"Richard Morton," said Mrs. Yocomb, as she sat down encouragingly near me in the low-studded parlor, "thee does not look into my eyes as if thee had a great burden on thy conscience."

"I have a great fear in my heart," I said.

"The two should go together," she remarked a little gravely; "and strength will be given thee to cast away both."

The spirit of jesting left me at once, and I know that I looked into her kind motherly face very wistfully and appealingly. After a moment I asked:

"Mrs. Yocomb, did you ever treat an utter stranger so kindly before?"

"I think so," she said, with a smile. "Emily Warren came to us an entire stranger and we already love her very much."

"I can understand that. Miss Warren is a genuine woman—one after your own heart. I was not long in finding that out. But I am a man of the world, and you must have noted the fact from the first."

"Richard Morton, supposing thee is a sinner above all others in Galilee, where do I find a warrant for the 'I am better than thou' spirit?"

She said these words so gently and sincerely that they touched my very soul, and I exclaimed:

"If evil had been my choice a thousand years, you might me from it."

She shook her head gravely as she said:

"Thee doesn't understand. Weak is the arm of flesh."

"But kindness and charity are omnipotent."

"Yes, if thee turns to Omnipotence for them. But far be it from me to judge thee, Richard Morton. Because thee does not walk just where I am walking is no proof that thou art not a pilgrim."

"I must tell you in all sincerity that I am not. My brain, heart, and soul have been absorbed by the world, and not by its best things either. Fifteen years ago, when scarcely more than a child, I was left alone in it. I have feared it inexpressibly, and with good reason. I have fought it, and have often been worsted. At times I have hated it; but as I began to succeed I learned to love it, and to serve it with an ambition that gave me so little respite that yesterday I thought that I was a broken and worn-out man. If ever the world had a slave, I am one; but there have been times during this June day when I earnestly wished that I might break my chains; and your serene, kindly face, that is in such blessed contrast to its shrewd, exacting, and merciless spirit, gave hope from the first."

"So thee has been alone in the world since thee was a little boy," she said, in a tone that seemed the echo of my dead mother's voice.

"Since I was twelve years of age," I replied, after a moment, and looking away. I could not meet her kind eyes as I added: "My mother's memory has been the one good, sacred influence of my life; but I have not been so true to it as I ought to have been—nothing like so true."

"Has thee no near friends or relatives?"

"I have acquaintances by the hundred, but there is no one to whom I could speak as I have to you, whom I have known but a few hours. A man has intuitions sometimes as well as a woman."

"How strange it all is!" said Mrs. Yocomb, with a sigh, and looking absently out of the window to where the sun glowed not far above the horizon. Its level rays lighted up her face, making it so beautiful and noble that I felt assured that I had come to the right one for light and guidance. "Every heart seems to have its burden when the whole truth is known," she added, meditatively. "I wonder if any are exempt. Thee seemed indeed a man of the world when jesting at the table, but now I see thy true self Thee is right, Richard Morton; thee can speak to me as to thy friend."

"I fear your surmise is true, Mrs. Yocomb; for in two instances to-day have I caught glimpses of burdens heavier than mine." She looked at me hastily, and her face grew pale. I relieved her by quietly continuing:

"Whether you have a burden on your heart or not, one thing I know to be true—the burdened in heart or conscience would instinctively turn to you. I am conscious that it is this vital difference between your spirit and that of the world which leads me to speak as I do. Except as we master and hold our own in the world, it informs us that we are of little account—one of millions; and our burdens and sorrows are treated as sickly sentimentalities. There is no isolation more perfect than that of a man of the world among people of his own kind, with whom manifestations of feeling are weaknesses, securing prompt ridicule. Reticence, a shrewd alertness to the main chance of the hour, and the spirit of the entire proverb, 'Every man for himself,' become such fixed characteristics that I suppose there is danger that the deepest springs in one's nature may dry up, and no Artesian shaft of mercy or truth be able to find anything in a man's soul save arid selfishness. In spite of all that conscience can say against me—and it can say very much—I feel sure that I have not yet reached that hopeless condition."

"No, Richard Morton, thee has not."

"I honestly hope I never may, and yet I fear it. Perhaps the turning-point has come when I must resolutely look my old life and its tendencies in the face and as resolutely work out such changes as true manhood requires. If you will permit a metaphor, I feel like a shipmaster whom a long-continued and relentless gale has driven into an unexpected and quiet harbor. Before I put to sea again I would like to rest, make repairs, and get my true bearings, otherwise I may make shipwreck altogether. And so, impelled by my stress and need, I venture to ask if you will permit me to become an inmate of your home for a time on terms similar to those that you have made with Miss Warren. That you may very naturally decline is the ground of the fear to which I referred."

"Richard Morton," said the old lady heartily, "thee's welcome to stay with us as long as thee pleases, and to come whenever thee can. The leadings in this case are plain, and I shall pray the kind Heavenly Father that all thy hopes may be realized."

"One has been realized truly. You cannot know how grateful I am."

"Thee's welcome, surely, and father will tell thee so, too. Come," and she led me out to the further end of the veranda, where Mr. Yocomb sat with Miss Warren, his daughters, and Silas Jones grouped near him.

"Well," exclaimed Adah eagerly, "what is Mr. Morton's calling? It must, indeed, be a dreadful business, since you have had such a long and serious time."

Mrs. Yocomb looked at me a little blankly.

"I declare," I exclaimed, laughing, "I forgot to tell you."

"Forgot to tell!" cried Adah. "Why, what on earth did you tell? There is nothing about you in this paper that I can find."

Mr. Yocomb looked perplexed, and I saw Miss Warren's quick glance at
Mrs. Yocomb, who smiled back reassuringly.

"Father," she said, "Richard Morton wishes to stay with us for a time, I have told him that he was welcome, and that thee would tell him so, too. I think thee will. Thee may ask him any questions thee pleases. I am satisfied."

"Thee is mistress of thy home, mother, and if thee's satisfied I am. Richard Morton, thee's welcome. Thee was wise to get mother on thy side."

"So I instinctively felt ever since I saw her at the meeting-house door."

"Perhaps mother gave thee a bit of a sermon?"

"She has given me two things that a man can't be a man without—hope and courage."

"Well, thee does kind of look as if thee had plucked up heart."

"You, too, are catching the infection of this home," Miss Warren said, in a low voice, as she stood near me.

"So soon? I feel that I shall need an exposure of several weeks. There is now but one obstacle in the way."

"Ah, yes! I remember what you said. It's time you explained."

"Not yet." And I turned and answered Adah's perplexed and frowning brow.

"You will find me in that paper, Miss Adah, as one of its chief faults. I am one of its editors, and this fact will reveal to you the calling from which I and many others, no doubt, have suffered. Thus you see that, after all, I have revealed my secret to you only. To your mother I revealed myself. I hope, sir, you will not reverse your decision?" I said to Mr. Yocomb.

The old gentleman laughed heartily as he answered, "I have had my say about editors in general. Mother and—I may add—something in thy own manner, has inclined me to except present company. But I'll read thy paper since Emily Warren takes it, so thee'd better beware."

I saw that Adah was regarding me with complacency, and seemed meditating many other questions. I had fully decided, however, that while I should aim to keep her goodwill I would not permit her to make life a burden by her inane chatter, or by any sense of proprietorship in me. She must learn, as speedily as possible, that I was not one of her "half-dozen young men."

"Richard Morton, thee can keep thy room, and I hope thee will not find our quiet, homely ways irksome, since we cannot greatly change them," said my hostess.

"I have a request to make, Mrs. Yocomb," I replied earnestly; "and I shall derive no pleasure or benefit from my sojourn with you unless you grant it. It is, that your family life may go on just the same as if I were not here. As surely as I see that I am a source of restraint or extra care and trouble, you will drive me out into the wilderness again. You know why I wish to stay with you," I added meaningly.

"We shall take thee at thy word," said Mrs. Yocomb, with a smile on her lips but a very wistful, kindly light in her eyes.

"Reuben, tell Richard Morton the truth," said his father. "Would it give thee a great deal of trouble or much pleasure to take Dapple and drive to the village for friend Morton's valise?"

The youth, who was a good-natured and manly boy, to whom Sundays passed
a trifle slowly, sprang up with such alacrity that I laughed as I said,
"No need of words, Reuben, but I owe you a good turn all the same."
Then turning to Miss Warren, I continued:

"You have been here a week. Will your conscience permit you to teach me a little topography? It would be no worse than reading that newspaper."

"Indeed, I think it might be better. It will be a useful task, at least; for, left to yourself, you might get lost, and make Mr. Yocomb no end of trouble. Did you not tell me, sir (to our host), that on one occasion you had to hunt some one up with fish-horns, lanterns, etc.?"

"Yes, and he was from New York, too," said Mr. Yocomb.

"If I get lost, leave me to my fate. There will be one editor the less."

"Very true; but I'd rather have thee on thy paper than on my conscience. So Emily Warren, thee look after him, and show him the right and proper ways, for I am now too old to enjoy a night hunt, even with the music of fish-horns to cheer us on. I ask thee, Emily, for some of thine instead when thee comes back."