[Three Successful Girls by Julia Crouch—Second Part]

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CHAPTER VIII.

SUNDRY MATTERS.

THERE are so many things to tell about in the history of three young girls, with different aims and objects, that at times one knows hardly what thread of the narrative to take up, and therefore gets into some little confusion and doubt. If, therefore, this feeling makes itself at times apparent, the reader must consider the difficult position of the writer, and be governed accordingly.

The visit to Plymouth Church, with all its attractions, had a great influence on the sisters’ minds, and gave them food for thought for many days. It also quickened their aspirations, and caused them to feel greater confidence in their final success. On Monday they commenced their duties with redoubled energy. Mary started off in high spirits to give her first lesson. Kate went, as usual, to Cooper’s; and Hannah, after their steps had died away in the long hall, took a heap of manuscript from her trunk, and, piling it upon the table, sat down to inspect it. It consisted of several sketches, and one story of half a dozen chapters. They had been written at different times, and she had very little confidence in them, though she hoped they might realize to her a few dollars.

She had a list of a number of sensational papers, and the places of their publication; and it was there

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where her hopes lay of disposing of the manuscript. Hannah had a more just idea of her powers than most young authors, and more modest hopes and desires for the future. Long in the past, it seemed to her, she had thought of fame and popularity, when she saw her simple verses in family papers, and built air-castles pf the glorious time when she should be crowned with a laurel wreath, and applauded by the world; but with her growth of mind and experience, such vanity had passed away, and left her ambitious only for sufficient success to benefit the world, and secure to herself a comfortable income. She was not a genius, and she knew it; but she hoped that there accompanied her love for authorship sufficient talent to enable her to follow the profession she loved with profit to herself and others. She had already seen dark days, but her darkest were yet to come. Perseverance and labor alone would bring her success, and she was willing to give both; and she thought all this, as she looked over the manuscript that invigorating Monday morning.

“I hope these few stories will not prove detrimental to any one who may read them,” she said to herself, “and I don’t think they will, for I tried to have a good moral to them all.” But her conscience was not at rest; she was working beneath the standard of her noblest ideas and her highest light. How much like trash those sketches were, —passion, revenge, suicide, and lunacy! She felt her face flush as she read them over; but then such stuff was in good demand. She was not brilliant enough to write for any high-tolled journal, and receive any emolument, and she must live; and what harm was there in it, after all? In this way she tried to reason herself into the belief that it was well and justifiable; and though she succeeded

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in partially stifling the voice of conscience, she did not overcome it; and there was on her face an expression not entirely frank and clear, as she took her manuscript in her hand and started out into the hall. Down to the lower part of the city she wended her way, and at last came to a sign on Fulton Street, which made her heart beat fast, for here she had decided to make her first call. With a mighty effort she ran up the steps, not daring to trust herself to walk, through fear she should be tempted to turn back; and climbing two flights of dirty, narrow, dingy stairs, guided by a notice, she rapped at a door, and a sallow-faced lad opened it.

The editor came, —a small, black-eyed, slovenly dressed man, —and told her he could not attend to her manuscript for two months at least, and seemed hurried and out of sorts; and Hannah gave a long sigh of relief when she found herself safely in the street again; but this repulse had made her bold, instead of timid, and caused her to say to herself with a little decided nod of her head, “I’ve a right to try my luck, and I will. I expect to be repulsed; but that won’t discourage me.”

At the next office, which was that of a popular sensational paper, she met with a kinder reception. “Leave your manuscript by all means,” the proprietor said, “and we will read it within a few days, and, if it proves suitable to our columns, will be glad to buy it of you; “ and so the manuscript was left; and receiving the promise that it would be looked over by the next Saturday, Hannah ran down the stairs, feeling as though she had left behind her- a burden of many pounds’ weight. She walked home briskly, and, seating herself at the table, wrote a letter to little Dill; and

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in no better way can I give the state of her mind than by inserting it.

“MY DEAR LITTLE DILL, —By this time I think you are looking for a letter from me; and that you may not be disappointed, I will write you one. We are now comfortably settled and doing nicely, and are fast becoming acquainted with the great city, which at first bewildered and deafened us. We get around quite easily, often alone, which latter fact you may keep to yourself. There is so much to be seen here, one hardly knows what to give attention to, except it is the pictures. We never feel in doubt concerning those, and stop to look at them wherever they appear. It is so very lively and busy here, you would think from appearances that it was an extra occasion. Everybody seems to be in a hurry, and the merchants bring their goods, even to stoves, out on the sidewalks for display. We have had one caller, and I wish you could have seep her. She reminded me some of Dan Pike’s sister Jerusha, though she had a city air about her, which Jerusha hasn’t got. She came to invite us to go to church with her, and introduced herself as Desire Brechandon. We laughed a good deal after she was gone, which I think wasn’t quite proper and right, as she talked very solemnly to us. She is a very stiff church-woman, and would make an excellent deacon, if a man; and now I think of it, I don’t see why she wouldn’t do just as well as she is, for if a man, she couldn’t be more solemn, stiff, or earnest. We were almost ready to start for Beecher’s, and so of course were obliged to decline her invitation.

“I suppose I ought to say to you, before I tell how beautiful was Mr. Beecher’s sermon, that there are

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some church-people who think it wrong to go to hear him, and say he is not a real, genuine, pious minister of the gospel; but the question which I am now trying to solve is, whether religion is made for the good of man and the world, instituted by a wise Father, who loves us, or whether it is made simply for God’s glory and praise. Perhaps I do not make the idea quite plain to you, as I am somewhat confused myself; but thus far I can see neither use, or beauty, or benefit, in such religion as Miss Brechandon preaches. Somehow it doesn’t seem to amount to anything, and seems to draw people within themselves, and confine them to putting on long faces, going through certain dry ceremonies, and strictly obeying some old Mosaic law, to the neglect of the beautiful commandments of Christ, the sum and substance of which is love. Why it is that people make such prominent mistakes in their desire to obey the will of God, I cannot tell. Why they should make such selections among the commandments, and adhere to them so strongly, is a wonder to me. If there is anything harsh or fearful, they are sure to find it, and overlook the merciful, loving passages. The life of Christ was so liberal and grand. He did not confine himself to sect or country; and we as Christians are to be followers of Him. His crowning glory was love, good-will, and mercy; and to be his followers, our crowning glory, it seems to me, must be the same. I cannot see quite clearly yet on the question of church and creeds; but there is one thing that I begin to grow sure of, and that is this. If we feel a love for all our fellow-creatures, if we desire to benefit them in every way possible, are charitable, kind, and forgiving, the spirit of Christ is within us. It must be so; and you, my dear little friend,

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have but to think over calmly your feelings in this respect, and if you love all your fellow-creatures with a desire to see them all happy, you love Christ. The sermon we heard yesterday was so grand and elevating, it went through and through me, and coincided so thoroughly with my nature, that I can give you only its spirit, and that was charity. It was not at all like Mr. Hayes’s; and instead of drawing the hearers into a narrower circle, as it always seemed to me that his did, it cut away the bars of superstition, self-righteousness, and sectarianism, and left them in a great field where real practical work was to be performed, and self was left in an insignificant corner. I can see no better way, then, Dill, to gain for yourself a lasting peace, than to forget yourself and try to make others happy; for if there is anything which will blind us and make us wretched, it is selfishness. I feel that I have written enough this time; and hoping you may find some comfort in what I have written, I am

“Your loving friend,

“HANNAH.”

Hannah was somewhat venturesome, and possessed curiosity in a greater degree than her sisters; and after she had finished the letter to Dill, she took the mysterious answer to Mary’s advertisement, and read it several times over, with a very keen desire to know the author. In her imagination he was an old, white-haired man, with a kind fatherly face, to whom she would much like to offer her thanks, at least for his timely advice. The chirography was of such a character as to give no clew to the writer, whether man or woman, —a running hand not very distinct, and not at all even and elegant, but representative of the author’s familiarity with the pen.

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Hannah sat silent a long time over this letter; but her thoughts were busy in revolving in her mind whether she should throw it aside, and forget it, as her sisters would be sure to do, or whether she should answer it, and express her gratitude. Of course it was Mary’s letter, but then it made no difference; she considered the advice as much a favor to herself as to her sister; and then, Mary never fancied writing, and she was always interested that way.

The result of her thoughts was the conclusion to write an answer; and she did so, —a very expressive and characteristic reply, in which she offered her thanks and best wishes, and daringly signed her own name, accompanied by the street and number of her residence. Had she waited an hour after this was done the letter never would have been sent; but on the impulse of the moment she dropped it, together with Dill’s, into the letter-box; and the moment it slid down out of sight she repented, and would have given much to have it in her hand again.

She lingered around the lamp-post till she, was ashamed, and finally went back to her room oppressed and frightened. What would the girls say? Why should she have been so silly? If only she hadn’t signed her own name! What an oversight that was! This was the burden of her thoughts as she ascended to her room, and sat down dejected. “I hope this will teach me a lesson,” she said, bringing her hand down hard upon the table. “Now I’ve made myself this trouble for nothing, and to think I should be writing to an unknown person so soon after coming to the city! Now I think of it, he may be some flirt or pickpocket who wrote the letter just to see what would come of it. If this won’t teach me deliberation,

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nothing will.” She heard quick, tripping steps in the hall, and Mary came laughing into the room, but stopped suddenly on beholding Hannah’s dubious countenance. “What is the matter?” she exclaimed. “What has happened?”

“Why, what do you mean?” asked Hannah, looking up as if surprised.

“Your face,” said Mary, “is like a book, and I am skilled in reading it; and it tells me something has gone wrong to-day.”

“I’ve only been so foolish as to write an answer to that mysterious letter,” said Hannah, making a clean breast of it, “and I was just thinking perhaps I ought not to have done it.”

“O, is that all? I’m glad you’ve done it; the good man ought to receive a reply,” said Mary in a relieved tone. “And now,” she continued, “do ask me something about my luck.”

“Tell without being asked, won’t you? I’m anxious enough to hear, and should have overwhelmed you with questions the first thing, if I hadn’t been busily indulging in regret.”

“Well, I had such a funny time trying to find the place! I went in the wrong direction, took the wrong car, and it seemed as though I never should find the place; and when I did—well, I was amazed. It was a tenement house, and I kept going up-stairs, and finally, away up in an attic, I found a piano, that must have been very fine in its day, and a little boy. O, dear, I just want to cry whenever I think of him. He was cruelly deformed, but his face was beautiful, only it had an old look, and was so very white; and he is my scholar. His mother was there sewing at the window, and hardly looked up once or spoke while I stayed.

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The room was almost bare of furniture, —a mattress in the corner on the floor, no carpet, a small table, little stove, two old chairs, and the piano. I kept thinking all the time how brave and unselfish that mother was, and I wanted to speak to her in sympathy and praise; but her reserve forbade it. The boy, whose name is Neil Blossom, is eight years old, and is a genius. I looked on with astonishment as he touched with so much feeling and understanding the keys with his slender little fingers; but I am afraid he will never live to be a man, poor thing!”

“And this is the first one of your scholars that you have seen?”

“Yes, and what a beginning! I don’t actually feel as though I could take one penny from that poor woman. I wish I could afford to give all such poor little geniuses lessons for nothing.”

“Mary, this is a singular world, a very strange, uneven world. It is no trifle for a girl to earn just what she requires to eat and wear and be comfortable, without giving one thought further; but to earn one’s living and education besides is a larger item than can be understood without experience: but we, can do it, Mary, —you and Kate and I; and as to this poor little scholar of yours, teach him all you can, and see what time will bring about.”

“That’s consoling, and the only way to do; and now that I have my class engaged, I want to commence taking lessons, Hannah. How it hurts and humbles me to think I can’t have some old master to teach me, but must drill away with some common teacher!”

“We can only hope for that in the future;” and as Hannah said this, she thought how hard she would work, and try to give, or help to give, both Kate and

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Mary the advantages they longed for. She thought of her morning calls in Fulton Street, and wondered if her manuscript would be accepted; but she said nothing of this, and silently Mary arose and began to make preparations for going out again.

“Where are you going now?” asked Hannah. “To the ‘Conservatory of Music’ on Broadway,” answered Mary, her lip quivering slightly. “It is the only way I know. O Hannah, Hannah, I want to be an organist.”

“And you shall be one; there is time enough. Learn all you can now, dear, and a way will be opened for you, I am sure.”

So Mary passed down into the street, with the ten dollars her father had given her pinned snugly in the belt of her dress, for her lessons were to be paid for in advance. On her way back, having made satisfactory arrangements at the Conservatory, she fell to thinking in great earnestness of how she should find a piano to practice on. She had tried at several piano establishments for an opportunity to practice there, but without success; and their room was so small at home, there was no use in trying to get one in there. What should she do? for do something she must; but her troubled brain could devise no means, so she wound up her speculations on the subject, as was her custom, with the encouraging thought, “Perhaps the girls can invent some plan,” and then she hurried home to find consolation and rest.

What a comfort and help these three sisters were to each other! Three busy minds were much better than one; and so unselfishly did each plan and work for the other that it would have been impossible to separate their interests. How to find a piano for Mary was now

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the main point of consideration; and at night, when Kate had come from Cooper’s, an earnest consultation was held, and many impracticable ways proposed and abandoned; but at last Kate, who had often been termed the inventor of the family, straightened herself from the leaning position she had been occupying, and exclaimed, —

“I have it, girls; and why I didn’t think of it before is a wonder. You see that niche in the corner there, don’t you, made by the chimney?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you haven’t seen an upright piano, but I have; and it’s my opinion that niche is just large enough for one. I am always peering into all the music stores I come to; and Saturday, when going up the Bowery, I saw an upright piano, but thought it a very odd thing, nor had an idea we should ever want it; but I can see no other way now, but to get such a one.”

“Why, what is it?” said Mary. “I don’t want some horrid, old-fashioned thing. I never can endure to touch it.”

“All you have got to do is to go and see it; and if you don’t like it, we must contrive some other way.”

And Mary did go to see it the next morning; and though she would have preferred one of greater magnitude, yet she found the tone tolerable, and the price five dollars per month; and after much whispering with Kate, and a reckoning over and over concerning the money, the piano was at last engaged and sent to their room. Trunks were piled together, to give space for it; and though there was hardly comfortable paths about the room, yet the girls declared the piano was a great improvement, and was sure to be a pleasure to

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them, as well as profit. And so the arduous labor of the winter commenced, only to increase as the days went by. Mary drilled at the upright piano all her spare moments. Hannah commenced her writing, and Kate worked from morning till night at her easel. Hannah, in spite of her endeavors to forget the circumstance, looked anxiously for a reply to the letter she had so imprudently written, though she never mentioned it to her sisters; and when the letter was at last put into her hands, she trembled, and, going back to her room, locked the door, and, sitting down at the table, broke the seal and glanced the first thing at the signature. As she did this, she drew a long sigh of relief, for it was a woman’s name, —Lisa Waterhouse, —and only a few words were written; but they were very significant.

“MISS WINDSOR, —I am delighted with your letter; would be happy to make your acquaintance. Call around at No. — Twelfth Street, some afternoon at four, and we will have a pleasant chat.

“Don’t be afraid. I am only a lone little widow, and shall expect you. Truly yours,

“LISA WATERHOUSE.”

To say that Hannah was pleased with this letter would hardly express the true state of her feelings. Having chosen authorship as her profession, she was ever on the lookout for characters and incidents; besides, she was naturally fond of adventure and of making new discoveries, and delighted in solving mysteries. Her quiet home teaching, liberal, yet pure, and full of caution, always warned her against rashness and impulse; but this once, in answering this letter, she had

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felt that she had not used caution; and when, after all her conjectures and fears, she found she had been writing only to a “little widow,” and the harmless individual had invited her to call on her, she was at the same time relieved of the anxiety she had felt, and delighted with her good luck, as she called it. However, she resolved to go no farther with the acquaintance until she had discussed the matter freely with the girls; and so, when all three sat at the table eating their supper of bread and cheese, the pretty little note was produced and read and commented on.

“And so the dear old gray-headed man of our imagination has proved to be only a little widow,” said Kate.

“Widows, I have heard, are artful,” said Mary; “but then it is folly to be afraid of them. There is one thing plain to be understood. Hannah will not be satisfied until she calls on the mysterious lady, and so there is no kind of policy in opposing the affair.”

“I want to act wisely in the matter, anyhow,” said Hannah; “and if you girls think it would be better to pay no more attention to it, I will give it up; but then the lady has done us a ‘good turn,’ and might be a good friend to us. For my part, I see no harm in calling, as she invited me.”

“I haven’t the least objection,” said Kate. “You might, by doing so, gain some new and valuable ideas. If a man, instead of a woman, I would say, ‘Let him alone entirely, and as soon as possible;’ for above all other things, let us avoid everything that has a tendency to bring the heart in danger of the darts of Cupid. That would be sure death to our plans. Don’t you know how they have talked at home? How many times they have said, ‘It’s all nonsense and

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time lost for those Windsor girls to study so much; they never’ll make any use of their learning, but will be married in a year or two, and forget all their high-flown education.’ It would be splendid to have gentlemen friends if only it wasn’t dangerous; and pray don’t let us run any risk.”

“As for me,” said Hannah, “my day is past; besides, I am neither pretty nor attractive, and therefore consider myself safe, and destined to use my education to earn my living for many years to come.”

“For my part,” said Mary, “I must confess that I think it nice and agreeable and pleasant to have a ‘beau;’ somebody to think you are prettier and better than anybody else, and give you rides and nice bows; and I’m afraid nothing but music, my glorious music, keeps me from being vain and silly, like so many girls who seem to live only to dress, and simper, and have beaux; for though I often long to have a great many pretty clothes and ornaments, yet I can willingly sacrifice them all for music.”

“Brave little sister!” said Hannah, hastily brushing a tear from her eye; “there is something in your heart besides your love of music, that makes you so persevering and determined; and nothing could ever make you vain and silly.”

“As for me,” said Kate, drawing a long breath, as though she had been deep in thought, “I never expect to marry. I am not of the marrying kind; besides, I believe there is nothing that will so enchain and bind and satisfy a person like the study of Art. Marrying is one of the easiest and commonest things in the world; and there will be enough of it done undoubtedly, if I remain single.”

“Which is to say that you don’t feel it a duty en-

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joined upon you to marry,” said Hannah; “but this talk is all moonshine, Kate; when the right one comes, you’ll not refuse him.”

“But I am so bold as to class myself among those who never find the right one. However, this is not to the point exactly. Maybe we shall all marry; but we are not ready yet.”

“And we don’t want to give Cupid any encouragement to come near us, especially while we are lodged in this little room, with the hopes of past years to weave into realities. All of our time is required for the advancement of our objects; and I hope none of us will be silly enough to disturb our stay here with even the hint of a love affair.”

“I think we are all agreed on that point,” said Mary; “and I hope the little widow will in some way be a help to us. Call on her to-morrow, won’t you, Hannah?”

“Perhaps that will be as good a time as any,” said Hannah, much pleased with the way the conversation had terminated.

“I forgot to tell you,” said Kate, as they all arose from the table, “that I saw Miss Brechandon tonight.”

“O did you? where? what did she say?” asked Hannah, all in a breath.

“Yes, I did,” said Kate, laughing, “down in the hall; and she said ‘Good evening.’“

“Is that all?”

“No; she condescended to ask me how I liked Beecher, and gave me this tract. She belongs to the Lutheran Church.”

“No wonder, then, she objects to Beecher,” said Hannah.

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“What do the Lutherans believe?” asked Mary. “I mean, how do they differ from Beecher?”

“Well, in a good many ways, I should think, though I don’t know much about their creed. For one thing, they believe in the total depravity of man’s nature.”

“It’s not strange, then, perhaps, that Miss Brechandon is so uncharitable toward Plymouth Church and the Catholics,” said Kate. “She looked tired, and I thought she looked friendless; so I gave her a tiny little bouquet that I bought of a blind woman for you.”

“I’m sure that was very kind and thoughtful of you, Kate, and shows that your nature at least isn’t wholly depraved,” said Hannah.

“You didn’t ask her about the pale young man, did you?” asked Mary.

“No, I didn’t ask her; but she told me, of her own accord, that he walked out alone to-day, and she seemed pleased with the fact. She appears to have a lively interest in him, in spite of his Catholic sentiments.”

“Did you get any idea of what’ she does, or who she is?” asked Mary.

“No, but I had a glance into her room, and it actually looked cozy. There was a white kitten curled up on the rug, just where a sunbeam lay; and the carpet was bright and pretty.”

“She has asked us to call on her, and why can’t we, some time?” said Mary.

“We can as well as not. She invited us again to-night.”

“What did she say to the flowers?” asked Hannah.

“She didn’t say much, but I know she was pleased with them. She is so odd, and seems so afraid of dis-

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playing an emotion, except on religion. I wish we knew something of her history, poor thing!”

“I don’t think she would relish that epithet applied to herself, though,” said Hannah.

“She is a poor thing enough, however, if she believes our natures are totally depraved,” said Mary, who had been busy thinking for some moments on this belief.

The girls laughed, and Mary soon commenced an uproarious march on the piano, which threatened to drown entirely the rumble in the street. It was nearly dark now, and so they lighted their little lamp; and after singing, “Do they pray for me at home?” they gathered around the little table, and while Kate mended her gloves, and Mary darned her stockings, Hannah read from a well-worn volume of Tennyson, which they had brought from home, and the evening passed pleasantly.

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CHAPTER IX.

THE LONE LITTLE WIDOW.

THE house was one of the finest and pleasantest on Twelfth Street, and was shaded by an old sycamore tree. I mean the house where the “lone little widow” had rooms, and spent many listless, idle moments. Her parlor was a delightful little place of ease, elegance, and comfort; and here she lounged away many hours which might as well never have come to her, for all the good she derived from them.

Hannah trembled with excitement, when, at four o’clock the next day, she rung the bell, and stood waiting to be presented to the fashionable little widow. She had dressed herself with unusual care, and in her very best; but the house was grand, and she felt of her hair, and the bow at her throat, and glanced down at her plain gray poplin with some anxiety. The door opened.

Was Mrs. Waterhouse at home? she inquired of the servant; and would she tell her that Hannah Windsor had called?

In a few moments she found herself following the servant up a wide and elegant stairway; and every step she advanced, her heart beat faster, until it seemed to flutter in her bosom. Her cool and well-defined thoughts of an hour before had vanished; and her mind was in a state of confusion.

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Mrs. Waterhouse was half reclining in an easy-chair by the window; and when Hannah entered the rooms she arose, shook her hand cordially, saying, “This is my unknown correspondent; be seated, Miss Windsor; I am glad to meet you.” She said this with the air of one who knew no such thing as embarrassment or confusion of ideas. Hannah, who had hardly spoken, sat down; and Mrs. Waterhouse, sitting opposite, scrutinized her from head to foot.

“I am very glad,” stammered Hannah, “to be able to thank you in person for your kind advice to my sister.”

The lady laughed merrily.

“You are welcome to the advice,” she said; “but I am not the one to thank for it, after all.”

Hannah’s face grew red.

“Then you are not the lady who answered my sister’s advertisement?” she asked.

“Well, no, not exactly. You are disappointed and shocked, Miss Windsor, I see it in your face; but it’s no trick, I assure you; and you might not have received the advice, but for me.”

Mrs. Waterhouse was intently looking at Hannah as she said this. She herself was disappointed; for she had expected to see a pale little face, and tender blue eyes with a beseeching look in them, and a scanty wardrobe that told of poverty; but instead, she beheld a very ordinary being, with nothing about her costume that spoke of interesting poverty, with features that spoke of character and decision rather than fascination and beauty.

“To whom, then, am I indebted?” asked Hannah with a touch of sarcasm in her tone. Mrs. Waterhouse laughed again.

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“I’ll tell you the whole story,” she said; “I have got an uncle who is the oddest and most wonderful man in the world. He is as full of eccentricities as my pincushion is of pins. He is as dear a soul as ever lived, and as good as a saint, which is saying too much of a mortal, for saints belong in heaven only. Well, this uncle of mine is always inventing ways to benefit people, and makes himself a martyr to filthy and poverty-stricken objects in the streets. He comes in to see me often, and generally reads his morning paper at my window; and is always saying, ‘Liza, can’t you find something to do that will benefit yourself and somebody else?’ but dear me, what could I do? He seldom fails to look over the advertising sheet of the ‘Herald,’ and sometimes answers an advertisement as in your case.”

“If he, then, gave us the advice, why did you answer my letter?” asked Hannah, her eyes growing brighter, and her embarrassment vanishing away.

“I haven’t quite finished my story,” said Mrs. Waterhouse, laughing. “One morning he came in, sat down at the window, and began reading as usual. Suddenly he looked up as if struck with a new idea. ‘Liza,’ he said, ‘here is an advertisement that I am impressed will never do any good; it is too common-place. Some one must have written it who is wholly inexperienced, and needs some advice; but I want to do it in your name.’ I asked him why. ‘Because,’ he said, ‘ I think that would be a better way. If the person happens to be a young lady, I will have nothing to do with assisting her.’ I was willing, for I thought it might give me some amusement; so he wrote the letter with the understanding that if there was a reply, I should receive and answer it, or not, as

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I liked. There was one; I liked it, and answered it; so here you are, and I am glad to see you, and would be glad to know how your sister is progressing.”

Hannah, as she listened to this explanation made in the easy, pleasant way of the widow, gradually gained her composure; and when the story was finished, was ready to converse with as much ease as her hostess.

She gave a little account of her sister’s experience in advertising, in a way so attractive that the little widow found herself greatly entertained, and the plain gray poplin that Hannah wore, she was soon convinced, fitted her admirably; and her disappointment concerning the tender blue eyes and pale face vanished.

“What an interesting circumstance!” said Mrs. Waterhouse, after Hannah had told her of her two sisters and their occupations. “How very strange! you write for papers, one sister is an artist, and one teaches music. This is as good as a story; and you all live together. Why don’t you get married like other girls? I was married before I was twenty.”

“And you are younger than I am now,” said Hannah. “I can’t tell why we don’t get married, but I think our minds run in another direction.”

“Dear me, it is so odd, I must tell uncle about it. He thinks women generally are such silly creatures, and care for nothing but marrying well; but I tell him they are just what they are made to be, and the men ought to be satisfied. But uncle, you see, is an exception; for I don’t know a man in the world besides him who likes women to be anything but pretty creatures, dressed in good taste, and ready to entertain them with light talk, for they don’t like depth in women; but then uncle, as I said, is an exception.”

“It is a new idea to me,” said Hannah, “ that men

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like shallowness in women, —true men I mean, who are not shallow themselves; but then you probably know more about it than I, for I have only a few gentlemen friends, and they are not fashionable ones.”

“What a rarity you are!” said Mrs. Waterhouse, “and your sisters must be worth seeing. Do you really like to be so odd and so seclusive?”

“If you call it odd to earn our living, and to study for future usefulness, we like it; for we could never endure idleness without an aim in life.”

“Why, all girls have an aim in life, of course; but yours is so different, so much like men’s aims. I always had an aim, which was to make myself as attractive as possible, and marry well; and it seems strange that women should have any other aim.”

“Perhaps,” said Hannah, “if you had possessed no beauty or attractions, you would have turned your attention in another direction.”

“Where is the woman who thinks she possesses neither?” laughed Mrs. Waterhouse. “Dress, you know, has much to do with looks and appearance. Now, for instance, suppose you were dressed in an elegant black silk (black, I am sure, would be more becoming to you than anything else) with a long train, trimmed elaborately with black lace; and suppose your hair was frizzed and combed in a becoming manner; and suppose, besides, your chief aim was to make yourself attractive and agreeable: don’t you think you could succeed to a considerable extent?”

Hannah thought a moment.

“I am sure I shouldn’t know what to do,” she said. “I neither dance, nor play, nor flirt.”

“But you could very easily learn to do the first and last.”

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“But I am not rich, and poor people cannot afford such attractions; besides, if I possessed them to their fullest extent, they would do me no service, if I had no money.”

“I suppose you are right; and that working women can marry working men, and be happy.”

“And rich women, with all the advantages of life, must leave all the good things for the poor ones.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, if women of wealth only try to be attractive by dressing well, and dancing, and flirting, and the poor women gain the true knowledge and expand their minds, they get the cream, and their sisters the skimmed milk.”

“Pooh! that’s where we differ. They only get the roughest and hardest part of life; while we get the luxury, ease, and comfort, and the petting and loving too.”

“Well, I had rather work than be idle, and would give more for a well-stored mind than a well-filled purse.”

“You haven’t tried the latter, perhaps.”

“No, but I can see what it gives to people, and yet I prefer knowledge.”

“One of the notions that goes with poverty.”

“If you had said blessings, instead of notions, I would have heartily acquiesced.”

The conversation was getting too deep for the little widow; but her interest in Hannah and her sisters was increasing.

“Three sisters with such different tastes are so interesting. How delighted my uncle would be with you! only he doesn’t like the young ladies at all, and he might not speak a word to you; but I am sure,

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when I tell him, he will be pleased, though incredulous; he will think you are either ugly or designing.”

“Why?”

“Just because he is odd, I suppose; because he thinks all women vain and eager to marry.”

“Has he got a wife?”

“Mercy! no, I hope not; he is a bachelor; but one would think he had lived a hundred years, to hear him talk.”

“Don’t tell him about us, please, Mrs. Waterhouse, if he will think so ill of us. We are only trying to learn something that we may be independent, and we do not boast of anything. Tell him, please, that we thank him for writing; but don’t say anything farther concerning us.”

“O, I couldn’t promise that. I must tell him; he may have faith in you; and it’s only fair that he should know something concerning you.”

“Well, do just as you think best, Mrs. Waterhouse. We can only hope for his belief in us; but whether he thinks us ugly or designing, we shall only work on the same. I suppose it will not affect our energies or ambition.”

“Of course not; uncle is a saint, but so full of eccentricities and strange notions.”

The conversation was kept up for more than an hour, and Hannah at last arose to go.

“I am glad to have made your acquaintance,” said Mrs. Waterhouse, “and I am anxious that you and your sisters should call on me. Promise that when I send you an invitation, you will come.”

“I can only promise that we will if convenient.”

“That will do, then; call at four, Miss Windsor, whenever you will; I shall always be glad to see you.

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I get so tired of everything sometimes, that something rare does me good.”

“I would invite you to return my call,” said Hannah, blushing, “if we were situated to receive callers. You would hardly care to come to our little room, I am sure.”

“Then you shall return your own calls, and I will be satisfied.”

Kate and Mary were both at home when Hannah returned, eager to hear of her interview with the little widow.

“How did she look?” asked Mary; “did you like her?”

“She is a perfect little beauty, I think,” answered Hannah; “but I don’t know whether I liked her or not.”

“That is unsatisfactory,” said Kate. “What kind of a house does she live in?”

“Elegant, just on the corner, with a great sycamore tree in front, and her parlor is so inviting.”

“What did she say to you?” asked Mary.

“Well, girls, to tell the plain truth, she isn’t at all what I supposed, and I was greatly disappointed. She didn’t even write the answer to the advertisement.”

“Didn’t? who did, then?” exclaimed both in a breath.

“Her uncle, a strange man, who has an antipathy toward young ladies, and believes all women are silly and eager to get married.”

“Ignoramus!” said Kate, indignantly; “if he is so silly as that, why did he answer Mary’s advertisement?”

“O, well, the little widow says he is a saint on

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earth, and helps the poor, but has no faith in women as regards mind and intelligence.”

“Which belief is no credit to his understanding,” said Kate.

“So I thought, and had half a mind to tell her so; but she thinks women were made to be frivolous, or pretty creatures, as she said, and thought I was such a rarity.”

The girls laughed.

“Did you present her with any of your rare thoughts?” asked Kate.

“I suppose she thought your dress exceedingly plain,” said Mary.

“O yes, I suppose so. She, looked at it sharply; but she is a bewitching little thing, not quite as old as I am, and looks so well in black.”

“But tell us, do, before you go any farther, why the man wrote the answer to the advertisement, and the little widow answered the letter you wrote,” said Kate.

“O that was a plan between them. The whole was done in Mrs. Waterhouse’s name, because her uncle wanted nothing to do with young ladies. If I had known the whole circumstance, arid understood the little widow as I do now, I hardly think I would have called.”

“Why not?” asked Mary.

“Well, you see she is merely a fashionable woman, and her acquaintance, I am inclined to think, will do us no good.”

“It may, though; I would like to see her,” said Mary.

“So she would like to see you and Kate, and is to send an invitation for all of us to come and see her some time.”

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“That is good news, and I want to go; don’t you, Kate?”

“Yes, I do. I think we needn’t be afraid of a silly, fashionable woman’s harming us. She will make us all the stronger of course, when her folly is so apparent.”

“Do you know, girls, I half hoped she was a literary woman? but only think how far she is from it. Every one seems to think it so strange that we should all choose occupations so different, and I don’t know but it is rather rare; but how nice it is! Letters, painting, and music. Our choice shows that we at least had decided tastes, and that is in our favor in regard to success. I shall be glad when my manuscript is read, and I know its fate. How it worries me!”

“They will undoubtedly pay you something for it,” ;aid Kate. “What have you written to-day?”

“A story, —a wild, startling romance; how I despise such things!”

A decided rap on the door just then hushed their conversation.

Miss Brechandon entered.

“Good evening,” she said, glancing quickly at the upright piano in the niche. “I thought I heard music in this room; I was sure of it; but I couldn’t imagine what it came from. Who plays?”

“I do,” said Mary promptly.

“Not for amusement, I’m thinking?”

“O, no, ma’am; I am a music teacher.”

“Oho, indeed, are you? Just what I suspected. I most generally get anything right, and that is what I told them. Poor David is so crazy over music; and he was so anxious to know if there was a piano in this room.”

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“And who is poor David?” asked Hannah.

“Why, the young man who has a room just under here; the Roman Catholic who has lost his health.”

“There, I knew he must love the beautiful,” said Mary eagerly. “Does he play himself?”

“Play himself! well, yes, I rather think that he does: not the piano, though, but the organ, in one of the great Roman Catholic churches.”

“O does he indeed?” exclaimed Mary delightedly.

“Yes, he does,” answered Miss Brechandon sharply, “and what is that to go into ecstasies over? I’m sure it’s more a thing to make one weep; and I’ve told him so enough.”

“His playing in a Catholic church isn’t what pleases me, but to learn that he is an organist surprised me so. I hadn’t thought of such a thing,” said Mary.

“He doesn’t play, now he is so feeble, of course?” said Hannah.

“Yes, he does; and I tell him I do believe he would play if he was dying; and he said, if you will believe it, that he was sure nothing would give him greater pleasure if he was strong enough. O, it’s a terrible thing that he can’t see the true way, —that he can’t be born into the true church.”

“Miss Brechandon, what is the true church?” asked Kate.

“It isn’t the Roman Catholic,” said Miss Brechandon sharply.

“But the Catholics think so,” said Hannah.

“Yes, and the Mormons think theirs is, but we know it isn’t.”

“Well, but what is?”

“An idle question, miss. Do you suppose I

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would belong to a church I didn’t believe the true one?”

“Then the true church, you think, is the Lutheran, of course,” said Hannah.

“Well, of course I do; and the reason you don’t is because you know nothing about it. But I am in a hurry; I have an errand out, but will come back in a few moments if you have no objections; and if you,” pointing at Mary, “will play a tune for me, I will be greatly obliged.”

“Certainly, I will be glad to do so,” said Mary; and Miss Brechandon walked out, but soon returned. She seemed somewhat anxious and disturbed, yet in good spirits. “Now play your very best,” she said; “I am a pretty good judge of music: please play what you consider your best piece.” Mary was silent a moment, but finally commenced an elaborate piece, full of variations and melody. And she played as if really inspired, while Miss Brechandon looked on, astonished and charmed. She finished, and, rising from the stool suddenly, ran to the door, saying, “How warm! I must open this door ;” and in spite of Miss Brechandon’s terrified scream, “O, don’t, don’t, it’s plenty cool, play on, do,” she threw the door open, and then started back; for she stood face to face with the pale young man she had met already several times. There was confusion for a moment. Miss Brechandon wrung her hands, not from anguish, but from nervous excitement; and the young man took several steps backward, and tried to stammer out an excuse. Finally Miss Brechandon regained her composure sufficiently to make an explanation.

“It is all my fault,” she said. “Don’t blame the young man; he doubted the propriety of coming up,

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but I assured him there was no harm in it; and he is so bewitched to hear music; and I knew Miss Mary was a good player by the looks of her eyes and her fingers; and so I begged him to come up and listen while she played; and he did so; and what is the harm?”

“If the door hadn’t been opened so suddenly, no one would have been the wiser,” said the young man; “but I beg your pardon for playing eavesdropper, and will promise to listen no more without your permission; but I cannot be sorry I came up and heard the music, for I can assure you it was worth hearing.” He bowed to Mary, and smiled.

“Thank you,” said Mary, pleasantly. “I am glad you listened, if it gave you any pleasure.”

“I might as well introduce you now,” said Miss Brechandon, “and undoubtedly you will be good friends. Young ladies, this is Mr. David De Witt; Mr. De Witt, these are the Misses Windsor;” and the young man bowed politely in the dusky hall; and the girls bowed, standing in the door; and this was their introduction. He only said “Good night” after this, and went away.

“I never set my eyes on that boy,” said Miss Brechandon, after he had gone, “without sighing for his soul. To think he should confess his sins to a priest! It is enough to distract one, I say.”

“Miss Brechandon,” said Hannah, “how shall I know what the true church is? There are so many, it would take me a life-time to study the creeds of them all. Mr. Beecher says one thing, you another, and Mr. De Witt another. All of you are good people; and which of you shall I believe?”

Miss Brechandon was silent a moment, as if con-

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sidering what to advise; then she said, “Is your soul in a state of inquiry? If so, I will send you in a little book which I think will help you to become converted.”

“I have no objection to books, Miss Brechandon; but somehow I have no idea that such a book as you name will do me any good. I do not feel rebellious; I am not suffering from any fears; for whatever else comes, I cling in faith to the kind Father who created us. The time of doubts and fears has passed away with me, concerning the will of God; and I only think now of churches and creeds, and would like to know something of theology, that I may be prepared to help those who are troubled about these matters.”

Miss Brechandon stared at the speaker as if stricken with wonder.

“What?” she said, “a girl like you talking of the study of theology! that is a thing that doesn’t concern us, but ministers of the gospel. Come out from the world, and confess Christ, joining yourself with the church of God; that is the only way you can be saved.”

“What is confessing Christ, Miss Brechandon?” asked Kate, who had been listening attentively.

“Can it be possible that you are so ignorant as not to know? A pitiable state you are in, indeed,” said Miss Brechandon.

“It seems to me,” said Hannah, “that the only true way to confess that we love and work for Christ, to show to the world that we are Christians, is to follow his example; for we cannot be his followers without imitating his good works and meek and gentle spirit.”

“The infidel boasts of his good works, Miss Windsor; but where is he?”

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“But the infidel possesses not the spirit of Christ; he is self-sufficient; he boasts of his own strength, and a person of that kind cannot be a follower of Jesus Christ.”

“You are a strange girl,” said Miss Brechandon. “Have you instituted a religion of your own?”

“O no, no; I believe in no religion but the religion of Christ; and the greatest thing I am at a loss about is, whether it is a duty to be a church-member, and if so, what church should I unite with?”

Miss Brechandon seemed ill at ease, and looked at Hannah as though she had found a wonder.

“You must be somehow wrong,” she said, “and I advise you to pray earnestly and constantly to understand what is right.”

“So I do, my dear Miss Brechandon; for earnest and pure desire is prayer always, I am ,inclined to think, and I am sure I am always anxious to learn the truth.”

“The heart is so prone to evil,” said Miss Brechandon, “and unless ye be born again, ye cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven.”

“After all,” said Hannah, “there is no way but to hope, and learn, and wait; and while I do so, I will not be afraid, for though—

‘I know not where his islands lift

Their fronded palms in air;

I only know I cannot drift

Beyond his love and care.’”

Miss Brechandon looked anxious and uneasy. Hannah’s words influenced her strangely, and made her feel, though vaguely, somewhat ashamed of her stiff doctrine, for which she had found herself so incapable of giving a reason. Hannah and her sisters seemed so

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charitable to all, and so kind and loving to each other, and then there was so much faith there, that in spite of herself Miss Brechandon was drawn toward them, and fascinated by their fresh manners and pure hearts.

“Good night,” she said abruptly, and was gone.

“How wise Hannah is!” said Mary.

“How weak I am!” said Hannah.

“But, girlies, we are all strong in love,” said Kate; and they embraced each other tenderly.

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CHAPTER X.

DARK CLOUDS.

“O HANNAH! is that true?”

“Yes, dearies, it is true, and I am for once discouraged;” and brave-hearted Hannah sank into a chair, and, dropping her face in her hands, burst into tears.

“How could it be so?” asked Mary, kneeling at Hannah’s side. “You felt so sure it would be accepted, and so did we all. I hardly thought of such a disappointment.”

“What objections did they have to it?” asked Kate, leaning on the back of Hannah’s chair.

“I hardly know. I can’t think. I was so surprised when he gave me back the manuscript. I suppose I haven’t enough ability to write a good story. I can find no other excuse,” returned Hannah, raising her head, and wiping her tearful eyes. “I thought as I came home through the street that the better way for me was to stop this foolish scribbling, and go to work by the week, and earn a decent living, and be content, like a thousand other girls.”

The sisters had now been in the city more than a month, and the money they had taken from home was wholly exhausted. Kate had become so absorbed in her work that so long as a penny lasted, she would sit at her easel from morning till night; and though her improvement was rapid, and praise from her teacher

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frequent, yet her means were passing away; and often as she lay on her little bed, she tossed her arms, and thought far into the night, trying to devise some means to earn a few more dollars.

Mary had continued to give lessons to her four scholars while she took her own at the Conservatory, and practiced all her spare moments on the upright piano.

The little boy, Neil Blossom, had gained both her pity and affection; and to no place did she go with more cheerfulness or pleasure than into that little bare room, so suggestive of poverty, where the pale mother sat always at the window, sewing steadily, as though her life depended on her industry; and so it did.

Poor woman! like how many other mothers she was giving away her strength and life for the benefit of her child! but the brightening of her pale face, and the smile that came to her thin lips, as the boy played, as only the inspired can, showed that she was well repaid for all her labor; and so Mary found it both a joy and benefit to teach the crippled boy, where she had expected only anxiety and pity. Hannah had been wholly unsuccessful in trying to dispose of her manuscript. The sketches, and story of several chapters, which she had left with a publisher on Fulton Street, had not been accepted. With what strange emotions, that Saturday afternoon, she had climbed the dirty stairs! and how her heart had fluttered, as she inquired, with an effort, if the manuscript was read!

Yes, it was read, the man told her; but they had concluded not to purchase, as it was hardly adapted to their columns. Too much description and moralizing, and too little plot. It was well written, he said, and it was probable that with some effort she might do well; he had noticed the disappointment that crept into her face.

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Perhaps, he said, she could succeed in writing a serial; they were in want of one. It must contain eighteen or twenty chapters of ordinary length, and be of such a character as to absorb the reader, and make him always anxious for the next number. They bought very few sketches, except from their regular contributors, unless they were uncommonly interesting.

Hannah caught at the idea of writing a serial. She would suit, she thought, she must succeed when so determined; and so she told him she wished to try, and asked how soon he wished to use it. In a fortnight, he said, and gave her a few hints concerning the style. Hannah had gone home with the rejected manuscript in her hand, but a hope in her heart that in two weeks she might receive thirty dollars, —the price offered for the serial, if it suited. Kate should have her paints then, she thought, and not be obliged to go to work for a living, but could continue to work at her easel. The girls had listened eagerly to her plans, and had entire faith in her success. How nice it would be! they said; and undoubtedly she could write more after that was finished, and at that price would soon make her fortune. Thirty dollars in two weeks! More than they had dreamed of; and with this money they could all get well started, and very soon they could earn enough to pay her; for they should pay her every cent. She would suit the publisher any way, Hannah said, she was determined; and she had already thought of an excellent plot, and she could find plenty of incident by going into the streets. As for those sketches, she said, it was not at all strange that he refused them, for they were rather tame, now she thought of it; though before, she had thought them

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startling in the extreme. Kate, she said, must continue to work at Cooper’s, and learn as fast as she could, and she should be sure to get the thirty dollars and more to do after it; so there was nothing to fear. Long they had talked that night, and planned, lying in their little white beds; and had at last fallen asleep with their hearts full of hope and ambition. The next morning, Hannah had arisen an hour earlier than usual; and while Kate and Mary were fast asleep, she commenced the first chapter of the forthcoming story, and by the time her sisters had awakened, had nearly finished it. Her face was flushed, and her pen flew along rapidly, but not rapidly enough to keep pace with the thoughts that were flooding her brain.

“Why, Hannah!” Kate had said, rubbing her eyes; and Mary had repeated the words, springing from her pillow, and throwing from her face the wealth of brown hair. O what a day of hope that was! and how Hannah wrote and wrote, only growing weary at night, and then going out into the streets to freshen her thoughts and invigorate her mind How the girls gathered around the little table every night to listen to what had been written during the day, and how they laughed and cried over it, and declared it intensely interesting, certain it would be accepted; how could it be otherwise?

And so the two weeks had passed away; and the story was finished. During the time even the little widow had been forgotten and neglected; and the invitation she had promised them, had not been received from her; but even if it had, it would have been refused, for no visiting was on that two weeks’ programme.

Miss Brechandon, too, had received very little of

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Hannah’s attention, though her sisters had been twice to her room, where they met the pale young man, and found him, they said, such a gentleman, and so pleasant and agreeable, and Miss Brechandon so odd, but so very kind in her own way.

And when the story was really finished, and the manuscript lay in a heap, so neat and plain, on the table, what a time of rejoicing it was! Hannah’s flushed cheeks were kissed a half-dozen times by her enthusiastic sisters; and when she wrapped it snugly in a paper, and took it under her shawl, she could really hear her heart beat; and the girls somehow felt a sensation they had never felt before; and Kate, almost before she was aware, exclaimed, “O Hannah, what if it should be rejected!” and Mary had replied, “But it won’t be, for it is so beautiful;” and Hannah had gone on her way to Fulton Street; and her success is explained in the conversation with which this chapter opens. The very next day they had read it, and rejected it.

“Yes,” continued Hannah, “I half concluded, while coming home, that I would give up writing; for it is evident I have no ability or tact; for only think how steadily and hard I have worked for two weeks, and all to no purpose. I’d better have been at work in a factory.”

“O dear, it is such a disappointment,” said Kate; “but do tell us why it was rejected.”

“The same old story, —not startling enough; and I’m sure I couldn’t make anything any more so; but they had just received one they liked better.”

“There, that’s why they rejected yours, I know; and the rejection don’t prove that you have no ability.”

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“And I have got a bit of good news, after all,” said Kate.

“Good news! What is it? though I’m sure nothing can raise my spirits now.”

“Well, I have got some work to do. Look here!” and Kate displayed heaps of black silk cord in a paper bag. “I am to make these into cloak trimmings like this sample. It is quite easy; and I shall have eighteen cents per dozen.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Miss Brechandon told me of the place, though she didn’t know I wanted work. She was telling Mary and me a story of a poor work-girl who had formerly made these trimmings, but was now sick. I inquired the number and street where the work was to be obtained, and I do not think she had an idea I wanted work; and then I went there almost immediately, and got all this cord; so there is no danger of starving.”

“Is there enough for me?” asked Hannah.

“O yes; but you’ll not give up writing.”

“I must, for the present at least, because I cannot sell my manuscript; and I can’t work for nothing. I have only a dollar in my pocket, and that will last only a short time.”

“What will you do with your story?” asked Mary. “Won’t somebody buy it?”

“It will be, some time before I can get courage to offer it to any one else; and I am so ashamed of myself, too, for allowing the publisher to see my great disappointment. I hardly stayed a moment, fearing I should burst into tears. I might have known it was at least doubtful about its being accepted; but I felt so very sure. I shall never again have confidence in anything I write.”

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“Can it be possible that Mary and I are no judges at all? We were so deeply interested.”

“Probably because of your interest in me. If you had read it without any knowledge of the author, you would have thought it probably a failure.”

“No, no, we shouldn’t, I am sure,” said Mary. “It would have interested me wherever I had read it. Little Jim, only think what a comical character he was! and that old darkey, and the poor, little sick girl. I’m sure the man had no taste or judgment who refused it.”

“It is probable that ours are inferior to his; for he has had more experience, and is less prejudiced, than we,” said Hannah.

“Well, allowing all this,” spoke up Kate, with flashing eyes, “I am sure of one thing, and that is this. Your story is infinitely better than many I have read; and it must be there is somebody in the city who would buy it.”

“But if my courage rises on no higher key than it is now, I can never offer it to another publisher; and I shall work on this trimming. I am so glad you got it, Kate. It is well we made the acquaintance of Miss Brechandon. She has such a good heart, and her religion is only false teaching; her heart is full of charity. Only think how kind she is to Mr. De Witt.”

“She is greatly attached to him,” said Mary. “You see, when he was very sick a few weeks ago, she stayed with him a great deal, for his mother is an old woman and feeble; and in this way she became acquainted and attached to him, in spite of his being a Catholic.”

“Well, I must go to work immediately,”‘ said Han-

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nah, rising and throwing aside her hat and shawl. “I have no time to waste; please give me a little information about this work, Kate. Perhaps I can make a dozen to-night.”

“O no, you can’t possibly,” said Kate, “because it is new work; but you can learn; and I am going to work too immediately;” and so they gathered around the table, the inseparable three, and all sewed in the dim lamp-light.

“Now,” said Kate, while they sewed, “ let us forget all about the manuscript to-night, and I will tell you a plan of mine. You see I have been thinking if I could only get five dollars, I would buy me some water-colors, and learn to color photographs. They say it is excellent business; and there is a girl at the Institute who says she will show me how to mix the paints; and I’m sure I could learn the rest myself, if I had a sample.”

“Who would you color them for?” asked Mary.

“Why, just go around to the galleries, and get work; and I have been thinking besides, girls, that I must have some oil paints and brushes, and they will cost me twelve dollars sure. How hard it is to do anything!”

“Everything would have been right, if I had only written a good story. O girls, why did I fail when so confident and determined?”

“It is probably all for the best,” said Kate; “we can’t expect to sail in clear waters always; and if I could only get my paints now, I am sure I could do something.”

“Well, let us work for them,” said Hannah. “I will work too,” said Mary, “and we can soon earn five dollars.”

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So the girls worked as fast as their fingers would fly; but the cord was stiff, and they did not accomplish so much as they had anticipated. Yet they tried to be cheerful and hopeful, and the days went by. But there was the rent to pay, and then washer- woman and the baker; and they began to despair of ever getting the five dollars together; but a bit of good luck was in store for them.

One morning Kate started, as usual, for Cooper’s, and left Hannah busily sewing, and Mary at the piano. She had not been gone long before her step was heard in the hall, which was a sure sign that she had brought a letter.

“From mother, girls! from mother!” said she, bursting into the room, and flourishing a yellow envelope; and then tearing it open, lo and behold, a green-back, soiled but genuine, fluttered out and fell directly on Hannah’s lap.

“Five dollars!” exclaimed Hannah, picking it up. Five dollars! just what you need, Kate; read the letter now, don’t wait;” and Kate read the letter; and as usual, all brushed tears from their eyes, which left them bright as stars.

“We send you five dollars,” the letter said; “you will undoubtedly need it; and we will try to send you some more soon.”

“Will it be right,” said Kate, “to take it for myself?”

“Right? exclaimed Hannah and Mary in a breath. “Of course; we don’t need it,”

“But, girls, I have changed my mind about the water-colors. It is time I commenced to paint in oil; and shall I take this money to start with?”

“Yes, yes, by all means,” said Hannah.

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And soon Kate commenced painting in oil; and this was her forte. A new world opened to her; and the inexpressible joy of the artist began to swell in her bosom. Her teacher looked on surprised, and told her he never saw one who had a better eye for color; but the lack of means held her back, and she could only paint a few hours in a day. How reluctantly she would leave her easel and pallet! and how she became more and more absorbed in her work, until poverty was forgotten, although it stared at her persistently, while often one dry cracker served for her supper! Hannah sat at the little table arid sewed from morning till night; for she dared not spend her time to write again with no promise of success. A few dollars came to her now and then from a publisher who at times published a sketch for her; but it was only as a drop in the bucket. Ah! these were trying days; but the three sisters determined to succeed, comforted each other, and worked on. Early and late they worked, their interests all in common, helping and cheering and blessing each other. Their letters to their friends at home betrayed not the trials they were obliged to endure; and none knew but themselves how hard they labored, and how indomitably they persevered. As a natural and unavoidable consequence, their wardrobes began to grow shabby; their boots, from so much tramping in the streets, lost their pretty, stiff, and genteel look, which was most mortifying to their sense of, taste and elegance. Their gloves became soiled and worn; and often they lay down upon their little beds, and looked off at the stars hungry and disheartened. A few dollars came from home sometimes, but there was always a use for such receipts in another direction than food or clothes. Their improvement

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could not be rapid, they had so little time for practice. As for Hannah, she continued to sew as if for dear life, and was only happy in assisting her sisters. Kate at last obtained the water-colors she so much longed for, and made a trial of coloring photographs. She had received some instruction from a friend; and with high hopes after a little practice, and the praise of her enthusiastic sisters, she went out to look for work in the picture galleries. Along the Bowery she took her way; and owing to her lack of confidence in herself, she selected the most insignificant gallery she could find, and, entering, made known her errand. O yes, the artist said, he had work enough, and would be glad to engage her; but then of course he must see some of her work. So he gave her several pictures to color as specimens. Flushed and happy, she almost ran down the stairs and through the streets, until she arrived home.

Hannah stopped her sewing, and Mary her playing, when Kate came into the room, and exclaimed, “I’m going to work immediately; for I can get plenty of work if only I can color these photographs to please the artist;” and before the girls had time to answer, she had taken her place by the window, with her paints before her, and there she worked and worked, her courage failing, instead of increasing, with every touch of her brush; but she was determined to do her best, however poorly that might be; and she told none of her misgivings to her sisters, who waited anxiously for the pictures to be finished.

When they were done, the girls scrutinized them with some misgivings.

“The fact is,” said Hannah, after she had gazed in silence a long time, “you can’t expect to paint as well

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as those who have received instructions, and had much practice.”

Kate laughed constrainedly.

“Which is as much as to say the coloring isn’t good.”

“Why, no, maybe they will like them, Kate; I am no judge; but it does seem that they are rather highly colored.”

“I don’t believe they are,” said Mary. “Anyhow, don’t be afraid to take them home.”

So Kate wrapped them up carefully, and with faltering steps sought the gallery where she had received them. The artist received her kindly; but when he saw the photographs, which were really colored wretchedly, he told the anxious young girl politely that she might do very well undoubtedly with practice, but those were hardly up to the mark, at least not just what he wished; and, blushing deeply, Kate went away; and her face was still rosy red when she entered the room again, where Hannah and Mary were anxiously awaiting her return. The affair seemed just at that moment to strike them as ludicrous; and so they all burst out into laughter, and Kate said, —

“We might as well laugh as cry. I wasn’t very much disappointed that he refused to give me any more work. I was in reality sure they were not done good; but I must confess I felt ashamed to have him look at the pictures, and my face felt like fire.”

“So that plan has played out?” said Mary, still laughing.

“No, indeed,” said Kate. “I’ll show you yet that I can color a photograph that none of us need be ashamed of.”

“We might have known,” said Hannah, “that you

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could do nothing with no instruction and no practice. I do believe we are a parcel of ninnies.”

“I believe so too, and I’ll just go to work again on that trimming, and wait till I learn a little more, before I beg any more photographs to color.”

“There is Miss Brechandon’s step,” said Hannah. I wonder what errand she has now.”

“A letter for Miss Windsor, said Miss Brechandon, standing in the door-way, “and a note for Miss Mary,” flinging two letters on the table, and vanishing as suddenly as she had entered.

“From the little widow,” said Hannah, opening hers.

“And mine, —why, girls!” and Mary stopped, and looked confused.

“What is it? no bad news, I hope,” said Kate.

“Why, it is really from David De Witt; and what can he want, and how beautifully he writes! O girls! I see what it is, —an invitation to St. Stephen’s Church to-morrow, to hear the organ. Girls, girls, shall I go with him? I never went to a Catholic church in my life; and St. Stephen’s is such a grand one, they say.”

The letter was passed from one to the other, and read silently.

“O no, there’s no use, after all; I’ve nothing decent to wear,” said Mary after a moment; “and what excuse can I give?”

“Would you really stay at home for that reason?” asked Hannah earnestly.

“Why, wouldn’t you? only think of my boots and gloves.”

“That reminds me of my new discovery,” said Kate. “This morning, while you two were out, I looked down at my boots, and was actually discouraged,

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they were rubbed so, and looked so shabby; so I caught the first thing of a liquid nature near me, which happened to be my bottle of mucilage, and rubbed some on the toe of one of my boots, and you would have been surprised at the improvement it made. So, Mary, there’s a remedy for your boots.”

“The fact is,” said Hannah, “we might go alone to St. Stephen’s, just as well, and then no one would recognize us, or perhaps think of our dress; but to go with Mr. De Witt is quite another thing. I am almost sorry, girls, that we have made any acquaintances; but then we ought to be glad to find friends at all times, and Mr. De Witt doesn’t dress so elegantly as some.”

“But wouldn’t it look strange to go off with a Roman Catholic? What would the people at home say?”

“They will never know it. What would they say if they knew how we sew on that trimming, and live in this little room and on a crust of bread, —we who were thought almost haughty at home? I would like to go with Mr. De Witt, he is so appreciative of music; and then I like him somehow; he is very agreeable.”

“So I think, and what is the harm?” said Kate. “You and I, Hannah, can go to Dr. Chapin’s, as we intended; and there will be something new to talk about, if Mary goes to St. Stephen’s.”

“Well, I’m sure there’s no harm in it; so let us see what the little widow writes this time. Another invitation, as sure as the world! What are we coming to, girls? we, poor creatures, who can hardly get enough to eat, invited to a ball!”

“A ball!” shrieked Kate. “A ball! Hannah, are we crazy, or is the little widow losing her reason?”

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“A real ball!” exclaimed Mary. “We invited to a real ball? No, you are joking. How we would look at a ball? Gray poplins, nearly worn thread-bare, boots plastered over with mucilage, and soiled gloves;” and all laughed merrily.

“And these invitations have come in our most poverty-stricken time. Suppose the little widow, with all her comforts, could have a faint realization of our circumstances,” said Kate.

“Perhaps it would be well to hear all she says on the subject;” and Hannah read the letter through aloud.

“O, it’s to be in a hall, and we can go in street costume and sit in the gallery, and only look on; and that odd uncle of hers will go with us, and we needn’t dance at all; that seems a little more reasonable, doesn’t it?” said Kate.

“What a shrewd little thing she is for contriving,” said Mary; “we are to go up there, and start with them. Do, now, girls, let us go; we never went to a real ball in the world, and this is such a good opportunity; besides, our spirits are not very lively just now, and it might do us good; though, dear me! I am really afraid we would shock the little widow with our plain dress; but the odd uncle, —somehow I don’t care at all for him.”

“Doesn’t it look reckless and rash?” asked Hannah.

“And wouldn’t it be better to keep a little more secluded?” asked Kate. “If we make acquaintances, we shall get ashamed of our clothes, and that will give us extra trouble.”

“But why need we get ashamed of our clothes? are we so small-minded as that? Haven’t we learned yet

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that such feelings are all foolishness? and if we wish to learn anything, why not take the opportunities offered to do so, and be thankful for them? Our clothes are still neat and clean; and if the little widow and her odd uncle are not ashamed to accompany us, why should we be ashamed to go? The fact is, girls, we are poor; and we can’t help it; but if we chose to, we could go to work by the day or week, and spend all our money for clothes, and look much better, or at least more fashionable and showy, than we do now; but would we be any better? should we, after all, feel any more independent, or have any more self-respect? I’m sure I like to see people dressed well, but always according to their means and circumstances. Don’t, then, let us stay at home from the ball on account of our dress. If we thought of nothing but dress, it would then be so different; but we have higher aims, and we need not feel ashamed or afraid.”

“How often do you think it is, girls, that we have just such a talk as this?” said Mary.

“Every time occasion requires it,” said Kate, “and that is quite often. How much good such talks do us! They make us feel so much stronger and better.”

“And it’s no wonder, is it, that so many girls go farther and farther into fashion and show, when they have no such dear good talks as we do to encourage them to be independent? I really need my independence strengthened quite often.”

“People in general think too little,” said Hannah. “An hour of sound thought and reasoning would keep many a person from utter shipwreck. Now, girls, we have a right to judge by ourselves, as we think ourselves somewhat sensible, and like other people in nature. Who would you respect the more, —a lady who

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dressed charmingly, and spent all her money to do so, or a woman who dressed even exceedingly plain in order to elevate her mind and prepare herself for future usefulness and happiness?”

“Why, the latter of course; that is reason.”

“And reason is what we should make use of,” said Hannah. “And now, dears, do you think we could gain anything by going to this ball—anything that will in after years be of use to us? If you do, let us go by all means, in spite of our dresses.”

Neither of the girls spoke, and .Hannah continued: “I am inclined to think it would be a benefit to us. I am anxious from curiosity to go. Let us see for once what they do at these balls that is fascinating enough to detain them till five o’clock in the morning.”

“Yes, let us by all means. I always wanted to know,” said Kate.

“I’m sure it will do us good,” said Mary, delightedly. “I would like to go in full dress and dance. How they must enjoy it, to dress just as they please, and then dance well! Sometimes, O how I long to have nothing to do more than these rich ladies!”

“Sometimes I think it would be so delightful, but then” —

“We can talk of these things better on our return from the ball; and we have hindered already too long,” said Hannah, sewing with redoubled energy. And so it was that the three sisters formed acquaintances through these invitations that were to affect their whole lives.

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CHAPTER XI.

A SACRIFICE FOR PRINCIPLE.

“DON’T lose my lace handkerchief, now; you know it’s my last pretense to elegance; and I wouldn’t have it used if it wasn’t quite necessary that you have something that speaks of refinement,” said Kate, giving Mary’s dress an extra brush; “and don’t soil it either, because you know I want to carry it to the ball.”

“Don’t let Mr. De Witt convert you to the Catholic faith,” said Hannah, looking over her box of trinkets with the hope of finding something to improve Mary’s wardrobe, but without success. “Let me see your boots again. Why, they look almost like new; that mucilage, without mistake, is an invention. I mean the idea of putting it on shoes; and, Kate, you ought to just color it black, get it patented, and advertise ‘Windsor’s Liquid Blacking for Ladies’ Boots;’ but then Mary will persist in wearing off one side of the heel, which gives her a kind of sideways look.”

“You don’t think there is any impropriety in Mary’s going, do you?” asked Kate.

“Well, I’ve thought it over carefully, and I can’t see that there is. She knows how to take care of herself; and Mr. De Witt is a gentleman,” said Hannah.

“But how about our conclusions concerning gentlemen friends?”

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“What matters it whether he is a gentleman or not? he is simply to me a musician and an agreeable person, and as such I shall treat him. I shall wait till circumstances are more favorable, and my wardrobe not quite so limited, before I fall in love,” said Mary; “besides, I couldn’t be safer with any one so far as love is concerned, than with a Roman Catholic; so, anxious hearts, be at rest. Music is my one lover, and I’m a faithful lassie;” and Mary made a graceful little courtesy.

“Mother wouldn’t care, think she would?” asked Hannah.

“Not if she knew the whole case; of course,” said Kate. “Mother isn’t prudish, and she trusts us.”

“Try to remember one thing,” said Hannah, with gravity, “ and that is to talk at least enough to prove you have a tongue. One wouldn’t think, to hear you chattering with us, that you would turn into a mute when with a stranger. Such bashfulness does very well for young misses who have just left off pinafores; but for a young lady who is independently earning her own living, and trying to make a useful woman, it is altogether in the way. Of course if you have nothing to say, it will be better to say nothing; but you will have something to say, if only you can raise enough spirit to say it. Perhaps Mr. De Witt will have the power of ‘calling you out,’ as they say.”

“I shall talk, if it is in my power to do so,” said Mary. “I thought that subject over pretty thoroughly last night, and I concluded that I should make a dunce of myself if I didn’t talk, and I’m bound to say something, if it isn’t quite so nice; and if Mr. De Witt will talk about music, there will be no trouble, and I am almost sure he will; and coming home, you know, we can talk about the church. Maybe I can appear quite respectably.”

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“Don’t do anything for effect, however,” said Kate.

“Act out your own dear self,” said Hannah, “and you will satisfy yourself and others too.”

“It’s wonderful how much advice I need,” said Mary, “ when I go away for about two hours; but I’ll remember it. Adieu, fair ladies; it is time I went to Miss Brechandon’s room to meet my escort.”

“Remember all you see and hear,” said Kate.

“And tell us how you would like to be a Catholic,” said Hannah; “and don’t for the world give a thought to your clothes; for it will only disturb you, and you look good enough; indeed, you look very good, and whoever slights you because you are not dressed more fashionably, isn’t the person you wish for an associate; but you understand all this, you’ve heard it many times.”

“Anything more?” said Mary, striking an attitude of meekness and patience.

“Yes,” said Kate, “remember and not lose my handkerchief. Don’t get so absorbed in the music as to drop the handkerchief, and never think of it again till I remind you.”

“I’ll keep it in one corner of my mind the whole time, Kate; and now I go; good morning.”

Mr. De Witt, though his face was pale, and his eyes expressive of melancholy, had, after all, a sufficient degree of vivacity and humor, and this morning was especially good-natured and pleasant. His health was much improved, and to Mary he hardly seemed the same young man she assisted up the steps when she first came to the city. He was dressed very genteelly too, and gave her a bow and a smile so frank and gracious, she felt easy at once, and somehow they fell to conversing without any effort.

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“Shall I help you to descend these steps, as you once assisted me in ascending them?” he said, when they had closed the outer door of the hall.

“It is much easier, they say,” said Mary, “to go down than up, though the journey is usually pleasanter going up than down, I should think.”

After this was said, Mary thought it a most untimely remark; but it started a pleasant conversation.

“Undoubtedly the path is pleasanter going up than down as regards our lives,” said Mr. De Witt; “but climbing always requires exertion and self-sacrifice, and so there are comparatively few climbers; but I hope we are among the number, Miss Windsor.”

“I hope so,” stammered Mary; “but sometimes I am afraid I rise very slowly, and fall back very often.”

“But what if you do. If your face is always toward the ‘palace Beautiful,’ and your heart is set on reaching it, you will surely arrive there at last.”

“But time may not be long enough to take me there.”

“But the end of time is only the beginning of eternity; and how can we labor in vain? ‘What time denies, eternity will give.’ Don’t you believe it?”

“I don’t know, but sometimes it seems that we have a very short time given us to accomplish great objects; especially for those who are poor.”

Mr. De Witt smiled, but the old melancholy settled a moment on his face.

“It is hard to be poor,” he said; “but it is harder to be sick, and lie days and days, and think how the time is passing away, while we, are unable to improve it. While we can work, even if it is merely to support the wants of the body, we can feel ourselves growing strong, and time-will not be lost; but to lie helpless,

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with the fire of ambition burning in your heart, while you have no power to push forward your aims toward the object you long to attain, and count the days as they go by as entirely void of any accomplishment of yours, —if ever there is a time to think life short, Miss Windsor, it is then.”

Just then they entered a car, and the conversation was discontinued.

“How grand!” said Mary, when they stood in front of St. Stephen’s Church on Twenty-eighth Street, that imposing structure, built in the Romanesque style of architecture, which is a transition between the old Roman and mediaeval Gothic style, and said to be the most magnificent church in the city.

“Its greatest attractions are within,” said Mr. De Witt, and they mounted the steps, and passed into the church. He did not stop to sprinkle himself with holy water, or kneel and cross himself, as so many did; but when they had entered a pew in front of the high altar, he knelt and bowed his head as if in prayer. Mary looked about her with wondering eyes. She looked above, and her eyes were dazzled; for the ceiling was painted after the style of many of the oldest cathedrals of Europe, of an exquisite shape of lapis lazuli, or ultramarine blue, and studded over with golden stars. The upper part of the church was filled with rainbow tints; made from the light which was thrown through the gorgeous frames of stained glass of the two immense rose windows in the ends of the transept above the galleries, while the body of the church was lighted by four large arched windows on each side of the nave above the galleries, and a corresponding number below, filled with rich stained glass.

But most magnificent of all were the chancel and

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altars, ornamented with gilded tracery upon the pillars and around the fretted frame-works that inclosed tile paintings and ornaments, that literally covered the whole space from floor to ceiling. Back of the high altar was the picture of the Crucifixion, which covered eleven hundred and fifty feet in space. Mary studied this wonderful picture with intense interest, and wished many times that Kate was with her. It represented the moment when the Saviour cried with a loud voice, “Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.” Above the clouds was the dimly sketched picture of the Father, with arms extended, and the Heavenly Dove, the Paraclete, issuing from his bosom and descending on a beam of light to the crucified Son, whose upturned face showed that He had caught a glimpse of the beautiful vision.

Upon the right hand stood Mary the mother of Jesus, her attitude and face expressive of anguish divinely supported. On the left, clasping the foot of the cross, was Magdalen; and the Apostles were grouped around. The ladder, the sponge and spear, and all the instruments of the execution, lay around on the ground, while in the foreground the rude Roman soldiery were “ casting lots for his garments.” The light from an unseen window above shone down upon this picture, and half startled Mary into the belief that she was looking at the reality instead of a representation.

Her heart was touched; and she half wished to kneel, as Mr. De Witt had done, in adoration and wonder. How earnest and devout all seemed! with what longing, trustful eyes they seemed to look at the picture and statue of the crucified Son! and how earnestly many of them thumbed a string of black beads,

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saying their prayers. But O, the ceremonies were so long, and so much alike, that but for the music Mary would have grown tired; but even with this attraction she was glad when it was over, and she stood again with Mr. De Witt on the pavement.

“Did you like the music?” he asked.

“Like it? how could I help it? but somehow its grandeur seemed somewhat lessened by the tedious ceremonies,” said Mary frankly.

“Undoubtedly it seemed so to you,” said he, smiling, “but it is the boasted temple of ecclesiastical music in New York. Jenny Lind, Piccolomini, and most of the celebrated artists from Europe who have visited this country have sung or performed there.”

The day was cool and delightful, and they did not take a car, but walked on slowly.

“Everything was so overwhelmingly grand,” said Mary, “ that really, when in the midst of it, I should think people would find it wholly impossible to concentrate their minds, and have a true understanding of worship and religion; and then all those ceremonies, which surely cannot be understood by the most of the congregation, seem to me so superfluous.”

“Undoubtedly. Indeed, Miss Windsor, they often seem so to me; but they are to keep in memory the crucifixion of Christ; and though many do not understand them wholly apart from each other, yet as a whole they comprehend their teaching.”

“But what good does the teaching do? does it elevate them?”

“If you consider the contemplation of Christ’s sufferings for us and the worship of Divinity elevating, then I would say yes to your question.”

“All seemed very devout and earnest,” said Mary;

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“and at first when I saw that most magnificent picture of the Crucifixion, I felt like falling down before it in adoration; but it was probably only the stirring up of my veneration and reverence, my religious nature, which would find something to worship if I had never heard of the true God. The fact is, Mr. De Witt, that which we are taught from infancy cannot leave us entirely; and everything was so new to me there I could not possibly feel lifted up or drawn nearer the Father and Son, though the pictures and ceremonies, you say, were all to keep fresh in our minds the divinity and sufferings of Christ.”

“Early teaching exerts a great influence,” said Mr. De Witt; “but there are those who come from the Protestant Church to the Catholic. Their childhood’s teaching is set aside by the original thought and experience of maturer years.”

“So people are changing continually in every direction; but circumstances and influence often have more to do with it than independent thought. The building and furnishing of St. Stephen’s Church must have cost a great deal, Mr. De Witt.”

“So it did; but the number of communicants in the parish is over twenty-five thousand.”

“Yes, but many of them must be poor, and can ill afford to support such splendor.”

“But they are willing to sacrifice much for the church; and every one feels a kind of ownership in the magnificent building.”

“I am undoubtedly prejudiced by the teachings I have always received; but really I could feel the presence of Christ better to stand in the open field, with the great blue sky over my head, and only Nature’s murmurings around me, than beneath that ceiling of

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blue studded with golden stars, with the beams of light streaming through the stained glass, and even that boasted and cultivated music charming me; but you will pardon me for speaking so plainly, sir. They say my sisters and I are hardly like other girls; and we talk a great deal on all these subjects.”

“You must have thought or talked of them to have your own ideas so positively,” said Mr. De Witt, “and it is a pleasure to hear you express them. I have often thought of the money which is expended on the churches, Protestant as well as Catholic, and doubted myself whether it makes people any better, or whether any more are converted. If we could prove that it does increase the Christian flock, I suppose we would raise no more objections; but so long as we are in doubt, we indulge in doubtful speculations. Do you belong to any church, Miss Windsor?”

“No; but on account of this, do you suppose I receive any the less care and love from God? Do you think He, any the less forgives my errors when I repent?”

Mr. De Witt was silent, and looked into Mary’s bright face earnestly.

“Well, Miss Windsor,” he said at last, ‘I see you have opinions of your own, and I am glad to see it. As for me, I have attended the Catholic Church ever since I can remember; and when I was twelve years old, it was decided that I should be a priest. But ill health changed the decision, and I think ‘tis better so; for otherwise I should have lost what I have found in music. And now I’ve come to what I wish to say to you; and my invitation to you to go with me today was partly that I might say it. I know something of your situation from Miss Brechandon, who is

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a clever soul, though stiff enough in religious creed; and I can feel your great desire to study music and receive first-class instruction. ‘Tis seldom that I give much individual aid; for being ill so much gives me less time for action than most have; and when I am well, to make up for lost time, I devote myself to music, and therefore make few acquaintances, and learn the wants of persons seldom. For some wise purpose we have met, and your kind assistance up those, tedious steps awoke in me an interest in you; for believe me, few young girls would have given their arm to a young man and a perfect stranger, forgetting the girl’s diffidence and fear of seeming bold, in the desire to lend assistance. It was a little thing, but it touched my heart; and I did not forget you, and often wondered who you were, till Miss Brechandon told me what she knew of you, and at last, not much against my will, persuaded me to play eavesdropper. Then I’ve met you since, and one time heard you sing alto to a little piece, when your sister sung soprano. I have been thinking for weeks how I could assist you; and a way is now opened, an opportunity that might not come again in years.”

“Indeed, Mr. De Witt, I did not expect this,” said Mary, her heart beating quick, and a thousand thoughts flooding her brain all circled round with hope. “I have done nothing to merit this interest and kindness from you.”

“Don’t talk of that; you are striving to attain a worthy object, and all such merit assistance. I shall only aid you to help yourself. You already know that I am organist in ——— Church. Only last Wednesday the lady who has sung first alto in our choir for six years at least, suddenly married, and went away to

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