Spirit Upon Spirit.

"I'm so glad that we did not choose a health resort!" exclaimed Alma standing up and feasting her eyes upon the rolling hills; green valleys, and chain of lakes.

"Yes, this is far better than contemplating other sufferers. I do hope that I will soon be well," returned Edith, who sat propped by pillows in an invalid's chair.

"Of course you will dear. This air would refresh anyone," Alma said, taking a deep breath with keen satisfaction. "You're not really ill now—just a poor little wilted flower that needs refreshing."

Edith smiled sadly.

"I hope that you are right. But somehow Alma, I feel as though everything was slipping away from me, and that my time has come to soon leave you all."

"Edith dear, you must not talk so. Such thoughts keep you from getting well," her friend replied, looking lovingly at her through a mist of tears.

Silently Edith gazed down the valley, and then giving a sigh as if to turn away from her own dreaming, she turned to Alma, smiling.

"Alma, we've been here just two days, and you have not told me your great secret. Now is the time to confide."

"That is just why I came to this place of seclusion this afternoon. I am anxious to talk it out. I am not sure whether you will be pleased with me or not. Promise me—you won't scold?" she asked playfully.

"Scold you?" Edith said softly. "How could I?"

"Edith, I don't know if I ever told you that Will's death left me entirely penniless."

"Penniless, Alma? Why didn't you tell me long ago. You have not wanted for anything, have you?" she asked anxiously.

"I have wanted for nothing, dear. I did not know, myself, what state my money affairs were in. George said, when they found dear Will's coat, that some valuable papers were in it which meant provision for me and Harold. He told me to leave all money matters to him and not to worry. I was glad to be relieved, and never found out until two weeks ago, that George has supported us all this time.

Edith's eyes flashed appreciation.

"How noble he is!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, indeed! When I discovered the truth, I determined to take care of Harold and myself in the future. Other women have done it, and there must be some way. But when I was most troubled, George asked me—to marry him!"

She paused a moment and dropped her eyes abashed,—as if the thought was almost an accusation to herself.

It is well that she did not see Edith's quick flush, which receding, left her paler than ever.

"I never have dreamed of marrying again. It would be impossible to ever forget Will. I meant to be true to Will's memory and live my life for Harold. But George's persuasion gained my consent. Do you think that it would be wrong to marry without the proverbial love?"

"Yes," answered Edith in low, eager voice. "How could you accept such a noble heart and give so little in return?"

"You are mistaken. George is giving me no more than what I am giving to him. Suppose his heart is buried in a lost affection, and I am really helping him, as he is helping me, to overcome a never forgotten agony of regret? He possesses almost the love of a father for Harold, and pleads the opportunity to care for him. Have I then done wrong?"

As she asked the question, she looked up at Edith, with a slight hesitancy.

Edith lay seemingly thoughtful with half-closed eyes. She was in reality trying to compose herself before replying.

"I think, under such circumstances you are doing right, especially by Harold," Edith at last replied, looking up, her eyes luminous with excitement. "Such a friend will be a perfect husband, Alma!" she exclaimed earnestly.

"Such a friend will be a perfect friend always, Edith," Alma returned firmly. "None shall ever take my dear Will's place. Walter understands that and is satisfied. You will think me a strange woman," she added.

"No, I think that I understand. You will always give the best that you can to George—I am sure of that."

"Yes. His goodness and his sorrow will always make me generous with him. He did not confide the name of his lost love, or the time of his loss, but whether it was ten years ago or one, he certainly suffers still!"

Again Edith's struggle for self-control left her weaker than ever.

Alma suddenly noticed her pallor.

"Why, dear girl, you're faint. O, I have talked so long, and forgotten your condition. Forgive me, dear," and hastily adjusting Edith's wrap, she began to wheel her chair toward the small boarding house, which was hidden in the clump of trees only a hundred feet away.

The little house held about fifty guests. It was situated on the lake front, and for quiet and beauty of surroundings, it was hardly surpassable.

Betty and Alma were ideal companions for Edith, but both were worried at her condition. They had been there for one week, and Edith grew weaker and weaker.

As Alma and Edith approached the house, Betty came out to meet them. She looked at Edith anxiously.

"Edith dear," she said gently; "won't you do me a great favor?"

"Anything I can, my Betty," replied Edith.

"Won't you let me have the elders come to administer to you?"

"O, do!" said Alma. She and Harold had been baptized, and she was now full of faith in the Gospel.

"But my faith in the elders is not strong," she objected.

"Never mind that. Will you?"

Edith consented with a tired little smile.

So Betty sent for the elders. They came and administered to Edith. She immediately took a turn for the better.

After their departure, a young "Mormon" doctor, who had been studying in New York, came out to take a quiet vacation at the little boarding house. He was immediately interested in Edith, and followed up the good work of the elders by daily visiting with her, and talking about Gospel truths, in such a way that greatly interested Edith.

Betty and Alma were delighted, and watched their friend's rapid restoration to health with thankful hearts.

Alma wrote to Dr. Cadman:

"Dear George:—Edith has suddenly taken a turn for the better, since our elders have administered to her, and there is a Dr. Holt here—a 'Mormon'—who is interesting her greatly. When with him, she seems to forget everything but their conversation. When he leaves her, one would declare he had given her some magic tonic, instead of having talked to her for an hour. We meet every day, in a little summer house on the lake front. There Betty and I look on, enjoying it all." * * *

Edith's condition improved so rapidly, that after three weeks, the invalid's chair was dismissed, and she walked out alone.

Betty was then called back to her mission work.

Howard's letters were full of delight at Edith's recovery, and he wrote continually expressing his regret at his inability to visit her at Boonville. Some important business kept him in New York, but he intended to spend a few days with her at the end of the month. He would then expect her entirely well, and her old lovely self.

Edith understood all his excuses. These letters were a bitter cup to her, but she drained it and looked for sympathy and help elsewhere. Religion had always been her greatest comfort, but Betty and Mr. Holt had been the first ones to give her the full realization of the absolute completeness of a life with God. Under Mr. Holt's guidance, she came to see all men as the "Children of God," and so she determined to look for the good in all. The pain from her husband's indifference became less. She dwelt more and more on the good qualities of Howard's character, and prayed for patience and love for him.

Since meeting Mr. Holt, her whole life seemed focused differently. Clear and straight seemed the path now, which before had seemed hazy and indefinable. It is true, his personal magnetism influenced her as strongly as his logic, but as it was the influence of goodness, she did not try to resist.

Borne upon the wings of spiritual thought, she soon overcame her earthly sorrows, and rested in the contemplation of the vastness of infinite, eternal things. The heretofore fixed realities of life became capable of change and progress, and the hitherto unreal mysterious realms of thought, assumed a vital reality that filled her with wondering delight.

At the end of the month, she was indeed her old healthy self.

Howard appeared at the time expected. When he first met Edith, he was struck with the change in her. Never had he seen her so lovely, and he was puzzled at the transformation. A month in the hills could bring health to a convalescing invalid, but there was something more—an added sweetness and beauty which must have its origin in some cause unknown to him. Howard thought with irritation of Edith's letters. They had been full of friendship for a Mr. Holt—a "Mormon," too, and words had seemed inadequate to express her opinion of him. Frankly she wrote of her daily meetings with him and of his wonderful spiritual nature.

Howard, glad of being rid of the ugly prospect of an invalid wife on his hands, had read all these letters with a tolerant laugh.

"Spiritual fiddlesticks!" he said to himself. "How women do get carried away with this milk-sop sort of men!"

He had a distinct contempt for all religion, but he thought it a good fault to encourage it in women. It kept them in line and kept them more submissive. But "Mormonism" that was the limit of fanatacism!

But now that he saw Edith, and perceived the subtle change pervading her whole being, a keen suspicion shot through his mind, and the thought of meeting Mr. Holt became irritating. It was many hours before he met this chance acquaintance of his wife, and, meanwhile, he had ample time to mature his feelings which originated in the slighted doubt.

He and Edith were seated on the porch together, when a stout, little piece of femininity appeared, and made it opportune for Edith to introduce her,

"Delighted to meet you, Mr. Hester! Indeed, it is time you came to look after your lovely wife! We won't say why!" she added with a knowing smile at Edith.

Edith blushed at the insinuation, but Howard answered smilingly, "Mrs. Hester is quite capable of looking after herself."

In spite of the smile, the lady felt the rebuke of his words, and soon left them.

"Really, Edith, you should be more careful in a place like this. A married woman, without her husband, cannot pick up chance acquaintances among gentlemen. If she does, she must expect gossip to get busy," he concluded with quick impatience.

The rebuke hurt, but Edith had determined to let no thought of herself intrude during Howard's short stay.

"There are always those who cannot appreciate the good intentions of a man like Mr. Holt. That lady is one of them," she said calmly.

Howard gave a low, cynical laugh, and keenly eyed his wife.

"A married lady is not supposed to appreciate any man's attention, good, bad, or indifferent."

Edith knew it was no good to reply, so she sat in embarrassed silence. She was glad when Alma soon joined them.

"Have just had a letter from George," said Alma joyously. "Harold longs to see me, and George longs to see the miraculous change in his patient, so both are coming to Boonville next week."

"That is well," remarked Howard. "He can perhaps predict when Edith can return."

"I am ready now," she said quickly. "I am perfectly strong."

Alma turned to Howard.

"Really, Mr. Hester, Fate must have directed us here. Edith owes a great part of her recovery to Mr. Holt. If he were not such a Godly man, I would believe he had employed magic!"

A quick frown darkened Howard's countenance, and he puffed his cigar in short, jerky puffs. Alma did not realize how she had heaped coals upon fire.

When Edith and Howard were again alone, Mr. Holt appeared. When Edith introduced them, she noticed her husband was barely polite. He vouchsafed no pleasantry whatever, which was entirely contrary to his usual, jovial way of meeting strangers. Mr. Holt, seemingly, did not notice any coldness, and directed his conversation with his accustomed earnestness.

"Well, Mrs. Hester, I will be leaving Boonville tomorrow," he said finally.

Howard read disappointment in his wife's face.

"O, I am sorry to hear that," replied Edith, with more fervor than Howard thought necessary. "I—we will all miss you, more than you guess."

Mr. Holt regarded her with deep concern.

With no excuse whatever, Howard left them, and entered the sun parlor nearby.

Edith followed her husband's retreat with a gaze full of troubled surprise. Mr. Holt quietly took Howard's seat, and said, kindly:

"We have grown very near together in all spiritual thought, have we not? Then, let us be frank in all truth between us. Your husband, Mrs. Hester, does not like me. No, do not gainsay the fact. I read his thoughts in his scrutiny of me. He misjudges the "Mormon," as most people do,—such is the way of the world's judgments!" He handed her a book. "Read this, and learn precious truth as I could scarcely give it."

"Thank you," she said earnestly, her embarrassment at her husband's show of feeling making her ashamed to say many words.

Her husband approached unnoticed.

"Edith, I would like you to return Mr. Holt's present."

Edith turned to meet the first real anger in her husband's eyes.

She arose, and drawing herself to her fullest height, she faced him in sudden indignation.

Mr. Holt arose also, and, looking from one to the other kindly, he said calmly:

"I regret this, believe me. Had I known—"

"Edith," interrupted Howard, with a slight rise in his voice, ignoring Holt's presence entirely, "will you please oblige me?"

Holt's steady gaze gradually drew Edith's eyes toward him. She read in their soulful depths, only tender entreaty to obey.

With a sudden flood of outraged dignity, she turned to Howard.

"For the first time I must refuse you," she said firmly. "This book is the gift of a noble friend. As such I shall prize it always."

She held out her hand to Mr. Holt, and he took it. Reverently bowing his head, he said quietly, "God bless you both."

Raising it again, he looked toward Howard. His face, angry and tense, was stubbornly averted. He looked toward Edith. She smiled at him gently.

"Goodbye, good friend," she said quietly.

"Goodbye," he said, with a world of sympathy in his voice.

Then he turned, and with slow thoughtful footsteps, walked down the path and was lost to sight.