When Miss Blanchard reached Mr. Alden's house the next evening, she met with the usual warm welcome from the whole family,—Grace as usual constituting herself her special attendant, and claiming a song from her friend before tea.

"For we shan't have any time, you know, after, on account of the meeting," she said, coaxingly.

But just as they were looking over the music, and deciding what song it should be, the door opened to admit Mr. Alden's cheery presence. And with him came in, to Nora's amused surprise, Mr. Roland Graeme.

"I met Mr. Graeme down town," Mr. Alden explained, "and we got so interested in the things we were talking about, that he walked nearly all the way up with me before we knew it, so I wouldn't let him go back. I told him he must come in and have tea with us, as I want him to come to our meeting. So now, my dear Miss Blanchard, please go on. I'm glad I came just in time. You know my favorites—give me one of them, please."

And he threw himself back in his easy chair, his face lighted up with its most genial smile. Miss Blanchard thought for a minute or two; then, with a significant smile, both at him and at Roland Graeme, she took a well-worn song that lay at hand, and sang with great spirit, "A Man's a Man for a' That." Mr. Alden listened with evident delight, his deep bass occasionally breaking into the chorus, till, when the last verse was reached, he turned to Roland:

"Come Mr. Graeme, I know you can join in that song. Gracie, let us all give that last verse in a ringing chorus." And they did—the four voices blending in very pleasant unison in the words:

"Now, Miss Blanchard, I presume you gave us that as a delicate compliment to my likings and to my young friend's new venture—The Brotherhood!" Nora smiled and bowed. "But of course that song doesn't do your singing justice, for any tyro like me can sing it, in a way, if he only has the heart. Now, I want you to give us my favorite love-song, "Robin Adair," my mother's old-time lullaby. That does bring out her voice," he added, turning to Roland.

"It's a song I'm very fond of," Roland replied.

Nora sang the old, tender, Scotch love-song with a simple pathos that suited it as well as did her fine contralto. Roland, who like most emotional people, was exceedingly sensitive to the power of music, felt it float through his whole being—soothing the nervous system which had been on the strain all day, and taking him, for a moment, into that world of romance among whose bowery walks it is so pleasant, for even the most practical-minded, occasionally to wander. But the dream of romance was abruptly ended by the summons to tea. And Nora could not help noticing, all through that meal, how Roland's eyes followed every motion of Grace Alden with a quite unconscious devotion. It recalled to her Tennyson's line:

But Grace, she was sure, would never be the "shallow-hearted cousin Amy" in any event. Was she too much of a child, still, to be touched by this unspoken, though evident admiration on the part of a young man so attractive as Roland Graeme? Nora could not, at any rate, detect, in the frank ingenuous face, any trace of consciousness. And the father and mother seemed equally unconscious; which was scarcely to be wondered at, for they regarded Grace, at sixteen, as only a child still. Fathers and mothers are often the last to see that the nestlings are fledged.

Nora, as most people will have discerned, was a rather romantic young woman, and it did not take many minutes for this little possible romance to flash through her brain. Roland sat near her at tea, and his first remark was, naturally, an interested inquiry for the poor invalid to whom he had guided her.

"And how is the little girl getting on?" asked Mr. Alden, when Nora had given her report of the mother.

"Oh, she seems tolerably contented, now," was the reply. "But she is a strange child—rather; very variable in her moods, though very concentrated and self-contained. Under all her quietness, she seems nervous and excitable, with a passionate and self-willed nature—I can see very well—though her very shyness seems to keep it down."

"I have no doubt her mother must have a history," said Mr. Alden, thoughtfully. "I wish we could know what it is."

"Cecilia has a wonderfully good ear," Nora went on, "and a perfect passion for music. I shouldn't wonder if she were to turn out a prima-donna yet."

"And so you have taken charge of the child, yourself," said Roland, his eye lighting up with ready sympathy. "That was truly kind!"

The words were said with so much feeling, that Nora felt slightly embarrassed, but turned the matter off by declaring that, notwithstanding her peculiarities, she was a very interesting child, and they were all growing quite fond of her. She would be sorry when her mother could claim her again.

"Gracie must go and bring her here, some day soon. It would do her good to be with these noisy youngsters for a while," said Mr. Alden.

"She's a remarkably refined child," said Nora. "Her mother must have kept her very much to herself."

"Well, we mustn't lose sight of her. There's no knowing what may be made of her yet." And then Mr. Alden turned to Roland, and they resumed the discussion they had begun before. It was on some rather abstruse questions as to the relations of capital and labor; but Nora—with her intelligence on such matters quickened by the argument she had so recently heard—listened with attention enough to grasp, at least, the general position involved. Mr. Alden had taken a great interest in the enthusiastic and generous young reformer, and was genuinely anxious to keep him, if he could, from rushing into extreme or ill-considered views, however plausible they might at first sight appear. And though he had not the advantage of Roland's special reading on these subjects, his sound, common-sense experience and insight into human nature gave him a quick perception of the fallacy of any extreme position, such as Roland, in his inexperienced enthusiasm, was often too ready to embrace.

"The 'Knights' want me to give them a lecture by and by. I'm thinking of taking up the subject of 'Modern Miracles,'" said Roland, with a smile.

"Meaning, I suppose, the wonders science is perpetually astonishing us with?"

"Yes, especially as an agency at work in consolidating the human race into one organism; having common interests and common dangers, so that a famine in one quarter of the globe means scarcity in another. I don't want to take up the labor question directly, just now; I should get the name of an 'incendiary' or an 'agitator' at once, and I don't want to make the men any more discontented than they are. It's the employers we want to get at. But such a subject as the 'Miracles of Science' would afford plenty of opportunity for pointing out the benefits of coÖperation, as being necessary for guiding these tremendous new forces for the good, not the ill, of humanity."

"Will any one besides 'Knights of Labor' be allowed to go?" asked Nora.

Mr. Alden looked at her with one of his broad, genial smiles. "Are you taking an interest in such matters, then?" he asked.

"I have been, lately," Nora said. "The subject seems to be 'in the air.' Everything I've heard or read lately seems to bring it up. And I know so little about it, really, that I want to learn."

"—The best possible frame of mind for getting wisdom," replied Mr. Alden. "I wish my people would only come to church in it! Well, I hope Mr. Graeme is not going to shut the public out; and then you and I can go together to hear him."

Roland's face had again lighted up with pleasure. "I believe it's to be an open meeting," he said. "Of course there's no reason for excluding the public, and I think they want to make a little by it. I'll ask 'Brother' Dunning, and let you know."

"You all call each other 'Brother,' in the order, do you?" asked Mr. Alden.

"Yes, 'Brother' or 'Sister,' as the case may be," he replied smiling. "It seems to be quite a matter of course, when you get used to it."

"Mr. Graeme," said Nora, as they walked together to the place of meeting, "would you mind telling me just why you became a 'Knight of Labor'?"

"Not in the least," he said. "It is very simple. I felt, as I think no entirely unprejudiced person can help feeling nowadays, that our working-classes do not get fair play in the great struggle going on about us; that here the 'battle' is emphatically 'to the strong,' and that the weaker are being, perforce, driven to the wall,—crushed beneath the great iron wheels of Progress, Capital, Combination, and Protection. And I always had an instinctive sympathy with the 'under dog in the fight.' Ever since, as a boy, I read Spenser's 'FaËrie Queen,' it seemed to me the noblest task a man could devote himself to,—the fighting the battles of the weak against selfish tyrants,

or whatever corresponds to that in our prosaic age."

"Yes," said Nora, warmly, "but why, for that end, did you need to become a 'Knight' of that description?"

"For two reasons," he replied. "First, because the only way to thoroughly understand their position seemed to me to become one of them, as it were; to comprehend their feelings, aspirations, aims. And, secondly, because I think they need, above all things, some intelligent help and guidance from within. They are so apt to grow wrong-headed and unjust, simply from the perpetual pressure of the hardships of their position. Although I can honestly say, too, that I have often been deeply impressed by the patience and moderation that they show in very trying circumstances. I seldom attend one of their mass-meetings without feeling deeply touched by the vague, wistful sense of the possibilities toward which they are groping, burdened with a sense of tremendous difficulties in the way, and of their own inability to cope with them. And I often wish I could only inspire a whole army of intelligent, energetic, educated young men to take up their cross and help them to win the day. It would be the salvation, it seems to me, not only of this country, but, in a great measure, of the human race!"

Roland spoke with all the warmth of his intensely altruistic nature, and his voice thrilled with irrepressible feeling. Nora felt her own pulse quicken with the contagion of his enthusiasm. Mr. Alden, who overheard the last words, turned back to add:—

"Yes, Graeme, I believe it will be all that; if only you can, at the same time, raise this great mass of toiling humanity in the moral and spiritual scale, as well as in the material and intellectual one. However, do all you can for both!"

They had, by this time, arrived at the place where the "Helping Hands Society" usually held its meetings. The place had a history of its own. It had originally been a much frequented saloon, which had stood like a dragon in the way of Mr. Alden's mission work, in a very unpromising portion of his field of labor. It was the place, also, where many days' wages were sunk in ruinous indulgence, instead of being spent in comforts for hungry families. There men lured each other to destructive excesses that besotted them till there was apparently nothing of their better nature left to which to appeal. Mr. Alden conceived the idea of out-flanking the dragon, and carried out his design, with the aid of a few generous members of his congregation. At a time when the place was about to change hands, through the necessities of an owner, ruined by his own merchandise, the building was secured for a comparatively low price, and forthwith turned into a mission-centre of a peculiar kind. Mr. Alden had too much shrewdness to turn the old "Good-fellows' Hall" into anything like a church or mission-hall—the idea of some of his zealous helpers. He knew that this would only frighten away the old habituÉs, and that a successor to the extinct saloon would speedily spring up. So the "Good-fellows' Hall," it remained, with the same external attractions as before, apparently changed in only one respect—that coffee, lemonade, and other temperance beverages were the only things sold there. A respectable temperance man was installed as keeper, and conducted this part of it on his own responsibility. Men might come there and smoke, talk, or read the papers. They were not even prohibited from bringing their own ale with them, so long as they used it in moderation. But, as a matter of fact, they hardly ever chose to do so, feeling an unwritten law; and if they did bring it, the slightest tendency to excess was sternly repressed. But in all else they were free to do as they pleased. Care was, of course, taken that all the papers and other reading matter on the table should be of the best and most elevating character adapted to their taste and calibre. So most of the old habituÉs continued to frequent it; and if they grumbled at first, at the loss of the wonted dram, they gradually forgot to miss it, and met, and smoked, and told old yarns as readily as ever.

But behind this expurgated saloon—and divided from it by double doors—were two large rooms devoted to very different purposes. One was a reading-room, with shelves tolerably well filled with interesting books, history, travels, tales, and modern books relating to various industrial occupations. This room was furnished with comfortable chairs, and any one might enter and read to his heart's content, provided he would leave his pipe outside. The other was fitted with seats, and served as a lecture-room or a preaching hall. Here a Sunday-school was held weekly, and here Mr. Alden or some one of his helpers frequently held simple, short services which were generally well attended by the people of the neighborhood. Here it was, that the Christmas festival was to be given by the "Helping Hands Society," and a small committee-room adjoining was the place of the present meeting.

Its components were rather a heterogeneous group. There were two or three young business men, a shop-keeper and his wife, two or three mechanics and artisans who were "Knights" and acquaintances of Roland, and several girls in different occupations, two of them teachers, and almost all self-supporting. The festival was, of course, to be held for the benefit of the poor people of the neighborhood, who were not included in any other Christmas-keeping arrangements. Some of those present were representative of the people to be entertained, and to these Mr. Alden, as chairman, gave considerable heed in the preparation of the programme; but all could, in some way, assist in carrying it out. Finally it was arranged as follows:—

First, of course, there was to be a "Tree," laden with little gifts for the children; after that, Christmas music, including a violin solo from one of the young men; then a magic-lantern exhibition of Oriental views, followed by one of Mr. Alden's common-sense "Talks"; and last, but not least, a reading from Dickens' "Christmas Carol," by Roland Graeme.

The latter undertook to escort Miss Blanchard home, after the meeting was over. As they walked together under the clear, cold, winter starlight, Nora told the young man something of poor Lizzie Mason's story, and her anxiety for the brother, about whom she had also spoken to Mr. Alden.

"I'll look him up," said Roland, heartily, "and see if anything can be done with him. As for the girls whose wages have been 'cut,' that matter has been up before the 'Knights' and a deputation is to interview the manager."

"Oh, do you think it will do any good?" she exclaimed.

"That I can't say," he replied. "We can only try."

"Do you know, Mr. Graeme, if I were a man, I think I should be a 'Knight' too!"

He laughed. "But you know our modern 'Knights' are not always men!" he replied.