I DO not know that I need even try to tell you about the succession of petty trials and embarrassments that haunted Ruth Erskine’s way during the next few days. They belonged to that class of trials hard to endure—so hard, indeed, that at times the spirit shrinks away in mortal terror, and feels that it can bear no more; and yet in the telling to a listener they dwindle in importance. As for Ruth, she did not tell them—she lived them.

Everything was so new; nothing in or about the house could go on according to the old fashion; and yet there was no new fashion shaped. She saw many a thing which she must not do, and but few things that seemed to bear doing. She must stop in the act of ordering dinner, and remember in confusion that it was not her business to order dinners in this house any more. And yet she must remember that the nominal mistress seemed to know no more about ordering dinners for a family of eight than she knew about ten thousand other things that were waiting for her attention. Poor Ruth struggled and groaned and wondered, and rarely cried, but grew paler, if possible, than before, and her forehead was continually drawn, either with lines of pain or of intense self-suppression. She congratulated herself that her father escaped some of the misery. He went early to his office, shutting the door on the incongruous elements in his household with a sense of relief, and going out into the business world, where everything and everybody were as usual, and returning late, giving as little time to the home puzzle as possible. Yet it wore on him. Ruth could see that, and it but increased her burden to feel that the struggle she made to help was so manifest a struggle, and was, in some sense, a failure.

He detained her one morning in the library, with that special word of detention which as yet he had never applied to any one but her.

“My daughter, let me see you a moment before I go out. Do you think we ought to try to have some friends come in, in a social way?”

At this question Ruth stood aghast. Her father’s friends had hitherto not been hard for her to entertain—lawyers, judges, professional men of different degrees of prominence, often without their wives, and when the ladies were included they were of an age, as a rule, to expect little in the way of entertainment from Ruth, except a gracious attention to their comfort; so that, beyond very careful directions issued to very competent servants, and a general outlook on the perfected arrangements, little had been expected of her. But now it was different; other than professional people would expect invitations; and besides, the hostess was no hostess at all—would not know what to do—and, what was infinitely more painful, what not to do.

No wonder that Ruth was appalled over this new duty looming before her. Yet of course it was a duty; she flushed over the thought that her father had been obliged to suggest it. Of course people were expecting introductions; of course they would call—hosts of them. How much better it would be to have a gathering of a few friends before the great world pounced in upon them, so they might feel that at least with a few the ordeal of introduction was over.

“I don’t mean a large party,” her father hastened to explain. “Just a few friends—not professional ones, you know, but some of your new acquaintances in the church, perhaps. I thought you might like to have a gathering somewhat like that which you told me of at our little friend, Flossy Shipley’s.”

If he had not been looking down at the grate, just then, instead of into his daughter’s face, he would have seen her start, and almost catch her breath over this suggestion. It was not that she was jealous of little Flossy, for whom her father had shown very special and tender regard ever since the prayer-meeting which he attended in her company, but it came to her with a sudden sense of the change that had fallen upon them. To think that they—the Erskines—should be making an attempt to have a social gathering like unto one that Flossy Shipley had planned!

“We couldn’t do the things that she did,” Ruth said, quickly. “The elements which we would have to bring together would be too incongruous.”

“No,” he answered, “not exactly like hers, of course, but something simple and informal. I thought your three friends would come, and Dr. Dennis, you know, and people of that stamp, who understand and will help us. Wouldn’t it be well to try to do something of the kind, daughter, or doesn’t the idea meet with your approval?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, drawing in her breath. “Yes, father, we must do something. I will try. But I hardly know how to commence. You know I am not mistress of the house now; it makes it difficult for me.”

“I know,” he said, and the expression of his face led his daughter instantly to regret that she had made such a remark. It was the life she lived at this time—saying words, and regretting that she had done so. They went on, however, perfecting the arrangements for the social gathering. There had occurred to Ruth an instant trouble in the way, which was that ever-present one in the American woman’s life—clothes.

“We can not hasten this thing,” she said. “There will need to be some shopping done, and some dress-making—that is, I should think there would need to be.”

She corrected herself, and the embarrassment involved in the fact that she was not the mistress of the new comers presented itself. Suppose they chose to think they had clothes enough, and proposed to appear in any of the ill-made, badly-selected materials which seemed to compose their wardrobe! If they were only two children, that she might shut up, in a back room up-stairs, and turn the key on outsiders until such time as they could be made presentable, what a relief it would be!

Evidently her father appreciated that embarrassment.

“I tried to arrange that matter before I came home,” he said. “I furnished money and suggested as well as I could; but it didn’t work. I hardly know what was the trouble. They didn’t understand, or something. Ruth, what can you do about it? Is there any way of managing?”

Ruth tried to consider, while her cheeks flushed, and her heart beat hard, in what way she could suggest to her father to manage his wife and daughter.

“Susan would listen to suggestions, I think,” she said, slowly. “But I don’t know whether”—

And then she broke off, and recurred to another of the endless trials of this time. If she and her father were to be compelled to hold conversations concerning this woman, it was absolutely necessary that they come to an understanding as to what to call her.

“Father,” she said, plunging desperately into the depths of the question. “What am I to call her? Does she—or, do you—desire that I should say mother?”

“No,” he said, quickly. “Surely not, unless”—

“Well, then,” Ruth said, after waiting in vain for him to conclude. “Am I to say ‘Mrs. Erskine?’”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

He spoke in visible agitation, and commenced a nerve-distracting walk up and down the room.

“I don’t know anything about any of this miserable business. Sometimes I am very sorely tempted to wish that I had left everything as it was, and gone on in my old life, and endured the results.”

“Don’t,” said Ruth, aghast at this evidence of desperate feeling, and roused, for a moment, from minor considerations into a higher plane. “Don’t feel in this way, father; we will do the best we can, and it will all come out right; at least, we will try to do what is right.”

He came over to her then, standing before her, looking into her eyes, and there was that half-appealing look in his which had touched her before.

“Ruth, if we could—if there was any way that we could—manage to like them a little, it would make the whole thing so much better, both for them and us.”

What an amazing thing to say! what an almost ludicrous thing, when one reflected that he was talking about his wife! Yet none knew better than did Ruth that names implying love did not make love! How pitiful this appealing sentence was! How could her father ever hope to learn to like this woman, who was his wife? For herself, she had not even thought of such a thing as trying. The most she had planned for was to endure, to tolerate—certainly not to like, most certainly never to love! She stood dumbly before her father, having no word of help for him. And presently he turned from her with a sigh; and, when he spoke again, it was in a business-like tone:

“Well, daughter, do the best you can. Manage everything exactly as you have been in the habit of doing. About the dress question, talk with Susan, if you can; tell her what will be proper—what you want done. I will see that her mother follows her directions. For the rest, we will manage some way; we shall have to depend on the kindness of our friends. Judge Burnham will help us in any way he can. He understands matters.”

This suggested to Ruth to inquire in regard to him.

“What is Judge Burnham staying in town for? Where is he staying, anyway?”

“Why, he lives in town. He is practicing here. Didn’t you know it? He has been absent a long time on professional business. I hardly know how it has happened that you have never met him until now. He has a country-seat ten miles or so away from the city. He is there a good deal, I presume; but he boards now at the Leighton House. He was about changing boarding places when we came home. It was for that reason, among others, that I invited him to stop with us for a few days. You like him, don’t you, Ruth?”

This last with a sudden change of tone, and almost anxiety expressed in his manner.

“Oh, yes,” said Ruth, half in impatience, as one to whom the subject was too unimportant to stop over. And she was conscious of a flitting determination that, whatever other person she might be called upon to like, she would never trouble herself to make any effort of that sort for him.

And then she went away to plan for a party in which she was to be the real head, while appearing before the world only as the dutiful daughter; to plan, also, for the new mother and sister’s toilets—whether they would, or not, trusting to her father’s authority to make them submissive to her schemes.

A little more talk about that matter of liking people, Ruth was destined to hear; and it developed ideas that bewildered her. It chanced that Flossy Shipley came in for a little chat with Ruth, over the recent astounding news connected with their mutual friend, Marion. It chanced, also, that the new-comers were both up stairs for the evening, Mrs. Erskine being one of those persons who indulge in frequent sick-headaches, during which time her daughter Susan was her devoted slave. So Judge Erskine sat with his daughter, book in hand, because conversation between them was now of necessity on such trying subjects that they mutually avoided it; but he rarely turned a leaf; and he greeted Flossy Shipley with a smile of pleasure, and asked, almost pleadingly, if he might stay and listen to their gossip. Very glad assent, Flossy gave, and emphasized it by talking to Ruth with as much apparent freedom as though he were absent.

“I like it,” she said, speaking of Marion. “I think she will make such a perfectly splendid minister’s wife.”

Flossy still dealt largely in superlatives, and paid very little attention to the grammatical position of her adjectives. “I am almost sorry that I am not going to live here, so I could have the benefit of her; she will be just as full of helpful plans for people! And when she gets in a position to influence them you will see how much good she can do. Ruth, were you very much surprised?”

“Greatly so. I imagined that she did not even admire Dr. Dennis very much. I don’t know that she ever gave me reason to think so, except by being silent sometimes, when I expected her to speak; but of course that is accounted for now. Isn’t the marriage sudden?”

“More sudden than they had planned,” Flossy said. “Dr. Dennis found it necessary to be absent just then on a matter of business, and to go West, just in the direction they had proposed to go together, and he was obliged to be absent for some time, which would give him little chance for vacation later in the season, and, in short,” said Flossy, with a bright smile, “I think if they would own it, they were very lonely, and very anxious to enjoy each other’s society, and thought they were wasting time, and set about finding reasons why they should change their plans. You know reasons can almost always be found for things, when we are very anxious to find them!”

“Is that so!” Judge Erskine asked, looking up from his book, and speaking in so earnest a tone that both girls turned toward him inquiringly. “Do you mean to say that if one were anxious to change—well, say his opinion of a person, he could bring himself to do it on reasonable grounds?”

It was a curious question, and to Ruth it was a very embarrassing one. Her cheeks flushed painfully, and her eyes drooped to the bit of fancy work which lay idly in her lap.

“That wasn’t quite what I was thinking about,” Flossy said, gently and seriously, as one who realized that his question reached deeper than he meant her to understand. “But I do truly think, sir, that if we feel as though we ought to change our opinion of a person, we can set seriously about doing it and accomplish it.”

“In that case, you would not believe it necessary to have any enemies in this world, would you?”

“Not real enemies, I think, though I wouldn’t want to be friends, of course, with everybody. But—well, Judge Erskine, I can’t explain to you what I mean. I don’t know how to reason, you see. All I can do is to tell you what really occurred. There is a person whom I disliked; he was very trying to me, and I had to be thrown in his society very often, and I knew I ought to feel differently toward him, because, you know, I couldn’t hope to be of the least help to him, unless I felt differently. So I set myself earnestly to trying, and I succeeded. I have the kindest possible feelings toward him, and I think I am gaining a little influence.”

During this recital Flossy’s fair, peach-blossom cheek had taken a deeper shade, and her eyes drooped low. She was giving what Judge Erskine felt was a bit of heart-history, and he did not know that she realized any personal application. How should the innocent little mouse know anything about his affairs?

“Do you mind telling me how you set to work to accomplish this change?” he asked, and his daughter knew that his voice was almost husky.

“First,” said Flossy, simply and gravely, “I prayed for him; I gave all my soul to a desire for his conversion; I prayed to be shown how to help him—how to act toward him; then I prayed for grace to like him, to be interested in him, and to overlook his faults, or his failings; and then—why, I am not sure there is any ‘then’ to it. It is all told in that word ‘prayer.’ The Lord Jesus helped me, Judge Erskine; that is the whole of it.”

“Do you really think we have a right to pray about the matter of our likes and dislikes?” There was no mistaking the earnestness in Judge Erskine’s voice this time.

Flossy turned wondering eyes on him, as she said, “Oh, yes, indeed! The direction is, ‘Casting all your care upon him,’ and that is a real care, you know.” Ah! didn’t Judge Erskine know? “And then He says, ‘In everything by prayer and supplication, let your requests be made known.’ I couldn’t doubt my right. Indeed it seemed to me to be a duty, not only to pray, but actually to supplicate, to coax, you know, just as I was so tempted to do when a child. It seemed blessed to me to think that the Lord Jesus took such minute notice of our human nature that he knew it would help us to be allowed to keep a subject constantly before him, and to keep coaxing about it. Don’t you think that is wonderful, Judge Erskine?”

“Wonderful!” repeated Judge Erskine, in a moved tone, and he arose and began that pacing up and down the room, which always with him indicated deep feeling. Ruth and Flossy presently continued their talk in a lower tone, until Judge Erskine came toward them again and said, “I will bid you good-night, I think, and thank you, my dear young lady. Your words are strong and helpful; don’t forget them in any future experience of life that you may have; perhaps they will help you through deep waters, some day.”

Then he went to the library. As for Ruth, she sought her room with two thoughts following her: one, that Flossy had been to her father what she had failed in being—a helper; and the other, that possibly she might pray herself into a different state of feeling toward this woman and this girl, who were to her now only heavy, heavy crosses.