"Molly, how you do work! a great deal too hard, I am sure," said the younger Elsie, coming into her cousin's room, to find her at her writing desk, pen in hand, as usual, an unfinished manuscript before her, and books and papers scattered about.

Molly looked up with a forced smile: she was not in mirthful mood.

"It is because I am so slow that I must keep at it or I get nothing done."

"Well, there's no need," said Elsie, "and really, Molly dear, I do believe you would gain time by resting more and oftener than you do. Who can work fast and well when brain and body are both weary? I have come to ask if you will take a drive with our two grandpas, grandma and Mrs. Carrington?"

"Thank you kindly, but I can't spare the time to-day."

"But don't you think you ought? Your health is of more importance than that manuscript. I am sure, Molly, you need the rest. I have noticed that you are growing thin and pale of late, and look tired almost all the time."

"I was out for an hour this morning."

"An hour! and the weather is so delightful, everything out of doors looking so lovely, that the rest of us find it next to impossible to content ourselves within doors for an hour. Some of us are going to play croquet. If you will not drive, won't you let one of the servants wheel you out there—near enough to enable you to watch the game?"

"Please don't think me ungracious," Molly answered, coloring, "but I really should prefer to stay here and work."

"I think Aunt Enna is going with us, and you will be left quite alone, unless you will let me stay, or send a servant to sit with you," Elsie suggested.

But Molly insisted that she would rather be alone. "And you know," she added, pointing to a silver hand bell on the table before her, "I can ring if I need anything."

So Elsie went rather sadly away, more than half suspecting that Molly was grieving over her inability to move about as others did, and take part in the active sports they found so enjoyable and healthful.

And indeed she had hardly closed the door between them when the tears began to roll down Molly's cheeks. She wiped them away and tried to go on with her work; but they came faster and faster, till throwing down her pen she hid her face in her hands, and burst into passionate weeping, sobs shaking her whole frame.

A longing so intense had come over her to leave that chair, to walk, to run, to leap and dance, as she had delighted to do in the old days before that terrible fall. She wanted to wander over the velvety lawn beneath her windows, to pluck for herself the many-hued, sweet-scented flowers, growing here and there in the grass. Kind hands were always ready to gather and bring them to her, but it was not like walking about among them, stooping down and plucking them with her own fingers.

Oh to feel her feet under her and wander at her own sweet will about the beautiful grounds, over the hills and through the woods! Oh to feel that she was a fit mate for some one who might some day love and cherish her as Mr. Travilla had loved and cherished her whom he so fondly called his "little wife!"

She pitied her cousin for her sad bereavement; her heart had often, often bled for her because of her loss; but ah! it were "better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all."

Never to love, never to be loved, that was the hardest part of it all.

There was Dick, to be sure, the dear fellow! how she did love him! and she believed he loved her almost as well; but the time would come when another would have the first place in his heart; perhaps it had already come.

Her mother's affection was something, but it was the love of a stronger nature than her own that she craved, a staff to lean upon, a guiding, protecting love, a support such as is the strong, stately oak to the delicate, clinging vine.

There were times when she keenly enjoyed her independence, perfect liberty to control her own actions and choose her own work; her ability to earn a livelihood for herself; but at this moment all that was as nothing.

Usually she was submissive under her affliction; now her heart rebelled fiercely against it. She called it a hard and cruel fate, to which she could not, would not be resigned.

She was frightened at herself as she felt that she was so rebellious, and that she was envying the happiness of the cousins who had for years treated her with unvarying kindness; that her lot seemed the harder by contrast with theirs.

And yet how well she knew that theirs was not perfect happiness—that the death of the husband and father had been a sore trial to them all.

Through the open window she saw the handsome, easy-rolling family carriage drive away and disappear among the trees on the farther side of the lawn; then the croquet party setting out for the scene of their proposed game, which was at some little distance from the mansion, though within the grounds.

She noticed that Isa and Mr. Keith walked first—very close together, and looking very like a pair of lovers, she thought—then Mr. Embury with Violet's graceful, girlish figure by his side, she walking with a free, springing step that once poor Molly might have emulated, as she called to mind with a bitter groan and an almost frantic effort to rise from her chair.

Ah, what was it that so sharpened the sting brought by the thought of her own impotence, as she saw Vi's bright, beautiful face uplifted to that of her companion? A sudden glimpse into her own heart sent a crimson tide all over the poor girl's face.

"O Molly Percival, what a fool you are!" she exclaimed half aloud, then burst into hysterical weeping; but calming herself almost instantly. "No, I will not, will not be so weak!" she said, turning resolutely from the window. "I have been happy in my work, happy and content, and so will I be again. No foolish impossible dreams for you, Molly Percival! no dog in the manger feelings either; you shall not indulge them."

But the thread of thought was broken and lost, and she tried in vain to recover it; a distant hum of blithe voices came now and again to her ear with disturbing influence. She could not rise and go away from it.

Again the pen was laid aside, and lying back in her chair with her head against its cushions, she closed her eyes with a weary sigh, a tear trickling slowly down her cheek.

"I cannot work," she murmured. "Ah, if I could only stop thinking these miserable, wicked thoughts!"

Mrs. Travilla, returning from a visit to the quarter, stopped a moment to watch the croquet players.

"Where is Molly?" she asked of her eldest daughter; "did she go with your grandpa and the others?"

"No, mamma, she is in her room, hard at work as usual, poor thing!"

"She is altogether too devoted to her work; she ought to be out enjoying this delicious weather. Surely you did not neglect to invite her to join you here, Elsie?"

"No, mamma, I did my best to persuade her. I can hardly bear to think she is shut up there alone, while all the rest of us are having so pleasant an afternoon."

"It is too bad," Mr. Embury remarked, "and I was strongly tempted to venture into her sanctum and try my powers of persuasion; but refrained lest I should but disturb the flow of thought and get myself into disgrace without accomplishing my end. Have you the courage to attempt the thing, Mrs. Travilla?" "I think I must try," she answered, with a smile, as she turned away in the direction of the house.

She found Molly at work, busied over a translation for which she had laid aside the unfinished story interrupted by the younger Elsie's visit.

She welcomed her cousin with a smile, but not a very bright or mirthful one, and traces of tears about her eyes were very evident.

"My dear child," Elsie said, in tones as tender and compassionate as she would have used to one of her own darlings, and laying her hand affectionately on the young girl's shoulder, "I do not like to see you so hard at work while every one else is out enjoying this delightful weather. How can you resist the call of all the bloom and beauty you can see from your window there?"

"It is attractive, cousin," Molly answered; "I could not resist it if—if I could run about as others do," she added, with a tremble in her voice.

"My poor, poor child!" Elsie said with emotion, bending down to press a kiss on the girl's forehead.

Molly threw her arms about her, and burst into tears and sobs.

"Oh it is so hard, so hard! so cruel that I must sit here a helpless cripple all my days! How can I bear it, for years and years, it may be!" "Dear child, 'sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.' Let us live one day at a time, leaving the future with our heavenly Father, trusting in His promise that as our day our strength shall be. Rutherford says, 'These many days I have had no morrow at all.' If it were so with all of us, how the burdens would be lightened! for a very large part of them is apprehension for the future. Is it not?"

"Yes, and I am ashamed of my weakness and cowardice."

"Dear child, I have often admired your strength and courage under a trial I fear I should not bear half so well."

Molly lifted to her cousin's a face full of wonder, surprise and gratitude; then it clouded again and tears trembled in her eyes and in her voice, as she said, "But, Cousin Elsie, you must let me work; it is my life, my happiness; the only kind I can ever hope for, ever have. Others may busy themselves with household cares, may fill their hearts with the sweet loves of kind husbands and dear little children; but these things are not for me. O cousin, forgive me!" she cried, as she saw the pained look in Elsie's face. "I did not mean—I did not intend—"

"To remind me of the past," Elsie whispered, struggling with her tears. "It is full of sweet memories, that I would not be without for anything. Oh true indeed is it that

"O Cousin Elsie, your faith and patience are beautiful!" cried Molly, impulsively. "You never murmur at your cross, you are satisfied with all God sends. I wish it were so with me, but—O cousin, cousin, my very worst trouble is that I am afraid I am not a Christian! that I have been deceiving myself all these years!" she ended with a burst of bitter weeping.

"Molly dear," Elsie said, folding her in her arms and striving to soothe her with caresses, "you surprise me very much, for I have long seen the lovely fruit of the Spirit in your life and conversation. Do you not love Jesus and trust in him alone for salvation?"

"I thought I did, and oh I cannot bear to think of not belonging to him! it breaks my heart!"

"Then why should you think so?"

"Because I find so much of evil in myself. If you knew the rebellious thoughts and feelings I have had this very day you would not think me a Christian. I have hated myself because of them."

"You have struggled to cast them out, you have not encouraged or loved them. Is that what they do who have no love to Christ? no desire after conformity to his will? It is the child of God who hates sin and struggles against it. But it is not necessary to decide whether you have or have not been mistaken in your past experience, since you may come to Jesus now just as if you had never come before: give yourself to him and accept his offered salvation without stopping to ask whether it is for the first or the ten thousandth time. Oh that is always my comfort when assailed by doubts and fears! 'Behold, now is the accepted time; behold, now is the day of salvation.' Jesus says, to-day and every day, 'Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' 'Him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.'"

Glad tears glistened in Molly's eyes. "And he will pardon my iniquity though it is so great," she murmured, with trembling lip and half averted face: "he will forgive all my transgressions and my sins, cleanse me from them and love me freely."

"Yes, dear child, he will. And now put away your work for the rest of this day and come out into the pure, sweet air. If we weary our poor, weak bodies too much, Satan is but too ready to take advantage of our physical condition to assault us with temptations, doubts and fears."

"I will do as you think best, cousin," was the submissive reply.

Elsie at once summoned a servant, and in a few moments Molly's chair was rolling along the gravelled walks, underneath the grand old trees, a gentle breeze from the lakelet, laden with the scent of magnolias and orange blossoms, gathered in its passage across the lawn, softly fanning her cheek, her cousin walking by her side and entertaining her with pleasant chat.

Rosie and Walter came running to meet them. They were glad to see Molly out: they filled her lap with flowers and her ears with their sweet innocent prattle, her heart growing lighter as she listened and drank in beside all the sweet sights and scents and sounds of nature in her most bountiful mood.

They made a partial circuit of the grounds that at last brought them to the croquet players, who, one and all, greeted Molly's arrival with expressions of satisfaction or delight.

Each brought an offering of bud or blossom, the loveliest and sweetest of flowers were scattered so profusely on every hand.

Mr. Embury's was a half blown rose, and Elsie, furtively watching her charge, noted the quick blush with which it was received, the care with which it was stealthily treasured afterward.

A suspicion stirred in her breast, a fear that made her heart tremble and ache for the poor girl.

Mr. Embury spent the evening at Viamede. Molly was in the parlor with the rest, and the greater part of the time he was close at her side.

Both talked more than usual, often addressing each other, and seemed to outdo themselves in sparkling wit and brilliant repartee.

Molly's cheeks glowed and her eyes shone: she had never been so handsome or fascinating before, and Mr. Embury hung upon her words.

Elsie's heart sank as she saw it all. "My poor child!" she sighed to herself. "I must warn him that her affections are not to be trifled with. He may think her sad affliction is her shield—raising a barrier that she herself must know to be impassable—but when was heart controlled by reason?"

The next morning Enna, putting her head in at the door of the dressing-room where her niece was busy with her little ones, said: "Elsie, I wish you'd come and speak a word to Molly. She'll hear reason from you, maybe, though she thinks I haven't sense enough to give her any advice."

"What is it?" Elsie asked, obeying the summons at once, leaving Rosie and Walter in Aunt Chloe's charge.

"Just come to her room, won't you?" Enna said, leading the way. "I don't see what possesses the child to act so. He's handsome and rich and everything a reasonable woman could ask. I want you to—But there! he's gone, and it's too late!"

Elsie following her glance through a window they were passing, saw Mr. Embury's carriage driving away. "Did he ask Molly to go with him?" she inquired.

"Yes, and she wouldn't do it; though I did all I could to make her. Come and speak to her though, so she'll know better next time."

Molly sat in an attitude of dejection, her face hidden in her hands, and did not seem conscious of their entrance until Elsie's hand was softly laid on her shoulder, while the pitying voice asked, "What is the matter, Molly dear?"

Then the bowed head was lifted, and Elsie saw that her eyes were full of tears, her cheeks wet with them.

"Oh, Cousin Elsie," she sobbed, "don't ask me to go with him. I must not. I must try to keep away from him. Oh, why did we ever meet? Shall I ever be rid of this weary pain in my heart?"

"Yes, dear child, it will pass away in time," her cousin whispered, putting kind arms about her. "He must stay away, and you will learn to be happy again in your work, and, better still, in the one love that can never fail you in this world or the next."

"He is a good man, don't blame him," murmured the poor girl, hiding her blushing face on her cousin's shoulder.

"I will try not; but such selfish thoughtlessness is almost unpardonable. He must not come here any more."

"No, no: don't tell him that! don't let him suspect that I—care whether he does or not. And he enjoys it so much, he is so lonely in his own house."

"Do not fear that I will betray you, poor, dear, unselfish child," Elsie said; "but I must protect you somehow. And, Molly dear, though I believe married life is the happiest, where there is deep, true love, founded on respect and perfect confidence, I am quite sure that it is possible for a woman to be very happy though she live single all her days. There is my dear old Aunt Wealthy, for example; she must be now nearly ninety. I have known her for more than twenty years, and always as one of the cheeriest and happiest people I ever saw."

"Did she ever meet any one she cared for?" Molly asked, still hiding her face.

"Yes: she had a sore disappointment in her young days, as she told me herself; but the wound healed in time."

Enna had seated herself in a low rocking-chair by a window, and with hands folded in her lap was keenly eying her daughter and niece.

"What are you two saying to each other?" she demanded. "You talk so low I can only catch a word now and then; but I don't believe, Elsie, that you are coaxing Molly to behave as I want her to."

"Poor mother!" sighed Molly; "she can't understand it."