CHAPTER 7 ONE DROP OF OIL Now you know that some of you are anxious to hear all about that marriage which took place in the first church the next evening. You want to be told how the bride was dressed and whether she had any bridesmaids and whether Dr. Dennis appeared well and how Grace Dennis was dressed and how she acted and who performed the ceremony and whether it was a lengthy one and every little detail of the whole matter. Also you are desirous of knowing how the little gathering that the Erskins gave soon after was managed. Whether Mrs. Erskine became reconciled to the black silk and the lace bow, whether Susan proved to be yielding or obstinate and how Ruth bore up under the numerous petty embarrassments which you plainly foresee the evening had in store for her. But then there are those discerning and sympathetic beings, the critics, standing all ready to pronounce on us and say that we are prolics and commonplace and tedious, that we spend too much time in telling about trivialities and do not give the startling points fast enough as if that were not exactly what we and they are doing all the time. Who lives exclamation points every day? There comes occasionally one into most lives and assuredly Ruth Erskine believed that hers had come to her. But for the most part, lives are made up of commas and interrogations and dashes. There is this comfort about professional critics. Those that live behind the scenes know that when they are particularly hard on a book, one of two things is the case. Either they have been touched in a sensitive spot by some of the characters delineated or opinions expressed, or else they have an attack of indigestion and the first subject which comes under their dissecting knives must bear the savage consequences. Very well, let us give them a touch of trivialities. The bride's dress was a soft, sheeny gray, just the sort of dress for enduring a long westward bound journey, and yet rich enough and soft enough and delicate enough to look appropriate in the church. As for Dr. Dennis, there is the satisfaction about a man's dress, it is easy of description. When you have said it was black and neat-fitting, what else is there left to say? Some gentlemen look exceedingly well-dressed and some look ungainly. Every one of them may have on black clothes that look to the uninitiated as though they were well-fitted. That makes the difference, what Lady can tell. The bride-eyed, fair-faced daughter of the House of Dennis was really the beauty of that evening, and if the truth were known, the bride-elect had expended more thought and care upon the details of this young girl's attire than she had on her own. Urie Mitchell and Mr. Harrison were bridesmaid and groomsmen. There were those in the church who wondered at that and thought that Mr. Harrison would have liked someone better than that Mitchell girl with him under the circumstances. But Urie herself and you and I know better. We know he has chosen her from all others to stand by him forever. After all, I can tell you nothing but the common places. Is there ever anything else told about weddings? Who is able to put on paper the heart-throbs and the solemnities of such an hour? It is like all other things in life that which is told is the least important of all the story. Old Mr. Armington, whose hair was white with the snows of more than seventy winters, spoke the solemn words that made them man and wife, for half a century he had been from time to time repeating that solemn sentence.  God bless you. This was his low-spoken word to Dr. and Mrs. Dennis as he took their hands in after greeting. Someway it made Marian feel more solemn than before. 296 brides. She seemed to see the long procession filing past. She wondered where they all were and what had been their life histories. Later in the evening she could not resist the temptation to ask him further. How many of the 296 have you buried, Mr. Armington? And the old man's lip trembled and his voice was husky as he said. Don't ask me, child, a long array of names among them two of my own daughters. But I shall sit down with a great many of them soon at the marriage supper of the lamb. I hope none of them will wear starless crowns. And Marian turned from him quickly, feeling that she had gotten her word to live by. Note that party. They lived through it and, in a sense, it was a success. There were, of course, many mortifications, but by dint of shutting her eyes and her ears as far as possible and keeping on the alert in every direction and remembering her recent resolutions very solemnly renewed, Ruth bore the ordeal reasonably well. She had more help than she knew of. Susan Erskine had inherited more of her father's nature than her mother's. It was not easy for her to yield, and she did not enjoy being managed. She could sacrifice her will or her plans or her comfort if she saw a need be for it, or if, in any sense, the strong and to her solemn word duty could be put in as a plea. But to be controlled in the mere matter of her dress and that after she had determined that to spend time and money other than was absolutely necessary on the adorning of the perishing body was a moral wrong was something that could not be expected of her. She was not conscious of any other feeling than that of duty, but in her heart she was grieved not to say insulted. Here had they, her mother and herself, been ignored for eighteen years, allowed to dress as they pleased and go where they pleased or not go at all. And now that their tardy rites were being in a degree recognized, it was the paltry question of dress that must absorb them. She was willing to make many concessions to Ruth. There were times when she pitied her. In fact she had constant and sincere sympathy for her in this invasion of home in name. She realized that the blame was in no sense Ruth's, and to shield her as much as possible from the inevitable suffering was Susan's natural feeling. But when it came to strictly personal questions what colors she should wear and what material and how it should be made up, she rebelled. Surely those were matters which she had a right to decide for herself. Mother might be easily managed if she would. Perhaps it was well that she could be, but for herself Susan felt that it would be impossible and hoped most earnestly that no attempt would be made in that direction. As for Ruth, she thought of the matter in a troubled way and shrank from entering into detail. The most she had done was to ask, hesitatingly, what she, Susan, would wear on the evening in question, and Susan had answered her coldly that she had not given the matter a thought as yet. She supposed it would be time enough to think about that when the hour for dressing arrived. In her heart she knew that she had but one thing to wear, and Ruth knew it too and knew that it was ill-chosen and ill-made and in every way inappropriate. But she actually turned away feeling unable to cope with the coldness and the evident reserve of this young woman over whom she could not hope to have influence. Curiously enough it was gentle little Flossie who stepped into these troubled waters and poured her noiseless drop of oil. She came in the morning, waiting for Ruth to go with her to make a farewell call on Marion Wilbur the morning before the wedding, and in the library among the plants giving them loving little touches here and there was Susan. What is Marion to wear for traveling, do you know? Flossie had asked of Ruth, as some word about the journey suggested the thought, and Ruth had answered briefly, almost savagely, I don't know. It is a blessed thing that no one will have to give it a thought. Marion will be sure to choose the most appropriate thing, and to have every detail in exquisite keeping with it. It is only lately that I have realized what a gift she had in that direction. Then Ruth had gone away to make ready, and wise little Flossie, looking after her with the faraway, thoughtful look in her soft eyes, began to see one of her annoyances plainly, and to wonder if there were any way of helping. Then she went down the long room to Susan, busy among the plants. How pretty they are, she said sweetly. What gorgeous coloring and delicate tracery in the leaves. Does it ever occur to you to wonder that such great skill should have been expended in just making them look pretty to please our eyes? No, said Susan, earnest and honest. I don't think I ever thought of it. I do often. Just think of that ivy. It would have grown as rapidly and been quite as healthy if the leaves had been square and all of them in intense green instead of being shaded into that lovely dark scalloped border all around the outer edge. He has made everything beautiful in his time. I found that verse one day last week, and I liked it so much. Since then I seem to be noticing everybody and everything to see whether the beauty remains. I find it everywhere. All this was wonderfully new to Susan Erskine. She was silent and thoughtful. Presently she said, It doesn't apply to human beings. At least to many it doesn't. I know good men and women who are not beautiful at all. Wouldn't that depend a little on what one meant by beauty? Flossy said timidly. Argument was not her forte. And then, you know, he made the plants and flowers.  I think he left to us who are immortal a great deal of the fashioning to do for ourselves. Oh, of course there is moral beauty which we find in the faces of the most ordinary, but I was speaking of physical beauty. So was I, said Flossy, with an emphatic nod of her pretty little head. I didn't mean anything deep and wise at all. I don't know anything about what they call aesthetics or any of those scientific phrases. I mean just pretty things. Now to show you how simple my thought was, that ivy leaf made me think of a pretty dress, well-made and shapely, you know, and fitted to the face and form of the wearer. I thought of the one who made such lovely plants, and finished them so exquisitely, must be pleased to see us study enough of his works to make ourselves look pleasing to the eyes of others. Susan Erskine turned quite away from the plants and stared at her guest with wide, open, amazed eyes for a full minute. Don't you think, she said at last, and her tone was that of a stamp which indicates suppressed force. Don't you think that a great deal of time and a great deal of money and a great deal of force, which might do wonders elsewhere, are wasted on dress? Yes, said Flossy, simply and sweetly. I know that is so. After I was converted, for a little while it troubled me very much. I had been in the habit of spending a great deal of time and not a little money in that way, and I knew it must be wrong, and I was greatly in danger of going to the other extreme. I think for a few days I made myself positively ugly to my father and mother by the unbecoming way in which I thought I ought to dress. But after a while it came to me that it really took very little more time to look well than it did to look ill-dressed, and that if certain colors became the form and complexion that God had given me, and certain others did not, there could be no religion in wearing those not fitted to me. God made them all, and he must have bent some of them especially for me, just as he especially thought about me in other matters. Oh, I haven't gone into the question very deeply. I want to understand it better. I am going to ask Mr. Roberts about it the very next time he comes. In the meantime, I feel sure that the Lord Jesus wants me to please my parents and my sister in every reasonable way. Sister Kitty is really uncomfortable if colors don't assimilate, and what right have I to make her uncomfortable so long as the very rose-leaves are tinted with just the color of all others that seemed fitted to them? Susan mused. What would you do, she asked presently, if you had been made with that sense of the fitness of things left out. I mean, suppose you hadn't the least idea whether you ought to wear green or yellow or what. Some people are so constituted that they don't know what you mean when you tell them that certain colors don't assimilate. What are they to do? Yes, said Flossie gently and sweetly. I know what you mean, because people are made very differently about these things. I am trying to learn how to make bread. I don't know in the least. I can make cake and desserts and all those things, but Mr. Roberts likes the bread that our cook makes, and as I don't know how to make that kind nor any other, I thought I ought to learn. It isn't a bit natural to me. I have to be very particular to remember all the tiresome things about it. I hadn't an idea there were so many. And I say to the cook, now, Katie, what am I to do next? This doesn't look right at all. She comes and looks over my shoulder and says, Why, child, you need more flour. Always put in flour till you get rid of that dreadful stickiness. Then I say to myself, that dreadful stickiness is to be gotten rid of, and flour will rid me of it, it seems. And I determine in my own mind that I will remember that item for future use. I don't really like the work at all. It almost seems as though bread ought to be made without such an expenditure of time and strength. But it isn't, you know, and so I try. And when I think of how Mr. Roberts likes it, I feel glad that I am taking time and pains to learn. You know there are so many things to remember about it, from the first spoonful of yeast, down to the dampening of the crust and tucking up the loaves when they come out of the oven, that it really takes a good deal of memory. I asked Mr. Roberts once if he thought there would be any impropriety in my asking for ability to take in all the details that I was trying to learn. He laughed at me a little, he often does, but he said there could be no impropriety in praying about anything that it was proper to do. Thank you, said Susan Erskine promptly. Then she did what was an unusual thing for her to do. She came over to the daintily dressed little blossom on the sofa, and bending her tall form, kissed the delicately flushed cheek lightly and tenderly. Ruth, said little Flossie as they made their way toward the streetcar, I think I like your new sister very much indeed. I am not sure, but she is going to be a splendid woman. I think she has it in her to be grandly good. When did you become such a discerner of character, little girly? was Ruth's answer, but she felt grateful to Flossie. Her words had helped her. As for Susan, she went back to the plants and hovered over them quite as lovingly, but more thoughtfully than before. She studied the delicately veined leaves and delicately tinted blossoms all the while with a new light in her eyes. This small, sweet-faced girl who had looked to the plainly attired, narrow-visioned Susan, like a carefully prepared edition of a late-fashioned plate, had given her some entirely new ideas in regard to this question of dress. It seemed that there was a duty side to it that she had not canvassed. What right have I to make her uncomfortable? Gentle Flossie had asked, speaking of her sister Kitty. Susan repeated the sentence to herself, substituting Ruth's name for Kitty's. Presently she went to her own room. Ruth, she said later in the day, when they were for a moment alone together, would you like to have me get a new dress for the Tea Party? Tea Party was a new name for the social gathering, but it was what Susan had heard such gatherings called. Ruth hesitated, looked at the questioner doubtfully a moment, then realizing that here was one with whom she could be straightforward, said frankly, Yes, I would very much. What would you like me to get? I think you would look well in one of those dark greens that are almost like an ivy leaf and tint. Do you know what I mean? Susan laughed. She did not take in the question. She was thinking that it was a singular and rather pleasant coincidence that she should be advised to dress after the fashion of the ivy leaf which had served for illustration in the morning. I don't suppose I ever looked well in my life, she said at last, smiling brightly. Perhaps it will be well to try the sensation. If you will be so kind, I should like you to select and purchase a dress for me that shall be according to your taste, only remembering that I dress as plainly as is consistent with circumstances from principle. When she was alone again, she said, with an amused smile curving her lip, I must get rid of that dreadful stickiness and flower will do it. This was what the dear little thing said. Dark green will do it for me, it seems. If I find that to be the case, I must remember it. Ruth dressed for shopping with a relieved heart. She was one of those to whom shopping was an artistic pleasure, besides she had never had anyone save herself on which to exhibit taste. She was not sure that it would be at all disagreeable. She begins to comprehend the necessities of the position a little, I believe, she said, meaning Susan. And she didn't know that Flossy Shipley's gentle little voice, and carefully chosen words, had laid down a solid plank of duty for her uncompromising sister to tread upon. CHAPTER VIII. FINDING ONES CALLING During the days which proceeded that social gathering, Ruth found her mind often busy with the wonders of the verse which had been quoted at prayer meeting. She recognized it as from the chapter which she had read in the morning, and she re-read it, filled with a new sense of its meaning. She sought after and earnestly desired to realize peace with God. How wonderful would it be to be able to say, and not only so, but we glory in tribulation. Poor Ruth believed that she understood the meaning of that word, tribulation. Would it be possible for her ever to glory in it? As she read those verses and thought about them, she seemed to hear again the peculiar ring of triumph that there was in Susan's voice as she repeated the words, she feels it. Ruth said to herself, I believe she knows more about these things than I do. I wonder how she came to get the thought in the first place. I read the verse and didn't take it in. Perhaps she has taken in other things about which I know nothing and which would help me. Seeing these thoughts dwelling on them, they culminated in a sudden resolution which led her to tap at the door of Susan's room. She was cordially invited to enter. Susan was engaged in dusting the row of books in dull and somewhat shabby binding that ornamented the pretty table under the gas light. Have a seat, she said. I can't think how the dust gets at my books so often. I put them in order this morning. They are my good old friends, and I like to take special care of them, but they are fading. She fingered the bindings with loving hands, and Ruth, curious to see what they were, drew near enough to read some of the titles. Cruden's Concordance, a Bible textbook, Barn's Notes on the Gospels, and Bushnell's Moral Uses of Dark Things. The others were old and some of them obsolete school textbooks. I haven't many, Susan said in a tender tone, but they are very useful. They have been my best friends for so long that I think I should be a real mourner over the loss of one of them. The new dark green dress lay on the bed, and some soft, rare laces, a gift to Susan that day from her father, lay beside it. Ruth glanced that way. Have you tried on the dress since it was finished? No, I thought it would be time enough in the morning, and I had a little reading that I was anxious to do this evening. What are you reading, something that you like? Yes, very much, Susan said with a rare smile lighting her pale face. I only began at the other night. I didn't know it was so rich. It is the first chapter of Colossians, but I only read to the fifth verse. Ruth looked her amazement. Why, you must have been interrupted very constantly. Susan shook her head. No, on the contrary, I spent very nearly an hour over those four verses. The longer I studied on them, the more remarkable they became, and I found myself held. Is the meaning so very obscure? Not at all. The meaning is there on the surface. The thing is, there is so much, and it leads one's thoughts in so many different ways. Do you remember the second verse? I don't remember it at all. Very likely, I never read it. Well, the second verse is addressed to the saints and faithful brethren in Christ, which are at Colossae. That sentence arrested my thoughts completely. Suppose I had been living at Colossae in those days. Could I have claimed that letter to the saints? I stopped over the word and wondered over it, and queried just what it meant. And it meant so much that I should really have gotten no farther than that sentence if I had not deliberately left it and gone on to the grace beyond to you in peace. I found my heart craving peace. I think I was somewhat like the child who claims the reward or reaches out after it without waiting to be sure whether he has met the conditions. But I don't understand you very well. What about saints? They are holy men. Were they not set apart for special work at that special time? How could their experience touch yours? I don't think so. I think they were just men and women who loved the Lord Jesus Christ and were called by His name just as you and I are. But we are not saints, at least I am not. But you are called to be? I don't understand you. Don't you? Think of that verse of Paul's unto the Church of God, which is at Corinth, to them that are sanctified in Christ Jesus, called to be saints. Now you know we are sanctified in Christ Jesus, so are we not called to be saints? I don't know what sanctified means very well. And besides, I can't help thinking that the letter was written to the church at Corinth. I don't live in Corinth. How do I know that the address fits me? If I should find a letter addressed to the people who live on 23rd Street, wouldn't I be likely to say, well, I have nothing to do with that. I live on Fifth Avenue? Ah, but suppose the very next sentence read, unto all that love the Lord Jesus Christ. Wouldn't you claim the letter? Yes, said Ruth, with a flash of joy in her face. I think I could. Well, don't you know the next words are, with all that in every place call upon the name of Jesus Christ our Lord, both theirs and ours? I never thought of it, said Ruth, then after a little. Did you find out what a saint was? Why, I found some characteristics of them and tried to see if they answered my description. Have you ever looked the matter up? No, said Ruth. I did not so much as know that I was expected to be a saint. Tell me what you found. Why, said Susan, drawing her chair and opening her Bible, see here I found a promise. He will keep the feet of his saints. It made me all the more eager to learn as to my claim. Was I his saint? Would he keep me? In that same verse there is a contrast. He will keep the feet of his saints and the wicked shall be silent in darkness. Now if there are only two classes of people, saints and the wicked, which am I? In God's sight, who are the wicked? I looked for a description of them and found this statement. The Lord preserveeth all them that love him, but all the wicked will he destroy. Now I know I love the Lord, and I know that he will not destroy me, for I have in my heart the assurance of his promise. If that is so, I must be one of his saints. Then I found the promise, he shall give his angels charge over thee to keep thee in all thy ways. Keep who? And looking back a little I found, he that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. But he promises to keep only those who are his saints. Then I found the promise, he maketh intercession for the saints. Now I said, if there is no one interceding between a just God and me, what will become of me? But I found the inspired statement of St. Paul, wherefore he is able to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by him, seeing he ever liveth to make intercession for them. That puts me at once among those for whom he intercedes, and his special work in heaven is to make intercession for the saints. By this time I was ready to claim the name, and you may know I was anxious to find what it meant. I went to the dictionary, the first definition I found was, a person sanctified. That startled me. Could it be that I was sanctified? Why I feel so sinful, and so weak, and so small. Until I said, what does sanctified mean? And I found that it was defined as set apart to a holy or religious use. It recalled to my mind the statement of Paul. But E.R. washed, but E.R. sanctified, but E.R. justified in the name of the Lord Jesus. A great deal ought to be expected of us after that. Ruth drew along Psi. I don't know anything about it, I believe, she said sadly. I never read the Bible in that way. Half the time it doesn't seem to have anything in it really for me. Don't you think that some of our trouble is in being content with simply reading, not studying the Bible? I thought the other night that if I had spent an hour on geometry, and then began to understand it somewhat, I should feel as though I were repaid. But sometimes I read a Bible verse over two or three times, and then because its meaning is obscure, I feel half discouraged. I was speaking of it to Father last evening, and he said he thought the trouble was largely in that direction. Susan had not yet gotten so that she could speak the unfamiliar name without hesitation. As for Ruth, her brow clouded. It did not seem to her that she could ever share that name with anyone. But she was interested and deeply so in the train of thought which had been started. What next, she asked, curious to see whether Susan's thoughts had led her. You said you read no farther than the fourth verse. What stopped you there? I don't see much in it. And she leaned forward and reread the verse from Susan's Bible. Oh, why don't you? Since we heard of your faith in Christ Jesus and of the love which ye have to all the saints, that verse stopped me longer than any other, especially the sentence, since we heard of your faith in Christ Jesus. It is such a common form of expression. I thought of it last evening while listening to the talk in the parlor. I heard that the wheelers were going abroad, someone said, and another. I heard that Dr. Thomas was soon to bring a wife home. Two of the young ladies talked in low tones, and nearly all I could catch was the expression. I heard he was, or she was, or they were. It was evident that a great deal had been heard about a great many people. I said over the verse, we heard of your faith in Christ Jesus. Who hears of such things? How many people have such marked and abiding faith in Christ Jesus that when we talk of them we say, I heard that Miss So-and-So had the most implicit faith in the power of Christ to keep her? Now wouldn't that be a strange thing to say? I should think it would, said Ruth, amazed at this train of thought. After all, I suppose many people have the faith, only it is not the custom in society to talk about such things. I don't, said Susan positively. Of course, many people have it in a degree, but not to such an extent that it arouses interest and incites remark. I think it is the custom in society to talk about that which interests people, which has been suggested to their minds by passing events. I have heard that it is a very common thing in localities where Mr. Moody has been holding meetings to discuss his remarkable faith and love. Don't you suppose, if my Christian life were so marked a force that all who came in contact with me felt its influence, it would be natural to speak of it when my friends chanced to mention my name? I suppose so, Ruth said slowly. At least I don't see why it should not be, and indeed it is very common for people to talk about the change in Flossy Shipley. Susan's voice was very earnest. I wish I could bear such testimony as that. I believe it would be right to be ambitious in that direction, to live so that when people spoke of me at all, the most marked thing they could say about me would be not how I dressed or appeared or talked, but how strong my faith in the Lord Jesus was, and how it colored all my words and acts. Wouldn't that be a grand ambition? And of the love which ye have to all the saints, Ruth repeated, half allowed, half to herself, her eye had caught the words again, suddenly she started, and the blood flowed in ready waves to her cheeks. She had caught a new and personal meaning to the words, love to all the saints. As this usurper of home and name, who sat near her, the subjectionable sister, suppose she were one of the saints? And I barely believe she is, Ruth said to her beating heart. Then would it be possible so to live that people would ever say she loves that sister of hers because she recognizes in her one of the Lord's own saints? Nothing looked less probable than this. She could not bring her heart to feel that she could ever love her. The sort of kindly interest she might grow to feel, an endurance that would become passive and, in a sense, tolerable. But could she ever help pailing or flushing when she heard this new voice say, Father, and realized that she had a right to the name even as she herself had? She had been the only Miss Erskine so long, and she had been so proud of the old aristocratic name, and she had felt so deeply the blood upon its honor that it seemed to her that she could never come to look with anything like love upon one connected with the bitterness. Yet it did flash over her with a strange new sense of power that Susan Erskine helped nearer relation to her than even these human ties. If she was indeed a daughter of the Most High, if the Lord Jesus Christ was her elder brother, then was this girl her sister a daughter of royal blood, and perhaps she almost believed it, holding high position up there where souls were looked at instead of bodies? A dozen times during the evening which followed this conversation did the words of this Bible verse and the thoughts connected therewith flash over roof. It was the evening of the social gathering. Now that Susan had called her attention to it, she was astonished over the number of times that those words, I heard, were on people's lips. They had heard of contemplated journeys and changes in business and changes in name and reverses and good fortunes, and contemplated arrangements for amusement or entertainment or instruction, everything they had heard about their friends or their acquaintances. Yet no one said during the whole evening, so far as she knew, that they had heard anything very marked about the religious life of anyone. In fact, religious life was one of the things that was not talked of at all, so Ruth thought. If she had stood near Judge Burnham and her sister at one time, she would have heard him saying, He is a man of Markentown, one prominent on every good occasion, noted for his philanthropy and generosity, and is one of the few men whom everybody seems to trust without ever having their confidence jarred. I have heard it said, that his word would be taken in any business transaction as quickly as his bond would be. Is he a Christian man? Susan had asked, and a half-amused, half-puzzled look had shadowed Judge Burnham's face as he answered. As to that, I really don't know. I have never heard that he made any professions in that direction, though it is possible that he may be connected with some church. Why, Miss Erskine, do you think it is impossible for a man to be honest and honorable and philanthropic unless he has made some profession of it in a church? Then Susan had looked at the questioner steadily and thoughtfully a moment before she answered. I was not thinking of possible morality. I was simply wondering whether the man who was building so fair and strong a house had looked to it that it was founded upon a rock, or whether he really were so strangely improvident as to build upon the sand. You know I think that other foundation can know man lay than that which is laid, Jesus Christ being the chief cornerstone. So there was some religious conversation at the Erskine's party, and it sent Judge Burnham home thinking. And now, though the fruits of the evening's gathering will go on growing and ripening and being gathered in, from human lives, so far as we personally are concerned, we are done with that party. CHAPTER IX A SOCIETY CROSS The next thing that occurred to mar the peace of this much-tried young lady, she went out calling with her stepmother. This duty was passed over just as long as it could do to ignore the claims of society, she being finally driven to it by realizing that more talk was being made by not going than would be likely to result from going. Then with foreboding heart she made ready. She planned at first to escape it all and have her father the victim, but there were two difficulties. He had rarely made other than professional calls for most ceremonious ones on persons high in the profession, and therefore this whole matter would be so new to him that to tide the bewildered wife through it would be well nigh impossible. And besides, Ruth felt the necessity of being present to know the very worst that could be said or done, and to attempt going as a trio was not to be thought of for a moment. There was one bright spot in her annoyances. It was pleasant to remember the look of relief which gleamed over her father's face when she told him he would be excused from attendance on them if he chose. I can save him so much at least, she told herself, and it helped her to make ready. If she would only keep perfectly quiet, she murmured again to herself as she waited at the door of her mother's room for the last glove to be drawn on and marked what in effect the rich black silk with its perfect fitting seams and perfectly draped folds had on the dumpy figure. If she only could get along without talking, she would do very well. Great attention had been paid by Ruth to the details of this toilet. The soft laces at throat and wrist, the rich mantle, the shapely hat with the unmistakable air of style about it, even to the gloves of exactly the right shade and size, had each been objects of separate study. And Mrs. Erskine, though occasionally she had fond memories of the green silk dress and the red bow, which she began to be dimly conscious, were never destined to shine together, yet took in so much of the general effect as filled her with surprise and reconciled her to the position of lay figure in Ruth's hands, looking upon her stepdaughter with the same degree of surprised awe that a statue might, could it be gifted with life, and behold itself getting draped for the tableau. The call started nicely, Flossie Shipley's being the first home at which they halted. Flossie, in her sweet, winning, indescribable way, decoyed Mrs. Erskine into a corner easy chair and engaged her in low-toned, earnest, even-absorbed conversation, while Ruth tried to unbend from her dignity and chat with Flossie's cheery social mother. Glancing from time to time toward the elder woman and the fair young girl, and noting the fact that both were unmistakably interested in their subject for conversation, Ruth found herself wondering what it could be. Whatever it was, she was grateful, and gave Flossie a most informal and tender kiss at parting by way of expressing her relief. Then, too, Dr. and Mrs. Dennis were at home and were joyfully glad to see them, and Dr. Dennis held Mrs. Erskine's attention, leaving Ruth free to talk with and look at and wonder over Marion.  She is at least ten years younger than I ever knew her to be, was Ruth's mental conclusion, as she watched the expressive face. There was no restraint in their talk. Ruth felt that for the time being she could throw off the burden of responsibility and have a good time. She did not know what Dr. Dennis was saying to her stepmother, and she did not care. It was so pleasant to feel that she could trust him that he was a friend, and would neither repeat to others the mistakes of the uncultured woman with whom he talked, nor laugh about them with Marion when she was gone. Ruth not only respected and liked, but thoroughly trusted her pastor. I am glad she married him, she told herself, glancing from one to the other and feeling, rather than noticing, that they were both evidently heartily glad about the same thing. They are just exactly suited to each other, and that is saying a good deal for them both. What a blessed change the brightness of this room must be when she compares it with that little den of hers up the third flight of stairs. Yes, and there was another side to that. What a nameless charm as of home she had thrown over the propriety of the personage parlor. Before it had been a room, pleasant and proper and well cared for, as became the personage parlor, now it was a home. Presently too came Gracie with her beautiful face and gracious manner, free and cordial and at ease. Mama, she said, as naturally as though it had been of name constantly on her lips, and indeed it was plain that she enjoyed the name.  She may well be proud of such a mother as her father has brought to her, Ruth thought, looking from one to the other and noting the glance of sympathy which passed between them, and then she sighed, being drawn back to her heavier lot. Marion's dreary life had blossomed into brightness while all that was ever bright had gone out of hers, at least so it seemed to her. Then she arose, realizing that nothing of this afternoon's crosses would be borne if she wilded the time on Flossie Shipley and Marion Dennis. From the moment that the two were seated in Mrs. Skyler Coleman's parlor, peace left Ruth's heart. Here was responsibility, solemn and overwhelming, how to tide this uncultured woman through the shoals and breakers of this aristocratic atmosphere. No sooner was Mrs. Erskine fairly seated than she broke the proprieties of the occasion with the exclamation, Why, my patience, if there isn't Dr. Mason Kent staring right at me, what a splendid likeness! I declare I most feel as though he ought to speak to me. Was Dr. Kent an acquaintance of yours? Nothing could be colder, more lofty, more in keeping with the proprieties than the tone in which Mrs. Skyler Coleman asked the question. An acquaintance? Why, I guess he was. I sewed in his house nine on two months before his oldest daughter was married. They had a regular seamstress in the house, one who belonged to the family, you know. Oh, they were high up in the world, I tell you. But she needed extra help when the rush came, and there was always lots of plain sewing to do anyway, and the woman I sewed for last recommended me and I got in. It was a nice place. They gave good pay. Better than I ever got anywhere else, and I always remembered Dr. Kent. He was as kind as could be. Shall I try to describe to you the glow on Ruth Erskine's face? What had become of her haughty indifference to other people's opinions? What had become of her loftily expressed scorn of persons who indulged in pride of station or pride of birth? Ah, little this young woman knew about her own heart. Eventually she was discovering that she had plenty of pride of birth and station and name. The thing which had seemed plebeian to her was to exhibit such pride in a marked way before others. Mrs. Coleman seemed to consider it necessary to make some reply. Dr. Kent is an uncle of mine, she said, and her voice was freezing in its dignity. You don't say. Where is he now? How I should like to see the dear old man. I wonder, Ruth, that your Pa didn't tell me his relatives lived here. It was at his house that I first saw your Pa. I shall never forget that night if I lived to be a hundred. They had a party, or a dinner, or—well, I forget what the name of it was—but it was after the wedding, you know, and crowds of fashionables was there. I was in a back passage, helping sort out the rubbers and things that had got mixed up, and I peeked out to see them marched to dinner, and I see them all as plain as day. I said then, says I, to Miranda Bates, the girl that I was helping, that tall man with the long whiskers and pale face is the stylishest one among them, I think. And who do you suppose it was but your Pa? Land alive, I had just as much idea of marrying him then as I had of flying and no more. I should suppose so, said Mrs. Skyler Coleman. She could not resist the temptation of saying it. Though Ruth darted a lightning glanced at her from eyes that were gleaming in a face that had become very pale. She arose suddenly, remarking that they were making a very lengthy call, and Mrs. Erskine, to whom the call seemed very short, began to be uncomfortably conscious that she had been talking a great deal and perhaps not to Ruth's liking. She relapsed into an embarrassed silence and made her a dew in the most awkward manner possible. Had Ruth taken counsel of her own nerves, she would have felt it impossible to endure more and have beaten the retreat. But to sustain her was the memory of the fact that certain calls must be made, and that if she did not make them, her father must. When it came to the martyr's spirit and that she could realize that she was being martyrized in her father's place, she could endure. But oh, if she could only manage to give this dreadful woman a hint as to the proprieties, and yet suppose she stopped that dreadful tide of reminiscences, what would the woman talk about? Still at all hazards it must be risked. I do not think, she began, in a tone so constrained that the very sound of it frightened her stepmother. I do not think that my father would like to have you refer to your past life among his friends. My patience, said Mrs. Judge Erskine, why not? I never done anything to be ashamed of, never in my life. I was an honest, respectable girl. There ain't one who knew me but could tell you that, and as to being poor, why I couldn't help that, you know, and I ain't been rich such a dreadful long time that I've forgotten how it felt, neither. Not that your father kept me close, he never did that, but I kept myself close, you see, because I had no kind of a notion that he was so rich. This was worse than the former strain, Ruth was almost desperate. It makes no difference to me how poor you were, Madame, but it is not the custom in society to tell all about one's private affairs. And then in the next breath she wondered what Judge Erskine would have said could he have heard her address his wife in that tone and with those words. At least she had frightened her into silence, and they rang at Mrs. Huntington's house and were admitted, an angry woman with flashing eyes and a cowed woman who wished she was at home and didn't know what to say. Poor Ruth was sorry that she had interfered. Perhaps any sort of talk would have been less observable than this awkward, half-frightened silence. Also Judge Burnham was in the room at the other end of the parlor among the books as one familiar there. Mrs. Huntington belonged to the profession. Was it more or less embarrassing because of his presence? Ruth could not bring herself to being sure which it was. Mrs. Huntington was a genial woman, though an exceedingly stylish one, but she knew as little how to put a frightened, constrained person at ease as it was possible to know about anything, and yet her heart was good enough. I suppose you attended the concert last evening, Mrs. Erskine? She said, addressing that lady with a smile and in a winning tone of voice, but Mrs. Erskine looked over at Ruth in the absurd fashion of a naughty child, who, having been punished for some misdemeanor, glances at you to be sure that he is not offending in the same way again. Ruth was selecting a card from her case to leave for Miss Alamina Huntington and apparently gave no notice to her mother, left thus to her own resources what could she do but answer as best she knew how. Well, no I didn't. Judge Erskine got tickets and said he would take me if I wanted to go, but I didn't want to go. The fact is, I suppose, it is want of education or something, but I ain't a might of taste for those concerts. I like singing, too. I used to go to singing school when I was a girl, and I was reckoned to have a good voice, and I used to like it first rate, saying in the choir, you know, and all that. But these fiddle-de-dees screech owl performances that they get off nowadays and call music, I can't stand, know how. I went to one of them. I thought I'd like to please Judge Erskine, you know, and I went. And they said it was fine and perfectly glorious and all that. But I didn't think so, and that's the whole of it. I gaped and gaped the whole blessed evening. I was ashamed of myself, but I couldn't help it. I tried to listen, too, and get the best of it, but it was just yelp and howl, and I couldn't make out a word, no more than if it had been in Dutch. And I don't know, but it was. I don't like them, and I can't help it. Mrs. Erskine was growing independent and indignant. Silence was not her forte, and in the few minutes which she had spent thus, she had resolved not to pretend to be what she wasn't. I don't like them yelping half-dressed women nor them roaring men, she said swiftly to herself, and I mean to say so. Why shouldn't I? Poor Ruth! It was not that she enjoyed nor admired operatic singing or the usual style of modern concert singing. In a calm, dignified, haughty way she had been heard to say that she thought music had degenerated and was being put to very unintellectual uses in these days in comparison with what had been its place. But that was such a very different thing from talking about fiddle-dd and screeching and howling and above all gaping. What could be said? Mrs. Huntington was not equal to the occasion. She was no more capable of appreciating what there was of beauty in the singing than her collar was, but she was aware that society expected her to appreciate it, so she did it. Judge Burnham came to the rescue. You are precisely of my mind, Mrs. Erskine. He said, appearing from the recesses of the back parlor and bowing to Ruth, while he advanced to offer his hand to her stepmother. You have characterized the recent concerts in the exact language that they deserve. Such singing is not music. It is simply fiddle-dd. Why Judge Burnham? This in an expostulating tone from Mrs. Huntington. Fact, my dear madame! It was simply screeching last evening. Nothing else in the world. I was a victim, and I defy anyone with a cultured taste to have enjoyed it. It was almost an impossibility to endure. Mrs. Erskine, I want to show you a picture which I think you will like if you will step this way with me. And he escorted the gratified little woman down the length of the parlor and devoted himself carefully to her during the rest of the very brief call which Ruth made. He came also to the very doorsteps with her, talking still to the mother, covering with dexterous gallantry her awkwardness of manner and movement. Thank you, said Ruth in a low tone as he turned to her with a parting bow. She could not help it, and she did not fail to notice the gleam of pleasure which lighted his grave face at her words. Aren't you tired? She asked her mother as they moved away from the Huntington mansion. Her martyr spirit had passed from her. She felt utterly worn, as if it were impossible for her to endure more. Don't you want to go home? Bless you, yes. I am clear-tuckered out. I didn't dream that it was such awful hard work to make calls. I don't wonder your pot didn't want to go. Yes, let's go home for the land's sake. Then they went home. When Ruth thought of Judge Burnham at all during the next few days, it was with a sense of gratitude which was new and not unpleasant. CHAPTER X One could not live long in this world without realizing the forcefulness of the sentence every heart knoweth his own bitterness. In the sunniest, apparently most enviable life, the bitterness hides. It will not be supposed that Mary and Dennis's life, which, to Ruth's narrow vision, had blossomed into perfect coloring, was an exception to the general rule. As she stands in her pretty dining-room, waiting for the coming of her husband, and gazes out of the window at the play of light and shade in the western sky, gazes with that faraway, thoughtful, half-sad look which betokens that the gazer's thoughts are not upon the picture which her eyes behold, it is plain to the most careless glance that a tinge of sombre hue has already shaded the picture of her life. She had been through an ordeal of calls that afternoon, not calls from intimate and congenial friends who came because they desired the pleasure of a visit with her, but from some of those who came, as in custom bound, to pay a ceremonious visit to the new wife of their pastor. They had not been helpful collars. Without offending any of the set rules which are supposed to govern polite society, they had yet contrived to make Mary and feel that they were keen-sighted, keen-scented society spies, with eyes all about them and ears alert to hear or to fancy what they could. Although they had been people, some of them, who delighted in what they termed plain speaking, which is oftimes decorous insult if that expression is not a misnomer. There are people not quite coarse enough to express adverse criticism directly to a man's face, and such are apt to resort to the more refined coarseness of making their criticism into the form of a joke and aiming it at the face of his wife. With one or two such persons had Marian come in contact. I hope you have Dr. Dennis in good subjection, Mrs. Easterly had said, with a peculiar little laugh that was meant to be Mary and that jarred without ones being able to define why. There is nothing like being right, you know. I told Mr. Easterly last evening I was afraid you would be too lenient with him. He is positively in danger of keeping us in prayer meeting until it is time to be thinking about the next morning's breakfast. Mr. Easterly said, when he got him a wife, home would be more attractive to him. But my dear Mrs. Dennis, you must have observed that there was no improvement last evening. I observed that he was five minutes past the hour, Marian said, and if Mrs. Easterly had been familiar with her voice she would have discovered that it was haughty in the extreme. Dr. Dennis is very particular to close promptly, and when I questioned him he said the people were tardy about getting in and so delayed the opening. Possible that it was only five minutes. I could have been positive it was fifteen, Mrs. Easterly said, ignoring the explanation and the statement about general punctuality. Such people always ignore remarks that are not easy to be answered. Then the smooth voice went on. I think a clergyman ought to try to cultivate habits of punctuality about closing, as well as opening meetings, so many people are overwearyed by long drawn out exercises. As for instance lectures by Infidels and the like, remarks Marian, still with the dryness of tone that those familiar to her understand, and calling to mind the fact that she had heard of Mrs. Easterly as a delighted listener, for an hour and three quarters, to the popular Infidel orator two evenings before. Oh, lectures! Why, of course, they have a set time. Everyone knows they must be lengthy. They have obstruced themes to handle, and many classes of hearers to please. But the mere common places of a prayer meeting can be compressed into small compass, as well as not, the theme of personal salvation not being supposed to be of much importance, or very obstruous, I suppose. Mrs. Easterly arched her eyebrows, said nothing, because she didn't know what to say, made the rest of her stay brief, and remarked when she had gotten out of Marian's hearing, that she had heard that Mrs. Wilbur spoken of as peculiar, having Infidel tendencies indeed. Perhaps there was a shade of truth in it. For her part, she wondered that Dr. Dennis should have been so imprudent as to have selected that sort of a wife. It is imprudent in Marian to have answered her collar in those words or in that spirit. Sarcasm was lost on her, for she hadn't the right sort of brains to understand it. It is a curious fact that certain people, who can be very sarcastic in themselves, cannot understand or appreciate it in others. And so trivial a matter is this, troubled Marian? Well, yes it did. She had not been long in her position, you will remember. She was really her first rude awakening from the dream that all Christian people regarded their pastor with a certain reverent courtesy, not in a cringing or servile spirit, not in a spirit in any sense at variance with true independence of thought and action, but in the chivalrous spirit of the olden time referencing the office rather than the man, and according all possible courtesy to the man because of the position he held as ambassador from the king's court. Christian's early childhood had been spent among simple earnest Christians, Christians whose reverent spirit had been an outgrowth of Puritan New England, and while her later years had passed among a very different class of people, she yet had clung to the fancy that Christians everywhere cherished the bond of relationship, the tie stronger than that of blood, and spoke wisely and with respect of those who belonged like themselves to the royal family. Because Easterly words had jarred, not only because Dr. Dennis was her husband, but because he was a clergyman, and because he was Mrs. Easterly's pastor. Much had she to learn, you will observe. She was more than likely to meet often with people to whom the word pastor meant less than any other title, meant if they took time to analyze their own feelings, one to whom they could be rude or free or insultingly inquisitive without fear of rousing him to resentment, because resentment is not a becoming trait in the ministry. Dr. Dennis would have smiled could he have known the turmoil in his wife's heart. He had so long ago passed beyond that, had so long ago decided that people must be ranked in classes. So many from this strip of humanity, who do not know the difference between frankness and rudeness, so many in this strip, who, because of their lack of early education, must not be expected to know certain things, so many in this strip to whom he could talk freely, familiarly as brother to brother and friend to friend. Classified Christians belonging to the family indeed, but having such different degrees of likeness to the family name that, what was a matter of course from one, was a sting from the other. All these things Dr. Dennis knew, all these things his wife had still to learn. She was willing to learn, and she was not so foolish as to suppose, that her road was strewn with roses, but all the same the tiny thorn pricked her. There were other engraver troubles than this. Do you remember how she pleased her fancy, while yet she was an inhabitant of that dingy third-story room, as to the dainty little teas she would get for that young daughter of hers? Here it was, the very perfection of a tea-table, exquisite and delicate and fascinating in all its appointments, laid for three, yet presently, when Dr. Dennis came from his round of calls, and seated himself opposite his wife and waited, and then finally sent a messenger to Gracie's room, who returned with the message, Ms. Grace says you will please excuse her this evening, she doesn't care for any tea. His face clouded as though the answer brought trouble to his heart. Have you had further talk with Grace? He asked his wife, when the door had closed on the servant. A little, there have been collars most of the time, but I talked with her a few minutes. What did she say? Marion would rather he had not asked the question. She hesitated a little, then said, with an effort to speak lightly. She said what was natural enough, that she thought I knew almost too much about the matter, and might have been content to leave it to you. I will not have her speaking in that manner to you," he said, his face growing graver, and his forehead settling into a frown. She ought to know better. I know it, answered Marion, a little dash of brightness in her voice. She ought to be perfect, of course, and not give way in this undignified manner. It is only such old saints as you and I, who have any right to get out of tone, when things do not go just to suit us. She laughed a little, then he said, Now, Marion, you know she has tried you very much and without cause. As to that, I suppose if you and I could see into her heart, she thinks she has sore cause. I would not make too much of it if I were you, and I would make nothing at all of the part which has to do with me. She will feel differently before very long. She is young. Then Dr. Dennis's thoughts went back to his daughter. He sighed heavily. I ought to have shielded her better. I was trying, I thought. I am so astonished about that man. He has been a professor of religion ever since he was a child. To profess a thing is not always to possess it, Marion said, and then she sighed to think that even in religion this was so true, and she sighed again to realize that in her hard life she had come more in contact with people who professed without possessing than her husband had. The trouble about Gracie was not so light as she had tried to make it appear to the father. Neither had her attempt to reason the obstinate young daughter into something like graceful yielding been so free from self-pain as she would have him think. It was all about Professor Ellis, a man who, as Marion expressed it to her husband, was good enough for a teacher, but not at all the sort of man, for one so young and so impressible as Gracie, to ride away with to an evening entertainment. He is the only one that I have been in the habit of allowing her to ride with, the doctor had said aghast, and then had followed on Marion's part a startled exclamation to the effect that she would have trusted her sooner with a dozen of the boys with whom she had not been allowed to associate. They are better than he, she said earnestly, and then had followed a long confidential talk which had ended in the preemptory and by no means wisely put negative to Gracie's plans, and then had followed on her part questionings and surmises until at last she understood that this new mother, who had been but a little while ago a stranger to them both, had come between her father and herself, and then had followed, as any one of sense might have known there would, a scene which was by no means complementary to Gracie or comforting to the new mother. She had tried to be wise. Gracie, she had said, in her gentlest tone, you know I am a good many years older than you, and I have known Professor Ellis very well, and I am sure if you realized just the sort of a man he is, you would not care to be his familiar friend. I don't want to be his familiar friend, Gracie had said haughtily. I want to take a ride out to Katie's with him when I have promised to do so, and then her eyes had fallen under the calm of Marian's searching gaze, and her tones had faltered. At least I do not see that riding out with him is a proof of very great friendship. It is no more than I have done several times with my father's permission. But your father was deceived in him, Gracie. He had no means of knowing the sort of man he is, saved by his professions which have been nothing but professions for years. Gracie, I know that of him which should make every young girl unwilling to be seen in his society or considered his friend. Whereupon Gracie's eyes had fleshed indignation for a second, then settled into sullenness while she answered coldly, I should think my father ought to have been capable of judging character a little. He has had something to do with men and life. I do not know why I should not be able to trust myself to his judgment. Marian smiled. It was hard to be patient with this girl. The haughty way in which she retired behind her dignity and said, my father, seemed designed to shut Marian out from ownership in him and impress her with the sense of the newness of her acquaintance with and entrance into the family. Gracie, she said again, after a thoughtful pause, it may not be known to you that there have been recent developments about Professor Ellis that make him an undesirable friend for you. I know that, as your teacher, you have learned to look up to and respect him, but he is in some respects unworthy. There was for a few minutes no response from the sullen-browed girl, with her head bent low over the slate, as if during the intervals of this conversation she had eyes and thought only for the intricate problem before her. Presently she said, in exactly the same tone of repressed indignation which she had used before, I repeat that in my judgment my father is just as capable of deciding as to what gentlemen are suited to be my friends as a stranger can be. Marian drew back quickly.  This was a trying spot. What should she do or say? What would Ruth Erskine have done in her place? At the same time there was a sense of relief in believing that this young girl's pride only was touched, not her heart. She was simply rebellious that a stranger, as she chose to call her, should presume to interfere with her friendships. I am not a stranger, Gracie, she said, trying to speak in all gentleness. I am your father's wife, and have at his request assumed responsibilities concerning you, for which I am answerable not only to him but to God. When I tell you, therefore, what your father has had no means of knowing until lately, that Professor Ellis is the sort of man whom a young lady should shun, you ought to believe me and to understand that my sole motive is your welfare. Then was Marian Dennis treated to a brilliant flashing of the handsome eyes of her daughter. The slate and book slid to the floor with an unheeded crash, as Gracie, rising and drying up her tall form till it equalled her mother's, said in tones of suppressed passion, Marian Wilbur, you have no right to speak in that manner of Professor Ellis, and I will not bear it. Then Marian Dennis drew back grieved and frightened, not at her own thrust, that was but the ill temper of an angry girl, but because she began to fear that this man, this wolf in sheep's clothing, whose chief entertainment hitherto had been to see how well he could play with human hearts, had dared to try his powers on Gracie Dennis. I hope he will suffer for this, she said under her breath. In the meantime what was to be said to the angry girl, whose passion had culminated in this outburst, and who had then thrown herself back into the chair, not weeping, not crushed in bleeding, but excitedly angry, and yet feeling that she had said a very unwise and dangerous thing and must answer for it, and yet not caring just now in what way she might be called upon to answer. Being still in the mood to be glad that she had said it, she expected severity and waited for it. Gracie, said Marian, bending toward her, and I do not know that her voice had ever been gentler or her manner more quiet. You do not mean to hurt me, I know you do not. We are too nearly related. We are sisters, and the Lord Jesus Christ is our elder brother. It is to him that I ask you to listen. It is to his judgment, not mine, that I ask you to defer. Will you lay this matter before him and wait on your knees for his answer and abide by it, never minding me? If you will the whole matter will be righted. Then she turned from her and went down to receive those calls and get those little thrusts and pinpricks which pricked so much deeper and left a keener sting because in general they were levelled at her husband instead of herself. Then she went out to that pretty table laid for three and saw the grave-faced father and heard his self reproaches and held back that which would have made him indignant in the extreme and held back her own little sigh and realized that life was not all sweetness even while Ruth sat at home and envied her the brightness of her lot. CHAPTER 11 A NEWLY SHAPED CROSS Ruth Erskine, meantime, was keeping up her struggle, having intervals when she seemed to be making headway and felt as though she had reached higher ground, only to be dropped suddenly down again into the depths of despair by some unfortunate encounter with the newcomers. No more definite comment on the existing state of things could be made than is shadowed in that expression, newcomers. They still continued to be thought of as such in the house. They did not drift into the family ways or customs. They did not assimilate. Everything was so new to them, so unlike their entire former education, that much of the time they stood one side and looked on instead of mingling and having their individuality lost in the union. So far as Mrs. Erskine was concerned, she did not look on quietly. It had been no part of her discipline to learn quietness. She talked everywhere under the most trying circumstances, and she seemed always to chance upon the things to say that were particularly unfortunate just then and there. This being the case, it is perhaps not strange that the rasping processes were so numerous that there was not time between them for healings. Judge Erskine, on his part, made nearly as little progress. Being a man of faultless grace and bearing, and being noted for fastidiousness, made him preeminently susceptible to wounds in these directions. Generally he and Ruth maintained the strictest silence toward each other concerning their trials. They, having by tacit consent, agreed upon that as the safest course, but occasionally they were rest into comparing notes. In the hall one morning, where many of their confidential conversations were held during these days, her father stopped her with an almost petitioning question. Daughter was at very trying yesterday when Mrs. Blakesley called. As trying as it could be, sir, Ruth answered, still smarting so much under that recent inflection that she could not bring her voice to a sympathetic tone. Mrs. Blakesley, being a woman who hasn't an ounce of brains herself, has, as you may imagine, none to spare for other people. Indeed, father, I sometimes feel as though this matter of making and receiving calls was going to be too complicated a thing for me. I never was fond of such duties, as you may remember, and now it is absolute torture long drawn out. I know it, he said, wincing and growing paler under each stabbing word from his daughter's lips. It was all folly, I am afraid. I thought we would try to do just right, but I do not know but we would have felt it less, and they had been just as happy if we had resolutely closed our doors on society altogether and borne this thing among ourselves. What these two people needed was some strong voice to remind them how many and how much harder troubles life had than they had been called upon to bear. Despite Mary and Dennis' opinion, this is, or it should be, a help. By comparison with another's trials, we ought to be led to feel the lesser nature of our own. Failing in that, it sometimes happens to us to decide as to which of our own trials has the heaviest hand. I don't think that would have been possible, Ruth answered, her tone somewhat subdued as it always was, by a realization of her father's deeper wound. But I wish with all my heart I saw a way to escape from some of this calling. There are hundreds almost yet to make, and some of them more formidable than any we have attempted, and the list continues to swell every day. The father had no answer, he saw no way out, and yet away was coming swiftly, one which would help them both out of this dilemma at least. It was the very next morning that Judge Erskine failed to appear at the breakfast table, and his wife brought word that he was most uncommon restless all night and pretty fevery, and resisted all her suggestions to give him a good sweat, or to drink any bone-set tea, or even to soak his feet in mustard water. This was, he didn't feel able to raise his head from his pillow, and wouldn't so much as let her speak of any breakfast, though she did tell over several things to him that she thought he might relish. Ruth groaned inwardly, not so much at anxiety for her father, his sicknesses were slight affairs soon over, and his most sovereign remedy had hitherto been to be let alone. How then had he borne this fearful infliction of sympathy and fertile suggestion? But the sickness whatever it was did not pass away as others had done. Ruth visiting him and seeing the fevered face and anxious eyes felt a nameless dread, and entreated that Dr. Bacon might at once be summoned, being even more alarmed at the fact that her father immediately acquiesced. Dr. Bacon was slow in coming, being a man much sought after in his profession, but he was also unprecedentedly slow in leaving, making Akal, the length of which amazed Ruth, and at which she did not know whether to be alarmed or relieved. During its continuance Judge Burnham stopped to inquire as to some law papers, and also apparently to make Akal, for he terried after he found that he could not accomplish his original errand, and was in the hall in the act of leaving when the doctor came with slow and thoughtful tread downstairs. That gentleman cotted his familiar face as if it were a relief. Ah, good morning, Judge, he said. This is opportune. May I have a word with you? And then he unceremoniously pushed open the library door, and both gentlemen retired within, leaving Ruth perplexed and perhaps a little annoyed. The door closed upon them. Dr. Bacon was not long in making known his thoughts. Judge, are you an intimate friend of this family? Why, said Judge Burnham, hesitating and flushing a little over the question, I hardly know whether I may claim exceeding intimacy. The judge is not apt to have very intimate friends. Perhaps I come near it as anybody. Yes, I think I may say I am considered a friend, by him at least. Why may I ask? Because they need a friend, one who is not afraid of himself or his feelings, and can help them plan and perhaps execute. What on earth do you mean? Is the judge so very sick? Well as to that, he is likely to be sick enough, sicker indeed than I care to have his daughter realize just at present. It is a very marked case of a very undesirable type of smallpox. Now don't back out of the nearest door and leave me in the lurch, for I depend upon you. This last is Judge Burnham uttered an exclamation of dismay and stepped backward. The sentence recalled his self-possession. Don't be disturbed, he said, and his tones were somewhat haughty. I have not the slightest intention of fleeing. I shall be glad to serve him and his family to the best of my ability. But what is there for me to do? Is he aware of the situation? Most decidedly so. I didn't mince matters with him. He is not one that will bear it. He knows all that I do, and is as clear-headed as usual. He knows certain things that must not be done. For instance, his daughter Ruth is, on no account, to be allowed to put her head inside the door. He was peremptory about that and must be obeyed, though there is no earthly fear of infection for some days yet. But I have given my word of honor that it shall be as he says. The trouble is they will be left in the lurch. There isn't a smallpox nurse in the city that I know of. I would have given fifty dollars an hour, almost, for a good one last night, and besides, the servants must be informed and they will leave to a man or a woman. In books you are always reading of heroic servants who are willing to take their lives in their hands and stand by their mistresses through anything. I wish I could find a few of them. I would promise them high wages. Well, now what you can do first is to explain the state of affairs to Miss Erskine. I would sooner try to explain to an iceberg or a volcano. I am never quite sure which she is. And then, if you have any wits, set them to work to establish communication between this house and the outer world. In other words, do what you can for them, if you can. You know better than I do whether you are on sufficient terms of intimacy to do anything with her. The old lady must be told, I suppose, though Judge Erskine didn't mention her at all. Perhaps she will want to get out of the house, somewhere, and very likely you can manage that. At least the first thing of importance is to tell Miss Ruth, will you do it? Yes, said Judge Burnham, speaking slowly and hesitatingly. It was by no means the sort of communication that he desired to make to her. Yet he felt an instant desire to stand by her, and if disagreeable tidings must be given, bear them himself in whatever alleviating way he might. Very well, said the doctor promptly. He was spending a great deal of time on this case, and was getting in haste. I ought to have been off fifteen minutes ago, but Judge Erskine wanted all the affairs of the nation arranged before I left. He knows what he wants, and so far as it is within the compass of human possibility, he intends to have it. Will you see Miss Ruth at once, and do what planning you can? Meantime I will make one more dash for a nurse. No one is to go up to Judge Erskine until I see him again. I fancy he wants to do some thinking for himself. That is his peremptory order, and it will be well enough to obey it. There is no sort of danger of infection now, you understand, but he is quite as well off alone for a little. Now I positively must go. I will look in on my way down the square and report further. And then the great doctor took himself off, leaving Judge Burnham with the worst case on his hands that had ever fallen to his professional life. He walked slowly toward the door, but before he could pass out, it was pushed open by Ruth, her face white and frightened. Judge Burnham, what has happened? What is the matter? Is my father so very sick? And why am I not allowed to go to him? One thing at a time, dear friend, he said, and his voice had a touch of sympathy that could not have escaped her. Your father is not alarmingly sick, but the sickness is of such a nature that he will not have you exposed to it even for a moment. It was his first thought. And then he pushed a chair forward and gently placed her in it and sat down beside her, telling her briefly, rapidly, in a half-professional manner, all he knew himself. He was a good student of human nature. His success in his profession would have proved that, and he knew it was the surest way to hold herself controlled and ready for intelligent thought. He had not misjudged her character. She neither cried out nor fainted.  It was a curious revelation to her of the strangeness of these human hearts of ours. When she remembered afterward that, flashing along with the other crowding thoughts as to what and how, there came the swift memory of the yesterday's talk and the instant realization of the fact that they would have neither to make or receive any more of those dreadful calls for some time at least. Just a moment of hiding behind those hands, and then she was ready for action. Judge Burnham, have you thought about what ought to be done first, and if you have, will you help me? It makes it harder, because my father will not let me come to him. If we could talk together, if he would let me be his nurse, I could." And then she hesitated, and her lip began to quiver. She remembered that her father was the one person whom she had to love. There is no use in talking about that, Judge Burnham said hastily. The doctor said he ought, by all means, to be humored in this matter, that it would help to keep him calm and thus hold the disease in check. You should not have a thought of going to him. Some nurse can surely be found. People will do anything for money. I suppose, Miss Erskine, it will be necessary to tell the other members of the family? Of course, Ruth said, and she tried not to shiver visibly as she thought of what Mrs. Erskine might say, and wondered whether she was one of those women who were ignorantly and wildly afraid of infection, and whether there would be a scene with her and what Susan would do or say. Then she thought of the servants. Hannah and Thomas and the rest ought to be told, ought they not, Judge Burnham? Then she suddenly roused from her half-suppressed, appealing tones and, rising, said, How foolishly I am talking! This thing has startled me so. Of course they must be told, and it should be done at once. I will take no unfair advantage of them in any way. Yes, I will tell Mrs. Erskine and my sister. Thank you, Judge Burnham. And that gentleman began to consider himself as almost dismissed from her presence. What can I do for you first? He asked her eagerly. I am not one of those who are afraid of anything, Miss Erskine, in mortal guise at least. I am going up to see your father, and since you cannot go yourself, you might make me your messenger to say anything that you would say, that you are willing to have me repeat. Her eyes brightened. Thank you, she said. It is very pleasant to feel that you do not want to desert us, but I will not trouble Papa until I can tell him that we are arranged somehow and that he need not worry. She went down first to the kitchen regions and summoned the working force, telling them in brief clear language what had fallen upon the house, and offering them each two weeks wages in advance in good characters. She was young and had not been put to many such tests. They were not servants in a book, it appeared, for they every one eagerly caught at their liberty and were nervously anxious to get out of the plague-stricken house, not even desiring to wait until Ruth could get her pocket book and make good her word. They were young and ignorant, and in the great outside world they had friends. Life was dear to them. Who shall blame them? And yet I desire to say, just here, that it is not in books only that noble, self-sacrificing exemptions to this form of selfishness are found. I have known kitchens that ought to have glowed with the beauty of the strong, unselfish hearts beating there through danger and trial and harassing toil. It only happened that Ruth Erskine had none of those about her, and, within half an hour after the first word had reached them, she stood alone in her deserted kitchen, trying to get her nerves quiet for the next and, to her, more trying ordeal. What would these new elements in the household say? Was Mrs. Erskine given to hysteria, and would these startling developments produce an attack? Would they want to get away from the house? Could they be gotten away quietly to some safe place? Would Susan be willing to go? How would she take the news? Ruth puzzled her brain some weary minutes in trying to decide just how they would act, and whether she had courage to tell them, and whether it were not altogether possible that Mrs. Erskine might be moved to make such an outcry as should disturb the sick man upstairs. At last she gave over the attempt to arrange their actions for them, and went to summon them to the library, with an air of forced calmness, and a determination to have this worst feature of the side issues over as soon as possible. CHAPTER XII THE CROSS OF HELPLESSNESS MY LAND ALIVE! That was what Mrs. Erskine said when Ruth told her the news. You may have observed that those three words constituted a favorite expression of hers, one which she was apt to use on all occasions, greatly to her step-daughter's discomfiture. She winced under it now, it seemed so ridiculously inappropriate to the disaster that had come into their midst. While she was trying to impress the situation on the mother and Susan, Dr. Bacon returned. He came directly into the library as one who had laid aside all the ceremonies of private life and adopted the business style. He hurried into the midst of the difficulties, being one who, while capable of feeling the most intense and practical sympathy for others, had never learned the art of expressing it other than by his actions. Miss Ruth, I am afraid it is going to be almost impossible to get a proper nurse for your father. There is a good deal of this abominable disease in the city now, and the nurses are taxed to the utmost. Ordinary nurses you know will not come and would not do anyway, so we shall have to manage as well as we can for a little until I can look around me and get somebody. Then Mrs. Erskine came to the front. What are you talking about nurses? Who wants one of them, miserable, half-awake creatures, except for what I have seen some good ones in my day, but I could beat any of them when it comes to a real up-and-down case of sickness, and I can nurse my own husband you'll find better than the best of them. I brought him back from death's door once, and I will try hard to do it again. A nurse is the last kind of a creature that I want to help me. But Mrs. Erskine, I ought not to conceal from you that this is going to be a very decided case of smallpox, the chances of infection to one who nurses him will be very great. I can't help that, you know, she said determinately. I've got to be with him, of course. Who would if his wife wasn't? I don't believe I'll take it. I never was one of them kind that always took things. I have the sick headache, and that's every blessed thing I do have except a touch of the rheumatism now and then. But I never did have a bit of headache nor nothing when there was any real sickness on my hands. All the time Susan had the fever, I sought up nights or stood up a good deal of the time she was that sick that I didn't set down. I just kept on the trot all night, doing one thing and another. But all the while I never had an ache nor a pain about me. And if I do take it, I might as well as the next one.  There's no use talking. I'm a-going to nurse him, and all the doctors in the city can't stop me. I'll assure you, Mrs. Erskine, I haven't the least desire to do so. On the contrary, I appreciate your devotion. The doctor's tone was earnest, his manner respectful. Mrs. Judge Erskine had evidently risen several degrees in his esteem. She was not a piece of putty to be gotten out of the way in the least troublesome manner, but a life and very energetic factor in this business. A woman who not only was not afraid of smallpox, but could calmly insist on her right to attend a very bad case of it, was deserving of all respect from him. And he did not, in the least, care how many grammatical errors she made in expressing her determination. In less time than it takes me to tell you of it, the question of attendant on the sick man was settled, and Mrs. Erskine installed as nurse by the relieved doctor to the satisfaction of all but Ruth. She thought, in dismay, of the misery which her father would be called on to endure. How was he sick and nervous, and she knew that he could be fearfully nervous when only a little ill, to bear the strain of that woman's tongue, when in health it was more than he could endure? What would he say to the plan? Would he feel that she might have shielded him from it? Yet how could she help it? And indeed what else could be done? She had been very nervous over his being left alone. It had seemed to her that she must disregard his positive command and go to him. And it had been such a source of relief and comfort when Judge Burnham announced his intention of going that she felt that she could never forget it. Certainly it would not do to leave him without an attendant. Yet she could not be grateful to the wife for proposing it. He can never endure it, she murmured, and she looked her distress so completely that the doctor was moved to soothe her when he came back from installing Mrs. Erskine in giving her directions. It will do for a few days, my dear girl, or at least for a few hours, until we can look about us and secure professional assistance. There is not the slightest danger of her taking the disease now, you know.  But she will take good care of him. I really think she understands how to do it. Ruth made no reply. She could not. She wanted to ask what her father said and whether he was likely to bear up under such an added weight of misery as this last, but, reflecting that it would not do to say anything of the kind, she took refuge in silence, and the work of rearranging this disorganized and disordered household went on. In an incredibly short space of time, considering all that had to be planned and arranged, the doctor had done his share of it, given explicit and peremptory directions as to what should and should not be done and was gone. As for Judge Burnham, he had gone directly from the sick room to Judge Erskine's office on a matter of business for the latter, so the two sisters were left alone in the library to stare at each other or out into the street as they chose. Susan Erskine had been a very silent looker on at this morning's confusion. Ruth could not tell what she thought, beyond the first exclamation of surprise, she had expressed no dismay. A little touch of some feeling, what was it? She had shown once, when her mother was planning and announcing that she did not intend to take the disease, and if she did, she might as well as anyone. Oh, mother!  Nothing, Susan said, as one who had checked her sentence and was holding herself silent, and thereafter she made no sign. And so at last these two sisters were stranded in that deserted library. Ruth on her part, gazing blankly out of the window, watching the hurrying passers by with a curious sense of wonderment as to what they would think could they know what was transpiring inside. Suddenly she turned from the window with an exclamation of dismay, a thought which until now had dropped into the background, returned to her. There isn't a servant in the house. Why, what has become of them? They fled at the very first mention of the trouble, never was anything accomplished more rapidly. I thought they had hardly time to reach their rooms when they disappeared around the corner. Is it possible, Susan said, after a moment's silent contemplation, she was both surprised and disappointed. There was nothing in her nature that could respond to that method of burying one another's burdens, and she did not understand human nature well enough to expect developments in others which were foreign to her own. What shall we do about dinner? Ruth asked, after another interval of silence. Why, get it, Susan answered lightly. She could not comprehend what an impossible thing this was in Ruth's estimation. But I, why, I don't know anything about it, Ruth said, stammering in aghast. I do. There is nothing about a dinner that I do not understand, I believe, that is, a reasonable and respectable dinner. In fact, I know how to do several things that are unreasonable. I'll go right downstairs and take a view of the situation. I will go with you, Ruth said heroically. I don't know anything about such matters, but I can at least show you through the house. Is it your fortune to know, by experience, just what a deserted look a kitchen can take on in a brief space of time when the regular inhabitants thereof have made a sudden exit? Just let the fire in the range go down, with unswept ashes littering the hearth and unwashed dishes filling the tables, and a general smell of departed cookery pervading the air, and you need no better picture of dismalness. Especially is this the case, if you survey the scene as Ruth did, without being able to conceive how it was possible ever again to bring order out of this confusion. Why, dear me, said Susan, things look as though they had stirred them up to the best of their abilities before they left. Where is the hearthbrush kept, Ruth? I am sure I don't know, Ruth said, and she looked helpless and bewildered. Well, then I'll look for it. We must have a fire the first thing. I wonder where the kindlings are? Then she began to open little doors and crannies in a wise sort of way, Ruth looking on, not knowing that there were such places to search into. Both hearthbrush and kindlings were found, and Susan attacked the range, while Ruth took up a china cup and set it down again, moved a pile of plates to the side of the table, and moved them back again, looking utterly dazed and useless. I wonder if this damper turns up or down. This from Susan, and her sister turned and surveyed the damper with a grave puzzled air before she spoke. It's no sort of use to ask me. I never even examined the range. I know no more about the dampers than the people on the street do. Never mind, said Susan. The smoke does. It puffs out with one arrangement and goes up the chimney as it should with the other. I don't know how we are ever to do it, Ruth said. What, make the fire? Why, it is made already. Don't you hear it roar? This is a splendid range. I should think it would be fun to cook with it. Our stove was cracked, and one door hinge was broken, and besides it wouldn't bake on the bottom. The stove wouldn't, you know, not the broken hinge. Susan rarely, indeed I might say never, indulged in reminiscence, and therefore Ruth was touched. Why did you keep yourself so poorly provided for? She asked, a flush rising on her pale cheek. I have heard your mother say that you were well supplied with money. We were. It was one of my mother's whims if you choose to call it so. She was continually troubled with the feeling that some day she or I, or more often I think father, might need all the money she could say, and I never combated the feeling except when it entrenched too closely on her own needs. She seemed fairly haunted with the thought. How absurd, said Ruth and her lip curled. As for Susan, her lips opened and then closed partly, and whatever she would have uttered remains an oblivion. She closed the damper energetically and said, There, that is conquered. Now what are we to have for dinner? Why I ordered roast lamb in its accompaniments, Ruth said, recalling her minute directions given to the skillful cook, she knew how to order dinners. But of course that is out of the question. Why not at all if you would like it? I know exactly how to roast lamb, but then who would eat it? Why, Professor Stevens and his friend are to dine with us. Oh, they must be sent word not to come. How can we send? Who was there to go? And Ruth, the complications of her situation pressing upon her in these minor details, looked utterly dismayed. Why Judge Burnham will be our errant boy, he said so. I met him as he came downstairs and told me to say that he would call as soon as he had attended to father's commission and serve us in any way that we desired. We will have him first recall the invitation to our guests and then we will send him to the butchers, the bakers and the candlestick makers. I shouldn't be surprised if he proved a very useful member of society. Susan was bent on being cheerful. Things are not so bad, but they might have been worse, she had said, almost as soon as she was told of the trouble. Mother says he might have been taken sick downtown and if they had known what the disease was, they wouldn't have allowed him to come home. Think of that. But about the roast lamb, she said. Do you think you and I could compass it or shall we compel the errant boy to stay and divide the work with us? Then these two girls did what was perhaps the wisest thing for them to do under the circumstances. They laughed, a real laugh. Why not? said Susan. He is not very sick. The doctor said he didn't think he would be because he would be well taken care of at the very outset. And he will, you may be sure of that. Mother knows how and her heart is in it. You may trust her, Ruth, in a time of sickness and we shall manage nicely. This disconsolate kitchen shall take on new features presently.  He is real good and kind. I like him. He will help us in every way. And when you come down again, I will have things in train for a first class dinner. A new anxiety occurred to Ruth. Do you know how to prepare food for sick people? She asked. Indeed I do. The most appetizing little dishes that you can imagine. I've always thought I had a special talent in that direction. We will waylay the doctor the very next time he comes and find out what he will allow and then I'll cook it. And you must arrange it daintily with silver and china and flowers, you know. They will let us have all sorts of nice things up there for a while. And I think that is the real secret of serving an infallid, having everything arranged tastefully and gracefully.  She realized that there had been an effort to make her feel that she was in a position to do an important service for her father and the thoughtfulness of the effort touched her. End of chapter 12, recording by Tricia G.