"Gold rings are not given away," muttered Grant to himself, as the man
left the shop.

Some days after this transaction, a man named Harrison, who belonged to
the church of which Grant was a member, met him, when this little
conversation took place.

"I sent you a customer last week," said Mr. Harrison.

"Ah! I'm very much obliged to you."

"A gentleman who wanted a gold ring. He asked me to give him the name
of a jeweller upon whom he could depend. The ring, he said, must be
solid, for a particular reason; and, as he was a stranger, he did not
know who was to be trusted. I told him I would guaranty you for an
honest man. That if you undertook to manufacture any article for him,
he might rely upon its being done according to agreement."

While Harrison was uttering this undeserved compliment, it was with the
utmost difficulty that Mr. Grant could keep the tell-tale blood from
rushing to his face.

"He showed me the ring," continued Mr. Harrison. "It is a very handsome
one."

"Was he satisfied with it?" asked Mr. Grant.

"Not fully."

"Why so?"

"He was afraid it might not be solid. In fact, so anxious was he on
this point, that he took the ring to your neighbour, over the way, to
get his opinion about it."

As Mr. Harrison said this, Grant was conscious that a betrayal of the
truth was on his countenance.

"And, of course, Martin said the ring was not solid."

"No, he did not exactly say that. I went with the gentleman, at his
request. Martin weighed the ring, and, after doing so, simply stated
that gold of the quality of which the ring was made was worth a certain
price per pennyweight. By multiplying the number of pennyweights
contained in the ring with the price mentioned, he showed that you
either lost one dollar on the ring, or filled the centre with some
baser metal."

"Well?" The blood had, by this time, risen to the very brow of the
jeweller.

"'Cut the ring,' said my friend. It was done, and, to my mortification
and astonishment, it proved to be even as he had said. The ring was not
solid!"

For some moments, Mr. Grant hung his head in painful confusion. Then,
looking up, he said--

"It was his own fault."

"How so?" was inquired.

"He would not pay the price for a solid ring, and I could not give him
my work for nothing."

"Did you ask him a fair price?"

"Yes; and he answered, that my neighbour over the way had offered to
make him a solid ring, for just one dollar less. I knew exactly what
kind of a ring Martin could and would furnish for that money, and made
him one just like it. I gave him his money's worth, and a little over.
He was not cheated."

"But he was deceived. How you could have done such a thing, brother
Grant, is more than I can understand."

"I had to do it in self-defence; and this very Martin, who has been so
ready to expose the little deception, made the act necessary."

"I'm sorry you should have done so. It was wrong," said Mr. Harrison.

"I'm ready to acknowledge that. But it's too late, now, to repair the
error. I wish I'd had nothing to do with the matter."

"So do I," remarked Harrison.

This fretted the mind of Grant, and he replied, rather impatiently--

"Hereafter, I hope you'll send all customers of this kind to Martin.
Dear knows, I don't want them!"

"I shall certainly be careful in this matter," coldly replied Harrison,
and bowing formally, as he spoke, turned away, and left Grant in no
very pleasant frame of mind. From that time there was a coldness
between the two church members.

When Grant went to church on the next Sabbath, he noticed, as he
approached the meeting-house door, Harrison standing in close
conversation with one or two prominent members. As he approached, they
looked toward him in a certain way that he did not like, and then,
separating, entered the house before he came up. It was too evident
that Harrison had been communicating the incident of the ring. But
Grant was not surprised; he had expected nothing less. Still, he felt
that his brother member had not done towards him in the matter as he
would have liked himself done by. On entering the church, half a dozen
persons turned and looked at him earnestly; while two or three
whispered together, glancing towards him every now and then, and thus
showing that he was the subject of conversation. As to the theme of
discourse between them, his mind was in no doubt. The gold ring! Yes,
that was it.

But little edified by the sermon was Mr. Grant on that morning; and,
when the services were ended, he went quickly from the church, and took
his way homeward without stopping, as on former occasions, to shake
hands and pass a few words with friends and brethren.

It had been the custom of several leading members of the church to drop
in occasionally, during the week, and chat with Grant for ten minutes
or half an hour. But the time from Sunday to Sunday was passed without
a single call from any one of them. The reason for this was no mystery
to the jeweller's mind.

"I don't see that I've been guilty of such a terrible crime," said he
to himself, feeling a little indignant on the subject. "The man got his
money's worth; and, moreover, was served perfectly right. Did he
suppose that he was going to get fine gold for the price of solder? If
so, he found himself mistaken. As for Harrison, he's made himself
remarkably busy about the matter. I would not trust him in a similar
case. But it is so pleasant to discourse on evil in our neighbour. So
very pleasant! The good he does is left to find its own way to the
light as best it can; but let him commit a mistake or make a single
false step, and it is preached from house-top."

When Grant and Harrison met, there was a mutual reserve and coldness.

"He is conscious, I am aware, of his wrong dealing," said the latter to
himself, "and therefore shuns me."

"He is aware that he has tried to injure me," said the former, "and
cannot, therefore, meet me as of old."

Two or three weeks passed before the friends who used to drop in to see
him almost every day showed themselves in his shop, and then there was
a too evident change of manner. They appeared distant and reserved, and
he met them with a like exterior. His pride was touched.

"Just as they like," he said to himself. "I can get on without them. I
presume, if all our hearts were laid open, mine would be found quite as
good as theirs. As for Perkins and Marvel, they needn't set themselves
up over me. I think I know them. Men who cut as close as they do in
dealing, generally cut a little from the side that doesn't belong to
them."

Perkins and Marvel, here alluded to, had long been on friendly terms
with Mr. Grant--visiting at his shop--for the purpose of a little
friendly chit-chat--every few days. But a coldness now took place, and,
in a few weeks, they ceased their friendly calls.

In various other ways was Mr. Grant conscious of a reaction upon
himself of his improper conduct. Hundreds of times did he mentally
regret the weakness and love of gain which had prompted him to so far
lose sight of what was just and honourable as to deceive a customer. So
painful was his sense of mortification, that, for a time, he omitted to
attend church on Sunday. Not only was he satisfied that every one in
the congregation knew about the ring, but he could clearly perceive a
change in the manner of his most intimate acquaintances who were
members of the church.

Grant was not a man entirely sold to selfishness. He was not a
deliberate wrong-doer, hiding his evil purposes and acts under a
hypocritical exterior. He had conscience, and, at times, its voice was
loud and distinct. He was, therefore, troubled about the ring as a fact
indicating the state of his affections; as well as troubled about the
condemnatory judgment of his brethren. There were fluctuations of
state, of course, as there are with all of us. Sometimes he was in a
state of humiliation on account of the evil he had done, and sometimes
in a state of indignation at Harrison for having, been so eager to
publish his fault from the house-top.

Gradually, however, the ever-recurring new purposes and interests which
come to all in passing through life, threw the past with its influences
into the shade, and the returns of states of mortification on account
of the ring were less and less frequent. Mr. Grant resumed his
attendance at church, and mingled, as of old, with his brethren; though
in a rather more subdued and less confident spirit. That affair of the
ring could not be entirely forgotten.

In due course of time, the minister on the station had to leave, and a
new one was appointed by the conference to take his place. The Rev. Mr.
C-- arrived early in the week, and during the period that elapsed
between that and the Sabbath, visited a good deal among the brethren.
During that time, an evening was spent at Mr. Harrison's, but no one
brought him around to introduce him to Mr. Grant. The jeweller felt
this, and in his mind, in searching about for reasons, rested, very
naturally, upon the affair of the gold ring, and he did not doubt but
the occurrence had been fully related to Mr. C--.

Under this feeling, Mr. Grant went to church. His first sight of the
new preacher was when he arose in the pulpit to give out the hymn. His
countenance did not make a very favourable impression, but his voice,
when he commenced reading the hymn, had a tone and a modulation that
were pleasing. The subject of the discourse which followed was
practical, and had reference to a man's conduct towards his fellow-man
in the common affairs of life. From general propositions, the minister,
after entering upon his sermon, came down to things particular. He
dwelt upon the love of dominion so deeply rooted in the human heart,
and showed, in various ways, how it was exercised by individuals in all
the grades of common society.

"A more deeply-rooted evil than this," he went on to say, "is theft. We
all inherit, in a greater or less degree, the desire to possess our
neighbour's goods; and, with the earliest development of the mind,
comes the activity of that desire. It is seen in the child when he
appropriates the plaything of another child, and in the so-called good
and honest citizen when, in bargaining, he secures an advantage at the
expense of his brother."

Descending, gradually, to the introduction of particular forms of
overreaching as practised in trade, all of which Mr. C-- designated as
instances of theft, he finally brought forward an instance so nearly
resembling the one in which Mr. Grant had been engaged, that the latter
felt himself, as has been seen, particularly pointed out, and left the
church at the close of the service in a state of excitement and
indignation. To have that old matter, about which he had already
suffered enough, "raked over," as he said, "and exposed to light
again," was a little more than he was disposed to submit to with
patience. As has been seen, he did not conceal what was in his mind.

On Monday, a brother-member of the church dropped in to see the
jeweller.

"How did you like Mr. C--?" was the natural inquiry.

"Not at all," replied Mr. Grant, in a positive tone.

"You didn't? Why, I was delighted with him! What is your objection?"

"He was personal in his discourse."

"I perceived nothing personal."

"Though I did, and of the grossest kind."

"How was it possible for a stranger like Mr. C-- to be personal? He
knows nothing of the characters or conduct of individuals here."

"Strangers generally have quick ears, and there are always plenty of
news-venders to fill them. He's been with the Harrisons, and we all
know what they are."

"To whom did he refer?" was asked.

"He referred to me."

"To you?"

"Certainly he did. And I don't like it at all. That's not the way to
preach the gospel. This running off with one side of a story, and,
taking all for granted, holding a man up to public odium, is not, as I
conceive, following in the footsteps of our Great Master."

"I'm sorry you should have taken up such an impression," was replied to
this. "I cannot believe that Mr. C-- really intended to hold you up to
public odium. He couldn't have meant to designate you."

"He must have meant me. Don't I know?"

So another and another objection was made to Mr. C-- on the same
ground; and before the week was out, it was pretty widely known that
the new preacher had indulged in reprehensible personalities. Some said
this was an error in the preacher; others, that he was highly blamable;
while others affirmed that there must be some mistake about the matter.

On the following Sunday, Mr. Grant was absent from his usual place in
the church. It would do him no good to sit under the ministry of Mr.
C--.

During the week that followed, two of the official members called upon
the jeweller to make inquiries about the alleged personalities. Grant
was, by this time, pretty sore on the subject, and when allusion was
made to it, he gave his opinion of the preacher in no very choice
language.

"In what did this personality consist?" asked one of the visitors.

"It's hardly necessary to ask that question," replied Grant.

"It is for me. No one, whom I have yet seen, has been able to give me
any information on the subject."

"If you ask Mr. C--, he will enlighten you."

"I have already done so."

"You have?"

"Yes."

"What was his reply?"

"That he is innocent of the personality laid to his charge."

"Did you mention my name?"

"I did."

"Well?"

"He had not even heard of you as a member of the church here."

"I can hardly credit that, after what he said."

"You will, at least, give him the chance of vindication. He is now at
my house, and has expressed a wish to see you."

"I don't know that any good will grow out of seeing him," said Mr.
Grant, who felt but little inclined to meet the preacher.

"I'm sorry to hear you say that, Mr. Grant. You have made a complaint
against Mr. C--, and when he wishes to confer with you on the subject,
you decline, under the assumption that no good can arise from it. This
is not right; and I hope you will think better of it."

"Perhaps it isn't right; but so it is. At present, I do not wish to see
him. I may feel differently to-morrow."

"Shall we call upon-you in the morning?"

"If you please to do so."

"Very well."

And the two official members departed.

No sooner were they gone, than Mr. Grant put or his hat and left his
shop. He went direct to the store of Mr. Harrison.

"You are just the man I was thinking about," said the latter, as the
jeweller entered. "What is all this trouble about you and Mr. C--? I
hear some rumour of it at every turn."

"That is just what I have come to see you about."

"Very well; what can I do in the matter? Mr. C--, you allege, has held
you up in the congregation to public odium?"

"I do."

"In what way?"

"Strange that you should ask the question."

"Why so? What have I to do with it?"

"A great deal," said Grant, his brows falling as he spoke.

"I must plead innocence until shown my guilt. So far, I have not even
been able to learn in what the allusion to yourself consisted."

"_You_ have not?"

"No."

Grant stood, tightly compressing his lips, for some moments. He then
said:

"You remember that affair of the gold ring?"

"Very well."

"You mentioned this to C--."

"No. Nor to a living soul since the occurrence of the fact."

"What?"

"Nothing on that subject has ever passed my lips. I believed that you
saw and repented of your error, and in honour and in conscience
refrained from even the remotest allusion to the subject."

"How, then, did Mr. C-- become cognisant of the fact?"

"If cognisant all, it was from another source than the one you
supposed."

"I never mentioned it. You were the only one to whom the circumstance
was communicated. How, then, could the matter have gotten abroad?"

"I don't believe a single member of the congregation ever heard of it."

"Oh, yes, they have. These has been a marked change in the manner of
very many towards me. So apparent was this at one time, that I absented
myself from church, rather than encounter it."

"All your imagination, brother Grant, and nothing else. I believe that
I mingle as freely with the congregation as any one, and I know that I
never heard a breath against you. At present, every one is at a loss to
know in what way Mr. C-- pointed you out; he is equally in the dark."

"I was sure he meant me. It was so plain," said Mr. Grant, his
countenance falling, and his manner becoming subdued.

"There was nothing of the kind, you may depend upon it," replied Mr.
Harrison.

"And you never spoke of it?"

"Never!"

"A guilty conscience, it is said, needs no accuser. The likeness to me
was so strong, that I really thought the picture was sketched from
myself as the original. Ah, me!"

"Had you not better call on Mr. C--?" asked Harrison.

"No, no. See him for me, if you please, and tell him that I am
convinced of my error in supposing he pointed me out in the
congregation. As to the particular allusion that I felt to be
offensive, I hope you will still keep your own counsel. I did wrong,
under temptation, and have suffered and repented in consequence. It can
do no good to bring the matter to light now."

"None at all. I will not speak of it."

Nor did he. Many and various were the suggestions and suppositions of
the congregation touching the nature of the preacher's personal
allusion to the jeweller, and some dozen of little gossiping stories
got into circulation; but the truth did not find its way to the light.
And not until the day on which he was leaving the station for a new
field of labour, did the preacher himself understand the matter; and
then he had it from Mr. Grant's own lips.

FOR THE FUN OF IT.

"JUST look at them young lovers," said Harry Mears, glancing from his
companion to a young man and maiden, who, for the moment unconscious
that they were in the midst of a large company, were leaning towards
each other, and looking into each other's faces in rather a remarkable
manner. "Isn't it ridiculous? I thought Fisher had more sense than to
do so. As to Clara Grant, she always was a little weak."

The friend looked at the couple an smiled. "It is ridiculous,
certainly," he remarked. "Why havn't they sense enough to keep these
little love-passages for private occasions?"

"Clara, with all her silliness used to be a right pleasant companion,"
said Mears. "But since this love affair between her and Fisher, she has
become intolerably dull and uninteresting. She doesn't care a fig for
anybody but him, and really appears to think it a task to be even
polite to an old acquaintance. I don't think she has cause to be quite
so elated with her conquest as this comes to; nor to feel that, in
possessing the love of a man like Fisher, she is independent of the
world, and may show off the indifference she feels to every one. Fisher
is clever enough, but he is neither a Socrates nor a saint."

"He will suit her very well, I imagine."

"Yes; they will make a passable Darby and Joan, no doubt. Still, it
always vexes me to see people, who pretend to any sense, acting in this
way."

"I think it is more her fault than his."

"So do I. She has shown a disposition to bill and coo from the first.
At Mangum's party, last week, she made me sick. I tried to get her hand
for a dance, but no. Close to the side of Fisher she adhered, like a
fixture, and could hardly force her lips into a smile for any one else.
The gipsy! I'd punish her for all this, if I could just hit upon a good
plan for doing it."

"Let me see," remarked the friend, dropping his head into a thoughtful
position, "can't we devise a scheme for worrying her a little? She is
certainly a fair subject. It would be fine sport."

"Yes, it would."

"She evidently thinks Fisher perfection."

"Oh, yes! There never was such a man before! She actually said to
Caroline Lee, who was trying to jest with her a little, that Fisher was
one of the most pure-minded, honourable young men living."

"Oh, dear."

"It is a fact."

"Was she serious?"

"Yes, indeed! Serious as the grave. Caroline was laughing to me about
it. Nearly every one notices the silliness of her conduct, and the
weakness she displays in forever talking about and praising him."

"I would like to run him down a little when she could overhear me, just
for the fun of the thing."

"So would I. Capital! That will do, exactly. We must watch an
opportunity, and if we can get within earshot of her, any time that she
is by herself, we must abuse Fisher right and left, without appearing
to notice that she is listening to what we say, or, indeed, anywhere
near us."

"Right! That's the very thing. It will be capital fun."

Thus, the thoughtless young men, meddling themselves in a matter that
did not concern them, determined upon a very questionable piece of
folly. All that they said of the lovers was exaggeration. It was true
that they did show rather more preference for each other in company
than just accorded with good taste; but this, while it provoked a smile
from the many, irritated only the few.

Clara Grant, notwithstanding the light manner in which the two young
men had spoken of her, was a girl of good sense, good principles, and
deep feeling, She had been several times addressed by young men before
Fisher offered his hand; but, with all their attractions, there were
defects about them, which her habits of close observation enabled her
to see, that caused her to repel their advances, and in two instances
to decline apparently very advantageous offers of marriage. In the
integrity of Fisher's character, she had the most unbounded confidence;
and she really believed, as she had said to Caroline Lee and others,
that he was one of the purest-minded, most honourable young men living.

Judge, then, with what feelings she overheard, about half an hour after
the plan to disturb her peace had been formed, the following
conversation between Mears and his companion, carried on in low tones
and in a confidential manner. She was sitting close to one side of the
folding-doors that communicated between the parlours, and they were in
the adjoining room, concealed from her by the half-partition, yet so
close that every word they uttered was distinctly heard. Her attention
was first arrested by hearing one of them say--

"If she knew Fisher as well as I do."

To which the other responded--

"Yes; or as well as I do. But, poor girl! it isn't expected that she is
to know every thing about young men who visit her. It is better that
she should not."

"Still, I am rather surprised that common report should not have given
her more information about Fisher than she seems to possess."

"So am I. But she'll know him better one of these days."

"I'll warrant you that! Perhaps to her sorrow; though I hope things
will turn out differently from what they now promise. Don't you think
he is pretty well done with his wild oats?"

"Possibly. But time will tell."

"Yes, time proves all things."

Some one joining the young men at this point of their conversation, the
subject was changed. Greatly amused at what they had done, they little
thought how sad the effects of their unguarded words would be.

Five minutes afterwards, the young man named Mears, curious to see how
Clara had been affected by what he knew she must have heard, moved to
another part of the room, in order to observe her without attracting
her attention. But she had left the place where she was sitting. His
eye ranged around the room, but she was nowhere to be seen.

"I'm afraid we've hurt Clara more than we intended," he said, rejoining
his friend. "She has vanished."

"Ah! Where's Fisher?"

"He's at the other end of the room."

"We didn't say any thing against the young man."

"Not in particular. We made no specifications. There was nothing that
she could take hold of."

"No, of course not. But I wonder what is going to be the upshot of the
matter?"

"Nothing very serious, I apprehend."

"No. I suppose she will go home and cry her eyes half out, and then
conclude that, whatever Fisher may have been, he's perfection now. It's
a first-rate joke, isn't it?"

Clara Grant had not only left the parlours, but soon after quietly left
the house, and alone returned to her home. When her lover, shortly
afterwards, searched through the rooms for her, she was nowhere to be
seen.

"Where is Clara?" he asked of one and another. The answer was--

"I saw her here a moment since."

But it was soon very apparent that she was nowhere in the rooms now.
Fisher moved about uneasy for half an hour. Still, not seeing her, he
became anxious lest a sudden illness had caused her to retire from the
company. More particular inquiries were made of the lady who had given
the entertainment. She immediately ascertained for him that Clara was
not in the house. One of the servants reported that a lady had gone
away alone half an hour before. Fisher did not remain a single moment
after receiving this intelligence, but went direct to the house of
Clara's aunt, with whom she lived, and there ascertained that she had
come home and retired to her room without seeing any of the family.

His inquiry whether she were ill, the servant could not answer.

"Have you seen anything of Clara yet?" asked the friend of Mears, with
a smile, as they met about an hour after they had disturbed the peace
of a trusting, innocent-minded girl, "just for the fun of it."

"I have not," replied Mears.

"Where's Fisher?"

"He is gone also."

"Ah, indeed! I'm sorry the matter was taken so seriously by the young
lady. It was only a joke."

"Yes. That was all; and she ought to have known it."

On the next day, Fisher, who had spent a restless night, called to ask
for Clara as early as he could do so with propriety.

"She wishes you to excuse her," said the servant, who had taken up his
name to the young lady.

"Is she not well?" asked Fisher.

"She has not been out of her room this morning. I don't think she is
very well."

The young man retired with a troubled feeling at his heart. In the
evening he called again; but Clara sent him word, as she had done in
the morning, that she wished to be excused.

In the mean time, the young lady was a prey to the most distressing
doubts. What she had heard, vague as it was, fell like ice upon her
heart. She had no reason to question what had been said, for it was, as
far as appeared to her, the mere expression of a fact made in
confidence by friend to friend without there being an object in view.
If any one had come to her and talked to her after that manner, she
would have rejected the allegations indignantly, and confidently
pronounced them false. But they had met her in a shape so unexpected,
and with so much seeming truth, that she was left no alternative but to
believe.

Fisher called a third time; but still Clara declined seeing him. On the
day after this last attempt, he received a note from her in these, to
him, strange words:--

"DEAR SIR:--Since I last met you, I have become satisfied that a
marriage between us cannot prove a happy one. This conclusion is far
more painful to me than it can possibly be to you. You, I trust, will
soon be able to feel coldly towards her whose fickleness, as you will
call it, so soon led her to change her mind; but a life-shadow is upon
my heart. If you can forget me, do so, in justice to yourself. As for
me, I feel that--but why should say this? Charles, do not seek to
change the resolution I have taken, for you cannot; do not ask for
explanations, for I can give none. May you be happier than I can ever
be! Farewell.

"CLARA."

"Madness!" exclaimed Charles Fisher, as he crumpled this letter in his
hand. "Is there no faith in woman?"

He sought no explanation; he made no effort to change her resolution;
he merely returned this brief answer--

"Clara, you are free."

It was quickly known among the circle of their friends that the
engagement between Fisher and Clara had been broken off. Mears and his
friend, it may be supposed, did not feel very comfortable when they
heard this.

"I didn't think the silly girl would take it so seriously," remarked
one to the other.

"No; it was a mere joke."

"But has turned out a very serious one."

"I guess they'll make it up again before long."

"I hope so. Who would have believed it was in her to take the matter so
much at heart, or to act with so much decision and firmness? I really
think better of the girl than I did before, although I pity her from my
heart."

"Hadn't we better make an effort to undo the wrong we have done?"

"And expose ourselves? Oh, no! We must be as still as death on the
subject. It is too serious an affair. We might get ourselves into
trouble."

"True. But I cannot bear to think that others are suffering from an act
of mine."

"It is not a pleasant consciousness, certainly. But still, to confess
what we have done would place us in a very awkward position. In fact,
not for the world would I have an exposure of this little act of folly
take place. It would affect me in a certain quarter--where, I need not
mention to you--in a way that might be exceedingly disagreeable."

"I didn't think of that. Yes, I agree with you that we had best keep
quiet about it. I'm sorry; but it can't be helped now."

And so the matter was dismissed.

No one saw Clara Grant in company for the space of twelve months. When
she did appear, all her old friends were struck with the great change
in her appearance. As for Fisher, he had left the city some months
before, and gone off to a Southern town, where, it was said, he was in
good business.

The cause of estrangement between the lovers remained a mystery to
every one. To all questions on the subject, Clara was silent. But that
she was a sufferer every one could see.

"I wish that girl would fall in love with somebody and get married,"
Mears remarked to his friend, about two years after they had passed off
upon Clara their good joke. "Her pale, quiet, suffering face haunts me
wherever I go."

"So do I. Who could have believed that a mere joke would turn out so
seriously?"

"I wonder if he is married yet?"

"It's doubtful. He appeared to take the matter quite as hard as she
does."

"Well, it's a lesson to me."

"And to me, also."

And, with this not very satisfactory conclusion, the two friends
dropped the subject. Both, since destroying, by a few words spoken in
jest, the happiness of a loving couple, had wooed and won the maidens
of their choice, and were now married. Both, up to this time, had
carefully concealed from their wives the act of which they had been
guilty.

After returning home from a pleasant company, one evening, at which
Clara was present, the wife of Mears said to him--

"You did not seem to enjoy yourself to-night. Are you not well?"

"Oh, yes; I feel quite well," returned Mears.

"Why, then, did you look so sober?"

"I was not aware that I looked more so than usual."

"You did, then. And you look sober now. There must be some cause for
this. What is it, dear?"

Mears was by no means ignorant of the fact that he felt sober. The
presence of Clara distressed him more, instead of less, the oftener he
met her. The question of his wife made him feel half inclined to tell
her the truth. After thinking for a moment, he said--

"I have felt rather graver than usual to-night. Something brought to my
recollection, too vividly, a little act of folly that has been attended
with serious consequences."

His wife looked slightly alarmed.

"It was only a joke--just done for the fun of the thing; but it was
taken, much to my surprise, seriously. I was innocent of any desire to
wound; but a few light words have made two hearts wretched."

Mrs. Mears looked at her husband with surprise. He continued--

"You remember the strange misunderstanding that took place between
Clara Grant and young Fisher, about two years ago?"

"Very well. Poor Clara has never been like herself since that time."

"I was the cause of it."

"You!" said the wife, in astonishment.

"Yes. Clara used to make herself quite conspicuous by the way she acted
towards Fisher, with whom she was under an engagement of marriage. She
hardly saw anybody in company but him. And, besides, she made bold to
declare that he was about as near to perfection as it was possible for
a young man to come. She was always talking about him to her young
female friends, and praising him to the skies. Her silly speeches were
every now and then reported, much to the amusement of young men to
whose ears they happened to find their way. One evening, at a large
party, she was, as usual, anchored by the side of her lover, and
showing off her fondness for him in rather a ridiculous manner. A young
friend and myself, who were rather amused at this, determined, in a
thoughtless moment, that we would, just for the fun of the thing, run
Fisher down in a confidential undertone to each other, yet loud enough
for her to hear us, if a good opportunity for doing so offered. Before
long, we noticed her sitting alone in a corner near one of the
folding-doors. We managed to get near, yet so as not to appear to
notice her, and then indulged in some light remarks about her lover,
mainly to the effect that if his sweetheart knew him as well as we did,
she might not think him quite so near perfection as she appeared to do.
Shortly afterwards, I searched through the rooms for her in vain. From
that night, the lovers never again met. Clara refused to see Fisher
when he called on her the next day, and shortly afterwards requested
him, in writing, to release her from her marriage-contract, without
giving any reason for her change of mind."

"Henry," exclaimed Mrs. Mears, her voice and countenance expressing the
painful surprise she felt, "why did you not immediately repair the
wrong you had done?"

"How could I, without exposing myself, and causing perhaps a serious
collision between me and Fisher?"

"You should have braved every consequence," replied Mrs. Mears, firmly,
"rather than permitted two loving hearts to remain severed, when a word
from you would have reunited them. How could you have hesitated a
moment as to what was right to do? But it may not be too late yet.
Clara must know the truth."

"Think what may be the consequence," said Nears.

"Think, rather, what _have been_ the consequences," was the wife's
reply.

It was in vain that Mears argued with his wife about the policy of
letting the matter rest where it was. She was a woman, and could only
feel how deeply Clara had been wronged, as well as the necessity for an
immediate reparation of that wrong. For more than an hour, she argued
the matter with her husband who finally consented that she should see
Clara, and correct the serious error under which she had been
labouring. Early on the next day, Mrs. Mears called upon the unhappy
girl. A closer observation of her face than she had before made
revealed deep marks of suffering.

"And all this 'for the fun of it!'" she could not help saying to
herself with a feeling of sorrow. After conversing a short time with
Clara, Mrs. Mears said--

"I heard something, last night, so nearly affecting your peace, that I
have lost no time in seeing you."

"What is that?" asked Clara, a flush passing over her face.

"Two years ago, you were engaged in marriage to Mr. Fisher?"

Clara made no reply, but the flush faded from her face and her lips
quivered slightly for a moment.

"From hearing two persons who were conversing about him make
disparaging remarks, you were led to break off that engagement."

The face of Clara grew still paler, but she continued silent.

"By one of them, I am authorized to tell you that all they said was in
mere jest. They knew you could hear what they said, and made the
remarks purposely for your ear, in order to have a little sport. They
never dreamed of your taking it so seriously."

A deep groan heaved the bosom of Clara; her head fell back, and her
body drooped nervelessly. Mrs. Mears extended her hands quickly and
saved her from falling to the floor.

"This, too, 'for the fun of it!'" she said to herself, bitterly, as she
lifted the inanimate body of the poor girl in her arms, and laid it
upon the sofa.

Without summoning any of the family, Mrs. Mears made use of every
effort in her power to restore the circle of life. In this she was at
last successful. When the mind of Clara had become again active, and
measurably calm, she said to her--

"It was a cruel jest, and the consequences have been most painful. But
I trust it is not yet too late to repair the wrong thus done, although
no compensation can be made for the suffering to which you have been
subjected."

"It is too late, Mrs. Mears--too late!" replied Clara, in a mournful
voice.

"Say not so, my dear young friend."

But Clara shook her head.

It was in vain that Mrs. Mears strove earnestly to lift up her drooping
heart. The calmness with which she had been able to bear the
destruction of all her hopes, because there had seemed an adequate
cause for the sacrifice she had made, was all gone now. There had been
no adequate cause for the sacrifice. Her lover was as excellent and
honourable as she at first believed him to be, and she had cast him off
on the authority of a heartless jest. To all that her friend could say,
she had but one reply to make--

"It is too late now!"

"Not too late, I trust," said Mr. Mears, a good deal disturbed by his
wife's relation of her interview with Clara. "I must ascertain where
Fisher is, and write to him on the subject. Did she say any thing that
led you to believe that she recognised the voices of the persons whom
she heard conversing? Do you think she suspects me in the matter?"

"I do not think she does."

"So much the better."

The effect upon Clara of the information she had received was very
serious. Deeply as she had been afflicted, the consciousness of having
done right in refusing to marry a man who was destitute, as she had
accidentally discovered, of virtuous principles, sustained her. But now
it was revealed to her that he was as excellent as she had at first
believed him, and that she had been made the victim of a pleasant joke!
There was no longer any thing to hold her up, and accordingly her
spirits completely forsook her, and in less than two weeks she was
seriously ill.

The news of this deeply disturbed Mr. Mears, who had written to Fisher,
and was waiting impatiently for an answer.

"I am afraid we have made the matter worse," he said to his wife, who,
on returning from a visit to Clara, reported that, so far from
improving, she was too evidently sinking, daily. "If Fisher should have
entered into another engagement, or, if his pride has taken fire at
being thrown off on what may appear to him such slight grounds, I
really tremble for the consequences."

"Let us hope for the best," returned Mrs. Mears, "as we have acted for
the best. It was plainly our duty to do as we have done. On that
subject I have no doubt."

Two more weeks of painful suspense and anxiety passed. Clara did not
improve in the least. Mrs. Mears called to see her every few days, but
dared not venture to tell her that her husband had written to Fisher.
She was afraid to fill her mind with this hope, lest it should fail,
and the shock prove too severe. But, even as it was, life seemed to be
rapidly ebbing away.

At length there came a change. Nature rallied, and life, flowed, though
feebly still, in healthier currents through the veins of Clara Grant.
In a week from the time this change took place, she was able to leave
her bed and set up for a few hours each day. But all who looked into
her young face were grieved at the sight. There were no deep lines of
distress there, but the marks of patient, yet hopeless suffering.

One day, she sat alone, in a dreamy, musing state, with a book lying
upon her lap. She had been trying to read, but found it impossible to
take any interest in the pages over which her eyes passed, while her
mind scarcely apprehended the sense. Some one opened the door; but she
did not look around. The person, whoever it was, remained only for a
moment or two, and then withdrew. In a little while the door opened
again, and some one entered and came towards her with the tread of a
man. She started to her feet, while her heart gave a sudden bound. As
she turned, her eyes fell upon the form of her long absent lover. For
an instant, perhaps longer, she looked into his face to read it as the
index of his heart, and then she lay quivering on his bosom.

A few weeks later, Clara became the bride of Charles Fisher, and left
with him for the South. Neither of them ever knew the authors of the
wrong they had suffered. It was better, perhaps, that in this they
should remain ignorant.

So much "_for the fun of it_."

FORGIVE AND FORGET.

  Forgive and forget! Why the world would be lonely,
  The garden a wilderness left to deform,
  If the flowers but remembered the chilling winds only,
  And the fields gave no verdure for fear of the storm! C. SWAIN.

"FORGIVE and forget, Herbert."

"No, I will neither forgive nor forget. The thing was done wantonly. I
never pass by a direct insult."

"Admit that it was done wantonly; but this I doubt. He is an old
friend, long tried and long esteemed. He could not have been himself;
he must have been carried away by some wrong impulse, when he offended
you."

"He acted from something in him, of course."

"We all do so. Nothing external can touch our volition, unless there be
that within which corresponds to the impelling agent."

"Very well. This conduct of Marston shows him to be internally unworthy
of my regard; shows him to possess a trait of character that unfits him
to be my friend. I have been mistaken in him. He now stands revealed in
his true light, a mean-spirited fellow."

"Don't use such language towards Marston, my young friend."

"He has no principle. He wished to render me ridiculous and do me harm.
A man who could act as he did, cannot possess a spark of honourable
feeling. Does a good fountain send forth bitter waters? Is not a tree
known by its fruit? When a man seeks wantonly to insult and injure me,
I discover that he wants principle, and wish to have no more to do with
him."

"Perhaps," said the individual with whom Herbert Arnest was conversing,
"it is your wounded self-love, more than your high regard for
principle, that speaks so eloquently against Marston."

"Mr. Welford!"

"Nay, my young friend, do not be offended with me. Your years, twice
told, would not make mine. I have lived long enough to get a cool head
and understand something of the springs of action that lie in the human
heart. The best, at best, have little to be proud of, and much to
lament over, in the matter of high and honourable impulses. It is a far
easier thing to do wrong than right; far easier to be led away by our
evil passions than to compel ourselves always to regard justice and
judgment in our dealings with others. Test yourself by this rule. Would
your feelings for Marston be the same if he had only acted toward
another as he has acted toward you? Do not say 'yes' from a hasty
impulse. Reflect coolly about it. If not, then it is not so much a
regard to principle, as your regard to yourself, that causes you to be
so bitterly offended."

This plain language was not relished by the young man. It was touching
the very thing in him that Marston had offended--his self-love. He
replied, coldly--

"As for that, I am very well satisfied with my own reasons for being
displeased with Marston; and am perfectly willing to be responsible for
my own action in this case. I will change very much from my present
feelings, if I ever have any thing more to do with him."

"God give you a better mind then," replied Mr. Welford. "It is the best
wish I can express for you."

The two young men who were now at variance with each other had been
friends for many years. As they entered the world, the hereditary
character of each came more fully into external manifestation, and
revealed traits not before seen, and not always the most agreeable to
others. Edward Marston had his faults, and so had Herbert Arnest: the
latter quite as many as the former. There was a mutual observation of
these, and a mutual forbearance towards each other for a considerable
time, although each thought more than was necessary about things in the
other that ought to be corrected. A fault with Marston was quickness of
temper and a disposition to say unpleasant, cutting things, without due
reflection. But he had a forgiving disposition, and very many amiable
and excellent qualities. Arnest was also quick-tempered. His leading
defect of character was self-esteem, which made him exceedingly
sensitive in regard to the conduct of others as affecting the general
estimation of himself. He could not bear to have any freedom taken with
him, in company, even by his best friend. He felt it to be humiliating,
if not degrading. He, therefore, was a man of many dislikes, for one
and another were every now and then doing or saying something that hurt
more or less severely his self-esteem.

Marston had none of this peculiar weakness of his friend. He rarely
thought about the estimation in which he was held, and never let the
mere opinions of others influence him. But he was careful not to do any
thing that violated his own self-respect.

The breach between the young men occurred thus. The two friends were in
company with several others, and there was present a young lady in
whose eyes Arnest wished to appear in as favourable a light as
possible. He was relating an adventure in which he was the principal
hero, and, in doing so, exaggerated his own action so far as to amuse
Marston, who happened to know all about the circumstances, and provoke
from him some remarks that placed the whole affair in rather a
ridiculous light, and caused a laugh at Arnest's expense.

The young man's self-esteem was deeply wounded. Even the lady, for
whose ears the narrative had been more especially given, laughed
heartily, and made one or two light remarks; or, rather, heavy ones for
the ears of Arnest. He was deeply disturbed though at the time he
managed to conceal almost entirely what he felt.

Marston, however, saw that his thoughtless words had done more (sic)
than he had intended them to do, both upon the company and upon the
sensitive mind of his friend. He regretted having uttered them and
waited only until he should leave the company with Arnest, to express
his sorrow for what he had done. But his friend did not give him this
opportunity, for he managed to retire alone, thus expressing to Marston
the fact that he was seriously offended.

Early the next morning, Marston called at the residence of his friend,
in order to make an apology for having offended him; but he happened
not to be at home. On arriving at his office, he found a note from
Arnest, couched in the most offensive terms. The language was such as
to extinguish all desire or intention to apologize.

"Henceforth we are strangers," he said, as he thrust the note aside.

An hour afterward, they met on the street, looked coldly into each
other's face, and passed without even a nod. That act sealed the record
of estrangement.

Mr. Wellford was an old gentleman who was well acquainted with both of
the young men, and esteemed them for the good qualities they possessed.
When he heard of the occurrence just related, he was much grieved, and
sought to heal the breach that had been made; but without success.
Arnest's self-esteem had been sorely wounded, and he would not forgive
what he considered a wanton outrage. Marston felt himself deeply
insulted by the note he had received, and maintained that he would
forfeit his self-respect were he to hold any intercourse whatever with
a man who could, on so small a provocation, write such a scandalous
letter. Thus the matter stood; wounded self-esteem on one side, and
insulted self-respect on the other, not only maintaining the breach,
but widening it every day. Mr Wellford used his utmost influence with
his young friends to bend them from their anger, but he argued the
matter in vain. The voice of pride was stronger than the voice of
reason.

Months were suffered to go by, and even years to elapse, and still they
were as strangers. Circumstances threw them constantly together; they
met in places of business; they sat in full view of each other in
church on the holy Sabbath; they mingled in the same social circles;
the friends of one were the friends of the other; but they rarely
looked into each other's face, and never spoke. Did this make them
happier? No! For, "_If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither
will your heavenly Father forgive your trespasses_." Did they feel
indifferent toward each other? Not by any means! Arnest still dwelt on
and magnified the provocation he had received, but thought that the
expression of his indignation had not been of a character to give as
great offence to Marston as it had done. And Marston, as time passed,
thought more and more lightly of the few jesting words he had spoken,
and considered them less and less provocation for the insulting note he
had received, which he still had, and sometimes turned up and read.

The old friends were forced to think of each other often, for both were
rising in the world, and rising into general esteem and respectability.
The name of the one was often mentioned with approbation in the
presence of the other; and it sometimes happened that they were thrown
together in such a way as to render their position toward each other
really embarrassing: as, for instance, one was called to preside at a
public meeting, and the other chosen secretary. Neither could refuse,
and there had to be an official intercourse between them; it was cold
and formal in the extreme; and neither could see as he looked into the
eyes of the other, a glimmer of the old light of friendship.

Mr. Wellford was present at this meeting, and marked the fact that the
intercourse between Arnest and Marston was official only--that they did
not unbend to each other in the least. He was grieved to see it, for he
knew the good qualities of both, and he had a high respect for them.

"This must not be," said he to himself, as he walked thoughtfully
homeward. "They are making themselves unhappy, and preventing a concert
of useful efforts for good in society, and all for nothing. I will try
again to reconcile them; perhaps I may be more successful than before."

So, on the next day, the old gentleman made it his business to call
upon Arnest, who expressed great pleasure in meeting him.

"I noticed," said Mr. Wellford, after he had conversed some time, and
finally introduced the subject of the meeting on the previous evening,
"that your intercourse with the secretary was exceedingly formal; in
fact, hardly courteous."

"I don't like Marston, as you are very well aware," replied Arnest.

"In which feeling you stand nearly alone, friend Arnest. Mr. Marston is
highly esteemed by all who know him."

"All don't know him as I do."

"Perhaps others know him better than you do; there may lie the
difference."

"If a man knocks me down, I know the weight of his arm much better than
those who have never felt it."

"Still nursing your anger, still harbouring unkind thoughts! Forgive
and forget, my friend--forgive and forget; no longer let the sun go
down upon your wrath."

"I can forgive, Mr. Wellford--I do forgive; for Heaven knows I wish him
no harm; but I cannot forget: that is asking too much."

"You do not forget, because you will not forgive," replied the old
gentleman. "Forgive, and you will soon forget. I am sure you will both
be happier in forgetting than you can be in remembering the past."

But Arnest shook his head, remarking, as he so--"I would rather let
things remain as they are. At least, I cannot stoop to any humiliating
overtures for a reconciliation. When Marston outraged my feelings so
wantonly, I wrote him a pretty warm expression of my sentiments in
regard to his conduct. This gave him mortal offence. I do not now
remember what I wrote, but nothing, certainly, to have prevented his
coming forward and apologizing for his conduct; but he did not choose
to do this, and there the matter rests. I cannot recall the angry
rebuke I gave him, for it was no doubt just."

"A man who writes a letter in a passion, and afterwards forgets what he
has written," said Mr. Wellford, "may be sure that he has said what his
sober reason cannot approve. If you could have the letter you then sent
before you now, I imagine that you would no longer wonder that Marston
was offended."

"That is impossible; without doubt, he burned my note the moment he
received it."

Mr. Wellford tried in vain to induce Arnest to consent to forget what
was past; but he affirmed that this was impossible, and that he had no
wish to renew an acquaintance with his old friend.

About the same time that this interview took place, Marston was alone,
thinking with sad and softened feelings of the past. The letter of
Arnest was before him; he had turned it over by accident.

"He could not have been himself when he wrote this," he thought. It was
the first time he had permitted himself to think so. "My words must
have stung him severely, lightly as I uttered them, and with no
intention to wound. This matter ought not to have gone on so long.
Friends are not so plentiful that we may carelessly cast those we have
tried and proved aside. He has many excellent qualities."

Pride came quickly, with many suggestions about self-respect, and what
every man owed to himself.

"He owes it to himself to be just to others," Marston truly thought.
"Was I just in failing to apologize to my friend, notwithstanding this
offensive letter? No, I was not; for his action did not exonerate me
from the responsibility of mine. Ah, me! How passion blinds us!"

After musing for some time, Marston drew towards him a sheet of paper,
and, taking up a pen, wrote:

"MY DEAR SIR:--What I ought to have done years ago, I do now, and that
is, offer you a sincere apology for light words thoughtlessly spoken,
but which I ought not to have used, as they were calculated to wound,
and, I am grieved to think, did wound. But for your note, which I
enclose, I should have made this apology the moment I had an
opportunity. But its peculiar tenor, I then felt, precluded me from
doing so. I confess that I erred in letting my feelings blind my cooler
judgment.

"Your old friend, MARSTON.

"To Mr. Herbert Arnest."

Enclosing the note alluded to in this letter, Marston sealed, and,
ringing for an attendant, despatched it.

"Better to do right late than never," he murmured, as he leaned
pensively back in his chair.

"Let what will come of it, I shall feel better, for I will gain my own
self-respect, and have an inward assurance that I have done
right,--more than I have for a long time had, in regard to this matter
at least."

Relieved in mind, Marston commenced looking over some papers in
reference to matters of business then on hand, and was soon so much
absorbed in them, that the subject which had lately filled his thoughts
faded entirely therefrom. Some one opened the door, and he turned to
see who was entering. In an instant he was on his feet. It was Arnest.

The face of the latter was pale and agitated, and his lips quivered. He
came forward hurriedly, extending his hand, not to grasp that of his
old friend, but to hold up his own letter that had been just returned
to him.

"Marston," he said, huskily, "did I send you _this_ note?"

"You did," was the firm but mild answer.

"Thus I cancel it!" And he tore it into shreds, and scattered them on
the floor. "Would that its contents could be as easily obliterated from
your memory!" he added, in a most earnest voice.

"They are no longer there, my friend," returned Marston, with visible
emotion, now grasping the hand of Arnest. "You have wiped them out."

Arnest returned the pressure with both hands, his eyes fixed on those
of Marston, until they grew so dim that he could no longer read the old
familiar lines and forgiving look.

"Let us forgive and forget," said Marston, speaking in a broken voice.
"We have wronged each other and ourselves. We have let evil passions
rule instead of good affections."

"From my heart do I say 'Amen,'" replied Arnest. "Yes, let us forgive
and forget. Would that we had been as wise as we now are, years ago!"

Thus were they reconciled. And now the question is, What did either
gain by his indignation against the other? Did Arnest rise higher in
his self-esteem, or Marston gain additional self-respect? We think not.
Alas! how blinding is selfish passion! How it opens in the mind the
door for the influx of multitudes of evil and false suggestions! How it
hides the good in others, and magnifies, weakness into crimes! Let us
beware of it.

"Reconciled at last," said old Mr. Wellford, when he next saw Arnest
and heard the fact from his lips.

"Yes," replied the latter. "I can now forget as well as forgive."

"Rather say you can forget, _because_ you forgive. If you had forgiven
truly, you could have ceased to think of what was wrong in your friend
long ago. People talk of forgiving and not forgetting, but it isn't so:
they do not forget because they do not forgive."

"I believe you are right," said Arnest. "I think, now, as naturally of
my friend's good qualities as I ever did before of what was evil. I
forget the evil in thinking of the good."

"Because you have forgiven him," returned Mr. Wellford. "Before you
forgave him, your thought of evil gave no room for the thought of good."

Mr. Wellford was right. After we have forgiven, we find it no hard
matter to forget.

PAYING THE MINISTER.

"MONEY, money, money! That's the everlasting cry! I'll give up my pew.
I won't go to church. I'll stay at home and read the Bible. Not that I
care for a few dollars more than I do for the dust that blows in the
wind; but this selling of salvation for gold disgusts me. I'm sick to
death of it!"

"But hear, first, Mr. Larkin, what we want money for," said Mr. Elder,
one of the vestrymen of the church to which the former belonged. "You
know that our minister's salary is very small; in fact, entirely
insufficient for the maintenance of his family. He has, as might be
supposed, fallen into debt, and we are making an effort to raise a
sufficient sum to relieve him from his unpleasant embarrassment."

"But what business has he to go in debt, Mr. Elder? He knows the amount
of his income, and, as an honest man, should not let his expenses
exceed it."

"But you know as well as I do that he cannot live on four hundred
dollars a year."

"I don't know any such thing, friend Elder. But I do know, that there
are hundreds and thousands who live on much less, and save a little
into the bargain. That, however, is neither here nor there. Four
hundred dollars a year is all this parish can afford to pay a minister,
and that Mr. Malcolm was distinctly told before he came. If he could
not live on the salary offered, why did he come? Mr. Pelton never
received more."

"Beg your pardon, Mr. Larkin. Mr. Pelton never received less than seven
hundred dollars a year. There were always extra subscriptions made for
him."

"I never gave any thing more than my regular subscription and pew-rent."

"It is more than I can say, then. In presents of one kind and another
and in money it never cost me less than from fifty to seventy-five
dollars a year extra. Having been in the vestry for the last ten years,
I happen to know that there was always something to make up at the end
of the year, and it generally came out of the pockets of a few."

"Well, it isn't right, that is all I have to say," returned Mr. Larkin.
"A minister has no business to saddle himself upon a congregation in
that way for less than his real weight. It's an imposition, and one
that I am not going to stand. I'm opposed to all these forced levies,
from principle."

"I rather think the first error is on the side of the congregation,"
said Mr. Elder. "I think they are not only to blame, but really
dishonest, in fixing upon a sum for the support of a minister that is
plainly inadequate to his maintenance. Here, in our parish, for
instance, a thousand dollars might be paid to a minister with the
greatest ease in the world, and no one be oppressed by his
subscription. And yet, we are very content and self-complacent in our
niggardly tender of four hundred dollars."

"A thousand dollars! I don't believe any minister ought to receive such
a salary. I have no notion of tempting, by inducements like that,
money-lovers into the sacred office."

"Pardon me, Mr. Larkin, but how much does it cost you to live? Not less
than two thousand five hundred dollars a year, I presume."

"But I don't put my expenses alongside of the minister's. I can afford
to spend all that it costs me. I have honestly made what I possess, and
have a right to enjoy it."

"I didn't question that, Mr. Larkin. I only turned your thoughts in
this direction, that you might realize in your own mind how hard it
must be for a man with a family of three children, just the number that
you have, to live on four hundred dollars a year."

But the allusion to matters personal to Mr. Larkin gave that gentleman
a fine opportunity to feel offended; which he did not fail to embrace,
and thus close the interview.

This was Mr. Elder's first effort to obtain a subscription for paying
off the minister's debt. It quite disheartened him. He had intended
making three calls on his way to his store that morning, for the
purpose of trying to raise something for Mr. Malcolm; but he felt so
discouraged by the reception he had met with from Mr. Larkin, that he
passed on without doing so. Near his store was a carriage repository.
The owner of it put his hand upon his shoulder as he was going by, and
said, "Just step in, I want to show you something beautiful."

Mr. Elder went in, and was shown a very handsome and fashionably-made
carriage, with all the modern improvements.

"This is something very elegant, certainly. Who is it for?"

"One of the members of your church."

"Ah?"

"Yes. It is for Larkin."

"Indeed! How much does it cost him?"

"Eight hundred dollars."

"He ought to have a fine pair of horses for so fine a carriage."

"And so he has. He bought a noble span, last week, for a thousand
dollars."

Mr. Elder said what he could in praise of the elegant carriage; but he
couldn't say much, for he had no heart to do so. He felt worse than
ever about the deficiency in Mr. Malcolm's salary. On the next day he
was in better spirits, and called in upon one of the members of the
church, as he passed to his store. He stated his errand, and received
this reply--

"I'll tell you what, Mr. Elder, I am of Larkin's opinion in this
matter. If our minister agreed to come for four hundred dollars, he
should stick to his contract. He's no business to go in debt, and then
call upon us to get him out of his difficulties. It isn't the clean
thing. I don't mind a few dollars any more than you do; but I like
principle. I like to see all men, especially ministers, stick to their
text. Malcolm knew before he came here what we could afford to give
him, and if he couldn't live upon that, he had no business to come.
That's what I think of it, and I always speak out my mind plainly."

Mr. Elder made no more begging calls on that day. But he tried it again
on the next, and found that Larkin had been over the ground before him,
and said so much about "the imposition of the thing," that he could do
little or nothing. There was a speciousness about Larkin's manner of
alluding to the subject, that carried people away with him;
particularly as what he said favoured their inclination to keep a tight
hold on their purse-strings. He was piqued with Elder, and this set him
to talking, and doing more mischief than he thought for.

The Rev. Mr. Malcolm was a man of about thirty years of age. He had
taken orders a couple of years previous to the date of his call to the
parish where he now preached. At the time of doing so, he was engaged
in teaching a school; from which he received a very comfortable income.
The bishop who ordained him recommended the parish at C--, when Mr.
Pelton left there, to apply for Mr. Malcolm; which was done. The latter
was an honest, conscientious man, and sincere in his desire to do good
in the sacred office to which he believed himself called. When the
invitation to settle at C-- came, he left home and visited the parish,
in order that he might determine whether it was his duty to go there or
not. On his return, his wife inquired, with a good deal of interest,
how he liked the place, and if he thought he would go there.

"I think I shall accept the call," said he. This was not spoken with
much warmth.

"Don't you like the people?" inquired Mrs. Malcolm.

"Yes; as far as I saw them, they were very pleasant, good sort of
people. But the salary is entirely too small."

"How much?"

"Four hundred dollars a year, and the parsonage--a little affair, that
would rent for about a hundred dollars."

"We can't live on that," said Mrs. Malcolm, in a disappointed tone; "it
is out of the question."

"No, certainly not. But I am assured that at least seven or eight
hundred will be made up during the year. This has always been done for
Mr. Pelton and will be done for me, if I accept the call."

"That might do, if we practised close economy. But why do they not make
the salary seven or eight hundred dollars at once? It would be just the
same to them, and make the minister feel a great deal more independent."

"True; but we must let people do things in their own way. We can live
on seven hundred dollars, and I therefore think it my duty to give up
my school, and accept the call."

"No one, certainly, can charge you with sordid views in doing so, for
your school yields you now over a thousand dollars, and is increasing."

"I will try and keep my mind free from all thought of what people may
say or think," returned Mr. Malcolm, "and endeavour to do right for the
sake of right."

The wife of the Rev. Mr. Malcolm fully sympathized with her husband in
his wish to enter upon the duties of his sacred calling, and was ready
to make any sacrifice that could be made in order to see him in the
position he so much desired to occupy. She did not, therefore, make any
objection to giving up their pleasant home and sufficient income, but
went with him cheerfully to C--, and there made every effort to reduce
all their expenses to their reduced means of living.

It is a much easier thing to increase our expenses than to reduce them.
We get used to a certain free way of living, and it is one of the most
difficult things in the world to give up this little luxury, and that
pleasant indulgence, and come right down to the meagre necessaries of
life. This fact was soon apparent to Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm; but they
were in earnest in what they were about, and practised the required
self-denial. Their expenses were kept within the limits of seven
hundred dollars, the lowest sum that had been named.

At the end of the first three months, one hundred dollars were paid to
the minister. When he gave up his school, he sold it out to a person
who wished to succeed him, for two hundred dollars. The expense of
removing to C--, and living there for three months, had quite exhausted
this sum. Mr. Malcolm paid away his last dollar before the quarter's
salary was due, and was forced to let his bread-bill and his meat-bill
run on for a couple of weeks; these were paid the moment he received
his salary.

"I don't like these bills at all," said he to his wife, after they were
paid. "A minister should never owe a dollar; it does him no good. Above
all things, his mind should live in a region above the anxieties that a
deficient income and consequent debt always occasion. We must husband
what we have, and make it go as far as possible."

By the end of two months, the hundred dollars were all expended; but
not a word had been said about the additional three or four hundred
that had been promised, or that Mr. Malcolm fully believed had been
promised. Bills had now to be run up with the baker, grocer, and
butcher, which amounted to nearly fifty dollars when the next quarter's
salary was paid.

Mr. Malcolm did not doubt but the additional amount promised when he
consented to accept the call would be made up; still he could not help
feeling troubled. If things went on as they were going, by the end of
the year he would be in debt at least two hundred dollars; and, of all
things in the world, he had a horror of debt.

During this time, he was in familiar intercourse with the principal
members of his church, and especially with the leading vestrymen who
held out inducements to him beyond the fixed salary; but no allusion
was made to the subject, and he had too much delicacy to introduce it.

At last, matters approached a climax. The minister was about two
hundred dollars in debt, and bills were presented almost every week,
and their settlement politely urged. This was a condition of things not
to be endured by a man of Mr. Malcolm's high sense of right and
peculiar delicacy of feeling. At length, after lying awake for half of
the night, thinking over what was to be done, he came to the reluctant
conclusion that it was his imperative duty to those he owed, to mention
the necessities of his case to the vestry, and learn from them, without
further delay, whether he had any thing beyond the four hundred dollars
to expect.

The hardest task Mr. Malcolm had ever performed was now before him, and
he shrunk from it with painful reluctance. But the path of duty was
plain, and he was not a man to hold back when he saw his way clear. If
there had been any hesitation, an imperative dun received before he sat
down to breakfast, and another before nine o'clock, would have
effectually dispelled it.

Mr. Malcolm went to the store of Mr. Elder, one of the vestrymen, and
found him quite busy with customers. He waited for half an hour for him
to be disengaged, and then went out, saying, as he passed him at the
counter, that he would call in again.

"Oh, dear!" he murmured to himself, with a long-drawn sigh, as he
emerged upon the street, "is not this humiliating? If I had engaged for
only four hundred dollars a year, I would have lived on bread and water
rather than have exceeded my income; but at least seven hundred were
promised. It was, however, an informal promise; and I was wrong,
perhaps, in trusting to any thing so unsettled as this. Of course, it
will be paid to me when I make known my present situation; but the
doing of that I shrink from."

"Mr. T-- was here again for his bill," were the first words that saluted
the ears of the minister when he returned home.

"What did you say to him?" he asked.

"I told him that you would settle it very soon. He said he hoped you
would, for he wanted money badly, and it had been running for some
time."

"He was rude, then!"

"A little so," replied the wife, in a meek voice.

Mr. Malcolm paced the floor with rapid steps; he felt deeply disturbed.

An hour afterwards, he entered the store of Mr. Elder, and found the
owner disengaged. He did not linger in preliminaries, but approached
the subject thus:--

"You remember, Mr. Elder, that in the interview I had with you and two
of the vestry previous to my accepting the call of this parish, you
stated that my income would not be limited to the four hundred dollars
named as the minister's salary, which I then told you was a smaller sum
than I could possibly live upon?"

Mr. Elder exhibited a momentary confusion when the minister said this;
but he immediately replied--"Yes, I believe something was said on that
subject, though I have not thought of it since. We always had to make
up something for Mr. Pelton, and I suppose we must do the same for you,
if it is necessary. Do you find your salary inadequate?"

"Entirely so; and I knew it would be inadequate from the first. It is
impossible for me to support my family on four hundred dollars; and had
I not been assured that at least three or four hundred dollars extra
would be made up during the year, I never would have dreamed of
accepting the call. It has been a principle with me not to go in debt;
and since I have been a man, I have not, until this time, owed a
dollar; and should not have owed it now, had I received, since I have
resided in C-- the income I fully expected."

Mr. Malcolm spoke with warmth, for he felt some risings of the natural
man at the indifference with which a promise of so much consequence to
him had been disregarded.

"How much do you owe?" inquired the vestryman.

"About two hundred dollars."

"Indeed! so much?"

A bitter remark arose to the minister's lips, but he forced himself to
keep silence. He was a man, with all the natural feelings of a man.

"Well, I suppose we must make it for you somehow," said Mr. Elder, the
tone in which he spoke showing that the subject worried him. "Are any
of the demands on you pressing?" he inquired, after a pause.

"All of them are pressing," replied the minister. "I am dunned every
day."

"Indeed! That's bad!" returned Mr. Elder, speaking with more real
kindness and sympathy than at first. "I am sorry you have been
permitted to get into so unpleasant a situation."

"It certainly is very unpleasant, and entirely destroys my peace. Were
I not thus unhappily situated, I should not have said a word to you on
the subject of my salary."

"Don't let it distress you so much, Mr. Malcolm. I will see that the
amount you need is at once made up."

The minister returned home, disturbed, mortified, and humiliated.

"If this is the way they pay their minister," he remarked to his wife,
after relating to her what had happened, "it is the last year that I
shall enjoy the benefits of their peculiar system. But little good will
my preaching or that of any one else do them, while they disregard the
first and plainest principles of honesty. There is no lack of ability
to give a minister the support he needs; and the withholding of that
support, or the supplying of it by constraint, shows a moral obtuseness
that argues but poorly for their love of any thing but themselves. I
believe that the labourer is worthy of his hire; that when men build a
church and call a minister for their own spiritual good, they are bound
to supply his natural wants; and that, if they fail to do so, it is a
sign to the minister that he ought to leave them. Some may call this a
selfish doctrine, and unworthy of a minister of God; but I believe it
to be the true doctrine, and shall act up to it. It does men no good to
let them quietly go on, year after year, starving their ministers,
while they have abundant means to make them comfortable. If they prize
their wealth higher than they do spiritual riches, it is but casting
pearls before swine to scatter even the most brilliant gems of wisdom
before them; and in this unprofitable task I am the last man to engage.
I gave up all hope of worldly good, in order to preach the everlasting
gospel for the salvation of men. In order to do this successfully, my
mind must be kept free from the depressing cares of life, and there
must be something reciprocal in those to whom I minister in heavenly
things. If this be not the case, all my labour will be in vain."

On the next day, as the minister was walking down the street, he met
Mr. Larkin. The allusion to this gentleman's personal matters, which
the vestryman had made, still caused him to feel sore; it touched him
in a vulnerable part. He had been talking quite freely, since then, to
every member of the church he happened to meet about the coolness with
which Mr. Malcolm, after running himself in debt, a thing he had no
business to do, called upon the church to raise him more money. He for
one he said, was not going to stand any such nonsense, and he hoped
every member of the church would as firmly set his face against all
such impositions. If they were to pay off this debt, they would have
another twice as large to settle in a few months. It was the principle
of the thing he went against; not that he cared about a few dollars. As
soon as Mr. Larkin saw the minister a little ahead of him, he
determined to give him a piece of his mind. So when they paused, face
to face, and while their hands were locked in a friendly clasp, he
said--

"Look here, friend Malcolm, I have got something against you; and as I
am an independent plain-spoken man, you must not be offended with me
for telling you my mind freely."

"The truth never offends me, Mr. Larkin," said the minister, with a
smile. "I am not faultless, though willing to correct my faults when I
see them."

"Very well." Mr. Larkin spoke in a resolute voice, and seemed to feel
pleasure rather than pain in what he was doing. "In the first place,
then, I am sorry to find that you possess one very bad fault, common to
most ministers, and that is, a disposition to live beyond your means,
and then come down upon the parish to pay your debts."

The blood came rushing to the face of the minister, which his monitor
took to be the plainest kind of evidence that he had hit the nail fully
upon the head. He went on more confidently.

"Now, this, Mr. Malcolm, I consider to be very wrong--very wrong,
indeed!--and especially so in a young minister in his first year, and
in his first parish. If such things are in the green tree, what are we
to expect in the dry? You accepted our call, and were plainly informed
that the salary would be four hundred dollars and rent free. Upon this
our former minister had lived quite comfortably. If you thought the
salary too little, you should not have accepted the call--accepting it,
you should have lived upon it, if you had lived on bread and water."

Mr. Larkin paused. The minister stood with his eyes cast upon the
pavement, but made no answer. Mr. Larkin resumed--

"It is such things as this that bring scandal upon the church, and
drive right thinking men out of it. It isn't that I value a few dollars
more than I do the wind; but I like to see principle; and hate all
imposition. You are a young man, Mr. Malcolm, and I speak thus plainly
to you for your good. I hope you will not feel offended."

Mr. Larkin paused, thinking, perhaps, that he had said enough. The
minister's eyes were still upon the pavement, from which he lifted them
as soon as his monitor was done speaking. The flush had left his
cheeks, that were now pale.

"I thank you for your honesty in speaking so plainly, and will try to
profit by what you have told me," said he, calmly. "The best of us are
liable to err."

There was something in the words, voice, and manner of the minister
that Mr. Larkin did not clearly comprehend. He had spoken harshly, and,
he now felt, with some rudeness; but, while there was nothing in the
air with which his reproof was received that evidenced the conviction
of error there was no resentment. A moment before, he felt like a
superior severely reprimanding an inferior; but now he stood in the
presence of one whose calmness and dignity oppressed him. He was about
commencing a confused apology for his apparent harshness, when Mr.
Malcolm bowed and passed on.

Larkin did not feel very comfortable as he walked away. He soon more
than half repented of what he had done, and before night, by way of
atonement for his error, called upon Mr. Elder, and handed him a check
for twenty-five dollars, to help pay off the minister's debt. So much
for the principle concerned.

On the next Sabbath, to his great surprise, when the text was
announced, it was in the following unexpected words--

"Owe no man any thing."

The sermon was didactive and narrative. In the didactic portion, the
minister was exceedingly close in laying down the principles of honesty
in all transactions between man and man, and showed that for a man to
live beyond his known income, when that was sufficient to supply his
actual wants, was dishonest. Then he gave sundry examples of very
common but dishonest practices in those who withhold from others what
is justly their due, and concluded this portion of his discourse, by
plainly stating the glaring dishonesty of which too many congregations
were guilty, in owing their ministers the difference between their
regular and fixed income, and what they actually needed for their
comfortable support and freedom from care. This, he said, was but a
poor commentary upon their love for the church, and showed too plainly
its sordid and selfish quality.

This was felt by many to be quite too pointed and out of place; and for
a young man, like him, very bold and immodest. One member took out his
box and struck the lid a smart, emphatic rap before taking a pinch of
snuff,--another coughed--and three or four of the older ones gave
several loud "a-h-h-hems!" Throughout the church there was an uneasy
movement. But soon all was still again, for the minister had commenced
the narrative of something which he said had occurred in a parish at no
great distance. For a narrative, introduced in a sermon, all ears are
open.

Very deliberately and very minutely did Mr. Malcolm give the leading
facts which we have already placed before the reader, even down to the
sound lecture he had received from Mr. Larkin, and then closed his
sermon, after a few words of application, with a firm repetition of his
text:

"My brethren, 'Owe no man any thing.'"

Of course, there was a buzzing in the hive after this. One made
inquiries of another, and it was soon pretty well understood
throughout, that seven or eight hundred dollars had actually been
promised to the minister instead of the four, which all were very
content that he should receive, thinking little and caring little
whether he lived well or ill upon it. But who was it that had rated him
so soundly? That was the next question. But nobody knew. Some of those
most familiar with Mr. Malcolm boldly asked him the question, but he
declined giving an answer. Poor Mr. Larkin trembled but the minister
kept his own counsel.

On the Tuesday following this pointed discourse, Mr. Malcolm received
his last quarter's salary four weeks in advance, and three hundred
dollars besides. Two hundred of this had been loaned by Mr. Larkin
until such time as it could be collected.

At the next meeting of the vestry, the resignation of Mr. Malcolm as
minister of the parish was received. Before acting upon it, a
church-meeting was called, at which it was unanimously voted to double
the ministers salary. That is, make it eight hundred. Much was said in
his favour as a man of fine talents and sincere piety. In fact, the
congregation generally had become much attached to him, and could not
bear to think of his leaving them. Money was no consideration now.

The vote of the meeting was conveyed to Mr. Malcolm. He expressed his
thanks for the liberal offer, but again declined remaining. Another
church-meeting was called, and a thousand dollars unhesitatingly named
as the minister's salary, if he would stay. Many doubled their
subscriptions, and said that, if necessary, they would quadruple them.

When Mr. Malcolm determined to leave C--, he had no parish in view; but
he did not think it would be useful for him to remain. Nor had he any
in view when he declined accepting the offer of eight hundred dollars.
But it was different when the offer of a thousand dollars came, for
then he held in his hand a call to a neighbouring parish, where the
salary was the same.

The committee to wait upon him, and urge him to accept the still better
terms offered, was composed of Messrs. Elder, Larkin, and three others
among the oldest and most influential members. He answered their
renewed application by handing them the letter he had just received. It
was read aloud.

"If money is any object, Mr. Malcolm," said Larkin, promptly, "you need
not leave us. Twelve hundred can be as easily made up to you as a
thousand."

The minister was slightly disturbed at this. He replied in a low,
unsteady voice:

"Money has no influence with me in this matter. All I ask is a
comfortable maintenance for my family. This, your first offer of eight
hundred dollars would have given; but I declined it, with no other
place in view, because I thought it best for both you and me that we
should separate. I have tried only to look to the good of the church in
my decisions, and I will still endeavour to keep that end before my
eyes."

"Have you accepted the call?" asked Mr. Elder.

"No, I have but just received it!"

"Have you positively determined that you will not remain with us?"

"I should not like to say positively."

"Very well. Now, let me say that the desire to have you remain is
general, and that the few who have the management of the church
affairs, and not the many who make up the congregation, are to blame
for previously existing wrongs and errors. From the many comes a strong
desire to have you stay. They say that your ministrations have been of
great spiritual benefit to them, and that if you go away, they will
suffer loss. Under these circumstances, Mr. Malcolm, are you willing to
break your present connection?"

"Give me a few hours to reflect," replied the minister, a good deal
affected by this unlooked-for appeal. "I wish to do right; and in doing
it, am ready to cut off the right hand and pluck out the right eye. As
Heaven is my witness, I set before me no earthly reward. If I do
consent to remain, I will not receive more than your first offer of
eight hundred dollars, for on that I can live comfortably."

When the committee again waited on Mr. Malcolm, to receive his answer,
it was in the affirmative; but he was decided in his resolution not to
receive more than eight hundred dollars. But the congregation was just
as much decided on the other side, and although only two hundred
dollars a quarter were paid to their minister by the treasurer, more
than fifty dollars flowed in to him during the same period in presents
of one useful thing and another, from friends known and unknown.

The parish of C-- had quite reformed its mode of paying the minister.

HAD I BEEN CONSULTED.

"HE'S too independent for me," said Matthew Page. "Too independent by
half. Had I been consulted he would have done things very differently.
But as it is, he will drive his head against the wall before he knows
where he is."

"Why don't you advise him to act differently?"

"Advise him, indeed! Oh, no--let him go on in his own way, as he's so
fond of it. Young men now-a-days think they know every thing. The
experience of men like me goes for nothing with them. Advise him! He
may go to the dogs; but he'll get no advice from me unasked."

"You really think he will ruin himself if he goes on in the way he is
now going?"

"I know it. Simple addition will determine that, in five minutes. In
the first place, instead of consulting me, or some one who knows all
about it, he goes and buys that mill for just double what it is worth,
and on the mere representation of a stranger, who had been himself
deceived, and had an interest in misleading him, in order to get a bad
bargain off of his hands. But that is just like your young chaps,
now-a-days. They know every thing, and go ahead without talking to
anybody. I could have told him, had he consulted me, that, instead of
making money by the concern, he would sink all he had in less than two
years."

"He is sanguine as to the result."

"I know. He told me, yesterday, that he expected not only to clear his
land for nothing, but to make two or three thousand dollars a year out
of the lumber for the next ten years. Preposterous!"

"Why didn't you disabuse him of his error, Mr. Page? It was such a good
opportunity."

"Let him ask for my advice, if he wants it. It's a commodity I never
throw away."

"You might save him from the loss of his little patrimony."

"He deserves to lose it for being such a fool. Buy a steam saw-mill two
miles from his land, and expect to make money by clearing it?
Ridiculous!"

"Your age and experience will give your advice weight with him, I am
sure, Mr. Page. I really think you ought to give a word or two of
warning, at least, and thus make an effort to prevent his running
through with what little he has. A capital to start with in the world
is not so easily obtained, and it is a pity to see Jordan waste his as
he is doing."

"No, sir," replied Page. "I shall have nothing to say to him. If he
wants my opinion, and asks for it, he shall have it in welcome; not
without."

The individuals about whom these persons were conversing was a young
man named Jordan, who, at majority, came into the possession of fifty
acres of land and about six thousand dollars. The land was still in
forest and lay about two miles from a flourishing town in the West,
which stood on the bank of a small river that emptied into the Ohio
some fifty miles below.

As soon as Jordan became the possessor of the property, he began to
turn his thoughts toward its improvement, in order to increase its
value. The land did not lie contiguous to his native town, but near to
S--, where he was a stranger. To S--he went, and staying at one of the
hotels, met with a very pleasant old gentleman who had just built a
steam saw-mill on the banks of the river, and was getting in the engine
preparatory to putting it in operation. This man's name was Barnaby. He
had conceived the idea that a steam saw-mill at that point would be a
fortune to any one, and had proceeded to the erection of one forthwith.
Logs were to be cut some miles up the river and floated down to the
mill, and, after being there manufactured into lumber, to be rafted to
a market somewhere between that and New Orleans. Mr. Barnaby had put
the whole thing down upon paper, and saw at a glance that it was an
operation in which any man's fortune was certain. But, before his mill
was completed, he had good reason to doubt the success of his new
scheme. He had become acquainted with Matthew Page, a shrewd old
resident of S--, who satisfied him, after two or three interviews,
that, instead of making a fortune, he would stand a fair chance of
losing his whole investment.

Barnaby was about as well satisfied as he wished to be on this head,
when young Jordan arrived in S--. His business there was soon known,
and Barnaby saw a chance of getting out of his unpromising speculation.
To Jordan he became at once very attentive and polite; and gradually
drew from him a full statement of the business that brought him to S--.
It did not take a very long time for Barnaby to satisfy him, that, by
purchasing his mill and sawing up the heavy timber with which his land
was covered, he would make a great deal of money, and double the price
of his land at the same time. Figures showed the whole result as plain
as daylight, and Jordan saw it written out before him as distinctly as
he ever saw in his multiplication table that two and two are four. The
fairness of Barnaby he did not think of doubting for an instant. His
age, address, intelligence, and asseveration of strict honour in every
transaction in life, were enough to win his entire confidence.

Five thousand dollars was the price of the mill. The terms upon which
it was offered to Jordan were, three thousand dollars in cash, a
thousand in six months, and the balance in twelve months.

Shortly after Jordan arrived in the village, he became acquainted with
Mr. Page into whose family, a very pleasant one, he had been introduced
by a friend. For the old gentleman he felt a good deal of respect; and
although it did not occur to him to consult him in regard to his
business, thinking that he understood what he was about very well, yet,
if Mr. Page had volunteered a suggestion, he would have listened to it
and made it the subject of reflection. In fact, a single seriously
expressed doubt as to the safety of the investment he was about making,
coming from a man like Mr. Page, would have effectually prevented its
being made, for Jordan would not have rested until he understood the
very nature and groundwork of the objection. He would then have seen a
new statement of figures, heard a new relation of facts and
probabilities, and learned that Barnaby was selling at the suggestion
of Mr. Page, after being fully convinced of the folly of proceeding
another step.

But no warning came. The self-esteem of old Matthew Page, who felt
himself to be something of an oracle in S--, was touched, because the
young man had not consulted him; and now he might go to the dogs, for
all he cared.

The preliminaries of sale were soon arranged. Jordan was as eager to
enter upon his money-making as Barnaby was to get rid of his
money-losing scheme. Three thousand dollars cash were paid, and notes
given for the balance. An overseer, or manager of the whole business to
be entered upon, was engaged at five hundred dollars a year; some
twenty hands to cut timber, haul it to the mill, and saw it up when
there, were hired; and twenty yokes of oxen bought for the purpose of
hauling the logs from the woods, a distance of two miles. The price of
a dollar a log, which Barnaby expected to pay for timber floated down
the river, had been considered so dear a rate as to preclude all hope
of profit in the business. The great advantages which Jordan felt that
he possessed was in himself owning the timber, which had only to be cut
and taken to the mill. He had, strangely enough, forgotten to make a
calculation of what each log would cost him to cut and haul two miles.
There were the wood-choppers at a dollar a day, the teamsters at
seventy-five cents a day, and four pairs of oxen to each log to feed.
Eight logs a day he was told that each team would haul, and he believed
it. But two or three logs were the utmost that could be accomplished,
for in the whole distance there was not a quarter of a mile of good
solid road.

Six months in time, and a thousand dollars in money, over and above
wages to his men, were spent in getting the mill into running order.
Jordan had bought under the representation that it was all ready for
starting. After he had got in possession, he learned that Barnaby had
tried, but in vain, to get the mill to work.

In the mean time, the young man was extending his circle of
acquaintance among the families of the place in most of which he was
well received and well liked. Old Matthew Page had an only daughter, a
beautiful young girl, who was the pride of the village. The first time
she and Jordan met, they took a fancy to each other. But as Jordan was
rather a modest young man, he did not make very bold advances toward
the maiden, although he felt as if he should like to do so, were there
any hope of his advances being met in a right spirit.

At the end of a year, all the young man's money was gone, and his last
note to Barnaby was due. There was a small pile of lumber by his
mill--a couple of hundred dollars worth, perhaps--for which he had
found no sale, as the place was fully supplied, and had been for years,
by a small mill that was worked by the owner with great economy. The
sending of his lumber down the river was rather a serious operation for
him, and required a good deal more lumber than he had yet been able to
procure from his mill, which had never yet run for twenty-four hours
without something getting wrong. These two or three hundred dollars'
worth of lumber had cost him about fifteen hundred dollars in wages,
&c. Still he was sanguine, and saw his way clear through the whole of
it, if it were not for the fact that his capital were exhausted.

Matthew Page was looking on very coolly, and saying to himself, "If he
had consulted me," but not offering the young man a word of voluntary
counsel.

To continue his operations and bring out the ultimate prosperous
result, Jordan threw one-half of his land into market and forced the
sale at five dollars an acre. The proceeds of this sale did not last
him over six months. Then he got a raft afloat, containing about a
thousand dollars' worth of lumber, and sent it off under charge of his
overseer, who sold it at Cincinnati, and absconded with the money.

In the mean time, Barnaby was pressing for the payment of the last
note, which had been protested, and after threatening to sue, time
after time, finally put his claim into the hands of an attorney, who
had a writ served upon Jordan.

By this time, old Mr. Page began to think it best, even though not
consulted, to volunteer a little advice to the young man. The reason of
this may be inferred. Jordan was beginning to be rather particular in
attention to Edith, his daughter; and apart from the fact that he had
wasted his money in an unprofitable scheme, and had not been prudent
enough to consult him, old Matthew Page had no particular objection to
him as a son-in-law. His family stood high in the State, and his
father, previous to his death, had been for many years in the State
senate. The idea that Jordan would take a fancy to his daughter had not
once crossed the mind of Mr. Page, or he would not have stood so firmly
upon his dignity in the matter of being consulted.

Rather doubting as to the reception he should meet from the young man,
he called upon him, one day, when the following conversation took place:

"I'm afraid, Mr. Jordan," said Page, after some commonplace chitchat,
"that your saw-mill business is not going to turn out as well as you
expected."

"It has not, so far, certainly," replied Jordan, frankly. "But this is
owing to the fact of my having been deceived in the mill, and in the
integrity of my manager; not to the nature of the business itself. I am
still sanguine of success."

"Will you allow me to make a suggestion or two? I think I can show you
that you are in error in regard to the business itself."

"Most gladly will I receive any suggestion," returned Jordan. "Though I
am not apt to seek advice--a fault of character, perhaps--I am ever
ready to listen to it and weigh it dispassionately, when given. A doubt
as to the result of the business, if properly carried out, has never
yet crossed my mind."

"I have always doubted it from the first. Indeed, I knew that you could
not succeed."

"Then, my dear sir, why did you not tell me so?" said Jordan, earnestly.

"If you had consulted me, I would"--

"I never dreamed of consulting any one about it. I had confidence in
Mr. Barnaby's statements; but more in my own judgment, based upon the
data he furnished me."

"But I have none in either Barnaby or his data."

"I have none in him, for he has shamefully deceived me; but his data
are fixed facts, and therefore cannot lie."

"There you err again. Barnaby knew that the data he gave you was
incorrect. I had, myself, demonstrated this to him before he went far
enough to involve himself seriously. Something led him to doubt the
success of his project, and he came and consulted me on the subject. I
satisfied him in ten minutes that it wouldn't do, and he at once
abandoned it. Unfortunately, you arrived just at this time, and were
made to bear the loss of his mistake."

"You are certainly not serious in what you say, Mr. Page!"

"I never was more serious in my life," returned the old gentleman.

"And you permitted me to be made the victim, upon your own
acknowledgment, of a shameful swindle, and did not expend even a breath
to save me!"

"I am not used to be spoken to in that way, young man," replied Mr.
Page, coldly, and with a slightly offended air. "Nor am I in the habit
of forcing my advice upon everybody."

"If you saw a man going blindfold towards the brink of a precipice,
wouldn't you force your advice upon him?"

"Perhaps I might. But as you were not going blindfold over a precipice,
I did not see that it was my business to interfere."

A cutting reply was on the lips of Jordan, but a thought of Edith
cooled him off suddenly, and he in a milder and more respectful tone of
voice, "I should be glad, Mr. Page, if you would demonstrate the error
under which I have been labouring in regard to this business. If there
is an error, I wish to see it; and can see it as quickly as any one, if
it really exists, and the proper means of seeing it are furnished."

The change in the young man's manner softened Mr. Page, and he sat
down, pencil in hand, and by the aid of the answers which the actual
experience of Jordan enabled him to give, showed him, in ten minutes,
that the more land he cleared and the more logs he sawed up, the poorer
he would become.

"And you knew all this before?" said Jordan.

"Certainly I did. In fact, I built the saw-mill owned by Tompkins, and
after sinking a couple of thousand dollars, was glad to get it off of
my hands at any price. Tompkins makes a living with it, and nothing
more. But then he is his own engineer, manager, clerk, and almost every
thing else, and lives with the closest economy in his family--much
closer than you or I would like to live."

"And you let me go on blindly and ruin myself, when a word from you
might have saved me!"

There was something indignant in the young man's manner.

"You didn't consult me on the subject. It is not my place to look after
everybody's business; I have enough to do to take care of my own
concerns."

Both were getting excited. Jordan retorted still more severely, and
then they parted in anger, each feeling that he had just cause to be
offended.

On the next day, Jordan, who was too well satisfied that Mr. Page was
right, stopped his mill, discharged his hands, and sold his oxen. On
looking over his accounts, he found that he was over a thousand dollars
in debt: In order to pay this, he sold the balance of his land, and
then advertised his saw-mill for sale in all the county papers, and in
the State Gazette.

Meantime, the suit which had been instituted on the note given to
Barnaby came up for trial, and Jordan made an effort to defend it on
the plea that value had not been received. His fifty acres of land were
gone, and all that remained of his six thousand dollars, were a
half-weatherboarded, frame building, called a saw-mill, in which were a
secondhand steam-engine, some rough gearing, and a few saws. This stood
in the centre of a small piece of ground--perhaps the fourth of an
acre--upon which there was the moderate annual rent of one hundred
dollars! More than the whole building, leaving out the engine, would
sell for.

After waiting for two months, and not receiving an offer for the mill,
he sold the engine for a hundred and fifty dollars, and abandoned the
old frame building in which it had stood, to the owner of the land for
rent, on condition of his cancelling the lease, that had still three
years and a half to run.

His defence of the suit availed nothing. Judgment was obtained upon the
note, an execution issued, and, as there was no longer any property in
the young man's possession, his person was seized and thrown into the
county prison.

From the time old Mr. Page considered himself insulted by Jordan, all
intercourse between them had ceased. The latter had not considered
himself free to visit any longer at his house, and therefore no meeting
between him and Edith had taken place for three months.

The cause of so sudden a cessation of her lover's visits, all unknown
to Edith, was a great affliction to the maiden. Her father noticed that
her countenance wore a troubled aspect, and that she scarcely tasted
food when at the table. This did not, in any way, lessen the number of
his self-reproaches for having suffered a young man to ruin himself,
when a word from him might have saved him.

Edith was paying a visit to a friend one day, the daughter of a lawyer.
While conversing, the friend said--

"Poor Jordan? Have you heard of his misfortunes?"

"No! What are they?" And Edith turned pale. The friend was not aware of
her interest in him.

"He was terribly cheated in some saw-mill property he bought," she made
answer, "and has since lost every dollar he had. Yesterday he was sent
to prison for debt which he is unable to pay."

Edith heard no more, but, starting up, rushed from the house, and flew,
rather than walked, home. Her father was sitting in his private office
when she entered with pale face and quivering lips. Uttering an
exclamation of surprise and alarm, he rose to his feet. Edith fell
against him, sobbing as she did so, while the tears found vent, and
poured over her cheeks--

"Oh, father! He is in prison!"

"Who? Jordan?"

"Yes," was the maiden's lowly-murmured reply.

"Good heavens! Is it possible?"

With this exclamation, Mr. Page pushed his daughter from him, and
leaving the house instantly, took his way to the office of the attorney
who had conducted the suit in favour of Barnaby.

"I will go bail for this young man whom you have thrown into prison,"
said he as soon as he met the lawyer.

"Very well, Mr. Page. We will take you. But you will have to pay the
amount--he has nothing."

"I said I would go his bail," returned the old man, impatiently.

In less than twenty minutes, Mr. Page entered the apartment where the
young man was confined. Jordan looked at him angrily. He had just been
thinking of the cruel neglect to warn him of his errors, of which Mr.
Page had been guilty, and of the consequences, so disastrous and so
humbling to himself.

"You are at liberty," said the old gentleman, as he approached him and
held out his hand.

Jordan stood like one half-stupified, for some moments.

"I have gone your security, my young friend," Mr. Page added kindly.
"You are at liberty."

"_You_ my security!" returned Jordan, taking the offered hand, but not
grasping it with a hearty pressure. He felt as if he couldn't do that.
"I am sorry you have done so," said he, after a slight pause--"I am not
worth a dollar, and you will have my debt to pay."

"It's no time to talk about that now, Mr. Jordan. I have gone your
security, because I thought it right to do so. Come home with me, and
we will soon arrange all the rest."

Jordan felt passive. A child could have led him anywhere. He did not
refuse to go with Mr. Page.

Edith was sitting in the room where her father left her, when the
opening of the door caused her to start. There was an exclamation of
delight and surprise; a movement forward, and then deep blushes threw a
crimson veil over the maiden's face, as she sank back in her chair and
covered her face with her hands. But the tears could not be hidden;
they came trickling through her fingers.

Enough, further to say, that within two months there was a wedding at
the house of Mr. Page, and Edith was the bride.

It has been noticed since, that the old gentleman does not stand so
much on his dignity when there is a chance of doing good by
volunteering a word of advice in season. "Had I been consulted," is a
form of speech which he is now rarely, if ever known to use.

THE MISTAKES OF A "RISING FAMILY."

MR. MINTURN was a rising man; that is, he was gaining money and
reputation in his profession. That he felt himself rising, was clearly
apparent to all who observed him attentively. His good lady, Mrs.
Minturn, was also conscious of the upward movement, and experienced a
consequent sense of elevation. From the height they had gained in a few
years, it was but natural for them to cast their eyes below, and to
note how far beneath them were certain individuals with whom they had
once been on a level. The observation of this fact as naturally created
an emotion of contempt for these individuals as inferiors.

Among those ranging below the Minturns,--in their estimation,--was a
family named Allender. Mr. Allender was, or had been, a merchant, and
was highly esteemed by all who knew him, as a gentleman and a man of
fine intelligence. He and Minturn started together in life; the one as
a lawyer, and the other as a merchant. Possessing some capital, Mr.
Allender was able, in commencing business, to assume a comfortable
style of living in his family, while Minturn, who had nothing but his
profession to depend upon, and that at the time of his marriage a very
small dependence, was compelled to adopt, in his domestic relations, a
very humble scale.

Having been well acquainted, for some years, with Mr. Minturn, Mr.
Allender, soon after the marriage of the former, called upon him with
his wife. The visit was promptly returned, and from that time the two
families kept up intimate relations. The Minturns lived in a small
house, in a retired street, for which they paid the annual rent of one
hundred and seventy-five dollars. Their house was furnished with
exceeding plainness, and their only domestic was a stout girl of
fourteen. The Allenders, on the other hand, lived in a fashionable
neighbourhood, so called. For their house, which was handsomely
furnished, they paid a rent of four hundred dollars; and lived in what
the Minturns thought to be great elegance. And so it was, in contrast
with their style of living. Mrs. Minturn felt quite proud of having
such acquaintances, and of being able to visit familiarly in such good
society as was to be found at the house of Mr. and Mrs. Allender. You
could not be in her company for ten minutes, at any time, without
hearing some allusion to the Allenders. What they said, was repeated as
oracular; and to those who had never been in their house, Mrs. Minturn
described the elegance of every thing pertaining thereto, in the most
graphic manner.

Well, as time went on, Mr. Minturn, by strict devotion to business,
gradually advanced himself in his profession. At the end of four or
five years, he was able to move into a larger house and to get better
furniture. Still, every thing was yet on an inferior scale to that
enjoyed by Mr. Allender, to whose family his own was indebted for an
introduction into society, and for an acquaintance with many who were
esteemed as valued friends.

Ten years elapsed, and the Minturns were on a level with the Allenders,
as far as external things were concerned. The lawyer's business had
steadily increased, but the merchant had not been very successful in
trade, and was not esteemed, in the community, a rising man. No change
in his style of living had taken place since he first became a
housekeeper; and his furniture began, in consequence, to look a little
dingy and old-fashioned. This was particularly observed by Mrs.
Minturn, who had, at every upward movement,--and three of these
movements had already taken place,--furnished her house from top to
bottom.

Five years more reversed the relations between to families. The
Minturns still went up, and the Allenders commenced going down. One
day, about this time, Mr. Minturn came home from his office, and said
to his wife:

"I've got bad news to tell you about our friends the Allenders."

"What is that?" inquired Mrs. Minturn, evincing a good deal of
interest, though not exactly of the right kind.

"He's stopped payment."

"What?"

"He failed to meet his notes in bank yesterday, and to-day, I
understand, he has called his creditors together."

"I'm sorry to hear that, really," said Mrs. Minturn. "What is the
cause?"

"I believe his affairs have been getting involved for the last four or
five years. He does not seem to possess much business energy."

"I never thought there was a great deal of life about him."

"He's rather a slow man. It requires more activity and energy of
character than he possesses to do business in these times. Men are
getting too wide awake. I'm sorry for Allender. He's a good-hearted
man--too good-hearted, in fact, for his own interest. But, it's nothing
more than I expected."

"And I am sorry for poor Mrs. Allender," said his wife. "What a change
it will be for her! Ah, me! Will they lose every thing?"

"I have no means of knowing at present. But I hope not."

"Still, they will have to come down a great way."

"No doubt of it."

A week passed, after news of Mr. Allender's business disaster had
reached the ears of Mrs. Minturn, and in that time she had not called
to see her friend in distress. Each of these ladies had a daughter
about the same age; and that age was fifteen.

"Where are you going, Emeline?" asked Mrs. Minturn of her daughter, who
came down, with her bonnet on, one afternoon about this time.

"I'm going to run around and see Clara Allender," was replied.

"I'd rather you wouldn't go there, just now," said the mother.

"Why not?" asked Emeline.

"I have my reasons for it," returned Mrs. Minturn.

Emeline looked disappointed. She was much attached to Clara, who was a
sweet-tempered girl, and felt a week's absence from her as a real
privation. Observing the disappointment of Emeline, Mrs. Minturn said,
a little impatiently:

"I think you might live without seeing Clara every day. For some time
past, you have been little more than her shadow. I don't like these
girlish intimacies; they never come to any good."

Tears were in Emeline's eyes as she turned from her mother and went
back to her room.

Mr. Allender, at the age of forty, found himself unable, through the
exhaustion of his means, to continue in business. He would have
resigned every thing into the hands of his creditors before suffering a
protest, had he not failed to receive an expected payment on the day of
his forced suspension. When he did call together the men to whom he was
indebted, he rendered them up all his effects, and in all possible ways
aided in the settlement of every thing. The result was better than he
had anticipated. No one lost a dollar; but he was left penniless. Just
then, the president of one of the Marine Insurance Companies resigned
his office, and Mr. Allender was unanimously chosen to fill his place.
The salary was two thousand dollars. This was sufficient to meet the
expense at which his family had been living. So there was no change in
their domestic economy. This being the case, the Minturns had no good
reason for cutting the acquaintance of their old friends, much as they
now felt disposed to do so. The family visiting, however, was far from
being as frequent and as familiar as in former times.

Still, on the part of the Minturns the movement was upward, while the
Allender's retained their dead level. The lawyer, who was a man of
talents and perseverance, and withal not over scrupulous on points of
abstract morality, gained both money and reputation in his profession,
and was at length known as one of the most acute and successful men at
the bar. At last, he was brought forward by one of the political
parties as a candidate for a seat in Congress, and elected.

If Mrs. Minturn's ideas of her own elevation and importance in the
social world had been large, they were now increased threefold. A
winter's residence at the seat of government,--during which time she
mingled freely with the little great people who revolve around certain
fixed stars that shine with varied light in the political
metropolis,--raised still higher the standard of self-estimation. Her
daughter Emeline, now a beautiful and accomplished young lady,
accompanied her mother wherever she went, and attracted a large share
of attention. Among those who seemed particularly pleased with Emeline
was a young man, a member of Congress from New York, who belonged to a
wealthy and distinguished family, and who was himself possessed of
brilliant talent, that made him conspicuous on the floor of Congress,
even among men of long-acknowledged abilities. His name was Erskine.

Soon after meeting with the Hon. Mr. Erskine, Mrs. Minturn felt a
strong desire to bring him to the feet of her daughter. He presented
just the kind of alliance she wished for Emeline. In imagination she
soon began to picture to herself the elevated and brilliant position
her child would occupy as the wife of Erskine, and she resolved to
leave no means untried for the accomplishment of her wishes.
Accordingly, she was particularly attentive to the young man whenever
thrown into his company; and sought, by flattering his self-love, to
make him feel in the best possible humour with himself while in her
society. In this way she succeeded in drawing him frequently to her
side, where Emeline was always to be found. A sprightly, well-educated,
and finely accomplished girl, Emeline soon interested the young M. C.;
and he showed her, as has been said, a good deal of attention during
the winter, and Mrs. Minturn flattered herself that her daughter had
made a conquest.

When the session of Congress closed, the Minturns returned home in the
enjoyment of a much higher opinion of themselves than they had ever
before entertained, and quite disposed to be rather more choice than
before in regard to their visiting acquaintance. A few days after their
reappearance in old circles, a card of invitation to meet some friends
at the house of Mr. and Mrs. Allender was received. It extended to
themselves and their eldest daughter, Emeline. Mrs. Minturn handed the
card to her husband on his return from his office in the evening.

"What is this?" he asked, on taking it. "Ah, indeed!" he added, in
rather an equivocal voice, on perceiving its tenor. "Are you going?"

"I rather think not."

"Just as you say about it," remarked the acquiescing husband.

"The truth is," said Mrs. Minturn, "a regard for our position makes it
necessary for us to be more select in our acquaintances. I don't wish
Emeline to be on terms of intimacy with Clara Allender any longer.
There is too great a difference in their social relations. As people
are judged by the company they keep, they should be a little choice in
their selection. I like Mrs. Allender very well in her place. She is a
good, plain, common-sense sort of a woman, but she occupies a grade
below us; and we should remember and act upon this for the sake of our
children, if for nothing else."

"No doubt you are right," replied Mr. Minturn. "Mr. Allender has
neither energy of character nor enterprise; he, therefore, occupies a
dead level in society. At that level he cannot expect every one else to
remain."

"Not us, at least."

"No."

"Clara called to see Emeline yesterday. I saw her in the parlour, and
asked her to excuse Emeline, as she was a little indisposed. It is
true, I had to fib a little. But that was better than a renewal of an
acquaintance that ought now to cease. She seemed a little hurt, but I
can't help it."

"Of course not. I am sorry, for their sakes, that we must give up the
acquaintance. No loss can come to us, as we have more friends, now,
than are just convenient."

"It would help Clara a good deal," remarked Mrs. Minturn, "to mingle in
our circle. Her mother feels this, and, therefore, does not wish to
give us up. I've not the least doubt but this party is made on our
account. It won't do, however; they will have to let us go."

"It will be sufficient to send our regrets," said Mr. Minturn.

"We'd better not even do that," replied his wife. "That will indicate a
wish to retain the acquaintance, and we have no such desire. Better
sever the relation at once and be done with the matter. It is
unpleasant at least, and there is no use in prolonging disagreeable
sensations."

"Be it so, then," remarked Mr. Minturn, rising; and so the thing was
decided.

Mrs. Minturn had lapsed into a small mistake touching the reason that
induced Mr. and Mrs. Allender to give an entertainment just at that
time. It was not in honour of their return from Washington, and
designed to unite the families in a firmer union; no, a thought like
this had not entered the mind of the Allenders. The honour was designed
for another--even for the Hon. Mr. Erskine, who was the son of one of
Mr. Allender's oldest and most valued friends, whom he had not seen for
many years, yet with whom he had enjoyed an uninterrupted
correspondence. On his return home, Mr. Erskine remained a few days in
the city, as much to see Mr. Allender as for any thing else, his father
having particularly desired him to do so. He had never met Mr. Allender
before, but was charmed with his gentlemanly character and fine
intelligence at the first interview, and still more pleased with him at
each subsequent meeting. With Mrs. Allender he was also pleased; but,
most of all, with Clara. About the latter there was a charm that won
his admiration. She was beautiful; but how different her beauty from
that of the brilliant belles who had glittered in the gay circles of
fashion he had just left! It was less the beauty of features than that
which comes through them, as a transparent medium, from the pure and
lovely spirit within. Erskine had been more than pleased with Miss
Minturn; but he thought of her as one in a lower sphere while in the
presence of Clara, who, like a half-hidden violet, seemed all
unconscious of beauty or fragrance.

Yes, it was for Mr. Erskine that the party was given, and in order to
introduce him to a highly refined and intellectual circle, of which Mr.
Allender and his wife notwithstanding external reverses, were still the
centre. Not from any particular pleasure that was expected to be
derived from the company of the Minturns, were they invited; for, in
going up, they had changed so for the worse, that their society had
become irksome, if not offensive. But, for the sake of old friendship,
they were included. But they did not come; and no one missed them.

On the next day, Mr. Erskine called upon Mrs. Minturn and her daughter,
as he intended leaving the city in the afternoon.

"We looked for you all last evening," said Mrs. Minturn. "Why did you
not call around?"

"I was at a select party last night," replied the young man.

"Were you, indeed?"

"Yes. At Mr. Allender's. Do you know the family?"

"At Allender's!" The tone of surprise, not altogether unmingled with
contempt, with which this was uttered by Mrs. Minturn, put Erskine a
little on his guard.

"Do you know them?" he asked, with some gravity of manner.

"Not very intimately. We had some acquaintance in former years, but we
have broken it off. They sent us cards of invitation, but we did not
notice them."

"What is their standing?"

"Not high. I believe none of our first people visit them."

"Ah!"

"Who was there?" asked Emeline.

The tone in which this was spoken caused Mr. Erskine to turn and look
somewhat closely into the young lady's face, to mark its expression.
She had never appeared less lovely in his eyes.

"Not a great many," he replied.

"I suppose not," said Mrs. Minturn.

"It was a select party," remarked the young man.

"And select enough, no doubt, you found it."

"You speak truly. I have never been in one more so," replied Erskine.

"You have not answered my question as to who were there," said Emeline.

"Young ladies, do you mean?"

"Yes, young ladies."

"Do you know Miss B--?"

"I have no particular acquaintance with her. But she was not there!"

"Oh, yes, she was. And so was her father, General B--."

"You astonish me!" said Mrs. Minturn. "Certainly you are in error."

"I believe not. I had a good deal of interesting conversation with
General B--, who is well acquainted with my father."

"Who else was there?"

"Senator Y--, and his beautiful niece, who created such a sensation in
Washington last winter. She and Miss Allender, who is, it strikes me, a
charming girl, seemed delighted with each other, and were side by side
most of the evening. They sang together many times with exquisite
effect. Then there were Mr. and Mrs. T--, Mr. and Mrs. R--, Miss Julia
S--, and Miss G--."

All these belonged to a circle yet above that in which the Minturns had
moved.

"I am astonished," said Mrs. Minturn, but poorly concealing her
mortification. "I had no idea that the Allenders kept such company. How
did you happen to be invited?"

"Mr. Allender is one of my father's oldest and most valued friends. I
called at his desire, and found both him and his family far above the
'common run' of people. I do not in the least wonder at the class of
persons I met at their house. I am sorry that you have been led so far
astray in your estimation of their characters. You never could have
known them well."

"Perhaps not," said Mrs. Minturn, in a subdued voice. "Did you hear us
asked for?" she ventured to add. "We were invited, as I mentioned, and
would have gone, but didn't expect to find any there with whom it would
be agreeable to associate."

This remark did not in the least improve the matter in the eyes of Mr.
Erskine, who now understood the Minturns rather better than before. A
feeling of repugnance took the place of his former friendly sentiments;
and in a briefer time than he had intended, he brought his visit to a
close, and bade them good morning.

What was now to be done? The Minturns had fallen into an error, which
must, if possible, be repaired. The Allenders were of far more
consequence than they had believed, and their estimation of them rose
correspondingly. A note of regret at not being able to attend the
party, in consequence of a previous engagement, was written, and this
enclosed in another note, stating that in consequence of the neglect of
a servant, it had not been delivered on the day before. Both were
despatched within half an hour after Mr. Erskine left the house.

On the day after, Mrs. Minturn and her daughter called at Mrs.
Allender's, and offered verbal regrets at not having been able to
attend the party.

"We wanted to come very much, but both Emeline and I were so much
indisposed, that the doctor said we mustn't think of going
out,"--forgetting at the moment the tenor of the note she had written
only the day before. But scarcely were the words out of her mouth, when
a glance of uneasy surprise from Emeline brought a recollection of this
fact, and caused the blood to mount to her face.

A sudden change in the manner of Mrs. Allender was conclusive evidence
that she, too, was laying side by side the two conflicting statements.

"But even," added Mrs. Minturn, in a voice that betrayed some
disturbance of mind, "if we had not been indisposed, a previously made
engagement would have been in the way of a pleasure that we shall
always regret having lost. You had a highly select party, I understood."

"Only a few old and much esteemed friends, that we invited to meet a
gentleman who was passing through the city, whose father and Mr.
Allender are old acquaintances."

"The Hon. Mr. Erskine, you mean," said Mrs. Minturn, whose vanity led
her to betray herself still more.

"Yes. Have you met him?"

"Oh, yes," was replied with animation. "We were very intimate at
Washington. He showed Emeline very particular attentions."

"Ah! I was not aware that you knew him."

"Intimately. He called to see us yesterday, on the eve of his departure
for New York."

"Oh, mother!" exclaimed Emeline, as soon as they had stepped beyond the
street-door, on leaving the house of Mrs. Allender, "why did you say
any thing at all about Mr. Erskine, and especially after blundering so
in the matter of apology? She'll see through it all, as clear as
daylight. And won't we look beautiful in her eyes? I'm mortified to
death!"

"I don't know what came over me," returned the mother, with evident
chagrin. "To think that I should have been so beside myself!"

So much mortified were both the mother and daughter, on reflection,
that they could not venture to call again upon Mrs. Allender and Clara,
who did not return the last visit. And the intimacy from that time was
broken off.

The next winter came round, and the Minturns repaired again to
Washington. Emeline had hoped to receive a letter from Mr. Erskine,
whom she half believed to be in love with her; but no such desired
communication came. But she would meet him at the Capitol; and to that
time of meeting she looked forward with feelings of the liveliest
interest. On arriving in Washington, at the opening of the session, she
repaired, on the first day, to the Capitol. But much to her
disappointment, a certain member from New York was not in his place.

"Where is Mr. Erskine," she asked of his colleague, whom she met in the
evening.

"Has not arrived yet," was replied. "Will probably be along to-morrow
or next day. He stopped in your city as he came along; and I shrewdly
suspect that he had in contemplation a very desperate act."