On the way home

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Chapter I. The Watchword

“ Do thy duty : that is best ;

Leave unto thy God the rest.” — Longfellow,

“ T BELIEVE I could do it if I tried.” And JL with this expression of confidence in her own ability Mildred Hathaway dropped wearily into a chair, as if power for further action had suddenly left her.

Well, why don’t you try, then ? ”

“ Because I — don’t dare.”

Whew ! ” And the girl’s companion, a young man, standing before the fire, drew a long breath, and tapped his foot impatiently against the fender.

That’s just the way with you girls, Mildred,” he said, presently. “You are forever dreaming of the great things you would do if you had the opportunity ; but when it comes to attempting some simple every-day act of Christian charity,

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that with a little courage and self-denial could, perhaps, be easily done — bah ! Your timidity — which is only another name for selfishness — shows itself, like the donkey’s ears, through all the fine lion-skin disguise of your beautiful dreams ; and the good, true work God sent you, and meant you should do, is left by you undone, because, forsooth, you do not dare to undertake it.”

The scornful tone and stern emphasis of the speaker made his sharp plain words doubly cutting; and with a flushed face and troubled eyes the girl looked at him.

“ Robert,” she said, earnestly, ‘*you don’t understand.”

“ Dulness of comprehension is a blessing, then,” the young man retorted, and I am very well content not to understand.”

“ You might try to do so, though,” Mildred urged ; “ and if you would only put yourself in my place for a minute, you would not be quite so severe in your judgment.”

Robert Hathaway looked down on his sister with a rather contemptuous smile.

Your place looks like a very comfortable one, just now,” he said, coolly; “and such sympathy as you have just expressed seems very beautiful, Mildred ; but if it will prompt you to do nothing more than merely shed a few tears

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here by this warm fire, it is as worthless as a cancelled postage stamp. In this world the sympathy that, like mercy, ' blesseth him that gives and him that takes,’ is a sympathy that, clasping hands with self-denial, is not afraid to act. So much, at least, I fully understand.”

^^But, Robert,” the girl persisted, “suppose Uncle Wallace should be terribly angry ; suppose I should only make matters worse instead of better by venturing to interfere ; suppose — ”

“ Suppose a comet should strike the earth and knock us all to atoms,” Robert broke in, impatiently ; “ I don’t want to suppose anything, Mildred; the facts are quite enough for me ; and if you would only think more of them, and less of possible disagreeable consequences to yourself, it is my belief you might do some good by speaking to Uncle Wallace. And, any way, whether you fail or succeed, if you only try, you will have done What you could.”

“But is it really my duty?” Mildred questioned, in a tone that seemed to plead for a negative answer. “ Will it not be impertinent for me to speak to Uncle Wallace ? have I any right, young as I am, to meddle with the matter? I’d like to help the poor child, but, after all, she has no real claim upon me. I don’t know any reason why I should expose myself to Uncle Wallace’s anger for her sake.”

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** No reason, except a very simple one to be found in your Testament, Mildred. It strikes me you would do well to review your last Sunday-school lesson. You seem to have forgotten that your neighbor is every one, no matter how small and poor, who comes within the reach of your influence. And that your duty to help and bless others, in every possible way, is limited, not by your inclinations, but only by your opportunities.” Robert Hathaway paused and looked at his sister, as if expecting a reply ; but with her hands folded in her lap, Mildred remained silent, looking soberly into the fire ; and after waiting a while, her brother took his book and went out.

Left alone, Mildred sat a long time in the quiet parlor, busy with thoughts that were evidently grave and distasteful.

‘‘I don’t want to do it,” she said, with slow reluctance, much as if she were making a confession to some one unseen. “ It’s the hardest, most disagreeable duty I’ve ever had to perform. But then, I don’t suppose that makes any difference. I’m beginning to think duty always is hard. I don’t know that I have ever found an easy *You ought’ in this world yet. Oh, dear! if one could only choose pleasant things, that one would really enjoy for one’s work, life wouldn’t be quite so difficult.”

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Slowly, like one in a dream, Mildred took out and opened a little pocket-diary. Slowly she turned the leaves, till she found a certain date, and very slowly then she read :

My watchword, chosen not for a year, but for a lifetime.

‘ Whatsoever he saith unto you, do it.’ ”

The girl’s eyes filled with tears as she closed the little book and replaced it in her pocket.

“ Yes, that is my watchword,” she said sadly; ‘‘ but I am like a soldier, who, after swearing obedience, deserts at the first signs of conflict anS danger. But I will not be so^ cowardly,” she continued, with energy; “it is very hard, and I think now I might as well attempt to awake the seven sleepers as influence Uncle Wallace; but, still, as Robert said, it is my duty to try, and if at all, why then at once.”

Rising and giving herself a vigorous shake, as if she hoped in that way to rouse her faltering courage, Mildred left the parlor, and ran quickly up-stairs to her room.

“ Rachel,” she said, to a middle-aged, pleasant-faced woman, who sat there quietly knitting, “ Rachel, light the lamp, and get ready to go out with me, please ; I am going to see Uncle Wallace.”

“ This nicht. Miss Mildred ? has he sen’ for ye?”

No, he hasn’t sent for me : I’m sent to him, which is a good deal more to the purpose. A little work the angels seem to have forgotten has fallen into my hands, Rachel ; so we must hurry, for the only time for such work is now.”

“ Miss Mildred ! ” And Rachel looked at her young mistress half reprovingly for an instant ; but then her serious expression softened^ and she said slowly, with a quaint Scotch accent :

“ * Wha’soe’er her han’ foun’ to do, she did it wi’ her might’ Miss Mildred, dear, I hope ’at wull always be true o’ ye.”

“ Oh, Rachel ! ” and the girl’s bright head drooped with shame as she spoke. “You don’t know how much I dislike to do this work to-night; will it always be so hard for me to do right, Rachel ? will my duty never seem to me sweet and easy ? ”

“ My bairn,” and the motherly Scotch woman laid her hand fondly on the young girl’s, “ye’re vera young yit, an’ it is na sic a lang time syne ye began to walk heavenward. Ye’re like a sma’ wean takin’ its first steps ; ilka wee thorn an’ stane hinders an’ hurts ye noo ; but wait a wee, an’ ye’ll gro’ stronger; an’ Miss Mildred, dear, I ken but ane way to mak’ 'duty sweet, an’ ’at is to lo’e unselfishly.”

Mildred did not answer ; with quick, nervous fingers, she prepared herself for her visit ; swal-

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lowed the light supper, that with kind thoughtfulness Rachel insisted on her taking ; and then, in the early evening, before the red light in the western sky had fairly faded, started with her faithful companion on her errand.

Mildred Hathaway was only a school-girl of seventeen ; too young to have had much experience of life and its duties, and naturally too ease-loving and self-indulgent not to shrink with dread from anything involving earnest, perhaps painfu] effort, as self-denial and reproach for the sake of another’s happiness. But within a few months a change had passed over Mildred’s heart and life.

Two or three days after this change she found herself alone with her pastor in his study ; and after she had told her story, and listened to his words of affectionate interest and counsel, she ventured to say :

“ I want a watchword, now. Dr. Gilman. I want to take some one of the Bible commands as the guide of my conduct, the law of my life : will you give me one ? ”

With keen, kind eyes. Dr. Gilman looked at the young girl. He knew she was one who would never be satisfied with low attainments ; that however far she might fall below her ideal, still, before her, that ideal would always rise; and, with a grave gentleness, as he turned the leaves of his Testament, he said :

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“ Here is a watchword for you, my child ; will you take it ?

And following his finger, Mildred read :

‘‘ ‘ Whatsoever he saith unto you, do it! ”

Will you take it, Mildred ? ” the good man repeated. “ Remember it is a trumpet that gives forth no uncertain sound. It involves a solemn acceptance of a Master, in whose service there must be no half-hearted obedience, no loyalty that falters between mine and thine.”

“What does it mean? ” Mildred asked, as if she only half understood.

“ It means,” Dr. Gilman said, earnestly, “ that you are to be one of those who follow the Master at his first call, Mildred. And that you are to look upon all you are, and have, or may ever have, as belonging to him ; to be employed at his bidding, and resigned at his word. Are you ready, Mildred ? quite ready to take this as the watchword of your life ? ”

Mildred stood with downcast eyes for a minute : then she said humbly :

“ I must pray over it first. Dr. Gilman ; but I think — ^yes — I think — I will take it. ’

Days and weeks had passed since then, and Mildred had sought faithfully to be true to her watchword. But in her calm, untroubled life there had been little strain upon her outwardly, and when we are sailing in smooth waters, it is

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always easier to imagine how we would face the storm, than it is to meet it and when it breaks upon us, to come out of it victorious.

Her parents were absent in Europe, travelling for her mother’s health; and Mildred and her brother Robert were left in their home to continue their studies, and prepare for the responsible duties that would claim them when school-days and school-books were closed.

Faithfully tended by the old family servants, in the enjoyment of all the blessings wealth and affection could lavish upon her, and happy in the companionship of a brother who, however sternly he might sometimes, in the majesty of young manhood, rebuke her girlish follies, still delighted in her, and made her happiness his tenderest care, Mildred had little to try her — few actual, disagreeable duties to come in sharp contact with her pleasant dreams, and humble her with the sad contrast between what she was and what she dreamed of being.

But if we are truly Christ’s disciples; if we are faithfully striving to follow him, and do his will, he will not forget to send us some work to do for him. Surely as the sunshine of heaven falls across our way, there will fall with it some opportunity for unselfish obedience, or for selfforgetful service for others, by the doing, or not doing of which, we will be proved, and searched,

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and taught plainly, whether love of Christ, or love of self, is the ruling power of our soul.

A mile or more from Mildred’s home, in a large, dark house, whose closed doors and windows looked as if the sunshine, like a burglar, could only force its way in through some unguarded crack or crevice, lived Mr. Wallace Oxford, her mother’s brother.

He was a man of great wealth, as the tax books of the town would show ; but he was at the same time poorer than many a laborer who carries his tin pail to and from his daily work.

^ In early manhood he had met with a bitter disappointment: where he had trusted he had been, as he believed, cruelly deceived ; and from that time he had hardened his heart against all his fellow-men.

Stern and reserved in his manner, harsh in his judgments, suspicious always of the motives and intentions of others, Mr. Oxford had isolated himself from his friends and acquaintances until, except in his business relations, he had little more intercourse with the world around him than if he had been, as perhaps in one sense he was, the man with the iron mask.

Thus alone in his great house, buried among his books, and served by two grave, quiet servants, a middle-aged man and his wife, Mr. Oxford had lived for many years. Recently his family had received an unexpected addition.

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One day, 4ate in the afternoon, his solitude was disturbed by a furious ring of the door-bell, followed soon by the entrance of his servant woman.

“ Mr. Oxford,” she said, “ the expressman has just been here.” And there she stopped, as if uncertain what her next words should be.

“ The expressman ! Pray what has he brought ? ”

“ If you please, sir, a little girl.”

A little girl ! ” Mr. Oxford laid down his book and looked sharply at his servant.

“ What did he do that for ? Is there so much sunshine about this house that he mistook it for the foundling asylum ? ”

“ No, sir ; he said she was sent to you.”

“ Sent, was she ? Well, has she brought a piano and lap-dog with her, as certificates of her good birth and breeding ? ”

‘*No, sir; she has only a little, old, black trunk.”

‘^A little — old — black — trunk. This business begins to look serious, Susan ; where is she ? ” In the hall.”

“ Well, bring her in. I suppose,” Mr. Oxford continued to himself, as Susan went on her errand, “ I suppose this is some new dodge for extorting money. But if there is any one word in the English language that, in these days of

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quibbles about pronunciation, I am not afraid to speak, it’s No. And she’ll soon find I can say that plainly and emphatically.”

Even as he spoke the door opened, and a little girl stepped timidly over the threshold.

A child, but little more than ten years old, with soft, violet gray eyes, and masses of tangled golden curls, she stood just inside the door that Susan had closed behind her, looking with wishful, pleading face towards Mr. Oxford.

It seemed as if even a heart of stone must be touched with her evident loneliness and beauty, but Mr. Oxford only looked colder and harder than usual.

“What is your name?” he asked, sternly.

“ Lilian Gray Hastings.”

Something like a shadow crossed for an instant Mr. Oxford’s usually immovable face; but when he spoke, his voice was even harsher than before.

“ Where is your father? ”

“ He — he’s in — heaven ; ” the child answered, with a sob.

There was a brief silence, and Mr. Oxford passed his hand once or twice across his face before he spoke again.

“ How did you come here ? ”

“ Papa sent me. He said I was to come to a kind gentleman, who would be my papa now.”

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And the little girl looked tearfully at Mr. Oxford, but he neither stirred nor spoke.

“ He sent you a letter, sir ; ” she ventured to say, in a moment.

“Where is it?”

' Taking it from her pocket, the child handed it to him ; and going to one of the windows, Mr. Oxford broke the seal, and by the fast fading daylight read.

Denver, Colorado, Nov. 27M, 18 — .

My Dear Wallace : — Many long years have passed since we were boys together, and through tbe strange chances and changes of life, we have never met, and rarely heard from each other, since in the early flush of manhood we parted, to take our places, and do our work in the world. In that world Wallace, I have learned many bitter lessons, and experienced many crushing losses ; but through them all I have never lost my faith in your friendship, my confidence in your goodness and truth.

I am very sick now ; they tell me I am dying, and the words of the dying must be few and earnest. My wife died two years ago ; and widowed in heart, and disappointed in all my earthly ambitions, there is little reason why I should cling to life, or grieve to leave it, save for this : I have a child, Wallace, my one little ewe-lamb. Through all my bereavements God has spared her to me ; and she has been the light of my eyes, the joy of my life until now. But now, the thought of leaving her in her innocence, loneliness and destitution, breaks my heart. There are none here with whom I can trust her. My sister I suppose to be dead, I have no friends in my old home to whom I can send her, and in my trouble I turn to you. Once, long ago, through one who was dear to me, your life was darkened. Now, at this late hour, will you accept the only compensation 2"^ * B

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I can give, and into your home and heart receive my child, to be your sunshine as she has been mine ?

Will you take her, Wallace ? And, reading in this, my last gift to you, how entirely I trust you, will you be faithful to that trust ?

It will be useless for me to send this letter in the hope of receiving a reply : before one could reach me I shall be beyond the giving and receiving of earthly messages. I shall make arrangements to have her sent to you at once when I am gone. You will take her, my friend ? The Lord deal kindly by thee, as thou shalt deal by her.

Yours in a friendship that will survive death,

WiNTHROP Hastings.

Wallace Oxford read and re-read this letter, and then stood a long time holding it in his right hand, and absently tapping it against his left.

Many old memories, securely buried he had fancied, were stirring in their graves. Old hopes and dreams were rising from their ashes.

Winthrop Hastings had been the dearest friend of his boyhood and early manhood. It was Winthrop’s sister whose deception had marred and blighted all his life ; and the child standing by his fire, sent as her father’s dying gift to him, bore the name he had once thought •the sweetest in the world, but for long years had neither uttered nor heard : Lilian Gray Hastings.

Angels and fiends were met in fiercest combat in one poor human heart — which would

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conquer? Presently Mr. Oxford turned and walked towards the fire ; his arms were tightly folded, and his lips sternly compressed. Without speaking he rang the bell.

“ Susan,” he said, as the servant came in, “ this child is the daughter of a man I once knew. He is dead, and she has come to live here. Take her away; supply her wants and take care of her ; when I want to see her . I’ll send for her.”

The little girl had listened with eager attention to his words. Now, as he stopped, she made a quick move, and, eluding Susan’s outstretched hand, sprang to his side.

*‘Am I going to stay here?” she asked, earnestly, “ please, sir, am I going to stay here and be your little girl ?”

My little girl ! Humph ! I don’t think I have any room in my heart for such a possession. You’ll stay here, however, child, and Susan will take care of you ; ancf now away with you : don’t let me be bothered any more.”

“ Stop a moment, though,” he added, as Susan and her little charge went towards the door. “ What name did your father call you ?” Lily.”

Yes, I supposed so. Well, child, I don’t like lilies, I never plant them in my garden ; I never want to see them or hear them spoken of.

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You'll have to change your name now; hereafter you will be Gray Hastings, and you need not ever speak or tell your first name. Do you understand?” he questioned, impatiently, as the little girl looked at him with wondering eyes.

“ Yes, sir.”

“Then, go.”

But once again, as if she could not be repulsed, the child went to him.

“Won’t you kiss me good-night, sir?” she asked, sweetly, holding up her innocent pure lips to him.

He looked at her ; and, tracing in the young child-face a resemblance to another face he had once thought “ the sweetest that e’er the sun shone on,”‘ hardened his heart yet more.

“ Kiss you,” he said, gruffly, “ no, I don’t believe in kisses; they are worthless things — always have been since ‘Judas kissed his Master.’ Bread and butter will do you more good than kisses, ^nd Susan will give you enough of that. There, go : don’t wait any longer.”

Poor little Gray. Was it any wonder that the bread and butter, so unlovingly bestowed, choked her as she ate it ? or that she cried herself to sleep that night, and awoke the next morning with a sad, hopeless expression on her sweet young face?

Many weeks had passed since then; the

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Christmas bells had rung forth their greeting of peace and good-will; and the last snows of February were now covering the ground; but the child’s life had seen no change for the better.

Mr. Oxford never sent for her, and she never saw him near enough to speak to him. She lived entirely in the basement with Susan and her husband Peter.

They were a plain, well-meaning couple, but without children, and with as little knowledge of the needs and tastes of a delicate, sensitive child, as a pair of well-fed domesticated ducks might be supposed to have of a humming bird’s.

Gray was not sent to school. Mr. Oxford did not speak of it, and Susan and her husband considered it no concern of theirs. No employment of any kind was furnished her. The few books, and the dear old doll, that had been her treasures in her western home, lay neglected in the bottom of her trunk. She could not play with them now, and the mere sight of them was sure to cause a passionate fit of weeping, that only left her head aching and her heart sadder than before.

With her little face pressed wearily against one of the panes of the back basement window, she moped through the days; with a pitiful longing for the love and petting that had once

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been hers, she cried herself to sleep nights, and was already so sadly changed that even her own father would scarcely have recognized his bright, beautiful Lily, in the pale, listless child she had become.

Looking at her, and seeing how thin her face was growing, and how clearly the blue veins showed through the delicate skin, a stranger might well have said, as Susan did to Peter :

“ The child isn’t long for this world.”

And, in his heart, perhaps, if he had known her history he would have echoed Peter’s plain yet not unfeeling answer,

“ Wal, I dunno but the sooner she goes the better.”

But God’s thoughts are not as our thoughts ; and in his plan for the little one there were long beautiful lessons of his love and goodness to be learned, and years full of blessedness to be enjoyed, before the time for her going home should come.

And so one morning it chanced, as Susan said — but through all her life Gray never doubted that God was behind the chance — that she wanted one of Rachel’s recipes for making a plum-pudding, and, taking Gray with her, went to the Hathaways.

There was little communication between the two families even when Mrs. Hathaway was at

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home ; and in her absence months i.ad passed since Mildred had seen, or even heard ^I'om her uncle, and of Gray’s existence she was e?.tirely ignorant until Rachel, pitying the forlorn ch'W brought her to her room.

“ Miss Mildred,” she said, “ this wee lassie is livin’ at yer uncle’s hoose, noo, an’ Susan brought her here : wull ye try to amuse her while Susan an’ I talk o’er our business?”

Gray spent two or three happy hours with Mildred in her sunny room, and went home brighter and gayer than she had been in many days. Mildred’s kindness did not stop there. Attracted by the child’s sweet face and manners, she questioned Susan, and learned all she could of her history. Her warm impulsive heart was deeply touched ; several times since she had called for Gray and taken her out for a walk or ride; and while she petted the lonely child, she resolved in her own mind a great many schemes for her relief, but none of them seemed feasible.

She could not apply to her parents, for though she knew well how quickly their kind hearts would have opened to the orphaned child, they were too far away, and in' Mrs. Hathaway’s delicate state it was cruel to annoy her with new stories of her brother’s heartlessness. Mildred could ask no advice from that quarter ; and possessing a full share of family

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pride, she shrank from going to outsiders with her story. At last she took Robert into her confidence, and consulted with him as to what -CTuld be done.

“For,” said Mildred, in her decided way, “ something must be done, Robert, or Gray will die, and, if any one is to help her, we must ; though how we are to do it is a question. I’d like to have you answer, for I am sure I cannot.”

^ Robert had listened, full of sympathy and interest, and full as well of bitter indignation at his uncle’s conduct.

“ Of course something must be done,” he answered Mildred now. “ It is a cruel shame for any child to be obliged to live such a lonely, dreary life. But then, you see, Mildred, this child is under the protection of the rich Mr. Oxford ; and to beard the lion in his den, and force him to change his treatment of her, would be a pretty difficult task for any one to undertake. It would require weapons that are not forged in every arsenal. I couldn’t do it ; I could tell him my opinion of him, perhaps, if that would do any good, but to plead with him requires more grace than I possess. I tell you, Mildred, if anybody does it, it will have to be you.”

Then it was that Mildred uttered her selfconfident speech :

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** I believe I could do it if I tried.”

She was more braver in thought than in action, this young, impulsive girl, and her hasty, boastful words were bitterly repented the next instant. Gladly would she have recalled and forgotten them ; but Robert’s stern reproof forbade her doing so, and after an hour of painful hesitation, in which she vainly sought either to forget her watchword, or find some excuse from the task that seemed laid upon her, Mildred nerved herself to undertake it.

CHAPTER 11.

PLEADINO.

“ Distasteful things, done for the sake of conscience, afterwards become remembered pleasures .” — Mary Cowden Clark,

'HE stars were bright in the winter’s sky,

A when after a long, brisk walk, Mildred stood alone on her uncle’s stoop. Rachel had gone a short distance beyond to see a friend, promising to return for her in an hour. With nerves tingling with excitement, Mildred rang the bell and waited for admittance. The door was soon opened ; Susan exclaiming in surprise as she saw her :

Why, Miss Mildred, is it you ? and do you want to see Gray ? She’s gone to bed with a headache, but it will be cured, I guess, when I tell her you’ve come.”

‘‘No, don’t tell her anything, Susan,” Mildred answered ; “ I only want to see my uncle to-night ; is he home ? ”