[Three Successful Girls by Julia Crouch—Third Part]

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CHAPTER XIV.

THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

“FOR one, I am tired of living in this way,” said Mary, drawing nearer to the little stove, and shivering slightly. “I never shall be anything, for what can I learn with only a few hours a day to practice, and with a teacher who has a large class and no particular interest in it? I feel tonight just like going home to the country and settling down ”—

“As the wife of Maurice Pike,” put in Kate, with a roguish twinkle in her eye.

“I don’t feel like being teased; everything has gone wrong to-day. My scholars were unusually dull; and when I undertook to sing in the class, my voice cracked and I choked, and then those ill-mannered girls all giggled. I’d like to know what I came to New York for? I’m sure I was comfortable at home. I never had to put myself on an allowance about eating, nor be all the time in a tremor about rent’s coming due. People make themselves a great deal of trouble for nothing. Why didn’t we stay at home, and be contented?”

“Because it isn’t in us, I suppose. I’m sure I’m in a tight place just now; and it would seem nice to be at home, where we could go to sleep, as we used to, with no cares on our minds. I shall have to content myself with only a few dry crackers for my supper; and only

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think, it is the night before Christmas. There is one comfort; they at home don’t know our hardships.”

“Yes, that is what I keep thinking; but Hannah is coming. Let us light the lamp. It is not really dark yet; but the weather is so dismal, a light may make the room seem a little more cheerful.”

The door opened, and Hannah entered.

“How do you feel to-night?” inquired Mary. “I know you haven’t had good luck by the looks of your eyes. Why, how wet your cloak is!”

“Sit down by the fire as soon as possible,” said Kate, and dry your feet. I’ll hang up your cloak.”

“It’s wretchedly stormy,” said Hannah; “and I walked all the way home from Fulton Street; and the wind blew directly in my face. I nearly froze my fingers too, for I forgot my mittens.”

“It’s too bad,” said Mary; “let me unbutton your boots; and you shall wear my slippers; here they are, all ready.”

“Thank you,” said Hannah. “It’s nice to have even this little uncarpeted room all to ourselves, this bitter cold night. I’m sure I am glad enough to get here. How have you progressed on your picture, Kate? and, Mamie, have you found any time to practice?”

“My picture would get along well enough if I could work on it every day as I have to-day; but I can’t, you know.”

“I haven’t practiced but one hour,” said Mary, “and that seemed to be on wings. Do tell us, Hannah, what luck you have had. I couldn’t really gain courage to ask you, for I knew by your looks you hadn’t been successful.”

“Not so unsuccessful as I might have been,” said

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Hannah. “The story is accepted, but the pay doesn’t come till it is published, which will be in a few weeks.”

“Why couldn’t Mr. Drew have known how much we want a Christmas dinner?” said Kate.

“Because people in general attend only to their own wants,” said Hannah. “I thought at first I would tell him how much we needed the money; but somehow I couldn’t do it. I thought about the difference in people’s circumstances to-night as I walked up from Fulton Street in the storm, because I could not afford to ride, when it would have cost but six cents, while so many were leaning back in the cushions of close carriages.”

“Yes,” said Kate, “ and go home to find nice suppers awaiting them. O dear, how I wish I was a man!”

“If constant wishing ever brought anything about,” said Mary, “you would have been a man long ago.”

“Well, only think what advantages men have, —Mr. St. Maur, for instance. How important and ”—

“I saw him to-night,” said Hannah, looking steadily into the fire, and speaking slowly.

“You saw him?” exclaimed Kate and Mary together. “Why didn’t you tell us before? You are in a strange mood, Hannah. Did you speak with him?”

“No, he didn’t see me, but was giving his attention to a ragged urchin, who got hurt in the street. The last I saw of him, he had the poor boy in his arms, bearing him away. O girls, there never was such a handsome man before, I am sure; and undoubtedly he is much more of a saint than we thought him. I begin to think the little widow was right. I believe men are more splendid than women.”

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“All because they have so many more advantages,” said Kate. “I see you are charmed with Mr. St. Maur, Hannah.”

“And so would you be, had you seen him lift that ragged boy so tenderly in his strong arms, and his eyes—I caught one glance—were as tender and soft as Mary’s are now. He isn’t a bear, Kate; we were wrong.”

“And I am glad of it; but if he is not a bear, I’m sure he is a mystery,” said Kate. “O, if I were a man, I could endure anything.”

“But men have many temptations; and how few young men there are who are honest and true!”

“Don’t girls have temptations as well?” said Kate quickly. “O dear, I believe the city is no place for a girl; and if I didn’t want to be an artist so very, very much, and have the advantages for learning art which the country cannot give me, wouldn’t I go home to my quiet little home nest and be at peace? Why were we not born contented to be common people, to marry some good farmers, —we have all had chances enough, —and settle down to domestic comfort, to wash dishes and mend clothes, free from those aspirations that haunt us, and drive us into hardships and disappointments? Think of Sally; I suppose she is perfectly happy and contented. And Annie Dame, she has nothing to fret about. She gets up in the morning and goes through a regular routine of domestic duties. I can see her now in the warm sitting-room with her mother, perhaps at work on patch-work, or knitting on a coarse blue sock for her father.”

“Don’t, Kate, bring up so pleasant a picture to distract us to-night,” said Mary. “I can see just how it looks in that warm room. The white kitten is lying

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on the rug all curled up; and Annie looks as placid as a June sky, and has nothing to worry about, —nothing worth worrying about I mean. She is sure of a good warm breakfast in the morning; and there is no unpaid rent to worry over.”

“And more than all that,” said Hannah, “there is not in her heart that unsatisfied longing to be something, to rise, and to learn everything. She is content to be comfortable, expecting of course to marry some time, and have a house of her own to keep.”

“Why couldn’t we have stayed at home and been the same?” said Mary. “Think how merry we might have been this winter, going to singing-schools, spelling-schools, parties, and evening meetings, just as the other girls do in the neighborhood. Don’t the fried ham and eggs and apple-sauce at home seem good?”

“Yes, and mother’s nice bread and golden butter,” suggested Kate.

“And brown bread, corned beef and cabbage, pickles and doughnuts. O dear, I feel as if I could eat a bushel of the good things mother cooks,” said Mary.

“Don’t, girls, you’ll drive me crazy,” said Hannah. “Just hear the wind blow, and then that everlasting clatter, clatter in the streets. It deafens me. How quiet it must be at home to-night! Do you remember how we used to hang our stockings on the old chimney, and find them stuffed full in the morning?”

“I remember,” said Mary, brushing from her eye a little round tear; “and I am tired of working, and working, and learning so little. It must be so pleas- ant at home now; and how dismal it is here.”

“Always darkest just before day,” said Hannah, trying to be lively; “and, after all, what is the use of

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this talk? You know not one of us is sorry we have done just as we have; and we wouldn’t be in Annie Dame’s place for the world. We had rather struggle, live on crackers, and endure many hardships, than settle down to an unaspiring life.”

“That is all true enough,” said Mary, “ but isn’t it a misfortune to be born with such unsatisfied ambition! Of course we know very well that we were not satisfied to remain at home, and never would have been, to do no more than most girls; but why couldn’t we have been?”

“You have asked an unanswerable question, Mary,” said Kate. “You might as well have asked why the world was made.”

“We must accept it as a fact,” said Hannah, “that a quiet life with few hardships, and no achievements of mark, would not satisfy us; and probably this very discontent will cause us to prosper, for we shouldn’t be likely to be determined to do something we never could do; and if we were sure we should in the future accomplish our objects, we shouldn’t fret about being ambitious and aspiring. It is the fear that we can never be what we wish to be, that gives us the ‘blues,’ makes us discouraged, and causes us to long for the quiet, unassuming life of Annie Dame; and if we were satisfied, we should not rise higher. There is Miss Brechandon’s step, and I am glad she is coming.”

“All huddled together as usual,” said Miss Brechandon, entering the room. “I thought I’d drop in for a moment, as it’s the night before Christmas. Tomorrow’ll be a great day with the Catholics. David De Witt is down at the church practicing on the organ like one possessed.”

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“There is no day in the year equal to Christmas with us,” said Hannah.

“Why didn’t you go home, then, and not stay in this dismal hole?”

“O, we couldn’t well do that,” said Kate. “It costs more than we can afford.”

“What girls! I never saw your like before, and I often wonder what will become of you; but girls, you know, never succeed.”

“Never? Why, Miss Brechandon, you really do not mean that,” said Hannah, in a tone of surprise.

“Seldom, I will say then, if that suits you better. I thought once there might be such a thing; but I have no more faith. You seem to be in earnest, but you must fail to be anything more than women, with women’s hearts; and undoubtedly you’ll spend your strength in vain.”

“If it is spent in vain, it will be in earnest,” said Kate; “but why should we fail, Miss Brechandon?”

“Because it’s not women’s place to be more than old maids, wives, and mothers.”

“But women have been successful,” said Hannah.

“Seldom,” said Miss Brechandon, shaking her head. “I had high hopes once, but I see they were founded on imagination.”

“Tell us about it,” said Mary, who was always ready to hear a story.

“It is a painful story,” said Miss Brechandon, “and I have never related it; but it is stormy and dismal to-night, and the twelfth anniversary of that dreadful day she left me, and it may do you good.”

She drew nearer the little stove, and the girls gathered around her. She sat silent a moment, looking at the bright coals, then she commenced.

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“It was thirty years ago, just thirty last night,” she said musingly, “that I sat with my old aunt before the blazing fire in the old-fashioned kitchen, knitting away on a pair of mittens for a Christmas present to poor old Sammy Wilcox. I was sixteen then; how strange it seems! Only sixteen, and I hoped for great things in the future. My old aunt was nodding in her chair, and I was thinking and knitting together, when suddenly there came such a ring from the old brass knocker as I hadn’t heard for many a day. I sprang up, and actually ran to the door, impressed that something terrible had happened. I unbarred and unlocked the door, and saw a man with a bundle in his arms standing on the step below. I thought him a stranger at first; but just then the moon, which had been hidden behind a cloud, shone out, and revealed to me my second cousin Joseph Graf. ‘I have brought little Annie,’ he said, as he followed me into the room. ‘Her father is dead, and wished her brought here.’ Little Annie was my poor dead sister’s baby, only a year and a half old, a rosy, plump little thing; and I took her in my arms and hugged her close to my bosom. She shall be mine,’ I said; and after that I devoted myself to the child, and made her my idol. My old aunt died soon after, and little Annie and I lived all alone in the great farm-house; and everything a mother could do for a child, I did for her.”

Miss Brechandon stopped here, and for a little time was silent. She seemed to have forgotten she was not alone; but, suddenly recollecting herself, she continued : —

“Little Annie was the brightest and smartest scholar ‘n every school which she attended, and everybody prophesied for her a glorious future, and I felt sure she

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would make her mark in the world. I was not able to educate her, as I desired” —here Miss Brechandon ceased speaking, and began rocking backwards and forwards rapidly.

The girls were silent a moment, looking at her in astonishment; then Mary touched her cheek gently.

“Please tell the rest, Miss Brechandon,” she said; but Miss Brechandon shook her head.

“I can’t tell the rest,” she said. “I thought I would when I commenced, but he wouldn’t like it; and I can only tell you that ‘just one ball’ was the ruin of her; and just twelve years ago to-night she kissed me many times before she went out, just for a few moments she said; but she never came back again. She had every advantage to be more than an ordinary woman; but she preferred to run away with a senseless fop than remain at home and have all the good things ever a woman enjoyed. That was twelve years ago, and only once since have I seen her. She was in the street; how she looked, as pale as a ghost,” —Miss Brechandon shuddered, —“and dressed in threadbare garments. She called to me, but I passed on. She had chosen her way, and must walk in it. I haven’t seen her since; and where she is, I never expect to know.”

She had but just ceased speaking, when Hannah, filled with sympathy for the poor little Annie, exclaimed excitedly, —

“It is no wonder, Miss Brechandon, that you believe God to be so full of wrath and vengeance, if you turned away from the pleading face of one who had erred, but who called to you again probably for forgiveness. It is not strange you so thoroughly believe in your stern and stiff religion. I have often before

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wondered why you, with the tender heart I believed you possessed, could believe our Heavenly Father to be so cruel; but I understand now, and shall never wonder again. Perhaps we judge God by ourselves, and do not know it. If we are uncharitable and suspicious, if we think there are only a few worthy to be saved, perhaps we believe God judges the same way.”

Miss Brechandon stared at Hannah as if hardly comprehending her meaning.

“But it wasn’t I,” she said after a moment, “who brought the trouble upon her, but she who brought it upon herself, and upon me and him.”

“But haven’t you enough charity in your heart to understand wherefore she might have been tempted to err, and then repent? And how can you be happy since you met her in the street, and turned away from her? Doesn’t her pleading voice haunt you continually? Ah! Miss Brechandon, for what purpose do you think religion was instituted? It isn’t of the ministers after all, that we learn what is the true religion; one loving, forgiving act is a more powerful sermon than a most profound theological dissertation, and one unforgiving and unloving deed, committed and unretracted, cannot be covered by countless sermons and seeming piety.”

Miss Brechandon looked stiffly into the fire, and did not speak.

“Dear Miss Brechandon,” said Mary, who was the favorite, “how will God forgive your sins if you do not forgive poor little Annie her sins?” Still she did not speak.

“I don’t want the religion,”‘ said Kate, “that hardens my heart toward a poor erring sister. The creed

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of a religion sinks into insignificance by the side of charitable deeds and loving kindness; and a true, warm, forgiving heart will surely find favor in the sight of God, whether the person is Protestant or Catholic, orthodox or otherwise.”

Miss Brechandon looked up at the three earnest faces around her.

“If one of you three should ruin the happiness of the others, would you forgive and embrace her as you do now?” she asked. The three sisters drew nearer together, and silently clasped hands.

“What is love and friendship worth,” said Hannah earnestly, “if it only lives while the object is in prosperity? If we should cast off our friends because they err, we should retain but few.”

“But he was the noblest man that ever lived,” said Miss Brechandon in measured tones, as if to herself, “and he can’t forgive, or at least he thinks she merits all the sorrow she has found.”

She arose and looked at the girls a moment as they were nestled closely together in the dim lamp-light; then she turned abruptly and opened the door in the hall. “Good night,” she said, and, walking out, closed the door after her.

“There is nothing in life that could part us, dears,” said Hannah, drawing the girls nearer to her.

“Nothing,” answered both; and the storm raged on, and the clatter continued in the streets.

“We’ll not hang up our stockings to-night,” said Kate; “but I have got a present for us all, just something to look at.”

“And I have got something for you to listen to,” said Mary.

“And I have made a Christmas poem to read to

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you,” said Hannah; “and who knows but our Christmas will be delightful?”

“I shall go to see little Neil Blossom, and sing him my new song; and I shall tell his poor mother not a cent shall I charge for the last six weeks of his lessons, for she really isn’t able to pay it, and I am afraid is working herself into the grave. Of course we need the money; but I’m sure she needs it more, now her poor boy is sick.”

“It is noble in you, Mary,” said Kate, “and I am sure we shall lose nothing by considering others. I am sorry my picture didn’t sell; but I shall take it away after Christmas. It never will be noticed there, with no frame, and in that obscure corner.”

“How pleasant it is,” said Hannah musingly, “to be together, we three! why should we complain, while we have each other, and a dear beautiful home in the country to which we can fly at any time, should sickness or misfortune come upon us? How many there are in the city with no one to love them or comfort them, and no dear home to think about as all ready to receive them!”

“Poor things!” sighed Kate, “ how I wish I could comfort and bless them all! and after all, girls, what is there in this life so beautiful as helping each other and doing our duties faithfully? Wealth and fame are as dross in comparison.”

“I am sure of it,” answered Hannah, “and let it be our aim and object to make ourselves, and those around us, better. Let us strive and not get selfish, but keep our hearts full of charity and love; then we shall have something that will never fail us; and we can bear prosperity and adversity, and see good in both.”

“I feel so much better than I did,” said Mary, “and

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I think we shall sleep sweetly and enjoy our Christmas with the best.”

With these consoling words and comforting thoughts, the three young girls retired, determined to make the best of all that should happen to them, but not once dreaming of the pleasure which the morning was destined to bring; and while they slept, the snow grew deeper in the streets, and Christmas grew nearer and nearer.

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CHAPTER XV.

CHRISTMAS DAY.

THE girls were still sleeping sweetly and soundly, when a heavy pounding on the door awakened them; and they started up, and looked at each other bewilderingly.

“What can it mean?” said Hannah, rubbing her eyes.

“It’s I,” said ‘Miss Brechandon’s voice impatiently. “You’d better not lie in bed any longer; there’s a gentleman in the hall who wants to see you; and I should say he has taken an early start.”

“ Mercy !” exclaimed Kate, giving her black hair a toss back from her face. “A gentleman caller at this hour! We don’t know any one but Mr. St. Maur, and it can’t be he. How does he look?” she inquired in a loud voice of Miss Brechandon.

“Tall and green,” answered Miss Brechandon bluntly.

“Did he wear a fur cap?” asked Mary.

“I should say he did, but still I don’t know certain; but don’t ask me any more questions; just get ready and go down. He broke in upon my morning devotions, and I don’t want to have any more trouble with him;” and the girls heard her steps retreating.

“Now, girls, don’t yawn and gape, but be quick. Remember it is Christmas morning; and who knows

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but something good is in store for us. Last night, you know, we were almost despairing, though not so much so as to call to our presence the ‘Genius of Despair and Suicide’ that once sat at the fire of the Baron of Grogzwig. I dreamed of him, though, last night, and thought he came into our little room here, and Kate drove him out with a pair of brass-handled tongs; and he fled so precipitately that one of the coffin handles that ornamented his tunic fell off, and Mary caught it up and flung it at his head; and then we all laughed so loud that I awoke.”

They laughed and shivered, and hurried about with their teeth chattering with the cold and the excitement.

“Who can it be?” asked Mary. “Shall we all go down together?”

“Of course,” said Hannah, braiding her hair with chilled fingers. “ Miss Brechandon said he wanted to see us; and who are us, but all three? If it should be Mr. St. Maur! but it can’t be, only I can’t think of any one else.”

In a short time their toilets were made; and throwing their shawls around them, they left their room, and went down the stairs to the lower hall. At the farther end, leaning against the door, they saw a tall man; but there was too little light to tell them who he was, even if they had seen him before. They advanced hesitatingly; but he approached them with rapid strides; and Kate, with a little spring forward, exclaimed, “‘Nijah can it be! yes, girls, as sure as you live, it is ‘Nijah himself;” and never before did the bashful young man receive such a hearty welcome; and his good-natured face glowed all over with rapture.

“I should a known you anywheres,” he said when the girls gave him time to speak.

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“Of course you would,” said Mary, who still continued to squeeze his great brown hand with both her own. “I’m afraid, however, this is a dream, ‘Nijah, because I can’t conceive of anything that would bring you to New York.”

‘Nijah was about to break forth in one of his loud laughs; but a step and the sound of a door opening and shutting prevented it; and he gave a most unnatural sneeze and forced cough.

“How is everybody at home? have you seen father and mother? did they know you were coming? If it is a dream, answer these questions before we awake,” said Hannah eagerly.

“Everybody’s all right to home, I b’lieve, ‘cept old Dan Pike: he’s dead and buried yesterday forenoon; kind of a fit he had, and died sudden. Your folks was the last folks I see in our neighborhood; and they sent so many words, blamed if I can remember half on ‘em; but they’re all well, and sent you some things.”

“‘Nijah, what did you come to New York for? I must know that, before I know another thing. Did you come to see the city, or what?” asked Mary, with a serious air.

“It’s kind of a story, you see,” said he, looking around him in a hesitating way, as though everything wasn’t just right for telling a story.

“Dear, dear!” whispered Hannah to Kate, “ what shall we do? We can’t stand in the hall much longer. I’m nearly frozen; besides, people will begin to pass through here soon.”

“If our room was only in order,” whispered Kate in return, “I wouldn’t mind taking him up there, would you?”

“No, not a bit; and I’ll go up and have every-

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thing all ready in a few moments; and then we can talk without fear of interruption;” and away went Hannah, while the girls explained the cause of her leaving them. It wasn’t long before she beckoned to them from the top of the stairs, and ‘Nijah followed the girls to their room. “Now,” said Kate, turning about just as they were going to enter the little room, —“now, ‘Nijah, remember you are not to tell a word about our household affairs.”

“I won’t tell nothing you don’t want me to,” said ‘Nijah; and they passed in. There was a very strange stare on the young man’s face as he looked about him, and saw the little white beds, the upright piano, and the limited space to walk around in; and he, stood silent a moment, and gazed at one thing and then at another.

“Then this is how you’ve done it,” he said at last. “Everybody to home, you know, is a sayin’, ‘Jacob Windsor must have a mine of money I don’t know on to send three gals like his’n to school in New York city all winter long; or else he’s a spendin’ every cent he’s wo’th to do it;’ and I must say I wondered over it. I see just how ‘tis now; and I’d like to give Malidy Frow a sly hint, for she’s always sayin’, ‘There, I guess I could be somethin’ if I had a chance;’ but, gracious, she don’t know how chances come.”

“You are not to say a word about it, you know, ‘Nijah,” said Hannah, motioning him to a little seat at the stove.

“No, you just set there; I shan’t,” said he; ‘I’m not a bit cold, and I know you be.” He looked very awkward and out of place in that little room, and seemed also to feel stiff and uncomfortable in his new suit of clothes and paper collar.

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“We are so glad to see you,” said Kate, when at last they were all seated near the fire; and now you must tell us every bit of the news, first explaining why you are in New York this Christmas morning.”

“Goodness me, how Sally did fume and fret about it at first! but then pa, you know he’s kind of easy, and I got along all right. I’ll begin at the beginnin’, and tell the hull story just how it all come about.

“In the first place, when you’d gone, the neighbor- hood didn’t seem like the same place. Everything was dull; and nobody didn’t seem to try to do anything but plod, plod, plod in one track; and so I got to thinkin’; and when I’d thought a spell, I got ashamed of myself. ‘What!’ I thought, ‘ shall three pretty girls, with little white hands and hearts tender as chickens, go off and make their fortunes, and I, a great man six foot tall, with these stout hands, stay on a rocky old farm forever, and do the same things over and over, and get to be some old codger at last?’ But what could I do? that was the pint; and blamed if I could think of a single thing. I didn’t tell nobody what I thought, but Dill; and she couldn’t think of nothin’ neither; and I was in the worst kind of a fix, for you see I got as uneasy as a fish out of water; and pa, he got discouraged of me; and there I was. All to once one Sunday mornin’, when I was thinkin’ the same thing over, I got an idea; and as quick as that come into my mind, I felt like another bein’. I was bound, you see, to go away from home, for I knew that was what I needed; and I thought New York would be the very best place I could go to; and my idee was that I’d earn enough money to go there; and you better believe the next day I went to work with a will. Pa actually gazed at me in surprise, and Sally said she

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was glad to see me act sensible agin; but they didn’t know, you see, what was in my head. I told Dill ‘bout it, and she cried, poor little thing, and said everybody was goin’ off, and what was the use of living? but I told her I’d come back soon, and be enough better to pay; and she kind of got reconciled. I ‘ranged it with pa so I made some money of my own, though it didn’t come very fast; and all the time I kept a thinkin’ and thinkin’. Just about a month ago it was when Dill came along by the field where I was to work, and beckoned me out to the path. She asked me the first thing how I would like to learn a carpenter’s trade. I jest told her I’d like to boss great meetin’-houses, for I’d no idee what she was drivin’ at; and then she said her uncle William had come from New York, and he was a carpenter, and would like an apprentice. How I did jump about then! and Dill she actually laughed, though she was half crying; and that, you see, is just why I’m here. I made a bargain with her uncle William to come after Christmas; but I come one day earlier, so I could see you and the city before I went to work.”

“And you are going to stay here in the city, and work?” said Mary, as if hardly comprehending the story.

“That’s it; but I know I’m tremenjous green, and I’ve concluded, you see, to keep cool, till I’ve learnt something.” Here he looked at Kate with a very red face, and thrust his hands into his pockets. “Boys don’t learn so fast as girls anyhow,” he continued; “and the dickens! they feel so awkward, they can’t get ‘round no ways decent. It may be all owin’ to their big hands and feet, and long legs and arms; blamed if I know what to do with mine half the time.”

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“You’ll soon learn,” said Hannah. “How do you like the city?”

“Wal, ‘tain’t niothin’s I thought ‘twas. Every- thing’s all jined together; so, you see, a feller can’t tell what’s what.”

“So old Dan Pike is dead?” said Mary, who was thinking about home.

“Yes, and Maurice’ll have the farm now. He’s a strange chap. When you went away, he bet that you’d be home agin in less than a month.”

“It’s strange we heard nothing of your coming to New York,” said Kate.

“No, ‘tisn’t; for many didn’t know of it, and they promised not to tell. I wanted to surprise you; but you won’t take no offense, I’m sure, when I tell you I’m surprised to find you in this little room up so high. Not but what it’s comfortable, but it’s so small. Couldn’t do much at dancing here. Where’n the diggins do you eat?”

“On this table,” laughed Hannah.

“Do you really, now? But where do you get your victuals? Of course you don’t cook in here.”

“Yes, we do too,” said Kate, “if we cook at all;” and then she nudged Hannah, and whispered, “What shall we do about breakfast? Of course ‘Nijah hasn’t had any. Probably he came directly from the boat.”

“You are a-talkin’ ‘bout breakfast, but I’ve eat, and I’m in your way about getting yourn; besides, I shouldn’t wonder if there was somethin’ good to eat in that sachel. I was in to your house the day before I came away, and I was agoin’ to say I smelt a rat, but I didn’t; I smelt somethin’ nice a cookin’, and your ma had flour on her apron, and was beatin’ eggs, and there was raisins lyin’ round loose; and I took the

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hint, and asked no questions. Does she know what kind of a room you live in?”

“No, she doesn’t of course: how could she? and you mustn’t tell her, ‘Nijah, because it would do no good, and we get along nicely,” said Hannah anxiously.

“No danger of my tellin’; besides, you’ll go home before I will, and there’s no chance of your ma and I getting up a plan of writin’ letters to each other.”

“How long are you going to stay?” asked Kate.

“O, a long time, perhaps years. I don’t think I shall get a bit homesick,” said ‘Nijah in a confident tone.

“I hope you won’t,” said Mary, sympathetically. “You haven’t told us where you will stay.”

“All I know ‘bout it,” said ‘Nijah, with a grin, “is what there is on a piece of paper in my pocket. One place is the same to me as another in this confusion. Mr. Lake writ it down for me, and told me to inquire.”

Here he produced from the depth of his pocket a card, and passed it to the girls.

“O it’s not far from here, ‘Nijah,” said Hannah; “is it with Mr. Lake you will board?”

“Yes, right with him, and he is jist the cleverest man you ever see. I want you to come there some day. Now say you will.”

“Perhaps,” said Kate; “have you been there yet?”

“No, and blamed if I don’t dread goin’. It’s hard on a feller now, ain’t it, to go amongst strangers?” and ‘Nijah rested one heavy boot on his knee, and sat uneasily in his chair. “I told Mr. Lake I must come here first anyhow, and he came to the very door with

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me, and told me not to stay long, for breakfast would be ready; but I had a doughnut and some cheese in my pocket, that Sally gave me, and I eat that, and don’t feel hungry. Howsomever, I must go, and give you a chance to eat your breakfasts, and see what your ma sent you; for it’s jist like you not to look till I’m gone, if I stay all day;” and ‘Nijah began to arise from the little low chair in which he was sitting. He rose up six feet, shook down his satinet pants, and looked at the girls hesitatingly.

“We would like to see what mother has sent,” said Hannah, frankly; “but we haven’t seen you half enough yet, ‘Nijah, and we are so glad you have come.”

“Yes, indeed we are,” said Kate; “for there are hundreds more questions we want to ask you; and if you’ll only come in again, and if you would like, sometime in the day we’ll go around the city with you, though of course it won’t be so lively as though it weren’t Christmas.”

“Just exactly what I wanted to ask of you,” said ‘Nijah,. a bland smile breaking over his face; “ but I dassent hardly, for I didn’t know as you’d want to go round with such a green chap; and gracious, I didn’t blame you; and I mean to learn, you know: anybody with brains can learn, can’t he?”

“With brains and heart, yes,” said Hannah; “but don’t learn to be less good and true than you are now, ‘Nijah.”

The young rustic’s face grew very red, and he looked at Kate in that quick, anxious way he often had before.

“Yes, ‘Nijah, they say the city is a bad place for young men, and most of them get ruined. It don’t

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pay to gain knowledge of the ways and manners of the world, and lose virtue and goodness. Better be rough and green, as you call yourself, and true, than polished and fine and false.”

‘Nijah was whirling his hat rapidly about, poised on one finger; but when he looked up to reply, there was a pure, honest look in his eyes, and a slight quiver on his lip.

“I mean to resist all evil temptations,” he said earnestly; “and if I can’t be a gentleman without being a rowdy, I’ll be nobody but Adonijah. And if I can only see you sometimes,” —here he glanced particularly at Kate, — “it’ll encourage me so. You’ve got jest that faculty. It seems as if you understand a feller.”

“We know you are a good, dear boy,” said Mary, who was growing hungry and impatient to look into the sachel; “and we shall want you to come and see us ever so often;” and she gave the fire a little poke.

“I won’t hender you no longer; and shall I come after dinner?”

“Yes, just after dinner,” said Hannah; and she and Kate went with him to the stairs, and, when he had gone, ran back to their room to find Mary opening the sachel.

“I couldn’t wait,” she said; “not only curiosity, but hunger, has overpowered me.”

The satchel was full of nice things, which a mother’s hands had prepared; and there was a little note, which the girls read eagerly. Here is an extract: —

“I shall miss you on Christmas; but I shall not mind that, if only you are comfortable and well, and think it best to stay, as you do. We send you five dollars, and would send more; but you know our

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expenses have increased since poor Ruth and her children came home, and money is scarce. I shall be glad when spring comes, and you can be home again. I can imagine how glad you will be to see ‘Nijah, and I hope he will do well in the city. You must not forget him; but do him all the good you can.”

“So we will,” said Kate. “What unthought of things happen! ‘Nijah is the last one I expected to see-.in New York city.”

“Haven’t things taken a good turn?” said Mary, while they were eating their breakfast. “‘Nijah always was our champion, and I’m really so glad he has come; and his awkward ways actually do me good. I wouldn’t be ashamed of him, would you?”

“I am proud of him,” said Hannah. “There are not many boys in this city equal to him in real worth.”

“I wonder what Mr. De Witt would think of him,” said Mary. “I suppose we shan’t see him to-day. I must go to see little Neil Blossom this morning; there’ll be no time in the afternoon.”

“I shall unveil my picture after breakfast. You can see it’s very small, but then I thought it would please us all a little.”

“You thought right,” said Mary; “and after we see it, I will sing my little new song; the poetry is some that Hannah made long ago; but it is pretty for all that.”

“You excite my curiosity,” said Hannah; “but after you have sung, I shall read my poem, which of course isn’t elegant at all; for somehow the poetical fever has about vanished, and this is very simple.”

“That will suit us,” said Kate, “for we are simple girls; there never could be anything elegant made out

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of us. We have played in the open air too much, and run about the free country too much to have any of the precise about us; and I don’t believe we shall ever be real old maids, even if we never marry.”

“Not if we keep busy, and do our duties faithfully, and keep our hearts young and warm. Selfish brooding and isolation make women old-maidish and taciturn, and I shall try and be a model old maid. The world needs one.”

After breakfast was over, and all things in good order, the little painting was displayed, admired, and praised, Mary’s pretty song heard and appreciated, and Hannah’s poem listened to With closest attention; then Mary, having with her sister’s help put into a little basket a few of the nice eatables sent them from home, started with them to call on her sick pupil. She met Mr. De Witt at the foot of the steps in the street.

“A merry Christmas to you,” he said, in such a brisk, lively tone that Mary wondered what had happened.

“Thank you,” she replied, “I hope you will have many; how snowy and cold it is!

“Yes, so it is ; and Where can you be going all alone with a little basket on your arm?”

“To see a scholar of mine, who is ill.”

“Can I go with you?”

“I would be glad of your company, but they might not like to see a stranger.”

“Very true, I’ll see you again to-day. Miss Mary, there is something I wish to say to you;” and, saying this, he ran lightly up the steps.

“I wonder what it is,” thought Mary, as she walked on against the wind. “If only he wasn’t a Catholic. What a misfortune! He has such splendid eyes, and

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is such a gentleman, and he is good too, —as good as ever a Protestant was in the world; but he would seem so different if only he wasn’t a Catholic.”

So busily did she think on this same subject, the journey seemed very short; and before she hardly knew it, she was mounting the stairs that led to the humble home of little Neil Blossom and his mother, who greeted her with looks and words of welcome. Neil was a little better, and listened delightedly to the new song Mary sung to him, while Mrs. Blossom wiped her eyes silently.

“It is very sweet,” she said, when Mary had finished. “It reminds me so much of my childhood;” but this was all she would say, and Mary made no inquiries, but started for home with very pleasant feelings in her heart. She had made two hearts happier, and given in her mite toward relieving the poor; and what joys does this world give in which there is more satisfaction?

‘Nijah came after dinner as was expected; and though he saw Miss Brechandon in the hall, he passed on up the stairs without making any inquiries, and, without making one mistake, knocked on the door of the girls’ room.

Hannah opened it.

“O, it’s you, ‘Nijah,” she said; “come in; we were just talking about you.”

He had only just taken his seat when he commenced fumbling in his pockets.

“O, here they be, confound it all,” he said at last, drawing out a stiff-looking package. “I didn’t know but some of them fellers had picked my pocket. I’ve brought you some Christmas presents. They ain’t much, of course; but I thought you didn’t have many

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trinkets, and these was cheap, so I bought ‘em;” and he proceeded to open the package, and soon displayed, to the girls’ astonishment, three sets of cheap jewelry, pins and ear-rings. Mary actually choked in trying to keep from laughing; and for a moment no one spoke.

As if suddenly struck with a new idea, ‘Nijah looked quickly at the girls’ ears, and then his face began to flame as usual.

“You don’t wear rings in your ears,” he said. “What a dunce I was to think you did! but can’t you wear them? Sally does. Ain’t there no holes in your ears?”

“Not a hole,” said Kate, bursting out into laughter. “It’s all right, ‘Nijah; the pins are pretty, but we consider our ears better off just as they are. They feel comfortable, you know, and we have something to do besides piercing them and distressing ourselves.”

“Blamed if I ever thought of that before,” said ‘Nijah. “Ear-rings certain ain’t no kind of use; besides, I don’t like the looks on ‘em; they always make me shudder, ever since Sally got her ear torn out so; but I thought girls manst have ‘em. Sally said she -couldn’t get along nohow without ‘em.”

“Well, we can very easily,” said Hannah; “but we thank you just the same for your kindness as though we wore them. We will keep them to remember you by.”

‘Nijah was satisfied, and answered all the girls’ questions with patience and pleasure. With considerable satisfactory pride, the girls prepared to escort the young man around the city, and show him the sights; but as luck would have it, Mr. De Witt met them in the hall, and took Mary with him to attend church.

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“He ain’t a beau, is he?” asked ‘Nijah, when they were in the street.

“No,” answered Kate, with a disdainful toss of her head. “He’s only a friend.”

“All right,” answered ‘Nijah, and they all laughed; but Hannah and Kate were not quite pleased that Mary had left them.

To tell of the sight-seeing of this country lad, his wonder, ignorance, and astonishment, would be but repeating an old story; yet it was none the less interesting to them, and the three heartily enjoyed and appreciated their Christmas afternoon.

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CHAPTER XVI.

HOPES AND FEARS.

“‘Joys cluster; rare are solitary joys;

They love a train; they tread each other’s heel.’

“THAT is what I should have written instead of woes, as Young did;” and saying this, Mary ran her fingers over the keys of the piano, bringing forth a lively waltz.

“Joys sometimes turn to grief,” suggested Hannah, without raising her voice, and speaking more to Kate than to Mary.

“I’ve concluded that it’s a better way to speak one’s mind than keep silent,” said Kate tartly, “and I mean to have the matter well understood in the beginning. There is no use in affecting simplicity and ignorance, and all that; aid there is no use in trusting one’s self to extremities.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Mary, whirling around on the piano-stool, and looking at Kate with a flushed face.

“I mean just this,” answered Kate, “that you are becoming too interested in Mr. De Witt, and you know it never will answer; and I say we are old enough to use judgment and forethought, and look into matters, and not sit down like three babies, until the thing goes so far it can’t be mended.”

“Pooh! what do I care for Mr. De Witt, only as a

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nice gentleman and a good friend? I just wish you wouldn’t mention him in that way. You just set me to thinking about it.”

“Well, I say there is danger,” said Kate; “and now, since he has offered to give you lessons, you will meet him continually; and I just want to warn you in season, and remind you that he is a Catholic.”

“At least,” said Hannah, glad the subject was introduced, “I don’t think it is well for you to go with him again to church, or anywhere else; but of course it is nice to take lessons of him, for I’m sure that will be a great benefit to you.”

“I’d like to know where the harm is?” said Mary, thumping on the low keys of the piano, and looking a little disheartened.

“Where is the harm in anything?” asked Kate. “Don’t you see there is danger of one or the other or both of you becoming attached, or, to speak more plainly, falling in love?”

“No, I don’t see anything of the kind; and I wish you wouldn’t make me think about it,” said Mary.

“What is the harm in thinking of a liability, and a most natural consequence?” suggested Hannah. “Mr. De Witt is a young gentleman, and you are a young lady; and it is just as necessary to think of such things as it is to think of anything else. Nothing is more natural than falling in love; and nothing is more important than to try and govern our affections.”

“Well, but I think it looks silly to talk about love in this matter. H dare say Mr. De Witt would feel imposed upon if he should hear you.”

“But we don’t intend he shall hear us, and we don’t intend to impose upon any one; but you know nothing pleases you so well as to hear of Mr. De Witt, and

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you would talk of nothing else if we would listen,” said Kate, who in reality was getting a little jealous.

“Of course I have to say something about him, since he is going to give me lessons on the organ; and I see him quite often,” said Mary, her face growing redder. He doesn’t act at all like a beau. I don’t even take his arm in the street.”

“But he :gave you that sentimental love-song; and I’ve heard it till it is really distasteful to me,” said Hannah. “I do believe you would like to sing it all’ the time if you could. It’s too bad if Mr. De Witt, a Catholic, breaks in upon our peace.”

“I thought you professed to be charitable,” said Mary; “and you have always told me Catholics are as good as anybody, if they behave as well.”

“So is an Indian, or an African, or a Chinese as good as anybody; but I shouldn’t want you to marry one of them. Catholics should marry Catholics, and then they will agree,” said Kate.

“But I thought we believed in practical Christianity, and didn’t care much about creeds and sects. Practical Christians can live peaceably together, whatever their theological belief, I thought.”

“You didn’t talk in that way once,” said Kate, her eyes getting larger, and her voice more anxious. “You said at first you never would fall in love with a Catholic; and now here you are talking as if there would be no harm in it, trying all you can to vindicate it.”

“Why, I’ve no notion of falling in love with Mr. De Witt, especially without any cause for it. I want nothing to do with love unrequited; and I wish you wouldn’t talk about it; you set me to thinking, and spoil my comfort.”

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“Why need it spoil your comfort, if there is no danger and no liability of anything coming out of it but friendship? It has gone farther than I like already, and farther than we anticipated anything of the kind would be carried when we came to New York,” said Hannah.

“You remember we decided to have nothing to do with young men,” said Kate, “and dear me, don’t let us set everybody saying, ‘I told you so,’ by getting interested in beaux. No wonder girls don’t succeed any oftener, and no wonder Mr. St. Maur and Miss Brechandon have no faith in them. Do let us try and get through our education without getting entrapped in a love affair. What is the use in the sacrifices we have made and the struggles we have had, if we throw by everything and fall in love?”

“I’m not going to give up my object,” said Mary; “don’t you worry. I’m as anxious to succeed as you are; and Mr. De Witt will assist me instead of hindering me.”

“Well, I suppose there is no use in talking,” said Hannah; “but if you do get enamored of Mr. De Witt, it will spoil all of our fun, and break up our united ambition; besides, he is not the one for you at all, being a Catholic.”

“How people do change with circumstances!” said Mary; “but I do wish you wouldn’t say anything more about it; I don’t like to hear it; and I must go now to take my lesson; he asked me to be prompt, for he don’t like to stay away from his mother any longer than is necessary, as she is quite feeble.”

“He is kind to his mother, and I honor him for that,” said Hannah; “but do appear rather stiff, Mary, and don’t get much acquainted. I think it will be better under the circumstances.”

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Who ever heeded such advice as this? What young lady ever failed to forget such advice when in the presence of an agreeeable young man?

Mary stood before the glass an unusual length of time, arranging her hair this way and that way, and tying and retying the bright blue ribbon at her pretty white throat; but she thought, as she walked through the street toward the room wherein was the organ, and Mr. De Witt awaiting her, of all that the girls had said, and determined to be rather cool and polite, as they suggested; though she declared to herself that it was all nonsense about falling in love, for she never should think of such a thing, and the girls were afraid without the least reason.

When she opened the door into the music room, she found Mr. De Witt playing; and he did not notice her entrance. But the music thrilled her through and through, so that she forgot all her resolutions and fears, and, when the young musician turned about, greeted him with looks and voice expressive of delightful emotions. Stiff ways and cool politeness were all forgotten, and for an instant they looked at each other as if their souls had been for a moment united by the delicious melody that seemed to be still dimly echoing through the room. It was a soft pathetic piece which he had been playing, so tender and touching that Mary’s eyes swam in a liquid light, and she exclaimed, “O Mr. De Witt, if ever, ever I can play like that!”

“You liked the piece, then?” he said, pleased with her compliment.

“I more than liked it, I am in love with it,” she said; “where did you get it?”

“It is my own composition,” he explained modestly. By this revelation, Mr. De Witt had unknowingly

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invested himself with a potent charm for Mary, which no amount of personal fascinations, upon which many young men depend to win hearts, could have gained for him. He immediately received from her an increase of respect and reverence, which was only his just due; for as far as persons succeed in worthy objects, as far as they display merit through perseverance and accomplishment, and perform deeds noble or beautiful, —so far they are invested with dignity and merit, respect and appreciation.

And so it is that we often see persons of genius with few personal attractions flattered and worshipped, and not falsely.

Mary had not thought of Mr. De Witt as a composer, and she looked at the piece of music, which he had been playing, and to which his name was attached, with astonishment and pleasure.

“You did not tell me” —she said hesitatingly.

“I never thought that you didn’t know it,” he replied, smiling. “I meant to have presented you with a new piece of mine on Christmas, but I finished it too late for publication. Will you hear it?”

“O yes, do play it, if you will.” He turned to the organ again, and this time played a piece varied with joyful strains, and touches of pathos. When he had finished, he gave Mary his seat.

Do you ever attempt composition?” he asked.

“O yes, I attempt it, but I have no one but my sisters to judge of my pieces, and they are too partial to be correct,” answered Mary, blushing slightly.

“Some time shall I hear them?”

“If you will be so kind.”

“If I can be so favored.”

This was Mary’s first lesson on the organ; and when

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it was over, and she was in the street again, she walked thoughtfully on towards home.

“Mr. De Witt has genius, I am sure,” she said to herself; “but I haven’t, and I don’t know as I ever thought I did; but I’ll carry him that song the girls like so well when I go again, and see what he says of it. How grand and sweet his pieces are, and how masterful too! How little I thought him the man he is, the first time I saw him! I wish Hannah and Kate could hear him play; they never have.”

So she thought on and on in the same strain, until she arrived at the foot of the steps, and some one gave her a little shake. She started, and, seeing it was Kate, blushed deeply.

“How you frightened me!” she said; “what is the matter? you look as though something delightful had happened.”

“Do I? then I look just the truth. I have just come from the auction room, and my picture”—

“Is sold—for how much?” broke in Mary.

“Only for twelve dollars; but guess who bought it.”

“I can’t: who? tell quick.”

“Mr. St. Maur.”

“How do you know?”

“The proprietor told me, and I’m so glad I know where it is. Mr. St. Maur must have known it was mine; and if he didn’t buy it for its merit, he must have bought it to benefit me; and in either case I am greatly obliged.”

“How did you feel when you saw it was gone.?”

“Excited, as much as anything. Don’t times grow bright?”

“Didn’t I tell you, ‘Joys cluster?’”

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“They love a train,” said Hannah’s voice near them.

“Well, if we haven’t all met at the foot of the ladder!” exclaimed Kate, laughing; “what news have you brought?”

“Mine is too good to tell in the street,” said Han- nah, in a lively tone; “and as for Kate’s, ;I know hers already.”

“You do? Have you been listening?”

“No; come up to our room, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

When in their little room, even before the door was closed after them, Kate exclaimed, “Tell me how you knew my picture was sold.”

“Mr. St. Maur told me.”

“Well, if that isn’t exciting!” exclaimed Kate. “Where did you see him.”

“At his office.”

“Mercy! who knew he had an office before? and how came you there?”

“If you are any more surprised than I was, I don’t think you’ll survive it,” said Hannah, drawing a long breath.

“Tell the story, do,” said Mary. “Don’t say so many unnecessary things.”

“It’s an elegant office on Broadway,” said Hannah; “and I came upon it all of a sudden.”

“But what business had you to go in, and why were you so surprised?” asked Kate.

“Why was I so surprised? because I couldn’t help it. There was a notice outside, which said, ‘Two good writers wanted to copy manuscript.’ A good chance for Kate and I, thought I; and without looking once at the name or sign, I walked right in, and ad-

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vanced toward the man who it seemed occupied the most prominent position. I hardly looked up until I was near him. Dear me, I feel faint to think of it actually;” and Hannah rolled her eyes around, and began to sink backwards.

“O, don’t stop at such an interesting point. Tell the rest, do,” said Mary.

Hannah commenced again.

“Well, I looked up, and there was—O mercy! everything swam before me, —there was Mr. St. Maur, looking as fierce as ever, with his heavy hair in confusion, and a look in his eyes that said, ‘If you have any business with me, proceed at once;’ but I was struck dumb with surprise and confusion; besides, I felt afraid of him for a moment.”

“What did you do? no wonder you were surprised. I’m sure I should have swooned immediately,” said Kate.

“My brain whirled, I am sure,” said Hannah, “and I didn’t know anything certain for a while, I don’t know how long; and there that frightful man kept looking at me without any mercy. ‘I didn’t know you were here,’ I said after several efforts to speak; ‘and I came in to see if there was any chance for my sister and I to copy for you.’ ‘ Which sister?’ he asked. ‘The artist,’ said I.

“He drew from a drawer some manuscript, gave me a pen and some paper, and requested me to copy four lines. The first glance I had at the manuscript, my hopes forsook me for fear that I never could decipher it. I felt as if Mr. St. Maur’s eyes were watching my every motion, and that was no assistance toward self-possession. The next glance at the chirography, however, more favorably impressed me, and I read and

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copied the four lines as requested, though I fear not in a very short space of time. He gave it a short, but scrutinizing glance when I passed it to him, and then threw it one side, while I held my breath. ‘You will do,’ he said.

“For the first time I remembered then that I hadn’t asked him a question about the pay or the hours for working. He seemed to divine my thoughts. ‘I shall pay you so much a page,’ he said, ‘and you must come here to this office a few hours a day.’ ‘And my sister?’ I inquired. ‘I will employ if I find her competent,’ he said. There was a painting at his elbow which it seemed had just been brought in, as the wrapping paper and twine were near by. I could only get a glance at it, and wrong side up too; but somehow I thought it looked familiar, and must have looked toward it sharply. He held it up an instant, and I saw it was yours, and couldn’t resist asking him if he bought it; and he replied, ‘Certainly,’ and laid it down again, and I came away; and it does seem to me my feet didn’t touch the pavement at all; but I flew right along.”

“If I can only suit him! Do you think I can, Hannah?” asked Kate eagerly.

“I think so, if you can only read the manuscript readily; for you write as well as I do,” said Hannah.

“Did he tell you how much he should pay per page?” asked Kate.

“No; he said he would see how we progressed.”

“I dread working under his eye,” said Kate, “but then I’ll endure considerable and sacrifice some pride to make a little money; for I need some badly.”

“I want to earn enough to go home respectably,” said Hannah. “It won’t answer to go looking like a

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parcel of beggars; and in the morning, Kate, you must go around with me, and find if he will employ you; and won’t it be grand to work together?”

“I do believe ’Nijah is coming,” exclaimed Mary as they heard a heavy step in the hall; and she ran and opened the door. “No, it isn’t either ; it’s that fat boy;” and she was about to shut the door, when the “fat boy,” who was forever making rhymes, exclaimed recklessly, —

“Miss De Witt is in a fit; and her son isn’t come.”

“Who is with her?” asked Mary, rushing down-stairs without waiting for the question to be answered.

“Who?” asked Hannah, running to the door.

“Go and see, and you’ll find Miss B.,” said the boy, going up to the attic.

The girls ran down-stairs, and saw Mary standing very pale near the open door of Mr. De Witt’s room.

“She’s dead! and what will her son do when he comes?” whispered Mary.

“Has the doctor come?”

“Yes, and gone again; but they don’t know where to look for Mr. De Witt. Let us go up-stairs; he may come in, you know; and we never can tell him his mother is dead.” They were about to go up-stairs, when the door opened, and the young man so suddenly made motherless entered the hall smiling pleasantly. Something in their faces seemed to startle him; and as he passed into his own room, they ascended the stairs, and left him with his sorrow. They were sad and silent that night, though they had anticipated a joyful evening; for they kept thinking continually of the still cold form below, of the mother’s voice hushed forever, and the mother’s tender loving heart silent,

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and they walked carefully and spoke in low tones. They thought too of their own mother, and shuddered as they contemplated what the world would be without her tender solicitude, her beautiful smile, her unselfish love and care; and home joys and comforts rose up before them in all their tempting loveliness. Silently they lay down on their little beds; and Hannah and Kate looked up at the cold starry sky, and thought long and seriously; but Mary hid her face in the pillow an I wept for the young man in the room below, so suddenly left without a mother’s sympathy and care. They were tender, quiet little tears that wet her cheeks; and through them she saw a pair of soft mournful eyes, while strains of beautiful music seemed floating about her, —the same that had thrilled her so that afternoon, coming from the organ, and the heart of the organist. She lay very quiet and still, with her hands clasped together, and her face as placid as a rose dripping with dew, while her thoughts were a tender mixture of sadness and undefined joy, of sympathy and vague, trembling hope.

Was she losing her heart, and experiencing those painfully rapturous feelings that once during a’life-time take possession of the soul?

Was there stealing over her that subtle power, so sweet to feel, and felt but once in its most perfect freshness and beauty? Was she sinking into that delicious bondage that deifies a human being, and gives to him every beautiful and noble attribute of which a heart can conceive? Were her sisters’ fears founded upon reality, and their doubts upon truth? These were not Mary’s thoughts ; and hardly knowing the state of her mind, or but dimly guessing the state of her heart, she fell asleep with the tears of sympa-

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thy still lingering on her cheeks, and strains of enchanting melody floating in the ear of her imagination.

David De Witt did not sleep all the night through; and with his face in his hands sat and thought of his loss. The friend of all his days and years had left him. Who would care for him now? Who would watch at his bedside when he was sick? As these thoughts floated through his brain dimly, he saw a pair of soft blue eyes and a full, rosy mouth; and a little hand seemed wandering across his hair. In vain he tried to banish the picture from his vision; it would appear before him, and shut out for a moment the dead white face of her who had so suddenly passed into a new existence, and bring him a ray of comfort. “All alone,” he cried; but instantly he felt the presence of a fair-young face, and a sweet low voice saying, “I am here,” and he put forth his arms only to draw them back empty. And so the night passed away; and a dull cold morning came, but found the dead face more rigid, and the bereaved heart more desolate.

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CHAPTER XVII.

A NEW EMPLOYMENT AND A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.

STEPHEN ST. MAUR was not so wonderful or mysterious a character as might be inferred from his singular appearance in the presence of the three young girls who had accidentally made his acquaintance, and were destined to continue it. He was simply a man with intense feeling, baffled in the greatest attempt of his life, and suddenly disappointed in the highest and brightest hopes of his existence. The next morning, when Hannah and Kate entered his office, he sat at his desk engaged only in deep thought. This was not an unusual thing, though what his thoughts were no one ever knew but himself. He did not seem to notice the girls until they had spoken; and then he looked up in an absent kind of way, as though the cause of their appearance was a mystery to him. Kate, however, who was anxious to know her fate, immediately made known her errand, and after copying four lines of the manuscript, as Hannah had done, was accepted in the same quick, decided way. She was so delighted with her success that she couldn’t resist giving Hannah a sly nudge expressive of her delight; and Mr. St. Maur looked at them sharply an instant.

“I have your picture at home,” he said to Kate.

“I heard of it,” answered Kate; “and I am very glad it has fallen into your hands.”

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“What are you painting now? he asked, not seeming to notice her remark.

“A portrait.”

“Of whom?”

“One of the scholars.”

“How can you make any progress in it, if you work here?”

“I don’t expect to make much,” replied Kate with a little tremor on her lips which she tried to conceal.

Whether the keen blue eyes of Mr. St. Maur noticed the emotion or not, was not apparent; but he spoke in a kinder tone.

“I would let you take the manuscript home,” he said, “only that we do not like to have it go from the office. You can come at any hour you choose to copy.”

“Thank you,” said Hannah; “then we will come at two in the afternoon, for in the morning we are busy.”

“Very well, come at two if you wish, and stay as long as you please; only remember the manuscript must be finished in three weeks without fail.”

But little more was said; and though the office was cozy, warm, and comfortable, the girls were glad when they were out of it and in the slippery street. They went directly to Cooper’s, for Hannah wished to look at the morning papers, and Kate was anxious to be at work on her portrait. They separated at the door of the reading-room; and Kate ran up the stairs, and was soon seated at her easel, while Hannah glanced over the morning news. She saw nothing of much interest, and obtaining the last number of the “Atlantic Monthly” at the desk, sat down, and was soon deeply absorbed in its contents. She had sat there perhaps a

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half-hour when she was suddenly startled by a tap on her shoulder, and, looking up, saw Kate standing near her, and beckoning her out into the hall. They had only passed the threshold when Kate whispered, in a quick hurried tone, “I have got a caller up-stairs. You see I was so surprised to find a perfect stranger as I thought. I was just shading the nostrils of my portrait, when I was informed some one wished to see me. I thought it was you, and was a little vexed be- cause you called so soon, and ran out in haste, for I wanted to be back again at work. I looked around for you, but only saw a very portly and white-haired gentleman sitting there; and then I began to get a little confused.

“Was I Miss Windsor? he inquired, and I replied that I was, and then we shook hands; and he said he was Mr. Worth, an old friend of my father and uncles; and of course I had heard of him a great many times, and we saw him once, you know, a long time ago. He is the pleasantest, handsomest gentleman you ever saw really, and looks so saintly, with white hair and beard.”

“Has he gone?”

“No; he wants to see you. He said he heard I was attending the School of Design; and he thought this morning, as he was passing the Institute, that he would call and see me; and then I told him you were in the reading-room, and he wished me to call you; and I tell you, Hannah, his opinions will suit you exactly; they do me. But here we are at the door, and you must judge for yourself.”

Mr. Worth arose as the girls entered, —a handsome man, about fifty years of age, with an eye that had lost none of the brightness and sparkle of youth, though

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his hair was as white as the snow. He greeted Hannah with that easy kindness that won her heart at once; and very soon they were seated in a group together and conversing pleasantly.

“What are you doing in this great city?” he asked, looking at Hannah and smiling. She blushed a little, for she hardly knew what reply to make.

“I write some,” she said at last, “and learn a great deal.”

He understood her at once, and expressed her own thoughts more clearly than she could have expressed them herself. “It is necessary,” he said, “to gain knowledge from books; but it is also necessary to learn by experience, to see as well as read about objects, to become acquainted with people and their numberless inventions, and to gain an insight into the mystery of human nature and human projects.” He said this in a quick, decided way peculiar to himself, and in a tone so positive, no one would have attempted to doubt or disbelieve him, even if he had asserted something less probable. “It is a great pleasure and satisfaction to me,” he continued, “to see young ladies trying to do something, to educate themselves, to work independently;” and the pleasure and satisfaction that he mentioned shone in his very face as he spoke.

“It is working against the tide, however,” said Kate.

“Yes, it is now, that is true; but the tide isn’t always going out, and if more women would set to paddling their own canoes, instead of sitting idle, and letting it drift, always looking out for an oarsman, you may be sure the tide would turn very soon. Rather than row the boat themselves you know, they often accept of very poor sailors, who paddle the canoe down stream, and then let it drift on the rocks. But were I a young

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lady, I should greatly prefer rowing against than with such a tide of fashion and display as there is now.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Hannah, delighted with the ideas thus expressed, “I think, after all, those who float with such a tide have a much more tedious life to live.”

“You are right, and I wish all girls and women could see it in the same light,” he said; “and I am gratified and pleased to find the daughters of my friend so well started in the right path. It is one of the strongest desires of my life to see women lifted up, and educated with all the thoroughness and advantages of the other sex.”

Kate glanced at Hannah with a look that said, “Didn’t I tell you so? Hasn’t he got splendid opinions?” and Hannah’s face shone with the pleasure and hope that his words gave to her. He stayed but a short time, but long enough to make an impression so deep on the girls’ minds that it never wore away. He asked them few questions, for his keen eye discovered a diffidence in speaking of their circumstances; but he left them a beautiful and ennobling hook, which he had brought as a present, and which the girls subsequently read over and over with interest and benefit.

They passed into the hall with him when he went, and somehow the clasp of his hand and the pleasant gleam of his magnetic eye increased their aspirations, and encouraged them in their efforts. Few persons are blessed with this mysterious influence over others; but fewer, if possessed of it, use it for good. When, therefore, such a person is found, happy are they who gain him as a friend; for his friendship is more valuable than much gold. His presence gives vigor to the mind of those he appreciates, and his affection revives the high aspirations of the soul, and elevates the long-

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ings of the heart. Mr. Worth could only be a very wicked or a very good man; for his animal and spiritual propensities and powers were exceedingly strong; but the intellectual being placed on the side of the spiritual, it triumphed, and the natural desires of the flesh were obliged to submit to the divine qualities of the spirit. Nothing more sublime God ever created than a man overruling his animal nature by his intellectual and spiritual.

Mr. Worth had had many bitter experiences, and passed through many trials; but he had borne all with that cheerful submission that comes only through hope of better things in the eternal life; and his step was firm and buoyant, and his voice the very tone of cheerfulness and hope. Yet he was a man at the head of an extensive business, a keen calculator, a shrewd inspector, but ever honest in his dealings with rich and poor, and always highly respected and honored. It is difficult to find a man with a character so varied, and composed of so many different phases, as was his; and yet there was harmony in it all.

One would only need to look into his handsome face to pronounce him at once a man of uncommon benevolence and generosity. There was nothing hard or cynical in his face, as is so often apparent in the faces of business men; no mark of selfishness, of greediness for gain, no sternness or look of repulsion, but a quiet firmness, a touch of seriousness, and a gentle gravity. He was a character fit for a hero, and one altogether necessary to be introduced into this history of my brave young girls; but they did not at this first pleasant meeting realize how much their future success depended upon his generosity and kindness. Hannah and Kate, however, worked with renewed hope that day, and success seemed nearer and more certain.

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Mr. St. Maur sat at his desk when they went to the office at two o’clock; but he did not seem deeply engaged, and watched them in a kind of absent way, as they copied the manuscript at a desk not far distant with unflagging industry, hardly looking up from one hour to another. A hint of what his thoughts were might have been obtained from his remarks when the girls laid their copy before him, and were about to leave the office.

“When people desire a thing so earnestly that they will work hard to obtain it, perhaps they will not be so easily tempted, and so ready to throw away that which they have obtained,” he said so abruptly that the girls could not divine his meaning, and did not reply. “The ball did not hurt you?” he said, with a strange, quizzical look; and the girls blushed and pulled at the fingers of their gloves uneasily.

“I don’t-think it did us any good, only as it taught us a lesson, and caused us to hate balls forever afterwards,” said Kate.

“We did not intend to go but once,” said Hannah, “and I suppose we shall never want to go again.”

“Well, you have done your work satisfactorily,” he said, “and perhaps your responsibilities will save you.”

The girls repeated his words over and over when by themselves, and tried to conjecture why he talked so strangely, and seemed so distrustful.

In their room they found Mary very quiet and still, and she told them that Mr. De Witt’s mother had just been taken away to the cemetery.

“Poor boy!” said Hannah, thinking a little uneasily of the severity she had used the day before in reference to his friendly acts towards Mary. “I know he is a good young man.”

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Mary’s face brightened.

“He looks so pale and mournful,” she said.

“We can sympathize with him,” said Hannah; “but ‘each must bear his own,’ or there would never be any joy in the world.”

“I met him to-day, and shook hands with him,” said Mary, glad the girls would listen without reproof, “and he seemed to want a friend so much.”

And so they talked, as usual discussing the day’s doings, and the time went by.

Their prospects grew fairer and brighter as the weeks passed away; for the clouds began to scatter, as is always the case when perseverance falters not, but drives on with steady determination.

Hannah and Kate had finished their manuscript copying, but not without some trials and vexations. One of the office clerks had greatly annoyed them by his attentions, first asking them to, attend a ball, and then a theatre, both of which offers they had refused with decision. Then he had offered Kate a present of a pearl necklace, which, to her artistic eye, was indeed charming in its velvet case; but she refused it, and very soon after said to Mr. St. Maur, —

“We cannot copy for you, sir, if that silly clerk torments us with his odious attentions.”

Mr. St. Maur laughed, though Kate couldn’t tell why, and his face seemed for a moment to clear up into sunshine.

“You may expect no more attentions from him,” he said; and with a simple “Thank you,” Kate left him.

When they had finished their work, and were about to leave the office for the last time, they stopped to bid Mr. St. Maur “good-by.”

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Hannah, who had finished her last page before Kate, sat and watched him as he wrote at his desk.

Had he changed since first she saw him, or had closer acquaintance accustomed her to his stern and distrustful look until it seemed stern and distrustful no longer? His looks seemed now more suggestive of weariness and sadness; and the scowl on his brow was no longer perceivable. There was a choking sensation in her throat as she looked at him. Was it of pity, or of sadness because of the parting so near at hand? She called it pity then; but in the future days, when she could not forget him, and, sleeping or waking, his strong, handsome face haunted her, she knew there must be in her heart other emotions.

She stood a little behind Kate when they went to his desk to say “good-by,” and it required a mighty effort to keep back the tears that threatened to flood her eyes.

“Finished?” he repeated after Kate with a start; “I thought it would take you a week yet.”

“It is all done, sir,” said Kate, who always did most of the talking when with Mr. St. Maur.

“And I suppose you are very glad of it,” he said, looking keenly into Kate’s black eyes.

“Glad of it? yes, sir. I don’t know what other emotion I should feel on such an occasion,” answered Kate. “If we had been working by the day or hour, probably there would be a difference in our feelings; but as the work brought us only so much whether we finished it sooner or later, I am glad it is done.”

The street door opened just then, and a handsome little figure robed in black came fluttering in.

“It is the little widow,” whispered Hannah excitedly to Kate; and they stood one side and turned their faces from her. She went directly to Mr. St. Maur’s

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desk without seeming to notice the girls who were standing closely together, and wishing she would stay but a moment.

“What are you in the office at this hour for?” she said, in a lively, half-bantering tone. “I went to your room to find you, and then had to come way down here. What has happened? It is four o’clock and past; and I never knew before that you came to your office at all in the afternoon. But that’s not what I came for, to inquire into your business; I have got too much of my own. I’m leaving off black, you know, and I want some money; and I am in great haste too. Mrs. Clipper is in the carriage waiting for me. She offered to assist me in doing my shopping, and it’s getting late. I’ve just been telling Mrs. Clipper about those three country girls you took to the ball; and such a laugh as we had! I told her I didn’t think you had ever seen them since, or ever wanted to. Dear me! what a time that was!” and the little widow laughed and rustled her black silk.

“How much money do you want?” asked Mr. St. Maur sternly.

“If I hadn’t mentioned those girls, probably you wouldn’t have asked that question for at least fifteen minutes. How you do like to change that subject! and I do like to tease you about it. I want seventy-five dollars, at the least calculation. Mrs. Clipper wanted to know if you had answered any advertisements since. You may give me a hundred dollars; I shall need it.”

Mr. St. Maur arose, went to the money drawer, and soon brought her back a roll of bills.

“There is the money,” he said; “ and if you are in haste, the less you linger here, the better.”

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“There! didn’t I take just the right way to keep you from hindering a half-hour. Wasn’t it keen in me?” and the little widow made a curtesy, and departed.

There was the old scowl on Mr. St. Maur’s face when the girls turned again to his desk, and Hannah felt less inclination to cry since hearing the remarks of the little widow.

“Good-by, sir,” said Kate.

“Stop,” said Mr. St. Maur, “I shall walk home with you,” and, putting on his overcoat and fur cap, passed out with them into the street.

“It is very slippery,” he said, and, stepping between the two girls, drew their hands under his arms. His touch sent a strange thrill into Hannah’s heart. Was it because he was so mysterious and singular? Was it not a thrill of fear, he seemed so strong and powerful? She could not tell, and for some time did not speak.

“What will you do now for employment?” asked Mr. St. Maur, breaking the silence.

“Go without until we can find some,” said Kate, who had been thinking of the ball, and felt a little tart. “There is no danger of our starving; and we have a father and mother, and a comfortable home.”

“Ah! you have a comfortable home, and come to the city to distress yourselves?” he said sarcastically, and yet in a tone of interest.

“No; we might have distressed ourselves without taking that trouble,” said Kate; and Hannah could not restrain a smile at the pert reply, neither could Mr. St. Maur, though it was not noticed.

“We came to the city as thousands of others do to gain advantages and advance our interests.”

“And have you succeeded?”

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“We have learned a great deal more than we should have done in the country, probably, where the deep snows and heavy rains keep us in the house weeks and weeks, and where there is nothing to be seen but the same objects over and over. I suppose we have a right to try our luck, or go to seek our fortunes, as boys and men do;” and Kate stepped a little more firmly on the slippery pavement.

“You agree with that sentiment, I suppose,” said Mr. St. Maur, looking down at Hannah; “and do you have any idea you will arrive at anything great? I don’t.”

“What do you call great?” asked Hannah, in that tone which suggested that she had a thousand thoughts just then crowding her brain.

“Well, anything more than ordinary.”

“I never expect to be a Raphael,” said Kate; “but I expect to be an artist and a good one.”

How much the confidence in our own powers increases the confidence of others in them! and though at Kate’s remark Mr. St. Maur laughed a little sneeringly, he felt its influence, and was impressed in her favor.

“I never expect to be a Browning, a Bronté, or a Dickens,” said Hannah; but I intend to be something, if I live.”

“Wouldn’t both of you prefer to be Mrs. Smith, and have your carriage and your diamonds, and no thought of earning success or a livelihood?” he asked, looking first at one and then at the other.

“If we preferred it, probably we should be seeking it,” said Hannah.

“Where in the deuce” —he checked himself— “where did you pick up such notions as you have? at a woman’s rights convention?”

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“Where did you get your notions of independence and individuality?” asked Kate.

“We never went to a woman’s rights convention,” said Hannah, thinking Kate a little severe. “We never had the opportunity.”

“Then those daring advocates can take none of the credit of your strong-minded notions; but if you should talk to me steadily from now till next week, you wouldn’t convince me that you will not be married and settled down perhaps before a year, and all these efforts be lost.”

“I suppose you have heard of such things as old maids,” said Kate, “and know that it is not impossible for a woman to become one; then why are you so sure we shall marry?”

“I might have modified my assertion,” he said, “by saying you would be married if you had offers.”

“Time will settle the question,” said Hannah. “I’m sure we cannot divine the future; and I think we will some time show you, Mr. St. Maur, that even ordinary talents can be made to do wonders when guided by perseverance and industry; and if marriage puts a stop to progress, we will leave it for some future day.”

“Convince me,” he said, “that a woman with even ordinary attractions, and perhaps more than ordinary ability, without genius, which must work itself out, can climb the ladder successfully, and make herself useful, and her mark in the arts, sciences, or professions, and I will give each of you a gold medal, and a present that will charm you.”

“We shall remember your promise, Mr. St. Maur, and hold you to it besides,” said Kate; and they all laughed.

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“So shall I remember it,” said Mr. St. Maur, and I am earnest. Here is your number, however. Good night.”

Before the girls could hardly collect their senses, he was gone, and they went to their room to tell Mary all that had happened.

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CHAPTER XVIII.

CHARITY.

“SOMETHNG must be done, or they will die,” said Hannah, looking up suddenly, after a few moments’ meditation.

“Yes, and we must do it,” said Kate, pinning a bow on the hat she was trimming.

“And what can we do when we are so soon to leave the city?” said Mary; in a kind of important tone, as if leaving the city was a matter of experience to them, and a trifle aristocratic.

“That is the very obstacle in our way,” said Hannah. “If only we were to remain here, we could take some care of them, and at least see that they didn’t starve; but as it is, you know, as soon as we are gone they will have no one to give them the least attention; and as for giving them money, why, we have only enough to take us home, and buy us a few necessary articles of dress.”

“I have already given up my picture-frame for them,” said Kate; “not that I in the least regret it, but it is the only money I can spare, you know.”

“Can’t we enlist some one in their favor? there are many people who have plenty of money,” said Hannah.

“And many who are in just such distressing circumstances as Mrs. Blossom and her boy; besides, what rich person do we know?” said Kate.

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“Mr. St. Maur.” Hannah said this in a low, quick tone, as though she feared some one besides her sisters would hear, or that they would think her presuming or absurd.

“Yes, Mr. St. Maur,” repeated Kate eagerly, and in a tone of hope and fear commingled.

“Mr. St. Maur is the right person, I am sure,” said Mary, “and this will be a good opportunity to prove his saintship. If he refuses to assist this poor widow and her sick boy, we may conclude the little widow is a piece of absurdity.”

“And doesn’t know a saint from a sinner,” said Kate. “Just stop a moment and see if this feather ought to go this way or that way. It’s an old thing, but then, since I have doctored it, I think it looks very well;” and she held the hat that she was trimming, up to the girls’ view.

“That way, by all means,” said Mary. “I wish my hat looked as well as yours; but then if we can once get home” —

“We ought to be perfectly satisfied,” put in Hannah, “especially when we have under our observation and on our hands such\a poor heart-broken creature as Mrs. Blossom. I should think she might tell us of her past life. She is so silent.”

“I have tried in every delicate way possible,” said Mary, “to learn if she has any relatives, but I am sure I can’t get even a hint.”

“She doesn’t wish to tell, no doubt,” said Kate, “and the question now is, shall we inform Mr. St. Maur of her needs, and ask his assistance?”

“I think so,” said Mary, quickly.

“I can see no other way,” said Hannah. “If Miss Brechandon only didn’t have so much to attend to in

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the church, she might go and see her now and then; but I don’t know but she would do her more harm than good, if she mistrusted the woman had thought some mismanagement brought the trouble upon herself. Miss Brechandon is stiffer than usual of late, and has been ever since she told us of ‘little Annie,’ and we gave her such reproofs; perhaps we were rather severe.”

“We told her the truth at least, or tried to,” said Kate, “and she ought to be able to hear that and bear it.”

“I know she seems colder and stiffer, and hardly comes to our room now at all,” said Mary, “but I met her in the hall the other day; and she actually gave me a little hug in that quick peculiar way of hers, and never said one word. She looks pale and troubled, and goes out very often, so much oftener than she used to; and this noon I saw her coming in looking so tired and white.”

“Perhaps she is thinking of little Annie, and her conscience troubles her; I should think it would; but I pity her,” said Kate.

“So do I,” said Hannah, rising; “but she doesn’t need the care and attention just now that Mrs. Blossom does, and there is no time to lose. In two days, you know, we are going home.”

“Two days?” repeated Kate, with animated countenance. “We counted the months, and then the weeks, and then the days, and now there are only two. Can it be true?”

“Suppose we should find it untrue?” said Mary. What should we do? could we survive it? Think of it, girls, —only two days.”

The winter had all passed away, at last and floods

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of spring sunshine had melted the snow and the ice, and driven away the cold blasts that so long had been howling about the streets; and there was fast drawing an end to the girls’ stay in the city.

What had they accomplished?

To what had they attained?

Not to wealth, fame, or notoriety, neither had they expected it. They had accomplished a purpose, and were as nearly satisfied as people are apt to be when they are still pressing on to something better or higher.

Their pecuniary circumstances had prevented them from advancing so rapidly and so far as under more favorable circumstances they might have done; yet comparing their capabilities on the day they said “good-by” to their country home with those they carried back with them, would show a vast improvement. There was a change too, —that change which increased capabilities and development bring; and though that childishness which is almost always discernible in a group of young sisters before they leave the paternal roof was somewhat lost, there was yet present that trusting simplicity which never forsakes hearts which continually grow better and wiser.

Hannah had continued to write for that same sensational paper whose startling and frightful illustrations glared at her with reproof, and set her heart to beating for shame if her secret seemed at any time in danger. She could not throw her heart into her work, though she many times became animated and excited when she wrote, and produced a chapter of beauty and refinement. These chapters she soon found were objected to by her publisher; and so with a sigh she ceased to write the lofty aspirations of her soul, but

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made it her object to please the groveling part of humanity, the noisy rabble, the thoughtless and inconsiderate men and women who read as they would drink liquor, not for elevation and improvement, but for stimulation and excitement. She read no sensational novels herself; for some time they had been abandoned, and she began to shrink at last from reading her, own stories; and as seeing them in print had once sent the blood rushing to her cheek because of animation and delight, it now caused her to turn away from them annoyed and dissatisfied. Was it a sin for her still to continue to do that which she did not approve, to write what she would not read, and allow her stories to be published in a paper which she in reality, though vaguely, believed was pernicious?

Who shall judge? Here she received pay for her work, when in a higher place she had failed; besides she strove to mingle in her writings good sentiments, and teach through them high morals; but ah! she was injuring herself as well as others. She was crushing or stifling the highest and most beautiful aspirations of her soul, and developing those of a lower nature. As the continual reading of sensational stories that keep the mind in a constant strain and unwholesome excitement until finished, and then leave it weak and exhausted, is injurious and pernicious, so in a much greater degree is the writing of them. Many a fresh and talented young mind, capable of uttering truths to the world, and in a manner that would be listened to and considered, becomes dwarfed and injured from writing only to please the passions, the lower natures of their readers. Not because they prefer this style of writing; not because they would not much rather cultivate a higher sentiment, and add to

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the high-toned literature that elevates individual and country, that they contribute to the trashy publications, of which, alas, there are so many; not because their souls do not often cry out for higher and nobler expressions, and weep over the fate that makes them the slaves to a class of people who would strike out all that did’ not stimulate and excite the reader; but rather because no helping hand is reached out to them, because they learn where they will be compensated, and feel compensation to be a necessity; and so they fall to writing trash, anything to suit tie publisher, and the world loses what it otherwise might have gained. This is the class who possess talents; genius will not be kept in a second-class position; it bursts all bonds, overcomes all prejudices, and mounts to the very summit of success.

“Talk not of genius baffled, genius is master of man.

Genius does what it must, and talent does what it can.”

Yet the men and women of talent are they who bear the world along nearer and nearer perfection; men and women who have good hearts to guide the brain, who are willing and determined to work unflinchingly for the good of humanity, fearless of popularity. Why, then, should people of talent stop on