University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.

To say that Arthur was overjoyed, when all these events
came to his knowledge, as they did by little and little, within the
next few days, would be not far from the truth; and yet, there
was a mixture of sadness — and something of self-reproach —
and a trembling apprehensiveness, that would not allow him to
rest with any degree of assurance upon the new hope, which had
sprung up of itself, as it were, and against the convictions of his
understanding, when he knew of a truth, and in a way not to be
questioned, that the man he had so much feared, was no longer
a candidate for the happiness which he coveted more than life.
He was not acquainted with the particulars — nor did he wish
to know anything more than the simple fact, that, after a long
private interview with Julia, Mr. Fay had left her with the look,
not of a happy, but of a disappointed man, with a hurried, though
faltering step, and with his hat pulled down over his eyes.

Not a word from Julia had reached him; not a hint from his
mother to encourage or soothe him; and though he had reason
to believe that Edith knew more than all the others, of what had
happened, yet he understood that even she knew little or nothing
from Julia herself; and that Charles had been chiefly indebted
for what he knew to his uncle George. The nursery-maid, to
be sure, might have enlightened them all, for she had been
watchful from the first, and while waiting outside the door, which
opened and shut so mysteriously two or three times, of itself, you
remember, had overheard the whole; but no inquiry was made
of her, and no encouragement was offered, when she ventured
to approach the forbidden subject, as with “a fire shut up in her
bones.” The Major had given them a hint which put them all
upon their guard — even little Edith, who was greatly attached

to the poor girl, and always ready to make allowances for her —
so young — so pretty — and so very inquisitive.

As for Julia, to judge by her looks, and by the mournful sweetness
of her tones, her silent thoughtfulness, and pallor, one
would have supposed her to be the disappointed party. Instead
of a cheerful, buoyant step, and a triumphant, though subdued
smile, to be looked for in such cases, however well the secret
may be kept, there was a kind of patient, sorrowful, uncomplaining
listlessness of manner, wholly unlike anything they had ever
seen before in her, which told, more plainly than the plainest language
ever uttered by the lips of woman, how deeply she felt,
and how greatly she suffered.

Not even to Edith, would she acknowledge anything more
than what she called her veneration for Mr. Fay — it was not
mere friendship — it was something higher and holier; but, although
little or nothing was communicated by Julia — much was
understood by Edith, and Charles, and Arthur, without the help
of language; and it must not be wondered at, all things considered,
that, when Edith uttered an occasional word of encouragement,
in the shape of inquiry, and Charles, who had always
loved Arthur, and must have understood something of what had
happened between him and Julia, before Mr. Fay crossed their
path, said nothing to discourage him, Arthur began to revolve
anew the great purpose he had so long cherished in the holiest
chamber of his heart, as the object, under heaven, best worth
living for.

Already were his long mediated business arrangements under
way, with the most encouraging prospects and assurances; upon
the strength of which, it was thought safe, even by Mr. Bayard,
for Charles and little Edith to begin to think seriously of marriage;
and after a brief negotiation, it was determined by the
help of that worthy man, who had long watched over little
Edith, and taken a deep interest in Charles, that by the end of
a year after the copartnership was under way, that marraige, if
no other, should take place.

Arthur and Charles had capital enough to begin with; and
their credit with Uncle George and Mr. Bayard, was, in the language
of the day, “unlimited.”

There was another negotiation a-foot, however, which gave
two or three of the parties a little uneasiness. The bachelor
uncle was growing more and more particular every day, about
his hair and moustaches — and for the first time in all his life,
perhaps, he never went by a glass without stopping for a look,
and straightening up, or loosening his hair, with a careless flourish,
or twirling his cane, as he had never twirled it before. Still
— as there was no help for it — not only were the children beginning
to feel somewhat reconciled to what they called a “dispensation”
— or in other words, to the loss of a large inheritance
— their good uncle's heart, perhaps, to say nothing of his
handsome property, which, if he died a bachelor, they might be
sure of; but even Mrs. Maynard, who, when the suggestion was
first made, appeared to have no patience with her deluded
brother, had now become quite reasonable, owing to the representations
of Mr. Bayard, who insisted upon it, that Sallie Webb
— though a woman of the world, was a very superior woman
of the world — with a generous heart, and very decided principle;
so decided, in fact, as to be almost a religious principle —
and that, notwithstanding her extravagances of speech, and oddities
of behavior, a woman of downright good sense, with well-established
household habits of economy and thrift; so that —
on the whole — if George and Sallie, as he continued to call
them, should make a match of it — his good sister and the children
ought to be well satisfied.

These opinions deliberately formed, and oftentimes expressed,
by such a man as William Bayard, and corroborated by Miss
Wentworth, in a confidential chat with Aunt Elizabeth, began
to have their effect, so that within a month or two after Sallie
had well-nigh lost caste forever with the sister, by her treatment
of the brother, she was beginning to be thought of as a very
suitable and proper apprendage to the “old gentleman,” as she
often called him to his face — but in such a pleasant way, and
with such a gurgling laugh, that the poor man was delighted not
only with her, but with himself, and often owned up to his real
age, without bating an hour — “letting the delicious secret out,”
when there was not the least occasion for doing so, as if to satisfy
the mischievous girl, that he had no wish to be thought younger

— no, not by so much as a day — and that he didn't care who
knew it.

Mrs. Archibald too, had come to believe that Sallie Webb,
who, for a long time after the day of trial had been to her as a
sort of nightmare, was just the properest person in the world
for the dear, good Major; that nobody so well knew how to
manage him — and that all her outlay that afternoon in the
court-house, when she got hold of him by both hands, and literally
danced round him, with the tears streaming down her cheeks,
was all honest, and fair, and proper — and no trick at all — but
just the outbreak of long smothered generous feelings, which did
her infinite honor, though to be sure, the way she had of expressing
them was a little strange, and might have been misunderstood;
to all which there was nothing more to be said. It
was clear enough that all their minds were made up — and that
the sooner Sallie Webb and the Major came to a proper understanding,
the better it would be for both. As if they had not
done so already!

Arthur saw the working of these new elements, and their tendency
toward marriage, with a feeling of uneasiness. Not a day
went by — not an hour — but he was reminded of what he began
to speak about, with a counterfeited pleasantry, as the inevitable
doom of, at least, four different persons, who had been growing
together about his heart, year after year.

And so, it happened that one cool, pleasant afternoon, as he
lay upon the sofa, watching the clouds, while they floated away,
like a bannered host, in gold and purple — after emptying their
treasures upon the cottage, in a tumultuous rattling shower, with
thunder and lightning to match — Julia sitting by the window,
and his mother busy with her work, and little Edith romping
with Carlo and the baby, upon the floor — the picture of a
happy home, overflowing with the sunshine of the heart, and the
deep, inward music of different natures brought into harmonious
relationship, took such possession of him, all at once — looming
up out of the far future, as he looked at Julia, and thought of
her in that relationship, that before he knew it, his eyes filled
with tears.

The baby saw it, and was troubled; after looking at him, a

few moments, he stole up to the sofa, and Arthur was recalled to
himself, by feeling a little soft hand thrust into his, which hung
down over the sofa pillow, and then slowly and quietly withdrawn,
leaving two marbles behind, which the poor child had
been playing with, and prized so highly, that he wouldn't go to
sleep in his crib, till he had felt for them under his pillow, and
found them all safe.

“Bless your dear little heart, Charley!” said Arthur, wiping
his eyes, and catching the boy up in his arms. “How beautiful
he is, to be sure!” turning to Julia, as he spoke, and sitting up
and giving the child a toss, which — for some reason or other,
not then explained — brought the color into Julia's cheeks, and
set her eyes dancing with an expression which reminded him of
other and happier days.

On turning from the window to answer the exclamation, Julia
saw, by Arthur's eyes, that his heart was full — brimful, and
running over; and there were signs of embarrassment, and hurrying
changes of color, which carried her back to the days of
her girlhood, when they used to romp together — in a serious
way — among the blue corn-flowers, and apple-blossoms of Old
England.

“Yes, very beautiful, and very generous, Arthur,” said she,
in a soft, low voice, that the child might not understand, while
she stretched forth her arms, and he sprang into them with a
cry, which brought the nurse from her hiding-place, just outside
the door, where she had been waiting, she said, for a long while,
to give the dear little fellow his supper.

In spite of all remonstrances, and expostulations, and kickings,
the child was carried off, and then Edith followed — and
then Mrs. Archibald — and then Aunt Elizabeth — and then,
before they knew it, Arthur and Julia, on turning away from the
open window, out of which they had both been looking, found
themselves alone — altogether alone — with just enough shadowy
coolness about them to make it very pleasant, and a little dangerous
— if they had anything particular to say — and still more
so, perhaps, if they had not.

Were these arrangements preconcerted? Nobody knows —
and nobody thought of propounding the question till long afterward.

“Now that we are alone together — once more — Cousin
Julia,” said Arthur, in a low voice, and with some little trepidation,
“I should like to use the privilege of a friend — or brother,
if you continue of the opinion you so kindly avowed, on our way
back from our first interview with Edith — so far as to understand,
if I may, without meddling — for every heart, we are
told, knoweth its own bitterness, and a stranger intermeddleth
not therewith — I believe I am wrong in the words, though I
know well enough what I mean” — he was beginning to lose
himself.

“Nor do I remember the words; but there is something,”
said Julia, with a mischievous, though faint smile, as if she more
than half suspected what was coming, “about a stranger's intermeddling
with our joy.”

“I understand you, Julia, — and am very unwilling to misquote
the language of Scripture; but what I wanted to say was
this. We are under the greatest obligations to our friend, Mr.
Fay —”

Julia sat more erect, and her eyes grew thoughtful; and there
was a slight change in her breathing, and the smile vanished
from her lip.

“That you had the highest opinion of him, I know —”

“Had! Cousin Arthur.”

“Had, or have, Julia, I care not which, so that I obtain what I
desire.”

Julia grew more and more serious, and there was a troubled
movement in the clear depth of her eyes, which alarmed poor
Arthur.

“And you know, Cousin Julia — or Sister Julia, if you say
so — that we have all agreed with you in our estimate of that
man's character.”

“I am glad of it,” murmured Julia.

“Well then — to come to the point — as I happen to know
that he has long entertained the highest opinion of you — for he
has often said as much to me, and to others in my hearing; and
as, until within the last few weeks, he has been a constant —
almost a daily visitor — and as I no longer see him here — and
his name is hardly mentioned now — and as I meet him almost

every day, when I am in the city — I want to know from you,
how he is to be treated — just as usual, or otherwise? I do not
ask your reasons — I do not desire to know what has happened
between you — but I should like to have a hint from you, that I
may feel more at ease, and know just how to behave, when I
see him.”

“On the whole, Cousin Arthur,” said Julia, after considering
a while, and weighing her words — one by one — as they were
slowly uttered, “although at first you startled me, and the question
appeared very strange — and almost improper —”

“Julia!”

“Hear me through, Cousin Arthur — almost improper, I said,
but now I think otherwise; and I acknowledge the question to
be both reasonable and proper, and I freely concede, that, as a
member of the family — as a dear friend — to say nothing of
our relationship as cousins — or as brother and sister by adoption,
at least, you are entitled to a satisfactory answer. You do
not wish me to go into particulars nor to give reasons; but as
our friend Mr. Fay has not called for two or three weeks, and
may be comparatively a stranger to us hereafter — though not
for a long time, we hope — and you are constantly meeting him,
as you say, it seems to be but fair that you should be advised to
treat him, always, and everywhere, and under all circumstances,
just as if nothing had happened here to change the relationship
we have always found so pleasant and so profitable. There! I
hope I have answered you as you deserve, and that you will remember
my wishes.”

“With all my heart, Julia — but, inasmuch as he never comes
over to the cottage now, and never inquires about the family,
but in the most general way, you must acknowledge that sometimes
I may find it rather embarrassing to treat him — after so
great a change — as if nothing had happened.”

“Very true.”

“One word more. I am encouraged by your frankness to go
a step further — will you permit me to ask if you are on good
terms with him now?”

“On the best possible terms, Arthur, so far at least as I am
concerned — I can, of course, only answer for myself.”

“And you have as high an opinion of him as ever, I hope?”

“Higher than ever — much higher.”

“Well then,” rising and going to the door — and then to the
open window, and looking out into the shrubbery on both sides,
and then walking to and fro, the whole length of the room, three
or four times, as if to satisfy himself that he had nothing to fear
from eavesdroppers, and then stopping suddenly before Julia,
and pushing a chair up to her side and speaking hurriedly
and earnestly, as if he had no time to lose, and meant to be understood
at once, without circumlocution or subterfuge — “well
then — you have acknowledged enough to justify me in saying
what I now do — look at me, Julia! judge for yourself by what
you see here — by all that you have known of me hitherto —
and by what has happened to us both, and to me more than to
you, within the last few months, for you had tasted the cup of
salvation before — judge for yourself, I say, whether I am likely
to be deceived, and whether I should be likely to profess what I
do not feel. You do not answer — you do not even look at me,
Julia; but I know you believe me — and when I say to you
here — here, upon my knees —”

“No, no, not upon your knees, Arthur! I cannot bear that!”
said the poor girl, springing to her feet. “Say whatever you
please to me in the attitude of a man, of a Christian, and I will
hear you patiently; but never! — never while I breathe, will I
suffer any human being to kneel to me!”

Arthur stood up; and for a moment looked abashed and well-nigh
discouraged; but when he saw the proud-spirited young
woman grow suddenly pale — and tremble from head to foot,
while her eyes filled with tears — he took heart again.

“Right, Julia! you are altogether right! and I acknowledge,
with shame and sorrow, that I had forgotten myself — and you
— and our heavenly Father — or I should have been afraid to
kneel even to you; and I thank you for the reproof; and shall
never forget the lesson, I hope, while I breathe. Be seated, I
pray you, and hear me through.”

A long pause followed. Julia trembled violently, and there
was a look of piteous irresolution — almost of terror and self-abandonment,
as she turned away her face to the window, while

Arthur planted himself directly in front of her, without daring to
touch her hand — poor fellow! — though both were trembling
and fluttering in her lap, like live birds, waiting to be caged.

“Upon my word, Julia — I cannot bear this! I know not
what ails me. I have thought you understood me — I have tried
to explain myself — but I cannot — I am bewildered — wandering,
I believe — and must come to the point, or give up the
ghost!”

Julia started; and as Arthur dropped into a chair, it so happened
that his hand touched hers — and she did not instantly
snatch it away.

“In a word then, Julia Parry, I love you — love you with all
the strength of my nature! and have done so from my earliest
boyhood — and — and — bear with me a few moments longer, I
beseech you; and when I saw the only man I was ever afraid
of, taking the place near you which I had so coveted for years —
and supplanting me — shall I tell you what my hope was? — I
must! I will! — it was that, as I knew your high principles, and
believed him to be just what I had always been — a worldling
— my hope was, that he would offer himself to you, before any
change had taken place in his unbelief, and then I felt sure —
absolutely sure — that you would refuse him — even though he
were otherwise all you might have desired, to make you happy.
You are amazed, Julia — and I do not wonder, for how can you
know, that with such a wicked hope in my heart — which I think
has just been realized — though I do not ask you — I might not
be a deceiver myself, or perhaps a self-deceiver.”

“No, no, Cousin Arthur! I believe you — I believe in your
truthfulness — and I would not allow myself to suppose, for one
moment, nor have you suppose for one moment that you are mistaken.
God, I believe, has changed your heart, and the heart of
my poor brother, and it may be in answer to our prayers — and
not for the world, my dear cousin, would I have either of you
thrown back upon himself. I do not know so much about my
brother — I am not acquainted with the particulars — but Aunt
Elizabeth, and Mrs. Archibald, and little Edith, have talked freely
with him, and they are all satisfied — though, to tell you the truth,
I think he has had a very different experience from yours —

about which, allow me to say, dear Arthur, we have none of us a
shadow of misgiving.”

Arthur covered his face and wept.

“And I will be frank with you,” continued Julia — almost
sobbing, “for you deserve it; from our earliest childhood, you
have been very dear to me — and you have been growing dearer
and dearer — up to the time when you gave yourself away to
your Saviour, as we humbly hope, which seemed to be the only
thing needed to render you not only a loveable but a safe companion
for life to any woman worthy of you.”

“God bless you for that, dear Julia!”

“Not so fast, Arthur! While I acknowledge this, and am
willing to go further, much further, and to say in language that
cannot be misunderstood, coming from the lips of a modest woman,
that with all your faults — and they are neither few nor small,
Arthur, you are the only person I ever saw, for whom I have
ever felt anything of the tenderness I should hope to feel for a
husband — there! — I have said it! — and now that you have
become, as we all hope and believe, a child of God, thereby removing
what would have been otherwise a perpetual barrier —
the only man I would choose, if I were free to choose to-morrow.”

“Free to choose, Julia! What mean you! are you not free
to choose?”

“No, Arthur — I am not; if I were — you must allow me to
finish — you are the only man I ever knew, with whom I should
be willing to trust my happiness here and hereafter.”

“Merciful Father! — not free to choose!” repeated Arthur,
in a paroxysm of astonishment and dismay.

“Let me explain myself,” — laying her hand very gently upon
his bowed head, and trying to soothe his agony. “I must not be
misunderstood; we have known each other too long — we have
loved each other too much, to have any further concealments;
and as I now see my way clear — God helping me — I cannot
allow you to misunderstand my feelings toward you. I may
have appeared capricious — even heartless, at times, dear Arthur
— but, if you could look into my heart, I know you would forgive
me. Before you knew the blessedness of that hope, which

has changed you, and brought you, as we believe, out of darkness
into God's marvellous light, I saw your affection for me, but I
was afraid to acknowledge it, for my mind was made up, never
to be `unequally yoked,' and almost, never to marry. And after
the change that followed, so suddenly, and perhaps I might say,
so unexpectedly, for though we prayed and hoped, I am afraid
we did not altogether expect the change — and were taken by surprise,
when it happened — I was afraid to encourage the feeling
I saw.”

“And why, Julia?”

“For two reasons. I had about made up my mind, as I have
said before, never to marry.”

“So I have understood — but the other reason, if you please.”

“And certainly” — laying both hands clasped upon his — and
speaking but just above her breath — “certainly, never to marry
with a cousin! O Arthur! dearest Arthur! if you knew the
unutterable misery and hopelessness that I have witnessed —
and that we have had in our own family, and among our nearest
kindred, from the intermarriage of blood relations, you would
sooner die, than give way to any such preference! Talk with
your own dear mother — and ask her about the escape she herself
has had from unspeakable wretchedness, where the holiest
feelings of her heart, and all her hopes of happiness on earth
were at stake — and beg her to tell you the truth, and the whole
truth.”

“She has told me the truth, and the whole truth — and I have
been trying for months to disbelieve it — to hope against hope,
dear Julia — O God! that we should be so weak where we
so much need uncommon strength! — and I ought to have understood
her warning, and foreseen what is now before me. O
Julia! Julia! and this dreadful hindrance then, is what you meant
by saying you were not free to choose!”

“Even so, Arthur!”

“So that I have your assurance — dearest of women! — that,
but for this obstacle — a canon of the Almighty himself! — you
would be willing to risk your happiness with me, here and hereafter?”

“Even so, dear Arthur” — flinging her arms about his neck

in a sudden transport of thankfulness to find him so reasonable,
and sobbing as if her very heart would break — and then locking
her hands together in silent prayer, and resting them upon
his shoulder — and leaning upon them, as he touched her forehead
with his trembling mouth, for the first time in all his life,
while the tumultuous throbbing of her heart so shook his manhood
that he was ready to sink upon his knees at her feet, she
whispered — “my brother! oh, my brother!”

“Sister! dear sister!” he murmured in reply, and instantly!
as if a light from above had flashed into both of their hearts, and
purified them, as with fire, from all earthiness and selfishness,
they stood up together — facing each other — looking into each
other's eyes — and holding each other by the hands — transfigured,
as it were — in speechless transport, and full of uplifting
hope; forgetting all their past sorrows and trials, and looking
into the future, as if they saw through the opening heavens, and
were already on their shining way upward, a brother and sister,
linked hand in hand forever, and journeying toward the rest
appointed for the loving and the faithful.

“God bless and strengthen you, my dear brother!” said she,
sinking down slowly into the deep sofa.

“And you too, Julia — my beloved sister!” he answered, as
he settled into the chair he had been occupying in front of her,
and still retaining both of her hands in his.

A long silence followed. Their hearts were too full for speech
— and while tears of joy ran slowly down the cheeks of Julia,
and fell, drop after drop on Arthur's trembling hands, there
was a mingling of sorrow and hope — of disappointment — of
quenched bitterness and holy trust in the heart of Arthur,
such as he had never felt before — not even at the time when he
left Julia, and rushed up to his chamber, and threw himself upon
his knees in the anguish of his troubled spirit, on discovering as
he believed, at the time, that another had obtained possession of
what he had so long coveted, and with such delirious, though unacknowledged
earnestness, year after year.

“How strange!” said he, at last, in a low dreaming voice, like
that of one talking in his sleep. “How very strange! that in the
shipwreck of all our earthly hopes, when clouds and thick darkness

are round about our way, and we are crushed with a sudden
calamity — overwhelmed with disappointment, perhaps, just
where we had garnered up our hearts — and humbled to the
very dust, for our presumption, we should so often see another
light, which might have been overlooked, but for the dreariness
of our way and the darkness and the desolation round about
us; and be comforted and strengthened, just when there would
seem to be no help for us — and no hope. Of a truth, dear
Julia, now that we understand each other, and you grant me
the assurance that I have so long yearned for, and hungered
and thirsted after — I begin to believe that `it is good to be
afflicted.'”

“`Before I was afflicted I went astray,'” whispered Julia.

“Nay more — that we may all, if we desire it, come to `glory
in our tribulations!'”

“My dear brother! How glad I am to find your thoughts all
setting that way!”

“Julia! — sister! — I will now acknowledge to you what I
have been hoping for, and looking for — but never till now have
breathed aloud into mortal ear. Though your brother and I
have entered into certain business arrangements — very unpalatable
to me, I assure you — for I could not withstand the persuasions
of Uncle George, without having reasons to give which
I was waiting for, and hoping for — yet, for months, my heart
was fixed upon a very different path in life — the last in the
world perhaps that you, and others who have longest known me,
would be likely to dream of — and if the result of our present
interview had been what, I must acknowledge, I not only hoped,
but expected it to be, I should have abandoned all thought of
a business-copartnership with Charles, and have entered upon
that other path — God helping me — and you, Julia, as my companion
for life and pleasant counsellor, encouraging me —”

“Upon my word, Cousin Arthur,” said Julia, starting up with
a faint cry, and lifting her locked hands above her head — “I do
believe I understand you! I believe, too, in foreshadowings! and
that which I have prayed for, in the watches of the night, from
the first day we knew of the great change that had happened to
you, appears about to be accomplished! O merciful Father!
let it be so, I pray thee, if consistent with thy will!”

“You have understood me then, dear Julia — but” — shaking
his head, and speaking in a low mournful tone, as if communing
with himself — “but, now it is all over — now it is too late.”

“How so, Arthur! — how so, my dear brother! What hindereth
now?”

“I should tremble to enter upon the ministry of reconciliation,
a disappointed man!”

“But, Arthur — how are you a disappointed man? Would
you have it otherwise?”

“I hardly know how to answer you. With your present views
— enlightened and conscientious, and as I must acknowledge,
reasonable — for whatever may be the exceptions, they are not to
be foreseen, and of course not to be provided for, I would not
have it otherwise. And yet, however strange it may appear to
you, I feel disappointed, and am hardly yet reconciled to what
I believe to be best for both. As a friend, faithful and affectionate,
and capable of any sacrifice for my encouragement and
help — as a beloved sister — to whom I may go with entire confidence
and trust, now that the bitterness of the trial is over —
you ought to be, and you must and shall be, so dear, that nothing,
not even marriage, nor the tenderest companionship of earth,
could make you more so!”

Another pause — long, deep, and almost painful to both, followed.

“But, Arthur — may I ask how long you have entertained
these views?”

“Ever since I first came to my senses.”

“And you never mentioned them, even to your mother?”

“Never.”

“And why not, pray?”

“I had no encouragement. I was not satisfied with myself.
I had no reason to believe that I was wanted — much less that I
was called; for though the fields were whitening to the harvest,
and the laborers were few, the Lord of the harvest had vouchsafed
no whispering to me. At first, I thought of being a missionary
— of tearing my way through the bulwarks of empire in
the East — and of going forth, not as a humble follower, but as a
leader — not as a soldier of the cross, nor as a laborer in the

Lord's vineyard — but as a great captain! a champion of the true
faith, and a conqueror! But, I soon found that the spirit within
me — that unregenerate ambition, which had overmastered my
whole nature — was the evil spirit of unbelief; and I cast myself
upon my face before the Lord, in utter brokenness of heart, and
with a feeling of horror, that no language can describe, and there
came what I had never felt before — the blessedness of hope —
the peace that passeth all understanding; and as God opened
my eyes, by little and little, to bear the light — I saw the need
of preparation, and have been at work, studying and preparing
myself, day by day, for whatever I might be called upon to undertake
or suffer — either at home or abroad — either now or
hereafter.”

“Wonderful!”

“Yes, my dear friend — I agree with you. It is wonderful!
and it may be that God is now opening a way for me, which I
had never thought of.”

“It must be so, my brother! and the disappointed hope, of
which you are half disposed to complain — though you do not
murmur aloud — may be the very thing needed to finish your
preparation for the work, and to set you free — `in the glorious
freedom of the gospel!'”

“It may be so, Julia; and to tell you the truth — I begin to
believe it is.”

“Arthur Maynard — my brave, good brother — you need encouragement;
and you know where to go for the only encouragement
worth having — but perhaps I may not be going too far,
under all the circumstances, if I say to you, that I believe you
are now entering upon your appointed path — and that God has
set you apart for this very work — and prepared you for it, in
many ways — and that he will sanctify you, if he has not already
done so, even from your youth up, and that, if your mind be
stayed on him — for in the Lord Jehovah is everlasting strength
— you cannot mistake the way, and have nothing to fear.”

“Thank you, Julia! God forever bless you for the comforting
assurance!”

“I wonder more and more, at the turn our friendship — our
love, I might say — has taken. I have not wholly recovered

from the astonishment I felt, when you first acknowledged yours
for me. You took me by surprise, Arthur — and as I had long
since given you up — there was a ringing in my ears, when you
betrayed yourself so abruptly — and I was overwhelmed. But,
now that we understand each other — and are about entering
upon a higher life — I, never to marry — you, to find hereafter
what you so richly deserve, a large-hearted and a wise-hearted
woman, for your helper.” —

“No, no, Julia — never, never! I shall never marry.”

“You think so, now, my dear brother; but make no rash
promises; — you are made for the companionship of such a being,
and if you enter the ministry, or go abroad as a missionary, you
must not be alone, — `all, all, alone.'”

“As you are to be, Julia?”

“No, Arthur — I shall not be alone. I am not going into the
ministry — I shall not go abroad into the missionary field — at
least, I think so — for mine, I believe, is a home mission — and
a true woman will never be alone, where the Master has anything
for her to do. She may preach the gospel silently. She
may carry with her wherever she goes through the week, the
perfume she has gathered in the garden of the Lord, every Sabbath
day; and when she looks about her, and sees what provision
has been made for all — and how indispensable it is, that all
should coöperate — for who was ever converted without the help
of man? —”

“Not even the great Apostle himself perhaps — for he had
been spoken to many times, Julia, before he saw the brightness
above that of the sun, and heard that voice, of the elder brother.”

“She will find enough to occupy her,” continued Julia, in reply
— “enough to the last hour of the longest life, and will never
be alone, dear Arthur — not even at dead of night — nor in the
secret place of prayer.”

“How wonderful! I must say again. The table is spread —
the feast prepared — messengers are sent everywhere — angel-messengers
often — into all the cities, and villages, and houses,
and into the uttermost parts of the earth — and all are invited
and urged, and many perhaps are compelled to come up — and
places of refreshment are opened all along the way, where the

poor pilgrim — dusty and foot-sore — and sometimes broken-hearted
and weary of life, may stop and rest, and be strengthened
with wine and milk — and with the bread of life — and with the
water of salvation — without money and without price — and
yet, oh Julia, my sister! the table is never full! and the feast is
oftentimes untouched!”

At this moment, there was a loud joyful bark at the open window,
and in came Carlo, tumbling head over heels into the lap
of Julia — and the door opened — and one after another of the
family entered, as if they were all tired of waiting — followed by
the pretty nursery-maid, covered with evidence that she had
been out among the wet roses and clambering honey-suckles,
that overhung the open window, and leading Charley by the
hand.

As they drew near the sofa, they all stopped and looked at
one another, as if doubting the evidence of their own eyes; for
there sat Arthur with Julia's hands in his — and both so deeply
engaged, as to have heard nothing of their approach.

“Down, Carlo! down!” said Arthur; and then up rose Julia
— and up rose Arthur — and there they stood facing the intrudders,
without a sign of embarrassment, or hurry, and with such a
calm and beautiful expression of satisfied, innocent yearning, that
nobody there doubted the issue of that long and trying interview.

“Allow me to congratulate you! dear Julia,” said Edith, running
up to her, and throwing her arms about her neck, and blubbering
aloud.

“Not so fast, dear Edith,” whispered Julia; “you misunderstand
the whole matter. Hush, hush! I pray. Aunt Elizabeth!
Uncle George! brother Charles! Mrs. Archibald! allow me
to introduce to you my brother — my beloved brother — Mr.
Arthur Maynard!”

“And allow me,” said Arthur — catching a portion of Julia's
free spirit, and exceedingly diverted at the expression of blank
and hopeless astonishment he saw in all the countenances about
him — “and allow me to introduce to you my beloved sister —
my only sister — Miss Julia Parry!”

There was a moment of dead silence — and then, as if they
were all satisfied with what they saw, and had no hope of any

further explanation, they interchanged looks and smiled — and
then hurried off about their business — leaving the mystery of
“True Womanhood” to be puzzled over all the rest of their lives.

And now for the catastrophe. The Major married Miss Webb
— Charles took little Edith, who consented to put up with him
at last — `on trial' — Arthur began studying for the ministry
under a devout and godly teacher — and when the parties were
last heard of, there seemed to be some hope of an alliance between
Mr. Bayard and Mrs. Archibald, who began to throw
aside her furbelows and flounces, and to go — in a drab-colored
silk, and a very plain bonnet — to the Friends' meeting.

Julia persevered — and so did Mr. Fay — and so did Arthur;
and as they are all unmarried — though a twelvemonth has now
gone by — it may be, that they will continue to persevere — at
least for another twelvemonth; after which, something more may
be heard of them — perhaps.