The numerous plans for making money made progress with the rest. Prospered, indeed, to a degree that filled the young workers with amazement—I might almost say, with awe. They grew into the feeling that Miss Benedict was right, and that God himself smiled on their scheme, and gave it the power of his approval.

As the days went by, the reading spirit in the enterprise grew almost too busy to write her daily hurried postals to her mother. These same postals were gradually filled with items that astonished and somewhat bewildered the mother and daughter who watched so eagerly for them.

"Would mamma be so kind as to call on Mr. Parkhurst, the one who was chief man at the carpet factory up there by papa's old mill, you know? Would she, on the next bright day, take the blue car line and ride up there and talk with him? The ride would do her good, and it would be such a help to the girls. They would need only a little carpeting, it was true; but if Mr. Parkhurst would be so kind as to sell to them at wholesale, factory prices, it would make a great difference with their purses, and she was sure he would be pleased to do it if mamma would ask him, because you know, mamma, he felt very grateful to papa for help years ago."

This was the substance of one postal.

"One would think that Claire had bought the little old church, and was fitting it up for her future home," commented Dora, a trifle annoyed. The truth was, her sister seemed almost unpardonably satisfied and happy away from them.

Another day would bring further petitions: "Would it be too much for mamma to look at wall-papers, something very neat and plain, not at all expensive, but suited to a small church; and make an estimate of the expense in round numbers?" Then would follow a line of figures, indicating length and breadth and height.

"What a child she is!" would the mother say, sighing and then smiling—the smiles came last and oftenest in speaking of Claire. "She was always very much like your father, and it grows on her. Well, we must see about the wall-paper; perhaps this afternoon will be a good time to give to it." And the commissions were executed promptly and with painstaking care; and Claire could see that both mother and Dora were becoming interested in the old church at South Plains, and were absorbing a good many of their otherwise leisure and sad hours in travelling hither and thither in search of shades and grades that would be likely to give her satisfaction. Samples were sent to her, and astonishingly low figures accompanied some of them; figures which were communicated with shining eyes to the deeply-interested girls, and they sent messages of thanks to the mother and daughter far away.

Meantime, the Ansteds were not forgotten. There was a special committee meeting one evening in Miss Benedict's room. A letter had come "from the foreign member of our firm," Miss Benedict had explained, laughing, meaning her mother, and its contents were to be discussed and voted upon. In the midst of the interest came a message from Mrs. Foster: "Would Miss Benedict be kind enough to come to the parlor for a few minutes, to see Mr. and Miss Ansted?"

"I must go, girls," Claire said, rising quickly. "This is the third attempt Miss Ansted has made to call on me since their kindness to me, and I have either been out or engaged in giving lessons. You will have to excuse me for a little while. I will return as soon as I can. Meantime, I am going to see if I can't secure help in that direction for our enterprise."

"You won't," said Mary Burton, emphatically. "They say Alice Ansted is a good singer, but she has been heard to say that she would as soon think of singing in a barn as in our church; and that the one time she heard our organ, she thought it was some mice squealing in the ceiling."

"Wait until we get it tuned, and the pedals oiled," said Ruth Jennings; "I don't believe it will be such a bad-sounding instrument. At least, it is my opinion that Alice Ansted will find herself able to endure in that line what Miss Benedict is. Girls, I heard last night that she is a beautiful singer. Isn't it queer that she has never sung for us?"

This last was after Claire had left them, but as she was about to close the door, Ruth Jennings had made a remark which had drawn her back:

"Get Louis Ansted to pledge us the money which he spends in wines each year, and that will do us good and him too."

"Does he use wines freely?" Claire said, turning back.

"Yes, indeed he does; altogether too freely for his good, if the village boys can be believed. I heard that he came home intoxicated only night before last."

"Why, that is nothing new!" added Nettie Burdick; "he often comes home in that condition. Dick Fuller says it is a common experience; and he would know what he is talking about, for he has to be at the depot when the last train comes in. Besides, he makes his money in that way; why shouldn't he patronize himself?"

"What do you mean?" Claire asked, her face troubled.

"Why, his money is all invested in one of the distilleries. He has a fortune in his own right, Miss Benedict, left him by his grandmother, and he invested it in Westlake's distillery. He is one of the owners, though his name does not appear in the firm; the Ansted pride would not like that; but I know this is true, for my uncle transacted the business for him."

Claire started again, making no comment, but this time she moved more slowly. There were reasons why the news gave her a special thrust.

The callers greeted her with evident pleasure, and expressed their disappointment at having failed to see her in their other attempts, and gave her messages from their mother to the effect that she was to consider their house one of her homes. Fanatic though she was, it was plainly to be seen that they had resolved to tolerate the fanaticism for the sake of the pleasure of her society.

There were other callers, and in a few minutes the conversation, which had been general, dropped into little side channels. Alice Ansted, occupying a seat near Miss Benedict, turned to her and spoke low:

"I have wanted to see you. What you said to me that day has made me more dissatisfied than ever, and that was unnecessary; I was uncomfortable enough before. I did not understand you. What is there that you want me to do?"

"How do you know I want you to do anything?" Claire could not resist the temptation to ask the question, and to laugh a little; her questioner's tone was so nervous, so almost rebellious, and at the same time so pettish.

"Oh, I know well enough. You expressed surprise, and well—almost bewilderment—that I did not find absorbing work in a channel about which I know nothing. Suppose I am a Christian, what then? What do you want me to do?"

"But, my dear Miss Ansted, I am not the one of whom that inquiry should be made. If you belong to the Lord Jesus, surely he has work for you, and is able to point it out, and to fill your heart with satisfaction while you do his bidding."

There was a gesture almost of impatience.

"I tell you I don't understand such talk. It sounds like 'cant' to me, and nothing else; that is, it does when other people say it, but you seem different; you live differently, some way, and interest yourself about different matters from those which absorb the people whom I have heard talk that way. Now I ask you a straightforward question: What do you want me to do? What do you see that I could do, if I were what you mean by being a Christian?"

Claire's face brightened.

"Oh, that is such a different question!" she said. "I am really very glad of an opportunity to answer it. I know a dozen things that you could do. For instance, you could throw yourself into the life of this neglected, almost deserted church, and help to make it what it should be; you could give your time, and your money, and your voice, to making it arise and shine."

"How? What on earth is there that I could do, even if I wanted to do anything in that direction, which I don't?"

"I know it, but that doesn't hinder me from seeing what you could do. Why, if you want me to be very specific, if you have no better plan than we are working on to propose, you could join us with all your heart, and work with us, and worship with us on Sabbaths, and help us in our preparations for a concert."

"And sing in that stuffy room, to the accompaniment of that horrid little organ, and for the benefit of such an audience as South Plains would furnish! Thank you, I don't mean to do it! What else?"

"Of what special use is it for me to suggest ways, since you receive them with such determined refusals?"

"That I may have the pleasure of seeing how far your enthusiasm reaches. I would call it fanaticism if I dared, Miss Benedict, but that would be rude. Tell me what next?"

Claire considered, Miss Ansted meantime watching her closely. When at last she spoke, her tone dropped lower, and was graver:

"I wish with all my soul that you would interest yourself in Bud."

"In Bud!" It was impossible not to give a start of surprise, not to say dismay. "Now, Miss Benedict, that passes comprehension! What on earth is there that I could do for a great, ignorant, blundering clod like Bud? He has plenty to eat, and is decently clothed without any assistance from me. What more can you imagine he wants?"

"He wants God," said Claire, solemnly, "and the knowledge of him in the face of Jesus Christ. He is to live forever, Miss Ansted, as certainly as you are; and the time hastens when food and clothing for the soul will be a necessity for him as well as to you, or he will appear before God naked and starved, and you will have to meet him there, and bear some of the blame."

"I never heard a person talk so in my life. Bud is not more than half-witted. I doubt whether he knows that there is such a being as God. What can you fancy it possible for me to do for him?"

"Do you think, then, that he has no soul?"

"Why, I did not say that! I suppose he has, of course. He is not an animal, though I must say he approaches very nearly to the level of one."

"And don't you think that he will have to die, and go to the judgment, and meet God?"

"How dreadful all these things are! Of course he will! but how can I help it?"

"Do you suppose he is ready?"

"I don't suppose he ever thought of such a thing in his life. He hasn't mind enough, probably, to comprehend."

"Do you really think so? Don't you believe the boy to whom you can say, 'Close the blinds on the north side, to shut out the wind,' could understand if you said: 'Bud, God is as surely in the world as the wind is, though you can not see either. He has said that when you die you shall see him, and that you shall live with him in a beautiful home, if you will love him here, and obey his orders; and what he wants you to do is all printed in a book that you can learn to read?' Do you think Bud could not comprehend as much as that?"

"I never heard of such an idea in my life!" said Miss Ansted. "I don't know how to teach such things." And she turned away and talked with a caller about the travelling opera company who were to sing in the city on the following evening.

Mr. Ansted had changed his seat, meantime, and was waiting for his opportunity. He turned to Claire the moment his sister withdrew.

"I came to ask a favor of you this evening; two of them, in fact; but the first is on such strange ground for me, that I have been studying all day how to put it."

"And have you decided?"

"No, left it in despair; only praying that the Fates would be favorable to me, and grant me opportunity and words. Here is the opportunity, but where are the words?"

"I have always found it comfortable to be as simple and direct as possible with all communications. Suppose you see how fully you can put the thought before me in a single sentence."

The gentleman laughed.

"That would be one way to make an interview brief, if such were my desire. I can not say, however, that that phase of the subject troubles me any. Well, I will take your advice, and put a large portion of my thought into a short sentence: I wish you could and would do something for Harry Matthews."

It was not in the least what she had expected. She supposed his words were to preface a flattering invitation, or something of that character. An apparently earnest sentence, concerning a merry young fellow in whom she was already somewhat interested, filled her with surprise, and kept her silent.

"Is that brief and abrupt enough?" he asked, and then, without waiting for answer, continued: "I mean it, strange as it may seem; and I so rarely do unselfish things that I can imagine it seems strange enough. I haven't a personal thought in the matter. Harry is a good fellow; a little fast, the old ladies say, and shake their heads, but they don't know what they mean by that. The boy is a favorite of mine; and he is one who has a good deal of force of character without any will-power, if that is not a contradiction. I fancy you know what I mean. I am going to speak more plainly now. Away back in some former generation—no, I am going to tell the naked truth. Do you know anything of his family, Miss Benedict?"

"Not anything."

"Well, his father was a good man and a drunkard. You think that is another contradiction of terms. Perhaps it is, as you would mean it, but not as I do. He was a good, warm-hearted, whole-souled man, and he drank himself into his grave; shipwrecked his property, and left his widow and this boy dependant on wealthy relatives, or on themselves. Harry is trying to be a man, and works hard, and is specially tempted in the line at which I have hinted. I feel afraid for him, and the only person in this little wretch of a village whom I think might help him is yourself. Will you try?"

"Mr. Ansted, why don't you help him?"

It was his turn to be taken aback. He had not expected this answer. He had looked for an instant and interested affirmative, and he had expected to tell her more of Harry Matthews, and of his peculiar associations and temptations.

"I!" he said, and then he laughed. "Miss Benedict, you are most remarkable as regards your talent for asking strange questions. It is evident that you are a stranger in South Plains; and I don't know what the gossips have been about, that they have not posted you better. You should know that I am really the last person in the neighborhood who is expected to help anybody; least of all, can I help Harry Matthews. The most helpful thing that I can think of for the boy is to keep away from me. My influence over him is altogether bad, and growing worse. What he needs is to be drawn away from present associations entirely, and, indeed, from his present associates, of which I am often one. I fancy that this organization of yours, in which he is already interested, might be managed in a way to help him, and it occurred to me to enlighten you in regard to him, and ask for your helping hand."

"Mr. Ansted, I hope you will pardon the rudeness, but your words sound to me almost like those of an insane person. You recognize your influence over a young man to be evil, realize it to the extent that you make an effort to have him withdrawn from it, and yet if I understand you, make no attempt to change the character of the influence which you have over him. That can not possibly be your meaning!"

"I think it is, about that. Don't you understand? What is a mere entertainment to me—a passing luxury, which I can afford, and which does me no harm—is the very brink of a precipice to poor Harry, owing to his unfortunate inherited tendencies. I would like to see him saved, but there is nothing in particular that I can do."

"Oh," she said in genuine distress, "I wonder if it is possible for a soul to be so blind! You can do everything, Mr. Ansted; and, moreover, how can you think you have a right to say that you are not personally in danger from the same source? Men as assured in position and as strong in mental power as you have fallen by the hundreds. Surely you know that there is no safety from such a foe save in having none of him."

"Do you think so? In that we would differ. I am not fanatical in this matter. I recognize Harry's danger, but I recognize equally that I am built in a different mold, and have different antecedents."

"And have no responsibilities connected with him?"

"Oh, yes, I have," he said in utmost good humor; "I assumed responsibility when I came here to ask you to help him. It was the best thing I could think of to do for the boy. You think I am playing a part, but upon honor, I am not. I know his mother is anxious."

She wondered afterward whether it were not an unwise question to ask, but said:

"Is not your mother anxious, Mr. Ansted?"

"Not in the least!" he answered smilingly.