that. We have our own life lease and an annual debt of gratitude to answer for. Just three years ago to-day, Mary died. Her last words were 'Susan, live for God.' You used to say the hobby she rode was self-denial-she talked about it so often. If it was a hobby, I believe now like a chariot of fire it bore her straight to Heaven-she crossed the self-denial bridge. What if I should die; my fit epitaph would be, 'Here lies one who took the best care of herself, rose early, dressed well, and retired late daily for fifty years, and died in affluence.' I am too old to be loved, but I do want to be remembered here, and remembered when Christ comes to his king. dom. There are no old maids there-we shall all be young, immortally young-nor lonely nor solitary there; there will be an innumerable company," and Susan wept, as if the sermon broke up the depths of her long closed heart. She looked at sister Mary's portrait, that sweet, patient face, and exclaimed, "I'll walk over every paving stone in this city until I find where Mrs. Pridefit has hidden that poor child. I have dreamed about her often since I felt her little hand clinging to that icy cistern. Mrs. Pridefit says she is out in the country recruiting, but I don't believe a word of it."

Miss Charity Gouge said in her precise way to Mrs. Edwards, as they walked along together, "It was the right. sermon for the times. She hoped it would raise the standard of piety. Christians hadn't come up to the gospel standard yet. Zion was in a very low state."

The tall woman with the long nose and hollow eyes moved along behind the crowd of church-goers muttering to herself, "Yes, yes, let him preach. I believe in practice. I would tear him out of the pulpit if I could," she added with suppressed rage.

John Trap did groan in his sleep that night. Mrs. Trap hoped the sermon might have made some impression. He tossed about restlessly as if his mind was disturbed, but at last he muttered in some exciting dream," Put him through. Put him through."

It was a problem that kept her awake many a night-how she could bring up John Trap, Jr., now only four years old, to be an honest, just, equitable man-more than all, a Christian. The little fellow walked in the light of his father's example. He imitated his look, tone, manner, and only that morning came to his mother, saying, "Mother, that Aleck

Stevens is a scamp. He ought to be put through. When I get to be a big man, I'll put him through."

John Trap sat in his room writing three names-he was getting out some new cards. Those three men for shrewdness, skill, and cunning could not be surpassed in the country. Trap was a good office lawyer, Fogg a sage counsellor, and Craft a skillful pleader. Reader, I wish I could introduce them to you-" Mr. John Trap, Mr. Serenus Fogg, and Mr. Savage Craft. Whoever takes their card and gives them his business will have all his affairs put through."

I have taken good care of Dr. Wendon long enough," said the doctor, as he walked slowly home, his eyes fastened on the ground. "I must do something for some body." I'd like a more aristocratic-looking minister," said Mrs. Elliot, as she passed along. "Dr. Smoothers makes such splendid prayers."

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There was a poor lonely French gentleman in Mrs. Edwards' boarding-house who was trying to learn our lanHe went to church and somehow understood much guage. of the pure English of Prof. Henry's sermon. It deeply impressed him, and that night he knelt by his bedside and offered this simple and eloquent prayer:

"O, Dieu, donnez moi des paroles non de celles qui flattent les oreilles, et qui font louer les discours, mais de celles qui penetrent les coeurs, et qui captivent l'entendment."

CHAPTER X.

DR. WENDON'S SELF DENIAL.

"Place at thy lattice a flower, and ne'er
Will it let an evil thought enter there
Bear on thy bosom a posy, and lo,
Wherever thou goest will angels go."

;

RUCKERT.

"Two miles would cover all wherein I have a part,
But all the great blue heaven could never fill my heart."
VICTOR HUGO.

"WALTER was clear carried away with that sermon," soliloquized Mrs. Wendon, on Monday morning as she sat by her window grouping some flowers for a vase on a little

table before her. "When Dr. Smoothers preaches, Walter generally takes a good nap-he never knows much about the sermon ; but he repeated almost the whole of this after he came home. The text was nothing uncommon— Dr. Smoothers preached from the very same text about a year ago; but he made a very elaborate thing of it; he is the most elegant sentence-maker I ever heard. I never think of the ideas when I hear him; I only watch the stately march of words, as they move along grander and higher, like an army of golden clouds. He'd be a very good man if he were converted, for it don't seem to me he was ever converted, though I wouldn't like to speak such a thing out. Mrs. Pridefit says his preaching is very elevating, but it seems to me if a lawyer in court should wander so from the evidence, or so desert his client's cause, the judge would stop him and tell him that had nothing to do with the case. He couldn't convince an intelligent jury by such a style of speaking. I imagine, though I never was in court but once in my life, that if a minister would address his congregation as if they were all jurors waiting to decide from his pleading, whether they were guilty sinners or not, he would be more successful. I wonder if half the clergymen try as hard to win a soul to Christ, as a cunning, clever lawyer does to win his case. I heard a celebrated lawyer once talk to a jury, and I verily thought he could make them believe, if he chose, that a cat had six feet, and he'd make them almost see the cat, and hear it purr. It is horrible for a man talking to dying men to spend an hour in wreathing words with graceful flowers, and decking thoughts with tinsel stars. I never could go to Dr. Smoothers for advice or prayers; I'd as soon go to a star to warm myself—but there comes Walter-I hope he has not brought any body home to dine, for Bridget has one of her nervous attacks, and little dinner we'll have to-day of her getting-and I have cut my finger so badly, cutting that tough baker's bread, holding it up to my waist. I can do nothing with it -every time I try to use it the wound opens again.'

Mrs. Wendon left the window to put some more geranium in her bouquet. The doctor stole quietly in by the back door, went softly into the parlor, and then came up stairs.

"Minnie," said he, rubbing his hands together, while his eyes sparkled rather mischievously, "I've got a present for

you-I laid it on the sofa in the parlor-it must be carefully handled, as it is delicately made, and I think very pretty. I thought it would amuse you sometimes when I am gone, and you are all alone. I hope you can keep it always, no matter what the fashion is. I think the style will always be good, it is one of those things that improve as you keep it— indeed, I think I shall always like it."

'Tis a new piano," thought Mrs. Wendon, rising, and eagerly going towards the door. "Walter is always getting me some pleasant surprise. I'm sure, he has such exquisite taste, I'll like whatever he gets."

She went down stairs, and paused a moment before opening the door, wondering what it could be; and then with the eager impetuosity of a child, pushed the door open, and there were a pair of beautiful, bright young eyes gazing timidly up into her face, and a graceful young form, startled as a timid fawn when she met Mrs. Wendon's gaze—while a blush of bright crimson suffused the pale cheek.

It

Mrs. Wendon looked at the lovely apparition, and smiled as she went up to the sofa, and sat down by her side. was a cold October day she removed the shawl from the shoulders of the young girl, and taking her hand, drew her to the register. Her hands were cold, and her eyes had a weary look, as if the child had just recovered from a long illness.

Having seated her in a low rocking-chair by the register, she asked no questions to embarrass the young stranger, only, "What is your name, child?"

"Nepenthe," said the girl, in a low voice, "Nepenthe Stuart."

"Were you named for

any one."

"I don't know," said the child, "it was the name my mother gave me."

"Have you no mother, my dear?" said Mrs. Wendon, tenderly.

"No," said she, bursting into tears. The new face, the new place, the kind words, the excitement of leaving the hospital while still an invalid, were too much, and any allusion to her mother always overcame her.

"I will be your mother, child," said Mrs. Wendon, throwing her arms around her. "You shall be my dear child— you shall be mine as long as I live," and she kissed the pale

forehead, the quivering lips, and drawing back the curls from her face, wiped away the tears.

Just then the doctor peeped in at the door and called

out

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Minnie, are we to have any dinner to-day ?-the cook has gone aloft, and the brandy-bottle is empty."

We leave Mrs. Wendon to burn her fingers broiling the steak, and toast her face browning the bread, and we'll talk a little about the doctor.

There was a pleased benevolent look in the doctor's face as he stood by Nepenthe's bedside that morning at the hospital with his new purpose radiant in his eyes. But the nurse, as he left the door, whispered something in his ear which did not change his purpose, but made its accomplishment a far greater act of self-denial. The whisper haunted him, as with a heavy heart, he bore the lonely Nepenthe to his home, and for long months wherever her smile rested, there was the shadow of this dark whisper. The doctor went back to the hospital to ask one more question of the nurse, but she had suddenly disappeared. He returned disappointed, and sat quietly thinking, and then he suddenly exclaimed

"Minnie, we must get Nepenthe well first, before we set her about any thing; till then, she may be my page and your cup bearer. Homeless young girls in story books all get to be governesses. What else can an educated poor woman do? I saw once a very sharp review on a new work, and the point of the critic's sarcasm was aimed at the fact that the heroine was a school-teacher, but this resort to teaching is no more common in books than in real life. 'Wanted-a situation,' is written on many a fair young face. I'm glad there is a world where people can live, and breathe, and move, without struggling for a situation."

While the doctor and his wife were talking that evening, Nepenthe had fallen asleep. Haunted so long by a living, watching ghost, her rest had been troubled, her wak ing anxious, the sheet was drawn tightly over her face, Mother, mother," she called out wildly, as if in a nightmare sleep.

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"Poor child! Perhaps her mother was the only friend she ever had," said Mrs. Wendon, tenderly, drawing away the sheet, and gently moving her head.