Mabel's "baby" (she never called it dolly) was almost always nestling in her arms. It seemed to fill the maternal element of her character, and though she was a wee little mother, a veritable mother she was, and it was amusing to watch her quaint ways with it. The march of improvement had taken up dolls, as well as everything else. What marvels of art are their generation, nowadays! Compare them with the stiff wooden monsters of fifty years ago, with their back hair done up like that of aged matrons, surmounted with high yellow combs! What a stretch of imagination is required to fancy these angular ladies' babies.

But now an event befel that nearly broke her heart. Baby's sweet blue eyes suddenly disappeared, leaving two empty holes in her face. From that moment all illusion concerning her vanished. The eyes of real babies never dropped down inside of them. So she begged to have it put away where she could never again be horrified by the sight. Margaret could not understand this. But Mabel had always shrank from the sight of unpleasant objects, and her aversion to her baby in its mutilated state was almost morbid. Still she bemoaned her loss sorely, and when Mrs. Grey, fearing she would make herself ill with crying, left the book she was writing, and everything else, and went to the city to replace the departed, nothing would induce the child to accept the offering, though it was the facsimile of the poor blue-eyed Mary.

Margaret spent a large part of the next day in making paper dolls for Mabel. Her nature was opulent; as she loved the few she loved to infatuation, so her gifts were prodigal. Never had a child so suddenly acquired a large family; their name was legion. Still, they did not supersede her darling.

"I want a yeal live baby," she said, amid her tears.

"So do I," said Margaret, "but I don't cry for one. And there are no live babies for sale, so I can't buy one for myself, or for you." Mabel said no more. She had been taught to pray for what she wanted, so she now stopped crying, went behind the door, and said, softly:

"Christ, will you give me a yeal live baby, with yeal eyes that can't drop out?" and came back composed and full of faith.

The next morning brought a line from Cyril Heath, announcing that the storks had brought them a splendid pair of twins, one for him and one for Belle. Margaret immediately wrote the history of Mabel's sorrow and Mabel's faith, and asked Cyril to give his baby to Mabel, which drew from him the following letter:

My Darling little Mabel:—

I am so sorry to hear that your baby has lost its eyes, so I am going to tell you something. Mamma has had a present of a "yeal live baby," and so have I, and I am going to give mine to you; that is, I shall let you call it yours, and let you love it with all your might and main. At the beginning of your prayer to-night, ask God to bless your baby, and He will. Mamma sends you twenty kisses on your dear little mouth, and says she loves you, oh, ever so much. What fun we shall all have when you come home! The babies are such funny little fellows, with dark, curly hair, and big blue eyes! Good-bye, my pet lamb!

Papa.

"Now I know where my baby's eyes have gone!" cried Mabel, clapping her hands. "Christ took them out to give to my yeal baby. And I am going yight home, I am."

"No, dearie, you must wait till your papa comes for you," said Mrs. Grey. "Only to think! Two babies! How rich your mamma is getting! It is beautiful to have twins. I think I must go and see them."

"What, with going to the city to buy dolls, and make visits, and go to all sorts of meetings, and being on forty-one committees, and now a pair of twins," said Margaret, laughing, "I don't see when your book is to be written. Is it always so? When do you write?"

"Yes, it's always so, barring the twins. My dear, industrious people contrive to do a great deal in fragments of time that others waste. Writing books is only an episode in my life, not my profession. Nothing gives way to it. However, I must own that everything is giving way before this piece of news. To think of my Belle having twins! If they look alike, what a pretty sight they'll be!"

Margaret had never seen Mrs. Grey so excited, and was much amused.

"This is the very first minute I have seen you sit still and do nothing, since I came here," she said. "Oh, and here is a letter from Laura, with one inside for you."

Mrs. Grey took her share of the letter, and began to read it aloud, but suddenly stopped. "I forgot, dear, that you have a letter too, and must be eager to read it."

"I can wait, please go on; it is very entertaining."

Mrs. Grey finished reading, and said, "What a child she is, to be sure! And what does she say to you?"

Margaret, who had been glancing over her letter smiled, and read as follows:

Dear old Mag:—

Why haven't you written to ask me why I didn't write? You know perfectly well that I am in love with you, and yet you express no surprise that I do not pour out my soul on paper. Well, you must know that as soon as I reached home, and had set the family pendulum swinging again, I trotted out and bought a ream of foolscap on which to write my book. Mamma always buys hers by the quire. Of course I intended to write to you before I began my stupendous undertaking. But when I just ran up to the nursery to see that all was right there, I found all wrong. Pug was lying in his nurse's arms as red as a lobster, and of course I knew he had scarlet fever, and that Trot would have it, and that they both would die. Also, of course, I let them die, and began my book. You know I haven't any heart, only a large hole where one may grow, in time. Well, the two creatures were the sickest creatures I ever knew to get well, but I consoled myself with the fact that I had their portraits anyhow. Harry and I got a trick of sitting up nights with these twain small people, and he says I worked like a tiger over them; but then, he exaggerates awfully. They were not at all tired of this world, and were determined to stay in it; so here I am tied hand and foot to my nursery; and as to my book, there is nothing to show for it but that ream of paper; and that does look like business. I forgot to say that I upset a tea-pot of tea on my hand the first thing I did when I saw Pug looking so dreadfully ill, and that this is the first time I have held a pen in it since I came home. Some other pleasant little items occurred; my cook had a felon, and was nearly wild with the pain, and my laundress went and got married in a tangent. And now, Mag, I've one thing to add, and it is this: I would rather have forty wild Indians, a rattlesnake, and a hyena, enter my nursery than scarlet fever.

Still, I'm going to write that book! and am

Your devoted admirer,

Oney.

"Strange that I had not noticed not hearing from the child," said Mrs. Grey. "But there are so many of them all that they drive each other out of my poor, forgetful old head. It will be a wonder if Georgy and Trot pull safely through. And how poor Laura's hand must have pained her! I must write, immediately, and warn her of the dangers of convalescence in this dreadful disease."

"Do you think she is really going to write a book?"

"I do not doubt that she will begin half a dozen, but whether she will ever finish one is another question."

"What a droll subject she had!"

"Yes; but I am not sure that she or anybody else can manage it. One might get fun out of it, though."

They both began now to answer Laura's letter; Mrs. Grey giving any amount of counsel about the children; Margaret, throwing care to the winds, and entering, with zest, into the pleasure, so new to her, of having friends to whom to write.

And not many days later, Mr. Heath came for Mabel. He was as impatient as a child to have her see the new babies, whom he considered marvelous beings, and of whom he was very proud. As to the child, she was eager to enter into possession of her share of the spoils, and Margaret felt a spasm of pain shoot through her heart when, with smiling faces, they took leave. She had loved Mabel so! Was she to be parted with in this way all her life, she asked herself, always giving amply and receiving sparingly? But one must not reason thus about little children. They know little about time and space; they have not learned to sentimentalize; they live in the present moment. Many a mother has experienced a pang akin to Margaret's, when returning from a journey, longing to fold her dear ones to her heart, the prosaic cry salutes her, "What have you brought me, mamma?" as if in bringing herself she had not done all a loving child ought to ask.

Mrs. Grey and Margaret now returned to their interrupted work, and the wintry days flew rapidly by. The weather continued mild until late in February, when the first snow of the season fell. But previously to this an event occurred which put a new aspect on life to Margaret. They had been to the city: Mrs. Grey to make visits to friends in hospitals there; Margaret to take her painting lesson, and on reaching the station found the carriage awaiting them, and the horses in a restive mood, which was provoking the temper of the old coachman not a little.

"What is the matter, Samp?" asked Mrs. Grey.

"Ain't used enough," returned Samp. "Needs to be took down."

"Any danger of their running away with us?"

"Never knowed 'em to run away."

"Nor I, either," said Mrs. Grey, "and yet I've a good mind to walk. What do you say, Margaret?"

"I say that it's too far for you to walk. Belle charged me to not let you overdo."

"Very well. But it's not too far for you to walk. I have a queer presentiment that something is going to happen. Suppose I drive, and you come home at your leisure?"

"No!" said Margaret decidedly; "if anything is going to happen, it must be to me, not you. But nothing is, except lunch." So saying, she sprang into the carriage, and Samp drove off.

"I never saw you nervous, aunty, till now."

"And I am not nervous now on my own account."

Margaret understood, and was silent. After a few moments, however, she said:

"We fly over the ground like lightning. Can it be that Samp has lost control of the horses? Oh, aunty! there he goes! He's off the box! They're running away with us! We must jump out!"

"We must not jump out," said Mrs. Grey, in a tone that made Margaret pause. "It would be death to us both."

"What shall we do, then?"

"We must trust ourselves to Him who, if He can hold the winds in His fist, can certainly control these animals. And if He does not think it best to do that—if they rush on and plunge down the riverbank—why, it would be an easier death than martyrdom."

She was as quiet as if seated on her sofa at home.

Margaret grew quiet too. They clasped each other's hands and waited.

The horses flew on; they were nearing the river; now for it! They are over!

Neither knew anything more till they awoke as from a sleep, and found themselves at home; Mrs. Grey lying on her bed; Margaret being borne to her room on a door that hasty hands had torn from its hinges. The house was full, but by degrees faithful Mary cleared it of all but those whose presence was needed; and the physicians proceeded to examine the patients. Mrs. Grey's injury was on the head, but not serious. Margaret had a fractured ankle, and many bruises. Each forgot herself, and thought only of the other; but it was ten days before they met. Margaret was shocked when Mrs. Grey, with a face all colors, from the bruises on her head, was supported into her room, and made light of her own severer injury. It was comfort to see each other even in this unsatisfactory way, but Mrs. Grey had time to recover entirely before Margaret could leave her bed. And for a long time she was in too much pain to think or to feel much on any subject. But at last she said, abruptly:

"Aunty, did you expect to be killed that day?"

"Yes."

"And you were as calm as you are now."

"Yes, dear—why not?"

"And were you ever afraid to die?"

"Yes, very much afraid."

"And how did you get over it?"

"By realizing that Christ is conqueror over Death, whom He will, sometime, make His messenger to show me the way home."

"It was an awful moment when we plunged down the bank! I almost think I never really prayed in my life before! I don't know exactly what I believe about the world of the lost, but I heard a man say once that there will be no little children there—only grown-up sinners. And I don't want to spend my eternity with sinners. It makes me shudder to think of it. I want to spend it with those who were pure and good in this world, and have grown into greater purity in heaven."

"Margaret, my child," said Mrs. Grey, leaning tenderly over her, "do you call this the aspiration of an unrenewed heart?"

"No, aunty; I have been wanting to tell you that in that awful plunge down the bank, there came to me, as by a lightning's flash, assurance of faith. You know how I have distrusted and quarrelled with myself, and refused to believe myself a Christian, because light had come to me so gradually, that I did not know when it began to dawn. I might have gone on so for years but for the revelation of that moment."

"I have never doubted that your feet were on the Rock, my child; but, oh! how I have prayed that they might stand steadier there! You have made me very happy."

"It has almost killed me to say all this, aunty. And I don't want to say another word, or have you ask me any questions. Only I want to thank you for not plaguing me with exhortations. It wouldn't have done me any good. And I think a great deal more of how people act than of how they talk. One's words can cheat; one's life can't. I watched mother like a lynx, to find flaws in her religion, and sometimes thought I found them. Then I watched you in the same way; and, oh! what sermons you have both preached to me, when you were, very likely, reproaching yourselves for not doing more for me!"

By this time Margaret's face, long paled through sleepless nights and distressing days, had become crimson. To give even this beloved "mother-friend" a glimpse into her soul, cost her all the strength of her strong will. But what a new love had now sprung up between them!