day of the lord is at hand. we have gone even into samaria to carry the tidings there." "at last, at last!" cried mary, clasping her hands. "oh, to think that i have lived to see this day of israel's glory!" "tell us what the master has been doing," urged abigail, after the men had been refreshed by food and water. first one and then the other told of miracles they had seen, and repeated what he had taught. even the children crept close to listen, leaning against their father's knees. "there has been much discussion about the kingdom that is to be formed. while we were in peter's house in capernaum, some of the disciples came quarrelling around him, to ask who should have the highest positions. i suppose those who have followed him longest think they have claim to the best offices." "what did he say?" asked abigail, eagerly. phineas laid his hand on ruth's soft curls. "he took a little child like this, and set it in our midst, and said that he who would be greatest in his kingdom, must become even like unto it!" "faith and love and purity on the throne of the herods," cried martha. "ah, only jehovah can bring such a thing as that to pass!" "are you going to stay at home now, father?" asked jesse, anxiously. "no, my son. i must go on the morrow to carry my report to the master, of the reception we have had in every town. but i will soon be back again to the feast of tabernacles." "carry with you our earnest prayer that the master will abide with us when he comes again to bethany," said martha, as her guests departed. "no one is so welcome in our home, as the friend of our brother lazarus." the preparation for the feast of the tabernacles had begun. "i am going to take the children to the city with me to-day!" said reuben, one morning, "to see the big booth i am having built. it will hold all our family, and as many friends as may care to share it with us." jesse was charmed with the great tent of green boughs. "i wish i could have been one of the children that moses led up out of egypt," he said, with a sigh. "why, my son?" asked reuben. "so's i could have wandered around for forty years, living in a tent like this. how good it smells, and how pretty it is! i wish you and grandmother would live here all the time!" the next day phineas joined them. it was a happy family that gathered in the leafy booth for a week of out-door rejoicing in the cool autumn time. "where is the master?" asked abigail. "i know not," answered her husband. "he sent us on before." "will he be here, i wonder?" she asked, and that question was on nearly every lip in jerusalem. "will he be here?" asked the throngs of pilgrims who had heard of his miracles, and longed to see the man who could do such marvellous things. "will he be here?" whispered the scribes to the pharisees. "let him beware!" "will he be here?" muttered caiaphas the high priest. "then better one man should die, than that the whole community perish." the sight that dazzled the eyes of the children that first evening of the week, was like fairyland; a blaze of lanterns and torches lit up the whole city. in the court of the women, in the temple, all the golden lamps were lit, twinkling and burning like countless stars. on the steps that separated this court from the next one, stood three thousand singers, the sons and daughters of the tribe of levi. two priests stood at the top of the steps, and as each gave the signal on a great silver trumpet, the burst of song that went up from the vast choir seemed to shake the very heavens. harps and psalters and flutes swelled with the rolling waves of the organ's melody. to the sound of this music, men marched with flaming torches in their hands, and the marching and a weird torch-dance were kept up until the gates of the temple closed. in the midst of all the feasting and the gayeties that followed, the long-expected voice was heard in the arcades of the temple. the child of nazareth was once more in his father's house about his father's business. on the last great day of the feast, joel was up at day-break, ready to follow the older members of the family as soon as the first trumpet-blast should sound. in his right hand he carried a citron, as did all the others; in his left was a palm-branch, the emblem of joy. an immense multitude gathered at the spring of siloam. water was drawn in a golden pitcher, and carried back to be poured on the great altar, while the choir sang with its thousands of voices, and all the people shouted, amen and amen! when the days had gone by in which the seventy bullocks had been sacrificed, and when the ceremonies were all over, then the leaves were stripped from the green booths, and the people scattered to their homes. long afterward, jesse remembered only the torch-light dances, the silver trumpets and the crowds, and the faint ringing of the fringe of bells on the priest's robes as he carried the fire on the golden shovel to burn the sweet-smelling incense. joel's memory rang often with two cries that had startled the people. one when the water was poured from the golden pitcher. it was the master's voice: "_if any man thirst, let him come unto me_." the other was when all eyes were turned on the blazing lamps. "_i am the light of the world!_" reuben thought oftenest of the blind man to whom he had seen sight restored. but lazarus was filled with anxiety and foreboding; through his office of scribe, he had come in close contact with the men who were plotting against his friend. dark rumors were afloat. the air was hot with whisperings of hate. he had overheard a conversation between the temple police, and some of the chief priests and pharisees. "why did ye not take him, as ye were ordered?" they demanded angrily. "we could not," was the response; "for never man spake like this man." he had seen the mob searching for stones to throw at him. though he had disappeared out of their midst unhurt, still lazarus felt that some terrible disaster was hanging threateningly over the head of his beloved friend. chapter xii. it was with a deep feeling of relief that the two families watched the master go away into perea. phineas still kept with him. as the little band disappeared down the street, ruth hid her face in her mother's dress and began to cry. "i don't want my father to go away again!" she sobbed. abigail took her in her lap and tried to comfort her, although there were tears in her own eyes. "we will go home soon, little daughter, and then father will be with us all the time. but we must wait first, till after the cold, rainy season, and the feast of dedication." "what! another feast?" asked jesse, to whom the summer had seemed one long confusion of festivals. "don't they have lots of them down in this country! what's this one for?" "grandfather will tell you," answered his mother. "run out and ask him for the story. i know you will like it." seated on his grandfather's knee, jesse doubled up his little fists, as he heard how a heathen altar had once been set up on the great altar of burnt-offering, and a heathen general had driven a herd of swine through the holy temple, making it unclean. but his breath came quick, and his eyes shone, as the proud old israelite told him of judas the maccabee, judas the lion-hearted, who had whipped the syrian soldiers, purified the temple, and dedicated it anew to the worship of jehovah. "our people never forget their heroes," ended the old man. "every year, in every home, no matter how humble, one candle is lighted at the beginning of the feast; the next night, two, and the next night, three, and so on, till eight candles shine out into the winter darkness. "for so the brave deeds of the maccabees burn in the memory of every child of abraham!" the feast came and went. while the candles burned in every home, and the golden lamps in the great temple blazed a welcome, the nazarene came back to his father's house, to be once more about his father's business. joel caught a glimpse of him walking up and down the covered porches in front of the gate beautiful. the next moment he was pushing and elbowing his way through the jostling crowds, till he stood close beside him. after that, the services that followed were a blank. he saw only one face,--the face that had looked into his beside the galilee, and drawn from his heart its intensest love. he heard only one voice,--the voice he had longed for all these weeks and days. just to be near him! to be able to reach out reverent fingers and only touch the clothes he wore; to look up in his face, and look and look with a love that never wearied,--that was such happiness that joel was lost to everything else! but after a while he began to realize that it was for no friendly purpose that the chief priests came pressing around with questions. "if thou be the christ, tell us plainly," they demanded. then up and down through the long porch of solomon, among all its white marble pillars, they repeated his answer:-"the works that i do in my father's name, they bear witness of me. i and my father are one!" "blasphemy!" shouted a mocking voice behind him. "blasphemy!" echoed pharisee and sadducee for once agreed. the crowds pushed and shoved between the pillars; some ran out for stones. in the confusion of the uproar, as they turned to lay violent hands on him, he slipped out of their midst, and went quietly away. joel hunted around awhile for the party he had come with, but seeing neither phineas nor lazarus, started back to bethany on the run. a cold winter rain had begun to fall. none of reuben's family had gone into jerusalem that day on account of the weather, but were keeping the feast at home. they were startled when the usually quiet boy burst excitedly into the house, and told them what he had just seen. "o mother abigail!" he cried, throwing himself on his knees beside her. "if he goes away again may i not go with him? i cannot go back to galilee and leave him, unknowing what is to happen. if he is to be persecuted and driven out, and maybe killed, let me at least share his suffering, and be with him at the last!" "you forget that he has all power, and that his enemies can do him no harm," said abigail, gently. "has he not twice walked out unharmed, before their very eyes, when they would have taken him? and besides what good could you do, my boy? you forget you are only a child, and might not be able to stand the hardships of such a journey." "i am almost fourteen," said joel, stretching himself up proudly. "and i am as strong now as some of the men who go with him. _he_ gave me back my strength, you know. oh, you do not know how i love him!" he cried. "when i am away from him, i feel as you would were you separated from jesse and ruth and father phineas. my heart is always going out after him!" "child, have you no care for us?" she responded reproachfully. "oh, do not speak so!" he cried, catching up her hand and kissing it. "i _do_ love you; i can never be grateful enough for all you have done for me. but, o mother abigail, you could never understand! you were never lame and felt the power of his healing. you were never burning with a wicked hatred, and felt the balm of his forgiveness! you cannot understand how he draws me to him!" "let the boy have his way," spoke up reuben. "i, too, have felt that wonderful power that draws all men to him. gladly would i part with every shekel i possess, if i thereby might win him the favor of the authorities." when once more a little band of fugitives followed their master across the jordan, joel was with them. the winter wore away, and they still tarried. day by day, they were listening to the simple words that dropped like seeds into their memories, to spring up in after months and bear great truths. now they heard them as half understood parables,--the good samaritan, the barren fig-tree, the prodigal son, the unjust steward. there was one story that thrilled joel deeply,--the story of the lost sheep. for he recalled that stormy night in the sheepfold of nathan ben obed, and the shepherd who searched till dawn for the straying lamb. it was only long afterwards that he realized it was the good shepherd himself who told the story, when he was about to lay down his own life for the lost sheep of israel. * * * * * meanwhile in bethany, rabbi reuben and his wife rejoiced that their daughter's visit stretched out indefinitely. jesse openly declared that he intended to stay there always, and learn to be a goldsmith like his grandfather. ruth, too, was happy and contented, and seemed to have forgotten that she ever had any other home. as the early spring days came on, she lived almost entirely out in the sunshine. she had fallen into the habit of standing at the gate to watch for lazarus every evening when he came back from the temple. as soon as she saw him turn the corner into their street, she ran to meet him, her fair curls and white dress fluttering in the wind. no matter how tired he was, or what cares rested heavily on his mind, the pale face always lighted up, and his dark eyes smiled at her coming. "lazarus does not seem well, lately," she heard martha say to her mother one day. "i have been trying to persuade him to rest a few days; but he insists he cannot until he has finished the scroll he is illuminating." a few days after that he did not go to the city as usual. ruth peeped into the darkened room where he was resting on a couch; his eyes were closed, and he was so pale it almost frightened her. he did not hear her when she tiptoed into the room and out again; but the fragrance of the little stemless rose she laid on his pillow aroused him. he opened his eyes and smiled languidly, as he caught sight of her slipping noiselessly through the door. her mother, sewing by the window, looked out and saw her running across the street. jesse was out in front of the house, playing with a ball. "who is that boy talking to jesse?" asked abigail of rebecca, who stood in the doorway, holding out her arms as ruth came up. "why, that is little joseph, the only son of simon the leper. poor child!" "simon the leper," repeated abigail. "a stranger to me." "surely not. have you forgotten the wealthy young oil-seller who lived next the synagogue? he has the richest olive groves in this part of the country." "not the husband of my little playmate esther!" cried abigail. "surely he has not been stricken with leprosy!" "yes; it is one of the saddest cases i ever heard of. it seems so terrible for a man honored as he has been, and accustomed to every luxury, to be such a despised outcast." "poor esther!" sighed abigail. "does she ever see him?" "not now. the disease is fast destroying him; and he is such a hideous sight that he has forbidden her to ever try to see him again. even his voice is changed. of course he would be stoned if he were to come back. he never seeks the company of other lepers. she has had a room built for him away from the sight of men. every day a servant carries him food and tidings. it is well that they have money, or he would be obliged to live among the tombs with others as repulsive-looking as himself, and such company must certainly be worse than none. sometimes little joseph is taken near enough to speak to him, that he may have the poor comfort of seeing his only child at a distance." "what if it were my phineas!" exclaimed abigail, her tears dropping fast on the needlework she held. "oh, it is a thousand times worse than death!" out in the street the boys were making each other's acquaintance in the off-hand way boys of that age have. "my name is jesse. what's yours?" "joseph." "where do you live?" "around the corner, next to the synagogue." "my father is a carpenter. what's yours?" joseph hesitated. "he used to be an oil-seller," he said finally. "he doesn't do anything now." "why?" persisted jesse. "he is a leper now," was the reluctant answer. a look of distress came over jesse's face. he had seen some lepers once, and the sight was still fresh in his mind. as they were riding down from galilee, joel had pointed them out to him. a group of beggars with horrible scaly sores that had eaten away their flesh, till some were left without lips or eyelids; one held out a deathly white hand from which nearly all the fingers had dropped. their hair looked like white wire, and they called out, in shrill, cracked voices, "unclean! unclean! come not near us!" "how terrible to have one's father like that," thought jesse. a lump seemed to come up in his throat; his eyes filled with tears at the bare idea. then, boy-like, he tossed up his ball, and forgot all about it in the game that followed. several days after he met joseph and a servant who was carrying a large, covered basket and a water-bottle made of skin. "i'm going to see my father, now," said joseph. "ask your mother if you can come with me." jesse started towards his home, then turned suddenly. "no, i'm not going to ask her, for she'll be sure to say no. i am just going anyhow." "you'll catch it when you get home!" exclaimed joseph. "well, it cannot last long," reasoned jesse, whose curiosity had gotten the better of him. "i believe i'd rather take a whipping than not to go." joseph looked at him in utter astonishment. "yes, i would," he insisted; "so come on!" a short walk down an unfrequented road, in the direction of jericho, took them to a lonely place among the bare cliffs. a little cabin stood close against the rocks, with a great sycamore-tree bending over it. near by was the entrance to a deep cave, always as cool as a cellar, even in the hottest summer days. at the mouth of the cave sat simon the leper. he stood up when he saw them coming, and wrapped himself closely in a white linen mantle that covered him from head to foot. it was a ghostly sight to jesse; but to joseph, so long accustomed to it, there seemed nothing strange. at a safe distance the servant emptied his basket on a large flat rock, and poured the water into a stone jar standing near. last of all, he laid a piece of parchment on the stone. it was esther's daily letter to her exiled husband. no matter what storms swept the valley, or what duties pressed at home, that little missive was always sent. she had learned to write for his sake. by all his friends he was accounted dead; but her love, stronger than death, bridged the gulf that separated them. she lived only to minister to his comfort as best she could. simon did not send as long a message in return as this trusted messenger usually carried. he had much to say to his boy, and the sun was already high. jesse, lagging behind in the shelter of the rock, heard the tender words of counsel and blessing that came from the white-sheeted figure with a feeling of awe. as the father urged his boy to be faithful to every little duty, careful in learning the prayers, and above all obedient to his mother, jesse's conscience began to prick him sorely. "i believe i know somebody that could cure him," he said, as they picked their way over the rocks, going home. "'cause he made joel well." "who's joel?" asked joseph. "a boy that lives with us. he was just as lame, and limped way over when he walked. now he is as straight as i am. all the sick people where i lived went to him, and they got well." joseph shook his head. "lepers can't be cured. can they, seth?" he asked, appealing to the servant. "no, lepers are just the same as dead," answered seth. "there's no help for them." jesse was in a very uncomfortable frame of mind, as, hot and dusty, he left his companion and dragged home at a snail's pace. next morning joseph was waiting for him out in front. "well, did she whip you?" he asked, with embarrassing frankness. "no," said jesse, a little sheepishly. "she put me to bed just as soon as i had eaten my dinner, and made me stay there till this morning." chapter xiii. ruth went every day to ask for her sick friend, sometimes with a bunch of grapes, sometimes with only a flower in her warm little hand. but there came a time when martha met her, with eyes all swollen and red from crying, and told her they had sent to the city for a skilful physician. in the night there came a loud knocking at the door, and a call for rabbi reuben to come quickly, that lazarus was worse. at day-break a messenger was sent clattering away to hurry over the jordan in hot haste, and bring back from perea the only one who could help them. the noise awakened ruth; she sat up in surprise to see her mother dressed so early. the outer door was ajar, and she heard the message that the anxious martha bade the man deliver: "lord, he whom thou lovest is sick." "he will come right away and make him well, won't he, mother?" she asked anxiously. "surely, my child," answered abigail. "he loves him too well to let him suffer so." but the day wore on, and the next; still another, and he did not come. ruth stole around like a frightened shadow, because of the anxious looks on every face. "why doesn't he come?" she wondered; and on many another lip was the same question. she was so quiet, no one noticed when she stole into the room where her friend lay dying. mary knelt on one side of the bed, martha on the other, watching the breath come slower and slower, and clinging to the unresponsive hands as if their love could draw him back to life. neither shed a tear, but seemed to watch with their souls in their eyes, for one more word, one more look of recognition. abigail sat by the window, weeping softly. ruth had never seen her mother cry before, and it frightened her. she glanced at her grandfather, standing by the foot of the bed; two great tears rolled slowly down his cheeks, and dropped on his long beard. a sudden cry from mary, as she fell fainting to the floor, called her attention to the bed again. martha was silently rocking herself to and fro, in an agony of grief. still the child did not understand. those in the room were so busy trying to bring mary back to consciousness, that no one noticed ruth. drawn by some impulse she could not understand, the child drew nearer and nearer. then she laid her soft little hand on his, thinking the touch would surely make him open his eyes and smile at her again; it had often done so before. but what was it that made her start back terrified, and shrink away trembling? it was not lazarus she had touched, but the awful mystery of death. "i did not know that a little child could feel so deeply," said abigail to her mother, when she found that ruth neither ate nor played, but wandered aimlessly around. "i shall keep her away from the funeral." but all her care could not keep from the little one's ears the mournful music of the funeral dirge, or the wailing of the mourners, who gathered to do honor to the young man whom all bethany knew and loved. many friends came out from jerusalem to follow the long procession to the tomb. there was a long eulogy at the grave; but the most impressive ceremony was over at last, and the great stone had to be rolled into the opening that formed the doorway. then the two desolate sisters went back to their lonely home and empty life, wondering how they could go on without the presence that had been such a daily benediction. the fourth day after his death, as martha sat listlessly looking out of the green arbor with unseeing eyes, ruth ran in with a radiant face. "he's come!" she cried. "he's come, and so has my father. hurry! he is waiting for you!" martha drew her veil about her, and mechanically followed the eager child to the gate, where phineas met her with the same message. "oh, why did he not come sooner?" she thought bitterly, as she pressed on after her guide. once outside of the village, she drew aside her veil. there stood the master, with such a look of untold sympathy on his worn face, that martha cried out, "lord, if thou hadst been here my brother had not died!" "thy brother shall rise again," he said gently. "yes, i know he shall rise again in the resurrection, at the last day," she said brokenly. "that brings hope for the future; but what comfort is there for the lonely years we must live without him?" the tears streamed down her face again. then for the first time came those words that have brought balm into thousands of broken hearts, and hope into countless tear-blind eyes. "i am the resurrection and the life. he that believeth in me shall never die. believest thou this?" martha looked up reverently. "yea, lord, i believe that thou art the christ, the son of god which should come into the world." a great peace came over her troubled spirit as she hurried to her home, where the many friends still sat who had come to comfort them. a number of them were from jerusalem, and she knew that among them were some who were unfriendly to her brother's friend. so she quietly called her sister from the room, whispering, "the master is come, and calleth for thee!" those who sat there thought they were going to the grave to weep, as was the custom. so they rose also, and followed at a little distance. mary met him with the same exclamation that her sister had uttered, and fell at his feet. he, seeing in her white face the marks of the deep grief she had suffered, was thrilled to the depths of his humanity by the keenest sympathy. his tears fell too, at the sight of hers. "behold how he loved lazarus!" said a man to the one who stood beside him. "why did he not save him then?" was the mocking answer. "they say he has the power to open the eyes of the blind, and even to raise the dead. let him show it in this case!" it was a curious crowd that followed him to the door of the tomb: men who hated him for the scorching fire-brands of rebuke he had thrown into their corrupt lives; men who feared him as a dangerous teacher of false doctrines; men who knew his good works, but hesitated either to accept or refuse; and men who loved him better than life,--all waiting, wondering what he would do. "roll the stone away!" he commanded; a dozen strong shoulders bent to do his bidding. then he looked up and spoke in a low tone, but so distinctly that no one lost a word. "father," he said,--he seemed to be speaking to some one just beside him,--"i thank thee that thou hast heard me, and i knew that thou hearest me always: but because of the people which stand by i said it, that they may believe that thou hast sent me." a cold shiver of expectancy ran over those who heard. then he cried, in a loud voice, "_lazarus, come forth!_" there was a dreadful pause. some of the women clutched each other with frightened shrieks; even strong men fell back, as out of the dark grave walked a tall figure wrapped in white grave-clothes. his face was hidden in a napkin. "loose him, and let him go," said the master, calmly. phineas stepped forward and loosened the outer bands. when the napkin fell from his face, they saw he was deathly white; but in an instant a warm, healthful glow took the place of the corpse-like pallor. not till he spoke, however, could the frightened people believe that it was lazarus, and not a ghost they saw. never had there been such a sight since the world began: the man who had lain four days in the tomb, walking side by side with the man who had called him back to life. the streets were full of people, laughing, shouting, crying, fairly beside themselves with astonishment. smiths left their irons to cool on the anvils; bakers left their bread to burn in the ovens; the girl at the fountain dropped her half-filled pitcher; and a woman making cakes ran into the street with the dough in her hands. every house in the village stood empty, save one where a sick man moaned for water all unheeded, and another where a baby wakened in its cradle and began to cry. long after the reunited family had gone into their home with their nearest friends, and shut the door on their overwhelming joy, the crowds still stood outside, talking among themselves. many who had taken part against the master before, now believed on account of what they had seen. but some still said, more openly than before, "he is in league with the evil one, or he could not do such things." these hurried back to jerusalem, to spread the report that this dangerous man had again appeared, almost at the very gates of the great capital. that night there was a secret council of the chief priests and the pharisees. "what shall we do," was the anxious question. "if we let him alone, all men will believe on him; and the romans shall come and take away both our place and our nation." every heart beat with the same thought, but only caiaphas put it in words. at last he dared repeat what he had only muttered to himself before: "it is expedient for us that one man should die for the people, and that the whole nation perish not." while the streets were still full of people, jesse crept up to joel, as they sat together in the court-yard. "don't you think it would be just as easy to cure a leper as to raise rabbi lazarus from the dead?" "yes, indeed!" answered joel, positively, "i've seen it done." "oh, have you?" cried the boy, in delight. "then joseph can have his father back again." he told him the story of simon the leper, and of his visit to the lonely cave. joel's sympathies were aroused at once. ever since his own cure, he had felt that he must bring every afflicted one in the wide world to the great source of healing. just then a man stopped at the gate to ask for phineas. joel had learned to know him well in the weeks they had been travelling together; it was thomas. the boy sprang up eagerly. "do you know when the master is going to leave bethany?" he asked. "in the morning," answered thomas, "and right glad i am that it is to be so soon. for when we came down here, i thought it was but to die with him. he is beset on all sides by secret enemies." "and will he go out by the same road that we came?" "it is most probable." joel waited for no more information from him, but went back to jesse to learn the way to the cave. jesse was a little fellow, but a keen-eyed one, and was able to give joel the few simple directions that would lead him the right way. "oh, i'm so glad you are going!" he exclaimed. "shall i run and tell joseph what you are going to do?" "no, do not say a word to any one," answered joel. "i shall be back in a very short time." chapter xiv. simon the leper sat at the door of his cave. he held a roll of vellum in his unsightly fingers; it was a copy of the psalms that lazarus had once made for him in happier days. many a time he had found comfort in these hope-inspiring songs of david; but to-day he was reading a wail that seemed to come from the depths of his own soul: "thy wrath lieth hard upon me, and thou hast afflicted me with all thy waves. thou hast put mine acquaintance far from me. thou hast made me an abomination unto them. i am shut up and i cannot come forth. lord, i have called daily upon thee. i have stretched out my hands unto thee. wilt thou show wonders to the dead? shall the dead arise again and praise thee? lord, why casteth thou off my soul? why hidest thou thy face from me?" the roll dropped to the ground, and he hid his face in his hands, crying, "how long must i endure this? oh, why was i not taken instead of lazarus?" the sound of some one scrambling over the rocks made him look up quickly. seth never made his visits at this time of the day, and strangers had never before found the path to this out-of-the-way place. joel came on, and stopped by the rock where the water-jar stood. simon stood up, covering himself with his mantle, and crying out, warningly, "beware! unclean! come no further!" "i bring you news from the village," said joel. the man threw out his hand with a gesture of alarm. "oh, not of my wife esther," he cried, imploringly, "or of my little joseph! i could not bear to hear aught of ill from them. my heart is still sore for the death of my friend lazarus. i went as near the village as i dared, and heard the dirge of the flutes and the wailing of the women, when they laid him in the tomb. i have sat here ever since in sackcloth and ashes." "but lazarus lives again!" exclaimed joel, simply. he had seen so many miracles lately, that he forgot the startling effect such an announcement would have on one not accustomed to them. [illustration: "'you but mock me, boy'"] the man stood petrified with astonishment. at last he said bitterly, "you but mock me, boy; at least leave me to my sorrow in peace." "no!" cried joel. "as the lord liveth, i swear it is the truth. have you not heard that messiah has come? i have followed him up and down the country, and know whereof i speak. at a word from him the dumb sing, the blind see, and the lame walk. i was lame myself, and he made me as you see me now." joel drew himself up to his fullest height. simon looked at him, completely puzzled. "why did you take the trouble to come and tell me that,--a poor despised leper?" he finally asked. "because i want everybody else to be as happy as i am. he cured me. he gave me back my strength. then why should not my feet be always swift to bring others to him for the same happy healing? he himself goes about all the time doing good. i know there is hope for you, for i have seen him cleanse lepers." simon trembled, as the full meaning of the hope held out to him began to make itself clear to his confused mind: health, home, esther, child,--all restored to him. it was joy too great to be possible. "oh, if i could only believe it!" he cried. "lazarus was raised when he had been four days dead. all bethany can bear witness to that," persisted joel. the words poured out with such force and earnestness, as he described the scene, that simon felt impelled to believe him. "where can i find this man?" he asked. joel pointed down the rocky slope. "take that road that leads into bethany. come early in the morning, and as we all pass that way, call to him. he never refuses any who have faith to believe that he can grant what they ask." when joel was half-way down the hill, he turned back. "if he should not pass on the morrow," he said, "do not fail to be there on the second day. we will surely leave here soon." simon stood in bewilderment till the boy had passed down the hill; he began to fear that this messenger had been only the creation of a dream. he climbed upon the cliff and peered down into the valley. no, he had not been deceived; the boy was no mirage of his thirsty soul, for there, he came out into full sight again, and now, he was climbing the opposite hillside. "how beautiful upon the mountain are the feet of him who bringeth good tidings!" he murmured. "oh, what a heaven opens out before me, if this lad's words are only true!" next morning, after they left bethany, joel looked anxiously behind every rock and tree that they passed; but simon was not to be seen. presently joel saw him waiting farther down the road; he was kneeling in the dust. the white mantle, that in his sensitiveness was always used to hide himself from view, was cast aside, that the great healer might see his great need. he scanned the approaching figures with imploring eyes. he was looking for the messiah,--some one in kingly garments, whose jewelled sceptre's lightest touch would lay upon him the royal accolade of health. these were evidently not the ones he was waiting for. these were only simple wayfarers; most of them looked like galileans. he was about to rise up with his old warning cry of unclean, when he caught sight of joel. but where was the princely redeemer of prophecy? nearer and nearer they came, till he could look full in their faces. no need now to ask on which one he should call for help; indeed, he seemed to see but one face, it was so full of loving pity. "o thou messiah of israel!" he prayed. "thou didst call my friend lazarus from the dead, o pass me not by! call me from this living death! make me clean!" the eyes that looked down into his seemed to search his soul. "believest thou that i can do this?" the pleading faith in simon's eyes could not be refused. "yea, lord," he cried, "thou hast but to speak the word!" he waited, trembling, for the answer that meant life or death to him. "i will. be thou clean!" he put out his hand to raise the kneeling man to his feet. "go and show thyself to the priests," he added. the party passed on, and simon stood looking after them. _was_ it the christ who had passed by? where were his dyed garments from bozrah? the prophet foretold him as glorious in apparel, travelling in the greatness of his strength. no sceptre of divine power had touched him; it was only the clasp of a warm human hand he had felt. he looked down at himself. still a leper! his faith wavered; but he remembered he had not obeyed the command to show himself to the priests. immediately he started across the fields on a run, towards the road leading into jerusalem. far down the highway joel heard a mighty shout; he turned and looked back. there on the brow of a hill, sharply outlined against the sky, stood simon. his arms were lifted high up towards heaven; for as he ran, in obedience to the command, the leprosy had gone from him. he was pouring out a flood of praise and thanksgiving, in the first ecstasy of his recovery, at the top of his voice. joel thought of the tiresome ceremonies to be observed before the man could go home, and wished that the eight days of purification were over, that the little family might be immediately reunited. meanwhile, seth, with his basket and water-bottle, was climbing the hill toward the cave. for the first time in seven years since he had commenced these daily visits, no expectant voice greeted him. he went quite close up to the little room under the cliff; he could see through the half-open door that it was empty. then he cautiously approached the mouth of the cave, and called his master. a hundred echoes answered him, but no human voice responded. call after call was sent ringing into the hollow darkness. the deep stillness weighed heavily upon him; he began to be afraid that somewhere in its mysterious depths lay a dead body. the fear mastered him. only stopping to put down the food and pour out the water, he started home at the top of his speed. as he reached the road, a traveller going to bethany hailed him. "what think you that i saw just now?" asked the stranger. "a man running with all his might towards jerusalem. tears of joy were streaming down his cheeks, and he was shouting as he ran, 'cleansed! cleansed! cleansed!' he stopped me, and bade me say, if i met a man carrying a basket and water-skin, that simon the leper has just been healed of the leprosy. he will be home as soon as the days of purification are over." seth gazed at him stupidly, feeling that he must be in a dream. esther, too, heard the message unbelievingly. yet she walked the floor in a fever of excitement, at the bare possibility of such a thing being true. the next morning, she sent seth, as usual, with the provisions. but he brought them back, saying the place was still deserted. then she began to dare to hope; although she tried to steel herself against disappointment, by whispering over and over that she could never see him again, she waited impatiently for the days to pass. at last they had all dragged by. the new day would begin at sunset, the very earliest time that she might expect him. the house was swept and garnished as if a king were coming. the table was set with the choicest delicacies seth could find in the jerusalem markets. the earliest roses, his favorite red ones, were put in every room. in her restless excitement nothing in her wardrobe seemed rich enough to wear. she tried on one ornament after another before she was suited. then, all in white, with jewels blazing in her ears, on her throat, on her little white hands, and her eyes shining like two glad stars, she sat down to wait for him. but she could not keep still. this rug was turned up at the corner; that rose had dropped its petals on the floor. she would have another kind of wine on the table. at last she stepped out of the door in her little silken-bound sandals, and climbed the outside stairs to the roof, to watch for him. the sun was entirely out of sight, but the west was glorious with the red gold of its afterglow. looking up the mount of olives, she could see the smoke of the evening sacrifice rising as the clouds of incense filled the temple. surely he must be far on the way by this time. her heart almost stopped beating as she saw a figure coming up the road, between the rows of palm-trees. she strained her eyes for a nearer view, then drew a long tremulous breath. it was lazarus; there went the two children and the lamb to meet him. all along the street, people were standing in the doors to see him go past; he was still a wonder to them. she shaded her eyes with her hand, and looked again. but while her gaze searched the distant road, some one was passing just below, under the avenue of leafy trees, with quick impatient tread; some one paused at the vine-covered door; some one was leaping up the stairs three steps at a time; some one was coming towards her with out-stretched arms, crying, "esther, little esther, o my wife! my god-given one!" for the first time in seven years, she turned to find herself in her husband's arms. strong and well, with the old light in his eyes, the old thrill in his voice, the glow of perfect health tingling through all his veins, he could only whisper tremulously, as he held her close, "praise god! praise god!" no wonder he seemed like a stranger to joseph. but the clasp of the strong arms, and the deep voice saying "my son," so tenderly, were inexpressibly dear to the little fellow kept so long from his birthright of a father's love. he was the first to break the happy silence that fell upon them. "what a good man rabbi jesus must be, to go about making people glad like this all the time!" "it is he who shall redeem israel!" exclaimed simon. "to god be the glory, who hath sent him into this sin-cursed world! henceforth all that i have, and all that i am, shall be dedicated to his service!" kneeling there in the dying daylight, with his arms around the wife and child so unexpectedly given back to him, such a heart-felt prayer of gratitude went upward to the good father that even the happiest angels must have paused to listen, more glad because of this great earth-gladness below. chapter xv. "i think there will be an unusual gathering of strangers at the passover this year," said rabbi reuben to lazarus, as they came out together from the city, one afternoon. "the number may even reach three millions. a travelling man from rome was in my shop to-day. he says that in the remotest parts of the earth, wherever the hebrew tongue is found, one may hear the name of the messiah. "people pacing the decks of the ships, crossing the deserts, or trading in the shops, talk only of him and his miracles; they have aroused the greatest interest even in athens and the cities of the nile. the very air seems full of expectancy. i cannot but think great things are about to come to pass. surely the time is now ripe for jesus to proclaim himself king. i cannot understand why he should hide himself away in the wilderness as if he feared for his safety." lazarus smiled at the old man, with a confident expression. "be sure, my friend, it is only because the hour has not yet come. what a sight it will be when he does stand before the tomb of our long dead power, to call back the nation to its old-time life and grandeur. i can well believe that with him all things are possible." "would that this next passover were the time!" responded reuben. "how i would rejoice to see his enemies laid low in the dust!" already, on the borders of galilee, the expected king had started toward his coronation. many of the old friends and neighbors from capernaum had joined their band, to go on to the paschal feast. they made slow progress, however, for at every turn in the road they were stopped by outstretched hands and cries for help. nearly every step was taken to the sound of some rejoicing cry from some one who had been blessed. joel could not crowd all the scenes into his memory; but some stood with clear-cut distinctness. there were the ten lepers who met them at the very outset; and there was blind bartimeus begging by the wayside. he could never forget the expression of that man's face, when his eyes were opened, and for the first time he looked out on the glory of the morning sunshine. joel quivered all over with a thrill of sympathy, remembering his own healing, and realizing more than the others what had been done for the blind beggar. then there was zaccheus, climbing up to look down through the sycamore boughs that he might see the master passing into jericho, and zaccheus scrambling down again in haste to provide entertainment for his honored guest. there was the young ruler going away sorrowful because the sacrifice asked of him was more than he was willing to make. but there was one scene that his memory held in unfading colors:-roses and wild honeysuckle climbing over a bank by the road-side. orange-trees dropping a heavy fragrance with the falling petals of their white blossoms. in the midst of the shade and the bloom the mothers from the village near by, gathering with their children, all freshly washed and dressed to find favor in the eyes of the passing prophet. babies cooed in their mother's arms. bright little faces smiled out from behind protecting skirts, to which timid fingers clung. as they waited for the coming procession, and little bare feet chased each other up and down the bank, the happy laughter of the older children filled all the sunny air. as the travellers came on, the women caught up their children and crowded forward. it was a sight that would have made almost any one pause,--those innocent-eyed little ones waiting for the touch that would keep them always pure in heart,--that blessing their mothers coveted for them. but some of the disciples, impatient at the many delays, seeing in the rosy faces and dimpled limbs nothing that seemed to claim help or attention, spoke to the women impatiently. "why trouble ye the master?" they said. "would ye stop the great work he has come to do for matters of such little importance?" repelled by the rebuke, they fell back. but there was a look of displeasure on his face, such as they had never seen before, as jesus turned toward them. "suffer the little children to come unto me," he said, sternly, "and forbid them not; for of such is the kingdom of heaven!" then holding out his hands he took them up in his arms and blessed them, every one, even the youngest baby, that blinked up at him unknowingly with its big dark eyes, received its separate blessing. so fearlessly they came to him, so lovingly they nestled in his arms, and with such perfect confidence they clung to him, that he turned again to his disciples. "verily i say unto you, whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of god as a little child, he shall not enter therein." met at all points as he had been by loathsome sights, ragged beggars, and diseases of all kinds, this group of happy-faced children must have remained long in his memory, as sweet as the unexpected blossoming of a rose in a dreary desert. at last the slow journey drew towards a close. the friday afternoon before the passover found the tired travellers once more in bethany. news of their coming had been brought several hours before by a man riding down from jericho. his swift-footed beast had overtaken and passed the slow procession far back on the road. there was a joyful welcome for the master in the home of lazarus. the cool, vine-covered arbor was a refreshing change from the dusty road. here were no curious throngs and constant demands for help. away from the sights that oppressed him, away from the clamor and the criticism, here was a place where heart and body might find rest. the peace of the place, and the atmosphere of sympathy surrounding him, must have fallen like dew on his thirsty soul. here, for a few short days, he who had been so long a houseless wanderer was to know the blessedness of a home. several hours before the first trumpet blast from the roof of the synagogue proclaimed the approaching sabbath, simon hurried to his home. "esther," he called in great excitement, "i have seen him! the christ! i have knelt at his feet. i have looked in his face. and, oh, only think!--he has promised to sit at our table! to-morrow night, such a feast as has never been known in the place shall be spread before him. help me to think of something we may do to show him especial honor." esther sprang up at the news. "we have very little time to prepare," she said. "seth must go at once into the city to make purchases. to-morrow night, no hireling hand shall serve him. i myself shall take that lowly place, with martha and mary to aid me. abigail, too, shall help us, for it is a labor of love that she will delight to take part in. i shall go at once to ask them." the long, still sabbath went by. the worshippers in the synagogue looked in vain for other miracles, listened in vain for the voice that wrought such wonders. through the unbroken rest of that day he was gathering up his strength for a coming trial. something of the approaching shadow may have been seen in his tender eyes; some word of the awaiting doom may have been spoken to the brother and sisters sitting reverently at his feet,--for they seemed to feel that a parting was at hand, and that they must crowd the flying hours with all the loving service they could render him. that night at the feast, as esther's little white hands brought the water for the reclining guests to wash, and martha and abigail placed sumptuously filled dishes before them, mary paused in her busy passing to and fro; she longed to do some especial thing to show her love for the honored guest. never had his face worn such a look of royalty; never had he seemed so much the christ. the soft light of many candles falling on his worn face seemed to reveal as never before the divine soul soon to leave the worn body where it now tarried. an old jewish custom suddenly occurred to her. she seemed to see two pictures: one was aaron, standing up in the rich garments of the priesthood, with his head bowed to receive the sacred anointing; the other was israel's first king, on whom the hoary samuel was bestowing the anointing that proclaimed his royalty. token of both priesthood and kingship,--oh, if she dared but offer it! no one noticed when she stepped out after awhile, and hurried swiftly homeward. hidden away in a chest in her room, was a little alabaster flask, carefully sealed. it held a rare sweet perfume, worth almost its weight in gold. she took it out with trembling fingers, and hid it in the folds of her long flowing white dress. her breath came quick, and her heart beat fast, as she slipped in behind the guests again. the color glowed and paled in her cheeks, as she stood there in the shadow of the curtains, hesitating, half afraid to venture. at last, when the banquet was almost over, she stepped noiselessly forward. there was a hush of surprise at this unusual interruption, although every one there was familiar with the custom, and recognized its deep meaning and symbolism. first on his head, then on his feet, she poured the costly perfume. bending low in the deepest humility, she swept her long soft hair across them to wipe away the crystal drops. the whole house was filled with the sweet, delicate odor. some of those who saw it, remembered a similar scene in the house of another simon, in far away galilee; but only the anointed one could feel the deep contrast between the two. that simon, the proud pharisee, condescending and critical and scant in hospitality; this simon, the cleansed leper, ready to lay down his life, in his boundless love and gratitude. that woman, a penitent sinner, kneeling with tears before his mercy; this woman, so pure in heart that she could see god though hidden in the human body of the nazarene. that anointing, to his priesthood at the beginning of his ministry; this anointing, to his kingdom, now almost at hand. no one spoke as the fragrance rose and spread itself like the incense of a benediction. it seemed a fitting close to this hour of communion with the master. across this eloquent silence that the softest sound would have jarred upon, a cold, unfeeling voice broke harshly. [illustration: "a dark figure went skulking out into the night"] it was judas iscariot who spoke. "why was all this ointment wasted?" he asked. "it would have been better to have sold it and given it to the poor." simon frowned indignantly at this low-browed guest, who was so lacking in courtesy, and mary looked up distressed. "let her alone!" said the master, gently. "ye have the poor with you always, and whensoever ye will, ye may do them good: but me ye have not always. she hath done what she could: she is come aforehand to anoint my body to the burying." a dark look gleamed in the eyes of judas,--there was that reference again to his burial. there seemed to be no use of making any further pretence to follow him any longer. his kingdom was a delusion,--a vague, shadowy, spiritual thing that the others might believe in if they chose. but if there was no longer any hope of gaining by his service, he would turn to the other side. that night there was another secret council of some of the sanhedrin, and judas iscariot was in their midst. when the lights were out, and the temple police were making their final rounds, a dark figure went skulking out into the night, and wound its way through the narrow streets,--the dark figure that still goes skulking through the night of history,--the man who covenanted for thirty pieces of silver to betray his lord. chapter xvi. "who is that talking in the house?" asked joel of abigail the morning after the feast. he had been playing in the garden with jesse, and paused just outside the door as he heard voices. "only father and phineas, now," answered abigail. "simon the oil-seller has just been here, and i am sure you could not guess his errand. it was about you." "about me?" echoed joel, in surprise. "yes, i never knew until this morning that you were the one who persuaded him to go to the master for healing. he says if it had not been for you, he would still be an outcast from home. during these weeks you have been away, he has been hoping to find some trace of you, for he longs to express his gratitude. last night at the feast, he learned your name, and now he has just been here to talk to phineas and father about you. his olive groves yield him a large fortune every year, and he is in a position to do a great deal for you, if you will only let him." "what does he want to do?" asked joel. "he has offered a great deal: to send you to the best schools in the country; to let you travel in foreign lands, and see life as it is in rome and athens and the cities of egypt. then when you are grown, he offers to take you in business with himself, and give you the portion of a son. it is a rare chance for you, my boy." "yes," answered joel, flushing with pleasure at the thought of all he might be able to see and learn. he seemed lost for a few minutes in the bright anticipation of such a tempting future; then his face clouded. "but i would have to leave everybody i love," he cried, "and the home where i have been so happy! i cannot do it, mother abigail; it is too much to ask." "now you talk like a child," she answered, half impatiently; but there was a suspicion of tears in her eyes as she added, "joel, you have grown very dear to us. it will be hard to give you up, for you seem almost like an own son. but consider, my boy; it would not be right to turn away from such advantages. jesse and ruth will be well provided for. all that my father has will be theirs some day. but phineas is only a poor carpenter, and cannot give you much beyond food and clothing. i heard him say just now that he clearly thought it to be your duty to accept, and he had no doubt but that you would." "but i cannot be with the master!" cried joel, as the thought suddenly occurred to him that he could no longer follow him as he had been doing, if he was to be sent away to study and travel. "no; but think what you may be able to do for his cause, if you have money and education and influence. it seems to me that for his sake alone, you ought to consent to such an arrangement." that was the argument that phineas used when he came out; and the boy was sadly bewildered between the desire to be constantly with his beloved master, and his wish to serve him as they suggested. it was in this perplexed state of mind that he started up to jerusalem with jesse and his grandfather. the streets were rapidly filling with people, coming up to the feast of the passover, and joel recognized many old friends from galilee. "there is rabbi amos!" he exclaimed, as he caught sight of an old man in the door of a house across the street. "may i run and speak to him?" "certainly!" answered reuben. "you know your way so well about the streets that it makes no difference if we do get separated. jesse and i will walk on down to the shop. you can meet us there." rabbi amos gave joel a cordial greeting. "i am about to go back to the damascus gate," he said. "i have just been told that the nazarene will soon make his entrance into the city, and a procession of pilgrims are going out to meet him. i have heard much of the man since he left capernaum, and i have a desire to see him again. will you come?" the old man hobbled along so painfully, leaning on his staff, that they were a long time in reaching the gate. the outgoing procession had already met the coming pilgrims, and were starting to return. the way was strewn with palm branches and the clothes they had taken off to lay along the road in front of the man they wished to honor. every hand carried a palm branch, and every voice cried a hosannah. at first joel saw only a confused waving of the green branches, and heard an indistinct murmur of voices; but as they came nearer, he caught the words, "hosannah to the son of david!" "look!" cried rabbi amos, laying his wrinkled, shaking hand heavily on joel's shoulder. "look ye, boy, the voice of prophecy! no roman war-horse bears the coming victor! it is as zechariah foretold! that the king should come riding upon the colt of an ass,--the symbol of peace. so david rode, and so the judges of israel came and went!" joel's eyes followed the gesture of the tremulous, pointing finger. there came the master, right in the face of his enemies, boldly riding in to take possession of his kingdom. at last! no wandering now in lonely wildernesses! no fear of the jealous scribe or pharisee! the time had fully come. with garments strewn in the way, with palms of victory waving before him, with psalm and song and the shouting of the multitude, he rode triumphantly into the city. joel was roused to the highest pitch of enthusiasm, to see his best beloved friend so honored. people understood him now; they appreciated him. the demonstrations of the multitude proved it. he was so happy and excited, he scarcely knew what he was doing. he had no palm branch to wave, but as the head of the procession came abreast with him, and he saw the face of the rider, he was almost beside himself. he waved his empty hands wildly up and down, cheering at the top of his voice; but his shrillest hosannahs were heard only by himself. they were only a drop in that mighty surf-beat of sound. scarcely knowing what to expect, yet prepared for almost anything, they followed the procession into the city. when they reached the porch of the temple, the master had disappeared. "i wonder where he has gone," said joel, in a disappointed tone. "i thought they would surely crown him." "he evidently did not wish it to be," answered rabbi amos. "it would be more fitting that the coronation take place at the great feast. wait until the day of the passover." as they sat in the court of the gentiles, resting, joel told rabbi amos of the offer made him by the wealthy oil-dealer simon. "accept it, by all means!" was the old man's advice. "we have seen enough just now to know that a new day is about to dawn for israel. in bethany, you will be much nearer the master than in capernaum; for surely, after to-day's demonstration, he will take up his residence in the capital. in time you may rise to great influence in the new government soon to be established." the old rabbi's opinion weighed heavily with joel, and he determined to accept simon's offer. then for awhile he was so full of his new plans and ambitions, he could think of nothing else. all that busy week he was separated from the master and his disciples; for it was the first passover he had ever taken part in. after it was over, he was to break the ties that bound him to the carpenter's family and the simple life in galilee, and go to live in simon's luxurious home in bethany. so he stayed closely with phineas and abigail, taking a great interest in all the great preparations for the feast. * * * * * reuben chose, from the countless pens, a male lamb a year old, without blemish. about two o'clock the blast of two horns announced that the priests and levites in the temple were ready, and the gates of the inner courts were opened, that all might bring the lambs for examination. the priests, in two long rows, caught the blood in great gold and silver vessels, as the animals were killed, and passed it to others behind, till it reached the altar, at the foot of which it was poured out. then the lamb was taken up and roasted in an earthen oven, and the feast commenced at sunset on thursday. the skin of the lamb, and the earthen dishes used, were generally given to the host, when different families lodged together. as many as twenty were allowed to gather at one table. reuben had invited nathan ben obed, and those who came with him, to partake of his hospitality. much to joel's delight, a familiar shock of sunburned hair was poked in at the door, and he recognized buz's freckled face, round-eyed and open mouthed at this first glimpse of the great city. during the first hour they were together, buz kept his squinting eyes continually on joel. he found it hard to believe that this straight, sinewy boy could be the same pitiful little cripple who had gone with him to the sheepfolds of nathan ben obed. "say," he drawled, after awhile, "i know where that fellow is who made you lame. i was so upset at seeing you this way that i forgot to tell you. he had a dreadful accident, and you have already had your wish, for he is as blind as that stone." "oh, how? who told you?" cried joel, eagerly. "i saw him myself, as we came through jericho. he had been nearly beaten to death by robbers a few weeks before. it gave him a fever, and both eyes were so inflamed and bruised that he lost his sight." "poor rehum!" exclaimed joel. "poor rehum!" echoed buz, in astonishment. "what do you mean by poor rehum? aren't you glad? isn't that just exactly what you planned; or did you want the pleasure of punching them out yourself?" "no," answered joel, simply; "i forgave him a year ago, the night before i was healed." "you forgave him!" gasped buz,--"you forgave him! a dog of a samaritan! why, how could you?" buz looked at him with such a wondering, puzzled gaze that joel did not attempt to explain. buz might be ignorant of a great many things, but he knew enough to hate the samaritans, and look down on them with the utmost contempt. "i don't really believe you could understand it," said joel, "so it is of no use to try to tell you how or why. but i did forgive him, fully and freely. and if you will tell me just where to find him, i will go after him early in the morning and bring him back with me. the hand that straightened my back can open his eyes; for i have seen it done many times." all during the feast, buz kept stealing searching glances at joel. he could hardly tell which surprised him most, the straightened body or the forgiving spirit. it was so wonderful to him that he sat speechless. at the same time, in an upper chamber in another street, the master and his disciples were keeping the feast together. it was their last supper with him, although they knew it not. afterwards they recalled every word and every incident, with loving memory that lingered over each detail; but at the time they could not understand its full import. the gates were left open on passover night. while the master and his followers walked out to the garden of gethsemane, where they had often gone together, joel was questioning buz as to the exact place where he was to find his old enemy. "i'll go out very early in the morning," said joel, as his head touched the pillow. "very early in the morning, for i want rehum's eyes to be open just as soon as possible, so that he can see the master's face. lord help me to find him to-morrow," he whispered, and with a blessing on his lips for the one he had so long ago forgiven, his eyes closed softly. sleep came quickly to him after the fatigue and excitement of the day. in his dreams he saw again the master's face as he made his triumphal entrance into the city; he heard again the acclamations of the crowd. then he saw rabbi amos and simon and little ruth. there was a confused blending of kindly faces; there was a shadow-like shifting of indistinct but pleasant scenes. in the fair dreamland where he wandered, fortune smiled on him, and all his paths were peace. sleep on, little disciple, happy in thy dreaming; out in gethsemane's dark garden steals one to betray thy lord! by the light of glimmering lanterns and fitful torches they take him now. armed with swords and staves, they lead him out from the leafy darkness into the moon-flooded highroad. now he stands before the high priest,--alone, unfriended. sleep, and wake not at the cock's shrill crowing, for there is none to make answer for him, and one who loved him hath thrice denied! dream on! in the hall of pilate now, thorn-crowned and purple-clad, him whom thou lovest; scourged now, and spat upon. this day, indeed, shall he come into his kingdom, but well for thee, that thou seest not the coronation. sleep on, little disciple, be happy whilst thou can! chapter xvii. it was so much later than he had intended, when joel awoke next morning, that without stopping for anything to eat, he hurried out of the city, and took the road by which the master had made such a triumphal entry a few days before. faded branches of palms still lay scattered by the wayside, thickly covered with dust. all unconscious of what had happened the night before, and what was even at that very moment taking place, joel trudged on to bethany at a rapid pace, light-hearted and happy. for six days he had been among enthusiastic galileans who firmly believed that before the end of passover week they should see the overthrow of rome, and all nations lying at the feet of a jewish king. how long they had dreamed of this hour! he turned to look back at the city. the white and gold of the temple dazzled his eyes, as it threw back the rays of the morning sun. he thought of himself as he had stood that day on the roof of the carpenter's house, stretching out longing arms to this holy place, and calling down curses on the head of his enemy, rehum. could he be the same boy? it seemed to him now that that poor, crippled body, that bitter hatred, that burning thirst for revenge, must have belonged to some one else, he felt so well, so strong, so full of love to god and all mankind. a little broken-winged sparrow fluttered feebly under a hedgerow. he stopped to gather a handful of ripe berries for it, and even retraced his steps to a tiny spring he had noticed farther back, to bring it water in the hollow of a smooth stone. he did not find rehum at the place where buz had told him to inquire. his father had taken him to his home, somewhere in samaria. joel turned back, tired and disappointed. he was glad to lie down, when he reached bethany again, and rest awhile. a peculiar darkness began to settle down over the earth. joel was perplexed and frightened; he knew it could not be an eclipse, for it was the time of the full moon. finally he started back to jerusalem, although it was like travelling in the night, for the darkness had deepened and deepened for nearly three hours, and the mysterious gloom made him long to be with his friends. his first thought was to find the master, and he naturally turned toward the temple. just as he started across the porch of solomon, the darkness was lifted, and everything seemed to dance before his eyes. he had never experienced an earthquake shock before, but he felt sure that this was one. he braced himself against one of the pillars. how the massive columns quivered! how the hot air throbbed! the darkness had been awful, but this was doubly terrifying. the earth had scarcely stopped trembling, when an old white-bearded priest ran across the court of the gentiles; his wrinkled hands, raised above his head, shook as with palsy. the scream that he uttered seemed to transfix joel with horror. "_the veil of the temple is rent in twain!_" he cried,--"_the veil of the temple is rent in twain!_" then with a convulsive shudder he fell forward on his face. joel's knees shook. the darkness, the earthquake, and now this mighty force that had laid bare the holy of holies, filled him with an undefined dread. he ran past the prostrate priest into the inner court, and saw for himself. there hung the heavy curtain of babylonian tapestry, in all its glory of hyacinth and scarlet and purple, torn asunder from top to bottom. no earthquake shock could have made that ragged gash. the wrath of god must have come down and laid mighty fingers upon it. he ran out of the temple, and towards the house where he had slept the night before. the earthquake seemed to have shaken all jerusalem into the streets. strange words were afloat. a question overheard in passing one excited group, an exclamation in another, made him run the faster. at reuben's shop he found jesse and ruth both crying from fright. the attendant who had them in charge told him that his friends had been gone nearly all day. "where?" demanded joel. "i do not know exactly. they went out with one of the greatest multitudes that ever passed through the gates of the city. not only jews, but greeks and romans and egyptians. you should have seen the camels and the chariots, the chairs and the litters!" exclaimed the man. a sudden fear fell upon the boy that this was the day that the one he loved best had been made king, and he had missed it,--had missed the greatest opportunity of his life. "was it to follow rabbi jesus of nazareth?" he demanded eagerly. the man nodded. "to crown him?" was the next breathless question. "no; to crucify him." the unexpected answer was almost a death-thrust. joel stood a moment, dumb with horror. the blood seemed to stand still in his veins; there was a roaring in his ears; then everything grew black before him. he clutched blindly at the air, then staggered back against the wall. "no, _no_, _no_, no!" he cried; each word was louder than the last. "i will not believe it! you do not speak truth!" he ran madly from the shop, down the street, and through the city gate. out on the highway he met the returning multitude, most of them in as great haste as he. everything he saw seemed to confirm the truth of what he had just heard, but he could not believe it. "no, no, no!" he gasped, in a breathless whisper, as he ran. "no, no, no! it cannot be! he is the christ! the son of god! they could not be able to do it, no matter how much they hated him!" but even as he ran he saw the hill where three crosses rose. he turned sick and cold, and so weak he could scarcely stand. still he stumbled resolutely on, but with his face turned away from the sight he dared not look upon, lest seeing should be knowing what he feared. at last he reached the place, and, shrinking back as if from an expected blow, he slowly raised his eyes till they rested on the face of the dead body hanging there. the agonized shriek on his lips died half uttered, as he fell unconscious at the foot of the cross. a long time after, one of the soldiers happening to notice him, turned him over with his foot, and prodded him sharply with his spear. it partially aroused him, and in a few moments he sat up. then he looked up again into the white face above him; but this time the bowed head awed him into a deep calm. the veil of the temple was rent indeed, and through this pierced body there shone out from its holy of holies the shekinah of god's love for a dying world. it uplifted joel, and drew him, and drew him, till he seemed to catch a faint glimpse of the father's face; to feel himself folded in boundless pardon, in pity so deep, and a love so unfathomed, that the lowest sinner could find a share. but while he gazed and gazed into the white face, so glorified in its marble stillness, joseph of arimathea stood between him and the cross, giving directions, in a low tone, for the removal of the body. it seemed to waken joel out of his trance; and when the bloodstained form was stretched gently on the ground, he forgot his glimpse of heavenly mysteries, he saw no longer the uplifted christ. he saw instead, the tortured body of the man he loved; the friend for whom he would gladly have given his life. almost blinded by the rush of tears, he groped his way on his knees toward it. a mantle of fine white linen had been laid over the lifeless body; but one hand lay stretched out beside him with a great bloody nail-hole through the palm,--it was the hand that had healed him; the hand that had fed the hungry multitudes; the hand that had been laid in blessing on the heads of little children, waiting by the roadside! with the thought of all it had done for him, with the thought of all it had done for all the countless ones its warm, loving touch had comforted, came the remembrance of the torture it had just suffered. joel lay down beside it with a heart-broken moan. men came and lifted the body in its spotless covering. joel did not look up to see who bore it away. the lifeless hand still hung down uncovered at his side. with his eyes fixed on that, joel followed, longing to press it to his lips with burning kisses; but he dared not so much as touch it with trembling fingers,--a sense of his unworthiness forbade. as the silent procession went onward, joel found himself walking beside abigail. she had pushed her veil aside that she might better see the still form borne before them; she had stood near by through all those hours of suffering. her wan face and swollen eyes showed how the force of her sympathy and grief had worn upon her. joel glanced around for phineas. he was one of those who walked before with the motionless burden, his strong brown hands tenderly supporting the master's pierced feet; his face was as rigid as stone, and seemed to joel to have grown years older since the night before. another swift rush of tears blinded joel, as he looked at the set, despairing face, and then at what he carried. o friend of phineas! o feet that often ran to meet him on the grassy hillsides of nazareth, that walked beside him at his daily toil, and led him to a nobler living!--thou hast climbed the mountain of beatitudes! thou hast walked the wind-swept waters of the galilee! but not of this is he thinking now. it is of thy life's unselfish pilgrimage; of the dust and travel stains of the feet he bears; of the many steps, taken never for self, always for others; of the cure and the comfort they have daily carried; of the great love that hath made their very passing by to be a benediction. it seemed strange to joel that, in the midst of such overpowering sorrow, trivial little things could claim his attention. years afterward he remembered just how the long streaks of yellow sunshine stole under the trees of the garden; he could hear the whirr of grasshoppers, jumping up in the path ahead of them; he could smell the heavy odor of lilies growing beside an old tomb. the sorrowful little group wound its way to a part of the garden where a new tomb had been hewn out of the rock; here joseph of arimathea motioned them to stop. they laid the open bier gently on the ground, and joel watched them with dry eyes but trembling lips, as they noiselessly prepared the body for its hurried burial. from time to time as they wound the bands of white linen, powdered with myrrh and aloes, they glanced up nervously at the sinking sun. the sabbath eve was almost upon them, and the old slavish fear of the law made them hasten. a low stifled moaning rose from the lips of the women, as the one they had followed so long was lifted up, and borne forever out of their sight, through the low doorway of the tomb. strong hands rolled the massive stone in place that barred the narrow opening. then all was over; there was nothing more that could be done. the desolate mourners sat down on the grass outside the tomb, to watch and weep and wait over a dead hope and a lost cause. a deep stillness settled over the garden as they lingered there in the gathering twilight. they grew calm after awhile, and began to talk in low tones of the awful events of the day just dying. gradually, joel learned all that had taken place. as he heard the story of the shame and abuse and torture that had been heaped upon the one he loved better than all the world, his face grew white with horror and indignation. "oh, wasn't there _one_ to stand up for him?" he cried, with clasped hands and streaming eyes. "wasn't there _one_ to speak a word in his defence? o my beloved!" he moaned. "out of all the thousands thou didst heal, out of all the multitudes thou didst bless, not one to bear witness!" he rocked himself to and fro on his knees, wringing his hands as if the thought brought him unspeakable anguish. "oh, if i had only been there!" he moaned. "if i could only have stood up beside him and told what he had done for me! o my god! my god! how can i bear it? to think he went to his death without a friend and without a follower, when i loved him so! all alone! not one to speak for him, not one!" groping with tear-blinded eyes towards the tomb, the boy stretched his arms lovingly around the great stone that stopped its entrance; then suddenly realizing that he could never go any closer to the one inside, never see him again, he leaned his head hopelessly against the rock, and gave way to his feeling of utter loneliness and despair. how long he stood there, he did not know. when he looked up again, the women had gone, and it was nearly dark. phineas and several other men lingered in the black shadows of the trees, and joel joined them. roman guards came presently. a stout cord was stretched across the stone, its ends firmly fastened, and sealed with the seal of cã¦sar. a watch-fire was kindled near by; then the roman sentinels began their steady tramp! tramp! as they paced back and forth. high overhead the stars began to set their countless watch-fires in the heavens; then the white full moon of the passover looked down, and all night long kept its silent vigil over the forsaken tomb of the sleeping christ. * * * * * abigail had found shelter for the night with friends, in a tent just outside the city; but joel and phineas took their way back to bethany. little was said as they trudged along in the moonlight. joel thought only of one thing,--his great loss, the love of which he had been bereft. but to phineas this death meant much more than the separation from the best of friends; it meant the death of a cause on which he had staked his all. he must go back to galilee to be the laughing-stock of his old neighbors. he who they trusted would have saved israel had been put to death as a felon,--crucified between two thieves! the cause was lost; he was left to face an utter failure. when the moon went down that morning over the hills of judea, there were many hearts that mourned the man of nazareth, but not a soul in all the universe believed on him as the son of god. hope lay dead in the tomb of joseph, with a great stone forever walling it in. chapter xviii. "wake up, joel! wake up! i bring you good tidings, my lad!" it was abigail's voice ringing cheerily through the court-yard, as she bent over the boy, fast asleep on the hard stones. all the long sabbath day after the burial, he had sat listlessly in the shady court-yard, his blank gaze fixed on the opposite wall. no one seemed able to arouse him from his apathy. he turned away from the food they brought him, and refused to enter the house when night came. towards morning he had gone over to the fountain for a long draught of its cool water; then overcome by weakness from his continued fast, and exhausted by grief, he fell asleep on the pavement. abigail came in and found him there, with the red morning sun beating full in his face. she had to shake him several times before she could make him open his eyes. he sat up dizzily, and tried to collect his thoughts. then he remembered, and laid his head wearily down again, with a groan. "wake up! wake up!" she insisted, with such eager gladness in her voice that joel opened his eyes again, now fully aroused. "what is it?" he asked indifferently. "_he is risen!_" she exclaimed joyfully, clasping her hands as she always did when much excited. "i went to his tomb very early in the morning, while it was yet dark, with mary and salome and some other women. the stone had been rolled aside; and while we wondered and wept, fearing his enemies had stolen him away, he stood before us, with his old greeting on his lips,--'all hail!'" joel rubbed his eyes and looked at her. "no, no!" he said wearily, "i am dreaming again!" he would have thrown himself on the ground as before, his head pillowed on his arm, but she would not let him. she shook his hands with a persistence that could not be refused, talking to him all the while in such a glad eager voice that he slowly began to realize that something had made her very happy. "what is it, mother abigail?" he asked, much puzzled. "i do not wonder you are bewildered," she cried. "it is such blessed, such wonderful news. why he is _alive_, joel, he whom thou lovest! try to understand it, my boy! i have just now come from the empty tomb. i saw him! i spoke with him! i knelt at his feet and worshipped!" by this time all the family had come out. reuben looked at his daughter pityingly, as she repeated her news; then he turned to phineas. "poor thing!" he said, in a low tone. "she has witnessed such terrible scenes lately, and received such a severe shock, that her mind is affected by it. she does not know what she is saying. did not you yourself help prepare the body for burial, and put it in the tomb?" "yes," answered phineas, "and helped close it with a great stone, which no one man could possibly move by himself. and i saw it sealed with the seal of cã¦sar; and when i left it was guarded by roman sentinels in armor. no man could have opened it." "but abigail talks of angels who sat in the empty tomb, and who told them he had risen," replied her father. joel, who had overheard this low-toned conversation, got up and stood close beside them. he had begun to tremble from weakness and excitement. [illustration: "'the stone is gone!'"] "father phineas," he asked, "do you remember the story we heard from the old shepherd, heber? the angels told of his birth; maybe she _did_ see them in his tomb." "how can such things be?" queried reuben, stroking his beard in perplexity. "that's just what you said when rabbi lazarus was brought back to life," piped jesse's shrill voice, quite unexpectedly, at his grandfather's elbow. he had not lost a word of the conversation. "why don't you go and see for yourself if the tomb is empty?" abigail had gone into the house with her mother, and now the summons to breakfast greeted them. she saw she could not convince them of the truth of her story, so she said no more about it; but her happy face was more eloquent than words. all day snatches of song kept rising to her lips,--old psalms of thanksgiving, and half whispered hallelujahs. at last joel and phineas were both so much affected by her continued cheerfulness, that they began to believe there must be some great cause for it. finally, in the waning afternoon, they took the road that led from bethany to the garden where they firmly believed that the master still lay buried. as they came in sight of the tomb, joel clutched phineas by the arm, and pointed, with a shaking finger, to the dark opening ahead of of them. "see!" he said, pointing into its yawning darkness. "she was right! the stone is gone!" it was some time before they could muster up courage to go nearer and look into the sepulchre. when at last they did so, neither spoke a word, but, after one startled look into each other's eyes, turned and left the garden. it was growing dark as they hurried along the highway homeward. two men came half running towards the city, in great haste to reach the gates before they should be closed for the night. they were two disciples well known to phineas. he stopped them with the question that was uppermost in his mind. "yes, he is risen," answered one of the men, breathlessly. "we have seen him. hosanna to the highest! he walked along this road with us as we went to emmaus." "ah, how our hearts burned as he talked with us by the way!" interrupted the other man. "only this hour he sat at meat with us," cried the first speaker. "he broke bread with us, and blessed it as he always used to do. we are running back to the city now to tell the other disciples." phineas would have laid a detaining hand on them, but they hurried on, and left him standing in the road, looking wistfully after them. "it must be true," said joel, "or they could not have been so nearly wild with joy." phineas sadly shook his head. "i wish i could think so," he sighed. "let us go home," urged abigail, the next day, "the master has bidden his brethren meet him in galilee. let us go. there is hope of seeing him again in our old home!" joel, now nearly convinced of the truth of her belief, was also anxious to go. but phineas lingered; his plodding mind was slower to grasp such thoughts than the sensitive woman's or the imaginative boy's. one after another he sought out peter and james and john, and the other disciples who had seen the risen master, and questioned them closely. still he tarried for another week. one morning he met thomas, whose doubts all along had strengthened his own. he ran against him in the crowded street in jerusalem. thomas seized his arm, and, turning, walked beside him a few paces. "_it is true!_" he said, in a low intense tone, with his lips close to his ear. "i saw him myself last night; i held his hands in mine! i touched the side the spear had pierced! he called me by name; and i know now beyond all doubt that the master has risen from the dead, and that he is the son of god!" after that, phineas no longer objected when it was proposed that they should go back to galilee. the story of the resurrection was too great for him to grasp entirely, still he could not put aside such a weight of evidence that came to him from friends whose word he had always implicitly trusted. the roads were still full of pilgrims returning from the passover. as phineas journeyed on with his little family, he fell in with the sons of jonah and zebedee, going back to their nets and their fishing-boats. the order of procession was constantly shifting, and one morning joel found himself walking beside john, one of the chosen twelve, who seemed to have understood his master better than any of the others. the man seemed wrapped in deep thought, and took no notice of his companion, till joel timidly touched his sleeve. "do _you_ believe it is true?" the boy asked. there was no surprise in the man's face at the abrupt question, he felt, without asking, what joel meant. a reassuring smile lighted up his face as he laid his hand kindly on joel's shoulder. "i know it, my lad; i have been with him." the quiet positiveness with which he spoke seemed to destroy joel's last doubt. "many things that he said to us come back to me very clearly; and i see now he was trying to prepare us for this." "tell me about them," begged joel, "and about those last hours he was with you. oh, if i could only have been with him, too!" john saw the tears gathering in the boy's eyes, heard the tremble in his voice, and felt a thrill of sympathy as he recognized a kindred love in the little fellow's heart. so he told joel of the last supper they had taken together, of the hymn they had sung, and of the watch they had failed to keep, when he took them with him into the garden of gethsemane. all the little incidents connected with those last solemn hours, he repeated carefully to the listening boy. from time to time joel brushed his hand across his eyes; but a deep calm fell over him as john's voice went on, slowly repeating the words the master had comforted them with. "let not your hearts be troubled: ye believe in god, believe also in me. in my father's house are many mansions.... i go to prepare a place for you. i will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where i am, there ye may be also.... if ye loved me, ye would rejoice, because i said, i go unto the father.... these things i have spoken unto you, that in me ye might have peace. in the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; i have overcome the world." joel made an exclamation as if about to speak, and then stopped. "what is it?" asked john. "how could he mean that he has overcome the world? cã¦sar still rules, and jerusalem is full of his enemies. i can't forget that they killed him, even if he has risen." john stooped to tie his sandal before he answered. "i have been fitting together different things he told us; and i begin to see how blind we were. once he called himself the good shepherd who would give his life for his sheep, and said, 'therefore doth my father love me, because i lay down my life that i might take it again. no man taketh it from me, but i lay it down of myself. i have power to lay it down, and i have power to take it again.'" they walked on in silence a few paces, then john asked abruptly, "do you remember about the children of israel being so badly bitten by serpents in the wilderness, and how moses was commanded to set up a brazen serpent in their midst?" "yes, indeed!" answered joel. "all who looked up at it were saved; but those who would not died from the poisonous bites." "one night," continued john, "a learned man by the name of nicodemus, one of the rulers, came to the master with many questions. and i remember one of the answers he gave him. 'as moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the son of man be lifted up, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' we did not understand him then at all. not till i saw him lifted up on the cruel cross, did i begin to dimly see what he meant." a light broke over joel's face as he remembered the vision he had had that day, kneeling at the foot of the cross; then he stopped still in the road, with his hands clasped in dismay. there suddenly seemed to rise before him the scenes of daily sacrifice in the temple, when the blood of innocent lambs flowed over the altar; then he thought of the great day of atonement, when the poor scape-goat was driven away to its death, laden with the sins of the people. "oh, that must be what isaiah meant!" he cried in distress. "'he was brought as a lamb to the slaughter!' oh, can it be possible that 'the lord hath laid on _him_ the iniquity of us all'? what an awful sacrifice!" the tears streamed down his face as the thought came over him with overwhelming conviction, that it was for _him_ that the man he loved so had endured all the horrible suffering of death by crucifixion. "why did such a thing have to be?" he asked, looking up appealingly at his companion. john looked out and up, as if he saw far beyond the narrow, hill-bound horizon, and quoted softly: "_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._" just as the feeling had come to him that morning by the galilee, and again as he gazed and gazed into the white face on the cross, joel seemed to feel again the love of the father, as it took him close into its infinite keeping. "'greater love hath no man than this,'" quoted john again, "'that a man lay down his life for his friends.' he is the propitiation for our sins; and not ours only, but also for the sins of the whole world." it was hard for the child to understand this at first; but this gentle disciple who walked beside him had walked long beside the master, and in the master's own way and words taught joel life's greatest lesson. chapter xix. they went back to their simple lives again,--those hardy fishermen, the busy carpenter, and the boy. phineas was silent and grave. for him, hope still lay dead in that garden tomb near golgotha; but joel sang as he worked. the appointed time was nearing when the master was to meet them on the mountain. as often as he could, joel stole away from the moody man at the work-bench, and went down to the beach for more cheerful companionship. one morning, seeing a fishing-boat that he recognized pulling in quickly to shore, he ran down to see what luck his friends had had during the night. he held up his hands in astonishment at the great haul of fish the boat held. "we have been with the master," explained one of the men. "we toiled all night, and took nothing till we met him." joel listened eagerly while they told him of that meeting in the early dawn, and of the meal they ate together, while the sun came up over the galilee, and the blue waves whispered their gladness to the beach, as they heard the master's voice once more. "oh, to think that he is in galilee again!" exclaimed joel. that thought added purpose and meaning to each new day. every morning he woke with the feeling, "maybe i shall see him before the sun goes down." every night he went to sleep saying, "he is somewhere near! no telling how soon i may be with him!" when the day came on which they were to go to the mountain, joel was up very early in the morning. he bathed and dressed himself with the care of a priest about to enter the inner courts on some holy errand. when he started to the mountain, abigail noticed that he wore his finest headdress of white linen. his tunic was spotless, and, from the corners of his brown and white striped mantle, the blue fringes that the law prescribed hung smooth as silk. he did not wait for phineas or any of his friends. long before the time, he had climbed the rocky path, and was sitting all alone in the deep shadowed stillness. the snapping of a twig startled him; the falling of a leaf made him look up hopefully. any minute the master might come. his heart beat so loud it seemed to him that the wood-birds overhead must surely hear it, and be frightened away. imagine that scene, you who can,--you who have just seen the earth close over your best-beloved; who have awakened in the lonely night, with that sudden sickening remembrance of loss; who have longed, with a longing like a constant ache, for the voice and the smile and the footstep that have slipped hopelessly beyond recall. think of what it would mean, if you knew now, beyond doubt, that all that you had loved and lost would be given back to you before the passing of another hour! so joel waited, restless, burning, all in a quiver of expectancy. steps began to wind around the base of the mountain. one familiar face after another came in sight, then strange ones, until, by and by, five hundred people had gathered there, and were sitting in reverent, unbroken silence. the soft summer wind barely stirred the leaves; even the twitter of nestlings overhead was hushed. after awhile, thrilled by some unseen influence, as a field of grain is swayed by the passing wind, they bowed their heads. the master stood before them, his hands outspread in blessing. joel started forward with a wild desire to throw himself at his feet, and put his arms around them; but a majesty he had never seen before in that gentle face restrained him. he listened to the voice as it rose and fell with all its old winning tenderness. as you would listen could the dead lips you love move again; as you would greedily snatch up every word, and hide it in your heart of hearts, so joel listened. "i go to prepare a place for you. i will come again and receive you unto myself, that where i am there ye may be also.... peace i leave with you.... not as the world giveth, give i unto you. let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid." as the beloved voice went on, promising the comforter that should come when he was gone, all the dread and pain of the coming separation seemed to be lost. boy though he was, joel looked down the years of his life feeling it was only a fleeting shadow, compared with the eternal companionship just promised him. he would make no moan; he would utter no complaint: but he would take up his life's little day, and bear it after the master,--a cup of loving service,--into that upper kingdom where there was a place prepared for him. it was all over so soon. they were left alone on the mountain-side again, with only the sunshine flickering through the leaves, and the wood-birds just beginning to trill to each other once more. but the warm air seemed to still throb with the last words he had spoken: "lo, i am with you alway, even unto the end of the world." phineas came down the mountain with his face all ashine; at last his eyes had been opened. "he and the father are one!" he exclaimed to the man walking beside him. "that voice is the same that spake from the midst of the burning bush, and from the summit of sinai. all these years i have followed the master, i believed him to be a perfect man and a great prophet; i believed him to be 'the rod out of the stem of jesse' who through jehovah's hand was to redeem israel, even as the rod in aaron's hand smote the floods and made a pathway for our people. "when i saw him put to death as a felon, all hope died within me; even to-day i came out here unbelieving. i could not think that i should see him. how blind we have been all these years! god with us in the flesh, and we did not know him!" joel walked on behind the two, sharing their feeling of exaltation. as they came down into the valley and entered capernaum, the work-a-day sights and noises seemed to jar on their senses, in this uplifted mood. a man standing in an open doorway accosted phineas, and asked when he could commence work on the house he had talked to him about building. phineas hesitated, and looked down at the ground, as if studying some difficult problem. in a few minutes he raised his eyes with a look of decision. "i cannot build it for you at all," he answered. "not build it!" echoed the man. "i thought you were anxious for the job." "so i was," answered the carpenter; "but when i asked for it, i had no belief that the master could rise from the dead. just now, on the mountain yonder, i have been with him. his command is still ringing in my ears: 'go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature!' "henceforth i give my life to him, even as he gave his to me. my days are now half spent, but every remaining one shall be used to proclaim, as far and wide as possible, that the risen christ is the son of god!" the man was startled as he looked at phineas; such a fire of love and purpose seemed to illuminate his earnest face that it was completely transformed. "even now," exclaimed phineas, "will i commence my mission. you are the first one i have met, and i must tell to you this glad new gospel. he died for you! 'god so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life!' o my friend, if you could only believe that as i believe it!" the man shrank back into the doorway, strangely moved by the passionate force of his earnestness. "i must go up to jerusalem," continued phineas, "and wait till power is given us from on high; then i can more clearly see my way. i do not know whether i shall be directed to go into other lands, or to come back here to carry the news to my old neighbors. but it matters not which path is pointed out, the mission has been already given,--to tell the message to every creature my voice can reach." "and you?" asked the man, pointing to the companion of phineas. "i, too, received the command," was the answer, "and i, too, am ready to go to the world's end, if need be!" "surely there must be truth in what you say," muttered the man. then his glance fell on joel. "you, too?" he questioned. "nay, he is but a lad," answered phineas, before joel could find words to answer him. "come! we must hasten home." joel talked little during the next few days, and stole away often to think by himself, in the quiet little upper chamber on the roof. phineas was making his preparations to go back to jerusalem; and he urged the boy to go back with him, and accept simon's offer. abigail, too, added her persuasions to his; and even old rabbi amos came down one day, and sat for an hour under the fig-trees, painting in glowing colors the life that might be his for the choosing. it was a very alluring prospect; it had been the dream of his life to travel in far countries. he pictured himself surrounded by wealth and culture; he would be able to do so much for his old friends. he could give back to jesse and ruth a hundred fold, what had been bestowed on him; and the poor--how much he could help them, when he received a son's portion from the wealthy simon! o the hearts he could make glad, all up and down the land! the old day-dreams he used to delight in danced temptingly before him. as he stood idly beside the work-bench one afternoon, thinking of such a future, a soft step behind him made him turn. the hammer fell from his hand to the grass, as he saw the woman who came timidly to meet him. "why, aunt leah!" he cried. "what brought _you_ here?" he had not seen her since the night his uncle laban had driven him from home. she drew aside her veil, and looked at him. "i heard you had been healed," she said, "and i have always wanted to come and see you, and tell you how glad i am; but my husband forbade it. child!" she cried abruptly, "how much you look like your father! the likeness is startling!" the discovery seemed to make her forget what she had come to say, and she stood and stared at him; then she remembered. "rabbi amos told me of the offer you have had from a rich merchant in bethany, and i came down here, secretly, to beg you to accept it. in your father's name i beg you!" joel looked perplexed. "i hardly know what to do," he said. "every one advises me just as you do; but i feel that they are all wrong. surely the master meant me as well as father phineas and the others, when he charged us to go and preach the gospel to every creature." a sudden interest came into the woman's face; she took a step forward. "joel, did _you_ see him after he was risen?" "yes," he answered. "oh, i believe then that he is the christ!" she cried. "i have thought all the time that it might be so, and the children are so sure of it." "and uncle laban?" questioned joel. she shook her head sadly. "he grows more bitterly opposed every day." "aunt leah," he asked, coming back to the first question, "don't you think he must have meant me as well as those men?" "oh, hardly," she said, hesitatingly, "you are so young, and there are so many others to do it; it would surely be better for you to go to bethany." after she had gone home, he put away his tools, and, like one in a dream, started slowly towards the mountain. the same summer stillness reigned on its shady slopes as when the five hundred had gathered there. he climbed up near the summit, and sat down on a high stone. to the eastward the galilee glittered like a sapphire in the sun; capernaum seemed like a great ant-hill in commotion. no wonder he could not think among all those conflicting voices; he was glad he had come up where it was so still. phineas was going away in the morning. if joel went also, maybe he would never look down on that scene again. then almost as if some living voice broke the stillness, he heard the words: "go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature!" it was the echo of the words that had fallen from the master's lips. nothing once uttered by that voice can ever die; it lives on and on in the ever-widening circles of the centuries, as a ripple, once started, rings shoreward through the seas. in that instant all the things he had been considering seemed so small and worthless. he had been planning to give simon's gold and silver to the poor; but the master had given them his life, himself! could he do less? "inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these, ye have done it unto me," something seemed to say to him. yes; he could do it for the master's sake, for the one who had healed him, for the one who had died for him. then and there, high up in the mountain's solitudes, he found the path he was to follow; and then he wondered how he could have thought for an instant of making any other choice. it was the path the master's own feet had trod, and the boy who had followed, knew well what a weary way it led. for his great love's sake, he gave up the old ambitions, the self-centred hopes, saying, in a low tone, as if he felt the beloved presence very near, "oh, i want to serve thee truly! if i am too young now to go out into all the world, let me be thy little cup-bearer here at home, to carry the story of thy life and love to those around me!" the west was all alight with the glory of the sunset; somewhere beyond its burnished portals lay the city of the king. joel turned from its dazzling depths to look downward into the valley. he had chosen persecution and sacrifice and suffering, he knew, but the light on his face was more than the halo of the summer sunset. as he went down the mountain to his life of lowly service, a deep peace fell warm across his heart; for the promise went with him, a staff to bear him up through all his after life's long pilgrimage: "lo, i am with you alway, even unto the end of the world!" the end selections from the page company's books for young people the blue bonnet series _each large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, per volume_ $1.50 a texas blue bonnet by caroline e. jacobs. "the book's heroine, blue bonnet, has the very finest kind of wholesome, honest, lively girlishness."--_chicago inter-ocean._ blue bonnet's ranch party by caroline e. jacobs and edyth ellerbeck read. "a healthy, natural atmosphere breathes from every chapter."--_boston transcript._ blue bonnet in boston; or, boarding-school days at miss north's. by caroline e. jacobs and lela horn richards. "it is bound to become popular because of its wholesomeness and its many human touches."--_boston globe._ blue bonnet keeps house; or, the new home in the east. by caroline e. jacobs and lela horn richards. "it cannot fail to prove fascinating to girls in their teens."--_new york sun._ blue bonnet--dã�butante by lela horn richards. an interesting picture of the unfolding of life for blue bonnet. the young pioneer series by harrison adams _each 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, per volume_ $1.25 the pioneer boys of the ohio; or, clearing the wilderness. 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"a mighty attractive volume in which the owner may record the good times she has on decorated pages, and under the directions as it were of annie fellows johnston."--_buffalo express._ * * * * * transcriber's notes: obvious punctuation errors repaired. varied hyphenation as in "head-dress" and "headdress" was retained. page 11, word "an" removed from text. original read (never be an any better) page 32, "a good" changed to "good a" (too good a man to) page 68, "persistance" changed to "persistence" (persistence with which the) page 68, "coin" changed to "coins" (small bag of coins) page 90, "acknowleged" changed to "acknowledged" (he acknowledged proudly) page 101, "that" changed to "that" (unto you that) page 114, "was" changed to "was" (was joel's constant) page 116, "kness" changed to "knees" (his knees in readiness) distributed proofreaders transcriber's note: the original text contained typographical errors and spelling inconsistencies. where possible these have been corrected; many could not be resolved and remain as they appeared in the source text. four girls at chautauqua by pansy author of "chautauqua girls at home," "ruth erskine's crosses," "judge burnham's daughters," "the hall in the grove," "eighty-seven," etc. 1876 contents. chapter i. introduced. chapter ii. the question discussed. chapter iii. entering the current. chapter iv. fairpoint. chapter v. unrest. chapter vi. feasts. chapter vii. table talk. chapter viii. "at evening time it shall be bright." chapter ix. fleeing. chapter x. how the "flitting" ended. chapter xi. heart touches. chapter xii. flossy at school. chapter xiii. "cross purposes." chapter xiv. the new lesson. chapter xv. great men. chapter xvi. war of words. chapter xvii. getting ready to live. chapter xviii. the silent witness. chapter xix. an old story. chapter xx. people who, "having eyes, see not." chapter xxi. a "sense of duty." chapter xxii. one minute's work. chapter xxiii. "i've been redeemed." chapter xxiv. sword thrusts. chapter xxv. sermons in chalk. chapter xxvi. "their works do follow them." chapter xxvii. unfinished music. chapter xxviii. mental problems. chapter xxix. waiting. chapter xxx. settled questions. chapter xxxi. the beginning of the end. chapter xxxii. the end of the beginning. chapter i. introduced. eurie mitchell shut the door with a bang and ran up the stairs two steps at a time. she nearly always banged doors, and was always in a hurry. she tapped firmly at the door just at the head of the stairs; then she pushed it open and entered. "are you going?" she said, and her face was all in a glow of excitement and pleasure. the young lady to whom she spoke measured the velvet to see if it was long enough for the hat she was binding, raised her eyes for just an instant to the eager face before her, and said "good-morning." "ruth erskine! what are you trimming your hat for? didn't it suit? say, are you going? why in the world don't you tell me? i have been half wild all the morning." ruth erskine smiled. "which question shall i answer first? what a perfect interrogation point you are, eurie. my hats never suit, you know; this one was worse than usual. this velvet is a pretty shade, isn't it? am i going to chautauqua, do you mean? i am sure i don't know. i haven't thought much about it. do you really suppose it will be worth while?" eurie stamped her foot impatiently. "how provoking you are! haven't thought of it, and here i have been talking and coaxing all the morning. father thinks it is a wild scheme, of course, and sees no sense in spending so much money; but i'm going for all that. i don't have a frolic once in an age, and i have set my heart on this. just think of living in the woods for two whole weeks! camping out, and doing all sorts of wild things. i'm just delighted." miss erskine sewed thoughtfully for some seconds, then she said: "why, there is nothing in the world to hinder my going if i want to. as to the money, i suppose one could hardly spend as much there as at long branch or saratoga, and of course i should go somewhere. but the point is, what do i want to go for?" "why, just to be together, and be in the woods, and live in a tent, and do nothing civilized for a fortnight. it is the nicest idea that ever was." "and should we go to the meetings?" miss erskine asked, still speaking thoughtfully, and as if she were undecided. "why, yes, of course, now and then. though for that matter i suppose father is right enough when he says that precious few people go for the sake of the meetings. he says it is a grand jollification, with a bit of religion for the background. but for that matter the less religion they have the better, and so i told him." at this point there was a faint little knock at the door, and eurie sprang to open it, saying as she went: "that is flossy, i know; she always gives just such little pussy knocks as that." the little lady who entered fitted her name perfectly. she was small and fair, blue-eyed, flossy yellow curls lying on her shoulders, her voice was small and sweet, almost too sweet or too soft, that sort of voice that could change when slight occasion offered into a whine or positive tearfulness. she was greeted with great glee by eurie, and in her more quiet way by miss erskine. "_i'm_ going," she said, with a soft little laugh, and she sank down among the cushions of the sofa, while her white morning dress floated around her like a cloud. "charlie thinks it is silly, and kit thinks it is sillier, and mamma thinks it is the very silliest thing i ever did yet; but for all that i am going--that is, if the rest of you are." which, by the way, was always this little flossy's manner of speech. she was going to do or not to do, speak or keep silent, approve or condemn, exactly as the mind which was for the time being nearest to her chose to sway her. "good!" said eurie, softly clapping her hands. "i didn't think it of you, flossy; i thought you were too much of a mouse. now, ruth, you will go, won't you? as for marion, there is no knowing whether she will go or not. i don't see now she can afford it myself any more than i can; but, of course, that is her own concern. we can go anyway, whether she does or not--only i don't want to, i want her along. suppose we all go down and see her; it is saturday, she will be at home, and then we can begin to make our preparations. it is really quite time we were sure of what we are going to do." by dint of much coaxing and argument ruth was prevailed upon to leave her fascinating brown hat with its brown velvet trimmings, and in the course of the next half hour the trio were on their way down park street, intent on a call on miss marion wilbur. park street was a simple, quiet, unpretending street, narrow and short; the houses were two-storied and severely plain. in one of the plainest of these, wearing an unmistakable boarding-house look, in a back room on the second floor, the object of their search, in a dark calico dress, with her sleeves rolled above her elbows, had her hands immersed in a wash-bowl of suds, and was doing up linen collars. she was one of those miserable creatures in this weary world, a teacher in a graded school, and her one day of rest was filled with all sorts of washing, ironing and mending work, until she had fairly come to groan over the prospect of saturday because of the burden of work which it brought. she welcomed her callers without taking her hands from the suds; she was as quiet in her way as ruth erskine was in hers. this time it was flossy who asked the important question: "are you going?" marion answered as promptly as though the question had been decided for a week. "yes, certainly i am going. i thought i told you that when we talked it over before. i am washing out my collars to have them ready. ruth, are you going to take a trunk?" ruth roused herself from the contemplation of her brown gloves to say with a little start: "how you girls do rush things. why, i haven't decided yet that i am going." "oh, you'll go," marion wilbur said. "the question is, are we to take trunks--or, rather, are you to? because i know _i_ shall not. i'm going to wear my black suit. put it on on tuesday morning, or monday is it that we start? and wear it until we return. i may take it off, to be sure, while i sleep, but even that is uncertain, as we may not get a place to sleep in; but for once in my life i am not going to be bored with baggage." "i shall take mine," ruth erskine said with determination. "i don't intend to be bored by being without baggage. it is horrid, i think, to go away with only one dress, and feel obliged to wear it whether it is suited to the weather or not, or whatever happens to it. eurie, what are you laughing at?" "i am interested in the phenomena of marion wilbur being the first to introduce the dress question. i venture to say not one of us has thought of that phase of the matter up to this present moment." while the talk went on the collars and cuffs were carefully washed and rinsed, and presently marion, with her hands only a trifle pinker for the operation, was ready to lean against a chair and discuss ways and means. her long apprenticeship in school-rooms had given her the habit of standing instead of sitting, even when there was no occasion for the former. if these four young ladies had been creatures of the brain, gotten up expressly for the purpose of illustrating extremes of character, instead of being flesh and blood creations, i doubt whether they could have better illustrated the different types of young ladyhood. there was ruth erskine, dwelling in solitary grandeur in her royal home, as american royalty goes, the sole daughter, the sole child indeed of the house, a girl who had no idea of life except as a place in which to have a serenely good time, and teach everybody to do as she desired them to. money was a commonplace matter-of-course article, neither to be particularly prized nor despised; it was convenient, of course, and must be an annoyance when one had to do without it; but of that, by practical experience, she knew nothing. yet ruth was by no means a "pink-and-white" girl without character; on the contrary, she had plenty of character, but hitherto it had been frittered away on nothings, until it looked as much like nothing as it could. she was the sort of person whom education and circumstances of the right sort would have developed into splendor, but the development had not taken place. now you are not to suppose that she was uneducated; that would be a libel on madame la fonte and her fashionable seminary. she had graduated with honor; taken the first prizes in everything. she knew all about seminaries; so do i; and if you do, you are ready to admit that the development had not come. there is constantly occurring something to take back. while i write i have in mind an institution where the earnest desire sought after and prayed for is the higher development, not alone of the intellect, but of the heart: where the wonderful woman who is at its head said to me a few years ago: "if a lady has spent three years under my care, and graduated, and gone out from me not a christian, i feel like going down on my knees in bitterness of soul, and crying, 'lord, i have failed in the trust thou didst give me." but the very fact that the word "wonderful" fits that woman's name is proof enough that such institutions as hers are rare, and it was not at that seminary that ruth erskine graduated. she was spending her life in elegant pursuits that meant nothing, those of them which did not mean worse than nothing, and the only difference between her and a hundred others around her was that she knew perfectly well that they all amounted to nothing, and didn't hesitate to say so, therefore she earned the title of "queer." at the same time she did not hesitate to lead the whirl around this continuous nothing, therefore she occupied that perilous position of being liked and admired and envied, all in one. very few people loved her, and queerly enough she knew that too, and instead of resenting it realized that she could not see why they should. she was, moreover, remarkably careful as to her leading after all, and those who followed were sure of being led in an eminently respectable and fashionable way. her most intimate friend was eurie mitchell, which was not strange when one considered what remarkable opposites in character they were. eureka j. mitchell was the respectable sounding name that the young lady bore, but the full name would have sounded utterly strange to her ears, the wild little word "eurie" seeming to have been made on purpose for her. she was the eldest daughter of a large, good-natured, hard-working, much-bewildered family. they never knew just where they belonged. they went to the first church, which for itself should have settled their position, since it was the opinion of most of its members that it was organized especially that the "first families" might have a church-home. but they occupied a very front seat, by reason of their inability to pay for a middle one, which was bad for "position," as first church gentility went. what was surprising to them was how they ever happened to have the money to pay for that seat; but, let me record it to their honor, they always happened to have it. they were honest. they ought to have been called "the happen family," by reason of their inability to tell how much or how little they might happen to have to live on, whether they could afford three new dresses apiece or none at all. the fact being that it depended on the amount of sickness there was in dr. mitchell's beat whether there were to be luxuries or simple bare necessities, with some wonderment as to how even those were to be paid. eurie was the most light-hearted and indifferent of this free-and-easy family, who always had roast turkey when it was to be had, and who could laugh and chat merrily over warmed-up meat and johnny-cake, or even no meat at all, when such days came. how she ever came to think that she could go to chautauqua was a matter of surprise to herself; but it happened to have been a sickly summer among the wealthy people, and large bills had come in--the next thing was to spend them. chautauqua was a silly place to do it in, to be sure; that was dr. mitchell's idea, and the family laughed together over eurie's last wild notion; but for all that they good-naturedly prepared to let her carry it out. just how full of fun and mischief and actual wildness eurie was, a two-weeks sojourn at chautauqua will be likely to develop; for before that conversation at marion's was concluded they decided that they were really going. why marion went, puzzled the girls very much, puzzled herself somewhat. she was her own mistress, had neither father to direct nor sister to consult. she had an uncle and aunt who lived where she called "home," and with whom she spent her vacations, but they were the poorest of hard-working country people, who stood in awe of marion and her education, and by no means ventured to interfere with her plans. marion was as independent in her way as ruth was in hers, but they were very different ways. ruth, for instance, indulged her independence in the matter of dress, by spending a small fortune in looking elegantly unlike everybody else, and straightway created a frantic desire in her set to look as nearly like her as possible. but no one cared to look like marion, in her severely plain black or brown suits, with almost and sometimes quite no trimmings at all on them. it was agreed that she looked remarkably well, but so unlike any one else they didn't see how she could bring herself to dressing so. she laughed when this was hinted to her, and got what comfort she could out of the fact that she was considered "odd." in a certain way she ruled them all, ruth erskine included, though that young lady never suspected it. the queerest one of this company was little flossy shipley--queer to be found in just such company, i mean. she was the petted darling of a wealthy home, a younger daughter, a baby in their eyes, to be loved and cherished, and allowed to have her own sweet and precious way even when it included such a strange proceeding as a two weeks in the woods, all because that strange girl in the ward school that flossy had taken such an unaccountable fancy for was going. this family were first church people, too, and capable of buying a seat very near the centre, in fact but a few removes from the erskine pew, which was, of course, the wealthy one of the church. the shipley pew was rarely honored by all the members of the family, and indeed the pastor had no special cause for alarm if several sundays went by without an appearance from one of them. a variety of trifles might happen to cause such a state of things, from which you will infer that they were not a church-going family. another strange representative for chautauqua! now how did those four girls come to be friends? oh, dreadful! you don't expect me to be able to account for human friendships i hope, especially for school-girl friendships? there is no known rule that will apply to such idiosyncracies. they had been in school together, even marion wilbur, with the indomitable energy which characterized her, had managed one term of madame la fonte's enormous bills, and with the close of the term found herself strangely enough drawn into this strange medley of character that moved in such different circles, and yet called themselves friends. you are to understand that though the same church received these girls on sunday, yet the actual circle in which their lives whirled was as unlike as possible. the erskines were the cream, cultured, traveled, wealthy, aristocratic as to blood and as to manners, literary in the sense that they bought rare books, and knew why they were rare. the mitchells had a calling acquaintance with their family because dr. mitchell was their chosen physician, but that came to pass through an accident, and not many of the doctor's patrons were of just the same stamp. this family never went to the erskine entertainments, never were invited to go to the other entertainments starting from the same circle, yet they had their friends and many of them. the shipleys were free-and-easy, cordial, social, friendly people, who bought many books and pictures, and were prominent in fairs and festivals, and were popular everywhere, but were not, after all, of the erskine stamp. finally came marion, alone, no position any where, save as she ruled in the most difficult room in the most difficult ward in the city. a worker, known to be such; a manager, recognized as one who could make incongruous elements meet and marshal into working order. in that capacity she found her place even in the first church, for they had fairs and festivals, and oyster suppers, and other trials even in the first church; and there was much work to be done, and marion wilbur could work. and these four girls were going to chautauqua--were to start on monday morning, august 2, 1875. chapter ii. the question discussed. rev. dr. dennis and rev. mr. harrison met just at the corner of howard and clinton streets, and stopped for a chat. dr. dennis was pastor of the first church, and mr. harrison was pastor of the fourth, and some of the sheep belonging to these respective flocks supposed the two churches to be rivals, but the pastors thereof never thought of such a thing. on the contrary, they were always getting up excuses for coming in contact with each other; and woe to the work that was waiting for each when they chanced to meet of a morning on some shady corner. "you are to be represented, i hear, at the coming assembly," said mr. harrison, as they shook hands in that hearty way which says, as plainly as words, "how _very_ glad i am to see you!" dr. dennis shrugged his shoulders. "such a representation!" he said. "if the entire congregation had been canvassed, it would have been impossible to have made more curious selections. i do wish we could have some real workers from the different churches." "miss erskine isn't a member of the church, is she?" "none of them are members, nor christians; nor have they an atom of interest in any such matters. they are going for pure fun, and nothing else." "now perhaps they will happily disappoint you by coming back with a wholesome interest aroused in sunday-school work, and will really go into the work for themselves." "i don't want them," dr. dennis said, stoutly. "i wouldn't give a dime for a hundred such workers; they are an injury to the cause. i want sunday-school workers who have a personal, vital sense of the worth of souls, and a consuming desire to see them converted. all other sunday-school teaching is aimless." mr. harrison looked thoughtful. "we haven't many such, i am afraid," he said, gravely; but i agree with you in thinking that they should at least be christians. still, i suppose that it is not impossible that some one of these ladies may be converted." "not at chautauqua," dr. dennis said, as one who had looked into the matter and knew all about it. "i am not entirely in sympathy with that meeting, anyway; or, that is, i am and i am not, all at once. i think it would be a grand place for you and me. i haven't the least doubt but that we would be refreshed, bodily and mentally, and, for that matter, spiritually. if the whole world were converted i should vote for chautauqua with a loud voice; but i am more than fearful as to the influence of such meetings on the masses--the unconverted world. _they_ will go there for recreation. their whole aim will be to have a glorious frolic away from the restraints of ordinary home-life. they will have no interest in the meetings, no sympathy with the central thought that has drawn the workers together, and the tendency will be to frolic through it all. "the truth is, there will be such a mixing of things that i actually fear the effect will be wholesale demoralization. at the same time i am interested in the idea, and am watching it with anxiety. since i have heard of the delegation from my own church i have been more convinced still of the evil influences. it makes me gloomy to think of the fruitful field such a place will be for the fertile brain of that little eurie mitchell. she is too wild now for civilized life the four walls of the church and the sacred associations connected with the building serve to keep her only half controlled when she is actually attending sabbath service. there will be nothing to control her in the woods, and she will lose what little reverence she possesses. i tell you, the more i think of it, the more certain i am that for such people these great religious jubilees, holding over the sabbath, do harm." "you put it more gently than our friend mr. archer," mr. harrison said, smiling. "he is in a condition of absolute scorn. he gives none of them credit for honesty or genuine interest. he says it is a running away from work, a regular shirking of what they ought to be doing, and going off into the woods to have a good time, and, by way of gulling the public, they pretend to season it with religion." dr. dennis laughed. "that sounds precisely like him, and is quite as logical as one could expect, coming from that source," he said, indifferently. "why doesn't it occur to his dull brain, that thinks itself such a sharp one, that the leaders thereof are men responsible to no one save god and their own consciences for the way in which they spend their time? there is nothing earthly to hinder their going to the woods, and staying three months if they please to do so." "oh, but i have left out one of the important reasons for the meeting. it is to make money; a grand speculation, whereby the fortunes of these same leaders are to be made at the expense of the poor victims whom they gather about them." again dr. dennis' shoulders went upward in that peculiar but expressive shrug. "of all the precarious and dangerous ways of making a fortune, i should think that went ahead," he said, still laughing. "what an idea now! shouldn't you suppose people with common sense would have some faint idea of the immense expenses to be involved in such an undertaking, and the tremendous risks to be run? if they succeed in meeting their expenses this year i think they will have cause for rejoicing." "the point that puzzles me," mr. harrison said, "is what particular commandment would they be breaking if they should actually happen to have twenty-five cents to put in their pockets when the meeting closed; though, as you say, i doubt the probability. but they force no one to come; it is a matter for individual decision, and they render a fair equivalent for every cent of money spent; at least, if the spender thinks it is not a fair equivalent he is foolish to go; so why should they not make enough to justify them in giving their time to this work?" "of course, of course," assented dr. dennis, heartily; "they ought to; none but an idiot would think otherwise." it is to be presumed that both these gentlemen had gotten so far away from the name that was quoted as holding these views as to forget all about him, else they certainly would not have been guilty of calling a brother minister an idiot, however much his arguments might suggest the thought. "but," continued dr. dennis, "my trouble lies, as i said, in the results. i have no sort of doubt that great good will be done, and i have the same feeling of certainty that harm will be done. take it in my own church. we are so situated, or we think ourselves so situated, that not a single one of the earnest, hearty workers who would come back to us with a blessing for themselves and us, is able to go; instead, we have four representatives who will turn the whole thing into ridicule, and dish it up for the entertainment of their friends during the coming winter. "that miss erskine seems to have a special talent for getting up thursday evening entertainments, to invite our people who are supposed to be interested in the prayer-meeting, but who rarely fail to make it convenient to go to the party. i imagine a bevy of them being entertained by eurie mitchell. she can do it, and she is looking forward to just that sort of thing, for i heard her rejoicing over it. that girl will be injured by chautauqua; i know it as well as though i already saw it; and the question with me is, whether the amount of evil done will not overbalance the good. at the same time i am inconsistent enough to wish with all my heart that i could be there." "what about miss shipley? perhaps relief will come to you from that quarter." those shoulders again. "she is nothing in the world but a little pink feather, and she blows precisely in the direction of the strongest current; and satan looks out for her with untiring patience that the wind shall blow in the exact direction where it can do her the most harm. going to chautauqua with the influences that will surround her, with miss erskine and miss wilbur on the one side, and eurie mitchell on the other, will be the very best thing that satan can do next for her, and he doubtless knows it." "i do not know miss wilbur at all. is she also one of your flock?" dr. dennis' face was dark and sad. "she is an infidel," he said, decidedly. "she does not call herself such; she wouldn't like to be known as such, because it would be likely to affect her position in the school. but the name is rightly hers, and she would do less harm in the world if she owned it." "it is an extraordinary representation, i declare," mr. harrison said, a little startled. "i have been half inclined to be envious of you because you were to hear so directly from the meeting, but i believe on the whole i shall be quite as well off without any delegates as you will with them." "better, decidedly. i am distressed at the whole thing. it will result disastrously for them all, you mark my words." and having settled the affairs at chautauqua, apparently beyond all repeal, the brethren shook hands again and went to their studies. meantime the express train was giving occasional premonitory snorts, and the four young ladies who had been so thoroughly discussed were in various stages of unrest, waiting for the moment of departure. a looker-on would have been able to come to marked conclusions concerning the different characters of these young ladies, simply from their manner of dress. flossy shipley was the one to look at first. that was a very good description of her usual style--something to look at. she had chosen for her traveling dress a pale, lavender cashmere, of that delightful shade that resents a drop of water as promptly as a drop of oil. it was trimmed with a contrasting shade of silk, and trimmed profusely; yards of gathered trimming, headed by yards of flat pleating, and that in turn headed by yards of folds. the dainty sack and hat, and the four-buttoned gloves, were as faultless as to fit and as delicate in color as the dress. in short, miss flossy looked as though she might be ready for an evening concert. moreover, she felt as if she were, or at least she had an uncomfortable consciousness as to clothes. she kept a nervous lookout for the lower flounce whenever the crowd of people surged her way, and brushed vigorously at the arm of the seat she had chosen ere she dared to rest _her_ arm on it. evidently she had given herself over to the martyrdom of thinking of and caring for clothes during this journey, and i don't know whether there is a greater martyrdom made out of a trifle than that. it was one of flossy's besetting sins, this arraying herself in glory, and making wrinkles in her face in the vain attempt to keep so. not that she was particularly anxious to save the wear and tear, only she hated to look spotted and wrinkled, and she could never seem to learn the simple lesson of wearing the things best suited to the occasion. standing near her, toying carelessly with her traveling fan, and looking as though the thought of dress was something that had passed utterly by her, was miss erskine. she looked like one of those ladies whom gentlemen in their wisdom are always selecting, pointing them out as models. "so tasteful and appropriate, and withal so simple in their dress." let me tell you about her dress. it was plain dark brown, precisely the shade of brown that the fashion of the season required. it was of soft, lusterless silk. it was very simply made, almost severely plain, as miss erskine knew became a traveler. in fact, elegant simplicity marked her entire toilet, everything matched, everything was fresh and spotless, and arranged with an eye to remaining so. i am willing to concede that she was faultlessly dressed, and it was a real pleasure to see her thus. but i am also anxious to have the gentlemen understand that that same simple attire represented more money than two wardrobes like flossy shipley's. it is often so with those delightfully plain and simple dresses that attract so many people. in fact, it might as well be admitted, since we are on that subject, that elegant simplicity is sometimes a very expensive article. eurie mitchell was neither particularly elegant nor noted for simplicity, yet her dress was not without character. we see enough of that sort to become familiar with what it means. its language is simply a straightened purse, necessitating the putting together of shades that do not quite harmonize, and trimming in a way that will cover the most spots and take the least material. that was eurie's dress. skirt of one kind and overdress of another. a very economical fashion, and one not destined to last long, because of its economy, and the fact that very elegant ladies rather curl their lips at it, and call it the "patchwork style." eurie from necessity rather than choice adopted it, and it was also her misfortune rather than her taste that the colors were too light to be really according to the mode. her gloves were of an entirely different shade from the rest of the attire, and were mended with a shade of silk that did not quite match altogether, eurie's dress did not suit miss erskine. but, for that matter, neither did it suit herself, with this difference, that it was, after all, a matter of minor importance to her. miss wilbur's dress can be disposed of in a single sentence: it was a black alpaca skirt, not too long, and severely plain, covered to within three inches with a plain brown linen polonaise; her black hat with a band of velvet about it, fastened by a single heavy knot, and her somewhat worn black gloves completed her toilet, and she looked every inch a lady. the very people who would have curled their aristocratic lips at eurie's attempt at style, turned and gave miss wilbur a second thoughtful respectful look. there was a mr. wayne who deserves attention. he possessed himself of miss erskine's fan, and played with it carelessly, while he said: "you are a queer set. what are you all going off there for, to bury yourselves in the woods? i don't believe one of you has an idea what you are about. and it is the very height of the season, too." "that is the trouble," miss erskine said, with a little toss of her handsome head. "we are sick of the season, and want to get away from it. i want something new. that is precisely what i am going for." "i have no doubt you will find it," and the gentleman gave a disdainful shrug to his shoulders. "out in the backwoods attending a hallelujah meeting! i am sure i envy you." "you don't know what we will find," eurie mitchell said, with a defiant air. "nor what may happen to us before we return. we may meet our destinies. i have no doubt they are lurking for us behind some of the trees. just you meet the evening train of wednesday, two weeks hence, and see if you can not discover the finger of fate having been busy with us. wonderful things can happen in two weeks." just then the train gave its last warning howl, and mr. wayne made rapid good-bys, a trifle more lingering in the case of miss erskine than the others, and with that prophetic sentence still ringing in his ears he departed. and the four girls were actually _en route_ for chautauqua. chapter iii. entering the current. it is a queer thought, not to say a startling one, what very trifles about us are constantly giving object lessons on our characters. those four girls, as they arranged themselves in the cars for their all-day journey conveyed four different impressions to the critical looker-on. in the first place they each selected and took possession of an entire seat, though the cars were filling rapidly, and many an anxious woman and heavily laden man looked reproachfully at them. they took these whole seats from entirely different stand-points--miss erskine because she was a finished and selfish traveler; and although she did not belong to that absolutely unendurable class, who occupy room that is not theirs until a conductor interferes, she yet regularly appropriated and kept the extra seat engaged with her flounces until she was asked outright to vacate it by one more determined than the rest. she hated company and avoided it when possible. flossy shipley was willing, nay, ready, to give up her extra seat the moment a person of the right sort appeared; not simply a cleanly, respectable individual--they might pass by the dozens--but one who attracted her, who was elegantly dressed and stylish looking. flossy would endure being crowded if only the person who did it was stylish. miss wilbur was indifferent to the whole race of human beings; she cared as little as possible whether a well-dressed lady stood or sat; so far as she was concerned they were apt to do the former. she neither frowned nor smiled when the time came that she was obliged to move; she simply _moved_, with as unconcerned and indifferent a face as she had worn all the due. as for eurie mitchell, she took an entire seat, as she did most other things, from pure heedlessness; any one was welcome who wanted to sit with her, and whether it was a servant girl or a princess was a matter of no moment. these various shades of feeling were nearly as fully expressed in their faces as though they had spoken; and yet they did not in the least comprehend their own actions. this is only an illustration; it was so in a hundred little nothings during the day. not a window was raised or closed for their benefit, not a turn of a blind made, that a close student of human nature could not have seen the distinct and ruling differences in their temperaments, no matter from what point of the compass they started. in the course of time they reached east buffalo. "now for our dinners!" eurie said, as the whistle shrieked a warning that the station was being neared. "what are we going to do?" "we are going to eat them, i presume, as usual," miss erskine said in her most indifferent tone. i should explain that long before this the girls had grown weary of the separate seats, and by dint of much planning and the good-natured removal of two fellow passengers to other seats had accomplished an arrangement that should naturally have been enjoyed from the beginning: that of a turned seat, and being their own seat-mates. "but i mean," eurie said, in no wise quenched by what was a common enough manner in miss erskine, "are we to get a lunch, or are we to go in to a regular dinner?" "if you mean what i am going to do, i shall most assuredly have a 'regular' dinner, as you call it. i have no fancy for eating things thrown together in a bag." "the bag will be the most economical process for all that," eurie said, laughing at miss erskine's disdainful face. "i presume very likely; but as i did not start on this trip for the purpose of studying social economy, i shall vote for the dinner." "and i shall take to the bag method," eurie said, decidedly. opposition always decided her. so it did flossy, though in a different way; she was sure to side with the stronger party. "it would be pleasanter for us all to keep together," she began in a doubtful tone, looking first at miss erskine and then at eurie. "but since, according to eurie's and my decided differences, it is impossible for us to do the 'better' thing, which of the two _worse_ things are you going to do?" this miss erskine said with utmost good nature, but with utmost determination--as much as it would have taken to carry out a good idea in the face of opposition. "oh, i think i'll go with you." flossy said it hastily, as if she feared that she might appear foolish in the eyes of this young lady by having fancied anything else. "very well--then it remains for marion to choose her company," eurie said, composedly. marion held up a paper bundle. "it is already chosen," she said, promptly. "it is a slice of bread and butter, with a very thin slice of fat ham, which i never eat, and a greasy doughnut, the whole done up in a brown paper. this is decidedly an improvement on the bag dinner (which you think of going after) in an economical point of view; and as i am a student of social and all other sorts of economy, not only on this trip but on every other trip of mine in this mortal life, i recommend it to you; at least i would have done so if you had asked me this morning before you left home." eurie made a grimace. "i might have brought a splendid lunch from home if i had only thought of such a thing," she said, regretfully. "my thoughts always come afterward." "and it is quite the mode to take lunches with you when they are elegantly put up," flossy said, regretfully, as she prepared to follow ruth. "i wonder we never thought of it." this last remark of flossy's set the two girls left behind into a hearty laugh. "do you suppose that when flossy has to die she will be troubled lest it may not be the fashion for young ladies to die that season?" eurie said, looking after the pretty little doll as she gathered her skirts about her anxiously; for, whatever other qualifications east buffalo may have, cleanliness is not one of them. "no," marion answered, gravely, "not the least danger of it, because it happens to be the fashion for ladies to die at all seasons; it is the one thing that never seems to go out. i am heartily glad that we have one thing that remains absolute in this fashionable world." eurie looked at her thoughtfully. "marion, one would think you were religious--sometimes," she said, gravely. "you make such strange remarks." marion laughed immoderately. "you ridiculous little infidel!" she said, as soon as she could speak. "you do not even know enough about religion to detect the difference between goodness and wickedness. why, that was one of my wickedest remarks, and here you are mistaking it for goodness. my dear child, run and get your paper bag before it is time to go; or will you have my slice of ham and half this doughnut? the bread and butter i want myself." the freshness and novelty of this journey wore away before the long summer afternoon began to wane; the cars were crowded and uncomfortable, and the cinders flew about in as trying a way as cinders can. none of the girls had the least idea where they were going. they knew, in a general way, that there must be such a place as chautauqua lake, as the papers that they chanced to come in contact with had been full of the delights of that region for many months; and, indeed, a young man, earnest, enthusiastic and sensible, who stopped over night at dr. mitchell's, and had been a delighted guest at the chautauqua assembly a year before, had sown the first seeds that resulted in this trip. he of course could tell the exact route and the necessary steps to be taken; but it had been no part of eurie's wisdom to ask about the journey thither; she knew how many boats were on the lake, and what kind of fish could be caught in it, but the most direct way to reach it was a minor matter. so there they were, simply blundering along, in the belief that the railroad officials knew their business, and would get them somewhere sometime. as the day waned, and the road became more unknown to them, and their weariness grew upon them, they fell to indulging in those stale jokes that young ladies will perpetrate when they don't know what else to do. as they declared, with much laughter, and many smart ways of saying it, that chautauqua was a myth of eurie's brain, or that she had been the dupe of the fine young theological student who had chanced her way and that the search for paradise would come to naught, perhaps it was not all joking; for, as the hours passed and they journeyed on, hearing nothing about the place of which for the last few weeks they had thought so much, a queer feeling began to steal over them that there really was no such spot, and that they were all a set of idiots. "i thought we should have been there by this time, and regularly established at housekeeping," marion said, as they picked up baskets and bundles and prepared to change cars; "and here we are making another change. this is the third this afternoon, or is it the thirteenth? and who knows where brocton is or what it is? is anybody sure that it is in this hemisphere? eurie, you are certain that your theological student did not cross the atlantic in order to reach his elysium?" "brocton is _here_," eurie said, as they climbed the steps of the car. "i see the name on that building yonder; though whether 'here' is america or asia i am unable to say. i think we have come overland, but it is so long since we started i may have forgotten." but at this point they checked their nonsense and began to get up a new interest in existence. they were among a different class of people--earnest, eager people, who seemed to have no thought of yawns or weariness. camp-stools abounded, with here and there a bundle looking like quilts and pillows. every lady had a waterproof and every man an umbrella, and the talk was of "tents," and "division meetings," and "the morning boats," with stray words like "fairpoint" and "mayville" coming in every now and then. these two words, the girls knew had to do with _their_ hopes; so they began to feel revived. "i actually begin to think there is some foundation for eurie's wild fancies after all," marion whispered, "or else this is another party of lunatics as wild as ourselves; but they are a large and respectable party; i'm rather hopeful." in two minutes more the railroad official who speaks in the unknown tongue yelped something at either door, and thereupon everybody got up and began to prepare for an exit. "do you think he said mayville?" questioned eurie with a shade of anxiety in her voice. she had been the leader of this scheme, and she felt just a trifle of responsibility. "haven't the least idea," marion said, composedly gathering her wrappings; "it sounded as much like any other word you happen to think of as it did like that, but everybody is going, and flossy and i are determined to be in the fashion so we go too." at the door dismay seized upon flossy. a light drizzly rain was falling. oh, the lavender suit! and her waterproof tucked away in her trunk, and everybody pushing and trying to pass her. "never mind," marion said, with utmost good nature, "here is mine; i haven't any trunk, so it is handy; and it has rained on my old alpaca for ages; can't hurt that, so wrap yourself up and come along, for i believe in my heart that this is mayville." "this way to the mayville house," said the gentlemanly official, touching his hat as politely as though they had been princesses. why can't hotel subordinates more often show a little common politeness? this act decided the location of these four girls in a twinkling; they knew nothing about any of the hotels, and, other things being equal, anybody would rather go to a place to which they had been decently invited than to be elbowed and yelled at and forced. water and rest and tea did much to restore them to comfort, and as they discussed matters in their rooms afterward they assured each other that the mayville house was just the place to stop at. a discussion was in progress as to the evening meeting. miss erskine had taken down her hair and donned a becoming wrapper, and reposed serenely in the rocking-chair, offering no remark beyond the composed and decided, "i am not going over in the woods to-night by any manner of means; that would be enough if i were actually one of the lunatics instead of a mild looker-on." "i haven't the least idea of going, either," eurie said, sitting on a stool, balancing her stockinged feet against ruth's rocker. "not that i mind the rain, or that it wouldn't be fun enough if i were not so dead tired. but i tell you, girls, i have had to work like a soldier to get ready, and having the care of such a set as you have been all day has been too much for me. a religious meeting would just finish me. i'm going to save myself up for morning. you are a goosie to go, marion. it is as dark as ink, and is raining. what can you see to-night?" "i tell you i've _got_ to go," marion said, as she quietly unstrapped her shawl. "i earn my bread, as you are very well aware, by teaching school; but my butter, and a few such delicacies, i get by writing up folks and things. i've promised to give a melting account of this first meeting, and i have no idea of losing the chance. flossy shipley, you may wear my waterproof every minute if you will go with me. it is long enough to drag a quarter of a yard, and a rain drop can not get near enough to think of you. "but it is so damp," shivered flossy, looking drearily out into the night, "and so dark, marion, i am afraid to go." "plenty of people going. what is there to be afraid of? we go down from here in a carriage." "i wouldn't go, flossy," chimed in a voice from the rocker and one from the ottoman. "it will be very damp there," pleaded flossy, who _did_ like to be accommodating. "you may have ten thicknesses of my shawl to sit on," urged marion. "come, now, flossy shipley. i didn't have the least idea of coaxing those other girls to go, for every one knows they are selfish and will do as they please; but i did think you would keep me company. it really isn't pleasant to think of going alone." the end of it was that flossy, done up in a cloak twice too large for her, went off looking like the martyr that she was, and eurie and ruth staid in their room and laughed over the ridiculousness of flossy shipley going out in the night and the rain, in a lavender cashmere, to attend a religious meeting! chapter iv. fairpoint. it was not so very dark after all, nor so disagreeable as she had imagined. she sat curled up in a heap on the deck of the col. phillips, looking with interested eyes on the groups of people, who, despite the rain and darkness, were evidently on their way to chautauqua. marion had gone to the other side of the boat and was looking over into the water, rested and interested in spite of herself by the novelty of the scene around her. the fellow-passengers seemed not to be novices like themselves, for as their talk floated to the girls it had sentences like these: "last year we stopped in the village, but this time we are going to be right on the ground." "last year it rained, too; but rain makes no difference at chautauqua." "they are all last year's people," said marion, coming over to flossy's side. "that speaks well for the interest, or the fun, doesn't it? now what do you suppose takes all these people to this place?" "i don't know," flossy said thoughtfully, "i never thought much about it. perhaps some of them came just as i did, because the girls were coming and asked me to. i'm sure i haven't the least idea what else i came for." marion looked down on the little creature done up in water-proof, with a half-pitying laugh. "you are a good little mouse," she said patronizingly. "i never remember doing _anything_ without a motive somewhere. it must be refreshing to forget that important individual now and then." "oh, i don't," flossy said, simply. "of course i came for the good time i would have. but then, you know, i would never have thought of coming if the rest of you hadn't." another laugh from marion. "you let others do your thinking for you," she said, with just a touch of contempt, covered by the gayety of the tone. "well, it is much the easier way. if i could find anyone to undertake the task, i should like to try it for myself." flossy's answer was a little scream of delight, for they were coming upon fairy-land; the lights of fairpoint were gleaming in the soft distance, and very fairy-like they looked shining among the trees. the sound of music on the steamer mingled charmingly with the peal of the bells from the shore. marion looked on the scene with quiet interest. flossy's face took a pink glow; she liked pretty things. as for those who had been at chautauqua the year before, they gathered at the vessel's side as those gather who, after a long and tiresome journey, realize that they are nearing home. they were eager and excited. "the dock is better," said one. "yes, and the passage way is larger," chimed in his nearest neighbor. "oh, everything is on an improved scale this year," said still a third, speaking confidently. "the _meeting_ can't be any better," spoke a quiet-faced woman, with a decided voice, "that is simply impossible." marion laughed softly. "hear the lunatics!" she said, bending to give flossy the benefit of her words. "they are just infatuated; they think this is the original garden of eden, with that wretched eve left out. if she were here i would choke her with a relish." this last in a muttered undertone, too low for even flossy, and with a darkening face. meantime the boat rounded the point, the plank was laid, and the feet of the eager passengers touched the shores of chautauqua. some detention about tickets, arising from a misunderstanding of terms, made our girls lose sight and sound of the rest of the boat-load, and when they passed within the railing they found themselves suddenly and strangely alone. a few lights glimmered in the trees, enough to point the way, and from the cottages near at hand streams of light shot out into the darkness; but no sound of footsteps, no sight of human being appeared "over the river, on the hill, another village lieth still," quoted marion, gravely. then: "i say, flossy, what does it all mean? are we among a party of witches, do you suppose? where could those congenial spirits so suddenly have conveyed themselves away, i wonder? the road isn't broad, but it most decidedly isn't straight. only behold that long, long, _long_ array of damp and empty seats! where are the faithful now, do you suppose?" "there isn't any meeting here to-night, and we might have known there wouldn't be," flossy said, peevishly, beginning to grow not only disenchanted but half frightened. "i was never in such a queer place in my life! those white seats all look like ghosts. what could have possessed you to come to-night? of course they wouldn't have meeting in the rain! marion, do let us go back; i am frightened out of my wits!" "you blessed little simpleton!" said marion, gaily. "what on earth is there to be frightened over? not pine seats and lamplight, surely, and there is nothing more formidable than that so far." "i wish with all my heart that i were safely back in the hotel, where i would have been if you had not coaxed me away," sighed, or rather whined, poor flossy, shivering with chilliness or nervousness, and added: "come, marion, do let us go back with that boat. it can't have started yet." marion grasped her hand firmly, and spoke like a commander: "flossy shipley, don't you go to getting nervous and acting like a simpleton, for i won't have it. as for that boat, it is half way to mayville by this time, and i am glad of it. do you suppose i am going to make an ignominious retreat now, when we have got so far advanced? not a bit of it. if there is no meeting, we will go where there ought to be one, since it was advertised, and not a word said about rain. it isn't likely they stay out-doors when it actually pours. very likely they go in somewhere and have a prayer-meeting. so now compose your nerves and walk fast, for if the spot is within walking distance i am going to find it. i tell you i am to get ten dollars at least for writing up this meeting, and i am going to write it if there is one to write about. if there isn't i shall have to make up one. i dare say i could make it interesting. i'll put you in if i do, and you shall be mrs. fearful--in pilgrim's progress, you know--if you don't stop shivering and walk faster." during this time they had really been making as rapid progress as the up-hill way and their doubt of the road would allow. flossy made no reply to this harangue, for the reason that a sudden turn in the path brought them into bright light and the sound of a ringing voice. "there!" whispered marion as the mammoth tent came in view. "what did i tell you? what do you think of _that_ for a prayer-meeting?" and then she, too, relapsed into silence, for the ringing tones of the speaker's voice were distinct and clear. they made their way rapidly and silently under the tent, down the aisle--half way down--then a gentleman beckoned them, and by dint of some pushing and moving secured them seats. then both girls looked about them in astonishment. who would have supposed that it rained! why, there were rows and rows and rows of heads, men and women, and even children. a tent larger than they had imagined could be built and packed with people. marion's tongue was uncontrollable. she was barely seated before she began her whispered comments: "that man who is speaking is dr. vincent. hasn't he a ringing voice? it reminds me of a trumpet. he likes to use it, i know he does; he has learned to manage it so nicely, and with an eye to the effect. you will hear his voice often enough, and you just watch and see if you don't learn to know the first echo of it from any other." "perhaps he won't be here all the time to use his voice," whispered back flossy, without much idea what she was saying. the novelty of the scene had stolen her senses. marion laughed softly. "you blessed little idiot!" she said, "don't you know that he manufactured chautauqua, root and branch? or if he didn't quite manufacture the trees he looked after their growth, i dare say. why, this meeting is his darling, his idol, his best beloved. 'hear him speak?' i guess you will. i should like to see a meeting of this kind that didn't hear from him. it will have to be when he is out of the body." "how do you know about him?" whispered flossy, struck with sudden curiosity. "i've written him up," marion said, briefly. "i've had to do it several times. oh, i'm a veteran at sunday-school meetings. but he is the hardest man to write about that there is among them, because you can never tell what he may happen to say or do next. it will never do to jump at his conclusions, and slip in a neat little sentence of your own as coming from him if you don't happen to have taken very profuse notes, because as sure as you do he will spring up in some tiresome meeting in less than a week and unsay every single word that you said. he said--" at this point a poor martyr, who had the misery to sit directly in front of these two whisperers, turned and gave them such a look as only a man can under like circumstances, and awed them into five minutes of quiet. it lasted until dr. eggleston was announced. then marion's tongue broke loose again: "he is the 'hoosier schoolmaster.' don't you know we read his book aloud at the seminary? looks as though he might have written it, doesn't he? let's listen to what he says. he always says a word or two that a body can report; very few of them do." this is a fair specimen of the way in which miss wilbur buzzed through that meeting--that _wonderful_ meeting, that flossy shipley will remember all her life. she made no answer to marion's comments after a little, and the pink flush glowed deeper on her face. she was wonderfully interested--indeed she was more than interested. there was a strange feeling of pain at her heart, a sort of sick, longing feeling that she had never felt before, to understand what all these people meant, to feel as they seemed to feel. the christian world is more to blame for the unspoken infidelity that thrives in its circles than is generally supposed. flossy shipley had been in many religious meetings, but she had really never in her life before been among a large gathering of cultured people, who were eager and excited and happy, and the cause for that eagerness and that happiness been found in the religion of jesus christ. i do not say that there had never been such meetings before, nor that there have not been many of them. i simply say that it was a new revelation to flossy, and she had been to the church prayer-meeting at home several times. whether that church may have been peculiar or not i do not say, but flossy had certainly failed to get the idea that prayer-meetings were blessed places; that the people who went there from week to week found their joy and their rest and their comfort there. she began to have an unutterable sense of want and longing creeping over her; she stole shy glances at marion to see if she felt this, but marion was absorbed just then in catching the speaker's last sentence and writing it down. her face expressed nothing but business earnestness. speech-making concluded, there came the "covenant service." "i wonder what that is supposed to be?" whispered marion. "it sounds like something dreadfully solemn. i hope they are not going to have any scenes. revivals are not fashionable except in the winter." "marion, _don't_!" flossy said, in an earnest undertone. the gay, and what for the first time struck her as the sacrilegious words, chilled her. and for almost the first time in her life she uttered an unhesitating remonstrance. something in the tone surprised marion, and she looked curiously down at her little companion, but said not another word. the covenant service was the simplest of all services; in fact, only the singing of a familiar hymn and the offering of a prayer. but the hymn was read first, in such solemn, tender, pleading tones as it seemed to flossy she had never heard before; and the singing rolled around that great tent like the voices of the ten thousand who sing before the throne--at least to flossy's heart it seemed like that. the prayer that followed was the simplest of all prayers as to words, and the briefest public prayer she ever remembered to have heard, and it made her feel as nothing in life had ever done before. she did not understand the cause for her emotion; she was not acquainted with the spirit of god; she did not know that he was speaking to her softened heart, and calling her gently to himself, so she felt ashamed of the emotion that she could not help. she wiped the tears away secretly, and was glad that the night was dark and the need for haste great, for the steamer's warning whistle could already be beard. marion talked on as they went down the hill, not alone now but accompanied by hundreds, talked precisely as she had before the singing of those words and the prayer. "how could she?" flossy wondered. "how could anything look the same to her?" the spirit had found no softened heart in which to leave a message, and so had passed by. this, if flossy had known it, was the reason that marion was gay and indifferent. if either of them had fully realized the reason for the different effect of the meeting upon them, how startled they would have been! it is not strange after all that a service is not the same to one soul that it is to another, when we remember that god speaks to one and passes another. the night was still heavy with clouds, not a star to lighten the gloom; a fine mist was falling. it was marion who shivered this time, and said: "it is a horrible night, that is a fact; but i am not sorry we went. that meeting will write up splendidly, though it was too long; i will say that in print about it. you must find some fault, you know, when you are writing for the public; it is the fashion." "was it long?" said flossy, in an absent tone. she had not thought of it in that way. then she went to the side of the boat again and sat down in a tumult. what was the matter with her? where had her complacent, pretty little content gone? would she _always_ feel so sad and anxious and unhappy, have such a longing as she did now? if she had been wiser she could have told herself that the trouble of heart was caused by an unhealthy excitement upon this question, and that this was the great fault with religious meetings; but she was not wise, she did not think of such a reason. if it had been suggested to her it is doubtful if, in her ignorance, she would not have said: "why, she had been more excited at an evening party a hundred times than she had thought of being then!" she actually did not know that eagerness and zeal are proper enough at parties, but utterly out of place in religion. just in front of her sat a young man who hummed in undertone the closing words of the covenant song. it brought the tears again to flossy's eyes. he turned suddenly toward her. "it was a pleasant service," he said. "don't you think so?" it was rather startling to be addressed by a strange young gentleman, or would have been it his voice had not been so quiet and dignified, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to compare notes with one who had just come out from the great meeting. "i don't know whether it was or not," she said, hurriedly. she could not seem to decide whether she enjoyed it or hated it. "it was blessed to me," the young man said, in quiet voice; and added in undertone, as if speaking to himself only: "god was there." "do you feel that?" said flossy, suddenly. "then i wonder that you were not afraid." he turned toward her a pleasant face and said, earnestly: "you would not be afraid of your father, would you? well, god is my father, my reconciled father;" and then, after a moment, he added: "it i were not at peace with him, and had reason to think that he was angry with me, then it would be different. then i suppose i should be afraid; at least i think it would be reasonable to be." flossy spoke out of the fullness of a troubled heart: "i don't understand it at all. i never wanted to, either, until just to-night; but now i want to feel as those people did when they sang that hymn." marion came quickly up from the other side. "flossy," she said, with sudden sharpness, "come over here and watch the track of the boat through the water." and as flossy mechanically obeyed, she added: "what a foolish, heedless little mouse you are! i wonder that your mother let you go from her sight. don't you know that you mustn't get up conversations with strange young men in that fashion?" flossy had not thought of it at all: but now she said a little drearily, as if the subject did not interest her: "but i have often held conversations with strange young men at the dancing-hall, you know, and danced with them, too, when _everything_ i knew about them was their names, and generally i forgot that." marion gave a light laugh. "that is different," she said, letting her lip curl in the darkness over the folly of her own words. "what its proper at a dance in very improper coming home from prayer-meeting, don't you see?" "what do you think!" she said the minute they were in their rooms. "there was i, leaning meditatively over the boat, thinking solemnly on the truths i had heard, and that absurd little water-proof morsel was having a flirtation with a nice young man. here is one of the fruits of the system! what on earth was he saying to you, flossy?" "don't!" said flossy, for the second time that evening. "he wasn't saying any harm." the whole thing jarred on her with an inexpressible and to her bewildering pain. she had always been ready for fun before. "that girl is homesick or something," marion said, as she and eurie went to their rooms, leaving flossy with ruth, who prefered her as a room-mate to either of the others because she _could_ keep from talking. "i haven't the least idea what is the matter, but she has been as unlike herself as possible. i hope she isn't going to get sick and spoil our fun. how silly we were to bring her, anyway. the baby hasn't life enough to see the frolic of the thing, and the intellectual is miles beyond her. i suspect she was dreadfully bored this evening. but, eurie, there is going to be some splendid speaking done here. i shouldn't wonder if we attended a good many of the meetings." chapter v. unrest. flossy went to the window and stood looking out into the starless night. the pain in her heart deepened with every moment. "if there was only some one to ask, some one to say a word to me," she sighed to herself. "it seems as though i could never go to sleep with this feeling clinging to me. i wonder what can be the matter? perhaps i am sick and am going to die. it feels almost like that, and i am not fit to die--i am afraid. i wonder if ruth erskine is afraid to die? i have almost a mind to ask her. i wonder if she ever prays? people who are not afraid of death are always those who pray. perhaps she will to-night. i feel as though i wanted to pray: i think if i only knew how it would be just the thing to do. if she kneels down i mean to go and kneel beside her." these were some of the thoughts that whirled through her brain as she stood with her nose pressed to the glass. but ruth did not pray. she went around with the composed air of one who was at peace with all the world; and when her elaborate preparations for rest were concluded she laid her head on her pillow without one thought of prayer. "why in the name of sense don't you come to bed?" she presently asked, surveying with curious glance the quiet little creature whose face was hidden from her, and who was acting entirely out of accordance with anything she had ever seen in her before. "what can you possibly find to keep you gazing out of that window? it can't be called star-gazing, for to my certain knowledge there isn't a single star visible; in fact, i should say nothing could be visible but the darkness." for a minute flossy made no answer. she did not move nor turn her head; but presently she said, in a low and gentle voice: "ruth, should you be afraid to die?" "to die!" said ruth; and i have no means of telling you what an astonished face and voice she had. "flossy shipley, what do you mean?" "why, i mean _that_," said flossy, in the same quiet tone. "of course we have got to die, and everybody knows it; and what i say is, should you be afraid if it were to-night, you know?" "humph!" said ruth, turning her pillow and waiting to beat it into shape before she spoke further. "i haven't the least idea of dying to-night." "but how can you be _sure_ of that? you might _have_ to die to-night, you know people do sometimes." "i know one thing, am perfectly certain of it, and that is, that you will take cold standing there and making yourself dismal. you are shivering like a leaf, i can see you from here. if that is all the good to be gotten from the 'religious impressions' that they harp about being so great here, the less religion they have the better, and there is quite little enough you may be sure." saying which, ruth turned her pillow again and her head, so that she could not see the small creature at the window. she was unaccountably rasped, not to say startled, by her question, and she did not like to be startled; she liked to have her current of life run smoothly. as for flossy, she gave a great sigh of disappointment and unrest, and turned slowly from the window. she had vaguely hoped for help of some sort from ruth, and as she lay down on her prayerless pillow she said to herself, "if she had only knelt down i should certainly have done so, too; and perhaps i might have been helped out of this dreadful feeling." yet so ignorant was she of the way that it never once occurred to her to kneel alone and pray. no more words were spoken by those two girls that night, but each lay awake for a long time and tossed about restlessly. ruth had been most effectually disturbed, and try as best she could it was impossible to banish the memory of those quiet words: "you might _have_ to die to-night; people do, you know." to actually _have_ to do something that she had not planned to do and was not quite ready for, would be a new experience to this girl. yet when would she be ready to plan for dying? at last she grew thoroughly vexed, and vented her disgust on the "religionists" who got up camp-meeting excitements for the purpose of turning weak brains like flossy shipley's. after that she went to sleep. "flossy shipley, for pity's sake _don't_ rig your self up in that awful cashmere! it rains yet and you will just be going around with five wrinkles on your forehead all day, besides spoiling your dress." it was morning, and the door of communication between the two sleeping-rooms being thrown open the four girls were in full tide of talk and preparation for fairpoint. flossy, though kept her strangely quiet face and manner; the night had not brought her peace; she had tossed restlessly for hours, and when at last she slept it was only to be haunted with troubled dreams. with the first breath of morning she opened her eyes and felt that the weight of yesterday was still pressing on her heart. "what _shall_ i wear?" she asked, in an absent, bewildered way of eurie, who had objected to the cashmere. "i'm sure i don't know. didn't you bring anything suited to the rain? let me go fishing in that ponderous trunk and see if i can't find something." the "fishing" produced nothing more suitable than a heavy black silk, elaborately trimmed, and looking, as eurie phrased it, "elegantly out of place." through much confusion and frolicking the four were at last entering the grounds at chautauqua. by reason of their superior knowledge marion and flossy led the way, while the others followed eagerly, looking and exclaiming. "i'll tell you what it is, girls," eurie said, eagerly. "let's come over here and board. we'll have a tent or a cottage. a tent will be jollier, and it will be twice as much fun as to stay at the hotel." there being no dissenting voice to this proposal, they started in much glee to look up a home; only flossy demurred timidly. "can't we go to the meeting, girls, and look for the tent afterward? the meeting has commenced; i hear them singing." "it's nothing in the world but a bible service," eurie said. "that man at the gate handed me a programme. who wants to go to a bible service? we have bibles enough at home. we want to be on hand at eleven o'clock, because edward eggleston is to speak on 'the paradise of childhood.' my childhood was anything but paradise, but i am anxious to know what he will make of it." flossy succumbed, of course, as every one expected she would; and the party went in search of tents and accommodations. it was no easy matter to suit them, as the patient and courteous president found. "i don't like the location of any one of them," ruth erskine said. of course she was the hardest to suit. "why can't we have one of those in that row on the hill?" "those are the guest tents, ma'am." "the guest tents?" eurie exclaimed, in surprise. "i wonder if they entertain guests here! who are they?" "why, those who have been invited to take part in the exercises, of course. you did not suppose that they paid their own expenses and did the work besides, did you?" this explanation was given by marion, who, by virtue of her experience as reporter was better versed in the ways of these great gatherings than the others. "what an idea!" eurie said. "fancy being a guest and speaking at this great meeting. being a person of distinction, you know; so that people would be pointing you out, and telling their neighbors who you were. "there goes miss mitchell. she is the leading speaker on sunday-school books. how does that sound? only, on the whole, i should choose some other department than sunday-school books; they are all so horridly good--the people in them, i mean--that one can't get through with more than two in a season. i tried to read one last week for sunday, but i abandoned it in despair." this was an aside, while ruth was questioning the president. she was looking dismayed. "can't we have one of the tents on that side near the stand?" "those were taken months ago. this is a large gathering, you know." "i should think it was! then, it seems, we must go back to the hotel. i thought you would be glad to let us have accommodations at any price." the gentlemanly president here carefully repressed an amused smile. here were people who had evidently misunderstood chautauqua. "oh, yes," he said, "we can give you accommodations, only not the very best, i am sorry to say. our best tents were secured many months ago. still, we will do the best we can for you, and i think we can make you entirely comfortable." "people have different ideas as to the meaning of that word," miss eurie said, loftily. then she moved to another tent, over which she exclaimed in dismay: "why, the bed isn't made up! pray, are we to sleep on the slats?" "oh, no. but you have to hire all those things, you know. have you seen our bulletin? there are parties on the ground prepared to fit up everything that you need, and to do it very reasonably. of course we can not know what degree of expense those requiring tents care to incur, so we leave that matter for them to decide for themselves. you can have as many or as few comforts as you choose, and pay accordingly." "and are all four of us expected to occupy this one room?" there was an expression of decided disgust on miss erskine's face. "why, you see," explained the amused president, "this tent is designed for four; two good-sized bedsteads set up in it; and the necessity seems to be upon us to crowd as much as we can conveniently. there will be no danger of impure air, you know, for you have all out-doors to breathe." "and you really don't have toilet stands or toilet accommodations! what a way to live!" another voice chimed in now, which was the very embodiment of refined horror. "and you don't have pianos nor sofas, and the room isn't lighted with gas! i'm sure i don't see how we can live! it is not what we have been accustomed to." this was marion, with the most dancing eyes in the world, and the president completed the scene by laughing outright. suddenly ruth discovered that she was acting the part of a simpleton, and with flushed face she turned from them, and walked to a vacant seat, in the opposite direction from where they were standing. "we will take this one," she said, haughtily, without vouchsafing it a look. "i presume it is as good as any of them, and, since we are fairly into this absurd scrape we must make the best of it." "or the worst of it," marion said, still laughing. "you are bent on doing that, i think, ruthie." by a violent effort and rare good sense ruth controlled herself sufficiently to laugh, and the embarrassment vanished. there were splendid points about this girl's character, not the least among them being the ability to laugh at a joke that had been turned toward herself. at least the effect was splendid. the reasons, therefore, might have been better. it was because her sharp brain saw the better effect that her ability to do this thing immediately produced on the people around her. but i shall have to confess that a poise of character strong enough to gracefully avert unpleasant effects arising from causes of her own making ought to have been strong enough to have suppressed the causes. the question of an abiding-place being thus summarily disposed of, the party set themselves to work with great energy to get settled, marion and eurie taking the lead. both were used to both planning and working, and marion at least had so much of it to do as to have lost all desire to lead unnecessarily, and therefore everything grew harmonious. there was a good deal of genuine disgust in ruth's part of it, though, her eyes having been opened, she bravely tried to hide the feeling from the rest. but you will remember that she had lived and breathed in an atmosphere of elegant refinement all her life, accepting the luxuries of life as common necessities until they had really become such to her, and the idea of doing without many things that people during camp life necessarily find themselves _obliged_ to do without was not only strange to her but exceedingly disagreeable. the two leaders being less used to the extremes of luxury, and more indifferent to them by nature, could not understand and had little sympathy with her feeling. "we shall have to go back after all to the hotel," eurie said, as she dived both hands into the straw tick and tried to level the bed. "we have too fine a lady among us; she cannot sleep on a bedstead that doesn't rest its aristocratic legs on a velvet carpet. she doesn't see the fun at all. i thought flossy would be the silly one, but flossy is in a fit of the dumps. i never saw her so indifferent to her dress before. see her now, bringing that three-legged stand, without regard to rain! there is one comfort in this perpetual rain, we shall have less dust. after all, though, i don't know as that is any improvement, so long as it goes and makes itself up into mud. look at the mud on my dress! that tent we were looking at first would have been ever so much the best, but after ruth's silliness i really hadn't the face to suggest a change--i thought we had given trouble enough. she makes a mistake; she thinks this is a great hotel, where people are bound to get all the money they can and give as little return, instead of its being a place where people are striving to be as accommodating as they can, and give everybody as good a time as possible." in the midst of all this talk and work they left and ran up the hill to the tabernacle, where the crowds were gathering to hear dr. eggleston. it was a novel sight to these four girls; the great army of eager, strong, expectant faces; the ladies, almost without an exception, dressed to match the rain and the woods, looking neither tired nor annoyed about anything--looking only in earnest. to ruth, especially, it came like a revelation. she looked around her with surprised eyes. there were intellectual faces on every hand. there was the hum of conversation all about her, for the meeting was not yet opened, and the tone of their words was different from any with which her life had been familiar; they seemed lifted up, enthused; they seemed to have found something worthy of enthusiasm. as a rule ruth had not enjoyed enthusiastic people; they had seemed silly to her; and you will admit that there is a silly side to the consuming of a great deal of that trait on the dress for an evening party, or the arrangement of programmes for a fancy concert. just now she had a glimmering fancy that there might be something worthy of arresting and holding one's eager attention. "they look alive," she said, turning from right to left among the rows and rows of faces. "they look as though they had a good deal to do, and they thought it was worth doing." then, curiously enough, there came suddenly to her mind that question which she had banished the night before, and she wondered if these people had all really answered it to their satisfaction. flossy took a seat immediately in front of the speaker. she was hungry for something, and she did not know what to call it--something that would set her fevered heart at rest. as for marion and eurie, they hoped with all their hearts that the "hoosier schoolmaster" would give them a rich intellectual treat, at least marion was after the intellectual. eurie would be contented if she got the fun, and a man like dr. eggleston has enough of both those elements to make sure of satisfying their hopes. but would he bring something to help flossy? chapter vi. feasts. "he doesn't look in the least as i thought he did." it was eurie who whispered this, and she nudged marion's arm by way of emphasis as she did it. marion laughed. "how did you think he looked?" "oh, i don't know--rough, rather." whereupon marion laughed again. "that is the way some people discriminate," she whispered back. "you think because he wrote about rough people he must be rough; and when one writes about people of culture and elegance you think straightway that he is the personification of those ideas. you forget, you see, that the world is full to the brim with hypocrisy; and it is easier to be perfect on paper than it is anywhere else in this world." "or to be a sinner either, according to that view of it." "it is easy enough to be a sinner anywhere. hush, i want to listen." for which want the people all about her must have been very thankful. our young ladies gave dr. eggleston their attention at the moment when he was drawling out in his most nasal and ludicrous tones the hymn that used to be a favorite in sunday-schools ninety years ago: "broad is the road that leads to death, and thousands walk together there, but wisdom shows a narrow path, with here and there a traveler." the manner in which part of these lines were repeated was irresistibly funny. to eurie it was explosively so; she laughed until the seat shook with mirth. to be sure, she knew nothing about modern sunday-schools; for aught that she was certain of, they might have sung that very hymn in the first church sunday-school the sabbath before; and it made not the least atom of difference whether they did or not; the way in which dr. eggleston was putting it was funny, and eurie never spoiled fun for the sake of sentiment. presently she looked up at marion for sympathy. that young lady's eyes were in a blaze of indignation. what in the world was the matter with her? surely she, with her hearty and unquestioning belief in _nothing_, could not have been disturbed by any jar! let me tell you a word about marion. away back in her childhood there was a memory of a little dingy, old-fashioned kitchen, one of the oldest and dreariest of its kind, where the chimney smoked and the winter wind crawled in through endless cracks and crannies; where it was not always possible to get enough to eat during the hardest times; but there was a large, old-fashioned arm-chair, covered with frayed and faded calico, and in this chair sat often of a winter evening a clean-faced old man, with thin and many-patched clothes, with a worn and sickly face, with a few gray hairs straggling sadly about on his smooth crown: and that old man used often and often to drone out in a cracked voice and in a tune pitched too low by half an octave the very words which had just been repeated in marion's hearing. what of all that? why, that little gloomy kitchen was marion's memory of home; that old, tired man was her father, and he used to sing those words while his hand wandered tenderly through the curls of her brown head, and patted softly the white forehead over which they fell; and all of love that there was in life, all that the word "tenderness" meant, all that was dear, or sweet or to be reverenced, was embodied in that one memory to marion. now you understand the flashing eyes. she did not believe it at all; she believed, or thought she did, that the "broad" and "narrow" roads were all nonsense; that go where you would, or do what you would, all the roads led to _death_; and that was the end. but the father who had quavered through those lines so many times had staked his hopes forever on that belief, and the assurance of it had clothed his face in a grand smile as he lay dying--a smile that she liked to think of, that she did not like to hear ridiculed, and to her excited imagination dr. eggleston seemed to be ridiculing the faith on which the hymn was built. "they are more thorough hypocrites than i supposed," she said, in scorn, and hardly in undertone, in answer to eurie's inquiring look. "i don't believe the stuff myself, but i always supposed the ministers did. i gave some of them at least credit for sincerity, but it seems it is nothing but a fable to be laughed to scorn." "why, marion!" eurie said, and her look expressed surprise and dismay. "he is not making fun of religion, you know; he is simply referring to the inappropriateness of such hymns for children." "what is so glaringly inappropriate about it if they really believe the bible? i'm sure it says there that there are two roads, one broad and the other narrow; and that many people are on one and but few on the other. why shouldn't it be put into a hymn if it is desirable to impress it?" "i'm sure i don't know," eurie said, unaccustomed to being put through a course of logic. "only, you know, i suppose he simply means that it is beyond their comprehensions." "they must have remarkably limited comprehensions then if they are incapable of understanding so simple a figure of speech, as that there are two ways to go, and one is harder and safer than the other. i understood it when it was sung to me--and i was a very little child--and believed it, too, until i saw the lives of people contradict it; but if i believed, it still i would not make public sport of it." at this point ruth leaned forward from the seat behind and whispered: "girls, do keep still; you are drawing the attention of all the people around you and disturbing everybody." after that they kept still; but the good doctor had effectually sealed one heart to whatever that was tender and earnest he might have to say. she sat erect, with scornful eyes and glowing cheeks, and when the first flush of excitement passed off was simply harder and gayer than before. who imagined such a result as that? nobody, of course. but how perfectly foolish and illogical! couldn't she see that dr. eggleston only meant to refer to the fact that literature, both of prose and poetry, had been improved by being brought to the level of childish minds, and to reprove that way of teaching religious truth, that leaves a somber, dismal impression on youthful hearts? apparently she could not, since she did not. as for being absurd and illogical, i _did_ not say that she wasn't. i am simply giving you facts as they occurred. i think myself that she was dishonoring the memory of her father ten thousand times more than any chance and unmeant word of the speakers could possibly have done. the only trouble was, that she was such an idiot she did not see it; and she prided herself on her powers of reasoning, too! but the world is full of idiots. she sat like a stone during the rest of the brilliant lecture. many things she heard because she could not help hearing; many she admired, because it was in her to admire a brilliant and charming thing, and she could not help that, either; but she could shut her _heart_ to all tenderness of feeling and all softening influences, and that she did with much satisfaction, deliberately steeling herself against the words of a man because he had quoted a chance line that her father used to sing, while she lived every day of her life in defiance of the principles by which her father shaped his life and his death! verily, the ways of girls are beyond understanding. eurie enjoyed it all. when dr. eggleston told of the men that, as soon as their children grew a little too restless, had business down town, she clapped her hands softly and whispered: "that is for all the world like father. neddie and puss were never in a whining fit in their lives that father didn't at once think of a patient he had neglected to visit that day, and rush off." she laughed over the thought that women were shut in with little steam engines, and said: "that's a capital name for them; we have three at home that are always just at the very point of explosion. i mean to write to mother and tell her i have found a new name for them." when he suggested the blunt-end scissors, and the colored crayons with which they could make wonderful yellow dogs, with green tails and blue eyes, her delight became so great that she looked around to ruth to help her enjoy it, and said: "you see if i don't invest in a ton of colored crayons the very first thing i do when i get home; it is just capital! so strange i never thought of it before." "you did not think of it now," ruth said, in her quiet cooling way. "give the speaker credit for his own ideas, please. half the world have to do the thinking for the other half always." "that is the reason so much is left undone, then," retorted eurie, with unfailing good humor, and turned back to the speaker in time to hear his description of the superintendent that was so long in finding the place to sing that the boys before him went around the world while he was giving the number. "slow people," said she, going down the hill afterward. "i never could endure them, and i shall have less patience with them in future than ever. wasn't he splendid? ruth, you liked the part about dickens, of course." "a valuable help the lecture will be to your after-life if all you have got is an added feeling of impatience toward slow people. unfortunately for you they are in the world, and will be very likely to stay in it, and a very good sort of people they are, too." it was marion who said this, and her tone was dry and unsympathetic. eurie turned to her curiously. "you didn't like him," she said, "did you? i am so surprised; i thought you would think him splendid. on your favorite hobby, too. i said to myself this will be just in marion's line. she has so much to say about teaching children by rote in a dull and uninteresting way. you couldn't forgive him for reciting that horrid old hymn in such a funny way. flossy, do you suppose you can ever hear that hymn read again without laughing? what was the matter, marion? who imagined you had any sentimental drawings toward watts' hymns?" "i didn't even know it was watts' hymn," marion said, indifferently. "but i hate to hear any one go back on his own belief. if he honestly believes in the sentiments of that verse, and they certainly are bible sentiments, he shouldn't make fun of it. but i'm sure it is of no consequence to me. he may make fun of the whole bible if he chooses, verse by verse, and preach a melting sermon from it the very next sabbath; it will be all the same to me. let us go in search of some dinner, and not talk any more about him." "but that isn't fair. you are unjust, isn't she, ruth? i say he didn't make fun of religion, as marion persists in saying that he did." "of course not," ruth said. "a minister would hardly be guilty of doing that. he was simply comparing the advanced methods of the present with the stupidity of the past." and obstinate marion said then he ought to get a new bible, for the very same notions were in it that were when she was a child and learned verses. and that was all that this discussion amounted to. nobody had appealed to flossy. she had stood looking with an indifferent air around her, until marion turned suddenly and said: "what did the lecture say to you, flossy? eurie seems very anxious to get out of it something for our 'special needs,' as they say in church. what was yours?" flossy hesitated like a timid child, flushed and then paled, and finally said, simply: "i have been thinking ever since he spoke it of that one sentence, 'rock-firm, god-trust, has died out of the world.' i was wondering if it were true, and i was wishing that it wasn't." all the girls looked at each other in astonished silence; such a strange thing for flossy to say. "what of it?" said marion, presently. "what if it has? or, rather, what if it were never in the world?" "it wasn't that side of it that i thought about. it was what if it were." "and what then?" "why, then, i should like to see the person who had it, just to see how he would seem." marion laughed somewhat scornfully. "curiosity is at the bottom of your wise thought, is it? well, my little mousie, i am amazingly afraid you are destined never to discover how it will seem. so i wouldn't puzzle my brains about it. it might be too much for them. shall we go to dinner?" you should have seen our four young ladies taking their first meal at chautauqua! it was an experience not to be forgotten. they went to the "hotel." this was a long board building, improvised for the occasion, and filled with as many comforts as the _necessities_ of the occasion could furnish. to miss erskine the word "hotel" had only one sort of association. she had been a traveler in her own country only, and it had been her fortune to be intimate only with the hotels in large cities, and only with those where people go whose purses are full to overflowing. so she had come to associate with the name all that was elegant or refined or luxurious. when the president of the grounds inquired whether they would have tickets for the hotel or one of the boarding-houses, miss erskine had answered without hesitation: "for the hotel, of course. i never have anything to do with boarding-houses. they are almost certain to be second rate." said president kept his own counsel, thinking, i fancy, that here was a girl who needed some lessons in the practical things of this life, and chautauqua hotels were good places in which to take lessons. imagine now, if you can, the look of this lady's face, as they made their way with much difficulty down the long room, and looked about them on either side for seats. "a hotel, indeed!" she said, in utter contempt and disgust, as one of the attendants signaled them and politely drew back the long board seat that did duty in the place of chairs, and answered for five, or, if you were good natured and crowded, for six people. he was just as polite in his attentions as if the unplaned seat had been a carved chair of graceful shape and pattern. one would suppose that ruth might have taken a hint from his example. but the truth is, she belonged to that class of people who are so accustomed to polite attentions that it is only their absence which calls forth remark. "the idea of naming this horrid, dirty old lumber-room a hotel!" and she carefully and disdainfully spread her waterproof cloak on the seat before she took it. eurie's merry laugh rang out until others looked and smiled in sympathy with her fun, whatever it was. "what in the world did you expect, ruthie? i declare, you are too comical! i verily believe you expected brussels carpets, and mirrors in which you could admire yourself all the while you were eating." "i expected a _hotel_," ruth said, in no wise diminishing her lofty tone. "that is what is advertised, and people naturally do not look for so much deception in a religious gathering. this is nothing in the world but a shanty." chautauqua was doing one thing for this young lady which surprised and annoyed her. it was helping her to get acquainted with herself. up to this time she had looked upon herself as a person of smooth and even temperament, not by any means easily ruffled or turned from her quiet poise. she had prided herself on her composed, gracefully dignified way of receiving things. she never hurried, she never was breathless and flushed, and apologetic over something that she ought or ought not to have done, which was a chronic state with eurie. she never was in a thorough and undisguised rage, as marion was quite likely to be. she was, in her own estimation, a model of propriety. all this until she came to chautauqua. now, great was her surprise to discover in herself a disposition to be utterly disgusted with things that to marion were of so little consequences as to be unnoticed, and that to eurie were positive sources of fun. doubtless you understand her better than she did herself. the truth is, it is a comparatively easy matter to be gracious and courteous and unruffled when everything about you is moving exactly according to your mind, and when you can think of nothing earthly to be annoyed about. there are some natures that are deceiving their own hearts in just such an atmosphere as this. they are not the lowest type of nature by any means. the small, petty trials that come to every life are beneath them. if it rains when they want to walk they can go in a handsome carriage, and keep their tempers. if their elegant new robes prove to be badly made they can have them remodeled and made more elegant with a superior composure. in just so far are they above the class who can endure nothing in the shape of annoyances or disappointment, however small. the fact is, however, that there are petty annoyance, _not_ coming in their line of life, that would be altogether too much for them. but of this they remain in graceful ignorance until some chautauqua brings the sleeping shadows to the surface. chapter vii. table talk. "what is your private explanation of the word 'hotel'?" marion asked. she was in an argumentative mood, and it made almost no difference to her which side of the question she argued. "webster says it is a place to entertain strangers, but you seem to attach some special importance to the term." "is that all that webster says?" the questioner was not ruth, but a man who sat just opposite to them at the table, and while he waited for his order to be filled watched with amused eyes the four gills who were evidently in a new element. he was not a young man, and his gray hairs would have arrested the pertness of the reply on marion's tongue at any other time than this, but you remember that she was not in a good mood. she answered promptly; "yes, sir, he says ever so many things. in fact, he is the most voluminous author i ever read." the gentleman laughed. the pertness seemed to amuse him. "didn't i limit my question?" he said, pleasantly. "he is voluminous, and what a sensible book he has written. i wish all authors had given us so much information. but i meant, is that all he says about hotels? doesn't he justify your friend just a little bit in her expectations?" "i'm sure i don't know," marion said, amused in turn at the good-natured interest which the elderly gentleman took in the question. "he has said so much that i haven't had time to digest it all. if you have, won't you please enlighten me as to his wisdom on this subject?" "'especially one of some style or pretensions,'" quoted the old gentleman, "so webster adds. you see i am interested in the subject," and he laughed pleasantly. "i have been looking it up, which must be my apology for addressing you young ladies, if so old a man as i must apologize for being interested in girls. the fact is, i had occasion to talk with a young man yesterday who took the people to task most roundly for that very name, on the ground that they had no right to it--that it was a misnomer. i have been struck with the thought that nothing is trivial, not even the name that happens to be chosen for a house where one _waits_ for his dinner," with a strong emphasis on the word "wait," which eurie understood and laughed over. "except the remarks that people make about such things," marion said, answering the first part of the sentence and bestowing a wicked glance on ruth. "they are trivial enough. did you agree with the young gentleman?" "no. i thought it all over and consulted webster, as i said, and came to the conclusion that in view of this being a more pretentious house than either of the others they had a right to the word. webster doesn't say what degree of pretension is necessary, you know." the lifting of ruth's eyebrows at this point was so expressive that all the party laughed. but the old gentleman grew grave again in a moment, as he said: "but the thought that impressed me most was what a very perfect system of faith the religion of jesus christ is; how completely it commends itself to the human heart, since the very slightest departure from what is regarded as strictly true and right, when it is done by a christian (society or individual), is noticed and commented upon by lookers-on; they seem to know of a certainty that it is not according to the spirit of christ." this last sentence struck marion dumb. how fond she was of caviling at christian lives! was she really thus giving all the time an unconscious tribute to the truth and purity of the christian faith? it was a merry dinner, after all, eaten with steel forks and without napkins, and with plated spoons, if you were so fortunate as to secure one. the rush of people was very great, and, with their inconvenient accommodations, the process of serving was slow. marion, her eyes being opened, went to studying the people about her. she found that courteous good-humor was the rule, and selfishness and ungraciousness the exception. inconveniences were put up with and merrily laughed over by people who, from their dress and manners, could be accustomed to only the best. marion took mental notes. "they do not act in the least like the mass of people who stop at railroad eating-houses for their dinner; they are patient and courteous under difficulties; they did not come here for the purpose of being entertained; if they did the accommodations wouldn't satisfy." there was another little thing that interested marion. as the tables kept filling, and those who had been served made room for those who had not, she found herself watching curiously what proportion of the guests observed that instant of silent thanks with covered eyes. it was so brief, so slight a thing, i venture that scarcely a person there noticed it, much less imagined that there was a pair of keen gray eyes over in the corner looking and calculating concerning them. "what if they all had to wear badges," she said to herself, "badges that read 'i am a christian,' i wonder how many of them it would influence to different words than they are speaking, or to different acts? i wonder if they _do_ all wear them? i wonder if the distinction is really marked, so one looking on could detect the difference, though all of them are strangers? i mean to watch during these two weeks. 'the proper study of mankind is man.' very well, brother pope, a convenient place for the study of man is chautauqua. i'll take it up. who knows but i may learn a new branch to teach the graded infants in ward no. 4." ruth did not recover her equanimity. she was rasped on every side. those two-tined steel forks were a positive sting to her. she shuddered as the steel touched her lips. she had no spoon at all, and she looked on in utter disgust while eurie merrily stirred her tea with her fork. when the waiter came at last, with hearty apologies for keeping them waiting for their spoons, and the old gentleman said cordially, "all in good time. we shall not starve even if we get no spoons," she curled her lip disdainfully, and murmured that she had always been accustomed to the conveniences of life, and found it somewhat difficult to do without them. when one is in the mood for grumbling there is no easier thing in the world than to find food for that spirit, and ruth continued her pastime, waxing louder and more decided after the genial old man had left their neighborhood. "what is the use in fault-finding?" eurie said at last, half petulantly. she was growing very tired of this exhibition. "what did you expect? they are doing as well as they can, without any doubt. just imagine what it must be to get conveniences together for this vast crowd. they did not expect anything like such a large attendance at first; i heard them say so and that makes it harder to wait upon them. but of course they are doing just as well as they can, and we fare as well as any of them." "don't you be so foolish as to believe that," ruth said, with a curling lip. "if you could see behind the scenes you would soon discover something very different. that is why it is so provoking to me. let people who cannot afford to pay any better take such as they can get. but what right had they to suppose that we had not the money to pay for what we wish? i'm sure _i'm_ not a pauper! you will find that there is a place where the select few can get what they want, and have it served in a respectable manner, and i say i don't like it; i have been accustomed to the decencies of life." just behind them the talk was going on unceasingly, and one voice, at this point, rising higher than the others, caught the attention of our girls. eurie turned suddenly and tried to catch a glimpse of the speaker. something in the voice sounded natural. a sudden movement on the part of the gentleman between them and she caught a glimpse of the face. she turned back eagerly. "girls, that is mrs. schuyler germain!" "where?" ruth asked, with sudden interest in her voice. "over at that table, in a water-proof cloak and black straw hat, and eating boiled potatoes with a steel fork. what about being behind the scenes now, ruthie?" to fully appreciate this you must understand that even among the erskines to get as high as mrs. schulyer germain was to get as high as the aristocracy of this world reached; not that she lived in any grander style than the erskines, or showed that she had more money, but every one knew that her bank accounts were very heavy, and, besides, she was the daughter of gen. wadsworth hillyer, of washington, and the great-granddaughter, by direct descent, of one of england's noblemen. she was traveled and cultivated, and all but titled through her youngest daughter. could american ambition reach higher? and there she sat, at a table made of pine boards, eating boiled potatoes with a two-tined steel fork! could english nobility sink lower! ruth looked over at her in quiet surprise for a moment, and then gave her head its haughty toss as she met eurie's mischievous eyes, and said: "it is not an aristocracy of position here, then. the leaders keep all their nice things and places for themselves. that is smaller than i supposed them to be." at this particular moment there was an uprising from the table just behind them. half a dozen gentlemen leaving their empty plates, and in full tide of talk, making their way down the hall. the girls looked and nudged each other as they recognized them. the younger of the two foremost had a face that can not easily be mistaken, and eurie, having seen it once, did not need marion's low-toned, "that is mr. vincent." and ruth herself, thrown off her guard, recognized and exclaimed over dr. hodge. this climax was too much for eurie. she threw down her fork to clap her hands in softly glee. "oh, ruthie, ruthie! how has your dismal castle of favoritism faded! yonder is the queen of american society eating pie at this very instant with the very fork which did duty on her potato, and here goes the king of the feast, wiping his lips on his own handkerchief instead of a damask napkin." it was at this moment, when ruth's follies and ill humors were rising to an almost unbearable height, that her higher nature asserted itself, and shone forth in a rich, full laugh. then, in much glee and good feeling, they followed the crowd down the hill to the auditorium. for the benefit of such poor benighted beings as have never seen chautauqua, let me explain that the auditorium was the great temple where the congregation assembled for united service. such a grand temple as it was! the pillars thereof were great solemn trees, with their green leaves arching overhead in festoons of beauty. i don't know how many seats there were, nor how many could be accommodated at the auditorium. eurie set out to walk up and down the long aisles one day and count the seats, but she found that which so arrested her attention before she was half-way down the central aisle that she forgot all about it, and there was never any time afterward for that work. i mean to tell you about that day when i get to it. the grand stand was down here in front of all these seats, spacious and convenient, the pillars thereof festooned with flags from many nations. the large piano occupied a central point; the speaker's desk at its feet, in the central of the stand; the reporters' tables and chairs just below. "i ought to have one of those chairs," marion said, as they passed the convenient little space railed off from the rest of the audience. "just as if i were not a real reporter because i write in plain good english, instead of racing over the paper and making queer little tracks that only one person in five thousand can read. if i were not the most modest and retiring of mortals i would go boldly up and claim a seat." "what is to be next?" ruth asked. "are we supposed to be devoted to all these meetings? i thought we were only going to one now and then. we won't be alive in two weeks from now if we pin ourselves down here." "in the way that we have been doing," chimed in eurie. "just think here we have been to every single meeting they have had yet, except the one last night and one this morning." "we are going to skip every one that we possibly can," said marion. "but the one that is to come just now is decidedly the one that we can't. the speaker is dr. calkins, of buffalo. i heard him four years ago, and it is one of the few sermons that i remember to this day. i always said if i ever had another chance i should certainly hear him again. i like his subject this afternoon, too. it is appropriate to my condition." "what is the subject?" flossy asked, with a sudden glow of interest. "it is what a christian can learn from a heathen. i'm the heathen, and i presume dr calkins is the christian. so he is to see what he can learn from me, i take it, and naturally i am anxious to know. flossy isn't interested in that; i can see it from her face. she knows she isn't a heathen--she is a good proper little christian. but it is your duty, my dear, to find what you can learn from me." "what can he possibly make of such a subject as that?" ruth asked, curiously. "i don't believe i want to hear him. is he so very talented, marion?" "i don't know. haven't the least idea whether he is what you call talented or not. he says things exactly as though he knew they were so, and for the time being he makes you feel as though you were a perfect simpleton for not knowing it, too." "and you like to be made to feel like a 'perfect simpleton?' is that the reason you resolved to hear him again?" "i like to meet a man once in a while who knows how to do it, and for the matter of that i wouldn't mind being made to feel the truth of the things that he says, if one could only _stay_ made. it isn't the fault of the preaching that it all feels like a pretty story and nothing else; it is the fault of the wretched practicing that the sheep go home and do. it makes one feel like being an out-and-out goat, and done with it, instead of being such a perfect idiot of a sheep." at this point the talk suddenly ceased, for the leaders began to assemble, and the service commenced. ruth and marion exchanged comic glances when they discovered the "heathen" of the afternoon to be socrates. and marion presently whispered that she was evidently to play the character of the old fellow's wife, and eurie whispered to them both: "now i want to know if that horrid zantippe was socrates' wife! upon my word i never knew it before. she wasn't to blame, after all, for being such a wretch." "what do you mean?" marion whispered back, with scornful eyes. "socrates was the grandest old man that ever lived." "pooh! he wasn't. he didn't know any more than little mites of sunday-school children do nowdays. i never could understand why his philosophy was so remarkable, only that he lived in a heathen country and got ahead of all the rest, but if he were living now he would be a pigmy." "i wish he were," marion said, with her eyes still flashing. "i would like to see such a life as he lived." this girl was a hero worshiper. her cheeks could burn and her eyes glow over the grand stories of old heathen characters, and she could melt to tears over their trials and wrongs. and yet she passed by in haughty silence the sublime life that of all others is the only perfect one on record, and she had no tears to shed over the shameful and pitiful story of the cross. what a strange girl she was! i wonder if it be possible that there are any others like her? chapter viii. "at evening time it shall be bright." meantime flossy shipley came to no place where her heart could rest. she went through that first day at chautauqua in a sort of maze, hearing and yet not hearing, and longing in her very soul for something that she did not hear--that is, she did not hear it distinctly and fairly stated, so that she could grasp it and act upon it; and yet it was shadowed all around her, and hinted at in every word that was uttered, so that it was impossible to forget that there was a great something in which the most of these people were eagerly interested, and which was sealed to her. she felt it dimly all the while that dr. eggleston was speaking; she felt it sensibly when they sang; she felt it in the chance words that caught her ear on every side as the meeting closed--bright, fresh words of greeting, of gladness, of satisfaction, but every one of them containing a ring that she could hear but not copy. what did it mean? and, above all, why did she care what it meant, when she had been happy all her life before without knowing or thinking anything about it? as they went down the hill to dinner, she loitered somewhat behind the others, thinking while they talked. as the throng pressed down around them there came one whose face she instantly recognized; it belonged to the young man who had spoken to her on the boat the evening before. the face recalled the earnest words that he had spoken, and the tone of restful satisfaction in which they were spoken. his face wore the same look now--interested, alert, but _at rest_. she coveted rest. it was clear that he also recognized her, and something in her wistful eyes recalled the words _she_ had spoken. "have you found the father's presence yet?" he asked, with a reverent tone to his voice when he said "the father," and yet with such evident trust and love that the tears started to her eyes. she answered quickly: "no, i haven't. i cannot feel that he is my father." they went down the steps just then, and the crowd rushed in between them, so that neither knew what had become of the other; only that chance meeting; he might never see her again. chautauqua was peculiarly a place where people met for a moment, then lost each other, perhaps for all the rest of the time. "i may never see her again," evan roberts thought, "but i am glad that i said a word to her. i hope in my soul that she will let him find her." if flossy could have heard this unspoken sentence she would have marveled. "let him find her!" why, she was dimly conscious that she was seeking for him, but no such thought had presented itself as that god was really seeking after her. she went on, still falling behind, and trying to hide the rush of feeling that the simple question had called forth. she was very quiet at the dinner table; she was oblivious to steel forks or the want of spoons; these things that had hitherto filled her life and looked of importance to her had strangely dwindled; she was miserably disappointed; she had looked forward to chautauqua as a place where she could have such a "nice" time. that word "nice" was a favorite with her, and surely no one could be having a more wretched time than this; and it was not the rain, either, over which she had been miserable all day yesterday, nor her cashmere dress; she didn't care in the least now whether it cleared or not; and as to her dress, she had torn her silk twice, and it was sadly drabbled, but she did not even care for that; she wanted--what? alas for the daughter of nominally christian parents, living among all the privileges of a cultured christian society, she _did not know what the wanted_. dr. calkins had one eager listener. if he could have picked out her earnest, wistful eyes among that crowd of upturned faces he would have let old socrates go, and given himself heart and soul to the leading of this groping soul into the light. as it was he hovered around it, touching the subject here and there, thrilling her with the possibilities stretching out before her; but he was thinking of and talking all the while to those who had reached after and secured this "something" that to her was still a shadow. now and then the speaker brought the quick tears to her eyes as he referred to those who had followed the teaching of his lips with sympathetic faces and answered the appeal to their hearts with tears; but her tears were different from those--they were the tears of a sick soul, longing for light and help. the entire party ignored the evening meeting. marion declared that her brain whirled now, so great had been the mental strain; ruth was loftily indifferent to any plan that could be gotten up, and eurie's wits were ripe for mischief; flossy's opinion, of course, was not asked, nobody deeming it possible that she could have the slightest desire to go to meeting. in fact, eurie put their desertion on the ground that flossy had been exhausted by the mental effort of the day, and needed to be cheered and petted. she on her part was silent and wearily indifferent; she did not know what to do with her heavy heart, and felt that she might as soon walk down by the lake shore as do anything else; so down to the shore they went, and gave themselves up to the full enjoyment of the novel scene--an evening in the woods, great, glowing lights on every side, great companies of people passing to and fro, boats touching at the wharves and sending up group after group to the central attraction, the grand stand; singing, music by thousands of voices ringing down to them as they loitered under the trees on the rustic seats. "i declare, it must be nice in heaven for a little while." it was eurie who made this somewhat startling discovery and announcement after a lull had fallen upon their mirth. "have you been there to see?" illogically asked marion, as she threw a tiny stone into the water and watched the waves quiver and ripple. eurie laughed. "not quite, but this must be a little piece of it--this music, i mean. i am almost tempted to make an effort after the real thing. how exquisitely those voices sound! i'm very certain i should enjoy the music, whether i should be able to get along with the rest of the programme or not. what on earth do you suppose they do there all the time, anyway?" "where?" "why, in heaven, of course; that is what i was talking about. i believe you are half asleep, flossy shipley; you mustn't go to sleep out here; it isn't quite heaven yet, and you will take cold. honestly, girls, isn't it a sort of wonderment to you how the people up there can employ their time? in spite of me i cannot help feeling that it must be rather stupid; think of never being able to lie down and take a nap!" "or read a novel," added marion. "isn't that your favorite employment when you are awake, eurie? i'm sure i don't know much about the occupations of the place; i'm not posted; there is nothing about it laid down in our geography; and, in fact, the people who seem to be expecting to spend their lives there are unaccountably mum about it. i don't at this moment remember hearing any one ever express a downright opinion, and i have always thought it rather queer. i asked nellie wheden about it one day when she was going on about her expected tour in europe. she had bored me to death, making me produce all my geographic and historic lore for her benefit; and suddenly i thought of an expedient for giving myself a little peace and a chance to talk about something else. 'come, nellie,' i said, 'one good turn deserves another. i have told you everything i can think of that can possibly be of interest to you about europe; now give me some information about the other place where you are going. you must have laid up a large stock of information in all these years.'" "what on earth did she say?" ruth asked, curiously, while eurie was in great glee over the story. "she was as puzzled as if i had spoken to her in greek. 'what in the world can you be talking about?' she said. 'i'm not going anywhere else that i know of. my head has been full of europe for the last year, and i haven't talked nor thought about any other journey.' well, i enlightened her as to her expectations, and what do you think she said? you wouldn't be able to guess, so i'll tell you. she said i was irreverent, and that no one who respected religion would ask such questions as that, and she actually went off in a huff over my wickedness. so, naturally, i have been chary of trying to get information on such 'reverent' subjects ever since." whereupon all these silly young ladies laughed long and heartily over this silly talk. flossy laughed with the rest, partly from the force of habit and partly because this recital struck her as very foolish. every one of them saw its inconsistent side as plainly as though they had been christians for years; more plainly, perhaps, for it is very strange what blinded eyes we can get under certain systems of living the religious faith. presently the society of these young ladies palled upon themselves, and they agreed one with another that they had been very silly not to go to meeting, and that another evening they would at least discover what was being said before they lost the opportunity for getting seats. "stupid set!" said eurie "who imagined that the crowd would do such a silly thing as to rush to that meeting, as if there were nothing else to do but to go flying off for a seat the moment the bell rings? i thought there would be crowds out here, and we would make some pleasant acquaintances, and perhaps get a chance to take a boat ride." and so, in some disgust, they voted to bring the first day at chautauqua to a sudden close and try tent life. silence and darkness reigned in the tent where our girls had disposed of themselves. it was two hours since they had come in. it took more than an hour, and much talking and more laughter, not to mention considerable grumbling on ruth's part, before everything was arranged to their satisfaction--or, as ruth expressed it, "to their endurance" for the night. three of the girls were sleeping quietly, their fun and their discontents alike forgotten, but flossy tossed wearily on her bed, turned her pillow and turned it back again, and sought in vain for a quiet spot. with the silence and the darkness her unrest had come upon her again with tenfold force. she felt no nearer a solution of her trouble than she had in the morning; in fact, the pain had deepened all day, and the only definite feeling she had about it now was that she could not live so; that something must be done; that she must get back to her home and her old life, where she might hope to forged it all and be at peace again. into the quiet of the night came a firm, manly step, and the movement of chairs right by her side, so at least it seemed to her. all unused to tent life as she was a good deal startled she raised herself on one elbow and looked about her in a frightened way before she realized that the sounds came from the tent next to theirs. before her thoughts were fairly composed they were startled anew; this time with the voice of prayer. very distinct the words were on this still night air; every sentence as clear as though it had really been spoken in the same tent. now, there was something peculiar in the voice; clearly cut and rounded the words were, like that of a man very decided, very positive in his views, and very earnest in his life. there was also a modulation to the syllables that flossy could not describe, but that she felt and she knew that she had heard that voice twice before, once on the boat the evening before and once as they jostled together in the crowd on their way to dinner. she felt sorry to be unwittingly a listener to a prayer that the maker evidently thought was being heard only by his savior. but she could not shut out the low and yet wonderfully distinct sentences, and presently she ceased to wish to, for it became certain that he was praying for her. he made it very plain. he called her "that young girl who said to-day that she could not think of thee as her father; who seems to want to be led by the hand to thee." did you ever hear yourself prayed for by an earnest, reverent, pleading voice? then perhaps you know something of flossy's feelings as she lay there in the darkness. she had never heard any one pray for her before. so destitute was she of real friends that she doubted much whether there were one person living who had ever before earnestly asked god to make her his child. that was what this prayer was asking. she lifted the white sleeve of her gown, and wiped away tear after tear as the pleading voice went on. very still she was. it seemed to her that she must not lose a syllable of the prayer, for here at last was the help she had been seeking, blindly, and without knowing that she sought, all this long, heavy day. help? yes, plain, clear, simple help. how small a thing it seemed to do! "show her her need of thee, blessed jesus," thus the prayer ran. and oh! _hadn't_ he showed her that? it flashed over her troubled brain then and there: "it is jesus that i need. it is he who can help me. i believe he can. i believe he is the only one who can." this was her confession of faith. "then lead her to ask the help of thee that she needs. just to come to thee as the little child would go to her mother, and say, 'jesus, take me; make me thy child.'" only that? was it such a little, _little_ thing to do? how wonderful! the praying ceased, and the young man who had remembered the stranger to whom god had given him a chance to speak during the day, all unconscious that other ear than god's had heard his words of prayer, laid himself down to quiet sleep. flossy lay very still. the rain had ceased during the afternoon, and now some solemn stars were peeping in through the chinks in the tent and the earth was moon-lighted. she raised herself on one elbow and looked around on her companions. how soundly asleep they were! another few minutes of stillness and irresolution. then a white-robed figure slipped softly and quietly to the floor and on her knees, and a low-whispered voice repeated again and again these words: "jesus, take me; make me thy child." it wasn't very long afterward that she lay quietly down on her pillow, and earth went on exactly as if nothing at all had happened--knew nothing at all about it--even the sleeper by her side was totally ignorant of the wonderful tableau that had been acted all about her that evening. but if eurie mitchell could have had one little peep into heaven just then what _would_ her entranced soul have thought of the music and the enjoyment there? for what _must_ it be like when there is "joy in the presence of the angels in heaven"? chapter ix. fleeing. the next morning every one of them ran away from the meeting. the way of it was this: as they came up from breakfast and stood at the tent-door discussing the question whether they would go to the early meeting, mrs. duane smithe passed, glanced up at them carelessly, then looked back curiously, and at last turned and came back to them. "i beg pardon," she said, "but isn't this miss erskine? it surely is! i thought i recognized your face, but couldn't be sure in these strange surroundings. and you have a party with you? how delightful! we were just wishing for more ladies. i really don't think it is going to rain much to-day, and we have a lovely prospect in view. you must certainly join us." then followed introductions and explanations, mrs. duane smithe was a saratoga acquaintance of ruth erskine, and was _en route_ for jamestown for the day. "where is jamestown?" queried eurie, who was a very useful member of society, in that she never pretended knowledge that she did not possess, so that you had only to keep still and listen to the answers that were made to her questions in order to know a good deal. "it is at the head of this lovely little lake, or at the foot, i'm sure i don't know which way to call it, and it is nothing of consequence, of course, but the ride thither is said to be charming, and we are going to take a lunch, and picnic in a private way, just for the fun of getting together, you know, in a more social manner than one can accomplish in this wilderness of people. isn't it a queer place, miss erskine? i am dying to know how you happened to come here." ruth arched her eyebrows. "i confess it is almost as strange as what brought _you_ here," she said, smiling. "i can answer that in an instant. i have a ridiculous nephew here, who thought that a week of meetings from morning to night would be just a trifle short of paradise, so what did he do but smuggle us all off this way. i shall find it a bore, of course, and the only way to get through with it is to have little pleasure excursions like the one we propose to-day." now you know as much about mrs. duane smithe as though i should write about her for a week. it is strange how little we have to say before we have explained to people not only our intellectual but our moral status. our girls, you will remember, had as little regard for the meetings as girls could have, and they had by this time begun to feel themselves in a strange atmosphere, without acquaintances or gentlemanly attentions, so it took almost no persuasion at all to induce them to join mrs. smithe's party, composed of two young ladies and four young gentlemen. it would be difficult to explain to you what a disappointment the decision to spend the day in frolic, instead of going to the meetings, was to flossy. all the morning her heart had been in a great flutter of happiness over the beautiful day that stretched out before her. to meet those earnest, eager people again, to hear those hymns, to hear the voice of prayer all about her, to hear the constant allusions that were so strange and so saddening to her yesterday, and that now she understood, how blessed it would be! she had gone about the bewilderments of her toilet in a tent with a serenely happy face, and almost unawares had hummed the refrain of a tune that had already shown itself a favorite at chautauqua. "flossy is like herself this morning," eurie said, as she heard the happy little song. "i think she has recovered from her home-sickness." tents are not convenient places in which to make private remarks. flossy overheard this one and smiled to herself. yes, she had gotten over her home-sickness--she had found home. she gave a little exclamation of dismay as she heard the plannings for the day, and said: "but, ruth, what about the meetings?" "well," ruth had said, with her most provokingly nonchalant air, "i haven't made any inquiry, but i presume they will continue them all day just the same as if we were here. i don't _think_ they will change the programme on our account." and eurie had added, mischievously: "flossy is afraid it is not the aristocratic thing to do, not to stay to all the meetings." "oh, as to that," mrs. smithe had said (she was one of those interesting people who always take remarks seriously), "i assure you it is what the first people on the ground are doing. of course none of them would be so absurd as to think of attending meetings all the time. the brain wouldn't endure such a strain." "of course not," marion had answered with gravity, "my brain is already very tired. i think yours must be exhausted." flossy meditated a daring resolution to stay behind and take her "rest" in the way she coveted; but the impossibility of explaining what would appear to the others as merely an ill-natured freak, and occasion no end of talk, deterred her, and with slow, reluctant steps she followed the merry group down to the wharf. if those people had stopped long enough to think of it, this disposal of themselves would have had its ludicrous side. certainly it was a strange fancy to run away twenty miles with lunches done up in paper in search of a picnic, when chautauqua was one great picnic ground, stretching out before them in beauty and convenience. but the entire group belonged to that class of people for whom the fancy of the moment, whatever it may be, has infinite charms. there was plenty of room on the colonel phillips. very few people were traveling in that direction. "it is really queer," the captain was overheard to say, "to take a party _away_ from the grounds at this hour of the day." "what an enthusiastic set of people they are about here," eurie said to mr. rawson, one of mrs. smithe's party, as they paced the deck together. "the people all talk and act as though there was nowhere to go and nothing to do but attend those meetings. for my part it is a real relief to have a change in the programme." "do you find it so?" he asked. "well, now, i don't agree with you. i think this proceeding is a real bore. my respected aunt is always getting up absurd freaks, and this is one of them, and the worst one, in my opinion, that she has had for some time. i wanted to go to those meetings to-day--some of them, at least. one isn't obliged to be there every minute. but it looks badly to run away." eurie eyed him closely. "are you the 'good nephew' that your aunt said thought these meetings only a step below paradise?" she asked, at last. "i wonder you would consent to come." mr. rawson flushed deeply. "i am not the 'good nephew' at all," he said, trying to laugh. "the 'good one' wouldn't come. my aunt tried all her powers of persuasion on him in vain. but the truth is her eloquence, or her persistence, proved too much for me, though i don't like the looks of it, and i don't feel the pleasure of it, and i am afraid i shall make anything but an agreeable addition to the party. now that is being frank, isn't it, when i am walking the deck with a young lady?" "i don't see why that circumstance should make it a surprising thing that you are frank. but i am very sorry for you; perhaps you might prevail on the captain to put you off now, and let you swim back; you could get there in time for the sermon. is there to be a sermon? what _is_ it you are so anxious to hear?" "all of it," he said gloomily. "i beg your pardon for being in so disagreeable a mood; it is defrauding you out of some of your expected pleasure to have a dismal companion. but as i have commenced by being frank i may as well continue. i am dissatisfied with myself. i ought not to have come on this excursion. the truth is, i meant to make chautauqua a help to me. i need the help badly enough. i am in the rush and whirl of business all the time at home. this is the only two weeks in the year that i am free, and i wanted to make it a great spiritual help to me. i know very well that merely hovering around in such an atmosphere as that at chautauqua is a help to the christian, and i came with the full intention of taking in all that i could get of this sort of inspiration, and it chafes me that so early in the meeting i have been led away against my inclinations by a little pressure that i might have resisted, and done no harm to any one. my cousin had the same sort of influence brought to bear on him, and it had no more effect on him than it would on a stone." he stopped, and seemed to give eurie a chance to answer, but she was not inclined, and he added, as if he had just thought his words an implied reproach: "i can understand how, to you young ladies of comparative leisure, with plenty of time to cultivate the spiritual side of your natures, it should seem an unnecessary and perhaps a wearisome thing to attend all these meetings; but you can not understand what it is to be in the whirl of business life, never having time to think, hardly having time to pray, and to get away from it all and go to heaven, as it were, for a fortnight, is something to be coveted by us as a great help." once more he waited for eurie's answer, but it was very different from what he had seemed to expect. "you might just as well talk to me in the greek language; i should understand quite as well what you have been saying; i don't think _i have_ any spiritual side to my nature; at least it has never been cultivated if i have; and chautauqua to me is just the place in which to have a good free easy time; go where i like and stay as long as i like; and for once in my life not be bound by conventional forms. if heaven is anything like that i shouldn't object to it; but i'm sure your and my idea of it would differ. there, i've been frank now, and shocked you, i know. i see it in every line of your face. poor fellow! i don't know what you will do, for there isn't a single one of us who has the least idea what you mean by that sort of talk, unless you have some young ladies of a different type in your party, and from their manner i rather doubt it." she had shocked him. he looked not only pained but puzzled. "i am very sorry," he stammered. "i mean surprised. yes, and disappointed. of course i am that. i think i had imagined that it was only christians who could be attracted to chautauqua at all; i meant to come to stay through all the services." "your aunt, for instance?" eurie said, inquiringly. "my aunt is a christian," he answered, "and a sincere one, too, though i see for some reason you don't think so. there are degrees in christianity, miss mitchell, just as there are in amiability, or culture, or beauty." "mr. rawson!" called a voice from the other end at this moment, and he in obedience to the call found eurie a seat near some of her party and went away, only stopping to say, in low tones: "i am sorry it is all 'greek' to you; you would enjoy understanding it, i am sure." it so happened that those two people did not exchange another word together that day, but eurie had got her thrust when and where she least expected it. she had taken it for granted that not a single fanatic was of their party. in the secret of her wise heart she denominated all the earnest people at chautauqua fanatics, and all the half-hearted people hypocrites. only she, who stood outside and felt nothing, was sincere and wise. meantime marion had undertaken a strange task. mr. charlie flint was the gentleman who had drawn his chair near her, and said, as he drew a long breath: "it is exceedingly pleasant to breathe air once more that isn't heavy with psalm singing i think they are running that thing a little too steep over there. who imagined that they were going to have meeting every minute in the day and evening, and give nobody a chance to breathe?" "have they exhausted you already?" marion asked. "let me see, this is the morning of the second day, is it not?" "oh, as to myself, i was exhausted before i commenced it. i am only speaking a word for the lunatics who think they enjoy it. i am one of the victims to our cousin's whim. he expects to get me converted here, i think, or something of that sort." "i wouldn't be afraid of it," marion said, in disgust. "i don't believe there is the least danger." mr. charlie chose to consider this as a compliment, and bowed and smiled, and said: "thanks. now tell me why, please." "you don't look like that class of people who are affected in that way." he was wonderfully interested, and begged at once to know why. marion had it in her heart to say, "because they all look as though they had some degree of brain as well as body," but even she had a little regard left for feelings; so she contented herself with saying, savagely: "oh, they, as a rule, are the sort of people who think there is something in life worth doing and planning for, and you look as though that would be too much trouble." now, mr. charlie by no means liked to be considered devoid of energy, so he said: "oh, you mistake. i think there are several things worth doing. but this eternal going to meeting, and whining over one's soul, is not to my taste." "you think that it is more worth your while to take ladies out to ride and walk, and carry their parasols and muffs for them, and things of that sort. since we are made for the purpose of staying here and showing our fine clothes for all eternity, of course it is foolish to have anything to do with one's soul, that can only last for a few years or so!" she hardly realized herself the intense scorn there was in her voice, and as for charlie flint he muttered to himself: "upon my word, she is one of them; of the bitterest sort, too! what in creation is she doing here? why didn't she stay there and preach?" chapter x. how the "flitting" ended. as for ruth erskine, if she had been asked whether she was enjoying the day, she would hardly have known what answer to make; she could not even tell why the excursion was not in every respect all that it had promised in the morning. she had no realization of how much the atmosphere of the day before lingered around her, and made her notice the contrast between the people of yesterday and the people of to-day. mrs. smithe, if she were a christian, as her nephew insisted, was one of the most unfortunate specimens of that class for ruth erskine to meet; because she was a woman who entered into pleasure and fashion, and entertainments of all sorts, with zest and energy and only in matters of religious interest seemed to lose all life and zeal. now ruth erskine, calm as a summer morning herself over all matters pertaining to the souls of people in general, and her own in particular, was yet exceedingly fond of seeing other people act in a manner that she chose to consider consistent with their belief; therefore she despised mrs. smithe for what she was pleased to term her "hypocrisy." at the same time, while at saratoga, she had quite enjoyed her society. they rode together on fine mornings, sipped their "congress" together before lunch, and attended hops together in the evenings. now the reason why mrs. smithe's society had so suddenly palled upon her, and the words that she was pleased to call "conversation" become such vapid things, ruth did not know, and did not for one instant attribute to chautauqua; and yet that meeting had already stamped its impression upon her. from serene, indifferent heights she liked to look down upon and admire earnestness; therefore chautauqua, despite all her disgust over the common surroundings and awkward accommodations, had pleased her fancy and arrested her attention more than she herself realized. it was her fate to be thrown almost constantly with mrs. smithe during the day, and before the afternoon closed she was surfeited. she heartily wished herself back to the grounds, and found herself wondering what they were singing, and whether the service of song was really very interesting. one episode in her day had interested her, and she could not tell whether it had most amused or annoyed her. one of their party was conversing with a gentleman as she came up. she had just time to observe that he was young and fine-looking, when the two turned to her, and she was introduced to the stranger. "you are from chautauqua?" he said, speaking rapidly and earnestly. "grand meeting, isn't it? going to be better than last year, i think. were you there? no? then you don't know what a treat you are to have. i'm very sorry to lose to-day. it has been a good day, i know. the programme was rich; but a matter of business made it necessary to be away. it is unfortunate for me that i am so near home. if i were two or three hundred miles away where the business couldn't reach me, i should get more benefit. miss erskine, what is your opinion of the direct spiritual results of this gathering? i do not mean upon christians. no one, of course, can doubt its happy influence upon our hearts and lives. but i mean, are you hopeful as to the reaching of many of the unconverted, or do you consider its work chiefly among us?" such a volley of words? they fairly poured forth! and the speaker was so intensely in earnest, and so assured in his use of that word "we," as if it were a matter that was entirely beyond question that she was one of the magic "we." she did not know how to set out to work to enlighten him. in fact, she gave little thought to that part of the matter, but, instead, fell to wondering what _was_ her idea--whether she did expect to see results of any sort from the great gathering, and that being the case, what she expected? "spiritual results," she said to herself, and a smile hovered over her face--what _were_ "spiritual results?" she knew nothing about them. _were_ there any such things? eurie mitchell, had such a question occurred to her, would have asked it aloud at once and enjoyed the sense of shocking her auditor. but ruth did not like to shock people; she was too much of a lady for that. "what proportion of that class of people are here, do you think?" she said, at last. "are not the most of them professing christians?" "precisely the question that interests me. i should really like to know. i wonder if there is no way of coming at it? we might call for a rising vote of all who loved the lord; could we not? wouldn't it be a beautiful sight?--a great army standing up for him! i incline to your opinion that the most of them are christians, or at least a large proportion. but i should very much like to know just how far this idea had touched the popular heart, so as to call out those who are not on the lord's side." "they would simply have come for the fun of the thing, or the novelty of it," she said, feeling amused again that almost of necessity she was speaking of herself and using the pronoun "they." what would this gentleman think if he should bring about that vote of which he spoke and happen to see her among the seated ones? "'a wolf in sheep's clothing' he would suppose me to be," she said to herself. "but i am sure i have not told him that i belong to the 'we' at all. if he chooses to assume things in that way, it is not my fault." apparently he answered both her expressed sentence and her thought: "i do not think so," he said, earnestly. "i doubt if any have come simply for fun or for novelty. there are better places in which to gratify both tastes. i believe there is more actual interest in this subject, even among the unconverted, than many seem to think. they are reasonable beings. they must think, and many of them, no doubt, think to good purpose. it may not be clear even to themselves for what they have come; but i believe in some instances, to say the least, it will prove to have been the call of the spirit." again ruth felt herself forced to smile, not at the earnestness--she liked that, but there was her party, and she rapidly reviewed them--marion, with her calm, composed, skeptical views, indifferent alike to the christian or unchristian way of doing things; eurie, who lived and breathed for the purpose of having what in wild moments she called "a high time;" flossy with her dainty wardrobe, and her dainty ways, and her indifference to everything that demanded thought or care. which of them had been "called by the spirit"? there was herself, and for the time she gave a little start. what had _she_ come to chautauqua for? after all she was the only one who seemed to be absolutely without a reason for being there. marion's avowed intention had been to make some money; eurie's to have a free and easy time; flossy had come as she did everything else, because "they" did. but now, what about ruth erskine? she was not wont to do as others did, unless it happened to please her. what had been her motive? it was strange to feel that she really did not know. what if this strange speaking young man were right, and she had been singled out by the spirit of god! the thought gave her a thrill, not of pleasure, but of absolute, nervous fear. what did she know of that gracious spirit? what did she know of christ? to her there was no beauty in him. she desired simply to be left alone. she was silent so long that her companion gave her a very searching review from under his heavy eyebrows, and then his face suddenly lighted as if he had solved a problem. "may i venture to prophesy that you have some friend here whom you would give much to feel had been drawn here by the very spirit of god?" he spoke the words eagerly and with earnestness, but with utmost respect, and added, "if i am right i will add the name to my list for special prayer. do not think me rude, please. i know how pleasant it is to feel there is a union of desire in prayer. i have enjoyed that help often. we do not always need to know who those are for whom we pray. god knows them, and that is the needful thing. good-evening. i am glad to have met you. it is pleasant to have additions to our list of fellow-heirs." how bright his smile was as he said those words! and how thoroughly manly and yet how strikingly childlike had been his words and his trust! ruth watched him as he walked rapidly away to overtake a friend who had just passed them. do you remember a certain gentleman, harold wayne by name, who had walked with them, walked especially with ruth, down to the depot on the morning of departure, who had toyed with her fan and complained that he could not imagine what they were going to bury themselves out there for? ruth thought of him now, and the contrast between his lazily exquisite air and drawling words and the fresh, earnest life that glowed in this young man's veins brought a positive quiver of disgust over her handsome face. there was no shadow of a smile upon it now. instead, she felt a nameless dread. how strange the talk had been! to what had she committed herself by her silence and his blunders? _she_ pray for any one! what a queer thing that would be to do. _she_ anxious that any one should be led by the spirit of god! the spirit of god frightened her. for whom would this young man pray? not certainly for any friend of hers; yet he would put the name of some stranger in his prayers. he was thoroughly in earnest, and he was the sort of a man to do just what he said. god, he had said, would understand whom he meant. for whom would god count those prayers? for her? and that thought also frightened her. "they are all lunatics, i verily believe, from the leaders to the followers," she said in irritation, and then she wished herself at home. during the remainder of the day she was engaged in trying to shake off the impression that the stranger had left upon her. go where she would, say what she might, and she really exerted herself to be brilliant and entertaining, there followed her around the memory of those great, earnest eyes when he said, "i will add the name to my list for special prayer." what name? he knew hers. he would say, doubtless, "her friend for whom she was anxious." but the one to whom he prayed would know there was no such person. what would _he_ do with that earnest prayer? for she knew it would be earnest. she was not used to theological mazes, and if ever a girl was heartily glad when a day of pleasuring was over, and the boat had touched again at the chautauqua wharf, it was ruth erskine. as for flossy, it so happened that charlie flint, after marion had startled and disgusted him, sought refuge with her. she was pretty and dainty, and did not look strong-minded; not in the least as if her forte was to preach, so he made ready to have a running fire of small talk with her. this had been flossy's power in conversation for several years. he had judged her rightly there. but do you remember with whom her morning had commenced? do you know that all the day thus far she had seemed to herself to be shadowed by a glorious presence, who walked steadily beside her, before her, on either hand, to shield, and help and bless? it was very sweet to flossy, and she was very happy; happier than she had ever been in her life. she smiled to herself as the others chatted, she hummed in undertone the refrain of a hymn that she had caught in a near tent that morning: "i am so glad that jesus loves me." _wasn't_ she glad! was there anything better to find in all this world than the assurance of this truth? she felt that the thought was large enough to fill heaven itself. after that, what hope was there for charlie flint and his small talk? still, he tried it, and if ever he did hard work it was during that talk. flossy was sweet and cheery, but preoccupied. there was a tantalizingly pleasant smile on her face, as if her thoughts might be full of beauty, but none of them seemed to appear in her words. she did not flush over his compliments, nor was she disturbed at his bantering. he got out of all patience. "i beg pardon," he said, in his flippantly gallant way, "but i'm inclined to think you are very selfish; you are having your enjoyment all to yourself. to judge by the face which you have worn all day your heart is bubbling over with it, and yet you think about it instead of giving me a bit." flossy looked up with a shy, sweet smile that was very pleasant to see, and the first blush he had been able to call forth that day glowed on her cheeks. was it true? she questioned within herself. was she being selfish in this, her new joy? ought she to try to tell him about it? would he understand? and could she speak about such things, anyway? she didn't know how. she shrank from it, and yet perhaps it would be so pleasant to him to know. no, on the whole, she did not think it would be pleasant. they had not talked of the meetings nor of religious matters at all; but for all that the subtle magnetism that there is about some people had told her that charlie flint would not sympathize in her new hopes and joys. well, if that were so, ought she not all the more to tell him, so that he might know that to one more person christ had proved himself a reality, and not the spiritual fancy that he used to seem to her? flossy, you see, was taking long strides that first day of her christian experience, and was reaching farther than some christians reach who have been practicing for years. something told her that here was a chance of witnessing for the one who had just saved her. she thought these thoughts much more quickly than it has taken me to write them, and then she spoke: "have i been selfish? i do not know but i have. it is all so utterly new that i hardly know how i am acting; but it is true that my heart has been as light as a bird's all day. the truth is, i have found a friend here at chautauqua who has just satisfied me." "have you indeed!" said mr. charlie, giving, in spite of his well-bred effort to quell it, an amused little laugh. and in his heart he said, "what a ridiculous little mouse she is! i wonder if they have the wedding day set already, and if she will announce it to me?" then aloud: "how very fortunate you have been! i wish i could find a friend so easily as that! i wonder if i am acquainted with him? would you mind telling me his name?" and then flossy answered just one word in a low voice that was tremulous with feeling, and at the same time wonderfully clear, and with a touch of joy in it that would not be suppressed, "jesus." then it was that the exquisite young fop at her side was utterly dumbfounded. he could not remember ever before in his life being so completely taken by surprise and dismay that he had not a word to answer. but this time he said not a single word. he did not even attempt an answer, but paced the length of the deck beside her in utter and confused silence, then abruptly seated her, still in silence, and went hurriedly away. flossy, occupied with the rush of feeling that this first witnessing for the new name called forth, gave little heed to his manner, and was indifferent to his departure. he was right as to one thing. her love was still selfish: it was so new and sweet to her that it occupied all her heart, and left no room as yet for the outside world who knew not this friend of hers. they were almost at the dock now, and the glimmer of the chautauqua lights was growing into a steady brightness. as she stood leaning over the boat's side and watching the play of the silver waves, there brushed past her one who seemed to be very quietly busy. one hand was full of little leaflets, and he was dropping one on each chair and stool as he passed. she glanced at the one nearest her and read the title: "the true friend," and it brought an instant flush of brightness to her face to understand those words and feel that the friend was hers. then she glanced at the worker and recognized his face. he had prayed for her. she could not forget _that_ face. it was plain also that his eyes fell on her. he knew her, and something in her face prompted the low-toned sentence as he paused before her: "you have found the father, i think." and flossy, with brightening eyes, answered, quickly, "yes, i have." and then the boat touched at the wharf, and the crowd elbowed their way out. there were two opinions expressed about that excursion by two gentlemen as they made their way up the avenue. one of the gentleman was clerical, and spectacled, and solemn. "there go a boat-load of excursionists," he said to his companion. "they come, as likely as not delegates, from some church or sabbath-school, and the way they do their work is to go off for a frolic and be gone all day. i saw them when i left this morning. that is a specimen of a good deal of the dissipation that is going on here under the guise of religion. i don't know about it; sometimes i am afraid more harm than good will be done." the other speaker was mr. charlie flint, and as he rushed past these two he said to _his_ companion, "confound it all! talk about getting away from these meetings! it's no use; it can't be done. a fellow might just as well stay here and run every time the bell rings. i heard more preaching to-day on this excursion than i did yesterday; and a good deal more astonishing preaching, too." chapter xi. heart touches. marion gave her hair an energetic twist as she made her toilet the next morning, and announced her determination. "this day is to be devoted conscientiously to the legitimate business that brought me to this region. yesterday's report will have to be copied from the buffalo papers, or made out of my own brain. but i'm going to work to-day. i have a special interest in the programme for this morning. the subject for the lecture just suits me." "what is it?" eurie asked, yawning, and wishing there was another picnic in progress. neither heart nor brain were particularly interested in chautauqua. "why, it is 'the press and the sunday-school.' of course the press attracts me, as i intend to belong to the staff when i get through teaching young ideas." "but what about the sunday-school?" ruth questioned, with a calm voice. "you can not be expected to have any special interest in that. you never go to such an institution, do you?" "i was born and brought up in one. but that isn't the point. the subject to-day is sunday-school literature, i take it. the subject is strung together, 'the press and the sunday-school,' without any periods between them, and i'm exceedingly interested in that, for just as soon as i get time i'm going to write a sunday-school book." this announcement called forth bursts of laughter from all the girls. "why not?" marion said, answering the laugh. "i hope you don't intimate that i can't do it. i don't know anything easier to do. you just have to gather together the most improbable set of girls and boys, and rack your brains for things that they never _did_ do, or _could_ do, or _ought_ to do, and paste them all together with a little 'good talk,' and you have your book, as orthodox as possible. do any of you know anything about dr. walden? he is the speaker. i presume he is as dry as a stick, and won't give me a single idea that i can weave into my book. i'm going to begin it right away. girls, i'm going to put you all in, only i can't decide which shall be the good one. flossy, do you suppose there is enough imagination in me to make you into a book saint? they always have a saint, you know." there was a pretty flush on flossy's cheek, but she answered, brightly: "you might try, marion, and i'll engage to practice on the character, if it is really and truly a good one." "i had a glimpse of dr. walden," eurie said, answering the question. "he was pointed out to me yesterday. he looked dignified enough to write a theological review. _i'm_ not going to hear him. what's the use? i came for fun, and i'm going in search of it all this day. i have studied the programme, and there is just one thing that i'm going to attend, and that is frank beard's 'chalk talk.' i know that will be capital, and he won't bore one with a sermon poked in every two minutes." so the party divided for the day. marion and ruth went to the stand, and flossy strayed to a side tent, and what happened to her you shall presently hear. eurie wandered at her fancy, and enjoyed a "stupid time," so she reported. marion's pencil moved rapidly over the paper almost as soon as dr. walden commenced, until presently she whispered in dismay to ruth: "i do wish he would say something to leave out! this letter will be fearfully long. how sharp he is, isn't he?" then she scribbled again. ruth had the benefit of many side remarks. "my!" marion said, with an accompanying grimace. "what an army of books! all for sunday-schools. three millions given out every sunday! does that seem possible! brother hart, i'm afraid you are mistaken. didn't he say that was dr. hart's estimate, ruthie? there is certainly a good chance for mine, if so many are needed every week. i shall have to go right to work at it. what if i _should_ write one, ruth, and what if it should _take_, and all the millions of sunday-schools want it at once! just as likely as not. i am a genius. they never know it until afterward. i shall certainly put you in, ruthie, in some form. so you are destined to immortality, remember." "i wish you wouldn't whisper so much," whispered back ruth. "people are looking at us in an annoyed way. what is the matter with you, marion? i never knew you to run on in such an absurd way. that is bad enough for eurie!" "i'm developing," whispered marion. "it is the 'reflex influence of chautauqua' that you hear so much about." then she wrote this sentence from dr. walden's lips: "every author whose books go into the sabbath-school is as much a teacher in that school as though he had classes there. a good book is a book that will aid the teacher in his work of bringing souls to christ. i have known the earnest teaching of months to be defeated by one single volume of the wrong kind being placed in the hands of the scholar." suddenly marion sat upright, slipped her pencil and note-book into her pocket, and wrote no more. a sentence in that address had struck home. this determination to enter the lists as a writer was not all talk. she had long ago decided to turn her talents in that direction as the easiest thing in the line of literature, whither her taste ran. she had read many of the standard sunday-school books; read them with amused eyes and curling lips, and felt entirely conscious that she could match them in intellectual power and interest, and do nothing remarkable then. but there rang before her this sentence: "every author whose books go into the sabbath-school is as much a teacher in that school as though he had classes there." a teacher in the sabbath-school! actually a _teacher_. she had never intended that. she had no desire to be a hypocrite. she had no desire to lead astray. _could_ she write a book that young people ought to bring from the sabbath-school with them, and have it say nothing about christ and heaven and the christian life? surely she could not be a teacher without teaching of these things. _must_ she teach them incidentally? was saying nothing about them speaking against them? dr. walden more than intimated this. "after all," she said, speaking to ruth as the address closed, "i don't think i shall commence my book yet." "why?" "oh, because i am sacred." then, impatiently, after a moment's silence, during which they changed their seats, "i'm disgusted with chautauqua! it is going to spoil me. i feel my ambition oozing out at the ends of my toes, instead of my fingers as i had designed. everybody is so awfully solemn, and has so much to say about eternity, it seems we can't whisper to each other without starting something that doesn't even end in eternity. but, wasn't he logical and eloquent?" "i don't know," ruth said, absently. and she wondered if marion knew how true her words were. ruth had heard scarcely a word of dr. walden's address since that last whisper, "so you are destined to immortality, remember." words spoken in jest, and yet thrilling her through and through with a solemn meaning. she had always known and always believed this. she was no skeptic, yet her heart had never taken it in, with a great throb of anxiety, as it did at that moment. _was_ she being led of the spirit of god? the two merely changed their positions and looked about them a little, and then prepared to give attention to the next entertainment, which was a story from emily huntington miller. marion was the only one who was in the least familiar with her, she being the only one who had felt that absorbing interest in juvenile literature that had led her to keep pace with the times. "i'm disposed to listen to _her_ with all due respect and attention," she said, as she rearranged herself and got out her note-book. "she is one of the few people who seem not to have bidden a solemn farewell to their common sense when they set out to entertain the children. i have read everything she ever wrote, and liked it, too. i set out to make an idol of her in my more juvenile days. i used to think that the height of my ambition would be attained if i could have a long look at her. i'm going to try it to-day, and see if it satisfies me; though we are such aspiring and unsatisfied creatures that i strongly suspect i shall go on reaching out for something else even after _this_ experience." very little whispering was done after that for some time. although marion made light of her youthful dreams, there was a strong feeling of excitement and interest clustering around this first sight of the woman whose name she had known so long; and something in the fair, sweet face and cultured voice fascinated and held her, much as she had fancied in her earlier days would be the case. she frowned when she heard the request to reporters to "lay aside their pencils." she had meant to earn laurels by reporting this delicious bit of imagery, set in between the graver sermons and lectures; but, after all, it was a rest to give herself up to the uninterrupted enjoyment of taking in every word and tone--taking it in for her own private benefit. "the parish of fair haven." how heartily she enjoyed it. the refined and delicate, and yet keen and intense satire underlying the whole quaint original story, was of just the nature to hold and captivate her. she was just in the mood to enjoy it, too. for was it not aimed at that class of people who awakened her own keenest sense of satire--the so-called "christian world"? she did not belong to it, you know; in her own estimation was entirely without the pale of its sarcasm; stranded on a high and majestic rock of unbelief in everything, and in a condition to be amused at the follies of people who played at belief; and treated what they _played_ was solemn realities as if they were cradle stories or nicely woven fiction. there was no listener in all that crowd who so enjoyed the keen play of wit and the sharp home thrusts as did marion wilbur. ruth was a little undecided what to think; she did not belong to the class who were hit, to be sure, but her father always gave largely to missions whenever the solicitor called on him: she had heard his name mentioned with respect as one of the most benevolent men of the day; she did not quite like the very low and matter-of-course place which mrs. miller's view of the mission question gave him. according to the people of fair haven, to give one's thousands to the cause was the most commonplace thing in the world--not to do so was to be an inhuman wretch. ruth didn't quite like it--in truth she was just enough within the circle of modern christianity to feel herself slightly grazed by the satire. "it is absurd," she said to marion as they went up the hill. "what is the sense in a woman talking in that way? as if people, were they ever so good and benevolent, could get themselves up in that ridiculous manner! if we live in the world at all we have to have a little regard for propriety. i wonder if she thinks one's entire time and money should be devoted to the heathen?" marion answered her with spirit. "oh, don't try to apologize for the folly that is going on in this world in the name of religion! it can't be done, and sensible people only make fools of themselves if they attempt it. there is nothing plainer or more impossible to deny than that church-members give and work and pray for the heathen as though they were a miserable and abominable set of brutes, who ought to be exterminated from the face of the earth, but for whom some ridiculous fanatics called 'missionaries' had projected a wild scheme to do something; and _they_, forsooth, must be kept from starving somehow, even though they had been unmitigated fools; so the paltry collections are doled out, with sarcastic undertones about the 'waste of money,' and the sin of missionaries wearing clothes, and expecting to have things to eat after throwing themselves away. don't talk to me! i've been to missionary societies; i know all about it. the whole system is one that is exactly calculated to make infidels. i believe satan got it up, because he knew in just what an abominable way the dear christians would go at it, and what a horrid farce they would make of it all." "it is a great pity you are not a christian, marion. i never come in contact with any one who understands their duty so thoroughly as you appear to, and i think you ought to be practicing." ruth said this calmly enough. she was not particularly disturbed; she did not belong to them, you know; but for all that she was remotely connected with those who did, and was just enough jarred to make her give this quiet home thrust. oddly enough it struck marion as it never had before, although the same idea had been suggested to her by other nettled mortals. it was true that she had realized how the practicing ought to be done, and a vague wish that she _did_ believe in it all, and could work by their professed standard with _all her soul_, flitted over her. meantime flossy was being educated. the morning work had touched her from a different standpoint. she had not heard dr. walden; instead she had wandered into a bit of holy ground. she began by losing her way. it is one of the easiest things to do at chautauqua. the avenues cross and recross in an altogether bewildering manner to one not accustomed to newly laid-out cities; and just when one imagines himself at the goal for which he started, lo! there is woods, and nothing else anywhere. another attempt patiently followed for an hour has the exasperating effect of bringing him to the very point from which he started. such an experience had flossy, when by reason of her loitering propensities she became detached from her party, and tried to find her own way to the stand. a whole hour of wandering, then a turn into perfect chaos. she had no more idea where she was than if she had been in the by-ways of london. clearly she must inquire the way. she looked about her. it was queer to be lost in the woods, and yet be surrounded by tents and people. she stooped and peeped timidly into a tent, the corner of which was raised to admit air, and from which the sound of voices issued. "come in," said a pleasant voice, and the bright-faced hostess arose from the foot of her bed and came forward with greeting, exactly as though they had been waiting for flossy all the morning. "would you like to rest? come right in, we have plenty of room and the most lovely accommodations," and a silvery laugh accompanied the words, while the little lady whisked a tin basin from a low stool, and dusting it rapidly with her handkerchief proffered her guest a seat, with as graceful an air as though the stool had been an easy-chair upholstered in velvet. the only other sitting-place, the low bed, was full, there being three ladies tucked about on it in various stages of restful work, for they had books and papers strewn about, and each held a pencil poised as if ready for action at a moment. "i'm afraid i intrude," flossy said, sweetly; "but the truth is, i have lost my friends and my way, and i really am an object of pity, for i have been wandering up hill and down, till my strength is less than it was." "poor child!" came sympathetically from the bed, spoken by the eldest of the ladies, while another rapidly improvised a fan out of the _sunday-school times_, and passed it to her. meantime flossy looked about her in secret delight. something about the air of the tent and the surroundings, and an indefinite something about every one of the ladies, told her as plainly as words could have done that she was among the workers; that she had unwittingly and gracefully slipped behind the scenes, and had been cordially admitted to one of the work-shops of chautauqua; and there were _so_ many things she wanted to know! chapter xii. flossy at school. she hadn't the least idea who they were, but, like an earnest little diplomatist, she set to work to find out. "i started for the auditorium," she said. "i wanted to hear dr. walden, but he has had time to make a long speech and get through since i first started. i think it must be nearly eleven." "no," they said laughing, "it is only half past ten." her wanderings had not been so long as they seemed; but it was hardly worth while to try to hear anything from him now, she would not be at all likely to get a seat; and, besides, his time was nearly over. she would better wait and go down with them in time for mrs. miller. "we were obliged to miss dr. walden," the elder lady explained. "we disliked to very much; probably it was as instructive as anything we shall get; but we had work that had to be done, so we ran away." "do you have to bring work to chautauqua with you?" flossy asked, with insinuating sweetness. "how very busy you must be! i would have tried to run away from my work for two weeks if i had been you." the bright little hostess laughed. "chautauqua _makes_ work," she said, "and somebody has to get ready for it. this lady beside me expects an overwhelming sabbath class here, and much time has to be given to the lesson. we lesser mortals are ostensibly going to help her, but in reality we are going to look and see how she does it." "have you found out?" flossy asked in a little tremor of delight. this was what she wanted, to know how to do it all. the lady who had been pointed out as teacher answered her quickly, so far as her words could be said to be an answer: "are you a sabbath-school teacher?" "no," flossy said, flushing and feeling like a naughty child whose curiosity had led her into mischief. "no, i am not _anything_, but i want to be; i don't know how to work at all in any way, but i want to learn." "are you looking for work to do for the master?" the same lady asked, with a sweet cheery voice and smile, not at all as if this were a subject which she must touch cautiously. "yes," flossy said, her cheeks all in a glow. "she did not know how to work, she had but just found out that she wanted to; indeed she had but yesterday known anything of him." then this unusual company of ladies came with one consent and eager eyes and voices and took her hand, and said how glad they were to welcome her to the ranks. they knew she would love the work, and the rewards were so sure and so precious. all this was new and strange and delightful to flossy. then they began each eagerly to tell about their work; they were all infant or primary class teachers, and all enthusiasts. who that has to do with the teaching of little children and attains to any measure of success but is largely gifted with this same element? they had been talking over and preparing their lesson together, and they talked it over again before the bewildered flossy, who had no idea that there was such a wonderful story in all the bible as they were developing out of a few bare details. "we had just reached the vital point of the entire lesson," explained the leader, "the place where every true teacher needs most help; where, having arranged all her facts and got them in martial order in her brain, she wants to know the best way of making those facts of practical _present_ service to the little children who will be before her, and at this point i think every teacher needs to go to the fountain head for help. we were just going to pray; you would like, perhaps, to join us for just a few moments." "if she wouldn't intrude," flossy said, timidly, in a tremor of satisfaction; and then for the first time in her life she bowed with a company of her own sex, and heard the simple earnest voice of prayer. the words were startlingly direct and simple, and flossy, who had been full of mysterious awe on this question, and who much doubted whether her timid whispers alone in her tent could have been called prayer, was reassured and comforted. if _this_ were prayer, it was simply talking in a sweet, natural voice, and in the most simple and natural language, with a dear and wise friend. it was the most quiet and yet the most confident way of asking for just what one wanted, and nothing more. it was what flossy needed. she took long strides in her religious education there on her knees; and as they went out from that tent and down the hill to the meeting, there was born in her heart an eager determination to enter the lists as a sabbath-school teacher the very first opportunity, and to pray her lesson into her heart, having done what she could to get it into her head. if her anxious and well-nigh discouraged pastor could have been gifted with supernatural and prophetic vision, and could have seen that resolve, and, looking ahead, the fruit that was to be borne from it, how would his anxious soul have thanked god and taken courage! in this mood came flossy to listen to the story of "the parish of fair haven," as it flowed down to her in mrs. miller's smooth-toned musical voice. one who comes from her knees to listen is sure to find the seed if it has been put in. flossy found hers. often in the course of her young life she had been at church and sat in the attitude of listener while a missionary sermon was preached. she had heard, perhaps, ten sentences from those sermons, not ten consecutive sentences, but words scattered here and there through the whole; from these she had gathered that there was to be a collection taken for the cause of missions. just where the money was to go, and just what was to be done with it when it arrived, what had been accomplished by missionary effort, what the christian world was hoping for in that direction--all these things flossy shipley knew no more about than her kitten did. perhaps it was not strange then, that although abundantly supplied with pin-money, she had never in her life given anything to the work of missions. not that she would not willingly have deposited some of her money in the box for whatever use the authorities chose to make of it had she happened to have any; but young ladies as a rule have been educated to imagine that there is one day in the week in which their portmonnaies can be off duty. there being no shopping to be done, no worsteds to match, no confectionary to tempt what earthly use for money? so it was locked up at home. this, at least, is the way in which flossy shipley had argued, without knowing that she argued at all. now she was looking at things with new eyes; the same things that she had heard of hundreds of times, but how different they were! what a remarkable scheme it was, this carrying the story of jesus to those miserable ignorant ones, getting them ready for the heaven that had been made ready for them! the people of "fair haven" did not appear to her like lunatics, as they did to ruth erskine. she was not, you will remember, of the class who had argued this question in their ignorance, and quieted their consciences with the foolish assertion that the church collections went to pay secretaries and treasurers and erect splendid public buildings. she belonged, rather, to that less hopeless class who had never thought at all. now, as she listened, her eyes brightened with feeling and her cheeks glowed. the whole sublime _romance_ of missions was being mapped out to her on the face of that quaint allegory, and her heart responded warmly. curiously enough, her first throbs of conscience were not for herself but for her father. the portly gentleman who occasionally sat at the head of the shipley pew, and who certainly never parted company with his pocket-book on sabbath or on any other day, did _he_ give liberally to foreign missions? she could not determine as to the probabilities of the case. he was counted a liberal man--people liked to come to him to start subscriptions; but flossy felt instinctively that a subscription paper with her father's name leading it was different, someway, from a quiet, baize-lined box, and no noise nor words. she doubted whether the cause had been materially helped by him. she lost some sentences of the story while she planned ways for interesting her father and securing liberal donations from him; and then she was suddenly startled back to personality by hearing some astounding statements from the reader. "it would be _so_ easy to drop into a household box the price of an apple, or a paper, or a glass of peanuts, and yet who does it? why, there are young ladies who will actually not give two cents a week from the money that they waste!" the rich blood mounted in waves to flossy's forehead. apples and papers were not in her line, but _peanuts_! wasn't there a certain stand which she passed almost daily on her way down town, and did she ever pass it without indulging in a glass of peanuts? neither was that the end. why, once started on that list, and her wastes were almost numberless. how fond she was of cream dates, and how expensive they were; and oranges, the tempting yellow globes were always shining at her from certain windows as she passed. oh, they were just endless, her temptations and her falls in that direction--only who had ever supposed that there was any harm in this lavish treatment of herself and of any friends whom she happened to meet? yet it was true that she had never given any money at all to the work of sending the bible to those who are without it. "they will not give two cents a week," said mrs. miller. it was true: she had not given "two cents a week," or even two cents a year--she had simply ignored the existence of such a need for money. true, she had not been a christian; but she was surprised to see how little this refuge served her. "i have been a human being," she told herself, with a flush on her face, "and i ought to have had sufficient interest in humanity to have wanted those poor creatures civilized." but there was another thrust preparing for flossy. the reader presently touched upon one item of expenditure common to ladies, namely, kid gloves; and made the bewildering statement that economy in this matter, to the degree that needless purchases should be avoided, would treble the fund in the missionary treasury! it could not be that from among that sea of faces the speaker had singled out flossy shipley, and yet that is the way it seemed to her. if there was any one expense which stood out glaringly above another in her list of luxuries it was kid gloves. they must be absolutely immaculate as to quality, shade and fit, and she remorselessly consigned them to the waste-bag at the first hint of rip or change of color. how strange that mrs. miller should have pitched upon just that item, and what an amazing declaration to make concerning it! it was very strange, had any one been looking on to observe it, the manner in which this young girl was being educated. it is doubtful if a whole year of church work in the regular home routine, listening to the stated, statistical sermon of her pastor, that sermon which presupposes so much more knowledge than people possess, would have _begun_ to do for flossy what the strange, fanciful, pungent story of "fair haven" did. * * * * * before that hour was closed she had settled within her resolute little heart a plan that should henceforth put her in close communion and sympathy with mission work--not exactly the plans of operation, except that kid gloves and peanuts took stern places in the background, but this was simply the foundation for a resolute system of education, carried all through her future life. what a pity it seems sometimes that people cannot read the hearts and watch the springs of action of those around them. if mrs. miller, as she closed her paper and moved away from the platform, could have seen the earnest purpose glowing and throbbing in flossy's heart, and have known that it was born of words of hers, what a glad and thankful heart would she have carried back to her tent! also, if the much troubled pastor at home could have taken peeps into the future and seen what flossy shipley's resolves would do for missions, how glad he would have been! perhaps it would be better to lay all the troubles and the tangles down in the hand that overrules it all, and say, in peace and restfulness, "he knoweth the end from the beginning." chapter xiii. "cross purposes." when people start out with the express design of having a good time, irrespective of other people's plans or feelings--in short, with a general forgetfulness of the existence of others--they are very likely to find at the close of the day that a failure has been made. it did not take the entire day to convince eurie mitchell that chautauqua was not the synonym for absolute, unalloyed _pleasure_. you will remember that she detached herself from her party in the early morning, and set out to find pleasure, or, as she phrased it, "fun." she imagined them to be interchangeable terms. she had not meant to be deserted, but had hoped to secure ruth for her companion, she not having the excuse of wishing to report the meetings to call her to them. failing in her, in case she should have a fit of obstinacy, and choose to attend the meetings, eurie counted fully upon flossy as an ally. much to her surprise, and no little to her chagrin, flossy proved decidedly the more determined of the two. no amount of coaxing--and eurie even descended to the employment of that weapon--had the least effect. to be sure, flossy presented no more powerful argument than that it did not look well to come to the meeting and then not attend it. but she carried her point and left the young searcher for fun with a clear field. now fun rarely comes for the searching; it is more likely to spring upon one unawares. so, though eurie walked up and down, and stared about her, and lost herself in the labyrinths of the intersecting paths, and tore her dress in a thicket, and caught her foot in a bog, to the great detriment of shoe and temper, she still found not what she was searching for. several times she came in sight of the stand; once or twice in sound of the speaker's voice; but having so determinately carried her point in the morning, she did not choose to abandon her position and appear among the listeners, though sorely tempted to do so. she wandered into several side tents in hope of finding something to distract her attention; but she only found that which provoked her. in one of them a young lady and gentleman were bending eagerly over a book and talking earnestly. they were interesting looking people, and she hovered near, hoping that she had at last found the "children" who would "play" with her--a remembrance of one of her nursery stories coming to her just then, and a ludicrous sense of her resemblance to the truant boy who spent the long, bright day in the woods searching for one not too busy to play. but these two were discussing nothing of more importance than the lesson for the coming sabbath; and though she hovered in their vicinity for some time, she caught only stray words--names of places in the far away judean land, that seemed to her like a name in the arabian nights; or an eager dissertation on the different views of eminent commentators on this or that knotty point; and so engrossed were they in their work that they bestowed on her only the slightest passing glance, and then bent over their books. she went away in disgust. at the next tent half a dozen ladies were sitting. she halted there. here at last were some people who, like herself, were bored with this everlasting meeting, and had escaped to have a bit of gossip. who knew but she might creep into the circle and find pleasant acquaintances? so she drew nearer and listened a moment to catch the subject under discussion. she heard the voice of prayer; and a nearer peep showed her that every head was bowed on the seat in front, and one of the ladies, in a low voice, was asking for enlightenment _on the lesson for the coming sabbath_! "what wonderful lesson can it be that is so fearfully important?" she muttered, as she plunged recklessly into the mud and made her way in all haste up the hill without attempting any more tents. "who ever heard such an ado made about a sunday-school lesson? these people all act as though there was nothing of any consequence anywhere but sunday-schools. i guess it is the first time that such a _furor_ was ever gotten up over teaching a dozen verses to a parcel of children. i wonder if the people at home ever make such a uproar about the lesson? i know some teachers who own up, on the way to church, that they don't know where the lesson is. this must be a peculiar one. i wonder how i shall contrive to discover where it is? the girls won't know, of course. with all their boasted going to meeting they know no more about lessons than i do myself. i would really like to find out. i mean to ask the next person i meet. it will be in accordance with the fashion of the place. think of my walking down broadway of a sunny morning and stopping a stranger with the query, 'will you tell me where the lesson is, please?'" and at this point eurie burst into a laugh over the absurdity of the picture she had conjured. "but this is not broadway," she said a moment afterward, "and i mean to try it. here comes a man who looks as if he ought to know everything. i wonder who he is? i've seen his face a dozen times since i have been here. he led the singing yesterday. perhaps he knows nothing but sing. they are not apt to; but his face looks as though he might have a few other ideas. anyway, i'll try him, and if he knows nothing about it, he will go away with a confused impression that i am a very virtuous young lady, and that he ought to have known all about it; and who knows what good seed may be sown by my own wicked hand?" whereupon she halted before the gentleman who was going with rapid strides down the hill, and said, in her clearest and most respectful tone: "will you be so kind as to tell me where the lesson for next sabbath commences? i have forgotten just where it is." there was no hesitation, no query in his face as to what she was talking about, or uncertainty as to the answer. "it is the fifth chapter, from the fifth to the fifteenth verse," he said, glibly. "all fives, you see. easy to remember. it is a grand lesson. hard to teach, though, because it is all there. are you a teacher for next sunday? you must come to the teachers' meeting to-morrow morning; you will get good help there. glorious meeting, isn't it? i'm so glad you are enjoying it." and away he went. every trace of ill-humor had vanished from eurie's face. instead, it was twinkling with laughter. "the fifth chapter and fifteenth verse" of what? certainly she had no more idea than the birds had who twittered above her head. how entirely certain he had been that of course she knew the general locality of the lesson. _she_ a teacher and coming to the teachers' meeting for enlightenment as to how to teach the lesson! "i wonder who he is?" she said again, as these thoughts flashed through her brain, and, following out the next impulse that came to her, she stopped an old gentleman who was walking leisurely down, and said, as she pointed out her late informant: "what is that man's name, please? i can't recall it." "that," said the old gentleman, "is prof. sherwin, of newark. have you heard him sing?" "yes." "well, that is worth hearing; and have you heard him talk?" "no." "well, he can talk; you will hear him, and enjoy it, too; see if you don't. but i'll tell you what it is, young lady, to know him thoroughly you ought to hear him pray! there is the real power in a man. let me know how a man can pray and i'll risk his talking." eurie had got much more information now than she had asked for. she ventured on no more questions, but made all haste to her tent, where, seated upon a corner of the bed, one foot tucked under her while the unfortunate shoe tried to dry, she sewed industriously on the zig-zag tear in her dress, and tried to imagine what she could do next. certainly they had long days at chautauqua. "i shall go to meeting this afternoon," she said, resolutely, "if they have three sermons, each an hour long; and what is more, i shall find out where that sunday-school lesson is." the next thing she did was to write a letter to her brother nellis, a dashing boy two years her senior and her favorite companion in her search for pleasure. here is a copy of the letter: "dear nel: i wish you were here. chautauqua isn't so funny as it might be. there are some things that are done here continually. in the first place, it rains. why, you never saw anything like it! it just can't help it. the sun puts on a bland face and looks glowing intentions, and while you are congratulating your next neighbor on the prospect, she is engaged in clutching frantically after her umbrella to save her hat from the first drops of the new shower. next, they have meetings, and there is literally no postponement on account of the weather. it is really funny to see the way in which the people rush when the bell rings, rain or shine. nel, only think of flossy shipley going in the rain to hear a man preach of the 'influence of the press,' or something of that sort! it was good though, worth hearing. i went myself, because, of course, one must do something, and the frantic fashion of the place is to go to meeting. at the same time i don't understand flossy: she is different from what she ever was at home. i suppose it is the force of the many shining examples all around her. you know she always was a good little sheep about following somebody's lead. "marion is reporting, and has to be industrious. she is queer, nel; she professes infidelity, you know; and you have no idea how mad she gets over anything that seems to be casting reproach on christianity (unless indeed she says it herself, which is often enough, but then she seems to think it is all right). "ruth keeps on the even tenor of her way. it would take an earthquake to move that girl. "i have had the greatest fun this morning. i have been mistaken for a sabbath-school teacher who had the misfortune to forget at what verse her lesson commenced! you see i was cultivating new acquaintances, and a prof. sherwin gave me good advice. that and some other things aroused my curiosity concerning that same lesson, and i am going to find out where it is. "did you know that sunday-school lessons were such remarkable affairs? the one for next sunday must comprise the most wonderful portion of scripture that there is, for hundreds of people on these grounds are talking about it, and i stumbled upon a party of ladies this morning who were actually praying over it! "another thing i overheard this morning, which is news to me, that all the world was at work on the same lesson. that is rather fascinating, isn't it, to think of so many hundreds and thousands of people all pitching into the same verses on sunday morning? it is quite sentimental, too, or capable of being made so, for instance, by a great stretch of your imagination. suppose you and me to be very dear friends, separated by miles of ocean we will say, and both devoted sabbath-school teachers, isn't that a stretch now? such being the astonishing case, wouldn't it be pleasant to be at work on the same lesson? don't you see? lets play do it. you look up the lesson for next sabbath and so will i. won't that have all the charm of novelty? then give me the benefit of your ideas acquired on that important subject, and i'll do the same to you. really, the more i think of it the more the plan delights me. i wonder how you will carry it out? shall you go to sunday-school? what will the dear doctor say if he sees you walk into his bible-class? i really wish i were there to enjoy the sensation. meantime i'm going to look up an altogether wonderful teacher for myself, and then for comparing notes. my spirits begin to rise, they have been rather damp all the morning, but i see fun in the distance. "we are to have a sensation this afternoon in the shape of a troupe of singers called the tennesseeans--negroes, you know, and they are to give slave-cabin songs and the like. i expect to enjoy it thoroughly, but you ought to see ruth curl her aristocratic nose at the thought. "'such a vulgar idea! and altogether inappropriate to the occasion. she likes to see things in keeping. if it is a religious gathering let them keep it such, and not introduce negro minstrels for the sake of calling a low crowd together, and making a little more money.' "marion, too, shoots arrows from her sharp tongue at it, but she rather enjoys the idea, just as she does every other thing that she chooses to call inconsistent when she happens to be the one to discover it; but woe to the one who comments on it further than she chooses to go. "flossy and i now look with utmost toleration on the dark element that is to be introduced. i tell ruth that i am really grateful to the authorities for introducing something that a person of my limited capacities can appreciate, and flossy, with her sweet little charitable voice, has 'no doubt they will choose proper things to sing.' that little mouse is really more agreeable than she ever was in her life; and i am amazed at it, too. i expected the dear baby would make us all uncomfortable with her finified whims; but don't you think it is our lofty ruth who is decidedly the most disagreeable of our party, save and except myself!" this interesting epistle was brought to a sudden close by an interruption. a gentleman came with rapid steps, and halted before her tent door, which was tied hospitably back. "i beg pardon," he said, speaking rapidly, "but this is miss rider?" "it is not," eurie answered, with promptness at which information he looked surprised and bewildered. "isn't this her tent? i am sorry to trouble you, but i have been sent in haste for her. she is wanted for a consultation, and i was told i would find her here. perhaps i might leave a message with you for her?" "it certainly isn't her tent," eurie said, trying to keep down the desire to laugh, "and i haven't the least idea where she is. i should be glad to give her your message if i could, but i never saw the lady in my life, and have no reason to expect that pleasure." whereupon her questioner laughed outright. "that is a dilemma," he said. "i appreciate your feelings, for i am precisely in the same position; but the lady was described minutely to me, and i certainly thought i had found her. i am sorry to have interrupted you," and he bowed himself away. a new curiosity seized upon eurie--the desire to see miss rider. "she must be one of them," she soliloquized, falling into flossy's way of speaking of the workers at chautauqua. "he said she was wanted for a consultation. i wonder if she can be one of those who are to take part in the primary exercises? she must be young for such prominent work if she looks like me; but how could he know that since he never saw her? it is very evident that i am to go to sunday-school next sabbath anyhow, if i never did before, for now i have two items of interest to look up--a lesson that is in the 'fifth chapter, from the fifth to the fifteenth verse of _something_,' and a being called 'miss rider.'" so thinking she hastily concluded and folded her letter, ready for the afternoon mail, without a thought or care as to the seed that she had been sending away in it, or as to the fruit it might bear; without the slightest insight into the way she was being led through seeming mistakes and accidents up to a point that was to influence all her future. chapter xiv. the new lesson. eurie turned her pillow, thumped the scant feathers into little heaps, and gave a dismal groan as she laid her head back on it. "it is very queer," she said, "that as soon as ever i make up my mind to be orthodox, and go to meeting every time the bell rings, i should be dumped into a heap on this hard bed with the headache. i haven't had a touch of it before." "'the way of transgressors is hard,'" quoted marion, going on calmly with her writing. "if you hadn't taken that horrid tramp yesterday instead of going to meeting like a christian, you would have been all right to-day." "i believe you sit up nights to read your bible, so as to have verses to fling at people who are overtaken in any possible trial or inconvenience. you always have them ready. didn't you bring it with you, and don't you prepare a list for each day's use?" this was eurie's half merry, half petulant reply to the bible verse that had been "flung" at her. marion carefully erased a word that seemed to her fastidious taste too inexpressive before she answered: "i don't own such an article as a bible, my child; so your suspicions are entirely unfounded. my early education was not defective in that respect, however, and i confess that i find many verses that seem to very aptly describe the ways of sinful mortals like yourself." eurie raised herself on one elbow, regardless of headache and the cloth wet in vinegar that straightway fell off. "you don't own a bible!" she said, in utter surprise, and with a touch of actual dismay in her voice. "i am depraved to that degree, my dear little saint. i conclude that you are more devoutly inclined, and have one of your own. pray how many chapters a day do you read in it?" eurie lay down again, and flossy came with the vinegar cloth and bound it securely on her forehead. "i don't read in it very often, to be sure," eurie murmured. "in fact i suppose i may as well say that i never do. but then i own one, and always have. i am not a heathen; and really and truly it seems almost queer not to have a bible of one's own. it is a sort of mark of civilization, you know." marion laughed good-naturedly. "i never make a great deal of pretense in that line," she said, gayly. "as for being a heathen, that is only a relative term. according to dr. calkins, they were more or less in advance of us. i am one of the 'advanced' sort. ruth, your toilet ought to be nearly completed; i hear that indefatigable bell." "you are very foolish not to go this morning and let your writing wait. we shall be certain to have something worth listening to; it is a strange time to select for absence." this was ruth's quiet answer, as she pinned her lace ruffle with a gleaming little diamond. "'diligent in business.' there is another verse for you, my heathen," marion said, with a merry glance toward eurie. "when you get home and get the dust of years swept off from your bible, you take a look at it, and see if i have not quoted correctly. and a good, sensible verse it is. i have found it the only way in which to keep my head above water. ruthie, the trouble is not with me, it lies with those selfish and obstinate newspaper men. if they would have the sense to let their papers wait over another day i could go to the lecture this morning. as it is, i am a victim to their indifference. if i miss a blessing the sin will be at _their_ door, not mine." eurie opened her heavy eyes and looked at flossy. "come," she said, "don't stand there mopping me in vinegar any longer. are you ready? i am really disappointed. i've always wanted to hear that man. i want to tell nel about him." flossy washed her hands, shook back the yellow curls with an indifferent and preoccupied air, and went to the door to wait for ruth. she had taken no part in the war of words that had been passing between marion and eurie, but she had heard. and like almost everything else that she heard during these days, it had awakened a new thought and desire. flossy was growing amazed at herself. it seemed to her that she must have spent her seventeen years of life taking long naps, and this chautauqua was a stiff breeze from the ocean that was going to shake her awake. the special thought that had dashed itself at her this morning was that she, too, had no bible. not that she did not own one, elegantly done in velvet and clasped in gold, so effectually clasped that it had been sealed to her all her life. she positively had no recollection of having ever sat down deliberately to read the bible. she had "looked over" occasionally in school, but even this service of her eyes had been fitful and indifferent; and as for her head paying any sort of attention to the reading, it might as well have been done in greek instead of french, which language she but dimly comprehended even when she tried. but now she ought to have a bible. she ought not to wait for that velvet covered one. a whole week in which to find what some of her orders were, and no way in which to find them. of course she could buy one, but how queer it would seem to be going to the museum to make a purchase of a bible! "they will wonder why i did not bring my own," she murmured, with that life-long deference that she had educated herself to pay to the "they" who composed her world. and in another instance the new-born feeling of respect and independence asserted itself. "i can't help that," she said, positively, shaking her curls with a determined air; "and it really makes no difference what anybody thinks. of course i must have a bible, and i only wish i had it for this morning, i shall certainly get one the first opportunity." then she turned and said "good-morning" to the pretty little lady who occupied the tent next door, and between whom and herself a pleasant acquaintance was springing up. "are you going to the lecture?" flossy, asked and the small lady shook her head, with a wistful air. "dear me, no! my young tyrant wouldn't consent to that. i meant to take him down with me and try him, but he has gone to sleep; and it is just as well, for he would have been certain to want to do all the talking. he has no idea that there is any one in the country who knows quite as much as he does." it was said in a half complaining tone, but underneath it was the foundation of tender pride, that showed her to be the vain mother of the handsome tyrant. still it seemed to be flossy's duty to condole with her. "you miss most of the meetings, do you not?" "three-fourths of them. you see it is inconvenient to have a husband who is reporter for the press, and who must be there to hear. it is only when he must write up his notes for publication that i can get a chance; and even then, unless it is baby's sleepy time, it does me no good. i am especially sorry this morning, for dr. cuyler used to be my pastor. he married me one summer morning just like this, and i haven't laid eyes on him since. i should like to hear his voice again, but it can't be done." now who would have imagined that, with all the powers that were bestirring themselves to come to flossy's education, it would have been a rosy, crowing baby, in the unconsciousness of a morning nap, that should have given her her first lesson in unselfishness? yet he was the very one. it flashed over flossy in an instant from some source. who was so likely to have suggested it as the sweet angel who hovered over the sleeping darling? "oh, mrs. adams, let me stay with baby, and you go to hear cuyler. it is a real pity that you should miss him, when he is associated with your life in this way. i never saw him, and though, of course, i should like to, yet i presume there will be opportunities enough. i will be as careful of baby as if he were my grandson; and if he wakens i will charm him out of his wits, so that it will never occur to him to cry." of course there was demurring, and profuse expressions of thanks and declinatures all in a breath. but flossy was so winning, so eager, so thoroughly in earnest; and the little mrs. adams did so love her old pastor, and did feel so anxious to see him again, that in a very short time she was beguiled into going in all haste to her tent to make a "go-to-meeting" toilet; and a blessed thing it was that that sentence does not mean at chautauqua what it does in buffalo, or albany, or a few other places, else dr. cuyler might have slipped from them before the necessary articles were all in array. it involved simply the twitching off of a white apron, the settling of a pretty sun hat--for the sun actually shone!--and the seizure of a waterproof, needed, if she found a seat, to protect her from the damp boards--needed in any case, because in five minutes it might rain--and she was ready. ruth came to the door. "come, flossy," she said; "where in the world are you? we shall be late." and said it precisely as though she had been waiting for that young person for half an hour. flossy emerged from the adjoining tent. "i am not going." she said. "i have turned nurse-girl, and have the sweetest little baby in here that ever grew. mrs. adams is going in my place. mrs. adams, miss erskine." and as those two ladies walked away together mrs. adams might have been heard to say: "what a lovely, unselfish disposition your friend has! it was so beautiful in her to take me so by storm this morning! i am afraid i was very selfish; which is apt to be the case, i think, when one comes in contact with actual unselfishness. it is one of the christian graces that is very hard to cultivate, anyway; don't you think so?" ruth was silent; not from discourtesy, but from astonishment. it was such a strange experience to hear any one speak of flossy shipley as "unselfish." in truth she had grown up under influences that had combined to foster the most complete and tyrannical selfishness--exercised in a pretty, winning sort of way, but rooted and grounded in her very life. so indeed was ruth's; but _she_, of course, did not know that, though she had clear vision for the mote in flossy's eyes. meantime marion had staid her busy pen and was biting the end of it thoughtfully. the two tents were such near neighbors that the latter conversation and introduction had been distinctly heard. she glanced around to the girl on the bed. "eurie," she said, "are you asleep, or are you enjoying flossy's last new departure?" eurie giggled. "i heard," she said. "the lazy little mouse has slipped out of a tedious hour, and has a chance to lounge and read a pleasant novel. i dare say the mother is provided with them." then marion, after another thoughtful pause: "but, my child, how do you account for the necessity of going to the neighbors and taking the supervision of a baby in order to do that? flossy need not have gone to church if she didn't choose." "yes she need. don't you suppose the child can see that it is the fashion of the place? she is afraid that it wouldn't look well to stay in the tent and lounge, without an excuse for doing so. if that girl could only go to a place where it was the fashion for all the people to be good, she would be a saint, just because 'they' were." "she would have to go to heaven," muttered marion, going on with her writing. "and, according to you, there is no such place; so there is no hope for her, after all. oh, dear! i wonder if you are right, and nothing is of any consequence, anyhow?" and the weary girl turned on her pillow and tried not to think, an effort that was hard to accomplish after a week's experience at chautauqua. flossy sat herself down beside the sleeping darling, and cast about her for something to amuse or interest, her eyes brightening into beauty as she recognized a worn and torn copy of the bible. eurie would have been surprised to see the eagerness with which she seized upon the book that was to afford her entertainment. she turned the leaves tenderly, with a new sense of possession about her. this bible was a copy of letters that had been written to her--words spoken, many of them, by jesus himself. strange that she had so little idea what they were! marion, with her boasted infidel notions, knew much more about "the book" than flossy with her nominal christian education and belief. she had no idea where to turn or what to look for to help her. yet she turned the leaves slowly, with a delicious sense of having found a prize a--book of instructions, a guide book for her on this journey that she was just beginning to realize that she was taking. somewhere within it she would find light and help. the book was one that had been much used, and had a fashion of opening of itself at certain places that might have been favorites with the little mother. at one of those places flossy halted and read: "'after this there was a feast of the jews.' after what, i wonder?" she said within herself. she knew nothing about it. "never mind, i will see pretty soon. this is about a feast where jesus was. and jesus went up to jerusalem." "oh, how nice to have been there, wherever that was." the ignorant little thing had not the least idea where jerusalem was, except that it was in that far away, misty holy land, that had seemed as vague and indefinite to her as the grave or as heaven. but there came suddenly to her heart a certain blessed analogy. "if i were going to write an account of my recent experiences to some dear friend that i wanted to tell it to," she said, talking still to herself, or to the sleeping baby, "i would write it something like this: 'after this'--that would mean; let me see what it _would_ mean. why, after that party at home, when i danced all night and was sick. 'after this there was a feast of the christian people at chautauqua, and jesus went there.' i could certainly write that, for i have seen him and heard him speak in my very heart." then she went on, through the second verse to the third. "'in these lay a great multitude of impotent folk, of blind, halt, withered, waiting for the moving of the water,'" and here a great swell of tears literally blinded her eyes. it came to her so suddenly, so forcibly. the great multitude here at chautauqua--blind. yes, some of them. was not she? how many more might there be? many of whom she knew, others that she did not know, but that jesus did. waiting without knowing that they were waiting. with tears and smiles, and with a new great happiness throbbing at her heart, she read through the sweet, simple, wonderful story; how the poor man met jesus; how he questioned; how the man complained; and how jesus was greater than his infirmity. through the whole of it, until suddenly she closed the book, her tears dried, and a solemn, wondering, almost awe-struck look on her face. she had got her lesson, her directions, her example. she could bear no more, even of the bible, just then. she said it over, that startling verse that came to her with a whole volume of suggestion: "'_and the man departed and told the jews that it was jesus which had made him whole._'" chapter xv. great men. ruth erskine, with her skirts gathered daintily around her, to avoid contact with the unclean earth, made her way skill fully through the crowd, and with the aid of a determined spirit and a camp-chair secured a place and a seat very near the stand. the little lady who timidly followed in her lead was not quite so fortunate, inasmuch as she had no camp-chair, and was less resolved in her determination to get ahead of those who had arrived earlier; so she contented herself with a damp seat on the end of a board, which was vacated for her use by a courteous gentleman. ruth, you must understand, was not selfish in this matter because she had planned to be, but simply because it had never occurred to her to be otherwise, which is one of the misfortunes that come to people who are educated in a selfish atmosphere. ruth erskine had come to this meeting fully prepared to enjoy it. dr. cuyler was a star of sufficient magnitude to attract her. during her frequent visits to new york she had heard much of but had never seen him. the people whom she visited were too elegant in their views and practices to have much in common with the church which was so pronounced on the two great questions of religion and temperance. yet, even with them, dr. cuyler and dr. cuyler's great church were eccentricities to be tolerated, not ignored. therefore ruth had had it in her heart to enjoy listening to him sometime. the sometime had arrived. she had dressed herself with unusual care, a ceremony which seemed to be quite in the background among the people who were at home at chautauqua. but someway it seemed to ruth that the great brooklyn pastor should receive this mark of respect at her hands; so she had spent the morning at her toilet and was now a fashionable lady, fashionably attired for church. if the people who vouchsafed her a glance as she crowded past indulged, some of them, in a smile at her expense, and thought the simple temple made of trees and grasses an inappropriate surrounding to her silken robes and costly lace mantle, she was none the wiser for that, you know, and took her seat, indifferent to them all, except that presently there stole over her the sense of disagreeable incongruity with her outdoor surroundings; so satan had the pleasure of ruffling her spirits and occupying her thoughts with her rich brown silk dress instead of letting her heart be touched with the solemnity and beauty of the grand hymn which rolled down those long aisles. satan has that everlasting weapon, "what to wear, and what not to wear," everlastingly at command and wonderfully under his control. but ruth, in her way, was strong-minded and could control her thoughts when she chose; so she presently shook off the feeling of annoyance and decided to give herself up to the influences of the hour. by this time dr. cuyler appeared and was introduced, ruth gave him the benefit of a very searching gaze, and decided that he was the very last man of all those on the platform whom she would have selected as the speaker. probably if dr. cuyler had known this, and known also that his personal presence entirely disappointed her, he would not have been greatly disconcerted thereby. but his subject was one that found an answering thrill in this young lady's heart--"some talks i have had with great men." ruth liked greatness. in her calm, composed way she bowed before it. she would have enjoyed being great. celebrity in a majestic, dignified form would have been her delight. she by no means admitted this, as eurie mitchell so often did. she by no means sought after it in the small ways within her reach. small ways did not suit her; they disgusted her. but if she could have flashed into splendid greatness, if by any amount of laborious study, or work, or suffering, she could have seen the way to world-wide renown she would have grasped for it in an instant. the next best thing to being renowned one's self was to have renowned people for friends. this was another thing that ruth coveted in silence. she wanted no one to know how earnestly she aspired to, sometime, making the acquaintance of some of the great people not--the vulgarly great, those who were in a sense, and in the eyes of a few, great because of the accidents of fortune and travel. she knew such by the scores. indeed, she had been in circles many a time where _she_ shone with that sort of greatness herself. perhaps it was for that reason that it was such a despised height to her. but she meant the _really_ great people of this world--people of power, people who moved the masses by the force of their brains. not one such had she ever met to look upon as an acquaintance; and here was this man telling off the honored names by the score, and saying, "my friend, dr. guthrie"--"my good friend, thomas carlyle"--"my dear brother, newman hall." how would it seem to stand in intimate relationship with one single gifted mind like these, and was she destined ever to know by actual experience? there was another reason why ruth had desired to choose dr. cuyler to listen to rather than some other names on the programme, because, from the nature of his subject she had judged it most unlikely that he should have about him any arrows that would touch home to her. not that she put it in that language; she did not admit even to herself that any of the solemn words that had been spoken at chautauqua had reference to her; and yet in a vague, fitful way she was ill at ease. she had moments of feeling that there was a reach of happiness possessed by these people of which she knew nothing. little side thrusts had come to her from time to time in places where she least expected them. that question, asked by flossy during her night of unrest, "should you be afraid to die?" hovered around this quietly poised young lady in a most unaccountable manner. all the more persistently did it cling because she could not shake it off with the thought that it was silly. common sense told her that the strange, solemn shadow, which came so steadily after men, and so surely enveloped one after another among the grandest intellects that the world owned, was not a thing to pass over lightly. after all, why should she _not_ be afraid of death? then that strange gentleman who had persisted in ranking her among the praying people! he had left his shadow. why did she not pray? she wondered over this in a vague sort of way; wondered how it seemed to kneel down alone, and speak to an invisible presence; wondered if those who so knelt always felt as though they were really speaking to god. there were times when ruth was exceedingly disgusted with these perplexing thoughts, and wanted nothing so much as to get away from them. she resented this intrusion upon her quiet. this day was one of those in which she was impatient of all these things, and she had made her toilet with great satisfaction, and said within herself complacently: "we are to have one hour at last devoted to this mundane sphere and the mortals who inhabit it; most of the time these chautauquans talk and act as though earth was only a railroad station, where people changed cars and went on to heaven. dr. cuyler is going to refresh us with some actual living specimens of humanity. he can't make a sermon out of that subject if he tries." but ruth erskine had not measured the power of the earnest preachers of jesus christ. as if dr. cuyler could talk for an hour to thousands of immortal souls, and leave christ and heaven and immortality out. to ruth these three words constituted a sermon, and she got them that day. not that he had an idea that he was preaching christ, except incidentally, as a man refers almost unconsciously to the one whom he loves best in all the world but ruth knew he was. it came in little sudden touches when she least expected it, when heart and soul were wrought upon with some strong enthusiasm by the splendid picture of a splendid man--as when he told of spurgeon. it was a glowing description, such as thrilled ruth, and made her feel that to have just one glimpse of that great man, with his great marvelous power over humanity, would be worth a lifetime. suddenly the speaker said: "the secret of that man's power lies, first, in his study of the bible." ruth started and came down like a bomb-shell from her wondrous height. the bible! copies of which lay carelessly on every table of her father's elegantly furnished house unstudied and unthought of. how very strange to ascribe the power of the great intellect to the study of one book that was more or less familiar to every sunday-school boy. "second, in short, simple, homely language." ruth smiled now. dr. cuyler was growing absurd, as if it were not the most common thing in the world to use simple, homely language! no spurgeons could be manufactured in that way, she was sure. "third, mighty earnestness to save souls." here was a point concerning which ruth knew nothing. dr. cuyler's manner put tremendous force into the forceful words, and carried conviction with them. she wondered how a really _mighty_ earnestness to save souls made a man appear? she wondered whether she had ever seen such a one; she went rapidly over the list of her acquaintances in the church. she smiled to herself a sarcastic, contemptuous smile; she had met them all at parties, concerts, festivals, and the like; she had seen them on occasions when _nothing_ seemed to possess them but to have a good time like the rest of the world. like the rest of the world, ruth reasoned and decided from her chance meetings with the outside life of these christians, forgetting that she had never seen one of them in their closets before god; rather, she knew nothing about these closets, nor the experiences learned there, and could only reason from outside life. this being the case, what a pity that her verdict of those lives should have called forth only that contemptuous smile! wandering off in this train of thought, she lost the speaker's next point, but was called back by his solemn, ringing close. "put these together, melt them down with the love of christ, and you have a spurgeon. god be thanked for such a piece of hand work as he!" another start and another retrospect. _did_ she know any people who put these together; who made a real, earnest, constant study of the bible as school girls studied their latin grammars, and who were really eager to save souls because they had the love of christ in their hearts, and who said so in plain simple language? "does he, i wonder?" she said to herself. "i wonder if his sermons sound like that? i should like to hear him preach just once. oh, dear! if he isn't running off to moody and sankey. it _is_ a sermon after all!" on the whole, ruth was disgusted. her brain was in a whirl; she was being compelled to hear _sermons_ on every hand. she was sick of it. they had been great men of whom she had heard, and she admired them all; she wanted the secret of their power, but she didn't want it to be made out of such commonplace material as was in the hands of every child. she did not know what she wanted--only that she had come out to be entertained and to revel in her love of heroes, and she had been pinned down to the one thought that _real_ men were made of those who found their power in their bible and on their knees. the solemn, earnest, tender closing to this address did not lessen her sense of discomfort. then just beside her was carried on a conversation that added to her annoyance. "they are big men," a man said. he was dressed in a common business suit; his linen had not the exquisite freshness about it that her fastidious eyes delighted in; his hands looked as though they might have been used to work that was rough and hard; his straggling hair was sprinkled with gray, and there was not a striking feature about him. "they are big men," he said, "and i've no doubt it is a big thing to know them, and talk with them, and have a friendly feeling for each, as if they belonged to him, but he knows a bigger one than them, and the best of it is, so do we. the lord jesus christ, our elder brother, is not to be compared to common men like these." and now ruth's lips curled utterly. she was an aristocrat without knowing it. she believed in christianity, and in its power to save the poor and the commonest, but this insufferable assumption of dignity and superiority over the rest of the world, as she called it, was hateful to her in the extreme. it would have startled her exceedingly to have been told that she was angry with the man for presuming to place _his_ friend higher in the list of great ones than any of those given that day; and yet such was actually her feeling. she swept her skirts angrily away from contact with the man, and spoke so crustily to the little lady who had come in her wake that she moved timidly away. just at her left were two gentlemen shaking hands. both had been on the stand together, she knew the faces of both, and _one_ ranked just a trifle higher in her estimation than any one at chautauqua. she edged a little nearer. she lived in the hope of making the acquaintance of some of these lights, just enough acquaintance to receive a bow and a clasp of the hand, though how one could accomplish it who was determined that her interest in them should neither be seen nor suspected, it would be hard to say; but they were talking in eager, hearty tones, not at all as if their words were confidential--at least she might have the benefit of them. "that was a capital lecture," the elder of the two was saying. "cuyler has had great advantages in his life in meeting on a familiar footing so many of our great men. when you get thinking of these things, and of the many men whom you would like to know intimately, what is the thought that strikes you most forcibly?" "that i am glad i belong to the 'royal family,' and have the opportunity of knowing intimately and holding close personal relations with him who 'spake as never man spake.'" the other answered in a rare, rich tone of suppressed jubilance of feeling. "exactly!" his friend said; "and when you can leave the fullness of that thought long enough to take another, there is the looking forward to actual fellowship and communion not only with him, but with all these glorious men who are living here, and who have gone up yonder." ruth turned abruptly away. the very thought that possessed the heart of the plain-looking man and that so annoyed her; and these two, whom to know was an honor, were looking forward to that consummation as the height of it all! chapter xvi. a war of words. "well, why not?" she said, as she went slowly down the aisle. of course all these people would be in heaven together, and why should they not look forward to a companionship untrameled by earthly forms and conventionalities, and uncumbered by the body in its present dull and ponderous state? what a chance to get into the best society! the highest circle! real best, too, not made up of money, or blood, or dress, or any of the flimsy and silly barriers that fenced people in and out now. then at once she felt her own inconsistency in growing disgusted with the plainly-dressed, common-looking man. if he did really belong to that "royal family," why not rejoice over it? wasn't _she_ the foolish one? she by no means liked these reflections, but she could not get away from them. "how do you do?" said a clear, round voice behind her; not speaking to her, but to some one whom he was very glad to see, judging from his tone. and the voice was peculiar; she had been listening to it for an hour, and could not be mistaken; it belonged to dr. cuyler himself. she turned herself suddenly. here was a chance for a nearer view, and to see who was being greeted so heartily. it was the little lady whose society had been thrust upon her that morning by flossy. and they were shaking hands as though they were old and familiar acquaintances! "it is good to see your face again," that same hearty voice which seemed to have so much good fellowship in it was saying. "i didn't know you were to be here; i'm real glad to see you again, and what about the husband and the dear boy?" at which point it occurred to miss ruth erskine that she was listening to conversation not designed for her ears. she moved away suddenly, in no way comforted or sweetened as to her temper by this episode. why should that little bit of an insignificant woman have the honor of such a cordial greeting from the great man, while he did not even know of _her_ existence? to be sure, dr. cuyler had baptized and received into church fellowship and united in marriage the little woman with whom he was talking; but ruth, even if she had known these circumstances, was in no mood to attach much importance to them. she wandered away from the crowd down by the lake-side. she stopped at jerusalem on her way, and poked her parasol listlessly into the sand of which the hills lying about that city were composed, and thought: "what silly child's play all this was! how absurd to suppose that people were going to get new ideas by _playing_ at cities with bits of painted board and piles of sand! even if they _could_ get a more distinct notion of its surroundings, what difference did it make how jerusalem looked, or where it stood, or what had become of the buildings?" this last, as it began dimly to dawn upon her, that it was useless to deny the fact that even such listless and disdainful staring as she had vouchsafed to this make-believe city had located it, as it had not been located before, in her brain. when she produced the flimsy question, "what difference does it make?" you can see at once the absurd mood that had gotten possession of her, and you lose all your desire to argue with any one who feels as foolish as that. neither had ruth any desire to argue with herself; she was disgusted with her mind for insisting on keeping her up to a strain of thought. "a lovely place to rest!" she said, aloud, and indignantly, giving a more emphatic poke with her parasol, and quite dislodging one of the buildings in jerusalem. "one's brain is just kept at high pressure all the time." now, why this young lady's brain should have been in need of rest she did not take the trouble to explain, even to herself. she sat herself down presently under one of the trees by the lake-side and gave herself up to plans. she was tired of chautauqua; of that she was certain. it stirred her up, and the process was uncomfortable. her former composed life suited her taste better. she must get away. there was no earthly reason why she should not go at once to saratoga. a host of friends were already there, and certain other friends would be only too glad to follow as soon as ever they heard of her advent in that region. before she left that rustic settee under the trees she had the programme all arranged. "we will get through to-morrow as we best can," she said, sighing over the thought that to-morrow being the sabbath would perforce be spent there, "and then on monday morning flossy and i will just run away to saratoga and leave those two absurd girls to finish their absurd scheme in the best way they can." and having disposed of flossy as though she were a bit of fashionable merchandise without any volition of her own, ruth felt more composed and went at once to dinner. there came an astonishing interference to this planning, from no other than flossy herself. to the utter amazement of each of the girls, she quietly refused to be taken to saratoga; nor did she offer any other excuse for this astonishing piece of self-assertion than that she was having a good time and meant to finish it. and to this she adhered with a pertinacity that was very bewildering, because it was so very new. marion laughed over her writing, to which she had returned the moment dinner was concluded. "that is right, flossy," she said, "i'm glad to see chautauqua is having an effect of some sort on one of us. you are growing strong-minded; mind isn't a bad thing to have; keep to yours. ruth, i am astonished at _you_; i shall have to confess that you are disappointing me, my child. now, i rather expected this dear little bit of lace and velvet to give up, conquered, in less than a week, but i said to myself, 'ruth erskine has pluck enough to carry her through a _month_ of camp-life,' and here you are quenched at the end of four days." "it isn't the camp-life," ruth said, irritably. "i am not so much a baby as to care about those things to such a degree that i can't endure them, though everything is disagreeable enough; but that isn't the point at all." marion turned and looked at her curiously. "what on earth is the point then? what has happened to so disgust you with chautauqua?" "the point is, that i am tired of it all. it is unutterably stupid! i suppose i have a right to be tired of a silly scheme that ought never to have been undertaken, if i choose to be, have i not, without being called in question by any one?" and feeling more thoroughly vexed, not only with the girls, but with herself, than ever she remembered feeling before, ruth arose suddenly and sought refuge under the trees outside the tent. marion maintained a puzzled silence. this was a new phase in ruth's character, and one hard to manage. flossy looked on the point of crying. she was not used to crossing the wills of those who had influence over her, but she was very determined as to one thing: she was not going to leave chautauqua. "nothing could tempt me to go to saratoga just now," she said, earnestly. "why?" asked marion, and receiving no answer at all felt that flossy puzzled her as much as ruth had done. however, she set herself to work to restore peace. "this letter is done," she said, gayly, folding her manuscript. "it is a perfectly gushing account of yesterday's meeting, for some of which i am indebted to the buffalo reporters; for i have given the most thrilling parts where i wasn't present. now i'm going to celebrate. come in, ruth, we are of the same mind precisely. i would gladly accompany you on the afternoon train to saratoga with the greatest pleasure, were it not for certain inconveniences connected with my pocket-book, and a desire to replenish it by writing up this enterprise. but since we can't go to saratoga, let's you and i go to mayville. it is a city of several hundred inhabitants, six or eight, certainly, i should think; and we can have an immense amount of fun out of the people and the sights this afternoon, and escape the preaching. i haven't got to write another letter until monday. come, shall we take the three o'clock boat?" neither of these young ladies could have told what possible object there could be in leaving the lovely woods in which they were camped and going off to the singularly quiet, uninteresting little village of mayville, except that it was, as they said, a getting away from the preaching--though why two young ladies, with first-class modern educations, should find it so important to get themselves away from some of the first speakers in the country they did not stop to explain even to themselves. however, the plan came to ruth as a relief, and she unhesitatingly agreed to it; so they went their ways--flossy to the afternoon meeting (since eurie declared herself so far convalescent as to be entirely able to remain alone) and the two of the party who had prided themselves up to this time on their superiority of intellect down to the wharf to take the boat for mayville. the ride thither on the lovely lake was almost enough to excuse them for their folly. but the question what to do with themselves afterward was one that burdened them during all that long summer afternoon. they went to the mayville house and took a walk on the piazza, and the boarders looked at them in curiosity, and wondered if it were really a pleasanter walk than the green fields over at chautauqua. they ordered dinner and ate it at the general table with great relish, ruth rejoicing over this return to civilized life. one episode of the table must be noted. opposite them sat a gentleman who, either from something in their appearance, or more probably from the reasonable conclusion that all the strangers who had gathered at the quiet little village were in some way associated with the great gathering, addressed them as being part of that great whole. "you people are going to reap a fine harvest, pecuniarily, to-morrow; but how about the fourth commandment? you christians lay great stress on that document whenever a sunday reading-room or something of that sort is being contemplated, don't you?" the remark was addressed to both of them, but ruth was too much occupied with the strangeness of the thought that she was again being counted among "christian people" to make any answer. not so marion. her eyes danced with merriment, but she answered with great gravity: "we believe in keeping holy the sabbath day, of course. what has that to do with chautauqua. haven't you consulted the programme and read: 'no admission at the gates or docks'?" the gentleman smiled incredulously. "i have read it," he said, significantly, "and doubtless many believe it implicitly. i hope their faith won't be shaken by hearing the returns from tickets counted over in the evening." there was a genuine flush of feeling on marion's face now. "do you mean to say," she asked, haughtily, "that you have no faith in the published statement that the gates will be closed, or do you mean that the association have changed their minds? because if you have heard the latter, i can assure you it is a mistake, as i heard the matter discussed by those in authority this very morning; and they determined to adhere rigidly to the rules." "i have no doubt they will, so far as lies in their power," the gentleman said, with an attempt at courtesy in his manner. "but the trouble is, the thing is absurd on the face of it. if i hold a ticket for an entertainment, which the association have sold to me, it is none of their business on what day i present it, provided the entertainment is in progress. they have no right to keep me out, and they are swindling me out of so much money if they do it." "you have changed your argument," marion said, with a flash of humor in her eyes. "you were talking about the amount of money that the association were to earn to-morrow, not the amount which you were to lose by not being allowed to come in. however, i am willing to talk from that standpoint. if you hold the _season_ ticket of the association, and are stopping outside, you will be admitted, of course. it is held to be as reasonable a way to go to church as though you harnessed your horses at home and drove, on the sabbath, to your regular place of worship. but you buy no ticket _for_ the sabbath, and none is received from you; and if you choose not to go, the association neither makes nor loses by the operation, and, so far as money is concerned, is entirely indifferent which you decide to do. what fault can possibly be found with such an arrangement?" "well," said the gentleman, with a quiet positiveness of tone, "i haven't a season ticket, and i don't mean to buy one, and i mean to go down there to meeting to-morrow, and i expect to get in." "i dare say," marion answered, with glowing cheeks. "the grounds are extensive, you know, and they are not walled in. i haven't the least doubt but that hundreds can creep through the brush, and so have the gospel free. there is something about 'he that climbeth up some other way being a thief and a robber;' but, of course, the writer could not have had chautauqua in mind; and even if it applies, it would be only stealing from an association, which is not stealing at all, you know." "you are hard on me," the gentleman said, flushing in his turn, and the listeners, of whom there were many, laughed and seemed to enjoy the flashing of words. "i have no intention of creeping or climbing in. i shall present the same sort of ticket which took me in to-day, and if it doesn't pass me i will send you a dispatch to let you know, if you will give me your address." "and if you _do_ get in, and will let me know, i will report at once to the proper authorities that the gate-keepers have been unfaithful to their trust," said marion, triumphantly. "but, my dear madam, what justice is there in that? i have paid my money, and what business is it to them when i present my ticket? that is keeping me out of my just dues." "oh, not a bit of it; that is, if you can read, and have, as you admit, read their printed statement that you are not invited to the ground on sunday. your fifty-cent ticket will admit you on monday. and you surely will not argue that the association has not a right to limit the number of guests that it will entertain over the sabbath?" "yes, i argue that it is their business to let me in whenever i present their ticket." marion laughed outright. "that is marvelous!" she said. "it is wicked for them to receive payment for your coming in on the sabbath, and it is wicked for them not to let you in on your ticket. really, i don't see what the association are to do. they are committing sin either way it is put. i see no way out of it but to have refused to sell you any tickets at all. would that have made it right?" the laugh that was raised over this innocently put question seemed to irritate her new acquaintance. he spoke hastily. "it is a sabbath-breaking concern, viewed in any light that you choose to put it. there is no sense in holding camp-meetings over the sabbath, and every one agrees that they have a demoralizing effect." "do you mean me to understand you to think that the several thousand people who are now stopping at chautauqua will be breaking the sabbath by going out of their tents to-morrow and walking down to the public service?" the bit of sophistry in this meekly put question was overlooked, or at least not answered, and the logical young gentleman asked: "if they think sabbath services in the woods so helpful, why are they not consistent? let them throw the meeting open for all who wish to come, making the gospel without money and without price, as they pretend it is. why isn't that done?" "well, there are at least half a dozen reasons. i wonder you have not thought of one of them. in the first place, that, of course, would tempt to a great deal of sabbath traveling, a thing which they carefully guard against now by refusing to admit all travelers. and in the second place, it would give the chautauqua people a great deal to do in the way of entertaining so large a class of people. as it is, they have quite as much as they care to do to make comfortable the large company who belong to their family. and in the third place--but perhaps you do not care to hear all the reasons?" he ignored this question also, and went back to one of her arguments. "they don't keep travelers away at all, even by your own admission. what is to hinder hundreds of them from coming here to-day and buying season tickets in order to get in to-morrow?" he had the benefit of a most quizzical glance then from marion's shining eyes before she answered. "oh, well, if the people are really so hungering and thirsting for the gospel, as it is dispensed at chautauqua, that they are willing to act a lie, by pretending that they are members _who have been and are to be in regular attendance_, and then are willing to pay two dollars and a half for the sunday meeting, i don't know but i think they ought to be allowed to _creep_ in. don't you?" chapter xvii. getting ready to live. amid the laughter that followed this retort the company rose up from the table and went their various ways, to meet, perhaps, again. "how on earth do you manage to keep so thoroughly posted in regard to chautauqua affairs? one would think you were the wife of the private secretary. _i_ shouldn't have known whether the gates were to be opened or closed to-morrow." this from ruth as the two girls paced the long piazza while waiting for the carriage which was to take them to the boat; for, having exhausted the resources of mayville for entertainment, they were about to return to chautauqua. marion laughed. "i'm here in the capacity of a newspaper writer, please remember," she answered promptly, "and what i don't know i can imagine, like the rest of that brilliant fraternity. i am not really positive about a great many of the statements that i made, except on the general principle that these people belong to the class who are very much given to doing according to their printed word. it says on the circulars that the gates will be closed on the sabbath, and i dare say they will be. at least, we have a right to assume such to be the case until it is proven false." "what class of people do you mean who are given to doing as they have agreed? christian people, do you refer to?" "well, yes; the sort of christians that one meets at such a gathering as this. as a rule, the namby-pamby christians stay away from such places; or, if they come, they float off to saratoga or some more kindred climate. i beg your pardon, ruthie, that doesn't mean you, you know, because you are not one of any sort." "then do you take it to be their religion which inclines you to trust to their word, without having an individual acquaintance with them?" marion shrugged her shoulders. "oh, bother!" she said, gayly, "you are not turning theologian, or police detective in search of suspicious characters, are you? i never pretend to pry into my notions for and against people and things; if i was betrayed into anything that sounded like common sense i beg your pardon. i am out on a frolic, and mean to have it if there is any such thing." "well, before you go back into absolute nonsense let me ask you one more question. do you really feel as deeply as you pretended to that man, on all these questions of the chautauqua conscience? i mean, is it a vital point in your estimation whether people go there to church on sunday or not?" marion hesitated, and a fine glow deepened on her face as she said, after a little, speaking with grave dignity: "i do not know that i can explain myself to you, ruth, and i dare say that i seem to you like a bundle of contradictions; but it is a real pleasure to me to come in contact with people who have earnest faith and eager enthusiasm over _anything_, and principle enough to stand by their views through evil and good report. in this way, and to a great degree, this meeting is a positive delight to me, though i know personally as little about the feeling from which they think their actions take rise as any mortal can. does that answer satisfy you, my blessed mother confessor? or are you more muddled than ever over what i do, and especially over what i do _not_ believe?" "if i believed as much as you do i should look further." ruth said this with emphasis; and there was that in it which, despite her attempts to throw it off, set marion to thinking, and kept her wonderfully quiet during their return trip. on the whole, the flight to mayville was not viewed entirely in the light of a success. ruth had been quiet and grave for some time, when she suddenly spoke in her most composed and decided voice: "i shall go to saratoga on monday, whether any one else will or not; i shall find plenty of friends to welcome me, and i shall take the morning train from here." but she didn't. meantime flossy's afternoon had been an uninterrupted satisfaction to her. she attended the children's meeting, and it was perfectly amazing to her newly awakened brain how many of the stories, used to point truths for the children, touched home to her. dr. hurlbut, of plainfield, seemed to have especially planned his address for the purpose of hitting at some of the markedly weak points in her character, though no doubt the good man would have been utterly amazed had he known her thoughts. she listened and laughed with the rest over the story of the poor tailor who promised a coat to a customer for one, two and three weeks, heaping up his promises one on the other until he had a perfect pyramid of them, only to topple about his ears. she heard with the rest the magnificent voice ring out the solemn conclusion: "children, he did not mean to lie. he did not even think he was a liar. he only _broke his promises_." they all heard, and i don't know how many shivered over it, but i _do_ know that to flossy shipley it seemed as if some one had struck her an actual blow. was it possible that the easy sentences, the easy promises, to "write," to "come," to "bring this," to "tell that," made so gracefully, sounding so kindly, costing so little because forgotten almost as soon as her head was turned away, actually belonged in that list described by the ugly word "lie." flossy had been a special sinner in this department of polite wickedness because it just accorded with her nature; such promises were so easy to make, and seemed to please people, and were so easy to forget. like the tailor, she hadn't meant to be a liar, nor dreamed that she was one. but her wide-open ears took it all in, and her roused brain turned the thought over and over, until, be it known to you, that that girl's happy pastor, when he receives from her a decided, "yes, sir, i will do it," may rest assured that unless something beyond her control intervenes she will be at her post. so much did dr. hurlbut accomplish that afternoon without ever knowing it. there were many things done that afternoon, i suspect, that only the light of the judgement day will reveal. over the story of the two workmen, who each resolved to stick to a certain effort for six months, and did it, the one earning thereby a patent right worth thousands of dollars, and the other teaching a little dog how to dance to the whistling of a certain tune, flossy looked unutterably sober, while the laughter swelled to a perfect roar around her. it was hard to feel that not "six months" only, but a dozen years of intelligent life, were gone from her, and she had not even taught a dog to dance a jig! that was the very way she put it in her humility; and i do not say that she placed it too low, because really i don't know that flossy shipley had _ever had_ even so settled a purpose in life as that! she had simply fluttered around the edge of this solemn business that we call living. but along with the sober thought glowed the earnest purpose: given another dozen years to my young lady's life and they will bear a different record; and whatever they bear, dr. hurlburt will be in a sense responsible for, though he never saw her and probably never will. verily this living is a complicated bewildering thing well for us that _all_ the weight of the responsibility is not ours to bear. there was still another story, and over it flossy's lips parted, and her eyes glowed with feeling. that wonderful machine that the most skillful workmen tried in vain to repair, that was useless and worthless, until the name of the owner was found on it, and he was sent for, then indeed it found the master-hand, the only one who could right it; she did not need dr. hurlbut's glowing application. "so he who made us, and engraved his name, his image, on our bodies, can alone take our hearts and make them right." flossy listened to this and the sentences that followed, thrilling her heart with their power and beauty--thrilling as they would not have done one week ago, for did she not know by actual experience just how blessed a worker the great maker was? had she not carried her heart to him, and had he not left his indelible impression there? oh, this was a wonderful meeting to flossy--one that she will never forget--one that many others will have reason to remember, because of the way in which she listened. but was it not strange, the way in which her education was being cared for? after tea she stood at the entrance of the tent, looking out for the girls--looking out, also, on the cool, quiet sunset and the glory spread everywhere, for there had been sunshine that day, part of the time, and there was a clear sun setting. under her arm she held the treasure which she had in the morning determined to possess--a good, plain, large-print bible, not at all like the velvet-covered one that lay on her toilet-stand at home, but such as the needs of bible students at chautauqua had demanded, and therefore much better fitted for actual service than the velvet. among the many passers-by came mrs. smythe. she halted before flossy. "good-evening. i thought your party must have left. i haven't seen you since thursday. haven't you been fearfully bored? we are going to leave on monday morning--going to saratoga. don't some of you want to join us? "i don't know," flossy said, thoughtfully mindful of ruth and her plan that had not worked. "it is possible that miss erskine may. do your entire party go?" "oh, not my nephew, of course! nothing could tear him away. he is perfectly charmed with all this singing and praying and preaching, but i confess it is too much of a good thing for me. i am not intellectually inclined, i like the music very well, and some of the addresses are fine; but there is such a thing as carrying meetings to excess." at this point she turned quickly at the sound of a firm step behind her, and greeted a young man. "speak of angels and you hear their wings, or the squeak of their boots," she said. "we were just talking about you, evan. my nephew, mr. roberts, miss shipley. i believe you have never met before." had they not! there was a heightened flush on the cheek of each as they shook hands. it was clear that each recognized the other. "are we strangers?" he asked, with a bright smile, speaking so low that mrs. smythe, whose attention had already wandered from them to a group who were passing, did not hear the words, "on the contrary, i think we are related, though i do not know that we have happened to hear each other's names before." flossy understood the relationship--sons and daughters of one father--for she knew this was the young man who had twice questioned her concerning her allegiance to that father. also, she remembered him as the only one whom she had ever heard pray for her. mrs. smythe called out a gay good-evening to them, and joined a party of friends, and mr. roberts leaned against a tree and prepared to cultivate the acquaintance of his newly-found relative. "you have one of those large, sensible-looking bibles, i see," he said. "i have been very much tempted, but i could not make myself feel that i really needed one." "i really needed mine," flossy said, smiling. "i left my bible at home. i had not such a thought as bringing it along. i feel now as if i had a treasure that i didn't know how to use. it is quite new to me. i don't know where to read first, but i suppose it makes no difference." "indeed it does make great difference," he said, smiling, "and you will enjoy finding out how to read it. chautauqua is a good place for such a study, and the bible reading this evening is an excellent place to commence. are you going?" "yes, indeed!" flossy said, with brightening eyes. "i have been looking forward to it all day. i can't think what a bible reading is. do they just read verses in the bible?" "yes," he said, smiling. "it is just bible verses, with a word of explanation now and then and a little singing. but the bible verses are something remarkable, as you will see. it is nearly time for service. are you ready? shall we walk down and secure seats?" so they went down together it the early twilight, and took seats under the trees amid the glowing of brilliant lights and the soft sound of music coming from the piano on the stand. chapter xviii. the silent witness. that bible reading! i wish i could make it appear to you as it did to flossy shipley. not that either, because i trust that the sound of the bible verses is not so utterly new to you as it was to her--rather, that it might sound to you as it did to the earnest-souled young man who sat beside her, taking in ever; word with as much eagerness as if some of the verses had not been his dear and long-cherished friends; nay, with more eagerness on that account. do you know dr. parsons, of boston? it was he who conducted that reading, and his theme was, "the coming of the lord." let me give you just a few of the groupings as he called them forth from his congregation under the trees, and which he called "the lord's own testimonies to his coming:" "watch therefore, for ye know not what hour your lord doth come." "therefore, be ye also ready; for in such an hour as ye think not the son of man cometh." "watch therefore, for ye know neither the day nor the hour wherein the son of man cometh." "take ye heed, watch and pray: for ye know not when the time is." four solemn warnings from the head of the vineyard. they reached to flossy's very soul, and she had that old well-known thrill of feeling that almost every christian has some time experienced. "if _i_ had only been there; if he had spoken such words to _me_, i could never, never have forgotten, or been neglectful. if i could only have heard him speak!" and as if in answer to this longing cry dr. parsons himself read the next solemn sentence, read it in such a way that it almost seemed as if this might be the sacred garden, and _himself_ standing among the olive-trees speaking even to _her_: "and what i say unto you i say unto all, watch." here, then, was her direction from his own lips. though centuries had passed since he spoke them they echoed down to her. she was not overwhelmed; she was not crushed by the new and solemn sense of her calling that flowed over her. the lord himself was there in every deed, and whispered in her ear, "it is i, be not afraid." and her heart responded solemnly, "aye, lord, i feel thy presence; i have been sleeping, but i am awake, and from henceforth i _will_ watch." that bible reading was like a whole week of theological study to flossy. it was not that she learned simply about the blessed assurance, the weight of testimony amounting to an absolute certainty, concerning the coming of the lord. but there were so many truths growing out from that, so many incentives to be up and doing; for she found before the reading closed that one must not only watch, but in the watching work; and there were so many reasons why she should, and so many hints as to the way and the time. then there was, also, the most blessed discovery that the bible was not a book to treat like an arithmetic. that one must read through the book of genesis, and then go on to exodus, a chapter to-day, two chapters to-morrow, and perhaps some days, when one was not in too great a hurry and could read very fast, take half a dozen chapters, and so get through it. but she learned that there were little connecting links of sweetness all the way through the book; that she had a right to look over in revelation for an explanation of something that was stated in deuteronomy. she did not learn all this, either, at this one time; but she got a vivid hint of it, strong enough to keep her hunting and pulling at the lovely golden thread of the bible for long years to come. there were special points about the closing verses that throbbed in her heart, and awakened purposes that never slept again. it was the gentleman who sat beside her who read the solemn words of the verse: "but the day of the lord will come as a thief in the night; in which the heavens shall pass away with a great noise, and the elements shall melt with fervent heat, the earth also and the works that are therein shall be burned up. seeing then that all these things shall be dissolved, what manner of persons ought ye to be in all holy conversation and godliness?" his voice was very earnest, and his face had an eager look of solemn joy. from it she felt the truth that while the words which he had been reading were full of solemnity, and while he felt the sense of responsibility, there was also that in them which filled his heart with great joy, for when that time should come would not he be with his lord? again, when a little later he gave the closing verses of this wonderful lesson, reading them from her bible, because in the dimness the print was larger and clearer than his own, they made the conclusion of the whole matter: "ye are the children of light, and the children of the day; we are not of the night, nor of the darkness. therefore let us not sleep as do others, but let us watch and be sober." he marked it with his pencil as he finished reading, and as he returned the book to her keeping he said with a smile: "we will, shall we not?" and it felt to flossy like a convenant, witnessed by the lord himself. but dr. parsons, you know, knew nothing of all this. chautauqua was the place for sowing the seed; they could only hope that the lord of the vineyard was looking on and watching over the coming harvest; it was not for their eyes to see the fruits. sunday morning at chautauqua! none of all the many hundreds who spent the day within the shadow of that sweet and leafy place have surely forgotten how the quaint and quiet beauty of the place and its surroundings fell upon them; they know just how the birds sang among those tall old trees; they know just how still and blue and clear the lake looked as they caught glimpses of it through the quivering green of myriad leaves; they know just how clearly the chautauqua bells cut the air and called to the worship. it needs not even these few words to recall the place in its beauty to the hearts of those who worshiped there that day; and for you who did not see it nor feel its power there is no use to try to describe chautauqua. only this, it is a place to love and look back to with a sort of sweet and tender longing all your lives. our girls felt somewhat of the sacredness of the place; at least they went around with a more decided feeling that it was sunday than they had ever realized before. three of them did. to flossy this day was like the revelation of a new heaven and a new earth. her first sunday in christ! there was no sunshine, neither was there rain. just a hush of all things, and sweetness everywhere. after breakfast ruth and marion lolled on their cots and studied the programme, while the other two made hasty toilets, and announced their intention of going to sunday-school. "what in the name of sense takes you?" queried marion, rising on one elbow, the better to view this strange phenomena. "why i have a mission," eurie said. "about three thousand people have been talking all this week about teaching a few bible verses to some children to-day, and i am going to find out what they are, and what is so wonderful about them. besides, i was taken for a being named miss rider, and on inquiry i find her to be what they call an infant-class teacher, so i am going to hunt her up and see if we look alike and are affinities." flossy chose to make no answer at all, and presently the two departed together to attend their first sabbath-school since they were known as children. as they passed a certain tent eurie's ready ears gained information from other passers-by: "this is where the little children are; miss rider is going to teach them." eurie halted. "_i'm_ going in here," she said, decidedly, to flossy. "that is the very lady i am in search of." and seeing flossy hesitate, she added: "oh, you may go on, it is just as well to divide our forces; we may each have some wonderful adventure. you go your way and i will go mine, and we'll see what will come of it." the tent was full apparently; but that spirit which was rife at chautauqua, and which prompted everybody to try to look out a little for the comfort of everybody else, made a seat full of ladies crowd a little and make room for her. rows and rows of little people with smiling faces and shining eyes! it was a pretty sight. eurie gave eager attention to the lady who was talking to them, and laughed a little to herself over the dissimilarity of their appearance. "hair and eyes and height, and everything else, totally unlike me!" she said. "she is older than i, too, ever so much. she doesn't look as i thought miss rider would." but what she was saying proved to be very interesting, not only to the little people, but to eurie. she listened eagerly. it was important to discover what had been so stirring the sunday-school world all the week. she was not left in doubt; the story was plainly, clearly, fascinatingly told; it was that tender one of the sick man so long waiting, waiting to be helped into the pool; disappointed year after year, until one blessed day jesus came that way and asked one simple question, and received an eager answer, and gave one brief command, and, lo! the work was done! the long, long years of pain and trial were over! do you think this seemed like a wonderful story to eurie? do you think her cheeks glowed with joy over the thought of the great love and the great power of jesus? alas, alas! to her there was no beauty in him. this simple tender story did not move her as the commonplace account of a common sickness and common recovery given in a village paper would have done. the very most that she thought of it was this: "that miss rider has a good deal of dramatic power. how well she tells the story! but dear me! how stupid it must be. what is the use of taking so much trouble for these little midgets? they don't understand the story, and of what use would it be to them if they did? something that happened to somebody hundreds of years ago." but now her attention was arrested by the sound of a very loud whisper just behind her, given in a childish voice. "miss rider, miss rider," the child was saying, and emphasizing her whisper by a pull at a lady's dress. eurie turned quickly; the dress belonged to a young, fair girl, with fresh glowing face and large bright eyes, that shone now with feeling as she listened eagerly to this story, and to the comments of the children concerning it. then she in turn whispered to the lady nearest her: "is it miss rider who is teaching?" "no, it is mrs. clark, of newark. that is miss rider leaning against a post." then eurie looked back to her. "she is no older than i," she murmured; "indeed not so old, i should think. her hair must be exactly the color of mine, and we are about the same height. i wonder if we _do_ look in the least alike? what do i care!" yet still she looked; the bright face fascinated her. the little child had won the lady's attention; and the lips and eyes, and indeed the whole face, were vivid with animation as she bent low and answered some troubled question, appealing to the diagram on the board, and making clear her answer by rapid gestures with her fingers. the lady beside eurie volunteered some more information. "miss rider was to have taught this class, i heard. i wonder why she didn't?" "i don't know," eurie answered, briefly. then she looked back at her again. "she is jealous," she said to herself. "she was to have taught this class this morning, and by some blundering she was left out, and she is disgusted. she will say that such teaching as this amounts to nothing; she could have done it five times as well; or, if she doesn't _say_ that last, she will think it and act it. i have no doubt these rival teachers cordially hate each other, like politicians." nevertheless that fresh young face, with its glow of feeling, fascinated her. she kept looking at her; she gave no more attention to the lesson. what was it, after all, but an old story that had nothing to do with her; the fact that it was taken from the bible was proof enough of that. but she watched miss rider. the session closed and that lady pressed forward to assist in giving out papers. the crowd pushed the willing eurie nearer to her, so near that she could catch the sentence that she was eagerly saying to the lady near her. "isn't mrs. clark delightful? it was such a beautiful lesson this morning. i think it is such a treat and such a privilege to be allowed to listen to her. yes, darling," this last to another little one claiming a word, "of course jesus can hear you now, just as well as though he stood here. he often says to people, 'wilt thou be made whole?' he has said so to you this morning." eurie turned away quickly. she had had her lesson. it wasn't from the bible, nor yet did she find it in those hundred little faces so eager to know the story in all its details. it was just in that young face not so old as hers, so bright, so strong, so thoroughly alert, and so thoroughly enlisted in this matter. the vivid contrast between that life and hers struck eurie with the force of a new revelation. she went to the general service under the trees; she heard a sermon from dr. pierce, so full of power and eloquence that to many who heard it there came new resolves, new purposes, new plans. i beg her pardon, she did not listen; she simply occupied a seat and looked as though she was a listener. but the truth was, she had not learned yet to listen to sermons. the very fact that it was a sermon made it clear to her mind that there was to be nothing in it for her; this had been her education. in reality, during that hour of worship she was engaged in watching the changeful play of expression on miss rider's face, as her eyes brightened and glowed with enthusiasm or trembled with tears, according as the preacher's words roused or subdued her. well, eurie had her lesson. it was not from the bible, it was not from the preacher's lips except incidentally, but it was from a living epistle. "ye shall be witnesses of me," was the promise of christ in the long ago, just before the cloud received him out of sight. is not that promise verified to us often and often when we know it not? miss rider had no means of knowing as she sat a listener that sabbath morning that she was witnessing for christ. but she was just as surely speaking for him as though she had stood up amid that throng and said: "i love jesus." "ye are my witnesses, saith the lord." and the poet has said: "they also serve who only stand and wait." blessed are those in whom the waiting and the service go together. chapter xix. an old story. meantime flossy, deserted by her companion, made her way somewhat timidly down to the stand, amazed by the great congregation of people who had formed themselves into a sunday-school. with all their haste the girls had gotten a very late start. the opening exercises were all over, and the numerous teachers were turning to their work. strangely enough, the first person whom flossy's eye took in distinctly enough for recognition was mr. roberts. he had recognized her, also, and was coming toward her. "how do you do this morning?" he said, holding out his hand. "do you know i have a mission for you? there are two boys who seem to belong to nobody, and to have nothing in common with this gathering, except curiosity. the superintendent has twice tried to charm them in, but without success--they will come no further than that tree. i think they have slipped in from the village, probably in a most unorthodox fashion, and what i am coming at is, will you go out under the tree to them and beguile them into attending a sabbath-school for once in their lives? they look to me as though it was probably a rare occurrence." now you are not to suppose that this invitation came to flossy with the same sound that it would have had to you, if mr. roberts had come to you that sabbath morning and asked you to tell those two boys a bible story. it is something that you have probably been doing a good deal of, all your grown-up life, and two boys at chautauqua are no more to you than two boys anywhere else, except that there is a delightful sensation connected with having a class-room out in the open air. but imagine yourself suddenly confronted by dr. vincent, and asked if you would be so kind as to step on the platform and preach to five thousand people, from a text that he would select for you! now you have something of an idea as to how this request felt to flossy. a rare glow spread all over her face, and she looked up at her questioner with eyes that were quivering in tears. "you do not know what you are saying," she said, in low and trembling voice. "i have not been to a sabbath-school in seven years, and i never taught anybody anything in my life." it was true that he did not know. it seemed to him such a very little thing that he had asked. however, he spoke gently enough as one who was courteous, even when he could not quite comprehend. "then is not to-day a good time to commence? you will surely never have a better opportunity." but she shook her head, and turned quite away from him, walking down among the trees where no people were. her joy was all gone, and her pleasant time. she had meant to go to sabbath-school; to sit down quietly in some body's class and learn, oh! a very great deal during the next hour. now she was all stirred up, and could not go anywhere. as for mr. roberts, he went back to the large class who were waiting for him. and those two boys hovered around the edge of that feast like hungry creatures who yet had never learned to come to the table and take their places. flossy looked at them; at first indignantly, as at miserable beings who had spoiled her pleasure; then she became fascinated by their bright, dirty faces and roguish ways. she edged a little nearer to them. boys she was afraid of; she knew nothing about them. had they been a little older, and been dressed well, and been of the stamp of boys who knew how to bring her handkerchief to her when she dropped it, she would have known what to say to them. but boys who were not more than twelve or fourteen, and who were both ragged and dirty, were new phases of life to her. "why don't you go to sunday-school?" she questioned at last, with a timid air. she could at least ask that. they were not the least timid as to answering; the older and the dirtier of the two turned his roguish eyes on her and surveyed her from head to foot before he said: "why don't you?" flossy was unprepared for this question, but she answered quickly and truthfully: "because i am afraid to go." both boys stared, and then laughed, and the other younger one said: "so be we." "i suppose we are both very silly," flossy said. "but i have not been to sunday-school for so long that i have forgotten all about it. let's have one of our own that we are not afraid to go to." and she sat bravely down on the stump at her feet; her mood had changed very suddenly; only yesterday she had read a verse in that bible, and it thrilled her then, and came to her now: "the man departed and told the jews that it was jesus who had made him whole." suppose she were the man, and these were the jews, could she not say to them, "he has made me whole"? she could tell them about that pool, and about the sick man. it wouldn't be teaching in sunday-school, but it would be doing the best thing that she could. it suddenly occurred to her to wonder where the lesson was that was being taught this morning, and she consulted the lesson leaf that mr. roberts had left in her hand. the glow on her face deepened and spread as she recognized the very story which had so filled her heart the day before! what if the great physician had actually selected her to tell of that miracle of healing to these two neglected ones! surely they were not so formidable as the jews! but how in the world to begin was a bewilderment. clearly she must decide at once if she was to have any class, for her two boys began to look about them, and show signs of flight. "did you ever hear about a wonderful spring that used to cure people?" "lots of 'em. i used to live right by one that cured the rheumatiz." "but this one would cure other things, only it wouldn't cure people all the time. there was just one time in the year when it would do it; and then the one that got in first was the only one cured." her listeners looked skeptical. "what was that for?" queried the bolder of the two. "why didn't it cure but one?" "i don't know," flossy said. "there are ever so many things that i know that i can't tell why they are so. for instance, i don't know why that spring you have been telling me about cures the rheumatism, but i know it does, for you told me so." "no more do i," the boy said, promptly, having in his heart a rising respect for the young teacher and her story. then this new beginner, with the air of a diplomatist, told all the details of this wonderful cure, without once mentioning the name of either person or place. an innate sense of the human heart told her that "jerusalem" and "jesus" were both probably connected in the minds of these two with the bible, and their appearance told her that they were likely to be skeptical as to the interest of bible stories. but, like all ignorant persons, there was a credulous side to their nature. it is surprising what marvelous stories people are prepared to receive and credit, provided only that they do not come from the bible, with a "thus saith the lord" to vouch for them. then, indeed, they are apt to become "unreasonable" and "improbable." presently her boys volunteered some remarks and asked some questions. "jolly! that fellow must have felt good: i guess he wanted to run all around the country and tell about it. where was this spring, and what was the man's name that cured him?" the other chimed in: "yes, and how did he do it? that's what i'm after. and is he dead? 'cause i don't hear of no such cures now-days." then was flossy tremulous of heart. she had become eagerly interested in her story and her boys. would the charm that she had woven be broken the moment they knew the story's origin? but of course she must tell them, for what good else would the story do? "he is dead," she said, slowly, answering the last question first. "that is, he is what _you_ call dead. but, of course, you know as well as i do that that doesn't mean what it seems to; it means simply that he doesn't live in the same place that he once did. he went to heaven to live ever so many years ago." she waited to feel the effect of this announcement. the boys were silent and grave. they had evidently heard of heaven, and had some measure of respect for the name. the new teacher did not know what to say next. the boys helped her. the younger one drew a heavy sigh. "well, all i've got to say is, i wish he was alive now," he said, in a regretful tone, "'cause my mother has been sick longer than thirty-eight years; she has been sick about all her life, and she is real bad now, so she can't walk at all. i s'pose he could cure her if he was here." "i suppose he could cure her now." flossy said this slowly, reverently, looking earnestly at the boy, hoping to convey to him a sense of her meaning. he looked utterly puzzled. light began to dawn on the face of the older boy. "she's been tellin' us one of them bible stories," he said, speaking not to flossy, but to his companion, and assuming an injured air, as if a wrong had been done them. flossy spoke quickly: "of course i have. i thought you wanted to hear something that really happened, and not a made up story." this seemed to be an appeal to their dignity, and they eyed her reflectively. "how do you know it happened?" ventured the younger one. flossy gave a rapid and animated answer. "there are about a hundred reasons why i know it; it would take me all day to tell you half of them. but one is, that i read it in a book which good men who know a great deal, and who have been studying all their lives to find out about it, say they know is true; and i believe what they tell me about washington and lincoln and other men whom i never saw, so i ought to believe them when they tell me about this man." "but there's _one_ thing you don't know. you don't know that he can cure folks now, and he don't do it." this was spoken with a quiet positiveness, and with the air that said, "_that_ can't be disputed, and you know it can't." flossy hesitated just a moment; the glow on her face deepened and spread. then she answered in much the same tone that the boy had used: "i know he _can_, and i have good reason for knowing. i'll tell you a secret; you are the very first persons i have told about it, but he has cured me. i have been sick all my life, when i came here to chautauqua i was sick. i could not do anything that i was made to do, and i kept doing things all the time that were not meant for me to do, but he has cured me." the boys looked at her in absolute incredulous wonder. "was you sick in bed when you came?" ventured one of them at last. "no; it is not that kind of sickness that i mean. that is when the body is sick, the body that when the soul goes away looks like nothing but marble, can not move, nor feel, nor speak; that isn't of much consequence, you know, because we are sure that the soul will go away from it after awhile. it is this soul of mine that is going to live forever that was cured." "how do you know it was?" came again from these wondering boys. flossy smiled a rare, bright smile that charmed them. "if _yours_ had been cured you would not ask me that question," she said; "you would _know_ how i know it. but i can't tell you how it is: don't you know there are some things that you are sure of that you can't explain? you are sure you can think, aren't you? but how would you set to work to explain to me that you are sure? the only way that you can know how is by going to this doctor and getting cured; then you will understand." "i'd like him if he would cure folks' _bodies_," began the boy who had a sick mother, speaking in a doubtful, somewhat dissatisfied tone. "he does," flossy said, quickly. "don't people's bodies get well sometimes? and who can cure bodies except the one who made them? if you want your mother cured you ought to try him. if she is to be made well you may be sure that he can do it; but why should he so long as you do not care enough about it to ask him?" there was a rush and a bustle among the crowds in the distance. sunday-school session was over, and the great company were moving for seats for the morning service. the boys took the alarm and fled, each glancing back to nod and smile at the bright apparition who had told them a story. flossy picked up her bible; she had not needed to use it during this talk. the story of bethesda had burned itself so into her heart with that morning reading that she had no need to look at it again. she gave a thoughtful little sigh. "i don't know about that being teaching," she said within her heart, "but i certainly told them about jesus, and i told them it was jesus who had 'made me whole.' i made my own experience 'witness' for me to that degree. if that is what they mean by teaching i like to do it. i mean to go to sunday-school just as soon as i get home, and if i find out that they just tell about things as they are in the bible i can do it. i can make the boys listen to me, i know." bright little fairy that she was! there was a new glow about her face. she was waking to the thought that there was such a thing as power over people's brains. no danger but she will use her knowledge. let me tell you another thing that chautauqua did for her. it planted the seed that shall blossom into splendid teaching. there was one teacher who gave many glances that morning to the little group around that old tree stump. mr. roberts, from his point of observation, not far away, watched this scene from beginning to end. it fascinated him. he saw the timid beginning and the ever-increasing interest, until, when flossy closed her bible and arose, he turned his eyes from her with a quiet smile in them, and to himself he said: "unless i am very greatly mistaken she has found something that she can do." chapter xx. people who, "having eyes, see not." "girls!" said eurie, as she munched a doughnut, which she had brought from the lunch-table with her, and lounged on a camp-chair, waiting for the afternoon service, "do you know that flossy taught a class in sunday-school this morning?" "taught a class!" repeated both marion and ruth in one voice, and with about equal degrees of amazement. "she did, as true as the world. that is, she must have been teaching. the way of it was this: i went to see the little midgets exhibit themselves, and when i came out of the tent and walked over toward the stand, there sat flossy on that old stump just back of the stand, and before her were two of the roughest-looking boys that ever emerged from the backwoods. they were ragged and dirty and wild; and as wicked little imps as one could find, i am sure. flossy was talking to them, and she had a large bible in her lap and one of those lesson leaves that they flutter about here so much; and--well, altogether it was an amazing sight! she was certainly talking to them with all her might, and they were listening; and it is my opinion that she was trying to play sunday-school teacher, and give them a lesson. you know she is an imitative little sheep, and always was." "nonsense!" ruth said, and she seemed to speak more sharply than the occasion warranted. "just as if flossy shipley couldn't have anything to say to two boys but what she found in the bible! little she knows what is in it, for that matter. i suppose she wandered out that way because she did not know what else to do with herself, and talked to the boys by way of amusement. she has often amused herself in that way, i am sure." "ah, yes; but these specimens were rather too youthful and dirty for that sort of amusement, and she had a bible in her lap." "what of that! bibles are as common as leaves here. i found two lying on the seat which i took this morning. people seem to think the art of stealing has not found its way here." "flossy is changed," interrupted marion. "the mouse is certainly different from what _i_ ever saw her before; she seems so quiet and self-sustained. i thought she was bored. why, i expected her to hail a trip to her dear saratoga with absolute delight! she belongs to just the class of people who would find the intellectual element here too strong for her, and would have to flutter off in that direction in self-defense. ruthie, you have the temper of an angel not to fly out at me for bringing in saratoga every few minutes. it isn't with 'malice aforethought,' i assure you. i forget your projected scheme whenever i speak of it; but you must allow me to be astonished over flossy's refusal to go with you. something has come over the mousie that is not explainable by any of the laws of science with which i am acquainted." "don't trouble yourself to apologize, i beg. i hope you do not think i am so foolish as to care anything about your hints as to saratoga. of course i recognize my right in this world to be governed by my own tastes and inclinations. i have enjoyed that privilege too long to be disturbed by trifles." this from ruth; but i shall have to admit that it was very stiffly spoken, and if she had but known it, indicated that she _did_ care a great deal. in truth she was very sore over her position and her plans. she who had prided herself on her intellectuality bored to the very point of leaving, and flossy, who had been remarkable for nothing but flutter and fashion, actually so interested that she could not be coaxed into going away! what _was_ it that interested her? that was the question which interested and puzzled ruth. she studied over it during all the time that marion and eurie were chatting about the morning service. flossy _was_ different; there was no shutting one's eyes to that fact. the truth was that she had suddenly seemed to have little in common with her own party. she certainly said little to them; she made no complaints as to inconveniences, even when they amounted to positive annoyances with the rest of the party; she had given up afternoon toilets altogether, and in fact the subject of dress seemed to be one that had suddenly sunken into such insignificance as to cease to claim her thoughts at all. grave changes these to be found in flossy shipley. then, too, she had taken to wandering away alone in the twilight; during the short spaces between services she was nowhere to be found, but the chautauqua bell brought her back invariably in time to make ready for the next service. "there is certainly more to the little mouse than i ever expected before. if chautauqua wakes _our_ wits as it has flossy's we shall have reason to bless the day that dr. vincent invented it." this ruth heard from marion as she roused herself from her reverie to give attention to what the girls were saying. they had got back to a discussion of flossy again. it was a subject that someway annoyed ruth, so she dismissed it, and made ready for the afternoon meeting, whither they all went. to marion the morning sermon had been an intellectual treat. she had a way of listening to sermons that would have been very disheartening to the preacher if he had known of it. she had learned how to divest herself of all personality. the subject was one that had nothing to do with her; the application of solemn truths were for the people around her who believed in these things, but never for her; so she listened and enjoyed, just as she enjoyed a book or a picture, just as if she had no soul at all, nothing but an intellect. it was very rare indeed that an arrow from any one's quiver touched her. but there was one single sentence in dr. pierce's sermon that was destined to haunt her. said he: "when the blind man was questioned he couldn't argue, he didn't try to; but he could stand up there before them and say, 'whereas i was blind, now i see; make the most of that.' and wasn't it an unanswerable argument? there is no argument like it. when men are honest and earnest and spiritual in wall street, it tells." now that was just the kind of sentence to delight marion's heart. the inconsistencies of christians was one of her very strong points, she saw them bristling out everywhere, and she looked about her with a satisfied smile on her face that so large a company of them were getting so sharp a thrust as this. and suddenly there flashed across her brain an utterly new thought. "whereas i was _blind_, now i see." "perhaps," she said to herself--"_perhaps_ i am blind. what if that should be the only reason why these things are not to me as they are to others. how do i know, after all, but there may really be a spiritual blindness, and that it may be holding me? how do i know but that the reason some of these poor ignorant people whom i meet are so firm in their belief of christ and heaven is because they have had just this experience? "'whereas i _was_ blind, now i see!' how can i possibly tell but that this may be the case? i wonder what i _do_ think anyway? do i really think that all these men gathered here are either deceived or deceivers? one or the other they must be--and either position is too silly to sustain--or else i must be blind. if there should be such a thing as seeing, and i discover it too late! if there is a too late to this thing, and i do not find it out simply because i am blind, what then? the sun shines, of course, though i dare say an entirely blind man doesn't believe it. doesn't have an idea anyway what it is--how can he?" over and over did she revolve this sentence, and look at it from every attainable standpoint. no use to try to shut it off, back it came. all the clatter with which she had amused herself during the interval between meetings had not banished it. no sooner was she seated under those trees waiting for the afternoon service than the thought presented itself for her to consider. "i wonder if there are different degrees of moral blindness?" she said, suddenly. "people who can see just enough to enable them to keep constantly going the wrong way, so that they are no better off than the blind, except that they admit that there is such a thing as seeing. the thing is possible, i suppose." ruth turned and looked at her wonderingly. "what _are_ you talking about?" she asked at last. "i'm moralizing," marion said, laughing. "you yourself suggested that train of thought. i was wondering which of us was right in our notions, you or i; and, for all practical purposes, what difference it made." "you are too high up for me to follow. i haven't the least idea what you mean." "why, i tell you i was contrasting our conditions. let me see if i have a right view of them. don't you honestly think that there is a god, and a heaven, and a hell, and that to escape the one place and secure the other certain efforts upon your part are necessary?" "why, of course i think so. i have never made any pretense of disbelieving all these things. i think it is foolish to do so." "exactly. now for one question more: have you made the effort that you believe to be necessary?" "have you been hired as an exhorter?" ruth said, trying to laugh. "why, no, i can not say that i have." "well, then, suppose you and i should both die to-night. _i_ don't believe any of these things; you do, but you don't practice on your belief. then, according to your own view, you will be lost forever; and, according to that same view, so shall i. now, practically, what difference is there between us? so if it is really blindness, why may not one be totally blind as well as to have a little sight that keeps one all the time in the wrong way?" "i dare say we are quite as well off," ruth said, composedly; "only i think there is this point of difference between us. i think your position is silly. i don't see how any one who has studied paley and butler, and in fact any of the sciences, can think so foolish a thing as you pretend to. one doesn't like to be foolish, even if one doesn't happen to be a christian." "foolish?" marion repeated, and there was a fine glow on her face. "don't you go and talk anything so wild as that! if there is any class of people in this world who profess to be simpletons, and act up to their professions, it is you people who believe _everything_ and _do_ nothing. now just look at the thing for a minute. suppose you say, 'there is a precipice over there, and every whiff of wind blows us nearer to it; we will surely go over if we sit here; we ought to go up on that hill; i know that is a safe place,' and yet you sit perfectly still. and suppose i say, 'i don't believe there is any such thing as a precipice, and i believe this is just as safe a place as there is anywhere,' and _i_ sit still. now i should like to know which of us was acting the sillier?" "you would be," ruth said, stoutly, "if you persisted in disbelieving what could be proved to you so clearly that no person with common sense would think of denying it." "humph!" said marion, settling back; "in that case i think there would be very little chance for each to accuse the other of folly; only i confess to you just this, ruth erskine, if you could _prove_ to me that there was a precipice over there, and that we were being carried toward it, and that the hill was safe, i know in my very soul that i should get up and go to that hill. i would not be such a fool as to delay, i know i wouldn't." "you are frank," ruth said, and her face was flushed. "i am sure i don't see why you don't make the attempt and decide for yourself, if you feel this thing so deeply. _i_ think there ought to be a prayer-meeting on your account. if i knew dr. vincent i would try to have this thing turned into a regular camp-meeting time, then you would doubtless get all the help you need." marion laughed good-humoredly. "don't waste your sarcasm on me," she said, cheerily; "keep your weapons for more impressible subjects. you know i am not in the least afraid of any such arguments. i have been talking downright truth and common sense, and you know it, and are hit; that is what makes you sarcastic. did you know that was at the bottom of most sarcasm, my dear?" "do hush, please. these people before us are trying hard to hear what the speaker is saying." this was ruth's answer; but she had had her sermon; and of all the preachers at chautauqua, the one who had preached to _her_ was marion wilbur, the infidel school-teacher! it was her use of dr. pierce's arrow that had thrust ruth. she gave herself up to the thought of it all during that wonderful afternoon meeting. very little did she hear of the speeches, save now and then a sentence more vivid than the rest; her brain was busy with new thoughts. _was_ it all so very queer? did it look to others than marion a strange way to live? did she actually believe these things for which she had been contending? if she did, was she in very deed an idiot? it actually began to look as though she might be. she was not wild like eurie, nor intense and emotional, like marion; she was still and cold, and, in her way, slow; given to weighing thoughts, and acting calmly from decisions rather than from impulse. it struck her oddly enough now that, having so stoutly defended the cardinal doctrines of christian faith, she should have no weapons except sarcasm with which to meet a bold appeal to her inconsistency. "when i get home from saratoga," she said, at last, turning uneasily in her seat, annoyed at the persistency of her thoughts, "i really mean to look into this thing. i am not sure but a sense of propriety should lead one to make a profession of religion. it is, as marion says, strange to believe as we do and not indicate it by our professions. i am not sure but the right thing for me to do would be to unite with the church. there is certainly some ground for the thrusts that marion has been giving. my position must seem inconsistent to her. i certainly believe these things. what harm in my saying so to everybody? rather, is it not the right thing to do? i will unite with the church from a sense of duty, not because my feelings happen to be wrought upon by some strong excitement. i wonder just what is required of people when they join the church? a sense of their own dependence on christ for salvation i suppose. i certainly feel that. i am not an unbeliever in any sense of the word. i respect christian people, and always did. mother used to be a church-member; i suppose she would be now if she were not an invalid. most of the married ladies in our set are church-members. i don't see why it isn't quite as proper for young ladies to be. i certainly mean to give some attention to this matter just as soon as the season is over at saratoga. in the meantime i wonder when there is a train i can get, and if i couldn't telegraph to mother to send my trunks on and have them there when i arrived." chapter xxi a "sense of duty." it is not so easy to get away from ones self as you might think, if you never had occasion to try it. ruth erskine--who honestly thought herself on the high road to heaven because she had decided to offer herself for church-membership as soon as she returned from saratoga--did not find the comfort and rest of heart that so heroic a resolution ought to have brought. it was in vain that she endeavored to dismiss the subject and try to decide just what new costume the saratoga trip would demand. if she could only have gotten away from the crowd of people and out of that meeting back to the quiet of her tent, she might have succeeded in arranging her wardrobe to her satisfaction; but she was completely hedged in from any way of escape, and the inconsiderate speakers constantly made allusions that thrust the arrow further into her brain; i am not sure that it could have been said to have reached her heart. "who is to blame that you can not all be addressed as _workers_ for christ? who is _your_ master? why do you not serve him?" these were sentences that struck in upon her just as she was deciding to have a new summer silk, trimmed with shirrings of the same material a shade darker. "_workers_!" she did not know whether the speaker gave a peculiar emphasis to that word, or whether it only sounded so to her ears. did this resolution that she had made put her among the _workers_? what was she ready to do? teach in the sabbath-school? involuntarily she shrugged her shoulders; she did not like children; tract distributing, too, was hateful work, and out of style she had heard some one say. what wonderful work was to be done? she was sure _she_ didn't know. sewing certainly wasn't in her line; she couldn't make clothes for the poor; but, then, she could give money to buy them with. oh, yes, she was perfectly willing to do that. and then she tried to determine whether it would be well to get a new black grenadine, or whether a black silk would suit her better. she had got it trimmed with four rows of knife pleating, headed with puffs, when she was suddenly returned to the meeting. somebody was telling a story; she had not been giving sufficient attention to know who the speaker was, but he told his story remarkably well. it must have been about a miserable little street boy who was sick, and another miserable street boy seemed to be visiting him. this was where her ears took it up: "it was up a ricketty pair of stairs, and another, and another, to a filthy garret. there lay the sick boy burning with a fever, mother and father both drunk, and no one to do anything or care anything for the boy who was fighting with death. 'ben,' said his dirty-faced visitor, bending over him, 'you're pretty bad ain't you? ben, do you ever pray?' 'no,' says ben, turning fevered eyes on the questioner: 'i don't know what that is.' 'did you know there was a man once named jesus christ? he come to this world on purpose to save people who are going to die. did you ever be told about him?' 'no; who is he?' 'why, he is god; you have to believe on him.' 'i don't know what you mean.' 'why, ask him to save you. when you die you ask him to take you and save you. i heard about him at school.' 'will he do it?' 'yes, he will _sure_. them says so as have tried him.' silence in the garret, ben with his face turned to the wall the fever growing less, the pulse growing fainter; suddenly he turns back. 'i've asked him,' he said; 'i've asked him, and he said he would.'" ruth looked about her nervously. people were weeping softly all around her. marion brushed two great tears from her glowing cheeks, and ruth, with her heart beating with such a quickened motion that it made her faint, wondered what was the matter with every one, and wished this dreadful meeting was over, or that she had gone to saratoga on saturday. it was hard to go back to the puffs on that grenadine dress in the midst of all this, but with a resolute struggle she threw herself back into an argument as to whether she would stop on her way to make purchases, or run down to albany as soon as she was comfortably settled at her hotel. mr. bliss was the next one who roused her. you have never heard him sing? then i am sorry for you. how can i tell you anything about it? you should hear ruth tell it! how his voice rolled out and up from under those grand old trees; how distinctly every word fell on your ear, as distinctly as though you and he had been together in a little room alone, and he had song it for you. "this loving savior stands patiently- though oft rejected, calls again for thee. calling now for thee, prodigal, calling now for thee; thou hast wandered far away, but he's calling now for thee." what _was_ the matter with everybody? was this an army of prodigals who had gathered under the trees this sabbath afternoon? turn where she would they were wiping away the tears; she felt herself as if she could hardly keep back her own; and yet why should she weep? what had that song to do with her? _she_ certainly was not a prodigal: she had never wandered, for she had never professed to be a christian. what strange logic, that because i have never owned my father's love and care, therefore i am not a wanderer from him! ruth did not understand it; she felt almost provoked; had she not decided this very afternoon and for the first time in her life that it was fitting and eminently the proper thing to do to unite with the church, and had she not determined upon doing it just as soon as the season was over? what more could she do? why could she not now have a little peace? if this was the "comfort" and "rest" that the christians at chautauqua had been talking about for a week, she was sure the less she had of them the better, for she never felt so uncomfortable in her life. nevertheless, she adhered to her resolution. so settled was she that it was the next proper thing to do that she staid at home from the meeting that evening to write a letter to mr. wayne, the gentleman who you will perhaps remember, accompanied the girls to the depot on the morning of their departure, and expressed his disgust with the whole plan. as this is the first _religious_ letter miss ruth erskine ever wrote, you shall be gratified with a copy of it: "dear harold: "i am alone in the tent this evening--the girls have all gone to meeting; but i, finding it exhaustive, not to say tiresome, to be so constantly listening to sermons, have staid at home to write to you. i have something to tell you which i know will please you. i am going to start for saratoga to-morrow morning. i think i shall take the 10:50 train. now don't you make up your mind to laugh at me and say that i have grown tired of chautauqua sooner than any of the rest. it is true enough. "you know my mode of life and my enjoyments are necessarily very different from eurie's and marion's. those two naturally look upon this place as an escape from every-day drudgery; in short, as an economical place in which to enjoy a vacation and see a good deal of first-class society; for there are a great many first-class people here, there is no denying that. not many from our set, you know, but a great many celebreties in the literary world that it is really very pleasant to see. "i am not sorry that i came; if for nothing else i am glad to have come on the girls' account; they would hardly have ventured without me, and it is a real treat to them. "you will wonder what has become of poor little flossy, and want to know whether she is going to follow me to saratoga as usual, but the little sprite refuses to go! i fancy marion has been teasing her; you know she is very susceptible to ridicule, and it suits marion's fancy to amuse herself at the expense of those people who weary of chautauqua. she has attempted something of the kind on me, but, of course i am indifferent to any such shafts, having been in the habit of leading, rather than following, all my life. it seems natural, i suppose, to do so still. i think well of chautauqua. it is a good place for people to come who have not much money to spend, and who like to be in a pleasant place among pleasant people; and who enjoy fine music, and fine lectures, and all that sort of thing, and are so trammelled by work and small means at home that they cannot cultivate these tastes. but, of course, all these things are no treat to _me_, and i do not hesitate to tell you that i am bored. there is too much preaching to suit my fancy--not real preaching, either, for we haven't had what you could call a sermon until to-day, but _lectures_, which constantly bring the same theme before you. "now you are not to conclude from this that i do not believe in preaching, and sunday, and all that sort of thing; on the contrary, i believe more fully in them all than i did before i came. in fact i have this very afternoon come to a determination which may surprise you, and which is partly the occasion of my writing this letter, in order that you may know at once what to expect. harold, as soon as the season is over, and i get back home, i am going to unite with the church? have i astonished you! i am going to do this from a conviction of duty. you need not imagine that i have been wrought up to such a pitch of excitement that i don't know what i am about. i assure you there is nothing of the kind. i have simply concluded that it is an eminently proper thing to do. so long as i believe fully in the church and in religion, and wish to sustain both by my money and my influence, why should i not say so? that is a very simple and altogether proper way of saying it, and saves a good deal of troublesome explanation. i wonder that i haven't thought of it before. "i do not mind telling you that it was some remarks of marion's that first suggested the propriety of this thing to me. you know she is an infidel and i am not; and she intimated what is true enough, that i lived exactly as though i thought just as she did; so in thinking it over i concluded it was true, and that my influence ought to be with the church in this matter. now you know, harold, that with me to decide is to do; so this is as good as done. i should like it very well if you choose to come to the same conclusion and unite at the same time that i do. i am sure dr. dennis would be gratified. i don't know why we shouldn't be willing to have it known where we stand; and i know you respect the church and trust her as well as i do myself. "i told marion to-day 'i did not see how a person with brains could be an infidel,' or something to that effect--and i _don't_. i think that is such a silly view to take of life. just as if everything _could_ come by chance! and if god did not make everything, who did? i have no patience with that sort of thing, and i am glad to remember that you have no such tastes. "by the way, are the arnotts in saratoga? i hope not, for they are such fanatics there is no comfort in meeting them, and yet one has to be civil. "seems to me you do not enjoy the opera as well as usual, nor the hops either. what is the matter? do you really miss me? if there is any such foolish fancy in your heart as that, prepare to enjoy yourself next week, for i shall be with you at every one of them after tuesday. it will take me until then to get something decent to wear. "i hear the girls coming up the hill, and i must leave you. "_au revoir_, "ruth." folding and addressing this epistle with a satisfied air, and still full of the spirit which had prompted her to write a _religious_ letter, ruth, finding that marion had come in alone, and that flossy and eurie were still loitering up the hill, gave herself the satisfaction of communicating her change of views. "i have been thinking a good deal about what you said this afternoon, marion, and there is truth in it. i do not think as you do, and i ought to take some measures to let people know it. i have the most perfect respect for and confidence in religion, and i mean to prove it by uniting with the church. i have decided to attend to that matter as soon as i get home again after the season is over. i am surprised at myself for not doing so before, for i certainly consider it eminently proper, in fact a duty." now, it was very provoking to have so religious a sentence as this received in the manner that it was. marion tilted her stool back against the bed, and gave herself up to the luxury of a ringing laugh. "really," ruth said, "you have returned from church in a very hilarious mood; something very funny must have happened; it can not be that anything in my sentence had to do with your amusement." "yes, but it has," squealed marion, holding her sides and laughing still. "oh, ruthie, ruthie, you will be the death of me! and so you think that this is religion! you honestly suppose that standing up in church and having your name read off constitutes christianity! don't do it, ruthie; you have never been a hypocrite, and i have always honored you because you were not. if this is all the religion you can find, go without it forever and ever, for i tell you there is not a single bit in it." her laughter had utterly ceased, and her voice was solemn in its intensity. "i don't know what you mean in the least," ruth said, testily. "you are talking about something of which you know nothing." "so are you. oh, ruthie, so are you! yes, i know something about it; i know that you haven't reached the a, b, c, of it. why, ruthie, do you remember that story this afternoon? do you remember that little boy in the garret, how he turned his face to the wall and asked god to save him? have you done that? do you honestly think that _you_, ruth erskine, have anything to be saved from? don't you know the little fellow said, '_he answered_.' has he answered you? why, ruth, do you never listen to the church covenant? how does it read: 'that it is eminently fit and proper for those who believe that god made them to join the church?' ruth erskine, you can never take more solemn vows upon you than you will have to take if you unite with the church, and i beg you not to do it. i tell you it means more than that. i had a father who was a member of the church and he prayed--oh, how he prayed! he was the best man who ever lived on earth! every one knew he was good; every one thought he was a saint; and it seems to me as though i could never love any god who did not give him a happier lot than he had as a reward for his holy life. but do you think he thought himself good? i tell you he felt that no one could be more weak and sinful and in need of saving than he was. oh, i know the people who make up churches have more than this in them. _i_ think it is all a deception, but it is a blessed one to have. i know these people at chautauqua have it, hundreds of them. i see the same look in their faces that my father had in his, and if i could only get the same delusion into my heart i would hug it for my blessed father's sake; but don't you ever go into the church and subscribe to these things that they will ask of you until you have felt the same need of help and the same sense of being helped that they have. if you do, and there is a god, i would rather stand my chance with him than to have yours." and marion seized her hat and rushed out into the night, leaving ruth utterly dumbfounded. chapter xxii. one minute's work. marion struck out into the darkness, caring little which way she went; she had rarely been so wrought upon; her veins seemed to glow with fire. what difference did it make? she asked herself. if there was nothing at all in it, why not let ruth amuse herself by joining the church and playing at religion? it would add to her sense of dignity, and who would be hurt by it? there was a difficulty in the way. turn where she would, it confronted marion during these days. there was a solemn haunting "if" that would not be put down. what _if_ all these things were true? she by no means felt so assured as she had once done: indeed, the foundations for her disbelief seemed to have been shaken from under her during the last week. remember, she had never spent a week with christians before in her life; not, at least, a week during which she was made to realize all the time that they were christians; that they stood on a different platform from herself. now, as she tramped about through the darkening woods, meeting constantly groups of people on their way home from the meeting, hearing from them snatches of what had been said and sung, she suddenly paused, and so vivid was the impression that for long afterward she could not think of it without feeling that a voice must certainly have spoken the words in her ear. yet she recognized them as a sentence which had struck her from dr. pierce's sermon in the morning. "god honors his gospel, even though preached by a bad man; honors it sometimes to the saving of a soul. but think of a meeting between the two! the sinner saved and the sinner lost, who was the means of the other's salvation." it had thrilled marion at the time, with her old questioning thrill: what if such a thing were possible! now it came again. she stood perfectly still, all the blood seeming to recede from and leave her faint with the strange solemnity of the thought! what if she had this evening been preaching the gospel to ruth! what if the words of hers should lead ruth to think, and to hunt, and to find this light that those who were not blind--if there were any such--succeeded in finding! what if, as a result of this, she should go to heaven! and what if it were true that there was to be a judgment, and they two should meet, and then and there she should realize that it was because of this evening's talk that ruth stood in glory on the other side of the great gulf of separation! what kind of a feeling would that be? "oh, if i only knew," she said aloud, sitting suddenly down on a fallen log, "if i _only_ knew that any of these things were so! or if i could only get to imagining that they were, i would take them up and have the comfort out of them that some of these people seem to get, for i have so little comfort in my life. it can not be that it is all a farce, such as ruth's horrid resolve would lead one to think; that is not the way that dr. vincent feels about it; it is not the way that dr. pierce preached about it this morning; it is not the way that man bliss sings about it. there is more to it than that. my father had more than that. if he could only look down to-night and tell me whether it is so, whether he is safe and well and perfectly happy. oh, it seems to me if i could only be sure, _sure_ beyond a doubt that god did give an eternal heaven to my father, i could love him forever for doing that, even though there is a hell and i go to it." within the tent they were having talk that would seem to amount to very little. even eurie appeared to be subdued, and to have almost nothing to say. ruth was roused from the half stupor of astonishment into which marion's unexpected words had thrown her by hearing flossy say, "oh, ruth, i forgot to tell you something; mrs. smythe stopped at the door on saturday evening before you came home; her party leave for saratoga to-morrow morning, and she wanted to know whether any of us would go with them." "did you tell her i was going?" ruth asked, quickly. it was utterly distasteful to her to think of having mrs. smythe's company. she did not stop to analyze her feelings; she simply shrank from contact with mrs. smythe and from others who were sure to be of her stamp. "no," flossy said, "i did not know what you had decided upon; i said it was possible that you might want to go, but some one joined us just then and the conversation changed: i did not think of it again." "i am glad you didn't," ruth said, emphatically. "i don't want her society. i won't go in the morning if i am to be bored with that party; i would rather wait a week." "they are going in the morning train," eurie said; "i heard that tall man who sometimes leads the singing say so. he said there was quite a little party to go, among them a party from clyde, who were _en route_ for saratoga. that is them, you know; nearly all of them are from clyde. 'oh, yes,' the other man said; 'we must expect that. of course there is a froth to all these things that must evaporate toward saratoga, or some other resort. there is a class of mind that chautauqua is too much for.' think of that, ruthie, to be considered nothing but froth that is to evaporate!" "nonsense!" ruth said, sharply. she seemed to consider that an unanswerable argument, and in a sense it is. nevertheless eurie's words had their effect; she began to wish that letter unwritten, and to wish that she had not said so much about saratoga, and to wish that there was some quiet way of changing her plans. in fact, an utter distaste for saratoga seemed suddenly to have come upon her. conversation palled after this; marion came in, and the four made ready for the night in almost absolute silence. the next thing that occurred was sufficiently startling in its nature to arouse them all. it was one of those sudden, careless movements that this life of ours is full of, taking only a moment of time, and involving consequences that reached away beyond time, and death, and resurrection. "eurie," ruth had said, "where is your head ache bottle that you boast so much of? i believe i am going to have a sick headache." "in my satchel," eurie answered, sleepily. she was already in bed. "there is a spoon on that box in the corner; take a tea-spoonful." another minute of silence, then eurie suddenly raised her head from the pillow and looked about her wildly. the dim light of the lamp showed ruth, slowly pulling the pins from her hair. "did you take it?" she asked, and her voice was full of eager, intense fright. "ruth, you didn't _take_ it!" "yes, i did, of course. what is the matter with you?" "it was the wrong bottle. it was the liniment bottle in my satchel. i forgot. oh, ruth, ruth, what will we do? it is a deadly poison." then to have realized the scene that followed you should have been there to sea. ruth gave one loud shriek that seemed to re-echo through the trees, and eurie's moan was hardly less terrible. marion sprang out of bed, and was alert and alive in a moment. "ruth, lie down; eurie, stop groaning and act. what was it? tell me this instant." "oh, i don't _know_ what it was, only he said that ten drops would kill a person, and she took a tea-spoonful." "i know where the doctor's cottage is," said flossy, dressing rapidly. "i can go for him." and almost as soon as the words were spoken she had slipped out into the darkness. ruth had obeyed the imperative command of marion and laid herself on the bed. she was deadly pale, and eurie, who felt eagerly for her pulse, felt in vain. whether it was gone, or whether her excitement was too great to find it, she did not know. meantime, marion fumbled in flossy's trunk and came toward them with a bottle. "hold the light, eurie; this is flossy's hair-oil. i happen to know that it is harmless, and oil is an antidote for half the poisons in the world. ruth, swallow this and keep up courage; we will save you." down went the horrid spoonful, and marion was eagerly at work chafing her limbs and rubbing her hands, hurrying eurie meantime who had started for the hotel in search of help and hot water. that dreadful fifteen minutes! not one of them but that thought it was hours. they never forgot the time when they fought so courageously, and yet so hopelessly, with death. ruth did not seem to grow worse, but she looked ghastly enough for death to have claimed her for his victim; and flossy did not return. eurie came back to report a fire made and water heating, and seizing a pail was about to start again, when her eye caught the open satchel, and a bottle quietly reposing there, closely corked and tied over the top with a bit of kid; she gave a scream as loud as the first had been. "what _is_ the matter now?" marion said. "eurie, do have a little common sense." "she didn't take it!" burst forth eurie. "it is all a mistake. it _was_ the right bottle. here is the other, corked, just as i put it." before this sentence was half concluded ruth was sitting up in bed, and marion, utterly overcome by this sudden revulsion of feeling, was crying hysterically. there is no use in trying to picture the rest of that excitement. suffice it to say that the events of the next hour are not likely to be forgotten by those who were connected with them. eurie came back to her senses first, and met and explained to the people who had heard the alarm, and were eagerly gathering with offers of help. there was much talk, and many exclamations of thankfulness and much laughter, and at last everything was growing quiet again. "i can not find the doctor," flossy had reported in despair. "he has gone to mayville, but mr. roberts will be here in a minute with a remedy, and he is going right over to mayville for the doctor." "don't let him, i beg," said marion, who was herself again. "there is nothing more formidable than a spoonful of your hair-oil. i don't know but the poor child needs an emetic to get rid of that. eurie, my dear, can't you impress it on those dear people that we _don't want_ any hot water? i hear the fourth pail coming." it was midnight before this excited group settled down into anything like quiet. but the strain had been so great, and the relief so complete, that a sleep so heavy that it was almost a stupor at last held the tired workers. now, what of it all? why did this foolish mistake of bottles, which might have been a tragedy, and was nothing but a causeless excitement, reach so far with its results? let me tell you of one to whom sleep did not come. that was the one who but half an hour before had believed herself face to face with death! what mattered it to her that it was a mistake, and death no nearer to her, so far as she knew, than to the rest of the sleeping world? death was not annihilated--he was only held at bay. she knew that he _would_ come, and that there would be no slipping away when his hand actually grasped hers. she believed in death; she had supposed herself being drawn into his remorseless grasp. to her the experience, so far as it had led her, was just as real as though there had been no mistake. and the result? _she had been afraid_! all her proper resolutions, so fresh in her mind, made only that very afternoon, had been of no more help to her than so much foam. she had not so much as remembered in her hour of terror whether there _was_ a church to join. but that there was a god, and a judgment, and a savior, who was not hers, had been as real and vivid as she thinks it ever can be, even when she stands on the very brink. oh, that long night of agony! when she tossed and turned and sought in vain for an hour of rest. she was afraid to sleep. how like death this sleeping was! who could know, when they gave themselves up to the grasp of this power, that he was not the very death angel himself in disguise, and would give them no earthly awakening forever? what should she do? believe in religion? yes. she knew it was true. what then? what had marion said? was that all true? aye, verily it was; she knew that, too. had she not stood side by side with death? the hours went by and the conflict went on. there was a conflict. her conscience knew much more than her tongue had given it credit for knowing that afternoon. oh, she had seen christians who had done more than join the church! she had imagined that that act might have a mysterious and gradual change on her tastes and feelings, so that some time in her life, when she was old, and the seasons for her were over, she might feel differently about a good many things. but that hour of waiting for the messenger of death, who, she thought, had called her, had swept away this film. "it is not teaching in sunday-school," said her brain. "it is not tract distributing; it is not sewing societies for the poor; it is not giving or going. it is _none_ of these things, or _any_ of them, or _all_ of them, as the case may be, and as they come afterward. but _first_ it is this question: am i my own mistress? do i belong to myself or to god? will i do as i please or as he pleases? will i submit my soul to him, and ask him to keep it and to show me what to do, or when and where to step?" the night was utterly spent, and the gray dawn of the early sweet summer morning was breaking into the grove, and still ruth lay with wide-open eyes, and thought. a struggle? oh dear, yes! such an one as she had never imagined. that strong will of hers, which had led not only herself but others, yield it, submit to other leadership, always to question: is this right? can i go here? ought i to say that? what a thing to do! but it involved that; she knew it, felt it. she might have been blind during the week past, but she was not deaf. how they surged over her, the sentences from one and another to whom she had listened! they were not at play, these great men. what did it mean but that there was a life hidden away, belonging to christ? she felt no love in her heart, no longing for love, such as poor little flossy had yearned for. she felt instead that she was equal to life; that the world was sufficient for her; that she wanted the world; but that the world was at conflict with god, and that she belonged to god, and that she _should_ give herself utterly into his hands. moreover, she knew there was coming a time when the world, and saratoga, and the season, with its pleasures, would not do. there was grim death!--he would come. she could not always get away. he was coming every hour for somebody around her. she must--yes, she _must_ get ready for him. it would not do to be surprised again as she had been surprised last night. it was not becoming in ruth erskine to live so that the sound of death could palsy her limbs and blanch her cheek and make her shudder with fear. she must get where she could say calmly: "oh, are _you_ here? well, i am ready." it was just as the sun which was rising in glory forced its smiles in between the thick leaves of the chautauqua birds' nests, and set all the little birds in a twitter of delight, that ruth raised herself on her elbow and said aloud, and with the force that comes from a determined will that has decided something in which there has been a struggle: "i _will_ do it." chapter xxiii. "i've been redeemed." "what about saratoga?" was eurie's first query as she awoke to life and talk again on that summer morning. "do you think you will take the 10:50 train, ruth?" ruth gave nothing more decided than a wan smile in answer, and in her heart a wonder as to what eurie would think of her if she could have known the way in which her night was passed. "she is more likely to stay in bed," marion said, looking at her critically. "you will never think of trying to travel to-day, will you, ruth? dear me! how you look! i have always heard that hair oil was weakening, but i did not know its effects were so sudden and disastrous!" and then every one of these silly girls laughed. the disaster of the night before had reached its irresistibly comic side--to them. only ruth shivered visibly; it was not funny to her. it was a very eventful day. she by no means relished the character of invalid that the girls seemed determined ought to be forced upon her and at the same time she had not the least idea of going to saratoga. strangely enough, that desire seemed to have utterly gone from her. she had not slept at all, but she arose and dressed herself as usual, with only one feeling strong upon her, and that was a determination to carry out the decision to which she had so recently come, and she had not the least idea how to set to work to carry it out. she went with the rest to the large tent to hear mrs. clark's address to primary class teachers. "i'm not a primary class teacher, and not likely to be, but i am a woman, and gifted with the natural curiosity of that sex to know what a woman may have to say in so big a place as this. i don't see how she dares to peep." this was eurie's explanation of her desire to go to the reception. ruth went because to go to meeting seemed to be the wisest way that she knew of for carrying out her decision, and a good time she had. she had not imagined that teaching primary classes was such an art, and involved so much time and brain as it did. she listened eagerly to all mrs. clark had to say; she followed her through the blackboard lessons with surprise and delight, and she awoke at the close of the hour to the memory that, although she had been interested as she had not imagined it possible for her to be on such a theme, she had done nothing toward her determination to make a christian of herself, and that she knew no more how to go to work than before. "when i _do_ find out how to be one i know i will go to work in the sabbath-school; i have changed my mind on that point." this she told herself softly as they went back to dinner. it was a strange afternoon to her. she became unable to interest herself heartily in the public services; her own heart claimed her thought. it was noticeable also that for the first time chautauqua chose this day in which to be metaphysical and scientific, to the exclusion of personal religion. not that they were irreligious, not that they for a moment forgot their position as a great religious gathering; but there was an absence of that intense personal element in the talk which had so offended ruth's taste heretofore, and she missed it. she wandered aimlessly up and down the aisles, listening to sentences now and then, and sighing a little. they were eloquent, they were helpful; she could imagine herself as being in a state to enjoy them heartily, but just now she wanted nothing so much as to know what to do in order to give herself a right to membership with that great religious world. why should chautauqua suddenly desert her now when she so much needed its help? "if i knew a single one of these christian people i would certainly ask them what to do." this she said talking still to herself. she had come quite away from the meeting, and was down in one of the rustic seats by the lake side. it struck her as very strange that she had not intimate acquaintance with a single christian. she even traveled home and tried to imagine herself in conversation on this subject with some of her friends. to whom could she go? mr. wayne? why, he wouldn't understand her in the least. what a strange letter that was which she wrote him! could it be possible that it was written only yesterday? how strange that she should have suggested to him to unite with the church! how strange that she should have thought of it herself! there came a quick step behind her, and a voice said, "good-evening, miss erskine." she turned and tried to recall the name that belonged to the face of the young man before her. "you do not remember me?" he said, inquiringly. "i was of the party who went to jamestown on the excursion." "oh, mr. flint," she said, smiling, and holding out her hand. "i beg pardon for forgetting; that seems about a month ago." "so it does to me; we live fast here. miss erskine, i have been looking for your party; i couldn't find them. isn't miss shipley in your tent? yes, i thought so. well, i want to see her very much. i have something to tell her that i know will give her pleasure. perhaps you would take a message for me. i want her to know that since last week, when she told me of her friend who had become so dear to her, i have found the truth of it. he is my friend now, and i want to thank her for so impressing me with a desire to know him that i could not give it up." ruth looked utterly puzzled. something in the young man's reverent tone, when he used the word "friend," suggested that he could mean only the friend for whom she herself was in looking; and yet--flossy shipley! what had _she_ to do with him? "do you mean," she said, hesitatingly, and yet eagerly, for if he indeed meant that here was one for whom she had been looking; "do you mean that you have become a christian?" "it is such a new experience," he said, his face flushing, "that i have hardly dared to call myself by that name; but if to be a christian means to love the lord jesus christ, and to have given one's self, body and soul, to his service, why then i am assuredly a christian." this was it. there was no time to be lost. she had spent one night of horror, she could not endure another, and the day was drawing to its end. to be sure she felt no terror now, but the night might bring it back. "how did you do it?" she asked, simply. "how?" the very simplicity of the question puzzled him. "why, i just gave myself up to his keeping; i resolved to take a new road and follow only where he led. miss shipley was the one who first made me think seriously about this matter; and then i went to the service that evening, and everything that was said and sung, was said and sung right at me. i was just forced into the belief that i had been a fool, and i wanted to be something else." "miss shipley!" ruth said, brought back by that name to the wonderment. "you are mistaken. you can not mean flossy. she isn't a christian at all. she never so much as thinks of such things." "oh, _you_ are mistaken." he said it eagerly and positively. "on the contrary, she is the most earnest and straightforward little christian that i ever met in my life. why, i never had anything so come to my soul as that little sentence that she said about having found a _friend_.' i know it is the same one. i have seen her with you since, but not near enough to address. her name is flossy; i heard her called so that day on the boat." "flossy!" ruth said it again, in a bewildering tone, and rising as she spoke. "i am going to find her; i want to understand this mystery. i will give her your message, mr. flint, but i think there is a mistake." saying which she bade him a hasty good-afternoon, for the flutter of a scarlet shawl had reached her eyes. no one but flossy wore such a wrap as that. she wanted to see her at once, and she _didn't_ want mr. charlie flint to be along. she went forward with rapid steps to meet her, and slipping an arm within hers, they turned and went slowly back over the mossy path. "flossy, i want you to tell me something. i have heard something so strange; i think it is not so, but you can tell me. i want to know if you think you are a christian?" i wonder if flossy has any idea, even now, how strangely ruth's heart beat as she asked that simple question. it seemed to involve a great deal to her. she waited for the answer. there was no hesitation and no indecision about flossy's answer. her cheeks took a pink tint, but her voice was clear. "i _know_ i am, ruth. i do not even have to speak with hesitancy. i am so sure that christ is my friend, and i grow so much surer of it every day, that i can not doubt it any more than i can doubt that i am walking down this path with you." and then, again, ruth's astonishment was in part lost in that absorbing question: "how did you get to be one?" "it is a simple little story," flossy said. and then she began at the beginning and told her little bit of experience, fresh in her heart, dating only a few days back, and full to the brim with peace and gladness to her. "but i don't see," ruth said, perplexed. "i don't find out what to _do_. i want to be told how to do it, and none of you tell me; you seem to have just resolved about it, and not _done_ anything. i have gone so far myself. such a night as last night was, flossy! oh, you can never imagine it!" and then she told her story, as much of it as _could_ be told; of the horror and the thick darkness that had enveloped her she could only hint. what an eager flash there was in flossy's bright eyes as she listened. "when you said that!" she began, eagerly, as ruth paused. "when you said, 'i will do it.' what then? did you feel just as you did before?" "no," ruth said, "not at all. the night had gone by that time. as i looked about me i realized that it was daylight, and i fancied that my feelings were the result of a highly excited state of nerves. but the resolve was not to be accounted for in any such way. i meant that. the horror, though, of which i had been telling you was quite gone. it was as if there had been a fearful storm, with the constant roll of thunder, and suddenly a calm. i hadn't the least feeling of fear or dread, and i haven't had all day; but to-night i may have the very same experience." "no, you will not," flossy said, her voice aglow with feeling and with joy. "oh, ruthie, ruthie! there _is_ no night! you have got beyond it. i tell you, you have come into god's light! and isn't it blessed? you are a christian now." "but," protested ruth, utterly bewildered, "i do not understand you, and i don't think you understand yourself. in what way am i different from what i was yesterday? how can i be lost in god's sight one moment and accepted the next?" "easily; oh, _so_ easily! don't you see? why, if i had been coaxing you for a year to give me something, and you had steadily refused, but if suddenly you had said to me, 'yes. i will; i have changed my mind; i will give it to you,' wouldn't there be a difference? wouldn't i know that i was to have it? and couldn't i thank you then, and tell you how glad i was, just the same as though i had it in my hand? it is a poor little illustration, ruthie, but it is true that god has been calling you all your life, and if you have all the time been saying 'no,' up to that moment when you said solemnly, meaning it with all your heart, 'i will,' i tell you it makes a difference." i can not describe to you how strangely all this sounded to ruthie. up to this moment she had not realized in the least that the lord was asking her simply for a decision, and that having solemnly given it, the work, so far as _she_ was concerned, was done, and the new relations instantly commenced. she thought it over--that sudden calming of heart--that sense of resolve--of determination, so strong, and yet so quiet. she remembered what a strange day it had been. how she had tried to keep before her mind the horror of the night, and had not been able. she went on talking with flossy, telling her about charlie flint, noticing the happy tears that glistened in flossy's eyes as she received her message, taking in the murmured words, "to think that christ would honor such a feeble little witnessing as that!" and realizing even then that it would be very blessed to have one say to her, "you have been the means of leading me to think about this thing." why should _she_ care, though, whether people thought about this thing or not? yesterday she didn't. during all the talk she kept up this little undertone of thought, this running commentary on her sudden change of views and feelings, and wondered, and _wondered_, could it be possible that she was utterly changed? and yet, when she came to think of it, wasn't she? didn't she love christ? and then it struck her as the strangest thing in the world _not_ to love him. how could any one be so devoid of heart as that? why, a mere man, to have done one-half of what christ had done for her, would have received undying love and service. as they walked they neared the stand, and there came just at that moment a burst of music, one of those strange, thrilling tunes such as none but the african race ever sing. the words were familiar, and yet to ruth they were new: "there is a fountain filled with blood, drawn from immanuel's veins, and sinners, plunged beneath that flood. lose all their guilty stains." a sinner! was _she_, ruth erskine, a sinner? yesterday she had not liked it to be called a prodigal. but to-day, oh yes. was there a greater sinner to be found than she? how long she had known this story! how long she had known and believed of a certainty that jesus christ lived and died that she might have salvation, and yet she had never in her life thanked him for it! nay, she had spurned and scorned his gift! so much worse than though she had not believed it at all! for then at least she could not have been said to have met him with the insult of indifference. then the chorus swelled out on the still air. only those who heard it under the trees at chautauqua have the least idea how it sounded; only those who hear it, as ruth erskine did, can have the least idea how it sounded to her. "i've been redeemed, i've been redeemed!" over and over the strain repeated. now in clear soprano tones, and anon rolled out from the grand bass voices. and then the swelling unison: "i've been redeemed- been washed in the blood of the lamb." the girls had stopped, and almost held their breaths to listen. they stood in silence while verse after verse with its triumphant swell of chorus rolled out to them. the great tears gathered slowly in ruth's eyes, until, as the last echo died away, she turned to flossy, and her voice was clear and triumphant: "i believe i _have_. flossy, i believe i have. it is a glorious thought, and a wonderful one. it almost frightens me. and yet it thrills me with perfect delight. the fountain is deep enough for us all--for them and for me. i have 'been redeemed,' and if god will help me i will never forget it again." chapter xxiv. sword thrusts. by the next morning it became clear to our girls that a change of programme was a necessity. ruth had by no means recovered from her shock and the sleepless night that followed, and some of the comforts of invalidism must be found for her. at the same time she utterly repudiated the idea of saratoga, which was now urged upon her; it had lost its charms; neither would she go home. "i have decided to stay until the _very_ last meeting," she said, with quiet determination. flossy laughed softly; she knew what charms chautauqua had taken on, but the others supposed it to be a whim, resulting from the ridicule she had suffered because of the saratoga scheme. after many plans were discussed it was finally decided that flossy and ruth should seek quarters at the hotel in mayville, ruth coming over to the meetings only when her strength and her fancy dictated, and having some of the luxuries of home about her. it seemed to fall naturally to flossy's lot to accompany her; indeed, a barrier was in the way of either of the others being chosen. the hotel arrangement, when one took into consideration the numerous boat-rides to and from the ground, was by no means an economical proceeding, and as flossy and ruth were the only ones who were entirely indifferent to the demands of their purses, it must of necessity be them. neither of them was disposed to demur; there had never been much congeniality between these two, but they had been friendly, and now there was a subtle bond of sympathy which made them long to be together. so, during the next morning hours, those two were engaged in packing their effects and preparing for a flitting to the mayville house. meantime marion and eurie, having stood around and looked on until they were tired, departed in search of something to interest them. "it is too early for meeting," marion said. "there is nothing of interest until 11 o'clock. i'm sorry we missed mrs. clark. i like to look at her and listen to her; she is just bubbling over with enthusiasm. one can see that she thinks she means it. if i were a sunday-school teacher i should be glad i was here, to hear her. i think it has been about the most helpful thing i have heard thus far; helpful to those who indulge in that sort of work, i mean." "i wonder what those normal classes are like?" eurie said, studying her programme. "we haven't been to one of those, have we? what do you suppose they do?" marion shrugged her shoulders. "they are like work," she said. "'working hours,' they are named; and i suppose some hard thinking is done. if i didn't have to teach school six hours out of every day at home i might be tempted to go in and listen to them; but i came here to play, you see, and to make money; they are not good to report about. people who stay at home and read the reported letters don't want to hear anything about the actual _work_; they want to know who the speaker was and how he looked, and whether his gestures were graceful, and--if it is a lady--above all, how she was dressed; if they say anything remarkably sarcastic or irresistibly funny you may venture to report it, but not otherwise, consequently reporting is easy work, if you have not too much conscience, because what you didn't see you can make up." at the end of this harangue she paused suddenly before a tent, whence came the sound of a firm and distinct voice. "what is this?" she said, and then she lifted a bit of the canvas and peeped in. "i'm going in here, after all," she said, withdrawing her head and explaining. "this is a normal class, i guess. that man from philadelphia--what is his name? tyler? yes, that is it--j. bennet tyler--is leading. i like him; i like his voice ever so much; he makes you hear, whether you want to or not. then, someway, you get a kind of a notion that he not only believes what he says but that he _knows_ it is so, and that is all there is about it. i like to meet such people now and then, because they are so rare. generally people act as though you could coax them out of their notions in about twenty minutes if you tried--when they are talking about religious subjects, i mean. obstinacy is not so rare a trait where other matters are concerned. let's go in." "what is the subject this morning?" eurie asked, following her guide around to the entrance, somewhat reluctantly. she was in no mood for shutting herself inside a tent, and being obliged to listen whether she wanted to or not. but marion was in one of her positive moods this morning, and must either be followed or deserted altogether. mr. tyler was reading from a slip of paper as they entered. this was the sentence he read: "difficulties in interpretation which arise from certain mental peculiarities of the student. some minds, and not by any means the strongest or noblest, must always see the _reason_ for everything." marion gave eurie a sagacious nod of the head. "don't you see?" she said. "now, by the peculiar way in which he read that, he made believe it was _me_ he meant. and, by the way, i'm not sure but he is correct. i must say that i like a reason for things. but what right has he to say that _that_ is an indication of a weak mind?" "he didn't say so," whispered eurie. "oh, yes he did; it amounted to that. there is where his peculiar use of words comes in. that man has _studied_ words until he handles them as if they were foot-balls, and were to go exactly where he sent them." "he is looking this way. the next thing you know he will throw some at us for whispering." this was ernie's attempt to quiet marion's tongue. that or some other influence had the desired effect. she whispered no more, and it was apparent in a very few minutes that she had become intensely interested in the theme and in the way it was being handled. an eager examination of the programme disclosed what she began to suspect, that the subject was, "difficulties in the bible." her intellectual knowledge of the bible was considerable; and having read it ever since she could remember, with the express purpose of finding difficulties, it was not surprising that she had found them. something, either in the leader's manner of drawing out answers, or the peculiar emphasis with which he contrived to invest certain words, had the effect to cause marion to feel as though she had been very superficial in her reasoning and childish in her objections. she grew eager; her brain, accustomed to work rapidly and follow trains of thought closely, enjoyed the keen play of thought that was being drawn forth. but there was more than that; almost unconsciously to herself this subject was assuming vital proportions to her; she did not even herself realize the intensity of the cry in her heart, "if i only _knew_ whether these were so!" presently the voice which had once before struck her as being so peculiar in its personality sounded distinctly down the long tent. "remember the conditions under which the bible promise clear apprehension of the truth." it chanced--at least that is the way in which we use language--it chanced that mr. tyler's eyes as he repeated these words rested on marion. speaking of it afterward she said: "so far as the impression made on me was concerned, it was the same as though he had said: 'do you understand what an idiot you have been not to take that cardinal point into consideration at all? open your bible and read, and see how like a weak-minded babe you are.'" beside her lay a bible just dropped by some one who had been called out. following out the impulse of the moment she turned to the reference, and her clear voice gave it distinctly: "if any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine whether it be of god or whether i speak of myself." the effect of this simple, straightforward and reasonable proposition, on sounding back to her spoken by her own voice, was tremendous. very little more of the talk did she hear. a thrust, from god's own sword had reached her. what a fool she had been! what right had she to presume to give an opinion before applying the test? had not the most common-place statements a right to be tried by their own tests? yet she had never given this simple direction a thought. so this was the bible promise? "he _shall_ know." not that these things are so, but a more logical, more satisfactory statement to the natural heart. he shall judge for himself whether these things be so; follow the directions, and then judge by your experiences after that whether these things be true or false. could anything be more reasonable? "i shall never dare to say that i don't believe the bible again, for fear some one will ask me whether i have applied the test, and if i have not what business have i to judge. that man now, if i should come in contact with him, which i shall endeavor not to do, would be sure to ask me. he has almost the same as asked it now, before all these people. he has a mysterious way of making me feel as though he was talking for my confusion and for nobody else." this marion told to herself as she eyed the leader, half sullenly. he had strangely disturbed her logic and set her refuge in ruins. "let's go," she said suddenly to eurie. "i am tired of this; i have had enough, and more than enough." but the hour was over, and she had had all that was to be secured from that source. all the younger portion of the congregation seemed to be rushing back up the hill again, and inquiry developed the fact that mrs. clark was to meet the primary workers in the large tent. it was wonderful how many people chose to consider themselves primary workers? at least they rushed to this meeting, a great army of them, as though their one object in life, was to learn how successfully to teach the little ones. our girls all met together in the tent. ruth and flossy had finished their preparations, but had concluded to wait until afternoon service. "i declare if _you_ are not armed with a pencil and paper. have you been seized with a mania for taking notes?" this eurie said to ruth. "now i'm going to get out _my_ note book too. here is a card--it will hold all i care to write i dare say. let me see, who knows but i shall go to teaching in sabbath-school one of these days! i am going to make a list of the things which according to mrs. clark, we shall need." true to her new fancy, she scribbled industriously during the session, and showed her card with glee as they left the tent. "i've a complete list," she said. "if any of you go into the business i can supply you with the names of the necessary tools. look! "a blackboard. "a picture roll. "a punch! "cards. "brains! "blank book. "children. "more brains! "that last item," she said, reflectively, "is the hardest to find. i had no idea so much of that material was necessary. now let me see what is on your papers." this even marion stoutly resisted. and flossy quietly hid hers in her pocket, saying with a smile: "mine is simply a list of things needful for such work." if she had shown her paper it would have astonished eurie, and it might have done her good. this was what she had written: "what i need in order to be a successful teacher. "such a forgetfulness of self as shall lead me to think only of the little ones and their needs. "such a love for christ as shall lead me to long after every little soul to lead it to him." as for marion her paper contained simply this sentence, carefully written out in german text as if she had deliberated over each letter; "if any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine, whether it be of god." they went in a body to hear dr. hatfield. "i want that lecture," marion said, "'perils of the hour.' i'm very anxious to know what my peril is. i know just what is hovering over every one of you, but i can't quite make up my mind as to my own state. perhaps the distinguished gentleman can help me." and he did. he had selected for one of the perils that which was embodied in the following ringing sentence: "the third peril is the prevelancy of skepticism. a class of scientists have discovered that there is no god! what the fool said in his _heart_ they proclaimed on the house-top!" eurie looked over at her, smiling and mischievous, and said in anything but a softly whisper, "that means you, my dear." but marion did not hear her; she was absorbed in the intense scathing sentences that followed. of one thing she presently felt assured, that whoever was right or whoever was wrong in this matter, dr. hatfield believed with all the intensity of an intense educated intellect that god ruled. was it probable that he had met the condition, done his will, and so _knew_ of the doctrine? that was an hour to be remembered. eurie ceased to whisper or to frolic; there was too much intensity, about the speaker's manner not to claim her attention. she listened as she was not in the habit of listening. she could give you a detailed account even now of that hour of thought; so could i, and i am awfully tempted; but, you see, it is only tuesday, and the girls have six more days to spend at chautauqua. both ruth and flossy got their crumb to think over. they discussed it at the hotel that evening. "i tell you, flossy, if dr. hatfield is correct you and i have tremendous changes to make in our way of spending the sabbath; and i have actually prided myself on the way in which i respected the day!" and ruth laughed as if that were so strange a thought, now that it was hardly possible to think that she could have entertained it. "i know," flossy said; "and he can not but be right, for he proved his position. i am glad i heard that address. but for him, i know i should never have thought of my influence in some places where i now see i can use it. ruth you will be struck with one thing. now, chautauqua is like what madame c's school might have been, so far as study is concerned. every day i have a new lesson, one that startles me so! i feel that there must be some mistake, or i would have heard of or thought of some of these things before. and yet they sound so reasonable when you come to think them over, that presently i am surprised that i have not felt them before. ruthie, do you think eurie and marion have any interest at all?" "no," said ruth, positively, "i know marion hasn't. it was only the other evening that she talked more wildly if anything than before." about this time marion, alone in her tent, said again, as she had said a dozen times during the last few days: "if i _only knew_!" and this time she added, "if i only knew _how_ to know!" chapter xxv. sermons in chalk. now, see here, marion wilbur, wake up and give me your attention. i want to make a speech; i've caught the infection. it's queer in a place where there is so much speech-making done that i can't have a chance to express my views." "i'm all attention," marion answered, turning on her pillow, and giving eurie a sleepy stare. "what has moved you to be eloquent? give me the subject." "the subject is the reflex influence of preaching! it may have different effects on different natures. its effect on mine has been marked enough. i'm thoroughly surfeited. i don't want to hear another sermon while i am here, and i don't _mean_ to. they are all sermons. the subject may be scientific, literary or artistic, and it amounts to the same thing; they contrive to row around to the same spot from whatever point they start. now, i came here for fun, and i'm being literally cheated out of it. so the application of my remark is, i've learned since i have been here always to have an application to everything, and this time it is that i won't go any more. i've studied the programme carefully, and i have selected just what i am going to do. that mrs. knox has a reception this morning. i've heard about her before; she is awfully in earnest, and awfully good. oh, i haven't the least doubt of it; but, you see, i don't want to be good, nor to have such an uncomfortable amount of goodness about me." "she is said to be one of the most successful sabbath-school teachers here; and i heard a gentleman say last night that her primary class was a regular training school for young ladies in christian work. you know she has ever so many teachers under her." "i can't help that. i am not one of them, i am thankful to say. what do i care whether she is successful or not? that won't help me any. i know all about her. they say the young ladies in her classes are invariably converted before they have been under her influence long. so if you want to be converted you have only to go to elmira and join her class; but as for me, i am not in the mood for that experience yet, and i am not going near her." "what _are_ you going to do then?" "just what i please! that is what i came for. just think of the absurdity of we four girls rushing to meeting at the rate we have been doing for the last week. what do you suppose the people at home would think of us? why, i didn't expect to hear any of their sermons when i came. i as good as promised flossy that i would frolic about with her all the time, and now the absurd little dunce acts as if she were under a wager to be on the ground every time the bell rings! i've declared off. i can tell you to an item just what i am going to hear. there is a performance to come off this afternoon some time that i shall be ready for. i loitered behind the king tent last night, and heard him say so. that frank beard is going to give his chalk talk--caricatures: that i shall hear, and especially _see_. it will be hard work to poke a sermon into that. i guess that is to be this afternoon; it is to be some time soon, anyway, and i shall watch for it. then there is to be another extra. mrs. miller is going to read a story. i can give you the title of it. i didn't sit on that horrid stump in the dark listening to dr. vincent for nothing. it is to be 'three blind mice.' now it stands to reason that a story with such a title will not be very far above my intellectual capacity, and it _can't_ very well develop into a sermon, or close with a prayer-meeting. then i'm going to the concert by the tennesseeans;' their jargon won't hurt me; and, of course, i shall attend the president's reception. i must have a stare at him--and that is every solitary meeting i am going to attend. i've heard the last preaching that i mean to for some time." now this was what eurie mitchell _said_. let me tell you a little bit about what she _thought_. she was by no means so indifferent, nor so bored as she would have marion understand. she was by no means in the state of mind that ruth had been, or that marion was. no doubts as to the general truth of all the vital doctrines of christianity had ever troubled her. she accepted without question the belief of the so-called christian world. neither was she bewildered as to what constituted christian life. no vague notion that to unite herself with some church would let her into the charmed circle had ever befogged her brain. on the contrary, she knew better than many a christian does just what the christian profession involved, and just how narrow a path ought to be walked by those professing to follow christ. in proportion to the keenness of her sarcasm over blundering, stumbling christians, had her eyes been open to what they ought to be. there was just this the matter with eurie. she knew so well what religious professions involved that she wanted to make none. she hated the thought of self-abnegation, of bridling her eager tongue, of going only where her enlightened conscience said a christian should go, of looking out for and calling after others to go with her. she wished deliberately to ignore it all. not forever, she would have been shocked at the thought. some time she meant to give intense heed to these things, and then indeed the church should see what a christian _could_ be! but not now. there were a hundred things laid down in her programme for the coming winter that she knew perfectly well were not the things to do or say, provided she were a christian, and she deliberately wished to avoid the fear of becoming one. just here she was afraid of the influence of chautauqua. how was it possible to attend these meetings, to listen to these daily, hourly addresses, teeming either directly or indirectly with the same thought, personal consecration, without feeling herself drawn within the circle? she would _not_ be drawn. this was her deliberate conclusion, therefore her determination. it was almost well for her that she could not realize on what fearfully dangerous ground she was treading! i wonder if those over whom the lord says, "let them alone," are ever conscious at the time that the order has gone forth, and that they are to feel their consciences pressing home this matter no more? "well," said marion, after turning this resolution over in her mind for a few minutes, "i dare say you will lose a good many things worth hearing; but i have nothing to do with that--only i want you to go with me up to hear mrs. knox this morning. i've _got_ to go, for i promised especially to report her for the teachers at home, and it is stupid to go alone. _she_ won't preach, and she won't bore you, and i want you to help me remember items." so, much against her will, eurie was coaxed into this departure from her programme, and came back from the meeting in intense disgust. "talk about _her_ not preaching," she said, venting her annoyance on marion while she energetically brushed her hair. "every fold of her dress preached a sermon! she makes me ache all over, she is so powerfully in earnest; and didn't she hint what angels of goodness those girls of hers were--those teachers! i'd like to know how they could be anything else but good with such an example at hand. just think, marion, of having the brains that that woman has, and the energy and tact and the skill of a general, and then forcing it into a sunday-school class room for the teaching of a hundred little dots that have just tumbled out of their cradles!" "well, if she teaches them to tumble out on the right side so that they will come up grand men and women, what then? isn't that an ambition worthy of her?" "stuff and nonsense! don't you go to preaching. i shall go and drown myself in the lake if i hear any more of it, and then one worthless person will be out of the way. but don't you dare to ask me to go and hear that woman again! i won't give up my plans in life for hers, and she needn't hint it to me. and, marion wilbur, i am not going to listen to another man or woman who has the least chance to fire words right at me--now mark my words." full of this determination she carried it out during the afternoon, until the hour for frank beard's caricatures; then, secure from fear of a sermon, she came gayly down and considered herself fortunate to secure a seat directly in front of the stand and in full view of the blackboard. if you have never seen frank beard make pictures you know nothing about what a good time she had. they were such funny pictures! --just a few strokes of the magic crayon and the character described would seem to start into life before you, and you would feel that you could almost know what thoughts were passing in the heart of the creature made of chalk. eurie looked, and listened, and laughed. the old deacon who thought the sunday-school was being glorified too much had his exact counterpart among her acquaintances, so far as his looks were concerned. the three troublesome sunday-school scholars fairly convulsed her by their life-like appearance. there was the little scamp of a boy who was revealed by the dozen to any one who took a walk down town toward the close of the day; the argumentative old man, with his nose pointing out a flaw in your reasoning or on the keen scent for a mistake; and the pert fourteen-year-old girl whose very nose, as it slightly turned upward, showed that she knew more than all the logicians and theologians in the world. this entertainment was exactly in eurie's line. if there was anything in the world that she was an adept at it was looking up weak points in the characters of other people; and when the silly girl with but two ideas--one of them bows and the other beaux--lived and breathed before her on the blackboard her delight reached its climax. "she is the very picture of nettie arnold!" she whispered to marion. "when i go home i mean to tell her that her photograph was displayed at chautauqua. she is just vain enough to believe it!" still the fun went on. just a few bold, rapid strokes, and some caricature breathed before them, so real that the character was guessed before the explanation was given, and the ground rang with continued and overpowering roars of laughter. into the midst of this entertainment came dr. vincent, his face aglow with the exertion of hearty laughter, every feature of it expressive of his hearty appreciation of this hour of recreation and yet every feature alive and alert with a higher and more enduring feeling. "frank," he said, laying a friendly hand on the artist's arm, "our time is almost up. give us the symbol of the teacher's work." there was an instant of rapid motion, a few skillful lines, and it needed no word of explanation to recognize the great family bible. "now the symbol of the teacher's hope," and on one page of the open bible there flashed an anchor. "now the symbol of his reward," and lo, there rose up before them the solid wall, built brick by brick. dr. vincent's voice was almost husky with feeling, so suddenly had the play of his emotions changed, as he said: "now we want the foundation." how did frank beard do it with a dull colored crayon and a half-dozen movements of his skillful arm? how can i tell, except that god has given to the arm wondrous skill; but there appeared before that astonished multitude a foundation as of granite, and there rose from it, as if suddenly hewed out before them, a clean-cut solid shaft of gray, imperishable granite. one more dash of the wondrous crayon and the shaft was done--a solid cross! prof. sherwin was sitting, for want of a better position, on the floor of the stand. it was the only available space. he had been looking and enjoying as only men like prof. sherwin can; and now, as he watched the outgrowth of this wonderful cross, as the last stroke was given that made it complete, and a sound like a subdued shout of joy and triumph murmured through the crowd, moved as by a sudden mighty impulse that he could not control, his splendid voice burst forth in the glorious words: "rock of ages, cleft for me, let me _hide_ myself in thee." and that great multitude took it up and rolled the tribute of praise down those resounding aisles until people bowed themselves, and some of them wept softly in the very excess of their joy and thanksgiving. it was all so sudden, so unexpected; yet it was so surely the key-note to the chautauqua heart, and fitted in so aptly with their professions and intentions. they could play for a few minutes--none could do it with better hearts or more utter enjoyment than these same splendid leaders--but how surely their hearts turned back to the main thought, the main work, the main hope, in life and in death. as for eurie, she will not be likely to forget that sermon. it almost overpowered her. there came over her such a sudden and eager longing to understand the depths from whence such feeling sprung, to rest her feet on the same foundation, that for the moment her heart gave a great bound and said: "it is worth all the self-denial and all the change of life and plans which it would involve. i almost think i want that rather than anything else." that miserable "almost!" i wonder how many souls it has shipwrecked? the old story. if eurie had been familiar with her bible it would surely have reminded her of the foolish listener who said, while he trembled under the truth, "_almost_ thou persuadest me to be a christian." shall i tell you what came in, just then and there, to influence her decision? it was such a miserable little thing--nothing more than the remembrance of certain private parties that were a standing institution among "their set" at home, to meet fortnightly in each other's parlors for a social dance. not a ball! oh, no, not at all. these young ladies did not attend _balls_, unless occasionally a charity ball, when a very select party was made up. simply quiet evenings among _special_ friends, where the special amusement was dancing. "dear me!" you say, "i am a christian, and i don't see anything wrong in _dancing_. why, i dance at private parties very often. what was there in that thought that needed to influence her?" oh, well, we are not arguing, you know. this is simply a record of matters and things as they occurred at chautauqua. it can hardly be said to be a story, except as records of real lives of course make stories. but eurie was _not_ a christian, you see; and however foolish it may have been in her she had picked out dancing as one of the amusements not fitting to a christian profession. it is a queer fact, for the cause of which i do not pretend to account, but if you are curious, and will investigate this subject, you will find that four fifths of the people in this world who are not christiana have tacitly agreed among themselves that dancing is not an amusement that seems entirely suited to church-members. if you want to get at the reason for this strange prejudice, question some of them. meantime the fact exists that eurie felt herself utterly unwilling to give up the leadership of those fortnightly parties, and that the trivial question actually came in then and there, while she stood looking at that picture of the cross; and in proportion as her sudden conviction of desire lost itself in this whirl of intended amusement did her disgust arise at the thought that she had been actually betrayed into listening to another sermon! chapter xxvi. "their works do follow them." marion went alone to the services the next morning. it was in vain that she assured eurie that miss morris was going to conduct one of the normal classes, and that she had heard her spoken of as unusually sparkling. eurie shook her head. "go and hear her sparkle, then, by all means i won't. now that's a very inelegant word to use, but it is expressive, and when _i_ use it you may know that i mean it; i am tired of the whole story, and i have been cheated times enough. look at yesterday! it was a dozen prayer-meetings combined. no, i don't get caught this morning." "but the subject is one that will not admit of sermonizing and prayer-meetings this morning," marion pleaded; "i am specially interested in it. it is 'how to win and hold attention.' if there is anything earthly that a ward school-teacher needs to know it is those two items. i expect to get practical help." "you needn't expect anything _earthly_; this crowd have nothing to do with matters this side of eternity. as for the subject not admitting of sermonizing, look at the subject of blackboard caricatures. what came of that?" so she went her way, and marion, who had seen miss morris and had been attracted, looked her up with earnest work in view. she had an ambition to be a power in her school-room. why should not this subject help _her_? the tent was quite full, but she made her way to a corner and secured a seat. miss morris was apparently engaged in introducing herself and apologizing for her subject. "i tried to beg off," she said; "i told them that the subject and i had nothing in common; that i was a primary class teacher, and in that line lay my work. but there is no sort of use in trying to change dr. vincent's mind about anything, so i had to submit. but for once in my life i remind myself of gough. i once overheard him in conversation with a committee on lectures. they were objecting to having him lecture on temperance, and pressing him to name some other subject. 'choose what subject you please, gentlemen,' he said at last, 'and i'll lecture on it, but remember what i _say_ will be on temperance.' so they have given me this subject and i have engaged to take it, but i want you to remember that what i _say_ will be on primary class-teaching." by this time miss morris had the sympathy of her audience, and had awakened an interest to see how she would follow out her programme, and from first to last she held their attention. certain thoughts glowed vividly. i don't know who else they influenced, but i knew they roused and startled marion, and will have much to do with her future methods of teaching. "remember," said the speaker, "that you can not live on skim-milk and teach cream!" the thought embodied in that brief and telling sentence was as old as time, and marion had heard it as long ago as she remembered anything, but it never flashed before her until that moment. what an illustration! she saw herself teaching her class in botany to analyze the flowers, to classify them, to tell every minute item concerning them, and she taught them nothing to say concerning the creator. was this "skim-milk" teaching? she knew so many ways in which, did she but have this belief concerning heaven, and christ, and the judgment, in her heart, she could impress it upon her scholars. she had aimed to be the very _cream_ of teachers. was she? she came back from her reverie, or, rather, her self-questioning, to hear miss morris say: "why, one move of your hand moves all creation! and as surely does one thought of your soul grow and spread and roll through the universe. why, you can't sit in your room alone, and think a mean thought, or a false thought, or an unchristian thought, without its influencing not only all people around you, not only all people in all the universe, but nations yet unborn must live under the shadow or the glory that the thought involves." bold statements these! but marion could follow her. intellectually she was thoroughly posted. had she not herself used the illustration of the tiny stream that simpered through the home meadow and went on, and on, and on, until it helped to surge the beaches of the ocean? but here was a principle involved that reached beyond the ocean, that ignored time, that sought after eternity. was she following the stream? could she honestly tell that it might not lead to a judgment that should call her to account for her non-religious influence over her scholars? marion was growing heavy-hearted; she wanted at least to do no harm in the world if she could do no good. but if all this mountain weight of evidence at chautauqua proved anything, it proved that she was living a life of infidelity, for the influence of which she was to be called into judgment. no sort of use to comfort herself with the thought that she talked of her peculiar views to no one; it began to be evident that the things which she did _not_ do were more startling than the things which she did. on the whole, no comfort came to her troubled soul through this morning session. to herself she seemed precisely where she was when she went into that tent, only perhaps a trifle more impressed with the solemnity of all things. but, without knowing it, a great stride had been taken in her education. she was not again to be able to say: "i injure no one with my belief; i keep it to myself." "no man liveth to himself." the verse came solemnly to her as she went out, as though other than human voice were reminding her of it, and life began to feel like an overwhelming responsibility that she could not assume. when one begins to _feel_ that thought in all its force the next step is to find one who will assume the responsibility for us. she met ruth on her way up the hill. "flossy has deserted me," ruth explained as they met; "eurie carried her away to take a walk. are you going to hear about john knox? i am interested in him chiefly because of the voice that is to tell of him to-day; i like dr. hurlburt." marion's only reply was: "i don't see but you come to meeting quite as regularly, now that you are at the hotel, as you did when on the grounds." then they went to secure their seats. i am not to attempt to tell you anything about the john knox lecture; indeed i have given over telling more about the chautauqua addresses. it is of no sort of use. one only feels like bemoaning a failure after any attempt to repeat such lectures as we heard there. besides, i am chiefly interested at present in their effect on our girls. they listened--these two, and enjoyed as people with brains must necessarily have done. but there was more than that to it; there were consequences that will surely be met again at the last great day. ruth, as she walked thoughtfully away, said to herself: "that is the way. _live_ the truth. it is a different day, and the trials and experiences are different, but _life_ must be the same. it is not the day for half-way christianity nor for idling; i will be an earnest christian, or i will not dishonor the name and disgrace the memory of such men as knox by claiming to be of their faith." while marion, as she turned her flushed cheeks hastily away from ruth, not willing to show one who knew nothing about this matter, save that it was expedient to join a church, had gotten one foot set firmly toward the rock. "the power that enabled _that_ man to live _that_ life was certainly of god," she thought. "it _must_ be true. god must be in communication with some of the souls that have lived. is he now, and can i be one of them? oh, i wonder if there are a favored few who have shone out as grand lights in the world and have gone up from the world to their reward? and i wonder if there is no such thing now? if the blundering creatures who call themselves by his name are nothing but miserable imitations of what was _once_ real? "such lives as that one can understand; but how can i ever believe that deacon cole's life is molded by the same influence, or, indeed, that mine can be? must i be a deacon cole christian if i am one at all?" the afternoon clouded over, and a mincing little rain began to fall. marion stood in the tent door and grumbled over it. "i wanted to hear that mr. hazard," she said; "i rather fancy his face, and i fancy the name of his subject. i had a curiosity to see what he would do with it, and here is this rain to hinder." ruth and flossy had come over for the day, and were waiting in the tent. "haven't you been at chautauqua long enough to catch one of its cardinal rules, never to stay at home for rain?" flossy said. marion looked around at her. she was putting on her rubbers. "are you really going?" she asked the question in great surprise. "why, flossy, it is going to rain hard!" "what of it?" said flossy, lightly. "i have waterproof, and rubbers, and umbrella, and if it gets to be too wet i can run to a tent." "if you were at home you wouldn't think of going to church. why, flossy shipley, i never knew you to go out in the rain! i thought you were always afraid you would spoil your clothes." "that was because i had none already spoiled to wear," flossy answered, cheerily; "but that difficulty is obviated; i have spoiled two dresses since i have been here. this one now is indifferent to the rain, and will be for the future. i have an improvement on that plan, though; i mean to have a rainy-day dress as soon as i get home. come, it is time we were off." "i believe i am a dunce," marion said, slowly. "i think it is going to rain hard; but as i have to go, at home, whether it rains or shines, i suppose i can do it here. but if this were a congregation of respectable city christians, instead of a set of lunatics, there wouldn't be a dozen out." they found hundreds out, however. indeed, it proved to be difficult to secure seats. that address was heard under difficulties. in the first place it _would_ rain; not an out-and-out hearty shower, that would at once set at rest the attempt to hold an out-door meeting, but an exasperating little drizzle, enlivened occasionally by a few smart drops that seemed to hint business. there was a constant putting up of umbrellas and putting them down again. there was a constant fidgeting about, and getting up and sitting down again, to let some of the more nervous ones who had resolved upon a decided rain escape to safer quarters. half of the people had their heads twisted around to get a peep at the sky, to see what the clouds really _did_ mean, anyway. our girls had one of the uncomfortable posts. arrived late, they had to take what they could get, and it was some distance from the speaker, and their sight and sound were so marred by the constant changes and the whirl of umbrellas that marion presently lost all patience and gave up the attempt to listen. she would have deserted altogether but for the look of eager attention on flossy's face. despite the annoyances, _she_ was evidently hearing and enjoying. it seemed a pity to disturb her and suggest a return to the tent; besides, marion felt half ashamed to do so. it was not pleasant to give tacit acknowledgment to the fact that poor little, unintellectual flossy was much more interested than herself. she gave herself up to an old and favorite employment of hers, that of looking at faces and studying them, when a sudden hush that seemed to be settling over the hither to fidgety audience arrested her attention. the speaker's voice was full of pathos, and so quiet had the place become that every word of his could be distinctly heard. he was evidently in the midst of a story, the first of which she had not heard. this was the sentence, as her ears took it up: "don't cry, father, don't cry! to-night i shall be with jesus, and i will tell him that you did all you could to bring me there!" what a tribute for a child to give to a father's love! flossy, with her cheeks glowing and her eyes shining like stars, quietly wiped away the tears, and in her heart the resolve grew strong to live so that some one, dying, could say of her: "i will tell jesus that you did all you could to bring me there!" do you think that was what the sentence said to marion? quick as thought her life flashed back to that old dingy, weather-beaten house, to that pale-faced man, with his patched clothing and his gray hairs straggling over on the coarse pillow. _her_ father, dying--her one friend, who had been her memory of love and care all these long years, dying--and these were the last words his lips had said: "don't cry, little girl--father's dear little girl. i am going to jesus. i shall be there in a little while. i shall tell him that i tried to have you come!" oh, blessed father! how hard he had tried in his feebleness and weakness to teach her the way! how sure he had seemed to feel that she would follow him! and how had she wandered! how far away she was! oh, blessed spirit of god, to seek after her all these years, through all the weak and foolish mazes of doubt, and indifference, and declared unbelief--still coming with her down to this afternoon at chautauqua, and there renewing to her her father's parting word. she had often and often thought of these words of her father's. in a sense, they had been ever present with her. just why they should come at this time, bringing such a sense of certainty about them to her very soul that all this was truth, god's solemn, _real_, unchangeable truth, and force this conviction upon her in such a way that she was moved to say, "whereas i _was_ blind, now i see," i can not tell. why mr. hazard was used as the instrument of such a revelation of god to her i can not tell. perhaps he had prayed that his work at chautauqua that rainy afternoon might, in some way, be blessed to the help of some struggling soul. perhaps this was the answer to his prayer--unheard, unseen by him, as many an answer to our pleading is, and yet the answer as surely comes. who can tell how this may be. i do not know. i know this, that marion's heart gave a great sobbing cry, as it said: "oh, father, father! if your god, if your christ, will help me, i will--i will _try_ to come." it was her way of repeating the old cry, "lord, i believe, help thou mine unbelief." and i do know that it is written, "blessed are the dead which die in the lord from henceforth: yea, saith the spirit, that they may rest from their labors; and their works do follow them." it was fifteen years that the weary father had been resting from his labors, and here were his works following him. i have heard that mr. hazard said, as he folded his papers and came down from the stand that afternoon, "it was useless to try to talk in such a rain, with the prospect of more every minute. the people could not listen. it would have been better to have adjourned. nothing was accomplished." much _he_ knew about it, or will know until the day when the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed! chapter xxvii. unfinished music. meantime, this day, which was to be so fraught with consequences to marion, was on eurie's hands to dispose of as best she could. to be at chautauqua, and to be bent on having nothing whatever to do with any of the chautauqua life, was in itself a novel position. the more so as she felt herself quite deserted. the necessity for reporting served marion as an excuse for attending even those meetings which she did not report; and the others having gone to mayville to live, this foolish sheep, who was within the fold, and who would not be _of_ it, went wandering whither she would in search of amusement. after marion left her she made her way to the museum, and a pleasant hour she spent; one could certainly not desire a more attractive spot. she went hither and thither, handling and admiring the books, the pictures, the maps, the profusion of curiosities, and, at the end of the hour, when the press of visitors became too great to make a longer stay agreeable, she departed well pleased with herself that she had had the wisdom to choose such a pleasant resort instead of a seat in some crowded tent as a listener. coming out, she walked down the hill, and on and on, watching the crowds of people who were gathering, and wishing she had a programme that she might see what the special attraction was that seemed to be drawing so many. at last she reached the wharf. the assembly steamer was lying at her dock, her jaunty flags flying, and the commotion upon her decks betokening that she was making ready for a voyage. the crowd seemed greater there than at any other point. it would appear that the special attraction was here, after all. she understood it, and pushed nearer, as the ringing notes of song suddenly rose on the air, and she recognized the voices of the tennesseeans. this was a great treat; she delighted in hearing them. she allowed herself to be elbowed and jostled by the throng, reaching every moment by judicious pushing a place where she could not only hear but see, and where escape was impossible. the jubilant chorus ceased and one of those weird minor wails, such as their music abounds in, floated tenderly around her. it was a farewell song, so full of genuine pathos, and so tenderly sung, that it was in vain to try to listen without a swelling of the throat and a sense of sadness. something in the way that the people pressed nearer to listen suggested to eurie that it must be designed as a farewell tribute to somebody, and presently prof. sherwin mounted a seat that served as a platform and gave them a tender informal farewell address. in every sentence his great, warm heart shone. "i am going away," he said, "before the blessed season at chautauqua is concluded. i am going with a sad heart, for i feel that opportunities here for work for the master have been great, and some of them i have lost. and yet there is light in the sadness, for the work that i can not do will yet be done. i once sat before my organ improvising a thought that was in my heart, trying to give expression to it, and i could not. i knew what i wanted, and i knew it was in my heart, but how to give it expression i did not know. a celebrated organist came up the stairs and stood beside me. i looked around to him. 'can't you take this tune,' i said, 'just where i leave it, and finish it for me as i have it in my heart to do? i can't give it utterance. don't you see what i want?'" "'perhaps i do,' he said, and he placed his fingers over my fingers, on the same keys that mine were touching, and i slipped out of the seat and back into the shadow, and he slipped into my place, and then the music rolled forth. my tune, only i could not play it. he was doing it for me. so, though i may have failed in my work that i have tried to do here, the great master is here, and i pray and i hope and i believe that he will put his grand hand upon my unfinished work and in heaven i shall meet it completed.'" what was there in this to move eurie to tears? she did not know prof. sherwin--that is, she had never been introduced to him--but she had heard him sing, she had heard him pray, she had met him in the walk and asked where the sunday-school lesson was, and he had in part directed her--directed her in such a way that she had been led to seek further, and in doing so had met miss ryder, and in meeting her had been interested ever since in studying a christian life. was this one of prof. sherwin's unfinished tunes? would he meet it again in heaven? a very tender spirit took possession of eurie--an almost irresistible longing to know more of this influence, or presence, or whatever name it should be called, that so moved hearts, and made the friends of a week say farewell with tears, and yet with hopeful smiles as they spoke in joy and assurance of a future meeting. prof. sherwin and his friends embarked, and the dainty little steamer turned her graceful head toward mayville, and slipped away over the silver water. eurie made no attempt to get away from the throng who pressed to the edge of the dock to get the last bow, the last flutter of his handkerchief. she even drew out her own handkerchief and fluttered it after him, and received from him a special bow, and was almost decided to resolve to be present in joy at that other meeting, and to make sure this very day of her title to an inheritance there. almost! going back she met ruth and flossy. she seized eagerly upon the latter. "come," she said, "you have been to meetings enough, and you haven't taken a single walk with me since we have been here, and think of the promises we made to entertain each other." flossy laughed cheerfully. "we have been entertained, without any effort on our part," she said. nevertheless she suffered herself to be persuaded to go for a walk, provided eurie would go to palestine. "what nonsense!" eurie said, disdainfully, when flossy had explained to her that she had a consuming desire to wander along the banks of the jordan, and view those ancient cities, historic now. "however, i would just as soon walk in that direction as any other." there was one other person who, it transpired, would as soon take a walk as do anything else just then. he joined the girls as they turned toward the palestine road. that was mr. evan roberts. "are you going to visit the holy land this morning, and may i be of your party?" he asked. "yes," flossy answered, whether to the first question, or to both in one, she did not say. then she introduced eurie, and the three walked on together, discussing the morning and the meetings with zest. "here we are, on 'jordan's stormy banks,'" mr. roberts said, at last, halting beside the grassy bank. "i suppose there was never a more perfect geographical representation than this." "do you really think it has any practical value?" eurie asked, skeptically. mr. roberts looked at her curiously. "hasn't it to you?" he said. "now, to me, it is just brimful of interest and value; that is, as much value as geographical knowledge ever is. i take two views of it. if i never have an actual sight of the sacred land, by studying this miniature of it, i have as full a knowledge as it is possible to get without the actual view, and if i at some future day am permitted to travel there, why--well, you know of course how pleasant it is to be thoroughly posted in regard to the places of interest that you are about to visit; every european traveler understands that." "but do you suppose it is really an accurate outline?" eurie said, again, quoting opinions that she had read until she fancied they were her own. again mr. roberts favored her with that peculiar look from under heavy eyebrows--a look half satirical, half amused. "some of the most skilled surveyors and traveled scholars have so reported," he said, carelessly. "and when you add to that the fact that they are christian men, who have no special reason for getting up a wholesale deception for us, and are supposed to be tolerably reliable on all other subjects, i see no reason to doubt the statement." on the whole, eurie had the satisfaction of realizing that she had appeared like a simpleton. flossy, meantime, was wandering delightedly along the banks, stopping here and there to read the words on the little white tablets that marked the places of special interest. "do you see," she said, turning eagerly, "that these are bible references on each tablet? wouldn't it be interesting to know what they selected as the scene to especially mark this place?" mr. roberts swung a camp-chair from his arm, planted it firmly in the ground, and drew a bible from his pocket. "miss mitchell," he said, "suppose you sit down here in this road, leading from jerusalem to bethany, and tell us what is going on just now in bethany, while miss shipley and i supply you with chapter and verse." "i am not very familiar with the text-book," eurie said. "if you are really in the village yourselves you might possibly inquire of the inhabitants before i could find the account." but she took the chair and the bible. "look at matthew xxi. 17, eurie," flossy said, stooping over the tablet, and eurie read: "'and he left them, and went out of the city into bethany; and he lodged there.'" "that was jesus, wasn't it? then he went this way, this very road, eurie, where you are sitting!" it was certainly very fascinating. "and stopped at the house on which you have your hand, perhaps," mr. roberts said, smiling at her eager face. "that might have been simon's house, for instance." "did _he_ live in bethany? i don't know anything about these things." "eurie, look if you can find anything about him. the next reference is matthew xxvi." and again eurie read: "'now when jesus was in bethany, in the house of simon the leper.'" "the very place!" flossy said, again. "oh, i want so much to know what happened then!" "won't miss mitchell read it to us?" mr. roberts said, and he arranged his shawl along the ground for seats. "since we have really come to bethany, let us have the full benefit of it. now, miss shipley, take a seat, and we will give ourselves up to the pleasure of being with jesus in simon's house, and looking on at the scene." so they disposed of themselves on the grass, and eurie, hardly able to restrain a laugh over the novelty of the situation, and yet wonderfully fascinated by the whole scene, read to them the tender story of the loving woman with her sweet-smelling ointment, growing more and more interested, until in the closing verse her voice was full of feeling. "'verily i say unto you, wheresoever this gospel shall be preached in the whole world, there shall also this, that this woman hath done be told as a memorial of her.'" "think of that!" said mr. roberts. "and here are we, eighteen hundred years afterward, sitting here in bethany and talking of that same woman still! miss mitchell, are you going to do something for christ that shall be talked over a thousand years from now? there is a chance for undying fame." "doubtful!" eurie said, but she did not smile; her face was grave. "or, better still, are you going to do such work for christ that, hundreds of years after, your influence will be silently living and working out its fruit in human hearts?" "it is altogether more likely that i shall do nothing at all." "out of the question," he said, with a grave smile. "either for or against, every life must be, whether we will it or not. 'he that is not with me is against me,' was the word of the master himself, and as long as eternity lasts the fruit of the sowing will last." "that is a fearfully solemn thought," flossy said, earnestly. mr. roberts turned toward her a face aglow with smiles now. "and a wondrously precious one," he said, and flossy answered him in a low tone: "yes, i can see that it might be." now, the actual fact is, that those three people wandered around that far-away land until the morning vanished and the loud peal of the chautauqua bells announced the fact that the feast of intellect was over, and it was time for dinner they went from bethany to bethel, and from bethel to shechem, and they even climbed mount hermon's snowy peak, and looked about on the lovely plain below. in every place there was bible reading, and eurie was the reader, and it was such a morning that she will remember for all time. "pray, who is this mr. roberts?" she asked, as they parted company at the foot of the hill. "where did you make his acquaintance?" "he is mrs. smythe's nephew," flossy said. "she introduced me to him the other evening." "the other evening! you seemed to be as well acquainted as though you had spent the summer together." "some people have a way of seeming like friends on short acquaintance," flossy said, with grave face and smiling eyes. "you two missed a good deal by your folly this morning," ruth said, as they met at dinner. "we had a grand lecture." "so had we," answered eurie, significantly, and that was every word she vouchsafed concerning the trip to palestine. chapter xxviii. mental problems. "dr. deems," said ruth, looking up from her programme with a thoughtful air. "i wonder if he is a man whom i have any special desire to hear?" you must constantly remember the entire ignorance of these girls on all names and topics that pertained to the religious world. ruth knew indeed that the gentleman in question was a new york clergyman; that was as far as her knowledge extended. "his subject is interesting," flossy said. "i don't think it is," said eurie. "not to me, anyhow. nature and i have nothing in common, except to have a good time together if we can get it. she is a miserably disappointed jade, i know. what has she done for us since we have been here except to arrange rainy weather? i'm going to visit his honor the mummy this morning, and from there i am going to the old pyramid; and i advise you to go with me, all of you. talk about nature when there is an old fellow to see who was acquainted with it thousands of years ago. nature is too common an affair to be interested in." "oh, are you going to the museum?" said flossy. "then please get me one of the 'bliss' singing books, will you? i want to secure one before they are all gone. girls, don't you each want one of them to take home? the hymns are lovely." "i don't," said eurie, "unless he is for sale to go along and sing them. i can't imagine anything tamer than to hear some commonplace voice trying to do those songs that he roars out without any effort at all. what has become of the man?" "he has gone," said marion. "called home suddenly, some one told me. his singing is splendid, isn't it? i don't know but i feel much as you do about the book. think of having deacon miller try to sing, 'only an armor-bearer!' i don't mind telling you that i felt very much as if i were being lifted right off my feet and carried up somewhere, i hardly know where, when i heard him sing that. i was coming down the hill, away off, you know, by the post-office--no, away above the post-office, and he suddenly burst forth. i stopped to listen, and i could hear every single word as distinctly as i can hear you in this tent." "hear!" said eurie, "i guess you could. i shouldn't be surprised if they heard him over at mayville, and that is what brings such crowds here every day. did you ever _see_ anything like the way the people come here, anyhow?" "i don't feel at all as you do," said flossy, going back to the question of singing-books. "after we get let down a little, 'only an armor-bearer' will sound very well even from common singers. it has in it what can't be taken out because a certain voice is lost; and the book is full of other and simpler pieces, and lovely choruses, that people can catch after one hearing." "flossy is going home to introduce it into the first church," eurie said, gravely. flossy's cheeks flushed. "i had not thought of that," she said, simply; "perhaps we can. in any case get me a couple, eurie." the discussion on the morning service ended in a division of the party. ruth, who had come over early on purpose to attend, was obliged to succumb to a feeling of utter weariness and lie down. eurie steadily refused to go to the platform meeting, assuring them that she knew dr. deems would be "as dry as a stick; all new york ministers were." so flossy and marion went away together, marion with her note-book in the hope of getting an item for a newspaper letter that must be written that afternoon. they were late, and almost abandoned in despair the hope of getting within hearing, until a happy thought suggested a seat on the platform stair at the speaker's back. there was a "crack" there, marion said, into which they presently crept. the address was already commenced. marion listened at first with that indifferent air that a face wears when its owner perforce commences in the middle of a thing, and has to _wait_ his way to a tangible idea of what is being said. there was not long waiting, however. her eyes began to dilate and her face to glow; she was almost a worshiper of eloquence, and surely no one ever sat for two hours and listened to a more unbroken flow of rich, glowing words, shining like diamonds, than fell lavishly around the listeners that friday morning at chautauqua. but a few minutes and marion's pencil began to move with speed. this was the thought that had thrilled her: "first, light; then liberation from chaos; then grass; and then god stopped his work and gazed with delight on the picture he had drawn. think what a picture it must have been! there was nothing but rocks ground down when god said, 'earth, grow!' then straightway the mother power fell down upon the earth, life pulsed in her veins, and the baby shoot of grass sprang up, and the rocky earth wrapped herself in her garment of emerald, and god, stopping his work said, 'useful, beautiful!'" when the speaker touched upon the doctrine of the resurrection marion's pencil paused, and she leaned eagerly forward to get a glimpse of his face. that doctrine had seemed to her doubting heart the strangest, wildest, most hopeless of the christian theories. if clear light could shine on that, could there not on _anything_? her face was aglow with interest not only, but with anxiety. this morning, for the first time in her life, she could be called an honest doubter. she had fancied herself able to believe any thing of which her reason had been convinced; but she found, to her surprise and dismay, that so fixed had the habit of unbelief become, it seemed impossible to shake it off, and that she needed to be convinced and reconvinced; that her questionings came in on every hand, seized upon the smallest point, and tormented her without mercy. what about this strange story of the resurrection? as she listened a subdued smile broke over her face--a smile of sarcasm. how very absurdly simple the argument from nature was, how utterly unanswerable! and after the sentence, "tell me how that wonderful field of waving grain came from the bare kernels of corn, and i will tell you how my blessed baby shall rise an angel," marion said in tone so distinct that it struck on flossy's ear like a knell, "what a fool!" not the speaker, as the dismayed and disappointed flossy supposed, but _herself_. "the measure of every man is his faith," said dr. deems. "the greatest thing a human being can do is not to perceive, nor to _compare_, not to _reason_, but to _believe_." and again marion smiled. if this were true what a pigmy she must be! she began to more than suspect that she was. "don't waste time," said the doctor, "in trying to reconcile science and the bible. science wasn't intended to teach religion. the bible wasn't intended to teach science; but wherever they touch they agree. god sends his servants--scientific men--all abroad through nature to gather facts with which to illustrate the bible." marion began to write again, but it was only in snatches here and there; not that there was not that which she longed to catch, but she could not write it--the sentences just poured forth; and how perfectly aglow with light and beauty they were! this one sentence she presently wrote: "in the black ink of his power god wrote the book of nature; in the red ink of his love he wrote the bible; and all this _power_ is to bring us all to this _love_. oh, to rest in arms like these! are they not strong enough?" suddenly marion closed her book and slipped her pencil into her pocket; she could not write. and although she thrilled through every nerve over the majestic sentences that followed and was carried to a pitch of enthusiasm almost beyond her control, when the jubilant thunder of thousands of voices rang together in the matchless closing words, "blessing, and glory, and thanksgiving, and honor, and power, and might, be unto our god, forever and ever. amen." she made no further attempt to write; her heart was full; there rang in it this eager cry, "oh, to rest in arms like these!" strong enough? aye, indeed! doubts were forever set at rest. the maker of all nature could be none other than god, and the god of nature was the god of the bible. it was as clear as the sunlight. reason was forever satisfied, but there lingered yet the hungering cry, "oh, to rest in arms like these!" and flossy said not a word to her of the resting place. not because she had not found it strong and safe; not because she did not long to have her friend rest there, but because of that despairing murmur in her heart. "what is the use in saying anything? had she not heard with her own ears marion's sneering sentence in the face of the unanswerable arguments that had been presented?" i wonder how often we turn away from harvest fields that are ready for the reader because we mistake for a sneer that which is the admission of a convicted soul? by afternoon ruth was rested and ready for meeting; if the truth be known it was her troubled brain which had tired her body and obliged her to rest. she had begun to take up that problem of "christian work." the platform meeting of the evening before, and, more than anything else, dr. niles' address, had fanned her heart into a flame of desire to do something for the master. but what could she do? she and flossy had talked it over together after they reached their room at the hotel; in fact they talked away into the night. "i don't know," flossy said, with a little laugh, "but i shall have to depend on the 'unconscious influence' which i exert to do my work for me. i don't know of anything which i can actually _do_. dr. niles made a great deal of that." "yes," ruth, said, "but you see, flossy, the people whose unconscious influence does any good are the ones after all who are moving around _trying_ to do something. i don't feel sure that he lets the unconscious influence of the drones amount to much, unless it is in the wrong scale. dr. niles made a good deal of _that_, you remember." "don't you like him ever so much, ruth?" "why, yes," ruth said again, turning her pillow wearily. "i liked him of course; how could i help it? but, after all, he made me very uncomfortable. i seem to feel as though i _must_ find something to do. i have a great deal of time to make up. i tell you what it is, flossy, i wish you and i could do something for those two girls. isn't it strange that they are not interested?" "but they are not." flossy said it as positively as if she could see right into their hearts. "i think marion is worse than ever; and as for eurie, she won't even go to the meetings, you know." "i know. perhaps we would only do harm to try. but what _can_ we do? i am sure i don't see anything. and don't you know how clearly dr. niles made it appear that there was a special work for each one?" so they discussed the question, turning it over and over, and getting almost no light, coming to feel themselves very useless and worthless specks on the sea of life, until late in the night flossy said: "i'll tell you what it is, ruth, we must just ask for work--little bits of work, you know--and then keep our eyes open until it comes. i know of things i can do when i get home." "so do i," said ruth, "but i want to begin now." silence for a few minutes, and then flossy asked: "ruthie, have you written to mr. wayne?" "no," said ruth, her cheeks flushing even in the darkness. "i wrote a long letter just before this came to me, but i burned it, and i am glad of it." then they went to sleep. but the desire for the work did not fade with the daylight. flossy had even been tempted to say a humble little word to marion, but had been deterred by the sound of that sneer of which i told you; and ruth, lying on her bed, had revolved the subject and sent up many an earnest prayer, and went out to afternoon service resolved upon keeping her eyes very wide open. the special attraction for the afternoon was a conference of primary class teachers. they were out in full force, and were ready for any questions that might fill the hearts and the mouths of eager learners. our girls had each their special favorites among these leaders. ruth found herself attracted and deeply interested in every word that mrs. clark uttered. marion was making a study of both mrs. knox and miss morris, and found it difficult to tell which attracted her most. even eurie was ready for this meeting. she had never been able to shake off the thought of miss rider, and her eager enthusiasm in this work, while flossy had been fascinated and carried away captive by the magnetic voice and manner of mrs. partridge. "she makes me glow," flossy said, in trying to explain the feeling to the calmer ruth. "her life seems to quiver all through me, and make me long to reach after it; to have the same power which she has over the hearts of wild uncared-for children." and ruth looked down on the exquisite bit of flesh and blood beside her, and thought of her elegant home and her elegant mother, and of all the softening and enervating influences of her city life, and laughed. how little had she in common with such a work as that to which mrs. partridge had given her soul! keeping her eyes open, as she had planned to do, this same flossy saw as she was passing down the aisle the hungry face of one of her boys, as she had mentally called the arabs with whom her life had brushed on the sunday morning the word just described it still, a hungry face like one hanging wistfully around the outskirts of a feast in which he had no share. flossy let go her hold of ruth's arm and darted toward him. "how do you do?" she said, in winning voice, before he had even seen her. "i am real glad to see you again. if you will come with me i will get a seat for you. a lady is going to speak this afternoon who has five hundred boys in her class in sunday-school." now the flossy of two weeks ago, if she could have imagined herself in any such business, would have been utterly disgusted with the result, and gone away with her pretty nose very high. the boy turned his dirty face toward her and said, calmly: "what a whopper!" the experience of a lifetime could not have answered more deftly: "you come and see. i am almost certain she will tell us about some of them." still he stared, and flossy waited with her pretty face very near to his, and her pretty hand held coaxingly out. "come," she said again. and it could not have been more to the boy's surprise than it was to hers that he presently said: "well, go ahead. i can send if i don't like it. i'll follow." and he did. chapter xxix. waiting. it required flossy's eyes and heart both to keep watch of her boy during the progress of that meeting. the novelty of the scene, the strangeness of seeing ladies occupying the speaker's stand, kept him quiet and alert, until mrs. partridge, that woman with wonderful power over the forgotten, neglected portion of the world, arrested all his bewildering thoughts and centered them on the strange stories she had to tell. did you ever hear her tell that remarkable story of her first attempt at controlling that remarkable class which came under her care, many years ago, in st. louis? it is full of wonder and pathos and terror and fascination, even to those who are somewhat familiar with such experiences. but flossy and her boy had never heard, or dreamed of its like. no, i am wrong; the boy had dreamed of scenes just so wild and daring, but even he had not fancied that such people ever found their way to sunday-schools. peanuts, cigars, a pack of cards, and a bowie-knife! imagine yourself, teacher, to be seated before your orderly and courteous class of boys next sunday morning and find them transformed into beings represented by such surroundings as these! it was mrs. partridge's experience. how fascinating that story is! that one incorrigible boy, the one with the bowie-knife, the one who would make no answer to her questions, show no interest in her stories, ignore her very presence and go on with his horrible mischief, until it even came to a stabbing affray right there in the class-room! imagine her meeting that boy ten years afterward, when he was not only a man, but a gentleman; not only that, but a christian and not only that, but a working christian, superintending a mission sunday-school, giving his best energies and his best time to work like that! think of being told by him that the determination to amount to something was taken that morning, ten years before, when he seemed not to be listening nor caring! what is ten years of christian work when we can hope for such results as that! flossy had forgotten her charge; her face was all aglow; so was her heart. she knew more about christian work than she did an hour before. she had learned that we must take the step that plainly comes next to be taken, no matter for the darkness of the day and the apparent gloom of the future. _work_ is ours; _results_ are god's. this life business is divided. partnership with god. nothing but _the work_ to do; so that it is done to the utmost limit of our best, the responsibility is the lord's. that was blessed! she could dare to try. meantime the boy. he had listened in utmost silence, and with eyes that never for an instant left the speaker's face! when the spell was broken he drew a long sigh, and this was his mighty conclusion. "that chap was enough sight meaner than i'd ever be, and yet he got to be _some_! i'll be blamed if i don't see what can be done in that line!" a small beginning; so small that on flossy's face it excited only smiles. she was ignorant, you know. to mrs. partridge that sentence would have been worth a wedge of gold. but it is possible that flossy's first simple little reach after work may have fruit to bear. it is difficult to begin to tell about that next day at chautauqua. there was so much crowded into it that it would almost make a little book of itself. the morning was spent by a large class of people in a state of excited unrest and expectancy. the sensible ones by the hundreds, and indeed i suppose i may say by the thousands, went to the morning service, as usual, and heard the children's sermon, delivered by dr. newton; and those who did not, and who afterward had the misfortune to fall in with those who did, bemoaned their folly in not doing likewise. on the whole, the children, and those who had brains enough to become children for the time being, were the only comfortable ones at chautauqua that saturday morning. the president was coming! so, apparently, was the rest of the world! oh, the throngs and throngs that continually arrived! it of itself was a rare and never-to-be-forgotten novelty to those who had never in their lives before seen such a vast army of human beings gathered into a small space, and all perfectly quiet and correct, and even courteous in their deportment. "where are the drunken men?" said marion, looking around curiously on the constantly increasing throng. "we always read of them as being in great crowds." "yes, and the people who swear," added eurie. "i haven't heard an oath this morning, and i have roamed around everywhere. i must say chautauqua will bear off the palm for getting together a most respectable-looking, well-behaved 'rabble!' that is what i overheard a sour-looking old gentleman, who doesn't approve of having a president--or of letting him come to a religious meeting, i don't know which--say would rush in to-day. it certainly is a remarkably orderly 'rush.' girls, look at dr. vincent! i declare, chautauqua has paid, just to watch him! he ought to be the president himself. i mean to vote for him when female suffrage comes in. or a king! wouldn't he make a grand king? how he would enjoy ordering the subjects and enforcing his laws!" "all of which he seems able to do now," marion said. "i don't believe he would thank you for a vote. his realm is large enough, and he seems to have willing subjects." "he has go-ahead-a-tive-ness." eurie said. "what is the proper word for that, school-ma'am? executive ability, that's it. those are splendid words, and they ought to be added to his name. i tell you what, girls, i wish we could cut him up into seven men, and take him home with us. seven first-class men made out of him and distributed through the towns about us would make a new order of things." all this was being said while they were scrambling with the rest of the world down to the auditorium to secure seats, for the grand afternoon had arrived, and people had been advised to be "in their seats as soon after one o'clock as they could make it convenient." "how soon will that be, i wonder?" marion said, quoting this sentence from dr. vincent's advice given in the morning, and holding up her watch to show that it was five minutes of one. "it looks to me as though those deluded beings who arrive here at one o'clock will have several hours of patient waiting before they will make it convenient to secure seats. just stand a minute, girls, and look! it is worth seeing. away back, just as far as i can see, there is nothing but heads! the aisles are full, and space between the seats, and the office is full, and the people are just pouring down from the hill in a continuous stream. to look that way you wouldn't think that any had got down here yet!" now i really wish i had a photograph of that gathering of people to put right in here, on this page! many of them would have looked much better at this point than they did after four hours of patient waiting. how that crowd did fidget and fix and change position, as far as it was possible to change, when there was not an inch of unoccupied space. how they talked and laughed and sang and grumbled and yawned, and sang again! it _was_ a tedious waiting. it had its irresistibly comic side. there were those among the chautauqua girls who could see the comic side of things with very little trouble. the material out of which they made some of their fun might have appeared very meager to orderly, decorous people. but they made it. what infinite sport they got out of the fidgety lady before them, who could not get herself and her three children seated to her mind! those ladies who labored so industriously in order that the nation's flags, draping the stand, should float gracefully over the nation's chief, were an almost inexhaustible source of amusement to our girls. "look!" said eurie, "that arrangement doesn't suit; some of the stars are hidden; see them twitch it; it will be down! now that one has it looped just to her fancy. no! i declare, there it comes down again! the other one twitched it this time; they are not of the same mind. girls, do look! it is fun to watch them; they work as though the interests of this meeting all turned on a right arrangement of that flag." by this time the attention of the girls was engaged, and the number of witty remarks that were made at the expense of those flags would no doubt have disconcerted the earnest workers thereat could they have heard them. the hours waned, and the president did not arrive. the waiters essayed to sing, but to lead such an army of people was a difficult task, especially when there was no one to lead. such singing! "we came out ahead, anyhow!" said flossy, stopping to laugh. five or six thousand people had finished their verse, while five or six thousand in the rear were in the third line of it. "we need mr. bliss or mr. sherwin or _somebody_," said ruth. "what a pity that they have all gone, and dr. tourjã©e hasn't come! i thought he was to be here." presently came a singer to their rescue. the girls did not know who he was, but he led well, and the singing became decidedly enjoyable. suddenly he disappeared, and they went back again into utter confusion. they stopped singing and began to grumble. "queer arrangements, anyhow," said a surly-looking man in front. "why didn't they have a speaker ready to address this throng, instead of keeping us waiting here with nothing to entertain us?" "i know it," said marion, briskly addressing herself to her party. "dr. vincent has not used his accustomed foresight. he ought to have known that the presidential party would be three hours late, and filled up the programme with speeches, especially since there has been such a dearth of speech-making during the past two weeks. we are really hungry for an address! i don't know who would have undertaken the task, however, unless they sent for gabriel or some other celestial. i know _i_ have no desire to listen to a common mortal." before them sat a lady absorbed in a book. during the singing she joined heartily, and when dr. vincent came, on one of his numerous journeys to try to encourage the crowd with the information that the party waited for had not yet arrived, she looked and listened with the rest, but always with her finger between the leaves, as if the place was too interesting to be lost. eurie's curiosity rose to such a pitch that she leaned forward for a peep at the title-page, and drew back suddenly. it was a copy of the teacher's bible! a silence fell upon the company near the front, broken suddenly by an old lady who leaned lovingly toward her chubby-faced grandson, and said: "frankie, you must look in a few minutes and you will see the president of the united states." "that is good news, anyhow," spoke forth a rough-looking, good-natured man near by, and the listeners, who were in that excited state of weariness and waiting that they were ready to laugh or cry as the slightest occasion offered, burst forth into roars of laughter, which rang back among the crowds behind and enticed them to join, though i suppose not twenty of the laughers knew what the joke was, if indeed there _was_ one. a sudden rush. some one occupied the stand. a notice. "a telegram!" said a ringing voice. "for mrs. c.g. hammond. marked--'death!'" a sympathetic murmur ran through the great company, as they moved and wedged and fell back, and did almost impossible things, to make a road out of that dense throng of humanity for the one to whom the president had suddenly become an insignificance. just then came the "wyoming trio." blessings on them, whoever they are. nothing ever could have fitted in more splendidly than they did just there and then. and the singing rested and helped them all. now a sensation came in the shape of a poem that had been written for the occasion, and was to be learned to sing in greeting to the president. how they rang those jubilant words through those old trees! tender, touching words, with the chautauqua key-note quivering all through them. "greet him! let the air around him benedictions bear; let the hearts of all the people circle him with prayer.' "i wonder if he realizes what a blessed thing it is to be circled with prayer?" said she of the teacher's bible, turning a thoughtful face upon the four girls who had attracted her attention. "i wonder who mary a. lathbury is?" said eurie, reading from the poem. "she is a poet, whoever she is. there isn't a line in this that is simply _rhyme_. i doubt if the president ever had such a rhythmical tribute as that." "she is the lady with blue eyes and curls who designs the pictures in that charming child's paper which flutters around here. i have forgotten the name of it, but the pictures are little poems themselves." this was flossy's bit of information. "which designs them, the blue eyes or the curls?" marion asked, gravely. and then these four simpletons burst into a merry laugh. still the president did not appear. the audience had exhausted their resources and their good humor. ominous grumblings and cross faces began to predominate. some darkly hinted that he was not coming at all, and that this was a design to draw the immense crowd together. nobody believed it, but many were in a mood to pretend that they did. "i never believed in this thing," said a tall, dark-faced, solemn-featured man, speaking in a voice loud enough to interest the crowd in front "this sensation business i don't believe in. what do we want of the president here! who cares to see him? i don't like it; i believe it is all wrong, turning a religious meeting upside down for a sensation, and i told them so." our friend marion, you will remember, was gifted with a clear voice and a saucy tongue. "if he doesn't like it," she said, quickly, "and doesn't want to see the president, why do you suppose he has kept one of the best chairs for four mortal hours? don't you think that is selfish?" which sentence caused ripples of laughter all about them, and quenched the solemn-visaged man. but it was growing serious, this waiting. it was a great army of people to be kept at rest, and though they had been quiet and decorous enough thus far, it was not to be presumed that they were all people governed by nice shades of propriety. would the disappointment break forth into any disagreeable demonstrations? dr. vincent had done what he could; he had appeared promptly on the arrival of dispatches, and given the latest news that the telegraph and the telescope would send. but what can any mortal man do who has arranged for people to come who do not come, except wait for them with what patience he can command. at this ominous moment he appeared before them again. not a notice this time; something which shone in his eyes and quivered in every vein and rang in his trumpet-like voice. this was what he said. chapter xxx. settled questions. dear friends: i should bear a burden on my conscience, if i did not come to you to-day with the 'old, old story.' "over the tent which has been prepared for the president of the united states there glows, done in evergreen, this single word, '_rest_.' "as i pass it, i am reminded of another and a different rest: the rest from every burden, every anxiety, every pain, every sin; who has rested in those everlasting arms? there is coming a day when all this throng of human life gathered here shall wait for the coming of the king. yea, even the 'king of kings.' should that time be to-day, who is ready? do you know his power? do you know his grace? do you know his love? through the atonement of the lord jesus christ, every one of you may have that king for your father; i am commissioned, this day, to bring this invitation to each one of you; 'come unto me all ye that are heavy laden, and i will give you rest.' will you come?------pardon this interruption--no, i will not ask your pardon: it is never an interruption to bring good news from the king to his subjects. i will not weary you with a long presentation; i have only this message: you are all invited to come to the lord jesus christ, and be saved from every possible calamity; you are all invited to come now. i am going to ask the tennesseeans to sing one of my favorites: "'brother, don't stay away; for my lord says there's room enough, room enough in the heaven for you.'" never were tender words more tenderly sung! never did they steal out upon the hearts of a more hushed and solemn audience. that matchless word of gospel had touched home. there were those in the crowd who had never realized before that the invitation was for them. following the hymn came another, suggested also by dr. vincent: "steal away to jesus." it is one of the sweetest as well as one of the strangest of african melodies; and as the tender message floated up among the trees, a strange hush settled over the listeners; many tears were quietly wiped away from eyes unused to weeping. "now sing 'almost persuaded,'" said dr. vincent, his own voice tremulous with his highly wrought feeling. many voices took that up. even the chautauqua girls sang, all but eurie. with the sentence: "seems now some soul to say, go, spirit, go thy way; some more convenient day on thee i'll call." flossy tamed her anxious, appealing eyes on eurie, but she was laughing merrily over the attempt of a feeble old man near her to join in the song, and flossy whispered sadly to ruth: "eurie has not even as much interest as that." the spell of the message and the music lingered, even after dr. vincent had gone again. there was no more grumbling; there was very little laughing; a subdued spirit seemed to brood over the great company. "we could almost have a revival, right here," said one thoughtful man, looking with searching eyes, up and down the sea of faces. "i tell you, no grander opportunity was ever more grandly improved than by those few words of dr. vincent's. they touched bottom. he will meet those words again with joy, or i am mistaken." but the waiting was over; suddenly the chautauqua bells began to peal; strains of martial music, and the roll of drums, mingled with the booming of cannon; and almost before they were aware, even after all their waiting, twenty thousand people stood face to face with their nation's chief. "when the president's head appears above this platform, i hope it will thunder here," had been dr. vincent's suggestion several hours before. thunder! that was no comparison! i hope even _he_ was satisfied. then how that song of greeting rung out; tender still, even in its power: "let the hearts of all the people circle him with prayer." no better gift for him than that. after the cheering and the singing, and the very brief speech from the president himself, came the address of welcome by dr. fowler of chicago. his first sentence sent the multitude into another storm of cheers. said he: "the work that i thought to do, has been done by twenty thousand people." how could they help doing it again after that? chautauqua had not dropped her colors in this plan of an afternoon given to the president. the address of welcome from first to last rang with the gospel invitation, "come;" no better word than that even for their chief; "honor to whom honor is due," quoted the speaker, and then followed his graceful tribute, but it closed with a tender, dignified, earnest appeal to the president of the united states to 'rest' in the same refuge, to enlist under the same flag, to be loyal to the same chief, whom they were met to serve. "out of my heart," said he: "as a man who recognizes god as the supreme ruler of us all, i bid you come with us, and we will do you good, for the lord hath spoken good concerning israel." poor eurie! what a place she had chosen if she desired to hear no more preaching. what were all these exercises, but sermons, one after the other, strong warm unanswerable appeals to be loyal to the great chief? certainly dr. deems was not the man to forget the greater in his greeting to the under ruler; nor did he. "let me speak to you in closing," said he, "to you and to this assembly, out of my heart. we shall never all stand together again, until that great white throne shall stop in mid heavens, and we shall stand to meet the chiefest of all chiefs. o men and brethren, shall we not all prepare to meet there? mr. president, every day prayer is made for you; we are hoping to meet with you in heaven. brave men who stood beside you in the late war, and have gone on ahead, are hoping to greet you there. may you have a good life, a happy life, a blessed life; and may other tongues more eloquent than mine, more eloquent than even my brother's who preceded me, bid you welcome one day to the general assembly of the first born. amen and amen." what could better close the matchless greetings than to have the tennesseeans circle round their president and sing again that ringing chorus: "i've been redeemed, been washed in the blood of the lamb." "i don't know what will become of the grumblers," marion said as they rested in various stages of dishabille, and talked the exciting scenes over. "they have been shamefully left in the lurch; they were going to have this affair a demoralizing dissipation from first to last, unworthy of the spirit of chautauqua. and if more solemn, or more searching, or more effective preaching could be crowded into an afternoon than has been done here, i should like to be shown how. what do you think of your choice of entertainments, eurie? you thought it would be safe to attend the president's reception, you remember." "i don't tell all i think," eurie answered, and then she went out among the trees. truth to tell, eurie had heard that from which she could not get away. dr. vincent's words were still sounding, "you are invited to come to jesus and be saved; you are invited to come _now_." there had been nothing to dissipate that impression, everything to deepen it, and the thought that clung and repeated itself to her heart was that plaintive wail: "almost persuaded, now to believe." that was certainly herself; she felt it, knew it; in the face of that knowledge think how solemn the words grew: "almost will not prevail, almost is but to fail; sad, sad that bitter wail, almost,--but lost!" was that for her, too? in short, eurie out there alone, among the silent trees, felt and admitted this fact: that the time had actually come to her when this question must be decided, either for or against, and decided forever. sunday morning at chautauqua! a white day. there can be none of all that throng who spent the 15th day of august, 1875, in that sacred place, who remember it without a thrill. a perfect day! glorious and glowing sunshine everywhere; and beauty, such perfect beauty of lake and grove! the god of nature smiled lovingly on chautauqua that morning. our girls seemed to think that the perfect day required perfection of attire, and it was noticeable that the taste of each settled on spotless white, without color or ornament, other than a spray of leaves and grasses, which one and another of them gathered almost without knowing it, and placed in belt or hair. outward calm, but inward unrest, at least so far as some were concerned; marion wilbur among the number. it was a very heavy heart that she carried that day. there was no unbelief; that demon was conquered. instead there was an overpowering, terrible _certainty_. and now came satan with the whole of her past life which had turned to sin before her, and hurled it on her poor shrinking shoulders, until she felt almost to faint beneath the load; she lay miserably on her bed, and thought that she would not add to her burden by going to the service, that she knew already too much. but an appeal from flossy to keep her company, as the others had gone, had the effect of changing her mind. armed each with a camp-chair, they made their way to the stand, after the great congregation were seated. a fortunate thought those camp-chairs had been; there was not a vacant seat anywhere. marion placed her chair out of sight both of stand and speaker, but within hearing, and gave herself up to her own troubled thoughts, until the opening exercises were concluded and the preacher announced his text: "the place that is called calvary." she roused a little and tried to determine whose voice it was, it had a familiar sound, but she could not be sure, and she tried to go back to the useless questionings of her own heart; but she could not. she could never be deaf to eloquence; whoever the speaker was, there was that in his very opening sentences which roused and held her. whatever he had to say, whether or not it was anything that had to do with her, she _must_ listen. still the wonderment existed as to which voice it was. but when he reached the sentences: "jump the ages! come down here to chautauqua lake to-day, o son of god! o son of man! o son of mary! when the prophet of old said, 'he shall see of the travail of his soul and shall be satisfied,' did he look along the centuries and see the gathered thousands here, who have just sung, 'tell me the old, old story'? what story? why, the story of the place that is called calvary!"--marion leaned forward and addressed the person next to her. "isn't that dr. deems?" she said. "yes indeed!" was the answer, spoken with enthusiasm. and marion drew back, and listened. that sermon! marion tried to report it, but it was like trying to report the roll of the waves on the atlantic; she could only listen with beating heart and flushing cheek. presently she listened with a new interest, for the divisions of the subject were: "god's thought of sin," and "god's thought of mercy." though the morning was warm, she shivered and drew her wrap closer about her. "god's thought of sin! she was in a mood to comprehend in a measure what a fearful thought it might be. "some men," said the speaker, "make light of sin." yes, she had done it herself. "where shall we learn what god thinks of it? on sinai? no. god spoke there in thunder and lightning, till the very _hills_ shook and trembled. "and what were they doing down below? dancing around a golden calf! i tell you it is only at calvary that we can learn god's idea of sin. for at calvary, because of sin, god the father surrendered his communion with god the son, and on calvary god _died_! will god ever forgive sin? many a one has carried that question around in his soul until it burned there." now you can imagine how marion tried no more to write; thought no more about eloquence; this question, which had become to her the one terrible question of life, was being looked into. "how will we find out? go by science into nature, and there's no proof of it; god never forgives what seems to be the mistake of even a reptile!" i cannot tell you about the rest of that sermon. i took no notes of it; my notes ended abruptly in the middle of a sentence; one cannot write out words that are piercing to their hearts. i doubt if even marion wilbur can give you any satisfactory account of the wording of the sentences. and yet marion wilbur rose up at its close, with cheeks aglow not only with tears, but smiles; and the question, "will god ever forgive sin?" she could answer. there was a place where the burden would roll away. "at the place called calvary." she knew it, believed it, felt it,--why should she not? she had been there in very deed, that summer morning. he had seen again of the travail of his soul, he was one soul nearer to being satisfied. there were other matters of interest: those two bibles, symbol of the chautauqua pulse,--that were presented to the nation's highest officer; the address which accompanied them--simple, earnest gospel; the hymn they sang,--_everything_ was full of interest. but marion let it pass by her like the sound of music, and the words in her heart that kept time to it all were the closing words of that sermon: "here i could forever stay, sit and _sing_ my life away. this is more than life to me, lovely, mournful calvary." it was so, all day. she went to the afternoon service; she listened to dr. fowler's sermon, not as she had ever listened to one before; the sermon for the first time was for her. when people listen for _themselves_, there is a difference. she felt fed and strengthened; she joined in the singing as her voice had never joined before; they were singing about _her_ saviour. then she went back to her tent. "i am not going to-night," she said to the girls. "i am full, i want nothing more to-day." "preached out, i declare!" said eurie. "are you going to write out your report for the paper? i wouldn't, marion. i would go to the meeting. i am going." "no," said marion in answer to the question, and smiling at the thought. how strange it would seem to her to spend _this_ sabbath evening thus. how many had she so spent! "i am glad to-morrow is the last day," she said, sinking into a chair; "i want to go home." and flossy and ruth looked at each other, and sighed. how well these girls understood one another! why can't people be frank and speak so that they can be understood? suppose marion had said: "no, i am _not_ going to write my report, i am going to pray." suppose she had said; "yes, i want to go home to _practice_." chapter xxxi. the beginning of the end. it is a troublesome fact that, even when people are very much interested, and very eager over important themes, commonplace and comparatively trivial duties, will intrude, and insist upon being done at that moment. for instance, our girls were obliged to spend the whole of monday morning in packing their trunks and satchels, returning their furniture, settling for their tents, and the like; in short, breaking up housekeeping and getting ready to go back to the civilized world. flossy and ruth dispatched their part at the hotel promptly and came over to the grounds to help the others. they discussed the meeting while they worked. "if we hadn't been idiots," marion said, "we should have attended that normal class and been graduating, this morning, instead of being down here, at work at our trunks and unknown to fame." "well, you wouldn't go," ruth answered. "don't you know you declared that was too much like work, and you hadn't an idea of learning anything?" "oh, yes," said marion. "i remember a great many things i have said, that i would quite as soon forget." by dint of eager bustling from one point to another, the work was accomplished by noon, and all the girls were ready for the afternoon service, which all seemed equally eager to attend. when they reached the stand they looked about them in surprise and dismay. "everybody is gone!" said flossy, "only look! there are ever so many unoccupied seats!" marion laughed. "and ever so many that are occupied," she said. "my child, you have been so used to counting audiences by the thousands, that sixteen or seventeen hundred people look rather commonplace to you. however, there are more than that number here, i think." it soon became a matter of small importance, whether there were few or many, so long as they had the good fortune to be there themselves, and to have the company of dr. eben tourjã©e. now it so happened that among these four girls there were two to whom god had given special gifts: though neither of them had ever considered that there were such things as gifts from god, which they were bound to use in his service. there was ruth erskine, who had capabilities for music in the ends of her fingers, that would have almost entranced the angels. what did she do with her talent? almost nothing. she hated the sickly sentimentalities which, set to music, find their way into fashionable parlors by the score. she was not in the society that knew of, or craved, the higher, grander kind of music; and because she did, and did not know it, she simply palled of the kind within her reach and let her gift lie waste. then there was marion, whose voice was simply grand, both in power and tone. what had she done with her voice? sung by the hour to the old father whose tender memory lingered with her to-day; less than nothing with it since; no one knew she could sing; she hated singing in school, she never went anywhere else; so only occasionally could the four walls of her upper back room have testified that there was a talent buried there. did dr. tourjã©e travel from boston to chautauqua for the purpose of inspiring and educating these two girls. i don't suppose he knew of their existence, but that makes no difference, they are working out his lecture all the same; in fact it is nearly a year since these chautauqua girls came home, and if you have any sort of desire to know what chautauqua theories develop into, when put to the test, please keep a sharp lookout for "_the chautauqua girls at home_." as the familiar talk on music went on, ruth, with her eyes aglow, began to plan in her own heart, first what she _might_ do, and presently what she _would_ do. and marion, at the other end of the seat, went through the same process neither imagining that these same 'doings' would bring them together, and lead to endless other doings. but that is just the way in which life is going on every where, who imagined that what you did yesterday, would lead your neighbor to do what he _has_ done to-day? "luther said: 'next to theology, i place sacred music.'" this was the sentence that started a train of thought for ruth. after that, she listened in order that she might work. "never use an interlude in church, i pray god that i may be forgiven for the fiddle-faddle that i have strummed on organs, in the name of interludes." this, delighted marion, she hated interludes. she hated quartette choirs. she had steadily refused to be beguiled into one, by the few who knew that she could sing, so, when dr. tourjã©e said: "think of the grand old hymn, 'from all that dwell below the skies, let the creator's praise arise,' being warbled by one voice, a grand chorus of four coming in on the third line!" marion was entirely in sympathy with him, and eager for work in the way in which he pointed out. it was an enjoyable afternoon in every respect. but to "our girls" it was much more than that, it was an education. every one of them got ideas which they were eager to put in practice; and they saw their ways clear to practise them to some purpose. when the service was over, and the audience moved away, a sense of sadness and lonliness began to creep over many, snatches of remark could be heard on all sides. "where is dr. fowler?" "gone: went this morning." "where is the miller party?" "oh, they went some time ago." "when did the president leave?" "it's all about 'go,'" eurie said: "look! how they are crowding down to the boat; and only a stray one now and then coming up from there. who would have supposed it could make us feel so forlorn? i am glad we are not to be at the morning meeting. i am not sure but i should cry of homesickness. i say, girls, let's go to palestine." which suggestion was greeted with delight, and they immediately went. a great many were of the same mind. mr. vanlennep in full turkish dress, was leading the way, and giving his familiar lecture on the--to him--familiar spots. the girls stood near him by the sea of galilee, and heard his tender farewell words, and his hope that they would all meet on the other side of jordon. it was hard to keep back the quiet tears from falling. they climbed mount hermon in silence, and looked over at mount lebanon, they came back by the way of cesarea, and turned aside to take a last look at joppa, down by the sea. in almost total silence this walk back was accomplished. what was the matter with them all? mr. roberts had joined them, and he and flossy walked on ahead. but their voices were subdued and their subject--to judge from their faces, _quieting_, to say the least. then they all went to take their last supper at chautauqua. not one of them grumbled over anything. indeed, they all agreed that the board had certainly improved very much during the last few days, and that it was really remarkable that such a throng of people could have been served so promptly and courteously, and on the whole, so well, as had been done there. still, it was strange to have plenty of elbow room, and to see the waiters moving leisurely up and down the long halls; no one in haste, no one kept waiting. as they rose from table, a gentleman passed through; they had passed each other every day for a week; they had no idea what his name was, and i suppose he knew as little about them. but he paused before them: "good-bye," he said. and held out his hand, "i hope we shall all meet at the assembly up there!" "good-bye," they answered, and they shook hands. none of them smiled, none of them thought it strange; though they had never been introduced! it was the chautauqua brotherhood of feeling. but after two weeks of experience and much practice in that line, it was impossible to rid onesself of the feeling that one must hurry down to the stand in order to secure seats; so they hurried, and had a new experience; they were among the first twenty on the ground. "the audience will be utterly lost to-night in this immense array of seats;" flossy said in dismay. "doesn't it feel forlorn?" but they took their seats, and presently came miss ryder and seated herself at the piano in the twilight, and the tunes she played were soft and tender and weird. "every note says 'goodbye,'" said ruth, and she gave a little sigh. presently, the calcium lights began to glow, as usual, and meantime though everybody was supposed to have left; still, the people came from somewhere; and at last, dismayed voices began to say: "why! did you ever see the like! i thought we should surely get good seats to-night? where _do_ all the people come from." "look! marion," said eurie. "what would dr. harris think of such a congregation as this! they could not get into our church, could they?" but just then the hymn claimed attention: "my days are gliding swiftly by." how swiftly these days had glided away. how full they had been! during the prayer that followed, all heads bowed, and the silence that fell upon them made it seem that all hearts joined. dr. vincent was the first speaker. his manner and voice had changed. both were subdued; he looked like a man who had been lifted up for a great mental strain and was gradually letting down again to earth. "we are coming toward the close," he said. "we are more quiet than we have been here before. familiar faces and forms that have moved in and out among these trees, for two weeks past, have gone. only a few hours and we are going; only a few hours and utter silence will fall upon chautauqua." "oh dear!" murmured eurie, "why _will_ he be so forlorn! i don't see why i need care so much! who would have supposed i could!" "hush!" said marion, and she surreptitiously wiped away a tear. "a love feast," dr. vincent said they were going to have, for that last evening; it was very much like that. the farewell from canada came next; the speaker said he had been "thawed out," meant to have america annexed to canada! indeed they had already been annexed; in heart and soul! "who's who?" said he, and "what's what? who knows?" there was just enough of the comical mixed with the pathetic in this address to steady many a tremulous heart. dr. presbry followed in much the same strain, closing, though, with such a tender tribute to some who had been at the assembly the year before, and had since gone to join the assembly that never breaks up, that the tears came to the surface again. but those blessed tennesseeans just at that point made the grounds ring with the chorus, "oh jubilee! jubilee! the christian religion is jubilee!" and followed it with: "i've been a long time in the house of god, and i ain't got weary yet." by that time our girls looked at each other with faces on which tears and smiles struggled for the mastery. "shall we laugh, or cry?" whispered eurie, and then they giggled outright. but they sobered instantly and sat upright, ready to listen, for the next one who appeared on the platform was dr. deems. he, too, commenced as if the spell of the parting was upon him. "he was too tired," he said, "to make a short speech. some one asked walter scott why he didn't put a certain book of his into one volume instead of five. and he said he hadn't time. it took five weeks to prepare a speech three minutes long. and then he warmed, and grew with his subject until the beautiful thoughts fell around them like pearls. not only beautiful, but searching. "no man," said he, "_dares_ to make a careless speech at chautauqua, there are too many to treasure it up, to plant it again." of course he knew nothing about those girls, and how much seed they were gathering which they meant to plant; but they gathered it, all the same. he dropped his seeds with lavish hand. this was one that took root in marion's brain and heart: "there are so many side influences that are unconscious, that the only safe way for one to do is to let no part of himself ravel, but to keep himself round and thorough, and healthy to the core." after that, marion's pencil, on which i have to depend for my notes, gave up in despair. "i _couldn't_ keep track of that man!" she said, when i complained. "there was no more use to try than there would be to count these apple blossoms," for it was this spring, and we were standing in an apple orchard, and a perfect shower of the white, sweet-smelling things came fluttering round our heads. but after he 'calmed down a little,' as she called it, she tried to write again; and i copy this: "brethren: this meeting will convert some of the most thoughtful people of this generation: men who come here not knowing by personal experience the power of this thing, men who walk thoughtfully up and down these aisles, looking on, will say: 'there are scholars here, there are men of genius, of great brain power, there are men and women here of every variety of temperament, and attainment, held together for fourteen days by one common bond,' and the perseverance, the solemnity, the hilarity, the freedom, the naturalness, the earnestness of this meeting will so impress them that they will know that there is a miracle holding us, a supernatural strength. "may i give you to-night one word more of gospel invitation? come, go with us, you who do not understand this matter for yourselves, go with us, and we _will_ do you good. will you go to your rooms to-night and make the resolve that shall write your names in god's book of life? the recording angel has a trembling hand this minute, waiting for your answer. weary one, _so_ young and yet so tired, come, come, come now." marion, with cheeks burning, and eyes very bright and earnest, looked around her: eurie sat next to her, she seemed unmoved, there was no sign of tears to her bright eyes, but she was looking steadily at the speaker. "never mind!" marion said within herself, and there came to her an eager desire to begin her practice, to do something; what if it were utter failure, would the fault be hers? following the sudden leading that she had learned no better than to call 'impulse' she said in a quick low whisper: "eurie, _won't you_?" and she held her breath for the answer, and could distinctly feel the beating of her own heart. eurie turned great gray astonished eyes on her friend, and said in a firm quiet voice: "i have. i settled that matter on saturday. have you?" and then those two girls, each with the wonderful surprise ringing music in her heart, were willing to have that meeting over. chapter xxxii. the end of the beginning. it was almost over. dr. deems sat down amid the hush of hearts, and all the people seemed to feel that no more words were needed. yet, the next moment, they greeted frank beard with joy, and prepared themselves with great satisfaction to listen to what he had to say. frank beard was one of chautauqua's favorites. people had not the least idea that they could be beguiled into laughter; hearts were too tender for that; yet you should have heard the bursts of mirth that rang there for the next five minutes! frank beard was so quaint, so original, so innocent in his originality, so pure and high-toned, even in his fun, and they liked him so much that every heart there responded to his mirth. the roars of laughter reached as high as the music had done, but a little while before. yet, when people's hearts are tender, and full, it is strange how near laughter is to tears! just a sentence from the same lips and the hush fell on them again. frank beard had brought his heart with him to chautauqua, and he was evidently leaving some of it there. the touching little story of his dream about his mother brought out a flutter of handkerchiefs, and made tear-stained faces. and when he, simply as a child, tenderly as a large-souled man, trustfully as only a christian can, said his farewell, and told of his joyful hope of meeting them all in the eternal morning, absolute stillness settled over them. so many last words--one and another came--just a word, just "good-bye," until we meet again; maybe here, next year, maybe there, where good-byes are never heard. finally came dr. vincent, his strong decided voice breaking the spell, and helping them to realize that they ware men and women with work to do: "now, my friends," he said, "we really _must_ go home; it is hard to close; i know that, no one knows it better: we _have_ closed a good many times, and it won't _stay_ closed. the last word has been said over and over again. i said it myself, some time ago, and here i am again: we must just _stop_, never mind the closing; we will ring a hymn, and go away, and next year we will begin right here, where we left it." but he didn't "stop," and no one wanted him to. his voice grew tender, and his words were solemn. the last words that he would ever speak to many a soul within sound of his voice; it could not be otherwise. you can imagine better than i could tell you what dr. vincent's message would be at such a time as that. breaking into it, came the shrill sound of the whistle. the col. phillips--the last boat for the night--was giving out its warning. the chautauqua bells began their parting peal. not even for his own convenience would that marvel of punctuality have the bells tarry a moment behind the hour appointed. our girls looked at each other and made signs, and nodded, and began to slip quietly out. they had arranged to spend the night at the mayville house, and take an early train. many others were softly and reluctantly moving away. they were very quiet during that last walk down to the wharf. glorious moonlight was abroad, and the water shone like a sheet of silver. as they walked, the evening wind brought to them the notes of the last song which the throng at the stand were singing. a clear, ringing, yet tender farewell. it floated sweetly down to them, growing fainter and fainter as the distance lengthened, until, as they stepped on board the boat, they lost its sound. there were many people going the same way, but there was little talking. there are times when people, though they may be very far from unhappiness, have no desire to talk. once on deck, marion turned and clasped both of eurie's hands. "i have had such a blessed surprise to-night!" she said, with glowing face. "i did not think of such a thing! o eurie, why didn't you tell me?" "you cannot begin to be as surprised as i am," eurie said. "i thought you were miles away from such a thing. why didn't you tell _me_?" ruth and flossy were leaning over, watching the play of the water against the boat's side. "what about those two?" eurie said, nodding her head toward them. marion sighed. "ruth is very far from understanding anything about it," she said; "at least the last time i talked with her she knew as little about the christian life as the veriest heathen so far at least as personal duty was concerned." "when was that?" "why, a week ago; more than a week." "how long is it since you settled this question for yourself?" "since yesterday," marion said, blushing and laughing. "eurie, you would do for a cross-questioner." "and i have been on this side since saturday,'" eurie answered, significantly. "a great many things can happen in a week." at this point, ruth turned and came towards them. she looked quiet and grave. "it is a year, isn't it? since we stood here together for the first time," she said. "at least i seem to have had a year of life and experience. do you know, girls, i have something to tell you: i thought to wait until we reached home, but i have decided to-night that i will not. i am sorry that i have not told you before. marion, don't you know how like a simpleton i talked, a week ago last saturday night? i want to tell you that i was a fool; and was talking about that of which i knew nothing at all. i want to assure you that there is a safe place, that i know it now by actual experience, i have gone to the mountain and it is sure and safe; and, oh, girls, i want you both to come so much." "i know the mountain;" marion said, reaching out, and clasping ruth's hand. "the name of it is calvary, it _is_ safe, and it is sufficient for us all. ruthie, we three are together in this thing." what those girls said to each other then and there is sacred to them. but if i could, i would tell you something of the joy they felt. flossy still leaned over the railing, a small quiet speck in the moonlight. marion kept turning her head in her direction. "our poor little flossy would not understand much about this experience, i suppose," she said at last; "she is such a child, and yet, i don't know--sometimes i have fancied that she thinks more than we give her credit for. that at least she has lately." "let us tell her, anyway," eurie, said, "we can't know what good it may do. if we had not been so dreadfully afraid of each other, during the last few days, we might have helped each other a good deal; for my part, i have learned a lesson on which i mean to practice." ruth looked up quickly, a rare smile in her eyes; she opened her lips to speak to them, then seemed to change her mind and raised her voice: "flossy!" and flossy came at her call. "come here," ruth said, withdrawing her hand from marion's, and winding her arm around the small figure beside her. "flossy, the girls have had our very experience all by themselves, and they want to know how long it is since you began to think about this matter for yourself." flossy turned her soft blue eyes on marion. "the very night we came, marion, and you made me come to the meeting in the rain, you remember? i heard that which i knew would never let me rest again, until i understood it and had it for my own. but i was very ignorant, and foolish, and i blundered along in the dark for three mortal days! after that jesus found me, and i have known since what it is to live in the light." "a christian experience of ten whole days!" eurie said. of course she was the first one to rise from her surprise and get possession of her tongue. "flossy, you have had a chance to get a good way ahead instead of being behind, as we thought. you will have to show us the way." "isn't this just wonderful!" broke forth marion, suddenly, an overwhelming sense coming over her, of the new relations that they four would henceforth bear to each other. "why, girls, what would they say up there at the stand, if they could know what has come to each of us! i almost feel like going back and telling them all. just think what a delight it would be to dr. vincent, and dr. deems, and, oh, to all of them. isn't it queer to think how well we know them all, and they are not aware of our existence?" "i don't believe people will have to wait to be introduced to each other when they get to heaven," eurie said; "that is one of the first things i am going to do when i get there; hunt up some of these chautauqua people and cultivate their acquaintance." this sentence gave flossy a new thought: "we are really _all_ going to heaven!" she said it precisely as you might speak of a trip to europe on which your heart had long been set. "we are just as sure of it as though we were there this minute! girls, don't you know how nice we thought it would be to be together at chautauqua for two whole weeks? now think of being together, there, for a million years!" but the thought which filled flossy's heart with a sweet song of melody, and wreathed her face in glad smiles, was such an overwhelming one to marion, so immense with power and possibility, that it seemed to her to take her very breath; she turned abruptly from the rest and walked to the teasel's side to still the throbbing of her heart. meantime the boat had been filling with passengers, and now she was getting under way. still the hush continued; the people stood closely around the railing, on the chautauqua side, and looked lovingly back at the fair point of land that lay before them in glowing moonlight. presently a leading voice began to sing: "there's a land that is fairer than day, and by faith we can see it afar; for the father waits over the way to prepare us a dwelling-place there. we shall meet in the sweet by and by, on that beautiful shore in the sweet by and by, we shall meet on that beautiful shore." before the chorus was reached, every voice that could sing at all must have taken up the strain. marion, for the first time in years gave a hint of the full compass of her powers, making ruth turn suddenly towards her, with a brightening face, for she saw how the singing and the playing could fit into each other, and do good service. on and on stole the vessel through the silver water. the courteous captain came around quietly for his tickets, and to one and another with whose faces he had grown familiar he said: "we shall miss you; the col. phillips has been proud of carrying you all safely back and forth." one said to him in return: "i hope, captain, we shall all land at last safe in the harbor." and the captain bowed his answer in silence. it would have been hard to speak words just then. but ever and anon that leading voice took up words of song. still the song that best seemed to suit all hearts was that tender "by and by," and as the lights along the chautauqua shore grew dim it rose again in swelling volume: "we shall meet, we shall sing, we shall reign, in the land where the saved never die; we shall rest free from sorrow and pain, safe at home in the sweet by and by." then the refrain, repeated and re-repeated, until, as the last lingering note of it died away, the boat touched at the wharf, and looking back, they saw that the chautauqua lights were out, and silence and darkness had fairpoint. "good-bye," marion said, and she bowed towards the distant shore; she was smiling, but her lips were quivering. "we shall meet in the sweet by and by," flossy quoted, but her voice trembled. "there is a chance to do grand work first, that the final meeting may be infinitely larger, because of us." this the leading voice in the singing said, as he held out his hand to say good-bye. and as they took it some of the girls noticed for the first time that it was mr. roberts; as for flossy, she had known it all the time. "we are going to try to do some of the work, mr. roberts," eurie said; "i have found the road to bethany since i saw you, the _real_ road, and we are going to try and keep it well trodden." he was shaking hands with flossy, as eurie spoke, and he still held her hand while he answered: "good news! there is plenty of work to do. it is well that chautauqua has gathered in new reapers. i am coming to your city, next winter; i shall want to help you. good-bye." [transcriber's note: bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and italic text is surrounded by _underscores_.] the pansy books. =each volume 12mo, cloth, $1.50= chautauqua girls at home. christie's christmas. divers women. echoing and re-echoing. eighty-seven. endless chain (an). ester ried. ester ried yet speaking. four girls at chautauqua. from different standpoints. hall in the grove (the). household puzzles. interrupted. judge burnham's daughters. julia ried. king's daughter (the). little fishers and their nets. links in rebecca's life. mrs. solomon smith looking on. modern prophets. man of the house. new graft on the family tree (a). one commonplace day. pocket measure (the). profiles. ruth erskine's crosses. randolphs (the). sevenfold trouble (a). sidney martin's christmas. spun from fact. those boys. three people. tip lewis and his lamp. wise and otherwise. =each volume 12mo, cloth. $1.25.= cunning workmen. dr. deane's way. grandpa's darlings. miss priscilla hunter. mrs. deane's way. what she said. =each volume 12mo, cloth, $1.00.= at home and abroad. bobby's wolf and other stories. five friends. in the woods and out. young folks worth knowing. mrs. harry harper's awakening. new years tangles. next things. pansy scrap book. some young heroines. =each volume 12mo, cloth, 75 cts.= couldn't be bought. getting ahead. mary burton abroad. pansies. six little girls. stories from the life of jesus. that boy bob. two boys. =each volume 16mo, cloth, 75 cts.= bernie's white chicken. docia's journal. helen lester. jessie wells. monteagle. =each volume 16mo, cloth, 60 cts.= browning boys. dozen of them (a). gertrude's diary. hedge fence (a). side by side. six o'clock in the evening. stories of remarkable women. stories of great men. story of puff. "we twelve girls." world of little people (a). [illustration: norman was a handsome boy when she married mr. decker.] little fishers: and their nets by pansy author of "christie's christmas," "a hedge fence," "gertrude's diary," "the man of the house," "interrupted," "the hall in the grove," "an endless chain," "mrs. solomon smith looking on," "four girls at chautauqua," "ruth erskine's crosses," "spun from fact," etc., etc. _illustrated_ boston d lothrop company franklin and hawley streets copyright 1887 by d lothrop company contents. page. chapter i. the deckers' home 7 chapter ii. beginning her life 24 chapter iii. the truth is told 43 chapter iv. new friends 63 chapter v. a great undertaking 85 chapter vi. how it succeeded 106 chapter vii. long stories to tell 125 chapter viii. a sabbath to remember 143 chapter ix. a bargain and a promise 164 chapter x. pleasure and disappointment 179 chapter xi. a complete success 204 chapter xii. an unexpected helper 226 chapter xiii. the little picture makers 240 chapter xiv. the concert 257 chapter xv. a will and a way 271 chapter xvi. an ordeal 288 chapter xvii. the flower party 304 chapter xviii. a satisfactory evening 320 chapter xix. ready to try 334 chapter xx. the way made plain 351 chapter xxi. the new enterprise 365 chapter xxii. too good to be true 382 chapter xxiii. the crowning wonder 400 chapter xxiv. the past and present 418 little fishers: and their nets. chapter i. the deckers' home. joe decker gave his chair a noisy shove backward from the table, over the uneven floor, shambled across the space between it and the kitchen door, a look of intense disgust on his face, then stopped for his good-morning speech: "you may as well know, first as last, that i've sent for nan. i've stood this kind of thing just exactly as long as i'm going to. there ain't many men, i can tell you, who would have stood it so long. such a meal as that! ain't fit for a decent dog! "nan is coming in the afternoon stage. there must be some place fixed up for her to sleep in. understand, now, that has _got_ to be done, and i won't have no words about it." then he slammed the door, and went away. yes, he was talking to his wife! she could remember the time when he used to linger in the door, talking to her, so many last words to say, and when at last he would turn away with a kind "well, good-by, mary! don't work too hard." but that seemed ages ago to the poor woman who was left this morning in the wretched little room with the door slammed between her and her husband. she did not look as though she had life enough left to make words about anything. she sat in a limp heap in one of the broken chairs, her bared arms lying between the folds of a soiled and ragged apron. not an old woman, yet her hair was gray, and her cheeks were faded, and her eyes looked as though they had not closed in quiet restful sleep for months. she had not combed her hair that morning; and thin and faded as it was, it hung in straggling locks about her face. i don't suppose you ever saw a kitchen just like that one! it was heated, not only by the fierce sun which streamed in at the two uncurtained eastern windows, but by the big old stove, which could smoke, not only, and throw out an almost unendurable heat on a warm morning like this, when heat was not wanted, but had a way at all times of refusing to heat the oven, and indeed had fits of sullenness when it would not "draw" at all. this was one of the mornings when the fire had chosen to burn; it had swallowed the legs and back of a rickety chair which the mistress in desperation had stuffed in, when she was waiting for the teakettle to boil, and now that there was nothing to boil, or fry, and no need for heat, the stump of wood, wet by yesterday's rain, had dried itself and chosen to burn. the west windows opened into a side yard, and the sound of children's voices in angry dispute, and the smell of a pigsty, came in together, and seemed equally discouraging to the wilted woman in the chair. the sun was already pretty high in the sky, yet the breakfast-table still stood in the middle of the room. i don't know as i can describe that table to you. it was a square one, unpainted, and stained with something red, and something green, and spotted with grease, and spotted with black, rubbed from endless hot kettles set on it, or else from one kettle set on it endless times; it must have been that way, for now that i think of it, there was but one kettle in that house. no tablecloth covered the stains; there was a cracked plate which held a few crusts of very stale bread, and a teacup about a third full of molasses, in which several flies were struggling. more flies covered the bread crusts, and swam in a little mess of what had been butter, but was now oil, and these were the only signs of food. it was from this breakfast-table that the man had risen in disgust. you don't wonder? you think it was enough to disgust anybody? that is certainly true, but if the man had only stopped to think that the reason it presented such an appearance was because he had steadily drank up all that ought to have gone on it during the months past, perhaps he would have turned his disgust where it belonged--on himself. the woman had not tried to eat anything. she had given the best she had to the husband and son, and had left it for them. she was very willing to do so. it seemed to her as though she never could eat another mouthful of anything. can you think of her, sitting in that broken chair midway between the table and the stove, the heat from the stove puffing into her face; the heat from the sun pouring full on her back, her straggling hair silvery in the sunlight, her short, faded calico dress frayed about the ankles, her feet showing plainly from the holes of the slippers into which they were thrust, her hands folded about the soiled apron, and such a look of utter hopeless sorrow on her face as cannot be described? no, i hope you cannot imagine a woman like her, and will never see one to help you paint the picture. and yet i don't know; since there are such women--scores of them, thousands of them--why should you not know about them, and begin now to plan ways of helping them out of these kitchens, and out of these sorrows? mrs. decker rose up presently, and staggered toward the table; a dim idea of trying to clear it off, and put things in something like order, struggled with the faintness she felt. she picked up two plates, sticky with molasses, and having a piece of pork rind on one, and set them into each other. she poured a slop of weak tea from one cracked cup into another cracked cup, her face growing paler the while. suddenly she clutched at the table, and but for its help, would have fallen. there was just strength enough left to help her back to the rickety chair. once there, she dropped into the same utterly hopeless position, and though there was no one to listen, spoke her sorrowful thoughts. "it's no use; i must just give up. i'm done for, and that's the truth! i've been expecting it all along, and now it's come. i couldn't clear up here and get them any dinner, not if he should kill me, and i don't know but that will be the next thing. i've slaved and slaved; if anybody ever tried to do something with nothing, i'm the one; and now i'm done. i've just got to lie down, and stay there, till i die. i wish i _could_ die. if i could do it quick, and be done with it, i wouldn't care how soon; but it would be awful to lie there and see things go on; oh, dear!" she lifted up her poor bony hands and covered her face with them and shook as though she was crying. but she shed no tears. the truth is, her poor eyes were tired of crying. it was a good while since any tears had come. after a few minutes she went on with her story. "it isn't enough that we are naked, and half-starved, and things growing worse every day, but now that nan mast come and make one more torment. 'fix a place for her to sleep!' where, i wonder, and what with? it is too much! flesh and blood can't bear any more. if ever a woman did her best i have, and done it with nothing, and got no thanks for it; now i've got to the end of my rope. if i have strength enough to crawl back into bed, it is all there is left of me." but for all that, she tried to do something else. three times she made an effort to clear away the few dirty things on that dirty table, and each time felt the deadly faintness creeping over her, which sent her back frightened to the chair. the children came in, crying, and she tried to untie a string for one, and find a pin for the other; but her fingers trembled so that the knot grew harder, and not even a pin was left for her to give them, and she finally lost all patience with their cross little ways and gave each a slap and an order not to come in the house again that forenoon. the door was ajar into the most discouraged looking bedroom that you can think of. it was not simply that the bed was unmade; the truth is, the clothes were so ragged that you would have thought they could not be touched without falling to pieces; and they were badly stained and soiled, the print of grimy little hands being all over them. partly pushed under, out of sight, was a trundle-bed, that, if anything, looked more repulsive than the large one. there was an old barrel in the corner, with a rough board over it, and a chair more rickety than either of those in the kitchen, and this was the only furniture there was in that room. the only bright thing there was in it was the sunshine, for there was an east window in this room, and the curtain was stretched as high as it could be. to the eyes of the poor tired woman who presently dragged herself into this room, the light and the heat from the sun seemed more than she could bear, and she tugged at the brown paper curtain so fiercely that it tore half across, but she got it down, and then she fell forward among the rags of the bed with a groan. poor mrs. decker! i wonder if you have not imagined all her sorrowful story without another word from me! it is such an old story; and it has been told over so many times, that all the children in america know it by heart. yes; she was the wife of a drunkard. not that joe decker called himself a drunkard; the most that he ever admitted was that he sometimes took a drop too much! i don't think he had the least idea how many times in a month he reeled home, unable to talk straight, unable to help himself to his wretched bed. i don't suppose he knew that his brain was never free from the effects of alcohol; but his wife knew it only too well. she knew that he was always cross and sullen now, when he was not fierce, and she knew that this was not his natural disposition. no one need explain to her how alcohol would effect a man's nature; she had watched her husband change from month to month, and she knew that he was growing worse every day. there was another sorrow in this sad woman's heart. she had one boy who was nearly ten years old, when she married mr. decker; and people had said to her often and often, "what a handsome boy you have, mrs. lloyd; he ought to have been a girl." and the first time she had felt any particular interest in joe decker was when he made her boy a kite, and showed him how to fly it, and gave him one bright evening, such as fathers give their boys. this boy's father had died when he was a baby, and the widow lloyd had struggled on alone; caring for him, keeping him neatly dressed, sending him to school as soon as he was old enough, bringing him up in such a way that it was often and often said in the village, "what a nice boy that norman lloyd is! a credit to his mother!" and the mother had sat and sewed, in the evenings when norman was in bed, and thought over the things that fathers could do for boys which mothers could not; and then thought that there were things which mothers could do for girls that fathers could not, and mr. joseph decker, the carpenter, had a little girl, she had been told, only a few years younger than her norman. and so, when mr. decker had made kites, not only, but little sail boats, and once, a little table for norman to put his school books on, with a drawer in it for his writing-book and pencil, and when he had in many kind and manly ways won her heart, this respectable widow who had for ten years earned her own and her boy's living, married him, and went to keep his home for him, and planned as to the kind and motherly things which she would do for his little girl when she came home. alas for plans! she knew, this foolish woman, that mr. decker sometimes took a drink of beer with his noon meal, and again at night, perhaps; but she said to herself, "no wonder, poor man; always having to eat his dinner out of a pail! no home, and no woman to see that he had things nice and comfortable. she would risk but what he would stay at home, when he had one to stay in, and like a bit of beefsteak better than the beer, any day." she had not calculated as to the place which the beer held in his heart. neither had he. he was astonished to find that it was not easy to give it up, even when mary wanted him to. he was astonished at first to discover how often he was thirsty with a thirst that nothing but beer would satisfy. i have not time for all the story. the beer was not given up, the habit grew stronger and stronger, and steadily, though at first slowly, the deckers went down. from being one of the best workmen in town, mr. decker dropped down to the level of "old joe decker," whom people would not employ if they could get anybody else. the little girl had never come home save for a short visit; at first the new mother was sorry, then she was glad. as the days passed, her heart grew heavier and heavier; a horrible fear which was almost a certainty, had now gotten hold of her--that her handsome, manly norman was going to copy the father she had given him! poor mother! i would not, if i could, describe to you all the miseries of that long day! how the mother lay and tossed on that miserable bed, and burned with fever and groaned with pain. how the children quarreled and cried, and ran into mother, and cried again because she could give them no attention, and made up, and ran out again to play, and quarreled again. how the father came home at noon, more under the influence of liquor than he had been in the morning; and swore at the table still standing as he had left it at breakfast time, and swore at his wife for "lying in bed and sulking, instead of doing her work like a decent woman," and swore at his children for crying with hunger; and finally divided what remained of the bread between them, and went off himself to a saloon, where he spent twenty-five cents for his dinner, and fifty cents for liquor. how norman came home, and looked about the deserted kitchen and empty cupboard, and looked in at his mother, and said he was sorry she had a headache, and sighed, and wished that he had a decent home like other fellows, and wished that a doctor could be found, who didn't want more money than he was worth, to pay him for coming to see a sick woman, and then went to a bakery and bought a loaf of bread, and a piece of cheese, and having munched these, washed them down with several glasses of beer, went back to his work. meantime, the playing and the quarreling, and the crying, went on outside, and mrs. decker continued to sleep her heavy, feverish sleep. several times she wakened in a bewilderment of fever and pain, and groaned, and tried to get up, and fell back and groaned again, and lost her misery in another unnaturally heavy sleep, and the day wore away until it was three o'clock in the afternoon. the stages would be due in a few minutes--the one that brought passengers over from the railroad junction a mile away. the children in the yard did not know that one of them was expected to stop at their house; and the father when he came home at noon had been drinking too much liquor to remember it; and norman had not heard of it, and for his mother's sake would have been too angry to have met it if he had; so nan was coming home with nobody to welcome her. if you had seen her sitting at that moment, a trim little maiden in the stage, her face all flushed over the prospect of seeing father, and the rest, in a few minutes, you would not have thought it possible that she could belong to the decker family. she had not seen her home in seven years. she had been a little thing of six when she went away with the marshall family. it had all come about naturally. mrs. marshall was their neighbor, and had known her mother from childhood; and when she died had carried the motherless little girl home with her to stay until mr. decker decided what to do; and he was slow in deciding, and mrs. marshall had a family of boys, but no little girl, and held the motherless one tenderly for her mother's sake; and when the marshalls suddenly had an offer of business which made it necessary for them to move to the city, they clung to the little girl, and proposed to mr. decker that she should go with them and stay until he had a place for her again. apparently he had not found a place for her in all these seven years, for she had never been sent for to come home. the new wife had wanted her at first, to be mother to her, as she fancied mr. decker was going to be father to her boy. but it did not take her very many months to get her eyes open to the thought that perhaps the girl would be better off away from her father; and of late years she had looked on the possible home-coming with positive terror. her own little ones had nothing to eat, sometimes, save what norman provided; and if "he"--and by this mrs. decker meant her husband; he had ceased to be "mr. decker" to her, or "joseph," or even joe--if "he" should take a notion to turn against the girl, life would be more terrible to them in every way; and on the other hand, if he should fancy her, and because of her, turn more against the wife, or norman, what would become of them then? so the years had passed, and beyond an occasional threat when joe decker was at his worst, to "send for nan right straight off," nothing had been said of her home-coming. the threat had come oftener of late, for joe decker had discovered that there was just now nothing that his wife dreaded more than the presence of this step-daughter; and his present manly mood was to do all he could for the discomfort of his wife! that was one of the elevating thoughts which liquor had given him! three o'clock. the stages came rattling down the stony road. few people who lived on this street had much to do with the stage; they could not afford to ride, and they did not belong to the class who had much company. so when the heavy carriages kept straight on, instead of turning the corner below, it brought a swarm of children from the various dooryards to see who was coming, and where. "it's stopped at decker's, as true as i live!" said mrs. job smith, peeping out of her clean pantry window to get a view. "i heard that joe had sent for little nan, but i hoped it wasn't true. poor nan! if the marshalls have treated her with any kind of decency, it'll be a dreadful change, and i'm sorry enough for her. yes, that must be nan getting out. she's got the very same bright eyes, but she has grown a sight, to be sure!" which need not have seemed strange to mrs. smith, if she had stopped to remember that seven years had passed since nan went away. the little woman got down with a brisk step from the stage, and watched her trunk set in the doorway, and got out her red pocket-book, and paid the fare, and then looked about her doubtfully. could this be home! chapter ii. beginning her life. she did not remember anything, but the yard was very dirty, and the fence was tumbling down, and there were lights of glass out of the windows, and a general air of discomfort prevailed. it did not look like a home. besides, where were father and mother? there must be some mistake. the two little deckers who had played and quarreled together all day had left their work to come and stare at the new comer out of astonished eyes. certainly they did not seem to have been expecting her. the new comer turned to the elder of the two children, and spoke in a gentle winning voice: "little girl, do you live here--in this house?" the child with her forefinger placed meditatively on her lip, and her bright eyes staring intensely, decided to nod that she did. "and can you tell me what your name is?" to this question there was no answer for several seconds, then she thought better of it and gravely said: "i could." this seemed so funny, that poor nan, though by this time carrying a very sad heart, could not help smiling. "well, will you?" she asked. but at this the tangled yellow head was shaken violently. no, she wouldn't. "it can't be," said nan, talking to herself, since there was no one who would talk with her, looking with troubled eyes at the two uncombed, unwashed children, with their dresses half torn from them, and dirtier than any dresses that this trim little maiden had ever seen before, "this really cannot be the place! and yet father said this street and number; and the driver said this was right." then she stooped to the little one. "won't you tell me if your name is satie decker?" but this one was shy, and hid her dirty face in her dirty hands, and stepped back behind her sister who at once came to the rescue. "yes, 'tis," she said, "and you let her alone." a shadow fell over nan's face, but she said quickly, "then you must be susie decker, and this place is really home!" but you cannot think how strangely it sounded to her to call such a looking spot as this home. there was no use in standing on the doorstep. she could feel that curious eyes were peeping at her from neighbors' windows. she stepped quickly inside the half-open door, into the kitchen where that breakfast-table still stood, with the flies so thick around the molasses cup, from which the children had long since drained the molasses, that it was difficult to tell whether there was a cup behind it, or whether this really was a pyramid of flies. the children followed her in. susie had a dark frown on her face, and a determined air, as one who meant to stand up for her rights and protect the little sister who still tried to hide behind her. i think it was well they were there; had they not been, i feel almost sure that the stranger would have sat down in the first chair and cried. poor little woman! it was such a sorrowful home-coming to her. so different from what she had been planning all day. i wish i could give you a real true picture of her as she stood in the middle of that dreadful room, trying to choke back the tears while she convinced herself that she was really nettie decker. a trim little figure in a brown and white gingham dress, a brown straw hat trimmed with broad bands and ends of satin ribbon, with brown gloves on her hands, and a ruffle in her neck. this was nettie decker; neat and orderly, from ruffle to buttoned boots. i wonder if you can think what a strange contrast she was to everything around her? what was to be done? she could not stand there, gazing about her; and there seemed no place to sit down, and nowhere to go. where could father be? why had he not stayed at home to welcome his little girl? or if too busy for that, surely the mother could have stayed, and he must have left a message for her. if the little girls would only be good and try to tell her what all this strangeness meant! she made another effort to get into their confidence. she bent toward susie, smiling as brightly as she could, and said: "didn't you know, little girlie, that i was your sister nettie? i have come home to play with you and help you have a nice time." even while she said it, she felt ten years older than she ever had before, and she wondered if she should ever play anything again; and if it could be possible for people to have nice times who lived in such a house as this. but susie was in no sense won, and scowled harder than ever, as she said in a suspicious tone: "i ain't got no sister nettie, only sate, and nan." hot as the room was, the neat little girl shivered. there was something dreadful to her in the sound of that name. she had forgotten that she ever used to hear it; she remembered her father as having called her 'nannie'; that would do very well, though it was not so pleasant to her as the 'nettie' to which she had been answering for seven years. but how strange and sad it was that these little sisters should have been taught to call her nan! could there be a more hateful name than that, she wondered. did it mean that her step-mother hated her, and had taught the children to do so? she swallowed at the lump in her throat. what if she should cry! what would those children say or do, and what would happen next? she must try to explain. "i am nannie," she couldn't make her lips say the word nan. "i have come home to live, and to help you!" she did not feel like saying "play with you," now. "will you be a good girl, and let me love you?" how susie scowled at her then! "no," she said, firmly, "i won't." there seemed to be no truthful answer to make to this, for in the bottom of her heart, nannie did not believe that she could. still, she must make the best of it, and she began slowly to draw off her gloves. clearly she must do something towards getting herself settled. "won't you tell me where father is? or mother?" her voice faltered a little over that word; "maybe you can show me where to put my trunk; do you know which is to be my room?" there were pauses made between each of these questions. the poor little stranger seemed to be trying first one form and then another, to see if it was possible to get any help. susie decided at last to do something besides scowl. "mother's sick. she lies in bed and groans all the time. she ain't got us no dinner to-day; sate and me called her, and called her, and she wouldn't say anything to us. there ain't no room only this and that," nodding her head toward the bedroom door, "and the room over the shed where norm sleeps. norm is hateful. he didn't bring home no bread this noon for sate and me; and he said maybe he would; we're awful hungry." "perhaps he couldn't," said poor startled nettie. she hardly knew what she said, only it seemed natural to try to excuse norm. but what dreadful story was this! if there was really a sick mother, why was not the father bending over her, and the house hushed and darkened, and somebody tiptoeing about, planning comforts for the night? she had seen something of sickness, and this was the way it was managed. then what was this about there being no room for her? then what in the world was she to do? oh, what did it all mean! she felt as though she must run right back to the depot, and get on the cars and go to her own dear home. to be sure she knew that her father was poor; what of that? so were the marshalls; she had heard mrs. marshall say many a time that "poor folks can't have such things," in answer to some of the children's coaxings. but poverty such as this which seemed to surround this home was utterly strange to nettie. still, though she felt such a child, she was also a woman; in some things at least. she knew there was no going home for her to-night. if she had the money to go with, and if there had been a train to go on, she would still have been stayed, because it would be wrong to go. her father had sent for her, had said that they wanted her, needed her, and her father certainly had a right to her; and she had come away with a full heart, and a firm resolve to be as good and as helpful and as happy in her old home as she possibly could. and now that nothing anywhere was as she had expected it, was no reason why she should not still do right. only, what was there for her to do, and how should she begin? she stood there still in the middle of the room, the children staring. presently she crossed on tiptoe to the bedroom door which was partly open and peeped in, catching her first glimpse of the woman whom she must call "mother." also she caught a glimpse of that dreadful bed; and the horrors of that sight almost took away the thought of the woman lying on it. how could she help being sick if she had to sleep in such a place as that? poor nettie decker! she stood and looked, and looked. then seeing that the woman did not stir, but seemed to be in a heavy sleep, she shut the door softly and came away. i don't suppose that nettie decker will ever forget the next three hours of her life, even if she lives to be an old woman. not that anything wonderful happened; only that, for years and years afterwards, it seemed to her that she grew suddenly, that afternoon, from a happy-hearted little girl of thirteen, into a care-taking, sorrowful woman. while she stood in that bedroom door, a perfect whirl of thoughts rushed through her brain, and when she shut the door, she had come to this conclusion: "i can't help it; i am nettie decker; he is my father, and i belong to him, and i ought to be here if he wants me; and she is my mother; and if it is dreadful, i can't help it; there is everything to do; and i must do it." it was then that she shut the door softly and went back and began her life. there was that trunk out on the stoop. it ought to go somewhere. at least she could drag it into the kitchen so that the troops of children gathering about the door need not have it to wonder at any longer. putting all her strength to it she drew it in and shut the door. by this time, sate, who was getting used to her as she had gotten used to many a new thing in her little life, began to wail that she was hungry, and wanted some bread and some molasses. "poor little girlie!" nettie said, "don't cry; i'll see if i can find you something to eat. did she really have no dinner, susie? oh, darling, don't cry so; you will trouble poor mother." but susie had gone back to the scowling mood. "she _shall_ cry, if she wants to; you can't stop her; and you needn't try; i'll cry too, just as loud as i can." and susie decker who had strong lungs and always did as she said she would, immediately set up such a howl as put sate's milder crying quite in the shade. nettie looked over at the bedroom door in dismay; but no sound came from there. yet this roaring was fearful. how could it be stopped? suddenly she plunged her hand into the depths of a small travelling bag which still hung on her arm, and brought forth a lovely red-cheeked peach. she held it before the eyes of the naughty couple and spoke in a determined tone: "this is for the one who stops crying this instant." both children stopped as suddenly as though they had been wound up, and the machinery had run down. nettie smiled, and went back into the travelling bag. "there must be two of them, it seems," she said, and brought out another peach. "now you are to sit down on the steps and eat them, while i see what can be found for our supper." down sat the children. there had been quiet determination in this new-comer's tone, and peaches were not to be trifled with. their mouths had watered for a taste ever since the dear woolly things began to appear in the grocery windows, and not one had they had! now began work indeed. nettie opened her trunk and drew out a work apron which covered her dress from throat to shoes, and made her look if anything, prettier than before. where was the broom? the children busy with their peaches, neither knew nor cared; however, a vigorous search among the rubbish in the shed brought one to light. and then there was such a cloud of dust as the decker kitchen had not seen in a long time. then came a visit to the back yard in search of chips; both children following close at her heels, saying nothing, but watching every movement with wide-open wondering eyes. back again to the kitchen and the fire was made up. then an old kettle was dragged out from a hole in the corner, which poor mrs. decker called a closet. it was to hold water, while the fire heated it, but first it must be washed; everything must be washed that was touched. where was the dishcloth? the children being asked, stared and shook their heads. nettie searched. she found at last a rag so black and ill-smelling that without giving the matter much thought she opened the stove door and thrust it in. this brought a rebuke from the fierce susie. "you better look out how you burn up my mother's things. my mother will take your head right off." "it wasn't good for anything, dear," nettie said soothingly, "it was too dirty." and she stooped down and turned over the contents of the trunk. neat little piles of clothing, carefully marked with her full name; a pretty green box which susie dived for, and pushing off the cover disclosed little white ruffles, some of lace, and some of fine lawn, lying cosily together; but nettie was not searching for such as these. quite at the bottom of the trunk was a pile of towels, all neatly hemmed and marked. two of these she selected; looked thoughtfully at one of them for a moment, and then with a grave shake of her head, got out her scissors and snipped it in two. now she had a dishcloth, and a towel for drying. but what a pity to soil the nice white cloth by washing out that iron kettle! nettie had grave suspicions that after such a proceeding it would not be fit for the dishes. still, the kettle must be washed, and to have used the black rag which she had burned, was out of the question. there was no help for it, the other neat dishcloth must be sacrificed. so taking the precaution to wipe out the iron kettle with a piece of paper, and then to heat it quite hot, and apply soap freely, the cloth escaped without very serious injury; and in less time than it takes me to tell it, the water was getting itself into bubbles over the stove, and a tin pan was being cleaned, ready for the dishes. then they were gathered, and placed in the hot and soapy water, and washed and rinsed and polished with the white towel until they shone; and the little girls looked on, growing more amazed each moment. it did not take long to wash every dish there was in that house. i suppose you would have been very much astonished if you could have seen how few there were! nettie was very much astonished. she wondered how people could get supper with so few dishes, to say nothing of breakfasts and dinner. but you see she did not know how little there was to put on them. the next question was, where to put them? one glance at the upper part of the closet where she had found some of them, convinced nettie that her clean dishes could not be happy resting on those shelves. there was no help for it; they must be scrubbed, though she had not intended to begin housecleaning the first afternoon. more water and more soap, and the few shelves were soon cleared of rubbish, and washed. nettie piled all the rubbish on a lower shelf and left it for a future day. she did not dare to burn any more property. "don't they look pretty?" she said to the children, when at last the dishes were neatly arranged on the shelf. one held them all, nicely. susie nodded with a grave face that said she had not yet decided whether to be pleased or indignant. "what did you do it for?" she asked, after a moment's silent survey. "why, to make them clean and shining. you and i are going to clear up the house and make it look ever so nice for mother when she wakes up." "did you come home to help mother?" "yes, indeed. and you two little sisters must show me how to help her; poor sick mother! i am afraid she has too much to do." "she cries," said susie gravely, as though she were stating not a surprising but simply a settled fact; "she cried every day: not out loud like sate and me, but softly. father says she is always sniveling." if you had been watching nettie decker just then you would have noticed that the blood flamed into her cheeks, and her eyes had a flash of wonder, and terror, and anger in them. what did it all mean? where had the children learned such words? was it possible that her father talked in this way to his wife? "hush!" she said unguardedly, "you must not talk so." but this made the fierce little susie stamp her foot. "i _shall_ talk so!" she said angrily; "i shall talk just what i please, and you sha'n't stop me." and then the queer little mimic beside her stamped her foot, and said, "you sha'n't stop me." said nettie, "there was a little girl on the cars to-day that i knew. she had a little gray kitty with three white feet, and a white spot on one ear, and it had a blue ribbon around its neck. what if you had such a kitty. would you be real good to it?" "i will have a _black_ kitty," said susie, "all black; as black as that stove." nettie glancing at the stove, could not help thinking that it was more gray than black; but she kept her thoughts to herself, and susie went on. "and it should have a red ribbon around its neck; as red as janie martin's dress; her dress is as red as fire, and has ruffles on, and ribbons. but what would it eat?" she did not mean the dress but the kitten. nettie laughed, but hastened to explain that the kitten would need a saucer of milk quite often, and bits of various things. this made wise susie gravely shake her head. "we don't have no milk," she said, "only once in awhile when norm buys it; sate, she often cries for milk, but she don't get none. it don't do no good to cry for milk; i ain't cried for any in a long time." poor little philosopher! poor, pitiful childhood without any milk! hardly anything could have told the story of poverty to nettie's young ears more surely than this. why, she was a big girl thirteen years old, and had lived in a city where milk was scarce, and yet her glass had been filled every evening. nettie did not know what to make of it. how came her father to be so poor? she was sure that the house did not look like this when she went away; and her clothes had been neat and good. she had the little red dress now which she wore away. she thought of it when susie was talking, and wondered if with a little fixing it could not be made to fit the black-eyed child who seemed to admire red so much. finding the kitty a troublesome subject, at least so far as the finding of milk for it was concerned, she turned the conversation to the little girls who had been on the cars; the one with the kitty, and her little sister, whom she called "pet." "she was about as old as you, susie, and pet was about satie's age. and she was very kind to pet; she always spoke to her so gently, and took such care of her everybody seemed to love her for her kindness." "i take care of sate," said susie. "i never let anybody hurt her. i would scratch their eyes out if they did; and they know it." "you slap me sometimes," little sate said, her voice slightly reproachful. "yes," said susie loftily, "but that is when you are bad and need it; i don't let anybody else slap you." "the oldest little girl had curly hair," said nettie, "but it wasn't so long as yours, and did not curl so nicely as i think yours would. and pet's hair was a pretty brown, like sate's, and looked very pretty. it was combed so neatly. one wore a blue dress, and one a white dress; but i think they would have looked prettier if they had been dressed both alike." "i don't like white dresses," said susie; "i like fiery red ones." so nettie resolved that the red dress should be made to fit her. meantime, the scrubbing had gone on rapidly; the table was as clean as soap and water could make it. now if those children would only let her wash their faces and put their hair in order, how different they would look. should she venture to suggest it? it all depended on how the idea happened to strike susie. chapter iii. the truth is told. in the bottom of that wonderful little trunk lay side by side two little blue and white plaid dresses, made gabrielle fashion, with ruffles around the bottom and around the neck. never were dresses made with more patient care. all the stitches were small and very neat. and they represented hours and hours of steady work. every stitch in them had been taken by nettie decker. long before she had thought of such a thing as coming home, they had been commenced. birthday presents they were to be to the little sisters whom she had never seen. she had earned the money to buy them. she had borrowed two little neighbors of the same age, to fit them to, and with much advice and now and then a little skilful handling from mrs. marshall, they were finally finished to nettie's great satisfaction. it was the day the last stitch was set in them that she learned she was to come herself and bring them. she thought of them this afternoon. if the little girls would only let her comb their hair and wash their faces and hands, she would put on the new dresses. she had not intended to present them in that way, but dresses as soiled and faded and worn as those the little sisters had on, nettie decker had never worn. she opened the trunk, with both children beside her, watching, and drew out the dresses. "aren't these almost as pretty as red ones?" she asked, as she unfolded them, and displayed the dainty ruffles. "no," said susie, "not near so pretty as red ones. but then they are pretty. they aren't dresses at all; they are aprons. are they for you to wear?" "no," said nettie, "they are for two little girls to wear, who have their hair combed beautifully, and their hands and faces very clean." "do you mean us?" "i do if the description fits. i can think just how nice you would look if your faces were clean and your hair was combed." "we will put on the aprons," said susie firmly, "but we won't have our hair combed, nor our faces washed, and you need not try it." but miss susie found that this new sister had as strong a will as she. the trunk lid went down with a click, and nettie rose up. "very well," she said, "then we will not waste time over them. i brought them for you, and meant to put them on you this afternoon to surprise mamma, but if you don't want them, they can lie in the trunk." "i told you we did want them," said susie, looking horribly cross. "i said we would put them on." "yes, but you said some more which spoiled it. _i_ say that they cannot go on until your faces and hands are so clean that they shine, and your hair is combed beautifully." "you can't make us have our hair combed." "i shall not try," said nettie, as though it was a matter of very small importance to her. "i was willing to dress you all up prettily, but if you don't choose to look like the little girls i saw on the cars, why you can go dirty, of course. but you can't have the clean new dresses." "till when?" "not ever. unless you are clean and neat." "it hurts to have hair combed." "i know it. yours would hurt a good deal, because you don't have it combed every day; if you kept it smooth and nice it would hardly hurt at all. but i didn't suppose you were a cowardly little girl who was afraid of a few pulls. if the dresses are not worth those, we had better let them lie in the trunk." nettie was already beginning to understand her queer fierce little sister. she had no idea of being thought a coward. "well," she said, after a thoughtful pause, "comb my hair if you like; i don't care. sate, you are going to have your hair combed, and you needn't cry; because it won't do any good." it was certainly a trial to all parties; and poor little sate in spite of this warning, did shed several tears; but susie, though she frowned, and choked, and once jerked the comb away and threw it across the floor, did not let a single tear appear on her cheeks. and at last the terrible tangles slipped out, and left silky folds of beautiful hair that was willing to do whatever nettie's skilful fingers told it. when the faces and hands were clean, and the lovely blue dresses had been arranged, nettie stood back to look at them in genuine delight. what pretty little girls they were! she sighed in two minutes after she thought this. what did it mean that they looked so neglected and dirty? "these must go in the wash," she said, as she gathered up the rags which had been kicked off. "will we put these on in the morning?" asked susie, in quite a mild tone. she was looking down at herself and was very much pleased with her changed appearance. "oh, no," nettie said, "they are too light to play in. they are dress-up clothes. you must have dark dresses on in the morning." "we ain't got no dresses only them," and susie pointed contemptuously at the rags in nettie's hand. this made poor nettie sigh again. what did it all mean? however, there was no time for sighing. there was still a great deal to be done. "now we must get tea," she said, bustling about. "where does mother keep the bread, and other things?" "she don't keep them nowhere. we don't have no things. i go to the bakery sometimes for bread, and for potatoes, and sometimes for milk. i would go now; i just want to show that hateful little girl in there my new dress, and my curls, but it isn't a bit of use to go. he won't let us have another single thing without the money. he said so yesterday, and he looked so cross he scared sate; but i made faces at him." this called forth several questions as to where the bakery was, and nettie, finding that it was but a few steps away, and that the little girls really bought most of the things which came from there, counted out the required number of pennies from her poor little purse for a loaf of bread and a pint of milk. in the cupboard was what had once been butter, set on the upper shelf in a teacup. it was almost oil, now. "if i had a lump of ice for this," nettie murmured, "it might do. butter costs so much." "they keep ice at the bakery," said that wise young woman, susie, "but we never buy it." this brought two more pennies from the pocketbook; for to nettie it seemed quite impossible that butter in such a condition could be eaten. so the ice was ordered, and two very neat, and very vain little bits of girls started on their mission. tablecloths? where would the new housekeeper find them? where indeed! hunt through the room as she would, no trace of one was to be found. she did not know that the deckers had not used such an article in months. she thought of the cupboard drawer at home, and of the neat pile which was always waiting there, and at about this hour it had been her duty to set the table and make everything ready for tea. it would not do to think about it. there were sharper contrasts than these. her proposed present to her mother had been a tablecloth, not very large nor very fine, but beautifully smooth and clean, and hemmed by her own patient fingers. she must get it out to-night, as no other appeared; and of course she could not set the table without one. so it was spread on the clean table, and the few dishes arranged as well as she could. there was a drawing of tea set up in another teacup, and there was a sticky little tin teapot. nettie, as she washed it, told it that to-morrow she would scour it until it shone; then she made tea. meantime the little errand girls had returned with their purchases, the butter was resting on a generous lump of ice, the bread which was found to be stale, was toasted, a plate of cookies from the wonderful trunk was added, and at last there was ready such a supper as had not been eaten in that house for weeks. to be sure it looked to nettie as though there was very little to eat; but then she had not been used to living at the deckers. she began to be very nervous about the people who were going to sit down at this neat table. why did not some of them come? the wise housekeeper knew that neither tea nor toast improved greatly by standing, but she drew the teapot to the very edge of the stove, covered the toast, and set it in the oven. then she went softly to the bedroom door and opened it. this time a pair of heavy eyes turned, as the door creaked, and were fixed on her with a kind of bewildered stare. she went softly in. "how do you feel now?" she asked gently. "i have made a cup of tea and a bit of toast for you. shall i bring them now? the children said you did not eat any dinner." "who are you?" asked the astonished woman, still regarding her with that bewildered stare. nettie swallowed at the lump in her throat. it would be dreadful if she should burst out crying and run away, as she felt exactly like doing. "i am nettie decker," she said, and her lips quivered a little. "father sent for me, you know. didn't you think i would be here to-day, ma'am?" "you can't be nan!" i cannot begin to describe to you the astonishment there was in mrs. decker's voice. "yes'm, i am. at least that is what father used to call me once in a while, just for fun. my name is nanette; but auntie marshall where i live, or where i used to live"--she corrected herself, "always called me nettie. may i bring you the tea, ma'am? i think it will make you feel better." but the two children had stayed in the background as long as they intended. they pushed forward, susie eager-voiced: "look at us! see my curls, and see my new apron, only she says it is a dress, but it ain't; it is made just like jennie brown's apron, ain't it? but we ain't got no dresses on. she's got a white cloth on the table, and cookies, and a lump of ice, and everything; and we had two peaches. old jock gave us the bread. she sent the money, and i told him to take his old money and give me some bread right straight." how fast susie could talk! there was scarcely room for the slow sweet satie to get in her gentle, "and me too." meaning look at my dress and hair. the bewildered mother raised herself on her elbow and stared--from nan to the little girls, and then back to nan. she was sufficiently astonished to satisfy even susie. "well, i never!" she said at last. "i didn't know, i mean i didn't think"--then she stopped and pressed her hand to her head, and pushed back the straggling hair behind her ears. "i took dizzy this morning," she said at last, addressing nettie as though she were a grown-up neighbor who had stepped in to see her, "and i staggered to the bed, and didn't know nothing for a long while. i had a dreadful pain in my head, and then i must have dropped to sleep. here i've been all day, if the day is gone. it must be after three o'clock if you've got here. i meant to try to do something towards making things a little more decent; though the land knows what it would have been; i don't. there's nothing to do with. i didn't know till this morning that he had the least notion of sending for you--though he's threatened it times enough. i've been ailing all the spring, and this morning i just give out. i don't know what is the matter with me. the bed goes round now, and things get into a kind of a blur." "let me bring you a cup of tea and something to eat," said nettie; "i think you are faint." then she vanished, the children following. she was back in a few minutes, under her arm a white towel from her trunk; this she spread on the barrel head which you will remember did duty as a table. she spread it with one hand, little sate carefully smoothing out the other end. in her left hand she carried a cup of tea smoking hot, and poor mrs. decker noticed that the cup shone. susie followed behind, an air of grave importance on her face, and in her hands a plate, covered by a smaller one, which being taken off disclosed a delicately browned slice of bread with a bit of butter spread carefully over it. "well, i never!" said mrs. decker again, but she drank the tea with feverish haste, stopping long enough to feel of the cup with a curious look on her face. it was so smooth. there was a sound of heavy feet outside, and the children appeared at the door and announced that father and norm had come. nettie took the emptied cup, promising to fill it again, urged the eating of the toast while it was hot, and went with trembling heart to meet the father whom she had not seen in so many years that she remembered very little about him. a great rough-faced, unshaven man, with uncombed hair, ragged and dirty shirt sleeves, ragged and dirty pants, a red face and eyes that seemed but half open, and watery. nothing less like what nettie had imagined a father, could well be described. however, if she had but known it, this was a great improvement on the man who often came home to supper. he was nearly sober, and greeted her with a rough sort of kindness, giving her a kiss, which made her shrink and tremble. it was perfumed with odors which she did not like. "well, nan, my girl, you have grown into a fine young lady, have you? tall for your years, too. and smart, i'll be bound; you wouldn't be your mother's girl if you wasn't. is it you that has fixed up things so? it is a good thing you have come to take care of us. we haven't had anything decent here in so long, we've most forgot how to treat it. come on, norm. this table looks something like living again." and "norm" shambled in. rough, and uncombed, and unwashed, except a dab at his hands which left long streaks of brown at the wrists. a hard-looking boy, harder than nettie had ever spoken to before. she could not help thinking of jim daker who lived in a saloon not far from her old home, and whom she had always passed with a hurried step, and with eyes on the ground, and of whom she thought as of one who lived in a different world from hers, and wondered how it felt to be down there in the slum. now here was a boy whom it was her duty to think of as a brother; and he reminded her of jim daker! still there was something about norm that she could not help half liking. he had great brown, wistful-looking eyes, and an honest face. she had not much chance, it is true, to observe the eyes; for he did not look at her, nor speak, until his father said: "why don't you shake hands with nan? you ought to be glad to see her. you ain't used to such a looking supper as this." the boy laughed, in an embarrassed way, and said he was sure he did not know whether he was glad to see her or not: depended on what she had come for. he gave her just a gleam then from the brown eyes, and she smiled and held out her hand. he took it awkwardly enough, and dropped it as suddenly as though it had been hot; then sat down in haste at the table, where his step-father was already making havoc with the toast. it was not a very substantial meal for people who had dined on bread and cheese, and were hungering at that moment for beer; but the man had spoken the truth, it was better than they generally found. there was one part of the story, however, that he failed to tell: which was, that he did not furnish money to get anything better. as for susie and sate, they had become suddenly silent. they sat close together and devoured their toast, like hungry children indeed, but also like scared children. they gave occasional frightened glances at their father which puzzled and pained nettie. no suspicion of the truth had yet come to her. oh, yes, she had smelled the liquor when her father kissed her; but she thought it was something which had to do with the machinery around which he worked. "where is the old woman?" he asked suddenly, setting down his empty cup which nettie had filled for the third time. she looked up at him with a startled air. to whom was he speaking and what old woman could he mean? her look seemed to make him cross. "what are you staring at?" he said sharply. "can't you answer a question? where's your mother?" nettie hurried to answer; she was sick, had been real sick all day, but was better now, and was trying to get up. "she is everlastingly sick," the father said with a sneer; "you will get used to that story if you live here long. i hope you ain't one of the sickly kind, because we have heard enough of that." this sentence and the tone in which it was spoken, brought the blood in great waves to nettie's face. it was the first time she had ever heard a man speak of his wife in such a way. norm looked up from his cookie, and flashed angry eyes on his step-father for a moment, and said "he didn't know as that was any wonder. she had enough to make any woman sick." "you shut up," said the father in increasing irritability; and the children slipped out of their seats and moved toward the door, keeping careful eyes on the father until they were fairly outside. nettie felt her limbs trembling so that her knees knocked together under the table. but at last every crumb of toast was eaten, and every drop of tea swallowed, and mr. decker pushed himself back from the table, and spoke in a somewhat gentler tone: "well, my girl, make yourself as comfortable as you can. i'm glad to see you. we need your help, you'll find, in more ways than one. you've been working for other folks long enough. it is a poor place you've come to, and that's a fact. i ain't what i used to be; i've been unfortunate. no fellow ever had worse luck. everything has gone wrong with me ever since your mother died. a sick wife, and young ones to look after, and nobody to do a thing. it is a hard life, but you might as well rough it with the rest of us. you'll get along somehow, i s'pose. the rest of us always have. i've got to go out for awhile. you tell the old woman to fix up some place for you to sleep, and we'll do the best we can." and he lounged away; norm having left the table and the room some minutes before. and this was the father to whom nettie decker had come home! she swallowed at the lump which seemed growing larger every minute in her throat. she had choked back a great many tears that afternoon. there was no time to cry. some place must be fixed for her to sleep. in the home that she had left, there was a little room with matting on the floor, and a little white bed in the corner, and a pretty toilet set that the carpenter's son had made her at odd times, and a wash bowl and pitcher that had been her present on her eleventh birthday, and a green rocking-chair that aunt kate had sent her: not her own aunt kate, but mrs. marshall's sister who had adopted her as a niece, and these things and many another little knickknack were all her own. the room was empty to-night; but then nettie must not cry! she began to gather the dishes and get them ready for washing. just as she plunged her hands into the dishwater, the bedroom door opened, and her mother came out, stepping feebly, like one just recovering from severe illness. "i'm dreadful weak," she said in answer to nettie's inquiries, "but i guess i'm better than i have been in a good while. i've had a rest to-day; the first one i have had in three years. i don't know what made me give out so, all of a sudden. i tried to keep on my feet, but i couldn't do it no more than i could fly. you oughtn't to have to wash them dishes, child, with your pretty hands and your pretty dress. oh, dear! i don't know what is to become of any of us." "this is my work apron," said nettie, trying to speak cheerily, "and i am used to this work: i always helped with the tea dishes at home." then she plunged into the midst of the subject which was troubling her. "father said i was to ask you where i was to sleep." "he better ask himself!" said the wilted woman, rousing to sudden energy and indignation. "how does he think i know? there isn't the first rag to make a bed of, nor a spot to put it, if there was. i say it was a sin and a shame for him to send for you, and that's the truth! if he had one decent child who had a place to stay, where she would be took care of, he ought to have let you alone. you have come to an awful home, child. you have got to know the truth, and you might as well know it first as last. it is enough sight worse than you have seen to-night, though i dare say you think this is bad enough. you don't look nor act like what i was afraid of, and you must have had good friends who took care of you; and he ought to have let you alone. this is no place for a decent girl. it is bad enough for an old woman who has given up, and never expects to have anything decent any more. he won't provide any place for you, nor any clothes, and what we are to do with one more mouth to feed is more than i can see. i wouldn't grudge it to you, child, if we had it; but we are starved, half the time, and that's the living truth." "i won't eat much," said poor nettie, trembling and quivering, "and i will try very hard to help; but if you please, what makes things so? can't father get work?" "work! of course he can; as much as he can do. he is as good a machinist to-day as there is in the shops; when they have a particular job they want him to do it. he works hard enough by spells; why, child, it's the drink. you didn't know it, did you? well, you may as well know it first as last. he was nearer sober to-night than he has been in a week; but he wasn't so very sober or he wouldn't have been cross. he used to be good and kind as the best of them, and we had things decent. i never thought it would come to this, but it has, and it grows worse every day. yes, you may well turn pale, and cry out. turning pale won't do any good. and you may cry tears of blood, and them that sells the rum to poor foolish men will go right on selling it as long as they have money to pay, and kick them out when they haven't. that is the way it is done, and it keeps going on here year after year, homes ruined, and children made beggars, and them that have the making of the laws, go right on and let it be done. i've watched it. and i've tried, too. you needn't think i gave up and sat down to it without trying as hard as ever woman could to struggle against the curse; but i've give up now. nothing is of any use. and the worst of it is my norm is going the same road." chapter iv. new friends. and then the poor woman who thought she had no more tears to shed, buried her face in her hands and shed some of the bitterest ones she ever did in her life. poor nettie! she tried to turn comforter; tried to think of one cheering word to say; but what was there to cheer the wife of a drunkard? or the daughter of a drunkard? could it be possible that she, nettie decker, was that! oh, dear! how often she had stood in the door, and with a kind of terrified fascination watched jane daker stealing home in the darkness, afraid to go in at the front door, lest her drunken father should see her and vent his wrath on her. could she ever creep around in the dark and hide away from her own _father_? wouldn't it be possible for her to go back home? she had not money enough to get there, but couldn't she work somehow, and earn money? she could write a letter to the folks at home and tell them the dreadful story, and they would surely find a way of sending for her. but then, money was not plenty in that home, and she began to understand that they had done a great deal for her, and that it had cost a good deal to pay her fare to this place. she had wondered, at the time, that her father did not send the money for her to come home, but she said to herself: "i suppose he did not know how much it would cost, and he will give it to me to send in my first letter. perhaps he will give me a little bit more than it costs, too, for a little present for jamie." oh, poor little girl! building hopes on a father like hers. she had not been at home half a day, but she knew now that no money would ever go back to the marshalls in return for all they had done for her. worse than that, she might not be able to get back to them herself. would her father be likely to let her go? he had sent for her, and had told her during this first hour of their meeting, that she had worked for other people long enough. this made her heart swell with indignation. done enough for others, indeed! what had they not done for her? she never realized it half so plainly as she did to-night. "i will go back!" she muttered, setting the little bowl she was drying on the table with a determined thump. "i can't stay in such a place as this. i will write to auntie marshall this very night if i can get a chance, and she will contrive some way." certainly, nettie in that mood could have no comfort for a weeping mother, and attempted none, after the first murmured word of pity. but meantime she knew very well that she could not go back home that night, and the present terror was, where was she to sleep? her mother went back into the bedroom after a few minutes of bitter weeping, and nettie finished the work, then stood drearily in the doorway, wondering what she could do next, when a good, homely, motherly face looked out of the side window of the small house next their own, and a cheery voice spoke: "are you joe decker's little nannie?" "yes'm," said nettie, sadly, wondering drearily, even then, if it could be possible that this was so. "well," said the voice, "i calculated that you must be; though i never should have known you in the world, if i hadn't heard you was coming, you was such a mite of a thing when you went away. what a tall nice girl you've got to be. your ma is sick, the children said. i've been away ironing all day, or i would have been in to see if i could help the poor thing any. i don't know her very much, but she is sickly, and has hard times now and then, and i'm sorry for her. now what i was wondering is, where are they going to put you to sleep? the upper part of that house ain't finished off, is it? it is one big attic, ain't it, where norm sleeps? i thought so. i suppose there could be quite a nice room made up there with a little work and a few dollars laid out, but your pa ain't done it, i'll be bound. and i knew there wasn't but one bedroom down-stairs, and i couldn't think how they would manage it." "it isn't managed at all, ma'am," said nettie, seeing that she seemed to wait for an answer, and there was nothing to say but the simple truth. "there is no place for me to sleep." "you don't say! now that's a shame. well, now, what i was thinking was, that maybe you would like to sleep in the woodhouse chamber; it is a nice little room as ever was, and it opens right out of my sarah ann's room; so you wouldn't be lonesome. i haven't any manner of use for it, now my boy's gone away, and i just as soon you would sleep there as not until your folks get things fixed. you're a dreadful clean-looking little girl, and i like that. i'm a master hand to have clean things around me; job says he believes i catch the flies and dust their wings before i let them go into my front room. job is my husband, and that is his little joke at me, you know." and she laughed such a jolly little roly-poly sort of laugh that poor nettie could not keep a smile from her troubled face. a refuge in the woodhouse chamber of this neat, good-natured-looking woman seemed like a bit of heaven to the homesick child. "i am very much obliged to you, ma'am," she said respectfully; "i will tell my mother how kind you are, and i think she will be glad to accept the kindness for a few days. i--" and then nettie suddenly stopped. it might not be well to say to this new friend that she would not need to trouble the woodhouse chamber long, for she meant to start for home as soon as a letter could travel there, and another travel back. something might come in the way of this resolve, though it made her feel hot all over to think of such a possibility. "bless my heart!" said mrs. job smith as nettie vanished to consult her mother. "if that ain't as polite and pretty-spoken a child as ever i see in my life. she makes me think of our jerry. to think of that child being joe decker's girl and coming back to such a home as he keeps! it is too bad! i am sure i hope they will let her sleep in the woodhouse chamber. it is the only spot where she will get any peace." mrs. decker was only too glad to avail herself of her neighbor's kind offer. "it is good of her," she said gratefully to nettie. "i wish to the land you could have such a comfortable room all the time; they are real clean-looking folks. you wouldn't suppose from the looks of this house that i cared for clean things, but i do, and i used to have them about me, too. i was as neat once as the best of them; but it takes clothes and soap and strength to be clean, and i have had none of 'em in so long that i have most forgot how to do anything decent." "soap?" said nettie, wonderingly. she was beating up the poor rags which composed the bed in her mother's room, trying to get a little freshness into them. "yes, soap; i don't suppose you can imagine how it would seem not to have all the soap you wanted; i couldn't, either, once, but i tell you i save the pennies nowadays for bread, so that i need not see my children starve before my eyes. i would rather do without soap than bread; especially when our clothes are so worn out that there is nothing much to change with. oh, i tell you when you get into a house where the men folks spend all they can get on beer or whiskey, there are not many pennies left. mrs. smith has been real kind; she sent the children in a bowl of soup one day when their father had gone off and not left a thing in the house, nor a cent to get anything with. "and she has done two or three things like that lately; i'm grateful to her, but i'm ashamed to say so. i never expected to sink so low that i should be glad of the scraps which a poor neighbor like her could send in. oh, no; they are not very poor. why, they are rich as kings, come to compare them with us; but they are not grand folks at all; he is a teamster, and works hard every day; so does she; but he doesn't drink a drop, and they have a good many comfortable things. their boy is away at school, and their girl, sarah ann, is learning a dressmaker's trade. you will have a comfortable bed in there, and i'm glad of it." and now it was eight o'clock. susie and sate were asleep in their trundle bed, the tired nettie having coaxed them to let her give them a splendid bath first, making the idea pleasant to them by producing from her trunk a cunning little cake of perfumed soap. they looked "as pretty as pictures," the sad-eyed mother said, as she bent over them when they were asleep, with their moist hair in loose waves, and their clean faces flushed with health. "they are real pretty little girls," she added earnestly, as she turned away. "he might be proud of them. and he used to be, too. when sate was a baby, he said she had eyes like you, and he used to kiss her and tell her she was pretty, until i was afraid he would spoil her; but there isn't the least danger of that now. he never notices either of them except to slap them or growl at them." "how came father to begin to drink?" nettie asked the question timidly, hesitating over the last word; it seemed such a dreadful word to add to a father's name. "don't ask me, child; i don't know. they say he always drank a little; a glass of beer now and then. i knew he did when i married him, but i thought it was no more than all hard-working men did. i never thought much about it. i know it never entered my head that he could be a drunkard. i'd have been too afraid for norm if i had dreamed of such a thing as that. "he kept increasing the drinks, little by little--it grows on them, it seems, the habit does; they say that is the way with all the drinks; i didn't know it. i never was taught about these things. if i had been, i think sometimes my life would have been very different. i know i wouldn't have walked right into the fire with my one boy, anyhow. i'm talking to you, child, as though you were a woman grown, and you seem most like a woman to me, you are so handy, and quiet, and nice-looking. i was sorry you were coming, because i thought you would just be an added plague; and now i am sorry for your own sake." nettie hesitated greatly over the next question. it was a very hard one to ask this sick and discouraged mother, but she must know the whole of the misery by which she was surrounded. "does norman drink too?" "norm," said mrs. decker, dropping into the one chair, and putting her hand to her heart as though there was something stabbing her there, "norm has been led away by your father. he was a bright little fellow, and your father took to him amazingly. i used to tell him his own little girls would have reason to be jealous of his step-son. he took norm with him everywhere, from the first. and taught him to do odd things, for a little fellow, and was proud of his singing, and his speaking, and all that. and when susie there, was a baby, and i was kept close at home with her, and norm would tear around in the evening and wake her up, i slipped into the way of letting him go out with your father to spend the evenings; i didn't know they spent them in bar-rooms, or groceries where they sold beer. i never _dreamed_ of such a thing. your father talked about meeting the men, and i thought they met at some of the houses where there wasn't a baby to cry, and talked their work over, or the news, you know. and there he was teaching norm to drink. he was a pretty little fellow, and he would sing comic songs, and then they would treat him to the sugar in their glasses! when i found it out, he had got to liking the stuff, and i don't suppose a day goes by without his taking more or less of it now. he never gets as bad as your father; but he will. he is never cross and ugly to me, nor to the children, but he will be. it grows on him. it grows on them all. and to think that i led him into the trap! if i had stayed in the country where i was brought up, or if i had left him with his grandfather, as he wanted me to, he might have been saved. the grandfather is gone now, and so is the farm. your father got hold of my share of that, and lost it somehow. he didn't mean to, and that soured him, and he drank the harder and we are going down to the very bottom of everything as fast as we can." it seemed to poor nettie that they must have reached the bottom now. she could not imagine any lower depths than these. she made up the poor bed as well as she could, and then went back to the kitchen to see what could be done about breakfast. her new mother was evidently too weak and sick to be troubled with the thought of it, and while she stayed, nettie resolved that she would help the poor woman all she could. she went out into the yard to examine, and discovered to her satisfaction that there must be a cooper's shop just around the corner, for the chips lay thick. she gathered some for the morning fire, determined in her mind that she would buy a few potatoes at the grocery in the morning! in the cupboard she had found a cup of sour milk; this she had carefully treasured with an eye to breakfast, and she now looked into her purse to see if she could spare pennies for a quart of flour. if she could, then some excellent cakes would be the result. and now everything that she knew how to do towards the next day's needs was attended to, and she went out in the moonlight, and sat down on the lowest step of the back stoop, and did what she had been longing to do all the afternoon--cried as though her poor young heart was breaking. astride a saw-horse in the yard which belonged to job smith, and which was separated from the stoop where she sat only by a low fence, was a curly-headed boy, who had come there apparently to whittle and whistle and watch her. he was not there when she sat down and buried her head in her apron. she did not notice his whistling, though he made it loud and shrill on purpose to attract her attention, he knew quite a little about her by this time. he had come upon the boys of the grammar school in the midst of their afternoon recess and heard harry stuart interrupt little ted barrows who was the youngest one in the class and wrote the best compositions. they were gathered under a tree listening to ted, while he read them "the story of an hour," which was especially interesting because it had some of their own experiences skilfully woven in. "hold on," harry was saying, just as the whistling boy appeared within hearing. "you didn't make that thing up; you got it from the deckers; that is what is just going to happen there. old joe's nan is coming home this very day, and she is about as old as the girl you've got in your story, and is freckled, i dare say; most girls are." "i didn't even know old joe decker had a girl to come home!" said little ted, looking injured. "i made every word of it out of my own mind." but the boys did not hear him; their interest had been called in another direction. "is that so? is nan decker coming home? my! what a house to come to. mother said only yesterday that she hoped the folks who had her would keep her forever. what is she coming for? who told you?" "why, she is coming because joe thinks that will be another way to plague the old lady. at least that is what my mother thinks. mrs. decker told her once that when joe had been drinking more than usual he always threatened to send for nan; but she didn't think he would. and now it seems he has. i heard it from the old fellow himself. he was telling norm about it, while i stood waiting for father's saw. he said she was coming in the stage this afternoon; that she had worked for other folks long enough and it was time he had some good of her himself. i pity her, i tell you." then the whistler had come out from behind the trees, and said good-afternoon, and asked a few questions. the boys had answered him civilly enough, but in a way which showed that they did not count him as one of them. the fact was, he was a good deal of a stranger. he had been in town only a few weeks, and he did not go to school, and he boarded with or lived with, the smiths, who lived next door to the deckers, and were nice enough people, but did not have much to do with the fathers and mothers of these boys, and--well, the fact was, the boys did not know whether to take this new comer in, and make him welcome, or not. they sort of liked him; he was good-natured, and accommodating so far as they knew, but they knew very little about him. he asked a good many questions about the expected nan decker. he had never heard of her before. since he was to live next door to her, it might be pleasant to know what sort of a person she was. but the boys could tell him very little. seven years, at their time of life, blots out a good many memories. they only knew that she was nan decker who went away when her mother died, and who had lived with the marshalls ever since; and all agreed in being sorry for her that she was obliged at last to come home. the whistling boy walked away, after having cross-questioned first one, and then another, and learned that they knew nothing. he was on his way to the woods for one of his long summer rambles. he felt a trifle lonely, and wished that the boys had asked him to sit down under the trees and have a good time with them. [illustration: jerry on one of his summer rambles.] he would have liked to hear ted's composition, he said to himself; the boy had a sweet face, and a head that looked as though he might be going to make a smart man, one of these days. what was the matter with those fellows, he wondered, that they were not more cordial? he thought about it quite awhile, then plunged into the mosses and ferns and gathered some lovely specimens, which he arranged in the box he carried slung over his shoulder, and forgot all about the boys, and poor little nan decker. on the way home, in the glow of the setting sun, he thought of her again, and wondered if she had come, and if she would be a sorrowful and homesick little girl. it seemed queer to think of being homesick when one came home! but then, it was only a home in name; he had not lived next door to it for five weeks without discovering that, and the little girl's mother was dead! poor nan decker! a shadow came over his bright face for a moment as he thought of this. his mother was dead. he resolved to speak a kind word to the little girl the very first time that he had a chance. and here in the moonlight was his chance. he stopped whistling at last and spoke: "if it is anything about which i can help, i shall be very glad to do it." a kind, cheerful voice. nettie looked up quickly and choked back her tears. she was not one to cry, if there were to be any lookers-on. "i guess you are homesick," said the boy from, his horse's back; "and that isn't any wonder. i'm homesick myself, nearly every night, especially if it is moonlight. i don't know what there is about the moon that chokes a fellow up so, but i've noticed it often; but then i feel all right in the morning." "are you away from your home?" "i should say i was! or rather home has gone away from me. i haven't any home in particular, only my father, and he is away out in california. i couldn't go there with him, and since my school closed i am waiting here for him to come back. it is home, you know, wherever he is. he doesn't expect to be back yet for months. so you and i ought to be pretty good friends, we are such near neighbors. i live right next door to you. we ought to be introduced. you are nannie decker, i suppose, and i am jerry mack at your service. i don't wonder you are homesick; folks always are, the first night." "my name is nanette," said nettie, gently, "but people who like me most always say nettie: and it isn't being homesick that makes me feel so badly--though i am homesick; but it is being scared, and astonished, and, oh! everything. nothing is as i thought it would be; and there are things about it that i did not understand at all, or maybe i wouldn't have come; and now i am here, i don't know what to do." she was very near crying again, in spite of a watcher. "i know," he said, nodding his head, and speaking in a grave, sympathetic voice. "job smith--that is the man i am staying with--has told me how it used to be with your father. he says he was a very nice father indeed. i am as sorry for you as i can be. but after all, i wouldn't give up if i were you; and i should be real glad that i had come home to help him. he needs a great deal of help. folks reform, you know. why, people who are a great deal worse than your father has ever been yet, have turned right around and become splendid men. if i were you i would go right to work to have him reform. then there's norm--he needs help, too; and he ought to have it before he gets any older, because it would be so much easier for him to get started right now." "i don't know the least thing to do," said nettie; but she dried her eyes on her neat little handkerchief as she spoke, and sat up straight, and looked with earnest eyes at the boy on the other side the fence. this sort of talk interested and helped her. "no; of course you don't. you haven't studied these things up, i suppose. but there is a great deal to do. my father is a temperance man, and i have heard him talk. i know a hundred things i would like to do, and a few that i can do. i'll tell you what it is, nettie, say we start a society, you and i, and fight this whole thing? "we can begin w