IT was some weeks afterwards that I heard from Alice herself the rest of the story.
On that Sabbath afternoon she had been bustling about her room making ready for the evening service, singing snatches of sacred song, with no more thought of the words than had the wood robin just then singing his evening song. "I never thought words," she vehemently told me; "they had always seemed to me like so much necessary machinery on which to exhibit the tune."
While she fluttered from bureau to dressing table, then loitered a moment by the open window trilling her song, from the open window of the next house, separated from her only by a narrow passage way, came a voice, distinct and tremulous with earnestness. It took but a moment to realize that it was Auntie Barber at prayer.
"And I heard her pray for me," said Alice, her voice awe-stricken as she told of it. "You never heard such a prayer! At least, I never have. I was not used to hearing people pray for me. And she asked the Lord to get me ready to sing with the angels. Think how that must have made me feel! I, who had never thought about angels, and was afraid to die, and afraid to hear about death! But she prayed more than that. She asked God to let me sing for some soul that night; sing it a song that would make it want Christ for a friend. Think of it; I sing for a soul! It frightened me. I turned from that window feeling all white and faint. I thought I could not sing at all, and yet I must. But I cannot describe to you what an evening it was. I could not get away from that prayer. It seemed to float all about me. Try as I would, I could not put it aside. What if Auntie Barber's prayer should be answered, and I should sing some soul into peace with God, and there was I, afraid of Him! But that last hymn just stabbed me. Standing up there, all alone, and singing those awful words:
"'Take my voice, and let me sing'Always, only for my King.'
"It seemed to me that I mocked Him with the words; that I had always been mocking Him, and I was afraid. I had just found out that it was a fearful thing to be able to sing. You remember that I called out to Auntie Barber as she passed, and went away with her? But I said hardly anything to her that I meant to. I began: 'O, Auntie Barber, you don't know me. You think I sing for God, but I don't. I've been mocking Him with just words all my life, and I am frightened, frightened!' She interrupted me just there.
"'Dear heart,' she said, 'He knows all about you, and he loves you, and is waiting for you. Come in, and tell Him the whole story.' And she drew me into that very room where she had prayed for me!
"The rest of the story isn't long to tell," said Alice, smiling on me with eyes that glistened; "but it will take eternity to live it! I finished the hymn that evening in Auntie Barber's room:
"'Take myself, and I will beEver, only, all for Thee!"
And she meant the words.
I wish I had time to tell you the rest of the story about our church choir. Once more it was reconstructed. He declared that all our singers were either ill-humored or hysterical, and every one of them flatted.
Then our Boston guest took up the burden. For three weeks she preached the Gospel to us in song, alone, utterly unsustained, save by the organist, who bravely held the fort with her. During those three weeks she worked. She gathered the girls about her—those elements of power in every church, if they were only understood. "Let us have a new choir," she said; "let us take this for our motto:
"'Take my voice, and let me singEver, only for my King.'"
She printed those words in illuminated text, and framed them and hung them in the choir gallery.
In process of time they found a leader, one who was willing to sing by the new motto. I will not tell the story; it is long. But, in its details, it shows what we each need to more fully realize; the power of reconstruction which lies in one young consecrated life. Three months our borrowed songstress stayed with us, and when she went away she left our choir singing by the motto; the essential difference between their music and all others which we had ever enjoyed being embodied in that one brief sentence: They meant the words.
The last time I heard Alice Haviland sing was in our church, on a week-day afternoon, just as the autumn leaves were beginning to fall. She stood near to an open coffin, in which lay an old, worn body, a wrinkled face, crowned with white satin hair, and the most reposeful smile that ever Auntie Barber's dear old face had ever worn. And the young singer, looking down on the quiet sleeper, breathed out the words to wondrous melody:
"Forever with the Lord,Amen, so let it be;Life from the dead is in that word,'Tis immortality."Servant of Christ, well done;Praise be thy new employ;And while eternal ages run.Rest in thy Saviour's joy."
And as the voice ceased, and the singer turned toward me with tear-dimmed eyes, while they closed the coffin-lid, she murmured: "I am sure Auntie Barber has already joined the choir. Her soul was just full of song. And, oh! How she can sing now. And she will always mean the words."
HIS FRIEND.———
IT would have puzzled many of his friends to understand what possible interest Mr. Thornton could have had in the old cottage which he stood surveying. What was there in the dingy, cobwebby place to call for so much thought as he seemed to be putting upon it? He was not a real estate agent estimating its value, nor a mechanic contriving how he might make it good as new; for his cultured face had not the sharp business look of the one, neither did his elegant attire belong to the latter. The old place might have been picturesque in its day, but now the luxuriant growth of lawn and garden were all in a tangle; the maples and elms were locking arms, and that "gadding vine," the woodbine, had strayed away to the top of the tall hemlock.
It may be that Mr. Thornton was musing upon the possibilities of the forlorn little house, thinking it pitiful that even houses, trees and vines should not make the most of themselves. He had a passion for bringing up human ruins from depths of sin. It would not be strange if this divine outgoing widened and extended to inanimate things.
People said that Mr. Thornton was very peculiar. He puzzled the world in which he moved in more ways than one. It was incomprehensible to them why a man with thousands to bestow in charity, did not sit in his easy chair, and with a few flourishes of his pen make munificent gifts to public institutions, which would trumpet his praises far and near, instead of giving it out in driblets as he did, and half of the time nobody ever heard of it, except by chance; giving himself such extra trouble, too, hunting out objects of charity that nobody else would ever think of. Ah! That was just what he did accomplish; things that most people would not think of doing; little helps given here and there, tiding a discouraged man over it rough spot, saving the home to a widow, giving a month's rest to a poor sewing woman, a barrel of flour or load of coal to a family suddenly driven to straits who would starve rather than beg. And money was not all he gave; no one but God and themselves ever knew how he followed young men in and out, bringing them back from the very door of the pit to respectability and to Christ.
Among the poorest classes he was a most successful worker, because, like his Master, he brought not only the bread of life, but also the material, homely loaf for fainting bodies.
Whatever could possess one of intellectual tastes, with wealth and leisure and the wide world before him to spend time in such a strange way? People who could see no farther than the outside said that he wanted to be a sort of patron saint to the unfortunate; others explained it by that convenient word "eccentric." That which really was the true motive power of this life they could not understand or appreciate.
Every person finds his greatest pleasure in some particular way. It was natural for Mr. Thornton to find his in making others happy. As a boy, he often gave a bit of silver to a beggar or a rose to a forlorn woman, because he so loved to see the face change from dullness to glad surprise. Of late years, though, there had come into his life something stronger and purer as a controlling power. He had been taken into near companionship with the Lord Jesus. He consulted with him in every small affair of his life, and received special guidance, consequently he had no worries and anxieties; he was under orders, not as servant only,— it was more as one might carry out the least wish of a dear absent friend. The beneficence that flowed from his purse was simply dispensing another's bounty. Every flower or kind word bestowed, were the cups of cold water given in the Friend's name, for none of which he claimed merit.
After many years spent abroad Mr. Thornton had returned to his native city. This neglected cottage, along with other pieces of property, had fallen into his hands at the death of an old aunt, and with the rest had much needed his attention for some time past. It was an old-fashioned house with low ceilings, small windows, wide fireplaces and broad hearthstones. Outside, there were broad verandas, a garden full of roses, shrubs and vines; a disorderly mass now, but capable of being a delight.
True to himself, he immediately set to work—in imagination—transforming the shabby house into a thing of beauty. His artistic eye could see how charming the parlor would be with the sunlight and the roses peeping through white-curtained windows, the lawn a velvety green, cleared of all but one grand oak, and the garden with trained vines and trimmed walks. What wonders might not paper, and paint, and pruning-knife accomplish! He grew enthusiastic over it as he went on. But what of it all when it was finished? It would be easy to give it into the hands of an agent to dispose of, and so have no further trouble about it, but he had an impression that in some way this house might be used for the comfort and help of some one in the Father's family, and he resolved to dedicate it to that purpose.
He sat on the porch and thought it all out while the shadows of the vines danced over him and the morning-glories nodded approvingly. Yes, he would make the place fresh and fair, and it should be to refresh the heart of some old saint who was homeless and friendless, with nothing left but memories of the past and hopes of the future.
"She will train these vines into orderliness and sit with her knitting in this shade," he said to himself, as he turned the key in lock and went his way. So eager was he to have the work commenced that he brought out his knife and clipped disorderly branches from the sweet-brier that overhung the gateway as he passed through.
The vacant cottage stood on a pleasant street that stretched itself on out into the country, and Mr. Thornton, lured by the beauty of the autumn days and the flaming colors hung out on a piece of woods not far distant, turned his steps thitherward, pausing a moment on the brow of the hill to take in all the beauty. He was rewarded by a tableau of surprising loveliness. Nature, growing lavish with the dying year, had again festooned the old tree trunks and brown limbs with royal hangings. Red maples, yellow elms and the pine's dark green, wove such tapestry of gorgeous tints and rare blending as Persian looms might assay in vain to imitate.
Under one of the maples, standing on tiptoe, and reaching up to the bright branches, was a young girl. The little figure was trim and neat in soft gray suit and well-fitting thick boots. She was no sylph-like maiden that a breath might blow away. Every curve of her form was instinct with life and energy, yet the attitude was the personification of grace. Her broad-brimmed hat had fallen back on her shoulders, and the upturned face was eager and rosy as a child's as she reached a plump hand far above her head, and almost grasped the coveted scarlet branch; like a child's, too, in the wave of disappointment that swept over it when she found her utmost efforts unavailing. She picked up the basket at her feet, already half filled with ferns, and moved on a few steps; then her face glowed again, and her eyes beamed on some new discovery. This was apparently no city maiden, come out for a sentimental stroll, for down she went on her knees before a clump of wood violets growing about an old stump. Eagerly she seized her trowel, carefully loosened the earth about them, and lifted them almost reverently into her basket.
Mr. Thornton was a devout admirer of the beautiful in art and nature, but he had not lived thirty years without knowing that a fair face and form may hide a hollow heart. He had studied, in the galleries of Europe, perfect faces, painted by the old masters; he had met in society women gifted with glorious beauty, and discovered that one was no more soulless than the other, consequently mere external charms failed to impress him deeply. And yet, screened by the friendly sumach, he watched with keen interest the pretty pose under the tree, and the childish attitude on the ground, as the energetic little worker lifted root after root of the homely plants into her basket. And this, not alone because she made a pretty picture, but it was refreshing as a breath of mountain air to discover one who could bring such enthusiasm to autumn leaves and a few wildwood plants, and step about with that joyous, unconscious air as if it were not in her nature to think of herself, or do anything for the mere sake of effect.
She fitted in well with the bright sky, bracing air and song of birds. He loved simple pleasures so much himself that he shared in her delight. As she disappeared into the woods far enough away for him to escape observation, he came and stood under the tree that had refused to give her one of its branches. From his height it was easy to reach the very one the little hand had aspired to; he broke it off, and several other bright sprays still higher up, then he dropped two or three of the finest just in the path by which she must return. And this he did, not from mere sentimentality; he would have done the same for any wrinkled old woman. It was this man's nature to help everybody to what they wanted, if it were right and he could do it.
He had the satisfaction after a little to see her come down the path, pause with a puzzled look beside the branches in her way, send a swift reconnoitering look about her, then with a smile and a murmured expression of delight, place them in her basket, the crowning glory of the whole. Then another scrutinizing sweep of her eyes, all about her,—half-frightened this time, as if she just realized that she was not alone, and she took up her basket and sped away like the wind.
Had she only known how true and good a man stood guard over her she need not have put herself in such a flutter. She walked steadily on, bearing her burden as bravely as though it were customary for the young ladies to walk through city streets carrying large baskets.
Lily Winthrop's home was on one of the broad avenues; a large old mansion that had been palatial in its day, but now owed its chief attraction to its location, and the fine grounds surrounding it. She was met in the broad gateway by a tall, silver haired old gentleman, who looked reproachfully at the basket and said:
"Lily, my child, is it possible you have brought that through the streets? Why did you not take Gretchen with you to carry it?"
"O, Grandpa! it is not at all heavy, and Gretchen was busy. See my spoils; look at that lovely bright maple branch. It is the strangest thing where that came from. I tried so hard to get it, but it was above my reach, and when I came back that way, there it lay right in the path! It must have been some good fairy or friendly squirrel who took pity on me. Aren't these ferns beautiful?"
"What if you had met the Berkeleys or the Madisons, and you carrying a great basket like any market woman?"
"I would have made my best bow to them, Grandpa, exactly as if I had nothing in my hand, and with my best clothes on, was sailing out to kill time; and I would have shown them all my worldly treasures, and perhaps I would have given them this lovely little bouquet which I will now give to you, my best grandpa, if you don't scold me any more." And she fastened on his coat a small bunch of scarlet berries, tiny white flowers, and dark leaves.
The old gentleman smiled down into her merry eyes, despite his vexation, and put his arm about her fondly.
"Poor child!" he said. "How can you keep a gay heart under such crosses as you have to carry!"
"All the crosses I carry are good for me, dear Grandpa. I have had a delightful time in the woods this afternoon. Now let us go in to tea. After that I have a fresh newspaper for you."
She stepped to her room and freshened herself with a soft lace necktie and a few bright leaves in her hair and at her throat, so that Grandpa's old eyes might imagine he had a lady in full dress at his table. Then she sat down and presided over the tea-urn with all due dignity and grace, taking care to have everything just as he liked it; the table in faultless array, and Gretchen with spotless apron in waiting, and certain other little ceremonies that he was fond of keeping up.
Supper over, and Mr. Winthrop comfortably established with his paper, Lily slipped off to the greenhouse to pot her ferns and violets. This was her workshop; here she toiled early and late, surreptitiously often, for it grieved the grandfather sorely that his darling had been brought to such straits, so she managed by various small strategies to keep from him the full extent of her labors.
It was the old story—unfortunate speculations—signing a note for another, etc., and a fortune had taken wings. Affluence and luxury had been exchanged for poverty, debts and anxieties. Lily had been bequeathed to her grandfather at the death of her widowed mother. So they two, the first and the last of the family, had been left alone in the old homestead; and it had been a happy life until this great change. Mr. Winthrop came out of the storm with nothing left but a small bank account.
A lifelong friend bought the residence at auction sale, telling Mr. Winthrop to stay just where he was; that when he needed the place he would let him know, giving him plainly to understand, however, that probably he should never ask him to leave it. And now the question arose as to what could be done to eke out a support without consuming at once the little they possessed. Mr. Winthrop had long since given up active business life; if there had been anything for him to do he was too feeble and aged to attempt it. Lily was a proficient in music, but, alas! there were many teachers and much competition. She succeeded by dint of great exertion in obtaining two or three pupils. They had many friends in their prosperous days who were "very sorry" for them now, but who considered it their solemn duty to employ none but German professors.
An inspiration came to Lily one day in this form: There was the greenhouse well stocked with plants, why should it not be a source of profit to them? It had always held a sort of fascination for her. She had watched John for hours, and asked questions innumerable, had even learned how to arrange flowers in different styles, little thinking the knowledge would ever prove useful to her. John had been dismissed, but she felt quite sure that by the aid of books she could care for the plants and realize a sum—with their other sources of income—sufficient for their wants. But there were difficulties in the way of accomplishing this. Her grandfather was a born aristocrat, and held to the belief that a lady, especially a Winthrop, must be hedged about with all sorts of dainty care, must not harden her hands with any manual labor, above all things must not engage in petty traffic like any huckster, in fine, that she was a rare and delicate flower that the winds must not visit too roughly, and that some chivalrous man must guard and cherish, as he had cared for her, and as he meant to do until this horrible thing had come upon them. "No, indeed, she must not think of putting her own hands to such work. If worst had come to worst, and they must make merchandise of the plants, then John must be recalled and the thing done up properly."
Poor Lily sighed, and tried to make her unpractical grandfather see that John would swallow up all the profits; but he was inexorable, declaring that as long as he lived she should never thus demean herself. Meanwhile, he should get into some business, he was sure. And now he cast about to see what he could do. Ah, yes, what? His business for forty years had been to direct others. He had been president of a bank and of a railroad company; but such offices are not open to men over seventy. He put pitiful little advertisements in the papers to the effect that "a skilled financier, one of large experience in railroading and banking desired a position." Then growing humbler would come down to "a ready accountant, a skillful penman, wishing a situation," forgetting that his poor old brain could scarcely add a column of figures correctly if life depended upon it, and that the trembling hand could no longer make graceful curves.
Day after day he sat and waited for the postman's ring; it sometimes came, but the longed-for letter did not come; then he was sure he should hear something to-morrow, and so the hours passed in trembling expectancy. While this was going on, Lily was hard at work pruning, potting, gathering out dead leaves and transferring plants from lawn to greenhouse, working in the early mornings while her grandfather slept. She must have it all in order, for she hoped to win him to consent to her plan after a time. And so it proved; by many womanly manœuvres she brought it about. She made her grandfather see that it was highly necessary to her health and happiness to be among the plants; then—"the shelves were getting crowded; would he sell a few young plants to Mr. Harris, the grocer."
At this, the old gentleman was nettled, saying, "Oh, that is small business; give Mr. Harris a few plants if he wishes them; we have more than enough."
Then Lily would fix her innocent brown eyes on her grandfather's and say, "Grandpa, I suppose I don't know much about business, but when you come right down to it, isn't it about the same thing to receive four or five dollars from Mr. Harris who wants our plants, as for you to have received four of five thousand dollars when you were a banker from men who wanted your services?"
At this grandpa laughed and said, "Go on, child, have your own way; you are a real Winthrop. If I once you take a thing into your head, you'll never give up till it is accomplished." He said to himself, "Sure enough, when you put it in that way, what is the difference?"
And now business began in a lively manner. Lily rose before the sun, cut her flowers and arranged them in attractive style, and Gretchen carried them to the market—transmuting rosebuds into beefsteak for the morning meal.
These bouquets were much in demand among people of good taste; they were not the stiff, ungainly things one usually sees, but were grouped loosely and tastefully together with a rare grace that could not be imitated. She possessed true womanly tact, and succeeded in interesting her grandfather in the structure and habits of plants. She brought books from the library, scientific and practical, and, during the long evenings they studied them together until the elder student began to catch some of the enthusiasm of the younger, and both grew to be wise in plant lore. Mr. Winthrop even came into the greenhouse himself and made bungling efforts to be useful. It touched Lily to the heart to see her stately, dignified grandfather, who had never dealt much with details of any sort, sitting before a basket of flowers, sorting out heliotrope, primroses and smilax with painful precision.
As for herself she was perfectly in love with the work; busy and happy she hind almost forgotten to notice that her many dear friends had nearly all ceased to visit her, so she had ample time for her new pursuit. Bringing to it such zeal and love, success was sure. Shut in her little green world, that other world where she had flitted about with gay butterflies of fashion, seemed far off—another state of existence; this greenery was a better, purer world; it was easier to remember the Heavenly Father when intimate with his delicate creations. Perhaps the work he gave man to do for the new-born earth always has peculiar blessings attending it. However it was, new color and roundness came to her cheek and unwonted love and consecration to her heart.
So two years passed away in quiet contentment. With much economy they were more than comfortable, were even able to pay a small rent which added not a little to the happiness of the proud-spirited old gentleman.
Just as they were looking forward to another winter of pleasure and profit everything was changed in the space of a few hours. Satan long ago intruded himself among vines and flowers and here he came again—in the person of a sharp, covetous man who claimed the property as his own. The friend, to whose generosity they owed so much, passed to another world without so much as a moment's warning. It had been his purpose to bequeath the Winthrop estate to its lifelong owners, but he had neglected to add this to his will. Much of the property now fell into the hands of a distant relative who claimed the last dollar that the law allowed him, although knowing the often expressed intention of the one whose wishes and words, as far as this life is concerned, had forever come to an end.
This very September morning, when the golden sunshine seemed full of blessing, the cruel order came to vacate the premises within three months. This was a heavy blow indeed, and Mr. Winthrop was almost crushed beneath it. To be turned out into the world without a home at his age was bad enough, but to bring this upon the dear child was fearful. All the old struggle of regret and remorse returned. To think that he should have imperiled all, when he had such a treasure entrusted to him. He walked the floor nights and days calling himself by all hard names, sometimes trying to pray, but in despair declaring that he had been so proud and covetous the Lord had forsaken him in his old age.
"Poor child!" he would exclaim to Lily. "What a pity it is that you belong to such a senseless old dolt."
Lily did not try to talk much at such times. She would sing low and tender in bird-like notes some sweet assuring words, oftenest his favorite hymn that he had sung and believed for fifty years:
"How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,Is found for your faith in his excellent Word."
The grand words of promise were sure to bring relief, and by the time she came to:
"I'll never, no, never, no, never, forsake—"
the poor heart was calmed.
"Here is a good place to read to-night, Grandpa," she sometimes said, turning the leaves of the large Bible to some chapter where God's loving heart whispers words that have comforted sad souls in all ages. When he had again realized these gracious promises it was easier to kneel and commit all to "Him who careth for us."
And so for the time being it seemed necessary that the learner turn teacher, and keep constantly before the fainting heart the unfailing Refuge.
"It will all come out right, dear Grandpa. You told me long ago that God cares for each of his children exactly as if that one were all alone in the world," she would say when the next dark cloud began to settle over him. "The Heavenly Father knows we need another home. He is surely getting it ready for us. We haven't suffered any yet; I know it will come in time."
Then Grandpa would murmur, "Blessed child, you shame my feeble faith."
Strong as Lily's confidence was, however, she went about the work of seeking some employment exactly as if everything depended upon her own efforts. Day after day with untiring perseverance she answered advertisements, seeking interviews with this and that one, but "the place was just filled," or they "needed no more help," or they "would consider her case." Nothing definite opened, though, through rain and mud, late and early, in schools, offices and families, she pursued her inquiries for a situation as copyist, teacher, governess—anything; pursued them without avail. "In all God's fair, wide world no corner for me," another might have bitterly murmured, but when he sweetens a spirit, what can make it bitter?
"It is His way for me, it must be the best way," she continually told herself as she plodded on, "walking with God in the dark," knowing that it was "better than to walk alone in the light;" then brought a cheerful face home to her grandfather, made his tea, sung his evening song each time as fresh and sweet and hopeful as if she had just concluded an engagement at a salary of a thousand or two a year. There were times, though, when it required all her fortitude to bear up against impertinent stares or cold rebuffs as she pushed her way into places where she would never have gone but from necessity. She was often obliged to struggle to keep back tears as she withdrew from some place where she had been rudely repulsed.
AH! It is pitiful—a woman knocking at iron doors and tugging with feeble fingers at heavy bars, watching eagerly if perchance the great gates may open never so little and let them into a niche—to work for bread. It is not the laborers, at their posts from sun to sun, who need our sympathy, after all. It is the long line of discouraged men and women who cannot get the work to do, who do what is harder than work—wait.
One morning in November, business took Mr. Thornton to one of the banks of the city. While he stood waiting for his account to be balanced, he heard a low, clear voice not far from him that thrilled and interested him at once, because there was trouble in the tones. One needed only to be in misfortune to possess strong attractions for Mr. Thornton.
A young girl stood at the counter below, conversing with one of the bank officers. The interview was not intended to be public, but the tones of one speaker were gruff and loud naturally, and could not easily be softened, while those of the other were clear and penetrating as a flute.
"Mr. Haines," she said, "would you not be so kind as to allow us to remain in our—in your house for the winter? We can pay a small rent, and it will relieve us of much embarrassment and distress if you will."
The voice matched the face, pure, true, and sweet, and the brown eyes looked pleadingly into the dead eyes of the speaker.
Not a muscle of his face changed as he said, "The time cannot possibly be extended beyond what I mentioned—Christmas week."
How could he speak of the glad Christmas-tide, the blossoming out of "peace on earth, good will to men," in that stony way and with that eager face before him!
"Sir," she said, and a little flash came into the eyes now, "I would never ask it for myself, but my grandfather is growing old. It is very hard for him to be turned out of the home where he has lived for forty years. Will you not have pity on an old man?"
"My plans are all made; I regret that I cannot accommodate you, Miss Winthrop. You must excuse me now, as I have an engagement," was the answer to the appeal, in the same business-like tones that he would have used if reading from his ledger. Then he walked away, and she stood for a moment, indignation, mortification and disappointment struggling together in her face.
As she turned to go, her eyes met Mr. Thornton's; such true, kind eyes they were; if only this man were Mr. Haines!
And Mr. Thornton, looking down at her, thought, "If only she were a little girl, or an old lady, I could go to her and say, 'Tell me your trouble, won't you?' But now, how can I help her?"
While he asked it, she was gone, and, as he stood wondering where he had seen the face before, there came a dim memory floating about it like a frame, of a blue September sky, bright leaves and ferns, and then he knew where. He resolved to know more of one apparently in deep trouble of some kind. He searched the directory, found the street and number, and soon after walked by the house. Yes, there was the name "Winthrop" on the door-plate, the letters nearly defaced by time, and the grand old place giving evidence that its owner had been growing old and poor. He saw the grand-looking old man, too, walking up and down the long veranda, his white hair blowing in the November wind, his hands crossed behind him, his head down, musing, the young man thought, on the past that had been lived in that house, and the future that was to be lived—where?
His heart went out in tender pity over him, and Mr. Thornton's pity was not wont to spend itself in mere emotions. He stepped into a street-car on his way home. There were but two passengers besides himself for several squares—two ladies, who, living in the same vicinity, and having just passed the house, were, naturally enough, discussing the very persons who occupied his thoughts just then.
"I'm sure I don't know what they are to do?" one said. "They are obliged to leave that house by Christmas. Just think of that! As many grand Christmas doings as they have had there! Pretty gay the old house used to be when Lily's father and mother were living. I should think it would break the old man's heart to go then; the contrast would be so sharp; his children gone, his wife gone, and now the old place must go, too."
"Yes, it is hard," the other lady replied, "but he has a great deal to be thankful for yet. He has his religion left, and the dearest comfort in Lily that anybody ever had. Lily is a noble girl. It is perfectly marvelous what she has accomplished. She has taken the entire care of the greenhouse and worked like any market woman; sold plants and flowers enough to realize a nice sum, besides teaching two or three music scholars. They have a little money left yet, I hear, and could probably get along nicely, situated as they were, but, as you say, I don't see just what they will do now. Old Mr. Winthrop is so much respected people would help them, I dare say, if they thought of it, but he is the last one to give hints, or even let them know how he is situated; pretty proud, the old gentleman is, but it is not to be wondered at, he's always been up, and he don't know how to come down."
"Everything would have turned out all right," said the first speaker, "if Mr. Walters had just put into his will what he intended to. He mentioned to several that he should give the place in the end to Lily. If only people would not procrastinate."
"If only he had given it to her then, you mean," returned the other. "It is a good deal better to help people over a rough place when they need it, I think, than to leave them a great sum at death, just as they are getting ready to die, and are beyond wanting any help. If I had much money to give away I am sure I should want to see it doing good as I went along."
They said much more, thoroughly discussing the situation as two women will who have no troubles of their own on their minds, and are free to attend to their neighbors. But then this was not ill-natured gossip, and Mr. Thornton really felt obliged to them for telling him so many things he wished to know.
Later in the day Mr. Thornton called upon Mr. Haines to inquire about the property, hoping that he might be able to get it into his own possession, but he was informed that it was not for sale—that the location was the choicest in the city, and the house was soon to be remodeled for the owner's own residence. Moreover, he could not extend the time, as carpenters were to commence work on the inside as soon as possible. He considered it a marked favor that he gave the family as much time as he did, but then, some people were always ungrateful.
The more Mr. Thornton heard of this family the more interested did he become. This old man to be turned out of his home; this fair, brave girl battling with poverty appealed to everything sacred and chivalrous in his nature. How much he wished they were friends of his that he might say, "Share my home with me." He passed the house frequently the next few days and hunted his brain for a pretext for calling. The opportunity came in an unlooked-for way. One morning while he was passing, Mr. Winthrop happening to be coming down the stone steps leading from his lawn, lost his footing and would have fallen forward on the pavement had not Mr. Thornton sprang to his aid. As it was, one of his ankles was injured so that he was obliged to lean on Mr. Thornton's arm and return to the house. On examination both gentlemen agreed that it was probably only a slight sprain, not requiring the attendance of a surgeon. Mr. Thornton remained and assisted in bathing and bandaging it with his own hands, declaring that he was experienced inasmuch as he once had a sprained ankle himself.
Mr. Winthrop was slow to take in strangers, but who could wrap himself in cold reserve before the fascination of Mr. Thornton's manner? It was the perfection of kindness and delicate politeness. Mr. Winthrop found himself conversing with the freedom of an old friend, and begged him when he took leave, to come again.
Mr. Thornton in turn was perfectly captivated with the old gentleman. A most delightful plan began to loom up in his mind, and he betook himself to his favorite retreat to perfect it. The cottage had passed through the renovating process and was now as neat and pretty a home as could be desired.
Inside, it was finished up according to Mr. Thornton's own taste, which was of the best. He had pleased himself by fitting up one room in the style of the olden time. The modern wall-paper adorned with morning glory vines, and the fern leaf carpet chimed in with the idea sufficiently well. He procured a wide lounge covered with chintz, two high-backed old rocking-chairs, and several others of antique patterns and splint-bottoms. From an old aunt's possessions, he begged a tall secretary and bookcase, curiously carved, a table with claw feet, and a stand with three legs. He put tall candlesticks of silver on the high mantel, brass andirons in the broad fireplace, and when he had a veritable hickory log snapping on them, the firelight dancing on the wall, and gayly flowered damask curtains at the windows, he delightedly pronounced the room as much like his great-grandmother's as he could make it.
To-night he dropped the curtains, drew the arm-chair to the fire, and settled himself to the solving of a problem. He often came to this room when he wanted to be specially quiet; indeed, so fascinated was he by it that he would have enjoyed taking up his abode there. The old lady for whom all this comfort was intended, had not yet appeared. He had been quietly waiting and watching, certain that in due time his offering would be needed, and now he felt assured the time had come. But how to bestow it on Mr. Winthrop without bringing him under a sense of obligation that would be embarrassing whenever they met, for he had no idea of dropping the acquaintance just begun! His sympathies had a wide scope, and yet his friends were few and choice; he hoped to number this pure-hearted, clear-headed old man among them, and, mayhap, this maiden of heroic deeds.
Open fires must be favorable to untying hard knots, for after knitting his brows for a time he seemed to have arrived at some conclusion that pleased himself, at least, and he turned to his table and wrote a letter, sealed and addressed it, then sank back in his chair with the air of one who has dispatched his business and is free to dream dreams of firelight.
The letter was not the only result of the cogitations. It was but a day or two after that when workmen were busy with shovel and saw and hammer engaged in building a greenhouse. The season favored the plan; the frosts not having penetrated the ground yet. Mr. Thornton was there continually, directing, watching with as much interest as if he contemplated taking up the vocation of a florist at once.
One evening the postman brought a letter of importance to the Winthrops. It was just at dusk, and Lily, returned from another day of fruitless wanderings, sat by the fire, feeling more depressed in heart than was at all usual with her. The day had been "dark and cold and dreary," and chilled her through and through, soul as well as body. None of this appeared, though, in the cheerful words she forced herself to speak to her dispirited grandfather, who had almost lost hope, though struggling hard to keep up. He did not know that in the dark and drizzle of the November night a light was on the way to him.
And now appeared Gretchen with a letter for Mr. Winthrop. Lily turned it over curiously, noting, as she passed it to her grandfather, that it was a city letter, and a feeble hope sprang up that Mr. Haines had relented, and would allow them to remain until spring.
Mr. Winthrop read it slowly through, once and again, and then almost sprang to his feet, forgetting his lameness in the excitement. "Lily," he called, "come here, quick! This is most extraordinary; read that—read it aloud! It must be that I have made some mistake." And Lily read:
"MR. WINTHROP:"Dear Sir: I write to inform you that I have been entrusted by a dear friend of yours—who is at present absent—with a piece of property which he desires to bestow upon you as a Christmas gift. The cottage is in the city, pleasantly located, with a fine greenhouse in good order. The key and the deed of it will be sent to you in the course of a month, when it will be ready for occupancy. I advise you thus early that you may shape your plans accordingly."Yours truly,"A. HATHAWAY.
"Now, dear child, what is the meaning of all this? Could anybody play such a cruel joke upon us?"
"Oh, no, no, Grandpa," Lily said, her face radiant. "It is the answer to our prayers. Have we not asked and asked Him for a home, and now he has sent it to us?"
Grandpa closed his eyes, and there was silence for a moment; each knew that the other was whispering thanksgivings too deep for spoken words.
"Bless the Lord, O my soul," Grandpa murmured at length. "This deliverance came for the sake of you, his little one; such stupid unbelief as mine could never have brought the blessing. But who is Mr. Hathaway, and why in reason did he not tell me the name of my friend? I will write to him this very evening, and know something more about this wonderful transaction."
It was as good as a play could have been to others, and much better than one could possibly be to Mr. Thornton, when he called later in the evening to inquire after the sprained ankle, to observe the change in the manner of both. The grandfather appeared to have chopped off ten years of age, and seasoned his speech with lively sallies and sparkles of wit as he had not done for a long time. The girl's eyes, too, had lost their look of patient care and sparkled with repressed joyousness. She seemed like one in possession of some happy secret, and in haste to be alone that she might turn it over and look at it. This was pure, exquisite pleasure to turn sighs into smiles. He knew us well who said, "It is more blessed to give than to receive."
"Hathaway" was Mr. Thornton's middle name, after one of his ancestors, "Allan Hathaway." He had never lived in that vicinity, so his namesake knew that he might safely hide behind it, especially as there was no one of the same name in the city. He felt too that he could truthfully say that he acted under the directions of another, who was Mr. Winthrop's dear friend, for was not the Lord whom they served both Master and Friend, and who but he had put it into his own heart to remember his servant?
The sprained ankle, though doing well, yet gave Mr. Thornton continued pretexts for calling very often. He brought in new books and the daily papers, and sometimes stopped to read the news to the invalid; then the two held many arguments and discussions on the topics of the day. Their views were too nearly alike to make the discussions very lively, though the fact gave each an exalted opinion of the other. Lily seldom joined them; not that she was indifferent to the fascination of such brilliant society, but there was much work to be done, now that they were not to be bereft of their beloved plants, and she took the opportunity to attend to it while her grandfather was being so pleasantly entertained. Perhaps too, the fact that the visitor seemed indifferent to either her absence or presence made her less anxious to be present. She was not one to thrust herself upon any person's notice. She had not done that when she was a courted heiress, certainly not now, when in the estimation of the world she had fallen from a great height. Had her spirit, been less sweet she might have felt a degree of pique at not being considered the chief attraction in the house, especially to gentlemen from whom she had received homage enough to spoil an ordinary girl. She settled finally down to the theory that Mr. Thornton was a philanthropist, not a wholesale one, but a grand, loving-hearted Christian, doing his Master's will in small things as faithfully as if they were great; and that he considered it his Christian duty probably to extend kindness and good cheer to her grandfather—and that he was only one of many objects of his charity—for of course he must know by this time about their reduced circumstances. She would have enjoyed the sweet savor of his conversation, as did everybody who ever talked with him, but she declared within herself, "He shall never have a shadow of cause to imagine that I appropriate these visits to myself, and so be annoyed and cease to come—that is probably the reason he never inquires for me at the door. I do want him to come, he is such a comfort to Grandpa."
With this tormenting suggestion, that some officious elf thrust into her mind, she allowed herself but seldom to remain in the room during his visits, and, depriving herself of a pleasure she would have enjoyed exceedingly, rarely joined in the conversation, only occasionally forgetting ugly suggestions of prim propriety, and putting in her vivacious word or merry laugh with such childlike abandon as made Mr. Thornton remember the maple leaves and the violets.
He did not mean to be an artful man, but the truth was, that there was not a look or tone or motion of this maiden's but he noted and studied, no matter how absorbed he pretended to be with the subject in hand. It puzzled him not a little that she seemed to avoid him, for he too was accustomed to being considered a person of importance. And yet it was almost refreshing to meet a young lady who did not constantly seek his society, oppress him with attention and smile approval upon him. Always smiling, it was restful to meet this face that could be grave, and lips that could be silent, or speak of something besides trifles and inanities.
And so the visits and the—studies—continued, twice, three times a week; if he were late, the old gentleman would fidget like a maiden waiting for her lover.
And now the greenhouse was completed, furnished with all the appurtenances that such an establishment requires. Some little changes, too, had been made in the cottage in consideration of the choice spirits who were to occupy it; in short, nothing more could be asked for it in the way of taste and convenience. The deed and the key had been sent as promised, and the Christmas gift had been searched out and found to be no myth, but a joyful reality; two delighted people had pronounced it "cosy," "lovely," "home-like." They were still in wonder and perplexity as to the donor. Mr. Winthrop lay awake nights, going as far back among the families of the city as his memory would travel, to find the name "Hathaway," but could get no clue. He turned over in his mind the names of all his acquaintances whom he knew to be abroad, and surmised it to be this one, and then that one, to whom he was indebted for this princely gift, but could never settle permanently upon any one. As much at home as Mr. Thornton had become in a short time in the household, Mr. Winthrop had never mentioned the matter to him; with true Puritan reticence, he kept his personal affairs, if possible, within his own family. So, as the time drew near for removal, the former could scarcely conceal a smile when Mr. Winthrop, with a touch of his old stateliness in his manner, said that he must make a disclosure that, perhaps, should have been made long ago; that he never liked to sail under false colors, and, while he would not hint that wealth was the sole standard Mr. Thornton set up for his friendships, still he wished him to know that he himself was a poor man, that his home had been taken from him, in fact, he was to leave it in a few days forever, for a small property that "was given to us by some unknown friend, and for which we hourly thank God," he said with moist eyes.
"But that is not all," he went on, as if determined to further mortify his remaining pride. "We are to be known hereafter as those who earn their daily bread by the toil of their own hands. I have been among the fools who thought it a disgrace to do so, but I have been rebuked for my foolish pride of birth, and now I lay it down forever; but I wish every one who seeks friendship with us to know the truth."
Mr. Thornton heard this speech with kindling eyes, and simply said, as he gave him a warm hand clasp, "Then, sir, you may have fewer friends, but truer.
"'The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel.'
"May I be so happy as to be one such friend?"
"What a thing it would be, eh? To be the father of such a son!" Mr. Winthrop said within himself, as he watched the young man spring lightly down the steps and walk away; and there were tears in the old eyes as he remembered a handsome profligate son who had found an early grave.
A few days before Christmas found the Winthrops established in their new home, happy, grateful souls as ever opened eyes on Christmas morning. The delightful old-fashioned house reminded one of a hen and chickens, so many small rooms joined on here and there clustering about it. Inside, it seemed to open in all directions, so that when you stood in the center you had a peep into every room. And each room, fitted up by Lily's artistic taste with articles that had long been heirlooms in the family, had an individuality of its own. The living room, warm and bright in rich colors, the dining room, with antique sideboard and a few old pieces of silver shining on it, the tiny green carpeted library, glimpses into one fair and white, the guest chamber, and another in rose tints, such as girls love, then the old-time room, which Mr. Winthrop declared was to be his the moment he saw it.
"It carries me back sixty-free years to my mother's knee," he said.
Mr. Thornton had come as soon as possible after the settlement of the new home and taken a delighted survey. He could scarcely have believed it to be the same, evidences of refined taste and deft fingers were everywhere.
"The most charming effect without exception that I ever saw in any house," he told his happy host, who took almost a childish pleasure in displaying his new possession, carrying his visitor at last in triumph to his own room and seating him in the arm-chair, with "Now did you ever see anything to equal this, even to the candlesticks and snuffer tray, all complete? This room does me more good than anything that has come to me in years."
And Mr. Thornton, looking into the old man's happy face, the firelight throwing a halo about his white hair; thanked God for money. His pleased eyes took in the fact, too, that the room remained unchanged in every particular, a tribute, he smilingly thought, to the taste of Mr. Hathaway.
ON Christmas Day, while her grandfather was safe in his room taking his afternoon nap, Lily resolved to surprise him, as well as commemorate this wonderful Christmas. Bringing out her store of pressed ferns and autumn leaves, together with some evergreens she had supplied herself with, she turned the little house into a bower of beauty. Vines festooned the pictures, and vines of bright autumn leaves ran along the gray walls. Evergreens wreathed the doorways, and chrysanthemums bloomed out unexpectedly from everywhere. She prepared the table in spotless old damask and shining silver, for their six o'clock dinner—sumptuous repast, by the way, which was not often indulged in, these days.
When all was done she put on a dress that she did not often have occasion to wear in her workaday world—a white cashmere, her grandfather's favorite. She put roses in her hair and at her belt, for grandpa's favorite flower was a rose. Then trembling with delight at the success of her plans, she tinkled the little bell and waited for him. He, too, had made some little attempts at festivity; had exchanged his dressing-gown for his best black coat. And now when he came into the room, ablaze with light, with odors of heliotrope and roses in the air, and a lovely vision in white demurely waiting to receive him, sweeping a low courtesy with "A merry Christmas to you, sir; happy and oft this day return to thee," he rubbed his old eyes in amazement and thought time had gone back forty years. There were two lookers-on in this scene, Gretchen standing just inside the kitchen door, her face in a broad smile of delight, and a gentleman who was guilty of pausing just for a moment on the porch, taking advantage of a forgotten uplifted curtain to enjoy the exquisite picture. He murmured "Beautiful!" but whether it referred to the charming room, the faultless table, the lovely girl, or the grand old man, who can tell?
He came in presently, bearing a basket of rare fruits; oranges, white grapes and bananas, which he presented with a "Merry Christmas" to Mr. Winthrop.
"You have friends with you?" he said, glancing about him.
"Oh, no, indeed! My little girl got up all this festive appearance to please her old grandfather. If you would honor us so much, Mr. Thornton, what pleasure it would give us could you remain and take a seat at our table. A friend is the only article we lack to make our Christmas a happy one."
So sincere an invitation needed little urging, especially as the guest experienced a sudden consciousness of the truth that in all the world there was not a table or a company that he would prefer. It was a most enjoyable Christmas dinner; not alone because the fare was delicious and delicate, but that these three, meet as often as they might, never lacked either topics or thoughts for conversation.
In the course of the evening, as they were discussing plants, Mr. Winthrop turned to Lily, saying, "My dear, take our friend out and show him that rare rose that opened to-day. I think there is not another plant like it in this country."
"Here is something finer than roses," Lily said, pausing at the entrance of the greenhouse by pots of English violets, white with blossoms.
"They are wonderfully sweet," he said, bending over them, "but I have a great partiality for their less pretentious American sisters, sturdy little souls, who push up green leaves through the snows fairly, and open their blue eyes smilingly in all sorts of weather. They are not exclusive, either; they make up for what they lack in fragrance by scattering themselves about the woods so that poor people may have them as freely as water or air."
"I can show you some of those, too," she said. "I brought them from the woods for the sake of old times. Here is my pet corner."
This was a moss-covered rock, the water trickling over it, tall ferns behind it, and clusters of wood violets nestling at the foot.
"This is a bit of the woods, you see, Mr. Thornton, except that the ferns are in pots, and the violets in boxes. Will not these violets be astonished when they wake up in this strange place instead of down by the stump in the woods where I found them?"
It seemed that Mr. Thornton's lips opened of themselves to say, "Yes, I very well remember the day."
And Lily, just then, remembered the day, too, and the curious circumstance that had often puzzled her—the maple branch broken off and laid in her path, and yet no one appeared to be in the woods but herself. "Was Mr. Thornton there, too?" She gave him a quick look, but he was absorbed in studying the violets with a perfectly grave face, and she put the idea from her as absurd.
"He is very absent-minded," she told herself; "is in haste to be gone, and considers me tiresome."
He came over again to the English violets and took long breaths of their sweetness, then said, "I have a friend who calls this her flower, and these blossoms are not more fragrant than is her spirit. Will you kindly cut a few for her?" And drawing out his watch, "It is quite time I was gone." He took his violets, lingered again outside, admiring the beauty of the scene. Everything was clear-cut against a cloudless sky and white moonlit earth.
"Gloriously beautiful, is it not?" he said. "Think of looking up at such a sky as that,—
"'In the solemn midnight, centuries ago,'
"searching for the one star."
"Think of seeing a multitude of angels appear in such a sky," she said, with upturned face.
The pure, rapt expression and the white robes made her companion fear for an instant that she would vanish out of his sight, and he involuntarily drew her hand through his arm and moved on.
"After all, Mr. Thornton," she said, "my thoughts are rather on the earth than the sky, to-night. 'Peace on earth, good will to men.' I've been singing it all day. The Lord has been very kind to us this Christmas. He sent us this lovely home for our very own—Grandpa told you, did he not? See it in the moonlight! Does it not look like a dear little gray dove nestled down among the snows and the evergreens?"
It was a glowing face Mr. Thornton turned to her. These were precious words to hear, and he rejoiced that his secret had been well kept.
In lieu of other friends this young florist held much converse with her flowers, fairly investing them with souls. She went back to them now, and looked them over lovingly.
"He has a friend who loves white violets," she told them. "Do you suppose she is like him?" but the perfumed breath did not answer.
"You darling!" to a white rose, "I'm so glad you have come; I have watched for you so long; perhaps she is like you, my queen," and she touched her lips to the delicate petals. "What if she were like you, Madam Camelia, in stiff white silken robes, or you, Lady Calla, beautiful, and white, and cold—not sweet? What if she be some little plain, humble creature like you, my mignonette, he would love her none the less, I am sure. But none of you tell me about her. You pansies, in your new purple and buff velvets, you are full of thoughts. Is she wise and good? She must be like him," she whispered to the heliotrope, putting her face down amid its sweetness, "or he could not have called her life fragrant." She put a sharp, quick check just then on both tongue and fancies, and reminded herself that she was taking an unwarrantable amount of interest in Mr. Thornton's affairs, and had enjoyed the evening far too much for one who had made such resolutions as she had. What a happy evening it had been! She had forgotten to put on her mantle of reserve when she donned her white cashmere. She had shown such pleasure at his coming, too, and so he was obliged to take early leave to impress it upon her that it was not she he sought; that his visits were purely benevolent. Speaking of his friend, too, as if to say, "Be careful, do not set your heart upon me." She felt vexed with herself. She talked no more to the flowers, but went about preparations for the next day's work with a resolute, business-like air. She clipped off blossoms energetically, and made them swiftly into little knots or graceful handfuls for the next day's market, for people would need flowers, even though Christmas had come and gone. Somehow the day had left a weight upon her spirits, indefinable and vague, but the very touch of the soft flowers and the cool green leaves calmed her, and brought sharp rebukes from her conscience. What ingratitude! It should end up in gladness, this day of days to them, and she shut the door on all disturbing thoughts, and broke out in song—snatches of old Christmas hymns. If she had but known that the violets travelled as fast as they could go to "The Old Ladies' Home," and gave out their fragrance by the bedside of an invalid who loved English violets as she did no other flower, because it was a breath from her native land; had she known, too, that the giver of them hastily plucked out a few before he parted with them, carefully placed them in an inner pocket, then stored them among his treasures when he reached home!
Life had settled down in the cottage to calm content. Mr. Winthrop seemed to have forgotten that he was ever other than a dweller in a humble home, with no more important business than sorting flowers and pruning plants.
Sturdy Gretchen was still at her post, maid of all work. In the time of the deepest trouble Lily had told her she must go as they had no means of paying her, but she shook her faithful head, saying, "No, no, I will stay. I haf leetle money, petter days come for you. You die if I leaf you; you haf so too much work; you good to me, I not go," whereat Lily bestowed upon her a warm embrace, thus forging the last link that bound her in loving servitude to the family.
By many skillful manœuvres Mr. Thornton had contrived to have his own gardener relieve them of much of the drudgery in the greenhouse, assuring Mr. Winthrop that the man must have more to keep him from idleness. Mr. Thornton himself was the best patron the greenhouse had, paying his own prices, which were exorbitant. One might suppose he furnished flowers for all the weddings and parties in the city. Certain it is that all his friends, and public charities with which he had to do, were kept well supplied. Plants, too, bloomed in attic windows that had been bare, and every old lady in the "Home" had her pet in the shape of a plant of his giving.
The winter was gliding away, and Mr. Thornton still spent long evenings at the cottage. He did not longer conceal from himself the fact that it was not benevolence alone that drew him thither, nor because a fireside and a welcome from a genial old friend awaited him. He had come to know that while he enjoyed Mr. Winthrop's conversation, and the room was as cosy as ever, yet there was a painful void about it all unless a maiden stole in, dropped the curtain, shaded the lamp, stirred the fire and sat in the corner opposite him, where his eyes might often meet hers; indeed she could converse well with her eyes, and give one a tolerable impression of her thoughts and convictions without spoken words, as they thoughtfully gazed into the fire, rested in smiling affection upon her grandfather, or flashed an appreciative look at some word of his own. If he had sometimes made reply to a profound opinion of Mr. Winthrop's in words that were floating through his mind, they might have been these:—
"A sweet attractive kinde of grace,A full assurance given by lookes,Continuall comfort in a faceThe lineaments of Gospell bookes."
And yet he had by no word or look to her given a sign of all this. The truth was, Mr. Thornton had been engaged in an intricate though delightful study. His heart was pleading to go in a certain direction, and he, holding it back, declared it never should, unless reason and conscience approved.
There was a cause for this excessive caution. He had seen much hollowness and deceit in society, had found a low standard among young ladies themselves, and their pleasure being so universally the aim of life, that he was tempted to believe that sterling worth in womankind had died with his mother and grandmother. Moreover, he had in early manhood a bitter experience; had been carried captive by a beautiful face, and came near linking his life to one who proved to be empty-headed and empty-hearted, and yet she was fair as an angel, and counterfeited all virtues and graces most admirably. It was a keen disappointment, and inclined him to place no confidence in mere appearances. And so he had watched this lovely flower unfolding day by day before him, hardly daring to hope that the self-sacrifice, the consecration and sweetness were genuine, trembling lest some day he should discover the hideous blight spot.
It had come to be a matter of course that as often as Mr. Thornton came, he carried away a knot of white violets for his friend, and Lily, while she made it up with care, made up also a pretty little romance. She pictured his friend a fair, sweet creature, arrayed in garments of finest texture and softest tints, with rare old laces and jewels, and a hint odor of violets always about her. How blest and happy must she be, having the right to wait and watch for him, to be glad at his coming—always with her flowers! How lovely she must be when that rare, delicate fragrance typified her to him!
If sometimes while she worked, a tear sparkled on the white blossoms, she dashed off the intruder and took herself sternly in hand. What was this? Was she growing envious? Jealous? What? Ah! She must look well to her heart, treacherous heart repining at another's happiness. This was only momentary weakness that nobody guessed aught of—that she did not admit even to herself. She still went her daily rounds, cheerful, trusting, thankful, looking with brave eyes into the future that promised only a life of toil.
It so happened that Mr. Thornton sometimes sought her in the greenhouse, as the evening waned and she did not appear; but she seemed absorbed in her work, and determined to take for granted that it was a purely business call with a pertinacity that was both amusing and annoying; annoying in that the chief subject of Mr. Thornton's perplexed musings in these days was, not what estimate to put upon her, but to discover, if possible, what one she put upon him.
One evening he strayed in and laughingly declared that she "must suspend industry for a time, and turn cicerone, as there were doubtless many points of interest in her flowery kingdom that he had not yet visited."
The enthusiastic florist was always pleased to do this, much more when one could open up such treasures of riches on any theme as could this devout student of nature. And so, all unawares as they went about, she was drifted into a sea of most delightful talk. They discussed families and the different members, as if people and not plants were being analyzed. He described some of the curious relatives of these families that he had met in foreign lands. Then they came down to the broad plane; the wonderful variety in form, color and fragrance, of God's beautiful creations, the thought of us in it all; and here there were so many things to be said, such perfect harmony of thought, that the talk flowed on and on, until Lily had forgotten that she was to maintain a dignified reserve toward this friend of her grandfather's. They came at last to clusters of lilies of the valley—just putting forth creamy bells.
"Dear little hardy things," Mr. Thornton said, bending over them. "These are petted children, but their poor relations come trooping out before winter has fairly left us. They are my favorite lilies, so brave and sweet and modest."
"You surely forget," Lily said, "that the lily family is a large one."
"Yes, I know. There's that immense one, all purple and gold and crimson; you may admire it in the distance. Then the day lilies are sweet, but they are stiff and ungraceful. The tiger lilies are showy, but mere show never commends itself to me; they have no fragrance."
"You forget the queenly calla."
"No; she is grand and beautiful, with stately manners, but you cannot take her right into your heart like these tiny creatures. These fit everywhere. They may fasten the bride's veil or strew the dead baby's pillow. You may give a handful to a beggar, or lay them in a sick, weak hand, and their perfume will steal softly up and bring comfort. They are such drooping, graceful bells, humbly hiding away in their green. I repeat, I love them best. Will you give me a few for my friend? She, too, is a lover of them."
Lily was vexed at herself that her cheek just then took on the hue of the rose that it brushed against.
"His 'friend!' alway that friend. Why did she seem like an unwelcome spectre?"
While she clipped the stems and put them together, he talked on.
"I said these were the flower of flowers to me; I should have excepted one other."
Has she not been so occupied in controlling the disturbance that "my friend" aroused, she would have noticed a quality in the tones that had not been there before, as well as the look that searched her face when she raised her eyes, after a little pause, with "Well?"
"This flower that I have in mind is a very hardy one, also. It will flourish in almost any climate; indeed, the more rocky the soil, and the rougher the winds that blow upon it, the more beautifully it develops."
"That is strange," she said, intent on fashioning her bouquet.
"What is stranger still, it blooms all the year round."
"Is it fragrant?"
"Wonderfully so. Not a flower that ever I saw can compare with its delicate fragrance."
"What color is it?"
"White, with a delicate flush of rose."
"It must be lovely," she said, holding off her flowers to get the effect of the arrangement. "Where are those flowers found?"
"They are very rare. I never saw but one."
"Did you say it was a lily?"
"A lily."
"Where did you see it, Mr. Thornton?"
"Not far from this very spot, in the woods, under a maple tree, one autumn day, was where I first saw it," he said, looking into her eyes.
And now the cheeks took on the rose hue again and went down among the green leaves. In a flash it came to her—his meaning—and the maple bough in the path; it was he, then, who broke it off and left it there for her.
What words these would be to her if it were not for this bouquet she was making that reminded her of "his friend." What right had he, though, to trifle with her, making her show all her heart in her face?
Without speaking, she hastily broke off a few white violets, twisted them together, and, with the lilies, pushed them toward him, saying coldly: "Here are your friend's flowers. Excuse me, Mr. Thornton, but I must go in. I think my grandfather is waiting for me—" "As your friend probably is for you," she wanted to add.
Mr. Thornton did not seem quenched in the least, but he smiled in the darkness as he walked behind the cool little lady into the house, while the full meaning of white violets and "your friend" dawned upon him.
Here was another bright leaf in the unfolding of this rare flower—she would have none of what rightfully belonged to another.
As Mr. Thornton took leave of her grandfather, he said to Lily,—
"Do you feel like performing a charitable deed to-morrow? Will you go with me to see a dear old saint who has not long to live, and who would be cheered, no doubt, by a visit from you?"
She hesitated a moment, and her grandfather answered for her:
"Why, certainly she will go; she never refuses a call of that kind. You can go to-morrow, can't you, dear?"