CHAPTER XVIII.

IN the course of a few weeks Happy came to know Grandma Holden. She was sent to "the other house," as the old homestead was called, on various errands, and soon learned to admire and to love this lovely old lady, whose life was a constant practice and teaching of the gospel. Almost all Madam Holden's children were dead; she had watched every one of them down to the river's brink with unfaltering courage and cheer, and unsparing devotion. Her only daughter, a widow too, was traveling in Europe; one son was at the South, the other was Ruth's father: out of eight, these three alone remained. Her husband died after an illness of years that bore heavily on mind and body; and though she could never speak of him without tears springing to her tender eyes, there was always a smile to follow, fresh and faithful as a rainbow, to attest her cheerful submission to God's better will.

Old as she was, her soft hair had not one silver thread in its thick bands, and her spare figure

moved with a gentle alacrity that denied her years. As Miss Lavinia had said, she was a woman with no self, a woman who lived in and for her own people. It is true, the circle in which she so moved was small, and time was still narrowing it; but she gave to it all she had to give, the whole of a full cup,a rich and devoted nature. The duty lying nearest her was always done, fully. Perhaps China and the isles of the sea were left out of that circumference; but her family, her friends, her neighbors, were in no case neglected. She "stood in her lot" to the end of her days. If we all did as much, would the days of millennial peace tarry so long?

From her, Happy had a great lesson to learn: the lesson of loving. Not after the elective fashion of this world's love, which goes where it is attracted only, and as often goes to destroy as to protect and honor, but as God loves, with pity, pardon, and insight. Grandma Holden found something lovely in every soul with which she came in contact: some spark of the life that once came from the breath of God, and which is so rarely all extinguished so long as living lasts. Happy had been loved: loved as few mothers even love their children. And her own heart had gone out to her class-children, especially to Ruth; but she held herself aloof from most people, because she did not like them. That this was not right had never crossed her mind; she did

not enjoy it in other people's manner towards her, but it seemed inevitable in herself. It was a study and a revelation to her to watch Grandma Holden's friendly manner to everybody. To see how she found something in each to love, to admire, or to respect; yet not for want of discrimination into character. Her eyes were keen to observe and discern; but she had that charity which "hopeth all things and endureth all things," "suffereth long and is kind," "thinketh no evil," and "seeketh not its own." This last type of heavenly love was especially Madam Holden's own; having no self-consciousness to be jarred or wounded by the neglect or unkindness of the world about her, she never perceived that it was unkind or neglectful; and having the largest hope and charity for everybody else, she was so deeply humble, so sensible of her own shortcomings, that Mr. Payson had said of her: "Madam Holden sees everybody's goodness but her own, and loves everybody but herself."

It is true that she loved Ruth more now than any other creature; but in tenderest feeling for our human nature it is recorded of one disciple that he was him "whom Jesus loved;" and after that shall the peculiar tenderness of one heart for another be blamed as sin? In this matter she soon found quick sympathy with Happy, and unconsciously they worked together for the child's good. Mr. Holden

did not cross the path of any of his servants often. He was a cold, stern man in manner: if he had a heart, it was kept for one or two. So the winter went on less miserably than Happy had feared; she learned what her work was in the house, and did it faithfully; but she had one embarrassment. Fred Park had found out where she lived, and had called to see her. Happy had no place to receive him, and no wish to have visitors there, she knew it would not please Mrs. Holden, nor did she want to take the two or three friends she had into the kitchen, where Ann and Katy abided. It was unpleasant to have to tell the young man that she could not see company, but it had to be done; and it seemed a new and painful element in her present position that she must give up her friends' society entirely, except as she saw Miss Lavinia every Sunday. But Fred Park found this out very soon; he joined her always after her little class was over, and walked with her down to Aunt Vinny's; and that sharp-eyed spinster began to look at him over her spectacles, and resolved to find out all about him before she would ask him in to tea.

Happy was young, innocent, almost friendless; it is not strange that she soon found a shy pleasure in this first attention she had ever received; that she learned to expect him with more pleasure than she was conscious of, or that it made her restless and

troubled to think she had no place in which to show him in return some friendliness and hospitality.

Her afternoon class had increased during the winter; there were eight of them now, and Jack and Nan, by right of first-comers, felt a certain responsibility for their own behavior as examples, that did them a deal of good: they grew so quiet, so helpful, so affectionate, that Happy "thanked God and took courage" in regard to them daily. Of her other class less was to be said: Mary Gray, being in deep earnest, had gone on in the Christian life so far that she was anxious now to become a member of the visible church; her mother was moved to her very soul by the child's experience, which she well knew was not the result of her own teaching or example. It was not to her that Mary had come for help or sympathy, but to that poor lame servant-girl who was teacher of her class.

With all her faults, Mrs. Gray was an honest woman. She had never lived as she should have lived since the first year she had professed religion ; her faith had become feeble and her works few. Mr. Payson's simple and direct preaching had made her uneasy often; gradually the frost was coming out of this fallow field, and the sod being broken to admit the sun's rays. Mary observed an unusual softness and gentleness in her mother's manner; and when she told her of her purpose to join the church,