[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]

DE FORREST tried to laugh at his discomfiture
when he appeared at the dinner-table, but
he was evidently annoyed and vexed with its author.

“It was very nice of you, Mr. Hemstead,” said
Lottie, “to permit yourself to be pelted by us. You
evidently did not think us worthy of your steel.
But I fear you gave Julian a strong compliment.”

“I only returned one of his.”

“But he did not hit you.”

“He meant to. We form our most correct judgment
of people sometimes from what they intend,
rather than what they do.”

“Well, I thank you for my share of the sport.”

“And I thank you for mine.”

“What occasion have you to thank me, when I
almost put your eyes out with snow?”

“You did not so blind them but that I could see
a face aglow with exercise; that made a pleasing contrast
to the cold white snow.”

“Frank, Frank, you will make Lottie vain,” said
Mrs. Marchmont. “I did not know that complimenting
was permitted to you.”

“That is all right, sister,” said Mr. Dimmerly

[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]

“That's where he shows his good blood and connection
with an old family. He is gallant to the ladies.
They can't get that out of him, even at a theological
seminary.”

Hemstead's blushing confusion increased the
laught at this speech.

“Oh, mother,” exclaimed Addie, “we are all going
on a frolic to-night. You know that poor, forlorn,
little minister at Scrub Oaks, who has six children,
and gets but six hundred a year? Well, they are
going to give him a donation to-night, so a dilapidated
pillar of the church told us. We were invited
to come, and Lottie wants to go.”

“Very well, my dear, since you and our guests
wish it.”

“Now, auntie, that's very sweet of you to answer
so,” said Lottie. “I want to see the queer, awkward
country people who go to such places. They amuse
me vastly; don't they you, Mr. Hemstead?”

“They interest me.”

“Oh, it wouldn't be proper for you to say
`amuse.'”

“Nor would it be exactly true.”

“Why, Lottie,” said Addie, “you know that
ministers only think of people as a sad lot that must
be saved.”

“We'll help make a jolly lot there, to-night,”
said Lottie, with a swift glance at Hemstead's contracting
brows. “Moreover, auntie, I want to see
what a minister that lives on six hundred a year
looks like. We give our pastor ten thousand.”

[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]

“You need not go so far for that purpose, Miss
Marsden,” said Hemstead quietly; “that is all I shall
get.”

“What!” she exclaimed, dropping her knife and
fork.

“That, in all probability, will be my salary at
first. It may be but five hundred.”

“Is that all they pay you for going out among
the border ruffians?”

“That is the average.”

“I wouldn't go,” she said indignantly.

“You may rest assured I would not, for the
money.”

“Frank will change his mind before spring,” said
his aunt; “or a year at least among the `border ruffians'
as you call them, will cure him, and he will
be glad to take a nice church at the East.”

“What do you say to that, Mr. Hemstead?”

“Perhaps I had better answer by my actions,”
he replied.

“But I can see from the expression of your eyes
and mouth, a very plain answer to the contrary.
Mr. Hemstead, you could be a very stubborn man if
you chose.”

“I hope I could be a very resolute one.”

“Yes, so we explain ourselves when we will have
our own way. I think Aunt Marchmont's suggestion
a very good one.”

“If we go to the donation we shall have to take
something,” said Bel.

“Oh, yes,” exclaimed Addie “I am told all sorts

[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]

of queer things are brought. Let us take the oddest
and most outlandish we can think of. Uncle, there
is your old blue dress-coat; we will take that for the
minister. Wouldn't he look comical preaching in it.
And mother, there is your funny low-necked satin
dress that you wore when a young lady. I will take
that for his wife.”

“I understand everybody brings pies to a donation,”
said Harcourt. “I shall be more pious than
any of them, and bring over fifty from town this
afternoon. I will buy all the bake-shops out, in my
zeal, enough to give the parson and all his people the
dyspepsia for a month.”

“If he lives on six hundred, nothing could give
him the dyspepsia save his own sermons, I imagine,”
said De Forrest. “My young lady friends have
half filled one of my bureau drawers with smokingcaps.
I have one with me, and will give it to the
minister.”

“You vain fellow,” laughed Lottie. “I never
gave you one.”

“Rest assured, no minister,—even were he a
minister to the Court of St. James—should get it, if
you had.”

“What will you take, Mr. Hemstead?” asked
Lottie, noting his grave face.

“I shall not go.”

“Why not? You spoke as if you would, this
morning.”

“I cannot go under the circumstances.”

“Why not?” asked Addie, rather sharply.

[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]

“Could we take such gifts to a gentleman and
lady, Cousin Addie?”

“Well, I suppose not,” she answered, reddening.

“I see no proof that this clergyman and his wife
are not, in the fact that they are compelled to live on
six hundred a year. Besides, I have too much respect
for the calling.”

“Don't you see,” said De Forrest to Addie, in a
loud whisper, “`Our craft is in danger.'”

“Your explanation is more crafty than true, Mr.
De Forrest,” said Hemstead, looking him straight in
the eyes.

“Come,” cried Lottie, “my party is not to be
broken up. Mr. Hemstead, you need not look so
serious or take the matter so much to heart. As
you declared once before to-day, we were only `talking
in jest.' You cannot think we would willingly
hurt the feelings of your brother clergyman. Surely,
if you thought they were serious, it was good of
you to stand up for him. We will all give money:
that must be the thing the poor man needs most
sorely.”

“I will give twenty-five dollars if you will, Mr.
Hemstead,” said De Forrest, with a malicious twinkle
in his eye.

“That's liberal of you, Julian. That's action in
the right direction,” said Lottie; and she turned to
Hemstead, expecting a prompt response. But the
moment she saw his face, she surmised the truth and
De Forrest's motive in making the offer, and what
had appeared generous, was now seen to be the

[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]

reverse. But she determined that Julian should give
the money, nevertheless. Still she did not at once
interfere, but watched with no little curiosity, to see
how Hemstead would extricate himself.

The young man was much embarrassed. He had
an innate horror of seeming niggardly, and the course
he had taken made his position more delicate. But
his simplicity and truthfulness came to his aid, and
he said firmly, although with a crimson face:

“I am sorry I cannot accept your generous proposition,
but I will give in accordance with my ability.
I can give only five dollars.”

“Mr. Dimmerly and Mrs. Marchmont looked
annoyed, while Addie gave utterance to an audible
titter, Bel laughed, and then looked as if she had
done wrong.

But Lottie, with graceful tact, which was still
only good acting, said:

“And that I am sure, is all that can be asked of
Mr. Hemstead or of any one. But the poor man
shall not lose the money, Julian, for I will supply
Mr. Hemstead with what is lacking.”

“Pardon me, Miss Marsden, I cannot take it.”

“Not even for this needy minister with his six
children?”

“I cannot sacrifice my self-respect for any one,”
he said. “Why cannot Mr. De Forrest give what
he wishes, without imposing a condition which leaves
it doubtful whether he is to give at all.”

“Oh, yes; he is to give,” said Lottie promptly.
“I take your offer, Julian. It's delightful to have

[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]

such a genuine object of charity as a minister living
on six hundred a year.”

This was spoken very innocently, but was in
reality a keen thrust at Hemstead, who had so
recently stated his prospective income at that sum.
That the others understood it as such, was shown by
their significant glances, as they rose from the table.

Hemstead could not discover from Lottie's face
whether she meant a covert allusion to himself or not.

Harcourt drove over to town, promising to be
back in time. The other young people said that the
long drive had made them drowsy, and retired to
their rooms for a nap. Hemstead went to the parlor
and tried to read, but his thoughts wandered
strangely. The beautiful face of Lottie Marsden
haunted him, and the puzzling contradictions of her
words and manner, kept rising in his mind for solution.
After a prolonged reverie, he came to the
conclusion:

“I have left nothing ambiguous about myself. If
she is friendly after this, she knows just who and
what I am. It's plain the others think me no addition
to their company, and I'm almost sorry I accepted
aunt's invitation. However, I can shorten
the visit if I choose;” and he turned resolutely to
his book.

Instead of donning her wrapper, as did Bel, Lottie
sat down before the fire, and, as was often her
custom, commenced half-talking to her friend and
familiar, and half-thinking aloud to herself.

“Well, he is the frankest and most transparent

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man I ever saw. I have been acquainted with him
but a few hours, and I feel that I know him better
than Julian, with whom I have been intimate so
many years.”

“He's sincerely, honestly, good, too,” said Bel.
“I think it's too bad, Lottie, that you all treat him
so. It's really wicked.”

“Yes,” said Lottie, meditatively. “It's a good
deal more wicked than I thought it would be.”

“Then you will give it up.”

“No indeed. I haven't said that.”

“How can you do it, Lottie, when you know it
is wrong?”

“I knew it was wrong when I commenced. I
only know now that it is a little more wrong. Why
should I give up my fun on that account? I might
as well die for an old black sheep, as a speckled
lamb.”

Bel yawned at the rather peculiar and tragic
ending that Lottie suggested for herself, and was
soon dozing on a lounge. But either a restless spirit
of mischief, or a disturbed conscience, prevented
Lottie from following her example.

It would at times seem true that, when engaged
in something that conscience forbids, the
very opposition incites and leads to the evil. The
conflict between inclination and the sense of right
creates a feverish unrest, in which one cannot settle
down to ordinary pursuits and duties. If principle
holds the reins, and the voice of conscience is clear
and authoritative, the disturbed mental and moral

[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]

state will end in the firm choice of duty, and consequent
peace and rest. But if, as in the case of Lottie
Marsden, impulse rules in the place of principle,
and conscience is merely like a half-dreaded, reproachful
face, this unrest is the very hour and opportunity
for temptation. Some escape from self and solitude
must be found—some immediate excitement must
engross the thoughts, and the very phase of evil,
against which conscience is vainly protesting, has at
the same time the most dangerous fascination.

So Lottie ran away from her own self-reproaches
as a naughty child might from a scolding and
was soon at the parlor entrance with a noiseless
tread, a grace of motion, and a motive that suggested
the lithe panther stealing on its prey. The door was
ajar, and a hasty glance revealed that the object of
her designs was alone. Her stealthy manner changed
instantly, and she sauntered into the room with quiet
indifference, humming an air from Faust.

“Oh, you are here,” she exclaimed, as if suddenly
becoming aware of his presence. “Why do you not
take a nap like the others? I hope you are not
troubled by a bad conscience.”

“What suggested a bad conscience, Miss Marsden?”

“Your sleeplessness.”

“I am glad it was not your own. Why are you
not taking a nap? I thought you started for one.

“So I did, but found I did not want it. But you
are not a Yankee that you must answer my question

[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]

with another. What are you reading? Won't you
read it to me?”

“I would rather not read this book to you; but
I will any other that you wish.”

“You must learn human nature better, Mr.
Hemstead. Don't you know that you have said
just enough to make me wish that book and no
other? What is it about?”

“I feel sure that it will have no interest for you.
It is one of the latest infidel attacks upon the
Bible.”

“Oh, you are afraid to have me read it.”

“Yes; but not for the reasons implied in your
tone.”

“Don't you see that you are taking the very
course to awaken my curiosity, and to make me wish
to hear just that book? If you had said, `Certainly
I'll read it to you, but you won't like it, for it's only
a dry, heavy book upon a heavy subject,' I would
never have looked into it, but would have asked for
something else.”

“That would hardly be true, Miss Marsden.
Though I regard it as an evil and dangerous book,
it is exceedingly clever, and well written, and it is
quite popular in some circles. I suppose it has been
sent up to Aunt Marchmont with other new books
of note.”

“I must certainly read it, since you won't read it
to me. Forbid a child to do a thing, you know, and
you have given the strongest motive for doing just
that thing.”

[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]

“You are not a child, Miss Marsden.”

“What am I, then?”

“I hardly know; but you are capable of realizing
one's best ideal, almost.”

“Almost! thank you.”

“Perhaps my language is stronger than you
realize. The woman who could answer to my ideal
would be nearly perfect.”

“And do you think such a paragon would go out
among the border ruffians with you?”

“No, nor anywhere else with me. I was speaking
of my ideal.”

“You do not expect to marry your ideal
then?”

“I suppose love transfigures the one we love, and
that this is the only way we can ever meet our ideal
in this life. But sometimes we see one who it seems
might approach even the ideal of our unbiassed
fancy.”

“It is well that you admire these exquisite creatures
at a distance,” she said, dryly. “I can't see
why men will always be so foolish as to think pretty
women are good women. But if I am not a child
why may I not read that book? You intimate that
it will not shake my belief.”

“I do not think it would—at least I hope it
would not.”

“You are not sure.”

“I'm sure it will not shake the Bible. Every age
has teemed with infidel books. Yet God's Word
stands to-day as strong and serene as that mountain

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yonder to which the setting sun has given a crown
of light.”

“Your figure is pretty, but unfortunate. The
sun is indeed `setting,' and soon the mountain will
lose its crown of light and vanish in darkness.”

“But does it vanish,” he asked quickly, “in the
transient darkness like a cloud tipped with light?
Such a cloud is a fit emblem of this brilliant book,
and of multitudes like it that have preceded, but
which, like lurid vapors, have vanished from men's
thought and memory. Even with my immature
mind I can detect that this clever work is but an airy
castle, soon to fall. What infidel book has ever
gained or kept a lasting hold upon the popular heart?
Let the darkness swallow up the mountain there.
If we go where it is at midnight, we shall find it
intact, and just as firm as when the sun is shining
upon it. The searching light of every day, from year
to year and age to age, will find it there just the
same. The long night of moral darkness which culminated
in the 15th century, though it hid the
Bible, did not destroy it. Luther at last found and
brought it out into the broad light of general study
and criticism. For generations, it has been assailed
on every side, but it stands in the calm unchanging
strength that yonder mountain would, were it surrounded
by children shooting against it with arrows.
Believe me—I do not fear for the Bible. If all the
light of human knowledge were turned upon it in
one burning focus, it would only reveal more clearly
its intrinsic truth; and if superstition, as it has in the

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past, or infidelity, as was the case in France, creates
temporary darkness, the moment that, in the light of
returning reason, men look for the Bible, they find it
like a great solemn mountain, that cannot be moved
while the world lasts, just where God has placed it.”

“Mr. Hemstead, don't you know that young
gentlemen do not talk to young ladies as you do
to me?”

“You know very well that I am not a society
man.”

“Oh, I'm not complaining. I rather like to be
talked to as if I had some brains, and was not a
doll. If you are so sure about the Bible, why do you
fear to have me read arguments against it?”

“I am not so sure about you. If I should listen
to a plausible story against you, without knowing
you or giving you a fair hearing, I might come to be
prejudiced—to believe you very unworthy, when the
reverse would be true. So the minds of many, from
reading books of this nature, and not giving the Bible
a fair hearing, become poisoned and prejudiced.”

“Then why do you read it?”

“For the same reason that a physician would
study a disease, not that he may catch it, but
understand and know how to treat it. This book
is a mental and moral disease, and I do not wish
you to run the risk of catching it, though I do not
think it would prove fatal, if you did. Your own
heart and experience would probably correct the
error of your head. Such books as these won't
answer in times of illness or deep trouble. We turn

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from them as instinctively and certainly as we do
from noise, glare, and gayety.”

The mountain without was now in the shadow.
The early twilight of the December evening had
darkened the wintry landscape; but the ruddy glow
of the hickory fire revealed how beautiful Lottie's
face could be, when composed into womanly truth
and thoughtfulness.

“I have never had a serious sorrow or illness,
and I wonder what I would do if I had?” she queried
musingly, as these sombre events, which sooner or
later must come into every life, rose up before her.

“I know well what you will do when they come,
as come they will to us all,” said Hemstead gently.
“As surely as you would cling to a strong arm were
you sinking in deep waters, just so surely you will
turn to the Bible, and to Him who said, `Let not
your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.'”

The truth, if given a hearing, is ever powerful—
the truths of our own sad experience—the answering
and remedial truth of God. Unexpectedly and
unintentionally on her part, both these phases of
truth had gained the ear of Lottie Marsden. The
sorrowful and suffering days of the future threw
back their shadows upon her, and her heart sank at
their prospect; and with the certainty of intuition
she recognized the answering truth, and felt that she
would indeed be glad to cling to One who had the
right and power to utter such tender, reassuring
words as Hemstead had quoted.

Of all spells, that of truth is the strongest. Under

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it the impulsive girl buried her face in her hands and,
with a quick sob, cried:

“Oh, that I were better!”

Then springing up, she gave Hemstead a strange,
earnest look through her tears, as if she would read
his soul. But she saw only honest sympathy.

He was about to speak again, but she abruptly
left the room.

p668-125

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