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If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Ruth Erskine's Cross - -Author: Isabella Alden - Pansy - -Release Date: January 31, 2017 [EBook #54078] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RUTH ERSKINE'S CROSS *** - - - - -Produced by Emmy, MFR, Google Print and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - -[Illustration: “He has made everything beautiful in his time.” p. 112.] - - - - -RUTH ERSKINE’S CROSSES - - BY - PANSY - Author of “Ester Ried,” “Julia Ried,” “Four Girls at Chautauqua,” - “Chautauqua Girls at Home,” etc. - -[Illustration] - - BOSTON - LOTHROP PUBLISHING COMPANY - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1879, - BY - D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY. - - _All rights reserved._ - - - PANSY - TRADE-MARK REGISTERED JUNE 4, 1895. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE. - CHAPTER I. - HER CROSS SEEMS HEAVY 7 - - CHAPTER II. - SIDE ISSUES 24 - - CHAPTER III. - A CROSS OF LEAD 40 - - CHAPTER IV. - BITTER HERBS 56 - - CHAPTER V. - SEEKING HELP 72 - - CHAPTER VI. - FROM DIFFERENT STANDPOINTS 88 - - CHAPTER VII. - ONE DROP OF OIL 104 - - CHAPTER VIII. - FINDING ONE’S CALLING 121 - - CHAPTER IX. - A SOCIETY CROSS 136 - - CHAPTER X. - OTHER PEOPLE’S CROSSES 151 - - CHAPTER XI. - A NEWLY-SHAPED CROSS 167 - - CHAPTER XII. - THE CROSS OF HELPLESSNESS 182 - - CHAPTER XIII. - LOOKING FOR AN EASY YOKE 197 - - CHAPTER XIV. - “THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY” 212 - - CHAPTER XV. - RESTS 227 - - CHAPTER XVI. - SHADOWED JOYS 243 - - CHAPTER XVII. - DUTY’S BURDEN 258 - - CHAPTER XVIII. - EMBARRASSMENT AND MERRIMENT 274 - - CHAPTER XIX. - MY DAUGHTERS 290 - CHAPTER XX. - A SISTER NEEDED 306 - - CHAPTER XXI. - TRYING QUESTIONS 321 - - CHAPTER XXII. - “THAT WHICH SATISFIETH NOT” 337 - - CHAPTER XXIII. - WHEREFORE? 350 - - CHAPTER XXIV. - “HEARKEN UNTO ME” 364 - - CHAPTER XXV. - “BITTER-SWEET” 379 - - CHAPTER XXVI. - “THESE BE THY GODS” 393 - - CHAPTER XXVII. - THE BAPTISM OF SUFFERING 408 - - CHAPTER XXVIII. - “THE OIL OF JOY” 420 - - - - -RUTH ERSKINE’S CROSSES. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -HER CROSS SEEMS HEAVY. - - -SHE stood in the hall, waiting. She heard the thud of trunks and -valises on the pavement outside. She heard her father’s voice giving -orders to driver and porter. She wondered why she did not step forward -and open the door. How would other girls greet their mothers? She -tried to think. Some of them she had seen—school-girls, with whom she -had gone home, in her earlier life, who were wont to rush into their -mother’s arms, and, with broken exclamations of delight, smother her -with kisses How strange it would be if she should do any such thing as -that! She did not know how to welcome a mother! How should she? She had -never learned. - -Then there was that other one, almost harder to meet than a mother; -because her father, after all, had the most responsibility about -the mother; it was really his place to look after her needs and her -comfort. But this sister would naturally look to her for exclusive -attention. A sister! She, Ruth Erskine, with a grown-up sister, only a -few years younger than herself! And yet one whom she had not only never -seen, but, until the other day, of whose existence she had never heard! -How perfectly unnatural it all was! - -Oh, if father had only, _only_ done differently! This cry she had -groaned out from the depths of her soul a hundred times, during the -two weeks of the father’s absence. After she had turned away from -the useless wail, “Oh, that all this had never been!” and resolutely -resolved not to be weak and worthless, and desert her father in -his need, and give herself up to vain regrets, she found that the -regretting only took another form. Since it was, and must be, and -could not honorably be gotten away from, why had he not faced the -necessity long ago, when she was a child? Why had they not grown up -together, feeling and understanding that they were sisters, and owed -to each other a sister’s forbearance?—she could not bring herself to -say _love_. If her father had only settled it years and years ago, -and brought the woman home, and made her position assured; and if the -people had long and long ago settled down to understanding it all, what -a blessed thing it would have been! Over and over, in various forms, -had this argument been held with Ruth and her rebellious heart, and it -had not helped her. It served to make her heart throb wildly, as she -stood there waiting. It served to make the few minutes that she waited -seem to her like avenging hours. It served to make her feel that her -lot was fearfully, exceptionally, hopelessly hard. - -There had been daughters before, who were called on to meet new -mothers. Yes, but this was an old, old mother—so old that, in the -nature of things, she ought, years ago, to have been reconciled to -the event, and to have accepted it as a matter of course. But what -daughter, before this, had been called upon suddenly to greet, and to -receive in social equality an own sister? The more she thought of it, -the more unnerved she felt. - -And so the door was opened at last by Judge Erskine himself. His -daughter had decreed that no servant should be in attendance. She -wanted as few lookers-on as possible. - -“Well, daughter,” he said; and, even in that swift moment, she wondered -if he ever spoke that quiet-toned, “well, daughter,” to that other -one. Then she did come forward and hold out her hand, and receive her -father’s lingering kiss. Something in that, and in the look of his -eyes, as he put her back from him, and gazed for an instant into hers, -steadied her pulses, and made her turn with a welcome to the strangers. -There was an almost pleading look in those eyes of his. - -“How do you do?” she said, simply, and not coldly; and she held out her -hand to the small, faded-looking woman, who shrank back, and seemed -bewildered, if not frightened. “Do you feel very tired with the long -journey?” - -“Susan,” said her father, to the third figure, who was still over by -the door, engaged in counting the shawl-straps and satchels. “This is -my daughter Ruth.” - -There was an air of ownership about this sentence, which was infinitely -helpful to Ruth. What if he had said, “This is your sister Ruth?” She -gave her hand. A cold hand it was, and she felt it tremble; but, even -in that supreme moment, she noticed that Susan’s hair was what, in -outspoken language, would be called red; and that she was taller than -accorded with grace, and her wrap, falling back from its confinings, -showed her dress to be short-waisted, and otherwise ill-fitting. Long -afterward Ruth smiled, as she thought of taking in such details at such -a moment. - -It transpired that there was still another stranger awaiting -introduction—a gentleman, tall and grave, and with keen gray eyes, that -seemed looking through this family group, and drawing conclusions. - -“My daughter, Judge Burnham.” This was Judge Erskine’s manner of -introduction. For the time, at least, he ignored the fact that he had -any other daughter. Very little attention did the daughter bestow -on Judge Burnham; eyes and wits were on the alert elsewhere. Here -were these new people to be gotten to their rooms, and then gotten -down again; and there was that awful supper-table to endure! She gave -herself to the business of planning an exit. - -“Father, you want to go directly to your rooms, I suppose? I have rung -for Thomas, to attend to Judge Burnham, and I will do the honors of the -house for Susan.” - -Very carefully trained were face and tone. Beyond a certain curious -poise of head, which those who knew her understood betokened a strong -pressure of self-control, there was nothing unusual. Really, the worst -for her was to come. If she could but have made herself feel that -to send a servant with this new sister would be the proper thing to -do, it would have been so much easier. But for the watchful eyes and -commenting tongue of that same servant she would have done it. But she -sternly resolved that everything which, to the servant’s eyes, would -look like formality, or like hospitality extended simply to guests, -should be dispensed with. It would do to ring for Thomas, to attend -Judge Burnham; but a daughter of the house must have no other escort -than herself. On the way up-stairs she wondered what she should say -when the room door closed on them both. Here, in the hall, it was only -necessary to ask which satchel should go up immediately, and which -trunk went to which room. But, when all the business was settled, what -then? - -She began the minute the attending servant deposited the satchels, and -departed: - -“Do you need to make any change in dress before tea, and can I assist -you in any way?” - -For answer, the young girl thus addressed turned toward her earnest -gray eyes—eyes that were full of some strong feeling that she was -holding back—and said, with eager, heartful tones: - -“I am just as sorry for you as I can be. If there is any way in which I -can help to make the cross less heavy, I wish you would tell me what it -is.” - -Now, this was the last sentence that Ruth Erskine had expected to hear. -She had studied over possible conversations, and schooled herself to -almost every form, but not this. - -“What do you mean?” she asked, returning the earnest gaze with one -full of bewilderment. - -“Why, I mean that I have some dim conception of how hard, how _awfully_ -hard all this is! Two strangers to come into your home and claim, not -the attention accorded to guests, but the position belonging to home! -It is dreadful! I have felt so sorry for you, and for myself, all day, -that I could not keep the tears from my eyes. I want to make myself as -endurable as possible. If you will only show me how I will try very -hard.” - -What was Ruth Erskine to reply to this? It _was_ hard; she felt too -truthful to disclaim it. Just now it seemed to her almost impossible to -endure it. She tried to turn it off lightly. - -“Oh, we shall live through it,” she said, and the attempt to make her -voice unconstrained startled even herself. Susan abated not one whit -the earnestness in her voice. - -“I know we shall,” she said. “Because it must be done—because it is -right—and because we each have an Almighty Helper. I asked your father, -and mine, as soon as ever I saw him, whether you were a Christian. It -seemed to me it would be an impossible ordeal if you were not. He _is_ -my father, Ruth. I know it is hard for you to hear me use that name, -which you have supposed for so many years belonged exclusively to you. -If it had been right, I could almost have made myself promise never to -use it. But it wouldn’t be the right way to manage, I am sure. Ruth, -you and I shall both breathe freer, and understand each other better, -if we admit from the first, that father has done wrong in this thing. -Now I know that is dreadful to say. But remember, he is my father. I -am not to blame because he loved your mother better than he ever could -mine. I am not to blame for a bit of the tragedy any more than you are. -And I have been a sufferer, just as you are. All my life I have been -without a father’s love and care. All my life I have had to imagine -what the name ‘father’ must mean. I am not blaming him; I am simply -looking at facts. We shall do better to face this thing. I really had -something to forgive. He admitted it. I have forgiven him utterly, and -my heart just bleeds for him and for you. But then we shall, as you -say, get through all the embarrassments, and come off conquerors in -the end.” - -Utter silence on Ruth’s part. How shall I confess to you that this -conversation disappointed and angered her? She was nerved to bear -heavy crosses. If this new sister had been arrogant, or cringing, or -insufferably rude and exacting, I think Ruth would have borne it well. -But this simple, quiet facing of difficulties like a general—this -grave announcement that she, too, had been a sufferer—even the steady -tone in which she pronounced that word “father,” gave Ruth a shiver -of horror. The worst of it was—yes, the very _worst_ of it was—this -girl had spoken truth. She _was_ a sufferer, and through no fault of -her own, through Judge Erskine’s pride and self-will. Here was the -sting—it was her father’s fault—this father who had been one of her -strongest sources of pride during all her proud days of life. “It is -true enough,” she told herself, bitterly. “But she need not have spoken -it—I don’t want to hear it.” And then she turned away and went out of -the room—went down-stairs, and paused in the hall again, resting her -arm on that chair and trying to still the tumult in her angry heart. - -As for the sister, looking after her with sad eyes, she turned the key -on her at last, and then went over to the great, beautiful bed—more -beautiful than any on which she had ever slept—and bowed before it -on her knees. What if Ruth Erskine had had to contend with a sister -who never got down on her knees! Yet she positively did not think of -that. It seemed to her that nothing could make the cross more bitter -than it was. She opened the door at last, quietly enough, and went -forward to where her father was standing, waiting for her, or for some -one—_something_ to come to him and help him in his bewilderment. He -looked ten years older than when she saw him two weeks ago, and there -was that appealing glance in his eyes that touched his daughter. A -moment before she had felt bitter toward him. It was gone now. - -“I brought Judge Burnham home with me,” he said, speaking quickly, as -if to forestall any words from her. “He is an old friend. He was a pet -of your mother’s, Ruth, in his boyhood, and he knew all about her, and -about——this. I thought it would be better than to be quite alone at -first.” - -“Yes,” Ruth said, in a tone that might be assenting, or it might simply -be answering. In her heart she did not believe that it would be better -for them to have Judge Burnham in their family circle, and she wished -him away. Was not the ordeal hard enough without having an outsider to -look on and comment? - -“When will you be ready for supper?” she asked, and, though she tried -to make her voice sound naturally, she knew it was cold and hard. - -“Why, as soon as Judge Burnham and——they come down,” he said, -hesitatingly. What were they all going to call each other? Should he -say “your mother,” or should he say “Mrs. Erskine?” He could not tell -which of the two seemed most objectionable to him, so he concluded to -make that foolish compromise and say “they.” - -“Where did you leave Susan?” he questioned. - -“In her room.” - -Ruth’s tone was colder than before. Judge Erskine essayed to help her. - -“She is the only alleviating drop in this bitter cup,” he said, looking -anxiously at Ruth for an assuring word. “It has been a comfort to me to -think that she seemed kind and thoughtful, and in every way disposed to -do right. She will be a comfort to you, I hope, daughter.” - -Poor Ruth! If her father had said, “She is perfectly unendurable to -me; you must contrive in some way that I shall not have to see her or -hear her name,” it would have been an absolute relief to his daughter’s -hard-strained, quivering nerves. It was almost like an insult to have -him talk about her being a help and a comfort! She turned from him -abruptly, and felt the relief which the opening door and the entrance -of Judge Burnham gave. - -The supper-bell pealed its summons through the house, and Judge Erskine -went in search of his wife; but Ruth called Irish Kate to “tell Miss -Erskine that tea was ready,” flushing to the roots of her hair over -the name “Miss Erskine,” and feeling vexed and mortified when she -found that Judge Burnham’s grave eyes were on her. Mrs. Erskine was -a dumpy little woman, who wore a breakfast-shawl of bright blue and -dingy brown shades, over a green dress, the green being of the shade -that fought, not only with the wearer’s complexion, but with the blue -of the breakfast-shawl. The whole effect was simply dreadful! Ruth, -looking at it, and at her, taking her in mentally from head to foot, -shuddered visibly. What a contrast to the grandeur of the man beside -her! And yet, what a pitiful thing human nature was, that it could be -so affected by adverse shades of blue and green, meeting on a sallow -skin! Before the tea was concluded, it transpired that there were worse -things than ill-fitting blues and greens. Mrs. Judge Erskine murdered -the most common phrases of the king’s English! She said, “Susan and -me was dreadful tired!” And she said, “There was enough for him and -I!” She even said his’n and your’n, those most detestable of all -provincialisms! - -And Ruth Erskine sat opposite her, and realized that this woman must be -introduced into society as Mrs. Judge Erskine, her father’s wife! There -had been an awkward pause about the getting seated at the table. Ruth -had held back in doubt and confusion, and Mrs. Erskine had not seemed -to know what her proper place should be; and Judge Erskine had said, in -pleading tone: “Daughter, take your old place, this evening.” And then -Ruth had gone forward, with burning cheeks, and taken the seat opposite -her father, as usual, leaving Mrs. Erskine to sit at his right, where -she had arranged her own sitting. And this circumstance, added to all -the others, had held her thoughts captive, so that she heard not a word -of her father’s low, reverent blessing. Perhaps, if she had heard, it -might have helped her through the horrors of that evening. There was -one thing that helped her. It was the pallor of her father’s face. She -almost forgot herself and her own embarrassment in trying to realize -the misery of his position. Her voice took a gentle, filial tone when -she addressed him, that, if she had but known it, was like drops of oil -poured on the inflamed wounds which bled in his heart. - -Altogether, that evening stood out in Ruth Erskine’s memory, years -afterward, as the most trying one of her life. There came days that -were more serious in their results—days that left deeper scars—days of -solemn sorrow, and bold, outspoken trouble. But for troubles, so petty -that they irritated by their very smallness, while still they stung, -this evening held foremost rank. - -“I wonder,” she said, in inward irritation, as she watched Mrs. -Erskine’s awkward transit across the room, on her father’s arm, and -observed that her dress was too short for grace, and too low in the -neck, and hung in swinging plaits in front—“I wonder if there are -no dressmakers where they came from?” And then her lip curled in -indignation with herself to think that such petty details should -intrude upon her now. Another thing utterly dismayed her. She had -thought so much about this evening, she had prayed so earnestly, she -had almost expected to sail high above it, serene and safe, and do -honor to the religion which she professed by the quietness of her -surrender of home and happiness; for it truly seemed to her that she -was surrendering both. But it was apparent to herself that she had -failed, that she had dishonored her profession. And when this dreadful -evening was finally over, she shut the door on the outer world with a -groan, as she said, aloud and bitterly: - -“Oh, I don’t know anything to prevent our home from being a place of -perfect torment! Poor father! and poor me!” - -If she could have heard Judge Burnham’s comment, made aloud also, in -the privacy of his room, it might still have helped her. - -“That girl has it in her power to make riot and ruin of this -ill-assorted household, or to bring peace out of it all. I wonder which -she will do?” - -And yet, both Judge Burnham and Ruth Erskine were mistaken. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -SIDE ISSUES. - - -HOW did they ever get into such a dreadful snarl as this, anyway? - -It was Eurie Mitchel who asked this question. She had seated her -guests—Flossy Shipley and Marion Wilbur—in the two chairs her small -sleeping-room contained, and then curled herself, boarding-school -fashion, on the foot of her bed. To be sure it is against the rule, -at this present time, for girls in boarding-schools to make sofas of -their beds. So I have no doubt it was, when Eurie was a school-girl; -nevertheless, she did it. - -“Where should I sit?” she asked her mother, one day, when that good -lady remonstrated. “On the floor?” - -And her mother, looking around the room, and noting the scarcity of -chairs, and remembering that there were none to spare from any other -portion of the scantily-furnished house, said, “Sure enough!” and -laughed off the manifest poverty revealed in the answer, instead of -sighing over it. And Eurie went on, making a comfortable seat of her -bed, whenever occasion required. - -On this particular evening they had been discussing affairs at the -Erskine mansion, and Eurie had broken in with her exclamation, and -waited for Marion to answer. - -“Why,” said Marion, “I know very little about it. There are all sorts -of stories in town, just as is always the case; but you needn’t believe -any of them; there is not enough truth sprinkled in to save them. Ruth -says her father married at a time when he was weak, both in body and -mind—just getting up from a long and very serious illness, during which -this woman had nursed him with patience and skill, and, the doctors -said, saved his life. He discovered, in some way—I don’t know whether -she told him so or not, but somehow he made the discovery—that she lost -possession of her heart during the process, and that he had gotten it, -without any such intention on his part, and, in a fit of gratitude, he -married her in haste, and repented at leisure.” - -“How perfectly absurd!” said Eurie, in indignation. “The idea that he -had no way of showing his gratitude but by standing up with her, and -assenting to half a dozen solemn statements, none of which were true, -and making promises that he couldn’t keep! I have no patience with that -sort of thing.” - -“Well, but,” said Flossy, coming in with gentle tone and alleviating -words, just as she always did come into the talk of these two. -“The woman was a poor, friendless girl then, living a dreadful -boarding-house life, entirely dependent on her needle for her daily -bread. Think how sorry he must have been for her!” - -Eurie’s lip curled. - -“He might have been as sorry for me as he pleased, and I dare say I -shouldn’t have cared if he had expressed his sorrow in dollars and -cents; but to go and marry me, promise to love and cherish, and all -that sort of thing, and not to mean a word of it, was simply awful.” - -“Have you been studying the marriage service lately?” Marion asked, -with a light laugh and a vivid blush. “You seem strangely familiar with -it.” - -“Why, I have heard it several times in my life,” Eurie answered, -quickly, her cheeks answering the other’s blushes. “And I must say it -seems to me a ceremony not to be trifled with.” - -“Oh, I think so too!” Flossy said, in great seriousness and sweet -earnestness. “But what I mean is, Judge Erskine, of course, did not -realize what he was promising. It was only a little after Ruth’s mother -died, you know, and he—well, I think he could not have known what he -was about.” - -“I should think not!” said Eurie. “And then to deliberately desert -her afterward! living a lie all these years! I must say I think Judge -Erskine has behaved as badly as a man could.” - -“No,” said Marion; “he has repented. He might have gone on with his -lie to the end of life, and she would have made no sign, it seems. -The _woman_ can keep a promise, whether he can or not. But think what -it must have cost him to have told all this to Ruth! Why, I would -rather tell my faults to the President than to Ruth Erskine! Oh, I -think he has shown that there is nobility in his nature, and sincerity -in his recent profession. It would have been so easy to have consoled -his conscience with the plea that it was too late to make amends. -Still, I confess I think as you do, Eurie. Marriage is a very solemn -covenant—not to be entered into lightly, I should think; and, when its -vows are taken, they are to be lived by. I don’t feel very gracious -toward Judge Erskine.” - -“Still, if the Lord Jesus and his own daughter can forgive him, I think -we ought to be able to do so.” - -It was Flossy’s voice again—low and quiet, but with that curious -suggestion of power behind it that Flossy’s voice had taken of late. It -served to quiet the two girls for a minute, then Marion said: - -“Flossy Shipley, I’m not sure but you have our share of _brains_, as -well as heart. To be sure, in one sense it is none of our business. I -don’t believe he cares much whether we ever forgive him or not. But I -believe I shall, and feel sorry for him, too. What a precious muddle he -has made of life! How are they ever going to endure that woman?” - -“Is she so very dreadful?” - -This was Eurie’s insinuating question. - -“Father and Nellis called, but I could not bring myself to go with -them. I was sure I shouldn’t know what to say to Ruth. I tried to have -them describe her, but father said she must be seen to be appreciated, -and Nell would do nothing but shrug his shoulders and whistle.” - -“She is simply terrible!” Marion said, with emphasis. “I didn’t stay -fifteen minutes, and I heard more bad grammar and bad taste in the use -of language than I hear in school in a week. And her style of dressing -is—well,” said Marion, pausing to consider a strong way of putting -it—“is enough, I should think, to drive Ruth Erskine wild. You know I -am not remarkable for nervousness in that direction, and not supposed -to be posted as to styles; but really, it would try my sense of the -fitness of things considerably to have to tolerate such combinations -as she gets up. Then she is fussy and garrulous and ignorant, and, in -every way, disagreeable. I really don’t know how I am ever to—” - -And at that point Marion Wilbur suddenly stopped. - -“What about the daughter?” Eurie asked. - -“Well,” said Marion, “I hardly know; she impresses you strangely. She -is homely; that is, at first sight you would consider her very homely -indeed; red hair—though why that shouldn’t be as much the orthodox -color as brown, is a matter of fashion I presume—but she is large -featured, and angular, and has the air and bearing that would be called -exceedingly plain; for all that, there is something very interesting -about her; I studied her for half an hour, and couldn’t decide what it -was. It isn’t her smile, for she was extremely grave, hardly smiled at -all. And I’m not sure that it is her conversation—I dare say that might -be called commonplace—but I came away having a feeling of respect for -her, a sort of liking that I couldn’t define, and couldn’t get away -from.” - -“Nellis liked her,” said Eurie. “He was quite decided in his opinion; -said she was worth a dozen frippery girls with banged hair, and trains, -and all that sort of thing, but he couldn’t give a definite reason, any -more than you can, why he ‘approved of’ her, as he called it.” - -“I don’t know what her tastes can be,” continued Marion. “She doesn’t -play at all, she told me, and she doesn’t sing, nor daub in paints; -that is one comfort for Ruth; she won’t have to endure the piano, nor -help hang mussy-looking pictures in ‘true lights’—whatever lights they -may be. But I should imagine she read some things that were worth -reading. She didn’t parade her knowledge, however, if she has any. In -short, she is a mystery, rather; I should like you to see her.” - -“Perhaps she is fond of fancy-work,” suggested Flossy, somewhat -timidly; whereupon Marion laughed. - -“I don’t fancy you are to find a kindred spirit in that direction, my -dear little Kittie!” she said, lightly. “No one to glance at Susan -Erskine would think of fancy-work, for the whole evening. There is -nothing in her face or manner, or about her attire, that would suggest -the possibility of her knowing anything about fancy matters of any -sort. I tell you her face is a strange one. I found myself quoting to -my ‘inner consciousness’ the sentence: ‘Life is real, life is earnest,’ -every time I looked at the lines about her mouth. Whatever else she -can or can not do, I am morally certain that she can’t crochet. Girls, -think of that name—Susan Erskine! Doesn’t it sound strangely? How do -you suppose it sounds to Ruth? I tell you this whole thing is dreadful! -I can’t feel reconciled to it. Do you suppose she will have to call -that woman mother?” - -“What does she call her now?” - -“Well, principally she doesn’t call her at all. She says ‘you’ at -rare intervals when she has to speak to her, and she said ‘she,’ -when she spoke of her to me; not speaking disagreeably you know, but -hesitatingly, as if she did not know what to say, or what would be -expected of her. Oh, Ruth does well; infinitely better than I should, -in her circumstances, I feel sure. I said as much to that disagreeable -Judge Burnham who keeps staying there, for no earthly reason, that -I can see, except to complicate Ruth’s trials. ‘How does your friend -bear up under it?’ he asked me, with an insinuating air, as though -he expected me to reveal volumes. ‘She bears it royally, just as she -always does everything,’ I said, and I was dreadfully tempted to add: -‘Don’t you see how patiently she endures your presence here?’ Just as -though I would tell him anything about it, if she tore around like a -lunatic!” - -“Oh, well, now,” said Eurie, oracularly, “there are worse crosses in -life, I dare say, than Ruth’s having to call that woman mother.” - -“Of course there are; nobody doubts it; the difficulty is that -particular type of cross has just now come to her, and while she -doesn’t have to bear those others which are worse, she _does_ have to -bear that; and it is a cross, and she needs grace to help her—just -exactly as much grace as though there wasn’t anyone on earth called on -to bear a harder trial. I never could understand why my burnt finger -should pain me any the less because somebody else had burned her entire -arm.” - -At this point Flossy interrupted the conversation with one of those -innocent, earnest questions which she was always in these days asking, -to the no small confusion of some classes of people. - -“Are these two women Christians?” - -“That I don’t know,” Marion answered, after staring at the questioner -a moment in a half dazed way. “I wondered it, too, I remember. Flossy -Shipley, I thought of you while I sat there, and I said to myself, ‘She -would be certain to make the discovery in less time than I have spent -talking with them.’ But I don’t know how you do those things. What way -was there for me to tell? I couldn’t sit down beside them and say, ‘Are -you a Christian?’ could I? How is it to be done?” - -Flossy looked bewildered. - -“Why,” she said, hesitatingly, “I don’t know. I never thought there was -anything strange about it. Why shouldn’t those things be talked of as -well as any others? You discovered whether the young lady was fond of -music and painting. I can’t see why it wouldn’t have been just as easy -to have found out about her interests in more important matters.” - -“But how would you have done it? Just suppose yourself to have been in -Judge Erskine’s parlor, surrounded by all those people who were there -last evening, how would you have introduced the subject which is of the -most importance?” - -“Why,” said Flossy, looking puzzled, “how do I know? How can I tell -unless I had been there and talked it over? You might as well ask me -how I should have introduced the question whether—well, for instance, -whether they knew Mr. Roberts, supposing they had come from the same -city, and I had reason to think it possible—perhaps probable—that -they were his friends. It seems to me I should have referred to it -very naturally, and that I should have been apt to do it early in our -conversation. Now, you know it is quite possible—if not probable—that -they are intimate friends of the Lord Jesus. Why couldn’t I have asked -them about him?” - -Marion and Eurie looked at each other in a sort of puzzled amusement, -then Marion said: - -“Still I am not sure that you have answered my question about how to -begin on such a subject. You know you could have said, ‘Did you meet -Mr. Roberts in Boston?’ supposing them to have been in Boston. But you -could hardly say, ‘Did you meet the Lord Jesus there?’ I am not sure -but that sounds irreverent to you. I don’t mean it to be; I really want -to understand how those subjects present themselves to your mind.” - -“I don’t believe I can tell you,” Flossy said, simply. “They have no -special way of presenting themselves. It is all so new to me that I -suppose I haven’t gotten used to it yet. I am always thinking about it, -and wondering whether any new people can tell me anything new. Now I am -interested in what you told me about that Susan, and I feel as though I -should like to ask her whether there were any very earnest Christians -where she used to live and whether they had any new ways of reading the -Bible, and whether the young ladies had a prayer-meeting, and all those -things, you know.” - -Again Marion and Eurie exchanged glances. This didn’t sound abrupt, -or out of place, or in any sense offensive to ideas of propriety. Yet -who talked in that way among their acquaintances? And _how had_ Flossy -gotten ahead of them in all these things? It was a standing subject of -wonderment among those girls how Flossy had outstripped them. - -They were silent for a few minutes. Then Eurie suddenly changed the -current of thought: “How strange that these changes should have come -to Ruth and we know nothing about it until a mother and sister were -actually domiciled! We are all so intimate, too. It seems that there -are matters about which we have not learned to talk together.” - -“Ruth was always more reserved than the rest of us,” Flossy said. “I -am not so surprised at not knowing about _her_ affairs; we are more -communicative, I think. At least I have told you all about the changes -that are to come to me, and I think you would tell me if you had -anything startling, wouldn’t you?” - -Marion rose up and went over to Flossy, and, bending, kissed her fair -cheek. - -“You little pink blossom,” she said, with feeling, “I’ll tell you all -the nice things I can think of, one of these days. In the meantime I -must go home; and remember, Eurie, you are not to do anything dreadful -of any sort without telling Flossy and me beforehand.” - -“I won’t,” said Eurie, with a conscious laugh, and the trio separated. - -Two hours later Marion Wilbur was the recipient of the following note: - - “DEAR MARION:— - - “I promised to tell you—though I don’t intimate that - this comes under your prescribed limit of things - ‘awful.’ Still, I want to tell you. I am almost sorry - that I have not been like little Flossy, and talked it - all over freely with you. Someway I couldn’t seem to. - The truth is, I am to be married, in six week’s time, - to Mr. Harrison. Think of my being a minister’s wife! - But he is going away from here and perhaps I can learn. - There! the ice is broken; now I can tell you about it. - Come as soon as you can, and, as Flossy says, ‘Have a - quiet little confidence.’ Lovingly, - - “EURIE.” - -It was about this very hour that Eurie opened and looked at, in a maze -of astonishment and bewilderment, a dainty envelope, of special size -and design, from which there fell Marion Wilbur’s wedding-cards! - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -A CROSS OF LEAD. - - -I DO not know that I need even try to tell you about the succession -of petty trials and embarrassments that haunted Ruth Erskine’s way -during the next few days. They belonged to that class of trials hard to -endure—so hard, indeed, that at times the spirit shrinks away in mortal -terror, and feels that it can bear no more; and yet in the telling to -a listener they dwindle in importance. As for Ruth, she did not _tell_ -them—she lived them. - -Everything was so new; nothing in or about the house could go on -according to the old fashion; and yet there was no new fashion shaped. -She saw many a thing which she must not do, and but few things that -seemed to bear doing. She must stop in the act of ordering dinner, and -remember in confusion that it was not her business to order dinners -in this house any more. And yet she must remember that the nominal -mistress seemed to know no more about ordering dinners for a family of -eight than she knew about ten thousand other things that were waiting -for her attention. Poor Ruth struggled and groaned and wondered, -and rarely cried, but grew paler, if possible, than before, and her -forehead was continually drawn, either with lines of pain or of intense -self-suppression. She congratulated herself that her father escaped -some of the misery. He went early to his office, shutting the door -on the incongruous elements in his household with a sense of relief, -and going out into the business world, where everything and everybody -were as usual, and returning late, giving as little time to the home -puzzle as possible. Yet it wore on him. Ruth could see that, and it but -increased her burden to feel that the struggle she made to help was so -manifest a _struggle_, and was, in some sense, a failure. - -He detained her one morning in the library, with that special word of -detention which as yet he had never applied to any one but her. - -“My daughter, let me see you a moment before I go out. Do you think we -ought to try to have some friends come in, in a social way?” - -At this question Ruth stood aghast. Her father’s friends had hitherto -not been hard for her to entertain—lawyers, judges, professional men -of different degrees of prominence, often without their wives, and -when the ladies were included they were of an age, as a rule, to -expect little in the way of entertainment from Ruth, except a gracious -attention to their comfort; so that, beyond very careful directions -issued to very competent servants, and a general outlook on the -perfected arrangements, little had been expected of her. But now it was -different; other than professional people would expect invitations; -and besides, the hostess was no hostess at all—would not know what to -do—and, what was infinitely more painful, what _not_ to do. - -No wonder that Ruth was appalled over this new duty looming before her. -Yet of course it was a _duty_; she flushed over the thought that her -father had been obliged to suggest it. Of course people were expecting -introductions; of course they would call—hosts of them. How much better -it would be to have a gathering of a few friends before the great world -pounced in upon them, so they might feel that at least with a few the -ordeal of introduction was over. - -“I don’t mean a large party,” her father hastened to explain. “Just -a few friends—not professional ones, you know, but some of your new -acquaintances in the church, perhaps. I thought you might like to have -a gathering somewhat like that which you told me of at our little -friend, Flossy Shipley’s.” - -If he had not been looking down at the grate, just then, instead of -into his daughter’s face, he would have seen her start, and almost -catch her breath over this suggestion. It was not that she was jealous -of little Flossy, for whom her father had shown very special and tender -regard ever since the prayer-meeting which he attended in her company, -but it came to her with a sudden sense of the change that had fallen -upon them. To think that they—the _Erskines_—should be making an -attempt to have a social gathering like unto one that Flossy Shipley -had planned! - -“We couldn’t do the things that she did,” Ruth said, quickly. -“The elements which we would have to bring together would be too -incongruous.” - -“No,” he answered, “not exactly like hers, of course, but something -simple and informal. I thought your three friends would come, and -Dr. Dennis, you know, and people of that stamp, who understand and -will help us. Wouldn’t it be well to try to do something of the kind, -daughter, or doesn’t the idea meet with your approval?” - -“Oh, yes,” she said, drawing in her breath. “Yes, father, we must do -something. I will try. But I hardly know how to commence. You know I am -not mistress of the house now; it makes it difficult for me.” - -“I know,” he said, and the expression of his face led his daughter -instantly to regret that she had made such a remark. It was the life -she lived at this time—saying words, and regretting that she had done -so. They went on, however, perfecting the arrangements for the social -gathering. There had occurred to Ruth an instant trouble in the way, -which was that ever-present one in the American woman’s life—_clothes_. - -“We can not hasten this thing,” she said. “There will need to be some -shopping done, and some dress-making—that is, I should think there -would need to be.” - -She corrected herself, and the embarrassment involved in the fact that -she was not the mistress of the new comers presented itself. Suppose -they chose to think they had clothes enough, and proposed to appear in -any of the ill-made, badly-selected materials which seemed to compose -their wardrobe! If they were only two children, that she might shut up, -in a back room up-stairs, and turn the key on outsiders until such time -as they could be made presentable, what a relief it would be! - -Evidently her father appreciated that embarrassment. - -“I tried to arrange that matter before I came home,” he said. “I -furnished money and suggested as well as I could; but it didn’t work. I -hardly know what was the trouble. They didn’t understand, or something. -Ruth, what can you do about it? Is there any way of managing?” - -Ruth tried to consider, while her cheeks flushed, and her heart beat -hard, in what way she could suggest to her father to manage his wife -and daughter. - -“_Susan_ would listen to suggestions, I think,” she said, slowly. “But -I don’t know whether”— - -And then she broke off, and recurred to another of the endless trials -of this time. If she and her father were to be compelled to hold -conversations concerning this woman, it was absolutely necessary that -they come to an understanding as to what to call her. - -“Father,” she said, plunging desperately into the depths of the -question. “What am I to call her? Does she—or, do _you_—desire that I -should say mother?” - -“No,” he said, quickly. “Surely not, unless”— - -“Well, then,” Ruth said, after waiting in vain for him to conclude. “Am -I to say ‘Mrs. Erskine?’” - -“Oh, I don’t know.” - -He spoke in visible agitation, and commenced a nerve-distracting walk -up and down the room. - -“I don’t know anything about any of this miserable business. Sometimes -I am very sorely tempted to wish that I had left everything as it was, -and gone on in my old life, and endured the results.” - -“Don’t,” said Ruth, aghast at this evidence of desperate feeling, and -roused, for a moment, from minor considerations into a higher plane. -“Don’t feel in this way, father; we will do the best we can, and it -will all come out right; at least, we will try to do what is right.” - -He came over to her then, standing before her, looking into her eyes, -and there was that half-appealing look in his which had touched her -before. - -“Ruth, if we could—if there was any way that we could—manage to _like_ -them a little, it would make the whole thing so much better, both for -them and us.” - -What an amazing thing to say! what an almost ludicrous thing, when one -reflected that he was talking about his _wife_! Yet none knew better -than did Ruth that _names_ implying love did not make love! How pitiful -this appealing sentence was! How could her father ever hope to learn -to like this woman, who was his wife? For herself, she had not even -thought of such a thing as trying. The most she had planned for was -to endure, to tolerate—certainly not to like, most certainly never to -_love_! She stood dumbly before her father, having no word of help for -him. And presently he turned from her with a sigh; and, when he spoke -again, it was in a business-like tone: - -“Well, daughter, do the best you can. Manage everything exactly as you -have been in the habit of doing. About the dress question, talk with -Susan, if you can; tell her what will be proper—what you want done. -I will see that her mother follows her directions. For the rest, we -will manage some way; we shall have to depend on the kindness of our -friends. Judge Burnham will help us in any way he can. He understands -matters.” - -This suggested to Ruth to inquire in regard to him. - -“What is Judge Burnham staying in town for? Where _is_ he staying, -anyway?” - -“Why, he lives in town. He is practicing here. Didn’t you know it? He -has been absent a long time on professional business. I hardly know -how it has happened that you have never met him until now. He has a -country-seat ten miles or so away from the city. He is there a good -deal, I presume; but he boards now at the Leighton House. He was about -changing boarding places when we came home. It was for that reason, -among others, that I invited him to stop with us for a few days. You -like him, don’t you, Ruth?” - -This last with a sudden change of tone, and almost anxiety expressed in -his manner. - -“Oh, yes,” said Ruth, half in impatience, as one to whom the subject -was too unimportant to stop over. And she was conscious of a flitting -determination that, whatever other person she might be called upon to -like, she would never trouble herself to make any effort of that sort -for _him_. - -And then she went away to plan for a party in which she was to -be the real head, while appearing before the world only as the -dutiful daughter; to plan, also, for the new mother and sister’s -toilets—whether they would, or not, trusting to her father’s authority -to make them submissive to her schemes. - -A little more talk about that matter of liking people, Ruth was -destined to hear; and it developed ideas that bewildered her. It -chanced that Flossy Shipley came in for a little chat with Ruth, -over the recent astounding news connected with their mutual friend, -Marion. It chanced, also, that the new-comers were both up stairs for -the evening, Mrs. Erskine being one of those persons who indulge in -frequent sick-headaches, during which time her daughter Susan was her -devoted slave. So Judge Erskine sat with his daughter, book in hand, -because conversation between them was now of necessity on such trying -subjects that they mutually avoided it; but he rarely turned a leaf; -and he greeted Flossy Shipley with a smile of pleasure, and asked, -almost pleadingly, if he might stay and listen to their gossip. Very -glad assent, Flossy gave, and emphasized it by talking to Ruth with as -much apparent freedom as though he were absent. - -“I like it,” she said, speaking of Marion. “I think she will make such -a perfectly splendid minister’s wife.” - -Flossy still dealt largely in superlatives, and paid very little -attention to the grammatical position of her adjectives. “I am almost -sorry that I am not going to live here, so I could have the benefit of -her; she will be just as full of helpful plans for people! And when she -gets in a position to influence them you will see how much good she can -do. Ruth, were you very much surprised?” - -“Greatly so. I imagined that she did not even admire Dr. Dennis very -much. I don’t know that she ever gave me reason to think so, except by -being silent sometimes, when I expected her to speak; but of course -that is accounted for now. Isn’t the marriage sudden?” - -“More sudden than they had planned,” Flossy said. “Dr. Dennis found it -necessary to be absent just then on a matter of business, and to go -West, just in the direction they had proposed to go together, and he -was obliged to be absent for some time, which would give him little -chance for vacation later in the season, and, in short,” said Flossy, -with a bright smile, “I think if they would own it, they were very -lonely, and very anxious to enjoy each other’s society, and thought -they were wasting time, and set about finding reasons why they should -change their plans. You know reasons can almost always be found for -things, when we are very anxious to find them!” - -“Is that so!” Judge Erskine asked, looking up from his book, and -speaking in so earnest a tone that both girls turned toward him -inquiringly. “Do you mean to say that if one were anxious to -change—well, say his opinion of a person, he could bring himself to do -it on reasonable grounds?” - -It was a curious question, and to Ruth it was a very embarrassing one. -Her cheeks flushed painfully, and her eyes drooped to the bit of fancy -work which lay idly in her lap. - -“That wasn’t quite what I was thinking about,” Flossy said, gently and -seriously, as one who realized that his question reached deeper than he -meant her to understand. “But I do truly think, sir, that if we feel -as though we _ought_ to change our opinion of a person, we can set -seriously about doing it and accomplish it.” - -“In that case, you would not believe it necessary to have any enemies -in this world, would you?” - -“Not real enemies, I think, though I wouldn’t want to be friends, of -course, with everybody. But—well, Judge Erskine, I can’t explain to -you what I mean. I don’t know how to reason, you see. All I can do is -to tell you what really occurred. There is a person whom I disliked; -he was very trying to me, and I had to be thrown in his society very -often, and I knew I ought to feel differently toward him, because, you -know, I couldn’t hope to be of the least help to him, unless I felt -differently. So I set myself earnestly to trying, and I succeeded. I -have the kindest possible feelings toward him, and I think I am gaining -a little influence.” - -During this recital Flossy’s fair, peach-blossom cheek had taken a -deeper shade, and her eyes drooped low. She was giving what Judge -Erskine felt was a bit of heart-history, and he did not know that she -realized any personal application. How should the innocent little mouse -know anything about his affairs? - -“Do you mind telling me how you set to work to accomplish this change?” -he asked, and his daughter knew that his voice was almost husky. - -“First,” said Flossy, simply and gravely, “I prayed for him; I gave all -my soul to a desire for his conversion; I prayed to be shown how to -help him—how to act toward him; then I prayed for grace to like him, -to be interested in him, and to overlook his faults, or his failings; -and then—why, I am not sure there is any ‘then’ to it. It is all told -in that word ‘prayer.’ The Lord Jesus helped me, Judge Erskine; that is -the whole of it.” - -“Do you really think we have a right to pray about the matter of our -likes and dislikes?” There was no mistaking the earnestness in Judge -Erskine’s voice this time. - -Flossy turned wondering eyes on him, as she said, “Oh, yes, indeed! -The direction is, ‘Casting all your care upon him,’ and that is a -real care, you know.” Ah! _didn’t_ Judge Erskine know? “And then He -says, ‘In _everything_ by prayer and supplication, let your requests -be made known.’ I couldn’t doubt my right. Indeed it seemed to me to -be a duty, not only to pray, but actually to supplicate, to coax, you -know, just as I was so tempted to do when a child. It seemed blessed to -me to think that the Lord Jesus took such minute notice of our human -nature that he knew it would help us to be allowed to keep a subject -constantly before him, and to keep coaxing about it. Don’t you think -that is wonderful, Judge Erskine?” - -“Wonderful!” repeated Judge Erskine, in a moved tone, and he arose and -began that pacing up and down the room, which always with him indicated -deep feeling. Ruth and Flossy presently continued their talk in a lower -tone, until Judge Erskine came toward them again and said, “I will bid -you good-night, I think, and thank you, my dear young lady. Your words -are strong and helpful; don’t forget them in any future experience of -life that you may have; perhaps they will help you through deep waters, -some day.” - -Then he went to the library. As for Ruth, she sought her room with two -thoughts following her: one, that Flossy had been to her father what -_she_ had failed in being—a helper; and the other, that possibly she -might pray herself into a different state of feeling toward this woman -and this girl, who were to her now only heavy, _heavy_ crosses. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -BITTER HERBS. - - -THE morning of the night which had closed in gloom, opened to Ruth -Erskine with a faint promise of better things. Not so much that, -either; rather, she resolved on heroism. The sun shone, and the air -was fresh with the breath of coming spring. The outlook seemed more -hopeful. Ruth resolved upon trying Flossy’s way. She would pray about -this matter; she would nerve herself for duty and trial: she would -bear whatever of disagreeableness came athwart her plans. No matter -how obstinate or offensive this new woman proved herself to be on -the question of wardrobe, she would bravely face the ordeal, and do -what she could. No amount of offensiveness should cause her to lose -self-control. It was childish and useless to yield in this way, and -let inevitable trials crush one. She did not mean to do it. Her father -should see that she could be as strong over _real_ trials, as Flossy -Shipley could be over imaginary ones; for what had that little kitten -ever had to try her? This Ruth said, with a curl of her handsome upper -lip. - -She went about her morning duties with something like the briskness -of her old life, and settled herself to Bible-reading, resolved on -finding something to help her. She had not yet learned the best ways -of reading in the Bible; indeed, she had not given that subject the -attention which Flossy had. To begin a chapter, and read directly and -seriously through it, getting what information she could, was the most -that she, as yet, knew about the matter. And the chapter occurring next -to the one that she read yesterday was the fifth of Romans: “Therefore -being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus -Christ: by whom also we have access by faith into this grace wherein -we stand, and rejoice in hope of the glory of God. And not only so, -but we glory in tribulations also; knowing that tribulation worketh -patience; and patience, experience; and experience, hope.” Thus on, -through the solemn and wonderful chapter, heeding the words indeed; -getting some sort of idea of St. Paul’s meaning, and yet not making his -experience personal, in the least; not realizing that the sentence, -“We have peace with God,” included Ruth Erskine; not seeing, at least, -that it was a present promise, referring to present experience; not -realizing anything, save a desire to be armed for unpleasant and -continuous duties, and a dim idea that reading the Bible was one of the -preparations which were given her to make. In much the same spirit, she -knelt to pray. She was humble, she was reverent, she was in earnest, -she prayed for strength, for wisdom, for patience; and the words were -strictly proper, and in accordance with the desires. The prayer, to a -listener, would have breathed the spirit of confidence and faith; yet -it must be confessed that Ruth Erskine arose from her knees without any -sense of having really communed with Christ, without any realization -of his presence, and without any very definite expectation of receiving -actual, practical benefit from the exercise. She did not realize the -feeling, and yet she possessed somewhat of the same spirit of the child -who prayed: “Dear Jesus, help me to be good to-day. I know I can be -good if I try, and I intend to try; but you can help me if you want -to!” Remember, I do not say that she realized it; but that does not -alter the fact that she went out from her room, to meet the trials of -the day, strong in the strength of her own resolves. She repaired at -once to Mrs. Judge Erskine’s room, determined to be very composed and -patient, and to combat whatever disagreeable or dissenting thing might -be said with forbearance and kindness. - -Mrs. Erskine’s objection to new and fine clothing must be overcome, -but it should be done wisely. She resolved to say nothing to Susan -beforehand. She would not admit, even to herself, that her father’s -evident confidence in Susan’s powers was a trial to her; but, all the -same, she determined to show him that she, too, had powers, and that -she could manage matters without Susan’s help. - -Alas for Ruth! Mrs. Erskine was not in the least averse to -fine feathers. She was not lofty, nor angry, nor hurt; she was -good-naturedly and ungrammatically and exasperatingly loquacious. It -would have been much easier for Ruth to endure ill-temper. She was -nerved for that. Unconsciously she had planned for and prayed for -self-control, to enable her to endure, not what she would meet in Mrs. -Erskine, but what she would have had to contend with in herself, had -she been in Mrs. Erskine’s place; and as, given the same circumstances, -the two would act in a totally different manner, failure was inevitable. - -“Come in,” said Mrs. Erskine, heartily, in answer to Ruth’s low knock. -“Land alive! come right in, don’t stop to rap. What’s the use of being -so particular with one’s folks? I been a wishin’ you would run in and -have a chat. I was tellin’ your pa, only last night, how chirk and -nice we could all be here, if you would be sort of sociable, you know, -and not so stiff and proud-like. Not that you mean to be proud, I -s’pose; Susan says you don’t. She says it’s natural for some folks to -be haughty. I s’pose it is. But, land alive! I’m glad I’m not one of -them kind. Haughty folks always did shrivel me right up. Set down here -by the fire. I think these grates is real comfortable. I told your -pa, last night, that I wouldn’t have shivered over an old barn of a -wood-stove, all these years, if I’d known what comfortable things there -was in the world. How dreadful pale you look! Is it natural for you to -look so like a ghost all the time?” - -“I am not accustomed to having a great deal of color in my face, I -believe,” Ruth answered, sitting squarely and stiffly in the most -uncomfortable chair she could find in the room, and feeling, just then, -that to be an actual ghost would be a positive relief. - -“Well, now, I don’t believe it’s nature for any human being to be so -like a sheet as that. If I was your pa, I’d have you through a course -of medicine in less than no time. You need strengthenin’ up. You ought -to have some Peruvian bark, or some quassia chips, or some kind of -bitter stuff steeped up for you to drink. It would do you a power of -good, I know it would. You jest let me fix you up a mess, like I do -Susan, and see what it’ll do for you. S’prise your pa with the change -in you, I dare say.” - -Poor Ruth! She felt as though stuff that was bitter enough had been -mixed and steeped, and held to her lips, and that she was being obliged -to drink it to the very dregs. _Did_ she need it? Was it possible that -the Divine Physician saw her need of such bitter herbs as these which -had fallen to her lot? She started, and even flushed a little over the -sudden thought. _She_ did not believe it. This was her _father’s_ sin, -not hers. It had only fallen upon her because of the old, solemn law: -“The iniquities of the fathers shall be visited upon the children.” She -hurried her thoughts away from it. It would not do to sit in that room, -with that woman staring at her, and indulge in questionings like these. - -“I came in to see if I could be of any assistance to you in the way of -shopping. You will need something new, I suppose, before the gathering -of friends which my father proposes to have.” - -Ruth had decided to take it as a matter of course that new garments -were to be bought, and thus forestall, if she could, haughty -objections. She need not have been thus careful. Mrs. Erskine had -stated truly that she was not one of the “haughty” sort. She had no -objection to any number of new dresses, and to their being made as -elaborately as possible. - -“Now you speak of it, I dare say I do,” she said, leaning back -complacently in her comfortable little rocker. “In fact, your pa spoke -of that very thing this morning. He said like enough you would ’tend -to it, and he filled my pocket-book up handsome. There ain’t a stingy -streak about your pa. I knew that, years and years ago, when he was -a young man. It was the very first thing that drawed me to him—the -free kind of way in which he threw around his money. It seemed so -noble-like, specially when I was drivin’ every nerve to keep soul and -body together, and lived among folks that didn’t dare to say their -bodies was their own, for fear they would have ’em seized on for debt, -and took to jail. I tell you that was livin’! You don’t know nothing -about it, and I hope to the land that you never will.” - -What could Ruth do but groan inwardly, and wish that her father had -been, in his youth, the veriest miser that ever walked the earth! -Anything, so that this terrible woman would not have been “drawed” to -him. She tried to hurry the question: - -“What have you thought of getting?” she asked, nervously twisting -and untwisting the tassels of the tidy against which she leaned, and -feeling disagreeably conscious that a glow of color had mounted to her -very temples in her efforts at self-control. - -“Land alive, I don’t know. I’ve thought of a dozen different dresses -since your pa told me this morning what he wanted. He wants things to -be awful nice, I can see that; and why shouldn’t he? A man that’s got -money and is free with it has a right to say what he will have, I’m -sure. I think it ought to be something bright, like something—well, -_bridie_, you know.” - -This last with such a distressing little simper that it was almost more -than Ruth could do to keep from rushing from that awful room, and -declaring to her father that she would have no more to do with this -thing. He should fight his dreadful battles alone. But outwardly she -held still, and the shrill, uncultured little voice went on: - -“You see I _am_ almost like a bride, meeting your pa’s friends so for -the first time, though land knows it is long enough ago that I planned -what to wear when I should meet ’em. It took longer to get ready than I -expected.” - -There was not even a spice of bitterness in this sentence. If there had -been—if there had been a suggestion that this woman felt somewhat of -her own wrongs, Ruth thought that she could have borne it better. But -the tone was simply contemplative, as of one who was astonished, in a -mild way, over the tragedy that life had managed to get up for her. - -“You see,” she continued, “I hadn’t a chance for much dressin’ or -thinkin’ about it; your pa was so weak that I had about all I could -do to fix bitters and things, and manage to keep the breath of life -in his body. And many’s the time when I thought he’d beat, and die -right before my face and eyes in spite of me. Then he went off on -that journey afore he was able, and I’ve always believed, and always -shall, that he didn’t rightly know what he was about after that, for -quite a spell. So now I think more than likely it would please him to -have things kind of gay and lively. I ain’t said anything about it -to Susan—she ha’n’t no special interest in dressing up, anyway, and -she and I don’t always agree about what looks nice, but I think your -pa would like it if I had a green silk—bright, rich green, you know, -nothing dull and fady. I saw one when I was a girl—fact is, I sewed on -it—and it was for a bride, too, and I said to myself then, says I, ‘If -_I’m_ ever a bride, I’ll have a dress as much like this as two peas.’ -I’ve been a good while about it, but that’s neither here nor there. -I’ve got a beautiful red bow; that wide, rich-looking kind of ribbon; -a woman give it to me for tending up to her poor girl afore she died. -She had the consumption, and I took care of her off and on a good share -of the fall, and she give me this ribbon. It’s real nice, though land -knows I didn’t want pay for doing things for her poor girl. ’Twan’t -_pay_, neither, for the matter of that; it was just to show they felt -grateful, you know, and I’ve always set store by that ribbon. I’ve -never wore it, because Susan she thought it wan’t suited to our way of -livin’ and no more it wan’t, though we lived nice enough in a small -way. Your pa never skimped us on money, though, land alive! I didn’t -dream of his havin’ things about him like he has, and I was always for -tryin’ to lay up, ’cause I didn’t know how much money he had, and I -didn’t know but he’d come to poverty some day. Rich folks do, and I was -for savin’, and Susan didn’t object. Susan is a good girl as ever was. -And so the red bow is just as nice as ever it was—not a mite soiled nor -nothing, and I think it would go lovely with a green silk dress, don’t -you?” - -“No,” said Ruth, severely and solemnly. Not another word could she have -forced her white lips to say, and I don’t know how to explain to you -what awful torture this talk was to her. The truth is, to those of you -who do not, because of a fine subtle, inner sympathy, understand it -already, it is utterly unexplainable. - -“Land alive!” said Mrs. Erskine, startled by the brief, explosive -answer, and by the white, set lips, “don’t you? Now, I thought you -would. You dress so like a picture yourself, I thought you would know -all about it, and your pa said you knew what was what as well as the -next one.” - -Think of Judge Erskine’s aristocratic lips delivering such a sentence -as that! - -“Now, I had a geranium once, when I was a girl. It was the only pretty -thing I had in the world, and I set store by it, for more reasons -than one. It was give to me by my own aunt on my father’s side. It -was pretty nigh all she had to give, poor thing! They was dreadful -poor like the rest of us, and she give me this the very winter she -died. I had it up in my room, and it kept a blowing and blowing all -winter long—I never see the like of that thing to blow! And I used to -stand and look at it, just between daylight and dark. It stood right -by my one window, where the last streak of daylight come in, and I -used to squeeze in there between the table and the wall to make my -button-holes, and when it got so dark I jest couldn’t take another -stitch, I’d stand and look at the thing all in blow, and I thought I -never see anything so pretty in all my life, and I made up my mind then -and there, that a green silk dress, about the color of them leaves, and -a red ribbon about the color of them blossoms, would be the prettiest -thing to wear in the world. I got the bow a good many years ago, and I -was always kind of savin’ on it up, waiting for the dress.” Just here -there was the faintest little breath of a sigh. “But, then, if you -don’t think it would be the thing, why I’m willing to leave it to you. -Your pa said you’d see that everything was ship-shape.” - -“I think,” said Ruth, and her voice was hollow, even to herself, “I -think that my father’s taste would be a plain, black silk, with white -lace at the throat. If you desire to please him, I am sure you will -make that choice.” - -“Why!” exclaimed Mrs. Judge Erskine, and she couldn’t help looking a -bit dismayed. “Land alive! do you think so? Black! why it will make -folks think of a funeral, won’t it?” - -“No,” said Ruth, “black is worn on all occasions by persons who know -enough to wear it.” Then she arose. She had reached the utmost limit -of endurance. Another sentence from this woman she felt would have -driven her wild. Yet she was doomed to hear one more before she closed -the door after herself. - -“Well, now, if you honestly think it will be best, I s’pose I’ll agree -to it, as your pa seemed to think things must go your way. But I don’t -quite like it, jest because it seems kind of bad luck. I don’t believe -them notions about black clothes at merry-makings, you know, though -when I was a girl folks honestly thought so, and it seems kind of -pokerish to run right into ’em. I never would begin to clean house of a -Friday—some bad luck was sure to come; and as for seein’ the moon over -my left shoulder, I won’t do it, _now_—not if I can help it. But black -silk ain’t so funeral as bombazine and such, and I s’pose—” - -Here Ruth slammed the door, and put both trembling hands to her ears, -and ran across the hall to the refuge of her own room, and closed, and -locked, and _bolted_ her door. - -As for Mrs. Erskine, she relapsed of necessity into silence, and for -the space of five minutes ceased her rocking and looked meditatively -into the glowing grate. Then she arose, and for the second time that -morning her speech was heralded by the breath of a sigh, as she said -aloud, “I ain’t no ways certain that I can ever make head or tail to -that girl.” Then she went to her new and elegant dressing-bureau, and -opened a drawer, and drew from under a pile of snowy clothing a little -box, and took therefrom, wrapped in several folds of tissue paper, the -treasured bow. She had kept it choicely for fourteen years, always with -a dim sense of feeling that the time might come when life would so have -opened to her that she would be able to add to it the green silk dress, -and appear in triumph. Besides, it represented to her so much gratitude -and affection, and there was actually on her small, worn, withered -face, the suspicion of a tear, as she carefully folded and replaced it. -Her audible comment was: “A black silk dress and a white lace bow! land -alive!” - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -SEEKING HELP. - - -FOR the rest of the day Ruth was in gloom; indeed, I might almost say -she was in despair. In a dim, dreary sort of way, she felt that her -refuge had failed her. If it really was not going to help her to read -in the Bible and pray, what _was_ she to do? Now, I do not mean that -she suddenly lost faith in the Bible, or in prayer, but simply that -despairing thoughts, like these, ran riot through her brain, and she -gave them attention; also, she felt as though any effort to help, -or any attempt to like these people—nay, even to tolerate them—was -impossible. Mrs. Erskine’s good-natured coarseness of tone and speech, -her horrible arrangement of words and phrases, her frequent allusions -to “your pa,” in the free, careless tone which indicated a partnership -of interest between them, were all so many horrors to the refined, -reserved, low-voiced daughter. - -“I will just shut myself into my room,” she said, pacing back and forth -like a caged lion. “I will not try to associate with them; it can never -be done; they can not be improved; there is no hope in that direction: -there is nothing to build on. I must just take care of myself, and see -to it that I do not sink to their level.” - -Carrying out this plan, or, rather, allowing herself to glide along -with it, she turned away with almost a shiver from her father’s -question, that evening, addressed to her in a low tone, as the family -were leaving the dining-room: - -“Daughter, shall we try to go to prayer-meeting to-night?” - -The first prayer-meeting since this invasion into their home! Ruth had -not forgotten it; instead, she had been looking forward all day to -that meeting, as a refuge for her storm-tossed soul. Without giving -really definite thought to it, she yet felt that there, at least, -would be help and comfort; and not once had it occurred to her that the -new-comers must be invited to attend. She realized, now, with a throb -of pain, that it was this sense of fleeing from their presence which -had helped to give pleasantness to the thought of the meeting. Was it -possible that “_they_” must be taken? - -“Father, I can’t,” she said, turning and facing him with glowing face -and defiant eyes. “I have tried to-day to help, and have been an awful -failure. I just feel as though I could not endure it. No, I say, let us -stay at home with our misery, and not parade it before a gaping world. -No, I am not going to prayer-meeting to-night.” - -Her father turned from her, and walked, without another word, to the -library, whither, according to the new rules of the house, they went -directly after tea, for prayer. Ruth could not help noticing that her -father’s tall, handsome form stooped, as though he were bowed with -suddenly-added years. The moment those words were spoken, she felt that -she would have given worlds to have unsaid them; but to take back what -has been said in haste and folly is oftentimes an impossible task. -She chose the darkest corner of the library, and felt that, if she -could have crouched in it, out of sight forever, it would have been -happiness. Her father’s voice, as he read the psalm for the evening, -was low and tremulous. He had by no means gotten used to these new -duties—had not felt their comfort, nor recognized in them a help. As -yet he was in the realm of hard _duty_. His prayer touched Ruth as -no prayer had ever done before. It opened the fountains of tears. On -rising from her knees, she turned quickly to the window, to hide her -disturbed face, and to determine whether she should follow her father -from the room, and apologizing for the hard, unhelpful words which she -had spoken, say that, of course, they must go to prayer-meeting. He did -not wait for her tardy resolution, but turned at once to his wife: - -“Will you and Susan accompany me to our weekly meeting? I feel that we -need all the help we can get, and that is one of the sources of supply.” - -Susan answered promptly, and with a glad ring in her voice that he -could not have failed to notice. She was so glad to hear that this was -the evening for the meeting. She had been thinking about it to-day, and -wondering whether it were, and whether she could go. As for the mother, -she said, hesitatingly: - -“Why, yes,” she supposed so. There was nothing to hinder, that she knew -of. She was no great hand for going out evenings, though, to be sure, -going out in a city, where the walks were good and the streets as light -as day, was a different affair from blundering along in the dark, as -_she_ had been obliged to do. Susan always went to prayer-meeting; but -she hadn’t never went in her life, as she knew of; but then, of course, -if _he_ wanted to go, she would go along. - -It was not possible, apparently, for Mrs. Erskine to answer a -question briefly. She was full of reminiscences. They went to -prayer-meeting—“father and mother and daughter.” Ruth said this -sentence over after they were all gone—said it as she listened to the -sound of their retreating footsteps—her father, and all the mother -she had ever known, and their daughter. She was left out! Her father -had not given her opportunity to change her mind. He had simply said, -as they passed out, “I am sorry, daughter, that you do not feel like -accompanying us.” If he had but said, “Daughter, won’t you go?” she -would have choked down the tears and answered, “Yes.” But she could not -bring her pride, or her grief, to make this concession. She honestly -did not know whether to call it pride or grief. - -Bitterly sorry was she to miss the prayer-meeting. She began to feel -that, even with those two present, it might have helped her. So sorry -was she that, had she dared to traverse the streets alone, she would -have made ready and followed. While she still stood, looking out -drearily, too sad now even for tears, the bell sounded through the -quiet house, and, giving little heed to it, she was presently startled -by the advent of Judge Burnham. - -“Thomas thought no one was in,” he said, coming toward her, after an -instant’s surprised pause, “and I ventured to avail myself of your -father’s cordial invitations, and come in to consult a book which he -has, and I haven’t.” - -It was well for Judge Burnham’s peace of mind that he had not come in -expecting to see Ruth. She was in the mood to resent such an intrusion, -but since it was only books that he wanted, he was welcome. She -motioned toward the rows and rows of solemn-looking volumes, as she -said: - -“Help yourself, Judge Burnham, and make yourself as comfortable as you -can. My father’s friends are always welcome to his library.” - -Then Judge Burnham said a strange and unexpected word. Standing -there, looking at her with those keen, grave eyes of his, thinking, -apparently, not of books at all, he said: - -“I wish I could help _you_.” - -Something in the tone and something in the emphasis caused a vivid -blush to spread over Ruth’s face. She commenced a haughty sentence: - -“Thank you; I am sure it is kind; but—” She was about to say, “but, I -do not feel in need of help.” - -She was stopped by the swift realization that this was not true. She -felt, in one sense, in deeper need of help than she had ever done -before. Her voice faltered over the words, and finally she stopped, her -eyes drooping as they were not wont to droop before others, and those -traitorous tears shone in them again. The tearful mood was as foreign -to her usual self as possible, and she felt afraid to trust herself to -speak further. Besides, what could she say? - -Judge Burnham spoke again, earnestly, respectfully: - -“I hope you will forgive my intrusion of sympathy, but I do feel -for you—perhaps in a way that you can hardly appreciate. There are -circumstances in my own hard life that serve to make me in deep -sympathy with your present trial. Besides, your father has confided in -me fully, and I knew _your_ mother. When I was a boy of fourteen she -was a woman, young and beautiful and good. She helped me in a hundred -of those nameless ways in which a woman can help a motherless boy. If -there was any way in which I could serve her daughter it would give me -sincerest pleasure to do so.” - -He was so frank and sincere and grave that Ruth could hardly help being -sincere also. - -“I need help,” she said, raising her eyes for an instant to his, “but -I do not imagine that you, or any human being, can give it me. I shall -have to get a victory over my own heart before anything can help me. -I am ashamed of myself, and disheartened. Things that I mean to do I -utterly fail in, and things that above all others I don’t intend to do -I drop into, almost of necessity, it seems to me.” - -What a pity that this man, who wanted to help, had not been familiar -with the old-time cry of the sin-sick soul, “For the good that I would -I do not, but the evil which I would not that I do.” But he was not -familiar with that book of the law of the human heart. Still he essayed -to comfort. - -“I think you are too hard on yourself. I told you that your father had -made a confidant of me, and among other things he has repeatedly told -me what a help and strengthener you were to him. He said that he never -would have been able to carry this hard matter through but for your -strong, unselfish words. It was of you he thought most, and when you -were unselfish he felt that he could be.” - -Ruth needed this crumb of comfort and yet it had its bitter side, and -brought another rush of tears. - -“He will never speak such words again,” she said, and her voice -trembled. “I have failed him utterly. To-night he asked me to go to the -prayer-meeting, and I refused. I said I could never go out with them -anywhere, and that we ought to stay at home and hide our shame.” - -And having broken through the wall of reserve to this degree poor Ruth -gave way utterly, and dropped into a chair, weeping bitterly. Presently -she said: - -“I would give the world to be able to take it back again; but I can’t. -I should have gone to the meeting to-night—there was no excuse. I have -dishonored my Saviour as well as my father.” - -Judge Burnham looked down at her in perplexed dismay. No definite -purpose had been in his mind, beyond a very strange sympathy for her, -and a desire to show it. But he did not in the least know how to deal -with tears, nor with trouble which reached to so deep and solemn a -place in the heart as this. He was one of those reverent, correct -moralists, professing to honor the Bible as a very wise and a very -good book, professing to respect religion and honor the name of God; -and knowing no more about any of these subjects than that profession -indicates when it goes no farther. How was he to comfort one whose -bitterest tears were being shed because she had dishonored the Lord? He -waited irresolute for a moment, then, as if a sudden and very brilliant -thought had struck him, his face brightened. - -“If that prayer-meeting would really be a source of help to you, Miss -Erskine,” and he tried not to have his tone appear incredulous, though -at that very moment he was occupied in wondering what it could possibly -do for her, “why not reconsider your decision and attend it? I will see -you safely there with pleasure, and I presume your coming would gratify -your father in his present mood.” - -For, to this man, the religion of his old friend Judge Erskine was -simply a “mood,” which he expected to be exchanged presently for some -other fancy. - -Ruth looked up quickly. Was there possibly an escape from this torture -of self-reproach? Was there a chance to show her father that she was -bitterly ashamed of herself? - -“Isn’t it too late?” she asked, and the eagerness in her voice was -apparent. - -“Oh, no, I should think not,” and Judge Burnham drew his watch. “I am -not very well versed in the ways of these gatherings, but if it were a -lecture, or concert, it is not enough past the hour to cause remark. I -am quite willing to brave criticism in that respect, if you say so.” - -Had Ruth been less engrossed with the affairs of her own troubled -heart she would have taken in the strangeness of this offer on Judge -Burnham’s part to accompany her to a prayer-meeting. Truth to tell he -could have echoed Mrs. Erskine’s statement, that “she hadn’t never went -in her life as she knew of.” He smiled now over the newness of his -position, and yet he cared very little about it. There _were_ matters -in which Judge Burnham had moral courage enough to face the whole -world. To appear in a social meeting with Judge Erskine’s daughter -was one of them. As for Ruth, true to her nature, she thought nothing -about it, but made ready with a speed and an eagerness that would have -amazed her attendant, could he have seen her. - -So it came to pass that the First Church prayer-meeting again had a -sensation. The prayer-room was quite full. Since the revival there had -been none of those distressing meetings composed of a handful of the -most staid members of the church, but on this particular evening there -were more present than usual. There were some who were not in the habit -of being seen there, even of late. Shall I venture to tell the reason? -The simple truth is, that Dr. Dennis and Marion Wilbur’s wedding-cards -were out. As Eurie Mitchell has before told you, many things had -conspired to make their change of plans advisable, and so, instead -of being married in the front-room of the old western farm-house, -according to Marion’s fancy, the ceremony was to take place in the -First Church on the following evening, and every member of that church, -young and old, large and small, had received a special invitation to be -present. - -Now, it is a mistake to suppose that general gossip is confined to -small villages and towns, where everybody knows everybody’s business -better than he knows it himself. I think the experience of others will -testify to the truth of the statement that gossip runs riot everywhere. -In the larger towns or cities, it runs in eddies, or circles. This -clique, or this set, or this grade of society, is, to a man and woman, -as deeply interested in what the particular circle are to _do_, or -_wear_, or _be_, next, as though they lived in a place measuring three -square miles. So, while there were those in this nameless city of -which we write, who said, when they heard of the coming ceremony: “Dr. -Dennis! Why he is pastor of the First Church, isn’t he? or is it the -Central Church? Who is Marion Wilbur? does anybody know?” And while -there were those who rushed to and fro through the streets of the city, -passing under the shadow of the great First Church, who did not know -that there was to be a wedding there, who could not tell you the name -of the pastor of the church, nor even whether it had a pastor or not, -and who had never heard of Marion Wilbur in their lives, and never -would, till those lives were ended, though some of them brushed past -her occasionally, there were undeniably those who hurried through -their duties this evening, or shook off their weariness, or _ennui_, or -deferred other engagements and made it convenient to go to the First -Church prayer-meeting, for no better reasons than a curious desire to -see whether Dr. Dennis would appear any different from usual on the -night before his marriage, and whether Marion would be out, and whether -she _could_ look as unconscious and unconcerned as she always had, and -also what she _would wear_! whether she would cling to that old brown -dress to the very last! and whether Grace Dennis would be present, and -whether she would sit with Marion as they remembered she had, several -times, or where? These, and a dozen other matters of equal importance -and interest, had actually contributed to the filling of the seats in -the First Church chapel! Well, there are worse absorptions than even -these. I am not certain that there was a disagreeable word or thought -connected with these queries, and yet how sad a thing to think that the -Lord of the vineyard is actually indebted to such trivialities for the -ingathering of the workers in his vineyard to consult with him as to -the work? Alas! alas! many of them were not workers at all, but drones. - -After all, since a higher motive could not touch these people, shall we -not be glad that any motive, so long as it was not actually a _sinful_ -one, brought them within the sound of prayer and praise? They were -there anyway, and the service was commenced, and the hymn that followed -the pastor’s prayer was being sung, when the opening door revealed to -the surprised gazers the forms of Ruth Erskine and Judge Burnham! Now -Judge Burnham was one who would, on no account, have exerted himself -to see how Dr. Dennis would appear, or how Marion Wilbur would dress, -since none of these motives moved him. The question was, What had? - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -FROM DIFFERENT STANDPOINTS. - - -ALTHOUGH the First Church prayer meeting had gone several steps onward, -gotten beyond the region of distressing pauses, wherein the embarrassed -people looked at each other and wished something would happen, it was -by no means the free, social, enjoyable gathering that a prayer-meeting -ought to be. A life-long education of too rigid propriety—in other -words, false propriety—is not to be overcome in an hour. Therefore, -after those who were more accustomed to occupying the time had filled -their space there came a lull, not long, not distressing. Those -Chautauqua girls were all present, and any one of them would have led -in a hymn rather than let the pause stretch out. But it was long enough -for people to wonder whether the hour was not almost gone, and whether -there were any others who would get their lips open that evening; and -then they heard a strange voice: clear, steady, well-managed, as one -accustomed to the sound of her own voice, even in public places, and it -belonged to the stranger sitting beside Judge Erskine—none other than -his daughter Susan. The words she uttered were these: “Therefore being -justified by faith, we have peace with God, through our Lord Jesus -Christ.” - -Now, if it is your fortune to be a regular attendant at a -prayer-meeting where a woman’s voice is never heard, you can appreciate -the fact that the mere recitation of a Bible verse, by a “sister” in -the church, was a startling, almost a bewildering innovation. Only a -few months before, I am not sure but some of the good people would have -been utterly overwhelmed by such a proceeding. But they had received -many shocks of late. The Spirit of God coming into their midst had -swept away many of their former ideas, and therefore they bore this -better. - -But the voice went on, clear, steady, as well sustained as though -it belonged to a deacon in the church. “I have been all day,” it -said, “dwelling under the shadow of that verse, ‘Peace with God!’ It -expresses _so_ much! Peace is greater than joy, or comfort, or rest. -I think the words come to perplexed lives with such power. When we do -not see the way clearly; when we are beset with difficulties; when -disappointments thicken around us, we can still look up to God and -say, ‘Up there, where Father is, it is peace.’ He sees the way plainly -and He will lead us right through the thickets to the sunlight of -His eternal presence. I felt this verse specially one day. Something -occurred in which I had to bear a prominent part. For a time I was -perplexed—was not sure what was right—and, afterward, my friends -thought that I did not make the right decision, and I felt afraid that -perhaps I had not, and it troubled me. Then I rested my heart on this -word: ‘_justified_.’ Not because I have done right; not because my -judgment is correct; not because of any act of mine in any direction -save that one of trusting in my Lord, justified by _faith_! I am so -glad that however much we may disappoint and try our friends, and our -own hearts, in the sight of the great and wise and pure God, we are -justified through Jesus Christ.” - -Simple words were these, simply and quietly spoken. The speaker -had spent all her life in one place and all her Christian life in -one church. In that church it had been her custom to give her word -of testimony. Sometimes it was a verse of a hymn that she recited, -sometimes it was a text of Scripture, sometimes it was a touch of her -own experience. She had grown up with the custom. She did not realize -that there were any who had not. It did not occur to her that to the -ears of the First Church people this might be a strange sound. So -there had been no flutter or embarrassment, no self-consciousness of -any sort; simply out of the fullness of her heart she had spoken. The -effect on those about her was obvious and various. Judge Erskine’s -hand, that rested on the knob of his gold-headed cane, trembled -visibly; Mrs. Senator Seymour, who sat behind him, looked indignant, -and felt that Judge Erskine had had enough to endure before this, but -this was really too much! Marion Wilbur, who was present, and who _did_ -wear her old brown dress, “sticking to it to the very last,” sat erect, -with glowing cheeks and eyes that were bright with excitement. To fully -understand her excitement I shall have to tell you about a little -conversation she had just before starting for church. - -“Marion,” Dr. Dennis had said, as he waited in the stuffy parlor -for her to draw on her gloves, “I wish you were a very brave young -woman, and liked innovations, and were willing to make a startling one -to-night.” - -“Which you believe I am not, and will not, I conclude,” she had -replied, laughing; and stopping before him with a mock bow, added: - -“Thank you; I believe you are correct about part of it, at least. I -certainly feel very meek and quiet to-night, whatever I may have been -in the past. What do you want done?” - -“I want to get rid of a horrible stiffness that is creeping over our -meeting. We have been thawed, but not sufficiently; that is—well, -Marion, the prayer-meeting doesn’t and _never did_, meet my ideal. It -is not social enough—friendly and familiar enough. I would like to -have it a place where we meet together to talk over religious subjects, -in exactly the same way that we talk of other matters of interest. I -would like, for instance, to ask you as to your opinion of a passage of -Scripture, or a hymn; and I should like you to answer as freely as you -would if we were sitting with other friends in—say _your_ parlor, for -instance.” - -The emphasis in this latter sentence brought a vivid blush to Marion’s -face, and a little exclamation, not exactly of dismay: - -“I think _you_ are in a very startling mood. What would your good -pillars in the church say to such innovations, do you suppose? It takes -my breath away even to think of such a thing! I would almost as soon -arise in the desk, and undertake to preach a sermon.” - -“Which is a very different thing,” Dr. Dennis said, stoutly. “But, now, -just look at it, Marion. Isn’t that the reasonable way to do? Imagine -a party of us meeting to discuss a prospective journey to Europe, or -to the Holy Land; and, supposing me to be the leader, imagine all the -ladies sitting perfectly mum, and the gentlemen only speaking when I -called them by name, as if, instead of a social meeting, where all the -people were on the same level, it was a catechetical class, met for -examination, with myself for examiner! I don’t believe we have the true -idea of prayer-meetings.” - -“Perhaps not. But, if I should suddenly say to you, when we are fairly -seated in the chapel, ‘Dr. Dennis, what do you think is the meaning of -the sentence—Called to be _saints_?’ what would you think?” - -“I should be delighted—positively delighted; and I should proceed to -answer you as well as I could; and should like to say, ‘Judge Erskine, -isn’t that your idea?’ or, ‘Mrs. Chester, what do you think about it?’ -and thus from one to another, freely, familiarly as we would if we -were gathered to converse about anything else that was worthy of our -attention. That is my idea of a social prayer-meeting.” - -“Well,” said Marion, “I don’t believe you will ever realize your -idea. For myself, I should just as soon think of attempting to fly. -The minute you get seated behind that great walnut box, with those -solemn-looking cushions towering before you, I feel as far removed -from you as though miles of space divided us.” - -“That is just it,” Dr. Dennis said, growing eager. “I tell you, this -sense of distance and dignity, and unwise solemnity, are all wrong. The -barriers ought to be broken down. How I wish, Marion, that you felt -it in your heart to help me. I wish you would open your mouth in that -meeting to-night. It would do you and me, and everybody good. We should -have made a beginning toward getting nearer to the people. I don’t mean -anything formidable, you know. Suppose you should just recite a verse -of Scripture—something appropriate to the subject before us? I don’t -believe you have an idea of the effect it would have.” - -“Oh, yes I have,” Marion said, with an emphatic nod of her head. “_I_ -can realize that the effect would be tremendous. I don’t believe _you_ -have the slightest idea of it! What effect will it have, if you and I -reach the meeting ten minutes past the time?” - -Whereupon they went to church. Of course Marion was interested in Susan -Erskine’s verse, and Susan Erskine’s comments; not so interested -that she felt moved to join her, and contribute of her experience to -that meeting—such things need thinking about and praying over—but so -interested that her face flushed at the thought that this girl, who was -from the country, had more moral courage than she, and was in sympathy -with Dr. Dennis’ advanced ideas in regard to prayer-meetings. - -As for Ruth Erskine, her head went down on the seat before her, and she -kept it bowed during the remainder of the service. - -Judge Burnham’s nerves were in turmoil. He could not remember that -he had ever in his life before felt such sympathy for the trials of -others. This particular form of the trial seemed dreadful to him. -The idea that a girl of Ruth Erskine’s refinement, and a man of her -father’s position, should be brought thus rudely and offensively before -the public, jarred upon him, as he had not supposed that anything -outside of himself and his own trials could. He blamed himself for -being the unwitting cause of part of the trouble. If he had not -suggested to Ruth the possibility of coming to this obnoxious place, -she would have been spared this embarrassment. Filling his mind with -these thoughts—to the exclusion of anything else that was said—and -trying to determine how he should best express his sympathy to this -tried girl by his side, he was presently relieved to discover that the -people were rising for the benediction, and this—to him—long drawn out -trial was over. He had not, however, sufficiently composed his thoughts -to venture on any form of address, when Ruth suddenly broke the silence -in which they were walking: - -“Judge Burnham, I owe you thanks. Your suggestion about the -prayer-meeting to-night, and your kind attendance upon me, have helped. -That meeting came to my heart like balm. I cannot venture to attempt -telling you what it has done for me. Perhaps it would be difficult -to make you understand how heavy my heart was; but one sentence -spoken there has been repeated to me as a revelation! I am so glad -to feel that, for _me_, there can be peace with God! I have felt so -storm-tossed, so bewildered, so anxious to do right, and so sure that I -was doing wrong, it has been, at times, difficult for me to determine -right _from_ wrong, and, in some things, I have felt so condemned that -I was miserable. Now I know what I need—God’s peace—such as only he can -give—such as is not interfered with by any outward circumstances. To -be justified _before him_ is surely enough. I need not ask for further -justification.” - -Now, indeed, was Judge Burnham silent from very amazement. Here was -this girl, to whom he thought had come an added and excessively -embarrassing trial, thanking him for bringing her into it, and actually -calling it a help and a joy! He had not the least conception of what -she could mean. A strong desire to make her explain herself, if she -could, prompted his words: - -“Then you were not disturbed with your—with the lady’s prominence this -evening?” - -“With my sister’s, Judge Burnham. You were right in the first place.” - -Whether Ruth was willing to accept the situation for herself or not, -she could dignifiedly insist upon others doing it. Whoever her father -introduced as his daughter should be received by _outsiders_ as _her_ -sister, whether _she_ so received her or not. - -“I beg pardon,” said Judge Burnham. “You were not disturbed, then, by -the position which your sister took?” - -“I didn’t think anything about _position_. She recited that Bible verse -most exquisitely, I thought, and the words which she spoke afterward -were strong and helpful; they helped me, and I am glad in my very soul -that I heard them. That is the most that I can tell you about it.” - -Silence seemed to be the wisest course for Judge Burnham. He was thrown -out of his bearings. Since she did not need comfort, and refused to -receive, why should he attempt to give it? But he didn’t in the least -understand her. He wondered curiously whether his sympathy had been -equally thrown away on his friend, Judge Erskine, or whether he, with -his refined and sensitive tastes, had really received a blow from -which it would be hard to rally. The more he thought about it the more -probable this seemed. As he thought he waxed indignant. - -“If I were he I would forbid her appearance in public, until she learns -what is due to her position. It isn’t likely that he can rise to the -fanatical heights where his daughter has managed to climb. Probably she -will have made a descent by to-morrow morning. I mean to go in and see -the Judge.” - -Acting upon this mental conclusion, he ascended the Erskine steps, and -followed Ruth without waiting for a formal invitation. Her father had -just entered, and was still in the hall. He turned toward his friend. - -“Come in, Burnham. I was very glad to see you where I did to-night. -I hope it will not be the last time. I am sure you must have enjoyed -the meeting. Come to the library and let us talk it over.” And Judge -Erskine threw open the library door, while the others of his family -turned toward the parlor. - -“Well,” he said, as the door closed after them, “what did you think of -the meeting?” - -“I confess to being considerably surprised,” Judge Burnham answered. -Truth to tell, he hadn’t the least idea what it would be wise to say. - -“Weren’t you!” said Judge Erskine, with energy. “I never was more so. I -didn’t know she was of that stamp; and yet I might have known it. She -has given me several glimpses of her spirit during the little time in -which I have known anything about her.” - -“What are you going to do?” - -“Do? How? I am not sure that I understand the question.” - -“Why, I mean as to the position which she assumed to-night.” - -“Oh, as to that, there is nothing to do. I dare say I may express the -gratitude which I feel for the help that she gave me, but I don’t even -know whether I can bring myself to do _that_. I can’t get over the -sense of strangeness and embarrassment. But weren’t those grand words -that she quoted to-night? I declare such a truth as that ought to take -us through anything! It lifts me out of myself for the time-being and I -feel as though I could live my life patiently and earnestly. I’ll tell -you, Judge, what I thought as I sat in that seat to-night and looked -over at you. I wished with all my soul that you might be induced to -look into this matter for yourself, and see the reasonableness of it -all. Did you ever give it special attention, my friend? In fact, I -know you didn’t, because a man of your discernment could have come to -but one conclusion, had you thought closely about it.” - -“That is a compliment to my discernment, and I appreciate it,” Judge -Burnham said, with a faint attempt at a smile. “I am not sure that I -ever gave the subject what you call ‘special attention.’ And yet I -think I have a reasonable degree of respect for religion and the Bible. -You have often heard me express my opinion of the literary merits of -that book, I think.” - -“Oh, yes,” said Judge Erskine, with a little sigh. “‘Literary merits!’ -Yes, I know you respect the Bible and admire it, and all that sort of -thing; but that is very different from living by it. I respected it -myself for forty years. The thing is to stand ‘justified’ in God’s -sight. Think of that! People like you and me, who have made mistakes -all our lives—mistakes that seem past all rectifying—and yet, in God’s -sight, they are as if they had not been, through the atoning blood! -Isn’t that a glorious thought?” - -“Mistakes are not _sins_, Judge,” his friend added, and he spoke the -words somewhat haughtily. In his heart he added: “They are a couple -of fanatics, he and his daughter. I don’t understand either of them.” -In truth, he was staggered. It might do to attribute fanaticism, or -undue exaltation of mood, to Miss Erskine, possibly; but he had known -the cool-headed Judge long and well. Was it likely that anything which -would not bear close and logical looking into could get possession of -him to a degree that it had—even to a degree that was transforming his -life? - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -ONE DROP OF OIL - - -NOW you know that some of you are anxious to hear all about that -marriage which took place in the First Church, the next evening. You -want to be told how the bride was dressed, and whether she had any -bridesmaids, and whether Dr. Dennis appeared well, and how Grace Dennis -was dressed, and how she acted, and who performed the ceremony, and -whether it was a lengthy one, and every little detail of the whole -matter; also, you are desirous of knowing how the “little gathering” -that the Erskines gave, soon after, was managed—whether Mrs. Erskine -became reconciled to the “black silk” and the “lace bow;” whether -Susan proved to be yielding, or obstinate, and how Ruth bore up under -the numerous petty embarrassments, which you plainly foresee the -evening had in store for her. But, then, there are those discerning and -sympathetic beings—the critics—standing all ready to pronounce on us, -and say, that we are “prolix” and “commonplace” and “tedious;” that -we spend too much time in telling about trivialities, and do not give -the startling points fast enough, as if that were not exactly what we -and they are doing all the time! Who lives exclamation points every -day? There comes occasionally one into most lives (and assuredly Ruth -Erskine believed that hers had come to her); but, for the most part, -lives are made up of commas and interrogations and dashes. There is -this comfort about professional critics—those that live behind the -scenes know that when they are particularly hard on a book, one of two -things is the case—either they have been touched in a sensitive spot -by some of the characters delineated or opinions expressed, or else -they have an attack of indigestion, and the first subject that comes -under their dissecting-knives must bear the savage consequences. -Very well, let us give them a touch of “trivialities.” The bride’s -dress was a soft sheeny grey, just the sort of dress for enduring a -long, westward-bound journey, and yet rich enough, and soft enough, -and delicate enough to look appropriate in the church. As for Dr. -Dennis. There is this satisfaction about a man’s dress, it is easy of -description. When you have said it was black, and neat-fitting, what is -there left to say? Some gentlemen look exceedingly well dressed, and -some look ungainly; and every one of them may have on black clothes, -that look to the uninitiated as though they were well-fitted. What -makes the difference? What lady can tell? - -The bright-eyed, fair-faced daughter of the house of Dennis was -really the beauty of that evening; and, if the truth were known, the -bride-elect had expended more thought and care upon the details of -this young girl’s attire than she had on her own. Eurie Mitchell and -Mr. Harrison were bridesmaid and groomsman. There were those in the -church who wondered at that, and thought that Mr. Harrison would have -liked some one better than “that Mitchell girl” with him, under the -circumstances. But Eurie herself, and you and I, know better. We know -he has chosen her, from all others, to stand by him forever. - -After all, I can tell you nothing but the commonplaces. Is there ever -anything else told about weddings? Who is able to put on paper the -heart-throbs and the solemnities of such an hour? It is like all other -things in life—that which is told is the least important of all the -story. - -Old Dr. Armington, whose hair was white with the snows of more than -seventy winters, spoke the solemn words that made them man and wife.... -For half a century he had been, from time to time, repeating that -solemn sentence. - -“You are the two hundred and ninety-seventh couple that I have, in the -name of my Master, joined for life. God bless you.” - -This was his low-spoken word to Dr. and Mrs. Dennis, as he took their -hands in after greeting. Someway, it made Marion feel more solemn than -before. Two hundred and ninety-six brides! She seemed to see the long -procession filing past. She wondered where they all were, and what had -been their life-histories. Later in the evening, she could not resist -the temptation to ask him, further: - -“How many of the two hundred and ninety-six have you buried, Dr. -Armington?” - -And the old man’s lip trembled, and his voice was husky, as he said: - -“Don’t ask me, child. A long array of names, among them two of my own -daughters. But I shall sit down with a great many of them soon, at ‘the -marriage supper of the Lamb.’ I hope none of them will wear starless -crowns.” - -And Marion turned from him quickly, feeling that she had gotten her -word to live by. - -About that party. They lived through it, and, in a sense, it was a -success. There were, of course, many mortifications; but by dint of -shutting her eyes and her ears as far as possible, and keeping on the -alert in every direction, and remembering her recent resolutions, -very solemnly renewed, Ruth bore the ordeal reasonably well. She had -more help than she knew of. Susan Erskine had inherited more of her -father’s nature than her mother’s. It was not easy for her to yield, -and she did not enjoy being managed. She could sacrifice her will, or -her plans, or her comfort, if she saw a _need-be_ for it, or if, in -any sense, the strong, and, to her, solemn word, “Duty,” could be put -in as a plea; but to be controlled in the mere matter of her dress—and -that, after she had determined that to spend time and money, other -than was absolutely necessary, on the adorning of the perishing body, -was a moral wrong—was something that could not be expected of her. She -was not conscious of any other feeling than that of duty; but, in her -heart, she was grieved, not to say insulted. Here had they—her mother -and herself—been ignored for eighteen years, allowed to dress as they -pleased, and go where they pleased, or not go at all; and, now that -their tardy rights were being in a degree recognized, it was the paltry -question of _dress_ that must absorb them! She was willing to make many -concessions to Ruth. There were times when she pitied her. In fact, she -had constant and sincere sympathy for her in this invasion of home and -name. She realized that the blame was in no sense Ruth’s, and to shield -her, as much as possible, from the inevitable suffering, was Susan’s -natural feeling. But, when it came to strictly personal questions—what -colors she should wear, and what material, and how it should be made -up—she rebelled. Surely those were matters which she had a right to -decide for herself. Mother might be easily managed, if she would; -perhaps it was well that she could be. But, for herself, Susan felt -that it would be impossible, and hoped most earnestly that no attempt -would be made in that direction. - -As for Ruth, she thought of the matter in a troubled way, and -shrank from entering into detail. The most she had done was to ask, -hesitatingly, what she—Susan—would wear, on the evening in question. -And Susan had answered her, coldly, that she “had not given the matter -a thought, as yet.” She supposed it would be time enough to think about -that when the hour for dressing arrived. In her heart she knew that -she had but one thing to wear; and Ruth knew it too, and knew that it -was ill-chosen and ill-made, and in every way inappropriate. Yet she -actually turned away, feeling unable to cope with the coldness and the -evident reserve of this young woman over whom she could not hope to -have influence. - -Curiously enough, it was gentle little Flossy who stepped into these -troubled waters, and poured her noiseless drop of oil. She came in -the morning, waiting for Ruth to go with her to make a farewell call -on Marion Wilbur, the morning before the wedding; and in the library, -among the plants, giving them loving little touches here and there, was -Susan. - -“What is Marion to wear for travelling, do you know?” Flossy had asked -of Ruth, as some word about the journey suggested the thought. And Ruth -had answered briefly, almost savagely: - -“I don’t know. It is a blessed thing that no one will have to give it a -thought. Marion will be sure to choose the most appropriate thing, and -to have every detail in exquisite keeping with it. It is only lately -that I have realized what a gift she had in that direction.” - -Then Ruth had gone away to make ready, and wise little Flossy, looking -after her with the far-away, thoughtful look in her soft eyes, began to -see one of her annoyances plainly, and to wonder if there were any way -of helping. Then she went down the long room to Susan, busy among the -plants. - -“How pretty they are!” she said, sweetly. “What gorgeous coloring, and -delicate tracery in the leaves! Does it ever occur to you to wonder -that such great skill should have been expended in just making them -look pretty to please our eyes?” - -“No,” said Susan, earnest and honest, “I don’t think I ever thought of -it.” - -“I do often. Just think of that ivy, it would have grown as rapidly and -been quite as healthy if the leaves had been square, and all of them an -intense green, instead of being shaded into that lovely dark, scolloped -border all around the outer edge. ‘He has made every thing beautiful -in his time.’ I found that verse one day last week, and I liked it _so -much_. Since then I seem to be noticing everybody and everything, to -see whether the beauty remains. I find it everywhere.” - -All this was wonderfully new to Susan Erskine. She was silent and -thoughtful. Presently she said, “It doesn’t apply to human beings—at -least to many it doesn’t. I know good men and women who are not -beautiful at all.” - -“Wouldn’t that depend a little on what one meant by beauty?” Flossy -said, timidly. Argument was not her forte. “And then, you know, -He _made_ the plants and flowers—created their beauty for them, I -mean, because they are soulless things—I think he left to us who are -immortal, a great deal of the fashioning to do for ourselves.” - -“Oh, of course, there is a moral beauty which we find in the faces of -the most ordinary, but I was speaking of physical beauty.” - -“So was I,” said Flossy, with an emphatic nod of her pretty little -head. “I didn’t mean anything deep and wise, at all. I don’t know -anything about what they call ‘esthetics,’ or any of those scientific -phrases. I mean just pretty things. Now, to show you how simple my -thought was, that ivy leaf made me think of a pretty dress, well made -and shapely, you know, and fitted to the face and form of the wearer. -I thought the One who made such lovely plants, and finished them so -exquisitely, must be pleased to see us study enough of His works to -make ourselves look pleasing to the eyes of others.” - -Susan Erskine turned quite away from the plants and stared at her guest -with wide, open, amazed eyes, for a full minute. “Don’t you think,” -she asked at last, and her tone was of that stamp which indicates -suppressed force—“don’t you think that a great deal of time, and a -great deal of money, and a great deal of force, which might do wonders -elsewhere, are wasted on dress?” - -“Yes,” said Flossy, simply and sweetly, “I know that is so. After I -was converted, for a little while it troubled me very much. I had been -in the habit of spending a great deal of time and not a little money -in that way, and I knew it must be wrong, and I was greatly in danger -of going to the other extreme. I think for a few days I made myself -positively ugly to my father and mother, by the unbecoming way in which -I thought I ought to dress. But after awhile it came to me, that it -really took very little more time to look _well_ than it did to look -ill-dressed; and that if certain colors became the form and complexion -that God had given me, and certain others did not, there could be no -religion in wearing those not fitted to me. God made them all, and he -must have meant some of them specially for me, just as he specially -thought about me in other matters. Oh, I haven’t gone into the question -very deeply; I want to understand it better. I am going to ask Mr. -Roberts about it the very next time he comes. But, meantime, I feel -sure that the Lord Jesus wants me to please my parents and my sister in -every reasonable way. Sister Kitty is really uncomfortable if colors -don’t assimilate, and what right have I to make her uncomfortable, so -long as the very rose leaves are tinted with just the color of all -others that seemed fitted to them?” - -Susan mused. - -“What would you do,” she asked presently, “if you had been made with -that sense of the fitness of things left out? I mean, suppose you -hadn’t the least idea whether you ought to wear green, or yellow, or -what. Some people are so constituted that they don’t know what you -mean when you tell them that certain colors don’t assimilate; what are -_they_ to do?” - -“Yes,” said Flossy, gently and sweetly, “I know what you mean, because -people are made very differently about these things. I am trying to -learn how to make bread. I don’t know in the least. I can make cake, -and desserts, and all those things, but Mr. Roberts likes the bread -that our cook makes, and as I don’t know how to make that kind, nor any -other, I thought I ought to learn. It isn’t a bit natural to me. I have -to be very particular to remember all the tiresome things about it; I -hadn’t an idea there were so many. And I say to the cook, ‘Now, Katy, -what am I to do next? this doesn’t look right at all.’ And she comes -and looks over my shoulder, and says, ‘Why, child, you need more flour; -always put in flour till you get rid of that dreadful stickiness.’ Then -I say to myself, ‘That dreadful stickiness is to be gotten rid of, and -flour will rid me of it, it seems,’ and I determine in my own mind that -I will remember that item for future use. I don’t really like the work -at all. It almost seems as though bread ought to be made without such -an expenditure of time and strength. But it isn’t, you know, and so I -try; and when I think of how Mr. Roberts likes it, I feel glad that I -am taking time and pains to learn. You know there are so many things -to remember about it, from the first spoonful of yeast, down to the -dampening of the crust and tucking up the loaves when they come out -of the oven, that it really takes a good deal of memory. I asked Mr. -Roberts once if he thought there would be any impropriety in my asking -for ability to take in all the details that I was trying to learn. He -laughed at me a little—he often does—but he said there could be no -impropriety in praying about anything that it was proper to do.” - -“Thank you,” said Susan Erskine, promptly. Then she did what was an -unusual thing for her to do. She came over to the daintily dressed -little blossom on the sofa, and bending her tall form, kissed the -delicately flushed cheek, lightly and tenderly. - -“Ruth,” said little Flossy, as they made their way toward the -street-car. “I think I like your new sister very much, indeed. I am not -sure but she is going to be a splendid woman. I think she has it in her -to be grandly good.” - -“When did you become such a discerner of character, little girlie?” was -Ruth’s answer, but she felt grateful to Flossy. The words had helped -her. - -As for Susan, she went back to the plants, and hovered over them -quite as lovingly, but more thoughtfully than before. She studied the -delicately-veined leaves and delicately-tinted blossoms all the while, -with a new light in her eyes. This small sweet-faced girl, who had -looked to the plainly-attired, narrow-visioned Susan, like a carefully -prepared edition of a late fashion-plate, had given her some entirely -new ideas in regard to this question of dress. It seemed that there -was a _duty_ side to it that she had not canvassed. “What right have I -to make her uncomfortable?” gentle Flossy had asked, speaking of her -sister Kitty. Susan repeated the sentence to herself, substituting -Ruth’s name for Kitty’s. Presently she went to her own room. - -“Ruth,” she said, later in the day, when they were for a moment alone -together “would you like to have me get a new dress for the tea-party?” - -Tea-party was a new name for the social gathering, but it was what -Susan had heard such gatherings called. Ruth hesitated, looked at the -questioner doubtfully a moment, then realizing that here was one with -whom she could be straightforward, said frankly, “Yes, I would, very -much.” - -“What would you like me to get?” - -“I think you would look well in one of those dark greens that are -almost like an ivy-leaf in tint. Do you know what I mean?” - -Susan laughed. She did not take in the question; she was thinking that -it was a singular and a rather pleasant coincidence that she should be -advised to dress after the fashion of the ivy-leaf which had served for -illustration in the morning. - -“I don’t suppose I ever looked well in my life,” she said at last, -smiling brightly. “Perhaps it would be well to try the sensation. If -you will be so kind, I should like you to select and purchase a dress -for me that shall be according to your taste, only remembering that I -dress as plainly as is consistent with circumstances, from principle.” - -When she was alone again, she said, with an amused smile curving her -lip, “I must get rid of that dreadful stickiness, and flour will do -it!” That is what the dear little thing said. “Dark green will do it -for me, it seems. If I find that to be the case I must remember it.” - -Ruth dressed for shopping with a relieved heart. She was one of those -to whom shopping was an artistic pleasure, besides she had never had -anyone, save herself, on which to exhibit taste. She was not sure that -it would be at all disagreeable. - -“She begins to comprehend the necessities of the position a little, I -believe,” she said, meaning Susan. And _she_ didn’t know that Flossy -Shipley’s gentle little voice, and carefully chosen words, had laid -down a solid plank of _duty_ for her uncompromising sister to tread -upon. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -FINDING ONE’S CALLING. - - -DURING the days which preceded that social gathering, Ruth found her -mind often busy with the wonders of the verse which had been quoted at -prayer-meeting. She recognized it as from the chapter which she had -read in the morning, and she re-read it, filled with a new sense of its -meaning. She sought after and earnestly desired to realize peace with -God. How wonderful would it be to be able to say, “And not only so, but -we glory in tribulation!” Poor Ruth believed that she understood the -meaning of that word, “tribulation.” Would it be possible for her ever -to “glory” in it? As she read those verses and thought about them, she -seemed to hear again the peculiar ring of triumph that there was in -Susan’s voice, as she repeated the words, “_She_ feels it.” Ruth said -to herself, “I believe she knows more about these things than I do; I -wonder how she came to get the thought in the first place? I read the -verse and didn’t take it in. Perhaps she has taken in other things, -about which I know nothing, and which would help me?” - -Thinking these thoughts, dwelling on them, they culminated in a sudden -resolution, which led her to tap at the door of Susan’s room. She was -cordially invited to enter. Susan was engaged in dusting the row of -books, in dull and somewhat shabby binding, that ornamented the pretty -table under the gaslight. - -“Have a seat,” she said; “I can’t think how the dust gets at my books -so often; I put them in order this morning. They are my good old -friends, and I like to take special care of them, but they are fading.” - -She fingered the bindings with loving hands, and Ruth, curious to see -what they were, drew near enough to read some of the titles, “Cruden’s -Concordance,” “A Bible Text-Book,” “Barnes Notes on the Gospels,” and -“Bushnell’s Moral Uses of Dark Things.” The others were old and, some -of them, obsolete school text-books. - -“I haven’t many,” Susan said, in a tender tone, “but they are very -useful. They have been my best friends for so long that I think I -should be a real mourner over the loss of one of them.” - -The new dark-green dress lay on the bed, and some soft, rare laces, a -gift to Susan that day from her father, lay beside it. Ruth glanced -that way, “Have you tried on the dress since it was finished?” - -“No, I thought it would be time enough in the morning, and I had a -little reading that I was anxious to do this evening.” - -“What are you reading? something that you like?” - -“Yes, very much,” Susan said, with a rare smile lighting her pale face; -“I only began it the other night. I didn’t know it was so rich. It is -the first chapter of Colossians, but I only read to the fifth verse.” - -Ruth looked her amazement. “Why, you must have been interrupted very -constantly.” - -Susan shook her head. “No, on the contrary, I spent very nearly an -hour over those four verses; the longer I studied on them the more -remarkable they became, and I found myself held.” - -“Is the meaning so very obscure?” - -“Not at all; the meaning is there on the surface; the only thing is, -there is so much, and it leads one’s thoughts in so many different -ways. Do you remember the second verse?” - -“I don’t remember it at all; very likely I never read it.” - -“Well, the second verse is addressed, ‘To the saints and faithful -brethren in Christ, which are at Colosse.’ That sentence arrested my -thoughts completely. Suppose I had been living at Colosse in those -days, could I have claimed that letter to the _saints_? I stopped over -the word and wondered over it, and queried just what it meant, and it -meant so much that I should really have gotten no farther than that -sentence if I had not deliberately left it and gone on to the ‘Grace -be unto you and peace.’ I found my heart craving peace: I think I was -somewhat like the child who claims the reward, or reaches out after -it, without waiting to be sure whether he has met the conditions.” - -“But I don’t understand you very well. What about saints? they were -holy men, were they not, set apart for special work at that special -time? How _could_ their experience touch yours?” - -“I don’t think so. I think they were just men and women who loved the -Lord Jesus Christ, and were called by his name, just as you and I are.” - -“But _we_ are not saints; at least I am not.” - -“But you are called to be?” - -“I don’t understand you.” - -“_Don’t_ you? Think of that verse of Paul’s, ‘Unto the Church of God, -which is at Corinth, to them that are sanctified in Christ Jesus, -_called to be saints_.’ Now, you know _we_ are sanctified in Christ -Jesus, so are we not called to be saints?” - -“I don’t know what ‘sanctified’ means very well; and, besides, I can’t -help thinking that the letter was written to the Church at Corinth. _I_ -don’t live in Corinth; how do I know that the address fits me? If I -should find a letter addressed to the people who live on Twenty-third -Street, wouldn’t I be likely to say, ‘Well, I have nothing to do with -that; I live on Fifth Avenue?’” - -“Ah! but suppose the very next sentence read, ‘And to all that love the -Lord Jesus Christ,’ wouldn’t you claim the letter?” - -“Yes,” said Ruth, with a flash of joy in her face, “I think I could.” - -“Well, don’t you know the next words are, ‘With all that in every place -call upon the name of Jesus Christ our Lord, both theirs and ours.’” - -“I never thought of it,” said Ruth. Then, after a little, “Did you find -out what a saint was?” - -“Why I found some characteristics of them, and tried to see if they -answered my description. Have you ever looked the matter up?” - -“No,” said Ruth, “I did not so much as know that I was expected to be a -saint; tell me what you found.” - -“Why,” said Susan, drawing her chair and opening her Bible, “see here, -I found a promise, ‘He will keep the feet of his saints.’ It made me -all the more eager to learn as to my claim. Was I his saint? would he -keep me? In that same verse there is a contrast, ‘He will keep the -feet of his saints, and the wicked shall be silent in darkness.’ Now, -if there are only two classes of people, saints and the wicked, which -am I? In God’s sight who are the wicked? I looked for a description -of them and found this statement: ‘The Lord preserveth all them that -love him, but all the wicked will he destroy.’ Now, I _know_ I love -the Lord, and I know that he will not destroy me, for I have in my -heart the assurance of his promise. If that is so, _I_ must be one of -his saints. Then I found the promise, ‘He shall give his angels charge -over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways.’ Keep who? And looking back -a little I found, ‘He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most -High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.’ But he promises -to keep only those who are _his saints_. Then I found the promise, -‘He maketh intercession for the _saints_.’ Now, I said, if there is -no one interceding between a just God and me, what will become of me? -But I found the inspired statement of St. Paul, ‘Wherefore he is -able to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by him, seeing -he ever liveth to make intercession for _them_.’ That puts me at once -among those for whom he intercedes, and his special work in heaven -is to make intercession for the saints. By this time I was ready to -claim the name, and you may know I was anxious to find what it meant. -I went to the dictionary; the first definition I found was, ‘A person -sanctified.’ That startled me. Could it be that I was sanctified? Why, -I feel so sinful, and so weak, and so small! Well, I said, What does -‘sanctified’ mean? and I found that it was defined as set apart to a -holy or religious use. It recalled to my mind the statement of Paul. -‘But ye are washed, but ye are sanctified, but ye are justified in the -name of the Lord Jesus.’ A great deal ought to be expected of us, after -that.” - -Ruth drew a long sigh. “I don’t know anything about it, I believe,” -she said, sadly; “I never read the Bible in that way. Half the time it -doesn’t seem to have anything in it really for me.” - -“Don’t you think that some of our trouble is in being content with -simply _reading_, not _studying_ the Bible? I thought the other night -that if I had spent an hour on geometry, and then begun to understand -it somewhat, I should feel as though I were repaid. But sometimes I -read a Bible verse over two or three times, and then, because its -meaning is obscure, I feel half discouraged. I was speaking of it to—to -father last evening, and he said he thought the trouble was largely in -that direction.” Susan had not yet gotten so that she could speak the -unfamiliar name without hesitation. As for Ruth, her brow clouded; it -did not seem to her that she could ever share that name with anyone. -But she was interested—and deeply so—in the train of thought which had -been started. - -“What next?” she asked, curious to see whither Susan’s thoughts had led -her. “You said you read no farther than the fourth verse. What stopped -you there? I don’t see much in it;” and she leaned forward and re-read -the verse from Susan’s open Bible. - -“Oh, why _don’t_ you? ‘Since we heard of your faith in Christ Jesus, -and of the love which ye have to all the saints.’ That verse stopped -me longer than any other, especially the sentence: ‘Since we heard of -your faith in Christ Jesus’—it is such a common form of expression. I -thought of it last evening while listening to the talk in the parlor. -‘I heard that the Wheelers were going abroad,’ some one said; and -another, ‘I heard that Dr. Thomas was soon to bring a wife home.’ Two -of the young ladies talked in low tones, and nearly all I could catch -was the expression: ‘I heard he was,’ or ‘she was,’ or ‘they were.’ It -was evident that a great deal had been heard about a great many people. -I said over the verse: ‘We heard of your faith in Christ Jesus.’ Who -hears of such things? How many people have such marked and abiding -faith in Christ Jesus, that when we talk of them we say, ‘I heard that -Miss So and So had the most implicit faith in the power of Christ to -keep her.’ Now wouldn’t that be a strange thing to say?” - -“I should think it would,” said Ruth, amazed at this train of thought. -“After all, I suppose many people have the _faith_; only it is not the -custom in society to talk about such things.” - -“I don’t,” answered Susan, positively. “Of course many people have -it in a degree; but not to such an extent that it arouses interest, -and excites remark. I think it is the custom in society to talk about -that which interests people—which has been suggested to their minds -by passing events. I have heard that it is a very common thing in -localities where Mr. Moody has been holding meetings, to discuss his -remarkable faith and love. Don’t you suppose, if my Christian life -were so marked a force that all who came in contact with me, felt its -influence, it would be natural to speak of it, when my friends chanced -to mention my name?” - -“I suppose so,” Ruth said, slowly. “At least I don’t see why it should -not be; and, indeed, it is very common for people to talk about the -change in Flossy Shipley.” - -Susan’s voice was very earnest. “I wish I could bear such testimony as -that. I believe it would be right to be ambitious in that direction; -to live so that when people spoke of me at all, the most marked thing -they could say about me would be, not, how I dressed, or appeared, -or talked, but how strong my faith in the Lord Jesus was, and how it -colored all my words and acts. Wouldn’t that be a grand ambition?” - -“And of the love which ye have to all the saints,” Ruth repeated, half -aloud, half to herself; her eye had caught the words again. Suddenly -she started, and the blood flowed in ready waves into her cheeks. She -had caught a new and personal meaning to the words—“love to _all_ the -saints.” Suppose this usurper of home and name, who sat near her—this -objectionable sister—suppose _she_ were one of the saints!—and I verily -believe she is, Ruth said to her beating heart—then, would it be -possible so to live, that people would ever say, “She loves that sister -of hers, because she recognizes in her one of the Lord’s own saints?” -Nothing looked less probable than this! She could not bring her heart -to feel that she could _ever_ love her. A sort of kindly interest, she -might grow to feel, an endurance that would become passive, and, in a -sense, tolerable, but could she ever help paling, or flushing, when she -heard this new voice say “father,” and realized that she had a right to -the name, even as she herself had? She had been the only Miss Erskine -so long; and she had been so proud of the old aristocratic name, -and she had felt so deeply the blot upon its honor, that it seemed -to her she could never come to look with anything like _love_ upon -one connected with the bitterness. Yet, it did flash over her, with a -strange new sense of power, that Susan Erskine held nearer relation to -her than even these human ties. If _she_ was indeed a daughter of the -Most High, if the Lord Jesus Christ was her Elder Brother, then was -this girl her sister, a daughter of royal blood, and perhaps—she almost -believed it—holding high position up there, where souls are looked at, -instead of bodies. - -A dozen times, during the evening which followed this conversation, -did the words of this Bible verse, and the thoughts connected there -with, flash over Ruth. It was the evening of the social gathering. Now, -that Susan had called her attention to it, she was astonished over the -number of times that those words: “I heard,” were on people’s lips. -They had heard of contemplated journeys, and changes in business, and -changes in name, and reverses, and good fortunes, and contemplated -arrangements for amusement, or entertainment, or instruction; -_everything_ they had heard about their friends or their acquaintances. -Yet, no one said, during the whole evening—so far as she knew—that they -had heard anything very marked about the religious life of anyone. -In fact, religious life was one of the things that was not talked of -at all; so Ruth thought. If she had stood near Judge Burnham and her -sister, at one time, she would have heard him saying: - -“He is a man of mark in town; one prominent on every good occasion; -noted for his philanthropy and generosity, and is one of the few men -whom everybody seems to trust, without ever having their confidence -jarred. I have heard it said, that his word would be taken in any -business transaction as quickly as his bond would be.” - -“Is he a Christian man?” Susan had asked; and a half-amused, -half-puzzled look had shadowed Judge Burnham’s face, as he answered: -“As to that, I really don’t know. I have never heard that he made -any professions in that direction, though it is possible that he may -be connected with some church. Why, Miss Erskine, do you think it -impossible for a man to be honest and honorable and philanthropic, -unless he has made some profession of it in a church?” - -Then Susan had looked at the questioner steadily and thoughtfully a -moment before she answered: “I was not thinking of possible morality; -I was simply wondering whether the man who was building so fair and -strong a house had looked to it, that it was founded upon a rock, or -whether he really were so strangely improvident as to build upon the -sand. You know _I_ think, that, ‘other foundation can no man lay than -that which is laid, Jesus Christ being the chief corner-stone.’” - -So there was some religious conversation at the Erskines’ party, and it -sent Judge Burnham home thinking. And now, though the fruits of that -evening’s gathering will go on growing and ripening and being gathered -in, from human lives, so far as we personally are concerned, we are -done with that party. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -A SOCIETY CROSS. - - -THE next thing that occurred to mar the peace of this much-tried young -lady—she went out calling with her step-mother. This duty was passed -over just as long as it would do to ignore the claims of society, she -being finally driven to it by realizing that more talk was being made -by _not_ going than would be likely to result from going. Then, with -foreboding heart, she made ready. She planned at first to escape it all -and have her father the victim. But there were two difficulties. He had -rarely made other than professional calls, or most ceremonious ones on -persons high in the profession, and, therefore this whole matter would -be so new to him that to tide the bewildered wife through it would be -well-nigh impossible. And, besides, Ruth felt the necessity of being -present, to know the very worst that could be said or done, and to -attempt going as a trio was not to be thought of for a moment. There -was one bright spot in her annoyances: It was pleasant to remember the -look of relief which gleamed over her father’s face when she told him -he could be excused from attendance on them if he chose. “I can save -him so much, at least,” she told herself, and it helped her to make -ready. “If she would _only_ keep perfectly quiet!” she murmured again -to herself, as she waited at the door of her mother’s room for the last -glove to be drawn on, and marked what an effect the rich black silk, -with its perfect fitting seams, and perfectly draped folds had on the -dumpy figure. “If she only _could_ get along without talking she would -do very well.” - -Great attention had been paid by Ruth to the details of this toilet. -The soft laces at throat and wrist, the rich mantle, the shapely hat -with the unmistakable air of “style” about it, even to the gloves of -exactly the right shade and size, had each been objects of separate -study; and Mrs. Erskine, though occasionally she had fond memories -of the green silk dress, and the red bow—which she began to be dimly -conscious were never destined to shine together—yet took in so much -of the general effect as filled her with surprise and reconciled -her to the position of lay figure in Ruth’s hands, looking upon her -step-daughter with the same degree of surprised awe that a statue -might, could it be gifted with life and behold itself getting draped -for the tableau. - -The calls started nicely, Flossy Shipley’s being the first home at -which they halted. Flossy, in her sweet, winning, indescribable way, -decoyed Mrs. Erskine into a corner easy chair, and engaged her in -low-toned, earnest, even absorbed conversation, while Ruth tried to -unbend from her dignity and chat with Flossy’s cheery, social mother. -Glancing from time to time toward the elder woman and the fair young -girl, and noting the fact that both were unmistakably interested in -their subject for conversation, Ruth found herself wondering what it -_could_ be. Whatever it was she was grateful, and gave Flossy a most -informal and tender kiss at parting, by way of expressing her relief. - -Then, too, Dr. and Mrs. Dennis were at home, and were joyfully glad to -see them, and Dr. Dennis held Mrs. Erskine’s attention, leaving Ruth -free to talk with, and look at, and wonder over Marion, she seemed so -fresh and bright and glad; full of eagerness, full of plans, full of -heartiness, for any and everything that might be mentioned. “She is at -least ten years younger than I ever knew her to be,” was Ruth’s mental -conclusion as she watched the expressive face. There was no restraint -in their talk. Ruth felt, that for the time-being, she could throw off -the burden of responsibility and have a good time. She did not know -what Dr. Dennis was saying to her step-mother, and she did not care, it -was so pleasant to feel that she could trust him, that he was a friend, -and would neither repeat to others the mistakes of the uncultured woman -with whom he talked, nor laugh about them with Marion when she was -gone. Ruth not only respected and liked, but thoroughly trusted her -pastor. - -“I am glad she married him,” she told herself, glancing from one to the -other, and feeling, rather than noticing, that they were both evidently -heartily glad about the same thing. “They are just exactly suited -to each other, and that is saying a good deal for them both. What a -blessed change the brightness of this room must be when she compares it -with that little den of hers, up the third flight of stairs!” Yes, and -there was another side to that. What a nameless charm, as of home, she -had thrown over the propriety of the parsonage parlor! Before, it had -been a _room_—pleasant and proper, and well-cared for, as became the -parsonage parlor—now, it was _home_! Presently, too, came Gracie, with -her beautiful face and gracious manner, free and cordial and at ease. -“Mamma,” she said as naturally as though it had been a name constantly -on her lips; and, indeed, it was plain that she enjoyed the name. -There were no sad contrasts to dim her eyes, or quicken the beatings -of her heart, the real mother having only had time to give her darling -one clinging kiss before God called her home. “She may well be proud -of such a mother as her father has brought to _her_,” Ruth thought, -looking from one to the other, and noting the glance of sympathy which -passed between them. And then she sighed, being drawn back to her -heavier lot. Marion’s dreary life had blossomed into brightness, while -all that was ever bright had gone out of hers; at least so it seemed to -her. Then she arose, realizing that nothing of this afternoon’s crosses -would be borne if she whiled the time on Flossy Shipley and Marion -Dennis. - -From the moment that the two were seated in Mrs. Schuyler Colman’s -parlor peace left Ruth’s heart. Here was responsibility, solemn and -overwhelming—how to tide this uncultured woman through the shoals and -breakers of this aristocratic atmosphere. No sooner was Mrs. Erskine -fairly seated than she broke the proprieties of the occasion with the -exclamation: - -“Why, my patience! if there isn’t Dr. Mason Kent, staring right -straight at me! What a splendid likeness! I declare I most feel as -though he ought to speak to me.” - -“Was Dr. Kent an acquaintance of yours?” - -Nothing could be colder, more lofty, more in keeping with the -proprieties, than the tone in which Mrs. Schuyler Colman asked the -question. - -“An acquaintance! why I guess he was. I sewed in his house nigh on -two months before his oldest daughter was married. They had a regular -seamstress in the house, one who belonged to the family, you know. O! -they were high up in the world, I tell you. But she needed extra help -when the rush came, and there was always lots of plain sewing to do, -anyway, and the woman I sewed for last recommended me, and I got in. It -was a nice place. They gave good pay; better than I ever got anywhere -else, and I always remembered Dr. Kent; he was as kind as he could be.” - -Shall I try to describe to you the glow on Ruth Erskine’s face? What -had become of her haughty indifference to other people’s opinions? -What had become of her loftily expressed scorn of persons who indulged -in pride of station, or pride of birth? Ah! little this young woman -knew about her own heart. Gradually she was discovering that _she_ had -plenty of pride of birth and station and name. The thing which had -seemed plebeian to her was to _exhibit_ such pride in a marked way -before others. - -Mrs. Colman seemed to consider it necessary to make some reply: - -“Dr. Kent is an uncle of mine,” she said, and her voice was freezing in -its dignity. - -“You don’t say! Where is he now? How I should like to see the dear old -man! I wonder, Ruth, that your pa didn’t tell me his relatives lived -here. It was at his house that I first saw your pa. I shall never -forget that night, if I live to be a hundred. They had a party, or a -dinner, or—well, I forget what the name of it was; but it was after -the wedding, you know, and crowds of fashionables was there. I was in -a back passage, helping sort out the rubbers and things that had got -mixed up; and I peeked out to see them march to dinner; and I see them -all as plain as day. I said then—says I, to Mirandy Bates, the girl -that I was helping: ‘That tall man with the long whiskers and pale face -is the stylishest one amongst ’em, I think.’ And who do you suppose it -was but your pa! Land alive! I had just as much idea of marrying him, -_then_, as I had of flying and no more.” - -“I should suppose so,” said Mrs. Schuyler Colman. She could not resist -the temptation of saying it, though Ruth darted a lightning glance at -her from eyes that were gleaming in a face that had become very pale. -She arose suddenly, remarking that they were making a very lengthy -call; and Mrs. Erskine, to whom the call seemed very short, began to -be uncomfortably conscious that she had been talking a great deal, and -perhaps not to Ruth’s liking. She relapsed into an embarrassed silence, -and made her adieu in the most awkward manner possible. Had Ruth taken -counsel of her own nerves, she would have felt it impossible to endure -more, and have beaten a retreat; but to sustain her was the memory of -the fact that certain calls _must_ be made, and, that if she did not -make them, her father must. When it came to the martyr spirit, and she -could realize that she was being martyrized in her father’s place, she -could endure. But, oh, if she could _only_ manage to give this dreadful -woman a hint as to the proprieties! And yet, suppose she stopped that -dreadful tide of reminiscences, what _would_ the woman talk about? -Still, at all hazards, it must be risked: - -“I do not think,” she began, in a tone so constrained that the very -sound of it frightened her step-mother. “I do not think that my father -would like to have you refer to your past life, among his friends.” - -“My patience!” said Mrs. Judge Erskine. “Why not? I never done anything -to be ashamed of—never in my life. I was an honest, respectable girl. -There ain’t one who knew me but could tell you that; and, as to being -poor, why, I couldn’t help that, you know; and I ain’t been rich such a -dreadful long time that I’ve forgot how it felt, neither. Not that your -pa kept me close; he never did that. But I kept myself close, you see, -because I had no kind of a notion that he was so rich.” - -This was worse than the former strain. Ruth was almost desperate: - -“It makes no difference to me how poor you were, Madam, but it is not -the custom in society to tell all about one’s private affairs.” - -And then, in the next breath, she wondered what Judge Erskine would -have said, could he have heard her address his wife in that tone, -and with those words. At least she had frightened her into silence. -And they rang at Mrs. Huntington’s and were admitted—an angry -woman, with flashing eyes, and a cowed woman, who wished she was at -home, and didn’t know what to say. Poor Ruth was sorry that she had -interfered. Perhaps any sort of talk would have been less observable -than this awkward, half frightened silence; also, Judge Burnham was -in the room, at the other end of the parlor, among the books, as one -familiar there. Mrs. Huntington belonged to the profession. Was it more -or less embarrassing because of his presence? Ruth could not bring -herself to being sure which it was. Mrs. Huntington was a genial woman, -though an exceedingly stylish one; but she knew as little how to put -a frightened, constrained person at ease, as it was possible to know -about anything; and yet her heart was good enough. - -“I suppose you attended the concert, last evening, Mrs. Erskine?” she -said, addressing that lady with a smile, and in a winning tone of -voice. But Mrs. Erskine looked over at Ruth, in the absurd fashion of a -naughty child, who, having been punished for some misdemeanor, glances -at you, to be sure that he is not offending in the same way again. -Ruth was selecting a card from her case to leave for Miss Almina -Huntington, and apparently gave no notice to her mother. Left thus to -her own resources, what could she do but answer, as best she knew how? - -“Well, no, I didn’t. Judge Erskine got tickets, and said he would take -me if I wanted to go; but I didn’t want to go. The fact is, I suppose, -it is want of education, or something; but I ain’t a might of taste for -those concerts. I like singing, too. I used to go to singing-school, -when I was a girl, and I was reckoned to have a good voice, and I -used to like it first-rate—sang in the choir, you know, and all that; -but these fiddle-dee-dee, screech-owl performances that they get off -nowadays, and call music, I can’t stand, nohow. I went to one of ’em. -I thought I’d like to please Judge Erskine, you know, and I went; and -they said it was fine, and perfectly glorious, and all that; but I -didn’t think so, and that’s the whole of it. I gaped and gaped the -whole blessed evening. I was ashamed of myself, but I couldn’t help it. -I tried to listen, too, and get the best of it, but it was just yelp -and howl, and I couldn’t make out a word, no more than if it had been -in Dutch; and I dunno but it was. I don’t like ’em, and I can’t help -it.” - -Mrs. Erskine was growing independent and indignant. Silence was not -her forte, and, in the few minutes which she had spent thus, she had -resolved not to pretend to be what she wasn’t. - -“I don’t like them yelping, half-dressed women, nor them roaring men,” -she said, swiftly, to herself, “and I mean to say so. Why shouldn’t I?” - -Poor Ruth! It was not that she enjoyed or admired operatic singing, -or the usual style of modern concert singing. In a calm, dignified, -haughty way, she had been heard to say that she thought music had -degenerated, and was being put to very unintellectual uses in these -days, in comparison with what had been its place. But that was such -a very different thing from talking about “fiddle-dee-dee,” and -“screeching,” and “howling,” and, above all, “_gaping_!” What _could_ -be said? Mrs. Huntington was not equal to the occasion. She was no -more capable of appreciating what there was of beauty in the singing -than her caller was, but she was aware that society expected her to -appreciate it; so she did it! Judge Burnham came to the rescue: - -“You are precisely of my mind, Mrs Erskine,” he said, appearing from -the recesses of the back parlor, and bowing to Ruth, while he advanced -to offer his hand to her step-mother. “You have characterized the -recent concerts in the exact language that they deserve. Such singing -is not music; it is simply ‘fiddle-dee-dee!’” - -“Why, Judge Burnham!” - -This, in an expostulating tone, from Mrs. Huntington. - -“Fact, my dear Madam. It was simply screeching, last evening; nothing -else in the world. I was a victim, and I defy anyone, with a cultured -taste, to have enjoyed it. It was almost an impossibility to endure. -Mrs. Erskine, I want to show you a picture, which I think you will -like, if you will step this way with me.” - -And he escorted the gratified little woman down the length of the -parlor, and devoted himself carefully to her, during the rest of the -very brief call which Ruth made. He came, also, to the very door-steps -with her, talking still to the mother, covering with dextrous -gallantry her awkwardness of manner and movement. - -“Thank you,” said Ruth, in a low tone, as he turned to her with a -parting bow. She could not help it, and she did not fail to notice the -gleam of pleasure which lighted his grave face at her words. - -“Aren’t you tired?” she asked her mother, as they moved away from the -Huntington mansion. Her martyr spirit had passed from her. She felt -utterly worn, as if it were impossible for her to endure more. “Don’t -you want to go home?” - -“Bless you, yes. I’m clear tuckered out. I didn’t dream that it was -such awful hard work to make calls. I don’t wonder your pa didn’t want -to go. Yes, let’s go home, for the land’s sake!” - -And they went home. When Ruth thought of Judge Burnham at all, during -the next few days, it was with a sense of gratitude, which was new, and -not unpleasant. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -OTHER PEOPLE’S CROSSES. - - -ONE could not live long in this world without realizing the -forcefulness of the sentence: “Every heart knoweth his own bitterness.” -Behind the sunniest, apparently most enviable life the bitterness -hides. It will not be supposed that Marion Dennis’ life, which, to -Ruth’s narrow vision, had blossomed into perfect coloring, was an -exception to the general rule. - -As she stands in her pretty dining-room, waiting for the coming of her -husband, and gazes out of the window at the play of light and shade in -the western sky—gazes with that far-away, thoughtful, half-sad look, -which betokens that the gazer’s thoughts are not upon the picture which -her eyes behold—it is plain, to the most careless glance, that a tinge -of somber hue has already shaded the picture of her life. She had been -through an ordeal of calls, that afternoon; not calls from intimate -and congenial friends, who came because they desired the pleasure of a -visit with her, but from some of those who came, as in custom bound, -to pay a ceremonious visit to the new wife of their pastor. They had -not been helpful callers. Without offending any of the set rules which -are supposed to govern polite society, they had yet contrived to make -Marion feel that they were keen-sighted, keen-scented society spies, -with eyes all about them, and ears alert to hear, or to fancy what they -could. Also, they had been people—some of them—who delighted in what -they termed plain speaking, which is ofttimes decorous insult, if that -expression is not a misnomer. There are people not quite coarse enough -to express adverse criticism directly to a man’s face, and such are apt -to resort to the more refined coarseness of making their criticism -into the form of a joke, and aiming it at the face of his wife! With -one or two such persons had Marion come in contact. - -“I hope you have Dr. Dennis in good subjection,” Mrs. Easterly had -said, with a peculiar little laugh that was meant to be merry, and that -jarred, without one’s being able to define why. “There is nothing like -beginning right, you know. I told Mr. Easterly, last evening, I was -afraid you would be too lenient with him; he is positively in danger of -keeping us in prayer-meeting until it is time to be thinking about the -next morning’s breakfast! Mr. Easterly said, when he got him a wife, -home would be more attractive to him; but my dear Mrs. Dennis, you must -have observed that there was no improvement last evening.” - -“I observed that he was five minutes past the hour,” Marion said; and, -if Mrs. Easterly had been familiar with her voice, she would have -discovered that it was haughty in the extreme. “Dr. Dennis is very -particular to close promptly, and, when I questioned him, he said the -people were tardy about getting in, and so delayed the opening.” - -“_Possible_ that it was only five minutes! I could have been positive -it was fifteen!” Mrs. Easterly said, ignoring the explanation, and the -statement about general punctuality. Such people always ignore remarks -that are not easy to be answered. Then the smooth voice went on: “I -think a clergyman should try to cultivate habits of punctuality about -_closing_, as well as opening meetings, so many people are over-wearied -by long drawn out exercises.” - -“As, for instance, lectures by infidels, and the like,” remarks Marion, -still with the dryness of tone that those familiar to her understand, -and calling to mind the fact that she had heard of Mrs. Easterly as -a delighted listener, for an hour and three quarters, to the popular -infidel orator, two evenings before. - -“Oh, _lectures_! Why, of course, they have a set time; every one knows -they must be lengthy. They have abstruse themes to handle, and many -classes of hearers to please.” - -“But the mere commonplaces of a prayer-meeting can be compressed into -small compass, as well as not, the theme of personal salvation not -being supposed to be of much importance, nor very abstruse, I suppose.” - -Mrs. Easterly arched her eyebrows; said nothing, because she didn’t -know what to say; made the rest of her stay brief, and remarked, when -she had gotten out of Marion’s hearing, that she had heard _that_ -Miss Wilbur spoken of as peculiar—having infidel tendencies, indeed. -Perhaps there was a shade of truth in it. For her part, she wondered -that Dr. Dennis should have been so imprudent as to have selected that -sort of a wife. It was imprudent in Marion to have answered her caller -in those words, or in that spirit. Sarcasm was lost on her, for she -hadn’t the right sort of brains to understand it. It is a curious fact -that certain people, who can be very sarcastic in themselves, can not -understand or appreciate it in others. - -And so trivial a matter as this troubled Marion? Well, yes, it did. She -had not been long in her position, you will remember. It was really her -first rude awakening from the dream that all Christian people regarded -their pastor with a certain reverent courtesy; not in a cringing or -servile spirit, not in a spirit in any sense at variance with true -independence of thought and action, but in the chivalrous spirit of the -olden time, reverencing the office, rather than the man, and according -all possible courtesy to the man, _because_ of the position he held, -as ambassador from the King’s court. Marion’s early childhood had -been spent among simple, earnest Christians—Christians whose reverent -spirit had been an outgrowth of Puritan New England; and, while her -later years had passed among a very different class of people, she -yet had clung to the fancy that _Christians_ everywhere cherished the -bond of relationship—the tie stronger than that of blood—and spoke -wisely and with respect of those who belonged, like themselves, to the -royal family. Mrs. Easterly’s words had jarred, not only because Dr. -Dennis was her husband, but because he was a clergyman, and because he -was Mrs. Easterly’s pastor. Much had she to learn, you will observe! -She was more than likely to meet often with people to whom the word -“pastor” meant less than any other title—meant, if they took time to -analyze their own feelings, one to whom they could be rude, or free, or -insultingly inquisitive, without fear of rousing him to resentment, -because resentment is not a becoming trait in the ministry! - -Dr. Dennis would have smiled could he have known the turmoil in his -wife’s heart. He had so long ago passed beyond that—had so long ago -decided that people must be ranked in classes—so many from this strip -of humanity, who did not know the difference between frankness and -rudeness—so many in this strip, who, because of their lack of early -education, must not be expected to know certain things—so many in -this strip, to whom he could talk, freely, familiarly, as brother to -brother, and friend to friend—classified Christians, belonging to the -family, indeed, but having such different degrees of likeness to the -family name that, what was a matter of course from one, was a sting -from another. All these things Dr. Dennis knew; all these things his -wife had still to learn. She was willing to learn, and she was not so -foolish as to suppose that her road was strewn with roses; but, all the -name, the tiny thorn pricked her. - -There were other and graver troubles than this. Do you remember how -she pleased her fancy, while yet she was an inhabitant of that -dingy third-story room, as to the dainty little teas she would get -for that young daughter of hers? Here it was, the very perfection -of a tea-table, exquisite and delicate and fascinating in all its -appointments; laid for three, yet, presently, when Dr. Dennis came from -his round of calls, and seated himself opposite his wife, and waited, -and then finally sent a messenger to Gracie’s room, who returned with -the message, “Miss Grace says will you please excuse her this evening, -she doesn’t care for any tea,” his face clouded, as though the answer -brought trouble to his heart. - -“Have you had further talk with Grace?” he asked his wife, when the -door had closed on the servant. - -“A little. There have been callers most of the time, but I talked with -her a few minutes.” - -“What did she say?” - -Marion would rather he had not asked the question. She hesitated a -little, then said, with an effort to speak lightly: - -“She said what was natural enough—that she thought _I_ knew almost too -much about the matter, and might have been content to leave it to you.” - -“I will not have her speaking in that manner to you,” he said, his face -growing graver, and his forehead settling into a frown. “She ought to -know better.” - -“I know it,” answered Marion, a little dash of brightness in her -voice. “She ought to be perfect, of course, and not give way in this -undignified manner. It is only such old saints as you and I who have -any right to get out of tone, when things do not go just to suit us.” - -He laughed a little, then he said: - -“Now, Marion, you know she has tried you very much, and without cause.” - -“As to that, I suppose if you and I could see into her heart, she -thinks she has sore cause. I would not make too much of it, if I were -you; and I would make nothing at all of the part which has to do with -me. She will feel differently before very long. She is young.” - -Then Dr. Dennis’ thoughts went back to his daughter. He sighed heavily: - -“I ought to have shielded her better; I was trying, I thought. I am so -astonished about that man! He has been a professor of religion ever -since he was a child.” - -“To profess a thing is not always to possess it,” Marion said, and -then she sighed to think that even in religion this was so true; and -she sighed again to realize that in her hard life she had come more in -contact with people who _professed_ without possessing than her husband -had. - -The trouble about Gracie was not so light as she had tried to make it -appear to the father. Neither had her attempt to reason the obstinate -young daughter into something like graceful yielding been so free from -self-pain as she would have him think. It was all about Prof. Ellis, -a man who, as Marion expressed it to her husband, was good enough for -a teacher, but not at all the sort of man for one so young and so -impressible as Gracie to ride away with to an evening entertainment. - -“He is the only one I have been in the habit of allowing her to ride -with,” the father had said, aghast, and then had followed, on Marion’s -part, a startled exclamation to the effect that she would have trusted -her sooner with a dozen of “the boys” with whom she had not been -allowed to associate. - -“They are better than he,” she said, earnestly, and then had followed a -long, confidential talk, which had ended in the peremptory, and by no -means wisely put, negative to Gracie’s plans; and then had followed, on -her part, questionings and surmises until at last she understood that -this new mother, who had been but a little while ago a stranger to them -both, had come between her father and herself, and then had followed, -as anyone of sense might have known there would, a scene which was by -no means complimentary to Gracie or comforting to the new mother. She -had tried to be wise. - -“Gracie,” she had said, in her gentlest tone, “you know I am a good -many years older than you, and I have known Prof. Ellis very well, and -I am sure if you realized just the sort of a man he is you would not -care to be his familiar friend.” - -“I don’t want to be his familiar friend,” Gracie had said, haughtily. -“I want to take a ride out to Katie’s with him when I have promised -to do so.” And then her eyes had fallen under the calm of Marion’s -searching gaze, and her tones had faltered. “At least I do not see that -riding out with him is a proof of very great friendship. It is no more -than I have done several times with my father’s permission.” - -“But your father was deceived in him, Gracie; he had no means of -knowing the sort of man he is, save by his professions, which have been -nothing _but_ professions for years. Gracie, I know that of him which -should make every young girl unwilling to be seen in his society or -considered his friend.” - -Whereupon Gracie’s eyes had flashed indignation for a second, then -settled into sullenness, while she answered, coldly: - -“I should think my father ought to have been capable of judging -character a little; he has had something to do with men and life. I do -not know why I should not be able to trust myself to _his_ judgment.” - -Marion smiled. It was hard to be patient with this girl. The haughty -way in which she retired behind her dignity and said, “_My_ father,” -seemed designed to shut Marion out from ownership in him, and impress -her with the sense of the newness of her acquaintance with and -entrance into the family. - -“Gracie,” she said again, after a thoughtful pause, “it may not be -known to you that there have been recent developments about Prof. Ellis -that make him an undesirable friend for you. I know that, as your -teacher, you have learned to look up to and respect him, but he is in -some respects unworthy.” - -There was for a few minutes no response from the sullen-browed girl, -with her head bent low over the slate, as if during the intervals of -this conversation she had eyes and thought only for the intricate -problem before her. Presently she said, in exactly the same tone of -repressed indignation which she had used before: - -“I repeat that in my judgment _my_ father is just as capable of -deciding as to what gentlemen are suited to be my friends as a stranger -can be.” - -Marion drew back quickly; she caught her breath hard; this was a trying -spot; what should she do or say? What would Ruth Erskine have done in -her place? At the same time there was a sense of relief in believing -that this young girl’s pride only was touched, not her heart. She was -simply rebellious that “a stranger,” as she chose to call her, should -presume to interfere with her friendships. - -“I am not a stranger, Gracie,” she said, trying to speak in all -gentleness. “I am your father’s wife, and have at his request assumed -responsibilities concerning you, for which I am answerable, not only -to him, but to God. When I tell you, therefore, what your father has -had no means of knowing, until lately, that Prof. Ellis is the sort -of man whom a young lady should shun, you ought to believe me, and to -understand that my sole motive is your welfare.” - -Then was Marion Dennis treated to a brilliant flashing of the handsome -eyes of her daughter. The slate and book slid to the floor with an -unheeded crash, as Gracie, rising and drawing up her tall form till it -equalled her mother’s, said, in tones of suppressed passion: - -“Marion Wilbur, you have no _right_ to speak in that manner of Prof. -Ellis, and I will not bear it!” - -Then Marion Dennis drew back grieved and frightened, not at her own -thrust—that was but the ill-temper of an angry girl—but because she -began to fear that this man—this wolf in sheep’s clothing, whose chief -entertainment hitherto had been to see how well he could play with -human hearts—had dared to try his powers on Gracie Dennis. “I hope he -will suffer for this,” she said, under her breath. - -In the meantime what was to be said to the angry girl, whose passion -had culminated in this outburst, and who then had thrown herself back -into the chair, not weeping, not crushed and bleeding, but excitedly -_angry_. And yet, feeling that she had said a very unwise and dangerous -thing, and must answer for it—_and yet_ not caring just now in what way -she might be called upon to answer. Being still in the mood to be glad -that she had said it she expected severity, and waited for it. - -“Gracie,” said Marion, bending toward her, and I do not know that her -voice had ever been gentler or her manner more quiet, “you do not mean -to hurt _me_; I know you do not. We are too nearly related; we are -sisters, _and the Lord Jesus Christ is our Elder Brother_. It is to him -that I ask you to listen; it is to his judgment, not mine, that I ask -you to defer. Will you lay this matter before him, and wait on your -knees for his answer, and abide by it, never minding me? If you will -the whole matter will be righted.” - -Then she turned from her and went down to receive those calls, and get -those little thrusts and pin-pricks which pricked so much deeper and -left a keener sting because in general they were leveled at her husband -instead of herself. Then she went out to that pretty table laid for -three, and saw the grave-faced father, and heard his self-reproaches, -and held back that which would have made him indignant in the extreme; -and held back her own little sigh, and realized that life was not all -sweetness, even while Ruth sat at home and envied _her_ the brightness -of her lot. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -A NEWLY-SHAPED CROSS. - - -RUTH Erskine, meantime, was keeping up her struggle, having intervals -when she seemed to be making headway, and felt as though she had -reached higher ground, only to be dropped suddenly down again, into the -depths of despair by some unfortunate encounter with the new-comers. No -more definite comment on the existing state of things could be made, -than is shadowed in that expression, “New-comers.” They still continued -to be thought of as such in the house. They did not drift into the -family ways or customs—they did not assimilate. Everything was so new -to them, so unlike their entire former education, that much of the -time they stood one side and looked on, instead of mingling and having -their individuality lost in the union. So far as Mrs. Erskine was -concerned, she did not look on _quietly_. It had been no part of her -discipline to learn quietness. She talked everywhere, under the most -trying circumstances, and she seemed always to chance upon the things -to say that were particularly unfortunate just then and there. This -being the case, it is perhaps not strange that the rasping processes -were so numerous that there was not time between them for healings. -Judge Erskine, on his part, made nearly as little progress. Being a man -of faultless grace and bearing, and being noted for fastidiousness, -made him pre-eminently susceptible to wounds in these directions. -Generally, he and Ruth maintained the strictest silence toward each -other concerning their trials, they having, by tacit consent, agreed -upon that as the safest course; but, occasionally, they were rasped -into comparing notes. In the hall one morning, where many of their -confidential conversations were held, during these days, her father -stopped her, with an almost petitioning question: - -“Daughter, was it very trying, yesterday, when Mrs. Blakesley called?” - -“As trying as it could be, sir,” Ruth answered, still smarting so much -under that recent infliction that she could not bring her voice to a -sympathetic tone. “Mrs. Blakesley, being a woman who hasn’t an ounce -of brains herself, has, as you may imagine, none to spare for other -people. Indeed, father, I sometimes feel as though this matter of -making and receiving calls was going to be too complicated a thing for -me. I never was fond of such duties, as you may remember, and now it is -absolute torture, long drawn out.” - -“I know it,” he said, wincing, and growing paler under each stabbing -word from his daughter’s lips. “It was all folly, I am afraid. I -thought we would try to do just right; but I do not know but we would -have felt it less, and they been just as happy, if we had resolutely -closed our doors on society altogether, and borne this thing among -ourselves.” - -What these two people needed was some strong voice to remind them how -many, and how much harder troubles life had, than they had been called -upon to bear. Despite Marion Dennis’ opinion, this is—or it should be—a -help. By comparison with other’s trials, we ought to be led to feel the -lesser nature of our own. Failing in that, it sometimes happens to us -to decide as to which of our _own_ trials has the heaviest hand. - -“I don’t think that would have been possible,” Ruth answered, her tone -somewhat subdued, as it always was, by a realization of her father’s -deeper wound. “But, I wish with all my heart, I saw a way to escape -from some of this calling. There are hundreds, almost, yet to make, and -some of them more formidable than any that we have attempted; and the -list continues to swell every day.” - -The father had no answer; he saw no way out. And yet a way was coming, -swiftly—one which would help them both out of this dilemma, at least. -It was the very next morning that Judge Erskine failed to appear -at the breakfast-table and his wife brought word that he was most -uncommon restless all night, and pretty fevery, and resisted all her -suggestions to give him a good sweat, or to drink any boneset-tea, or -even to soak his feet in mustard-water. Consequence was, he didn’t feel -able to raise his head from his pillow, and wouldn’t so much as let her -speak of any breakfast, though she _did_ tell over several things to -him, that she thought he might relish. - -Ruth groaned inwardly, not so much at anxiety for her father—his -sicknesses were slight affairs soon over, and his most sovereign remedy -had hitherto been to be let alone. How, then, had he borne this fearful -infliction of sympathy and fertile suggestion? - -But the sickness, whatever it was, did not pass away, as others had -done. Ruth visiting him, and seeing the fevered face and anxious -eyes, felt a nameless dread, and entreated that Dr. Bacon might at -once be summoned, being even more alarmed at the fact that her father -immediately acquiesced. Dr. Bacon was slow in coming, being a man much -sought after in his profession. But he was also unprecedentedly slow -in leaving, making a call, the length of which amazed Ruth and at -which she did not know whether to be alarmed or relieved. During its -continuance Judge Burnham stopped to inquire as to some law papers, and -also apparently to make a call, for he tarried after he found that he -could not accomplish his original errand, and was in the hall, in the -act of leaving, when the doctor came, with slow and thoughtful tread, -down-stairs. That gentleman caught at his familiar face, as if it were -a relief. - -“Ah, good morning, Judge,” he said. “This is opportune. May I have a -word with you?” - -And then he unceremoniously pushed open the library door, and both -gentlemen retired within, leaving Ruth perplexed, and perhaps a little -annoyed. The door closed upon them. Dr. Bacon was not long in making -known his thoughts: - -“Judge, are you an intimate friend of this family?” - -“Why,” said Judge Burnham, hesitating, and flushing a little over the -question, “I hardly know whether I may claim exceeding intimacy; the -Judge is not apt to have very intimate friends. Perhaps I come as near -it as anybody. Yes, I think I may say I am considered a friend—by -_him_, at least. Why, may I ask?” - -“Because they need a friend—one who is not afraid of himself or his -feelings, and can help them plan, and perhaps execute.” - -“What on earth do you mean? Is the Judge so very sick?” - -“Well, as to that, he is likely to be sick enough—sicker, indeed, than -I care to have his daughter realize, just at present. But the _nature_ -of the sickness is the trouble. It is a very marked case of a very -undesirable type of small-pox! Now, don’t back out of the nearest door, -and leave me in the lurch, for I depend on you.” - -This last, as Judge Burnham uttered an exclamation of dismay, and -stepped backward. The sentence recalled his self-possession. - -“Don’t be disturbed,” he said, and his tones were somewhat haughty. “I -have not the slightest intention of fleeing. I shall be glad to serve -him and his—his family, to the best of my ability. But what is there -for me to do? Is he aware of the situation?” - -“Most decidedly so. I didn’t mince matters with him; he is not one -that will bear it; he knows all that I do, and is as clear-headed as -usual; he knows certain things that must _not_ be done. For instance, -his daughter Ruth is, on no account, to be allowed to put her head -inside the door. He was peremptory about that and must be obeyed, -though there is no earthly fear of infection for some days yet; but I -have given my word of honor that it shall be as he says. The trouble -is, they will be left in the lurch. There isn’t a small-pox nurse in -the city that I know of. I would have given fifty dollars an hour, -almost, for a good one last night, and, besides, the servants must be -informed, and they will leave to a man, or a woman. In books you are -always reading of heroic servants who are willing to take their lives -in their hands and stand by their mistresses through anything. I wish -I could find a few of them! I would promise them high wages. Well, -now, what you can do first, is to explain the state of affairs to Miss -Erskine. I would sooner try to explain to an iceberg, or a volcano—I am -never quite sure which she is. And then, if you have any wits, set them -to work to establish communication between this house and the outer -world. In other words, do what you can for them, _if_ you can. You know -better than I do whether you are on sufficient terms of intimacy to do -anything with her. The old lady must be told, I suppose, though Judge -Erskine didn’t mention her at all. Perhaps she will want to get out of -the house, somewhere, and very likely you can manage that. At least the -first thing of importance is to tell Miss Ruth. Will you do it?” - -“Y-e-s,” said Judge Burnham, speaking slowly and hesitatingly. It was -by no means the sort of communication that he desired to make to her, -yet he felt an instant desire to stand by her, and, if disagreeable -tidings must be given, bear them himself, in whatever alleviating way -he might. - -“Very well,” answered the doctor, promptly. He was spending a great -deal of time, on this case, and was getting in haste. “I ought to have -been off fifteen minutes ago, but Judge Erskine wanted all the affairs -of the nation arranged before I left. He knows what he wants, and, so -far as it is within the compass of human possibility, he intends to -have it. Will you see Miss Ruth at once, and do what planning you -can? Meantime, I will make one more dash for a nurse. No one is to go -up to Judge Erskine until I see him again. I fancy he wants to do some -thinking for himself. That is his peremptory order, and it will be -well enough to obey it. There is no sort of danger of infection now, -you understand, but he is quite as well off alone, for a little. Now, -I positively must go. I will look in on my way down the square, and -report further.” - -And then the great doctor took himself off leaving Judge Burnham with -the worst case on his hands that had ever fallen to his professional -life. He walked slowly toward the door, but before he could pass out it -was pushed open by Ruth, her face white and frightened. “Judge Burnham -what has happened? what is the matter? is my father so very sick? and -why am I not to be allowed to go to him?” - -“One thing at a time, dear friend,” he said, and his voice had a touch -of sympathy that could not have escaped her. “Your father is not -alarmingly sick, but the sickness is of such a nature that he will not -have you exposed to it even for a moment. It was his first thought.” -And then he pushed a chair forward and gently placed her in it, and sat -down beside her, telling her briefly, rapidly, in a half professional -manner, all he knew himself. He was a good student of human nature; his -success in his profession would have proved that, and he knew it was -the surest way to hold her self-controlled and ready for intelligent -thought. He had not misjudged her character. She neither cried out -nor fainted; she had been pale enough before, but her face whitened a -little and she covered her eyes with her hands for an instant. It was a -curious revelation to her of the strangeness of these human hearts of -ours, when she remembered afterward that, flashing along with the other -crowding thoughts as to what, and how, there came the swift memory of -the yesterday’s talk, and the instant realization of the fact that -they would have neither to make nor receive any more of those dreadful -calls, for some time, at least. Just a moment of hiding behind those -hands and then she was ready for action. “Judge Burnham, have you -thought what ought to be done first, and if you have, will you help -me? It makes it harder because my father will not let me come to him. -If we could talk together, if he would let me be his nurse, I could—” -and then she hesitated, and her lip began to quiver. She remembered -that her father was the one person whom she had to love. - -“There is no use in talking about that,” Judge Burnham said, hastily; -“the doctor said he ought, by all means, to be humored in this matter; -that it would help to keep him calm, and thus hold the disease in -check; you should not have a thought of going to him. Some nurse can -surely be found; people will do anything for money. I suppose, Miss -Erskine, it will be necessary to tell the other members of the family?” - -“Of course,” Ruth said, and she tried not to shiver, visibly, as she -thought of what Mrs. Erskine might say, and wondered whether she was -one of those women who were ignorantly and wildly afraid of infection, -and whether there would be a scene with her, and what Susan would -do, or say. Then she thought of the servants. “Hannah and Thomas and -the rest ought to be told, ought they not, Judge Burnham?” Then she -suddenly roused from her half-suppressed, appealing tones, and rising, -said, “How foolishly I am talking! This thing has startled me so. Of -course they must be told; and it should be done at once; I will take no -unfair advantage of them in any way. Yes, I will tell Mrs. Erskine and -my sister. Thank you, Judge Burnham.” - -And that gentleman began to consider himself as almost dismissed from -her presence. - -“What can I do for you, first?” he asked her, eagerly; “I am not one -of those who are afraid of anything, Miss Erskine; in mortal guise, -at least. I am going up to see your father, and since you can not go -yourself, you might make me your messenger, to say anything that you -would say, that you are willing to have me repeat.” - -Her eyes brightened. “Thank you,” she said, “it is very pleasant to -feel that you do not want to desert us. But I will not trouble papa, -until I can tell him that we are arranged somehow, and that he need not -worry.” - -She went down first to the kitchen regions and summoned the working -force, telling them in brief, clear language, what had fallen upon -the house, and offering them each two weeks’ wages in advance and good -characters. She was young and had not been put to many such tests. They -were not “servants in a book,” it appeared, for they every one, eagerly -caught at their liberty and were nervously anxious to get out of the -plague-stricken house, not even desiring to wait until Ruth could get -her pocket-book and make good her word. _They_ were young and ignorant, -and in the great outside world they had friends; life was dear to them. -Who shall blame them? And yet, I desire to say, just here, that it is -_not_ in books only that noble, self-sacrificing exceptions to this -form of selfishness are found; I have known kitchens that ought to have -glowed with the beauty of the strong, unselfish hearts beating there, -through danger, and trial, and harassing toil. It only happened that -Ruth Erskine had none of those about her, and, within half an hour -after the first word had reached them, she stood alone in her deserted -kitchen, trying to get her nerves quiet for the next, and, to her, -more trying ordeal. What would those new elements in the household -say? Was Mrs. Erskine given to hysteria, and would these startling -developments produce an attack? Would they want to get away from the -house? Could they be gotten away, quietly, to some safe place? Would -Susan be willing to go? How would _she_ take the news? Ruth puzzled -her brain some weary minutes in trying to decide just how they would -act, and whether she had courage to tell them, and whether it were not -altogether possible that Mrs. Erskine might be moved to make such an -outcry as should disturb the sick man, up-stairs. At last she gave over -the attempt to arrange their actions for them, and went to summon them -to the library, with an air of forced calmness and a determination to -have this worst feature of the side issues over, as soon as possible. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -THE CROSS OF HELPLESSNESS. - - -“MY land alive!” - -That was what Mrs. Erskine said, when Ruth told her the news. You may -have observed that those three words constituted a favorite expression -of hers—one which she was apt to use on all occasions, greatly to her -stepdaughter’s discomfiture. She winced under it now, it seemed so -ridiculously inappropriate to the disaster that had come into their -midst. While she was trying to impress the situation on the mother and -Susan, Dr. Bacon returned. He came directly into the library, as one -who had laid aside all the ceremonies of private life, and adopted -the business style. He hurried into the midst of the difficulties, -being one who, while capable of feeling the most intense and practical -sympathy for others, had never learned the art of expressing it other -than by actions. - -“Miss Ruth, I am afraid it is going to be almost impossible to get a -proper nurse for your father. There is a good deal of this abominable -disease in the city, now, and the nurses are taxed to the utmost. -Ordinary nurses, you know, will not come, and would not do, anyway. So -we shall have to manage as well as we can, for a little, until I can -look around me and get somebody.” - -Then Mrs. Erskine came to the front. - -“What are you talking about—_nurses_? Who wants one of ’em? miserable, -half-awake creatures; not but what I’ve seen some good ones in my day, -but I could beat any of ’em, when it come to a real up-and-down case of -sickness; and I can nurse my own husband, you’ll find, better than the -best of ’em. I brought him back from death’s door once, and I will try -hard to do it again. A _nurse_ is the last kind of a creature that I -want to help me.” - -“But, Mrs. Erskine, I ought not to conceal from you that this is going -to be a very decided case of small-pox. The chances of infection, to -one who nurses him, will be very great.” - -“I can’t help _that_, you know,” she said, determinedly; “_I’ve_ got to -be with him, of course. Who would, if his wife wasn’t? I don’t believe -I’ll take it. I never was one of them kind that always took things. -I have the sick-headache, and that’s every blessed thing I do have, -except a touch of the rheumatism, now and then; but I never did have -a bit of headache, nor nothing, when there was any real sickness on -my hands. All the time Susan had the fever I sot up nights, or stood -up—a good deal of the time she was that sick that I didn’t set down; -I jest kept on the trot all night, doing one thing and another. But, -all the while, I never had an ache nor a pain about me; and, if I do -take it, I might as well as the next one. I ain’t a mite afraid of it; -not that I’d run into it any quicker than you would, but, when it runs -into your own house, and gets hold of your own flesh and blood, or your -husband—which is the next thing to that—why, then, I’m one of them -kind that has to be on hand. There’s no use talkin’—_I’m a going to -nurse him_, and all the doctor’s in the city can’t stop me.” - -“I assure you, Mrs. Erskine, I haven’t the least desire to do so. On -the contrary, I appreciate your devotion.” - -The doctor’s tone was earnest—his manner respectful. Mrs. Judge Erskine -had evidently risen several degrees in his esteem. She was not a piece -of putty, to be gotten out of the way in the least troublesome manner; -but a live and very energetic factor in this business. A woman who not -only was not afraid of small-pox, but could calmly insist on her right -to attend a very bad case of it, was deserving of all respect from -him; and he did not, in the least, care how many grammatical errors -she made in expressing her determination. In less time than it takes -me to tell you of it, the question of attendant on the sick man was -settled, and Mrs. Erskine installed as nurse by the relieved doctor, -to the satisfaction of all but Ruth. She thought, in dismay, of the -misery which her father would be called to endure. How was he, sick and -nervous—and she knew he could be fearfully nervous, when only a little -ill—to bear the strain of that woman’s tongue, when, in health, it was -more than he could endure? What would he say to the plan? Would he feel -that she might have shielded him from it? Yet how could _she_ help it? -and, indeed, what else could be done? She had been very nervous over -his being left alone. It had seemed to her that she must disregard his -positive command and go to him; and it had been such a source of relief -and comfort when Judge Burnham announced his intention of going, that -she felt she could never forget it. Certainly it would not do to leave -him without an attendant. Yet she could not be grateful to the wife for -proposing it. - -“He can never endure it!” she murmured; and she looked her distress so -completely that the doctor was moved to soothe her, when he came back -from installing Mrs. Erskine, and giving her directions. - -“It will do for a few days, my dear girl; or, at least, for a few -hours, until we can look about us, and secure professional assistance. -There is not the slightest danger of her taking the disease _now_, you -know; indeed, you might be with him yourself, only he is so nervous -about you that he will not listen to reason. But she will take good -care of him. I really think she understands how to do it.” - -Ruth made no reply; she could not. She wanted to ask what her father -said, and whether he was likely to bear up under such an added weight -of misery as this last. But, reflecting that it would not do to say -anything of the kind, she took refuge in silence. And the work of -rearranging this disorganized and disordered household went on. - -In an incredibly short space of time, considering all that had to -be planned and arranged, the doctor had done his share of it, given -explicit and peremptory directions as to what should, and what should -_not_ be done, and was gone. As for Judge Burnham, he had gone directly -from the sick-room to Judge Erskine’s office, on a matter of business -for the latter. So the two sisters were left alone in the library, to -stare at each other, or out into the street, as they chose. - -Susan Erskine had been a very silent looker-on at this morning’s -confusion. Ruth could not tell what she thought. Beyond the first -exclamation of surprise, she had expressed no dismay. A little touch -of some feeling (what was it?) she had shown once, when her mother was -planning, and announcing that she did not intend to take the disease, -and, if she did, _she_ might as well as anyone. - -“Oh, mother!” Susan had said, in a low, distressed tone—a tone full -of suppressed feeling of some sort—and her mother had turned on her -sharply, with a— - -“Well, child, what?” - -“Nothing,” Susan said, as one who had checked her sentence and was -holding herself silent. And thereafter she made no sign. - -And so at last these two sisters were stranded in that deserted -library. Ruth, on her part, gazing blankly out of the window, watching -the hurrying passers-by with a curious sense of wonderment as to what -they would think could they know what was transpiring inside. Suddenly -she turned from the window with an exclamation of dismay—a thought, -which until now had dropped into the background, returned to her. - -“There isn’t a servant in the house!” - -“Why, what has become of them?” - -“They fled at the very first mention of the trouble. Never was anything -accomplished more rapidly. I thought they had hardly time to reach -their rooms when they disappeared around the corner.” - -“Is it possible!” Susan said, after a moment’s silent contemplation. -She was both surprised and disappointed. There was nothing in her -nature that could respond to that method of bearing one another’s -burdens, and she did not understand human nature well enough to expect -developments in others which were foreign to her own. - -“What shall we do about dinner?” Ruth asked, after another interval of -silence. - -“Why, get it,” Susan answered, lightly. She could not comprehend what -an impossible thing this was in Ruth’s estimation. - -“But I—why, I know nothing about it,” Ruth said, stammering and aghast. - -“I do. There is nothing about a dinner that I do not understand, I -believe—that is, a reasonable and respectable dinner. In fact, I -know how to do several things that are unreasonable. I’ll go right -down-stairs and take a view of the situation.” - -“I will go with you,” Ruth said, heroically. “I don’t know anything -about such matters, but I can at least show you through the house.” - -Is it your fortune to know, by experience, just what a deserted look -a kitchen can take on in a brief space of time, when the regular -inhabitants thereof have made a sudden exit? Just let the fire in the -range go down, with unswept ashes littering the hearth, and unwashed -dishes filling the tables, and a general smell of departed cookery -pervading the air, and you need no better picture of dismalness. -Especially is this the case if you survey the scene as Ruth did, -without being able to conceive how it was possible ever again to bring -order out of this confusion. - -“Why, dear me!” said Susan, “things look as though they had stirred -them up to the best of their abilities before they left. Where is the -hearth-brush kept, Ruth?” - -“I am sure I don’t know,” Ruth said, and she looked helpless and -bewildered. - -“Well, then, I’ll look for it. We must have a fire the first thing. I -wonder where the kindlings are?” - -Then she began to open little doors and crannies, in a wise sort of -way, Ruth looking on, not knowing that there were such places to search -into. Both hearth-brush and kindlings were found, and Susan attacked -the range, while Ruth took up a china cup and set it down again, moved -a pile of plates to the side of the table and moved them back again, -looking utterly dazed and useless. - -“I wonder if this damper turns up or down?” - -This from Susan, and her sister turned and surveyed the damper with a -grave, puzzled air before she spoke. - -“It is no sort of use to ask me. I never even examined the range. I -know no more about the dampers than the people on the street do.” - -“Never mind,” said Susan, “the smoke does. It puffs out with one -arrangement, and goes up the chimney, as it should, with the other.” - -“I don’t know how we are ever to do it,” Ruth said. - -“What, make the fire? Why, it is made already! Don’t you hear it roar? -This is a splendid range; I should think it would be fun to cook with -it. Our stove was cracked, and one door-hinge was broken, and besides -it wouldn’t bake on the bottom. The _stove_ wouldn’t, you know—not the -broken hinge.” - -Susan rarely—indeed, I might say never—indulged in reminiscence, and -therefore Ruth was touched. - -“Why did you keep yourselves so poorly provided for?” she asked, a -flush rising on her pale cheek. “I have heard your mother say that you -were well supplied with money.” - -“We were. It was one of my mother’s whims, if you choose to call it -so. She was continually troubled with the feeling that some day she or -I, or—more often, I think—_father_, might need all the money she could -save; and I never combated the feeling, except when it intrenched too -closely on her own needs. She seemed fairly haunted with the thought.” - -“How absurd!” said Ruth, and her lip curled. - -As for Susan, _her_ lips opened, and then closed partly, and whatever -she would have uttered remains in oblivion. She closed the damper -energetically, and said: - -“There, that is conquered! Now, what are we to have for dinner?” - -“Why, I ordered roast lamb and its accompaniments,” Ruth said, -recalling her minute directions given to the skillful cook (she knew -how to _order_ dinners,) “but, of course, that is out of the question.” - -“Why, not at all, if you would like it. I know exactly how to roast -lamb. But, then, who would eat it?” - -“Why, Prof. Stevens and his friend are to dine with us. Oh, they must -be sent word not to come! How _can_ we send? Who is there to go?” - -And Ruth, the complications of her situation pressing upon her in these -minor details, looked utterly dismayed. - -“Why, Judge Burnham will be our errand-boy—he said so. I met him as -he came down-stairs, and he told me to say that he would call as soon -as he had attended to father’s commission, and serve us in any way -that we desired. We will have him first recall the invitation to our -guests, and then we will send him to the ‘butcher’s, the baker’s, and -the candlestick-maker’s.’ I shouldn’t be surprised if he proved a very -useful member of society.” - -Susan was bent on being cheerful. “Things are not so bad but they might -have been worse,” she had said, almost as soon as she was told of the -trouble. - -“Mother says he might have been taken sick down town, and if they had -known what the disease was they wouldn’t have allowed him to come home. -Think of that! But about the roast lamb,” she said. “Do you think you -and I could compass it, or shall we compel the errand-boy to stay and -divide the work with us?” - -Then these two girls did what was perhaps the wisest thing for them to -do, under the circumstances. They laughed—a real _laugh_. - -“Why not?” said Susan. “He is not very sick. The doctor said he didn’t -think he would be, because he would be well taken care of at the very -outset; and he will, you may be sure of that. Mother knows how, and her -heart is in it. You may trust her, Ruth, in a time of sickness. And -we shall manage nicely. This disconsolate kitchen shall take on new -features presently. If I were you I would go right up-stairs and be -ready to give Judge Burnham his orders when he comes. He is real good -and kind. I like him. He will help us in every way. And when you come -down again I will have things in train for a first-class dinner.” - -A new anxiety occurred to Ruth. - -“Do you know how to prepare food for sick people?” she asked. - -“Indeed I do! The most appetizing little dishes that you can imagine. -I’ve always thought I had a special talent in that direction. We will -waylay the doctor the very next time he comes, and find out what he -will allow, and then I’ll cook it; and you must arrange it daintily -with silver, and china, and flowers, you know. They will let us have -all sorts of nice things up there for a while, and I think that is -the real secret of serving an invalid, having everything arranged -tastefully and gracefully.” - -Ruth turned toward her sister with a very tender smile on her face. -She realized that there had been an effort to make her feel that she -was in a position to do an important service for her father, and the -thoughtfulness of the effort touched her. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -LOOKING FOR AN EASY YOKE. - - -WEARY days now in store for Ruth Erskine—far more weary and dispiriting -than she had imagined were possible to endure. It was such a strange -experience to stand at the window and watch passers-by, hurrying out -of the neighborhood of the plague-spotted house; crossing the street -at most inconvenient points, to avoid a nearer contact. It was so -strange to have day after day pass, and never hear the sound of the -door-bell—never see the face of a caller—never receive an invitation. -In short, it was a sudden shutting out of the world in which she had -always lived, and a shutting down into one narrow circle, which -repeated itself almost exactly every twenty-four hours. She and Susan -must needs be companions now, whether they would or not. They must sit -down together three times a day, at table, and go through the forms -of eating—not so repulsive a proceeding, by the way, as it had seemed -to Ruth it must of necessity be, with no one to serve. Susan had -reduced the matter to a system, and produced, as if by magic, the most -appetizing dishes, served in faultless style; and, when the strangeness -of sitting opposite each other, and having no one to look at or talk -to but themselves, began to wear away, they found it a not unpleasant -break in the day’s monotony to talk together while they waited on each -other. - -Then there was the sick man’s food to prepare, and Susan exhausted -her skill, and Ruth contributed of her taste, in graceful adornings. -Judge Erskine still adhered to his resolution not to allow his daughter -to visit him; so all that could be done for his comfort must be -second-handed, but this little was a great relief to heart and brain. - -Then there was Judge Burnham, a source of continual comfort. He seemed -to be the only one, of all the large circle of friends, who failed to -shun the stricken house. He was entirely free from fear, and came and -went at all hours, and on all possible errands—market-man, post-man, -errand-man in general, and unfailing friend. Not a day passed in which -he did not make half a dozen calls, and every evening found him an -inmate of the quiet parlor, with a new book, or poem, or, perhaps, only -a fresh bouquet of sweet-smelling blossoms, for the sisters. Apparently -his tokens of friendship and care were bestowed jointly on _the -sisters_—he not choosing between them by a hair-breadth. - -Still despite all the alleviating circumstances, the way was weary, -and the time hung with increased heaviness on their hands—long hours -of daylight, in which there seemed to be nothing to settle to, and in -which there was as effectually nowhere to go, as if they were held in -by bolts and bars. - -“If we were, either of us, fond of fancy work, I believe it would be -some relief,” Ruth said, wearily, one afternoon, as she closed her -book, after pronouncing it hopelessly dull. “Flossy Shipley could spend -days in making cunning little worsted dogs, with curly tails, and, if -there really were nothing else that she felt she ought to do, I believe -she could be quite happy in that!” - -Susan laughed. - -“One of us ought to have developed that talent, perhaps,” she said, -brightly. “I don’t know why you didn’t. As for myself, I never had the -time, and, if I had, the materials would have been beyond my purse. But -I like pretty things. I have really often wished that I knew how to -make some. You don’t know how to teach me, I suppose?” - -“No, indeed; and, if I did, I’m afraid I shouldn’t do it. Nothing ever -seemed more utterly insipid to me, though, of course, I never planned -any such life as we are having now.” - -“Look here,” Susan said, turning suddenly toward her sister, and -dropping the paper which she had been reading. “I have a pleasant -thought. We are almost tired of all sorts of books; but there is one -Book which never wears out. What if this time of absolute and enforced -leisure should have been given us in which to get better acquainted -with what it says? What if you and I should begin to study the Bible -together?” - -Ruth looked gloomy. - -“I don’t know much about the Bible,” she said; “and I don’t know how to -study it. I read a chapter every day, and, of course, I get some help -out of it; but I see so much that I don’t understand, and—well, to be -frank, so much that it seems to me strange should have been put into -the book at all, when necessarily a great deal that we would like to -know was left out, that it worries and disappoints me.” - -She half expected to shock Susan, and looked toward her with determined -eyes, ready to sustain her position, in case an argument was produced. -But Susan only answered, with a quiet— - -“I know; I used to feel very much in the same way, until I had a light -given me to go by, which shone upon some of the verses that had been so -dark before.” - -There was no lighting up of Ruth’s face. - -“I know what you mean,” she said, gravely “You mean that the Bible -was a new book to you after you were converted. I have heard a great -many people say that, but it doesn’t help me as much as you might -suppose it would. Of course it made a new book for _me_, because the -Bible was never anything to me at all, until I was converted. I have -passed years without looking into it; indeed, I may say I _never_ read -it. When I was a school-girl, I used to find extracts from it in my -parsing-book, and some of them seemed to me very lofty sentiments, and -several of them I committed to memory, because of the beauty of their -construction; but that was the extent of my acquaintance with the -book. One of the first things I noticed a Christian say, after I was -converted, was about the Bible—what a wonderful book it was to him, and -how, every time he read a verse, it opened a new idea. I thought it -would be that way with me; but it hasn’t been. I love the Bible; that -is, I love certain things which I find in it; but it doesn’t seem to me -as I thought it would. I can’t say that I love to study it; or, rather, -perhaps I might say I don’t know how to study it. I can memorize -verses, of course, and I do, somewhat, when I find one that pleases -me; but—well, I never told anyone about it, but it has disappointed me -a little.” - -_Now_ she had shocked Susan; anyway, she felt sure of it. She had -lived long enough, even now, with this plain, quiet sister, to have -discovered that the Bible was a great fountain of help to her. She -would not be able to understand why it was not the same to Ruth. -Neither did Ruth understand it; and, though perhaps she did not realize -even this, it was an undertone of longing to get at the secret of -the difference between them which prompted her words. But Susan only -smiled, in a quiet, unsurprised way, and said: - -“I understand you perfectly; I have been over the same ground.” - -“But you are not there, now?” - -“Oh, no, I am not.” - -“And you learned to love the Bible by studying it?” - -“Well, that was the means, of course; but my real help was the -revelation which God gave me of himself through the Spirit.” - -No face could look blanker and gloomier than Ruth’s. She was silent -for a few minutes, then she commenced again, her voice having taken on -a certain dogged resoluteness of tone as one who thought, “I _will_ say -it.” - -“I don’t know why I am talking in this way to you; it is not natural -for me to be communicative to any person; but I may as well tell you -that my religion has been a disappointment to me. It is not what I -thought it was. I expected to live such a different life from any -that I had lived before. I expected to be earnest, and successful, -and happy; and it seems to me that no way was ever more beset with -difficulties than mine has been. When I really wanted to do right, -and tried, I was apparently as powerless as though I didn’t care. I -expected to be unselfish, and I am just as selfish, so far as I can -see, as I ever was. I struggle with the feeling, and pray over it, but -it is there just the same. If for one half hour I succeed in overcoming -it, I find it present with me the next hour in stronger force than -before. It is all a disappointment. I knew the Christian life was a -warfare, but someway I expected more to it than there is; I expected -peace out of it, and I haven’t got it. I have had my seasons of -thinking the whole thing a delusion, so far as I was concerned; but I -can not believe that, because in some respects I feel a decided change. -I believe I belong to Christ; but I do so shrink from the struggles -and trials and disappointments of this world! I feel just as though I -wanted to shirk them all. Sometimes I think if He _only would_ take me -to heaven, where I could rest, I would be _so_ grateful and happy.” - -The hardness had gone out of her face now, and the tears were dropping -silently on her closed book. - -“Poor girl!” said Susan, tenderly. “Poor, tired heart. Don’t you think -that the Lord Jesus can rest you anywhere except by the way of the -grave? That is such a mistake, and I made it for so long that I know -all about it. Don’t you hear his voice calling to you to come and rest -in him this minute?” - -“I don’t understand you. I _am_ resting in him. That is, I feel sure at -times. I feel sure now that he has prepared a place in heaven for me, -and will take me there as he says. But I am so tired of the road; I -want to drop out from it now and be at rest.” - -“Haven’t you found his yoke easy and his burden light, then?” - -“No, I haven’t. I know it is my own fault; but that doesn’t alter the -fact or relieve the weariness.” - -“Then do you believe that he made a mistake when he said the yoke was -easy?” - -Ruth arrested her tears to look up in wonder. - -“Of course not,” she said, quickly. “I know it is owing to myself, but -I don’t know how to remedy it. There are those who find the statement -meets their experience, I don’t doubt, but it seems not to be for me.” - -“But, if that is so, don’t you think he ought to have said, ‘Some of -you will find the burden light, but others of you will have to struggle -and flounder in the dark?’ You know he hasn’t qualified it at all. He -said, ‘Come unto me and I will give you rest; take my yoke upon you, -for it is light.’ And he said it to all who are ‘heavy laden.’” - -“Well,” said Ruth, after a thoughtful pause, “I suppose that means his -promise to save the soul eternally. I believe he has done that for me.” - -“But is that all he is able or willing to do? If he can save the soul -eternally can not he give it peace and rest here?” - -“Why, of course he could, if it were his will; but I don’t know that he -has ever promised to do so.” - -“Don’t you? Do you suppose he who hates sin has made us so that we can -not keep from constantly grieving him by falling into sin, and has -promised us no help from the burden until we get to heaven? I don’t -think that would be entire salvation.” - -“What _do_ you mean?” Ruth asked, turning a full, wondering gaze on -her sister. “You surely don’t believe that people are perfect in this -world?” - -“Pass that thought, just now, will you? Let me illustrate what I mean. -I found my besetting sin to be to yield to constant fits of ill-temper. -It took almost nothing to rouse me, and the more I struggled and tossed -about in my effort to _grow_ better the worse it seemed to me I became. -If I was to depend on progressive goodness, as I supposed, when was I -to begin to grow _toward_ a better state; and when I succeeded should -I not really have accomplished my own rescue from sin? It troubled and -tormented me, and I did not gain until I discovered that there were -certain promises which, with conditions, meant me. For instance, there -was one person who, when I came in contact with her, invariably made -me angry. For months I never held a conversation with her that I did -not say words which seemed to me afterward to be very sinful, and which -angered her. This after I had prayed and struggled for self-control. -One day I came across the promise, ‘My grace is sufficient for thee.’ -Sufficient for what? I asked, and I stopped before the words as if they -had just been revealed. I found it to be unlimited as to quantity or -time. It did not say, ‘After you have done the best you can—struggled -for years and gained a little—then my grace shall be sufficient.’ -It did not say, ‘My grace is sufficient for the great and trying -experiences of this life, but not for the little every-day annoyances -and trials which tempt you—you must look out for yourself.’ It was -just an unlimited promise—‘My grace is sufficient—not for my saints, -for those who have been faithful and successful, but for _thee_.’ -Having made that discovery, and felt my need, I assure you I was not -long in claiming my rights. Now, I want to ask you what that promise -means?” - -“‘My grace is sufficient for thee,’” Ruth repeated, slowly, -thoughtfully. Then she paused, while Susan waited for the answer, which -came presently, low-toned and wondering. - -“I’m sure I don’t know. I read the verse only yesterday, but it didn’t -occur to me that it had any reference to _me_. I don’t know what I -thought about it.” - -“But what does it seem to you that it says? Christ meant something by -it, of course. What was it?” - -“I don’t know,” she said again, thoughtfully. “That is, why it _can’t_ -mean what it appears to, for then there would be nothing left to -struggle about.” - -“Well, has Christ ever told you to struggle? On the contrary, hasn’t he -told you to rest?” - -“It seems to me,” said Ruth, after revolving that thought, or some -other, in silence for several minutes—“it seems to me that one who -thought as you do about these things would be claiming perfection; and -if there is one doctrine above another that I despise it is just that. -I know one woman who is always talking about it, and claiming that she -hasn’t sinned in so many months, and all that nonsense; and really she -is the most disagreeable woman I ever met in my life.” - -“Look here,” said Susan. “Do you rely on the Lord Jesus for salvation? -That is, do you believe you are a sinner, and could do nothing for -yourself, and he just had to come and do it for you, and present your -claim to Heaven through himself?” - -“Why, of course there is no other way. I _know_ that I am a sinner; and -I know it is wonderful in him to have been willing to save me; but he -has.” - -“Well, now, aren’t you afraid to claim that, for fear people will think -that you saved yourself?” - -“I don’t understand,” Ruth said, gravely. - -“Don’t you? Why, you fear to claim Christ’s promise to you—that his -grace is _now_ sufficient for every demand that you choose to make on -it—for fear people will think you consider yourself perfect. Why should -they not, just as readily, think that because you relied on Christ for -final salvation therefore you relied on yourself?” - -“That is a foolish contradiction.” - -“Yes; isn’t the other?” - -“I never heard anybody talk as you do,” was Ruth’s answer. - -“I haven’t a different Bible from yours,” Susan said, smiling. “You -admit to me that the promise about which we are talking is in yours, -and you read it yesterday. What I wonder is, what you think it means.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -“THROUGH A GLASS, DARKLY.” - - -THE last was but the beginning of many talks which those two sisters -held together concerning the meaning of the promises which Christ had -made to his children. During the time Ruth received and accepted some -new ideas; but it must be admitted that it was her intellect which -accepted them, rather than her heart. She acknowledged that the Lord -had plainly said his grace was sufficient for them, and that, having -been tempted, he was able to succor those who were tempted; and that -there should no temptation take his children except such as they were -able to bear, because the faithful God would provide a way of escape. -All these, I say, she admitted; they were plainly written in his word -and _must_ mean what they said. Still she went on, being tempted and -yielding to the temptation, struggling against the gloom and unrest -of her lot—struggling fiercely against the providence which had come -between her and the Father, whom she began to realize she had worshiped -rather than loved—struggling, fighting, baffled, wounded, defeated—only -to rise up and struggle afresh, all the while admitting with her clear -brain-power that he said: “As thy day, so shall thy strength be.” Why -did she not have the strength? She dimly questioned with herself, -occasionally, the why; she even deemed herself ill-treated because none -of the promised strength came to her; but she passed over the searching -question of the Lord to his waiting suppliant: “_Believe_ ye that I am -able to do this?” Had the Lord Jesus Christ appeared to Ruth in bodily -presence and asked her this question she realized afterward that she -would have been obliged to answer: “Oh, no, I don’t. You say you are -able, and you say you are willing, and I believe that the words are -yours, and that you have all power in heaven and earth, and yet—and -yet—I _don’t_ believe that you will do it for me.” To such strange and -unaccountable depths of absurdity does unbelief lead us! - -At last there came a day when Susan and she could not talk calmly -about these things or any other—could not talk at all—could only weep, -and wait, and kneel and dumbly pray, and then wait again, while life -and death struggled fiercely together for the victim up-stairs, and -it seemed that death would be the victor. Many days passed, and the -dead-weight of enforced endurance still held Ruth a prisoner, and still -she rebelled against the providence that had hemmed her in and shut -her away from her father; still she rebelled at the thought of the -nurse who bent over him in tireless watch, long before all attempts at -securing outside help had been abandoned, Dr. Bacon having expressed -himself more than satisfied. - -“Never a better nurse took hold of a case,” he said, emphatically, to -Ruth. “If your father recovers, and I can not help feeling hopeful, he -will owe it more to her care than to any other human effort. She seems -to know by instinct what and when and how, and I believe the woman -never sleeps at all. She is just as alert and active and determined -to-day as she was the first hour she went into his room, and the -vigil has been long and sharp. I tell you what, Miss Ruth, you begin -to understand, don’t you what this woman was raised up for? She was -planned for just such a time as this. No money would have bought such -nursing, and it has been a case in which nursing was two-thirds of it. -She ought to be a _professional_ nurse this minute. Shall I find a -place for her when her services are not needed here in that capacity -any longer? She could command grand wages.” - -The well-meaning doctor had essayed to bring a smile to Ruth’s wan -face; but it was made evident to him that he understood disease better -than he did human nature—at least the sort of human nature of which she -was composed. She drew herself up proudly, and her tone was unusually -and unnecessarily haughty as she said: - -“You forget, Dr. Bacon, that you are speaking of _Mrs. Erskine_.” - -Then the doctor shrugged his shoulders, and, with a half-muttered “I -beg pardon,” turned away. - -“More of an iceberg than ever,” he muttered, a little louder, as he -went down the hall. “I don’t know what Burnham is about, I am sure. I -hope it is the other one he means.” - -And then he slammed the door a little. He had left Ruth in a rage -with him and with events and with her own heart. She resented his -familiarity with the name which that woman bore, and she resented -the fact that she bore the name. She was bitterly jealous of Mrs. -Erskine’s position by that sick-bed. She did not believe in her nursing -abilities. She knew she was fussy and officious and ignorant, three -things that were horrible in a nurse. She knew her father must be a -daily sufferer because of this. She by no means saw “what that woman -was raised up for,” or why she should have been permitted to come in -contact with _her_. Every day she chafed more under it, and the process -made her grow hard and cold and silent to the woman’s daughter. So by -degrees the burden grew heavier, and Susan, feeling that no word of -hers could help, maintained at last a tender, patient silence, that to -Ruth’s sore, angered heart was in itself almost an added sting. - -It was in this spirit that they drew near to the hour when the question -of life and death would be determined. Ruth’s heart seemed like to -burst with the conflict raging in it—sorrow, anxiety, despair—she knew -not what to call the burden, but she knew it was a _burden_. She spent -hours in her own room, resenting all interruptions, resenting every -call from Susan to come down and take a little nourishment; even almost -disposed to resent the bulletins for which she waited breathlessly -as they were from time to time spoken through the keyhole in Susan’s -low-toned voice. “He is no worse than he was half an hour ago, Ruth;” -or, “The doctor thinks there must be a change before night;” or, “Dear -Ruth, he murmured your name a little while ago the doctor said.” - -Presently Ruth came out of her room and down to the library—came toward -Susan sitting in the little rocker with her Bible in her lap, and said, -speaking in a low tone so full of pent-up energy that in itself it was -startling: - -“Susan, if you know how to pray at all, kneel down now and pray for -_him_—I can’t. I have been trying for hours, and have forgotten how to -pray.” - -Without a word of reply Susan arose quickly and dropped on her knees, -Ruth kneeling beside her, and then the words of prayer which filled -that room indicated that one heart, at least, knew how to pray, and -felt the presence of the Comforter pervading her soul. Long they knelt -there, unwilling, it seemed, to rise, even after the audible prayer -ceased. And it was thus that Judge Burnham found them, as with light, -quick steps he crossed the hall in search of them, saying, as he -entered: - -“Courage, dear friends, the doctor believes that there is strong reason -now for hope.” - -The crisis passed, Judge Erskine rallied rapidly, much more rapidly -than those who had watched over him in the violence of his sickness had -deemed possible. And it came to pass that, after a few more tedious -days of waiting, his room was opened once more to the presence of his -daughter. Fully as she had supposed that she realized his illness, she -was unprepared for the change which it had wrought, and could hardly -suppress a cry of dismay as she bent over him. Long afterward she -wondered at herself as she recalled the fact that her first startled -rebellious thought had been that there was not such a striking contrast -now between him and his wife. - -There was another disappointment in store for her. She had looked -forward to the time when she might reign in that sick-room—might become -her father’s sole nurse in his convalescence, and succeed in banishing -from his presence that which must have become so unendurable. She -discovered that it was a difficult thing to banish a wife from her -husband’s sick-room. Mrs. Erskine was, apparently, serenely unconscious -that her presence was undesired by Ruth. She came and went freely; was -cheery and loquacious, as usual; discoursed on the dangers through -which Judge Erskine had passed, and reiterated the fact that it was a -mercy she didn’t take the disease, until, actually, Ruth was unable -to feel that even this was a mercy! There was a bitterer side to it. -Her father had changed in more ways than one. It appeared that his -daughter’s unavailing grief for him, in becoming the victim of such -a nurse, was all wasted pity. He had not felt it an infliction. His -voice had taken a gentle tone, in which there was almost tenderness, -when he spoke to her. His eyes followed her movements with an -unmistakable air of restfulness. He smiled on his daughter; but he -asked his wife to raise his head and arrange his pillow. How was this -to be accounted for? How could a few short weeks so change his feelings -and tastes? - -“She _is_ a born nurse,” Ruth admitted, looking on, and watching the -cheery skill with which she made all things comfortable. “Who would -have supposed that she could be other than fussy? Well, all persons -have their mission. If she could have filled the place of a good, -cheerful, hospital nurse, how I should have liked her, and how grateful -I should feel to her now!” And then she shuddered over the feeling -that she did not now feel toward her an atom of gratitude! She looked -forward to a moment when she could be left alone with her father. Of -course he was grateful to this woman. His nature was higher than hers. -Beside, he knew what she had done, and borne for him, here in this -sick-room. Of course he felt it, and was so thoroughly a gentleman -that he would show her, by look and action, that he appreciated it; -but, could his daughter once have him to herself for a little while, -what a relief and comfort it would doubtless be to him. Even over this -thought she chafed. If this woman _only_ held the position in the house -which would make it proper for her to say, “You may leave us alone -now, for awhile. My father and I wish to talk; I will ring when you -are needed”—with what gracious and grateful smiles she could have said -those words! As it was, she planned. - -“Don’t you think it would be well for you to go to another room, and -try to get some rest?” - -“Yes,” said Judge Erskine, turning his head, and looking earnestly at -her; “if any human being ever needed rest, away from this scene of -confusion, I think you must.” - -“Bless your heart, child” (with a good-natured little laugh)! “I’ve -rested ever so much. When you get used to it, you can sleep standing -up, with a bowl of gruel in one hand, and a bottle of hot water in -the other, ready for action. Just as soon as the anxiety was off, I -got rest; and, while I was anxious, you know, I lived on that—does -about as well as sleep for keeping up strength; I guess you tried it -yourself, by the looks of your white cheeks and great big eyes! Land -alive! I never see them look so big; did you, Judge? But Susan says -you behaved like a soldier. Well, I knew you would. I says, to myself, -says I, ‘She is made of the stuff that will bear it, and do her best;’ -and it give me strength to do my best for your pa, ’cause I knew you -was depending on me. Says I, ‘I’ve got two sides to this responsibility -now; there’s the Judge, lying helpless, and knowing that every single -thing that’s done for him, for the next month or so, must come through -me; and there’s his daughter down-stairs, trusting to me to bring him -through;’ and I did my level best.” - -And then Ruth shuddered. It was impossible for her to feel anything but -repulsion. - -At last Susan—wise-hearted Susan—came to her rescue. She had imperative -need for “mother” in the kitchen, for a few minutes. Ruth watched -eagerly, as she waddled away, until the door closed after her, then -turned with hungry eyes toward her father, ready to pour out her -pent-up soul, as she never had done before. His eyes were turned toward -the door, and he said, as the retreating footsteps were lost to them: - -“If you have joy in your heart, daughter—as I know you have—for the -restoration of your father, you owe it, under God, to that woman. I -never even imagined anything like the utter self-abnegation that she -showed. Disease, in its most repulsive, most loathsome form, held me -in its grasp, until I know well I looked less like a human being than -I did like some hideous wild animal. Why, I have seen even the doctor -start back, overcome, for a moment, by the sight! But she never started -back, nor faltered, in her patient, persistent, tender care, through it -all. We both owe her our gratitude and our love, my daughter.” - -Do you know Ruth well enough to understand that she poured out no -pent-up tide of tenderness upon her father, after that? She retired -into her old silent self, to such a degree that the father looked at -her wonderingly, at first, then half wearily, and turned his head and -closed his eyes, that he might rest, since she had nothing to say to -him. - -It was two or three days afterward that she tried again. In the -meantime, she had chided herself sharply for her folly. Why had she -allowed herself to be so cold—so apparently heartless—when her heart -was so full of love? Was she really so demoralized, she asked herself, -that she would have her father other than grateful for the care which -had been bestowed? Of _course_ he was grateful, and of course he -desired to show it, as any noble nature should. After all, what had he -said but that they both owed her a debt of gratitude and love? - -“So we do,” said Ruth, sturdily. “I should love a dog who had been kind -to him.” And then she suppressed an almost groan over the startling -thought that, if this woman had been _only a dog_, she could have loved! - -But she was left alone with her father again. He had advanced to the -sitting-up stage, and she was to sit with him and amuse him, while Mrs. -Erskine attended to some outside matter, Ruth neither knew nor cared -what, so that she went away. She was tender and thoughtful, shading -her father’s weakened eyes from the light, picking up his dropped -handkerchief, doing a dozen little nothings for him, and occasionally -speaking some tender word. He was not disposed to talk much beyond -asking a few general questions as to what had transpired during his -absence from the world. Then, presently, he broke an interval of -silence, during which he had sat with closed eyes, by asking: - -“Where is Susan?” - -“Susan!” his daughter repeated, half startled. “Why, she is in the -kitchen, I presume; she generally is, at this hour of the morning. She -has had to be housekeeper and cook and I hardly know what not, during -these queer days. She has filled all the posts splendidly! I don’t know -what you would have eaten but for her.” - -Here Ruth paused a moment, to be gratified over her own advance in -goodness. At least she could speak freely, and in praise of Susan. Then -she said: - -“Do you want anything, father, that Susan can get for you?” - -He unclosed his eyes, and looked at her with a full, meaning smile, as -he said, slowly: - -“I was not thinking of _that_ Susan, my dear; I meant my wife. You may -call her, if you will; I feel somewhat tired, and she knows just how to -fix me for rest.” - -Imagine Ruth Erskine going down the hall, down the stairs, through -the library, out through the back hall, away to the linen-closet, and -saying, to Mrs. Judge Erskine, in a low tone: - -“Father wants you, ma’am!” - -“Bless his heart!” said Mrs. Erskine, dropping the pile of fresh linen -she was fumbling in. “I hope he hasn’t been fretty ’cause I staid so -long!” - -Then she fled up the stairs. - -Well, you are not very well versed in the knowledge of the depths of -the human heart, if you need to be told that this last experience was -the bitterest drop in Ruth’s cup of trouble. Hitherto it had been her -father and herself, bearing together a common trial. Now she felt -that, someway, she had lost her father, and gained nothing—rather, -_lost_—that she had sunken in her own estimation, and that she was -alone! - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -RESTS. - - -IT took some time for the Erskines to find their way back into the -world—rather it took the world many weeks to be willing to receive -them. What was reasonable caution at first became not only annoying -but ludicrous, as the weeks went by, and common-sense suggested that -all possibility of danger from contact with them was past; there were -those who _could not_ believe that it would ever be safe to call on -them again. Ruth, on her part did not worry over this, but suggested, -coldly, that it would be an almost infinite relief if two-thirds of -their calling acquaintances would continue frightened for the rest of -their lives. - -In the domestic world it made more trouble. Servants—an army of -them—who were marshaled to and from intelligence offices, looked -askance at the doors and windows, as if they half expected the demon of -small-pox to take visible shape and pounce upon them, and it was found -to be only the worst and most hopeless characters who had ventured into -doubtful quarters, so that for days Susan was engaged in well-managed -skirmishes between girls who professed everything and knew nothing. - -Ruth had long before retired, vanquished from this portion of the -field, and agreed that her forte did not lie in that direction. “I -haven’t the least idea where it lies,” she said aloud, and gloomily. -But she was in her own room, and the door was locked, and there was -no other listener than the window-light, against which her brown head -wearily leaned. She had not yet reached the point where she was willing -to confess her disappointment at life to anybody else, but in truth -it seemed that the world was too small for her. She was not needed -at home, nor elsewhere, so far as she could see. Her father, as he -relapsed into old duties, did not seek his former confidential footing -with her; indeed, he seemed rather to avoid it, as one who might fear -lest his own peace would be shaken. So Ruth thought at first, but one -little private talk with him had dispelled the probability of that. - -“I want to tell you something, daughter,” he had said to her when -they were left alone in the library, the first day of his return to -office-life. “At least I owe it to you to tell you something. I waited -until I had really gotten back into the work-a-day world again, because -of a half recognized fear which I see now was cowardly and faithless, -that old scenes would recall old feelings. I had an experience, my -daughter, during those first few days when the Lord shut me out from -you all. My Christian faith did not sustain me as it ought to have -done. I mean by that, that it was not the sort of faith which it ought -to have been. I rebelled at the fierceness of the fire in which I -had been placed. I felt that I could not bear it; that it was cruel -and bitter. Most of all, I rebelled at the presence of my wife. I -felt that it was too much to be shut away from everything that life -holds dear, and to be shut up with that which had hitherto made life -miserable. I can not tell you of the struggle, of the hopeless beatings -of my bruised head against the bars of its cage. It almost unmans me -even to think of those hours.” And Judge Erskine paused and wiped the -perspiration from his forehead. “I will just hurry over the details,” -he said at last. “There came an hour when I began to dimly comprehend -that my Redeemer was only answering some of the agonizing prayers that -I had of late been constantly putting up to him. I had prayed, Ruth, -for strength to do my whole duty, and in order to do it I plainly -saw that I must feel differently from what I had been feeling; that -I must get over this shrinking from a relation which I deliberately -brought upon myself, and one which I was bound, by solemn covenant, to -sustain. I must have help; I must submit, not only, but I must learn -to be pitiful toward, and patient with, and yet how _could_ I? Christ -showed me how. He let me see such a revelation of my own selfishness, -and hardness, and pride, as made me abhor myself in ‘dust and ashes,’ -and then he let me see such a revelation of human patience, and -tenderness, and self-abnegation, as filled me with gratitude and -respect. Ruth, he has given me much more than I asked. I prayed for -patience and tenderness and he gave me not only those, but such a -feeling of respect for one who could so entirely forget herself, and do -for another what my wife did for me, that I feel able to cherish her -all the rest of my life. In short, daughter, I feel that I could take -even the vows of the marriage-covenant upon my lips now, and mean them -in all simplicity and singleness of heart. And having taken them long -ago I ratify them now, and mean to live by them as long as life lasts -to us both, so help me God. In all this I do not forget the sin, nor -the suffering which that sin has entailed upon you, my dear, precious -daughter, but I feel that I must do what I can to atone for it, and -that shirking my duty, as I have been doing in the past, does not help -you to bear your part. I know you have forgiven me, Ruth, and I know -that God has. He has done more than that. In his infinite love and -compassion he has made the cross a comfort. And now, daughter, I never -wish to speak of this matter again. You asked me, once, if I wished -you to call her mother. I have no desire to force your lips to what -they do not mean, nor to oblige you to bear any more cross for your -father, than the sin has, in itself, laid upon you, but if, at any time -in your future life, you feel that you care to say, ‘Mother,’ it will -be a pleasant sound to my ears.” - -Ruth reflected, afterward, with a sense of thankfulness, that she had -grace enough left to bend forward and kiss her father’s white forehead, -and pass her hand tenderly over the moist locks of gray hair above his -temples. Then she went out and went away. She could have spoken no word -just then. She was struggling with two conflicting feelings. In her -soul she was glad for her father; that he had got help, and that his -heavy cross was growing into peace. But all the same—she felt now, and -felt with a dull aching at her heart which refused to be comforted, -that she herself had not found peace in it; that it was, if anything, -more bitter than ever, and that she had lost her father. Is it any -wonder that life to her stretched out gloomily? - -Many changes had taken place during their enforced exile from the -world. Eurie Mitchell had married and gone, and Flossy Shipley had -married and gone, both of them to new homes and new friends, and both -of them had, by their departure, made great gulfs in Ruth’s life. They -had written her characteristic notes along with their wedding cards. -Eurie’s ran thus: - - “_Dear Ruth_—I fancy you bearing it like a martyr, - as I know you can. I always said you would make - a magnificent martyr, but I am so sorry that the - experiment has come in such a shape that we can’t look - on and watch its becomingness. Also, I am very sorry - that you can not be present to see me ‘stand up in the - great big church without any bonnet!’ which is the way - in which our baby characterizes the ceremony. In fact, - I am almost as sorry about that as I am that father - should have been out of town during the first few days - of Judge Erskine’s illness, and so given that Dr. - Bacon a chance to be installed. Father doesn’t happen - to agree with him on some points, and the care of - small-pox patients is one thing in which they totally - differ. However, your father is going on finely, so - far, I hear, and you know, my dear, that Dr. Bacon - _is very_ celebrated; so be as brave as you can and it - will all come out right, I dare say. In fact we _know_ - it will. Isn’t that a comfort? There are ever so many - things that I might say if I could, but you know I was - never able to put my heart on paper. So imagine some - of the heart-thoughts which beat for you, while I sign - myself for the last time, - - “EURIE MITCHELL.” - -Ruth laughed over this note. “It is so exactly like her,” she murmured. -“I wonder if she will ever tone down?” - -Flossy’s was smaller, daintier, delicately perfumed with the faintest -touch of violets, and read: - - “_Dear, Precious Friend_—‘The eternal God is thy - refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.’ How - safe you are! ‘Oh, thou afflicted, tossed with tempest - and not comforted! Behold, I will lay thy stones with - fair colors; with everlasting kindness will I have - mercy on thee, saith the Lord, thy Redeemer.’ Blessed - Jesus, do for Ruth ‘As thou hast said.’ This is Flossy - Shipley’s prayer for her dear friend, whom she will - love and cherish forever.” - -Over this note Ruth shed hot tears. She was touched and comforted and -saddened; she realized more than ever before what a spiritual loss -Flossy’s going was to be to her, and she did not come closer to the One -who would have made amends for all losses. - -Perhaps she had never felt the dreariness of her existence more than -she did on a certain evening, some weeks after the household had -settled into its accustomed routine of life, which was like and yet -utterly unlike what that life had been before the invasion of disease. - -It was dark outside, and the rain was falling heavily; there was little -chance of relief from monotony by the arrival of guests. Ruth wandered -aimlessly through the library in search of a book that she felt willing -to read, and, finding none, turned at last to the sitting-room, where -Judge Erskine and his wife were sitting. Secure in the prospect of -rain, and therefore seclusion, he had arrayed himself in dressing-gown -and slippers, and was resting his scarred, seamed face among the -cushions of the easy-chair, enjoying a luxury, which was none other -than that of having his gray hair carefully and steadily brushed, the -brush passing with the regularity of a sentinel on its slow, soothing -track, guided by his wife’s hand, while Judge Erskine’s face bore -unmistakable signs of reposeful rest. There was that in the scene which -irritated Ruth almost beyond control. She passed quickly through the -room, into the most remote corner of the alcove, which was curtained -off from the main room, and afforded a retreat for the piano, and a -pretext for any one who desired to use it and be alone. It was not -that _she_ had ever waited thus upon her father; she had never thought -of approaching him in this familiar way. Even had she dared to do so, -their make-up was, after all, so utterly dissimilar that, what was -evidently a sedative to him, would have driven his daughter fairly -wild. To have any one, however dear and familiar, touch her hair, -draw a brush through it, would have irritated her nerves in her best -days. She thought of it then, as she sat down in the first seat that -she reached, after the friendly crimson curtains hid her from those -two—sat with her chin resting in her two listless hands, and tried to -wonder what she should do if she were forced to lie among the cushions -of that easy-chair in there, and have _that_ woman brush her hair. - -“I should choke her, I know I should!” she said, with sudden -fierceness; and then, with scarcely less fierceness of tone and manner -added: “I hope it will never be my awful fate to have to be taken care -of by her, or to have to endure the sight of her presence about any one -I love. Oh, what is the matter with me! I grow wicked every hour. What -_will_ become of me?” - -After all, there were those who were not afraid of the rain, and were -not to be kept from their purposes by it. Ruth listened indifferently -at first, then with a touch of eagerness, to the sound of the bell, -and the tones in the hall, and then to the sound of Judge Burnham’s -step as he was being shown to the sitting-room. The new help had been -in the house just long enough to discover that he was a privileged and -unceremonious guest. - -“Ah!” he said, pausing in the doorway “Am I disturbing? Sick to-night, -Judge?” - -“Come in,” said Judge Erskine’s hearty voice. “No, I am not sick, only -dreadfully lazy and being petted. When I was a boy, and mother used -to brush my hair, nothing soothed and rested me so much, and I find I -haven’t lost the old habit. Have a chair, and tell us the evening news. -I haven’t been out of the house since dinner.” - -“Nothing specially new,” said Judge Burnham, dropping into an -easy-chair and looking around him inquiringly. “Where are the ladies?” - -“Why,” said Mrs. Erskine, brushing away steadily, “Susan is in the -kitchen; she mostly is these days. Such a time as we are having with -servants; I wonder she don’t get sick of the whole set and tell them -to tramp. Just now, though, she has got hold of one who seems willing -enough to learn; and Susan heard her pa say this noon that he believed -he would like some muffins once more, so she is down there trying to -teach Mollie about setting muffins, and beating of it into her to let -them alone in the morning till _she_ gets down to ’tend to them.” - -“Why,” said Judge Erskine, in a tone of tenderness that jarred Ruth’s -ears, “I wonder if she is attending to that? What a child she is! She -will wear herself out waiting on me.” - -“There ain’t a selfish streak about her,” Mrs. Erskine said, -complacently “nor never was. But la! you needn’t fret about her, -Judge; she loves to do it. She went down in the first place to ’tend -to that, but she has got another string to her bow now; she found out -that Mollie didn’t know how to read writing, and had a letter from her -mother that she couldn’t make out, so Susan read it to her, and the -next thing was to write her an answer, and she is at that now.” - -“And where is Miss Ruth?” questioned Judge Burnham, the instant this -long sentence was concluded. - -“Why, she is moping—that’s the best name I know for it. She is back -there in the alcove. I thought she went to play, but she hasn’t played -a note. That child needs a change. I’m just that worried about her that -her white face haunts me nights when I’m trying to sleep. She has -had an awful hard siege; her pa so sick, and she obliged to keep away -from him, and not being sure whether I knew more than a turnip about -taking care of him—I wonder how she stood it. And I’m just afraid she -will break down yet. She needs something to rest her up and give her -some color in her cheeks. I keep telling her pa that he ought to do -something.” - -“Suppose I go and help her mope,” Judge Burnham said, rising in the -midst of a flow of words, and speedily making his way behind the red -curtains. - -He came over to Ruth, holding out both hands to greet her. - -“How do you do?” he said, and there was tender inquiry in the tone. -“You didn’t know I was in town, did you? I came two days sooner than I -had hoped.” - -“I didn’t know you were out of town,” said Ruth. “I thought you had -deserted us like the rest of our friends.” - -“So you didn’t get my note?” he asked, looking blank. “Well, never -mind; it was merely an explanation of an absence which I hoped you -might notice. Mrs. Erskine says you are moping, Ruth. Is it true? She -says you need a change and something to rest you up. I wish you would -let me give you a change. Don’t you think you could?” - -“A change!” Ruth repeated, with a little laugh, and there was color -enough in her cheeks just then. - -“Why should _I_ need a change? What do you mean?” - -“I mean a great deal. I want to give you such a change as will affect -all your future life and mine. I would like to have you change name -and home. Oh, Ruth, I would like to devote my life to the business of -‘resting you up.’ Don’t you believe I can do it?” - -Now, I am sure there is no need for me to give you Ruth Erskine’s -answer. You probably understand what it was. Unless I am mistaken, you -understand her better than she did herself. Up to this very moment she -actually had not realized what made up the bulk of her unrest this -week. No, not the bulk either; there were graver questions even than -this one which might well disturb her, but she had not understood her -own footing with Judge Burnham, nor had scarcely a conception of his -feelings toward her. - -The low murmur of talk went on, after a little, behind the red -curtains, and continued long after Judge Erskine and his wife went -up-stairs. Just as he was turning out the gas in their dressing-room, -that gentleman said: - -“Unless I am mistaken, Judge Burnham would like to give Ruth a decided -change.” - -“Land alive!” said Mrs. Erskine, taking in his meaning, after a little, -“I declare, now you speak of it, I shouldn’t wonder if he did.” Then -she added, kindly, genuinely: “And I’m sure I hope it’s true; I tell -you that child needs resting up.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -SHADOWED JOYS. - - -ONE of the first experiences connected with Ruth’s new life was a -surprise and a trial. She did not act in the matter as almost any other -young lady would have done. Indeed, perhaps, you do not need to be -told that it was not her _nature_ to act as most others would in like -circumstances. She kept the story an entire secret with her own heart. -Not even her father suspected that matters were settled; perhaps, -though, this last is to be accounted for by the fact that Judge Burnham -went away, again on business, by the early train the morning after -he had arranged for Ruth’s change of home and name, and did not -return again for a week. During that week, as I say, Ruth hugged her -new joy and kept her own counsel. Yet it was _joy_. Her heart was in -this matter. Strangely enough it had been a surprise to her. She had -understood Judge Burnham much less than others, looking on, had done, -and so gradual and subtle had been the change in her own feeling from -almost dislike to simple indifference, and from thence to quickened -pulse and added interest in life at his approach, that she had not in -the remotest sense realized the place which he held in her heart until -his own words revealed it to her. That she liked him better than any -other person, she began to know; but when she thought about it at all -it seemed a most natural thing that she should. It was not saying a -great deal, she told herself, for she really liked very few persons, -and there had never been one so exceptionally kind and unselfish and -patient. What should she do but like him? Sure enough! And yet, when -he asked her to be his wife, it was as complete a surprise as human -experiences could ever have for her. Desolate, afflicted, deserted, as -she felt, it is no wonder that the revelation of another’s absorbed -interest in her filled her heart. - -As I say, then, she lived it alone for one delightful week. It was the -afternoon of the day on which she expected Judge Burnham’s return, and -she knew that his first step would be an interview with her father. -She determined to be herself the bearer of the news to Susan. During -this last week, whenever she thought of her sister, it had been a -tender feeling of gratitude for all the quiet, unobtrusive help and -kindness that she had shown since she first came into the family. -Ruth determined to show that she reposed confidence in her, and for -this purpose sought her room, ostensibly on some trivial errand, then -lingered and looked at a book that lay open, face downward, as if to -keep the place, on Susan’s little table. Susan herself was arranging -her hair over at the dressing bureau. Ruth never forgot any of the -details of this afternoon scene. She took up the little book and read -the title, “The Rest of Faith.” It had a pleasant sound. _Rest_ of any -sort sounded pleasantly to Ruth. She saw that it was a religious book, -and she dimly resolved that some other time, when she felt quieter, -had less important plans to carry out, she would read this book, look -more closely into this matter, and find, if she could, what it was -that made the difference between Susan’s experience and her own. That -there was a difference was _so_ evident; and yet, without realizing it, -Ruth’s happiness of the last few days was making her satisfied with her -present attainments spiritually. No, not exactly satisfied, but willing -to put the matter aside for a more convenient season. - -“I have something to tell you that I think you will be interested to -hear,” she said, at last, still turning the leaves of the little book, -and feeling more embarrassed than she had supposed it possible for -_her_ to feel. - -“Have you?” said Susan, brightly. “Good! I like to hear new things, -especially when they have to do with my friends.” And there was that in -her tone which made her sister understand that she desired to convey -the thought that she felt close to Ruth, and wanted to be held in dear -relations. For the first time in her life Ruth was conscious of being -willing. - -“Judge Burnham is to return to-day.” - -“Yes, I heard you speaking of it.” - -There was wonderment in Susan’s tone, almost as well as words could -have done. It said: “What is there specially interesting in that?” - -“Do you feel ready to receive him in a new relation?” Ruth asked, and -she was vexed to feel the blood surging into her cheeks. “I think he -has a desire to be very brotherly.” - -“Oh, Ruth!” - -There was no mistaking Susan’s tone this time. She had turned from -the mirror and was surveying her sister with unmistakably mournful -eyes, and there was astonished sorrow in her tones. What could be the -trouble! Whatever it was Ruth resented it. - -“Well,” she said haughtily, “I seem to have disturbed as well as -surprised you. I was not aware that the news would be disagreeable.” - -“I beg your pardon, Ruth. I _am_ very much surprised. I had not -supposed such a thing possible.” - -“Why, pray?” - -“Why, Ruth, dear, he is not a Christian?” - -It would be impossible to describe to you the consternation in Susan’s -face and voice, and the astonishment in Ruth’s. - -“Well,” she said again, “it is surely not the first time you were -conscious of that fact. He will be in no more danger in that respect -with me for a wife. At least I trust he will not.” - -Susan had no answer to make to this strange sentence. She stood, brush -in hand, gazing bewilderingly at Ruth’s face for a moment. Then, -recollecting herself, turned toward the mirror again, with the simple -repeatal: - -“I beg your pardon. I did not mean to hurt your feelings.” - -As for Ruth, it would have been difficult for her to analyze her -feelings. _Were_ they hurt? Was she angry? If so, at what or whom? Her -heart felt in a tumult. - -Now, I want you to understand that, strange as it may appear, this -was a new question to her. That Judge Burnham was not a Christian man -she knew, and regretted. But, that it should affect her answer to his -question was a thought which had not once presented itself. She turned -and went out from that room without another word, and feeling that she -never wanted to say any more words to that girl. - -“It is no use,” she said, aloud and angrily. “We can never be anything -to each other, and it is folly to try. We are set in different molds. -I no sooner try to make a friend and confidant of her than some of her -tiresome notions crop out and destroy it all.” - -She knew that all this was nonsense. She knew it was the working of -conscience on her own heart that was at this moment making her angry; -and yet she found the same relief which possibly you and I have felt in -blaming somebody for something, aloud, even while our hearts gainsayed -our words. - -It is not my purpose to linger over this part of Ruth Erskine’s -history. The time has come to go on to other scenes. But in this -chapter I want to bridge the way, by a word or two of explanation, -so that you may the better understand Ruth’s mood, and the governing -principle of her actions, in the days that followed. - -By degrees she came to a quieter state of mind—not, however, until the -formalities of the new relation were arranged, and Judge Burnham had -become practically almost one of the family. She grew to realizing that -it was a strange, perhaps an unaccountable thing that she, a Christian, -should have chosen for her life-long friend and hourly companion -one who was really hardly a believer in the Christ to whom she had -given herself. She grew to feeling that if this thought had come -first, before that promise was made, perhaps she ought to have made a -different answer. But I shall have to confess that she drew in with -this thought a long breath of relief as she told herself it was settled -_now_. There was no escape from promises as solemn as those which had -passed between them; that such covenants were, doubtless, in God’s -sight, as sacred as the marriage relation itself, and she was glad, to -the depths of her soul, that she believed this reasoning to be correct. - -At the same time there was a curious sensation of aversion toward the -one who had, as it seemed to her, rudely disturbed the first flush of -her happiness. The glamour was gone from it all. Henceforth a dull -pain, a sense of want, a questioning as to whether she was just where -she should be, came in with all the enjoyment and she struggled -with the temptation to feel vindictive toward this disturber of her -peace. Besides this, she confided to Judge Burnham the fact that Susan -thought she was doing wrong in engaging herself to a man who was not a -Christian; and, while he affected to laugh over it good-naturedly, as a -bit of fanaticism which would harm no one, and which was the result of -her narrow-minded life hitherto, it meant more than that to him—jarred -upon him—and Ruth could see that it did. It affected, perhaps -insensibly, his manner toward the offending party. He was not as -“brotherly” as he had designed being; and altogether, Susan, since the -change was to come, did not regret that Judge Burnham’s disposition was -to hurry it with all possible speed. Life was less pleasant to her now -than it had been any time since her entrance into this distinguished -family. The pleasant little blossom of tenderness which had seemed -to be about to make itself fragrant for her sister and herself had -received a rude blast, and was likely to die outright. - -During the weeks that followed there were other developments which -served to startle Ruth as hardly anything had done hitherto. They can -best be explained by giving you the substance of a conversation between -Judge Burnham and herself. - -“I ought to tell you something,” he said, and the brief sentence was -preceded and followed by a pause of such length, and by such evident -embarrassment, that Ruth’s laugh had a tinge of wonder in it, as she -said, “Then, by all means I hope you will do so.” - -“I suppose it is not altogether new to you?” he said, inquiringly. -“Your father has doubtless told you somewhat of my past life.” - -She shook her head. “Absolutely nothing, save that you were, like -himself, a lawyer, resident in the city during term-time, and having -a country-seat somewhere. He didn’t seem to be very clear as to that. -Where is it? I think I shall be glad to live in the country. I never -tried it, but I have an idea that it must be delightful to get away -from the tumult of the city. Do you enjoy it?” - -Judge Burnham’s unaccountable embarrassment increased. “You wouldn’t -like _my_ country-seat,” he said decidedly. “I never mean you to see -it, if it can be helped. There is a long story connected with it, and -with that part of my life. I am sorry that it is entirely new to you; -the affair will be more difficult for you to comprehend. May I ask you -if you mean you are _utterly_ ignorant of my early life? Is it unknown -to you that I have once been a married man?” - -There was no mistaking the start and the flush of surprise, if it was -no deeper feeling, that Ruth exhibited. But she answered quietly enough: - -“I am entirely ignorant of your past history, viewed in any phase.” - -Judge Burnham drew a heavy sigh. - -“I said the story was a long one, but I can make it very brief.” He -began: “You know that a life-time of joy, or misery can be expressed -in one sentence. Well, I married when I was a boy; married in haste -and repented at leisure, as many a boy has. My wife died when we had -been living together for five years, and I have two daughters. They are -almost women, I suppose, now. The oldest is seventeen, and they live at -the place which you call my country-seat. Now, these are the headlines -of the story. Perhaps you could imagine the rest better than I can tell -you. The filling out would take hours, and would be disagreeable both -to you and to me. I trust you will let me relieve you from the trial -of hearing. There is one thing I specially desire to say to you before -this conversation proceeds further: that is, I supposed, of course, you -were familiar with these outlines, at least so far as my marriage is -concerned, else I should have told you long ago. I have not meant to -take any unfair advantage of you. I had not an idea that I was doing -so.” - -“Does my father know that you have daughters?” This was Ruth’s -question, and her voice, low and constrained, sounded so strangely to -herself that she remembered noticing it even then. - -“I do not know. It is more than probable that he does not. Indeed, -I am not sure that any acquaintance of mine in the city knows this -part of my history. My married life was isolated from them all. I -have not attempted to conceal it, and, at the same time, I have made -no effort to tell it. I am painfully conscious of how all this must -look to you, yet I know you will believe that I intended no deception. -With regard to the—to my daughters, my professional life has kept me -from them almost constantly, so that no idea of _our_ home—yours and -mine—is associated with them. I have no intention of burying you in the -country, and indeed my errand here at this hour was to talk with you in -regard to the merits of two hotels, at either of which we can secure -desirable rooms.” - -He hurried over this part of his sentence in a nervous way, as one -who was trying, by a rapid change of subject, to turn the current of -thought. Ruth brought him back to it with a question which stabbed him. - -“But, Judge Burnham, what sort of a father can you have been all these -years?” He flushed and paled under it, and under the steadiness of her -gaze. - -“I—I have hardly deserved the name of father, I suppose, and yet in -some respects I have tried to do what it seemed to me I could. Ruth, -you don’t understand the situation. You think you do, and it looks -badly to you, but there are circumstances which make it a peculiarly -trying one. However, they are not circumstances which need to touch -_you_. I meant and I mean to shield you from all these trials. I asked -you to be, not my housekeeper, not a care-taker of two girls who would -be utterly uncongenial to you, but my _wife_, and—” - -She interrupted him. “And do you suppose, Judge Burnham, that you and I -can settle down to a life together of selfish enjoyment in each others’ -society, ignoring the claims which your children have on you, and -which, assuredly, if I become your wife, they _will have_ on me? Could -you respect me if I were willing to do so?” - -It was clear that Judge Burnham was utterly confounded. He arose and -stood confronting her, for she had risen to draw aside a fire-screen, -and had not, in speaking, resumed her seat. “You do not understand,” -he muttered, at last. “I have meant nothing wrong. I provide for them, -and am willing to do so. I see that they are taken care of; I do not -propose to desert them, but it would be simply preposterous to think of -burying you up there in the country with that sort of companionship! -You do not know what you are talking about. I have never for a moment, -thought of such a thing.” - -“Then it is clearly time to think. If I do not understand _you_, Judge -Burnham, neither do you understand me. My life has been anything but -a perfect one, or a happy one. I have gone so far wrong myself that -it ill becomes me to find fault with others. But there is one thing I -will never do. I will never come between a father and his children, -separating them from the place which they ought to have beside him. -_Never!_” - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - -DUTY’S BURDEN. - - -BY degrees Judge Burnham began to understand the woman whom he had -chosen for his wife. Hitherto he had been in the habit of being -governed by his own will, of bending forces to his strong purposes. -Those occasional characters with whom he came in contact, who refused -to be molded by him, he had good-naturedly let alone, crossing their -path as little as possible, and teaching himself to believe that they -were not worth managing, which was the sole reason why he did not -manage them. But Ruth Erskine was a new experience—she _would do_ what -she believed to be the right thing; and she _would not_ yield her -convictions to be governed by his judgment. He could not manage _her_, -and he had no wish to desert her. Clearly one of them must yield. The -entire affair served to keep him in a perturbed state of mind. - -Ruth grew more settled. Weeks went by, and her decisions were made, her -plans formed, and she walked steadily toward their accomplishment. Not -realizing it herself, she was yet engaged in making a compromise with -her conscience. She believed herself, perhaps, to have done wrong in -promising to become the wife of a man who ignored the principle which -governed her life. She would not give back that promise, but she would -make the life one of self-abnegation, instead of—what for one brief -week it had seemed to her—a resting place, full of light. She would be -his wife, but she would also be the mother of his daughters; she would -live with them, for them; give up her plans, her tastes, her pursuits, -for their sake. In short, she would assume the martyr’s garb in good -earnest now, and wear it for a lifetime. The more repulsive this course -seemed to her—and it grew very repulsive indeed—the more steadily she -clung to it; and it was not obstinacy, you are to understand. It will -do for such as Judge Burnham to call such resolves by that name; but -you should know that Ruth Erskine was all the time governed by a solemn -sense of duty. It was _cross_, hard, cold, unlightened by any gleams of -peace; but for all that it started in a sense of _duty_. - -By degrees the “long story,” much of it, came to light—rather was -dragged to light—by a persistent method of cross-questioning which -drove Judge Burnham to the very verge of desperation. - -“Judge Burnham,” she would begin, “how have your daughters been cared -for all these years?” - -“Why,” he said, wriggling and trying to get away from his own sense of -degradation, “they had good care; at least I supposed it was. During -their childhood their mother’s sister lived there, and took the sole -charge of them. She was a kind-hearted woman enough, and did her duty -by them.” - -“But she died, you told me, when they were still children.” - -“Yes, that was when I was abroad. You see when I went I expected to -return in a year at most, but I staid on, following one perplexing -tangle after another in connection with my business affairs, until -four or five years slipped away. Meantime their aunt died, and the old -housekeeper, who had lived with their family since the last century -sometime, took her place, and managed for them as well as she could. I -didn’t realize how things were going. I imagined everything would come -out right, you know.” - -“I don’t see how they could,” Ruth said, coldly, and Judge Burnham -answered nothing. - -“Didn’t they attend school?” - -“Why, yes, they went to the country school out there, you know, when -there was one. It is too near the city to secure good advantages, and -yet too far away for convenience. I meant, you see, to have them in -town, when I came home, at the best schools, and boarding with me, but -I found it utterly impracticable—utterly so. You have no conception of -what five years of absence will do for people.” - -“I can imagine something of what five years of neglect would do.” - -Ruth said it icily—as she _could_ speak. Then he would say, “Oh, Ruth!” -in a tone which was entreating and almost pitiful. And he would start -up and pace back and forth through the room for a moment, until brought -back by one of her stabbing questions. - -“How have they lived since your return?” - -“Why, right there, just where they always have lived. It is the only -home they have ever known.” - -“And they are entirely alone?” - -“Why, no. The housekeeper, of whom I told you, had a daughter, a -trustworthy woman, and when her mother died this daughter moved to the -house, with her family, and has taken care of them.” - -“And so, Judge Burnham, your two daughters have grown to young -ladyhood, isolated from companionship, and from education, and from -refinements of every sort, even from their own father, and have been -the companions of ignorant hirelings!” - -“I tell you, Ruth, you must see them before you can understand this -thing,” he would exclaim, in almost despair. - -“I assuredly mean to,” would be her quiet answer, which answer drove -him nearer to desperation than he was before. At last he came and stood -before her. - -“You force me to speak plainly,” he said. “I would have shielded you -forever, and you will not let me. These girls are not like your class -of girls. They have no interest in refined pursuits. They have no -refinement of feeling or manner. They have no desire for education. -They do not even care to keep their persons in ordinarily tasteful -attire. They care nothing for the refinements of home. They belong to a -lower order of being. It is simply impossible to conceive of them as my -children; and it is utterly preposterous to think of your associating -with them in any way.” - -She was stilled at last—stunned, it would seem—for she sat in utter -silence for minutes that seemed to him hours, while he stood before her -and waited. When at last she spoke, her voice was not so cold as it had -been, but it was controlled and intensely grave. - -“And yet, Judge Burnham, they _are_ your children, and you are bound -to them by the most solemn and sacred vows which it is possible for -a man to take on his lips. How can you ever hope to escape a just -reward for ignoring them? Now, I must tell you what I feel and mean. I -do not intend to be hard or harsh, and yet I intend to be true. I am -not sure that I am acting or talking as other girls would, under like -circumstances; but that is a question which has never troubled me. I am -acting in what I believe to be the right way. You have asked me to be -your wife, and I have promised in good faith. It was before I knew any -of this story, which, in a sense, alters the ground on which we stood. -I will tell you plainly what I believe I ought to do, and what, with -my present views, I _must_ do. I will give my life to helping you in -this matter. I will go up to that home of yours and hide myself with -those girls, and we will both do what we can to retrieve the mistakes -of a lifetime. I will struggle and plan and endure for them. I am -somewhat versed in the duties which this sort of living involves, as -you know, and in the crosses which it brings. Perhaps it was for this -reason they were sent to me. I have chafed under them, and been weak -and worthless, God knows; and yet I feel that perhaps he is giving me -another chance. I will try to do better work for him, in your home, -than I have in my own. At any rate, I _must try_. If I fail, it shall -be after the most solemn and earnest efforts that I can make. But, -as I said, it _must be_ tried. This is not all self-sacrifice, Judge -Burnham. I mean that I could not do it, would not see that I had any -right to do it, if I had not given my heart to _you_; and if for the -love of you I could not trust myself to help you in _your_ duty. But -you must fully understand that it seems unquestionably to be your duty. -You must not shirk it; I must never help you to shirk it; I should not -dare. I will go with you to that home, and be with you a member of -that family. But I can never make with you another home that does not -include the _family_. I _must never do it_.” - -Judge Burnham hoped to turn her away from this decision, which was, to -him, simply an awful one! Do you imagine that he accomplished it? I -believe you know her better. It is necessary for you to remember that -he did not understand the underlying motive by which she was governed. -When she said, “I _must_ not do it,” he did not understand that she -meant her vows to Christ would not let her. He believed, simply, that -she set her judgment above his, in this matter, and determined that -she _would_ not yield it. The struggle was a severe one. At times he -felt as though he would say to her, if she “_must_ not” share with him -the home he had so lovingly and tenderly planned for her, why, then, -_he_ must give her up. The only reason that he did not say this, was -because he did not dare to try it. He had not the slightest intention -of giving her up; and he was afraid she would take him at his word, as -assuredly she would have done. She was dearer to him, in her obstinacy, -than anything in life—and nothing must be risked. Therefore was he sore -beset; and, as often as he renewed the struggle, he came off worsted. -How could it be otherwise, when Ruth could constantly flee back to that -unanswerable position—“Judge Burnham, it is _wrong_; I _must_ not do -it?” What if _he_ didn’t understand her? He saw that she understood -herself, and meant what she said. - -So it came to pass that, as the days went by, and the hour for the -marriage drew nearer and nearer, Judge Burnham felt the plans, so dear -to his heart, slipping away from under his control. Ruth would be -_married_. Well, that was a great point gained. But she would not go -away for a wedding journey; she would not go to the Grand Hotel, where -he desired to take rooms—no, not for a day, or hour. She would not have -the trial of contrast between the few, first bright days of each other, -and the dismal days following, when they had each other, with something -constantly coming between. She would go directly to that country home, -and nowhere else She would go to it just as it was. He was not to alter -the surroundings or the outward life, in one single respect. She meant -to see the home influence which had molded those girls exactly as it -had breathed about them, without any outside hand to change it. She -proposed to do the changing herself. One little bit of compromise her -stern conscience admitted—her future husband might fit up one room for -her use—her private retreat—according to his individual taste, and she -would accept it from him as hers. But the outer life, that was to be -lived as a family, he must not touch. - -“But Ruth,” he said, “you do not understand. Things have utterly gone -to decay. There was no one to care, or appreciate; there was no one to -_take_ care of anything, and I let everything go.” - -“Very well,” she said; “then we will see what our united tastes can do, -toward setting everything right, when we come to feel what is wanted.” - -“Then couldn’t you go with me and see the place, a few weeks before we -go there, and give directions, such as you would like to see carried -out?—just a few, you know, such as you can take in at a glance, to make -it a little more like home?” - -She shook her head decidedly. No, indeed. She was not going there to -spy out the desolation of the land. She was going to it as a _home_; -and if, as a home, it was defective, together they—he, his daughters -and herself—would see what was needed, and remodel it. - -How dismally he shook his head over that! He knew his daughters, and -she did not. He tried again: - -“But, Ruth, it is five miles from the railroad. How will it be possible -to ride ten miles by train, and five by carriage, night and morning, -and attend to business?” - -“Easily,” she said, quietly; “except in term-time. The busiest season -that my father ever had we were in the country, and he came out nearly -every evening. In term-time we must _all_ come into town and board, I -suppose.” - -He winced over this, and was silent, and felt himself giving up his -last hope of holding this thing in check, and began to realize that he -loved this future wife of his very much indeed, else he could never -submit to such a state of things. He believed it would last for but -a little while—just long enough for her to see the hopelessness of -things. But this “seeing,” with her, into all its hopelessness, was -what he shrank from. - -So the days went by; not much joy in them for any one concerned. -Away from Ruth’s influence, Judge Burnham was annoyed, to such a -degree, that he could hardly make a civil answer to the most ordinary -question; and his office clerks grumbled among themselves that, if -it made such a bear of a man to know that in three weeks he was to -have a wife, they hoped their turn would never come. Away from his -presence, Ruth was grave to a degree that threw an added shadow over -the home-life. Susan felt herself to be in disgrace with her sister, -and had been unable thus far, to rise above it, and be helpful, as -she would have liked to be. Judge Erskine, hearing more details from -his friend than from his daughter, sympathized with her strong sense -of duty, honored her, rejoiced in her strength of purpose, and was -_sorry_ for her, realizing, more than before, what a continuous chain -of trial her life had been of late. Therefore, his tone was tender and -sympathizing, when he spoke to her, but sad, as one who felt _too_ -deeply, and was not able to impart strength. - -As for Mrs. Erskine, she had so much to say about the strangeness of it -all—wondering how Judge Burnham could have managed to keep things so -secret, and how the girls looked, whether they favored him, or their -ma, and whether they would be comfortable sort of persons to get along -with—that Ruth was driven to the very verge of distraction, and felt, -at times, that, to get out of that house, into any other on earth, -would be a relief. - -There was much ado, also, about that wedding. Mrs. Erskine wanted -marvelous things—an illumination, and a feast, and a crowd, and all -the resources of the rain-bow, as to bridal toilet. But here, as in -other matters, Ruth held steadily to her own way, and brought it to -pass—a strictly private wedding, in the front parlor of her father’s -house; not a person, outside of the Erskine family circle, to witness -the ceremony, save Marion Dennis; she, by virtue of being Dr. Dennis’ -wife, gained admission. But Marion Dennis’ tears fell fast behind -the raised handkerchief, which shielded her face during the solemn -prayer. She knew, in detail, some of Ruth’s plans. She knew, better -than Ruth did—so _she_ thought—that plans are sometimes hard to carry -out. How many _she_ had indulged and, at this moment, there sat at -home, her haughty daughter, Grace, entirely unforgiving, because of -_her_ “meddling”—so she styled the earnest attempts to shield her from -danger. To Marion, Ruth’s future had never looked less hopeful than it -did on this marriage morning. - -It may be that her own disappointments caused some of the flowing -tears; but her _heart_ ached for Ruth. What should _she_ do without a -Christian husband—a husband entirely in sympathy with every effort, and -entirely tender with every failure of hers! What was Ruth to do, with -Judge Burnham for a husband, instead of Dr. Dennis! How were the trials -of life to be borne with any man living except this _one_! - -Thus reasoned silly Marion—unconsciously, indeed; but that was as it -seemed to her. - -Well for Ruth, that even at this moment, she could look into the face -of the man whom she had chosen, and feel: “It is after all, for _him_. -There is no other person for whom I could begin this life.” - -Said a friend, the other day, in sympathetic tones, as she spoke of a -young bride going far from her home and her mother: “I feel _so_ sorry -for her. It is such a trying experience, all alone, away from all her -early friends.” - -“But,” I said, “after all, she doesn’t go as far as you told me you -did, when you were married.” - -The answer was quick: - -“Oh, no; but then I had _my husband_, you know; and she—” - -And then she stopped to laugh. - -So it was a blessed thing that Ruth Burnham, going out from the home -which had sheltered her, felt that she went _with her husband_. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - -EMBARRASSMENT AND MERRIMENT. - - -I SUPPOSE there was never a bride going out from her home, with her -husband, who was more silent than was our Ruth. It was the silence of -constraint, too. It was such a little journey! ten miles or so, by -train, then five by carriage, and then—what _were_ they coming to? If -only it had been her husband’s happy home, where treasures were waiting -to greet him, and be clasped to his heart, Ruth felt that it would have -been _so_ much easier. - -Yet I think, very likely, she did not understand her own heart. -Probably the easiest excuse that we can make for ourselves, or for our -shrinking from duties, is, “If it were _only_ something else, I could -do it.” I think it quite likely that had Ruth been going to just such -a home as she imagined would make her cross lighter, she would have -been jealous of those clasping hands and tender kisses. The human heart -is a strange instrument, played upon in all sorts of discords, even -when we think there is going to be music. As it was, the certainty of -her husband’s disapproval, the sense of strangeness, and the sense of -shrinking from the new trials, and the questioning as to whether, after -all, she had done right, all served to depress Ruth’s heart and hush -her voice, to such a degree that she felt speech was impossible. I want -to linger a minute over one sentence—the questioning as to whether, -after all, she had done right. There is no more miserable state of -mind than this. It is such dreadful ground for the _Christian_ to -occupy! Yet, practically, half the Christians in the world are there. -Theoretically, we believe ourselves to be led, even in the common -affairs of life, by the All-wise Spirit of God; theoretically, we -believe that _He_ can make no mistake; theoretically, we believe that -it is just as easy to get an answer from that Spirit—“a word behind -thee,” as the Bible phrases it, directing us which way to go—as it is -to hear our human friend answer to our call. But, practically, what -_do_ we believe? What is the reason that so much of our life is given -up to mourning over _possible_ mistakes? Is it because we choose to -decide some questions for ourselves without bringing them to the test -of prayer? or because, having asked for direction, we failed to watch -for the answer, or expect it, and so lost the “still small voice?” -Or is it, sometimes, because having heard the voice, we regret its -direction and turn from it, and choose our own? - -Ruth Burnham was conscious of none of these states. She had prayed -over this matter; indeed, it seemed to her that she had done little -else than pray, of late; and, in some points, she was strong, feeling -that her feet had been set upon a rock. But in others there was, at -this too late moment, a sense of faltering. “Might she not,” asked her -conscience of her, “have yielded somewhat? Would it have worked any ill -for them both to have gone away from everybody for a few weeks, as -Judge Burnham so desired to do, and have learned to know and help each -other, and have learned to talk freely together about this new home, -and have grown stronger together, before facing this manifest duty?” - -I do not tell you she might have done all this. Perhaps her first -position, that it would have been unwise and unhelpful, was the right -one. I think we do, sometimes, put added touches of our own to the -cross that the Father lays upon us, making it shade in gloom, when he -would have tinted it with the sunlight. But I do not say that Ruth had -done this. I don’t know which was wise. What I _am_ sure of is, that -she, having left it to Christ; having asked for his direction, and -having received it (for unless she thought she had been shown the step -to take, assured she ought not to have stepped,) she had no right to -unrest herself and strap on to her heart the burden of that wearying -question, “_Did_ I, after all, do right?” - -Judge Burnham could match her in quietness. He had her beside him at -last. She was his wife; she bore his name; henceforth their interests -were one. Thus much of what he had months ago set himself steadily to -accomplish had been accomplished. But not a touch of the details was -according to his plans. The situation in which he found himself was so -new and so bewildering, that while he meant, for her sake, to make the -best of it until such time as she should see that she was wrong and he -right, yet, truth to tell, he hardly knew how to set about making the -best of it. - -He did what he could. No topic for conversation that suggested -itself to his mind seemed entirely safe. And, beside, what use to -try to converse for so short a journey? So he contented himself with -opening her car-window, and dropping her blind, and arranging her -travelling-shawl comfortably for a shoulder-support, and in other -nameless, thoughtful ways making this bit of a journey bright with -care-taking tenderness. It served to show Ruth how royally he would -have cared for her in the longer journey which he wanted, and which she -wouldn’t have. Whereupon she immediately said to her heart “Perhaps it -would have been better if I had yielded.” And that made her miserable. -There was no time to yield now. The station was called out, and there -was bustle and haste and no little nervousness in getting off in time, -for the train seemed, before it fairly halted, to have been sorry -for that attempt at accommodation, and began to show signs of going -on again that were nerve-distracting. It annoyed Judge Burnham to -the degree that he said, savagely, to the conductor, “It was hardly -worth while to stop, if you can’t do it more comfortably.” He would -have liked so much to have been leisurely and comfortable; to have -done everything in a composed, travelled manner; he understood so -thoroughly all the details of travelled life. Why _could_ he not show -Ruth some of the comforts of it? That little station! It was in itself -a curiosity to Ruth. She had not supposed, that ten miles away from a -city, anything could be so diminutive. A long, low, unpainted building, -with benches for seats, and loungers spitting tobacco-juice for -furniture. There was evidently something unusual to stare at. This was -the presence of a quiet, tasteful carriage, with handsome horses, and -a driver who indicated, by the very flourish of his whip, that this -was a new locality to him. He and his horses and his carriage belonged, -unmistakably, to city-life, and had rarely reached so far out. - -“Is this your carriage?” Ruth asked, surveying it with a touch of -satisfaction as Judge Burnham made her comfortable among the cushions. - -“No, it is from town. There are no carriages belonging to this -enlightened region.” - -“How do your family reach the station, then?” - -“They never reach it,” he answered, composedly. He had resolved upon -not trying to smooth over anything. - -“But how did you get to and from the cars when you were stopping here?” - -“On the rare occasions when I was so unfortunate as to stop here I -sometimes caught the wagon which brings the mail and takes unfortunate -passengers; or, if I were too early for that, there were certain -milk-carts and vegetable-carts which gave me the privilege of a ride, -with a little persuasion in the shape of money.” - -Nothing could be more studiedly polite than Judge Burnham’s tone; but -there was a covert sarcasm in every word he said. He seemed to Ruth to -be thinking, “I hope you realize the uncomfortable position into which -your obstinacy has forced me.” - -Evidently not a touch of help was to be had from him. What were they -to talk about during that five miles of travel over a rough road? Ruth -studied her brains to try to develop a subject that would not make them -even more uncomfortable than they now felt. She was unfortunate in -selection, but it seemed impossible to get away from the thoughts which -were just now so prominently before them. She suddenly remembered a -fact which surprised her, and to which she gave instant expression. - -“Judge Burnham, what are your daughter’s names?” - -The gentleman thus addressed wrinkled his forehead into a dozen -frowns, and shook himself, as though he would like to shake away all -remembrance of the subject, before he said: - -“Their very names are a source of mortification to me. The elder is -Seraphina and the other Araminta. What do you think of them?” - -Ruth was silent and dismayed. This apparently trivial circumstance -served to show her what a strange state of things existed in the home -whither she was going. She didn’t know how to answer her husband’s -question. She was sorry that she had asked any. There seemed no way out -but to ask another, which, in truth, pressed upon her. - -“How do you soften such names? What do you call them when you address -them?” - -“I call them nothing. I know of no way of smoothing such hopeless -cognomens, and I take refuge in silence, or bewildering pronouns.” - -Ruth pondered over this answer long enough to have her courage rise and -to grow almost indignant. Then she spoke again: - -“But, Judge Burnham, I do not see how you could have allowed so strange -a selection for girls in this age of the world. Why didn’t you save -them from such a life-long infliction? Or, was there some reason for -the use of these names that dignifies them—that makes them sacred?” - -“There is this sole reason for the names, and for many things which you -will find yourself unable to understand. Their mother was a hopeless -victim to fourth-rate sensation novels, and named her daughters from -that standpoint. I was in reality powerless to interfere. You may have -discovered before this that I am not always able to follow out the -dictates of my own judgment, and others, as well as myself, have to -suffer in consequence.” - -What could Ruth answer to this? She felt its covert meaning; and so -sure was she beginning to feel that she had followed her own ideas, -instead of the leadings of any higher voice, that she had not the heart -to be offended with the plainness of the insinuation. But she realized -that it was a strange conversation for a newly-made husband and wife. -She took refuge again in silence. Judge Burnham tried to talk. He asked -if the seat she occupied was entirely comfortable, and if she enjoyed -riding, and if she had tried the saddle, or thought she would enjoy -such exercise, and presently he said: - -“These are abominable roads. I am sorry to have you so roughly treated -in the very beginning of our journey together. I did not want roughness -to come to you, Ruth. I thought that you had endured enough.” - -She was sorry that he said this. Her tears were never nearer the -surface than at this moment, and she did not want to shed them. She -began to talk rapidly to him about the beauty of the far-away hills -which stretched bluely before them, and he tried to help her effort and -appreciate them. Still it was too apparent just then neither cared much -for hills; and it was almost a relief when the carriage at last drew up -under a row of elms. These, at least, were beautiful. So was the long, -irregular, grassy yard that stretched away up the hill, and was shaded -by noble old trees. It required but a moment to dismiss the carriage, -and then her husband gave her his arm, and together they toiled up the -straggling walk toward the long, low building, which was in dire need -of paint. - -“This yard is lovely,” Ruth said, and she wondered if her voice -trembled very much. - -“I used to like the yard, a hundred years or so ago,” he answered -sadly. “It really seems to me almost as long ago as that since I had -any pleasant recollections of anything connected with it.” - -“Was it your mother’s home?” - -“Yes,” he said, and his face grew tender. “And she was a good mother, -Ruth; I loved the old house once for her sake.” - -“I think I can make you love it again for mine.” Ruth said the words -gently, with a tender intonation that was very pleasant to hear, and -that not many people heard from her. Judge Burnham was aware of it, and -his grave face brightened a little. He reached after her hand, and held -it within his own, and the pressure he gave it said what he could not -speak. So they went up the steps of that low porch with lighter hearts, -after all, than had seemed possible. - -The door at the end of that porch opened directly into the front room, -or “keeping room,” as, in the parlance of that region of country, it -was called, though Ruth did not know it. The opening of that door was -a revelation to her. She had never been in a real country room before. -There were green paper shades to the windows, worn with years, and -faded; and little twinkling rays of the summer sunshine pushed in -through innumerable tiny holes, which holes, curiously enough, Ruth -saw and remembered, and associated forever after with that hour and -moment. There was a rag carpet on the floor, of dingy colors and uneven -weaving. Ruth did not even know the name of that style of carpet, but -she knew it was peculiar. There were cane-seated chairs, standing in -solemn rows at proper intervals. There was a square table or “stand,” -if she had but known the proper name for it, covered with a red cotton -cloth having a gay border and fringed edges. There was a wooden chair -or two, shrinking back from contact with the “smarter” cane-seated -ones; and there was a large, old-fashioned, high-backed wooden rocker, -covered back and arms and sides, with a gay patch-work cover, aglow -with red and green and yellow, and it seemed, to poor Ruth, a hundred -other dazzling colors, and the whole effect reminded her forcibly of -Mrs. Judge Erskine! - -Now, you have a list of every article of furniture which this large -room contained. No, I forget the mantle-piece, though Ruth did not. -It was long and deep and high, and was adorned with a curious picture -or two, which would bear studying before you could be sure what they -were, and with two large, bright, brass candlesticks, and a tray and -snuffers. Also, in the center, a fair-sized kerosene lamp, which looked -depraved enough to smoke like a furnace, without even waiting to be -lighted! Also, there were some oriental paintings in wooden frames -on the wall. Are you so fortunate as not to understand what oriental -paintings are? Then you will be unable to comprehend a description -of Ruth’s face as her eye rested on them! Judge Burnham was looking -at her as her eye roved swiftly and silently over this scene, not -excepting the curious paper, with which the walls were hung in a -pattern long gone by. He stood a little at one side, affecting to -raise an unmanageable window sash. They were all unmanageable; but in -reality he was watching her, and I must confess to you that this scene, -contrasted in his mind with the elegant home which his wife had left, -was fast taking a ludicrous side to him. The embarrassments were great, -and he knew that they would thicken upon him, and yet the desire to -laugh overcame all other emotions. His eyes danced, and he bit his lips -to restrain their mirth. But at last, when Ruth turned and looked at -him, the expression in her face overcame him, and he burst forth into -laughter. - -It was a blessed thing for Ruth that she was able to join him. - -“Sit down,” he said, wheeling the gay rocker toward her. “I am sure -you never occupied so elegant a seat before. There is a great gray cat -belonging to the establishment who usually sits in state here, but she -has evidently vacated in your favor to-day.” - -Ruth sank into the chair, unable to speak; the strangeness of it all, -and the conflicting emotions stirring in her heart fairly took away the -power of speech. Judge Burnham came and stood beside her. - -“We have entered into this thing, Ruth,” he said, and his voice was not -so hard as it had been, “and there are embarrassments enough certainly -connected with it, and yet it is a home, and it is _our_ home—yours and -mine—and we are _together forever_. This, of itself, is joy enough to -atone for almost anything.” - -She was about to answer him, and there was a smile on her face, in the -midst of tears in her eyes; but they were interrupted. The door opened -suddenly, and an apparition in the shape of a child, perhaps five -years old, appeared to them—a tow-headed child with staring blue eyes -and wide-open mouth—a child in a very pink dress, not over-clean and -rather short,—a child with bare feet, and with her arms full of a great -gray cat. She stared amazingly at them for a moment, then turned and -vanished. - -“_That_ is not mine, at least,” Judge Burnham said, and the tone in -which he said it was irresistible. - -His eyes met Ruth’s at that moment, and all traces of tears had -disappeared, also all signs of sentiment. There was but one thing to -do, and they did it; and the old house rang with peal after peal of -uncontrollable laughter. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - -MY DAUGHTERS. - - -THE room to which Judge Burnham presently escorted his bride was very -unlike that parlor. As she looked about her, on the exquisite air of -beauty which prevailed, and the evidences of refined and cultured -taste, scattered with lavish hand, she was touched with the thought -that her tastes had been understood and remembered, in each minute -detail. - -“How very lovely this is!” she said, as her foot rested on the soft -velvet carpet, with its wildwood vines trailing in rich colors over the -floor. - -“I knew you would like it,” Judge Burnham said, with a gratified -smile. “It reminded me of you, and, indeed, the entire room has seemed -to me to be full of your presence. I enjoyed arranging it. I think I -could have gratified your tastes in regard to the rest of the house, -Ruth, if you had let me.” - -“Oh, I know you could,” she answered, earnestly. “It was not that I -did not trust your taste—and perhaps I made a mistake; but I meant it -right, and you must help me to bring right out of it.” - -She did not realize it, but this little concession to his possible -better judgment helped her husband wonderfully. - -“We will make it come right,” he said, decidedly. “And now I will leave -you to rest a little, while I go down and discover whether this house -is inhabited to-day.” - -With the door closing after him seemed to go much of Ruth’s courage. -This exquisite room was a rest to her beauty-loving eyes and heart. -But it contrasted most strangely with the life below stairs; and, when -she thought of that room below, it reminded her of all there was yet -to meet and endure, and of the newness of the way, and the untried -experiments which were to be made, and of her own weakness—and her -heart trembled, and almost failed her. Yet it must not fail her; she -_must_ get strength. - -Well for Ruth that she knew in what place to seek it. Instead of taking -a seat in the delicately-carved and gracefully-upholstered easy-chair, -which invited her into its depths, she turned and knelt before it. -Perhaps, after all, there are more dangerous experiences than those -which, in coming to a new home, to take up new responsibilities, lead -us to feel our utter weakness, and bring us on our knees, crying to the -strong for strength. - -Judge Burnham’s entrance, nearly an hour afterward, found Ruth resting -quietly in that easy chair, such a calm on her face, and such a light -in her eyes, that he stopped on the threshold, and regarded her with a -half-pleased, half-awed expression, as he said: - -“You look wonderfully rested! I think my easy chair must be a success. -Will you come down now, to a farm-house supper? Please don’t see any -more of the strange things than you can help. I tried to get the girls -to come up, and so avoid some of the horrors of a meeting below -stairs; but they are too thoroughly alarmed to have any sense at all, -and I had to abandon that plan.” - -“Poor things!” said Ruth, compassionately. “Am I so very formidable? -It must be dreadful to feel frightened at people. I can’t imagine the -feeling.” - -He surveyed her critically, then laughed. He had some conception of -what a vision she would be to the people down-stairs. She had not -changed her travelling dress, which was of rich dark silk, fitted -exquisitely to her shapely form, and the soft laces at throat and -wrist, brightened only by a knot of ribbon of the most delicate tint -of blue, completed what, to Judge Burnham’s cultured taste, seemed the -very perfection of a toilet. - -“You do not frighten me,” he said. “I can manage to look at you -without being overwhelmed. I shall not answer for anybody else. Ruth, -I have obeyed you to the very letter. In a fit of something very like -vexation, I resolved not to lift a finger to change the customs of the -house, leaving you to see them, according to your desire, as they -were. The result is we haven’t even a table to ourselves, to-night. The -whole of that insufferable family, cat and all, are ready to gather, -with us, around their hospitable board. I am sorry, now, that I was so -very literal in my obedience.” - -“I am not,” Ruth said, and her tone was quiet, and had a sound in it -which was not there when he left her. It served to make him regard her -again, curiously. - -Then they went down-stairs to the kitchen! Ruth was presently seated -at the long table, alarmingly near to the stove which had cooked the -potatoes that graced the evening meal—boiled potatoes, served in -their original coats! to be eaten with two-tined steel forks, the -same forks expected to do duty in the mastication of a huge piece of -peach-pie!—unless, indeed, she did as her husband’s daughters were -evidently accustomed to doing, and ate it with her knife. There were, -at that table, Farmer Ferris, in his shirt-sleeves, himself redolent -of the barn and the cow-house; his wife, in a new, stiff, blue and -red plaid calico, most manifestly donned to do honor to the occasion; -two boys, belonging to the Ferris household, in different degrees of -shock-headed, out-at-the-elbow disorder, and the aforesaid apparition -in pink calico, the gray cat still hugged to her heart, and eating milk -from the same saucer, at intervals; and, lastly, the two daughters of -the House of Burnham. - -Those daughters! The strongest emotion which Ruth found it in her -heart to have for them, on this first evening, was pity. She had never -imagined anything like the painful embarrassment which they felt. They -sat on the edges of their chairs, and, when engaged in trying to eat, -tilted the chairs forward to reach their plates, and rested their -elbows on the table to stare, when they dared to raise their frightened -eyes to do so. Their father had performed the ceremony of introduction -in a way which was likely to increase their painful self-consciousness. -“Girls,” he had said, and his voice sounded as if he were summoning -them to a trial by jury; “this is Mrs. Burnham.” And they had stood up, -and essayed to make little bobbing courtesies, after the fashion of -fifty years ago, until further pressed by Mrs. Ferris, who had said, -with a conscious laugh: - -“For the land’s sake, girls! do go and shake hands with her. Why, she -is your ma now.” - -But Judge Burnham’s haughty voice had come to the rescue: - -“If you please, we will excuse them from that ceremony, Mrs. Ferris,” -he had said. “Mrs. Burnham, please be seated.” And he had drawn back -her chair with the courtesy of a gentleman and the inward fury of a -lion. In truth, Judge Burnham was ashamed of and angry with himself, -and I am glad of it; he deserved to be. Instead of asserting his -authority, and making this meeting and this first meal together -strictly a family matter, and managing a dozen other little details -which he could have managed, and which would have helped wonderfully, -he had angrily resolved to let everything utterly alone, and bring Ruth -thus sooner and more decisively to seeing the folly, and the utter -untenableness of her position. But something in the absolute calm of -her face, this evening—a calm which had come to her since he left her -in their room alone—made him feel it to be more than probable that she -would not easily, nor soon, abandon the position which she had assumed. - -The ordeal of supper was gotten through with easier than Ruth had -supposed possible—though truth to tell, the things which would have -affected most persons the least, were the hardest for her to bear. She -had not entirely risen above the views concerning refinement which she -had expressed during the early days of Chautauqua life; and to eat with -a knife when a fork should be used, and to have a two-tined steel fork, -instead of a silver one, and to have no napkin at all, were to her -positive and vivid sources of discomfort—sources from which she could -not altogether turn away, even at this time. I am not sure, however, -that, in the trivialities, she did not lose some of the real trials -which the occasion certainly presented. - -Directly after the supper was concluded, with but a very poor attempt -at eating on Ruth’s part, Judge Burnham led the way to that dreadful -parlor, interposing his stern voice between the evident intention of -the daughters to remain in the kitchen: - -“I desire that you will come immediately to the parlor.” - -As for Ruth and himself, they did not retreat promptly enough to -escape Mrs. Ferris’ stage-whisper: - -“For the land’s sake, girls! do go quick; I’m afraid he will bite you -next time. I wonder if she is as awful cross as he is? She looks it, -and more too.” - -In the midst of all the tumult of thought which there might have been, -Ruth found herself trying to determine which was the most objectional -expression of the two, Mrs. Judge Erskine’s favorite “Land alive!” -or Mrs. Ferris’ “For the land’s sake!” Where do Americans get their -favorite expletives, anyway? - -She had not much time to query, for here were these girls, sitting each -on the edge of one of the solemn cane-seated chairs, and looking as -thoroughly miserable as the most hard-hearted could have desired. What -was she to say to them, or would it be more merciful to say nothing -at all? Ruth felt an unutterable pity for them. How miserably afraid -they were of their father! How entirely unnatural it seemed! And it -could not be that he had ever been actually unkind to them? It was just -a system of severe letting alone, combined with the unwisdom of the -Ferris tongue which had developed such results. Between the intervals -of trying to say a few words to them, words which they answered with -solemn “Yes, ma’ams,” Ruth tried to study their personal appearance. -It was far from prepossessing; yet, remembering Susan, and the -marvelous changes which the “ivy-green dress,” fitted to her form, had -accomplished, wondered how much of their painful awkwardness was due to -the utter unsuitability of their attire, and the uncouth arrangement of -their _coiffures_. - -The elder of the two was tall and gaunt, with pale, reddish, yellow -hair—an abundance of it, which she seemed to think served no purpose -but to annoy her, and was to be stretched back out of the way as far -and as tightly as possible. Her shoulders were bent and stooping; her -pale, blue eyes looked as though, when they were not full of dismayed -embarrassment, they were listless, and her whole manner betokened that -of a person who was a trial to herself, and to every one with whom she -came in contact. - -People, with such forms and faces, almost invariably manage to -fit themselves out in clothing which shows every imperfection to -advantage. This girl was no exception; indeed, she seemed to have -succeeded in making an exceptional fright of herself. Her dress was -of the color and material which seemed to increase her height, and -bore the marks of a novice in dress-making about every part of it. -To increase the effect it was much too short for her, and showed to -immense disadvantage a pair of strong, thick country boots, which might -have been excellent for tramping over plowed ground in wet weather. -The younger sister was a complete contrast in every respect. Her -form can only be described by that expressive and not very elegant -word “chunky.” From her thick, short hair, down to her thickly-shod -feet, she seemed to be almost equally shapeless and graceless; fat, -red cheeks; small, round eyes shining out from layers of fat; large, -ill-shaped hands; remarkably large feet, apparently, or else her shoes -were, and arrayed in a large plaided dress of red and green, which was -much too low in the neck and much too short-waisted, and was absolutely -uncouth! Swiftly, silently, Ruth took in all these details. And she -took in, also, what her husband had never known—that a large portion -of this uncouthness was due to the outward adornings or disguisings, -which is what persons devoid of taste sometimes succeed in making of -their dress. - -In the midst of her musings there came to her a new idea. It dawned -upon her in the form of a question. Why should she, a lady of fashion -and of leisure, and of such cultured taste that she was an acknowledged -authority among her friends, on all matters pertaining to the esthetic, -be in so marked a manner, for the second time in her short life, -brought face to face with that form of ill-breeding which troubled her -the most? Not only face to face with it, but put in such a position -that it was her duty to endure it patiently and show kindly interest in -the victims? Was it possible? And this thought flashed upon her like -a revelation—that she had been wont to make too much of this matter; -that she had allowed the lack of culture in these directions to press -her too sorely. Now, do you know that this was the first time such a -possibility had dawned on Ruth Burnham? So insensible had been her -yielding to the temptation which wealth and leisure brings, to give -too much thought and too high a place to these questions of dress and -taste, that, as I say, she had not been conscious of any sin in that -direction, while those who looked on at her life had been able to see -it plainly, and in exaggerated form! - -I suspect, dear friend, that you, at this moment, are the victim of -some inconsistency which your next-door neighbor sees plainly, and -which, possibly, injures your influence over her, and you are not -conscious of its development. Now, that is a solemn thought, as well -as a perplexing one, for what is to be done about it? “Cleanse thou me -from secret faults,” prayed the inspired writer. May he not have meant -those faults so secret that it takes the voice of God to reveal them to -our hearts? - -At least to Ruth Burnham, sitting there in that high-backed rocker, -looking at her husband’s daughters, the thought came like the voice of -God’s Spirit in her heart. She had come very near to that revealing -Spirit during the last two hours—rather he had made his presence known -to her. She was in a hushed mood, desiring to be led, and she plainly -saw that even this exhibition of uncouthness could be a discipline to -her soul, if she would but allow its voice. You are not to understand -that she, therefore, concluded uncouthness and utter disregard of -refined tastes to be necessary outgrowths of Christian experience, or -to be in the least necessary to a higher development of Christian life. -She merely had a glimpse of what it meant, to be in a state of using -this world as not abusing it. The thought quickened her resolutions -in regard to those neglected girls thus thrown under her care, and, -I have no doubt, that it toned her voice when she spoke to them. I -believe it not irreverent to say that the very subject upon which she -first addressed them was chosen for her, all unconsciously to herself, -by that Ever-present Spirit, to whom nothing that an immortal soul can -say, appears trivial, because he sees the waves of influence which are -stirred years ahead by the quiet words. - -Just what the two frightened girls expected from her would have been, -perhaps, difficult for even themselves to explain. For years all their -intercourse with their father had consisted in a series of irritated -lectures, delivered in a sharp key, on his part, and received in a -frightened silence by them. He had been utterly disappointed with -them in every respect, and he had not failed to show it, and they -had not failed to seek for sympathy by pouring the story of their -grievances into Mrs. Ferris’ willing ears. The result was that she -had but increased their terror in and doubt of their father. Added to -this, she had all the ignorant superstition of her class in regard to -step-mothers, if, indeed the views of this sort of people shall be -called by no harsher name than superstition. The new-comer had been, -during the last week, most freely discussed in the Ferris household, -and the result had been what might have been expected. Therefore, it -was with unfeigned amazement and with the demonstrations of prolonged -stares, that Ruth’s first suddenly spoken sentence broke the silence -which the others were feeling keenly. - -“Your hair looks as though it would curl, naturally; did you ever try -it?” - -This to the elder girl, whose whole face reddened under the -astonishment produced by the query, and who, as I said, could only -stare for a moment. Then she said: - -“Yes, ma’am, I did once; long time ago.” - -“And didn’t you like the appearance?” - -A more vivid blush and a conscious laugh was the answer. Then she added: - -“Why, yes, well enough; but it was such a bother, and nobody to care.” - -“Oh, it is very little trouble.” Mrs. Burnham answered, lightly, -“when you understand just how to manage it. I think natural curls are -beautiful.” - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - -A SISTER NEEDED. - - -SOME vigorous planning was done that night which followed Ruth -Burnham’s introduction to her new home. It was not restless planning; -neither could it be said to be about new things, for these things Ruth -had studied every day since the first week of her engagement, and the -summer, which was in its spring-time then, was fading now, so she had -_thought_ before. But something had given her thoughts new strength -and force. Ruth believed it to be that hour which she had spent alone -on her knees. She had spent many an hour before that alone on her -knees, but never had the power of the unseen presence taken such hold -upon her as at that time. She had felt her own powerlessness as _Ruth -Erskine_ had not been given to feeling it, and you know it is “man’s -extremity that is God’s opportunity.” - -It was before the hour of breakfast that she commenced the process of -developing some of her plans to her husband. - -“How long will it take to dispose of the Ferris family?” she asked -him, and her voice was so calm, so full of strength, and conscious -determination that it rested him. - -“It can be done just as soon as your genius, combined with my executive -ability, can bring it to pass,” he answered, laughing, “and I sincerely -hope and trust that you will be brilliant and rapid in your display of -genius.” - -“But, Judge Burnham, ought they to have warning, as we do with -servants?” - -“A week’s warning? I trust not! I should not promise to endure a -week of it. Oh, they are prepared. I broadly hinted to them that the -mistress would want the house to herself. If they had not felt the -necessity of being here to welcome you it could have been managed -before this. They have their plans formed, I believe, and as soon as -you want to manage without them, I will make it for their interest to -be in haste.” - -Ruth turned toward him with a relieved smile and an eager air. “Could -you manage, then, to make it to their interest to go before breakfast, -or shall we have to wait until that meal is over?” - -He laughed, gayly. “Your energy is refreshing,” he said, “especially -when it is bestowed in such a worthy cause. No, I think we will have -to wait until after breakfast. But, Ruth, are you really in earnest? -Do you actually mean to settle down here, in this house, as it is? And -what are you going to do about help, and about—well, everything?” - -Before she answered she came over and stood beside him, slipping -her hand through his arm and speaking in tender earnestness. “Judge -Burnham, I want you to understand me; I feel that I may have seemed -hard, and cold, and selfish. Perhaps I have been selfish in pushing my -plan; I think I have been, but I did not intend it for selfishness. I -was, and am, led by what seems to be _our_ duty—yours and mine. Those -girls of yours have been neglected. I can see how you, being a man, -would not know what to do; at the same time I can see how I, being a -woman, can at least _try_ to do many things, and I am very eager to -try. You may call it an experiment if you will, and if it is, in your -estimation in six months from now an utter failure, I will give it up -and do exactly as you propose.” - -There was a gleam of assurance in her eyes, and he could see that she -did not believe he would ever be called upon to follow _his_ plans. But -something tender and pleading in her tone touched him, and he said, -with feeling: - -“I begin to realize forcibly, what has only come upon me in touches -heretofore—that I have not done my duty by the girls. I did not know -what to do. I used to study the question and try to plan it, but I can -not tell you how utterly hopeless it seemed to me. Finally, I gave it -up. I determined that nothing could ever be done but to support them -and live away from them, and long before I knew you I determined on -that as my line of action. So your resolution was a surprise to me—an -overwhelming one. But, perhaps, you are right. At least I will help -you in whatever way I can to carry out _your_ plans, however wild they -are, and I begin to realize that you may possibly have some very wild -ones, but I promise allegiance.” - -“Good!” said Ruth, with sparkling eyes, “I ask nothing better than -that. Then we will proceed at once to business; there is so much to be -done that I don’t feel like taking a wedding journey just now. We can -enjoy it so much more when we get our house in order. There are certain -things that I need to know at once. First, how much or how little is -there to be done to this house, and—and to everything? In other words, -how much money am I to spend?” - -“Oh,” he said looking relieved, “I thought you were going to ask me -what ought to be done to make the place habitable, and, really, I -hardly know where to commence. I shall be charmed to leave it in your -hands. As to money, I think I may safely promise you what you need -unless your ideas are on a more magnificent scale than I think. I will -give you my check this morning for a thousand dollars, and when that -is used you may come to me for as much more. Is that an answer to your -question?” - -“An entirely satisfactory one.” She answered him with shining eyes, -and they went down to breakfast with a sense of satisfaction which, -considering the surroundings and the marvelous calicoes in which the -daughters of the house appeared, was surprising. - -“I don’t see the way clear to results,” Judge Burnham said, -perplexedly, as he and his wife walked on the piazza after breakfast -and continued the discussion of ways and means. “If the Ferris tribe -vacate to-day, as I have just intimated to the head of the family is -extremely desirable, what are you to do for help until such time as -something competent in that line can be secured, always supposing that -there _is_ such a thing in existence? I remember what an experience you -have been having in your father’s house in the line of help.” - -“Oh, well,” said Ruth, brightly, “we had the small-pox, you know; -that makes a difference. They have excellent servants there now, and, -indeed, we generally have had. My housekeeping troubles did not lie in -that direction. I have a plan; I don’t know what you will think of it. -I am afraid you will be very much surprised?” - -“No, I shall not,” he interrupted her to say, “I have gotten beyond the -condition of surprise at anything which you may do or propose.” - -Then she went on with her story. - -“I thought it all over last night, and if she will do it, I think I see -my way clear, and I am almost sure she will, for, really, I never knew -a more unselfish girl in my life.” - -“I dare say,” her husband said, regarding her with an amused air. -“Perhaps I might agree with you if you will enlighten me as to which of -the patterns of domestic unselfishness you have in mind. Did she reign -in your household since my knowledge of it began?” - -“Oh, I am not speaking of _hired_ help,” Ruth said, and a vivid flush -brightened her cheeks. “I was thinking of my sister. It is her help I -have in mind.” - -“Susan!” he exclaimed, and then was suddenly silent. His face showed -that, after all, she had surprised him. - -There was much talk about it after that, and the discussion finally -ended in their taking passage in the mail-wagon, about which Judge -Burnham had spoken the day before, and jogging together to the train. -There was so much to be done that Ruth had not the patience to wait -until another day, besides their departure would give the Ferris -family a chance to hasten _their_ movements. On the way to the cars -Judge Burnham mentally resolved that his first leisure moments should -be spent in selecting horses and a driver, since he was to become a -country gentleman. Whether he would or not, it became him to look out -for conveniences. - -Seated again in the train, and made comfortable by her watchful -husband, Ruth took time to smile over the variety of experiences -through which she had gone during the less than twenty-four hours since -she sat there before. It seemed to her that she had lived a little -life-time, and learned a great deal, and it seemed a wonderful thing -that she was actually going to Susan Erskine with a petition for help. -Who could have supposed that _she_, Ruth Erskine, would ever have -reached such a period in her history that she would turn to her as -the only a available source of supply and comfort. A great deal of -thinking can be done in one night, and Ruth had lain awake and gone -over her ground with steady gaze and a determined heart. It surprised -her that things had not looked plainer to her before. “Why couldn’t I -have seen this way, yesterday, before I left home?” she asked herself, -but the wonder was that she had seen it thus early. - -Very much surprised were the Erskine household to see their bride of -less than twenty-four hours’ standing appear while they still lingered -over their breakfast-table! - -“We live in the country, you know,” was Ruth’s composed explanation of -the early advent. “Country people are up hours before town people have -stirred; I always knew that.” - -“Land alive!” said Mrs. Judge Erskine, and then for a whole minute she -was silent. She confided to Ruth, long afterward, that for about five -minutes her “heart was in her mouth,” for she surely thought they had -quarrelled and parted! - -“Though I thought at the time,” she explained, “that if you _had_ got -sick of it a’ready you wouldn’t have come back together, and have -walked into the dining-room in that friendly fashion. But, then, I -remembered that you never did things like anybody else in this world, -and if you had made up your mind to come back home again, and leave -your husband, you would be sure to pick out a way of doing it that no -other mortal would ever have thought of!” - -“I am going to my room,” Ruth said presently. “Judge Burnham, I will -hasten, and be ready to go down town with you in a very little while. -Susan, will you come with me, please? I want to talk to you.” - -And Susan arose with alacrity, a pleasant smile lighting her plain -face. There was a sound of sisterliness in the tone, which she had -watched and waited for, but rarely heard. - -“I have come on the strangest errand,” Ruth said, dropping into her own -favorite chair, as the door of her old room closed after them. “I feel -as if I were at least a year older than I was yesterday. I have thought -so much. First of all, Susan, I want to tell you something. I have -found something. I have come close to Jesus—I mean he has come close to -me. He has almost shown me himself. I don’t know how to tell you about -it, and indeed I am not sure that there is anything to _tell_. But -it is a great deal to have experienced. I seem to have heard him say, -‘Come to _me_. Why do you struggle and plan and toss yourself about? -Haven’t I promised you _rest_?’ And, Susan, I do believe he spoke to my -heart; why not?” - -“Why not, indeed!” said Susan, “when he has repeated the message so -many times. Ruth, I am _so_ glad!” - -Then Ruth ran rapidly from that subject to less important ones, giving -her sister a picture, in brief, of the new home, closing with the -sentence: - -“Now I am in a dilemma. I can’t keep any of the Ferris family for an -hour, and I can’t introduce new servants until things are in different -shape, and I can’t get them into different shape until I have help. Do -you see what I am to do?” - -“Yes,” said Susan, with a bright smile, “you need a sister; one who -knows how to help in all household matters, and yet who knows how to -keep her tongue reasonably quiet as to what she found. I know how -servants gossip, some of them. That Rosie we had for a week tried to -tell me things about Mrs. Dr. Blakeman’s kitchen that would make her -feel like fainting if she knew it. A sister is just exactly what you -need in this emergency. Will you let her step into the gap and show you -how nicely she can fill it?” - -“_Will_ you?” Ruth asked, eagerly. “That is just exactly what I -wanted to say, though I didn’t like to say it, for fear you would -misunderstand, not realize, you know, that it is because we don’t want -to go out of the _family_ for assistance just now that we needed you so -much.” - -Recognized at last in _words_ as a member of the family! An -unpremeditated sentence, evidently from the heart. It was what Susan -Erskine had been patiently biding her time and waiting for. It had come -sooner than she expected. It made her cheeks glow. - -“I will go home with you at once,” she said, in a business-like way. -“There is nothing to hinder. The machinery of this house is in running -order again. That new second girl is a treasure, Ruth, and, by the way, -she has a sister who might develop into a treasure for you. Now let me -see if I understand things. What do you want to do first?” - -“First,” said Ruth, smiling, “I need to go shopping. It is my _forte_, -you know. I like to buy things, and at last there is certainly occasion -for my buying. Susan, you have no idea how much is wanted. Everything -in every line is necessary, and Judge Burnham has left all to me. We -need paper-hangers and painters, and all that sort of thing, but of -course he will attend to those things. Our plan is to return to-night -with a load of necessities. Judge Burnham is going to hire a team at -once, and have it loaded. But what _are_ the first necessities? Where -shall I begin?” - -“Begin with a pencil and paper,” said Susan, seizing upon them and -seating herself. “Now, let us be methodical. My teacher in mathematics -once told me that I was nothing if I was not methodical. Kitchen -first—no, dining-room, because we shall have to eat even before we get -the house in order. What is a necessity to that table before you can -have a comfortable meal?” - -Then they plunged into business. Two women, thoroughly in earnest, -pencil and paper in hand, bank check in pocket, organization well -developed in both of them, and the need of speed apparent, can -accomplish surprising things in the way of plans in an hour of time, -especially when one is persistently methodical. - -When Mrs. Burnham arose and drew her wrap around her preparatory -to joining the husband, who was waiting below, she felt as though -a week’s work had been accomplished. Besides, they had been cheery -together, these two—been in a different mood toward each other from -what had ever appeared before. Susan was so sensible, so quick-witted, -so clear-sighted as to what needed doing first, and as to ways of -doing the soonest, and withal her matter-of-course way of saying “we” -when she spoke of the work to arrange, made her appear such a tower -of strength to Ruth, who knew so well her own delinquencies in the -direction of housework, and who had thoroughly tested Susan’s practical -knowledge. - -“Land alive!” ejaculated Mrs. Erskine, when, after Ruth’s departure, -the new arrangements were presented to her for approval. “Who would -have thought she would have to come after you, in less than a day -after she set out to do for herself. So capable as she is, too, though -I don’t suppose she knows much more than a kitten about housework. How -should she? Well, I’m glad I had you learn all them things. What we’d -have done this winter if I hadn’t is more than _I_ can see through. -Well, well, child, I don’t know how we are going to get along without -you. Your pa sets great store by you; I can see it every day; and what -if I should have another turn of sick headache while you’re gone! -Though, for that matter, I don’t believe I will. I guess going through -the small-pox cured them headaches. I ain’t had one since. And so she -needs you right off? Well, poor thing! I don’t know what she _would_ do -without you, I’m sure. Them girls ain’t efficient, I dare say; girls -never are. You learn ’em how, Susan; you can do it, if anybody can, and -that’ll be doing ’em a good turn.” - -Susan discreetly kept her own counsel about “them girls,” and quietly -and swiftly packed her satchel, not without an exultant song at her -heart. This beautiful sister, whose love she had craved, seemed very -near to her this morning. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - -TRYING QUESTIONS. - - -YOU are to imagine much that was done inside that long, low house on -the hill during the next three weeks. A great deal can be done in three -weeks’ time. What _was_ actually accomplished would fill a good-sized -volume; so it is well that you are to imagine instead of read about it. -A great many wheels of progress were started during that very first -day—Ruth among the stores, Judge Burnham among the paper-hangers, -painters and draymen, Susan in the Erskine attic, sorting out and -packing many things that, according to Judge Erskine’s orders, were -Ruth’s exclusive property. By the time the five o’clock train received -the three, they were tired and satisfied. - -Tired though they were, it was as late as midnight before all the -household settled into rest. Susan dropped into her place as naturally -as though it had been waiting for her all these years. The Ferris -family were departed bag and baggage, and the two Burnhams left behind -were red-eyed and disconsolate. Why not? The Ferrises were the only -friends they had ever known. Susan put a sympathetic arm around one -and kissed the other before she had been in the house five minutes, -and Ruth remembered with dismay that she had not thought of doing such -a thing. And, indeed, if I must tell you the truth concerning her, it -seemed almost an impossible thing to do! She had been for so many years -in the habit of bestowing her kisses rarely and to such an exceedingly -limited number of persons. Then they betook themselves, Susan and -Seraphina, to the kitchen. Confusion reigned. So it did all over the -house, except in the locked-up purity of Ruth’s two rooms. But before -midnight there was a comfortable place for Susan to sleep and most -satisfactory preparations in line for a breakfast the next morning. - -It was that next morning which gave the two Burnham girls their first -touch of a cultured home. There was a little room, conveniently -situated as regarded the kitchen, which the instinct of taste had made -Ruth select at the first glance as a dining-room. Thither she and Susan -repaired early in the evening to make a survey. - -“It needs painting,” said Susan, scanning the wood-work critically, -“and papering; and then, with a pretty carpet, it will be just -the thing. But, in the meantime, it is clean, and we can set the -breakfast-table here to-morrow morning, can’t we?” - -“If we can get it in here to set,” Ruth answered, in a dubious tone. -“It is a long, horribly-shaped table, and none of _our_ furniture will -be here, you know.” - -“Oh, I see my way out of that. There is a little table in that pantry, -or milk-room, or whatever is the name of it, that will do nicely for -a dining-table until we get settled; and, Ruth, shall we have some of -my muffins for breakfast? You remember Judge Burnham used to like -them when we gave them to him occasionally for tea. Oh, girls! I can -make delicious muffins, and if you are both down here by six o’clock -to-morrow morning I will teach you how, the first thing I do.” - -This last to the two bewildered girls, who stood waiting to see what -astonishing thing would happen next. As for Ruth, she went up-stairs -to that gem of a room, smiling over the strangeness of the thought -that Susan was down-stairs in their kitchen, hers and Judge Burnham’s, -planning with his daughters to have muffins for breakfast! Also, she -thought, with a sense of satisfaction, of the great trunk packed with -silver, rare old pieces of her mother’s own, which had been held sacred -for her during all these years, and of the smaller and newer trunk -containing table drapery, which was a marvel of fineness and whiteness. -Both trunks had journeyed hither several days ago, and had this night -been opened to secure certain things which Susan’s morning plans had -called for. - -So it was to the little room that the family came the next morning, -with its south window, into which the September sun slanted its rays -cheerily. The room itself was carpetless, and the chairs were wooden, -and there was no other attempt at furniture. But the table, laid -in snowy whiteness, and the napkins large and fine and of delicate -pattern, and the silver service gleaming before Ruth’s place, and the -silver forks and solid silver spoons, and the glittering goblets and -delicate china—for Susan had actually unpacked and washed and arranged -Ruth’s mother’s china—to say nothing of the aroma of coffee floating -in the air, and mingling not unpleasantly with the whiff of a vase of -autumn roses which blushed before Ruth’s plate. - -All these things were a lesson in home refinements such as a week of -talking would never have accomplished, and which the Burnham girls sat -down to for the first time in their lives. It was curious to notice the -effect on them. Their conspicuous calicoes and stretched-back hair and -ungainly shoes were still painfully visible. But, for the first time, -apparently, it dawned upon them that things didn’t match. They surveyed -the table, which was as a picture to them, and then, with instinctive -movements, essayed to hide their awkward shoes under their too short -dresses, and blushed painfully over the impossibility of doing so. Ruth -noticed it, and smiled. They would be ready for her hand, she fancied, -when she came to an hour of leisure to arrange for them. - -That breakfast scene was a cheery one. So much of home had already -entered into its elements that Judge Burnham cordially pronounced Susan -a fairy, and she as genially responded that she was a most substantial -one, and had had two substantial helpers, with a meaning glance toward -the girls. - -“Indeed!” he said, in kindly tone, and then he glanced toward them. - -That was a very pleasant way of showing good-will. The contrast between -this breakfast and the one to which they sat down but the morning -before was certainly very striking And, though the girls blushed -painfully, the tone in which he had spoken, and the glance which -accompanied his remark, did more for those daughters than all their -father’s lectures had accomplished. - -Directly the muffins and the broiled steak and the amber coffee were -discussed, and, the meal concluded, business in that house commenced. -Thereafter it was a scene of organized disorder. The girls, under -Susan’s lead, proved, notwithstanding Mrs. Judge Erskine’s surmise, -very “efficient” helpers. They could not enter a room properly, they -could not use the King’s English very well, and they knew nothing -about the multitude of little accomplishments with which the girls of -their age usually consume time. But it transpired that they could wash -windows, and “paints,” and sweep walls, and even nail carpets. They -were both quick-witted and skillful over many of these employments, -and the hearty laugh which occasionally rung out from their vicinity, -when Susan was with them, showed plainly that they had lost their fear -of her; but their embarrassment, where either their father or Ruth was -concerned, did not decrease. And, indeed, in the whirl of plans which -had recently come upon them, these two had little leisure to cultivate -the daughters’ acquaintance. Ruth, after a few attempts at helping, -discreetly left the ordering of the hired helpers to Susan’s skillful -hands, and accompanied her husband on daily shopping excursions, where -her good taste and good sense were equally called into action. - -In the course of time, and when there is a full purse to command -skillful helpers, the time need not be so very long drawn out. There -came a morning when it would have done your comfort-loving heart -good to have walked with Judge Burnham and his wife through the -reconstructed house! Nothing showy; nothing really expensive, as that -term is used in the fashionable world, had been attempted. Ruth’s -tastes were too well cultured for that. She knew, perfectly, that what -was quite in keeping with the lofty ceilings and massive windows of her -father’s house would be ridiculously out of place here. As you passed -with her from room to room you would have realized that nothing looked -out of place. Perhaps in the girl’s room as much thought had been -expended as in any place in that house. - -Ruth had been amazed, not to say horrified, on the occasion of her -first visit to their room, to find that it was carpetless, curtainless, -and, I had almost said, furnitureless! An old-fashioned, high-post -bedstead, destitute of any pretense of beauty, and a plain-painted -stand, holding a tin basin and a broken-nosed milk pitcher! To Ruth, -whose one experience of life had to do with her father’s carefully -furnished house, where the servants’ rooms were well supplied with -the comforts, to say nothing of the luxuries of the toilet, this -looked simply barbarous. Judge Burnham, too, was shocked and subdued. -It had been years since he had been a caller in his daughters’ room, -and he had seemed to think that magic of some sort must have supplied -their wants. “I furnished money whenever it was asked for,” he said, -regarding Ruth with a sort of appealing air. “Now, that I think of it, -they were never extravagant in their demands; but I supposed I gave -them enough. At least, when I thought about it at all, I assured myself -that the Ferrises would certainly not be afraid to ask for more, if -more was needed.” - -“The difficulty with the Ferris family was, that they had no tastes to -expend money for,” Ruth said, quietly, “but you can not wonder that -the girls are not just what we would like to see them. They certainly -have had no surroundings of any sort that would educate them in your -direction.” - -After this talk he entered with heartiness into the plans for that -room, and when the delicate blue and pale gold carpet was laid—and -it reminded one of a sunset in a pure sky—and the white drapery was -looped with blue ribbons, rural fashion, and the gold-banded china was -gracefully disposed on the toilet case, and the dressing-bureau was -adorned with all the little daintinesses which Ruth understood so well -how to scatter, even to a blue and gold vase full of sweet-scented -blossoms, and the pretty cottage bedstead was luxuriously draped in -spotless white, plump pillows, ruffled pillow shams, all complete, -Ruth stood back and surveyed the entire effect with the most intense -satisfaction. What said the girls? Well, they _said_ nothing. But -their blazing cheeks and suspiciously wet eyes looked volumes, and for -several days they stepped about that room in a tiptoe fashion which -would have amused Ruth, had she seen it. They could not rally from the -feeling that everything about them was so delicate and pure that to -breathe upon, or touch, would be to mar a work of art. - -Meantime, other matters had been progressing. Ruth had lain awake -half of one night and studied the immortal question of dress. She had -met and battled with, and conquered half a dozen forms of pride, and -then had boldly announced at the next morning’s breakfast-table, the -following: - -“Judge Burnham, the girls and I want to go to the city to attend to -some dress-making. Shall we go in that mail-wagon, or how?” - -Before this, I should have explained to you that Judge Burnham had -been, for some days, in an active state of trying horses, examining -carriages, and interviewing professional drivers. Also, several horses -and carriages had waited on them for trial, so that Ruth had taken -several rides to the cars on trial, and had once suggested that perhaps -it would be as economical a way of keeping a carriage as any, this -spending the season in making a choice. Therefore Judge Burnham laughed -as he answered: - -“Why, no, there is to be a trial span here in time for the ten o’clock -train. I was about to propose a ride in honor of that occasion. Are -you going into town for the day?” - -Ruth laughed. - -“For the week, I am afraid. We shall probably be detained at the -dressmaker’s for some time, and, after that, I have many errands to do.” - -Now the form in which her pride had met her last, was the shrinking -from going to town, and above all, going to the fashionable -dress-making and millinery establishments with those strange-looking -companions, for a critical survey of their wardrobe revealed the fact -that they had nothing which she considered decent. This was not the -first time that she had taken the subject into consideration. On the -contrary, it had been present with her during her shopping excursions, -and she had blessed the instinct which enabled her to see at a glance -just what shade or tint would suit the opposite complexions of the two -girls. - -She had visited her dressmaker and made arrangements with her for -service. But the question had been, whether she could not smuggle them -off in some way to a quieter street among the less fashionable workers, -and secure for them a respectable outfit in which to appear at Madame -Delfort’s. It was over these and kindred plans that she had lain awake, -and finally abandoned them all, and resolved upon outright unconcern -in regard to what others might say or think. Nevertheless she winced -when the two girls came down arrayed in their best, bright plaids—for -Mrs. Ferris’ taste had run entirely in that direction—cheap hat adorned -with cheap flowers and brilliant ribbons, both flowers and ribbons more -or less soiled, and with no gloves at all. Seraphina reported that she -_had lost_ hers, and Araminta, that she _couldn’t find hers_. Between -those two states there is a distinction, though it may not appear at -first sight. - -The trial carriage had arrived, and Judge Burnham seated his party, -himself wearing a disturbed face. He did not like the appearance of the -company with which he was to go to town. Ruth had thought of this, and -had tried to plan differently, but with a man’s obtuseness he had _not_ -thought of it, and could not, or would not understand why he should go -in on the ten o’clock train, and the rest wait until twelve, especially -when his wife admitted herself to be in haste and they might all go -together. Fairly seated opposite his daughters, he saw a reason for -having gone earlier, and even looked about him, nervously, as the -carriage neared the depot, wishing there was yet some chance of escape. - -A way opened. “Ah, good-morning, Judge! this is fortunate. I am in -search of you.” This was the greeting which he received from the depot -door. And he left Ruth standing on the steps and went forward to shake -hands with a tall, gray-haired man, in the prime of life. He came back -after a few moments, speaking rapidly. “Ruth, that is Parsons, the -famous criminal lawyer; he wants to consult me in regard to a case, and -is going farther on by the next train in search of a clue. I guess, -after all, I shall have to wait here for the twelve o’clock, and have a -talk with him; that is, if you do not object.” - -“Oh, not at all!” Ruth said, breathing more freely. Her husband’s -daughters were less of a cross to her without him than with him. Every -man he met on the train knew and came to talk with him, while she was -a stranger. The famous criminal lawyer moved toward them, looking -interested, and Judge Burnham could hardly escape the ceremony of -introduction. - -“Ah!” he said, bowing low to Mrs. Burnham, “very happy to meet you, -madam. I have known your husband for several years. I hear you are just -getting settled at your country-seat. Terrible task, isn’t it? But -pays, I suppose, when one gets fairly settled. I didn’t know until the -other day that you were rural in your tastes, Judge Burnham?” - -All these sentences, spoken in the man-of-the-world tone, which -indicates that the person is talking for the sake of filling the time, -and all the while his practiced eye was taking in the group—Judge -Burnham with a slightly embarrassed manner and somewhat flushed -face; his elegant, high-bred wife, who was a trifle pale as she was -wont to be under strong feeling of any sort; and the two girls, in -_outre_ attire, standing a little apart, with wide eyes and flaming -cheeks, staring painfully. The criminal lawyer seemed to think that -the position demanded more words from him. “You are the victims of -the usual American nuisance, I see,” with the slightest possible -inclination of his head toward the two. “The inefficiency of hired -help is really the social puzzle of this country, I think. Foreigners -have immensely the advantage of us. Just returning a relay of the -condemned sort I suppose?” - -There was the rising inflection to his sentence which marks a question, -and yet he rattled on, precisely like a man who expects no answer. Was -it because the train sounded its warning-whistle just then, that Judge -Burnham, though his face flushed and his eyes flashed, did not correct -the criminal lawyer’s mistake? - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - -“THAT WHICH SATISFIETH NOT.” - - -FAIRLY seated in the train, Ruth Burnham gave herself up to gloominess -over her own planning. The episode with the famous criminal lawyer not -having served to sweeten her way, she speedily determined on making -as little a cross of the rest of it as she could, too fully realizing -that, plan as she would, the way was a _cross_. She still shrank from -the fashionable “Madame’s,” and her fashionable corps of workers. -Perhaps the worriment was what she deserved for being so fashionable -in her desires that she could not bring herself to look up an obscure -back street with a modest sign, and thus help along the large army of -workers, who can not be fashionable—though really, there are two sides -to even that question. She understood that as a rule, the work done -from that back street would be a continual source of mortification to -her—a constant strain on her temper, so long as the garments lasted. -After all, it is not so much the desire to be in the height of the -fashion that sends women to the extravagantly high-priced _modistes_, -as a knowledge of the fact that as a rule, the low-priced ones do not -understand their business, and will succeed in making a bungle of any -work which they undertake. When there shall arise a class of women who -have carefully learned how to cut and make ordinary garments, in the -best manner, the cry of hard times, among such workers, will be less -frequently heard. - -Ruth concluded not to risk contact with chance acquaintances in -street-cars; but, directly she reached the city, took a carriage to a -store where she was a stranger, and did some rapid transforming work. -Two stylish wraps, selected with due reference to their qualifications -for covering much objectionable toilet underneath—selected, too, -with careful reference to the height and shape and complexion of the -wearers; then gloves that were strong and neat-fitting and shapely; -then hats of easily-donned stamp, gracefully, yet slightly trimmed; -and, really, Judge Burnham would hardly have recognized his daughters. -Ruth surveyed them with satisfaction; and, if they could have been -fitted at the “Madame’s,” without removing those stylish mantles, she -would have drawn a sigh of relief. As it was, she still had that to -dread, and a real ordeal it was. Those who condemn her for exhibiting -much false pride and foolish lack of independence have probably never -been tried in the same way. You have, of course, observed that people’s -own peculiar trials are the ones for which they have sympathy. They are -harder, too, to bear, than any other person’s. - -Ruth was not one whit behind the multitude, in her way of thinking -about herself. As she stood in the “Madame’s” apartments and endured -the well-bred stares and the well-bred impudence—for there really is -such a thing as what might be called well-bred impudence—she set her -teeth hard, and ruled that the color _should not_ rush into her face, -and, also, that the “Madame” should have no more of her custom, from -this time forth. And yet, when she came to cooler moments, she tried to -reason within herself, as to how the woman was to blame. What had she -said, or looked, that was not, under the circumstances, most natural? - -All these questions Ruth held, for the time being, at bay, and arranged -and directed and criticised with her usual calm superiority of manner, -and with the assurance of one who knew exactly what she wanted, and -intended not to stop short of entire satisfaction. And she didn’t. She -was more critical and troublesome, even, than usual; and the “Madame” -would have told you that that was unnecessary. And, at last, after many -delays, and changes of plan and trimmings, and changes of patterns, -involving vexatious delays on “Madame’s” part, they were free of her -for the day, and could pursue their round of shopping more at leisure. -But Ruth was in no mood for shopping, other than the necessary things -that must be ordered to the “Madame’s” without delay. She was tired -and fretted; she wanted something to cool and quiet her. - -She dispatched the necessary shopping with great care, indeed, but with -unusual speed, leaving the girls, meantime, seated in the carriage, -instead of in the great store, where they would have delighted to be. - -The business of lunching had been dispatched some time before—as -soon, indeed, as they had left the dress-making establishment. Ruth -had chosen an obscure place for refreshment, not choosing to risk the -danger of fashionable acquaintances, at the places with which she -was familiar. Consequently, she had been able to do little else than -gather her skirts about her, to protect them from careless and hurried -waiters, and to curl her aristocratic nose behind her handkerchief, at -the unwonted smells combining around her; while the girls, famished by -the drain on their nerves, and having, by reason of the excitement of -the morning, been unable to indulge in much breakfast, made a hearty -meal, not at all disturbed by the sights and sounds and odors which -made eating an impossibility to Ruth. This little matter served to add -to her discomfort and her sense of gloom; for, when people are hungry, -they are much more ready to yield to gloom. All the shopping done that -she could bring herself to give attention to, she consulted her watch, -and learned with dismay, that there was an hour and a half before -train-time. What was to be done with it? - -She thought of her husband’s office; but suppose the criminal lawyer -should be there? In any case, there would be those dreadful students -to stare, and nudge each other and giggle. Ruth dreaded a giggle more -than she did a bullet. Assuredly, she would not go there! Neither was -her city home to be thought of. She was not in a mood to present her -husband’s daughters to Mrs. Judge Erskine; neither did she intend -that those daughters, in their present attire, or with their present -attainments, should come in contact with her. So, as the gloomy-faced -woman rode listlessly along, on an up-town car, while the two -girls were bobbing their heads swiftly from one window to another, -endeavoring to take in all the strange sights, she was engaged in -trying to decide what to do with time. A blackboard bulletin, before -one of the public halls, caught her notice, and her quick eye took in -the large lettering: “_Bible Reading! Harry Morehouse! Here, at Four -O’clock! Come!_” Before she had reached the inviting word, she had -signaled the car, and the bewildered girls were following her whither -she would. - -“There is an hour or more before we can go home,” she said in -explanation. “Let us go to this meeting. Perhaps it will be -interesting.” - -They were entirely willing; in fact, they were in a state of maze. -Anything that this remarkable woman—who knew her way so composedly -through this great whirling city—suggested, they were willing to -help carry out. So they mounted the steps to the large, light, -social-looking room, where people were already thronging in. No -acquaintances to be feared here. Ruth did not now know many who -frequented such meetings, or were to be found in this part of the -city. In the distance she caught a glimpse Marion, but she shrank -back, unwilling to be recognized even by her; for Marion had her -beautiful daughter beside her, and the contrast would be too strikingly -painful. Presently the meeting opened. Ruth looked about her for -Harry Morehouse, a name with which she was not unfamiliar. But she -almost curled her lip in disappointment, she was so amazed at the -insignificance of this little, boyish man! “As if _he_ could help -anybody!” her heart said, in scorn. “What exaggerated reports do get -into the papers about people!” And then, presently, she did just what -many another person has done, who has listened to Harry Morehouse’s -rendering of Scripture—forgot to think of the man, and gave earnest -heed to the words which he was reading; words which, someway, had a -sound—strangely familiar though they were—as if she had never heard -them before. - -“Wherefore do ye spend money for that which is not bread? and your -labor for that which satisfieth not? Hearken diligently unto me, -and eat ye that which is good, and let your soul delight itself in -fatness.” What was there in the familiar verse that thrilled so -through Ruth Burnham’s soul? “That which satisfieth not.” She needed -only her own experience to show her that one who understood the human -heart spoke those words! How freely she had been giving labor! and -how strangely unsatisfying it all seemed to her to-day! She fairly -hungered and thirsted after a higher grasp of the Infinite Arm, reached -down. A great longing came over her to hide herself away in him. She -was so tired and so tried, and a long line of petty trials stared her -in the face. She felt like turning away from them all; and yet she -mustn’t. Well, then, she felt like reaching higher ground—getting -up where the air was purer—where these endless details of dress and -position would trouble her less—where such women as “Madame,” the -dressmaker, would have no power to flush her cheek and set her heart -to angry beatings by a high-bred stare. Suddenly a new thought flashed -across her heart. These girls—what had she been doing for them? -How had she been trying to satisfy them? In the days that they had -spent together, she remembered that she had not once alluded, even -in the most remote manner, to anything higher, or better, or more -satisfying, than these new things, which, at best, were to perish -with the using. Had she not, by her example, left the impress of her -first influence upon them to the effect that well-furnished rooms and -carefully-adorned bodies were _the_ important things on which to spend -one’s strength? - -“Well,” she said within her disturbed self, “I have no time.” - -“No time?” inquired that other inner self, which is forever at war with -its fellow. “Is it because you have been employed on _more_ important -matters?” - -This almost angered Ruth; it flushed her face, and she said: - -“There is a proper time for all things.” - -“Yes,” said the other one, “and is the proper time to attend to this -most important concern with which we have to do in life _after_ all the -lesser matters are disposed of?” - -Then Ruth roused, and gave her heart some searching into. Was it -possible that she had really been teaching those girls that she -considered the matter of their outward adorning more important than -anything else connected with them! If actions speak even louder than -words, and if she had acted the one, and not so much as _spoken about_ -the other, what else _could_ they think? - -“I am glad,” she told herself, “that I brought them into this meeting. -At least they will get a different idea here.” - -Then she turned and looked at them. _Would_ they get different ideas, -or had the first taken root, leaving at least no _present_ room for -other growths? - -Miss Seraphina was spreading her hand carefully out on her lap, and -contemplating with eyes of unmistakable admiration the color and -texture and fit of her new gloves! It was altogether probable that -she had never worn well-fitting gloves before, and she felt their -importance. The other sister was evidently as totally absorbed in -the trimness of her neatly-fitting kid boot, the advent of which had -made her foot a stranger to herself, with which she was trying to get -acquainted, as though Harry Morehouse and his wonderful new Bible had -been in London at that moment! A strange pang thrilled the heart of -the woman who was trying in her youth to be a mother to these two, as -she looked at their absorbed faces and followed the direction of their -eyes. Was that simply the necessary result of new refinements? Would -these all sink into their proper and subordinate places directly the -newness and strangeness had worn off, or was this really a wave of her -own influence which was going to increase in power as surely as it was -fed? - -Now, this thought did not rest her; and while it was desirable in -itself that she should be thus early roused to the sense of danger -there might be in flooding these young creatures with this world’s -vanities, that wise old enemy, Satan, was on the alert to make the -whole matter into thorns with which to prick Ruth’s tired heart, and in -obliging her thoughts to revolve around this center, never widening it -nor seeing her way out of the maze, yet effectually shutting her off -from the practical help which awaited her through the channel of Harry -Morehouse’s Bible. - -Somebody has said that, whoever else stays away from a religious -meeting, Satan never does. Was there ever a truer statement? If he -would only appear in his natural character, instead of, as in this -instance, transforming himself into a goad, and pressing hard against -the nerves that were already strained to their utmost! - -On the whole, Mrs. Judge Burnham went home on the five o’clock train -thoroughly wearied in body and mind, and with a haunting sense of -disappointment pressing down her spirits. She had accomplished that -which she had in the morning started to do. She had been successful -in all her undertakings, and could feel that things were now in train -for making transformation in the outward appearance of these hitherto -neglected girls. A laudable undertaking, certainly, so it was held in -its place, but she could not get her heart away from the sentence: “And -your labor for that which satisfieth not.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - -WHEREFORE? - - -NOW, I am afraid you will laugh over the matter which appeared next -to Ruth Burnham in the shape of a trial. Yet, if you have not lived -long enough in this world to be in sympathy with the _little_ trials, -which, in certain states of mind, look large, either your experience -is not extensive or your _sympathies_ not large. It was no greater -matter than the hair which belonged to Judge Burnham’s daughters. But -really if you _could_ have seen the trying way in which they managed -to disfigure their heads with this part of their adorning, you would -have felt that some action was demanded. Ruth knew exactly how each -head ought to be dressed; she could almost see the effect that would -be produced by a skillful and easily attainable arrangement. Then -where the trial? Why, perhaps, if you are not made up of that cruelly -sensitive type of women—and I am sure I hope you are not—it will be -difficult to make plain to you how Ruth shrank from touching that hair! -Human hair, other than her own was a thing which she desired to keep -at a respectful distance. She could admire it, when well cared for, -and she did most heartily. But to _care_ for it, to comb and brush and -fondle over _any_ person’s hair, was to Ruth, or would have been had -she ever been called upon to suffer in that line, a positive martyrdom. -Now add to this the fact that this shrinking from the work increased -tenfold when it had to do with any person who was not _very_ dear and -precious, and possibly you can comprehend why she wore so troubled a -face that Saturday evening, and gazed at those hopeless heads opposite -her, and wondered how a transformation was to be brought about. She was -hopeless as regarded teaching the intricacies of any becoming twist or -curl. In time, with patience and with often taking hold and obliging -the refractory hairs to lie in their place, it might be accomplished; -and here poor Ruth shivered over the horrors of a possible future -experience. But to get them ready to appear at church the next morning, -without a personal encounter, was not to be hoped for. - -This Saturday evening, although the family had been three weeks in -their new home, was the first in which they were planning for church. -The little church in the village had been closed for a longer space of -time than that, undergoing repairs, and the first Sabbath after their -marriage Ruth had contrived to plan and work herself into an exhaustive -headache that had to be succumbed to and petted all day. The next they -had been forced to spend in the city, by reason of having missed the -last train out on Saturday. Now here they were on the eve of the third, -and Ruth at least had been planning toward the little stone church -around the corner. Everything was in readiness. The new dresses and -the new bonnets and the new gloves, and all the new and bewildering -paraphernalia of the toilet had arrived from the city, the last -package only the evening before, and but for that dreadful hair Ruth -would have been happy over the thought of the effect to be produced by -the next morning’s toilet. - -It was Susan who at last, and in an unexpected manner, came to the -rescue, just as she had stepped in and rescued Ruth from a hundred -trials, both seen and unseen, during the experiences of the last three -weeks. She did her part so naturally, too, as one who simply happened -along at the right moment, without having understood any special need -for it. Perhaps there is no rarer or more perfect way of bearing one -another’s burdens than this apparently unconscious one. - -They sat in the cheery sitting-room—Ruth would not have it called a -parlor—and in no part of the house had the transformation been more -complete than in that square, rag-carpeted, paper-curtained, and -unhome-like room. Judge Burnham was reading certain business letters -that seemed to perplex him. The girls were wishing that they could -invent some excuse for escaping early from the room to their own, that -they might have another look at all the beauties of their wardrobe, -and Ruth was gazing at them with a distressed air and manner, and -thinking of hair! Susan, glancing up from her glove-mending, followed -the direction of Ruth’s eyes for a moment, then she spoke her thoughts. - -“I just _long_ to get hold of your hair.” - -The remark seemed to be addressed to the two girls, and was so in -keeping with Ruth’s thoughts that she started and flushed, wondering -for an instant whether it were possible for Susan to know what they -were. The girls laughed, and looked pleased at her interest. - -“Your hair would curl beautifully,” Susan added, addressing the elder -sister. “And those wide braids in which heavy hair is arranged now -would just fit Minta’s face. Don’t you think so, Ruth?” - -“Yes,” said Ruth, promptly, “I am sure of it. But I don’t know that she -could get them looped right.” - -“Oh yes, she could. It is very easy after one knows how. Girls, I am an -excellent barber. Suppose we go up-stairs and try my skill? I can show -you so that you can arrange that part of your toilet in the morning in -less time than it usually takes.” - -This plan was immediately carried out, the three going up-stairs with -merry voices, Susan’s cheery one being heard to say: - -“Oh, you don’t understand half my accomplishments yet; there are ever -so many things I can do.” - -“That is a fact,” said Judge Burnham, with emphasis. “She is a very -treasure in the house. I used to pity you, Ruth, but, upon my word, -so far as she is concerned, I am not sure that there was any room for -pity.” - -“There was not,” Ruth said, heartily. “It took me a long time to -realize it, but she has been from the first day of her coming to our -home a blessing to me.” - -And so strange are these hearts of ours, touched oftentimes by words -or deeds apparently so slight, Ruth felt the little episode of the -hair-dressing as something that called forth very tender feeling for -her sister. She began to have a dim idea of what a blessing might be -hidden in a simple, quiet life, constantly unselfish in so-called -_little_ things. - -So it came to pass that, on a lovely Sabbath morning, the Burnham -family were one and all making ready to appear as a family in the -little stone church. The girls had been there, more or less, on -Sabbaths, during their lives. Years ago Judge Burnham used to go -occasionally, when he felt like it. But it had been many a year since -he had been seen inside the unpretending little building. Ruth, of -course, had never been, and the circumstances surrounding them all were -so new and strange that it was almost like a company of strangers being -introduced into home-life together. - -The two girls came down a trifle earlier than the others, and were -in the hall near the doorway, where the soft, yellow sunlight rested -on them, when Judge Burnham descended the stairs. Half-way down he -paused, with a surprised, irresolute air, as his eyes rested on the two -apparent strangers, and then, as one of them turned suddenly, and he -caught a glimpse of her face, the surprise deepened into bewilderment. -Who _were_ these young ladies who were so at home in his house in the -privacy of a Sabbath morning? This was the first thought. And the -second, “It is not—can it be _possible_ that they are my daughters!” -Then, it is almost surprising that he did not at once feel humiliated -over the fact that outward adornings had power so to transform! - -It was certainly a transformation! Rich, quiet-toned silks, just -the right tint to accord well with skin and eyes, made in that -indescribable manner which marks the finished workman, to those -eyes skilled in translating it, and to other eyes it simply -says, “The effect is perfect.” Wraps, and hats, and gloves, -and handkerchiefs—everything in keeping. And, in place of the -stretched-back hair, were soft, smooth, rolling auburn curls, -completely changing the expression of the wearer’s face. Also, that -unbecoming mass of shortish hair which had hung in such untidy -uncouthness, was gone, and in its place wide, smooth braids, tastefully -looped here and there with knots of ribbon of just the right shade. - -Ruth should have been there at that moment to see the two, and to see -Judge Burnham as he looked at them. She would have felt rewarded for -her work. It certainly _was_ strange what a different manner the -hitherto awkward girls now assumed. A sense of conscious becomingness, -if it were nothing more, had fallen upon them, and in the effort to do -justice to their new selves they almost unconsciously drew the stooping -shoulders straight and stood with heads erect. - -“Well, upon my word!” said Judge Burnham, recovering himself at last, -and advancing toward them, “I didn’t know you. I wondered what strange -ladies we had here. Your fall suits are certainly very becoming.” - -He chose to ignore the fact that fall suits were new experiences to -them. Perhaps he really did not yet understand to what a new world they -had been introduced. The two laughed, not unpleasantly, and the flush -on their cheeks, toned, as it was, by the billows of soft ruchings -about the throat, was certainly not unbecoming. They had taken long -looks at themselves in their mirror, that morning, and it was not -unpleasant to them to think that their father did not recognize them. -They had already reached the place where they had no desire to have -their past recognized. Some seed takes root promptly and grows rapidly. - -You may imagine that the entrance of the Burnham party to the little -stone church was an event in the eyes of the congregation. They had -known the Burnham girls all their lives; but these “young ladies” they -never saw before. It would have been curious to a student of human -nature to have studied the effect which their changed appearance made -on the different characters present. Certain ones looked unaffected -and unconcealed amazement; others gazed up at them, and returned their -nods of recognition with respectful bows, seeming to look upon them as -people who had moved to an immense distance from themselves; and there -were those who resented the removal, and tossed their heads and said, -with their eyes, and the shape of their mouths, that they “considered -themselves quite as good as those Burnham girls, if they were all -decked out like peacocks!” - -As for Judge Burnham, the shade of satisfied pride, in place of the -mortification which he had schooled himself to feel, repaid his wife -for her three weeks of effort. - -Then she tried to turn away from the question of personal appearance, -and give herself to the service; but she was both surprised and -pained to find that, in her well-meant efforts to place these girls -in their proper position before others, she had, someway, lost ground -spiritually. It was all very well to resolve to turn her thoughts away -from the girls, and their dresses, and their bonnets, and their hair, -and their manners, but it was another thing to accomplish it. She found -what, possibly, we have each discovered by experience, that it was not -easy to get away on Sabbath, in church, from that which had absorbed us -during the week, and indeed, a fair share of the early Sabbath itself. -Try as she would to join in hymn, or Bible-reading, or even prayers, -she found her mind wandering to such trivial questions as whether, -after all, a shade lighter of the silk would have fitted Minta’s -peculiar complexion better, or whether those gloves were not a trifle -large. These thoughts were very hateful to her. She struggled hard to -get away from them, and was amazed and distressed beyond measure to -find that they held her captive. She waited eagerly for the sermon, -hoping that it would be such an one as would hold her attention for -her, since she was not able to control it herself; and behold, the -text announced was one which, indeed, helped her wandering thoughts, -but threw her back into the very midst of the gloom which had pressed -her heart the last time she heard those words: “Wherefore do ye spend -money for that which is not bread? and your labor for that which -satisfieth not?” Again her answering conscience said that was what she -had been doing. Money and time and strength freely given for that which -was not bread! - -It had not fed her soul; on the contrary, it, or something else, had -starved her. Well, what was the trouble? She had surely done that which -was her duty? Yes, but did a revealing spirit whisper the words in her -ear, just then?—“These ought ye to have done, and not to have left the -other undone.” She had been _absorbed_ in her labor; she had put these -things first. She had risen and gone about the day, too hurried for -other than a word of prayer—too hurried for any private reading. She -had retired at night, too wearied in mind and body for any prayer at -all! She was starved! much time gone, and no bread for her hungry soul! -Also, having not fed herself, how could she have been expected to feed -others? Even yet she had said almost nothing, to these daughters of -hers, about the all-important matter. She had talked with them, often -and long. All the details of the toilet had been gone over carefully, -exhaustively, and she and they, and Judge Burnham himself, were -satisfied with the results of her words in that direction. What about -the direction which “_satisfieth_?” - -How was Ruth to get away from her heart? - -No, I must do her justice; that was not her cry. She did not want -to get away from the awakening voice. She was distressed, she was -humiliated, she was unhappy; but she wanted to find rest only through -the love and patience of Jesus. She felt like a sheep who had wandered -outside, even while doing work that she surely thought was set for -her—as, indeed, it was; but her eyes were just opening to the fact -that one can do work that the Master has set, so vigorously as to -forget the resting-places which he has marked for the soul to pause and -commune with him, and gather strength. She had been _working_, but not -_resting_. And then, again, it was most painfully true that, because -of her lack of spiritual strength, she had done but half her work. The -important human side she had held to its important place, and worked -faithfully for it. But the forever-more important spiritual side she -had allowed to sink almost out of sight of her vision; and even, when -roused by His Spirit, as He had spoken to her through that very verse, -but a little time before, she had allowed her roused heart to slip back -and absorb itself in the cares of this world and the adornments of -fleshly bodies, while the souls waited. - -Truth to tell, Ruth was not troubled any more that morning, by -wandering thoughts; neither did she hear much of the earnest sermon -which was preached; but, if the preacher had but known how the Holy -Spirit took his text and preached to one soul for him, he would have -gone home to his closet, on his knees, and thanked God for using his -lips that day, in reading to that soul that questioning word. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - -“HEARKEN UNTO ME.” - - -“IT passes my comprehension how a man with no more development of -brain-power than that one possesses made the mistake of thinking he was -called to preach!” - -This was what Judge Burnham said, as he walked with his wife home from -the morning service. - -“Did you ever hear an effort more devoid of ideas? What possible good -can he think he has accomplished, if that is his motive? Or how can -he have sufficient vanity to imagine that it is other than a bore to -listen to him?” - -Ruth hesitated for her answer. It was not that she had been so -impressed with the sermon, it was rather the text that had been -preached to her; and she did not feel personally sensitive in regard -to Judge Burnham’s opinion of this particular minister. I think the -reason that the words struck sharply on her heart was because they -revealed her husband’s utter lack of sympathy with the subject matter -of the sermon. He was speaking solely from a critical, intellectual -standpoint, without, apparently, a conception of any spiritual power -connected with the “foolishness of preaching.” The sentence revealed to -Ruth, as with a flash of light—such as reveals darkness—the fact that -her husband had no sympathy with Christ or his servants, as such. Of -course, she had known this before; but to know a thing and to _feel_ it -are two very different matters. - -“I was not thinking of the _newness_ of the truth,” she said, after a -little, speaking hesitatingly. “It impressed me, however. A thing does -not need to be new in order to be helpful; it may be as old as the -earth, and we never have given it attention.” - -“Possibly,” he said lightly. “There are things so old and so tiresome -that we do not care to give them special attention; I am entirely -willing to class that sermon among such, if you say so. I declare I had -not realized that a sermon could be such a trial to me. I don’t quite -see what is to be done; I suppose your orthodoxy will not permit of -your staying at home on Sabbath, and I’m sure we can not tolerate that -sort of preaching—I suppose he calls it preaching. How shall we manage?” - -Still Ruth had no answer ready. Every word that he spoke served to -increase the heavy weight at her heart; and, despite her shivering -effort to get away from it, there rang the question, “How can two walk -together except they be agreed?” Yet she realized only too well that -the time for settling that question was long past; that she had taken -solemn and irrevocable vows upon her, and must abide by them. The -question now was, How was she so to walk with him as not to dishonor -Christ? - -“I have no fault to find with the man’s preaching,” she said, coldly; -and her husband laughed good-naturedly, and told her he appreciated her -well-meant efforts to make the best of everything, but, unfortunately, -she had too much brain to allow him for a moment to believe that such -weak attempts at oratory satisfied her. Then he changed the subject, -talking of matters as foreign to Ruth’s thoughts as possible, and yet -serving, by their very distance from her heart, to press the weight of -pain deeper. Her eyes once widely opened, it seemed that everything -which occurred that day served to show her more plainly the gulf which -lay between her ideas, and plans, and hopes, and those of her husband. - -“What a glorious day this is!” he had said, as they turned from the -dinner table. “I declare I believe the country _is_ ahead of the city! -on such days as these, any way. Ruth, what do you say to a ride? It -would be a good time to explore that winding road which seemed to -stretch away into nowhere.” - -While he waited, he watched with surprise the flush which deepened -and spread on his wife’s face. It so happened that the question of -Sabbath riding for pleasure was one which had come up incidentally -for discussion one evening at Flossy Shipley’s, during Mr. Roberts’ -visit, and Ruth, who had taken the popular view of innocent Sabbath -recreation, had discussed the matter with keen relish, finding Mr. -Roberts able to meet her at every point. She had been first annoyed -to find her position open to so much objection, then interested -to study the question in all its bearings, and ended, as such a -frank, intelligent and thoroughly sincere nature as hersmust end, -in abandoning a position which she saw was untenable, and coming -strongly over to the other side; since which time the observance of -the Sabbath had been one of her strong points. Judge Burnham had -respected her scruples, so far as he knew them, but, truth to tell, -he did not understand them very well. Having no personal principle in -the matter by which to judge, he was in danger of erring in unthought -of directions, and every new phase of the same question demanded a new -line of reasoning. It had not so much as occurred to him that his wife -would see any impropriety in riding out in her own carriage, on the -Sabbath day, with her husband, on a quiet, unfrequented country road. - -While she hesitated he watched her curiously. - -“Well,” he said, laughing, at last, “what is the trouble? You look -as though I had broken all the commands in the Decalogue. Am I on -forbidden ground now?” - -“Not _all_ the commands,” Ruth said, trying to smile; “but you seem to -have forgotten the Fourth.” - -“I am not sure that I know it. I am not thoroughly posted as to the -commandments—the position in which they stand at least. What is wrong, -Ruth?” - -“Judge Burnham, I don’t like to ride out for pleasure on Sabbath.” - -“What! not with me? Is it wicked to have a pleasant time on Sabbath? -I didn’t know that. I fail to see why we can’t be as good sitting -together in the carriage as we are sitting together in the parlor. -Or should we spend this day apart, enjoying the luxury of melancholy -reflection?” - -“I think you know what I mean. You are much too well versed in argument -to be entirely ignorant of people’s views in regard to this day.” - -“Upon my word, Ruth, I was never more innocent. I might be able to see -some force in a young lady’s objection to riding out with a young -gentleman, especially in a city, or in a crowded thoroughfare, though -even such things may be carried to excess; but when it comes to one’s -husband, and a country road where we shall not meet three people in an -hour, I confess I am befogged. Susan, do you see the bearings of this -case?” - -“Why, I see a good many bearings which you would not admit, and -possibly you could bring to bear a good many arguments which _I_ would -not admit. We start from different standpoints. It all resolves itself -into whether we believe the word of God or not, and I accept it as our -rule of life.” - -“Why, no, it doesn’t. I believe the word of God; in a measure at least. -I have respect for the Sabbath as an institution, and believe in its -sacredness. I have no sort of fault to find with ‘Remember the Sabbath -day, to keep it holy.’ I believe it was a good, sensible law. But we -should very likely quarrel over the word ‘holy.’ I should object to -the narrowness which made it so falsely holy that I could not enjoy a -ride with my wife after church, and I should have serious doubts as to -whether you could prove your side of the question from the Bible.” - -“Listen to one Bible argument, then,” Susan said, quietly, “and tell -me what you think it means. ‘If thou turn away thy foot from doing thy -pleasure on my holy day, and call the Sabbath a delight, the holy of -the Lord, honorable, and shalt honor Him, not doing thine own ways, nor -finding thine own pleasure, nor speaking thine own words.’ What do you -think of that argument for my side, Judge Burnham?” - -The gentleman addressed looked his embarrassment and annoyance. The -verse quoted sounded strangely new and solemn to him. His inner -consciousness was made certain that he was not ready to gauge his -Sabbath employments by that rule. - -“Oh, well,” he said, restlessly, “that verse would have to affect other -things besides riding out in the country; it has to do with home-life, -and words, and acts, as well.” - -“It certainly has,” Susan answered. And she spoke as if she thought it -in no degree lessened the force of the argument, because the obligation -reached in many directions. - -“I suppose,” Ruth said, “there is no question but that the Sabbath is -very poorly observed; still that is hardly an argument for increasing -the ways for dishonoring it, is it?” - -Then Judge Burnham turned on his heel and went off to the piazza, -deigning no reply to the general question that his wife had put. As for -herself, she struggled with the sense of pain that kept increasing, -and wondered how she should shape her life. Apparently, Judge Burnham -became ashamed of his rudeness, for he returned presently to the -parlor, whither Ruth had gone to wait for him, and seating himself near -her, with some pleasant remark as far removed from the recent subject -as he could make it, took up a book and seemed to lose himself in it. -Ruth followed his example, the book she took being the elegantly bound -Bible that her father had sent to grace the table. Instinctively she -turned to the chapter from which the haunting verse came, and slowly, -carefully, read it over. Presently what had been a pretense with Judge -Burnham became reality. He was interested in his book, which interest -he evidenced by a burst of laughter. - -“This is really rich,” he said. “Listen to this sarcasm, Ruth; see -if you ever heard anything touch deeper.” And then he read from the -sparkling, satirical, popular writer, a dozen sentences of brilliant -sarcasm concerning one of the scientific questions of the day—keen, -sharp, sparkling with wit and strength, but having to do with a subject -for which Ruth had no sympathy at any time, and which especially jarred -upon her this Sabbath afternoon. Her husband looked up from his reading -to meet the answering flash of the eyes which he liked so well to -see kindle, and met the objection on her face, and felt the lack of -sympathy with his enjoyment. “I beg your pardon,” he said, abruptly, “I -had forgotten your Puritan ideas. Possibly I am infringing again on the -sacredness of your Sabbath.” - -“I certainly think that the sentiments of that book are not in -accordance with the Bible idea of the sacredness of the day.” If Ruth -could only have kept her voice from sounding as cold as an iceberg, she -might have had some influence. - -As it was, he arose with a decided frown on his fine face. “I see, -Ruth,” he said, speaking as coldly as she had herself, “that we -assuredly have nothing in common for this day of the week, whatever -may be said of us on other days. It is a pity that the ‘sacredness of -the Sabbath’ should be the only element of discord between husband and -wife. As I am in continual danger of erring unconsciously, I will have -the grace to leave you in solitude and religious enjoyment,” and with a -courtly bow he left her to herself, and her large, open Bible, and her -sad heart. - -A little later Susan came in, and stopping beside her looked down the -page of the Bible. Ruth laid her finger on the words of the morning -text: “It is all true, Susan,” she said gravely. “I don’t believe there -is any person living who realizes it more fully than I do. ‘That which -satisfieth not.’ One may do one’s best, and succeed in accomplishing, -and it is unsatisfying.” - -“Have you answered the question, Ruth, dear?” - -“Whose question?” - -“The Holy Spirit’s—Wherefore, do ye? That is what he asks. Do you -understand why we try to satisfy our souls on husks, instead of wheat?” - -“Well,” Ruth said, thoughtfully, “things have to be done.” - -“Of course; but why should we stop among the _things_ expecting -satisfaction, or allow them to take other than the subordinate place -they were meant to occupy? Ruth, I think the trouble with you is, you -do not read the whole verse. You feel that you have proved the truth -of the first part of it, in your own experience Why don’t you try the -rest?” - -“Just what do you mean?” - -“Why, listen; ‘Hearken unto me, and eat ye that which is good, and let -your soul delight itself in fatness.’ Don’t you see what an assurance -that is, that the feast is spread? There is prepared that which will -satisfy; why not hearken to the voice of the Master of the feast?” - -Ruth lifted to her sister’s face earnest eyes, that filled with tears. - -“I _have_ tried to ‘hearken,’” she said, in a voice that was husky -with feeling. “I have heard his voice and have tried to follow him -and, at times, as I have told you before, he has seemed very near, but -the feeling does not stay. I am up on the Mount one day, more than -satisfied, and the next day I have dropped down and lost my comfort.” - -“Yes, I know that story in all its details. I have lived it. In my own -case it was because I ceased ‘hearkening’ for his voice. I placed other -things first. I thought first of what _I_ was going to do, or have, or -be, instead of putting Christ first.” - -“Ruth, don’t you know He says: ‘For I the Lord thy God am a _jealous -God_?’ How often I have thought of that! He _will not abide_ with a -divided heart; he must be _first_; and, for myself, I did not for years -keep him first. God was not in _all_ my thoughts.” - -“I don’t know,” Ruth said, speaking slowly after a long silence, and -she spoke with a long drawn sigh. - -“I don’t know that I can ever get back to where I was, even three weeks -ago. Something has dropped like a pall upon my joy in religion. I never -had much joy in anything. Really, it isn’t my nature to be joyful. -Perhaps I should not expect it.” - -Susan, smiling, shook her head. “That won’t do, you know. Joy is one of -the fruits that you are commanded to bear. It is not optional with you. -‘The fruit of the Spirit is love’—_joy_—you remember. It is not the joy -of nature that you and I are to look for, but the joy of grace. Ruth, -if I were you, I would not try to go back to three weeks ago, I would -try to go back to Christ and ask him to hold you, and lead you, and -speak for you, and in this, your time of special need, not to let you -drop for one moment away from him.” - -But who shall account for the perversity of the human heart? Something -in the simple, earnest words were translated by Satan to mean to Ruth a -reflection against her husband. She lifted her head haughtily and the -tremor went out of her voice. “I don’t know what you mean by my ‘time -of special need;’ I do not know that one’s life, humanly speaking, -could be more carefully shielded than mine. I have no anxiety as to -Judge Burnham’s position in regard to these questions; he will respect -my wishes and follow my plans.” - -To this Susan had no answer. Had she spoken at all, she feared she -would have shown Ruth that her own words were not strictly true. She -believed her at this moment to be weighed down with a sense of her -husband’s influence over her. - -When the bell tolled for evening service, Susan and the two daughters -of the house came down attired for church. - -“Going again?” queried Judge Burnham, with uplifted eyebrows. “Ruth -and I have had enough for to-day.” And Ruth, sitting back in the easy -chair, with a footstool at her feet, and a sofa pillow at her head, and -a volume of sacred poems in her hand, neither raised her eyes nor spoke. - -“Thou shalt have no other gods before me.” This sentence stayed -persistently with Susan Erskine. What had it to do with Judge Burnham -and his wife that they, too, should remind her of it? - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - -“BITTER-SWEET.” - - -A QUESTION which began to press heavily on Ruth’s mind as the days went -by was: What should she do when Susan went home? - -It began to be apparent that all the details connected with the -reconstructed house were completed; and also, that a skillful set of -hired helpers were in their places. But it was equally apparent to her -heart that she shrank from the thought of seeing Susan pack her trunk -and go back to the Erskine homestead; she fitted so perfectly into -the family life; she had already acquired such a remarkable degree of -influence over the girls. They copied her ways and her words, and it -had some time ago become apparent to Ruth that this sister of hers was -in every respect worthy of being copied. Even her dress—taking its -hints from Flossy Shipley’s sweetly-spoken words, about which Ruth knew -nothing—had taken such quietness of tone that, if it was not marked for -its beauty, had perhaps higher praise in that it was not noticed at -all, but had sunken into the minor place it was expected to fill. Ruth, -in thinking the past all over, was amazed at the wholesale way in which -she had finally adopted her sister. Just _when_ she began to like her, -so well that it was a pleasure to have her company and a trial to think -of her absence, she did not know. It seemed to her now as though she -had always felt so; and yet she knew that somewhere along the line of -her life there must have been a decided change of feeling. - -“She is just splendid, anyway!” This was the final verdict. “I don’t -care when I began to know it; I know it now. I wish I could have her -with me always. If she and father could live out here with us, how -nice it would be! Father would like the country; it would rest and -strengthen him. But, oh! _that woman!_” Which two words, spoken with an -intensity of emphasis that she allowed only the four walls of her room -to hear, always referred to Mrs. Judge Erskine. She was quite as much -of a trial as ever. Ruth could not conceive of a possibility of there -ever being a time when she should want to see _her_. So she studied -over the problem of how to keep Susan, and, like many another student, -found, after a few days, that it was worked out for her, in a way that -she would not have chosen. - -The news burst like a bomb-shell into their midst, without note or -warning. Judge Erskine had lost his fortune! Large though it had been, -it slipped out of his grasp almost in an hour. - -“The trouble has to do with small-pox and religion!” Judge Burnham -said, with something very like a sneer on his handsome face. “I don’t -know which development should be blamed the most. During his exile -from the office his clerks made some very foolish moves, as regarded -investments, etc. And, then, the other disease reached such a form that -he was beguiled into putting his name to two or three pieces of paper -for others, on the score of friendship—a piece of idiocy that during -all his sane years he had warned me, and every other business man who -came to him for advice, from being beguiled into; and the result is, -financial ruin.” - -“There are worse ruins than that!” Ruth said it haughtily; her -husband’s criticism of her father jarred. - -“Oh, that is true enough. There are dishonorable ruins; this one is the -soul of honor, and of philanthropy, for that matter. He has _so_ much -to sustain him, but he can’t live on it. And, Ruth, if you had ever -known what it was to live on nothing, you could sympathize better with -that sort of ruin. The hard part for me to bear would be that it is -all so unnecessary; if he had but lived up to the wisdom and business -keenness which characterized all the earlier years of his life! He -has taken to giving some very strange advice to his clients since he -subscribed to his new views—advice which has taken thousands of dollars -out of his business. ‘Had to do it,’ he told me; his ‘conscience -wouldn’t allow him to do otherwise.’ If that is true, I am really -afraid that I couldn’t afford to have a conscience; it is too expensive -in article.” - -How much of this was sincere, and how much was a sort of sarcastic -pleasantry? Ruth wished she knew. It was a new and rather startling -thought that possibly the money which sustained her now had to do with -the fact that her husband couldn’t afford a sensitive conscience! - -She put the thought away, as far from her as possible. At least, she -could do nothing with it now; the time for it was past. She tried not -to think what ground she had for expecting a high type of conscience -from one who lived in cool dishonor of the claims of the Lord Jesus -Christ. - -The immediate questions were: What would her father do? Also, what was -there that she could do for him? - -“Oh, he will give everything up,” Judge Burnham said; “every penny; -house, and landed property, and household goods, down to his very dog. -Even his clothing is in danger. I saw it in his eyes. It is the disease -which has pervaded his system. This new conscience of his won’t let him -do anything sensible.” - -“Judge Burnham,” said Ruth, having endured all that she could—she -was not skilled in endurance—“I wish you would remember that you are -speaking of my father, and refrain from sneers. If his code of honor is -higher than yours, he can not help it, I suppose. At least, you should -be able to respect it; or, failing in that, please respect my feelings.” - -“I beg your pardon,” said Judge Burnham, quickly startled by the -repressed fierceness of the tones. - -“I did not mean to hurt your feelings, Ruth, but you do not understand -business, and your father is really being very absurd with his strained -ideas of equity.” - -“I understand conscience, somewhat,” Ruth said, quickly, and she was -stung with the thought that perhaps in the days gone by she had stifled -hers. Now all this was certainly very sad talk to come between husband -and wife not six weeks after their marriage. Ruth felt it and deplored -it and wept over it, and wondered how it would be possible to avoid -subjects on which they did not think and feel alike. - -Meantime she ought to go and see her father. From this she shrank. How -could she talk with him from any other standpoint than that in which -she had always known him? A man of wealth and power in the business -world, she felt that he must be utterly bowed down. He had always, in a -lofty, aristocratic way, attached full importance to wealth. How was he -going to endure being suddenly thrown to the bottom of the ladder, when -he had for so many years rested securely on the top round? - -However, it was folly for her to avoid such an evident duty. She chose -an hour when Mrs. Erskine would be undoubtedly engaged down-stairs, and -slipped away to the train, having said nothing of her intention to her -husband when he went to town an hour before, and without having as yet -succeeded in arranging a single sentence that she felt would be helpful -to her father, she suddenly and silently presented herself before him, -in the little room off the library which was sacred to his private use. -He sat at the table, writing, his face pale, indeed, but quiet, not -exactly cheerful, yet certainly peaceful. - -He glanced up as the door opened, and then arose quickly. “Well, -daughter,” he said, “you have come to see father in his trouble. That -is right. Come in, dear, and have a seat.” And with the old-time -courtesy he drew an easy chair for her and waited while she seated -herself. Then he sat down again, in his large arm-chair, before her. - -“Yes,” he said, “I must begin again. I shall not get to where I was -before. On your account I regret it. I wanted to leave you a fortune -to do good with, but your husband has enough, and it is all right. The -Lord can choose what money he will have spent for him.” - -“You certainly need not think of me, father. As you say, Judge Burnham -has enough.” And even at this moment there was a pang in Ruth’s heart -that she would not have had her father see for worlds, as she wondered -how much power she could have over _his_ wealth to turn it into sources -for good. - -“My chief anxiety is, What are you going to do?” - -“Well,” he said, and there was a gleam of a smile on his face, “I am -going to climb up again with my wife’s help. It isn’t poverty, you -know, thanks to her. Isn’t it marvelous how she can have saved so much -out of the paltry yearly sums? Haven’t you heard about it? Why, she -actually has at interest about fourteen thousand dollars; invested in -my name, too. Isn’t that a reward for the indignities I heaped upon -her?” His voice broke, and the tears started in his eyes. “I tell you,” -he said, tremulously, “I bore it all better than that. I knew I was not -to blame for the financial downfall, but to find that the woman whom I -had wronged had been all these years heaping coals of fire on my head -just unmanned me,” and he wiped the great tears from his cheeks, while -Ruth moved restlessly in her seat. She did not like to hear about his -having wronged “that woman,” neither did she like to have her father -beholden to _her_ for support. - -“It is fortunate that she saved it,” she said, and her voice was most -unsympathetic. “But, after all, father, it is your money.” - -“No, daughter, no; not a penny of it. Ten times that sum ought to -belong to her. Think of trying to make _money_ repair the injury which -I was doing her! But it is most comforting to feel that I am to be -beholden to her, rather than to any other human being.” - -Ruth did not think so. - -“I have been wonderfully sustained, Ruth,” her father continued. “I -said last night that it was almost worth losing a fortune to see how -calmly the Lord Jesus could hold me. I haven’t had a doubt nor an -anxiety as to its being the right way from the first hour that I knew -of the loss. Of course I don’t see _why_ it should come, and really, -I don’t believe I care to know. Why should I, when I can so entirely -trust to His wisdom and love? There is another thing, daughter—the -sweet came with the bitter, and was so much more important that it -over-balanced. Did you know that your mother had come into the sunlight -of His love? She told me about it that very evening, and she says she -owes her knowledge of the way to me. Isn’t that a wonderful boon for -the Lord to bestow on such as I?” - -Ruth turned almost away from him, with an unaccountable irritability -tugging at her heart. “Your mother!” he had never used those words to -her before. They had slipped out now, unconsciously. He had grown used -to their sound in speaking to Susan; he did not see how they jarred. -It frightened his daughter to realize how little she seemed to care -whether a soul had been new-born or not; she could not take in its -importance. - -“I am sure I am very glad,” she said, but her voice bore not the -slightest trace of gladness. Then she went home, feeling that her -spirit was not in accord with the tone of that house. “He doesn’t need -_my_ comfort,” she told herself, and she said it almost bitterly. -It was true enough, he didn’t. Not that he did not appreciate human -sympathy and human love, but a greater than human strength had laid -hold upon his weakness, and he was upborne. This, too, Ruth recognized, -and even while she rejoiced in it, there mingled with the joy a strange -pain. - -Following the money downfall came plans that were quite in accord with -her wishes. They sprang into being apparently through a chance remark. -It began with Ruth, in a heavy sigh, as she said, she and Susan being -alone: - -“I don’t know how to take the next step for those girls. It is absurd -to think of sending them to school. At their age, and with their -limited knowledge, they would be simply objects of ridicule. We must -find a resident governess for them. But where to look for one who will -have to teach young ladies what, in these days, quite little children -are supposed to know, and yet remember that they are young ladies, and -treat them as such, is a puzzle. I am sure I don’t know where to look, -nor how to describe what we need, the circumstances are so peculiar.” - -Then she waited for Susan to answer; and so accustomed had she grown -to being helped by that young lady’s suggestions, that she waited -hopefully, though without having the least conception of how a -comparative stranger in the city could help in this emergency. - -“There are plenty to get,” Susan said. “At least I suppose the world is -full of teachers, if you only knew just where to look for them.” - -“Oh, _teachers_. Yes, there are plenty of them, if a teacher was all -that was needed. But, you know, Susan, the case is a very unusual one. -We really need a woman who knows a good deal about every thing, and who -is as wise as a serpent. There is a chance to ruin the girls, and make -trouble for Judge Burnham and misery for me, if we do not get just the -right sort of person; and I am in doubt as to whether there _is_ any -right sort to be had.” - -Whereupon Susan laughed, and blushed a little, as she said: - -“After such an alarming statement of the requirements, I am not sure -that I have the courage to propose a friend of mine. She doesn’t lay -claim to any of the gifts which you suggest.” - -Ruth looked up, relieved and smiling. - -“Do you really know a teacher, Susan, whom you can recommend? I forgot -that your acquaintance was extensive among scholars. You need not -hesitate to suggest, for I assure you that your recommendation would -go further with Judge Burnham and myself than any one we know, for -you understand the situation, and your judgment is to be relied upon. -Of whom are you thinking, and where is she to be found? I can almost -promise her a situation.” - -Whereupon Susan laughed outright. - -“Really,” she said, “you make it very embarrassing work for me. I not -only have to recommend myself, but actually force myself upon your -observation. But, since I intend to teach in the future, as I have done -in the past, why not try me for awhile, since I am here? I think I -would do until the girls were ready for somebody who could do better.” - -If she had been watching her sister’s face she would have seen the -puzzled look change to one of radiant delight. Then that sister did -what, to one of her undemonstrative nature, was a strange thing to -do—she crossed to Susan’s side, and bending down, kissed her eagerly on -either cheek. - -“I believe I am an idiot!” she said. “Though I used to think I was -capable of planning as well as most persons, but I never once thought -of it! And I knew you meant to teach, too. It is the very thing. -Nothing could be more delightful! Judge Burnham will think so, too. Oh, -Susan, you are one of my greatest comforts!” - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - -“THESE BE THY GODS.” - - -AT last in Ruth Burnham’s home, life settled into routine. Everything -was as she had planned it. She had tried two ways of life. For a -season almost everything had gone contrary to her desires and plans. -Then there came this period wherein she was permitted to carry out, in -detail, all the schemes which seemed to her wise. In the earlier days -of her Christian experience she had felt, if she did not say, that if -she could but have the control of her own affairs, humanly speaking, -she could make things work together in a different and more helpful -manner for herself and her friends. It was as if the Lord had taken -her at her word and opened the door for her to plan and carry out -according to her will. The question was, Did she find it a success? -Was she now, at last, a happy, growing Christian—one whose influence -was felt in all the departments of her life? Oh, I am afraid that Ruth -hated to admit, even to her own heart, how far from success she felt! -Painful though the admission was, she had to make it to her conscience -that she was neither a growing nor a happy Christian. - -What was the trouble? Why, in her heart and in her life there was -conflict. She knew the right, and too often she did it not. Give me -such an experience as that, and you may be sure that you have given the -record of an unhappy and an unfruitful life. There were so many ways in -which Ruth could see that she had erred. She meant to commence in just -the right way; she had taken great credit to herself for her sacrifice -of personal ease and pleasure, for the taking up of hard crosses in -connection with Judge Burnham’s duties; yet now she saw that there were -crosses far more important which she had not taken up at all. - -Almost as often as she knelt alone in her own room to pray she knelt -in tears. First, because she was always alone; her husband never bowed -with her, never read the Bible with her. Was this, in part, her fault? -What if, in those first days when everything was new, and when he was -on the alert to be her comfort, she had asked him to read with her, to -kneel with her, and hear her pray? Was it not possible that he might -have done so? Well, those first days were not so long gone by. Was it -not just possible that he might join her now? - -Alas for Ruth! Though the days of her married life had been so few, -she could look back upon them and see inconsistencies in word and -manner and action which went far toward sealing her lips. Not that -they should, but is it not the painful experience of each one of us -that they so often do? If Ruth had but commenced right! It is so hard -to make a beginning, in the middle of a life. Besides, there had been -many words spoken by Judge Burnham which would serve to make it harder -for him to yield to any innovations. If she had but beguiled him before -these words were spoken! Then, indeed, it is possible that some of -them at least would never have been uttered. Only a few weeks a wife, -and for how many of her husband’s sins was she already in a measure -responsible? - -Then the girls were a source of pain to Ruth’s conscience. Not that -they had not learned well her first lessons. It surprised, at times -it almost alarmed her, to see with what eagerness they caught at the -ribbons and ruffles, and all the outside adornments of life. They -were entirely willing to give these, each and all, important place in -their thoughts. She had given them intoxicating glimpses of the world -of fashion before their heads or hearts were poised enough not to be -over-balanced. They had caught at the glimpse and made a fairyland of -beauty out of it, and had resolved with all their young, strong might -to “belong” to that fairyland, and they looked up to and reverenced -Ruth as the queen who had the power of opening these enchanted doors -to them. You are to remember that, though backward, they were by no -means brainless. Having been kept in such marked seclusion all their -lives, until this sudden opening of the outer doors upon them, and this -sudden flinging them into the very midst of the whirl of “what to wear -and how to make it,” hearing little else during these first bewildering -days than the questions concerning this shade and that tint, and -the comparative merits of ruffles or plaits, and the comparative -qualities of silks and velvets, and the absolute necessity of perfect -fitting boots and gloves and hats, what wonder that they jumped to the -conclusion, that these things were the marks of power in the world, and -were second in importance to nothing? - -Having plunged into her work with the same energy which characterized -all Ruth’s movements, how was she now to teach the lesson that these -things were absolutely as nothings compared with a hundred other -questions having to do with their lives? - -She worked at this problem, and saw no more how to do it than she saw -how to take back the first few weeks of married life and personal -influence over her husband and live them over again. There was no -solace in trying to talk her difficulties over with Susan, because -she, while intensely sympathetic in regard to every-day matters, -was gravely silent when Ruth wondered why the girls were so suddenly -absorbed in the trivialities of life to the exclusion of more important -things. And Ruth felt that her sister recognized _her_ share in the -matter and deplored it. - -About her husband she chose to be entirely silent herself. If pride -had not kept her so, the sense of wifely vows would have sealed her -lips. At least she had high and sacred ideas of marriage vows. Alas for -Ruth, there were other disquieting elements. She realized her husband’s -influence on herself. Try as she would, resolve as she might, steadily -she slipped away from her former moorings. Little things, so called, -were the occasions of the lapses, but they were not little in their -effect on her spiritual life. - -“How is it possible that you can desire to go to that stuffy little -room and meet a dozen illiterate men and women or, is it a mistaken -sense of duty which impels you?” - -This was her husband’s question regarding the suggestion of Ruth that -they go to the weekly prayer-meeting. His tone was not unkind, but -there was just a touch of raillery in it, which was at all times harder -for Ruth to bear than positive coldness. - -“You must be content to tolerate my tastes,” she said, “since you can -not sympathize with them. Endurance is the most that I can expect.” - -He laughed good-naturedly. - -“Now, Ruth, dear, don’t be cross. I haven’t the least idea of being -so, and I propose to humor your whims to the last degree. I will -even escort you to that most uninviting room and call for you again, -enduring, meantime, with what grace I can the sorrows of my country -solitude. What more can you expect? But in return for such magnanimity -you might enlighten my curiosity. Why do you go? How can I help being -curious? In town, now, it was different. While I might even there -question your choice of entertainments, at least you met people of -culture, with whom you had certain ideas in common. But really and -truly, my dear wife, I am at home in this region of country, so far -as knowledge of the mental caliber of the people is concerned, and -I assure you you will look in vain for a man or woman of brains. -Outside of the minister—who is well enough, I suppose, though he is -a perfect bore to me—there is a general and most alarming paucity of -ideas. Besides which, there is no gas in the church, you know, and -kerosene lamps are fearful at their best, and these, I judge, are at -their worst. So, taking the subject in all its bearings, I think I am -justified in asking what can be your motive?” - -Is it any wonder that there were tears in Ruth’s eyes, as she -turned them toward her husband? How explain to one who would not -understand the meaning of her terms why she sought the little country -prayer-meeting? - -“Judge Burnham,” she said, speaking slowly, and trying to choose the -words with care, “is it unknown to you that I profess to expect to meet -there with the Lord Jesus Christ?” - -“Oh, that indeed!” he said, and the lightness of his tone so jarred on -her that she shivered. “I believe that is an article in your creed. I -don’t discredit it in its intellectual and spiritual sense, but what -does it prove? I suppose you meet him equally in this room, and I -suppose the surroundings of this room are as conducive to communion -with the Unseen Presence as are those of that forlorn little square box -of a church. Isn’t that the most doleful building for a church that -it was ever your misery to see? It is abominably ventilated; for that -matter churches nearly always are. I wonder if there is any thing in -church creeds that conscientiously holds people from observing the laws -of health and comfort? I don’t believe there is an opera-house in the -United States that would be tolerated for a season, if the question of -light and heat and ventilation had been ignored in it as entirely as -they are in churches.” - -What was there to be said to such as he? Perhaps Ruth said the best -thing under the circumstances. “Well, come, don’t let us discuss the -subject further; there is the bell; please take me down to the poor -little church, for I really want to go.” - -“Certainly,” he said, rising promptly, and making ready with a -good-natured air. He attended her to the very door and was on its -threshold in waiting when the hour of prayer was over, and was gracious -and attentive in the extreme during the rest of the evening, making no -allusion to the prayer-meeting, after the first few mischievous and -pointed questions as to the exercises, questions which tried Ruth’s -nerves to the utmost, for the reason that the little meeting had been -so utterly devoid of anything like life and earnestness that it was a -trial rather than a help to her. - -Conversations not unlike these were common on prayer-meeting evening, -always conducted on Judge Burnham’s part, in the most gracious spirit, -ending by accompanying her to the church door. She ceased to ask him to -enter, for the reason that she was not sure but it would be a positive -injury to him to do so. One Wednesday evening he followed her to the -parlor with a petition: - -“Now, wifie, I have been most patiently good every ‘meeting’ evening, -since I had you all to myself, having given you up, if not willingly, -at least uncomplainingly, to the companionship of those who are neither -elevating nor inspiriting. Now it is your turn to show yourself -unselfish. I’m a victim to one of my old-fashioned headaches, to-night, -and want you to take care of me.” - -To which proposition Ruth instantly agreed—the pang of conscience which -she felt being not on account of the wife’s obvious duty to care for -a sick husband, but because of the instant throb of relief of which -she was conscious in having a legitimate reason for escaping the -prayer-meeting. It was too painfully apparent, even to her own heart, -that she had not enjoyed the hour of religious communion; that she had -sighed inwardly when the door closed after her retreating husband, and -she had gone back eagerly to his companionship, directly after the -hour of separation was over. It transpired that, on this occasion, -his headache was not so severe, but that it admitted of his being -entertained by his wife’s voice reading aloud, and he was presently so -far recovered as to sit up and join in her reading, giving her a lesson -in the true rendering of Shakespeare, which was most enjoyable to both. -On the following Wednesday there was a concert of unusual interest -in the city, and Ruth obeyed her husband’s summons by telegraph to -come down on the six o’clock train and attend. Of course it would not -do to have him wait in the city for her and disappoint him. Another -Wednesday, and she went again to the little meeting; but it had in -the interim grown more distasteful to her; and, indeed, there was this -excuse for poor Ruth, that the meeting was one of the dullest of its -kind; there were no outside influences helping her. It was a matter -of hard duty between her and her conscience. Perhaps when we consider -that human nature is what it is, we should not think it strange that -six weeks after the concert found Ruth accepting an invitation to a -select party in town, forgetting utterly, until, in her estimation, the -acceptance was beyond recall, that it was Wednesday evening. When she -remembered it, she told her long-suffering conscience somewhat roughly, -that “wives certainly had duties which they owed to their husbands.” I -have given you now only a specimen out of many influences which slowly -and surely drew Ruth down stream. Susan, looking on, feeling for the -present powerless, except as that ever-present resource—prayer—was left -her, felt oftener perhaps than any other command, the force of that one -sentence: “Thou shall have no other gods _before me_.” - -Yet was not Ruth Burnham happy. Perhaps she had never, in her most -discontented hours, been further from happiness. Her conscience -was too enlightened, and had, in the last two years, been too well -cultivated for her not to know that she was going contrary very often -to her former ideas of right. - -Too surely she felt that her husband’s views, her husband’s tastes, her -husband’s plans of life were at variance with hers. It was all very -well to talk about his yielding, and being led; he could yield to the -inevitable; and there is a way of appearing to yield, gracefully, too, -which develops itself as only a master-stroke to the end that one may -gain one’s own way. This method Judge Burnham understood in all its -details. - -His wife early in their married life began to realize it. She began to -understand that he was, in a quiet, persistent way, actually _jealous_ -of the demands which her religion made upon her time and heart. It was -not that he deliberately meant to overthrow this power which held her; -rather he sought in a patient way to undermine it. Perhaps if Ruth had -realized this, she might have been more on her guard. But Satan had -succeeded in blinding her eyes by that most specious of all reasonings -that she must, by her concession to his tastes and plans, win him over -to her ways of thinking. In other words, she must, by doing wrong, -convince him of the beauty that there is in a consistent Christian -life, and win him to the right way! In matters pertaining to this life -Ruth’s lip would have curled in scorn over such logic. Why was it that -she could not see plainly the ground whereon she trod? - -Is there, then, no rest in the Christian life? Is the promise, “Come -unto me, and I will give you rest,” utterly void and worthless? Has not -God called his children to “peace?” Is there no “peace which passeth -understanding,” such as the world can neither give nor take away? - -Why did not Ruth Burnham, with her educated mind and clear brain, -ponder these things, and determine whether, when she told herself, that -of course one must expect conflict and heart-wars in this life, she was -not thereby making the eternal God false to his covenants? - -What was the trouble? Why, the same thing which comes in so continually -with its weary distractions—a divided heart. “Whosoever therefore will -be a friend of the world is the enemy of God!” That old solemn truth -remains to-day, after eighteen hundred years of experience, a _truth_ -which many a world-tossed soul has proved; and Ruth Burnham had need to -learn that it matters not whether the world be represented by a general -glitter, or by a loving husband, so that the object of special choice -was placed “_before_” _Him_, solemn effect must follow. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - -THE BAPTISM OF SUFFERING. - - -IN the course of time it became to Susan Erskine, who was watching -with eager interest the story of her sister’s life, a question of -painful moment as to how the watchful Christ would come to the rescue -of his straying sheep. For, as the days passed, it grew most painfully -apparent that Ruth _was_ straying. She did not gain in the least. -This being the case, it is of course equivalent to saying that she -lost. Steadily her husband proved the fact that his was the stronger -nature, and that he was leading, not being led. Yet his wife did not -get entirely out of the way—not far enough out indeed, to claim the -few pitiful returns that the world has for service. She staid always -in that wretched middle state, not belonging to the world fully, nor -yet fully to Christ; hence, continuous soreness of heart, developing -alternately in gloom and irritability. - -There came at last a messenger to her home and heart—a little, tender, -helpless one, just helpless enough and clinging enough to gather all -the tendrils of the heart around and bind them closely. How that -baby was loved! There have been babies loved before—many a heart has -bowed before the shrine of such an idol; but perhaps never baby, from -grandfather down to the little hired nurse, whose duty it was in the -course of time to keep said baby amused, had such patient, persistent, -willing slaves as had this young heir of the house of Burnham. As -for Ruth, she found that she had never even _dreamed_ of the depth -of mother-love. A sort of general interest in healthy, cleanly, -well-dressed children had been one of her pastimes. She had imagined -herself somewhat fond of certain types of childhood, while aware that -she shrank in horror from certain other types. But this new, strange -rush of emotions which filled her heart almost to bursting was an -experience of which she had had no conception. From that hour those -who watched Ruth anxiously to see whether the sweet young life which -was a part of herself would win her back to her covenant vows, saw -with ever-deepening pain that this new-born soul was only another and -a stronger idol. With all the fierceness of her strong nature, with -all the unrest of her dissatisfied heart, did the mother bow before -this tiny soul and bring it worship. She discovered at last that -self-sacrifice was easy; that sleepless nights, and restless days, -and the pressure of many cares and responsibilities were as nothing, -provided baby’s comfort demanded any or all of these. - -Now she withdrew entirely from the prayer-meetings, and ceased her -fitful attempts at being identified with the Sabbath-school. She was -even most rare in her attendance on the regular Sabbath service. Did -not baby require a mother’s care? This was her trust—God-given surely, -if anything ever was—and therefore she was to consider it as a work -from him. - -There is no error so fatal as a _half_ truth. To be sure, this -theory was not carried out in all respects. The mother found time for -social life. She was seen frequently at concerts and lectures, and -entertainments of various sorts, but this, she said, was a duty she -owed to her husband. And it really seemed as though there were no voice -left in her heart to remind her that the duties she owed to Christ were -being neglected. And Susan, watching and waiting, began to ask her -heart half fearfully, “How will he speak to her next?” That he _would_ -speak to her, and that effectually, she fully believed, for Ruth was -surely one of his own. How strange that she _would_ wander and make -it necessary for the Shepherd to seek her with bleeding feet, “over -the mountains, wild and bare,” instead of resting securely and sweetly -within the fold! - -Meantime the domestic machinery of the Burnham household worked more -smoothly than it is always wont to do under the peculiar family -relations. - -Ruth, whatever her faults, was fully alive to the special cause of -comfort in her household. She never ceased to realize that one of the -greatest blessings of her lot in life was the sudden descent upon her -of a sister. Such a faithful, thoughtful, self-sacrificing sister!—one -who really seemed to be as “wise as a serpent, and as harmless as a -dove.” Even Ruth, though she had an idea that she fully appreciated -her, did not see the extent of her influence over those untutored -girls. Daily her power over them increased; the development in them -mentally was something of which their father was unceasingly proud; -not the less, perhaps, did it give him satisfaction because there -was coupled with it a development of refinement of tone and manner, -a growing sense of the fitness of things, and an evident and hearty -relish for the advantages which his wealth was able to afford them. - -Over one thing Susan pondered and prayed, and watched with no little -anxiety: the girls were willing to be her pupils in any other study -save that of personal religion; they were in a degree interested in -Bible study; they by no means shrank from it; they respected her views, -they talked freely with her as to creeds and doctrines; but when it -came to pressing their personal need of Christ as a Saviour from sin, -they were strangely apathetic. - -“Had they inherited their father’s distaste for all the personalities -of religion?” Susan questioned, “or had their first delicious glimpse -of this new world, given under the new mother’s tutelage, so stamped -their ambitions that they had no room for deeper thoughts?” From this -last solution she shrank; it made such an awfully solemn matter of -personal responsibility; yet when she saw the almost reverence in which -they held this new mother’s views of whatever pertained to outside -life, she could not but feel that there had been stamped upon their -hearts the belief that she who had reigned so long in the fashionable -world knew all about the important things, and _had shown them what -they were_! At least, Susan felt sure that, could Ruth have realized -the influences she possessed over the unformed minds of her two -daughters, she would have shrunken from using it for trivialities. - -As for Ruth, the girls had become secondary matters to her. She had -carried her point; she had proved that dress and attention to the many -refinements of life would make a vast difference in these two; she had -shown their father that it was through sheer neglect that they grew to -be the painful trials which they were; she had proved to him that her -course was the right one. There was no skeleton in their country home -now, to be avoided painfully. The girls were not perfect in deportment, -it is true; but so rapid had been their advancement in certain ways, -and so skillful was the brain which planned their outward adornings, -that they might safely endure introductions as Judge Burnham’s -daughters, in any circle where it was desirable to present them. Ruth -felt, watching them, that even the famous criminal lawyer himself -would never have recognized in them the two distressing specimens -which he had characterized as “discarded American help.” She had shown -her husband, also, that country life was not only endurable, but, in -many respects, desirable; indeed, so satisfied had he become with his -lovely rural home, that, when it was announced as important for baby’s -health that the entire season should be spent there, he offered no -objection, and agreed with alacrity to Ruth’s plan that Susan should -take the girls for a peep at life at Long Branch, and leave them to the -solitude of home. “Very well,” he had said, “provided you will, on -their return, leave Susan in charge of his lordship, and run away with -me to the mountains for a few days.” And Ruth had laughed, and shrugged -her handsome shoulders, and exclaimed over the folly of trying to coax -a mother from her six-months-old baby, for any mountains in the world; -and then she had looked proudly over toward the lace-curtained crib, -and rejoiced in the fact that the hero sleeping there had power enough -to hold father as well as mother a meek worshipper at his shrine; for, -if Judge Burnham really _was_ an idolater, his only son was the supreme -idol in his inmost heart. - -So the summer plans were carried out. Ruth serenely discussed seaside -outfits, and decided, with the tone of one who realized that her word -was law, as to whether Minta would look better in a salmon-colored -evening dress, and whether Seraph was too young for a satin-trimmed -one. Long ago Susan, apparently without thought on the subject, -had started the habit of softening the objectional name into this -euphonious one; and Ruth remarked to her husband that perhaps time -would develop the fact that there was almost a prophecy in the name, -if Sereph’s voice continued to develop in strength and sweetness, under -culture. On the whole, there was serene satisfaction in the survey -of her handiwork where these girls were concerned; they bade fair to -do justice to her discernment, and afford food for pride. Still, as -I said, they were secondary. So that they were always well dressed, -and sat properly at table, and entered a room properly, and bowed -gracefully to her callers, and treated her with unfailing respect, -she was at rest concerning them. _Almost_, she had so trodden her -conscience under foot that in these days had she really very little -trouble in the thought that her _best_ for them had ignored the _best_ -which life had for any soul. - -Susan packed, and arranged, and listened to her numerous directions, -and went off to take her first summering away from cares, which of -one sort or another had held her for a lifetime—went with a shade of -anxiety on her face which was not for herself, nor yet because of her -responsibility in regard to these two unfledged worldlings, but for the -Christian mother hovering over the lace-curtained crib in the rose-hued -nursery; and her heart went murmuring, “How will He speak to her next?” - -Not many days after, the next call of the Shepherd came. You are -prepared to hear what it was—that little, sheltered, watched-over -baby fell sick; not very sick; not so but that the doctor went and -came with a cheery air, and told the anxious mother that they would -have her darling as chirk as ever in a day or two, and Judge Burnham -believed him, and laughed at the mother’s dreary face, and made light -of her fears; but poor Ruth did _not_ believe him, and went about her -mother cares and hung over her sick darling with an ever-increasing, -deadening weight at her heart. He was not the family physician of the -Erskines—Dr. Mitchell—Judge Burnham didn’t believe in _him_, so the -coming and going doctor was the one associated with the dark days -wherein they had waited and watched over Ruth’s father. - -Whether it was that association, or whatever it was, Ruth shrank -a little from Dr. Bacon, and was not able to give him her full -confidence. Dark days were these, and they dragged their slow lengths -along, and brought regularly the longer and darker nights, for it is -at night that we hang most hopelessly over our sick, and the silence -and quietness of the home grew oppressive to Ruth. She wished for -Susan, she would gladly have had the girls coming and going, yet it -seemed foolish to send for them; there was a skillful nurse, and there -were neighbors, who, though they had been almost ignored by the fine -family at the Hill, yet directly they heard that there was sickness, -came and went with their thoughtful offers of assistance. Why, even -Mrs. Ferris, with her loud voice and her uncouth ways, came and was -welcomed by Ruth, because of the humble work which she did in the -kitchen that tended to baby’s comfort. - -And still the doctor came and went with his story that the baby would -be all right in a few days; but the days of mending did not come, and -the shadow deepened and darkened, though as yet it seemed to be seen -only by the mother’s heart, and in that heart a war was being waged -which in fierceness and length of conflict so far transcended all -Ruth’s other struggles with life as to make them pale into nothingness -before her. And the struggle was such that no human heart could -intermeddle, for it was between Ruth and God! She realized in those -days that she had actually had many a struggle with the great God -before, without recognizing it as such, or at least calling it by its -right name. - -At first there was wild, fierce rebellion; she clung to her baby, held -him, indeed, so fiercely that he wailed feebly, and looked up into her -face almost in terror, and she cried out that she could not—indeed, -_would not_—give him up; no, not even to the Giver! And the little -face grew daily more wasted, and the little hands more feeble, and the -moments of wakeful recognition shorter, and the hours of half stupor -longer, and the doctor grew less cheery when he came, and Judge Burnham -grew restless and nervous—went later every day to town and returned -earlier, and was, in his silent, restrained, yet passionate way, fully -as rebellious as his wife. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - -“THE OIL OF JOY.” - - -EVEN yet the doctor had said no word of discouragement. And Judge -Burnham had, though he had ceased laughing at Ruth fears, sharply -controverted them. And she?—she felt she would have stricken down any -one who had breathed a word of danger. It was fearful enough to feel -it; let no one dare to _speak_ it. Once when Judge Burnham—filled with -pity for her loneliness during the hours when he was obliged to be -away—suggested recalling the travellers, she turned toward him fiercely: - -“Why?” she asked him; “what do you mean? Are you keeping something from -me? Does the Doctor tell you what he does not me? Judge Burnham, I -will never forgive you if you deceive me.” - -“Why, no,” he said, “Ruth, no; why will you be so unreasonable? The -Doctor says he sees no ground as yet for special anxiety. He says to me -just what he says to you. No one thinks of deception. I only felt that -it would be less lonely with the girls at home; and Susan would be a -comfort.” - -“Comfort!” she said, still speaking sharply. “Why have I need of -comfort? I have my baby, and I can take care of him; and as for -loneliness, the house is full from morning till night. One would think -people never heard of a sick child before. They are always sick when -teething. Why should we be so unreasonably frightened?” - -And Judge Burnham turned away sighing, patient with his wife, for he -saw that she was too wildly frightened to talk or act like a reasonable -being. - -Among all the comers and goers there was one who did not come. That -was Mrs. Judge Erskine. Not that she would not have willingly been -there both day and night; but poor Ruth, who had never recovered in the -least from her early discomfort concerning the woman, in this time of -her frenzy felt the dislike increasing to almost hatred. She tortured -herself at times with imagining the exclamations that the odious -grandmother would make over the change in her darling, until at last -it grew to be almost an insanity to her; and she fiercely ordered that -no word of any sort should be taken to her home. “Father shall not be -needlessly troubled,” was outward reason enough, for Judge Erskine was -not strong this season; so, beyond the knowledge that the child was not -very well, was teething, and kept Ruth closely at home, the two people -left in the old Erskine homestead together knew nothing. - -Slowly yet surely, the Shepherd was reaching after his stray sheep. By -degrees her mood and her prayers changed; they lost their fierceness, -but not one whit of their will-power. She began to feel herself in the -hands of God. She gave up her defiance, and came to him as a suppliant. -She sat alone in the shadows of a long night of watching, and looked -over her life, and saw plainly her mistakes, her wanderings, her sins. -Then she fell on her knees beside that crib, one watching eye and -listening ear intent on every change of expression or breathing in the -darling, and then and there she proceeded to make terms with God. If -he would only give her back her darling, her boy, she would live, oh -_such_ a different life!—a life of entire consecration. All she had, -and was, and hoped to be, her husband, her baby—everything should be -consecrated, be held second to his love. Long she knelt there praying, -but no answering voice spoke peace to her heart. And the struggle, -though changed in its form, went on and on by degrees, and Ruth with -her long preoccupied heart was very slow to learn the lesson. She was -made to understand that God had never promised to compromise with his -own, never promised to hear a prayer which began with an “if.” Entire -consecration meant all the ifs thrown down at the feet of the Lord, -for him to control as he would. Solemnly his voice spoke to her heart, -spoke as plainly as though the sound of it had echoed in the silent -room: “And _if_ I take your darling into my arms of infinite love, and -shield him for you in heaven, what then?” And Ruth realized with a -shudder that then, her heart said it would only be infinite mercy that -could keep her from hating God! But when she realized this solemn, -this _awful_ truth, which proved rebellion in the heart that had long -professed allegiance, God be thanked that she did not get up from her -kneeling and go away again with the burden. She knelt still, and, with -the solemn light of the All-seeing Eye flashing down into her soul, she -confessed it all—her rebellion, her selfish determination to hold her -treasure whether God would or not, her selfish desire to compromise, -her cowardly, pitiful subterfuge of promising him that which was -already his by right, _if_ he would submit to her plans. The long, sad, -sinful story was laid bare before him, and then her torn heart said: -“Oh, Christ, I can not help it; I hold to my darling, and I _can not_ -give him up, even when I would. Oh, thou Saviour of human souls, even -in their sinfulness, what shall I do?” Did ever such heart-cry go up to -the Saviour of souls in vain? - -You do not need me to tell you that before the dawn of the coming -morning filled the room a voice of power had spoken peace. The plans, -and the subterfuges, and the rebellings, and the “ifs,” all were gone. -“As thou wilt,” was the only voice left in that thoroughly bared and -bleeding heart. - -It was even then that the shadow fell the darkest. When the doctor came -next morning, for the first time he shook his head. - -“Things do not look so hopeful as they did, here,” he said. - -And Judge Burnham, turning quickly toward his wife, looking to see her -faint or lose her reason (he hardly knew which phase of despair to -expect), saw the pale, changed face. - -“Is there no hope, Doctor?” and her voice though low, was certainly -calmer than it had been for days. - -“Well,” said the Doctor, relieved at her method of receiving his -warning, “I never like to say that. While there is life there is hope, -you know; but the fact is, I am disappointed in the turn that the -trouble has taken. I am a good deal afraid of results.” - -Had Ruth spoken her thoughts, she would have said: “I have been awfully -afraid of results for a week; but a voice of greater power than yours -has spoken to me now. It rests with Him, not you; and I think he wants -my darling.” What she _did_ say was: - -“Ought the girls to be summoned?” - -“Well,” said Dr. Bacon, regarding her curiously, “if it is important -that they should be here, I think I should telegraph.” - -Then, presuming upon long acquaintance with Judge Burnham, he said, as -they passed down the hall together: - -“Upon my word, Burnham, you have the most unaccountable wife in the -world.” - -“Comments are unnecessary, Doctor,” Judge Burnham said, in his -haughtiest tones, and the next instant the front door closed with a -bang, and the father had shut himself and his pain into the little -room at the end of the hall. What was _he_ to do? which way turn? -how live? He had never until this moment had other than a passing -anxiety. Now the whole crushing weight of the coming blow seemed to -fall on him, and he had not the force of habit, nor the knowledge of -past experiences, to drive him to his knees for a refuge. Instead, his -fierce heart raved. If Ruth had been in danger of hating God, he felt, -yes, actually realized, that his heart was filled at this moment with -a fierce and bitter hatred. Can you imagine what the trials of that -day were to Ruth? Have you any knowledge of what a shock it is to a -torn and bleeding heart, which yet feels that the Almighty Father, the -Everlasting Saviour, holds her and her treasure in the hollow of his -hand, to come in contact with one who fiercely, blasphemously tramples -on that trust? In this moment of supreme pain, it was given to Ruth’s -conscience to remember that she had chosen for her closest friend one -who made no profession of loyalty to her Redeemer—the _Lover_ of her -child. Why should she expect to rest on him now? - -This day, like all the other dark ones, drew toward its closing; the -Doctor watched and waited for, and dispatched for, did not come, and -the night drew about them; and it so happened that, save the nurse and -the household servants, the father and mother were alone with their -baby. Early in the afternoon, a sudden remembrance had come to Ruth, -and she had turned from the crib long enough to say, “Let father -know.” And the messenger had gone, but even from him there was no -response. - -So they watched and waited. Judge Burnham, in feverish madness of -anxiety, paced the floor, and alternately raged at the absent Doctor -for not coming, and then wished he might never look upon his face -again. Ruth staid on her knees beside that crib, from which for hours -she had not moved, and her lips continually formed that inaudible -prayer, “Thy will be done.” And really and truly the awful bitterness -of the agony was gone out of her heart. There was a sound of wheels -crunching the graveled drive—a bustle outside; somebody had come. -Ruth glanced up, half fearfully. What was coming to break the solemn -holiness of the hour? Not the Doctor, surely, with such bustle of -noise. The door opened quickly, and they pressed in—her father, a tall -stranger just beside him, and Mrs. Judge Erskine! _She_ pushed past -them both. - -“Dear heart,” she said, bending down to the crib, but her words were -for Ruth, not the baby. “We just got the word. I brought Dr. Parmelee; -I couldn’t help it, child; I’ve seen him do such wonderful things. -Your pa don’t believe in his medicines—little bits of pills, you -know—and he said your husband didn’t but, la! what difference does that -make? Men never do. They believe in getting ’em well, though. Come -here, Dr. Parmelee. His pulse is real strong, and he looks to me as -though he might—” - -And here Mrs. Erskine paused for breath. She had been, in the meantime, -throwing off her wraps, touching the baby’s hand with skillful fingers, -touching the hot head, and rising at last to motion the Doctor -forward—the tall stranger. He came hesitatingly, looking toward the -father; but Judge Burnham caught at his name. - -“Anything, Doctor—anything!” he said, hoarsely. “Dr. Bacon has proved -himself an idiot. It is too late now; but, in heaven’s name, do -something.” - -Did it ever occur to you as strange that such men as Judge Burnham, in -their hours of great mental pain, are very apt to call for blessings in -“heaven’s name?” - -It was a strange hour! Ruth, who had been hushed into silence and -solemnity by the presence of the Death Angel, found herself whirled -into the very midst of the struggle for life. Dr. Parmelee declared, -with Mrs. Erskine, that there was still a good deal of strength, -and he hoped. And then he stopped talking and went to work—quietly, -skillfully, without commotion of any sort, yet issuing his orders with -such swiftness and skill that mother and nurse, especially the former, -were set to work to _do_ instead of think. Especially was Mrs. Erskine -alert, seeming to know by a sort of instinct, such as is noticeable -in nurses who have a special calling for their work, what the Doctor -wanted done, and how to do it. Far into the night they obeyed and -watched. At last the Doctor rose up from a careful examination of his -little patient. - -“I believe,” he said, speaking quietly, “I believe there has been a -change in the symptoms in the past two hours. If I mistake not, the -crisis is past. I think your little one will recover.” - -At the sound of these words, Judge Burnham strode over from his station -at the head of the crib, and, grasping the Doctor’s hand, essayed to -speak words, but his voice choked, and the self-possessed, polished -gentleman lost every vestige of control, and broke into a passion of -tears. - -“He is in God’s hands, my friend,” the new Doctor said gently; “he will -do right; and I think he has given the little life back to you.” - -As for Ruth, she turned one look away from her baby’s face toward the -Doctor’s; and he said as he went out from the home: “I declare that -woman’s eyes paid me to-night.” - -There was little talk and much watching during the rest of the night -and the day that followed. Mrs. Erskine kept her post, keeping up that -sort of alert _doing_ which the skillful nurse understands so well, -and which thrills the heart of a watcher with eager hope. One of Judge -Burnham’s first morning duties was to send a curt and courteous note—if -both terms are admissible—to Dr. Bacon, asking for his bill. Then his -own carriage waited at the train for the coming of Dr. Parmelee. - -“Now, look here, child,” said Mrs. Erskine, as, toward the midnight of -the following night, Ruth turned for a moment from the crib and pressed -her hand to her eyes, “you are just to go to bed and get a night’s -sleep. We’ll have _you_ on our hands, if you don’t, as sure as the -world; and that will be a nice mess for baby, bless his heart. Judge -Burnham, you just take her and put her to bed. I’m going to sit by my -little boy, here, the whole blessed night; I won’t even wink; and when -I undertake to watch, why I _watch_, and know how, though I do say it -that shouldn’t.” - -So, through much protesting from Ruth, and overruling by her father -and husband, she was carried off to the room adjoining. In the gray -dawn of another morning, she, having slept for four hours the sleep of -utter exhaustion, started with a sudden, affrighted waking, wherein -all the agony of the past days flashed over her, and, without waiting -to remember the after-scene of joy, rushed to her nursery. There was -the little crib, with its sleeping treasure; there on the couch, lay -the tired nurse, sleeping quietly; there, at the crib’s side, sat Mrs. -Erskine, keeping her faithful, tireless vigil. She looked up with a -reassuring smile as Ruth came in. - -“What did you wake up for? He’s as nice as a robin in a nest of down. -He breathes just as easy! and the skin feels moist and natural. See -how his little hair curls with the dampness! Anybody can see with half -an eye that he is a great deal better. He’ll get on now real fast, Dr. -Parmelee says so. I never did see the like of them little pills! Ain’t -bigger than pin-heads, neither.” - -Ruth bent low over the crib. The bounding pulse was quiet and steady -at last; the breath came in slow, soft respirations, with no horrible -gratings; the beautiful little hand, resting on the pillow, was doubled -up as in the grace in which he held it when in health. Suddenly there -rushed over Ruth all the probabilities of that solemn night, and all -the blessings of this hour. After she had given him up utterly to God; -after she had said, “Though he slay me, yet will I trust;” after she -had said, “I am thine forever, Lord, _entirely_, though with empty -arms,” then he had given her back her trust—offered her one more chance -to train the soul for him. With the thought came also the remembrance -of the door through which he had opened this blessed paradise of hope, -and she turned suddenly, and, burying her head in Mrs. Erskine’s ample -lap, cried out: “Oh, mother, mother! God bless you forever!” And the -first tears that her tired eyes had felt for a week fell thick and fast. - -“Land alive!” said Mrs. Judge Erskine. “Poor, dear heart! You are all -tuckered out! You just go right straight back to bed. I won’t turn my -eyes away from him, and he’s all right anyhow. I know the signs. Bless -your heart, I nursed Mrs. Stevens’ baby only last week, and this very -Dr. Parmelee was there; and I saw what them little pills and powders -could do when the Lord chose to use ’em. You just go back, dearie, this -minute. You can sleep all day as well as not. Grandma’ll take care of -her blessed little darling, so she will.” - -And Ruth went back to the bedside, and to her knees; and among the -sentences of her prayer that morning was this, from a full heart: - -“O God! I thank thee, that, despite all the blindness and rebellion of -my heart, thou didst send to me a _mother_. Thou hast given me ‘the -oil of joy for mourning, and the garment of praise for the spirit of -heaviness.’” - - THE END. - - * * * * * - -Transcriber’s Notes: - -Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Sometimes easy-chair contains a -hyphen, sometimes not. This was retained as printed. - -Page 102, “Esrkine” changed to “Erskine” (Judge Erskine, with a) - -Page 146, “that” changed to “than” (observable than this awkward) - -Page 272, “unconsiously” changed to “unconsciously” (silly -Marion—unconsciously) - -Page 295, “futher” changed to “further” (until further pressed) - -Page 297, “gotton” changed to “gotten” (supper was gotten through) - -Page 312, “gotton” changed to “gotten” (have gotten beyond the) - -Page 322, “symyathetic” changed to “sympathetic” (put a sympathetic arm) - -Page 367, “occured” changed to “occurred” (which occurred that day) - -Page 418, “oppresive” changed to “oppressive” (home grew oppressive) - -Page 418, “assistence” changed to “assistance” (thoughtful offers of -assistance) - -Page 430, “skillfuly” changed to “skillfully” (skillfully, without -commotion) - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Ruth Erskine's Cross, by Isabella Alden and Pansy - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RUTH ERSKINE'S CROSS *** - -***** This file should be named 54078-0.txt or 54078-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/0/7/54078/ - -Produced by Emmy, MFR, Google Print and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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