Chapter II: Part 2

“Wait a minute till I have secured him, and then I will talk with you;” and Wyman moved towards the door.

“Give him six hundred?” asked Phogie, not a little astonished to find his neighbor so eager to complete the engagement.

“Yes; seven if he demands it.”

“I can send you half a dozen in an hour who will engage for three.”

“Will you give bonds for their integrity and fidelity?” asked Wyman with a sneer.

“Pooh!”

“Pooh? The fact is, I have suffered enough from cheap clerks. Assure me that a young man is honest and true to my interest, and I never will let him leave me on account of any reasonable difference about salary. All that Solomon said about a virtuous woman I believe in, with regard to an honest and faithful clerk.”

“I can’t afford to pay these big salaries; and a young man gets above his business when you pay him too much.”

“Nonsense! He will respect himself, which every man must do in order to keep himself honest.”

“You are a transcendentalist.”

“I’m common sense. You say you cannot afford to pay high salaries. Can you afford to have a semi-annual deficit in your cash account of three hundred dollars, botched up with false entries, lying balances, and the like?”

Mr. Phogie had never been troubled in this way, and there was no probability that he ever should be; he looked out for his business himself, and he should like to see the clerk that could “bamboozle” him.

Mr. Wyman thought otherwise, and took his leave, wondering at the stupidity of his friend. It occurred to him, as he left the counting room, that it was not so very strange, after all, that clerks on three hundred a year can drive 2:40 horses and go to the opera three nights in a week; not very strange, either, that petty defalcations were discovered occasionally, and that young men on small salaries got ahead amazingly fast.

_CHAPTER III._

Wyman engaged Dixon, and Phogie procured the services of an ill-looking fellow for three hundred dollars. The next time he saw Wyman, he indulged in a little innocent raillery over the fact that he paid his new clerk but just half the salary Dixon received; and Phogie thought he was even a better bookkeeper than Dixon, wrote a plainer hand, and could run up a column of figures rather quicker. As to the new clerk’s honesty, he had a bundle of testimonials as big as the invoice book; and his maternal uncle was president of the Soap and Candle Makers’ Bank. Of course he was honest!

Things went on swimmingly for six months. The new assistant was a jewel; and when Mr. Quilldriver, the head bookkeeper, was taken down with rheumatism, which proved to be chronic, Mr. Phogie had so much confidence in this notable nephew of a notable uncle, that he gave him the entire charge of the books, and, in the liberality of his big heart, advanced his salary voluntarily to four hundred dollars a year.

On the first of January, however, when Mr. Phogie called for the balance sheet, it was not ready. The trial balance didn’t come out right, and the profit and loss account looked “thundering strange,” as Mr. Phogie classically expressed it. Three days were hopelessly used up in “taking stock;” but the thing couldn’t be figured out.

Mr. Phogie began to be alarmed. The general--a noted expert in unsnarling complicated and difficult accounts--was called in to examine into affairs; but no sooner did the smart nephew of the president of the Soap and Candle Makers’ Bank, see the well-known gray locks of the expert bent over the obstinate folios, than he stepped out to lunch, and, by some singular oversight, forgot to return.

The upshot of the whole matter was, that the general discovered an “absquatulation” of some fifteen hundred dollars--just enough to keep the dapper little bookkeeper in opera tickets and 2:40’s during the past season.

Of course the thing went up and down the street; and the little ragged news boys in State Street bellowed it at the top of their lungs into the ears of the passer by.

“Why, Phogie, how’s this?” said Mr. Wyman, meeting the supporter of the cheap clerk system.

Mr. Phogie used a very hard word, which only the ministers are permitted to use in stirring sermons.

“Pay ’em well, Phogie, and they won’t steal; and when you get a faithful servant, don’t part with him.”

Phogie scowled and edged off.

“By the way, Dixon has brought every thing out as square as a brick. Trial balance, balance sheet, every thing foots up without the variation of a penny,” continued Wyman, maliciously, as Phogie increased his speed.

Poor penny-wise, pound-foolish merchant! He learned better after that.

For the satisfaction of the reader, I may as well add, that Dixon got a thousand for his next year’s service, and that he is now engaged to his employer’s pretty daughter, with the prospect of immediately becoming a partner in the concern.

THE NEW MINISTER;

OR,

“CHARITY BEGINS AT HOME.”

_CHAPTER I._

“It is abominable hypocrisy for you to talk so, Susan; you don’t care any more about the missionaries than you do about the fifth wheel of a coach,” exclaimed Louise Percy, the village schoolmistress, to her friend, Susan Maylie, at whose father’s house she boarded.

“Why, Louise, how rude you are! You wouldn’t like it if I should talk so about you,” replied Susan, an angry flush gathering upon her cheek.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t; but if it were true, I don’t know that I could blame you for it.”

“It is not true, Louise.”

“Why, it is only two months since you refused to put any thing into the contribution box for the missions. You said you thought the missionaries were a set of lazy vagabonds, who had a good deal rather preach than work for a living. Now, since the new minister has come, all of a sudden you are a strenuous friend of missions and missionaries.”

“Can’t a body change her opinions, when they are found to be wrong?” replied Susan, petulantly.

“Certainly you can; but is your opinion really changed?”

“How strange you talk, Louise!”

“May be I do; truth is stranger than fiction.”

“You must confess that our new minister’s eloquence has been quite enough to convince any reasonable person that the propagation of the gospel among the heathen is a holy and beautiful work.”

“Undoubtedly, it is a good work; and if you really feel called upon to labor so earnestly in the cause, I am sure I should be the last one to reprove you for it.”

“You don’t believe I am sincere, then?”

“I think you are very fond of the new minister. If an old man, with a wife and half a dozen children, had preached those missionary sermons, I hardly believe you would have felt so much interest in the work.”

“Why, Louise, you astonish me! I really believe you hate the missionaries.”

“On the contrary, I have the highest respect for them. I have always contributed my mite to sustain them. I think I was quite as strongly attached to the cause before this young and handsome Mr. Rogers made his appearance among us, as I am now;” and Louise laughed merrily.

“He _is_ handsome, isn’t he,” said Susan, catching the playful spirit of her companion and confidant.

“I grant that with the greatest pleasure: but if you expect to catch him, you had better moderate your missionary ardor, and act yourself.”

“Nay, Louise, I really feel an interest in the cause;” and Susan looked as sober as though she had been a missionary herself, just on the point of starting for the interior of Africa.

Louise laughed merrily again, as she looked doubtfully into the face of her friend.

A knock at the door started them from the revery into which both had fallen.

“Mr. Rogers, as I live!” exclaimed Louise, catching a glance at the new minister as he stood on the door stone.

“Pray, don’t be rude, Louise,” said Susan, as she adjusted her dress before the glass.

“Be rude! of course not; but I shall say just what I think.”

“Don’t Louise. Be a friend of missions, for my sake.”

Susan opened the door, and Mr. Rogers entered the house.

“I have called, Miss Maylie, to propose a plan for a tea party in aid of the missions,” said he, after the common place introductories had been disposed of. “I look to you, who have been first and foremost in this good cause, for sympathy and coöperation.”

“I shall be very glad, indeed, to do all I can to forward the good work,” said Susan, demurely, “and so will Miss Percy.”

“You must excuse me; my time is so much occupied that I do not think I shall be able to render any essential aid,” interposed Louise, scarcely able to restrain a laugh at the prompt tender Susan had made of her services.

“Perhaps you are not interested in the missions,” suggested Mr. Rogers.

“To some extent, I am, sir.”

“I trust, then, we shall be able to enlist your sympathies. Certainly the heathen, perishing in their sins, demand a noble effort on the part of the Christian world.”

“I do not question the lofty character of the missionary enterprise, but I do think charity ought to begin at home.”

“Why, Louise, how strange you talk!” exclaimed Susan.

“True, Miss Percy, but it ought not to end there. I see you favor the home missions.”

“I do. I favor a mission nearer home than any society has been formed to advance, in our village at least--the mission to the poor and destitute.”

“The gospel is preached for all,” said the minister.

“_For_ all, but not _to_ all. There is poor Mrs. Weston, who cannot afford to buy clothes to send her children to meeting.”

“Indeed!” ejaculated the minister.

“Her husband is a poor, miserable drunkard,” added Susan. “You don’t think her a worthier object of charity than the poor, suffering, dying heathen, who are perishing in their ignorance and sin?”

“Indeed, I do!” returned Louise.

“Her case ought to be attended to immediately,” said Mr. Rogers.

“She ought to go to the poorhouse; the overseers offered to take her,” continued Susan.

“The poorhouse! Mrs. Weston has seen better days, and, I doubt not, would rather die than be subjected to such a bitter humiliation.”

“Her own fault, then; if she won’t let the town help her, what more can be done?”

“She went to Deacon Hapgood, who owns the hovel in which she lives, to get him to take off ten dollars a year from her rent. But the Deacon didn’t see how he could afford it, and the poor woman left him, to continue alone her struggle with the demon of poverty as best she might. Yet the Deacon can afford to give a hundred dollars a year to the missions, and says he never feels the sacrifice.”

“I will see Deacon Hapgood,” said the minister, musingly.

“I hope you will teach him that ‘charity begins at home.’”

“The hungry can be fed, the naked clothed, the houseless sheltered, and still there will be means left to carry on the missions. We are commanded to ‘preach the gospel to all nations.’”

“And reminded that the poor are always with us. There is Farmer Jones: he can’t afford to buy a spelling book for his daughter, but he gives large sums of money to the missionary society.”

Mr. Rogers, who was an earnest seeker after truth, and who nobly endeavored to do his duty, began to feel that there was a great deal of practical wisdom in the remarks of the schoolmistress.

After a little more conversation, in relation to the proposed tea party, he took his leave.

_CHAPTER II._

Louise Percy, without being very beautiful or very bewitching, was a very sensible, earnest, straightforward girl. With a warm heart and generous disposition, she was free, open, and sincere in her intercourse with the world.

Just the opposite was her friend and confidant, Susan Maylie, though, as the world goes, she passed for a good-hearted person. She lacked that transparency of motive which was so eminently the characteristic of Louise’s temperament. Where no strong prejudice actuated her, she was generally prompt in her choice of the good from the evil, though sometimes the most intimate friend was involuntarily led to suspect her motive.

Six months before we introduce them to the reader, the village in which they resided was thrown into commotion by the arrival of the new minister, who had been called to officiate in the parish church.

He was young, handsome, and, more than all, unmarried. Straightway, one half of the eligible maidens in town became interested in “serious things.” The prayer meetings and the conference meetings were all at once found to be seasons of special interest. All the charitable societies connected with the church suddenly become prosperous. The missionary society, which was composed of ladies, who met once a month at the sewing circle, received a new impetus from the arrival of Mr. Rogers.

The young clergyman made it a point to attend these meetings, for he was particularly interested in the enterprise of sending the gospel to the heathen. He had preached several sermons on his favorite topic, and his exertions were rewarded by the creation of a strong and unusual feeling on the subject.

Susan, all at once, found her mind intently engaged in the engrossing subject. It is true she had learned from her father to ridicule and despise the missions; but then her heart was hard, and the ministrations of the handsome young clergyman had turned her mind from the vanities and vexations of life, to the lofty and substantial realities of “serious things.”

Louise could not help noticing the sudden and remarkable change; but then Susan so constantly spoke of the minister’s handsome face; so often sneered at the thought of sundry village belles, whom she was malicious enough to accuse of attempting to “catch” him, that she readily fathomed the occasion of the singular transformation.

Louise got out of patience with her friend’s duplicity, but suspecting that it might be involuntary, or the consequence of a want of consideration, she had plainly pointed out the inconsistency. Susan could hardly deny the fact, and feeling that Louise was a true friend, one who would not proclaim her infirmity to the world, she suffered the charge to pass unrefuted.

“I am going to set up an opposition to the missionary society,” said Louise, after Mr. Rogers had gone.

“Pray, what mad scheme have you got in your brain now?” asked Susan.

“I am going to do something for the relief of Mrs. Weston.”

“How foolish you are!”

“Am I?”

“You are, very foolish. It is the town’s business to look out for paupers.”

“It is my business, too, and yours, Susan.”

“I am sure _I_ shall not meddle with it.”

“We have each of us reserved five dollars for charitable purposes, you know.”

“Well?”

“I shall give mine to Mrs. Weston.”

“And I shall give mine to the missions. I thought you were going to do the same.”

“I have altered my mind. I cannot send my money across the ocean, when there is an abundance of heathen growing up in ignorance around us. Now, if you will put your five dollars with mine, it will just make up the amount the poor woman asked the deacon to abate her rent.”

“I shall do no such thing, I assure you. I am too much interested in the missions to throw my money away upon the town’s paupers.”

“Very well; I will not urge you.”

“What do you suppose Mr. Rogers would say, if I should give nothing to the missions?”

“Are you beholden to him to render an account of your stewardship? For my part, I shouldn’t care what he thought. Do your duty, Susan, let folks think as they may. If I had money enough, I would contribute handsomely towards having the gospel preached to such heathen as Deacon Hapgood, Farmer Jones, and some others who support missions, while they starve their own souls and those of their families.”

Susan, knowing how obstinate Louise was when excited, refrained from opposing the purpose she had announced, and Louise retired to her room.

“Five dollars,” said she, musingly; “it is more than a week’s pay; but she shall have it; yes, and more too. Since Susan has refused to join me in this work of charity, I will give another five dollars; and then how happy the poor creature will be!”

The face of the gentle-hearted girl lighted up with an involuntary smile, as she opened her drawer and took therefrom the ten dollars. It was a large sum for her; but she cheerfully resigned the pleasures it would purchase, and looked forward to the joy she was about to carry to the cottage of the drunkard’s wife.

With a light heart she tripped down the road to execute her charitable mission. As she entered the hovel, she shrank back at the scene of wretchedness presented to her view. The poor woman, pale and haggard with care, apparently with one foot in the grave, was surrounded by half a dozen ragged children, whom her utmost exertions could hardly feed with the coarsest fare, and clothe even with the miserable garments that only half covered their nakedness.

Stating the object of her visit, Louise handed to her the ten dollars.

Mrs. Weston started back in amazement. Such unheard of liberality overwhelmed her with confusion. If Deacon Hapgood could not afford to take off ten dollars from her rent, how could a poor girl afford to give her that sum outright? Before she could recover her self-possession sufficiently to express her gratitude, the young minister entered the house.

Mr. Rogers was almost as much astonished at the generosity of Louise as Mrs. Weston had been; and when he took his leave, he gladdened the poor creature’s heart by adding another ten dollars to the gift.

_CHAPTER III._

After their departure from Mrs. Weston’s, Mr. Rogers walked by the side of Louise towards her residence. The conversation was earnest, and at times warm, for Louise had opinions of her own, and was not diffident in maintaining them, even against the eloquence of the parson.

Mr. Rogers was not less pleased with the spirit and independence of his companion than he was with her warm heart and charitable disposition. And when he bade adieu to her at the door of Mr. Maylie’s house, he could not banish her from his mind.

The following day was Sunday. Oddly enough for him, the minister had not a word to say about missions or the heathen. His text was, “The poor ye have always with you.”

It was a noble sermon, showing that the poor, by being continually before the eye, came to be regarded with indifference and neglect, while objects of charity far removed by distance, excited the liveliest sympathy and commiseration. He demonstrated that the first duty of all was to relieve distress in their midst; in fine, that “charity begins at home.” It was shown, very much to the edification of Deacon Hapgood, who sat in the broad aisle, wondering “what the minister was driving at,” that a rich man could not blind the eye of his Maker by giving large sums to the missions, while he oppressed the poor, and turned a deaf ear to their prayer for help.

Louise was deeply interested in the sermon, while a majority of the congregation arrived at the conclusion that Mr. Rogers had gone crazy. It was a reflection of her views, and a feeling of proud satisfaction pervaded her mind, as she reflected that she had been instrumental in calling the minister’s attention to the subject.

The effect of the sermon was immediate and substantial. Every one of the “eligible young ladies” straightway emptied the contents of their purses into Mrs. Weston’s lap. A society was proposed for ameliorating the condition of the poor, whom they always had with them. But Mr. Rogers cruelly vetoed the measure, not thinking an organized effort necessary to complete the work, especially as Mrs. Weston, who was, perhaps, the only destitute person in town, had money enough to pay a year’s rent and three months’ provision in her cellar.

In the mean time, Mr. Rogers manifested a laudable interest in the welfare of the village school, and even preached a sermon on the duty of parents to their children. He visited the school three times in one week, besides conferring four distinct and separate times with the schoolmistress at her boarding place in the evening.

Well, every body--except the eligible young ladies--said it was the minister’s duty to look after the school, and see that the mistress did her duty; so every body, with the exception mentioned, agreed that Mr. Rogers was particularly faithful in the discharge of _his_ duty.

Susan was intensely astonished at the course of events, and more especially was she pained at the comparative neglect with which the missions had come to be regarded. Other charities, nearer home, shared the sympathies of the young and handsome pastor, and she suddenly realized that her extraordinary exertions in spreading the gospel among the heathen had failed to accomplish the purpose she had in view. But hope had not yet deserted her. Her eyes were not as wide open as they might have been, and she did not yet fully understand the “signs of the times.”

“What a blessed field of usefulness is open to the teacher of the district school!” exclaimed she, one day, to her confidant, the schoolmistress.

Louise looked up from the book she was reading, astonished at the remark--not at the important truth involved in it, but that it should proceed from such a source.

“It is, indeed, an interesting field of labor to those who can appreciate it,” replied she, a smile of intelligence crossing her good-natured countenance.

“I have been thinking, Louise, that _I_ might be useful in that capacity.”

“I do not doubt it.”

“And I understand that the school in the south district will be vacant in a few weeks; don’t you think I could procure the appointment?”

“Why, Susan, you do not really intend to become a teacher, do you?”

“I certainly do. I feel that I have suffered too many years of my life to pass away in idleness. I intend to redeem the time.”

“You cannot mean it.”

“I am in earnest. Do you think I could get the appointment?”

“I can point you to a place nearer home, if you are really desirous of becoming a teacher.”

“What place?”

“You may have mine in the course of a month or two.”

“Yours, Louise!”

“I shall send in my resignation next week.”

“Why, Louise, I had no idea that you intended to abandon teaching,” said Susan, with undisguised astonishment; and, as she had regarded the attentions her friend received from the handsome young minister with a jealous eye, perhaps the announcement was received with some small degree of satisfaction.

“I had no such intention a few days ago. But if you wish for my place, you can have the opportunity of making the first application.”

“I shall be delighted to get it.”

“I will mention the subject when I send in my resignation.”

“But, Louise, you have never told us anything about this. Pray, what is going to happen?”

“I suppose I must tell you the secret. Of course you will not betray my confidence?”

“Certainly not.”

“I am going to be married this fall;” and Louise blushed up to her eyes.

“Going to be married! My goodness! And we never even found out that you had a beau.”

“It has been rather sudden.”

“I should think it had. Who is the fortunate gentleman?”

“Mr. Rogers.”

“Mr. Rogers!” exclaimed Susan, starting back in blank amazement, while the color deserted her cheeks, and her heart fluttered with emotion.

“Just so. From the time we met at Mrs. Weston’s, when I gave the poor woman my money, he has been very attentive--and, in short, the matter is now settled.”

“Well, I _am_ astonished!”

Susan _was_ astonished.

“I cannot wonder; I am astonished myself. But, Susan, I think I shall carry in my resignation to-morrow, and you had better have a written application ready.”

Susan bit her lips with vexation, and even wondered that she had not been fool enough to give her money to Mrs. Weston, instead of the missionary society.

“I think on the whole, Louise, that I shall not become a teacher at present,” said she, as she turned, and abruptly left the room.

In the fall Mr. Rogers and Louise were married. The parsonage is the home of peace, love, and charity. Mrs. Rogers is a model minister’s wife, and though the missionary cause receives an earnest support, she still believes, and acts upon the belief, that “CHARITY BEGINS AT HOME.”

“OUT NIGHTS;”

OR,

BELONGING TO THE “SONS.”

_CHAPTER I._

“Don’t go out to-night, Charles,” said Mrs. Prescott, a pretty, sweet-smiling lady, who had been married just six months, to her husband.

“Really, Carrie, I am very sorry; but I do not see how I can be absent from the meeting to-night,” replied the young husband, as he brought his great-coat from the entry.

“You always say so. I wish you did not belong to the ‘Sons.’ Can’t you leave them?”

“I could, my dear, if I desired; I have no wish to do so.”

“Wouldn’t you do it to please me?” said the lady smiling so sweetly that one could have found it in his heart to do almost any thing for her.

“You do not seriously wish me to do so.”

“Nay, I do.”

“Think, Carrie.”

“I am jealous of that society.”

“Fie!”

“You leave me here all alone, and you can’t think how lonesome I am.”

“I am very sorry to leave you; but, really, I feel it to be my duty to sustain so good an association as the ‘Sons of Temperance.’”

“There are enough without you.”

“All might, with equal propriety, say so.”

“They do not all leave a wife alone at home.”

“Perhaps not.”

“Can’t you belong to them without going to the meetings every night?”

“I should not wish to do that. To be a merely nominal member of the Order, is to be nothing at all.”

“You would be giving your name and influence to the cause of temperance just as much as you do by attending the meetings.”

“What is the cause of temperance, Carrie? I fear you give it a very vague construction, like many others in the community.”

“Why, preventing and curing intemperance.”

“Preventing and curing it in whom?”

“Every body, I suppose--all your friends and neighbors.”

“But not yourself.”

“There is no danger of you, Charles.”

“But I joined the Sons quite as much for my own sake, as for that of others.”

“You don’t think you are in any danger of becoming a drunkard, do you?” asked Mrs. Prescott, with a smile of incredulity.

“Not while I am as strongly fortified against the vice of drinking as I am now.”

“Pooh! I would risk you, even if you did not belong to the Sons.”

“Suppose I should abandon them, and permit myself to be influenced by the example of those around me--of your brother Frank, for example? Suppose I should shake off my allegiance to the principle of total abstinence, how long would it take me to get rid of all my scruples against drinking a glass of wine?”

“Can’t you adhere to the principle without belonging to a society?”

“Association strengthens principle.”

“You don’t steal, Charles; but is it necessary that you should belong to an anti thieving society?” and the pretty young wife’s features wore an expression of triumph.

“Drinking is a fashionable vice; stealing is not. When the community regards the fashionable wine bibber as it does the thief, there will be no occasion for associated effort to restrain it. Popular opinion will do the work which the Sons are now doing.”

“But I don’t think there is any need of going so constantly,” replied the wife. “_Do_ stay with me to-night; I feel so lonesome.”

“The Order acts upon some particular business to-night, and----”

“Particular business again!” exclaimed Mrs. Prescott, with a good-natured laugh.

“It does indeed.”

“Always so.”

“Besides, I am W. P., you know.”

“W. T., you mean.”

“What’s that?”

“Wife tormentor.”

“Nay, Carrie----”

“Go along; I will excuse you to-night; but don’t stay late.”

“No, dear.”

“It was eleven o’clock before you got home last Saturday night.”

“I will be home by ten to-night;” and Charles Prescott kissed his pretty, smiling wife--we beg the reader to remember that they had been married but six months--and left the house.

_CHAPTER II._

Mrs. Prescott did not appear to be half so lonesome as she had pretended she was; for, as her little white hand delicately and daintily grasped the needle, the same involuntary smile played on her pretty lips that had been there while her husband was present.

Her thoughts must have been very pleasant, or she could not have worn that bewitching smile. Her soft, gazelle-like eye, too, beamed forth the language of a pure and beautiful soul--a soul at rest among the flowers of its own tender rearing.

She was thinking, and her thoughts were full of joy. What a happy wife she was! But perhaps her view of matrimony was mingled with something of sentiment--a few grains of that amiable moonshine which strews flowers and perfumes in the pathway of the young wife.

Alas that the blight of coldness should ever come to wither those flowers which the young and loving wife scatters in her pathway! Alas that the cares and trials of life should ever come and cast a great, broad shadow over that moon of her dreams.

Mrs. Prescott was happy, and she was _thinking_ how happy she was. Charles was all love and devotion. He was industrious, frugal, and temperate; and, though they lived in a humble house and in a humble street, she sighed not for the fine things her neighbors had.

They lived comfortably; and, while her husband loved her, she cared not for tapestry carpets and velvet-covered lounges.

Charles had only one failing; and that was, an earnest devotion to the Order of the Sons of Temperance, which drew him away from her side every Saturday night. He never left the house any other evening without her; and undoubtedly he would have insisted on her joining the order, only that it was a _secret_ society; consequently no women could be tolerated within its pale.

Mrs. Prescott could not see why her husband should be a “Son;” he was strictly temperate in his habits. Poor wife! She neglected to inquire into the reason of his being so.

She plied her needle, and smiled forth the joy that was in her heart. She was so happy and contented that there was only one thing left her to wish for--that her husband was with her.

About half an hour after Charles had gone, her brother Frank, who had been married nearly a year, called with his wife.

“I have got to go down to the store and post up the books, Carrie, and I have brought Lucy to stay with you; she was afraid to stay alone,” said Frank Winslow, after the two wives had kissed each other, and said sundry pretty things about the weather and the walking.

“I am glad you did; I am all alone myself.”

“Where’s Charley?”

“Gone to the lodge.”

“What lodge?”

“I don’t mean the lodge--the meeting of the ‘Sons.’”

“Bah!”

“He goes every Saturday night.”

“What a pity! Charley is a good fellow, and it is a great shame that he should herd with those fanatics,” said Frank Winslow.

“Don’t you talk so about my husband, Frank,” interposed the loving wife. “He is not half so much of a fanatic on temperance, as you are on cognac and sherry.”

“Fie, sis! I believe in all sorts of good things; and being a Son is, in my opinion, the next thing to being a fool.”

“Why don’t you tell him so?”

“I would if he were here. You don’t think I am afraid of him, do you?”

“No; but the last time you argued the question with him----”

“Bah!” exclaimed Frank, impatiently.

Promising to call for his wife by ten o’clock, he left the house.

“I hope our husbands won’t quarrel over this temperance question,” said Mrs. Winslow.

“I hope not.”

“But this ‘Sons’ business does seem so silly to me that I cannot wonder Frank laughs at him.”

“Well, I don’t care any thing about it, only that Charles is out so late every night at the meetings.”

“And leaves you all alone?” asked Mrs. Winslow.

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t let him! It is a shame! Why, I should go into fits if my husband left me alone till eleven o’clock!” and Mrs. Winslow was horrified at the very thought.

“I have said a good deal about it.”

“Said! Why, I would tip the house over before I would submit to it.”

“He is so deeply interested in it.”

“He ought to be deeply interested in his wife, too.”

“Nay, nay, Lucy, you wrong him. He loves me with all his soul.”

“And leaves you alone till eleven o’clock?”

“I’m not afraid to stay alone.”

“Why, it’s almost as bad as having a drunken husband to sit up for.”

“O, no, I’m sure it is not.”

Charles Prescott was warmly condemned by the visitor, and warmly defended by the wife, who, poor thing, though she wished he would stay at home, could not bear to hear a word said against him.

_CHAPTER III._

Before ten o’clock, the two ladies had settled the question of Charles’s defection, and passed naturally enough into mousse de laines, laces, and the newest fashions. Mrs. Winslow did not like to say that he was a monster in the hearing of his wife; but she fully believed it; and Mrs. Prescott, moved by the arguments of her friend, concluded that she was used much more hardly than she had ever suspected.

Punctual to his appointed hour, Charles came home. Mrs. Winslow playfully upbraided him for his want of constancy in leaving his wife to spend the evening alone; but the husband made a “moral question” of it, and proceeded to discuss the topic at length.

An hour was used up in the unprofitable argument, and the clock struck eleven.

Mrs. Winslow yawned, and wondered why Frank did not come--began to think the books must have gotten into a snarl to keep him so late.

It was half past eleven before he came.

“How are ye, old boy?” said he, grasping the hand of Prescott. “How are the Sons to-night?”

“As usual--thriving.”

“What makes you so late, Frank?” asked Mrs. Winslow. “You promised to come at ten o’clock.”

“The books got a little twisted. But sit down, Suke; I want to talk with Charley;” and Frank threw himself into a rocking chair before the fire.

“No, no, Frank; it is almost twelve o’clock.”

“Never mind; sit down. They say there is more liquor drank since the Maine law was made than ever before,” said Frank, turning to Charles Prescott.

“And there is more cheating, killing, and stealing since the ten commandments were made than ever before. What does that prove?”

“Bah!”

“You refer to the golden calf?”

“Seriously, Charley, in my opinion, the fanatics, who made that law ought to be held responsible for half the drunkenness in the community.”

“And Paul, Peter, and John for half the sins the gospel was intended to prevent.”

“You talk like one of the fanatics,” said Frank, his cheek reddening with anger.

“I merely change the application of the principles which your remarks cover.”

“You distort them. A fanatic can’t argue the question fairly. Come, Suke, let’s go home.”

Frank Winslow rose from his chair, but instantly sank back again.

“What is the matter, Frank?” asked his wife.

“Nothing; don’t you see?” and he attempted to rise again, but without success.

“What ails you? How strange you act!”

“Your Sons and your Maine laws are a humbug, Charley; there’s no rubbing that out. Tell me about your--hic--Maine law!”

“O Heavens!” groaned the poor wife.

“What the deuse’s the--hic--matter now?”

It was too plain to be longer concealed; Frank Winslow was drunk! The heat of the room was revealing the terrible truth to the poor wife, to the fond sister, that the husband and brother was helplessly intoxicated!

Charles Prescott was shocked; Carrie’s cheek was pale, and her frame trembled; that smile was gone, for the loving brother was a drunkard!

It was an agonizing moment to the fond wife. Mountains of sombre clouds came rolling down before her bewildered senses, and the future was dark with poverty, woe, disgrace, and death. The drunkard’s grave yawned like a cavern of hell in the path of her husband.

“O, Frank, Frank!” exclaimed she, throwing herself into his arms, and bathing his brow with her woman’s tears.

“What in ---- ails you all?” said Frank, gazing round him with a drunken leer.

Charles attempted to get him upon his feet; but he was utterly helpless.

“Let me--hic--alone. I am none of your cussed--hic--fanatics, that can’t go alone;” and he fell at full length upon the floor.

Mrs. Winslow threw herself into a chair, and sobbed in bitterness of spirit. Carrie wept upon her bosom. It was a sad sight, that group of weepers over the drunken body of a noble-hearted, generous young man. Angels weep over such pitiable objects.

With much difficulty Charles Prescott succeeded in putting him to bed; but, to all save the besotted inebriate, it was a sleepless night. Tears stained the pillow of the wife and sister, and silent prayers rose to heaven for the preservation of the erring young man.

Morning came, and Frank had slept off his debauch. He was conscious of his position, and with shame and humiliation he presented himself in the breakfast room of his friend. The pale, anxious faces, the red and swollen eyes of his wife and sister, told him what they had suffered.

Like a true man, he acknowledged his fault, and promised to amend. Charles pointed out the necessity of making a principle of abstinence, to which he assented, and promised to connect himself with the Sons. He kept his promise, and in a few weeks was initiated.

Mrs. Prescott, after the impressive lesson she had received from the experience of her brother, was convinced that active membership in a temperance society, or at least a cherished _principle_ of abstinence, was necessary in these degenerate days for the salvation of the young man.

Her husband had resisted temptation through the salutary influence of the “Sons;” and she could not but reflect how unreasonable she had been in attempting to lure him away from the fountain of his principle.

Even Mrs. Winslow has so far overcome her timidity as to be content to stay alone every Saturday night, while her husband attends the meetings of the Order. It is a blessed thing for the wife to be assured that, while he is away from her in those hours which properly belong to her, he is fortifying his soul against the temptations that every where beset him.

BRING FLOWERS;

OR,

GOING INTO MOURNING.

_CHAPTER I._

“I am sure they cannot care much for their sister, for not one of them had even a black ribbon on her bonnet,” said Mabel Grant, to her invalid sister.

“Nay, Mabel, you must not judge them harshly.”

“But only think of it! Even her mother did not so much as change her bonnet.”

“Probably they have views and opinions of their own upon the subject,” replied Mary Grant, feebly, for she was in the last stage of consumption,--that dreadful scourge of our northern clime,--and even the exertion of speaking a few words was exceedingly tiresome.

“And poor Ellen Lawson, our dear friend and schoolmate, one of the fairest and truest girls in the village--to think that she should go down to her early grave without even a show of mourning in her own family. It looks like sacrilege to me.”

“Nay, Mabel, your respect for a mere custom causes you to disregard the plainest dictates of charity.”

“I do not mean to be uncharitable.”

“I know it, Mabel; but you must remember that the practice of putting on mourning is only a custom; and there is no sacrifice of love or principle in disregarding the custom.”

“Well, I don’t know; I cannot think they loved poor Ellen as she deserved to be loved.”

“Why not?”

“Because, if they had, they would at least have shown a decent respect for her while they stood around her bier.”

“Did they seem to be cold, indifferent?” asked the invalid, with a great deal of interest.

“No; Mrs. Lawson was very much affected while in the cemetery. She sobbed as though her heart would break.”

“Indeed!”

“But it did not seem to be real, her dress was so inappropriate.”

“You wrong her, Mabel.”

“I hope I do.”

“You cannot see into the heart.”

“And her sisters, too, if they had not worn white bonnets, would have seemed like real mourners.”

“The heart weeps, Mabel, not the dress, nor even the tearful eye. Many a one in sable weeds has felt no sorrow for the loss of a parent or a friend.”

“That may be; but don’t you think yourself that white bonnets and blue dresses are very improper at the funeral of a near friend?”

“It would not be my taste, Mabel,” replied Mary with a faint smile. “But I wish to accord to every one the privilege of doing as they please in a matter of this kind.”

“So do I; of course they have the right to wear what they please.”

“You censure them, though.”

“Not censure them, Mary; I only say that it looks as though they did not care much for poor Ellen.”

“You impugn their motives; you ought to be charitable to them, however strange they may seem to act.”

“I will, sister; but if I had lost a friend, I should feel as though I was deficient in respect to the memory of that friend, if I did not put on mourning.”

Mary sighed; she knew not how soon that dear sister would be called upon to put on mourning for her. Even another day of existence might not be permitted her. She was calmly waiting the hour that would bear her from the scenes of earth to that brighter realm beyond the dark grave. Already she heard the music of the angel’s fluttering wing, and was ready to lay her head upon the lap of earth.

Mabel penetrated her sister’s thoughts, and turned away to hide a tear, which sprung unbidden to her eye.

“There are many things to be considered, Mabel, in relation to the custom of wearing mourning. For my part I think it would be far better if the practice was entirely discontinued.”

“Why, Mary! how strange you talk!”

“You can conceive how very disagreeable it must be for those who are waiting to consign the remains of a dear friend to the tomb, to be compelled to attend upon mantuamakers and milliners.”

Mabel had never thought of that before.

“No sooner has the spirit taken its flight, than the house of death is made the scene of commotion and confusion, by the preparations to appear in black. That holy sorrow, which craves solitude, is broken in upon by the cares of business--by the necessity of conforming to a mere fashion which requires the mourner to make a vain show.”

“Perhaps you are right, Mary; pray, do not talk any more. You are quite exhausted.”

Mary said no more. A shade of deep thought rested upon her pallid features. She was thinking how much more soothing it would be, when her redeemed spirit sped its flight, if her friends could only think of her while her lifeless clay remained with them, without the intrusion of milliners and dressmakers.

_CHAPTER II._

It was spring time, and the joyous birds sung their cheerful notes upon the blossoming trees. The flowers were blooming upon the hill side, and Nature was assuming her verdant robes.

Under the influence of the mild, balmy air of the spring, Mary Grant seemed to revive. Her strength appeared to return with the opening buds, and her friends dared to hope that she might be spared to behold the profusion of another summer, the glories of another autumn. But the disease was deceptive. While hope smiles, the destroyer comes.

The physician, after giving the parents of Mary all the encouragement he could, directed his patient to ride out as often as the weather would permit.

The invalid was happy in the privilege of once more inhaling the balmy breezes, of once again visiting the cherished scenes, where, in the full vigor of health and joy, she had gayly and thoughtlessly roamed.

The village cemetery had always been a hallowed and beautiful spot to her, and she expressed a desire to visit it again, ere her inanimate form should be laid away to slumber beneath its peaceful bosom.

With Mabel for her companion, the carriage was slowly driven through the garden of graves. Mary was silent and thoughtful; and more than once a tear rose to the eye of Mabel, when she thought how soon she might be called upon to follow the cold form of the loved one to her resting-place.

The invalid was thoughtful, but not gloomy. Already the spirit had reached forward to the glories of that better world where there is no death, no sorrow. The grave had no terrors to her; it was a place of rest. Death was not a hideous, quaking skeleton to her imagination, but a white-winged angel, who would fold her upon his bosom, and bear her across the dark valley to the “house with many mansions, eternal in the heavens.”

With introverted thoughts she gazed upon the memorials of the slumbering dead. The funereal fir, the pendent willow that swept over the green graves, diffused a heavenly calm in her heart, and she felt ready to join the great company that slept beneath them.

“There is a new-made grave,” said she, as the carriage turned the angle of one of the avenues.

“It is the grave of poor Ellen Lawson,” replied Mabel.

Mary requested the driver to stop.

On the grave, over which no marble had yet been reared, were several bouquets of fresh flowers. Some little white blossoms, which had been transplanted near the head, were opening their tiny buds.

“Still remembered, Mabel,” said Mary, as she pointed to the flowers.

“They place fresh flowers upon her grave every day.”

“And do you think they did not love her, Mabel?”

“O, sister, I know they did.”

“And wore no black at her funeral?”

“I was wrong, Mary.”

“These are meet emblems of the heart’s remembrance. When I go hence, may the flowers of spring blossom upon my grave. May some loving hand place flowers upon the sod that hides me from those I loved on earth.”

“You are sad, sister; do not speak so gloomily.”

“Nay, Mabel, I am not sad; I am happy.”

Mabel shed a flood of tears upon the bosom of her sister.

“Do not weep, Mabel; we shall meet in heaven, and be happy there forever.”

“You are better, dear sister; do not speak so hopelessly.”

“Only a little while longer, and I shall rest beneath this sod. But do not be sad; I am happy: I am not afraid to die. I feel as though the angels were with me now, waiting to bear me to my home in the skies.”

Mabel cast another glance at the flower-decked grave of Ellen Lawson, as the carriage drove on, and she felt that the heart could more eloquently express its remembrance of the loved and lost, than by a display of the sable weeds of the mourner.

_CHAPTER III._

Mary Grant went out of the house no more. In another week her waiting spirit bade farewell to earth, and winged its way to its native skies. Calmly and trustingly, while a heavenly smile played upon her irradiated features, she breathed her last in the arms of Mabel.

She was gone! Her wasted form, from which the undying soul had just taken its flight, lay in rigid silence before her. She was beautiful in death--so beautiful that Mabel could hardly believe she was dead; that those lips, parted in a placid smile, could no more speak gentle counsel to her; that those eyes, now motionless and sealed, could no more reflect the love of that affectionate heart upon her.

But a moment before, she had bidden her farewell. Could she be dead? Was it indeed true that those smiling lips were forever sealed; that another note of sisterly love could not proceed from them?

Kind friends were waiting to prepare the body for the sepulchre, and a gentle hand led her away from the inanimate form. Then, then she realized that her sister was indeed dead, and a torrent of woe swept wildly into her heart.

Flying to her chamber, she gave free vent to her grief.

“She is gone! She is gone!” sobbed she, as she buried her face beneath her hands, and trembled in the agony of her emotion.

Mary died as the sun was sinking behind the western hills. Her pure spirit had fled with the day; but the change bore her to an endless day, where there is no night and the sun never sets.

Mabel passed a sleepless night. Her pillow was wet with her tears. She rose in the morning, and hastened to gaze again upon the form of Mary. She was arrayed for the grave, and as Mabel bent over her, and printed a kiss upon the pallid, cold lips, the memories of the past rushed vividly into her heart. Her eyes rained tears upon the marble beauty of the corpse.

And there she stood for an hour, communing with the days which were now no more; which could never be again, because the heart that made them glad was now still in death.

The formality of the morning meal was disposed of,--it was nothing more than a form to the weeping household,--and Mabel returned to the side of her departed sister. She kissed the cold lips again, and gave herself up to the flood of irresistible grief which faithful memory forced upon her.

“Excuse me, Miss Grant,” said one of the neighbors, who had come in to assist the family, “but Miss Barnes, the dressmaker, is waiting to fit your dress.”

Her dress! There was something heartless, cruelly repulsive in the word. Her dress at such a time as that! Must she leave the bier of her dead sister to converse upon the details of a garment? Must her mind abandon the thought of the dead to dwell upon the fashion of a dress?

Without a word she went to the sitting room. It was a busy scene for the house of mourning, and she learned that the mantuamaker had been there all night, for the weather was warm, and the funeral must take place on the following day.

The conversation of the apartment sounded loathsome to her. It was not of her dead sister, it was of the latest fashions, of the propriety of this and that; the fitness of one article and the unfitness of another.

They asked her how she would have her dress cut; but her thoughts were with Mary, and she answered not. As soon as she could be spared, she left the dressmakers, and returned to the chamber of the dead.

Again she wandered back with Mary to the scenes of their happy childhood. Again the tears flowed freely down her cheeks, and the spirit of the loved one seemed to speak to her from the heaven to which she had ascended.

“The milliner has come, and wants to try on your bonnet,” said the servant girl.

Mabel attended the summons and returned. Her grief was too deep to permit her to participate in the occupations of the sitting room, though her mother was compelled to be there, and had been there all night.

“Please ma’am, the shopkeeper has come over with some gloves, and they want you to pick out a pair,” said the girl again.

She had scarcely disposed of this matter before another demanded her attention; and thus it was all day long. The house was full of bustle and confusion. The tailor, the hatter, the hosier, and a score of female artisans were constantly coming and going.

The solitude which her weeping heart craved was denied her. On the morrow that loved form was to be borne away and placed in the ground. They could never behold it again; but from the hour that Mary had breathed her last, to the arrival of the funeral guests, she heard more of business, of the repulsive details of dress and fashion, than of those more appropriate words which solace the mourner in the hour of trial.