Dawn

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"Poor fellow," she said, patting his head, "I would not send you
back if I had a home for you," and she tried again to induce him to
return, but he only gave a sigh, or sort of moan, as though
imploring her to keep him with her.

She could no more bid him depart. Was he not her only friend, and
did he not love her as none other did? So she patted him again and
said,--

"Perhaps God will provide for us both. Come on, dear, old brave
fellow," and then the faithful animal's eyes lit up with almost
human gratitude, and he ran on joyfully before her.

The tall trees waved their branches in the morning breeze, and their
music touched her soul, and attuned it to sweeter harmony than it
had known for years. The flame of hope began to kindle anew. There
might be some one, after all, who would pity her, who would not
wholly condemn her; while the music of the tall pines seemed like
angel voices, saying: "Yes, love her, pity her, and all on whom the
blight of sorrow falls."

She loved the music of the singing trees, and was grieved when the
road turned off towards a hill, and she was obliged to part with the
protection and seclusion which they afforded her. But taking fresh
courage from the guide-board, which indicated her approach to N--,
she travelled bravely on. She had provided herself with provisions
for a single day only, and had scarcely dared to take even that from
the plenty of her father's home. Reaching a sheltered spot by the
roadside, and feeling faint and weary, she sat down and shared her
food with her dog.

Ten miles of her journey had been passed, and more rapidly than she
could hope to continue, and she found that on a renewal of it, she
must proceed more leisurely.

A sad, but interesting picture they made. She, with her young, fair
face, touched by lines of grief; the once dreamy eyes, so soft, now
full of nervous fire, and wild with restless fear. Her bonnet was
thrown back from her shoulders, and the golden sun of morning
touched her wavy hair, till it glowed and seemed like a halo of
light about her pale brow.

When their little repast was over, she rested her head upon her
hands, and from her soul went forth a prayer for guidance and
protection,--more deep and earnest than words can portray.

CHAPTER XIV.

Morning broke in all its splendor over the little village she had
left behind.

Dewy flowers, touched by the rising day, glittered in their beds of
green, while mists, etherial as air, hung over the verdant meadows.
Long lines of hills whose tops rested against the blue sky, mirrored
their heads in the waters which flowed at their feet.

Beauty was on every hand. In whatever direction the eye turned, it
beheld the smile of God, and all nature seemed a psalm of
thanksgiving.

Caleb Thorne arose, and shaking off dull sleep, called Margaret to
her morning duties, while his wife bustled about the house in her
usual manner.

Neither looked on the lovely scene before them. If their eyes
chanced to turn in its direction, their souls took no cognizance of
all the wealth of beauty which was before them.

"What on earth keeps that gal up stairs so long," said Mrs. Thorne,
"I'll call her and bring her down I guess,--Mar-ga-ret-Mar-ga-ret
Thorne; it's most six o'clock-get up."

No sound; no footstep. She waited a full half hour, then Caleb
returned from the barn, having milked the cows, a labor which he had
performed since Margaret's illness.

"That gal ain't up yet," said his wife, as he came and placed the
pails on the table.

His breath came fast, for he feared she might be ill, or dead,
perhaps.

"Go and see what the matter is," he said to his wife. But as she was
somewhat afraid to enter a room where all was so silent, she
hesitated. At length she mounted the stairs very slowly, calling
Margaret's name at each step. When she had reached the landing, she
found the door wide open, but no Margaret was there, and the bed was
undisturbed. Pale and trembling, she went down stairs.

"She's-she's gone!" were the words with which she met her husband's
inquiring gaze. "Yes, gone; run away, I s'pose, in the night."

Mr. Thorne sank into the nearest seat, almost paralyzed with emotion
and apprehension.

"Gone?" he repeated; it was a long time before he could take in her
meaning. It came at last; not as some truths do with a flash, but it
dropped like lead into his soul, down-down-to depths he knew not of.
And she had gone, just when he was waking to realize a fraction of
her worth; just as he was learning to look with a single spark of
love on her young, fair face, growing every day so much like her
dear, dead mother's.

He leaned his face upon his hands and wept. The fount of feeling
long dried was touched, and his heart felt a tenderness it had never
known before, for his child.

Through the dark atmosphere about his soul a ray of light broke in.
Down through long years it crept, and seemed to carry him back to
the time when his Mary was a bride.

There comes a moment to every soul, when its treasures are truly
appreciated; when hearts God has given to love and bless us are
rightly valued. Well is it for us if that moment comes while they
are with us in the earthly form.

It seemed but yesterday when she was a bride, white in soul, as well
as attire. How vividly the scene now stood before him, and he felt,
as he then did, the beating of her young, trusting heart, which she
gave into his keeping.

Down through all these years flowed the light of recollection, and
brought to mind the morning when a tiny babe was placed beside its
mother for him to love and cherish. Grief shook his soul to its
foundations. Through his rough nature crept a tenderness he had not
known for years, for those two treasures-one beneath the sod; the
other,--where?

"I s'pose you did n't look to see if the door was onbolted, did
you?" remarked his wife, wondering what made him so long silent.

"Come to think 'ont, 't was," he answered, like one awaking from a
dream.

"Then, the ungrateful thing's gone; and I am glad, if she could n't
be more thankful to us for her home."

"Yes,--Margaret's gone." His voice sounded far off, as though his
soul was off in search of her.

"Margaret Thorne has run away!" went from mouth to mouth, and harsh
comments, bitter words, flashed through the village a few days, and
then all was still again.

Wild and fearful emotions rushed through the mind of Margaret, when,
after a long, weary walk, she reached the town of N--, with old Trot
at her side.

It was a small white house, apart from others, and far from the
road, at which she applied for board, drawn thither by its quiet,
home-like appearance, and a strange feeling within her mind which
she had not fully learned to trust.

She felt that her weary feet could go no farther, as she walked up
the path, bordered by flowers, and knocked timidly at the door.

It was opened by a woman of about forty years, whose pleasant face
smiled upon her, as she invited her to enter.

Margaret took courage from the kind manner in which she was met, and
at once made known her desire to obtain a boarding place, designing
to work in the factory near at hand.

"I have no room at present for any one," she answered, "but if you
are to work in the factory there are boarding houses built by the
corporation, at which you can obtain accommodations. The first step,
however, will be to call upon the overseer, and if you like I will
go with you after you have rested."

Margaret was too grateful to reply in a satisfactory manner, but her
face looked what her tongue could not speak.

Mrs. Armstrong glanced at the young girl, and thought how unfitted
she seemed for such a place of labor. With her large experience, for
many had wandered there before, burdened with heavy struggles, she
quickly saw that grief, or want, perhaps both, had driven her from
home, or shelter, whichever it might be.

She shrank as she thought of the rough influences to which she would
be subjected, and though she knew she could not avert the fate of
this wanderer, or any of those who came to her for love and
sympathy, yet she inwardly resolved to befriend her, and do all that
she could to aid one so young and innocent, through a cold world.

"I'll get you a cup of tea, and something to eat," she said, and
hurried out of the room before Margaret could reply.

This was not the first one to whom her bounty had been given; not
the first lonely stranger who had supped at her table.

Old Trot sat on the door-step during this time, his eyes riveted on
the house, and his ears poised to catch every sound within.

When all was ready, Mrs. Armstrong called Margaret to partake of a
good substantial meal, which her busy hands had so speedily
prepared, and knowing that the young girl might feel diffident,
seated her alone at the table, while she busied herself about the
room.

How Margaret longed to share her meal with Trot. What was her
surprise to see Mrs. Armstrong gather some scraps of meat and bones,
and carry them to the hungry animal.

No wonder the girl thought her an angel; she rose from the table,
her eyes too dim to see her newly-found friend, and her heart too
full to thank her for all her kindness.

In a short time Mrs. Armstrong was in readiness to accompany her to
the factory, and the two left the house, the former making the walk
pleasant by her familiar conversation and the sympathy she
manifested for the wanderer. Trot followed them, and, as if
conscious that his young mistress had found a friend, occasionally
ran on before, looking up in their faces, and leaping as if wild
with joy.

After a short walk through the most retired part of the village,
they reached the factory building and entered.

The noise was so great that Margaret thought she should be stunned,
and put her hands upon her ears, to keep out the sound. She had
never been in a factory before, and the thought of having to bear
all that confusion, every day, sent a feeling to her heart somewhat
akin to terror; but she must labor, and where else could she go?

The curious gaze of the girls, as they entered the weaving room, was
most trying to her sensitive nature, and Margaret's face crimsoned,
as she followed Mrs. Armstrong to the farthest part of the room,
where Mr. Field, the overseer, was conversing with one of the
operators.

He was a black-eyed, sharp-featured person, and there was something
in his look which caused her to shudder, as Mrs. Armstrong made
known her errand.

"Have you ever worked in a factory?" he asked, in a quick, impatient
manner.

"No sir."

"A new hand, then," he said, with a little more suavity.

"We need another hand in the carding-room, so you may go there. I
will show you the room."

He led the way, Margaret following, yet keeping close to her new
friend.

The noise of the room was almost as great as that of the other, but
it was sunnier, and the windows were adorned with some beautiful
plants. The girls seemed more modest and less inclined to stare at
visitors. Mr. Field was about to leave, when he suddenly turned to
Margaret and inquired when she intended to commence.

"To-morrow, sir, if you are ready for me?"

"All right. Be on hand at the ringing of the bell."

"I had almost forgotten an important part of my errand," said Mrs.
Armstrong, "and that is, a boarding place for this young lady."

"Ah, she wishes to board in the Corporation. Well, there is a place
at Mrs. Crawford's. I think she has a spare room. Her house is on
Elm Street, third block."

It was a relief to feel the fresh air again, and to be away from the
noise and confusion of the factory. As soon as they had reached the
street, Margaret inquired of Mrs. Armstrong, the way to Mrs.
Crawford's.

"O! I shall go with you," said that kind lady, to the great relief
of the young and timid girl, already worn and weary with fatigue and
excitement.

"Thank you," in low, but sweet tones, came from her lips, and the
two wended their way along, with Trot close behind.

They passed pleasant private dwellings, and then turned into a long
and narrow street, with blocks of houses on either side. Margaret
had supposed by the name, that the street must be very pretty, with
rows of trees on each side. She was just learning that there are
many misnomers in life, and that this was one.

The house in the third block was reached, and Mrs. Armstrong rapped
with her parasol on the door. A red faced, but good-natured
appearing woman answered the call.

"We have called to see if you have a spare room for a young lady who
wishes board," said Mrs. Armstrong.

"We 've got a spare bed for a factory girl, if that's what you
want," she replied, grinning, and eyeing Margaret from head to foot.

"But have you no room she can have by herself?"

"Bless your stars, no my lady. We don't take them kind o' boarders.
There's plenty of places where genteel folks are taken, if they like
to be starved out and out," and her face glowed with such genuine
good nature, that her questioner felt that whatever else one might
have to endure, they would at least have a sunny face to cheer them.

"This young woman can sleep with other folks, can't she?" inquired
the good-natured woman, and her smile, not of sarcasm, but true
goodness, though rough, saved Margaret's tears.

"If you have no other, she must," said Mrs. Armstrong,
disappointedly, for she saw from the first, a native dignity and
delicacy in Margaret which would shrink from the contact with
others, and intended to have paid the extra price demanded for a
room herself, if one could have been obtained.

At that moment, old Trot came in through the open door, and looked
around, as though he did not like the appearance of things.

"That dog can't come," said the woman, losing for the first time her
pleasant smile. "May-be he's your's though, madam?" she said
apologetically.

"No, he's mine, and I must have him with me," broke in Margaret,
"and I cannot-"

She stopped short, frightened at her own earnest words and manner.

"I think he will be better off with me," said Mrs. Armstrong; "I
will keep him for you."

"I would n't care myself about the cur," said Mrs. Crawford,
following them to the door, "but my boarders are so agin anything in
the shape of a dog."

"Certainly; she could scarcely expect you to take him; and besides,
I want him to watch my chickens and garden. I took a fancy to him
the moment I first saw him."

Having thus made all satisfactory in regard to the dog, as far as
Mrs. Crawford was concerned, they bade her good-day, and reached
home just before dark.

"You are too kind," said Margaret to Mrs. Armstrong, who told her
that she must remain all night with her, and then she could say no
more, but broke down completely.

The kind woman took her at once to a neat little bed-room, and
permitted Trot to lie on a mat close to the door of his mistress.

Weary and worn, she gladly went to bed. Sleep came at last, and the
tired, intense state of her mind was lost in slumber. She dreamt
that she was at her home again, and that she was going to marry
Clarence. They were walking to the village church together, over the
soft green meadows. The air was balmy and full of sweetness; the
sunshine lay in golden bars at her feet, and her whole soul glowed
with happiness, life, and love. The bells--her marriage bells--pealed
out joyously on the air, while she turned to Clarence, saying, "I
had a terrible dream; I thought you had deserted me." Another
peal,--merry and full-then the meadows that were so warm and sunny,
grew cold and wet; and a cloud came between her and the golden sun.
The bell rolled forth another peal-it sounded like a knell-and she
awoke.

The factory bell was ringing, calling the operatives to labor.

A sweet voice broke on her utter desolation just at that moment,
saying:

"That is the first bell; you will have just time enough to dress and
take your breakfast."

Mechanically she arose, dressed, and forcing back her hot tears,
went below, to sit again at the table of one who ever remembered
these words: "As ye have opportunity."

CHAPTER XV.

There comes to every one at times the inquiring thought, of what use
is life? What will be the result of all this seemingly useless toil,
these states of unrest, these earnest efforts of the soul
unappreciated, these best endeavors misunderstood? Such questions
flood the reason at times, and we are ready to lay down our life
weapons, scarce caring how the busy scene goes on.

Then, through the parted clouds, the rays of truth illumine the mind
again, and we take up the life-song once more, not as we laid it
down, but with a richer melody, a fuller and sweeter strain. The
soul feels new pinioned, and spreads its wings for loftier flights,
rising, height after height, up and on to the fields of the
infinite.

This questioning state is sure to come to the most earnest,
truthful, and thoughtful worker. All along the pathway of life these
weary, yet hopeful pilgrims, sit waiting for "light, more light."

In such a mood sat Miss Evans, at the close of one summer day, as
the sun was going slowly to his fold of gold and crimson clouds. A
sort of mental twilight had gathered over her, dimming the sharp
lines of thought which gave her words at all times such force. All
her best and most earnest endeavors seemed as nought. Words which
she had spoken, warm with life, vital with her own enthusiasm, had
become metamorphosed, till their real meaning was lost to her.

"Alas! we must remain a riddle to ourselves forever," she said, and
her deep brown eyes, always warm with affection, now seemed cold, as
she turned her thoughts inward to sound herself more thoroughly, and
if possible detect any other than a desire for advancement.

How long she might have searched we cannot say, for just as her
thoughts were most abstracted, Hugh came and sat down by her side,
before she knew that any one had entered.

"Why, Hugh!" was her exclamation of surprise.

"You are not at home, I see."

He brought her back with those words.

"Really, I was away; but how glad I am to see you," and her glowing
features endorsed the truth of her assertion.

"How far had you wandered?" he asked, his face full of glowing
sympathy; "far enough to gather a new impetus for the soul?"

"I fear not. I was questioning my motives, and looking for my
shortcomings."

"I fear I should have been absent much longer on such an errand," he
said, and then dropping their badinage they resumed their true
earnest relation to each other.

"Tell me, Hugh, you who have so often illumined my dark states, if
all this contest is of any avail; if it is any use to put forth our
words and have their meaning misinterpreted?"

"I question," she continued, "if we should project our thought until
mankind is impelled by the actual need of something new, to seek
it."

"Our thoughts and soul exchanges are not like the merchant's wares,
to be held up for a bid. The soul is too grand and spontaneous a
creation to be measured. Yes, we must often speak our deepest
thoughts, even though they are cast away as nought, and trampled
upon. There would be little richness or worth without this free
offering, this giving of self for truth's sake, even though we know
that we and our words may be spurned. You are cloudy to-day, my
friend; you have been too long alone, and are consumed by your own
thoughts."

"I am mentally exhausted, Hugh. I needed you to-day, for my soul has
lost all vision. I know by my own experience, that we must speak
when we are full, no matter who misapprehends or turns upon us. It
is this fear that keeps too many from great and noble utterances. We
forget that truth can clear itself, and that principles are not
dependent upon persons. You have given me myself, as you ever do,
when the mist of doubt hangs over me."

"Yes, we must give when there is no approving smile, no look of
recognition; give when our giving makes us beggars, alone and
friendless in the chill air of neglect."

"This is but your own life. I have but put it into words for you
to-night."

"O, Hugh, you are ever on the mount, looking with calm, steady gaze
over the dark mists. Your head rests in eternal sunshine, like the
towering hill whose top is mantled with the golden light, even
though its base is covered with fog. Shall we ever see the day when
these inner, pivotal truths will be accepted?"

"We shall behold it in the lives of thousands. It matters not when,
or where. Our part is to labor, to plant the seed, though it may not
be our hands that garner the harvest."

"True. I was selfish and looking for grain."

"Not 'selfish.' The human soul seeks recognition, and finds it often
a difficult task to wait for the presence of that human face which
says in every line and feature, 'I know you; I feel your salient
thoughts and motives.' A long time it takes us to learn to do
without the approving smile of man, and go on our way with none but
God and angels to sanction our efforts. I, too, have hours of
darkness. All souls are at times tossed on heaving waters, that they
may rise higher than their weary feet can climb."

"You have done me good to-day; but do not go," she said, seeing him
rise to leave.

"I must; but first tell me if I can have your aid in a material
matter, which I had nearly forgotten?"

"I am at your service."

"Well, then, I am going to have a party, which I suppose is the last
thing you would have imagined of me."

"I should have thought of any thing else; but what has put such an
idea into your head?"

"Some fairy, perhaps. I expect to get some life out of it, and the
satisfaction of seeing my guests enjoying themselves. I shall bring
together a strange medley,--counterparts, affinities, opposites, and
every form of temperament which our little village affords, besides
drawing on places largely remote from here. I must go now. Will you
come and help us to-morrow?"

"I will. My love to Dawn and Miss Vernon."

"Thank you," and he passed out, leaving her bright and full of hope.
She felt the transfusion of his strong life into her own, and
neither herself nor her friend was the same as yesterday.

The day for the party was fair and balmy. Dawn and Miss Vernon rode
to the green-house and purchased flowers for the occasion, and the
home seemed like a fairy bower, so artistically and elegantly had
they arranged the fresh and fragrant blossoms.

Miss Evans glided from room to room, placing a vase here, and a
statuette there, as her feeling suggested, and what was her fancy
was Hugh's, for their tastes were one, and their lives ran parallel
in natural, innocent ways, never able to translate their feelings to
another, but giving and enjoying each other more and more at every
meeting.

Poor Mrs. Norton thought how pleasant it would be to her, to see a
room full of beautiful things, pleasant faces, and elegant clothes:
it would be such a contrast to her own dull life, which would be
still more lonely but for the frequent visits of Mr. Wyman's family,
and the substantial evidence often given by them that they did not
forget the poor and needy. She arrayed herself neatly in her black
alpacca, the gift of a friend; and when she looked in her little
glass which hung above the table, just were it did thirty years ago,
when her good husband was alive, a rush of better thoughts and
feelings came over her. She lived over again the happy days of her
married life, and almost thought she was making ready to walk by her
husband's side to the little church on the hill. Then the scene
changed, years rolled away, and it seemed but yesterday when she
leaned over the coffin, and looked on the still, pale face that
would never light her home again. Thoughts grew into words, and she
said,--

"How little to keep me here. I have far more to recover by death
than to lose; and somehow it seems as though it would not be long
ere I go."

She was not sad; far from it. The thought was pleasant to her, and
folding her white handkerchief over her breast, she surveyed herself
once more, and then putting on her shawl and bonnet, was soon on her
way to Mr. Wyman's, thinking again and again how much good it would
do her to see so many people together.

Mrs. Clarke wondered if Mrs. Simonds would be dressed in great
style, for she had a wish not to be outdone in that direction, and
yet possessed a sufficient degree of good sense to feel that
overdress would be out of place at such a gathering; so she arrayed
herself in a blue silk, not over-trimmed, and put pearls in her dark
hair to match her jewels.

And thus, from different sections, arose a kind of magnetic life, as
each individual's thoughts went out and centered there.

Dawn was dressed in white, with scarlet sash, and coral ornaments.
She seemed like a ray of light flashing through darkness. Her soft,
brown hair hung in wavy curls over her shoulders, and the
involuntary exclamation was, "How beautiful," as the pure light and
brightness of her inner being shone through and over the external.

At dusk, the carriages began to appear, winding up the long avenue,
which led to the house. Then came a few persons on foot, and in an
hour all the bustle and stir attendant upon a crowd was heard in the
hall, on the stairs, and in every room. The house was all aglow with
life, and lines of care and sorrow were swept away by radiant
smiles.

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