"It would do you good to come to our meeting some Sunday, just to see Mr. Bowen's face," Mrs. Blake remarked to me one day, some time after the tailor and women folk had completed very satisfactorily their work.

"I would like to go for other reasons than that. One is to hear your minister pray once more, and also to hear him preach."

"Can't you come next Sunday morning?"

"Our service is at the same hour. I do not think Mr. Winthrop would like me to leave our own church. He is very particular about such things."

"I don't see why he should; for he don't set much store by religion."

"He may give me permission to come some time."

"I wish he would come too. Our meetings are so good now. Daniel has perfessed religion."

She spoke in such subdued fashion I looked at her in surprise, thinking she might soon follow his example. I think she was waiting for me to say something; but I felt myself so ignorant on this great subject, I knew not what to say.

"I've wished often of late that I'd never been born. Where I'm to go to once the breath leaves my body, is an awful thought." She burst into a fit of bitter weeping that frightened me.

"Christ is very merciful," I faltered, not knowing what to say.

"I've read that and heard it many a time; but we've been such a heathenish lot, I'm afraid He's left us to ourselves."

"If He has remembered Daniel, that should encourage you."

"He's not lived without thinking of Him as many years as I have."

She sat with bowed head, quietly weeping, the picture of despair. I touched the hard, wrinkled hand that had so often generously ministered to the wants of others.

"Have you asked Christ to forgive you?"

"Asked Him?" she sobbed, "I've been crying day and night for weeks; but I'm only getting further away all the time."

"Does your son, or Mr. Lathrop know?"

"I reckon they don't. I was ashamed for any one to know; but I couldn't help telling you."

"I think it is because you are ashamed that Christ don't bless you."

"I've felt I ought to get up and tell them in meeting what a sinner I've been; but I've always prided myself on being as good as them that's made a perfession, and they all know what a hard, proud wretch I am. I expect they'd say I was a hypocrite."

"I think if you confessed to your church what you have just told me, and asked them to pray for you, God would make you His child. It seems to me any petition Mr. Lathrop and Mr. Bowen would dare to present would be received and granted."

"It's hard on flesh and blood," she moaned.

I saw she was in deep distress and could not understand why she was unwilling to make the confession that might bring peace.

"I wish I'd tended to this when I was young and my heart was easier made new. It's next to impossible to make a crooked old tree turn and grow straight."

"With God nothing is impossible," I whispered encouragingly.

"Yes, the minister said that last night, and looked straight at me. Maybe he saw trouble in my face, and wanted to help me in spite of myself." She grew calmer at last. "Now I won't worry you any longer, and I believe I feel better for telling you. I mean to tell them to-night what a proud, stubborn wretch I've been, and ask them to pray for me."

She got up and put on her shawl with a resolute air as if her mind was fully made up, no matter how hard the task might be.

"We'll step in and see the Larkums. You'll hardly know them now, they're so perked up and tidy. Deary me! how far a little help goes sometimes when folks have a mind to help theirselves."

On our way she said, with matter-of-fact calmness, at the same time setting my blood thrilling through my veins: "I want you to talk with the doctor. I just seen him going to see Mrs. Larkum, and that's what made me hurry you off so soon from my place."

"What do you want me to talk about?" I asked, with some surprise.

"Well, he was looking at Mr. Bowen's eyes the other day, and he says they can cure him up in New York, so he'll see just as well as ever."

I stood perfectly still in the road, my surprise and gladness making me forgetful of everything. "Can this be really true?" I gasped.

"It's a fact; he told me so himself the last time he was there, all about it. I can't just mind all the long words, 'twould take a dictionary to follow him; but the long and the short of it is that he can go into a big hospital, mostly for such things; and there's a great doctor there 'll do it for nothing, provided Mr. Bowen lets a lot of students come and watch. I guess that's the way the doctors gets their pay from poor folks; and then, if they die, they have their bodies to cut and hack into. But Mr. Bowen says they may bring all the people in the city if they want to. He don't mind how many looks at him while they're fixing his eyes."

"When will he go?"

"I'm afraid that depends on you. We told the doctor so, and he asked what made a young lady like you set such store by them?"

"What reply did you give?"

"Oh, Mr. Bowen answered for us. He said 'twas because you were one of the Lord's children or was soon going to be; and one of them rare ones we read of in books."

"Mr. Bowen is too partial to be a correct judge, I am afraid."

"Well, the doctor kind of thought you'd find it pretty hard to be much of a Christian at Oaklands; but Mr. Bowen said, not any harder than them folks what had their heads cut off and were burnt for their religion."

"Not any harder," I said, more to myself than to Mrs. Blake, but ah! how hard it might be, only God could know.

"But we must plan about Mr. Bowen. Will it cost very, very much?"

"My, no; he's got a good suit of clothes, and that's the most that's wanted. His fare from here to New York and back 'll be the heft of the expense."

"If that is all, he shall go to-morrow. I have more than enough money on hand for that, and a good deal of incidental expense beside."

"I reckon he'll pay you all back; for he was a prime book-keeper before he lost his eyesight. He's a good scholar, too, and got a first-rate salary."

"Then he will leave me deeper in debt than ever."

"What for?" she asked curiously.

"Many things—his prayers most of all. Lessons of patience and faith, too, that money never could buy."

She remained silent until we reached Mrs. Larkum's. We found the doctor there. He was an old acquaintance. I had met him at a good many evening parties, and at a garden-party or two, where he had several times been my partner in lawn tennis, and an excellent partner I had found him, making up for any lack of skill on my part.

His greeting was exceedingly cordial, and in a blunt way he plunged right into the business in hand. "We are very glad to see you; we have some grave advice to ask."

"I feel quite elated at making one in a medical consultation," I said with a smile.

"I am not sure if you have not done more to restore health in this house than I. The world is too slow recognizing other healers than those embraced by the medical faculties."

"It's my opinion doctors knows less than one thinks of folks' insides. They're as apt to make mistakes about people dying or getting well as any of us. I don't put near as much faith in 'em as the common run of folks," Mrs. Blake said with delicious candor.

"Really, I thought you had a better opinion of us as a profession than that. If you get sick, you will of course dispense with our services."

Mrs. Blake looked perplexed, but after a moment's hesitation she said:

"If I was sick I'd want to see a doctor just as much as anybody. Their medicine is all right; for God made that. It's their judgment that's so onreliable."

"And who is to blame for their judgment?" the doctor asked mischievously.

She hesitated, but her mother wit soon extricated her from the difficulty.

"There's lots of folks doing what the Lord didn't intend them to do—doctors as well as others."

"Well done, Mrs. Blake, I will retire from the field before I am annihilated altogether."

"You needn't be in a hurry to go. We'd like to get this business settled first," Mrs. Blake said, a trifle anxiously, misunderstanding the doctor's meaning. He threw me a meaning glance, and afterward whispered,—"That woman is a diamond in the rough. Given a fair start in life, she would have found a proper sphere in almost any calling."

"I believe she would. She has done more for me than any other single individual."

"She!" he asked with keen surprise.

"Yes, she wakened me from selfish ease to see the sufferings of others, and to realize my sisterhood to them."

"Yes, but you must first have had a heart to be touched, or all the Mrs. Blakes on this planet could not have wakened it."

"Even allowing your words to be true, does it not show power amounting very nearly to genius to be able to arouse another to a painful duty, and help them to take hold of it—I won't say, manfully?"

"No, a better word is needed in this case. Woman's fine sympathy and instinct are too perfect to be called after any masculine term wholly human."

"You can pay nice compliments," I said, laughing. He bowed his head gravely—a very fine and shapely head I noticed it was too, set well on a neck and shoulders that betokened the trained athlete.

"Now, doctor, Miss Selwyn can't generally stay loitering very long among us Mill Roaders, and p'raps we'd better get our business done up right away. Anyway if Mr. Bowen is anything like me, he's getting fidgetty by this time to know if he's likely to get to them big city doctors."

"I have grown too intimate with patience to be so easily disturbed," he said, gently.

"You would like to get your sight?" I questioned. He spoke so calmly, the thought occurred he might have grown to love the hush of darkness. His face flushed. I never knew before or since a person of his years who colored so easily.

"Only God can know how I have longed to see the light, and the face of my fellow man; but I had no hope until Death opened my eyes."

His voice trembled with emotion.

"What a privilege to give that man his sight," I murmured to the doctor.

"The privilege belongs to you, I believe."

"Oh, no indeed. I was thinking of the skill of your profession. It seems almost God-like."

"We do our work mainly for money. In this case I am told you supply that."

Mrs. Blake was waiting impatiently.

"What is to be done? Can Mr. Bowen go immediately?" I asked.

"To-morrow, if he is ready. I have already written to the doctor who will take charge of his case. He is famous for diseases of the eye, especially cataract, which is the trouble here."

"He will need some one to accompany him?" I asked anxiously. "This seemed the chief difficulty now."

"Not necessarily. The conductor is a kind-hearted fellow, and would see to him. But a friend of mine is going to-morrow, and he will not leave him until he sees him safe in the hospital."

"Could he be ready so soon?" I turned with my question to Mrs. Blake.

"I've got everything ready only just to pack in a valise—fine shirts and all, we've sat up till after midnight making fine shirts and things, me and two other women."

"And you dare to say after that that it is I who must have the credit of this?" I turned a look of reproach on the doctor, as I spoke the words so low, only he could hear them.

"Am I really going to-morrow?"—Mr. Bowen asked, his face turning deathly pale,—"possibly to come back to see all your faces? Miss Selwyn, I hope you will look to me as I have always pictured you."

"I think she will not disappoint your expectations," the doctor said, gallantly.

"I dunno about that. I guess he most looks to see an angel," Mrs. Blake remarked dryly. In the ripple of laughter that followed, I turned to little Freddie who was crying softly with his face hidden in a chair.

"What is the matter, my little man?"

"Why you see, Miss Selwyn, Grandad's going away, and they're going to put a sharp knife in his eyes; and maybe he will die." He burst into a louder fit of weeping. His mother drew him hastily into her bedroom and shut the door—her own face pale, and almost as sorrowful as the little lad's.

"You must tell them there is no danger, doctor."

I followed Mrs. Larkum into her room and found that she shared Freddie's fears and grief.

"There is not the slightest danger to life or health in the operation," I assured her, when her countenance began to brighten.

"You see we've had so much misfortune I can't sense that father may get his sight, and we be comfortable as we used to be."

"You must have faith in God. The darkest time has been with you 'the hour before the dawn.' Now I will give you money for present necessities for your father. If more is required, it will be provided when necessary." I took out my purse which, now that I was earning money of my own, I carried about with me quite recklessly, and gave her ten crisp notes that would buy her father a good many necessaries, beside his car fare. She did not try to thank me but her look was enough to assure me she appreciated my efforts for their well-being.

That evening, as I sat chatting by the dining-room fire with Mrs. Flaxman, waiting for the dinner-bell to ring, I told her of the beautiful surprise I had met that day, and how I had given them the money for him to start the following morning in search of sight.

"Why, where did you get the money? I thought you spent every cent except your weekly allowance when we were in New York."

I hesitated, flushing rather guiltily; for this was the first real secret of my life.

"You have not been selling your jewelry, I hope," she said, quite sternly. "Mr. Winthrop would not easily forgive such an act, after you had been entrusted with it too."

"I have not sold anything that belonged to anyone but myself."

She looked at me closely, and my eyes fell before her gaze. "It is not idle curiosity, believe me, Medoline, that makes me so insistent. I wish you would explain how you got the money. You are unacquainted with the habits of this country, and may have been unwittingly led into some indiscretion."

"What I have done is a very common thing in Europe even among the best of people."

"Do you mean selling your cast-off garments?"

"Why, Mrs. Flaxman, you have as poor an opinion of me as Mr. Winthrop. I wonder what is the reason my friends have so little confidence in me?" I said, despairingly.

"But, dear, there is some mystery; and young ladies, outside of tragic stories, are expected to live lives of crystal clearness."

"I will tell you, for fear you imagine I have done some terrible thing. When we were in New York, I hunted up a picture-dealer and submitted a number of my sketches, that I had hidden away in my trunk, to him, and he consented to act as my agent. For one good sized painting of Oaklands he has given me fifty dollars. Perhaps that Mr. Bovyer bought it, I have felt afraid that he did; but any way the money will do good; be the indirect means of giving sight to one of Christ's own followers. All the afternoon, like the refrain of some beautiful melody, those words have been sounding in my ears: 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me.'" Over my burning cheeks a few bitter tears were falling, while a mad desire seized me to leave Oaklands, and the cold, selfish life it imposed, and try in some purer air to live as conscience urged. I walked to the farthest end of the long room without waiting for Mrs. Flaxman's reply, and stood looking out into the bright moonlit air. Far away I could see the moonbeams dimpling on the waters, making a long, shimmering pathway to the distant horizon, while in the frosty sky a few bold stars were shining, scarce dimmed by the moon's brightness. The thought came to me that, in a few weeks, Mr. Bowen might be thrilled by just such a vision of delight. I turned abruptly to tell Mrs. Flaxman I could never go back to the old life of selfish ease, when such opportunities for helpfulness were given me, when I met her face to face. She gave me a look I will never forget.

"Medoline, can you forgive me those unjust suspicions?"

"Yes, if you won't interfere with my picture selling," I said joyously.

"Hush! Mr. Winthrop may hear you. I think he is coming. But you may sell all the pictures you can, only don't speak of it now."

Mr. Winthrop was waiting for us. As he looked at me he said:—"You seem to have more mental sunshine than your share—your face is so bright. Possibly you have been having a specially happy season with your bereaved ones."

"With one of them I have been more than happy."

"May I ask the name of this favored individual?"

"It is Mr. Bowen, the blind man."

"Ah, then, you are finding the widowers most congenial. They do not dissolve into tears so readily as the widows; and there may be other fascinations. Really, I shall be compelled to forbid such intimacies."

"He is going to New York to-morrow morning, with the expectation of having his sight restored, after being blind nearly twelve years."

"I presume he is very poor, else you would not take such strong interest in him."

"He has no money. In other respects he is the richest person I ever knew."

"Ah, he is a most remarkable individual. However, I dare say a little money will not come amiss to him, notwithstanding his wealth. You will want another quarter's instalment."

"Is my quarter up?" I caught Mrs. Flaxman's warning look, and spoke rather guiltily.

"Not quite, but this is a peculiarly urgent case. Probably he is wholly dependent on your bounty."

"Doctor Mackenzie told me that the doctor in New York won't charge anything for removing the cataract from his eyes."

"I see you have gone about it, in a very businesslike manner. Does MacKenzie charge for his advice?"

"Why, no, indeed; surely all men are not heartless."

"In money matters they are, more or less; possibly widowers should be excepted."

"It is a pity some others should not lose a wife or two. A few might require to lose half a dozen, at least."

"That would be cruel. Think what an upsetting of one's plans and business arrangements generally that would entail."

"It might prove an excellent discipline. Nothing short of an earthquake, I believe, would teach some men kindliness and their brotherhood with pain."

He received my remark with such unruffled serenity that I was angry with myself for engaging in a wordy warfare with him, when he was sure to be victorious. He sat with us for a short time after dinner, chatting so graciously that I came to the conclusion he was not, after all, so out of sympathy with my little benevolent projects as his words often implied. When he rose to go he came to me, and, taking out his pocket-book counted out fifty dollars and laid them in my hand. He paused a moment with the pocket-book still open.

"This is a special case, little one," he said, kindly. "May I be permitted to contribute something for your friend?"

He laid another note in my hand, but I did not wait to see the amount. I started to my feet impulsively.

"Oh, Mr. Winthrop, I must confess to you. I have not been real honest. Won't you forgive me?"

I felt the tears rush to my eyes, and my lips quivered like some frightened child's, making me feel sadly ashamed of myself. He looked startled.

"What is it, Medoline?"

"I earned the money myself. I have been selling pictures."

"Is that the worst offense you have to confess?" he asked, with a keen look into my upturned face.

"It is the worst just now," I faltered.

"Very well, then, I will forgive you; but I must stipulate to see your pictures before they go to market after this, and also that you consult with me first before launching into other business enterprises. You might be tempted with something not quite so suitable for a young lady as picture-selling."

"You are so kind to me, Mr. Winthrop, I will tell you everything after this."

"No rash promises, please. Before the winter is over you will be plunged into tears and distress again over some fresh exploit."

"I won't mind a few tears if I get your forgiveness in the end."

He went directly to his study, leaving Mrs. Flaxman and myself to the cheerful quiet of our fireside. She turned to me saying,

"Tell me all about your blind friend, Medoline. How you first got to know him, and what he is like."

I very gladly gave her as full a picture as I was able of the Larkums and Mr. Bowen, their poverty and his goodness included.

"You have made all these discoveries in a few months, and been doing so much for them, and here have I been living beside them for years and did not even know of their existence. What makes the difference in us, Medoline?" she exclaimed sorrowfully.

"I think God must have planned my meeting in the train with Mrs. Blake. I would not have known but for her."

"I expect He plans many an opportunity for us to serve our generation, but we are too selfishly indolent to do the work he puts in our way."

"When I came to Oaklands at first it seemed as if my life was completed, and I wondered how I was to occupy the days, and years stretching out so long before me. Now I believe I could find work to occupy me for a thousand years; that is, if Mr. Winthrop lived too, and continued to help me with my reading and studies," I added, thinking how much the latter employment added to my enjoyment.

"If Mr. Bowen gets his eyesight, that will be a greatly added source of satisfaction to you," she said, wistfully.

"Yes, I shall seem to be looking at the green fields, and flowers, and starry skies through his eyes."

"You are as glad to have him so richly benefited through your means, as if he were rich and famous."

"Why, much more so. Think what a change there will be in his circumstances now."

"Medoline, I think your mother's prayers will be answered."

I turned around eagerly, "Was she a real Christian, Mrs. Flaxman?"

"Yes, a real one, especially after her children were born. Her great desire for them was that they might all be pure and unspotted from the world. All of them, save you, are with her in Heaven. You may have a life of peculiar temptation, but I believe you will be brought out of it among the pure in heart at last."

"Why should my life have peculiar temptations, Mrs. Flaxman?" I asked anxiously.

"I cannot explain to you now my reasons for thinking so. Some day I may tell you."

"I suppose it is because I am not like other girls of my age," I said with a sigh.

"No dear, that is not the reason. I should not have spoken so unguardedly."

"I might try to overcome the temptations if I were warned of their nature."

"You are a persevering child, Medoline—but still only a child in heart."

"I am over eighteen, Mrs. Flaxman. I wonder why you and Mr. Winthrop persist in making me out a child. When will I be a woman?"

"Not till your heart gets wakened."

"I wonder when that will be. Does it mean love and marriage, Mrs. Flaxman?"

"It means the former; the latter may not follow with you."

"Why not? But there, I do not want to leave you and Mr. Winthrop and Oaklands. No man could tempt me from you. But what did you mean by saying that I might love and yet not marry?"

"Because you are too true to your woman's instincts to marry any one unless it was the man you loved."

I fell into a brown study over her words, and the conversation was not again resumed.