RUTH AND RENA.

It was Christmas Eve, and the first snow of the season lay upon the fields of Oakfield, and the wintry wind blew cold and chill through the leafless trees in the yard and shook the windows of the old red farm-house, where Uncle Obed Harris lived, and where in his comfortable kitchen he sat waiting for the supper which his wife, whom everybody knew as Aunt Hannah, or Grandma Harris, was putting upon the table. Across the common and distant from the house a quarter of a mile or more, the stone church was seen with lights shining from every pane of glass, for the worshippers at St. Mark’s had that night, in addition to their usual Christmas-tree, an illumination in honor of Bethlehem’s child, bornamid the Judean hills so many years ago. And ever and anon as Uncle Obed took his tea he heard the merry sound of sleigh-bells and the happy voices of the children as they went tripping by, excited and eager to know what the tree held for them on its many and beautiful branches of green.

It was thirteen years since Uncle Obed had been inside his church on Christmas Eve, and during all these years he had nursed only bitter memories of the night when his daughter, Agatha, had made such glorious music in the organ loft, and then sang so sweetly the “Peace on earth, good will toward men,” with a soft look of ecstasy upon her face which the proud old father thought sprang wholly from a love divine, never dreaming of the terrible blow in store for him, when, after the services were over, he waited in vain for Agatha to join him on his homeward walk; Agatha did not come either then or ever after, and he heard next day of a marriage performed by a justice of the peace and knew from the note sent to him that Agatha was gone with the young man whom he had forbidden her ever again to speak to if she cared to be his daughter.

“You must choose between Homer Hastings and me,” he had said, and she had chosen, and his doorwas henceforth barred against her, and she knew it, and accepted the situation, and wrote once or twice to her mother from New York, and said that she was happy, and told of a little girl baby, whom she calledRuth, and who had her grandmother’s soft brown eyes and hair.

Then for a time they lost all trace of her until a letter came, telling them her husband was dead and asking if she might come home; Aunt Hannah pleaded with Uncle Obed then, begging him to go for their child and the little one, who would brighten their lonely lives, but he said: “No, she has made her bed and now she must lie in it. She was myeyes, and when they are once pulled out you can’t put them in again.”

Uncle Obed and his wife had married late in life and were old when Agatha was born, and it seemed as if the father loved her more for this, and her desertion of him for a worthless fellow, whose only virtue was his handsome face, had hurt him cruelly, and he would not forgive, and he kept aloof from the Christmas-tree, which was each year set up in the church where other fingers than Agatha’s swept the organ keys, and another voice sang “Glory to God on High.” But he was going to-night; he had promised his wife that he would,and Aunt Hannah’s face had been brighter all the day for that promise, and her step brisker and lighter as she prepared the basket of presents for the poor children of the parish, thinking, as she folded up a pair of lamb’s wool stockings, of the little Ruth whom she had never seen, and whose feet they would just fit. Where was she now, and where was Agatha that wintry day when the snow was drifting down so swiftly, and the wind was blowing so hard over her native hills. Something seemed to bring the absent one nearer to Aunt Hannah, and she almost felt the touch of the chord which was to have a beginning that night far away in New York and which would reach even to her lonely home and make it bright as the sunshine, which, as the day wore to a close, came through the dull gray clouds and fell soft and warm upon the pure white snow.

There was a great crowd in the church that night, and Uncle Obed felt a throb of pain cut like a knife through his heart when he saw the gaily decorated tree, and heard the organ peal and the children’s voices telling of the “wonderful night” when

“Angels and shining immortals,Crowding the ebony portals,Fling out their banners of light, on thisWonderful, wonderful, night.”

“Angels and shining immortals,

Crowding the ebony portals,

Fling out their banners of light, on this

Wonderful, wonderful, night.”

He was thinking of thirteen years ago, and the golden head he saw in the gallery where Agatha sat in her bright beauty playing her Christmas songs. But his wife’s thoughts were more with Ruth, the unknown child, and as one after another the little ones went up the aisle, she prayed softly to herself, “God grant me life to see her some day before this very railing.”

And God, who hears and answers the prayer of faith, heard and answered hers, though in a different way from what she had expected. As if the sight of the Christmas-tree and the happy, joyous faces of the children had softened Uncle Obed’s heart, he talked much that night of Agatha and the baby, as he always designated Ruth, who, if living, was then twelve years old at least.

“They haunt me,” he said; “and it seems as if Aggie was here in this very room telling me to do something—I can’t make out what.”

“She has been close to me all day, too,” Aunt Hannah replied, “she or the little one; and before the train came in I was foolish enough to go to her old room to see if all was right in case she came. You know, it is just as she left it, only the curtains are new.”

“Yes, yes, I know, wife,” and Uncle Obed liftedhis head suddenly. “Should I be an old fool to go to New York to-morrow and inquire?”

Aunt Hannah had done with kissing years ago, but now her arms were around her husband’s neck in a trice, and her cheek was laid to his as she kissed him fervently, while the great tears choked her utterance and kept her from answering. But she was understood, and the next morning, while the bell was ringing for church and the Christmas sun was shining brightly over the earth, Uncle Obed sat in a corner of the car which was taking him to New York and, as he hoped, to the lost ones he sought. Aunt Hannah ate her Christmas dinner alone that day, and after it was over went to Agatha’s room and kindled a fire upon the hearth, and felt her pulse beat with a new hope as she watched the flames lapping the bits of pine and then leaping up the chimney mouth.

“He may not be home in three or four days,” she said to herself, “but it’s well to be ready; and the room needs airing so much.”

So she opened both the windows, and brushed the snow from the stools, and made the bed up fresh and clean, and gave the pillows a loving pat as she put them in their places, and moved Agatha’s favorite chair nearer to the fire, and put the book ofPsalms upon it, with “Doddridge’s Rise and Progress,” and by way of variety laid beside them one of the Waverly Novels which Agatha used to like so much and prefer to Doddridge or the Psalms. This done, she shut the windows but left the blinds open to let the sunshine in, thinking to herself as she went out and closed the door, “I’ll build a fire every day until he comes back with ’em.”

Alas for Aunt Hannah praying so often and waiting so anxiously for him and them, she little knows how long and severely her faith is to be tested, or of the rich fruition which will crown that faith at last.

CHAPTER II.CHRISTMAS EVE IN NEW YORK.

There was no snow in New York that Christmas Eve, but the wind seemed colder for that, as it blew in sharp biting gusts through the dark streets and alleys, and sweeping up a long flight of rickety stairs to one of those tenements where the poor live,—God only knows how,—crept through the wide cracks of a room where two little girls crouched before the fire, which the elder of them was trying to coax into a blaze. She had been out all day in the crowded streets offering her pins and shoe-lacings and matches, first to one and then to another of the gay throng hurrying by, all, or nearly all, in too great haste to notice her, shivering with cold and pinched with hunger though she was. Had they done so, they would have seen that she was no ordinary child, and her soft brown eyes, and sweet pale face,would have attracted attention to her at once. But it was the day before Christmas, and though money was spent by the thousands for toys which would please for an hour, and then lie idly upon some nursery floor, only twenty-five cents of it came to poor little Ruth, who wanted it so much, and whose eyes had in them a wistful, anxious look every time she offered her wares for sale. She did not tell a pitiful tale of her mother, dead six months before, or of the poverty and the sorrow, as one article after another was sold for food and fuel, until the comparatively comfortable home was bare of nearly everything, save the absolute necessities for daily use. Neither did she tell of her struggles to earn bread for herself and Rena, darling little five-years old Rena, whose eyes were like the violets of spring, and whose hair was golden in the sunshine, with a tinge of red upon it. Poor little Rena, who kept the house at home while Ruthy was away,—who washed the two plates and the one mug they shared between them, and swept the floor and washed the hearth, and wiped the dingy paint, as her mother had done when it was not as dingy as now, and did it more than once to pass away the long, lonely hours of Ruth’s absence. She had been told never to play with the children in the street,and her dead mother’s command was sacred to the conscientious child, who contented herself with looking from the windows of the fourth story, where she lived, down upon the moving, everchanging crowd in the narrow street below.

And here she sat waiting for Ruth, as the short December day drew to a close, and the cold night shut down over the great city. She knew all about Christmas eve and Santa Claus, and many times that day she had said to herself, “I wish Santa Claus would bring Ruthy something,” and once she thought to go herself upon the walk and beg a few pennies for “Ruthy’s present,” as she had seen children do, but this had been forbidden, and so she sat in her chair by the window and watched and thought of many things, and among others, of the story of Bethlehem, which she liked so much. The lowly manger, the mound of hay, the meek-eyed oxen with their long white horns, were things she never tired of. But she delighted most in the baby, the little boy and his mother, and she had so wanted a book full of pictures which should tell her all about it. Therewassuch a one called “That Sweet Story of Old.” Ruthy had said, and Rena had made many plans for getting it when she was older, while Ruth, too, had her own darling scheme withregard to it, and every day for a month, she had put by a few pennies from her little earnings, and eaten less herself, in order to save enough to buy the book, as a Christmas gift to Rena. She had almost enough that morning when she went out, but the day was not a good one for her trade. Nobody wanted boot-lacings and pins, when in all the shop windows, there were so many beautiful things, and if she bought the book, she must go without her supper. But she did not care for that, though she was very hungry, and the smell of the food which came to her so often from the many basement kitchens, nearly drove her wild. Still she did not falter, and when at last she turned into the narrow street, and ascended the long, steep stairway, the book was under her shawl, and she had only two buns and a hot roll in her hands. These she had bought far up town, at Purssell’s, as a treat for little Rena, to whom a lady had once given a Bath bun, and who had talked of it ever since.

Rena was off her guard, and in thinking of Bethlehem had fallen asleep and let the fire go out, so that it was dark and cheerless enough when Ruth entered the room; but though very cold and tired, she did not care for Rena’s remissness, as it gave her time to hide the book which was to be agreat surprise on the morrow when it was fairly Christmas day. Putting it carefully away she lighted the lamp and then tried to rekindle the fire. The noise awoke Rena, who was soon beside her on the hearth and looking into her face to see if the day had been a good one.

To little Renagooddays meant a bit of meat for supper with perhaps a piece of pie, and a warm fire in the evening, and she saw that none of these luxuries were in store for her that night, and the old, patient, but sad look came back to her face as she wound her arms around Ruthy’s neck and said:

“You didn’t get much; but no matter, you’ve gotme.”

Yes, Ruth had little Rena, and forcing down a great sob just as she had forced it down the livelong day when she remembered other Christmas tides, she held her darling sister close to her and parted her bright-hair from her brow, and told her of the nice Bath buns from Purssell’s and the roll for breakfast, and said she did not want anything herself, as she had had her supper, meaning a part of an apple she had found near a fruit stand.

And hungry little Rena ate a bun, sitting on the floor by the fire, for neither of the girls thought it worth while to set the table just for a single bun!And as Rena ate she talked of Christmas and Christmas trees, and asked Ruth to tell her again of the tree which she saw once, and which had on it a doll and a paper of candy for her. “Jesus’ birthday party” Rena called the Christmas eve festival, and as she warmed her blue hands by the fire, she wished that she might go to His “party” and get “oh, lots of things—some new shoes and stockings, and a doll that would squeak, and some mince pie, and that story of Jesus—only, Ruthy, I’d give them all to you, ’cause you goes in the cold, but I’d keep the book about the pretty Bethlehem child,” she said, as she stuck out her little feet with her ragged shoes and looked ruefully at them.

Poor little Rena, there were shoes and stockings both, just fitted to her cold feet, in the basket Aunt Hannah carried to the Oakfield church that afternoon, but Rena knew nothing of them, and she kept on talking to Ruth, asking finally what it was their mother had said about her old home in the country where there was grass in summer, with flowers and birds, and always enough to eat and “Jesus’ birthday party” every year in the church.

So Ruth told her again of the house of which she had heard so much from her mother; and Rena asked:

“If we’ve a grandpa and grandma there, why doesn’t they come for us? It’s so cold here, Ruthy, and I’s so hungry, too. I want the other bun so bad, and I’s savin’ it for you.”

There were great tears on Rena’s cheeks as she confessed that her hunger was greater than her spirit of self-denial could endure. She had meant to keep the other bun for Ruthy’s breakfast, but, as she said, she was “so hungry,” and Ruth made her eat it, and then to save the fire, they crept into bed, but not until their prayers were reverently said, Rena venturing to improvise a little and ask God “to send them a great big fire, which should make them, oh, as warm as toast—and let her sometime go to His Son’s birthday party and get something from the tree, please, for Christ’s sake; good night, and don’t let us be cold any more, amen.”

This was Rena’s prayer, and then nestling close to Ruth, she whispered, “God is here, isn’t He; in this room?”

“Yes,” was Ruth’s reply.

“And hears me pray when I say ‘please, for Christ’s sake?’ And I am sure hewill, for mamma said so, and we’ll be warm to-morrow, Ruthy, you and I; oh, so warm, with a big fire—fire—for Christ’s sake—please.”

The words were far apart and indistinct for little Rena was fast falling into dreamland. But so long as consciousness remained, there was a prayer in her heart for “fire—a big fire to warm us, please.”

And God, who was there, in that humble room, and heard their prayer, answered it in His own way, which was not exactly little Rena’s way.

CHAPTER III.THE FIRE.

The Christmas Eve Festivals were over, and night brooded silently over the great city, until the clock on Trinity rang for twelve; then a few moments went by, and the great bell at Jefferson market sent forth its warning, which was caught up and repeated faster, louder, more excitedly, as the mad flames, let loose from the nooks and corners where they had perhaps been smoldering through the day, leaped high in the air and ran riotously over the roofs of the old tenement house on —— street, where Ruth and Rena lay sleeping. “Fire,—fire,—” how the cry sounded through the streets, and what a clatter the firemen and the people made and how the women shrieked and the children cried, and nobody but God thought of Ruth and Rena. He was taking care of them, and woke Ruth just as the flameslooked for an instant into the room, already filled with smoke, and then were subdued by a powerful jet of water, which left all again in darkness.

Ruth knew what it meant, and with a gasp of suffocation sprang from the bed, and groping her way to the door, opened it wide, hoping to admit the fresh air, without which she knew she must smother. But only thick, dark billows of smoke came rolling in, filling her lungs and eyes and mouth, as she tried to find her way back to her sister to whom she shrieked, “Wake, Rena; the house is on fire. Run for your life.”

The cry awoke Rena, who staggered toward the door, more by chance than design. Fortunately for her, it was still open, and, blinded by smoke, and wild with fright, she rushed down the stairway, and escaped unharmed into the street below, where the excited throng of people were running and shrieking, and where she would have been trampled to death, if a city missionary, had not found her as, in her night dress, with her little white feet nearly frozen, she ran hither and thither, sobbing in a pitiful kind of way for “Ruthy” to come and get her. One of the mission houses received her, and when the Christmas dawn broke over the city, and the bells were pealing merrily she lay on one of thelittle cots asleep, her lips occasionally whispering softly, “Come, Ruthy, come.”

The fright and exposure brought on a low fever, and for weeks kind nurses watched by her trying to make out something from her not very clear story.

“Mother’s dead,” she said, “I haven’t any papa; Ruthy and me lives alone, and sells pins and things, only Ruthy sells ’em and I keep house, and she’s burned, and I’s Rena Cutler and she isn’t.”

This was her story, and as nothing more could be learned of her or of the Ruth of whom she talked, and as it was known that several had perished in the flames, it seemed probable that Ruth was one of them; and Rena’s fever ran higher, and she talked of the baby of Bethlehem and Jesus’ birthday party, and the buns from Purssell’s, but after a time she grew better, and was interested in things around her, and was a great favorite with every one and happy in her new home, where all the influences were calculated to strengthen the good there was in her when she lived with Ruth in the old house.

But she never forgot “poor Ruthy,” whom she believed to have been burned to death, and every night she prayed that God would make her “good enough to go some day to Heaven where Ruthy and mother were; amen, for Christ’s sake, please.”

CHAPTER IV.RENA AT UNCLE OBED’S.

Uncle Obed had not found his lost daughter in New York, or any trace of her; but he heard of the fire, and he went down and looked at the ruins, and stood close to the place where little Rena came shrieking down the stairs into the streets; then he went to the Mission House on Sunday and heard the children sing their songs, and saw them take their evening meal, and went into the room where little Rena lay and saw her bright-hair on the pillow and just the outline of her pale face, and heard she was one of the little ones rescued from the fire. He left ten dollars with the matron to be used for her and “the other wee ones, God bless them!” and then went home and told Aunt Hannah, who all the winter long worked for that Home in New York, and sent to it more than one garment which happened to fit Rena.

And so five years went by, and then there came to Oakfield one day an agent for the Home, and with him several little girls for whom places were wanted. Rena was among them, and in her soft blue eyes and pretty face there was something which appealed strongly to the sympathy of Aunt Hannah, who took the child for her own and brought her home and put her in the room which had been Agatha’s, and gave her so much love and kindness that the little girl sometimes wondered “if Heaven, where Ruthy was, could be better than this.”

There in Oakfield she saw, for the first time, the Christmas-tree in all its glory, and “Rena” was called so many times, that at last when she came back with a huge doll which Aunt Hannah had worked at in secret for weeks, she hid her face in her hands and sobbed hysterically, so great was her happiness. That was to her in truth “Jesus’ birthday party,” and when that night she knelt alone in her room, she thanked Him in her quaint way for all the joy and brightness crowning her young life, and then, with a sigh as she remembered poor Ruthy, asked that if there were Christmas trees in Heaven, Ruthy might see one and get everything she wanted, just as she had done.

Here Rena paused with a thought of the bookshe had coveted so much, and which Ruth had promised to buy as soon as she saved money enough. Rena had never seen the book, for Grandma Harris, as the child called her, knew nothing of it, and the nearest Rena had been to possessing it was on that night when Ruth had hidden it away so carefully against the morning which dawned upon them amid smoke and flame. The book had burned to ashes; Rena was there at Grandpa Harris’s; and Ruth, as she believed, was in Heaven with the mother whom Rena could scarcely remember. Fright and sickness had driven some things from her mind, but Mr. and Mrs. Harris knew that she was picked up on the street on the night of a fire and that her name was Rena Cutler. They knew, too, about poor Ruth, and Grandma Harris had wept more than once over the two little girls living alone in the cold, forlorn chamber of the dreary tenement house. So much Rena could tell, but when it came to her mother she remembered nothing except that she was good, and sick, and died; and so grandma never suspected the truth, or dreamed why the orphan seemed so near to her and her husband, both of whom would have been very lonely now without the little girl to whom they had given their name, so that she was known to everybody as Rena Harris.

CHAPTER V.DAISY.

Swiftly the years came and went till Rena had been for more than four years in Oakland, and was a fair, sweet-faced girl of thirteen, when one day, toward the last of August there came to the farm-house from the hotel on the hill across the river, a young man whom Rena had seen in church and who she had heard was stopping in town with his wife. Occasionally he had driven by the farm-house, and Rena had caught sight of a pale, beautiful face which had made her heart throb quickly with a feeling she could not define. It was a young girlish face, and Rena was surprised when she heard that the lady was the young man’s wife, and very sorry and grieved when she further heard that she was crazy.

“Not quite right in her mind,” George Rivers said, when he came to the farm-house to ask if they would take his poor “Daisy” for a few weeks“She lost her baby six months ago,” he said, “and she’s been strange ever since. I brought her to the country hoping a change from the city would do her good, and I think she is improving. We have driven by here several times, and for some reason she has taken a great fancy to this place, and says she could sleep and should get well if she were here, so I called to ask if you will take her.”

The price offered was remunerative, and as dollars were not so very plenty with the old couple they consented at last to take the young lady, whom her husband called Daisy, and whom Rena felt that she should love so much. She was a wonderfully beautiful little creature, not much taller than Rena herself, and her soft, brown eyes had in them an expression so sad and pitiful, that Rena could scarcely keep back the tears when she saw her coming in leaning upon her husband’s arm. There had been talk of a nurse to look after her when George returned to the city, but Rena had begged so hard for that office that Mr. Rivers had consented and Rena was to attend her, and she came at once to the invalid and showed her to the large, pleasant chamber which adjoined her own, and which overlooked the town and the hill country beyond.

“This is so nice—so like a dream I’ve had ofsomething. I shall be better here,” Daisy said, as she leaned from the window and looked out upon the yard and garden below.

“Can I do anything for you? I am to be your little maid. I am Rena Harris.”

This was what Rena said as the lady turned from the window, and Daisy’s brown eyes looked wonderingly at her, while a deep flush suffused the white face for an instant and then left it paler than before.

“Rena, Rena,” she repeated; “I never knew but one, and she is with the angels. I called babyIrene, and she died too. Rena; it’s very strange that you should have that name.”

Daisy was talking to herself now, for at the first mention ofIrene, Rena had darted down stairs to Aunt Hannah, exclaiming:

“I’ve got it now—my real name. You know I never could think for sure, but the moment she said her baby was Irene, it came back to me. That was the name in the Bible—Irene Cutler, and Ruth read it to me once and she called me Rena. Oh, grandma, you don’t know how sad the lady looked when she said, ‘Rena, Rena!’ I shall love her so dearly, and I mean to take such good care of her, too.”

Rena was as good as her word, and soon loved the beautiful Daisy with a devotion both rare and curious, while Daisy never seemed happier than when her little maid was with her. She was very pretty with a fair creamy complexion, soft brown eyes and abundant hair of the same shade, which she wore in braids coiled about her head, while, added to her beauty was an air of grace and gentle dignity which alone would have made her very attractive. She did not seem to be really crazy; her mind was only weak, and sometimes when talking of her baby she said queer things, which showed that her reason was not quite clear. But the quiet, happy life she led at the farm-house began to have its influence, and when in September her husband, who had returned to Boston after seeing her comfortably settled, came again to Oakfield, he found her greatly improved. She was very happy there, and begged so hard to be allowed to stay until after Christmas that both Mr. and Mrs. Harris and her husband consented, while Rena was wild with delight when she heard of the arrangement.

When Mr. Rivers first came she had feared that she might lose the sweet lady whom she loved so much, but now she was to stay a long time, it seemed to her, and her joy knew no bounds, while she redoubledher efforts to please and amuse her patient who owed much of her improvement to Rena’s care. Together in the bright autumn days they roamed over the fields and thro’ the woods of Oakfield, and the villagers sometimes saw them sitting on the banks of the river, Rena at Daisy’s feet, looking up into the lovely face above her, while Daisy’s fingers caressed her golden hair, or wove for it a crown of the rich-hued autumn leaves.

Once Daisy said to her:

“You make me think so much of the sister I lost; her name was Rena, too.”

“Tell me about her, please,” Rena said, and Daisy replied:

“Sometime when I am stronger I will, but now it makes my brain thump so to think of her. Oh, Rena, Rena, my darling, my darling.”

She covered her face with her hands, and Rena could see the tears trickle through her fingers as she rocked to and fro, whispering of things which perplexed and puzzled the little girl to whom they did not seem strange or new.

After a little Daisy became quiet, but for many days she was not quite herself, and Rena never spoke again of the dead sister, and the autumn went by and the winter came with its dull gray cloudsand wailing winds, and still Daisy tarried at the farm-house where she was to remain until after the holidays. These her husband was to spend with her, and he came the day before Christmas with gifts, some for his wife, some for Mr. and Mrs. Harris, and some for Rena. Among these last was a book—too young it might seem for a girl of thirteen, but it had been gotten up with beautiful binding and colored prints expressly for the holidays, and its title was:

“THAT SWEET STORY OF OLD;ORTHE LIFE OF JESUS.”

“THAT SWEET STORY OF OLD;

THE LIFE OF JESUS.”

Very carefully, nay, almost reverently, Daisy took the book in her hand and her eyes were full of tears as she said:

“It is beautiful, but not much like the one I bought that day for my darling. Oh, George, how the Christmas holidays bring her back to me, and I see her just as she looked that last night kneeling by the fire and talking of ‘Jesus’ birthday party,’ and what she wanted from the tree if she ever went to one—shoes, and stockings and a doll that would squeak, and some mince pie and the story of Jesus and she would give them all tomebut the book, she said, because I went in the cold, and,George, her shoes were so ragged then and her little toes so blue.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Don’t talk of it any more; it excites you too much,” George said, as he drew his young wife fondly to him, but Daisy answered:

“I must talk. I feel just like it, and the words will choke me if I do not let them out. I have thought of Rena all day just as I always do at Christmas time. It’s eight years to-night since the fire, and I loved her so much; she was so sweet and pretty, with a look in her eyes like Rena Harris, whom I love for her sake. Darling sister, I see her now as she prayed for a big fire to warm her and Ruthy, as warm as toast, and God sent the fire and burned my precious sister up. Oh, George, does he always answer prayer that way?”

Ere George could reply there was the sound of a choking sob by the open door, a rush across the floor, a folding of arms tightly around the astonished Daisy’s neck, while Rena’s voice said:

“Oh, Ruthy, Ruthy,—youareRuthy and I am Rena. I was not burned that awful night, but thought you were, and have cried so often for you. God did answer my prayer and I never was cold any more. I am Rena Cutler and you are sister Ruth.”

Rena had been passing the open door when her attention was attracted by hearing Daisy repeat the title of the book she had once coveted so much. Involuntarily and without any intention of listening, she paused a moment and heard that which kept her riveted to the spot, while the hot blood surged wildly through her veins at Daisy’s story. She did not stop to reason or ask herself how that beautiful young lady, with all the signs of wealth and culture around her, could be the Ruth who once sold matches in New York, and lived with her in that cheerless upper room. She knew it was she—the Ruth she had mourned as dead,—and with a glad cry she went to her, and falling upon her neck, claimed her as her own.

And Daisy neither shrieked, nor fainted, nor cried out, but sat like one dead, while George unclasped Rena’s arms from her neck and questioned her of the past. Very rapidly Rena told her story, and Daisy listened till the color came back to her face, and the tears flowed in torrents, while sob after sob shook her frame, and her lips kept whispering gladly: “Thank God; thank God, it’s Rena, it is.”

Mr. and Mrs. Harris were now summoned, and to them George appealed for confirmation of Rena’sstory. As concisely as he could Grandpa Harris told what he had heard of Rena from the man who brought her to Oakfield, and when he had finished even Mr. Rivers himself could no longer doubt that Daisy had found her sister, and drawing Rena to him he kissed her fondly in token of his recognition as a near and dear relation.

Daisy’s story was soon told. After her frantic call for Rena to waken she had fallen senseless upon the floor, where she would have died but for the women who occupied the adjoining room, and who suddenly remembered the little girls and called to a fireman to save them. The flames by this time were rolling up the stairway, and Ruth’s hair was scorched when the brave man reached her and bore her safely into the street. To venture again into the roaring mass of fire was impossible, and as none of Rena’s acquaintances chanced to see her in the crowd, it was supposed that she perished in the flames, and not all the good fortune which came to Ruth could ever obliterate the memory of that dreadful night, or her sister’s terrible fate. A kind woman belonging to the better class of poor had taken Ruth into her house, where within a few days came Mrs. Rivers, from far uptown, to get plain sewing done. Six months before she had losther only daughter, who was just Ruth’s age and size, and something in the face of the desolate young girl attracted the lady’s notice, and when she heard her story it seemed as if her own dead child from the grave in Greenwood, was pleading for the orphan. And so it came about that Ruth found herself in a beautiful home, where, as Mrs. Rivers’ adopted daughter, every want was supplied, and she went no more into the street to sell her humble wares. So certain did Rena’s death seem, that no effort was ever made to find her, and for more than two years the sisters lived in the same city, and possibly met sometimes in the street, as Ruth rode with Mrs. Rivers in her luxurious carriage, and Rena took a walk with a teacher or older girl. Then Mrs. Rivers moved to Boston, and three years after Rena was sent to Oakfield, so that their lives were as far apart from each other as they were different in incident.—Loved, and petted and caressed, Ruth, to whom Mrs. Rivers gave the name of Daisy, had no wish ungratified which money could procure, and she grew up a beautiful and accomplished woman, retaining still the same sweet unselfishness of disposition and gentleness of manner which had marked her childhood, when she went hungry that little Rena might be fed. At eighteenshe was married to the nephew of her so-called father, and after the birth of a little girl, whom she named Irene, she seemed perfectly happy until her infant died, when she sank into a weak, peculiar state of mind from which nothing had power to rouse her until Providence directed her to Oakfield. There she felt at home from the first, she said; the place reminded her so much of the house she had heard her mother describe so often.

“And,” she continued, taking up her story where George had left it, “I never thought of it when I first came here. I guess I did not think of anything, but mother’s name was Harris—Agatha Harris—and she——”

Daisy never finished the sentence, for ere another word could be uttered Grandpa Harris fell heavily against his wife, with the look of death on his face. The shock was too great for him to bear, and they laid him fainting upon the couch, while Aunt Hannah, Daisy and Rena bent over him, trying to restore him to consciousness. When he was himself again and able to listen, it needed but few words more to convince him that the Rena whom he loved already as his own, and the beautiful Daisy, whom he looked up to as a superior being, were both the children of his daughter, whose marriage withHomer Hastings twenty-one years ago that very night had so offended him.

Daisy could remember very little of her own father. He had been kind, she knew, and they had been comfortable while he lived, but after his death they were very poor till her mother married a Mr. Cutler, who though a worthy and respectable man, was always sickly, and died soon after Rena’s birth.

“So long as mother lived, we did pretty well,” Daisy said. “She took in sewing and I went for and carried home the work; but when she died and we sold the things to pay the doctor’s bill, and keep us from starving, it was so hard; then I peddled in the street and tried to earn a living, and tried to be good and remember all mother had taught me, but sometimes, when I was so cold, and nobody bought, and the ladies held their purses tight if I came near them, and the newsboys halloed after me, and Rena was home so hungry waiting for me, I thought God had forgotten us; but Rena never did. Her faith was always strong, and her sweet, baby words of comfort kept my heart from breaking.”

They were all sobbing but Daisy, who alone was calm, as she went over the dreadful past which was now done with forever. Cold, nor hunger, norinsult, would ever touch Daisy again, and, as some great shock frequently unsettles the mind, so, contrarywise, it sometimes restores it, and the excitement and surprise of finding her sister and friends seemed to restore Daisy’s reason wholly, and after a moment she said, as she put her hand to her head and turned to her husband with one of her brightest smiles, “It is all gone,—the confusion and uncertainty. Every thing is clear as it was before baby died. I am myself once more. Thank God for giving me back my mind with all the other blessings.”

She did seem perfectly sane, and never was there a happier family group than that at the farm-house on that Christmas eve. They did not go to the church, for they felt that their joy was something with which strangers had nothing to do, and they kept the festival at home and talked together of all the wonderful ways through which God had led them, until the bell of the church across the common rang for twelve and another Christmas morn was ushered in.

Rena had her book at last,—the story of Bethlehem,—and though many costlier presents have been given her since, she prizes none of them so much as that “sweet story of old” which came to her withthe sister she had believed to be dead. Her home proper is in the city now, with Daisy, where her winters are spent, and where Grandpa and Grandma Harris often come; but, all through the summer months, she stays at the old farm-house with Daisy and the sturdy boy who has taken the place of the little Irene. Uncle Obed always goes to the Christmas festival in the old church, and though his voice trills and shakes a little, he does not stop for that, but with a silent thanksgiving in his heart for the children restored to him, joins heartily in the “Peace on earth, and good will toward men,” which goes up to Heaven from so many tongues on that, night of nights—that “wonderful night” when—

“Down o’er the stars to restore us,Leading His flame-winged chorus.Comes the Eternal to sight:—Wonderful, wonderful night!”

“Down o’er the stars to restore us,

Leading His flame-winged chorus.

Comes the Eternal to sight:—

Wonderful, wonderful night!”

THE ENDOFRUTH AND RENA.

THE END

RUTH AND RENA.

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