University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

Poor Julia! Another long sleepless night, and for the first
time in all her life, she was haunted, not only with the vague dismal
forebodings of which Aunt Marie and Uncle George complained,
but with an overshadowing terror, a superstitious fear,
as if something terrible were about to happen.

Hour after hour, she lay awake, listening to the hail upon the
windows, to the noise of the wind and rattling sleet, and trying
to reason away the phantoms, huge and shapeless, that seemed
to be crowding the room and looking into her eyes through the
darkness. Whenever she lost herself for a moment, poor Charles
would pass like a spirit before her, pale, haggard, and speechless;
and when she started up to scare the vision away, the last
she remembered was always a sad and reproachful look; so that
she was afraid to sleep, lest she might dream, or, if she woke suddenly,
be still more frightened.

When fully awake, the weariness and heaviness grew insupportable;
she became restless, and kept shifting about from side
to side, now wishing for day, and now shutting her eyes, and covering
them with her hands, or hiding her face in the pillows with
a consciousness that daybreak had come, and that she would not
be able much longer to conceal the fact from herself, however
unwelcome it might be. Thoughts of her uncle, and of his coolness,
quickness, and self-possession the day before, when Arthur
read the paragraph at the breakfast-table about the Bank of England
notes, began to trouble her. He no longer appeared uneasy;
and yet, if she could judge, the danger was thickening every hour;
and though he had offered no explanation to her, and it was clear
that neither Mrs. Maynard nor Arthur knew anything of the
trouble, there seemed to be something very strange, if not suspicious,

in the circumstances. And then followed another flash
of thought; and she started, broad awake, as it came, rushing
through the troubled darkness into a chamber of her heart hitherto
unvisited, — a chamber where she had enshrined her Uncle
George as a being almost godlike in his lofty nature, as a sort
of guardian who, whatever might be the weaknesses of other
men, had always appeared to be above and beyond the temptations
that mislead. But within a few weeks, had she not found
him losing all faith in himself, and giving up under the pressure
of calamity, like the merest worldling? And though, to be sure,
he had got over the dreadful prostration that so frightened them,
very suddenly, and with a single effort, as it were, still her aunt
must have meant something, when she read that chapter in the
Bible where the Saviour says to Peter, “When thou art converted,
strengthen thy brethren.” Could it be that her beloved uncle —
the man she so loved and so revered — had never been truly
converted? and if so, what was to be said of his behavior?
Could he have been a self-deceiver for twenty years?

More and more troubled, she began to recall a conversation
she had with him just before the death of her father. “Julia,”
said he, “all mankind may be divided into three classes. The
first are the self-righteous, who insist upon saving themselves,
and want no Saviour. The second are they who are willing
enough to be saved, and not willing to depend altogether upon
themselves, but who insist on being saved in their own way,
according to their notions of what God ought to do. The third
are they who surrender themselves altogether to God, giving up
all trust in themselves, and only asking to be saved, they care not
how. And now,” said he, “Julia, to which of these three classes
do you belong?” Overwhelmed by the thought, she had hurried
away to her chamber, and falling upon her knees, had never slept
until she heard the whisper of peace, and was enabled to cast
herself into the arms of her earthly father, with a cry of transport,
the very day before his death. Could it be that her dear
uncle, who had been so faithful and so earnest with her, was himself
an outcast, or under a delusion? The idea was insupportable,
and she determined to question her aunt, and to watch them both
narrowly and constantly.

And then there followed swiftly, like another living shadow,
the remembrance of that transaction with Miss Wentworth; so
generous, and so unlooked for, by those who did not know him.
And yet — God forgive her! — while the poor child's heart was
throbbing with the recollection of all that had happened the day
before, and she was ready to cry out for joy and thankfulness,
and to cast aside all doubt of her dear uncle's true condition, all at
once it came over her, that, as in the case of the forged notes, all
he had chosen to say might be scrupulously true, and yet — she
trembled to think of the possibility, and for a moment she felt
ashamed of herself, and shrunk from what she began to believe
must be the prompting of an evil spirit, if not of the great Adversary
himself, in his unhallowed sifting of the righteous; do what
she would to drive it away, shut her eyes and cover them with
her clasped hands, or sit up and face the growing daylight with
the fixedness of a marble statue — the thought would keep returning
to her, till she shuddered with the discouraging repetition,
that while Arthur had been carefully set right with regard to the
foundation of the charge made by Miss Wentworth, Uncle George
had never denied for a moment the very foreknowledge attributed
to him! Why not say at once, and without qualification, that he
knew nothing of what afterwards happened; and that the sudden
fall in the stocks he had got rid of in such a hurry, so soon after
his arrival, was wholly unexpected to him? How much better
than to leave all this to inference! And then, too, if he felt so
sure that within a twelvemonth, or so, that very stock would be
up to par, as he called it, where was the merit of the sacrifice he
had appeared to make? Poor Julia, though secretly arraigning
that beloved uncle, as a mere stockjobber, and hypocrite, perhaps,
who had been playing with their credulity, while carrying
out a great and complicated system of circumvention; forgetting
all she knew of his former life, all that her father knew of him,
and all that others, in whom they had the fullest confidence, knew
of him, just as if he were the greatest of strangers, and only
known to her, through forged notes and the transfer of stocks to a
helpless woman but a day or two before they turned out to be
worthless, — not for the world would she have acknowledged it to
herself. But when she had reasoned the whole question through,

and saw what she had been doing, hour after hour, in the silent
watches of the night, she flung herself back upon the bed, with a
cry of terror and self-reproach, and covering her face with the
bedclothes, burst into a passionate flood of tears.

“Oh, my dear, dear uncle,” she cried, “forgive me! Oh forgive
me, or I shall go mad!”

There was no more rest, no possibility of sleep, after this brief
questioning of herself; and the moment she heard the step of
Bessie, setting the room in order, she left her bed, and shivering
from head to foot, with fear partly, and partly with cold, stole
away to their warm snug parlor in her morning-wrapper and
furred slippers.

On drawing up to the fire, she found the papers of the day
lying on the table; and recollecting how they had all been taken
by surprise at breakfast, she determined to run her eye over the
contents, and see if anything more was to be found about the
forged notes, before Mrs. Maynard, who was a very early riser,
should appear.

Not a word upon the subject was to be found in any but the
Morning Herald; and that was only to the effect that, after diligent
search, enough had been discovered to satisfy the Superintendent
of Police — poor Julia! — that the notes were indeed
most ingenious forgeries, and that they were on the track of a
confederate, who had left New York two or three months before,
and after going through the Canadas, where he had thrown a
large amount into circulation, had gone to Australia or California,
it was not certain which. But the train was laid, the
detectives were on the alert, and it was hardly possible for any
active accomplice in the city to escape.

Poor Julia was quite overcome at first. All her suspicions were
now fixed upon her brother; and when she saw the name of the
gentleman who knew so much of Charles, and who had some of
these very notes in his own possession for a long while before they
were destroyed, she began to believe that her dark forebodings in
the night-watches, and her dreadful nervousness, were intended for
a warning and preparation; or, in other words, that Charles himself
had appeared to her, and that her dream was fast coming true.

Leaning her elbows upon the table, and covering her face with

her hands, while the tears trickled through her fingers, the poor
child was beginning to think seriously of going up to her uncle's
room, and throwing herself at his feet, and beseeching him in
mercy to save her poor brother, when, all at once, her broken-hearted
inarticulate prayer was answered, not by her uncle, but
by her heavenly Father; and she started to her feet with a cry
of joy, and fell upon her knees, and sobbed, and sobbed, as if her
very heart would break.

How blind! how utterly carried away had she been, by sheer
nervousness and a superstitious terror! How entirely had she
overlooked what she now remembered so well, and almost regarded
as a revelation, — the fact that her brother had allowed
these forged notes to come back into her possession without a
word of warning; and that Mr. Pendleton himself, by begging
her to write her brother and caution him, as he did, proved beyond
all question, that so far as he knew or believed, Charles
had nothing to do with the forgery.

These two facts were of themselves a demonstration of her
brother's innocence; and the burden was lifted, and the cloud
rolled away; and while she wondered more and more, the more
she thought of these two little circumstances, how it had been
possible for her to overlook them, and for so long a time, she
felt as if a spirit had passed by, while she was upon her knees,
whispering to her troubled heart, “Peace! be still!”

And she was comforted, and happy; so that on catching a
glimpse of herself in the mirror, she started at the change she
saw there, and the tears came into her eyes afresh, as the blood
began to ripple through her veins anew, with a feeling of girlhood,
long since forgotten.

But her aunt did not appear; and feeling so very happy and
so tranquil, — and so ashamed of herself, too, for the dreadful
suspicions she had so long harbored against her poor brother, —
she began to review her judgment of Uncle George, and thought,
and thought, until she grew frightened at herself, — wondering
whether she had been altogether in her right mind, for the last
month or two, and especially during the past night. If she had
so clearly wronged her brother, whose past life did not furnish
the evidence to be found in all that she knew of her uncle, how

much more had she not wronged her uncle! Her own heart
condemned her; and she shrank away from herself, abashed and
trembling.

But while gazing into the fire, and musing over the past, her
attention was attracted by an item of religious intelligence in the
paper she held. It was there stated, that letters were coming in
from all parts of the country, and from over sea, addressed to
the Fulton Street Prayer-Meeting, and asking prayers for one
and another; here, from a widow for the conversion of a fashionable
daughter; there, from a father for the salvation of a son
going abroad; husbands were asking prayers for their wives,
and wives for their husbands; and these requests were all entered
in a book, and came up in their order, and some of the answers
were both immediate and astonishing. People were converted
on the sea, and in distant parts of the country, on the very day
and hour when these prayers went up for them for the first time,
at the Fulton Street meeting. Letters came which had been
long on the way; so that friends learned they were prayed for,
while their letters were carrying back the news of their conversion.
These were facts not to be disputed, account for them as
we may.

Julia stopped; if these things were true, what was her duty?
“O thou of little faith!” she whispered to herself; and snatching
up a pen, she wrote as follows: —

“A believer in prayer asks the prayers of God's people for
an only brother in a distant land, that he may be brought to a
knowledge of the truth, as it is in Christ Jesus.”

This note she sealed, and directing it, in a large, bold hand,
to the Fulton Street Prayer-Meeting, as the paper had suggested,
rang the bell for Bessie, and sent her to drop it into the penny-post,
with her own hands, having satisfied herself that Bessie
could not read writing, whatever she might be able to do with
large printed shop-signs. Here was additional security against
the meddling of waiters and clerks, if it were dropped into the
letter-box below. How strange! and yet how common, this
dread of ridicule or misapprehension! Though earnest and
willing to pray for the salvation of a dear brother, she was not
willing to be known as a believer in the Fulton Street prayer-meeting.

After a while, her aunt appeared, and then Arthur, and then,
just as they were sitting down to breakfast, Uncle George — with
unclouded eyes, and a strong, decided step.

“How well you do look, dear brother!” said Mrs. Maynard.
“You must have slept well, — I see it in your eyes, I hear it in
your very breathing, I feel it in your step.”

“And yet, sister, I have spent the whole night in reviewing
my past life, and in drawing up resolutions.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes; and though greatly strengthened and refreshed, it has
not been with sleep, for I was not sleepy, and never closed my
eyes, I believe, till after four; but then, after I dropped away, I
did not once hear the clock strike; nor did I start in my sleep,
Jerry says, nor mutter, nor roll about, as I have so long been
accustomed to do.”

“And the resolutions you speak of, — did you satisfy yourself
at last?”

“Perfectly. And what is more, my conscience and my judgment
approve them, now that I am broad awake — which, I
apprehend, is not very common, after a man has been showing off
in his sleep, making speeches, or talking poetry, or astonishing
his best friends at a dinner-table.”

“Perhaps, dear brother —”

“I understand you, Elizabeth. You would like to know what
they were; and as they are very brief, and reduced to writing,
and may be a help to others, I will read them to you. The truth
is, my dear sister, that we need the shadow quite as much as we
do the sunshine here. I have had both, and I am now thankful
for both, and have fully made up my mind, God helping me,
when my path is overclouded again, and the great sky itself —
God's presence-chamber — seems to be covered with thick darkness
that can be felt — to remember, — first, how much darker it
might be; secondly, how much we always have to be thankful
for, happen what may; and, thirdly, how much worse off others
are, look where we will.”

“Excellent, my brother; and in every way, if remembered
at the right moment, and acted upon with a steadfast faith, sure
to bring consolation and help.”

“And I was rather inclined to say, fourthly,” added he, “that,
if we recall our past experience, we shall find that our apprehensions
of coming evil are almost always much worse than the
reality.”

“Always, I should think,” said Julia, her heart overflowing
with a gush of thankfulness, as she thought of her poor brother,
and recalled her anxieties about him and Uncle George.

“We do not know, at first, whither to turn, dear brother.
We are overwhelmed and powerless when a great calamity approaches
without notice, and we are full of exaggerating terrors.”

“Just like a beleaguered city; if surrounded at once,” added
Arthur, “it is pretty sure to be frightened into a surrender; but
after a few days, or weeks, or months, it grows so familiar with
the roar of cannon, and the rocking of the battlements, that
women and children are found looking up the spent balls, carrying
powder, taking care of the wounded, or assisting at the defences.”

“Thank you, Arthur,” said his uncle; “your illustration is
very fair.”

Julia assented, and she looked at her cousin's illuminated
countenance with an expression he had never seen before. He
felt abashed; and yet a thrill of joy “went a-rippling to his
finger-ends.” The mother seemed to be watching both, and to be
greatly pleased with what she saw, though a slight shadow — the
slightest possible shadow of apprehensiveness — appeared for a
moment in the clear depth of her eyes, and then passed away.

At breakfast it was agreed, that, after certain business arrangements
which had been prepared were over, they would all go
together to the Fulton Street prayer-meeting — all! — but who
proposed it nobody ever knew — and there see for themselves,
and try to judge for themselves, whether the Lord was there of
a truth, or whether a set of wrong-headed enthusiasts, or crazy
fanatics, had only given themselves up to a strong delusion. But
if they should happen to be satisfied — what then? Would it
not be dreadful to find hereafter, as the patriarch did, in other
days, that the Lord was there, and they knew it not?

Breakfast over, and the usual morning exercises through, Mr.
Pendleton looked at his sister; and when she bowed in reply, he

turned toward Arthur and Julia, and with an affectionate seriousness
of manner, which brought tears into their eyes before he
had finished, said to them, —

“Dear children, my sister and I have come to a settled conclusion
at last. Our minds are made up; and now that we know
the worst, we feel it our duty to share that knowledge with you,
however painful or humiliating.”

Julia looked at her aunt, in terror, and then at her uncle, and
then at Arthur — wondering what new trial was coming; and
Arthur's eyes wandered in sorrowful perplexity from one to
another, until his very breathing could be heard by all.

“Are you prepared, think you?” said Mr. Pendleton.

“I am,” replied Arthur, lifting his fine head, shaking loose
that abundant hair, and heaving his youthful chest, as if charging
on horseback, and about to draw the enemy's fire.

Julia bowed — but no sound escaped from her pale trembling
lips.

“Bravely said, Arthur! bravely looked, Julia! With God's
help, we have nothing to fear, so long as we have the stoutheartedness
that comes of our faith in Him. Be not abashed, my
dear Arthur; I do not suppose you are now just what you hope
to be hereafter.”

Arthur shook his head, almost sadly.

“But you have faith in God, I know.”

“That have I, dear uncle, or I should not now be in the land
of the living.”

His mother looked troubled, and Julia somewhat grieved and
frightened, with the sad earnestness of Arthur. It was a new
revelation to both.

“And,” continued his uncle, — “and I am quite sure that you
do not mean to die as you are, if you can help it.”

“Would I were worthier!” murmured the nephew, moving
away from the light as he spoke, and turning his face to the wall.

“Arthur — dear Arthur — this will never do,” said his mother,
coming up to him, and throwing her arms about his neck, and
drawing his head up to her bosom, convulsively. “That sense
of unworthiness, my dear boy, is your greatest recommendation
— your only recommendation — your only ground of hope.”

Arthur sobbed — but refused to be comforted; and when he
lifted his head, looked ashamed and sorry.

“The Saviour came to call not the righteous, but sinners to
repentance, dear Arthur,” whispered Julia.

“And if you abide where you are, till you are worthier,” added
Uncle George, “what is that but undertaking to save yourself?
and when would you be worthier?”

Arthur could bear no more. He sprang from his chair, interchanged
a kiss with his mother, and hurried to the window. A
dead silence followed, which was only broken at last by Uncle
George.

“Well then, dear children,” said he, “supposing you to be prepared,
let us go back to where we turned off. What say you to
leaving this hotel, at once and forever?”

“With all my heart!” said Julia.

“The sooner the better,” said Arthur.

“And giving up the carriage, and the coachman, and poor
Jerry, and perhaps a chambermaid?”

Arthur and Julia were both silent.

“Well, what say you, dear children?”

“I hardly know what to say,” answered Julia, observing that
her uncle had his eyes fixed upon her, and seemed to be waiting
for her answer; “I am prepared for anything and everything, I
hope, which Aunt Elizabeth and you may believe to be necessary.
Nor do I even care to know what these arrangements are,
nor what your reasons may be. Do what you think best, and I
shall be satisfied; and if you are happy, I cannot be otherwise.”

“Brava! — just what we have both expected of you, Julia.
And what say you, Arthur?”

“Well — as you do not appear to have expected much of me,
if anything, I propose to say ditto to Cousin Julia.”

“Capital! so far, so good. And then — we are coming to it
rather slowly, and step by step, as it were — and then, what say
you both to leaving New York?”

“Leaving New York, Sir! Nothing would please me more.
I am tired to death of New York,” said Arthur; “and whether
you leave it or not, dear mother, dear uncle, and — Julia,” —
why did he not say dear Julia? Why did he falter and swallow

the word with a gulp? he had never done such a thing before, —
“I shall certainly leave it, and I hope, forever, and within a few
weeks at furthest; and go somewhere, I care not much where, and
try to earn my own living, and build up a character for myself,
such as none of you may be ashamed of hereafter.”

His mother stood astonished and trembling, as he continued, —

“I have been too long an idler, — worse than poor Esau, I
have thrown away my birthright, — for if I had been but willing
to tread in the steps of my father, what might I not have been,
after a few years of honest manly devotion to business?”

“Dear Arthur!” whispered somebody very near to him.

“Worse than the prodigal; for I have not spent my substance
in riotous living, but suffered it to perish, without being of use to
anybody.”

His mother wiped her eyes.

“Very well, Arthur,” said Mr. Pendleton, laying his hand
quietly upon the boy's head, as he leaned forward, his shoulders
heaving, and his forehead glowing with shame and self-reproach.
“Of all these plans we will talk hereafter; and it may be that
we shall think it best to go with you, and all go together.”

“God grant it, Sir!”

“And now for what remains to be communicated. We propose
to retire from the world.”

“Sir?”

“From the world of fashion, I mean; to take a small, ready-furnished
cottage, on Long Island, and there live in a quiet, cheap
way, till this hurricane throughout the world has blown over; —
what say you both?”

“Agreed!” said Arthur.

“With all my heart!” said Julia.

“Can you be ready to-morrow, both of you?”

“We are ready now — this moment,” said Arthur; “ar'n't
you, Julia?”

“Hardly, Cousin Arthur; but I can be ready to-morrow.”

“It will be rather dreary, I am afraid, and rather uncomfortable,
to go into winter-quarters just now,” added Uncle George;
“but when the spring opens, and the beautiful garden is in
flower —”

“A garden, too, Uncle George?”

“Yes, and a beautiful garden it is, though not very large;
a flower-garden with hedges and shrubbery, and a few large
trees, and a charming view from almost every room in the house.
I am quite sure you will be satisfied.”

This matter arranged, the rest of the morning was spent in
paying off the servants and the hotel-keeper, and preparing for
the morrow.

And would you believe it! they had not been so happy for
months — hardly ever so happy, or so well satisfied with themselves,
or so tranquil, since the death of Mr. Maynard. They
were now all together, — “the world forgetting, by the world forgot,”
— and sick of the weariness and wastefulness of the public life
they had so long led, against all their habits, purposes, and inclinations;
— though they had been treated very kindly, and were
under obligations that no money would repay, for the watchful
care and patience of the landlord and waiters toward Uncle
George, after what had happened, still they were glad to get
away, at once and forever, from the luxury and bustle of such a
life, and steal off to some quiet nook, where they might all be
together once more, and breathe freely, and look one another in
the face, and thank God that they had come to their senses at last.

“Brother,” said Mrs. Maynard, as they sat together waiting
for some papers to be signed; “as this may be the last day with
the carriage, what say you to an hour's drive, where we can see
for ourselves another phase of New York fashionable life?”

“But we are to go to Fulton Street, you know, mother.”

“Yes, and our calculations must be made so as not to interfere
with that meeting; for, to tell you the truth, my son, I have set
my heart on going there to-day.”

“And so have I!” said Arthur.

“And I!” said Uncle George.

“And I!” said Julia; “how very strange! I wonder who
proposed it?”

“It proposed itself, I rather think,” said Arthur; “for we all
seemed to be of one accord, in one place, at the time.”

There was a touch of lightness in Arthur's manner, which
Mrs. Maynard felt a little dissatisfied with.

“Do you know,” continued he in the same tone, and rather
flippantly, as Julia thought, “that I have a strong desire to see
that book they tell of in the papers, where the prayers are all
entered from day to day, as they are received; a sort of order-book
it would appear.”

“Arthur Maynard!”

“Cousin Arthur!”

Arthur felt ashamed, but had not the courage to own it, and
so, turning it off with a laugh, which grieved his mother still
more, and brought a tear into Julia's eyes, he asked his mother
where she proposed to go before the meeting.

“To this institution,” said she, showing a card from the managers
of the Wilson Industrial School.

“What is it, Elizabeth?” asked Uncle George.

“And where is it, mother?” said Arthur.

“It is a school, where over two hundred little girls, who are
picked up in the streets, and gathered literally from the highways
and hedges and ditches, thieves, beggars, and rag-pickers, are
housed and clothed and fed, and prepared for usefulness, by some
of the fashionable women of this great metropolis.”

“All managed by women?”

“Altogether.”

“And where is it, pray?”

“In Tenth Street, near the parade. Would you like to go,
Julia?”

“By all means.”

“And you, brother?”

“Certainly.”

“But you would not, I see, Arthur, by your taking up your
hat and preparing to pull on your gloves.”

“No, mother, for I know all about the institution, I believe. It
is in the Seventeenth Ward, — one of the many dangerous parts
of this Babylon which I have been tempted to ransack while the
rest ofthe world was asleep. I was in that very neighborhood,
in fact, at the time you were so grievously hurt, Sir.”

“Indeed!”

“But apart from all that, dear mother, I dare not undertake
so much at once. I am afraid for myself, and truly afraid of

myself; and as I mean to be at the prayer-meeting, happen what
may, — that is, forgive me, unless prevented by something serious,
— I think you ought to be satisfied.”

“I am, dear Arthur, — I am satisfied, — almost.”

“Thank you, dear mother.”

“And now please order the carriage, Arthur.”

“How strangely that sounds, Julia! And yet you do not appear
to give it a thought,” said he.

Julia smiled sorrowfully; and then, with a cheerful tone, she
added, “I did think of it, Arthur, and was glad to see your
mother take the last ordering of the carriage so pleasantly.”

“O, my mother can bear anything, Julia! She has been
tried; but you, with your little experience, and few years, when
the cup of trembling is offered you, to see you take it so uncomplainingly,
astonishes me.”

“The cup of trembling! Cousin Arthur. Surely, you do not
believe that the giving up of a carriage would be regarded by a
woman of my age as anything very serious. Pooh, pooh, — but
for your mother, I should not give it a second thought.”

Arthur flung out of the room, and the carriage was ordered,
the visit was paid, and after an hour spent in going over the
school, and hearing the exercises, and looking into the household
arrangements, which were worthy of the highest praise, all
three came away with a much better opinion of the “worldlings”
of New York, than they ever had before; though among them
were undoubtedly others — but how many was not asked — who
were to be reckoned among the “salt of the earth” — unpretending
Christians.

From the Industrial School they went to the Fulton Street
prayer-meeting, taking Arthur on the way. They found it full,
— crowded to suffocation, — but still as the chamber of death.
Just as they entered, a prayer broke forth from a rough-looking
sailor, who had been first led to the meeting by a little child.
In telling how it happened, he sobbed and shook; and when that
little child, who was standing on the seat by him, reached up and
wiped his eyes, and called him father, all hearts were moved.
There were no outcries, no extravagances, but a deep and awful
seriousness and stillness.

After a verse had been sung, — “Come, Holy Spirit, Heavenly
Dove,” — and a word of expostulation offered, the gentleman who
had charge of the meeting — with a watch and bell on the table
before him, so that no time should be lost, and no speaker forget
himself — read a request for prayer; to which, with a broken
voice, just as if he knew the mother, and perhaps the son, he
begged the special attention of “some brother.”

The note ran thus: “A widowed mother would ask you to
pray with her for the salvation of her only son.”

“The only son of his mother, and she a widow,” added the
speaker.

And lo! before Julia could recover from her astonishment, —
or Arthur from his, — a murmur filled the whole house like a
sound “in the tops of the mulberry trees,” and then died away,
and somebody rose at her very elbow, and straightway the voice of
Uncle George was heard in prayer. And such a prayer! Had
the note been written by his own beloved sister, had that only son
been Arthur himself, and if all the business had been pre-arranged,
there could not have been a more direct and startling adaptation.
At first Julia had her suspicions, and so had Arthur his; but
when the prayer was ended, and the mother looked up, and they
saw her pale face and streaming eyes, and heard her whisper,
“how wonderful!” they were both satisfied that all had happened,
not through man's contrivance, but altogether and entirely through
the providence of God.

Arthur was visibly moved, but he said nothing; and though
Julia saw him wipe his eyes, he turned away so impatiently,
as if he did not like being watched even by her, — no, not
even by his own dear mother, who had managed to get hold
of one of his hands, which she held in hers, till each felt the
other trembling, — that she durst not give way to the sudden
hope that flashed upon her at first, when she saw the effect of
the prayer.

Another dead silence followed, — three minutes of silent prayer,
— during which five or six persons rose, while others lifted their
hands to be prayed for; and then, poor Julia! her own note was
read, and a grayheaded quiet-looking man, with a clear, pleasant
voice, came forward on the platform with a tottering step, and

poured his heart out in thanksgiving and supplication, not only for
the brother in a distant land, but for the sister who had not forgotten
her brother. There was hardly a dry eye in the house, — but
the hearts of all three were too full for speech; and while poor
Julia was afraid to look into the face of her aunt, or of Arthur,
as if her secret had been written upon her forehead, Uncle George,
and Arthur, and his mother, were all possessed with a belief that
almost overwhelmed them. Who was that aged man? The
voice in prayer seemed to be familiar; and though the platform
was a great way off, and the light rather dim, Arthur was quite
sure that he had seen the speaker before; and Julia, it appeared
afterwards, thought the same. There was, withal, such a remarkable
adaptation of language and thought to the very case of poor
Charles, so lately cast upon the world, fatherless and motherless,
that all three were fully persuaded in their own minds that the
prayer was meant for them, and for them only.

Other prayers went up of a similar character; and however
strange they might appear at first, grew to be so natural and
proper, long before the meeting broke up, that even Arthur
seemed to be carried away by their simplicity and earnestness,
and to overlook their strangeness. Julia was affected, even to
tears, and so indeed was her aunt; while the Major was so utterly
absorbed by his reflections, that he never once opened his mouth,
until they had returned to the St. Nicholas, and were seated round
the fire, waiting with a sort of melancholy pleasure to be summoned
to their dinner, — their last dinner in that luxurious and
sumptuous, though very comfortable establishment.

Arthur went off to the reading-room, and Julia to her chamber;
leaving Mrs. Maynard and her brother sitting by the fire, in a
thoughtful silence, — both musing on what had happened, and
both avoiding the subject, as if each was hoping to find a clue
to the mystery in some other way, and without questioning.

“Did you observe Arthur,” said Mrs. Maynard, at last, “while
that prayer went up from the platform?”

“Yes, — but only for a moment; for I was myself so astonished
at the language of the written request, and then, at the deep feeling
and earnestness of that venerable man who followed in prayer,
that, as I live, my dear sister, I do not think I should have been

much more startled, had the name of poor Charles been mentioned;
in fact, between ourselves, Elizabeth, I cannot help thinking
that Julia sent in that note.”

“Indeed! I hope you may be right, brother; but considering
her deeply fixed habits, her conservative temper, her gentleness,
and her unobtrusiveness, to say nothing about her dread of what
would be called fanaticism in your church, dear brother, I dare
not encourage the hope.”

“All this I acknowledge, Elizabeth; but how came she there
to-day; and for the first time?”

“I wish I knew, brother; but she might ask the same question
of us; — why were we there to-day? and all together for the first
time?”

Mrs. Maynard wanted to put the question more directly, for
she, too, had her suspicions; but upon looking into her brother's
eyes, her heart failed her, and she sat awhile, without speaking.

“Upon my word, Elizabeth,” said he at last, “I hardly know
what to say in reply to your question. I would not be over-credulous,
nor superstitious; and yet, when I consider all the circumstances
which have led to our going together, all of us, and all
at the same time, — and all with such different purposes, — I am
afraid to shut my eyes to the leading of God's providence.”

“Brother George, — dear brother, — I cannot bear this; I
must know the truth! Tell me, I beseech you, whether you were
taken by surprise, when the note was read for `the only son of
his mother, and she a widow?'”

“Altogether.”

“And yet, my dear brother, you prayed for my poor boy
almost by name, as if the note had been prepared for him, and
for him only, and by his mother, and in your presence.”

“Did I? Well, sister, I must acknowledge the truth. When
the note was read, I could not help looking at you, and though
you were resting your head upon your hand so that I could not
see your face, I saw signs of such deep feeling that I began to
recall what you had urged upon Arthur; and the idea crossed
my mind that you had sent in the note, and that you had contrived
all the arrangements, whereby we should, at last, be found
there together. Nothing would be more natural; and yet, I did

not like to put the question to you in so many words, knowing
your aversion to what is called management.”

“You astonish me, brother; and perhaps I shall astonish you
yet more, when I say that I know nothing of the note in question;
that I was wholly taken by surprise, when it was read;
and I supposed, when you followed in prayer, that you, my dear
brother, as if you had just found your way out of the wilderness,
and saw the heavens opening — that you yourself had sent in
the note for me.”

“Can it be possible! How very strange!”

“Very; but no stranger than many events happening every
day at this very meeting, if we may believe the Observer, and
some of the business papers; and I must acknowledge that, if
my poor Arthur was not so well read in Scripture, and not so
familiar with the teachings of God's providence, and not quite
so changeable and capricious, nor so fond of controversy, I should
be greatly encouraged by his behavior of late, and especially
to-day.”

“And so should I.”

At this moment the door opened, and Arthur entered with a
bright countenance, and a cheerful step, — all seriousness had
departed, — saying as he entered, “No, no, Julia, men are not
made Christians by locking them up.”

“Is Julia there?” asked his mother.

“Yes, but detained by a well-dressed beggar-woman — a very
troublesome creature — whom I have no patience with. Come,
come, Julia, we are waiting for you,” he added, looking out into
the entry, and beckoning.

“If you please, Madam,” said the stranger, in a low, sweet,
mournful voice, “I should be glad to see you for a few minutes
by yourself. Day after day, I have called, but always in vain,
till to-day; and now, I am afraid you are engaged. Can you not
spare me a few minutes, dear young lady? I am not a beggar,
and I am sorry to be troublesome; but the business I have with
you is of such a nature, and so serious, that I must see you
alone.”

“Please shut the door, Cousin Arthur,” said Julia, struck
with the piteous earnestness of the poor creature, and secretly
trembling as she led her away.

“Fiddle de dee!” said Arthur, shutting the door; “that's the
way we are always humbugged! I wonder how many times that
poor thing, as Julia calls her, has been sent away by the waiters
or by Bessie, without ever troubling her Missis?”

“I hope never, my son!” said his mother, looking seriously
alarmed.

“I thought she had the air of a gentlewoman,” added Uncle
George; “and her voice and language were both in her favor.”

“I dare say, Uncle George; but if you were plagued as I
have been for the last month, you would run from a beggar, as
from a mad dog. They haunt you at every corner; they follow
you like your shadow, waylaying you at every turn, — and
thronging the entrances of all the public-houses, and theatres,
and churches, and parks, — worse than the beggars of London,
or the Lazzaroni of Naples; and the more you give them, the
more they multiply. You cannot buy them off, — I have tried
that, — and if you try to escape them by turning into another
street, they are certain to follow and head you off.”

“And this in New York!” said Uncle George, “the city
swarming with police, and the people rioting in self-indulgence,
while others in their midst are literally starving to death!”

“But Arthur, my son, the poor creature you have spoken so
harshly to is not a beggar.”

“Harshly, mother! did I speak harshly to her?”

“Your manner was by no means what I should have looked
for in a young man, or in a gentleman of any age, toward even
a beggar-woman.”

“You are right, dear mother; it was indeed heartless, and I
am ashamed of myself; and the moment I hear her step, I will
go to her and say as much.”

“Thank you, dear Arthur; that would be so like you.”

“And then, I shall go away, perfectly satisfied with myself,
I dare say, and be ready to repeat the offence, in some other
shape.”

“No, no, Arthur; let us hope for better things. You are
thoughtless and forgetful, but kind-hearted; and if you would
only be serious, I should be greatly encouraged. You must set
a guard upon yourself, Arthur; you must keep watch and ward,
or your flightiness will undo you.”

“How very serious you are, dear mother.”

“I feel so, Arthur. We must pray not to be led into temptation.”

“Just what Julia says! We have been having a little serious
talk together, — I haven't got over the prayer-meeting yet, —
and she tells me that prayer is of no avail, without striving.”

“Julia is right, Arthur,” added his uncle. “It is not enough
to pray; we are to watch and pray.”

“Lest we may be led into temptation. Exactly! Just what
she has been preaching to me; but I tell her, that inasmuch as
our virtues come of these very temptations, — inasmuch as there
can be no virtue, but in resisting and overcoming temptations, —
I am not so clear that we should pray not to be led into temptation,
or that we ought always to avoid temptation.”

“Arthur, my dear son! That prayer was uttered by the
Saviour himself, — and he had been sorely tempted and tried, —
and he had triumphed. Yet he gave us that beautiful prayer for
a model.”

“Undoubtedly, dear mother,” growing very serious again;
“but perhaps when we say, as he did, Thy will be done, and not
mine, the prayer is not that we may never be led into temptation,
but that we may be strengthened as he was, in temptation. He
prays that the cup may pass, — that he may not be led into temptation,
— but adds, `Nevertheless, not my will, but thine be done.'”

“Arthur is in the way of understanding all this, I trust,” said
his uncle; “and there is much truth in what he says. Men are
not made Christians by locking them up. Though we are told
to pray that we may not be led into temptation, yet only through
our temptations are we strengthened; only by withstanding
temptations are we disciplined here, for happiness and rest hereafter;
and St. Paul, you remember, counts it all joy that he has
been led into divers temptations.”

“Yes, uncle; just as men are not made temperate by tying
their hands behind them, or putting a padlock on their mouths.
They must do their own work, through the help of God, — not of
themselves, and without his help, nor through the contrivances
of man, by legislation or otherwise, however much they may be
helped by the earnest prayers and faithful coöperation of others.

Make a man religious, and he will be temperate of course; but
it does not follow if you make him temperate, that he would become
religious; for there are thousands of temperate men, who
are not religious men.”

“Right, Arthur, my dear boy, — or so nearly right, as to make
further disputation useless; but here comes the waiter, to call us
probably before the gong is sounded. Please go for Julia, and
beg her to lose no time, as we have seats reserved at the public
table to-day, and sometimes there is a difficulty, if you desire to
be all together.”

“With all my heart, uncle!” and up stairs he bounded.

He found Julia's door fastened, and the sound of earnest conversation
carried on in very low voices within. He knocked, and
delivered the message; but Julia begged him to make her excuses,
and to say that she had a troublesome headache, and
thought on the whole, she would have a cup of tea sent up to
her room, instead of going down to dinner.

“I'll tell you what it is, Julia,” said he, “if you flatter yourself
that mother will consent to this — or Uncle George — on the last
day of our being together here, you will find yourself mistaken.”

“You are right, Arthur. I will be ready in five minutes,”
said she, opening the door, so that he could see the beggar-woman
with her bonnet off, looking wild and strange, but happy;
“but you must go down and take your seats, and then come for
me, if you please; will you, cousin?”

“To be sure I will.”