Evelyn was on the veranda, gazing about her with a thoughtful air.

"Well, lassie, what think you of Fairview?" asked her uncle, coming to her side.

"I like it," she answered emphatically. "Didn't something happen here, uncle, in the time of the Ku-Klux raids? I seem to have heard there did."

"Yes; a coffin, with a threatening notice attached, was laid at the gate yonder one night. My uncle owned, and lived on, the place at that time, and by reason of his northern birth and Republican sentiments, was obnoxious to the members of the klan."

"And it was he they were threatening?"

"Yes. They afterward attacked the place, wounded and drove him into the woods, but were held at bay and finally driven off by the gallant defence of her home made by my aunt, assisted by her son, then quite a young boy.

"But get Elsie to tell you the story; she can do it far better than I; especially as she was living at Ion at that time, and though a mere child, has still a vivid recollection of all the circumstances."

"Yes," Elsie said, "including the attacks upon Ion—first the quarter, when they burnt the schoolhouse, and afterward the mansion—and several sad scenes connected with them."

"How interesting to hear all about them from an eye-witness," exclaimed Evelyn. "I am eager to have you begin, Aunt Elsie."

"Perhaps I may be able to do so this evening," returned her aunt; "but now I must give my orders for the day, and then it will be time for our drive."

"What does your mamma say?" asked Lester of Evelyn, when Elsie had left them alone together.

"Not very much that I care for, uncle," sighed the little girl. "She's in good health, but very tired of foreign cookery; wishes she could have such a breakfast every morning as she has been accustomed to at home. Still she enjoys the sights, and thinks it may be a year, or longer, before she gets back. She describes some of the places, and paintings and statuary she has seen; but that part of the letter I have not read yet."

"Do you wish you were with her, Eva?" he asked, smoothing her hair as she stood by his side, and gazing down affectionately into her eyes.

"No, uncle; I should like to see mamma, of course, but at present I like this quiet home far better than going about among crowds of strange people."

He looked pleased. "I am glad you are content," he said.

Elsie was full of life and gayety as they set out upon their drive. Her husband remarked it with pleasure.

"Yes," she said lightly, "it is so nice to be going back to my old, childhood's home after so long an absence; to see mammy, too—dear old mammy! And yet it will hardly seem like home either, without mamma."

"No," he responded; "and it is quite delightful to look forward to having her there again in a week or two."

They had turned in at the great gates leading into the avenue, and presently Elsie, glancing eagerly toward the house, exclaimed with delight, "Ah, there is mammy on the veranda! watching for our coming, no doubt. She knew we were expected at Fairview yesterday, and that I would not be long in finding my way to Ion."

Evelyn, looking out also, perceived a bent and shriveled form, seated in an arm-chair, leaning forward, its two dusky hands clasping a stout cane, and its chin resting on the top.

As the carriage drew up before the entrance, the figure rose slowly and stiffly, and with the aid of the cane hobbled across the veranda to meet them.

"Bress de Lawd!" it cried, in accents tremulous with age and excitement, "it's one ob my chillens, sho' nuff; it's Miss Elsie!"

"Yes, mammy, it is I; and very glad I am to see you," responded Mrs. Leland, hurrying up the veranda steps and throwing Her arms about the feeble, trembling form.

"Poor old mammy," she said, tenderly; "you are not so strong as you used to be."

"No, darlin', yo' ole mammy's mos' at de brink ob de riber; de cold watahs ob Jordan soon be creepin' up roun' her ole feet."

"But you are not afraid, mammy?" Elsie said, tears trembling in her sweet, soft eyes, so like her mother's.

"No, chile, no; for Ise got fas' hold ob de Master's hand, and He holds me tight; de waves can't go ober my head, kase He bought me wid his own precious blood and I b'longs to Him; and He always takes care ob his own chillens."

"Yes, Aunt Chloe," Lester said, taking one withered hand in his, as Elsie withdrew herself from her embrace, and turned aside to wipe away a tear, "His purchased ones are safe for time and for eternity.

"'The Lord God is a sun and shield; the Lord will give grace and glory.'"

"Dat's so, sah; grace to lib by, an' grace to die by, den glory wid Him in heaben! Ole Uncle Joe done 'speriencin' dat now; an' byme-by dis chile be wid him dar."

"Who dis?" she asked, catching sight of Evelyn standing by her side and regarding her with tearful eyes.

"My niece, Evelyn Leland, Aunt Chloe," answered Lester. "She has heard of you, and wanted to see you."

"God bless you, honey," Chloe said, taking the little girl's hand in her's, and regarding her with a look of kindly interest.

But the other servants had come flocking to the veranda as the news of the arrival passed from lip to lip; and now they crowded about Lester and Elsie eager to shake their hands and bid them welcome home again, mingling with their rejoicings and congratulations many inquiries about their loved mistress—her mother—and the other absent members of the family.

And here, as at Fairview, Evelyn received her full share of pleased attention.

Elsie delivered her mother's messages and directions, and taking Evelyn with her, went through the house to see that all was in order for the reception of her brother and his wife, then sat down in the veranda for a chat with "mammy" before returning to Fairview.

"Mammy, dear," she said interrogatively, "you are not grieving very much for Uncle Joe?"

"No, chile, no; he's in dat bressed land whar dah no mo' misery in de back, in de head, in any part ob de body; an' no mo' sin, no mo' sorrow, no mo' dyin', no mo' tears fallin' down the cheeks, no mo' trouble any kin'."

"But don't you miss him very much, Aunt Chloe?" asked Evelyn softly, her voice tremulous with the thought of her own beloved dead, and how sorely she felt his absence.

"Yes, chile, sho I does, but 'twont be for long; Ise so ole and weak, dat I knows Ise mos' dar, mos' dar!"

The black, wrinkled face uplifted to the sky, almost shone with glad expectancy, and the dim, sunken eyes grew bright for an instant with hope and joy.

Then turning them upon Evelyn, and, for the first time, taking note of her deep mourning, "Po' chile," she said, in tender, pitying tones, "yo's loss somebody dat yo' near kin?"

Evelyn nodded, her heart too full for speech, and Elsie said softly, "Her dear father has gone to be forever with the Lord, in the blessed, happy land you have been speaking of, mammy."

"Bressed, happy man!" ejaculated the aged saint, again lifting her face heavenward, "an' bressed happy chile dat has de great an' mighty God for her father; kase de good book say, He is de father of de fatherless."

A momentary hush fell upon the little group. Then Mr. Leland, who had been looking into the condition of field and garden, as his wife into that of the house, joined them and suggested that this would be a good time and place for the telling of the story Eva had been asking for; especially as, in Aunt Chloe, they had a second eye-witness.

Elsie explained to her what was wanted.

"Ah, chillens, dat was a terrible time," returned the old woman, sighing and shaking her head.

"Yes, mammy," assented Elsie; "you remember it well?"

"Deed I does, chile;" and rousing with the recollection into almost youthful excitement and energy, she plunged into the story, telling it in a graphic way that enchained her listeners, though to two of them it was not new, and one occasionally assisted her memory or supplied a missing link in the chain of circumstances.[A]

[Footnote A: For the details of this story, see "Elsie's Motherhood."]



CHAPTER VIII.

"Next stood hypocrisy, with holy leer, Soft smiling and demurely looking down, But hid the dagger underneath the gown."

—DRYDEN.

While old mammy told her story to her three listeners in the veranda at Ion, a train was speeding southward, bearing Edward and Zoe on their homeward way.

Zoe, in charmingly becoming and elegant traveling attire, her fond young husband by her side, ready to anticipate every wish and gratify it if in his power, was extremely comfortable, and found great enjoyment, now in chatting gaily with him, now sitting silent by his side watching the flying panorama of forest and prairie, hill, valley, rock, river and plain.

At length her attention was attracted to something going on within the car.

"Tickets!" cried the conductor, passing down the aisle, "Tickets!"

Edward handed out his own and his wife's. They were duly punched and given back.

The conductor moved on, repeating his call, "Tickets?"

Up to this moment Zoe had scarcely noticed who occupied the seat immediately behind herself and Edward, but now turning her head, she saw there two young women of pleasing appearance, evidently foreigners. Both were looking anxiously up at the conductor who held their tickets in his hand.

"You are on the wrong road," he was saying; "these are through-tickets for Utah."

"What does he say? something is wrong?" asked the younger of the two girls, addressing her companion in Danish.

"I do not understand, Alma," replied the other, speaking in the same tongue. "Ah, did we but know English! I do not understand, sir; I do not know one word you say," she repeated with a hopeless shake of the head, addressing the conductor.

"Do you know what she says, sir?" asked the man, turning to Edward.

"From her looks and gestures it is evident that she does not understand English," replied Edward, "and I think that is what she says. Suppose you try her with German."

"Can't, sir; speak no language but my mother tongue. Perhaps you will do me the favor to act as interpreter?"

"With pleasure;" and addressing the young woman, Edward asked in German if she spoke that language.

She answered with an eager affirmative; and he went on to explain that the ticket she had offered the conductor would not pay her fare on that road; then asked where she wished to go.

"To Utah, sir," she said. "Is not this the road to take us there?"

"No, we are traveling south, and Utah lies toward the northwest; very far west."

"O sir, what shall we do?" she exclaimed in distress. "Will they stop the cars and let us out?"

"Not just here; the conductor says you can get off at the next station and wait there for a train going back to Cincinnati; it seems it must have been there you made the mistake and left your proper route, and there you can recover it."

She sat silent, looking sadly bewildered and distressed.

"I feel very sorry for you," said Zoe kindly, speaking in German; "we would be glad to help you, and if you like to tell us your story, my husband may be able to advise you what to do."

"I am sure you are kind and good, dear lady, both you and the gentleman, and I will gladly tell you all," was the reply, after a moment's hesitation; and in a few rapid sentences she explained that she and Alma, her younger sister, had been left orphaned and destitute in Norway, their native land, and after a hard struggle of several months had fallen in with a Mormon missionary, who gave them glowing accounts of Utah, telling them it was the paradise of the poor; that if they would go with him and become members of the Mormon Church, land would be given them, their poverty and hard toil would become a thing of the past, and they would live in blissful enjoyment among the Latter-day Saints, where rich and poor were treated alike—as neighbors and friends.

She said that at first they could scarce endure the thought of leaving their dear, native land; but so bright was the picture drawn by the Mormon, that at length they decided to go with him.

They gathered up their few possessions, bade a tearful farewell to old neighbors and friends, and set sail for America in company with between two and three hundred other Mormon converts.

Their expectation was to travel all the way to Salt Lake City in the company; but, as they neared the end of the voyage, Alma fell ill, and when they landed was so entirely unfit for travel that they were compelled to remain behind for several weeks, and at an expense that so rapidly diminished their small store of money that when, at last, they set out on their long journey across the country, they were almost literally penniless.

They had, however, the through-ticket to Utah—which the Mormon missionary had made them buy before leaving them, and knowing no choice, and believing all his wily misrepresentations, they rejoiced in its possession as the passport to an earthly paradise.

"But we have lost our way," concluded Christine, with a look of distress, "and how are we to find it? how make sure of not again straying from the right path? Kind sir, can you, will you, give us some advice? Could I in any way earn the money to pay for our travel on this road? I know how to work, and I am strong and willing."

Edward mused a moment, then said, "We will consider that question presently; but let us first have a little more talk.

"Ah, what can be the matter?" he exclaimed in English, starting up to glance from the window; for the train had come to a sudden standstill in a bit of woods where there seemed no occasion for stopping. "What is wrong?" he asked of a man hurrying by toward the engine.

"A wreck ahead, sir," was the reply.

Every man in the car had risen from his seat, and was hastening to alight and view the scene of the disaster.

"Oh, Ned, is there any danger?" asked Zoe.

"No, dear, I think not. You won't mind if I leave you for a moment to learn how long we are likely to be detained here?"

"No, I won't, if you promise to be careful not to get into danger," she said, with some hesitation; and he hurried after the others.

Alma and Christine, looking pale and anxious, asked Zoe what was the matter.

She explained that there had been an accident—collision of cars—and that the broken fragments were lying on the track, and would have to be cleared away before their train could go on.

Then Edward came back with the news that there would be a detention of an hour or more.

Zoe uttered a slight exclamation of impatience.

"Let us not grumble, little wife," he said, cheerily, "but be thankful that things are no worse. And, do you know, I trust it will prove to have been a good providence; inasmuch as it gives us an opportunity to make an effort to rescue these poor dupes from the Mormon net."

"Oh, yes," she said, her countenance brightening; "I do hope so! Let us tell them all about it, and try to persuade them not to go to Utah."

"I shall do my best," he said; then addressing Christine again—in German as before—you tell me what are the teachings of Mormonism, according to your missionary?"

"They believe the Bible," she answered; "they preach the gospel of Christ as the Bible teaches it; else how could I have listened to him? how consented to go with him? for I know the Bible is God's word, and that there can be no salvation out of Christ."

"Did he not tell you that they teach and practice polygamy?"

"No, sir; no indeed! It surely cannot be true?"

"I am sorry to say it is only too true," said Edward, "that the Mormon priesthood do both teach and practice it. One of them, Orson Pratt, in a sermon preached August 29, 1852, said: 'The Latter-day Saints have embraced the doctrine of a plurality of wives as a part of their religious faith. It is incorporated as a part of our religion, and necessary for our exaltation to the fullness of the Lord's glory in the eternal world.'"

Christine looked inexpressibly shocked. "Oh, sir, are you quite sure of it?" she cried. "Not a word of such a doctrine was spoken to us. Had it been we would never have set out for Utah."

"It is a well-established fact," replied Edward; "and it is well known also that they conceal this doctrine from those whom they wish to catch in their net; to them they exalt the Bible and Christ; but when the poor dupes reach their promised paradise, and are unable to escape, they find the Bible kicked into a corner, the book of Mormon substituted for it, and Joe Smith exalted above the Lord Jesus Christ."

"Dreadful!" exclaimed Christine.

Alma too looked greatly shocked.

"But women may remain single if they choose?" she said, inquiringly.

"No, indeed!" replied Edward; "Mormon theology teaches that those who are faithful Mormons, living up to their privileges, and having a plurality of wives will be kings in the celestial world, and their wives queens; while those who have but one wife—though they will reach heaven, if they are faithful to the priesthood and in paying tithes—will not have a place of honor there; and those who are not married at all will be slaves to the polygamists.

"For this reason, among others, they desire to have many wives, and will have them, willing or unwilling.

"They send their missionaries abroad to recruit the Mormon ranks and supply wives for those who want them.

"The missionaries procure photographs of the single women whom they have persuaded to embrace Mormonism, and these are sent on in advance of the parties of emigrants. The Mormon men who want wives are then invited to look at the photographs and select for themselves.

"They do so, and when the train comes in, bringing the originals of the pictures, they are there to meet it; each man seizes the girl he has chosen by photograph, and drags her away, often shrieking for help, which no one gives. I have this on the testimony of an eyewitness, a minister of the Presbyterian Church, who has lived for years in Utah."

Alma grasped her sister's arm, her cheek paling, her eyes wild with affright.

"Oh, Christine! you know he has our likenesses; you know we gave them to him, suspecting no harm. Oh, what shall we do?"

"Be calm, sister; God has preserved us from that dreadful fate," said Christine, with quivering lips. "I know not what is to become of us, penniless in a strange land, but we will never go there; no not if we starve to death."

"You need not do that," exclaimed Zoe; "no one who is willing to work need starve in this good land; and my husband and I will befriend you, and find you employment."

"Oh, thanks, dear lady!" cried the sisters in a breath; "it is all we ask; we are able and willing to work."

"What can you do?" asked Edward; "what were you expecting to do in Utah?"

"We were to have some land," said Christine; that was the promise, and we thought to raise vegetables and fruits; fowls, too, and perhaps bees; but we can cook, wash the clothes, keep the house clean, spin, and weave, and sew."

"Oh," said Zoe, "if you know how to do all those things well, there will be no trouble in finding employment for you."

"But where, dear lady?" Christine asked with hesitation. "We have no money to pay our way to travel far; we must find the work near at hand, or not at all."

Zoe gave her husband a look, half inquiring half entreating; but he seemed lost in thought, and did not see it.

He was anxious to help these poor strangers, yet without wounding the pride of independence, which he perceived and respected. Presently he spoke.

"My wife and I live at some distance from here; we are not acquainted in this vicinity, but know there is plenty of such work as you want in our own. If you like, I will advance your travelling expenses, and engage to find employment for you; and you can repay the advance when it suits you."

The generous offer was accepted with deep gratitude.

The detention of their train lasted some time longer, and presently the talk about Mormonism was renewed.

It was Alma who began it, by asking if a Mormon's first wife was always willing that he should take a second.

"Oh, no, no!" Zoe exclaimed; "how could she be?"

"No," said Edward; "but she is considered very wicked if she refuses her consent, or even ventures upon a remonstrance.

"One day a Mormon and his family, consisting of one wife and several children, were seated about their table taking a meal, when the husband remarked that he thought of taking a second wife.

"His lawful wife—the mother of his children sitting there—objected. Upon that he rose from his seat, went to her, and, holding her head, deliberately cut her throat from ear to ear."

"And was executed for it?" asked Christine, while she shuddered with horror."

"No," said Edward; "he was promoted by the Mormon priesthood to a higher place in the church, as one who had done a praiseworthy deed."

"Murder a praiseworthy deed!" they cried in astonishment and indignation. "How could that be?"

"They have a doctrine that they call 'blood-atonement,'" replied Edward. "Daring to teach, contrary to the express declarations of Scripture, that the blood of Christ is insufficient to atone for all sin, they assert that for some sins the blood of the sinner himself must be shed or he will never attain to eternal life, and that therefore it is a worthy deed to slay him.

"That terrible, wicked doctrine has been made the excuse for many assassinations, and was the ground for not only excusing the horrible crime of which I have just told you, but for also rewarding the wretched criminal.

"Polygamy is bad enough—especially as instances are not wanting of a man being married at the same time to a mother and her daughters, or several sisters, and in at least one instance to mother, daughter, and granddaughter; and Mormon theology teaches, too, that a man may lawfully marry his own sister. Yet it is not the worst of their crimes; we have it upon the testimony of credible witnesses—Christian citizens of Salt Lake City—that their temples and tithing-houses are 'built up by extortion and cemented with the blood of men, women, and children whose only offence was that they were not in sympathy with the unrighteous decrees of this usurping priesthood.' And 'that all manner of social abominations and domestic horrors, and mutilations, and blood-atonings, and assassinations and massacres have been perpetrated in the name and by the authority of the Mormon priesthood.'"

"Oh, sir, how very dreadful!" exclaimed Christine. "Are they not afraid of the judgments of God against such fearfully wicked deeds?"

"It seems not," said Edward. "The Bible speaks of some whose consciences are seared as with a hot iron."

"But why is such terrible wickedness and oppression allowed by your government?"

"There you have asked a question that many of our own people are asking, and which is difficult to answer without bringing a heavy charge against our law-makers at Washington; a charge of gross neglect, whether induced by bribery or not I do not pretend to decide."

"But it makes us blush for the honor of the land we love!" cried Zoe, with heightened color and flashing eyes.



CHAPTER IX.

"Heaven gives us friends."

The train moved on, and Zoe settled herself back in her seat with a contented sigh; it was so nice to think of soon being at home again after months of absence. She had grown to love Ion very much, and she was charmed with the idea of being mistress of the household for the week or two that was to elapse before the return of the rest of the family.

But she was greatly interested in the Norwegian girls, and presently began to occupy herself with plans for their benefit.

Edward watched her furtively, quite amused at the unwonted gravity of her countenance.

"What, may I ask, is the subject of your meditations, little woman?" he inquired, with a laughing look into her face, as the train came to a momentary standstill at a country station. One might suppose, from your exceeding grave and preoccupied air, that you were engaged in settling the affairs of the nation."

"No, no, my load of care is somewhat lighter than that, Mr. Travilla," she returned with mock seriousness. "It is those poor girls I am thinking of, and what employment can be found for them."

"Well, what is the conclusion arrived at? or is there none as yet?"

"I think—I am nearly sure, indeed—that if they are really expert needlewomen, we can find plenty for them to do in our own family connection; five families of us, you know."

"Five?"

"Yes: Ion, Fairview, The Laurels, The Oaks, and Roselands."

"Ah, yes; and it must take an immense amount of sewing to provide all the changes of raiment desired by the ladies and children," he remarked laughingly. "So that matter may be considered arranged, and my little wife freed from care."

"No, I have yet to consider how they are to be conveyed from the city to Ion, and what I am to do with them when I get them there. Mamma will not be there to direct, you know."

"The first question is easily settled; I shall hire a hack for their use. As to the other, why not let them have their meals served in the sewing-room and occupy the bedroom opening into it?"

"Why, to be sure! that will do nicely," she said, "if you think mamma would not object."

"I am quite certain she will find no fault, even if she should make a different arrangement on returning home. And you wouldn't mind that, would you?"

"Oh no, indeed! Are we not going very fast?"

"Yes; trying to make up lost time."

"I hope they will succeed, that our supper may not be spoiled with waiting. Do you think there will be any one but the servants at Ion to watch for our coming, Ned?"

"Yes; I expect to find the Fairview family there, and have some hope of seeing delegations from the other three. Mamma wrote Elsie when to look for us, and probably she has let the others know; all of them who have been absent from home this summer returned some days or weeks ago."

"And Lester and Elsie brought that orphan niece of his home with them, I suppose. I am inclined to be a warm friend to her, Ned; for I know how to feel for a fatherless child."

"As we all do, I trust. We are all fatherless, and may well have a fellow-feeling for her. We will do what we can to make life pleasant to her, and I think from my sister's report that we shall find her an agreeable addition to the Fairview family."

Elsie had given to Evelyn quite as agreeable a portraiture of Edward and Zoe as that she had furnished them of her, and the little girl was in some haste to make their acquaintance.

It was as Edward expected. The five families were very sociable; when all were at home there was a constant interchange of informal visits, and when some of their number returned after a lengthened absence, the others were ready to hail their coming with cordiality and delight: both of which were intensified on this occasion by the relief from the fear that some accident had happened to Edward and Zoe, inasmuch as they were several hours behind time in reaching home.

On their arrival they found the Lelands, the Lacys, the Dinsmores, and the Conlys gathered in the drawing-room and supper waiting.

"Two hours behind time! I really am afraid there has been an accident," Mrs. Lacy was saying, when the welcome sound of wheels called forth a general exclamation, "There they are at last!" and there was a simultaneous exit from the drawing-room into the hall, followed by numerous embraces, welcomes, congratulations, inquiries after health and the causes of detention.

They made a jovial party about the supper-table: all but Evelyn, who sat silently listening to the exchange of information in regard to the way in which each had passed the summer, and Edward's and Zoe's description of the celebration of their Aunt Wealthy's one hundredth birthday; all mingled with jest, laughter, and merry badinage.

As the child looked and listened, she was, half unconsciously, studying countenances, voices, words, and forming estimates of character.

She had been doing so all the evening; had already decided that the Lacys and Dinsmores were nice people who made her feel happy and at home with them; that she liked Mr. Calhoun Conly and his brother, Dr. Arthur, very much, but detested Ralph; thought Ella silly, proud, and haughty, and that with no excuse for either pride or arrogance. So now her principal attention was given to the latest arrivals—Edward and Zoe.

She liked them both; thinking it lovely to see their devotion to each other, and how unconsciously it betrayed itself in looks and tones, now and again, as the talk went on.

At length, as the flow of conversation slacked, Zoe turned to Evelyn, remarking with a winning smile, "What a quiet little mouse you are! I have been wanting to make your acquaintance, and I hope you will come often to Ion."

"Thank you; I shall enjoy doing so very much indeed," returned Evelyn, blushing with pleasure.

Edward seconded the invitation.

"And don't forget that the doors are wide open to you at the Laurels," said Mr. Lacy.

"At the Oaks also," said Mr. Dinsmore. And Calhoun Conly added, "And at Roselands; we shall expect frequent visits, and do our best for your entertainment; though unfortunately we have no little folks to be your companions."

Evelyn acknowledged each invitation gracefully and in suitable words. Then, the meal having come to a conclusion, all rose from the table and returned to the drawing-room; but presently, as it was growing late and the travelers were supposed to be wearied with their journey, one family after another bade good-by and departed.

"Well, Eva, what do you think of Mrs. Zoe?" asked Mr. Leland when they had turned out of the avenue into the road leading to Fairview. "I understood you were quite anxious to make her acquaintance."

"I think I shall like her very much, uncle," Eva answered; "she seems so bright, pleasant, and cordial. And she loves her husband so dearly."

Mr. Leland laughed at the concluding words. "And you think that an additional reason for liking her?"

"Yes, indeed! I think husbands and wives should be very unselfishly affectionate toward each other; as I have observed that you and Aunt Elsie always are."

Both laughed in a pleased way, her uncle saying, "So you have been watching us?"

"I never set myself at it," she said, "but I couldn't help seeing what was so very evident."

"And no harm if you did. To change the subject—I am greatly interested in those Norwegians. I hope, my dear, you can give them some employment."

"Yes, and shall do so gladly, if they are competent; for I, too, feel a deep interest in them."

"So do I," said Evelyn; "I wanted to see them."

"We will call at Ion to-morrow, and I think you will then get a sight of them, and I learn something of their ability in the sewing line," said her aunt.

Edward and Zoe had arrived at home a little in advance of their two protegees, and given orders in regard to their reception; and when the girls reached Ion they were received by Aunt Dicey, the housekeeper, at a side entrance, kindly welcomed and conducted to the apartments assigned them, where they found a tempting meal spread for their refreshment and every comfort provided.

"Dis am de sewin'-room—an' fo' de present yo' dinin'-room also," she announced as she ushered them in; "an' dat am de bedroom whar Mr. Ed'ard an' Miss Zoe tole me you uns is to sleep. Dar's watah dar an' soap an' towels, s'posin' you likes fo' to wash off de dust ob trabel befo' you sits down to de table. 'Bout de time you gits done dat de hot cakes and toast and tea'll be fotched up from de kitchen."

With that she turned and left the room.

The sisters stood for a moment gazing in a bewildered way each into the other's face. Not one word had they understood; but the gestures had been more intelligible. Aunt Dicey had pointed toward the open door of the adjoining room, and they comprehended that it was intended for their occupancy.

"What a dark-skinned woman, sister," said Alma at last. "What did she say? What language does she speak?"

Christine shook her head. "Could it be English? I do not know; it did not sound like the English the gentleman and lady speak when talking to each other. But she brought us here, and from the motions she made while talking I think she said these two rooms were for us to use."

"These rooms for us? these beautiful rooms?" exclaimed Alma in astonishment and delight, glancing about upon the neat, tasteful, even elegant appointments of the one in which they were, then hastening into the other to find it in no way inferior to the first. "Ah, how lovely!" she cried; "see the pretty furniture, the white curtains trimmed with lace, the bed all white and looking, oh, so comfortable! everything so clean, so fair and sweet!"

"Yes, yes," said Christine, tears trembling in her eyes; "so far better than we ever dreamed. But it may be only for to-night; to-morrow, perhaps, we may be consigned to lodgings not half so good. Ah, I hear steps on the stairs; they will be bringing our supper. Let us wash the dust from hands and face that we may be ready to eat."

Presently, seated at the table, they found abundant appetite for the food set before them, and remarked to each other again and again, how very good it was, the best they had tasted in many, many days.

"We have fallen in with the best of friends, Christine," said Alma, "have we not? Oh, what a fortunate mistake was that that put us on the wrong road!"

"It was by the good guidance of our God, Alma," said Christine; "and oh, how shortsighted and mistaken were we in mourning as we did over the sickness that separated us from the rest of our company and left us to travel alone in a strange land; alone and penniless!"

"We will have more faith in future," said Alma; "we will trust the Lord, even when all is dark and we cannot see one step before us."

"God helping us," added Christine, devoutly; "but, alas! we are prone to unbelief; when all is bright and the path lies straight before us, we feel strong in faith; when clouds and darkness cover it from sight, our faith is apt to fail and our hearts to faint within us."

When the last of their guests of the evening had gone, Edward and Zoe bethought them of their protegees, and went to the sewing-room to inquire how they were, and if they had been provided with everything necessary to their comfort.

They found Christine seated in an arm-chair by the table, with the lamp drawn near her, and reading from a pocket Testament. She closed and laid it aside on their entrance, rising to give them a respectful greeting.

"Where is your sister?" asked Zoe, glancing round the room in search of Alma.

Christine explained that, not having entirely recovered her strength since her illness, Alma was much fatigued with her journey and had already retired to rest.

"Quite right," said Edward; "I think you should follow her example very soon, for you are looking tired. I hope the servants have attended to all your wants?"

"Oh, sir, and dear lady," she exclaimed, "how good, how kind you are to us! what more could we possibly ask than has been provided us by your orders?"

"Our orders were that you should be well cared for," Edward said, "but we feared that for lack of an interpreter you might not be able to make your wants known."

"Indeed, sir, every want was anticipated," she answered, with grateful look and tone.

"That is well," he responded. "And now we will leave you to take your rest. Good-night."

"Good-night, sir," she said; then turning to Zoe, "And you, dear lady, will let me do some work for you to-morrow?"

"Yes, if you are quite rested by that time," was the smiling reply. "Don't be uneasy; work and good wages will be found in abundance if you prove capable."

So Christine went to bed with a heart singing for joy and thankfulness.

Elsie and Evelyn drove over to Ion next morning and found Zoe attending to her housekeeping cares with a pretty matronly air that became her well; Aunt Dicey receiving her orders with the look and manner of one who is humoring a child, for such she considered the youthful lady.

"There, Aunt Dicey, I believe that is all for to-day," said Zoe; and turning from her to her callers, "Sister Elsie, how good in you to come over so early! And you too, little maid," to Evelyn: "I'm delighted to see you both."

"Thank you," returned Elsie, brightly. "How do you like housekeeping?"

"Very much so far, and my efforts seem to amuse Ned immensely," laughed Zoe. "It's too absurd that he will persist in looking upon me still as a mere child. Just think of it! when I've been married more than a year; yes, a year and a half."

"Ah, my dear little sister, don't be in too great a hurry to grow old," said Elsie, "or you may be wanting to turn about and travel back again one of these days. How do you like your new helpers, or rather their work? But I suppose you have hardly tried them yet."

"Yes; they are busy now in the sewing-room. I wanted them to take a few days to rest; but their pride of independence rose up so against it that I was fairly forced to give them something to do, and I find they do sew beautifully. Suppose you come and examine their work for yourself. You are included in the invitation, Evelyn," she added, as she rose and led the way.

In the cheerful, sunny sewing-room, beside a window that looked out upon the beautiful grounds, now gay with autumn flowers, Christine and Alma sat busily plying their needles and talking together thankfully of the present, hopefully of the future, when the door opened and the two ladies and little girl entered.

"How very industrious!" said Zoe. "I have brought my sister, Mrs. Leland, to see what competent needlewomen you are."

"They are that indeed," Elsie said, examining the work. "I shall be glad to engage you both to sew for me when you are no longer needed here," she added with a kindly glance and smile.

Then taking a chair which Zoe had drawn forward for her, she entered into conversation with the strangers, asking of their past history and their plans, hopes, and wishes for the future, and completely winning their confidence by her sweetly sympathizing tones and manner.

They were delighted with her, and she much pleased with them. Christine had a good, strong face, plain, rugged features, but a countenance that indicated so much good sense, probity, and kindliness of heart that it was attractive in spite of its lack of comeliness.

Alma seemed to lean very much upon this older sister. Hers was a more delicate organization; she was timid and shrinking, and with her fair complexion, deep blue eyes, golden hair, and look of refinement, was really quite pretty and ladylike in appearance.



CHAPTER X.

"Who knows the joys of friendship—The trust, security, and mutual tenderness, The double joys, where each is glad for both?"

ROWE.

Max Raymond was racing about Miss Stanhope's grounds with the dog that had given his sister Lulu so great a fright the first night of their stay in Lansdale. Up one walk and down another they went, the boy whistling, laughing, capering about, the dog bounding after, catching up with his playfellow and leaping upon him, now on this side and now on that; then presently finding himself shaken off and distanced in the race; but only for a moment; the next he was at the boy's side again or close at his heels.

"Max! Max!" called an eager child's voice, and Lulu came running down the path leading directly from the house.

"Well, what is it, Lu?" asked the lad, standing still to look and listen. "Down, Nero, down! be quiet, sir!"

"Oh, I have something to tell you," replied Lulu, half breathlessly, as she hurried toward him. "That letter you brought Grandma Elsie from the post-office this morning was from Aunt Elsie; and they are at home by this time—she wrote just as they were ready to start—and Evelyn Leland is with them; she's to make her home at Fairview."

"Well, and what of it? what do I care about it? or you either?"

"Dear me, Max, you might care! I hope she may prove a nice friend for me; not a bit like Rosie, who has always despised and disliked me."

"I don't think Rosie does anything of the kind, Lulu," said Max, patting Nero's head; "she may not be very fond of you, and certainly does not admire your behavior at times, but I don't believe it amounts to dislike."

"I do, then," returned Lulu, a touch of anger in her tones. "Anyhow, I'd dearly love to have a real friend near my own age; and Aunt Elsie says Evelyn is only a little older than I am."

"Well, I hope you won't be disappointed. If she was a boy I'd be as glad of her coming, or his coming, as you are."

"Oh, Maxie, I wish, for your sake, she was a boy!" cried Lulu in her impulsive way, stepping closer and putting her arm about his neck. "How selfish in me to forget that you have no companion at all at Ion!"

"I have," returned Max; "I have you, you know, and you're right good company when you are in a good humor."

"And I'm not often in any other with you, Maxie; now am I?" she said coaxingly.

"No, sis, that's true enough, and I do believe I couldn't get along half so well without you. I'm glad for your sake that this—what's-her-name?—is coming."

"Her name is Evelyn. Oh, Max, I feel so sorry for her!"

"Why?"

"Because her father's dead, and they were so very, very fond of each other; so Aunt Elsie wrote."

"Rosie's father's dead too; and she and all of them were very fond of him."

"Yes; but it's a good while now since he died, and she's had time to get over it so far that she seems hardly ever to think of him; while it is only a few weeks since Evelyn lost hers; and Rosie has her nice, kind mother with her, while Evelyn's is away in Europe, and like enough isn't half so nice as Grandma Elsie anyhow. Oh, Max, I feel most heart-broken every time papa goes away, even though I expect to see him back again some day; and think how dreadful to have your father gone never to come back!"

"Yes, it would be awful!" said Max. "I'd rather lose ten years off my own life. But, Lu, if you really love papa so dearly, how can you behave toward him as you do sometimes—causing him so much distress of mind? I've seen such a grieved, troubled look on his face, when he thought nobody was watching him, and you were in one of your naughty moods."

"Oh, Max, don't!" Lulu said in a choking voice, as she turned and walked away, hot tears in her eyes.

Max ran after her. "Come, Lu, don't take it so hard; I didn't mean to be cruel."

"But you were! Go away! you've got me into one of my moods, as you call it, and I'd better be let alone," she returned almost fiercely, jerking herself loose—for he had caught a fold of her dress in his hand—and rushing away to the farther end of the grounds, where she threw herself on a rustic seat panting with excitement and the rapidity of her flight.

But the gust of passion died down almost as speedily as it had arisen; she could never be angry very long with Max, her dear, only brother; and now her thoughts turned remorsefully upon the conduct he had condemned. It was no news to her that she had more than once caused her father much anxiety and grief of heart, nor was it a new thing for her to be repentant and remorseful on account of her unfilial behavior.

"Oh, why can't I be as good as Max and Gracie?" she said to herself, covering her face with her hands and sighing heavily. "I wish papa was here so I could tell him again how sorry I am, and how dearly I do love him though I am so often naughty. I am glad I did tell him, and that he forgave me and told me he loved me just as well as any other of his children. How good in him to say that! I wonder if Evelyn Leland ever behaved badly to her father. If she ever was naughty to him, how sorry she must feel about it now!"

During the remainder of the short visit at Lansdale, and all through the homeward journey, Lulu's thoughts often turned upon Evelyn, and she had scarcely alighted from the carriage on their arrival at Ion before she sent a sweeping glance around the welcoming group on the veranda, in eager search of the young stranger.

Yes, there she was, a little slender girl in deep mourning, standing slightly apart from the embracing, rejoicing relatives. She was not decidedly pretty, but graceful and refined in appearance, with an earnest, intelligent countenance and very fine eyes. She seemed quite free from self-consciousness and wholly taken up with the interest of the scenes being enacted before her.

"How many of them there are! and how they love one another! how nice it is!" she was thinking within herself, when the two Elsies, releasing each other from a long, tender embrace, turned toward her, the older one saying, half inquiringly, "And this is Evelyn?"

"Yes, mamma. Eva, this is my dear mother," said Mrs. Leland.

Mrs. Travilla took the little girl in her arms, kissed her affectionately, and bade her welcome to Ion, adding, "And if you like you may call me Grandma Elsie, as the others do."

"Thank you, ma'am," Evelyn answered, coloring with pleasure; "but it seems hardly appropriate, for you look not very much older than Aunt Elsie; and she is young to be my aunt."

"That's right, Eva," Mrs. Leland said, with a pleased laugh; "I for one have never approved of mamma being called so by any one older than my baby-boy."

Mrs. Travilla's attention was claimed by some one else at that moment, and Lester, taking Evelyn by the hand, led her up to Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore. She was introduced to the others in turn, every one greeting her with the utmost kindness. Rosie gave her a hasty kiss, but Lulu embraced her with warmth, saying, "I am sure I shall love you, and I hope you will love me a little in return."

"I'll try; it wouldn't be fair to let it be all on one side," Evelyn answered with a shy, sweet smile, as she returned the hug and kiss as heartily as they were given.

Lulu was delighted.

After supper, while the older people were chatting busily among themselves, she drew Evelyn into a distant corner and told her how glad she was of her coming, because she wanted a girl-friend near her own age and found Rosie uncongenial and indifferent toward her.

"She will probably be the same to me," said Evelyn; "she has so many of her very own dear ones about her, you know, that it cannot be expected that she will feel much interest in strangers like you and me. But," frankly, "I think I should love you best anyhow."

"How nice in you!" said Lulu, her eyes sparkling; "but I'm afraid you won't when you know me better, for I'm not a bit good; I get into terrible passions when anybody imposes on me or my brother or sister; and I sometimes disobey and break rules."

"You are very honest, at all events," remarked Evelyn pleasantly; "and perhaps I shall not like you any the less for having some faults. You see, if you were perfect, the contrast between you and myself would be most unpleasant to me."

"How correctly and like a grown-up person you speak!" said Lulu, regarding her new friend with affectionate admiration.

Evelyn's eyes filled. "It is because papa made me his constant companion and took the greatest pains with me," she said, in tones tremulous with emotion. "We were almost always alone together, for I never had a brother or sister to share the love he lavished upon me."

"I'm so, so sorry for you!" said Lulu, slipping an arm round Evelyn's waist. "I think I know a little how you feel, for my papa is with us only once in a while for a few days or weeks, and when he goes away again it nearly breaks my heart."

"But you can hope he may come back again."

"Yes; and I have Max and Gracie; so I am much better off than you."

"And such a sweet, pretty mamma," supplemented Evelyn, sending an admiring glance across the room to where Violet sat chatting with her sister Elsie.

"But you have your own mother, and that's a great deal better," returned Lulu. "Mamma Vi is very beautiful and sweet, and very kind to Max and Gracie and me, but a step-mother can't be like your own."

"I suppose not quite," Evelyn said with a sigh; "but I have no idea when I shall see mine again."

"We are situated a good deal alike," remarked Lulu, reflectively. "My father and your mother are far away in this world, and your father and my mother are gone to heaven."

"Yes. Oh, don't you sometimes want to go to them there?"

"I'm not good enough—not fit in any way; and I believe I'd rather stay here—at least while papa does," Lulu said, with some hesitation.

"I hope he may be spared to you for many, many years," said Evelyn, gently; "at least till you are quite grown up, and perhaps have a family of children of your own."

"Were you ever so naughty that your father told you you gave him a great deal of trouble and heartache?" asked Lulu in a tremulous voice and with starting tears.

"Oh no; no, indeed!" exclaimed Eva, in surprise. "How could I, or any one, with such a father as mine?"

"No father could be better or kinder than mine," said Lulu, twinkling away a tear; "and yet I have been so passionate and disobedient that he has told me that several times."

"Oh, don't ever be so again; for if you do your poor heart will ache so terribly over it when he is taken away from you," Evelyn said with emotion, and pressing Lulu's hand affectionately in hers. "Oh, I can never be thankful enough," she went on, "that the day my dear father was called home he said to me, 'My darling, you have been nothing but a blessing and comfort to me since the day you were born.'"

"My father can never say that to me; I have already put it out of his power," thought Lulu to herself, with a great pain at her heart; and as soon as she found herself alone in her own room that night she wrote a little penitent note to him all blistered with tears.

Shortly after breakfast the next morning she went to "Grandma Elsie" with a request for permission to walk over to Fairview and spend an hour with Evelyn.

"You may, my dear, if you can get Max or some older person to walk with you," was Elsie's kind reply; "otherwise I will send you in the carriage, because it is not safe for you to walk that distance alone. I think you and Evelyn are going to be friends, and I am very glad of it," she added with a pleasant smile. "If she will come, you may bring her back with you to spend the day at Ion."

"Oh, thank you, Grandma Elsie; that will be so nice!" cried Lulu, joyously; then bounded away in search of her brother.

Max, having nothing else to do just then, readily consented to be her escort, and they set out at once.

"A brother is of some use sometimes, isn't he?" queried Max, complacently, as they walked briskly down the avenue together.

"Yes; and isn't a sister, too?" asked Lulu.

"Yes, indeed," he said; "you are almost always ready to do me a good turn, Lu. But, in fact, I'm taking this walk quite as much to please myself as you. It's a very pleasant one on a morning like this, and Uncle Lester and Aunt Elsie are pleasant folks to visit."

"I think they are," returned Lulu; "but I am going more to see Evelyn than anybody else. Oh, Max, I do hope, I do believe, it's going to be as I told you I wished."

"What?"

"That we'll be intimate friends and very fond of each other. Weren't you pleased with her, Max? I was."

"She's nice-looking," he replied; "but that's all I can say till we've had time to get acquainted."

"I feel quite well acquainted with her now; we had such a nice long talk together last night," said Lulu.

Evelyn was strolling about the grounds at Fairview, and came to the gate to meet them. She shook hands with Max, kissed Lulu affectionately, and invited them into the house.

They settled themselves in the veranda, where Mrs. Leland presently joined them. Then Lulu gave "Grandma Elsie's" invitation.

"May I go, Aunt Elsie?" asked Evelyn.

"Certainly, dear, if you wish to," Mrs. Leland answered kindly. "Your uncle and I will drive over early in the evening and bring you home."

"By moonlight!" Evelyn said; "that will be very nice. Auntie, you and uncle are very good to me."

"Indeed, child," returned Elsie, smiling, "you may well believe it is no hardship for us to go to Ion on any errand; or with none save the desire to see mamma and the rest."

Evelyn and Lulu passed the greater part of the day alone together, every one else seemingly lacking either leisure or inclination to join them, and the friendship grew rapidly, as is usually the case when two little girls are thus thrown together.

Each gave a detailed history of her past life and found the other deeply interested in it. Then they talked of the present and of the near future.

"Are you to go to school?" asked Lulu.

"No," Evelyn said with a contented smile, "I am to study at home and come here to recite with you."

"Oh, how nice!" cried Lulu, her eyes sparkling with pleasure.

"Yes, I think it very kind in Aunt Elsie's mother and grandfather to offer to let me do so," said Evelyn. "I shall try very hard to be studious and well-behaved and give them no trouble."

Lulu's cheek flushed at that remark, and for a moment she sat silent and with downcast eyes; then she burst out in her impetuous way, "I wish I were like you, Eva—so good and grateful. I'm afraid you wouldn't care for me at all if you knew what a bad, ungrateful thing I am. I've given ever so much trouble to Grandpa Dinsmore and Grandma Elsie, though they have done more for me—for Max and Gracie too—than they are going to do for you."

"I don't believe you're half so bad as you make yourself out to be," returned Eva, in a surprised tone. "And I'm sure you are sorry and will be ever so good and grateful in the future."

"I want to, but—there does seem to be no use in my trying to be sweet-tempered and all that," said Lulu, dejectedly; "I've got such a dreadful temper."

"Papa used to tell me God, our heavenly Father, would help me to conquer my faults, if I asked Him with all my heart," said Evelyn, softly; "that, in His great love and condescension, He noticed even a little child and its efforts to please Him and do His will."

"Yes, I know; my papa has told me the same thing ever so often; but most always the temptation comes so suddenly I don't seem to have time to ask for help, and"—hesitatingly—"sometimes I don't want it."



CHAPTER XI.

"O blessed, happy child, to find The God of heaven so near and kind!"

It was Sabbath afternoon. In the large dining-room at Ion a Bible-reading was being held, Mr. Dinsmore leading, every member of the household, down to the servants, who occupied the lower end of the apartment, bearing a share in the exercises; as also Lester, Elsie, and Evelyn from Fairview, and representatives from the other three families belonging to the connection, and the Keith cousins, who had arrived at Ion a few days before.

The portion of Scripture under consideration was the interview of Nicodemus with the Master when he came to Him by night (St. John iii.), the subject, of course, the necessity of the new birth, God's appointed way of salvation, and the exceeding greatness of His love in giving His only-begotten Son to die "that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life."

Each one able to read had an open Bible, and even Gracie and little Walter listened with understanding and interest.

She whom the one called mamma, the other Grandma Elsie, had talked with them that morning on the same subject, and tenderly urged upon them—as often before—the duty of coming to Christ, telling them of His love to little children, and that they were not too young to give themselves to Him; and Mr. Dinsmore addressed a few closing words to them in the same strain.

They fell into Gracie's heart as seed sown in good ground. When the reading had come to an end and she felt herself unobserved, she slipped quietly away to her mamma's dressing-room, where she was not likely to be disturbed, and sat down to think more profoundly and seriously than ever before in her short life.

She went over "the old, old story," and tears stole down her cheeks as she whispered to herself, "And it was for me He died that dreadful death; for me just as truly as if it hadn't been for anybody else; and yet I've lived all this long while without loving Him, or trying to do right for the sake of pleasing Him.

"And how often I've been invited to come! Papa has told me about it over and over again; mamma too, and Grandma Elsie; and I haven't minded what they said at all. Oh, how patient and kind Jesus has been to wait so long for me to come! And He is still waiting and inviting me to come; just as kindly and lovingly as if it was the very first time, and I hadn't been turning away from Him.

"He is right here, looking at me, and listening for what I will say in answer to His call. Oh, I won't keep Him waiting any longer, lest He should go away and never invite me again; and because I do love Him for dying for me, and for being so good and kind to me all my life—giving me every blessing I have—and keeping on inviting me, over and over, when I wouldn't even listen to His voice.

"I'll go to Him now. Grandma Elsie said just to kneel down and feel that I am kneeling at His feet, and tell Him all about my sins, and how sorry I am, exactly as if I could see Him, and ask Him to forgive my sins and wash them all away in His precious blood, and take me for His very own child to be His forever, and serve Him always—in this world, and in heaven when he takes me there. Yes, I will do it now."

With the resolve she rose from the chair where she had been sitting, and kneeling before it with clasped hands and closed eyes, from which penitent tears stole down her cheeks, said, in low, reverent tones, "Dear Lord Jesus, I'm only a little girl and very full of sin; I've done a great many bad things in my life, and haven't done the good things I knew I ought to do; and I have a very bad heart that doesn't want to do right. Oh, please make it good; oh, please take away all the wickedness that is in me; wash me in Thy precious blood, so that I shall be clean and pure in Thy sight. Forgive me for living so long without loving Thee, when I've known all the time about Thy great love to me. Help me to love Thee now and forever more; I give myself to Thee to be all thine forever and forever. Amen."

Her prayer was ended, yet she did not at once rise from her kneeling posture; it was so sweet to linger there at the Master's feet; she remembered and trusted His promise, "Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out," and almost she could hear His dear voice saying in tenderest tones, "Daughter, thy sins, which are many, are forgiven thee."

"I love them that love Me, and those that seek Me early shall find Me."

She seemed to feel the touch of His hand laid in blessing on her head, and her heart sang for joy.

Meanwhile the older children had gathered about Aunt Chloe, now seated in a back veranda—the weather being still warm enough for the outer air to be very pleasant at that time of day—and Rosie, as spokesman of the party, begged coaxingly for stories of mamma when she was a little girl.

"It's de Lawd's day, chillens," answered the old woman in a doubtful tone.

"Yes, mammy," acknowledged Rosie, "but you can easily make your story fit for Sunday; mamma was so good—a real Christian child, as you have often told me."

"So she was, chile, so she was; I's sho' she lub de Lawd, from de bery day her ole mammy fus' tole her how He lub her. Yes, you right, Miss Rosie; I kin tole you 'bout her, and 'twon't break de Sabbath day. Is yo' all hyar now?" she asked, glancing inquiringly about.

"All but Gracie," said Rosie, glancing round the little circle in her turn. "I wonder where she is. Betty," to a little negro maid standing in the rear, "go and find Miss Gracie, and ask if she doesn't want to hear the stories mammy is going to tell us."

"Yes, Miss Rosie, whar you s'pose Miss Gracie done gone?" drawled the little maid, standing quite still and pulling at one of the short woolly braids scattered here and there over her head.

"I don't know. Go and look for her," returned Rosie, somewhat imperiously. "Now hurry," she added, "or there won't be time for all mammy has to tell."

"Wisht I know whar Miss Gracie done gone," sighed Betty, reluctantly obeying.

"I saw her going upstairs," said Lulu; "so it's likely you'll find her in Mamma Vi's rooms."

At that Betty quickened her pace, and the next moment was at Violet's dressing-room door, peeping in and asking, "You dar, Miss Gracie?"

"Yes," Grace answered, turning toward her a face so full of gladness that Betty's eyes opened wide in astonishment, and stepping in she asked wonderingly, "What—what de mattah, Miss Gracie? yo' look like yo' done gone foun' a gol' mine, or jes' sumfin' mos' like dat."

"Better still, Betty: I've found the Lord Jesus; I love Him and He loves me," Gracie said, her eyes shining, "and oh, I am so glad, so happy!"

"Whar yo' fin' Him, Miss Gracie?" queried Betty in increasing wonder and astonishment, and glancing searchingly round the room. "Is He hyar?"

"Yes; for He is God and is everywhere."

"Oh, dat de way He hyar? Yes, I knows 'bout dat; Miss Elsie tole me lots ob times. How yo' know He lub yo', Miss Gracie?"

"Because He says so, Betty.

"'Jesus loves me; this I know, For the Bible tell me so.'"

"Yo's wanted down stairs, Miss Gracie," said Betty, bethinking herself of her errand. "Ole Aunt Chloe gwine tell 'bout old times when missus bery little and lib way off down Souf. Bettah come right 'long; kase Miss Rosie she in pow'ful big hurry fo' Aunt Chloe begin dat story."

"Oh yes; I never get tired hearing mammy tell that; Grandma Elsie was such a dear little girl," Grace said, making haste to obey the summons.

The others had already gathered closely about Aunt Chloe, but the circle promptly widened to receive Grace, and the moment she had taken her seat the story began, opening with the birth of its subject.

There were many little reminiscences of her infancy and early childhood, very interesting to all the listeners. The narrator dwelt at length upon the evidences of early piety shown in the child's life, and Aunt Chloe remarked, "Yo' needn't be 'fraid, chillens, ob bein' too good to lib: my darlin' was de bes' chile eber I see, and yo' know she has lib to see her chillen and her gran'chillens."

"I'm not at all afraid of it," remarked Rosie. "People who are certainly don't know or don't believe what the Bible teaches on that point; for it says, 'My son, forget not My law; but let thine heart keep My commandments; for length of days, and long life, and peace shall they add to thee.'"

"And there's a promise of long life and prosperity to all who keep the fifth commandment," said Max.

"'So far as it shall serve for God's glory and their own good,'" added Evelyn, softly.

"Dat's so, chillens," said Aunt Chloe; "an' yo' ole mammy hopes ebery one ob yo's gwine try it all de days ob yo' life."

"Yes, we're goin' to, mammy; so now tell us some more," said Walter, coaxingly; "tell about the time when the poor little girl that's my mamma now had to go away and leave her pretty home."

"Yaas, chile, dat wur a sad time," said the old woman, reflectively; "it mos' broke de little chile heart to hab to leab dat home whar she been borned, an' all de darkies dat lub her like dar life."

She went on to describe the parting, then to tell of the journey, and was just beginning with the life at Roselands, when the summons came to the tea-table.

"We'll come back to hear the rest after tea, mammy, if you're not too tired," Rosie said as she turned to go.

But on coming back they found no one on the veranda but Betty, who, in answer to their inquiries, said, "Aunt Chloe hab entired fo' de night; she hab de misery in de back and in de head, and she cayn't tell no mo' stories fo' mawning."

"Poor old soul!" said Evelyn, compassionately; "I'm afraid we've tired her out."

"Oh no, not at all," answered Rosie; "she likes nothing better than talking about mamma. You never saw anything like her devotion; I verily believe she'd die for mamma without a moment's hesitation."

Most of the house-servants at Ion occupied cabins of their own at no great distance from the mansion, but Aunt Chloe, the faithful nurse of three generations, was domiciled in a most comfortable apartment not far from those of the mistress to whom she was so dear; and Elsie never laid her own head upon its pillow till she had paid a visit to mammy's room to see that she wanted for nothing that could contribute to ease of body or mind.

This night, stealing softly in, she found her lying with closed eyes and hands meekly folded across her breast, and, thinking she slept, would have gone away again as quietly as she came; but the loved voice recalled her.

"Dat yo', honey? Don' go; yo' ole mammy's got somefin to say; and de time is short, 'kase the chariot-wheels dey's rollin' fas', fas' dis way to carry yo' ole mammy home to glory."

"Dear mammy," Elsie said with emotion, laying her hand tenderly on the sable brow, "are you feeling weaker or in any way worse than usual?"

"Dunno, honey, but I hear de Master callin', an' I's ready to follow whereber He leads; eben down into de valley ob de shadow ob death. I's close to de riber; Is hear de soun' ob de wattahs ripplin' pas'; but de eberlastin' arms is underneath, an' I sho' to git safe ober to de oder side."

"Yes, dear mammy, I know you will," Elsie answered in moved tones. "I know you will come off more than conqueror through Him who loved you with an everlasting love."

"'Peat dat verse to yo' ole mammy, honey," entreated the trembling, feeble voice.

"What verse, mammy dear? 'Who shall separate us'?"

"Yes, darlin', dat's it! an' de res' dat comes after, whar de 'postle say he 'suaded dat deff nor nuffin else cayn't separate God's chillen from de love ob Christ."

Elsie complied, adding at the close of the quotation, "Such precious words! How often you and I have rejoiced over them together, mammy!"

"'Deed we hab, honey; an' we's gwine rejoice in dem togeder beside de great white throne. Now yo' go an' take yo' res', darlin', an' de Lawd gib yo' sweet sleep."

"I can't leave you, mammy if you are suffering; you must let me sit beside you and do what is in my power to relieve or help you to forget your pain."

"No, chile, no; de miseries am all gone an' I's mighty comfor'able, bery happy, too, hearin' de soun' ob de chariot-wheels and tinking I's soon be in de bressed lan' whar de miseries an' de sins am all done gone foreber; an' whar ole Uncle Joe an' de bressed Master is waitin' to 'ceive me wid songs ob joy and gladness."

Thus reassured, and perceiving no symptom of approaching dissolution, Elsie returned to her own apartments and was soon in bed and asleep.

In accordance with an Ion rule which Lulu particularly disliked, the children had gone to their rooms an hour or more in advance of the older people.

Grace still slept with her mamma in her father's absence, but often made her preparations for bed in her sister's room, that they might chat freely together of whatever was uppermost in their minds.

To-night they were no sooner shut in there, away from other eyes and ears, than Grace put her arms round Lulu's neck, saying, while her face shone with gladness, "Oh, Lu, I have something to tell you!"

"Have you?" Lulu answered. "Then it must be something good; for in all your life I never saw you look so very, very happy. Oh, is it news from papa? Is he coming home on another visit?" she cried with a sudden, eager lighting up of her face.

The brightness of Grace's dimmed a trifle as she replied, "No, not that; they would never let him come again so soon. Oh, how I wish he was here! for he would be so glad of it too; almost as glad as I am, I think."

"Glad of what?" asked Lulu.

"That I've given my heart to Jesus. Oh, Lulu, won't you do it too? it is so easy if you only just try."

"Tell me about it; how did you do it?" Lulu asked gravely, her eyes cast down, a slight frown upon her brow.

"I did just as Grandma Elsie told us this morning. You know, Lu?"

"Yes, I remember. But how do you know that you were heard and accepted?"

"Why, Lulu!" was the surprised reply, "the Bible tells us God is the hearer and answerer of prayer—it's in one of the verses I've learned to say to Grandma Elsie since I came here. And Jesus says: 'Him that cometh unto Me I will in nowise cast out;' so of course He received me. How could I help knowing it?"

"You've got far ahead of me," Lulu said, with petulance born of an uneasy conscience, as she released herself from Grace's arms and began undressing with great energy and despatch.

"You needn't feel that way, Lu," Grace said pleadingly; "Jesus is just as willing to take you for His child as me."

"I don't believe it!" cried Lulu, with almost fierce impatience; "you've always been good, and I've always been bad. I don't see why I wasn't made patient and sweet-tempered too; it's no trouble to you to behave and keep rules and all that, but I can't; try as hard as I will."

"Oh, Lulu, Jesus will help you to be good if you ask Him and try as hard as you can, too," Grace said in tender, pleading tones.

"But suppose I don't want to be good?"

Grace's eyes opened wide in grieved surprise, then filled with tears. "Oh, Lulu!" she said; "but I'm sure you do want to be good sometimes. And can't Jesus help you to want to always? won't He if you ask Him?"

"I'm tired of the subject, and it's time for you to go to bed," was the ungracious rejoinder.

Usually so unkind a rebuff from her sister would have caused Grace a fit of crying, but she was too happy for that to-night. She slipped quietly away into her mamma's rooms, and when ready for bed came to the door again with a pleasant "Good-night, Lulu, and happy dreams!"

Lulu, already repentant, sprang to meet her with outstretched arms. "Good-night, you dear little thing!" she exclaimed with a hug and kiss. "I wish you had a better sort of a sister. Perhaps you will some day,—in little Elsie."

"I love you dearly, dearly, Lu!" was the affectionate rejoinder, accompanied by a hearty return of the embrace.

"I wish mamma would come up, for I want to tell her; 'cause I know it will make her glad too," Grace said to herself as she got into bed. "I mean to stay awake till she comes."

But scarcely had the little curly head touched the pillow ere its owner was fast asleep, and so the communication was deferred till morning.

When Violet came into the room she stepped softly to the bedside, and bending over the sleeping child gazed with tender scrutiny into the fair young face.

"The darling!" she murmured, "what a passing sweet and peaceful expression she wears! I noticed it several times during the evening; a look as if some great good had come to her."

A very gentle kiss was laid on the child's forehead, and Violet passed on into Lulu's room, moved by a motherly solicitude to see that all was well with this one of her husband's children also.

The face that rested on the pillow was round and rosy with youth and health, the brow was unruffled, yet the countenance lacked the exceeding sweet expression of her sister's.

Violet kissed her also, and Lulu, half opening her sleepy eyes, murmured, "Mamma Vi you're very good and kind," and with the last word was fast asleep again.

Mrs. Elsie Travilla rose earlier the next morning than her wont,—a vague uneasiness oppressing her in regard to her aged nurse,—and waiting only to don dressing-gown and slippers went softly to Aunt Chloe's bedside; but finding her sleeping peacefully, she returned as quietly as she had come, thinking to pay another visit before descending to the breakfast-room.

Only a few minutes had passed, however, when the little maid Betty came rushing unceremoniously in, her eyes wild with affright. "Missus, missus," she cried, "suffin de mattah wid ole Aunt Chloe; she—"

Elsie waited to hear no more, but pushing past the child, flew to the rescue.

But one glance at the aged face told her that no human help could avail; the seal of death was on it.

A great wave of sorrow swept over her at the sight, but she was outwardly calm and composed as, taking the cold hand in hers, she asked, "Dear mammy, is it peace?"

"Yes, chile, yes," came in feeble yet assured accents from the dying lips; "an' I's almos' dar; a po' ole sinnah saved by grace. Good-by, honey; we's meet again at de Master's feet, neber to part mo mo'!"

One or two long-drawn gasping breaths followed and the aged pilgrim had entered into rest.

At the same instant a strong arm was passed round Elsie's waist, while a manly voice said tenderly, "We will not grieve for her, dear daughter, for all her pains, all her troubles are over, and she has been gathered home like a shock of corn fully ripe."

"Yes, dear father, but let me weep a little; not for her, but for myself," Elsie said, suffering him to draw her head to a resting-place upon his breast.

In the mean while Violet and Grace had wakened from sleep, and the little girl had told of her new-found happiness, meeting with the joyful sympathy which she had expected.

"Dear Gracie," Violet said, taking the little girl in her arms and kissing her tenderly, "you are a blessed, happy child in having so early chosen the better part which shall never be taken away from you. Jesus will be your friend all your life, be it long or short; a friend that sticketh closer than a brother; who will never leave nor forsake you, but will love you with an everlasting love, tenderer than a mother's, and be always near and mighty to help and save in every time of trouble and distress."

"Oh, mamma," said Grace, "how good and kind He is to let me love Him! I wish I could do something to please Him; what could I do, mamma?"

"He said to His disciples, 'If ye love Me, keep My commandments;' and He says the same to you and me, Gracie, dear," Violet answered.

"I will try, mamma; and won't you help me?"

"All I can, dear. Now it is time for us to rise."

They had nearly completed their toilet when a tap at the door was followed by the entrance of Violet's mother, looking grave and sad, and with traces of tears about her eyes.

"Mamma, what is it?" Violet asked anxiously.

"Our dear old mammy is gone, daughter," Elsie answered, the tears beginning to fall again; "gone home to glory. I do not weep for her, but for myself. You know what she was to me."

"Yes, mamma, dearest, I am very sorry for you; but for her it should be all joy, should it not? Life can have been little but a burden, to her for some years past, and now she is at God's right hand where there are pleasures forever more."

Elsie assented; and sitting down, gave a full account of what had passed between Aunt Chloe and herself the previous night, and of the death-scene this morning.

"What a long, long journey hers has been!" remarked Violet; "but she has reached home at last. And here, mamma," drawing Grace forward, "is a little pilgrim who has but just passed through the wicket-gate, and begun to travel the strait and narrow way."

"Is it so, Gracie? It makes my heart glad to hear it," Elsie said, taking the child in her arms in a tender, motherly fashion. "You are none too young to begin to love and serve the Lord Jesus; and it's a blessed service. I found it such when I was a child like you, and such I have found it all the way that I have traveled since."



CHAPTER XII.

LULU REBELS.

Several weeks had passed since the events recorded in the last chapter, during which life had moved on in its accustomed way at Fairview and Ion.

Evelyn was as happy in her new home as she could have been anywhere without her father and mother—perhaps happier than she would have been anywhere with the latter—and enjoyed her studies under Mr. Dinsmore's tuition; for, being very steady, respectful, studious, and in every way a well-behaved child, and also an interested pupil, she found favor with him, was never subjected to reproof or punishment, but smiled upon and constantly commended, and in consequence her opinion of him differed widely from that of Lulu, whose quick, wilful temper was continually getting her into trouble with him.

She was the only one of his scholars who caused him any serious annoyance, but he had grown very weary of contending with her, and one day when she had failed in her recitation and answered impertinently his well-merited reproof, he said to her, "Lucilla, you may leave the room and consider yourself banished from it for a week. At the end of that time I shall probably be able to decide whether I will ever again listen to a recitation from you."

Lulu, with cheeks aflame and eyes flashing, hardly waited for the conclusion of the sentence ere she rose and rushed from the room, shutting the door behind her with a loud slam.

Mr. Dinsmore stepped to it and called her back.

"I desire you to come in here again and then leave us in a proper and ladylike manner, closing the door quietly," he said.

For a single instant Lulu hesitated, strongly tempted to refuse obedience; but even she stood in some awe of Mr. Dinsmore, and seeing his stern, determined look, she retraced her steps, with head erect and eyes that carefully avoided the faces of all present; went quietly out again, closed the door gently, then hurried through the hall, down the stairs, and into her own room; there she hastily donned hat and sacque, then rapidly descended to the ground-floor, and the next instant might have been seen fairly flying down the avenue.

Her passion had slightly cooled by the time she reached the gate, and giving up her first intention of passing through into the road beyond, she turned into an alley bordered by evergreens which would screen her from view from the house, and there paced back and forth, muttering angrily to herself between her shut teeth,

"I hate him, so I do! the old tyrant! He's no business to give me such long, hard lessons and then scold because I don't recite perfectly."

Here conscience reminded her that she could easily have mastered her task if her time had not been wasted over a story-book.

"It's a pity if I can't have the pleasure of reading a story once in a while," she said in reply; "and I'm not going to give up doing it either for him or anybody else. He reads stories himself; and if it's bad, it's worse for grown folks than for children. Oh, how I do wish I was grown up and could do just as I please!"

Then came to mind her father's assurance that even grown people could not always follow their own inclinations; also his expressions of deep gratitude to Mr. Dinsmore and Grandma Elsie for giving his children a home with them and taking the trouble to teach and train them up for useful and happy lives. Lulu well knew that Mr. Dinsmore received no compensation for his labors in behalf of her brother and sister and herself, and that few people would be at such pains for no other reward than the consciousness of doing good; and reflecting upon all this, she at length began to feel really ashamed of her bad behavior.

Yet pride prevented her from fully acknowledging it even to her own heart. But recalling the doubt he had expressed as to whether he would ever again hear a recitation from her, she began to feel very uneasy as to what might be the consequence to her of such a refusal on his part.

Her education must go on; that she knew; but who would be her teacher if Mr. Dinsmore refused? In all probability she would be sent away to the much-dreaded boarding-school. Indeed she felt quite certain of it in case the question should be referred to her father; for had he not warned her that if she were troublesome or disobedient to Mr. Dinsmore, such would be her fate?

A fervent wish arose that he might not be appealed to—might forever be left in ignorance of this her latest act of insubordination. She would, it was true, have to make a report to him of the day's conduct, but she could refrain from telling the whole story; could smooth the matter over so that he would not understand how extremely impertinent and passionate she had been.

Everything that had passed between Mr. Dinsmore and herself had been seen and heard by all her fellow-pupils, and the thought of that did not tend to lessen Lulu's mortification and dread of consequences.

"Rosie will treat me more than ever like the Pharisee did the publican," she said bitterly to herself, "Max and Gracie will be ashamed of their sister, Walter will look at me as if he thought me the worst girl alive, and perhaps Evelyn won't be my friend any more. Mr. Dinsmore will act as if he didn't see me at all, I suppose, and Grandma Elsie and Aunt Elsie and Mamma Vi will be grave and sad. Oh dear, I 'most think I'm willing to go to boarding-school to get away from it all!"

Evelyn had been greatly shocked and surprised at Lulu's outburst of temper, for she had become strongly attached to her, and had not known her to be capable of such an exhibition of passion.

During the scene in the school-room, Rosie sent angry glances at Lulu, but Evelyn sat silent with eyes cast down, unwilling to witness her friend's disgrace. Max hid his face with his book, Gracie wept, and little Walter looked on in silent astonishment.

"She is the most ill-tempered piece I ever saw!" remarked Rosie, aloud, as the door closed upon Lulu for the second time.

"Rosie," said her grandfather, sternly, "let me hear no more such observations from your lips. They are entirely uncalled for and extremely uncharitable."

Rosie reddened and did not venture to speak again, or even to so much as raise her eyes from her book for some time.

The out-door air was quite keen and cold; Lulu was beginning to feel chilled, and debating in her own mind whether to return at once to the house spite of the danger of meeting some one who knew of her disgrace, and was therefore likely to look at her askance, when a light, quick step approached her from behind and two arms were suddenly thrown around her neck.

"Oh, Lu, dear Lu," said Evelyn's soft voice, "I am so, so sorry!"

"Eva! I did not think you would come to find me; do you really care for me still?" asked Lulu, in subdued tones, and half averting her face.

"Of course I do. Did you suppose I was not a true friend that would stand by you in trouble and disgrace, as well as when all goes prosperously with you?"

"But it was my own fault for not learning my lesson better, in the first place, and then for answering Grandpa Dinsmore as I did when he reproved me," said Lulu, hanging her head. "I know papa would say so if he were here, and punish me severely too."

"Still I'm sorry for you," Eva repeated. "I'm not, by any means, always good myself; I might have neglected my lessons under the same temptation, and if my temper were naturally as hot as yours I don't know that I should have been any more meek and respectful than you were under so sharp a rebuke."

"It's very good in you to say it; you're not a bit of a Pharisee; but I think Rosie is very much like the one the Bible tells about; the one who thought himself so much better than the poor publican."

"Isn't it just possible you may be a little hard on Rosie?" suggested Eva, with some hesitation, fearing to rouse the ungovernable temper again.

But Lulu did not show any anger. "I don't think I am," she replied, quite calmly. "What did she say after I left the room?"

Eva was very averse to tale-bearing, so merely answered the query with another. "Why do you suppose she said anything?"

"Because I know her of old; she dislikes and despises me, and is always ready to express her sentiments whenever the slightest occasion offers."

"That reminds me," said Evelyn, "that just before dismissing us Grandpa Dinsmore requested us to refrain from mentioning what had passed, unless it should become quite necessary to do so."

"You may be sure Rosie will find it necessary," Lulu said; "she will tell her mamma all about it—Mamma Vi, too—and it will presently be known all over the house; even by the Keiths. I wish they weren't here,"

"Don't you like them? I do."

"Yes; Aunt Marcia and Aunt Annis—as we children all call them—are kind and pleasant as can be; but I'd rather they wouldn't hear about this; though I don't care so very much either," she added, half defiantly. "What difference does it make what people think of you?"

"Some difference, surely," said Evelyn, gently; "for the Bible says, 'A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches, and loving favor rather than silver and gold.' Papa used to tell me that to deserve a good name, and to have it, was one of the greatest blessings of life. I must go now," she added, pulling out a pretty little watch, one of the last gifts of that loved father; "Aunt Elsie will be expecting me."