That was the beginning of a new effort. There were certain young ladies becoming well-known to Mrs. Roberts, by reason of a similarity of tastes which drew them to her.

She sat down one day and wrote out their names with great care on her tablets.

Miss Henderson's name headed the list. She was one of the aristocrats. I use the word in its highest sense. The accidents of wealth and position were hers; at least, that is the way we talk, though I suppose we all believe that the Lord is the giver of both, and will require an account of the same at our hands.

If this be so, Miss Henderson will be more ready than some with her rendering; for she is of royal blood, and guards well the honor of the Christian name she bears.

Without hesitation, Miss Henderson headed the list. The others were chosen more slowly; ten of them, picked soldiers, to do special duty “in His name.”

It required much explanation, much care to plan wisely.

But the girls caught at the idea.

In the course of weeks they formed a band, with Miss Henderson for president. Ostensibly they were a literary society; really they were diamond polishers.

They met one evening by invitation, with Mrs. Roberts, and made the acquaintance of the “Monday Club.” They sang for them, read for them, heard them read; chatted with them on the various topics of the hour, the last lecture of the course, which all had attended; a certain book carefully read and criticised by Mr. and Mrs. Roberts and Dr. Everett in the Monday Club,—not so carefully read by the young ladies; therefore, it came to pass that they were somewhat worsted in an argument concerning it, which was bad neither for the young ladies nor the Monday Club.

Finally, they were taken out to supper by these young men, who had so far come under Mrs. Robert's' influence that they were willing to endure torture for the sake of pleasing her.

It is a long story. I could write another book about it just as well as not.

The main difficulty would be that the critics would pronounce the story overdrawn. They always do when one revels in facts. It is only when an author keeps within the range of sober fiction that he may feel comparatively safe from this charge.

These young ladies represented other parlors and other dining-rooms. They arranged for little graceful entertainments, to which the Monday Club was invited. Gradually others were invited too—good, solid men, and wise-hearted, motherly women. The invitations were select, the “polishers” were chosen with care; but it was surprising to these workers to find how large the Christian world is, and how many stood ready to help if they were shown love.

“It is one of the best suggestions that that dear Ester has given us.” This Mrs. Roberts said one evening when the Young Ladies' Band and the Monday Club combined their forces and gave an entertainment to some of the best people on the avenue.

I have given you hints of how they did it. They were every one Christians, these young ladies; none others were chosen. They worked with a single aim in view—His glory. They took no step that was not paved with prayer. Do you need to be told that they succeeded?

This was one of the reasons why Mr. Colson chatted with Miss Henderson with perfect freedom, and why his bow was graceful and easy when she introduced him to her friend Miss Fanshawe, of Philadelphia. He was accustomed to being introduced to her friends.

I'm sure I hope you wish I would tell you somewhat of Mart Colson. If you are not deeply interested in her I am disappointed in you. She has been such an object of interest to me since that time when I caught a glimpse of her once through the cellar-window, with a gleam of sunset making her hair into gold.

It is a summer evening of which I tell you, and she is all in white—except her eyes; nothing can be bluer than they are to-night,—and except the flowers about her. She is always among the flowers.

I hesitate, after all, to tell you about Mart. Hers is one of those stories hard to tell. Besides, her friend and patron has suffered much criticism because of her, and though Mrs. Roberts does not care in the least, I find that I am sensitive.

“Has she really kept that Colson girl with her all these years?” Yes, she has. I speak it meekly, but she has! “And never had her learn a trade, or work in a factory, or learn to support herself in any way?” She has never sent her anywhere to learn a trade or to work in a factory or to stand behind a counter. It is too true.

No, I was almost sure you did not approve of it. But, for all that, I don't mean to argue Mrs. Roberts' cause. “To her own Master she standeth or falleth.”

Not but what Mrs. Roberts has argued, on occasion,—with Gracie Dennis, for instance, who paid her a few weeks' visit, less than three months after she first went home.

“Flossy,” she would say, “what are you going to do—with the girl? Do you really mean to keep her here?”

“She has no mother, my child, nor father; and her brother is not able to care for her yet. Where would you have me send her?”

“Why, Flossy, there are places.”

“Yes, my dear, I know it, and this is one of them.”

“Well, but she ought to be learning things. How is she going to support herself?”

“She is studying arithmetic with me, you know, and writing and reading with the dining-room girls; and I am teaching her music, and Mr. Roberts proposes to have her join the history class as soon as she is sufficiently advanced in the more common studies.”

“But, Flossy Shipley, that is great nonsense! You know what I mean. You cannot turn the world upside down in that fashion, or make an orphan asylum of your house or a charity school.”

“My dear, do you really think the house is in danger? Does it look like an orphan asylum or feel like a charity school?”

Then would Gracie Dennis laugh, but look a trifle vexed, nevertheless, and mutter that people couldn't do things that way in this world.

Then would Flossy be ready with her gentle drops of oil to soothe the ruffles.

“Gracie, dear, I am not trying to reform the world. There are a great many girls left destitute I know, and I will do at wholesale all I can for them; but this one is peculiar. You have admitted that it was unusual to see such dangerous beauty, and she is unusual in her mental development. She could be fierce and wicked; she is ignorant and bitter about many things; I am afraid for her. I have not been able to think of a place where the Lord Jesus would have me take her. I must see to it that He is pleased, you know, at all hazards. If He does not mean us to keep her in the shelter of our home for the present, we do not know what He means.

“We cannot 'mother' the whole race: He has not even suggested it to our hearts. He has simply said, 'Here, take this one; there is room for her; keep her until I plainly tell you that her place is elsewhere.' Gracie, would you have me tell Him we cannot?”

By this time Gracie would be humble and sweet.

“It is very good of you,” she would say, meekly, “and I was not thinking of such a thing as finding fault. I was only wondering whether—whether—well, you know—whether such a life as she is leading in your house would not unfit her for her proper sphere?”

But a sentence like that was always liable to put little Mrs. Roberts on all the dignity she possessed. Her husband had ideas on that subject, and had imbued her with them. Her voice could even sound almost haughty as she said:—

“As to that, Gracie, we must remember that the 'sphere' of an American woman is the one that she can fill acceptably in God's sight. He may call her to the highest; I don't know. Since she is the daughter of a King, there may be no spot on His footstool too high for His intentions concerning her.”

There was outside criticism, of course. Indeed, Mrs. Roberts was sufficiently peculiar in many respects to call for much criticism from the world. They talked much about “that girl” she had picked up. Gradually they said “that Colson girl”; then one day some daughter asked, “Is she really a sister of that handsome Mr. Colson in the store?” And by-and-by there were some who spoke of her as “Mattie Colson.” That was the name which Mrs. Roberts always called her. It began gradually to be known also that “Mattie Colson” knew a great deal which was worth knowing. Three years of companionship with a lady like Mrs. Roberts, and such as she gathers about her, can do much for a girl who wishes much done for her.

As to “earning her living,” I am not sure but she was learning to do it in several ways. Mrs. Roberts struggled against all false ideas of life, therefore taught her none.

She was not the cook, but she could, and had on occasion, served up a most enjoyable breakfast.

She was not the second-girl, yet her fingers were undeniably skilful in the arrangement of rooms and tables. She was not the sewing-girl, yet constant were the calls on fingers that had become wise in these directions. She was by no means the nurse, yet there was a little golden-haired “Flossy” in the sunny room upstairs whose devoted slave she was, and whose mother felt that Mattie's loving, watchful care over her darling was only second to her own, and was so to be relied upon, by day and night, as to repay tenfold whatever she might have done for the girl.

In fact, it would perhaps be difficult to define “Mart” Colon's position in the house. Yet she was, as I said, becoming known among the young ladies outside as “Mattie Colson, that handsome young Colson's sister; as pretty as a doll, and a protÉgÉ of that lovely Mrs. Roberts, you know.” As for the Young Ladies' Band,—I do not include them when I talk of the girls “outside,”—what they had done for Mattie Colson she could not have told you though she tried, her eyes shining with tears.

The days had come wherein the very matrons who had said that it was a strange thing for Mrs. Roberts to take a girl from the slums into her family—that it was “tempting Providence to attempt such violent wrenches”—now said one to another, that “it must be a great relief to Mrs. Roberts to have that Mattie Colson always at her elbow to see that everything about the home was just as it should be;” and they added, with a sigh, that “some people were very fortunate.”

Now, dear critic, you stand all ready to say that this is a very nice paper story, but that in actual life attempts at doing good do not result so smoothly; that to be “natural,” Mrs. Roberts ought, at least, to have tried in vain to reclaim half of her boys.

It is true, I have said nothing to you about two or three whom she has not as yet reached, though she is still trying. My story was not of them, but of the twenty whom she did reach. Concerning your verdict, there are two things that I want to say: First, go into the work, and give the time and patience and faith and prayer that Mrs. Roberts and her fellow-workers gave, before you decide that it is vain.

And secondly, will you kindly remember that, whether this be natural or not, it is true?

I do not think I have told you the immediate occasion of this particular gathering. It was, in fact, a reception given to Mrs. Ried. It is not likely that I need tell you at this late day that her name was Gracie Dennis Ried. I could have told you much about it, had I been writing a story of that sort.

In fact, there is a chance for considerable romancing. There are matters of interest that I might tell you, about “Mr. Colson” himself, young as he is; and about Mattie, who wears to-night a rose that she did not pick from the conservatory; but I don't mean to tell it.

I have just one other bit of history to give you. They stood together for a moment—the young bridegroom and the lady with whom he had faithfully worked ever since that rainy afternoon in which he had confided his gloom to her.

Both were looking at the two young men who stood near the piano, waiting to join in the chorus. Both had known these young men as “Nimble Dick” and “Black Dirk.”

Still another of the original seven stood in the immediate vicinity. The glances of the two workers took them all in; then they looked at each other, and smiled meaningly.

“I have been thinking of that first Sunday afternoon,” said Mrs. Roberts. “I asked them to pick up my handkerchief, which had dropped, and 'Nimble Dick' said, 'Pick it up yourself, mum! you're as able to as we be!' I wonder if they would remember it? What if I should tell them!”

As she spoke the bit of cambric in her hand designedly dropped almost at the feet of Dirk Colson. He stooped for it instantly, but “Nimble Dick” was too quick for him, and presented it to the owner with a graceful bow, and a slightly triumphant smile.

But the chorus was commencing, and the bass and tenor were at once absorbed in their work; so Mr. Ried and Mrs. Roberts had the memorial laugh all to themselves. None but they understood what the white handkerchief said.

Despite the laughter there was a suspicious mist in Mr. Ried's eyes.

“How far is mirth removed from tears?” he asked his hostess. And then: “Do you know, when I look at these young men, moving about your rooms at their ease, really ornaments to society, and think of the places in the world that they will be likely to fill, and think of what they were when you first saw them, the overwhelming contrast brings the tears!”

Said Mrs. Roberts:—

“I will tell you something that will do your heart good.

“Did you know that our young lady helpers had reorganized in larger force, and with certain fixed lines of work, which they feel certain they can do?

“The effort has passed out of the realm of mere experiment.

“They have chosen a name. They are henceforth to be known as THE ESTER RIED BAND.

“They came to me for a motto to hang in their rooms, below the name; and I gave them this:—

“'And I heard a voice from heaven saying unto me. Write. Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from henceforth: Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest from their labors: and their works do follow them.'”