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« Yes," said Dr. Humphrey, “ the young man has not been too highly recommended, I think.”

“ Ah!” said Zephaniah Wilkins, who overheard their conversation. “ Remember that we must lay hands suddenly on no man; we know nothing of his private character yet. He may prove very unlike what he now appears.”'

“ Well!” responded Father Shaw, “I don't care what you think, but I believe its plaguy hard to counterfeit such goodness as this. I wish to the Lord we had more on 't!"

Zephaniah now shook his head and looked gravely wise. This young man belonged to that peculiar class of persons who go up and down the earth as though they possessed a superior gift of discovering secret sin, as did the Fakir el Kebir when he reported that he caused a lamb to bleat in the stomach of the thief who had stolen and afterwards eaten it.

Edith Hale heard this sermon also, and, as she listened, she forgot all her sorrows, all things save the words of the speaker. But when she left the house of worship, and once more found herself in a world harsh, and chill, and gloomy to her young heart, she thought, “Alas! I now feel the breadth and depth of my

afflictions in their bitterest reality! My dear father gone forever, my mother and myself in poverty, and to-morrow I must go to the factory to labor for

my

bread!” But when her mother inquired of what she had heard, she replied, in a cheerful tone, “One new idea, out of many, I recall. The preacher said that on the mountain of Serendib, in Ceylon, grows a red rose about the size of the palm of the hand, upon the leaves of which the Mahometans imagine they can read the name of God and the Prophet. The Christian, he said, should read the name of God upon all his works much

upon

the serpent who but obeyed the impulses of instinct, as upon the fragrant and beautiful rose. And our afflictions, also, should discover this blessed name to us, as well as our joys."

as

CHAPTER II.

A NEW LIFE.

WATERBURY was among the most thriving country towns of New England. Situated at a convenient distance from the metropolis, and possessing many natural as well as factitious resources for business, in a steadily-increasing growth of years it had come to hold a rank in the community not inferior to any of the places in the vicinity.

Through the centre of the village flowed a stream of considerable width, intersected by several mill-dams, over which the water fell like a sheet of silver, broken at its base into a million globules of sheen. In the sunlight each waterfall seemed a cascade of iridescent stones. The central street of Waterbury spanned this stream by a bridge, above which was one of the waterfalls, with its perpetual volume of sound. Further

up

the stream were little islands, studded with trees or underbrush, which, in the warm season, were very attractive, and suggestive of those fabled isles that are clothed with perennial verdure and delight. Upon the banks stood ancient oaks and elms, often entwined by stout grape-vines, with branches pendent over the water.

On the lower side of the bridge, at some distance, a still expanse of water was bounded to the eye by a factory building, which resembled a huge patch-work of stone. In the evening this water was so radiant with the reflections of brilliant window-panes, that it appeared as if some enchanter had summoned up myriad lights from the halls of a subterranean temple. The low lands below the mill, irrigated by this stream, were very luxuriant, and early in the spring presented a beautiful green most grateful to the eye.

This valley was rich in wild-flowers, which seemed to those who sought for them more lovely and mellow in tint than all others, as the horses of Nysa, that fed on the beautiful plains of Medea, yielding the best pasturage in the world, are reported by ancient writers to have become cream-colored.

Near the centre of the village stood the only church of the place, which was in the Gothic style of architecture, with a clock upon the base of the steeple, and a dove holding an olive-branch for the weather-vane. Surrounding the church was an extensive and beautiful lawn, skirted with ancient forest and evergreen trees, and enclosed with an iron paling. At some distance in the rear, upon a low hill of a beautiful outline, and dotted thickly with pines, ever aromatic and melancholy in the deep, solemn sighs of the wind, was the place of burial for the dead. The furthermost base of this hill was skirted by a stream, from which the place derived its name of Riverbank Cemetery. Leading from the village in various directions were the streets, on which were situated, for a long distance, the places of business and homes of

the inhabitants. Some of these were very tasteful, - a few even asserting claim to elegance and rare beauty.

Very early in the morning, before the darkness had fled, the sharp-toned bell of the factory rang.

When Edith Hale heard this bell for the first time as a reminder of her own duty, she rose from her troubled dreams, and, with trembling fingers, arrayed herself as quickly as possible, then fell upon her knees in supplication to God for patience and strength. The words of the Psalmist came into her thought :“In the day of my trouble I will call upon

Thee, for Thou wilt answer me.”

“ Dear Edith, be of good courage !” said her mother, folding her shawl more closely about her before she went out; “ remember the promises of God to those who put their trust in him.” But the mother's tremulous voice betrayed that she had no less need of consolation herself.

Edith was too troubled for words; she threw her arms about her mother's neck, and kissed her with unwonted fervor. A moment she lingered, as if her mother could shield her on her bosom from harsh contact with the world evermore, as she had dreamed in the hours of her childhood, and the answering heart throbbed with a pain more acute than it had ever known before. The most affectionate mother, who parts with her daughter leaving for the distant school, or the tour of travel, or even for that last journey through the dark valley of the shadow of death, knows not such sorrow as the mother of Edith then knew. She had once been a proud woman, born and bred in scenes of affluence and luxury; and

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