The Climbers
Date: 2022-04-10T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Christian life -- Juvenile fiction; Siblings -- Juvenile fiction; Success -- Juvenile fiction; Temperance -- Juvenile fiction; Motherless families -- Juvenile fiction; Child labor -- Juvenile fiction; Self-culture -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: The Climbers

Author: Lizzie Bates

Release date: April 10, 2022 [eBook #67809]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: American Tract Society, 1866

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/67809

Credits: Juliet Sutherland, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CLIMBERS ***

THE CLIMBERS.

PUBLISHED BY THE
AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY
150 NASSAU-STREET, NEW YORK.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by the American Tract Society, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York.

THE CLIMBERS

I.

“It’s of no use, and what’s more, I don’t believe it’s right,” said Mr. Jeffries, “this filling every boy’s head with thoughts of rising in the world. It looks all very well in books; but is quite a different thing in reality. I tell you what, it’s doing a mighty deal of damage in the world. Why, it’s almost impossible for anybody that wants help to get any of the right sort. Once find a boy that has any grit in him, and he’s off as soon as he can scrape up enough money to go to school with. There’s that stable-boy of mine, as good a little fellow as I’d ever care to have; but in the room of playing like other boys, when he has a moment’s leisure, he’s off to the barn with a book in his hand. I’ve told him many a time ’twould be the ruin of him; but he seems to take to it as naturally as a duck does to water;” and the little hotel-keeper looked around complacently.

“I thought that was the very spirit that was commendable in this country, Mr. Jeffries,” said I, turning my gaze from the mountain towering above us to the face of my host. “Hope is the grand incentive to the American boy, the hope of knowing more, and doing better for himself and others, than his father and grandfather did before him. Look around you and see who are the men of the present; ten to one they are poor men’s sons. They felt that they could do something, and they accomplished it.”

“It looks all fair, I allow; but the thing is carried too far; it makes them discontented and unsteady, changing from one thing to another. In my opinion, if you want to make any thing in the world, you must stick to one thing. It is an old saying, ‘A rolling stone gathers no moss.’”

“True; but may not these poor boys have a higher aim and purpose, and carry it out quite as effectually as if it required no changes? Your stable-boy may have mapped out, vaguely perhaps, his future, and to reach it must make use of such stepping-stones as come within his reach. He does his work well, does he not?”

“Oh, there’s nothing to say against him, only I don’t like to see him always reading; he can’t go by a newspaper—and my wife keeps them hung up by the side of the roller—without stopping for a bit, catching as a hungry horse does at a spear of grass or hay that comes within his reach. I give him pretty good wages for a boy, and the women folks patch up his clothes and see that he has plenty to eat. It seems to me that he ought to be contented and happy, with jests and frolic like the rest, in the room of being shut up with his book. And then, to cap all, I went into the barn the other day, and there he was perched up on the haymow, talking away and making gestures just as the parson does. I could not keep from laughing, and he came down and skulked away looking sheepish enough.”

“You have interested me in this boy, Mr. Jeffries. Who, and what is he? Where did you find him?”

“Oh, his father lives up among the mountains, a thriftless, good for nothing creature, who spends all his earnings in whiskey. The mother was a delicate ladylike woman; my wife thought a heap of her; and when she died, she made us both promise to look after her children.”

Just then a showy carriage was driven round from the stable, and a sprightly lad jumped quickly down, and stood holding the lines respectfully while the owner made ready to start. He was a tall, slight young man, whom I had noticed in the hotel as excessively talkative, flush with his money, drinking and smoking freely, and interlarding his conversation with now and then an oath. He came out with a swagger, followed by a little crowd of idlers. Mr. Jeffries broke off the thread of conversation, giving the hand of his guest a prolonged shake.

“Always glad to see you when you come this way, Robinson; you will always find the bar just the same; I never keep any thing but the best.”

“That’s a fact; the best mint julep I’ve had in a long time.”

While the leave-taking was going on, I was eagerly scanning the face of the stable-boy. My heart ached for him as he stood there, the little torn straw hat just covering the mass of dark hair, that had apparently not seen a comb for days, the great heavy locks clustering over a broad well-formed forehead, above delicately curved eyebrows with long brown lashes. But the eyes were hidden; I could only imagine what they must be from the profile of the face, the straight nose, somewhat deep upper lip, and well-turned chin. Still and straight he stood, and almost as motionless as though carved out of marble: yet not a dead, passive statue; his very stillness had a life in it, just as the framework of machinery is still while the movable parts are running swift as thought can follow.

Down the steps and into the buggy the young gentleman passed, and as the lines were handed him he tossed a silver coin to the stable-boy, but so carelessly that it glanced from his shoulder, rolled across the porch and down a crack in the floor before he could stop it.

“It’s gone, Marston; better luck next time,” said Mr. Jeffries with a patronizing air. The boy bit his lips, while the eyelids quivered, and turning on his heel was out of sight in an instant.

It was not in my heart to talk any more. Life was new to me; I was myself trying to make my way upward in character and life. Just through college, my health failed, and I was told to try mountain air and exercise. My meagre purse would not allow of my gratifying my benevolent feelings, and still every day there were just such cases occurring. “Work yourself out” had been my motto. No doubt Marston Howe would adopt the same. A rough, thorny way he will find; the feet will become weary, the hands torn and bleeding; still, if he wills he will succeed. It is better to wear out than to rust out; better be a climber than a cumberer; and though we seem never fully to attain our desires, let not the heart grow bitter and misanthropic, moody and uncharitable. Success is sure if we try for it. Let me whisper this to Marston Howe, and I have then done him all the good I can. Looking up I saw the doctor’s buggy coming slowly round the curve of the mountain, and a moment after it drew up, while a kindly face looked out. “How is this invalid of mine? Almost ready to go home?”

“Nearly ready, doctor,” and my eye caught sight of the stable-boy with his pail of water for the doctor’s horse.

“That’s right, Marston,” said Mr. Jeffries; “the doctor’s horse don’t like to pass here without something,” but the doctor did not notice the hint.

“You are fond of books,” I said to Marston as he held the pail for the horse to drink; “I have one in my pocket which I think will please you. It is called ‘Self Helps,’ and will show you how others have worked and struggled to become good and useful men. I hope that is what you wish to do.”

“I shall try for it,” he answered in a clear tone, while his grey eye brightened as he grasped the book. “Aim to do right, Marston, and what you do, do well; perhaps we shall meet again.”

Quick as an arrow he bounded round the corner, and the doctor’s pony trotted leisurely down the mountain with us.

It had been a glorious afternoon, and I had taken a longer stroll than usual; resting at the little mountain house, while the doctor visited a patient further up the mountain.

“Do you know any thing of Marston’s family, doctor?” asked I, when we finished what we had to say of the immediate landscape.

“Not much. The mother was a well-educated gentlewoman, above the majority in these parts; she died soon after I came here, and her husband soon married a real vixen. They say he spent every thing in whiskey after that, and these two children, Marston and Jennie, live with Mr. Jeffries, a good-natured man in his way, but mightily puffed up with his success in that hotel. He has a good many boarders in summer, and is making a great deal of money.”

By this time pony had struck into a quicker pace; the road was more familiar, or he scented the corn crib, and his master let him have the rein.

The next day I left the mountains, but not without a thought of Marston Howe, and an earnest wish that he might succeed.

Poor, and dependent on his own labor, there was something in his case that reminded me strangely of my own; and more than once I felt my heart throb with a quicker beat as I thought of what might be in store for him, had he the courage ever to undertake what I saw from his look he so earnestly craved.

Still, with constant effort, untiring self-denial, and inflexible purpose, the height might be won. The germs of the future harvest must be planted before it can be gathered in. Slow and difficult might be the ascent, and many a time the feet might falter in the way, and the heart well-nigh break, while weakness, prejudice, and passion hinder the progress of the eager soul.

One look to God, however, and obstacles vanish, doubts dissolve. His strength is never denied those that ask him. Marston Howe’s mother was a Christian. His cradle was consecrated by her prayers, and the little son she left behind her was still the object of divine love and care. Such thoughts comforted me. He must go up through the narrow defile of labor, the rocky strait of necessity; but he will overcome: the mother’s prayers will not be lost.

Years have passed since that summer day: we have both been climbers; both began at the same level, the only difference being that I had the start by some half a score of years; difference enough when starting in the race, but hardly perceptible when standing, as we both now do, nearer the top than the bottom of the ladder.

Last summer I again met with Marston Howe; and for the sake of the climbers who have suffered and striven, and of others who are still suffering and striving, I am induced to tell his story as nearly as he told me as I can well remember it.

II.

Of my early life I cannot remember much before we went to the mountains, and still I have always had a vague remembrance of a pleasant home surrounded with tall trees, a fountain bubbling up and catching the sun’s rays in a thousand bewildering forms, sweet flowers, and singing birds; while in my own little room there was a curious round glass with rock and moss at the bottom, where the gold fish flashed their beauty through the crystal water. Then there were days indistinct and shadowy, when the glory and beauty had gone, where I hardly knew, and we had another home—my mother, Jennie, and I.

My father I had seldom seen, and now I saw less of him than before. I did not so much wonder, for it was not home to me, that little brown house perched like a bird’s nest on the shelf of the mountain. I did not like it, and often used to ask my mother why we were there. She never used to answer me; but putting her arm around me drew me closely to her, kissing me over and over again, while the tears fell on my face, but saying nothing.

It was not so with Jennie, the pretty golden-haired baby that I used to rock in a nice little crib in our first home. Then we had pretty carpeted floors, and I could ride my pony all day in a room made on purpose to play in.

But when I grew older I saw it all, and understood why my mother pressed me to her heart and wept. I then knew what made my father reel and stagger so as he came up the path; and why, when Jennie put up her hands, and crowed out her evening welcome, he took no notice of her, and one night came very near crushing the little creature as he fell over the threshold. Oh, sad, sad days, when he was so cross, declaring the house was cold and cheerless, or the rooms were so bare of comfort—when he went to the village at the foot of the hills every morning, and if he did not come back at night, mother took Jennie in her arms, and we went after him.

In this way we lived till Jennie was five years old; then mother grew sick, and for days lay on the bed so white and still, Jennie curling up beside her, putting her little chubby cheek close to the thin pallid one, while I dug up raspberry roots and boiled them into broth for mother and the baby to eat.

One day she spoke less frequently; I thought she was asleep, and walked about very carefully so as not to wake her: at length she looked up, beckoned me to her, put her arms about my neck, and kissed me. “Whatever happens,” she said, “you must be a good boy, Marston. You are now almost ten years old; you will take good care of Jennie, and never let her leave you.”

“I will, mother; but what makes you talk so?” and I cried aloud in grief and fear.

“I am very sick, Marston, and I may die. If I do, you will take care of Jennie; promise me.”

“Yes, mother; but you will not die. God must not—”

“Hush, my son; God knows what is best; you will always remember to love and obey Him.”

“How can I, mother, if he takes you? You are all we have in the world. What will Jennie and I do without you? No, mother, if he is good, he will not do this;” and I buried my face in the pillows. My poor sick mother put her thin arms about my neck, and drew me still nearer, her hot cheek meeting mine.

“God is good, my child, and still I must leave you. Mother would not tell you any thing that was not so. You believe me, Marston?”

“I believe you, mother,” I cried passionately, “but I cannot let you go; if you go, I must go with you.”

“No, Marston, you must stay to take care of Jennie and your father. Jennie is such a little girl, what would become of her without you?”

“Will it make you happier, mother, if I take care of Jennie?” and I kissed her white cheeks again and again.

“Yes, my son, I shall be very happy if you will promise to be a good boy, and take care of your little sister for Christ and for me.”

“I will promise; I will be good, mother,” and my tears were dried.

Invested with a new dignity as the protector of my little sister, I must be a man; and I took up Jennie and fed her from the one little china bowl that remained to us of our old home.

Weary with the effort of talking, my mother fell asleep, looking so calm and placid; while I rocked the baby, and watched her quiet breathing.

Presently a neighbor came in, and bending over the bed asked how long she had been sick.

“Two weeks,” I answered.

“Poor thing; why didn’t she send for the doctor?”

“She thought she should be better soon,” I replied, laying Jennie down on the foot of the bed; and going softly to my mother, I gently kissed the pale forehead.

“Marston, promise,” and she opened her eyes.

“I do, I will, mother.”

“Dear me, Mrs. Howe, why did you not send for me? your husband told me this morning that you were sick; and as soon as we had dinner, I came right up.”

“I knew there was no help for me. If it was not for leaving my children—”

“Don’t be troubled, Mrs. Howe. It isn’t much that I have, but such as it is they shall have a part.”

Slowly the sun went down, and as the darkness rolled up the mountain father came home. He was steadier than usual, and for the first time he seemed sorry that mother was sick; took her hand kindly in his, and bent over the pillow and kissed her.

“Only get well, Mary, and I will stay at home always.” It was all he could say, the tears choked him.

“I am very sick, Robert. You will do this for the children,” and her eyes closed.

All night the two watched by her bed, Mrs. Jeffries and father; while Jennie nestled in my arms, occasionally putting up her mouth for a kiss, thinking it was mother.

I lived an age in that night, and how many resolves I formed and plans laid of what I would do, and how I would care for that one little sister.

Alas, I had to learn that he who wins must walk through rough places; that the sweet rest for which we long is only given to those who have been prompt in duty, resolute against temptation, strong in faith, patient in the hour of trial. Alas for the weary feet that must walk through the world without a mother’s guidance.

Before morning Jennie and I were alone, while my poor father was stricken into soberness.

Three months passed. My father was much steadier, stayed more at home, and was no longer cross and overbearing; for hours would he read to us, then taking Jennie on his knee, sing her to sleep.

“If mother could only see him,” I said frequently to myself. I had not known he was so handsome, for he kept himself much better, and looked like a new man. Then at night he would put us in bed, and sometimes sit down by himself, or go out looking so good and happy; I did not understand it.

One day I had been down to Mrs. Jeffries with Jennie, and Mr. Jeffries asked me what I would think if my father gave me a new mother. I told him that could not be; we could not have but one mother, and our mother was dead.

“But what if your father marries again?”

I went home in tears. Cheerless as our home was, I could not bear that another should enter it. It was no place for a good woman to come, and I felt it so. It was not long, however, before I found the reality of what I feared. My father, on the strength of his good looks, married a pretty, showily dressed woman, and brought her to our mountain home. Very kindly he introduced us; but she did not so much as kiss either of us. I grew indignant, and could have darted out of the house, but for my remembered promise to my mother.

A year, and she had turned us out, while a baby of her own nestled in her arms, and our father was nearly as bad as ever. Jennie had always been a delicate little thing, or my new mother would not so readily have parted with her. But my father, with all his waywardness, always said to her that we should not be parted.

We knew no one but Mrs. Jeffries, and she kindly consented to take us in; while her husband allowed me to hold the horses, and after a time to drive them to and from the stable.

In this way I gained something. The first winter I was there I went to school eighteen days; not enough to learn much, and still enough to give me a thirst for more. The schoolmaster was a lame man that lived near the school-house, and directly on my way.

Thin and scant my clothes were, and I used sometimes to go in and warm myself. What a different atmosphere pervaded his home: his mother, a sweet woman, with soft braids of still brown hair about her face, while her mild blue eyes reminded me of my own mother, and not unfrequently the tears would start as she inquired kindly for my little sister.

Charles Brisbane was to be a clergyman; and when he read and prayed with us every morning, it seemed the easiest thing in the world to be good, and I wondered why my father had not been just such another good man. And when at the close of the day he talked to us of the dear Saviour, who came down to earth, took upon himself our nature, suffered and died to redeem us, I resolved that I would love and trust and serve him; and then I thought he would take care of Jennie and me, and make my father a sober man. Then I used to shut my eyes, and dream all sorts of pleasant things, longing for a world where the people loved each other and did right, and where death would never come.

My dear mother seemed to be very near me whenever Charles Brisbane was talking; and when I went back to Mr. Jeffries’ it did not seem so hard to do the little errands that were always ready for me.

Jennie was beginning to do something for Mrs. Jeffries, who herself took the lead in her own house-work; and of course could not be expected to do more for us than to see that we had plenty to eat, were tidy, and not actually ragged.

I remember stopping one day at Mr. Brisbane’s, and how I longed to be able to go to school regularly; and could not but say this in rather a fretful mood.

“I am sorry that you cannot come, Marston; but remember that you can learn, wherever you are.”

“How so?” said I.

“By reading and studying at home. Improve all your time; always have a book in your pocket or on a shelf near you.”

“But I have no books.”

“I am going to give you some. Here is the Geography you studied at school, and your Arithmetic. True, you are just commencing, but with occasional help, I have no doubt you will get on finely. Come to school when you can; but when kept at home by Mr. Jeffries, do not fret over it. Do your work faithfully, and look forward. God helps those who help themselves. He will not leave you, my boy.”

How strong and happy I felt as I climbed up the hill-side to Mr. Jeffries’ house. I forgot the dark, cold mornings when I had to rise at four o’clock, and make paths through the snow; and help feed the stock and see to the horses, the poor patient brutes waiting until an opening could be made in the trough, or the snow melted. Then there were pigs to feed, and corn to shell for the poultry, and the kitchen to sweep; and by the time I had done it was nearly noon, and too late for school that day. And Jennie would climb up into my lap, and tell me not to cry; and I would read my Geography to her very much as, the last summer, I had read Jack the Giant Killer, Babes in the Wood, Robinson Crusoe, and Sinbad the Sailor; her blue eyes looking up wonderingly as she nestled still closer, laying her white velvet cheek to my brown one.

Dear little comforter, much as I loved her, my heart rebelled not a little at the loss of school-hours. Still I did not forget Mr. Brisbane’s words, so that I neither cried nor murmured outwardly, studying every moment I could get, and repeating my lesson aloud to Jennie, who in her turn began to study geography, and to make figures on my slate.

My writing lesson I suffered the most in. But Mrs. Jeffries had a sister that visited her occasionally, and when there, Miss Grimshaw condescended to set me copies; so that between my duties at home, Mr. Brisbane, and Miss Grimshaw, I made considerable advancement.

Mr. Jeffries scolded not a little whenever he saw my books, and one day actually tossed them out of the window, where Molly the cook rescued them from a mischievous puppy, minus one of the covers. I could have cried over this; but the leaves were all there, and afterwards Mrs. Jeffries gave us two chairs and a little table in her linen closet; and as this was the tidiest place in the house, and above all, never entered save by Mrs. Jeffries, we were for a time uncommonly happy.

While I had my books and a chair in the linen closet, Jennie had a few pots of geraniums and tea-roses that Mrs. Brisbane had sent her, and which she nurtured with great care. Never shall I forget the look of distress on the little face, when one morning she had watered them tenderly, taxing her strength not a little to set them where they would have all the benefit of the sun, watching them with delight, counting the buds on the rose-bush, and thinking of the little bouquets she would be sure to make, first for me and then for Mrs. Jeffries, putting one in Miss Grimshaw’s room by way of surprise. All at once Mr. Jeffries came through the room, and seeing the little girl idle for the moment, with one sweep of his hand landed the rose-bush in the middle of the yard, the stem broken and the opening buds torn. There was not a tear, not a word of complaint as she stole up to the linen closet and laid the ruined stem in my hands, hiding her face on my shoulder, and trembling like an aspen.

“Who has done this, Jennie?” said I hurriedly, and in a passion.

“Don’t be vexed at him; it was Mr. Jeffries. He’ll be sorry to-morrow.”

“But this was yours; what right had he to touch it? I will go and ask him;” and I flung down my book and started up.

“No, Marston, you must not anger him. It is all the home we have; and if you vex him, he may turn us away, or at least not let you have this nice little closet to study in.”

There was something in Jennie’s philosophy that quieted me a little; and drawing her to my side, I tried first to command myself and then comfort her. Excited as the poor child was, she soon fell asleep; and not seeing any thing but the clean white linen in the room, I took off my coat and spread it on the floor, and laid her down. Accustomed to a hard bed, she did not waken. Try as I would, I could not study, but sat looking at the broken rose-bush and then at the thin, troubled face of the sleeper, the blue lids swollen, and the delicate veins plainly perceptible about the throbbing temples.

“How could he do it? By what right deny this little child the only treasure she possessed?” and I was getting into a passion again, when Mrs. Jeffries entered.

She read it all at a glance; went out and brought a quilt and a pillow for Jennie, and taking up the broken stalk, looked at the roots.

“It will live. There is another pot, Marston, and if you will fill it with fresh mould, I will help you. Its beauty has gone for the present, but it will grow again.”

I did not move or stir, my anger was too deep. She laid her hand on my shoulder, and kindly said, “You can’t be sorrier than I am, Marston. I saw it all: but you wont be angry; Mr. Jeffries will be sorry to-morrow.”

“Just what Jennie said; but that wont help it.”

“It may, Marston; at least it will not do any good to be angry about it. I know you wont, Marston.”

“No, I will not be angry;” and at once I went to work filling the pot. Mrs. Jeffries cut off the broken part, put the buds the least injured in a little china vase filled with salt and water, and set them on a shelf in the little attic where Jennie slept. I did not see Jennie again till my work was done at night, when she said cheerily,

“Mrs. Jeffries says it will grow again. It was very good of her, wasn’t it, Marston?” and she nestled by my side, and together we studied our geography.

When the warm weather came, the schoolmaster and his mother went away, and we never saw them afterwards. When the June sun was glowing, and the soft winds wafted the fragrant breath of flowers up through the mountain gorges, Mr. Jeffries’ house was once more filled with visitors; and I was not unfrequently called upon to show some gentleman or lady the best views, as they were called, until I became familiar with the beauties and glories of nature, and felt their genial influence thrilling me with a new and indefinite pleasure.

Sometimes I was brought face to face with the storm in the mountain passes, while thunder and lightning shook and vibrated through them, rolling slowly down the sides of the mountain and echoing along the valley in terrific grandeur.

One day in the heat of summer a gentleman came up, saying to Mr. Jeffries that it was his intention to remain for a week; that he had come out of the city expressly for mountain air and scenery, and that he wished to make the best use of his time. His name was Kirby, and he had not been there a day before I felt that he was another Charles Brisbane—the same views, the same hopes, the same manner characterized them; and after my work was done in the morning, it was my privilege to join him in his rambles, provided I returned in time to have every thing in readiness for the night. What made this arrangement still pleasanter, Jennie was permitted to go with us whenever it was not too far, while Mr. Kirby would tell us stories of mountains over the sea.

I remember, one evening, we were flinging our lines in a little brook that ran gurgling along through the green grass like a silver serpent, when Mr. Kirby told us of the Rosenlani glacier in such glowing language, that we seemed to see distinctly the pale sunshine dancing on its sharp peaks of frosted silver, its blue ice caverns, its fringe of firs, with hanging ledges of short crisp grass, and giant masses of grey rock, and the sudden shower of snow from falling avalanches. Then he unrolled a map, and pointed out the jagged pyramid of the Wetterhorn, and told us of the people that lived there; and by the time we returned, in season to have our trout for supper, we had learned more of the geography of Switzerland than we should have learned from poring over books for a long time.

“To-morrow,” said Mr. Kirby, “we must go up to the highest point of the mountain. I am afraid my little Jennie must stay at home.”

“Why so, Mr. Kirby?” and Jennie pressed to his side; “I like to be with you and Marston.”

“I should like to have you go, but I am afraid it would make you sick; it will be a hard walk for us. If I give you a nice story to read, it will interest you quite as much; and when we come back, you shall tell us all about it. Besides, Miss Grimshaw is to teach you how to hem that new handkerchief. You will be contented to stay now, wont you?”

“If you think it best,” and the long brown lashes drooped over the blue eyes.

The next morning I was up earlier than usual; but not before Jennie, who insisted on sharing my labor, feeding the pigs, and then scattering corn to the poultry, and throwing wheat to the few pigeons that circled about the premises.

“I do want to go with you,” she said as she kissed me good-by; but Mr. Kirby was there with the neatly bound book he had promised, and the tears were soon dried, Jennie looking the last look as she ran up to her attic to lay aside her treasure, till the moment when her work should be done and Mrs. Jeffries should give her permission to do what she pleased.

“Shall you have patience to climb?” asked Mr. Kirby as we stood at the base of the tallest peak, its jagged sides covered with stunted shrubs and shelving rocks as far as the eye could reach, a veil of clouds and mist resting on the summit.

“I shall like it exceedingly. You forget that I am accustomed to climbing.”

“What was it that Miss Grimshaw called you and Jennie the other day?”

“The Climbers.”

“Yes, and the name rather pleased me,” continued Mr. Kirby. “Heights are to be won every day, and our stand-point to-day should be in advance of what it was yesterday. We are, or should be, all climbers, using every incident, occasion, and advantage as a stepping-stone to something better.”

“I fear some of us are doing it at a snail’s pace; a lifetime of such climbing as mine would not amount to much.”

“You remember the hare and the tortoise,” said Mr. Kirby, “and which won the race. The hare started off as some people would to go up this mountain; but he soon grew weary, and lay down to rest. The tortoise began as he could hold out, and the end justified his wisdom.” I now understood why Mr. Kirby was walking leisurely.

“When I was a lad,” continued he, “I often visited my grandfather, who lived on a farm in the country. On one occasion he hired two men to work in the harvest-field. One man looked at the small field of wheat contemptuously, and declared it his opinion the job had better be given to one; he could do it all himself before sundown. Still my grandfather insisted on the two, and accordingly they began. One worked furiously, and at noon he was far in advance of his companion. As the hot hours passed his arm grew nerveless, his back felt as though it was broken, his limbs ached, and his head felt like bursting. Long before sundown he had to withdraw to the house of the farmer; while his companion, who had husbanded his strength, was left to finish the field alone. Patience when we commence is quite as needful in intellectual as in physical effort. The end of the race tells who wins.”

“There is a good deal of consolation in that,” I ventured to remark. “Climbing hills I can easily do; but I am sometimes afraid that is the only climbing that will be allowed me.”

“Not if you wish another. Obstacles vanish before a strong and resolute will.”

“But circumstances, Mr. Kirby.”

“Look behind you, Marston, and you will see that while walking and talking at our leisure, we have been advancing all the time, and have in reality made a very perceptible ascent. The valley looks like a green thread, and the few buildings that we see like pigeon-houses.”

“Yes, indeed; we get along better than I expected. We’ve been steadily at it, that’s all.”

“That is it, Marston, steadily at it. Perseverance is sure, sooner or later, to overcome.”

“And if we have a plan, and steadily follow it, shall we succeed?” I asked.

“Almost sure to do so; not by one endeavor, not by two, but by years of perpetual toil and labor. Climbers have more to contend with than those who sit still in the valley. Do you begin to weary, Marston?”

“Oh no; but the path is much rougher, and I slip backward instead of getting forward.”

“Now you see why I took this staff tipped with a sharp iron. It will help us when the way is slippery. Give me your hand; it is hard work, but nothing good is achieved without labor.”

At length we reached a cliff which, projecting boldly into our path, rose like a dark grey wall to bar our advance.

“What shall we do now?” I asked; “go back?”

“Never do that, unless you are out of the way,” said Mr. Kirby. “We must get up just as we have come so far, by climbing. But it is so steep on this side, we shall have to go round.” After a short pause to ascertain the most favorable point, Mr. Kirby with his iron-tipped staff proceeded to put his advice into practice. Each step was carefully taken, another, and another; while, as we advanced, helps arose on all sides: here was a twig, there a rock, and there a secure place for the feet; and without any great fatigue, and almost before we were aware, we stood on the top of the enormous mass that but a short time before had loomed up threateningly.

“You see where we are,” said Mr. Kirby. “Remember, and never give up when you undertake any thing. Stop only sufficiently long to make sure of the way, and then advance, one step at a time. You see here how clearly one step prepares the way for another; so it will ever be. Oaks are strengthened by wind and storm; so men grow firm by combating with difficulty and opposition.”

“I don’t see how that can make them strong,” I said; for I did not clearly understand the import of his words.

“I do not mean strong in body merely, although this might follow, but strong in spirit, more resolute to do, more determined to endure. If boys possess this quality, they will be pretty sure to make strong, reliable men, able to take a position in the world and have an influence among men. But look; what a splendid view we have from this point;” and Mr. Kirby looked over the broad panorama with an eye that seemed to see the Deity in his works; and from the top of that table rock he told me of his own life, of the obstacles in his way, the poverty and destitution that he had known: “And still by climbing, just as we have been doing to-day, I have made some progress; and if I keep on—”

“What will you make?” I asked in my eagerness.

“What would you say if you knew I had no higher ambition than to be a clergyman?” looking at me with a half smile in his clear dark eye.

“I think I should be a lawyer, if I was in your place, Mr. Kirby.”

“A lawyer; why so?”

“Why, there’s a better chance to rise in the world. It must be very nice to sway men as easily as lawyers do; and then there’s a chance of one day being senator or judge.”

“It must be very pleasant, you say, to sway men as lawyers do. Do you not think it equally good to sway men as clergymen do? It is the lawyer’s business to help men out of temporary difficulties. It is the clergyman’s business to show men a better way: first to show them their condition as sinners, then to tell them of the precious Saviour who died to redeem them, and who will not only save them from temporary difficulties, but raise them to an eternity of happiness. Is there any thing more glorious than this, Marston?”

“I hardly know, sir. It has always seemed to me I should like to be a lawyer. Yet it must be pleasant, as you say, to make people better.”

“I hope you will always think so, Marston,” and Mr. Kirby gathered some wild flowers. “They will remind us of the walk. Flowers have the happy power of always calling our best thoughts to the surface.”

“It would seem your best thoughts are always there, Mr. Kirby.”

“On the contrary, my best thoughts are sometimes out of sight entirely. I have to be very watchful over myself. I am too readily given to despondency, and not willing to trust and be bright and cheerful when it looks dark and lowering.”

“Is it our duty always to be bright and glad?” I asked.

“I think so, Marston.”

“But if every thing goes wrong with us?”

“Every thing cannot go wrong with us, if we love and trust the Saviour, for he has said that all things shall work together for our good.”

“That is what mother used to say. I always wondered how she could.”

“Because she trusted him, and this trust made her cheerful and happy.”

“If we go to the top,” I ventured to say, “we must be going;” and again the dry moss rustled beneath our feet. We had not gone far before dark clouds began to scud over the sky, portending a sudden storm.

“Had we not better return?” I asked.

“We are much nearer the top than the bottom of the mountain,” said Mr. Kirby. “If a storm should come, it would reach us before we could get half way down. You are not afraid of a storm, Marston.”

“Not of mere rain; but this is no place as to the wind, to say nothing of thunder and lightning.”

“All these are in His keeping. We are the objects of his love.” He had hardly finished speaking, when a fearful gale swept down the mountain, and nearly bore us away with it. The rain quickly followed, while the thunder was startling, with its quick, sharp reports, then rolling along in one continued roar till lost in the distance.

“This will not last long,” said Mr. Kirby, and took shelter under a great rock, drawing me after him. How long we stood there I hardly know, for the dense mass of black clouds floating so near us, carried swiftly by the winds, rolling and unrolling their rugged edges, fringed with the lurid glare, was the most fascinating spectacle that I had ever witnessed.

After explaining to me the different strata of the atmosphere and some of the causes of this sudden change in the clouds, Mr. Kirby spoke of that great day of storm and dread, when there would be some to cry for the mountains to cover them from the wrath of the Lamb, and others to whom He would be as the shelter of a great rock.

Then we stepped out from under the rock. The shower was over, and we again advanced. For a time the ascent was more precipitous than any that we had met before, while the wet boughs, brushing against our faces, would have seriously disturbed a less persevering spirit than Mr. Kirby’s.

Among the remembrances of that day were the tiny pools and cascades, filled to overflowing during the shower. Then there were spots of soft green beds of beautiful moss, and short, steep acclivities, such as would hardly afford footing for the chamois or gazelle.

At length we stood at the top. Here, on the very summit of the mountain, was a lovely little lake, its water clear as crystal, where the clouds could see their beauty reflected without comment or obstruction.

How proud and happy I felt. The work was done. I had often looked up, but never before attempted going to the top. Once decided upon, it was done. Would it be as easy with every thing else?

Scarcely had we turned from the lake, when the sun came out, rolling up the floating mists into wool-like drapery of clouds, revealing a panorama of surpassing grandeur.

Beneath us lay a succession of hills, shelving down to the valley, while further in the distance were green fields, with farm-houses looking hardly bigger than mole-hills, with the river winding on to the ocean like a long blue thread; and the ocean itself, whose boundary I could not define, was an object of strange wonder to me. Ignorant as I was, I could not understand the strong emotion that thrilled me, depriving me entirely of the power of speech.

“How beautiful He hath made them all;” and Mr. Kirby lifted his hat, and stood uncovered, awed by the glorious majesty around him. As I looked at him, I felt a still stronger yearning for something higher and nobler. That hour, I am persuaded, was a turning-point in my life. New hopes fluttered into being; new resolves were registered; new purposes were to be maintained; and a strong confidence was born within me, that the Lord would not leave me desolate.

Mr. Kirby talked of God’s exceeding great love, and how he never turned any away, even the poorest and weakest, that might call upon him for aid. He also told me several wonderful things of the mountains, and the transformation continually going on in them; and then of Hugh Miller, and the ways by which he had achieved his great work.

It surprises me now, when I think how much was crowded into that one day. It was to me like a new revelation; the very air was full of a new life; I breathed freer than I had done for months. A new path was opening, and I felt strong to tread where others had gone before—others as poor and friendless as I was. Oh that we could always keep ourselves on the mountain heights of faith and hope.

With Mr. Kirby near to prompt and encourage me, I forgot my ragged clothes and rimless hat, and that my shoes were old and patched—forgot, or rather did not know, that to become learned as he was would require years of time and a great deal of money, a commodity that I knew little about. My heart was light and buoyant. I thought I could do it, and hope began to trill a measure that was henceforth to ring on all through my life.

The sudden shower had rendered fresh and green each leaf and flower, while the bright sun-rays had transmuted the drops to brilliant diamonds, suspended in lavish profusion from tree and shrub, catching and reflecting its light in countless forms of splendor.

Just then a wren flew out of a thicket, and settled on a low spray just in our path. With a sweep of my hand I could have reached the fearless little songster, fresh, bright, glad, offering its tribute to the Creator.

“Shall not we thank him too?” said Mr. Kirby; and suiting the action to the word, he knelt, and placing one hand upon my bowed head, implored God, for Christ’s sake, to have compassion upon me, to make me a child of God, to forgive my sins, and to give me a teachable spirit, that I might be willing to be led, and might, through the influence of his grace, grow up to be a good and useful man.

This was the first time that anybody had ever prayed alone with me, save my mother; and it brought her so forcibly before me, that I could not keep down the sobs.

Going home, I asked Mr. Kirby if we should ever see him again.

“It is not probable,” he answered. “It is very possible that I may be sent abroad; and if so, we may never meet again; but whether we meet or not, I shall think of you, Marston, and pray that we may both live so as to meet in heaven.”

Jennie saw us coming, and bounded over the brook that ran at the back of the house and across the pasture to meet us, breaking out into a glad welcome, telling us that she had finished the book, and nearly hemmed the handkerchief. “Here it is,” holding it up for inspection.

“Very well done,” said Mr. Kirby, shaking it out, and examining it attentively. “Now, my little friends, I want you both to remember this day. It may be the last chance I shall have to speak to you alone. Do your duty wherever you are. Let your first question be, Is it right? and then never turn back, nor be discouraged. Do this, and you will advance, just as we did in climbing the mountain to-day, one step at a time; so by one act of duty at a time, one good purpose well carried out, success will follow.” Then putting his hand on each of our heads, “Give your hearts to Christ now; love and serve him. Wherever I go, I shall think of you, and shall hope you are workers for him, let your surroundings be what they may.”

III.

Full of my new resolves, I went about my evening’s work, followed closely by Jennie, telling me all the time about her book. While listening to the charming story, I forgot, and put brindle into the black cow’s place. No sooner done, than Mr. Jeffries, who had a quick eye, sent me spinning across the stable floor, and Jennie into the house and up to her attic, where I found her an hour afterwards, with tears still on her cheeks.

“Don’t cry about it, Jennie;” and I drew up a little rocking-chair I had made for her out of an old one, and took her in my arms. “It was careless in me; I should have seen what I was about.”

“He said afterwards it would not have been much matter if the cattle had remained so all night. Oh, if we only had a home, like other children, Marston. I wonder why we haven’t;” and she nestled her brown head on my shoulder, and tried hard not to sob any more. Just then a sharp voice came up from the kitchen, and for once I felt like resisting. I was tired, my work was all done, and I sat quite still, holding Jennie tightly. Again and again the call.

“We must go, brother; Mr. Kirby said we must do what we have to do well, and then God will open a path for us. I do hope he will; don’t you?” Kissing my angry cheek, she put away her book, and ran down the narrow stairs. Brushing off the tears, I followed as quickly as possible.

“You’ve forgotten your wood, boy; this comes of reading books. If you don’t quit it, you can’t stay here, I can tell you;” and Mr. Jeffries stormed till he was tired, and then walked into the bar-room.

“Don’t mind his being cross, Marston,” said Mrs. Jeffries soothingly; “he’s not quite himself to-night; to-morrow he’ll be sorry.”

Tired as I was at bedtime I could not sleep, the day had been so pleasant notwithstanding the fatigue. I had listened to Mr. Kirby, and thought it would be easy to be good; and then he had prayed that I might be led. But before my work was done I had become angry and cross, and half questioning God’s goodness because Jennie and I had not a home, with some one to love and take care of us.

I went to the window where I could see the distant hills, the very mountain the top of which we had reached by continued effort. “Nothing is gained without labor,” Mr. Kirby had said. How easy it would be to do right, I thought, if we could always live with such people; and I looked up to the stars twinkling to each other in their beauty.

My heart was full, and yearned for sympathy; and to comfort myself, I went back and lived the cheering scenes of my life over again—calling up every word and look of my dear mother, then all Mr. Brisbane had said, and now Mr. Kirby, and my books, of which I could count several.

In going up the mountain Mr. Kirby had often caused me to look behind me, in that way getting an idea of the ascent we were really making. So in looking over the past I could see that I had made some advance, and insensibly my thoughts grew clearer. Again I looked up to the heavens; but I knew but little of God’s love. His precious promise was to me then a sealed voice. Still, there was a feeling of quiet stole over me, something that spoke comfort, for I went to sleep.

The next morning Mr. Kirby left, and I had so much to do, and so many calling upon me at once, that I had no time to tell him what I had resolved to tell him, namely, how forgetful I had been, and what a passionate feeling had swept over me. I meant to try and do better, but I had no time to tell him.

“Do right, Marston, and study all you can,” had been his last words. Mr. Jeffries was very kind, and as if to make amends for the last night, gave me an hour to myself after dinner. Taking our books, Jennie followed me to a flat rock under a gnarled apple-tree, and on a broken slate I pored over my sums, while she studied geography. Then I heard her lesson, and she questioned me in arithmetic; for with less instruction she was further advanced than I was. After that, we read the book Mr. Kirby had given her. It was a simple, unvarnished sketch of every-day life, with allusions that I could understand, and experiences so like my own that more than once I stopped to dry my eyes.

We had just finished, and were talking it over, when who should come across the garden but our father? We had not seen him in a good while, and there was something so kind in his look and manner, that we started at once to meet him.

“So you have not quite forgotten me,” he said, as Jennie kissed him and I clung to his hand.

“We can never do that, pa.” He sat down on the rock and held us to him, with his arms close around us.

“Are you willing to come home, Marston? You are getting to be a large boy, and can help me now; and I am going to try to do better.”

Had it not been for my new mother I should have jumped at the idea of going with my father; but when I thought of her my heart struggled against it. Again Mr. Kirby’s words came to my mind: “Do right, Marston.” Something told me it was right, if my father was trying to make a better man, to help him. So I answered resolutely,

“If you think it best, father; but I want to go to school, and do something better by and by.”

“That is what I want you to do, my son; and I will try and help you.”

He was sober, and spoke so kindly, we both cried when he kissed us good-by, and said he knew he had not been as good to us as he ought to have been since we had no mother. Dear father, it was a long time since we had seen him so kind; and it was to be a still longer time before we should see him so kind again.

“You will come down to-morrow night, children.”

“Yes, father.”

This arrangement did not suit Mr. Jeffries; but he said nothing against it, while his wife shook her head. “The same old story; it will be as bad as ever in a week,” she said to herself.

The next day, the last we stayed at the Jeffries’, a traveller presented me with a book entitled “Self Helps,” and never a miser rejoiced more over his treasure than I did when I caught sight of its contents. So there had been hosts of poor boys trying just as I was for something better; and at last they found it; so should I.

At sunset Jennie and I walked back to our old home. Our new mother received us kindly, and the baby crowed and clapped his hands, seeming to regard us as old acquaintances.

The days and weeks passed, and it was the middle of autumn. There was a little corn to be gathered, and a few potatoes to be dug; but father’s good promises had all vanished. He was not cross, neither did he often scold, but he stayed from home; and when he was there, he was too stupid to care for any of us.

Winter came, and I attended a school nearly a mile from us; but this time we had no such friend as Charles Brisbane. The teacher seemed to know that we were poor and miserable; and when I went in late, as I almost always did, he was sure to give me a sharp reprimand. In vain it was to rise at four o’clock: there was fire to make, there were paths to shovel, the cow to milk, and breakfast to get; for my new mother would not rise until the room was warm, and this in our house could not be till the fire had been burning a good while.

Poor little Jennie had to stay at home entirely. Still she studied, and Miss Grimshaw out of the kindness of her heart sent us each a slate for her Christmas present. Never were more acceptable gifts, and I question if any Christmas since has brought us more pleasure, brightened as it was by two new slates.

The winter proved to be unusually severe; the snow deeper than for years. We managed to live, how I hardly know. There was plenty of wood that could be had for the cutting; but I had not sufficient strength to accomplish much in this way, and had to content myself with drawing up fallen timber, and branches that the wind had scattered. Towards spring, father was gone more than ever, sometimes not coming home till late at night; and then not till Jennie and I had taken the lantern and gone down to the village after him.

One night he was later than usual; the day had been unusually bleak, a heavy snow-storm setting in before noon, and by sunset we could hardly wade through it. Ten o’clock, and our mother for the first time grew uneasy; the baby was asleep; she left Jennie to rock the cradle, and giving me the lantern, we started for the village.

We had not made half the distance before we were covered with such a thick mantle of snow as to render it necessary to stop and shake ourselves; but my step-mother had a resolute will, when she chose to put it in force. In vain I counselled her to return, and let me go alone; finding she could not be persuaded, I waded through, making as good a path as possible, holding up my lantern so that father could see it if he was really on the way.

It was twelve o’clock when we reached the village; the lights were nearly all out, only one room was open, and that was the fatal one that tempted him so often from home.

“No, your father is not here,” they said in answer to my inquiries. “He started for home before night. It is such a terrible storm, he may have stopped on the way.”

“More likely that he has fallen in the snow,” said mother; “it is frightfully cold, and the wind is drifting it in heaps.”

There were few words spoken as we went back. The storm had somewhat subsided, and far as the eye could reach spread out before us one mass of fleecy whiteness.

How our hearts thrilled, and then stood still, as we passed an eminence where the snow lay high and uneven: under that white covering father might be buried.

“Here is an uneven track,” and mother pointed to a pile of snow at the foot of the hill, and very near our own door. I held up the lantern, but for a moment could not move onward. So near us, and still we had gone so far! Nerving myself at last, I followed the steps, now filled with snow, but still perceptible.

It was as we feared. He had started for home, and had reached the foot of the hill, when he fell, too chilled or too insensible to rise.

Oh the agony of that night! He was our father, and deeply as he had erred, we loved him. Such a terrible death, and we knew not where to look for comfort.

IV.

Jennie and I were alone now, for our new mother had taken her babe and gone back to her parents. What could we do? I thought of others who had worked out of just such extremities, and resolved that I would seek employment, but not of Mr. Jeffries.

So making myself as tidy as possible, and curling Jennie’s hair over my fingers as I had seen my own mother do, we shut the door of our mountain home, and walked resolutely down to the village. Sure of success, I kept Jennie laughing as I portrayed the future in glowing colors, telling her of all that I would do, and the pretty home that I would make of my own, where we would always live together, with plenty of books and flowers—her sweet blue eyes looking up with such a glad earnestness.

“It will be better than the story in the book, wont it?”

Our first call was on Miss Grimshaw. She was a milliner in the village, and her one shop window was full of pictures of highly dressed women, whose feathers, bonnets, and flowers made a great impression upon her customers, to say nothing of the awe Jennie and I felt in the presence of such magnificence.

Miss Grimshaw received us very cordially; and when I told her we wanted work together, she shook her head.

After thinking a while, she said with sincere tenderness, “Jennie had better stay with me. She is too delicate to do heavy work; I will give her a light task, and let her have several hours to study every day: and it is very probable that you can find employment in the village; so it will not be much of a separation.”

It was soon settled that Jennie should remain with Miss Grimshaw; and I went to look out for myself elsewhere. Fortunately the grocer who lived directly opposite wanted a boy; and after examining me a little in arithmetic, and also asking me to write his name and my own, he finally said,

“You may try, although I will not promise to keep you a single day.”

Every little village has its great man; and the village of Claverton, nestled at the foot of the green hills, was not without its rich man, Esquire Clavers being the original proprietor from whom it took its name.

He was a little wiry man, with sparkling eyes and a hooked nose, spare thin hair, and whiskers thickly sprinkled with grey, and a voice that sounded any thing but musical, especially to the poor.

Very precise in his toilet was Esquire Clavers; his linen was always unexceptionable, his watch chain of the largest dimensions, and from it dangled a massive seal and gold key, while his gold-headed cane seemed almost a part of himself, for never was he seen without it. He lived in a two-story yellow house at the head of the principal street, and the people looked up to him with a deferential air given to no other person, not even the minister.

Mr. Willett, the grocery keeper, was the next on the list; and it not unfrequently happened, as his front shop was the largest one in town, that it proved the rendezvous for politicians and news-mongers—Esquire Clavers being of course the main speaker in the assembly, and the oracle in matters of opinion in all Claverton.

It was spring, but not yet sufficiently warm to do without fires; accordingly there was a trio around the stove the very morning I commenced my work.

“I see you’ve got a new boy,” said Jared Peat the tailor.

“On trial just,” answered Mr. Willett.

“Not of much account, I’ll venture; a chip of the old block,” continued Jared.

“Smart as a steel-trap,” said Esquire Clavers, “but altogether too fine notions in his head. If a boy would be any thing, he must work for it. It’s of no use trying to work and study too; one or the other will be done badly. Jeffries was telling me of his being there; he could hardly take a horse to water without having a book along to read while the horse was drinking. For my part, I wouldn’t give him his salt if he works in that manner.” Esquire Clavers had said it, and of course I should find little time for books so long as I should be in Mr. Willett’s employ.

I had heard that Esquire Clavers had once been poor, and I could not but ask myself, Has he forgotten? or was it not so dark and hard to him as it is to me?

Presently a customer asked for molasses, and I went into the back room to draw it, Mr. Willett hastening after me.

“You should not fill the measure quite full, boy.”

“She asked for a quart, sir;” and I looked up, feeling sure he had not understood, as I held but a quart measure.

“I know, but we never fill it quite full; it might run over, you know; and when you stop it, see that not a drop is lost.”

He walked about, apparently finding something to do, but in reality watching me. I saw the direction of his eye; and filling my measure, with care that it did not run over, and that not a drop was lost, I emptied it into the poor woman’s jug.

“Never stop to drain it; make quick work; somebody else will want you;” and I followed him into the front room.

“I see he gives good measure,” Mr. Willett said to Jared Peat as he resumed his place at the fire.

“Oh yes, such people are always honest.”

“I don’t know about that,” answered Esquire Clavers. “His father was an honest man, though open-handed and generous, and I have heard say was at one time a gentleman. It’s a pity he drank so.”

They did not seem to mind me at all, and still I felt pleased, although saddened, to hear my father called an honest man, and that at one time he had been in better circumstances. Thus thinking, and wishing that I knew more of his early life, I leaned against the counter, and weighed and tied up sundry packages; for this was, Mr. Willett said, my first work, to tie packages handsomely.

On the day went. My hands were not idle, yet not unfrequently I found my thoughts straying into the future. The vision loomed up with a sudden brightness, a path tending onward in spite of difficulties and temptations.

I did not know what trials would rise up from unseen places, what snares and pitfalls where the flowers grew brightest. But I remembered Mr. Kirby had said, as he climbed the mountain, “One step at a time; and so in life. Do what you have to do well, and God will open a path to something better.”

Little did I then see what He was to do for me; little did I then understand my duty to him; but I thought of him, and felt a certain sense of reliance, a feeling of security, which I have since vainly endeavored to understand.

Near sunset, and just as I was balancing the question, wishing and still fearing to ask Mr. Willett’s permission to study in the evening, Jennie came in, her bright, happy face looking still prettier in a light blue sun-bonnet that Miss Grimshaw had given her. I had only time for a kiss when she asked for Mr. Willett. I showed her to his desk, when she stepped forward and laid a tiny note before him. I saw that his face lit up with a glad surprise, and his eyes sparkled with pleasure as he laid it down.

“Yes, tell her I’ll come.” I afterwards discovered it was an invitation to tea. Mr. Willett was a devoted admirer, and the little milliner held his heart as he did his purse, tightly. What was said I never knew; but the next morning Mr. Willett said if I was faithful and did my work well, I could study every evening with Jennie, and Miss Grimshaw would hear our lessons.

That night was an era in my life, and very happy and hopeful was I as I crossed the street to the little side door Jennie had told me to enter. Here I found a comfortable room, a round table in the centre of the floor, with our two slates, an arithmetic, and geography; for Jennie had every thing in readiness, including a tallow candle in a white porcelain holder, the bottom shaped like a leaf, which Jennie thought was a marvel of beauty. In the corner was seated grandma Grimshaw, a stately looking woman with silver hair combed low on the forehead, white muslin cap with long embroidered tabs, and spectacles.

“And this is Marston,” said she, taking my hand as I came in. “I’ve heard Eliza speak of you as a good boy. She used to know your ma;” and soon Miss Grimshaw came out of the front room, laid her hand on my head, and said,

“You shall study two hours if you like, and then I will hear your lesson.” I tried to stammer out my thanks, but something choked down my words. “That is nothing, Marston. I used to want to study, but I had no chance. I like to read, and I am familiar with arithmetic; I can help you there as well as any one;” and she was gone.

“Eliza don’t get much time,” said her mother; “but she likes to help others; and she used to think so much of your mother.”

Brushing away the tears that would come at the mention of my mother, I turned to my slate. The first three rules I could understand perfectly, but long division troubled me. I was sure to make some mistake that would require me to go over and over again, and not unfrequently did I feel inclined to throw it aside. But one look at my “Self Helps,” and I worked away as resolutely as ever.

At nine Miss Grimshaw came in, heard Jennie’s lesson in geography, then questioned me in arithmetic, and explained till the difficulties had all vanished. Then we read for half an hour; at the expiration of which she shut our books.

“I promised Mr. Willett you should be there five minutes before ten.”

“This is better than the boy in the book,” said Jennie, reaching up on tiptoe to kiss me good-night.

It had been a busy day and evening, and I was tired. Still I had made some advance, and at this rate it would not be long before I should master arithmetic. I slept in a little back room; but weary as I was, I could not at once quiet my thoughts; so I lay and watched one little star as it stole across my window, and wondered if my mother could know how and where I was, and that I did try to care for Jennie, although we could not sleep under the same roof.

As spring came forward, the ordinary business of the day remained quite the same, but how many pleasant things I had to think of. Long division did not trouble me any more, neither did fractions; I was beginning to understand interest, and my handwriting had much improved. There was also a sensible difference in my outward appearance, and Jennie grew in loveliness each day. How proud I was of that little sister; and never did we go to church or Sabbath-school, but I wondered if mother could know it.

When the summer heats were on us there was less to do, and sometimes I got a walk with Jennie among the hills. A year had made a great difference with both of us, while the mountain was just the same; and we often thought of our last walk there, and of dear Mr. Kirby.

“If he could only know how kind Miss Grimshaw is to us,” said Jennie. “It is God that puts it into her heart, isn’t it? and not for our sakes, but for Christ’s sake. I used to think it was for mother’s sake; but Christ died for us.”

Dear little comforter; her heart was full of sweet thoughts, while I was ambitious for her; and this, together with Mr. Kirby’s words, kept me from being gloomy and desponding when I fancied Mr. Willett was impatient or exacting: “Do your work well, and God will open a path to something better.” This gave me courage and strength; so that while I worked in the present, I lived in the future.

One day I was sent to Esquire Clavers’ with a basket of groceries he had ordered. As I went up the walk, Frank, his oldest son, a boy of about my own age, was on the piazza, a spot embowered in roses and honeysuckles, reading; a little girl in a blue lawn dress, with long golden curls framing her face like a picture, reclined near him, her head resting on the neck of a large Newfoundland dog. From the open window the pleasant tones of a piano floated out on the air, and involuntarily I stopped to listen. Frank looked up, and seeing me, came down the avenue to meet me.

“What have you here? Oh, teas and things for mother. Do you like music? Come, go in and hear sister play.”

“I should be glad to,” I answered, “but I was told to return immediately.”

“Five minutes wont be missed; come in.”

“Not now, Frank,” for I thought of what Mr. Kirby had said; and handing my basket to the servant, I took up Frank’s book.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Latin,” he answered; “and a grand old language it is;” and he began reading aloud.

“Where do you go to school?” I asked.

“To the Rockdale academy. Have you never heard of it? It is vacation now. We shall commence again in September. Oh, we have great times there. I wish you would join us; you’d like the boys: some of them study, and some are up to all sorts of fun.”

“I wish I could go,” I answered musingly.

“Well, why can’t you? it’s only four miles from here.”

I did not dare stay another moment; and taking my basket, I turned, with a hasty good-by to Frank. Since the vacation commenced, he had visited the grocery almost every day, and very fond he seemed of all sports and amusements.

This boy has a home, I said to myself sadly, and parents to watch over him; he does not have to look after himself; and his little sister is no better than Jennie; and again I dared to question why Frank Clavers had so much, and we were so destitute. But whatever feelings swayed me for the moment, the controlling idea was still the same: “Do what you do well, and God will open a path.”

Even then God was preparing a surprise that would melt me into tears. For several days Miss Grimshaw had been saying that I was getting all she knew of arithmetic; and when September came, she surprised me by asking how I would like to go to the Rockdale academy.

“Oh, so much, Miss Grimshaw; but it is four miles from here, and—”

“It is only three miles by the river road, which is by far the pleasantest. Three miles is not such a long walk for a boy like you.”

“Oh no, Miss Grimshaw; but you forget there is no school at night.”

“You are not going at night, but in the morning early;” and my white face, as she told me afterwards, frightened her into exclaiming at once,

“Mrs. Jeffries says that she will board you; that is, she will send me enough during the winter of such things as we need to pay the expense of your board; and you are to go to Rockdale.”

I had no words, and Jennie seated herself on my knee, and kissed away the tears. “I am so glad, brother; I only wish I could go too.”

“The walk is entirely too long for Jennie,” said Miss Grimshaw, who overheard the last remark; “but you can help her some, and in this way she will advance nearly as well as though at school all the time.”

“We shall get on very nicely. I cannot sufficiently thank you, Miss Grimshaw.”

“It is not all my work, Marston. Mrs. Jeffries had quite as much to do with it; she is anxious that you should both go to school.”

V.

A great day it was when I started for the academy. With the amount received from Mr. Willett, Miss Grimshaw had provided me with a neat outfit, and also had enough left for a few new books.

“I used to have a little brother,” said Miss Grimshaw as we set out; for the night previous, she had announced her intention of going with me. “Had Johnny lived, he would have been about your own age. We always intended to send him to college; for he loved books.”

But it was not a morning to be sad. A soft hazy atmosphere floated around us, and softened into beauty the distant landscape. The hills stretching away northward loomed up through their blue veil with almost the majesty of mountain ranges; the green of the pines on their crests, and the ragged lines of the wood which marked the courses of the descending ravines, were dimmed and robbed of their gloom. The valley was still fresh, and the great oaks by the brook had not yet shed all their tawny leaves. A moist and fragrant odor of decay pervaded the air, and the soft south wind occasionally stealing along the valley seemed to blow the sombre colors of the landscape into long-continued waves of brightness.

The hills, curving rapidly to the eastward, rose abruptly from the meadows in a succession of terraces, the lowest of which was faced with a wall of dark rock, in horizontal strata, but almost concealed from view by the tall forest-trees which grew at the base.

The brook, issuing from a glen which descended from the lofty upland region, poured itself headlong from the brink of the rocky steep, a glittering silver thread. Seen through the hazy atmosphere, its narrow white column seemed to stand motionless between the pines, and its mellowed mist to roll from some region beyond the hills.

“We shall see Rockdale presently,” said Miss Grimshaw. “I am sorry now that I did not let Jennie come. I did not think the walk would be so beautiful, and I was afraid it would make her sick.”

“If you are willing, I would like to have her take this walk some time; it would please her so much; neither do I think it would tire her. We have both been accustomed to long walks. I have been to the top of the highest point, and Jennie was familiar with almost every rock about Mrs. Jeffries’.”

“She shall come,” continued Miss Grimshaw. “But there’s the academy. It used to be only a private dwelling; but the owner died, and Mr. Harlan, our minister then, thought it would be a good place for a school. Terryville, just beyond, is much larger than our village, and most of the boys board there.”

By this time we were near the house, a white two-story building, with a broad veranda looking southward from the last low shelf of the hills, with an ample school-room in the rear, and grounds fitted up with arbors, rustic seats, swings, and all the paraphernalia of school life. The avenue by which we approached was lined with maples, and on our advance we passed clumps of lilacs and snowballs. But the house itself, with its heavy windows and flagged walk before the door, was just the same as before, Miss Grimshaw said. A few bunches of asters nodded their welcome, and the chrysanthemums on the borders stood as erect as though school-boys never passed them. We had reached the porch before Mr. Harlan saw us.

“And this is Marston Howe,” he said, after greeting Miss Grimshaw with marked kindness. “I am glad to see you, Marston; they tell me that you are fond of books, and determined to study. Is that so?”

“I shall do my best, sir,” was all that I could say, while it seemed that his eyes would look me through.

“It will be a long walk, Mr. Harlan,” Miss Grimshaw observed when she rose to leave. “I should have been glad on many accounts could Marston have boarded here; but for the present we could not arrange it so.”

“Oh, as for that matter, the walk will do him good; the harder one studies, the more exercise he should have. It will deprive him of companionship, save his books; but perhaps that will prove no loss. It is a delightful walk. I make the trip sometimes, and always return well paid for the trouble. I am only sorry I have so few pupils from your village. Frank Clavers boards here, and goes home on Friday.”

When Miss Grimshaw had gone, Mr. Harlan led the way into a large room where several boys and girls were studying. Taking his seat at the desk, he motioned me near him, and began questioning me closely in arithmetic and geography. When he had finished, he gave me a lesson in Latin grammar, and then seated me at his right hand, and by the side of another pupil, almost man grown, whom he called Lovell.

He then rung his desk-bell, and through the several doors came pupils from the recitation rooms; another touch of the bell, and others went out. There was no voice, no confusion; it was done with the order and precision of clock-work.

Twelve o’clock, and then such a buzz and whirr in the school-room I could neither see nor think. Soon Frank Clavers came with a noisy welcome, and led me out to see a new swing he had just been improvising, introducing me first to one and then to another.

“But you’ll know them soon enough, Marston. I only wish you boarded in the house; such capital times as we have. Fridays I go home. I am glad you are here to go with me.”

“But you do not walk, and I do all the time.”

“No matter. I have my pony sent down, and they can just as well send another. But say, whom do you sit with?”

“Mr. Harlan called him Lovell.”

“Lovell! why, he’s the very best scholar in school; poor though; going to be a minister;” and Frank ran on: “There goes the dinner-bell. What have you for dinner, Marston?”

“I shall take my dinner after I get home,” I answered.

“Too bad; I wish you would board here. Why not?”

“I’m too poor, Frank; I am glad to come on any terms.”

There was a sudden dropping of balls and jumping from swings, and a general scudding across the grounds. I walked around to the south side, and seated myself in an arbor heavily laden with vines.

It had seemed to me delightful to study Latin; but the grammar, now that I had it in my hand, was altogether a different thing. I thought of the mountain. We had gone to the top by the simple effort of one step at a time.

“We are all climbers,” Mr. Kirby had said. Studying Latin could be done in the same manner as we scaled the mountain, with one step at a time. Before I went home at night my lesson was recited.

“Very well for the first day,” said Mr. Harlan. “Perseverance and energy are all that is necessary. You like to study, and I trust you like to do what you do well. Make thorough work; understand what you go over. The great fault with our scholars is, they are superficial. It will require time to accomplish all you desire; but with the right effort it can be done. Make haste, but make haste slowly.”

Owing to my long walk, and my not having any recitation the first hour, Mr. Harlan did not oblige me to come in before ten; and I was also privileged to leave at three. This would give me some time to help Jennie; and for myself, I knew I should study better in Miss Grimshaw’s little back parlor than in the large school-room at Rockdale.

Returning home, I had just reached the point where the narrow white line of a brook became visible, when Jennie bounded up the pathway, her round cheeks all aglow, her blue sun-bonnet thrown back, and the sunshine playing with the loose meshes of her hair. She could hardly steady her voice, so eager was she to know of the day.

“Tell me all about it, brother. Miss Grimshaw said Rockdale was such a lovely place. Oh, I am sure it cannot be more beautiful there than it is here. Are there any little girls that go to the school? Did you see any to-day; and are there any so small as I am?”

“I did not see any so small as you are, Jennie.”

“Oh dear, I do so wish I could go with you. Don’t you think I could walk easily?”

“Not every day, Jennie; and besides, we are going to study in the evening, you know; and what I learn at school I will teach you at home.”

“Will you? Oh, that is so good;” and she clung to my hand, this little sister that my mother had said I must love and care for. Then she drew me down to the brook, its waters leaping over the stones with a gurgling music, like the trill of a laughing child; the sunshine glinting through the pines and climbing up the bank to our feet.

It was a scene of peculiar beauty, and dear Jennie enjoyed it with a keen relish. I tried, but could not enter into the same sense of enjoyment. To tell the truth, I was weary, perhaps hungry, and my new book did not seem to me quite as easy as I expected to find it.

Then I recollected that, in climbing the mountain, the object was not accomplished by one effort, but by a succession of continued struggles. It was by pressing through the undergrowth, catching hold of the cliff, going around the rocks, creeping where it was impossible to walk, yet advancing steadily all the time, that the ascent was made. Mr. Kirby had told me it would be just so in my studies; and I looked above me into the bright blue sky, and thought of the prayer offered in that jewelled dell—the prayer that I might be led by God’s Spirit, guarded and guided by his grace, and that a path might open for me. It had opened thus far; and was not this in answer to Mr. Kirby’s prayer and my mother’s supplications? and again I resolved to use my time wisely.

The oak grows stronger by the very winds that toss its boughs; so the heart, from the burdens that apparently weigh it down, gathers new power to soar above the mists of gloom and discontent.

“You have not noticed my book,” I said at length, holding out my Latin grammar; “and besides, you forget that I have not been to dinner.”

“It is so pleasant here, brother; don’t it rest you?” and her arms were twined about my neck.

“Yes; but my lesson for to-morrow will require all my time,” I answered.

“Mr. Willett came to see us to-day,” said Jennie as we went home. “He spoke kindly of you, and said he supposed you would not want to come back after you had been to the academy; but if you did, there would be a place for you; and he told Miss Grimshaw that if you needed books, he would get them for you. He said a good deal more.”

“Perhaps he would rather you would not repeat it all. Did he know that you heard?”

“Oh yes. It is not wrong to tell what he said before me, is it?”

“Perhaps not; but Mr. Kirby said that we should not fall into the habit of repeating what people say, unless necessary to do so; that in this way much scandal is floated about, which, had it not been repeated, would have died out immediately.”

“Oh, brother, I did not mean to say any thing wrong.”

“Neither have you, Jennie. I thought at first you probably overheard him. There is surely no harm in repeating to me simply what he said before you, especially when he spoke so kindly.”

That night there was a happy meeting in Miss Grimshaw’s back parlor. Mrs. Jeffries came down with her first instalment of eatables on my account; and she met us so warmly, taking Jennie on her knee, and asking me all the little minutiæ of school life.

“You think you will like, then?” and she played with my hair in a motherly way.

“The only fear is, that I shall have to stop before I have half accomplished my desire.”

“One step at a time,” said Miss Grimshaw, while Jennie was so tired with her long walk and the unusual excitement of the day, that she went to sleep with her head on my shoulder, in the very effort of trying to master a new lesson.

Friday came, and true to his promise, Frank Clavers ordered two horses in the room of one. It was a glorious afternoon, and as we leaped into the saddle, I felt a pride in being able to rein in and manage my horse handsomely. He was a fine-spirited animal, that Esquire Clavers kept for his own use. It was to oblige Frank, of course, that I was permitted this little indulgence.

Riding was the only thing perhaps that I could do well, and this I had learned at Mr. Jeffries’, and I knew that here I was superior to the other boys. So with a questionable pride I cantered round the grounds, and raised my cap as I passed the young ladies at the window. I enjoyed, as I never had done before, the idea of doing something well; and I have since learned, what I did not know then, that skill in horsemanship is considered by all no mean accomplishment.

“That was handsomely done,” said Frank. “Pray where did you learn to ride so well?”

“You never knew perhaps that I lived two years with Mr. Jeffries. My business was to assist in the stable. It was there I learned to ride.”

What a race we had down the street, and how Frank’s gay laugh resounded through the valley.

“This is something to look forward to, Marston,” said he as we reined up at his own door. “I have never seen Hunter carry himself better. It’s all because you know how to ride. Next week we’ll have just such another ride. It’s glorious.”

“I have enjoyed it intensely,” I answered, while a secret sense of shame crept over me at the idea of being puffed up because I could ride, when in my books I knew so very little; and for that evening I studied harder because of my foolishness.

VI.

Autumn had run up her banner of red and gold, and under the spreading folds I had walked every day to Rockdale, and as steadily as the week came round rode home with Frank Clavers on Friday, until Hunter came to know me quite as well as his master. Still, after the first ride, I had never felt the same degree of satisfaction. To ride well no longer seemed to me such a desirable acquisition. To master my Latin as readily was now my ambition, and to this I bent all my energies.

As the winter deepened, the walk to Rockdale proved as bleak as before it had been delightful, and the north winds, sweeping down through the mountain gorges, made my cheeks and ears tingle. Still I could not afford to lose a day. Frank was to stay three years, and then four more in college; but Frank Clavers’ father was rich, and I was dependent upon my own toil.

As I looked forward, for the first time one night I yielded to despondency; my book closed, and my head fell forward on the casement. Far above, the bright stars were shining. It was His hand that sustained them. He prescribed their courses, and kept them within their limits; and although I did not understand how, I still felt that his watch and care was over me; and with this feeling came strength.

Looking back, as we did in going up the mountain, I could feel that I had accomplished much; and still it was so little of what I craved. I needed to be again reminded that it was by one step at a time that the summit was reached; and that, had I stood at the foot of the mountain and attempted to leap up by a few great efforts, it would never have been done.

My class-mates were boys accustomed to school life, and still I knew that some of them hardly looked in their books till they came to recite. At first I thought Mr. Harlan was to blame; they came to study, and they ought to be made to do so. Still, I have since found it is not an easy matter to compel pupils to do what they do not wish to do, what they will not do cheerfully. Doubtless he did all that he could to incite them to study; and this failing, he allowed them to drift on, hoping perhaps they would in time wake up to the responsibility of wisely improving their time and opportunities.

Another advantage I had gained at Mr. Jeffries’ was to be seen in my declamation. To stimulate my memory, I had learned nearly the whole of my English Reader by heart, and these lessons I had been in the habit of repeating to the servants in the kitchen, and sometimes, if I had a moment’s leisure, to myself in the stable. It was in the latter place that Mr. Jeffries had surprised me, the mention of which he often made, sure of a laugh at my expense, and over which I grew extremely sensitive. As declamation was a regular weekly exercise in school, I soon found that the habit had been of great use to me; not only could I readily commit to memory, but there was no feeling of timidity, and I could speak before others without a thought of myself, leaving me free to profit by the suggestions of my teacher.

Prominent in the memory of those days is my long daily walk, with its frequent concomitants of deep snows, leaden skies, and bitter winds. One day when the cold was at its height, Miss Grimshaw went to the door with me, and urged me not to think of going to Rockdale. I had just begun to translate, and one of my sentences troubled me till rest seemed impossible; I must go. Neither could I look for a ride, as grandma suggested. Action was necessary; and buttoning my coat closely, I told her I could easily go, the sun would soon make an impression. “It is not half as severe as some days last week.”

Accordingly I started; but before I left the village I was obliged to stop repeating my lesson aloud; my teeth chattered and my ears were tingling. I tried to run, but the stiff frozen snow would not allow of this extra effort. A half mile from town I met Dr. Graham.

“It is too cold to go to Rockdale to-day, Marston;” and he opened his buffalo robes and offered me a seat.

“Thank you, Dr. Graham,” I answered as well as my chattering teeth would allow, “it wont be any worse; I can get there.” Again he tried to turn me; but no, I must recite my lesson, and I needed explanations; I felt that I could not wait another day.

On I went, the wind rushing and roaring through the leafless branches of the trees. I rubbed my ears with my mittens, while my feet were so numb I could hardly walk. Midway I began to fear that I should actually perish. Should I go back, or should I go on? I glanced at the mountain, with the proud consciousness that I had been to the top. “Never give up,” Mr. Kirby said. It was my duty to go to school. I had started; I would go.

I gave one glance at the marble column of the waterfall, with its sculptured ridges and diamond points, the feathery spray caught up and congealed, standing out in bold relief against the clear blue sky, more beautiful than art could ever hope to imitate. It was worth a great effort to look upon such a winter picture and I sprang forward with renewed energy, trying to forget my numbed feet and frozen fingers.

It was harder than I had imagined, however. All the tales I have since read of suffering on account of cold, seem only a dim outline of what I then experienced. As I left the hollow I met Philip Allen with his wood-sled. He had a small load, and was going home as fast as he could goad on his oxen.

“I never saw such a day as this,” said Philip; “you had better get on to the sled.”

“I should freeze standing still,” I answered. “I must go on now;” and I began to feel sorry that I had started. It was indeed a terrible day. My father had fallen in the snow. What if it should be my fate too?

“Never give up,” said I to myself, and I felt that I should like to have Mr. Kirby know that I was trying. At length I became aware of a new sensation stealing over me: it was with difficulty I could put one foot before the other; the beauty was fading out of the sky; I only wished to lie down in the snow. I forgot that I was going to school; strange shapes floated round me, while strains of sweet music soothed and quieted me. I was no longer cold, but, lapped in a delicious dream, seemed to be floating towards a palace of dazzling splendor.

The next that I remember, I was in a nice warm room. It was not the school-room, although Mr. and Mrs. Harlan stood beside me. My coat was off, and the good woman was rubbing my hands in her own. Then I saw there were others present, and that not only my hands, but my whole body had been rubbed vigorously. I was suffering a terrible stinging pain.

“Drink this,” said Mrs. Harlan, as a bowl of hot tea was handed me; “it will help you to get warm.” More to please her than from any other feeling, I drained it off, and ere long felt a genial glow through all my members.

Seeing that the danger was over, Mr. Harlan went to the school-room; and at noon all the boys and some of the girls crowded around me. Such a crying and shaking of hands! And then I learned how near to death I had come.

Jerry, the Irish man of all work, had seen me stagger along, and finally fall. His kind Irish heart told him at once it was the cold, and springing down the road, he carried me in his arms to the kitchen, from which Mrs. Harlan had me taken at once to her own room.

“To think of your coming to school such a day, when we that live in the house can hardly study at all,” said Henry Alden. Robert Lovell, however, said, “I can understand it: you could not have stayed at home, had you tried. I went one winter nearly as far; but it was not so cold; neither was the snow so deep as this winter.”

I recited my lesson in Mrs. Harlan’s room; and it seemed to me Mr. Harlan was never so kind before. He gave me all the explanations that I needed, and in such a manner that I understood perfectly.

“I trust we shall not have another such a day; but if we do, you must not expose yourself in this way again. Promise me;” and he took both my hands. “It is too great a risk.”

“If you say so,” I answered; “but I shall not like to stay at home.”

“You will study, and I shall not mark you as absent without cause.”

As I was taking my books and making ready to start for home, Mr. Harlan said,

“Jerry will take you home in his sleigh; he has an errand down, and it wont trouble him at all.”

Mrs. Harlan brought out a pair of fur mittens and slipped over mine, and got me a large grey shawl that protected me entirely.

“You need not return them,” said the sweet-voiced woman; “I have been looking all winter for somebody that needed them.” She shook me warmly by the hand, and Mr. Harlan saw me down to the sleigh.

“No right effort is ever lost, Marston; you aim to do what you do well and faithfully, and God will open a path for you when he sees that you can do something better, depend upon it, my son. Thank him for sparing your life, and devote it to his service.”

The buffalo robe was nicely tucked around me, and the grey shawl pulled over my head; and feeling for my books, to make sure that I had them, we started.

“Niver saw the like of such a day,” said Jerry. “If I had not seen you in the morning— It was about ten you fell.” Again I shuddered, and thought of my poor dead father, as near our home as I was to the academy; and in that blinding storm we failed to see him.

The next day was Saturday; and as I sat in Miss Grimshaw’s back room, petted a little more than usual by Jennie and grandma, I thought of Mr. Harlan’s words, “No right effort is ever lost.” And it seemed that I could hear again Mr. Kirby’s voice, “Whatever you do, do well, and God will open a path to something better.” Since then they have come to me often in characters of light, to brighten my darkest hours. They have helped me labor on. When my heart was sore with heaviness, they have aided me in adhering to the right in despite of ridicule and temptation.

“No right effort is ever lost.” “Do what you do well, and God will open a path to you, when he sees that you can do something better.” Bind the sentiment to your heart, if you are a patient climber, and take courage. But I had not yet found the way to the Source of all strength, nor learned the secret of the only true and noble life.

At the close of the term, in February, we had an examination. This was new to me, and caused me no little uneasiness. I had never been through with such a day, and as a matter of course I felt not a little frightened at the idea of being questioned before such a crowd as the boys told me always came. Mr. and Mrs. Harlan were very kind and patient teachers, and I was so fresh and new in my studies, that I trembled in view of the blunders I felt sure I should make before strangers and critics.

“All Terryville will be here,” said Henry Alden; “but then you need not mind: you are the best one we have in arithmetic, and history too; and as for your Latin, why you are only a beginner; they wont expect much; and in declamation you know you will take the lead.”

“But I have never spoken before so many.”

“That’s nothing; you’ll get accustomed to it in a few times. We don’t mind it a feather. It a’n’t half of them that know.”

The day came. Miss Grimshaw and Jennie rode with Mr. Willett in a nice sleigh, with a double set of bells. Then there was Mr. Farnham and Mr. Wentworth, ministers from Terryville, with Dr. Graham and Dr. Stiles, and several grey-haired men with gold-bowed glasses and ivory-headed canes, and with books in their hands, evidently ready to criticize closely.

“That’s the way they always do,” said Henry; “but if you could peep over their shoulders, ten chances to one their books are wrong side up.”

Calm and composed, Henry Alden made his comments. He was an amiable, kindly-disposed lad, but caring nothing for study. Still he managed to get along, and examination-days had no terrors for him. His easy, nonchalant air surprised me, and still more the light opinion he had formed of the learning of some of the visitors.

Around the sides of the room sat the ladies from Terryville; but to me there was no face that looked kinder than Miss Grimshaw’s, no beauty that began to equal my little sister Jennie’s.

At eleven o’clock the class that had finished arithmetic were called. I felt the blood rushing over me at fever heat, my fingers tingling, and my cheeks burning. Mr. Farnham questioned us, giving examples to each. The first sum he gave me was in interest, the second in the cube root. I did not tremble from fear that I could not do the examples, as I knew perfectly well there was not a sum in the book I could not do; but I wanted to do it easily, handsomely, and in order. I gave a quick glance to Jennie, and the calm expression of the sweet face swept away all trepidation. I crossed the platform, and took up the crayon. Never was I more collected; I forgot there were others in the room; I only saw Jennie, and I knew by the expression of her quiet face that she expected me to do well. She would be disappointed if I failed. I would not fail. There was no reason why I should.

The example was on the board, and I stood with pointer in hand ready for explanation. Contrary to my expectation, my voice did not tremble; and when I finished, I was prouder than I have ever been since.

Then followed algebra, as far as we had gone.

“It is well done,” said Mr. Wentworth with a pleasant smile. “Such examples make boys think; and when once they begin to think, then they begin to learn in reality. Perhaps you sometimes wonder why such and such examples were put into the algebra; you can see no use in them, except to puzzle you. I will tell you. It is to make you deep, earnest thinkers. Boys that can think about their sums, solve their problems, and explain them readily, can also think about something else. That is why you study algebra, and that is why you are drilled so thoroughly in Latin and Greek. It is to make you think patiently, and so learn to overcome difficulties. Learn to think then, and never give up because you do not understand what practical use it is to be to you.”

And as this was the last lesson on the programme, he took occasion to tell us the grand incentive to all this labor was because God had given us minds of untold worth; that these minds were to live for ever, and the more we acquired, so much the more should we be able to understand the works of the Creator, so much better should we be able to discharge the duties incumbent upon us, so much better able to work for Him who has given us these minds, who has so liberally endowed us with all these wonderful attributes of the soul. And he urged us all to remember our Creator in the days of our youth, to give our hearts to him when young, that we might be led and guarded by him along life’s pathway.

This made me think of Mr. Kirby. “Do good men all talk alike?” asked Jennie, as soon as the bell struck for recess.

After dinner, which we took with Mr. and Mrs. Harlan, we were again marched into the school-room, and examined closely in Latin. As beginners we came first, and I was surprised that we received so much praise, expecting as a matter of course that this would only be awarded the advanced classes; but Mr. Wentworth said,

“The foundation is the chief thing. Once well grounded in the rudiments, and the rest is sure. Here is where the work is to be done.”

At night Dr. Graham shook hands with us kindly, and said that he thought our village was well represented. Frank Clavers had been sick for a few weeks, and obliged to stay at home. Still, his class had well sustained themselves, and Frank had always been at the head. Mr. Farnham and Mr. Wentworth were particularly kind, and Jennie could hardly contain herself as we rode home.

“It was better a great deal than the boy in the book; he broke down several times, and you did not fail once,” and she slid her mittened hand into mine.

“Fail! I guess he didn’t,” cried Mr. Willett. “Why, he came out the best there. It was no bad thing his being with me last summer; nothing like practice for a boy;” and Mr. Willett enjoyed with evident satisfaction the idea that whatever knowledge I had of mathematics was based on the practice I had in his grocery.

It had not been specified how long I was to remain at Rockdale. “Till spring,” Miss Grimshaw said; but whether that meant April or May was to me uncertain. What was my surprise, however, when May came and I asked if I was not to stop, and she answered, “The term is so nearly out it would be a pity for you to leave. I have spoken to Mr. Harlan about it, and he wishes you to remain; you must work hard enough in vacation to make up for it.”

The term closed in June, and then there was a final examination of a week. Frank Clavers was again with us, and as usual at the head of his class.

VII.

By the mass of school-boys, vacation is hailed not only as a respite from study, but also as a time to indulge in that “dolce far niente” life[A] so refreshing after months of prolonged effort. Not so in my case. I must not take advantage of Miss Grimshaw’s kindness, nor encroach too far on the benevolence of Mrs. Jeffries. Through their goodness I had been enabled to finish the term, and now I must work as faithfully as I had studied.

As there was little to do in the grocery and Mr. Willett already had a boy, I thought best to try the farmers. True, I knew little of haying or harvesting; but I was strong, and willing to do my best.

The next day after school closed I set out to find employment. Mr. Cosgrove at the Corners was the first one to whom I applied.

“No; you have been to school for the year; of course that has spoiled you for labor.”

“But mine has not been an easy life, Mr. Cosgrove. I walked three miles to the academy and back every day. I can work just as well, for all that?”

“No, indeed; books spoil every one for work. There never was a better boy than Farley Steadman, till he took it into his head to go to college; and now I would not let him drive a cart through a pair of bars. He don’t know any thing; it has just spoiled him;” and the old man drove the nail into the fence he was strengthening, with more force than usual.

“Do you know of any one, Mr. Cosgrove, likely to want help?”

“Why, yes, every one wants help if he can get it; I do, but I don’t want school-boys.”

I walked away not a little disconcerted. To get work would, I thought, be an easy matter. I had never for one moment supposed my going to school would be the least drawback. The next place was Mr. Colton’s; he had just engaged all the help he would need for the summer. “Farmer White on the hill might hire you,” he said; so I trudged off to farmer White’s. “No, I have rented my farm, and keep no one myself.”

What to do I hardly knew; I had walked all the morning, and was tired. Besides, I did not know of any one else that would be likely to want extra help for the summer.

“There’s Mr. Wyman at the Cross,” said farmer White; “I shouldn’t wonder if he might want you. You can try him; he is a mighty fine man, and his wife is a good Christian woman.”

I started for Mr. Wyman’s. It was five miles from Mr. White’s, and the hot June sun was pouring down his strongest beams. I walked fast, but I could not help thinking; and almost before I was aware, I seemed to feel the visible presence of Mr. Kirby, to hear again the prayer he made in the mountain temple. I remembered too that he had told me how much distressed he was when the doctor first told him to go into the mountains. He had laid out his summer’s work, and was not willing to leave it. Days passed; he grew worse, and again his physician advised him to spend a few weeks among the hills. “I called it so much waste time,” he said—“time in which I could do nothing for myself, or for others. Yet it has not proved so.”

No, I knew it had not, for it was his constant aim to serve his heavenly Father, and if he had for a time left his work in one place, still he labored for souls wherever he was; consequently his daily life among the hills blossomed into sweet charities which would ripen into sweeter fruit.

What did I not owe him? Jennie too had remembered his words, and studied the little Bible he gave her, first because he had given it, and afterwards because its teachings responded to her spirit’s need. It is hardly possible for one to be a constant reader of that blessed book without a marked effect on heart and life. The diligent student of the Bible will have his tastes refined, his affections made more pure, his aspirations elevated, and his whole moral and mental tone immeasurably exalted. I could see this in Jennie, and I trusted there was something of the like in my own case. But as yet I knew nothing of the pardoning love of the Redeemer.

I gained the brow of the hill from which I could see Mr. Wyman’s house, and look down on the rich field of grain waving in the sunlight. Every thing had a fresh, tidy appearance, and spoke of good management on the part of Mr. Wyman. Looking along the road, I saw a boy of my own size coming leisurely along; and as he approached I saw it was Ezra Metcalf, a lad that I had seen in Claverton.

“A long time since I have seen you, Ezra,” I said as he came up. “Are you going to the village?”

“Yes; I can’t stand it any longer. Old Wyman is so cross there’s no doing any thing with him. It is work, work, work; and when I would think it was all done, he’d send me into the house to wait on his wife.”

“Men hire boys to work,” I answered.

“Yes; but all the time is a little too much. Rain or shine, it made no difference. It seemed to be all that he thought of, to get as much work out of me as he could.”

I listened to his statement without any misgiving, and when he had finished, I told him of my purpose to ask Mr. Wyman for work.

“You had better not, if you want any flesh left on your bones,” he answered.

I bade him good-by, and we walked on, each his own way.

I found Mr. Wyman in his field hoeing corn. He did not stop as I came up and made known my errand.

“Yes, I want a smart, go-ahead kind of boy; one who knows how work should be done, and will do it faithfully, whether I am by or not, if I could only find one of that sort.”

“Will you try me, Mr. Wyman?”

“Have you ever worked on a farm?”

“No, sir; but I am willing to work, and I think I could do whatever there is to be done.”

“What have you been doing for the last year?”

“I have studied at the Rockdale academy.”

“What is your name?”

“Marston Howe.”

“Marston Howe! I have heard Mr. Farnham speak of you as a good scholar. If you work as you study, I will take you.”

“I shall aim to do so, Mr. Wyman.”

“Let me see you hoe;” and he rested a moment.

“That’s right, thrust your hoe deep; in that way you cut off the roots, and they will not be apt to sprout again; while if you hoe lightly, you only clip off the tops, and after the first rain they will be quite as bad as they are now.”

It was new work to me. I went to bed at night tired as I never was before in my life; and but for the remembrance of Mr. Kirby, I doubt if I should have had courage to commence anew in the morning. But life is something more than sleeping and eating. It is the maturing into noble deeds, the consciousness of mental power, the exercise of that power in heroic self-conquest, and in doing good to others. I thought of this as I arose and looked up to the mountain we had once climbed. There it stood clearly defined against the calm, pure sky, its sides radiant with golden light that had not yet reached the valley. The noble manhood that Mr. Kirby exemplified must be sought with tireless footsteps and self-sacrificing heart.

The farmer was out as I came down.

“So you did not oversleep yourself,” said he as he bade me good-morning.

“I did not rise as early as usual this morning, Mr. Wyman; hoeing is new business. I shall get accustomed to it, and can sleep just as well after it as after any thing else, I suppose.”

“It is hard work, and so is every thing else. Some people make play out of it, but that is not my way. I was brought up to think that any thing that was worth doing at all, was worth doing well.”

There was no lack of work at Mr. Wyman’s, neither was it always the same thing. Sometimes I felt like murmuring when, after a hard day’s work in the field, I was obliged to take the horses to the blacksmith’s, or carry corn to the mill, mend fences, or do something else of like nature. Mr. Wyman did not hold to sitting still. There were no idle moments, all were filled up; and when night came, I was so tired that I fell asleep without so much as a verse in my Bible.

Then haying came on; and while the hands swung their scythes with an easy grace that I tried in vain to imitate, it fell to my part to do the raking. There was something so sweet and fragrant about the new-mown hay, that I enjoyed haying much better than hoeing.

Once Jennie came to see me in the hay-field, and her dimpled face lit up with excess of joy as she tossed the clover and chased the butterflies, her heart full of sweet-springing thoughts. Resting a few moments on the hay, with her glad blue eyes looking up into the sky, she said a few hearty words about God’s love in opening up a path to us. Young as she was, she was beginning to feel the sweet influence of his Spirit in her heart, inciting her to love and serve him, believing that his promises were sure, and that he would never leave nor forsake her.

Sweet little comforter; she hardly knew from what her words often saved me, desponding as I not unfrequently was, and inclined to go back instead of forward, feeling tempted to half do my work, and never dream of any thing more than present comfort.

Coming to me in my need, repeating the words Mr. Kirby had spoken, going over with her Sabbath-school hymns and texts, she reminded me more and more of our sainted mother, and stimulated me more than words can tell to make use of every means in my power to get good and do good. Thus my evil thoughts did not gain the ascendency; and by continual striving I grew to enjoy my labor as my study, doing both with a will and determination to succeed.

Every Saturday I walked five miles, for the purpose of hearing Jennie’s weekly lesson and walking to church with her on the Sabbath.

“Do not forget the Sabbath,” had been one of the last injunctions of my dear mother; and when tempted, as I often was, to stay from church or from Sabbath-school because I was tired, or my dress was old and patched, or to read and study since I had so little time in the week, the thought of transgressing against her wish, rather than because it was a positive command of God, has often led me to his house, trying to cultivate a proper spirit on his holy day. And now that I have learned more of his law and of the wonderful plan of redemption for a guilty world, I bless his great name that I was early inclined to keep his Sabbath. Let me ask any little boy or girl who is trying to be a climber, to remember the Sabbath; not to think idle, foolish, wicked thoughts, neither to make companions of those who are accustomed to doing this; but reading God’s word, thinking of his love, listening to his servants, and praying for the indwelling of his Spirit.

The Sabbath before the fall term of the academy was to commence, Mr. Harlan preached at Claverton. His text was, “The entrance of thy word giveth light; it giveth understanding unto the simple.” He spoke of light as the great vivifier, the life-giving principle, the beautifier. It paints the leaf of the lily and the rose, veins the violet, and tinges the varied landscape with beauty. Without sunlight the visual scope would be limited, and the beautiful around us would fail to awaken our interest.

Before the Creator uttered that great fiat, “Let there be light,” darkness was upon the face of the great deep; all matter was in a circumfused mass, no ray of light to penetrate the gloom; and when there was light, it presented the earth without form and void. But when the sun was set in the firmament of heaven, then the earth brought forth grass, herbs, trees, and flowers; even the angels were charmed with its beauty, and the morning stars sang together for joy.

So without the Lord Jesus Christ, who is the great light of the moral firmament, all the light man has can only present a world without form, void of all beauty and all good; and it is only so far as “the Day-spring from on high has visited us, to give light to them that sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,” that the moral earth begins to shoot forth the choicest plants and to produce the richest fruits, so that the sons of God shout for joy and heaven rings with anthems of praise.

The Scriptures set forth the birth of Christ under the figure of the rising sun. How glorious is this figure! When the heart drinks in the beauty of his words, when the light of his countenance shines upon the repentant soul, what a flood of rapture thrills the entire being! Christ is to us what the sun is to the material world, the dispenser of light, life, and joy.

We have seen vegetables growing in corners or cellars, pale and delicate, creeping feebly towards a ray of light that penetrated some small crevice, like beings in distress stretching out their hands for help. Like those delicate and sickly plants, watching eagerly every ray of light, feeling their way through the darkness, hoping to find some opening that would lead out into a world of beauty, is often the experience of the individual Christian. Religion is not a thing of gloom and clouds. It is a lamp, a light, a sun; the very thing to cheer a desolate heart, and to brighten still more a cheerful, happy spirit.

“That was what made Mr. Kirby so good and happy, wasn’t it?” said Jennie as we went home.

“And Mr. Brisbane,” I continued. “I often wondered how he could be so happy when he was always suffering.”

It had always been a habit since we had been with Miss Grimshaw to repeat as much of the sermon as we could to grandma, as we called Miss Grimshaw’s mother. This morning the sermon was easy to remember; and when we finished the poor woman took off her spectacles, and wiped the tears from her wrinkled face. She was one of God’s chosen ones; but her life had been darkened with much sorrow. Of eight children, she had buried all but one. Still was she uniformly cheerful and happy. A simple untaught woman, her understanding had been developed by the reading of His word, and his precious promises were familiar utterances in her humble home.

Monday morning I rose early; the dew-drops sparkling on the grass, and the birds filling the trees with music. Jennie walked through the village and beyond the mill with me. Stopping to say good-by, we heard a noise of distress, and a fluttering of wings in a thicket near the roadside.

Jennie was attracted at once, her loving heart responsive to the agony of the fluttering birds. On careful inspection, we found two little birdlings on the ground. They had fallen out of their nest, and though able to hop a little, could not fly.

“Come, brother, put them back again,” and she held the little panting things, while I parted the leaves and found the nest, standing on tiptoe to put them in, and then retreating a little distance to see what the old ones would do.

“Fallen out of their nest, just like us, brother; but God will take care of us. He has, and he will;” and she flung her arms round my neck and kissed me good-by, and I ran on as fast as I could.

“Like birds fallen out of our nest.” I thought of it till I reached Mr. Wyman’s. I had lost a little time, for Jennie could not walk as fast as I could. Breakfast was nearly over; but Mr. Wyman was not cross, and Mrs. Wyman gave me a cup of coffee, and a plate filled with what she had set away for me, and for which my early walk had given me a keen relish.

The haying was over; but there was grain to cut, and I took my sickle for the first time. All day my heart was light and cheerful; I felt the influence of the Sabbath rest, and I seemed continually to hear Mr. Harlan’s text, “The entrance of thy word giveth light; it giveth understanding to the simple.” I resolved that I would study my Bible; it should be to me a daily friend and companion. Mr. Kirby’s words too went ringing through my brain: “Do what you do well, and God will open a path where He sees that you can do something better.” Then Jennie and the birds came up again; and thus with a continued succession of pleasant thoughts, the day went happily away.

Mr. Wyman was kind, and more jovial than usual; and after the evening meal, when I had filled the buckets with water, and helped Mrs. Wyman in the dairy, I drew up my chair to the table and commenced reading the weekly paper. Presently Mr. Wyman left his seat on the porch, knocked the ashes from his pipe, laid it on the mantel, and said,

“Wife, have you told Marston what Mr. Farnham said?”

“I have not had time; you had best tell him, papa.”

I looked up in surprise. What had I done now? Was it because I was a few minutes behind time in the morning? There was no room for conjecture. Taking the arm-chair, Mr. Wyman began:

“Have you any plans for the fall and winter, Marston?”

“I was hoping that you would need me for the fall, Mr. Wyman; and in the winter I should like to go to school,” I answered with a choking voice.

“Mr. Farnham was here Saturday night, after you went to Claverton. He spoke of you, and said that you was trying to study, and hoped to go through college. Do you really think of any thing like this?”

“If I can, Mr. Wyman, although I am sometimes afraid it will take a long time. I can only hope to go to school winters, at least for several years.”

“That is just what Mr. Farnham said, and as we no longer have a boy to educate, he made me more than half believe that I ought to help you. He said that you could nearly pay your board with errands, and odd jobs for Mr. Harlan; and I told him I would pay you wages through this month and the next. So if you want to go to school, you had better begin Wednesday. The more one knows, the better they may get along. Learn all you can, and try and make a man. Boys sometimes think their employers have no hearts. There has not been a day since you came here, in which I have not remembered my Willie, and felt for you. I could have made your work easier, but that would not be the way to make you a prompt, useful, industrious man.”

My head bowed low while he spoke. I wished that I could live over the past months. I had tried; but there had been many days when I had dragged on, working because obliged to, yet not cheerful and happy. So many resolves I had made and broken; so many times felt like running away, and hiding myself out of sight and sound, longing to be free from responsibility and from effort, and then in a moment ashamed to think I should so forget, should be so weak and vacillating. Could I only live the vacation over again, I would be more watchful, more patient in trial.

It is thus we ever feel, when we look back. Yet do we always gain wisdom from the retrospect? The future instead of the past calls for our resolves, and the wail of memory blending with the whispers of conscience, should be our incentive to a more useful life.

But when Mrs. Wyman came in with some nice new shirts that were once Willie’s, and a handsome blue cloth jacket, that “looked so like the dear boy,” she said, I broke down entirely.

“I do not deserve all this,” I said, choking down the tears. She put her hand on mine.

“We give you these, Marston, to show that we approve your effort. Mr. Farnham told us how you went to school last year. There were no obstacles you did not overcome. A long walk twice a day, with bitter, stinging cold, and still you made no excuse. You have worked faithfully during vacation, and Mr. Wyman will let your wages run through the next month. But you cannot go to school without clothes; we have no one to wear them now;” and tears were on both of our faces. “Here’s a cap, and boots too, that were Willie’s. I shall be glad to see you wear them. Willie loved books. He would have gone to college, had he lived.”

I could not answer; it was all so sudden, so unexpected. I could look back and see so many places where I had failed. With a full heart I hurried up to my room, thankful that I was to go to school, that a path had opened; and resolving anew that each moment should be spent to the best advantage.

How it would gladden Jennie’s heart. “One step at a time,” she had whispered to me so often; “Mr. Kirby said that was enough for you to plan now. All that you are required to do is the work of the present hour, and then forward to the next. You will do it yet, Marston, I know you will.”

Borne up on the encouragement of her words, I felt that I should. It would take years; but others had gone over the ground, and I could do the same; and with the thought of Mr. Kirby and Jennie, I fell asleep.

VIII.

It was said by a celebrated divine, “What we wish to be, that we become.” And perhaps it is so; for when our Creator allows a great longing to fill the soul, in the wish itself lies the surest pledge of its future realization. It was thus with me in reference to going to school. In addition to what Mrs. Wyman had given me, Miss Grimshaw had provided me an outfit, for it seemed she had an inkling that I was to return in September.

I spent one night with Jennie, and Wednesday found me at Rockdale. Mr. Wyman had taken me over in his buggy: he had business at Terryville, he said, and would like to call at the academy; he used to know Mr. Harlan. Taking a kind leave after a short call, he said,

“When your money gives out, don’t be afraid to call on me. You can pay me when you get through, if you like. If not, it will only be a trifle of what I should have done for Willie.”

This was the man whom I had often called cold and unfeeling since that morning on which I met Ezra Metcalf going back to the village: no sympathy for a young heart in its struggles, no encouragement to give one trying to do right. How my heart smote me now, as I stood and watched him till he was out of sight; and then I tried to concentrate all my thoughts on my lesson.

The first day of the term is always a broken one. Lessons are laid out, but not expected to be studied; new scholars coming in, and old ones to greet. Frank Clavers and Robert Lovell were delighted to have me back again, and Robert drew me into the same old seat.

“Not that,” said Mr. Harlan laughing. “I look to you for assistance as well as study. Pupils that I know I allow to sit back; the seats near the desk are for new-comers;” and together we went down the aisle to the back seat.

Robert Lovell did not board in the academy. He was the only son of a widowed mother, who lived in Terryville, and he paid his tuition by teaching a class of the smallest boys. Hence he was looked upon as both teacher and pupil; and his good sense and judicious bearing won the entire regard of those with whom he had to do. Of Scotch descent, large and overgrown, he looked much older than he really was. As a scholar, he was deep rather than brilliant, with a powerful memory, and fine appreciation of the beautiful. He was studying for the ministry, and his heart was alive to the importance of the work; but why he gave me such marked demonstrations of his friendship, I never knew; while for him I soon felt a warmth of regard second only to that given Mr. Kirby. Further advanced in his studies, he was of great assistance to me in my lessons—not by helping with translations, solving problems, etc., but telling me circumstances connected with the time he was studying such and such a book, what he was obliged to do, his walks to school, and the efforts he had to make; giving me to see how small was my labor in comparison with his, my self-denial nothing like that he had known. Then drawing his chair nearer, and taking my hand, he would tell me the sweet story of the cross, painting in such colors the matchless purity and beauty of a life it was ours to imitate, that I forgot myself and my books, and only saw the bleeding, dying Saviour; only heard the sweet accents of his love, “Come unto me.”

I shall never forget the first Sabbath at Rockdale. It did not seem that I could be denied spending the day with Jennie, and still Mr. Harlan had specified that I was to remain there. Try as I would, I rebelled not a little. Robert Lovell came into my room, and seeing my sorrowful face, asked the cause. I told him of my little sister, my mother’s charge concerning her, and that I could not be happy if obliged to remain from her over the Sabbath.

“It is a great self-denial, I can see; but if you have the right spirit, you do not need to go to Claverton to spend Sunday properly. God looks at the heart; he sees all your love and devotion, and he is not one to forget. You want an education; through the kindness of friends, you are put in a position to help yourself. This involves your being here at your post all the time, and Saturday is of course your busiest day.”

“I know it, and I feel quite ashamed of being so gloomy about it; but Jennie will miss me at Sabbath-school.”

“That is just what I came in for. I want you to spend the Sabbath with me. Mr. Farnham has given me a class of boys about your age, and I should like to have you with us. We study together. I do not know so much more than they do, but I am willing to do what I can, and we shall improve in proportion as we become interested in that blessed book.”

“So am I willing to do any thing,” I answered. “I am sorry I have been so fretful this morning. As you say, if I have the right spirit, I can spend the Sabbath here as well as in Claverton. I can think of Jennie as she sits in her little room; and when we do meet, we can compare our lessons and note our advancement just as we do in our other studies.”

“Certainly; and remember that God knows us, and approves not so much what we have accomplished, as the effort that we make. It is not what we give that makes our offering acceptable, but the spirit in which it is given; not what we do, but the spirit in which it is done.”

“I wish it was not such an effort to be good. I do try.”

“It is so to every one, Marston; you are no exception. The more you read and study the Bible, the more you will learn that life is a continued warfare. Good and great as St. Paul was, he felt this more keenly than you do. The natural heart is deceitful, depraved, and desperately wicked; and even when renewed by divine grace, still constant watch and care are needed lest we fall into temptation.”

“Who then can be good?” I asked.

“All those who lean upon the Saviour. But so soon as we aim to walk by ourselves, we are lost. You must do this, Marston;” and Robert Lovell slid his arm around me, and in the silence of my own room, prayed with me as Mr. Kirby had done, that I might become an earnest follower of Christ; that I might be willing to be taught of him; and that now, in the morning of life, I might dedicate both heart and life to his service.

“This is what I want to do,” I said as we rose from our knees; “but when I try hardest, my thoughts will fly off to something else, or hasty, impetuous feelings will rush over me, and make me feel there is no use in trying. Oh Robert, you don’t know what a wicked boy I am.”

“There is no good in ourselves, Marston. It is all of His mercy. Go to the Saviour just as you are, and ask his assistance, his Spirit. He knows all your temptations, all your weaknesses, and he also knows all your efforts. Love and trust him, and his Spirit will help you to overcome. You will try to do this? say that you will;” and he held me firmly by the hand.

“I will, Robert; I will.”

Rockdale was less than half a mile from Terryville. It had been Mr. Harlan’s custom to have his pupils go to Mr. Farnham’s church, leaving him free to preach in the neighborhood adjacent. In this way many were favored with the preached word that would otherwise have been deprived of it; and it is to be hoped much good was done by thus scattering the seed in out-of-the-way places.

But while Mr. Harlan was doing all the good he could, and Robert Lovell was not unmindful of the work before him, active in the double position of both teacher and pupil, there were at Rockdale other spirits quite as energetic in another direction—boys that seemed to have no idea of any thing beyond physical enjoyment, to elude the teachers, escape study, and “have a good time.” This was the great end and aim of their school life.

As Robert Lovell’s home was at the extreme part of the village, I did not see as much of him as of some of the others; and no doubt he thought me weak and vacillating, contrasting as I sometimes did the industrious, painstaking pupil with the selfish, ease-loving one, who seemed to get along just as well. Happy, cheerful, fun-loving spirits, with plenty of money to spend, and always ready for a forage on watermelons or into the cakes and pies in Mrs. Harlan’s pantry. Their only concern was, not to be discovered. Like the Spartan, they held it was no harm to steal; the only disgrace was in being discovered; every other consideration was too trivial for a moment’s notice.

“Such boys will not make men,” said Robert Lovell. “Look in your ‘Self Helps’—you will find no such examples.”

After a while I had an opportunity to go home, as I continued to call Miss Grimshaw’s, more perhaps because Jennie lived there than any thing else. All the weeks that I had been at school, Jennie had been studying; and that evening she had much to tell me of her lessons, many questions to ask, and explanations to go over. She had taken up philosophy and natural science; and her quick understanding seemed to grasp easily what it had taken me a long time to learn.

“There is one exercise that you have,” she said at tea, “that I should like very much, and that is composition.”

“Composition!” and I laughed heartily; for the week before I had listened to a knot of girls as they spoke particularly of their dislike of this exercise above all others.

“If you desire to write compositions,” I replied, trying to look grave, “I do not see why you may not write them here. I have to write them, and I try to do my best. I can’t say how little I might do if I was not obliged to do it.”

“Yes, but how am I to know if they are correctly written?”

“You can see that they are spelled rightly, written and folded neatly. Put your thought into the very best language you have. The second time it will be easier than the first, and so on. Write just as you would talk, easy, naturally, and without effort. These are the rules Mr. Harlan gave me. I will find some one to correct them for you.”

Besides composition, Jennie had to tell me about her pupil, for young as she was she had turned teacher.

“He is a big boy, nearly as large as you are, Marston; but I felt so sorry for him. He said his father and mother were both dead, and he had no one to care for him, no one to mind whether he was bad or good; that he did try to work, and Mr. Wyman turned him away: he forgot one night to put up the bars, and the cows got into the corn. He was sorry, and would not have neglected it again; yet Mr. Wyman would not believe him, but told him he had nothing more for him to do. I couldn’t help telling him that if he would come in every evening I would teach him arithmetic; and sure enough, he has been in regularly, and is studying in good earnest.”

“Pray what is your pupil’s name?”

“Ezra Metcalf. Oh, brother, you know he is a big boy; but he has never had anybody to tell him how to be good. He goes to Sabbath-school too;” and she looked eagerly for my approval.

“He has improved a great deal,” said grandma; “he hardly looks like the same boy; as trim and neat as anybody now: he has found a place to live and work, and goes to church regularly. I never saw such a change in any one. I shouldn’t wonder if he made somebody right smart yet; if he does, you’ll have the credit of it, child.”

“I do not think there is any credit in it, grandma. What should I have known, had there been no one to tell me? Marston and I have much to be thankful for. I often think of Mr. Kirby, and how much he told me. Ezra Metcalf never had a friend like that.”

“You are right, Jennie,” said grandma with a little pat of her hand; “I am glad to see that you are willing to share with others the good that you have yourself received. This is as it should be.”

Thus Jennie was finding her work, and I was stimulated anew as we talked over all that Mr. Kirby had taught us.

“If we could only have such a person with us all the time,” said Jennie. “And still my Sabbath-school teacher says that we can all have a Friend better and wiser than any earthly friend can be. All that is necessary is to ask him; the precious Saviour is always ready to be a friend to any who heartily desire him. You do, don’t you, Marston?” and she laid her little head on my shoulder; “and I do. Mr. Kirby could not stay with us, neither can we be together; we both want just such a Friend;” and the blue eyes looked up to mine pleadingly.

“Yes, Jennie, I mean to ask Him.”

“We will both ask Him. Miss Ackers says he never turns any away, especially if they are poor. I told Ezra Metcalf of this, and he promised to seek the Saviour.”

IX.

The gorgeous autumn days had gone, and the snow was beginning to whiten the mountains, when Robert Lovell left Rockdale to teach in a neighboring district during the winter months. Very lonely it seemed without him; for with the exception of Mr. and Mrs. Harlan, there was no one else that felt half the interest in me, and as a natural consequence, of whom I thought half as much. I should miss him, but then my duties would not allow of many regretful moments. Snow, ice, and cold weather would only add to my work; and I tried hard to look it in the face, and to be cheerful and happy.

“Homesick without Lovell!” said my room-mate, one of the best-natured, most amiable, and still most indolent scholars in school. “Such an old sanctimonious thing; he never entered into any of our fun, neither would he let you. I tell you what, Marston, you’ve been shut up long enough. We have some capital times that the old folks know nothing about.”

“Is that right, Farden?” I asked.

“‘Right!’ that’s Lovell all over,” and he laughed till the room fairly echoed. “‘Right’ who ever heard such a question but from some white-livered thing like Lovell?”

“Farden, you shall not speak of Lovell in that manner. Cowardice has no part in his character; you know as well as I do there is not a braver scholar in the school;” and I bounded across the room, startled out of my usual quiet by the unjust accusation.

“Really, Howe, you show anger just as soon as any of us, in spite of all your goodness. A thousand pities Lovell is not here to see you in such a towering passion. That’s just what I like, though. I only said it to see if you could be worked up.”

“You knew it was untrue, and yet said it to stir me up. Richard Farden, I had not thought you could do any thing so base as that; for the future I shall understand you better;” and I turned on my heel and went back to my book.

“I know he’s as brave as a lion. Come, Howe, it was foolish; I did not mean to anger you; I am sorry. Come, make up with me. I see Lovell has not spoiled you; only say that you will be one with us.”

“I will not be one with you,” and I opened my Virgil.

“What’s the use of studying your eyes out, Howe? it will do you no good.”

“Good or not, I shall study,” I answered, vexed at myself for being so hasty; “I came here to study.” I thought of Jennie’s pale face, and earnest eyes; she was now studying, and I could not but acknowledge to myself that she would feel sorry did she know how easily I had been disturbed. How was it that my good resolves were so easily shaken? Why was I so moved by the word and look of another? Could I only have looked with an unwavering trust to Him who was both able and willing to be to me the friend I so much needed.

And still I thought I loved and trusted him. But Oh, it was only a half trust. I did not lean implicitly on him; I still felt that I could do something to merit his favor; that something was expected and required of me, and I must do it.

And here let me urge all in the long list of climbers, to examine well and see if self does not intrude: if they are in truth willing to be guided and led by Christ; willing to walk in the path appointed, not idly, not passively, not sleepily, but with energy, doing all that can be done, always doing their best. Never giving way, going back, desponding, or denying Christ. Or, if they have denied him, like Peter repenting bitterly, and resolving as he did to be more energetic, more fearless, more faithful in the future.

The room was so still I thought Farden had gone out; but soon there was a blue line of smoke curling and twisting upward, and the subtle perfume of the “fragrant weed” was plainly perceptible. A little sigh, and Farden poised his cigar in true professional style, tipped back his chair, planted both feet on the mantel, and spoke again.

“I came here to study. There was no end to the plans I laid. I was to study every day and every night, and in a short time I expected to learn all that was to be taught here; then to college, and had little doubt but I should speedily distance the professors, and perhaps rival Humboldt himself. Instead of that I don’t look into a book once a week, except when I recite; and I don’t see but I get along just as well. If I don’t know it, I only have to pick out a difficult word or phrase, and say that it is not clear to me, that I do not quite understand it; and usually it takes so long to explain it that the time is up. We boys take turns in this game.”

“And you own to such meanness,” I said, as much excited as at first.

“They’ve no business to allow themselves to be deceived.”

“You neither deceive yourself, nor any one else. Your tutor understands it, and so does Mr. Harlan; and you know it is not right.”

“‘Right,’ again; of course I do. But I do not see the use. I shall never talk in Latin, Greek, or Hebrew; then why delve so many years over them?”

“Mr. Farnham said it was to make us think.”

“Very little good comes of it that I can see,” said Farden putting his cigar to his mouth; “that problem in equations that you worked on so long, a precious little good it will do you.”

“Mr. Harlan told us the other day that every obstacle overcome gives us just so much additional strength; that it is by these stepping-stones that we attain the desired result.”

“Stepping-stones of obstacles! that is well enough for Mr. Harlan; but I’ll tell you what, Howe, money is the stepping-stone in this country. Give me that, and I don’t care a picayune for any thing else.”

“The one that knows most usually succeeds best; knowledge wins money.”

“Pshaw! nonsense! that’s not so. Why, the richest man in this county can hardly write his name.”

“That may be; he may prove an exception; but that in no wise does away with the rule.”

“Well, my cigar is out. All I can say is, that we are going to have a capital time to-night; you had better come along. You wont tell, any way; Lovell never did: we could always trust him;” and the door closed.

Why was it that I could not study? Why was it that I should strive and struggle between my inclination to live easily, as Farden did, and my desire to do right? “No right effort is ever lost,” sounded out strong, clear, distinct, almost as though some one spoke it aloud; and so forcibly did it take possession of me, and so much strength sprung up out of each little word, there was no more murmuring, and my morning’s lesson did not suffer from the ungovernable feeling of the evening previous.

A few days after the above conversation Farden came in after his skates, and Harry Gilmore with him. Tapping me on the shoulder, Harry said, “Put up that book; you are looking like a scarecrow. Come.”

“Where?” I asked.

“First to the ice, and then,” looking up archly, “where we have no stupid books, but plenty of fun and frolic. Why not go? What if you do fail in the next lesson? Some of the boys fail every day.”

“You will never be thought less of,” said Richard Farden. “I do not look at my translation till I go in to recite. It comes to me just as I want to say it.”

“It does not come to me without study,” I answered.

“That is because your brains are so knotted up poring over it all the while,” persisted Harry. “Clear them out occasionally with a good jolly spree, and you’ll be all right. Come along.”

“What will Mr. Harlan say?”

“Mr. Harlan will never know. He thinks we are all in bed by ten o’clock.”

“And so we are,” said Richard; “they don’t seem to think we can get up again.”

“Do what you do well”—I seemed to hear Mr. Kirby’s voice urging me to do right, while Jennie’s sweetly pleading eyes looked reproachingly.

“No, I will not go,” I said determinedly. “I came here to study, and I will do it. You know your parents could not approve of your course; you know Mr. Harlan would not; you know your own conscience does not. I will not go with you, and I advise you to stay at home yourself.”

“Lovell all over; isn’t it, Harry?” and my room-mate examined his skates carefully.

“I do wish you would come, Howe;” and he spoke half reproachfully.

“I came here for a purpose, and I shall follow it.”

The door closed with a slam. I crossed the room and leaned my head on the mantel; school life was so different from what I had expected. I had supposed that everybody appreciated study, that everybody longed for an education, and that only opportunity was wanted to make good scholars. I had learned differently. Nominal students were not actual learners; neither were those who applied themselves the most diligently, in all cases the most appreciated. Then I remembered again Mr. Kirby’s words: “Doing right is the only safe course, and although slow and wearisome at first, is sure to succeed. Other paths may look as if they would lead into shaded nooks and flowery dells; but ruin lurks in secret, and despair has a lodge there. The only safety is in keeping clear of them, having nothing to do with them; while the onward road, narrow and rough though it be, will in the end lead to the desired result.”

X.

In so large a school as that in Rockdale, of course there were various cliques, and each clique with its leader. Frank Clavers was at the head of the Senior class, and round him gathered good scholars and studious boys; while Richard Farden and Harry Gilmore, by virtue of wealth, good looks, and an easy, good-natured manner, took the lead in all sports and amusements; and Robert Lovell was looked up to and followed by all who had a thought of the future. Few enough there were of these; and to this clique I had attached myself. Hence the goodness that my room-mate was constantly reproaching me with, when I refused to join in their stolen revels.

“I am sure I should be on the ice half the time, if I could skate as you do,” said Harry Gilmore once as I joined the skaters during recess.

“So should I perhaps, had I nothing else to do,” I answered, skimming over the smooth surface with all the freedom of a bird on the wing. “It is a good deal of self-denial for me to stay at home, Harry. I own there are times when an hour on the ice would please me much better than sawing wood or making paths through the snow.”

“Why don’t you do it then? we have to beg you ever so long. I had no idea you could skate so beautifully.”

“I cannot afford the time,” I answered frankly. “I came here to study; and you know I nearly pay my board with what I can do during the hours that you have for recreation.”

“And your father don’t give you a cent?”

“My father and mother are both dead, Harry. I have the dearest little sister in the world; but as for money, I earn all I have with my own hands.”

“This is why you work and study then,” said he, linking his arm in mine and flashing across the pond. “It makes me ashamed of myself every time I hear you refuse to go with Richard; but I didn’t know that—”

“That I was so poor?”

“That your parents were dead, and you trying to educate yourself.”

“How is this?” shouted Richard Farden as soon as he turned the bend and came to shore—“how is it that you have got Howe on his skates? What arguments have you used, what inducements held out?”

“Golden ones, I’ll be bound,” shouted Charles Eaton, while the boys laughed uproariously.

“I have no influence over Marston Howe,” said Harry, calling me by my first name. “He has an influence over me, however, and I am resolved each day more and more to follow it.”

“How now? what’s the matter?” cried several voices as we unstrapped our skates.

I saw by the look of the sun that my time was up, and without another word I hurried up the hill and across the field to the academy.

Before the study bell rang, Harry Gilmore came to my room. “Have you a moment to spare, Marston?”

“Yes, a moment for you,” I answered.

“And you will not call it so much lost time?” drawing his chair to the table, and placing his feet on the fender. “To tell the truth, I am ashamed of the life I am leading this winter; the deception we practise is outrageous.”

“You do not deceive any one, Harry. Mr. Harlan may not know all of your nightly wanderings; but he knows who studies and who does not, and so do all the teachers.”

“Then why don’t they scold us as we deserve, send us home, or expel us?”

“Perhaps you would not do any better at home. They do all they can, both by precept and example; and they hope that time and your own good sense will at length compel you to do better.”

“And I am determined that I will. I have been led by Richard long enough. I am resolved to study for the rest of the term; and if I do, will you be my friend?” and he looked at me earnestly.

“You forget how poor I am. I pay my board by waiting on the household.”

“So much the more honor for you. My father was once a poor man. He’s rich now; worth half a million, I suppose. But that only makes me think meaner of myself. Only think of the money I spend every week, flinging it away, and you have none. You say you have a sister; so have I; and such good letters she writes me, telling me to use my time profitably, and not to be led away by ease-loving, indolent companions. I am going to try now, and you must help me.”

His look and tone touched me, and my words leaped out, “As far as I can I will help you to do right, Harry.”

“I shall be a better boy if you will let me come here sometimes and see you study. Say that you will, Marston. There goes the bell. Say that I may come.”

“As often as you like.”

“If my lessons are good to-morrow, you may take the credit of it;” and the door closed.

Presently Richard came in, flung down his cap and gloves, and hastily tore the envelope from a letter.

“I declare it’s too bad; not a cent of money. Father has no idea of the little things that draw upon the purse.”

“It cannot be that you have used the last he sent,” I exclaimed, seeing his look of distress.

“Yes, but I have though, and had to borrow besides. You see every thing is so high; our suppers have cost enormously; and now the lectures are coming on, and I have not a dime.”

“I have several tickets; that need not trouble you.”

“The lectures would be dull enough if it was not for something afterwards: and the sleigh-rides; I’ve promised ever so many I’d treat them to a ride. It’s just the time now; and the old fellow don’t seem to appreciate it at all.”

“He appreciates study more, perhaps.”

“I know it, Howe, as well as you do. I don’t study. I feel ashamed of it, and still I cannot do better. I mean to in the spring. I’ll turn over a new leaf, as Gilmore says.”

“Why not begin now?” I ventured to ask.

“Because I can’t; I’ve got out of the way of study, and to go back is not so readily done. I would not have father know how I spend my time; and my sister is always writing me to make good use of my opportunities. Poor mother, I am all the boy she has got, and I know how anxious she is about me. I don’t mean to be wild, but I’m afraid that I am.”

The last words, mournfully spoken, touched my heart. Besides, the idea of his trifling with a mother’s love moved me to speak.

“Why not try now to do what you feel to be right? You might easily be the first in your class.”

“I meant to be when I came here; but when I saw how some of the others managed, by degrees I fell into the same ways.”

“It is not too late to commence. Mr. Harlan told us that when we become conscious of an error, we should turn from it immediately. It is easy for us to do wrong; and to turn as soon as we become conscious of it, is the only true wisdom.”

“I don’t believe I can here; the boys all know me, and they will expect me to do just as I have done.”

A little tap at the door. Charles Eaton entered, and conversation took a more general tone.

A few evenings after this, in passing out of the supper-room, Mrs. Harlan handed me several papers, magazines, etc. Looking them over, I found a notice of the death of Charles Brisbane, my first teacher. My eyes grew dim as I gazed upon the record, which spoke of early promise, rare graces of mind, and the deep religious element underlying a character devoted to the elevation of the human race. I cannot describe the effect produced by the perusal of that short obituary. Mr. Brisbane’s words had roused me to action, and taught me my duty to myself and to my Maker; but his death gave to his well-remembered utterances all the force and power of a voice from heaven. Thenceforth I cherished his image still more, as one of my choicest treasures; and the desire of my heart was deepened to acquire knowledge and discipline, and to be, like him, a good and useful man.

And still, with all my resolves, I was conscious I failed in the most important, point. Did I love the Saviour as he did? Did I as closely follow Him?

Winter passed, and spring blossomed into beauty. Robert Lovell was again with us. There was more study; examination was coming, and all were anxious to make a good appearance. My room-mate was more studious, and Harry Gilmore was trying to redeem time. Out of school my time was taken up with gardening; and much pleasanter it was than making paths in the ice and snow. True, I had never done any thing of this before; but although a little awkward at first, it soon came easy. Besides, it brought me in continual contact with Mr. and Mrs. Harlan; and their remarks were not only pleasant, but profitable. In the room of feeling despondent, as I had now and then done during the winter, I was cheerful and happy; and without enjoying my books the less, I did enjoy my labors more.

“It is strange how quickly the weeds grow,” I said to Mrs. Harlan as I was thinning out the early vegetables.

“I never look at the weeds without thinking of my own heart,” she answered. “Goodness, patience, humility, and faith are here to be cultivated with constant care; while selfishness and passion spring up almost imperceptibly, and their seeds are, like the thistle-down, borne on the lightest breeze.”

“There is one comfort with the weeds,” I answered; “we can cut them up by the roots; but the evil in our hearts, the foolish and wicked desires that so often strive for the mastery, are not so easily managed.”

“Not by ourselves, Marston; but there is One that can help us in this. Like the careful gardener, that lops off and prunes the vine till it seems, as it did to you the other day, that it would die cut down so closely, so God deals with us according to the condition in which we are placed, lopping off a branch here and there, taking away a support, replanting according to our needs and necessities, and all to improve the growth and life, that the fruit may be more abundant. You remember in January, when the shade-trees were trimmed, you thought they were ruined, and exclaimed against it.”

“Yes, I thought they were cut too closely, the last year’s growth almost entirely cut away, leaving little but the bare trunk.”

“And you see now how they are putting forth new and vigorous branches. They had branches and leaves last year, but no beauty; and there was too much top for the roots; hence the necessity of cutting them closely: watch them, and you will see how much more beautiful and fruitful they will be for such severe pruning.”

“If we could always keep this in mind,” I answered; “but it is so easy to grow despondent when we cannot understand the why and wherefore of our trials.”

“The plants do not ask why and wherefore, but put forth all their energy in the direction to which they are guided,” was the reply.

“It is their nature; but with us it is not so easy and natural,” I said.

“How so? it is our privilege to be guided and supported. The Saviour is often represented under the figure of a gardener, his garden the world, and the plants in it the human beings for whom he died. If we are his servants, the afflictions and privations we are called upon to endure are only prunings from his hand. Neither should we ask why; but turning our gaze in the direction specified, seek to fulfil his purpose.”

“And if we try, does he see and notice our effort?”

“Yes, Marston, the fall of a sparrow is noted by him; and there is nothing connected with our well-being but interests him. He is moved with a feeling of compassion when he looks upon our suffering; and so great is his love, that if he could spare us the least pang he would do so.”

By this time I had finished the asparagus-bed, while the rows of lettuce stood neatly defined, and the delicate tendrils of the pea-vines began twisting themselves about for the support I had placed within their reach. Mr. Harlan suggested that one walk needed to be widened, and another to be gravelled. It was Saturday, and I took the wheelbarrow and crossed the pasture to the brook.

While shovelling gravel, with my coat off and sleeves rolled up, I heard shouts and voices. A light wagon, drawn by two spirited horses, and filled by half a dozen boys, was coming down the road from Terryville. Richard Farden was driving, and when opposite me, he stopped.

“We are going down to see Frank Clavers, and then on a fishing excursion up the river. There is room enough for one more; put down your sleeves and jump in; we’ve plenty of hooks and lines.”

“A grand treat it will be,” cried several from the back seat; “you had better come.”

“We shall have a splendid supper,” added Richard, “and then home by moonlight. Such a chance you don’t get every day. Come on.”

I longed to avail myself of the privilege. I had not had a ride, save on horseback, for a long time. And then it was to see Frank; and perhaps I could stop for a moment at Miss Grimshaw’s, and see Jennie. Still I had no time. Mrs. Harlan was expecting me back, and there stood the wheelbarrow half-full of gravel. “No,” I answered, “I cannot go. I have not the time; drive on;” and I took my shovel, not daring to look up till the handsome turnout was out of sight.

The next half hour was one of mingled feelings. Why was my lot so hard, and that of others so easy? “He deals with us according to our needs,” Mrs. Harlan had said; and I tried hard to work cheerfully, though saying to myself now and then, “It is Saturday, and no more than fair had I gone home. How much good it would have done me;” and plunging my shovel into the yielding bank, I started my wheelbarrow.

“Do not work so hard, Marston; you look heated;” and Mrs. Harlan looked up approvingly.

“What a difference it makes,” said she as I scattered the gravel in heaps, and then spread it evenly.

“It will require two or three loads more,” I answered; and on I went, feeling that any thing was better than to stand still.

Again had I reached the gravelled shore, and was shovelling away smartly, when Harry Gilmore leaped down the bank with his merry laugh and cheerful voice.

“If I was to envy anybody at Rockdale, it would be you,” he said, after a few words about the fishing party.

“Me!” and I pointed to my bare arms and my face dripping with perspiration.

“Yes, I believe you have more real comfort than any one of us who have rich fathers. You prize every hour in school, because it costs you self-denial; while we have never learned to value privileges that cost us nothing. Now let me help you,” he said, taking off his coat, “for I am to have a drive in the evening, and I want you should get through in time to join me.”

“A drive! where?”

“Anywhere you please; to Claverton, if you will.”

“Oh, that will be so good. Are you really to go?”

“Certainly I am to go, and you are to go with me. Now give me that shovel.”

“There’s nothing more to do with it just now.”

“What a pity there are not two wheelbarrows. I will go back with you and get another.”

“You forget your clothes,” I said, looking at his neat suit of broadcloth.

“Gravel is clean; it will all brush off;” and we started, each grasping a handle of the wheelbarrow and keeping step over the green sward.

With an amused look, Mrs. Harlan eyed us as we came up.

“Two boys work faster than one,” she said, as Harry scattered the gravel and I smoothed it.

“Two more loads will be enough, wont they, Mrs. Harlan?” asked Harry; and being answered in the affirmative, away he went to the wood-shed, and returned with a heavier wheelbarrow for himself.

“Not that, Harry; you are not accustomed to it. If you insist on going, you must take this.” With a few playful words we exchanged wheelbarrows, while Mrs. Harlan looked after us as we trundled down the path at a brisk pace.

“How stupid. I forgot that we had but one shovel,” said Harry with a light laugh.

“I will fill both,” I answered.

“No, I came to help you. I will sit still while you fill yours; then you shall rest till mine is ready, and we can start even.”

There seemed to be no other way, and I assented.

“There, old fellow,” said he as the gravel lay piled in my barrow, “now it’s my turn.”

“Oh, Harry, it will tire you out; let me,” I persisted.

“My back is no better than yours; go and sit down.”

Overcome by his kindness, I went and sat on the bank, hardly conscious of my own identity. I had felt so bitterly in the morning, thinking my lot so hard; and now to find that Harry had stayed at home to take me out for the evening, and then, fearing I should not finish in time, helping me himself—the boy that never had waited on himself doing this heavy work, and all for me.

“There, I am done,” leaving the shovel standing upright in the middle of his load.

“You will find it heavy; you had better tip out some,” I suggested.

“My arms are strong; have no fear,” he answered, and struck into the path ahead of me.

“Pretty warm,” said Harry, after a few moments. “I reckon I’ll tip off my vest instead of the gravel;” and I saw that his collar was limp and the linen on his shoulders wet through and through.

“This will be sufficient,” said Mrs. Harlan as we finished smoothing the walk. “You have worked so well, Marston, the rest of the day may be your own.”

“Mrs. Harlan,” and Harry stood with his cap in his hand, “I am to go to Claverton this evening, for the ride merely, and I would like to take Marston with me, if you have no objection.”

“To Claverton this evening! You will see Miss Grimshaw and Jennie,” turning to me.

“If I go, I shall hope to see them.”

“I will see;” and she crossed the veranda into her husband’s study.

“Yes, Mr. Harlan is willing you should go,” she said. “I hope the ride will be pleasant. Let me see you before you go, Marston.”

“All ready,” shouted Harry as he drove up in a pretty open buggy drawn by a high-spirited black horse, that pawed the ground just a little, to show his impatience.

“In a minute, Harry.” I had not yet seen Mrs. Harlan, and I flew down stairs and across the hall to the parlor.

“Not there, Marston,” and Mrs. Harlan called me to her own room. “Here are a few things that I intended for you before examination. It will be a good time to wear them this evening, however, and you may try them on at once; I am impatient to see if they fit.”

My hand trembled as I took them, and my voice still more.

“Do not be afraid to wear them, you have fairly earned them. Mr. Harlan told me that he owed them to you.”

They were a nice spring suit of light grey cloth. I could not stop to half thank her, but hastened into my own room, and slipping into them, gave one look into the little mirror, and then down stairs, under Mrs. Harlan’s kindly review, and then out to Harry.

“Why, Marston, what’s the matter? You are actually crying.”

“It was all so unexpected,” I murmured, dropping into my seat.

“They are not a bit too good for you; I was with her when she ordered them. The tailor measured me instead of you; that’s the reason they fit so nicely. I told Mrs. Harlan you could wear my clothes. But come, cheer up; don’t let a nice suit of clothes spoil your eyes. We shall have lots to see.”

Impatient as I was to see Jennie, the ride seemed short; and when we drove up to Miss Grimshaw’s little white gate, I thought I had never seen a picture half so beautiful. It was a soft spring day, the parlor windows open, and the white muslin curtains fluttering in the breeze. The breath of the lilacs perfumed the air, and the tulips were budding into beauty. Miss Grimshaw had moved her shop to a larger building, and we walked up the yard and were looking through the half-open door, when grandma spied us, and came forward, leaning on her staff.

“Why, Marston, is that you? I am so glad to see you. How you have grown, child.”

“And this is Harry Gilmore,” I answered, till then forgetting to introduce my companion.

“Sit down; Jennie will be in presently.”

“Where is she, grandma?”

“In the strawberry bed at the back of the house. I will call her.”

“No, grandma, let us go for her: and may we pick some strawberries?”

“As many as you wish.”

By this time Jennie had seen the buggy, and surmising who had come, started to meet us. One glad cry of surprise, and her arms were round my neck.

“Oh, brother, I am so glad to see you. I began to fear you would never come again;” then turning to Harry, as I named him, she held out her little dimpled hand. “I am glad you came to-day, the strawberries are so fine. This is the first day we have had them in abundance. Will you take some of mine?” holding up a bowl she had picked quite full, the red stain still on her fingers.

“Grandma said we might help ourselves.”

An hour passed deliciously, and then Jennie ran in, smoothed out her sunny curls, and put on a fresh pretty gingham, looking handsomer than I had ever seen her before. Miss Grimshaw came in for tea, and the nice white rolls were enjoyed by us with a peculiar zest, while the strawberries and cream were, as Harry said, beyond all praise. After tea we strolled out to the river, gathered violets, and talked of our studies.

“It looks natural, and still every thing wears a brighter hue,” I said to Jennie as we stood on the door-step. “I have never seen the spring half so beautiful.”

“Perhaps it is in ourselves,” Jennie said. “You have not forgotten what Mr. Kirby said: ‘If we think good and happy thoughts, we shall look through such a medium that every thing about us will wear the same hue.’”

“I like to hear you repeat what Mr. Kirby said,” I continued. “Sometimes I am afraid that I am forgetting him.”

“We both owe Mr. Kirby more than anybody else in the world. We must never forget him.”

Harry had been walking round the flower beds with grandma. They stopped near us, and she said, “You have grown tall, Marston, and I hear people say that you are getting to be a fine scholar. I do not know much of books, but I have picked up a verse that I want you to think of: ‘The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.’”

“And you too,” she continued, addressing Harry. “You will both make better men for heeding it.”

“So my mother says,” was Harry’s reply.

We did not see Frank Clavers, neither hear any thing of the excursionists. At parting Jennie gave us a basket of strawberries for Mrs. Harlan, and stood with cheeks flushed and eyes misty with tears, the gold brown curls waving over her white shoulders.

“The prettiest picture that I have ever seen,” said Harry as we drove away. “You may well be proud of your sister, Marston.”

“And so I am,” I replied. “The best of all, she is as good as she is beautiful.”

For some reason we talked quite soberly during our ride back to Rockdale, going over the incidents of the past, and the changes that our short lives had witnessed. Then we talked of the future, which we robed in bright hues like the blossoms of that lovely spring time. True, Harry was the principal talker. My heart was full. Still I knew that I must scale steep heights, tread rugged paths, press on when footsore and weary, perchance to meet little earthly success. Ah, how mysterious a thing human life would be, could we not discern in it the threshold of a higher, purer existence.

XI.

By rigid economy, by laboring in vacation, and performing various little offices in term time, I managed to continue at Rockdale two years. Latin was no longer a trouble to me, and Greek was becoming easy; but my purse was nearly empty. I was in need of several new books. And I began to turn in my mind what I could do towards defraying new expenses.

At this juncture the president of the board of trustees visited the school, where he remained the entire day, examining the classes, and inspecting the monthly reports. I had no suspicion of his purpose, and consequently gave my whole attention to my recitations. Although not as quick as many, I had been thorough, understood the principles of almost every thing that I had been over, and thus obtained correct answers. Greek and Latin were read easily, and the president was evidently satisfied with our progress.

That evening Mr. Harlan sent for me to his study. The time and the occasion were new to me, and I went with some trepidation. Mr. Harlan was not there, but in his place the visitor, Mr. Stovill.

“Mr. Harlan tells me that you intend to go through college, if your hands and your brains can take you there,” was his somewhat abrupt greeting.

“I am hoping to go. Others have done the same without more means.”

“What will you do to obtain the money? it will require a good deal for that.”

“I shall work for it.”

“Would you haul wood, build a stone Wall, or break stones on the street?”

“Any thing, sir, that offered me an equivalent.”

“Then you do not think that work will degrade you?”

“On the contrary, I think that labor will ennoble me. But as I wish to study, I should like to do that which would bring me the most for the least number of hours.”

He was silent, while I sat in suspense as to his purpose. What did he mean by all these questions?

“I believe you will do,” he said at length. “Young men are apt to think that work will degrade them. They forget that oaks spring from acorns, and little efforts lead to great results. The boy that will work to improve himself, will pretty surely merge into the man that will work for the good of others.”

In a few words he made known his plan. Robert Lovell was going to college; some one else must supply his place as under-tutor.

Mr. Harlan had suggested the names of two, Silas June and myself. Silas was very quick, and priding himself on this, he did not study. To be brilliant was his desire, and yet he might have been a thorough scholar had he studied. His quickness ruined him.

This situation, in consideration of my standing in class, was offered me, with sufficient remuneration to defray all my expenses.

I could hardly keep back the tears. This ray of light stealing through the darkness, was a reproof for all my faint-heartedness and despondency. “No right effort is ever lost.” There was a sun behind the clouds, though I had doubted it.

“I might have had that chance,” said June. “It was all my own foolishness. If I had only known the day Mr. Stovill was coming, I would have had my lessons; there would have been no trouble. My reports were against me.”

I could say nothing to comfort him, and the hour passed without words.

“If I could only begin again, I would not lean so much on my quickness. It is the same old story—the hare and the tortoise. You will get there quicker than I shall.”

“It is not too late for you,” said I; “try it.”

“I cannot do three years’ work in one. Besides, it is easier to fall into bad habits than to get rid of them. After all, I may get along just as well; but mother expected me to fill Lovell’s place. She wrote me in her last letter, that if I could not help myself a little, she should have to take my sister from school; she could not afford the expense of both. Poor mother.”

“Poor mother,” I echoed, and thought of what I should do, had I only a mother to write me letters full of loving words, and a sister that must be taken from school unless I could help myself in a measure. I was roused by his voice.

“We can never be young but once. I want my share of pleasure.”

“Do you find it?”

“Not yet; but I am hoping every day for something better.”

“Which you will never find, I am afraid. Judging from your own words, you are making your mother unhappy, and yourself miserable.”

“It is so; but what can I do?”

“Break off your idle habits; say good-by to your fun-loving companions, and begin to work right earnestly. This is the way others have done.”

“I ought to do it; but it is too late.”

“And you will oblige your mother to take that little sister from school?”

“Oh, I hope not; she is not so poor as she thinks. True, I have been spending a good deal this winter. Gilmore has a rich father, and I could not bear to be shabby in the suppers.”

This was my last year at Rockdale; and if the service was pleasanter, it was not less arduous. I had very little time for myself, a half hour’s stroll at twilight being my only recreation. Still I believed that I was improving, both intellectually and morally; and this sufficed me. Jennie was also climbing the hill of science rapidly. Frank Clavers’ sister had returned the year previous from boarding-school; and being pleased with Jennie, and learning that she could sing, she had offered to give her lessons in music. Seeing her fondness for books, Miss Clavers soon kindly offered to help her here also. This called for additional gratitude on my part; I had felt so troubled about this little sister, whom my mother left in my charge. Doing for myself, I hardly felt it to be right not to aid her personally more than my duties would allow. Now she had the benefit of example, and also the instruction of a young lady who was said to be a finished scholar.

Thus easily I slipped into Robert Lovell’s place as tutor, and also into his class in Sabbath-school. Teaching others is one of the best means of self-culture; and I was in this way sent to my Bible, if not more frequently, at least with a more intense desire to understand its teachings. Thinking, studying, meditating, I drew nearer the cross each day; each day began to realize more perfectly the beauty of His words who spake as never man spake, the glory of his countenance beaming with untold love; the terrible agony he suffered on the cross; his willingness to forgive sin; and above all, the encouragement in coming to him freely, as to a friend loved and confided in. Oh, why had I not seen this before? I had hopes that I did love him—that I did trust him—that I did follow him; but Oh, it was so far off. Had I been near, I should never have doubted as I had done; I should never have gone through all these months with my heart heavy, the waters going over my soul, striving to do only because I knew it to be right, and only half trusting the divine promise, “I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.” Oh, blind and foolish heart, thus to grope in darkness when He was waiting with outstretched arms to receive thee.

How bright and beautiful my pathway now opened before me. Not that barriers were all removed, obstacles all cleared away; but I no longer felt troubled with a weak, half trust. I knew His promises were sure; that he would not leave me; that he would be in reality not a personal friend merely, but one closer than a brother. A long time had I been learning the lesson of his love, a long time discovering the depth of his tenderness; now, satisfied to rest on him, I found it joy unutterable.

XII.

My first vacation after leaving Rockdale was spent with Mr. Wyman. Four years since I had left him, poor and ignorant. Now, I certainly was not any richer. Still I had advanced in knowledge of books and in mental discipline; and although my longing after an education was not in the least abated, I had learned there is nothing really desirable in comparison with the fear of God and true holiness. I did not care now to choose in what part of his vineyard I should work. I only wished to labor for him; and to do this effectually, I must not falter in my purpose of an education.

With this intent I went into the hay-field with as much ardor as before into the school-room. Money, Mr. Stovill said, was desirable to go through college with, and I knew the worth of it.

“I see that you have not forgotten how to work,” said Mr. Wyman, coming into the meadow one sunny afternoon.

“Not forgetting, but still more accustomed to it, Mr. Wyman. I have been hard at it ever since I was here.”

“There is a difference between head work and hand work,” said the farmer with a quiet smile.

“I have been doing both,” I replied; “turning book leaves has not bleached my hands.”

“While I have to confess to the doing of only one. The young folks of this day have much better advantages than were common when I was a boy. We had no such schools then as Rockdale.”

“I think you do yourself injustice, Mr. Wyman, when you say that you have only been working with your hands. Had it not been for you, I could not have gone to Rockdale when I did, if ever. In word and deed, your labor has budded, blossomed, and brought forth fruit. We sometimes study quite as effectually out of books as in them.”

“True; but if I could live my life over again, I should think more of a book education. Those that know the most have the means of doing the most good.”

“There is one comforting truth,” said I, turning the hay vigorously: “God directs all our steps. He appoints our place; he gives us our work. I used to think there was in labor a great choice, and although I was willing to do any thing because I felt it to be right, still there was also a consciousness that, could I choose, such would not be my employment. I remember the morning I came here for the first time; I rebelled not a little against it. Still it was a means, a stepping-stone to the desired good.”

“And is it not the same now?”

“No; I am willing to be directed. I like to be led by Him, and feel safe in following. Then I feared continually lest I should make a mistake, and through weakness or ignorance fail to use the means to the greatest advantage. Now I try to exercise human wisdom and a prudent forethought, and still rest contented, whatever the result. The Lord knows all, and he knows whether this or that shall prosper. To do right, and to do my best, is all that he requires of me; events are with him, and success is given wheresoever he pleases.”

Saturday evening at length came. We had worked hard through the week, but the hay was not all in. Nine o’clock, and there still remained several loads. A consultation was called.

“It looks like rain,” said Mr. Wyman. “But you are all tired, and the oxen have done enough for one day; perhaps we had better let it rest. It will not rain to-night; and if it does to-morrow, it wont take long to put in three loads.”

“But to-morrow will be Sunday, Mr. Wyman.”

“I know; but it would not be right to let the hay spoil.”

“I do not understand that; the command is positive: ‘Six days shalt thou labor, and do all thy work: but the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God: in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy man-servant, nor thy maid-servant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gates.’ Nothing can be more explicit.”

“It is also equally incumbent upon us not to waste our substance,” said Mr Wyman. “If you read the New Testament rightly, you will find that it is lawful to do works of mercy and necessity.”

“True; but would the getting in hay be counted such a work, when God expressly bids us keep his Sabbath even in harvest time?”

“Yes, if the hay was to be spoiled by the neglect, it ought to be got in.”

There was no more said. It was late, and the men dispersed. I went directly to my room, not a little disconcerted about what I might be called upon to do. Mr. Wyman was an old man, and had been very kind to me; it was not for me to speak to him as an equal. He felt it to be right; I felt it to be a direct act of disobedience. We must each act according to our conscience; and with this thought I went to sleep.

The next morning the sun peeped through a dull, hazy atmosphere, looked, and was gone, showing occasional glimpses of his face till nearly church time, when the clouds began to gather and roll themselves into inky blackness, and rain seemed inevitable.

“Put the oxen to the cart,” said Mr. Wyman; “that hay will be ruined.”

“But, pa, it is Sunday,” said Mrs. Wyman.

“Well, what if it is? You are ready to go to church, and the wagon is at the door; go on, I shall stop for the hay. It is just as much a duty to save our property as to do any thing else. We are told to be diligent in business;” and the farmer exchanged his Sunday coat for his work-day one, and went out.

“Marston,” he said as he passed through the back porch, “you load faster than any of the others. If we hurry, we can get it in and then go to church.”

“I cannot do that kind of work on the Sabbath, Mr. Wyman. I regard it as an open violation of His law.”

“If you cannot work for me to-day, you certainly cannot to-morrow.”

I did not stop to question; there was but one course for me. My head bowed over my hands. To lose Mr. Wyman’s friendship was more than I could bear.

“What is that to thee? follow thou me,” floated through my brain and comforted me. Presently a light hand was on my shoulder, and a kind voice said,

“Marston, will you drive us to church? I do not think it will rain at all.”

“If you desire it, Mrs. Wyman.”

We started, Mrs. Wyman with Emma and Alice. As we passed the meadow, Mr. Wyman was busily pitching on the hay, Anderson and Gregory each having a cart. The oxen stood with their great patient eyes rolling about, as if not quite sure of the right of breaking in upon their day of rest. Nothing was said, however.

We reached the church door just in time to escape a few quiet drops; but these were soon gone; the clouds unrolled and dispersed their dark folds, and before noon all was bright again.

“Oh, father, you should have heard the sermon this morning,” said Alice Wyman, a sweet, blooming girl, tripping into the parlor as though nothing had happened. The farmer sat in his straight-backed chair, the hay was all in, and he was reading the Bible.

“What was the text, child?” he at length said.

“‘Trust in the Lord, and do good; so shalt thou dwell in the land, and verily thou shalt be fed.’ Mr. Gordon spoke so beautifully of the implicit trust we are privileged to have, it seemed to me I never felt so forcibly before how far short we come of realizing all that might be ours, the contentment that would fill our hearts, would we put aside self and lean more perfectly upon Him.”

“But there is something for us to do,” said her father. “We are not to sit still; we are to act, and that diligently.”

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Wyman, “Mr. Gordon said there was something for us to do. The first act was obedience; the second was love and trust.”

By this time dinner was on the table. The farmer was evidently in no talkative mood, and few words were spoken.

In the afternoon I walked with Alice to the Sabbath-school, and returned comforted. Perhaps Mr. Wyman would turn me off; it was more than probable he would. I had displeased him. Still, having done what I thought to be right, I would trust it all to God.

The next morning as we finished breakfast, and before we arose from the table, Mr. Wyman said,

“I owe you for two weeks’ work, Marston: I am sorry for what happened yesterday; still I must have the direction of what shall be done on my own farm. I shall fill your place with some one who will do what I ask of him.”

“Had it been any other than a plain, positive command, I should have gone with you, Mr. Wyman; but so positive is the decree with regard to the Sabbath, there could be no question with me concerning my duty.”

Mrs. Wyman and Alice followed me down the walk, and begged me not to cherish unkind feelings towards Mr. Wyman.

“No fear of that,” I answered. “He has always been my friend, and I shall not think unkindly of him for this. He is too good a man not to be sorry when he thinks of it with his accustomed coolness.”

I had nothing to do but to walk back to Claverton, and tell Jennie what had befallen me.

“I am sorry, Marston; but I should have been still sorrier had you acted otherwise;” and she pressed her red lips to mine. “An entire obedience is necessary. Do not be troubled; some good will come of it.”

We walked down to the little gate, where stood a messenger from Mr. Willett.

“Mr. Willett would like to see Marston,” as Jennie took the message.

“He has not been well for several weeks, and has inquired for you continually,” she said, as she held the gate for me to pass.

Mr. Willett was pillowed up in his easy-chair, and seemed delighted to see me.

“I am glad that you are free,” he said at length. “I have been sick, and the doctor forbids all kinds of exertion. Every thing is going to ruin in the store. If you will just go in, I shall consider it a great favor, and will give you more than you can get doing any thing else.”

How soon the black cloud had showed a silver lining. I had felt so unwilling to leave Mr. Wyman, so sad and desponding, that I could not think of any thing else as I walked back to the village. With all my waywardness, God was not unmindful. Could I ever despond again? I felt at the time that it would be impossible.

“I told you something good would come of it,” said Jennie as I crossed the street and once more entered the parlor. “‘A right effort is never lost.’ This should teach us both to trust more perfectly.”

Mr. Willett recovered rapidly; and by the time vacation was over, I was appointed a regular teacher in the Rockdale academy.

“This will delay your college course, but it will be better for you in the end,” said Mr. Harlan. “You are still young enough to wait next year, and your salary will enable you to begin. Besides, if you choose to study while teaching, I will aid you all I can; and I have little doubt you can enter the Sophomore class instead of the Freshman.”

This was a step I had not thought of, and I quickly resolved not a moment should be lost; to teach and to study should be my work for another year.

Among the first of the new pupils that particularly interested me when I entered upon my duties was Ezra Metcalf. Stimulated by his little teacher, he had put forth very commendable effort; and through the interest of Mr. Gordon and one or two benevolent ladies of Terryville, Mr. Harlan had been induced to take him, the boy paying his board, as I had done, by labor.

XIII.

It proved as Mr. Harlan had said. The next year I entered the Sophomore class, once more finding myself face to face with Frank Clavers and Harry Gilmore. Their greeting was most cordial, and Harry’s friendship was as warm as ever. Although my year’s salary had clothed me decently and left me something for books, it still required the closest economy to get along; making me appear, to those who had plenty, as close and parsimonious. This was in itself a trial, and the hardest with which I had to contend. Yet my frank avowal of a scanty purse saved me from many temptations. In the various expedients of the students for killing time I was not expected to share; and still I always had a spare dollar for a new book, or sufficient to expend upon a course of scientific lectures; while there were some lavish in expenditures for rides, suppers, ices, and sherbet, who were at times obliged to deny themselves the means of improvement.

It was not trying to acknowledge poverty when the admission brought no dishonor. Still, when with some of my class-mates who were rich men’s sons, and well supplied with pin-money, I found to my cost that I had not learned the lesson of self-conquest so perfectly as I had flattered myself. I was once looking at a second-hand book in the presence of Morris and Wright, two of the richest students in college.

“That is what I call small business, to look up old threadbare books,” said Morris, in a tone that I could not avoid hearing, at the same time ordering a new copy of the same work; to which Wright replied, while a contemptuous smile wreathed his proud lips. I could have wept with vexation; and the next moment was ashamed of myself for giving way to such a weak, ignoble feeling.

Through all these days Jennie’s letters comforted me, and Mr. and Mrs. Harlan did not forget me.

“Regard the right,” said the latter in one of her letters, “and seek for companions such as honor it. Think too much of yourself to cherish a selfish thought or feeling; and let every act prove that a light purse does not of necessity imply low tastes or a meagre intellect.”

Little did the good woman imagine all the trials springing out of my weakness. Still the strife was short, and invariably I found my way back to the sheltering arms of that Friend who looks not alone to the outward, and who judges not as man judges.

Overhearing one of the professors saying that he could not find a suitable gardener for his grounds, and having learned a good deal of gardening from Mr. Harlan, I offered myself, and was accepted. I needed exercise. This was just as good as boating, ball-playing, or the gymnasium.

One Saturday, as I returned from the river with a wheelbarrow of pebbles for the flooring of a new arbor I had just planned, I met several of my class-mates at the gate. Conquering my first impulse of false shame, I advanced as though it was the most pleasant exercise imaginable.

“Gardening for the pleasure of it?” said Stevens, in a tone of irony he knew so well to use.

“Not for pleasure, Stevens, but from necessity;” and I walked on. The next meeting was easier. I had filled the wheelbarrow again, and was crossing the carriage-way, when Wright drove leisurely along in an open buggy. As he passed me he touched his hat, while a mocking smile wreathed his lips:

“There goes the best scholar in his class.”

“And the best I intend to be,” I said to myself, but without any unpleasant feeling.

Finishing my task, I went to the office for letters; passing the hotel just as the numerous hacks had left a greater number of guests than usual. I had nearly passed, when suddenly my name was called, and in a voice that seemed strangely familiar. It was Silas June. He had given up study, and had been two years in the city, and talked largely of city pleasures and pursuits. His uncle had recently become very wealthy through land speculation, and had generously offered Mrs. June a home, and also taken Silas into his employ as a clerk.

“I suppose you are planning ways and means yet,” he said at length. “I remember you used to be good at this.”

“Practice makes perfect,” I answered.

“I have never had any thing else to do, and I am now quite as expert as ever.”

“I told you I should get along just as well without so much study, although I did not then dream of the good in store for me. Uncle is rich, and without a family of his own. He must do something with his money, and I shall come in for a large share.”

“I hope you will repay him by making a good and noble man.”

“I shall please him, if that is what you mean, although it goes greatly against my inclination to sit bound down day after day to the day-book and ledger. Still night comes, and I enjoy while he sleeps.”

“You enjoy; how so?”

“Go to parties, operas, theatres, or into some saloon; anywhere, if I find good company.”

“You used to try to deceive yourself with regard to study,” I said, with a degree of earnestness that made him laugh heartily. “Do not deceive yourself now, and run into company that will lead you to ruin, just because your uncle is rich enough to give you the opportunity. Deception cannot prosper.”

“Don’t everybody deceive—everybody but you and Lovell?”

“That many practise it, I allow, and that some for a time succeed, is very possible; but the end is not yet.”

“There is no use in denying self-interest is the motive,” he answered; “and if some noble deeds and benevolent actions are performed, the mainspring is the same. I humor my uncle, for I need his money; you study enough to kill a common man, making this a stepping-stone to something else. What’s the difference?”

There was a difference, notwithstanding his fluent speech. Back as far as I could look there was still one purpose— a strong and noble manhood, a life of usefulness and honor; and in my estimation, a good education would greatly contribute to bring this about. This was why I studied, why I was resolved to study—not merely distinction, worldly honor, or aggrandizement, but to possess a truly excellent character, worthy the regard of others and the respect of myself.

XIV.

At length a year in college had passed; one more layer was unwrapped from round the kernel of college lore, and as Juniors we were trying with renewed powers honorably to rival each other.

Not alone to us change had come, but to others. Miss Clavers had opened a seminary in the little village bearing her father’s name, and Jennie was an assistant. How full of love and encouragement were her letters. How strange it all seemed: no longer a little girl that nestled in my arms, and looked up to me as one able to do so much, but a tall, stately young woman, going in and out before her pupils with the conscious grace of one who feels that she is able to do all that she has undertaken.

It was a bright autumn day when Stevens invited a party of some half a dozen students to walk with him to a town not far distant. For the last six months I had been on friendly terms with him, so I did not think it strange when he invited me; neither did I refuse to go. It was a perfect day: the rich, fervid hues of autumn were spread over miles of forest-trees and shrubbery; a thin veil of mist hung over every winding stream, while the brilliant sunshine illuminated the many varying shades of wood, water, and cloud, blending all in perfect harmony.

That hazy, dreamy atmosphere, how well I remember it. The memory of that walk makes my heart beat with much of its youthful buoyancy. Under the exhilarating influence of the day, and our unexpected freedom, we ran, laughed, shouted—appearing, as we really were, a company of grown-up school-boys. I remember Harry Gilmore’s mirthful tone as we pelted him with chestnuts, and how Wright forgot his dignity when we covered his hat and shoulders with red and yellow leaves.

After visiting a gallery of paintings, which was the ostensible object of the excursion, and which we all expressed ourselves as sorry to leave, Stevens invited us to step into a restaurant for refreshment. Wright and Gilmore left us to make a call, but the remainder of the party entered the saloon.

When seated in an elegant room, we were soon supplied with tempting viands. Not satisfied with a lavish profusion of fruits, cakes, and ices, Stevens rang for the waiter, to whom he gave orders in an undertone, the nature of which was evident from the speedy appearance of glasses and bottles.

“Now to the health of the company: may the shadow of each never be less,” said Stevens, filling his glass. There was a burst of applause, and I looked around the table, hoping to find at least one representative of total abstinence; but with the exception of my own, every glass was drained.

“How is this?” said Stevens, eyeing me keenly; “afraid or unwilling to pledge me in a glass of wine?” All eyes were turned upon me, and I felt the blood recede from my face.

“I am afraid, Stevens. I saw a student carried to his room the other night. If I take a glass now, who knows but I may one day be found in a like situation?”

We walked back more quietly than we went. The sun had set, and a vaporous veil of golden haze had floated off into the purple twilight, and the watching stars came out one by one, with a dim, subdued light, only seen on such autumnal nights. Stevens, who was my companion in spite of my not joining him in the wine, was in a contemplative mood.

“I don’t approve,” he said, “of wine, tobacco, or any thing of the kind, and very often I make up my mind never to touch them again; especially did I the other night when I saw Darcy in such a state.”

“It is the only safe course,” I answered.

“I know it,” he said earnestly, “and I like you all the better for not touching it. I only ordered it for fear there were some who would think it mean; ‘nothing to drink,’ as they say.”

And so I believe it would be in every instance where a young man openly avows his determination not to drink, smoke, or chew, waste his time, or trifle with duty. After his resolves have once been tested, he will only be thought more of by the wildest associate he has, and his influence from that moment will be wider and more powerful.

In college, as elsewhere, it is easy to select our associates. If we wish, we can have the most studious and high-minded; or the pleasure-seeker, who came to college because it was fashionable to do so, and will get a diploma, if he gets one at all, because the wealth of his father purchases it for him, the same as any other article of luxury.

Still, try as I would, I could not make friends with Wright. At first he had looked down upon me: more recently he seemed to regard me only as a rival; and to say the truth, we were quite even, our regular marks in recitation seldom varying. The time now came when the subject for a prize essay was given out, and knowing my chief competitor would be Wright, I determined to surpass him.

Not having a strong constitution, study wore upon him sadly.

“Do not work so hard, I entreat you,” said our President one day as he saw how wan and pale Wright was growing. “There is no use in this,” taking the feverish hand in his. “Indeed I have been blind not to see it before; you must rest, at all hazards.”

“Not now,” said Wright. “I came here to take the first honor in my class, and I will do it.”

“You will not live to reach it, at this rate; and then what profit can come from all your ambitious labors?”

A week or two afterwards Wright was prostrate.

“They say that you will win the prize,” said Stevens, coming into my room on his way from the sick-bed. “If poor Wright had not been sick, you might not have been so certain, however.”

“Wright probably wrote his essay before he was sick,” I answered.

“Yes, he wrote it, and I have read it, and I assure you it is a fine production; but he cannot read it, and of course the prize will be yours.”

I went to my room in no enviable state of mind. I wanted the prize. I had worked for it. But if Wright had written his essay, he must not lose the honor because he was sick. Nothing more was said of it, and all seemed to take it for granted that I should be the successful competitor.

At last I could bear it no longer. I called upon Stevens, as a friend of Wright, to procure the essay; and then, with the conviction that I was destroying my own hopes, I carried it to the chairman of the committee, and begged him to suspend his decision until this had been sufficiently examined.

The result was as I expected. Wright was announced the winner of the prize at the same time we were told that he was dangerously ill. How insignificant at that hour the honors of the world! How sorry I was that, in order to rival me, he had been obliged to study so hard; how glad to think that perhaps he might know that he had won, and the knowledge give him pleasure.

Not long afterwards a messenger came to me from the sick-room. Wright wanted to see me. I found him lying upon his bed, pale and wasted, the mere shadow of his former self.

“I wanted to thank you for your sacrifice on my behalf; they told me all about it;” and his eyes closed languidly. I pressed his thin hand cordially in my own.

“Nor is that all,” he said, opening his eyes, glistening with deep feeling. “I want you to forgive my former rudeness. I have always been ashamed of it; not a moment but I have longed to tell you of my regard; but you were my rival in study, and I could not bear it.”

Was this Wright, the rich student, the one who had never given me a word save those dictated by common civility, now asking my pardon, and saying that he had always regarded me, and had longed to tell me so? There was no room for deception; there he lay, weak and pale. I could not restrain my emotion, and before I was aware, I was on my knees, my arms about him, and my head resting on his pillow.

“Sickness has taught me to see life under a new phase,” he resumed. “These petty rivalries are unworthy the attention of immortal beings. I have lived as though this life were all, following a shadow until it had well-nigh landed me in the grave. Oh what would have become of me had I died then?” and a shudder passed over his features. “You will be glad to know that I have found Him whom you have loved for a long time. I trust my sins are pardoned, that I have given my heart to the Saviour. You must be my friend now; I cannot rest till I have it from your own lips.”

“Now, and ever,” I answered, as well as my emotion would allow. A sweet peace showed itself on his countenance.

“I knew you would forgive me.”

The attendant came in and said that he must rest, and I went out full of wonder at the power that could humble a proud spirit like Wright’s, and change him to a meek penitent.

My astonishment was increased when returning health enabled him to go on with his studies. There was no longer rivalry; a new purpose burned in his heart, beamed in his eye, and influenced every look and word; not one that had known him before but was constrained to say that he had been with Jesus.

My last year in college was a constant delight to me. I was not so much pressed by pecuniary matters. Above all, I had succeeded in winning the good-will and esteem of those around me. After Wright’s illness, his heart clung to me with as much intensity as before he had carefully avoided me, while Harry Gilmore gave me all a brother’s love, and Frank Clavers was the same true friend as ever.

At Commencement, when the highest honor was awarded me, I felt a thrill of satisfaction that was an ample equivalent for long years of labor. Afterwards, when I stood before the assembled throng, conscious that many eyes were upon me, and bright, happy faces looking their approval, I only saw one, a sweet, pure face, with the golden hair parted over a broad white forehead, while an expression of peace and of trust rested on the whole countenance. It was a happy day to Jennie. So far my work was done, and, they said, well done. I looked upon it as only reaching another stage in my ascent; the first and second heights were won, and a profession was now to be chosen.

In the evening there was a levee at the President’s house, and for Jennie’s sake as well as my own I was glad. The good man received me very kindly, and so far unbent himself as to speak of the courage and industry of my last three years, then of my success—introducing me to several men who were there, and whom it was an honor and a privilege to meet. “Energy is essential,” he said, “but patience and perseverance are the crowning virtues. You have practised these faithfully. God grant that you may continue to do the same to the end.”

It was a happy gathering; and when I went to my room, it was first to fall upon my knees, pouring out my heart in gratitude to that God who had been so mindful, leading me by the hand up through the narrow defile of poverty and want, into a broader way, where I could catch glimpses of the promised land, renewing my vows, and consecrating myself anew to his service.

XV.

“Now you are ready for a profession,” said Miss Grimshaw, as once more we were seated in her little parlor.

“Marston is troubled about being a lawyer,” Jennie said, as she leaned over my shoulder, running her taper fingers through my hair. “He used to think he could be happy in nothing else.”

“Yes,” said grandma, “what fine speeches he used to make before the looking-glass, and how often he said he would never undertake a case that was not just, and then he would be sure to win.”

True, grandma’s words carried me far back into my boyhood. I could see now that I had been ambitious. Poor and friendless, I had read of others who had attained worldly preferment and riches, and I resolved to do the same. To be a successful lawyer seemed to me to be the height of intellectual attainment. This I would be, and for this did I first study. I was ambitious for myself, and I was equally ambitious for Jennie.

Once my great desire was to rise in the world; but now my aim was higher. As a lawyer, I did not intend that my knowledge and influence should become a screen for guilt. I would never be an oppressor of the poor and miserable. I had not the remotest wish to make vice appear virtue, nor to clothe transgressors in the garb of honorable men; neither did I expect to bury my conscience. I looked for a noble manhood.

Now it seemed to me my life could not be spent aright if I did not make the service of God my chief and direct aim, and that no other service would suit me so well as, in utter self-renunciation, to give myself entirely to the work of saving poor ruined sinners, spending my time, talents, health, all, in telling in the nooks and corners of the land, wherever I could find a listener, of the depth and fulness of His love for man. Compared with this, the fields of worldly ambition seemed a vast waste, without flowers or fruit.

“I am glad that you feel like this, Marston;” and grandma tottered across the room and laid her withered hand upon my head. “I have prayed earnestly for this. Young, earnest, persevering, you have the power of doing much good. I am thankful, Oh how thankful, that you see it in this light.”

The tears streamed over the cheeks of this aged saint. Jennie was weeping too, and I could not speak. I felt my own unworthiness and insufficiency, and only prayed that God would give me that ready tact and skill to say and do those things that would be pleasing in his sight, and enable me to win souls for his kingdom.

Still, I had only passed through my collegiate course; there were years of preparation before I could become fitted for the high and noble office of a preacher of his word. In the darkest lot there is some sunshine. With health, strength, some culture of mind, and the presence of my Saviour, the passing clouds only made the sunshine brighter.

Before the vacation closed I met Mr. Wyman. With his old frankness, he invited us all to spend the day with him, and more than this, sent his carriage to take us there. Considering that I had done nothing wrong, I was delighted with again meeting him, as well as Mrs. Wyman and Alice, in their old home.

My greeting was cordial, while his had all the tenderness of a father.

“I am glad to see, Marston, that you can forgive me for sending you away as I did. I knew that I was wrong, that I ought not to do it, that I was breaking a positive command; but I had always seen it done. My father I believed to be a good man; and though he did not work on the Sabbath, still, if his harvest or his hay-field was in danger of being ruined by a shower, he gathered it in, let the day be what it might. Then I was angry that you should reprimand me before all the hands.”

“I only repeated the commandment. I did not intend it as a reproof of mine. It was God’s command, and must be obeyed.”

“I knew it; but I was vexed. You have forgiven me, Marston, and I hope God has forgiven me. I have not had any Sabbath work done on the place since then, that could possibly be avoided; and I trust that I live nearer my Saviour and am a more consistent Christian than I was before.”

Neither of us said any more on that subject; and before we left, we bowed with clasped hands to seek our Father’s blessing upon the reconciliation and on our future life.

“Henceforth you shall truly stand to me in the light of Willie,” said Mr. Wyman; “and still, had Willie lived, he would have been a minister in the room of a lawyer.”

“By the grace of God, I am to be a minister, Mr. Wyman.”

“Are you, Marston? God be thanked for this. How many times during the last four years have I washed it. But we thought you were fully determined to become a lawyer.”

“So I was; but God has made me feel that it is the highest honor for mortals to serve him, and the highest service to spend and be spent in telling poor sinful men of the Saviour. If I can get through with my theological studies, I trust this will be my work.”

“You can and you shall, Marston. Willie was to have been a minister. You shall be to me as my Willie would have been.”

When we reëntered the farm-house there was great rejoicing, Mrs. Wyman taking me by the hand and telling me how thankful she felt that I had changed my purpose.

“A broad field of usefulness lies before you, Marston; you must, you will fill it nobly.”

I entered upon my theological course at once. Mr. Wyman was faithful to his promise, making of me a second Willie. And now, as the pastor of a prosperous church, I love to look back over the track of my early years, and read His goodness in ordering all my steps. Surely his goodness is unsearchable, and his love past finding out.

Led by His grace, I love to recount all his goodness in the way he has led me. I never pass a lad in the street, dirty, ragged, and homeless, but I think of my own early lot; never look upon the pale face and blue eyes of a little girl, that I do not think of Jennie, kept by his goodness and shielded by his love. And I would say to all the climbers—to all those boys and girls who are striving to help themselves, to work, and study—first make the Saviour your friend, give him your hearts, then go on courageously in the path he will be sure to open before you. Never stop to parley with wrong, or to shun a duty, however small and insignificant. A lofty purpose, pursued with undeviating integrity, never fails of a rich and gracious reward.

Would you know of my class-mates? Robert Lovell is a foreign missionary, known and loved of God and man. Frank Clavers and Harry Gilmore are lawyers of acknowledged ability and rare moral worth. Wright, my former rival, is not only a brother clergyman and friend, but as the husband of my darling Jennie, he claims still more of my regard.

Surely the prayers of our sainted mother, and the supplications of our early friend, were heard by Him who ruleth all. Our path has been hedged about by his kindness, and his banner over us has been love.

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FOOTNOTE:

[A] The “sweet do-nothing” life.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original, including contractions without apostrophes.

The cover image for this eBook was created by the transcriber and is entered into the public domain.

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Table of Contents

- THE CLIMBERS.

- I.

- II.

- III.

- IV.

- V.

- VI.

- VII.

- VIII.

- IX.

- X.

- XI.

- XII.

- XIII.

- XIV.

- XV.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE