"Oh, but this is a new patent; if Lewis should stumble and drop it, the light would go instantly out. Look I just a little motion, such as, of course, the lamp would get if it fell, and the light is gone." Suiting the action to the word, the flame was instantly extinguished.
"There!" Lewis said, "now we are in darkness."
"I didn't mean to have it go quite out," Louise answered, laughing. "I was only going to move it a little, to show mother. Never mind, John will get us a candle; won't you, John?"
Thus appealed to, John arose slowly from his corner, went slowly to the high mantel, where shone several beautifully polished candlesticks, took from the paper-holder a paper match, applied it to his mother's candle, solemnly lighted the other candle, and as solemnly handed it to Louise; really performing the first act of simple courtesy for a lady that he had ever done in his life.
"Thank you," she said, quite as a matter of course; yet it was actually the first "thank you" of his grown-up life!
There were certainly two sides to John's gruffness. Louise would have been amazed to know how that simple "thank you" thrilled him! He looked after the bright vision on which the stair-door closed, and had strange stirrings in his heart, the name of which he did not know.
"If I had dared," began Louise, as soon as they were in the privacy of their own room, "I would have substituted that big, old Bible for this book during the last ten minutes, and asked you to read a chapter, and pray with us all. I believe your father would have liked it. I don't believe he is as indifferent to these things as he seems."
"It is well you don't dare," her husband said gravely; "I am afraid I should have disappointed you. Louise, I don't believe I could have done that; it looks to me like an almost impossible thing."
"Why, Lewis, you led at family worship at home right before papa and mamma and Estelle; and, sometimes, when the house was full of company!"
"That was a very different thing," he answered earnestly. "I felt then that the head of the house was in sympathy with me, and joined in the reading and the praying. It was like a company of brothers and sisters talking together with their father; but here it is different. My father's tendency would be to make light of the whole thing."
"I don't believe it," she said positively. "I can't believe that he would make light of an earnest, simple prayer, such as you would offer. It is the profession of godliness, and an absence of the fruit that he naturally expects to see in lives, which inclines him to ridicule. That sounds harsh, Lewis, but I don't mean harshness. What I mean is, that he evidently expects great things of Christians, and their lives, naturally enough, disappoint him. How do you know, dear, but that your very silence, or reserve, toward him on these subjects leads him to question the degree of anxiety you have for his conversion?"
Whatever Lewis Morgan thought of this direct question he made no definite answer, and the subject dropped.
All things considered, Louise was well pleased with the result of one evening's sacrifice; for to give up the delightful privacy of their own room, and their own plans, and listen to a book that she had read before, was of course somewhat of a sacrifice. Its result elated her; she felt that her position in the family was on a more assured footing, and looked forward to the accomplishment of other little plans with a greater degree of certainty of success than she had felt heretofore. What a pity that her complacent feelings should have been put to rout through the intervention of a boiled dinner!
A victim to old-fashioned dinners of that type once explained to a novice the method of making them after this fashion: "You take a few of everything that grows in the garden, and dump them all together, with some slab-sided beef and a little pork, and let them boil for hours and hours, sending a remarkable odour through the house, which penetrates through every tightly-closed door and window; and then serve with quarts of slush!" Whether this recipe would be acknowledged by the lovers of such dinners or not, it exactly describes the state of nerves with which a few people sit down to them. Now, I beg you will not fall into the mistake of supposing my friend Louise to be an epicure, or of being unreasonably dainty as to the food which she ate. On the contrary, if her friends had but known it, she had the comfortable natural appetite which a healthy condition of stomach and brain are likely to produce. She was not one of those unhappy beings to whom the sight and smell of food which they do not happen to like is positive torture; on the contrary, Mother Morgan might have had a boiled dinner three days out of every week, had she chosen; and so long as the bread-tray was piled high with generous slices of good, sweet, home-made bread, and the butter-dish held its roll of hard, yellow, glistening butter, and the generous-sized pitcher brimmed with creamy milk, Louise would have made a dinner fit for a queen, in her own estimation. For when was a healthy city maiden other than rejoiced over real country butter and cream?
The trouble lay in the fact that poor Mother Morgan herself had nerves. Albeit she despised the name, and considered all such matters as modern inventions of fashionable society, it was just as surely an over-wrought and undisciplined state of nerves which caused her to visit hard-voiced displeasure on certain innocent tastes differing from her own, as though she had expressed it with a burst of tears. Did you ever have for a hostess one who accepted it as a personal insult if you declined any dish of her preparing? If not, you are fortunate. But just such an one was Mother Morgan: Her family had, for years and years, partaken, with a fair degree of relish, of cabbage and turnip and potato and beets and beef and parsnips and pork, all dwelling in friendly nearness in the same large pot. Nay, they had appreciated sometimes in addition, little round, yellow balls, known to the initiated to be meal balls, but tasting to the ignorant like nothing so much as sawdust wetted up with a little pork gravy.
With a feeling nearly akin to dismay did Louise watch the lading of the plate which she knew was intended for her. How was she ever to dispose of that mass, which, from the unmeshed turnip down to the yellow cannon-balls, she disliked? If she might only say, "No, thank you," and betake herself to the inviting-looking bread and butter and milk! Why need people have nerves leading straight to their palates, and, in this world of infinite variety, take the trouble to be aggrieved because tastes differ? Meekly she received the well-laden plate, meekly she sliced bits of potato and minced at the turnip, even taking delicate nibbles of the stump of cabbage, which she detested. All to no purpose. Mrs. Morgan was watching her with jealous eyes. What right had she to presume to dislike so savoury a dinner? Presently her indignation found vent in words.
"I don't see but we shall have to set a separate table for you; it seems you can't stand the dishes we are used to. I don't want you to starve on our hands, I'm sure."
Despite the fact that Louise had just received a letter full of tenderness from the dear mother at home—a tenderness which made this mother a sharp contrast—she was enabled to laugh, as she answered, pleasantly,—
"Oh, mother, I'm in no danger of starving. It seems to me that I like your bread and butter better than any I ever tasted. I suppose I am somewhat peculiar in my tastes; but I always find plenty to eat."
If people could see into each other's hearts, or if people could keep still when they ought, it might yet have been well. But it chanced that life had gone awry with the young husband that morning. A discussion had arisen between his father and himself concerning certain farming plans, and a decided difference of opinion had developed, during which the son expressed himself warmly and positively; and the father, waxing indignant, had sharply informed him that going to college and Australia, and marrying a fine lady for a wife, didn't make a farmer. Had Lewis found a moment's leisure and privacy with his wife, and he had spoken his thoughts, they would have been somewhat after this fashion:
"I am discouraged with the whole thing; we never can assimilate. If it were not for you, I should be miserable; you are the joy of my heart, and my rest." Then Louise would have comforted and encouraged him.
As it was, believing in her wholly, and being just then desirous that she should appear perfect in the eyes of his father, he addressed her in a disturbed, not to say almost vexed tone, albeit it was a low one,—
"Do, Louise, pretend to eat something, whether you accomplish it or not."
Louise could never understand how it was; she had not supposed herself one of the nervous sort; but just then and there arose such a lump in her throat, that to have taken another mouthful would have been impossible; and, to her dismay and chagrin, there rushed into her eyes actual tears!
Then up rose John to the emergencies of the situation.
"Why, in the name of common sense, can't you all let folks eat what they like, without nagging at them all the time? I never touch cabbage, and won't no more than I will touch a frog, and you let me alone; why can't you her?"
Whereupon Dorothy was so amazed, that she continued pouring milk into the bowl long after it had brimmed, her eyes fixed, meantime, on her younger brother's face. As for Lewis, he seemed stricken with remorse for his words, apparently realizing at this moment how they sounded. But Louise was so pleased with John's evident desire to champion her, and so amused that it should seem to be necessary to shield her on a question of cabbage or not cabbage, that the ludicrous side of the matter came uppermost, and, as she laughed, the lump in her throat vanished.
"Thank you," she said gaily to John; "don't you like cabbage, either? I'm glad of it. We'll form a compact to stand by each other for freedom without cabbage."
Something approaching to a smile hovered over John's face, and Dorothy giggled outright.
SUNDAY morning dawned at last, with as bright a sunshine as ever May produced. The air was crisp and clear, and the level road was frozen hard. Look which way he would, Farmer Morgan would have found it hard to produce an excuse why the family should not appear in church. To be sure, he often said that he didn't "feel like going;" and as John wouldn't go, that had heretofore settled the matter for the mother and Dorothy, whether they would or not. But on this morning, Louise and Lewis came from their room evidently dressed for the day; and Louise, with confident air, remarked—
"What a nice morning for a ride! if one didn't care for church-going, it would be pleasant to get out to-day."
In Lewis's mind were some doubts as to who of the family could go, as the small spring-waggon would not accommodate more than four; but Farmer Morgan settled it by saying in positive voice—
"You'll have to go to-day, John, and drive. I've got a stiff neck, and I don't feel like going out."
"I guess Lewis hasn't forgot how to drive," John began sullenly: "I ain't going to church."
"You can go to church or not, just as you like, when you get down there, I s'pose; but you will have to drive the horses, for the colt has got to go, and she isn't used to Lewis, and I won't have him drive her. It would look more decent to go to church, I think; but you've got so you don't care much about decency, and I s'pose you'll do as you please.—You going, mother?"
"No!" said Mrs. Morgan promptly; "I'll get the dinner. Dorothy can go, if she likes."
And the instant glow on Dorothy's cheek told that she "liked." Only John was sullen; he did not recover during the entire ride; spoke only to the horses, save when Dorothy gave little frightened jumps when the colt seemed to her not to be moving with propriety; then the driver snappishly directed her to "sit still and not act like a simpleton."
Arrived at the church door, he sat still, allowing Lewis to alight and wait on the ladies.
"Let us wait for John," Louise said, as her husband turned from the waggon; "it is nicer to all go in together."
John opened his lips, and if ever lips were going to say, "John isn't coming," his were; but he hesitated, looked down at the young, earnest face turned with a confident air toward him, then turned away, snapped his whip, and said nothing.
"You'll be here in a minute, won't you, John?"
"Yes," he said, or rather snapped, as though he was disgusted with himself for the answer; then giving the colt a smart touch with the whip, she curveted around the corner in a style which would surely have made Dorothy scream had she been behind her.
"That is only a little short of a miracle," Lewis said in surprise. "I never knew John to compromise his dignity by going to church after he had announced that he wasn't going, and that announcement is the rule rather than the exception."
"I felt as though he must come to church this morning, somehow," Louise made answer in a low tone. "I couldn't give it up; it has been the burden of my prayer all the morning."
To which remark Lewis Morgan had no reply to make; he remembered, with a sudden sting of conscience, that he had not so much as thought of his brother's name in prayer that morning. Reasoning upon common sense principles, how much could he have desired his presence in the church?
It was a quiet little village church, looking natural enough to the eyes of the usual worshippers; but what a strange feeling it gave Louise! She was accustomed to broad, soft-carpeted aisles; richly carved and upholstered seats; costly pulpit furnishing; massive organ, with solemn tones filling the church. Here her feet trod on bare floors, and the old-fashioned pew, to which she was ushered, had neither footstool nor cushion, though it was high enough to demand the one and hard enough to suggest the other. The red and yellow tassels, which depended from the pulpit cushion, were frayed and faded; the sun streamed in unpleasantly from windows that boasted of neither shades nor blinds; and there was a general air of dilapidation about everything. She looked around with curious eyes on the congregation: their appearance was not in keeping with the surroundings; they looked well-dressed and well-bred, as if the most of them might have come out from comfortable homes to spend this hour together. To all such, what a painful contrast between the comforts and the luxuries of their own homes must the house of God have presented; while to those who came from desolate homes, if there were any such, what attractions did the place offer? "It isn't even clean," the new-comer said to herself, her lip almost curling as she saw the stray bits of paper and card scattered over the floor, and the dust lying loosely everywhere. "If they care for the church at all, why don't they keep it in order?"
When the service commenced the feeling of discomfort was not removed. The little choir, perched high in air away at the back of the church, would not at that distance and height have been able to "lead the congregation," had they been so disposed. Their voices were clear and in fair tone, and the little parlour organ was originally sweet-voiced, but the whole was so marred by a high-keyed, distressing squeak, that Louise found it difficult to keep back the frowns. She bowed her head during the prayer, and succeeded in getting into the spirit of communion; then waited eagerly for the sermon. The words of the text rang with a suggestive thought: "The life is more than meat, and the body more than raiment." But alas for the sermon! What was the matter with it? It was true; it was well written and well read; it was carefully logical; it sought to impress upon the minds of his hearers what a wonderful and glorious and endless thing was life. And John and Dorothy, those two for whom Louise had most anxious desire, listened—or appeared to listen—to the wonderful possibilities of this life and the wonderful certainties of the future, and were as indifferent to the one as the other, neither serving to lift the bored look from their faces.
As Louise watched, and saw how little they were getting, Satan appeared to her, suggesting to her heart that perplexing and harassing question with which he delights to weary those who have tried: "What good," said he, "will it do to have those two young people come to this church and listen to this sermon? Do you believe they have gotten a single new idea or aspiration? Don't you feel nearly certain that they will go home less impressible than they came? Because you must remember that every presentation of the truth either helps or hardens. Of what use were all your plans and prayers? What availed your little thrill of thanksgiving over the success of your scheme? Don't you see it will amount to less than nothing?" Is not it strange that the followers of Christ will go on, year after year, bending a listening ear to Satan, while he rings the changes of that old, long ago vanquished falsehood, "If thou be the Son of God"? "If the Lord had cared anything about your efforts to serve him," said the tempter on this Sunday morning, "wouldn't he have planned this whole service differently? You believe that he could have done it; why didn't he? You know very well that there hasn't been a thing said that would be in the least likely to help these two persons."
What should Louise do? Here she was, in the house of God, and here was this tempting demon at her elbow. Who was it that said, "Whoever else stays away from church, Satan never does"? Whoever said it, the thought flashed over this tried soul suddenly, and she bowed her head to speak a word to that triumphant Conqueror who passed through the conflict centuries ago, and is "able to succour them that are tempted." Did he speak again the word of command, "Get thee hence, Satan"? Assuredly he came himself and stood beside her, and she was enabled to remember that her part was to plant and water as she could, the fruit thereof being God's part, and his unchangeable "doubtless" was added to the promise of success. In the hymn and prayer that followed heart and spirit joined, and as Louise Morgan raised her head after the benediction, she felt that this was indeed the house of God and the gate of heaven. He had verified his promise yet again, and met her in his temple.
Nevertheless, her first spoken words after the service would not have seemed to many to be in keeping with the hour—
"John, what on earth is the matter with that organ?"
Despite the habitual frown on John's face, he was betrayed into a laugh, there was so much intensity in the questioner's voice.
"Why, it needs a drop or two of oil," he said promptly; "and has needed it ever since I can remember. Anybody would think they considered the squeak an addition to the music, by the way they hang on to it."
"Is it possible that a little oil is all that is needed to stop that horrible sound? Why don't you fix it?"
"I?" said John, turning full, astonished eyes on her, surprised out of his reserve and his frowns.
"Why, certainly; how can you endure it for so long? Do, John, fix it before next Sunday; it spoils the music. I could hardly enjoy even the words, because of that dreadful sound. How many things there are that ought to be done here. Why do they leave the church in this shape? Isn't there a sexton?"
"Why, yes," said John, "I suppose so. Of course there must be; he rings the bell and makes the fires."
"But never sweeps," added Louise, smiling, "nor dusts. John, if you can prevail on him to do some sweeping this week, I'll come down with you, when you come to oil that organ, and do the dusting. Wouldn't that be an improvement?"
"When you come to oil that organ!" The sentence had so strange a sound that John repeated it to himself. Was it possible that he was coming to oil the church organ? She spoke very confidently, quite as though it were a settled matter. And yet he would almost as soon have expected to see himself coming to preach the sermon! What would the people think of his going into the church on a week day? No one remembered better than he that of late his presence on the Sabbath had been a rarity. He had been on the verge of telling her that he had not been hired to keep the church in order, but neither had she been hired to dust it; and he was quick-witted enough to see that after the dusting scheme was proposed his subterfuge would not do.
"Oh well," he said to himself, "she'll forget it. Catch me oiling the church organ! If it groaned loud enough to be heard ten miles off I wouldn't touch it!" And he honestly thought he would not; he had a vindictive feeling for that old organ.
This conversation had consumed much less time than it has taken me to give it. They were passing down the aisle, John having been withheld from his usual habit of rushing out the instant the Amen was spoken by the sudden question that had been put to him. Now Louise turned his thoughts into another channel. Her husband had been waylaid by a gentleman who seemed anxious to have his opinion on some church matter; she was therefore at leisure to fish for John.
"I don't want to go home without being introduced to the minister," she said. "There he comes now. Will you introduce me, John?"
"I don't know him," answered John shortly. The tone added, "And I don't want to."
"Don't you? Oh, he's a new-comer. Well, then, let's introduce ourselves."
He was just beside them now, and aided her plans, holding out his hand with a genial "Mrs. Morgan, I believe." He was a young, bright-faced man, cheery of voice and manner, and more winning, apparently, anywhere else than he was in the pulpit. Louise returned his hand-clasp cordially, and hastened to say—
"My brother, Mr. Morgan; my sister, Miss Morgan. We are all strangers together, I believe. You have been here but a short time, I understand?"
"Why, yes," the minister said, flushing slightly—he was comparatively a new-comer—remembering, meantime, the embarrassing fact that he had been there quite long enough to get acquainted with that portion of his flock which seemed to him worth cultivating. "I have not gotten out to Mr. Morgan's yet, but I hope to do so this week. What day will you be most at leisure, Mrs. Morgan?"
"Oh," said Louise brightly, "we shall be glad to see you at any time; suppose you come on Tuesday," thinking, meantime, of one or two little pet schemes of her own. "Shall we expect you to tea?—John, we would like to have him take tea with us, wouldn't we? You haven't an engagement for Tuesday, have you?"
Thus appealed to, what was there for John but to stammer out an answer, over which he ruminated half the way home. Was it possible that he had engaged to be at home on Tuesday, to meet the minister, and had actually seconded his invitation to tea? How came he to do it? What were the words he said? How happened he to say them? He felt very much bewildered, somewhat vexed, and just a very trifle interested. There was certainly nothing in the minister to like, and he did not like him; moreover, he did not mean to like him. What was it, then, that interested him? He did not quite know. He wondered what loophole of escape he could find for Tuesday; also he wondered whether he really and truly was determined to escape. Altogether, John did not understand his own state of mind.
"O Lewis," said Mrs. Morgan, just as they were nearing home, "do you suppose anybody would object if you were to cut those dreadful-looking yellow tassels from the pulpit and tack a neat little braid, such as upholsterers use, around it? John and I are going down there, some day this week, to fix up things, and you may go along and upholster the pulpit if you want to."
"John and you!"
The astonishment in her husband's voice made Louise's eyes laugh; but her tones were steady. "Yes, he is going to stop that dreadful squeak in the organ; isn't that terrible? It just spoiled the music, and it would have been good but for that. I've promised to dust if there can be some sweeping done. O John, did you speak to the sexton? No? Well, I am not sure that it is very Sunday work; but when can you see him?"
Then Dorothy roused to the occasion—
"The sexton comes every morning to get a can of milk for some of his customers at the village."
"Oh, does he? Then you can see him. John, you will attend to it to-morrow morning, won't you? And have it done before Wednesday, because then the church will be warmed for prayer-meeting, and we can get it ready more comfortably. I wonder if those lamps don't smoke? They look as if they might."
"They used to smoke fiercely enough when I knew them last," her husband said. "I haven't been down in the evening since I came home from Australia."
Here was certainly a revelation to Louise. Her husband had not been to the church prayer-meeting since he came from Australia, eight months before! But she made no comment. Dorothy, having once determined to speak, had more to say—
"They look as though they hadn't been washed for forty years! I never saw such black things in my life!"
"Suppose you enlist with us, Dorothy? Go down on Wednesday, and let's put the lamps in order. We'll let Lewis buy some wicks and chimneys for his share. I saw that two of the chimneys were broken; those two lamps will smoke, of course."
John laughed outright.
"I believe you saw every crack and corner of the church," he said, speaking almost good-naturedly.
And Dorothy spoke her troubled thought—
"I don't know anything about kerosene lamps. I don't suppose I could fix one to save my life."
"I know all about them; papa used to have one in his office that I took care of, and mamma used one for sewing. I can show you all about them in five minutes. Will you go?"
"Well," said Dorothy, veiling her eagerness as well as she could, "I'd be willing, but I don't believe mother will."
"Yes, she will; I'll look out for that."
It was neither Lewis nor Louise that made this startling promise, but John himself!
"Was it quite according to Sunday observance to make all those plans?" Louise asked her husband, smiling, but a shade of trouble, nevertheless, in her voice. "Sometimes those things trouble me. I had Sunday plans at heart, but I'm afraid they didn't show very plainly."
"Well, I don't know: to brighten the church, so that it shall be a more tolerable spot, is important, certainly. It is a very desirable thing to accomplish, Louise. But I don't see how you coaxed John into it."
"I want the church to look better, it is true," Louise said, thoughtfully; "but, after all, that is secondary. Lewis, I want John and Dorothy."
MRS. MORGAN, senior, with her long check apron, reaching to within an inch of the hem of her dress, her sleeves rolled to her elbow, her arms akimbo, stood in the kitchen door, and regarded Dorothy with an air of mute astonishment for about two minutes, then her thoughts found vent in words:—
"And did she invite him to tea her own self?"
"Yes," said Dorothy, a curious mixture of satisfaction and glumness in her tones; "she did, with her own lips. I didn't say a word, and Lewis wasn't there; he was talking with Deacon Spalding, just behind us; and John didn't speak, of course, till he spoke to him."
"Well, I never!" said Mrs. Morgan; then, after a somewhat lengthy pause, "Seems to me she is taking things into her own hands most amazing fast: nothing but a stranger herself, and gone to inviting company! Without even waiting to see if it would be convenient, either! There's extra work, too. I suppose, though, she thinks she can sit in the front room and entertain him, and we can do the work."
"I s'pose she is so used to company that she don't think anything about it, and doesn't know that other folks do. It isn't a dreadful thing to have the minister come to tea; for my part, I'm glad he is coming."
After this sudden marvellous outburst from Dorothy, her mother turned and surveyed her again, in bewildered fashion. Who had ever before heard Dorothy express an outright opinion contrary to her mother's? While she was meditating how to treat this strange development, the hall door opened, and Louise, broom and dust-pan in hand, a quaint little sweeping-cap set on her head, appeared on the scene. She dashed into the subject in mind at once:—
"Mother, has Dorothy mentioned that Mr. Butler is coming to tea? We didn't think about the extra ironing or we might have chosen some other night.—Why didn't you remind me, Dorrie?—You must let me do all the extra work, to pay for my carelessness. I have come down now to put the front room in order; or shall I help in the kitchen first?"
What was a woman to do who had managed her own household with a high hand for more than thirty years, thus unceremoniously taken by storm? She turned her gaze from Dorothy to Louise, and stood regarding her for a second, as if in no doubt what to say; then, with a bitterness of tone that Louise did not in the least understand, said—
"Do just exactly what you please; which I guess is what you are in the habit of doing, without asking permission."
Then she dashed into the outer kitchen, and set up such a clatter with the pots and kettles there that she surely could not have overheard a word had many been said.
Louise, with honest heart, desiring to do what was right, was by no means infallible, and yet was quick-witted she discovered that she had blundered. It flashed before her that Mother Morgan thought she was trying to rule the household and reorganize the home society—trying, indeed, to put her, the mother, aside. Nothing had been further from her thoughts. She stood transfixed for a moment, the rich blood rolling in waves over her fair face at thought of this rude repulse of her cheery effort to play that she was at home and act accordingly. It was as Dorothy said: she was so accustomed to the familiar sentence, "Come in and take tea," that it fell from her lips as a matter of course; especially had she been one of those trained to a cordial heartiness as regarded her pastor. Her invitation to Mr. Butler had been unpremeditated, and, she now believed, unwise. Yet how strange a sense of loneliness and actual homesickness swept over her as she realized this. How difficult it was to step at all! How she must guard her words and her ways; how sure she might be of giving offence when nothing in her past experience could foreshadow such an idea to her! Was it possible that in her husband's home she was not to feel free to extend hospitalities when and where she chose? Could she ever hope to grow accustomed to such a trammelled life? She stood still in the spot where her mother-in-law had transfixed her—the dust-pan balanced nicely, that none of its contents might escape; the broom being swayed back and forth slowly by a hand that trembled a little; the fair, pink-trimmed cambric sweeping-cap, that was so becoming to her, and so useful in shielding her hair from dust, heightening now the flush on her face. If she had but known it, in the new mother's eyes that sweeping-cap was one of her many sins.
"The idea of prinking up in a frilled cap to sweep!" had that lady exclaimed, the first time she saw it, and she drove the coarse comb through her thin gray hair as she spoke, regardless of the fact that much dust had settled in it from that very morning's sweeping.
"It keeps her hair clean, I'm sure," had Dorothy interposed; "and you are always for keeping things most dreadfully clean."
"Clean!" had the mother exclaimed, vexed again, at she hardly knew what; "so will a good washing in soap and water, and look less ridiculous besides. What do you catch me up in that way for whenever I say anything? Attend to the dishes, and don't waste your time talking about hair; and if you ever stick such a prinked-up thing on your head as that, I'll box your ears."
What could there have been in the little pink cap to have driven the mother into such a state? She rarely indulged in loud-voiced sentences. It was unfortunate for Louise that this episode had occurred but a short time before; and it was fortunate for her that she did not and could not guess what the innocent cap, made by Estelle's deft fingers, had to do with Mrs. Morgan's state of mind. Had she known that such a very trifle had power over the new mother's nerves, it might have appalled her. We grieve sometimes that we cannot know other people's hearts, and foresee what would please and what would irritate. Sometimes in our blindness we feel as if that certainly would have been the wiser way; yet I doubt if Louise's courage would not have utterly forsaken her could she have seen the heart of her husband's mother as she rattled the pots and kettles in the outer kitchen. Hearts calm down wonderfully sometimes; what need then to know of their depths while at boiling-point? But what sights must the all-seeing God look down upon—sights, in tenderness, shut away from the gaze of his weak children.
Poor Louise! It was such a little thing, and she felt so ashamed for allowing herself to be ruffled. Several states of feeling seemed knocking for admittance. She almost wished that she could go to that outer kitchen and slam the door after her, and set the dust-pan down hard before the cross lady, and say to her,—
"There! take your broom and your dust-pan, and do your own sweeping up in John's room after this, and let Lewis and me go home to mother. You are not a mother at all; the name does not fit you. I know what the word means; I have had a mother all my life, and I begin to think Lewis has never had."
What if she should say something like that? What a commotion she could make! It was not that she had the least idea of saying it; it was simply that she felt, "What if I should?"—Satan's earliest and most specious form, oftentimes, of presenting a temptation. Also, there was that unaccountable tendency to a burst of tears; she felt as though she could hardly keep them back, even with Dorothy's gray eyes looking keenly at her. Just a little minute served for all these states of feeling to surge by; then Dorothy broke the silence, roused out of her timidity by a struggling sense of injustice.
"You mustn't mind what mother says; she speaks out sometimes sharp. Anybody who didn't know her would think she was angry, but she isn't; it is just her way. She isn't used to company either, and it kind of flurries her; but she will be real glad to have had Mr. Butler here after it is all over."
Such a sudden rush of feeling as came to Louise, borne on the current of these words—words which she knew cost Dorothy an effort, for she had been with her long enough, and watched her closely enough, to realize what a painful hold timidity had gotten on her. But these eager, swiftly-spoken words, so unlike her usual hesitation, evinced a kindly tenderness of feeling for Louise herself that the lonely young wife reached after and treasured gratefully. The tears rolled down her cheeks, it is true—they had gotten too near the surface to control, and were determined for once to have their way; but she looked through them with a smile at Dorothy, nay, she set down her dust-pan suddenly and dropped her broom, and went over to the astonished girl and kissed her heartily.
"Thank you," she said brightly, "you good sister Dorrie; you have helped me ever so much. Of course mother doesn't mean to scold me; and if she did, mothers are privileged, and should be loved so much that little scoldings can be taken gratefully, especially when they are deserved, as mine is. I ought to have asked her whether it would be convenient to have company. But never mind; we'll make the best of it, and have a good time all round. And, Dorothy, let us be real true sisters, and help each other, and lore each other. I miss my sister Estelle."
It was the last word she dared trust herself to speak; those treacherous tears desired again to choke her. She turned abruptly from Dorothy and ran upstairs, leaving the dust-pan a central ornament of the kitchen floor. Hidden in the privacy of her own room, the door locked on the world below, Louise sat down in the little home-rocker and did what would have thoroughly alarmed her own mother because of its unusualness—buried her head in her hands and let the tears have their way.
She had managed to control herself before Dorothy, to smile brightly on her, and to feel a thrill of joy over the thought that she had touched that young person's heart. But all this did not keep her from being thoroughly roused and indignant toward her mother-in-law. What right had she to treat her as though she were an interloper? Was not she the wife of the eldest son, who toiled early and late, bearing burdens at least equal to, if not greater than, his father? "What that woman needs," said a strong, decided voice in her ear, "is to realize that there are other people in this world beside herself. She has been a tyrant all her life. She manages everybody; she thinks she can manage you. It is for her good as well as your own that you undeceive her. You owe it to your self-respect to go directly down to that outer kitchen, where she is banging the kettles around, and say to her that you must have an understanding. Are you one of the family, with rights, as a married daughter, to invite and receive guests as suits your pleasure, or are you a boarder simply?—in which case you are entirely willing to pay for the trouble which your guests may make."
Every nerve in Louise's body seemed to be throbbing with the desire to help her carry out this advice. It was not merely the sting of the morning, but an accumulation of stings which she felt had been gathering ever since she came into the house. But who was the bold adviser? It startled this young woman not a little to realize that her heart was wonderfully in accord with his suggestions. As usual, there was war between him and another unseen force. Said that other,—
"It is a trying position, to be sure. You have many little things to bear, and it is quite probable, your life having been so shielded heretofore, that they seem to you great trials. But, you will remember, I never promised you should not be tried; I only pledged myself that your strength should be equal to your day. And, really, there has no temptation taken you but such as is common to men. And I am faithful: I will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able."
Surely she knew this voice, and recognized this message sent to her so long ago, and proved true to her experience so many times.
"But," said that other one, "you really are not called upon to endure insults. It is a perfectly absurd position. If you had gone out as a home missionary, or were among uncouth people who had had no advantages, and to whom you were not in any sense related, it would do to talk of bearing trials; but in this case what right have your husband's family to put trials of this sort upon you? You have a perfect right to please yourself, and they ought to know it."
"Yes," said that other voice, "there are undoubtedly some things that they ought to know; but then 'even Christ pleased not himself.'"
"But it is so absurd! She is evidently vexed because you have invited her own pastor to take tea with her—the most natural and reasonable thing in the world. She ought to want him to come. The idea of having trouble over such a trifle as that!"
"Yes; but, after all, are there not two sides to even that? How did you know but it would be extremely inconvenient for your new mother to see her pastor just at the time you set?"
"I never thought of such a thing. In our house it was always convenient to see people."
"Why not tell her that you didn't think of it, omitting the reference to the different conditions of your own home? Because, you know, you never like to have people suggest uncomplimentary comparisons to you; therefore, by the rule which you profess to have accepted, you must not hint them to others."
"But," said that other one, "it is an unnecessary humiliation for you to go to her and apologize, as though you had done something wrong. The idea! You should certainly have some regard to your position. Because you came here full of schemes for usefulness, eager to do her good, is no reason why you should tamely submit to such treatment as this—least of all, offer an apology for what you had no idea would be disagreeable; besides, you almost apologized, and how did she receive it?"
Then that other voice,—
"Remember the word that I said unto you—'The servant is not greater than his lord.'"
And straightway there surged over Louise Morgan's soul such a sense of "remembrance" of that other's patience, and meekness, and forgiveness, and humiliation, such a remembrance of his thirty years of sorrowful cross-bearing for her, that there surely was verified to her another of the promises: "He shall bring all things to your remembrance." Moreover, her eyes being opened by the searching Spirit, she saw who that counsellor was, with his suggestion of self-respect and wounded dignity and position—always at variance with that other one, always directly contradicting, always eagerly putting "self" between Christ and his work. The tears came down in showers; but they were shed in a lowly attitude, for this troubled young soul sank on her knees.
"O Christ," she said, "thou didst conquer him years ago. He desires to have me; but, thou mighty One, bid him leave me, for thou art pledged that thou wilt with the temptation provide a way of escape. And now, dear Christ, help me to show such a spirit of meekness and unfaltering cheerfulness of spirit before Lewis's mother that she shall be led, not to me, but to thyself."
It was a very peaceful face which presented itself in the kitchen not many moments thereafter, and the voice that spoke seemed to Dorothy, who looked on and listened, the very essence of the morning sunshine.
"Mother, it was certainly very careless in me to invite anybody to tea without first learning whether it would be convenient for you. If you will forgive me this time I won't do it a 'bit more.' That is what my little sister says when she gets into trouble. Now, I want to know if you will let me hang some of my pictures in the parlour; I've been unpacking them, and I don't know what to do with half of them."
"Of course," said Mother Morgan. "Fix the parlour as you want it. It never was called a parlour before in its life; but I daresay that is as good a name as any. The extra ironing is no consequence anyhow; we always have enough to eat. He might as well come to-day as any time, for all I know."
Then she dashed out at that end door again, and set the outer kitchen door open, and stood in it looking off toward the snowy hills. Nobody over apologized to her before; it gave her a queer feeling.
"Well," said Dorothy, addressing the dust-pan after Louise had vanished again, "I never could have said that in the world. After what mother said to her too. I don't care; I like her first-rate. There now."
THAT front room was square and bare; at least that last word expresses the impression which it made upon Louise as she stood surveying it. There were several things that she felt sure she could do to brighten it, but the question turned on expediency. How much would it be wise to undertake?
It is a curious fact that the people who, from choice or necessity, have contented themselves with paper window-shades, have also been the people fated to choose for these ungainly creations colours that would fight with the shades of carpet and wall-paper. Those in the Morgan household were the ugliest of their kind, and the initiated know that is saying a great deal. The ground-work was blue. Who ever saw a tint of blue that would harmonize with a cheap ingrain carpet? They were embellished by corner pieces, done in dingy brown, with streaks of red here and there; the design looking like nothing with sufficient distinctness to be named—the whole being grotesque; while in the centre was a bouquet of flowers so ugly that it was a positive relief to remember that nature never produced anything in the least like them. An old-fashioned piece of furniture, known as a settle, suggested possibilities of comfort if it had not been pushed into the coldest corner of the room and been disfigured by a frayed binding and a broken spring. The chairs, of course, were straight-backed and stiff; and set in solemn rows. But the table, with its curious clawed legs and antique shape, filled Louise's heart with delight.
"What a pity," she said aloud, "that they couldn't have put some of the grace into the old-fashioned chairs which they lavished on those delightful old tables! How that bit of artistic twisting would delight Estelle's heart!"
This deliberate survey of her present field of operations was being taken after the sweeping and dusting were over, and she was trying to settle the momentous question of "What next?"
The door leading into the kitchen was swung open, and Mother Morgan presented herself in the doorway, her arms still in their favourite reflective attitude, holding to her sides.
"The curtains do look scandalous," she said, her eyes lighting on them at once. "I've been going, for I don't know how long, to get new ones, but I never seem to get at such things. I declare I didn't know they was so cracked."
Instantly Louise's wits sprang to grasp this opportunity. Who could have expected such an opening in accord with her present thoughts?
"Oh, I hope you won't get new ones. I have a set of curtains that my mother gave me for my room, so I might have a reminder of home, and they are altogether too long for my windows; but I think they will just fit here. I should so like to see them in use. May I put them up?"
What was the mother to say? She possessed that unfortunate sort of pride which is always hurt with the suggestion of using other people's things. Yet she had herself opened the door to this very suggestion. How was she to close it?
"Oh, it isn't necessary to bring your curtains down here. I mean to get new ones, of course. I've just neglected it, that's all; there's been no need for it."
"I'm so glad then that you have neglected it," Louise said quickly. "It has made me feel sort of lonely to see those curtains lying idle in my trunk. I wanted to put them somewhere. How fortunate it is that they are just the right colour to match nicely with the carpet. You are really good to let me have them up here."
Whereupon Mrs. Morgan, with a vague feeling that she had been "good" without in the least intending it, kept silence.
Louise gave her little chance for reflection.
"You can't think how much I like that sofa. Wouldn't it be nice if they made such shaped ones nowadays, so long and wide? It suggests rest to me right away. I can't think of anything more comfortable than this corner when the fire is made, with that nice, hospitable sofa wheeled into it."
This sentence brought Dorothy from the kitchen, to gaze, with wide-eyed wonder, first at the lounge and then at the speaker. The object of her intensified hatred, for many a day, had been that old, widespread, claw-footed settle. Not being accustomed to seeing such an article of furniture anywhere else, and being keenly alive to the difference between her home and that of the few other homes into which she had occasionally penetrated, she had, unconsciously to herself, singled out the old lounge and the old table, and concentrated her aversion to the whole upon them.
There was something about Louise that gave to all she said the stamp of sincerity. Dorothy found herself believing implicitly just what had been said; therefore this surprising eulogy of the old settle was the more bewildering. Louise's next sentence completed the mystification.
"But the prettiest thing in this room is that table. I never saw anything like that before; it must be very old, isn't it? And it looks like solid mahogany."
There was no resisting the impulse. Mother Morgan's heart swelled with a sense of gratified pride (if it were not a nobler feeling than pride).
"It is solid," she said quickly, "every inch of it; it belonged to my mother; it was one of her wedding presents from my grandfather. There isn't another table in the country as old as this."
"Isn't that delightful?" said Louise, genuine eagerness in tone and manner. "To think of your having one of your own mother's wedding presents! My sister Estelle would like to see that; she has such a wonderful feeling of reverence for old things, especially when she can hear about the hands that have touched them long ago. Did your mother die a good many years ago?"
"She died when I was a girl like Dorothy there," said Mrs. Morgan, her voice subdued, and she gathered a corner of her large apron and carried it to her eyes.
"I always set great store by that table. I've seen my mother rub it with an old silk handkerchief by the half-hour, to make it shine. She thought a great deal of it on grandfather's account, let alone its value, and it was thought to be a very valuable table in those days. I have always thought I would keep it for Dorothy. But she don't care for it; she thinks it is a horrid, old-fashioned thing. She would have it put into the barn-loft, along with the spinning-wheel, if she could. Your sister must be different from other girls, if she can stand anything old."
Poor Dorothy, her cheeks aflame, stood with downcast eyes; too honest was she to deny that she had hated the claw-footed table as one of the evidences of the life to which she was shut up, different from others. Louise turned toward her with a kindly smile.
"I think Estelle is different from most girls," she said gently. "Our grandmother lived until a short time ago, and we loved her very clearly, and that made Estelle like every old-fashioned thing more than she would. Mother says that most girls have to get old and gray-haired before they prize their girlhood or know what is valuable."
"That is true enough," said Mother Morgan emphatically.
Then Louise—
"I wonder if I can find John anywhere? I want him to help me to hang pictures and curtains. Do you suppose father can spare him a little while?"
"John!" said the wondering mother. "Do you want his help? Why, yes, father will spare him, I daresay, if he will do anything; but I don't suppose he will."
"Oh yes," said Louise gaily, "he promised to help me; and besides, he invited the minister here himself, or at least seconded the invitation heartily, so of course he will have to help to get ready for him."
"Well, there he is now, in the shed. You get him to help if you can; I'll risk his father. And move things about where you would like to have them; I give this room into your hands. If you can make it look as pleasant as the kitchen, I'll wonder at it. It was always a dreadful dull-looking room, somehow."
And the mollified mother went her way. An apology was a soothing sort of thing. It was very nice to have the long-despised old settle and table (dear to her by a hundred associations, so dear that she would have felt it a weakness to own it) not only tolerated but actually admired with bright eyes and eager voice; but to engage, in any enterprise whatever, her youngest son, so that there might be hope of his staying at home with the family the whole of Tuesday evening—an evening when, by reason of the meeting of a certain club in the village, he was more than at any other time exposed to temptation and danger—was a thought to take deep root in this mother-heart. She did not choose to let anybody know of her anxiety concerning this boy; but really and truly it was the sore ache in her heart, and the thinking of the brightness of Louise's care-free face in contrast with her own heavy-heartedness, that developed the miseries of the morning. After all, to our limited sight, it would seem well, once in a while, to have peeps into each other's hearts.
Greatly to his mother's surprise, and somewhat to his own, John strode at first call into the front room, albeit he muttered as he went: "I don't know anything about her gimcracks; why don't she call Lewis?"
"Are you good at driving nails?" Louise greeted him with; "Because Lewis isn't. He nearly always drives one crooked."
"Humph!" said John disdainfully. "Yes, I can drive a nail as straight as any of 'em; and I haven't been to college either."
"Neither have I," said Louise, accepting his sentence in the spirit of banter; "and I can drive nails, too. If I were only a little taller I'd show you. But how are we going to reach away up to the ceiling? Is there a step-ladder anywhere?"
"Yes; make one out of the kitchen table and the wood-box."
And he went for them. Then the work went on steadily. John could not only drive nails, but could measure distances with his eye almost as accurately as with a rule, and could tell to the fraction of an inch whether the picture hung "plum" or not. Louise, watching, noted these things, and freely commented upon them, until, despite himself, John's habitual gruffness toned down.
"Who is this?" he asked, and he, perched on his table and wood-box, stopped to look at the life-size photograph of a beautiful girl.
"That," said Louise, pride and pleasure in her voice, "is my sister Estelle; isn't she pretty? With the first breath of spring I want her to come out here; and I want you to get ready to be real good to her, and show her all the interesting things in field and wood."
"I!"
"Yes, you. I look forward to your being excellent friends. There are a hundred delightful things about nature and animal life of which she knows nothing, and she is eager to see and hear and learn. I look to you for help."
At this astounding appeal for "help" John turned and hung the picture without a word. What was there to say to one who actually expected help from him for that radiant creature!
Louise, apparently busy in untangling cord and arranging tassels, watched him furtively. He studied the picture after it was in place; he had difficulty in getting it to just the right height, and tied and untied the crimson cord more than once in his precision. The bright, beautiful, girlish figure, full of a nameless witchery and grace that shone out at you from every curve! She hardly knew how much she wished for the influence of the one over the other. If Estelle could help, would help him in a hundred ways, as she could; and if he would help her! Yes, Louise was honest; she saw ways in which this solemn-faced boy could help her gay young sister, if he only would.
"Oh!" she said to herself, with great intensity of feeling, "if people only would influence each other just as much as they could, and just as high as they could, what a wonderful thing this living would be!"
It was for this reason among others that she had selected from her family group, hanging in her room, this beautiful young sister, and sacrificed her to hang between the windows in the front room. There were other pictures, many of them selected with studied care, with an eye to their influence. Among others, there was a brilliant illuminated text worked in blues and browns, and the words were such as are rarely found in mottoes. In the centre was a great gilt-edged Bible, and circling over it: "These are written that ye might believe on the Son of God." Then underneath, in smaller letters: "And that believing, ye might have life through his name."
"That is Estelle's work," his companion said. "Isn't it pretty?"
"I suppose so. I don't know anything about pretty things."
"Oh yes you do; you know perfectly well what you think is pretty. I venture to say that you know what you like, and what you dislike, as well as any person in this world."
He laughed, not ill pleased at this; and Louise, with no apparent connection, branched into another subject.
"By the way, where is that church social that was announced for Friday night? Far-away?"
"No; just on the other hill from us, about a mile, or a trifle more."
"Then we can walk, can't we? I'm a good walker, and if the evening is moonlight, I should think it would be the most pleasant way of going."
And now John nearly lost his balance on the wood-box, because of the suddenness with which he turned to bestow his astonished gaze on her.
"We never go," he said at last.
"Why not?"
"Well," with a short laugh, "that question might be hard to answer. I don't, I suppose, because I don't want to."
"Why don't you want to? Aren't they pleasant gatherings?"
"Never went to see. I grew away from them before I was old enough to go. Mother and father don't believe in them, among other things."
There was a suspicion of a sneer in his voice now. Louise was a persistent questioner.
"Why don't they believe in them?"
"Various reasons. They dress, and mother doesn't believe in dressing. She believes women ought to wear linsey-woolsey uniform the year round. And they dance, and neither mother nor father believe in that; they think it is the unpardonable sin mentioned in the Bible."
"Do they dance at the church socials?"
"Yes," an unmistakable sneer in his tones now, "I believe they do; we hear so anyhow. You will look upon the institution with holy horror after this, I suppose?"
"Does Mr. Butler dance?"
"Well, reports are contradictory. Some say he hops around with the little girls before the older ones get there, and some have it that he only looks on and admires. I don't know which list of sinners he is in, I'm sure. Do you think dancing is wicked?"
"I think that picture is crooked," said Louise promptly; "isn't it? Doesn't it want to be moved a trifle to the right? That is a special favourite of mine. Don't you know the face? Longfellow's 'Evangeline.' Lewis don't like the picture nor the poem; but I can't get away from my girlhood liking for both. Don't you know the poem? I'll read it to you some time and see if you don't agree with me. Now, about that social: let's go next Friday, and see if we can't have a good time—you and Lewis, and Dorothy and I. It is quite time you introduced me to some of your people, I think."
"You don't answer my question."
"What about? Oh, the dancing? Well, the truth is, though a short question, it takes a very long answer, and it is so involved with other questions and answers that I'm afraid if we should dip into it we shouldn't get the curtains hung by tea-time. Let me just take a privilege and ask you a question. Do you expect me to believe in it?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because—well—because you religionists are not apt to."
"Don't you know any religionists who seem to?"
"Yes; but they are the counterfeit sort."
"Then you think real, honest Christians ought not to believe in dancing?"
"I didn't say any such thing," returned John hotly; then, being quick-witted, he realized his position, and despite his attempt not to, laughed. "I think we had better go after those curtains now," he said, significantly. And they went.
"WELL," said Dorothy, and she folded her arms and looked up and down the large room, a sense of great astonishment struggling with one of keen satisfaction on her face, "who ever thought that she could make this look like this!"
Which mixed and doubtful sentence indicates the bewilderment in Dorothy's mind. Yet there had been no wonderful thing done. But Dorothy belonged to that class of people who do not see what effects little changes might produce. Still, she belonged, let us be thankful, to that class of people who can see effects when the changes have been produced. There are not a few in this world who are as blind as bats about this latter matter.
The place in question was the large square front room of the Morgan family. The heavy crimson curtains, of rare pattern and graceful finish, hung in rich waves about the old-fashioned windows, falling to the very floor, and hiding many a defect in their ample folds. The walls were hung with pictures and brackets and text-cards. The brackets were furnished—one with a pretty antique vase, hiding within itself a small bottle of prepared earth, which nourished a thrifty ivy. One held a quaint old picture of Dorothy's mother's mother, for which Louise's deft fingers had that morning fashioned a frame of pressed leaves and ferns. The old-fashioned settee was drawn into exactly the right angle between the fire and the windows. The torn braid had been mended, and John, of his own will, had repaired the broken spring.
The heavy mahogany table rejoiced in a wealth of beautifully bound and most attractive-looking books; while a little stand, brought from Louise's own room, held a pot of budding and blossoming pinks, whose old-fashioned spicy breath pervaded the room. Perhaps no one little thing contributed to the holiday air which the room had taken on more than did the tidies of bright wools and clear white, over which Estelle had wondered when they were being packed, Louise thought of her and smiled, and wished she could have had a glimpse of them as they adorned the two rounding pillow-like ends of the sofa, hung in graceful folds from the small table that held the blossoming pinks, adorned the back and cushioned seat and arms of the wooden rocking-chair in the fireplace corner, and even lay smooth and white over the back of Father Morgan's old chair, which Louise had begged for the other chimney-corner, and which Mrs. Morgan, with a mixture of indifference and dimly-veiled pride, had allowed to be taken thither.
Little things were these, every one, yet what a transformation they made to Dorothy's eyes. The crowning beauty of the scene to Louise was the great old-fashioned artistic-looking pile of hickory logs which John built up scientifically in the chimney-corner, the blaze of which, when set on fire, glowed and sparked and danced, and burnished with a weird flame every picture and book, and played at light and shade among the heavy window drapery in a way that was absolutely bewitching to the eyes of the new-comer.
"What a delightful room this is!" she said, standing with clasped hands and radiant face, gazing with genuine satisfaction upon it when the fire was lighted. "How I wish my mother could see that fire! She likes wood fires so much, and she has had to depend on 'black holes in the floor' for so long a time. I do think I never was in a more home-like spot."
It was fortunate for Louise that her education had been of that genuine kind which discovers beauty in the rare blending of lights and shades and the tasteful assimilation of furnishings, rather than in the richness of the carpet or the cost of the furniture. It was genuine admiration which lighted her face. The room had taken on a touch of home and home cheer. Mrs. Morgan, senior, eying her closely, on the alert for shams, felt instinctively that none were veiled behind those satisfied eyes, and thought more highly of her daughter-in-law than she had before.
As for Dorothy, she was so sure that the fairies had been there and bewitched the great dreary room that she yielded to the spell, nothing doubting.
It seemed almost strange to Louise herself that she was so deeply interested in this prospective visit from the minister. She found herself planning eagerly for the evening, wondering whether she could draw John into the conversation, whether Dorothy would rally from her shyness sufficiently to make a remark; wondering whether the bright-eyed young minister would second her efforts for these two. During a bit of confidential chat which she had with her husband at noon, she said,—
"I can't help feeling that there are serious interests at stake. Mr. Butler must get hold of the hearts of these young people; there must be outside influences to help us or we cannot accomplish much. I wonder if he has his young people very much at heart?"
"I may misjudge the man," Lewis said, leisurely buttoning his collar and speaking in an indifferent tone; "but I fancy he hasn't a very deep interest in anything outside of having a really good comfortable time."
"O Lewis!" and his wife's note of dismay caused Lewis to turn from the mirror and look at her inquiringly. "How can you think that of your pastor? How can you pray for him when you are composedly saying such things?"
"Why," Lewis said, smiling a little, "I didn't say anything very dreadful, did I, dear? He really doesn't impress me as being thoroughly in earnest. I didn't mean, of course, that he is a hypocrite. I think him a good, honest-hearted young man; but he hasn't that degree of earnestness that one expects in a minister."
"What degree of earnestness should a minister have, Lewis?"
"More than he has," said her husband positively. "My dear wife, really you have a mistaken sort of idea that because a man is a minister therefore he is perfect. Don't you think they are men of like passions with ourselves?"
"Yes, I do; but from your remark I thought you were not of that opinion. No, really, I think I am on the other side of the argument. I am trying to discover how much more earnest a minister should be than you and I are, for instance."
"Rather more is expected of him by the Church," her husband answered, moving cautiously, and becoming suddenly aware that he was on slippery ground.
"By the Church possibly; but is more really expected of him by the Lord? Sometimes I have heard persons talk as though they really thought there was a different code of rules for a minister's life than for the ordinary Christian's. But, after all, he has to be guided by the same Bible, led by the same Spirit."
"There's a bit of sophistry in that remark," her husband said laughing; "but I shall not stay to hunt it up just now. I expect father is waiting for me to help about matters that he considers more important."
"But, Lewis, wait a moment. I don't want to argue; I just want this: Will you this afternoon pray a good deal about this visit? I do feel that it ought to be a means of grace to our home and to the pastor; for there should certainly be a reflex influence in visits between pastor and people. I have been for the last two hours impressed to almost constant prayer for this, and I feel as though I wanted to have a union of prayer."
Her husband lingered, regarding her with a half-troubled, half-curious expression.
"Sometimes," he said slowly, "I am disposed to think that you have gone away beyond me in these matters, so that I cannot understand you. Now, about this visit. I can see nothing but an ordinary social cup of tea with the minister. He will eat bread and butter, and the regulation number of sauces and cakes and pickles, and we will keep up a flow of talk about something, it will not matter much what to any of us, so we succeed in appearing social; then he will go away, and the evening will be gone, and, so far as I can see, everything will be precisely as it was before."
"No," she said, with a positive setting of her head. "You are ignoring entirely the influence which one soul must have over another. Don't you believe that all of our family, by this visit, will have been drawn either to respect religion more, to feel its power more plainly, or else will have been repelled from the subject? They may none of them be aware that such is the case, yet when they come in contact with one so closely allied to the church and prayer-meeting, I think, that either one influence or the other must have its way."
"New thought to me put on that broad ground. But if it is true, it proves, I think, that the minister has more influence over the community than private Christians have; because, certainly, it is possible for you and me to go out to tea and have a pleasant social time, and not change any person's opinion of religion one-half inch."
She shook her head. "It proves to me that the outward position helps the minister by the law of association to make a more distinctly realized impression; but, dear Lewis, the question is, is it right for any servant of the King to mingle familiarly for an afternoon with others, who either are or should be loyal subjects, and not make a definite impression for the King?"
"I don't know," he said slowly, gravely; "I don't believe I have thought of social gatherings in that light."
And Louise, as he went away, realized, with a throb of pain, that she wanted the minister to make a definite impression for good, not only on Dorothy and John, but on her husband. Perhaps she never prayed more constantly for the success of any apparently small matter than she did for this tea-drinking. Her interest even extended to the dress that Dorothy wore. She knew well it would be a somewhat rusty black one; but the door of that young lady's room being ajar, and she being visible, in the act of adding to her toilet an ugly red necktie that set her face aflame, Louise ventured a suggestion.
"O Dorrie, if you would wear some soft laces with that dress, how pretty it would be!"
"I know it," said Dorothy, snatching off the red tie as she spoke. "But I haven't any. I hate this necktie; I don't know why, but I just hate it. Mother bought it because it was cheap!"—immense disgust expressed in tone and manner. "That is surely the only recommendation it has."
"I have some soft laces that will be just the thing for you," Louise said in eagerness, and she ran back to her room for them.
"These are cheap," returning with a box of fluffy ruchings. "They cost less than ribbon in the first place, and will do up as well as linen collars."
New items these to Dorothy. The idea that anything so white and soft and beautiful could also be cheap! A mistaken notion had this young woman that everything beautiful was costly.