Chapter 15 of Esther Reads' Namesake. Esther's face flushed, and she waited with an eagerness that would have surprised him for Mr. Langham's answer.  Oh, yes, the professor said indulgently. Conversion is a good orthodox word, though we don't hear it tossed about as carelessly as it used to be. It simply means getting religion, Ms. Farnham. Then what do both of them mean? The professor glanced whimsically at Mr. Vaughn. Clearly his companion wasn't earnest, and was not to be turned aside from a theological discussion merely for the sake of a visit with him. Then he gave himself to the business of answering. Both of them mean simply an effort of the will, a distinct decision, such a decision as settles the question involved for all time, so that it is not open again for consideration. Is that clear? Not very. Human wills are like all other human things, unstable affairs. What I will today I am as likely as not to unwill tomorrow without anything to justify it except a change of mood. How is one to settle anything for all time? If Mr. Langham had been looking at Esther just then, he would not have understood the intensity of interest that her face expressed. But he did not see it. He had turned toward the back seat and was regarding faith with questioning eyes. Do you mean that seriously, Ms. Farnham? We have a great many vacillating minds to deal with, it is true. But I should be sorry to think that all or even most human wills were such untrustworthy affairs. Do not you know scores of people who make decisions and can be trusted not to swerve from them by so much as a hair's breadth unless something occurs to throw new light on the situation? Oh yes, of course, but I am not now thinking of trained minds or of highly cultivated ones. Think of the masses, those whom we are pleased to call the common people. Malindi and her family for instance, though I think they are very uncommon people, but they are ignorant and not in our sense of the word trained to think. Yet here is some influence or some power which seems to have worked a complete change in their lives. How shall it be accounted for? If it is simply a change of will, that doesn't relieve the situation. How came they to will to change? Or, having willed, how is it that they can control their actions and above all their speech so as never to slip back for an hour to their old selves? That girl's mother says she is as different from what she used to be as though she were two girls. Ah, said Mr. Langham, now you touch a subject about which we still know so little that we may account it ignorance. Influences so subtle as to be unrecognizable, reaching back for one does not know how many generations, have been working their mysterious wills in conjunction with the wills of those who perhaps have never heard of them. It is an interesting and complex subject, but I do not believe we can manage it today to your satisfaction. Clearly this was intended for dismissal, but Esther could not forbear one question. Do you leave out the supernatural altogether from such changes as Faith has mentioned? The Professor considered. Well, not altogether, of course, he said thoughtfully. The All-Father looks after his creatures in more minute ways than we shall probably ever fully understand. I have no doubt but that he will do his part in the world's work whatever it is. Faith made a movement of impatience. But, I beg your pardon, Professor Langham, but I can't help feeling that that is simply begging the whole question. What I want to know is, what do you, what do the people who call themselves Christian in distinction from us outsiders, think has happened to an entire family when each member of it makes, in a given time and not at the same time, a sudden and radical and lasting change in his life? They call it regeneration, said Esther firmly. Faith turned upon her quickly. And what prey is regeneration? Both men laughed and Mr. Von spoke gaily. Now Miss Randall, confess yourself non-plust. But Esther went back to the Sunday afternoons of her childhood and repeated quietly. Regeneration is the radical and permanent moral change brought in the spiritual nature of a man by the Holy Spirit when he becomes a Christian, and added, I learned that when I was eight years old.  I don't know, said Faith. I don't suppose that at eight such words were much harder to learn than entry-mentory-cuttery corn and dozens of others that we rattled off and have forgotten. But Esther's long words seemed to have served a good turn in helping her to have an intelligible answer to a question. At least I suppose it is intelligible to people who believe such things. Say it again, Esther, please, and let us have a slower movement until I see if I can grasp it. But here Mr. Langham interposed with decision. Now see here, good people, we are out for a rest of mind and body, and if we persist in carrying textbook and argumentative debate along with us, we might as well have stayed in the laboratory. Let us cease to be learned or even rational, and go in for what the youngsters call a jolly good time. Had he really begged the question, as Faith had hinted, or was he simply bent on a holiday? Did he hold to those old-standard truths, or had he modern views of even the way of salvation? These questions Esther pondered, though joining outwardly in the gaiety that immediately prevailed. At last, annoyed by the constantly recurring questions, she asked herself irritably why she cared what he thought and did not answer herself. One fact was plain to her that she did care a great deal. If Mr. Armitage had been going to preach on that Sunday morning, he would have felt flattered by the size of his audience. At all times recognized as the popular preacher of the town, empty or even half-filled pews rarely disturbed his vision. But on this June morning every available seat was filled, even to the aisle-chairs which were fastened to the pews, and it was becoming apparent that very soon mere standing-room would be denied to late-comers. What a crowd! whispered the habitual attendance one to another, distastefully, and they waved their fans vigorously and wished that the ushers would not jam more people into a seat than could possibly breathe there. It is a sad fact that elegant toilets were much crushed that day. The college turned out in full force this morning, was the comment of one young man who lighted his cigar almost before he cleared the church steps. Yes, said his friend, a regular crush, and it was all to hear a fellow who can't hold a candle to Armitage. I can't imagine why the prex made such a fuss over his coming. I didn't see anything remarkable in the morning's effort, did you? I am sure he was remarkable for perseverance, was the reply, accompanied by an expressive shrug of shapely shoulders. His friend laughed. Yes, he certainly had the gift of continuance if ever a fellow had. Who is he, Parker, and what is he here for? He is a college professor, comes from New England, I think, or New York, somewhere about there. I didn't hear the prex's harangue, you know. As nearly as I can make out, the special object of his visit here at this time is to comfort the soul of Professor Welland. Viewed from a religious standpoint, he thinks we are all going to the dogs together, and this McIntyre, was that his name, is expected to arrest the downward trend. Oh, he is? Well, I don't see how. He seemed to me to be serving up a lot of warmed-over platitudes that I have heard ever since I was a small boy, mixed up with a fanatical sensationalism that belongs to the renter rather than to the college bread. However, that is a style which I should think would just suit Professor Welland. What an old fossil he is. Look here, millers. Suppose you and I go down this afternoon by the 518 train. We shall be in time for a stroll in the park and dinner at the club, and there is to be glorious music at the Allerton tonight. Some oratorio, I forget what, but it is sure to be fine. That will arrest a downward trend much quicker than Professor McIntyre's harangue, I am sure. The two laughed and sauntered on, planning their evening's amusement. Just behind them walked Esther Randall, near enough to have heard their words had she been giving them attention, but she had not even noticed their presence. Mind and heart were absorbed in another direction. Whether or not this young woman was on the downward trend, her thoughts at least had been arrested. She could not have explained why every sentence in the address that morning had probed to her very soul, but never in her life had she listened to words that seemed so to search her. If the speaker had known her whole life history, may even the very thoughts of her heart, such as were known only to God, he could not have spoken more directly to her.  As he described the wretchedness of those who are forever reconsidering, retesting the same truths, hesitating, arguing, doubting, Esther saw herself held up before herself for consideration. As he spoke briefly and eloquently of that other high road where walked the few who had settled some things and carried about with them a determining principle to act as a test thermometer on matters that came up for decision, Esther felt that he was describing not her, but her father. She lost herself then for a little, going over once more the old conflict between her religion and her theory of religion. When her attention returned to the speaker, he was quoting from Dr. Watson's Dynamics of Religion wherein he shows that love to Christ, supreme, all-pervading, was ever and must ever be the dynamic force in religion. Listen, said the speaker, to Dr. Watson's word about Jesus Christ. It was Jesus who summoned love to meet the severe demands of faith and wedded for the first time the ideas of passion and righteousness. Jesus identifies righteousness with himself and has brought it to pass that no man can love him without loving righteousness. He quoted the entire passage and then threw all the enthusiasm of his young strong nature into a description of the kind of living there would be with Jesus enthroned in the heart, if in short one really had a passion for Christ. Suddenly, as if she were a central figure in the picture he was sketching, appeared to Esther a vision of Melindy. Melindy was an illustration of his subject. Melindy had a passion for Christ. She loved him with a fervor that kept all other passions in the background. Not only that, but if any of them were found to be antagonistic to Christ, Esther felt instinctively that the girl would annihilate them. She had seen her face one day when she was studying a copy of Hoffman's Christ that Faith Farnham had sent her. What there was in Melindy's face that day Esther coveted. She saw herself plainly revealed as one who had been trying fitfully and faultily to live righteousness without having been first really wedded to Jesus with such a passion of self renouncing love as should absorb all other loves and plans and hopes. The next question that took hold of her with something like indignation was, why should Melindy, the untrained illiterate girl, have come suddenly into this rich experience while she, the child of many prayers, with generations behind her of stand Christians to do for her all that heredity could do, was still after almost a decade of Christian profession floundering in the questionings and perplexities of a beginner. Not even like a beginner. Was it to be supposed that Melindy ever questioned? Did she have days when she knew she had disgraced her profession at almost every turn and ill-treated her Lord? Esther, who had seen the girl but three times in her life, felt certain that no such days came to her. Why was it? Could it be that there was something about this matter of conversion that she with all her early education in the catechism and its proof texts did not understand and Melindy did? Self-surrender. The speaker had repeated the phrase several times in those sentences which probed. Theoretically, she knew just what it meant. As a personal matter, did she understand and accept it? All the while she was moving rapidly about Mrs. Victor's kitchen, giving skilled attention to the preparation of an excellent dinner, this undercurrent of thought flowed on. It kept her grave and more silent than usual. Miss Victor, who was helping with the dessert, noticed this and was oppressed by it. At the dinner table she commented, That solemn-faced girl out there has made me so nervous just in working with her for a half hour that I feel as though I should fly. Mother, aren't you glad that it is almost time for college to close so that you can be done with her? Mrs. Victor heaved a weary sigh. Oh, I don't know. Esther is trying in some respects and yet I don't know what I shall do without her. She has some excellent qualities. She is thorough in all that she undertakes and can be relied upon implicitly to do as she is directed. Humpf! said the son of the house. I should think such qualities would offset any amount of glumness and even an occasional flash of gunpowder it would with men. I think as much, said his father. You had better tried to hold on to her through the vacation. A college student who is thorough and conscientious about such common place affairs as housework is rare I fancy. Try her with an offer at least. Her father is bound to be poor since he is a home missionary, and she can save a good deal simply by staying where she is to say nothing of paying her wages. She won't stay, said Mrs. Victor gloomily. She told Selma the other day that she was counting the hours now. This sentence Esther heard as she came with the coffee. She surmised what the talk had been, and said softly and firmly, quite to herself. No, indeed she won't. You may be sure of that. Instead of seeking her accustomed Sunday afternoon nook, a corner of the nearly always deserted side veranda, Esther established herself in front of her one window. The day was warm and her room was on the third floor, but it had only a northern exposure, and she had persuaded herself that the heat was not too great for endurance. Whether it was or not, she felt that she must be alone. Grave interests were at stake. Instinctively she realised that her life had reached a crisis. Some questions must be settled now for all time. So that, as Professor Langham had phrased it, it would not be open again for consideration. The unhappiness and unfruitfulness of her present way of living were so marked that it needed no argument to convince her of the necessity for a change. Never, since she had realised that, whether she would or not, she must influence others more or less, had she felt her worthlessness so fully. Making the acquaintance of Malindi, and watching Faith's growing interest in the girl, had roused her. It became evident that Faith's interest was not simply due to the fact that here was a girl of about her own age, environed by new and strange conditions. It was the mountain girl's religious experience that had fascinated her. She could not get away from it, but talked about the girl incessantly and wondered over her. I should like to try her, she said, in an entirely different atmosphere, school life for instance. Do you know she wants to study? She told me so the last time I was there. What do you think is her chief reason? She comes across verses in her Bible that she doesn't understand, and if she could study and learn, of course she would know what they mean. College life would be a revelation to her, wouldn't it? Just what do you mean by that? Esther had asked. Don't you think that education helps people to understand the Bible? Why, in a way, yes, it ought to, of course, but if one may judge by lives, what most educated people seem to learn about the Bible is that the English language doesn't mean what the English language seems to say. You have a poor opinion of Christian people, haven't you? Oh, no, no indeed. They are a very good sort of people, those whom I know, delightful to visit with, but not one wit different so far as I can see, from scores of others who make no professions, and their code of rules, judging from their textbook, seems to require a very different kind of living. Esther, my dear, don't look reproachful. I am not cabling. It is all a mystery to me, and one over which I am curious. Until I met our friend Melindy, I never saw anyone in my life who seemed to have taken squarely hold of the Bible with a determination to live it. You have been unfortunate in your acquaintances, Esther said coldly, and faith had made haste to reply. I presume that is true in the sense in which you mean. I don't know many Christians intimately.  But on the surface, there is really a marked difference between Melindy and all the other girls I know who have got religion. What I cannot help wondering about is whether or not it is her isolation and ignorance that makes the difference. If it is, it would be a pity to educate her, wouldn't it? For at present she certainly has a superstition, or whatever you call it, about the Bible and the chief character in it, and the unseen world in general, that I cannot help but admire. There are even times when I envy her. Such had been Faith's confession, and her sore-hearted friend, as she recalled it, told herself that if her life were what it should be, she could have influenced faith even as Melindy had with a clearer knowledge of the way. But her life was not what it should be, and her influence, what little she had exerted, had been against rather than for the doctrines which she professed. That word influence recalled again the speaker of the morning, and one sentence in his address that had increased her personal interest. He had spoken at length and with impressive earnestness to the students especially of the influence that they were without doubt exerting, and the certainty that it would be lasting, and would reach, they could not tell wither. In the way of illustration he had spoken of himself. He told them that his entire life had been colored, perhaps it was not too much to say changed, from what would in all probability have been its natural current by the influence of one young woman whom he not only never saw, but who died many years before he was born, and was only nineteen when she died. She was beloved by his mother, who was then a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl, with a devotion and a passion which had unmistakably become a part of her life, and helped to make of her the woman and the mother that she was. Naturally this statement had intense interest for Esther Randall. Here were this man's mother and her father influenced for life by a woman who was only nineteen when she died. How could she help wondering whether possibly this mother's friend had been named Esther Reid? True, she had smiled at the romantic turn her thoughts had taken, and brought them promptly back to the speaker and his theme. But the incident returned to her memory to add another sting to her self-reproachful thoughts. What if she had been such a Christian as that Esther Reid? Then faith would not have had to wait for that untrained mountain girl to show her what was meant by getting religion. What is the trouble with me, she said aloud, dreary discouragement in her voice. Why is it that I am as I am? I believe in the doctrines in which I have been trained. I have not a shadow of doubt as to Jesus Christ being a savior for sin, nor as to my need of a savior. More than that, I believe that I am saved.  Yet my religion does not satisfy me, and I am not living it. I am a daily, hourly disgrace to the one who has saved me. I know this, yet it does not make me miserable. It does not take even so important a place in my daily thought as the question of how I shall get some decent clothes for next year, or what I shall wear during commencement week, or whether I was foolish in declining Professor Langham's invitation to the matinee, or what I shall do if he should invite me again, or a dozen other trivialities. What can it be that makes the difference between that girl in the woods and me? Over and over in her troubled mind, this train of thought revolved. Gradually the conviction grew upon her that, while she had recognized Jesus Christ as her savior, and based on him her hope of heaven, she had never enthroned him in her heart so that to find out his will and do it was the passion of her life. Instead, what had she been doing all her life but trying to compromise? Simple and quiet as her environment had always been, she knew that what the Bible meant by the world had taken hold of her in various forms, and held her from that close relationship with Christ which her father craved for her. She had known all the while what he meant, even when she had pushed the thought from her with the petulant cry, I don't understand what he wants of me. On this soul-searching day, her here-to-for-adult conscience told her plainly that such words had not been true. She was a carefully trained girl and knew intellectually a good deal of theology. She went to her knees at last, only to find that even prayers seemed to be denied her. Familiar with Bible stories from her childhood, one of them flashed before her now, and the words insisted on repeating themselves in her mind. There was no voice nor any that answered. Was that really to be her experience? But that was a false God, she said desperately. Yes, a voice seemed to say to her, but here is a false disciple. Can you think that the true God waits always upon the moods and whims of those who profess to be his followers, yet who daily disregard his directions and slight his calls? Whose voice was this? Could it be that the Lord Christ had cast her off as a worthless branch? Esther Randall never forgot the two hours that she spent in her room on that warm Sunday afternoon. When not on her knees, she was walking up and down the narrow space in almost a frenzy of terror and dismay. Was it possible that she could never pray anymore? Were such experiences possible in these days? Had God indeed cast her off forever? At last weary of beating against the bars of her own thoughts, all spent with weeping, something like the feeling that must have taken possession of one of the Lord's poor sinners of long ago when he cried out, cast me not away from thy presence, swept in upon her, and she knew that she wanted Christ, wanted him more than all else in the world. Long before this, it seemed to her on that June day that it was hundreds of years ago, there had been given to Esther by a visiting evangelist what he called a consecration card, part of which read, upon my knees in thy presence I do now give myself to thee, and I do this freely, honestly, deliberately, and forever. As a child she had read the words again and again, but dimly comprehending their meaning. They came back to her now and were understood in their fullness. For the first time in her life they seemed to express her thought, her desire. She said the words aloud very deliberately. She knew that she meant them, even though he did not answer her, could not answer because her unworthiness had built a wall between them, yet she must serve him. Suddenly she laid her hand on the chair before which she was kneeling, and let the tears that seemed to be choking her have their way. They quieted her, or something quieted her. She felt a great peace as a river flowing into her soul. The Lord Christ was no longer a master looking down upon her in stern disapproval from a faraway height. He was near, close at hand. She could almost touch the hem of his garment. Grieved he was by her treatment of him, yet forgiving, tender, wonderful in his love, all her soul went out to meet him, and she knew that he was from henceforth not simply her king to receive royal service, but her friend and companion. Words found on a little leaflet and treasured in her Bible came to mind to voice her thought. She said the lines exultingly, Out of the hardness of heart and of will, out of the longings which nothing could fill, out of the bitterness, madness, and strife, out of myself and all I called life, into the halving of all things with him, into an ecstasy full to the brim, wonderful lowliness draining my cup, wonderful purpose that near gave me up, wonderful patience enduring and strong, wonderful glory to which I belong. Amount of transfiguration. Some of us have spent single hours there, and we know that the everyday life flows in full soon. Esther Randall had but scant time with her new joy, before the world and a temptation called her. It was Selma Victor who knocked at her door with a message. Professor Langham is waiting to see you, Miss Randall. He is in a great hurry. I don't know whether he wants you to elope with him immediately or not, but he looks as though he might be planning something of the kind. Ordinarily this flippant address would have annoyed Esther, but her descent to earth was so sudden that she felt only bewilderment. She had been asleep, I guess, Selma reported to her mother, and she is only about half awake now. She looked at me as though I was a piece of a dream. Esther heard this and smiled. She is right, she told herself softly. I have been asleep, but I am awake now. Professor Langham was undoubtedly in haste. I must beg your pardon for abruptness, he said, and make known my errand as speedily as possible. The situation is this. I have been trying during the past week to secure seats to the oratorio this evening and have failed. But tonight's mail brought a delayed letter from a friend who had succeeded in getting me two tickets. Now the question is, will you waive the ordinary proprieties and make all speed with me to the 7-10 train? We shall be less than fifteen minutes late at the Allerton, even if they are very prompt in opening, and we can return by the midnight train. For a moment Esther stood before him as one dazed. This was so sudden and unexpected a plunge into the world. Sunday evening, she said at last, and her tone made the two words expressive. Yes, this evening, it is an oratorio, you know, one of the finest. The Madame Shriver is the chief soloist. It is a rare occasion, you see. But Mr. Langham, it is a Sunday train. He smiled patiently. Certainly, he said, one could hardly go into town on Sunday without taking a Sunday train. My dear Miss Randall, you surely do not object to an hour's ride on the cars less than an hour indeed. Not so long a trip as hundreds of Christian people who live in town are compelled to take every Sunday by trolley in order to reach their churches. Why should you consider steam so much greater a sinner than electricity? I do not, said Esther quickly. I don't ride on trolley cars on Sunday. He looked his astonishment tinged with amusement. But, my dear friend, you cannot think it wrong to do so. Would not such a position be taken at the expense of setting one's individual judgment against that of hundreds of our best people? If the professor had not been in haste, he would not have ventured so careless an argument. Esther smiled as she answered. I cannot, of course, decide questions for hundreds of people. I find quite enough to do in looking after myself. But just now I am not called upon to consider the matter of the trolley for the purpose of getting to church every Sunday. I believe the question is with regard to going away from my church by train to attend a concert. That at least is plain to me. He almost interrupted her in his eagerness to get in his next word before she committed herself to a positive statement. Miss Randall, there isn't time for a discussion. When there is, I think I can make some things plain to you. Meantime I am going to ask a favor. Will you defer all further consideration of the matter and go with me this evening? Because I wish it very much and would not enjoy the oratorio without you, and because I want to take this opportunity to tell you something that is of great importance to me? His entire manner had changed. That calm superiority with which she had always felt impressed was disturbed. He was intensely in earnest, and he threw a meaning into his words that she could not but understand. End of Chapter 16, Recording by Tricia G. Chapter 17 of Esther Reid's Namesake. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Esther Reid's Namesake by Pansy. Chapter 17, Discipline. Esther grew very pale as she stood looking at her collar. If she trusted him at all, she could not misunderstand him. And she could not but feel that her decision involved more, much more, than a Sunday evening concert, and that the test of her sincerity had come soon and with force. But there was no hesitation in her thoughts. She had never seen what she believed to be her duty more plainly. Her manner was very gentle as she replied. She felt that he had been compelled by circumstances to say more to her than at that time he had meant to do, and she was willing to let him see that she suffered with him in his disappointment. I cannot do that, Mr. Langham, because I do not think that for me it would be right. And however narrow my sense of right may be, I am sure that you would not ask me to violate it. He was deeply hurt, as showed in his eyes. He could not enter into her world just then, even for a moment, and realize that this which seemed so trivial to him was really a matter of conscience to her. What he felt was that, although he had spoken so plainly, she was not willing to put aside a prejudice for his sake. He had no further word that he was willing to speak. Even at that moment a warning whistle in the near distance told them both that there was barely ten minutes left for those who would make the seven-ten train. So if no other fare well than a grave bow, Mr. Langham turned and walked rapidly away. Esther stood for several seconds where he had left her. Then she went out to the quiet corner of the porch. What had she done? Had he meant? What else could he have meant but that which his eyes and voice told her? And she had sent him away grieved, hurt, offended, probably, beyond all recall. No, said her heart, not if he really cares for me. So small a matter would not be allowed to come between us. If I thought he would cast aside a friend merely because she could not accept an evening's invitation, he would probably not be worthy of another thought. If it can be possible that I understood him, he will come back. And surely he meant me to understand. I can make it plain to him what I think, what I mean, and together we—she broke off to laugh a low happy laugh. How swiftly she was moving in thought. She heard the train whistle shriek and pause for a moment, then with another warning shriek rush away. She wondered if he were on it and if he would find someone in town upon whom to bestow that other ticket. There had not been time to fill her place from the multitudes of college girls who would have been more than willing to go. Was she glad of that? Faith would have gone. Could she possibly be glad that faith had missed it? How horribly selfish she must be growing. Whoever he found would not hear those words that he had wanted to say. They were for her alone, and at thought of them the happy look deepened in her eyes. Then she had a single sigh for herself. She wished that Sunday trains were right. Perhaps they were. Perhaps she was narrow as so many of her friends thought. Perhaps even though principles as her father was fond of saying never changed, circumstances and environment did, so as to make acts that in certain conditions were wrong bright enough under others. Of course that was so. Well then, she wished that this act could have seemed right to her. What a wonderful thing it would have been to have closed this wonderful Sunday under the spell of such music, and in such companionship her heart added softly. It would have been an uplift for the week. Then she remembered that she had had her uplift. Yes, and she had companionship, even the Lord Christ. The thought throbbed through her frame like some powerful elixir. It was new, very new, this realization that she could have intimate and constant companionship with the Lord. She had never so understood it. The first ecstasy of her new experience passed, but the assurance and the peace remained. At last Esther had learned how to pray. It did not seem to her that she would be likely to forget it. She tried to write out for her mother and father the history of that marked Sunday, but it puzzled her to tell it. What was the experience through which she had passed? Had she just been converted? Why, no, no indeed. Long ago Jesus Christ accepted her as his child. Then this was what? Had she wandered? Not outwardly. Instead she had been called straight laced. But she had never been genuinely happy in her religion, nor satisfied because of it. Now she was. Would it last? She believed that it would. She felt as sure of it as Melindi had. But what proof had she for others? It was while she was revolving these thoughts that she came upon a scrap of verse copied into a newspaper that sounded to her like a call to service. Be what thou seemest, live thy creed. Hold up to earth the torch divine. Be what thou prayest to be made. Let the great masters step, be thine. What wonderful suggestions of possibilities were here? Esther's whole being thrilled with a new ambition. Live thy creed. If she only had, she knew much about creeds. Her own was built on a solid foundation and would have served her well. Be what thou prayest to be made? Oh, if she only could. She was praying a wonderful prayer in these days. She decided that she would not try to write anything about it. There was really nothing that could be told. She was going home soon to live it. Could she make them understand simply by watching her life? That would be a life worthwhile. Poor father, he had been so disappointed in his daughter. But could she be, in any sense of the word, what she was praying to be made? There was Aunt Sarah still to be born with, and there was Joram Pratt and other trials. What was that last line? Let the great masters step, be thine. Esther laid down her pen. There was a sudden rush of tears. The possibilities of such living as that, for a moment, overwhelmed her. If that could be, if her steps could, even in a faint degree, be suggestive of her master. She would try. Oh, she would try so hard. And with infinite strength to lean upon, it might be that. And besides, she was going home very soon. That of itself would help her. Never could there have been a girl more eager for home. Long before this, she had calculated to the fraction of a day. Now she knew literally the number of hours that intervened. Then suddenly, as though swooping down upon her from some outside source came a horrible question. Why don't you stay where you are? You have some reason to think that Mrs. Victor would be glad of your help, and would even pay you something for extra work. And in this way, you could not only save traveling expenses, but really be earning a little toward next year. When this suggestion was first made to the homesick girl as a mere possibility, her strongest feeling was indignation. Then, as it gradually came upon her that perhaps it was her duty to consider it, she grew faint and sick over the possible result. Very soon after this, Mrs. Victor added her drop of misery by pointing out the wisdom of such a course and the folly of any other. Then, of her own will, proposed a money equivalent for extra time, which Esther knew would aid considerably in the replenishing of her wardrobe. For an entire day this problem was carried about through all the details of college and kitchen work, and by night Esther had reached the conclusion that at least she ought to tell father and mother about it. Of course, she would be governed by their decision, but she would be strictly honest and own that she was fearfully homesick and hated the very thought of staying. Deep in her heart was a comfortable little feeling that mother would not consent to any such plan, and that by the first male possible she would be peremptorily ordered home. And then, before she had had time to get all the comfort out of this probability, the whole matter assumed a different aspect. Catherine Victor fell ill. From the first she was seriously ill, and as the days passed and the disease developed into typhoid fever, she grew desperately so. During commencement week she was tossing in delirium, and Esther, who, long before that, had spent many hours in re-trimming and otherwise freshening her good white dress for class day, did not leave the house during the entire day. It had been found impossible to secure extra help, and common decency demanded that she should not desert the family in their sore need. By the following evening both blanche and faith were gone, as were most of her acquaintances, and Esther, who had herself expected to take that evening's train for home, stood by the kitchen window watching the smoke roll up from its departing engine. Crushed in her hand was a very short letter from her father, which she did not need to read again. She knew its contents by heart. It was later by only a day than that one from her mother, which, as she had expected, directed her to come home. Her father's read, I am catching the next male to reply to your letter, which came but an hour ago. There is time for only a word.   Rather, you don't know, and we are glad that you cannot appreciate it in all its fullness. For, of course, we understand that you, being the child of your mother, cannot do otherwise than stay. Your mother will write to Maro, dear, and say all the things that father cannot, but he will talk much about you to the father in heaven. Now she would have to stay, of course. She had known it all the while. It was just like her father and mother. Deep down in her heart, the girl knew that it was also like herself. She could not have deserted the victors in their need. If I could, she had told herself sturdily, it would have proved that I am not my father's and mother's daughter. Nevertheless, it was hard. That swift moving train, which was even now rounding the curve and in another moment would be out of sight and sound, seemed to be carrying her heart away. Was it harder for her because the train was also carrying away Mr. Langham? Yes, certainly it was. Why should she deny this to her secret self? Had she not a right to miss her friend? She had not seen him accepting class since that Sunday evening now more than two weeks away. In the classroom he had been, of course, as usual. Courteous in manner, careful in explanation, close and unsparing in criticism, critical in his demands for their best efforts. Yet Esther could feel in his manner a change not discernable to others. When she came with a question, he made no effort to detain her for an additional word. And not once during the entire time had he happened to be in the doorway just starting down the avenue as she passed out with her books. It was not that he seemed to be offended. Nothing could be kinder than his manner, and he was on the watch to do for her all that a teacher could. But he managed to convey to her the belief that he was deeply hurt. Just how this idea was conveyed Esther could not have told. But she felt it and had troubled and disappointed her. If he had understood her position, surely he could not have been hurt. Was it her duty to try to make him understand that she had not been governed by a mere whim but by a settled conviction of duty in declining the courtesy he had made such an effort to extend to her? This question she had considered much during those closing days of the college year. But because she did not see quite how to set about it, she hesitated, and he had finally gone without another word of goodbye than that spoken in class and shared by all. The summer was long and hard. Catherine Victor lay for weeks very ill indeed. There were days together when no one but the mother had a shred of hope. When at last the disease spent itself and immediate danger was over, and then when the long, slow convalescence began, life in the kitchen at least did not grow less strenuous. In some respects it was even harder than when the dignity of a swift coming sorrow was upon them, thrusting all other troubles into the background of insignificance. Esther Randall, who had stood at her post during all the strain and stress of the anxious days, had still the endless round of menial and petty duties to look after that serious illness thrusts upon someone, and in addition to that must bear the strain that comes upon overwrought nerves when an awful weight of anxiety has finally lifted. Not Mrs. Victor alone but Marion and even the young daughter Selma helped in this way to discipline the girl who, before this summer's experience, had been always too ready to yield to the demand of nerves. Amid all the trials and perplexities of that hard summer, one golden thread of comfort had held steadily. She was not the Esther with whom the season had begun. There was a radical difference. Never mind if only she and the Master knew of this, they knew and were glad. He had been present with her through all the days. It was he who had arrested the quick word, the impatient gesture, even the flesh of the expressive gray eyes, when they wanted to flesh anger or indignation. It had not been easy. On the contrary, it had been hard. Sometimes there had been inward turmoil when there was outward calm. But Esther Randall was able to tell herself with an exultant thrill that during these weeks of peculiar and steady trial she had not outwardly disgraced her Lord. His grace had been sufficient. Of course it had. He had said it would be. He had said it long ago, but Esther had never before been able to appropriate it. CHAPTER XVIII. LOVE But Esther was mistaken in her supposition that no one noticed the change in her life. Mrs. Victor, burdened as she was by a thousand cares and her heart torn with a cruel anxiety, found time to remark one day that she had never imagined that sickness could have such an effect on a human being as it had had on Esther Randall. Not that I ever thought her an especially selfish girl, she said. In fact, she has more than once quite altered her plans to accommodate me. But she had a temper that was ready to take fire at a moment's notice. And now, though she has trials and responsibilities enough to wear out anybody's nerves, I haven't heard her speak a sharp word. She has been as good as gold through all our trouble. I am sure I shall never forget it. Selma, too, was observant, especially after the danger was passed and her sister was gaining steadily. And Selma had a theory of her own that she imparted to her mother. I'll tell you what, Mama. I believe that girl is in love. Who, Catherine? said the startled mother, and Selma laughed. Catherine, no indeed. Or yes, I guess she is in love with life. I should think she would be. I wonder how it feels to come as near the end of one's life as she did, and the girl shivered. But I wasn't speaking of Catherine, I mean Esther Randall. I know she is in love and is perfectly satisfied with it. Nothing else will account for the change in her. She isn't one bit as she used to be. I thought of it this morning at breakfast. I was rather horrid, I guess. I was late, you know, and didn't want my breakfast anyway. I didn't sleep well last night. I got thinking that it was just three weeks ago last night that we thought Catherine was dying. And I went all over it and said, what if she had? And then I couldn't help thinking, what if she should have another relapse? People do, you know, after as long a time as this. That Ellen Stevens did, you remember. But she was always an invalid and didn't have the right kind of care, and of course it is very different. But anyhow I couldn't help going over and over all these things until I was as nervous as a witch and didn't get to sleep until daylight. So this morning my head ached and nothing anywhere was just right. I complained of the muffins and of the way my egg was cooked and was horrid generally. Now, you know, Mama, the estuarandal with whom we have been acquainted would have said some sharp little thing and gone off and left me to look after myself. But she was just as kind as she could be. She poached an egg beautifully for me and made a fresh cup of cocoa and said she was sorry my head ached and was cheery and sweet all the time. I just know she is in love. Well, said Mrs. Victor with decision, if that is it, I hope that all the girls with whom I have to do will proceed to getting in love, as you call it, as soon as possible. For estuar in her present frame of mind is the comfort of my life. I was afraid we would lose the new estuar as soon as Catherine was better and return to the old one, but we don't seem to. Some of this estuar overheard and laughed softly. It is true, she told herself, I am in love and am satisfied. Something in the phrase made her think of Aunt Sarah and she gave an involuntary little sigh. How irreverent, yes, how downright wicked, Aunt Sarah would think her to say that she was in love with Jesus Christ. Poor Aunt Sarah, could she ever possibly be made to understand something of the sweetness and satisfying nature of Christ's love? What was such a religion as hers worth?  If there were only a way to make her realize that he is just as ready to give living as dying grace, I ought to be able to help her. I think her religion and mine were very much alike. A hope growing out of this thought lingered with estuar and took from her the faint shadow there had always been about the thought of the home going. Perhaps she could help Aunt Sarah. And now they were in the last week of the vacation. A few days more and the interests and excitements of a new college year would be upon them. Estuar, who could hardly be said to have had a vacation, yet looked forward with the keenest zest to the thought of resuming the college routine. How good it would be to see the girls again and and the others. That last phrase was rather vague, but it seemed safe to include Mr. Langham at least among the others. One feature which marked the change that had come to Esther she smiled over when she thought of it. Whatever else I may be doubtful about for another year I am sure of one thing she had said to Faith Barnum in one of her indignant outbursts near the close of the year, and that is that I shall not stay at the victors one hour after I am honorably free. Faith had replied in sympathy I think as much and had reminded her that the Kimbells still wanted her. Yet here she was at the threshold of a new year still with the victors and seemingly a fixture. Only that morning Mrs. Victor had said, I am determined on one thing Esther about which you will be glad to hear. There is to be a reformation in this family in the matter of promptness. You shall not be troubled this year as you were last. Even dear Catherine has thought of it. She said yesterday that one of the regrets she had when she was lying so ill was that she had thoughtlessly hindered you so many times. But I am sure she was no more thoughtless than the rest of us and I told her we would all reform. Then they took it for granted that she was to stay with them? Well perhaps that was the best way. Certainly she could not leave them now while Catherine was still the subject of so much solicitude. A stranger would increase their cares very much. And besides, she gave one tiny sigh to the smaller family and presumably lighter duties at the Kimbells and then dismissed them and began to plan how to arrange her furniture so as to make a little more space. The victors seemed in a sense to belong. They had been through a summer of anxiety and responsibility together and their interests had somehow fused. In Esther's possession at that moment was a letter from Mr. Langham, the only one that she had received. It was not in the least like the letter that she had imagined might come during those early days of vacation when she reflected that possibly he would write some of those things that he had wanted to say. Its very brevity had surprised and chilled her at first. But after due reflection she felt that she understood why he could not write more or differently. My dear friend, so the letter ran, despite the fact that I hoped to see you in a very few days, I am moved to write this line of congratulation that your long hard summer is nearing its close and that your sacrificing labor of love has had so cheerful an outcome. You will observe that I have kept in touch with your life, although I have foreborn to burden you with a letter. I knew that your hands were more than full and that you would have no time for correspondence. Besides, to be entirely frank, I found it difficult, I might say impossible, to write to you freely without first telling you that which you will remember I begged permission to tell and was denied. I am living in the hope that you will be less cruel to me when I see you again. Meantime, the ostensible reason for this note is to ask you to meet with my Bible class and their teacher on next Saturday evening to talk over certain innovations which I would like to introduce. Apparently there was nothing in this letter to quicken the pulses of a young woman, yet Esther, who felt that she had a right to read between the lines, had known every moment of that busy day that it was lying in the bosom of her dress where she had suddenly thrust it when she heard Selma's voice and that it was linked with a great possibility. She had not permitted herself to question very much why Mr. Langham, if he had really meant what his words seemed to mean, had kept silence during those long weeks of burden-bearing. She had not known until his letter came that he had heard of her whereabouts during the summer and during the first week or two had watched the Daily Males with an interest bordering on pain in the almost expectation of a letter from him being forwarded by her father, and this, she thought, would open the way for her to tell her mother and father about Mr. Langham. She knew that since the early weeks of their acquaintance when the name of Professor Langham often flowed from her pen as the instructor whom she found the most interesting, she had been silent because she had not known what to say. Would his letter, if it came, make plain to her what to say? But the letter had not come, and now that it had, there was connected with it a little questioning pain. Had the writer been purposely silent, although knowing all about her hard summer, to give her time to realize what she had lost and prepare her to be less particular over what he considered trifles, she put this view of the case away as unfair to him, but it persisted in returning. That evening Mrs. Kimball, the wife of an instructor who lived near them, ran in with a plan. Esther had made her informal acquaintance after the close of college, and she had been very good to the overtaxed girl. Now she had a plan for the last Saturday of vacation. A few of them were arranging to go to Rocky Point for the day, and there was one vacant seat. Would Esther accept it as her guest? They were sure it would do her a world of good to get into the country, even for part of the day. We must get back early, she explained, for Mr. Langham is coming on the four o'clock express, and with his usual dispatch he has arranged a business meeting with his Bible class for the evening. He is to be our guest over Sunday. Mr. Kimball says it exhausts him merely to have such an incorrigible worker for a friend.  Then you have had your summons, I suppose? Fancy his taking time to write to all those girls. Well, we shall be back in ample time to put the library in its best array to receive you. You will go with us, won't you? Esther looked more than doubtful. Much work had been planned for Saturday by Mrs. Victor as well as herself. But that good woman proved to be an unexpected ally. She was hearty in her approval of the plan and persistent. Of course she must go, Mrs. Kimball.  It is a pity if she cannot have one day of vacation after such a summer as she has had. But what we would have done without her, it frightens me even to think. She has simply been worth her weight in gold. So Esther, warmed at heart with what she could but not feel, was well merited gratitude and remembering that Rocky Point was on Malindi's side of the mountain, made ready with joy for her one day's outing, and managed, as she had meant to do, to have it include an hour's visit with Malindi. As she appeared at the little cabin, another guest was just taking his leave, a low-browed, sullen-looking, powerfully framed young fellow dressed in the uncouth fashion of the male mountaineers and with a fierceness in his black eyes as he turned them for a moment on Esther that made her half-afraid of him. Malindi's mother was trying to do the honors and her words reached the other guest. Well, it ain't no use to talk, Jim. Malindi is just as sought in her way as ever her paw was before her. They all took after him, her and the boys, every last one of them, sought in their ways. I tell them it's a lucky thing for me that their ways is mostly mighty good ones. I give you my word on it, Jim. I didn't say a thing to hinder you, but I didn't coax her neither. I allowed that it was Malindi's business, and I just let her alone. But I'm real sorry for you, Jim, and that's the truth. Esther turned and looked curiously after the sullen man as he strode away, making no attempt at reply. Could this be a rejected suitor? Had girls like Malindi such questions to settle? And on what basis did they settle them? What a fearful problem love and marriage might become to one like Malindi. Would the girl confide in her? Malindi was calm as usual and dignified, but she was also frank. It was plain that she felt the need of someone to talk to, and her mother with rare tact went away and left them alone. That was Jim Slicer, Malindi explained. Yes, him and me has been kind of keeping company ever since we was young ones. He ain't only about a year older than me. Are you going to be married to him, Malindi? The girl slowly and gravely shook her head. Nah, I ain't. I thought I was for quite a spell, and he thought so too, though he didn't ask me in so many words. But he says I knew well enough what he meant, and he thinks I'm mean. And he allowed that if there was another fellow in it, he'd kill him as quick as he would a wildcat, as if that would do any good. And there was a gleam of indignation in the honest cray eyes. Esther asked the question that seemed necessary to start the story again. Nah, there ain't any other, and never has been, and I told him so. I didn't go for to be mean. I meant it along back. I told Ma that I meant every single thing he did, whatever that was. Then what made you change your mind, Malindi? Because I found out that he didn't like it. The reverence in the girl's tone cannot be described. It marked unmistakably to whom the pronoun referred, and filled Esther with a kind of awe that showed in her voice. Malindi, tell me just what you mean. How do you know that he did not like it? Malindi regarded her seriously, even anxiously, and for a moment said nothing. Have you got religion? She asked at last. Yes, said Esther, unhesitatingly. If you mean by that, do I know the Lord Jesus and serve him? I do. A light broke over Malindi's serious face. Then you will understand, she said. I'll tell you how it was. I like Jim. I guess I like him powerful, or I could if I had a mind to, and I always thought I should. But seven weeks ago last Sunday noon he got mad at Mohs Beakley. Mohs has treated him mean and keeps on doing it, and he's a member of the church, and Jim seems to think that it's a long of that that makes him so powerful mean. Jim quarreled with him all the way home from the mill, and then he came in here, and went on awful about the church and religion, and even about Pa. He said Pa wouldn't know a count since he got religion. And I stood even that. I thought he was mad and didn't sense what he was saying. But then he begun to talk against him, spoke his name right out, and used awful words. I couldn't stand that, you know, and I got up from the table. We was eating dinner. And I says to him, Jim, says I, anybody who talks so about that name ain't no friend of mine and can't never be anymore. And I walked in here to my own room and shut the door, and Pa said I did right. And that was the end of it, said Esther, with a question in her voice. Nah, peers like the thing won't never end, though my part is done. He seems to think I don't mean it, and he keeps coming and worrying ma. But it don't do no good. Of course I wouldn't give up a thing like that unless I had to, and if I had to, it couldn't be changed, could it? But you don't make it plain to me why you had to, Esther said gently. Don't I? Well, I ain't much good at making things plain. Maybe the verse that showed me will explain it to you. I found it one day in my Bible. Can two walk together except they be agreed? Sure enough, I says, right out loud as soon as I read it. How can they? And it come to me that Jim and I didn't agree about lots of things. He don't believe much in the Bible. He ain't bad like some when he talks about it, but he says there's lots of things in it that ain't true. And he laughed about my talking to God and believing that he heard me, and, oh, well, all them things that mean the most to me, and that I've made up my mind shall get a hold of me and keep it. He don't agree with, and he laughs at them and at me. I don't mind his laughing. Only it shows you know that we don't agree. And when I asked him all about it, he just made it plain that we couldn't walk together in a way to please him. And then, of course, I quit. Esther had not the slightest inclination to explain to the girl what she had learned incidentally in the Bible class during the winter that the famous text just quoted did not mean what she in her ignorance had supposed, but that, according to the best modern scholarship, it was simply an illustration which the old prophet used to show to his people the certainty of the laws of cause and effect. Do two men walk together except they have made an appointment to do so? Asked the prophet, talking about the desert, where it would be strange, indeed, to have two meet by chance. This was, of course, very unlike Melindy's commentary on it, but what mattered was not the spirit of her thought all through the Bible, and had she not higher authority for it than the prophet? She had been to him, and he had taught that she could not please him and take her life walk with one who would not have him for a guide. The matter, of course, result was what impressed the listener. Then, of course, I quit. Did cause and effect follow so surely as that, always, in the moral world? One phase of the subject she felt anxious to bring before the simple literalist. But, Melindy, perhaps you might have won him after a while to your way of thinking. Nah, the girl said promptly and gravely. I thought about that a good while and tried to make it seem sensible, but I had to give it up. You see, I can't do it now. Jim lets me go to meet him alone, and he tramps over to the saloon and waits there for me till it's out, and he thinks it's awful silly and me to go. And times when he wants me to go somewhere as else instead, he's real kind of cross about it, and I can see that if we was married, like as not, he'd order me not to go at all. Of course, that wouldn't do no good. I should go, all the same, if I thought I ought to, but it would be mighty uncomfortable. Maybe I see it plainer having Ma for a kind of a sample. She ain't had a very happy life, Ma ain't, and Pa was a good deal better about her going to meet him in such things before she was married to him than Jim is now. She allows that herself, though she's kind of sorry for Jim, and tries by spells to take his part. But what's the use in thinking and talking about all them things anyway? If it ain't right, that settles it. And you feel sure of that? Why wouldn't you? You see, I know just as plain as though someone spoke and told me that to marry a man who didn't believe in the Bible and thought praying was silly and going to meetings was all stuff and didn't want me to live up to my ideas of what's right would be putting myself straight into temptation. Now wouldn't it? And how could I do that and keep praying, lead us not into temptation, and that's the prayer the Lord Jesus gave me for a sample, ain't it? It seems plain to me. Then the carriage came and Mrs. Kimball was calling to Esther that they must make haste or they would be late for the evening's appointment. She was sorry to go. There were other questions that she would have liked to ask this girl a few opportunities and much prayer. During the drive home Mrs. Kimball commented on her gravity and asked if that red-cheeked mountaineer had given her the blues. Esther laughed. If you knew Malindi, she said, you would not be able to think of such a word in connection with her. She is a unique character. I don't believe I need another Bible lesson today. She gave me one. Did she? I wish I could have heard it. They say those mountain people have the strangest ideas about religion. Mr. Hadley went to one of their meetings last winter and really I could scarcely believe some of the queer things he told us about them. Don't you remember Horace? The most singular expressions, some of them almost shocking. Yet they undoubtedly meant to be reverent. Tell us some of the things this girl said, Esther. Oh, there is nothing that can be told, Esther made haste to say. She has unique ways of expressing her thoughts, but her ideas are very good and quite orthodox, although she probably never heard the word. Are they?  She might be able to teach Mr. Langham some lessons. Now Nellie cautioned her husband, and the young wife shrugged her shoulders and laughed. I don't care, she said. I like Mr. Langham, of course. Everybody does. But you know as well as I do, Horace, how he talks, and I confess that I get vexed sometimes over the smooth composure with which he will brush aside some of the beliefs of my childhood as though they were cobwebs. He has simply spoiled some of the Old Testament stories that were as real to me as the dear grandmother was who told them. I don't know why people think it necessary to harp continually on such matters, even though they have made, or think they have made, some wonderful discoveries. What harm does it do to believe the Bible just exactly as we did when we were children, and what good has ever come of all the efforts to weaken our faith? Isn't the truth always desirable, Mrs. Kimball? It was Mr. Spencer who asked the question. He was listening from the back seat.  At least you students are always boring for it. I hope you will find it someday, I am sure, and that it will do you half as much good as the things some of you like to call myths have done others. My wife wants to go the whole thing, said her husband Gailey, Jonah swallowing the whale, or the whale swallowing Jonah, which was it, Nellie, and all the rest of it. Oh, Jonah, said Mrs. Kimball, do let him rest. He has had to be the target of shallow critics for so long that he must be tired. I am sure I am of hearing about him. If the people who are so fond of discussing what they call errors would let them alone and give their time to what they believe to be the truth, I think it would be a sensible way to manage and much more comfortable for the rest of us. And you are welcome, Horace, to tell your friend Mr. Langham that I think so whenever you want to. Oh, but I say, broken Mr. Spencer, is that being quite fair to Langham? Isn't that precisely what he is doing? I haven't been in his Bible class for two years, but I used to attend it regularly, and I never heard him bring in Jonah or any other disputed point unless he was squarely asked a question. You wouldn't have a many big questions, Mrs. Kimball? Yes, I would, she said stoutly. If people ask silly questions, it is sometimes the best way in the world to evade them, especially if you can't tell them then and there that they are fools. Langham is a misunderstood man, persisted Mr. Spencer. Some of the students, as well as some who are not students and never will be, have misunderstood him and misquoted his words and given an entirely wrong impression of him. I don't think there is a better Greek scholar or a more reverent student of the Bible in our college than Mr. Langham. Of course not, assented Mr. Kimball cordially. I know Langham thoroughly. He and I have been intimate friends since we were youngsters. Mrs. Kimball isn't very well acquainted with him yet, and some of the careless remarks that he has made when alone with us, she hasn't exactly understood. Langham is all right from whatever standpoint you look at him, and he made haste to change the subject. Esther's face remained grave. She had taken no part in the conversation, but it had not relieved the stricture that her interview with Melindy had left upon her heart. She knew that it was none of those minor differences of biblical interpretation that disturbed Mrs. Kimball, nor for that matter herself. For all that she certainly knew, despite what was perhaps merely a careless way of expressing himself on occasion, Mr. Langham was as orthodox as herself. The truth was, it was not his opinions but his daily living that troubled both of them. Mrs. Kimball had married a man who respected religion and professed nothing more. Of course she believed that she could win him easily to the Christian faith which she professed, and almost equally, of course, she had been mistaken. She found that the young man who went to church regularly through the vacations, and was always ready to walk with her afterward to her father's house, when conditions were changed and they occupied the same house, found a dozen excellent reasons why he should remain causally with his books and cigars, and let his wife do the churchgoing for both. She had heard much of Mr. Langham, and knew that his influence over her husband was strong. She had rejoiced in the discovery that he was a Christian and a Bible class teacher. Then, of course, he would influence Horace in just the direction she desired. Alas for her hopes, Mr. Langham was a constant guest in the new little home, and apparently was quite as ready as her husband to spend his Sunday afternoons in the pretty library amid clouds of tobacco smoke glancing over the Sunday newspapers and chatting about their contents. Or he was ready for a Sunday walk or drive, and a chat over the social functions of the past week and the plans for the coming one. This is about the only let-up from the grind of the week that Horace and I have, he explained cheerfully to Mrs. Kimball. He rarely went to his own church on Sunday evenings, but was a frequent visitor in town for oratorios or other special services, and rejoiced over the fact that the Sunday schedule of trains was so conveniently arranged for suburban. In short, Mrs. Kimball, looking on with an anxious heart, had long before this told herself bitterly that for all she could see, Horace had as much religion as Mr. Langham, but he knew better than to make professions and teach Bible classes. But Mrs. Kimball was a sorely disappointed woman and could not help being a trifle severe. She had never, of course, exchanged confidences with Esther on this subject, and had never before spoken so plainly of Mr. Langham in her presence, yet the girl knew instinctively what the matron thought of him. She tried to join in the gay talk that was presently floating about her, but her thoughts would hover uncomfortably around the subject they had left. She tried to condemn herself as narrow and prejudiced. What if Mr. Langham never came to the midweek prayer meeting, for instance, was a man's religion to be judged in such ways as that? He was a very busy man, a hard student, and one who held an important professorship. Probably he had not an evening a week to give to the church. But he always found evenings for the public functions of the college, debates, concerts, amateur plays, recitals, receptions, whatnot. Of course, as a professor in the college, he probably considered it his duty to sustain the efforts of the students in all these directions. No doubt the president expected it of him. Well, as a professing Christian, was it not his duty to sustain the functions of his own church, had not his chief a right to expect it of him? Besides, he frequently spared an evening for grand opera in town or for some choice play at the Allerton, but that was in the way of recreation. Poor Esther found it exceedingly difficult to arrange Professor Langham's duty or his conscience for him and gave over the effort. She went to the college meeting, as she had promised Mrs. Kimball that she would, and Mr. Langham was openly glad to see her. She was purposely late and the room was full, but he walked to the farther end of it to speak to her and held her hand for a moment in a pressure that was unmistakable. At the close of the conference, he stationed himself near the front door, had in hand, although he was the guest of the Kimball's for the night. He stepped forward as Esther came from the sitting-room, whether she had retreated for a moment with Mrs. Kimball. Both Faith and Blanche were with her. I am going home with the girls, she explained to Mrs. Kimball, loud enough for others to hear. I haven't seen them in three months, you know. It is a charming evening for a while, said Mr. Langham, promptly and cheerfully. I may take it with you, I hope, young ladies, and see you safely home, Miss Randall, when you are ready. Oh, no thank you, Professor, Esther said quickly. It is moonlight, you know, and there are three of us. We are not in the least afraid, and I am going to stay all night with the girls. Can you keep me? she asked breathlessly, when they were on the street. You must. I had to invite myself because, well, there is a reason. The reason is plain enough, said Faith Barnum. It was to Professor Langham, I am sure. We are glad to get a hold of you on any terms, aren't we, Blanche?  I hadn't the least idea, Esther Randall, that you could be so bare-facedly wicked. End of Chapter 19, Recording by Trisha G. The day was warm even for July in that western prairie town, where the sun poured out its zeal untempered by shade trees, and where the residents told one another, hopefully, that July was generally their warm month, until July was passed, then they shifted it to August, sometimes to September. Breathless weather, though it was, Mrs. Randall was ironing. Certain household deficiencies made prompt ironing a necessity whenever there were clothes in the wash without regard to convenience. Mrs. Randall was a small, pale woman. At least she was pale ordinarily.  As a rule, her face was sweet with a calm that suggested cheer. Four hedged about as her life was and had been for many years with daily burdens, as well as cares and responsibilities. She had learned long ago St. Paul's invaluable lesson in whatsoever state she was therewith to be content, even happy. This as a rule, but on this day there was a new look on her face that made her daughter Esther, who was washing the baking dishes, glance at her mother from time to time with a shadow of anxiety. Once she spoke her thought, Mommy dear, I do wish you would let that ironing wait for me. I shall be through here in a few minutes, and ironing is such warm work for you. Don't you feel well this morning, mother? Why, yes, dear, I feel much as usual. If I don't look so, you must lay it to this wrapper. As she spoke, she glanced down at herself and laughed.  Is it the wrapper, Mommy, that made you give such a long drawn sigh just now? Did I? That was very foolish. I was probably thinking at the moment of nothing more serious than this tablecloth, which has a real hole in it this time. I am wondering how I can contrive to patch it, with no material in the least like it. Things will wear out so, Esther. I know, but never mind when I get that school which is waiting for me and have earned money enough for a mattress and springs for your bed and a new cookstove with an oil range for Julys and Augusts, and new shades or perhaps even blinds for the windows and a few little matters of that kind, I shall launch out on tablecloths. I shouldn't wonder if I bought two new ones at once sometime. Think of that. But the mother did not laugh as she generally did over Esther's nonsense. Instead, the faint forced smile on her tired face made one think of tears. The coming of a wagon with what the driver called a snag of wood created a diversion at that moment. For Esther must go and show where it was to be placed and chat a few minutes with the young fellow who was to place it. He was a member of her father's church and liked to receive proper attention from the minister's family. Esther Randall had now been at home for a little more than a year and had not only slipped into her former place in the household and the community, but had assumed new duties and responsibilities such as she would have once shrunk from as impossible. Of course among her father's people she was more of a power than ever, and what she had become in the home neither father nor mother could have put into words. The years had set lightly upon Esther. Although she was now nearly twenty-three, she looked very little older than the girl of eighteen who had suddenly flitted from home mission work to a college five or six hundred miles distant and had not returned until the four years course was completed. Had this arrangement been so much as thought of at the first, parents and daughter would have drawn back from it as an impossibly long separation. But the years had planted for them, each time hedging with increasing difficulties the homegoing and making more and more plain the duty of remaining. And always Esther had remained with the victors, growing more attached to them, more apparently one of their number with each passing year, living through with them once and again the duties and anxieties connected with prolonged illness, going down with them in sympathy and service into the depths of sorrow when the only son of the home went out gaily one morning for a trial trip with his friend's new horse and within the hour was brought back a lifeless body. This was near the close of her second college year and at a time when strenuous efforts were being made in the home missionaries' family to secure the funds for Esther's homecoming. It was she who wrote to them that Mrs. Victor was much prostrated by their trouble and the doctor as well as the family seemed to be anxious about her. Then, of course, they were all sad and lonely and shrieked particularly from having a stranger come among them just now. But they certainly had never needed help more sorely. Mrs. Victor simply was not able to have any responsibility. Did father think, did they both feel that perhaps she ought to stay? The home missionary and his wife had been sad that morning over an anxiety that they could not hide from each other. Sacrifice and contrive as they would and had, they were still eleven dollars short of the sum that Esther's homecoming would need. And it might as well be, said the father, then he stopped. Of what used to say to his wife that it might as well be eleven hundred dollars, he almost mentioned it, though, at family worship. At least he laid bare before his lord their poverty and their longing and asked, not for money, but that their way might be made plain. And then, just as they arose from their knees, had come Esther's letter and Mrs. Victor's need. When he had read the letter aloud for the second time, the father looked at the mother and she brushed away the tears and smiled as she said. Does that look mean that here is the answer to our prayer? But Aunt Sarah had not so considered it. She grumbled distinctly. Things had come to a pretty pass when a niece of hers and a granddaughter of Benedict Bradford not only had to go out to service, but could not afford to come home in vacations, as all the girls she had ever heard of who had homes to come to had always done. But evidently Esther did not care anything about appearances. She was weaned from home that was plainly to be seen. Indeed, Aunt Sarah had foreseen such a result from the first. Esther wanted to stay.  She had always noticed that. What her father and mother were thinking about to allow her to stay on there all summer, with total strangers she could not imagine. What did Helen think her parents would have said to her if she had proposed to spend the vacation away from home when she was at boarding school? This question seemed so utterly absurd in view of the contrast between her circumstances and surroundings as a schoolgirl and her daughters that the sore-hearted mother who missed Esther at times almost more than she felt she could endure, and who was at that moment very near to tears, experienced the reaction that comes sometimes to such natures as hers and laughed immoderately. What on earth are you laughing at? said the indignant aunt.   But since Esther is an only child, I shouldn't think you could be so easily weaned from her. It is a blessing that mother can't see you, she added in growing indignation, as with every added phrase Mrs. Randall's half-hysteric laughter increased. She wouldn't know you. But Esther had stayed for another year, and the modest wages that the victors had been able to pay for her vacation work had assisted materially in the winter's expenses, which was particularly fortunate, for about that time there had been a cut in the salaries of home missionaries and what had required careful economy before called for pinching. When the third vacation time loomed in the near distance, Catherine Victor was planning to be married on the 4th of September, and by that time no member of the Victor family believed it possible to get ready for a wedding without Esther's help. There was also another reason for her staying that appealed to Esther almost as much as her own straightened purse, and that was the straightened circumstances of the victors. Never other than perplexed as to how the two ends could be made to meet, certain losses combined with unexpected business changes had made their problem more difficult this year than ever before. The truth is, Mommy, wrote Esther, they cannot afford to do without me. That looks horribly egotistical, doesn't it, written out? But what I mean is that they cannot get anyone for the summer who would take my place without paying very high wages, and that they simply cannot do. Besides, though I say it as shouldn't, Mommy, there is no hired person to be had who could at all take my place. How could it be expected? I have been with them as one of the family for three years, and besides, didn't you bring me up and teach me how to work? It will not be too hard for me, because, when the special stress comes, I can have my beloved Melindy to help me think of that. Mother and Father, dear, I don't tell you what it is to me to think about doing without you some more, and writing is though it were already a settled matter. But you see, I know you both so well, that I am as sure as though I heard you say it that you will see it to be my duty. Of course, I say nothing about the saving of money for us, because I truly don't believe that would count. I think I could almost beg my way home from door to door, if that were all that was in the way. It seemed incredible when they thought of it, but they did without her for another year. Esther is right, the mother had said. We couldn't do it simply to save the money, but that poor woman does seem to need her. This was after they had read the appeal from Mrs. Victor, enclosed in Esther's letter, but Aunt Sarah sniffed. They better adopt her, she said. She seems to belong more to them than to you. I am going to write her and ask her if she will condescend to work for her own family next summer, provided we can scrape up two dollars a week for wages. I guess if she knew how much you needed help, she would be more eager to work at home. Mrs. Randall answered only with a patient smile. She understood Aunt Sarah and knew that her tongue was always worse than her acts. There was no fear that she would write to Esther that which would trouble her. She was merely indulging in the habit of a lifetime and saying spiteful sounding words that had little or no meaning. And then had come the last college year with commencement week drawing perilously near. The week for which all these years have been lived, Esther wrote gaily, and said not a word about perplexities. But the mother knew that there were perplexities. The question which had been a more or less anxious one every year since her daughter emerged from childhood, wherewithal shall she be clothed, took on unusual importance, at least in the mother's eyes, as the intervening weeks lessened. She was even guilty of laying awake nights after busy and exhausting days, trying to contrive some way of getting for Esther the graduation robes that she knew were needed. Missionary boxes, which are alternately the hope and despair of home missionaries, this family with their quarter-century of experience knew too much about to build on. I don't see little mother, but you and I are shut up to prayer, the missionary said, when his wife, who had waited for Aunt Sarah to leave the room, asked if he had thought of anything yet. Haven't you noticed, Helen, how many times, especially of late years, when we reach an emergency, the way out does not appear until, humanly speaking, there isn't another way to consider? It happened so again, that day's male brought a letter heralding a coming box, not from any church, but from their very own. Mother has been working at the quilt and the undergarments and the socks for Spencer for a long, long time, wrote Sister Mary. And as for me, it seemed as though I should never get the set embroidered for Esther. I began them when she first went to college. But I have so little time for such work these days, and my hand has lost some of its cunning, I am afraid, but I enjoyed making them. Then last week we had a visitor. I must write you about her as soon as I get time. It was Cousin Celia Westover. Do you remember Cousin Celia? She was a delicate, pretty girl. Now she is a stout, gray-haired, rather homely woman with a daughter the age of yours. They are in mourning for the only son, and so unreconciled to his death, that it is said to hear her talk about it. I must tell you what a strange visit we had, just as soon as I can get time. She came only for a day. She said she had a feeling that perhaps Aunt Priscilla could help her. And Mother could, you know, if anybody in this world could. I think she went away a little comforted. She saw us at work over the things, and we told her about the box and about Esther.  She did not seem to remember that you are a year or two older than she.  Well, the week after she reached home came a box to us by express, the contents to be sent to you in memory of the nice quarrels we used to have together in the dear old days. She said when she was here that the week she visited us, you and she differed about everything under the sun. But I don't remember anything about it, do you? The box I rejoice over, because I think there are some things in it that Esther will like. That white dress, for instance. It isn't new, to be sure, but it is very nice looking, and so long that I think Esther can hem it up where it is frayed.  It ought to be fixed before it is laundered, which is the reason why I didn't do it up. But Mother says if you have not lost the skill you had when a girl, you wouldn't thank any of us to attend to that part. She never worries of telling how beautifully you ironed and mended a flimsy muslin for that wild little second girl we had once. Emma, her name was, do you remember her? She had cried over not being able to go to a party among her mates, because she had no dress to wear, and Mother said you made her old muslin look as though it was just out of the store. You were a very remarkable girl, my dear Helen, did you know it? Over this part of the letter the home missionary and his wife laughed together, and then the husband kissed from the wife's faded face a stray tear. That dear Mother, how long it was since she had seen her youngest child, and how sweet it was that she liked to talk about her and to linger tenderly over the uneventful doings of her girlhood? Was she ever in the flesh to rest eyes upon her youngest born again? Over the coming of that home-box and saw in it a direct answer to their prayers, what shall be said of Esther's astonished delight when her portion of it reached her? She had been very brave on paper, not once had she even hinted to the dear home people that every girl graduate save herself was to be arrayed on commencement day in white robes, while she, who had taken the honors, and who occupied because of this the leading place on the program of the day's doings, must needs appear in that one good dress, which had already done faithful duty during two seasons. Because of her silence she fondly supposed, silly girl that she was, that her father and mother would know nothing about her embarrassments and be saved anxiety at least on that account. For the girl knew only too well how impossible a new dress would be this year when traveling expenses must at last be provided for, and when there had been within the year a second retrenchment on the home-board. And then had come all unheralded to her that wonderful box with its beautiful white dress remodeled by her mother's skillful hands, and laundered as only she could do it. There it lay a mound of billowy loveliness smiling up at her, and being trimmed presently with ravishing rainbow hues as Esther gazed at it through a mist of tears. Dear mother, dear father, what had they done? How had they done it? What more could they possibly have gone without? The letter with its story of Cousin Celia Westover's daughter Florence in mourning came as a blessed relief. Esther both laughed and cried over that letter. I will own, dear, that I have cried for joy over these garments, the mother wrote, but don't be troubled, darling, they are not damp. It was before they were washed and ironed. I will confess now that we, your father and I, have lain awake of nights talking it all over, wondering what our girly would do for suitable garments in which to carry her honors. We prayed a great deal, and we even hoped that a box would come different from the usual one, but not once did our faith rise to the heights of expecting one from our very own homes. Have I told you yet that your father's home people heard of the box and sent each of them a present to him? I don't believe I have, but I will get to it in my next letter. This must be finished to go in the box. Take it all in all, it was a strange experience. Do you know, dear child, I had to give it all up and be, at least in a measure, reconciled to your old blue dress before the white one came. The bit of lace, dearest, is what my mother wore on her wedding day, and I wore it on mine. I will own that I was saving it for yours, dear heart, but it will be ready for that, and be all the more valuable for having served on such an occasion as is before you. Oh, that we were to be there to see! The gloves you are to accept with your father's dear love. He was so glad to be able to get them for you himself. It was then that Esther dropped the letter and let the tears have their way. Those dainty white gloves seemed to have embalmed in them all the toils and sacrifices and cheerful privations of the years. How brave they had been, that father and mother, in doing without her and doing for her with steady, cheerful self-forgetfulness. Could she ever, even in slight degree, make up to them what they had given and borne for her? But she had been fine on commencement day. Three days before that she had written to her mother what she called its prelude. Everything is ready. I cannot think of another thing except to do it, and for that I must wait three days. We are to be so fine, so very fine, you cannot imagine it, I am sure. It lies on the bed at this moment, and the class poem that it is to read lies close beside it. I use those capitals advisedly, and truly it seems as though it and not I was to read the thing. If you could see it now, mommy, you would notice that it has a style about it that I never had. A sure father that the pronoun refers solely to the dress and not for one moment to the poem, which, however, I must frankly own, is vastly improved by his criticism.  And then, to think that by next week this time I shall be on my way home. At last the day came when every lounger at the post office and corner grocery of the straggling little town knew that Elder Randall's girl was coming home on the morning accommodation and that the minister had already gone to the station to meet her, for by that time the railroad had decided to accommodate them with a station and two trains a day. It was an interesting homecoming with features about it that were almost embarrassing. At first the happy parents were all but overwhelmed with the changes that the years had wrought. The girl had gone out from them filled with a certain kind of energy, yet shrinking painfully from the great world about which she knew so little and with a sense of self-depreciation that was in itself painful. She had returned to them a self-possessed, well-balanced young woman ready to assume her full share of life's responsibilities. That they had expected. They had not carefully watched her mental growth through the years without realizing, at least in a degree, how she had developed. But there was something more, that curious something so quickly felt, so elusive when one attempts to describe it, which we sometimes try to define by the word culture and sometimes add elegance, and know that neither is quite satisfactory. Whatever it should be named, it was Esther Randall's almost imperfection. But there was yet more, and this change became more and more marked as the days passed. No miser ever exalted over his gold as Spencer Randall exalted in the evidence of this kind of change in his daughter. It is as though she has come into her inheritance, he told his wife. She was a daughter of the king when she went away, I had never a doubt of it. But now she recognizes herself as of royal blood and purposes to live up to her name. I mean the great name, Helen, that is above every other. But I am more pleased than ever before that we named her Esther Reed. I am certain now that it was not a misnomer. Perhaps, however, it was Aunt Sarah who was the most astonished over the changes in Esther. Or was it almost dismay that she felt? There was a sense in which she had lost a favorite occupation, although she did not realize that. Esther could not be nagged. Aunt Sarah's views on certain questions had not changed, and she boldly presented them as soon as occasion offered, with an odd feeling that she must show her colors and not allow herself to be put down by this college-bred young woman. But although there was no indication that Esther's view had changed either, the arguments that used to make her eyes blaze with indignation and call forth keen retorts from a well-equipped tongue were received now with quiet air and a gentle, do you think so, Aunt Sarah? Then would follow a change of subject skillfully introduced. The girl has lost her spirit, Aunt Sarah told herself, but the explanation did not satisfy her. Esther has grown pretty, she said to her sister. I'll say that much for her. I never expected to see her carry herself with so much elegance and, well, what might be called style. To be sure, it is no more than one ought to expect in a granddaughter of Benedict Radford, still with such a beginning as she had, I must say I don't understand it. She has been with common enough folks those victors, and even with them she occupied the place of a servant. It is really remarkable. I should like to have her cousin Lucia see her. I don't know how she, with all her advantages, can appear any better than Esther does. This was very great praise indeed. Cousin Lucia, the trial of Esther's young girlhood, because she was always being held up to point in ugly contrast, was the only daughter of her mother's only brother, who had married into a wealthy family, and had tried to keep his wife and children surrounded by the luxuries to which the wife had always been accustomed, and which she counted mere necessities. It had required, the whole missionaries suspected, shrewd management on the part of their brother to maintain his establishment, and lavish upon Lucia all that her mother believed she needed. But it had been done, and the cousin, who was a trifle younger than Esther, had always been the far away star in Esther's sky, whose brilliance there was no hope of equaling, at least in Aunt Sarah's eyes. And here she was being favorably compared with her. She has certainly made the most of her poor little chances. Still, Aunt Sarah would make a distinct pause and bestow a troubled look upon her sister. On one occasion she gave voice to her anxieties. Doesn't it ever worry you, Helen, to think what Esther is going to do with all that elegance of hers? It is simply wasted out here. There is no use in talking about Joram Prat now. Though he is as good a boy as ever lived, and is just as completely bound up in her as he was before she went away, I must confess that sometimes it seems to me that it would have been better to have kept her right here at home, and had her marry him. Who is there for her now out in this forsaken country, and there is no more prospect for her ever getting away from it than there was before she went to college? She doesn't seem to have found anyone there. I thought at one time that that professor—what was his name?—that her letters were full of, was keeping company with her. But it seems he wasn't. I don't see for my part what you are going to do with her. As a rule her sister had learned to meet all such remarks with good humored indifference, pretending to pass them off as mere froth not designed for serious consideration. But on this occasion she had been much tried beforehand, and Aunt Sarah's bald and businesslike way of disposing of her daughter made her shudder, and drew from her lips the exclamation, Oh Sarah, don't! and then she was instantly sorry. Dear me! said Aunt Sarah, what did I say I wonder? You couldn't look more distressed if I had been talking against the child instead of praising her as I am sure I was. I wouldn't be so silly about her if I were you. Of course the girl will marry sometime if she gets a chance. I suppose you want her to, don't you? I don't suppose your heart is hopelessly said on her being an old maid, is it? Why, of course, we shall have to wait for such experiences until they come, who is proposing to do any other way. All I said was that there wasn't the ghost of a chance for them to come out in this backwoods. She won't marry the men who are here, and those she would be willing to marry won't come here, and that's a pretty poor lookout. I don't think there is any occasion at present for you to act as though a great calamity had happened to you just because somebody spoke the word marriage. The poor little mother thus caught and silenced could only be glad that her outspoken sister had not been able to see her heart and understand the meaning of her exclamation. It was not that she shrank from the thought of her daughter's marriage. She knew that the mother in her was capable of unlimited self-sacrifice for that daughter's sake. It was the realization of the life to which the child had returned that unnerved her mother. Aunt Sarah's words had sounded almost coarse and utterly hateful, the more so undoubtedly because there was in them an element of truth. Who is there for her out in this forsaken country? Not who is there for her to marry? The mother's refined soul recoiled from such a pudding of the serious question which involved a lifetime of happiness or misery, but putting all such thoughts aside, what was there here for Esther that was worthy of her? Work for God, plenty of it? Yes, and she rejoiced that her child had come home keenly alive to such needs and opportunities and had taken hold of the work with power. But who was there for companionship in work? Where could Esther look for friendship among those of her own age? She, the mother, had spent almost a quarter century here in happy service, but she had had her husband to lean upon. Could she have done it alone? Could Esther do it without one of her own age and condition to work with? It was problems such as these that came to trouble the mother's leisure moments. Was she willing to own even to herself that the girl's coming back heart-free had in it a shade of disappointment? She, too, had indulged her thoughts with regard to the professor whose name used to appear so frequently in her daughter's letters as to excite the interest of both father and mother, and then suddenly had almost entirely disappeared. She used to smile at first over that disappearance and believed that she understood it. If the fond mother had owned to the thought of her heart, it would have been that surely no heart-free young man could come into daily friendly contact with her daughter without loving her. She spent some anxious hours in trying to be sure, without knowing very much about it, whether this professor was just the sort of person she would have chosen for her daughter, then smiled over her folly and admonished herself that it would be the part of wisdom to wait until she had something to worry over. Of course there was nothing serious where Esther would have told her. Yet it had been serious enough, and the only reason that the mother had not heard about it was that she had helped to instill in her daughter such rigid principles that she had not yet decided as to whether it would be quite right to share, even with her mother, a matter that had become, in a sense, Professor Langham's secret. End of chapter 21. Recording by Tricia G.