Front Cover
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 Chapter I: Kathie finds her...
 Chapter II: Mr. Lythcombe's early...
 Chapter III: The home among the...
 Chapter IV: "She's queer, Tom,...
 Chapter V: Tom Whiting's home
 Chapter VI: Dell Faxon
 Chapter VII: The home in Park View...
 Chapter VIII: Sunday afternoon...
 Chapter IX: Widow Lester's...
 Chapter X: The blacksmith's...
 Chapter XI: The drunkard Greyson's...
 Chapter XII: Fannie's decision
 Chapter XIII: Fannie seeking...
 Chapter XIV: Fannie accepting the...
 Chapter XV: Letting the light...
 Chapter XVI: Leslie displays her...
 Chapter XVII: Plans for temperance...
 Chapter XVIII: Norman gains...
 Chapter XIX: The seven Marys
 Chapter XX: The first temperance...
 Chapter XXI: Callahan's saloon
 Chapter XXII: Dell's escape
 Chapter XXIII: The death-bed...
 Chapter XXIV: Planning a surpr...
 Chapter XXV: Kathie's two...
 Back Cover

Title: Kathie's peculiar views
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00053281/00001
 Material Information
Title: Kathie's peculiar views
Physical Description: 256 p., 6 leaves of plates : ill. ; 17 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Smith, Adah E. ( Author, Primary )
Snyder, Henry M. ( Engraver )
American Baptist Publication Society ( Publisher )
Publisher: American Baptist Publication Society
Place of Publication: Philadelphia
Publication Date: c1884
Copyright Date: 1884
Subject: Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Family -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Temperance -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Blacksmiths -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Clergy -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Death -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Teachers -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Marriage -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Christian life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Bldn -- 1884
Genre: novel   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: United States -- Pennsylvania -- Philadelphia
Statement of Responsibility: by Adah E. Smith.
General Note: Added title page printed in colors; illustrations engraved by H. M. Snyder.
Funding: Preservation and Access for American and British Children's Literature, 1870-1889 (NEH PA-50860-00).
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00053281
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Holding Location: Baldwin Library of Historical Children's Literature in the Department of Special Collections and Area Studies, George A. Smathers Libraries, University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved, Board of Trustees of the University of Florida.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002237625
notis - ALH8114
oclc - 37140007

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Cover 1
        Cover 2
        Page i
    Title Page
        Page ii
        Page 1
        Page 2
    Table of Contents
        Page 3
        Page 4
        Page 5
        Page 6
    Chapter I: Kathie finds her work
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
    Chapter II: Mr. Lythcombe's early history
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
        Page 27
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
    Chapter III: The home among the hills
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
        Page 43
        Page 44
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
        Page 48
    Chapter IV: "She's queer, Tom, but I like her"
        Page 49
        Page 50
        Page 51
        Page 52
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
        Page 56
        Page 57
        Page 58
        Page 59
        Page 60
        Page 61
        Page 62
    Chapter V: Tom Whiting's home
        Page 63
        Page 64
        Page 65
        Page 66
        Page 67
        Page 68
        Page 69
    Chapter VI: Dell Faxon
        Page 70
        Page 71
        Page 72
        Page 73
        Page 74
        Page 75
    Chapter VII: The home in Park View Avenue
        Page 76
        Page 77
        Page 78
        Page 79
        Page 80
        Page 81
    Chapter VIII: Sunday afternoon at the Arnots'
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
        Page 85
        Page 86
        Page 87
        Page 88
        Page 89
        Page 90
        Page 91
    Chapter IX: Widow Lester's home
        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
        Page 95
        Page 96
        Page 97
        Page 98
    Chapter X: The blacksmith's family
        Page 99
        Page 100
        Page 101
        Page 102
        Page 103
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
    Chapter XI: The drunkard Greyson's home
        Page 107
        Page 108
        Page 109
        Page 110
        Page 111
        Page 112
        Page 113
        Page 114
        Page 115
        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
    Chapter XII: Fannie's decision
        Page 119
        Page 120
        Page 121
        Page 122
        Page 123
        Page 124
        Page 125
        Page 126
        Page 127
        Page 128
        Page 129
    Chapter XIII: Fannie seeking light
        Page 130
        Page 131
        Page 132
        Page 133
        Page 134
    Chapter XIV: Fannie accepting the free gift
        Page 135
        Page 136
        Page 137
        Page 138
        Page 139
        Page 140
    Chapter XV: Letting the light shine
        Page 141
        Page 142
        Page 143
        Page 144
        Page 145
        Page 146
        Page 147
    Chapter XVI: Leslie displays her banner
        Page 148
        Page 149
        Page 150
        Page 151
        Page 152
        Page 153
        Page 154
        Page 155
        Page 156
        Page 157
        Page 158
        Page 159
        Page 160
        Page 161
        Page 162
    Chapter XVII: Plans for temperance work
        Page 163
        Page 164
        Page 165
        Page 166
        Page 167
        Page 168
        Page 169
        Page 170
        Page 171
        Page 172
        Page 173
    Chapter XVIII: Norman gains a victory
        Page 174
        Page 175
        Page 176
        Page 177
        Page 178
        Page 179
        Page 180
        Page 181
        Page 182
        Page 183
        Page 184
        Page 185
    Chapter XIX: The seven Marys
        Page 186
        Page 187
        Page 188
        Page 189
        Page 190
        Page 191
        Page 192
        Page 193
        Page 194
        Page 195
        Page 196
        Page 197
        Page 198
        Page 199
    Chapter XX: The first temperance meeting
        Page 200
        Page 201
        Page 202
        Page 203
        Page 204
        Page 205
        Page 206
        Page 207
        Page 208
        Page 209
        Page 210
        Page 211
        Page 212
        Page 213
    Chapter XXI: Callahan's saloon
        Page 214
        Page 215
        Page 216
        Page 217
        Page 218
        Page 219
        Page 220
        Page 221
        Page 222
        Page 223
    Chapter XXII: Dell's escape
        Page 224
        Page 225
        Page 226
        Page 227
        Page 228
        Page 229
        Page 230
        Page 231
        Page 232
    Chapter XXIII: The death-bed marriage
        Page 233
        Page 234
        Page 235
        Page 236
        Page 237
        Page 238
        Page 239
        Page 240
        Page 241
        Page 242
        Page 243
        Page 244
    Chapter XXIV: Planning a surprise
        Page 245
        Page 246
        Page 247
        Page 248
        Page 249
        Page 250
        Page 251
        Page 252
    Chapter XXV: Kathie's two decisions
        Page 253
        Page 254
        Page 255
        Page 256
    Back Cover
        Cover 1
        Cover 2
Full Text

* -



No one is allowed to liave out more than one book at
a time, or to retain any book longer than two weeks.

Use this book carefully and return it punctually, with-
out injury

F. G. THEARLE, 151 Wabash Avenue, CHICAGO.

The Baldwin Library
BCm University
"" of I
; J7l ...... Florida

'I I i17F: I Li !l III

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_________-___ S

Kathie's Views.
Page 95.

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& 1420 Chestnut Street.
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1420 Chestnut Street.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1884, by the
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.



KATHIE FINDS HER WORK.... ............... 7




THE HOME AMONG THE HILLS................. 37




Tom WV rTING'S HOME ........................ 63



DELL FAXON... 0 .......... ................... 70






WIDOW LESTER'S HOME.............. ......... 92


THE BLACKSMIITH'S FAMILY ............... 99




FANNIE'S DECISION. ............. ............ 119


FANNIE SEEKING LIGHT. .............. ........ 130




LETTING THE LIGHT SHINE.. ......... ........ 141


LESLIE DISPLAYS HER BANNER ............... 148


PLANS FOR TEMPERANCE WORK. .............. 163


NORMAN GAINS A VICTORY. .................. 174


THE SEVEN MARYS ........................... 186




CALLAHAN'S SALOON................... ...... 214



DELL'S ESCAPE ................ ........... ... 224


THE DEATH-BED MARRIAGE ................ .. 233


PLANNING A SURPRISE ........................ 245


KATHIE'S TWO DECISIONS ..... .............. 253



H AVE you secured a teacher for either of
those classes yet ? "
The question was asked by Dr. Irving, the
pastor of the First Baptist Church, of his
superintendent, Mr. Lythcombe. Teachers and
scholars were all assembled, and it wanted just
three minutes of one, the time appointed for the
opening exercises.
"Have I? I wish I could say, yes; but I
Mr. Lythcombe's eyes wandered over to the
corner near the door, where five bright looking
boys were sitting, and back again to the corner
next the platform, where as many girls were
chatting in a half-audible tone, evidently crowd-
ing as much as possible into those three minutes.


What do you propose to do ? the pastor in-
quired, with a sigh, his eyes following the direc-
tion of the superintendent's.
"I'll take the boys myself, to-day; and the
girls? Don't you think you can prevail upon
one of your scholars to take them, for once?"
"It is useless to ask again. You know I told
them about these classes last Sunday, and earn-
estly solicited their help, but failed in getting it."
Yes, I recollect. Well, the only way left is
to scatter them among the other classes; and
they don't like that."
Mr. Lythcombe struck the bell, and the pastor
went to his own class.
It was an odd class, this Bible-class of the
pastor. It contained more than fifty members,
whose ages ranged from the girls and boys of
fifteen, to the snowy-haired deacon of eighty. No
matter what was the state of the weather, no mat-
ter how small the main school might be; nothing
but sickness in a severe form kept the members
of the class from their places. They loved Dr.
Irving as a pastor, and they loved him as a
teacher; and in the many ways that love can
devise, they sought to help him in his work, ex-


cept in one thing: they could not, and would
not, teach in the Sunday-school; and that was
the very place in which they could have assisted
him most.
The two classes to which reference has been
made had been without teachers for five succes-
sive Sundays-their former teachers having gone
to other fields. All the members of the Bible-
class thought that teachers ought to be provided
from their number; but notwithstanding their
pastor had pleaded eloquently in their behalf, no
one had yet seen fit to assume the responsibility.
Some pleaded youth; others, old age; a few, do-
mestic cares; and one, brown-eyed Kathie Dan-
forth, simply said she had no good reason, unless
peculiar views made one.
The sermon, this particular morning, had been
a very earnest and searching one on duty; and the
lesson for the afternoon was a continuation of the
same subject. Both teacher and scholars were
eager and interested, more ready than usual with
questions and answers. Even those who seldom
took part-this class compared favorably with
others in this respect-offered suggestions that
surprised themselves as well as their leader.


"' I think we have passed a very profitable as
well as pleasant hour," remarked the pastor, ris-
"ing, as the sound of the superintendents bell
warned him that the time was over. I will
dismiss you with these words, which I desire each
one to consider prayerfully and earnestly-' Lord,
what wilt thou have me to do ? "
All through the week that had passed, that had
been Kathie's prayer, and this morning the Lord
had sent her his answer in the pastor's sermon.
She had been the foremost with suggestions in
the class; so Dr. Irving was not surprised, when
at close of the session, she greeted him with:
"I'll trouble you for another text, Dr. Irving,
as you gave me my answer to the one you just
left with us in your sermon, this morning. I
thank you for it, and for the talk we had about the
same subject last Sunday. I'm ready-yes, and
willing now-to take a class; but my views, you
know, are peculiar."
"So you stated during our talk; but never
having had the pleasure of hearing them and
judging for myself, I can't say. But, my child,
I am very, very glad that you have found your
work so soon; and rest assured Mr. Lvthcombe


and I will do all we can to help you. Suppose
we go to the desk now-I see Mr. Lytheombe is
at leisure-and you can unfold those 'peculiar
views' of yours to us."
Kathie laughed.
"A teacher for one of those classes, Mr. Lyth-
combe. She will state her plans if you will spare
us a few minutes."
Ah, Miss Kathie! Well, I hadn't thought
of you as a teacher. I thought "
Mr. Lythcombe cut his sentence short, and
looked the trim little figure up and down. Again
Kathie laughed, and blushing slightly, said:
"You thought me still a child, I suppose;
but it's nine years since I wore pinafores." The
brown eyes that looked into his danced with
Nine years since you wore the white one with
the four-inch mud border? What a forlorn little
Kathie you were that day! I dug you out of the
mire." Mr. Lythcombe smiled gravely. He
never laughed now. "Ah, Kathie, how many
changes have come to both of us since then!"
For a few moments all were silent, engaged
with their own thoughts. The superintendent's


eyes had a far away look in them, but it was only
for an instant. Then he broke the silence.
"You are willing to take a class Kathie ? Well,
I shall accept you gratefully, I assure you, both
you and your views. Which of the classes do
you prefer, the boys or girls?"
I would like both."-
"Both! Why, child, that would make four
more pupils than any other teacher has; and,
besides, a mixed class!"
Yes, I know. You have mentioned two of
my peculiarities, but I've thought it all over,
and know it is just the kind of a class I wish.
The girls will have a good influence upon the
boys, and the boys the same over the girls."
I like the idea; Philip, what do you say?"
inquired Dr. Irving.
"Let Kathie try her way. If she succeeds,
well; if she fails, she will at least have the
satisfaction of knowing that she tried."
Then, Mr. Lythcombe, I wish the class to
be increased to at least twenty."
Yes; what next?"
"I would like to sit where the boys do now."


"I wish you both to pray for my class before
we leave the vestry."
Pastor and superintendent looked at each
other, and then at Kathie, but neither spoke.
They were too much astonished for words.
"And I wish you to do it every Sunday,"
continued Kathie. "I would not dare to under-
take such a responsibility unless I felt sure of
both your prayers. Before the lesson is an-
nounced, I would like one minute for prayer;
and the same at the close of the lesson. In
taking this class, I shall feel responsible for the
salvation of each of its members. Each one
will be as precious to me as my own soul; will
be guarded as tenderly and as faithfully. I
must have pledges too-total abstinence pledges
-for each. I have various plans of work laid
out which I will introduce as opportunity offers.
I have prayed for guidance in my planning, and
God has directed me; and through his help, and
my own faithfulness and zeal, I expect these
boys and girls to become thorough temperance
Christians. May I try, Mr. Lythcombe ?"
"You may try, Kathie, and may God bless
your efforts,"


"Amen," responded Dr. Irving, tremulously.
The three then knelt, and pastor and super-
intendent asked God's blessing to rest upon the
efforts of this young disciple.
"Kathie," said Mr. Lythcombe, as they passed
out together, "you may rely upon me for as-
sistance in any plan that the cause of temperance
may suggest to you. I'm all on fire upon that


P HILIP, Elva, and Alden Lythcombe were
the children of wealthy parents. The
father was a weak Christian man, and the
mother a worldly Christian woman. Mrs. Lyth-
combe, being the stronger of the two, always
carried her point; hence Mr. Lytheombe's home
was too often the scene of performances to
which he decidedly objected, but had not the
will to prevent. There were select dances and
private theatricals and late suppers; for Elva,
the beautiful, petted darling, who had just come
out, was the belle of the season, and her mother's
highest ambition was to wed her to a fortune.
Mr. Lythcombe was a total abstinence man;
so of course people talked, and justly, when
young men were seen coming staggering down
the street from the Lythcombe mansion. And
it was whispered that Alden had been brought
home twice, too drunk to walk-fair-haired,
blue-eyed Alden, only a boy of fifteen. Wine


was doing its work well; but the mother blindly
shut her eyes, and would not see.
"When Elva was eighteen, she wedded the man
of her mother's choosing; and people called it a
good match. Mr. Loring ridiculed the idea of
total abstinence. He believed in moderation.
Pledges were for drunkards and men who had
no reason. It was simply absurd for a man
who only took a glass of wine at dinner, and
now and then with a friend, to bind himself to
a pledge. In other words, it would be putting
himself on a level with common drunkards.
Thus Atwell Loring reasoned, when Elva, urged
by her brother Philip, who was concerned for
the young man's safety, asked him to join the
society to which her father belonged. Mrs.
Lythcombe and Alden both agreed with Atwell,
and between the three they succeeded in con-
vincing Elva that Philip was unduly cautious;
and the man who could drink moderately, and
still be himself, was as safe as the man who
never touched liquor.
The wedding was the grandest affair of the
season. The papers were full of it for a week.
Minute descriptions were given of the elegance


of the parlors, the costumes, the flowers, the
presents; but nothing was said about the quan-
tity of rare old wine that the bridegroom con-
sumed, nor the condition in which he was borne
to his room long before the guests had departed.
It was policy to leave that out.
Then it was that Philip Lythcombe, senior,
asserted his rights for the first time in his life.
There should be no more wine suppers in his
house, and no more wine upon his side-board.
Had he made that resolution a year before, his
son might have been saved from a drunkard's
grave, and his only daughter from marrying a
drunkard. But, alas, it was too late! If Alden
could not get wine at home, he could buy it at
the tavern; and if Mr. Loring could not get it
at his father-in-law's table, he could, and did, at
his own.
The months lengthened into three years, dur-
ing which both young men were speeding to
ruin. Then came a crash. Atwell Loring was
shot dead in a gambling saloon; and his broken-
hearted wife, with her puny babe of six months,
came home to die.
All that human skill could do to save both


was done, but in each case disease had advanced
too far, and their decline was rapid. It was fall
when they came home; and one day in early
spring, crape fluttered from the door of the gay
house upon the hill-side, A few hours later, a
funeral procession wound slowly down the slope,
through the avenue to the cemetery; and all that
remained of Elva Loring and her child was put
away forever from the sight of those who had
loved them.
After Elva's death, Philip, with his wife and
children, came home for awhile to cheer his
parents, and to save Alden, if possible.
There was reason to hope; for since that ter-
rible night, when he had seen his brother-in-law
fall dead from a pistol shot from the hands of a
companion in the Black Alley, Alden had not
drunk a drop of any kind of intoxicating liquor.
So Philip hoped and worked-I wish I could
say he prayed, but I cannot, for he was not
a praying man then-so he did all but that,
and that was the one thing needful. Poor
The second summer after Elva's death, Philip
purchased a fine sail-boat; and many pleasant


excursions were anticipated in visiting the nu-
merous places bordering the lake.
"I'm sorry that I cannot have my vacation in
July, as I expected," Philip remarked to his
wife, one morning, at breakfast; "but Mr. Sel-
vin's protracted illness renders it impossible until
August, at the least. However, you must not
give up your plans on my account, for Alden
will be at home next week, with his chum,
Dwight Wallace; and I mean they shall have a
good time, now that we all are home together.
You know we go West, in the fall, and years
may pass before we spend another summer to-
gether in this dear old home. I wish you all to
make the most of it now, and carry as many
pleasant memories as possible to our new home."
"You may be sure that we'll do that, Philip,"
returned his wife, raising her smiling face to his;
"for if Dr. Palmer's description of our new
home is correct, we shall need to store away a
vast amount of sunshine to endure it."
"It will be sunny enough with mamma's
smile to make it bright; don't you think so,
Ray, my boy?" inquired the fond father, tossing
up his bright little four-year-old.


"That's so, papa; 'cause mamma is all sun-
shine, rainy days and all," said the child,
"Toss me up again, papa, and then make my
head touch the ceiling."
Philip did as the little one requested, then
kissing him fondly, set him upon the floor, and
bidding good-bye to his wife and the baby girl
in her arms, left the pleasant scenes of home for
the less agreeable ones of the bank.
Philip Lythcombe was very proud of his
wife and children, and loved them with all the
devotion of his great heart; and they in turn
were equally devoted to him. But not once,
during the six years of his married life, had
this husband and father thanked God for his
treasure, or asked his blessing upon them. Not
so with the wife and mother. Every morning
she spent a little while with her Father, seeking
his guidance for herself and little ones, and his
blessing upon her husband. Every evening she
knelt with the children, first listening to Ray-
mond's little prayer, and then offering a petition
for Baby Elva, who was too young to pray for


The first week in July, Alden came home,
accompanied by his friend, Dwight Wallace.
Then the pleasures of the season began, and the
house and grounds echoed and re-echoed with
the laughter of the young people, and the shouts
of little Ray. Even Baby Elva joined in the
mirth, clapping her tiny hands, and screaming
with all her strength. The weeks passed too
quickly. The last day in July arrived before
they were ready for it, and the following Mon-
day, Dwight was to leave them.
"Philip's vacation will begin the day I leave,
so you won't miss me much," Dwight said, when
they were all wishing that he could stay through
August. "I must have one more sail, though,
upon that wondrous lake. Where shall it be,
Philip? Alden said the last time we sailed,
that we had visited all the places of importance
that he knew of."
"Have you been to see the old Lingham
grounds, upon the western shore of the lake?"
inquired Philip. "If you have not, I would
advise you to go to-day; for there is enough
of the rare and beautiful there to repay you
for the trouble."


"By all means, Dwight; I had quite forgotten
the Lingham estate. The other places you
thought so beautiful are nothing in comparison
to this. We'll start as soon after breakfast as we
can. I wish you could accompany us, Phil."
"I wish I could. I'm sure I'd enjoy it as
much as any of you; but I can't; so that's the
end of it. Father can, though, I suppose."
"CNo, Phil, I don't feel well enough; and
besides, I promised Mr. Selwin that I'd run
over the accounts with him this afternoon. So
you see it's out of the question."
Then the rest of us will go, since the temp-
tation is too strong to be resisted, and we'll enjoy
ourselves too," added Alden, rising.
As soon as father and son were ready, Philip's
wife, with Elva in her arms, accompanied them
to the door, as usual. At the end of the avenue,
Philip turned, as he always did, to kiss his hand
to the baby; but instead of doing so, stood still,
regarding them for a moment, then running
back, snatched another kiss from both, and re-
joined his father before he missed him. Why
he did it, he could not have told then; but he
knew later in the day.

N. -: _
___ -_ -.............I... ......

1 -- 111w

Kathie's Views.
Pag'e 22.

& il,

Kathe's iews
Page 22.


At college, Dwight Wallace had been Alden
Lythcombe's good angel, rising up before him
when danger threatened, and shielding him from
many temptations. Yet in spite of his brotherly
care, some dissolute young men succeeded twice
in making Alden too drunk to know what he
was about. The last time only two weeks before
his return home. Dwight kindly screened him,
so that none of his folks knew of his fall,
and therefore feared nothing. Had Philip
known all this, Lawyer Lingham's would have
been the last place he would have suggested; for
he well knew the temptations to which a young
man addicted to drinking would there be ex-
posed. But Philip was ignorant, and Dwight,
never having been there, of course knew nothing
about it; and poor Alden went on to his doom
with none to give him timely warning.
The morning was glorious; clear and bright,
with just enough breeze to send the boat along
briskly; yet, notwithstanding their speed, it was
almost eleven o'clock when they entered the
little cove and landed.
There was so much to see and admire, that all
were surprised when the great gong sounded for


dinner, and a score or more of farm hands came
hurrying from their work and filed into the long
We dine at one," said Mr. Lingham, when
the last man had disappeared, "so there is
another hour for exploring."
The barn and poultry yard were examined,
and they were just going to the conservatory,
when the gong again sounded.
For us, this time, isn't it ? asked little Ray.
"I'm awful hungry. Seems to me I could eat
Every one laughed, and the lawyer, leading
the way to the dining-room, where delicious
odors were arising from the covered dishes, ex-
claimed :
"CNow, my man, we'll give you something
better than hay."
"When dessert was served, Lawyer Lingham
poured out a glass of champagne from the spark-
ling bottle at his side, and passing it to Alden,
You must visit my wine-cellar after dinner,
and select a bottle or two of rare old port to
take home with you. "


"Not take wine, Mr. Wallace! Why, you
don't know what you lose. I'd as soon think
of going without my dinner altogether, as with-
out my wine. I believe in moderation."
"CWell, Al, since there's nobody but ourselves
and Mrs. Lingham who cares for wine, we'll
make the best of it."
While the others were resting upon the
veranda after dinner, Mr. Lingham took Alden
to his wine-cellar. Alden took generous sips of
this and that, to test their merit, he said; so by
the time he had made his selection and joined
the party upon the veranda, he was too much
intoxicated to be responsible for what he did.
Dwight was looking through a telescope at a
little black speck off in the distance.
"There is a storm brewing," he observed, low-
ering his telescope. "I'm afraid it will overtake
us unless we start at once."
Alden remonstrated, but Dwight stepped up
to him and whispered a few words that made
him willing, and the party, after bidding their
kind host and hostess good-bye, started for home.
For the first half-hour the sail was delightful,
the boat skimming along the surface of the water


like a thing of air. Then suddenly there was a
calm. The boat stood still. Then the sun dis-
appeared, the wind blew a terrible gale, and the
water rose in great swells like the in-coming tide
of the ocean. The boat reared, and plunged
from side to side, threatening to capsize.
Dwight, with a white face but firm hand, had
hard work to manage the sail, but at length sue-
ceeded in lowering it. Then seizing the oars, he
did his best to get out of the way of a steamer
that was bearing down upon them. But the
oars were like feathers in his hands against the
fierce gale. He shouted to Alden, who, too
drunk to comprehend their peril, sat half asleep
in the bottom of the boat, his head keeping time
with the motion. He looked up stupidly upon
hearing his name, and then settled back into the
same position.
"Alden, Alden, rouse yourself! Look! Look!
Don't you see our danger ? The steamer is almost
upon us! Quick! Quick!" shouted Dwight,
making frantic efforts to steer to one side.
Alden, dimly understanding that something
was the matter, sprang up suddenly. A cry-
a plunge. The boat overturned, and all were


struggling in the surging waters of the lake.
The crew and passengers of the Belle of the
Lake had witnessed the catastrophe, and in a
few moments a boat was lowered, and four sea-
men leaped into it. A stout rope was then
lowered to them, and they rowed with all pos-
sible speed to the scene of the disaster.
The rain now poured in torrents, and the
angry swells lashed with fury against the boat,
threatening to dash it to pieces; but the brave
sailors fought vigorously, and when at length a
form appeared above the water, the coil of rope
was thrown to his assistance. The form, how-
ever, almost immediately disappeared. When it
reappeared, one of the seaman, clutching the
coil, sprang over the side of the boat and grasped
it. It was Dwight Wallace, either dead or un-
conscious, for he gave no sign of life; and the
sailor, with his helpless burden, was hauled into
the boat.
With eager eyes the sailors watched for others
to appear, and, after some time, they saw what
seemed to be a woman with two children in her
arms, drifting far beyond their reach. Then
another form appeared for a moment, and with


a shriek of terror that was heard distinctly above
the fury of the tempest, threw up its hands
imploringly, then sank.
The steamer was now near enough to the boat
for those upon her to catch the rope that was
thrown to them, and the seamen and the man
they had rescued were soon safe on board.
There happened to be a physician among the
passengers, who, with the aid of others, did
everything possible to bring back life to poor
Dwight Wallace. But in vain! The vital spark
had fled.
With sad hearts they waited for the storm to
cease. It raged wildly for an hour, each terrific
peal of thunder making the timbers of the
steamer tremble, and brave hearts quake.
The captain, with white face but firm step,
seemed to be everywhere; giving an order here,
an encouraging word there, a peremptory com-
mand where it was needed, all the while breath-
ing heavenward the prayer:
"Lord, we are in thy hands. Do with us as
seemeth best."
The storm had come up suddenly, and as sud-
denly it ceased. The wind stopped blowing, the


water became calm, and the sun broke through
the clouds, shedding his rays far over the lake,
where an upturned boat alone remained to tell
the sad fate of those who had occupied it less
than two hours before.
As soon as the steamer landed, and the dead
man was recognized, telegrams were sent to his
friends, and to Philip Lythcombe. The latter
was at dinner with a friend, and had just related
a funny saying of little Ray's, over which they
were laughing, when the telegram reached him.
With trembling fingers he broke the seal,
expecting he knew not what. As he read the
terrible message, his blood seemed to congeal,
and his face became like marble. "God in
mercy help me," came through the white lips.
The paper fell from the frozen fingers, and a
moment later, men looked with wonder, and
women and children screamed with terror, as a
man with wild eyes and flying hair, came rush-
ing, hatless, through the streets, never stopping
until he reached the wharf where the steamer lay
at anchor.
Where is he ? Where is he? Where is
Dwight Wallace?" he screamed shrilly, clasping


his hands over his head to protect it from the
With looks of pity, the throng of people that
had gathered moved aside to let Philip pass into
the cabin, where the body of poor Dwight Wal-
lace lay upon a lounge.
Where are the rest of them ? My wife-
my children?" he asked, hoarsely, crouching be-
side Dwight, and vigorously chafing one of his
"They are dragging the lake for the bodies,"
said Dr. Foster, laying his hand kindly upon
Philip's shoulders. My poor fellow, I'm sorry
for you. It's a terrible blow-a crushing blow.
Only God can help you to bear it. You are
weak and trembling. The excitement has been
too much for you. Let me help you to the
lounge in the other cabin."
But Philip objected.
"CNo," he replied; I'll stay here until they
bring in the others. Yes, I can bear it. Leave
me; I'll bear it alone."
The hours passed on. At sundown a sorrow-
ful procession came slowly up the shore, bearing
the other bodies. It was followed by an old


man with silver locks, who leaned heavily upon
his staff. The dripping burdens were laid side
by side upon the floor of the cabin, where the
old man who had followed, regarded them curi-
ously for a moment, then turned towards Philip,
and said:
So you're sad and broken-hearted too, young
man. Is it your brother? Yonder lies my
bonny wife, with a smile upon her lips and sea-
weed in her hair."
At the sound of his father's voice, Philip
turned, and held out his hand.
"Father, poor father," he said, sadly, "we
are all that are left."
There was no look of recognition in the eyes
that sought his. The shock had been too great.
Reason had fled forever.
It was a pitiable sight to see the heart-broken
young man moving among his dead; kissing the
cold lips of his fair young wife, smoothing his
mother's hair, and entreating his little son to
speak to poor papa." Strong men were moved
to tears, and the sobs of women and children
were heard on all sides.
Late in the evening, the party who had set out


so merrily in the morning, were borne back to
the home that would know them no more for-
ever; and Dwight Wallace's body was sent to his
relatives. Two days later, the great church was
crowded, and the burial services were performed.
Then the dear ones were laid away, and the two
lonely men returned to their desolate home.
Two weeks later, there was another funeral,
and Philip was alone. Then followed a few
days of anguish, and relief came in sickness.
Brain fever set in, and it was many weeks before
Philip was out of danger.
As soon as Dr. Arnot pronounced him con-
valescent, he was removed to the parsonage,
where Mrs. Irving's tender care soon restored
him to his usual health. As he had formed no
plans for the future, he gladly accepted his
pastor's kind invitation to make the parsonage
his home for the present. So winter passed
away, and the bright spring days, with their
birds and flowers, came before he was ready to
leave the parsonage.
Philip's long illness and convalescence were
productive of good results. His heart was full
of gratitude to God for sparing his life; for,


had he died in his sins, he knew the separation
from his wife and little ones would have been
final. An earnest longing for salvation was
awakened. He sought his pastor's help; and,
after a brief struggle, he found through faith in
Christ Jesus, the "peace that passeth understand-
ing." Henceforth, life to him would be "reach-
ing forth unto those things that are before."
During Philip's stay at the parsonage, a warm
friendship sprang up between himself and Harry
Irving, then a lad of thirteen. Harry's religion
was the kind that served him for every-day use.
It showed itself in numberless ways. In his
prompt and cheerful obedience to his parents'
commands; in his tender solicitude for his
mother; in his scrupulous regard for truth; in
his regular attendance at the weekly prayer-
meeting; in the careful preparation of his
lessons for school; and more particularly in
his forgetfulness of self.
The example of this youthful disciple did
more to help Philip than any number of ser-
mons would have done. His liking soon passed
away, and he loved Harry as a younger brother.
After Philip left the parsonage, he spent some


months abroad, and then returned to his old
place in the bank, from which he had been
absent for over a year.
He let his fine estate, and went to board with
Dr. Foster, opposite the parsonage. He desired
to be near his kind friends, not only for friend-
ship's sake, but because it was often necessary to
consult Dr. Irving about matters pertaining to
the Sunday-school, of which he was now super-
Everything that Philip undertook to do, he
did heartily, but to this work he gave every spare
moment, and often some of his sleeping time.
Dr. Irving found in him an able assistant,
friend, and sympathizer. All the pet schemes
of Sunday-school work that the doctor had cher-
ished for years, were now brought to light. One
by one they were worked in, and one day, Dr.
Irving astonished Philip by saying in the pres-
ence of his wife, that he had a school and
superintendent of which any pastor might be
"I don't mean that there isn't a chance for
still greater improvement," he added, laughing;
"for the best Sunday-schools are those that keep


pace with the times, and time, you know, never
stands still."
Philip Lythcombe was a rich man, and when
he gave himself to the Lord, he did not say, as
others of his brethren, "Lord, I'll give thee
myself, but my fortune I'll keep for my own
use." He said to his pastor:
"Dr. Irving, the Lord has given me means in
order to do good; all I have is his, so when you
need money to do good with, take it from the
Lord's treasury."
There were many poor families in Dr. Irving's
church; consequently, there were many poor chil-
dren in the Sunday-school.
In the Gospel by Matthew, the third and
fourth verses of the sixth chapter read:
"But when thou doest alms, let not thy left
hand know what thy right hand doeth. That
thine alms may be in secret: and thy Father
which seeth in secret himself shall reward thee
It was quite a common thing for the pastor to
leave word for his superintendent to call over in
the evening, after a day's visiting among the
poor, and never did he fail to present himself.


Sometimes Dr. Irving would present a slip of
paper, with items like the following:
"Old Mrs. Dennis quite ill; needs a doctor."
Mrs. Hooper's store not fit for the winter."
Widow Graham out of coal."
"AAn easy-chair for rheumatic Grandmother
The Green family out of flour."
"A baby-carriage acceptable to little Mrs.
"A willow rocker, and some provisions for
blind Nelson and his wife."
"The Hutting children kept from Sunday-
school from lack of clothes."
After the presentation of such a list, the ex-
pressman would invariably stop at each of the
houses named, in the course of a day or two,
much to the delight and surprise of the inmates,
who often longed for denied comforts, but rarely
expected to possess them.
Receive them as sent by the Lord," the good
pastor would say, when this and that one told
him of his unexpected good fortune, "for doubt-
less he put it into the heart of some kind brothel
to do it. Give him the praise."


M/ANY miles away from the First Church,
far up among the hills of Vermont, stands
an old-fashioned farm house. Let me picture a
scene there that sad July afternoon, nine years
before the opening of my story.
It is sunset, the last day of July. The day
has been almost torrid in its heat, but a gentle
breeze is now stirring among the trees, and
making a delightful current of air through the
low, wide hall that runs through the centre of
the house, and whose opposite doors are both
open to admit it. It plays, too, with the snowy
curtains of the pretty parlor, which is all in
readiness-as is everything else in this well-
ordered home-for the morrow.
In a rustic seat in the arch before the door,
sits Uldon Wallace, the father of the family, a
hale, hearty man of, perhaps, fifty. There are
threads of silver in the dark brown hair, and


furrows in the broad forehead; but his smile
is just as sunny, and his love just as strong now,
as thirty years ago, when he brought sweet May
Hadden to be the mistress of his snug little
For six years, the gentle wife and mother of
his seven children, has slept beneath the daisies
with little Theo; and since her departure, the old
place has never been quite the same. Yet, he
loves to sit in her favorite seat, and imagine her
with him as of old. In the distance, on the
hill-side, the old church spire is plainly visible;
and at its left, with the rays of the setting sun
falling upon it, gleams the marble that marks
her resting place. But the eyes turned in their
direction see neither, for Uldon Wallace is blind.
Opposite him sits his mother, her snowy hair
encased in a snowy cap, and a snowy kerchief
over her shoulders. Were it not for her silver
hair, she would look younger than her son,
although she is seventy. Her face wears the
same placid smile, and there is a tender light in
her bright eyes, as they turn from her knitting
every few minutes, to look upon her son, and
then wander from him to the porch, where a frail,


white lady, of about thirty, sits in an invalid
chair. Her eyes are closed, and one hand holds
that of a little girl of nine summers, who, with
her disengaged hand, is fanning her softly. The
lady is Mrs. Danforth, Mrs. Wallace's youngest
daughter, and the little girl is Kathie, her only
child. Two years before, brave Joel Danforth,
Captain of the Snowbird, had been swept from
the deck of his vessel during a terrible storm,
and lost. His body was never recovered, and
since then, his young wife, always frail, had
been slowly fading away.
Beneath the elms upon the lawn, five young
girls are playing croquet. They are Nannie,
Sophy, Kittie, Louise, and Faye, and they are
aged respectively, twenty, seventeen, fourteen,
eleven, and eight. They are the daughters of
Uldon Wallace; and their merry laughter float-
ing out upon the breeze, causes the father to
wake from his reverie. He turns his head
in their direction a moment, and shades his eyes
with his hand, as if he fain would see the dear
faces that he is never more to behold with
earthly eyes. Then, turning to his mother, he
asks, abruptly:


"Isn't it most time for the stage ? Seems to
me I hear the rumble of wheels in the distance.
I wonder if Dwight will drop a line."
It would be very unlike Dwight, if he did
not, my son. There is the stage now. Kathie,
love, run for the mail."
The child thus addressed, bounds away like a
fawn, and soon after returns, holding up the
desired letter, and exclaiming:
"C've got it, uncle I've got it, grandmamma!
A letter from Cousin Dwight! I know his
writing, and it's directed to uncle. See, it reads,
Uldon Wallace, Esq. Read it, quick, grand-
mamma, and see when he's coming home. What
fine times Louise and Faye and I shall have!"
Grandmamma smiles complacently, then reads
aloud the brief note:

You'll have all you want of me; Monday, at one.
Have a tip-top dinner for your boy
"Dear old fellow!" said the father, fondly.
"How proud May would have been had she
lived to see our son in college. Our only son."
Just then, the five girls came running into the


"Is it from Dwight, grandmamma? When
is he coming? they asked in chorus.
For reply, Mrs. Wallace re-read the note.
"It seems to me he might have written a little
more," said Faye, in a disappointed tone. "I'll
tell him so, too, when I see him."
Never mind, Faye, dear," said Nannie softly,
stroking her little sister's hair. "He'll have all
the more to tell us when he comes."
Two years before, Dwight had, at his father's
earnest desire, mortgaged the farm for a sum of
money, which, added to what he had already
saved, would, he thought, be sufficient to carry
him through college. An unusually bright
scholar, he had graduated at the academy before
he was fifteen, and then spent a few hours each
day studying with the pastor. When sixteen,
he was ready for college, but was obliged to give
up the idea for a time. Little Theo's long sick-
ness and death, his mother's sudden death, and
his father's loss of sight, all occurring then, the
money that had been laid by from year to year
for defraying his college expenses had to be
broken. By the time the doctor's bills were
settled, and the farm hands paid, and this and


that want provided for, the little fund was very
nearly exhausted.
Four years passed by, during which Dwight
had labored hard, and saved all he could. Still,
the sum was far from adequate to meet his needs.
Dwight would have abandoned the idea alto-
gether, but his father would not hear of it, and
insisted that he should mortgage the farm.
"It was mother's wish, my boy; and I would
rather sell the place than know that her desire
had not been gratified."
"I'll pay it all off, father, every cent of it,
when I'm through, if I have to work night and
day to do it," Dwight said, much moved. God
helping me, you will never have cause to regret
this sacrifice, dear father."
So Dwight entered college, and for two years
everything had turned out even better than he
had expected; and to-day the idolized son and
brother had sent word that he would be with them
Monday noon. Of course they were glad. Had
they not reason to be, when they had not seen him
for two long years? The tall clock in a corner
of the old-fashioned kitchen chimed the half-
hour. Half-past seven. Time for family worship.


"Call the girls, Kathie," grandmamma said,
rising, and giving her arm to her son, leading
the way into the pleasant sitting-room. When
they were all assembled, grandmamma read:
God is our refuge and strength, a very
present help in trouble." She read through
the whole Psalm, and at its close, remarked that
she thought that Psalm applicable in times of
great rejoicing as well as in times of great
sorrow. The family then sang a sweet old
hymn, after which, Uldon Wallace offered his
simple evening prayer. What little Kathie
Danforth once said to the minister, in speak-
ing of her uncle, describes his praying much
better than I could, were I to attempt it:
"I always feel as if God is in the room, when
Uncle Uldon prays, and that he is talking to
The old clock again chimed, the hour, instead
of the half-hour, this time. Worship was over,
but the family still lingered. Kathie, who was
at the window, broke the silence by saying:
"Why, grandmamma, there's a strange boy
coming up the walk! I wonder what he wants!
Shall I go and see ? "


"No, dear, I'll go," said Nannie, who had
risen after Kathie's first sentence, and was al-
ready upon the threshold between the sitting-
room and kitchen.
"A telegram for Mr. Uldon Wallace. The
charge marked on it to pay for delivering,"
said the boy rapidly.
Nannie paid the money, and received the
message. Quickly re-entering the sitting-room,
she exclaimed, gaily:
"A telegram from Glenwyn. Perhaps Dwight
is coming home sooner than he expected. I
wonder- "
The sentence was never finished, for Nannie's
eyes were scanning the sheet. It dropped from
her trembling fingers to the floor.
"Oh, father! father! grandmamma! Dwight
is dead! Our dear Dwight! Drowned in Glen-
wyn Lake this afternoon!" she shrieked, clutch-
ing a chair to keep from falling.
"Dead, Nannie? No, oh no, it cannot be, be-
cause we've just heard from him to-night.
Read it, mother, and tell them it is not true,"
and the blind parent put out his hands implor-
ingly, as if to prevent the impending evil.


The happy group of a few minutes before,
gathered around grandmamma with white, ter-
ror-stricken faces, while the old lady, with quiv-
ering voice read:

Your son, Dwight Wallace, was drowned, with five
others, in Glenwyn Lake this afternoon, during the
storm. His body will be sent in the evening express.

Only a groan of anguish, and the head fell
forward, and the outstretched hands dropped
lifeless at the blind man's side. Uldon Wallace
was dead.
No pen can describe the grief of the aged
mother and orphans. The next few weeks were
trying indeed. First there was the sorrowful
home-coming of the brother, then the laying
away of the dear ones from sight. Next the
dear old homestead was sold, and Nannie went
to teach in a distant town. Sophy took in plain
sewing, and Kittie, with what help grand-
mamma could give her, kept house for the little
ones, and the invalid aunt, who died during the
winter, leaving her little Kathie to her mother's
So Philip Lythcombe found them, one bright


day in spring, soon after leaving the parsonage.
Tenderly he spoke of the dear brother whom he
had known and loved. Kindly and wisely he
advised and planned, and at last persuaded them
to believe it was his right to offer his services
as son and brother. The old farm was re-
purchased, and made over to Nannie, who was
married in the fall, and went to live there with
her sisters. Grandmamma Wallace and Kathie,
Philip took back to Glenwyn with him, estab-
lished them in a comfortable home, and paid a
servant to help them.
Every year, Philip spent a month at the old
farm. The first two summers, grandmamma
and Kathie accompanied him, but since then,
grandmamma had been too feeble, and Kathie
could not be persuaded to leave her. Seven
years had now passed since she had seen her
cousins. During that time, Sophy and Kitty
had married and gone to homes of their own,
but Louise and Faye still remained at the home-
stead with Nannie. The latter would have
been glad to share her home with her grand-
mother and cousin, but Brother Philip, as they
called him at the farm house, always told them


that they where is property, and he could not
part with them.
This summer Philip had brought back word
that Kathie must visit them in the fall, as Faye
was going to be married, and she must have
Cousin Kathie for her bridesmaid. Grand-
mamma had seemed much better during the
spring, so Kathie resolved she would spend
October at the farm, if grandmamma still kept
well. She tenderly loved the little playmate of
her childhood, and longed to see her once more;
so she wrote her a long letter, promising to visit
her if possible.
During the nine years that Kathie Danforth
and her grandmother had lived in Glenwyn,
Philip Lythcombe had been a frequent and very
welcome guest. He had learned to love the
dear old lady as his mother, and Kathie as a
little sister, so he thought for a time. But dur-
ing the last two years, as he had watched the
child develop into a woman, he suddenly became
conscious that the love he now felt for her was a
very different kind of love from what a man
feels for his sister, even though he loves her very
tenderly. He thought her too young to assume


the responsibilities of a wife, so resolved to say
nothing then, and unconscious Kathie, never
dreaming of such a thing, received him cordially,
and by her winning ways and sunny smiles lured
him on. Grandmamma had long suspected how
Philip felt; so one day, when he asked for her
one treasure, she was not surprised, and glad-
dened his heart by telling him that there was no
one to whom she would so willingly give her
darling as himself.
Such was the state of affairs that bright Sun-
day afternoon when Kathie found her work.


THERE will be one minute at the opening and
close of each session of the school, in which
all teachers who desire it may pray for their
classes," announced Dr. Irving, after his usual
five-minute talk to the children. I hope many
will improve it."
It was perfectly quiet for a second; every one
was so surprised. What could Dr. Irving
mean ? Teachers looked at their scholars in a
bewildered sort of way, and the scholars returned
the look with one which said, "Does he mean
it ? Yes, he meant it; for all agreed that the
pastor never said what he did not mean.
Each was so occupied in his own affairs that
none except the pastor, superintendent and the
scholars in her class, saw Kathie Danforth drop
upon her knees. But a clear, low voice said,
with a tremble that was observable at first, but
passed away before she finished : "Dear Jesus, I,
thy feeble child, have undertaken this work for
D 49


thee. Thou hast the power, and canst, if thou
wilt, bring forth good results from to-day's ef-
forts; and wilt thou do it, dear Lord ? Amen."
As she closed, more than two hundred pairs of
eyes were riveted upon her. But the superin-
tendent's little bell ringing just then, told them
it was lesson time; so the eager eyes were with-
The new teacher's simple prayer so impressed
the scholars, that, if they had intended mischief,
they either forgot it, or had the grace to put it
off for that time; for a more attentive class
teacher never had.
After taking their names, ages, and places of
residence, Kathie gave each a searching, critical
look, and remarked:
Mr. Lythcombe said I had a peculiar class,
but I want to have a remarkable one. All who
would like their class to be remarkable, hold up
their hands."
Every hand was raised.
That's good. Now all who will do their
part towards making it remarkable, show hands."
Again every hand was raised, and every face
beamed with pleasure. All were expectant.


That's better," said the teacher, heartily.
Amy Caswell's face wore a puzzled look.
"Why," she said, "I think it's just the same.
We all raised our hands the first time, and we've
all raised them now. What's the difference?"
"Will somebody tell Amy the difference?"
inquired Kathie, smiling.
"It's in the doing, isn't it?" responded Luther
Greyson, a tall, white-faced boy, with threadbare
clothes, whose only beauty was in his eyes, which
were large and bright.
Quite right," said Kathie, giving the boy a
gratified look. "In the first case, you merely
expressed a desire; but in the second, you prom-
ised to do something. Do you see it now,
dear?" looking lovingly into the sweet little
face upraised to hers.
"Oh, yes'm, thank you," answered the child,
flushing with pleasure.
"Well," continued the teacher, distributing
some cards, "we will see some of the first steps
to be taken, in order to make a successful class.
Luther, will you please read what your card says
about it?"
In a clear voice, Luther read:


"Always be in your place, unless you have a
good excuse.
Be punctual at the appointed hour.
"Be attentive.
Be respectful.
"Always have your lesson prepared.
"Pray for your teacher and classmates.
Try to make somebody else happy."
Most of the bright faces were serious now.
Kathie looked from one to another, and then
said, softly:
You all promised to do your part towards
helping to make our class remarkable. Now
these are the things to begin with; but they im-
ply a great deal. Some of you may say you can
respond to two, three, five, perhaps six of these
requirements; but all of them-is there any one
who can respond to them all ?"
Instantly two hands were raised. They were
Luther's and Amy's.
The light that shone in Kathie's face made it
seem almost beautiful.
"I am glad; oh, so glad!" holding out a
hand to each. "This is so much better than I
expected. Two of my class Christians already.


There will be three of us to plead for the rest,
and they will all be Christians soon."
"What reason have you for being so sure?"
inquired Norman Arnot, a bright, roguish boy
of thirteen.
'Where two or three are met together in my
name, there am I in their midst.' Christ's own
words, Norman. Two are Christians. How
many would like to be?"
The hands were raised a third time.
"How many will try to be?"
One by one the hands came up, until all were
raised but three.
"Why not, Fannie?"
The child looked at her classmates, then at
herself, and, lastly, at her teacher. "You see,
I am not like other children," she said, sadly,
fixing her eyes upon those looking so compas-
sionately upon her.
"Yes, dear." The voice was very tender.
"Well, if God is 'all-powerful,' as my uncle
says, he could have made me like them. He
could make me better now; but he don't. He
never will. Papa says I may live for years, but
I'll never be any better. I'll always have to go


on crutches-always have to suffer pain. 'God
is love,' the Bible says; but I don't believe it.
I can't. That's why."
A look of defiance settled upon the child's
face, sad to see in one so young.
"'He was wounded for our transgressions,
he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastise-
ment of our peace was upon him; and with his
stripes we are healed.' True, he has afflicted
you; but he, too, suffered; and even though you
won't love him, he loves you, even you, little
Fannie"-said Kathie, quietly, stroking the
rings of sunny hair that fell over the child's
Instantly there was a revulsion of feeling.
The hard expression passed away. A pathetic
little face, with tearful blue eyes, was raised for
a moment to Kathie's; then, seizing the hand
that was stroking her hair, the child kissed it
passionately, saying simply:
"That was mamma's verse; and she is in
heaven now. I'd like to try for mamma's sake,
if I only could believe; but I can't," and she
turned away to hide her emotion.
You can if you will, Fannie. It is simply


a matter of choice. Any one is free to accept or
to reject Christ. God grant that you may be
found among the first class."
Something in the manner of the boy and girl
who had been unwilling to say that they would
try, told the teacher it was best not to urge
them then; so she addressed the class.
Scholars, how many of you are temperance
boys and girls ?"
Luther and Amy raised their hands.
Total abstinence, both of 'em. Even cider
is excluded," said Tom Whiting, giving each an
admiring look. "I guess you're glad, aren't
you, Miss Danforth? "
"Yes, Tom, very glad; but why are not you
a total abstinence boy too?"
"I? Oh, it's the cider. I couldn't give it
up. Of course I believe in temperance. It's a
good thing; but I don't see the necessity of
carrying it too far. Sweet cider isn't any more
harmful than strong tea or coffee; and perhaps
even you drink that, Miss Danforth "-casting
a roguish glance at his teacher.
"Yes, Tom, I take both; but did you ever
know tea or coffee to make a person drunk?"


Drunk ? Why, no, of course not," said Tom,
with a look of surprise.
"a Well, do you know that cider will make a
person as drunk as rum or brandy, if he takes
enough ? "
Will it? I didn't know that. Are you
sure of it? "
Quite sure; and if you would like to have
me tell you about it, I'll do so."
Oh yes, Miss Danforth, please do! Per-
haps it will make some one else join our side,"
pleaded Amy.
"Yes, please do, Miss Danforth," said a
chorus of voices.
When I was a little girl," began Kathie,
"Conly six years old, my father was lost at sea,
and my mother and I went to live with my
uncle, up among the hills of Vermont. He
was a farmer, and had a large family of children.
They were all older than I, except Faye, a
chubby, roly-poly little thing, fourteen months
younger. I loved them all; but Faye I loved
as a sister, for I had none of my own; and she
in return, loved me, and made me her confidante,
in preference to her sisters. A large farm ad-


joined my uncle's, where every fall they used to
make quantities of cider. They had three boys,
all older than Faye and I, and they were very
fond of us. We thought it a great privilege to
attend the cider making, and were always sup-
plied with a generous mug of cider. It hap-
pened one day that I was too sick to go with
Faye, so she went alone. Grandmamma and
Nannie, Faye's eldest sister, never thought of
harm coming to their darling. It was late in
the afternoon when the boys brought Faye
home. Johnny, the eldest, had her in his arms,
her head resting upon his shoulders. 'Little
Faye's pretty tired, I guess,' he said, 'for she
went to sleep out in the barn, and we had hard
work to wake her. Father says he's afraid she
drank too much cider. He was away for an
hour or so, and Faye and Tim sucked lots of
cider through a straw. Lots of it.' Grand-
mamma had come in while he was talking.
She was flushed and heated; but she turned
white enough when she saw Faye. Taking her
from Johnny, she stood her upon her feet, trying
to rouse her; but she couldn't stand alone.
"'I'm dizzy, drama, but I had a lovely time,


and I'm tired, and I don't feel nice a bit.
Timmy and me sucked lots of cider through a
straw, and I sucked most, ever so much more
than Timmy-lots, and lots, and lots-and--
The tired little head fell over upon her shoul-
der, and although grandmamma shook her, and
her sister almost screamed her name, she heeded
it not.
Oh, how frightened we were when we found
we couldn't wake her! Grandmamma sent one of
the farm hands for the doctor, and we anxiously
waited for his coming. Every minute seemed an
hour, and when he came and took our helpless
little one in his arms, and listened to her heavy
breathing and counted her pulse, the puzzled
expression upon his face turned to one of disgust.
Laying her tenderly upon the lounge, he said:
"'Poor little thing.' Then turning to grand-
mamma, he continued : Old Ben Hudson was
never quite so drunk as that little baby. Why,
madam, that child is in a drunken stupor; and if
she recovers from the effects of it in forty-eight
hours, I shall be astonished.'
"Poor little Faye! All through that night,
the next day, and the next, she slept on, moan-


ing piteously, once in awhile, but giving no
signs of returning consciousness. During the
morning of the third day, she awoke, and told
grandmamma she was hungry; but before she
had half eaten what grandmamma brought her,
she was asleep again. So it continued for more
than a week. Faye slept the greater part of the
time; but when, at last, she was our dear little
Faye again, and the good doctor told us how
nearly we had lost her, how we hated the word
cider! Once, when he asked Faye if she would
like some, she shook her head gravely, and re-
plied :
"'Faye was drunk once, and cider did it. I
never want to smell it again-never never!'
This is a true story, children, and Faye is a
young lady now. So you see, Tom, that the
cider that keeps you from being a temperance
boy, may help to make you an intemperate man.
The boy or girl who loves cider, will, in all prob-
ability, crave something stronger when a man or
a woman. Beware of anything that intoxicates.
It is 'the little foxes that spoil the vines,' you
know. By next Sunday, or the one after, I hope
to have pledges, and I may hope, may I not, to


have each of you take one. What do you think
about it, Tom ?"
"It's a pretty serious question, Miss Danforth,
and one that I can't decide now, but I'll think
about it. There's Archie Lincoln; he'll decide
this minute against cider forever. I can read
total abstinence upon his face, but Tom Whiting
-well, Miss Danforth, your story did impress
me, but I haven't the courage to say good-bye to
cider yet."
And will a brave boy let so small a thing as
a glass of cider conquer him ?" asked Kathie, in
a low voice.
Tom colored slightly, but made no reply; and
yet that last little sentence of his teacher had
done more than all the rest to convince Tom
that he ought to take the stand then. It settled
the question for some of them; for Norman Arnot
changed his seat beside Tom to one next to
Luther, saying:
"Nothing stronger than water for me from
this time forth. Archie, here's a place for you,
if you want it."
Without a word, Archie took it.
"cOne, two, three, four," counted Kathie,


taking the seat Archie had just vacated. I
wonder if there are not others who would like
to decide now ? If so, they may move."
Clare Lester was the only boy left. His face
was scarlet one minute, and white the next. He
knew Tom was watching him, and he valued
Tom's opinion much, and his friendship more.
His breath came in quick, short gasps. He
looked Tom squarely in the eye for a moment,
and his decision was made. It was the greatest
sacrifice he had ever been called upon to make;
but he made it. Taking Tom's hand in his he
squeezed it hard, and whispered:
"Good-bye, Tom; but I love you all the
Then, rising, he took the seat next to Amy;
and Lotta Gray, Fannie Arnot, and Lucia Den-
ham followed him in order. Dell Faxon, a
bright, handsome girl, the only one left, hesi-
tated a moment, then rising, went and sat down
by Tom.
I'll keep you company, for I dare not incur
mamma's displeasure," she said, with a laugh,
flashing her dark eyes upon Tom.
Thank you; but I should have respected you


more if you had taken the other side," he re-
turned, shortly.
What a short hour!" whispered Amy, as
the bell sounded.
As Kathie rose, after offering a few words of
prayer, she experienced a thrill of joy on seeing
Susie Weld, with her class of five little girls,
still kneeling. Had not her labors thus far been
wonderfully blessed ?
"She's queer, Tom; but I like her," said
Clare Lester, as Tom linked his arm in his, after
Sunday-school was over, and both had started
for home.
Queer! she's remarkable! Even more re-
markable than she wishes her class to be. I'll
tell you what, Clare, you don't catch me cutting
up any more after this; and what's more, I don't
mean to miss a Sunday, unless I'm too sick to
come. And, Clare, I honor you for the stand
you took to-day. How glad your mother will
be. Good-bye;" and Tom darted down Terrace
Avenue, to his elegant home, leaving Clare in an
ecstasy of delight at the knowledge that Tom
was still his friend.


SAWYER WHITING'S home was the
"largest and handsomest upon Terrace Ave-
nue. Everything that wealth could procure was
there. The grounds, which comprised several
acres, were beautifully laid out. At one side
there was a grotto, whose graceful palms, gush-
ing rivulets, and rare tropical plants made it a
place of wonder and enchantment. The opposite
side was encircled with fine elms, and in the
centre of them was an artificial lake, upon which
was a sail-boat and a row-boat. Within the
house, there were richly frescoed walls, carpets,
upon which the feet made no sound, groups of
statuary here and there, curtains of the finest
texture, easy chairs and lounges, into whose
velvety depths you sank-sank, until you might
question how much of you was left. This was
Tom's home. Does it not seem that he ought
to have been a very grateful and happy boy?


I wish you to come with me into the dining-
room which Tom entered as soon as he reached
At the head of the bountifully spread table,
with its glittering silver and snowy damask, sits
a white-haired, portly gentleman. This is Tom's
father. Opposite him, sits his wife, a very fash-
ionable woman, whose face always wears one of
two expressions-fretfulness or sarcasm. It is
the former now; and an equally fretful voice
says, as the door shuts with a bang:
"Late again, Tom! What a provoking boy
you are! Oh, that door! Will you ever learn
to be quiet ?"
"Doors will slam, you know, and boots will
thump, even if you're careful," replied Tom,
tumbling into a chair in such a way as to make
the dishes dance; "and, really, I did mean to be
careful this time."
"1Yes, I should think so," responded the
whining voice. "You're a very careful boy,
indeed; very careful!"
Boys will be boys, mother," interrupted the
father, smiling fondly upon his son. "I was
much more noisy than Tom when I was his age.


Come, my boy, eat your dinner, and then you
shall have a whole goblet of wine, as a luxury."
Tom laughed.
Wine is father's infallible cure for every ill,"
he said, addressing a young student next to him.
"Is it yours too, Mr. Arthur ? "
"Mine, Tom ? Why, don't you know that I
take nothing stronger than water ? inquired
the young man, in feigned surprise.
"I didn't know," replied Tom, absently. "I
thought you-well-but-- "
Nonsense, Arthur! interrupted Mr. Whit-
ing, impatiently. "I heard of that ridiculous
affair of Irving's among the students, but I
did not believe that you had joined them."
Fred Arthur flushed slightly, and looked at
Tom as if he wished he were anywhere but next
him, watching him so eagerly.
Oh, Fred, could you have read Tom's
thoughts, how differently you would have
Fred Arthur was the only son of Mr. Whit-
ing's dearest friend. He was a student at Glen-
wyn College, and occasionally took dinner and
spent an evening with the family of his father's


friend. He liked Mr. Whiting, and desired his
good opinion for more reasons than one. The
lawyer had a pretty daughter, who was now at
boarding-school, but as she spent her vacations at
home, young Arthur had met her several times,
and intended, at no very distant day, to ask her
to be his wife. Mr. Whiting was rich, too, the
richest man in Glenwyn; and the man who got
Leslie Whiting for his wife, got something be-
side herself. He meant to be the lucky man, if
possible, for his father was only tolerably com-
fortable, and he hated work with all his heart,
but did like a lazy, indolent time; so he had
thus far managed to keep in Mr. Whiting's
good graces.
Seeing that the gentleman was disappointed in
him, he hastened to say, looking away from
"Tom's eyes:
That was an absurd affair of Irving's, to be
sure; but a number of us pledged ourselves for
a certain length of time; some for three months,
some for six, others for a year, and a few for
life." If he had only seen Tom's eyes then,
but he did not look. I was upon the first list,
and the time has expired now, and I am free


once more, to do as I please. Dear me! Those
three months seemed like as many years. Irv-
ing was so rigid too. His pledge included even
Whew! I should call him an out and out
fanatic upon the temperance question," returned
the lawyer, decidedly.
I don't know that the boys would agree with
you, sir; but I suppose you are right. I, for
one, never mean to tie myself down to another
pledge of any kind. I think a man may take a
glass of wine with a friend and not make a fool
of himself, don't you? "
"Don't I? For fifteen years I never missed
my wine at dinner, and am I any the worse for
it? Look at me! I am as stout and strong and
active, as sharp-sighted and clear-headed, as any
man of my age. I take wine in small quantities,
and I mean to do so as long as I live." Saying
this, he passed a glass to Fred, who at once began
to sip it, and then handed one to Tom. But
Tom's remained untasted.
If Harry Irving had been there, and had seen
Mr. Whiting half an hour after dinner, he would
have questioned the truth of his statements thus:


"Does that loose, flabby flesh about the body,
and those red blotches on the face, mean health
and strength ? Does the restless look in the eyes,
and the increasing drowsiness after dinner, give
evidence of a clear brain ? Mr. Whiting, you are
laboring under a delusion. You are bound in
chains that are growing tighter and tighter every
day you live. Beware "
All the eagerness died out of Tom's face, and a
fierce, almost sullen expression, took its place.
He was disappointed and thoroughly disgusted
with his father's friend. He lacked something, he
didn't know just what, but he was not a bit like
Harry Irving. Nobody was just like him-so
brave, so true, so noble, so kind and generous.
No, he did not know any young man quite so
good as Harry-nobody he admired nearly as
much. Harry had something that made him
different from others. Tom wondered what it
was, and longed, oh, so much, to have it too.
"I mean to ask him, one of these days; for I
want to grow up to be just such a man as he is.
Perhaps Clare will be just like him. He's so
much nicer than the other boys in Glenwyn. Yes,
I mean to ask him sometime."


So Tom said every time he met Harry, and so
he said to-day; and happy in the thought, he
forgot Fred Arthur, and went upon the lake to


JUST across the street from Lawyer Whiting's,
and nearly opposite, stands another residence;
less pretentious, but very elegant. This is the
home of Dell Faxon. Her father is the Presi-
dent of Glenwyn Bank, and Dell is his only
child. Her own mother died at her birth; so
Dell is a very different sort of girl from what
she might have been had she enjoyed a mother's
watchful care during the early years of her life.
Left to the care of servants, and having her own
way, her stern, grave father being too much
absorbed in business to give much attention to
his child, she grew up haughty, self-willed, and
When Dell was eleven years old, her father
married a weak, frivolous girl; a very different
woman from the first Mrs. Faxon. The quiet
house was quiet no longer. There were dinner
and evening parties, and something going on


continually. Dell enjoyed it, and soon became
an apt pupil of her step-mother, who really
loved the child, and did not mean to harm her.
The people who thronged the Faxon mansion
from time to time, criticised the lady's doings
severely, when Dell, hardly fourteen, appeared
at these fashionable evening parties. But if
Mrs. Faxon heard their comments, she did not
heed them, for Dell still came.
Mr. Faxon loved quiet, and being deprived
of this in his own home, the solitary hours that
he once spent in his library, he now spent in the
office of the bank.
Selden Faxon was a temperance man, and
wine had never "graced," his wife said-" pol-
luted," he said himself-his table, until a month
after his second marriage. The first dinner
party had been given at that time, and wine was
" an indispensable article," Mrs. Faxon had said,
stroking the changing locks of her husband's
hair-a habit of hers when she desired to have
her own way, and fancied he might oppose her.
Mr. Faxon had remonstrated feebly, at first,
but this woman, with her lustrous eyes, and
bewitching smile, and cooing voice, charmed him


as no other woman could do. There was a soft
spot in Selden Faxon's heart that Dell had never
found; but Clara Dayton had discovered it some
time before she became Mrs. Faxon.
You know we've been married a whole
month, and this is my first dinner party; and I
know, dear, you would not wish me to appear
awkward. I am sure I should be, if we had no
wine, for we always had it at home. And then
it is only for once, if you object very much.
Everybody knows that you are a temperance
man; so, of course, no one will expect you to take
any. It is one thing to take wine, and another
to have it on the table. Besides, dear, this is my
first request since our marriage."
So Mrs. Faxon had urged, and her last excuse
had made her victor, as usual.
After the first time, it was comparatively easy
to gain her husband's consent again and again,
and now wine was always upon the table. Mr.
Faxon was a little troubled at first, but gradu-
ally he became used to it, and at last he ceased to
think of it at all.
Dell is forward for a girl of fourteen. Bright,
handsome, witty, she is never at a loss for an


answer; but to a young man of Harry Irving's
sensibility, her witticisms would often appear
Behold her now, this only daughter of a re-
spected father, as she sips her wine with the
rest! Notwithstanding this is Sunday, there are
'five invited guests, and Miss Dell is giving them
an exaggerated account of Kathie's temperance
"Oh, Mrs. Lee, how I wish you had been
there! Such eloquence! Such zeal with which
she attacked cider, poor harmless cider! Mr.
Lythcombe will have an advocate in her, I as-
sure you."
"Is Mr. Lythcombe as strong as ever upon
the temperance question ? inquired Mr. Johns.
"I have not forgotten that lecture he gave two
years ago. I thought he overdid the thing then.
He seemed all on fire."
"Strong is a tame word for such intensity as
his, Mr. Johns. You ought to have heard him
last Sunday evening, at our temperance concert.
If he was on fire two years ago, he is a sheet of
flame now. He gave it to us right and left.
Old Ben Hudson, the tavern-keeper, started up


once or twice, and looked as frightened as if he
had seen the evil one himself."
The guests laughed, as Dell desired, and then
the young lady resumed:
"There is something very attractive about
Miss Danforth, although she has such queer no-
tions. All the scholars in the class, except Tom
Whiting and myself, pledged themselves to total
abstinence. Just think of it! No wine, no
cider, no sauce for the pudding, if it has brandy
in it; no wine jelly; and, oh, dear me! worst of
all, no mince pies! How could they do it?"
Mr. Faxon, who was present, but who had
thus far taken no part in the conversation, now
"Dell," he said, quietly, "I wish you had
signed with the others."
Why, father!"
Dell was so astonished she could say nothing
Yes, child, I mean it. Besides, it's a very
easy matter to give up mince pie, or anything else,
when one is sure he has right on his side. I
never take any, and I do not lose flesh on ac-
count of the deprivation."


Dell crimsoned slightly, and an angry light
flashed in her eyes.
"I hope you don't think I'm in danger of be-
coming a drunkard," she said, shortly.
No, no, Dell. You do not understand me.
You never do." The father looked the pain he
felt, but said no more. Months after, Dell re-
called that scene, and her father's words, and
understood their meaning then too well.
During the last two months, Mr. Faxon had
been forced to see what shocked and alarmed
him. His young wife had grown too fond of
wine, and drank a great deal too much at dinner.
That accounted for her uncontrollable fits of
laughter, and loud talking. It was a hard fact
for the proud man to acknowledge, but it was
true. Mrs. Faxon was a little intoxicated occa-
If Mr. Faxon had only banished wine from
his table then, he might have saved his wife from
the passion that was gaining upon her daily, and
himself and only child from the suffering, shame,
and remorse that came to them before the New


E VEN more really tasteful than either of
the homes just described, both in exterior
and interior, is the home of Amy Caswell.
Mr. Caswell is a sea captain, and is away
from home for months at a time; so Amy and
her mother lead a quiet, happy life during his
There is one beauty that graces this home,
lacking in either of the others-the grace of
Christian love. Mr. and Mrs. Caswell are sincere
Christians; and strive by example, as well as by
precept, to show their little one that a Christian
life is the happiest and best. Nor have their
efforts been in vain; for Amy knows that she is a
Christian, and has lately gladdened her parents'
hearts by that knowledge. How welcome was
the message that was brought to Captain Caswell
in a tiny letter, over the sea! Just two little
sentences in Amy's handwriting. So simple,


and yet of so much import! Dear papa, your
prayer is answered. Your little Amy knows
what it means to say 'My Jesus.'" There were
tears of joy in the captain's eyes as he kissed his
darling's letter again and again, saying, Thank
Mamma, dear," Amy said, softly, entering
the room where her mother was sitting reading,
"I've had such a delightful time. That sweet
young lady in Mr. Irving's class is going to be
our teacher. She is the one you've spoken of
so often--Miss Kathie Danforth. Are you not
glad, mamma ?"
Yes, dear, if it makes you happy," and the
mother smiled lovingly upon her child, stroking
the soft hair.
It does, mamma. She's so nice. Almost as
nice as Mr. Harry Irving. Why, it seems as if
I had known her for a long time, she made it so
pleasant for us. There are ten of us in the
class; five boys and five girls. I like that ever
so much, because I think there is more chance
of doing good."
Amy was quiet for a few moments, seemingly
lost in thought; then said abruptly:


"Mamma, I don't see how Miss Danforth had
the courage to do one thing she did ?"
"What was it, Amy ?"
"' Why, mamma, she knelt down in the midst
of us, before every one in the school, and asked
God to help her, and show her what to do, just
the same as if she had been in her own room.
Don't you think she was brave ?"
"Amy, a friend of mine, who has known Miss
Danforth for years, says she is naturally very
timid, but when she knows she ought to do a
thing, she does it. Can you recall a text of Scrip-
ture that will meet this case ? "
After a little, Amy repeated:
"' My grace is sufficient for thee, for my
strength is made perfect in weakness.' Is that it,
mamma ?"
"Yes, Amy."
"You'll be glad of one thing, mamma, I
Is not that rather positive, daughter ? I have
not had a chance to express an opinion."
"Oh, but, mamma, don't you think every one
in Glenwyn knows your opinion upon the tem-
perance question ? Don't you think I do ? "


There is certainly no excuse for you if you do
not, Amy; but what have you had about tem-
perance to-day ?"
You are interested now, mamma, and I be-
lieve you could talk temperance to the people
just as well as Mr. Lythcombe or Dr. Irving,
even if you are a woman, and my mother."
"I could say a good deal, dear, for I am in-
tensely interested in the subject; but I am afraid
that my words would not have much weight; at
least, not as much as any earnest man's."
Why, mamma, I thought you had a better
opinion of yourself than that, and for once I can
not agree with you."
"Certainly not. I am Amy Caswell's mother,
you know. But what about temperance to-day,
dear ? "
"1Miss Danforth is a thorough temperance
woman, mamma, just as much as you are, I guess;
and she wishes her class to be a temperance class.
I felt glad to say that I was already when she put
the question to us, and not that I was willing to
be. Luther Greyson was the same as myself; and
all the others, except Dell Faxon and Tom Whit-
ing, were willing. Isn't it splendid, mamma?"


"YYes, dear, I am very glad. Miss Danforth
has begun a good work, and has had wonderful
success so far; and, if I judge her rightly, she
will prove one of those who are never 'weary in
well doing.' I wish that Dell and Tom had
been willing too. Perhaps they may think better
of it in time. You see that there is work to do.
Those of you who are Christians must pray for
these two, and strive, by your own example and
kindness, to show them that there is nothing
quite so grand as being a Christian."
And you'll help us, mamma, won't you, when
the work really begins ?"
I'11 do all I can to aid any good work that
Miss Danforth may suggest; and you may tell
her so next Sunday, if you wish."
Thank you, mamma. You're just the best
mother in the world, and I'll tell Miss Dan-
That I am the best mother in the world ?"
asked the lady, laughing.
"You know I didn't mean that, but I'd just as
soon say it as not, for it's true," and a pair of
arms encircled the mother's neck, and warm lips
kissed her cheek.


"There's the dinner bell, Amy," Mrs. Cas-
well said, rising. Come."
The silver shone as brightly, and the good
things were just as abundant upon this table as
upon either of the others, and yet neither Mrs.
Faxon nor Lawyer Whiting would have felt at
home here. There was no wine upon this side-



iDR. ARNOT'S house was situated upon the
corner of Park View and Rose Avenues.
It was a large, square house, painted white-not
beautiful, but convenient.
Since the death of Dr. Arnot's wife, two years
before, his maiden sister, Miss Joanna, had pre-
sided as mistress. There was but little sympathy
between the doctor and his sister, and still less
between the children and their aunt. A strong,
active woman, a first-class housekeeper, she
proved an excellent manager. She was really
kind-hearted, but her inexperience with children
unfitted her for any position where there were
any; and especially for her present position; for
Dr. Arnot's children were all peculiar, and re-
quired a person of a loving, sympathizing nature
to meet the various peculiarities of each. Such
a person their aunt was not; hence the many
faults in each child that, during their mother's

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reign they had in part corrected, sprang forth
anew; and, instead of growing better, the chil-
dren were becoming worse every day.
The scene presented this Lord's Day after-
noon, as we look in upon them, is only one of
the many that have taken place during the last
two years, and which, of late, have been of
more frequent occurrence.
"Say, Aunt Jo, it's nearly three o'clock, and I
don't see any more signs of dinner now than
when I went to Sunday-school. Where's father?
I'm as hungry as a bear, and I want my dinner.
I just hate Sunday; there! Wait and wait and
wait, never ready for dinner. Say, Aunt Jo, do
you think a fellow has an iron stomach?"
"I think that if you belonged to me, I'd
teach you better manners than to shout out like
that; and I'll do it too," and irate Aunt Jo
raised her hand and brought it down with
tremendous force, not against Norman's ear, as
she intended, but upon the top of the willow
rocker, vacated at that moment by her nephew,
which flew back just in time to receive the
Norman roared, and rushed through the open


door to escape the wrath of the angry woman,
who cried out with pain.
The door opened just enough to admit Nor-
man's curly pate as he said:
"Cracky! wasn't I a lucky fellow, though, to
escape that rap? Would have made me see stars,
I guess. Does it hurt, auntie, dear? Shall I
get the arnica to bathe it? You see it's a bad
plan for an aunt to hit a nephew's ear. Take
my advice, and don't try it again."
"OOnly let me catch you once, Norman Arnot,
and you'll pay for this, as sure as my name is
Joanna. If Mary Magdalene was possessed
with seven devils, you're possessed with ten."
"And my sweet-tempered Aunt Jo, with the
old fellow himself, and fifteen little ones. Hurry
up the dinner, auntie." The head was with-
drawn, and its owner started in pursuit of
further mischief.
In the music room, his sister Eve was playing
over some of her father's favorite pieces; but
what did Norman care for that?
"How long do you intend to keep dinner
waiting, Miss Arnot, and how dark do you
wish father's brow to grow?" Norman bowed


himself in and then out, while Eve jumped up
in dismay.
"I hadn't any idea that it was dinner-time,
and I'm sure I didn't hear the bell. I do so
dread to make father angry. Why auntie, Nor-
man said that dinner was waiting, and father

Miss Joanna cut her sentence short.
"Go right back to your music, Eve, and don't
come here finding fault. When dinner's ready,
you'll hear the bell," and Aunt Jo flounced out
of the room, shutting the door with a bang.
"Cross old thing! I'm sure I didn't say any-
thing improper, that she should snap me up in
that way. One may as well give up trying to
please her, for she won't be pleased. I hope
that I shall not be an old maid, if Aunt Jo is
a specimen of the best, and "
Just then she caught a glimpse of Norman out
on the veranda.
You're just as mean as you can be, Norman
Arnot. You hate to see any one at peace. I've
made Aunt Jo angry again, and all on your ac-
count. Just wait, and I'll be even with you


"You looked so comfortable in that cool room,
sister mine, playing so softly, with that white
kitten in your lap, and such a sweet expression
on your face, that I couldn't resist the temptation
to see if your temper would ruffle, and clouds
take the place of sunshine."
"And you're satisfied now, I suppose; and
you call this last mean trick of yours fun, don't
you? I declare, you're enough to try the pa-
tience of a saint!"
There's so many of them in this abode."
Norman whistled shrilly for a minute or two,
and then continued: Just let me describe one
little scene for your amusement." Norman went
through the whole performance, talking rapidly,
and laughing aloud when he mimicked Aunt Jo's
cry of mingled rage and pain, when her hand
struck the chair. Eve enjoyed it, as she always
did, when the pranks were played upon some-
body else, especially on Aunt Jo.
"That was capital, Norman," she said, laugh-
ing. "You'd make a good actor. I'm sorry,
though, that I missed seeing the real thing."
"You'll call it square now, won't you, Eve ?
Norman inquired, presently, balancing himself


upon one foot. Norman liked to be friendly
with Eve; for when Aunt Jo reported his doings
to his father, as was frequently the case, Eve
always screened him; not because he did not
deserve punishment, but just to spite Aunt Jo.
Yes, of course; but don't try to be too smart,
sir," Eve responded, going back to her music.
For a few minutes after Eve left him, Norman
kept on balancing, then burst out with: I won-
der what Fan is up to? I haven't set eyes on
her since we left Sunday-school. I must go and
find out."
He wandered about from room to room, but
no trace of Fannie could he find.
I guess she's out in the garden," he said, at
last. I do wonder what she's up to? "
He went from one place to another, and at last
spied something white in the summer-house.
"That's Fan, sure," he said, and hastened to
the spot. "Why, Fannie, my love, where have
you been ? I've hunted all over the house and
grounds, hoping to find you, and here you are in
the summer-house. What have you been doing
since Sunday-school, and what is that great book ?
No, don't hide it. Let me see the name." Nor-


man took it up, and then put it down again, with
a long, low whistle. "Cruden's Concordance!
What does that mean, Fan? Are you turning
saint too ?"
What do you want, Norman?" Fannie said,
crossly. "What do you want, say ? Go away
out of here and mind your business. I wonder
what boys were made for, anyway ?"
To amuse their little sisters, and to keep
them from growing saintly," returned Norman,
with a low bow, stepping out with the book
under his arm.
"Now, Norman, bring that book back. I'm
not through with it. Bring it back, I say,"
screamed Fannie.
Norman danced upon one leg, put the book
upon his head, and marched away. Fannie was
too angry to know what she did. Seizing her
crutch, she struck at the retreating figure, but
finding it beyond her reach, she threw it with all
her might. It missed its aim, and landed on the
top of a tall lilac-bush, far beyond the child's
reach. Norman's laughter increased Fannie's
rage, but she could do nothing but scream; and
that she did with a will.


Norman, tired of his sport at last, reached up
for the crutch, and depositing it and the book at
a safe distance from his sister, went off, singing:
Catch me, if you can,
Saintly little Fan.
Soon after, the doctor came in, and a little
later, the dinner-bell rang.
Sunday was the only day the family dined to-
gether; so it ought to have been a pleasant meal,
but it rarely was. To-day the doctor was tired
and hungry, and in anything but a good humor.
Had he been greeted with kind words and loving
smiles, his ill-humor would have passed away;
but instead, there was his sister with a face like a
thunder-cloud, his eldest daughter cold and indif-
ferent, and his youngest cross and sulky.
Norman looked from one to another, and pres-
ently broke out with:
"An interesting family this-warm-hearted,
fun-loving, kind, genial, social. Here old Sol
shines perpetually, and clouds are never per-
mitted to
Oh, Norman, do stop your nonsense;" but
Eve smiled in spite of herself, and even Aunt
Jo's face lost a little of its grimness. Old


Nancy laughed-she always laughed at Nor-
man's sayings-and shook her head at him
"Norman, pass Fannie's plate," his father
said, shortly.
Norman reached forward to obey, but Fannie
held on to it with both hands.
"Keep your hands off," she said. "I'll pass
it myself."
Quarreling again ?" the doctor inquired.
".Will you two ever learn to live in peace?"
"I prefer a piece of the chicken's breast, sir,
if you please," and Norman looked wickedly at
"Don't open your mouth again, sir, until I
speak to you," his father answered, sternly.
Norman looked wistfully at his dinner, but
did not eat any. Aunt Jo looked at him inquir-
ingly, and finally asked, impatiently:
"What's the matter with your dinner, Nor-
man, that you don't eat it ? "
Norman put his finger upon his lips, but made
no reply.
Nancy's fat sides shook so that she nearly
dropped the dish she was carrying.


"Answer your aunt, sir !" The doctor spoke
You told me not to open my mouth, so how
could I answer her, and obey you at the same
time ?"
"Leave the table, instantly," thundered the
angry father. "Perhaps fasting will teach you
Norman cast a longing look at the untasted
chicken, then rising, slowly left the room. He
knew that Nancy would save him some choice
bits, as she always did when he was sent away;
so he made the best of it, and went to the library
in search of a book.


A LITTLE white cottage, of only four rooms,
"situated far back from the street, and
almost hidden in the dense foliage that sur-
rounds it-this is Clare Lester's home. The
sweet-faced lady in the doorway is his mother,
and the great Newfoundland that bounds down
the path to meet him is his dog. Here the three
have lived happily since the death of Clare's
father, five years before.
Mrs. Lester supports herself and son by
teaching music and drawing at Glenwyn Acad-
emy. Clare devotes his spare moments out of
school, in doing errands for Lawyer Whiting, in
whose employ he has been for a year. That gen-
tleman says Clare would make a shrewd lawyer,
and has tried his best to persuade Mrs. Lester to
think as he does.
At Clare's birth, his father, then in a flourish-
ing business, put seven hundred dollars in the


bank for his son's education, intending to in-
crease it each year. But the firm of which he
was junior partner dissolving soon after, he was
unable to do so the second year; and each suc-
ceeding year of the six that he lived, found him
no better able to afford it.
When Clare was seven years old, his father
met with an accident which resulted in death,
after nine months of great suffering. A short
time before he died, he took his little son in his
arms, and commended him to God, at the same
time expressing the desire, that if it was his will,
this dear little son might be converted in youth,
and live to preach Christ to the world. Even if
a lawyer's profession had not been distasteful to
Clare, his father's desire would have sufficed to
make it so-the boy's dearest expectation being
to fulfill it. So, all Clare earned was added to
the little sum in the bank, to be ready for
use when the time came.
As Tom Whiting was often in his father's
office, out of school hours, the two boys, seeing
so much of each other, became fast friends in a
short time. Tom thought Clare as nearly per-
fect as a boy could be, and having no brother of


his own, lavished all his affection upon his friend.
And Clare returned it with equal warmth; for,
next to his mother, there was nobody whom he
loved quite so well as Tom.
"Father has set his heart upon my being a mer-
chant, but I never will be, for I hate it," Tom
said in confidence to Clare, a short time after
they had become inseparable friends. I don't
know what I shall be, but I do know this: that
whatever you are, I will be, unless you should
be a merchant."
Then Clare confided his cherished hope to
him, and Tom, throwing his arm around his
neck, said, quietly:
"All right, Clare; we'll both be ministers,
only you'll have to teach me lots of good before
the time comes."
Then, boy-like, he asked him how he expected
to earn enough money to carry him through col-
lege. Of course, Clare told him of the seven
hundred deposited in Glenwyn Bank, and of the
little sums that had been added since. And
Tom-warm-hearted, impulsive Tom-what do
you suppose he did ? He told Clare that he
was glad, and thought he'd have enough by the

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