23 Where is the wise, hath not God made foolish the wisdom of this world? The office bell peeled out sharply on the night air a few nights after the prayer meeting, and before its tongue had ceased trembling, Dr. Douglas was on his feet, and with a speed acquired by long practice was putting himself into a condition to answer its summons. He came back in a very few moments and made rapid preparations for a walk. Have you far to go, and what time is it?" questioned his sleepy wife. It is half past two, my dear, I am called to Mrs. Roberts. Mrs. Roberts, she repeated in surprise, and feeling quite awake. What is the matter? Don't know, very sick the messenger said, but messengers are never quite sure of anything. Go to sleep again, Julia. This is the way in which the vigils of that weary day commenced. Very little more sleep did Mrs. Douglas get. She tossed restlessly on her pillow, and remembered that it was Wednesday morning that was stealing Grayley into the East, and that Wednesday evening was the one for the masquerade, preparations for which had gone steadily forward without drawback of any sort. The talk had gone forward also. It was rumored now that Mrs. Tresivant was going to wear a cunning little mask for a few minutes, just for fun. But so bewildering and contradictory had the stories grown that it was really just as well now to believe none of them, and so get through the time with as little uneasiness as possible. But into the midst of the preparations had come this sound of the office bell, and who could tell what its import might be. Mrs. Douglas wondered and wearyed herself with ceaseless wondering as to what was or was to be, and grew wider awake every moment. Presently she arose, having given over the struggle with wakefulness, and concluded to bend her energies toward the preparation of an early breakfast, in hope of the possible return of her husband.  The breakfast was ready early and waited, the coffee became cold and was poured out, and fresh made before the doctor made his appearance, too hurried to talk or eat. Between the swallows of coffee his wife managed to learn that Mrs. Roberts was very ill, violently so. It was impossible to tell how it would terminate. There was great cause for anxiety. Yes, she was conscious and very much agitated and alarmed, which increased the nature of her disorder. He had sent for Dr. Wheeler to counsel with him, and she must be certain to send Joseph and the carriage to meet him on the eleven-twenty train. It was quite impossible to say when he would be at home. He must spend all the time he could with Mrs. Roberts, and there were his other patients to look after. No, he did not think there was anything that she could do at present, except, he added with great earnestness, to pray without ceasing for her. She is in solemn need of that kind of help. This much, and then he hurried away, and the long day wore on. From time to time there came word from the sick room. Mrs. Roberts was no better. Dr. Wheeler had arrived and said everything that could be done was being done. Later in the day the wording was, she is still living. But the doctor came home no more, and it was evident that hope was slowly dying out in the hearts of the watching friends. It was the afternoon for the ladies' prayer meeting, and strangely solemn that meeting was. There was an eager fervency to the prayers that went up to God from Mrs. Tyndall's parlor, and the burden on all hearts was the same. Something else the people had to talk about besides the masquerade. Those who had been jubilant over it in a scoffing sort of way spoke of it in hushed voices, as if even it had been suddenly invested with a kind of solemnity. And indeed the solemnity of approaching death seemed to hover over every action connected with Mrs. Roberts. The day waned and the evening long looked forward to by the pleasure-loving young ladies and gentlemen of Newton, bloomed down upon them with the pall of the death angel overshadowing their pleasure. Many walks were taken past the mansion that they had expected to see so brilliantly lighted. But no one attempted to ring the muffled bell, and many were the glances up to the dimly lighted chamber where they knew aching hearts were watching and dreading. Nothing hopeful had come to them for hours, and hope had well nigh died away. Toward the evening's close there came a sudden summons for Mrs. Sayles. Mrs. Roberts wanted to see her immediately. Mr. Sayles was engaged that evening with the other owners of the factory, and his wife sent in for Mr. and Mrs. Tyndall to accompany her to the house of Sorrow. So it came to pass that those who had least expected to be guests at that house on that particular evening were the ones for whom the door swung softly open, and they entered with noiseless footsteps and no word of greeting. Mr. and Mrs. Tyndall waited in the further parlor, while Mrs. Sayles obeyed the summons to the sick room. It was the scene oftentimes repeated, yet ever new to the aching hearts to whom it comes. A white-faced, one-eyed husband, watching now eagerly, hopelessly, for any change either on the face of the wife lying on the pillows or of the physician bending over her. There were others present, all in that condition of helpless waiting which says so plainly, there is nothing to do but wait. Among them was Mr. Trecevant. Those about the bedside made room and motioned Mrs. Sayles forward, as she came softly and stood looking down on the one face so drawn with pain, so changed in a few hours, the sick woman's eyes unclosed and were bent fully on her. Recognizing her at once, she spoke in a low hurried whisper, I want you to pray for me, I don't want any of the others. Mrs. Sayles glanced hurriedly around. Very near her stood her pastor. She looked at him hesitatingly, almost timidly. It seemed to her so sad that she should be usurping his place, almost his solemn right. For him it would be difficult to tell just how he felt. One of the most rigid of the fanatics, he had heard Mrs. Roberts call this woman but a few days before. Now as she seemed so near the valley of the shadow, it was to this fanatic that she turned for help, while he, the Christian minister, stood unheeded by. Whether he felt the painfulness of the position or not, Mrs. Sayles felt it for him and hesitated. Dr. Douglas touched her arm and spoke in low tones. Do not cross her in the least, Abby. She has few quiet moments, the pulse is rising again. Then Mrs. Sayles dropped on her knees. Well for her that she was in the habit of kneeling in the presence of other listeners than God. Well for her that to approach her heavenly father in prayer was as simple a thing to do as to speak to an earthly friend. Very simply, as a little child might come to someone whom it dearly loved and trusted, ascended the low toned, soothing, yet earnest pleading petitions for the sick, trembling soul before her. She had heard enough of Mrs. Roberts state of mind from time to time during the day to understand, in a measure at least, the nature of her needs, and these she tried to meet as simply and briefly as possible, yet with an earnestness that showed her solemn realization of the needs. A long, low sigh was the sick woman's only recognition of the prayer as Mrs. Sayles arose, that and perhaps a little steadying of the life current bounding through her veins. Then they waited again in that solemn silence, the doctor from time to time administering with difficulty a few drops of some liquid standing near him. Presently he left his post and went on tiptoe to the hall, motioning Mrs. Sayles to follow him. Mr. Trecevant also took this opportunity to leave the room. I would not stay any longer if I were you, Abby, began the doctor. It will only exhaust you unnecessarily. She will not rally from the state for hours if she does it all, and I do not think she will need you again. Mr. Trecevant paused before them, his usually pale face much paler now. Is there no hope at all, doctor? It is impossible to tell, was the doctor's answer. If she rallies again there may be a change for the better. I confess I see no indications of it and have almost no hope of a favorable result. Mr. Trecevant's sigh was almost as long drawn and as sad to hear as Mrs. Roberts had been. Is there nothing that I can do here? he asked at length. The doctor shook his head. There is nothing for anyone to do but wait, and if she should rally, the less number about her the better. If the other change should come before morning, shall I send for you? The clergyman bowed silently. Then the doctor went back to his patient and they too, Mrs. Sayles and her pastor, went silently down to the back parlor and made ready for their homeward walks. A curious blending of scenes that back parlor presented. The light had been turned on dimly as if even here brilliancy might disturb the sufferer, or at least as if brightness were not in keeping with any portion of that house. And yet the room was in festive array, that sort of disordered festivity which betokens a sudden interruption in the preparations for some gaiety.  Nobody had had time or had thought to put them out of sight. Everywhere there were traces of bright fancy toilets that had been in process of preparation. Everywhere tokens of what was to have taken place that evening had not the shadow so suddenly glided in between. Mr. Trecevant and Mr. Tyndall shook hands in silence. Both remembered the words of the former, it is my intention to spend next Wednesday evening with Mrs. Roberts unless something in Providence prevents. It was Wednesday evening and he had spent it with Mrs. Roberts. Providence had not prevented, nay it had called him loudly to that very scene, but she had been a very one and frightened hostess and there had been present other guests all uninvited. Not a word said either gentlemen. The memory of that evening spent in prayer hushed in Mr. Tyndall's heart other than pitying thoughts for his pastor, and Mr. Trecevant seemed to have no words for anyone, no heart left for words. There were others waiting to hear from the sick room, and Mrs. Sales gave her hopeless message in that subdued tone in which people instinctively talk when they are within a house over which the dark-winged angel seems hovering. Then they all went out into the night and pursued their different ways. A dark, gloomy night it was, not so much as a star penetrating the heavy clouds. I don't see why you promised to come back, Mrs. Trecevant said, almost sobbing, as after many questions she had succeeded in eliciting this amount of information from her husband that if Mrs. Roberts should not live until morning Dr. Douglas was to send for him. I'm sure I don't see the need of that. You can't make her live, and you know I'm afraid to stay alone, especially when people are dying. Dr. Douglas is always interfering. What made you promise to go? I could not well avoid it, he answered coldly. I can call a chambermaid to stay with you. Yes, and keep me awake and nervous all night. Then I shall have sick headache tomorrow. What is the use of it all, Mr. Trecevant? Her husband paused by the bedside and spoke in measured tones. Laura, you must remember that your husband is a minister and has duties toward others as well as toward yourself. I have no possible excuse for declining to go to a house of mourning and comfort the living even though I cannot restore the dying. Comfort, repeated Mrs. Trecevant, turning her head on the pillow and surveying him with wide open eyes. What possible comfort can you be to the living at such a time? Mr. Trecevant groaned in spirit and answered not a word. In truth he seemed to have no comfort to bestow on anyone. Even his wife realized it and she had felt the need of comfort under heavy affliction. Even she perhaps could do more toward helping the sorrowing than could he, for she presently said with a womanly little sigh, I'm sure I wish I had that poor little Freddie Roberts right here in my arms. Perhaps I could comfort him. Perhaps she could, murmured Mr. Trecevant, and I could not, neither him nor anyone else, and his heart was very heavy. In the gray sullen dawn of the rainy morning Dr. Douglas came home. He was wet to the skin, no umbrella having appeared from the bewilderment that reigned in the house from whence he came. His wife met him at the door and swiftly and silently helped to make him comfortable, ere she asked any questions. He volunteered some, however. Out of the jaws of death, how does that sentence run, Julia? It has been in my mind during the last two hours. I never saw it, so verified it seems to me. Is she living? Mrs. Douglas asked, a quick ring of gladness in her voice. Yes, and better, I really believe. I am very hopeful. The change seemed marked, and well nigh miraculous. Do you know, Julia, whether anyone has been praying in a special manner for her recovery? Yes, we had a little bit of a prayer meeting last evening, Jerome and Abby, and Alec and Frank, and I. We spoke of it afterward, that Abby seemed to cling to that thought. I think the rest of us prayed, rather, that she might be prepared for death. I trust the Lord has answered both petitions, the doctors said reverently. It seemed to me that somebody must be agonizing in prayer for her. She seemed so nearly gone, and suddenly the symptoms grew so hopeful. Now, Julia, if you will let me sleep just one hour, and then give me a cup of coffee, I must be back to her by that time. Mrs. Douglas vouchsafed but one remark as she brought an additional pillow. Del would say, his ways are not our ways. My dear Mrs. Sales, don't you think that was a very strange thing for Mr. Tressavant to think of attending such a party? This question was put after Mrs. Sales' collar had canvassed and exhausted the entire subject of Mrs. Robert's sudden alarming illness, the certainty that everyone felt in regard to her death, her remarkable recovery, and the indefinite postponement of the masquerade. Then the question that in some form or other Mrs. Sales had been expecting or dreading was propounded. Do you mean it was a strange thing for a Christian to think of attending such a party? Mrs.  In as much as she knew that her collar was both a professing Christian and an invited guest at the contemplated party, this question might be regarded as a master stroke. Well, not exactly, Mrs. Vincent responded with a laugh and with a little flesh on her cheek. Now, Mrs. Sales, I know you and I think differently on these subjects, and that remark is intended for me. Perhaps you are right. Anyway, I agree with you to the extent that I think it is just as well for clergymen to avoid such amusements. I shouldn't quite agree with you, Abby said pleasantly. If I considered a place perfectly proper and fitting for me as a Christian, I should consider it equally proper for my pastor. Why, my dear Mrs. Sales, don't you think one's pastor should be an example of peculiar propriety to his flock? An example for what, dear friend, for us his flock to follow or to go directly contrary to? Mrs. Vincent laughed. She was a sharp little woman in most things. Perhaps you are right, she said again. Anyway, I'm glad our pastor didn't go to that party. So am I, said Mrs. Sales briskly, and I've no doubt he is. I'm glad of another thing, and that is that Mrs. Vincent didn't go. And now, dear friend, shall you and I use our influence to the utmost in quieting the talk about this affair, and Mr. Trecevon's participation in it? There have been a great many foolish and untrue things said about it, which we can silence and in many ways we can help him. I certainly will try, Mrs. Vincent said, with serious earnestness, and Mrs. Vincent, being a power in the community, did try with marked success. End of Chapter 23, Recording by Tricia G. Chapter 24 of Why's and Otherwise. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Why's and Otherwise by Pansy. Chapter 24. If thou be wise, thou shalt be wise for thyself. Exactly how far is it from here to Greenfield? questioned Del Bronson at the dinner table. Del had been in Boston for three weeks since she last asked a question at this particular dinner table in the sales household. The noon train had returned her to them, and the family had been jubilant over her arrival. It's exactly thirty-seven miles if you take the morning express, but if you take that fearful noon accommodation, on which you appeared today, it is a hundred and twenty-five miles at the very least. This from the host. Then I shall certainly take the morning express, laughed Del. Abby, are you at all acquainted in Greenfield? Not in the least. What possible interest have you in Greenfield? Why, there is a certain Mrs. Ainsley, whose will be gone advertisement for a cook I cut out of the Greenfield Herald, and I'm going to call on her tomorrow. That is, if you are certain that you don't know a living soul in the length and breadth of the town. Del said Mrs. Sayles in dignified tones and with a becoming little flesh on her fair face. Do you imagine that we are ashamed of you? No, said Del gleefully. The only trouble is that I am ashamed of you. Imagine Mrs. Ainsley's cook being suddenly compelled to confront Mrs. Jerome Sayles, who is out making calls on her Greenfield friends. Neither Mrs. Sayles nor the cook would know how to manage the affair judiciously, I fear. The only friend I shall call on in Greenfield will be yourself, said Abby.  I just expect to see her in velvet cloak and sable furs, marching around to Mrs. Ainsley's back door some time this winter, thus ruining my prospects forever. What did your uncle say to this precious scheme of yours, questioned Mr. Sayles? Well, he was not so ready to listen to reason as he generally is, at least Aunt Laura wasn't, and all those exhaustive arguments of mine about teaching had to be gone over until they tired me so I was sorry I ever thought of them. Finally, we compromised. If I fail in my first endeavor, I'm to come directly back to them and never mention so absurd a scheme to them again. However, I don't mean to fail if I find Mrs. Ainsley in the least adorable. Behold Del Bronson the next morning, all her neat traveling attire in its two exquisite shades of drab, packed carefully away in a trunk that was to be left in Mrs. Sayles' storeroom, herself clad in a brown and white plaid gingham, a narrow white ruffle at her throat, a brown linen sack, and a round hat with clean brown trimmings. It is of no sort of use, Mrs. Douglas said. She had come in to witness this novel departure, and she held up her hands in comic despair. You will never do in this world. You look as neat and proper and as daintily dressed as though you were going on an autumn trip to Niagara. There is nothing on earth to matter with me, said Del, coolly surveying herself in a full-length mirror, except that I haven't pink and yellow and blue and green and white all mixed up about me. I intend to teach Mrs. Ainsley better than to suppose that because her girl doesn't wear all the colors of the rainbow at once, she cannot therefore cook a beef steak. I have an elegant brown apron in my valise, large enough to cover me all up, and it has a bib and sleeves.  Her auditors didn't doubt it. Mrs. Sayles and Mrs. Douglas had petitioned to be allowed to accompany her to the depot, and had been peremptorily refused on the plea that Mrs. Ainsley's three fashionable daughters might be on the train, coming down to Newton to do some shopping, and a scandal would at once be created. Has she three daughters? exclaimed Mrs. Douglas in dismay. I presume so, answered Del coolly, though she didn't state it in her advertisement, and as that is all I know about her, I may be mistaken. At least it will be perfectly proper for your former employer, whose vixen of a wife is sending you away after unjustly accusing you of stealing thirteen handkerchiefs and all the silver spoons, to walk to the cars with you and carry the satchel, said Mr. Sayles, possessing himself of the article in question. And amid much more nonsense and laughter, and not without the suspicion of a tear in Mrs. Sayles' eye, the two were finally started on their way to the depot. Mr. Sayles, Uncle Edward showed me your letter. Del said, when they had walked far enough to have partly calmed down her gay spirits. Did he, Mr. Sayles answered, then you ought to see his reply. It is one of the most precious letters I ever received in my life. That is what he thinks about the one you wrote him. He told me to thank you again for your thoughtful kindness. He said it seemed remarkable that entire strangers should be ready to rush to his aid. There is nothing remarkable about my letter, Mr. Sayles said quickly. It was a very common place affair. I had a little money lying idle that I thought might as well be of use to him and be earning something at the same time, you know. I was almost ashamed to mention it. It was such a trifle compared with what he had lost and with what I knew his Boston friends stood ready to furnish him. But I finally decided to offer what little I could. I really did not dream of calling forth such a burst of gratitude. When they reached the depot and the preliminaries of ticket and baggage had been arranged, as Mr. Sayles took a seat beside her to wait for the train, he said, is it allowable to ask what Mr. Nelson thought of this new development in your bewildering self? Mr. Sayles had the advantage of most gentlemen of his stamp in that, when occasion required, he could lay aside his fondness for justing and be as gravely courteous as he had before been observed. The consequence was that Del felt entirely at ease with him and answered his question promptly and frankly. Why at first he did not understand and had considerable to say about his salary and the utter want of occasion for my new plans, but he exercised his reason in common sense much more promptly than the rest of you did and is now thoroughly in accord with my ideas. Then Del drew a letter from her pocket. Mr. Sayles, I have a letter that I want to read to you. I think you will appreciate it. I begged it from Uncle Edward for this purpose, but he is very choice of it and I am to return it the first time I write. And in low tones she read the brief letter. Newton, September 3, 18-something. To the honorable E. G. Stockwell. Honored sir, I hope you will excuse the liberty I take in writing to you. I have thought about it a good deal today and have decided that I can't help it. Your niece, Miss Bronson, has told me about your lost money. I am very sorry, a good deal sarier than I can put on paper, but there is one verse that has been a great help all day while I thought of what looks so like a muddle. All things work together for good. Now I hope you will forgive my boldness in this that I want to say. My boss has been very generous and I have good pay. I've got a hundred dollars laid by that's of no kind of use to me and I'd consider it a great favor if you'd take it, not to pay back again, sir, but just as a little token of how much I thank you for your wonderful kindness to me that first time I went to Boston and you took me into your own carriage and treated me as if I was a man. It was that day I made up my mind to try hard to be somebody. What did he do for him? interrupted Mr. Sales, who seemed to know by instinct whose hand had written the letter. Just nothing, Uncle Edward says, nothing but the nearest commonplace kindness, but he did it just as the poor fellow has put it.  You have no idea how he looked. Mr. Sales, I'll tell you all about it the first time Mrs. Ainsley gives me leave of absence. This last with a merry gleam in her eyes, then she read on. I've been trying since and the Lord has taken hold of me and I belong to him now. All the same I am grateful to those that helped me when I must have looked as though there was nothing in me to help. So now if you'll kindly take the hundred dollars that I enclose in this letter, I'll be much obliged to you. At first I was ashamed to send it, because it was such a little bit, but then Miss Bronson told me you had lost everything and thinks I, if it is only a drop in the bucket, every drop helps a little and anyhow it will show my gratitude as well as if there was a lot of it. So in conclusion I ask you to forgive my boldness and show me that you do so by keeping this little bit of money. I have prayed for you every day since I first learned how to pray and I ain't afraid but the Lord will take care of you. But I didn't know any other way to show you how grateful I was and I do hope and trust that I haven't offended you. Your obedient servant, James L. Forbes. The poor fellow, Mr. Sales exclaimed with glistening eyes as Del folded the letter. Isn't it pitiful as well as funny, said Del eagerly? I never saw Uncle Edward so moved. He told me that there had many things occurred to touch his heart since his riches took wings, but nothing that had melted him as this poor, simple-hearted fellow's offer of his all had done. How did he answer the letter? I don't know. I would have given something for the pleasure of seeing the answer, but he told me nothing about it. Only I know that he accepted the hundred dollars. Accepted it? said Mr. Sales in amazement. Yes, said Del with dancing eyes. Isn't it splendid? I know just how happy it has made the great-hearted fellow and Uncle Edward has ways of disposing of such a sum of money very advantageously. He told me to tell you he hoped you would not be offended that he gave poor Jim the preference, but that there was really no resisting his letter. I should think not, laughed Mr. Sales, and the splendid fellow has really given away his all, believing in the simplicity that that is to be the end of the matter. Oh yes indeed, he is as simple as a child about such things. Why should he not be? Just imagine what a sum one hundred dollars in the bank must have seemed to him. What will it seem when he sees it again? said Mr. Sales, still laughing. Well, I am glad of his good fortune, but I thought he was contemplating matrimony, did not you? Del shook her head. Not for some years yet, I fancy. You know, Jenny Adams is only sixteen, and Jim is but a boy. I daresay he hopes to have another hundred, perhaps two of them, by the time he is ready to marry. There is no telling to what wild flights his extravagant fancy may lead him. Mr. Sales, do you know there are things that puzzle me very much, this downfall of Uncle Edwards, for instance? Why should it have been? Not to discipline him, surely, for he was gold tried in the fire long before. Besides, it isn't going to last long enough for discipline. He is coming up already. Judge Winthrop told me about it. He says his immediate successes have been more marvelous than his reverses, that in five years from now, if he lives, he will unquestionably be a wealthier man than ever. Leonard Winthrop says he has raised up to be a second Job to show modern satans how some Christians can endure affliction. Nonsense aside, do you suppose there might be some such reason for his rapid and heavy reverses? My opinion is, said Mr. Sales rising, that he probably lost his fortune in order to give Mrs. Ainsley a period of rest from the infirmities of ordinary cooks. There is the train, Del. My respects to the lady in question. Take care of yourself, and whatever you do, don't burn the beef steak, nor slap the baby. End of Chapter 24. RECORDING by Tricia G. Chapter 25 of WISE AND OTHERWISE. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. WISE AND OTHERWISE by Pansy. Chapter 25. The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning. Seizing upon her little hand satchel with a business-like air, Del sprang from the platform of the train, and after a few inquiries addressed to a courteous policeman, made her way up Chestnut Street, and presently reached Mrs. Ainsley's number. She had mounted the steps and had her hand on the bell-knob, when she seemed suddenly to change her mind, and running down the steps again, picked her way daintily through a muddy carriage-drive in search of a back door, soliloquizing as she went. When I am mistress I shall have a good sensible plank-walk around to the back door, provided I have by that time decided that it is a heinous crime in the maid to use the front door. Meantime, however, being at present the maid, I suppose it is my duty to confine my reforms to that quarter and let the mistress alone. I'll fish out a border to, though, from somewhere before I've occupied this mansion twenty-four hours, that is to say, if I occupy it at all. A slaternly-looking girl, with her uncombed hair hanging down her back, and her dress-in ruffles that time and nails had made, answered Dull's knock, and set her off into another mental computation as to how long she should be likely to serve as Cook in that establishment, provided she were expected to room with that girl. She actually shivered over the thought, really the first that had met her in any other light but that of fun. She waited in a disorderly dining-room for Mrs. Ainsley's appearance and had the satisfaction of hearing a disconsolate voice supposed to belong to that lady, say. Another girl to talk with. I'm nearly worn out. This is the ninth applicant since yesterday morning. Encouraging, murmured Dull, while a man's voice responded, do take this one if she knows a potato from a cabbage. You must be too hard to suit, Almyra. That is all you know about it, sighed Almyra. And then she swept into the dining-room, a tall pale woman with a worn, weary face, that in repose was either habitually sad or fretful. Dull could not quite determine which. She had pale yellow curls, long and thin, falling back from her wound face, and was attired in a morning dress of deep black, unrelieved by a touch even of white. Altogether, Dull did not wonder that she sighed, especially if she had happened to catch a glimpse of her forlorn self in her transit from the next room. She seemed a good deal amazed at Dull's appearance and only stared in answer to that young lady's bow. Finally, however, she recovered herself and said with commendable brevity, What is your name? Fortunately for Dull, this question had been anticipated and she answered glibly, Delia Bronson. You are in search of a place, are you? To this question, Del not being able to bring her mind to the stereotyped yes-ma'am answered simply by bowing her head. Where do you come from? This question, too, had been provided for. Del had decided to say as little as possible about Newton and so she answered promptly. From Boston. Boston, with a rising inflection and a suspicious elevation of the eyebrows, you have come a long distance in search of employment. You bring references, of course, from your last place? I have been living with my uncle in Boston and I didn't suppose people would care for a reference to him.  What was your work in your uncle's family? At which query Del hesitated and nearly disgraced herself by laughing. Suppose she should tell her exact work. In the first place, she was always dressed to receive morning collars. Then she attended to the vases, putting fresh flowers all about the house. The canaries were also her care. And really, with this meager list, her recognized work ended. Clearly this would not do to tell Mrs. Ainsley. I had no cooking to do at my uncle's, she finally said, dashing into her story with a feeling that she was really making a sorry figure in Mrs. Ainsley's eyes. Before that time, I lived with my father in Lewiston and I was my father's housekeeper. Then you really mean to tell me that you have never lived in a gentleman's family and understood work only as you learned it at home? This was a tremendous lifting of the eyebrows which Del was too amused to notice. What would Mrs. Ainsley have thought of her uncle Edward Stockwell's home and family? However, there was no denying Mrs. Ainsley's statement, so the would-be cook answered calmly. That's all the experience I have had. The lady looked the picture of despair. The idea of your supposing that you could do my cooking, she said in dismay. The absurdity of her position was growing every moment more apparent to Del, but she rallied bravely for one more effort. I was brought up by my aunt and she had me learn cooking. Then when I was eighteen I went home to my father and kept his house. We had borders and I think our table always gave satisfaction. Oh yes, of course, but your aunt's cooking was probably very different from mine. Del had not the least idea but that it was, and the idea of her aunt Laura's professional cook condescending to get up a dinner out there in Mrs. Ainsley's kitchen came over her again with its ludicrous side almost too apparent. However, said Mrs. Ainsley, relenting a little, almost any sort of cooking is better than none, and I am utterly discouraged with the set who have been to me. You look neat at least, and I have half a mind to try you for a few days. What wages do you expect? Del had canvassed that matter. Good, fair country wages, such as she had given to Kate in the old hotel, she had decided to demand. Mrs. Ainsley said they were large for a girl who had no experience, but girl's wages were exorbitant nowadays, and she supposed she must submit to that with all the rest, and she sighed heavily and looked every inch a martyr. Who sent you to me, she inquired suddenly. In response Del opened the green field daily and pointed to the lady's advertisement. And did you come all the way from Boston to answer my advertisement? Oh, no, ma'am, said Del, smiling, and beginning to conclude that she would pardon Mrs. Ainsley for considering her a suspicious character. I have been stopping with some friends in Newton. Oh, you have friends as near as Newton. This was evidently not considered a recommendation. Do your friends work in the mill? Some of them do, Del answered, thinking at once of great-hearted Jim Forbes, and of how proud she was to call him friend.  No, ma'am, said Del, stooping suddenly to pick up her paper which had fallen. Well, now, if I consent to try you for a few days, how much must I be annoyed with company running here to see you? I do not tolerate that sort of thing any more than is absolutely necessary, and you may as well understand it from the first. How considerate an altogether Christian, thought Del. When I am a mistress, how many things there will be to reform, but her answer was quite meek. I have no acquaintances to visit me. They are very easily made, responded the martyr's spirit disconsolately, and you must understand from the first that I don't permit followers at all. Another kind and thoughtful proviso, because a girl cooks her dinner, she must have no friends and no lover, this an indignant soliloquy by Del. Then the comic side nearly overcame her again. What if Mr. Nelson should take it into his insane head to come and see her? Mrs. Ainsley eyed her sharply. Are you mixed up in anything of that kind? She said at last, suspicion quivering in every letter of her words. Del's eyes flashed a little. This was carrying surveillance almost too far. What wonder that respectable American girls shrank from such an ordeal as she was undergoing? Was it all false pride that kept them starving at their needles or drudging in school rooms? And yet she added, rallying her forces, the disgrace and the coarseness are on her side, not mine. Why should I care? Then she answered with quiet dignity. I am corresponding with a friend, Mrs. Ainsley, but he is far away from here and will not trouble you. Oh, you are! Mrs. Ainsley evidently did not approve. And how often will he be coming to visit you? Not this winter, I presume, Del said, a little pain in her heart because of this, but the memory of those days together in Boston only last week was still fresh. Are you going to marry this man? Flashing eyes, but still a quiet voice. I expect to. When? Was this impudence to be born? Should she truthfully say that is none of your business and leave Mrs. Ainsley to her reflections? Then what would become of all her pet schemes, her longing after practical experience in this very field, to help her in what she wanted to do in the future? Not thus early vanquished would she flee the ground. And just then, a vision of the letter she would write to Abby and Mr. Sales' probable comments thereon restored her to good humor, and she actually replied with a smile. Not for some time to come, madam. But there will be nothing permanent even if I take fancy to keep you, which, I must say, is extremely improbable. Nevertheless, Mrs. Ainsley looked as if she considered herself wronged and Del's eyes danced as she said demurely. Nothing beyond this coming winter. Oh, well, that is always the way. Girls never know when they are well off. However, that will probably make very little difference to me. Well, I must say I never did such a strange thing in my life. Engage a girl without character or experience. But I like your looks very well, and I believe you have told me the truth. So if you choose, you can take off your things and try it for a week. We can manage to survive somehow during that length of time, I guess. Another item for Mr. Sales. How would Mrs. Ainsley look telling her dressmaker or her milliner? I believe you have told me the truth. Yet to the cook it must be considered as complementary. It was certainly a strange world with the very queerest grades and distinctions in it that could be imagined. Yet Del's courage did not forsake her. It had been strengthened by tremendous opposition during these weeks, and several persons were awaiting the result, sure a failure. Therefore, obstinate Del resolved that she would not fail, unless there was one proviso. If she were obliged to roam with that girl, who was at that moment peering at her through the half-open gate, peering at her through the half-open kitchen door, she determined on a bold stroke. Does your cook room with the second girl, madam? No, she does not, said Mrs. Ainsley, with great firmness and decided emphasis. I have tried that to my heart's content. The last girl I had chatted with Harry half the night, and they both went around half asleep the next day. I'll have no more of that. Harry is the second girl. She is a perfect nuisance, but they are all nuisances in one form or another. And then this patient martyr sighed again very heavily and looked the image of resigned despair. Meantime Del, her position assured at least for a few days, gave herself up for a moment to the uninterrupted enjoyment of a sweet baby face that left down at her from his frame on the wall. It had irresistible attractions for her.  I can set Mr. Sales' heart at rest on one point, she told herself, remembering with an amused smile that gentlemen's last caution, I'll certainly never slap that baby. Mrs. Ainsley's eyes followed her new girls and rested on the picture. That's my baby, she said, with a sudden softening of tone, my little Lori, when he was sixteen months old. He is very beautiful, said Del, cordial sympathy in her voice. The picture did not do him justice, sighed Mrs. Ainsley. No picture could. He was much more beautiful than that when he died. Everyone who saw him said he was too beautiful to be put in the grave. It is impossible to give you an idea of the utter hopeless sadness of the tone in which these words were spoken. It quivered to the very depths of Del's heart. This laughing baby was gone then, and the weak, selfish, exacting woman before her stood invested with the sacred sorrow of mourning motherhood, empty arms, empty crib, empty heart. She thought of the dear crib in Aunt Laura's room in Boston, of baby Essie in her nursery with Abby, at this moment, and her heart went out very pitifully towards this desolate mother. No silver linings to her cloud. It could not be she was a Christian. Nothing in her words or manner had indicated it, and she had said her baby died and was put in the grave. Almost all Christian mothers Del had noticed shunned these words, said rather, gone to heaven, gone to Jesus. Perhaps this was the key to this mother's hopeless, weary face, absorbed in a heavy, selfish sorrow, with no one to help her bear it, too heavy a pain to spend itself in weeping, too hopeless in one to find comfort in anything else, just letting her cross weigh her down and bear its weight heavily and constantly on her. Such she looked to Del and her heart that was throbbing with sympathy gave another throb of something akin to joy. What if her persistent following up of this particular woman, with a tenacity that had clung to her in a manner that even seemed ludicrous to herself, meant that she was to have an opportunity to say to this worn heart, the cross is too heavy for you, don't carry it, the master is waiting to lift it. He has sent me to tell you that above it the sun is shining and heaven is over all. Very swiftly these thoughts rushed through her mind as she stood before the picture, and with them a little prayer that such would be her aim. She gave no expression in words to these thoughts. This was no fitting opportunity, only as she turned from the sweet face, she said very gently, very softly, he shall gather the lambs with his arms and carry them in his bosom. She couldn't resist this tender little crumb of comfort. Mrs. Ainsley looked at her new girl a moment in startled wonder.  Del went softly out to the dingy kitchen, and prevailed upon the slatternly girl to show her where and what and how. CHAPTER XXVI On swift wings sped the late summer and early autumn, before the busy people in Newton realized that the soft-winged autumn was fairly upon them, there came suddenly days of wind and rain and storm that sent the crimson and golden leaves in wild flutters through the air, and left them in glowing heaps here and there along the ground. There was little time in which to gather and admire them. Frost followed rapidly in the wake of the autumn rains, and then one morning the busy town awoke and low, leaves, earth, grasses all were gone and the world was white. Baby Essie opened her blue eyes in wonderment over the miracle, and reached with eager hands for the white jewels as they fell and sparkled. The world was new to Baby Essie, and everything that transpired was wonderful. By and by her eyes will grow accustomed to all these things, maybe, and the wonderful will sink into the common place, maybe not. To some of God's children the oft-repeated miracles of rain and snow and ice and rainbow and cloud and storm are always wonders. It may be it is reserved for Baby Essie to have such rare eyes as these. Be that as it may, she stood a silent and amazed spectator at the transformation that the world had undergone while she slept, and presently broke the silence to announce, with much clapping of hands, that Auntie Julia was coming, and then pitifully that she was stepping on the white things and hurting them. An inch or more of snow thus early in the season, Mrs. Douglas said, stamping her feet and blowing the crystals from her moth. What sort of a winter does that promise? The miracle had grown very common to Mrs. Douglas. Baby Essie ran eagerly forward. She saw the white things fly. She wanted some. She searched right and left under the table behind the sofa. They were gone. What is the child in search of? Oh, Abby, as sure as the world, I believe she is looking for the snowflakes that I brought in. They are gone, darling. All gone. Melted. Baby Essie looked at her informant gravely, wonderment deepening in her eyes. She understood gone. Melted was yet a new process to learn. Presently she translated it in eager voice. Back to heaven, Auntie? Did they fly back to heaven? Mrs. Douglas laughed merrily.  Abby, how will you ever teach her the ten million things that there are to be taught? Doesn't it make your heart ache for her? Ah, me, how rather shall we catch some of their sweet unworldly fancies that hover around them, and that it must be the angels whisper to them, before the cares and griefs of life choke and scatter them? The mother of this baby only smiled quietly, without a shadow of heartache about her, and answered cheerily, One step at a time, did you never learn the little poem? One step and then another, and the longest walk is taken? What brought you out so early in the snow? Oh, said Mrs. Douglas, restored to the domain of the practical. I came to see Jerome. The doctor sent me. He hadn't time to come. Jerome hasn't gone yet, has he? Ah, Abby, you don't know who is coming here. Jerome will be down in a few minutes. What news have you? Did you ever hear of Mr. Parker? Mr. Parker, said Mrs. Sales thoughtfully. Why, yes, I've known several persons of that name. Oh, Julia, do you mean an old minister, Esther's Mr. Parker? This last with a very bright face. Yes, Esther's Mr. Parker, and the doctors, and mine for that matter. I have a very deep personal interest in him, although I was but a child at the time. He is a blessed old saint, one of God's peculiar people, without doubt. Well, don't you think he is coming here to the Park Street Church to conduct a meeting? Now, isn't that blessed? Jerome, as Mr. Sales at that moment entered the room, the doctor sent me to tell you about him and ask if you didn't think the two churches might be united. He says Dr. Willis told him last evening that Mr. Trecevant was to be invited to join them, and the doctor said if Mr. Trecevant felt that his church was very anxious to do so, it would perhaps influence him in that direction if he needed influencing, and he wanted to know if you would have time to call on Judge Benson this morning and consult with him. If you would kindly inform me which of the pronouns belong to which persons, and what two churches especially need uniting, and what Mr. Trecevant is to be invited to join, perhaps I might feel more enlightened. And Mr. Sales leaned against the window-sash and looked down on his informant with an amused air. Mrs. Douglas laughed good-humoredly. Oh, dear, she said. I always put a story the wrong end first. Now I'll begin at the beginning. Mr. Sales listened, interested, eager, all his listlessness gone. The Regent Street Church, the church of his heart, the only one with which he had ever been connected, was at a very low ebb so far as its practical piety was concerned. The prayer meetings, those unerring barometers of a church, were very thinly attended, and the mass of Christians when they met together were apt the gentlemen to discuss the business excitements of the day, and the ladies to lay plans for the gay season instead of having ought to say concerning the journey they had pledged their vows to take together, helping each other on the way. Yet there were an eager few whose hearts were longing and groping for something better, enough to claim the promise, where two or three, etc. They had been praying earnestly, longingly, during the past weeks, and this intimation of the rousing of a sister church seemed to Mr. Sales like an answer to prayer. Of course we must unite, he said decidedly. Our hopes and desires are the same. Why should we not unitedly seek their fulfillment? I don't know this Mr. Parker personally, but if ever I had a desire to see a man in my life it is he. I have heard very much of the blessing that attends his labors. But Jerome said Mrs. Douglas anxiously, Do you think Mr. Trecevant will be in sympathy with this idea? Mr. Sales smiled, meaningly. What makes you think he will not be? I don't know, I am sure, Mrs. Douglas said, flushing and laughing, only I—he—well, the truth is, he never happens to be in sympathy with anything, and I suppose I took it for granted that he wouldn't be with this. I know you would hardly make that remark outside of this room, Mr. Sales answered her gravely, but charity is one thing, and plain common sense knowledge is another. I don't suppose there is any real good to be gained in shutting our eyes to the fact that our pastor does not seem to view these things in the light that we wish he did. I confess I doubt his willingness to join in these meetings, and if he does so, I think it will be because of the pressure of his church. Abbey, that isn't wicked, is it, between ourselves, you know? Mrs. Sales was engaged in putting on baby Essie's shoe, a process that had to be gone through with an indefinite number of times, but she looked up with serene brow and spoke gently. Don't you think, Jerome, there are shortcomings enough in people that are positively known to us, without are condemning those that may be? Besides, I don't like to injure the spirituality of just ourselves by going over, any more than is necessary, what is a trial and a disappointment to us. You see, said Mr. Sales, turning to their guest, with a half-serious, half-comic air, when I make extra efforts to rise superior to your standpoint, I don't succeed in coming within reach of hers. I may as well drop back at once to your platform. Then gravely, Abbey is right, the least said the better, for us at least. Well, I will see Judge Benson and Mr. Saunders, and what others I can. The end of it was that the officers of the church went in a body to call on Mr. Tressavant, Dr. Douglas, as one of the officers, making one of the number. Ice could not have been harder to impress than was their dignified pastor. In the first place, these gentlemen, like most others, when they undertake to move in an official capacity, had not moved rapidly enough. Dr. Willis, the acting pastor of the Park Street Church, had been there before them, and given his cordial, hearty invitation to the pastor of the Regent Street Church, for pastor and people to unite with them in a series of meetings. This invitation Mr. Tressavant had seen fit to decline. There was no special interest in this church, he said, and he was not a believer in forced revivals. Does anyone imagine that after such a statement Mr. Tressavant had any idea of changing his mind merely because the officers of the church desired it, and thus showing plainly to Dr. Willis that he was not the controlling power in his own church? This Mr. Parker, he said stiffly in response to Dr. Douglas's earnest words concerning him, is a man of whom I never heard before, and I certainly cannot be expected to invite my people to attend the meetings of a man concerning whom I know nothing. Save that which Dr. Douglas has just been telling us, said Judge Benson, pointedly, with a courteous bow to the doctor. This sentence Mr. Tressavant chose to ignore. Dr. Douglas spoke again and very earnestly. Mr. Tressavant, concerning this evangelist, you have only to go ten miles west of here on the railroad to the town where I used to live to receive repeated and undoubted proof of what I have been telling you. It was there that the powerful work of Grace followed his labors. Besides, Dr. Willis tells me that he himself is an intimate personal friend of Mr. Parker, and that they have worked together for years, this from Judge Benson. Mr. Tressavant bowed. Then Dr. Willis doubtless does quite right in inviting him to his church, but I have no such acquaintance with him, and in general, gentlemen, I cannot say that I approve of evangelistic labor. He must be a very poor pastor indeed, who cannot guide and care for his own flock, better than any stranger coming into their midst. Old Mr. Osborn, whose hair was white with the snows of more than seventy winters, and who rarely spoke much, it had the reputation of speaking to the point, now joined the debate. But there's two sides to that question, isn't there? An evangelist generally brings to the work years of experience with all classes of minds, and he has no sermons to write nor studying to do during special meetings, and can give his whole time to the work. It seems to me those are reasons that a young minister will appreciate, and if an evangelist be a judicious man, I don't see why he couldn't be of the greatest help to a pastor. They are not by any means remarkable for judiciousness, and speaking for myself, I have found myself thus far entirely able to fulfill my pulpit and pastoral duties without outside aid. Mr. Tresavon's tone was rather more haughty than courtesy would justify, coming from so young a man to so aged a Christian, but Mr. Osborn did not seem inclined to be odd by it. Well, he said, speaking in low measured tones, as to there being judicious as a class, I can't say of course, for I don't know many of them, but I have been intimately acquainted with Brother Parker for fifty odd years, and he has managed to be remarkably judicious in his work during that time, and that is a good many years longer than you've lived yet, Mr. Tresavon. Dr. Douglas and Judge Benson both turned to Mr. Osborn with eager interest in their manner, Dr. Douglas speaking first. Do you know our Brother Parker? I, that I do, and blessed reason have I to rejoice over it. It's thirty years now since he was the means of leading me to my Saviour, though I knew him long before that. In fact, we were lads together. That was a wonderful meeting that I attended thirty years ago. Many of the things he said in those sermons are just as vivid to me now as our talk is here this evening. The fact is, gentlemen, said Mr. Tresavon, breaking abruptly into the old man's beloved past. We don't agree in these matters, and we probably shouldn't if we talked all night. The old gentleman who seems to have stolen your hearts may be perfection for ought I know. I do not say that he isn't. But I insist that I know better what kind of food my people need than he an entire stranger can know. Besides, I do not approve of religious excitement. This sudden multiplication of meetings, without any cause therefore, looks to me wonderfully like a divisive man's with which the spirit has very little to do. Therefore, I cannot consent to join in such a plan. What kind of excitement do you believe in? we read Mr. Osborn. Sir, answered his pastor, hodlily, I thought, said the old man meekly, I would like to know what it was proper to get excited about. Whereupon Dr. Douglas and Judge Benson were guilty of exchanging glances and smiles. Then Judge Benson took up the subject. But is that quite fair, Mr. Tresavon? Is it quite as we act in other matters of much less importance? Suppose a man never evinces any special interest in his own salvation, shall we, as Christians, evince none? During a political campaign, we are very apt, you know, to multiply meetings, for no apparent cause save that we are anxious to have people on the right side. Shall we, as our brother Osborn suggests, be less interested in the important question of urging the people to take the right side in this issue, which is for eternity? I confess I see no inconsistency in using whatever proper means the Lord sends within our reach, to the end that we may persuade someone to take the right stand. There are several ways of working for the same end, the pastor said, trying to smile, and this is not my way of working, therefore I must still persist in my previous conviction. You might as well talk to a stone wall, Judge Benson said, as the officers of the Regent Street Church wended their crestfallen way homeward. What is the trouble with him, brother Osborn? Something seems to be wrong. The main trouble, I think, is that he has managed to get himself wedged in between Christ and the cross, so naturally he thinks of himself first. Let's go in and see sales a few moments, Dr. Douglas said, pausing in front of his friend's door. He was anxious to hear the result of this. So they all went in. Mr. and Mrs. Sales were alone together in the parlor and the story of the call was gone over for their benefit. I don't know about it at all, Judge Benson said, growing a little excited. We seem to be crippled constantly in our efforts for the good of the church. I'm half inclined to think if we can't agree to work together comfortably as pastor and people, perhaps it would be well to agree to separate. What a woe-begone face, Mrs. Sales! Is it wicked for a church to make a change of pastors? It is a very solemn thing, I think, Mrs. Sales said speaking gravely, and one which should not be entered on without much thought and prayer and a subtle conviction of the necessity of such a step. Judge Benson turned toward Mr. Osborn. There would be fewer changes than there are nowadays, brother Osborn, would there not, if Mrs. Sales' ideas were lived up to? And much less need of them, the old man said earnestly. She is right, we must speak softly about this matter. Indeed, I don't know that we ought to speak at all. Oh, my words were light, I'll admit, said Judge Benson. I've never spoken them before, and yet I confess I have thought them occasionally, but I daresay I am wrong. He is a good preacher, and he tries to do good in certain quarters. And accomplishes it too, said Mrs. Sales. He has done a great deal for the Morrison's. No one ever had so much influence over them before. And he is very much in earnest about Sabbath school work, chimed in her husband. Yes, yes, old Mr. Osborn said. He is in earnest about a good many things. Don't let us go and get obstinate because he doesn't always see things just exactly as we do. He is doing work for the master in his way, and maybe it's just as good a way as ours. Anyway, as the dear sister has said, we must remember it is a solemn thing for us to find fault with one in whom we have so solemnly covenanted to help, and by whose counsel we are pledged to walk so far as we can. About this meeting now he may be right and we wrong. We cannot tell. Let us walk softly. The Lord will show us each the right way if we will let him. Do you think, brother Osborn, that we should give up the idea of attending these meetings? Oh, no, no. I wouldn't give up these meetings, it seems to me, unless the Lord should tell me that I must. I look forward to them with a great joy, but I'll tell you what seems best to do. We'll just slip quietly into them, not as a church, you know, but as Christians. We'll get all the dear people to go that we can, especially those who have no acquaintance with our Saviour, and we'll do all the good we can. But we'll do it kind of quietly without saying or thinking anything about opposition or want of sympathy for any of those harsh words. And we'll not neglect our own meetings, only we'll just try to have a good precious time, such as the Lord loves us to have. Isn't that the way? Yes, said Judge Benson emphatically, rising as he spoke, I'm glad I came in here this evening. Brother Sales, your wife and our brother Osborn between them, have quite subdued me. I'll have to admit that I was in rather a turbulent state of mind. Left to myself, I'm not sure but I should have advocated calling the church together and proposed an insurrection. Let us all pray the good Lord to save us from ourselves, Mr. Osborn said, with a sort of tender solemnity, as he shook hands all around and made ready to take his leave. As for Mr. Trecevant, he was not by any means as happy as a triumphant man might have been supposed to be. He went from the conference with his brethren to his own room in a perturbed state of mind. Proplexities surrounded him on every hand. His heart was heavy. He wanted a different state of things in his church, desired it greatly. At least he thought so. He believed in revivals, although he had so decidedly entered his protest against what he was pleased to termed forced ones. If he had admitted to himself what was the solemn truth that he did not believe in anything that was in danger of thrusting him into the background, if only he had realized this, the unchristian thought would have startled him, led him perhaps into an examination of his own heart. If someone could have said to him, see here you don't want to attend these proposed meetings, you don't want your church to attend them, because you think that in the event of a revival the people will become deeply interested in the old minister, will talk about and love him, and will forget all about you and their duty to you. And then after those words, if that plain-spoken individual could have immediately faded into thin air and been seen no more, I think it would have done Mr. Tresevon good. But if the speaker had remained flesh and blood, a person to be met and endured, I fear me that Mr. Tresevon's haughty anger would have prevented any benefit to himself. Ah, me, if instead of this idle fancy he would have gone to some quiet spot and kneeling said, Dear Master, show me my own heart, show me wherein I am wrong, lead me in thy way. What might not this petition have done for the pastor of the Regent Street Church? Instead he paced the floor of his room, looking moody, and dwelling on all that had been unpleasant to him in the conversation, until his heart grew sore and angry against them all, and he said firmly, I will not be coaxed or pressed into doing what I do not wish to do. It is true he had family worship. Presently, and during his prayer, he said, grant that our every wish may be made subservient to the honour and glory. And he did not in the least realise that while he was speaking those words he was thinking, how very annoying it was that Dr. Douglas must be mixed up with everything. He went presently to the spot that always calmed him down, his special shrine where at he almost worshipped, that was the new and dainty piece of furniture that had lately been introduced into his home life, a lace canopied, rose-lined crib. Within that crib lay sleeping a fair-faced, dimpled baby, the first born to the house of Trecevant, Roswell C. Trecevant. Can anybody describe what that bit of dainty flesh and blood meant to the young father fending over him and drinking in all the sweetness and purity of that lovely face? Joy, pride, exultation, reveled in the father's gaze, and still there loomed up before him that all-powerful I. My son, my precious one, I will do thus and so for him. I will have this and that prepared for him. And very rarely indeed did there come to Mr. Trecevant such a sense of his own frailty and powerlessness that he longed to lay his treasure in stronger arms than his, and pray the all-powerful father to call him his child. So on this particular evening he stood beside the crib, thinking his strong, eager thoughts, until the unpleasantness of the evening faded, I and the responsibilities also, and he gave himself up to the delights of a triumphant future. Meantime the Regent Street pastor did not succeed in blocking the wheels of the Park Street Church. He did not announce the meetings, and he did announce his own regular appointments for the week as usual. But the meetings across the way commenced, and the Regent Street people, following the advice and example of old Mr. Osborn, slipped quietly in, coming in larger numbers every evening, coming with deepening interest, and many of them after earnest closet prayer, until toward the close of the first week, had Mr. Trecevant chosen to be present, he might have met almost his entire Sabbath congregation. There is not space to tell you of the blessed meeting that this people enjoyed, and indeed it would be a difficult matter to report it. To have had any idea of the preciousness you must have been present and felt its power. But there were two special evenings concerning which I want to tell you. Mr. Trecevant had not planned utterly to absent himself from the Park Street Church. On the contrary, his intention had been to be present frequently, both to avoid attracting attention and to keep himself posted as to the movements of his own people. Yet he felt a strange reluctance to make one of the number who nightly thronged the church, and allowed the most trivial engagements, the most commonplace excuses, to detain him. So it came to pass that more than a week had the meetings continued before he made one of the congregation. On that particular evening, both he and Mrs. Trecevant were present. The house was crowded to its utmost capacity. Mr. Trecevant declined an invitation to the pulpit and pushed his way into an obscure corner near the door. His position gave him a full view of the aged saint upon whose words the people hung, and before that evening sermon had been concluded, he ceased to be astonished at the old minister's power over his audience. Quiet, steady-toned, simple, solemn, with that rare argumentative tone which his particularly logical and scholarly mind gave to all his sermons, it seemed well nigh impossible to withstand the direct searching truth. In vain Mr. Trecevant listened for the loud tones and wild flights of fancy that he imagined would be used to rouse people to the highest pitch of excitement. The speaker's voice seemed no louder than an ordinary conversational one, and the audience were as quiet and solemn as if the very solemnity of the grave itself hovered over them. Those who have heard the aged, honored saint of whom I speak know that one of his peculiar powers as a preacher lies in leaving open his hearers the solemn conviction that it is impossible to avoid the conclusions that have been thus quietly and logically forced upon them, that reason and common sense alike demand their acceptance, that it would be beyond even human folly to deny them. Yet there is more than all this in the man. There is in his face, in his words, in his tones, I in his very movements, a quiet, restful, pervading sense of being sustained and guided and uplifted by a power out of and beyond himself. It was to such a sermon delivered by such a man that Mr. Trecevant listened that evening. What wonder that he ceased to be surprised at results? Yet his heart was not in accord with the spirit of the meeting. How could it be when a Christian deliberately and for selfish reasons holds himself aloof from the sacred and holy influences by which he might be surrounded? Is it to be supposed that on his first coming into their midst the spirit of God will delight to take up his abode in that closed heart? Indeed, a strange feeling that the poor beset man would not have dared to own was disappointment, took possession of him as looking around upon the audience he saw one and another and another of the people who belonged nominally to the Regent Street congregation, people who never came to church, never evened any interest in religion and yet they were here tonight. They hardly ever heard me preach in their lives, he said to himself in bitterness, and yet they crowd here tonight. And he gave himself up to moody thoughts over, not his own failures, he never failed, but over the stupidity of people. It was from such thoughts as these that he was suddenly aroused by the mention of his own name. The aged minister had spied him from his seat behind one of the columns. They had met several days before. Mr. Parker knew of the young clergymen things which his own heart did not suspect. Ever on the alert to do good, this veteran in the cause determined to try to draw the young officer forward. There was a very general movement in the audience. Evidently they had been invited to kneel for prayer, though Mr. Trecevant, brooding over his own thoughts, had not heard the request. It was repeated, let us all kneel so far as it is possible, and will our brother Trecevant come forward here and lead us in a brief prayer for the special descent of the Holy Spirit? Mr. Trecevant hesitated, his face flushing painfully. To refuse to pray would certainly be a strange thing for a Christian minister to do, yet he was conscious of feeling very little of the spirit of prayer. Besides, to his morbid fancy, the call forward seemed made for the purpose of drawing him into special and unpleasant notice. Around the altar were Dr. Willis, Dr. Henry, Mr. Carlin, and several other of the pastors of different churches, already kneeling, and the kneeling congregation were already waiting reverently for someone to lead their petitions up to the throne. Mr. Trecevant arose hurriedly. He had decided not to go forward, not to kneel. He would be heard quite as well from where he stood. There was no use in marching down that long aisle. He was not in the habit of kneeling when he led in prayer in his own church. Why should he do so here? It was much more natural and unaffected for him to maintain his usual posture. Thus he reasoned, even while he prayed, not especially for the descent of the Holy Spirit, but that no one's mind might be carried away by undue excitement, that none should make the awful mistake of supposing a motion to be religion, that all might realize that religion was an everyday matter, not something to be put into a few days or weeks of unusual nervous strain and then forgotten. Such was the spirit and tenor of the prayer to which the great congregation listened. There were some present members of the Regent Street Church, who did not follow the words of this petition, but who prayed with strong inward cryings and with tears for their pastor, that he might not be permitted to do injury to the cause. There was no distressing silence at the conclusion of Mr. Trecevon's prayer wherein he remembered various benevolent societies and the numerous missions in foreign lands. The low clear voice of Mr. Parker followed close upon the Amen, and his first words were, Lord teach us how to pray right here and now for these waiting hungry souls. One posture is as good as another, said Mr. Trecevon sourly to himself, as he made his way out of the church. I don't believe in making so much of forms. But is one spirit as good as another, poor, foolish sheep, that you should be so willing to make so much of forms and postures as to persistently cling to your own in the face of a gentle request from a gray-haired minister of Christ to take some other in the face of a great kneeling congregation? Thus his conscience tried to say to him, but he was in no mood to listen to conscience, and eagerly bade it remember that he certainly had as good a right to decide what was proper to do as had that Mr. Parker. Mrs.  At last the pent-up torrent burst forth with one final twitch of the glove that tore it from wrist to finger. Mr. Trecevon, I'm not going to those meetings anymore. I think the way that man preaches is perfectly horrid, making people feel as if they were miserable horrid creatures that never did anything right. Not a single comforting or pleasant thing did he say to-night. I'm sure he had considerable to say about heaven. Is there nothing comforting and pleasant about that? Her husband asked this question in a tone half of sarcasm, half of gloom. He certainly was in no state to bestow the comfort that his fretful wife called for. No other wasn't, she retorted, with increased impatience. Not a thing, for he made me feel as if I should never get there in the world, as if I wasn't worth going there anyway. I thought it was a minister's business to comfort people and cheer them up, and all that sort of thing, instead of making them feel as gloomy as gravestones. I don't like such preaching nor such meetings, people crying all around me. I think it is perfectly dreadful. I don't see what possesses me to go. I've said almost every evening that I wouldn't go again. No one compels you to do so, Mr. Trecevon said coldly. I supposed, of course, you enjoyed them, so I have stayed at home with the baby for several evenings in order to give you the pleasure of going. Oh now, Carol, that's just nonsense. You know just as well as I do that you stayed at home because you didn't want to go, and just worships Rossi and would stay with him any evening with all her heart. Anyway, I wouldn't have done as you did tonight. If a man asked me to kneel down, I declare I wouldn't have stood up like a post when everybody else was kneeling too. I think it was real mean. It wasn't treating the old man nice a bit. I wouldn't have done it for anything. Perhaps you would have done as duty prompted you, Mr. Trecevon answered, with hotty dignity. At least we will hope so. Duty, his wife repeated irritably, as if the very mention of the word annoyed her. I must say I don't see how you can make duty out of that. It isn't wicked to kneel, is it? We will not discuss the subject, Laura, was Mr. Trecevon's lofty answer. Not at this time, at least. You seem to be in no mood for discussions of any sort. I'm not, quickly returned Mrs. Trecevon.  I always did.  That is the way that man talks.  I don't like such things. I don't see what is the use of them. If half that old man said tonight is true, then we are all simpletons together. Worse than simpletons, real wicked people, you and I, and everybody, because we don't live at all like what he said, and there's no use in talking about heaven being comforting. A great elegant palace wouldn't comfort me any if it were all bolted and barred, and I couldn't get in. And that's just the way it seems as if heaven was tonight. It never has comforted me much anyway, because one had to die before one could go there, and I always was afraid of dying. It seems perfectly dreadful. It seems worse than dreadful to me tonight. Everything is awful, and I don't know what is the matter with me anyway. In the poor little bit of weary, trembling flesh and blood, suddenly threw herself into a curled-up heap on the bed and sobbed outright. You are a marked specimen of the judiciousness of meetings of this sort, her husband said, regarding her complacently as a practical working out of his theory on the subject. Your nervous system has been all-unstrong, and your imagination excited to such a degree that you have no idea what you think or feel about anything, and this is just the sort of result that I have believed would be obtained by such unwise proceedings. I should advise you to bathe your eyes and head in something cooling and compose your mind for rest and sleep. I think your decision in regard to attending these meetings a wise one. Whatever may be said of their effect on the common mind, they evidently are not adapted to delicate, sensitive organizations. After this conversation, Mr. Trecevant, at least, was surprised to hear his wife the next afternoon negotiating with Anne, the favorite chambermaid, and Rossi's devoted admirer and slave, to take up her station beside the rose-lined crib for that evening. I shall not be late, Anne, she said, as that individual voluble poured forth her willingness to sit beside him until the day broke in the morning, with all her heart, sure. It will not be later than ten o'clock. I am only going around the corner to the Park Street Church. I thought you were not going to another of those meetings, her husband said questioningly, surprised in his eyes and voice, as the door closed after Anne. I'm going this evening, she answered quietly, a little flesh rising on her cheek in memory of her emphatic words of the evening before. I've changed my mind and decided that I want to go once more anyway. And Mr. Trecevant, not having the care of the young tyrant in the crib to quiet his conscience with, having no letters that demanded immediate answer, and being with all anxious to listen to another of those strangely massive, strangely simple sermons, decided to accompany her. The church was not less crowded than on the preceding evening. Indeed, the sea of heads seemed greater. The meeting was not less solemn. The solemnity seemed rather to have increased. There was no recourse but to take a very back seat this time, that being the only one left. Jim Forbes and Jenny Adams were occupying it in company with two others, and by dint of crowding and some uncomfortableness, they managed to make room for Mr. and Mrs. Trecevant. At the close of a sermon that had been addressed more to Christians than to the unconverted, Dr. Willis descended from the pulpit, and seeming to take in with his searching gaze each separate face in the mass before him, these were the words he said. I know there are some before me, members in good and regular standing of churches, whose hearts are heavy to night with a sense of unpardoned sin. They have no sense of the nearness of a Saviour, or if he seems near, his presence fills them with terror instead of joy. I know there are such in this congregation, I know there are such in this congregation, because of the conversation I have had with some of you, and because of other tokens which I will not stop now to explain. Now will not such listen to and heed the call that we give you tonight? Will you come forward to these vacant seats, and by your coming say, I want you to pray for me that I may find Jesus? Never mind how long you may have professed to know him, never mind how earnestly Satan may whisper to you that it will look very strange for a professing Christian to take such a step. You are not obliged to listen to Satan. Christ stands ready to make you free. My heart is burdened tonight for those in our churches who have a name to live, and who yet know nothing of the joy of salvation. Dear friends, let me beseech those of you who feel a lack in your religion, who feel that some way you do not possess your birthright, come and let us help you.  Oh no, you understand that as well as I do. There is no need for me to stop here to explain. Only how can we help you if we do not know who you are? And how much can you desire help if you are not willing to take so slight a means to secure it? Now while we sing one verse, will you come? And any also not calling themselves Christians, who have any desire in their hearts after Christ tonight, come and let us know it. Immediately they began to sing, Lord, I come to thee for rest. There was a movement in the seat at the end of which Mr. Tresivant sat. A lady in the corner signified her desire to pass out. It was necessary for them all to file into the aisle in order to give her an opportunity. Mr. Tresivant stood waiting in the aisle, visible annoyance on his face. He did not approve of this conspicuous and unwise invitation. The lady was out and moving forward, so were others from all parts of the house. The rest of the occupants were reseeded, all but Mrs. Tresivant and himself. She stood just ahead of him, apparently riveted to the spot. He touched her arm nervously. Attention was being directed to them.  Then suddenly she shook her head, and turning from him passed swiftly up the aisle and dropped into the end of the very foremost seat. Mr. Tresivant stood as if spellbound looking after her. Had one end of the massive church wall suddenly parted company with its surroundings and gone to the front, he would not for a moment have seemed more amazed. His wife gone forward in the Park Street Church to be prayed for, and he a minister of the gospel. Becoming suddenly aware of the fact that many eyes were on him, he precipitantly retired into his seat, feeling sorely tempted to take his hat and rush from the room, leaving his foolish wife to reach home as best she might. Very little further knowledge of the meeting did he possess. He devoted himself to his own thoughts and very gloomy ones they were. Bitterly did he regret not having prevailed upon his wife to remain at home. He pictured the scene that he should have with the excited, frightened, sobbing creature when once they were at home. He imagined her chagrin and annoyance, her vexation at him for not in some way checking her wild, heedless action, this part to come after the excitement had subsided. He groaned inwardly over the whole wretched business and the talk that would result from it. One of the hotel borders joined them in their short homeward walk, so there was no opportunity for special conversation. Arrived at the privacy of their own rooms, Mrs. Tressavon did not seem to be in haste to say anything. Neither did there seem to be any special excitement to subdue. She stood for some moments looking down on the fair treasure in the crib, then bent and pressed soft kisses on the sweet lips and flushed cheeks. Very quietly she disposed of her outside wrappings, then finally came over to the silent figure looking at space from out the depths of the rocking chair. Are you displeased at what I did to-night, Carol? She rested her hand half timidly on his arm and spoke in low gentle tones. I am very much amazed, he answered coldly. I was afraid you would be, but indeed I could not help it. I'll tell you all about it. I have thought all the week a great deal about these things, ever since I went to that first meeting. I began to understand that something about me was wrong. I knew I did not feel nor act like other Christians. You know, Carol, I was never a member of the church until a little while before we were married. Mama said I ought to be because I was going to marry a clergyman. I didn't understand about it, and Dr. Lawrence came to see me, and he seemed to think it was all right, and so, you know, I united with his church. But all this past summer there have been times when I have been very unhappy. Mrs. Sales made me so, frightened me a great many times. I did not understand her at all. She looked at everything from a different standpoint from me. For a long time I thought it was because she was such a peculiar woman, different from everyone else, and she used to provoke me because she was uncomfortably good. Then after Del Bronson came, that explanation did not do any longer, for she is just as different from Mrs. Sales as day is from night. And yet in those things, the way they talked about religion, you know, and the way they lived it, they were just alike. And I began to watch people, and I found a good many were like them.  But it used to vex me to think so. I wanted to believe that I was all right, and I tried hard to. But the very first evening that I went to the Park Street Church, I saw, oh, such a difference. I can't explain it to you. But I just knew that I had nothing in common with the Saviour about whom they were talking, and I was so very, very miserable. Again and again I would resolve not to go there, but something seemed to force me there against my will. Tonight the misery reached its climax, and I felt that I must do something. When Dr. Willis invited the people forward, he just described me, and something seemed to say to me that I must go. I thought I could not in my position, you know, and yet I felt that I should never have any peace again if I did not. I hope you are not offended with me, Carol. No, he said, in a voice still stiff and constrained. You, of course, had a right to do as you thought proper. And yet, Laura, if you felt the need of help, it seems only natural to me to think that I, your husband, could have helped you better than any of those strange ministers could possibly have done. Mrs. Tresavant drew a little sigh. It isn't that, Carol, she said earnestly. I haven't made you understand. I needed help. I felt it with all my heart. But not human help. I wanted to find the Lord. I knew he was precious to other people in a way that was all blind to me. And I thought if I cannot just go down a church aisle to show him how much in earnest I am, I cannot expect him to come to me. I remembered your position, Carol, and that was why I hesitated at all. But I thought I could not possibly disgrace it more than by living the sort of life I had. I thought a great many people would understand just how I felt and that in any case I must get rid of my dreadful burden or sink under it. And, Carol, I found help. Those ministers didn't help me that I know of, although I was very, very grateful to them for praying for me. But the Saviour himself came and sought me, and seemed to take hold of my hand. I gave myself to him as I never did before, and he gave me rest and peace. I think I shall be a different wife now, Carol. He drew her down to him and pressed his lips to her glowing cheek. You do not need to be, he said gently. You are very dear to me just as you are. He did not mean it, all of it. Not that he did not love his wife after a certain fashion, but there had been a hundred, perhaps a thousand things, that he had wished were different. There had been no end to the chances for improvement in her that he could see at times. But just then, with that soft new light glowing in her eyes, with a sort of childlike pathos in her voice, as she told over her simple solemn story, she had suddenly seemed unutterably dear to him. He watched her with a sort of half-reverence, as they went about preparing for the night. He recognized a new light in her face. She has certainly gone up higher, he said to himself. Yes, she had, gone even to the foot of the Cross of Christ, and found acceptance there. CHAPTER XXIX THE KING'S FAVOUR IS TOWARD A WISE SERVANT Mr. Raymond of Newton was concluding a letter to Mr. Edward Stockwell of Boston, a business letter it was. But the two gentlemen had been acquaintances of years standing, and were neither so intimate that he liked the look of sending to him a brief business epistle, such as very particular friends feel at perfect liberty to do when they get in a hurry, nor so unintimate that a brief formal note would be all that would be expected from him. So he hesitated, dipping his pen into the ink to save time, while he thought how he could best fill the few lines left on the page in a way to interest the Boston merchant. THE CHURCH? I, the very thing! Where was there a Church of Christ in which Mr. Stockwell was not interested? He dashed on again. You have doubtless heard of our interesting winter here, and the blessed results in our church. Our brother Parker carried away with him the prayers and the hearts of half the town. Dr. Willis has also concluded his labours among us and gone. We would gladly have kept him with us, but he was pledged to the west before he came as our supply, and only waited for spring in order to flit. Now we are sheep without a shepherd. There were just two lines more to fill. The pen paused an instant, then moved on. I suppose you have no valued protégé that you could highly recommend to us as a pastor, have you? Then came the yours truly, and the letter was hurriedly signed and sealed, receiving no further thought from Mr. Raymond. About that time, Del Bronson, in her back corner room at Mrs. Ainsley's, finished and directed a letter to her uncle, arose with it in her hand ready for sealing, and paused irresolute. Uncle Edward will think I am very uncommunicative and dignified with him, she said, receding herself. I'll just add a line. P.S. Mr. Nelson's engagement with the church he was supplying has closed somewhat earlier than he expected. The pastor returned from abroad about two months before the appointed time. Of course, the church invited Mr. Nelson to remain the full time, but there was no occasion for his doing so, and he felt that it would be better for all concerned to get permanently settled as soon as possible. His plans are indefinite for the future. I will endeavor to keep you posted in regard to them. Two days thereafter, these two letters came in with a half a score of others, and were laid on Mr. Edward Stockwell's office desk. He came to Mr. Raymond's first, made an item of the business answer to be made, then tumbled over the other business-looking documents in hope of news from Del, and finally drew out her letter. Ah, he said, with brightening face, having read the P.S., that is pleasant now. It is not often that question and answer comes so close together. That is just the church, and he is just the man. I'll write to Raymond immediately. It was all these apparently trivial circumstances combined that caused a quick, firm knock to be given one day at Mrs. Ainsley's kitchen door. Del Bronson, alone in the kitchen, stopped to rinse a bit of lemon juice from her hands before she answered it. A march day and very blustering, such a day as only sour, solemn march can produce. The winter had sped away. At least it was courtesy, and according to the Almanac, to call this month's spring, though never a sign of spring was to be seen, save one sure-footed, sad-voiced robin. Still, it was undeniable that many months of winter were gone, and Del still rained mistress of the Ainsley kitchen. Blessed rain! How the mistress in the parlor actually grew smiling and eager as she detailed to envious friends the story of her marvelous help, ending, however, with a sigh! The worst of it is, she is engaged, and I am living in torments every day for fear her intended will come in search of her. I have been in hopes they would quarrel or something, but I don't think they have, for the letters seem to come regularly, and Delia doesn't quarrel with anybody. Well, there had been changes. There was a great deal of comfort in that kitchen now, so neat and bright and clean, it had unquestionably brightened the lives of both Mr. and Mrs. Ainsley to be able to take their meals in cleanliness and peace, to say nothing of the dainty dishes that the cook knew how to concoct. There had been more marked changes than these. Of a stormy evening when Mrs. Ainsley was alone and felt particularly lonely, she had fallen into the habit of opening the kitchen door just as Del was preparing to ascend the stairs and saying, Bring your sewing into the sitting-room, Delia, the wind blows so it makes me feel dismal to be all alone. During these evenings she talked much of the little Lori who had died. She showed Del the little white dress that he had worn the last time she took him to walk with her, and Del, tender tears in her eyes, could not resist speaking of the beautiful white dress that he wore in heaven.  It all seemed so unreal to me. And this gave opportunity for another chance word to drop, and so gradually they fell into the habit of talking about these things during many a stormy evening, and occasionally when Del dusted the morning-room there would be an open Bible, sometimes with a verse marked. Once it was, suffer the little children and forbid them not to come unto me, for of such is the kingdom of heaven. At another time I shall go to him. So slowly but surely Del felt that little Lori was leading his mother home, and what Christian heart will fail to understand the thrill of joy that it gave her to be permitted to point the way. Other things there were to be grateful for, Harry, the slatteringly girl, whose name was Harriet, and who assured Del that folks called her Harry for short, had certainly been a trial, good-humored bright enough, but hopelessly careless and indifferent alike to herself and her lot. You should have seen Harry that day when she ran to her room about five minutes before dinner was sent in, and came back with her brown hair smooth and shining, and her white apron neatly ruffled, bib and all, immaculate in its purity. She was certainly a joy to Del's heart. A very slow growth had been these changes, dating their starting point in an effort to please the only one with whom she had ever come in close contact who had not called her an awful, slovenly-looking thing. But Del had worked for more than the smooth hair and white apron, worked almost hopelessly, because of Harry's utter unconcern. Yet will she ever forget that winter evening when she sat alone in her own room writing to Mr. Nelson that Harry, actually remembering first to knock, came in with glowing cheeks and stammering tongue and finally a burst of honest tears to say that she wanted to be good if she could only find out how? With what alacrity was that unfinished letter pushed aside for this more important matter? With what simple earnestness did she go over and over the few plain steps to take in order to reach the never-failing way? Oh, it was a well-remembered evening, an evening to be thankful for during all her future life, for Harry's face was bright next morning, and she said, as Del stopped on her way downstairs to waken her, I'm awake and I'll be in time, you needn't be afraid, and it's just as you said, he loves me, I feel it all over me, and I'll love you forever that I will. Faults Harry certainly had not left yet. Most people had, Del reflected, yet the transformation was plain enough for Mrs. Ainsley to remark to her husband. If anybody wants to be convinced that there is actually such a thing as a religion that makes people over, they have only to live five months in this house with a girl like Harry Jones as she was, and then three months with her as she is. I don't think it's religion so much as it is that cook, Mr. Ainsley remarked, as he helped himself to another piece of the cook's orange pie. Well, Mrs. Ainsley said thoughtfully, what makes her so different from other people? Ah, answered Mr. Ainsley, there you have me. I believe it's her religion, his wife said emphatically, and Harry has the same thing. She tries to please me nowadays, she never did that before. Ye are my witnesses, sayeth the Lord. Well, there came that firm knock at the kitchen door, and Del, drying her hands, opened it.  And then the ludicrous predominated, and she left outright and merrily. Mrs. Ainsley's daily torment had actually arrived. In he came with a serial comic look on his face, and meekly took a seat on the wooden chair. Homer, what possessed you to come around to the back door? She presently asked him. Didn't you write me that you always came around and gave me a flourishing account of the walk that you had laid there too? You didn't suppose that I was going to patronize the front walk after that, I hope? Oh, Homer! she said, the absurdity of her position overcoming her once more. You'll have to eat at the second table with Harry and me. Certainly, he answered briskly. I'm glad you'll kindly sit down with us. I thought you were going to leave the me out. I hope Harry has her hair combed for the occasion. Her hair is looking beautiful. She is a very nice girl. Do you know, I've just thought, I'll have to ask Mrs. Ainsley's permission before I can give you any dinner. This last was too much for their mutual gravity. Such an honored guest as Mr. Nelson had been in her uncle Edward's city home. Harry came out from the dining room for something that was wanted, and eyed them curiously, the gentleman with a somewhat ostrick in air. On her return she left the door ajar. Who is in the kitchen? they heard Mrs. Ainsley's voice inquire, and Harry's promptly answer. A man. To see Delia? Yes, ma'am. Mrs. Ainsley's sigh was distinctly audible. Just as I expected, she groaned. That is certainly more than I can say, murmured Del, and Mrs. Ainsley continued. Now there will be no more peace for me, and I actually don't see how I can keep house without her. If you please, ma'am, chimed in Harry's voice, I guess it's her minister come to see her. Not the slightest doubt about that was Mr. Nelson's emphatic comment than Mrs. Ainsley. Nonsense, it is much more likely to be her lover. What remarkable powers of penetration that woman possesses. Mr. Nelson said this in a voice so nearly allowed that Del went in a panic and closed the dining room door. Now before the bewildered Harry appears to us again, let us talk business, Mr. Nelson said briskly. Do you know what I've come for? I thought possibly to see me. More than that, I've come after you. After me, in an amazed voice and with glowing cheeks. Just that, I'm on my way to Newton, invited there to preach in the Park Street Church next sabbath through your instrumentality, I fancy. And to ensure my welcome in certain quarters, I concluded to stop on my way and carry you with me. But Homer, I can't possibly go. It wouldn't be just to Mrs. Ainsley. Didn't you hear her say she couldn't keep house without me? Neither can I, so it's only a choice between persons. Ah, but, said Del, blushing and laughing, you have no house to keep. I don't see how I can take a vacation just now. She is expecting company, and it would disappoint her very much. That is only a question of degree. Pray how much will it disappoint me if you don't go? The dishes began to pour out now from the dining room. There was no chance for further talk. Mrs. Ainsley summoned Del to her room and anticipated some of her troubles. Bring your friend into dinner, Delia. She was not want to be so thoughtful. Is he your particular friend? And as Del bowed in answer with very fiery cheeks, I must get a peep at him. Harry thinks he looks like a minister. Delia, I hope he hasn't come after you. This was as good an opportunity as any, and Del explained. He is going to visit among my friends at Newton for a few days, and they would like me to come if you can spare me. Delia, what? Right away? Oh, that is just impossible. You know I am going to have company.  I could get Mrs. Smiley to come in by the day, but I would much rather have you even than her, and she is a professional cook. But then you have been just as good and faithful as you could be. I never had such help before. Yes, Delia, you may go. I declare I'll put up with it. And Del thanked her a triumphant light in her eyes, partly because of the pleasure in store, and partly because of this new evidence of growth. Mrs. Ainsley had triumphed over her besetting sin. The dinner passed off triumphantly, Mr. Nelson keeping up such a series of polite attentions to Harry as to keep her in a bashful giggle of delight. But the climax was to come after dinner, when the lady of the house came to get her peep. Del in her plain neat calicoes and ruffles had been sufficiently bewildering. But she had often seen the spectacle of pretty, ladylike girls bestowing themselves on blundering worthy farmers. So when she came out to give kindly patronage to Delia's friend, and was confronted by the tall form and cultured face of Mr. Nelson with his unmistakable broadcloth and his unmistakably ministerial air, something of the same awe that had beset Harry overcame her, and the patronage was decidedly on his side. You don't understand it in the least, Del said merrily, as Mr. Nelson having gone downtown, she awaited his return in the dining-room, herself ready dressed for a journey, and Mrs. Ainsley hovering nervously around. No, I don't, that lady answered, relieved of this opportunity of speaking her mind. Is he really a minister, and who are you anyway? He is really a minister, and I am a good honest girl, I hope, with a good honest name, Delia Bronson. Mrs. Ainsley's puzzled face did not look relieved. But I don't understand, she repeated. If you are really a poor girl, how are you mixed up with him? Delia, I'm afraid he is deceiving you. Del laughed outright. She could afford to. This was genuine anxiety for her welfare, not unkind curiosity. Dear Mrs. Ainsley, she said merrily, why should you be so dismayed?  Why should the fact that I cook your meals and make your pies be so formidable and obstacle? But it is so very unusual, Mrs. Ainsley said, still looking troubled. I know, people seem to have gotten the impression that potatoes and turnips and onions are very degrading things. It isn't that either. I might cook them by the bushel in my father's house and still marry a minister if he asked me. Nothing is more common. But because I cook them in yours, the thing becomes degrading. Aren't the distinctions of society comical things, Mrs. Ainsley? That lady actually laughed. It does seem absurd, she admitted. At least you put the matter in an absurd light, or else, dear me, I don't know what I think. There are not many girls like you, Delia. No, said Del, frankly, that I'll admit. I've had different advantages from most of those who go out to service. I was brought up by my uncle, a wealthy man. He lost his fortune. I was thrown on my own resources.  I had other resources from the one I chose, but I wanted to discover for myself what was the reason that so many good, competent cooks would rather starve than do that sort of work. I wanted, for my future benefit, to come in contact with that sort of life, and I'm not in the least sorry that I tried it.  Del laughed. Well, not just yet, she said brightly. I'll come back after my week's holiday and make you some bewildering cake in time for the sociable. Well, Del said with her merriest laugh. What is it? I know you think something is out of order. They were standing in the depot waiting for the train, and Mr. Nelson, all unconsciously, had been surveying her from head to foot with the most perplexed air. He joined in her laugh before he explained. I don't in the least know what it is. You certainly look very neat and proper in every respect, and yet you look very unlike yourself. I'm dressed in a manner befitting my station in life, if you please. She answered him, dropping the weasest bit of a mock courtesy as she spoke. Without an unnecessary ruffle or tuck or puff, and your solemn look of bewilderment only served to show how utterly unprepared you gentlemen are for having the ladies practice in the matter of dress, what you are forever preaching. That's an unjust statement. My look may have been bewildered, but not solemn. I honestly think you look very nice, and I should very soon become accustomed to it. The only present difficulty is that it simply isn't you. But I should quarrel with one statement. Is there any reason why an unnecessary ruffle or tuck should be proper on the dress of a lady who sits down to her sewing in the afternoon, having prepared her own dinner in the morning, and highly improper for a lady who sits at her sewing of an afternoon, having prepared Mrs. Ainsley's dinner in the morning? Not in the slightest was Dell's prompt answer, but that is my concession to the existing sentiment on the subject, and that is my conclusion in regard to this bewildering social question. If certain mistresses and certain maids could be brought together, and each side be persuaded to make about six concessions, the millennial day would have dawned for those two classes of martyrs. Behold Dell the next morning in her old room under the sales family roof, making ready for the somewhat late breakfast, a rich soft cashmere morning robe enveloping her once more, trailing gracefully behind her. Her hair in its old accustomed waves, everything about her in exquisite taste and keeping. She smiled to herself at the thought of the ridiculous figure she would make getting breakfast in Mrs. Ainsley's kitchen in this attire. There was evidently a fitness in things. She smiled again when she met Mr. Nelson in the hall, felt rather than saw his rapid survey, and beheld his satisfied air. He evidently considered her as being herself. The foolish man hadn't the least idea that it would swallow three times his probable salary to keep Dell looking as her uncle's millions had done. It was well for him that his promised wife thoroughly understood the situation, and also had a sense of the fitness of things.