Then Sadie, thoughtless, selfish Sadie, who was never supposed to have one care for others, and very little for herself—Sadie, who vexed Ester nearly every hour in the day, by what, at the time, always seemed some especially selfish, heedless act—suddenly shone out gloriously. She stood still, and actually seemed to think for a full minute, while Ester jerked a pan of potatoes toward her, and commenced peeling vigorously; then she clapped her hands, and gave vent to little gleeful shouts before she exclaimed "Oh, mother, mother! I have it exactly. I wonder we didn't think of it before. There's my blue silk—just the thing! I am tall, and she is short, so it will make her a beautiful train dress. Won't that do splendidly!"
The magnitude of this proposal awed even Ester into silence. To be appreciated, it must be understood that Sadie Ried had never in her life possessed a silk dress. Mrs. Ried's best black silk had long ago been cut over for Ester; so had her brown and white plaid; so there had been nothing of the sort to remodel for Sadie; and this elegant sky-blue silk had been lying in its satin-paper covering for more than two years. It was the gift of a dear friend of Mrs. Ried's girlhood to the young beauty who bore her name, and had been waiting all this time for Sadie to attain proper growth to admit of its being cut into for her. Meantime she had feasted her eyes upon it, and gloried in the prospect of that wonderful day when she should sweep across the platform of Music Hall with this same silk falling in beautiful blue waves around her; for it had long been settled that it was to be worn first on that day when she should graduate.
No wonder, then, that Ester stood in mute astonishment, while Mrs.Ried commented:
"Why, Sadie, my dear child, is it possible you are willing to give up your blue silk?"
"Not a bit of it, mother; I don't intend to give it up the least bit in the world. I'm merely going to lend it. It's too pretty to stay poked up in that drawer by itself any longer. I've set my heart on its coming out this very season Just as likely as not it will learn to put on airs for me when I graduate. I'm not at all satisfied with my attainments in that line; so Ester shall take it to New York; and if she sits down or stands up, or turns around, or has one minute's peace while she has it on, for fear lest she should spot it, or tear it, or get it stepped on, I'll never forgive her."
And at this harangue Ester laughed a free, glad laugh, such as was seldom heard from her. Some way it began to seem as if she were really to go, Sadie had such a brisk, business-like way of saying "Ester shall take it to New York." Oh, if she only,onlycould go, she would be willing to doany thingafter that; but one peep, one little peep into the beautiful magic world that lay outside of that dining-room and kitchen she felt as if she must have. Perhaps that laugh did as much for her as any thing. It almost startled Mrs. Ried with its sweetness and rarity. What if the change would freshen and brighten her, and bring her back to them with some of the sparkles that continually danced in Sadie's eyes; but what, on the other hand, if she should grow utterly disgusted with the monotony of their very quiet, very busy life, and refuse to work in that most necessary treadmill any longer. So the mother argued and hesitated, and the decision which was to mean so much more than any of those knew, trembled in the balance; for let Mrs. Ried once find voice to say, "Oh, Ester, I don't see but what you willhaveto give it up," and Ester would have turned quickly and with curling lip, to that pan of potatoes, and have sharply forbidden any one to mention the subject to her again. Once more Sadie, dear, merry, silly Sadie, came to the rescue.
"Mother, oh, mother! what an endless time you are in coming to a decision! I could plan an expedition to the North Pole in less time than this. I'm just wild to have her go. I want to hear how a genuine New York bride looks; besides, you know, dear mother, I want to stay in the kitchen with you. Ester does every thing, and I don't have any chance. I perfectly long to bake, and boil, and broil, and brew things. Say yes, there's a darling."
And Mrs. Ried looked at the bright, flushed face, and thought how little the dear child knew about all these matters, and how little patience poor Ester, who was so competent herself, would have with Sadie's ignorance, and said, slowly and hesitatingly, but yet actually said:
"Well, Ester, my daughter, I really think we must try to get along without you for a little while!"
And these three people really seemed to think that they had decided the matter. Though two of them were at least theoretical believers in a "special providence," it never once occurred to them that this little thing, in all its details, had been settled for ages.
"Twenty minutes here for refreshments!" "Passengers for New York take south track!" "New York daily papers here!" "Sweet oranges here!" And amid all these yells of discordant tongues, and the screeching of engines, and the ringing of bells, and the intolerable din of a merciless gong, Ester pushed and elbowed her way through the crowd, almost panting with her efforts to keep pace with her traveling companion, a nervous country merchant on his way to New York to buy goods. He hurried her through the crowd and the noise into the dining-saloon; stood by her side while, obedient to his orders, she poured down her throat a cup of almost boiling coffee; then, seating her in the ladies' room charged her on no account to stir from that point while he was gone—he had just time to run around to the post-office, and mail a forgotten letter; then he vanished, and in the confusion and the crowd Ester was alone. She did not feel, in the least, flurried or nervous; on the contrary, she liked it, this first experience of hers in a city depot; she would not have had it made known to one of the groups of fashionably-attired and very-much-at-ease travelers who thronged past her for the world—but the truth was, Ester had been having her very first ride in the cars! Sadie had made various little trips in company with school friends to adjoining towns, after school books, or music, or to attend a concert, or for pure fun; but, though Ester had spent her eighteen years of life in a town which had long been an "Express Station," yet want of time, or of money, or of inclination to take the bits of journeys which alone were within her reach, had kept her at home. Now she glanced at herself, at her faultlessly neat and ladylike traveling suit. She could get a full view of it in an opposite mirror, and it was becoming, from the dainty vail which fluttered over her hat, to the shining tip of her walking boots; and she gave a complacent little sigh, as she said to herself: "I don't see but I look as much like a traveler as any of them. I'm sure I don't feel in the least confused. I'm glad I'm not as ridiculously dressed as that pert-looking girl in brown. I should call it in very bad taste to wear such a rich silk as that for traveling. She doesn't look as though she had a single idea beyond dress; probably that is what is occupying her thoughts at this very moment;" and Ester's speaking face betrayed contempt and conscious superiority, as she watched the fluttering bit of silk and ribbons opposite. Ester had a very mistaken opinion of herself in this respect; probably she would have been startled and indignant had any one told her that her supposed contempt for the rich and elegant attire displayed all around her, was really the outgrowth of envy; that, when she told herselfshewouldn't lavish so much time and thought, and, above all,money, on mere outside show, it was mere nonsense—that she already spent all the time at her disposal, and all the money she could possibly spare, on the very things which she was condemning.
The truth was, Ester had a perfectly royal taste in all these matters. Give her but the wherewithal, and she would speedily have glistened in silk, and sparkled with jewels; yet she honestly thought that her bitter denunciation of fashion and folly in this form was outward evidence of a mind elevated far above such trivial subjects, and looked down, accordingly, with cool contempt on those whom she was pleased to denominate "butterflies of fashion."
And, in her flights into a "higher sphere of thought," this absurdly inconsistent Ester never once remembered how, just exactly a week ago that day, she had gone around like a storm king, in her own otherwise peaceful home, almost wearing out the long-suffering patience of her weary mother, rendered the house intolerable to Sadie, and actually boxed Julia's ears; and all because she saw with her own common-sense eyes that she reallycouldnot have her blue silk, or rather Sadie's blue silk, trimmed with netted fringe at twelve shillings a yard, but must do with simple folds and a seventy-five-cent heading!
Such a two weeks as the last had been in the Ried family! The entire household had joined in the commotion produced by Ester's projected visit. It was marvelous how much there was to do. Mrs. Ried toiled early and late, and made many quiet little sacrifices, in order that her daughter might not feel too keenly the difference between her own and her cousin's wardrobe. Sadie emptied what she denominated her finery box, and donated every article in it, delivering comic little lectures to each bit of lace and ribbon, as she smoothed them and patted them, and told them they were going to New York. Julia hemmed pocket handkerchiefs, and pricked her poor little fingers unmercifully and uncomplainingly. Alfred ran of errands with remarkable promptness, but confessed to Julia privately that it was because he was in such a hurry to have Ester gone, so he could see how it would seem for everybody to be good natured. Little Minie got in everybody's way as much as such a tiny creature could, and finally brought the tears to Ester's eyes, and set every one else into bursts of laughter, by bringing a very smooth little handkerchief about six inches square, and offering it as her contribution toward the traveler's outfit. As for Ester, she was hurried and nervous, and almost unendurably cross, through the whole of it, wanting a hundred things which it was impossible for her to have, and scorning not a few little trifles that had been prepared for her by patient, toil-worn fingers.
"Ester, Idohope New York, or Cousin Abbie, or somebody, will have a soothing and improving effect upon you," Sadie had said, with a sort of good-humored impatience, only the night before her departure. "Now that you have reached the summit of your hopes, you seem more uncomfortable about it than you were even to stay at home. Do let us see you look pleasant for just five minutes, that we may have something good to remember you by."
"My dear," Mrs. Ried had interposed, rebukingly, "Ester is hurried and tired, remember, and has had a great many things to try her to-day. I don't think it is a good plan, just as a family are about to separate, to say any careless or foolish words that we don't mean. Mother has a great many hard days of toil, which Ester has given, to remember her by." Oh, the patient, tender, forgiving mother! Ester, being asleep to her own faults, never once thought of the sharp, fretful, half disgusted way in which much of her work had been performed, but only remembered, with a little sigh of satisfaction, the many loaves of cake, and the rows of pies, which she had baked that very morning in order to save her mother's steps. This was all she thought of now, but there came days when she was wide-awake.
Meantime the New York train, after panting and snorting several times to give notice that the twenty minutes were about up, suddenly puffed and rumbled its way out from the depot, and left Ester obeying orders, that is, sitting in the corner where she had been placed by Mr. Newton—being still outwardly, but there was in her heart a perfect storm of vexation. "This comes of mother's absurd fussiness in insisting upon putting me in Mr. Newton's care, instead of letting me travel alone, as I wanted to," she fumed to herself. "Now we shall not get into New York until after six o'clock! How provoking!"
"How provoking this is!" Mr. Newton exclaimed, re-echoing her thoughts as he bustled in, red with haste and heat, and stood penitently before her. "I hadn't the least idea it would take so long to go to the post-office. I am very sorry!"
"Well," he continued, recovering his good humor, notwithstanding Ester's provoking silence, "what can't be cured must be endured, Miss Ester; and it isn't as bad as it might be, either. We've only to wait an hour and a quarter. I've some errands to do, and I'll show you the city with pleasure; or would you prefer sitting here and looking around you?"
"I should decidedly prefer not running the chance of missing the next train," Ester answered very shortly. "So I think it will be wiser to stay where I am."
In truth Mr. Newton endured the results of his own carelessness with too much complacency to suit Ester's state of mind; but he took no notice of her broadly-given hint further than to assure her that she need give herself no uneasiness on that score; he should certainly be on time. Then he went off, looking immensely relieved; for Mr. Newton frankly confessed to himself that he did not know how to take care of a lady. "If she were a parcel of goods now that one could get stored or checked, and knew that she would come on all right, why—but a lady. I'm not used to it. How easily I could have caught that train, if I hadn't been obliged to run back after her; but, bless me, I wouldn't have her know that for the world." This he said meditatively as he walked down South Street.
The New York train had carried away the greater portion of the throng at the depot, so that Ester and the dozen or twenty people who occupied the great sitting-room with her, had comparative quiet. The wearer of the condemned brown silk and blue ribbons was still there, and awoke Ester's vexation still further by seeming utterly unable to keep herself quiet; she fluttered from seat to seat, and from window to window, like an uneasy bird in a cage. Presently she addressed Ester in a bright little tone: "Doesn't it bore you dreadfully to wait in a depot?"
"Yes," said Ester, briefly and truthfully, notwithstanding the fact that she was having her first experience in that boredom.
"Are you going to New York?"
"I hope so," she answered, with energy. "I expected to have been almost there by this time; but the gentleman who is supposed to be taking care of me, had to rush off and stay just long enough to miss the train."
"How annoying!" answered the blue ribbons with a soft laugh. "I missed it, too, in such a silly way. I just ran around the corner to get some chocolate drops, and a little matter detained me a few moments; and when I came back, the train had gone. I was so sorry, for I'm in such a hurry to get home. Do you live in New York?"
Ester shook her head, and thought within herself: "That is just as much sense as I should suppose you to have—risk the chance of missing a train for the sake of a paper of candy."
Of course Ester could not be expected to know that the chocolate drops were for the wee sister at home, whose heart would be nearly broken if sister Fanny came home, after an absence of twenty-four hours, without bringing her any thing; and the "little matter" which detained her a few moments, was joining the search after a twenty-five-cent bill which the ruthless wind had snatched from the hand of a barefooted, bareheaded, and almost forlorn little girl, who cried as violently as though her last hope in life had been blown away with it; nor how, failing in finding the treasure, the gold-clasped purse had been opened, and a crisp, new bill had been taken out to fill its place; neither am I at all certain as to whether it would have made any difference at all in Ester's verdict, if she had known all the circumstances.
The side door opened quietly just at this point and a middle-aged man came in, carrying in one hand a tool-box, and in the other a two-story tin pail. Both girls watched him curiously as he set these down on the floor, and, taking tacks from his pocket and a hammer from his box, he proceeded to tack a piece of paper to the wall. Ester, from where she sat, could see that the paper was small, and that something was printed on it in close, fine type. It didn't look in the least like a handbill, or indeed like a notice of any sort. Her desire to know what it could be grew strong; two tiny tacks held it firmly in its place. Then the man turned and eyed the inmates of the room, who were by this time giving undivided attention to him and his bit of paper Presently he spoke, in a quiet, respectful tone:
"I've tacked up a nice little tract. I thought maybe while you was waiting you might like something to read. If one of you would read it aloud, all the rest could hear it." So saying, the man stooped and took up his tool-box and his tin pail, and went away, leaving the influences connected with those two or three strokes of his hammer to work for him through all time, and meet him at the judgment. But if a bomb-shell had suddenly come down and laid itself in ruins it their feet, it could not have made a much more startled company than the tract-tacker left behind him. A tract!—actually tacked up on the wall, and waiting for some human voice to give it utterance! A tract in a railroad depot! How queer! how singular! how almost improper! Why? Oh, Ester didn't know; it was so unusual. Yes; but then that didn't make it improper. No; but—then, she—it—Well, it was fanatical. Oh yes, that was it. She knew it was improper in some way. It was strange that that very convenient word should have escaped her for a little. This talk Ester held hurriedly with her conscience. It was asleep, you know; but just then it nestled as in a dream, and gave her a little prick; but that industrious, important word, "fanatical," lulled it back to its rest. Meantime there hung the tract, and fluttered a little in the summer air, as the door opened and closed. Was no one to give it voice? "I'd like dreadful well to hear it," an old lady said, nodding her gray head toward the little leaf on the wall; "but I've packed up my specs, and might just as well have no eyes at all, as far as readin' goes, when I haven't got my specs on. There's some young eyes round here though, one would think." she added, looking inquiringly around. "You won't need glasses, I should say now, for a spell of years!"
This remark, or hint, or inquiry, was directed squarely at Ester, and received no other answer than a shrug of the shoulder and an impatient tapping of her heels on the bare floor. Under her breath Ester muttered, "Disagreeable old woman!"
The brown silk rustled, and the blue ribbons fluttered restlessly for a minute; then their owner's clear voice suddenly broke the silence: "I'll read it for you, ma'am, if you really would like to hear it."
The wrinkled, homely, happy old face broke into a beaming smile, as she turned toward the pink-cheeked, blue-eyed maiden. "That I would," she answered, heartily, "dreadful well. I ain't heard nothing good, 'pears to me, since I started; and I've come two hundred miles. It seems as if it might kind of lift me up, and rest me like, to hear something real good again."
With the flush on her face a little hightened, the young girl promptly crossed to where the tract hung; and a strange stillness settled over the listeners as her clear voice sounded distinctly down the long room. This was what she read.
"Dear Friend: Are you a Christian? What have you done to-day for Christ? Are the friends with whom you have been talking traveling toward the New Jerusalem? Did you compare notes with them as to how you were all prospering on the way? Is that stranger by your side a fellow-pilgrim? Did you ask him if hewouldbe? Have you been careful to recommend the religion of Jesus Christ by your words, by your acts, by your looks, this day? If danger comes to you, have you this day asked Christ to be your helper? If death comes to you this night, are you prepared to give up your account? What would your record of this last day be? A blank? What! Have you donenothingfor the Master? Then what have you done against Him? Nothing? Nay, verily! Is not the Bible doctrine, 'He that is not for me is against me?'
"Remember that every neglected opportunity, every idle word, every wrong thought of yours has been written down this day. You can not take back the thoughts or words; you can not recall the opportunity. This day, with all its mistakes, and blots, and mars, you can never live over again. It must go up to the judgment just as it is. Have you begged the blood of Jesus to be spread over it all? Have you resolved that no other day shall witness a repeatal of the same mistakes? Have you resolved in your own strength or in His?"
During the reading of the tract, a young man had entered, paused a moment in surprise at the unwonted scene, then moved with very quiet tread across the room and took the vacant seat near Ester. As the reader came back to her former seat, with the pink on her cheek deepened into warm crimson, the new comer greeted her with—
"Good-evening, Miss Fannie. Have you been finding work to do for theMaster?"
"Only a very little thing," she answered, with a voice in which there was a slight tremble.
"I don't know about that, my dear." This was the old woman's voice. "I'm sure I thank you a great deal. They're kind of startling questions like; enough to most scare a body, unless you was trying pretty hard, now ain't they?"
"Very solemn questions, indeed," answered the gentleman to whom this question seemed to be addressed. "I wonder, if we were each obliged to write truthful answers to each one of them, how many we should be ashamed to have each other see?"
"How many would be ashamed to haveHimsee?" The old woman spoke with an emphatic shake of her gray head, and a reverent touch of he pronoun.
"That is the vital point," he said. "Yet how much more ashamed we often seem to be of man's judgment than of God's."
Then he turned suddenly to Ester, and spoke in a quiet, respectful tone:
"Is the stranger by my side a fellow-pilgrim?"
Ester was startled and confused. The whole scene had been a very strange one to her. She tried to think the blue-ribboned girl was dreadfully out of her sphere; but the questions following each other in such quick succession, were so very solemn, and personal, and searching—and now this one. She hesitated, and stammered, and flushed like a school-girl, as at last she faltered: "I—I think—I believe—I am."
"Then I trust you are wide-awake, and a faithful worker in the vineyard," he said, earnestly. "These are times when the Master needs true and faithful workmen."
"He's a minister," said Ester, positively, to herself, when she had recovered from her confusion sufficiently to observe him closely, as he carefully folded the old woman's shawl for her, took her box and basket in his care, and courteously offered his hand to assist her into the cars for the New York train thundered in at last, and Mr. Newton presented himself; and they rushed and jostled each other out of the depot and into the train. And the little tract hung quietly in its corner; and the carpenter who had left it there, hammered, and sawed, and planed—yes, and prayed that God would use it, and knew not then, nor afterward, that it had already awakened thoughts that would tell for eternity.
"Yes, he's a minister," Ester repeated, even more decidedly, as, being seated in the swift-moving train, directly behind the old lady and the young gentleman who had become the subject of her thoughts, she found leisure to observe him more closely. Mr. Newton was absorbed in theTribune; so she gave her undivided attention to the two, and could hear snatches of the conversation which passed between them, as well as note the courteous care with which he brought her a cup of water and attended to all her simple wants. During the stopping of the train at a station, their talk became distinct.
"And I haven't seen my boy, don't you think, in ten years," the old lady was saying. "Won't he be glad though, to see his mother once more? And he's got children—two of them; one is named after me, Sabrina. It's an awful homely name, I think, don't you? But then, you see, it was grandma's."
"And that makes all the difference in the world," her companion answered. "So the old home is broken up, and you are going to make a new one."
"Yes; and I'll show you everythingI've got to remember my old garden by."
With eager, trembling fingers, she untied the string which held down the cover of her basket, and, rummaging within, brought to light a withered bouquet of the very commonest and, perhaps, the very homeliest flowers that grew, if thereareany homely flowers.
"There," she said, holding it tenderly, and speaking with quivering lip and trembling voice. "I picked 'em the very last thing I did, out in my own little garden patch by the backdoor. Oh, times and times I've sat and weeded and dug around them, with him sitting on the stoop and reading out loud to me. I thought all about just how it was while I was picking these. I didn't stay no longer, and I didn't go back to the house after that. I couldn't; I just pulled my sun-bonnet over my eyes, and went across lots to where I was going to get my breakfast"
Ester felt very sorry for the poor homeless, friendless old woman—felt as though she would have been willing to do a good deal just then to make her comfortable; yet it must be confessed that that awkward bunch of faded flowers, arranged without the slightest regard to colors, looked rather ridiculous; and she felt surprised, and not a little puzzled, to see actual tears standing in the eyes of her companion as he handled the bouquet with gentle care.
"Well," he said, after a moment of quiet, "you are not leaving your best friend after all. Does it comfort your heart very much to remember that, in all your partings and trials, you are never called upon to bid Jesus good-by?"
"What a way he has of bringing that subject into every conversation," commented Ester, who was now sure that he was a minister. Someway Ester had fallen into a way of thinking that every one who spoke freely concerning these matters must be either a fanatic or a minister.
"Oh, that's about all the comfort I've got left." This answer came forth from a full heart, and eyes brimming with tears. "And I don't s'pose I need any other, if I've got Jesus left I oughtn't to need any thing else; but sometimes I get impatient—it seems to me I've been here long enough, and it's time I got home."
"How is it with the boy who is expecting you; has he this same friend?"
The gray head was slowly and sorrowfully shaken. "Oh, I'm afraid he don't know nothing aboutHim."
"Ah! then you have work to do; you can't be spared to rest yet. I presume the Master is waiting for you to lead that son to himself."
"I mean to, I mean to, sir," she said earnestly, "but sometimes I think maybe my coffin could do it better than I; but God knows—and I'm trying to be patient."
Then the train whirred on again, and Ester missed the rest; but one sentence thrilled her—"Maybe my coffin could do it better than I." How earnestly she spoke, as if she were willing to die at once, if by that she could save her son. How earnest they both were, anyway—the wrinkled, homely, ignorant old woman and the cultivated, courtly gentleman. Ester was ill at ease—conscience was arousing her to unwonted thought. These two were different from her She was a Christian—at least she supposed so, hoped so; but she was not like them. There was a very decided difference. Were they right, and was she all wrong? wasn't she a Christian after all? and at this thought she actually shivered. She was not willing to give up her title, weak though it might be.
"Oh, well!" she decided, after a little, "she is an old woman, almost through with life. Of course she looks at everything through a different aspect from what a young girl like me naturally would; and as for him, ministers always are different from other people, of course."
Foolish Ester! Did she suppose that ministers have a private Bible of their own, with rules of life set down therein for them, quite different from those written for her! And as for the old woman, almost through with life, how near might Ester be to the edge of her own life at that very moment! When the train stopped again the two were still talking.
"I just hope my boy will look like you," the old lady said suddenly, fixing admiring eyes on the tall form that stood beside her, patiently waiting for the cup from which she was drinking the tea which he had procured for her.
Ester followed the glance of her eye, and laughed softly at the extreme improbability of her hope being realized, while he answered gravely:
"I hope he will be a noble boy, and love his mother as she deserves; then it will matter very little who he looks like."
While the cup was being returned there was a bit of toilet making going on; the gray hair was smoothed back under the plain cap, and the faded, twisted shawl rearranged and carefully pinned. Meantime her thoughts seemed troubled, and she looked up anxiously into the face of her comforter as he again took his seat beside her.
"I'm just thinking I'm such a homely old thing, and New York is such a grand place, I've heard them say. Idohope he won't be ashamed of his mother."
"No danger," was the hearty answer; "he'll think you are the most beautiful woman he has seen in ten years."
There is no way to describe the happy look which shone in the faded blue eyes at this answer; and she laughed a softly, pleased laugh as she said:
"Maybe he'll be like the man I read about the other day. Some mean, old scamp told him how homely his mother was; and he said, says he, 'Yes, she's a homely woman, sure enough; but oh she's such abeautifulmother!' What ever will I do when I get in New York," she added quickly, seized with a sudden anxiety. "Just as like as not, now, he never got a bit of my letter, and won't be there to get me!"
"Do you know where your son lives?"
"Oh, yes, I've got it on a piece of paper, the street and the number; but bless your heart, I shouldn't know whether to go up, or down, or across."
Just the shadow of a smile flitted over her friend's face as the thought of the poor old lady, trying to make her way through the city came to him. Then he hastened to reassure her.
"Then we are all right, whether he meets you or not; we can take a carriage and drive there. I will see you safe at home before I leave you."
This crowning act of kindness brought the tears.
"I don't know why you are so good to me," she said simply, "unless you are the friend I prayed for to help me through this journey. If you are, it's all right; God will see that you are paid for it."
And before Ester had done wondering over the singular quaintness of this last remark there was a sudden triumphant shriek from the engine, and a tremendous din, made up of a confusion of more sounds than she had ever heard in her life before; then all was hurry and bustle around her, and she suddenly awakened to the fact that as soon as they had crossed the ferry she would actually be in New York. Even then she bethought herself to take a curious parting look at the oddly matched couple who were carefully making their way through the crowd, and wonder if she would ever see them again.
The next hour was made up of bewilderment to Ester. She had a confused remembrance afterward of floating across a silver river in a palace; of reaching a place where everybody screamed instead of talked, and where all the bells were ringing for fire, or something else. She looked eagerly about for her uncle, and saw at least fifty men who resembled him, as she saw him last, about ten years ago. She fumbled nervously for his address in her pocket-book, and gave Mr. Newton a recipe for making mince pies instead; finally she found herself tumbled in among cushions and driving right into carriages and carts and people, who all got themselves mysteriously out of the way; down streets that she thought must surely be the ones that the bells were ringing for, as they were all ablaze. It had been arranged that Ester's escort should see her safely set down at her uncle's door, as she had been unable to state the precise time of her arrival; and besides, as she was an entire stranger to her uncle's family, they could not determine any convenient plan for meeting each other at the depot. So Ester was whirled through the streets at a dizzying rate, and, with eyes and ears filled with bewildering sights and sounds, was finally deposited before a great building, aglow with gas and gleaming with marble. Mr. Newton rang the bell, and Ester, making confused adieus to him, was meantime ushered into a hall looking not unlike Judge Warren's best parlor. A sense of awe, not unmixed with loneliness and almost terror, stole over her as the man who opened the door stood waiting, after a civil—"Whom do you wish to see, and what name shall I send up?"
"Whomdidshe wish to see, and whatwasher name, anyway. Could this be her uncle's house? Did she want to see any of them?" She felt half afraid of them all. Suddenly the dignity and grandeur seemed to melt into gentleness before her, as the tiniest of little women appeared and a bright, young voice broke into hearty welcome:
"Is this really my cousin Ester? And so you have come! How perfectly splendid. Where is Mr. Newton? Gone? Why, John, you ought to have smuggled him in to dinner. We aresomuch obliged to him for taking care ofyou. John, send those trunks up to my room. You'll room with me, Ester, won't you? Mother thought I ought to put you in solitary state in a spare chamber, but I couldn't. You see I have been so many years waiting for you, that now I want you every bit of the time."
All this while she was giving her loving little pats and kisses, on their way up stairs, whither she at once carried the traveler. Such a perfect gem of a room as that was into which she was ushered. Ester's love of beauty seemed likely to be fully gratified; she cast one eager glance around her, took in all the charming little details in a second of time, and then gave her undivided attention to this wonderful person before her who certainly was, in veritable flesh and blood, the much-dreamed over, much-longed for Cousin Abbie. A hundred times had Ester painted her portrait—tall and dark and grand, with a perfectly regal form and queenly air, hair black as midnight, coiled in heavy masses around her head, eyes blacker if possible than her hair. As to dress, it was very difficult to determine; sometimes it was velvet and diamonds, or, if the season would not possibly admit of that, then a rich, dark silk, never, by any chance, a material lighter than silk. This had been her picture. Now she could not suppress a laugh as she noted the contrast between it and the original. She was even two inches shorter than Ester herself, with a manner much more like a fairy's than a queen's; instead of heavy coils of black hair, there were little rings of brown curls clustering around a fair, pale forehead, and continually peeping over into the bluest of eyes; then her dress was the softest and quietest of muslins, with a pale-blue tint. Ester's softly laugh chimed merrily; she turned quickly.
"Now have you found something to laugh at in me already?" she said gleefully.
"Why," said Ester, forgetting to be startled over the idea that she should laugh at Cousin Abbie, "I'm only laughing to think how totally different you are from your picture."
"From my picture!"
"Yes, the one which I had drawn of you in my own mind. I thought you were tall, and had black hair, and dressed in silks, like a grand lady."
Abbie laughed again.
"Don't condemn me to silks in such weather as this, at least," she said gaily. "Mother thinks I am barbarous to summon friends to the city in August; but the circumstances are such that it could not well be avoided. So put on your coolest dress, and be as comfortable as possible."
This question of how she should appear on this first evening had been one of Ester's puzzles; it would hardly do to don her blue silk at once, and she had almost decided to choose the black one; but Abbie's laugh and shrug of the shoulder had settled the question of silks. So now she stood in confused indecision before her open trunk.
Abbie came to the rescue.
"Shall I help you?" she said, coming forward "I'll not ring for Maggie to-night, but be waiting maid myself. Suppose I hang up some of these dresses? And which shall I leave for you? This looks the coolest," and she held up to Ester's view the pink and white muslin which did duty as an afternoon dress at home.
"Well," said Ester, with a relieved smile, "I'll take that."
And she thought within her heart: "They are not so grand after all."
Presently they went down to dinner, and in view of the splendor of the dining-room, and sparkle of gas and the glitter of silver, she changed her mind again and thought them very grand indeed.
Her uncle's greeting was very cordial; and though Ester found it impossible to realize that her Aunt Helen was actually three years older than her own mother, or indeed that she was a middle-aged lady at all, so very bright and gay and altogether unsuitable did her attire appear; yet on the whole she enjoyed the first two hours of her visit very much, and surprised and delighted herself at the ease with which she slipped into the many new ways which she saw around her. Only once did she find herself very much confused; to her great astonishment and dismay she was served with a glass of wine. Now Ester, among the stanch temperance friends with whom she had hitherto passed her life, had met with no such trial of her temperance principles, which she supposed were sound and strong; yet here she was at her uncle's table, sitting near her aunt, who was contentedly sipping from her glass. Would it be proper, under the circumstances, to refuse? Yet would it be proper to do violence to her sense of right?
Ester had no pledge to break, except the pledge with her own conscience; and it is most sadly true that that sort of pledge does not seem to be so very binding in the estimation of some people. So Ester sat and toyed with hers, and came to the very unwarrantable conclusion that what her uncle offered for her entertainment it must be proper for her to take! Do Ester's good sense the justice of understanding that she didn't believe any such thing; that she knew it was her own conscience by which she was to be judged, not her uncle's; that such smooth-sounding arguments honestly meant that whatever her uncle offered for her entertainment she had not the moral courage to refuse. So she raised the dainty wine-glass to her lips, and never once bethought herself to look at Abbie and notice how the color mounted and deepened on her face, nor how her glass remained untouched beside her plate. On the whole Ester was glad when all the bewildering ceremony of the dinner was concluded, and she, on the strength of her being wearied with her journey, was permitted to retire with Abbie to their room.
"Now I have you all to myself," that young lady said, with a happy smile, as she turned the key on the retreating Maggie and wheeled an ottoman to Ester's side. "Where shall we commence? I have so very much to say and hear; I want to know all about Aunt Laura, and Sadie, and the twins. Oh, Ester, you have a little brother; aren't you so glad he is alittleboy?"
"Why, I don't know," Ester said, hesitatingly; then more decidedly, "No; I am always thinking how glad I should be if he were a young man, old enough to go out with me, and be company for me."
"I know that is pleasant; but there are very serious drawbacks. Now, there's our Ralph, it is very pleasant to have him for company; and yet—Well, Ester, he isn't a Christian, and it seems all the time to me that he is walking on quicksands. I am in one continual tremble for him, and I wish so often that he was just a little boy, no older than your brother Alfred; then I could learn his tastes, and indeed mold them in a measure by having him with me a great deal, and it does seem to me that I could make religion appear such a pleasant thing to him, that he couldn't help seeking Jesus for himself. Don't you enjoy teaching Alfred?"
Poor, puzzled Ester! With what a matter-of-course air her cousin asked this question. Could she possibly tell her that she sometimes never gave Alfred a thought from one week's end to another, and that she never in her life thought of teaching him a single thing.
"I am not his teacher," she said at length "I have no time for any such thing; he goes to school, you know, and mother helps him."
"Well," said Abbie, with a thoughtful air, "I don't quite mean teaching, either; at least not lessons and things of that sort, though I think I should enjoy having him depend on me in all his needs; but I was thinking more especially of winning him to Jesus; it seems so much easier to do it while one is young. Perhaps he is a Christian now; is he?"
Ester merely shook her head in answer. She could not look in those earnest blue eyes and say that she had never, by word or act, asked him to come to Jesus.
"Well, that is what I mean; you have so much more chance than I, it seems to me. Oh, my heart is so heavy for Ralph! I am all alone. Ester, do you know that neither my mother nor my father are Christians, and our home influence is—; well, is not what a young man needs. He is very—gay they call it. There are his friends here in the city, and his friends in college,—none of them the style of people thatIlike him to be with,—and only poor little me to stem the tide of worldliness all around him. There is one thing in particular that troubles me—he is, or rather he is not—," and here poor Abbie stopped, and a little silence followed. After a moment she spoke again: "Oh, Ester, you will learn what I mean without my telling you; it is something in which I greatly need your help. I depend upon you; I have looked forward to your coming, on his account as well as on my own. I know it will be better for him."
Ester longed to ask what the "something" was, and what was expected of her; but the pained look on Abbie's face deterred her, and she contented herself by saying:
"Where is he now?"
"In college; coming next week. I long, on his account, to have a home of my own. I believe I can show him a style of life which will appear better to him than the one he is leading now."
This led to a long talk on the coming wedding.
"Mother is very much disturbed that it should occur in August," Abbie said; "and of course it is not pleasant as it would be later; but the trouble is, Mr. Foster is obliged to go abroad in September."
"Who is Mr. Foster? Can't you be married if he isn't here?"
"Not very well," Abbie said, with a bright little laugh. "You see he is the one who has asked me to marry him."
"Why! is he?" and Ester laughed at her former question; then, as a sudden thought occurred to her, she asked: "Is he a minister?"
"Oh dear no, he is only a merchant."
"Is he a—a Christian?" was her next query, and so utterly unused was she to conversation on this subject, that she actually stammered over the simple sentence.
Such a bright, earnest face as was turned toward her at this question!
"Ester," said Abbie quickly, "I couldn't marry a man who was not aChristian."
"Why," Ester asked, startled a little at the energy of her tone, "do you think it is wrong?"
"Perhaps not for every one. I think one's own carefully enlightened conscience should prayerfully decide the question; but it would be wrong for me. I am too weak; it would hinder my own growth in grace. I feel that I need all the human helps I can get. Yes, Mr. Foster is an earnest Christian."
"Do you suppose," said Ester, growing metaphysical, "that if Mr.Foster were not a Christian you would marry him?"
A little shiver quivered through Abbie's frame as she answered:
"I hope I should have strength to do what I thought right; and I believe I should."
"Yes, you think so now," persisted Ester, "because there is no danger of any such trial; but I tell you I don't believe, if you were brought to the test, that you would do any such thing."
Abbie's tone in reply was very humble.
"Perhaps not—I might miserably fail; and yet, Ester,Hehas said,'My grace is sufficient for thee.'"
Then, after a little silence, the bright look returned to her face as she added:
"I am very glad that I am not to be tried in that furnace; and do you know, Ester, I never believed in making myself a martyr to what might have been, or even whatmaybe in the future; 'sufficient unto the day' is my motto. If it should ever be my duty to burn at the stake, I believe I should go to my Savior and plead for the 'sufficient grace;' but as long as I have no such known trial before me, I don't know why I should be asking for what I do not need, or grow unhappy over improbabilities, though Idopray every day to be prepared for whatever the future has for me."
Then the talk drifted back again to the various details connected with the wedding, until suddenly Abbie came to her feet with a spring.
"Why, Ester!" she exclaimed penitently, "What a thoughtless wretch I am! Here have I been chattering you fairly into midnight, without a thought of your tired body and brain. This session must adjourn immediately. Shall you and I have prayers together to-night? Will it seem homelike to you? Can you play I am Sadie for just a little while?"
"I should like it," Ester answered faintly.
"Shall I read, as you are so weary?" and, without waiting for a reply, she unclasped the lids of her little Bible. "Are you reading the Bible by course? Where do you like best to read, for devotional reading I mean?"
"I don't know that I have any choice?" Ester's voice was fainter still.
"Haven't you? I have my special verses that I turn to in my various needs. Where are you and Sadie reading?"
"No where," said Ester desperately.
Abbie's face expressed only innocent surprise
"Don't you read together? You are roommates, aren't you? Now I always thought it would be so delightful to have a nice little time, like family worship, in one's own room."
"Sadie doesn't care anything about these things, she isn't aChristian," Ester said at length.
"Oh, dear! isn't she?" What a very sad and troubled tone it was in which Abbie spoke. "Then you know something of my anxiety; and yet it is different. She is younger than you, and you can have her so much under your influence. At least it seems different to me. How prone we are to consider our own anxieties peculiarly trying."
Ester never remembered giving a half hour's anxious thought to this which was supposed to be an anxiety with her in all her life; but she did not say so, and Abbie continued: "Who is your particular Christian friend, then?"
What an exceedingly trying and troublesome talk this was to Ester!Whatwasshe to say?
Clearly nothing but the truth.
"Abbie, I haven't a friend in the world."
"You poor, dear child; then we are situated very much alike after all—though I have dear friends outside of my own family; but what a heavy responsibility you must feel in your large household, and you the only Christian. Do you shrink from responsibility of that kind, Ester? Does it seem, sometimes, as if it would almost rush you?"
"Oh, there are some Christians in the family," Ester answered, preferring to avoid the last part of the sentence; "but then—"
"They are half way Christians, perhaps. I understand how that is; it really seems sadder to me than even thoughtless neglect."
Be it recorded that Ester's conscience pricked her. This supposition on Abbie's part was not true. Dr. Van Anden, for instance, always had seemed to her most horribly and fanatically in earnest. But in what rank should she place this young, and beautiful, and wealthy city lady? Surely, she could not be a fanatic?
Ester was troubled.
"Well," said Abbie, "suppose I read you some of my sweet verses. Do you know I always feel a temptation to read in John? There is so much in that book about Jesus, and John seemed to love him so."
Ester almost laughed. What an exceedingly queer idea—atemptationto read in any part of the Bible. What a strange girl her cousin was.
Now the reading began.
"This is my verse when I am discouraged—'Wait on the Lord; be of good courage and he shall strengthen thine heart; wait, I say, on the Lord.' Isn't that reassuring. And then these two. Oh, Ester, these are wonderful! 'I have blotted out, as a thick cloud, thy transgressions, and, as a cloud, thy sins; return unto me; for I have redeemed thee.' 'Sing, O ye heavens; for the Lord hath done it; shout, ye lower parts of the earth; break forth in singing, ye mountains, O forest, and every tree therein; for the Lord hath redeemed Jacob, and glorified himself in Israel.' And in that glorious old prophet's book is my jubilant verse—'And the ransomed of the Lord shall return and come to Zion with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads; they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.'"
"Now, Ester, you are very tired, aren't you? and I keep dipping into my treasure like a thoughtless, selfish girl as I am. You and I will have some precious readings out of this book, shall we not? Now I'll read you my sweet good-night Psalm. Don't you think the Psalms are wonderful, Ester?"
And without waiting for reply the low-toned, musical voice read on through that marvel of simplicity and grandeur, the 121st Psalm: "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord which made heaven and earth. He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber. Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep. The Lord is thy keeper, the Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand. The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: he shall preserve thy soul. The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in, from this time forth, and even for evermore."
"Ester, will you pray?" questioned her cousin, as the reading ceased, and she softly closed her tiny book.
Ester gave her head a nervous, hurried shake.
"Then shall I? or, dear Ester, would you prefer to be alone?"
"No," said Ester; "I should like to hear you?" And so they knelt, and Abbie's simple, earnest, tender prayer Ester carried with her for many a day.
After both heads were resting on their pillows, and quiet reigned in the room, Ester's eyes were wide open. Her Cousin Abbie had astonished her; she was totally unlike the Cousin Abbie of her dreams in every particular; in nothing more so than the strangely childlike matter-of-course way in which she talked about this matter of religion. Ester had never in her life heard any one talk like that, except, perhaps, that minister who had spoken to her in the depot. His religion seemed not unlike Abbie's. Thinking of him, she suddenly addressed Abbie again.
"There was a minister in the depot to-day, and he spoke to me;" then the entire story of the man with his tract, and the girl with blue ribbons, and the old lady, and the young minister, and bits of the conversation, were gone over for Abbie's benefit.
And Abbie listened, and commented, and enjoyed every word of it, until the little clock on the mantel spoke in silver tones, and said, one, two. Then Abbie grew penitent again.
"Positively, Ester, I won't speak again: you will be sleepy all day to-morrow, and you needn't think I shall give you a chance even to wink. Good-night."
"Good-night," repeated Ester; but she still kept her eyes wide open. Her journey, and her arrival, and Abbie, and the newness and strangeness of everything around her, had banished all thought of sleep. So she went over in detail everything which had occurred that day but persistently her thoughts returned to the question which had so startled her, coming from the lips of a stranger, and to the singleness of heart which seemed to possess her Cousin Abbie.
"Wasshe a fellow-pilgrim after all?" she queried. If so, what caused the difference between Abbie and herself. It was but a few hours since she first beheld her cousin; and yet she distinctlyfeltthe difference between them in that matter. "We are as unlike," thought Ester, turning restlessly on her pillow. "Well, as unlike as two people can be."
WhatwouldAbbie say could she know that it was actually months since Ester had read as much connectedly in her Bible as she had heard read that evening? Yes, Ester had gone backward, even as far as that! Farther! What would Abbie say to the fact that there were many, many prayerless days in her life? Not very many, perhaps, in which she had not used a form of prayer; but their names were legion in which she had risen from her knees unhelped and unrefreshed; in which she knew that she had notprayeda single one of the sentences which she had been repeating. And just at this point she was stunned with a sudden thought—a thought which too often escapes us all. She would not for the world, it seemed to her, have made known to Abbie just how matters stood with her; and yet, and yet—Christ knew it all. She lay very still, and breathed heavily. It came to her with all the thrill of an entirely new idea.
Then that unwearied and ever-watchful Satan came to her aid.
"Oh, well," said he, "your Cousin Abbie's surroundings are very different from yours. Give you all the time which she has at her disposal, and I dare say you would be quite as familiar with your Bible as she is with hers. What does she know about the petty vexations and temptations, and bewildering, ever-pressing duties which every hour of every day beset your path? The circumstances are very different. Her life is in the sunshine, yours in the shadow. Besides, you do not know her; it is easy enough to talk;veryeasy to read a chapter in the Bible; but after all there are other things quite as important, and it is more than likely that your cousin is not quite perfect yet."
Ester did not know that this was the soothing lullaby of the old Serpent. Well for her if she had, and had answered it with that solemn, all-powerful "Get thee behind me, Satan." But she gave her own poor brain the benefit of every thought; and having thus lulled, and patted, and coaxed her half-roused and startled conscience into quiet rest again, she turned on her pillow and went to sleep.
Ester was dreaming that the old lady on the cars had become a fairy, and that her voice sounded like a silver bell, when she suddenly opened her eyes, and found that it was either the voice of the marble clock on the mantel, or of her Cousin Abbie, who was bending over her.
"Do you feel able to get up to breakfast, Ester dear, or had you rather lie and rest?"
"Breakfast!" echoed Ester, in a sleepy bewilderment, raising herself on one elbow, and gazing at her cousin.
"Yes, breakfast!"—this with a merry laugh "Did you suppose that people in New York lived without such inconveniences?"
Oh! to be sure, she was in New York, and Ester repeated the laugh—it had sounded so queerly to hear any one talk to her about getting up to breakfast; it had not seemed possible that that meal could be prepared without her assistance.
"Yes, certainly, I'll get up at once. Have I kept you waiting, Abbie?"
"Oh no, not at all; generally we breakfast at nine, but mother gave orders last night to delay until half-past nine this morning."
Ester turned to the little clock in great amazement; it was actually ten minutes to nine! What an idea! She never remembered sleeping so late in her life before. Why, at home the work in the dining-room and kitchen must all be done by this time, and Sadie was probably making beds. Poor Sadie! What a time she would have! "She will learn a little about life while I am away," thought Ester complacently, as she stood before the mirror, and pinned the dainty frill on her new pink cambric wrapper, which Sadie's deft fingers had fashioned for her.
Ester had declined the assistance of Maggie—feeling that though she knew perfectly well how to make her own toilet, she didnotknow how to receive assistance in the matter.
"Now I will leave you for a little," Abbie said, taking up her tinyBible.
"Ester, where is your Bible? I suppose you have it with you?"
Ester looked annoyed.
"I don't believe I have," she said hurriedly. "I packed in such haste, you see, and I don't remember putting it in at all."
"Oh, I am sorry—you will miss it so much! Do you have a thousand little private marks in your Bible that nobody else understands? I have a great habit of reading in that way. Well, I'll bring you one from the library that you may mark just as much as you please."
Ester sat herself down, with a very complacent air, beside the open window, with the Bible which had just been brought her, in her lap. Clearly she had been left alone that she might have opportunity for private devotion, and she liked the idea very much; to be sure, she had not been in the habit of reading in the Bible in the morning, but that, she told herself, was simply because she never had time hardly to breathe in the mornings at home; there she had beefsteak to cook, and breakfast rolls to attend to, she said disdainfully, as if beefsteak and breakfast rolls were the most contemptible articles in the world, entirely beneath the notice of a rational being; but now she was in a very different atmosphere; and at nine o'clock of a summer morning was attired in a very becoming pink wrapper, finished with the whitest of frills; and sat at her window, a young lady of elegant leisure, waiting for the breakfast-bell. Of course she could read a chapter in the Bible now, and should enjoy it quite as much as Abbie did. She had never learned that happy little habit of having a much-used, much-worn, much-loved Bible for her own personal and private use; full of pencil marks and sacred meanings, grown dear from association, and teeming with memories of precious communings. She had one, of course—a nice, proper-looking Bible—and if it chanced to be convenient when she was ready to read, she used it; if not, she took Sadie's, or picked up Julia's from under the table, or the old one on a shelf in the corner, with one cover and part of Revelation missing—it mattered not one whit to her which—for there were no pencil marks, and no leaves turned down, and no special verses to find. She thought the idea of marking certain verses an excellent one, and deciding to commence doing so at once, cast about her for a pencil. There was one on the round table, by the other window; but there were also many other things. Abbie's watch lay ticking softly in its marble and velvet bed, and had to be examined and sighed over; and Abbie's diamond pin in the jewel-case also demanded attention—then there were some blue and gold volumes to be peeped at, and Longfellow received more than a peep; then, most witching of all, "Say and Seal," in two volumes—the very books Sadie had borrowed once, and returned, before Ester had a chance to discover how Faith managed about the ring. Longfellow and the Bible slid on the table together, and "Say and Seal" was eagerly seized upon, just to be glanced over, and the glances continued until there pealed a bell through the house; and, with a start, and a confused sense of having neglected her opportunities, this Christian young lady followed her cousin down stairs, to meet all the temptations and bewilderments of a new day, unstrengthened by communion with either her Bible or her Savior.
That breakfast, in all its details, was a most bewitching affair. Ester felt that she could never enjoy that meal again, at a table that was not small and round, and covered with damask nor drink coffee that had not first flowed gracefully down from a silver urn. As for Aunt Helen, she could have dispensed with her; she even caught herself drawing unfavorable comparisons between her and the patient, hardworking mother far away.
"Where is Uncle Ralph?" she asked suddenly, becoming conscious that there were only three, when last evening there were four.
"Gone down town some hours ago," Abbie answered. "He is a business-man, you know, and can not keep such late hours."
"But does he go without breakfast?"
"No—takes it at seven, instead of nine, like our lazy selves."
"He used to breakfast at a restaurant down town, like other business-men," further explained Aunt Helen, observing the bewildered look of this novice in city-life. "But it is one of Abbie's recent whims that she can make him more comfortable at home, so they rehearse the interesting scene of breakfast by gas-light every morning."
Abbie's clear laugh rang out merrily at this.
"My dear mother, don't, I beg of you, insult the sun in that manner!Ester, fancy gas-light at seven o'clock on an August morning!"
"Do you get down stairs at seven o'clock?" was Ester's only reply.
"Yes, at six, or, at most, half-past. You see, if I am to make father as comfortable at home as he would be at a restaurant, I must flutter around a little."
"Burns her cheeks and her fingers over the stove," continued Aunt Helen in a disgusted tone, "in order that her father may have burnt toast prepared by her hands."
"You've blundered in one item, mother," was Abbie's good-humored reply. "My toast isneverburnt, and only this morning father pronounced it perfect."
"Oh, she is developing!" answered Mrs. Ried, with a curious mixture of annoyance and amusement in look and tone. "If Mr. Foster fails in business soon, as I presume he will, judging from his present rate of proceeding, we shall find her advertising for the position of first-class cook in a small family."
If Abbie felt wounded or vexed over this thrust at Mr. Foster, it showed itself only by a slight deepening of the pink on her cheek, as she answered in the brightest of tones: "If I do, mother, and you engage me, I'll promise you that the eggs shall not be boiled as hard as these are."
All this impressed two thoughts on Ester's mind—one, that Abbie, for some great reason unknown to, and unimagined by herself, actually of her own free will, arose early every morning, and busied herself over preparations for her father's breakfast; the other, that Abbie's mother said some disagreeable things to her, in a disagreeable way—a way that would exceedingly provokeher, and that shewouldn't endure, she said to herself, with energy.
These two thoughts so impressed themselves, that when she and Abbie were alone again, they led her to ask two questions:
"Why do you get breakfast at home for your father, Abbie? Is it necessary?"
"No; only I like it, and he likes it. You see, he has very little time to spend at home, and I like that little to be homelike; besides, Ester, it is my one hour of opportunity with my father. I almostneversee him alone at any other time, and I am constantly praying that the Spirit will make use of some little word or act of mine to lead him to the cross."
There was no reply to be made to this, so Ester turned to the other question:
"What does your mother mean by her reference to Mr. Foster?"
"She thinks some of his schemes of benevolence are on too large a scale to be prudent. But he is a very prudent man, and doesn't seem to think so at all."
"Doesn't it annoy you to have her speak in that manner about him?"
The ever-ready color flushed into Abbie's cheeks again, and, after a moment's hesitation, she answered gently: "I think it would, Ester, if she were not myown mother, you know."
Another rebuke. Ester felt vexed anyway. This new strange cousin of hers was going to prove painfully good.
But her first day in New York, despite the strangeness of everything, was full of delight to her. They did not go out, as Ester was supposed to be wearied from her journey, though, in reality, she never felt better; and she reveled all day in a sense of freedom—of doing exactly what she pleased, and indeed of doing nothing; this last was an experience so new and strange to her, that it seemed delightful. Ester's round of home duties had been so constant and pressing, the rebound was extreme; it seemed to her that she could never bake any more pies and cakes in that great oven, and she actually shuddered over the thought that, if she were at home, she would probably be engaged in ironing, while Maggie did the heavier work.
She went to fanning most vigorously as this occurred to her, and sank back among the luxurious cushions of Abbie's easy chair, as if exhausted; then she pitied herself most industriously, and envied Abbie more than ever, and gave no thought at all to mother and Sadie, who were working so much harder than usual, in order that she might sit here at ease. At last she decided to dismiss every one of these uncomfortable thoughts, to forget that she had ever spent an hour of her life in a miserable, hot kitchen, but to give herself entirely and unreservedly to the charmed life, which stretched out before her for three beautiful weeks. "Three weeks is quite a little time, after all," she told herself hopefully. "Three weeks ago I hadn't the least idea of being here; and who knows what may happen in the next three weeks? Ah! sure enough, Ester, who knows?"
"When am I to see Mr. Foster?" she inquired of Abbie as they came up together from the dining-room after lunch.
"Why, you will see him to-night, if you are not too tired to go out with me. I was going to ask about that."
"I'm ready for anything; don't feel as if I ever experienced the meaning of that word," said Ester briskly, rejoiced at the prospect of going anywhere.
"Well, then, I shall carry you off to our Thursday evening prayer-meeting—it's justourmeeting, you see—we teachers in the mission—there are fifty of us, and we do have the most delightful times. It is like a family—rather a large family, perhaps you think—but it doesn't seem so when we come on Sabbath, from the great congregation, and gather in our dear little chapel—we seem like a company of brothers and sisters, shutting ourselves in at home, to talk and pray together for a little, before we go out into the world again. Is Thursday your regular prayer-meeting evening, Ester?"
Now it would have been very difficult for Ester to tell whenherregular prayer-meeting evening was, as it was so long ago that she grew out of the habit of regularly attending, that now she scarcely ever gave it a thought. But she had sufficient conscience left to be ashamed of this state of things, and to understand that Abbie referred to the church prayer-meeting, so she answered simply—"No; Wednesday."
"That is our church prayer-meeting night. I missed it last evening because I wanted to welcome you. And Tuesday is our Bible-class night."
"Do you give three evenings a week to religious meetings, Abbie?"
"Yes," said Abbie with softly glee; "isn't it splendid? I appreciate my privileges, I assure you; so many peoplecould notdo it."
"And so many peoplewould not" Ester thought.
So they were not in to dinner with the family, but took theirs an hour earlier; and with David, whom Abbie called her body-guard, for escort, made their way to Abbie's dear little chapel, which proved to be a good-sized church, very prettily finished and furnished.
That meeting, from first to last, was a succession of surprises to Ester, commencing with the leader, and being announced to Abbie in undertone: