"Heav'n bless thee;
Thou hast the sweetest face I ever look'd on."
SHAKESPEARE.

One of the greatest of Fleda's pleasures was when Mr. Carleton came to take her out with him. He did that often. Fleda only wished he would have taken Hugh too, but somehow he never did. Nothing but that was wanting to make the pleasure of those times perfect. Knowing that she saw the common things in other company, Guy was at the pains to vary the amusement when she went with him. Instead of going to Versailles or St. Cloud, he would take her long delightful drives into the country, and show her some old or interesting place that nobody else went to see. Often there was a history belonging to the spot, which Fleda listened to with the delight of eye and fancy at once. In the city, where they more frequently walked, still he showed her what she would perhaps have seen under no other guidance. He made it his business to give her pleasure; and understanding the inquisitive active little spirit he had to do with, he went where his own tastes would hardly have led him. The Quai aux Fleurs was often visited, but also the Halle aux BlÉs, the great Halle aux Vins, the Jardin des Plantes, and the MarchÉ des Innocens. Guy even took the trouble, more for her sake than his own, to go to the latter place once very early in the morning, when the market bell had not two hours sounded, while the interest and prettiness of the scene were yet in their full life. Hugh was in company this time, and the delight of both children was beyond words, as it would have been beyond anybody's patience, that had not a strong motive to back it. They never discovered that Mr. Carleton was in a hurry, as indeed he was not. They bargained for fruit with any number of people, upon all sorts of inducements, and to an extent of which they had no competent notion; but Hugh had his mother's purse, and Fleda was skilfully commissioned to purchase what she pleased for Mrs. Carleton. Verily the two children that morning bought pleasure, not peaches. Fancy and Benevolence held the purse-strings, and Economy did not even look on. They revelled too, Fleda especially, amidst the bright pictures of the odd, the new, and the picturesque, and the varieties of character and incident that were displayed around them, even till the country people began to go away, and the scene to lose its charm. It never lost it in memory; and many a time in after life, Hugh and Fleda recurred to something that was seen or done "that morning when we bought fruit at the Innocens."

Besides these scenes of everyday life, which interested and amused Fleda to the last degree, Mr. Carleton showed her many an obscure part of Paris, where deeds of daring and of blood had been, and thrilled the little listener's ear with histories of the past. He judged her rightly. She would rather at any time have gone to walk with him than with anybody else to see any show that could be devised. His object in all this was, in the first place, to give her pleasure; and, in the second place, to draw out her mind into free communion with his own, which he knew could only be done by talking sense to her. He succeeded as he wished. Lost in the interest of the scenes he presented to her eye and mind, she forgot everything else, and showed him herself precisely what he wanted to see.

It was strange that a young man, an admired man of fashion, a flattered favourite of the gay and great world, and, furthermore, a reserved and proud repeller of almost all who sought his intimacy, should seek and delight in the society of a little child. His mother would have wondered if she had known it. Mrs. Rossitur did marvel that even Fleda should have so won upon the cold and haughty young Englishman; and her husband said he probably chose to have Fleda with him because he could make up his mind to like nobody else; a remark which perhaps arose from the utter failure of every attempt to draw him and Charlton nearer together. But Mr. Rossitur was only half right. The reason lay deeper.

Mr. Carleton had admitted the truth of Christianity, upon what he considered sufficient grounds, and would now have steadily fought for it, as he would for anything else that he believed to be truth. But there he stopped. He had not discovered, nor tried to discover, whether the truth of Christianity imposed any obligation upon him. He had cast off his unbelief, and looked upon it now as a singular folly. But his belief was almost as vague and as fruitless as his infidelity had been. Perhaps, a little, his bitter dissatisfaction with the world and human things, or rather his despondent view of them, was mitigated. If there was, as he now held, a Supreme Orderer of events, it might be, and it was rational to suppose there would be, in the issues of time, an entire change wrought in the disordered and dishonoured state of his handiwork. There might be a remedial system somewhere nay, it might be in the Bible, he meant to look some day. But that he had anything to do with that change; that the working of the remedial system called for hands; that his had any charge in the matter, had never entered into his imagination nor stirred his conscience. He was living his old life at Paris, with his old dissatisfaction perhaps a trifle less bitter. He was seeking pleasure in whatever art, learning, literature, refinement, and luxury can do for a man who has them all at command; but there was something within him that spurned this ignoble existence, and called for higher aims and worthier exertion. He was not vicious, he never had been vicious, or, as somebody else said, his vices were all refined vices; but a life of mere self-indulgence, although pursued without self- satisfaction, is constantly lowering the standard and weakening the forces of virtue lessening the whole man. He felt it so; and to leave his ordinary scenes and occupations, and lose a morning with little Fleda, was a freshening of his better nature; it was like breathing pure air after the fever- heat of a sick-room; it was like hearing the birds sing after the meaningless jabber of Bedlam. Mr. Carleton, indeed, did not put the matter quite so strongly to himself. He called Fleda his good angel. He did not exactly know that the office this good angel performed was simply to hold a candle to his conscience; for conscience was not by any means dead in him, it only wanted light to see by. When he turned from the gay and corrupt world in which he lived, where the changes were rung incessantly upon self-interest, falsehood, pride, and the various, more or less refined forms of sensuality; and when he looked upon that pure bright little face, so free from selfishness, those clear eyes so innocent of evil, the peaceful brow under which a thought of double-dealing had never hid, Mr. Carleton felt himself in a healthier region. Here, as elsewhere, he honoured and loved the image of truth, in the broad sense of truth, that which suits the perfect standard of right. But his pleasure in this case was invariably mixed with a slight feeling of self-reproach; and it was this hardly recognised stir of his better nature, this clearing of his mental eyesight under the light of a bright example, that made him call the little torch-bearer his good angel. If this were truth, this purity, uprightness, and singleness of mind, as conscience said it was, where was he? how far wandering from his beloved idol?

One other feeling saddened the pleasure he had in her society, a belief that the ground of it could not last. "If she could grow up so!" he said to himself. "But it is impossible. A very few years, and all that clear sunshine of the mind will be overcast, there is not a cloud now!"

Under the working of these thoughts, Mr. Carleton sometimes forgot to talk to his little charge, and would walk for a length of way by her side, wrapped up in sombre musings. Fleda never disturbed him then, but waited contentedly and patiently for him to come out of them, with her old feeling, wondering what he could be thinking of, and wishing he were as happy as she. But he never left her very long. He was sure to wave his own humour and give her all the graceful kind attention which nobody else could bestow so well. Nobody understood and appreciated it better than Fleda.

One day, some months after they had been in Paris, they were sitting in the Place de la Concorde. Mr. Carleton was in one of these thinking fits. He had been giving Fleda a long detail of the scenes that had taken place in that spot; a history of it from the time when it had lain an unsightly waste, such a graphic lively account as he knew well how to give. The absorbed interest with which she had lost everything else in what he was saying, had given him at once reward and motive enough as he went on. Standing by his side, with one little hand confidingly resting on his knee, she gazed alternately into his face and towards the broad highly-adorned square by the side of which they had placed themselves, and where it was hard to realize that the ground had once been soaked in blood, while madness and death filled the air; and her changing face, like a mirror, gave him back the reflection of the times he held up to her view. And still standing there in the same attitude after he had done, she had been looking out towards the square in a fit of deep meditation. Mr. Carleton had forgotten her for a while in his own thoughts, and then the sight of the little gloved hand upon his knee brought him back again.

"What are you musing about, Elfie, dear?" he said, cheerfully, taking the hand in one of his.

Fleda gave a swift glance into his face, as if to see whether it would be safe for her to answer his question, a kind of exploring look, in which her eyes often acted as scouts for her tongue. Those she met pledged their faith for her security; yet Fleda's look went back to the square and then again to his face in silence.

"How do you like living in Paris?" said he. "You should know by this time."

"I like it very much indeed," said Fleda.

"I thought you would."

"I like Queechy better, though," she went on, gravely, her eyes turning again to the square.

"Like Queechy better! Were you thinking of Queechy just now when I spoke to you?"

"O no!" with a smile.

"Were you going over all those horrors I have been distressing you with?"

"No," said Fleda; "I was thinking of them, a while ago."

"What then?" said he pleasantly. "You were looking so sober, I should like to know how near your thoughts were to mine."

"I was thinking," said Fleda, gravely, and a little unwillingly, but Guy's manner was not to be withstood "I was wishing I could be like the disciple whom Jesus loved."

Mr. Carleton let her see none of the surprise he felt at this answer.

"Was there one more loved than the rest?"

"Yes the Bible calls him 'the disciple whom Jesus loved.'
That was John."

"Why was he preferred above the others?"

"I don't know. I suppose he was more gentle and good than the others, and loved Jesus more. I think Aunt Miriam said so when I asked her once."

Mr. Carleton thought Fleda had not far to seek for the fulfilment of her wish.

"But how in the world, Elfie, did you work round to this gentle and good disciple from those scenes of blood you set out with?"

"Why," said Elfie, "I was thinking how unhappy and bad people are, especially people here, I think; and how much must be done before they will all be brought right; and then I was thinking of the work Jesus gave his disciples to do; and so I wished I could be like that disciple. Hugh and I were talking about it this morning."

"What is the work he gave them to do?'" said Mr. Carleton, more and more interested.

"Why," said Fleda, lifting her gentle wistful eyes to his, and then looking away, "to bring everybody to be good and happy."

"And how in the world are they to do that?" said Mr. Carleton, astonished to see his own problem quietly handled by this child.

"By telling them about Jesus Christ, and getting them to believe and love him," said Fleda, glancing at him again, "and living so beautifully that people cannot help believing them."

"That last is an important clause," said Mr. Carleton, thoughtfully. "But suppose people will not hear when they are spoken to, Elfie?"

"Some will, at any rate," said Fleda, "and by and by everybody will."

"How do you know?"

"Because the Bible says so."

"Are you sure of that, Elfie?"

"Why, yes, Mr. Carleton, God has promised that the world shall be full of good people, and then they will be all happy. I wish it was now."

"But if that be so, Elfie, God can make them all good without our help."

"Yes, but I suppose he wishes to do it with our help, Mr.
Carleton," said Fleda, with equal naÏvetÉ and gravity.

"But is not this you speak of," said he, half smiling, "rather the business of clergymen? you have nothing to do with it?"

"No," said Fleda, "everybody has something to do with it the Bible says so; ministers must do it in their way, and other people in other ways; everybody has his own work. Don't you remember the parable of the ten talents, Mr. Carleton?"

Mr. Carleton was silent for a minute.

"I do not know the Bible quite as well as you do, Elfie," he said then, "nor as I ought to do."

Elfie's only answer was by a look somewhat like that he well remembered on shipboard he had thought was angel-like, a look of gentle sorrowful wistfulness, which she did not venture to put into words. It had not for that the less power. But he did not choose to prolong the conversation. They rose up and began to walk homeward, Elfie thinking with all the warmth of her little heart that she wished very much Mr. Carleton knew the Bible better; divided between him and "that disciple" whom she and Hugh had been talking about.

"I suppose you are very busy now, Elfie," observed her companion, when they had walked the length of several squares in silence.

"O yes!" said Fleda. " Hugh and I are as busy as we can be. We are busy every minute."

"Except when you are on some chase after pleasure?"

"Well," said Fleda, laughing, "that is a kind of business; and all the business is pleasure too. I didn't mean that we were always busy about work. Oh, Mr. Carleton, we had such a nice time the day before yesterday!" And she went on to give him the history of a very successful chase after pleasure which they had made to St. Cloud.

"And yet you like Queechy better?"

"Yes," said Fleda, with a gentle steadiness peculiar to herself "if I had aunt Lucy, and Hugh, and uncle Rolf there, and everybody that I care for, I should like it a great deal better."

" 'Unspotted' yet," he thought.

"Mr. Carleton," said Fleda, presently "do you play and sing every day here in Paris?"

"Yes," said he, smiling, "about every day. Why?"

"I was thinking how pleasant it was at your house in England."

"Has Carleton the honour of rivalling Queechy in your liking?"

"I haven't lived there so long, you know," said Fleda, "I dare say it would if I had. I think it is quite as pretty a place."

Mr. Carleton smiled with a very pleased expression. Truth and politeness had joined hands in her answer with a child's grace.

He brought Fleda to her own door, and there was leaving her.

"Stop! Oh, Mr. Carleton," cried Fleda, "come in, just for one minute I want to show you something."

He made no resistance to that. She led him to the saloon, where it happened that nobody was, and repeating, "One minute!" rushed out of the room. In less than that time, she came running back with a beautiful half-blown bud of a monthly rose in her hand, and in her face such a bloom of pleasure and eagerness as more than rivalled it. The rose was fairly eclipsed. She put the bud quietly, but with a most satisfied air of affection, into Mr. Carleton's hand. It had come from a little tree which he had given her on one of' their first visits to the Quai aux Fleurs. She had had the choice of what she liked best, and had characteristically taken a flourishing little rose-bush, that as yet showed nothing but leaves and green buds, partly, because she would have the pleasure of seeing its beauties come forward, and partly, because she thought having no flowers, it would not cost much. The former reason, however, was all that she had given to Mr. Carleton's remonstrances.

"What is all this, Elfie?" said he. "Have you been robbing your rose-tree?"

"No," said Elfie, "there are plenty more buds! Isn't it lovely? This is the first one. They've been a great while coming out."

His eye went from the rose to her; he thought the one was a mere emblem of the other. Fleda was usually very quiet in her demonstrations; it was as if a little green bud had suddenly burst into a flush of loveliness; and he saw, it was as plain as possible, that goodwill to him had been the moving power. He was so much struck and moved, that his thanks, though as usual perfect in their kind, were far shorter and graver than he would have given if he had felt less. He turned away from the house, his mind full of the bright unsullied purity and single-hearted goodwill that had looked out of that beaming little face; he seemed to see them again in the flower he held in his hand, and he saw nothing else as he went.

Mr. Carleton preached to himself all the way home, and his text was a rose.

Laugh who will. To many it may seem ridiculous; and to most minds it would have been impossible; but to a nature very finely wrought and highly trained, many a voice that grosser senses cannot hear, comes with an utterance as clear as it is sweet-spoken; many a touch that coarser nerves cannot heed, reaches the springs of the deeper life; many a truth that duller eyes have no skill to see, shows its fair features, hid away among the petals of a rose, or peering out between the wings of a butterfly, or reflected in a bright drop of dew. The material is but a veil for the spiritual; but, then, eyes must be quickened, or the veil becomes an impassable cloud.

That particular rose was to Mr. Carleton's eye a most perfect emblem and representative of its little giver. He traced out the points of resemblance as he went along. The delicacy and character of refinement for which that kind of rose is remarkable above many of its more superb kindred; a refinement essential and unalterable by decay or otherwise, as true a characteristic of the child as of the flower; a delicacy that called for gentle handling and tender cherishing; the sweetness, rare indeed, but asserting itself as it were timidly, at least with equally rare modesty; the very style of the beauty that, with all its loveliness, would not startle nor even catch the eye among its more showy neighbours; and the breath of purity that seemed to own no kindred with earth, nor liability to infection.

As he went on with his musing, and drawing out this fair character from the type before him, the feeling of contrast that he had known before pressed upon Mr. Carleton's mind; the feeling of self-reproach, and the bitter wish that he could be again what he once had been something like this. How changed now he seemed to himself not a point of likeness left. How much less honourable, how much less worth, how much less dignified, than that fair innocent child! How much better a part she was acting in life what an influence she was exerting, as pure, as sweet-breathed, and as unobtrusive, as the very rose in his hand! And he doing no good to an earthly creature, and losing himself by inches.

He reached his room, put the flower in a glass on the table, and walked up and down before it. It had come to a struggle between the sense of what was and the passionate wish for what might have been.

"It is late, Sir," said his servant, opening the door "and you were "

"I am not going out."

"This evening, Sir?"

"No not at all to-day. Spenser, I don't wish to see anybody let no one come near me."

The servant retired, and Guy went on with his walk and his meditations looking back over his life, and reviewing, with a wiser ken now, the steps by which he had come. He compared the selfish disgust with which he had cast off the world with the very different spirit of little Fleda's look upon it that morning; the useless, self-pleasing, vain life he was leading, with her wish to be like the beloved disciple, and do something to heal the troubles of those less happy than herself. He did not very well comprehend the grounds of her feeling or reasoning, but he began to see, mistily, that his own had been mistaken and wild.

His step grew slower, his eye more intent, his brow quiet.

"She is right, and I am wrong," he thought. "She is by far the nobler creature worth many such as I. Like her I cannot be I cannot regain what I have lost I cannot undo what years have done. But I can be something other than I am! If there be a system of remedy, as there well may, it may as well take effect on myself first. She says everybody has his work; I believe her. It must, in the nature of things, be so. I will make it my business to find out what mine is; and when I have made that sure, I will give myself to the doing of it. An All- wise Governor must look for service of me. He shall have it. Whatever my life be, it shall be to some end. If not what I would, what I can. If not the purity of the rose, that of tempered steel!"

Mr. Carleton walked his room for three hours; then rung for his servant, and ordered him to prepare everything for leaving Paris the second day thereafter.

The next morning over theirs coffee he told his mother of his purpose.

"Leave Paris! To-morrow! My dear Guy, that is rather a sudden notice."

"No, mother; for I am going alone."

His mother immediately bent an anxious and somewhat terrified look upon him. The frank smile she met put half her suspicions out of her head at once.

"What is the matter?"

"Nothing at all if by 'matter' you mean mischief."

"You are not in difficulty with those young men again?"

"No, mother," said he, coolly. "I am in difficulty with no one but myself."

"With yourself! But why will you not let me go with you?"

"My business will go on better if I am quite alone."

"What business?''

"Only to settle this question with myself," said he, smiling.

"But, Guy! you are enigmatical this morning. Is it the question that of all others I wish to see settled?"

"No, mother," said he, laughing, and colouring a little; "I don't want another half to take care of till I have this one under management."

"I don't understand you," said Mrs. Carleton. "There is no hidden reason under all this that you are keeping from me?"

"I wont say that. But there is none that need give you the least uneasiness. There are one or two matters I want to study out; I cannot do it here, so I am going where I shall be free."

"Where?"

"I think I shall pass the summer between Switzerland and
Germany."

"And when and where shall I meet you again?"

"I think, at home; I cannot say when."

"At home!" said his mother with a brightening face. "Then you are beginning to be tired of wandering at last?"

"Not precisely, mother," rather out of humour.

"I shall be glad of anything," said his mother, gazing at him admiringly, "that brings you home again, Guy."

"Brings me home a better man, I hope, mother," said he, kissing her as he left the room. "I will see you again by and by."

" 'A better man!' " thought Mrs. Carleton, as she sat with full eyes, the image of her son filling the place where his presence had been; "I would be willing never to see him better, and be sure of his never being worse."

Mr. Carleton's farewell visit found Mr. and Mrs. Rossitur not at home. They had driven out early into the country to fetch Marion from her convent for some holiday. Fleda came alone into the saloon to receive him.

"I have your rose in safe keeping, Elfie," he said. "It has done me more good than ever a rose did before."

Fleda smiled an innocently pleased smile. But her look changed when he added

"I have come to tell you so, and to bid you good-bye."

"Are you going away, Mr. Carleton?"

"Yes."

"But you will be back soon?"

"No, Elfie I do not know that I shall ever come back."

He spoke gravely, more gravely than he was used, and Fleda's acuteness saw that there was some solid reason for this sudden determination. Her face changed sadly, but she was silent, her eyes never wavering from those that read hers with such gentle intelligence.

"You will be satisfied to have me go, Elfie, when I tell you that I am going on business which I believe to be duty. Nothing else takes me away. I am going to try to do right," said he, smiling.

Elfie could not answer the smile. She wanted to ask whether she should never see him again, and there was another thought upon her tongue too; but her lip trembled, and she said nothing.

"I shall miss my good fairy," Mr. Carleton went on, lightly; "I don't know how I shall do without her. If your wand was long enough to reach so far I would ask you to touch me now and then, Elfie."

Poor Elfie could not stand it. Heir head sank. She knew she had a wand that could touch him, and well and gratefully she resolved that its light blessing should "now and then" rest on his head; but he did not understand that; he was talking, whether lightly or seriously and Elfie knew it was a little of both he was talking of wanting her help, and was ignorant of the help that alone could avail him. "O that he knew but that!" What with this feeling and sorrow together, the child's distress was exceeding great; and the tokens of grief in one so accustomed to hide them were the more painful to see. Mr. Carleton drew the sorrowing little creature within his arm, and endeavoured with a mixture of kindness and lightness in his tone to cheer her.

"I shall often remember you, dear Elfie," he said; "I shall keep your rose always, and take it with me wherever I go. You must not make it too hard for me to quit Paris you are glad to have me go on such an errand, are you not?"

She presently commanded herself, bade her tears wait till another time as usual, and trying to get rid of those that covered her face, asked him "What errand?"

He hesitated.

"I have been thinking of what we were talking of yesterday, Elfie," he said at length. "I am going to try to discover my duty, and then to do it."

But Fleda at that clasped his hand, and squeezing it in both hers, bent down her little head over it to hide her face and the tears that streamed again. He hardly knew how to understand, or what to say to her. He half suspected that there were depths in that childish mind beyond his fathoming. He was not, however, left to wait long. Fleda, though she might now and then be surprised into showing it, never allowed her sorrow of any kind to press upon the notice or the time of others. She again checked herself and dried her face.

"There is nobody else in Paris that will be so sorry for my leaving it," said Mr. Carleton, half tenderly and half pleasantly.

"There is nobody else that has so much cause," said Elfie, near bursting out again, but she restrained herself.

"And you will not come here again;, Mr. Carleton?" she said, after a few minutes.

"I do not say that it is possible if I do, it will be to see you, Elfie."

A shadow of a smile passed over her face at that. It was gone instantly.

"My mother will not leave Paris yet," he went on you will see her often."

But he saw that Fleda was thinking of something else; she scarce seemed to hear him. She was thinking of something that troubled her.

"Mr. Carleton," she began, and her colour changed.

"Speak, Elfie."

Her colour changed again. "Mr. Carleton, will you be displeased if I say something?"

"Don't you know me better than to ask me that, Elfie?" he said, gently.

"I want to ask you something if you wont mind my saying it?"

"What is it?" said he, reading in her face that a request was behind. "I will do it."

Her eyes sparkled, but she seemed to have some difficulty in going on.

"I will do it whatever it is," he said, watching her.

"Will you wait for me one moment, Mr. Carleton?"

"Half an hour."

She sprang away, her face absolutely flashing pleasure through her tears. It was much soberer, and again doubtful and changing colour, when a few minutes afterwards she came back with a book in her hand. With a striking mixture of timidity, modesty, and eagerness in her countenance, she came forward, and putting the little volume, which was her own Bible, into Mr. Carleton's hands, said, under her breath, "Please read it." She did not venture to look up.

He saw what the book was; and then taking the gentle hand which had given it, he kissed it two or three times if it had been a princess's he could not with more respect.

"You have my promise, Elfie," he said; "I need not repeat it."

She raised her eves and gave him a look so grateful, so loving, so happy, that it dwelt for ever in his remembrance. A moment after it had faded, and she stood still where he had left her listening to his footsteps as they went down the stairs. She heard the last of them, and then sank upon her knees by a chair, and burst into a passion of tears. Their time was now, and she let them come. It was not only the losing a loved and pleasant friend, it was not only the stirring of sudden and disagreeable excitement poor Elfie was crying for her Bible. It had been her father's own it was filled with his marks it was precious to her above price and Elfie cried with all her heart for the loss of it. She had done what she had on the spur of the emergency she was satisfied she had done right; she would not take it back if she could; but not the less her Bible was gone, and the pages that loved eyes had looked upon were for hers to look upon no more. Her very heart was wrung that she should have parted with it; and yet, what could she do? It was as bad as the parting with Mr. Carleton.

That agony was over, and even that was shortened, for "Hugh would find out that she had been crying." Hours had passed, and the tears were dried, and the little face was bending over the wonted tasks, with a shadow upon its wonted cheerfulness, when Rosaline came to tell her that Victor said there was somebody in the passage who wanted to see her and would not come in.

It was Mr. Carleton himself. He gave her a parcel, smiled at her without saying a word, kissed her hand earnestly, and was gone again. Fleda ran to her own room, and took the wrappers off such a beauty of a Bible as she had never seen bound in blue velvet, with clasps of gold, and her initials in letters of gold upon the cover. Fleda hardly knew whether to be most pleased or sorry; for to have its place so supplied seemed to put her lost treasure further away than ever. The result was another flood of very tender tears; in the very shedding of which, however, the new little Bible was bound to her heart with cords of association as bright and as incorruptible as its gold mountings.