Author: Lois Waisbrooker
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

PERFECT MOTHERHOOD

OR

MABEL RAYMOND'S RESOLVE.

BY

LOIS WAISBROOKER,

Author of "Helen Harlow's Vow," "Alice Vale," "Nothing Like It," etc., etc.

————

"All parts away for the progress of souls,
For the progress of souls along the highways of
the universe, all art, forms, governments
Fall into niches and corners."

Whitman.

————

NEW YORK:

MURRAY HILL PUBLISHING CO.,

129 East 28th Street.
1890.

Copyright, 1889, by
LOIS WAISBROOKER.

TROW'S
PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY,
NEW YORK.

To

WOMAN EVERYWHERE

THAT CHILDREN MAY CEASE TO BE BORN ACCURSED
DO WE DEDICATE THIS BOOK AND
MAKE OUR APPEAL.

Oh, mothers, prospective mothers, wake up to the power you possess, and claim your heritage—the conditions for perfect motherhood. From out the dim vista of the future comes the call of the advancing generations: "Prepare, prepare the way." Oh, women of the world, arise in your strength and demand that all which stands in the path of true motherhood shall be removed from your path. Carry the spirit of this demand with you. Let the very atmosphere that surrounds you—the sphere that is made up of the activities of your mental and moral being carry with it a firm faith in the possibility of the better state of society. Let your own children and prospective mothers all about you sense this power, this feeling, this faith in humanity's power to rise, and if you do not remain in the body long enough to witness the inauguration of the new, you will see from your home over there, the harvest of the seed you have sown.

THE AUTHORESS.

TO THE READER.

————

Dear Reader: Do you ask why I continue to write stories? Because of the influence of stories upon me when I was a mere child. My parents held the Abolitionists in contempt, and my father, to express his disgust, would swear about the "d——d nigger." But I liked to read—most children do, if they can have reading in story form—and through the influence of little Antislavery stories which fell into my hands I became in full sympathy with the Abolitionists before I was a dozen years old, and when I was twenty-seven years old I had the satisfaction of knowing that not only my father, but every member of the family (and there were six children), was in full sympathy with the Antislavery cause, and that I had helped to make them such.

Realizing how much truth in story dress did toward abolishing chattel slavery, I now, while nearing my threescore years and ten, would fain impress upon the minds of the rising generation the necessity of furnishing the conditions for Perfect Motherhood; and I would have those mothers whose hopes have been blasted feel that by buying and scattering books written for that purpose they may help to remove the causes which have wrecked their happiness.

Oh! mothers with aching hearts, aid one who suffers for you, and with you, in removing from the path of the coming generations those conditions which curse mothers during gestation, and children from birth.

The Authoress.

CONTENTS.

————

CHAPTER I.

Miss Queer.

CHAPTER II.

The Young Philosopher.

CHAPTER III.

Covered Paths.

CHAPTER IV.

Sowing Seed.

CHAPTER V.

The Psychologist.

CHAPTER VI.

Monsieur Costin's Story.

CHAPTER VII.

That Crank—Debt Slavery, etc.

CHAPTER VIII.

Another Story.

CHAPTER IX.

Two Birthdays.

CHAPTER X.

Mabel's Friends.

CHAPTER XI.

The Poor of this World.

CHAPTER XII.

Love—Disappointment—France.

CHAPTER XIII.

Usury and Motherhood.

CHAPTER XIV.

The Philosopher Speaks.

CHAPTER XV.

Back to Kansas.

CHAPTER XVI.

Monsieur Costin's Fate.

CHAPTER XVII.

Methods of Work.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Results and New Plans.

CHAPTER XIX.

Economy—Disappointment.

CHAPTER XX.

All of Life.

PERFECT MOTHERHOOD;

OR,

MABEL RAYMOND'S RESOLVE.

————

CHAPTER I.

MISS QUEER.

WHY call her Sal? it is not respectful."

"Call who Sal?"

"Miss or Mrs. Magundi"

"What!"

"You said Sal Magundi"

At this the party addressed, a lad of thirteen summers, threw himself upon the floor rolling and screaming with laughter. "Oh, oh, it's too rich," he said, and then looking up into the wide-open, wondering brown eyes of his questioner, he went off into another fit of laughter.

A girl of ten years, who, for her straightforward, matter-of-fact ways, had been christened Miss Queer by her laughter-loving brother, turned to a lady who sat looking out of the window, and asked:

"What is Walter laughing at, mother?"

"What is it, Walter?" said the mother, quietly.

"Oh, mother, it's too rich; Miss Queer will be the death of me yet."

"But what is it?"

"I said"—oh, oh, holding his sides as he went off in another fit of laughter—"I—I said Salmagundi, and she asked me"—oh, oh—"why I did not call her"—ha, ha—"Miss or Mrs., instead of Sal;" ha, ha, ha, "it's too rich."

Mrs. Raymond smiled, and, turning to her little daughter, said: "Never mind, darling, it was only a mistake."

"What does it mean, then?"

"Salmagundi—it is a kind of food made of chopped meat and pickled herring, seasoned with oil and vinegar, and sometimes other things are added."

The child stood a moment looking very thoughtful, then with half a smile she said:

"Well, I have learned something, and that is what Walter has not done by laughing at me; but it was a little funny." And the shadow of a smile broke into a broad ripple over the rather plain features, making them look really attractive.

Mabel's philosophizing somewhat sobered Walter, though what she said was not exactly correct, for he had learned as much as she had. But not liking to acknowledge his ignorance he simply said:

"Come, Salmagundi, get your hat and we will go to the park."

"And how many more names are you going to give me?" she asked, as she turned to obey the request, but her mother remarked:

"I think you have made a mistake, Mabel."

"In what, mother?"

"In saying that you have learned something while Walter has not. I question if he knew the meaning of the word he was using."

"Did you, Walter?" asked Mabel, turning toward him.

Walter colored. "No, I did not, I only repeated what the boys use as a sort of byword; I did not suppose it had any particular meaning."

"And now that you do know, you call your sister by it," said Mrs. Raymond.

"Why not, mother? She is about as queer as chopped meat and smoked herring, or any other mixture."

By this time Mabel was ready, and the children started for their walk. Mrs. Raymond smiled at the remembrance of Mabel's blunder, and turned to pick up a book which had fallen to the floor, when a lady sitting outside upon the veranda which ran along another side of the room, from the window out of which she had been looking, remarked:

"Your Mabel is a very peculiar child, Mary."

"You there, Marion," was Mrs. Raymond's response.

"Yes, I have been here for some time," said the first speaker, as she stepped through the French window into the room and took a seat beside her friend.

"Yes, Mabel is rather peculiar," continued Mrs. Raymond; "but the best-dispositioned child I have; nothing seems to disturb her, and her reasoning powers are remarkable."

"Strange what makes such a difference in children of the same family," said the other.

"Well, yes, somewhat; and yet not so strange as seems at first sight. My surroundings were entirely different during the months preceding her birth from what they were with either of the others, and I think that accounts for the difference in her case."

"Your surroundings, Mary?"

"Yes, I was very much out of health, and the doctor ordered country air and freedom from all excitement, and Mr. Raymond found for me a most delightful retreat. I took Walter with me, and his father came every Saturday night and stayed till Monday morning with us, and altogether it was one of the happiest summers of my life."

"What did you do with yourself without society?"

"Oh, I never was such a votary to what is called society as you are, Marion; and, so far from being alone, I had what to me was the very best of society. I had books and papers in abundance, and I never tired of watching the chickens, geese, ducks, cows, calves, and other accompaniments of farm life. I walked when I pleased, and rode when I wished. I went to the fields where they were making hay, or into the dairy where they made butter and cheese, for I——"

Here Miss Hibbard burst into a hearty laugh. "Pardon me, please," she said, when the outburst had subsided; "but the thought of the elegant Mrs. Raymond, the looked-up-to in society's circles, rambling in the fields with the farmers, or sitting chatting with the dairymaids was too much for my risibility."

"Laugh as much as you please, Marion, but I would like to spend another summer in the same way, and far better than conforming, even as little as I do, to the hollow conventionalities of society."

"Yes, I wonder at it, Mary, that society courts you as it does. It generally resents a neglect of its claims."

"That is easily enough explained. I happen to be so situated that I can do without society better than society can do without me."

"Yes, I see; your husband is a leading man here, so his wife is a privileged character."

"But were it otherwise, Marion, I should never court society."

"No, you are too proud to court anything."

"Yes, if you call it pride."

"But do you really think that your surroundings had anything to do with Mabel's character?"

"Why not? When they are lying beneath the mother's heart and living upon her life-blood why should not her feelings affect them?"

"It may be true; and if so, I can see in your case the why of Mabel's happy disposition, but not of her simplicity in many things—her matter-of-fact way that makes her seem so devoid of imagination."

"She has imagination enough in her way, but I have not told you all. There lived just across the fields from Mr. Wilson's large farm-house an honest Scotchman and his wife, who both possessed the peculiarity that is so noticeable in Mabel, and I used to spend hours with them, listening to their quaint stories of Scotland, second sight, and various other matters, all told with such simple-hearted belief in the entire truthfulness of what they were relating that I loved to listen."

"Second sight, what is that?"

"It is the faculty which, they claim, some of their people possess of seeing things before they come to pass, also of seeing what we call ghosts—apparitions."

"Oh, how could you listen! It makes me feel uncanny to think of it!" And Miss Hibbard glanced uneasily around, as though she expected to see a ghost, giving a perceptible start as Mabel stepped from the veranda through the same window she had done when she came in.

"Why, Mabel!" exclaimed Mrs. Raymond, "I thought you went to the park with Walter."

"I started to go, mamma; but we met Hugh Barber, and he wanted Walter to go somewhere with him, so I came back and sat down out there just as Miss Hibbard laughed out," and then going up to her mother she said:

"Mamma, did I really grow beneath your heart?"

The ladies glanced at each other, and the mother hesitated for a moment, but rising equal to the occasion she put her arms around the child and asked:

"Where did you think you grew, darling?"

"I never thought much about it, but the minister says God made us."

"Yes, and he would tell you that God makes the trees and the flowers, but they grow all the same and have a place to grow in."

"But why didn't you tell me, mamma?"

"Because mamma did not think her little daughter was old enough to understand it yet."

"I do not understand it now, but I know it is so, mamma, for you said so, and it makes me love you so much," and seating herself upon her mother's lap she laid her head upon that mother's bosom, looking the very picture of happiness.

Miss Hibbard, woman of the world that she seemed, turned her head away and there were tears in her eyes.

For some moments mother and child sat thus in close embrace, and no word was spoken. At length Mabel raised her head and asked:

"Am I good, mamma?"

"Yes, darling, you are mamma's good little girl."

"And if your being happy and having what you liked when I was growing makes me good, is it because his mother had bad things around her that makes Tommy Gone so naughty?"

There the two women looked at each other again, and Mrs. Raymond said, "Perhaps."

"Why can't everybody have good and beautiful things, mamma?"

"That is a bigger question than mamma can answer, or little daughter understand if I could."

"You tell me there is always a reason for things, so there must be one for that, and I mean to find it out," said the child straightening herself up as though she felt a consciousness of undeveloped power.

"And what will you do then, daughter?"

"I shall try to make things better."

"Mamma hopes you can, but had you not better go now and amuse baby till tea-time, so nurse can go out awhile?"

"Yes, mamma," and she hastened away as though it gave her new pleasure to do something because mamma wished it.

"There is logic for you, Marion," said Mrs. Raymond as soon as Mabel had left the room.

"Yes, I was very much amused."

"It is not a very amusing thought to me that so many mothers have such bad conditions under which to do their best work."

"Well, you can't help it and what's the use of fretting?"

"It is true that I am unable to change things, but why is it so, Marion? If we knew the why, perhaps we could help it."

"The preacher tells us that God appoints our estate, and that all should be content in the station to which they are assigned."

"He is a very unjust God then."

"Be careful, Mary, that the Rev. Mr. Hunter does not hear you say a thing like that."

Mrs. Raymond only smiled at this, and after a moment Miss Hibbard continued:

"I wondered what you could say to the child when she asked you about growing beneath your heart."

"What could I say but tell her the truth?"

"And now she will be talking it to others in that honest way of hers."

"I will take care that she does not speak of it improperly, Marion."

Again there was silence for a time, and then Miss Hibbard remarked:

"If your theory is true I don't see how the world can ever be made any better, for if you attempt to give all mothers, or prospective mothers, good conditions you have a big job on hand."

"Conditions are not all, Marion; the quality of the parentage comes in for consideration."

"Well, well, I never expected to hear you discussing such themes as this. For my part, I do not care to bother with anything of the kind."

"And yet you started it."

"Me!"

"Yes, by remarking that you wondered what made such a difference in children of the same family."

"I did not suppose, however, that you would attempt to tell."

"I will say nothing further, and if you remain in a state of single blessedness a few years longer you will not need to trouble yourself about such matters, so far as you are personally concerned."

"That is saying I am an old maid, Mary."

"I believe you used to be some three months the oldest when we went to school together, and I have been married fourteen years."

"I used to be the oldest!"

"Yes. I do not know how it is now; people some times stop getting any older," said Mrs. Raymond, with a laugh.

"How many children have you, Mary?" was Miss Hibbard's next question.

"Do you suppose I have some of them hidden away, that you ask that, Marion?"

"No, but I want you to remember that every child adds two years to a woman's age, so with the three living and the two you have lost, you are now nearly ten years my senior," she replied, with a sparkle in her eye.

"So that is the way you try to cheat Father Time, is it?"

"That is one of the ways; but here come callers, so a truce to nonsense."

"It is more likely to be just where the nonsense, or no sense, begins," was Mrs. Raymond's response.

The callers were Mrs. Hunter, the minister's mother, and "Mrs. Professor Thompson, of Hartford, Connecticut," as she was introduced by Mrs. Hunter. "Of course the fact that she was the wife of a college professor must be told," said Miss Hibbard, as soon as they were gone.

"As was the fact that you was nobody's wife, when I introduced you," quietly remarked Mrs. Raymond.

"What—what nonsense are you talking now; how else could I be introduced?"

"Than as Miss Hibbard, in no other way unless you adopt the Quaker style, but it told your position all the same."

"And do you consider it a disgrace?" she asked, petulantly.

"You know, Marion, that I do not," replied Mrs. Raymond; "but tell me, please, why it is that a man is Mr. as soon as he is of age, while a woman is never Mrs., or Mistress, till she marries?"

"And how could she be?"

"She ought to be mistress of herself when she becomes of age, had she not?"

"How many more new-fangled notions have you got into your head, I should like to know, Mrs. Raymond?"

"There is no need of being offended, dear."

"I am not offended, but I must say I am astonished to hear you talking like a ranting free-lover. Is the world to be turned upside down?"

"I fear, Marion, that it will have to be, and inside out, before it gets much better."

Walter came in just then and asked: "Where is Salmagundi?"

"In the nursery, if you mean Mabel," said his mother; "but why, Walter, do you continually nickname your sister?"

"Oh, it's fun, and she takes it so quietly; it don't hurt her, she's so good, you know; for little girls are made of

" 'Sugar and spice, and all things nice,' "

he sang as he danced out of the room.

The nurse girl had returned, and Mabel was just coming in, so they met at the door, she hearing the words he sang.

"I think," she said, "that I am made of chickens, goslings, calves, fruit, flowers, and new-made hay."

"And pigs," shouted Walter, going off into one of his immoderate fits of laughter.

"Were there pigs there, mother?" asked Mabel with a simple earnestness that made even Mrs. Raymond smile.

The child stood with a wondering look on her face, as much as to say, "What are you laughing at," as her mother replied: "Yes, dear; but mother didn't pay much attention to them."

"Then I am not made of part pig, for mother didn't like the pigs much," she said, turning to her brother with a triumphant air.

"Not made of part pig, what do you mean?" said the now astonished boy, seeing that there was some thing serious involved.

"Why, mother says——"

"There, dear," interrupted Mrs. Raymond, "we will not talk about it anymore now, mother will explain another time."

"Can Salmagundi go to the park with me after tea, mother?" asked Walter.

"I will see about it," was the reply, while Mabel added: "I am not made of chopped meat, pickled herring, oil, and vinegar. You didn't have anything of the kind that summer, did you, mamma?"

"I did not; but I thought we were not to talk of that any more now."

"Oh, I forgot. I wasn't good then."

That night Mrs. Raymond took Walter and Mabel to her own room and explained to them as much of the mystery of life as she thought suited to their years; showed them some plates illustrating the subject; talked to them of the sacredness of their persons; told them how proud and happy she was in her children; told them of the injury that any of their creative organs would be, not only to themselves but to their children, should they live to become parents; cautioned them about talking on such subjects with their playmates, etc., and when she had finished, Mabel threw her arms about her mother's neck and said:

"Oh, mamma, it is beautiful, what you have told us about our wonderful bodies."

But Walter, true to his irrepressible boy-nature, said: "I don't care, Meb, I shall call you Salmagundi all the same."

As there is always a cause for things, even for the existence of a rose in a desert, it were perhaps well to trace the antecedents of those of whom we have been speaking, so as to be able to explain, or at least to understand, the equally strange phenomenon of such deep, such radical thought in the very heart of New York society.

"Tall oaks from little acorns grow."

Independent thought, that which dares to question existing beliefs and methods of action, has wondrous vitality; otherwise progress would be impossible, as each new idea is forced to walk through the fiery furnace of intense opposition—of hatred.

Mary Vernon was the descendant of the persecuted Quakers of New England on her mother's side, and her father was a sea-captain whose wide experience with the world did not admit of very bigoted views. He was successful in his calling, and for those days quite wealthy, and he determined that his children should be well educated, he not having had the opportunity to acquire more than the common rudiments as obtained in the district school.

His only daughter, now Mrs. Raymond, had been educated at Holyoke, Mass., and Marion Hibbard was a school-mate. They had contracted the warm friendship that opposite natures sometimes do, for in their mental make-up two could hardly be more different.

Still, Mary always called out the best that was in Marion, while the latter's frivolity never seemed to annoy her.

Mary could realize something of the nobility of the founder of that celebrated school—Mary Lyon; but Marion only looked upon being there as a sort of unpleasant necessity. She must be educated, of course, and why not there as well as anywhere.

When they graduated, Marion went to her home in Boston, and indulged in the round of parties and balls which the wealth of her parents enabled her to do, while Mary Vernon went to Newport, R. I., and devoted herself to her sick mother, and from that mother's last hours she learned that one need not be strictly orthodox in belief in order to die happy.

Mrs. Vernon seemed to catch sight, as she neared the confines of another life, of many of the causes which produce so much sorrow in this; and these thoughts she imparted to her daughter. During the year of mourning, Mary, at the urgent request of her friend Marion, spent a few weeks in Boston. It was there that she met Mr. Raymond, a rising young lawyer of New York, who was also visiting friends.

Mr. Raymond came also of a stock that had dared to think for themselves, though they did little more than think, for outwardly they conformed to religious customs in all but in becoming actual participants in church ordinances. The young man was first attracted to Miss Vernon by a remark she made that was in direct opposition to the belief of those about her. He was pleased with her quiet independence of thought, and the very thing which alarmed her friend Marion, lest she should make herself unpopular, was the means of securing her a good husband—"the best catch of the season," Marion said, when she attended the wedding.

"If I had supposed you would do that I would not have invited you to Boston till I had tried my powers upon him," she laughingly continued.

"Well, Marion, I shall not be in your way anymore," was the response.

"Oh, but there's no one left worth having now!"

"Thanks for your high compliment to my husband," rejoined the now Mrs. Raymond.

This conversation occurred at Mary's home, and just after the ceremony, where Marion had acted as bridesmaid, while the newly made wife was changing her wedding dress for a travelling suit, preparatory to a short trip with her husband before going with him to their New York home.

From that time on there had been visits, then letters, until the summer in which our story opens, when Marion was spending a few months with her friend, "Mrs. Judge Raymond."

Remaining unmarried her years of parties and society frivolity had begun to pall on her senses, and that summer with her friend had now and then called out a remark which showed that she was capable of comprehending more important subjects than the last new style of dress, and what Mrs. Fashionplate had worn at the last party—showed that she was capable of, but not enamored with thinking.

Judge Raymond was in Washington City upon business that it would take him some time to complete, and that was one of the reasons urged by Mrs. Raymond when inviting Marion to visit her. "I shall be alone much of the time, with the exception of the children," she had said.

Mr. Raymond's friends were anxious that he should represent his State, or the district in which he resided, in Congress; but this he refused to do, and they did not urge the matter for they knew that when he said a thing he meant it.

The judge had two reasons for refusing. One was he was much attached to his family and did not like to be absent when it could be avoided, and neither he nor Mrs. Raymond thought the moral atmosphere of Washington good for the children. New York was bad enough, but here there was a sort of wall about them, as it were. Mrs. Raymond was not expected to live as much in society when at home as she would be in the capital of the nation as the wife of a Congressman.

His other reason was: in his decisions as judge he had gone adversely to cliques and parties in favor of justice, and he knew that the influence of said cliques would be exerted against him; consequently, if he would succeed he must match intrigue with intrigue, and this he had no desire to do. So Judge Raymond escaped the added prefix of "Hon.," and another, a less capable and less honest man, went to sit in the national council, and Mrs. Raymond remained contentedly at home, ready to turn that, which otherwise might have proved evil, into good for her children.

The night following the Salmagundi incident Mabel was the only one whose rest was undisturbed. She had said I mean to find out why—she intended it—so she accepted what she had learned—and expected to learn more—in a spirit of such genuine trust that no anxious thoughts disturbed her.

Walter, on the contrary, was so intensely alive to the new ideas he had received that sleep was impossible. He was not only lifted entirely above any feeling of vulgarity in connection with the subject, and his mother invested with a new dignity in his eyes, but his mind went out toward birds, bees, flowers, and all animal and vegetable life, inwardly determining to solve the mystery of them all.

It would not be easy to trace the course of Miss Hibbard's musings, but that she was wakeful she herself asserted the next morning at the breakfast-table; while to Mrs. Raymond's mind the subjects started seemed to stretch out in illimitable proportions, and their continued growth in the minds of the people pointed to changes to accomplish which there must come such an upheaving as made her shudder as she contemplated.

Finally she dropped into a disturbed slumber, from which she awoke with a start, seeming to hear the words: "The judgment of the present system of unrighteousness; look soon for the beginning of the end."

A few months afterward, when she heard of the firing on Fort Sumter, the scenes of that night came back to her with a vividness that made her cheek turn pale.

CHAPTER II.

THE YOUNG PHILOSOPHER.

I CAN'T understand this, wife," said a Kansas farmer when looking over his accounts preparatory to finding where his interest money was coming from.

"Can't understand what, James?"

"When our candidate for Congress was here he said prices varied, but that in the long run the medium was about fair. For instance, if wheat is seventy-five cents per bushel one year, and one dollar and twenty-five the next, it made an average of a dollar, and in the end it was as well for us farmers as though it was a dollar all the time."

"Well, isn't that true?"

"Yes, so far as the wheat is concerned, but not in the cost to me; not when it comes to paying debts."

"How is that?"

"You know, Lucy, it is now four years since I borrowed that five hundred dollars, agreeing to pay ten per cent. interest, and in wheat at the market price. The first two years wheat was a dollar a bushel, and it took fifty bushels a year, just one hundred bushels for the two years. Last year wheat was twenty-five cents per bushel higher, and of course it took but forty bushels of wheat to pay the fifty dollars of interest. This year wheat is but seventy-five cents per bushel, and if Congressman Waldron was correct, sixty bushels ought to pay the interest this year, thus making a hundred bushels for the two years, the same as the first two."

"Well, won't it?"

"No, it will not. I have been figuring here, and I find it will take sixty-six and two-thirds bushels, at seventy-five cents per bushel, to pay fifty dollars."

"How is that? I don't understand."

"Neither do I; that is what I said at first, wife."

"That you could not understand—yes, I believe it was; but wheat certainly does average a dollar a bushel, if twenty-five cents above that price one year, and twenty-five cents below it the next. You must have made a mistake, James."

"I certainly have not."

"I think I understand it, father," said a lad of fourteen, who sat by the window seemingly absorbed in watching the teams that were passing, but who in reality had been intently listening.

"You do!" said Mr. Gray, in a tone of surprise.

"I think I do, sir."

"Well, we will hear your explanation, Mr. George; perhaps your book-learning may be of some use after all."

The manner in which his father said this was anything but encouraging, and the boy hesitated.

"Speak out, boy," urged Mr. Gray.

Thus prompted, George Gray said: "It is simply the difference in the proportion that twenty-five cents sustains to the higher and the lower price of a bushel of wheat."

"The proportion—what has that to do with it?"

"How many twenty-fives is there in a hundred and twenty-five, father?"

"Five, of course. I am not so big a fool as not to know that."

"Don't, James; let the child go through with his explanation," said Mrs. Gray, deprecatingly.

"The rise, then, as to the price of a bushel is one fifth, consequently it takes one-fifth less number of bushels to bring fifty dollars."

"Yes, that is plain enough, but——"

"Wait a moment, father, please. Twenty-five cents is one-third of the lower price, and by the same proportion it will take one-third more bushels to bring fifty dollars."

"How is that? Tell it again, George."

"At a dollar and a quarter a bushel, four-fifths of a bushel will bring a dollar—forty bushels, fifty dollars; but at seventy-five cents a bushel it takes one and a third bushel to bring a dollar; so you see it takes. one-third more bushels to bring fifty dollars. But one-third of fifty is sixteen and two-thirds——"

"Yes, yes, that's so," said Mr. Gray, scratching his head, "and yet it bothers me."

"It is the difference between one-fifth and one-third that makes the difference in the number of bushels it takes to make the two payments, more than it would if the price was a dollar all the time. To make matters even, the rise must be in the same proportion to the higher price as the fall is to the lower price."

"How is that, George?" asked Mr. Gray, now thoroughly interested.

"The rise must be one-third the higher price to balance a fall one-third the lower price."

"And what would that be in this case?"

"The rise must be fifty cents."

"What! you don't say that it takes a rise of fifty cents to balance a fall of twenty-five cents?"

"It will prove itself, father, in this case that is, with the price at a dollar. Two-thirds of a bushel will bring a dollar with wheat at a dollar and a half a bushel, and it will take one and a third bushel to bring a dollar at seventy-five cents a bushel; and two-thirds of a bushel and one and a third bushel make two bushels."

"Yes, that is true, George, and yet fifty bushels of wheat at seventy-five cents a bushel, and fifty bushels at one twenty-five per bushel make just a hundred dollars for a hundred bushels; I can't see yet where the kink lies."

"If the man to whom the interest is coming would take thirty-seven and a half dollars—just what fifty bushels of wheat will bring at seventy-five cents a bushel—if he would take that the first year, and the sixty-two and a half dollars the second year, just what the same number of bushels will bring at an added price of twenty-five cents, then it would be all right; but no, he must have his fifty dollars each year, no matter if it takes a hundred bushels to pay it."

"Oh, I see now! If debts would rise and fall with prices, it would be all right, but as they do not, we farmers lose more by the low prices than we gain by the high," said Mr. Gray, his brow clearing.

"That is just it, father, and better than I could say it."

In most homes the youngest child is the favorite, but it was not so with farmer Gray. Born of the work spirit, as most of the New England farmers had been from the necessity of the case, he was never so happy as when seeing his work "go ahead," as he expressed it; and moving to the fertile plains of Kansas had not changed his nature in the least. It was still work, work.

His two older boys and his married daughter were, like himself, great workers; "but George, well, I don't know what ails him, there is no work in him," he used to say to his wife, who would quietly reply:

"Oh, George will come out all right."

"Yes, I s'pose you think so, but he's not one bit like me; he's more like that lazy schoolmaster who boarded with us before George was born."

Mrs. Gray would laugh. She knew he did not mean half his words implied. It was true, that, being shut out from society as she had been much of the time after coming to Kansas, she had really enjoyed having the schoolmaster there; but she would as soon have thought of turning the sun backward in the heavens as of being false to her husband, and he knew it. Still, with a sort of perverseness peculiar to some natures, he didn't like the schoolmaster because she did.

"That may be," she would reply to her husband's peevish taunt; "but really he is more like you in form and features than any of the others, and the best looking child we have."

Here he would mutter something about "stuff, flattery," and again that low, rippling laugh as she added: "He was homely, and you know it, but a good talker, and much more intelligent than some of the teachers we have had, to say nothing of the rest of the society here at that time, and I did enjoy his company, but—well you are so cross I don't think I'll tell you ."

"Might as well say it all when you are about it," he replied, trying to look crosser than ever, then catching her mischievous look, he had to laugh.

"Don't," he said; "that look was what entrapped me into marrying you, and I am not proof against it even yet."

"That set you to trying to get me," she amended; "but as you are good-natured now, I will tell you what you don't deserve to know. I used often to look at you when talking with him, and think you so much the best-looking, and that I think is what makes George so good-looking."

"Soft soap," he said, leaving the room, more pleased than he liked to acknowledge.

Still George was not his favorite, but the aptness he had shown in the matter over which he himself had been so puzzled raised the boy in his estimation somewhat. In thinking the matter over he found himself saying:

"I wonder if slick-tongued politicians would fool us as they do if everybody was taught to really think? I studied 'rithmetic as much as the other boys did, but I never understood the law of proportion before. Let me see: it was not the proportion that the price of wheat sustained, one bushel to another, but the relation the lower price sustained to our debts. Yes, I see."

"I'm going to tell that fellow he lied," he said one day when talking of the matter.

"I wouldn't, father; I don't think he meant to lie," said George.

"Didn't mean to lie! Of course he did," said Mr. Gray, indignantly. "Those political chaps will say anything to get our votes."

"I don't think he understood it himself, father."

"What! up for Congress and not understand that! I don't believe it."

"My teacher says there are real truths and apparent truths, and that unless we examine carefully we sometimes mistake the apparent for the real."

"It does seem at first sight that what he said was right," said Mr. Gray, after a moment's thought; "but then, up for Congress," and he shook his head.

"It really is a puzzler," said a neighbor, "and I can't quite get it into my head yet."

"Can you get it into your head clearly that the sun does not rise and set, Mr. Jones?" asked George.

"I never try to, and yet I know it is the world instead of the sun that moves; but it makes no difference to us which way we think about it."

"But in this case it does," said Mr. Gray.

"Not any practical difference, father."

Mr. Gray opened his eyes very wide, as if to say what next, and George continued:

"If we could regulate prices it might—could regulate prices, or make debts rise and fall with prices."

"That is another view of the case."

"Suppose, Mr. Gray, when Mr. Waldron comes into the neighborhood again, you invite him here and we will test the matter. We can find out if he meant to deceive us as to the rise and fall of prices," said Mr. Jones.

"I will do it, neighbor; he is to be here the last of the month."

The time came, and with it the Hon. Mr. Waldron, the man who had been representing the people in Congress, and who was seeking for re-election. Mr. Gray managed to get a few hours of the gentleman's company at his own home. Neighbor Jones and several others were there to learn for themselves if the man was honest or a political trickster. He little thought, as he smilingly talked with his host and the honest farmers who had come, as he supposed, to do him honor, how many votes hung upon the decision of the next hour.

After supper the men took seats in the shade of the house, and Mrs. Gray, instead of clearing the table, spread a cloth over the whole to keep the flies out of things, and then seated herself in the door near them, while George took a stool and sat at her feet with one hand resting upon her knee.

Mr. Waldron looked up as if a little surprised, but remarked:

"I am always glad to see the ladies taking an interest in these questions, and our young friend here will soon be a voter, and——"

"Help make laws for his mother," interrupted Mrs. Gray.

The gentleman parried this thrust by saying: "The future of our country depends upon them, and the work that woman can do in preparing them for their responsible position gives her the pre-eminence."

Mrs. Gray smiled in a way that showed she was fully aware of just how much the compliment was worth, seeing which Mr. Waldron colored.

"Our boys, some of them think faster than we do now," said Mr. Gray. "George solved a problem for me the other day, over which I had puzzled my brains in vain."

"Ah, how is that?"

"If you remember, sir, you told us when you was here before that if we got six shillings per bushel one year for our wheat, and ten shillings the next year, it was as good for us as though we got a dollar a bushel all the time."

"Well, isn't it?"

"I find that it is not, sir."

"I should like to see the proof, Mr. Gray. If so self-evident a thing can be proved false, I think most anything can."

"I think I can soon show you, Mr. Waldron, that while fifty bushels of wheat at seventy cents a bushel, or six shillings, as we Yorkers say, and fifty bushels at ten shillings a bushel, will bring just an even hundred dollars, still it is not so much to our advantage to have the price vary thus as it is to have the price steady at a dollar."

"I cannot see the difference."

"Suppose I contract a debt of fifty dollars when wheat is a dollar a bushel, how many bushels of wheat will it take at six shillings per bushel, to pay it?"

"Sixty-six and two-thirds," he said, after a moment's thought.

"Suppose the next year I have another fifty dollars to pay and wheat is ten shillings a bushel?"

"It will take only forty bushels to pay it."

"Forty and sixty-six and two-thirds are how many?"

"One hundred and—" The gentleman stopped, colored to the roots of his hair, stammered something, and then remained silent, but with an expression of as blank astonishment upon his face as though he had suddenly discovered that two and two made five.

"You see," said Mr. Gray, "that buyers get over six bushels more wheat from us for the same money with the fluctuating price than if the price is held steady, even if the rise for a given time does balance the fall for the same length of time."

"Yes, I see; but who would have thought it? There is a principle involved that I must look into, gentlemen" said the Congressman, turning to the listening company.

"He is honest," was their thought, "and we will vote for him."

The conversation now became general, while each seemed to have some particular thought to present; but the interest in the previous question soon reasserted itself, and George was requested to state the proportion between a rise and fall of prices that would make things even.

Mr. Waldron listened attentively. "The proportion of the rise to the higher price must be the same as is the fall to the lower price," he repeated; "give us an example, please."

"How many bushels of wheat will it take at a dollar and a half a bushel to bring fifty dollars?" was the reply.

"Thirty-three and a third, is it not?" said the Congressman, and then—"yes, that number added to sixty-six and two-thirds makes one hundred."

"And fifty cents is one-third of the higher price, while twenty-five cents is one-third of the lowest price," continued George.

"Yes, my boy, that proves itself, as I see; but will it prove itself if the rise and fall be still greater? For instance, if wheat falls to fifty cents one year and rises to two dollars the next, will your rule apply?"

George thought a moment: "That supposition does not come within the rule," he said.

"How is that? The rise is double the fall, as in the other case."

"True, sir; but the rise is half the higher price, while the fall is equal to the whole of the lower price."

"Sold again," said Mr. Waldron, who had so far recovered from his embarrassment as to laugh at his own blunder.

The crowd laughed heartily and Mr. Waldron continued:

"You are right, Master Gray; my supposition does not come within your rule; but, as I see that this rise and fall of prices has a great deal to do with the welfare of you farmers, suppose we examine its workings a little further. What would the difference be to the farmer in the number of bushels of wheat he must raise to pay, say fifty dollars a year, if one year wheat brings but fifty cents per bushel, and the next year it should rise to two dollars per bushel, how much more wheat would it take than if it remained at a dollar a bushel?"

"Twenty-five bushels, sir!"

"How is that?"

"If wheat remained at a dollar a bushel, it would take fifty bushels each year—one hundred for two years. If it were fifty cents the first year, it would take a hundred bushels to pay fifty dollars, and the year wheat was two dollars it would take twenty-five bushels, making a hundred and twenty-five bushels for the two years."

"But suppose the farmer raises two hundred bushels each year to sell, how then will the rise and fall of prices affect him?"

"I think, Mr. Waldron, there are too many things to be considered to properly answer that question in the time we have to spare now," said Mr. Jones.

"Yes, it is a question that demands thought, friend; more and closer thought than I, at least, have hitherto given it, but I would like to hear the boy's reply."

"That will do no harm, to be sure, as he, with the rest of us, will have plenty of time to think about it after this."

"Plenty of time before things can be made right, I think," said Mrs. Gray.

George here remarked that at the prices named the farmer would handle more money in disposing of the same quantity of wheat than if the price was uniformly at a dollar, but it was a question if he would save more; and Mr. Gray said:

"You forget, sir, that the cause which so increased the price of wheat would be very likely to decrease its quantity; a drouth for instance, that would cut the crop short."

"I have forgotten in my previous calculations many things that should have been considered, but shall try to do better in the future. One thing, however, has a direct bearing upon this matter, which I see has much to do with the result. The farmer's taxes, interest upon noted bonds, debts, and his other necessary expenses do not vary with the prices of what he has to sell; and debts, obligations incurred when prices are high often prove his ruin when prices fall, for his land will produce no more wheat at fifty cents a bushel, than it will, other things being equal, at two dollars per bushel, and yet it takes four times as much wheat to bring the money to pay a given amount of tax or interest."

"It is a deep problem; I can't see bottom," said Mr. Gray.

"I know it is, but I mean to find the bottom," replied the Congressman.

"Will thinking do any good, Mr. Waldron, if we stop here?"

"How, now, Master George; what do you mean?"

"Will thinking out the effect of the fluctuation of prices do any good, if we can do nothing to regulate them?"

"Certainly not, my young philosopher; but perhaps we may learn how to do that too. This is a wonderful age of discovery and improvement, and we shall have you in Congress by and by to help us. But I believe I have another audience to talk to to-night, so shall have to forego the pleasure of further discussion now."

It is hardly necessary to say that farmer Gray felt very proud of his son. He had at first felt a sort of chagrin that George had explained what he could not understand; but when he found that Congressman Waldron had understood the question no better than himself it took away the sense of humiliation that had annoyed him.

The next week brought Mrs. Gray's birthday, and some one remembered her by sending her a book. Mr. Gray brought it from the office.

"I think," he said, "it must be from your cousin Mary, and no doubt, contains some of her new-fangled notions."

Mrs. Gray looked the book over to find something to indicate the sender; but there was nothing. "I shall probably get a letter soon," she remarked, and then began to examine its contents. Her husband looked over her shoulder, and read:

"The Influence of the Conditions and Surroundings of the Mother during Gestation upon the Character of the Child."

"I wonder what next!" he said, in an irritable tone. Mrs. Gray made no reply, but laid the book aside and went on with her work.

A few days afterward Mr. Gray asked: "Do you think, wife, that is a proper book for George to read?"

"What book do you mean?"

"The one you got the other day through the mail; I see he has it."

"Most certainly I do; and I want you and the other boys to read it, and then I shall send it to Julia."

"It may be well enough for the older boys and Julia, but he is quite too young to have such books put into his hands," was the decided reply.

"Read it, please, and then tell me if you think so," she said, gently.

"Pshaw! I've no time to read it, and where's the use?"

"Read it to please me," she urged.

He still dissented, and she said no more; but the next day she saw him looking it over. She made no comment, but watched without seeming to. Presently she saw he was getting so interested that he used every spare moment in reading it. Still she said nothing. "Wife," said he, when he had finished it, "I wish I could have read such a book when I was of George's age; I think I should have done differently in some things from what I have."

"And so should I," she replied; "but I think I understand now why George is so different from the other children. But I will say first, that I do not think the writer of that book has gone to the bottom of the question."

"Perhaps it is like George's problem, has no bottom."

"I believe it is that in which we get interested, or that which we dislike in and of itself that affects the embryo, and not that we study conditions with our minds upon the child."

"How is that, wife? I do not quite understand."

"I think we cannot make the child what we wish by making that our aim—by keeping the mind fixed upon a model. No, we must like a thing for its own sake—because it is good, right, beautiful, and dislike a thing because it is wrong, and not because by liking or disliking we may affect the child."

Mr. Gray looked at his wife with a puzzled air, as though he still did not comprehend, and she continued:

"Suppose I want to make a mathematician of my child, and I study mathematics. I do not like the study—do not feel interested; still, for the child's sake, I keep studying—worry myself in doing so—do you believe my child will like mathematics?"

"I should think not," was the hesitating reply.

"No, indeed. It would take on my feelings till dislike would be the result. As I drove myself to the task, so would the child have to be driven to the task. But suppose I take to studying mathematics because I wish to understand for myself, and as I get an insight into its general principles I become very much interested, but I do not once think how it may affect my child. That is Nature's work, not mine, and I leave it with Nature; but in giving Nature material to work with I have put in a love of mathematics. She weaves it into the child's make-up, and it is a born mathematician; do you understand the difference?"

"I think I do. In the first instance you try to oversee the work; in the second, you furnish the needed material and let Nature do her own work."

"Exactly; and now I can explain the cause of the difference between George and the other children. When we first came here, as you know, James, our whole thought was for the home. I was interested in my work because it would help to make the home what we wished it to become, and the more work I could accomplish the better I was pleased. I did not work because I wanted to make the children workers. I never once thought of that; but our first children are workers."

"And you got tired of work before George was born, did you?" he said, half-laughingly.

"I did; I was not well and my work was a task, and but for Mr. Randal's boarding with us that winter I do not know how I should have kept up."

"Yes, that old school-teacher again!" but he said it in a different tone than ever before.

She paid no attention, but continued: "He managed to get me interested in books that he had, gave me new subjects of thought; in fact, roused portions of my brain to action that had lain dormant for years, and I became very much absorbed in the problems his talk suggested. I scarcely thought of my condition for days at a time, but George takes naturally to that in which I was so interested. He solves almost intuitively problems involving the principles over which I pondered."

"But he don't like to work," interrupted Mr. Gray.

"He does not like your kind of work; but he does like mental labor, and that is work as well as is digging potatoes."

"So you bookworms say, and I guess it's true, for I had rather dig potatoes all day than study two hours."

"I believe you," she said; "but here comes George with a letter."

"And I think it is about that book, mother. It is postmarked New York," said George.

Mrs. Gray opened the letter, and after scanning its contents said: "Yes, the letter is from the one who sent the book—from a cousin Mary, but not the one you was thinking of, James."

"I did not know as you had but one cousin Mary."

"You forget. I have told you, I am certain, of cousin Mary Vernon, who came with her mother to visit us the summer before we were married. Mary was only eight years old, but she seems to remember all about it. Her mother and mine were sisters, but that is the only time I ever saw them."

"How happened the families to become so separated?"

"I really do not understand the whole story, James; but I think there was some property question involved. Something that produced hard feelings between her father and mine in the first place, and then, soon after Aunt Rebecca was married they moved to Rhode Island, and we went to Vermont, so we were a long way apart."

"But they found you out once, Lucy, it seems."

"Yes, but mother and aunt had not seen each other for more than sixteen years, and never met afterward."

"But what does she write—this cousin of yours—mother?" asked George.

"Yes, Lucy, what does she write?" reiterated his father.

"It's kind of queer," said Mrs. Gray, scanning the letter again; "her mother and mine were born Quakers, as you know, but both married out of the church, and this cousin Mary is the wife of a New York Judge. I will read you a passage:

" 'Cousin Lucy: Thee may think it strange, but had I remained in the Quaker Church I should say, the Spirit moveth me to write to thee, and to use the plain language. The Spirit moveth me to say that somewhere in the future our life-lines will run very close together. I think this a gift of prophecy that belongeth to our people, and though I have not remained in the fold the Spirit followeth me.

" 'Last week a gifted Quaker lady visited my home in connection with business pertaining to the escape of some slaves, and of whom the masters were in pursuit. Since her visit I feel this Spirit upon me, and it impelleth me to write to thee. Thee knowest that our Quaker ancestors have ever opposed that which they saw to be wrong—that they defended the oppressed and opposed the oppressor—that our people still do the same. Now, cousin, my husband says, and I feel it to be true, that this Antislavery agitation will bring war—that it cannot be far away; in fact, if Abraham Lincoln is elected the South will rebel——' "

"Let them rebel; we are ready," said Mr. Gray, starting to his feet.

"Sit down, James; war is not declared yet," said his wife, laying her hand upon his arm, "cousin further says that her husband, Judge Raymond, will do all that lies in his power to help elect Lincoln, notwithstanding what he foresees will be the result, for better war than African slavery fastened forever upon this nation."

"God bless him for that," said Mr. Gray.

"And yet war may mean terrible things to us," said his wife, in a saddened tone.

The man dropped his head in his hands, and for some minutes no word was spoken.

Mrs. Gray again scanned her letter. "Here are other singular passages," she said, and read as follows:

" 'It may seem very strange to thee, cousin Lucy, that I, who have not mingled with the people of my mother's faith since early childhood, should feel the Spirit so moving me now; but it can seem no more strange to thee than it does to myself, and the Spirit moveth me to say that the coming war, which will blot out chattel slavery, is but the beginning of the end.

" 'There are other slaveries to be abolished. Woman must be freed from all that mars her work as a mother. The book I sent thee will explain what I mean, and the same spirit that prompted our ancestors to rebel against the lordly claims of men—the same spirit that has prompted our people to be the steadfast friend of the slave and helped to propagate the truths that tend to the breaking of his bonds—that same spirit will animate us in working for this grander freedom. And now I will tell thee what prompted the state of mind that gave the Spirit power to move me thus—that made my heart feel till I travailed in agony, as it were, for the coming generations—till my very soul went out to grasp the heart of the world. It is said of individual cases if we touch the heart we can succeed. I would touch the heart of the world.

" 'But to the incident that has proved the impelling cause. My little daughter Mabel, but ten years old, overheard me speaking of the effect of conditions upon the child when growing beneath the mother's heart. She came right to me and said, "Mamma, did I grow beneath your heart?" Thee may rest assured, cousin, that I told the child the truth. She also got the idea that she was good and happy because my conditions were good before her birth, and she asked me if it was because his mother had bad conditions that made Tommy Gone so naughty. I have no words to tell thee the feelings that were called up by that question; but it so opened up my heart that the Spirit could enter, and I tell thee, cousin, the heart of the world is wrapped up in what is involved in the question of my child.

" 'But I shall weary thee, so will say no more now. Write me if the Spirit move thee, and remember me to James and the children.

" 'Your cousin,
" 'Mary Raymond.

" '51 Blank Street, New York City.' "

"You have read it all," said Mr. Gray.

"Nearly so. There is a little in the first part that I have not read, but here is the letter; I expected you to read it."

"The heart of the world," he repeated, not heeding that she held the letter toward him, "the heart of the world," and turning on his heel he walked out of the house.

Mrs. Gray looked after him wonderingly, but made no comment, and George, taking up the book he had been reading before he went to the post-office, was soon lost in its contents.

Nothing further was said of the letter till weeks afterward, but it made a deep impression upon them all.

CHAPTER III.

COVERED PATHS.

THE bond of sympathy between Mabel Raymond and her mother seemed to increase in strength after the explanation related in our first chapter had been made, and Mrs. Raymond often found herself saying, "thee" and "thou," instead of you, when speaking to her daughter.

The child noticed it and asked what it meant.

"It is the Quaker way of speaking, dear, and thee makes me think of my mother. I think thou art growing to look like her," was the reply.

"Was grandma a Quaker?"

"Her parents were, but as she married a man of the world—that is, one who was not a Quaker—she was cut off from the church; but she often used their language, their way of speaking."

"Cut off, mamma, what do you mean?"

"The children of Quakers are members of their church by what is called birthright; but if they do not obey the rules of the church they are declared to be members no longer, and it is called cutting them off."

"Oh, I understand now. So grandma was cut off because she married grandpa; wasn't he a good man?"

"One of the best of men, dear."

"I can't see why they should punish grandma for marrying him, then; but you sometimes talk to me the Quaker way, and sometimes the other, why do you do that, mamma?"

"And you sometimes call me mother, and sometimes mamma, why do you do that?"

Mabel stood for a little time entirely still. Not a muscle of her body moved, but one could see by the look in her eye that her mind was active.

"I think," she said, at length, "it is because I am growing to be a woman, and when I feel most like a woman I say mother."

Miss Hibbard, who had been listening to this conversation, laughed out at this unlooked-for explanation, but her mother said:—

"Pretty good reasoning, Mabel; now I think thee can answer thine own question."

"What question—oh, I forgot; it must be because you sometimes feel like a Quaker, and sometimes not."

"I think that is right, and mother has felt more Quakerish than usual to-day," said Mrs. Raymond, thoughtfully.

"Why mamma? there must be a reason for it."

"Yes, I suppose there is, but I do not know what it is."

"Why do you not say it is the Quaker feeling you gathered from your mother before you were born coming to the surface?" asked Marion.

"It may be that; we have much to learn in that direction."

Just here the bell rang, and presently the servant came to say that a lady in the parlor would like to see Mrs. Raymond.

"Did she give her name?"

"She did not, but——"

"How does thee do, Mary Raymond?" interrupted a pleasant voice. "I knew thy mother, and I wanted to see thee right in thy sitting-room. I am Hannah Davis, from Philadelphia."

"I am glad to see thee, Hannah," was Mrs. Raymond's ready response; "this is my friend, Marion Hibbard, and this my daughter Mabel."

"How does thee do, Marion? how does thee do, Mabel?" giving her hand to each, and then looking at Mabel a moment she said: "She is much like what thy mother was at her age, Mary."

"So you knew my mother, Mrs.—I beg your pardon, Hannah."

"I prefer being called Hannah. Yes, thy mother and I were children together, but when we married she went one way with her husband and I another with mine, and we never met but once afterward, and that was when thee was a baby; but, Mary, I wish to talk with thee a few minutes, and then I will see thee again before I leave the city. I cannot tarry now."

"Then I will take thee to my own room; Marion will excuse us, and we shall not be interrupted there."

"I wonder what that old Quaker woman wants to say to Mrs. Judge Raymond," was Miss Hibbard's thought, as they left the room; but her wonderment was doomed to remain unenlightened.

There are covered paths in life, and the fact of their remaining covered depends very much upon the belief that they do not exist. Judge Raymond was a man of influence and unquestioned integrity, but there were subjects upon which he seldom, if ever, expressed an opinion. Not a slaveholder's tool in all that city would once have thought of searching his premises to find a fugitive slave; but to that fact scores of slaves owed their final escape to Canada.

The public never once dreamed that certain unused rooms in Judge Raymond's elegant mansion were really a depot for the underground railroad. Neither did the other members of the family, except Phillis, the black cook, and her husband Pomp, who was Mr. Raymond's coachman. But the tried and true friends of the slave knew, and that is why Hannah Davis went there at that time. There was a reward of a thousand dollars offered for certain fugitives. They were but a few miles away, but not where it was considered safe for them to remain.

In less than half an hour after the Quakeress left the room with Mrs. Raymond, Pomp drove up to the office of the Judge. In passing the window which gave the Judge a view of the street, Pomp managed to pull a rein in a way that made one of the horses rear, and then spoke to him in a sharp, chiding tone that caught the Judge's ear. He raised his head and looked in the direction from whence the sound came. Pomp put up his hand as if brushing something from his face, and then sat quietly till the Judge appeared.

"On time, as usual," he remarked, and loud enough for those standing near to hear, and the closest observer would have seen nothing to indicate that Pomp had not come by previous arrangement.

Pomp drove back to the house. Mrs. Raymond came out and took the back seat, while her husband sat upon the front one, his back to the driver and facing her. It was a chilly day, and they were plentifully supplied with blankets and robes, but the carriage-doors were both left wide open.

Pomp drove off at a brisk trot. In something over two hours they returned, sitting as when they started, and no one dreamed that a human being lay at the feet of each, crowded down in the closest space possible—a man and his wife—of each of whom the master was the father, and fleeing to prevent being sold apart. The estates to which they belonged joined. They were kindly treated, and had never had a thought of running away till learning, accidentally, that they were to be sold and sent in different directions; then they escaped together.

No, there was not the least suspicion, as they were driven leisurely past the officers in search, that the palpitating hearts of their desired victims were beating beneath the rich robes in Judge Raymond's carriage; but so it was.

"You are safe now, my friends; no one will think of seeking you here," said Mrs. Raymond, as upon her first visit to the room assigned them they wept, trembled, and poured out their thankfulness in words broken by emotion. When she left them, "Covered paths, covered paths," were the words that seemed to be whispered in her ears; and as she mused upon the events of the day, there came also those other words: "Covered in the secret places of the Most High," and filled with a meaning strange and new.

"Hearts as open as the sunlight
Forced to wear a masking face,
But the dove will hide her nestlings
Lest the vulture's eye should trace."

"Covered in the secret places of the Most High."—what a sense of peace and rest the words brought, and how slow she would have been in exchanging the feeling for any amount of worldly honor.

Right here we cannot forbear relating another carriage story connected with those Antislavery times. True, it is not exactly in line with our present story, but it illustrates the use of covered paths, and also the part played by our Quaker friends, who so often successfully matched stratagem against force.

An Antislavery speaker in an old Connecticut town had good reason to expect violence. Parties from the town in which he had his next appointment had said he should not speak in their place, and they came in force to this meeting. Their purpose was to waylay him and treat him to a coat of tar and feathers. An old Quaker lived next to the hall in which the meeting was held, and there was a high board-fence around his lot, shutting off all ingress except through a gate, which was kept locked, and through the house. The friends of the speaker learned of the danger and informed Obadiah.

Pointing to a wide board in the fence, he said: "I think we can circumvent them; drive the carriage close up beside that and I will look out for the rest."

On the night in question the carriage was placed as indicated, and the driver remained to see that the harness was not cut or other damage done. When the lecture was over the friends of the speaker walked on either side of him to the carriage, into which he sprang and the door was closed. One of their own number purposely made a diversion which caused, perhaps, two minutes' delay, and then the driver cracked his whip and they were off. Numbers of the crowd followed; two or three in light carriages, the others on horseback. When about a mile from town one of the men rode ahead and commanded the driver to stop, at the same moment grasping one of the horses by the bits. Others yelled: "Come out here, you nigger-lover, and get your new dress;" "And a free ride," still others added, while one of the party rode up and throwing the carriage-door open, flashed the light of his lantern upon the inside, paused a moment in surprise, and then called out: "Boys, there is no one here."

The man who held the horse by the bits involuntarily dropped them to get a look within, and the driver, watching his opportunity, struck his horses a sharp blow, which started them upon a run. The disappointed crowd looked into each other's faces in mute surprise and forgot to follow.

"That is strange," said one, at length.

"I saw him get in," said another.

"So did I," "And I," "And I," went from mouth to mouth.

"He must have slipped around from the back side and got into the other carriage," remarked another.

"That's the way it was," they all decided; then they went, each to his own home, fully resolved to watch closer next time.

The wide board in the Quaker's fence was unsuspected; but at the right moment it had been removed to let the speaker through, and was then as quietly replaced. Some of them did say they knew "the damned Quaker" was at the bottom of it; but they had no proof; and Obadiah Jenkins was too good a citizen, had too many friends, to be molested on suspicion only. True, they might have done him some secret injury, but that would not have accorded with their spirit of bravado.

This was what the Quakers called non-resistance, and what others called passive resistance, but it finally so pervaded public sentiment—its influence so touched the hearts of the people that it roused the slaveholder to active resistance against the silent force which had for the most part chosen covered paths, and in the struggle slavery went down—chattel slavery did.

History can never do full justice to the part played by our Quaker friends in that struggle—not so much in the actual struggle as in preparing the way for it.

A few days after the secretion of the fugitives of whom we have spoken, Mabel came to her mother and asked if Quakers were thieves.

"Quakers thieves! What makes you ask such a question?"

"Luna Bell says that if one should steal a horse and another should hide it, or if a horse should run away and some one should put it where the owner could not find it, that would be stealing, and that it is as bad to steal slaves as it is horses."

"And what has that to do with the Quakers?"

"She says a great many slaves run away and the Quakers hide them, so that their masters cannot find them."

"I hardly think Luna understands what she is talking about. She has been taught to think it right to buy and sell men and women, and she don't know any better."

"Buy and sell men and women!" exclaimed Mabel, with wide-open eyes.

"Why, child, what did you think they were? You certainly know that the slaves are negroes," continued Mrs. Raymond, "for you have learned that much in your geography."

"Slaves negroes; yes, how silly I am. But, mamma, I never thought to call them men and women; but they are, to be sure."

"Yes, my child, men and women, like Pomp and Phillis, and little children, too, are sold as we sell horses; but that does not make it right."

"Of course it does not, and I shall tell Luna so."

"No, dear, I would not say anything to her about it; it is not necessary that she should know you do not think as she does."

"Not tell her it is wrong, mamma!" exclaimed Mabel, in astonishment.

"Mamma knows, dear, what is best. Suppose the law made white people slaves instead of black people, and your papa and mamma should run away to keep from being sold, papa to one man and mamma to another, what would you like to have those black people do who did not believe it right to hold slaves, if we should go to their house?"

"I should want them to hide you, so the bad black men could not find you."

"And if they did so, and they had a little girl who should go and tell the black people who thought it was right, that it was not right, don't you think those who were hunting us would believe the little girl's folks had hidden us, and so would come and find us?"

"Mamma, what do you mean?"

"If my little daughter will come with me I will show her what I mean; I know I can trust you," and she took the child where the fugitives were, and told her why they were there; "but thee must tell no one, not even Walter."

"Now thee is a Quaker, mother," said Mabel, laughing.

"And thee feels like a woman," was the laughing reply.

"But why do you tell me and not Walter, mother?"

"Because you are very different from Walter. Do you remember, Mabel, what you said when you asked me why every one could not have beautiful things and good conditions around them?"

"I think I said I meant to find out why, because there must be a reason."

"When, daughter?"

"When I get old enough to understand, I suppose."

"And when you do find out, what then?"

"Why, mother, I shall try to help fix things so that everybody can have good things, of course."

"You have a great deal to learn, my child; but I see where your work lies, and you can begin by teaching those poor people to read."

"Why, mother, can't they read?"

"Not a word. Those who held them as slaves did not want them to read, any more than they did their horses."

"Will not Walter find out? Why can't he help me?"

"No, dear; Walter means all right, but he is too thoughtless. He would forget and say something that would lead people to suspect, and then we could not help others. I will fix it so you can stay awhile with them each day, and I think they will learn very fast. It will be some time before they can leave here with safety."

From that time on for more than a month Mabel spent a portion of each day in teaching William and Lucy Peters to read, and the progress they made was simply astonishing. About this time Miss Hibbard returned to Boston, otherwise Mabel's task of secrecy would have been much more difficult.

The day before the presidential election there came the waited-for opportunity to start Peters and his wife on their way to Canada, and the second day after they were gone, when Judge Raymond came home at night, he said to his wife:

"Lincoln is elected; there will be war, and the slaves will be freed; but it will be at a terrible cost to the nation."

Walter noticed something in his father's tone that prompted him to ask: "Do you want them to be free, father?"

"I do," he replied, remembering as he did so that his boy had not even suspected what his views were on the slave question, so secretive had he been; and he blushed at the thought—felt small in his own eyes. "And yet, what good would it have done?" he reasoned with himself.

Three days afterward he said to his wife: "One of the most influential Democrats in the city called at the office this morning, and the first words he said were: 'So you are going to set the slaves free.' "

"What reply did you make?" she asked.

"I said, 'What put that into your head?'

" 'Your boy told mine,' he said, 'that now Lincoln was elected there would be war, and the slaves would be freed. Said you said so. Is that your intention?'

" 'I have no intention in the matter, Mr. Broughman,' I said, but I know the Southern spirit so well, I am satisfied they will rebel, and that will bring war.'

" 'And you hope the slaves will be free,' he continued.

"I told him I thought it would be better for the country, and he sprang up in a rage and said: 'After this, when slaves are missing, your house shall be searched;' so you see I have defeated myself and the Friends by speaking out."

"Well, some one must speak out, and I am tired of so much secretiveness," replied Mrs. Raymond.

"But it has spoiled our only way of helping, wife."

"It may have spoiled our way of helping individual slaves, but not in helping to remove slavery. We have done very little compared with those who have spoken out, and persistently."

The Judge was silent. Waiting, and finding he made no reply, she continued. "The heart of the world must be reached, the thought must be sent out and embodied, and that can be done only through agitation. Do you know, dear, that the most of those of Quaker descent who have such a dislike to tyranny, not only drank it in with their mother's milk, but from her blood while lying beneath her heart; that it thus became a part of their very selves."

"I know that is the teaching of some, but there are so many counter-influences."

"True, but the stirring appeal makes its impression upon woman when man would hardly feel it. As I see things, those early and persistent agitators had to create—that is, so impress upon woman's sensibilities the wrongs of slavery, that children born during those years were born with a nature that could easily be moulded into Antislavery voters, and in that sense they created the agents that are to be used to destroy that which they have so persistently opposed."

"It seems to me you are counting largely on what might have been, perhaps was done, as you think; are you not, wife?"

"How long is it since the agitation of this question began?" she asked.

"I do not remember exactly, something near thirty years."

"Well, husband, we will say twenty-six. How many thousands who are voters now, suppose you, came under the direct influence of those appeals through the mother's heart-beats upon the plastic—the partly formed—brain?"

"You bewilder me, Mary, I never thought of it in that light."

"I only wanted to show you how much more important the work of the agitator, how much wider in its results than that done by those who have walked in covered paths."

"And yet we have helped to save those very agitators more than once."

"True, so when one comes to look on all sides it is hard to say who has done the better work; but I think the time has come when it will be well to show our colors."

"That may be, but our house will be searched for the next slave that is suspected to be in the city."

"Never mind, I think we can stand it. They will never find a slave that I undertake to hide."

The Judge laughed. "Trust a woman for strategy." he said.

"Yes, the strategy of success when she really sets about a thing, and this Antislavery struggle is but a ripple on the surface of what is to come after."

"Of what is to come after—are you prophesying too?"

"And why not I as well as you, Judge Raymond?."

"Oh, you needn't be sarcastic, wife; could I have my say I could select a good many women who could fill positions of public trust much better than those who now hold them," he replied.

"But you have not told me why I cannot prophesy as well as you."

"I do not prophesy in any true sense of the term; I only trace known causes to their inevitable result."

"Suppose, husband, a decree should go forth that from henceforth all prospective mothers should be surrounded by good conditions, pleasant society, inspiring music; have all they needed, and be free from wearing toil; I do not mean a part, but all, every woman, everywhere, who was carrying the burden of maternity, do you not think it would cause a greater upheaval than anything connected with chattel slavery can?"

"Of course it would, Mary; but that cannot be till the millennium comes."

"But the millennium cannot come till we work to bring it, any more than slavery can be abolished without our efforts; but suppose I tell you that the child is born who has formed the purpose to find out what it is that prevents all women from having just the conditions I have named, and when she finds what this preventing cause is, she determines to work for its removal, would you not think I had reason to prophesy great effects from such a cause?"

"From the whim of a child, no."

"Have not all great effects started from a single point or germ, Richard?"

"I suppose they have, but who is this wonderful child?"

"Your daughter Mabel."

"What!"

"Your daughter Mabel, a descendant of George Fox; he whose intensified opposition to a hireling ministry, and refusal to have marriage solemnized by them, so far revolutionized the marriage laws of England as to secure a recognition of the Quaker formula; he whose followers have done so much toward educating public sentiment to a point whence you declare that slavery is doomed, and whose women hold the right to preach as well as the men, a right that even now is beginning to be claimed by other sects—do you think such a spirit will die out or increase in volume as the years roll on? No, the thought is born that woman must have good conditions in order to give the world good work, and that thought will accomplish its purpose if it has to overturn every government upon earth."

"Hold, hold, Mary, or I shall think George Fox is looking at me through your eyes, and speaking to me through your lips."

"Perhaps he is," she replied, as she turned to listen to the wants of her youngest child, while he took up his hat in an absent manner and went to his office like one in a dream. Soon after an old friend came in, and the conversation turned upon the recent election and its probable results. "I have no patience with those abolition fanatics," he said.

The Judge opened his mouth as if to reply, then, remembering his recent experience, remained silent, and his friend continued:

"If I believed them honest, I should feel differently about it, but when they so persistently declare that negro slavery is a sin against God, I can see that they are simply religious bigots."

"How do you come to that conclusion, Mr. Lent?" asked Mr. Raymond, in a tone of surprise.

"If you will go through this city with me, Raymond, and see the squalor, the poverty and wretchedness that exist in some portions of it—will examine life in tenement-houses, some of which are church property, and then will ask me that question, you are not the man I suppose you to be."

"But the church is not the most active in this matter. Indeed, the greatest opposition to the agitation of the slave question has come from the churches."

"Yes, I know it has, but those who do oppose negro slavery know of these conditions here at home—know that church members own much of the property where these conditions exist, are living upon the money paid them by those who live crowded together like cattle—this while they are building churches and sending missionaries to the heathen. And why do not our abolitionists denounce these wrongs and their perpetrators? We hear but little of what is right here at home—of wrongs here as bitter as any the negro endures."

"Men and women are not bought and sold here like cattle, Mr. Lent."

"Not like cattle, for in such case one piece of flesh sells another. In the kind of slavery I am talking of, people are obliged to sell themselves."

"To sell themselves!" said the Judge, as though he did not quite comprehend.

"Yes, the men their labor, and the women their persons."

"Oh!"

"And by a combination of circumstances, sir, over which they have but little or no control. I, sir, would as soon be sold by another as to be forced to sell myself or starve."

"I am surprised to hear you speak in this way," said the Judge, not knowing what else to say.

"How many, suppose you," continued the other, "of those who have taken in fugitive slaves and cared for them for weeks, would have aided, or given employment to, a woman who was a fugitive from a brothel?"

"Not many, I fear."

"You are right, sir; not many, and yet which is in the worst kind of slavery? No, it is not a genuine love of the race, but a morbid idea that they are serving God, which animates in all reforms and will, so long as God is put above humanity."

"I did not know you were an infidel, Mr. Lent."

"I am infidel, Judge Raymond, to a religion which teaches that we must be born again, and to the institutions built upon that idea. A second birth may do for the next world, but for this, one needs to be born right in the first place."

"And how can that be done?" asked the Judge, half mechanically, for it could not be said that he was really thinking. So many and various were the ideas that flashed through his brain, he was bewildered.

"Give every woman the conditions for the highest grade of motherhood, or, rather, accord to her her right to a share of the law-making power, and she will do the rest—the mother heart will not fail when it has scope equal to its power."

"Just what my wife says," exclaimed the Judge, starting to his feet; "but have you any idea of what it involves?"

"Where there is a will there is a way, Judge Raymond. There was a time when the idea of destroying chattel slavery was not thought of, but now it will go in less than five years."

"But think what the other—the right conditions for motherhood—will cost."

"Think what it costs to have things as they now are, please; but I must bid you good-day, Judge," and the gentleman bowed himself out.

Judge Raymond was too excited to continue his writing, so he took his hat and tried to walk his excitement off; but every turn he made he was confronted with scenes that, though common, now had a new meaning, and the question kept pressing itself home: "How can children be rightly born amid such surroundings;" and in a sort of desperation he turned and went to his home. Mrs. Raymond was surprised to see him back so soon, but in answer to her inquiring look he only said:

"I am not very busy, so I have been walking; please have Phillis tell Pomp he need not go to the office," and throwing himself down upon the sofa, he took a book and tried to read, but his wife's keen eye detected a something unusual; still she said nothing.

Waiting till tea was over, and the children in bed, she then asked: "What is it, Richard?"

"What is what, wife?"

"Something has disturbed you."

He hesitated a moment, and then went onto relate what had occurred at the office. "And coming so soon after what you had said, it has made me think a little more deeply than I am accustomed to doing," he added, with a smile.

"Mr. Lent is right in some things, but I think he misjudges the motives of those he pronounces fanatics," she said, after thinking over what had been told her; "people cannot handle too many things at once, but they will keep trying till the right thing is done, and one work only prepares the way for another and a greater."

"Prepares for a greater, wife; there can be no greater than that which you are planning. I am appalled at the thought of what it will cost."

She made no reply, but he remembered what Mr. Lent had said of what things cost as they are.

But it was not long ere the reverberations of the guns fired upon Sumter aroused the nation. The war came, and the slaves were freed. They were the harvest of previous agitation—that which will bring the full freedom of women is yet in embryo. That harvest is in the future. Out of the life-currents of woman's being flow, not only the tidal-waves of death, as in the past, but of a full-orbed life, as it shall yet be—as it will hasten to be when all women ask the question asked by the child-woman, Mabel Raymond.

CHAPTER IV.

SOWING SEED.

"Behold, a sower went forth to sow."

ABOUT twenty women were assembled at the home of James Gray, and all busily at work preparing the material which was to fill a box with comforts for the "boys in blue;" substantial evidence that those at home had not forgotten them. There were, among the more solid articles, little mementoes the significance of which only the recipients understood—letters, photographs, needles, thread, paper, pens, and whatever else love could suggest.

Not a woman there but had husband, brother, son, or lover upon the battle-field, or lingering in the hospital, or dying slowly in some Southern prison. Yes, it was a Christian war, and pious chaplains of the gospel of love were paid to pray over the dying soldier. Not one there but had a friend upon the list, and some had several. Susan Fosten had two brothers and a lover, Mary Drake a husband and two cousins, and so on; and not one present who felt sure that any of theirs would return, while not one dared to hope that all would.

The company to which the box was going had been made up in that and adjoining towns, and of the women there assembled each felt an interest in them all as well as in the members of their own particular families; and sometimes the silent tear fell as they worked, and then again there would be laughter as some amusing incident occurred.

What a mystery is human life! How readily it catches flashes of sunlight, even when the clouds mass the heaviest. The rainbow, or even the forked lightning, are made the means of diversion. It is said of one of the old martyrs that, when being broiled upon a gridiron to satisfy religious hate, he said to the one who had doomed him to this fate:

"Well, this side enough is toasted,
Turn me, tyrant, then, and eat,
And see if either raw or roasted
I am the better meat."

Be the legend true or false, there is certainly a wondrous power in the human heart to find light in the midst of darkness—to triumph over the bitterest agony—to cover graves with flowers, or to root them in the very soil which covers our blighted hopes, and from which there floats out upon the air a sweeter fragrance, and the eye is gladdened with a finer, tenderer phase of beauty because of that which lies beneath.

During a lull in the conversation one of the party saw through the window another woman approaching, and asked, "Who is that coming?"

This drew the general attention, and Letitia Barnes, who lived farther away than the others, remarked: "I wonder what is bringing her here?"

"You know her, then," said Mrs. Gray.

"I have met her several times at Uncle John's, over in Windsor, but did not know as she ever got so far from home."

"Who is she?"

"The Widow Hovey; I presume you have heard of her; most people in this part of the country have."

"Yes, poor woman, I know something of her history, though I never happened to meet her; but as you say, Letitia, I wonder what is bringing her here?"

"To sow seed, I presume."

"To what?" exclaimed two or three of the others at once.

"To sow seed, as she calls it; to tell mothers how to live, that their children may be good."

"I think I understand," said Mrs. Gray.

"They say she is crazed with grief since her son turned out so badly, and says that he is the harvest of seed sown and grown under bad conditions, and that right ideas sown in the minds of those who are to be mothers will give better results in the future," said Mary Drake.

"I wonder if she thinks children can be born naturally good; it's contrary to the Bible," remarked Polly Wheeler, a spinster of fifty.

"Hush, or she will hear you," said another, in a whisper. The door was open, and Mrs. Hovey had paused upon the threshold.

"Good afternoon, ladies," she said, running her eye over the group as if to take them all in.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hovey," said Letitia, rising and stepping forward; "you will remember meeting me at Mr. Jackson's, in Windsor; he is my uncle." And turning to the group, she continued:

"Mrs. Hovey, Mrs. Gray; ladies, Mrs. Hovey."

"We are glad to meet you, Mrs. Hovey," said Mrs. Gray, extending her hand, while the others bowed; "this way, please, and have a seat close by me, for I think I shall be interested in what you have to say, and I want to hear it all."

"Are you deaf?" asked the old lady, taking the proffered seat.

"Oh, no; but you know so many women together do a good deal of talking, and they sometimes forget to wait one for another; but let me have your things, and as you have been walking some distance, rest a little while I get you a cup of tea; then you will be all right, and I shall be delighted to listen to you; for I think, from what the ladies tell me, you and I must be thinking in the same direction."

The poor woman's face lighted up with pleasure. "Who sowed the seed in your mind?" she asked.

"Never mind that till you rest and have your tea," and with an answering smile, Mrs. Gray disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. Presently she returned, bringing with her a steaming cup of tea and just such a piece of pie and cake as farmers' wives know so well how to make and deal out, and placing them before her guest, she said:

"Now don't mind us, but take your time and enjoy your lunch, and we can talk after a while."

Mrs. Hovey looked at what had been brought and sighed: "Yes, I will try to enjoy it, but I wish Willie had some of it; he has only prison fare now, poor boy. The fathers eat sour grapes and set the children's teeth on edge; the mothers starve, and the children steal."

"Never mind, sister, the past is past, but the future is ours, in which to do the best we can."

"Yes, Mrs. Gray, and I must not waste my strength in fretting, but save it and sow all the seed I can;" and she took up her spoon and began sipping the fragrant beverage. The others went on with their work, but there was very little conversation. Some of them were wondering what Mrs. Gray meant by saying she believed her thoughts ran in the same direction with Mrs. Hovey's, but Polly Wheeler was watching the opportunity to controvert the idea that children could be born naturally good.

"We are born depraved," she said to herself; "there is no good in us, and such doctrine is dangerous."

Mrs. Hovey, all unconscious of what Polly was thinking, finished her repast, and shoving back from the stand upon which the things had been put, said, with a tremor in her voice, reverting to the subject that was ever uppermost in her mind: "Could I have had such good victuals before Willie was born, he would not now be where he is."

"Didn't you teach your boy it wasn't right to steal?" asked the impatient Polly.

"Always," responded the unhappy mother.

"Then you need not blame yourself and go to laying his faults to bad conditions; it's dishonoring to God, Mrs. Hovey."

"But it was bad conditions; it was born in him, and that is why I feel so badly about it. He could not help it; he is not to blame."

Miss Polly was taken a little aback at this view of the subject, but she rallied: "God's grace is sufficient,

Mrs. Hovey, so that is no excuse; I fear you did not teach him rightly," she continued.

"I tried to," was the meek response.

"But did you trust in God yourself? If we doubt him he will not answer our prayers."

"If he answered our prayers we should trust him, Miss Wheeler; the trouble was I trusted too much and knew too little."

"Trusted in God too much!" exclaimed Polly, dropping her work and holding up her hands in horror. "Oh, you wicked woman! trusted in God too much; What do you mean? I don't wonder you are punished."

"I mean just what I say, and I wouldn't mind being punished if I have done wrong; but why punish Willie? You are the one who dishonors God."

"Me!"

"Yes, a just God would never punish a child because of a parent's mistakes."

"Mistakes, Mrs. Hovey; what you say is downright wickedness, it is blasphemy; and your boy is punished for his own sins, not yours."

People said Mrs. Hovey was crazy, and the cunning twinkle of her eye, at times, would seem to justify the idea that she was not wholly right; and yet she could outreason the minister at any time, could outquote scripture and turn it in favor of her own positions. Was she deranged, or had suffering only quickened, intensified her intellect? She sensed the fact, in the present instance, that neither Polly nor her iron-bound creed were popular with the company present, so, casting her eyes around the room with that peculiar twinkle, she said:

"Miss Wheeler, are you God's lawyer?"

"Oh, hear the woman!" almost shrieked Polly.

"I thought you might have been employed for that purpose, you are so earnest in his defence," continued Mrs. Hovey, with imperturbable gravity.

With the most present this seemed a little impious, and yet they could but laugh. "Come," said Mrs. Gray, "tell us all about it, and then we shall know better what you mean."

This quieted the others, and Polly, too, subsided.

Mrs. Hovey looked up into Mrs. Gray's face, not quite understanding if she was shocked or no, and then said:

"Friends, I know there is a power above and beyond us as well as you do; and I know also that only so far as we obey that power do we escape suffering; but the laws which are a manifestation of that power are not written in books, as I have long since learned."

"So you deny the Bible," interrupted Polly.

"Please don't interrupt her," said Mrs. Gray.

"I don't understand the Bible as you do, Miss Wheeler, but there are natural laws that must be obeyed in the production of human beings as well as in the production of plants and animals—but to explain what I meant by saying I trusted God too much: Nature furnishes the material, but we must build our own houses, and if we waited and trusted God to build them, should we not trust too much?"

"But children are not houses," retorted Polly.

"Their bodies are—houses for the spirit that dwells within, that indwelling spirit which you call depraved; but it is the house, the organs of the brain through which this spirit must manifest, that are at fault. They are not built right, are not rightly proportioned, and the spirit cannot, instead of will not, act rightly through them."

"But I do not see—I cannot understand what you mean," said Polly, surprised beyond what she could find words to express at Mrs. Hovey's reasoning.

"You are not expected to understand as well as those who are mothers," remarked Mrs. Gray. Polly blushed and was silent while Mrs. Hovey continued:

"If you attempt to raise a crop and the soil is poor and thin, you must supply what is needed, or your crop is a failure, and——"

"That's queer, comparing human beings to crops that grow out of the ground," interrupted Polly, unable to keep quiet when ideas were being broached so at variance with what she had been taught, or, rather, what she had taken for granted; for she had not been taught at all upon the subject.

Mrs. Hovey turned her eyes full upon the spinster as she replied: "The mother's body is the soil in which they grow, and they feed upon her heart's blood, and unless the mother has what she needs, the child is not well made up."

Polly shrank back into herself again, while the old lady sat for some minutes in thoughtful silence, and with a look upon her face as if recalling painful memories. At length she resumed the subject by saying:

"Oh, how I did want good food that summer! but we were poor and must save every cent to pay for a home. Husband said if we did not get a start then, we never should, so I went without tea, sugar, fruit—lived upon the plainest food, and had hardly a decent dress. The dress I did not care so much for, but it did seem to me that I should starve, and it ruined my child, my only one. Better never have had a home," and dropping her face in her hands, she sobbed aloud.

When her emotion had subsided, Mrs. Gray said:

"Please explain more fully; there are some here that you may benefit."

"Yes, that is why I came here to-day. It is only that which makes life bearable—the hope that I may sow seeds of thought which will bring a better harvest in the future; so I will tell you all I felt—all that I suffered, struggled, as well as I can.

"Week after week Henry would bring home the pay for his work, count out what he thought we must have to use, then hand me the balance to put away toward paying for our land; and week after week I was tempted to take some of it and buy that for which I so longed; but I prayed to God to keep me in the right, and trusted that all would be well, but I trusted in vain; I was breaking Nature's laws, ignorantly it is true, but there was no God who could set aside the effect.

"Because of that want which was not supplied—because of the desire to take that money, which I resisted, my boy is a drunkard and a thief—" and again her grief burst forth.

"Oh, had I known, had I known," she murmured between her sobs, "I would have taken what I needed—would have given my child what he needed before he was born, and trusted for a home. As it was, my husband overworked and did without what he needed, and when sickness came he could not rally, and I, left alone, struggled on for years to maintain myself and child, only to find him in prison at last."

"These are strange ideas," said Miss Polly; "I don't see what's to become of our religion and our souls if such teachings are allowed."

"But if they are true, what then?" asked Mary Drake.

"They are not true. Let God be true, though every man a liar."

"And every woman, too, Polly?"

"And every woman, too, Mary Drake. It was woman who sinned in the first place, and she ought to bear her burden humbly."

"The burden of motherhood do you mean?" asked another.

"Yes, the Bible says she is to bear children in sorrow."

"You do not seem to have obeyed that command," was the quick retort, and Polly indignantly left the room.

"You are too bad, Jane," said Mrs. Gray, in a tone that seemed hardly like a reproof.

"Let her keep still, then, about that of which she knows nothing; the idea of her throwing the Bible at us to prove that black is white! I think those who profess to know the most about God and the Bible are the ones who really know the least, Mrs. Gray."

"That is my opinion," "And mine," "And mine," responded several others.

"Poor creature, I dare say she was fed upon the elements of election, depravity, and damnation from before her birth—I mean that such were the teachings to which her mother listened, and in which she believed," said Mrs. Hovey.

"And if her mother had listened and had not believed, but did not dare to say so, what then?" said Susan Fosten.

"In that case, her child would have said for her what she had not dared to say for herself, and Polly Wheeler would have been an unbeliever, a questioner of old creeds, instead of what she is now, one of the most bigoted women in the country," was the reply.

"The seed, then, that is to be sown for future harvests, Mrs. Hovey, must find lodgement in woman's mind, if I understand you rightly," said Mrs. Gray.

"Yes, and that is why I call myself a seed-sower. That is why, as I told you before, that I came here to-day" she replied, looking around upon the ladies present.

"And I, for one, thank you most heartily; and I believe I echo the sentiments of all present," said Mrs. Gray, turning toward the others for a response; and they, without exception, bowed assent.

"Sowing seed—and what shall the harvest be?" said the old lady, as if speaking to herself.

"The harvest of abolition thought is war," remarked Semantha Guston.

"You mistake," was Mrs. Hovey's prompt reply; "the war is the harvest of previously sown seed; the harvest of freedom is yet to come. That harvest will be seen when those who are now slaves shall rise to the dignity of citizens—of educated men and women."

"You don't think the niggers will ever be citizens?"

said Polly, who had so far gotten over her resentment as to return to the room.

" 'No black, no white, no rich, no poor,' what is the rest of that, Polly?" asked Mrs. Drake.

" 'No bond, no free, but all one in Christ Jesus,' " responded Polly, glad to be appealed to in reference to Bible texts.

"And that means that all are equal as to rights and privileges, as I understand it."

"Yes, as Christians in the life to come."

"But why, Polly, cannot those who are to be equal there, have the same rights here?"

"Oh, that's quite different; if they were all Christians it might do."

"But some of them are Christians."

"Then they will be content with the place that God has assigned them, till, in his own good time, he shall say, 'Come up higher.' "

"You say they are all equal there?" continued Mrs. Drake.

"In heaven, yes."

" 'Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.' Why pray for a thing, Polly, and then refuse to accept it as fast as it comes?"

"It hasn't come yet, and I don't want to live to see the time when I shall be put on a level with a nigger," retorted Polly, indignantly.

"A free negro is equal with us before the law now; he cannot vote, neither can we," said the one called Jane.

Polly opened her mouth for some kind of a reply, but the entrance of George Gray with a letter in his hand put a stop to further conversation. He was very pale, and going directly to his mother handed her the letter, saying: "Mrs. Johnson sent it; it is from James."

Mrs. Gray glanced at the contents, and then at the group before her. They all saw that she was struggling for self-control, and waited with bated breath. "There has been a battle," she said, as soon as she could speak, "several of our boys are prisoners, and two have fallen."

"John!" exclaimed Mary Drake, starting to her feet, and then reading in her friend's look the confirmation of her fears, the fair young wife fell prostrate in a dead faint.

While the others cared for her, Mrs. Gray arose and, going to the far corner of the room, she threw her arms around her son's betrothed, and they wept together. When the first spasm of agony was over, Mrs. Hovey went to Mrs. Gray, and taking her hands in her own, said:

"Your first-born has died with honor, my only one lives in dishonor. Our false system of society, the outgrowth of superstition and ignorance, gives one a grave, the other a prison; when will woman's day come?"

"When such seed as you are sowing, my friend, gives its full harvest, there will be no more children born with the instinct to vice, no more prisons, no more war, and—no, I will not say God, but woman speed the day," was the reply.

"I wonder God don't strike her dead," muttered Polly to herself.

"I think you had better leave lest you get killed for being in bad company," said Letitia Barnes, who was standing just back of Polly and overheard the remark.

"Don't," said Mrs. Gray, "this is no time for the exhibition of resentment."

"Nor of religious prejudice," retorted Letitia, flashing indignant eyes at Polly.

"I think submission to God's will would better become us all," said meek little Mrs. Brown, wiping the tears from her eyes.

"It is not God's will, but our ignorance, that has brought all this about, my sister. If I believed there was a God who willed all this suffering, I should hate him," said Mrs. Hovey.

"Oh, hush, friends, we must bear it, no matter what the cause," and Mrs. Gray turned and took up her work. The others did the same, all but the poor bereaved wife and her sister. They silently left for their home, and before another day the dead babe and its mother had gone to join the husband and father in that home where it is hoped the sorrows of earth do not enter.

A few evenings after the above, as the Grays sat around the almost untouched meal and talked sadly of him who had fallen, Mrs. Gray turned to George and said:

"If this cruel war continues, I may lose all my sons. You will be old enough in less than a year to be drafted, if you do not, as your brothers did, volunteer."

"I shall never volunteer, mother."

"But if you are drafted you will have to go."

"I will go to Canada first."

"What, what, my boy a coward!" exclaimed Mr. Gray.

"No, father, I am not a coward, but I believe there is some Quaker blood in me. I certainly do not believe in fighting. I was not made to be shot at, neither will I shoot at others—at those who have never harmed me nor mine or, at least, would not have done so had they been left free," he added, remembering his brother's death.

"But they rebelled against our glorious flag, George."

"A great deal of glory in a lie, I should think."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that our flag is a flaunting lie so long as it floats over a single slave, and it is no worse to make slaves of individuals than it is of States."

"Slaves of States, George?"

"Yes, father, slaves of States."

"Do you mean to say that they have the right to secede?"

"That is what I mean."

"For the sake of holding slaves?"

"They would have had hard work to keep them, even with an army all along their northern line."

"But our nation would have been dismembered, George."

"And you would have had a son, and I a brother that we have not now; a pretty high price to pay for being able to say that we are a great nation, father."

Mr. Gray looked toward his wife in a sort of helpless way, as though he did not know how to reply to his son's reasoning, and yet felt that he must; at length he said:

"I never expected to hear a son of mine talk like that; have you no love for your country?"

"The world is my country, father, and when men cease to serve rulers, there will cease to be a demand, even unto life itself, for service. If there is war, those who make it will have to do the fighting."

"Well, well, you are talking pretty large for a boy of your years, I think."

"I feel old enough, father, to have lived twice that long; I think mother must have thought me several years ahead before I was born."

"Wife, this is your work," said Gray, impatiently.

"Yes, it commenced before he was born. I believe he is right, that I did think him ahead."

"That old schoolmaster again!" and James Gray looked thoroughly out of humor.

"Yes, father, and I can never be thankful enough for what he did the books he gave mother to read, and the explanations that helped her to understand——"

"George, my son," said Mrs. Gray, deprecatingly.

"No, let the boy talk. He thinks more of that schoolmaster than he does of me, and I might as well know it first as last."

"Father, father, you mistake; you are not to blame because you did not have the education that Mr. Randal had. I love you, and you know it, better than anyone except my mother, but I should be a coward if I feared to express my real sentiments," said George, so earnestly that his father's brow began to clear.

He could but admire the manly bearing of his son, and presently he said: "And so you will not fight," going back to where their difference first started.

"No, father, I will not fight. I can do more for my country and the world at large by living for it, than I can by dying for it."

"But what do you expect to do?"

"I shall first try and learn what needs to be done."

"Whew! how wise we are, or are going to be."

"There is certainly much to be learned, James, before the world can be saved," said Mrs. Gray, "and new methods must be adopted, for, so far, those which have been tried have failed; and when one is desirous of learning what those new methods are to be, he should be allowed the privilege."

"Perhaps you are right, wife—you generally are; but what is it that George wants, or you want for him? There is something back, I know."

"He wants better opportunities than he can have here."

"And where is he going to get them?"

"I have been corresponding with Cousin Mary Raymond, and she wants him to come there and study with her children."

"Indeed, and while my other sons are fighting and dying for their country, he must be made a gentleman."

"James, are they not my sons too?"

"It's no use trying to beat you two," he said, impatiently, but his tone told that he felt more than he was willing to show.

She made no reply, and he presently added: "Yes, they are your sons, and you are in the right, but somehow

I can't feel quite reconciled to your and George's way of thinking."

"So much the more noble in you, then, to let reason decide instead of feeling."

Whatever effect her words had he did not choose to show, but presently he repeated, interrogatively: "Wants him to come and study with her children?"

"Yes, they are abundantly able, so spare no pains to secure the best teachers at home, and George, being older than their son by two years, can help Richard in the office a part of the time, and so can be of service to them."

"Richard, who is he?"

"Cousin Mary's husband, Judge Raymond; I thought you knew."

"And so I did, but I forgot. Well, well, I suppose I shall have to let him go; he isn't much help to me, nohow, still I hardly know how to spare him."

"Hire a good man, father, and charge his wages to me."

"Charge his wages to you! what have you got to pay with, boy?"

"How much land have you now?" was the response.

"How much land have I? You know as well as I do, but what has that to do with the matter?"

"I supposed you meant to give me some of it some time; you gave Julia eighty acres when she married; I only meant that you could count the wages of a hired man as so much of what might yet be mine."

"Oh, you are very generous with what is not yours, but I will do it; what of the money you will need to go with, and to clothe you?"

"You can count that in the same way, if you wish."

James Gray turned his back and laughed to himself, and then, with a great show of generosity, he said:

"If you stayed here I suppose I should have to take care of you, so if you pay the hired man—if I charge his wages to you, I mean—perhaps I can afford to furnish what you will need, if you are not too extravagant."

"Thank you, father, and I will try and make good use of your kindness."

"The rascal," said Gray, after George went to his room; "and so I may charge him with a hired man's wages, ha, ha! that's rich, and I with one of the best wheat farms in Kansas, and wheat selling at two dollars a bushel! I guess I can afford to help him a little, even if he doesn't choose to go my way."

"I knew you would do what was right, James." said his wife, and then throwing herself into his arms she sobbed: "Oh, James, it is so hard to feel that our Edward will never come home anymore."

CHAPTER V.

THE PSYCHOLOGIST.

IT is three years since Walter Raymond had his laugh about the salmagundi mistake, and Mabel has grown to be nearly as tall as her mother. "You grow like a pigweed," said Walter, in one of his teasing moods.

"What is a pigweed, mother?" asked Mabel.

"Ask Walter," was the reply.

"Walter, what is a pigweed?"

"A weed that grows where pigs do, I suppose."

"You suppose," repeated his mother, in that quiet way of hers which meant so much.

Walter colored. "John Williams talks about pigweed, and he is from the country," he said.

"And what does he say about it?"

"Just what I said to Mabel; he said his sister grew like one."

"And like a parrot you repeated it. I fear you will get into trouble some day by repeating what you do not understand."

"Why, mother, is there anything bad about a pigweed?"

"No, it is the habit of which I speak—the repeating of phrases you hear without stopping to learn what they mean; I wish you would not do so."

Walter looked sober for about half a minute, and then exclaimed, "I must get my lessons, or Monsieur Costin will make a pigweed of me," and away he went in the direction of his room.

Mrs. Raymond smiled. "The thoughtless boy," she said. Just then the postman brought the mail, and taking up a letter directed to herself, she glanced it over, and then said to Mabel:

"Cousin Lucy Gray's youngest son, George, is coming to stay with us for a while, daughter."

"Your Cousin Lucy? I did not know you had such a cousin."

"No, I never saw her but once, and I have not told you because I did not wish to divert your mind from your studies by talking of people you might never meet."

"Where does he live, mother?"

"In Kansas."

"In Kansas, that is a long way off. How old is he? who will come with him?"

"He will come by himself, he is in his eighteenth year."

"But why does he come here, so far from home, mother?"

"The spirit moved me to write to his mother nearly three years ago, and we have kept up the correspondence, and now her son is coming here."

"The spirit moved thee? Thee is a Quaker now, mamma," said Mabel, playfully.

"And the spirit moves me to say now that thee will find a good helper in thy future work, in cousin Lucy's boy, and——" here Walter rushed in with:

"Oh, mother, see there, read that, can't we go?"

"Who is we?"

"Oh, all of us, mother."

"Give me time to see what it is, please?" and Mrs. Raymond read aloud:

" 'A Wonderful Science. One Mind Controlling Another. Professor Medwell at Music Hall, Tuesday Evening, September 30th.' "

"That's to-morrow," interrupted Walter.

" 'Don't fail to come if you like to laugh. The Professor is, without doubt, the best psychologist in the world,' " continued Mrs. Raymond, finishing the circular. "Where did you get this?" she asked.

"I saw it thrown into the yard and ran down to see what it was; can we go?"

"I will tell you at noon; go back to your lessons now, and don't allow yourself to be interrupted again."

When his mother spoke in that tone Walter knew there must be no trifling, so he went without a word.

"What is a psychologist, mother?" asked Mabel.

"The word comes from Psyche, the soul. What is known of the subject is called psychology, and one who demonstrates this power of soul, or will, of one over another, is a psychologist. I think we will go, Mabel; it will be a lesson for thee."

"The soul lives when the body is dead, does it not, mother?"

"We are so taught, and we have good evidence that it is true; but why does thee ask that, daughter?"

"I thought it might be the soul power of thine ancestors that made thee act the Quaker sometimes, mamma."

Mrs. Raymond looked thoughtful. "It may be," she said; "there are many things that we do not understand. I only know that when I get particularly interested in that which will help the people I feel like a Quaker."

"It seems to me, mamma, that a knowledge of psychology will be useful," said Mabel, with a far-away look in her eyes.

"Well, we will go and see this wonderful professor, will see and hear what he does and says."

"Mother says we can go," said Mabel, the first time Walter came into the room.

"Who, you and I?"

"Not alone, my boy; I shall go with you to see that the professor gets no control over you."

"Oh, mother, I should like it; it would be such fun."

"Mother would rather you would not, you are too easily influenced by others now."

"But what difference would that make?"

"When you submit to be controlled by the will of another it weakens your selfhood, and yours needs strengthening instead."

"Oh, pshaw, he can't make me play the fool; Harry Green says it's all a cheat anyhow—that he arranges with people beforehand what to do, and then divides the money with them."

"I think Harry is mistaken; we will see to-night and judge for ourselves."

"To-night—you mistake, mother, it is to-morrow night," said Mabel.

"Well, to-morrow night, then."

"I wish George Gray could be here in time to go with us," continued Mabel.

"Perhaps he will," and then, in answer to her husband's look of inquiry, she added, "I received a letter from Cousin Lucy to-day, and they have decided to have him come. He is likely to be here at any time now."

"What, who, what is it?" said Walter, looking from one to the other.

When his mother had explained the matter to him he sat silent for some minutes, and then said: "He will be Meb's company, not mine."

"Why do you say that, my son?"

"I don't know, I feel it, mother; he will be too nice and wise for me. Meb is made up of better material than I am."

Mrs. Raymond saw, for the first time, that their talk of hereditary conditions had made an impression on Walter's mind, and that the idea that his sister was naturally better than he was had taken possession of him, and was having a discouraging effect. She arose, and going to him, she put her arms around him, saying:

"Don't talk that way, Walter, you will break mother's heart."

"Well, I won't. I'll be as good as I can," dashing a rebellious tear aside; "but somehow, Meb always does just the right thing, and I the wrong one; but, never mind, we'll have a jolly time in witnessing the Professor's wonderful powers, won't we, Meb? And if that Kansas cousin comes in time it will be rich to see him open his eyes, tra, la, la!" and away he went, chasing the cat out of the room, and pinching the dog's tail as he passed him at the foot of the stairs.

Mrs. Raymond was very thoughtful after he left. His tone of sadness in speaking of the difference between himself and sister made a deep impression upon her, and she said to herself: "I will not reprove him nor correct his mistakes after this in the presence of others. His self-respect must be encouraged."

The Kansas cousin came in time, and at the hour appointed he, with Mrs. Raymond, Walter, Mabel, and their teacher, Monsieur Costin, went to see and hear the Professor. Mr. Raymond had intended to be of the party, but was detained by business.

They went early and took seats well up in front, for Mrs. Raymond wanted the young folks to see and hear all that was to be seen and heard. The Professor came forward, talked awhile of the science he proposed to illustrate, and then asked if there were persons present who were willing to come to the platform and test his power. After a little hesitation, and a casting of eyes in all directions by the audience to see if anyone would respond, a young man a little to the left of our party arose, then another, and another farther back.

"Three, that is a good number to commence with; there is luck in odd numbers," said the Professor. "Come right forward, gentlemen; I began to think none were going to offer, and in that case I should have had to will them forward, as I once did; for everybody was afraid, and it wouldn't do to make a failure, you know. Take these seats, gentlemen, I will attend to you in a moment." And thus he kept on talking, not giving those in the audience a moment to centre their wills upon the subjects in opposition to his.

In the meantime he took from his pocket three highly polished steel buttons, and giving one to each, he bade them keep their eyes fixed upon the same. "Let your eyes close if they want to, but don't look away," he said, and again he launched a volley of small talk upon the audience. An auctioneer uses the same policy in crying off his goods, and not one in five would buy but for the magnetism, the psychological power thus constantly thrown upon them.

Young Gray watched every movement with the closest attention, while Walter seemed half fascinated. He wanted to test the matter and thus prove that he could not be subjected to the Professor's will; but Mabel was simply seeing. Her time to analyze would come afterward. Mrs. Raymond watched Walter without seeming to do so, and presently she leaned toward him and whispered:

"Be careful, my boy, or the Professor will have you before you know it."

Walter laughed. "Why, mother, he is not trying to control me," he said.

"He's trying all of us in a general way, and when he sees one who is susceptible, he will fix his mind on that one."

After talking to the audience, perhaps five minutes, the Professor turned toward the young men, and laying his hand upon the shoulder of the one nearest him, he said: "How came you to put your coat on wrong side out, Brown?"

The man looked at himself, then started up as if to leave. "No, I wouldn't go away; you can turn it in a minute, no one will see you," was the next remark; and as quickly as it could be done the coat was taken off, turned, and put on again; then the man sat down with a satisfied air, as if to say, "it's all right now."

"Smith, the people are expecting you to preach to them," said the Professor to the next one in the row.

Smith sprang to his feet. "Sing 'Yankee Doodle,' first," was the next order.

"Yankee Doodle went to town," rang out clear and strong.

"That's not 'Old Hundred,' " said the Professor, with a stamp of his foot; and then a line sung to that famous tune followed.

"Now tell them about South America."

"South America, gentlemen and ladies——"

"That's not right, you should address the ladies first."

"South America, ladies and gentlemen——"

"Take care there, that snake will bite you," was the next diversion, as he thrust his cane toward the helpless victim of his will; and the man shrank back, trembling from head to foot.

"See, I have brought you your sister that you have not seen for so long," and in an instant the cane was clasped to the man's breast. "There, you can go behind that curtain and have a good visit all by yourselves," was the next remark, and both cane and man disappeared.

He then went to the third one: "Jones, why did you steal my purse?" The man looked up, the very image of guilt.

"I see," said the Professor, "it is the first time you ever did such a thing; and as I don't want to ruin you, if you will get down on your knees and promise never to do so again, I will forgive you."

Jones (if that was his name) fell on his knees and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a word, his tormentor shouted: "Look out, you careless fellow, that gun is loaded!" and in an instant Jones was on his feet again, and staring at a second cane that had been provided for the purpose.

The Professor held it up: "It is the handsomest horse I ever saw, and I will give him to you if you will ride him," he said, extending that which he had just before called a gun.

Jones took it, and throwing himself astride, went prancing around the stage to the great amusement of the audience.

Just here the Professor cast a furtive look at Walter. His mother saw it, and saw also that Walter was becoming excited, so she said to him:

"Mother is feeling badly, Walter, can I hold your hand?" at the same time taking one of Mabel's in her other hand.

The professor now threw the influence off the three young men and they returned to their seats all right, except the one who had turned his coat, and had forgotten to turn it back. Indeed, he did not notice that it had been turned till the young lady he was sitting beside pointed it out to him.

Stepping to the front of the platform, Professor Medwell made a few remarks about what had been done, and then said:

"I never saw those young men till I came into this hall, but all of you cannot know that, and some are unkind enough to say of such manifestations of the power of psychology, that it is all a trick, or a pre-arranged plan between the subjects and the operator. I will now bring subjects from the audience by the power of my will," and glancing first at Harry Green, and then at Walter, he commenced stepping slowly backward.

Presently Harry Green arose and went toward the platform like one walking in sleep, but Mrs. Raymond, noting the glance fixed upon Walter, diverted his attention for a moment, and then did what she could to impart her own calm, firm feeling to her son; still he felt the professor's will upon him and said:

"Oh, mother, I want to go."

"I had rather you would not, dear; I am feeling badly, and I could not bear to see you up there acting so foolishly."

"But he can't make me do as they did," and he nearly pulled his hand from his mother's grasp.

She turned and whispered to his teacher, Monsieur Costin, and that gentleman arose and said: "Professor Medwell, you will please cease trying to psychologize any of this party; the lady is nearly sick now." And so she was with her struggle to hold Walter, who, when he heard this, thought the professor was trying to control his mother; this made him angry, and broke the influence.

"Certainly, certainly, if it is not agreeable to his friends, but the young gentleman is a fine subject," replied the professor, bowing.

"He means Cousin George," thought Walter, never once thinking that his own intense desire to go up there and defy the professor's will was the direct effect of that will upon him, the method that gentleman was taking to get him upon the platform; and that once there, he would have done whatever he was told to do, just as the others had.

Harry Green, in the meantime, was the perfect image of submission, his every muscle seeming to ask: "What wilt thou have me to do?"

"Now, ladies and gentlemen, I will show you what there is in spiritualism," was the professor's next remark. "You know they claim to see their spirit friends, and I will make this young gentleman see anyone I choose, living or dead." Then stepping up to Harry, he placed his fingers upon the boy's eyes, saying: "I am going to make you clairvoyant, so that you can see spirits." He then stepped back and made a few downward passes very near the face, and asked: "Who would you like to see?"

Harry hesitated as if trying to decide.

"Well, never mind, there comes your mother, speak to her."

"Did the professor make you come too?" asked Harry, as if very much surprised.

He then held up his pocket-handkerchief and said: "Do you see this beautiful spirit?"

Harry's face wore an ecstatic expression, and when the professor added: "She says she is your guardian angel, and that you may come and kiss her," he touched his lips to the handkerchief with as much reverence as if a Catholic in the presence of his patron saint.

"And now your father and mother have both come; poor orphan, they have not forgotten you; they are always with you." Here Harry reached out his arms as if embracing first one, and then the other.

"What do they say?" asked the professor.

"That I must be good and—and——"

"You shall be with them by and by, is that it?"

"Yes," he murmured, and reeled as if about to fall. The professor caught him, threw off the influence, and the boy was all right, but very much surprised to find himself upon the platform, and the way he returned to his seat was quite in contrast with his slow movement in going up.

"Will someone please inform me if this young man's parents are living?" was next asked.

"His mother is," said a voice from the audience.

"Well, I hope she will not be displeased with the experiment I have made with her son, but he is a very fine subject, and if I can have further opportunity to test him, I can show up every phase of spiritualism through him; but he can bear no more now," he said glancing over the audience with a look of triumph.

Just here a tall, middle-aged man arose, and said he would like to ask a question or two.

"Certainly, certainly," was the bland response.

Turning toward the audience, the stranger said slowly: "Ladies and gentlemen, this is a very interesting science, and the better we understand it, the greater the good we may receive from it, and——"

"Certainly, certainly," repeated the professor.

"The better we can avoid the evils that sometimes result from the partial application of a really good thing," continued the stranger, not heeding the interruption; then turning to the professor, he asked:

"Sir, can you make your subjects see that which does not exist?"

"Why, certainly; did you not see for yourself that there was no woman, serpent, horse, or spirit here?"

"That there was nothing of what you mention except spirit I admit, but as spirits are not visible under ordinary circumstances, neither you nor I can say that there was no spirit there; but that is not the question. Serpents, horses, men, and women exist, for we have all seen them, know how they look; can you make your subjects see that which has no existence anywhere?"

The audience began to be interested, and the professor looked confused. The stranger waited a moment, and receiving no reply, continued:

"If I understand this matter rightly, you will your subjects to see that of which you form a picture in your own mind; can you form an image of that which does not exist, I mean so far as the different parts are concerned? I know that we can take parts of that which does exist, but do not belong together, and make a new mental image, as, for instance, a horse with a man's head; but could you do this if neither horse nor man existed?"

The professor hesitated, but "Question," "Question," came from all parts of the house, and he was forced to say that he could not.

The gentleman waited till all was quiet: "Can anyone, anywhere, under any circumstances, see that which does not exist somewhere and in some shape?"

"Certainly not."

"In all ages of the world men and women have claimed to see the spirits of the so-called dead, consequently they must exist, and they must have been seen to give the first idea of their existence; so it seems to me, sir, that your statement of spiritualism being simply the result of psychological impressions made upon the mind is not susceptible of proof."

"Are you a spiritualist, sir?"

"What my belief is, Professor Medwell, has nothing to do with the question, but I do not hesitate to say that the testimony as to the reality of modern manifestations, equals, if it does not exceed, the testimony as to what is related in the Bible."

"Oh, an infidel."

The gentleman smiled. "I am aware," he said, "that the public mind has been so psychologized by priestly teachings, that people shrink when you call a man an infidel, nearly as much as your subject did when you told him your cane was a snake; but, calling the cane a snake did not make it so, and I am not troubled in the least by the appellation; neither will I trouble you with any more questions. This audience is composed of intelligent men and women who are capable of judging for themselves." And he took his seat with the air of one who feels that he has the best of the argument.

"Well, cousin, what do you think of psychology?" asked Mrs. Raymond, when on the way home.

"There is more think in it than I can get together in one evening, Mrs. Raymond, but when that young man shrank from the cane believing it to be a snake, I could not help thinking how some of our Kansas preachers make people tremble by talking to them of hell."

"So you believe their hell has no more existence than had the professor's snake?" remarked Monsieur Costin.

"I think, sir, that all the danger lies in the idea, in both cases."

"And I think he was real mean, trying to control mother," said Walter. "I would have shown him that he could not handle me, could I have had the chance."

"He had as good a right to try to control me without my consent as he had Harry Green or anyone else, but I think you mistake his intentions."

"What was it that made you sick, then?"

"My effort to keep him from controlling you."

"Me, mother! he did not try to control me. I think he knew better."

"Why were you so anxious to go up there, then?" asked his teacher.

"To show him he could not control me, of course."

"Where did that feeling come from? you are not in the habit of being so defiant."

"Where, now—you don't think he made me feel that way on purpose to get me up there?" said Walter, beginning to understand.

"That is just what he was doing, and but for your mother he would have succeeded, and once there he would have willed that defiance all away, and you could not have helped doing as he said."

Walter drew a long breath, and Mabel remarked: "I think we have both learned lessons."

Monsieur Costin looked at Mabel in silence, and George Gray thought her a remarkably intelligent girl.

CHAPTER VI.

MONSIEUR COSTIN'S STORY.

GEORGE GRAY remained with the Raymonds something over two years, when circumstances occurred which made it necessary for him to return to his Kansas home. He had made good progress in his studies, and the judge liked his quiet, helpful ways in the office. "You would make a good lawyer, Gray," he said, "and I hope you will yet adopt the profession."

"I cannot decide as yet what I shall do; I must first learn more of what can be done to better the conditions of the people," replied George, launching off into what the judge laughingly called the cranky notions of the trinity, referring to his wife and daughter in the connection.

Monsieur Costin, or M. Costin, as they called him, thus abridging the prefix, was present, and knew something of what those notions were, so when Mrs. Raymond said: "Our cranky notions will be considered the best of sense when rightly understood, and thee will be the first to say so," he remarked:

"You will find the church your most formidable opponent, Mrs. Raymond."

M. Costin had been the children's teacher about six months when George came, was well recommended, and had proved to be just what was wanted, so was treated as one of the family.

"Who ever knew a French infidel to see anything good in the Church?" said Mr. Raymond, in response to the above.

M. Costin smiled: "Perhaps I understand what I am talking of better than you think, sir. I never saw France till I was nearly twenty-one years old, and then I stayed there less than a year."

"Indeed! I supposed you to be a born Frenchman."

"My father was French, sir, but my mother was English, so I was born only a half Frenchman, and in this country."

"You would make a good detective," said the judge.

"How so?"

"Because of your secretiveness. You have been in my family nearly three years, and from no word of yours have I gathered the least intimation that you were not born and brought up in France."

M. Costin looked around upon the group, upon the faces of which curiosity and surprise were plainly written. "I think I may trust you all," he said, "to say nothing of what I am about to relate, but I was educated for the priesthood, and actually took orders."

"You a priest!" exclaimed Walter.

"That is where you got your education?" said the judge.

"Yes, I was a priest, and that is how I got my education. My father belonged to a French family of some note. The spirit of adventure brought him to this country, and he fell in love with and married an English girl by the name of Helen Brightly, who had come here with a cousin's family who were Catholics.

"A young priest by the name of Bremen often visited them and tried to induce my mother to join their Church, but this she would not do. When my father began to visit her this priest warned her against trusting a French infidel, told her he would deceive her, but all to no purpose. A few months after his marriage, father went to France on business, the result of which was to decide whether he would make America his home, or return permanently to his native country.

"My mother failed to receive his letters, and after a time this priest came to her with a letter he had received from France, in answer to one of inquiry he had sent, so he said. This letter stated that my father was married before he came to America, and of course she thought she had been deceived, as the priest had warned her she would be. In the meantime father received a letter stating that mother had died at my birth, and I had lived but a few days, so he never returned.

"This Father Bremen, as he was called, professed great sympathy for my mother in her trouble, but said nothing further about her joining the Church; but he managed to steal me, together with my mother's marriage certificate and a locket containing my father's likeness, thus leaving her utterly desolate."

Here M. Costin paused as if to regain his self-control, that the recital had disturbed, while his listeners expressed their sympathy by looks more than words. Mabel was the first to speak:

"Why did the priest do that?" she asked, always looking for the reason of things.

"To obtain my father's wealth for the Church. My father was an infidel, please remember, and it is a part of a Christian's creed that infidels have no rights they are bound to respect. The story that my father was previously married was a lie. They knew that my mother was his legal wife, and if he should marry again, believing mother dead, the children of such marriage could not inherit the property, and when father died it would be mine."

"But you are not the Church," said Mrs. Raymond.

"No, but, as I have told you, I was educated for the priesthood and had taken orders, consequently it would have all gone to the Church, had I remained true to my vows."

"An ex-Catholic priest my teacher!" said Mabel, wonderingly.

"How did you find out who you were?" asked Walter.

"Yes, please tell us," added the others.

M. Costin looked at Mabel and laughed. "I think," he said, "I shall have to make use of the same application of psychological law that you do in accounting for your mother's Quaker talk—the soul-power of my ancestors."

Mabel blushed and looked at her mother. "Yes, dear, I told him," she said, "I thought the application a good one."

M. Costin continued: "I think I inherited my father's dislike to the Church, and though treated with kindness and taught their doctrines, I always had a deep-down feeling that something was wrong; and if it is a fact that our ancestors can influence us, they must have kept the feeling alive, for there was that in me that could not be psychologized. True, I was educated for the Church, but I submitted to all that was required like one in a dream. The awakening came at length.

"I entered the ministry very young, not quite twenty years of age, but I now believe they sensed that I was liable to rebel, and so hastened matters as to make me fast beyond escape, as they supposed. Not long after this, word came to Father Bremen that my father was dead, and I was then informed that I was heir to his estate; that father had tried to deceive my mother, but they, the Church agents, had seen to it that the marriage was legal, and such other lies as they believed would make me very grateful.

"When asked why I had not been told this before, Father Bremen said, with tears in his eyes: 'When I took you from your dead mother's breast, Paul, my heart so went out to you that I wanted you for my own, wanted your love; so I simply told you that you were an orphan, but now it is different. Your father is dead, and the property is legally yours, and though it is painful to tell you of them, you must know the facts."

"The old hypocrite!" exclaimed Walter.

"Poor man, how bad he was," said Mabel.

M. Costin did not notice the interruption, but continued:

"I told him that I did not care to go to France, that

I wanted nothing from the man who had so wronged my mother.

" 'Your feeling is perfectly natural,' he said, 'and I do not blame you in the least; but think of the good that can be done with the property, and of your duty to the Church and to the world at large. Have you the right to refuse? I will go with you, and we ought to start soon; I have your father's likeness, and all the papers needed,' he said, taking from his pocket a small case.

"We had walked out toward the forest and were sitting under a tree not ten rods from its border. We had chosen the place because the broad-spreading limbs and heavy foliage made so good a shade. Before taking the case from his pocket Father Bremen had looked in every direction but up. As he was about to open it, an Indian woman sprang from the tree, snatched it from his hand, and was half-way to the forest before we recovered sufficiently from our astonishment to follow her. We then started upon a run, but had gone but a few steps when she was out of sight.

" 'It is of no use,' he said, panting for breath, 'we cannot catch her. She seems to have a passion for stealing lockets, but she always brings them back. But who would have thought she was in that tree; she has not been seen about here for several months.'

" 'Who is she?' I asked.

" 'They call her wild Nell, a half-crazy half-breed who seems harmless, but I begin to think she ought to be shut up; there's no knowing what she might do.'

"Somehow I could not be sorry for what had happened, and all the evening the words, 'has a passion for stealing lockets,' seemed to haunt me. Could it be possible that she was searching for the likeness of someone in whom she was interested, and that she restored them because she had not yet found what she sought. My sleep that night was filled with visions of wild Nell. I would see her in one scene and then in another, but somehow she always lost her Indian look, and became a well-dressed lady in the end.

"The next day Father Bremen came to me and said there had been an exact copy made of both likeness and papers, and if Nell did not return the original within ten days, we could take the copies with us to France. The words sent a chill all through me, and I resolved then and there that I would not go, that I would run away first; but I was well aware that I must not let this feeling be seen, so I said: 'Why wait that long, will not a week be enough?'

"There was one sister in this convent who was reputed to be possessed of remarkable gifts; Sister Myra, they called her; they said she could even read people's thoughts. In my then state of mind I was a little afraid of her—not that I believed in all the powers attributed to her, but I had just as soon keep away from her as not, and a little more so. Judge, then, of my feelings when I found that she was watching me.

"About three days after the episode of the stolen locket, she came to me, as I was walking in the garden, and said: 'Do not be afraid of me, I know how you feel, and I do not want to stay here any more than you do. I know your history. They have lied to you. Your mother is living, and——'

" 'Where is she?' I almost whispered, so surprised that I could hardly speak above my breath. She looked at me a moment, and then stooping as if to examine a flower, said: 'Wild Nell is no more an Indian than I am; she is disguised—be careful, Father Bremen is coming.' She turned and walked toward him, signing me to follow. They talked of various matters, I forcing myself to join in the conversation. Presently she stepped a little in front of me, and pointing to someone in the distance, asked, 'Who is that, Father Bremen?' at the same time dropping her other hand behind her, in which I saw a note which I knew by her manner she wished me to take.

"She held the priest's attention till I had transferred the note to my pocket, and then asked him about something that took them to another part of the grounds. I hastened to my room and read: 'Tell the young chief to come to the forest beyond the tree. We shall be waiting. Nell.'

"To paint my feelings when I read this is more than I can do. The opportunity to reach the place designated soon came, and I found not only Nell, but an aged Indian, and three fleet horses. They each mounted one, and pointing to the third, said: 'Come with us if you wish to find your friends.' I did not hesitate a moment, but took the horse assigned me. We followed a winding path with which they seemed perfectly familiar, and after about five hours' ride we came to a cabin deep in the forest, at which we stopped.

"Nell took a seat upon a pile of skins, dropped her face upon her hands, and remained perfectly quiet, except an occasional sob, while the old Indian commenced preparing something to eat. I could only watch and wait. Presently Nell arose and went into an inner room, and the old Indian said: 'The young chief must eat, and then he shall know all.' I felt very little like taking food, but I tried to obey; I noticed, however, that the old man spoke good English. When I had eaten what I could I turned to him with a look of inquiry, and he rapped upon the wall.

"Nell came in answer to his call, but what a transformation! She was neatly dressed in good English style, the dark skin had disappeared, and I could hardly believe her the same person with wild Nell. 'My son, my long-lost son!' she exclaimed, extending her arms, and I knew I had found my mother."

"I think she found you," said Mabel, innocently.

The remark was timely, notwithstanding, for it helped to break an intensity of feeling that was becoming oppressive.

"When the first transports had subsided, I turned to see if the old man was still an Indian, but he had disappeared," continued M. Costin. "Presently he too came from the inner room, dressed in a suit of steel gray of fine texture, but a little out of date as to fashion. The paint had disappeared from his face also, and my mother said: 'My father, my son.'

"Wonder on wonder; I, who had believed myself alone in the world, had found not only a mother, but a grandfather. As I looked at the two I said, 'Father Bremen would not know you, should he meet you now.'

" 'I am not so certain of that,' said grandfather,

'those priests are very cunning; they always pretend ignorance when it suits them, but with your disappearance, the unreturned locket, etc., they will draw their own conclusions, and it will be well to keep out of their reach. As soon as Myra can reach us we will leave this part of the country.'

" 'Who is Myra?' I asked, for I began to think she too might be a relative.

" 'She is my cousin,' said my mother, 'the daughter of my mother's sister. My mother was Scotch, and aunt married a Scotchman, thus making Myra pure blood while I am but half Scotch; and the Scotch people are famed for second sight and other peculiarities that the Yankee spiritualists call mediumship.'

" 'How long has she been a Catholic?'

" 'She is not a Catholic, but about two years ago she kept having visions of a stolen child and of this particular place—this convent school. She lived only a few miles away, or, rather, was staying there for a few months, and had visited the school in company with others. These visions made such an impression upon her, that she finally began to think they had something to do with the child that had been stolen from me, and wrote me her impressions.

"I had gone back to England and was living there with my parents. We received Myra's letter only a week before mother's death, but we communicated the contents to her, and she said "Go to America by all means; I believe, Helen, you will yet find your boy." So a few days after her funeral we started, father and I. In the meantime Myra had made friends at the convent, professed to be much pleased with all she saw, and proposed a course of study so as to become better acquainted, and perhaps she would join them.

" 'Her peculiar gifts have served her a good turn, and she has been counted as one of them for the last six months. She has so won upon their confidence that she has learned many things that others could not have done, and one was that the heads of the institution had likenesses, marriage certificates, etc., by the means of which they could establish the parentage of the most of those children who were supposed to be orphans.'

" 'And that was what set you to stealing likenesses?' I said.

" 'Yes, and when I got the right one I lost no time in communicating the fact to Myra, and now that our object is accomplished she will leave them as soon as she can get away. They have much faith in her gifts, as they call them; they will go to her to learn what has become of you. She will put them on the wrong track, and then escape here. Father will resume his disguise, go back to the edge of the forest, and wait for her, but you will remain with me.'

"I sat for some time thinking of all this, and then I asked: 'Are you sure there can be no mistake, that I am really your child?'

"I am sure," she said, 'you are the living image of your father. Had I seen you fairly in the face before I got the locket, I should have known that you were his child. I only had a partial view the day I was in the tree.' How strange it all seemed, and yet it was true. In two days Myra was with us, and then I was ready to go to France."

"And you went," said Mrs. Raymond, unable longer to keep silence.

"We all went, but I want to say, right here, that Myra had so identified herself with that school, or with its teachers, that even I supposed she was a sister in full fellowship. I was only a visitor; I found her wearing a sister's dress, and I was not told the difference."

"I did not suppose they ever put on the dress till fully initiated," said Mrs. Raymond.

"They do not, usually. Indeed, it is against the rules, but she asked to wear it for a while to see how it would seem, and in order to secure her they complied. It was her peculiar gifts that they wanted the use of. She would have been canonized as a saint."

"But did you get the property?" asked Walter.

"Do you think it would have been right to take it from my father's other son?" asked M. Costin.

"Did he have another son?"

"Yes; supposing my mother dead, he had married again, and that boy had grown up supposing the property would be his. He is my father's son, and his mother is a worthy woman; why should I spoil their lives? Mother feels as I do about it."

"Where is your mother?" asked Mabel.

"She is with grandfather," but he did not say where, "and will remain with him while he lives. We went to France under an assumed name, and revealed ourselves to no one but my father's wife. When the son comes of age he will divide with me, turning my share into money; in the meantime I receive annually one-half the rents, which I safely invest."

"So Costin is not your true name," persisted the irrepressible Walter.

"I did not say that it was not, Master Raymond." Walter felt a reproof in the tone and was silent, while M. Costin continued:

"I had two reasons for using another name while in France. I did not wish to annoy my father's wife and son, and when she found how father had been deceived, mother felt as I did; besides, I did not care to set the priests upon my track. I know too much of their doings to suit them, and I might be put out of the way."

"The Catholic Church is very corrupt," remarked Mrs. Raymond.

"The Catholic Church loves power, my dear madam, and so does the Protestant. They both, as do all religions founded upon the idea of a personal God, with a priesthood to expound his will, stand directly across the path of human progress."

"Don't you believe in God?" asked Mabel.

"Not in a God who needs temples, churches, or priests. The Infinite life-spirit gives no worded commands to be executed by one class of people over another. The priest is a fraud upon the race, and must be set aside."

"And you have to watch to keep the priest from setting you aside. Such talk sounds very much like the advice of the mouse to bell the cat," said the judge.

"Ah, my dear sir," replied Costin, "there is where the trouble lies. We have tried to bell the cat, but have not once thought of killing it."

"It would take a heap of mice to kill a cat."

"Do mice come in heaps, Walter?"

"Well, a drove, then."

"Are you serious, sir, in your idea of killing the cat, or, dropping the figure, of abolishing the priesthood?" asked George Gray.

"Entirely so, young man. Bring mice enough to the charge, and the cat can be killed. Make the people sufficiently intelligent, and the priesthood will disappear."

"You say you do not believe in a personal God; will you please give us your idea of God?"

"Why try to form an idea of that which is unthinkable, Mr. Gray? Can God be defined? That which has no definition is not—cannot be a thinkable quantity; and that which can be defined is less than the definer, so cannot be God. I can only say that to me the life essence of all things is as measureless as space, as formless as an axiom in mathematics, and as bodyless as are the laws which govern chemical combination. Temples and priests represent only the ideas of mental babyhood. They are the offspring of conceptions as baseless as that canes are snakes to fear, or horses to ride, and none know this better than the priests themselves."

"I see," replied George, "that the lessons of the psychologist have a wide application. What I saw the first night I came to this city will not soon be forgotten, and I am glad to have heard your story, Monsieur Costin. I have learned much since I left home; but it seems to me that my first and my last lessons are the most valuable."

"We are all sorry that it is to be the last," said Mrs. Raymond.

"Not more so than I am; but M. Costin says that the Church is the greatest obstacle in the way of our work. I would like to ask if the Church would not be comparatively powerless were it not sustained by the government?"

"This is supposed to be a secular government, Mr. Gray, one in which the Church plays no part, or, at least, but a subservient one."

"But is the supposition true?"

"About as true as that the cane was a horse. The Church not only does not play a subservient part, but whenever the chaplain, in Congress or elsewhere, is called upon to invoke the divine blessing, the Church, through her representatives, is really exalted above the government."

"I do not see it so, sir; it is only an acknowledgment that God is above all governments."

"Then his agents, or representatives, must be. We can take no other position and be consistent. Besides, it is the Christian's God, a personal being, that is recognized. If we recognize the Christian Fatherhood, we must also recognize the Sonship; and the claim is that Jesus is to be ruler among nations—not church and state, but church over state."

"I had never thought of it in that light," said the judge.

"Then think of it now and ask yourself, if accepting as our rightful ruler an invisible potentate with visible representatives is likely to conduce to human freedom."

"There is another point, M. Costin," said George; "a masculine ruler with masculine representatives, will not be very likely to aid woman in securing the best conditions for motherhood."

"That point is well put, Mr. Gray; and I think Mrs. Raymond and Miss Mabel will find food for reflection there."

"A Christian government," said Mrs. Raymond, musingly.

"Will never give woman the right to herself," responded M. Costin.

"Then woman must take that right, for without it she can never do her best work," said Mrs. Raymond, in the same emphatic tone.

"Which she can never do till the power of the priesthood is broken, thus proving my position correct; to wit, that the Church is the greatest obstacle in the way."

"Well, I think thee is about right, friend Costin, and the Friends—Quakers thee calls them—commenced the work in the days of George Fox; and dost thou not think his descendants should continue it?"

Monsieur laughed, and Walter, as if tired of listening to such serious talk, said: "Well, George, I suppose you leave us to-morrow, so good-night, with the hope that

'We'll all meet together in the morning.' "

Then, as he disappeared up-stairs, they heard him singing:

"Breathes there a man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
I'll rap that fellow on the head
Unless he lets my girl alone."

"Nothing serious about him," said his father.

"An encouraging sign," said Costin. The others looked up in surprise, and he continued: "In the disposition to caricature things looked upon as sacred, lies the germ of that which will destroy all gods, Jehovah not excepted; then, where will your priesthood be?"

CHAPTER VII.

THAT CRANK—DEBT SLAVERY, ETC.

GEORGE GRAY knew that his father was not well enough to work, but supposed him well enough to ride, and expected to meet him, or his brother John, at the station five miles from his home; but instead a stranger stepped up and called him by name.

"You are your father's image, young man," he said, "so I know you are the one I want. I was coming up with a load of corn, so I told your folks I could just as well take you and your traps back as not; my name is Steadman, at your service."

"I am glad to meet you, Mr. Steadman; how are the folks?"

"Your mother is well, I believe, but your father's down with a lame back, and John's foot, where he was shot, is so sore he can't step on it, and the work is hurrying 'm so they didn't know how to spare the team or either of the men, so I told 'm I guessed I could fetch you without breaking, if you was a city chap."

George laughed at this. "Thank you, Mr. Steadman," he said, "I am glad to hear that mother is well."

"Yes, the old lady is well, but working herself almost to death; I think the old man has played the fool running into debt for more land, and nearly killing himself and all the rest trying to pay for it."

"Buying more land! What does he want of more than he has?"

"That is what your mother was saying only yesterday, and she said, 'I haven't told George because I thought it would worry him, but it's the foolishest thing father ever did, buying land because two bushels of wheat'll pay for an acre; but these are only war prices, things can't stay this way,' and she's right."

"Two bushels pay for an acre, at what price?"

"Two dollars and a half, but I'm thinking it'll cost him five bushels before he is through; wheat has begun to fall now, and it's sure not to stop till it gets down to a dollar, if not less."

"I did not suppose wheat had been that high—what is it bringing now?"

"Two dollars; he bought out Henry Ozmun, pays five dollars an acre and ten per cent. interest; three hundred and twenty acres, sixteen hundred dollars."

"Where has Mr. Ozmun gone?"

"Oh, he's gone further West, he and his boys. They have bought up a lot of soldiers' claims, leaving your father to pay for them, that is, the boys have agreed to take the first payments on the place—three claims I think it is the Ozmuns have got—and then he and the boys will pre-empt government land, so you see they'll be extensive landholders. The first payment, two hundred dollars, helped them to go, and as soon as the claims are paid for, they will use the rest that comes from the old place to fix up with."

"You say, Mr. Steadman, father pays ten per cent.

interest; so if the soldiers receive the same on their claims, that will leave eighty dollars a year interest money for the Ozmuns to fix up with, as you say?" said George.

"True, I didn't think of that, but the Ozmuns have made a good move; they'll get along all right, but it's a seven years' pull on your folks, two hundred a year, with interest on the balance."

"I can't see what father wants of more land," said George, thoughtfully.

"That's just what I say. True, it took only eighty bushels of wheat last year to raise the money, but with the fall in the price and the interest added, it will take more than twice that this year; the interest on fourteen hundred dollars is one hundred and forty dollars, it'll take seventy bushels to pay that."

George remembered the talk, five years before, of high prices and low prices, but he said nothing, and Steadman continued:

"I think it's the fall in the price that worried the old gentleman, and he tried to work enough harder to make it up, but he's flat on his back now, and I'm thinking he'll stay there for a while."

"Does John's foot trouble him all the while?" asked George, thinking to change the subject.

"No, only by spells, but he'll never be able to do hard work any more; but his girl won't consent to give him up, so they are going to be married, and that's why I think the old man wanted more land. If he can fix it so someone else must support John and the children, if there should be any, then they will be all right."

"Someone else support them!" repeated George, in a tone of surprise.

"Yes, they say I'm cranky, but's all the same to me. No one has any real right to more land than they can take care of. Nature furnishes land for us all, and those who have more than their share rob the others; while those who live by rents from land that others till are simply supported by those others."

"With so many men wanting work, a man can take care of a great deal of land, Mr. Steadman; all that he needs to do is to be able to oversee things."

"Did you ever stop to think why so many need work, young man?"

George was silent for some moments. "I don't believe I ever did, Mr. Steadman," he said, at length.

"Is it not because someone else has their land? If one man holds thousands of acres somebody must go without; that stands to reason, don't it?"

"I have not thought upon the matter, sir, so am not prepared to give an answer."

"Well, think, then. They say you are quite a philosopher, so I'll risk the conclusion; but you must be careful how you handle the old gentleman about his buying that land, for he's awful touchy about it. I think he feels that he's made a mistake."

"I think I understand father; but sometime I should like to talk with you more upon this question of land-holding."

"You have rightly said land-holding, for no man can own the land."

"Not own land, Mr. Steadman! What do you mean?"

"I do not mean that they may not have a legal claim to it; the slaveholder had a legal claim to the slave, but not a rightful one, and no man has a rightful claim to land only as he uses, occupies, and cultivates it. I care not how many legal claims are set up, in Nature's court of equity all that a man raises from any land by his own labor is rightfully his, which could not be if another man could rightfully own it."

"I must study this question, Mr. Steadman."

"Do so; but there comes your mother; kiss her quick, now, and then help me out with this trunk, for I cannot stop more than a minute."

George and his mother had many things to talk of; John was to be married in two weeks, and as his wife would come there to live, he laughingly said he thought he could get along with two women to wait upon him. There was much to be done as well as to be said. Julia and her children were coming home on a visit, and to be at the wedding, so the land question did not come up for some time.

Julia remained some days after John's marriage, and one day, when there was no one present but George and their mother, she remarked: "If father had not that land to pay for, you would get along all right now."

"I have said nothing to George about that yet." said Mrs. Gray.

"But I know it all the same, mother; Mr. Steadman told me."

"And you have not even mentioned it to me."

"I thought you had enough else to think of now, mother; but Mr. Steadman has some very peculiar ideas about land-holding."

"Not so peculiar to me. Mr. Randal held the same; but I never told your father so, and he never spoke of it to anyone else; I don't think he could have kept his school out if he had; times are changing."

"Well, I shall have more talk with Mr. Steadman, and if I find he is correct, I shall advocate his views whether people like them or not," replied George.

"Of course you will; but what's to be done about that land your father has bargained for? He has paid only two hundred dollars yet, and I would rather lose that than have him go on, if there is any way to get out of it."

"I fear there is none, mother. But for those soldier claims we might let the land go; but as it is, Ozmun has really half his pay, for the men have taken father's obligation and released him."

"I am very sorry," she said, with a sigh, "for it was overwork that made your father sick in the first place. He got some better, went to work, and overdid himself again. I knew he would kill himself if he kept on, so I sent for you."

"Was there no help to be had?"

"Oh, yes; there are men enough who want work, but when wheat began to go down he seemed frightened and would not hire the help he needed lest he should fail on his payment. Will Hines, the first of the soldiers to be paid, has bought a house and lot in town with his little earnings, and depends upon what is coming from your father to finish paying for it and get his deed. You know Will and our Edward were bosom friends, and I think father would about as soon die as disappoint him."

"Completely tied up, I see. Well, I see no other way but to go through with it," said George.

"I wouldn't care so much, George, if it was once paid for, but we don't need it, and a seven years' pull, two hundred a year with interest on the balance, and nearly all the work to be done by hired men—it is a dreary outlook to me."

"Only six years after this fall, mother, and they will not seem half so long if we don't keep counting them," said George, cheerily; for whenever George Gray decided that a thing had to be done he always made the best of it.

"Six hundred and forty acres of land ought to pay that much without any trouble," said Julia.

"Yes, I know, daughter; but remember there is your father and I, and John and his wife to board and clothe, and now George, too; and the hired men to board, their wages to be paid, and the extra taxes, doctors' bills, the risk of loss of crops, prices of what we raise going down—the risk is too great. We may come out ahead and we may not."

"I wonder," said George, "how many children have been ruined before birth by that kind of worry?" He was thinking of John's wife.

Julia laughed. "You are a pretty fellow," she said, "to be talking to us women on such subjects, and you not yet twenty years old."

"If all young men were taught as I have taught him, Julia, they would make better husbands and fathers; but as it is they are taught the least about that which they should understand the best," said Mrs. Gray.

"It is this one-sided man-power, of which I am thinking, mother," said George. "Father has bought this land against your wishes, against your better judgment, and now we must work like slaves to help pay for it."

Just here little Katie, Julia's oldest, ran in with a handbill. "See," she said, "the man threw it over the gate." George took it from her hand, and at the same moment his father hobbled into the room.

"Oh, dear," he grumbled, "my back's nearly broke, but I must try and get around a little—what's this?" reaching for the paper in George's hand.

" 'Woman's Relation to Human Progress. Professor Steadman will lecture at the town-hall to-night, October 2d, on this most important of all subjects. The public respectfully invited;' ho, ho, that crank; everybody's professor nowadays."

"Who is he, father?" asked Julia.

"Our neighbor here; the man who don't believe in people owning land."

"He must be a queer man; what could people do without land?"

"Oh, he don't expect them to do without, but no man is to own, to have a deed, and buy and sell; everybody is to cultivate what they need and leave the rest for someone else, any lazy devil that comes along."

George smiled as he said: "He couldn't be very lazy, father, if he worked the land, and in that case the lazy devils who will not work at all, but who happen to have money, could not buy up the land and force others to work it for them."

"Oh, yes, I expected that you would agree with him, and he is trying to make me believe I made a mistake in buying Ozmun's land; but I guess I know my own business."

"I should like to hear what he has to say," remarked Mrs. Gray.

"I don't doubt it, wife; but the team can't be spared now till that wheat's off to market."

"Never mind the team, father, I can walk."

"Yes, you look like it. Do you think I'll let you work hard all day and then walk four miles at night?"

Mrs. Gray looked up with one of her comical smiles, "You won't let me!"

"Oh, you needn't feel so cranky because I'm lame; I have the law on my side, madam;" but he laughed in spite of himself.

She ignored his last remark by saying, "It is only two miles to the hall."

"And I suppose it isn't two miles back," he retorted.

"It didn't use to be when I went five nights out of a week two miles to a revival meeting, and had you to come home with me," she replied.

This turned the laugh on him, and he snapped out, "That was all you went for; you didn't care for the meeting."

"As much as most young folks care; but with you with me I never minded the coming home; but I suppose it will be different now, as you can't go," she replied, and so demurely that her husband again laughed.

"Better be careful, or I'll go just to spite you, my lady," he said.

"I'll be careful," she replied in the same tone.

"Well, go if you must; but you don't walk, I can tell you that," he said, assuming a severe tone again.

So when evening came they were all on hand for the lecture except little Katie, who said she would stay and take care of grandpa. John thought at first that his foot was too sore, but when he found that Margaret wanted to go he decided that perhaps he could stand it. Grandpa thought he could get along a little while with only Katie; "but I have seen the time," he said, "when Lucy would not have gone without me."

"Yes, James, I used to be very foolish, but it is hardly fair to tell me of it before the children," she replied.

"Oh, go along with you, you always make me wish I hadn't said anything," and turning upon his heel he went back to his room as fast as his back would let him, and Katie told her mother he said, "What an infernal fool I was to keep lifting those bags of wheat after my back commenced hurting me."

The hall was filled, and many were surprised to see their own townsman take the platform. They had supposed that some stranger was to speak, and that the name merely happened to be the same as that of their cranky neighbor. And they were surprised to see him so well dressed and so gentlemanly in his manners.

"Friends," he said, "I was brought up in the country. I am a farmer's son—not one who owned the land he cultivated, but a tenant farmer. My mother was a rich man's daughter, who was disinherited for marrying the man of her choice. She died when I was sixteen years of age, and then my rich relatives offered to take me and educate me, provided my father would give me up wholly to them.

"This he consented to do, for he felt that he could not survive my mother long, which he did not, and he wished to see me well provided for; it thus happens that I am a kind of mongrel. But I love the country; it has been a pleasure to make myself one with you; so you see before you Professor Steadman the speaker, or farmer Steadman the crank, just as you wish, and at your service."

This good-natured explanation put them all at their ease and prepared them to listen favorably to what he had to say.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he continued, "the subject announced is one to which little attention has been paid in the past, but it must come to the front or our Republic will prove a grand failure, a magnificent ruin. I hope there are no such men in this intelligent audience, but there are those who think it their inalienable right to make laws for their mothers; but that the mothers would be entirely out of place in assisting to make the laws by which all are expected to be governed.

"Such men—I say again I hope there are none such present, for I am afraid I should hurt their feelings—such men think women have not the brain-power for such arduous work; but should there be such men present, I would say to them: 'Every ounce of brains you have, sirs, was gestated beneath a woman's heart,' and who are you that claim to be superior to her whose life-blood fed your brains in their growth, to her from whom you received your brains?

"No, I do not believe with Paul that woman should be subject to man, or that modesty requires that she sit with covered head in the presence of husband, sons, and brothers. The trouble is, my friends, man has not understood woman; neither has she understood herself, hence her weakness, so called—that in which her greatest power lies, either for good or evil—has been quoted as a term of reproach. 'As nervous as a woman,' is a term used to designate weakness in man; but have you any idea why woman's nerves, as a rule, are so much more sensitive than man's?

"If you will go with me to the room of a photographer, and watch the process of likeness-taking, I think I can make you understand what I mean. The first thing the artist does is to pour upon the plate or glass a solution of ether and gun-cotton, into which certain chemicals have been dissolved. The ether evaporates, leaving the chemicals in the gun-cotton, which coats the plate, which is next taken into the dark room and immersed in a liquid solution of silver. The chemicals in the coating of the plate now combine with the silver, and this combination makes the coating exceedingly sensitive, susceptible to the action of the rays of light.

"What do I mean by sensitive? Hold up your hand and the atmosphere creates no pain upon its surface. Uncover the nerve of a tooth and then see. So of that plate; the light will make no more impression upon it before it is sensitized by the mingling of the chemicals and the liquid silver, than the air does upon the back of your hand; but after the gun-cotton coating has taken up all the silver it will hold, then it is as sensitive as the nerve of a tooth.

"Nature protects the nerve of the tooth, and if we would have the desired result we must protect the coated plate till it is in the right position to receive the impression we wish; so it is taken from the silver bath and enclosed in a little box called a tablet; then it is brought out of the dark room, the ground glass is taken from the camera-box, and the tablet put in its place. Previous to this the artist has placed you just where the rays of light which strike you can be reflected back upon the lens of the camera. The slide in the tablet is then drawn, and the lens uncovered, and the rays of light reflected back from the one whose likeness is being taken, pass through the lens and reach that prepared—that sensitized plate—making the impression or likeness.

"Now mark: The prepared plate corresponds to the unborn babe in Nature's tablet, and the sensitive nerves of the mother are the lens of the camera through which impressions are made upon the child before birth."

Here he paused a full half minute and then asked: "What would be the effect if, when having your likeness taken, a fly should light upon your nose just as the lens of the camera was uncovered? Please answer, any one who knows."

"I should have the picture of a fly upon the nose of my likeness," said George Gray.

"Right, young man, and permit me to say that there is no process known by which the likeness could be developed, as it is called, without bringing out the fly. I will now repeat:

"The prepared plate corresponds to the unborn babe in Nature's tablet, or dark room, and the mother's nerves to the lens of the camera, through which impressions are made upon the child before birth; and the influences which act upon her, the conditions which surround her during that sacred and critical time, determine in a measure the future of the child, its character for good or ill.

"This is done, first, by the direct action of the nerves, as in case of what are called birthmarks, or indirectly by affecting her thoughts, her feelings, thus, as it were, chemicalizing her blood, and giving character to the child through the elements that go to make up its brain. This being true, the finer, the more sensitive the mothers, the greater the good or evil to the race, as coming through good or bad surroundings."

He then went on to paint some of the conditions and surroundings under which prospective mothers, many of them, are forced to live. He took his audience to the city, painted the tenement-houses, the attics, the cellars, the alleys, the saloons, the gambling hells. He then pointed to the immense tracts of land claimed by individuals, and held for a rise; spoke of the millions of acres of government land, of the thousands of families who might find homes thereon could they have a little assistance; of the extra cost to cities in the way of police force, prosecutions and imprisonments, which applied year by year would soon relieve the crowded condition of the cities, if the cities could do without those who were thus stowed away in cellars and garrets.

"Yes, I mean it, if the cities could do without them," he repeated, bringing his hand down with terrible emphasis, "but they cannot. What do I mean? I mean that your present property system generates crime as truly as stagnant pools generate miasma. Children—grown children, men and women you call them—have been born under conditions that make it impossible for them to be good. The fly has been stamped upon the nose, the spirit of murder upon the brain, and what is to be done?

"What do I mean by saying that cities cannot do without a degraded class? I will show you. Suppose the power you call God answered prayers. The poet says, and truly:

" 'Each hour a million knees are bent,
A million prayers to heaven are sent;
There's not a woe afflicts our race,
But some one bears to the throne of grace.'

"Suppose the prayers put up for those poor children, for those degraded fathers and mothers—degraded as to condition, if not otherwise—suppose those prayers should be answered and every one of them be taken from their miserable surroundings and placed in the country; good homes, healthy work, and all needed comforts furnished, what would be the result?

"Judge Hendricks says: 'Mary, I cannot furnish the money for you to go to Europe this year. My tenement-house on Bleecker Street is empty, and no prospect of tenants. Fifty families at from five to ten dollars a month was quite an item, and I don't see how I am to get along.'

"Deacon Careful says: 'Those three saloons and that house on Dupont Street are empty, and I can't help build a new church now,' and so on to the end of the chapter. Thousands would be entirely broken up because their rat-riddled rooms were no longer occupied. In fact, the city would collapse as if its bowels had been torn out; everything would be disarranged. The bears on Wall Street would growl, and the bulls would bellow, and the collapse would be simply terrible.

"But it's got to come, friends; not just in that way, perhaps, but when our men—the masses of men—begin to understand the necessity of giving woman the best of conditions in order to a grand motherhood, the divine in the hearts of fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons will so assert itself as to overthrow all that stands in woman's way.

"The Catholics make Mary the queen of heaven; we shall be content when our Marys, and Janes, and Julias are queens in their own right—the right to themselves."

It is useless to attempt to do justice to the lecture unless quoted as a whole, but there is one more point that should not be left out.

"You are often told," he said, "how much stronger and better your grandmothers were; what families they brought up; how much more work they could do; is it not just possible that if they had done less you might be able to do more?"

There were tears in the eyes of more than one, and the first words uttered by the Grays when the lecture was over were: "Oh, I wish father had been here."

A few days after the land subject came up for discussion, but James Gray would not admit but that he had done a wise thing.

"I don't see," he said, "what there is to worry about; with fencing, the place will feed cattle enough to pay for it."

"But it will cost something to fence so much land, father," said George; "that which you had is not all fenced yet."

"Yes, I know, but John is fit for nothing else now but to ride horse and herd cattle."

"But suppose there should come a drouth to ruin the crops and the grass, what then?"

"Bother your suppositions; suppose Noah's flood comes back; I guess we could stand it as well as others."

George said no more; Julia went to her home, sixty miles distant, the next day, and things soon fell into their old routine, with the exception that Mrs. Gray did not have to work quite so hard now she had John's wife to help her.

Once afterward Mr. Gray, in referring to the land matter, remarked: "I suppose you will not help me any longer than till you are of age, George?"

"I do not think I shall remain on a farm after that," was the reply.

"Well, I have about a year and a half yet, and I shall make the most of it, young man."

"All right, father."

This reply seemed to irritate him, and he continued in a complaining tone: "John was fighting for his country and exposed to all sorts of hardships while you were taking your comfort with those aristocratic cousins, and I think it no more than right that he should be provided for."

As George did not reply there was nothing further said.

CHAPTER VIII.

ANOTHER STORY.

GEORGE GRAY really remained at home a little over two years, and the claim of the last of the three soldiers was paid for, the day before he left for the East again. From thence on the payments were to be made directly to Mr. Ozmun, who had already received two hundred and forty dollars as interest. Four payments more, four years of anxiety and careful saving, four years of pinching the heart out of life's enjoyment, the sentence, "that note must be met," ever before them—the handwriting of fate upon the wall of the future.

M. Costin was still with the Raymonds, but in a little more than a year he was to return to France for a final settlement with his half-brother, of his father's estate. His mother and grandfather lived in a little town just across the Hudson River, and about ten miles from the city. His mother had visited him twice; the second time his grandfather was with her, and they remained several days; but M. Costin himself seldom went anywhere, only as he visited them.

Once Walter came in highly excited, and said that as he was passing the Catholic church he heard one of the men address a priest who was standing on the steps as Father Bremen.

"Yes, I know he is here, I have seen him on the street twice, but I do not think he recognized me; however, there is no knowing," said M. Costin, quietly.

"I can see no reason for being afraid of him; you had a right to leave them if you chose," said Mrs. Raymond.

"They will not try to do anything publicly; if they ever harm me it will be in secret and in a way that it cannot be traced to them."

"Well, they would hardly be likely to know you after so many years, and under another name."

"It has not been very many years, Mrs. Raymond. I was not twenty-one when I left for France, and I was gone only a year, counting the trip both ways, and a few weeks that I spent with my mother's people in England, and I have been back but eight years."

"That tells us how old you are, monsieur. If you don't marry soon you will be an old bachelor," said Mrs. Raymond, playfully.

"Not quite thirty, madam, but I think the Church lost track of me when I went to France. They would naturally expect that I would claim my inheritance, and as I made no move in that direction that could be traced, they were, no doubt, nonplussed. Besides, I have known of some of their methods in another case, and for a time I was in the same house, and had they suspected me I should have seen some sign of it before now."

"In another case?" repeated Mabel.

"Yes, the case of a priest who had forsaken the

Church and married. If you would like, I will tell you the story."*

[*A true story as to facts.]

"Yes, tell us, please," said Mrs. Raymond, while Mabel looked the same request.

"Soon after I returned from France," he began, "I boarded for a time with a widow lady named Fisher. One day a dark, Spanish-looking gentleman came and asked for board and room for himself and wife. Mrs. Fisher had but one empty room, and that was back from the street, but on the first floor.

" 'I will bring my wife,' he said, after looking at the room, 'and if it will suit her we will take it.' I happened to be in the sitting-room when he came, and I noticed a sad, hunted look upon his face.

"He was gone about an hour and then returned with his wife, and as she seemed satisfied with the room they remained, and their trunks came in the evening. I said to Mrs. Fisher, in reply to her expressions of admiration for the couple, 'They are in trouble; something is hidden.'

" 'Oh, I hope not,' she said, 'I do not like to have suspicious characters in my house."

" 'Cannot one be in trouble and not be a suspicious character?' I asked.

"They gave the name of Dusharm. They were very quiet. Mrs. Dusharm said her husband was not well, had become despondent, and shrank from society; that she did not like to oppose his wishes as it seemed to make him worse.

" 'Are you French?' I asked, knowing Dusharm to be a French name.

" 'My husband is,' she replied, and when I told her I was French, she said she wished I would try and interest Mr. Dusharm; so I made an excuse to rap at their door one day, and when she came to the door I said, 'Madam, as your name is French, and I am French and alone in this country, I would like, with your permission, a better acquaintance.'

"She turned to her husband with: 'Henry, here is a countryman of yours.' He bowed a cold assent, and I was invited in, but she did the most of the talking. Once or twice he became temporarily interested, but he soon fell back into a sort of listless state that I could see distressed his wife, and my conviction that something was troubling them both was strengthened by this interview; still I did not once associate the thought of crime with them. No, it was not that. He was no criminal hiding from justice.

"The fourth morning after they came a boy brought a note to the door for Mrs. Fisher which read: 'You have suspicious persons in your house; the gentleman and his wife. A word to the wise is sufficient.'

" 'You were right,' she said, handing me the note, 'there is something wrong about these people.'

" 'I beg your pardon,' I replied, 'I did not say there was anything wrong, neither do I believe there is.'

" 'But what do you make of the note?' she asked.

" 'An anonymous note, Mrs. Fisher, proves that they have an enemy or enemies somewhere; but if there is crime it is more likely to be the one who is afraid to sign his name to a paper calculated to injure another.'

" 'You may be right,' she said, 'but they must not stay here. I have myself and children to support, and there must be no scandal connected with my house.'

" 'What will you do, tell them you have received this note?'

" 'No, that would be too embarrassing, but I will find some excuse.'

" 'Oh, what hypocrites and cowards society makes of us,' I said; 'here you will send these people away because of a note some coward sends, and not even give them a chance for self-defence.'

" 'I cannot help it, M. Costin,' she replied, 'it must be done.' She sat down and wrote a note saying that she was going to have unexpected company, and so needed the room, and sent it to them by her little boy. About ten minutes after, Mr. Dusharm came into the room.

" 'Madam,' said he, 'I do not wish to be impertinent, but I have a reason for asking, will you please tell me of what Church you are a member?'

"She looked surprised, but replied, 'I am not a member of any church, but I usually attend the Methodist.'

" 'Not a Catholic then,' he said, as if to himself.

" 'No, not a Catholic, certainly.'

"The manner in which she pronounced the last word seem to inspire him with confidence, and taking a seat he said, 'I think I will tell you my story. It can do no harm, to say the least.' His wife in the meantime had come in, and she took a seat near him. He took out his handkerchief, wiped his forehead and began:

" 'I am, or was, a Catholic priest. My parents were

Protestants, but they were very poor. We lived near a Catholic school and the Sisters were very kind to us. I attended their school, came under their influence or psychological power, and decided to prepare for the ministry. In this I had every assistance, as you can readily believe; but after taking orders I found that many things had been kept back, and I became very much dissatisfied. When under the first smart of this disappointment I met the lady who is now my wife. Her attractions completed my alienation; I forsook the Church and married her.'

"When he announced himself an ex-priest I had, almost without knowing it, drawn my chair nearer his. I think he must have read my sympathy in my face, for his voice grew firmer as he proceeded. 'From that time to this we have been followed by an invisible but no less effectual persecution. We are driven from place to place, and I am tired out. You, madam, have, no doubt, as did the others, received an anonymous note. It seems impossible to go anywhere but they find us.'

"Here he sank back in his chair, turned very pale, and we thought he was going to faint; but his wife took both his hands firmly in hers, and presently the color came back to his face.

" 'Yes, Mr. Dusharm,' said Mrs. Fisher when he rallied, 'I have received such a note, but my sympathies are with you, and but for one thing you should stay. The man of whom I rent is a Catholic, and there would be some excuse gotten up for putting me out. With that and their insinuations they could ruin me.'

"I laughed at this. 'You think,' I said, 'they would be as adept at finding excuses as you are.'

"She colored and asked, 'What is a poor woman to do?'

" 'We can none of us do anything, we are helpless,' said Dusharm, despondently.

" 'If you could only rise out of your depressed condition, Henry, we could defy them,' said Mrs. Dusharm.

" 'Why do you not come out boldly and face them? There are plenty of Protestant homes in which you would be safe from their persecutions,' I said.

"He shook his head, and his wife said, 'He has lost faith in all religions and only wishes to be left alone; he is sick, and there is no fight in him.'

"Just here Bridget opened the door and asked, 'Did you call, mistress?'

" 'No, but this gentleman and his wife are going to leave; are you not sorry?'

" 'An' sure an' he's a foine gintleman, and it's a swate lady he has, it's a pity they don't stay,' and she disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

"Mrs. Dusharm went to the table, took pencil and paper and hastily drew the form of a serpent, held it up where we could all see it, nodded in the direction of the kitchen, and then walked to the grate and laid the paper on the coals.

" 'Yes,' I said in response, 'and our Edens are continually poisoned by his slimy trail.'

"Dusharm turned toward me with a look I shall never forget as he said: 'The Church used itself as a pattern for its devil.'

" 'And yet there are good people in the Catholic Church,' said Mrs. Fisher.

" 'Yes, madam, in all churches, but they are not wise people, or they would not be there; they are stool pigeons for crafty designers,' he replied.

"She seemed a little shocked that he should repudiate all religions, but her sympathy for them prevailed, and she said: 'I wish I could keep you here.'

" 'It does not matter, madam, I prefer to find another place now.'

" 'Well, don't leave till your week is up, and I shall pay you back your money; it shall cost you nothing for that time.'

"The couple expressed their thanks and returned to their room. This occurred on Monday morning, and it was understood that they would leave on Wednesday. I felt very much like going up and giving them my own history, but finally did not. Dusharm went out during the day, but the next day his wife took his meals to him, saying he was sick, and in the morning of the day they were expected to leave they did not respond when they were called, and upon investigation it was found that they were gone.

"The unfastened window showed the way of their exit, and the night being dark facilitated their purpose. Trunks and all had been lifted out, the lower part of the window being about as high from the ground as a man's shoulders, and they must have been carried at least thirty feet, as no conveyance could have got nearer than that."

"And did you never hear anything more from them?" asked Mrs. Raymond.

"I did, though I do not think Mrs. Fisher ever did. It was coming winter and I decided to visit California, and by water, and the third day out, while walking on the upper deck of the steamer, I came face to face with Mrs. Dusharm. 'You here, Mrs.—' but there was that in her look which arrested my words, 'Winters,' she added, as I hesitated; 'yes, I am here; but I see you are not as good at remembering names as I am, Monsieur Costin,' she continued, as she gave me her hand.

" 'I am rather stupid about names,' I said, as I returned her grasp; 'but where is Mr.—' Dusharm I was going to say, but she interrupted with, 'Mr. Winters is lying down, he is a little seasick. Had I known you were contemplating a trip to California when I met you at Cousin Julia's, I should have suggested that we go at the same time, as it is more pleasant in a journey like this to have someone you have known along, even if it is but a slight acquaintance; but you are here now, and it is all right.'

"There were others near; I knew she did it all for a purpose, and readily acted my part. I found Mr. Dusharm, or Winters, as he was registered on shipboard, looking much better, and his wife was as bright and as charming a woman as one often meets. She called her husband Lewis instead of Henry, so, as far as names were concerned they were quite other people than when I first met them.

"We had been out nearly two weeks, had crossed the Isthmus, and were steaming up the broad Pacific at satisfactory speed; Mrs. Dusharm and myself were sitting upon the steerage-deck away from all the others, when Dusharm came to us looking as pale as death. 'Wife, it is of no use, we are tracked,' he said, sinking into a seat and dropping his face in his hands.

" 'Are you sure?' she asked, in a steady voice, though she too paled.

" 'As sure as I am here. The clerk just called me by name; I thought his face looked familiar.'

" 'Is he a priest in disguise?' she asked.

" 'No, a lay Jesuit, I think, wife.'

"She turned to me with, 'I think the Church is the beast spoken of in Revelation, it has eyes on all sides; we came to the steamer in separate hacks and from different directions, and I disguised myself and bought tickets for two.'

" 'The devil helps his own,' said Dusharm.

" 'Do not say the devil, Mr. Winters, for of the two mythological characters he is the best,' I replied, getting up and walking back and forth in my excitement. I could keep it back no longer. I turned, and sitting down beside them again, I told them who and what I was.

"They listened to my story, and then Dusharm said: 'You slipped away from them quietly, and they lost the trail at first, while I openly defied them, and then tried to escape while their eyes were upon me, and that is the difference. Let them once get track of you again, and then see if they ever lose it.'

" 'Well,' said Mrs. Dusharm, 'we will fight it out now; they dare not kill us: it would attract too much attention, and that is what they don't want; but I had hoped we were free from their espionage.'

"From that time on Dusharm seemed utterly despondent. When we reached San Francisco they went to a little town about fifty miles away, and I remained in the city. Returning here in the spring, I did not see them again, but he lived only a few months; and from her letters I learned she believed him to have been poisoned."

"Poisoned!" exclaimed Mrs. Raymond, while Mabel's dilating eyes spoke for her.

"Yes, slow poison put into his wine. She believed it began before I first met them, and that it was the cause of his apathetic condition, of the sort of shrinking from which she could not arouse him. She said:

" 'I never drink wine, but the priests all do, and Henry continued the habit. One day a priest, an old man, called to talk with him about the step he had taken. We thought it a little strange, but Henry had been one of his favorites, and he seemed so grieved we could not do otherwise than treat him kindly. Before he left, Henry called for a particular brand of wine of which they were fond. They sat and talked and drank till it was all gone, the old man remarking, "I ought not to do this, but it will come all right at last." Henry never seemed the same afterward. At the time I attributed it to the priest's influence, and thought it would soon wear off; but I now believe that the infamous work commenced then, and that they found opportunity to repeat the dose from time to time. Could I see you,' she continued, 'I could give you many little incidents which have confirmed me in this belief, but they are too many and too connected with other things to be easily put into a letter. A few days before his death the priest of the place came to see him. I saw him coming and suspected his object, so locked Henry's door and put the key in my pocket.

" ' "Madam," he said, "I wish to see Mr. Dusharm."

" ' "He does not see anyone," I replied, and was about to close the door, when he pushed past me.

" ' "Madam," said he, "I know your secret; the man you call husband is going to die. He has grievously sinned, but the Church is very merciful, and I would give him absolution."

" ' "You cannot see him," I replied.

" ' "I shall not leave, madam, till I know for myself what his wish is," he persisted.

" 'I called through the locked door, "Henry, the priest is here, do you wish to see him?" "Not in this world, nor in the world to come," was the prompt response. The priest stepped to the door, and finding it locked, turned upon his heel with:

" ' "Very well, I have done my duty; his ruin be upon his own head—and upon yours," he added, after a moment's struggling with his rage at being foiled. I think he would have killed me if he had dared. Henry's answer was very positive, but could the priest once have caught his eye, in his weak state he could not have resisted the psychologic power that would have been exerted, and would have done just as he was told. I knew this and determined to protect him.'

"I have thus given you the contents of her letter in nearly or quite in her own words," said M. Costin, as he concluded.

Mabel drew a long breath, "What a work there is to be done," she said.

M. Costin looked at her with his soul in his eyes:

"Miss Mabel, you have no idea of the strength of the Church and the money power combined; you had better give up your idea of helping to change all this, and try to enjoy life as it is," he said.

She turned her luminous eyes full upon him: "I cannot, I cannot," she said; "I could just as easily be happy with the shrieks of the dying ringing in my ears. No, I must work to change all this, must work while life shall last, and no heaven can hold me when my body is dead, so long as these things are done on earth."

Mrs. Raymond listened with wonder. Could it be her Mabel, her baby that she had nourished and cared for, a girl not yet eighteen years old, who was talking thus, who was pouring forth such a tide of feeling?

M. Costin, too, felt the power of her words, and the intensity of feeling was becoming almost painful when Walter rushed in with: "Oh, Meb, George is coming back; father's just had a letter, and he'll be here Saturday. Say, Meb, I think you'll be too well off. Here's my humble self, always proud of your company, and Monsieur ready at all times to be your obedient servant, and now, when George comes, which of us must stand aside?"

"Walter," said Mrs. Raymond, in that peculiar tone which always meant so much.

"I beg pardon, mother, and all of yees," bowing all round, and so comically that they could but laugh. "I beg pardon, but you looked so serious I had to do something to break the spell."

Mrs. Raymond noticed the shadow that overspread M. Costin's face when George's name was mentioned, but she said nothing.

CHAPTER IX.

TWO BIRTHDAYS.

GEORGE GRAY took his old place and resumed his studies, and things went on much as they had done when he was there before. True, Mabel was a young lady now, in her eighteenth year, and Walter was nearly twenty-one; but George had grown just as much older than he was, so their relative positions had not changed.

Mabel was the same straightforward, true-hearted girl as of yore, but her happy flow of spirits had given place to an earnest thoughtfulness that made her seem more like a woman of thirty instead of only a little past seventeen. Walter's birthday came about three months before Mabel's did, and he was continually referring to it and planning this and that "to celebrate my advent into the ranks of manhood," he would say, in his jocular, off-hand way; but Mabel said nothing about hers.

"Come, Meb," Walter would say, catching her in his arms and whirling her around, "come Meb, don't look as if the world rested on your little white shoulders, but tell us what's to be done when the auspicious morn arrives that ushers in your freedom day. Funny, isn't it, that girls should come of age three years sooner than boys do. I expect it's because they are not capable of such exalted positions, so it don't take 'em so long to fit for it, eh?" Mabel would only smile at all this banter, and Walter would go off declaring her the beatenest girl he ever did see.

"What does beatenest mean, Walter?" asked his mother.

"Beatenest, why, that she beats everything, of course; give me something harder, mother, for I am almost a man, you know."

"Yes, dear, and I know there is a great deal of sound sense under all that rattling, or I should feel that you would never be a man in fact, whatever you might be in years."

"There, now, mother, don't preach and I'll be good, sure," and away he would go, singing something laughable, yet he was a good scholar and applied himself entirely to his books in his hours of study. His fun seemed a necessity, a recreation that he must have. When his birthday came it was celebrated according to his wish by a party, and the house was one brilliant illumination from top to bottom, music, dancing, etc.

Mabel joined in with the others, but a close observer might have seen that though with the others she was not of them. She was known to have a very sweet voice and she was several times importuned to sing. She complied twice, but when, to fill up a pause in the dancing, she was called upon the third time she refused, but promised one last piece before they broke up. With this they were obliged to be content, and when Walter asked her what she intended to sing she said he would know when he heard it, that she had not fully decided yet.

When the time came she went to the organ and played and sang "The Watcher:"

"A watcher, pale and tearful."

When she came to the verse,

"Ye gay and thoughtless creatures,
One light from out your store
Would give that fair boy's features
To his mother's gaze once more,"

there went a flash of resentment over the faces of some of the company when the first line of it was being sung, but the tender pathos of her tone prevailed, and when she concluded there were tears in the eyes of more than one of her listeners. As her voice lingered over the last words she arose and faced the company:

"My young friends," she said, "I have not done this to destroy your pleasure but to help you to think. Because there are hundreds in this city to-night too poor to purchase even a candle, it does not make it wrong that we have lights many, or that music and dancing are out of place, but we are just entering upon the active duties of life and we should work to bring about a condition of things in which none need comfort themselves for the lack of light here by saying,

" 'There's light for us in heaven.' "

When she commenced singing, Walter had said, in an undertone, "Oh, Meb," but she sang on as though she had not heard, but when she closed with a speech, as Walter called the few words she said, her friends were astonished. Mabel was generally so quiet and retiring they could hardly believe their ears; but Mrs. Raymond felt a thrill of satisfaction in witnessing her daughter's perfect self-possession under what would have been a very trying position to almost anyone, no matter how much in earnest and in sympathy with the sentiment.

George Gray gazed upon her as though he saw a being from another world almost, such was his admiration; and meeting M. Costin's look he saw more than admiration. It was intense, worshipful love that illuminated the teacher's features. It was only a moment, however, that he so far forgot himself as to allow his feelings to come to the surface. When he caught George's eye he was himself again, his features under perfect control; but George caught also, in the flash of the change, the fear that he himself was a rival. This set him thinking.

"Do I love her? I have never thought of her in that light, but what are my real feelings?" were the questions he asked himself, and he spent a sleepless night in trying to solve the problem. Finally he said: "No, I do not love her; I will not love her. I have nothing to offer her. I came here a poor boy, am poor yet, and indebted to her father's kindness—and her mother's—for much that I am, and I feel certain that she has never thought of love. Her heart is in the work she has chosen, and her mind must not be diverted, disturbed. I am glad M. Costin's look brought me to my senses before I was too far gone to use reason.

I wonder if he will ever tell her. He has wealth, and he is worthy—as worthy as anyone can be—of her. As anyone can be," he repeated; "but she is peerless—take care there, George Gray, don't make a fool of yourself after all," and summoning his will-power he dismissed the subject.

That Mabel's song and speech elicited much comment was to be expected. Some said she was loony, some that she was preparing herself for a Woman's Rights lecturer, and others made other remarks equally untrue and unkind. It is true that some had their feelings touched to tenderness at the time, but all but one or two rebelled afterward. "It was out of place;" "It was an insult—calling them thoughtless;" "They guessed they did as much thinking as Miss Raymond did."

Not one, except those in her own home, knew that there was nothing premeditated in what she had done—that it was but the spontaneous outflowing of the feelings uppermost in her heart.

That night, or morning, rather, when Mabel retired, her mother went to her room and said: "Thee did right, daughter; the Spirit moved thee to speak and thou wert not afraid. The spirits of thy ancestors are with thee:

" 'Though unseen, but yet, believe me,
They thy footsteps will direct.' "

"Mamma, dear, hast thou turned poet?" said Mabel, smiling with a look of more real enjoyment than her face had shown during the party—"hast thou turned poet, or become a Spiritual medium?"

"The Spirit, the Infinite through the finite, moves upon us all in accordance with our life-work, daughter. The finite channels with which we connect may be our friends in that life; why not? do they forget us?" was the reply, and then, as if wondering at herself, she added: "Strange, what this is that comes over me; I feel as if myself and yet not myself."

"That is just the way I felt to-night when singing and talking," was Mabel's reply.

"Well, we will work on and trust in the right. Good-night, daughter, and pleasant dreams;" and Mrs. Raymond repaired to her own room with the intention of sleeping, but she lay and thought instead.

The time passed quickly, and it was but three days till Mabel would be eighteen years old. Once or twice her mother had referred to it with the intent of learning what were the girl's feelings in reference to some sort of entertainment, or something to commemorate the day, but she had said nothing; on that morning, she asked:

"Mother, would you object to my having a few young girls here on the evening of the tenth?"

"Certainly not. Who do you want?"

"Not any of those in my own circle; they would only laugh at my ideas, and I could not presume to teach them. There are poor but good girls that I could instruct, and I want them all to myself. I want a good supper prepared and some presents for each, that they may remember my birthday with pleasure."

"Thee shall have it as thee wishes; but what wilt thou do before evening?"

"I want to visit the homes of the poor, to go through some of those tenement-houses and see for myself under what conditions women become mothers."

"But you cannot go alone, dear; who do you want to go with you?"

"Yourself and M. Costin. Walter would only annoy me with his nonsense, and George is too busy helping father. You two will be enough."

Mrs. Raymond at first thought she would object to M. Costin's going, as she feared that Mabel's preference in this matter would encourage the man to hope for what was not likely to be realized; but upon second thought she decided to say nothing. She knew that Mabel had no idea of what she herself suspected, and she could not object without giving her reason, and so remained silent.

The birthday came; a carriage was at the door ready to convey the parties wherever they wished, and to wait as long as desired. "Where shall we go, Mabel?" asked Mrs. Raymond.

"To Hester Street; I saw a notice in the Sun a few days ago of the cloak-makers there," was the reply. The driver looked surprised, but obeyed orders.

The place was reached, and the investigation commenced. We will not try to follow them through all the rooms, or describe what they saw of the conditions under which children are born, grow to womanhood, live—if their wretched existence can be called living—become mothers, and after a few years die, leaving their wretched offspring to fight it out in their struggle for existence as best they can.

Several times Mabel turned so pale that the others feared she would faint. They urged her to give it up and return home, but her answer was:

"I can stand for a few hours what these have to endure continually."

A description of one room—of dozens, yes, hundreds and thousands that can be found in that great city—will give the reader some idea of what met their eyes at every turn.

A rap upon a door that led somewhere, and a "Come in;" the inmates could not spare the time from their work to get up and see what was wanted. They open the door and start to enter, but find almost every inch of available space occupied.

"Friends," said Mrs. Raymond, as they paused and looked over the group, "we want to talk with you a little while."

"No time to fool away," said the woman nearest, "we have to earn our bread."

"We will pay you for your time," said Mabel; "we are gathering information, and seeing a statement in the Sun in reference to your condition, we wish to see if it is true."

The women, six in number, looked at her as if they thought her daft, all but one, and she kept her eyes fixed upon her work. "The Sun is the name of a newspaper published in this city," she explained, seeing that they did not comprehend her.

"Oh, an' are they ral'y puttin' us in the papers?" said one.

Mabel took a survey of the scene: a room not more than twelve feet square filled with women, sewing-machines, and stacks of cloaks ready to be put together.

She noticed that they did not pause a moment in their work, but kept their fingers flying as though driven by steam. "Here," she said, handing them a dollar each, "I want information, and am willing to pay for it."

It was pitiful to see their look of astonishment. The work actually dropped from their hands as they grasped the silver. Two or three tested theirs by biting, and then said, apologetically: "Sometimes they gives us bad money, an' we have to be keerful."

Another asked: "Ye'r not playin' a trick on us, for if the bosses find us complainin' it makes it harder for us?"

"We only want to see if the paper tells the truth. We find the description of the conditions so far correct; please tell us how many hours you work, and how much you get?"

"Well, Miss, if we work from four in the mornin' till eight at night, we can earn fifty, sometimes seventy-five cents; seventy-five generally, unless sumthin' happens, and yer can count the hours for yersel'."

"Sixteen hours, day after day, and in such a place as this," said Mabel, shuddering.

Mrs. Raymond looked around the room, noted the low, slanting ceiling, the begrimed walls, and panes of the gable window, the only source of light; at the uncombed hair and dirty faces of the women, and then at her fair, refined, and well-dressed daughter, and felt as if the spirit of George Fox indeed animated her, but Mabel went on questioning:

"Have you families?" she asked.

"All but Sarah there, an' she has her ole mother."

"Anyone to help you support them?"

"Jane an' Peggy have husbands who help some." said the one who acted as spokesman, "an' Mag's boy is big enough to turn a penny, an' so is Jules, an' my Sally gives me a lift now an' then;" but the blush on her face told how it was that Sally lived. Mrs. Raymond understood, Mabel did not.

"Where do you sleep?"

The woman opened a closet, in which was rolled up a dirty mattress and a few rags. "We shove the machines aside when the others have gone, spread that on the floor, an' Mag, Jule, an' I sleep on't."

"And your children?"

"My two stay with Sally, an' Mag an' Jane have places for theirn."

"What do you eat?"

"Here's soup, an' here's bread," she said, taking both from a corner of the closet not filled by the mattress.

"Can I look out of your window?"

They made way for her to pass. Roofs, chimney stacks, clouds of smoke, but not a green nor a bright thing to be seen. "Laws, Miss, it don't matter, we don't get the time to look out'n winders," was the comment when Mabel spoke of this.

"And so the paper tells about us; I'd like to read it," said the one called Sarah.

"You!" exclaimed the others in chorus.

"Yes, girls, I can read. I had good times once; I was a happy child and went to school, but father died, and mother had to work so hard; she can't work any more now, and I've been pushed down, down, till, if it wasn't for mother, I wouldn't try to live," and dropping her face upon her hands she sobbed aloud.

Four of the women looked up at Mabel as if to say: "Now see what you've done;" while the fifth yelled:

"None of that, you'll spile that cloak," at the same time deftly taking the garment from her.

"Do come away," said M. Costin, noticing Mabel's pallor. She negatived him with a look, and taking a slip of paper from her pocket she handed it to the sobbing woman, saying:

"Here it is, I should like to hear you read it."

Sarah hushed her sobs, took the paper, glanced it over, and then read it to her companions. The writer, in an official report to the Legislature, deposed as follows:*

[*A genuine extract, as are all those credited.]

"During one of my visits to a tenement-house in Hester Street I inadvertently entered a room on the attic floor and found myself in the midst of a number of cloak-makers. The room was possibly ten feet square——"

"If this is really the place, he has made that part worse than it is; this room is about twelve feet each way," said M. Costin. "I beg your pardon for the interruption," he continued, "please go on."

"The ceiling was low and slanting, and its only light was the begrimed panes of a gable-window opening out upon the roof. In these cramped quarters were six women and four sewing-machines," resumed Sarah.

"That's us," said one.

"Hush, there's hundreds sich," said another.

"Piled upon the floor," continued the reader, "were stacks of cloaks ready to be put together. The air was stifling to one not accustomed to a temperature well up into the nineties, and odoriferous with sewer-gases. The women were scantily clad, their hair unkempt——"

"Much time to comb hair, we have," interrupted the one whose head looked the worst.

"And their pale faces as they bent over their work formed a picture of physical suffering such as I had never seen before, and hope never to be compelled to look upon again. They were working as if driven by an unseen power, and when I learned that they were able to earn but fifty cents by working sixteen hours a day, perhaps more, I needed no further investigation to convince me that the unseen power was the necessity for bread for their own and their children's mouths."

Sarah read on, but when she came to the following, the others said: "No, he don't mean us, there's no sich room here."

"Inquiry elicited the fact that the strong smell of sewer-gas came from a sink in an adjoining apartment. Curiosity led me to venture into this inside room. It was without light or ventilation save that which came through the door of the front room, and it was only after standing several minutes that I could distinguish the black lines of the walls, and the sink from which rose clouds of deadly gas. Upon the floor was spread a mattress, which in appearance partook of the filth of the whole building, from the cellar up; and it was on such a bed, and in such quarters that three cloak makers, tired and worn with a long day's work, and with a scanty, if any, supper, threw themselves down to sleep and wait the coming day's awful toil for bread."

While Sarah was reading, Mrs. Raymond pencilled a note which she managed before she left to place in the girl's hands without the others seeing her. "She and her mother can be helped, the others are too ignorant." she remarked, as they descended the stairs.

"If you attempt to save all who are savable, you will have your hands full," replied M. Costin.

"Yes, that is true," remarked Mabel, "for the writer of that article says that hundreds of such are massed in a few squares about the east end of this street, and there certainly is not less than one in six who knows enough to be helped if they could get the help."

"What then can be done?" said Mrs. Raymond, in a despairing tone.

"That is what we must find out, mother," replied Mabel; "but I have stood all that I can now. There are other days, and I shall continue to investigate, but now I must rest," so the driver was told to take them home.

Upon reaching it, the first thing done was to take a bath all around; afterward a short rest, then dinner. After dinner Mabel went to the organ and played and sang the following lines, which she called

Soul Murder.

"In the garrets and the cellars,
In the close and noisome places,
Where the breeze is never blowing,
Where the sunlight cannot enter,
From the sunrise to the sunset,
From the sunset till the midnight,
Sit the weary woeful women,
Working treadles, working bobbins,
Working many kinds of needles,
In their dull and ceaseless toiling,
Victims of a competition
That is cruel, bitter, ruthless.

"Full of hurry, full of worry,
With the children grouped around them,
Little hands stretched upward vainly,
Little mouths so vainly pleading,
They must work all else forgetting,
Swiftly plying weary fingers,
From the sunrise to the sunset,
From the sunset till the midnight,
With an anxious fear upon them,
Whether, when the work is finished,
They will get the meagre pittance.

"None need wonder if, despairing,
They should lose their hold on heaven,
Saying: 'Why should I be living?
What is life that I should choose it?
Only endless toil and sorrow,
Joyless, rayless, helpless, hopeless.'
Yet they labor, worn and woeful,
From the sunrise to the sunset,
From the sunset to the midnight,
Getting for their ceaseless striving
Just enough to keep them toiling,
Only that, and naught beyond it."

"Where did you get that?" asked M. Costin.

She picked up a slip of paper and handed it to him.

"Cut from a newspaper," he said; "but why do you call it 'Soul Murder,' it is not so headed?"

"No, but mark the lines:

" 'None need wonder if, despairing,
They should lose their hold on heaven.'

Is not the soul worse than murdered, if they must live such toiling lives here,

" 'From the sunrise to the sunset,
From the sunset to the midnight,'

and then lose heaven also because in their weariness and woe they lose faith in the God they are taught to look to, in the Christ they are told to believe in?"

"Miss Mabel, can you believe it—believe that those poor creatures will be shut from heaven, provided there is one, because of their doubt under such horrible conditions? But if there is no heaven, no future life, the sooner they and theirs die the better."

"They say, Monsieur, that there is a God who rules all things, and if so, He rules here as well as there; and if after coming into this life innocent of all wrong, they must be subjected to such a life of misery here, what reason have we to believe He will do any better by them there?"

"I should like to have you ask every minister in this city that question, Miss Mabel."

"And I should like to ask them how they can be content to live in affluence while so many are forced to endure conditions unfit for a decent dog."

"Oh, I can tell you that. It is because they believe that God will take care of the others and make it all up to them in another life. 'The poor of this world, rich in faith and heirs of the kingdom,' that is what they teach, and that is what their acts show that they believe."

"Well, I have about concluded that such belief in God is a curse, and the sooner we discard from our creed the idea that any God will do anything for us, the sooner we shall be able to do for ourselves and each other."

"And that is just what I believe, Miss Mabel."

"Are you ready for the insane asylum, sister mine?" asked Walter, walking into the room with a stately tread so unlike his usual self that they all laughed, and his mother said:

"Why, have you been promoted to the office of insane superintendent?"

"Not exactly, but I may become an inmate of such institution if they put my sister there, and they say she is crazy."

"Who says so?"

"Oh, the élite, those who belong to our set. They were expecting a grand time on the birthday of Judge Raymond's only daughter, and instead of meeting the laudable expectation of friends she has been gallivanting around tenement-houses, and among sewing-women."

Mabel looked up with a defiant air and said: "If Judge Raymond's daughter cannot choose her own way of spending her time, then she is a slave."

"As the most of us are, puss; but then they only pity you. They say it is the old Quaker blood you have inherited—that cranky traits reappear from generation to generation—that your mother has managed to keep comparatively free, though she's a little queer, but that you have got it bad."

"Mother," said Mabel, with more of mirth in her tone than was usual to her, "society will discard you if you sustain your cranky daughter."

"What a pity!" replied Mrs. Raymond, in the same tone, while Walter sang:

"Ye gay and thoughtless creatures,
A little from your store
Would give those weary women
A chance to rest some more;"

and then: "What's on the carpet for this evening, Meb?"

"A good time with some friends, but you are not wanted, sir."

"Which is it, then, that your highness favors?"

"Neither, I am going to be aristocratic and have a set of friends all to myself."

"Then I shall go to the theatre. Au revoir."

CHAPTER X.

MABEL'S FRIENDS.

EVENING came, and with it came ten girls, besides Sarah from the tenement house. Sarah came in answer to the note Mrs. Raymond slipped into her hand, when our party were there in the morning. She came late.

"It was almost impossible for me to come at all, but I felt that I must;" and her look was so appealing, it touched Mrs. Raymond deeply. It seemed to say: "You have raised my hopes, don't disappoint me."

"I have sent for you," she said, in reply to this unspoken appeal, "to see if I cannot make things better for you. I have a small empty room into which I will have a couple of cots put, one for yourself and one for your mother, and you will stay with us till we can decide what is best to be done. No thanks, I am glad to do this; now come with me to the bath-room.

"My daughter has a few girls with her to-night, like yourself, and as I know you have had no time to make yourself presentable, you will here find comb and brush, and as you are about my size I have selected for you a full suit of plain clothing; I want to exchange them for yours. I want to keep yours to show people how our workers are forced to dress. What is your full name, I shall want to introduce you to Mabel's company?"

"Wilson," was the reply, in tones scarcely audible.

"Well, Miss Wilson, come to me when you are ready," and she turned to go, but had not gone three steps before she heard a fall. Sarah had fainted.

"How thoughtless I am," she said to herself, as she set herself to work to restore the girl to consciousness; "I should have given her food the first thing, poor girl."

When Sarah revived, Mrs. Raymond said: "I have made a mistake; you are in no condition to meet company to-night. I will give you a cup of tea and some food, and something for your mother, and then you go directly home, and have everything ready, and I will send for you both to-morrow; then you can have your bath and time to rest."

So Sarah was taken to the kitchen and her wants supplied; a better meal was provided than she had eaten for many a day, and laden with food she hurried home with renewed strength and a light heart.

In the meantime a nice repast had been prepared for those who had been invited, while Mabel sat at the table, passed the tea, and did all that she could to make her guests feel at their ease, unaware, the while, that her laughter-loving brother was watching her from a hidden corner from which he could not retreat without discovery till she, with her friends, should leave the room, and he was not sorry to hear her say:

"Now, girls, come to my room and we will have a good talk."

These girls Mabel had come in contact with in various ways during the last three or four years. They had to earn their own living; but as nurse-girls, dining-room-girls, seamstresses, etc., they were accustomed to seeing good things, so the rich carpets and furniture did not surprise them in the least; and the fact that they were not just upon the same level socially was forgotten in the presence of "Miss Mabel," as she treated them all as friends.

"Now, girls," she said, "for I want you to feel that we are all girls together, I have something to tell you."

She then commenced with the time when she overheard her mother saying, "Why should not the conditions which surround the mother affect the child growing beneath her heart?" related her talk with her mother afterward, dwelling particularly upon the idea that if her mother being happy had made her good, was it because Tommy Gove's mother had bad conditions around her that made him so naughty.

"It seemed to me a logical conclusion," she said, "and I wondered why everybody could not have good things. Mother had always taught me that there was a reason, a cause for everything, so there must be for this, and I felt that I must find out what it was, and when I found it out, would work to change, to make things better. It was a big plan for a small girl to make, but from that time till now I have never given it up.

"To-day I am eighteen years old, and it is time I began to work as well as to think; but what can I do? I feel so small compared with this great world, and with the greatness of the work I have chosen, and can do so little alone, so I want girls like myself to study this question with me. It would be of no use for me to look for them among the daughters of the rich, for their parents would not be willing even if they were; so I have invited you here because I want your help, your sympathy, your love.

"I have known something of you in the past, I have studied your capabilities, have seen that you meant to be good, and I feel that with the opportunity you can each become a blessing to the world, to yourselves, and to me; and now, if you will accept me as a sister, we will study this question together."

Would they—they the toilers—would they accept the educated and refined daughter of Judge Raymond as their sister? The idea almost took away their breath. Seeing their embarrassment, Mabel took a playful way to set them at their ease. She said:

"When I was a little girl we used to play 'Old Simon,' and when the leader said, 'Simon says, Thumbs up,' all who failed to raise the thumb had to pay a forfeit; we will change it to hands up, and now all of you who want me and each other as sisters, will please raise the right hand," and quickly raising her own she called out, "Simon says, Hands up."

There was a moment's hesitation, and then every right hand was raised.

"Now," said she, "I am rich. I who never had a sister, my papa and mamma never gave me one, I now have ten, for if I am your sister you are mine, and I must give my new sisters something to make them remember my birthday and theirs. It is your birthday as sisters, you know," and she distributed to each an appropriate gift, saying: "I hope when my next birthday comes, to be able to present each of you with a locket containing my likeness, and I shall want yours in a group to frame and hang in my room."

When the presents were sufficiently admired Mabel asked if any of them had ever been inside of one of the poorer class of tenement-houses, or among those women who sewed for the shops. They all seemed to know something of both, but upon further questioning she found that what they had come in contact with was several grades above the house in Hester Street. After listening to their stories, she said:

"I will now tell you what I have seen to-day, first asking you, Mary Green, to read aloud this slip that I cut from a newspaper."

Mary read it slowly, carefully, giving full weight to each sentence: "No," she said, "I have never seen anything like that; it does not seem as if it could be true."

"It is all true, girls; for I found a room so like the one there described that for a time we thought it was the same; but as the inner room with the sink was lacking we decided it was not, and working there in that dreadful place we found a girl as intelligent as yourselves, one who had once been in good circumstances; but her father died, and one misfortune after another had pulled herself and mother down till the mother can no longer work, and the daughter works sixteen hours out of twenty-four to get bread for both."

"Did you learn her name?" asked Nellie Stone.

"They called her Sarah. I did not hear her other name."

"The reason I ask, Miss Mabel, is, mother has a sister that she has lost track of. Uncle died, and we do not know where she and her little girl went. Cousin's name was Sarah; wouldn't it be strange if this girl and her mother were my aunt and cousin; mother would be so glad to find her sister."

"It is not impossible. Mother asked her to come here to-night. If you will excuse me I will go and see if she has come."

Presently Mabel returned and said: "Sarah has just gone to the bath-room with mother, and when she has bathed and had a cup of tea mother will bring her up. What was the name of the man your aunt married, Miss Nellie?"

"Wilson," replied Nellie, looking a little embarrassed at Mabel's calling her Miss. Mabel noticed this and added: "You are my sister now, and if you call me Miss, I must you."

In about fifteen minutes Mrs. Raymond came up and told them of Sarah's fainting: "She is now with Maggie, who will give her something to eat, and then John will take her home, for she is in no condition to see anyone to-night," she said.

Mabel was upon the point of asking her mother if she had learned what Sarah's other name was, but did not; something seemed to hold her back, as she afterward said: "But I am glad I did not, as it would have so excited Nellie as to have spoiled her pleasure for the evening."

"Now girls," she said, when her mother left, "we have had enough of the serious for one night; we have stated our object and we are going to learn all about it, and as fast as we can, and I want you all to come again this night two weeks, but we will make merry the rest of this evening."

She then sang a lively and familiar song, asking the others to join, all who could. Several took part, and ere they had sung it through they had forgotten their strange position and let out their voices till they made the walls ring. Then various games were introduced, and the minutes sped till only Mabel's watchful eye noted that it was time for her guests to go. Then came the good-bys, she claiming a kiss from each, and when the girls reached the street they found a conveyance ready to take each to her own home.

"Well, mamma," she said, when all had gone, "I have made a beginning; but oh, the terrible conditions that must be changed."

"Yes, dear; but thy work will be as the sowing of the seed for a wonderful harvest."

"If the soil was only prepared for the seed, mamma."

Mrs. Raymond with a far-away look upon her face presently said: "There is as much soil ready as the present workers can cultivate. When the workers are ready the soil will be."

"I hope so; where is papa?"

"In the library, dear."

She arose from her seat at her mother's knee, and going to the library she knelt at her father's feet and laid her head on his knee. "Papa, I am your own little girl yet," she said.

"And not the stately Miss Raymond who henceforth belongs to herself," he said, as he raised her from his feet and seated her where her head had lain, giving her at the same time a kiss, and asked, "What has my little girl been doing to-day?"

She told him how she had spent the day, and something of what she had seen.

He shook his head. "I fear my little girl has undertaken a Quixotic work. If wise men have not been able to regulate these things, how——"

"Wise women will," she interrupted, placing her hand upon his lips. "Now don't preach, papa; I know I am not wise, but I hope to become so, and mamma approves."

"Well, make your experiments; no great harm will be done. I had rather you would do that than be a society belle."

"Thank you for that, papa, and good-night, I can sleep now."

She and her mother had planned the day's work, but she wanted to feel that her father did not entirely disapprove, even if he did not enter into the spirit of what she wished to do as her mother did.

The next day after Sarah and her mother had been comfortably established in their room, Mabel, having learned from her mother that their name was Wilson, asked Mrs. Wilson if she had any brothers or sisters living.

"I do not know, Miss; I had a sister Sarah, who married a man by the name of Stone; my Sarah is named for her, but I have not heard from her for years."

Becoming satisfied that Nellie and Sarah were cousins, she sent a note to Nellie, stating the facts, and asking her or her mother to call, and within two hours they both came. Mrs. Wilson and Sarah had been prepared for the interview, but stranger eyes looked not upon the meeting of the long separated sisters. Within a week they were under the same roof, and Sarah had, through Mrs. Raymond's influence, secured a situation in which she received fair wages, and thus could do her part in supporting her mother and making her feel comfortably independent in her sister's home.

"Oh, mamma," said Mabel, "this is worth a dozen birthday parties; it makes me very happy to think we have been the means of bringing those sisters together, and Sarah and Nellie are so happy too."

"Yes, the Spirit moved me to write that note, and good has come of it," replied Mrs. Raymond.

"Nellie is not as pretty as some of the others," remarked Walter, demurely.

"How happens it that you know? I supposed you were away," said Mabel.

"Suppositions don't always come true, Miss Mabel."

"Nor are young men always truthful," she retorted.

"Sorry, sis, that Monsieur Costin and Mister Gray have taught you that lesson; is your heart broken?"

"Walter, have done with your nonsense, and tell us how it was that you saw Mabel's company," said his mother.

"Well, mother mine, I went into the room where their dainty repast was laid, to get a book I had left there, and as Meb was so particular, so exclusive, and as I am a regular descendant of grandmother Eve my curiosity got the better of me, and I hid where I could see and not be seen; so while they were daintily sipping their tea I had a fair chance to judge."

"Do you think that a gentlemanly act, my son?"

"Oh, I never thought of that; I only thought that I should want a wife some day, and that I would be as likely to find a good one among that group as elsewhere. Say, mother, may I go with you the next time you and Meb go out as an investigating committee?"

"Do you really want to go, Walter?"

"I really do; I was reading an appeal from some Reverend only this morning. The article was headed, 'Tenement-house Morality,' in which the writer tries to show, and he does it too, how next to impossible it is for anyone to be good in the midst of such surroundings, and I thought I should like to see for myself what the conditions really are."

"You can go, if Mabel don't object."

"Of course, mother, he can go with us; in what paper was the article published, Walter?"

"I found it in a paper wrapped around a bundle, and never stopped to look to see what it was, but I cut it out for your benefit, and here it is. The name of the Reverend is J. O. S. Huntington, perhaps you may have heard of him."

"I have," said M. Costin, who had just come in, "he is a Catholic, and really a self-denying, devoted man."

"Yes, I saw he was a Catholic, for in the first sentence here he speaks of a lad coming back to him after confession."

"And he lives right in among those he is trying to save", said Mabel, "for he says, 'If anyone is disposed to be skeptical let him investigate for himself. Let him spend days and nights here; let him live, as I have done, in a tenement block; let him visit people at all hours; let him, above all, spend a public holiday here; let him see the carnival of sin on a Fourth of July or a New-Year's night. I do not say that he will even then understand the conditions of tenement-house existence; but I know that his incredulity will give place to a sad realization of the horrors of a state of things where manhood is brutalized, womanhood dishonored, and childhood poisoned at its very source.' "

For some seconds after the reading of this paragraph no word was spoken, then Walter walked out repeating:

"Jesus, my all, to heaven has gone,
He whom I fixed my hopes upon;
I wish he'd come and clean away
Those hell-holes where the poor must stay—
Would take of the Church's extra gold
To make for them a better sheepfold."

CHAPTER XI.

THE POOR OF THIS WORLD.

" 'THE poor of this world, rich in faith,' and rich indeed they must be to have it last through a life like this," said Walter, as he looked about him.

It was about a week after the first expedition, and this time Walter accompanied them in the place of M. Costin. They had been pretty well through one tenement-house of a block, and found things fully as bad as the Reverend J. O. S. Huntington had described. Walter took from his pocket and read a slip of paper he had asked Mabel to let him take on entering the building—the one he had given her a few days before:

" 'Take one block of a tenement-house district. It will measure 700 by 200 feet. On all sides there are rows of houses (tenements) four or five stories high. Behind one-third of the houses are rear houses with smaller rooms, darker and dirtier passages, backed often by another rear house, a brewery, a stable, or a factory.'

"Well, this place, so far, is wonderfully like this description," he said, and then read on:

" 'Altogether there are 1,736 rooms—' heavens! that gives but a fraction over eight by ten feet to the room, counting nothing for halls, stairways, nor anything else," he exclaimed, after a moment's computation; "it cannot be."

"Please read on," said Mrs. Raymond.

" 'In these rooms live 2,076 souls—' more than two thousand souls and less than four acres of ground!" was the next comment after another computation.

"I thought you had read that article once," said Mabel.

"And so I had, but I am verifying the problem now: 'Many of these rooms are hardly more than closets, and dark closets at that—' ah, that explains the number of rooms; an eight by ten would divide into two eight by five—' "

"You have forgotten one thing, Walter," said his mother.

"And what is that?"

"Those houses are four and five stories high, so you must multiply the ground space by, say three and a half, as the inner row of houses are probably not as high as the others."

"Sure enough! how stupid."

"And then Mr. Huntington says one-fifth of those rooms are in basements below the level of the streets," added Mabel.

"Well, with all the addition of space it is bad enough." Reads again:

" 'Almost all the bedrooms measure only seven feet by nine, and have but one door and one window. The door leads into the apartment that serves as kitchen, parlor, sitting-room, laundry, and workshop, and the window opens on a dark stairway, up which the moisture from the cellar, and the sewer-gas from the drains are continually rising; and nearly half of even the outer rooms open into courts only twenty feet wide, in which there are usually several wooden privies.'

"Well, so far there is nothing worse described here than we have found; I wonder how much the money expended on churches, cathedrals, and the like in this city would do toward removing all this?"

"I don't know, Walter, but I do not think that individual effort or charitable movements can ever cure these evils. The cause of such results must be found and removed," said Mrs. Raymond. Mabel the while was watching an opposite window.

"See," she said presently, "there is a little girl at that window who has a clean face; we must find the way to that room."

"Somebody who has fallen among thieves," said Walter, "and we must be the Samaritans."

After going some distance round they found the stairway that led to the room they wished to reach. "A dark stairway sure enough," was the comment, but they finally reached the door of the room from the window of which the little girl had looked. They rapped, and heard a woman's voice say:

"Rock the baby, Lillie, while mamma goes to the door." Presently the door was opened by a cleanly, but poorly dressed woman, whose countenance expressed surprise when she saw who was there.

"Madam," said Mrs. Raymond, "we are looking into the condition of tenement-houses, and seeing your little girl at the window, we felt certain from her appearance that her mother had not always lived in such a place as this, and so found our way to your room."

"Will you come in," she said, and as they complied she handed the two ladies each a chair, and brought Walter a stool; they in the meantime were noting the cleanliness of the room in spite of the miserable surroundings.

"Yes," she said, as soon as they were seated, "you are right; I have not always lived in a place like this, and but for my children I should wish to die. I feel sometimes as though I would go and take them with me."

She said this in so quiet and sad a tone that it brought tears to Mabel's eyes. "It would be better for the children to die now while they are innocent, but I have not quite the heart to do it," she continued.

"You have seen better times," said Mrs. Raymond, forgetting that she had already said the same thing. She wanted to say something, and could not find it in her heart to utter reproach for what to many would have seemed great wickedness.

The woman looked at her in surprise. "Why do you not reproach me for my wickedness; are you not a Christian?" she asked.

"I do not reproach you because I should feel as you do, did I have to live here," she replied, ignoring the Christian part of the question.

At this manifestation of sympathy the enforced calm that had so far sustained the woman was broken up, and she wept like a child.

"My husband does the best he can," she said, as soon as she could speak; "but he is not strong, and has work only part of the time, even when he is able to work, and the terrible conditions here are enough to drive a man wild; they cannot endure like women, you know," she added, looking up as if apologizing for even having suspected that he could be tempted to do like those about him.

She was interrupted by oaths and curses that came from the next room. Mabel shuddered, and Mrs. Raymond involuntarily put her hands to her ears, while Walter looked as though he would like to take them both and fly through the window to get away.

"That is a usual thing," said the woman, "and to think of my little Lillie growing up amid such sounds! They tell us there is a God, but I begin to doubt it."

"And yet," said Walter, again producing the slip of paper, "if the priest who wrote this should, in a few hours, be summoned to the dying bed of those who are now drinking, swearing, and fighting, he would confess them and administer the sacrament, and thus give them and their wretched companions the idea that they are to be saved in heaven."

"Yes, and that very fact encourages them in sin," said Mrs. Raymond.

"And gives the priest such power," added Walter.

"Don't talk of sin," said Mabel; "if people are forced to go where the smallpox prevails and they take it and become scarred and hideous, it is their misfortune, not their crime, and none but a monster would talk of either punishing or forgiving them, and conditions like these are far worse."

"And yet this priest talks of the God of the poor; hear him: 'And so be called to answer to the God of the poor when he shall arise to shake terribly the earth;' " and then rising to his feet, as though he could not say it strong enough if he continued so sit, Walter stretched out his arm, and with a sneer upon his lip, asked:

"Will the shaking do any good? A God, and of the poor, who will sit quietly and see them so wronged, and then, after the mischief is done, gets mad and goes to shaking things generally is—well, a poor stick for the poor to trust in—no, that is not strong enough—deserves hell himself, and I should like to help pour in the brimstone. Come, mother, Meb, if you stay here longer, you must stay alone, for I can't stand it." and throwing a five-dollar bill into the woman's lap, he started down the stairway. Mrs. Raymond gave the woman her address, and asked her to have her husband call, and then she and Mabel followed.

When they reached the street, Walter shook himself like a dog that has just come out of the water. "Ugh! I have had enough of this," he said.

"To think of allowing children to grow up in such places, and then expect them to be good," said Mabel.

"And then send them to prison if they are not," retorted Walter; "really I wonder how it is that the rich are safe in their beds!"

The slip of paper was again resorted to, but he was too excited to read, so he handed it to Mabel, and as they rode slowly homeward she read:

" 'Side by side with those poor outcasts of humanity are hard-working men and women who are leading lives of heroic purity; it is in their name I plead. They are fighting at fearful odds to keep themselves and their children from the filth and pollution all about them."

"I must look into this," said Mabel, "I must learn if those who are thus struggling were any of them born under such conditions."

"You must find someone else to go with you then. I have had enough of it, am willing to take the Reverend gentleman's statements for the rest."

"But he says nothing on this point, Walter."

"Never thought of it, I presume; it takes you women to do that."

As before, when they reached home, they each took a bath, while the clothing they had worn was hung out to air.

After dinner Walter again had recourse to the slip of paper. It seemed to fascinate him. "Here is one thing we did not see, Meb," and he read:

" 'And death, from its frequency and the coarseness that surrounds it, loses, if not all its terrors, at least its dignity—' ha, ha, ha, the dignity of death."

"Walter, Walter!" exclaimed his mother.

"Yes, mother, I know death is a solemn thing, but the dignity part I had never heard of before; a dignified death, such will be the heading of death accounts after this. But I must finish this paragraph: 'is regarded as one of the disagreeable accidents of life, hardly worthy of even idle curiosity. The corpse lies for two days in the room where the family eats, works, and often sleeps.' "

"Oh, Walter, that is horrible," said Mrs. Raymond.

"What else can they do with it, mother?" asked Mabel.

"True enough, what can they!" and the woman covered her face with her hands, and soon after left the room.

"I wish you had noticed what paper it was from which you cut that slip, Walter."

"It doesn't matter, Meb. It was the Sun, the World, or some other prominent city paper, as I noticed at the time, but I have forgotten which. But for your hobby I should not have paid any attention, anyhow."

"I am glad you cut out the article."

"And I wish I hadn't; if it would do any good to look into these things I wouldn't care, but we can't change things, and where's the use of troubling ourselves about what we can't help, Meb?"

"It would trouble me not to try," was her reply, as Walter took his hat and left the house. She then took up the slip of paper and read again:

" 'If there is a God in heaven, and if righteousness is the habitation of His throne, it is not His will that one of these little ones should perish.' Whose will then is it," she thought, "for they are surely perishing. 'If there is a God'—if, here we have the supposition of a personality, a habitation and a throne; it cannot be; there is no such personality. There are only eternal laws, principles, which we must discover and apply; and when applied all such conditions will vanish. It must be so;" and she, too, dropped her face in her hands and thought, thought till her tired brain demanded rest, but not for a moment did she yield her purpose.

Not so her mother. Mrs. Raymond had her first real struggle as to whether she should continue to sustain Mabel, or try to dissuade her from the task she had undertaken. Why should her bright young life be sacrificed to try to accomplish that for which so many had toiled and failed. The struggle was still going on when Mabel rapped at her door.

"Mamma, may I come in? I want to talk with you," she said.

"Come, my child; but I myself need some one to counsel me."

"Let us counsel together, then," was the response.

She took her accustomed seat on a stool at her mother's feet and waited; but as her mother said nothing she asked:

"What have been the motives prompting reformers in the past?"

"The motives?" repeated Mrs. Raymond.

"Yes, mother, what reasons have been given to induce people to be good?"

"Various reasons," she replied, after a moment's thought; "but the principal one, that which has been urged as paramount to all others, has been that God commands us to be good."

"In other words, God's will has been the measure of right and wrong; if God so wills we may destroy the nations, as in the days when the Israelites destroyed the Canaanites, or if He wills that we let them alone, then that is right; either murder or kindness, just as God wills."

"That seems about the way, Mabel. He says, or we are told He says, 'If there be evil in a city, I, the Lord, have done it."

"And no one has set aside this idea of obedience as the law of right?"

"No, child; obedience, resignation, content with the station in life to which God has assigned us, are counted the highest virtues."

"Then I shall never reach the highest standard of virtue, mother, for I never can, I never will be resigned to such a state of things. If it pleases God to have it so, it does not, never will please me. If there is such a God, such a heaven as they talk of, I do not wonder there has been war there."

"But, darling, what can we do about it? the task seems hopeless."

"I shall do what I cannot help doing, mother, for it will be the only happiness I can have, to oppose all doing for God's sake and to work for humanity."

"Daughter, thou hast conquered; thy mother's heart had failed her, but thou hast given her new courage."

"Mother, a system of society built upon such ideas cannot help being wrong, and it seems to me that it must be reconstructed, and in that case the more discontent that can be created, the more dissatisfaction with the present order of things, the sooner the new order will come."

"France tried such revolution, Mabel, and with what results?"

"I have not studied history enough to know if things were made very much better; but France to-day does not seem to be any worse off, to say the least, and as to those miserable beings who must live as do those we have seen to-day—well, if my little brother had lived and had to be brought up in the midst of such surroundings, I should rejoice in the fire that burned the building and him in it."

"But, Mabel, many children, yes, many thousands, are born under such conditions, and they are as dear to their mothers as ours are to us."

"Mother, would you bear a child under such conditions, knowing what you do? I would not, I would take my own life first."

"But you have no right to do that, child."

"I would take the right then, before I would be the means of bequeathing such a heritage to another."

Mrs. Raymond said no more, and Mabel left the room. A few minutes after Walter brought in the Irish World, and pointed to an article in the editorial column which read:

"Is our condition what that of a wisely governed nation ought to be—every daily paper a contented chronicle of destitution, crime, despair, and death?

"A young man, a baker, can get no work, is hungered for four days, has no place to sleep, throws himself over Harlem Bridge, strives against those who come to rescue him, for permission to die, is brought before a judge who reproaches him for not bearing up manfully against the four days' hunger, and his four nights' sleep out in the frost.

"Another young man huddles under a rail car for a bed. Before he awakens the car wheels are run over his body and he is carried off to die. But the newspapers comfort us by saying he was a 'tramp,' and when a 'tramp' is tramping for something to do, he is a man no longer. The Herald says:

" 'Seven, or several suicides this morning, and if they had looked around they would have found people worse off than themselves.' That's a ghastly remedy."

"Where did you get this?" Mrs. Raymond asked, when she had read thus far.

"I bought it of a hungry-looking boy just now, one of those tenement children, I presume." She laid it aside, and picking it up he said:

"Here is a passage you have not read, mother, and it makes me sick. I think I shall come to hate the very name of God yet. After saying, 'Evils that a hundred volumes wouldn't describe prevail everywhere; the brain reels under the variety and vastness; a thousand families set right by charity would be but a speck of foam from the ocean of distress,' he goes on in this strain:

" 'But God has not forsaken us. Boundless are the resources He presents. All the lands of this Republic are His lands, and all the people are His children.' Nonsense; I wouldn't give much for a rich father who takes no better care of his children—who lets some have an abundance, and starves the others; how long will people be stuffed with such an idea of God, and continue to worship, all the same."

"Well, you and Mabel are alike in that, if in nothing else; neither of you seem to have any fear of God before your eyes," said Mrs. Raymond.

"That, mother, is because we have both had the same teacher, one who knows something; by the way, the time is most here when M. Costin leaves us; how we shall miss him." Then he went out singing:

"If man would cease to trust a God
And learn to trust himself,
We rather think that Jesus would
Be laid upon the shelf;
No more we'd claim another's back
On which to lay our sins,
But wade right through to firmer ground,
E'en though we hurt our shins.

"The nipping weather, it is said,
Has shortened many a breath,
And empty stomachs, too, have caused
Or hastened some to death;
For when the biting frosts set in
'Tis needful that the blood
Be warmed by flannels, and be fed
By good and wholesome food.

"Then let us cease to trust in God
And learn to trust ourselves,
And wading through to firmer ground
Lay creeds upon the shelf."

Mabel, true to her purpose, went through several tenement-houses to ascertain if any of the better class of tenants were born and reared under such conditions. This time George Gray went with her, and her mother remained at home.

George took down, as far as was possible to obtain them, the birthplace of the heads of families, whether in the country, or in the better portions of this or some other city. Of course many were from the old countries—Ireland, France, Germany, and various other places in Europe—and of these one could not judge; but of American-born citizens, not one who bore the marks of any reasonable degree of cleanliness and sobriety had been reared amid such surroundings.

One poor woman, with a babe at the breast, and two playing about the floor, said with tears in her eyes: "My parents owned a little house in the suburbs, and we had a yard with flowers, and I was as happy as any child could wish. I grew to be a woman and commenced going out to service, where I met John, and the first two years he had plenty of work and all went well, but since then—" she could not go on.

"Where are your parents now?" asked Mabel, after giving her time to control her feelings.

"Oh, they are both dead, and I am not sorry; it would break their hearts to see me and the children in a place like this."

"And the little home?"

"There was little left after paying the debts; father was sick a long time, and it had to be sold."

Mabel looked at the little ones and their mother. The woman noted the look and said: "The darlings, I could not weep to see them die, I could bear it better; but John—" she paused and choked.

"Is getting discouraged," said George.

"Yes, and falling in with the ways here."

"And this is Christian civilization," said George as they left the room.

CHAPTER XII.

LOVE.—DISAPPOINTMENT.—FRANCE.

THE time was at hand when M. Costin was to leave for France. He had been the children's teacher and companion over seven years, and of course they were all very much attached to him.

Mabel kept up her meeting for her young friends, sisters, as she called them, and Sarah Wilson having been added to the number made an apostolic dozen, counting herself, as she laughingly said.

"But there were twelve apostles besides Jesus," said Walter.

"Not after Judas hanged himself, and we will have no Judas in ours," she retorted.

"But they chose another to fill Judas' place."

"Well, I am not obliged to copy after any man, and I do not expect to be crucified."

"You maybe, notwithstanding; there are more kinds of crucifixion than one," said Mrs. Raymond.

"If I am, mother, I do not wish to be worshipped because of it," she replied.

"The crucifixion that tears the heart and makes the living death may be worse than the death of the body." said M. Costin.

"Whose heart is being torn now?" asked Walter.

"A great many hearts are being torn daily," said Mrs. Raymond, fearing that Walter would say something personal; but he was not so easily suppressed.

"Oh, to be sure," he said; "I didn't know but Monsieur was leaving some cruel maiden behind."

M. Costin turned so pale that even Walter noticed it, and left the room. Mabel was busy, and so used to her brother's chaffing that she paid no attention to it.

"Zounds!" he exclaimed, as soon as the door closed behind M. Costin; but his mother caught his eye and put her finger to her lips, so he said no more, but as she involuntarily looked toward Mabel he comprehended the situation.

Presently Mabel went out also, then he asked: "What is it, mother?"

"Nothing that I know, but I have long suspected."

"Do you think she does?"

"No, not in the least; but if I am not much mistaken he will tell her before he leaves."

Walter thrust his hands into his pockets and walked the floor for some minutes. He loved to tease Mabel about the "fellows," as he called the young men of their acquaintance, but the thought of anything serious in that direction nearly took his breath away.

"Does father suspect?" he asked, at length.

"I do not think he does; if so, he has said nothing to me."

"That is no proof; neither have you said anything to him," was the quick reply.

"How long have you suspected this, mother?" he continued, after another turn or two across the floor.

"Ever since I saw the cloud come over his face when George's return was mentioned, and on the night of the party when she sang 'The Watcher' I caught his eyes fixed upon her with a look that I think I could not mistake."

"George, yes, he would think him a rival; by the way, I wonder George don't fall in love with her; she is sweet enough for anybody to love; if she wasn't my sister I shouldn't wait long."

"And get sent about your business. She would never fancy a man of your stamp," said his mother, laughing.

"Perhaps not; but M. Costin is good-looking, well educated, and rich; I don't see what more she can want."

"We will not discuss the matter any more now, I hear Mabel coming," said Mrs. Raymond, and Walter walked off whistling.

Two evenings after was Mabel's company night, and as M. Costin was to leave before another gathering, she planned for a sort of general entertainment in which they all joined, her father included.

"I would invite some more young men and have dancing," said Mabel, "only I know of none I dare trust. Rich men's sons do not hold themselves bound to treat poor girls with respect at all times and places, and I must not subject them to the danger of being annoyed by them."

"Rich men's sons would feel insulted to be invited here to a gathering in which poor girls took part as equals," said Mrs. Raymond.

"But will take part in low-down dances, in low-down places," said M. Costin, indignantly.

"Such young men are not worthy to meet with my girls," replied Mabel.

"Have none of your girls brothers?" asked George.

"Mary Green and Susie Hosmer have, but I do not know them."

"Well, invite them to come with the girls; I think we can manage two if they should prove to be boorish."

"No, that will not do; they are not used to as good company as the girls are, and I would not make their sisters ashamed."

"How is that, Mabel?" asked her father.

"Because girls employed in wealthy families see more of refined society than their brothers do at their work; besides, the girls have been coming here for some time."

"And where will they find husbands, puss, if you lift them out of their own sphere?"

"I shall try and lift them so high, father, that they can live without husbands, unless they can get good ones, and be useful and happy too."

"Mabel does not believe that marriage is the aim and end of woman's existence," said Walter, in his usually teasing tone.

"Indeed, I do not, sir."

"And you never intend to marry?" he continued.

"I shall never marry a man of your stamp, sir," was her prompt and rather emphatic retort.

"No, you would want some one older, wiser."

"Walter! Walter!"

"Yes, mother; but I like to see Meb's eyes snap; I want to make the most of her while I can, for some fellow will be carrying her off by and by, and then I shall have to let her alone, my poor Salmagundi."

Mrs. Raymond ignored Walter's jokes by turning the conversation back to the point whence it started, and M. Costin quietly left the room. There was something in Mrs. Raymond's tone as she said "Walter, Walter," that made him think she had discovered his secret, and his bosom was a tumult of conflicting emotions. Walter noticed his leaving, and drawing his own conclusions turned to Mabel with:

"Your marriage ideas have sent Monsieur Costin from the room in despair."

She gave a low, rippling laugh, as though the thought was simply ridiculous, while his mother said: "Walter, I will send you from the room if you do not behave better," giving him at the same time so appealing a look that he really sobered down for fully ten minutes.

His next move was about the dance. "I guess we can fix it," he said; "there are four of us men, counting father, and there is Jim the coachman; nothing coarse about him——"

"No, it is not best; if we have one of the servants we must have them all; we can dispense with the dancing," said Mabel, so decidedly, that nothing further was said upon that subject, while the Judge said:

"What next, Walter?" in a tone that completely subdued his exuberant spirits.

The night of the usual gathering for the girls came and passed off pleasantly. Mabel had wanted her father to see the companions she had chosen—her mother had already made one of their party on two different evenings, and now when her father commended her for the good judgment she had exercised in her selections she was happy.

"It's rather queer that you should do so, daughter." he said; "but I am not certain but it's wise, for your eccentricities will protect you from the fops and fools of the matrimonial market."

"A man's view of it," said Mrs. Raymond.

"I do not have the idea of marriage thrust upon me at every turn, when I am with them," said Mabel, with just a shade of impatience in her voice.

"Tut, tut, puss, girls are born to marry," said the Judge, "so don't put on airs."

The next evening they all remained in the parlor till quite late, and at the last Mabel and M. Costin were discussing something that the others did not join in, and they became so intent that one by one retired till only they two remained in the room.

"We shall not agree," said Mabel, at length, "if we talk all night," glancing at the same time at her watch.

"It is not worth disputing about," he said, as they both rose to their feet, "and the time is so short that I can be here."

"Does your mother go with you, Monsieur?" she asked.

"She will go to England with grandfather, if I do not return."

"And do you intend to remain in France?"

"There is only one thing that can induce me to return, and—" his tongue refused to obey, he could only look what he felt.

His hesitation and the tone of his voice startled her, and as she met his eye she understood. She flushed, and then turned deadly pale, and seemed about to faint. He put out his hand to support her, but she waved him back, then his long-controlled feelings found utterance.

"Oh, Mabel," he said, "I have loved you so long; it is the hope of my life, do not, do not send me away in despair."

Mabel had recovered her self-control, and as soon as the torrent of his words would permit, she said: "I am very sorry, Monsieur——"

"Don't, don't refuse me, till you have had time to think. I have startled you, and you don't know your own mind yet; I will work with you, will devote my life, my fortune to the work you have chosen."

"No, my good friend, I do not need time; it pains me more than words can express to give you pain; I honor you, next to my father, above all men, but I do not, never can love you in that way."

"You love another," he said, his mind reverting to Gray.

"No other has asked for my love. Good night;" and she was gone.

He stood a moment, as if turned to stone, and then with an effort to throw off the feeling of despair, he turned and went to his room with: "I might have known it; she has never given me cause to hope, why did I speak?" He passed a sleepless night, and the next morning his pale, almost haggard face told his struggle, and under plea of severe headache he did not come down till after the breakfast-hour, and then announced that he was going to Boston for a few days.

Mabel went straight from the parlor to her mother's room, after bidding M. Costin good-night, and going up to her dropped upon her knees and buried her face in her mother's lap.

"What is it, dear?" asked Mrs. Raymond.

"Oh, mother, I am so sorry," she said, bursting into tears.

"But what is it?" and then she seemed to divine what had happened, and added, "Has M. Costin proposed?"

"Oh, mother, I never dreamed of such a thing, and to think that I must disappoint him, must give him such pain, after all his years of patience and kindness to me."

"Are you sure you know your own heart, daughter?"

"Yes, I am sure," she said, and in a way that made her mother fear she had given her love elsewhere, but her next words dissipated it: "I have never thought of love; only my work holds my heart, and I never once dreamed that he could feel that way toward me."

"Well, dear, you are not to blame," said her mother, running her hand caressingly back and forth over her hair. Presently she grew calm and arose and kissed her mother good-night.

The next morning at the breakfast-table Walter asked, "Where is M. Costin?"

"He has one of his severe headaches," said his mother.

The next question was, "Where is Meb?"

"She has not come down yet; I think she has overslept herself."

"Whew, what's in the wind that Meb oversleeps?"

Mr. Raymond, who had been informed how matters stood, uttered the single word, "Walter," and Walter was silent.

About an hour after M. Costin had gone, the girl who took care of the rooms said to Mrs. Raymond, "What is the matter with Monsieur?"

"He said he had a headache, Mary."

"He looked more as if he had the heartache, and he seemed so strange, and when I went to do the work in his room, supposing he was down-stairs, I found him at his table writing, and his trunk was all packed and strapped, and his valise lay upon the floor beside it, and as full as could be crowded."

" 'Are you going to leave us to-day, Monsieur?' I asked, but he only asked, 'Is Miss Mabel up?' 'Not yet,' I said, and he said, 'Do the other rooms, and then come back here,' and he kept on writing. It seemed so strange, I thought I would tell you."

"Thank you, Jane; have you been back?"

"Not yet, I am going now. I thought I would tell you first," and then the girl went on upstairs. It was about fifteen minutes after that when M. Costin came down and announced his intention of going to Boston.

"But you will have some breakfast first," said Mrs. Raymond.

"No, you know I never eat right after one of my headaches," he said, with an attempted smile.

"How long will you be gone, Monsieur?" she asked.

"Not many days, if I get back in time for the next steamer to France; but I must hurry to catch the train.

Good-morning, and the same to the others for me, please;" and he was gone.

"Poor fellow," she thought, "it will help to take the edge from his disappointment." She had forgotten what Mary had said about the trunk, but he had hardly left the room when the girl hurried in looking more excited than ever.

"What did Monsieur say?" asked Mrs. Raymond.

"He said, 'Please clean my room right now, for there will be someone here soon, and then take this package and put it in Miss Mabel's room,' and then he ran down the back-stairs. I did as he said, and then took the package to Miss Mabel's room, and stayed to put it in order. Just as I had finished, I heard a noise and went to see what it meant, and a man was carrying a trunk down the back-stairs. I then looked into Monsieur's room and his trunk and valise were gone."

"He was here only a minute ago, and said he must hurry to catch the train for Boston; he will be back in a few days," replied Mrs. Raymond, with the purpose of satisfying the girl, but she thought it strange that he should take his trunk. She then went and found Mabel, and told her what Jane had said, and of the package.

"Come with me, mamma," was her reply, as she started for her room, but she was very pale.

There lay the package addressed to Miss Mabel Raymond. Mabel took it up, glanced at it, and then said: "Open it, mamma, please." Upon doing so they found enclosed certificates for ten thousand dollars deposited in a New York bank, with the words:

"Dear Miss Mabel: Forgive me for presuming to love you, and accept the inclosed to use in forwarding your work. Truly yours,

"Paul Dumark, alias Costin."

"Oh, mother!" was all that Mabel could utter.

There was another note, addressed to Mrs. Raymond, and written for the family, which read as follows:

"Dear and valued Friends: I have been very foolish, but I could not help it; who could; and see year after year so much goodness and loveliness combined? I might have known that so rare a treasure was not for me, but I have ventured and failed, so to spare the embarrassment of further association under the circumstances, and also the painful parting scene in leaving those I love so well, I take this method of going. Farewell,

"Paul Costin."

For some minutes mother and daughter sat in silence, Mabel quietly weeping. At length Mrs. Raymond said:

"I am very sorry to have him leave in this way, but as things are, perhaps it is best."

At dinner the Judge asked, "Where is Monsieur, is he not down yet?"

"He has gone out," replied Mrs. Raymond; but, when dinner was over, she asked them all to her own room, all but Mabel, and then related what had occurred, read his note, and stated the contents of Mabel's. She would not have revealed the fact that

Mabel had rejected M. Costin to George, only no other reason could be given that would account for his sudden departure; besides, George was a relative, and she looked upon him as one of the family.

But M. Costin had been with them so long that he, too, seemed as one of them, and surprise, sorrow, and sympathy were so mingled it was hard to tell which predominated, from the various expressions made by the different parties. But the money was the greatest surprise.

"Here he has been working for more than seven years as a teacher, and yet rich enough to make a donation like that," said the judge.

"I believe he was always a little afraid of those priests," said George.

They were interrupted by a rap upon the door, which Mrs. Raymond recognized as Jane's. "Come," she said, and the girl entered with the announcement: "A gentleman to see M. Costin; I told him Monsieur was not here, and he then asked to see Mrs. Raymond."

Mrs. Raymond arose to her feet, and then, as she afterward said, the Spirit moved her to sit down again. "Go, Walter, and see who it is," she said, instead of going herself.

Walter went to the waiting-room, but the first glance startled him. He recovered his presence of mind in a moment, however, and coolly said, "Did you wish to see Mrs. Raymond, Father Bremen?"

The priest was more startled at this address than Walter had been when he saw the priest, but he rallied and said: "You mistake, sir, my name is Brentwood; but I have an important message for the gentleman who, I understand, has for some years been a teacher in this family, and I wish to learn where I can find him."

"He is not here now, and I cannot give you his present address."

"Does he not return here?" asked the stranger, anxiously.

"He does not; but, I presume, when he gets settled we shall hear from him," said Walter, still eying the man suspiciously.

"Then please send word to this address, as the matter is of great importance to him," handing Walter a card on which he had pencilled an address.

Walter took it, bowed, and showed the man out; then hurrying back to where the others were, exclaiming: "Who do you think it was? Who but that infernal old priest, Bremen. He tried to deny it, but he didn't fool me in the least."

"I don't understand you, Walter," said the judge, while the others looked their surprise.

"Why, don't you remember the name of the priest who stole M. Costin from his mother? I heard his name called on the street one day, and I looked at him too sharp to be mistaken; I told M. Costin he was here, and he said he knew it, but that the priest did not recognize him. Brentwood, indeed!"

"Was that the name he gave?" asked George.

"Yes, but I called him Bremen as soon as I saw him, and the rascal was too much startled to make me believe his subterfuge."

"Thee is in the right," said Mrs. Raymond, with her

Quaker style and look, "and M. Costin has been impressed to leave as he has, thee may be sure, though he may not understand why."

Some two weeks afterward Mrs. Raymond received a letter from M. Costin, in which he assured her that the money he had given Mabel would not in the least incommode him, as he had an abundance; said that the greatest happiness he had left was the thought that he could thus aid her in her work. "Besides, I had another reason for leaving as I did, which I had not time to tell you. I did not go to bed for some hours that night, but sat looking out the window and thinking. It was dark in my room, so I could see and not be seen. Two men stopped, or rather met, under the lamp-post, and there was something about one that seemed familiar. They stood and talked perhaps five minutes, and then they both turned and looked toward your house, and I distinctly saw Father Bremen. Toward morning I threw myself on the bed and fell almost immediately into a sort of a doze, and I distinctly heard the words, 'Father Bremen is after you.' I was wide awake in an instant, and the impression the words made was such that, in connection with what had already happened, I decided to leave as I did, and went to packing my trunk.

"Again, I say, do not allow Mabel to hesitate to use the money. I will give no address, but I shall hear from you. I can plot as well as Father Bremen.

"Farewell, M. Costin."

"Did I not tell thee that M. Costin had warning?" said Mrs. Raymond.

"You said he had been impressed, mother."

"Yes, Walter, and does thee not see that the words he heard impressed him?"

"I am impressed that you are both mejums," and he went out singing one of his favorite ditties.

CHAPTER XIII.

USURY AND MOTHERHOOD.

FOR two years Mabel continued to study and think, continued to meet as many of her chosen friends from time to time—sisters she called them—as could come and study with her the problem she was trying to solve, but she found many difficulties in the way. Some from one cause and some from another were sure to be absent.

Finally four of the girls married, went into homes of their own, such as they were; two of them sickened and died, and one went with her parents to another city, so there were but three, besides herself and Sarah Wilson, left. It looked rather discouraging, but Mabel did not flag in the least from her purpose. Others had from time to time come to her gatherings, and that each had caught at least one new idea, and would retain it, seemed probable.

At the gathering held on her twentieth birthday they had an unexpected addition, none other than our old friend Marion Hibbard. She had come that day from Boston, and almost the first thing she asked was how Mabel was prospering in her work.

"I have become a crank myself," she said, "since I saw you. I never could forget what you said when I was here before, of the effect of ante-natal conditions upon the character of the child, and I have watched the results of good or bad conditions till I am fully satisfied that the millennium will never come till all that prevents nature from doing her best work in human motherhood is removed."

"It is a mighty work, such removal," said Mrs. Raymond.

"Yes, Mary, but it must be done."

Mrs. Raymond looked up in her friend's face wonderingly.

"Well, I see the world does move. I never expected to hear you talking in that strain," she said.

"It was Mabel's question about her being good and Tommy Gove bad, that set me to thinking, so you see she began her work then and there," replied Marion.

Mabel looked up with a glad light in her eye: "First-fruits," she said.

"Are generally windfalls or wormy, but are better than nothing," was Marion's quick retort; and then, "so you have a class in the science of motherhood to-night. I wish you would let me tell the girls a story, and I want them all to hear; Walter, Mr. Gray—I believe you said he was here—Mr. Raymond, and yourself, Mary, with any others in the house that you think can be benefited. I want to show you what ministers cost, and the effect of usury upon motherhood."

Of course Mabel and her mother were delighted with the proposition. As it was her birthday the judge was persuaded to become a listener, though he said, "The world is being turned upside down, sure."

When they were all gathered Miss Hibbard turned to

Mrs. Raymond and said: "As you know some of the parties, I shall tell you the story, and the others can listen. You remember Frank Burton?"

"Yes, how could I forget her, she is a character in her way."

"She certainly is; well, I visited her last summer and stayed over two months. 'You have very fine college buildings here,' I said, the next morning after my arrival.

" 'Yes, we have,' was her quiet reply.

" 'Many students?'

" 'The college is well patronized.'

" 'Theological course?' I persisted.

" 'Yes, and a ladies' department also; or, if they choose, the ladies can take a college course; several are doing so.'

" 'That is progress; I suppose you will look for the ballot next,' I said.

"She turned away, but I caught a look upon her face I did not quite understand. 'What is the matter, Frank?' I asked, for I expected some enthusiasm on this her favorite theme when I last saw her.

" 'Nothing.'

" 'Nothing, nonsense, you can't put me off in that way, you who used to talk so much of woman's having equal rights with man, and now not a word to say of this astonishing step in advance, a full college course for woman: something is wrong.'

"She looked up at me as if surprised: 'Why, Marion, did you not know that Oberlin College had given equal educational opportunities to woman for several years? This only patterns after that.'

" 'No, I did not know it; I never troubled myself to keep track of fanatics, you know, but I am not to be put off. A change has come over the spirit of your dream since you visited me ten years ago, and what is it?' I asked.

"She smiled. 'Do you remember, Marion, the lines:

" 'A little learning is a dangerous thing;
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring,
Where shallow draughts intoxicate the brain.'

"And that is what's the matter with our reformers, they are——"

"It was not your put in, Judge Raymond," she laughed, shaking her finger at him, and then "I interrupted her with,

" 'And drinking largely sobers us again.

" 'Do you wish me to infer that you have been drinking so deeply of this college spring as to take all the enthusiasm out of you?'

"She turned and looked out of the window. There comes Professor Getchell, he will be here to dinner.'

" 'Did you invite him?'

" 'Yes, I want you two to become acquainted.' I am telling it all, Mary," said Marion, by way of explanation, "because I want you to see just the steps it took to show me the curse of usury. 'I want you two to become acquainted,' she said, 'so I began in season, for I should like to keep you here, Marion.'

" 'What has keeping me here to do with Professor Getchell?' I asked.

" 'He's a bachelor,' she said in her old, teasing tone.

" 'Oh, you mischief,' I called out, as I went to make some changes in my dress.

"I knew that Frank had said what she did as a diversion, that there was something lying back of it all, and that I determined to find out.

"The dinner passed off pleasantly. Upon repairing to the parlor the Professor remarked: 'And so you have provided against loneliness in your husband's absence,' glancing at me.

" 'I have provided myself with a foil against Mother Grundy,' she laughingly retorted.

" 'You have beautiful college grounds here, and fine buildings,' I said.

" 'Yes, we have, they are the admiration of all who visit the place.'

" 'Handsomely endowed, I presume,' I continued, in the meantime I was furtively watching Frank. She sat toying with her watch-chain and did not seem to be noticing.

" 'A hundred and fifty thousand,' he said.

" 'And that sum at ten per cent. is fifteen thousand dollars, a pretty good income,' I remarked.

" 'You are very practical, Miss Hibbard,' he said, in a sort of surprised way, 'but we get only eight per cent., and it costs a great deal to keep up such an institution.'

" 'A great deal more than appears on the surface,' said Frank, in a tone that made us both look up.

" 'What do you mean, Mrs. Burton?' he asked, after a moment's silence.

" 'I mean just what I say; is it not so?'

" 'It certainly is, but——'

" 'You think my tone conveyed some hidden meaning?' she said.

" 'It sounded like it. I fear you are getting impractical notions into your head,' and then turning to me he continued: 'We had a man here a while since who claimed and tried to prove that interest for the use of money is wrong, and ever since then your friend here occasionally drops a remark that sounds as though she was becoming affected with the same idea.'

" 'I was thinking long before he came,' she replied, in the same quiet tone I had noticed from the first.

" 'Indeed! how long since?'

" 'I will tell you that another time, but please tell me, sir, who earns those twelve thousand dollars?'

" 'Who earns them! why the people who hold that money are glad to get it, and they make it pay them, too!'

" 'I do not question that. I heard a member of the manufacturing firm here say that they cleared twenty per cent. last year. They hold fifty thousand of your money I understand.'

" 'Did I not tell you that people were glad to get the money, and if they can clear twenty per cent. they certainly can afford to pay us eight,' he said, very earnestly.

" 'But you have not answered my question, Professor; who earns that twenty per cent. and that eight per cent.? Whose toil produces the results which bring it? Not the college trustees, not the men who borrow the money; now who does?'

" 'I suppose the men employed produce the material, which when sold brings it,' was the reluctant admission.

" 'In other words, the men to whom that fifty thousand dollars give employment must earn, produce over and above the cost of running the establishment, twenty-eight per cent. more than they receive.'

" 'Twenty-eight per cent.!' he said in a tone of surprise.

" 'Yes, twenty to the borrower and eight to you. I cannot speak for the balance of your endowment fund, but I presume the cost to labor is about the same.'

" 'The cost to labor, Mrs. Burton!'

" 'Yes, sir, or rather, the laborer. I fear, Professor, if the cost was all counted—the wrecks all brought in—all the men who take to drink because of overwork and poor pay—all the children badly born because their mothers were overworked—because of the lack of what their husbands earn but do not get—all of my sex who are gradually dragged into the depths because of the pressure brought to bear upon them that you may get your twelve thousand, and those who hold your money the profit they expect, I think you would conclude it costs more to run such an institution than appears on the surface.'

"No one spoke for several moments. At length Mr. Getchell said: 'I did not know as you could be so eloquent, Mrs. Burton.'

" 'Was that the only point you noticed?' she said, in a tone that brought the blood to his face.

" 'No, indeed! the things you mention are terrible, and if it can be shown that they are the legitimate results of interest-taking, it would forever condemn the practice; but I cannot see it so,' he said.

" 'I tried not to, but was forced to yield,' she said. 'I tell you, Professor, your reforms amount to nothing; the whole system must be changed, and the magnitude of the work appals me."

Here Miss Hibbard paused in her story to remark: "When I heard her talk of the effect upon the children of stinted and tired mothers, my mind went right back to that conversation when you was but ten years old, Mabel, and I wondered if the whole system must be changed, and if you had found it so."

"I am studying the question yet, and your story will help me to decide," Mabel replied.

"Yes, and I must keep to it, or I shall tire you all: 'And you look like an inspired prophetess declaring its doom,' said the Professor, trying to laugh off what was becoming too serious for comfort.

" 'Here then was the secret I sought. This was why Frank had that far-away look when I questioned her. I must talk with her, I am becoming interested, I must study this question for myself—' such were my thoughts as I listened. The Professor looked at his watch, and regretted that he could not remain longer. 'Come again,' she said, as she went with him to the door, 'now the subject has been broached, I want to talk with you more.'

" 'Thanks, I shall certainly avail myself of the opportunity,' was his reply, but he did not come again while I was there.

"The next morning I expressed a desire for further conversation on the question, and she only replied:

'Come with me,' and taking her hat and sunshade, and indicating that I was to do the same, started out. She led the way across the common to a sort of Potter's Field, and paused beside a grave at the head of which was a small, plain slab, on which was the single word, 'Helen.'

"I read the name and wondered why she had brought me there, and then remembered that I had once a friend by that name of whom I had lost track. I had an indistinct memory of hearing she was dead, but of the when, where, and how I had not the least idea. I looked at Frank, and something I saw in her face made me fear, I hardly knew what.

" 'It is not—it cannot be,' I began.

" 'Yes, Marion, it is Helen Peck;' she interrupted, 'she is one of the wrecks.'

" 'Caused by that college fund?' I asked.

" 'In part,' was her reply; 'the college funds did not make the business pressure nor the lack of work, but they together wrecked Helen Peck, or Campbell, for she was married.

" 'Now, Marion,' she continued, 'I want you to understand that I am not blaming the college people, nor the ministry. Could they see the enormity of the property system under which we live, as I do, they would shrink from it with horror; yes, that college fund is connected with Helen's ruined life, but it would have been the same had they borrowed the money elsewhere. It is the taking of interest-usury that makes the mischief."

" 'You say she was married, did she marry well?' I asked.

" 'If you mean did she get a good husband, yes; but he was poor. He was very industrious and had the confidence of all who knew him. I never saw a couple more devoted to each other. They had one child, a beautiful little girl.'

" 'Is she living?' I asked.

" 'Yes, she is completing her education.'

" 'Who is educating her?'

" 'She has found friends;' was the reply, in a tone that forbade further questioning.

" 'Verner Campbell had saved five hundred dollars,' she continued; 'that was his fortune when he married Helen. Her parents went to Oregon soon after, and her father, when they left, gave her two hundred more, making seven hundred between them. With this they decided to buy a small place, for which they paid twelve hundred, borrowing the other five hundred of the college, for which they gave a mortgage upon the place, he agreeing to pay ten per cent. interest, with the understanding that so long as the interest was paid the principal could stand.'

" 'I begin to see,' I said.

"Without noticing my remark she continued: 'For six years they paid their fifty dollars a year, all this time improving the place, and the seventh year they commenced to lay by to pay off the mortgage; but before the year was half gone there came a financial crash. Verner tried hard to stem the tide, but his plans were all upset. He did manage to pay the interest, but anxiety and overwork, with a not very strong constitution, were too much for him, and after a two months' sickness he died.'

" 'And then the place had to be sold,' I said.

" 'Yes, Marion, a woman must have someone to look after her, you know. Had she died he would have been left to manage his own affairs,' she said in a tone of bitterness.

" 'Yes, I know, Frank, she must have someone to look after things and take a goodly portion of what was left, but the college was not to blame for that,' I remarked.

" 'I know it, Marion, but still the place had to be sold, and as prices were down, the college trustees got it for a thousand dollars, their debt and five hundred more. In two years' time they were offered two thousand and would not take it. They got two hundred in rent annually. After taking out their five hundred, paying the funeral expenses, the expense of selling, and the doctor's bill, Helen had two hundred and fifty dollars left.'

" 'Seven hundred dollars and seven years' work had dwindled down to that sum,' I exclaimed, 'while without work the college five hundred had drawn three hundred and fifty in cash, and had not shrunk at all.'

" 'Worse than that, Marion,' she replied, 'their five hundred, by putting five hundred with it, secures a piece of property worth four times five hundred.'

" 'Abominable,' I said, walking back and forth beside the grave in my excitement. You see, friends, I had never thought on this question before, and to have had it illustrated through the sufferings of one I had known and loved touched me deeply.

"Frank smiled. 'They must have money to educate young men for the ministry,' she said.

" 'The ministry be—well, I never want to see another minister, if that is what they cost!'

" 'Keep cool, Marion, I am not done yet,' she said.

"I resumed my seat on the rough bench, that some one had placed there, and she continued: 'If there was one thing that Helen worshipped it was her child——'

" 'Made an idol of it, and God punished her, I suppose the preacher would say,' I interrupted.

" 'Don't, Marion, I am ashamed of my kind that they can think of anything so preposterous. A God who could be jealous of his creatures because of their love for each other would deserve only contempt.'

" 'But it is taught, all the same,' I urged.

"Yes, I know, Church teachings come between husband and wife, parent and child, brother and sister; I do not wonder that the world is full of discord.'

"The idea was new to me. 'I never thought of that,' I said, 'as a cause of discord, but really it is a logical conclusion; go on, please, and I will try and not interrupt you again.'

" 'As I was saying, she was passionately fond of her child,' she resumed, 'and determined that at any and all cost she should have an education. Her home was gone, so she came into town, rented a place, and boarded students. She kept no girl, so had to work very hard sometimes, doing her boarders' washing even, and often sitting up half the night. I presume you know, Marion, that in institutions of this kind board, washing, and all else in that line is put at the lowest figure, the motive being to make the course as cheap as possible.'

" 'Yes,' I said, 'theological students are generally poor, I believe.'

" 'Mostly so, rich men's sons seldom choose that calling.'

" 'But what made it easier for them made it harder for Helen, and at best she could but little more than meet expenses. Such struggles soon tire one out, soul and body, and under such conditions one often does what under other conditions they would not think of doing. She married again, and not wisely.'

" 'Oh, Frank, how could she! She could not have loved him,' I exclaimed.

" 'She was tired out: she was not herself, and he obtained a psychological power over her. Still, all are not like you, Marion, utter unbelievers in a second love. He was all kindness in all that could be seen." Here Miss Hibbard paused.

"I do not want to shock your modesty," she said, "but I want to finish this story just as Mrs. Burton told it to me, and if we are searching for the causes that stand in the way of the highest order of motherhood, what I wish to say should certainly be told."

"Do not hesitate, Marion," said Mrs. Raymond, "we have no false modesty here, and I will risk all that you can say."

"You will think I have been converted, made new," said Miss Hibbard, with a smile, "and so I have, but it is to Humanity instead of God; but to go on with Mrs. Burton's story of Helen's wrongs. 'He was kindness itself in all that could be seen, but his demands upon her as a wife were more than she could endure, and when she refused him he struck her—this but six weeks after marriage.*

[*A fact.]

" 'The brute, I wouldn't—I wouldn't—have stayed with him an hour longer,' I said.

" 'She did not; she took her child and came to me. "I cannot endure it," she said. "I shall die, and then Lola will have no one to take care of her."

" 'And the law makes no provision against marital murder?' I asked, or rather asserted.

" 'None whatever, Marion. Of course she was condemned. They said she was breaking her sacred marriage vows.'

"I will pass over all the remarks I made about such sacredness, friends, and continue Mrs. Burton's part of the story.

" 'I think,' she said, 'that Helen's trouble partly unhinged her reason. A friend of mine, a physician tells me that the abuse of the creative functions often produces that effect. The Church cut her off from its fellowship because she would not live with her husband, and she was about as helpless as a woman well could be, while her all-absorbing thought was how she could educate Lola.'

" 'She said to me one day, while talking of her life with—I will not call him husband—'I know there are men who would be glad to support me, and who would not murder me either,' and after a moment she added: 'I'm an outcast now, and it couldn't be much worse.' There was a wild look in her eye that alarmed me, and I said soothingly, 'Never mind, you shall always have a home with me.'

" 'Soon after that she left me, and in a few days I received a note from her which read: 'I am lost, Frank, do not try to seek me, but Lola will be educated.

I have put her where she will have good advantages, and she will never know at what cost to her wretched mother.'

" 'For a year or so I saw her occasionally, and always well dressed; but after that she began to go down, and the end was reached about a year since. She sent for me at the last, told me where Lola was, and committed her to my care. I have adopted her.'

" 'I little thought that Helen Peck would ever come to such an end,' I said, as soon as I could speak for tears.

" 'Do you wonder, then, Marion,' she said, 'that I do not mourn for my children? Had Mary lived, she might have met a similar fate. No more unlikely than that Helen should, as things were when I first met her.'

" 'But your boy,' I said, 'society could not have cursed him in the same way.'

" 'True,' she replied, 'but there are various kinds of wrecks. There is a gentleman living down the river about a mile, who manufactures different kinds of machinery; he holds twenty thousand dollars of the college fund and employs a good many men. He is very good to them, and they all like him.

" 'When the crash came that ruined Verner Campbell, he called his men together and stated the case to them. "Now, gentlemen," said he, "you must pull with me or I must go down. If I am forced to stop that twenty thousand must be paid, and at the ruinous rates at which things will be sold, I shall be utterly broken up, and you will have to seek employment elsewhere.

" ' "I have looked the ground all over; my family will retrench to the utmost, and if you will consent to twenty per cent. reduction on your wages, I think I can go through." After a little thought, the unanimous response was, "we will." He weathered the storm.'

" 'Without any wrecks?' I asked.

" 'That is the point, Marion. The men were heart and soul with their employer; they worked like heroes, and at least three of them now fill drunkards' graves, the habit being induced during that struggle, they working beyond their strength and stimulating to keep up.'

" 'Oh, Frank, are you certain of this?' I said.

" 'As certain as I am of anything, Marion. Their poor wives tell me that they never drank before. The overwork and the stimulant so weakened them that they could not throw off the habit.'

" 'This is terrible,' I moaned, dropping my face in my hands. There was a quiet power in the way she told all this which made me see it all—feel it, till I actually writhed.

" 'Yes, it is terrible, but this is not all,' she continued. 'I have taken pains to study the children born during that year of struggle and averaged with those born in more prosperous years—they are inferior both physically and mentally. So much for the interest on twenty thousand dollars of the college money, for the college must not fail, no matter who or what else perishes; what, then, of a hundred and fifty thousand? And if such are the results here, how many wrecks are there in the whole, yes, throughout the civilized world?' she added, with kindling eye."

"Well, well, well," said the judge, "I never expected to hear Marion Hibbard talking like this; it is a miracle."

"No, Judge Raymond, you mistake," she replied. "In my younger days, I was thoughtless, careless, but not heartless. Mrs. Burton, in speaking of Professor Getchell, said his heart was all right, and she was trying to reach his head. She reached my head and made me understand."

CHAPTER XIV.

THE PHILOSOPHER SPEAKS.

IN a previous chapter, or, rather on his first introduction to our readers, we spoke of George Gray as the young philosopher. Years have not lessened his thinking capacity. He has continued to reason from cause to effect, but while studying problems he has not talked very much; but after listening to Miss Hibbard's story, as related in our last chapter, he expressed a wish to meet with Mabel's class, as he called it, at its next gathering and do some talking.

"I do not expect to instruct you, ladies," he said, "but I may be able to say something to help solve the question under consideration; and, as our present civilization is, so far as the ruling power is concerned, emphatically a masculine civilization, perhaps I may understand some of its workings better than woman can."

So, when the time came, Walter, George, Mabel, her four friends, her mother, and Miss Hibbard, nine in all, were present—all who had been at the previous gathering except the judge. After a little general conversation the speaker of the evening, as Walter called him, said:

"As I understand the purpose of this and previous meetings, it is to ascertain what it is that stands in the way of the best conditions for motherhood, and as all must have mothers to bring them into this life, I have an interest in this question. I have a good mother, but that she had the best conditions for transmitting to me the highest endowment it was possible to bestow upon me, is not so sure. That she gave me the best she could under the conditions I do not question, but better conditions might have enabled her to produce better work.

"But all mothers have not had even good conditions, to say nothing of the best, and thousands are surrounded by the worst conditions possible, and as a result we have natural criminals—men and women who are born damned. Now we have a daily birth of scores of infants so embedded in criminality that you may lay your hand on each and say that if not rescued by a miracle this child is inevitably destined to a criminal career."

"Do you not think," asked Miss Hibbard, "that such children, could they be taken away from all criminal surroundings, could be so reared as to obviate this criminal tendency?"

"I do not. That with some the tendency might be modified, I believe, but not wholly eradicated; besides, such training, and the surroundings adapted to the case would be almost a miracle, because they must have different training than our well-born children need. They would have to be placed where every possible influence could be brought to bear upon those qualities that were deficient, and there must not only be the absence of all that could tempt to crime, but such restraint as would forcibly hold them from going where the unsatisfied inherited tendency would naturally lead them if left to themselves."

"As I have observed human nature, there are many good children who would become bad with bad surroundings, and many bad ones who would become good with good surroundings; but sometimes we find a child so well born that no amount of temptation, or privation, or even evil companions can drag him down, and of course the reverse will hold good," said Mrs. Raymond.

"Yes, but we are now speaking of things as they are, and to children so born and destined to so live, it would be a mercy to kill them when they utter their first cry—yes, a mercy, for our civilization cares not a straw for them; it permits them to be trained in crime, and then, at greater cost than would have provided for their mothers good conditions in the first place, imprisons or hangs them."

"It would be better for those who have such surroundings to refuse to become mothers," said Miss Hibbard.

George Gray turned and looked at the speaker a moment. "Miss Hibbard," he said, "do you forget Helen Peck's second marriage?"

"Certainly not, Mr. Gray, but she had no such surroundings as those of which we are speaking."

"Do you not know that she not only violated her pledge, but the law, when she refused her husband's demands upon her?"

"Violated the law!"

"Yes, the law of the land gives the husband the unlimited right to his wife's person, and in case of refusal will give him a divorce, and the right to marry again; she being cast off with nothing, even if she was rich, unless she holds her property in her own name, and the law gives him the control of the children, if there be any. If I am not mistaken, murderers are often made by the feelings of the unwilling mother being stamped upon the child. She often tries to destroy it, and if not, wishes it dead before it sees the light. Helen left the man who called her wife, was condemned by society for it, and driven to ruin.

"Now think of the wives of those men who are ignorant, debased, and unfitted for anything but sensual pleasure, and tell me how such wives can avoid becoming mothers? The marriage system, as it exists to-day, the power that the husband holds over the wife, stands in the way of perfect motherhood."

"And 'embedded in criminality' is as true of children so begotten, and so gestated, as of any other, no matter how good the conditions and surroundings otherwise; for enforced motherhood, and enforced so-called marital rights are the greatest of crimes against nature," said Mrs. Raymond.

"I believe you, madam, and were all children rightly born, and then taught as my mother taught me, such crimes would never be committed; but I want to take up the interesting part of Miss Hibbard's story. Mrs. Burton says to Professor Getchell: 'Your reforms amount to nothing; the whole system must be changed, and the magnitude of the work appals me.' Now we want to find if she is correct, and if so, our efforts must be directed to that end."

"The whole system," said Walter, "that is a big work; I think you will have to count me out."

"We want no cowards in our band,
They will their colors fly;
We call for valiant-hearted men
Who are not afraid to die."

"Oh, yes, Miss Meb, those lines are easily repeated, and you women think it a nice thing to have men die for you; suppose you try it yourselves," said Walter, as Mabel concluded her quotation.

"Mamma nearly died that you might live, my son," said Mrs. Raymond, in a tone of tenderness that so touched him as to bring the quick tears, though he tried to hide it.

"Yes, Walter, it is a big work," replied George, "and the fact that it must take more than one generation to bring it about will test our love for Humanity. If we do what we can toward it, present reward, other than the love of doing, will not enter into our thoughts to urge us on."

"You mean that the force which holds us to our work must come from within instead of from without," said Mabel.

"Yes, you have expressed the idea," he said, "but Miss Hibbard has illustrated the cost of making ministers; I propose to carry out the idea by showing what it costs to keep them when they are made. I have before me a statement in reference to some of the ministers of this city which I propose to read, and then apply. It is from a recently published work, issued by Burr & Co., of Hartford, and copyright secured both in this country and in England. It is headed:

The Ministry of New York.

" 'This city is the paradise of preachers. The clergy are independent and well supported. Many who came to the city poor are rich. Some have saved a fortune; others have married a fortune; others have been fortunate in speculations in stock, oil, and real estate. Ministers can do in New York, and maintain their position, what the profession can do in no other city. No churches are more elegant or parsonages more costly than those of the Methodist denomination, and their ministers enjoy salaries exceeded by few.

" 'Trinity Church, the wealthiest (Church) corporation in the land, has four parishes, a rector, and six assistant ministers. The rector has a yearly salary of ten thousand dollars and a house. The assistants have each six thousand dollars and a house. Munificent presents, a tour to Europe, a life settlement, a provision for sickness and old age, are among the perquisites which these ministers enjoy.

" 'Dr. Spring, of the Old Brick Church, came to New York a young man and poor. He has always lived in a fashionable part of the city, keeps his carriage and footman, and is a wealthy citizen. From Philadelphia to the old Beekman Street Church of St. George came Dr. Twing. A large salary has enabled him to live in good style. He rides in his carriage, owns valuable estate, and is wealthy. Dr. Hardenburg, of the Reformed Dutch Church, has always lived in good style, and, possessing a fortune, dwells at his ease. Dr. Van Nest is one of the richest men in New York. His own wealth and that of his wife make a colossal fortune.

" 'The Collegiate Church, older than Trinity, has four pastors, to each of whom an elegant house and a liberal salary are given. Dr. Vermilyea, who came to the city from a small Congregational church in Massachusetts, is in possession of a handsome fortune, and dwells in metropolitan style in the upper part of New York. Dr. Adams has a fine fortune, and dwells in a fine mansion within a stone's throw of that abode of aristocracy, Madison Square. Dr. Spear, by a fortunate speculation in stocks, acquired a fortune. Dr. Smith, his neighbor, bought an oil-well, and wrote himself down worth two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

" 'Professor Hitchcock, of Union Seminary, owns the elegant mansion in which he lives on Fifth Avenue. Dr. Taylor, of Grace Church, had one of the costly city residences, and, with his country-seat, lived like a millionnaire. Drs. Burchard and Hatfield live in fine brown-stone mansions, which they own, and in which they enjoy the comforts of a luxurious home. Dr. Crosby inherits the vast wealth of his father. Dr. Booth dwells at ease, supported by a wealthy parish and a wealthy parent.

" 'Dr. Farley, supported by one of the wealthiest congregations in the State, resigned, and took with him, as a parting gift, a donation of twenty-five thousand dollars. Dr. Osgood has always enjoyed a large salary, has a fine city residence, and a country-seat, where he passes his summer vacations. In no place on the continent are parishes more liberal, more devoted to their pastors than in New York.'

"We here have a statement of the material conditions of twenty-six ministers, and their combined salaries, aside from the houses they own or are furnished them, are fully equal, if not greater, than the endowment fund of that college of which Miss Hibbard told us, and who earns it?" said George in conclusion.

"If that is Christian civilization I want none of it," said Walter.

"Do you think it wrong that ministers should be rich, any more than that Church members should?" asked Miss Hibbard.

"There is something wrong somewhere," replied Walter.

"Yes, Walter, there is, and I think you are wrong in calling this a Christian civilization. I use masculine in the place of Christian, because it seems to me the proper term. If I mistake, I shall be glad to stand corrected," said George.

"I did not suppose you were partial to Christianity, George."

"Neither am I, but I do not hold an effect responsible for its cause, and if I understand the religions of the world, Christianity included, they are all of them branches of the tree whose root is a masculine God, with masculine domination. They are all systems in which motherhood is dishonored unless regulated by masculine rule, unless woman pledges herself to be obedient to man during life," he replied.

"That is a new idea, but I think a correct one," said Mabel.

"Yes, and it will keep till we have further use for it; I want to take hold of those ministers again. They are non-producers; they are richly supported, and their ostensible business that of saving souls; now suppose we look into this matter a little. If it can be shown that the money which it costs to keep them, by being drawn, directly or indirectly, from the toiling classes, destroys as many or more souls than they save, even admitting their terrible theology to be true, and that souls need saving, then we have made a good count against them. What were the number of rooms, Mabel, the Rev. Mr. Huntington gave for one square of tenement-houses?"

"One thousand seven hundred and thirty-six."

"Thank you; now I do not know what is the rent paid, but it is not less upon the average than two dollars per room, per month, or six dollars per family for three rooms, and that would bring over forty thousand dollars. The presumption is that this estimate is too low, but we will call it that, and then taking off eleven thousand for taxes, repairs, insurance, and care of the building, collecting rents, etc., and we have thirty thousand dollars as profit to the owners. But as I have not looked into this matter of risk, cost of collecting, etc., do not know how many men are employed, and other matters connected with the business, I will put in four thousand dollars more into that fund, and we then have twenty six thousand left."

"Twenty-six thousand dollars clear profit on a block of such buildings," said Nellie Stone; "I never thought it could be so much, and the poor people pay it."

"Yes, the poor people pay it; but how many people live in these rooms?"

"Two thousand and seventy-six, this was the estimate of Mr. Huntington of one block only; I suppose they vary," was the reply.

"Over two thousand souls, and at least half of them children, and it will take some six blocks to pay the salaries of those twenty-six ministers' salaries, untaxed; the parsonages in which they live, if church property, untaxed; the great churches in which they preach, untaxed, and everyone of those poor people paying more rent for their rooms because the owners pay higher tax to make up for the untaxed Church property; a pretty heavy count."

"Yes, but the account is not yet all in," said Walter.

"I am aware of that, sir. Now, in six such blocks there are at least six thousand children, three thousand men, and as many women, besides the transients. Of one-fourth of those children it may be said that they will, sooner or later, commit some criminal act, and so of the six thousand men and women; and all the cost of the courts, witnesses, lawyers' fees, police salaries, everything in that line that requires an extra officer, or an extra dollar, every single crime that would not have been committed if the subjects thereof could have had the benefit of that money—both before and after birth—of the money paid to those ministers and of the cost of the crimes committed because of the lack of it, all this is chargeable to the account."

"Yes, and the cost of the extra jails, prisons, and keepers," added Mrs. Raymond.

"And yet," continued George, "these ministers are not more responsible for this state of things than others are. It is the system—the masculine system. In the planetary worlds there are two forces acting as equals, which balance and harmonize. One, called the centripetal, draws to the centre, the sun; the other, called the centrifugal, unrestrained, would send the planets off in a straight line through space. The two acting as a check, each upon the other, keep our earth and the other planets in their appropriate places."

"You mean to call the centralizing force the feminine and the other the masculine, if I understand your illustration, and if so, it is easy to see why it is that things are so out of joint; the masculine, the projecting element, has held undue power," said Miss Hibbard.

"Yes, that is what I mean, and yet man is doing no worse than woman would do did she hold undue power. Each must find their true places as equals ere harmony can come, or justice be done, and that woman's sphere is pre-eminently that of motherhood, of looking after and caring for, as well as gestating, seems to me too plain to be denied; consequently, whenever man projects his work into her sphere, either as it interferes with the best conditions for motherhood in the first place, or as caretaker afterward, he is cursing himself, her, and the race.

" 'For ages past the men have led
In Church, and State, and home,
And battle-fields have strewn with dead
To gild ambition's dome.'

"Mrs. Furnham, in her 'Woman and her Era,' claims that man has ambition, woman aspiration—that ambition brings war and all its attendant evils—that aspiration would lift the world above the war plane; but we are running off into the abstract. We must not lose sight of the practical in this important search, and I assert that cities themselves, as they now exist, stand right across the path of true motherhood."

"What will you do with them, burn them?" asked Walter, with a comical grimace.

"No, I would spread them out till no woman would have to climb two, three, or four pair of stairs to get back to her room every time she went upon the street."

"New York would spread a good ways," remarked Sarah Wilson.

"It seems to me you have not brought all the cost of poor tenement-houses to society into account yet," said Mabel.

George looked up inquiringly.

"You say nothing of the cost of the poverty and sickness that is not attended with crime, the cost of the charities."

"True," he replied, "that is a very large item."

"Charity," said Mabel, "is called a Christian grace, an evidence of the humanizing tendency of the Christian religion, but I agree with Professor Clifford when he says to the churches: 'You have stretched out your hand to save the dregs of the sifted sediment of a residuum.' "

"So you would obliterate the charities too? What destroyers you are!" said Walter.

"I would obliterate the charities by destroying the need for them," she replied, "and it seems to me a very suspicious kind of charity, that which takes the dregs, the residuum of our cities—children having by the law of heredity every taint of evil—and scatters them all through the country in Christian families, thus vitiating society to build up the Church. It is counted Christian charity, this scattering the seeds of human weeds—of human dregs—but I should call it a Christian curse."

"What would you do with them, Mabel?" asked her mother.

"What would you do with those who had been exposed to small-pox, mother? No, if such crime-tainted specimens must continue to be manufactured it were better that the grave became the quarantine."

"You would not kill them, Miss Mabel?" asked Mary Green.

"No, Mary, but I would see to it that the contagion did not spread. Even the heartless cruelty of society—the cruelty which says:

" 'Huddle them in, huddle them in!
They have no money, no home, no kin!
They cannot come, or go, or stay—
Crack the whip, driver, and drive them away.
Drive them away down the crazy stones,
Rabble and rags and rotting bones;
Tax-gatherers of the people's toil
For prisons in which to rot and spoil.
Hurry them off to the hospital!
The great iron gate as it creaks with pain,
Says, 'Who enters here never comes out again.'
The steam that puffs up from the dead-boat's stack
Says, 'They'll never come back! They'll never come back!'
And the Potter's Field, with its mound of green,
Says, 'The grave is the only quarantine
For suffering, woe, disease, and crime,
And all the horrors that thrill their time——

even that horrid picture is more merciful to society at large than would be their scattering through the land in the many homes that are comparatively happy."

"Where did you get those lines?" asked Nellie Stone, while Sarah Wilson covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

"They are from a dirge called 'The Black Maria.' But I have interrupted Mr. Gray; he was going to show us how cities stood right across the path that leads to the best conditions for motherhood. I will try and not interrupt you again;" she said, turning to George. "Please proceed."

"Will you please tell me what would become of cities if the poor and the vile were all removed?" he asked.

Mabel paused, thought a moment, and then said: "I have not investigated the subject enough to be able to answer that question."

"Then I will ask another; what would become of a tiger if its bowels were torn out?"

"Do you compare our cities to tigers, George?"

"How much better are they? Do they not consume the very life-force of the toiler, drink him up—his blood, like water, and grind up not only his bones but his babes—his little ones—to increase the fortunes of the rich? Dry up the forced contributions of the classes I have named, and what would be the result? We have found by computation what one block of tenement-houses contributes. Where would the owner get the money to pay the taxes and the insurance if it were not occupied?"

"To say nothing of the loss of employment to the agent, and to those who are paid for watching and taking care of it, and the twenty-five thousand dollars out of which he can help pay the minister, buy silks and diamonds for his wife and daughters, or take a trip to Europe," said Mrs. Raymond.

"The evils of which we have spoken," said George, "are the inseparable results of our system of usury and land monopoly. Society as it exists to-day in our cities cannot do without the degraded, the reckless, the cunning, the desperate poor. Without them our cities would tumble in pieces as readily as does a barrel with the hoops off.

"Whence come the revenues of so many of our rich property-holders here and in other cities? Some of them own whole blocks, yes, almost whole streets. There are many thousands who rent of these rich men, and then subrent, thus making their living off the under-renters. Every room, every cellar, every garret, every outhouse must be utilized at the highest price possible.

"Now suppose that in one day some beneficent power could take all those who are too poor to live in good quarters, or so degraded that they do not care for better surroundings, and transplant them to homes in the country with plenty as their lot, thus leaving every garret, every dark unhealthy cellar, every dilapidated room empty, what would be the result?

"Not a dollar for the use of the empty rooms to swell the pockets of their owners. The sums that these wretched ones pay as rent, and for the absolute necessities of life, would, if withdrawn, so upset the general stream of business that props could not prevent the inevitable tumbles that would occur, and the misery created would be greater than that relieved."

"I think you have proved your point," said Miss Hibbard.

"Yes, madam, as I see these things, cities as they exist to-day are both moral and physical swamps, from which gangrene and miasma exhale continually, poisoning the very atmosphere in which the prospective mother must live and breathe. It enters into her veins and reaches even to the little nest under her heart where the coming one cuddles like an unfledged bird.

"I have hitherto said but little, but the more I investigate, the more determined do I become to work while life lasts for such a change in our social system as will remove from coming generations that which now poisons life at its fountain."

Mabel looked and listened with her soul in her eyes, and when he made his declaration of devotion to humanity's cause she took a step forward as if to place herself by his side; then paused, while the quick blood suffused face and neck, but their eyes met.

"No," he said, "you need not come to me," as he stepped to her side; "I come to you as your devoted servant in this work, that may yet bring us martyrdom."

"Not as my servant, but as my equal," she replied, as she placed her hand in his, and all present felt that it was an unpremeditated but genuine betrothal.

When Mrs. Raymond told her husband of what had happened, he said: "It is all right; I have long looked upon George as a son." George himself was very much surprised that he had so forgotten everything but his love, "but how could I help it when she called me," he said.

CHAPTER XV.

BACK TO KANSAS.

FROM thence on George and Mabel were considered engaged, and they in their happiness seemed content to rest awhile as acknowledged lovers, leaving the thought of the closer relation for the future to settle. Love so intellectual and spiritual does not hasten toward physical consummation, but takes time to bring all the powers of the being to the sacred shrine.

George had been kept informed of the condition of affairs at home. The first year after he left, the payment, with the eighty dollars of interest to Ozmun, was promptly met; but the second year the crops were so far destroyed by drouth and grasshoppers that half the cattle had to be sold to purchase food for the other half, and to meet the payment was simply impossible. It was allowed to stand by adding the interest to the principal.

The third year's crops were partially destroyed by a severe hail-storm, and though things were not quite as bad as they were the previous year, still the payment could not be met, and again the interest was added to the principal, making for the final payment due that year the sum of nearly eight hundred dollars. Mrs.

Gray wrote George that they could not possibly raise it, and the place would have to be sold.

"Prices have so fallen," she said, "land as well as everything else, that what we agreed to pay sixteen hundred dollars for eight years ago, and on which we have paid a thousand dollars of the principal, and four hundred and fifty in interest, would not to-day bring at forced sale more than a thousand dollars, and would not be considered worth more than twelve hundred at best. And, added to all this, your father is sick, and I fear he never will recover, so please come home, for he would like to see you once more, and I need you."

Of course George heeded the call. The first thing he did was to show Mabel his mother's letter, and give her a full account of the buying of the land. Hitherto his mother's letters had been read only by himself, but he now had one to share them. Mabel, when she fully understood how matters were, said, "Do not go for a few days, I want time to think."

He gave her a questioning look: "Not till you return," was her reply, and he acquiesced without a word, while she added:

"I want to think about this land business. To-day is Friday, write to your mother that you will start on Monday. I shall have thought out the problem by that time; in the meantime I want all the information you can give about the country, the quality of the land, etc."

This he gave and asked no questions, though he wondered what she wanted to understand about it for. The next morning Sarah Wilson came to her and said:

"Last week I went to another part of the city to visit an old friend, one that I had not seen for a long time. Her husband, Mr. Norton, is a carpenter, but has been out of work for some time. About three weeks ago her brother came there; he was about half sick when he came, and nearly out of money. The next day he was taken down so as to have to keep his bed. Yesterday I went again. Mr. Baker is getting better, but not able to be up but a part of the time, and with Mr. Norton out of work and his sickness, it is making it very hard for them. I wish you would go and see them."

"Yes, if you can go now; this afternoon I have another engagement." So the carriage was brought round and the visit was made.

Several times it had occurred to Mabel that while she was helping girls, she was really placing them where they had no associates of the opposite sex, for they were being raised above their old associates and not being brought in contact with any who could understand their new ideas. The general class of young men had been so educated that she could not approach them, could not teach what true purity and genuine respect for womanhood, for motherhood was, without the liability of being misunderstood, if not insulted.

Now she had hoped that George could help on the work by calling about him the young men, and so preparing them, that they could meet with the girls and discuss the subject in common; but his visit to Kansas would defer this for a time, and Walter was not the one to aid her. She found herself a good deal interested in the sick man, Mr. Baker, and she fancied that Sarah was more so. She found that he was from the country, understood farming, and would gladly go back to country life, and that turned her thoughts to the Kansas land.

She remembered the gift of M. Costin: "Poor fellow, I wonder where he is," she said with a sigh, and again she fell athinking. Finally she resolved to talk with George about the plan that was slowly evolving in her mind. When he came home in the evening she said:

"George, I want you to help me plan. I have never used half the interest, as yet, upon M. Costin's gift." and she shuddered as she said interest. "I have felt that I was not wise enough to use it to the best advantage. I wanted to learn more of ways and means of reaching the people, but it now seems to me that I might invest a little of it in that land you was telling me of, and thus save the cost of the sale, and, at the same time, secure a place to which I could now and then send a worthy family who are being crushed here; what think you?"

"The question is a serious one, my dear. We all feel an interest in individuals, and would save them if possible; but how can we do the most, by scattering information among the people at large, or by founding schools and picking up here and there individuals that we can educate to the work."

"It seems to me," she said, "that we need both methods. We want a general diffusion of knowledge, and we want those who are prepared, who are in full sympathy with us, to help diffuse such knowledge. This must necessarily be a slow work at first, and as you and I have pledged our lives to it, let us make haste slowly."

He sat silent for some minutes, as if weighing her words: "What is it you propose to do?" he asked, at length.

"I propose to find out, first, what you think of my double line of work, Mr. Reticent," she said, playfully.

"I think you are right; we need more than one line of advance, and by a decided move in the direction of scattering the idea that our present system of society must go, we might raise a breeze about our ears that would put out our light."

"So you think we had better have several lights burning before raising any too high? Just about what I was thinking; but another thought comes to me here that I will explain another time, and to carry that out I must see that I do not defeat myself by using up my capital too fast. I will now answer your question. I was thinking of buying that land at the highest price your mother names, twelve hundred dollars, and utilizing it in my work."

"Are you sure," he asked, "that sympathy with my father and mother in their trouble has nothing to do with your decision?"

"And why may I not act from sympathy?" she said; "is not sympathy a good thing?"

"Not unless held in abeyance to the judgment; if you respond to every call upon your sympathy you would soon find yourself a beggar—would need help instead of being able to give it."

"Oh, George, I see now why it is that the rich often seem so hard-hearted. They have so many calls that if they did not steel themselves to indifference everything would be pulled from them."

"Yes, and those who are really the most tender are so hurt at the sight of so much misery that they have to harden themselves to bear it, even till they seem the most unfeeling of all. They see no way to remedy the evils that confront them on every side, so persistently ignore them; but what I meant to ask in reference to that land was, do you think you would buy it if it was held by some one in whom you felt no personal interest?"

It was now Mabel's turn to be silent. Finally she said: "I do not know as I should have thought of buying it in the first place had it been someone else; but now I have thought of it, I think I should, no matter who it was."

"Well, we will say no more about it, and if you do not see any cause to do differently, you can give me the money on Monday, and if you do not, I shall feel it is all right."

"I understand you, dear," she said; "you want me to keep the purpose in view for which the money was given, making that the first and controlling motive; but I should like to have you go with me to-morrow to see this young Baker. You are a man, and can understand men better than I can. If he is worthy, and he and Sarah are interested in each other, I must help them to get a start. In helping Sarah I shall help on the work; and she is like a sister to me."

So on Sunday they drove around, and taking Sarah with them, went to Mr. Norton's. Sarah at first objected. "They will think I am there all the time," she said.

"What if they do, I want you to go with us," said Mabel, while George smiled to see the look of pleasure with which she consented to Mabel's wishes.

It was for this that they wished her to go. Mabel wanted George's judgment as well as her own as to whether there was a mutual attraction, and if so to encourage; or break up without seeming design, should he prove unworthy. Mr. Baker was sitting up and showed a decided improvement over the day before, and the way his face lit up when he saw Sarah, decided the matter with George and Mabel as to what his feelings were.

George studied him closely, talked with his sister, Mrs. Norton, and his impression was favorable. The next morning, when he was about ready to start on his Kansas trip, Mabel put the money into his hands to purchase the place with, and said:

"When Mr. Baker is well enough to travel, I shall send him to you if it will suit him."

"What next?" he asked, looking a little surprised.

"I may send his sister and husband with him; their two beautiful children ought not to be brought up in the midst of such surroundings as they are likely to have. But no more now," she added, seeing another question on his face.

So George Gray sped away toward his Kansas home, and Mabel remained to think and plan. When she first found Sarah Wilson in that terrible room, battling to keep starvation from herself and mother, she was nineteen years of age, only one year older than herself, consequently was now a little over twenty-one; and she found, by a little adroit questioning of his sister, that Edgar Baker was twenty-three past; so their ages harmonized well.

Mabel's next move was to get the opinion of a competent phrenologist as to the temperamental and phrenological adaptation of the two, and to do so without their suspecting what she was doing. She first called upon the phrenologist and stated her object, and made her appointment as to hours, being able to secure two consecutive ones. She then went and got Sarah, and took her there. When the examination was over, she took her to a friend's house and asked her to wait a while. Then she went directly for Baker, having previously arranged to call and take him for a ride at that hour.

When she came to the place she said: "Oh, here is a phrenologist, suppose we go in and see what he has to say, Mr. Baker?"

He could not well do otherwise than consent, and when upon entering she said, "I have brought a friend for an examination, and I want you to tell him just what kind of a woman he needs for a wife," the young man looked a little surprised, but took his seat, thinking it a bit of pleasantry.

"Now," she said, "I have a friend to call on, but I will be back by the time you are through," and without another word she was gone.

Just as the man was describing the woman that Mr. Baker ought to have for a wife, Mabel came back with Sarah.

"Why, here she is now," he said, looking first at Sarah, and then at Baker.

The sweet confusion on her face and the glad light in his eyes told the whole story. "Have you come to have your head examined too?" he said, trying to appear at his ease.

"I have had it examined already," she said, and then they both turned their eyes upon Mabel. The whole thing flashed over them, as they saw the demure look on her face and the mischief in her eyes.

"Oh, you plotter!" they both exclaimed, in the same breath.

"You need not hesitate to sanction the union," said the man of science, "it is nature's own selection."

"Thank you, Miss Raymond, for your plotting," said Baker, "otherwise I should not have dared to speak, as I have only myself to offer her; but I can work if I can get work to do."

"We will see about that," she replied, "and now I am going to take you both home with me."

After tea they talked the Kansas matters over, Mabel telling them something of her plans, and asking them how they would like to go out there.

"If we only could," said Baker, looking at Sarah.

"Not while my mother lives," she replied, and then starting to her feet, she said: "How selfish I have been; she told me when I left she did not want me to stay long; I must return immediately."

"We will all go," said Mabel, and the carriage was again brought around. Just as they were about to start, Sarah's nephew came with a message that grandma was very sick, and the poor girl was almost overcome with grief to think that in the excitement of the last few hours she had forgotten her mother's request. When they reached the place, they saw that the poor lady's hours were numbered. The hardships of other days had nearly snapped life's cord, but with the kindness of friends and needed comforts her days had been so far prolonged.

Sarah threw herself upon her knees beside the bed in an agony of grief, while her mother slowly raised her hand and placed it upon the bowed head, at the same time casting her eyes inquiringly around. Mabel she knew, but who was the gentleman?

Mr. Baker saw the look and stepped forward, and kneeling beside Sarah, said: "May I not call you mother, too?"

Again the eyes were raised, and seeing approval in Mabel's face, she placed her other hand upon his head and murmured, "Heaven bless you both," and sinking away, they thought she was gone.

"Oh, mother, mother, look at me, speak to me once more," cried Sarah, in agonizing tones. The lids unclosed, the lips murmured, "My child," then a sweet smile settled upon her features, and she ceased to breathe.

About a week after the burial of Mrs. Wilson, Mabel went to her father and asked: "What did Walter's birthday party cost you, father?"

"About three hundred dollars, I believe."

"And had I been a society devotee, I should have had at least two such parties before now, besides one on my birthday?"

"Yes, I presume so; but what are you driving at, Puss?"

"There is about eight hundred dollars interest due me, is there not?" she continued, without heeding his raillery.

"A little over that, I believe, but you are not going to take interest after listening to Miss Hibbard's story, I hope?"

"Will those who hold my money do any better by those they employ if I do not require interest?" she asked; "if I knew they would, I might decide not to take interest; but as it would only go into their own pockets, I prefer to take and use it to help enlighten the people."

"Whew, what sophistry! You would do evil that good may come, eh?"

"Yes, papa, evil to this present system of things, that a good one may come in its place; and now Puss will tell you what she is driving at. She wants some money to use, so please give her the interest due and what three parties would have cost."

With a bantering remark he turned to his desk and filled out checks for eighteen hundred dollars; but when she reached her hand to take it he put his hands behind him and said:

"But I must know what you are going to do with so much money?"

She stepped back, and putting her hands behind her, she said: "Do I demand to know what you do with your money?"

"But only a part of this is yours, unless I choose to let you have it, little girl."

"Granted, but papa, do you believe I will spend it as foolishly as though used for the pleasure that fashionable parties bring? But to please you I will explain."

She then told him of the land she had authorized George to buy, of Sarah's engagement, and of her wish to send both Mr. Baker and his sister's family out there.

"Quixotic as ever," he said; "but where did you get the money you gave to George?"

"Part of it was interest money that you paid me some time ago, and part of it mother gave me."

"So you have not drawn upon your capital at all?"

"No, I first thought to fill out checks and have you honor them, but when I told mother, she said she had always intended I should have a part of the money that came from grandfather; so she filled out checks for eight hundred dollars."

"Well, well, well, so Doña Quixote has become a landholder! I don't see but I must yield," said he, as he placed the checks in her hand and kissed her cheek. "But mind you, George must come back here; I cannot consent to his taking you away, little one."

The next thing was to go to her room and think and plan again. "Poor papa," she said to herself, "he will have to do without me by and by, if I carry out my plans; but not yet awhile."

The next evening was the regular one for meeting, and Mr. Baker, his sister, and her husband were invited. At Mabel's request, her mother made a few remarks to explain the object of the meeting to the strangers. Mr. Raymond had also consented to be present, to give countenance to the bashful ones, he said; so there was

Mr. Raymond, Walter, Mr. Baker, Mr. and Mrs. Norton, Nellie Stone, Mary Greene, and Sarah Wilson; the last three, with Mabel, were all that remained of the original twelve; these with Mrs. Raymond, Miss Hibbard, and a very intelligent, good girl who took care of the rooms, making twelve in all.

Mr. Norton seemed surprised at the plainness of speech in a mixed company upon what are called delicate matters, but when Marion repeated what George had said at their last meeting but one, to wit, that evil surroundings poisoned life at its fountain, reached even the new being nestling like a bird beneath the mother's heart, Mrs. Norton looked at her husband, and the tears started, while Edgar Baker turned toward Sarah with an expression of reverence on his face.

Mr. Raymond saw it, and thought: "They are right; such talk will make men's hearts pure if anything will."

The rest of the evening was profitably spent with various remarks from Mabel and the others, and at its close Mabel unfolded her plan of having Edgar and Sarah, together with Mr. and Mrs. Norton and the children, all going to Kansas together.

Mrs. Norton sprang to her feet and grasped Mabel's hand. "You are an angel," she said, and then burst into a fit of almost hysterical weeping.

"Don't, Anna, don't cry so; daylight has come and all will yet be well;" and then turning to the others, he said, "I might as well be frank with you: Disappointment and enforced idleness was beginning to fasten the habit of drink upon me, and my poor girl was almost in despair, but it's all right now—I will touch the stuff no more."

The tears came to Mabel's eyes, and turning to her mother, she said: "Mamma, the spirit moved me to this; surely the power of the unseen aids us."

"Thou art right, my child; the angels, the friends of humanity, who have gone to that life, are aiding thee."

Things were getting too serious for Walter's comfort, so he must needs make a diversion; throwing his head back, closing his eyes, and giving a few spasmodic jerks, he arose from his chair, and spreading his hands out like one in the act of pronouncing a benediction, he said:

"Yes, the spirits are with you; there are hosts of friends here; be faithful, and you shall come to us by and by; I am Martin Luther." And then, with a gasp and a yawn, he awoke.

"Really," he said, "I did not know I was so good a medium; did I give any tests?"

"Walter, Walter! is there anything you will not make sport of?" said Mrs. Raymond.

"I think I must have a very beautiful name, mother, you like to repeat it so well;" and then, as usual on such occasions, he marched out of the room singing. This time the words were:

"A little girl would be a farmer,
So she sends away her charmer,
To buy of land way over yonder,
To which of friends she'll be the sender.
Tra la, tra la, tra la.

"And there her friends will do the farming,
While she in city will be charming;
If she should find some other charmer,
Then Gray may stay and be the farmer.
Tra la, tra la, tra la."

In the meantime, George, as soon as he reached home, began to take steps to secure the farm for Mabel. By paying the interest for the full time and the balance of the principal in advance, he got hold of the papers some months before the time that the money was due, and when he had been gone a month, Mabel received her title—was the owner of three hundred and twenty acres of land.

"Can't you bring some of it here, Meb," said Walter, "so we shan't be so crowded?"

"I think, sir, that Mahomet will have to go to the mountain," she replied.

"What, go away out there to be eaten up by grasshoppers! please excuse me, Miss—Mrs. Raymond Gray; one victim ought to satisfy you."

"I have sent no one there," she said.

"No, but you're just agoing to; I expect it's to keep the grasshoppers off from George, that you're sending 'em," he added, after a moment's pause.

Within a week after she received her deed, the Nortons and Edgar Baker, with his new-made wife, were on their way to Kansas, and a happy party they were. The children were delighted with what they could see from the car windows, and heaven seemed to have come to the so lately weary mother.

Sarah carried the balance of the money left after buying the tickets and furnishing what was necessary for the journey; and also a letter of instruction was sent to George as to its disposal. I forget; Mabel had given Sarah three hundred dollars for her own personal use; that, too, came out of the eighteen hundred.

Two plots of land, twenty acres in each, were to be selected. They were to be about one-fourth of a mile apart, and on each a little house or cabin was to be reared, of sufficient size to make them comfortable. They were to have all they could raise upon the twenty acres each, and to be paid for what they did on the rest of the land, and other improvements to be made in accordance with his judgment. A strict account of what was expended on each twenty acres was to be kept, and when they had paid it all back, together with the cost of the land, it was to be theirs, but no interest charged.

"And if you remain long," she added, "I think I shall run down there myself. I should like to look at my patrimony."

The man who owned the next section of land was very much disappointed when he found that "old man Gray's" land had gone into other hands, as he had planned to bid it in for the debt and costs. He was the only one about there who had the money, and he had felt so sure of it; so he was disappointed, but everyone else was glad.

Mr. Gray lingered month after month, full of bodily pain, but with a mind clear and active. John and his wife still lived with them, and they had three boys, the youngest but a week old when George arrived.

"It was for them and those who may come after, that I wanted that land, but it was not to be," said the old man, sadly.

"Never mind, father," said George, "when you and mother are done with it, they can have all of the homestead, and if there should be half a dozen more, a little land well tilled is better than a large farm half tilled."

"They can have all of it! Do you mean it?" asked the old farmer, rising upon his elbow and looking George full in the face.

"Certainly, father; I thought that was understood when I left you and went to New York."

"You proposed to have the wages of a hired man charged to your part, but I never intended it to be so, and it isn't right; you must have your share."

"Don't think of it, father, I am more than satisfied. I would not exchange what I have gained for a dozen such farms."

James Gray lay back in his bed and closed his eyes, and presently he said: "My best boy, after all, and wisest, too."

He still continued to linger on, though the doctor said there was no hope of his recovery, and he clung to George so that it was impossible for him to leave, no matter how much he might desire to return to Mabel. He had told only his mother of his engagement, not thinking it well to burden his father's mind with it, but the old man felt that something was drawing his boy's mind from him.

"What is it, my son, that gives you that absent look," he asked; "is some pretty girl waiting for you?"

"Don't worry, father, I shall not leave you," was the reply.

"But I know I am holding you, when you want to go," he persisted, looking earnestly into his son's face.

"You make me unhappy, father. I have no wish to leave you, so please say no more about it."

After that he was quiet, but he was not satisfied. The company that came from New York George had met at the depot, and provided for them elsewhere, not wishing to excite his father's curiosity, for his mind was altogether too active as it was. James Gray did not even know who it was that had purchased the land. He only knew that it was a friend of George's, and, when the others came, that someone had been sent to settle upon it.

"Tenantry: that is the way this country is going," he said, and did not refer to it again.

When George had been there nearly five months, Mabel made good her threat of coming out there, but she did not inform George, so took him by surprise.

"Who can that be?" thought Mrs. Gray, as a carriage stopped before the door. George was reading to his father, and did not notice the arrival. Mrs. Gray went to the door to meet the lady who was advancing down the path.

"Is this Mrs. Gray?" asked the stranger.

"It is."

"And I am Mabel Raymond," she said, reaching up her face for a kiss.

"Bless you, my child," was the quick response, as she was folded to that motherly breast.

George read on, all unconscious of who was so near. Mabel was seated in the big rocking-chair and her wraps laid aside, and then George was called. We are not good at painting lovers' greetings, but, these over, the next question was how to best break the news "to father." Mrs. Gray took this task upon herself. She went into the room.

"James, who do you think has come?" she said.

"How should I know. Who is it?"

"The woman who bought that land."

"The woman! I supposed it was a man."

"No, it is a woman, and a young woman at that."

"A young woman! bring her right in here, and George with her; I smell a mouse." This was his favorite way of saying, "I begin to suspect." Mrs. Gray laughed, and called the parties.

George came in, leading Mabel by the hand.

"Mabel, my father; father, Miss Mabel Raymond, my promised wife."

James Gray sprang up in bed, looked from one to the other, and then stretched his arms toward Mabel. She put herself within their clasp, and, kissing him, said: "Father, I am sorry to find you sick," laying him at the same time gently back upon his pillow.

For a little while he seemed quite exhausted, but presently rallied, and lay looking at them with such an expression of content upon his face as had not rested there for many a day. At length he said:

"I can see now, George, why you do not care for any part of the old farm."

"Is she not worth a dozen farms, father?" he asked, turning his eyes fondly upon Mabel's face.

His father laughed: "Certainly, and especially as you get a farm also."

"There is where you mistake, father," said Mabel. "That land is mine, and it is dedicated to an entirely different purpose. George gets none of it."

"But he gets you."

"And that is enough," said George.

Mr. Gray seemed to rally after this, and for several days was better, more free from pain, and then he began to go down again. Still, his old restlessness was gone and he appeared perfectly content when he could have Mabel or George with him—both, when they could be. There was but one request he had to make, and that was to see George and Mabel married.

Mabel would have preferred to return home first, but she could not refuse the wish of the dying man, who clung to her with so much love and content; so she wrote her mother the facts of the case, and one day there was a quiet wedding by James Gray's bedside.

"It is enough, I am ready to go now," he said. He lingered about a week longer, and then closed his eyes as quietly as a child going to sleep.

George remained about a month after his father's death, and helped to put things in good shape for his mother and crippled brother. He made over in full his claim to the place to John, and then he and Mabel began to turn their thoughts homeward.

They both tried to persuade Mrs. Gray to go with them, and spend a few months, at the least, but she said:

"No, my children, my home is here, and my duties are here. John and Margaret need me; you do not, and I should feel out of place there; besides, I do not wish to go so far from your father's grave."

There was a final gathering at the old place of the Nortons, Sarah Baker and Edgar, and with the others came the crank Professor Steadman, of whom we have spoken in another chapter. Mabel had met him at

Sarah's home, and was pleased with his intelligence and his quaint ways, so she desired his presence with the others.

Then there were the tearful good-bys, and away sped the iron horse that bore the couple back to the great metropolis.

CHAPTER XVI.

MONSIEUR COSTIN'S FATE.

AFTER their return, George and Mabel were sitting on the front porch one evening, and the question of what had become of M. Costin was broached.

"It is now more than two years since he left us, and never but that one letter; I wish I knew what had become of him," said Mabel.

"It is strange that we hear nothing further," replied George, "but I have supposed it was because he could not get over his disappointment."

"Poor fellow," she sighed, musingly; then, with a smile, she added, "but I thought, for a time, I too must continue to sigh in silence—I thought you never would speak, and finally decided it was Nelly that you preferred."

He gave a low, happy laugh: "How absurd; why did not you speak before? I came as soon as you called, dear. As to Nelly, I think Walter has an eye that way."

"What, for Nelly Stone? Well, she is a good girl, but what will Mother Grundy say?"

"She will say that plebeian blood will show—that it is the low, Quaker element in his wife that makes Judge Raymond's children take to farmers' sons and penniless girls."

It was now Mabel's turn to laugh: "They need not lay it all to mother," she said, "for father has good sense, too; but who is that?"

A lady had entered the gate, and was coming slowly up the walk. There was a something in her air that inspired respect, and they both arose as she approached.

"Is this the home of Judge Raymond?" she asked.

"It is, madam, and this is his daughter," said George, turning toward Mabel.

The lady bowed: "Was a French gentleman, called Costin, your teacher for a time, Miss——"

"Mrs. Gray," corrected Mabel; "yes, do you bring us news of him?"

"I wish I could," she said. "But I think you must have heard him speak of me; I am his mother's cousin, the Myra who helped him away from those who stole him when a babe. My name is Lenox."

"Indeed, Mrs. Lenox, we are very glad to meet you; please walk into the house, my mother must see you," and, leading the way to the parlor, Mabel insisted that the stranger should remove her things and stay at least that night, and then went to inform her mother.

"And you came to inquire about M. Costin," said Mrs. Raymond, as soon as the introduction was over.

"I had hoped you could tell me something," she said; "as I have heard nothing for over a year, I fear something has befallen him."

"We have heard nothing since soon after he left, over two years ago; Mr. Gray and I were speaking of him just before you came, and wondering what had become of him," said Mabel.

"He went from here to England, as I presume you know, taking his mother with him."

"What of his grandfather; I believe they were together," interrupted Mrs. Raymond.

"Yes, they went together, but uncle took sick soon after they reached England, and was not willing that Paul should leave him. He lingered several months, and after his death his mother clung to him so that he did not reach France for more than a year later than he had intended. He wrote her once after he crossed the channel—told her not to be uneasy, even if she did not hear from him, as he did not think it wise to put too much of his affairs on paper."

"He always seemed to have a haunting fear of the Jesuits," remarked George.

"Yes," said Walter, who had come in just before, "I saw Father Bremen on the street one day, knew him by hearing his name called, and I told M. Costin. He said, 'Yes, I know he is here, but he does not recognize me,' but I noticed that he stayed off the street pretty well after that."

"So Father Bremen has been in this city," said Mrs. Lenox, or Myra, as she is known to our readers.

"Yes, he called here the very evening M. Costin left, gave his name as Brentwood, and said he had important news for M. Costin."

"If Father Bremen saw M. Costin, he could not help but recognize him, he is so like his father," said Myra, "and I more than fear he has fallen a victim to their cunning."

"Has his mother heard nothing since that first letter?" asked Mabel.

"Not a word, and I have seen him—I beg your pardon, did he ever tell you of my peculiar gift inherited from my Scottish ancestry?"

"It was through that that his mother found him, I think," said Mrs. Raymond.

"It was; well, I have seen him several times lately, and though he says nothing, there always comes with him the wish to visit you, but while my husband lived I could not leave."

"It is all very strange," said George, "but I hope no harm has befallen him. He was more than a good fellow; he was a noble man."

Mrs. Lenox leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, and as she seemed inclined to be silent, the others were also. Presently the expression of her face changed, and in a clear distinct voice, but with eyes still closed, there came the words:

"As I told you years ago, friends, you will find the Church your most formidable opponent."

"M. Costin's very words and tone," said George, while there came a sort of startled, awed look upon the faces of the others. Mabel, however, did not lose her presence of mind, but going up to Mrs. Lenox, she took her hand and asked: "My dear teacher, is it you?"

The hand closed over her own: "But another is dearer, I am glad you are happy;" then the other arm was extended and she was drawn close to the woman's breast. "I may hold you in my arms a moment now, he will not deny me that;" then the arms relaxed, and with the words, "I will come again," all was still.

The face resumed its natural expression, and soon

Mrs. Lenox opened her eyes. She looked around in an absent way, then, fully herself, she said:

"I beg your pardon, friends, I seem to have been asleep; I scarcely slept at all last night, so please excuse me."

"Have you known nothing of what you have been saying?" asked Mrs. Raymond.

"Been saying?" she repeated, looking from one to the other.

"Yes, you have been talking to us," and then she was told what had been said.

"I have no recollection of saying a word, and I can not understand it," said Mrs. Lenox.

"Are you subject to such experiences?" asked George.

"I never have been, sir."

"Did you never see anyone entranced, as it is called?"

"I never did; I have heard it said that spiritualist speakers were entranced, and did not know what they were saying, but I thought it only pretence, and as Mr. Lenox was bitterly opposed to every such thing, I have never been to any of their meetings, and did not even tell him of my own peculiar gift."

"Well, you talked, sure enough, and in M. Costin's voice—repeated things of which you could not have known, and you must, if possible, remain with us for a time. I want to investigate further," said Mrs. Raymond, earnestly.

"Thank you, madam, your request accords with my feelings, for I am strangely at home here."

"Then—but did you come directly from the cars here?"

"No, I drove to a hotel, and took a room and supper."

"I thought you might wish a cup of tea, but as you have had supper, the company will excuse you and I will show you your room; as, not having slept last night, you must need rest."

She was put in the room M. Costin had occupied, but without thought on Mrs. Raymond's part, till she sank upon a chair with the same look she had previously worn, and the words: "At home again."

She did not seem to know she had said anything, but rousing up, remarked: "I am so sleepy, I can hardly keep my senses."

Mrs. Raymond made no reply, but related the fact when she returned to the parlor.

"There are more things in heaven and earth than our philosophy has dreamed of," quoted George, in commenting upon the events of the evening.

"Strange," said Mabel, "that Myra should come just when we were talking of M. Costin."

"Did you never talk of him before?" asked Walter.

"Yes, a great many times."

"Strange that somebody didn't come before," he said, in that inimitable tone that always brought a laugh.

"I have never had time to trouble my head about spiritualism, nor have I thought it worthy of much attention, but it may be well enough to look into the subject a little," remarked George.

"Shall I secure for you the services of some noted medium?" asked Walter.

"No, I beg to be excused; I want to investigate with someone who has no moneyed interest in the matter. The system of society that forces people to adopt all sorts of expedients in order to get bread is not the best calculated to develop integrity."

"The motive powers of society seem to be directed against the good and in favor of evil," said Mabel.

"How is that, Meb?"

"If you were a woman, Walter, and had to choose between a poor man that you loved and a rich man that you did not love, I think you would understand."

"I don't see what that has to do with it."

"You are very stupid, brother mine, or very wilful; the two strongest feelings in woman's nature are her conjugal and her maternal love. In the illustration I gave, she has those two feelings put right in conflict. If she marries the poor man, who lacks only business skill to make him all that can be wished—well, think of tenement-house poverty for her children; but if she marries the rich man, she has—oh, the thought is horrible—to feel around her the arms of a man she does not love. Do you understand now?"

"Yes, I understand as well as one can be expected to who is not a woman, and who has had no experience. Nothing like a plain explanation:

For the little god, Cupid, has grown so very bold,
He now tips his arrows with the finest of gold."

"It is finished," said George, referring to Walter's poetical method of winding up a conversation.

The next evening they all assembled in the room occupied by Mrs. Lenox, not only to avoid interruption, but because, it having been M. Costin's room, it was thought possible that if it was he who had spoken through her the night before, he might do so more easily in what had been his own room for so long. Mrs. Lenox had said but little during the day, and they forbore questioning her, but when they were seated in the evening, Mrs. Raymond asked: "Did you see anything during the night, Mrs. Lenox?"

"Yes, I saw a great deal, but I prefer not to speak of it now; Mrs. Gray, will you please sing 'Auld Lang Syne'?"

This was a favorite song of M. Costin's, and they had often sung it together. The request brought tears to Mabel's eyes, but she sang it through in a clear, firm voice. When it was finished, Mrs. Lenox was sitting in a listening attitude, but on her face a far-away look. Soon there came a spasmodic jerk, and the words:

"Good-evening, friends; this is kind to meet me in my old room. Thanks, Miss Mabel, for your song—yes, I know, but you will always be Miss Mabel to me."

Mrs. Lenox had been purposely kept from knowing that the room had been M. Costin's. Mrs. Raymond, when she remembered it, said nothing, and had cautioned the others when she went down-stairs, and then had made the same request of the servants.

"Will you please tell us what this all means?" said George.

"It means that I am beyond Father Bremen's reach now, and much good may my money do the Church. They had schemed for it too long to be foiled. I was mistaken in believing that the arch-fiend did not recognize me when here, and they had a spy in the home of my father's wife who picked everything out of them pertaining to our agreement, and then watched till they knew I had the money. It was an easy thing to finish me then, and take it."

"Can they not be brought to justice?"

"They might possibly, but it would cost too much; better work toward destroying all church power, root and branch."

"Is spiritualism true?" asked Walter.

Here Mrs. Lenox, or the power controlling her, made a very wry face. "Will you please tell us?" said Mabel.

"That depends upon what you mean by spiritualism. The fact that I am here proves that spirits can communicate through what are called mediums, but a large proportion of what is taught through mediums is simply trash, or positively injurious, in that church spirits over here seek to control the movement."

"Then spirits are not safe guides?"

"No more safe than mortals are, and it is not so easy tracking them; but I am not here for the discussion of spiritualism, and I must not hold Myra too long. Please write to Madame Dumark, Auxile Place, France, and ask if there was not a young man in her home for more than a year before I came to settle the estate business—a young man calling himself Jean Rictor, and who disappeared soon after I left; take the address down, please."

They did so. "Now, good-night." They could get nothing more, and when Mrs. Lenox came to herself and was shown the address, she was simply astonished.

"But before you tell me anything more, I will tell you what I saw last night," she said.

"I slept a while and then awoke in a condition that may be described as very wide-awake. M. Costin, or Paul, as I always call him, was standing at the foot of my bed. He smiled and pointed to the east, and I saw in the distance the inside of a residence. There were three people in it, a woman and two young men, and one of the young men was very much like Paul. I turned to look at him, so as to compare them, when I saw just in front of him, the words, 'My half-brother, watch.'

"I looked again, and saw Paul there, saw money paid him, saw him leave, saw the other young man follow him, saw him struck down; then all was blank, and I knew nothing more till morning."

"He must have been murdered," said Mrs. Raymond; "when did you say you last heard from him?"

"Just after he landed in France, more than a year ago."

"If upon writing we learn that it was as has been stated about that young man, I shall be willing to investigate this new ism," said George.

"It will do no harm to investigate whether we hear from France or not," said Mabel. "If the psychic power of those in this life can affect us for good or ill, I do not see why it may not be continued after the death of the body; but the trouble is, the masses of those who accept this idea seem to depend upon spirits and be guided by them. M. Costin was my friend. I loved him as a teacher, and had great respect for him as a man, but could I positively know what I am inclined to believe true, to wit, that he has talked to us to-night, I should no more think of allowing him to control my life than I did when he was here."

"There is another thought in connection with this subject, that makes it worthy of investigation. If those who are called dead really can make themselves felt, and can control certain organizations, they can affect the character of the child by their influence upon the prospective mother," said Mrs. Raymond; "and Mabel, the summer before thee camest to my arms, I read the life of George Fox and I admired his character very much, and I have thought that reading had its effect upon thy character; but it may be true that George Fox himself was present, thus giving thee that devotion to humanity that has so far marked thy life, dear."

"And the Quaker is here now," said Walter; "please ask him if that is why she likes the name so well; not exactly George Fox but George Gray—might make it gray fox."

"Thou art profane in thy speech, young man. Sacred subjects should not be thus handled," was the response.

"And that is just what the Christians say of their Bible, Mr. Quaker, but I do not revere it, all the same."

"Thou art incorrigible, son of thy mother," was said, in the same deep tone.

Walter straightened himself up to his full height. "No insinuations against my mother," he said.

Mrs. Lenox laughed: "It is Paul playing Quaker," she said, "but the first speaker was a Quaker, he stands a little back."

"Yes, and it was done to show thee how much chance there is for deception, if there is a motive for deceiving. Beware; investigate as if handling edge tools, or poisons." Here Mrs. Raymond gave a start, and then said: "Are we all going crazy? I know what I said, but I did not seem to say it myself;" and then she added, "it was Walter's mischief that changed the influence."

Mrs. Lenox here remarked: "I once heard a very ignorant but devoted Methodist say of her son, who did not seem to me very bright, 'I know he'll be a great man, for I was under the influence of the Lord's spirit for months before his birth."

"Just the reason why his brain should be soft," said George; "she fed him on namby pamby emotions, he was as happy as a clam and thought as little; why shouldn't his brain be clammy-like?"

"Yes, but the same idea is expressed, that of ante-natal influences, and if Jesus, the man they call Lord, or the thought of him, could affect one child, the devotion to spiritualism, the sitting in circles, and the constant reaching out for development felt by so many, must affect many children, and not always in the best way."

"I see that this is one of the subjects that must be understood, in order to perfect motherhood," said Mabel.

"And the dangerous element in it is the idea of submission to the unseen world, that has been inherited from the churches," added Mrs. Raymond.

"And the personal God idea is the source of that," continued George, "and I have come to the conclusion that those who worship such a God, no matter how good they may be, or how earnest as reformers, are really helping to chain humanity, instead of advancing the cause of liberty; and whatever their work, if they put God in the front, give such an ideal being the credit of every advance step, such work cannot be on the side of freedom, for it is chaining the race to a throne."

"Our God shall lead us on," said Walter.

"Yes, that is what the temperance people sing, what the moral reform people sing, and what the churches sing; yet in every step of advance, it is they who lead their God on."

"Then you do not believe in God, Mr. Gray," said Mrs. Lenox.

"I do not believe in one infinite personality, but I believe there are gods many, and lords many in that life, as well as kings many in this, men who have held power here and want it there. The over-ruling, all pervading life is so much beyond our conception, that only ignorance will attempt it, and it seems to me to be the height of folly to worship we know not what, or that the infinite life-force ever recognizes such worship."

"To worship we know not what, Mr. Gray?"

"Yes, if we knew what, if we in our ignorance could comprehend, then where is your God? and if we cannot comprehend, if we worship at all, we worship we know not what, we pray to we know not what. If I should telephone for someone to come to me from some other part of the city, and did not know who I wanted, anyone could come who pleased. So of this praying to we know not what, and any spirit who loves power can come and fill us with a zeal that we call the love of God in our hearts. Nonsense!"

"I have often felt the same," said Mrs. Lenox, "but did not know how to express myself; I am glad to find one who has clear ideas on that question."

"It seems to me," said Mabel, "that such prayer is worse than nonsense, it is dangerous."

"And does not the same law apply to those who are always calling upon the 'dear spirits,' or sitting in circles for the spirits to come, and welcoming any tramp who happens to drop in and claims to be George Washington, or some other notable; George Washington Jones, with the Jones left off, and the son of some negro washwoman, perhaps," said Walter, with more earnestness than was usual to him.

"You are becoming eloquent, Walter," said his mother, "and I think there is a great deal of truth in what you say."

He had forgotten himself for a moment, and spoken out in real earnest, but the next moment he looked so abashed that they all laughed but Mrs. Lenox, and even she could not restrain a smile. He could clothe his feelings in nonsense and get along nicely under the cover, but here he had actually dropped his mask.

"Well, Mrs. Lenox, we shall write that letter, and I hope you will stay with us till we get a reply," said Mrs. Raymond, changing the subject.

"That depends upon how long it takes, but I will remain awhile," she replied; "but I am as well satisfied now as I ever can be."

The letter was written, and a few weeks brought a reply confirming the communication in every particular.

A few days after the letter was sent, Mabel and Mrs. Lenox were riding out, when suddenly Mrs. Lenox grasped Mabel's arm and exclaimed, "Look," pointing at the same time to a young man crossing the street.

Mabel looked in the direction indicated: "Why, that is Mr. Hapgood," she said; "I have known him ever since I was a little girl. He is Dr. Hapgood's oldest son."

"Are they Catholics?" asked Mrs. Lenox.

"I really don't know what they are."

"Has he been here all the time?"

"No, he was travelling in Europe for two or three years; has been back—let me think—yes, it is eleven months."

"That accounts for it!"

"Accounts for what, Mrs. Lenox?"

"He is the very man I saw that night, the first night I came, in that room in France, the one who followed Paul."

"No, no! it cannot be!" exclaimed Mabel.

Mrs. Lenox sank back unconscious, and the deep voice said: "Yes, it is; the plot was concocted here; his people are Jesuits; do not let him know he is suspected, you will endanger yourselves; tell no one but your mother and George."

"If they were watching for you in France, why did Father Bremen call here under another name, just after you left?" she asked.

"I do not know; to try to learn when I was to leave, perhaps; but no more now, I have other work to do."

When George was told of this he said: "Really, I begin to believe the Bible."

"I do not see what this has to do with believing the Bible," said his mother.

"Do we not read in Revelations of the beasts that had eyes on all sides—'before and behind,' I believe is the exact text; the beasts that praised God continually; the Catholic church is one of God's beasts."

The letter received from Madame Dumark stated that such a young man had been with them, had been the bosom friend of her son, and had disappeared very mysteriously; that she feared some mishap had befallen him, and begged to know why they inquired. They made no reply to this letter; they had learned all they wished to know, and further correspondence did not seem advisable.

CHAPTER XVII.

METHODS OF WORK.

THE effect upon Mabel of the discovery made the day she was out with Mrs. Lenox, was intense. She had never realized the immense sweep, the cool cunning, the subtlety of the Catholic Church as then, and when she remembered the words of M. Costin, to wit, that the spirit of the Protestant Church was the same in the central law of its life, she could hardly restrain herself from crying out in agony.

It seemed to her that the work she had chosen was like trying to lift a chain of mountains from off millions of children that were held down by their weight. "Oh, George," she said, "the little children, the little children, gestated from poisoned blood, and fed upon adder's food—what can be done? what can be done?" At night even, she would start from her sleep, and reaching out her arms, would cry out: "Save, save the children!"

Finally Mrs. Lenox said: "We must have some settled plan of work, or she will break down utterly."

"And what would you propose?" asked George, anxiously.

"We must meet and talk it over," she replied. "Say nothing to Mrs. Gray of this special cause of her excitement.

What we have received from Paul, coupled with its confirmation in the letter from France, will be sufficient basis for urging definite and cautious plans, and we will have Mary Green and Nellie in the consultation."

"Why do you object to Walter's knowing of that recognition on the street?" he asked.

"Because Mr. Raymond has not your caution, and his indignation would give some sign by which they would know that they were suspected."

"You may be right, madam," he said; "I think you are; but Miss Hibbard, a friend of the family, will be here in a day or so, and I would prefer to have only mother, yourself, and Miss Hibbard, besides my wife and I, present at the time. When our plans are once formed, we can act from them, and inform others only so far as is necessary in carrying them out."

"You would make a good Jesuit yourself, so far as secrecy is concerned," she laughingly said; "but go and tell Mrs. Gray; it will give her something to think of, and we will have our talk as soon as convenient after your friend comes. In the meantime, we will think and plan, so as to compare notes when we come together."

"If we knew more of their plans we could plan better; I wish we had some reliable ex-Catholic priest to help us," said George.

"Well, we haven't, unless Paul can help us by his influence upon our minds, and we must not rely upon anything of the kind; we must think for ourselves."

The next day Marion returned, but as she, too, needed time to think, the facts were laid before her, and the next evening was appointed for the consultation. Marion was a little inclined to laugh at what she called the mediumship vagary, when Mrs. Raymond began her story; but when she went on to tell of the recognition on the street, the confirmation by Madame Dumark of what Myra had seen clairvoyantly, coupled with the fact that Hapgood was said to be travelling in Europe at the time, the laugh gave place to rather a sober look.

"Well, there may be something in it; it is no more strange than what is told of Bible times," she said, thoughtfully.

"These accounts not only abound in Bible history, but in the history of all nations, Marion; every religion has been founded upon such phenomena, ignorantly accepted instead of intelligently investigated. Blind rejection will not down them; ignorant acceptance empowers the priesthood to enslave the people. The only sensible course is intelligent, unprejudged investigation."

"Your theory is plausible, to say the least," replied Marion; "but the world is so full of superstition, and this subject takes such a hold upon those who commence to investigate, that I confess I am afraid of it."

"Fear never probes falsehood to the bottom in a search after truth; don't tell me you are a coward," laughed Mrs. Raymond.

The next evening the five assembled in Mabel's room. The room occupied by Mrs. Lenox was proposed, but Mabel said, "No, I do not want to be psychologized by any foreign influence, and here I can hold the fort myself," so they deferred to her wishes.

She looked very pale as she sat back in her rocking-chair, and all regarded her with looks of tenderness. They were hardly seated before Walter rapped at the door. "Let him come in," she said, and so he became one of the party.

The first part of the conversation related to the subtlety of the Church, and the utter impossibility of securing the right conditions for motherhood while it retained its present power. Once or twice someone began a reference to Hapgood's case, then paused, and turned to something else. Walter looked from one to the other:

"You are keeping back something," he said.

"Tell him all," said Mrs. Lenox, in a tone that made Walter start.

"And so you were afraid to trust me with this?" he said.

"We only feared that you might inadvertently betray the fact that he was suspected," said his mother.

"Mother, you don't know me. I could be a vendetti in killing rats," he said, with a look that startled them all.

"Speaking of rats," said George, "reminds me that secret undermining will accomplish what open warfare cannot do."

"Countermining; our designs must be kept secret." said Miss Hibbard. Mabel looked from one to another, but as yet had said nothing. She now remarked:

"I dislike secret ways, paths that are winding; but if we would dislodge rats, I suppose we must go into the cellar."

Mrs. Lenox looked at Mabel for some moments, in silence. At length she said: "Mrs. Gray, feeling these things as intensely as you do, you ought to travel."

"In what way could I benefit the cause by travelling, Mrs. Lenox?"

"If you had some ostensible reason to give to the public—failing health, for instance—and could spend a month, two months, three, or more, as seemed best, in a place, make acquaintances, scatter carefully prepared printed matter, statistics, etc., much quiet work could be done in that way."

Mabel's eyes began to brighten: "I see," she said, "a broad field in that direction; but George should have some business that would bring him in contact with the people, and I could form classes and talk with women, not the uppertendom, but the wives of mechanics, artisans, etc.; but it needs money to do all this."

"Yes, dear," said George, "but I can easily find some business that will support us both; and you can charge a small price for your lessons, sell books when you can, and give them away when you choose; and you could use the interest on your money to pay for printing, purchasing books, etc."

Here Walter settled back and burst into a hearty laugh, and Mrs. Lenox got up and went quickly to the door—went quickly, but quietly. She stood there perhaps half a minute, and then threw it wide open, confronting the girl who had been doing chamber and dining-room work for the last six months, and who was known to be a regular attendant at the Methodist church.

"What do you want, Nancy?" asked Mrs. Raymond.

"I wish to go out a while, and wanted to ask if there was anything to prevent."

"Not in the least; you can go just as well as not, only come back in good time," she replied; while Mrs. Lenox crossed the hall and went into her own room, as though her opening the door just then was accidental.

"She shall be discharged," said Walter, as soon as she had gone.

Mrs. Lenox had returned immediately: "No, you must not do that," she said; "keep her, treat her with seeming confidence, but be watchful, and, while keeping your own counsel, drop now and then a word that will mislead."

"I wonder if she heard anything?" said Miss Hibbard.

"No, I think I felt her coming; I was at the door first."

"Do you think, Mrs. Lenox, that one person can feel another's mind?"

"Certainly, Miss Hibbard, and not only the action of another's mind but physical danger, that by its impending cause changes the vibrations of the atmosphere. I was reading, not long since, an essay upon that very subject, and the writer said people who were sensitive often moved just in time to save themselves from being crushed by falling timbers, or some other danger; and the superstitious called it an intervention of Providence, or of spirits, when it was simply the power of their own spirits to feel such subtle changes."

Walter by this time had forgotten his laugh, and was looking as serious as any of them. Mabel resumed the subject of travel and self-support, and though Walter tried to create a diversion by picturing the horrors of Madam Grundy upon learning that Judge Raymond's daughter was earning her bread, the effort fell flat even upon himself.

"I am delighted with the plan," said Mabel, "for it will give me a feeling of dignity that elegant idleness could never impart; and as I have married a farmer's son, why should I not work?" glancing playfully at George.

"It is just the thing; she feels better already," thought he, as he made a retort of a similar nature.

"But what about books, printing, and matters of that kind? A secret that is not suspected is the safest, and if printed matter follows us from place to place, our object may be discovered and impeded, where otherwise it would not be," said Mabel.

"Oh, that can be easily enough managed," said George; "we can have them expressed in a way that the contents of the packages will not be known, and they can be sent from different points; your Kansas colony can be made available."

Marion here interposed: "I cannot see," she said, "the why of so much secrecy; others openly oppose the present order of things, and why cannot we?"

"We can when the right time comes; but the crows cannot pull up corn if they do not know where it is planted; and if you frighten the fish beforehand, they will not take the bait."

Marion laughed: "I can understand the crow parable, sir, but that of the fish is not quite so clear."

"How many of the Church people, or of those who do not belong to, but are in sympathy with the Church, would listen to us or read our books and pamphlets, if we gave out our object in full, Miss Hibbard?" he replied.

"Yes, but this sneaking way looks so cowardly; and, besides, when the battle is won, those who have been outspoken will get the credit, that is, if the battle is ever won."

"Don't say if, Marion," said Mabel; "and were we working for the credit, instead of the cause, your objection would be valid; but, as it is, such reasoning has no bearing on the question. Still, I do not undervalue the bold, outspoken workers, for they will make such work as we propose the more effectual."

"How is that?" asked Walter.

"By engaging the attention of the enemy. Let the Church, and those most interested in our present system of robbery, called business, suppose that all attacks upon them are open attacks, and our way is comparatively clear."

"Well, sis, you are a reasoner," he replied.

"You are in the right, Mrs. Gray," said Mrs. Lenox.

"And Miss Hibbard yields the point," laughed Marion.

"The next point is the kind of literature to be circulated," said George.

"And the kind of lessons Mabel is to teach," said Mrs. Raymond.

"I think that something must be prepared for the purpose, mother; a course of lessons, first showing the effect that the conditions of the mother have upon the child; then, showing the things that stand in the way of perfect motherhood; and, lastly, suggesting the thought that whatever it is that stands in the way must be changed."

"Yes, dear, that is just what is needed in your efforts with women, only you want to so present your subjects as to make them suggestive to the minds of your hearers that the change—the revolution—must come, rather than declare it directly."

"You mean, mother, that I shall manage to make it seem to them that that thought comes from themselves; thank you. But what about the printed lessons?"

"Something must be prepared for them, too, and they must also be in such shape as will lead the reader to his own conclusions."

"And who is to do all this writing, prepare all these lessons?" asked Marion.

"I expect you will help," replied Mabel; "and Mrs. Lenox, here, and mamma, Walter, George, and I, will do our part."

Just here Mrs. Lenox held up a warning finger. She had remained near the door with one ear toward it, from the time she had confronted Nancy in the earlier part of the evening. She had previously covered the keyhole, and now all were mute. Those nearest the door caught the sound of a slow, cautious footstep. It stopped opposite the door a moment, and then passed on without any further attempt at concealment.

"That girl is certainly a spy," said Mrs. Lenox, in a low tone.

Walter made an unintelligible sound that spoke of disgust and indignation. It drew the attention of all, and they saw upon his face a conclusion of some kind, but could not tell what. The next day he began chatting very familiarly with Nancy, quietly complimented her, teased her, and occupied her attention in various ways.

The others noticed it, were somewhat surprised, but said nothing. The next day he hardly spoke to her, and the next took considerable notice of her. This continued for several days, and, as Nancy was really a pretty girl, it looked very much like a flirtation.

"Take care, or I shall tell Nellie," said George.

"What business is it of Nellie's?" he asked; but his flushed face told that he felt an interest in his sister's friend that he felt in no other lady.

A week had not passed before, in some unaccountable way, Miss Nancy fell and broke her ankle. No, Walter was not with her, but somehow the others could not rid themselves of the feeling that he had in some way brought it about. He had left her about five minutes before, and just as she fell George heard him call to her from the upper porch. He ran to her when he heard the outcry, picked her up and carried her to a lounge; but the look on his face was one of triumph, instead of sympathy.

But Nancy watched no more at chamber-doors. As soon as it was possible she was removed to her own home, and she never returned. Mrs. Raymond bore the expense occasioned by the accident, and the others were equally kind. The girl suggested another to take her place till she should be able to fill it again; but Mrs. Raymond, Miss Hibbard, and Mabel divided her work between them, till they could send to Kansas, and have Sarah Baker send them one on whom they could rely; and from that time forth they were very cautious as to whom they employed.

One thing more; they afterward learned that Nancy's parents were Catholics, and that for some time before coming to the Raymonds she had been at work for the elder Hapgood's family.

"All this espionage has come about because of M. Costin," said Mrs. Lenox.

"Poor fellow, I loved him as a brother," said George.

Walter said nothing, but there came that same dark look over his face, as when he said he could be a perfect vendetti in killing rats.

Mrs. Raymond watched this new development in her son's character anxiously, but said nothing.

One day he said to her: "I wish I had Hapgood's likeness. I do not like to be unjust to him, and if I had his likeness I would send it to Mrs. Dumark, and if she recognized it I should then feel satisfied that he is really a Jesuit, and murdered M. Costin."

"As long as nothing can be done about it, I do not see what good it would do," she replied.

"It would do me a good deal of good, and I mean to have it," he said, and then again that swift look of hatred and determination.

From then on, for several weeks, he seemed deeply interested in photography, and was at times seen in Hapgood's company; once he brought him home to tea, telling his mother at noon that she need not be surprised if he brought home company. When she asked who, he only said, "Perhaps not any one."

After tea they repaired to the parlor, and he managed to get Hapgood and Mabel to looking over the large album, and then he sat back and watched. Presently Hapgood asked:

"Who is that fine-looking gentleman?"

"That," she replied, "is a likeness of our family teacher; he was with us for several years, but has gone to France now."

"You hear from him, I presume?"

"We have not heard very lately."

"Of whom are you speaking, Mabel?" asked Walter.

"Of M. Costin."

"Oh, yes, did you never meet him, Mr. Hapgood? He was an excellent teacher, but very peculiar; he never said very much of himself, and had few correspondents. We always thought he had some deep trouble of some kind. I believe he did write once after he left, but not since."

"I think I met him once, and that's why the face seemed familiar," and then they turned over the leaf, and no more was said about M. Costin; but Walter had scrutinized every expression of countenance as closely as a cat watches a mouse.

A few days afterward Walter came in with Hapgood's likeness. "No matter how I got it," he said, "so that I have it. Please, Mrs. Lenox, take this, go to Philadelphia, and from there write a letter to Mrs. Dumark, telling her what you have seen, who you are, what M. Costin has said through you, and enclose this. I will bear all the expense. Give a false name in your address, and then return here, please."

"And suppose I do not do all you mention," she asked, smiling at his earnestness.

"Then please do what you please, so that the likeness gets there."

She took the likeness, and said, "I will manage it."

The next morning she announced at the breakfast-table that she was going to Newark, N. J., to spend a few days; but instead she went to a little country town some twenty miles beyond, and finding a photographer she got several tintype copies of the likeness he had given her; then, selecting the best one, wrote the letter to Mrs. Dumark, and enclosing the tintype, mailed the letter on the train while on her way back.

She requested Mrs. Dumark to mail her reply to Boston, in care of a friend there, at the same time writing to her friend to enclose any mail that came to such a name in a letter to her at New York, "and I will explain when I come," she said; "and be sure you name it to no one." She then destroyed the likeness Walter had given her, so that in no case it could ever be traced to any of them. She had a strong suspicion that he had stolen it from Hapgood's home, as she knew he had been there.

In due time the reply came. "Yes, it was the very man; where was he?" But there was no reply sent back.

Mabel and Walter were busily preparing for their work, Miss Hibbard and the others aiding as far as they could. M. Costin came no more, or, if he did, Mrs. Lenox never named it; but after the reply to her letter containing the likeness, she told Mabel how she had managed, and said: "I did as I felt I must."

Walter and young Hapgood continued their intimacy, and when his mother objected, he replied:

"I cannot break with him in a minute, mother; he would suspect something."

One day, about a month after this, the two young men went out in a small boat together, and by some means the boat was upset. Walter reached the land, but Hapgood was drowned. George noticed, soon after Walter came home and changed his clothes, that he put something in the stove and built a fire over it.

"I am chilly," he said; but George always believed it to be a cork jacket that Walter burned, though he never named it to anyone till years afterward.

Mrs. Raymond, however, could not divest herself of the feeling that Walter was in some way connected with Hapgood's death, and she said as much one day to Marion.

"I hope he did," was her reply. "There is no question but he murdered M. Costin, and there was no other way to reach him."

Mrs. Raymond said no more then, but she afterward told how bitterly she felt at one time, before Walter was born, toward a man who abused a poor girl living at his house. "I felt as if I would like to kill him," she said, "and I never felt so before nor since."

"And is it that feeling that you fear Walter has lived out, Mary?" asked Miss Hibbard.

"It maybe, Marion; I have sometimes thought it was."

Soon after this, Mabel and George started on their mission of love, and for ten years they worked quietly, continuously. The idea went abroad that Mrs. Gray was in delicate health and travel was considered necessary; and so it was, but not as they understood it. They made no blow, no pretentions, but were quietly sowing seed for future harvests. Their acquaintance inquired after them for a time, and then they were forgotten by all except the personal friends who knew and sympathized with their purpose.

Mabel during this time bore one child, a boy, but he had not vitality enough to live. As she looked upon its tiny form when arrayed for the grave, she said:

"I have given the life of my son, my first-born, for the world. In my earnestness to prepare the way for coming generations I have used up the life-force that should have been his."

They had investigated Spiritualism till they were satisfied of continued life, so felt that their baby would be cared for and unfolded in a higher condition of life than he could have had here under existing conditions, and they were content.

Yes, they accepted the facts of continued life and the communication between those there and here, under some conditions, but they never sought tests when once so satisfied, for they believed that those who were in sympathy with their work would come and help them so far as they could, when it was best they should do so—that they need no more teasing to do this than the mother needs to be reminded of the needs of her child.

Neither did they in any way recognize anything that savored of a personal God, nor anything of what is called Christian Spiritualism. Having satisfied themselves of another life, they let it rest there, and worked for this life while here. That life would take care of itself when it was reached.

"Yes," said Mabel, "I have given my only son for the world, but I have not worked up the lives of other mothers' sons to gain wealth, and I am glad that I have not."

At the end of ten years they returned to the old home for rest, and to collate facts that they had gathered, and illustrate the principles involved in book form.

Mrs. Lenox and Miss Hibbard had also been at work, each in their own way, but they had also been quiet workers.

Walter had married Nellie Stone and remained with his parents. Three bright children were theirs—Mabel, George, and Marion. Mary Greene had married and gone to the Kansas farm with her husband. Mabel had continued her plan of settling those she thought worthy upon the land there, holding the title herself till they had paid her the actual cost of the land, and whatever else had been furnished, and then using the money to settle others in the same way, till now there were ten families with twenty acres each, leaving one hundred and twenty acres still unappropriated, and that she resolved to hold, as she had the principal of what M. Costin had given her, for some purpose in the future.

The interest on M. Costin's gift had been used mostly in adding to the effectiveness of their work while travelling.

Having now summed up, so far as is possible, the work done thus far, we will let them rest a few months before tracing their further plans.

One more statement. "We can afford to rest awhile," said George, "for I can count from fifteen to twenty active workers of both sexes who have told us that their first start came from something that Mabel or I said to them, first-fruits, Mabel calls them, and more of the crop to ripen."

Mabel looked smilingly into her husband's face as she said: "It is not what we can afford, dear, but what seems best."

"Oh, you would never rest if you could help it," he replied.

"I enjoy my work, George, and only rest because I must. The next life must be full of work, if it is heaven to me, and I hope I shall not be subject to weariness there."

He bent down and kissed her lips, and sighed to think how much of her life had already gone into her work; and indeed she did look so ethereal, one could almost fancy that she might vanish like a spirit.

CHAPTER XVIII.

RESULTS AND NEW PLANS.

TWENTY-ONE years have passed since a child asked 'why' upon the most important question that can occupy human thought. Yes, the most important, for no outreaching toward the unknown that we designate as God, or what maybe our fate in another life, can for a moment compare with the question of human perfection here and now.

"If natural laws are unvarying, then, another existence conceded, the same laws must hold good there as here. All that tends toward the common centre of a sphere must be down, and its opposite up, there as well as here. Love must be sweet and hate bitter, harmony heaven, and discord hell, two and two four, and eight divided by four two, there as well as here, and all the personal commands of all the personal Gods in the universe can have no more effect upon these immutable, axiomatic laws than did the command of the king to the waves that they should not wet his royal feet."

Such were the words of George Gray, as addressed to the friends assembled in Judge Raymond's parlor, after the three months' rest taken at the close of ten years of travel. During these years there had been a remarkable growth of radical thought, many of the best workers in the country taking substantially the same ground as did Mabel and George, some of whom had been educated by them.

Several advanced thinkers, to whom they were personally unknown, had been invited because of having put themselves upon record before the public as earnest radicals. Miss Hibbard and Mrs. Lenox were there, with several ladies that they had interested. George opened the meeting, as above, while Mabel sat beside him with a look upon her face that seemed pleading with those present for the knowledge of a more efficient plan of work.

"Human perfection here and now," continued George, "is the most important of all subjects, for only in the expansion of the intellectual, moral, and spiritual nature can happiness be found. It matters not where we may be, whether in this life or the life to come, we must possess the power of hearing and seeing, or we cannot enjoy beautiful sights or harmonious sounds: If our moral natures are undeveloped, if we have no sense of justice, of right-doing one toward another, then we can never enjoy society, for society would have no use for us, even in heaven.

"But what are our spiritual faculties, it may be asked, for though this part of our human heritage is generally an accepted fact, yet there is no very clear idea of what it is. 'It is goodness,' says one. 'It is religion,' says another. 'It is devotion,' remarks a third; while another says 'it is living above the world.'

"It is none of these. It is the capability that we possess for abstract happiness, a happiness that does not come from eating, drinking, and sleeping; it is the development of our finer selfhood in harmony with the finer life of nature. It is that which can enjoy the beautiful, the grand, the tender, sweet, harmonious currents of life; it is that which can do this unconnected with the idea of dollars and cents. It is the heart, the aroma, the sweetness of life—the power to sense and make it our own.

"Such an unfoldment here for all, coupled with the intellectual power, or wisdom to adapt external conditions to such unfolded selfhood will give us heaven here, and without it there is, there can be, no true happiness anywhere. A clod of earth can sense no happiness, and the more stupid, the more like clods we are, the less the happiness possible to us.

"But the naturally appointed way to unfold the race in these finer forces—capabilities—is through the law of motherhood. Take a common grub and feed it upon the right food and it becomes a queen-bee. Surround the mothers with that which is sweet, beautiful, tender, strong, and noble; call out the best in her nature, and the birdling nestling beneath her heart is fed upon that which will make it a king or a queen in its own right; but subject the mother to coarse surroundings, to brutal sights and sounds, to overwork and privation, and that birdling comes forth a bat; a stupid, blind, weak, or brutal creature.

"Then our work as humanitarians, as lovers of our race, is all summed up in these words: To find and remove all that stands in the way of the best motherhood. Weigh the words well, and let not the greatness of the work appal you: 'To find and remove all that stands in the way of the best motherhood.' No interest in any other life can possibly compare with this; it involves the unfolding, the fair proportions, the strength, the power of the soul itself. Now what are the things that stand in woman's way, and what the best methods of removing them?"

A young man, by the name of Brisko, who had not been long in the work, arose and said: "Friends, I hope you will not think me presuming, but it seems to me that no more worthy cause has ever demanded the attention of thinking men and women, and that each and every one of us should be instant in season and out of season in showing our colors and propagating our ideas."

"Pardon me for the thought," said Mrs. Lenox, "but will not seed planted out of season require too much nursing?"

"I only quoted a Scripture phrase, madam, and it seems to me the growth of the Church ought to show the wisdom of the course."

"The Church never made any great headway till it allied itself with the ruling power, and for us to do this would be our defeat. Our work lies across the path of the ruling powers of the world; we must oppose their combined forces and never recede an inch," said George.

"Well, I believe in open warfare, Mr. Gray; no covering up for me. Your way may be the best, as I understand that you have been quietly at work for ten years, and yet I have never heard your name in connection with any of the reforms of the day."

"Perhaps not, Mr. Brisko; but will you please tell me how you first came to think upon these questions?"

"It was from reading this little book, sir. A friend gave it to me, said it had been sent to him by some one; that there were many good things in it, but he could not quite endorse it all. Well, sir, I was delighted with it; I endorse it all, and I have talked to every one who would listen, and it has been read by several. I wouldn't part with it for anything. Would you like to look at it?" George took the book, glanced at it, and handed it to Mabel. "I am sure you will like it, and I will lend it to you for a few days; I would give anything to see the writer."

"Thank you," said George, "I have read it."

"If you knew the writers as well as I do, you might feel differently," said Walter.

"And you have read it, Mr. Gray! and you know who wrote it, Mr. Raymond!" said Brisko, looking from one to the other as though he could not understand how they could be so cool about it.

George stooped down and whispered to Walter's little Mabel, and she left the room. "Yes, Mr. Brisko, I have read it," he said, "and like the ideas very much; but think with more experience the writers might express them better, more forcibly."

"I cannot see how they could be better expressed," said Brisko, looking somewhat crestfallen to hear his favorite book criticised.

Little Mabel now came back, bringing with her two books of the same kind. "Give them to auntie," said George, glancing at his wife and then at the gentleman. Mabel took them, and turning to Mr. Brisko, she said:

"Allow me, sir, to present you these, with thanks for your high appreciation of my husband's and my own work. I know you will make good use of them."

"Who! what! You don't say you wrote the book?" exclaimed the astonished man, as he sank abashed into his seat.

"It is our joint work, sir, and we have sold and distributed over two thousand of them. I hope none have fallen into worse hands than your own, sir."

"Well, I never," was all the reply the man could make.

George turned to the company and said: "I appreciate the gentleman's feeling. Open and direct warfare would be much more congenial to my feelings; but we decided, Mrs. Gray and I, that wisdom was in this case the better part of valor, that rats might undermine a building that cannon could not blow down, and we were willing to follow the lesson of the rats and work out of sight, and right glad are we to find skirmishers in front attracting attention from the undermining.

"We never paid a newspaper a dollar for advertising us, never scattered circulars on the street, but went quietly at work with the well-to-do class of people. Mrs. Gray has gone to the minister's wife and interested her in physiological facts belonging to motherhood, has listened to their prayers and Bible-reading, and has adroitly turned their own weapons into tools to help further our cause. We have taught them certain truths with a shade of difference in the application, thus leaving room for bigger wedges.

"We never gave out very radical books personally, unless to known radicals, but quietly took the names of such as we felt were ready to read, and mailed them our strong works, they not knowing from whence they came. Books of less pronounced character we sold. Thus we never aroused opposition; no warning words were sent after us as we went from one place to another, and we have thus made ourselves acquainted with much that we could not otherwise have reached, which will be of use to us in the future.

"One thought more. We never followed the command or example of Jesus, by going into the highways and byways to gather up the wrecks of a false system, and we never associated with publicans or harlots. It may be Christian work to save them, if they can be saved to this life, but it is not wise in those who contemplate building anew to waste time in trying to cement the rotten fibres of the old. As individuals we pity them, but still must leave them to mother nature to work over in her own laboratory, while we deal with the causes which have made such wrecks.

"We do not mean to say that we ever treated them unkindly, or with contempt, but we never tried to work them over into sound timber. Neither do we claim that the quiet way in which we have worked is the way that all should work. We know it is not. Some can do their best work only when opposed."

"Then it is the righteous, and not the sinner, that you would reach," said one.

"I hardly know how to answer that question so as to be understood; perhaps a comparison will help me. Would you spend your time with the wounded and helpless if you were recruiting soldiers to meet an enemy?"

"Certainly not, sir."

"Well, that is what we are doing. We are recruiting the comparatively sound, mentally and morally—educating them and ourselves to fight the greatest battle the world has ever known, and we cannot afford to spend our time on the mentally and morally diseased. Our work does not consist in trying to save the wrecked, but in preparing to destroy the wreckers; am I understood?"

"Yes, Mr. Gray, I understand what you mean; but is the case really so desperate that we may not care for the wounded while fighting the enemy?"

"Those who have been forced down among the wrecks, but are not yet crushed, may be rescued to advantage if it can be done without detracting from the main work."

"Mr. Gray," said another, "your position is correct, and in a physical warfare the principle can be readily seen; but when it comes to a conflict of ideas the reasoning is not so apparent. If I understand you rightly you would not try to save a man who had inherited a love for liquor, unless you could put him where he could not get it, this not as a punishment but as the only method of cure, and so of all other forms of vice."

"Something like that, under our present system; but under a new and correct system the healthy moral atmosphere would cure such diseased conditions with little or no restraint. Perhaps, however, a few facts from real life will better show the folly of trying to save the wrecked while the wreckers are still at work, also the folly of allowing any man, or set of men, to control public necessities because they have the money to purchase, and the law of property permits one to do what he pleases with his own."

"Are property rights to be interfered with?" asked another.

"You shall judge for yourself, sir. During the great wheat corner of 1879 a company of men got control of some sixty million bushels of wheat. This attempt to rob the people through the power of money was headed by a man of this city, and during the winter four hundred vessels lay in our harbor for months begging for cargoes. Hungry children in other lands as well as in our own country were crying for bread, but those men held the wheat till they could get their own price, utterly regardless of the suffering caused. Suppose, sir, that our government should send out word that every man, woman, and child in the country should give fifty cents each, to some one man, and should attempt to enforce the order, what would you think?"

"What would I think! I would call upon every man in the country to arm and resist."

"That was what was done in that case through the law of property rights. Those men first ran down the price of wheat by the means of a systematic effort, using the press to circulate their lies; then they bought it up, and would not sell till they got fifty-one and a half cents per bushel more than they paid. The cent and a half would pay the cost of handling, thus leaving a clear gain of thirty million dollars, taken from sixty million people."

"But what had government to do with that?"

"It stood back and looked on, and, had the hungry people attempted to take one bushel of that grain, its guns would have been turned against them. They would have been shot down like dogs."

"Of course, the law must be sustained."

"To hell with such laws, and with the governments that uphold them," said Walter, rising to his feet, and then sitting quickly down again, because there was not room for back and forth locomotion.

"My son, you forget."

"No, mother, I do not forget; but when a man is more than full he must have vent or burst, and that wouldn't be pleasant here," he added, looking around upon the company with his old-time drollery.

This created a general laugh, and gave Walter relief. Then George continued:

"One of the oldest members of the Produce Exchange prepared for the Legislature an estimate showing that that company of men, by not selling, by not allowing others to sell, by the injury done to the milling and shipping interest, and from results in various other ways, caused a loss to the country of not less than three hundred million dollars—five dollars to every man, woman, and child—destroyed in order that a company of men may get fifty cents out of each; and the government permits, sustains it, because property rights must not be meddled with.

"But this estimate of the cost only contemplates business losses; we who have been looking beneath the surface have another view to present; the cost in human wrecks, the cost in manufactured criminals, the cost in children born damned—in mothers' hearts broken—of women driven to prostitution and men to desperation—this cost flowing down the stream of time and embittering life in all its channels.

"Statistics show, as gathered by Dr. Farr, that in England, when the price of wheat rises even less than it was forced up by those natural productions of our present system of society, robber-fiends, that the death-rate is increased three per cent. Allowing for the different conditions here, and calling the increase one-half per cent., and we have three hundred thousand deaths as the result. What killed them? Unlimited property rights.

"How many women were forced into prostitution to save their children from starving? What did it? Unlimited property rights. Well, you can carry out the idea for yourselves, and ask and answer the question if the united efforts of all Christendom, taking their Sunday meetings, their denominational schools, their missionary efforts, their charities, and the efforts of individuals, all combined, have saved as many in five years as were destroyed by this single agency in one, to say nothing of all the other grinding machines extant."

"The following lines, written by an ex-lunatic, contain the keenest sarcasm upon church methods of saving the world of anything I have ever seen," said Miss Hibbard:

"Oh, ye paid and trusted leaders,
Listen while you hold your breath—
In this land of Bible readers,
Wives and mothers starve to death."

Walter drew a long breath; "Well, folkses, God, the church, and the government say we must have law and order, that property rights must be respected; and what are we going to do about it?"

"We will leave God out of the question as an unknown quantity, and turn our attention to the other two," said Mrs. Lenox.

"And what guns shall we use?" he continued.

"Masked batteries, till a breach is made in the walls; paper guns, in the form of books, do good execution."

"And that brings me to a plan that Mrs. Gray and myself have been thinking of. During our years of travel we have taken thousands of names——"

Just here an aged lady who had come with one of the parties, and of whom but little was known but that she was intelligent, poor, and had suffered, arose and said: "Pardon me, please, for the interruption, but I would like to say a word about the wrecks of society."

"We will listen with pleasure, Mrs. Proctor," replied George, bowing respectfully.

She hesitated a moment: "I hardly know how to commence," she said, "but I felt that I must speak. I was left motherless at fifteen; was untaught in all that it was most vital for me to know. We were very poor, and my father worked very hard to support us. Presently he took another wife, and I, to escape from my wretched home, married a comparative stranger, and became a mother before I was eighteen. I learned, when my boy was nearly two years old, that his father had another living wife, and I took my child and left him.

"Gerald Massey says of those who reject the prevailing idea of hell and the devil: 'Ours is the devil of heredity;' and it has proved both hell and the devil to me. I can say, truthfully, that I came of an honest family. The idea of crime as connected with any of them was unknown. His father was not a thief, but the fact that he deceived me, making me believe he was a widower, is proof that he was not morally honest; but the curse of crime, as I afterward learned, was in that family, and though born of honest blood on his mother's side of the house, and taken away from his father before he was old enough to remember him, my son, in spite of all that I could do, has grown up a criminal." Here she broke down and sobbed aloud, and there was not a dry eye in the room as those present saw the convulsive anguish that shook her frail form.

As soon as she could command herself she resumed: "He came out of prison, and I thought that after that terrible experience he would do better if he could have a chance, so I risked the few hundreds I had saved and tried to help him—this for his sake, and for his wife and children. He robbed me of it all, left his family and fled, and to-day I do not know where he is, and I am left to toil for my daily bread, while the keenest of sorrow embitters my life."

Again she choked, but forced herself to continue: "But this infliction upon your sensibilities is uncalled for unless a lesson can be learned from it; the point I wish to reach is this: Had I known of the danger I could have prevented the result, even after conception, for my natural dislike for dishonesty and untruthfulness would have been aroused for that purpose; but as it was, I had not the least idea that I had any power to affect my child either way.

"Still my nature has so far prevailed in him that his life has been one long conflict with himself. For years he would so conduct himself that he would have the confidence of all who knew him, then he would commence being restless, and it seemed as if he could not stop till he had spoiled it all. I did not give him up till he was over forty years of age, and, at times, my agony has been so great that I have cursed the hour he was conceived and the day in which he was born," and, shaking in every limb, the wretched mother staggered from the room.

"I think," said Mrs. Lenox, "I must add my testimony——"

"On the side of the Lord, as the Methodists say," interrupted Walter, dashing away a tear, but relieving the intense feeling that pervaded the room.

Without noting the interruption, she continued: "I have a letter from which I will read an extract, promising that the lady who wrote it is very sympathetic and has been wont to accuse me of cruelty because I have refused to spend time in trying to save individual wrecks. She says:

" 'You remember the woman I took in last winter, the one who told so pitiful a tale of the way she had been crushed, and how glad she would be to reform if she had a chance.' By the way, my friend is a poor woman and depends upon her son for support. She says:

" 'I kept her with me four months, and she was so winning, so sweet, that I learned to love her very much.

She was sick a good deal, and I took care of her. Finally she grew very angry at some trifling thing, and so abused me that I sent her away, and I then learned that the change in her treatment of me came from a feeling of anger because she could not seduce my son, and she has since annoyed us in many ways; and her known character, with the fact that she was with us so long, has injured us very much in the eyes of those who do not know the facts. Myra, you are right; I am done trying to save society's wrecks."

"Thank you, Mrs. Lenox," said George, when she had finished, "I am very glad to have these results of personal experience. If, as in Mrs. Proctor's case, even a mother has to give up in despair, of what use is it for others to try? Moral hospitals should be established for such, where kind treatment and restraint go hand in hand, but we who work to destroy the causes which produce such results have no time nor means to establish such."

"And no power to hold them there if we had," said Mrs. Raymond.

"And of what use would such wrecks be to our cause, even if seemingly heart and soul with us, and, I may add, really in feeling, for it is but a feeling. They are swayed by the emotions, have no fixed principle, and we could never trust them, should not know at what moment they would cover us with disgrace," remarked Miss Hibbard.

"I am glad of what has been said," continued George, "but it is growing late, and with your permission I will now present the plan of which my wife and I have been thinking. We have, as I said, taken a great many names during our ten years' travel, and now we want to utilize them. Mrs. Gray has held ten thousand dollars for over twelve years, in trust, for this work, feeling all the time that the principal——"

"It has been on interest, then?" remarked Mr. Brisko.

Here was another criticism to be met, as the man had previously declared that interest must go, and his tone was one of blame.

"Yes, and a portion of that interest has been used to help sow the seed which will eventually destroy the system which allows interest, and another portion has been used to purchase country homes for poor but worthy people, giving them time to pay back the original cost, but without interest, and she has now ten families who have been thus settled; any one of them would lay down their very lives for this cause if the occasion required it. Besides, there are thirty children being prepared for future work, and not an unsound timber among them; pretty good use, I think, she has made of her means."

Several expressed warm approval, and our critic said no more.

"But now the time has come, as I was saying, that she feels we can use the principal to good advantage, and as much more as we can get. She proposes to write a story in which the principles we advocate, and the importance of true motherhood, shall be illustrated from life, and that which stands in the way shall be shown as vividly as possible. This book we shall publish; also an appeal to mothers. We shall take a summary of the book and the appeal, use them as circulars, and mail one to all the names we have, and get as many more as we can. We must print at least a hundred thousand of these circulars."

"To mail that number of circulars separately will cost a thousand dollars in postage-stamps," said Walter, "to say nothing of the cost of paper, printing, envelopes and labor of mailing. I think your ten thousand will soon be gone."

"We hope some of you will try to aid us," continued George, "for we ought to send out an appeal to every thinking woman in the country."

"That would not need very many, I fear," persisted Walter.

"More, perhaps, than you think, my son," said his mother.

"If I should judge by the quality of the ladies present, I should say there were millions," he gallantly responded, letting his eyes rove around the room, and then rest lovingly upon his wife.

"Mothers can feel, if they have not been taught to think," said Mabel; "and if we once get them aroused, something will be done."

"We hope," continued George, "to make large sales of the book, and in this way to make our money last the longer; but there are many ways in which money must be used, if we make the book do its best work, and reach the greatest number. 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' gave Southern slavery its death-blow, but that work, compared with what must be done before woman can be free to realize the best motherhood, is like a drop of water to a bucketful. A million of circulars ought to be scattered, and thousands spent in having the book advertised."

"The million of circulars would use up your ten thousand dollars, Mabel," said Nellie.

"I will write a glowing advertisement for nothing," said Walter.

"You?" said Nellie.

"Yes, me, little wife, and I will pay for having it inserted in some leading paper."

"As editorial?" asked Miss Hibbard.

"Yes, if anything short of a fortune will induce the editor to father it; but perhaps you think I cannot write; I will show you. It will be the blossoming hour of my ability, the occasion that calls my genius forth."

"You have only anticipated me, Walter, in what I was going to say; the leading papers of the country must be paid, some of them to abuse, and some to praise; abuse will bring a book into notice as quickly as will praise," resumed George.

"Novels and hypocrisy," muttered our critic to himself, but louder than he had intended.

"All's fair in love and war," said Walter.

"Our friend does not see this just as we do, but he means all right," said Mabel, gently.

"The next question before the house is: Do you approve our plan?" asked George, appealing to those present.

All responded favorably but one, and he said nothing.

"That's right," said Walter, as soon as the meeting was over, going up and grasping his hand. "You are right in not sanctioning what you do not approve. You are sound to the core, and all that is needed is to get over your scruples against fighting fire with fire, as soon as possible."

"Yes," added George, "we must match both strength and cunning, and when an enemy is so powerful, we must turn their own weapons against them when we can. Nature gives us this right; still, we prefer open, straightforward methods when they can be applied; but when they cannot, then we must do as we can. And yet it is hard for such natures as yours and mine, to feel that we must handle such weapons."

"I will use them if I must," replied Brisko, "but my mother used to warn me against novels, but I can see that such works can be made useful; then those methods of advertising—well, we will do the best we can, and you can count on me for hard work with my face to the foe. Good night."

"He will know more when he has worked a few more years," was George's comment.

CHAPTER XIX.

ECONOMY—DISAPPOINTMENT.

FOR several months after the meeting recorded in the last chapter, George Gray worked in the Judge's office days, and talked and read with his wife evenings, studying the plot of the book they proposed to write. What should be put in and what left out, was the question, for the material going to prove the utter failure of the present order of things to furnish the conditions required for perfect motherhood were so abundant, the wonder was that they had not been gathered up and applied before.

"I cannot understand it," said Mabel, "that mothers, with all these facts before them, have been silent so long."

"It is hereditary," replied George, "the result of ages of false teaching organized into the very selfhood of woman. Mothers have been taught for centuries that children are, must be, born in sin and shapen in iniquity; they became psychologized with the idea. You remember that the psychologist made the man believe the cane was a horse. It would have had no effect upon him had every person in the audience disputed the statement, so long as the psychologist held control; and so of the psychology of an idea."

"And the words of M. Costin, 'the church is the greatest obstacle across your path,' are again proved true," she said.

"Yes, wife, and the very virtues so sedulously inculcated by the priesthood, and by the wealthy classes, would, if carried out, produce greater ruin than war and pestilence combined."

"The very virtues?" she repeated, looking up inquiringly.

"Yes, but we will call Mrs. Lenox and Miss Hibbard, for I think they will appreciate the illustration I have to give."

"Yes, we must make good use of their stay, for they are quick to perceive and good counsellors, and the work of putting into attractive form the truths I wish to impress upon the people is so great that I want all the help I can get."

"When do they leave?"

"Next week; they will do good work going together as they have planned—but here they come; I think they are easily called when our thoughts can bring them," she said.

"Thanks for saving us the trouble, we were just going to send for you. I am going to strip a counterfeit of its disguise, and I want you to see how dexterously I do it," said George.

"Proceed, we are all ears and eyes," said Mrs. Lenox.

"What is the counterfeit that you are going to strip?" asked Miss Hibbard.

"Economy."

"Economy! You don't pretend to say that economy is a counterfeit!" they both exclaimed at once.

"Yes, a counterfeit virtue, as you shall judge, if we are to decide by what the effects would be if carried out to the legitimate end, that is, practised by all of the class upon whom it is urged."

"Give us the benefit of your reasons for such a conclusion, please," said Mabel.

"Practical as ever," he remarked, with a laugh; "well, little wife, and—and——"

"Why do you hesitate, sir?"

"I was trying to think of the feminine for fellow, but as I can't make it sound pretty, I will say, my sister-workers, please tell me how many working-men there are in the United States?"

"Haven't the least idea, sir," said Marion.

"Then we shall have to calculate a little," he said. "We have twelve million voters in a population of sixty millions, and at least three out of four are workers, those who work for wages, farmers, etc."

"You mean to say that we have nine million men who toil for their bread in some shape?" said Mrs. Lenox.

"Yes, but six million will be enough to prove our position. Now, what are counted as essential virtues in a working-man?"

"Industry and economy are the chief ones," said Marion.

"One question here: A genuine virtue, if I understand what virtue is, can be practised by all without injury to any."

They all agreed to his definition, and he continued: "Then we will make six million men, with their families, thirty million people, economical for one year.

They shall set themselves to saving a little for a rainy day, say fifty dollars for each family. Many of them, with a little care, could do this, and some could save more, others less, but we will make that the average—no, Mr. Banker, we will not deposit this money with you. We will put it where we shall know it will be there when we want it.

" 'Oh,' says the banker, 'I will pay you interest for its use.'

"Ah, and where are you going to get your interest? You do not produce a dollar's worth of anything; all that you get is drawn from what we produce. No, sir, we will keep our money, and we will take gold for our paper, as the bondholders do for theirs. How much would that draw from the money of the country—that which is kept in circulation—Mrs. Lenox?"

"Three hundred million a year, twenty-five million a month," she said, thoughtfully.

"To save this they must economize; we will now see what they must do without. Remember, we have thirty million people, counting five to the family, who must do with less of the products of labor, who will buy less than now. We will commence with one pound of sugar less per week to the family, fifty-two pounds less per year, three hundred and twelve million less pounds of sugar sold; how would the raisers of cane like that?"

"I think it would raise Cain with a good many of them," said Mabel, and the others laughed at the application.

"And how many men would it throw out of employment?"

"That I have no means of knowing," she replied, soberly, for she began to get a glimpse of what the result of such a course would be.

"We have now saved five dollars and twenty cents toward the fifty dollars. We will next count ten yards of cloth less to each person, fifty yards to the family; it will make extra patching for the women, and perhaps keep some of them from church, but we don't care for that. Cotton cloths and calicoes are cheap, and the poor do not buy many costly goods, but we will put the average cost per yard at twelve and a half cents.

"We now have three hundred million yards less cloth sold, and six and a quarter dollars more toward the fifty; but how would the raisers of wool and cotton feel about it, and how many more would that throw out of employment?"

"A very large number of men, and women too," was the response.

"We will next count a hat and bonnet less to each, thirty million hats and bonnets less, and as many pairs of boots and shoes less. We will count eight dollars and fifty-five cents less to the family on these articles, making twenty dollars saved toward the fifty; but how could those who were thrown out of employment buy at all? You see we are burning the candle at both ends."

The three women were looking pretty sober by this time. They began to see that economy was not what it has been supposed to be, that its effect upon society, if practised by all, would be destructive instead of constructive.

"Why don't you economize on those things that injure instead of benefit?" asked Miss Hibbard.

"Do you mean tea?" he asked, mischievously.

"Tea, coffee, whiskey, and tobacco," she replied.

"So long as the rich and idle use these things we will not take them utterly from the toiling poor, but we will economize on their use, say five dollars worth less of each to a family—thirty million dollars worth less of each. The tea would affect foreign trade, but there would be ninety million dollars worth of the other three products of our country unsold, if not unproduced. If produced and unsold, the money invested is a dead loss; if unproduced, then we have a certain number of men and women unemployed.

"The people are better off without any of those stimulants," said Mrs. Lenox.

"That may be true, but who is going to take care of those who are thrown out of employment?"

"Start some other enterprise; there is enough to be done."

"You are right, Mrs. Lenox, there is enough to be done, but unless the bankers of the world consent that we, through our representatives, issue legal tender notes, where is the money to come from?—Remember, we have supposed the gold thus saved to be in the hands of those who save it, and the money and property invested in the coffee, tobacco, and liquor business would not be available for new enterprises."

"The thing is an impossibility," said Mabel; "such economy would be like a man sawing off the limb upon which he was standing, between himself and the body of the tree."

"But we have ten dollars of the fifty yet unaccounted for," said George, "and we will save five of that on books and papers, and five on recreation, such as plays, picnics, railroad excursions, etc. Thirty million dollars less books and papers sold, and thirty million less to railroads, circuses, and theatres. Not less than a hundred thousand people thrown out of employment by these two items of economy, allowing six hundred dollars to each, and that is more than the average of what our working-people get."

"There is one point you have not considered," said Marion.

"And what is that?"

"Or, only indirectly, as they are among those thrown out of employment; I mean business failures."

"True, and the effect of a business failure is much more far-reaching. Three hundred million dollars withdrawn from the general circulation would cause, say, a hundred thousand business failures. There are that number of men in the country who would fail if three thousand dollars were taken from each."

"Yes," said Mabel, "and among all these distressed families, merchants broken up in their business, and laborers out of employment, there would be born perhaps half a million children less richly endowed at birth, because of the break-up caused by such attempted economy; and though we can see that the attempt could not be carried out, do not financial panics produce similar results?"

"They certainly do," said George, "and panics are purposely made by those who control the money of a country. Our national bankers have, some of them, already declared that by concert of action they could produce a panic, should Congress dare to pass a law detrimental to their interest."

"If all mothers could see the effect of a panic upon the unborn as clearly as I can, every such banker, should the attempt be made, would hang to the first lamp-post, and by women's hands," said Mabel, with flashing eyes.

"I did not know, little wife, that you could be so savage."

"Oh, George," she replied, with a tremor in her voice, "I wish woman would wake up to her responsibility. I once read a story of a woman who was pursued by wolves, and when she saw that both must perish if she did not, she dropped her babe, and by the temporary delay she saved herself; and because of this, because she did not cling to her babe and perish with it, she was looked upon with horror. What then could be thought of a company of women who could stand idly by and see the men turn the wolves loose upon the children?"

"Oh, Mabel! exclaimed Marion and Myra, both at once.

Mabel continued: "I found some lines the other day which read,

Oh, deeper for me the pathos
Of a mother's face and eyes,
When she sees the beautiful body
Of her child that lifeless lies—
Beyond all the expression
Of marble Laocoon—
Of painted crucifixion,
And Christ-head pale and wan.'

"When I read it, the form of my own dead boy came before me, and I thought: 'Suppose he had lived to become a wreck of society,' and the pain I felt at the thought gave me to understand something of the pain felt by thousands of mothers continually—

'So deeper to me the pathos
Of the sorrow that tells of the wreck
Of the child that once lay in her bosom—
Whose arms once encircled her neck.'

"Are not the mothers who see and feel this unworthy the name, if they put not forth all their powers to prevent such results?"

No one responded, and she continued:

"My poor baby boy, I did not think I was using up your life, but you will not reproach me, and though the say so of the Church could not comfort me, reason, common-sense, and the revealments of modern experience do. Clairvoyance proves that you still live, and I shall go to you ere long."

"Mabel, Mabel," cried George, "you are becoming morbid; do not let the thought of leaving us rest in your mind for a moment."

"What did I say?" she asked, rousing as if from a dream. "Oh, I remember; well, is it not true? It cannot be long, at the most. More than twenty-one years ago I chose my life-work, and it seems more like so many months than years."

"And the more we talk of the work the greater it seems," said Mrs. Lenox.

"I am glad George brought this question of economy up, for I want all these things made clear in our book," replied Mabel.

"Another point, wife," he said; "there is not a single prevailing vice, no matter how debasing, that society, as it exists to-day, can do without—not one that could be eradicated but the suffering caused would be greater than that relieved, unless our whole economic system is changed."

"And still another point," said Marion. "It is said that the rich furnish employment for the poor, but do they?"

"Apparently they do, but really they do not," replied George, "as we have seen that buying less on their part throws them out of employment."

"But does not the reduction of wages have the same effect?" asked Mrs. Lenox.

"With this difference," he replied: "if each family gets fifty dollars less wages, the money remains in the hands of the employer, and is used to help secure foreign markets for the goods produced—but why try to unravel all the tangles? When it is done they are only ropes to tie us up with. An entirely new system is the only remedy."

"Is it not barely possible," asked Mabel, "that, with the tangle unravelled, we may use the ropes to tie up the other party?"

George laughed. "There may be something in that," he said, "if you mean that by understanding it ourselves we can show up its evils the better."

"That is what I mean, but I have thought enough now."

"That is to say, you are tired," said Marion, kissing her, "so we will go now, and when you want us again, please let us know."

"Thanks," and when they were gone, she laid her head on George's breast and said: "Oh, if I can only say half I feel, our book will do its work."

"Why do you say our book, dear?"

"Because without your love I could not write it."

Months passed, and the book grew apace. The ten thousand dollars had been called in and placed in the bank ready for use, when one day the doors were closed, and depositors informed that the leading clerk had disappeared with the funds.

When the news was broken to Mabel, she fainted, and it was some time before they could bring her to consciousness again. Of course, in this case, as in nearly every other, the absconding villain was a good church member, but he did not happen to be a Sabbath school superintendent.

"Another vendetti rat," said Walter, with that same terrible look in his eye.

Mrs. Lenox, who had been away travelling with Miss Hibbard, had returned the day before, while the latter had gone to Boston to visit friends. She was present when Walter uttered the above words, as was also Mrs. Raymond and George, and they were startled to hear, in the deep tones of old:

"The vendetti has reacted from the other side."

Walter turned pale, while Mrs. Raymond, seeing the entranced condition of Myra, said: "Please explain yourself."

"I mean that I made a mistake when I influenced Walter to bring Hapgood into your house. The magnetic lines were thus laid that enabled him to watch his opportunity. That bank clerk is what is called a sensitive, and is only partly responsible, no more so than was the agent I used to accomplish my purpose."

"Why do you not come to us oftener? It is now more than ten years since we have heard from you; we thought you had forgotten us," said George.

"You are never forgotten," was the response, "but soon after my mistake, ten years ago, I learned that wise spirits do not communicate often. The tendency to rely upon us would prevent the development of your own powers. I only come now to impress a lesson."

"What is your lesson, please?"

"It is this: whenever we act from a feeling of personal revenge, no matter how great the provocation, it is sure to react upon us, and where we least expect it."

"Why could you not warn us, and thus save the money?" asked Mrs. Raymond.

"Because Hapgood being in your home last, was able, with the help of others, to bar the door against me. I could not get control in time; but I must go," and Myra Lenox slowly opened her eyes, and said, "Really, I have been asleep;" and then, noticing the expression on their faces, started up with:

"Paul has been here again."

They assented, and told her what he had said; and then there followed a discussion as to the reasonableness of his statements. Was it possible for one to act through the magnetic lines thus formed?

"Why should not a spirit have as much power as a dog?" asked Walter.

They all looked up in surprise, and Nellie, who had just come in, said, "That is a strange comparison, spirits with dogs."

"Did you ever see a dog who could not follow his master's track by the magnetism coming through the heel of his boot?" he continued, not noticing Nellie's remark.

"Yes, and when he has found him, or any other game, he can summon dogs enough, if they are to be had, to help him keep all others back."

"I see the application," said George.

Mabel came in, looking sad and pale. They told her what had been said. She smiled:

"There is one way in which they cannot beat me," she said; "I gave my baby, I can give myself," and she passed on, leaving them in doubt as to her meaning.

CHAPTER XX.

ALL OF LIFE.

"WHAT did you mean, dear, by saying you could give your own life for the cause?"

Just then there came a rap at the door, and upon opening it Myra Lenox stood there.

"It is late, I know, but I want to tell you what I came for early in the evening. I became so interested in what you were saying that I forgot all about it," she said.

"Never too late to see you; but George has just asked what I meant by giving my life to the cause. I did not know but you were worrying over it, too; are you?"

"No—yes—what did you mean?"

"What do I mean?" she paused, a sort of dreamy look came over her face, and presently she said:

"I will try to tell you. We put a portion of our own life into whatever we do, if we are in earnest, if the heart is in it. That my heart is in my work, you know. I can see now that I put it before even my mother love, and in doing so I put into it the life force that should have been my child's, and it could not live. I did not do this purposely, intentionally, but because the life naturally went with the strongest love, and my love, my desire to see the wrongs removed which stand in the way of perfect motherhood, was stronger than all else."

She paused again, as though the intensity of her feelings wearied her. They looked into her earnest eyes, and saw them take on their far away look, but said nothing, simply sat and waited.

Presently she came back to her subject—the question she had begun to answer: "Do you think I have lost any of my earnestness, any of my purpose, to see all that stands in the path of true motherhood, withdrawn? They say that Christ bore our sins and carried our sorrows; as to bearing our sins, he could not, but he could so put himself in sympathy with human woe that he could feel every sorrow that could have become his, in fact. He could feel it all when he became one with the race; but he was not a woman." Again she paused, but only for a moment.

"I mean," she said, "that anyone who has the power to lay his or her heart close beside the great, suffering heart of humanity, can feel the tide of human woe as it rolls along; can understand, suffer every sorrow which could under the same circumstances have been theirs; but man can never be a mother, can never feel as a mother does, cannot understand her sorrow; I can."

"Then if Jesus ever lived and died, as is said of him, and if he was, or is, man's Saviour, you would say that he could not be woman's?" said Myra.

"No man can; no man living can feel a woman's sorrow at the wreck of her child as a woman can—no man can feel the horror of enforced, unwelcome motherhood as woman can. If they could once get a glimpse of such horror, they would not make laws putting the wife's person in the husband's keeping, making him responsible for her support if she is obedient, and freeing him from such obligation if she refuses.

"It is of no use to expect man to do this work; woman must. Then, with my heart fully set in this direction, when I am shut off from other channels of work, my very thoughts will drink of my vital force, and go forth like winged arrows, making their way to woman's brain, to woman's heart—will do this till the last drop of vitality is gone—that is what I mean."

"And now I will tell you what I came for," said Mrs. Lenox. "I was thinking of you, Mabel, and I seemed to see, not with my physical eyes, but mentally, a large dandelion blossom; presently it ran up its stem and ripened its feathery seeds, and a breeze scattered them; but even as I looked, another blossom came from the same root and ripened in the same way; then another, and another, on till the life of the root was all gone; and it made such an impression upon me, I felt I must tell you."

"A good symbol, I am glad you came," said Mabel, smiling cheerfully; but George could not smile. As he looked upon his wife's pale face and earnest eyes, he felt that she must go, but how could he give her up?

"Emerson says," Mabel continued, " 'Thoughts float in the air, and the most susceptible, the most easily impressed, catch them first.' Oh, how I shall send out my thoughts, and in form just suited to woman's nature, and some will reach good ground, I know, and the hundred-fold fruit be sown to multiply again, and—no,

I shall not be defeated; the work I have set myself to do will be done," and her face shone as her spirit reached into the future to grasp her triumph.

"What of your book?" asked Myra, more for the purpose of turning the thought than anything else, for she felt awed, oppressed with the intensity of Mabel's mood.

"I shall finish that if I can, but if not, later on someone else will write a better one."

"Oh, finish your book, and we will see that it is published. I will give a hundred dollars myself toward it."

"Thanks, Mrs. Lenox, but a book opposing so much of things as they are, will fall flat if not extensively advertised. It will be like a man nominated for the presidency and not elected; he is not likely to be nominated the second time. His chance is gone."

"Then finish the book and let it lie till we have the needed funds to advertise as you wish. Finish the book, and we will then go to work for the money." said George.

"I will finish the book if I can, if it is never published; for giving my thoughts form upon paper will help to intensify them, to send them out well defined upon the mental atmosphere. Who knows but, like an arrow shot in the dark, my thought may thus reach some mind of the mental power to write a much better book than I can. No, don't worry about my book; it may be premature only in the sense I have named."

"But, Mabel, do you really believe that thoughts go out on the mental atmosphere to be taken up by other minds?"

"I certainly do."

"Will you please give me your reasons?"

"George, you are the philosopher, please explain to Mrs. Lenox the modus operandi."

"I will try, Mabel; Mrs. Lenox, when I speak to you, what is it that conveys the sound to your ear?"

"The atmosphere, of course."

"And without the atmosphere there could be no sound?"

"They say not."

"Of what is the atmosphere composed?"

"Of fine particles of matter."

"Yes, so fine as to be invisible to the naked eye; but how are they created? whence come they?"

"How are they created? through some natural law, but who understands the law, Mr. Gray?"

"I do not mean in the sense of absolute creation. It is a demonstrated fact that a portion of what we eat and drink passes out through the pores of the skin, and we call it insensible perspiration; that insensible perspiration is thrown out through the activities of the life-force within us, is our atmosphere. The atmosphere of the earth is created by the activities of the life-force of matter; is it not so?"

"It must be so, if the time was, as geologists say, that the earth was destitute of an atmosphere such as we have now," she replied.

"Then, if the activities of life acting through and upon matter produce a physical atmosphere, why should not the activities of life acting through mind produce a mental atmosphere? and if the action of life in words can be carried upon the physical atmosphere to another's consciousness, why should not the activities of life through thought be carried on the mental atmosphere to another's consciousness?"

"You have made the matter very clear, Mr. Gray, so far as theory is concerned, but have you facts to confirm your theory?" she asked.

"When the cars are coming, you generally hear them before you see them, because the sound caused by the concussion of the atmosphere goes ahead of that which produces it. Can you not think of facts in the mental atmosphere to correspond?"

"I do not at this moment think of any."

"And yet I feel quite certain, Mrs. Lenox, that you have experienced many. Did you never, when a friend came to see you, say, 'I was just thinking of you?' "

"Many a time, Mr. Gray, and I have often asked myself why it was."

"Your friend was thinking of you, and the thought came ahead on the mental atmosphere, just as the sound goes ahead on the physical atmosphere. The sound reaches the brain through the medium of the ear; the thought goes direct."

"If that is so, why can we not learn to talk by thought?"

"We can, Mrs. Lenox, when we take as much pains in educating the mental sense as we do the sense of hearing. The child hears the sound, but it has to learn to understand; we feel thought, and can surely learn to understand also; would, if shut up to the mental sense as the blind are to the sense of feeling.

"They learn to read through the ends of the fingers by having raised letters, and the intense thought thrown out by one who feels as Mabel does is to the mentally blind what raised letters are to the physical; and more—it brands itself in red-hot colors upon the mental atmosphere."

"Thank you," said Mabel, "your illustrations make me strong to feel, and thus to do."

George looked as though he would prefer to weaken instead of strengthening her purpose, if he could thereby save her; but, feeling that he could not, he simply said: "I am glad of anything that helps you."

Mabel grew weaker day by day, and finally laid aside her pen altogether. She smilingly said:

"Mother Nature has been experimenting, and she finds the material not strong enough for the pressure, but she will try again."

But she still read, or had others read to her, and she always selected those subjects that bore upon the questions involved in her work. One day she picked up a paper containing two articles placed together by way of contrast. The heading of the first was:

GODISM EXEMPLIFIED.

The Czar, as God's Representative, must Keep his Kingdom Intact—hence Siberia.

Read and Ponder.

This was followed by an exile's description of his trip to Siberia, in company with many others. In speaking of the stillness of the room in which they all gathered before starting, this exile said:

"We dared not speak; the incautious manifestations of emotion by one convict as he met another, might result in both being returned to the casemates (cells) of the fortress, till their relations could be investigated. On one side of the table sat a young man and his betrothed, who had not seen each other for five years, and who, when thus reunited under the eyes of the gendarmes, did not dare to speak."

As she read this, she paused and thought: "A personal God upon a throne in the heavens, with a hell to punish rebels; the result is a personal representative upon the earth, with Siberia to punish rebels."

"Yes, and England has Australia," said George, when she pointed out the fact to him.

The writer then went on to describe the scene after they were on the convict cars, but out from under the immediate eye of the gendarmes and once fairly on their way to Russia's hell, Siberia. He said:

"To a prisoner who had lived in silence in a bomb-proof casemate for years, the noise and rush of the train, and the unfamiliar sight of the outer world were at first intensely exciting, but the excitement was followed by complete prostration. They became delirious or lay on the floor unconscious. Stimulants were administered, water was dashed into white, ghastly faces, but all night long the car was filled with moans and hysterical weeping."

Again Mabel paused, and as she thought she said to herself:

"If there could be such a thing as a universal personality sitting upon a throne and ruling the universe, one who could permit of such injustice, I would summon all the hosts of hell to help dethrone him."

Finishing the terrible recital, of which the above is but a fraction, she then turned to the one set opposite it, and read:

"THAT THE COST OF THIS."

THE PALACE OF ONE OF GOD'S REPRESENTATIVES.

what wonder the people are poor!

Then followed a description of the Czar's Winter Palace, the largest building in the world, which was built at a cost of about forty million dollars; or rather, remodelled at that cost, after having been partly destroyed. The writer said:

"The throne-room is a magnificent apartment, of marble, and so large that the entire White House, at Washington, might be erected within its walls. The hall of St. George is one hundred and fifty feet by eighty in size, and sixty feet high, with a ceiling carved and gilded with pure gold-leaf."

After naming several other magnificent halls, the writer continues: "These great halls have sometimes been used for banquets, and in them have dined three thousand people at once, served on solid silver plate throughout a menu of twelve courses, by eighteen hundred liveried attendants, while the imperial family sat at the end of the room on a raised platform, and took their dinners off solid gold."

Further on it was said: "There seems to be no end of the display; not only the furniture, but the walls, ceilings, doors, and mouldings around the windows are covered with sheets of gold."

"Yes," she murmured, "and over, under, and through it all is blood. Hearts are ground and mixed with the gold; brains bespatter the walls, and infants' skulls harden the glass and marble floors," and she covered her face with her hands to shut out the awful sight.

She calmed herself presently, and read it all—the description of the magnificence of a part, as a sample of the whole seventeen hundred rooms of one of the palaces, that, according to Christian teaching, God permits his earthly representative to wring the cost of from the suffering millions. She then turned to an article in the next column, headed, "Consecration," and read the following definition of the word:

"You must forget self-advancement. You must be ready for any work that promises progress in the right direction. You must learn to have no fears of police or prison when they stand between you and duty; must put heart and soul in the cause; must study ways and means for pushing forward the great end; must ignore respectability, conventionalities, worn-out moral codes; must brave persecution, misrepresentation, and death itself if need be."

What was this cause that required such entire consecration? She read on and found the following:

"Take a walk to Lake Randolph, or Madison Street bridge, at six o'clock at night, and watch the listless, stunted forms of children, with their old, tired faces, passing over in throngs, and you have an object-lesson that will startle you!" Ah, it was the betterment of conditions for children that required such consecration. She read on:

"Remember that these are the future members of society—the fathers and mothers of future generations; that all buoyancy, energy, life, the very springs of progressive existence, are being crushed out of them; that they are overworked, often hungry and cold." Ah, it is the good of future generations that demands such consecration. Still she read on:

"You read of women whose wages, even when toiling fourteen hours a day, are not enough to keep her babes from hunger and cold, but could you know one such woman; could you see her in her poor rooms, dusty and disordered with slop-work; could you watch the little children trying forlornly to amuse themselves throughout the long, dull, days—could you see her cheeks grow thin and her strength decline—could you see all the struggle between virtue and desperation, in which the latter, aided by hunger and mother-love, finally triumphs, and she goes upon the street, soliciting what her soul abhors."

She could not go on, but when she glanced at the signature and found that it was a woman who was demanding consecration to what would remove such conditions, it brought a ray of light to the picture with such dark shading—yes, another woman was at work with pen of fire and soul of flame, and she was glad for this.

But turning back to the woman so crushed onto the street, and reading that the one case could be multiplied by thousands, she said: "Oh, I wish that every such woman, every one so crushed, would kill first their children, and then themselves. I think it would force people to think." She said the same to George when he came in.

"They dare not," he said, "because of the pictures of a future hell that the priests have placed before their eyes."

From that time forward, when she took her daily ride, she would ask one day to be driven among the tenement-houses, and along the streets where poverty and wretchedness prevailed; and the next along the wide streets upon which were the palaces of the rich, and would always say, as she rode along past the latter: "That is the price of this; that poverty to pay for this magnificence."

Finally, the time came when she could no longer go out. The minister whose church they used to attend had called a few times after they ceased to go, but had not been there for years. What, then, was their surprise to find him so anxious about Mabel's soul, as to come again at this particular time.

Mrs. Raymond greeted him cordially, spoke of his being quite a stranger, etc.

"I supposed," he said, "that you had become dissatisfied with my preaching and so went elsewhere; but hearing that your daughter was very sick, I felt that I should like to see her once more."

"No, Mr. Hunter, I am not attending church elsewhere," she said; "but I thank you for your kindly interest in my daughter," she replied.

"You do not mean to say that you do not attend church anywhere, Mrs. Raymond," he said, with a look of surprise.

"That is what I said, Mr. Hunter."

He opened his eyes very wide, opened his lips as if to speak, and then closed them again, for her cool self-possession disconcerted him.

She laughed pleasantly: "I have some Quaker blood in me," she said, "and I think their dislike of what they call a hireling ministry has proved hereditary, only it did not show itself very early in life."

"Oh, ah, the Quakers are a very good people. Can I see Mrs. Gray?"

"If you will excuse me a moment, I will see how she feels;" and going to Mabel's room, she said: "The minister, Mr. Hunter, is here; do you wish to see him?"

Mabel thought a moment. "I will see him as a friend, but not as a minister. I am not in the least anxious about death or a future life, and I do not wish to be worried by any talk upon such subjects," she said; then, as her mother turned to go, she seemed to change her mind, and she added:

"I don't know as I care what he says, either. I may be able to say something that will do him good."

And so the reverend gentleman, who had so often been called upon to give comfort to the dying, went to the room of the woman whose very life was going out—being used up in love for humanity—went to this woman, who forgot self in that great love, with the idea of pointing her to Christ as the only Saviour.

She smiled, gave him her hand, thanked him for remembering her, and then there was silence, for there was that in her face that forbade the stereotyped phrases he was accustomed to using.

Presently she said: "I am glad you have come, sir. I want to ask why it is that the ministers in this city do not prevail upon their rich parishioners to take hold of, and remove, such evils as our tenement-house system of living produces. I want to ask why they do not find out the cause of such poor wages as many women get, and how they think people can live virtuous lives under such conditions."

"My dear child, we do what we can, but our work is a spiritual one; it is to prepare people for the next life, instead of interfering in the affairs of this; besides, the working people are mostly to blame for their own condition. They get wages enough to make them comfortable, if they would not use up what they earn in drink."*

[*A fact.]

She turned her luminous eyes full upon him:

"Enough to make them comfortable, do you say?"

"Yes, thousands of them waste their money in drink, cheap shows, and the like, and then complain of their poverty. There is a great deal of misapplied sympathy, Mrs. Gray. People ought to suffer for their own wrong-doing."

"Do not tire yourself, dear," said her mother, seeing that she paused before replying.

"It does not tire me, mother; but Mr. Hunter says the working-men get enough to make them comfortable. I was wondering how many ministers would think they could be comfortable on the same amount."

"It is very evident, Mrs. Gray," said Mr. Hunter, "that you are talking of what you do not understand. Your remarks do credit to your heart, and we all feel sorry for the evils we see; but, seeing no way to remove them, we must leave all to God."

"Mr. Hunter, as a dying woman, I tell you that these things have been left to God too long; they will never be remedied till the people take hold with an earnest determination to do the work themselves," said Mabel, in reply.

"As a dying woman, you are not afraid to arraign God's methods. His ways are higher than our ways," said the minister, backing toward the door as if he would like to get out of the job he had undertaken.

"No, sir, I am not afraid. I have no belief in a personal God, and the stream of the infinite life that flows through my life prompts me to seek for the causes which produce such terrible results, and if I should drop this body to-night, that same feeling would draw me back from the very portals of heaven to earth again, and I should continue to work for the removal of such conditions, for,

"I could not remain in a world filled with bliss,
While rivers of sorrow were rolling through this."

The man was touched in spite of his theology. "Yours is a strange faith," he said; "but with so much love for humanity as you express, I will trust in God for you, and hope it will all be right; he understands better than I can."

"Trust not for me, but work for this world—give yourself to the work of humanity with entire consecration—entire consecration," she repeated, "and the next world will take care of itself," and then closed her eyes as though her strength failed her to say more.

"Farewell, then," he said. She opened her eyes and reached her hand. "Farewell," she responded, and the Reverend Mr. Hunter went out feeling a new sensation.

George came in soon after, and regretted that he had not been present. He seldom left her now, for he felt that the end could not be far away.

A few days after this she asked to be propped up in bed, and then she sent for them all to come to her room. "I have a few requests to make," she said, "and I do not want George to have all the responsibility of carrying them out."

"First, I want Marion and Myra sent for, and when the end comes I want no one but them to touch my body—that is, I want no stranger to handle it. If they cannot come, mother, please, you and Nellie prepare it for the grave."

They bowed their heads while tears rolled down their cheeks, and the next moment Nellie was on her knees beside the bed. "Oh, live, live, and I will devote my life to you," she cried.

"My poor sister, you forget; Walter and your children need you," she replied, gently.

"Oh, Salmagundi, how can I give you up!" cried Walter, forgetting in his anguish all but the old, teasing name, and that she was the playmate of his childhood.

Mabel smiled, even then, at the memory of the old time blunder. She had not heard the name for so long that the present was for a moment lost sight of in the memories of the past, and then she turned her eyes wearily to her father.

"Don't, children, you distress her," he said in response, while his own strong frame shook with emotion.

She then looked toward her mother and gave a hand to each.

"Father, mother, do not let the world blame George; he knows what my wishes are, and will carry them out, but I want you to stand by him. I want none but those I have named to George, and the family, present; no funeral sermon, no prayer; only the verses I have selected sung. Marion and Myra will place my body in the casket if they are here; if not, father and mother will please do it."

She paused a moment, and they gave her a glass of water. "You may think it strange," she said, "that I make these requests, but I want no one not in full sympathy with the dearest object of my life-work to bring magnetic lines that will come as a cloud, a mist between me and this my home, for it will still be my home. Now please lay me down."

She lingered some ten days longer, and then, with a smile on her lips, she simply stopped breathing—went to sleep as quietly as does a child upon its mother's breast; and her wishes were carried out as sacredly as though commands from the infinite heavens. And so they were; they came from the love-life which flowed through her life like a perennial stream, and what else can make heaven—can win the wisdom that shall transform the earth into an Eden of glory.

Of course people talked. Such unusual proceedings could but call forth censure from those who accept things as they are—call their own apathy, their own selfishness resignation to God's will; but there is more power in the devotion of such a soul as Mabel Raymond possessed than in all the resignation in the universe. It is the spirit which acts through such natures as hers that is waking up the people.

We know not that our readers will care to follow our characters further, but we can assure them that they are at work for the object to which Mabel gave her life, and the harvest is yet to come.