came the second night, and enjoyed it as well as any of them all.  But
she was not there on the third night, when something happened.  No one
else ought to have been there, for the frost had gone, and there was
water over the ice on some parts of the pond.  The meadow ice was safe
enough, but on the pond, where the water was not, the ice was like
glass, and thinner than they knew.

Especially was this the case where the weir brook fell into the pond, a
little below the bridge, at the place where the boys had taken their
sleds to "coast" down the hill and over the sloping bank with an impetus
which sent them flying over to the other side of the pond.  Young Van,
preferring to-night his sled to his skates, was there with the rest, and
either through bravado or want of skill, steered, or let his sled take
its own way, to the open water where the brook came in.  A cry from his
companions came too late to warn him, but it warned the others at a
distance that some one was in danger; and several were on the spot in a
minute or two, and among the rest Jabez.

"Who is it?  Young Van?  Yes, he is just the fellow for such a job,"
said he, taking off his skates and plunging into the water where the
boy's sled was floating, the ice cracking and crumbling beneath his feet
as he ran.  The water was not very deep, and young Van, gasping and
shivering with terror and cold, was passed over to the hands waiting for
him.

"And I say, you boys, keep back.  The ice at the edge is none too strong
to bear the half of you.  Be off home, or your mothers will be here
before you know it.  I mean to go the other way, if I can, and save a
journey."

All this time Jabez was struggling, and always into deeper water, with
the ice that would not bear his weight when he let himself rest upon it.
He could land easily on the other side, he knew, but then he must go
home by the bridge, a good half-mile and more, which he did not care to
do.  He struggled awhile, cheered by the voices of his companions; but
he had to give it up at last, as he owned afterwards he should have done
at first; and he was chilled to the bone before he reached home.

The next day young Van was at school--"as smart as ever," the boys
declared--and so was Jabez, but Jabez was not as smart as ever.  He
shivered and burned alternately till noon, and then he went home; and
that was the last that was seen of Jabez in the school that winter.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

GOOD SEED AND GOOD FRUIT.

There was a hard time before Jabez.  Rheumatic fever was among the least
of the troubles suggested as possible in his case by his grandfather,
when he came shivering home from the mill-pond that night.  But that was
happily averted by the prompt and skilful treatment of Dr Everett,
after just enough of suffering to make Jabez ever for the future rather
more sympathetic with the aches and pains of his grandfather.

Jabez, however, was not to escape his share of discipline; and his
trouble came, as most people's troubles seem to come, in the way which
is hardest to bear.  He did not have "the long spell of rheumatism"
which his grandfather had predicted, but he had what was worse.
Inflammation settled in the lad's eyes, and for a time he suffered great
pain.  He could have borne the pain patiently, even cheerfully.  That
which tried his courage and brought him low was the darkness--the
darkness and the horrible doubt whether he was ever to see the light
again.

He need not have suffered from this fear.  Dr Everett never really
feared blindness for him, and always spoke cheerfully to him about soon
being well again.

"But that is the way the doctors have of letting a fellow down easy,"
thought Jabez, taking less comfort than he might have done from the
doctor's words.

No visitors were admitted except those whom the doctor allowed to come,
and every day seemed like a week to Jabez, and the nights were longer
still.  In the daytime he could hear his grandmother moving about the
rooms, and the voices of chance comers and goers to the house.  At night
there was no sound but the rush of the wind, or the barking of his dog
Buff outside; and within the ceaseless tick-tack of the tall clock in
the corner, which said to him all manner of solemn things which he could
not forget.

His grandmother made him nice things to eat, and his grandfather sat
beside him a little while many times a day, and both were as good to him
as good could be.  His grandfather was faithful as well as kind, and
reminded him of past misdeeds--the sins of his youth, he called them--
and warned him of worse things that were in store for him unless he
turned from his evil ways.  It was "hitting a fellow when he was down,"
Jabez thought, but he listened in silence to all he had to say.  Indeed,
through all these dark days he lay without a word, fighting his battle
with his fears and his rebellious murmurs alone, asking help from no
one.

Fidelia came in to see him for a minute or two every night on her way
home from school, and gave him a summary of school work and school
events generally, and enlarged more than would have been wise at another
time on the amusing incidents of the day, for the sake of bringing a
smile to his sober face.  But even Fidelia got few words from him, and
it was a good while before she came to see how miserable the poor fellow
was in his solitude; and even when she saw it she did not know how to
help him.

"What are you thinking about, Jabez?" said she one night, when she had
scarcely got from him even the usual response.  Seeing the look on his
face, she did not wait for an answer.  "To-morrow is Saturday.  I shall
bring down the books and have school here, if doctor will let me.  Or
shall I bring Eunice?  Yes, if it is a fine day I will bring Eunice.
She has wanted to come for ever so long, but she has waited till she
should be able to have a good long visit with you.  If any one can do
you good, Eunice can," added Fidelia, laughing, though, seeing Jabez's
sober face, she did not feel much like it.

"I shall be glad to have Miss Eunice come and see me," said Jabez
gravely.

A good while after that, Jabez told Fidelia what he had been thinking
about that afternoon, and indeed what he had been thinking about most of
the time during these sorrowful nights and days.

"The `blackness of darkness for ever.'  Yes, I did feel hard.  I thought
I was going to be blind; and I would a great deal rather have died, only
I was afraid."

Eunice came to see him, but even Eunice did not seem to help him much on
her first visit.  Before her second visit, something had happened.  Mr
Swift had paid Dr Everett a visit, and they had had a little talk
together.

The doctor owned that he was anxious about Jabez.  No, he was not afraid
he was going to die.  It was his eyes he was in doubt about.

"Blind?" said Mr Swift.  "He'd better die."

"Only one can't die till his time comes.  Blind?  No, I am not afraid of
utter blindness.  But I almost think it would be easier for Jabez to
find himself blind than with just sight enough to potter about and do a
little.  He is a bright boy, Jabez, and ambitious."

"Dr Everett, do you suppose you know all that is to be known about the
eye and its diseases?  Hadn't you better have help?"

"I'd be glad to have help.  No; I don't know about the eye, as one who
has made it the study of his life must know it.  If Jabez could only
pick up a little strength I would take him to Boston, and hear what Dr
Blake would have to say about him.  It would be too great a risk just
now."

"Send for Dr Blake--why can't you?" said Mr Swift.

Dr Everett shook his head.

"I should like to.  But it would cost a good deal; and Deacon Ainsworth
is not a rich man."

"Send for him.  I'll stand the fee."

"It may be a big one."

"It won't cost more than my boy's funeral would have done," said Mr
Swift huskily.  "Jabez saved me that, they say."

It was a queer way to put it, Dr Everett thought.  Mr Swift went on--

"I'll go on to Boston and fetch him straight on here.  Days are precious
when a man's eyesight is to be considered."

And he was as good as his word.  Dr Everett saw him in a little while
driving his sleigh at a great pace, over half-bare roads, in order to
catch the afternoon train.

"He is something more than just a rich man," said he to himself, "though
I never thought it before."

The next day Dr Blake came.  He was an old man to look at, but he spoke
like a young man, and had the quick, cheerful ways of youth; and he had
wonderful bright eyes of his own.  He saw a good deal more in Deacon
Ainsworth's house than the eyes of Jabez, which he had come to see, and
his prescription went beyond them.  He spoke encouragingly of the eyes,
and gave a word of advice about other matters.

Jabez was to do his best to get strong and well, and he must be cheerful
and hopeful.  Nothing was so bad for a fellow as letting himself be
downhearted.  His eyesight was safe, as the doctor believed, but it
would depend on the state of the patient's general health as to how soon
and how rapid the change for the better in the eyes would be--and so on.
To Dr Everett he said--

"A solemn sort of place, Deacon Ainsworth's house, isn't it?  The lad
ought to get a change.  Is there nowhere you could send him after a
little while?"

He said this at Dr Everett's tea-table, where on that occasion Fidelia
was seated with the rest.

"Let Eunice have him for a little while," said she to Dr Everett.

"All right," said he, and explained the situation to Dr Blake.

"I have no doubt such a change will do all that can be wished, if Miss
Eunice is at all like her sister," said he politely.

So to Eunice Jabez came after awhile; and doubtless Eunice felt it to be
her duty to improve the occasion also.  But her way was not quite the
deacon's way.  It went farther, and circumstances gave it a better
chance.  For Jabez had got a glimpse of daylight by this time, and the
change was wonderfully pleasant to him.  His heart was tender too, and
the good seed of the Word which Miss Eunice let fall now and then, fell
into ground prepared for it, and in course of time it took root there
and sprang up, and, though Eunice did not live to see it, bore fruit a
hundred-fold.  Through the ministry of pain and a terrible dread, the
Lord Himself had dealt with him, and a great light had begun to shine
through the darkness, even before he knew that that which he feared was
not to come upon him.

It was a good while before he told this to any one but Miss Eunice.  It
was years before he put into words, for other men to hear, the vow which
he uttered to the Lord on the very first day when, standing by the fence
in Miss Eunice's garden, he could look over the field and the river to
the hills beyond--the vow to be His servant for ever.

In the meantime the winter school, in which Fidelia had won golden
opinions, came to an end; and the leisure which this brought to her was
as good for her as the constant occupation of teaching had been when the
winter school began.  She hardly knew what to do with her new liberty at
first.  She made plans for the wise disposal of her time, but these were
for the future.  For the present time she was content to go out and in,
to read or work, to visit or receive visitors with a free mind; and her
chief work which was also her chief pleasure, was taking care of Eunice.

Not that Eunice was supposed to need especial care just then.  She was
not strong, but her strength was not tried.  Household matters were
altogether in the hands of Mrs Stone, and in better hands they could
not have been.  Eunice was quite content that it should be so--a sign,
if Fidelia had considered it, that she was no longer able for the
lightest of her household work, which she had made her pleasure during
all the years which they had been alone together.  But Fidelia, at this
time, had no thought of fear.  It seemed to her almost as if the old
happy days, when she, at least, had no dread of coming sorrow, had come
again, with only the comfortable difference which the presence of Mrs
Stone made in the house; and she saw no reason why this quiet happy life
might not continue for years.

Jabez came often up the hill, after his return home, as soon as he had
strength to do so--a little too often, his grandfather was afraid.

"Don't you wear your welcome out up there," said he.  "Why don't you
go--" here or there, or to the other place which the deacon named.

Jabez troubled no one by his frequent comings and goings, for which his
studies, to which he had returned with quiet determination, made reason
sufficient.  He had had a talk with his grandfather about this in the
beginning of the winter.  He was going to college--that was certain.
No, he did not quite know what was to come after.  He "was going to be
President of the United States maybe," he said gravely; and at any rate
he was going to make himself fit for it.

His grandfather was by no means convinced of the wisdom of the boy's
resolution--indeed, he "worried about it considerable," as Mrs
Ainsworth had occasion to know.  He could not refuse to let him attend
the winter school, though he had told him it would pay him better to be
splitting reeds in Weir's swamp than in going to a woman's school--and
"only a girl at that," said the deacon, with good-humoured contempt.

Since his illness Jabez had been allowed to do as he pleased, but his
grandfather worried about him still.  Few boys had a better chance than
Jabez had.  There was the farm--not a large one, but as good land as any
in Halsey--which might be his as soon as ever the old folks were gone.
It might be his now as far as management and profits were concerned.
All the old folks would want was a home there while they lived.  Jabez
did not know his privileges--and so on.

"You go and talk with the doctor about it, and with Miss Eunice," said
his wife, a little weary of the constant theme.  So the deacon "freed
his mind" to Miss Eunice, making a grievance of his idea that she and
Fidelia encouraged Jabez in his determination to turn his back on the
old place.

"Not directly, may be," said he, qualifying his words after a glance at
Fidelia's face.  "But you set so much by books, and a chance of getting
an education, and all that--nothing else seems to count, and Jabez has
always thought so much of you both.  Well, I am not blaming you.  But
when a boy like Jabez begins to talk of going to college and being
President of the United States, there does not seem to be much hope of
him."

"Why not?" said Fidelia, throwing down the gauntlet, or, rather taking
it up.  "All the Presidents of the United States were boys once, and a
good many of them were just such boys as Jabez--farmers' boys or poor
men's sons who had to push their own way."

"But that is just what Jabez needn't do.  I am not rich, but neither am
I so poor that there need be any hardship in getting along right here in
Halsey.  The fact is, he is a sight too ambitious.  He thinks all he's
got to do is to go to college and come out again, and things will fix
themselves to suit him.  But he'll fail as like as not; and then where
will he be?"

"He can come home then to the farm," said Fidelia, laughing.  "But he is
not going to fail."

"Deacon Ainsworth," said Miss Eunice gently, "I am sorry you feel so
about Jabez.  I know it will be a trouble to you if he should go."

"Oh, well, as to that, I have other grandsons!"

"Yes, and I am glad for your sake it is so.  Jabez, is not going to be
President.  But if you think of it, almost all the men of mark in our
country that you or I know much about have begun by being just such boys
as Jabez."

"Yes, indeed!" said Fidelia; and she went over the names of half a dozen
who were prominent men in the State, and in other States.

"Yes, and even better men and greater men, in your opinion and in mine,
than some of these," said Miss Eunice gently; and in her turn she gave
the names of a good many distinguished ministers who had begun life as
farmers' boys, and the names of missionaries in whom they took interest
for their work's sake, as well.

Deacon Ainsworth did not get much help from Miss Eunice, nor from Dr
Everett either.

"Whether Jabez is fit to make a scholar remains to be seen," said the
doctor.  "But he has the fever on him, and he is bound to try."

"I know he is a smart boy," said the deacon dolefully.

"He isn't a boy any longer.  And I think he sees his way clear before
him.  You can't keep him at home on the farm, deacon, and you may as
well let him go, and help him along all you can."

All this had been at the beginning of the winter.  Jabez had gone to
school, and in the spring the deacon saw that he must let him go his own
way.  As to helping him along--that had to be considered.  But in the
meantime, till he should get strong again, Jabez was permitted to do as
he liked.  He had changed very much since the beginning of the winter,
especially since his illness.  He looked less like an overgrown boy, and
more like a lank and loose-jointed young man, who did not know quite
what to do with his hands or feet in certain circumstances, and who was
in danger of slouching somewhat, and of getting a stoop in his
shoulders, unless some one took him in hand.  Mrs Stone did him this
kindness, and to good purpose.

He changed in other ways.  He talked less, and it is to be supposed,
thought more.  But, though he was rather silent than otherwise, he was
as cheerful as ever, and more gentle and considerate at home.  His
grandfather could see the difference, and acknowledged a hope that with
his help the boy might come out right at last.  His help at this time
was given in a way that Jabez could appreciate.

It was the grandfather this time who proposed to Miss Eunice that she
should let Jabez have her garden again.  He was afraid of the mischief
found for idle hands, and he could not be satisfied that in his books
Jabez might find enough work to keep him out of any temptation to
idleness.  So the proposal about the garden was made by him.

Jabez had no objection.  The garden had paid well last year, and would
do better this year, he thought; and he knew that as much as he ought to
do with his eyes, in the way of study, would not be hindered by the work
of the garden.  So he sat and listened while his grandfather set the
matter in all lights, and assented quietly to all arrangements made.
Fidelia was listening also, and watching Jabez.  His silent and smiling
assent to all that was agreed on,--so different from the boyish
self-assertion which had amused them last year,--made her wonder.  His
manner to his grandfather also was very different.

"Yes," said Eunice, when Fidelia spoke of this to her, "Jabez is
changed.  His sickness has been blessed to him."

"His sickness, or something else, is making a man of him," said Mrs
Stone.  "The world will hear of Jabez before he dies."

"He is going to be President," said Fidelia laughing.  "One thing is
sure.  He is getting beyond _my_ teaching.  I shall have to look out, or
I shall be left behind."

There was more truth in Fidelia's admission than she knew.  Jabez had
indeed "taken a new departure."  He had a new motive for work, and he
worked better.  He had no troubled thoughts as to what he was to do, or
as to how he was to do it.  He knew all would go well with him, because
his life's work, and his life itself, belonged to Him who had all things
at His disposal, and Whose promise was sure that "all things shall work
together for good" to His children.

He could speak to Miss Eunice about these things when she encouraged him
to do so; he could not so easily speak to Fidelia.  It was about their
reading, as it had always been, and about the garden, that he had much
to say to her for a time, and there was enough to say about both.

Gardening was pleasant enough work as they did it.  They did not make
hard work of it.  Jabez sowed and planted; and, when the time came for
the disposal of the products of the garden, he was as pleased with the
results as he had been last year, though he did not show his pleasure
quite in the same way.  His success meant even more to him than it had
done the last year, for he saw more clearly the way before him, and the
end of the way.

And, after all, the real work of the summer was not done in the garden.
A good deal of it was done in his grandfather's old buggy, which carried
here and there the garden products for the benefit of the summer
visitors, who were this year more numerous than ever.  One book, and
sometimes more than one, in covers of thick brown paper, found a place
beneath the cushion; and the deacon's trustworthy old horse was allowed
to take his own way, and to choose his own pace along the hilly road
between Halsey Centre and Halsey Corners, while Jabez read or pondered
the wise words which they contained.

And more was done in the back porch when the time came for a pause in
the work of the garden.  There on fine mornings Miss Eunice sat with her
needlework, and Fidelia with her books; and it was her part usually to
read for the benefit of the three.  In this way were gone through a good
many books, and, among the rest, Fidelia's text-book on "The Evidences,"
which she acknowledged had been gone over rather hurriedly; and Butler's
"Analogy," which was one of the studies of the last year in the
seminary, to which she was beginning to think she might possibly go
again.  Neither of these would help Jabez in the preliminary
examinations to which he looked forward.  They might come in afterwards;
and he took part in the reading, and in the talk which grew out of it,
with an eagerness and a just appreciation which astonished the sisters.
All enjoyed these mornings.  Even Mrs Stone brought sometimes her peas
to shell, or her beans to pick over, so that she might share the
pleasure and the profit of the reading with the rest.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

"SO HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP."

And so the spring days passed, and the summer days shone over a happy
homestead.  Many a time Fidelia said to herself that she desired no
other work and no other pleasure than just to live as they were living
now.  And it did seem as though God was going to permit it for a time.
Her "bad dream" had vanished; if the thought of it came back now and
then, the sharpness had gone out of the pain which still touched her a
little.  She had not forgotten altogether.  Dr Justin had not allowed
her to forget.

He had written frequently--not to her, but to her sister--kind, pleasant
letters; the excuse for the first being to send her tidings of the
friend whose address had been asked and given on that last day, and whom
he had visited at her request.

He had found her a cripple and nearly helpless, but striving to do her
part still in the great educational institution to which her health and
strength had been given in her youth.  Then he added a few good and true
words about the hope and the help which had sustained this friend amid
all her labours and suffering--"as they are doubtless sustaining you,
dear Eunice, in the quiet of your favoured home."

Then he sent his respects to Mrs Stone, and added--"I was not surprised
to hear that Miss Faithful had chosen to remain at home with you; and
may the comfort and joy which her presence must give you be given to her
by the best Comforter when her day of trial shall come!"  In a little
while he wrote again, sending also a book which he was sure Eunice would
like; and after that he wrote with no excuse at all.

He told them about his new work in the college to which he had been
appointed professor, and about his friends, and his pleasant social
relations, and his outside work.  Eunice did not answer all his letters,
but she took pleasure in receiving them.  Kind brotherly letters they
were, which Fidelia read, and which they discussed a little, as they
might have discussed the letters of Dr Everett himself, if he had been
away from and had written, to them.

So the spring passed, and the summer wore on, till August came with
burning days and sultry nights, which told on the strength of Eunice,
already failing, so slowly that the eyes that watched her so lovingly
did not see it for a time.  Even Dr Everett saw no cause for alarm, nor
Mrs Stone, who watched her more closely than he did.

But Eunice knew that the end was drawing near.  Afterwards they all
wondered that they had not seen more clearly, remembering looks and
words which they might have taken for a sign that the joy of heaven was
not far away.  But so quietly passed the days, with so little to disturb
or tire her, that she herself did not know how rapidly her strength was
passing from her.

The close days of early August oppressed her, and made the change for
the worse suddenly visible to them all.  The end did not come without a
warning, as Dr Everett had thought it might come.  There were days and
nights of waiting before her still, when even Fidelia saw the tokens of
the last change.  There was no great suffering, only weariness and
exhaustion, borne sweetly and patiently, and a joyful waiting for "the
rest which remains."

There was a word spoken now and then to console or to encourage her
sister, who waited quietly beside her.

"You know all I wish for you, dear; I am not afraid for you.  You are in
a Father's loving hand, and by-and-by, when your work is done, you will
come to me there," she said to her, murmuring the sentences at
intervals, as she had the strength to speak; and Fidelia could answer
firmly and smile brightly.  For so deep was the peace and so sure the
trust of the dying, and so near the glory awaiting her, that no thought
of herself or her loss, or the lonely days that were before her, could
move her from the calm which had fallen upon her.  All was peace with
her also.

Once, at the beginning of these last days, a word was spoken by Mrs
Stone.

"About Fidelia, Eunice?  The time may come when she will long to know
what your wish would have been--have you ever said a word to her about--
Justin Everett?"

"No; I think there is nothing to be said.  Yes, I know--afterwards she
would give heed to any word of mine.  But it might not be the right
word.  No; I can leave this, with all else that concerns her, in the
hands of a loving Father.  He will guide her in this as in all things."

And so no care nor shadow of care came to darken these last days.  Truly
her eyes said to them, when her lips could not utter the words: "I will
fear no evil, for Thou art with me."  And, waiting and watching beside
her, Fidelia was for the time lifted above all fear or care or sorrow
for herself, and rejoiced in her sister's joy.

Thus quietly one summer morning she passed away.  So quietly, they--

  "Thought her dying when she slept,
  And sleeping when she died."

They buried her beside her kinsfolk in the little graveyard of Halsey;
and her memory still lives in the hearts of her friends and neighbours
who knew and loved her so well.

Then, for a time, life and all its interests seemed to stand still for
Fidelia.  She was weary and spent, and they left her alone to rest and
grow strong again.  By-and-by, with no word of appeal or entreaty from
any one, she came back to her old ways, and tried to take up her work
again.  It was not easy for her to do this, but it was easier than it
would have been had her loss come a year sooner.

"It is God's will that I should go first; and, dear, though you cannot
see it now, God's will in this, as in all things, is best," Eunice had
said to her many times; and she knew in her heart that it was true.

"And, oh, how much the best for my Eunice!" she said with many tears,
yet with submission also.

But her occupation was gone; and, though friends and neighbours did what
kind friends and neighbours may do at such a time, to cheer her, the
days passed slowly and heavily, till one night Jabez came up "to have a
little talk" with her.  She had not seen much of him since her sister's
death.  He had kept away, he told her, "because it hurt him dreadfully
to see her in trouble that he could not help."  It cannot be said that
she had missed him much, but she was glad to see him when he came.

Jabez's "little talk" was about himself, and nothing could have been
farther from his thoughts than a desire to give a lesson to his teacher.
But she got her lesson all the same.  They sat for awhile in the front
porch, which was bright with the glory of the sunset.  Mrs Stone was
there as well as Fidelia, and they spoke about various matters at first;
and a few words were said about Eunice.  When Mrs Stone rose to go
about some household duty, the others rose also, and went through the
house into the garden, and down the walk between the tall hollyhocks, to
the fence, where there was an opening between the apple-trees--a spot
where Fidelia always stood a minute or two whenever she came there.
They lingered for awhile in silence, looking down over the river flowing
softly between wide irregular meadows, and over to the broken hill
country beyond, beautiful now in the glow that fell on it from the west.

Something--perhaps it was the familiar voice of White Star coming
suddenly to her ear--brought back to Fidelia the remembrance of the time
when she stood there petting the pretty creature, the day after her
first return from the seminary--the day when Jabez came up to speak
about the garden.  It came back so vividly that when Jabez began to
speak his first words were lost in the surprise which seized her when
she turned towards him.

What had happened to the lad since then?  He was a boy no longer, for
one thing.  As he stood there regarding her with grave eyes, speaking
quietly and earnestly, he was very different from the lad who had come
whistling up the field, with his hoe over his shoulder, to greet her
that day.  A man?  Well, hardly that yet; but with the promise of
manhood on his good and pleasant face, to which, though she was tall
herself, she had to look up now!  A shadow passed over his face, and he
ceased speaking and looked away, as a smile, of which she was quite
unconscious, parted Fidelia's lips.

"I thought maybe you would like to hear about it," said he in a little,
without turning round.

"Of course I shall like to hear about it.  Excuse me; I was thinking
about something else.  You must begin again.  Do you know, Jabez, that
you are changed lately.  You are not a boy any longer; you are a man,
and I have only just found it out."

"A man!  No, not quite; but I mean to be a man one of these days," said
Jabez gravely.  "And I think now I can see my way."

"Well!  Tell me all about it."

There was not much to tell, but it took some time to tell it.  A letter
had come from an uncle of Jabez--his mother's only brother--written in
answer to one sent to him by Deacon Ainsworth, asking advice about the
future career of his grandson.  The uncle was a minister, living in the
far West.  He could do nothing for Jabez as to money, for he was a poor
man, but he believed that he could better help the lad to help himself,
in the part of the country where his home was, than could be done for
him in New England.  His own son, he said, with but little help from any
one, had paid his way through college; and he did not doubt that Jabez,
if he were the bright boy his grandfather described him to be, could do
the same.

"And so," said he, "you had better send him on.  This is a good country
for head-work and for handwork too--whichever he may prove himself best
fitted for--and we shall all be glad to see him when he comes."

"And," said Jabez gravely, "I think I'll go and have a try at it."

"But surely your grandfather might help you a little?  And Amhurst or
Harvard is the right place for you, Jabez.  Why do you wish to go so far
away?"

"About grandfather's help--no.  If I go I suppose Cousin Calvin will
come and take my place, and have the farm by-and-by, which is all right.
And grandfather will pay my way out there, he says.  And, as I expect
my life's work will be done out West, the preparation for it may as well
be done there too.  There is a good chance out there, uncle says."

"Why should your life's work be done in the West?  And what is it to
be?"

Jabez answered the last question first.

"Maybe you will think it presumptuous in me to talk of going in for the
highest work of all.  But I talked with Miss Eunice about it, and she
said she was glad.  If it hadn't been for Miss Eunice I shouldn't have
thought of it.  `Entire consecration to the highest work of all.'  That
was her idea, and it is mine."

There were tears in Fidelia's eyes, but there were smiles on her face as
well.  She did not speak, however, and Jabez went on.

"I don't just know what I'm fit for yet, but I do know that I don't feel
like holding back; and the Master will see about the rest.  He has all
kinds of work to be done in His world, and I will find something to do."

"Yes; and He has work to be done here in New England.  Why are you so
glad to go away?"

"Oh, I am not glad to go away!  But I am glad that I see my way to make
a beginning; and I mean to do my best.  It may not be a great deal that
I can ever do, but the Lord will accept the best I have to give."

"Yes; I am not afraid for you."

"And about going West.  A great country is being opened up there, and it
is being filled with all sorts of people in a wonderful way.  New towns,
and even cities, are springing up everywhere; and my uncle says that
what this wide land needs for true greatness is that the light of the
glorious Gospel of the blessed God should shine through every corner of
it.  I shall like uncle, I am sure," said Jabez.

"And you want to have a share in making the country great?"

"I want to do my part for my country and the world.  It is God's work,
and there doesn't seem to be anything else worth doing in comparison
with this `holding forth the Word of Life,' as uncle calls it, does
there?"

Jabez spoke with eager voice and shining eyes, and Fidelia listened
amazed.  And then she asked herself: "Why should she be amazed?"

It was true.  Jabez was right and wise in his choice.  What else was
there worth doing in comparison with the honour and blessedness of
having a part in this work?

"_And so far_," she said to herself, "I have neither part nor lot in the
matter."  Her face grew grave as she stood looking away to the darkening
hills.  Hitherto she had lived for herself and for Eunice.  Now Eunice
was gone, what was she going to do with her life?  What would Eunice
have liked her to do?

"Miss Fidelia," said Jabez in a little, "you'll be going back to the
seminary this fall, I suppose.  It is a good place to go to, I guess.
And it would be lonesome here now."

"Yes, it would be lonesome here.  Yes, I think I may go back again.
There seems to be nothing better to do than to go there.  Eunice always
wished me to go."

But she spoke sadly, and evidently without much interest.

"You will like it when you are fairly there, and have begun at your
books again," said Jabez.

"Yes, I suppose so.  It is best to go any way.  Eunice wished it."

"I am glad of one thing--I shall be gone first," said Jabez.

"Shall you?  When do you go?"

"Next week, if grandma can get my things ready.  Time is precious."

"She must let us help her," said Fidelia; and then there was silence
between them.  Fidelia was thinking of a letter which she had received a
day or two since, which must be answered soon.  Miss Kent had written to
her, inviting her to visit her in Boston for as long a time as she could
stay.  It was such a letter as it is good to write and to receive.
There were a few words of sympathy in her sorrow for her sister's loss,
and a few more as to the pleasant things to be done and seen and enjoyed
during the visit; but the best of it was the evident kindness and
sincerity of the writer in all she said.

Fidelia's desire to accept the invitation had been growing since the day
it came.  She longed for a change of some sort, and she needed it.  The
thought of the seminary and her books gave her very little pleasure.

"It is because you are tired," said Mrs Stone; but she did not, as it
was her first impulse to do, remind her that it had been her sister's
wish that the next year should be passed at the seminary.  "She will
think of it herself by-and-by."

Fidelia thought of it now.  "Time is precious," Jabez had said.  Surely
time ought to be precious to her as well!  She ought to go to the
seminary this year, if ever she meant to go; and, if so, there was no
time to lose.

And, besides, she knew on which side temptation lay for her.  An easy,
pleasant life among people who knew no other kind of existence; a chance
to see and hear and enjoy the beautiful and wonderful things of which
she knew little, except from books, would be delightful; but would it be
good for her?  Would it be a preparation for the work of which she and
Eunice used to talk and plan?--"the highest of all work," as Jabez had
called it, and "entire consecration to God's service."

"I must be a poor creature to have any other desire," she told herself.

In a little Jabez said--

"Miss Eunice said something to me once.  She said it made her glad to
think that I might be permitted to do some of the work for the Lord
which she would have been so glad to do.  Does it seem presumptuous in
me to say it, Fidelia?  I would not say it to any one but you," said
Jabez humbly; "and I owe everything to Miss Eunice."

"And what do I not owe to my Eunice?" said Fidelia to herself.  To Jabez
she said--"Yes, I know it made her last days happy to feel that perhaps
she had helped you a little.  And we must both honour her memory by
trying to do in the world what she would have loved to do.  I only
wish--"

Fidelia did not put her wish into words for Jabez's hearing.  It was
growing dark, and Mrs Stone's white cap at the porch door had been more
than once visible as a reminder that the dew was beginning to fall; and
they knew it was time to go into the house.

But Jabez had one thing more to say, over which he hesitated a moment.

"Fidelia, I want to say one thing more, if I may.  It was Miss Eunice
that made me think more about it, so I hope you won't be vexed.  You
haven't any brother, and I haven't any sister.  Suppose we--adopt one
another," said Jabez, with a laugh which had the sound of a sob in it.
"Miss Eunice told me more than once, that if ever the time came when I
saw you in trouble I must help you, if I had a chance, for her sake."

"Oh, my Eunice!" cried Fidelia; and she held out her hand to the lad.
And then, to her amazement, he stooped and touched it with his lips
before he took it in his own.

There were not many words spoken after that.  This was their real
parting.  They met several times before Jabez went away; but it was this
half-hour under the apple-trees that Fidelia always remembered, when the
thought of Jabez came back to her, with all the other memories of these
last days at home.  For these were "last days."

Fidelia came back again when her year at the seminary was ended.  Mrs
Stone was still in the old brown house, which in most respects looked
just as it had looked when she came home the first time, to find Eunice
waiting for her.  It was good to see her old friend standing to welcome
her at the gate, but her old friend was not Eunice.  And, though she
wondered that it should be so, and grieved over it, the house in which
the greater part of her life had been passed never seemed quite like
home again.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

FIDELIA'S PERPLEXITY.

This year in the seminary was far more profitable to Fidelia than the
former year had been.  The work which she had done so faithfully at home
told now.  She was not pressed or hurried by overwork in preparing for
her classes, and had time to take the good of other things besides
study.

Under the Christian influence lovingly and judiciously exercised over
them, not even the careless or unimpressionable among the pupils could
remain altogether untouched by some sense of their responsibility to the
Lord Jesus, or to the claims which He had on them to be workers together
with Him in the world which He came to save.  Fidelia, with softened
heart and awakened conscience, was now open to that influence, and
yielded to it as she had not done before.  There was no neglect or
misappropriation of the "quiet half-hour" morning and evening now, nor
of any other of the many means of grace provided for the benefit of all.

The scope and sense of all the teaching, as to duty, of the noble woman
through whose labours and self-denials the seminary was founded had
been--"Ye are not your own: ye are bought with a price; therefore
glorify God in your body and in your spirit, which are God's."

"No man liveth to himself."  One of her last utterances to the pupils
whom she loved and for whom she laboured was this: "There is nothing in
the universe that I fear, but that I shall not know all my duty, or
shall fail to do it."  She was dead, but her works and words still lived
and spoke through those who had come after her, and through them there
came richly to Fidelia the blessing which above all other blessings she
desired for herself--the wish and the power to consecrate her life to
the work which is the highest of all.  So she came back to her home in a
different state of heart and mind this time--she herself did not know
how different till she was among old familiar friends and circumstances
again, looking over the past and on to the future with other hopes and
aspirations than those which had made her discontented about the time of
her last coming home.

It did not seem quite like home to her in Halsey any more.  But she told
herself she would wait patiently and do faithfully the work which came
to her hand, till some opening should come to her of higher work in a
larger field as a teacher, and then she would strive to be such a
teacher as Eunice might have been in her youth, had not other work
fallen to her hand.

By-and-by something happened.  A letter came to her from Dr Justin
Everett which surprised her.  It was not the first time that he had
written to her.  After the death of her sister he had written a letter
of sympathy which she had answered briefly.  She had not answered other
letters which had followed, but this one must be answered.  It was a
long letter, telling her something of his youth and of his engagement to
her sister, and of the disappointment and pain which their necessary
separation had caused to them both.

He said he had returned to Halsey two years ago, hoping to carry Eunice
back with him as his wife; but in her state of health they had both seen
this to be impossible.  Then he went on to say how unconsciously at
first his heart had turned to the sister of the woman he had loved so
dearly in his youth, and how Eunice had not refused to sanction his
love, though she had utterly forbidden him to speak then or for some
time to come.  "Has the time come now when I may speak?  And will you
not listen to me?"  That was the sum of what followed, though many words
were used in saying it; and it must be owned that Fidelia was moved by
them--for a time.  If he had come himself it would have been a much more
troublesome matter.  But her dream had passed, and so had the pain it
had caused her, though it took a little time to make her sure that it
was so.  After reading her letter over again, she wrapped a shawl about
her, and went up the hill till she came to the turn of the road where
she had seen Dr Justin standing soothing his startled mare.  She could
think of it all quietly enough now, and her calmness might have helped
her to the knowledge of what her answer ought to be.  But she allowed
herself to ponder over it.  It was a pleasant life that was set before
her.  She might have a charming home, intellectual society, a chance to
improve herself, a chance also to do good to others.  There would be the
happy mean--neither poverty nor riches, and a home of her own; and for a
time she was not aware how the possibility of taking all this into
consideration, and of weighing it all quietly, proved that she did not
care for Justin Everett as she ought to do before she answered him,
"Yes."  There was the further question, though she scarcely dared to
pursue it.  Was the man who could thus transfer his affections really
worthy of her trust?  She shrank back when she thought of the past, as
if she were wronging her sister's memory.

"You are not worrying about anything, are you, Fidelia?" said Mrs Stone
at last.

"Worrying?  No; I hope not.  I don't think so.  Why do you ask?"

"Was the big letter that Calvin brought you the other day from Dr
Justin Everett?"

"Yes, it was," answered Fidelia, with a touch of vexation in her voice.

"I wouldn't have asked only--"

"Oh, there is no harm done!" said Fidelia, laughing.  "I hope not," said
Mrs Stone gravely.  "I have been expecting it ever since you came here.
You mustn't think I want to meddle, dear.  I want just to tell you
something that Eunice said to me.  Oh, yes!  She knew it might come some
time.  But she would not say a word about it.  She said that the Lord
would guide you right in this and in all other things.  And so He will,
if you ask Him."

Mrs Stone gathered up her work, and rose to leave the room.

"Tell me about it, Aunt Ruby," said Fidelia gently.

There was not much to tell.  For herself, Mrs Stone had not a word to
say.  Even when Fidelia asked her advice, she replied quietly--

"It seems to me you ought to have known what answer to send to that
letter as soon as ever you read it."  And then she went away, leaving
Fidelia to ponder her words.  She came back to add another word,
however.

"Let your answer, whether it be Yes or No, be final.  Don't let there be
any half-and-half doings--any waiting to find out what your real
feelings are.  You ought to know this minute all you need to know.  Say
it once for all."

That very day another letter came, not so long as the other, but it
brought help to Fidelia, in a way unexpected.  This letter was from
"Ella Wainright."  Fidelia knew that Miss Kent had married; but she did
not know that she had married a widower with children.  The letter told
her this, and it told her also that the two little girls who had fallen
into her hands more than filled them.  They had been spoiled all their
lives by two loving grandmothers and several aunts, all of whom had the
best intentions with regard to the motherless children.

"As for me," wrote Mrs Wainright, "I am to them the cruel or
indifferent stepmother of the story-books, and I should not have a
chance with them, even if I had any faculty with children, which I have
not.  They are bright girls of nine and twelve.  I might leave them in
school while I go to Europe with my husband, but that would not be good
for them nor right for me, and it would only be postponing, perhaps
increasing, the trouble.  I know you mean to teach, and I have heard
from your friend Nelly Austin that you covet hard work; and here it is,
ready to your hand.  You may name your salary.  You will earn it,
whatever it is.  We shall be in Europe two years at least, perhaps
longer.  You will have a chance to see much that every one wishes to
see, and you can improve yourself in your music, and learn a language or
two; and you can help me to do the same.  Do not decide against me till
you come over to Eastwood to see me."  And so on.

Fidelia came into the room where Mrs Stone was sitting with her letter
in her hand.

"Aunt Ruby, listen, and tell me what I had better do."  Then she read
the letter.

Mrs Stone listened, but she did not need to advise.  She saw that,
though she was not aware of it herself, Fidelia had almost made up her
mind to go.

"I think I would go over to Eastwood and see Mrs Wainright, and talk it
over with her."  And she would have liked to add--"You may as well write
your letter to Dr Justin before you go," but she did not.  "It is all
right, I guess; and I, for one, am glad of it."

Fidelia went to Eastwood.  If she had been inclined to hesitate over her
decision, she could hardly have done so.  Mrs Wainright took possession
of her at once.

"If it is a chance to do good that you desire, it is the very place for
you, for the children need you sorely."  And Miss Abby Chase, who had
seen the children, said the same.  Mrs Austin wished her to go because
of Mrs Wainright, who was not strong, and who did not seem to have a
chance with the children; and Nellie enlarged upon the delights of
travel, and the opportunities for self-improvement which she would
enjoy.  There was, besides, little time for hesitation.  Within ten days
they were to sail.  So Fidelia went home and wrote her letter to Dr
Justin, and set her house in order, and was ready to depart.

"Halsey will always be your home while you own this place, and so you
must keep it," said Mrs Stone.  "I don't know a more forlorn feeling
than for such a home-bird as you have always been than to find herself
without a nest.  We talked it all over, Eunice and I.  I'd as lief live
in your house as in my own, and I will pay you rent.  It's paid already
in a way.  Eunice had a little change of investment to make, under Dr
Everett's advice, about the time I came here, and I put something with
what she had in your name--just about enough to make the interest pay
rent for your house and land.  I'll keep up the place as well as I know
how; the rent may be put with the rest while you don't want, and it will
be handy when you do.  I thought it would be better to fix it so than to
put you in my will, because of Ezra's folks.  No; there is nothing to be
said.  Eunice knew all about it; and you can just think of me as keeping
house for you till you come home."

Fidelia did not say much, but she said just the right thing in the right
way when the time came.  It was the night before she left.

"Aunt Ruby, let us go down to the graveyard now.  We can go by the old
road, where we shall not likely to meet any one, and come home by
moonlight."

So together they stood beside the grave of Eunice, and spoke lovingly
and thankfully of her, and prayed in silence for each other.  And there
was no bitterness in Fidelia's tears, though they came in a flood as she
turned away.  For it was well with Eunice, and she knew they would meet
again.  She turned back when she had gone a little way toward the gate,
and, kneeling once more, kissed the dear name carved on the stone, and
prayed with all her heart that by God's grace she might be kept
unspotted from the world, till the time came when she should meet her
sister again.

And so Fidelia left her home--sad, but hopeful.

One untoward event happened before she set sail.  She had to meet Dr
Justin face-to-face, and give him his answer.  She was not many minutes
in his company, but they were full of pain to her.

Strangely enough, she caught her first glimpse of him from a window, as
she had done that day in Eastwood from Miss Abby's room; and, more
strangely still, he was walking as he had been walking that day, by Miss
Avery's side, looking down upon her, while she, with smiles and pretty
eager gestures, looked up at him.  For a minute Fidelia was not sure of
the nature of the feelings which the sight awoke within her; but she was
quite sure of one thing--she did not intend to break her engagement to
go with her friend and schoolmate, Mary Holbrook, to Cambridge, to see
at least the outside of the poet's house before she went away.  She
listened till she heard them enter the house; and, when she knew them to
be safe in the parlour, she went softly downstairs and out into the
street; and, though she felt a little ashamed of herself for running
away, she laughed heartily as she hastened on.  She enjoyed every minute
of the day, she told Mrs Wainright when--rather late in the evening--
she came home.  She had seen, not only the outside of the poet's house,
but also, through the kindness of a friend of Miss Holbrook, the inside
of it, and Mr Longfellow himself as well; and the day was a day to be
remembered for many reasons.

She saw Dr Justin in the morning, however, though she hoped she need
not.  There was not time for many words between them; but Fidelia's
words were spoken with sufficient decision.  Dr Justin had not received
her letter.  He had heard from his niece Susie that her friend was going
away, and he hastened to see her before her departure.  He asked for
nothing that would make it necessary for her to break her engagement
with Mrs Wainright.  He only asked her promise to return at the end of
the year, and give him her answer then.  But she refused to make the
promise, or even to correspond with him while she was away.

"I have spoken too soon; I will wait and come again," said he.

"You will not be wise to wait or to come again," said Fidelia gravely.

He came to the steamer with other friends of the Wainrights to see the
last of them.  Miss Avery was there among the rest; and, as Fidelia
watched them moving away together, she said to herself, that the chances
were few that Dr Justin would either wait or return to her again.

And so it proved.  Before the first year of her absence was quite over
there came to Mrs Wainright a letter from her cousin, telling her of
her engagement to Dr Justin Everett, and trusting that they might meet
them in Europe before many months.

"And so _that_ is well over," said Fidelia.

Fidelia's desire for real work by which she might do some good in the
world was granted during the next three years, and besides her work she
had both pleasure and profit; and little more than this can be told of
the time she spent away from her home, on the other side of the sea.
Her pupils respected her always, and by-and-by they loved her dearly;
and her influence over them was altogether good and happy to body, mind,
and spirit.  And as much as that can be said as regarded her influence
over their mother also.  During a long and tedious illness, which came
upon Mrs Wainright in Switzerland, Fidelia nursed and comforted her as
she could not have done had there not been mutual respect as well as
love between them; and to both mother and daughters her influence and
example was a source of blessing which did not cease when the time came
that they were called to separate.

This time came when they returned to America, for on going home to
Halsey Fidelia found Mrs Stone--not ill, but ailing; and she made up
her mind that it was her duty to remain with her old friend during the
winter.  Her pupils were to be sent to school, and needed her no longer.
Their mother needed her very much, or she thought she did, and
entreated her to return.  But, even if Fidelia had not thought it her
duty to remain with Mrs Stone, she would have hesitated about
returning, for she had not been long in Halsey before she made a
discovery which surprised her, and which made her ashamed.

After the first joy of welcome from old friends, and the first glad
renewal of old associations well over, she could not but own to herself
that she did not find life in Halsey altogether to her mind.  This was
not her discovery.  She had hardly expected to find it so.  She had had
some such thought before she left it.  Her surprise was, to find that
she missed--even greatly missed--the pleasant things which she had
become accustomed to during the last three years--the new books, the
music, the sight and touch of rare and beautiful things; all the
luxuries and the ease-giving which wealth dispensed judiciously,
sometimes lavishly, had secured to her friend's household, and to her
with the rest.  She missed the movement and the change made by the
coming and going of the many friends of the household--not merely the
ordinary friends and neighbours, but people of whom the world had
heard--men and women whom it was good to see and know.

The life had suited her.  It was not surprising that she should regret
many things which she had enjoyed while with the Wainrights.  Was it
wrong to regret them?  She might enjoy them all again in somewhat
different circumstances.  Would it be right and wise for her to return
at the entreaty of her friend?

"I must settle the question once for all," she said to herself.  And she
did settle it; and with it she settled another question which went
farther and deeper.  "Ye are not your own; ye are bought with a price:
therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit, which are
God's."  Would a chance to lead an easy, pleasant, even useful life in
the house of her friend cover for her all the ground which this command
covered?  She did not need a long time to consider the answer.  The past
she did not regret.  It was well that she had gone with Mrs Wainright.
She knew that she had helped the mother and the children to a better
knowledge of each other, and she trusted also that she had done
something towards encouraging in them a desire for a higher knowledge--
the knowledge which God alone can give.  She was glad in looking back;
but could she look forward and see that she had any special work for
these young people which their mother might not do better than she did?
And might she not be taking out of the mother's hands work the doing of
which would be for her good as well as for theirs?

And then as to herself.  Was "an easy time," with only light duties--
which could hardly be called work in any right sense, amid the luxury
which she had learned to like so well that now she missed it--was this
what she ought to accept for herself as the best and highest?  Did she
owe no more than this to Him Who had bought her with a price?  She was,
in a sense, quite alone, and at her own disposal, free from all ties of
relationship or friendship, such as might interfere with any work to
which she gave herself.  She could teach.  That had been her plan
always, and her sister's plan for her, because teaching undertaken and
pursued in a right spirit might be made a part of the highest work of
all.  This Eunice had coveted for her; she had coveted it for herself.

Yes; the faithful doing of such work might be made work for the Master.
Had she lost her desire to have a part in this work? she asked herself.
Had her easy life among the pleasant things of the last few years done
her this evil?  She had many thoughts about it, and, after a time, she
had some talk with Mrs Stone about it also.

"No; I don't think you are spoiled.  Your life could not have been a
very easy one.  Anyway, it hasn't spoiled you.  You had good work to do
over there and you did it pretty well, I expect, or they wouldn't want
you back again.  In one way it has helped you.  Yes, I think you could
now do good work in a better way for the advantages you have had, and
you are bound to do it.  If you don't, your privileges may become a
snare to you, and you may get to be satisfied with a kind of work lower
than the highest you are capable of.  `No man liveth to himself,' you
must remember."

"And the highest work I seem to be capable of, is to teach."

"There is no higher work, if it is done in the right spirit.  And it is
the work you have prepared yourself for.  If you are better fitted for
other work, you'll have a chance to try it.  It seems to be your work in
the meantime.  You may marry."

Fidelia shook her head.

"I am not sure about other work.  I know I can teach."

And so for the next few years she did teach.  In one of those large
seminaries which the Christian beneficence of many wise men of moderate
means, with the help of a few rich men, has established for the higher
education of the young women of the country, Fidelia found her work.
She was one of many who there worked willingly and well, in a field
where good and willing work rarely fails to give a full return.

It would take a long chapter to give even a glimpse of her experiences
during those years.  She was not without her troubles and anxieties, but
on the whole they were happy years.  For to be successful in good work
which one loves, and which one can do well, comes as near to true
happiness as most people ever come in this world.  Day by day, as time
went on, she was permitted to see the springing up of some "plant of
grace" from the seed which she had sown; and she had good cause to hope
that there were more to follow, for such plants do not die out, but
increase, and bear fruit abundantly as the years go by.  Once in a
while, but not often, she paused amid her work, to ask herself whether
she would be quite content in it all her life long.  It was a question
which did not need an answer, as she was quite satisfied with the
present; and the future, she believed, would be guided and guarded by
the Hand of love which had led her during the past.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

THANKSGIVING.

Fidelia had not lost sight of her friends during these years in the
seminary.  A few weeks of every summer were given to Mrs Stone and her
Halsey friends, and as many to Mrs Wainright and her daughters, either
in their own home, or at the seaside, or among the mountains, wherever
they chanced to be passing the summer.  The change and the happy renewal
of old associations did her good, and kept her interested in other
matters than those which concerned her daily life and duties.  Her
friends did not allow her to forget them.  Even Mrs Stone wrote
frequently to her, though the writing of a letter cost her more labour
than a day's housework did.  One or other of Dr Everett's family wrote
now and then, and so did the Austins.  With Mrs Wainright the
correspondence was constant.

"Come home to Thanksgiving," wrote that lady soon after the work of
Fidelia's fourth year in the seminary had commenced.  She had written
the same thing every year, but Fidelia had never been able to accept the
invitation.  This year she had a great desire to accept it, for various
reasons; so, though the journey was long, and the time she could give
for the visit was short, she found herself in her friend's house on the
eve of Thanksgiving Day; and among the many thousands who, throughout
the land, had that day turned their faces homeward, few could have been
welcomed more kindly than she.

Thanksgiving Day was kept in the town of C--much as it is kept
everywhere throughout the country, in which there is so much over which
a thankful people may rejoice.  Everybody, except the anxious
housekeepers who had dinner on their minds, was expected to go to church
in the early part of the day, and join in thanksgiving with their
neighbours.  The Wainrights all went, and so did Fidelia.  There were
many people present.  The service was simple and devout; the sermon was
appropriate; and all things went as usual till it came to the singing of
the thanksgiving anthem, and that went better than usual, because
Fidelia joined in it, and put all her glad and thankful heart into her
wonderful voice as she sang.

She even sang the "solo" which Mrs Wainright was expected to sing.  But
a whispered entreaty from her friend, which there was time neither to
answer nor to refuse, gave the honour to Fidelia.  Clear and full and
sweet rose her voice, and filled the house, thrilling and satisfying all
the listening hearts and ears with the melody, till the saintly old
souls among them asked themselves whether even the heavenly music could
be sweeter.

Some one sitting near the door rose when the other voices came in again,
and walked up the aisle till he came to a point where, looking up, the
choir in the gallery could be seen.  There he stood till the anthem was
ended, and then moved quietly away.  He was a stranger, and no one took
much notice of him at the moment, though some among them remembered him
afterwards.  Lucy Wainright noticed him, and spoke of it when she came
home.

"It must have been some stranger.  No one of our people would have done
such a thing," said she.

"It must have been that he wanted to see where the voice came from,"
said her sister.

"I do not wonder," said their father.  "Miss Marsh, how came you to take
the place of honour to-day?"

"I don't know," said Fidelia.

Mrs Wainright laughed.

"I don't know either.  I did not think of it a second before I spoke.
It was a risk, I acknowledge--or it would have been with any one but
Fidelia."

"A risk!  It might have caused a breakdown.  She might have refused."

"No; I was sure of Fidelia!"

And while they went on talking the door-bell rang, and the maid brought
in a card and gave it to Mrs Wainright.

"A stranger?  Did he ask for me?  I do not know the name.  Jabez
Ainsworth!"

Fidelia uttered an exclamation, holding out her hand for the card.

"I know him well.  He is one of my oldest friends, though I have not
seen him for years.  Shall I go and see him?"

"Do go," said Mr Wainright; "and, if he is a friend of yours, ask him
to stay to eat his Thanksgiving dinner with us.  He will have something
to be thankful for when he sees you, I should say."

"Of course--ask him to stay.  And don't be long about it, for dinner is
ready."

So Fidelia went in quickly, with both hands stretched out in eager
welcome to the friend whom she had not seen for so many years.

"Can it be Jabez?" she said softly, pausing before she came near.

"I need not ask if it can be Fidelia.  You haven't changed, except to
grow a little like your sister."

"Ah, my Eunice!"

Was it the dear name that brought the tears to Fidelia's eyes, and the
memory of so many sad and happy days?  She could not hide them except by
turning her face away, for Jabez held her hands firmly in his, and her
smiles came quickly as she looked up at him.

"You are a happy woman, Fidelia.  Your face tells me that before a word
is spoken."

"Happy!  Yes; and so glad to see you.  How can it have happened that we
have never met all these long years--never once since you left Halsey?"

"I have only been once in Halsey since I left it, and then you were on
the other side of the sea, where I have been since."

They ought to have had much to say to each other after so long a time,
but there was not much said for awhile.  Fidelia looked on the face and
listened to the voice at once so strange and so familiar, saying to
herself how changed he was--and yet he seemed the same.  He was a large
man now, dark and strong, not at all in these respects like the slender
sallow boy who had loitered about the garden in Halsey.  But it was
Jabez all the same.  He was very grave and silent for a time, and walked
up and down the room once or twice, pausing at the window which looked
out upon the street, as though he had something to consider or to
conquer before he could either listen or speak.  After a little he came
and sat down beside her.

"Well, Fidelia, you are a happy woman.  You have lived through your
troubles, and have come safely to the other side, thank God!"

"But, Jabez, it does not seem like trouble to look back upon it now.
Only think of my Eunice safe and blessed all these years.  Why, I have
not shed a tear for a long time--in sorrow!"

She might well add the word, for there were tears in her eyes and on her
cheeks while she spoke; but there were smiles on her face as well, which
made Jabez say--

"I thank God that you are happy now."

There was no time for more.  The door opened and Mrs Wainright entered,
followed by her husband.  She did not need an introduction.

"I am glad to see you, Mr Ainsworth, and sorry to interrupt you so
soon, but dinner is ready, and there will be time to visit afterwards."

Then she introduced her husband, whose welcome, though quiet, was
sufficiently cordial.  Then he said:

"I hope you have no other Thanksgiving dinner in view, for I think ours
is to be a good one; and we are very happy to see you."

"I supposed that I was to spend Thanksgiving in Halsey, but a mistake as
to connection, and then a breakdown on the road, left me here for the
day.  I shall be glad to give thanks with you, and with--Fidelia."

"I am sorry for your grandmother," said Fidelia.

"You need not be sorry.  My visit was to be a surprise to them.  It must
wait till next summer now.  I am going West again."

"Well, we will go to dinner now," said Mr Wainright, offering his arm
to his wife.  "Miss Marsh, you must show Mr Ainsworth the way."

"Miss Marsh?" said Jabez, turning astonished eyes upon her, as the
others passed out at the door.

"Why, who did you suppose me to be?" said Fidelia, laughing.

"I--I don't know.  I asked the door-keeper at the church who was the
singer to-day, and he said it was Mrs Wainright.  But I am very glad he
was mistaken."

"I sang to-day--"

"You cannot imagine how strange it was--how wonderful.  I had been
thinking about you all the morning--never supposing that you were within
hundreds of miles of me--and I heard your voice, Fidelia," he added,
taking both her hands in his.  "It is Thanksgiving Day indeed with me
to-day."

"And with me too," it was on Fidelia's lips to say, but she only said it
in her heart.  The joy that shone in her friend's eyes kept her silent,
though why it should do so she could hardly have told.

They went very soberly into the dining-room, where a few friends besides
the family were assembled.  Fidelia sat between the two girls as usual,
and Lucy whispered that her friend was the stranger who walked up the
aisle, and that it must have been to to see where the voice came from,
as Lena had said.

And Lena said: "How tall he is, and how strong!  He is not the least
like the lanky boy about whom you used to tell us funny stories."

Fidelia laughed and said softly, "Yes, he has changed--almost as much as
the little girls to whom the stories were told.  It is a long time ago,
you must remember."

Mr Wainright was not mistaken.  The dinner was a very good one, and
passed off, as all Mrs Wainright's dinners did, quite successfully.  So
did the evening with music and pleasant talk, and all else that was
required for success.  But it is not to be supposed that all this was
quite satisfactory to Fidelia and her friend.

"There were so many things I wanted to hear about," said Mr Ainsworth.

"And I too," said Fidelia.

"I shall see you in the morning before I leave, if possible," said he.

He came in the morning, and he stayed all day.

He could, by travelling all night, get to M--in time to meet an
engagement on Monday.  He should have had to do so if he had gone to
Halsey.

He had something to tell and much to hear.  He had, he thought, a right
to say that he had been fairly successful as a student.  He had had to
help himself, and had done so in various ways, but not more than was
right, or than had been good for him.  His last two years had been spent
in Germany.  He had gone there in charge of two lads, sons of a German
merchant in the West.  Of course he had availed himself of the
opportunity to go on with his own studies at the university, and now he
was going West to find his work.

It was a very poor sort of work in the opinion of Mr Wainright, who,
coming in at the moment, heard him say that the next few months were to
be spent in travelling through some of the newer states in the service
of one of the great missionary societies, with a view to the
encouragement and aid of weak Churches, and the establishment of new
ones, in the small settlements springing up everywhere.

"It will be hard work," said Mrs Wainright.  "And do you really suppose
it will pay?  Don't you think that all that sort of thing might be
safely left to the people themselves?"

"It seems to be the work laid out for me just now," said Jabez, not
caring to get into any discussion of the question.

"You might do far better work in an older community.  It is the majority
of the dwellers in our great cities which need most the civilising--or,
if you like it better, the Christianising--influence which strong and
good men can exercise in a community.  It is from our great cities that
power for good or for evil is sent out over all the land, in ways of
which I need not tell you.  If you have the will and the power to work
for your fellow-men, it is not to these remote and sparsely-settled
parts of the country that you should go.  You are needed more where
crowds would gather to hear you."

But Mr Ainsworth shook his head.

"I have the will to work, and I trust, by God's grace, to have also the
power.  But I think I am best fitted for such work as is needed out in
our newer settlements.  It will be hard work, perhaps, but it will be
work, direct and simple, for the good of men and the glory of God.  I
don't think I am so made and fashioned as to be likely to be very useful
among such men as fill our great cities."

"There are all sorts of men in our great cities; and you can hardly tell
what sort of work you are good for yet, till you try."

"And as to the importance of my work out there--it would be a good work,
wouldn't it, to help to educate and influence some of the boys who come
from country places to make the business men and the professional men of
the great cities?  Yes, and our senators and the governors of our
states.  You must know several country boys who have come to that."

"I know several certainly; and you may be right.  We have a great
country out there, which is getting filled up in a wonderful way with
all sorts of people.  God knows, some strong influence for good is
needed among them."

"Yes, that is our hope--God knows," said Mr Ainsworth gravely.

This was the beginning of a long conversation, during which each man
surprised the other, and each learned something from the other which
bore fruit in the life of both in after years.

East and West, North and South, the past, the present, and the future of
all sections of the country--all "the burning questions" of the day were
discussed.  Fidelia listened with shining eyes and changing colour, and
dropped a strong word in now and then; and all the time she was saying
to herself--

"To think that Jabez should have grown to be just the best sort of man!
And what a life lies before him!  I wonder if my Eunice knows?"

And Jabez, seeing her softened glance, knew as well as if she had spoken
her name that it was of her sister that she thought.

It rained all the morning, so that there was nothing said about showing
the town and the surrounding country to the visitor; and there was all
the more time for the talk which seemed to interest them all.  The rain
ceased, and the sky cleared a little in the afternoon, and a walk was
proposed.  Mr Ainsworth rose at once and looked at Miss Marsh.

"I shall be glad to take a walk," said she.  "I have heard so much talk
to-day that I need to rest my mind by tiring my body.  Come, Lucy and
Lena, get your wrappers and let us go.  Will you come with us, Mrs
Wainright?"

"No, I think not; and I am not sure about its being best for the girls
to go.  Had they better, Fidelia?"

"Because of the dampness?  It will do Lucy no harm.  Lena, perhaps, had
better not go."

"Oh, if one goes, they may both go!  I guess the damp won't hurt them,"
said Mrs Wainright.  And to her husband she said--"And if he has
anything to say to her, I guess he'll find a chance to say it."

Apparently Mr Ainsworth had nothing particular to say--at least nothing
which Lucy and Lena might not hear, for they all walked on together till
they came to the church.  It was a new and fine church, and visitors in
C--were often taken to see and to admire it; so when Mr Ainsworth
proposed that they should go into it, the girls at once set off to get
the keys.  They returned almost immediately, and with them came a
gentleman who told Mr Ainsworth, after he had been introduced, that he
knew more about the church than any one in C--, and could give them the
history of every nail and stone, window and door.  He did not quite do
that, but he gave them many interesting particulars as to construction
and cost, and the special advantages of the building generally over all
the other churches in the town, or, in fact, any other town.  Mr
Ainsworth listened and kept silence in a way which won the respect of
the pleased narrator, who probably was not always so fortunate in his
listeners.  He got through at last, or had another engagement and went
away; and then Jabez said softly--

"Miss Fidelia, do you know why I wanted to come in here?  I want to hear
you sing again, `For His merciful kindness is great toward us, and the
truth of the Lord endureth for ever.'"

"Of course I will sing it.  But I might have done that at home, and
saved you the deacon's lecture on architecture.  Oh, I must go up into
the gallery, must I?"

"Yes; and I will stand here, where I first caught sight of your face."

So Fidelia went up and sang with a glad heart, not the solo only, but
the whole Thanksgiving anthem, the two girls doing their best to help.
They did not linger long after that; and when they had left the church,
and the girls had gone to carry back the key, Jabez said gravely--

"I shall have that always to think about, till I see you again."

"And I hope that will not be so very long this time," said Fidelia.

It was not very long.  They met the next summer in Halsey.  There he
found her one summer morning standing in the garden, at the opening
under the apple-trees, looking down on the river and the meadows and the
hills beyond, thinking of many things.  There he found courage to say to
her all that was in his heart.

Not at that first meeting, however; though even then it would not have
surprised her or found her unready with her answer.  For they had
written to one another constantly since their first meeting at that glad
Thanksgiving time; and Fidelia knew all that letters frequent and long
could tell her about the work which he had found ready for hand, head,
and heart in the far West.  Now he had more to tell her.  He had been
called by the Church in M--, in the state of W--, to be their pastor,
and he had accepted the call.

There were just fifteen members in the Church, but they were all New
England men and women, of the right sort.  M--was only a small place as
yet, but the prospects were fair that it would be a city within twenty
years.  It would one day be a great commercial centre for a grand
stretch of country; and the faithful fifteen who had made their home
there meant that, in so far as it should be in their power to make it
so, it should be a centre of influence for good in the state, and in the
whole great country; and their pastor elect meant no less than that
also.  And when he had got thus far, he said gravely--

"Fidelia, will you come with me, and help in this great work?"

And Fidelia put her hand in his and said quietly--"Jabez, I shall be
glad to go."  And let the wise men of this world, and the rich men and
the mighty, say what they will, there is no greater or grander work to
be done under the sun than the work which these two, standing under the
apple-trees, agreed to help one another to do.  There is no work whose
success can avail so much for the happiness of the individual soul, for
the household, or for the community, and there is none whose success can
bring such wealth and honour and stability to the nation, as that
through which the hearts of men are taught to believe and know, and the
eyes of men are enlightened to see, that it is "righteousness which
exalteth a nation," and that "sin is a reproach to any people."

"Fidelia," said Jabez in a little, "do you suppose that Eunice knows?"

And Fidelia answered softly,--"If she knows, I am pure she is glad."
Before the summer was quite over these two happy people went West to
begin their work together.  A good many years have passed since then.
The place in which "the faithful fifteen" set up the standard is a great
city now.  They, and those who have joined themselves to them since
then, have kept the promise made in these early days to their Lord and
to each other.  And He who said, "Them that honour Me I will honour,"
has kept His promise to them.