THE LIBRARY
OF THE
REGENTS
UNIVERSIT
ERSITY OF
JOMINIBUS
B
MINNESOTA
CLASS
BOOK
812H773
I

MODLA
SUND
NEW
ORCH
GOL
S.LIBRAR
2.D. CHLACH
LTE PLAY

MIDDLE DUTC
LIBRARY,
JURCH,
SUNDAY SCHOOL.
No. 50 SEVEN (H ST.,
NEW YORK.

+
John's unexpected return.
Hope Wallace.-p. 197.

618

HOPE WALLACE;
OR,
EARNEST LIVING.
WRITTEN FOR THE CONGREGATIONAL SABBATH-SCHOOL AND PUB-
LISHING SOCIETY, AND APPROVED BY THE
COMMITTEE OF PUBLICATION.
BOSTON:
Congregational Sunday-School and Publishing Society,
CONGREGATIONAL HOUSE, BEACON STREET.
19
URTY. OF MIRNI SOYA LIBRARY
Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1868, by
M. H. SARGENT, TREASURER,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
8124773
I
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER.
I.-WAR TIME,.
PAGE.
5
II. —ÁT PEACE,
25
III. — PARTING,
35
IV. — HOPE'S NEW HOME,
41
V. THE MORNING RIDE,
58
•
VI.— DOCTOR LEE,
VII. - CORRESPONDENCE,
71
89
VIII. —AT WORK FOR THE SOLDIERS,
101
IX.-DISCUSSIONS,
118
X.-TABLEAUX, .
136
XI.-HAZEL DELL,
153
XII, A MOTHER'S HEART,
174
XIII, -A LETTER,
184
XIV. — JOHN'S STORY,.
196
982714
4
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER.
XV. — TIDINGS OF JAMIE,
XVI. — BY THE SEA,
XVII. FANNY,
XVIII. — THE LITTLE PEDDLER,
PAGE.
212
222
243
261
XIX. - A HAPPY SABBATH,
274
•
XX.-HOPE'S PROMISE,
290
XXI. - A TALK WITH JOHN,
299
XXII. — THE WAY FOUND,
809
•
XXIII. - DO THE DUTY NEAREST THEE,
318
XXIV.-'
THE SCARLET RIBBON,
327
XXV. - WITH THE CHILDREN,
338
·
XXVI. THE LIFE OF FAITH,
XXVII.-PROSPECTING,
347
355
XXVIII.-WORK FOR THE MASTER, .
377
XXIX.-WAITING,
398
XXX.—THE LAST PARTING,
408
XXXI. CONCLUSION,
494
HOPE WALLACE;
OR,
EARNEST LIVING.
CHAPTER I.
WAR TIME.
;
"The storm-bell rings, the trumpet blows
I know the word and countersign;
Wherever Freedom's vanguard goes,
Where stand or fall her friends or foes,
I know the place that should be mine."
T was a sultry July evening. The linger-
ing twilight was darkening into night, but
there was no coolness in the air, no breath
from the sea, to refresh the brows fevered,
not so much with the fierce glow of mid-
summer heat as with the terrible tidings which
the day had brought. It was the night succeed-
ing the first defeat at Bull Run. Since the
morning, what a downfall of hopes, what an
5
6
Earnest Living.
awakening of fearful anticipations, had taken
place! First, news of success, then rumors
of evil, and then the terrible certainty of defeat,
disgrace, and loss.
A young girl was sitting alone in a bay-win-
dow which overlooked a city street, where many
were passing to and fro. How subdued were
the voices, like those of men in whose minds,
for once, at least, trifles had given place to
stern and sad realities! Hope Wallace, sitting
in the darkness, listening to the steps and the
foreboding words of the passers-by, thinking of
the past and the future, had become very
heavy at heart. The luxurious parlor, with its
costly furnishings, its pictures, and graceful or-
naments, served only to carry her mind back,
more forcibly for the contrast, to the simple, al-
most bare cottage in a country village of New
Hampshire, where the first fourteen years of
her life were spent, and from which, scarcely
twice twelve months ago, she had gone forth
War Time.
7
weeping, as she followed her parents in quick
succession to the grave.
Could it be two years since that change had
come upon her? Why, her grief was as fresh
as if it were but yesterday! Yet sorrow as she
might, she said to herself, she would not lose
those dear early remembrances for all that
wealth and pleasure could give.
She recalled the little sitting-room with its
worn carpet and home-made ornaments, the
cheerful wood-fire on the hearth during the
long winters, and the cool breezes, fragrant
with the scent of new-mown hay, which such
an evening as this would have brought. Al-
most too well she recalled the father, the be-
loved physician and trusted friend of a whole
community, yet always best and dearest to that
home fireside. Hope thought of his life of con-
stant drudgery, so ill repaid, at least in this
world's coin; of the patience with which he
used to meet trials; and of his love to God and
8
Earnest Living.
man, not often expressed in words, but shining
out in the experience of every day and hour.
There too was the mother, the invalid of
many years, yet always cheerful and unselfish.
And this was the season when the water-lilies
and cletlira were blooming, which her mother
loved so well. Would any one be thoughtful
enough, Hope asked herself, to lay the white,
fragrant blossoms upon those far-off graves,
which she could reach only with tender mem-
ories?
But what should make the young girl on this
evening look back to that early home and those
lost beloved with a double bitterness of grief?
She scarcely dared ask herself. One was still
left, a brother, older by some seven years, on
whom, since her parents' death, she had learned
to lean with dependent, almost excessive fond-
ness. He was left, but who could tell for
how long? She was watching for him now,
trying to catch the sound of his footstep and
War Time.
9
voice along the street, yet almost trembling
with fear of what he might say when he came.
“No,” said she to herself again and again with
a kind of willful persistence, "no, I will not give
up my brother, my only one.
God can not,
ought not to ask that of me."
Poor, lonely
Hope Wallace! full of her youthful sorrow, un-
reconciled and wayward, waiting in the dark-
ness for the grief that was hurrying toward
her! Yet not perhaps so wholly in need of
pity, bright young eyes that read this, as might
seem to you. For who are they whom God
calls to mourn but those whom He means to
comfort? And upon whom is the burden laid
but on those whom He would make strong to
bear? So, bright eyes, if you can not as yet,
more than could Hope Wallace, read the les-
sons God teaches some, if not you, out of the
book of endurance, be sure they are good and
blessed. And be sure, too, that if He sees any
IO
Earnest Living.
worth in you, any fitness for His uses, you shall
not be without those lessons.
A quick tread on the pavement and at the
door brought Hope back from her reveries.
Brushing the tears from her eyes, she ran to
meet it, and as she grasped the hand of her
brother, she assured herself by one sense at
least that he was not yet lost to her. A sec-
ond sense added to her content, as the cheery,
hearty tones fell on her ear: "Is it you, little
sister, or a ghost out of that cavernous parlor?
Why don't you speak?
""
“Oh, John,” said Hope, with suspicious trem-
blings in her voice," has not this been a dread-
ful day? Why were you not here earlier?"
"A somewhat bad day, it must be confessed,
and yet I can guess a good that is to come of
it. And I will tell you soon why I could not
get to you earlier."
"Uncle Sanborn says there is no hope for
the North."
War Time.
II
"There would be none, I think, if all men
were of his stamp. But I am sure my Hope
does not lose courage for such croakings."
"But think of it, John,-three thousand,
and perhaps more, killed in one battle! How
can one help being cast down?"
"Think that God's hand is in it, and that He
will bring us through. It will take many such
reverses to make me doubt that, Hope."
"Can you suppose He really means such
slaughter, such mourning of thousands? I do
not understand it."
"Nor I, and it is not necessary that we
should. As in many other dark things, the
only help is faith and patience.'
""
"But faith and patience will not do, John.
There must be work and sacrifice and offering
up of life, with the possibility that all may be
useless."
"And I am ready for the work and the offer-
12
Bnest Living.
ing, - ready at last.
Hope?"
How is it with you,
"John, you can not mean it," she replied,
looking suddenly into his eyes. "No, not
ready to give you up. That is too much to
ask."
"I used to think, little sister, that you had
something of the heroine in you. What has
become of it?'
,,
"If I could go instead of you, I would, gladly.
But do you not see how much harder it is to
stay at home, waiting, trembling, imagining
all horrors? And alone, too; I shall be all
alone."
66
My darling, not quite alone. There is al-
ways the help and friendship of a heavenly
Father for you."
"That is not like the human hand and
voice."
"Not like it, but far better. I am sure you
will find it so in good time. He does not mean
War Time.
13
that you should learn to do without Him and
put me in His stead."
"Have you really decided, John? Do not
say that."
The young man was silent for a few min-
utes, while he drew his sister to his side and
encircled her with his arm. At last he said,
"It has been only the thought of you, Hope,
which has kept me from entering the service
before. I have desired it long, but I have not
been quite sure of duty till to-day. Now it is
so plain that I could not resist if I would. Do
you not see that I can not do otherwise?"
"But your studies, John,-your preparation
for the ministry, — all given up!"
"I see only one thing clearly, — that the
army is the place to which I am called. I
should make a poor minister if I proved an un-
faithful servant now. The country has claims
on me, and God still more."
"It is almost easy for you, John, in the ex-
14
Earnest Living.
citement of the hour, to resolve on such a step.
But, as I said, it is very, very different with
me. Have you a right to sacrifice me as well
as yourself?
"You will not doubt that I have thought of
you, more than of myself, before coming to a
decision. My little sister, I know it is hardest
for you, but is it not right? And will not
God, the God of our parents, help you to bear
it? What was that sweet thought you quoted
'It is a blessed thing to need His
to me once,
tenderness."
"If I must, I must," said Hope, after a long
silence.
"Not in that way, dearie: not grudgingly,
sullenly, but willingly. And when you become
accustomed to the thought, it will not seem so
bad. Only a few miles farther apart, with the
possibility of hearing from each other as often
as we will. And then the grand, inspiring
War Time.
15
feeling that we have done the right thing, and
are entitled to every hope and promise."
"If I could be sure of success, John, if
your safety were pledged to me, and victory to
the country, I should be willing. But consider
the doubt that overhangs the cause, and the
possibility that you will never, never come
back!"
"You would not be the warrior to lead a for-
lorn hope," said John, smiling, "though you
are not such a forlorn Hope yourself. You
would like to go out to battle, and see, like
Constantine, the fiery cross, with its assurance
of conquest, blazing in the sky. But Christ
has placed the cross upon our shoulders, to
be borne steadily and patiently, as he bore
it."
66
'Pray for me, John, that I may be made
willing, and I will try." Again there was a
silence, one of those silences better than
words, each feeling perhaps a nearer pres-
16
Earnest Living.
ence, and hearing a tenderer voice in the
depths of the soul. At last John said, "Let
us have lights, and be more cheerful. While
we are together, we will be happy, as we al-
ways have been. And, Hope, I feel as if I
should not fall in battle, but come back to you
safe and sound, a brother to be more proud of
than you could be if I stayed at home.”
Hope looked at him, as he stood with the
light falling on his tall, athletic figure and
strong, manly features, and felt that under no
circumstances could she be otherwise than
proud of him.
"Where are all my uncle's family to-night,"
he asked, "that you and I have exclusive pos-
session of each other so long? It can't be that
even those light-toed damsels, Addie and Sa-
rah, are dancing to-night."
66
They were all dismal, and so went to visit
the Harlows, playing whist, probably. They
thought you would not come down from the
War Time.
17
Seminary this evening, and said something
about apologies, in case you did.”
"Why did not you go?"
"I was sure you would come, and I had
presentiment of all this. I had no desire to
go."
"I do not wish to leave you here, Hope,
when I go away. What do you think?”
66
'I hardly know. One place is as good as
another, without you. And it has grown to
seem a little like home here. Aunt Lucy is
kind to me, and the girls, too, in their way."
"I am afraid, Hope, that you are becoming
too much like them."
"In what respects?" replied she, coloring.
"More ribbons, and trimmings, and puffing
of the hair."
"Now, John," said she, laughing, "don't be
bearish. Certainly, you want me to look as
well as possible, to be just decent. And what
is the harm?"
2
18
Earnest Living.
"Not great, perhaps, if you did not put so
much mind and soul into it. You know I like
simplicity, Hope, and all these trappings, which
make young women look like dolls, wholly dis-
gust me. I do not wish my sister, of all things,
to become a mere fashionable lady."
Hope laughed, her spirits rising, by a not
unnatural reaction.
"You ought to marry a Quakeress," said
she," and have simplicity to your heart's con-
tent. As for me, I am at your service, and
will go to whatever remote wilds you may be
pleased to consign me, the Feejec Islands or
the North Pole, where milliners and dress-
makers shall be seen no more.'
""
"Not quite so far as either," replied he,
laughing in turn. "And, of course, it shall be
wholly as you wish. Only this does not seem
to me the atmosphere in which one would nat-
urally grow thorough, true, and earnest. Is it
War Time.
19
not true that you have lost, rather than gained,
in the two years since I brought you here?"
66
Perhaps so. Certainly many things are
difficult now that once were easy, and I hardly
know whether to call myself a Christian or not.
But you must not judge me severely, John. I
try to do right, and not grow wholly worldly
and unworthy of you and our dead father and
mother.'
""
"I think you capable of becoming good and
lovely and wise. Indeed, you hardly know
what great things I expect of my little sister."
"Set me down for just what I am, a com-
mon-place, dependent girl, who would not be
good for anything if she had not you to help
her. But I am impatient to hear your plan
for me.
"What do you say to going to Aunt Mary's,
at Waldham ?"
"To Waldham, John? Is not that a prime-
val wilderness, where, as my cousin said in her
20
Earnest Living.
last composition, 'trees and wild beasts roam
over the soil'?”
"You ought not to have forgotten the years
I spent in the old country academy there, and
what a paradise I thought it, with fishing,
hunting, chestnuting, and the substantial com-
forts of a farmhouse."
"I can neither hunt nor fish, remember."
“But you can live naturally and healthfully,
and find out that fashion and gayeties are sec-
ondary things. Then you will know and love
Aunt Mary, our father's only sister, and little
Bessie, who, by this time, must be of about
your age."
"What sort of person is she?"
"When I saw her last, a rosy, frolicsome
little girl, full of laughter, but with decided
opinions of her, own. By this time she has
doubtless grown into a dignified, independent
little woman, with quite as many ideas in her
brain as city-trained girls.'
War Time.
21
"Such as your sister, for example."
"It shall be quite as you choose, Hope. Aunt
Mary will receive you, I think, and make you
as happy as you choose to be. But if you
think this will be the better, then stay, though
I do fear for you, my darling, in this worldly,
stifling atmosphere."
"I am sure you are right, as always, John.
But," she resumed after a pause, "one thing
has always been good for me here, the society
of poor, lame Rosa. And how she will miss
me! How can I ever tell her that I am going?
Remember how she has been comforted in
all her trials, and try to learn something of her
faith and content. But there are the family
returning, so brighten up, and keep a good
heart."
At this moment, with considerable talk and
stir, the family group entered, Mr. Sanborn,
with his air of portly self-satisfaction; his wife,
elaborately attired, and wearing the most gra-
22
Earnest Living.
Ad-
cious smiles and airy manners, while the pret-
ty, trim daughters followed, — Sarah, with her
soft, abundant brown hair, fair skin, and eyes
as blue as the sky, all set off by the pale-blue
tissue and delicate lace which she wore,
die, as like almost as the reflection of a mirror,
except that a few freckles marred or perfected
her prettiness, as you might happen to think.
Why was it, wondered Hope, that John seemed
to dislike their demonstrations of cousinly af
fection, and to shrink into his shell as they ap-
proached? John would say, when asked, "Ex-
cellent specimens of dolls, Hope, but otherwise
useless, I am afraid." Certainly, John was
somewhat bearish.
66
"And so, John," said Uncle Sanborn, loudly,
you have caught the fever, and are in for the
war. Sorry, my boy, - think you'll repent it."
"There's no help now, and I'll risk the re-
pentance."
Then they went on to discuss the matter,
War Time.
23
Mr. Sanborn in the business-like, matter-of-fact
way he called common sense, till Hope, who
always believed her brother right, even when
he most crossed her inclinations, grew thor-
oughly irritated and wearied.
"Please not talk of it longer," said she,
"since you can not change each other's opin-
ions. And, Uncle Sanborn, it seems to me if
I think John ought to go, and am willing to
give him up, no one else has a right to say a
word against it."
66
"And so, Miss Hope," said he, laughing,
you lay exclusive claim to John, and think
no one else has a right even to advise him.ˆ
Well, if he will throw away his life, he must;
but I am glad I have no sons to follow the ex-
ample."
"You ought to wish you had a dozen, sir, to
give them all to the noblest cause for which
man ever fought," replied John.
“You are a little wild now, but hard
24
Earnest Living.
marches, bad fare, and defeats like this
wretched Bull Run affair, will soon take that
out of you."
"It will never take out of me my belief in
the justice of the cause and its final success."

CHAPTER II.
AT PEACE.
"Happy are they that learn in Thee,
Though patient suffering teach
The secret of enduring strength *
And praise too deep for speech,
Peace that no pressure from without,
No strife within, can reach."

OPE WALLACE rose the next morning
with a bewildering consciousness of trou-
ble upon her, succeeded after an instant
by the flash of recollection that revealed to her
clearly all that she must endure through the
hours of that day and many succeeding days.
At first, a rush of rebellious thoughts, next a
half-uttered cry for divine help, and then an
effort to calm herself into submission. "I will
go to see Rosa to-day," she said, "and find
25
26
Earnest Living.
what good thing she has to comfort me with."
So, after breakfast, she went out.
The sun was glaring down upon heated pave-
ments, and her thoughts turned with a pity
painfully intense to the late battle-field, where
even now, perhaps, lay the wounded and dying
beneath a burning sun, panting in vain for wa-
ter to slake their fevered thirst. It was too
dreadful to dwell upon, and she tried to forget
it, and become interested in the scenes around
her. But she was glad to turn from the crowded
thoroughfare into the quiet street where lived
her sick friend, Rosa Austin.
Mrs. Austin met her at the door.
"Rosa is
not as well as usual. The heat of the weather
prostrates her. Do not talk to her of anything
exciting. She knows nothing of the battle
yet."
"My brother John has enlisted, Mrs. Austin.
Can't I tell her of that?" asked Hope, disap-
pointed.
At Peace.
27
"Not to-day, if you please, Miss Wallace, if
you can wait. Perhaps I am too careful, but I
want to spare her every pain possible, she has
so much to bear.'
"I will be very careful, I assure you," said
Hope, trying to look cheerful as she entered the
sick-chamber.
"How is it with you, Rosa dear?" she asked,
stepping toward a low bed, on which reclined,
supported by pillows, the form of a girl some
fourteen years old. From this couch to the easy-
chair that stood near, had been, for two long
years, the sole journeyings of the invalid; even
these made only with pain. She knew well
that all of earthly vision that was in store for
her was bounded by the walls of this room, the
little flower-garden beneath her window, and
the glimpses of sky and sunshine over all. A
narrow and hard lot, was it not? Yet there
was nothing of sourness and complaint in the
face of Rosa Austin. "Rosa," her mother had
28
Earnest Living.
named her when she was a laughing baby, and
if strangers looking at the form, unshapely
through struggles with pain, might smile at the
misnomer, those who knew better and saw
deeper certainly did not. There was the love-
liness of a sweet white rose in the pale, thin
face, surrounded by soft, short curls of golden-
brown hair. So slight were the fleshly walls
that the brightness within could not but glim-
mer through.
"It is one of my worst days, perhaps," said
she in answer to Hope's question, "but it is
better now that I see you. What have you
been doing with yourself these three days?"
"Just as usual, and that is so unsatisfactory
that I don't like to talk of it. Tell me instead
what thoughts you have been busy with."
"They are not worth much, but you shall have
them as they are. I have been gazing from the
window at the hill in the distance, of which I
have such a pretty glimpse through the open-
At Peace.
29
ing between the houses. There has been a soft
light on it all the morning that makes it lovely."
"And you wished, if you were like me, that
you could clamber up its steep sides, and see
the valleys, lakes, and fields that lie beneath."
"A little of that at first, then I thought I
would make the most of it as I have it, and
that was enough to make me happy. I remem-
bered this, 'I will lift up my eyes unto the
hills, from whence cometh my help.'
"And did you gain help from them?"
"Yes; the hill stands steady and firm; like
the strength on which I lean, nothing can
change it."
"And what thought next?"
"Of the Delectable Mountains, to which Pil-
grim came, and from which he saw the celestial
city; and of all the mountains of which I ever
read."
"Were you alone yesterday?
"No; Mrs. Barry came to see me, and
30
Earnest Living.
brought a new book, and then Susie Childs,
with this dear little bunch of mignonette and
pansies: see how fragrant and fresh."
"But pansies are common little things, and
mignonette almost shabby; not that I quite
mean so, but I am in the humor to contradict
you, and be scolded in return."
"You deserve a scolding. Think how these
little things stand out against frosts and winds
that have their way with all the other flowers.
There is a resolute look in the golden eyes of
these pansies that you ought to appreciate."
"There is something human in them, surely.
They are haunted by a fairy-spirit, and I see the
mischief winking out."
66
"I love the hardy blossoms," said Rosa,
perhaps because they are so unlike myself."
"See," replied Hope, "how their leaves are
fading. That is the way with things one ad-
mires, always."
"Not always. These sea-shells have colors
At Peace.
31
as beautiful as those of the sunset, and never-
fading, and the song of the sea is always on
their lips. But I suppose the flowers are con-
tented to die, having done their work, seen a
whole summer of beauty, and ending with com-
fort to a sick girl like me.”
"I am not sure that they are unlike you,
after all, Rosa," said Hope. "Your soul is
strong."
"When I die," replied Rosa, “you must
plant pansies on my grave, and you will think
of me when you see them. Pansy is for
thought."
“Does the doctor speak to you discouraging-
ly?" asked Hope, troubled to hear her men-
tion dying.
"Oh, no; unless it be discouraging to hear
him say that I may live years in this same way;
and yet life is very pleasant to me, too."
"Are you always happy, Rosa?”
"There are times when I grow weary of
32
Earnest Living.
pain, and murmurs rise, and it seems as if the
great waves of trouble would drown all my
hopes; but I try to be still and wait. Then
there always comes some good word or thought
to me, as when you hear on a still Sabbath
morning a far-off bell ringing, faintly at first,
but, as you listen, growing sweeter and clearer,
till you notice no other sound. Heaven seems
so near, then, that I almost think if I could be
a little more quiet, I might hear the harpers
harping, and their praises like the sound of
many waters."
There was a glow on Rosa's check, and a clear
light in her eye, that made Hope almost afraid.
"I hope I shall not make you talk more than
you ought," said she.
"It does me good to talk now and then, and
it is not every one who will listen to me like
you. My heart overflows with these feelings,
sometimes."
"How does this comfort come? All good
At Peace.
33
things seem so vague to me that I can not un-
derstand it.'
66
Perhaps it is only from recalling some verse
of Scripture, or a few lines of one of my dear
6
old hymns, like When through the deep wa-
ters I call thee to go.""
"But what would you do, if, instead of hav-
ing leisure to think of all these, you were busy
with something that occupied your mind and
shut them out?
“There is a meaning in what we have to suf-
fer and what we have to do," answered Rosa,
little at random, Hope thought.
"Now my uncle's family are immersed in
every-day affairs, - dress, and visitors, and par-
ties, and concerts, and I am dragged into the
whirl almost against my will. Not wholly so,
for sometimes I get to like it, and grow so vain
and silly that my brother is really vexed with
me.”
3
34
Earnest Living.
"He can not think you vain and silly, I am
sure," said Rosa.
"I really want to be as good as you and he are.
But then it is pleasant to have nice things, and
live comfortably, and have one's own way; so
sometimes it seems difficult to choose between
the two."
"Perhaps, Hope," said Rosa, half suppress-
ing a sob, "perhaps God will choose for you, as
He has for me.”
"Oh, Rosa!" was the reply, "when I think
of you, these common pleasures seem contempt-
ible. God gives you something better, in spite
of all your pain."
"If He should ever send the pain to you, He
will also send that which will make it possible
for you to endure it.”
CHAPTER III.
PARTING.
"My paths are in the fields I know,
And thine in undiscovered lands."

OPE WALLACE had comparatively little
to leave behind in changing homes. Her
flexible temper helped her to adapt her-
self readily to circumstances, and so had made
her two years' abode in her uncle's family not
unpleasant. Her cousins had never become
wholly congenial companions, though of late
she had learned to sympathize more fully with
their pursuits. It was, on the whole, with
relief that she prepared to leave a home in
which she felt herself gradually changing for
the worse, for one where she hoped to grow bet-
ter. Some pleasant acquaintances came to say
35
36
Earnest Living.
good-bye, with many expressions of regret, and
though there was a little sadness in the parting,
the consciousness lay beneath that it would not
take many days for each to forget the other,
comparatively, and perhaps entirely. There
had been two or three visits to John, who was
now in camp. There, all was so gay and novel,
like a grand picnic, that it seemed to take away
somewhat from the dreariness attending the
thought of war.
The tents pitched under pine-trees on the
border of a pleasant lake, the cheerful faces,
and general air of order and comfort, were
hardly indicative of terrors and death hereafter.
And Hope always returned with a sort of con-
viction that whatever the fate of the regiment
might be, no harm could happen to her brother.
A parting visit to Rosa Austin marked her
last day in the city. She had deferred it till
the latest hour, and at last half resolved not
to say good-bye. But at length she set out,
Parting.
37
taking as a final gift a cluster of heliotrope
and geranium leaves, with one pink rose just
ready to change from bud to blossom. "I
have come to bid you good-bye, Rosa," said she,
"and to tell you once more how much I shall
miss you.'
66
""
Hardly as much as I shall miss you, Hope,
my good friend," replied Rosa, with trembling
voice.
"Much more, for you have helped me to be
good, not very good yet, but better than I
could have been without you."
"You can try still."
“Yes, but I shall never become like you.'
99
"No, Hope, for I am to lie here, suffer, and
be as patient as I can, while you are to go
forth to work.”
"And how indolent I am! If I were a man,
and could be a soldier like John, I might like
work, but the drudgery of sewing and study is
unendurable."
38
Earnest Living.
"I want you to remember these lines:
'Scorn not the smallness of daily endeavor,
Let the great meaning ennoble it ever.
"The difficulty with me," said Hope, "is
with that 'great meaning.' Perhaps I under-
stand it, but it slips out of my thoughts, and
does not affect my conduct."
"It is a noble thing to be able to work,"
Rosa replied, "even if there were no higher
meaning in it. A noble thing!" she repeated,
trying to imagine what it would be to havė
health and strength, and to walk the ways of
those who labor, strive, and win. The picture
was too much, and tears filled her eyes. But
she drove them back for the time, and said
good-bye almost cheerfully.
Thus they parted, Hope going out into a life
which, with all its losses, yet promised much
brightness, walking on toward a future which
in her day-dreams she was wont to paint
with the gayest colors. And Rosa lay still in
Parting.
39
the little chamber that was her world, saying
over again the farewell words, dwelling upon
the face which she would never see again in
the flesh, and almost envying the lot of her
healthful, beautiful friend. "Oh, rebellious
thoughts!" she murmured, "I must not let
•
you trouble me. Christ says, What I do thou
knowest not now, but thou shalt know here-
after.' I will wait for that hereafter." And
the repining passed away from her soul, as
some gentle wind scatters the cloud from the
face of the clear sky. Soon after, when her
mother came in, she found her asleep with a
smile on her lips. "My child," said the
mother, softly, "you have a heavy burden to
bear, but God gives you a peaceful heart, and
every day I learn from you how to draw sweet-
ness out of sorrow."
66
Some are destined to learn, like Rosa Austin,
how to bear the cross of submission, to "stand
and wait," while others go into the vineyard
40
Earnest Living.
early, gathering grapes that are purple and
fresh with the dew of the morning, and press-
ing the heavy clusters till the ruddy wine of
roward gushes sparkling and rich: that early
labor, is there anything like it? before we
have learned how difficult it may hereafter be-
come, and how long the day may prove.
-
As Hope turned from the door of her friend,
she resolved to find out this secret of love of
work. No matter how barren the past had
been, there was still time, and, in that country
quiet, how much she might achieve! Then she
thought of former resolutions and failures with
a sinking of heart, but still with a trust that
this time she should be more successful.
And is not much of the attainment, even of
the best, made up of such experience as Hope's?
An effort, a partial success, a seeming failure,
followed by a new effort and an advance one
step beyond the former ground. Thus through
the advancing spring-time there are frosts and
Parting.
4I
*
chills, that seem to thwart all which sunshine
and showers had done, yet in spite of them na-
ture holds her onward way, breaking at length
into the full glory of leaf, flower, and fruit.

CHAPTER IV.
HOPE'S NEW HOME.
"We take with solemn thankfulness
Our burden up, nor ask it less,
And count it joy that even we
May suffer, serve, or wait for Thee,
Whose will be done!"
ATE the next afternoon, Hope, accompa-
JATE
nied by John, who had arranged to give
her his last days of leisure, found herself
at her journey's end. Weary and somewhat
homesick though she was, she was roused into
delight by the sight of the pleasant old farm-
house on a grassy knoll, shaded by two or three
large elms. Around were broad fields, rich
with grass or waving with corn, beyond which
the land descended somewhat abruptly to a
ribbon-like stream, whose opposite bank was
shaded by willows. Behind the house rose a
42
Hope's New Home.
43
hill, smooth, round, and grassy to its very top,
while over all the long rays of the late after-
noon sunshine rested like a blessing.
66
This, Hope," said John as they approached,
"is to be your home for the next two or three
years at least. Do you like it?"
"If the interior corresponds to what I see
now, I could hardly fail to like it," she an-
swered cheerfully.
A group stood on the piazza, ready to wel-
come them, John as an old friend, Hope as
one yet to be tried.
There was Mr. Ross, quiet and plain, who
kept his own counsel on all matters, ordered
his affairs with precision and energy, and only
spoke when there was really something to say.
Thus much Hope read in his face at a glance.
But in Mrs. Ross' sweet yet somewhat anx-
ious face Hope saw so much of likeness to her
father, as to feel sure that one at least of the
group before her could not fail to prove worthy
44
Earnest Living.
of all love and trust. Then Aunt Jemima, Mr.
Ross' elder sister, — Hope looked at her, wonder-
ing if those keen eyes and wiry lips and sharp
voice could ever become agreeable by acquaint-
ance. And last stood Bessie, round, rosy, and
dimpled, with just a trace of Aunt Jemima's
sharpness in her voice, but otherwise looking
thoroughly lovable.
"You and Hope are to be the best of friends,
Bessie," said John. "And if you make mutual
discoveries of rough edges in each other's com-
position, you need not be surprised, but con-
gratulate yourselves that there is something to
be done in the way of harmoniously wearing
them off."
Though Hope was too weary to observe
closely, it was easy to see that the house was
cheerful and pleasant. The table, with its gold-
en butter, white bread, and freshly-gathered
berries, was wholly inviting, and Aunt Mary at-
tended to Hope's comfort with a thoughtful
Hope's New Home.
45
quietness, which soothed her, and made her
feel at home in spite of Miss Jemima's keen
eyes and Bessie's shyer glances. But it was
her last evening with John for many, many
months, perhaps for ever. That thought ab-
-
sorbed all others, and made her seem ab-
stracted and dull. It was a dreary evening
in spite of all John's efforts to make it other-
wise. At last Hope escaped to her chamber,
which she felt disappointed to find that she was
to share with her cousin. It was a pleasant
room, long and low, stretching across the width
of the farmhouse. At each end was a little
white bed. Bessie's belongings had been care-
fully set off, and were arranged with a precis-
ion that struck Hope's fastidious eye agree-
ably. "Bessie is orderly," she commented in-
wardly, "there's one comfort, and she is so shy
that she will not probably talk very much."
Hope was yet to learn that her cousin pos-
sessed the former excellence to such a degree
46
Earnest Living.
as to be a source of some annoyance to her
companions. But she very speedily discovered
her mistake in the latter particular, for little
Bessie, with her kitten-like, innocent ways, was
an inveterate talker.
66
"Cousin Hope," she began, suddenly, we
have given you the east side of the room, be-
cause it looks toward the sunrise, and mother
thought you would like that. But if you would
at all prefer the west, you are very welcome
to it."
"Thank you,” replied Hope, "I shall like
this."
"I am glad if you really think so, for I do
so like this window that looks out upon the
hills. But perhaps, by daylight, you will pre-
fer this, after all. And do you think
you will
like to share this room with me? Mother has
arranged a curtain, so that the chamber can be
separated whenever you please; and you will
have it quite to yourself in the daytime, for I
Hope's New Home.
47
am always busy down-stairs. I am a famous
housekeeper, Cousin Hope."
Hope uttered a faint reply, which encouraged
Bessie to go on.
"I hope you will like us all. You can not
help liking mother; she is the best woman that
ever lived. But unless you are very good-
natured indeed, you will sometimes get out of
patience with Aunt Jemima. She is so shiarp
and critical, and looks one through and through
in a dreadful way. And when she is vexed
with me, she calls inc Betsey. To be sure, my
name is Betsey, but no one else ever thinks of
calling me so. And the worst of it is, that
some people say I am like her. Oh dear, I
hope not! When I find myself getting cross,
I say, that is like Aunt Jemima, and I'd better
grow pleasant immediately."
Here there came a pause. Hope, ready to
weep in her heaviness of heart, could control
herself only sufficiently to say, "I am too tired
48
Earnest Living.
to talk much. Do please excuse me to-night,
Bessie."
"Yes, indeed," said she; "I ought not to
have talked at all. I will not say another
word."
Hope, kneeling, tried to pray silently, but in
the rush of thought and feeling could find no
language but a cry for help to bear the solitude
and separation that were soon to come upon
her.
Long after she had laid her head upon the
pillow, she opened her eyes, and could not help
smiling through her tears at the sight of her
cousin, smoothing and folding belt, collar, and
ribbon, and placing each carefully by itself, lay-
ing her slippers side by side, and caring for
everything with an air of scrupulous exactness.
"I wonder," said Hope to herself, "if all the
family affairs are arranged with such system,
everything by line and rule. If so, there will
be no end of offences on my part."
Hope's New Home.
49
The sun, streaming in through Hope's east
window, woke her at a somewhat late hour.
Bessie had gone down, and sounds from the
farmyard and kitchen told her that life was
awake and stirring. She rose hastily. "Prob-
ably," thought she, "the breakfast-hour is at
five or six o'clock, summer and winter, and I
may as well begin to conform at once."
A light tap upon the door, and Aunt Mary
entered, looking so good and sweet that Hope
did not wonder that Bessie thought her the
best mother alive. "Are you up already, my
child?" said she. "You should not have has-
tened."
"I thought it must be nearly breakfast-time."
"Do not feel obliged to follow all our ways,
certainly at first. This is to be your home, re-
member, where you will have entire freedom.”
"You are very kind, Aunt Mary. But
father used to wish us to be always punctual at
meals. It was selfish, he said, for the sake of
4
50
Earnest Living.
a few minutes' gratification, to set back the
whole machinery of the household, for perhaps
an entire day."
"That is very like your father," said Mrs.
Ross; "just and considerate even in the small-
Well, do as you please, Hope,
est concerns.
only let this be like home to you. You will
find out our faults in due time, but I hope you
will love us in spite of them.
very unlike your city cousins.
Bessie will seem
She is in some
things childish for a girl of her years, but she
will improve from your example, and you must
be patient with her."
"Dear Aunt Mary," replied Hope, "I ought
to be happy here, and I know I shall love you.
But do not think it strange if I seem sad at
first. It is hard to lose John." And she laid
her head upon her aunt's shoulder and wept.
"Dear child! I shall have all sympathy
with you. I know how much you will miss
him, but do not feel that you are losing him.
Hope's New Home.
51
Sometime you will have your brother back, to
love him the more for the separation."
t
Oh, if I could only know that he would
come back, Aunt Mary!"
"Have faith, my child, since you can not
know, faith to believe that, whether your
brother lives or dies, all will be best both for
you and him." Thus Aunt Mary comforted
her, and took her down to the breakfast-table,
where the coffee was fragrant and creamy, and
John waiting to share it with her.
"You will soon learn to keep country hours,
Hope," said he, "and your cheeks will grow
full and rosy, like Bessie's. I shall hardly
know you when I return on my first furlough."
"Must you really go to-day, John? Just
one day more; that is asking very little."
66
My dear little sister, it would be as hard
to part to-morrow as to-day. I must not begin
my soldier's carcer by violating orders. But
there are several hours yet before we say good-
52
Earnest Living.
bye, and meantime I am going to take you to
a walk. Do you think you will be adequate to
climb Prospect Hill with me, after having dis-
posed of that toast and cold chicken?"
Hope brightened at the idea, and they soon
set out, passing through the great barn, in
whose ample floor ended the foot-path leading
to the top of the hill. The scaffolds were filled
with freshly-stored, fragrant hay, and every-
thing was in just the order which Hope would
have expected from Bessie's father. They went
up the smooth, gradual ascent, Hope starting
at some cattle that turned away from their lei-
surely grazing to watch the comers with great,
intent eyes.
"Do not be afraid," said John; "Uncle
Ross' cows are the meekest creatures in the
world, the Quakers of their kind. When I
was a schoolboy here in Waldham, the hill was
always my favorite spot for rehearsing decla-
mations. And the good creatures, the very
Hope's New Home.
53
images of these, would form a circle around
me, and stand with wondering eyes while I
spouted, 'Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend
me your ears!' or, 'Respected fellow-citizens,'
etc. Do you think I shall ever have such an
attentive audience again, Hope?'
""
"Extremely doubtful," said she.
They reached the summit, and sat down un-
der a large chestnut-tree. A pleasant though
not especially striking view lay before them:
an amphitheatre of hills skirting the horizon
toward the west and north, blue and ethereal
in thin distance, while between lay broad
meadows, nestling villages, green woods, all
bathed in the softest September light. Just at
their feet lay a little blue pool, mirroring back
the pines on its banks, while behind lay the
Ross farmhouse, substantial and plain, but
with an air of coziness and comfort. "This is
pleasant, Hope,” said John. "I am glad to be
able to take you here. Many a time have I sat
54
Earnest Living.
in this very spot, looking off to those blue hills
6
with aspirations to rise like them. For a
boy's will is the wind's will, and the thoughts
of youth are long, long thoughts.' I have not
done anything mountainous yet, you know."
"You satisfy every one but yourself, John."
"It is a comfort if I satisfy your sisterly
pride. Well, there came a time when I began
to look at those hills with less ambition, a time
when I was sad and restless, and could find lit-
tle help from heaven or earth. I remembered
then that the strength of the hills is His, and
looked to Him for strength.'
"I shall love the hills for your sake," said
Hope.
"You must watch Wachusett in its winter
glory. Green and sunny now, it is more beau-
tiful when it gets its snow-robes on, and its
graceful outline stands out clearly against the
crystal sky. You may liken the mountains.
then to a bride in her white apparel, or a queen
Hope's New Home.
55
in her grace and majesty, but to nothing less
fine and rare."
"I am afraid I shall always remember that I
looked on these hills first when I looked upon
you last, before a long, long separation.
""
“At least, then, seek to get the strength from
them. And remember, Hope, that I am com-
ing back to you; I am sure we shall see each
other again. Life is precious and beautiful,
and I trust it has much yet in store for us
both."
"I do not think I could live without you,
John," said she.
"You do not know yet how much you could
bear, dearie. You need to unlearn this habit
of clinging to human supports. You will not
grow strong until you learn to seek other help,
and find out that if necessary you could do
without anything but God and your own soul."
"I am a poor Christian, John, if indeed I
am one at all. God and my soul! the one so
56
Earnest Living.
high, so distant, and dim, the other sinful, faint,
and wretched.
thing more?"
What can I do without some-
"God in Christ need not seem far off or dim.
Say to yourself again your old favorite hymn,
'Jesus, lover of my soul!""
"But, John," she replied, "when I come to
these lines,-
'Thou, O Christ, art all I want,
More than all in thee I find,'
I am always obliged to stop and have a great
struggle with myself, and sometimes can not
say them at all.”
"If you take Him for your friend indeed, He
will teach you how to say them with whole-
hearted conviction. And remember, darling,
that if to be a Christian means anything, it
incans everything. Your joy and comfort can
come only from making your life earnest and
thorough."
66
"I have often resolved to be and do some-
Hope's New Home.
57
thing. But how to break over my sluggishness
and dullness is hard to tell.”
"It will be a fight; and when I get to be a
soldier in the camp and on the battle-field, I
shall think of you as equally a soldier here at
home, gaining daily victories over self and evil;
and we will both fight bravely, and so keep in
sympathy with each other and with the great
Captain of our salvation."
Hope looked up through gathering tears, and
caught the inspiration with which her brother's
dark eyes were flashing. "I will pray to be-
come more like you, and Him," she said
softly.
"And now we will go back to Aunt Mary,"
said John, drawing her arm within his. An
hour more, and he had gone, and Hope was try-
ing to be cheerful and self-controlled, because
that was what he had wished of her.
CHAPTER V.
THE MORNING RIDE.
"Needs no show of mountain hoary,
Winding shore or deepening glen,
Where the landscape in its glory
Teaches truth to wandering men:
Give true hearts but earth and sky,
And some flowers to bloom and die, -
Homely scenes and simple views
Lowly thoughts may best infuse."
CARCELY was Hope awake the next
morning, when Bessie called to her,
"Cousin Hope, did you ever think how
delightful it would be to be a good fairy,
and have the power of granting everybody's
wishes?"
"Yes, sometimes," replied Hope.
"Now you can be a good fairy in a small
way, and grant me one wish, at least, that will
give me the greatest gratification."

58
The Morning Ride.
59
"You have only to name it," said Hope,
laughing.
"That you should go to mill with me to-day."
"To mill? Is not that a singular trip for
two young ladies?"
"Not at all. I have been for father almost
ever since I could talk. I drive old Seffle,
that's the short for Bucephalus, the name John
gave him, and he's gentle as a lamb. It's a
shady road, and the old mill is charming, and
the miller too.”
"I think I shall say yes," replied Hope,
"provided your mother thinks it best."
"And we will take some biscuit and jelly
and ham, and have a lunch at Cold Spring,
near the roadside. Cousin Hope, you are the
dearest cousin that ever was seen." And Bes-
sie talked on in her exuberance of spirits, till
Hope almost repented of her consent.
"Oh, I forgot!" said Bessie at last; "mother
told me that I must not talk so much, or you
60
Earnest Living.
would be crazed. I saw the very look in your
eyes just now that comes in mother's when
she is tired out with me. She does not suspect
it is there, but when I see it I try to stop.
And, Hope, when you get impatient with my
talking, please tell me. There now! I will not
say another word before breakfast;" and Bessie
bit her red lips, and applied herself resolutely
to her toilet, her bright eyes beaming back on
her from the mirror, while she kept up the si-
lent colloquy with herself about the anticipated
drive, in which she was to have the rare pleas-
ure of a companion. After breakfast she began
to bustle about, making ready for departure.
Aunt Jemima was not in the best of moods, and
Bessie would keep flying in and out of the
room which her aunt was sweeping.
66
Bessie, can't you keep out of the way?"
said she, sharply.
"Not just yet, Aunt Mima. I want to get
that jelly in the closet." And she climbed
The Morning Ride.
61
upon the table, and, after some search, suc-
ceeded in her object. "Just two or three min-
utes more, Aunt Mima, - the biscuits are here
too, I think."
Aunt Jemima, meanwhile, had suspended
operations, and waited with an impatience that
soon became explosive. "Betsey Ross, you are
the most provoking girl! Go into the kitchen,
and don't hinder me another minute!"
"After all, the biscuits are in the pantry,
Aunt Jemima, and it was of no use to look
here. But I feel specially good to-day, and
you should not get vexed with me.”
"You always behave worst when you say
you feel good."
66
Perhaps I ought to try to feel wicked; is
that your way, Aunt Mima?'
""
"Bessie," said her mother, appearing just in
time to catch the last remark, "when will you
learn to be more respectful? You can not tell
how much you grieve me."
62
Earnest Living.
66
Oh, mother, I did not expect you to hear,
and I did not mean any harm. I only felt too
happy."
"Seffle is harnessed, and you must hasten
your preparations. And try not to talk all
the way. Give Hope a little rest from your
tongue."
It was a bright morning. The pine groves
through which the road lay were redolent with
perfume, the golden-rod made the wayside
gay, and on the borders of brooks, here and
there, the cardinal-flower hung out its racemes
of burning scarlet. Old Seffic, notwithstanding
his boasted lamblikeness, evidently had a tem-
per of his own. He wandered from one side.
of the road to the other, looking about as if it
were the object of his journey to make scientific
observations, and all with the most leisurely
pace, till suddenly, as if roused by some goad-
ing of conscience, he would start into a rapid·
shuffling gallop, and achieve wonders of speed.
The Morning Ride.
63
"I have always had a fancy," said Hope,
"that horses resemble their owners, and per-
haps you and Seffle have some traits in com-
mon."
66
66
Perhaps so," said Bessie, musingly; we
are good friends, certainly. Many a talk have
we had together, eh, Seffle?"
The creature turned his head and neighed a
response to the familiar voice.
"See how well
he knows me, dear old fellow! Who believes
that horses have not souls? Not I, for one."
It was a tolerably long drive to the mill, and
Bessie, in accordance with her mother's injunc-
tion, talked less than usual, and Hope was fol-
lowing in thought her brother to the familiar
scenes of the encampment, which he was soon
to leave. She could almost guess what he was
doing at this very time, and the strong sympa-
thy of affection assured her that he was think-
ing of her. With that feeling, she half forgot
the outward separation, and her spirits rose
64
Earnest Living.
under the influence of the sunshine and the
clear air.
The old mill stood beside a narrow though
somewhat deep stream, that moved quietly and
gently above, but, after its sudden descent,
widened and babbled noisily over the rocks in
its swift course under the willows. Hope and
Bessie went in and found the miller, a hale,
rosy old man, and an old friend of Bessie's.
Leaving the others, Hope wandered out, and
sat down under an oak-tree by the brookside,
listening to that musical gurgle of the waters,
which, of all natural sounds, most satisfies the
ear and soothes the mind. She thought of her
resolution and pledge to try to do and be more.
But how begin? First, she would be patient
with Bessie, and try to help her; secondly, -
well, she could hardly make up her mind as to
that yet, and she would wait to see what might
come. Perhaps school-life would give her
work enough, though the routine of study
The Morning Ride.
65
seemed somewhat commonplace to her. She
had never been a very diligent student. She
could learn easily, but was satisfied with doing
as little as possible, and when she came to think
of work in reality, it by no means looked agree-
able. 66
Daily endeavor," - did that mean to
sweep rooms and make bread, like Aunt Mary,
to write compositions and French exercises, and
mend stockings, as she herself would be called
upon to do, that and no more? Ah, but the
"great meaning," of which she had yet to solve
the problem!
Bessic came out to her at last, the corn being
ground, and her conversation with the miller
ended. "Now for Cold Spring, half a mile
distant, and luncheon," said she.
Seffle set forth with renewed energies on the
homeward way, and remonstrated, in his fash-
ion, at the early halt.
"Is not this nice?" said Bessie, as, after fol-
lowing a footpath for a few paces into the
5
66
Earnest Living.
woods, they came to an opening under oak-
trees, where alternate light and shade lay in
long lines across the soft grass. The last blos-
soms of the wild roses were shedding their pet-
als, though their fragrance yet lingered, and a
bed of ferns grew beneath the rocks from
which the spring gushed forth.
"Now," said Bessie, as she opened her lunch
with active fingers, "you consented to act the
part of a fairy to-day, and you must allow that
this is a spot fit for the queen of the fairies to
dine in. Will your majesty be pleased to par-
take?"
"Let us gather some ferns to lay upon the
cloth, since those roses won't bear a lunch."
"Please not, Cousin Hope. I don't like
their odor. And they are such damp, shady
things that they do not seem wholesome."
Hope was somewhat startled by such a her-
esy.
"You look as if you thought that was bad
The Morning Ride.
67
taste, but I can not help it. I like creatures
that grow in the sunshine, lupines, for ex-
ample, that start up out of the sand and grow
so brave and strong, and pansies, that face all
weathers."
"But the very loveliest, Bessie," replied
Hope, "are found in the most unlikely places,-
the perfect arethusas out of the midst of mud,
you know."
"I wonder if that is not sometimes the way
with men and women."
66 Yes; it does not seem to make so much
difference what soil things grow in, as that they
have a disposition to get out of it all the good
and beauty it contains. And the shade is best
for some human beings, as well as plants."
"Cousin Hope," said Bessie, after a pause,
during which she had apparently been bestow-
ing all her attention on the arrangement of
the layers of a sandwich, "do you ever think
about your faults?"
68
Earnest Living.
"Yes, occasionally."
"You have not many, but mine are discour-
agingly numerous. In the first place, every
one says I talk too much, but I'm not sure
about that, — at least, it's my pet fault, and I
shall not attack it just yet. I tease Aunt Je-
mima, till she thinks I am the worst girl in the
world. And I like to have my own way."
Bessie drew a long sigh as she finished the cat-
alogue.
"I should not have guessed the last," said
Hope.
"It is like Aunt Jemima's sweeping. When
she begins, everybody must make way till the
dust and commotion have subsided. As for
house-cleaning, when that begins, the chief end
of her existence seems to be a mop and scrub-
bing-brush. So, when I once begin to do any-
thing, I do not like to be interfered with. I
want to go straight through it.'
وو
“That is very natural,” answered Hope.
The Morning Ride.
69
“Yes, and if there were only I in the world,
it would all be right. But when there are so
many of us, things get into a tangle now and
then. If some one else's way happens to cross
my way, one must turn aside, and it generally
seems to me that it should be the some one
else, and there's where the weakness is. Now,
Hope, I have made confession, and I am going
to begin in earnest to get rid of that fault, at
least."
"I shall be glad to help you, if I can.'
""
"Thank you. The principal trouble is that
when my way is the right one, it would seem
as if I ought not to give it up. Do you not
think one ought to be resolute, and do what
one undertakes, in spite of difficulties?"
"Sometimes it is better to yield. It depends
upon what the difficulties are."
"One never ought to give up for indolence,
certainly. Of all things I dislike half ways of
working. There is Nelly Miles, one of our
70
Earnest Living.
school-girls, who lounges and drags through
-
everything, — half learns her lessons, recites
with such a mumble that no one can hear her,
and walks, talks, and thinks after the same
fashion. It's a trial to look at her, and think
what hard work it must be for her to live.”
"I am afraid you will soon discover," said
Hope, "that I am not very energetic. You
must not expect every one to be like you."
"Oh, Cousin Hope, you are not like Nelly
Miles, and I know you are better than I. But
now,"
," said Bessie, starting up, "Seffle must be
thinking that we have taken a very long lunch,
and ought to be setting our faces homeward."
CHAPTER VI.
DOCTOR LEE.
Every poorest day is the confluence of two eternities.”
OME life in the country is satisfying and
pleasant in its very monotony to those
who do not need to wander from the cir-
cle of loved ones for sympathy and companion-
ship. Each day has its "sweet records, promises
as sweet," of quiet household talk, of true wo-
manly work, of lingering at southerly doors to
discuss broods of chickens, the prospects of
the harvest, or merely the weather. Love and
kindred make words about the commonest
things precious, for it is not so much the
speech on the lips, as the spirit in the heart,
that makes the social intercourse dear.
But to one who is only half a member of
71
72
Earnest Living.
the circle, all these things are likely to seem
drearily dull, and he complains of the narrow-
ness of the interests to which he is shut up,
realizing all the while, perhaps, the longing to
share those that lie without. In something of
this spirit Hope passed the autumn days at
Waldham, trying feebly to become a real mem-
ber of the family, — trying, instead of deter-
mining and being so by sheer force of will. It
was hardly so good a life for her, especially
at first, as her brother had anticipated.
she struggled on for contentment, against lone-
liness and despondency, gaining strength by
the very struggle.
Yet
Letters from John came frequently, and were
always so bright and hopeful, and full of Chris-
tian words, as half to compensate for his absence.
He was yet well and strong, and there was no
prospect of active service before spring. From
this Hope drew long breaths of comfort and
Doctor Lee.
73
'strength; perhaps by that time the war would-
be over, and her brother safely returned.
At rare intervals came little penciled letters
from Rosa Austin, full of comfort also. On
the other hand was Aunt Jemima, always sharp
and keen, and Bessie, never still, and scarcely
willing that her cousin should be. "Oh dear!
Hope," she would exclaim, "how can you sit
still, while your side of the room is in such
confusion? See how nicely I have put mine in
order." Or, "It really worries me to see
your shawl and hat on that chair. May I hang
them up for you? Would you not like me to
throw away those wilted flowers?" And Hope
would reply somewhat sharply, "I would much
rather be quiet and read a little, if you please."
And Bessie, never vexed, though aggrieved,
would in half an hour perhaps stumble upon
some new disorder in Hope's premises.
•
In a hundred such ways Bessie's thorough-
ness jarred upon Hope's easy and comfortable
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Earnest Living.
habits, so that sometimes good Mrs. Ross, who
watched all this without much direct interfer-
ence, began to fear that the good would never
come which she had hoped from the contact of
two such dissimilar natures.
Aunt Jemima used to hold up Hope as an
example to Bessie, and Bessie to Hope, each
in the absence of the other. As Bessie would
sweep through the room like a northerly breeze,
with the kitten at her heels, Aunt Jemima
would call after her with a sigh drawn from
her deepest heart, "Oh, Betsey, why can't you
learn to be as ladylike and polite as your
cousin?" and as Hope would gather herself
into a corner of the sofa, book in hand, Aunt
Jemima would exclaim, bitingly, "Always a
book! you ought to take lessons from Bessie
in house-work. There's no indolence about
her. Whatever she does is done well.”
Though these trials were small indeed in com-
parison with the hardships of her brother, still
Doctor Lee.
75
she wrote of them to him, freely, as he had
asked her to do of everything. "Sometimes,"
said she, "I am so worried and fretted that I
am tempted to run away to some quiet spot,
where I can leave these things behind."
And John would write like this in reply:
"Let me tell you something which pleased me
when I read it long ago, and has lingered in
my memory ever since, a tradition handed
down from the early church, well illustrating
the character which Christ desires in His fol-
lowers. A little outside the walls of Rome,
upon the Appian Way, is a church whose Latin
name is‘Domine, quo vadis?' According to
the tradition, Peter had escaped from the prison
in which he had been awaiting martyrdom, and
was timidly fleeing from the city, when upon
this spot he met his Lord, and asked, 'Dom-
ine, quo vadis?''Master, whither goest
thou?' To whom the Saviour calmly replied,
'Into the city to be crucified.' Peter felt the
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Earnest Living.
sting of the gentle rebuke, and, returning a pen-
itent but decided Christian, was crucified for
his Lord. Now, my dear sister, your cross is
not one of martyrdom, but that of daily endu-
rance of small burdens. When you tell me of
them, I feel as if I would bear them for you or
take you away from them; but where could I
take you that similar discipline might not be
in store for you? Instead of running away,
then, ask where the Master leads, and there
follow, knowing that to be the safe way. Re-
member too that you give others some occasion,
doubtless, to complain of you, and pay more
heed to these seeming trifles, which are of so
great importance in making up a complete and
well-proportioned character. Perhaps Aunt
Jemima may be right in thinking you need
more vigor and energy. Don't sit still all day
over your books, but roam out among those
gray Waldham hills, and get away from your
vexations for a few hours at least."
Doctor Lee.
77
In accordance with John's advice, Hope set
out alone the next morning for a long ramble.
It was clear and bright, and underneath lay,
crisp and sparkling, a thin crust of snow, on
which a little rain had fallen the previous night.
Hope scarcely knew where to turn her steps.
The little stream in the distance was white and
frozen, and the belt of rippling azure with
which it had so lately girded the fields was now
no more than any other line in the monotonous
white landscape. "It is too dreary there,"
said Hope; "I will go to the new cemetery,
where it is always beautiful." Scarcely a mile
from the Ross farm-house, on a hill-side shad-
owed by pines and oaks, a burial-place had been
consecrated only the preceding summer. Long
a favorite resort for merry walks and pleasure-
parties, it had yet scarcely grown to wear the
solemnity which it would afterwards know,
when made sacred not merely by form of prayer
and hymn, but also by the laying away of the
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Earnest Living.
dead, and the footsteps and tears of mourners.
Thither Hope turned her course, her first win-
ter visit to the sheltered spot. It was indeed
as beautiful as ever, not the same as in its sum-
mer fullness or autumn glory, but clad with
fresh purity and solemn stillness, broken neither
by song of birds nor fall of fountain, but only
by the constant, low murmur of the wind
through the pine-branches far overhead. Hope
sat down upon a rustic bench that was sheltered
from the wind, and looked around her. Every
blade and twig shone with silvery frostwork,
whose tracery no art could more than feebly
imitate; sunshine streamed in long lines through
the forest arches, and lay dazzlingly upon the
snowy walks. Through openings could be seen
far-off hills, green in summer up to their
rounded tops, but now rising white and distinct
against the sky, all so bathed in the morning
splendor that the eye ached with excess of
Doctor Lee.
79
light, as it wandered from the radiance below
to the gleaming arch above.
Hope recalled an autumn day when she had
wandered there, when all the scene was in
bloom with gay flowers, and she had thought it
meet that the body should lie in this fair gar-
den below, while the soul rejoiced in the gar-
den of God. It was harder to think of death
now, though the barrenness of winter might
have seemed to symbolize it fitly. "Life is beau-
tiful," she said to herself softly, "and there is
so much to do in it, if I only knew just what!"
It would have been pleasant to sit dreaming
all day, but a keener breath of wind warned
Hope to walk on. Down through the broad
paths with pretty rural names, stopping only to
gather some trailing wintergreen and fragrant
twigs of spruce, Hope came to the entrance.
The heavy iron gate, which she had found no
difficulty in opening from the outside, had be-
come obstructed by some cause, and her whole
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Earnest Living.
strength did not suffice to start it. In this
dilemma, Hope hardly knew whether to laugh
or cry. There was nothing to be done but
wait till assistance should present itself, and
the uncertainty of that was not agreeable.
But good fortune favored Hope. Down the
hill a stout, erect figure walked presently at a
rapid pace, which Hope soon recognized as that
of young Dr. Lee, whom she had seen once or
twice at her uncle's, where he had lately been
installed as family physician. She was little.
acquainted with him, for his reserve of manner
had been somewhat forbidding. His face was
one which did not tell much as to its owner,
the lips closing firmly, as if to keep their own
secrets, and the eyes questioning rather than
revealing. Nevertheless, a stanch honesty, that
was the most marked characteristic of the man,
was written on every feature. It was said that
Dr. Lee had yet to tell his first professional or
social lie. Hope knew him well enough not to
Doctor Lee.
81
feel embarrassed at the somewhat singular po-
sition in which she was found, and was glad to
be released so speedily.
"Thank you for setting me free," said she,
"for I had begun to feel a little uneasy as to
the length of time my imprisonment might con-
tinue."
"What sent you here?" said Dr. Lee.
"Only a walk, and a glorious one it has
been."
"Glorious! what an epithet! And what is
there to attract a gay young lady to a cemetery
for a walk?"
"I am not gay, Dr., Lee, but I might come
here if I were, scarcely half-a-dozen white
slabs scattered over all the ground."
“But think of all that are coming to lie here
by and by, you and I, probably, among them.
Does not that frighten you, or do you, like oth-
ers, never think?"
"Sometimes, Dr. Lee. That is a serious
6
82
Earnest Living.
thought, but it does not frighten me; perhaps
because I do not fully realize it."
Only
"Well, perhaps you can not, as I do.
this hour I have watched soul and body sepa-
rate; one going out into the great unknown,
the other lying cold and inanimate, a mere
mass of clay. Where is the life gone? Who
knows?"
"God took it,” said Hope, gently.
"That is only another way of saying no one
knows. You can't explain it, neither can I.
If you were the simplest child, and I the great-
est philosopher, it would be all the same.'
""
"It seems to me that God's word does teach
us something, yes, much, about death," said
Hope, a little timidly. "And, after all, is it
death which needs to perplex us most? For
we come to that blindly, and can have no help
in it but faith."
"What is there, then, which perplexes you
Doctor Lee.
83
more?" asked the doctor, looking at her with
a slight semblance of curiosity.
"It is life that I do not know how to man-
age."
"What is the trouble there?”
"To know what to do with it, — how to make
the most of it. Are you never troubled with
perplexity as to that?"
"Very little, I must confess. And I do not
think it is well for you. Take the world sim-
ply. Here, for example, is your day's work be-
fore you; do it as well as you can, and consider
that so you are making the most of life, as you
call it. Suppose you wish to do more, how are
you to set about it?"
"That is precisely what I wish to know."
"Then do not waste your youth and energy
with trying to find out, making the least of
every day, because you are eager to make the
most of life. That is not my idea of duty."
Hope said to herself, "Is he not somewhat
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Earnest Living.
cross?" But the doctor's face was cheery and
bright, and his smile made the decided tones
66
seem less sharp. My way," he continued,
"is to make the most of to-day, and if I do not
succeed, the fault is not in the aim, but in my-
self."
"That makes things somewhat easier," said
Hope.
66
'Yes, and I do not see why to-day is not as
good as to-morrow. And if you are moping
and indolent now, when do you propose to
change? I sometimes think that religious peo-
ple make a mistake in bending all their ener-
gies to the attainment of a life to come, while
they neglect to get anything out of the life that
now is."
"What is one to do, then, that is despondent,
and wants something better to hope for?"
66
Despondency is a sin, as much as lying
or stealing. Work it off, laugh it off, fight it
off, get rid of it somehow, Miss Wallace. And
Doctor Lee.
85
now," said he, as their ways divided, "I have
given you advice, and if it is worth little, it has
cost you little."
"I thank you for it, and will try to make
practical use of it," she answered, heartily.
It had been a good walk, to say nothing of
having had a new person to listen to. Bessie
found her cousin on her return more talkative
than usual, and in discussing Dr. Lee and his
odd, excellent, bearish ways, the two girls found
a theme of conversation which lasted a long
time. And Hope made considerable progress
in overcoming her "cloudiness," as Bessie
used to call it, under this new impetus, and
wrote to John that henceforth she meant to be
always cheerful and good-tempered.
Scarcely a fortnight afterwards, the new res-
olution, which thus far she had kept without
difficulty, was tried. Bessie had been talking
much of the prospect of skating, and a few
days of beautifully cold weather after a thaw
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Earnest Living.
had made the anticipation a reality. But it was
a serious drawback that Hope was not inclined
to share her pleasure. "I have never skated,
Cousin Bessie," said she.
"But you can easily learn, and it is going to
be a fine evening, and you will see all the vil-
lage on the pond, and
وو
"But it is very cold, and, to tell the truth, I
am somewhat afraid."
“I did not think you were such a coward;
come, go with me," urged Bessie.
66
"I should think you would go, Hope," said
Aunt Jemima, "if it was only for the sake of
pleasing your cousin.'
""
Hope was beginning to yield, but a gust of
wind that shook the casement at that moment
was decisive, and she exclaimed, "I should like
to gratify you, Bessie, but I can not go out to-
night. And besides," it was a timely re-
-
membrance," my brother never wished me to
learn to skate."
Doctor Lee.
87
"Well," said Bessie, laughing, "if that is
the case, there is nothing more to be said.
But you do not know how much you lose."
Mrs. Ross happened that day to be on one
of her unfrequent absences from home, and
Hope almost repented of her decision when she
found the evening before her with only Aunt
Jemima as a companion. The latter was un-
commonly biting and sharp,- more than the
cold, Hope thought. Frequent remarks as to
the indolence that would not stir from the fire,
and the selfishness that refused to please others,
interrupted Hope's reading, and, as early as
she could find an excuse, she shut her book and
went to her room, with thoughts neither cheer-
ful nor patient. Why, she asked, was she thus
homeless, vexed, and tried, without father or
mother or friend to help her? Surely she
should grow worse, instead of better, under
such an experience as this. Then she thought
of her brother, lying beside his tent-fire that
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Earnest Living.
night, and of the prayers that at that very hour
he was perhaps raising for her.
She raised her eyes to the clear sky, spark-
ling with its thousand lights that were shining
on him also. The evening star was just drop-
ping into the horizon, while in the east Orion
with his glittering belt was mounting on high;
and in the north the steady watchfires were
blazing as of old, the greater and lesser bears
pursuing their circles, and the serpent winding
its jeweled folds around the pole. How far off
and still they seemed, how much above the
world of toil and grief! Was not the nobler
life, whose meaning she would know, as high,
pure, and serene as that starry sky? And per-
haps as unattainable also, she said inwardly,
how could she know? But she knelt at her
bedside and prayed, with a heart struggling for
submission, that she might be helped in seeking
after it, by whatever means God should see fit
to appoint.
CHAPTER VII.
CORRESPONDENCE.
"Christian perfection in outward conduct consists not in doing ex-
traordinary things, but in doing common things extraordinarily
well."
HE winter went slowly among the hills,
but it was gone at last. A few sunny
days in March had given promise of bet-
ter things to come, and now warm April rains
had dissolved every trace of snow on the sunny
slopes. The anemones lifted their fairy cups
amid circles of green leaves, and hepaticas and
violets were putting on the livery of the season.
Hope found shady nooks where the arbutus,
which she had never seen before, was springing
sweet and fragrant under dead leaves. The
country was so beautiful under the wonderful
touch of the spring-time that she almost longed
89
90
Earnest Living.
for two lives, one in which to work, the
other for mere enjoyment. For these April
days brought work, as well as pleasure.
Bessie and Hope were to begin a school-term
at the old academy where John had prepared
for college. It was an event of no small im-
portance to Hope. During her stay in the
city she had had private teachers with her
cousins, and since her coming to Waldham she
had been reading under her brother's direction.
To begin real, systematic study in a genuine
school was like going into a strange world.
She stood at the window, looking away to the
hills on which the morning glory was resting,
thinking of herself and of her brother, who, in
a few days, was to move with his regiment from
winter quarters,-to move on to scenes of battle
doubtless, perhaps to death. "Oh, coming
days!" she said to herself, "does any such
sunshine rest upon you as gilds those distant
summits this morning? Are there green
Correspondence.
91*
hights to climb, pleasant prospects to see, and
fresh flowers to gather? Or must I go on be-
neath the shadows, weeping and solitary, leav-
ing all my joys one by one behind me in the
place of graves? But this is not what Dr. Lee
would approve."
Instead of musing longer, she offered a silent
prayer that the onward way might be made
easy and pleasant, till her climbing feet stood
at length with those of her beloved ones upon
the shining hights of Paradise. Upon this
Bessie's voice broke in not unpleasantly, " Are
you ready for school, Hope?"
A few weeks later, Hope wrote thus to her
brother: "This school life is really agreeable,
John, now that I have become accustomed to
it. I was timid at first, as I wrote you; could
speak in monosyllables only, and scarcely make
myself heard in those. Don't you think I must
have given a fine specimen of the graces of a
city-bred miss? You will remind me that the
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Earnest Living.
first fourteen years of my life were spent in the
country, so that I have a right after all to be
rustic. I have discovered one thing at least,
that I am very ignorant. I am tolerably famil-
iar with history and literature, but what does
that help one in solving mathematical prob-
lems? And I have such a wavering brain.
Just as I ought to be doing a French exercise,
there comes into my mind, perhaps, some
strain of music that reminds me of old times,
or some thought of you, sailing down the broad,
sunny Chesapeake, maybe, or marching through
Virginia's sacred mud. And thus I do not
get on very well.
"Bessie, somewhat to my surprise, is a much
better scholar than I. She does not care much
for books, but whatever she undertakes she
goes at with a will. You should see her with
her fingers in her ears, and her eyes bent on
her book, as if there were no other object in all
the world. And when she has problems or ex-
Correspondence.
93
ercises on the black-board, she seizes pencil and
crayon, and, before the rest of us have found
time to begin, she has finished, and is asking
for more. She never fails; indeed, I believe
Bessie has yet to find out that there is anything
which she can not do. And she is not satisfied
unless she understands everything thoroughly.
It took six weeks, when she was a little girl,
for her to understand how the earth could be
round, and Aunt Mary says there seemed no
end to the questions she used to ask about it.
None of the rest of us in the class need ask
any questions, for Bessie always has her hand
raised to make inquiries into any difficult
point. It would be tiresome if she were not so
really in earnest, and more willing than any
one else to confess ignorance. We all laughed
the other day at some simple question of hers,
but she was not at all ashamed. 'I did not
know,' said she, and why should I not in-
quire?' Every one likes Bessie; she is so
<
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Earnest Living.
good-natured, so full of fun, and yet so faithful
in all respects.
"To come back to that less interesting sub-
ject, myself. There is no prospect of my equal-
ing Bessie in any way. I do not get acquainted
with the other scholars very rapidly. With
one, however, I have formed a slight friendship,
on the ground of her having a brother who is
a captain in the army. But she is older than
I, and above me in classes, and superior in
every way, so that I can't expect much from
her. The teachers are kind to me, and encour-
age me to think that, by and by, I shall learn
how to study, and make more rapid progress.
"There is another thing of which I wish to
tell you. After school, on Friday afternoon, is
a prayer-meeting, which some of the girls at-
tend. Bessie goes, because Aunt Mary wishes
it, and, of course, I stay with her. It is very
pleasant, only I do not know where to class my-
self. Ought I to give others to understand that
Correspondence.
95
I am a Christian, when I am so uncertain about
it myself? You will say that I ought not to
remain in this uncertain state, and yet the
truth is the same, that there I am. Suppose I
could venture to offer a prayer with the others,
could it do anything but harm, especially to
Bessie, toward whom I sometimes show impa-
tience and anything but a Christian spirit ?
She has a very high ideal of what a Christian
ought to be, and thinks one ought never to
make professions without living consistently
with them. There is Aunt Jemima, she says,
who talks so much about her experience, and
yet is always disagreeable, and seems to think
religion consists in weeping and wishing your-
self in a better world, every day of your life.
I do not think I am like Aunt Jemima, but I
know that I do not come up to Bessie's stan-
dard, so what shall I do?"
John's reply ran in this wise: "Time and
patience will settle some of your difficulties for
J
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Earnest Living.
you, little sister, far better than I can. Your
teachers are right in telling you that you will
gradually acquire better habits of study, that
is, if you will rouse that somewhat yielding will
of yours, and apply yourself earnestly. Bes-
sie's energy will be a good example to you, pro-
vided you do not commit the mistake of making
her opinions your rule of action. Be yourself,
use your own good sense, act independently, and
remember that though you should try for ever
you would never become Bessie. I am afraid
that this pretty cousin of mine, with her high
standard, is in danger of falling into uncharita-
ble and censorious ways, particularly with re-
gard to Aunt Jemima, whom I remember with
gratitude for the rents she used to mend for
me, and the good advice with which she always
followed that kindness.
"I hope you will not be deterred by your fear
of Bessie, or any one else, from doing what
seems to be duty, whether privately or socially.
Correspondence.
97
As to what that duty is, I can not decide for you.
I do wish you to be free from that uncertainty
which is so destructive of all comfort and use-
fulness. One may be a Christian without being
perfect, and no one has a right to expect of you,
nor can you expect of yourself, that complete
combination of gifts and graces which can be-
long only to a mature and disciplined Christian
experience."
It was not till after a long struggle that
Hope could decide as to duty, but the few
trembling petitions which she ventured to ut-
ter in the little gathering of her companions a
week later, if imperfect and feeble in their ears,
were perhaps no unworthy offering to Him who
reads the heart, and seeks the sacrifice of a
humble and contrite spirit.
As they walked home together, Bessie said,
"Hope, I was glad to hear you pray.”
"I was afraid you would think it very
strange."
7
98
Earnest Living.
66
No, I did not. Though really, Hope, I do
not think you ought to be vexed with me, as
you are sometimes, when I mean to be oblig-
ing."
"I know I ought not, and I am always sorry
afterwards."
"You are better than I, Hope, and you must
not think I intend to be always watching you,
and finding fault with you. I wish I were a
Christian myself. I never go to meeting, and
sing those sweet hymns, and hear the girls'
voices, so soft and low in prayer, without be-
lieving there is a meaning in religion, and that
to possess it would be better than anything else
one could have. Then mother speaks to me
once in a while, and prays for me oftener."
"If you wish to be a Christian, why not be
one?"
66
Wishing does not effect anything, as Miss
Loring said this afternoon. I should not think
much of a religion that was made up of wishes,
Correspondence.
99
for my part. There is real work in it, the best
and highest kind of work."
"I do not see your difficulty, then, since you
love work."
"I hardly see it myself. There must be sub-
mission, too, and perhaps I am not ready for
that. And when I become a Christian, I mean
to be a thorough one, to be better in every
way than I am now, and to have others know it.
The idea of setting such an example as Nelly
Miles does! I wonder if she ever thinks that
religion has anything to do with common things,
such as learning her lessons and talking sensi-
bly."
"Nelly seems to be a great stumbling-block
in your way, Bessie. It is not in Nelly to
work, but I dare say she tries to do right, and
her faults are no excuse for you."
"I do not wish to make them an excuse.
But I do wish, when I profess to be a Christian,
to be better than she is; yes, and better than
ΙΟΥ
Earnest Living.
you are, Cousin Hope, - in fact, to make a real
business of it.'
""
This made Hope speculate a long time,
after her way, as to how to make religion
real and thorough, and to keep herself from
being a hindrance to her cousin and others.
Certainly, she reflected, it was in God's sight
that she lived, rather than in that of her fel-
low-beings. If He approved, what matter who
condemned? To keep her heart lowly, sincere,
and pure before Him, should be her first aim.
She remembered the resolution made so ear-
nestly last summer to work for others as well
as herself. But did she not seem to be in a
measure debarred from such service ?-she, a
stranger, without wealth or influence? It
would be a life not quite without results if she
were advancing toward the attainment of a
purer and lovelier Christian character with
every new day.
CHAPTER VIII.
AT WORK FOR THE SOLDIERS.
"A heart at leisure from itself
To soothe and sympathize."

CHOOL affairs continued their monoton-
ous way till toward the middle of the
term, when some of the more energetic
girls, feeling themselves overshadowed in the
matronly "Soldiers' Relief Society " of the
village, began to agitate, the question of doing
something independently. Accordingly, one
pleasant holiday afternoon in May, they assem-
bled at the school-room, armed with bundles of
linen and cotton, a few prepared to work, and
most anticipating what they called "a good
time."
"In the first place we must organize and
choose officers," said one of the older girls.
101
102
Earnest Living.
"We can talk just as well while we are at
work," said Bessie Ross, unrolling her bundle,
"and I move we begin at once. Come, girls,
here is some linen, and there are knives, and
you can scrape linen without any previous in-
struction, I suppose. Hope, there's room for
you at the table."
66
Why not wait an hour or two," said Annie
Harris, "before we choose officers; and have
an opportunity of talking over the subject?
"And electioneering a little ?" asked another.
"That is a good idea," Bessie added, " and
I shall certainly vote for you as a director,
Annie."
At Hope's table, with Bessie to lead, the tide
of talk ran high. Should the young gentle-
men of the school be invited to become mem-
bers of their society? That this honor should
be extended to a portion of them, seemed to
be the unanimous opinion. And then, who
were to be the favored ones? With much
At Work for the Soldiers.
103
joking and laughter, and some blushes, the
merits of one and another were canvassed.
"The question will be," said Bessie, "what
to do with them, if we admit them. They are
so useless,— can't sew nor roll bandages.
"They might scrape lint, and hold skeins of
yarn, and run of errands."
"And do the ornamental, if not the use-
ful."
And thus the busy tongues outdid the busy
fingers.
Hope meanwhile sat and listened silently.
Her thoughts associated themselves too sadly
with the work which she was doing to allow
her to join in the merriment of her school-mates.
Lint for wounded soldiers, for some lad, per-
haps, whose life-blood was ebbing away under
the surgeon's knife; for some father or son,
dying far away from his beloved ones; for
some one's brother, perhaps hers. It was not
strange that tears filled her eyes, and that
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Earnest Living.
laughter and light talk grated harshly upon
her ears.
Charlotte Mason, turning away from the ta-
ble where she had been cutting out garments,
glanced toward the group, and understood
the state of things. "Miss Wallace," said she,
moving toward her, "can you help me in
some basting? There's a nice, shady seat out
under that maple, and if you enjoy the open air
as well as I do, you will be glad of the change.”
Hope rose quickly, brushed away the tears,
and followed Miss Mason to the green lawn be-
fore the school-house.
"It is not often that I can be out doors,"
said Miss Mason, "except for a hurried walk,
and an hour like this is a real blessing. Did
you never wish that you could live under the
open sky, and in the sunshine, as people in
warm climates do, instead of being pent up in
houses all the time?" Chattie Mason was too
practical a being, perhaps, to have indorsed
At Work for the Soldiers.
105
this suggestion of her own, had she been re-
quired to do so, but in her attempt to divert
Hope's thoughts she had seized upon the first
topic that occurred to her.
She smiled at her ill-success, as Hope re-
marked, "Soldiers seem to enjoy their free,
out-door life. And I am heartily glad to be
here now, at least, Miss Mason. Does it not
seem to you dreadful to be so gay over this
work, as the girls are? They do not realize in
the least why it is necessary to make lint and
bandages."
66
Perhaps it is better," said Miss Mason.
Hope looked surprised. "Few of us can real-
ize these great and fearful things, and if we
did, we should hardly be the better or happier
for it."
"But it is heartless to care for them so lit-
tle," replied Hope.
"Not altogether, I should say. Probably
even you sometimes have your thoughts turned
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Earnest Living.
away from your brother, but you do not love
him the less for that. I have a brother in the
army, as I told you once, and he is very dear
to me. But in spite of that, I can not realize
much about the war, and am not sure that I
wish to. One reason is, perhaps, that I have
so little time to think of it. I am a very busy
person, Miss Wallace. There is a troop of lit-
tle folks at our house, and the oldest sister has
her hands full, I assure you. You must come
some day and see the whole flock, down to the
three-months-old baby, that has no name,
because the rest of us seem to have used up the
vocabulary."
"There certainly can not be much time to
give to any one member of the family where
the attention is so divided. Is it not tire-
some?"
66
Oh, no!" said Chattie, cheerfully; "not
where one is accustomed to it. Really, I do
not see how I could live without the children.
At Work for the Soldiers.
107
They are always wanting something, — hands
washed, shoes laced, aprons mended, lessons
heard. Do you think it strange, then, that I
can not realize great and distant things?"
"You have the best of excuses."
"I do not grow wise and thoughtful, to be
sure, do not read books, as you probably do,
and, perhaps, ought to be ashamed that I am
not discontented with myself and my circum-
stances. Last winter one of my aunts came to
see us, and found out how ignorant I was, so she
carried me off to the city to cultivate my mind.
I went to lectures and oratorios, and to see fine
pictures; I met literary people, and got a con-
siderable smattering of books. But I was al-
ways wishing myself at home again, combing
little Sophy's curls or helping Jamie make his
kites."
"But you enjoyed the things you saw and
heard?"
(C
Yes, in a way; I ought to have enjoyed
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Earnest Living.
them more, but I was not in my sphere. There
must be Marthas in the world, you know, to
look after the children and the cooking."
"I hardly supposed that was your part,” said
Hope, glancing for an instant at her school-
mate's thoughtful but animated features. Miss
Mason blushed slightly.
"It is not altogether choice; I confess that
sometimes I weary of it. And there are other
things beside the war which I do not realize,
higher things, which I too seldom find time to
think about."
"But you do Christian deeds, I am sure, Miss
Mason."
"When I was a child, I think I began to love
Christ, and hope I have never ceased to do so.
But, as I said, I do not have time to think much,
and have never been perplexed by doubts and
misgivings. My religion, so far as I have any,
is made up of love and work for God and these
brothers and sisters of mine. And all my dif-
At Work for the Soldiers.
109
ficulties are to know how to plan my work, and
be always patient and cheerful. But there,"
said she, looking up, "come my brother Harry
and Walter Gates, and that is the end of our
pleasant talk, pleasant to me at least, though
it has been too much on my side."
"I trust we shall sometime have another,"
said Hope.
"Thank you; there are not many to whom I
should dare talk so much about myself."
"How vexatious to be interrupted!" thought
Hope, as the young men advanced toward them,
and, bowing, waited for an introduction to Miss
Wallace. This being given, "What sent you
here this afternoon?" asked Chattie.
66
" Why
are you not hunting or fishing, as usual?”
"We learned of the new society down here,"
said Harry, "and thought you'd want some
honorary members to give it dignity. Is there
any hope of our being admitted, Miss Wal-
lace?"
IIO
Earnest Living.
"That question is still under discussion, I
think," replied she, "though you are by no
means thought of as idle members."
"While your case is pending, then," said
Chattie, "it would be more dignified for you to
You shall be sent for when you are
withdraw.
needed."
"My best sister," said Harry, with a conde-
scending air, "young women are not expected
to understand parliamentary proprieties, nor
the weighty reasons for our remaining here."
“Just see," said Chattie," you have already
drawn off half a dozen from their work.”
Bessie was advancing at the head of a group.
"Chattie," exclaimed she, "we have a new
idea, and we expect you all to call it an excel-
lent one, and give it cordial help and sympa-
thy."
"Agreed!" said Walter Gates: "I maintain
that, whatever it is, it is an excellent idea, and
At Work for the Soldiers.
III
I am ready to defend it with sword and bay-
onet."
"What do you think of our giving a tableau
party for the benefit of our society?"
"We should make so much more money
than in any other way, and have such a good
time," said another.
"With ice-creams," joined in a third, till
there was a general clatter of voices, in which
it was impossible to hear anything distinctly.
"Admirable! admirable!" exclaimed the
boys; "you may reckon on us for help."
"I will personate Napoleon, Julius Cæsar,
Macbeth, anybody else," said Harry. "Now,
Chattie, what is your opinion?”
"I do not see any objection," said she,“ only
before we talk much about it, or, at least, do
anything more than talk, we ought to get one
box of articles ready to send away.”
"Oh, no! it is best to strike while the iron is
hot," said Walter.
II2
Earnest Living.
But Chattie's suggestion prevailed, and, after
some discussion of the subject, the girls re-
turned to their work, with energies somewhat
quickened by the desire to complete it as rap-
idly as possible.
"I see," said Bessie, on the way home,
"that you and Chattie Mason are getting to be
great friends, Hope. She is never intimate
with any one, so you must not expect too much
from her."
"She would probably not care to be intimate
with me,” replied Hope; "but I like her very
much."
"Some of the girls call her aristocratic, but
I suppose that is only because her father is the
wealthiest man in Waldham."
"I should have fancied from what she said
that she was a poor man's daughter, and had
worked hard all her life.”
"Mrs. Mason is an invalid, and gives up the
whole care to Chattie. She is the real mistress
At Work for the Soldiers.
113
of the family, and understands how to do every-
thing. She is the best of sisters and daughters,
but, of course, she does not have time to be
much with the other girls, and so they call her
proud, though she is very kind and obliging.
And she has promised to meet with us to help
arrange the tableaux. Don't you think that
was a fine idea? What do you suppose mother
will say to it? And Aunt Mima, — I should
not suppose that even she could find any fault
with it. Don't you wonder what part you will
have?'
"Probably none at all."
“Oh, Hope, I should be disappointed not to
have some part! I would like Little Red Rid-
inghood."
"That is rather common."
"I'm not suited to anything handsome,-
such a round, pumpkin-faced creature as I am.
I would like to be pretty once in a while,
Cousin Hope, on these special occasions. What
8
114
Earnest Living.
a pity that we can not have a variety of faces,
as we do of dresses, and put on the best, or the
second-best, or the plain one, according to the
place where we are, or the people we are with."
"I should never be willing to take off the
best one," said Hope.
"You are handsome, Hope," said Bessie,
"and you will have a splendid part. You
would make a fine Jewess, Rebecca at the
well, or Portia at the court."
"Portia was not a Jewess."
"Oh! was she not Shylock's daughter?
Suppose she had been, then, you would have
answered very well for her."
"That is a doubtful compliment," said Hope,
laughing; "but here we are at home, and Aunt
Mary is waiting for us on the piazza."
"And Aunt Jemima knitting in the door-
way." Bessie hurried on to tell her mother
of the afternoon's work, and the plans for the
"
At Work for the Soldiers.
115
future.
said she.
.66
"Will it not be pleasant, mother?"
Now, Mary," said Aunt Jemima, quickly,
"do not encourage such follies. They will just
turn the girls' heads. And how any one who
considers what a horrible, wretched thing this
war is, can have anything to do with these van-
ities, is more than I can understand."
"We can not all look upon these things alike,
Jemima," said Mrs. Ross.
6
"It would be well for most of us," replied
Aunt Jemima, "if we could oftener think seri-
ously. In the midst of life we are in death ;'
and with John in the army, and all the rest, it
really seems to me such things are wicked."
Aunt Jemima's ideas were apt to be confused.
"But it is for the benefit of the soldiers,
Aunt Jemima," said Bessie.
"Great comfort it must be, with them liable
to be killed at any minute! Hope, do you in-
tend to be a performer in this affair?"
116
Earnest Living.
"I hardly know," replied Hope, hesitating.
"I don't see how you could have the heart
to do it. Do you ever reflect how probable it
is that you will never see John again?”
"Do not talk so, Jemima," said Mrs. Ross.
"We all hope to see him again, safe and well.”
"He is as likely to be killed as any one, and
Hope ought to be prepared for the worst."
"If Hope will go to her room," said Mrs.
Ross," she will find on her table a letter from
her brother, which no doubt brings the best
news from him. Who could ever imagine evil
coming to John?"
As Mrs. Ross predicted, John had written a .
cheerful account of himself. "Here we are,"
said he, “before Yorktown, with every prom-
ise of its speedy capture. Sometimes we
imagine that we would like a little more work
with powder and ball, and less with the spade;
but the men are all in good spirits, and have
the greatest confidence in their leader. With
At Work for the Soldiers.
117
Yorktown once in our hands, the way to Rich-
mond is open, and who knows but this sum-
mer's campaign may finish the war, and bring
me back to you? However that may be, do
justice to your name, and hope all good things
for me, with the prayer that brings them. I
am almost superstitious with regard to evil fore-
bodings, they seem to bring their own fulfill-
ment with them. And why should Christians
ever anticipate ill, since nothing really ill can
come to them? You and I, Hope, will be of
the number, shall we not, who are careful for
(
nothing, but in everything, by prayer and sup-
plication, with thanksgiving, make known their
requests unto God'?”
"That is a somewhat different philosophy
from Aunt Jemima's," thought Hope, smiling
cheerfully as she folded the letter and pressed
her lips to the signature. "Dear John! I
must be happy for his sake, if not for my own."
CHAPTER IX.
DISCUSSIONS.
"Oh, to what uses shall we put
The wild-wood flower that simply blows?
And is there any moral shut
Within the bosom of the rose ?"

ANY difficulties arose in the way of the
proposed tableau party. The girls be-
came so much engrossed in talking of
it that it interfered with studies, and thus
narrowly escaped being crushed in the bud by
magisterial edict. Then it seemed as if the
box which they were preparing would never be
ready, and Chattie Mason was inexorable in re-
fusing to aid in the arrangement of tableaux
till the other work was off their hands. At
last, one afternoon in June, the final articles
were ready, lint and bandages and garments,
118
Discussions.
119
jellies, books, and slippers. "Really, Chattie,"
said one of the girls, "one box will never hold
this quantity of things. We must send two."
"You do not know what can be done by
packing. There must not be an inch of spare
room. See how nicely these rolls fit into the
space between the cans."
It was a well-filled box, and the girls crowded
around to take a last peep into it before the
cover was nailed down. "And now," said
Bessie, "I suppose we may at last talk about
our tableaux. Shall we have them next week ?”
"We could not be ready," said several.
"What do you think, Chattie ?”
"Perhaps in a fortnight,
no sooner, say
on Friday of week after next. Friday seems
to be the best time. And we must make some
plan."
Upon this, twenty voices rose at once, con-
tending for utterance, till the scene became a
miniature Babel.
120
Earnest Living.
"This will never do," said Chattie to Hope.
Ringing a little bell from the teacher's desk,
she gained attention, and said, "Young ladies,
if we are to do anything, we must be more sys-
tematic. This is a mere waste of time. Now
are we all agreed as to having the party?"
"Yes, yes, yes!"
"Then it seems to me that we ought to ap-
point a committee to take the lead in it.”
This was done after some discussion, Chattie,
Hope, and Bessie being of the number, to the
special satisfaction of the latter. They were to
meet that evening at the Masons', and discuss
preliminaries. "Come home to tea with mc,'
said Chattie to Hope and Bessie. "You will
save yourselves that long walk, and see our
flock too, a great inducement."
"What do you say, Bessie?" asked Hope.
"You'd better stay, for you mind the walk
more than I. But I must go, for fear that
mother would feel anxious about us." Bessie
Discussions.
121
fancied, too, that Hope might enjoy the visit as
well without a third party. And again, Wal-
ter Gates had offered to go to help her carry
her great basket; so she would not be alone.
Hope found it very pleasant at the Masons,
a large house, not too grand, with fine grounds,
and a home-like, comfortable air every where, as
if all were for use, rather than ornament alone.
Two children, about five and seven years of
age, strongly resembling each other, came
running down the shaded walk to meet their
sister, with a story of their afternoon's play.
"Miss Wallace," said Chattie, "these are Jen-
nie and Fred. And, children, you will soon
learn to love Miss Wallace, who is my school-
friend."
The children bowed courteously, casting shy,
curious glances at the stranger, and then ran
back to the house, to inform the others of her
arrival. Harry Mason met them at the door.
"Miss Wallace," said he, "I am the eld-
122
Earnest Living.
est of Chattie's tribe, and I suspect the most
troublesome of all. But you must not judge
of her discipline by my behavior."
"He is a very excellent brother, Hope; all
the better, perhaps, from having grown up so
soon after me that I had nothing to do with his
education. Now you must see the baby, and
that will answer for once."
The baby did not happen to be in an exhibit-
ing mood. "He has been crying this half hour,"
said the maid, as they entered the nursery.
"And I don't believe anybody but you can
still him. Mrs. Mason is quite tired out with
him."
"I will try my skill, if Hope will excuse me.
Harry, suppose you take Miss Wallace to the
garden. She will enjoy seeing the roses, and
I will join you in ten minutes."
Chattie was true to her word. They had not
half gone the circuit of the rose-beds before
Discussions.
123
she was with them, announcing the baby to be
sound asleep.
At tea, Hope saw Mrs. Mason, a quiet, gentle
lady, and her husband, a somewhat stern-look-
ing man, of whom the younger children seemed
to stand in some awe.
"You have a brother in McClellan's army,
on the Peninsula ?" said he to Hope. "What
does he write of things there, since Yorktown
was evacuated ?"
"He feels confident of success, though I im-
agined that his last letter was not quite as hope-
ful as usual. They had a hard march from
Yorktown, through rain and mud.”
"I don't like the situation of affairs down.
there. If there is not fighting soon, the army
will waste away with disease, and I do not
await the results of a battle with much hope."
"The army has the greatest confidence in
McClellan."
66
Misplaced confidence, I fear. When we
124
Earnest Living.
hear of something he has actually done, we
may expect more."
"Mr. Mason," thought Hope, "is as much of a
croaker as Uncle Sanborn." But his words left
an uncomfortable impression upon her mind,
and she began to fear lest John's expectations
of success might be disappointed.
After tea, Chattie took Hope up to her room,
a cozy, westward-looking chamber. "I do not
spend many hours of the day here, but the min-
utes I find are precious ones. I like to sit by
that window, and watch the sunset fade away,
and the stars come out one by one. I am too
tired to think, usually, but it is good to be
quiet, and let the beauty and greatness fill my
soul."
"People talk of quiet thought," said Hope,
“but it always rouses and excites me truly to
think. There is so much to think about, and
so many things beyond one's comprehension."
"But sometimes do you not find it so ?
Discussions.
125
We have glimpses of their meaning in those
times when perhaps the Spirit specially helps
our infirmities, and Christian life seems easy,
and Christ near."
"When our eyes," said Hope, "behold the
King in his beauty, and see the land that is very
far off.' If we could be always as we are at
such times, how beautiful life would be!'
"It is beautiful now," said Chattie, cheer-
fully. "Look at those belts of fiery gold and
crimson along the sky, and the new moon just
sinking into them. And do not be impatient
because we must turn away from the sky and
from this pleasant time together, and hear tab-
leaux discussed. For you know, Hope, that
life is made up of little things as well as great,
and there is no virtue in neglecting the one for
the sake of the other."
The committee assembled with a due con-
sciousness of the dignity and responsibility of
their office, and each with more notions in her
1
126
Earnest Living.
head than could by any possibility be carried
out. There was imminent danger of a quarrel
at the outset, for almost all seemed disposed to
object to the propositions of others, and insist
strongly on their own. Chattie listened for a
time to the contending opinions, and at last
interposed. "Suppose that we each propose
something in order and then discuss it, and,
if it is approved, we can decide afterwards
upon the persons for the parts. Miss Wallace,
please begin.'
""
Hope proposed Bessie's favorite, Red Rid-
inghood.
"That is easily arranged, and always pretty,'
said Chattie, "and Bessie Ross is just the per-
son for it. Perhaps we may consider that as
decided upon. Now, Harry,
66
""
"I think we should have something clas-
sical, say Æneas relating his adventures to
Dido."
Chattie laughed. "You are wild'
about the classics," said she.
Discussions.
127
"Where could we get a Dido?" asked an-
other.
"Miss Wallace, of course," said Harry.
"I am not at all classical," said his sister,
"but I thought Dido had yellow hair."
"Such trifles are of no account."
"But how could we get costumes?" asked
Bessie.
The classical tableau was unanimously re-
jected.
Bessie proposed a "pyramid of rosebuds," to
be formed of little children, dressed in white,
and decked with flowers. "It is quite in your
line, Chattie," said she; "you could manage
that excellently."
"But," said Harry, "who wants the confu-
sion of fifteen infants running about the whole
evening!"
66
They could appear at the beginning," said
Bessie," and then be sent away. It would be
lovely."
128
Earnest Living.
It was agreed that the arrangement of this
matter should be left with Chattie and Bessie,
none of the others being willing to take the
trouble. Walter Gates wanted something mag-
nificent, and suggested "Franklin at the Court
of France," or the "Crowning of Josephine,"
and, after considerable talk as to the possibility
of obtaining costumes sufficiently fine, the lat-
ter was settled upon.
"Now for yours, Chattie."
"I have been thinking whether we could not
have a very amusing one that I saw in the
city last winter, Mrs. Jarley's wax work, from
the Old Curiosity Shop.' The wax figures
are represented by living persons, and are ex-
hibited by a show-woman."
"Capital!" said one;" and you must be the
show-woman."
This was carried by acclamation. A pro-
gramme of sufficient length was at last ar-
Discussions.
129
ranged, and, after much conversation as to
details, the little party separated.
"If we could only step over the intervening
time," said Bessie," and have all the arrange-
ments made, and the evening here, what a fine
thing it would be!"
"I thought you were always ready for work,"
replied Hope.
"But it is not pleasant to think of all the
vexatious things that will be said and done,
and how everybody will want the grand parts,
and nobody the little ones. I wish people were
all well-behaved and agreeable, and disposed to
think their neighbors somewhere nearly as
good as themselves.”
"Like you and me, for example, Bessie."
Bessie laughed. "I am not a very good
model for others, I own; especially while I am
complaining of them. But you and I can at
least set the example, Hope, of being willing to
take a commonplace part, if it is assigned us.
9
130
Earnest Living.
"To be sure," said Hope, a little faintly, for
in her secret heart she had already begun to
think that no one would be a better Josephine
than herself, and that she should not be wholly
satisfied with anything less than that.
By considerable management and coaxing,
on the part of Bessie and Chattie particularly,
matters were arranged with less jarring than
usual on such occasions. The number of little
girls requisite for the pyramid were promised,
and Chattie, who had quite refused to take any
other part than that of Mrs. Jarley's show-
woman, was to attend to their decorations, and
see that they were seasonably sent home, an
office which no one but herself could possibly
have performed. Annie Harris, a sweet-faced,
blue-eyed girl, was fixed upon as a Madonna.
But Hope found herself in some danger of
losing her crown. Sarah Clarke, a tall, black-
eyed, but somewhat bold-looking damsel, had
set her mind on the part of the empress, and
Discussions.
131
her friends warmly contested her claim against
that of a new-comer like Miss Wallace. The
division of feeling threatened to become seri-
ous, and Hope at last, conscious that she was
much more vexed and disappointed than she
ought to be, declared her intention of refusing
the part. Upon this, Harry Mason, who was
to play the Napoleon of the scene, averred that
he would withdraw also.
"What is to be done?" asked Chattie, in
dismay.
"Let Miss Clarke take Pocahontas in the In-
dian scene," said Harry.
"That is already given to Matty Wright."
"What's the need of her having any part?"
"She thinks she will look well, and is no
doubt right. And her set will give us so much
trouble that she must have the Josephine,
though Hope would do so much better."
"It is too bad!" said Harry, meditating.
"I tell you, Chattie; I have it. Don't you re-
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Earnest Living.
member that photograph of mine, the Goddess
of Liberty? It would make a capital picture,
and Miss Clarke would do the goddess to per-
fection. Now make an exchange of her."
"If she would be satisfied," said his sister.
"Satisfied! isn't a goddess a step beyond an
empress ? 99
"And she could have our new flag to hold.
That will make an effective tableau, and, I trust,
remove all difficulty. Go home and bring the
photograph, Harry, and we will explain its fine
points so eloquently that I think Sarah can't
resist."
The photograph was exhibited and ad-
mired; Sarah's fitness for the part struck every
one. She was scarcely ready at first to relin-
quish her original desire, but finally concluded
that she should be more effectively seen if alone,
than in company with a troop of maids of honor.
This difficulty being harmoniously adjusted,
everything else moved on happily. Gorgeous
Discussions.
133
robes were improvised from the simplest mate-
rials, and ornamented with spangles of gilt
and silvered paper and mock jewels.
The evening before the levee, Hope and Bes-
sie went through a private rehearsal for each
other's benefit.
"Oh, Hope!" said Bessie, "you do look per-
fectly lovely! I wish John could see you.”
Hope had been whispering the same thing to
herself as she stood before her glass, with the
consciousness that she had been improving dur-
ing the months since her brother went away.
But a flush suddenly crimsoned her cheeks as
the thought crossed her mind, Would John ap-
prove all this finery and display; John, who
liked simplicity so well? And this vanity of
hers, which she would be so much ashamed to
have him know, how ridiculous it was!
"Bessie," said she, "I wish I had never con-
sented to take a part in these tableaux."
"You can not mean so, Hope! What could
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Earnest Living.
we do without you? Let us go down, and hear
what mother thinks of us."
"I am afraid of what Aunt Jemima will
say."
"Never mind her, come!" and Bessie ran
gayly down stairs, showing her arch face, smil-
ing out of the scarlet hood, through the half-
opened door.
"Come in," said her mother.
"This is her majesty the Empress Jose-
phine," she said, ushering in Hope, who swept
into the room, and courtesied gravely to Mrs.
Ross.
"You are really magnificent," said her aunt.
"I shall be proud of you." Aunt Jemima drew
a long sigh. Hope," said she, “you are get-
66
ting your head full of pomps and vanities. Re-
member that pride goes before a fall.'
""
"Oh, Aunt Mima!" said Bessie, "we haven't
any pride in these make-believe things."
"The heart is full of vanity," replied she,
Discussions.
135
"and no good can come of all this furbelow-
ing."
"Nothing evil, I hope, Jemima," said Mrs.
Ross.
"I don't know; I have had strange dreams.
for several nights, and it seems to me something
is going to happen."
Hope's face clouded. Aunt Jemima had
strange dreams so frequently that no one heeded
them; yet Hope thought she would prefer good
omens to bad, even though she believed in
neither.
SABRER
D.CHURCH
AYETTE PLACE
CHAPTER X.
TABLEAUX.
"Wild Fancy, peace! thou must not me beguile
With thy false smile;
I know thy flatteries and thy cheating ways.
Be silent, Praise,
Blind guide with siren voice, and blinding all
That hear thy call."

UNT JEMIMA'S ill-omened dreams did
not cloud the next day's sunshine, how-
ever, nor prevent the entertainment of
the evening from "passing off splendidly," ac-
cording to Bessie's statement. How large and
interested was the audience, and how bright and
happy the young girls in their gay costumes,
may be well imagined. Chattie moved about in
her quiet way, suggesting and arranging, and
doing everything for others and nothing for
herself.
136
Tableaux.
137
She peeped into the dressing-room, saying,
"I have disposed of the children at last, and
they were so pretty that I thought people would
never tire of looking at them. Now if any one
requires a dressing-maid—"
Half a dozen voices cried in concert, "My
“How shall I wear these flow-
hair, Chattie!"
ers?"
"Does my dress look as it ought?"
"You are the next to appear, Bessie," said
Chattie; "let me see if you are right. The
hood a little closer; there, you are perfect."
That the audience thought so, was made
manifest by the applause which followed her ap-
pearance. Bessie returned, flushed and laugh-
ing.
"It isn't very bad, girls," said she; "one
does not distinguish faces in the crowd, and
it's queer to hear the comments upon you.
Help me get off this cloak, Hope, for I must
run out and get a peep at her goddesship,
Sarah Clarke, and her sable attendants."
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Earnest Living.
"That will be the success of the evening,"
said Chattie.
"Do you think so?" asked Hope.
"It can't equal the coronation scene," said
Bessie.
But the Goddess of Liberty returned, fully
satisfied with her triumph, and Bessie was full
of exclamations of delight. "I never imagined
“I
that Sarah Clarke could look so fine, - really
magnificent. That elegant silk flag had some-
thing to do with it, no doubt, and the little ne-
groes. But it was beautiful, and she did not
move even an eyelid. But, Hope, what makes
you look so pale ? ”
"The thought of standing up before all those
people. I don't believe I can endure it."
"It is nothing at all, you will like it."
“I wish it were over, and I among the other
people, instead of in this little, close room."
The summons at last came for Hope and her
train of attendants. Harry Mason and his
Tableaux.
139
courtiers had taken their places, and as Hope
stood in the center of the group, and received
the eager compliments of all, the color came
back to her cheeks, and she awaited the rising
of the curtain with composure. As Bessie had
said, it was not unpleasant. But, on the repe-
tition of the scene, the " emperor," whose face
was turned from the spectators, indulged in
some sly winks at the maids of honor, which
moved them to audible laughter, and the cur-
tain suddenly dropped amid mingled applause
and laughter from the assembly.
Hope was indignant, and cast a severe glance
upon her repentant consort, as he tried to apol-
ogize. "It was not pleasant to be made so
ridiculous in public. I did not expect it of
you, Mr. Mason," said she, as she swept off
the stage in her mock diadem and counterfeit
ermine, as proudly as if she had been a sove-
reign indeed.
"I feel like crying over it," said she to Bes-
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Earnest Living.
sie. "I know I looked ridiculous and cross
and hateful."
"Don't shed tears now, for you would not
like to appear in the crowd with red eyes."
"That ought to be considered," said Hope,
laughing.
"Oh,
Chattie appeared at this moment.
Hope! I am sorry that Harry should have be-
haved so, and he pretends to be in despair at
your vexation with him. I am sure he is really
sorry. Do excuse him."
"I do not care on my own account, but it
was too bad to spoil the tableau.'
""
"Not spoiled by any means. Very few no-
ticed the accident, and the scene was beautiful.
Every one said that nothing could be finer than
the empress. Do let me tell Harry that you
are not vexed.”
"Certainly, if he cares to know it. Now,
Bessie, I am impatient to become a spectator
instead of an actor.”
Tableaux.
141
"Do not forget, Bessie," said Miss Mason,
"that the waxwork exhibition is directly after
the statue.
""
Harry Mason joined them soon after they en-
tered the hall.
"You are very kind," said he, "to forgive
me my breach of good manners, Miss Wallace.
It was unpardonable."
"Take care not to repeat the offense," said
Bessie.
"As a waxwork figure, I shall of course ob-
serve the strictest decorum. But, Miss Wal-
lace, you may be sure that at least one person
in our tableau did not fail to receive the admi-
ration she deserved."
Hope blushed. "I do not know about oth-
ers, but for my own part, I felt very awkward."
"You looked quite otherwise, I assure you."
"How could you tell," asked Bessie, "when
you were winking at Hattie Clair?"
"Don't remind me of my misdemeanor. I
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Earnest Living.
express the opinion of better judges than my-
self, who had a more favorable post of obser-
vation. My cousin Robert, for instance, to
whom I have promised 'an introduction to her
Majesty, after we have seen this statue of Hope,
- which, by the way, should have been repre-
sented by you, Miss Wallace."
"I am Hope in name only. Miss Shaw looks
very pretty and statuesque."
"As fair as marble. There could scarcely
be an improvement.'
""
"And with her eyes closed it is easy to
stand quietly."
"Now, Miss Bessie," said Harry, "you and
I are in requisition. But please wait till I
have found my cousin, and left Miss Wallace
in his charge.'
""
Robert Lewis was a tall, slender young man,
with an unmistakable air of self-possession
and familiarity with the world. Hope felt half
afraid of him at first, but his delicate flattery
Tableaux.
143
and evident desire to make himself agreeable
had their effect, and she soon found herself
talking with him as freely as if he had not
traveled half over the world, and, maybe, con-
versed with real instead of fictitious royal
beauties.
A little talk about books, and the authors
whom Mr. Lewis had seen, was interrupted by
the announcement of the exhibition of Mrs.
Jarley's wax figures.
"This is Chattie's tableau," said Hope.
"Then of course it will be good, for my
cousin has the tact to do everything well."
As the curtain rose, Chattie appeared with
her wand, ready to explain to her audience the
history of the grotesque figures that stood be-
fore her, in stiff, unnatural attitudes, with wide,
staring eyes. Bessie was stigmatized as the
poisoner of several innocent families, and
Harry as the murderer of fourteen wives.
"Chattie's tones are a perfect imitation of
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Earnest Living.
those of some wandering showman she must
have chanced to hear," said Mr. Lewis. "What
now?” he added, as it was announced that the
figures would be set in motion by internal ma-
chinery. At a signal, the performers began to
wink in a kind of mechanical fashion, while
one ground poison in a little mill, and another
brandished a knife, each personating the char-
acter attributed to him with almost the precis-
ion of real automata.
"Very good!" said Mr. Lewis, as the cur-
tain fell for the last time amidst the laughter
of the assembly. "The young ladies who have
entertained us this evening deserve credit, and
I hope your patriotism will have its reward."
"It is a solid, pecuniary reward that we de-
sire," said Hope.
"Ladies are always unselfish," said Mr.
Lewis. "We men give to benevolent objects,
but too often from some interested motive,
while women never care for praise or fame,
Tableaux.
145
but labor only for the sweet satisfaction of
doing good."
Hope stole a glance at Mr. Lewis, to see
whether this flattery were not
looked grave and self-satisfied.
complimentary," said she.
"Not by any means.
ironical. He
"You are too
Wherever I have
traveled, I have noticed the same.”
So, she said to herself, the flattery was in-
tended as an introduction to the history of Mr.
Lewis's adventures. But Mr. Lewis went on,
quite unconscious of her thought. He was a
good talker, in spite of his egotism, and Hope
could not fail to be entertained by his lively
narrations. He told, in a gay, romancing fash-
ion, of long summer days during which he had
floated down Western rivers, or roamed through
primeval woods; of night encampments under
balsamy pines, with the full moon making
aisles of silver in the forest cathedrals.
Hope grew animated, and the brightness of
10
146
Earnest Living.
her dark eyes inspired her companion to talk
on, mingling graceful compliments with his
stories, and agreeably conscious that he was
making a favorable impression upon the pretty
school-girl. But Chattie came along presently
and broke the charm, and then Bessie and Dr.
Lee followed. The latter, whom Hope had not
talked with since her walk to the cemetery,
now seemed determined to appropriate her; so
Chattie and Mr. Lewis said good-night, and
Bessie walked away from her foe, the "bear-
ish" physician.
“You have had a successful performance,"
said he," and have doubtless received praise
enough to turn your heads for months to come."
"You must think them very weak heads,
Dr. Lee."
"Not necessarily. You certainly have done
well, and looked so beautifully that no one
could help flattering you, whether it were good
for you or not."
Tableaux.
∙147
Hope laughed. "Thank you, Dr. Lee. We
all ought to appreciate your praise, certainly."
"But, after all, don't you think you like this
parade and excitement a little too well? Excuse
me if I am rude, but you are a sensible girl, and
won't misunderstand me. How much of all
this is benevolence, and how much love of dis-
play?"
"A mingling, no doubt, there is, Dr. Lee."
"I prefer genuine, unadulterated articles."
"Do you often obtain them?"
"Perhaps not, but it is a great satisfaction
when I do. And there's a pleasure in finding
out what things are. I apply my tests, and say,
This is the real and that the false; and I am
not deceived."
"It would be wholesome, perhaps, if one could
analyze life and behavior in your chemist's fash-
ion, Dr. Lee, but sometimes inconvenient.'
""
"There would be startling revelations. But
I should like it; I find no bliss in ignorance.
148
Earnest Living.
And if we can not analyze the behavior of other
men and women, we can at least apply the tests
to our own.'
""
"That is hardest of all. Things are so
mixed up."
"They ought not to be. Why not simplify
and straighten them? What's the use of say-
ing, In that particular direction, I will act
truly and nobly; in this, I will follow my im-
pulse, right or wrong'?"
"Do leave us some little faults, Dr. Lee.
Have we not a right to be inconsistent now and
then ?"
"What makes you talk so, Miss Wallace? I
think you know better. This inconsistency
spoils character. Why should not Christian
people believe as they pray, and so behave a lit-
tle better than the heathen?"
"You must allow something for imperfect
human nature."
"We are ready enough, all of us, to allow
Tableaux.
149
for that, confessing ourselves miserable sin-
ners. But when we begin to inquire into the
miserable sins, behold, some petty veil of ex-
cuse has been drawn over them, and they are
quite invisible.”
"What would you have people do?"
"Be conscientious in small things as well as
in great, thorough with themselves, saying,
This is right, and that is wrong, and there is no
neutral ground betwixt the two on which to sit
down and amuse themselves."
"That would be a rigid system to live by."
"Not at all; but the very noblest and best.
And the carlier one learns it, the happier it is
for him. Perhaps school-girls practice it. But
when I was in college, the students had an
independent standard of morality, — a part of
them, at least. Things were right and true
according as they squared with that, leaving
out wholly the great eternal principles, which,
as I suppose, applied to us as much as to the
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Earnest Living.
rest of the world. I do not see how honorable
and upright characters can be formed out of
such pliant stuff."
"I do not believe that Dr. Lee was ever of
such stuff."
"Do not think I set myself up for a model,
Miss Wallace. No doubt others discover faults
enough in me, but at least I do not intend to
be inconsistent and justify myself in them.'
"And you think our poor little entertainment
to-night is inconsistent?"
66
Certainly not in the majority, — perhaps
not in you. Only I thought too well of you to
suppose you capable of being elated by public
admiration and praise."
"How can you know that I am so, Dr. Lee?"
"If I have read the signs wrongly, pardon
And according to rule, I ought in any
case to beg pardon for my bluntness. But I
know you are one to hear the truth."
me.
"If it were truth!'
Tableaux.
151
"Or what seemed such to a privileged person
like the family physician.
66
"I did not know," said Hope, laughing,
that you professed to cure spiritual as well as
bodily infirmities.”
"The two are very closely connected. Now,
Miss Wallace, do not bear me a grudge for my
behavior, and I will promise that my next pre-
scription for you shall be as palatable as—"
“As is consistent with my good," said Hope,
as she turned to join Bessie.
It was long before Hope could rid herself of
the thronging thoughts that filled her mind, that
night, sufficiently to sleep. On the whole, it
had been a delightful evening. She had been
as much admired as any one.
Her conversa-
tion with Mr. Lewis had been wholly agreeable,
and as for Dr. Lee, though he had half scolded
her, the very scolding was a proof that he did
not wholly despise her, and she did not believe
that he thought her vain, in spite of his warn-
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Earnest Living.
ing. And if John could only have been pres-
ent, it would have been a perfect evening. Say-
ing this, she took from the little table beside.
her bed a pressed magnolia blossom, which her
brother had gathered for her from the Chicka-
hominy swamp-land, and sent with his last let-
ter. She kissed it in the darkness, inhaling
the sweet, sickly odor which still lingered. For
long afterwards, that faint fragrance always
brought back the recollection of this summer
night, with all the associations that clung
around it.
CHAPTER XI.
HAZEL DELL.
"When over dizzy steeps we go,
One kind hand blinds our eyes,
The other leads us safe and slow, -
O love of God most wise!"
HE next day Mr. Lewis and Chattie drove
over to see them, and to propose a picnic
excursion to Hazel Dell for the following
Monday. School was out, said Chattie, and they
had a right to some recreation after the week's
work.
"And I have persuaded my cousin,” said Mr.
Lewis," that she can be spared from the nur-
sery for the length of half a day without injury
to any one. It required all my eloquence."
"Harry will call for you, with the carriage.
We may depend on you?"
153
154
Earnest Living.
"Yes," said Bessie, "and I shall make
cream-cakes, it's my forte."
"And mine is to eat them," said Mr. Lewis.
"What an inviting prospect! I trust you will
be bountiful in your supplies."
"Do not fear as to that," said Chattie. "If it
is pleasant weather we shall have a fine excur-
sion, and it is always cool at Hazel Dell."
The sun rose clear and hot on Monday. Bes-
sie's sandwiches and cream-cakes were carefully
laid in a large basket between snowy napkins,
and a dish of luscious berries made her share
of the entertainment complete. All was in
readiness by eleven, when Harry Mason ap-
peared with his pair of beautiful grays, and the
girls drove off in bright spirits, waving adieus
to Mrs. Ross, and to Aunt Jemima, who had put
on an unwontedly cheery aspect, that nothing
might be wanting to the satisfaction of the
morning.
Hazel Dell was a cool and shady nook by the
Hazel Drll.
155
riverside, where the earliest wild-flowers were
found in the spring, and where now they were
as fresh as if the summer sun were not blazing
intensely without. It was a pleasure merely to
sit upon the green bank and listen to the ripple
of the stream, and indulge in such light talk
and jest as seemed to suit the time.
During the afternoon, most of the little party
scattered in various directions, while only Hope
and Harry Mason remained, keeping guard
over the spot. "Don't you think this is a lazy
river, Miss Wallace?" asked the young man,
striking the water briskly with the light twig
in his hand.
"It holds its way steadily and industriously
enough, so far as I see," replied Hope.
66
Moping along as it has done ever since the
creation. You can scarcely tell which way it
moves."
"That leaf on the surface shows plainly the
course of the current.'
156
Earnest Living.
"Call this stream an image of the life people
live along its banks," said he, "and tell me
what excellence you can see in it."
"It can reflect the sky."
"I understand, Miss Wallace, though the
idea is somewhat too sublime for me.
And re-
flection is not in my line. Can't you give me
something more practical?"
"Follow the river a few miles farther, and
you will find something wholly practical: here
narrow and slow, there hurrying and widening
to turn the wheels for hundreds of workshops
that give employment to I know not how
many hands."
"That is something to make one wide awake.
And the wonder is, that the river, anticipating
the good time beyond, does not hurry now to
overtake it."
"That is what neither streams nor people
can do, you know. Whatever is coming to us,
Hazel Dell.
157
good or bad, will come in its own time,-or
rather God's time, not in ours."
"But I am always wishing for something out
of the common course to break the monotony."
"How do you dare?" said Hope, smiling.
"When I was a child, I wished that once, and
very soon after sprained my ankle, so that I
could not walk for weeks. Ever since, I have
been afraid of wishes.'
""
"You are too timid, Miss Wallace. When
I become afraid to wish, I shall think myself of
small account. There is a pleasure in imagin-
ing the grand things one would like to do, even
though quite beyond reach."
"I did not suppose you referred to things to
be done. Those are not usually out of the
common course.'
""
"Now-a-days there are things to be done
that lie entirely beyond the common course,
a work for men small as well as great."
"In the army, you mean.'
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Earnest Living.
"Yes. Once, when we talked of heroes, we
had to go back two or three centuries for exam-
ples, to Sidney and Bayard, and such old wor-
thies. But now almost any one
can tell
grander stories of things he has seen with his
own eyes than you can find in all the histories.
And every soldier in our army is a hero, at
least in my eyes."
Hope turned toward him, her own eyes shin-
ing through tears. "I see how it is," said she:
"you want to be a soldier yourself, and gain
laurels like your brother."
"My father thinks I am too young, and
laughs about boy soldiers. All my enthusiasm,
he says, would be gone after a day's hard
marching or one night's bivouac. I only wish
I could have the chance to prove the con-
trary," he continued, rising and walking rap-
idly backward and forward upon the green
sward. "I am sometimes half determined to
Hazel Dell.
159
enlist, in spite of him. What do you think,
Miss Wallace?'
"Stay at home and bide your time, for it
will come, and perhaps soon. To return to our
emblem: the river here can not guess as yet
the life to which it is going forward, although
that is almost in sight. It moves on patiently
to its appointed tasks; and so we ought to go to
ours, whether they are hard or easy,
thing to do, or something to bear."
some-
At this instant approaching voices were heard,
and several of the party appeared, talking ear-
nestly. Bessie was among the first. As she
saw her cousin, she started, and, turning sud-
denly, said in a low tone, "Don't tell Hope;
she has a brother in the th regiment." Hope
caught her first words, and saw the sudden
constraint that fell upon all.
"What is it, Bessie?" she asked, turning
eagerly toward the group, while every nerve
quivered with fear and expectation.
160
Earnest Living.
"Not much," replied Bessie, embarrassed.
"Mr. Lewis has just come from the post-office,
and was speaking of some news that he had
heard there."
“Was it news from the army, Mr. Lewis?"
asked Hope, quietly.
"Yes, Miss Wallace; there was hard fight-
ing on the Peninsula last week, of which we
have not received definite information yet.
Nothing very bad, it is hoped."
"Nothing very good," interposed Harry Ma-
son, "if one may judge from your counte-
nance. You might as well tell the whole
story."
"There is no whole story to tell. Every-
thing seems confused; we do not know yet
whether we have lost or won."
"Set it down as lost, then," said Harry.
"I never thought much of operations down
there."
"Have you a newspaper, Mr. Lewis?" asked
Hazel Dell.
161
Hope. Mr. Lewis hesitated as he saw her pale
face and the intense eagerness of her eyes.
"You know," said he, "that newspapers are
not to be relied upon."
""
"Let me see what there is, and then I shall
be satisfied," said she, grasping the paper
which he held out, and running her eyes along
the columns with feverish excitement.
drew in rather than read the meaning,
She
the
days of cònflict, the retreat, the wounded, the
dead. At last she came to the record of her
brother's regiment, and scanned at a glance
the brief account: the colonel killed, most
of the officers killed or fatally wounded,-only
one hundred and ninety men fit for duty. One
hundred and ninety out of the eleven hundred
which the regiment numbered at first!
chance could there be that her brave and fear-
less brother was one of that feeble remnant?
Hope dropped the paper, trying to control the
11
What
162
Earnest Living.
faintness that crept over her. "I do not wish
to see any more," she said.
"Has anything happened to John?" asked
Bessie. "Is his name mentioned?
"There are no lists given," said Mr. Lewis.
"His regiment seems to have been terribly cut
up; still, Miss Wallace, these things are always
greatly exaggerated. You have a right to hope
until you learn something positive. There is
so much uncertainty that I should not at all be-
lieve a friend of mine to be killed, even though
he were so reported."
"I shall try to hope the best. That is what
he always wished me to do," said she steadily,
pressing down her great anxiety into her secret
heart, and endeavoring to smile and talk as be-
fore. But a chill had fallen upon the party,
and no one seemed to be in a mood for enjoy-
ment. They talked softly, and looked at Hope
in a compassionate way, which was dreadful for
her to bear. At last, Harry Mason came to
Hazel Dell.
163
her, saying, "If you would like to go home,
Miss Wallace, I can be ready to start in five
minutes."
“Thank you, Mr. Mason; I would be glad to
get away," she replied, with a great longing for
the quiet chamber where she could be alone
with God and this great fear.
The news of the disasters of the previous
week had reached the farm-house before them.
Mrs. Ross took Hope in her arms, and tried to
soothe her, as she wept aloud. "What shall I
do, Aunt Mary?" she asked. "What shall I
do?"
"You can do nothing but trust, and wait pa-
tiently for news from John, which I think we
shall receive speedily.'
22
“It is hard not to know,—I can not wait
""
Mrs. Ross led her into the house, where Aunt
Jemima sat weeping. "I told you so, Hope,"
said she; "I knew some evil was coming. We
shall never see John again.'
""
•
164
Earnest Living.
Hope controlled her tears by a great effort,
and looking up, said, half proudly, “ Aunt Je-
mima, I do not know how it may be with John,
but I do not believe he has been killed, and I
think we shall see him again."
But her assurance failed her when she was
alone. During the weary hours of the night she
tossed to and fro, seeking sleep in vain, and
haunted by dreadful imaginings of the battle-
field, of maimed and bleeding men, of the
wounded and thirsty calling in vain for aid. She
reviewed in memory all the events of the pre-
ceding week, her unusual forgetfulness of her
brother, the self-satisfaction and pleasure in
admiration which John would have so disap-
proved. During that time, where had he been?
Fighting under the intense heat, suffering,
dying perhaps. While she had been enjoying
pleasant things, he perhaps had been lying cold
and stiff, his dear face disfigured and trampled
among the heaps of slain. So she tortured her-
Hazel Dell.
165
self, till the dreadful picture was too much to
bear, and she tried to quiet herself, to pray,
but in vain.
Suddenly a great calm seemed to fall upon
her. Was it the effort of imagination, except
in the way by which imagination is sometimes
raised into faith, becoming the instrument
through which the Divine Spirit breathes His
teachings into the soul? Through the stillness
of the night and this hush within a voice
seemed to come to her, not with audible utter
ance, but so distinct in its sweet, consoling
tenderness, that she knew, or thought she
knew, without mistake, the presence of Christ
the Helper. "Fear thou not, for I am with
thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy God; I will
strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I
will uphold thee with the right hand of my
righteousness.' Because he hath set his love
upon me, therefore will I deliver him; I will
set him on high because he hath known my
166
Earnest Living.
name. He shall call upon me, and I will an-
swer him; I will be with him in trouble, I will
deliver him and honor him. Refrain thy voice
from weeping and thine eyes from tears; for
thy work shall be rewarded, saith the Lord, and
they shall come again from the land of the
enemy.' O child, dost thou forget in thy
grief the Father's tender mercies? Caust thou
not trust the love of Him who hath died for
thee, and believe that what He appoints He
will give strength to endure? Take my yoke
upon thee. Long hast thou refused to hear my
voice; long have I sought thee, while thou hast
been willful and wayward. Is it not time for
thee to trust me wholly, and commit thy ways
to my keeping? Leave thy brother with me;
leave thyself also with me, since those that are
mine I keep, and no man can pluck them out
of my hand."
The comforting thoughts soothed and cheered
her. "Dear Saviour," she said, softly but audi-
Hazel Dell.
167
bly, "henceforth I will make thee mine indeed.
Do with me as thou wilt." A gentle sleep crept
over her, that lasted till the sun had long since
risen.
She awoke with the feeling of something un-
usual before her to be endured, mingled with
the consciousness of a new strength and peace
in her soul, which would enable her to meet all
that the day might bring. The family were
surprised to see her peaceful, and ready with
words of cheer and encouragement for others.
"You are well named, Hope," said Bessie,
"you bear your anxiety so bravely."
"I do not know from whence the strength
comes, but it does not seem to be my own," re-
plied Hope.
"You make me wish more than ever that I
were a Christian. I should be unwilling and
rebellious if I had so much to bear, and I know
you loved John as well as any one could."
"Loved! don't say that, Bessie. I love him
168
Earnest Living.
now. If he were dead indeed, which we do not
believe, I should not think him gone from me,
but mine to love always," said Hope, her tears
falling afresh. And then, as she wiped them
away, "You see how poorly my strength holds
out."
The day wore away to the arrival of the mail
in the afternoon, when Mr. Ross went to the
village to get whatever news might arrive. But
there was none, and the next day and the next
dragged their weary length, with still the same
suspense.
"If some ill had not happened to John,'
said Hope, "he would surely have written.
He would know how anxious we must be."
They talked of interrupted communications,
and said that he had perhaps received some
slight wound to prevent his writing; catching
at all straws of comfort.
The fourth day came, with still no letter, but
at last the official report of killed, wounded, and
Hazel Dell.
169
—
missing, fearfully long. "What of John, Un-
cle Ross?" asked Hope, as he held out the pa-
per. He pointed silently to the record of the th
regiment, and she read, "Lieut. John Wallace,
missing." It was suspense added to suspense.
"What does it mean, Aunt Mary?" she
asked. "Is it hope or despair?"
"Some reason for hope I think. He is proba-
bly a prisoner, and will, no doubt, be soon re-
leased."
"Oh, Aunt Mary! a prisoner, ill-treated, and
perhaps severely wounded!
"We will trust not."
""
“Or imagine him to have fallen, unknown to
his comrades, and his body to be lying unburied,
while we shall never have word or message
from him again."
66
Hope, my darling, do not torture yourself
with such fancies."
"I will not, auntie, yet they come into my
mind, try as I will to drive them out. Missing,
170
Earnest Living.
- what a dreadful word! What if he should
be always missing?"
"Not always, Hope. That could not be
true," said Mrs. Ross. Hope smiled.
"That is a good word, auntie. Yes, we shall
sometime find him again, just as good and faith-
ful and loving as ever.
""
The next step was to write to every one
from whom information might possibly be ob-
tained, but the replies brought little comfort.
No one knew anything of him. In the confu-
sion of the fight, with officers lost and disci-
pline gone, every man had "looked out for him-
self." One wrote, "Lieut. Wallace was last
noticed by me as he was trying to collect the
scattered remnant of his company for another
charge. The enemy were right upon us, and I
lost sight of him. No one knows of his having
been killed or wounded."
Another said, "He would not turn to fly
till escape was impossible. He must have been
Hazel Dell.
171
exposed to a raking fire, probably from both
lines, and the chances were terribly against
him."
"I do not give up yet," said Hope, as she
saw Mrs. Ross downcast and tearful after the
arrival of the last letter. "When I know some-
thing certain of John, I will try to submit.
But it is impressed on my mind that if we
must lose him, we shall at least have some
knowledge of his fate."
"Perhaps," said Mrs. Ross, "we ought not
to try to argue ourselves longer into confidence.
I am afraid we are not resigned, as we ought
to be, to whatever God may appoint."
"We do not know yet what that is."
"Even if John is no longer living, we should
try to submit."
"And so I will," said Hope, firmly, "when
I learn that this is the fact. But I can not try
to be resigned to John's death while I do not
know that God means I should be so. If he is
172
Earnest Living.
living, submission to his loss can not be re-
quired of me."
1
"We should yield to whatever God sees fit
to send us."
"Yes, Aunt Mary; and now that he is send-
ing us great anxiety and suspense, we must
bear it patiently, but never give up trusting
and hoping, not for one moment, if we can
help it, until something different is sent us.
"You are growing like John, Hope. And
he was dear to me as an own child.”
"He will be so glad that I am with you now,
and have your help."
"And I am helped by you, my darling.'
29
Thus they chatted, and aided each other day
after day, "with the comfort wherewith they
were comforted of God.”
No message came, as the weeks rolled on,
except, now and then, a letter from some one
in similar trouble, who wrote to make vain in-
quiries, or some expression of sympathy which
Hazel Dell.
173
1
se. It
seemed only to make the burden worse.
came to their knowledge, too, that prisoners in
Richmond had been allowed to write to their
friends, and that several families had thus
heard from the missing ones. This was hard-
est of all. Who would have been so ready as
John to avail himself of such an opportunity?
and yet not the slightest message, no word
even through another, no token of his living
presence anywhere. Was this long silence,
after all, the silence of death? .
CHAPTER XII.
A MOTHER'S HEART.
"The steps of Faith
Fall on the seeming void, and find
The rock beneath.'
NE afternoon, Mrs. Capen, a poor widow
ONE
who lived some three or four miles dis-
tant, walked through the dust and heat to
try to get some tidings of her son, a soldier
who had not been heard from since the recent
fight. She had heard of Lieut. Wallace, and
hoped that something might be known of him,
and, through him, of her son. Tears ran down
her wrinkled cheeks as she learned that her
journey was in vain, and Hope's flowed in
sympathy.
"It is a sad thing," said Mrs. Capen," to see
tears in young eyes. It don't seem natural.
174
A Mother's Heart.
175
Mine have got used to them long ago, but I
never thought that I should live to see such a
time as this. My Jimmy, who was so bright,
and gay, and handsome, and always kind to
me! I did not think it would come to this."
"It is hard for us to bear," said Hope, "but
we must think of those who have not hope left
them, and can not trust, as we still may, that
they shall see their friends again, alive and
well."
"Well, my dear young lady, I have thought
sometimes that that was better for them.
There is one stroke, and it is all over, and
they gradually get resigned, as one can to
everything. But we,-first we hope, and then
we despair, and we don't know what to believe,
or even pray for. Think! I can hardly venture
to ask God's blessing on my boy, since he may
be where even prayer can not reach him."
"I think," said Hope, "that in the uncer-
tainty you have every right to pray for him.
176
Earnest Living.
God's ear is not shut to you, even though your
son's may be closed in death."
"Yes, it is a comfort to pray, and I am glad
you know it. What do you suppose people do
in their trials who have never learned to
pray?"
"Sometimes the trial teaches them how.
Perhaps that is one reason why they are sent.
I feel as if I never found out before all the help
there is in prayer, though I thought I knew."
66
"Well, I trust God will answer all our
prayers for these soldiers. Many and many
are the prayers I have sent after Jimmy,
some that his body might be kept safe, but
more for his soul. And it would be hard never
to know what became of the poor boy."
Bessie interrupted them, fearing that Hope
might suffer from a prolonged conversation,
and anxious to do something for the bodily
comfort of the poor woman. "Mother and
Aunt Jemima are away, Mrs. Capen," said she,
A Mother's Heart.
177
"but I have made a cup of tea for you, and,
after you have eaten a little lunch, we will take
you home.
Father says I can have Seffle,
Hope, and you must go too. The ride will do
you good."
Mrs. Capen did full justice to the tea and
pie and biscuit that Bessie provided, and they
started on their drive.
"They say," began Mrs. Capen, "that your
brother was a good man, and was going to be
a minister."
"He is one of the best men in the world, it
seems to me,” said Hope.
"Then you hardly have a right to shed tears
for him. It must be all for the best for him,
whether he be alive or dead. If it is not life
here, it is glory there." And the old lady
turned her furrowed face upward, with an ex-
pression almost sublime.
"That is the greatest comfort," said Hope.
12
178
Earnest Living.
"Yet for that very reason I lose the more in
his death."
"If I could only know that of Jamie, I would
scarcely ask anything more. He was always a
pleasant boy, but full of frolic, and didn't like
to have anything said to him about religion.
Sometimes I used to guess that he thought
more about it than he would own, but the
army is a bad place for boys like him, and I am
afraid he has been more wild and thoughtless
than ever.
But he has been prayed for so
much that I feel certain there must be a bles-
sing for him. Sometime I say to myself that
he can't be dead, because God would let me
know in some way that he had become a Chris-
tian before he died. Do you think that is ex-
pecting too much, Miss Wallace ? ”
"We can hardly expect too much of God,
yet I suppose he often answers prayer in a way
we do not expect."
"He says, 'According to your faith be it
་
A Mother's Heart.
179
unto you;' and I have great faith that, though
I may not see Jamie again, I shall at least
know something about him. Here I am at
home, and I can't thank you enough for your
goodness, both of you. God bless you, Miss
Wallace, and bring your brother back; and
you, Miss Ross, who don't look as if sorrow
ever touched you, may He keep it long from
you.”
"She is a good old lady," said Hope, after
they had left her, "and has very pleasant man-
ners."
"Yes," said Bessie, "really good persons
seem often to have a tact and refinement that
make up for lack of education. Mrs. Capèn
has lived here on the bank of the river for
years, almost alone; her children have died
one after another, and this James was the
youngest and last. One would think that she
could not have much enjoyment in life, yet she
seldom is sad.”
180
Earnest Living.
"With all her anxiety to-day," said Hope,
"there was a vigor and animation in everything
she said, that seemed like that of a young per-
son. I wish she could hear from her son. I
wish for her almost more than for myself."
Then they drove on in silence for a while.
The road lay along the bank of the river, on
whose perfectly calm surface the sunset they
were leaving behind cast its reflection, in broad
lines of liquid crimson and gold, into which
the trees threw their shadows. Hope sat
thoughtful, with that sweet peace in her soul
that often rested there of late, and which
seemed now to be made more full and deep by
her interview with Mrs. Capen, and by the
calm beauty of the hour.
"Is it not lovely, Bessie?" said she, at last.
"Yes, too lovely," replied Bessie, quickly.
"It makes me almost sad, — angry with my-
self for being so unlike it."
“What do you mean?'
""
A Mother's Heart.
181
"I am often so, lately, vexed with my-
self and with others; everything seems in a
snarl."
"I wish I could help you," said Hope, "but
I am not very skillful in straightening difficul-
ties. Why did you not tell me before?'
"I thought you had enough of your own to
bear. Besides, what was the use? You can-
not make me better, and the trouble is in my-
self. I ought to be ashamed to confess it, but
I have been almost jealous of you, Hope, that
you can sympathize with mother in many
things so much better than I. I seem to be
shut out from everything good."
"You need not be, Bessie.”
"Of course it is my own fault, but it is not
the pleasanter for that. I wish to be better,
and I do not wish to be; and I am tossed back
and forth between the two."
"I wish I could do something for you."
"Only one thing, — you can pray for me. 1
182
Earnest Living.
hardly dare pray for myself, but I think the
prayers of better people might be heard. And
don't talk to me. If I am ever to get right, I
suppose I must work out the problem for my-
self; and you must not tease me," continued
Bessie, in an almost peevish tone, which spoke
the struggle in her mind too plainly to awaken
any feeling but pity.
4
As they passed through the village, they met
the Masons, Chattie, Harry, and two of the
children. The two former stopped to speak to
them, Chattie looking quiet and fresh as usual,
but with a touch of sadness on her face, that
Hope was quick to detect. But Harry was
full of animation. "Well, Miss Wallace," said
he, "I am really going away."
"Not into the army?'
""
"Yes, father has consented at last, and I am
going into Jack's regiment. Wish me joy of
it."
"As heartily as I can," said Hope.
A Mother's Heart.
183
tie.
"These partings are sad things," said Chat-
"Come, now, don't talk so," interrupted
Harry. "I can't always stay at home, you
know."
66
They are worse for us who stay behind,"
replied Hope, "than for those who go away.
I am sorry for you, Chattie."
"We are coming over to say good-bye to you
to-morrow, for I shall be off just as soon as
possible. I feel almost as if the safety of the
country were dependent upon me alone," said
Harry, laughing.
"I do not wonder that he is glad to get
away," said Bessie, as they drove on; "I wish
I could enlist too."
CHAPTER XIII.
A LETTER.
"And now men see not the bright light which is in the clouds;
but the wind passeth, and cleanseth them."

US
HEN Hope reached home, she found a
letter, the handwriting of whose super-
scription had become familiar since her
stay in Waldham. "It is from Rosa Austin,"
said she; "it is long since I have heard from
her." But as she opened it, she found that the
inclosure was not one of those little penciled.
sheets which were all that Rosa's strength ever
permitted her to write, but was from the same
hand as the exterior, that of Rosa's mother.
"Oh, Rosa! I have hardly thought of her
during all this anxiety about John," said Hope
to herself as she went up-stairs to read her let-
184
A Letter.
185
ter alone.
to write me,
"And now perhaps she is not able
dear, sick child!"
As Hope glanced at the first sentence of the
letter, sudden tears gathered in her eyes, for
Rosa had gone to the land whose inhabitant
Thus wrote her
says never, "I am sick."
"I am sick."
mother: "The little chamber which Rosa's
presence used to make a sanctuary is now
dreary and vacant. Four days ago her spirit
left it, and yesterday we carried away the
body in which she had endured so much; re-
joicing for her, in all our sorrow for ourselves.
It was one of Rosa's last requests that I should
write you and send her dying love. She had
heard of your anxiety for your brother, and
wished to write you, but her increased illness
prevented. You will guess, better than I can
tell you, with what sweetness and patience her
pain was borne. During the last two days that
she was with us, however, she suffered compar-
atively little, and was happy as a child, with a
186
Earnest Living.
6
natural, simple pleasure in everything about
her, the flowers that had been sent her, the
singing of a bird before her window. It seemed
like renewed life, and yet we knew well that
she was very near death. It does not seem at
all strange to me,' she said, ' to be going away,
or indeed as if I were going far. I have not
been tired of living here, but whenever I have
thought of the other life I have felt that God
meant me for that, and that my stay here was
only a kind of waiting. Tell Hope,' she said,
'that God is teaching her, through trouble, the
lessons that used to seem hard to her. And
she must gain courage and strength from her
trials, for whom the Lord loveth He chasten-
eth, and it is the most precious of all blessings
to know ourselves beloved by Him.' She died
quietly, as if falling asleep. We covered her
emaciated form with such flowers as she loved
best, not excepting even the most brilliant in
A Letter.
187
color, but mingling them, as sorrow and glad-
ness are mingled in our memories of her."
Hope turned away from her letter, which
she had been reading by the west window, and
lifted her tearful eyes toward the sky. The
rosy glow of the sunset lingered warm and soft
along the horizon, into which was just dipping
the silver crescent of the new moon, above
which hung one pale, clear star. It seemed
almost as if the glorified soul of her friend were
looking down upon her from celestial hights,
with tender sympathy and longings to comfort
her. Thus one after another of those she
loved had gone before her up the shining way,
till their number almost exceeded that of those
left behind father, mother, friend, perhaps
even the brother for whom days of waiting had
lengthened into weeks, and weeks were fast
gathering to months, without sign or token.
"O God!" she cried, in an agony beyond all
former grief, "give back to me my brother.
:
188
Earnest Living.
Take not all away from me.
Let me see him
once again, if only once, that all the brightness
of my life may not pass from me in my youth."
She prayed, falling on her knees in the twi-
light, with the star looking softly and steadily
upon her, like a sign of promise, till peace
came back to her heart, with a joyful trust that
her waiting should not continue much longer.
In the morning, the Masons came to say
good-bye, according to their promise. Harry
was somewhat sobered as the hour of depart-
ure drew near, and there was a gloom over all ·
the others.
"Come," said he, at last, "let us walk to
Prospect Hill, and say good-bye there."
It was just such a fresh, bright morning as
that on which Hope and her brother had gone
there, nearly a year before, on the day of their
parting.
"Everything reminds me of John," said she
to Chattie, as they walked behind. "And I
A Letter.
189
could almost think he was not far away.
When shall we climb this slope together
again?"
Chattie looked at her with increasing pity in
her eyes, for the probability that Lieut. Wal-
lace was still living seemed to her, as to most
others, very slight. Hope saw the look, and
read its meaning with the quick apprehension
which her anxiety of the past weeks had in-
creased to a painful sensitiveness.
66 You
think it strange," said she, "that I do not yet
give up my belief in John's safety."
"I was thinking," answered Chattie, "how
soon I might be called upon to pass through
the same trial. Harry's leaving us is, for some
reasons, a much harder thing to bear than
Jack's was.
We have learned so much more
what war really is, and the end seems so far
off, that it is like giving him up forever, while
we scarcely thought of the possibility of harm
ever befalling Jack. Besides, Harry has been
190
Earnest Living.
my favorite brother, nearest in age, and al-
ways ready with good-natured help. I hardly
see how I can manage without him."
"Yet you have many left you, while I have
none. That makes it somewhat easier.'
""
"I do not know," said Chattie, smiling
faintly. "We don't calculate in that way.
Those who are left fill their own places, but
do not make up for the loss of others. It is
Harry that is going, and no one can be Harry
to me."
"You will learn to do without him. Time
and habit, and especially God's help, make it
possible to dispense with any earthly good."
They sat down under a chestnut tree, while
Harry and Bessie walked on toward the farther
slope. Hope told her friend of Rosa Austin's
life, cheerful and bright amid its sufferings,
and of her death, the fitting close of such a
life.
"I could hardly believe," said Chattie," that
A Letter.
191
any grace could make one patient under such
sufferings. Suppose God should lay that bur-
den upon me; how could I endure it?"
"The strength would come with the need,"
said Hope.
66
"Yes," replied Chattie, "that is the thought
of something that I read only yesterday, and
6
tried to remember for you. This is it: When
God sees fit to try us, He appoints those cir-
cumstances in our trials which really answer
the purpose He intended, of probing our hearts,
and proving of a truth what manner of spirit
we are of. Nor have I, in the course of a long
life, ever found that seeking to bear trials by
anticipating their circumstances ever availed
me.'
"We may be sure," said Hope, "that our
trials are the right ones for us, hard as they
are. As for the future, we must leave it; and
sometimes it does seem quite easy to give it up
1
192
Earnest Living.
into God's hands, knowing that He will make
it right for us."
"And for those we love."
Harry and Bessie were turning back to them.
"Are you at an end with your discourse?"
said the latter. "I have been congratulating
Harry on his good fortune in becoming a sol-
dier, and having the right to work for a good
cause, or, maybe, die for it. He has the true
soldier spirit, but if you look so sad over him
you will drive it away, I fear."
"You would feel differently if he were your
brother," said Chattie.
"Perhaps so," replied Bessie. "But I would
bid him go with all my heart, and I should be
ashamed of him if he did not wish to go.
And I am ashamed of myself, because I have
nothing to sacrifice, and all that I say seems
like mere talk."
"You would make a fine soldier, Miss Ross.
You ought to join our regiment," said Harry.
1
A Letter.
193
Mrs. Ross met them at the door, as they
came from the hill. "What makes you look
so strange, mother?" said Bessie. Hope looked
eagerly into her aunt's face. "You have had
some news, Aunt Mary," said she, excitedly.
"Is it good or bad?"
"I do not know," said Mrs. Ross, giving
Hope the letter, which she had concealed till
that moment. Hope seized it eagerly, and
scarcely glancing at the defaced, unsealed en-
velope, in whose penciled address she recog-
nized her brother's handwriting, she drew forth
the inclosure. A mist came over her eyes as
she saw the dear, familiar name at the end,
and for a moment she could read no more.
Controlling herself, she ran over the few lines,
few, but how precious! They were dated from
Libby Prison, six weeks before, and mentioned
only that her brother had been captured in one
of the late battles, and was in rebel hands, in
good health and spirits. "This is all I am al-
13
194
Earnest Living.
lowed to write," he ended.
"God bless you,
sister, and do not feel anxious for me."
Hope gave the note to her aunt, who read it
aloud, and all shared the joy which the mes-
sage had brought. Many were their specula-
tions as to the cause of its long delay, and the
probabilities of John's speedy release. "It is
comparatively easy to be patient now," said
Hopc, "since we have every reason to believe
that he is alive. But, oh, how pleasant it
would be to see him again, and know how he
has endured all these weeks of imprisonment!"
"The government has been arranging for
the exchange of prisoners," said Harry, "and
it would not be strange if he were released
very soon. I shall hope so, most certainly."
"Do you think," said Mrs. Ross, "that the
prisoners are probably ill-treated? You see
that John says he is in good spirits."
"I have not much confidence in Confederate
tender mercies,” replied Harry. "I would al-
A Letter.
195
most as soon be killed as get into their clutches.
But if Lieut. Wallace gets away speedily, he
may not suffer much."
66
Hope was too happy to anticipate further
evil; she was sure that John was well, that
he would be speedily released, almost that she
should see him directly. "I am too happy,
Aunt Mary," said she, as she ran singing about
the house that day; "there is no end to what I
am ready to believe. To feel that John is safe!
I did not know how heavy the weight was till
now that it is gone."
"If we could only know how he is now!"
said Mrs. Ross.
"It would be wrong to ask anything more
to-day, auntie. To-morrow I shall be wishing
I could write to him, or get another message
from him; but nothing else to-day. I should
not dare."
CHAPTER XIV.
JOHN'S STORY.
"Who murmurs that in these dark days
His lot is cast?
God's hand within the shadow lays
The stones whereon his gates of praise
Shall rise at last."
OPE sat on the piazza that afternoon,
sewing, and humming to herself a gay
little song. Some one moving slowly up
the path to the house caught the notes, and
paused to look at the slight, graceful figure
with averted face moving backward and for-
ward in the low rocking-chair.
"Her voice sounds cheerful, and there is an
easy, pleasant look about her that does not
seem like regret. Would Hope forget me so
soon?" He moved on cautiously, and was not
seen. Hope at last heard or felt the approach-
196
Fohn's Story.
197
ing presence, and turned suddenly. But before
she had time for a glimpse, a hand had covered
both her eyes, and a voice whispered in her
ear, "Guess who it is." She cried aloud, "Oh,
John, my darling brother! I am sure it is
you. Let me see you!" and rising, she stood
face to face with her brother. But her next
exclamation was one almost of terror. How
changed he was! so wan and emaciated that
one would scarcely have recognized him but
for the pleasant light in his eyes, and the
wonted smile on his lips.
66 Oh, John! how ill you look!" said she.
"What ails you?
""
"Nothing," he replied, "but that I have
just returned from a summer excursion in
rebeldom. Waldham air and nursing will set
me right again. But you do not seem so much
surprised to see me as I had anticipated. I
heard at the railway station that you never re-
ceived the scrawl I sent from Richmond, but
198
Earnest Living.
had been imagining all sorts of dreadful things
about me.
""
“The letter reached us only this morning,
John, and made me very happy."
"Ah, that was the cause of the merry strain
you were singing just now! I began to think
you had forgotten me."
"As if that were possible! I have thought
constantly of you during these dreadful weeks,
but nothing could make me believe that you
were dead.
Still, it was such a comfort to see
those words from you this morning, that I
thought I must wish for nothing more to-day,
at least. And now you are actually here!'
By this time all the family had assembled,
and had exchanged delighted greetings with
John, which were marred on their part only by
the signs of weakness and illness that were so
manifest in him.
"Now, John," said Bessie, "tell us about
Fohn's Story.
199
your adventures,
your imprisonment, and
everything else. I can't wait another instant."
"Thoughtless child!" said her mother; "John
is not to speak another word till he has had
rest. No, not even to Hope," she continued.
"Your old room is in order, John, and you
are to consider yourself banished to it for the
next two hours."
"You are almost as bad as the rebels, Aunt
Mary," said he. "I did not suppose I was com-
ing home to another imprisonment. It is
rather hard, Hope," he added, turning tenderly
toward her, "but I really think I shall be the
better for a little rest. The walk from the sta-
tion in the heat was too much for me.”
Hope followed him with wistful eyes. " A
walk of one mile too much for him," said she,
"when he used scarcely to notice ten! What
does it mean, Aunt Mary?"
"That he has been exhausted by fatigue and
200
Earnest Living.
imprisonment, and that we are to cure him as
quickly as possible."
"Mary!" said Aunt Jemima, in a voice
which betokened real agitation, "no man that
looked as John does ever got well. What sunk-
en eyes and hollow cheeks! It seemed as if
it were not our John, but a ghost of him. You
may be sure that he has come home only to
die."
"At least," said Hope, "he is here again,
and we can take care of him, and make him
comfortable. To feel that he is under the same
roof with us, when this morning we could not
be sure even that he was alive!"
"This is a wonderful day for us," said Mrs.
Ross, "and we will not cloud it by anticipating
sorrow."
"What shall we get for John's supper?"
said Bessie. "What does he like best, Hope?"
"Everything here will seem best to him,"
she replied.
Fohn's Story.
201
66
Well, there are the custards that were made
this morning, and fresh sponge-cake, and black-
berry jam; do you think that will answer,
mother?"
"Excellently."
66
And, Hope, please don't be selfish, and take
him off to the top of the hill to tell the story
of his adventures to you alone."
"Your curiosity shall be gratified," said her
mother, "if you will have patience; but John
won't care to talk much to-night, and of course
Hope will want him to herself a little after
this long separation.
""
John made his two hours of rest very short
ones, and when Mrs. Ross gently reproved him
for appearing so soon, he alleged hunger as an
excuse. "I am in want of supper, Aunt Mary.
Remember that I have been enjoying Confeder-
ate fare for the last month or two, and have a
right to an appetite." But Bessie thought he did
scant justice to the bread which she had made
202
Earnest Living.
herself, to say nothing of her mother's cus-
tards and sponge-cake.
"I am so glad for you, Hope," said Bessie
the next morning, coming up to her with a
kiss, “and you deserve it all, you good little
thing; only why not shout and sing, as I feel
like doing?"
66
"I am a little afraid of my joy. It is stranger
than the sorrow. And then John looks so pale
and sick. Think of all he must have suffered
to bring him to that, Bessie!"
"I never admired him so much. What a
grand patient expression there is on his face,
that was never there before. It would be worth
the while to suffer to have that, or rather what
that means."
"But if he should never be well again!
"It is my turn to have faith now, Cousin
Hope. I predict that you will all be surprised
to see how rapidly he mends. Indeed, he looks
better already than he did last night."
Fohn's Story.
203
Just then John called from the piazza.
"What has become of you, Hope? If I do not
see you, I can not quite realize that I am at
home again." Hope went and stood beside him,
laying her hand upon his shoulder. He looked
at her steadily for a moment. "You have
grown, sister."
"Grown?" echoed she.
"Yes; not in a way to be measured by
inches, however. It was a good thing to leave
you in Waldham.”
"How grown, John?"
"In an indefinable way. What has been at
work, making you so steady, sweet, and wo-
manly?"
"Oh, John!" said she, kneeling down be-
side him, and looking up into his face with her
large, wistful brown eyes: "then you are sat-
isfied with me; I was afraid you would not be.
Yes; I have grown a little, but am still far
from your standard."
204
Earnest Living.
"And from your own, I dare say. But do
not be afraid of me any more. Perhaps in
those old days I used to be dictatorial with
you, and scold you sometimes."
"Don't give up the good old way now."
"No, I could not forbear the dear privilege
of finding fault now and then. But you shall
do the same with me. Equal rights henceforth,
remember, Hope. And now I am longing
for the top of Prospect Hill, and with your
help I think I might reach it. Would not that
be the best place for a long talk?”
"And the story of your adventures?"
66
Well, if they must be told, the sooner the
better."
"And Bessie, too?"
"Can't she be dispensed with, for once?”
"It would be hard not to give her the pleas-
ure of listening. She makes such a hero of
you, John. And we ought not to be selfish to-
day."
Fohn's Story.
205
"I consent, on condition that she shall be the
historian of my campaign for any others who
wish to hear, and that I may be spared a second
telling."
Bessie was more than satisfied with this pro-
position. “It is just in my line, Hope," said
she. "I shall feel as if I were the hero myself,
and shall doubtless give greater luster to his
deeds than he himself would."
They reached the hill-top, not without sev-
eral halts, and sat down under the large chest-
nut tree while John rested. "You look fright-
ened, Hope," said he. "But you need not. I
am miserably weak, to be sure, but now that I
am in Waldham, and with you, dying seems
impossible. But there have been more times
than one when I thought I should never look
on these hills again, or into your eyes, Hope."
She clasped his hand tightly, as if to assure
herself and him that they were once more to-
66
gether. Times," he continued, "when I was
206
Earnest Living.
weak and weary that only a wish seemed to
be needed to bring death to me. But I strug-
gled and prayed not to die amid the horrors of
a Southern prison,
on the battle-field,
wish."
anywhere else, even alone
and God granted me the
"How were you taken prisoner?" asked
Bessie, after a pause.
"I have a somewhat confused idea of the
affair, Cousin Bessie. There was a general con-
fusion, officers killed, men falling, and the
fight lost. I was trying to get a few men
together to make another stand, when I sud-
denly found myself alone, and literally between
two fires; the cannon opening again from our
ranks, and from the opposite, a leaden hail
whistling around my head."
"It must have been terrible," said Bessie.
"Did you expect to be killed?”
"I scarcely thought. I seemed to realize
that the danger was imminent, and yet did not
Fohn's Story.
207
fear it. I looked about for protection, and
spied a ditch, into which I threw myself with
undignified haste, crouching down to avoid bul-
lets. A grand situation for one of your heroes,
was it not, Cousin Bessie?”
"To be sure, when there was nothing else to
be done."
"It was intensely warm, and I was so thirsty
that I scraped up in my hands some of the
muddy water in the bottom of the ditch, and
drank again and again. Presently appeared a
gray-back, a tall, stout Alabamian, who claimed
me as his prize. I crept out of my humble
position, and set my face toward Richmond, not
exactly in the mood in which I had expected to
do so a few days before. Just about daydawn
of Saturday morning, I entered the Libby, and
was glad to sink on the floor, and forget myself
and my surroundings in a long sleep.
“There was a large company of us, among
others two or three old comrades, and we tried
208
Earnest Living.
to make the best of our circumstances, and to
think we should soon be exchanged. It was
hard to be patient for six weeks, but after all
we were fortunate in escaping so soon.
It was
some relief when we were transferred to Belle
Isle. There was more room, and fresh air and
water. But such scenes of suffering and home-
sickness, illness and death!—I shudder to
think of them."
"Were you ill fed and treated?" asked
Hope.
"A sort of slow starvation. A meal at eight
o'clock in the morning, perhaps, of ill-baked,
sour bread; then nothing more, possibly, till we
were roused from uneasy slumbers at midnight,
for corn-meal grub, — once in a while what was
styled soup,—it sickens me to think of it.
We bore it tolerably as long as we were well,
but it was impossible to preserve health with
such fare. One by one, the men would give
up and die, with scarcely a struggle to live. I
ต
Fohn's Story.
209
hardly know to what another week might have
brought me. Thank God, it is all over!"
“And what of your release, John?" asked
Hope.
"We were aroused from our first dreams
one night, with the good news that arrange-
ments had been made for an exchange of pris-
oners, and that those of us who could walk the
distance of twenty miles between us and the
transports were to be released. It was an al-
most insane undertaking for a sick man, but
the prospect of getting away was not to be lost;
so I had my name enrolled, and resolved to try
the march, feeling that, if I died on the way,
it would be only a briefer suffering. With the
excitement and the enrolling of names, we did
not sleep much that night. About nine the
next morning we started on the weary journey,
beneath a burning sun. Scarcely had we gone
four miles when the men began to fall behind;
and so all day we struggled on, a long line of
14
210
Earnest Living.
pale, weak, fainting men, animated by the hope
of home and of liberty.
“The next night we slept on the ground, ex-
posed to dews and dampness, and in the morn-
ing renewed our journey. The last few miles,
I became so lame and so much exhausted that
I must have given up, had not two or three
stronger men by turns assisted me to drag
along. But at last the desired spot was reached,
and when we threw ourselves upon the deck of
the transport and looked up at the blessed old
flag waving overhead, strength and inspiration
came back to us, and we sent up gladder
shouts than those shores ever heard before.
"It was good to see friendly faces, and be
taken care of, and fed with decent food. And
I never knew before all it meant to be a free
man. And so, a day or two of delay, some in-
terviews with surgeons, a railroad journey, and
I am in Waldham, unless I am dreaming."
John removed his hand from before his eyes,
Fohn's Story.
211
which he had covered as if to shut out the too
painful recollections, and saw that both the
girls were weeping. "A time to weep, and a
time to laugh,'" he said, "and this is the time
to laugh. I did not imagine I had been so pa-
thetic."

CHAPTER XV.
TIDINGS OF JAMIE.
"Oh! it is good to soar
These bolts and bars above,
To Him whose purpose I adore,
Whose providence I love;
And in His mighty will to find
The joy, the freedom of the mind."

66
BESSIE," said John the next day, “ do you
know Mrs. Capen, a widow somewhere in
this region?'
""
"Oh, yes, the poor woman that came one day
to inquire for her son. Don't you remember,
Hope? She lives on the Aconnuck road, down
the river."
“Do you know anything of her son, John?”
asked Hope.
"Yes, and I must go to see the mother as.
soon as possible. On a sad errand, too.”
212
Tidings of Famie.
213
"Is he dead?"
"Yes, poor fellow; he lingered for three
or four weeks after we were made prisoners,
struggling to live as long as hope remained,
and then dying calmly and willingly."
"I am very glad, for his mother's sake, that
you knew him."
"After he learned that I had been in Wald-
ham he quite clung to me, and I helped, per-
haps, to make those last days easier and better
to him. Some day, Hope, Seffle shall take us
to see Mrs. Capen. I could not go alone."
66
"As soon as possible," said Bessie.
“ Why
not this afternoon? And mother will put up a
basket of goodies for you to take her.”
"You are every whit like your mother, Bes-
sie," said John. "One could easily guess in
what school you had been taught."
"Do you think so, Cousin John?" replied
Bessie, her face beaming with pleasure. "That
214
Earnest Living.
is the best compliment you could pay me, and
I hope that I may sometime deserve it."
The afternoon was cool and somewhat cloud-
ed. Hope and John set out early on their
expedition. Seffle was in one of his easiest
moods, and they jogged slowly along, some-
times talking, sometimes silent, but always
happy. It was the same road over which Hope
had passed only a few days before on her re-
turn from Mrs. Capen's. Then the sunset
glory filled the sky and earth; now a soft
shadow rested over everything, with that inde-
finable hint of approaching autumn which sum-
mer often gives in the very midst of her luxuri-
ance and verdancy. "It is a sober day," said
John.
"Yes, outwardly,” replied Hope.
"I am growing to like these soft tints best.
Something like this shadow seems to have
come upon me.”
"You do not seem sad, John."
Tidings of Famie.
215
"No, but less ardent and expectant, with a
lack of that bound of spirits which you used to
say took away your breath."
66
"It will come back when you are well
again."
"Perhaps so. I wish this visit were com-
fortably over, and you and I on the way home
again. I do not like to be a bearer of evil tid-
ings. How will Mrs. Capen endure it?”
"Bravely and patiently, I am sure. She is
a good Christian woman. Here we are," said
Hope, "and there is Mrs. Capen in the door-
way, as if she were expecting us.'
""
The old lady hurried out to meet them.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Capen," said Hope.
My brother has come back, and I have brought
him to see you."
66
"I heard he had come, and I thought you
would soon get here," replied she. "I should
have gone to the Farm this morning if I had
not been too lame to walk. But I have been
216
Earnest Living.
watching for you. Do come in." All this
time she was looking toward John, with anx-
ious, inquiring eyes, which he almost trembled
to meet.
"You have come back, Mr. Wallace," she
said, presently; "but there's many a one left
behind who will never come back again. Per-
haps your sister has told you of my soldier-boy.”
"I knew him well, Mrs. Capen, and I have
come to tell you of him. Sad news, I am sorry
to say."
"Then he is dead," said she, the tears pour-
ing down her wrinkled cheeks, "and dead with-
out hope."
"No, no!" said John. "You have all the
consolation possible. Jamie died a Christian's
death, hopeful, penitent, trusting."
A light came into the good woman's eyes.
"It was all I ever dared pray for, and God has
heard my prayer. Oh, Jamie! my youngest,
my beautiful boy! Can he be really dead?"
Tidings of Famie.
217
She controlled herself in a moment, and
asked calmly, "Was it in prison, and did he
suffer much? '
"He was taken prisoner on the same day
with myself, and as soon as we found each
other out, we became good friends. He was
almost the merriest one among us at first, and
very confident of speedy release; but the heat
and confinement soon began to wear upon him,
and he grew weak daily. It was a great shock
when he first learned how it was with him, but
after a time he began to look upon everything
differently, and he suffered little, either in body
or in mind, sinking away as quietly as a child."
"And it was there Christ found him, then,-
sick and in prison."
"Yes; he began to read the little Testament
which you gave him, and which he had kept
always with him, and to recall hymns which
you taught him long ago. At first, he talked
little of himself, but by and by his reserve gave
218
Earnest Living.
way, and he told me of you and his home, and
of his own waywardness. I am sorry enough,
but of what use is that now?' he used to say;
and then he would wish to live to make amends
for the past, and weep bitterly at the impossi-
bility. It was hard for him to believe that
there could be any hope for him, but when at
last he came to understand the fullness of
Christ's saving mercy, all grew bright to him.
Tell mother,' he said, 'that I saw at last why
she loved to read and talk about Jesus. He has
become mine too, and He is all I need, and I
have no fear to die and be with Him.' He
seemed not to have doubt or dread, and it was
such a death as makes one almost long to fol-
low."
It was long before Mrs. Capen could be sat-
isfied to have them go,- there were many
things to say and last messages to receive, and
she wished to hear them over and over again,
that no word might be lost. At last, Hope,
Tidings of Famie.
219
perceiving John's wearied look, insisted on go-
ing, with the promise of another visit speedily.
"Do not remember me unkindly," said John,
"though I have brought you sorrowful news.
I wish I could help you, but you will be com-
forted of God."
“He gives me comfort in the midst of all my
sorrow. He never smites with both hands, you
know," she said, smiling through tears. "And
I have no words to thank you for all your good-
ness to poor Jamie. I shall always love and
pray for you both, for his sake; and may God
bless you, sir, and make you well."
"This is a sad world," said Hope, as they
drove away from Mrs. Capen's, "or would be
sad, but for the light that is shed upon it from
another. It seems hard for Mrs. Capen to lose
her son, almost her only support.'
""
"She was showing us life in its darkest as-
pects. And you, little sister, have not hitherto
been one of the children of sunshine. I should
220
Earnest Living.
be almost sorry for you, only that the ordering
of affairs is with One so wise that we may be
sure there could be nothing better for us."
"I am very happy now," she replied.
"In a serious, quiet fashion, unlike that of
most girls of seventeen. But, as I said just
now, I like the soberer tints best, and would
not change you for the gayest butterfly to be
found."
"Take care; your praise would spoil me
very soon."
"Remember this, Hope: that it is good to
bear the yoke in youth; remember it, if you are
called to endure even harder things than in the
past. And I think your path will sometime
come out into the light.”
66
'Yes, when the war is over, and you are
settled in some snug parsonage, and I am keep-
ing house for you. I must have Bessie teach me
something of her craft before that time."
"I have a plan for our joint benefit, that
Tidings of Famie.
221
need not be deferred till that time.
What do
you say to a week or two at the sea-shore ?"
"Oh, John!" said Hope, "are you in ear-
nest?'
""
"Dr. Lee recommended sea-air to me yester-
day, and suggested that you were pining some-
what of late with all this anxiety, and would be
benefited by a change. So it only remains with
you to say whether you will go or not."
"It is delightful!" said Hope. "Of course
I say yes, with all my heart. And when are
we to go?"
"To-morrow, shall it be?”
66
Oh, no; not unless you mean I should look
like a fright."
"Just as soon, then, as laces and ribbons and
new dresses permit. Only not too long a de-
lay."
CHAPTER XVI.
BY THE SEA.
“As a countenance is made beautiful by the soul's shining through
it, so the world is beautiful by the shining through it of God.”
N a very short time, with the aid of Mrs.
Ross and Bessie,
even Aunt Jemima
lending a helping hand,
wardrobe was made ready.
Hope's simple
"There!" said
Bessie energetically, as she looked down upon
the contents of the trunk which she had been
packing, "it is all ready, and it looks very nice.
I quite envy you, Hope, — especially that pretty
pink cambric, and the organdie with its lovely
little pansies. I imagine myself promenading
the halls of the N House, arrayed in the
latter. Now don't look sober, and talk about
pomps and vanities. How can one help liking
pretty things?"
222
By the Sea.
223
"Not very easily," said Hope. "I like them,
certainly."
"But in the abstract, I suppose. It never
occurs to you that the muslin will look better
when Hope Wallace is within it than now,
folded in the trunk?"
"Since it is made to wear, it will look best
when put to its proper use."
"And the use of beauty is to be admired."
"Not wholly," replied Hope, "nor chiefly,
I think."
"And what then?"
"Why need we think about the use? It is,
and God made it, and we love it, that is
enough. If a flower should set itself up to be
gazed at, the charm would be gone, but it is
unconscious and simple, and so we like it."
"A flower is a flower, and can't know much
about itself, but a young girl, Hope, is a differ-
ent creature altogether."
“Too different, maybe.”
224
Earnest Living.
"How is one to help knowing about herself?
A glance in that glass tells you that you are
beautiful, while I see plainly that I am not so,
but yet sufficiently good-looking not to lose
my share of good-will from others. Is that
wrong?"
"It would be wrong," said Hope, "to devote
all one's energies to decking out beauty for the
sake of exciting admiration; as if there were
not something better to be sought."
"I believe," said Bessie, "that there is
scarcely a pretty girl in school who is not vain
of the compliments she receives, and of the sen-
sation she excites when she wears new ribbons,
or has arranged her hair in a different style
from the usual."
"Oh, Bessie!" said Hope, "is it better in
you to be thinking of them so uncharitably
than for them to enjoy their pretty looks?
Theirs is the more amiable feeling, it seems to
me."
By the Sea.
225
"There is nothing amiable in such persons
more than in a wreath of smoke.
—
Ask them to
dispense with a new pair of ear-rings, or some
other ornament, for anybody's good,- even
their own, and you will see how benevolent.
they are. I may be uncharitable toward them,
but they vex me so, with their titterings and
mysterious confidences and affected ways, that
I don't know how to help it."
"There is probably something good and no-
ble in every one of them, if we could reach it.
Perhaps we have never tried as we ought.'
""
"I could not reach it, it is certain. If I
should ever be good enough myself to try to
make others better, it will not be that class.”
"Perhaps you think me vain," said Hope,
"But I try not to be, Bessie."
"You dear cousin, not a bit. Or, if just a
wee, wee bit, it is covered with so many good,
sensible things that nobody would guess it.
And I hope people at N will like you as
after a pause.
15
226
Earnest Living.
well as you deserve. I wish I were going,
too."
Bessie wished it even more the next morn-
ing, as Hope appeared in her traveling-suit,
with gray gypsy hat and jaunty little feather.
"Oh, Hope," said she, "you are a beauty, hat
and all. Cousin John, do take good care of
her, or some one will run away with her, and
we shall never see her again."
"Not the slightest danger," said John, "for
I shall not allow a young man even to cast a
glance at her. I intend to monopolize her."
"Unless some one monopolizes you and
your epaulets; in which case Hope will be
left to her fate."
A visit of a day and night to the Sanfords'
divided their journey. Hope scarcely knew
whether to call it pleasant or not, though
every one was kind to them, and overwhelmed
them with attentions, which, on the whole, she
was glad to escape from.
By the Sea.
227
The most satisfactory thing was the hour she
found for Rosa's mother, talking about the
pleasant life that had passed away, and hearing
more of its last scenes.
The next afternoon they finished their jour-
ney, catching every now and then glimpses of
the bright blue sea, which sometimes just
skirted the distant horizon, and then came up
some creek or inlet to refresh them with its
salt breath. And at last, there it was, stretch-
ing out before their eyes, wide, free, and mag-
nificent.
"It makes my heart leap up," said Hope.
"Don't you like it better than the hills, John?"
"For a short time," he replied, "an occa-
sional visit, but not for a permanent possession,
or my daily food. The mountains are the
symbol of strength and stability,― of divine
strength; the sea is always restless and uncer-
tain."
From the railroad station a three miles'
228
Earnest Living.
drive took them to their journey's end. The
road lay by the shore, which was now washed
by gently tossing waves, while tints of rose,
crimson, and violet flushed all the sea and sky.
Hope wished it would last forever.
"Vain wish!" said John, "for here is our
destination, and you will be shocked to hear
that while you have been entranced with that
view, I have been thinking chiefly of supper
and sleep."
"How Aunt Jemima would rejoice to hear
of your being hungry! But, oh, John! see that
group on the piazza!"
"Are you frightened?" asked John, laugh-
ing.
If not frightened, Hope became suddenly
aware that her dress was dusty, ånd that her
hair could not be in very good order, after the
sea-breeze had been blowing through it for
an hour; in short, that to run the gauntlet of
By the Sea.
229
all those fine gentlemen and ladies in inde-
scribable toilets, was no agreeable exploit.
But there was no escape, and John did not
mind it; so, drawing her veil over her face,
and trying to look unconscious, Hope made the
dreaded entrance, and found herself at length
alone in her room. It was a pleasant little
room looking out upon the sea. But Hope's
first emotion was one of home-sickness, and for
five minutes she almost wished herself back in
the long chamber at home with Bessie.
"How foolish!" she said to herself; "but I
wish I had some lady friend to talk to, when
John is tired. I shall never get acquainted
with those fashionable people."
"I feel like a mere nobody here," she said
to John, as he came to the door of her room to
inquire if she found it comfortable.
"Ridiculous!" laughed he; "you will feel
differently to-morrow. Do not feel afraid of
these gay folks. They will not be much to us,
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Earnest Living.
probably, but you and I are just the same
somebodies as before we saw them. And I
shall not be ashamed of my pretty sister among
them all."
"Nor I of my brother, to be sure," said Hope.
"Be rested by to-morrow, and we will begin
our holidays with a quiet Sabbath by ourselves."
Hope hastened to unpack, trying to give her
room something of a home-like air, and then
went to sleep, with the deep murmur of the
sea in her ears, that seemed to set itself, as she
listened, to the rhythm of some solemn hymn.
The Sabbath morning dawned bright and
clear, and Hope looked out on the broad
stretch of dancing waves before her with a
heart that bounded joyfully, as if keeping time
with them. She opened her little volume of
Psalms, and read the one hundred and fourth.
"Bless the Lord, O my soul. O Lord, my God,
thou art very great; thou art clothed with
honor and majesty: who coverest thyself with
By the Sea.
231
light as with a garment; who stretchest out
the heavens like a curtain; who layeth the
beams of his chambers in the waters; who
maketh the clouds his chariot; who walketh
upon the wings of the wind."
Perhaps, she said to herself, the psalm was
written on some bright morning like this, as
David looked on such a scene of sea and sky,
and felt in his soul something of the fullness of
God, whose seal of glory was upon all.
John came for her at last, and breakfast was
ready. Her self-consciousness had passed away.
After that morning hour with nature's beauty
before her eyes, and the grand strong words of
the psalmist in her soul, it was of small conse-
quence what human eyes were upon her, and
whether she were fashionably dressed or not.
There was a light on her face that came
from that inner source of joy, and more than
one glance followed her as she passed along
the hall, with a half-wondering pleasure at that
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Earnest Living.
fresh, bright face, with expression so unlike
that of the worn-out fashionables, to whom the
Sabbath was a weariness and disgust.
"What are we to do to-day, John?" said
Hope. "I expect to enjoy so much here with
you that every minute seems precious."
"There is a pretty little church," he replied,
"a mile or two away around the point, and I
think I can find the footpath through the
woods by which I used to go when I was here
before. Will you trust yourself to my guid-
ance ?
66
Willingly; but will you not become too
weary with such a walk?"
"I feel strong enough for anything this
morning. We will start early, as soon as
you are ready,—take something readable, and
sit down to rest as often as we choose, both in
going and returning.”
As soon as breakfast was disposed of, Hope
hastened to prepare for the walk to church.
By the Sea.
233
They turned away from the sea, climbing a
slight ascent over a rocky path, and suddenly
found themselves quite cut off from sight and
sound of the world, and in a narrow foot-path,
yellow and smooth with pine needles. The
murmur of the sea came softly to their ears
from below, and in the tall pines overhead the
wind rustled gently. It was a Sabbath-like,
mystical harmony of sounds.
"What book have you brought, Hope?"
asked John.
"Guess."
"I thought I saw a gleam of blue and gold
from your pocket."
"A mistake, try again.'
"Bonar's 'Hymns of Faith and Hope'?"
"Once more.”
"Lyra Germanica'?"
"No, it is this," she said, drawing forth a
little square volume bound in black," My
Extract-book."
234
Earnest Living.
"I did not know you kept one.
It was a
good thought to take it, and, as we have gone a
third of our way, let us try what rest this turf
will give while you read. What first?"
"This is something I copied long ago;" and
Hope read the sweet, sad lines, commencing,
My feet are worn and weary with the march
Over rough roads and up the steep hill-side:
O city of our God, I fain would see
Thy pastures green, where peaceful waters glide.”
John listened in silence, with closed eyes.
"Do you like it?" she asked, as she ended.
"Yes, but I hardly wish you to like it. I
would rather that you should not be weary yet,
my darling, in the very freshness and gladness
of your spring-time."
"I am not often so, John, and certainly not
now. But in those days after father and mother
died, when you were away from me, they seemed
the very echo of my thoughts, weary, weary."
By the Sea.
235
"Have you not something stronger for me
this morning?" asked John.
"Here are Trench's sonnets on prayer, which
you know, perhaps.'
66
""
Read, nevertheless."
Hope read:-
"Lord, what a change within us one short hour
Spent in thy presence will avail to make!
What heavy burdens from our bosoms take!
What parched grounds refresh as with a shower!
We kneel, and all around us seems to lower;
We rise, and all, the distant and the near,
Stands forth in sunny outline, brave and clear;
We kneel, how weak! we rise, how full of power!
Why, therefore, should we do ourselves this wrong,
Or others, that we are not always strong?
That we are ever overborne with care,
That we should ever weak or heartless be,
Anxious or troubled, when with us is prayer,
And joy and strength and courage are with Thee?
"When hearts are full of yearning tenderness
For the loved absent whom we can not reach
By deed or token, gesture or kind speech,
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Earnest Living.
The spirit's true affection to express;
When hearts are full of innermost distress,
And we are doomed inactive to stand by,
Watching the soul's or body's agony,
Which human effort helps not to make less;
Then like a cup capacious to contain
The overflowings of the heart is prayer;
The longing of the soul is satisfied,
The keenest darts of anguish blunted are;
And though we can not cease to yearn or grieve,
Yet have we learned in patience to abide.'
"Good and true!" said her brother, as she
ended,
"wholly true. Yes, why are we not al-
ways strong? There is so much in prayer and
in the promises of God which we have not
found out! Why do we not believe simply,
fully, taking God at His word? Think of
this, Hope: God is able to make all grace
abound toward you; that ye, always having all
sufficiency in all things, may abound to every
•
"
good work.' And this: All things are yours.'
Do you realize the riches of that? all things,-
the now and the hereafter, life and death."
By the Sea.
237
"I can not realize it; it seems like one of
those bold figures whose meaning we can only
guess at."
"Yet these figures which set forth the truths
of God do not rise beyond the reality. They
are merely strivings after it, as if one should
attempt to describe the sun to a blind man.'
"And what is your book, John ?" said Hope,
presently.
"Wait till our next halt, and you shall see.”
Another half mile, and John took his turn as
reader.
"I have," said he, "my copy of Jeremy
Taylor's Holy Living and Dying,' which
mother gave me long ago. And this is from
the chapter on hope, which perhaps she remem-
bered when she gave you your baptismal name.
Listen: Rely upon God with a confident ex-
pectation of his promises; ever esteeming that
every promise of God is a magazine of all that
grace and relief which we can need in that
6
238
Earnest Living.
instance for which the promise is made. Every
degree of hope is a degree of confidence.
666
Rejoice in the midst of a misfortune or
seeming sadness, knowing that this may work for
good, and will if we be not wanting to our souls.
This is a direct act of hope, to look through
the cloud, and look for a beam of the light from
God; and this is called in Scripture rejoicing
in tribulation, when the God of hope fills us
with all joy in believing. Every degree of
hope brings a degree of joy.
"Desire, pray and long for the great object
of our hope, the mighty price of our high call-
ing; and desire the other things of this life as
they are promised; that is, so far as they are
made necessary and useful to us, in order to
God's glory and the great end of souls. Hope
is like the wing of an angel, soaring up to
heaven, and bears our prayers to the throne of
grace. Without hope it is impossible to pray;
but hope makes our prayers reasonable, pas-
By the Sea.
239
sionate, and religious; for it relies upon God's
providence, or experience and promise. Prayer
is always in proportion to our hope.""
"I like that," said Hope. "Often I feel de-
pressed, and every petition seems to sink flat
and heavy. An angel's wing! Our prayers
need it. Read on, please."
"Gather together into your spirit and its
treasure-house, the memory, not only all the
promises of God, but also the remembrances of
experience, and the former senses of the divine
favors, that from thence you may argue from
time past to the present, and enlarge to the
future and to greater blessings. For, although
the conjectures and expectations of hope are
not like the conclusions of faith, yet they are a
helmet against the scorchings of despair in
temporal things, and an anchor of the soul, sure
and steadfast against the fluctuations of the
spirit.' Now remember this, Hope. You are
inclined to treat your griefs homoeopathically;
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Earnest Living.
you are sad, and you dwell on sad recollections,
adding like to like. Try the opposite. When
you are in darkness, hasten to light; when you
are weak, search out great, strong truths to
rest upon. There is a medicine for every spir-
itual disease, if we can only find it out and ap-
ply it. But we will not talk longer now, lest
there be no room left in our minds for the ser-
mon.”
Just at this moment the sound of the bell
came sweet and clear along the woodland aisle,
and they rose and went on. It was a little gray
church, of just the color of the rocks along the
coast near by, and within it was light and cheer-
ful and airy. The sermon for the morning was
a plea for sailors, — hardly a necessary one to
be urged in that abode of sea-faring folk, and
yet the more impressive for this very reason.
The preacher was a gray-haired man, with
great simplicity of manner, and evidently fa-
miliar with the habits of thought and feeling of
By the Sea.
241
those whose claim to benevolence he presented.
The text was this: "Who hath measured the
waters in the hollow of his hand," not the
-
most suggestive one, perhaps, for a charity ser-
mon, but sufficiently so for the speaker's pur-
pose. The service ended with the singing of a
spirited melody, "Out on an ocean all bound-
less we ride." This was new to Hope, and
moved her deeply. "Homeward bound!"
Then it made little difference what befell one
on the journey, or whether the voyage were
longer or shorter, since home with its dear ones
lay at the end.
The brother and sister walked home almost
silently. Only as they came into sight of the
sea, and gazed far away to the misty line that
bounded the view, John exclaimed, "Who
hath measured the waters in the hollow of His
hand.' And that hand is the same, Hope, in
which our times are. 6
My times are in Thy
hand;' a hand careful of all alike. He taketh
16
242
Earnest Living.
sup the isles as a very little thing,' yet our des-
tinies are not a little thing with him."
In the latter part of the day came several
hours of quiet, when Hope began to wish again
for some one to talk with. Then a slow walk
along the sands at sunset, with John, continu-
ing till the stars came out, and the light-house
beams far away threw their reflection into the
calm tide, and peace was everywhere. Hope
wondered, as she leaned from the window to
take a good-night look at the ocean, whether
another such Sabbath would ever come to her.
Waking the next morning, she fancied at
first that it was Sabbath again, and was half
disappointed to realize that six long days must
pass before another.
CHAPTER XVII.
FANNY.
"I have a fellowship with hearts
To keep and cultivate.”
OOKING up and down the table with oc-
casional shy glances, and stealing ob-
servations elsewhere on those around her,
were the only advances to acquaintance which
Hope seemed likely to make, and she saw few
faces which led her to desire anything beyond.
Opposite her at table were three or four young
ladies, stylishly and showily dressed, who
laughed loudly, whispered often, and discussed
operas, novels, and beaux with a fluency that
seemed inexhaustible. In their train were two
or three young men after the same sort. This
party, by right of several weeks' possession,
243
244
Earnest Living.
seemed inclined to monopolize general atten-
tion, as well as every possible comfort; but
Tuesday, it seemed, was to witness their depart-
ure. Further down the table was a German
family with several children, whose bright, arch
faces had already tempted Hope to use her lit-
tle knowledge of the language of Fatherland
in attempting an acquaintance. Of the other
faces, all seemed quite commonplace, except
that of an elderly lady, who appeared to be by
herself. Hope's eyes kept wandering by a kind
of fascination to the tall, elegant figure, richly
but simply dressed, and to the somewhat pecu-
liar face, shaded by heavy locks of gray hair,
and lighted by large gray eyes, that often had
the absent expression of one who thinks of
things invisible.
"I would like to know that lady,” she said
to her brother.
"If she is for us, we shall find her out," he
Fanny.
245
replied. "There is something vaguely familiar
in her face, as if I had seen her in a dream."
"Perhaps she has been foreshadowed to you,"
said Hope, laughing. "I would like to know if
she belongs to anybody."
There was one there whom Hope had re-
garded with some curiosity; a girl of perhaps
fourteen years of age, somewhat carelessly
dressed, with loose, wavy, flaxen hair, and a wild
shyness of manner. She talked but little, even
with her father, who seemed to watch her with
constant attention, and to be almost painfully
solicitous for her comfort.
Hope had gone out upon the rocks alone, one
morning, and was amusing herself with watch-
ing the swiftly advancing tide, beating the steep
crags with foamy toss and fall, when suddenly
this little damsel interrupted her meditations,
followed closely by a large black Newfoundland
dog, which was her most frequent attendant.
She stood still, and looked at Hope steadily for
246
Earnest Living.
a moment, with an expression that was not
wholly unfriendly, in spite of the touch of defi-
ance in it.
"That is a favorite place of mine," said she
at last, pointing to the rock on which Hope
sat, a kind of natural arm-chair. The words.
were abrupt, but the voice was sweet and plain-
tive.
"I will leave it, if you would like it alone,"
said Hope, rising.
"Oh, no; if only you are willing that I should
sit here too. It's the best place to look away
that can be found for a mile." She wrapped
her scarlet shawl around her, and sat down
almost at Hope's feet, with her chin propped on
her hands, and gazing away over the waters
with a look of deepest intentness. As her dog
came bounding to her side, she seized the long
strips of sea-weed that lay along the rocks, and
threw them into the water; and as he brought
them back, shaking the water from his shaggy
Fanny.
247
sides over her dress, she would murmur,
"Good Hilary! dear old Hilary! what would
you not do for your mistress? Now lie down
and behave yourself, or you will disturb the
lady."
He stretched himself out at her feet, looking
up into her face with an expression full of
dumb devotion. Presently Hope began to read,
and the young girl turned partly, and seemed
to be furtively studying her face.
"How lonely she seems, and what a sad,
wistful look there is in her eyes!" said Hope to
herself. "I wish I could help her in some
way." As she looked up, she met one of these
shy glances. The girl turned away, blushing,
and began to talk to the dog.
"He is a handsome creature," said Hope;
"he looks as if he knew a great deal, if he could
only tell it."
"To be sure he does! He is the best friend I
have in the world. Hilary, do you know that?”
248
Earnest Living.
said she, in those plaintive tones, and the dog
“ You
whined back a reply, licking her hand.
see," she continued, "we live almost alone, -
grandmother and father and I, and I never
had any children to play with, and Hilary is
my only pet. Once he saved my life, though I
don't owe him much gratitude for that, for I'd
better be dead, I think."
"Don't say that!" replied Hope, somewhat
shocked.
66
Why not? I am not like other people, and
no one cares for me, or thinks of me at all. If
I were a pretty young lady like you, and had a
nice brother to take care of me, I should be
very happy, I dare say.”
"But you must find out the way to be happy
as it is. Do you suppose I could help you?'
""
"I wish you could," said the little creature,
turning toward her with eager eyes, "but it is
impossible. You would tell me to be good, and
get happy in that way. But I can't. Grand-
Fanny.
249
mother makes me read a sermon to her every
evening at home, and learn chapters and chap-
ters out of the Bible; but I only grow worse.
Sometimes it seems to me that I hate sermons,
and the Bible too, though you will think I'm
awful to say so. Do you like it? ”
"Oh, yes!" said Hope, the glow on her face
speaking her sincerity; "but I have perhaps
read it in a different way from you. And you
would learn to like it, if you knew what a help
it is when one is weary and in trouble.”
"I think I should like you," said the girl.
"You look different from the other people at
the hotel. But I suppose you could not like
me. If you did, perhaps you could help me to
be good."
"I think I might learn to like you very
much," said Hope, gently. "Will you tell me
your name, for the beginning of our friendship?
Mine is Hope Wallace."
250
Earnest Living.
"And mine is Fanny Sayle, - not as pretty
as yours. Hope, that is odd."
"It was my grandmother's name and my
mother's."
"Was your mother's? then you too have no
mother."
66
My mother died three years ago."
""
"Oh!" said Fanny, with a sigh, and turn-
ing again with that intent gaze over the sea,
“when I sometimes see other children so happy
in their homes, and with good kind mothers, I
envy them, and go away and weep whole hours
by myself. But no one thinks I care."
"Do you go to school when you are at
home?"
"Sometimes; but study is all worrying and
wearying. I can not see much sense in any-
thing. I was sick a while ago, and the doctor
said I must be taken away from home to the
sea-shore; so father came with me, and Hilary
and I have had a better time than we ever did
Fanny.
251
before in all our lives. I hope we shall not go
away while you stay here."
"We must try to be good friends," said
Hope. "I feel lonely sometimes, when my
brother is not able to be with me. Suppose we
bring our Testaments down here every pleasant
morning, and read and talk together, and see
if you can not learn to like it as well as I do."
Fanny assented heartily, and they walked
back to the hotel together, Hilary trotting com-
posedly behind, both the cheerier and better for
this chance meeting. John came to meet Hope
with a letter. It was from Chattie Mason, and
brought the welcome news that she was coming
next day to share Hope's room, and get some
rest from home cares.
“Father insists on my
going away," she wrote, " and there is no other
place that I like; so I take it for granted that
your request was in good faith, and I shall fol-
low my letter speedily. You must not allow
me to be in the way. Tell your brother that
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Earnest Living.
Dr. Lee is proposing to take leave of absence
for a day or two in order to look after his pa-
tient. So that by Saturday there will be a full
Waldham party at the N House.”
"Is it not delightful, John?" said Hope,
reading aloud.
"I shall be glad of the coming of a sensible
young lady for your sake, and of Dr. Lee's for
my own."
"But I want you to like Chattie, John, for
her own sake as well as for mine."
"I will do my best," said John, laughing,
"and I suppose you will promise the same with
regard to the doctor.”
"We are already old friends," replied Hope.
"But there comes my beautiful gray-haired
lady across the hall, with a young man as
handsome in his way as she in hers."
"How unfortunate that you can not make
their acquaintance!”
"Hush! they are coming this way.
Fanny.
253
The two passed, the young man glancing
carelessly toward them, then a second time,
for the briefest instant, looking at Hope, and
again toward John. Suddenly he dropped the
lady's arm. "Excuse me, mother. Wallace!
is it possible that you are here?"
66
Mark, my dear fellow! it does my eyes
good to see you. Whence did you appear?"
"Been here, off and on, with my mother, for
a month; went away on Saturday to preach a
dozen miles off, and have just returned."
Then followed mutual introductions, and
Hope found that she was in the presence of
Marcus Grosvenor, a fellow-student of her
brother's whose name was by no means unfa-
miliar to her ears. In a few minutes more, she
was seated beside Mrs. Grosvenor on a sofa in
the parlor, while the two young men were deep
in a conversation about things past, present,
and to come.
€
"I am very glad to make your acquaintance,
254
Earnest Living.
my dear," said Mrs. Grosvenor, in the gentlest
of voices. "I hope you find your stay here
agreeable."
66
Very agreeable," said Hope, with beaming
face. Certainly, if yesterday and to-day were
specimens of the whole sojourn, she could wish
it might always last.
"Mark has been somewhat lonely here, and
he will be delighted to find an old friend. I
have often heard him mention your brother.
He has been in the service, I think?'
"For a year."
,,
"He looks far from well. Has he been
wounded?"
Hope found herself telling the story of her
brother's adventures in the army, as fully as
Bessie, the usual historian, could have done.
Mrs. Grosvenor listened with interest, fre-
quently brushing away the tears from her eyes.
"Poor child!" said she, taking her hand,
(6
you have had your share of trials, as well as
Fanny.
255
he. And you have no father or mother, you
say, it was hard for you to do without him."
"Very hard, sometimes. Before he went
away, I thought I could not do without him;
but I have been able. I seemed to be helped
to bear it, as he was.
66
""
Help almost always comes with the need;
but it makes me sad that one so young should
be called to so much endurance and loneli-
ness."
"John quotes to me, 'It is good for a man
to bear the yoke in his youth,' and says I shall
grow patient and obedient by it. But now
that he is with me, and seems to be improving
in health, I forget that there has been any
yoke to bear."
"But you will not forget the lessons you
have learned from it. Our stray attendants
are returning, and we can assure them that we
have done very well without them. I trust
this is not the last walk we shall have together,
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Earnest Living.
my dear, if you do not find an old woman's
company too dull."
"I began to love you as soon as I saw you,"
said Hope, in her fresh, impulsive way. "I
am the dull one, but I shall be glad if you will
let me talk with you now and then."
Mr. Grosvenor, as he came up with John in
time to catch these last words, said, "On con-
dition that I make one of the party, Miss Wal-
lace."
In the afternoon came another walk on the
sands, with Mrs. Grosvenor and her son to
share it, the two young men going on before,
while the ladies followed with the slow step
that suited the feebleness of the elder. The
gentlemen overtook them as they turned, and
Hope found herself with Mr. Grosvenor. She
thought him more reserved and gentle than
John, and almost as agreeable.
As they
passed Hope's arm-chair in the rocks, Mr.
Grosvenor proposed that they should sit for a
Fanny.
257
few minutes, and watch the sunset. "I have
been alone so much since I have been here,"
said he, "that it is a great pleasure to have
found your brother and yourself. My mother
takes only short walks, and seldom lingers
without at this hour, so that I have had only
solitary sunsets here."
"Ocean and sunset ought to be enough even
in solitude, with moon-rise beside," added
Hope, pointing to the white orb of the full moon
just lifting itself above the darkening sea-line
in the east.
"I do not wholly enjoy the sea," said Mr.
Grosvenor. "All the images it presents to me
are dreary. Once it swept my best friend from
my side, while I was thrown half-dead upon
such rocks as these. So it seems cruel and
treacherous to me, as if crying out in hunger
for human life."
"Beautiful, nevertheless, and I am content
with that; at least sitting here these summer
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258
Earnest Living.
days, taking it, vast and awful though it be,
simply for a joy and satisfaction.”
"In the new earth, you know, there shall
be no more sea."
"That makes me desire a double share of its
beauty here."
They watched the last rosy line die away on
the calm wave, and the new moon swing its
circle slowly from the glory beneath into the
more tender and ethereal glory above, leaving
on the sca a track so bright that one could al-
most imagine it the path of divine footsteps
walking on the water as of old. As they
walked home, Mr. Grosvenor gathered the late
brier-roses that grew by the roadside. "It is
my mother's favorite flower," said he; "but the
poor little things are losing all their grace.
See how they scatter." And as he shook them
gently, a shower of rosy petals fell at his feet.
66
Only one left perfect, which offers itself to
Fanny.
259
your acceptance with an apology for its shabby
companions."
Fanny Sayle was on the steps as they entered,
and Hope paused to speak to her. "Don't
you think you will be tired of reading with
me?" said the child, earnestly. "Your other
friends are so much nicer than I.'
"No, indeed! I shall be sure to be ready at
nine; remember." And Fanny turned with a
cheerful good-night and a pleased smile.
Yet Hope did think that that hour would be
hard to snatch from John and Chattie and the
Grosvenors, and for one instant was inclined to
regret her proposal, — only an instant.
"I do little for others, and this is so little;
only a cup of cold water for His sake; I am
glad that I can give it."
"Are you homesick yet?" asked John, as
they said good-night.
"Oh, no, it has been such a pleasant day!
And I am glad that you are enjoying it too.
260
Earnest Living.
It would soon have become dull for you, I am
afraid, with no one but me."
"Well, I am not quite sure whether to be
glad or sorry of any additions to our brother
and sister duet."

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE LITTLE PEDDLER.
"Not thankful when it pleaseth me,
As if Thy blessings had spare days,
But such a heart whose pulse may be
Thy praise."

SMALL group had collected early in the
parlor to look at some rare stereoscopic
views belonging to a gentleman of the
company.
Scenes from mountain and cata-
ract, from solitary gorge and crowded street,
were successively exhibited.
"Wonderful art!" said one," which brings
the world before our eyes, without the least in
convenience to us."
"As good as the flying cloak of the enchant-
er's tale," said another.
"See what you think of this bit of primeval
261
262
Earnest Living.
chaos," said the exhibitor, slipping upon the
frame a view of a glacier. This was quite new
to Hope, and very unlike her previous imagina-
tion. She uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"It is wonderful in its very wildness, but
looks somewhat like a vast patch upon nature,
compared with those grand mountain views
you have been showing us.'
""
“Nevertheless, if I understand it aright, it
is through the action of these same huge,
shapeless masses, that we have the variety and
beauty of our present earth. Is it not so,
Prof.
-?""
The gentleman appealed to no mean au-
thority in the case responded heartily, and
entered upon an enthusiastic statement of his
favorite theory on this subject. Hope listened
intently, while she seemed carried back through
vast cycles of ages, peopled by strange and
monstrous forms of beast and plant, to the
very dawn of existence upon the earth. In the
The Little Peddler,
263
midst of the professor's glowing discourse,
Hope caught sight of the pale face of Fanny
Sayle, who was lingering on the threshold. It
was somewhat hard to be called upon to fulfil
her engagement just then, and she half resolved
to defer it. But that, she thought again, would
be a poor beginning of her proposed task; so,
stealing away as quietly as possible, she joined
Fanny, her disappearance causing some sur-
prise in the minds of one or two of those whom
she left.
Fanny was full of gratitude, and the wild
look in her eyes seemed to have softened some-
what, even since yesterday. Hilary bounded
before them, as happy as dog could be, and
when they sat down to read, he crouched at
their feet, laying his huge head upon his fore
paws, and looking into their faces with his
large, pathetic eyes. "He looks as if he knew
what we are about," said Fanny, "and if he
could speak, would talk as wisely as a judge.
264
Earnest Living.
But, Hilary, you must be very quiet, and listen
to Miss Wallace; remember, old fellow!" The
dog barked his reply, and Fanny said, "Now
we are all ready; where shall we begin?"
Hope chose the Sermon on the Mount.
Fanny read, and listened, and questioned, with
an eagerness and intelligence that surprised
Hope. And, as they talked, the old truths
seemed to come home to Hope's mind with
new freshness and force, and the hour passed
rapidly. "It does me good to be with you,"
said Fanny.
"And me good to be with you," replied
Hope, sincerely.
The child looked almost radiant with pleas-
ure. "No one ever said that to me before,"
said she. "I always thought I was in every
one's way."
Truly, thought Hope, Christ repeats His
wonder-work of love, and changes the cup of
cold water which we offer in His name, putting
The Little Peddler.
265
it back to our own lips, richer and sweeter than
was the marriage-wine of old.
John was waiting for her, with Mrs. Grosve-
nor, and growing somewhat impatient of her
absence. "I see," said the latter, "that you
have found your way to the heart of that shy
girl, a task which I should never have dared
attempt. I have lost all courage for such en-
terprises, but perhaps with your help I may
succeed.'
"She is not so very shy," said Hope; "she
responds readily to a little affection. Poor
thing! I fancy her soul has been starving for
want of it."
"While you are walking with your brother,
I will see if I can carry a little bread to her,"
said Mrs. Grosvenor, smiling, and laying her
soft hand with a caressing tenderness upon
Hope's head for a moment.
John began, as they left her, "Mark says his
mother is very fastidious, but that you have
266
Earnest Living.
wholly won her affection, Hope. A consider-
able compliment.”
"It is only because I admired her so much
when I first saw her, you remember, John.
Don't laugh; she is much beyond me, of course,
but still one of my kind. I felt sure that I
could make her like me.'
"You are fast growing womanly," said John,
smiling. "I ought to stay at home to take
care of you, instead of going back to the army."
"Go back! do not speak of that!"
"Do you not see that I am gaining strength
every hour? But you are right; we will not
talk of it to-day, at least."
The lumbering stage-coach in its afternoon
trip took away all the noisy party that had
been Hope's neighbors at table, and brought
back Chattie Mason, dusty and tired, but thor-
oughly home-like and good. The girls were
to have one of the chambers vacated by the
last departure, a large, pleasant room, looking
The Little Peddler.
267
out upon a curving strip of white sand marked
by curling lines of spray.
"This is perfect," said Chattie, seating her-
self upon her unopened trunk, and looking in-
tently seaward. "This is real rest, and I find
myself so indolent that I am seriously inclined
not to unpack my trunk, or take my hat from
its repose on that bedpost, during my whole
stay."
"If it were Bessie, instead of you," said
Hope, "she would not have condescended to
cast one glance without, till every article had
been arranged in the most approved manner."
"And then she would have drawn a sigh of
relief, and sat down leisurely in a rocking-
chair, to make the most of things. Dear Bes-
sie! who would want one of her delightful
oddities changed in the least?"
"Not I, certainly. Have you seen her since
I came away?
"She came down yesterday, almost envying
268
Earnest Living.
me my pleasure in coming, and sending all
good wishes after us.”
"And what do you hear of Harry?"
“He writes that he is as happy as possible,
perfectly satisfied, feels for the first time that
he is doing something and has a right to be
alive. But I miss him every hour in the day.
I have been half disposed to be discontented
for the first time in my life; but yesterday my
murmurs received such a rebuke."
"Tell me about it," said Hope.
"Yes; only I must really unpack and look
for a cool dress to put on."
So Chattie went to work, Hope assisting her,
and interrupting her story now and then by
some comment when a new dress or ribbon
caught her eye and her fancy.
66
Yesterday morning," began Chattie, “as I
was busy with my preparations to come here,
I was called down to see a woman who had
embroideries for sale. I was inclined to send
The Little Peddler.
269
her away without troubling myself, but Bridget
said, 'She's a nice, homely little body, miss,
and I wish you'd just speak to her;' so down
I went. At first sight I was almost repelled
from the singularly deformed little creature,
but as she stepped forward briskly, with her
small box of wares, the good sensible face, with
its bright eyes and cheery smile, won my heart,
and I purchased as largely as I could afford."
"That must be a hard life for her to lead,"
said Hope.
"So it would seem, but she knew how to
make the best of it. I ordered some tea and
sandwiches for her, and while she was eating,
tried to draw her into talking about herself.
She was ready enough, and gave me a very in-
teresting little story. Some accident in her
childhood caused her deformity, and made her
ill for years. At last she regained her health
in a measure, and then, as she had no means
of support, and her parents were dead, she be-
270
Earnest Living.
gan to work for herself. Think of it, Hope; a
woman with just as sensitive feelings as you or
I, afflicted so painfully, and compelled to lead
such a life."
"Could she not find something else to do?"
"Nothing at once so easy and so lucrative.
She spends the winter in preparing these cm-
broideries, which are exquisitely done, and
during the summer she goes about selling
them. My pity was excited, but I began at
last to think that it was uncalled for, for when
I spoke of such a life being a vexatious and
trying one, she looked up with her smile,
and said, 'It might seem disagreeable, but I
have never found it so. I find people always
kind. No one treats me rudely, and I assure
you I am by no means unhappy. It is such a
comfort to be able to take care of myself, and
even help others sometimes, that I hardly real-
ize the lack of many things which must be
The Little Peddler.
271
pleasant in themselves.' Was not that a lesson
of contentment? "
"It would seem," said Hope, " as if no lot
were so sad but some good might be drawn
from it."
"Contentment is better than wealth, and the
growth of the soul better than beauty."
"And we, who have so many good things,
such a pleasant holiday-time as this for exam-
ple, ought to be specially thankful. Mrs. Gros-
venor was pitying my loneliness yesterday, but I
must tell her of this little peddler, and not ac-
cept any more sympathy of that kind."
"And who is Mrs. Grosvenor ? '
وو
"Oh! the most delightful lady." Hope went
on to give the history of her three days' stay at
N-, with an account of the Grosvenors and
Fanny Sayle.
"You have made good use of your time,"
said Chattie. "I am afraid I shall prove super-
fluous."
272
Earnest Living.
“Oh, no; I wanted you sadly last evening,
when they were dancing below, and John was
too tired to sit up, and I was thrown upon my
own resources. I felt lonely and sad, in spite
of the pleasant day it had been, perhaps a
reaction after it. I looked over John's letters,
to find one which he once sent me after I had
written him in such a mood, and it did me good
as at first."
tie.
66
Perhaps it would do me good," said Chat-
"You are never despondent, but you shall
hear it. Your vexation with yourself at be-
ing "blue," as you call it, is exaggerated. You
ought to struggle against your changing moods,
and yet have some patience with them. Causes
which you can not control affect you of neces-
sity, a headache, a heavy atmosphere. Do
not think that Te Deums can always be the
natural language of your soul, any more than
Misereres. Circumstances change; as with the
The Little Peddler.
273
Israelites, so with us, first the festival-week,
kept with thanksgiving under booths of green
boughs; then, immediately, fasting, and sack-
cloth and ashes. Let us not mar the feast of
to-day by sadly anticipating to-morrow, but take
each as it comes. And learn always to cast
upon God all your care, especially that greatest
self."",
of cares,
18

CHAPTER XIX.
A HAPPY SABBATH.
"Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,
Our hearts in glad surprise
To higher levels rise.
The tidal wave of deeper souls
Into our inmost being rolls,
And lifts us unawares
Out of all meaner cares. ""
N Chattie's coming followed a succession
ON
of bright days, each full of enjoyment.
Hope's hours with Fanny Sayle required
less self-denial each day, though sometimes into
the midst of them would stray a wondering
thought as to what Chattie and John and the
Grosvenors were doing meanwhile. Chattie of
fered to share the task, but Hope affirmed that
that would spoil all. Fanny was growing so
274
A Happy Sabbath.
275
womanly that the change was very manifest;
only occasionally there would break forth some
tempest of passion, that was half frightful and
half ridiculous.
"It's of no use, Miss Wallace," said she
sadly, one day, as Hope came upon her in a
heat of anger against little German Helena,
who had torn her dress in some wild game.
"It is of no use; I can't be like you and other
folks; you must think I'm hateful.”
66
is harder for you to control yourself than
for others," said Hope, " and we ought not to
think you hateful for that. But you must try
very hard, and not give up for one discourage-
ment. When you grow angry, think of Christ's
gentleness and patience, and pray for His help.”
"Yes, Miss Wallace, I will; indeed I will,"
she replied, with tears falling as she spoke.
Now and then Mrs. Grosvenor invited Hope
into her room, and told her of pleasant people
she had known, and of the scenes of her early
276
Earnest Living.
days, passed in foreign lands, while Hope would
sit on a footstool beside her, sometimes only
half conscious of what she was hearing, so
charming were the grace and gentleness of her
elder friend.
Meanwhile, John was improving so rapidly
that when Dr. Lee came down on Saturday, he
averred that he would have nothing to do in
future with a patient who was in so great a
hurry to get out of his hands.
Sunday morning came. The Waldham party,
with Mr. Grosvenor, had planned to walk through
the woods to the little church which Hope had
attended on the previous Sabbath. It was with
some vexation, then, that when Hope awoke
she heard a persistent pattering of rain against
the windows, and the hoarse roar of the sea,
tossed by the east wind. "Oh, Chattie, it's a
real rainy day!" said she in a disappointed tone,
"the first since we came here."
A Happy Sabbath.
277
66
"That is good news," said Chattie dreamily,
we had such a dusty walk yesterday."
"But it might have waited till to-morrow.
Now we can't go to church or do anything
else."
"Did you not tell Mr. Grosvenor yesterday
that you thought it was wicked to complain of
the weather?"
"Oh dear!" said Hope, laughing, " don't ex-
pect me to be always consistent; that was said
for week-days, not Sunday."
"We shall find some way to enjoy the day, I
am certain," said Chattie. "All the gay folks
are gone, and there will be quiet, at least. I
am not sure that I am sorry to be spared that
long walk, for I am a little tired of the inces-
sant rambling which you and Mr. Grosvenor
maintain with such enthusiasm."
"You know how much I walk when I am at
home and alone," said Hope.
66
Certainly," replied Chattie, laughing. “I
278
Earnest Living.
know it is from pure love of exercise, but it is
fatiguing for all that. That five-miles' walk on
Thursday into which I was beguiled in my in-
nocence, shall I ever forget it?"
"I thought you would like to become ac-
quainted with Mr. Grosvenor, and that was the
nicest way.
""
"If I did not make his acquaintance," said
Chattie, "it was not because I did not take
steps enough for it. But this is not my Sun-
dayish talk."
In spite of the storm without, it proved a
very pleasant day within. At breakfast, it was
suggested that a service should be held in the
house. All gladly acceded to the proposition,
and Mr. Grosvenor was asked to conduct it, and
to read a sermon. So the little company, num-
bering some twenty, gathered in the parlors,
where a fire had been kindled, partly for warmth
and partly for cheerfulness. Hope sat near
the window, from which she could see the ocean
A Happy Sabbath.
279
with its white-capped waves dashing against the
rocks. Fanny Sayle drew a low chair to Hope's
side and nestled close to her, while Mrs. Gros-
venor and Chattie sat on the sofa on the oppo-
site side, and John with Mr. Grosvenor at the
little table near by. Hope felt a sense of com-
fort in the sight of these faces around her, all
so full of friendliness and goodness, so that she
forgot her morning's vexation, and thought no
other worship could have been so sweet as this.
John read the old familiar hymn, "When I
can read my title clear," and after it was sung
prayed for a blessing on the gathering of that
hour. Then Mr. Grosvenor read in his clear,
earnest voice a sermon by an English preacher,
with the text, "I know my sheep, and am
known of mine." It was a simple, tender set-
ting forth of that old story, which is yet ever
new and wonderful. "This knowledge,'" he
read, “is that mutual consciousness of which
we speak when we say that we know any per-
280
Earnest Living.
son as our friend. We do not mean that we
know him by name, for many strangers we
know by name, many whom we have never
seen or further care to know; neither do we mean
only that we know all about him, that is to say,
who he is, and whence, of what lineage, or from
what land, or what has been his history, his
acts and words, and the like; for in this way we
may be said to know many who do not know
us, and with whom we have nothing to do.
When we say we know any one as our friend,
we mean that we know not only who he is, but
what, or, as we say, his character, that he is
true, affectionate, gentle, forgiving, liberal, pa-
tient, self-denying; and, still more, that he has
been, and is, all this to ourselves; that we have
made trial of him, and have cause to know this
character as a reality, of which we have, as it
were, tasted. It is in this way we know our
friends; what they are, what they mean, wish,
and imply; how they would judge, speak, and
A Happy Sabbath.
281
act in all cases; what every look, tone, and word
signifies. This is the knowledge of friendship
and love. And such is the knowledge the true
sheep have of the Good Shepherd.
"I know my sheep, and am known of mine.'
As he knows us through and through, all
that we have been and are, all that we desire
and need, hope and fear, do and leave undone,
- all our thoughts, affections, purposes, all our
secret acts, all our hidden life, which is hid
with Him in God; so do His true sheep know
Him, His love, care, tenderness, mercy, meek-
ness, compassion, patience, gentleness, all His
forecasting and prudent watchfulness, His in-
dulgent and pitiful condescension. It is the
knowledge of heart with heart, soul with soul,
spirit with spirit; a sense of presence and com-
panionship, so that when most alone we are
perceptibly least alone, when most solitary we
are least forsaken. It is a consciousness of
guidance, help, and protection, so that all we
282
Earnest Living.
do or say, and all that befalls us, is shared with
Him. It fills us with a certainty that in every
part of our lot, in all its details, there is some
purpose, some indication of His design and
will, some discipline or medicine for us; some
hid treasure, if we will purchase it; some secret
of peace, if we will only make it our own."
As the sermon was finished, there was a
hush, as if indeed they felt the very presence
of the Good Shepherd, and heard in their souls
His sweet voice calling them anew to follow
Him. Mr. Grosvenor followed the reading
with some words of prayer, simple, natural,
and heartfelt, and they separated silently.
Only little Fanny followed Hope, and, seizing
her hand, said, "Oh, Miss Wallace, could
Christ really love me so? Could he think of
me, and care for me, and know me by name?”
"He has told us so," said Hope, "and He
gave his life to prove His love to us. What
could we ask more?'
A Happy Sabbath.
283
"I used to think no one could love me, and
to long for only one who would think of me
and speak good words to me, as mothers do to
their children. But to think that God has
such love for me,
- it is too much to realize!"
"But you have known it before.'
"I have read of it, I suppose; but I seem
never to have known it until this morning.
Then I thought if Christ was such a kind
Shepherd, I ought to be one of His lambs, for
I can not help loving Him now."
"He wants you to love Him, Fanny, to listen
to His voice and follow Him. Sometimes this
seems to me the strangest of all, that He should
care to win our hearts, such wayward, evil
hearts, that He should indeed desire our af
fection, when it is so little worth the having."
"You are like Him, Miss Wallace, for you
love me, though I am not good or pretty or
nice, only because the love is in your heart.
284
Earnest Living.
And you make it easier for me to understand
how He is so kind and loving."
66
Oh, Fanny, all our kindness to each other
is nothing compared with His to us.
But our
desire to aid each other is one of the fruits of
the Comforter, whom He sent to teach of Him.
And we ought to make our love to one another
a help in loving Him more."
"There comes Miss Mason," said Fanny, in
a disappointed tone, as a step was heard at the
door. "I must go, but you must think of me,
and pray for me; will you not, dear Miss Wal-
lace?" And Hope promised to remember her
often.
"That little creature clings to you strange-
ly," said Chattie.
"I can hardly account for it," said Hope,
.66 except that she is so little used to love and
sympathy."
"She is fast getting rid of the savage element
under your tuition. And how much moved
A Happy Sabbath.
285
she seemed during the service this morning!
I should scarcely have thought it possible."
"Aunt Jemima sometimes says that there is
much more wickedness and hardness in peo-
ple's hearts than we generally suppose. It may
be so; but when God has spoken to these
hearts, I think there is much more tenderness
and thoughtfulness in them than we are apt to
suspect."
"I wish I could do good to any one," said
Chattic," as you are doing to that child. It
always seems impossible for me to talk with
such persons."
66
'I am afraid I am more ready to talk than
to act. John says that we can not all work
alike some are as tongues to speak for
Christ; some are the hands to feed and clothe
His poor, and others the feet to run on His er-
rands."
John was looking very bright when they
went down to dinner. "Mark and I," said he,
286
Earnest Living.
"have been building air-castles, planning
what we will do when the war is over, and we
have parishes side by side, and some feminine
helpmeet to look after our households."
"Of course you saved a place in your castle
for me," said Hope.
"As long," he replied, "as you shall be wil-
ling to remain there.”
"Our Sabbath is to have a sunshiny ending.
after all," said Mr. Grosvenor, approaching
them. "The landlord says it will soon clear
up; so we can go to the soldiers' meeting at
the little school-house beyond the cove, if we
wish."
"That will be pleasant," said Hope. "I
should not be satisfied to spend the whole
of the day in-doors, though I have enjoyed it
so much thus far."
The landlord's prediction was verified, for
in an hour or two the clouds lifted up from
the west, leaving a sky shimmering with golden
A Happy Sabbath.
287
radiance, that glorified even the receding gloom.
Trees and grass-blades dripping with moisture
reflected the brightness, while over the ocean
hung in mid-air a rainbow's double arch, a
promise pointing backward, and forward, and
upward; an emblem of that shining way by
which, when life's day is over, the soul shall
pass to the city whose builder and maker is
God.
Under that brightness they walked together
to the prayer-meeting, where a sufficient num-
ber had collected before them to fill the little
room almost uncomfortably. It was an old-
fashioned school-house, with rough benches
that had been hacked by the pen-knives and
soiled by the ink-blots of several generations.
of the amphibious little dwellers of N
The benches were all filled when they en-
tered, and the party was divided, Hope and
Chattie finding seats on boards stretched from
bench to bench, while the gentlemen were as-
288
Earnest Living.
signed posts of honor near the leader in the
corner.
It was a meeting in which each one seemed
to feel himself or herself personally interested.
They sang with a heartiness that was pleasant,
though not altogether tuneful. Young men
and maidens, old men and children, each rec-
peated some hymn or Scripture text, or offered
a brief prayer, or said some words with refer-
ence to the great cause for which every heart
was beating.
"I feel like speaking myself," whispered
Hope to Chattie.
Mr. Grosvenor said a few words, and then
Lieut. Wallace was requested to speak of his
experience in the army. He never talked of
himself, but he was ready to tell of the scenes.
of danger and suffering through which soldiers
are called to pass, and of the power of Chris-
tianity among those hardened by scenes of
bloodshed and wickedness. Hope listened
A Happy Sabbath.
289
with almost trembling interest, and many tear-
ful eyes testified that she was not alone in the
feeling. She listened, looking into her broth-
er's face, only now and then glancing from it
to the broad stretch of blue water which could
be seen through the open window, its surface
belted with sunset tints, while in the distance
one little white sail grew less and less, still re-
flecting the sunlight, till the eye could see it
no more.
"This has been a good Sabbath in spite of
the promise of the morning," said Hope to
Chattie.
"As perfect as a day could well be."
"If life could only be made up of these
bright, sweet days, when one seems to stand in
just the right relation to one's self and to
others and to God!"
"Do not mar the day by wishes," replied
Chattie, "but go to sleep expecting something
as good to-morrow."
19
CHAPTER XX.
HOPE'S PROMISE.
"For Thou who knowest, Lord, how soon
Our weak heart clings,
Hast given us joys, tender and true,
Yet all with wings,
•
So that we see, gleaming on high,
Diviner things."
O-MORROW rose somewhat chilly and au-
tumnal after the rain. The last of the
summer inmates were taking flight, all
the German Harzfelds, with many exclama-
tions and regrets, except from the head of the
family, who had come from the city on Satur-
day to superintend the return of his flock, and
was in evident haste to be gone. "Too damp
for me, too damp," said he, shrugging his
shoulders, and casting a gloomy glance from
under his heavy eyebrows at the water-waste
290
Hope's Promise.
291
before him.
66
Evidently thinking," said Hope
to John, "that if he had made the earth, there
should have been nothing upon it but good,
sensible, dry land." The Harzfelds' trunks,
boxes, bodies, and souls being at last fairly be-
stowed in and upon the stage-coach, the rem-
nant that still clung to summer quarters pro-
ceeded in the usual way to the day's amuse-
ment. Hope had finished her reading with
Fanny, and was walking slowly up and down
the piazza with John, while the rest of their
company were seated at a sunny corner, listen-
ing to Mr. Grosvenor, who was reading from
the "Rise of the Dutch Republic.
"You ought to hear this," said Chattie to
Hope, as the latter came near.
"I used
"I do not care for it," she replied.
to like history, but now stories of battles seem
too near and terrible. I would like to forget,
while I can, that such things have been, and
must be again.”
292
Earnest Living.
"And while we are acting history as a na-
tion and as men," said Mr. Grosvenor, "these
records of the past seem of less interest."
"It is pleasant to draw parallels," said
Mrs. Grosvenor, "and there is so much in the
present which links itself with the past that
we seem almost to be living other days over
again."
tie,
"And it helps us to bear better," said Chat-
"when we remember how much others
have borne before us.'
"If one could believe a third of it," said
Dr. Lee; "but the trouble of separating truth
from falsehood would be too great, even if it
were possible. Best let it alone, and keep on
sure ground."
"Rather difficult," said John, "unless you
confine yourself to what you see and hear. To
change the subject, — do you go this noon,
doc-
tor? And if so, can you spare me fifteen min-
utes first ?"
Hope's Promise.
293
up.
"This moment," said the doctor, starting
"Come, too, Hope," said John. "My affairs
are yours;" and they walked to a little dis-
tance, while Mr. Grosvenor resumed his read-
ing.
"I must be planning a little, doctor," said
John. "I am improving so fast that I need not
stay in your hands much longer, I suspect.
The next question is, how soon I shall go back
to service again."
"Oh John!" said Hope, with a sigh, "need
you think of that yet? He ought not to go
at all, doctor.”
"If he was like some men, Miss Hope, he
would not. Indeed, Lieut. Wallace, there are
pretexts enough on which you might excuse
yourself. You are getting well, but are by no
means as strong as formerly. Then you have
served the country for a year, and might think
you had done your share."
294
Earnest Living.
"You know well enough, doctor," said
John, “that I have no design of shirking. I
joined the army for three years, and shall not
leave it willingly till the end of them. If
others excuse themselves, the more need of me.
It lies with you to send me back as soon as I
am worth anything."
"You will be able to go," said Dr. Lee, “in
three or four weeks. I am sorry to make you
look so downcast, Miss Hope: what would you
have me say? Advise him to stay against his
conscience and mine, and yours too?"
66
'No," said Hope feebly, "but not let him go
so soon."
"I will give you a month," said the doctor;
"make the most of that, not in weeping and
sighing over him, but in helping him grow as
strong as possible; and then let him go with as
cheerful a heart as you can summon."
"I wonder," said Hope, as the doctor walked
Hope's Promise.
295
away, "if I can ever learn to like him. He
says such unpleasant things."
"True things, nevertheless," replied John,
"and one ought never to be afraid of those.
Dear Hope, I wish this separation need not
take place. It is vastly harder to me than be-
fore, but if I could, I would bear your share as
well as my own. You will help me, and keep
me strong, will you not, by your good, brave
words?"
"If I have any strength, it shall be for you."
66
And, Hope, let me say it now, painful
though it is, lest no other time may come for
it, if I should never return, promise me that
you will not sink into despondency, that you
will mourn for me with resignation, and still
seek out every good and pleasant thing that
may be left."
"I can not look at that possibility, John.'
"It's only an if," said he, smiling tenderly,
yet half sadly; "promise, Hope."
296
Earnest Living.
•
"I will promise, John," said she, breaking
away from him and going to her room, to give
way to the tears that would come.
A few days more, and the party separated.
But some pleasant things first, - quiet read-
ings and talks with Mrs. Grosvenor, who al-
ways sympathized tenderly and helped wisely;
and chats with her son, with whom it was
pleasant to speak about John. Then there
was Fanny Sayle, still wayward at times, but
always loving; and, best of all, the long hours
with John, so precious because they were grow-
ing sadly few.
Good-byes were at last exchanged, with the
dreary uncertainty as to whether they were
last words or not, and those who had known
each other so pleasantly, almost intimately,
would henceforth, perhaps, meet only as stran-
gers. Only Mrs. Grosvenor, taking Hope's hand
in parting, and looking into her young face
with the wonted gentle smile, said, “I shall
Hope's Promise.
297
write to you sometime, and tell you how much
you have made me love you. And I think we
shall meet again, - who knows when?"
Little, indeed, could they anticipate what
events were to bring them together once more,
yet Hope's answer might have been almost pro-
phetic. "If I am ever in great trouble, Mrs.
Grosvenor, I wish I might be with you."
A few hours afterward, John and Hope were
in the Waldham home, with the familiar faces
around them, covered with smiles of welcome.
All were so glad, Aunt Mary so kind, and Bes-
sic overflowing with talk of familiar things, that
Hope was ashamed not to be perfectly happy.
Yet she was glad when she could lay her head
on the pillow, and think, and shed the tears
that came with the longing to live over the
pleasant days just passed. But the next day
the old interests came back, one by one. She
still had Jolm; and Chattie drove over to see
them, and tell how glad the children were of
298
Earnest Living.
her return, and of good news which she had
had from her brother.
Thus all fell into the usual track, with only
the shadow of parting lying across it and daily
growing nearer and more distinct.

$
CHAPTER XXI.
A TALK WITH JOHN.
"I would, said I, my God would give
The staidness of these things to man! for these
To his divine appointments ever cleave,
And no new business breaks their peace."

E move from one period of life to an-
USE
other rapidly, almost unconsciously, as
the figures of a dream change. We
leave the work of our fingers or our brain to-
day, and who knows when we shall take it up
again, or what experience of joy or grief may
intervenc? Friends leave us, and who can tell
what may come before another meeting? yet
time, the softener, who covers the turned sods.
with verdure, and plants flowers in the rock-
fissures, soothes even our grief for the absent.
And God means always good to His beloved.
299
300
Earnest Living.
He gives strength to labor, patience to suffer,
and compensation in loss. To each onward
step He attaches a higher possibility; in each
flower withered He wraps the promise of the
fruit. Even the space of separation is not
wholly void, when filled by his watchful pres-
ence.
•
Thus ran Hope's thoughts, seeking light, on
the day before John's second departure for the
army. She sat by an open window, the leaves
of whose shading vine were already tinged by
autumn. Taking some last stitches for her
brother, she lingered over her work, loth to
leave it finally. John came in and found her
meditating with folded hands, and laughed at
her idleness; Bessie followed presently, coming
from the kitchen with sleeves rolled up after her
bread-kneading.
“Some last biscuit for you, Cousin John,"
said she. (6
Anything else you would specially
like for your supper?"
A Talk with Fohn.
301
"Don't spoil me," said he; "there ought to
be a more gradual coming down to hardtack
and salt beef. What recollections shall I have
of you, Bessie, as the daintiest of little cooks;
of your custards and cakes and apple-puffs, the
very name of which touches one's sensibili-
ties!"
"I do believe," said Bessie, impatiently,
"that that is all you think I am good for, John.
I half think so myself. But it is better to cook
well than to do nothing at all well.”
"I think you would do anything well which
you undertook," replied John. "It is not so
much what we do as the manner in which we
do it."
"I think," said Bessie, "that it makes a vast
difference what we do. No one has a right to
give the best of herself to house-cleaning and
bread-making, as I do.
But I must do some-
thing. I feel sometimes as if I had the power
302
Earnest Living.
of twenty persons in me, and must work it off
in some way."
"But what would your mother, or any of us,
do without you, Bessie?
"Miss me a little in the kitchen, perhaps, un-
til some Biddy should be found to wear my
mantle. Cousin John, can't you give me a
hint, to make things seem better to me?"
"I stepped into the factory at Q. yesterday,
after my farewell visit to Mrs. Capen. My old
schoolmate, Jerry Hyde, whom I went to find,
was in the engine-room, and I went down to
him. There was always a charm for me in the
play of a steam-engine; so, while I waited till
Jerry had leisure to speak to me, I amused my-
self very agreeably."
"Are you going to call me a mere machine,
John," asked Bessie; "a sort of animated steam-
engine on a small scale?"
"Not at all, Bessie; wait, and you will see
that I should consider such a comparison some-
A Talk with John.
303
what disrespectful to the engine," replied John,
smiling.
"That is presuming too much on my good-
nature. Only, as it is your last day, you ven-
ture to say what you please. Go on," said Bes-
sie, supporting her chin on her two hands, and
assuming an attitude of grave attention.
“You asked for a hint, and I must give it in
my own way. Please not interrupt again.
Now the steam-engine: the piston-rod moved
backward and forward, the heavy balls of the
governor whirled, -the whirr of the machinery
overhead went on, all with unchanging regular-
ity, as if there were one strong will in it di-
recting everything for its own purpose. Such
harmony and regularity in a mere machine,
such disorder in human character and action!
thought I."
"But we are not machines, John," said
Hope, "but living creatures, subject to change
and imperfection."
304
Earnest Living.
"But is there not a possibility of our attain-
ing to something of the steadiness of mere
matter?"
"How can it be done?" asked Bessie.
"There is a controlling power over the ma-
chine, a master hand that guides its working,
and to which it is wholly submissive. If it
loses that restraint, and asserts its own suprem-
acy, it becomes an instrument of evil instead
of good."
66
"I see," said Hope, thoughtfully ; "if all our
ways were under the control of a higher will,
we should act harmoniously and evenly."
"Yes; and efficiently, energetically, with no
loss of power or conflicting of desires."
"It would be like the living creatures in the
prophet's vision, John; they went straight for-
ward, and turned not as they went, for the Spirit
of God was in their wheels.”
"And I think, Bessie," said John, "that
when that Spirit directs the course of our daily
A Talk with Fohn.
305
lives, all small things, as well as great, move on
evenly together to the fulfillment of one great
purpose."
"And that is
what?"
"To glorify God."
"And to enjoy Him," said Hope. "Let us
not forget He made us for that, too; and enjoy-
ment is so sweet.”
"But to glorify first, and enjoy afterwards,
the enjoyment flowing from our work, our sub-
mission, our faith.”
"Then, cousin John, you think my busy
hands were made for that 'chief end,' as well
as Hope's pretty face and bright thoughits? And
I hope I shall attain it, though it seems far off."
"You two ought to help each other. There
is so much Christian work to be done, within
and without. Hope does not go out of herself
enough; she wants
""
"A heart at leisure from itself to soothe
and sympathize,'" interrupted Hope, quoting
20€
306
Earnest Living.
against herself the words of Miss Waring's
beautiful hymn.
"And when you, Bessie, have learned the
Master's spirit, you will go out with it to aid
others, and do good to bodies and souls as He
teaches you."
"If I only could, cousin John!" said she,
her face lighting up with a glow of enthusiasm.
"And you must take Hope into the work
with you, keep her busy, body, heart, and
hand, and show her how to combine Mar-
tha's industrious service with Mary's gentle
graces."
Bessie went back to the kitchen with flushed
cheeks and eyes tender and dewy. This Chris-
tian life that seemed so high and pure, could
she ever attain it? This field of labor for oth-
ers, which she longed for, which was just what
she needed, when would she enter it? How
many efforts and failures, how much wavering
and deferring, there had been! When would
A Talk with Fohn.
307
she learn to yield the guidance of her ways to
the will of God?
"John spoke to me," said she, when she
was alone with Hope, " as if I should certainly
be a Christian some day, but I am no nearer
now than ever."
"Perhaps you are trying of yourself alone,
and forgetting Christ, that He is the door by
which we enter in."
“The idea of doing nothing myself does not
please me, Hope, I confess. I want to work,
and Christ, it seems to me, does not mean to
save me till I have made some greater effort
than I can yet bring myself to. You will tell
me differently, and it is not best to discuss the
matter.'
Thus Bessie went out wandering into the
darkness to find the Saviour who stood at her
very door, knocking and pleading to enter in.
And Hope, left alone once more, leaned, as
never formerly, on the strength of the unfailing
308
Earnest Living.
Arm, following the beloved one with thought
and prayer to new dangers and trials, and find-
ing the sweet waters of comfort even in the val-
ley of Baca.

CHAPTER XXII.
THE WAY FOUND.
"Our wills are ours, we know not how;
Our wills are ours, to make them Thine."

LETTER from Mrs. Grosvenor came to
Hope one day,
a few words of kind re-
membrance and sympathy that brought
tears to her eyes, and made her long to feel
once more the clasp of the hand that wrote
them. But she put aside the note, saying to her-
self, "A mere pleasant acquaintance, who will
forget me in a few weeks longer! Why should
I cherish so the remembrance of those days?”
School-work came next, a new term, with
hard study, into which Hope tried to throw
herself with all her heart, and thus made un-
wonted progress. Miss Mason had left school,-
a great loss to Hope. But there was a gentle,
309
310
Earnest Living.
quiet spirit among the school-girls that pervaded
work and recreation. There was less of the
old talk about dress and beaux, more thought-
fulness about rules and diligence in study, with
mutual good-will, and marked attention to the
morning and evening devotions, or to any ear-
nest word spoken by the teachers.
The weekly prayer-meeting, at which for-
merly only a small proportion of the girls had
been present, was now attended by nearly all;
and tearful eyes and bowed heads witnessed
that the simple services were no unmeaning
•
form. So quiet and natural was all this that
even those who watched and prayed most car-
nestly felt a thrill of astonishment when it be-
came evident that the Spirit of God had touched
one heart after another, and that many were
considering deeply the solemn issues of life and
death. Bessie was silent, avoiding all allusion
to her own feelings, and even frequently refus-
The Way Found.
311
ing to attend the prayer-meeting, as it had been
her former custom to do.
It was a pleasant time to Hope. She looked
back over the summer days just passed, recall-
ing how, in her hour of deepest need, Christ
had been near, helping her to endure, and rais-
ing her from doubts and distrust into a bright
assurance that was like a constant song in her
heart. And then the bringing back of her
brother, as it were from the dead, the quick-
ening of their affection by hours of sweet con-
verse, the strength which had been given her
to bear a second separation, -when she thought
of all these things, they seemed like a special
call to consecration to the service of the Mas-
ter. And now this moving of her soul to
prayer and labor for others was unlike any
former experience. "This," she said to herself
with sacred awe, "this is the prompting of
God's Spirit." How sweet it was to speak to
others, as she sometimes ventured to do, of the
312
Earnest Living.
blessed consolations of Christian faith, of the
joy there is in a life made the most of, through
high endeavor and pure aspiration, and of
those noble aims which make the fleeting years
of earth more sublime, perhaps, than even those
of eternity.
But what could Hope do for Bessie? She
scarcely dared speak to her for fear of doing
her harm; but prayer went up from her inmost
soul, and she knew that the mother who
watched over her daughter's welfare so anx-
iously was also offering intercessions with ten-
der constancy.
One Friday afternoon the girls were passing
from the school-hall to the smaller room in
which they were accustomed to meet for prayer.
Only two or three were going away, but Bessie
was of the number. Hope laid her hand gently
upon her cousin's arm. "Bessie, dear," said
she, “you will stay with me to-day?'
وا
I think I'd better go," said she, with ap-.
The Way Found.
313
parent indifference. "See how near sunset it
is."
"Wait for my sake, please; it is pleasant to
have your company home."
Bessie laid aside her hat silently, and fol-
lowed Hope to the room, where some twenty
or thirty had already gathered. The hush was
broken by the opening hymn; and then, one
after another, simple, heartfelt prayers were of-
fered for God's presence and blessing with the
souls that were seeking Him. Some verses of
Scripture were read by the teacher who guided
the meeting, and she paused with this: "And
thou, Solomon, my son, know thou the God of
thy father, and serve Him with a perfect heart
and with a willing mind; for the Lord search-
eth all hearts, and understandeth all the imagi-
nations of the thoughts: if thou seek Him, He
will be found of thee; but if thou forsake Him,
He will cast thee off for ever." She almost
trembled with the greatness of the thought.
314
Earnest Living.
This solemn choice, which David set before his
son, was that which she was to present to those
before her, dear to her almost as her own soul.
She looked from one to another of the young
faces turned toward her, and prayed silently
that the few words she was to say might be
prompted from above. Then she spoke of the
power that lies with each one of accepting or
refusing, of the greatness of the offered gift and
the fearfulness of rejecting it, and the lasting
loneliness of the soul which, through its own
deliberate choice, God "shall cast off for ever."
"Remember," she said, "that God most fully
and freely offers you His loving favor in Christ.
There is no lack on His part. You have only
to take what he gives, only to open your hearts
to receive Him into them. And if you forsake
Him, and choose the bitterness and loss of an
eternity separated from His goodness and beau-
ty, it will be not because He would have it so,
The Way Found.
315
not because His love has known the shadow of
a change, but because you would have it so.'
The last sunset glow was lingering in the
west, as with voices tremulous and tender they
sang at parting,—
"Softly now the light of day
Fades upon my sight away;
Free from care, from labor free,
Lord, I would converse with Thee.
"Soon for me the light of day
Shall for ever pass away;
Then, from sin and sorrow free,
Take me, Lord, to dwell with Thee."
Bessie and Hope walked home in silence,
each busy with her own thoughts. And after
supper, Bessie went to her room, while Hope
sat below writing to John.
66
When Hope awoke the next morning, she
found Bessie standing by her bedside, with an
unwonted light on her face. Hope," said
she, rapidly and gladly, "I think I have found
the way at last. Perhaps I am wrong, but all
316
Earnest Living.
seems plain to me. I have been trying my
own way, seeking to be better of myself, before
coming to Christ. But as I was thinking of it
for the hundredth time last night, long after
you were asleep, the folly of attempting to save
myself suddenly flashed upon me. As if, when
Christ has died for me, that were not enough!
Then those words that I have heard so often
came to mind, 'Just as I am;' and I felt all
that they mean, and that they were for me as
well as for others. And I think I have come
to Him, or rather He has come to me, and I
have just stretched out my hands and put them
in His, those dear hands which were pierced
for me on the cross, and which now, I think,
will lead me on all the rest of my life. What
can have kept me from them so long?" said
she, while tears gathered in her eyes, — happy
tears, which were soon wiped away as she and
Hope talked together of this new-found blessed-
ness.
The Way Found.
317
"I feel," said Bessie, "as if I wished to
speak to every one of this good thing which 1
have, so new and beautiful that it seems as if
I alone of all the world possessed it. But I
must tell my mother,
with me?”
will she not be glad

D
O.CHUR
DETTE
7
CHAPTER XXIII.
DO THE DUTY THAT LIES NEAREST THEE.
"The trivial round, the common task,
Should furnish all we ought to ask;
Room to deny ourselves; a road
To bring us daily nearer God.”
HE girls had gathered around the school-
room fire one chilly November morning,
discussing in quiet yet animated tones
their plans for future work and pleasure. The
change of feeling that had come to several
made their talk of a more earnest kind than it
had formerly been.
"I am intending to teach," said Carrie
March, "and I do not mean that it shall be
mere monotonous drudgery. Why should it
be, if one is wide awake, and loves her pupils
and wants to do them good? "
318
Do the Duty Nearest Thee.
319
"If such a thing were possible to me," said
another, "I would like to write a book as ex-
traordinary as Uncle Tom's Cabin, and gain
fame and money too.
And what is your ambi-
tion, Annie Harris?" continued the speaker,
turning to a tall, graceful girl who was listen-
ing smilingly.
"I must confess that your ideas are grander
than mine. I am not sure that I have any am-
bition. But there is always enough to do in
our family, with cooking, and mending, and
sewing. If I should go away to teach, what
would father and mother do? or if I should
try to be literary, who would look after the
stockings? I am made to be a dull, domestic
bird, and not to soar away on such high flights
as you feminine eagles and sky-larks.'
"Don't laugh at us," said Carrie March.
"School-teaching is not a very lofty employ-
ment."
"I think that I," said Bessie Ross, "shall be
320
Earnest Living.
obliged to follow Annie's course, though I am
not very well satisfied with it.”
"It is the height of my ambition," said
Grace Low, tossing her head coquettishly, " to
be married, and have a handsome house and
abundance of money. And if you all told the
truth, perhaps you would say the same thing."
Bessie looked somewhat scornful, but did not
reply. Carrie Harch said, "Perhaps you did
not need to tell us your aim, Grace. We could
have guessed it."
"Whether we are married or single," said
Hope, "I trust we all mean to be worth some-
thing; as Miss Loring says, 'to make the world
better for our living in it.""
"Dear me!" said Grace Low, "I would like
to know what we can do for the world. As if
we might not have a good time and be merry,
without running around all the time with
tracts, or bowls of soup for poor folks! I think
Do the Duty Nearest Thee.
321
the world would get along just as well without
us, Miss Wallace.”
66
Perhaps it would, but I am sure we were
not made to be idle in it."
"My conscience is easy on that score," said
Grace. "I wore the skin off my fingers scrap-
ing lint for the soldiers last spring, and I looked
as charming as I could in a tableau for their
benefit. And I knit a pair of abominable blue
woolen socks for them, that is, I knit a few
inches, and coaxed grandma into doing the
rest, which was all the same."
"After such Herculean efforts, Grace," said
Annie, "nothing more ought to be expected of
you during the term of your natural life. As
for the rest of us, I agree with Miss Wallace,
that we have no right to be idle in a world
where there is so much earnest work to be
done."
"I have been thinking," said
we defer our work too much.
Bessie, "that
Why need we
21
322
Earnest Living.
wait till we are through school, and scattered
here and there?"
"What can we do?" said Carrie March.
"We have our Soldiers' Aid Society, which
gives us as much occupation as we ought to
have, beyond school-work."
66
Why not have a Sabbath school," asked
Bessie, "in some distant part of the town?
There are places where we could gather chil-
dren enough to give two or three of us, at least,
something to do."
"A good thought," said Annie, “but is it
not too late in the season to attempt it? Win-
ter is hardly the season for such an undertak-
ing."
"Perhaps so," said Bessie; "but I mean to
try in the spring, if any one will help me."
"I pledge myself," said Carrie.
"Then there will be Hope, and Chattie Ma-
son, and you. I wish it were spring now."
66
Perhaps we ought to ask," said Hope,
Do the Duty Nearest Thee.
323
"what there is for us to do now and here in
school. Are there not some scholars whom we
have neglected to treat as kindly as we ought?"
"It vexes me," said Bessie, "to see how
some of the girls behave toward poor Susan
Holmes."
"She does not know but we admire her,"
said Grace Low.
"She may be keener than you think," said
Bessie; "and in either case it is wrong to
make sport of her."
"It is not long," said Grace, "since you
yourself were asking her to sing, when you
know that she has a voice like a crow."
Bessie blushed crimson.
"I did that once,
Grace,” said she," and I am ashamed of myself
for it."
"Then it would be more suitable for you not
to lecture the rest of us for following your ex-
ample."
324
Earnest Living.
"I would not do it now," said Bessie, "and
I wish you would not."
"You have taken upon yourself," said Grace,
"to be a monitor to us all since you became
religious. For my part, I do not see much
change in you. You are as lively as ever, and
as for the elegant Miss Holmes, I suspect that
you would be no more willing to walk and talk
with her than the rest of us."
"Grace," said Annie Harris, "you are talk-
ing very strangely to Bessie. I believe quite
differently from her in many things, but I am
sure she is trying to do right, and lives better
than you or I do. As for Susan Holmes, I
mean to begin this very day to see what I can
do to make her happier."
"Try to make her dress more tastefully in
the first place," said Grace, unabashed by An-
nie's rebuke.
"Let us see that not one of the scholars,"
said Hope, "though ever so poor, awkward,
Do the Duty Nearest Thee.
325
and ill-dressed, ever feels lonely or neglected
among us. It is a very little thing for us to
do, it may be a great thing to them.”
"I never thought of it much," said Carrie.
"I have looked away to the heathen, or for-
ward to the scholars I shall teach by and by,
when I have thought about doing good. It is
certainly foolish to neglect these opportunities
that lie near us, and I mean to seek them out
in' future."
"There's the school-bell, girls," said Grace,
"and you must forget your philanthropy for a
while. I hope it may last till noon."
Bessie drew her cousin aside at the recess.
Looking somewhat sad, she said, "Grace Low
thinks she does not see any change in me.
Perhaps I am mistaken, Hope. I felt very an-
gry with her, and that certainly is not Chris-
tianlike."
"She spoke rudely and unkindly to you,
326
Earnest Living.
Bessie, and her opinion about you is scarcely
worth noticing."
66
Perhaps not. It has made me think how
often I have said nearly the same things of
those who professed to be Christians. How
uncharitable I was! And I do and say so
many wrong things now that I can not wonder
if others judge me in the same way.'
""
"We will remember for our comfort," said
Hope, "that Christ is our judge, the Friend
麝
​who knows us wholly, yet 'loves us better than
He knows.'
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE SCARLET RIBBON.
"The virtue lies
In the struggle, not the prize."
OME lives are marked by great extremes of
joy and sorrow, lying now under full sun-
shine, and then beneath deepest shadows.
But the experience of more is like the day de-
scribed by the prophet, "neither clear nor
dark." Theirs are not sorrows which stir the
heart's depths, nor mountain heights of bliss,
but a common road, in which, though the gar-
ments may be soiled with dust and torn with
thorns, the experience is only that common to
pilgrims. Sometimes this becomes wearisome
indeed. Instead of bearing bravely the present
burden, we gather all the past and all the fu-
ture upon ourselves, and stagger under the
327
328
Earnest Living.
threefold weight that was never intended for
us.
Bessie Ross had had an even and sunny life,
and now that Christian love and faith had part
in it, it went singing on its way like a glad
stream through green meadows. Yet all the
more was she sometimes surprised and fretted
at difficulties so small in themselves that it was
vexing even to recognize them as such. Aunt
Jemima and Bessie seemed destined never to
harmonize, the more perhaps from the fact that
there was a certain likeness between them, un-
derlying many external differences.
One morning, before setting out for school,
Bessie had bound her light hair with a new
scarlet ribbon, taking pleasure in Hope's assur-
ance, seconded by that of her looking-glass,
that it was very becoming. But Aunt Jemima,
who was in a "mood" that morning, looked at
her sharply over her spectacles as soon as she
appeared. "It seems to me, Betsey," said she
The Scarlet Ribbon.
329
at last, after completing the survey, “that such
heathen gewgaws are anything but right."
"To what do you refer?" asked Bessie,
somewhat amused; "to the embroidery on my
sleeves, or the ring you gave me on my last
birthday?”
"You know well enough that I mean that
red ribbon in your hair. How can you call
yourself a Christian, while you are so fond of
vanities?"
And
“I am not fond of vanities, Aunt Jemima,
but I do not see any harm in a ribbon.
why is scarlet more heathenish than purple?"
retorted Bessie, glancing at the trimming upon
her aunt's cap.
"There are things that are suitable, and
things that are unsuitable," said Aunt Jemima,
with an air of authority.
66
Hope thought this ribbon was very pretty
and becoming, and I have no doubt that
mother will say the same."
330
Earnest Living.
"Perhaps they say just what you wish them.
But I mean it for your good, when I say that
as long as your heart is set upon trifles, there
is no evidence that you have been converted."
"If it will satisfy you, then, Aunt Jemima,"
said Bessie, "I will take off the poor little sin-
ful ribbon."
She tried to speak mildly, but she felt a
whole tempest of indignation rising, as she
rushed up-stairs and threw the ribbon into a
drawer. "Hope," said she, "I want to walk
to school alone, if you will excuse me;" and
she hurried away without further explanation,
trusting that a solitary walk would aid her in
calming herself. She went on rapidly till
she came to the stream, where she sat down
for a few minutes, partly recovered from her
vexation with Aunt Jemima, but still angry
and discouraged with herself for having been
vexed.
The little stream rippled on and seemed al-
The Scarlet Ribbon.
331
most to mock her tumultuous thoughts. She
recollected the little German story, which Hope
had lately read to her, of Undine, the water-
nymph, the gay, frolicsome creature, who
won herself a soul by experience of human
love and sorrow. Would it not be better, she
asked, to be born without an immortality than
to be so vexed and tossed, so exposed to evil,
and so constantly inclined to yield? And a
whole lifetime of such experiences,
good fruits for God or man could result from
that? As well, said she, to have no soul as to
waste it so. At this instant her meditations
were interrupted by a light step behind her,
and looking around, she saw her teacher, Miss
Loring. "You are early this morning," said
the latter. "I am glad to find a companion
for my walk."
what
"I would like to talk with you a little,"
said Bessie, looking the trouble she scarcely
knew how to express.
332
Earnest Living.
"You do not seem as cheerful as usual,"
said Miss Loring. "Have you come to one of
those sloughs of despond which seem to lie in
the way of all pilgrims?"
""
"It is an insignificant slough, I suppose,'
said Bessie, "but I seem to be fast in it. Some
persons vex me, Miss Loring, but I vex myself
much more. This morning I feel as if I had
no right to think myself a Christian. I am so
different from others, from you, for exam-
ple, and cousin Hope, who is always calm and
even.”
"I am not always calm and even," said
Miss Loring, smiling, "and for that reason can
perhaps help you the better. In the first
place, it is not well to compare yourself fre-
quently with others. The Spirit of God leads
as He will, by different ways. We can not be
alike in our Christian characters more than in
other respects. Only let us be sure that we
are under His leading, that is enough."
The Scarlet Ribbon.
333
"I do feel a purpose to press on toward
God, and to serve Him only. But is it not
strange that I do not hate sin more, and turn
from it wholly ?
"Not strange that you are not free from it
all at once; that does not seem to be God's
way of working. He does His greater works
slowly, as the growing of a tree, a human
body. And what is so great a work as the
growth of a redeemed soul into the likeness of
Christ? And perhaps one reason why He de-
signs us to struggle with sin so long and hard,
is that we may thus learn to hate it as the
worst and craftiest of enemies.”
"It will be a very slow growth with me, I
fear. Some seem to be good all at once, al-
most naturally."
"The growth is oftener slow, but yet always
sure and beautiful. But why should you ex-
pect to be in all respects like others? This
oak overhead is unlike the pine yonder, and
334
Earnest Living.
both very different from the twining vine. Yet
each is God's handiwork, and good in His
sight."
"If I am not like others, I am glad that I
can get help from them," said Bessie, “as I do
from you, Miss Loring."
"Do not depend too much even upon that,"
said Miss Loring. "Only as you look to
Christ are you truly safe."
That afternoon, when Miss Loring spoke in
the girls' prayer-meeting, the thought of the
morning conversation seemed to be still in her
mind. "Do not," she said, "look too much
within yourselves. In the soul is indeed
. enough to alarm and trouble us, but it is from
without that salvation comes. It is not the
cross which we bear that brings us aid, but
that which the Saviour bore. Nor is it by our
incessant strife and labor that the kingdom is
won, since Jesus has purchased it for us. It
is as much the violence of love as that of labor
The Scarlet Ribbon.
335
which gives us the entrance into it, or, rather,
fits us for the indwelling of the Lord, since
He has told us that the kingdom of God is.
within our souls. Keep your faces ever to the
light, and in the love and sight of that—not
in the contemplation of the darkness within-
you will be changed from darkness to light."
As Hope and Bessie crossed the stream on
their homeward way, the latter said, "I am so
glad I have a soul, Hope!'
"What made you think of that?" asked
Hope, laughing. Then Bessie told the incident
of the morning, and her half-envy of Undine,
the fancied water-spirit. "It seemed so hard
to work and struggle all one's days," said she;
"but now it looks noble and grand. To be like
Christ, to share in His work and fight against
sin, - that is being a real soldier."
"It is what John used to tell me," said
Hope; "but I am not a very valiant soldier."
"You have not so much to contend with as
336
Earnest Living.
I. Think of being angry about a ribbon!
Though it was very becoming, after all, was it
not, Hope?"
"No doubt Aunt Jemima will be reconciled
to it by and by, and wish you to wear it.'
""
"I think," said Bessie, "that I ought to
make apologies to Aunt Jemima, as soon as I
get home.'
""
That lady met them at the door with a smile.
She had had her thoughts about the event of
the morning as well as Bessie. "Aunt Jemi-
ma," said Bessie, quickly, "I am sorry that I
spoke to you in such a way this morning. It
was rude and wrong in me, and I hope you
will excuse it."
"You are a good girl, Bessie," said her
aunt, “though you are too much of a fly-away,
sometimes. As for the ribbon, I have been
thinking that perhaps I was wrong. I have
had your mother's geraniums before my eyes all
day, like a perfect fire of blossoms, and there
The Scarlet Ribbon.
337
certainly was no sin in that. And if you want
to wear the ribbon to-morrow I should not ob-
ject, though you look so pretty in it, Bessie,
that I am afraid you will feel vain."
"You see," said Bessie, as she and Hope
went up-stairs, "that Aunt Jemima comes
right when she really considers things."
"Proved," said Hope, laughing, "by the
compliment she paid you, by way of caution
against vanity."
22
CHAPTER XXV.
WITH THE CHILDREN.
"Little souls that stand expectant,
Listening at the gates of life,
Hearing far away the murmur
Of the tumult and the strife;
We, who fight beneath those banners,
Meeting ranks of foemen there,
Find a deeper, broader meaning
In your simple vesper prayer."
HE winter came again, but many things
made it brighter to Hope than the pre-
ceding one. A delightful home-feeling
had grown in her heart. Mrs. Ross always
abounded in those little acts of thoughtful love
which mark the true mother's heart; and
Hope and Bessie had now many thoughts and
sympathies in common, and were daily growing
to be more and more of helpers to each other.
Hope occasionally received letters from Fanny
338
With the Children.
339
Sayle, scrawled in a disjointed child's hand,
but precious nevertheless. Into Fanny's life
sunshine seemed to be gradually stealing.
"Since I have known you," she would say,
"and learned to love what is good and right,
every one seems different. Grandmother is so
kind, and papa takes so much notice of me, that
I am surprised at it. I find things that I can
do for them too, and am getting to be a very
useful little woman. I can even reconcile my-
self to taking a needle in my hand now and then,
which I used to hate. As for Hilary, he is the
same good creature as ever, and I can't give
up my frolics with him, though I am growing
so staid and womanly."
One of Hope's winter pleasures was an occa-
sional visit to Chattie Mason. Scarcely a week
went by that the two girls did not pass several
hours together, sometimes living over again,
as both liked to do, their summer weeks to-
gether at the sea-shore, but oftener speaking
340
Earnest Living.
of the distant brothers in the army, thus far
spared to them through many vicissitudes.
John had been promoted; Harry was hoping
the same. Neither seemed to lose the enthusi-
asm which had led him into the country's ser-
vice.
Many plans did the sisters form for future
enjoyment, when the war should be over, and
the absent ones safely returned, when the
-
anxiety that always lurked in the depth of their
hearts should be exchanged for satisfaction and
security.
Dr. Lee sometimes came in of an evening,
when Hope was at the Masons'. He was always
fresh and original, though a trifle too blunt for
Hope's taste. But Chattie and he were always
on good terms. She was so gentle, and had
withal such respect for his opinions, that his
lurking vanity was agreeably soothed, while
Hope occasionally differed from him, — a thing
With the Children.
341
which seemed to the doctor almost unpardona-
ble in a woman.
Hope had established a pleasant acquaintance
with the juvenile Masons, and they had lost
their shyness of her so far as to admit her into
all the secrets of their dolls' histories, and to
allow her to assist in building and conducting
the railway trains which were running through
the nursery at all hours of the day. Little
Johnny, the round, rosy four-years-old boy, was
the chief engineer, and talked largely about
locomotives, freight-trains, and accommodation-
trains, whistling so loudly that baby's naps
were endangered, and the nursery kept in an
uproar. Nothing but a story could beguile
Master Johnny from his trains, and Hope liked
to take the little fellow in her lap, and revive
her childish memories of Mother Goose or
Cock Robin, or draw upon her imagination for
something new, while the child's large brown
eyes would dilate with wonder and delight.
342
Earnest Living.
Sometimes the stories turned upon soldiers'
adventures, after which Johnny would arm
himself with miniature gun and sword, and
march to the accompaniment of his own drum-
ming, crying out, "Look out, look out, webels
here comes Captain Johnny to kill you dead!"
"I do not like to have Johnny a soldier,"
Hope would say; "let us put away the drum,
and have something prettier, that baby won't
be afraid of."
"No! Jack's a soldier, and Harry's a sol-
dier, and Johnny will be a soldier too," was his
persistent reply.
"Never mind," Chattie would say; "I am
glad that it is only in play that Johnny can be
a soldier. Perhaps the time will come, before
he dies, that there will be no more wars upon
the earth.'
,,
"The day seems far off," Hope would sigh.
Johnny was most charming when all his
warlike exploits were over, and the long eye-
With the Children.
343
lashes began to droop over the bright eyes,
and he was ready for bed, except the evening
prayer, which he liked to say to Hope, kneel-
ing at her feet. In the midst of his childish
petitions came once a long pause. Then he
went on again. "Miss Wallace," said he, when
he had finished, "do you want to know what
made me stop in the middle of my prayer?
Well, I got thinking about my trains, and how
one of them ran over a pig, and that was so
funny that I thought the laugh would come
out. But I knew that would be wicked, and I
stopped and said, 'Get thee behind me, Herod ;'
and so you see I could go right on again."
"That is better than conquering a rebel,
Johnny," said Hope, suppressing a smile.
In the morning Johnny's little bare feet
would patter along the short passage to Chat-
tie's room, and bounding in, with a fresh glow
upon his rosy cheeks, he would say, "I got up
all alone. And I said, 'Jesus, tender Shep-
344
Earnest Living.
herd,' without you, Chattie. Yes, and 'Hear
me' too."
Then he would creep into the bed and bury
his brown curls among the blankets, and beg
for stories.
"What would the children do if you should
go away, Chattie ?" asked Hope.
"I shall perhaps never go away,” she replied,
blushing slightly."
"There is Sarah, growing up fast, to be sure,
and she is wonderfully like you, Chattie ; so you
are not quite indispensable."
"Johnny," said his sister, smiling, "would
you like to have Chattie go away and leave
you?"
The little fellow looked into her face with an
almost broken-hearted expression; then, throw-
ing himself into her arms, he exclaimed,
66
Johnny will not let sister go away! Johnny
would be sick and die!"
"What do you think now of my being indis-
With the Children,
345
pensable, Hope?" she asked, as she soothed
the child with assurances that she would not
leave him.
"It is pleasant to be so dear to any one,"
said Hope. "It makes me feel useless and self-
ish to be here and see how much you do for
others. Only I am afraid I could never have
skill and patience to manage as you do.”-
"It is not hard to work for those we love.
Affection teaches tact and patience, and seems
sometimes even to put new strength into tired
bones and muscles."
"You are in no danger of growing selfish.'
""
"There is not much time to think about self,
to be sure. I suppose my danger lies in another
direction; only I am too busy to find out where.
Generally, all the thoughts that come to me
when I am with the children go outside myself.
How Christ loved them! He loves and blesses
them still, I think, and, through them, all who
care for them.”
346
Earnest Living.
"What other thoughts, Chattie?" asked
Hope softly, a tenderness in her heart, as if she
felt the Shepherd's presence near.
6
"This too: Like as a father pitieth his chil-
dren, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him.'
I pity the children so much in their little griev-
ances, and so He pities us, in our small griefs
as well as our great ones.
""
"Pitieth!" said Hope; "that is just what we
want for some moods; not so much anything
done for us or said to us, but just to lie still,
as children do, in their mothers' arms, when
they are tired or grieved, and be pitied."
"You
are crying, Miss Wallace," said
Johnny, putting up his chubby hand to wipe
away the tears. "Say 'Jesus, tender Shepherd,'
and you will feel better."
“You are a good little preacher, Johnny,'
said she, -"better than many older and wiser
ones."
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE LIFE OF FAITH.
"Give me, Thou who art the soul's renewer,
Steadfast faith, which day by day grows truer ;
Kindle love, the fruit of faith, in me,—
Love which puts the soul in active motion,
Love which fills the heart with true devotion,
And which leads me through the world to Thee."
ESSIE'S scheme of activity had had a long
winter in which to come to perfection.
Many a stormy day had she and Hope
sat together sewing, and discussed ways and
means, built air-castles, laughed over fancied
difficulties, and resolved to bear discourage-
ments bravely. It may be believed, too, that
more earnest thoughts were in their minds than
they always uttered to each other, — desires to
do their work in the Master's name, and prayers
that His Spirit might give it success.

347
348
Earnest Living.
“We must have a gentleman to superintend
our Sabbath school," said Bessie, one day, “and
I can not think of any one. If John were only
here!"
"Will that if ever be out of the way?" asked
Hope, sadly. "I am so tired, waiting for
John."
Mrs. Ross looked up from her rocking-chair
by the window, where she used to sit and listen
to the pleasant ripple of girl-talk, seldom tak-
ing any part in it, except an occasional sugges-
tion or word of encouragement.
"That was said in a tone of complaint very
unusual to my patient Hope," said she, in a voice
so gentle that the slight reproof had no sever-
ity.
"I know it was a complaint, auntie. This
storm has kept back his letters so long that I
could hardly help it. And the war drags its
hopeless length along, and seems no nearer an
end."
The Life of Faith.
349
"Think of Fort Donelson," said Bessie,
"which we were all exulting over the other
day, and don't give up yet, Hope."
"I do not give up; only I am in a wicked
mood, I suppose. Everything seems wrong to
me to-day. It is like the lines I was reading
to you yesterday, auntie,-
'I live always in pain,
My life's sad undersong,-
Pain in itself not hard to bear,
But hard to bear so long.'”
Hope, as she looked up and saw a slight smile
on her aunt's face, exclaimed almost passion-
ately, "It can't be that you would laugh at
me, Aunt Mary!"
"I am only thinking, my dear," she replied,
"that sunshine and exercise would cure your
wicked mood better than anything else. You
are not to blame for it."
Come," said Bessie, always ready with a
practical solution to every difficulty, "let us go
350
Earnest Living.
up into the garret, and overhaul one of those
boxes of old clothing which we are to remodel
for the benefit of our future Sabbath-school
scholars. It is not very cold, and we will take
some bean-bags with us, and try our old gym-
nastic feats."
Hope assented somewhat indifferently, but
her aunt was pleased to see her return an hour
later with her usual bright face. "I am almost
ashamed to own myself better for a romp in
the garret. Not very consistent, am I?" she ·
said, as she gathered up her falling hair, "but:
now I can wait patiently for my letter till to-
morrow.
""
"And, mother," said Bessie, "we have found
old dresses enough to give us employment if
the storm should last a week longer. I can see
in my mind's eye, Horatio,'" she added, bow-
ing to Hope, "some little yellow-haired crea-
ture blooming out in my old scarlet thibet, or
a tall, flaxen-haired girl made happy by Aunt
The Life of Faith.
351
Mima's cast-off pea-green wrapper. I am go-
ing to work at ripping this instant."
"Perhaps Hope will read aloud to us," said
her aunt. "I want to hear more of good
George Müller."
So Hope read the simple but wonderful re-
cords of the "Life of Faith," and felt her own
courage and strength growing through the in-
fluence, as the fluid in the thermometer rises
at the touch of the warm hand.
"This is very strange," said Hope, pausing
after a while, "almost like a new age of mira-
cles. But is not Müller an uncommon man?
Are such things possible to us ordinary folk?”
"He is only a man," said her aunt; "un-
common not in what he is in himself, but in
what he obtains from God through believing
prayer."
"It is a great power to be given to a man,
but he had a great work to do."
"It is the work which God put into his
352
Earnest Living.
heart," said Mrs. Ross, "and to each one who
trusts Him He will give just the grace needed
for the performance of duty and the endurance
of trials."
"I feel ashamed," said Hope, "that I ever
doubt for a moment, and am ready to resolve
never to do so again.
""
Bessie called from the opposite side of the
room, where, engrossed with her work, she had
heard only snatches of the reading and conver-
sation. "Hope, please help me lay this pat
tern straight. That will make a good dress, if
I can only manage to leave out the faded
breadth;" and she leaned her plump cheek
upon her hand, and surveyed the pea-green
cashmere with an air of weighty consideration.
"This is somewhat dark for a summer cos-
tume," said Hope. "But April and May are
chilly months, and we must provide for the
nearest emergency first. There is a box of
summer clothes which will have its turn next."
The Life of Faith.
353
In planning, ripping, and cutting, the day
wore away, and twilight brought Hope the de-
sired letter from her brother, a ray of sun-
shine amid the evening's shadows. If John
was ever despondent, weary, homesick, Hope
did not know it. But sometimes of late she
had seemed to detect an undertone in his let-
ters that she could hardly explain to herself.
Was he really sad, or did she merely fancy it?
Was it a presentiment of ill? Spring was com-
ing, with its new scenes of danger and strife.
Would he be brought through them safely?
Was there to be a repetition of the long, sick-
ening experience of the preceding summer, or
perhaps some sharp, quick stroke, that should
at once end all ?
Hope turned her head wearily upon her pil-
low, in such meditations. Then, like the fra-
grance of sweet blossoms, there came to her the
remembrance of the "Life of Faith;" and then
that of the summer night, when, amid her fears
23
354
Earnest Living.
and anxieties, the Lord had comforted her with
His presence. "I trust Him!" she said; "I
trust Him with all!" and closed her eyes for
peaceful dreams.

७
CHAPTER XXVII.
PROSPECTING.
"The primal duties shine aloft like stars;
The charities that soothe and heal and bless
Are scattered at the feet of men, like flowers."
HE winter lasted long; and persistent
rains kept the ways nearly impassable, till
Bessie's impatience to commence her en-
terprise became very great. Day after day
she watched to see the last patches of snow
vanish from the hillsides, and the soil become
really terra firma. Warm rains came with
April, and every drop upon the window-pane
was music in Bessie's ears. There was some
preliminary "prospecting" to be done, and it
was at last safe to appoint a day for the expe-
dition.
A genuine April day it proved, with coy
355
356
Earnest Living.
gleams of sunshine and frequent showers, and,
as Bessie said, a general springiness about
everything. Seffle was harnessed as soon as
dinner was over, and the girls, equipped with
waterproofs and umbrellas, laughed at Aunt
Jemima's anxiety as to the colds and coughs
that were likely to follow such an expedition.
Mrs. Ross' fears were of a different kind, and
Bessie had been forewarned, in many a conver-
sation with her mother, of the need of tact and
prudence, in which she sometimes was wanting.
Beyond the stream, and lying between it and
the nearest factory village, was a stretch of
pine barrens, dotted with huts whose external
appearance was indicative of every degree of
discomfort within. It was a somewhat un-
promising field, but, to Bessie's mind, the bet-
ter for that. With no preaching, and almost
no Sabbath, the little community on the plain
bore the reputation of heathens, to whom no
missionary had ever found his way. "You
Prospecting.
357
can not do anything with these wretches," one
and another had remarked; "better find a
more hopeful set."
It had been difficult to find a person who
was willing to act as superintendent, but Bessie.
had been sure that the right one would yet pre-
sent himself. Yet she was scarcely prepared
to recognize the "right one" in Dr. Lee, when
Chattie Mason mentioned him.
"He is so
blunt and decided that he will want everything
in his own way," she said afterwards to Hope.
"And leave you no authority?" asked Hope,
smiling. "His decided character makes him
just the helper we should need in any diffi-
culty."
66
Well, as there seems to be no other, we
must make the best of him," said Bessie, rather
ungraciously.
So the matter was settled, at least after Dr.
Lee's consent had been won by Chattie's inter-
cession, and through his professional acquaint-
358
Earnest Living.
ance with the families on the plain, some valu-
able suggestions were made.
Hope and Bessie had in the first place to
gain the consent of the "committee" to their
occupation of the school-house on Sundays.
This was the most formidable task of all. Mr.
Harding had the reputation of being rough and
surly, and an infidel. But Dr. Lee had given
them a note of introduction, and Bessie appre-
hended no difficulty.
"This is work I like to do," said Bessie, as
they set forth, Seffle starting at a jog as lively
as if he sympathized with his mistress' zeal.
"My courage begins to fail," said Hope. "I
should prefer something on a smaller scale, as
to read the Testament with my little Fanny
Sayle."
"I like to see many faces about me," replied
Bessie, "and hear voices uniting in the same
words. I should not make a good hermit."
Prospecting.
359
"Communion with nature is not your favor-
ite occupation."
"I like men and women better than stones
or bushes. It seems to me, Hope, that I can
see how I shall spend my life, and can plan it
all the way."
"That scarcely seems right," said Hope.
-
"Why? I suppose there is a plan in our
lives God's plan-running through them
from beginning to end. And why not learn
from our wishes and circumstances something
of what that plan is, enough at least to guide
us in our efforts?”
"Perhaps we may," said Hope; "though I
can not conjecture as to my own life."
"I am an only child," said Bessie. "Father
has abundant means, and likes to gratify me.
And mother knows all the poor people in the
neighborhood, and has taught me how to help
not as lovingly and kindly as she can,
of course, but still very well in my own way.
them,
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Earnest Living.
Then I am strong and healthy, and like to be
busy, and see things done promptly and well.”
“And you mean to be the Lady Bountiful of
the region," said Hope.
66
"I mean to see," she replied, "what my
hands and feet and tongue can accomplish,-
and my wealth, too, as much as I may have.
There are so many useless persons in the
world,― sluggish, dull oysters in their shells,
I get disgusted with them."
"I think you ought to unlearn that disgust,
before you can secure the best results. You
must have patience with people."
"Never!" said Bessie, laughing, "never with
the idle sort! 'Better almost to be at work in
sin' what was that Miss Loring read to us
once? than not to do anything. Here we are
on the plain. It looks more dismal than ever.
Now for Mr. Harding! Little boy,” said she,
addressing the tallest of a flaxen-haired group,
Prospecting.
361
who were digging in the sand by the roadside,
66
can you tell me where Mr. Harding lives?"
"You'd better not go there," was the reply.
"He's cross as can be, and has got a horrid
fierce dog that will eat you up quicker than
lightning."
"Oh!" said Hope, with a gasp. Bessie
laughed. "I am not afraid of dogs. Can't
you point out the way to us?"
"Oh, yes!" said the flaxen-haired, "just
over there;" and he swung his arms in a kind
of rotary fashion, that indicated in succession
every point of the compass.
"The interest deepens," said Bessie.
"First
(
we hear of a monster with huge mouth, so as
to eat you up the better, my dear,' then a mys-
tery as to the whereabouts of the monster and
his keeper, as if they existed everywhere and
nowhere, like the old genii. I will try a
charm," she continued, drawing forth a pack-
age of cakes, with which she had provided her-
362
Earnest Living.
self. "If you will walk along by us, little boy,
and show us where Mr. Harding lives, I will
give you a cake."
The boy started on a run, followed by the
whole group, who hoped to share in the reward.
They halted at a turn of the road, and pointed
out to Bessie the object of her search, a
house somewhat larger than others on the
plain, but scarcely less wretched. "There!"
exclaimed the boy; "I don't dare go any
nearer.'
After a bountiful distribution of cakes, Bessie
unfolded her Sabbath-school plan to the little
group, who stared at her with an air of wonder-
ing stupidity that seemed to Hope very unprom-
ising. "Shall you give us cakes every Sun-
day?" inquired one.
"We will try to give you something better
than cakes,” replied Bessie. "Not something
to eat, but what will always last. Will you
come?' All promised, and Bessie drove on
Prospecting.
363
to Mr. Harding's. "There is Cerberus," said
she, as a dog started up from
and ran barking toward them.
before the door,
"I will sit here
a moment, and see if some one does not spy us
from the house, for he does look rather formi-
dable."
They had not long to wait before the master
of the house appeared, - an uncouth, ill-dressed
man, who lowered upon them from beneath his
shaggy eyebrows, but said not a word. Bessie
made known her name and errand, and pre-
sented Dr. Lee's note, which Mr. Harding read,
still preserving the same ill-omened silence.
"Come into the house," said he at last, ab-
ruptly. "I should like to think it over." The
girls followed him, and were ushered into a
large, cheerless apartment, not by any means
empty, but strewn with shavings of wood, frag-
ments of children's toys, and other articles, in
a general confusion.
Mr. Harding seated himself with an air of
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Earnest Living.
profound meditation, while Hope and Bessie
were left to make acquaintance as they could
with the rest of the family. Bessie gave her
attention to Mrs. Harding, a pale, timid woman,
who evidently did not know what to do with
her strange guests. But when their errand
was mentioned, her face brightened. "I hope
he will consent," said she, "but I don't know.
He is a very set man, and don't think much of
these things. I used to know something about
them once, when I was a girl, but I have for-
gotten it all."
"Then you would like to have the children
go?",
66
'Yes, I should be very glad. But I don't
think he will be willing."
Meanwhile, Hope was talking with the chil-
dren. The eldest, a sickly-looking girl some
five years old, pressed to her side, and touched
her dress timidly, looking into her face with
evident pleasure. Hope took up the child, and
Prospecting.
365
began to entertain her with a story, she mean
while drawing her long, thin fingers caressingly
over Hope's cheek. The father suddenly started
from his revery, and approached them.
"This has always been a poor, sick thing,"
said he, "and has given me more trouble in
raising than any of the others, as Dr. Lee could
tell you."
"Father, this is a pretty lady, isn't it?".
said the child.
The man laughed. Hope said, “Would you
like to take a ride some day, and come to see
me? We have chickens and pigs, and a calf,
and I think we could find a doll for you to play
with."
66
Father," said the child, "may I go to see
the pretty lady, and the chickens, and the
calf? May I,- may I?" she repeated ner-
vously.
(6
Well, yes, if she wants to see such a puny
little thing. You see," he added, addressing
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Earnest Living.
Hope, "we generally let Nelly do as she wants
to."
"I should like to have her come," said Hope.
"We shall have a pleasant time together, Nel-
ly, I am sure."
Bessie was beginning to be impatient.
"Well," said Mr. Harding, as they rose, "I
didn't think at first that I should say yes to
you, for such things do more harm than
good, — getting up excitements, and all that.
But Nelly here seems to have taken a fancy to
the young lady, and I suppose she'd like to go
to your school. So, if you want to try, I won't
stand in your way."
The first difficulty being removed, the girls
proceeded on their search for pupils. They
entered a cabin of two rooms, close and dirty,
and swarming with children. The mother
made various objectious to the plan. The chil-
dren could not read; they had no clothes fit to
wear; they would not know how to behave.
Prospecting.
367
Bessie urged her request, arguing down objec-
tions; but the woman continued her refusal,
and the girls were going away, when she called
after them, "Well, perhaps I may think better
of it before Sunday; at all events, the children
shall come once, whether they want to or not.
I promise you that."
"Dear me!" said Bessie, "this is a queer
world. What can the children of such un-
promising parents be?”
Their next halt was at a hut under a hem-
lock grove, at the door of which two black
women sat, one of them smoking. The respect` ·
with which they treated the girls, and the ready
promise to attend the Sabbath school them-
selves, with their children, made an amusing
contrast with the last visit.
"You must stop to see the children," said
the elder woman, disappearing within the house,
and presently returning with a group whose
appearance was almost too much for Bessie's
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Earnest Living.
gravity, — two girls, seven or eight years old,
and precisely similar in features, each carrying
a comical little round-faced black baby. Three
woolly-headed little boys followed, rolling their
eyes in evident excitement at the sight of
strangers.
"These two's twins," said the mother, point-
ing to the girls, "and the babies are twins.
This one's name is Victoria Mary, and that
one's Victorine Maria. And the little ones
are Jane Isabel and Ann Arabel. As for the
boys, they are not of much account, nohow.
Now, children," she added, turning severely to
the group, "you are going to school to these
ladies every Sunday. They are genuine ladies,
too, and if you don't behave, they will know
what to do with you."
"I have no doubt they will be good schol-
ars," said Hope.
"Well, I don't know. I bring 'em up
strictly, and when I say a thing they know what
Prospecting.
369
to depend on. It's no use being easy with such
scamps as those boys."
At the next house the mother inquired if
her little black neighbors were to belong to the
Sabbath school. "I am not willing my chil-
dren should go with all sorts of folks," said
she, tossing her head; "if I am poor, I try to
be respectable."
"They can be in separate classes," said Bes-
sie. "Mr. Harding's children are coming."
"I don't know as Mr. Harding's children
are better than anybody's else. And I suppose
I could teach my children at home. We are
not all of us heathen here."
"Perhaps," said Hope, "you would come
with your children and teach one of the classes.
We would like help."
The woman, somewhat mollified, promised
to think of it, and see what he said about it.
A little further on stood a small house by it-
self, with white curtains at the windows, and
24
370
Earnest Living.
some bright flowers blossoming within. "I
wonder what we shall find here," said Hope,
as they rapped.
A womanly-looking girl, fresh and tidy, came
to the door, and invited them to enter. Two
children were playing with rag-dolls on the
floor, and there was a cheerful look about the
little room, although it was very bare.
"Is your mother at home?" asked Bessie,
somewhat embarrassed.
One of the children answered, "No, she has
been gone a long time, and Lucy says she will
never come back. But I do not believe that.
I look for her every morning when I wake up,
for I am sure she will come some night."
"You see," said the elder sister, "Nanny can
not believe that mother is dead. Poor little
creature! I am the only mother that she has
now, and I can't do very well for her."
"How long is it since your mother died?"
asked Hope.
Prospecting.
371
"Only six months; but she had been ill with
consumption a long while. But we never
thought she would die so soon.
if she must live on so for years."
It seemed as
"And do you take the whole care of the
children?" asked Bessie.
"Yes. Mother made me promise to do all I
could for them, and teach them all the good
things she had taught me. This," said she,
taking down a little worn volume from a shelf,
"this was mother's Bible, and she used to read
it almost all the time, the last days of her life.
I know all her favorite chapters by heart. It
is almost all I do know, for I have never been
to school much."
"You can read?" asked Hope.
Oh, yes, .and write, and cipher a little.
And Nanny can read too, very well for a little
girl, and she is beginning to learn to sew. She
is a good little girl, I assure you."
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Earnest Living.
"And you are the housekeeper?" asked
Bessie.
"Yes, I do as well as I can.
At first I was
very lonely, but now there is no time for that."
Bessie communicated her Sabbath-school
plan to Lucy, whose eyes filled with tears.
"That is what mother used to talk of; only
she was feeble, and could not attempt it alone.
She would have been so happy to have the chil-
dren go. ""
"And you must come too, and help us teach
the younger ones.'
""
"I can not teach," said she, "till I know
more myself. I was not as attentive as I ought
to have been, while mother was alive, to what
she used to teach me; but since she died,
things come back to me, good things about
Jesus and heaven, that keep me happy. If we
lived near a church I could go sometimes on
Sundays, and hear more.”
Prospecting.
373
"Can't you go sometimes in pleasant weath-
er?" asked Hope.
"I might if I could take the children, but
father does not like to have the care of them,
and I do not dare to trust them with the neigh-
bors. Mother was so afraid of their learn-
ing wrong things."
Bessie and Hope reluctantly left the tidy
room and its mistress, begging to be allowed to
come to see her again. Their last visit was to
a house where a poor woman lay sick, with no
attention but that of her children, who, dirty
and ill-clothed, seemed almost like little sav-
ages. The girls gave all the help and sympa-
thy possible, and promised to bring more sub-
stantial aid in a few days.
"Work enough to be done," said Bessie, as
they drove away. "Indeed, the field is so wide.
as to be almost discouraging. Think of taking
care of these poor people!"
"If we could only teach them how to take
374
Earnest Living.
care of themselves better, we should accomplish
most," said Hope. "That little Lucy Haynes
is as poor as any of them, perhaps, but she
seems to have tact to make the most of things,
which the rest are destitute of."
66
Perhaps we might try a sewing school one
or two afternoons in the week."
"That will be hardly possible while we are
in school."
"We shall soon be through school, and have
our time to ourselves. It is a fine thing that
you are to help me, Hope, for I dislike to work
alone."
"If John should come back, I might go
away."
"We would try to keep him, too. But there
seems no prospect of the war's ending."
"His term of service expires next year, and
And then, I hardly
he will not re-enlist.
dare dream it."
"What does John say of this new enterprise
Prospecting.
375
of ours? You don't read me anything from
his letters of late."
"Of course he encourages it entirely, and
thinks it will do me good. Here is his last let-
ter, in which he scolds me a little for wishing
6
some more brilliant gifts. There is not much
sense in complaining that we lack certain gifts,
while we neglect those we now possess. You
are finding work enough; do it well, without
anxiety as to whether you will have a larger
field in future. Seek for the meaning of a
Christian life, not in struggle after the impossi-
ble, from which there must always be a dis-
heartening reaction, but in genuine, hearty de-
votion to the duty that lies nearest. There is
enough in the most common day to make it
worthy of being an offering to the Master.
Christ said to the penitent thief, "This day
shalt thou be with me." And whenever one
now cries to Him, "Lord, remember me!" the
answer is the same, and to-day, even in thẹ
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Earnest Living.
midst of life, each one may be with Him. Is
not His presence sufficient to transform the
common experience, the homely round of du-
ties, into the blessedness of a paradise?""
"That," said Bessie, "is John's favorite the-
ory; but I am not sure that he is correct. It
makes a vast difference to me what I am doing.
Some days, even when one begins with the best
intentions, everything goes wrong, as if an evil
genius had set himself to torment you. Ask
John what he thinks of such days."
66 'I do not believe he ever has them."
"Such persons as he," said Bessie, "hardly
know how to sympathize with one that is easily
put out by little things. They stalk along with
their heads in the clouds, and think we are
poor, weak things, if we cry out as we hurt our-
selves against stones, or are pleased with the
flowers along the road."
"That is not true of Jolin," said Hope.
"I was speaking in general," replied Bessie.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
WORK FOR THE MASTER.
"Day after day filled up with blessed toil,
Hour after hour still bringing in new spoil."

UNDAY was a sweet, spring-like day.
After the early afternoon service was
ended, the little company of teachers,
Dr. Lee, Miss Mason, Carrie March, Hope, and
Bessie, went to the plain for their first experi-
ment. A group of children had assembled
long before them, half of them provided with
offerings of arbutus blossoms, so fresh and fra-
grant that the teachers could hardly help fear-
ing that sacred time had been encroached upon
in the gathering.
"We ought to make the observance of the
377
378
Earnest Living.
Sabbath the subject of our first lesson," said
Bessie.
"The flowers are so sweet," replied Hope;
"and what else had the poor little things to
do?"
There was Lucy Haynes, fresh and neat in
her purple calico, with the two little ones; all
the black children, down to the babies, the
Hardings except Nelly, and some twenty more,
in every kind of attire, yet for the most part
with clean hands and faces. They were
grouped into classes; Bessie taking the col-
ored children, Chattie the oldest girls, and
Carrie March the younger ones, while Dr. Lee
undertook the instruction of some large boys,
out of whose external roughness it was to be
hoped something of the diamond might be
wrought. This left to Hope two or three little
boys, who gathered around her in a corner,
evidently more intent upon examining her at-
tire than on listening to herself. It was diffi-
Work for the Master.
379
cult to coax them into attention.
"I came
three miles to-day to teach you," said she,
gently. "Won't you listen to me?"
Ho!" said little German Carl, in a disdain
ful tone. "I came tree hundred and tirty
miles to get here."
"Let us read," said she, somewhat dis
mayed by this bold assertion; "each read two
verses from the Testament.”
"There is only one Testament to read from,"
cried out one.
"You can pass it from one to another."
The snatching and pulling that attended this
proceeding were yet more embarrassing, and
Hope was almost at a loss what to do next,
when relief came unexpectedly. The door
opened, and in stalked Mr. Harding, tall and
gaunt, carrying little Nelly in his arms. He
looked around inquiringly for a moment, then,
catching sight of Hope in her corner, he strode
toward her, and seated himself with Nelly.
380
Earnest Living.
"You see, miss," said he, by way of explana-
tion, "Nelly's mind was set upon seeing you.
again. She could not walk so far, and she
cried over it so long that at last I promised to
bring her in my arms."
"I am very glad," said Hope. "Little Nel-
ས--
ly, I should have been sorry not to have seen
you to-day. I thought you would come to Sab-
bath school."
"She kept saying," replied the father, "that
she wanted to see the pretty lady again. But
maybe you would like to have us move away,
while you hear those boys read."
Hope was thinking that she would prefer it,
but Nelly said, "No, no, I want to sit here
where I can hear the lady talk.'
""
"Let her stay then," said Hope.
So the man kept his position with Nelly on
his knee, fixing his keen eyes on the boys, who,
under this new guardianship, became as peace-
ful as lambs. It was unpleasant at first to
Work for the Master.
381
Hope, but the pale, eager face of the child was
not to be resisted, and she tried to go on sim-
ply and quietly, as if only the children heard
her.
Nothing told what impression the scene made
upon the man; only, as the school closed, he
said to Hope, "I suppose I'm what most folks
call a hard man, and I don't believe much in
these things you talk of. But little Nelly seems
to like it so well that I don't see but I must
come with her every Sunday, if you're willing,
Miss Wallace."
"You will be heartily welcome," she replied,
thinking of the words, " A little child shall lead
them," and praying that some softening influ-
ence might thus touch even the "hard man."
"And we do not forget, Nelly," said she,
"that you are to visit us some day. Perhaps
next Wednesday, if your father is willing, and
the weather is pleasant."
"He says I may," replied the child; "and
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Earnest Living.
will the chickens and the pigs be there then,
and the great doll?”
"Yes, all of them, and we will make you as
happy as can be.”
The teachers compared experiences with
great enthusiasm, the very ignorance of their
pupils seeming delightful as giving promise of
work to do.
66
My girls," said Chattie, "had never heard
of King David, and thought Moses was one of
the twelve apostles. Only Lucy Haynes is
quite a wonder, a rose among weeds. We
must set her to teaching the others, for we al-
most need a teacher to every scholar."
"If they are all as uneasy as mine," said
Carrie March," two teachers to cach, one to hold
the child still, while the other instructs her."
"None of my boys," said Dr. Lee, “could
tell the meaning of the word neighbor, till at
last a bright thought struck an Irish boy, and
he called out, 'It's one that lends ye things!
Work for the Master.
383
"They know more than would seem at first,"
said Bessie. "Some of them are diffident, and
none of them understand our ways. They will
develop amazingly by and by."
"Very slowly, I imagine," said the doctor;
"but it is something gained to give these little
savages the privilege of looking at civilized
folks like you young ladies one hour in the
week."
"It is much gained," said Chattie, "to give
them the truth of God, and awaken in them the
consciousness that they have souls worth caring
for."
On the whole, it seemed a promising com-
mencement of their summer's work, offering
enough to interest their hearts, and keep their
minds and fingers busy. On Wednesday, the
cousins kept their appointment with Nelly
Harding, stopping by the way to leave a basket
of comforts at the house of the sick woman,
and to look in on Lucy Haynes. In both
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Earnest Living.
places, Chattie Mason had been before them.
Lucy was joyful at the success of the new work.
"All the mothers," said she, "seemed to take
pride in having their children tidy to go on
Sunday, and they talk now of going themselves.
It seems like the beginning of a new day for us.
Only yesterday, I heard one little boy reprove
another for swearing, because the teacher told
him on Sunday that it was wrong. And it was
wonderful to see Mr. Harding there."
"If the children like to come," said Bessie,
"the parents will soon follow. I am only afraid
that, when the novelty is gone, our numbers
will fall off.”
"Oh, no, Miss Ross! they will like better
and better. How can they help it, when they
find out what beautiful things there are in the
Bible? Why, Nanny and Willie are never
tired of hearing me tell about Joseph and
Moses, and the dear Saviour child."
"We must persuade you to teach a class of
Work for the Master.
385
the little children. You would do better than we,
who are not accustomed to them."
'No," said Lucy, firmly, "I want to stay with
Miss Mason. She makes everything plain to
me, as mother used to do, and she has soft blue
eyes like mother's, so that I love to look at
her."
"You are so comfortable and cheerful," said
Bessie, as they rose to leave her, "that one
gets good from coming to see you. But is there
not something that we can do for you in re-
turn, some books you would like, maybe?"
"I hardly know," said Nelly, smiling. "I
need them enough. But there's little time for
reading, with the cooking and sewing, and the
children. When Nanny gets older, I mean to
have her study, even if it makes me ashamed
of her ignorant sister.'
Nelly Harding was waiting at the window
for them, her pale face pressed against the pane.
Her father brought her out, and put her into
25
386
Earnest Living.
the wagon between Hope and Bessie.
"She's
half wild with the thought of the visit," said
he," and I don't know how she will behave."
(6
Oh, father!" said she, "I will be quiet, and
not give the ladies one bit of trouble."
"I have no fear for her," said Hope; "and
we will be very careful of her, and bring her
back to you safely."
"I am not used to ceremonies," said he,
"but this I'll say, that anybody that's kind to
that little creature will never fail of a good
turn from me, if I can do one.”
They drove off, Nelly keeping very quiet, ac-
cording to her promise, yet showing delight in
every feature of her face. The woods and
brooks and houses were all objects of interest,
for a ride was a rare event in her narrow little
life, and this had been much anticipated, and
would be long remembered. Everything at the
farm-house, too, was new and interesting, and
she followed Hope's leading from house to barn,
Work for the Master.
387
and from barn to poultry-yard, with a satisfac
tion evident, although free from the exclama-
tions in which children generally express it.
And when she was weary, she was taken in-
doors and placed upon the sofa, with one of
Bessie's old dolls for a plaything, and with
Hope by her side.
"Miss Wallace," said Nelly, "this is very
nice; I think this must be heaven."
""
"Oh no!" said Hope, somewhat shocked;
"heaven is a much better place than this.'
"Truly, now? I suppose there are no dolls
there, though?”
"If not, there are much better things."
"I am not sure that I care so much for the
dolls, but when I go there, I want you to be
there too. Will you?"
"I hope we shall be there together some-
time."
“And I shall want you to sing, as you did
at the school last Sunday, a great many
388
Earnest Living.
hymns. They say people do not get tired
there."
ઃઃ
"I can sing to you now."
The child listened almost as if entranced,
with eyes fixed upon Hope, as she sang, "I
want to be an angel," and "I think when I
read that sweet story of old." As she finished,
Nelly said, "I should never be tired of it. Do
you think I could learn that?"
"You shall try, if you wish, and if we are
both patient, I think you will succeed."
Just as the twilight was dying away, little
Nelly was left in her father's arms, tired, but
happy in the remembrance of her visit, and in
the possession of a real doll and a package of
Bessie's cakes. Several afternoons during the
bright spring months the visit was repeated,
the brightening of her pale face at such a pro-
posal, and her delight in its execution, being
sufficient recompense to her young friends for
whatever trouble it cost them. All this caused
3
Work for the Master.
389
a special interest in the Sabbath school on Mr.
Harding's part. No one ventured to say any-
thing in opposition to it in his presence, and he
kept a sharp eye upon any unruly urchin who
manifested a troublesome disposition. His chil-
dren were always present, and he himself, with
Nelly, was never missing from the accustomed
seat.
It could not be said that the young teachers
found all their pathway thus smoothed for
them. Quarrels and jealousies among the pa-
rents or children were often sadly tormenting.
Some of them were irregular in their attend-
ance and careless in their habits, and others
made no perceptible improvement.
Then, too, it was difficult to know how to re-
lieve all the wants that came to their knowl-
edge, and some would occasionally take advan-
tage of their youth and inexperience, and make
false statements of distress. It was work, after
all, not play, with something of the sweat
390
Earnest Living.
of the brow and anxiety of the spirit which are
inseparable from all genuine work. Still, they
grew into sympathy with each other and those
for whom they labored. Every week, some-
thing cheering came to their knowledge,—some-
thing to encourage them to press on in the
hope of larger success. The number of schol-
ars gradually increased, and new teachers were
pressed into the service.
The old pastor of the church in Waldham
had died soon after Hope went there, and at
last, after nearly two years of waiting, a suc-
cessor had been settled, whose activity and
faithfulness were an example to all his parish.
He found his way to the people on the plain,
encouraged the Sabbath school in every way,
and, as the days grew longer, proposed to hold
a sunset-meeting there on Friday evenings.
These were well attended, and gradually one
after another strayed over to the village church
on Sabbaths.
Work for the Master.
391
In some of the houses on the plain, too, a
new air of comfort and order prevailed. There
was more attention to the decencies of life, and
a marked desire to have everything as tidy as
possible when any of the teachers visited them.
"All this is well," said Bessie one day, as
they were speaking of these things, "but so
nuch more seems desirable. What is it that
their bodies are a little more comfortable, and
that they know something more of the truth,
while they seem so unaffected by it, and are
practically as far from being Christians as
ever?"
"You are always in a hurry, Miss Ross,"
said Dr. Lee. "Let us be satisfied with doing
our work as well as we can, and leave the re-
sults."
"In such matters," replied Bessie, slightly
irritated at the doctor's bluntness, "I don't
think patience is the requisite virtue. One
can't have too earnest desires.”
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Earnest Living.
Chattie said quietly, "Remember, Bessie, we
have first the blade, then the ear, then the full
corn in the ear.'
""
"But Bessie," said the doctor, "would dig
up her seeds to see whether there is any pros-
pect of their germination.'
""
Bessie's face flushed, but the doctor walked
away quietly, not noticing her vexation.
66
"I do not think Dr. Lee cares whether we
accomplish anything or not. And it is provok-
ing to be ridiculed for one's interest in these
important matters."
"He did not mean to ridicule you, Bessie, I
am sure," said Chattie. "And I think he is
right; we can not make these people Christians,
however much we may desire to do so. That
is God's work, not ours."
“And yet He has promised to bless us if we
labor faithfully."
"That ought to encourage us to wait," said
Work for the Master.
393
Hope. "Let us go on, and the blessing will fol-
low."
"We are not wholly without a blessing al-
ready," said Chattie. "My little Lucy Haynes,
who seemed almost a Christian before, has be-
come indeed one, full of a new hope and
brightness that makes her doubly lovely."
"I want so much to do something more for
her."
“What can we do?" asked Chattie, smiling.
"She is as rich as we are." Bessie opened her
eyes. "I do not mean that we should give her
money directly, but help her get an education,
perhaps."
"And take her away from those children?
No; her place is just where she is, helping to
restrain a father inclined to intemperance, and
doing her gentle work in the best possible man-
ner. It would be cruel to them, and perhaps
to her, to take her from them."
Bessie drew a long sigh. "Oh dear! I wish I
394
Earnest Living.
knew how to do my work in the best possible
manner; I am always running into extremes.
It is well that I have some restraining forces
like you and Hope."
"I am half inclined," she said to Hope after-
wards, "to give up the work entirely. I am so
impatient and unwise that the others would do
better without me."
"We should want our main-spring," an-
swered Hope.
“There is no reason for you to
be discouraged, Bessie, especially as you have
not the experience of fifty years on your head."
66
Suppose I should do more harm than
good."
"Now comes the need of faith. It has some-
times been a trial to me, that I fall so far below
you in energy and perseverance. But we can
work in different ways, and accomplish some-
thing, though not all that we might if we were
more nearly perfect."
"How would it seem to be perfect, to know
Work for the Master.
395
just what to do, and how to do it, without hin-
drances?
""
"Perhaps even then we should not be al-
lowed to see results at once. It might be bet-
ter that we should learn humility and patience
by biding God's time, and keeping our hearts
quiet."
Bessie's next trouble was of a more practical
nature, the want of money. Poor sick Mrs.
Ellis' children were still unprovided with sum-
mer clothing, and June had come, warm and
glowing, so that it had become a necessity to
do something for them, if they were to be re-
tained in the Sabbath school. They were ac-
tive and bright, and it would be unpleasant to
lose them.
The box of summer clothing in Mrs. Ross'
garret had been exhausted long ago. Her
purse was empty, and she had been so lavish of
late that she scarcely liked to ask her father
for more money.
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Earnest Living.
"What is to be done, mother?" asked she.
"Perhaps you can beg something for them."
"I have done the best I could already, but
everybody had been sending to the freedmen,
and wardrobes were empty."
"Think whether you can retrench in any
way."
""
"No, unless Bessie paused to consider.
"I suppose I might have my last summer's
straw pressed and bleached, and wear it again.
But then that lovely lace bonnet I have set my
heart on, with crystal beads like drops of dew
over it, and the perfect blue violets, that match
so well with those in my muslin! I don't see
how I can give that, mother."
"Of course you need not, unless you choose."
"Do you think I ought?"
"I am not sure, Bessie. You have sacrificed
many pleasures already for the sake of the
school, and no one could blame you for not
giving up this one.”
Work for the Master.
397
"I must have a day for deliberating." But
in an hour Bessie announced that the lace bon-
net was to be sacrificed, violets and all. Seffle
was straightway harnessed, and Bessie took the
old straw to the milliner's to be rejuvenated, at
the same time purchasing some calicoes for the
Ellis children. And scarcely had she returned
before she began to busy herself in cutting and
making the new dresses in which her scholars
were to shine on the following Sabbath.

CHAPTER XXIX.
WAITING.
"Heart, heart, lie still!
Heaven's sweet grace alone
Can keep in peace its own.
Let that me fill,
And I am still."
T was a damp, misty morning toward the
close of June. The trees before the house
were dripping with moisture; the plants
in the garden-plat hung their disconsolate
heads, and closed their flowers to wait for sun-
shine. Bessie had gone to school, whither a
slight cold had detained Hope from accompany-
ing her. Mrs. Ross was busy in the kitchen,
and Aunt Jemima was engrossed with her sol-
dier's stocking, the bright needles of which
clicked with a persistence that seemed to Hope
398
Waiting.
399
almost like a reproof of her idleness, as she
stood at the window, wishing for something,
she could not tell what. But presently from
the fog without emerged first a gray horse, and
then a light wagon, which Hope recognised in-
stantly as the equipage which Miss Mason was
accustomed to use when she set out on a soli-
tary drive.
Hope ran to the door briskly. "I was wish-
ing for something, and found out what it was as
soon as I saw you, Chattie."
"I saw Bessie on her way to school, and
heard that you were ill; so I came to prescribe
for you, and to talk with you. Such a dreary
morning!
""
"Come up to my room," said Hope. The
two girls sat down together and looked into
each other's faces silently for a moment.
"I wonder," said Chattie, "if you are think-
ing of the same things with me."
400
Earnest Living.
"There is only one thing to think of in these
days, the army where our brothers are.”
"What did you hear from John yesterday?"
"That he was under marching orders, know-
ing not where."
"Father says that this invasion of the rebels
will lead to a battle which will be the very cri-
sis of the war. I shudder when I think of it."
“Do not make yourself too anxious. We
must wait - "
وو
"And pray. That is the great comfort.
Even work does not divert my thoughts, as al-
ways before."
"John has escaped so many dangers this sea-
son that I begin to feel that he has a charmed
life. And he has promised me to try to obtain
a furlough in August, so that we can take a
holiday week together at the sea-shore, as we
did last summer."
"And will the Grosvenors be there?"
"John writes me that Mr. Grosvenor is in
Waiting.
401
the service of the Christian Commission, and
that they have met several times lately. But I
hope to see Mrs. Grosvenor. She sent me the
kindest of letters last week, asking me to visit
her in September."
"Well," replied Chattie, "we will try to be-
lieve that none of these pleasant plans will be
interfered with by the chances of war."
"Not chances, dearie; we have the comfort
of knowing that no trouble can come in that
way, since one good Hand regulates all."
"I am very faithless in these days, I fear.
I go about from one to another, seeking com-
fort, sometimes to you, sometimes to little
Lucy Haynes, who quotes sweet Scripture texts
to me, and brings me more help than she
dreams. It does me good to hear the old, old
truths from others' lips. They come with new
power when I learn how real and vital they are
to others. Now let us talk of other things, and
try to forget war.'
""
402
Earnest Living.
They conversed of their mutual friends and
their school-work, till they grew almost merry,
and before they noticed it, a cloud separated,
and through its rifts the sunshine fell bright
and warm upon their faces.
"A good omen,'
said Chattie, as she rose to go; "I will cherish
it in my heart of hearts."
""
The days dragged heavily now for those anx-
ious hearts that all over the country awaited
the impending struggle. For weeks the rebel
hordes had been pouring up through the fertile
valleys of Maryland and Pennsylvania, threaten-
ing the very center of the nation's existence,
and no one could tell how it would end. At
last, as July began, intense and sultry, rumors
came that fighting had commenced at Gettys-
burg, and suspense was deepened. Then came
the good news of success. The invaders were
driven back, and the pulse of the loyal people
once more beat freely. Yet thousands were
still waiting to learn at what price of pain and
Waiting.
403
loss to themselves the nation's safety had been
bought. The dreary days of the preceding year
seemed to Hope to have come back again. First
came the official report, "Capt. John Wallace,
wounded;" dreadfully unsatisfactory in its mea-
gerness. The next day, a telegram, "Wound
not serious; in hospital at Philadelphia."
"Auntie," said Hope, "I must go to him.
Do not say no, for I must."
"But how could you find him, Hope?".
"I can not think of any difficulties. I only
think that I must go."
"My darling," said Mrs. Ross, drawing
Hope to her side, though she almost resisted
the prisoning of the kind arms, "you shall go,
certainly. Only use patience, and wait till you
hear from John once more, and learn where he
is and how. Perhaps, even, he is able to come
to us. Suppose you should pass him on the
way.'
404
Earnest Living.
"I feel as if his wound was more serious
than has been reported."
"You are excited, and magnify the danger,
my child. You will hear more definitely in
two or three days at farthest; meanwhile, we
will arrange so that you can start immediately,
if John sends for you. Do you not see how
much better that will be ?"
pose
"Yes, auntie, it is better to wait, but I seem
to lose all my patience when I think of those
dreadful days of waiting last year. And sup-
he should die while we are waiting?"
"Be sure that John would send for you, in
case of immediate danger. You are so dear
to him that he could not give up the comfort
of your presence, if he really needed you.
Cheer yourself now with the thought that he
may soon be among us again, and wait till to-
morrow for better news.
With to-morrow came a penciled note from
John with the same date of the telegram. He
Waiting.
405
had been slightly wounded in the foot the first
day of the battle, had gone into the fight the
second day, and had been wounded in the
shoulder. Except weakness, he was getting
on well, though the surgeons shook their heads,
and thought amputation of the arm might be
necessary. His friend Grosvenor had found
him out, and done everything for him,—no one
could have better care, he said. And Hope
need not be alarmed; if there were any change.
for the worse she should be sent for immedi-
ately. To this were added a few lines from
Mr. Grosvenor, somewhat more serious. He
trusted, he said, that Capt. Wallace's wounds
would not prove fatal, but the surgeons spoke
somewhat discouragingly. Amputation seemed
indispensable, and there was some reason to
fear that he was not strong enough to endure
it. He ended, "Your brother is in a private
house, where everything possible will be done
for his comfort. But if he grows worse, you
406
Earnest Living.
will doubtless wish to come to him. I will
write again to-morrow, and inform
and inform you if any
change has taken place."
It now seemed certain, even to Aunt Mary,
that Hope should go to John. Mr. Mason had
been planning a journey to Washington, and
he now offered to anticipate his first intention
by a few days, so as to act as Hope's escort.
Every needful preparation was made, with
special thought of what John might require in
his illness.
"Dear John!" said Bessie, sadly, "that we
should ever have to do these things for him!
And how shall we get along without you,
Hope?"
"I feel as if he would soon be well, if I am
with him. I could almost pour my own life
into his. I will make him well, and bring
him back, not to leave us again."
The next day came the message, with Mr.
Grosvenor's letter. Capt. Wallace did not
Waiting.
407
rally, and the chances of his recovery seemed
to grow less. He was anxious for his sister to
come as soon as possible. Yet Miss Wallace
was not to be unduly alarmed, for even yet
there was reason to hope his recovery.

CHAPTER XXX.
THE LAST PARTING.
"Who knows if to live is not to die, and dying but to live ?”

ང
OT many hours after the arrival of Mr.
Grosvenor's letter, Hope and her com-
panion were on their way. A dim and
confused remembrance was all that she ever
had of this journey,- a sweeping along through
the short summer night, amid strange scenes
and sounds; the morning brightness reddening
up the sky, and the glaring and dusty day be-
ginning; the rush and whirl of a great city;
an hour or two of rest, or trying to rest, and
then another rush through green fields and
towns and villages; at last a pause, and out
of the mass of strange faces around her a fa-
miliar one emerging, which with its gentleness
408
The Last Parting.
409
and strength brought rest to Hope even in that
hour of anxiety.
"I thought you would be here to-day," said
Mr. Grosvenor, "though John had not much
expectation of it. You can not guess how he
longs for you."
"How is he?" said Hope, scarcely daring to
ask.
"Not much better, we fear. The amputa-
tion was performed yesterday. It was the only
chance for life, the surgeon said, and he was
anxious that it should be over before you came.
He is very weak, but there is a chance still."
66
Only a chance!" said Hope, shuddering,
as if a hand of ice had been laid upon her.
"Mr. Grosvenor, you must not say that. I can
not let John die."
"I pray that you may help him to live. But
will you not leave it to God, in whose hands.
he is?"
"You think I am wicked, perhaps, but you do
410
Earnest Living.
not know how much my brother is to me. I
am not willing to give him up,-not yet.
Perhaps, if God takes him, He will give me
strength to bear it.”
"You have to think now of doing what you
can to make him better. And for that you
must be very calm; are you sure of your-
self?"
"I can do anything while he lives; only take
me to him as quickly as possible."
Hope scarcely knew how she went, till, at the
door of a house in a quiet street, a kind, moth-
erly face in a Quaker cap looked upon her with
a gentle greeting.
"Thee have really come, then," said a sweet
voice; "we scarcely expected thee so soon.
And thee looks very weary and pale, poor
child. It has been a hard journey for thee.'
"Where is John?" asked Hope. "I want to
go to him at once."
The Last Parting.
4II
"Three'd better rest a little, first. He is
asleep now."
"I can go in and look at him without dis-
turbing him. I must just see him."
""
"If you will be careful not to wake him,'
"Every moment of sleep
said Mr. Grosvenor.
is precious.'
""
Without removing her bonnet, Hope crept
into the darkened, silent chamber. Could that
be her brother, so pale and emaciated, so
unlike his former self? The strangeness of it
was dreadful. She almost shrank away.
"Come," said Mr. Grosvenor, catching the
meaning of that startled look, and fearing she
would lose her self-control, "he will not seem
so strange to you when he wakes. Sleeping
faces always look more ill and sad. Now if
you will rest an hour or two, and try to eat
something, you shall see him again."
Hope complied. It was hard to eat, and im-
possible to sleep, with the rush and whirl of her
412
Earnest Living.
journey not yet separated from her conscious-
ness, and John's sick face before her eyes.
But she waited patiently for a while, and then
begged to go to him again. He was still sleep-
ing, his irregular breathing mingled with
groans, every one of which pierced her very
heart.
What if he should die in this sleep, she
thought with a shudder, and never speak to
her again? She sat beside him, trying to dis-
entangle the scene from all its dreaminess, and
make it seem real,- to feel that she was Hope
Wallace, and this her brother, her strong, ac-
tive John, now maimed, sick, perhaps dying.
Suddenly the sleeper opened his eyes, and with
their first glance the thin, pale face, illuminated,
became her brother's and no stranger's. Hope
bent over him, and touching his forehead with
her lips, whispered, "You see that I am here,
John."
He answered cheerfully, and in almost as
The Last Parting.
413
clear, strong tones as in health. "I felt it in my
sleep, darling. It is almost worth being sick
and wounded to see you sitting there, and
know that you are not going to fade away like
a vision."
"You must get well fast, now that I have
come.
You know that I am a famous nurse.
John smiled somewhat sadly.
""
"To-morrow
we will talk about my getting well. Just now,
tell me of your journey, and how they all are
at home, and how Waldham looks this summer.
I should like to see it once more."
Hope could hardly endure to speak of com-
mon things, but John drank in eagerly every
word about home.
"It has done me good," he said. "I shall
sleep to-night with the sound of rustling pines
in my ears, the pines that grow on the slope of
Prospect Hill, over Shady Pool. And I shall
see the light on the mountains, as it looked
414
Earnest Living.
when I was a boy, and dreamed of great deeds,
that now will never be done."
Hope laid her finger upon his lips. "An end
of talking till to-morrow."
"And you must sleep too, and be fairly
rested, for there are many things to be spoken
of by us to-morrow, Hope."
Hope did sleep long and soundly, and awoke
refreshed by the thought that she was near her
brother. She dressed quickly, and hastened be-
low, meeting Mr. Grosvenor in the hall.
"Have you rested well, and become ready
for your office of nurse?" he asked, as he bade
her good-morning.
She smiled brightly. "Quite ready, and I pro-
pose to do wonders. You will be surprised, I
am sure, to see how rapidly John will improve."
Mr. Grosvenor looked very grave. "I know
he has had the kindest care," continued Hope.
"I can never thank you sufficiently, Mr. Gros-
The Last Parting.
415
venor, for all you have done for John. If he
lives, it will be to you that we owe him.'
""
He answered, with an embarrassed manner,
that it was nothing, then asked her to come
into the parlor for a moment, before she went
to her brother. Then, as tenderly as such
words could be said, he told her that no care or
love could ever make her brother well, and that
only a very few days lay between them and the
parting.
Hope heard in silence, struggling with her-
self for fortitude and submission.
"He asked me to tell you this, that he might
not see you suffer. You will try to bear it, for
his sake, will you not, Miss Wallace? It seemed
best that you should know it at once, and not
torture yourself and him with vain expecta-
tions."
"Only a few days more! Why can it not be
I, instead of him?"
"Your presence will make those few days
416
Earnest Living.
bright to him, if you can only bear the trial
bravely."
"I will bear it for his sake," she replied. "I
will make the way as easy as I can for him.
Now I must go to him. But let me thank you
again, Mr. Grosvenor, for all your kindness.”
"Do not, if you can avoid it, Miss Wallace,
remember me painfully, as the bearer of such
sad tidings. God knows that I would willingly
endure for you."
"You are very, very kind, and I shall always
remember you gratefully. But I must bear it
alone," she said.
John looked up smiling as Hope entered his
chamber.
66
'I slept well," said he, "and you look so
fresh that I shall not need to ask after
your
health. Mark has told you?" he added, tak-
ing her hand.
Hope could only nod a yes.
"That is well. Now we will be cheerful and
The Last Parting.
417
happy together these last days, just as when
we were going to leave each other for a shorter
separation. Shall we not?"
"I will try, John. It is a comfort to be near
you."
"You are a great comfort to me. They tell
me not to talk much, but I mean to say to you,
by snatches, all the things I wish, before I go
away, and between the talk I can watch you,
and take into my soul the remembrance that is
to last till you follow me."
Last moments! how precious they are; how
full of sad sweetness! Hope had stood beside
the death-bed of a father and a mother, and
now, in her youth, she looked upon the depart-
ing life of the last of her family, asking her-
self what, when this was over, would be left
her either to hope or fear.
"Do you remember your promise to me?"
asked John, "this one: that you would not
feel that all had gone with me, but would
27
418
Earnest Living.
still seek out the good and pleasant things of
life"?
"Where shall I find them?
"God will send them to you in time. He will
not leave you comfortless."
"It would be so much better if I could go
with you, John."
"There is much left for you to do, Hope,
to enjoy and to suffer. Be patient and wait."
"It would have seemed that there was much
for you, John, a life full of useful service;
but you are going from it all.”
"It seems strange, does it not? I wanted to
see the war ended, and the old flag triumphant,
and honored as it never was before. I have
had some plans and many dreams of the future,
and this is what they have come to."
"Oh, John, it can not be right."
"That is what I have thought sometimes,
lying here in silence, and looking this death in
the face. I have not wished to die; I feel as
The Last Parting.
419
if I were scarcely willing even now. Life has
been so good,-work, and sacrifice, also, so
full of joy. But then I remembered Him who
tasted death for all men. He prayed that the
cup might pass from Him, for he knew how
bitter it was."
"He will help us in the bitterness of ours.'
""
"Yes, Hope, and turn it into sweetness at
last. Now I begin to see how easily He can do
without me here on earth. You will see the
good day of peace again, just as soon as if I
were here to fight for it. And some one will
more worthily and usefully fill the place I might
have had. Yet I hope I have not lived in
vain, that I have done something; though I
can hardly see what. After all," he continued,
a long pause intervening, " done, or undone,
seems of little consequence now, since One has
done all for me, and I lie in His hands. Under-
neath me are the everlasting Arms."
The day wore away quietly, the surgeon
420
Earnest Living.
coming now and then; Mr. Grosvenor looking
in to beg Hope to go away for rest or food ; but
most of the time they two were quite by them-
selves, as it was so sweet to be. They spoke
of many common things: of arrangements for
Hope's future comfort, of messages to friends.
"Now that all these things are over," said
John, "I feel as if the world had faded quite
out of sight. It was not so dear as I had
thought. Now read to me something good, and
I think I shall sleep."
""
Hope read the ninetieth and ninety-first
psalms.
*
"Good, strong words!" said he, "full of as-
surance and wholly satisfactory. Now the hun-
dred and twenty-first. Why should your voice
falter in that, my darling? Now clearly and
bravely, so that I shall not lose any of the com-
fort of it." Hope read aloud, controlling her
trembling voice, and growing stronger as she
went on. "I will lift up mine eyes unto the
The Last Parting.
421
hills, from whence cometh my help. My help
cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and
earth. He will not suffer thy foot to be moved;
He that keepeth thee will not slumber. Behold,
He that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor
sleep. The Lord is thy keeper; the Lord is thy
shade upon thy right hand. The sun shall not
smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. The
Lord shall preserve thee from all evil; He shall
preserve thy soul. The Lord shall preserve thy
going out and thy coming in from this time
forth, and even for evermore.”
"That is for you," said John. "I can leave
you comfortably, with such promises as those :
and now let me hear Christ's last words."
Hope began the fourteenth chapter of John,
and her brother, soothed and quieted by them,
fell asleep with a smile on his lips as peaceful
as that of a child.
Mr. Grosvenor stole in by and by, and per-
suaded Hope to leave him for the night, promis-
422
Earnest Living.
ing to call her in case of any change of symp-
toms.
It was nearly morning when she was aroused
by the nurse.
"Mr. Grosvenor thinks he is dying," said
she, "but he is conscious and very calm."
Hope hurried down in an agony of terror.
It was evident to her, at a glance, that the part-
ing hour had indeed come. John took her
hand as she approached him, whispering, “I
thought we should be together a little longer,
Hope. Perhaps it is better so. Remember
your promise not to mourn for me as if nothing
were left you. Do you remember?”
"Yes, and I will do my best, John," she re-
plied, anxious to grant this last desire. He
smiled tenderly on her, as if satisfied, and said
no more to her.
Just as daylight began to creep into the
room, he looked up brightly. "The morning
is breaking over the hills," said he. "I will
The Last Parting.
423
lift up my eyes unto the hills, from whence
cometh my help.''
A few hours more, and the death-struggle
was over, and the brave young spirit had gone
from its earthly warfare to the eternal reward.
Some one led Hope away. She could not
look up for tears, to see whose touch it was
upon her hand.
But a gentle voice whispered
some comforting words to her, and she raised
her eyes in surprise to see Mrs. Grosvenor's
sweet face bending over her, with such a look
of deep compassion in her eyes as painters give
to the face of the sorrowing and sympathizing
Madonna.
CHAPTER XXXI.
CONCLUSION.
"Our sweet Chaucer telleth of a mirrour in the which he that
looked did see all his past life; that magical mirrour is no fable, for
in the memorie of love old things doe returne, and show themselves
as features doe in the glass, with a perfect and most beguiling like-
ness."
ONLY a few months ago, one who had
ONLY
known and loved Hope Wallace in her
school-girl days at Waldham found her
out in her new home, a three months' bride.
"You have a pleasant home," said the visitor,
as she glanced around the cheerful, sunny par-
lor, with its books and pictures and tasteful
furnishings.
"The best of all," replied Hope, "is that it
is home. I could not realize it at first, but I
am finding out more and more every day that
424
Conclusion.
425
it is indeed mine, and an abiding-place; that
is, so far as mortals, and especially ministers'
wives, can claim an abiding-place.”
"And does your new dignity rest heavily
upon you?”
“Oh, no.
Mr. Grosvenor has the best of
parishes, and I think they are disposed to judge
me very charitably. They like me for his
sake,” she added, blushing slightly.
"And housekeeping?"
"That would be something of a burden now
at first, I confess, only that Mrs. Grosvenor
has been with us, and made everything easy.
She is a genuine mother. I could hardly love
her more if she were my own indeed."
"The city must seem strange to you, after
the quiet of Waldham."
"I like the change. After my brother's
death, the monotony of the country lay upon
me like a weight. I tried to interest myself in
the old employments, but all seemed dreary
426
Earnest Living.
and tasteless.
Then Mrs. Grosvenor sent for
me, and I went to her for a while, and there I
found out that Mr. Grosvenor wished me to be
his wife. It seemed very strange, but he was
John's friend, and liked me better, perhaps, for
that reason. I am contented now, as I ought
to be, but the wish often arises that John could
have lived to see and share my happiness."
"And now," said the visitor, "what can you
tell me of our Waldham friends?"
"Chattie Mason, as you probably know, is
married to Dr. Lee."
"How do they do without her at home?"
"She lives very near, and exercises a kind
of general supervision over both households.
Besides, her next sister is very like her, just
such a good, unselfish being. The two brothers
both came home from the army. Harry lost a
limb before Richmond, but would have given
all his limbs, he says, rather than not have
been a sharer in the glory of victory."
Conclusion.
427.
"And what of Bessie and her work?”
"Bessie is as active and enthusiastic as ever.
The Sabbath school has done much good,
more than any of us would have dared to hope
when we undertook it. The plain seems а
changed spot. Soon after my brother's death,
little Nelly Harding died suddenly. It was a
heavy stroke to her father, and ever after that
his heart seemed softened toward the Saviour,
of whose love Nelly had talked so much to him.
Now he seems to be a real Christian, and
exerts a great influence over his neighbors,
many of whom go to church with him. The
Sabbath school is still held in the familiar
place, and Bessie is its presiding genius. She
and Lucy Haynes manage a sewing-school to-
gether. It would be hard to tell all the good
enterprises that Bessie has on her hands. She
has just the energy and tact needed for success,
and is genuinely happy in her work."
428
Earnest Living.
"I wish to ask of one more, your little sea-
side friend, Fanny Sayle."
"Fanny!" said Hope with a very bright
face," she is now a neighbor of mine. You
should see her, a pretty, vivacious young lady,
with only enough of her former peculiarities
left to make her the more pleasing. A good,
warm-hearted girl she is, as ready as Bessie
for Christian work, though not so persevering
in it, perhaps. And she is a great helper to
me, as any one is who loves me heartily.”
Hope's visitor left her, carrying away the
pleasant remembrance of a gentle face, in
whose gravity were the traces of sorrows not
yet wholly healed, of a home whose indwel-
ling love and happiness were perfected through
consecration to the highest and noblest ends, -
the love and service of God, and helpful kind-
ness to man.
THE END.

14-
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Hope Wallace; or, Earnest living / writt
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