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Ah ! she was a pretty picture just then. (Page 139 
 
THE HUNTINGDONS : ,_ 
 
 r (J 
 
 OR. 
 
 GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 
 
 DT 
 
 MAEIA LOUISE HAYWARD, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " THE CAVERLT FAMILY." 
 
 BOSTON: 
 GRAVES AND YOUNG, 
 
 24 CORNHILL. 
 
 18G5. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by 
 
 H. V. DEGEN & SON, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 
 
THE HUNTINGDONS 
 
 OR, 
 
 GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 
 
 MRS. LIVINGSTON was alone. Five min- 
 utes since hasty footsteps had passed 
 through the hall, a nervous hand had closed 
 quickly the outside door, and the sound of a 
 horse's rapid footsteps had followed immediately 
 after. Mrs. Livingston had listened eagerly to 
 each one of these movements, and as the last 
 faint step came to her ear, she sank into an 
 easy chair and folding both hands full over her 
 face, she remained motionless and silent. All 
 was silent around, save the low ticking of the 
 French clock on the mantel, and all remained silent 
 for a long while, till the flutter and stir of a canary 
 
 *l»in its cage startled Mrs. Livingston, and gazing up 
 
 , she said, 
 
 • " My poor bird what has frightened thee." 
 
6 THE HUNTIXGDOXS : OR, 
 
 Then arising, apparently occupied with another 
 thought, she passed slowly to the end window, and 
 was just lifting the curtain, when suddenly she let 
 it fall, saying half aloud, 
 
 " What matters it, he is nothing to me now, 
 and must never be." 
 
 During that long time she had been communing 
 with her own heart. Rapidly had thought carried 
 her back to a few months previous, when she had 
 first met him, whose departure had now caused 
 her such deep sadness, and dwelling upon that 
 meeting and the many events which had transpired 
 since, she tasted anew their sweetness, but only 
 to render her present feelings more bitter, more 
 painful. With the feeling that he had indeed 
 gone from her, gone forever, she had stepped to 
 the window to ascertain if he had left the village, 
 for from her windows she could easily see across 
 " the harbor " the village hotel, and the very win- 
 dows of the room he had occupied during the past 
 weeks. Many nights had she watched the long 
 lasting lights which shone from those windows, 
 but now she felt to look was all in vain, and dread- 
 ing, too, to know the certainty of her feeling, she 
 dropped the curtain and murmured the words 
 above, then, turning round, gazed here and there 
 for some familiar object, something which had not 
 " gone" written upon it. Her eye fell upon the 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 7 
 
 Bible, and as she turned its sacred leaves over, 
 a few pages arrested her attention, and seeing 
 there the deeper " gone," gone of father, mother, 
 sister and a dearly loved husband, the fountain of 
 her heart was opened, and tears — those great re- 
 lievers of human misery — came to calm her trou- 
 bled spirit. Then again went memory back into 
 the past, and as the old sorrows arose from their 
 ashes, the new one lost its sudden bitterness, for 
 amongst past memories the Comforter divine ap- 
 peared, and whispered, " Fear not, for I am with 
 thee," " Cast thy burden on me for I will sustain 
 thee." And Hope sweetly added, " Why should'st 
 thou doubt ? Has he not carried thee through far 
 heavier griefs, and will he not through this ? Fear 
 not, but only trust," and, leaning on this trust the 
 saddened face grew brighter, and the tearful eyes 
 were upward lifted, while the sorrowing one 
 whispered " Father, thy will be done." 
 
 Day followed day, and Mrs. Livingston still 
 trusted, still waited, praying for earnest work in 
 God's vineyard, work that would not recall the 
 past nor give opportunity for painful thought. 
 
 The prayer was granted, for soon after, one warm 
 October eve, while walking up and down the piaz- 
 za, she was surprised by a visit from her brother, 
 Mr. Huntingdon, a merchant from an adjoining 
 city. - ^ 
 
8 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 " I have come," said he to her, advancing and 
 clasping her proffered hand in his, " to beg a favor 
 of you, and one which I shall be very unwilling 
 to have you refuse." 
 
 " Well, what is it ? " quickly returned Mrs. 
 L . 
 
 " You probably know," replied Mr. Hunting- 
 don, in a saddened tone, " that we have given 
 up all hopes of Margaret's recovery. Dr. Stetson 
 was in yesterday, and said the only thing now he 
 could recommend for her, was a trip South, and 
 therefore I am determined to start immediately for 
 Florida, and " 
 
 " And you have come for me to take charge of 
 your family," eagerly interrupted Mrs. L . 
 
 " Yes, just so," responded her brother, "but 
 how is it ? you seem pleased with the proposition." 
 
 " I am," returned she. " Another time I might 
 not have been so willing, nor so able to go, but 
 now " — and she glanced about sorrowfully, " I am 
 a little tired of Easy Hall, and think I should en- 
 joy a change." 
 
 " Tired of Easy Hall ? " questioned her brother, 
 while he gazed round admiringly, and then rest- 
 ing his eyes somewhat suspiciously upon her face, 
 continued," or tired of yourself? " 
 
 " In truth, not exactly either," replied Mrs. 
 L , $t the same time starting up and leading 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 9 
 
 the way into the house. " Come in," continued 
 she, " supper will soon be ready, meanwhile tell 
 me more of your plans," and entering the library 
 she seated herself in a darkened corner, where 
 her tell-tale face could not so easily be read. 
 
 " I have told you nearly all," replied Mr. 
 
 H , advancing to her side, and then leaning 
 
 over the back of her chair, continued, "just now 
 I am more interested to know the cause of your 
 weariness," and he tenderly smoothed her soft 
 brown hair. 
 
 " Never mind, brother dear," returned she, 
 clasping his other hand which rested on the chair 
 in hers. " I have had a little trouble, but just 
 now had rather not speak of it, so please don't 
 question me." The tear which dropped on her 
 hand though, told her brother it was not as small as 
 she would fain persuade him to believe, but he re- 
 frained from questioning her further, and said, 
 
 " Lizzie, how long do you suppose we intend 
 to be absent ? " 
 
 " O, three or four months, replied she." 
 
 " Three or four ! rather eight or nine. You 
 would not expect us to return before warm 
 weather." 
 
 " No, I suppose you ought not to return before 
 then, but such a long stay will prevent me carry- 
 ing out my plans for the good of my village 
 
10 THE HUNTIXGDOXS: OE, 
 
 neighbors this winter. I have been so engaged 
 with home duties, and the entertaining of my 
 friends this summer, I have made scarcely any 
 acquaintances, save those of the summer residents, 
 and I really long to go amongst these people. An- 
 other thing, how can I manage your family for 
 such a length of time ? they are not children, you 
 know." 
 
 " I have thought of both these things," replied 
 Mr. Huntingdon, " and have feared you would con- 
 sider it too much care ; but I know no one else I 
 could obtain with whom they would be pleased, 
 or who would exert the right influence over thcx, 
 and besides Margaret is so anxious to have you 
 come, I trust you will for her sake. I ought to 
 mention, too, that Georgia Ndble, brother Henry's 
 step-daughter, is with us, and will remain some 
 time. Her father wishes her to be removed from 
 the society and influence of rather a dissipated 
 young man, with whom she has become acquaint- 
 ed, and has therefore sent her to us. She will not 
 trouble you though, being very reserved and quiet 
 in her manner." 
 
 " Well, I shall come," returned Mrs. L . 
 
 " I may perhaps find it a little wearisome, and 
 governing your daughters rather perplexing, but 
 I will do the best I can." 
 
 " And that will be the best, I have no fears," 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 11 
 
 responded the fond brother. Just here a servant 
 entered and announced tea ; and, leaving them, we 
 will glance about Easy Hall. 
 
 Easy Hall was thus named by one of the lady 
 friends of the former owner, from the fact that 
 visitors, the instant they entered its doors, looked 
 in vain for that tyrant of the present age, t3r- 
 turing ceremony. Each one was at liberty to dress, 
 walk, eat and speak as they thought proper ; and 
 as the visitors at Easy Hall were generally well- 
 bred, sensible people, and its owner peculiarly so, 
 it followed as a matter of course that no house 
 around was as charming and attractive and now 
 though recently fallen into Mrs. Livingston's 
 hands, it still maintains its former reputation. It 
 is situated on a hill side of the beautiful town of 
 
 K , "that little Swiss village of America," as 
 
 one of our poets has remarked. The surroundings 
 are indeed highly picturesque. Standing in the 
 summer-house, upon a prominent point a little dis- 
 tance from the house, one's eyes are feasted on the 
 panorama spread before them. In the back- 
 ground, clear against the blue sky, stands H 
 
 Hill, now clothed in its gorgeous autumn robes, 
 more varied and more beautiful than elsewhere, 
 on account of the great dissimilarity and abun- 
 dance of the foliage. 
 
 Nestling at the foot of the hill are mingled in 
 
12 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 " charming confusion," the tasty homes of -poets 
 and scholars, side by side with those of " rustic 
 cottager " and " sturdy yeoman." Both gaze 
 alike upon the clear sheet of water before them, 
 H Harbor, which now reflects clouds of pur- 
 ple, red and orange, shaded off into faint pink and 
 yellow, and trees of all forms and sizes. 
 
 Nearer to us are other sheets of water, as clear 
 and pellucid as the harbor, but smaller in size. 
 Their banks are adorned to the very edge with 
 water-loving trees and herbs, which, ever now and 
 then, dip their tender branches 'neath the surface. 
 Separating these sheets of water, one salt and the 
 other fresh, is a dam, shielded on each side with 
 drooping willows. A rude mill, and the nets of 
 fishermen hanging near by, impart a foreign air to 
 the scene. The shore of both sides of the harbor 
 is distinctly seen. Now the setting sun causes the 
 hills and trees to cast deep shadows over the nearer 
 one, but its sombre aspect only adds beauty by 
 contrast, to the farther one. Hill and dale, water, 
 clouds, bright sunshine, waving trees, cottage, 
 mansion, ruins, all — all are here, and all arranged 
 in delicate and pleasing combinations. 
 
 Easy Hall itself, is a double, old, though newly 
 fashioned house, and like its owners easy. Easy is 
 the entrance,, a step, a portico with seats either 
 side of it — another step, and one is ushered into a 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNEE LIFE. 13 
 
 long hall furnished with lounges and chairs, while 
 its walls are adorned with portraits. At the 
 end is another entrance, opening into another 
 portico, covered with vines and provided with 
 seats. And here, one gains another view of hill- 
 side, dale, trees and flowers, as before. This hall 
 is the favorite "rendezvous " of the house. Here 
 are said the pleasant " good mornings," here whis- 
 pered the kind " good nights" — here, over the 
 large hall stove, in winter, or 'neath one of the 
 vine-covered entrances in summer, are told the 
 news and village stories, — here visitors love to lin- 
 ger, and here have been witnessed many a sad 
 scene of parting, or merry one of meeting. Lead- 
 ing from this hall are many pleasant rooms, while 
 above are a number more, all furnished with taste 
 and neatness, and with that inviting air peculiar 
 to but few homes. From the windows are seen, 
 in every direction, nature's loveliest pictures, ever 
 charming, ever new. 
 
 And now, whether promenading the piazza on 
 the east end of the house, which looks down upon 
 
 the village beneath, and off to H Hill, or 
 
 lolling in the library, reading rare works, and 
 anon gazing through vines upon the tasty lodge, 
 summer-house and pleasant hill-side, or strolling 
 over garden, farm-yard, orchard, woods or fields, 
 plucking fruit and gathering wild flowers, one 
 
14 THE HUNTINGDON. 
 
 feels he is indeed happy to be a guest at Easy 
 Hall. 
 
 A few days passed, and the mistress of this 
 place stood gazing with moistened eyes upon every 
 familiar object — objects which had so lately as- 
 sumed a new beauty, a new character, now stand- 
 ing only as sad, mute reminders of the past. 
 
 She turned hastily as her coachman approached, 
 and with a sudden, choking sob, bade Mary, 
 the coachman's wife, and her housekeeper, when 
 away, a tearful " good-bye." Seated in her car- 
 riage, she lowered her veil, determined to see no 
 more ; but when the carriage reached the end of 
 the avenue, she raised it again to smile on the 
 passer-by, and to say a few kind words to those 
 she bade " farewell! " 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 OPENING the door we are in the parlor of Hill- 
 side, Mr. Huntingdon's residence, and find our- 
 selves in quite a family circle. That is Mr. Hunt- 
 ingdon's son, the young man so busily reading 
 at the centre table, while the dark-haired lady 
 beside him, is his twin sister, Margaret. Oppo- 
 site to them are Miss Noble, the young lady be- 
 fore mentioned, and Bessie Huntingdon, the pet 
 and the baby of the Huntingdon family, though 
 she is eighteen years old. Reclining on an ad- 
 joining sofa is her next older sister, Louise, appa- 
 rently sleeping. 
 
 Just now Bessie is talking, her brown eyes 
 sparkling with merriment, and her rosy cheeks 
 glowing with excitement. 
 
 "I assure you," continued she, "it was a rare 
 time. There was Monsieur DeRenz, walking up 
 and down, as full of rage as he could be. He does 
 not know sufficient English to express himself 
 when he gets vexed, and so abused us in French, 
 which only made us laugh the more, it is so ridicu- 
 
16 THE HUNTINGDONS : OE, 
 
 lous to hear one talk angrily, when you cannot un- 
 derstand a word he says." 
 
 " What are you chattering about ? " said 
 Louise from the sofa, while she half raised herself 
 up, and leaned upon her arm. 
 
 " O you are awake are you, 9 ' replied Bessie,, 
 " I thought the cares of to-day had entirely worn 
 out your system, but I find curiosity in as good 
 a condition as ever." 
 
 " Do cease your nonsense," pettishly returned 
 Louise, " and reply to my question." 
 
 " Well, then," said Bessie, " as you are for once 
 so greatly interested in something sensible you 
 shall be gratified. To-day, you must know, we 
 had our singing lessons from Mons. DeRenz, and 
 you have probably heard me mention, what a 
 strange manner he has of tossing his head, when 
 he sings. Well, when he was right in the most 
 pathetic part of one of the pieces he is teaching 
 us, Kate Evans, who was standing directly behind 
 him, commenced mimicking him. It was so lu- 
 dicrous, happening just then, that we could scarce- 
 ly restrain bursting into laughter. We thought 
 he was so engrossed, however, in the song that he 
 did not notice us, but what was our consternation 
 to see him rise and say to Kate, with a low bow, 
 
 " Very well done, Mademoiselle." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " replied she, coloring. 
 
GLIMPSES OF LSTNER LIFE. 17 
 
 " That you make one good monkey," returned 
 he. 
 
 " I was only taking a lesson from a greater 
 one," said she haughtily. 
 
 " Then commenced a scene ; Monsieur lost his 
 temper, said all sorts of strange adjectives in 
 English, and finally spent his anger in French. 
 He left the room in a rage, saying he would see 
 Madame, and I can hardly wait for to-morrow to 
 come, to see the end of it. Kate will have to 
 apologize, I think, and the rest of us, too, for 
 laughing so much." 
 
 " You deserve to," said Margaret, " and as for 
 Kate, she should be severly reproved. I do not 
 see how such a young girl would dare to be so 
 impertinent." 
 
 " But she didn't think," pleaded Bessie. 
 
 " But she should think," replied Margaret very 
 firmly. " Want of thought is no excuse for her. 
 I hope you won't copy any of her manners." 
 
 " Never fear that," returned Bessie. " Cousin, 
 what do you think of it ! " continued she, turning 
 to Miss Noble. 
 
 " I was thinking what a strange opinion her 
 teacher would have of the manners of American 
 people. Judging from what I have heard, one 
 might teach in all the schools of Europe, and never 
 meet with such an unprovoked insult." 
 
18 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 "You are right, Coz," said Edward, laying 
 down the book which he had been perusing. " I 
 do not know what is the reason, but it seems to 
 me our people, young people, especially — glancing 
 at Bessie — think they have the privilege of being 
 rude to foreigners, laughing at their mistakes, and 
 betraying them into them. Our free country, 
 perhaps, favors such freedom." 
 
 " But Monsieur was certainly ungentlemanly to 
 get so vexed," rather quickly spoke Bessie. 
 
 " Many foreigners would not regard it exactly 
 ungentlemanly," replied Edward. " They con- 
 sider it only honest and proper self-respect to re- 
 sent an insult in such a manner, and do -not regard 
 self-control as we do. I have heard it remarked 
 that they consider us deceitful, because we endeav- 
 or to conceal and control our feelings on such 
 occasions." 
 
 " We control ourselves, brother Ned ! Who 
 did I hear talking very loudly to the groom the 
 other day, because his horse didn't look just so," 
 questioned Bessie, slightly patting her brother's 
 shoulder the while. 
 
 " I did not speak of myself, individually," re- 
 turned he, " I spoke of our nation in general — 
 those people who do pretend to be good, who do 
 control themselves, like Margaret, for instance." 
 
 A slight tone of sarcasm was visible in these last 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 19 
 
 words, but Margaret did not reply ; she only bent 
 her head a little lower over her work, to raise it 
 instantly as the door bell rang. 
 
 " I wonder who that is," said Louise, starting 
 from the lounge, and arranging her tumbled 
 dress. 
 
 " Not any of your friends, I think," replied Bes- 
 sie, "it* is too stormy an eve for them to venture 
 out." 
 
 " Some one to see father," said Edward, as he 
 heard a person entering the library. 
 
 " And I'll go up to mother now," added Bessie, 
 starting off hastily, but moderating her pace some- 
 what as she ascended the stairs. Passing through 
 the entry, and by her father who was descending 
 to the library, she opened the door noiselessly and 
 soon was bending over a pale, languid lady re- 
 clining on a lounge. Tenderly kissing her, she 
 drew up a low chair and seated herself on it, then 
 said in low sweet tones, 
 
 " O mamma, dear mamma, you do not know 
 how I shall miss these pleasant times with you 
 when you are gone, and to think this is to be the 
 last. I'm so glad that, that gentleman called father 
 away, that 1 may be all alone with you once more. 
 How I shall miss you." 
 
 " I know you will," returned her mother, taking 
 Bessie's hand into her thin, wasted one, " and I 
 
20 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 shall miss you, too. You have been a great com- 
 fort and help to me, even if you have been some- 
 times heedless and trying." 
 
 " But mamma, who will correct me now you are 
 gone ? Margaret is so severe, and Ned — well, 
 sometimes I care for what he says, and sometimes 
 I do not ; and as for the rest, well, I don't mind 
 them much." 
 
 "You forget, Bessie, your aunt Livingston 
 will be here, and I know you will love her." 
 
 " O yes, I did forget her," replied Bessie, " but 
 she is such a stranger to me, it will take me a long 
 while to feel acquainted." 
 
 " Not so long as you imagine," returned Mrs. 
 Huntingdon, " she is very sociable. I hope, Bes- 
 sie you will be as kind and obedient to her as you 
 are to me." 
 
 " I shall try, mamma, but" 
 
 " But what, Bessie ? " 
 
 " No matter now, it is something I ought not to 
 say." 
 
 " Yery well, dear," returned Mrs. Huntingdon, 
 li But is there not something you do wish to 
 say ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Bessie, a little absently, for she 
 had been following up her thought, which was that 
 she was afraid the whole family would not en- 
 deavor to please Mrs. Livingston, but she refrain- 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 21 
 
 from expressing it, having been often charged by 
 her father to avoid anything which might prove 
 unpleasant to Mrs. H — — , connected with her 
 departure. 
 
 " Well, tell me now," said her mother, " we 
 may not have as good an opportunity before I 
 leave." 
 
 " Oh ! mamma, I can't believe you are going, 
 and I shall not till you are really gone. Now, 
 what I wish to say is this, that while you are 
 gone you'll forget all my naughty deec s, and think 
 of me only as Bessie, your comfort, as you call me 
 sometimes, and that you'll think of me every night 
 at six o'clock, and I will of you." 
 
 " Yes, Bessie, I probably shall think of you only 
 as my comfort," returned Mrs. Huntingdon, fond- 
 ly, while she smoothed Bessie's hair, who had left 
 her chair and was now kneeling by her mother's 
 lounge. " And be assured," continued she, " I 
 shall not only think of you at six o'clock, but pray 
 for you, too ; and now I have also a request to 
 make, that at that time you will pray and read the 
 little Bible I gave you. Commence at the first 
 chapter in Matthew, and I will also, .and then 
 every night we shall be reading the same chapter." 
 
 u Yes, mamma, I will," sadly returned Bessie, 
 " and it will be very pleasant to think we are 
 reading the same chapter, but, dear me ! it does 
 
22 THE HUNTINGDON** : OE, 
 
 not make me any better to read my Bible and to 
 pray." 
 
 " Because you do not read and pray earnestly, 
 Bessie, and in a right manner. O, I had hoped 
 ere this to have seen you a Christian, and that 
 you would consider the Bible the most precious of 
 all books. You can hardly imagine the comfort, 
 the inexpressible comfort it has been to me. God 
 grant you may find it so." 
 
 Here Bessie raised her head, and gazing won- 
 deringly at her mother, said, 
 
 " How strange this religion is ! " 
 
 " Yes, it is a mystery," replied Mrs. H , 
 
 " a great mystery, and to be known, must be ex- 
 perienced. Go to the table there and bring me 
 my little Bible. I wish you to read some verses." 
 
 Bessie procured the Bible, and her mother con- 
 tinued : " Turn to 1 Corinthians ii. 7-16." Bes- 
 sie found the place and read, 
 
 " But we speak the wisdom of God in a mys- 
 tery, even the hidden wisdom which God ordained 
 before the world unto our glory ; which none of 
 the princes of this world knew : for had they 
 known it, they would not have crucified the Lord 
 of glory. But as it is written, eye hath not seen 
 nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart 
 of man, the things which God hath prepared for 
 them that love him. But God hath revealed them 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 23 
 
 unto us by His Spirit ; for the Spirit searcheth all 
 things, yea the deep things of God. For what 
 man knoweth the things of a man, save the spirit 
 of man which is in him ? even so the things of 
 God knoweth no man, but the Spirit of God. 
 Now we have received, not the spirit of the world, 
 but the Spirit which is of God ; that we might 
 know the things that are freely given to us of 
 God. Which things also we speak, not in the 
 words which man's wisdom teacheth, but which 
 the Holy Ghost teacheth ; comparing spiritual 
 things with spiritual. But the natural man re- 
 ceiveth not the things of the Spirit of God : for 
 they are foolishness unto him : neither can he 
 know them, because they are spiritually discerned. 
 But he that is spiritual judgeth all things, yet he 
 himself is judged of no man. For who hath 
 known the mind of the Lord, that he may instruct 
 him ? But we have the mind of Christ." 
 
 "That is sufficient," said Mrs. Huntingdon. 
 " Now turn to 2 Cor. 4., commencing at " But if 
 our Gospel be hid." 
 
 Bessie found the place and continued, " But if 
 our Gospel be hid, it is hid to them that are lost : 
 in whom the God of this world hath blinded the 
 minds of them which believe not, lest the light of 
 the glorious Gospel of Christ, who is the image of 
 God, should shine unto them. For we preach — " 
 
24 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 " That will do," said Mrs. H , interrupting 
 
 her. 
 
 " So, then, my mind must be blinded too," said 
 Bessie, as she closed the book. 
 
 " Yes," returned her mother, " blinded by sin 
 and Satan, and this reminds me to say, that I wish 
 you would pray two short prayers which were 
 given once, by a gentleman in Scotland, to a poor 
 serving maid, and were instrumental in her salva- 
 tion : ' Lord, show me myself.' ' Lord, show me 
 Thyself.' Will you." 
 
 " Yes, mamma, I cannot refuse you," and fold- 
 ing her hands tightly together, Bessie sighed 
 heavily a number of times, forcing back a heart 
 full of tears — tears which tender solicitude for her 
 mother's precarious state, told her must not be 
 shed. While gazing at the little Bible which lay 
 in her lap she suddenly exclaimed, 
 
 " Oh, mamma, I believe I should love to read 
 the Bible better, if you would leave me yours, it 
 is marked in so many places, and I should know 
 what verses you have loved. Will you not? " 
 
 Mrs. H was silent awhile, then said, " Yes 
 
 dear, you may have it, and never, never part with 
 it." 
 
 But Bessie had seen the struggle it had cost 
 her mother to give it up, and quickly said, 
 
 " No, mamma, 1 will not ask for your Bible, 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 25 
 
 you must love it so much — it was very selfish in 
 me" — and she started to put it away. 
 
 " Stop," returned her mother. " I did feel a 
 pang at first in parting with it, but it is all gone 
 now, and I prefer that you should have it. You 
 can give me your little one, and I shall prize it 
 highly." 
 
 " Dear mamma, you are too kind," replied Bes- 
 sie, " how can I take it" — a few tears now drop- 
 ping in spite of herself. 
 
 She took it though from her mother's hands, 
 and while turning the leaves over said, " Oh, I 
 wish that all Christians were like you ! " 
 
 Her mother sighed at this remark, but made no 
 response. She knew Bessie would find her aunt 
 Livingston a consistent Christian, and trusted 
 much good would result to Bessie from her ex- 
 ample. 
 
 None of the Huntingdon family were professors 
 of religion, save Mrs. Huntingdon and Margaret. 
 Mrs. Huntingdon had embraced religion in early 
 life, but Margaret had only been a professor six 
 months. Margaret's belief and ideas of Christian 
 life will be developed hereafter ; suffice it to say 
 they did not exert a beneficial influence over the 
 family. 
 
 The mother and daughter sat for some time in 
 silence, then, hearing her husband's returning 
 
26 THE HUNTINGDON : OR, 
 
 footsteps, Mrs. Huntingdon said, " Bessie, turn to 
 the 14th chap, of St. John." Bessie found the 
 place just as Mr. Huntingdon entered the room, 
 who advanced immediately to his wife's side and 
 read searchingly the loved face, to see if it bore 
 traces of weariness. 
 
 " Everything is ready," said he, finally, " and 
 we leave to-morrow at four o'clock. 
 
 " Mortimer," replied his wife, in a trembling 
 tone, " this, then, may be the last night I shall be 
 in my earthly home. I must see you all together, 
 and — and pray with you all. Do not deny me ! " 
 and she anxiously looked up for consent. She 
 met the clear, pleasant smile of a loving, though 
 disbelieving husband, who replied, 
 
 " Certainly not, dear, if it would please you. 
 Shall I call the children, now ? " 
 
 " Yes, O yes, children, servants, all, returned 
 the excited and anxious mother. 
 
 " Let me just whisper ' be calm,' " responded he, 
 bending fondly over her. 
 
 " I will," said she, folding her hands quietly 
 over her breast and closing her eyes, while her 
 husband left the room to do her bidding. 
 
 " The famity were rather surprised at such a 
 request, but ere many minutes past, they were all 
 assembled in her room, quiet and sad, waiting for 
 her to assume the cross she had determined to 
 take up, weary and faint though she was. 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 27 
 
 " Eead that chapter, Bessie," said she, in a 
 faint voice. 
 
 Bessie glanced about a little, hesitatingly, and 
 then her eyes resting upon her loved mother's face, 
 she commenced in low tones, " Let not your heart 
 be troubled." Not a word was uttered, and as 
 Bessie concluded, the wife and mother clasped 
 her hands, and in trembling tones said, " Let us 
 pray." 
 
 All bowed in prayer, and then arose the out- 
 gushings of that Christ-filled heart. It was truly 
 a blessed season with her Father, and the sobs 
 and sighs, and the deep silence, told that that 
 prayerless household had once felt the effect of 
 true, fervent prayer. 
 
 Yery low and sad were the " good nights," and 
 quietly each one departed from her, who was so 
 lovely, so precious in their sight. 
 
 The husband alone remained, — remained sitting 
 with his head bowed upon his hand. Finally he 
 said : 
 
 " Maggie, dear, where is that little Bible of 
 yours ? " 
 
 " Bessie has it," returned the wife, " but here 
 is hers, we exchanged Bibles to-night," and she 
 passed it to him. He took it, and long perused its 
 sacred pages while Mrs. H's silent petitions as- 
 cended, that it might be blessed to him. 
 
28 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 " This is beautiful and sublime," said he, at 
 last, while placing it on the table ; " I wish I could 
 believe in it," but his wife heard him not, for, 
 wearied and worn with excitement, she had fallen 
 asleep. He gazed at her, and marked the pleas- 
 ant, serene smile, and thought, " There must be a 
 strange power in this religion. How different 
 she has seemed these last two or three years. I 
 cannot understand it. I must examine into it, 
 and I shall have an excellent opportunity in Flori- 
 da ; " then striking the bell, he summoned the 
 nurse, and descended into the library. 
 
 As he entered, some one started in the room, 
 and attempted to escape by him. Putting out 
 his arm, he enfolded Bessie, and turning up the 
 gas, said : 
 
 " You here ; why do you wish to leave me, 
 pet ? Don't sob so, dear ; " then leading her r to 
 his arm-chair, he seated her on his knee, and ten- 
 derly tried to soothe her grief. u Be calm, Bessie 
 dear," said he. " We shall soon be back, and per- 
 haps your dear mother may return quite recover- 
 ed." 
 
 " No father," replied she, sobbingly. " Mamma 
 is too good for this world. I shall never see her 
 more on earth, and I am not fit to go to heaven. 
 And you — Oh ! father, you are not a Christian. 
 Will you go to heaven ? " 
 
GLIMPSES OF INKER LIFE. 29 
 
 The strong man started, his heart was pierced 
 as with a dart ; one tear fell, and he moaned, " I 
 fear not, Bessie, unless, unless — " 
 
 " Unless what ? " said she, anxiously. 
 
 " Unless I become like your mother." 
 
 "Well, why don't -you?" still eagerly ques- 
 tioned Bessie. " Let us both begin together." 
 
 " Yes, dear, we will," returned the perplexed 
 father, recalling his determination to examine the 
 matter. 
 
 " Shall I pray first, or you, father ? " continued 
 Bessie. 
 
 " Pray ! " and he gazed anxiously at her, " you 
 can pray ; " but he could not humble himself — 
 Satan prevailed ; and Bessie, seeing his perplexi- 
 ty, and fearing she had committed some error, 
 said : 
 
 " I hardly know what I have said, I feel so bad. 
 Perhaps you prefer to pray alone," and rising, 
 she kissed him, and bade him good night, and he 
 permitted her to depart. 
 
 Bessie felt the eifect of his manner, and her 
 prayers, though more penitent and earnest, were 
 chilled by the remembrance of it. 
 
 Mr. Huntingdon remained thoughtful a few 
 moments, then his eyes fell upon some important 
 papers in his library, which required attention be- 
 fore his departure, and in a few moments his mind 
 
30 THE HUNTINGDONS. 
 
 was engrossed by them, and prayerless, and with 
 thoughts full upon earthly matters, he retired to 
 rest. 
 
 The Holy Spirit, the One who so sweetly ad- 
 monishes of wrong, and fain would lead to Christ, 
 was grieved, and thus departed. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 r j^HE next day, at noon, Mrs. Livingston ar- 
 rived at Hiil-side, and found the Hunting- 
 don family in all that confusion and excitement in- 
 cident to the departure of friends. After ex- 
 changing greetings with her brother and nieces, 
 she passed directly to the room of Mrs. Hunt- 
 ingdon, and noiselessly entering, seated herself 
 beside her most cherished friend, as well as sister. 
 
 " Maggie, dear, I have come," said she, as she 
 took Mrs. Huntingdon's hand, and imprinted a 
 kiss upon her pale forehead. 
 
 "Yes, Lizzie, I knew you would," returned 
 Mrs. H., pressing the hand of her sister ; " and 
 Oh I has Mortimer told you ? " 
 
 " Told me what ? "returned Mrs. L. 
 
 "Told you that I prayed with them all last 
 night ; but, Lizzie, it was not I, it was Christ in 
 me. I thought I could not say a word, but I 
 opened my mouth, and Christ filled it ; and Oh ! 
 He has been so precious to me since." 
 
 Mrs. L. was in tears, but hastily brushing them 
 away, she only said, 
 
32 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 " Maggie, I am very, very glad." 
 
 " Yes, I knew you would be, and now, Lizzie, 
 I leave them all in your care. I may never see 
 them again, and I pray you teach them the same 
 Christianity you taught me. Bessie seems quite 
 thoughtful, and Margaret — well, you understand 
 her — and the rest, lead tn*em gently, gently, 
 though I know I need not say it, you will." 
 
 " I shall try to, God helping me," returned 
 Mrs. L., sadly, for she felt, too, these might be 
 the last words of her sister, and she was cherish- 
 ing sacredly every one. 
 
 " Lizzie," continued Mrs. H., " I wish you 
 would take that little key, (pointing to one on the 
 table beside her,) and unlock my writing desk, 
 and bring me the package you will see on the top, 
 directed to you." 
 
 Mrs. L. did as requested, and brought it to her, 
 who folded it in her hands on her bosom, closed 
 her eyes, and was evidently in prayer some mo- 
 ments ; then she reached it to Mrs. L., and said, 
 
 " There, it is mine no longer. I give it into 
 your care, and if I do not return, open it ; but 
 treasure it sacredly, for it may be the last work of 
 my life." 
 
 Mrs. Livingston took the package, and placed 
 it carefully away, then returning, said, " Mag- 
 gie, I would'nt talk any longer, unless you have 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 33 
 
 something important to tell me about. You must 
 try and get some rest, before you start." 
 
 "I wish I could sleep," returned Mrs. H." I 
 know I sliould be better prepared for this after- 
 noon ; but my brain is so active to-day, I can 
 scarcely quiet myself enough to do so." 
 
 "Think of Christ," returned Mrs. L., "and 
 you may be able to compose yourself. I heard 
 some time since, of a very pious lady, suffering 
 the same as you are, who, whenever she was trou- 
 bled by wakefulness, would place her mind upon 
 Christ and his sufferings, and would soon find her- 
 self quieted, and able to sleep." 
 
 " How beautiful ! " returned Mrs. H., " resting 
 on Jesus. Yes, I can rest there, too ;" and, clos- 
 ing her eyes, she soon slept tranquilly. 
 
 Three o'clock came, and tender, loving hands, 
 placed the light form of Mrs. Huntingdon in the 
 carriage, destined to convev her to the steam-boat. 
 Weary with the sad " good by's," and loving 
 words of her servants, she sank back into the sup- 
 porting arms of her husband, who tenderly en- 
 folded and comforted her. As the coachman 
 started, Mrs. Huntingdon turned her head a little, 
 and gave one long look at her home, her dearly 
 loved home ; then said, " Good-bye, sweet home, 
 forever ! " 
 
 " No, Maggie dear," returned her husband, 
 
34 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 cheerily, " do not speak so, for next spring, no 
 doubt, you will enter it gaily, saying, ' welcome 
 home ! ' " 
 
 She made no reply. Another carriage follow- 
 ed, and ere long they were all at the steam-boat, 
 and by her side, each one endeavoring to do' some 
 further act of kindness, but which her attentive 
 nurse forestalled. Soon the bell sounded, and 
 one by one, each took a last fond caress, and heard 
 the fervent " God bless you, my child, and lead 
 you to Him," of their departing mother. 
 
 Sadly they passed down the gangway, and to 
 the carriage, then entering, dropped the curtains, 
 and gave way to the flood of grief, all had re- 
 strained the past few days. 
 
 The same feeling oppressed each heart, that 
 they should never see mother again ; and Bessie 
 and Margaret mourned for her as though she had, 
 indeed, parted from them for ever. 
 
 It was a sad family that sat down to tea that 
 night. Edward took his father's place ; and 
 glancing around for Margaret, who had long tak- 
 en her mother's place, he found her absent. 
 
 " Where's Margaret ? " said he, to Louise. 
 
 " In her rooru," replied Louise ; " she does not 
 wish any supper." 
 
 " Pshaw ! what's the use of acting so," return- 
 ed Edward ; " empty places enough without her 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 35 
 
 taking herself off. I suppose she thinks it will be 
 exceedingly proper for her to remain in retirement 
 for a week." 
 
 " Are you waiting for me ? " said Mrs. Living- 
 ston, as she entered the room, and seated herself 
 in the place Margaret usually filled ; and, without 
 waiting for a reply, continued, " Where's Marga- 
 ret?" 
 
 " Doing penance," replied Edward. 
 
 " Penance ! what do you mean ? " returned she, 
 pleasantly. 
 
 " O ! shutting herself up in her- room, and tor- 
 turing herself with all sort of foolish fears and 
 imaginations." 
 
 " Perhaps she does not feel well," rejoined Mrs. 
 L., quietly, and then she glanced about question- 
 ingly. She was waiting for a blessing, but as the 
 sudden thought came that there was no one to ask 
 it but herself, she hesitated, and Edward, perceiv- 
 ing it, hastened to commence serving from the 
 various dishes before him, inwardly exulting that 
 he had prevented it. As he raised his eyes, how- 
 ever, he saw her bent head, and knew that a silent 
 one was ascending, all the more powerful in its ef- 
 fects upon the family, from being silent just then. 
 
 Miss ISToble was the first to speak, commencing 
 the previous subject. 
 
 " Well, I must say I agree with you, cousin 
 
36 THE HUNTINGDON'S I OR, 
 
 Ned, regarding Margaret ; " for my part, I think 
 it is my duty to drive away sorrow when it can't 
 be cured." 
 
 " So do I," said Louise, " so what will we do 
 this evening to enjoy ourselves. What do you 
 say, Ned?" 
 
 " Me ! do you mean me ? " replied he, a little 
 
 absently. "O, I have an engagement at the 
 
 Club." 
 
 " That detestable Club ! " returned Louise ; 
 
 " you might as well live there, for all the compa- 
 ny you are ever to your sisters. Now I was 
 thinking about attending the concert this eve to 
 drive away the blues, and thought perhaps you 
 would be willing to attend Georgie and me," turn- 
 ing to Miss Noble. 
 
 " I should be very happy to accompany Miss 
 Noble," replied Edward, bowing to her, " and 
 would permit you also to go," glancing provok- 
 ingly at his sister, "if it was not for this engage- 
 ment ; as it is, you must find some other gallant, 
 young Baker, for instance." 
 
 Louise colored, and quickly replied, " Edward, 
 I wish you would never mention him again ; you 
 know I dislike him exceedingly." 
 
 " Ah ! I was not aware of it before," replied he. 
 Were you, Miss Noble ? " 
 
 " Oh ! cease your contentions," replied she ; 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNEE LIFE. 37 
 
 and turning to Mrs. Livingston, said, "This con- 
 versation must be highly edifying to you." 
 
 Mrs. L. smiled, and said, " Really, I hardly 
 know what you have been saying, I have been so 
 busily thinking." 
 
 " And Bessie, too," said Edward, shaking her 
 chair. " What's the matter of you, child? you 
 look as pale as a ghost." 
 
 " Do I," returned she, weariedly. " "Well, my 
 head aches a little, and I believe I'll be excused," 
 glancing at her aunt. 
 
 After her departure, Mrs. L. tried to open con- 
 versation on various subjects, but all in vain, no 
 one seemed disposed to reply. 
 
 Edward hurried his tea as quickly as possible, 
 then immediately passed up to Bessie's room. He 
 tried the door, but found it locked. Then he 
 knelt down, and said, through the key hole, " Bes- 
 sie, pet, let brother in just a moment." 
 
 She started from the lounge, where she had 
 flung herself, and quickly opened the door. 
 
 He wound his arms about her, and leading her 
 to the lounge, sat her down beside him. " Now, 
 pet," commenced he, while stroking back he*r curls, 
 " you feel very badly, I know ; and, I presume, 
 none of us will miss father and mother as much as 
 you will ; bat I wish you to feel ' what can't be 
 cured must be endured,' and get up a brave heart, 
 
£>5 THE HUXTIXGDONS : OB, 
 
 and be a woman about this matter. Don't go to 
 acting like Margaret, making yourself a perfect 
 martyr, and going about the house with a face that 
 haunts every one you meet. Smile, pet, even if 
 your heart does ache. Smile on me anyway ; 
 precious £ew of such comforts I get." 
 
 She glanced lovingly up at mm, and twining 
 her arm around his neck, said, while she choked 
 away the rising sob, "Yes, brother, you shall have 
 smiles from me, if you'll promise me one thing.' 
 
 " What is it ? " returned he. 
 
 " That you won't abuse Margaret so much, nor 
 plague Louise ; you know they can't bear your 
 banterings as I do, and do you know you cause 
 them a great deal of unhappiness ! : ' 
 
 " Then they may improve, and try to please 
 me," returned he. 
 
 " But you know, Edward, that is not the way 
 to win them to it. Don't you recollect how many 
 times you've told me about the conquering power 
 of love ? You know you are wrong." 
 
 "Well," replied he, rising and glancing at his 
 figure in the mirror, " you smile on me, and I'll 
 cultivate gentleness with my dove like sisters." 
 
 " There it is again," said Bessie. 
 
 " Oh ! so it is," returned Edward, " I beg your 
 pardon ; but the fact is, it will be a pretty hard 
 habit to rid myself of, and if you see me refrain 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 39 
 
 from it, even once or twice a day, you must be 
 content." 
 
 " I will try," said she, and then she rose and 
 passed to the window, while Edward turned to go 
 out, but stopped as he passed the bed, and taking 
 up a little book which lay there, said, " O, you 
 rogue ! been reading a novel, hey ! " but he said 
 no more as he opened it. 
 
 " It is mother's Bible," said Bessie, leaning her 
 head against the window. " I have been trying 
 to read in it, but my head ached so, I could'nt." 
 
 " Well, I would'nt try to Bessie, you are good 
 enough, any way," returned Edward, laying the 
 book aside more reverently than he took it. 
 
 "No, Edward, I am not," and she advanced to 
 his side with an evident determination to say 
 more written on her face, which he comprehend- 
 ing, prevented, by saying, " Well, pet, I must 
 be off; but don't let me find you up here on 
 my return. I think I shall be back early to-night. 
 Go down soon, and talk to aunt Livingston ; she 
 seems to be a kind, comforting sort of a body," 
 and whistling a gay opera air, he disappeared. 
 
 Two hours later the family, save Edward and 
 Margaret, were in the parlor and adjoining libra- 
 ry. Louise sat on a divan at one end of the par- 
 lor, with a very slight, fair-haired youth. Bessie 
 was at the piano, enjoying snatches of songs, with 
 another young man, who stood by her side, while 
 
40 THE HUNTINGDON'S : OR, 
 
 Miss Noble and Mrs. Livingston were seated in 
 the library, and apparantly occupied in reading 
 the evening papers ; but every now and then, Miss 
 Noble would glance quizzically over the top of 
 her paper, at the couple on the divan, whom she 
 could plainly see through the folding doors, while 
 Mrs. Livingston's eyes only rested on her paper ; 
 her thoughts were busv elsewhere. Sometimes 
 she was startled by Bessie' s ringing laugh ; and 
 gazed admiringly at her, her beauty heightened 
 to its utmost by her occupation, she sat thinking 
 how much grace she needed, to guide such a warm, 
 
 O O 7 
 
 impulsive nature, correctly ; then turning to 
 Louise she marked the low tones, the coquetish 
 toss of her head, the simpering laugh, and felt she 
 would, indeed, be a more difficult task than Bes- 
 sie. Pained at the revelation of Louise's charac- 
 ter, which she had gained during the evening, 
 and feeling in a new sense how peculiarly she was 
 placed, she was just determining to go to her own 
 room, to reflect and seek guidance from above, 
 when the young man beside of Louise, arose, and 
 with a few bows and words, made his departure. 
 Louise closed the door after him, and a little 
 piqued that Mr. Belmont's attentions had been so 
 exclusively devoted to Bessie, she passed to her, 
 and said, leaning over her shoulder, " Having a 
 delightful time, arn't you, Bessie ? I sha'n't tell 
 
GLIMPSES OF IXNLH LIFE. 41 
 
 you how much I envy you, you can imagine," and 
 carelessly pinching the burning cheek of Bessie, 
 she passed on to the library. 
 
 Yes, Bessie's cheek did burn, and her heart 
 ached too, at Louise's tantalizing words, and man- 
 ner ; but her elastic temperament rebounded, and 
 glancing first timidly, then with the coming breath, 
 courageously up to Mr. Belmont, she asked, 
 " What shall we sing now ? " 
 
 " Where's Louise's book of sono;s ? " returned 
 he, a little absently. 
 
 " Here it is," said she, while he took it from the 
 
 music rack, and opening it turned to 
 
 " Thy charms are but fleeting 
 Fair lady for me. ' ' 
 
 Bessie read with quick instinct, his feelings and 
 desire of retaliation ; she felt for a moment, too, 
 the same desire, and played dashingly through 
 part of the prelude, then suddenly stopped, abet- 
 ter feeling governing her and turning to him^ said, 
 " No, Mr. Belmont, I don't feel like smodnp; it • 
 sing something sweet, something quiet," and turn- 
 ing over the leaves, she commenced 
 
 Over the river they beckon to me, — 
 Loved ones who've crossed to the further side 
 
 The gleam of their snowy robes I see, 
 But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. 
 
 •There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, 
 
42 THE HUNTINGDON S ; OR, 
 
 And eyes the -reflection of heaven's own blue; 
 He crossed in the twilight gray and cold, 
 
 And the pale mist hid him from mortal view; 
 We saw not the angels who met him there, 
 
 The gates of the city we could not see, — 
 Over the river, over the river, 
 
 My brother stands waiting to welcome me ! 
 
 Over the river the boatman pale 
 
 Carried another, the household pet; 
 Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale,— 
 
 Darling Minnie ! 1 see her yet. 
 She crossed on her' bosom her dimpled hands, 
 
 And fearlessly entered the phantom bark, 
 We felt it glide from the silver sands, 
 
 And all our sunshine grew strangely dark; 
 We know she is safe on the further side, 
 
 Where all the ransomed and angels be; 
 Over the river, the mystic river, 
 
 My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 
 
 For none return from those quiet shores, 
 
 Who cross with the boatman cold and pale; 
 We hear the dip of the golden oars, 
 
 And catch a gleam of the snowy sail; 
 And lo ! they have passed from our yearning hearts, 
 
 They cross the stream and are gone for aye. 
 We may not sunder the veil apart 
 
 That hides from our vision the gates of day; 
 We only know that their barks no more 
 
 May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea; 
 Yet somewhere I know on the unseen shore, 
 
 They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 
 
 And I sit and think when the sunset's gold 
 
 Is flushing river and hill and shore, 
 I shall one day stand by the water cold 
 
GLIMPSES OF HOfEB LIFE. 43 
 
 And list for the sound of the boatman's oar; 
 I shall watch for a gleam of the napping sail ; 
 
 I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand ; 
 I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale, 
 
 To the better shore of the spirit land ; • 
 I shall know the loved who have gone before, 
 
 And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, 
 When over the river, the peaceful river, 
 - The. angel of death shall carry me. 
 
 Bessie's heart was full of sorrowful emotion ere 
 she had suns; two stanzas, but crushing down her 
 feelings, she continued even to the close, then 
 quietly shutting the music book, she placed it in 
 the rack, to hide somewhat her emotion, saying 
 meanwhile, 
 
 " I never appreciated that song before ; how 
 beautifully sad it is ; it makes me think of mother. 
 I wish I had not sunof it to-night." 
 
 Mr. Belmont was just about to reply, when 
 Louise advanced from the library and said, " Oh, 
 Bessie ! how sweetly you sang that song ! " then 
 continued in lower tones, " T'on't mind what I 
 said just now, I didn't mean it." 
 
 Bessie only glanced up at Louise for a reply, 
 but the confiding, gentle glance assured Louise all 
 was forgiven. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 I^EN o'clock that night found Edward Hunt- 
 ingdon and Mr. Belmont seated in Edward's 
 room. Leaning back in his arm-chair Edward 
 said, "Well, Belmont, my father and mother 
 are really gone, and thus have left a heavy re- 
 sponsibility on my shoulders — this huge mansion 
 and a family of seven women ! " 
 
 " Seven ! " returned Belmont ; " how do you 
 make that out ? " 
 
 " Yes, seven — seven women ; just you count, 
 sir, and see. My good Aunt Livingston, Marga- 
 ret, Miss Noble, Louise, Bessie and " — 
 
 " And who else, pray ? " interrupted his friend. 
 
 " Why, Mary the cook, and Jane her help- 
 meet." 
 
 " Ah ! yes. I didn't think of them. How- 
 ever, you'll probably survive all your care. Be- 
 sides, this responsibility, as you call it, will benefit 
 you ; steady you a little. Yes, a first-rate thing 
 for you, Ned ! " 
 
 " Steady me ! Ha 1 ha ! I think you better 
 talk about being steadied; you who totter on 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 45 
 
 everything — now on politics, now on love, then 
 on business, then religion." 
 
 " Do you really mean what you say ? " re- 
 turned Belmont, quizzically. 
 
 " Yes, sir ! " said Edward, emphatically. 
 
 " Why, my dear sir, you must be mistaken," 
 replied Belmont blandly ; "just give proof of it." 
 
 " Well, some time ago, if my memory serves 
 me correctly, you were an out and out Black Re- 
 publican — now, a stronger, a more conservative 
 Union man does not exist. Am I not right ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, decidedly, with this addenda : I was 
 a Black Republican because my father was." 
 
 " Now, then, the next thing. Let me see — O, 
 love ; well, there was that pretty" — 
 
 "Drop that subject, if you please," testily in- 
 terrupted Belmont. 
 
 " Well, then, business. First, you thought you'd 
 be a civil engineer, and studied a while ; then a 
 doctor, and now — well, you are neither, but 
 rather of a gentleman at large. Don't you think 
 here, you require a little steadying ? As our old 
 Prof. Green used to say, 4 Young man, young man, 
 you must have an object in view.' ' 
 
 " My object will come when I am ready for it, 
 replied Belmont. You know very well what were 
 the circumstances which obliged me to give up 
 surveying ; and as for being a physician, that was 
 
46 THE HUNTIXGDOXS : OR, 
 
 never a wish or intention of mine. I mentioned 
 it to yon, because my friends, especially father, 
 desired it." 
 
 Ah ! was that so," returned Edward. " Well, 
 the last point 3^011 won't dispute with me, I know — 
 religion. When we entered college, you were an 
 Orthodox man." 
 
 " Boy, you mean," interrupted Belmont. 
 
 " Well, then, boy," continued Edward. " Then 
 you had a slight partiality for Unitarianism." 
 
 " An Unitarian minister, you should say." 
 
 " Well, no matter, 't was a want of steadiness. 
 Then you became slightly interested in Sweden- 
 borg. And, finally, when you were in the city of 
 
 Gr , sat under -'s teaching. Now, sir, what 
 
 have you to say ! " triumphantly exclaimed Ed- 
 ward, snapping his fingers. 
 
 " All true," returned Belmont in a low, sad 
 tone, as he ran his hands again and again through 
 his hair ; but Ned, I hope soon to be steadied. I 
 have drifted and veered worse upon religion than 
 any other subject. I was in earnest, though, seek- 
 ing after truth, and, like many other men filled with 
 self-conceit, I forsook the good old path trodden 
 by so many veterans in the cause, and attempted 
 to find a religion which I thought consistent with 
 my ideas of the desires and needs of man. Fool ! 
 that I have been. I have nearly wrecked myself 
 
GLIMPSES OF INJSTEE LIFE. 47 
 
 on the quicksands of speculation and fanaticism, 
 and now I hardly know where I am. I said I 
 hoped soon to be steadied, but truly all is darkness 
 abont me. And you, Ned, why, you are in the 
 same condition." 
 
 "Parsons would call me worse," replied Ed- 
 ward, with a forced laugh, " for you see your state 
 and evidently regret it; but as for myself — well, 
 I don't care much, it will come right, by-and-by." 
 
 " Where ? " questioned Belmont mournfully. 
 
 " Where ? " returned Edward. "Why — why — 
 pshaw ! don't let us talk of this any more, it won't 
 do any good, only gives a fellow the " blues ; " and, 
 after all, I don't see but what I do just about as 
 well as half the church members." 
 
 " Now, Edward, don't make such a shabby eva- 
 sion. What have you to do with their sins ? To 
 your own Master you stand or fall, and their guilt 
 won't excuse or benefit you in any manner." 
 
 " 'Spose not," replied Edward; "but now, 
 won't you oblige me by changing the subject ? I 
 can't talk on religion, and, what is more, I don't 
 like to." 
 
 " The natural heart is enmity against God," 
 continued Belmont. 
 
 " Yes, I know that." 
 
 " Why should it be ? " 
 
 " 0, don't pester me any longer with you* 
 
48 THE HUNTIXGDOXS r OR, 
 
 questions. Go to Bessie. I found her reading 
 the Bible to-day, perhaps she can tell you." 
 
 " Did you ? " returned Belmont with animation. 
 
 " Yes," replied Edward ; " and speaking of re- 
 ligion reminds me to tell vou of last night in 
 mother's room. I never shall forget it — no, 
 never. Mother called us all in, and prayed with 
 us; and how she, such a modest, shrinking woman, 
 could have had courage to do such a thing, I can't 
 possibly imagine. But the prayer, Oh ! Belmont, 
 I never heard such a prayer before from any per- 
 son ; it seemed to me she was actually talking 
 with God. I think mother is a sincere Christian, 
 if there is such a thing, and she really seems to 
 enjoy it. But a truce to this conversation, and to 
 cheer us, suppose we take some books." 
 
 " What have you, new and interesting ? " asked 
 Belmont, and he walked up to Edward's well 
 filled library. He looked over the titles, but as he 
 gazed at one after the other, he sighed, and said, 
 " Trash ! trash ! I don't want any such books to- 
 night. I believe I'll go home ; good bye to you," 
 and before Edward could prevent him, he was 
 down stairs, and out of the house. 
 
 " Silly fellow ! " said Edward to himself ; 
 " what is the use in his tormenting himself so," 
 and passing to his library, he took down a work 
 of one of our most ingenious, subtle, and false 
 
GLIMPS1 S OF INNER LIFE. 49 
 
 teachers of religion, and was soon both bewilder- 
 ed and fascinated by the entrancing pages. 
 
 He was satisfied, because the ideas appeared 
 sublime, and of deep import ; he could not com- 
 prehend many of them — a very jargon of com- 
 pounded nouns, and high sounding adjectives ; 
 but then this incomprehensibility, with just a 
 shading of truth, had a powerful charm. When 
 he did meet a plain truth, however, it had double 
 force, and double beauty to his mind, from the 
 darkness which surrounded it. It was a late hour 
 ere he closed the book, and he threw it aside, say- 
 ing, " O, what a mind has D — , deep, vigorous, 
 broad. Give me an enlarged mind, able to grasp 
 something beside the nursery stories of youth." 
 His reading certainly had left one impression on 
 his mind — the power of man, not of his Crea- 
 tor ! 
 
 * * * * *• * 
 
 At ten o'clock that night, Margaret Hunting- 
 don was pacing up and down her chamber, her 
 hands folded tightly over her pale forehead. Her 
 eyes were swollen, and red with weeping, and every 
 now and then she sighed heavily. Occasionally 
 she stopped, and glancing upward, murmured, 
 " Grod, help me," then would resume her sad tread 
 again. A low knock at her door startled her, but 
 she gave no answer. 
 
50 THE HTTNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 " Margaret, " said Mrs. Livingston, softly, 
 " may I not come in a moment ? " 
 
 Margaret cast an imploring look above, then 
 around, and replied, " O ! please excuse me to- 
 night ? " 
 
 " I do not like to," returned Mrs. L. " Can 
 you not let me see .you for a few moments ? " 
 
 Margaret hesitated, then said, " In a moment." 
 Quickly she drew her hair from behind her ears, 
 smoothed it a little, and then turned the gas some- 
 what lower, though it was dim before. Then she 
 passed to the door, and, unlocking it, just opened 
 it a little, thereby intimating to Mrs. L. that she 
 did not desire her to come further. 
 
 But Mrs. Livingston had a waiter in her hand, 
 with toast and tea, and, therefore, passed directly 
 in, and placed it on the table. Turning the gas 
 up, she said, " Now, Margaret, I know you don't 
 wish to see me to-night, or anybody ; but I want- 
 ed to see you, very much, and have you eat some- 
 thing, too ; so I made this cup of tea, and toasted 
 this bread, all myself, so I know you won't refuse 
 to try it." 
 
 " You are very good, aunt," returned Margaret. 
 " I am sorry to trouble you, but really — " 
 
 " No trouble, dear," interrupted Mrs. L., " a 
 true pleasure for me ; but you must not say you 
 cannot eat. I know all about the feeling, Marga- 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 51 
 
 ret. I have often seen the time when I thought 
 food would choke me ; but I ate, ate to please 
 others, and from a sense of duty." 
 
 " Do you think it a duty to eat," quietly re- 
 turned Margaret. 
 
 " Certainly," replied Mrs. L. " Do you not ? " 
 " I had not thought of it in such a light." 
 " Well, I can assure you it is a duty." 
 Margaret made no reply, and mechanically 
 poured out the tea, sweetened and drank it, and 
 then eat part of the bread. After she finished, 
 Mrs. Livingston took up the waiter ; but Marga- 
 ret took it away from her, saying, " Let it remain 
 here, I will carry it down in the morning." 
 
 "No," returned Mrs. L., pleasantly, " I wish to 
 finish what I have begun." 
 
 " But I will not allow you to wait on me," said 
 Margaret, a little haughtily, still holding on to the 
 waiter. " I will carry it down," and she started 
 away with it quite rapidly. 
 
 Mrs. L. did not demur again, well pleased that 
 it would divert Margaret's attention from herself, 
 for even a few moments. When she returned, she 
 found Mrs. Livingston examining her books. She 
 passed over a number, and finally taking down the 
 " Words of Jesus," bound with " The Faithful 
 Promisor," said, " O, Margaret, you have this little 
 gem ; how much comfort and instruction have I 
 received from its pages ! " 
 
52 THE EUXTIXGDOXS : OB, 
 
 " I have never read it," replied Margaret. " Mr. 
 Leslie gave it to rne a few weeks ago ; but I have 
 not had time to look into it." 
 
 " Then you have still a rich treat in store," re- 
 joined Mrs. L. " If you wish to enjoy it, read it 
 as I have, either at night or in the morning. I 
 have been greatly surprised at times, to see how 
 peculiarly appropriate it would be to my circum- 
 stances each day. I was speaking of it once to a 
 friend, as to how precious I had found it, and she 
 remarked that 4 all unfoldings of the " Word " are 
 precious ; that if I noticed, it was the verse for 
 each day which lingered in my mind ; t.:at Mac- 
 duff cracks the nut of divine truth, and gives us 
 the kernel.' Let me see, what day of the month is 
 it to-day ? " 
 
 " The 22d," replied Margaret, evidently a little 
 annoyed at Mrs. L.'s presence. But though she 
 noticed it, she paid no attention to it ; but turning 
 to the day, said, 
 
 " ' Your sorrow shall be turned into joy,' " John 
 xvi. 20. " O, this is beautiful ! and so appropri- 
 ate, let me read it for you : ' Christ's people are a 
 sorrowing people ! Chastisement is their badge, 
 1 great tribulation ' is their appointed discipline. 
 When they enter the gates of glory, He is repre- 
 sented as wiping away tears from their eyes,' ' : 
 and so she continued through the healing leaves 
 
GLIMPSES OF INKER LIFE. bo 
 
 for the day. Her voice died softly away on the 
 last words, and as she looked up to Margaret, for 
 an expression of her opinion, she saw her eyes 
 were filled with tears. 
 
 " It is very beautiful!" said Margaret. "Let 
 me see it ? " 
 
 She passed her the book, then laying her hand 
 gently on Margaret's shoulder, said, " I, must go 
 now. God bless you and comfort you ; good 
 night ! " 
 
 " Good night," softly returned Margaret. " I 
 think you have opened a mine for me here." 
 glancino; at the book. 
 
 " A few precious gems you mean," smilingly 
 rejoined Mrs. L., " gathered from the great mine 
 of eternal truth ; " and, with another smile and 
 bow, she passed on to the room of Bessie. 
 
 She found her door ajar ; but seeing no light, 
 was about to retreat, when Bessie's low voice just 
 reached her, saying, " Aunty ? " 
 
 "Yes, dear," returned Mrs. L., entering her 
 room, " where are you ? " 
 
 " Here," responded she from the window. Mrs. 
 L. passed over to her, and said, " What are you 
 doing here, Bessie, without a light ? " 
 
 " Without a light ! " replied Bessie, " surely 
 vou do not call this beautiful moonlight dark- 
 ness ? " 
 
54 THE HUXTIXGDONS : OR, 
 
 " No, Bessie ; it is beautiful, more purely beau- 
 tiful than any other light. But what are you 
 thinking about, pet ? " and Mrs. L. twined her 
 arm about her. 
 
 "Thank you, for calling me pet," returned Bes- 
 sie, leaning her head against Mrs. L.'s shoulder. 
 " It seems so natural and protecting. Do you 
 know, I feel so sad to be growing old ! I have 
 been petted so long, that I yearn for these atten 
 tions at times, spite of all my fast growing convic- 
 tions, that it is time for me to overcome them." 
 
 "Not yet, not yet," said Mrs. L., drawing her 
 closer; " bu': you are evasive ; you have not an- 
 swered my question." 
 
 " Thinking of mamma and father ; wondering 
 whether they were gazing at the same moon and 
 stars. Is'nt it comforting that no matter how far 
 we are separated fro n friends, we can constantly 
 have the same objects to gaze at ? " 
 
 " It is," replied Mrs. L., " but, Bessie, I know 
 a more comforting thought still." 
 
 " What is it ? " returned Bessie, quickly. 
 
 " That no matter how far we may be separated 
 from friends, even if divided by the broad river of 
 death, we have the same God to watch over us, 
 the same Jesus to adore, and the same Comforter 
 Divine, to speak peace to our souls. Is this not 
 precious ? exceedingly precious ! " 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 55 
 
 " To Christians it must be," replied Bessie, very 
 sadly ; " but I, poor faithless souL know nothing 
 of this preciousness." 
 
 " He is waiting to give it to you, Bessie. Do 
 you not Remember He says, ' Behold I stand at 
 the door, and knock ; if any man hear my voice, 
 and open the door, I will come in to him, and will 
 sup with him, and he with me.' ' 
 
 " Oh ! aunty, the way is dark ; I do not see 
 Jesus." 
 
 " No matter how dark, lean upon Him and 
 trust, sweetly trust Him, and all will be light." 
 
 " But I am so sinful." 
 
 " His blood cleanseth from all sin." 
 
 " O ! that I could feel all this you tell me. I 
 know it, but do not feel it." 
 
 " Pray, dear one, pray, and cast even this bur- 
 den on the Lord, and simply trust Him, and the 
 feeling will come." 
 
 " And have I nothing to do ? " 
 
 " No, nothing, but trust. Do you not remember 
 those sweet words : 
 
 ' Other merit have I, none, 
 , Hangs my helpless soul on Thee 
 
 Leave, ah! leave me not alone, 
 Still support and comfort me.' ' 
 
 " No, I never heard them ; O, they are sweet, 
 teach them to me." and there, in the soft moon- 
 
56 THE HUNTINGDON ; OR, 
 
 light, the mother in Christ taught the babe these 
 fervent utterings for divine help, ending with 
 
 Plenteous grace with Thee is found, — 
 
 Grace to pardon all my sins ; 
 Let the healing streams abound, «. 
 
 Make and keep me pure within; 
 Thou of life the Fouctain art, 
 
 Freely let me take of Thee, 
 Spring Thou up within my heart, 
 
 Rise to all eternity. 
 
 A trusting, heavenly smile, played over Bessie's 
 face, as she sank sweetly to sleep that night. 
 
 Ten o'clock found Louise Huntingdon seated 
 in her room, intently perusing a late novel, while 
 Miss Noble was eno-ao-ed in writing. An half 
 hour passed thus, then Louise, dropping her book, 
 leaned her head back against her chair and seem- 
 ed busily thinking. While thus engaged, Miss 
 Noble startled her by saying, 
 
 " Lulu, are you asleep ? " 
 
 " Asleep ! no indeed replied Louise, "far from 
 that. I've been thinking of that song, " Over the 
 river," Bessie sang this evening. The lines 
 
 " Over the river the boatman pale 
 
 Carried another, the household pet; 
 Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale, 
 
 Darling Minnie, I see her yet," 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 57 
 
 ring in my ears constantly, and I've been 
 thinking supposing Bessie, our pet, should die. I 
 wish I hadn't spoken so to her this evening." 
 
 " Why, what did you say ? " inquired Miss 
 Noble. 
 
 Louise repeated the occurrence of the evening 
 and then added, " I don't know what made me 
 say it to her, for she is too good to be spoken to 
 in such a manner. I did not mean it for her 
 after all, I said it to spite Mr. Belmont, for he 
 scarcely spoke to me all the evening." 
 
 " Lo.uise " replied Georgie, " I wish you would 
 not make such remarks, for they cause a great 
 deal of unhappiness both to yourself and others, 
 without affording any benefit. And now, that we 
 are speaking of this evening, let me mention 
 another matter to you. I noticed your aunt Liv- 
 ingston watched you and Mr. Baker very closely, 
 and I do not think she was pleased with your man- 
 ners. If I were you, I would be a little more 
 careful in future. 
 
 " Georgie," replied Louise, quite pettishly, " I 
 wish you would cease to find fault with my man- 
 ners. I cannot help them ; and as for aunt Living- 
 ston, she is such a stiff, particular body, she would 
 see faults in Bessie, even. I have made up my 
 mind to have as little to do with her as possible, 
 
58 THE HUNTINGDONS ; OR, 
 
 while she is here. I expecf it will try her 
 very much to see us going to balls and the 
 opera, for she thinks it a great sin to attend such 
 places." 
 
 " So did my mother," responded Georgie, but 
 I don't see any harm in it, provided one behaves 
 herself, and is select in the choice of company. I 
 think you are rather careless in this respect." 
 
 " There it is again," quickly replied Louise^ 
 " can't you let my poor faults alone ? " 
 
 Louise was now evidently quite vexed at Georgie, 
 and though Georgie modified her remark and 
 endeavored to resume conversation, Louise would 
 reply only in monosyllables. Feeling thus she re- 
 tired for the night, prayerless and comfortless. 
 
 Georgie resumed her writing;, and it was Ion or 
 past midnight ere she ceased. Then taking 
 up a little Bible, a mother's dying gift, she hur- 
 riedly read a few verses, and in the same manner 
 knelt and repeated the short prayers her mother 
 had taught her in childhood. As she rose, her 
 attention was directed to Louise, who was sleep- 
 ing, but who had evidently been weeping. Stoop- 
 ing down she softly kissed her, then turning aside, 
 said, half for Louise, half for herself, " Ah, me ! 
 this is a weary world." 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 59 
 
 Ten o'clock on the broad Atlantic ocean, found 
 the staunch steamer Alabama swiftly moving o'er 
 the waves. The moonlight leaped and danced 
 over the shining surface of the' ocean, and rested 
 on the saddened face of Mr. Huntingdon, who 
 paced leisurely up and down the promenade deck. 
 Sometimes he stopped, and gazed at the clear, 
 glossy surface before him, or above into the blue 
 ether, where moved on, serenely calm, the cold 
 pale moon. The soothing quietness oppressed 
 him, for a still, small voice, whispered, "God! 
 God above, God below, God in space, in beauty, 
 in sublimity." The feeling gained upon him, and 
 finally, unable to crush or dispel it, he turned from 
 nature's most holy calm, and quickly entered the 
 saloon below ; but the bright lights and gilded 
 panels, glared painfull) ot\ his heaven-pictured 
 vision, and loud tones and boisterous laughter, 
 were harsh discord to his ear. 
 
 Passing quickly on, he joined Mrs. H. in her 
 state-room. As he entered, he saw she was en- 
 gaged in prayer, and impelled by an influence he 
 could not resist, he knelt quietly by her, and soft- 
 ly whispered, " Maggie, pray for me ! " 
 
 The words were low, and softly, sweetly utter- 
 ed; but he caught, " Jesus, husband, Bessie, my 
 stricken lamb, make them Thine own." 
 
60 THE HUNTINGDONS ; OE, 
 
 Soon sweetly slept the mother, slept the child 
 watched over by angel bands, while the father 
 and husband, weary with thought, and pining for 
 rest, sought it, but found none. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE next day was the Sabbath, and when Mrs. 
 Livingston arose, she found that the rest of the 
 family were still asleep. Seven o'clock passed, 
 and eight, and it was nearly nine, when, tired of 
 waiting for a summons to breakfast, she descended 
 to the breakfast room, and^ there found Bessie 
 feeding her canary bird. 
 
 " Good morning, aunty." said. Bessie, as she 
 entered, " You are a late riser." 
 
 " No, my child," replied she, " it is a long time 
 since I rose. It is you and your sisters who are 
 the late risers." 
 
 " Yes," replied Bessie, " We never rise on Sun- 
 days till half-past eight, and breakfast about 
 nine. I wish we had breakfast earlier though, 
 because I have to hurry so much to get ready for 
 church, and I don't like to go all in a flutter." 
 
 "No, I should think not," returned Mrs. L., 
 " and it is wrong thus to indulge in unnecessary 
 sleep on the blessed Lord's Day, when He rose so 
 early from the tomb. I think I must try and see 
 if I cannot have a change in this respect." 
 
62 THE HUNTIXGDONS : OE, 
 
 Louise and Miss Noble now entered. Louise 
 seemed to have forgotten her vexation of the pre- 
 vious evening, and greeted her aunt in a warmer 
 manner than usual, or else she had determined to 
 profit by her cousin's reproof. 
 
 They waited some time for Edward and Marga- 
 ret, but as they did not make their appearance, 
 and breakfast was in readiness, they seated them- 
 selves. Mrs. L., without remark, bowed her 
 head, and asked a blessing, and then quietly com- 
 menced serving the table. Edward now entered, 
 and inquired immediately for Margaret. 
 
 " Better go up and see where she is," said he 
 to Bessie. 
 
 Bessie left the room instantly, but soon return- 
 ed, saying, as she entered, " Margaret is sick, 
 with one of her severe headaches." 
 
 " Well, she might know it would be so." re- 
 plied Edward. " I wish she had more common 
 sense. She has'nt eaten one mouthful since yes- 
 terday morning ; enough to give any one the 
 headache." 
 
 " She did eat some toast, and drank a little tea 
 last evening," observed Mrs. L. 
 
 " Ah ! " said Edward, " Well, then, she didn't 
 sleep well ; she is subject to nervous headaches 
 when she overworks herself, or becomes excited, 
 and knowing it, I think she ought to be more 
 careful of herself." 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 63 
 
 *' "We all know the right way," quietly replied 
 Mrs. L., " but sometimes we find it hard to pur- 
 sue it." 
 
 " Yes, that's true," returned Edward, taking a 
 very long sip of coffee. 
 
 The conversation after this, was very slight, 
 and Mrs. Livingston excused herself as soon as 
 possible, and going to Margaret's room, found her 
 suffering, indeed, with a very painful headache. 
 
 " Can I be of any use to you," said she to 
 Margaret, while resting; her hand on Margaret's 
 head, which she had tightly bound with her hand- 
 kerchief. 
 
 " No, I thank you," replied Margaret, * It will 
 soon get better if I can sleep." 
 
 Just then Edward entered, and a sudden change 
 seemed to pass over him, for, stooping down, he 
 kissed Margaret, and said, in an affectionate tone, 
 " Margaret, drive this headache away as quick as 
 you can ; 1 miss you down stairs. Would you like 
 to have me smooth your hair for you ? " 
 
 A tear trickled down Margaret's cheek, for her 
 nerves were very excitable, and he had touched a 
 tender chord. Sighing, she replied, "Perhaps, if 
 I don't feel better, you may after church ; I think 
 I can sleep now." 
 
 "Well, then, to sleep," and he pressed her eye 
 lids softly down ; then turning to Mrs. Livingston, 
 
64 THE HUNTINGDON 8 : OR, 
 
 he said, " I'll accompany you to church this morn. 
 We can't do anything for Margaret, and Miss 
 Noble will be at home." 
 
 When Edward returned from church, he found 
 Margaret lying upon the lounge in the library. 
 She looked pale and languid ; but a faint effort at 
 a smile was visible upon her face, as he came for- 
 ward and said, " Well done, Margaret, I'm glad 
 to see you down stairs, and how's your head ? " 
 and he sat down beside her,' and commenced 
 smoothing her hair. 
 
 "Much better,'' replied she, " I believe I can 
 go to church this afternoon." 
 
 " Go .to church ! what do you mean ? " said 
 Mrs. Livingston, who was looking at some books 
 in the library. 
 
 " Yes, that is just like her," said Edward, in 
 the old bitter tone. 
 
 " Why not," replied Margaret, now rather 
 shrinking from the touch of Edward's hand ; " I 
 am entirely free from pain." 
 
 " Well, if you are free from pain, you are weak, 
 and need rest," observed Mrs. L. 
 
 " 1 don't see how it can be much worse for me 
 to go to church, than to lie here, and: — and — 
 worry all the time, and be so lonely ; and gasping, 
 Oh ! mother," she burst into tears, a very un- 
 usaal thing for her. 
 
GLIMPSES OF IXNER LIFE. 65 
 
 Edward's heart was touched. He found that 
 Margaret, his " iceberg sister " as he called her, 
 had strong, deep feelings. He had heard her the 
 night before, pacing her room, but he thought it 
 was for a religious purpose she did it, and though 
 he was tender to her before, it was a tenderness 
 he felt it his duty to evince, now that his parents 
 were away. But these words of Margaret were 
 a new revelation of her heart to him, and he saw 
 that her grief for the departure of her parents, 
 was more deep than Bessie's or his own. 
 
 Mrs. Livingston was also touched, and together 
 they comforted her. In a few moments she con- 
 trolled herself, and said, "I think I had better go 
 to my room ; I shall be more quiet there." 
 
 " No, you will not," replied Edward, affection- 
 ately. " You must come out, and fill your place 
 at dinner." 
 
 " I can't eat," said she, despairingly. 
 
 " "Well, then, you can see us," returned he. 
 
 She demurred no longer, and silently acquiesced 
 in Edward's arrangements. After they were 
 seated, Edward was commencing, as usual, to 
 serve without a blessing, when Miss Noble mo- 
 tioned to him about it in such a manner that he 
 saw no way of escape, so crimsoning a little, he 
 bowed to Mrs. Livingston, and just murmured, 
 " "Will you ask a blessing." Thus did she gain 
 the victory ! 
 
66 THE EUXTINGDOXS : OK, 
 
 After dinner, Edward returned with Margaret 
 to the library, and declared his intention of re- 
 maining home to keep her company. 
 
 ! I had rather you wouldn't," said she. 
 
 "But I shall," said he, " and moreover, I am 
 going to read to you. I have a very interesting 
 book in my room, I think you'll like ; " and he 
 started away for it, but he hesitated ere he reach- 
 ed the stairs, and decided, upon farther thought, 
 that she would not like it ;. then thought again, 
 " "Well, I'll try it anyway ; perhaps she will hear 
 it, and it may drive away some of her foolish no- 
 tions." He procured the book he was reading 
 the evening before, and returned to the library. 
 
 "Let me see it," said she, as he entered. 
 
 "0, no matter," replied he, " It isn't to see ; you 
 hear me read." 
 
 But his evading her in this manner only made 
 her the more anxious to see it, and she said, 
 " Edward, I don't wish to hear you read any book 
 that you are not willing I should see." 
 
 " WeH, see it, then," replied he, good humored- 
 ly. " And I wish you could only see the truth of 
 it as easily as you can see its pages." 
 
 She dropped it quickly, and with a shudder, 
 said, " Take it away, I do not wish to hear his 
 writings." 
 
 " How narrow-minded and set you are," re- 
 
GLIMPSES OF IXNEE LIFE. 67 
 
 turned he, picking it up. " I should think- you 
 would wish to hear it, so as to know both sides." 
 
 " Satan has already taught me enough of the 
 wrong side," responded Margaret, " and I do not 
 wish to hear what he has taught other people." 
 
 " Do you call these Satanic teachings ? " 
 
 " Yes, I do, though the evil is probably hidden 
 in a char minsj g-arb." 
 
 " However, I should think you, with your pre- 
 tensions, might read and get no harm," returned 
 Edward. 
 
 " Enter not into temptation," responded Mar- 
 garet. 
 
 " Well, what shall I read to you, then, for I am 
 determined to please you." 
 
 " There is a book in my room, on my little ta- 
 ble, called ''Self-Examination." You may get it, if 
 you will." Margaret asked him to read this, not 
 only to please herself, but in hopes that it might 
 lead him to see his errors. While Edward was 
 passing up stairs, he met Mrs. L. and told her he 
 was going to read to Margaret. He also men- 
 tioned the book she wished to hear, but Mrs. L. 
 shook her head, and said, 
 
 " I will get you one of my books, and you tell 
 her I sent it to her," and she handed to him a 
 memoir of a young minister, which she thought 
 would give Margaret healthy views of a Christian 
 
68 THE HUNTLNGDONS : OR, 
 
 life, as well as interest, and, perhaps, benefit Ed- 
 ward. 
 
 After Edward went down stairs, Mrs. L. passed 
 into Margaret's room, and taking up the book on 
 Self-Examination, wrote with a pencil on the in- 
 side cover, " For one look at self, take fifty looks 
 at Christ"* then passed downstairs to the parlor. 
 
 As Edward returned into the Library, he hand- 
 ed the memoir to Margaret, saying, " Here, aunt 
 Livingston sent you that to read." 
 
 Margaret slightly frowned at the change, and 
 said, as she turned the leaves over, " I should 
 rather read this on a week day." 
 
 " Why, what's the harm to read it to-day ? " 
 
 " O, I see a good deal about worldly matters," 
 said she. 
 
 " Then you think _we ought not to have any- 
 thing to do with the world Sundays. I should 
 like to know how you think people are going to 
 live, if they thrust the world out every seventh 
 day. In fact they nor you can't do it ; you must 
 eat, drink, and use the world's goods." 
 
 " We can't help that," returned Margaret ; 
 " But this book tells of every day' life, and I don't 
 care to hear it to-day." 
 
 " Every day life, sanctified by religion," said 
 Mrs. L., who had entered the room while Edward 
 
 *McCheyne. 
 
GLIMPS-LS OF IXXER LIFE. C9 
 
 ivas speaking, fearing that Margaret might object 
 to the change. " It is a book which is perfectly- 
 proper for you to read to-day. Your mind now is 
 too disturbed to hear anything of an abstruse na- 
 ture, and the greater part of this will not require 
 much thought. You can but be benefitted by 
 the cheerful, living religion, here presented. Re- 
 member, my child, ' the Sabbath was made for 
 man, not man for the Sabbath.' " 
 
 "That's a fact," responded Edward, warmly. 
 " I'm glad you recognize it, aunt Livingston." 
 
 She smiled and said, " I presume, if I should be 
 more definite in my ideas of the proper manner of 
 spending the Sabbath, you and I would differ 
 much more than Margaret and I." 
 
 " I should hope so," returned Margaret. 
 
 " Well, well," replied Edward, " now hear me 
 read." 
 
 Mrs. Livingston soon left, and joined Bessie, 
 who had decided to attend church twice that day. 
 
 The sweet smile of peace which rested on Bes- 
 sie's face the nio-ht before, still lingered there, but 
 intermingled with it was a thoughtful, earnest 
 (sometimes troubled) look, indicative of the va- 
 rious workings of her heart. Her faithful minis- 
 ter noticed her presence and manner, and his 
 heart was warmed, and faith quickened,- as he saw 
 the indications of the Spirit's power. He felt the 
 
70 THE HUWTINGDONS : OE, 
 
 silent influence of the upturned, eager face, and 
 his words took a more earnest tone, and touching 
 pathos, than usual. 
 
 That evening was the Sabbath School Concert, 
 and as Bessie passed out of the church, she deter- 
 mined to try to attend it. For two or three years 
 she had remained away from it ; in fact, no one of 
 the Huntingdons had been in the habit of going, 
 though. Margaret of late would have attended, 
 had the church not been so great a distance from 
 her home, or her father been willing to trust her 
 alone. 
 
 After tea, Bessie followed Edward to his room, 
 and entering, said, " Ned, I have a great favor to 
 ask of you." 
 
 " What is it ? pet," said he, encircling her with 
 his arm, and seating her on his knee. 
 
 " Why, as Bell is not at home, and you have 
 no other good place, I think, to spend this even- 
 ing, won't you go with me down to the church ? 
 I wish to attend the Sabbath School Concert." 
 
 " Why, Bessie, three times to church on Sun- 
 day ! that will never do in the world ; you'll be 
 sick, certainly." 
 
 " Now, don't plague me ; I want to go very 
 much, and you will please me, wont you? " 
 
 " I don't know about that. I don't want to go 
 to such a children's exhibition." 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 71 
 
 " But many grown people attend, and 4 they 
 Eay' these concerts are very interesting." 
 
 " That may be to those parents who wish to see 
 their darling children exhibit, but I have no such 
 interest to attract me." 
 
 " I'm sure the children only sing. I do not see 
 much exhibition in that." 
 
 " Well, perhaps there is not, but I can't go, I 
 have an engagement elsewhere ; but see here, 
 maybe your aunt Livingston would like to go ? " 
 
 " No, she don't go out evenings ; you know her 
 health is not very gooc." 
 
 " Well, then, you must stay at home. I guess 
 two meetings will answer for one clay." 
 
 " But Edward — ," and tears filled the eyes of 
 Bessie, and she said no more. 
 
 Tears — they softened Edward's heart, and he 
 said, "Come now ! stop that; " and he tenderly 
 kissed them away, and continued : "It seems to 
 me you and Margaret are becoming great babies 
 now-a-days. Why, I think I have seen more 
 tears from you the last two or three days, than all 
 your life before." 
 
 " Yes, you have," said Bessie, forcing back the 
 coming ones ; " but I'm sad and lonely, and — " 
 She leaned back against Edward's shoulder, while 
 he, enfolding her more closely, smoothed her 
 curls away, then said, 
 
72 THE HUNTINGDON: OK, 
 
 " And what, pet ? " 
 
 "No matter now," replied she, attempting to 
 rise while he held her fast. 
 
 " O, I am not going to let you go just now," 
 returned he, " and upon further thought, I think 
 you had better attend that concert ; it will keep 
 you from thinking so much. I'll tell you what I 
 will do : I will go down with you, and will leave 
 you at the door, and will be in the entry waiting 
 for you when the concert is finished." 
 
 " AYhy wont you go in ? " said Bessie. 
 
 " Because I can't endure childrens' affairs, I 
 have told you. Come, you must be satisfied." 
 
 " Well," returned Bessie, knowing it was use- 
 less to urge him further. 
 
 Bessie's pastor saw her as she entered, and he 
 was more assured that she was, indeed, a seeker 
 after divine things. For a long; while she had 
 been a favorite of his ; he had marked her at 
 school, saw the influence she exerted there, saw 
 her by her mother's couch, and witnessed the 
 deep, solicitous affection, she possessed for her, 
 and he longed to see the "merry-hearted crea- 
 ture " saddened, but saddened only by her sinful- 
 ness. Bessie took her seat in the back part of the 
 vestry. She felt rather out of place, and when 
 she seated herself, moved along behind a post that 
 her pastor might not discover her. She imagined 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 73 
 
 what lie would think, and her still proud heart, 
 could not bear it just then. 
 
 After some opening exercises, each scholar re- 
 peated a verse from the Bible. 
 
 Much to Bessie's dismay, she found that the 
 generality of the parents and friends also said one. 
 " What shall I do," thought she ; " the Lees, the 
 Porters, and Mr. Leslie, will know I'm here ; be- 
 side, I can't think of one." 
 
 Just then, a very familiar voice fell upon her 
 ear, saying, " Good Master, what shall I do to in- 
 herit eternal life ? " 
 
 She sat very quietly then, endeavoring to think 
 of a verse ; but " Good Master, what shall I do 
 to inherit eternal life," still rang in her ears. Just 
 in time, however, " Believe in the Lord Jesus 
 Christ, and thou shalt be saved," came to her 
 mind, and without further thought, she said it, and 
 he, Mr. Belmont, heard it, and the comforting 
 words spoke volumes to his soul. 
 
 The pastor heard both, and again his heart was 
 encouraged. He saw a little cloud in these pub- 
 lic exponents of their feelings, and when he arose 
 to address his congregation, his verse was " My 
 soul doth magnify the Lord." 
 
 Tears often came to Bessie's eyes that evening, 
 which distressed and annoyed her. She had ever 
 been one of those who scorned such weaknesses, es- 
 
71 THE HUNTINGDON : OR, 
 
 pecially in public, and now that she found herself 
 a martyr to it, her pride rebelled again and again ; 
 but do what she would, she could not hear cf 
 Christ with tearless eyes. The " foundation of 
 her heart was, indeed, broken up," and glad was 
 she, when the exercises concluded, to. drop her 
 veil, and pass quickly out, trusting to soon reach 
 home, where she could give full vent to her feel- 
 ing's. 
 
 She looked in vain for Edward, but soon heard 
 the familiar voice of Mr. Belmont, who said, ad- 
 vancing toward her, 
 
 "Miss Bessie, Edward has left you in my 
 charge. I met him just as you parted from him, 
 and promised to see you safely home. May I ? " 
 
 " Thank you," returned Bessie, in an offended 
 tone. " I suppose I shall be obliged to trouble 
 vou." 
 
 Mr. Belmont smiled, and said, " Trouble ! I 
 am only too glad of the opportunity. Don't be 
 offended." 
 
 But Bessie was offended. She did not like Ed- 
 ward's easy manner of thus disposing of her, and 
 with womanly feeling she resented it. 
 
 " Edward will always treat me like a child, I 
 believe," said she, while turning the church cor- 
 ner, " if I live to be fifty years old." 
 
 "O, he's just like all brothers," replied Bel- 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 75 
 
 mont, " just as I suppose I should be to a sister 
 if I had one. Don't think of it any more. How 
 did you enjoy* the meeting ? " 
 
 Bessie's backward glance at that, brought up 
 other feelings, and she answered, softly and sadly, 
 " very much." 
 
 "Did you mean your verse for me?" ques- 
 tioned Belmont. 
 
 " I don't know," replied Bessie, a little evasive- 
 ly ; and then the wiser prompting conquered, and 
 she said, courageously, " Yes, I did, and I believe 
 it." 
 
 " I wish I could," sighed Belmont, in reply. 
 
 "You can," returned she, " if you only will." 
 
 " Yes, there's the trouble," replied he. 
 
 " Yes, there is the trouble," said she ; "it is so 
 hard to believe." 
 
 " It's a very simple thing," returned Belmont, 
 musingly. 
 
 " Yes," responded Bessie, " I have been think- 
 ing of it all day. By the way, were you at 
 church this morning ? " 
 
 " Not at ours," replied Belmont, " I went to 
 hear D — , with a friend." 
 
 " Then you missed an excellent sermon," con- 
 tinued Bessie, " from the text, ' But of Him are 
 ye in Christ Jesus, who of God is made Unto us, 
 wisdom and righteousness, and sanctification and 
 
76 THE HUNTI^GDONS : OK, 
 
 redemption.' Mr. Leslie laid the text open in a 
 manner I shall never forget. Although a great 
 portion of it was too deep for me to comprehend, 
 yet still I saw very plainly, O, how much Christ 
 could become to us ! " 
 
 " Made unto us, who believe on Him," re- 
 turned Belmont; "wisdom, righteousness, sanc- 
 tification, and redemption — glorious, glorious 
 promises ! O, Bessie, it must be blessed to 
 thus find Christ. Do you know, I really am pin- 
 ing, am sick, I might say, for something outside of 
 this unsatisfactory world. I have tried, and have 
 become thoroughly satiated with the world's plea- 
 sures ; I know they can never gratify these long- 
 ings of my heart. Why, Bessie, was I created 
 with such longings, if there is nothing to meet 
 them ? And tell me where, or in what pursuit, 
 can I find this satisfaction ? " 
 
 " In nothing but religion, it seems to me," rev- 
 erently replied Bessie. 
 
 " I suppose you are right," returned Belmont, 
 mournfully ; " but, Bessie, how to get it perplexes 
 me. What must I do to inherit eternal life ? and 
 then the doctrines, they puzzle me. I must get 
 righted there first." 
 
 "The doctrines!" said Bessie, " I think they 
 will be all plain enough by-and-by ; it seems to 
 me now we have nothing to do but believe. But 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 77 
 
 O-i ! clon't ask poor, ignorant me for guidance, for 
 T am in a sort of maze myself. Last night the 
 way seemed very clear, and I could trust in 
 Christ, but now it is darkened. Perhaps Satan is 
 hedging it up before me." 
 
 "Then you believe he is constantly endeavoring 
 to divert these good tendencies in us ? " 
 
 " Yes, indeed. Does it not speak in the Bible 
 of bis going about ' as a roaring lion, seeking 
 whom he may devour.' Could a stronger figure 
 be used, indicative of his persistent efforts for our 
 ruin, than this ? " 
 
 " No, indeed ; but I rarely ever think of him. 
 I feel it is the wickedness of my own heart which 
 leads me astray." 
 
 " Well, I suppose our hearts do lead us astray ; 
 but then he and his angels are ever busy, constant- 
 ly tempting us, and working upon the evil in our 
 hearts. Do you not think so ? " 
 
 " Yes, I suppose you 'are right ; but Bessie, 
 must we be always tempted thus ? " 
 
 " Yes ; must we not ? and now I think of it, 
 mother often repeated to me some verses touch- 
 ing that point ; but they have escaped me just 
 at this moment." Bessie hesitated a while, and 
 then said, " Well, I can't recall the words, but the 
 ideas were ' that even Jesus, as free from sin as he 
 was, was tempted while on earth,' and we must 
 
78 THE HUNTINGDONS. 
 
 not expect, to escape temptation ; but that if we 
 rely on Christ, He will not suffer us to be tempted 
 any more than we can bear, and will, in some way, 
 provide an escape for us/' 
 
 " Yes, I remember the verses," replied Bel- 
 mont ; " but they never seemed as significant be- 
 fore. So, Bessie, it is your mother who has 
 taught vou. I have been wondering how you 
 gained your knowledge of divine things. I was 
 well taught, too, in my youth, but I have imbib- 
 ed so much error and speculation since, that my 
 mind is quite confused on Bible points." 
 
 " I do not know how it is," returned Bessie ; 
 " but now mother is gone, her teachings all come 
 up to me, and I can see their meaning and force 
 much better than when she was with me." 
 
 " Very likely," said Belmont, " we often find 
 that to be the case with the teachings and conver- 
 sation of one's friends." 
 
 They had now nearly reached Bessie's home, 
 and the conversation changed to other subjects. 
 As Mr. Belmont bade Bessie good night, he ask- 
 ed, "When shall we have such an opportunity 
 again ? I wish to talk more on this subject ? " 
 
 " O, some time," replied Bessie. " I shall be 
 very anxious to know how you succeed. Why 
 don't you go and see Mr. Leslie ? " 
 
 " See, Mr. Leslie ! I had not thought of that ; 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 79 
 
 but I'd rather not. He would 'nt understand 
 me." 
 
 " I don't know why," returned Bessie. 
 
 IN o ! Bessie could not understand why, nor 
 could Mr. Belmont either have given a satisfactory 
 reason. Like many others, he viewed the matter 
 in a false light, and felt that his perplexities were 
 too intricate, of too lono- standing for a man like 
 himself to dispel. He did not consider that his 
 pastor was taught of God, and that it was through 
 the same wisdom he himself thought must be '*■ so 
 glorious," and which was given from above, that 
 God's faithful servants could discern the sinner's 
 errors, subterfuges, ?md excuses, Satan's tempta- 
 tions and insinuations, and point out the true way 
 to the cross of Christ. No ! Satan blinded him 
 here most effectually, and the Holy Spirit which 
 works by means, left him to grope in the darkness. 
 alone. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE next morning, Bessie Huntingdon awoke 
 from sleep with the consciousness that some- 
 thing unusual had happened to her. Gazing about 
 the room to recall the event, her eye fell upon her 
 mother's Bible, opened at the place where she had 
 left it the evening before. Then quickly followed 
 in her mind all the events of the past few days, 
 and as she re-called them, and thought also that 
 this day would begin her school life again, she 
 shuddered, and clasping her hands, gazed implor 
 ingly upward, and murmured, " Oh ! Father, help 
 this little lamb, who is so very weak." Thought- 
 fully, she made her toilet, and thoughtfully, soon 
 after breakfast, she proceeded to school. 
 
 She met her schoolmates in the hall, and was 
 welcomed warmly by them, for they had missed 
 her pleasant smiles and winning words, during 
 her absence ; besides, she was the link which 
 united many varying temperaments. Now, timid 
 Alice Cooledge could venture to join the bevy of 
 young ladies talking so loudly and independently 
 in one corner of the room, because she knew Bes- 
 
GLIMPSES OP INNER LIFE. 81 
 
 sie would welcome her as she approached, and say 
 something like " Alice, dear, come stand beside 
 me," and shielded by her, Alice felt at ease. Kate 
 Delano, too, a rude, honest spoken, but well mean- 
 ing girl, was another one that Bessie bound, by 
 her natural tact, to the " circle," which is found 
 in all schools. Kate was often in trouble, from 
 her ill-timed, honest remarks ; but when Bessie 
 was present, she generally turned them in such a 
 . manner, that often no bad effect was produced. 
 
 Now Kate rushed forward to her, and shaking 
 her hand, said, " O, Bessie Huntingdon, how re- 
 joiced I am to see you ; the girls have all been 
 abusing me during your absence." 
 
 " Why, what have you done," replied Bessie, 
 •" to provoke so much abuse ? " 
 
 " Spoken the truth, that's all," said Kate. 
 
 u What she considers truth," interposed Jennie 
 Duncan. " If we all regarded truth as Kate does, 
 and make such a public proclamation of it, we 
 should soon get into a pretty snarl." 
 
 " How well it is, then," returned Bessie, " that 
 we don't all think and speak alike. Ah ! i la 
 petite Alice,' here you are," said she, as the timid 
 girl advanced blushingly towards her. " Have 
 you missed me any ? " 
 
 " Missed you ! " and Alice's reproving look told 
 Bessie only too well how much her brief absence 
 had been felt by one, at least. 
 
82 THE HUNTIXGDONS : OR, 
 
 Bessie wound her arm about her as usual, and 
 Alice softly whispered, " Bessie, I have thought 
 of you a great deal while you have been away, 
 and have pitied you so much. I saw you last 
 night at the concert. Are you happy ? " 
 
 " Yes, dear ; do I not look so ? " replied Bessie, 
 gazing at her with a beaming smile. 
 
 " Oh ! do stop your everlasting cooing," said 
 Kate Delano. " Eeally it's been quite refreshing — " 
 but here the sound of the school bell interrupted 
 her, and with a slight look of pretended disgust 
 to finish her remarks, Kate turned to her seat. 
 
 As Bessie passed to hers, she greeted her teach- 
 er, who did not fail to notice how peculiarly tran- 
 quil she appeared. The Bible lesson, which im- 
 mediately followed, was very interesting, and 
 Madame Clark made a personal application of it 
 with regard to carrying religion into the little acts 
 of life. Bessie gave strict attention to all that 
 she said, and it was with deep earnestness that 
 she silently joined in a portion of the prayer which 
 followed the lesson, that " all might carry the 
 Spirit of Christ into their daily acts, their lessons, 
 their conversations, recitations, deportment, and 
 whatever they might think or do," so that, con- 
 cluded the teacher, " Whether, therefore, we eat 
 or drink, or whatsoever we do, we may do it all to 
 the glory of God." 
 
GLIMPSES OF INXER LIFE. 83 
 
 As Bessie passed to a recitation soon after, Jen- 
 nie Duncan made signs to her for a pencil, but in- 
 stead of handing her one as she usually would, 
 she passed on without saying a word, or making a 
 sign, but when she reached the class she gave her 
 a smile, while Jennie in return, shrugged her 
 shoulders, and gave her a very significant look. 
 As Bessie expected, at recess Jennie assailed her 
 with, 
 
 " Well done, Bessie Huntingdon ! who would 
 have believed you could have been so selfish as to 
 deny me a bit of pencil. I did not think it of 
 you." 
 
 " Jennie," said Bessie, quietly, " You know 
 better than that." 
 
 " Don't I say the truth," returned Jennie. 
 
 " The truth in one respect, that I did not give 
 you my pencil ; but untruth in another, that I was 
 actuated by selfishness." 
 
 » Why, you don't mean to say," continued Jen- 
 nie, " that you were actuated by benevolence, by 
 your refusal of it when you knew I needed it so 
 much. I call it selfishness. Now, if you had 
 just dropped it on my desk, or left it on your own, 
 where I could have reached it, you would not 
 have communicated, and I should have been per- 
 fect in my French lesson. As it was, I received 
 four errors for failing to have it ready, and I charge 
 them all to you." 
 
84 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 " Jennie," replied Bessie, in a trembling tone, 
 for she felt the time of confession had come, and 
 she must now take a new stand, " You know one 
 of the rules of school is, that, 'no young lady 
 shall borrow pencils, of her neighbor,' and if 
 you had no right to borrow, I certainly had no 
 right to lend ; and besides I should have communi- 
 cated, and I do not wish to violate now the least 
 rule. The time past, I wish you to forget. I 
 hope in future to be a more conscientious pupil. 
 You understand me, do you not, Jennie ? " and 
 Bessie glanced lovingly towards her, her eyes fill- 
 ed with tears. 
 
 " I suppose so," said Jennie, turning round, and 
 gazing out of the hall window, " But really it 
 seems to me ' straining at a gnat.' " 
 
 " Perhaps it willmot always seem so," returned 
 Bessie. " Don't you know Madame said this 
 morning we should remember how great a power 
 there is in what we call little acts, for in them lies 
 the principle of right and wrong? " 
 
 " No, I don't remember it," replied Jennie, in a 
 pettish tone ; "I scarcely ever hear any of her 
 long lectures, besides I don't wish to be so con- 
 scientious ; I should be unhappy all the time. I 
 don't believe in tormenting one's self so much." 
 
 " There is no torment to me," responded Bes- 
 sie, " in doing right ; it is doing wrong that gives 
 me torment." 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 85 
 
 " "Well, you know what I mean," said Jennie, 
 in return ; " it's troublesome, and I don't care for 
 such trouble ; time enough by-and-by." 
 
 Bessie was just about to reply, when they were 
 interrupted by some of the school girls, to her re- 
 gret, but to Jennie Duncan's satisfaction, for the 
 conversation had become altogether too personal to 
 please her. 
 
 During the morning. Bessie had many occasions 
 to evince her desires to do right, and she was pain- 
 fully surprise 1 to find k° w f ar from conscientious 
 she had been heretofore, in little things. It was 
 quite an effort for her, and she returned home in a 
 discouraged frame of mind, feeling that it would 
 be a very hard task to ever keep such a watch 
 over herself. As she entered the house, she met 
 Mrs. Livingston, who obse wed her dejection, and 
 said, " Bessie, what is the trouble ? You look 
 sad." 
 
 " Do I," said Bessie, " Well, I feel so. I have 
 discovered this morning, more than ever, how wick- 
 I am, and how prone to do wrong ; and it looks 
 very discouraging to me, conquering all these sin- 
 ful habits of mine." 
 
 " Do you expect you can do it ? " 
 
 "No, aunty, I fear not, I am so weak. One 
 that had more strength of character than I might; 
 but I cannot. Oh ! what shall I do, for I cannot 
 bear to do wron *- ? "' 
 
86 THE HUNTINGDOXS : OR, 
 
 Mrs. Livingston now sat down beside her, on 
 the sofa, upon which Bessie had seated herself 
 when she entered, and taking Bessie's hand in 
 hers, she said, 
 
 " No, Bessie, you nor I, nor any one else, can 
 do this great work of conquering sin in the heart. 
 The strongest of us are very, very weak, and ut- 
 terly unable to make ourselves what we see we 
 ought to be ; but He, the Holy Spirit, will ' work 
 in you both to will and to do.' You must trust in 
 Christ to overcome sin in your heart, just as you 
 have trusted Him to save you from sin, and ycu 
 do trust your sins are forgiven for Christ's sake, 
 do you not ? " 
 
 " Yes, aunty, though occasionally doubting 
 thoughts arise ; but I do not like them, and check 
 them instantly. Sometimes it seems to me as 
 though it was Satan tempting me." 
 
 " I do not doubt it," returned Mrs. Livingston ; 
 " and now let me tell you of some good rules 
 which I have read concerning temptation : 
 
 ' 1. A sinful impression, or suggestion, resist- 
 ed till it disappears, is temptation, and only temp- 
 tation — not sin. 
 
 1 2. A sinful suggestion, courted or tolerated, 
 or at length complied with, is sin.' 
 
 " But do not be discouraged, my child ; all you 
 have to do, is to simply trust Jesus and His pow- 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 87 
 
 er, and that alone will overcome sin in your heart. 
 He will give you of His pure and truthful nature, 
 and take away this proneness to sin, if you earn- 
 estly desire and seek for it. ' Blessed are they 
 which do hunger and thirst after righteousness, 
 for they shall be filled.' Do not you see it is the 
 reigning power in the heart which influences you, 
 and the more you have of Christ in your heart, 
 the more you will exhibit of him in your life. 
 ' Know ye not that ye are the temple of God, and 
 that the Spirit of God dwelleth in you.' " 
 
 " Oh ! aunty," returned Bessie, " what light 
 you have given me ; that I am to let Christ con- 
 quer all this bent to wrong, which I find in myself. I 
 thought I had to do it, and I felt it was impossi- 
 ble ; but now I am all hope, for He who is all- 
 powerful can clo it, and He will do it I know, for 
 He has promised to. But, Oh ! I tremble to 
 think that He, the Holy One, has come and taken 
 up His abode in such a poor, sinful worm. Pre- 
 cious, precious Saviour ! I never can praise Him 
 enough." 
 
 Mrs. Livingston now arose, and kissing Bessie's 
 forehead, said, " Even so, Bessie, ' Unto you, 
 therefore, which believe, He is precious,' " and 
 passed out of the room. 
 
 They did not meet again until dinner, and then 
 Mrs. Livingston saw how discordant was the con- 
 
88 THE HUNTINGDONS. 
 
 versation to Bessie. It was on the fashions and 
 frivolities of the day, and was carried on princi- 
 pally by Louise, and an intimate friend of hers, 
 Bell Rivers, the affianced of Edward. Bessie 
 glanced once at Mrs. Livingston to see how she 
 was pleased, and how she could endure it. Mrs. 
 Livingston caught her look, and answered it by 
 an upward glance, and Bessie knew what she 
 would have said could she have spoken. " Trust, 
 trust, He can give you grace to endure all things,' f 
 and she trusted, and found it was not in vain. 
 
CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 THE afternoon of this same day, Louise Hunt- 
 ingdon and Bell Eivers, were interrupted 
 in the midst of a private conversation upon some 
 of Louise's flirtations, by a servant who brought a 
 note of invitation for the Huntingdons to a private 
 ball, at the house of a friend of theirs, for the next 
 week. 
 
 " O dear ! " said Louise, ." how unfortunate ! 
 I have not a single presentable dress, and this will 
 be a grand affair, I know, for it is probably com- 
 plimentary to Miss Reynolds, the young lady vis- 
 iting at the S argents. What shall I do ? " 
 
 " Buy a new one," said Bell. 
 
 " But I can't," replied Louise ; " My next al- 
 lowance is not due until the last of next month, 
 and I have spent all of this quarter's, but seven 
 dollars, and I don't believe ' the girls ' have any to 
 lend me." 
 
 "Charge it," returned Bell; " 'Davenport', 
 'Wayne Brothers,' or*any of those firms would be 
 glad to do it." 
 
 " O, no," replied Louise, " I could n't do that ; 
 Pa would never forgive mo." 
 
90 THE HUNTINGDONS ; OR, 
 
 " Eie ! how silly you are ; he would never know 
 it, and you could pay it up just as soon as you 
 get your allowance ; beside, if he should happen 
 to find it out, he wouldn't mind it just for once." 
 
 " I don't know about that," said Louise ; " but 
 I must go, I must have a dress ; I wouldn't miss 
 this ball for anything. I know all of ' our set ' 
 will be there, and it will be a brilliant affair. Yes, 
 I must go, somehow." 
 
 " I suppose its no use to ask Ned, for he is just 
 as fussy as your father on some points," continued 
 Bell ; " sometimes I get all out of patience with 
 him." 
 
 " No, it's no use to ask him," replied Louise ; 
 '■ he would think the dresses I have good enough, 
 and 1 don't wish to borrow it of any of them, 
 anyhow ; I don't like to be under obligations. 
 Perhaps I will charge it ; but dear me ! how shall 
 I manage it ? They will wonder how I have got 
 the dress, for Margaret and Bessie know how 
 much money I have." 
 
 They both remained silent a while, then Bell 
 said, quickly, " I have it, I have it ; trust this 
 child for planning. I will lend you two or three 
 dollars, which is all I can spare, and then when 
 they ask you where you got the money for your 
 dress, you can say, ' Bell lent me some, and 1 had 
 some of my own,' and both together will pay for 
 
GLIMPSES OF INKER LIFE. 91 
 
 trimmings, making, &c, and you can charge the 
 material." 
 
 " Yes, that will do," returned Louise, in a hesi- 
 tating manner, showing that her conscience was 
 not quite at ease ; but crushing back its monitions, 
 she said again, more strongly, " Yes, I will do it ; 
 I am not obliged' to account for all my proceed- 
 ings to them." 
 
 " Sure enough," replied Bell, " you are nearly 
 old enough now to be your own mistress, I should 
 think. I would get one right off, if I were you. 
 Suppose we go down town, and look for some- 
 thing this afternoon ? " 
 
 " Well, I will," responded Louise ; " but wait 
 a moment till I give this invitation to Margaret, 
 and then I can tell her what I intend to do." 
 
 Passing into the hall, Louise entered Margaret's 
 room, and tossing her the billet, said, ft An invita- 
 tion to the Sargents. Am I not unfortunate 
 though, I have nothing suitable to wear, and have 
 not sufficient money of my own to purchase a new 
 dress ; but Bell has offered to lend me some, so 
 that I think I can get one by managing carefully. 
 We are going out this afternoon to look for one." 
 
 "Louise, I think you are very extravagant," 
 replied Margaret, " for either of your light silks 
 would do to wear. And I would n't borrow of 
 Bell either ; I don't believe dither would like it."- 
 
92 THE HUNTINGDONS; OR, 
 
 " How foolish you are ! just as though I should 
 appear out in those old dresses again. I declare ! 
 you don't know anything about propriety ; and as 
 to borrowing of Bell, I don't see a speck of harm 
 in it, and father will never know, unless you take 
 pains to tell him. I really think, Margaret, I am 
 about old enough to manage for myself." So say- 
 ing, Louise walked quickly out of Margaret's 
 room, shotting the door behind her rather violent- 
 
 iy- 
 
 " What did she say ? " inquired Bell. 
 
 " The same old song she always sings," replied 
 Louise, " that it is extravagance to buy a new 
 dress." 
 
 " She is terribly particular, is n't she ? " return- 
 ed Bell, " since she joined the church." 
 
 " Yes, indeed," replied Louise ; " She makes 
 herself a perfect torment to us ; but come, put on 
 your hat, and get ready, for it's late now ? " 
 
 Nearly an hour afterwards, Louise and Bell 
 entered the extensive store of Davenport & Co., 
 and soon busied themselves in selecting just the 
 shade of pink silk which Louise thought would be 
 becoming to her. 
 
 As Bell had said, the clerk was indeed pleased 
 to open an account with Miss Huntingdon and 
 " hoped she would call whenever she wished any- 
 thing ; he should be exceedingly happy to furnish 
 
GLIMPSES OF IXXI.Ii LIFE. 93 
 
 it to her. Ordering the dress she had purchased 
 sent home, Louise and Bell left the store, but had 
 proceeded but a few steps ere they met Edward, 
 in company with a gentleman, a stranger to them- 
 selves. The stranger simply bowed to the ladies,- 
 and turned immediately into an adjoining store, 
 while Edward joined his sister and Miss Rivers on 
 their walk home. 
 
 '* Who was that distingue gentleman with you, 
 Edward?*' inquired Louise. 
 
 " A Mr, Carleton," replied Edward. " He was 
 a class-mate of mine, but 1 have not seen him for 
 three or four years, as he has been in Europe. 
 He will stop in town this winter, and will call at 
 our house to-morrow evening, so you must do 
 your best to entertain him. He is very particular 
 in his choice of lady acquaintances," 
 
 " Well, then Louise wont suit him," replied 
 Bell, " he will more likely prefer Bessie, or your 
 staid sister Margaret." 
 
 " We shall see," returned Louise, " I can be 
 very quiet and lady-like some times." 
 
 " An exceedingly rare occurrence," responded 
 Edward, and then continued, " but where have 
 you been girls ? " 
 
 " Oh, only into — " here Louise quickly check- 
 ed Miss Rivers by pulling her dress. 
 
94 THE HUNTINGDONS ; OE, 
 
 "Where, -did you say?" still questioned Ed- 
 ward. 
 
 " Into Delano & Co.'s to see Meston's new 
 picture," returned Bell, and then turning her head 
 she glanced triumphantly at Louise, but Louise's 
 face wore no such look, but rather one of anxiety 
 and pain. Miss Rivers pressed her hanl to assure 
 her, and then instantly changed the conversation. 
 Louise was very silent all the way home, and as 
 sotn as she reached the house, she went directly to 
 her room, and Bell followed her. 
 
 "Oh, BelU " anxiously exclaimed Louise, as 
 soon as' she closed the door, " how could you say 
 we had been into Delano's ? " 
 
 " Why, what should I have said ? " impatiently 
 returned Bell. " I am sure we were in there this 
 morning. I thought you pulled my dress, so that 
 I should not tell him that we had been into Daven- 
 port's, aid I said the first thing that came into my 
 mind. I don't know as we are under any obliga- 
 tion to tell him every place we go to. I am sure 
 you may be thankful it was no worse ; it was only 
 a ' white lie,' after all, and people tell such every 
 clay. Besides it was no worse than the one you 
 told Margaret to-day about procuring the money 
 for your dress." 
 
 " Well, I don't know as it is," replied Louise, 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 95 
 
 " though there was more truth in what I said to 
 her. But clear me ! I wish I had never thought 
 of having a dress. I know I shall have more 
 trouble yet about it. I have been thinking com- 
 ing home what I shall tell them if they ask me 
 where I pure" __ .t. You know we never trade 
 into Davenport's ; that was the reason why I did 
 not wish you to tell Edward. But I won't deceive 
 again, and if they ask me I shall say into Daven- 
 port's, and if they wonder, they may. Don't you 
 speak about it any way." 
 
 " Just as you please," responded Bell, " I am 
 sure I only said what I did for your sake." 
 
 " Well, I know it, replied Louise, and I am 
 sure you are very kind to be so interested in my af- 
 fairs, but Bell, it's miserable to manage such ways. 
 I'll never do it again, I assure you, for I would not 
 suffer for another half hour what I have this after- 
 noon." 
 
 " Pooh ! Louise," returned Bell, " you are too 
 squeamish." 
 
 "iSlo, I am not," replied Louise, quite energeti- 
 cally. " I cannot regard such things as you do. 
 I never did such a thing before, and had I irnao;- 
 ined I was to be so troubled about it, I would 
 not have bought the dress, I assure you. No one 
 knows, either, how much unhappiness it will yet 
 cause me." 
 
96 THE HUNTINGDONS ; OR, 
 
 " Well, it can't be helped now," responded 
 Bell ; " and the best thing for you to do is to for- 
 get it as soon as possible, so let us go down to the 
 parlor." 
 
 But in vain, all that evening, and many days af- 
 ter, was Louise haunted by the recollection of her 
 wrong doing. Fortunately no inquiries were 
 made by the family concerning the dress, which 
 she could not truthfully answer, without betraying 
 herself. There came a day though, when it was 
 all known ! 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 I^HE next few days found Bessie Hunting- 
 don in great perplexity of mind. Her feel- 
 ings did not exactly incline her to attend the ball 
 at the Sargents, but her brother was so anxious 
 and imperative in his request that she should go, 
 that it made her very unhappy and undecided. 
 Finally she sought Mrs. Livingston and asked for 
 her counsel. 
 
 " Why do you ask me for advice ? " said Mrs. 
 Livingston, in reply to her question. " You know 
 very well what I would say to you." 
 
 " That I had better remain at home," said 
 Bessie, while Mrs. Livingston bowed in ac- 
 quiesence. " Yes, I thought you would say so, 
 but I wish to know your reasons for it ! " 
 
 " Do they not suggest themselves to you ? " in- 
 quired Mrs. Livingston. 
 
 " Yes, I presume some of them do," returned 
 Bessie, " but still I want to hear you tell them." 
 
 " Well, I feel that public gatherings of such a 
 nature as the one you will attend at the Sargents 
 
98 THE HUNTINGDON ; OR, 
 
 are always objectionable, but especially for you in 
 your present state of mind/' 
 
 " Why, aunty, you would n't have me leave 
 the world entirely, would you, because I am in- 
 terested in religion." 
 
 "No," replied Mrs. L., "not at all, but I 
 would not have you enter into temptation any 
 time, and surely not now when Satan is more than 
 ever seeking to lead you astray." 
 
 "Why more than ever?" questioned Bessie. 
 " Because that you have now commenced to 
 follow Christ. When you were asleep and indif- 
 ferent to His call, Satan was well pleased to have 
 you sleep, but now he finds you are escaping from 
 the bondage under which he has held you, he 
 will not fail to use all his arts to lead you astray." 
 
 " But why shall I find so many temptations 
 there ? It seems to me I find more in thinking of 
 it, and what I shall wear, than when I shall be 
 there." 
 
 "Just so," replied Mrs. L., "he would 
 like to drive all thoughts of Christ from your 
 mind for the next two or three days if he could, 
 and that by such paltry things as dress, dancing. 
 
 By deciding not to go, this temptation would 
 be removed." 
 
 "But, aunty, Edward will be very much dis- 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 9^ 
 
 pleased if I do not go. He says I must, and if I 
 go for his sake to make him happ} r , is it wrong ? " 
 
 " We are not required to commit wrong, Bes- 
 sie, in order to make others happy." 
 
 " But I am not quite sure it is wrong. You 
 know it is not a public ball, it is only a dancing 
 party at a private house, and besides many good 
 church people will be there, I know, and they 
 don't see harm in if." 
 
 " Do you think because they are in the church, 
 Bessie, that makes all they do right ? Do you not 
 remember the verse which says, " Many will say 
 to me in that day, Lord, Lord, have we not pro- 
 phesied in thy name ? and in thy name have cast 
 out devils ? and in thy name done many wonder- 
 ful works? And then will I profess unto them, 
 I never knew you ; depart from me, ye that work 
 iniquity.' Does not this show that there will be 
 many in the church who are not of the church. Let 
 me ask you one question, Do you consider it 
 consistent for a Christian who has renounced the 
 pomps and vanities of this world, to spend some 
 three or four days preparing for a festive occasion ; 
 her heart so entirely engrossed by thoughts of it, 
 as almost to exclude everything sacred, and then 
 to pass nearly a whole night in frivolity and vanity, 
 seeking no good but the gratification of selfish 
 desires, returning home at last to waste nearly all 
 
100 THE HUNTINGDONS; OR, 
 
 of the precious hours of the next morning in 
 sleep, and when awake to commence languidly 
 the same feelings of the preceding days in re- 
 trospection ? Now tell me, Bessie, is such a 
 course consistent for a meek and lowly follower of 
 the Lamb, and what good is there gained by 
 it all." 
 
 " None at all," returned Bessie sighing, " but 
 surely it is not wrong for friends to meet together 
 to enjoy each others society." 
 
 " No," replied Mrs. Livingston, " ~YV r e all need 
 recreation, and I approve of these gatherings 
 when they are conducted properly, and the time 
 is passed in an innocent and sensible manner." 
 
 " Well, aunty," said Bessie, " I suppose you 
 must be right, I wish I could feel so, and be at 
 rest. I am so unhappy about it. Then, if I do 
 decide not to go, how can I tell Edward ? " 
 
 " Go to your heavenly Father," tenderly re- 
 sponded Mrs. L., l and He will direct you 
 and give you strength for it all, 'As thy days so 
 shall thy strength be.' " 
 
 Bessie immediately sought her own room, and 
 bowing in prayer, confidingly told her heavenly 
 Guide, all her heart, just how perplexed she was, 
 how anxious to please her brother, but above all 
 to please Him, and besought Him to guide her 
 into all truth. 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 101 
 
 Then arising she sat herself down to reflect. 
 As she sat there silently weighing the arguments 
 for and against, and still praying to be directed, it 
 all came clearly up before her, that she had been 
 really desiring to please her brother rather than 
 God, and that the happiness she would afford him 
 would not after all be pure. She saw, too, how 
 much money she would waste to adorn her person 
 which might be put to a better purpose, how 
 much time also in preparing for the ball and at- 
 tending it, and how it would unfit her for the 
 next day's duties both in mind and body. It 
 certainly does not improve my mind in the least, 
 continued she, reasoning to herself; in fact de- 
 grades it ; but above all, such places are debasing 
 to the soul, leading one's thoughts away from 
 God and purity, to self, the world and earthly 
 pleasures. I should not dare to ask my Saviour 
 to go with me, and ought I to attend any place 
 where Icannot ask for His presence ? Surely not ; 
 then, I must remain at home, and I will, and bow- 
 ing her head she softly murmured, " Oh ! my 
 Father, give me strength to abide by my 
 decision." 
 
 After a little more thought and silent prayer, 
 Bessie returned to Mrs. Livingston and said, 
 " Aunty, I have decided fully not to go. The 
 Lord has shown me my duty very plainly now, 
 
102 THE EIuNTINGDOXS ; OR, 
 
 and I wonder I have been so blind to it for so 
 long. Still I feel it is gbirg to be a great trial to 
 tell Edward, He will think I am very foolish, 
 and will not see any sense in my reasons.' 5 
 
 « Very like," returned Mrs. L., "but, Bes- 
 sie, you will find if you mean to live a Chris- 
 tian life, you will be obliged very often to differ 
 from him, and you must not shrink at the com- 
 mencement of the warfare." 
 
 Tears filled Bessie's eyes as she considered this, 
 and she could not reply for a few moments, then 
 she said, " God help me to do right, and lead 
 brother to Him." 
 
 " Yes, Bessie, He will, if you only have faith 
 to plead earnestly for him." 
 
 Both were silent awhile, then, Bessie said, 
 " Aunty, how glad I am that Edward has gone 
 away, and won't return till Monday ; it would be 
 so hard to keep refusing him all the time." 
 
 " Yes, it makes it much easier for you, and you 
 should feel grateful to the Lord for this," respond- 
 ed Mrs. Livingston, " all our times are in His 
 hands you know." 
 
 " Yes," replied Bessie, " and how sweet it is to 
 think so. That is one of mother's lexts, " My 
 times are in thy hand," and, now I think of it, I 
 mean to write to her all about this matter ; O, how 
 much I have to tell her ! " and, leaving the room 
 Bessie was jon absorbed in letter communion. 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 103 
 
 The day of the ball arrived. Many were the 
 cruel comments and jeers that Bessie had had 
 to endure since her decision, from Louise and 
 Georgie, and she awoke Thursday, trembling to 
 meet her brother, for she was well aware how dis- 
 pleased he would be with her. She hardly knew 
 at what time he would enter the house, and every 
 now and then would fancy that she heard his foot- 
 step. She attended school as usual, but it was a 
 very hard task for her to place her mind on her 
 lessons. At recess, she had again to endure re- 
 monstrances and unpleasant remarks from some 
 of her school friends, who found she really was 
 not going, and when she returned home she was 
 fairly sick from agitation and worriment. 
 
 Fearing to meet Edward, she entered the house 
 by a back entrance, and proceeded directly to her 
 room, where, fastening the door, she flung herself in 
 tears on to her bed, — but was disturbed immediate- 
 ly by Louise, who, knocking at the door, said, 
 " Bessie, are you here ? for I have a note and a 
 package from Edward for you. He is not com- 
 ing home to dinner, business or something detains 
 him." 
 
 " Not coming home to dinner." Ah ! what 
 sweet relief, those words were to Bessie. Spring- 
 ing up she unfastened the door, and took the 
 package and note, but made no remark to Louise, 
 
104 THE HUNTINGDOXS : OR, 
 
 who said tenderly while she was returning, ' down 
 stairs,' " Bessie dear, don't cry. Make haste ! 
 you can get ready to go to the party even now. 
 You had better, for Edward will be very angry 
 with you, and you don't know what he has sent 
 you there." 
 
 Bessie closed the door and opened the package 
 and found a beautiful pearl necklace. She brush- 
 ed away the fast coming tears, and hushed the 
 violent throbbings of her heart, then opened the 
 note and read, 
 
 " My Pet, — 1 send you these sweet pearls just like your 
 own self to wear to-night. DeCoutor, as I wrote Louise, 
 will be at the house at 4 o'clock, to dress your hair, and I 
 shall bring the flowers with me when I come home. I can't 
 come to dinner. Now make yourself as pretty as possible, 
 for I intend to introduce you to one or two of my particular 
 
 friends from D , to-night, who expect to be at the ball. 
 
 Yours in haste, 
 
 Ned." 
 
 Ah ! how the tears came, and how Bessie's 
 heart did beat. " Oh ! what shall I do ? what 
 shall I do ? " cried she, arising and walking up 
 and down the room, her hands folded tightly 
 around the box of pearls. " Oh ! Lord help me, 
 help me ! " and thus weeping and praying, she 
 passed many times up and down the room, till 
 exhausted, she sank upon the bed and sobbed her 
 weary self to troubled sleep. 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 105 
 
 The summons for dinner awoke her, and when 
 she raised her head, she found it pained her so 
 severely she could not rise. She laid it back 
 quietly again on the pillow for a while, to hush its 
 throbbings, but in vain ; and touching the bell 
 above her, she hid her face in the pillow, moaning 
 with pain. 
 
 A servant immediately came, and Bessie sent 
 for her aunt. 
 
 " Why, Bessie," said she, as she entered, " are 
 you sick ? " 
 
 " Oh ! my head aches so hard," returned she. 
 
 " Poor child ! " said Mrs. Livingston, and she 
 smoothed her hair, and felt of her hands and pulse. 
 " How long has it ached so ? " 
 
 " Only since I woke up," replied Bessie. " I 
 expect it is because I have been crying so much." 
 
 Mrs. Livingston made no inquiry for the cause 
 of her tears ; she divined what it was, and felt 
 how bitter and great it was to the fresh, joyous 
 nature before her. After tenderly administering 
 some simple remedies to Bessie, she seated herself 
 by her side, and bathed her heated head with 
 cold water. Soon the throbbing head was quite 
 stilled, and Bessie slept again, to awake at five 
 o'clock, refreshed and calmed. 
 
 Mrs. L. was in the room when she awoke, and 
 said to her, " You must be very calm now, and 
 
106 THE HUNTINGDON : OR, 
 
 keep quiet, if you do not wish your head to ache 
 again." 
 
 " Yes, I will," replied Bessie ; " but has Ed- 
 ward returned yet ? " 
 
 " No," responded Mrs. Livingston, " and if you 
 wish, I will see him for you when he does come, 
 as you are so unwell." 
 
 " I should like to see him myself very much," 
 said Bessie. " I feel quite brave about it now. I 
 do believe the Lord has given me strength." 
 
 " I do not doubt it," replied Mrs. L. " He 
 always gives us strength for all he calls us to do." 
 
 They were silent a while, then Bessie said, " O, 
 aunty, I know now how I will do ; strange I have 
 not thought of it before." 
 
 " Why, how will you do?" inquired Mrs. L. 
 
 u I will write to him, then he cannot interrupt 
 me before I say all I wish to, and he will get calm 
 before he sees me. You know he gets very excit- 
 ed when he is angry, and says many things he 
 does not mean. Do you not think it would be a 
 good way ? " 
 
 "Yes," replied Mrs. L., " if you feel able to do 
 it, and it will not make your head ache again." 
 
 "I don't believe it will," responded Bessie, " it 
 is so free from pain now." 
 
 " I would n't write but a short note," said Mrs. 
 L. " You can tell him what else you wish to say 
 some other time." 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 107 
 
 " Just so," replied Bessie ; and then rising, she 
 prepared herself slowly to write. As she passed 
 her bureau, she saw the box of pearls and Ed- 
 ward's note. 
 
 " Poor Edward ! " said she, glancing at her 
 aunt, and then at the box of pearls. " Have you 
 seen them ? " 
 
 "Yes," returned Mrs. L., " I examined them 
 when you were asleep. They are beautiful ; but 
 you have found a richer pearl than they. Do you 
 not think so ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, aunty dear. O, it seems so sweet 
 to me now ! my heart is full of love. I feel just 
 like writing to Edward, and I mean to tell him 
 that." 
 
 And thus she wrote : 
 
 Brother Dear, — I thank you very much for the beautiful 
 pearls you have given me ; and my heart is full of love to 
 you, as I think how kind and thoughtful you are ever towards 
 your Bessie. And now feeling all this love for you, I am go- 
 ing to give you great pain. I am so sorry to give you this 
 pain ; but for the sake of Him who loves me more than you 
 do, and who has given me the " matchless pearl without 
 price," I do it. 
 
 Brother — / cannot go to the ball to-night ! I have prayed 
 over it, wept many tears, and have given it much earnest re- 
 flection, and have fully decided it would not be right to go ! 
 Christ is in my heart, 1 know, and I could not attend this 
 ball, and feel I had His presence to go with me. It is not 
 that I do not wish to please you, brother ; but that I wish to 
 
108 THE HUNTINGDONS : OK, 
 
 please Christ more, that I have done this. Do not, then, feel 
 displeased, I beseech of you ; but foi^ive, and ever love, your 
 own Bessie. 
 
 " Will that do ? " said she passing it to Mrs. 
 Livingston to read. 
 
 Mrs. Livingston perused it, and replied, " Yes, 
 Bessie ; it is all that is needed, and God make it 
 an instrument of good to his soul." 
 
 " How shall I get it to him ? " continued Bes- 
 sie. " He will come right up here when he comes 
 in." 
 
 " I will watch for him, and give it to him my- 
 self," replied Mrs. Livingston. "I think you had 
 better lie down again ; your cheeks are quite 
 flushed." 
 
 " Yes, and my head aches some," said Bessie ; 
 " it is not so very strong after all." 
 
 " I feared it would not be," returned Mrs. L. 
 " Yes, you lie down, and when he comes to the 
 door I will tell him you are not well, and will 
 give him the note." 
 
 It was not long before Bessie and Mrs. Living- 
 ston heard Edward's voice, saying, in reply to 
 Louise, who had met him, and informed him re- 
 garding Bessie, 
 
 DO 7 
 
 " Bessie sick ! and not going to the ball ; its a 
 burning shame ! All Mrs. Livingston's doings, I 
 know." 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 100 
 
 " Husli ! " said Louise. 
 
 Edward came on up stairs, and knocked rather 
 impatiently at Bessie's door. 
 
 Mrs. Livingston, calming herself after the feel- 
 ing roused by Edward's remark, and glancing at 
 Bessie's anxious face with an assuring smile, now 
 took up the note, and opening the door, handed it 
 to Edward, saying, " Bessie is not very well, and 
 she wishes roe to give you this." 
 
 "Isn't she well enough to see me," abruptly 
 returned he, while taking the note. 
 
 " No, brother dear, not now," said Bessie, so 
 sweetly and tenderly, that he made no farther re- 
 mark, and passed on to his room. 
 
 Bessie neither saw nor heard from him again 
 that night, as she did not appear at tea. She 
 heard him descend though, when the carriage 
 drove up, and caught the sound of Georgie and 
 Louise's voices, but his was silent. 
 
 As the carriage rolled away, she turned her 
 head on the pillow, and glancing upward? softly 
 murmured these words she had learned to repeat 
 to her mother in childhood, little thinking how 
 preciously applicable they would be to herself one 
 day : 
 
 " Jesus! I my cross have taken, 
 All to leave, and follow thee; 
 Naked, poor, despised, forsaken, 
 Thou, from hence, my all shall be. 
 
110 THE HUNTINGDONS. 
 
 Perish every fond ambition, 
 All I've sought, or hoped, or known; 
 Yet, how rich is my condition, 
 God and Heaven are still my own. 
 
 " Let the world despise and leave me, 
 They have left my Saviour, too; 
 Human hearts and looks deceive me: 
 Thou art not, like them untrue. 
 Oh! while thou dost smile upon me, 
 God of wisdom, love and might; 
 Foes may hate, and friends disown me, 
 Show thy face, and all is bright. 
 
 " Perish earthly fame and treasure, 
 Come disaster, scorn and pain; 
 In thy service, pain is pleasure, 
 "With thy favor, life is gain : 
 Oh! 'tis not in grief to harm me, 
 While thy love is left to me; 
 Oh! 't were not in joy to charm me, 
 Were that joy unmixed with Thee." 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 flP^HE next morning Bessie met Edward, as she 
 .jL was descending to the dining-room. 
 
 " Good morning, Bessie," said he, coolly, " how 
 do you find yourself this morning ? " 
 
 " A great deal better," replied Bessie, as cheer- 
 fully as she could, for her sensitive nature marked 
 too well the change in his manner. 
 
 Edward made no further attempt at conversa- 
 tion, but whistling a gay, dancing air, passed on 
 to the dining-room. Bessie followed. Her face, 
 though, had its wonted smile when she entered, 
 and Mrs. Livingston received an unusual morning 
 welcome. 
 
 Louise and Georgie did not arise for breakfast, 
 and it was rather a silent family which gathered 
 around the table, as Edward, who generally led 
 the conversation, was evidently in ill-humor, and 
 the rest could not seem to find a topic. Even Mrs. 
 Livingston's tact failed her. 
 
 Suddenly, Edward laid down his knife and fork 
 with a great deal of impatience, and exclaimed, 
 " What a stupid fellow I am ! I received a letter 
 
112 THE HUNTINGDONS*. OR, 
 
 from father yesterday, and I was so busy I forgot 
 all about giving it to you." 
 
 " From father ! " said Bessie, springing up. 
 " O, where is it ? Let me get it ; I can't wait 
 one moment. Mother ! mother dear, how is she ?" 
 
 Margaret's eyes were flashing, and she said, in- 
 dignantly, before Bessie finished speaking, " Can 
 it be possible, Edward Huntingdon, that you 
 have been so thoughtless ? It's a burning shame ! " 
 
 Bessie stopped, and drew quietly back, for she 
 saw the rising passion in Edward's eyes, and wait- 
 ed tremblingly while he said, in compressed, se- 
 vere tones, " Margaret Livingston ! how dare you 
 accuse me of thoughtlessness about father ? You 
 know well enough, it was only because I was so 
 crowded with business last night that I forgot it." 
 
 " Great business a ball is," replied Margaret, 
 her heart still swelling with indignation. 
 
 " Don't ! don't ! " said Bessie, laying her hand 
 upon Margaret's arm, while Edward instantly re- 
 plied, hardly able to control himself, 
 
 " It was not the ball, and you know it ! You 
 had better been there yourself, making other peo- 
 ple happy, than staying at home making believe 
 good. Pretty kind of goodness that is, which 
 gets in a rage over such a little thing. 
 
 " I have a perfect right," said Margaret, " to 
 be angry with you for such a thoughtless deed, 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 113 
 
 and you know- perfectly well, if it had not been for 
 the ball, we should have had the letter. Where 
 is it ? I hope, surely, this will be the last time." 
 
 But Edward had not heard her last words, for 
 beckoning to Bessie, he had passed out of the 
 room, saying, as he departed, in sarcastic tones, 
 " Go on, go on, in your lady-like abuse ; it must 
 be exceedingly pleasing to your aunt Living- 
 ston. " 
 
 This lady was seated at the table, her eyes cov- 
 ered with her hands, silently praying. She had 
 tried to throw oil on the troubled waters, but in 
 vain, and sadly she turned to the only source of 
 strength at such timesc 
 
 Margaret was the first to speak, saying, " Sure- 
 ly, aunt, you feel as I do regarding Edward." 
 
 Mrs. Livingston removed her hand from her 
 face, and said, feeling it was not the time to ex- 
 press her mind, " Margaret, I will tell you some 
 other time how I feel. Bessie will be back in a 
 moment, and we shall want to hear the letter." 
 
 Bessie soon returned, and handed it to Marga- 
 ret. 
 
 " You read it," said Margaret, passing it back. 
 " I do not feel like it." 
 
 Bessie sat down in a little low rocking chair, 
 near by, and opening it, tenderly read it slowly 
 through. It was not encouraging, and a heavy 
 
114 THE HUNTINGDONS: OR, 
 
 weight seemed to have fallen on each heart as she 
 finished it. 
 
 Not one word was said in reply, but Margaret 
 arose — her face colorless and lips compressed — 
 and tremblingly passed to Bessie. Taking the 
 letter, she left the room. 
 
 " Oh ! mother, dear mother ! " said Bessie, 
 folding both hands over her face as Margaret 
 closed the door. " Oh ! Mrs. Livingston, what a 
 day ! what a day ! " and she rocked herself vio- 
 lently backward and forward in her chair. 
 
 Mrs. Livingston roused herself, and said, as 
 much to comfort her own heart as Bessie's, " He 
 doeth all things well." 
 
 " Yes, yes," returned Bessie, " but it is so hard. 
 It seems to me just as though everything was 
 coming now to crush me. Oh ! I have never 
 known sorrow before." 
 
 " Bessie, come with me, wont you ? " said Mrs. 
 Livingston, arising, " the servants will need the 
 table. Come, come with me, dear, to my room." 
 Bessie passively followed. After Mrs. Livingston 
 closed her door, she lovingly enfolded Bessie in 
 her arms, and said, " My poor, stricken lamb ! it 
 seems heavy I know, for sorrow is, indeed, new to 
 you ; but come, I have some very sweet comfort 
 for you," and seating herself and Bessie, she took 
 from the table near by, her Bible, and read the 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 115 
 
 23d Psalm. Then kneeling, she carried the sor- 
 rows, trials, and wants of both, to -the Father 
 above, in a prayer of faith, which was accepted 
 and answered ; for when both arose, their tranquil 
 countenances told that they had not knelt in vain. 
 
 Margaret, on leaving the dining-room, entered 
 her own, and read the letter a number of times ; 
 then she took it in her hand, and passed to Louise's 
 room. She found Georgie awake, but Louise 
 asleep. 
 
 " I have a letter from mother," said she. "I 
 wish you would wake up Louise ; I think she 
 would do better to be reading it, than sleeping at 
 this time of day." 
 
 Georgie woke Louise, but when she heard for 
 what purpose, she exclaimed, " Why did you 
 wake me up ? just as though I could not read it 
 at any time. Don't disturb me again ! I want to 
 sleep." 
 
 " But, Louise, mother is worse," said Margaret. 
 " How can you sleep ? " 
 
 " Well, I can't help it," replied Louise, drowsi- 
 ly, " I am so sleepy ! I'll be up pretty soon ; just 
 leave the letter on the table." 
 
 " O, dear ! " said Margaret, " how can she 
 feel so ! " and passing the letter to Georgie to 
 read, she left the room. 
 
 Georgie had only read it part through, when 
 Louise awoke, and saw what she was doing. 
 
116 THE HUNTINGDON : OR, 
 
 " Dear me," said she, endeavoring to rouse her- 
 self, " how sleepy I am ! What is it ? mother 
 worse. Read it to me, Georgie ? " 
 
 Georgie commenced, but ere she finished, Lou- 
 ise was asleep once more — her delicate frame en- 
 tirely exhausted by her night's dissipation. 
 
 Georgie did not attempt to arouse her again, 
 but laid the letter just where she would see it, 
 when she did awake, which was not till near 
 noon. 
 
 By the afternoon, Louise was quite rested, and 
 descended to the parlor at four o'clock, to receive 
 her friend, Bell Rivers. 
 
 " Why, Bell," said she, " how could you come 
 out to-day ? I'm entirely worn out ? " 
 
 " Poor, feeble girl ! " replied Bell. " I wouldn't 
 have such a weak constitution as you possess, for 
 anything ! Why, I could go to another ball to- 
 night, and dance just as long, too, without scarce- 
 ly feeling it." 
 
 " Well, I suppose you could," returned Louise, 
 " you are so strong ; but I have always been one 
 of the weak ones. We have heard bad news from 
 mother, too, and that makes me feel still worse." 
 
 " Ah ! " responded Bell, thoughtfully, " she is 
 worse ; then that is probably what ailed Ned this 
 morning. He called, on the way down town, and 
 I could not imagine what was the matter, he was 
 so surly. 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. .117 
 
 "Probably so," said Louise, " and I guess he's 
 provoked, too, with Bessie, for staying at home 
 last night." 
 
 " How foolish she was,"* returned Bell. " By 
 the way, did you notice how soon Mr. Belmont 
 went home. He didn't probably care to stay, as 
 long as his great attraction was minus." 
 
 " No ; I didn't notice him at all," replied 
 Louise, " I was so much engaged." 
 
 " Yes, I saw you was," responded Bell ; " A 
 very line young man that Mr. Carleton. By the 
 way, let me tell you a little conversation I over- 
 heard between him and Mrs. Sargent. They were 
 speaking of some ladies with whose conduct it 
 seemed to me they were very much disgusted. 
 I could not make out who they were, or exactly 
 what they said. I was curious, so I drew a little 
 closer to them and heard Mr. Carlton say, ' I agree 
 with • you, it is indeed a pity that such beautiful 
 young ladies, should be so forward and thought- 
 less ; such conduct destroys all their beauty for 
 me.' ' And the trouble of it is,' returned Mrs. 
 Sargent, i that were you to tell these young ladies 
 their conduct was unbecoming, you could scarcely 
 persuade them of the truth of it. They would 
 think you were actuated hv envy or jealousy, and 
 wished them to behave more modestly only to 
 from receiving attention.' ' Yes, I 
 
118 THE HUNTINGDON S ; OR, 
 
 presume it would be so,' said Mr. Carlton. ' I of- 
 ten think such conduct arises from a desire to 
 please, but their very efforts defeat their purposes. 
 If they would only remember that modesty and 
 simplicity are the two greatest gems of woman- 
 hood, they would succeed better.' 'And would 
 be natural,' replied Mrs. Sargent, ' and give more 
 correct impressions of themselves.' Just here Ed- 
 ward came up and wished me to dance. I won- 
 dered all the while I was dancing whether I was 
 not one of those persons they had been describing. 
 I think myself I was pretty wild last nighty but 
 there, I don't care ! one might as well enjoy the 
 world while she is in it, and after all, people don't 
 think alike." 
 
 Louise made but little reply to Miss Rivers. 
 She felt what Mr. Carleton and Mrs. Sargent had 
 said was true, and now she wished she had been 
 more simple and retiring. 
 
 But little did either of them think that they were 
 the young ladies referred to by Mrs. Sargent and 
 Mr. Carleton. It was indeed so, and as Mr. Carle- 
 ton watched Louise during the evening, he deter- 
 mined out of kindness to his old friend Edward, 
 and interest in Louise, to speak some time indi- 
 rectly to her upon the subject. He had already 
 well studied Louise's character, though he had* 
 met her but a few times, and thought an indirect 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 119 
 
 reproof from a stranger might perhaps effect more 
 good than the same reproof from one who was 
 constantly with her. 
 
 Louise and Bell continued their conversation some 
 time longer, till finally, Bell casually glancing out 
 of the window observed Edward returning home. 
 
 " Here comes Edward," said she to Louise, and 
 then instantly turned to the piano and commenced 
 playing rapidly. 
 
 Edward entered the parlor, and seeing Bell, ex- 
 claimed, " Why, Bell, I thought you said you 
 could not go out to-day." 
 
 She only shook her head for a reply, and contin- 
 ued her piece. Edward waited, evidently annoyed, 
 a few moments, and then Bell turned round and said, 
 
 " Your pleasure, sir." 
 
 " I thought you said you couldn't go out, to- 
 day," again said he. 
 
 " So I did," returned Bell ; " but 1 changed my 
 mind — the privilege of all ladies, I believe. I 
 thought I would come down and see Louise, and 
 find out how you were this afternoon. It seems 
 to me you are rather cross yet." 
 
 " Well, you are enough to make any one cross," 
 replied he. 
 
 " Is it possible ? " returned Bell, provokingly, 
 and then she turned round to the piano and com- 
 menced playing rapidly as before. Louise, fear- 
 ing what might follow, now left the room. 
 
120 THE HUNTINGDONS. 
 
 Edward Huntingdon listened to Bell for a while, 
 as he paced up and down the room, waiting for 
 her to cease and speak with him. Finally, he 
 said, " Bell, I wish you would stop playing ; I 
 want to speak with you." 
 
 " Why, what is the matter with you," returned 
 she, impatiently, still running lightly over the 
 keys. 
 
 " Matter enough," replied he, bitterly, " for one 
 day. A quarrel with Margaret, Bessie acting 
 like a simpleton, bad news from mother, and you 
 a perfect torment to me all the time. I declare, 
 I'll never go to another ball where you are, if you 
 conduct as you did last night ! I have had a 
 quarrel with Belmont, too, just on your account 
 and Louise's. He thinks you are both i heartless 
 flirts,' and had the impertinence to tell me some 
 speeches he heard made about you at the - club.' 
 I should think, Bell, for my sake, you would keep 
 yourself more select." 
 
 " Indeed, I will ! " replied she, rising, and 
 speaking in a very excited tone of voice. " I un- 
 derstand Mr. Belmont, perfectly. He hates me 
 himself, and now would prejudice you against 
 me, by repeating the petty remarks of some foolish 
 young man, whose attentions, perhaps, I have re- 
 fused/' 
 
 " No, Bell, it's not so," replied Edward. " He 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 121 
 
 is your friend, and for your good he said it ; and 
 the gentlemen who made the remarks, are not of 
 your acquaintance ; they only spoke from observa- 
 tion. I do wish — " but here Bell arose to leave 
 the room. " Stop ! " exclaimed Edward, endeav- 
 oring to detain her, " and listen to reason." 
 
 "Let me pass," said she, very angrily. 
 
 And he let her go, crushing down a heart full 
 of tumultuous feelings. 
 
 Bell passed to Louise's room, and entering, 
 said, quick and nervously, " Louise, do get me my 
 hat for pity's sake ! Ned's got one of his jealous 
 fits, and is just as hateful as he can be. He says 
 Belmont's been telling dreadful stories about us. 
 He wont see me for one while, that's certain," and 
 gathering up her dress, she passed quickly down 
 the stairs, and out the house. 
 
 Louise did not venture near her brother ; she 
 knew it would be no use ; beside, she feared to 
 hear what he might tell her. Her conscience was 
 far from at rest. 
 
 The same afternoon that the above took place, 
 Mrs. Livingston sought the room of Margaret. 
 
 " Margaret, I have come," said she, as she en- 
 tered, " to speak about the unfortunate occurrence 
 of this morning." 
 
 " Very well," replied Margaret, " I should be 
 pleased to hear you, for I have been wondering all 
 
122 ' THE HUNTINGDONS ; OR, 
 
 day, how you could feel that Edward had done 
 right." 
 
 " Did I say that he had done right ? " question- 
 ed Mrs. L. 
 
 " No, not exactly," returned Margaret, " but 
 you didn't say he had done wrong." 
 
 " No, I know I did not then, but I will tell you 
 how I feel now. He was, indeed, very thought- 
 less, and I cannot blame you for feeling offended 
 at him, but I do blame you for the manner in 
 which you spoke to him ; it was harsh and dicta- 
 torial, and only provoked his passion. Had you 
 spoken lovingly and mildly, we should have been 
 spared such an exhibition of passion, and your re- 
 proof would have effected good. As it is, he feels 
 only resentment, and you have placed us all in an 
 unpleasant position." 
 
 " I do not know why one should speak so coax- 
 ingly and soothingly to another, when they have 
 committed a wrong. I believe in speaking of 
 things as they are, and condemning wrong, decid- 
 edly and firmly." 
 
 " Is there not such a thing as gentle decision," 
 said Mrs. L., " and if you feel just anger for an 
 offence, ought you not just as much to pity the of- 
 fender ? Tell me, which feeling occupied your 
 heart most at the time, pity or anger ? " 
 
 " Anger, I suppose," truthfully returned Mar- 
 garet. c4 1 don't think I had any pity." 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE 123 
 
 " Yes, that is what I thought ; but don't you 
 think if you had had pity, you would have spoken 
 more mildly." 
 
 " Certainly ; but Oh ! dear aunt, you look at 
 things in a very different light from what I do. 
 You think, then, I really spoke to Edward in a 
 wrong manner, do you ? " 
 
 " Yes," returned Mrs. L., " I do ; you were too 
 severe. I admire the strong sense of justice you 
 seem to possess ; but don't forget, will you, to 
 ever let ' mercy season it.' Now, you think and 
 pray over this matter, and see if you cannot re- 
 gard it as I do," and Mrs. Livingston left Marga- 
 ret to herself. 
 
 Margaret sat quietly for some time, reasoning 
 upon what her aunt had said. She prayed over 
 the matter, too, and finally saw plainly that she 
 had erred. 
 
 " And now what" shall I do," thought she ; 
 must I tell Edward so ? how can I." And then 
 for another period, she argued with duty and 
 pride. Duty conquered, and she resolved her 
 first opportunity to acknowledge her wrong to 
 Edward. Margaret Huntingdon had just the dis- 
 position of which martyrs are made. Let her 
 judgment be convinced of the right of a matter, 
 and she would make any sacrifice rather than 
 yield this right. 
 
1 24 THE HUNTINGDONS : OE, 
 
 The same evening afforded her a chance to 
 speak to Edward, for he came in early from his 
 ' club.' He had but just entered his room, when 
 he heard Margaret's knock. 
 
 " Come in," said he, expecting to see Bessie. 
 
 u O, it's you," said he, rather grufly. " What 
 do you wish ? " 
 
 " To speak with you a few moments." 
 
 " Well, sit down," returned he in the same tone, 
 though slightly modified. 
 
 " I had rather stand," said Margaret ; " I have 
 but little to say. This morning, I think I spoke 
 too severely to you. I felt too much anger, or 
 rather I did not feel pity enough, and I trust you 
 will forgive and forget it." Margaret's voice 
 trembled quite evidently on these last words. 
 
 " Come, sit down here, Margaret," replied Ed- 
 ward, pointing to the lounge. " I want to talk to 
 
 you." 
 
 Margaret seated herself silently beside him. 
 
 " Margaret," said he, " I am very glad to hear 
 you say so. I deserved your anger, and the an- 
 ger of all the rest ; and you cannot, any of you, 
 feel more provoked at me, than I was and am, at 
 myself, for my thoughtlessness. I am ashamed, 
 too, that I got into such a passion, but, Margaret, 
 you provoked me to it. You know you have al- 
 ways had a great influence over me, and there is 
 
GLIMPSES OF INKKI1 LIFE. 125 
 
 much I love and respect in you ; but. since you 
 have joined the church, you hare become so se- 
 vere in your remarks, and particular about some 
 things, that you make me perfectly unhappy. 
 Now mother is a Christian, and your aunt is one ; 
 but mother is very different from you, and the 
 short time your aunt has been here, I can see she 
 differs also. I wish you would copy after her, 
 and you would be a more cheerful Christian, I 
 think." 
 
 " Christ is our only example," replied Margaret, 
 "and I do try to,be like him, but I err like all 
 mortals. I see myself, I am not like Mrs. Living- 
 ston, and I know mother often reproved me ; but 
 I used to feel mother's sickness made her too 
 lenient to the faults of others, and so did not give 
 much heed to what she said. However, I will 
 try," continued she, while rising from the lounge, 
 " to be less severe, and may I not hope, brother, 
 that you will also endeavor to be more thought- 
 ful." 
 
 " Yes, Margaret, I will. I can assure you, I 
 feel exceedingly thoughtful to-night." 
 
 " God bless you," said Margaret, in return, and 
 quietly passed out the room. 
 
 But Edward had hardly closed the door after 
 her, before he opened it again to admit Bessie 
 he was sure this time. 
 
126 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 " Bless your little heart," said he, taking her 
 into his arms, and kissing her again and again. 
 u How glad I am to see you here." 
 
 " You are," said she, in evident surprise ; " why 
 I was almost afraid to come." 
 
 " O Bessie, dear," returned he, " never be 
 afraid to come to me, no matter if you have been 
 so naughty as to make brother unhappy ; he 
 loves you so dearly, faults and all, that he could 
 never be long vexed at you." 
 
 " Then you don't care for last night, do you ? " 
 said she, looking clear up into his face. 
 
 " Not much," replied he, sadly. " I only wish 
 I had been at home with you. I think I should 
 have been happier." 
 
 "Why, what was the matter?" inquired she, 
 anxiously. 
 
 "O, nothing," responded he, evasively. " Noth- 
 ing I want to tell you anyway. O, pet, this is a 
 weary world ! " 
 
 " Brother," said she, pityingly, " I am very sor- 
 ry you are so unhappy to-night. I wish I could 
 cheer you some way ; don't feel so bad," and she 
 laid her soft cheek against his. 
 
 " Ah ! pet, you do comfort me," replied he, 
 brushing away a tear. " Sweet little sister, you 
 are my oasis." 
 
 And thus they talked for a long time some- 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE 127 
 
 times sadly, sometimes thoughtfully, sometimes 
 merrily, till the clock, striking eleven, startled 
 both of them ; and then reluctantly Edward sent 
 away, to her own room, his precious comforter. 
 
 ." How happy I am," thought Bessie, as she laid 
 her head on her pillow that night. " O, if I 
 could only just see sweet mother now, to say and 
 kiss i good night,' my cup of happiness would, in- 
 deed, be full." 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 I^HE days following the events in the preced- 
 ing chapter, were full of wholesome thought 
 to each member of the Huntingdon family. Day 
 by day, they anxiously received news from their 
 mother : sometimes it was cheering, and each 
 ODe's step would be lighter, and voice merrier, for 
 that day, only to be changed again on the morrow. 
 Thus kept fluctuating between hope and fear, as a 
 fortnight passed away, and then came a number 
 of days the comforting assurance, " your mother 
 is really better," so the conviction settled upon 
 each heart that the worst was passed, and mother 
 would yet come home again. 
 
 During this time, Mr. Leslie, the pastor of the 
 Huntingdon family, called a number of times, to 
 sympathize with them, to make the acquaintance 
 of Mrs. Livingston, and to converse with Bessie. 
 
 He was one of those shepherds who is ever on 
 the alert to feed his lambs. Many a time had he 
 led the grief-stricken ones down by the "still wa- 
 ters," the famishing to the rich pastures, and the 
 sin-stained to the ever-flowing Fountain, where 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIEE. 129 
 
 they might wash and be clean. He could call his 
 flock all by name, and often he looked them over, 
 to see that no one was missing, or had strayed 
 from the fold. When any strayed, he followed 
 hard after them, and with loving representations 
 of the peaceful fold they had left, and its exceed- 
 ing great privileges, he induced them to return. 
 
 Deeply loved and respected by all his people, 
 and highly spoken of by the world, he yet stood 
 meekly and lowly, pointing all to Christ. The 
 world looked on, and said, " so much praise and 
 homage will ruin him ; " but he, seeking only the 
 praise of his Father, and feeling how little he ac- 
 complished for Him, to what he desired ; how 
 much more of Christ he wished, aye, intensely 
 hungered for ; how vain was all earthly commen- 
 dation ; what an account he must render of the 
 great power and talents committed to him,, felt not 
 the might of that subtile, soul-destroying praise, 
 so ruinous to those who are not protected by the 
 panoply of Christ. The world erred, as they ever 
 do, in measuring Heaven, taught, by an earthly 
 standard, and just here is one of the mysteries 
 they comprehend, not in our glorious religion. 
 
 It was well for Margaret Huntingdon that she 
 now sat under his preaching. She was not one 
 that he had led to the Lamb of God, for she had 
 embraced religion away from home, and under 
 
130 THE HUNTINGDON : OR, 
 
 very different teachings. When she came to 
 unite with the church, he saw very plainly her 
 mistaken ideas ; but felt that the One who had 
 taught her so much truth, would perfect that 
 which he had commenced, and that these errors 
 would soon disappear, under the light which com- 
 eth from above. He lent her books for that pur- 
 pose, and forgot not her case when preparing food 
 for his flock. 
 
 The day when he first called at the Hunting- 
 dons, he saw no one but Bessie, the rest of the 
 family being away. She had just returned from 
 school, and with pleasure, but still timidly, she en- 
 tered Mr. Leslie's presence. 
 
 " Miss Bessie, I am very glad to see vou," said 
 he, as she entered. " How are you ? " 
 
 " Yery well," replied Bessie. 
 
 " In body and in mind," said he, pleasantly. 
 
 She gave him a sharp, quick look, and compre- 
 hending all he meant, replied, quietly, 
 
 " Yes, all well." 
 
 " All well," returned he, emphasizing the all. 
 " Ah ! Bessie, how much that implies. The soul 
 that was once sick, cured by the great Physician, 
 a restoration over which the angels in Heaven re- 
 joice with exceeding joy. O, Bessie, I congratu- 
 late you on your recovery ; but, my child, be 
 careful, be careful. Remember, that you have 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 131 
 
 just been cured, you are weak and have but little 
 strength, so keep near the great Physician, and 
 Pie will aid you, and day by day you will grow 
 stronger, and able to bear the strong meat of the 
 gospel." 
 
 Tears were in Bessie's eyes, and she replied, 
 " Yes, I know I am weak. O, how weak ! I can- 
 not go one step alone." 
 
 " No, indeed," smilingly responded Mr. Leslie. 
 " You are like the little babe attempting to walk ; 
 but courage, keep firmly hold the Master's hand, 
 and though you may tremble, you will not fall ; 
 He will save. I cannot impress too strongly upon 
 your mind, the necessity of feeling that Christ is 
 all to you — your Saviour, Keeper, Leader, ever 
 present, ever ready, ever willing. Too many 
 Christians regard Him correctly only in one light, 
 as their Saviour from past sin; and as a good 
 missionary lady has written, ' they then set about 
 trying to subdue sin in themselves, or rather pray- 
 ing God to enable them to do it of themselves, 
 without exercising faith in Christ to purify their 
 hearts, just as they did exercise that faith for their 
 conversion.' They, in fact, lean mostly upon 
 themselves, and their own endeavors, and this is 
 why you see- so few growing Christians. Ah ! 
 Bessie, none but Christ, none but Christ. We are 
 powerless ; we are nothing, but He is able, He 
 
132 THE HUNTIXGDOXS ; OR," 
 
 will lead you, ' guide you into all truth ; ' then 
 drop yourself upon his sustaining arms, and be- 
 seech Him to work in you that which is well 
 pleasing in His sight. My child, you look anx- 
 ious, why so ? " 
 
 "Because, Mr. Leslie, it seems such a great 
 thing to be a Christian. O, I do want to be an 
 earnest, devoted one ! " 
 
 " I am very glad to hear you say so. The Di- 
 vine Master says, ' Blessed are those who hunger 
 and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be 
 filled.' Doubt not, His promises never fail. Press 
 forward, He will give you as much of Himself as 
 you desire ; there are no limits to his abundance. 
 Let me repeat a few of the precious promises : 
 ' According to your faith be it unto you.' ' And 
 whatsoever ye shall ask in my naxe, that will I 
 do.' ' If ye shall ask anything in my name, I will 
 do it.' ' Hitherto ye have asked nothing in my 
 name ; ask and ye shall receive, that your joy may 
 be full.' ' If ye then being evil, know how to give 
 good gifts unto your children ; how much more 
 shall your Father which is in Heaven, give good 
 things to them that ask Him.' ' If ye abide in me, 
 and my words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye 
 will, and it shall be done unto you.' ' Now, unto 
 him that is able to do, exceeding, abundantly 
 above all that we can ask or think, &c.' Are thev 
 not precious and assuring ? " 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 133 
 
 " Yes, very, " replied Bessie. " But they are 
 bO strong, my mind seems utterly unable to grasp 
 them." 
 
 "Well," encouragingly returned Mr. Leslie, 
 " grow in grace, and you will find yourself more 
 and more able to grasp them. Remember, also, 
 the Master teacheth unlike earthly teachers, and 
 spiritual growth is not confined to intellect or age. 
 By the way, Miss Bessie, judging from what your 
 mother told me, you must have a very precious 
 Christian counsellor in your aunt. I was at first 
 a little disappointed when the servant told me she 
 was not at home ; but- when I found that you 
 were, and that I could see you alone, I could but 
 thank God for giving me such an opportunity ; 
 and it has been a precious season to me, my child. 
 However, I will call again next week (Wednes- 
 day), Providence permitting, and trust then to see 
 Mrs. Livingston and the rest of the family." 
 
 " They will certainly be at home," returned 
 Bessie ; " and aunt Livingston will be disappoint- 
 ed, I know, that she was not at home to-day, for 
 she desires very much to see you." 
 
 Mr. Leslie sat some time longer, conversing 
 about Mrs. Huntingdon, and then Bessie men- 
 tioned Mr. Belmont's case to him. 
 
 " Ah ! I am very glad to hear such an account 
 of him," replied Mr. Leslie. " I have long been 
 
134 THE HUNTINGDON. 
 
 interested in him, and now I shall wait with eager- 
 ness, an opportunity to speak with him. J trust 
 the Lord will soon open up a way." 
 
 Mr. Leslie left soon after ; but not before he 
 had commended his precious lamb to the great 
 Shepherd's watchfulness and care. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 FEW clays after Mr. Leslie called, Mr. Bel- 
 mont and Bessie met at a horse-back party, 
 which Edward had arranged for his and Marga- 
 ret's birth-clay. 
 
 It was a bright, pleasant afternoon, that the 
 party started from Hill-side for Easy Hall, Mrs. 
 Livingston's home. 
 
 Edward rode with Margaret. Bell Rivers was 
 not present — " a pressing engagement," she in- 
 formed Edward, " would prevent her accepting 
 his very kind invitation." Her pressing engage- 
 ment did not prevent her though from watching 
 the party through a closed blind as they passed 
 her father's house, and was not en£aa;mof enough 
 to enable her, during the whole afternoon, to for- 
 get, for five minutes, the horse-back party. Tru- 
 ly, like many others, she punished herself more 
 than any one else, in her endeavors for revenge. 
 
 Edward, I said, rode with Margaret, and though 
 he frowned and bit his teeth as he passed Bell's 
 home, yet he soon banished all thoughts of her, 
 and found himself quite content, while endeavor- 
 
138 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 ing to promote the happiness of Margaret. He 
 had been greatly pleased at Margaret's confession, 
 and had earnestly determined to be a more loving 
 and charitable brother to her. 
 
 While riding leisurely along, discussing upon 
 the scenery about them, Margaret's horse was 
 suddenly startled, and pulling her rein quickly, 
 she heard immediately Bessie's merry voice, say- 
 ing, " Now for a race, Margaret." 
 
 Mr. Belmont joined in, too, while passing Ed- 
 ward, saying, " Come on, sir ; see who'll reach the 
 toll-gate first. Its only a mile." 
 
 On they dashed, the merry company, Bessie 
 and Mr. Belmont ahead ; Margaret and Edward, 
 and a number of others following, till finally Lou- 
 ise Huntingdon and Mr. Carleton, brought up the 
 rear. Louise galloped a few paces, and then sud- 
 denly stopped. 
 
 Mr. Carleton turned back as soon as he missed 
 her, and anxiously asked, " What is the trouble, 
 Miss Huntingdon ? " 
 
 " O, nothing," said she, " only I have no taste 
 for such a galloping chase over such a road as 
 this," and she smoothed her hair, and arranged her 
 slightly disordered dress. 
 
 Mr. Carleton paced leisurely along, determined 
 to please Louise, who, though she saw the party 
 were waiting for her at the toll-gate, didnt hurry 
 in the least. 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 137 
 
 " Now, do be amiable to-day," said Georgie, as 
 Louise reined her horse up by Georgie's. 
 
 " Do you be amiable," returned Louise, in a 
 very low tone, while glancing furtively towards 
 Mr. Carleton, " and not find fault with me to- 
 day." 
 
 They passed on, Louise and Mr. Carleton ever 
 in the rear. Their conversation was very ramb- 
 ling at first, till finally Mr. Carleton casually men- 
 tioned Europe, and Louise began to question him 
 with all that eagerness and curiosity American 
 girls have for this fairy land of their imagination. 
 He told her — and he found her, indeed, a silent, 
 interested listener — of its wonders and works, 
 both in nature and art. At last he spoke of the 
 people, and the women he had met ; and in a sort 
 of indifferent manner, he mentioned the difference 
 he had found between many of them and his own 
 country women, especially the younger ladies. 
 
 Louise winced many times at his remarks, and 
 somehow her eyes, which had rested so easily on 
 Mr. Carleton when she started upon her ride, 
 were rarely turned upon him now, and when they 
 were lifted for a moment, were very soon dropped 
 again. A narrow observer could yery well dis- 
 cover she was ill at ease. The subject of the con- 
 versation annoyed her ; and though all that Mr. 
 Carleton said was very interesting, she would 
 
138 THE HUNTINGDON ; OR, 
 
 rather have had him say it to a crowd than to her 
 alone. It seemed personal and corrective. He 
 did not try to mark the effect of what he said to 
 her. With a tender, deep respect for woman, he 
 knew too well she could but feel it, and he wished 
 not that she should suspect his intention ; and 
 with the same feeling, he echoed immediately her 
 avertive remark concerning the desolateness of the 
 scenery around. Then he repeated, with much 
 feeling and deep pathos, Bryant's* beautiful poem, 
 
 " The melancholy days have come, 
 The saddest of the year," 
 
 His earnest, truthful tones, had a strange effect 
 upon Louise, for suddenly she gave rein to her 
 horse, and with a sudden laugh, which had an 
 aching tone in it, bade him follow, " she was ready 
 for a race now." 
 
 " What a coarse nature," thought he, as he fol- 
 lowed her, " hidden under such a beautiful exte- 
 rior. How could she laugh after that poem ? " 
 Mr. Carleton did not understand Louise just then. 
 
 " Come, Bessie, I'm ready for you now," said 
 Louise lightly, as she rode up to her. 
 
 " Well," returned Bessie, starting immediately 
 on, while Mr. Carleton and Belmont followed the 
 merry girls. 
 
 Bessie won by a long distance, and when she 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 139 
 
 stopped, she turned her horse and lowly bowed to 
 the discomfited ones. 
 
 Ah ! she was a pretty picture just then, resting 
 so mischievously quiet on her " little grey," her 
 flushed face supported by a little, white hand, 
 while her rich brown eyes peeped full of merri- 
 ment from between her tangled curls. 
 
 All rode slowly up, gazing admiringly on the 
 little figure in the middle of the road, so distinct 
 between them and the nearly setting sun. She 
 moved not, all unconscious of the admiration she 
 was exciting, till the party nearly reached her ; 
 then gathering her reins she turned her horse, 
 and shaking her head, exclaimed, " O, what sorry 
 gallants ! What shall I do if i grey ' runs with 
 me?" 
 
 " Run with him," said Belmont, laughingly. 
 " I guess he would n't throw you. Glorious fel- 
 low," continued he, patting the horse's proudly 
 arched neck ; and then bending a little nearer 
 towards Bessie, concluded in lower tones, " Just 
 like his mistress exactly." 
 
 Bessie heard all the remark distinctly ; but 
 somehow a reply would n't come, so she was si- 
 lent. 
 
 The party reached Easy Hall just at sunset, 
 and received a warm welcome from Mrs. Living- 
 ston, who had come down the day before to make 
 
140 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 preparations for them. They only had sufficient 
 time to make a hasty toilet, before they were sum- 
 moned to supper, and Easy Hall never entertain- 
 ed more famished people. An hour or two passed 
 in entertainment, and then the party started for a 
 moonlight ride home. It was rather a mild evening, 
 but still cold enough to make it necessary for them 
 to ride briskly. Along the uninhabited places, 
 they sang merry songs ; but as they neared home, 
 they grew more silent and sometimes one couple 
 sometimes another were the lagging ones. After 
 they passed the toll-gate, a few miles from home, 
 Mr. Belmont and Bessie fell back far in the rear. 
 
 " Now, Bessie," said Mr. Belmont, " Wont 
 you finish what we were talking about this after- 
 noon ? Tell me why you did not attend the ball ? " 
 
 Very quietly, easily, and confidingly, Bessie 
 told it all — all the feelings, longings and experi- 
 ences of her heart, during the past few weeks. 
 
 Mr. Belmont heard her attentively and rever- 
 ently, and was astonished to see how she had out- 
 reached him. 
 
 They talked very earnestly for a long while 
 upon this subject, so inexpressibly precious to one 
 heart ; finally, Bessie turning round and checking 
 her horse a little, said with uplifted hand, " 0> 
 Mr. Belmont, if you love me any, will you, will 
 you not give earnest heed to these things ? " 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 141 
 
 Mr. Belmont suddenly reached out and tightly 
 grasped the extended hand, then said intensely 
 and with deep meaning, " Bessie, if I love you ! 
 Bessie, I will do anything for you." 
 
 " Oh ! not for me," anxiously returned she, 
 " no, no, not for me, but for the precious Sa- 
 viour's sake." 
 
 Mr. Belmont let drop her hand, and sadly, 
 thoughtfully, replied, "Yes, Bessie, I must for 
 Jesus' sake only. God help me ! " 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 AH ! how one day can entirely change the 
 course of life. To-day we may be as light as 
 the summer-cloud, to-morrow winter's leaden sky 
 may settle heavily upon us. Thus it was with 
 Louise H., the morning after the horse-back ride. 
 When she awoke, it was with a weight upon her 
 heart, no strength of her own could ever remove. 
 It was a dull November day too, and as she 
 lifted her curtain and gazed out on the leafless 
 branches and falling leaves, her heart sank within 
 her, and she sadly murmured, " Ah ! me, it is no 
 use, I know he only despises me. I am not a 
 modest violet, no indeed. Oh ! I wish I had never 
 met him." Then came pride, and she hastily 
 turned away and impatiently said, " There, I 
 wont give him another thought ; how foolish in 
 me ! " but in vain ; all that long day, could the pa- 
 per she glanced over, the book she read, the em- 
 broidery she stitched, speak, they would tell a 
 very different tale. 
 
 Her feelings were more aggravated, too, by a 
 short courtesy call on the family by Mr. Carleton, 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 143 
 
 who was suddenly summoned from the city. His 
 manners were very gentlemanly and pleasing, and 
 Louise was, if possible, more interested than be- 
 fore. He had no sooner left, however, and hope 
 had began to whisper to Louise, " who knows," 
 than a lady friend called, and in the course of 
 conversation she mentioned Mr. Carleton, and 
 added, " He is a very superior man, and is en- 
 gaged, I believe, to Miss C, of B. 
 
 After she left, Louise stopped in the hall, and 
 pressing her hand tightly against her heart ^azed 
 anxiously up stairs, then towards the library, her 
 swelling heart getting fuller every moment. 
 " Oh ! where can I go," thought she, " where I 
 shall be alone, all alone. Why did I ever see 
 him, — -then suddenly she ran hastily up stairs, 
 past her own room where Georgie was sitting, 
 past again the rooms of the servants, till reaching 
 a dark closet she entered, and closing the door, 
 flung herself upon a mattress, and burst into a 
 flood of tears — tears wrung from a mortified and 
 disappointed heart. 
 
 'Twas a light summer cloud which floated over 
 Bessie that day, and many a little low love song 
 she sans: to herself, while she traversed in thought 
 every action and word of the preceding day. 
 Sometimes her eyes would sparkle a little bright- 
 er, and the rising blood warm still more the rosy 
 
144 THE HUNTINGDON S : OR, 
 
 cheek, as laying down her sewing for a moment, 
 she would gaze over to a certain house some dis- 
 tance from hers, and murmur, " Yes, he certainly 
 said so, and if he didn't he acted so, any way. I 
 wonder if he will go and see Mr. Leslie." Mrs. 
 Livingston wondered, and even asked Bessie, 
 " How she could sit up stairs all day alone," but 
 if she could have peeped into the happy maiden's 
 heart, she wouldn't have wondered any more. 
 
 That evening at eight o'clock Mr. Belmont en- 
 tered his pastor's study. Nervously he awaited 
 his entrance, but Mr. Leslie's greeting and man- 
 ner soon re-assured him, and after some general 
 conversation, more composedly than he thought 
 possible, he announced his errand. He told all, 
 his early training, his religious impressions, his 
 views, and finally ended with, " I know I ought 
 to be a Christian, and to a certain extent, I feel it, 
 but I can't understand the doctrines." 
 
 " Can't understand the doctrines," returned 
 Mr. Leslie, smilingly, " Well, then, lay them aside, 
 we wont have anything to do with them at pres- 
 ent." 
 
 " Lay them aside ! " responded Belmont, with 
 evident surprise, " why I thought they were the 
 very foundation of religion." 
 
 " Christ is the foundation," replied Mr. Leslie. 
 
 " Yes, I know," said Mr. Belmont, " but it is 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 145 
 
 necessary to understand and believe the doctrinal 
 points, is it not ? " 
 
 " Mr. Belmont," returned Mr. Leslie, " you 
 are a sick man, very sick ; you need a Physician, 
 and every moment you delay applying to Him 
 you are in great danger. But the trouble is, you 
 do not know how sick you are, and are wasting 
 precious time in studying out what disease is in 
 general, and how it may be cured. Now, sir, I 
 beg of you to let these matters alone, and take 
 your individual case and attend to it. Appreciate 
 first how sick you are, and then apply immediate- 
 ly to the great Physician for help." 
 
 " And have I nothing to do with the doc- 
 trines ? " still persisted Mr. Belmont. 
 
 " Did I say anything about them ? " replied 
 Mr. Leslie, pleasantly. "Just drop them, if you 
 please, and let us take a look at yourself. ISTow " 
 
 but here Mr. Leslie was interrupted and 
 
 summoned from the room. He excused himself 
 from Mr. Belmont, but begged him to remain till 
 his return, as he should be absent only a few mo- 
 ments. It was providential that Mr. Leslie was 
 called out just then, as silent and alone Mr. Bel- 
 mont yielded to the rush of conviction which now 
 poured in upon his mind. Rapidly went thought 
 back into the blackened past, and vividly it all 
 arose before him, his gentle mother's teachings, 
 
146 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 the many warnings of friends he had despised, 
 his selfishness, pride, deceit, and the evil influence 
 he had exerted upon others. Suddenly with 
 these bitter recollections came another, which gave 
 a more severe pang than any of the previous ones 
 — the recalling of the motive which had prompt- 
 ed him to visit Mr. Leslie that evening. " It was 
 not for religion," cried he to himself, from the 
 depths of his anguished heart. " Hypocrite ! it 
 was because I thought it would please Bessie. 
 Oh ! what a sinner I am ! I abhor myself! Who 
 can wash away all this sin ? It's no use. I can't 
 be saved ! " and in this despair Mr. Leslie found 
 him on his return. 
 
 " Well," said he cheerily as he entered, " do 
 you feel your need of the great Physician, yet ? " 
 that having been the silent prayer which had as- 
 cended many times from Mr. Leslie's anxious 
 heart during his absence. 
 
 "Yes," replied Belmont very sadly, "I think 
 I do, but He won't cure me. I have sinned 
 against too much light." 
 
 " Come now " — replied Mr. Leslie — " and let 
 us reason together, saith the Lord : though your 
 sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow ; 
 though they be red like crimson, they shall be as 
 wool." 
 
 " Weil, if I had been honest in all this," con- 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 147 
 
 tiimecl Belmont, " I might hope, but I see it has 
 been principally for a selfish end of mine own, 
 that I came here this evening." 
 
 " Christ's blood can atone for even that," re- 
 turned Mr. Leslie. 
 
 " But I feel so mean," rejoined Belmont ; u now 
 if I could only do — but there, I can't do any- 
 thing." 
 
 " No," returned Mr. Leslie, tenderly, " noth- 
 ing at all. Human nature inclines every sinner 
 to come to Christ, feeling a righteousness of his 
 own, feeling honorable as one might term it, but 
 in such a state we can never find Christ. We 
 must see ourselves, and all our good deeds as 
 filthy rags, and casting them all aside, must take 
 unto us Christ's beautiful robe of righteousness." 
 
 " But how can I get it ? " responded Belmont. 
 
 " Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou 
 shalt be saved." 
 
 " But am I to have it by simply believing ? " 
 
 44 Simply believing." 
 
 " But how shall I know I get it ? and how can 
 I make myself believe it ? " 
 
 " Do you believe in God ? " 
 
 " Yes, certainly." 
 
 " If you believe in Him, can you not believe in 
 His promises ? ' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
148 THE HUNTINGDONS I OR, 
 
 " Wellj then, He has promised, ' Him that Com- 
 eth to me I will in no wise cast out.' ' Those that 
 seek me early shall find me.' ' Ask and it shall 
 be given you, seek and ye shall find, knock, and 
 it shall be opened unto you.' ' Behold I stand 
 at the door and knock : If any man hear my 
 voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, 
 and sup with him and he with me.' " 
 
 " Oh ! what precious promises," returned Bel- 
 mont. " Are they really in the Bible ? Yes, I 
 know they are, I have heard them many times. 
 I wish I could get hold of them, I want to be- 
 lieve, but it seems as though I was not ready. 
 Have I nothing else to do, but believe ? " 
 
 " If you see and feel yourself a great sinner, 
 needing a great Saviour, nothing else but to re- 
 nounce self, and consecrate yourself to Him, 
 then throw yourself into his loving; arms." 
 
 " Consecrate myself to Him ? What do you 
 mean?" 
 
 " Be willing to give to him all your powers, 
 talents, influence, in fact all you possess — to use 
 your money and time for His service. Heretofore 
 you have lived for yourself and your own happi- 
 ness. If you give yourself to Him you must feel 
 that hereafter ' whether you eat or drink or what- 
 soever you do, to do all to the glory of God, ever 
 seeking His will, not your own.' Do you think 
 you can do this ? " 
 
GLIMPSES OF IIOULB LIFE. 149 
 
 Mr. Belmont reflected for a few moments, and 
 then replied earnestly, " Yes, I think I can. It is 
 but a very little I have to give to Him any way, 
 but I give it all. I desire to be an earnest, true, 
 whole-souled Christian, or none at all." 
 
 " Well then, my friend, all that you have to do 
 is to believe that Christ will accept you. He is 
 much more willing to receive you, than you are 
 anxious to go to Him." 
 
 " Is that so ? " 
 
 " If ye then, being evil, know how to give good 
 gifts unto your children : how much more shall 
 your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to 
 them that ask him ? " 
 
 " But what a venture ! it seems like throwing 
 myself into darkness." 
 
 " Venture, venture, and you will soon find 
 whether it is darkness or not." 
 
 Mr. Belmont paused awhile, then turning round 
 he took up his hat, and rising, said, 
 
 " Well, Mr. Leslie, I am very much obliged to 
 you for this conversation, and will try to cast my- 
 self on Christ." 
 
 " When ? " returned Mr. Leslie, still retaining 
 his seat. 
 
 " O, soon," replied Mr. Belmont, " as soon as I 
 have an opportunity." 
 
 " But you have it now," continued Mr. Leslie. 
 
150 THE HUNTIXGDONS : OK, 
 
 " But I want more time," responded Mr. Bel* 
 mont. 
 
 " Tims for what ? " 
 
 " To prepare myself." 
 
 " ~Now is the accepted time, now the day of sal- 
 vation; " be seated, if you please, and let me re- 
 peat some verses to you before you leave ; and, in 
 a low, touching tone, his eyes lifted prayerfully 
 upward, Mr. Leslie recited these simple but beau- 
 tiful lines: 
 
 " Just as I am, without one plea, 
 But that thy blood was shed for me, 
 And that thou bidd'st me come to thee, 
 O, Lamb of God, 1 come. 
 
 Just as I am, and waiting not 
 To rid my soul of one dark blot, 
 To thee, whose blood can cleanse each spot, 
 0, Lamb of God, I come. 
 
 Just as 1 am, though tossed about 
 With many a conflict, many a doubt, 
 With fears within and foes without, 
 
 0, Lamb of God, I come. 
 
 Just as I am, poor, wretched, blind, 
 Sight, riches, healing of the mind, 
 Yea, all I need, in thee to find, 
 
 0, Lamb of God, I come. 
 
 Just as I am, though so depraved, 
 So long by Satan's power enslaved, 
 To be by thee renewed and saved, 
 
 0, Lamb of God, I come, 
 
GLIMPSES OF. INNER LIFE. 151 
 
 Just as 1 am, thou wilt receive, 
 
 "Wilt welcome, pardon, cleanse, relieve, 
 
 Because thy promise I believe, 
 
 0, Lamb of God, I come. 
 
 Just as I am — thy love, unknown, 
 Has broken every barrier down : 
 Now to be thine, yea, thine alone, 
 
 0, Lamb of God, I come." 
 
 Mr. Belmont's head was bowed ere Mr. Leslie 
 had half finished them, and when he concluded, 
 amid tears and sobs, Mr. Belmont murmured, " O 
 pray for me ! " 
 
 " Can you not pray for yourself, my friend ? " 
 returned Mr. Leslie. 
 
 A moment's pause, and then the struggle gave 
 way, and Mr. Belmont knelt at his chair, and 
 with broken utterances, repeated over and over, 
 
 "0, Lamb of God, I come." 
 
 Mr. Leslie followed in earnest, supplicating 
 prayer. He closed, and when they arose, they were 
 one in the Lord. 
 
 As Mr. Belmont was passing out of the house 
 he encountered Edward Huntingdon on the 
 steps. 
 
 " You here," exclaimed Edward, in a hurried, 
 excited voice, " Oh ! for mercy's sake ring that 
 bell and call for Mr. Leslie ! We've heard from 
 father this evening, and mother — Oh ! mother," he 
 
152 THE HU3TINGD0XS : OK, 
 
 said no more, but convulsively gasping, pressed 
 one hand against his throbbing head, and laid the 
 other upon his friend's shoulder, then gaining a 
 little strength, he said, " she's gone ! " 
 
 " Gone ! " said. Belmont, " Oh ! Bessie, what 
 will she do ? Oh ! Edward, I feel for you, my 
 friend; none but God can support you now." 
 
 '* Yes," vacantly returned Edward, "Did you 
 ring that bell ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Belmont, and just then the ser- 
 vant appeared. 
 
 The sad news was soon told to Mr. Leslie, for 
 heavy grief needs but f§w words, and in a few 
 moments he joined them. 
 
 Silent and rapid was their walk to the mourning 
 home. As they neared it, Belmont wrung his 
 friend's hand, and only said, " When may I 
 come ? " 
 
 " Any time to-morrow ; Bessie will be glad to 
 see you," replied Edward, and with a farewell 
 grasp, Mr. Belmont left them. 
 
 Oh ! what a stricken family did Mr. Leslie 
 gaze upon as he entered Hillside. Bessie was 
 kneeling by the sofa fanning Louise, her deathly 
 pale countenance only exceeded by Louise's, who 
 lay in a swoon. Georgie sat by her, bathing her 
 head, and every now and then brushing away the 
 tears which dimmed her own eyes, while Margaret, 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. . 100 
 
 seated on a low ottoman, swayed herself back- 
 wards and forwards, her tearless eyes fixed with 
 a vacant stare upon the carpet. Mrs. Livingston 
 and her brother, Mr. John Huntingdon, who was 
 present, were the only calm ones in the room. 
 
 As Mr. Leslie and Edward entered, Mrs. Liv- 
 ingston welcomed Mr. Leslie, and led the way 
 immediately to the library. 
 
 • Edward passed directly to Bessie, and taking 
 her tenderly up in his arms conveyed her to the 
 sofa. 
 
 " Louise," said Bessie anxiously. 
 
 " Georgie will attend to her," replied Edward, 
 passing Georgie the fan. " Xow lay your head 
 on my shoulder, pet, and he folded her closely to 
 him, and took her cold trembling hands into his. 
 Glancing up he saw Margaret." 
 
 " Maggie, dear," said he, " wont you come sit 
 beside us, we want to get very close now." 
 
 Margaret did not reply ; she only heaved a long 
 drawn sigh, and shook her head mournfully. 
 
 As soon as Mrs. Livingston entered the library, 
 she handed Mr. Leslie the telegraphic dispatch 
 which had been received, and said, " This is all." 
 It was directed to Mr. John Huntingdon, and 
 read, " Brother, tell them all that mother has 
 gone — shall be home with her body the 24th." 
 
 " It was very sudden at the last, was it not ? " 
 
154 THE HUNTIXGDONS : OR, 
 
 said Mr. Leslie, struggling with the coming emo- 
 tion. 
 
 " Yes," sadly replied Mrs. Livingston, " though 
 I was prepared for it, I have felt assured from the 
 first she would never return. But the children, it 
 has fallen so heavily on them. Oh ! comfort them 
 if you can," and rising she led the way back to the 
 parlor. 
 
 Mr. Leslie quietly recognized all, and then 
 opening a Bible, read the 23d psalm, then follow- 
 ed with prayer. His low comforting tones broke 
 the spell of Margaret's bewildering grief, and 
 bursting into sobs and tears, she dropped her head 
 into Mrs. Livingston's lap who sat beside her. 
 Mr. Leslie stopped for a while, and when she 
 ceased somewhat he resumed his prayer. With 
 delicate judgment he carried their minds away, 
 from their grief to the heavier sorrows of the 
 crucified Lamb of God, and there was not one 
 when he closed, save Louise, who still lay uncon- 
 scious, who did not feel he had wrestled and gain- 
 ed for them divine strength, and support. He 
 left soon after, feeling that their heavily laden 
 hearts could bear no more, and promising to visit 
 them again the following day. 
 
 " Don't you think we ought to do something 
 more for Louise ? " said Mrs. Livingston, as Mr. 
 Leslie departed. 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNEIl LIFE. 155 
 
 " I don't know," replied Edward. " She's had 
 two or three of these swoons before when she has 
 been much excited, and the Doctor did n't do a 
 great deal for her. She will be better soon, I 
 think ; if not, I will go for him." 
 
 It was as Edward said ; ten minutes had not 
 elapsed when she languidly opened her eyes, and 
 just raising her head a little, glanced wildly 
 about. 
 
 " Oh ! " said she, shudderingly, as recollection 
 came, " I know," and dropped her head back 
 again. 
 
 Bessie was at her side in a moment, and smooth- 
 ing back her hair said, " Dear Louise, it's Bes- 
 sie," then laid her face against hers, saying in low 
 tones, "Precious sister, precious sister, don't feel 
 so bad ! " 
 
 Louise threw her arms about' Bessie's neck and 
 clung to her, with all the helplessness of a child. 
 
 It was long past midnight before the Hunting- 
 don mansion was quiet, and the lonely ones could 
 so dispose of themselves as to be willing to seek 
 rest. How heavy sorrow, especially death, brings 
 the most solitary together ! 
 
 Oh ! the awakening of the next morning ! 
 Only those know who have awoke on such morn- 
 ings ! 
 
 It was but Georgie, Bessie, and Edward, who 
 
156 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 sat down to breakfast together, for Mrs. Living- 
 ston was with Louise, who lay prostrate and un- 
 able to rise. The stroke had fallen too heavily on 
 her delicate frame, and her physician feared it 
 might seriously affect her for a time. Margaret 
 was also sick with one of her severe headaches, 
 and at her urgent request was unwillingly left 
 alone. 
 
 How well it is for us when overpowered with 
 grief, that we either sink under it, the body's pain 
 thus for a while hushing the heart's, or we are 
 called to minister to those who do thus suffer, for- 
 getting somewhat the true grief in anxiety for the 
 sick ones ! Thus it was with the rest of the 
 Huntingdon family, anxiety for Margaret, and 
 especially for Louise, shared their mourning for 
 the lost one. 
 
 Mr. Leslie came as he had promised, and a few 
 other kind friends, to offer their services of love. 
 Finally Mr. Belmont came, and when Bessie 
 heard his name, a sad smile, faint shadow of the 
 true one, passed over her face. She stepped a 
 little quicker to meet him than had been her wont 
 that morning, but her quickness left her as she 
 entered the room, and taking hold of an arm- 
 chair, she covered her face with her hand and 
 gasped, " Oh ! Mr. Belmont!" 
 
 He sprang to her side, and tenderly supporting 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 157 
 
 her, said with deep emotion, " Oh ! Bessie, you 
 must let me comfort you now ; you can hardly 
 imagine how this has affected me. I could not 
 stay away longer." 
 
 Bessie did not refuse, but allowed him to lead 
 her to the sofa, where he listened long and tender- 
 ly to the meanings of her sorrow-charged heart. 
 In conversation, he casually mentioned meeting 
 Edward at Mr. Leslie's. 
 
 44 Were you there ? " said Bessie in an interest- 
 ed tone. 
 
 44 Yes," replied he, 44 1 went, but you don't 
 want to hear about it now, you have enough 
 on your heart." 
 
 She glanced up at him, and saw too well it was 
 no sorrowing news he had to tell. 
 
 44 Yes, I do," said she, 44 may be the Lord has 
 sent me something comforting by you. I think I 
 ought to rejoice with you, as you have wept with 
 me." 
 
 44 How do you know you are to rejoice ? " said he. 
 
 44 1 feel it," replied she. 
 
 And she did rejoice with him, and for a time 
 her heart was lightened. But all the weight 
 came crushingly back again when he left her, and 
 she as of old thought what good news she had to 
 write to 44 mother." Bending under the weight 
 she sadly went up stairs to lovingly minister to 
 the sick ones. 
 
158 THE HUNTINGDON'S : OR, 
 
 The 24th came, a day of cloudless splendor. 
 The afternoon of that day the Huntingdon family, 
 save Edward and Louise, were gathered together 
 waiting the coming of their father. Edward had 
 gone to the dej:)0t in company with Mr. John 
 Huntingdon, and Louise, though somewhat re- 
 covered, was still confined to her room. Her 
 friend Bell, was with her. Mr. Leslie and Mr. 
 Belmont were also with the Huntino-dons. 
 
 o 
 
 Oh ! how many prayers ascended from that 
 spot during those waiting hours, for each one felt 
 she had nothing else with which to strengthen 
 herself for the coming meeting. Quietly and sad- 
 ly they waited, moment by moment, till finally 
 they, father, mother, brother, uncle came ! but 
 Oh ! what a coming ! Draw the loving veil of 
 silence softly o'er the scene. 
 
 Later in the evening, Mr. Huntingdon sat in 
 Louise's room, holding tenderly her thin wasted 
 hand, while Bessie, sitting upon his knee, was en- 
 circled tightly by his protecting arm. But few 
 words were said, and she whose remains lay si- 
 lently below, was not mentioned, save once, when 
 Louise softly murmured, " mother," but her 
 father's gentle "hush," and sad smile, was the 
 only reply she received. 
 
 The sad day of burial and mourning passed, 
 and the evening closed in on a motherless family — 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 159 
 
 a voice hushed forever — a seat no more to be 
 filled — a presence never to be seen in the earthly 
 home, but standing at the doorway of another 
 mansion, lovingly waits to welcome one by one the 
 children home, where n mother " will never leave 
 them more. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A WONDERFUL calmness buoyed up Mr. 
 Huntingdon during these dark days, but 
 it was all explained when the morning after the 
 funeral he entered the dining-room with a large 
 Bible in his hand. 
 
 " Sister," said he, " I wish you would call the 
 servants." 
 
 Not at all surprised, but with a gratified smile 
 as though she had expected it, Mrs. Livingston 
 arose and did his bidding. 
 
 The servants came in wonderingly, but seated 
 themselves quietly and waited for an explanation. 
 
 " Our house," said Mr. Huntingdon in an 
 earnest but slightly quivering tone, " must now be 
 dedicated to — her God, and to ours, I bless the 
 Lord that she taught me to read this book, and I 
 desire hereafter to make it the ' man of my coun- 
 sel and the guide of my heart,' and trust and 
 pray my children and servants will do the same. 
 I hope also you will never forget the last act al- 
 most of her life, while she was at home/ was to 
 have family prayer. I am glad to be able to fol- 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE 161 
 
 low her example. I will read a portion of the 
 first chapter of the gospel of St. John, the four- 
 teenth chapter of which was the last one I ever 
 read to her." It was with difficulty Mr. Hunt- 
 ingdon could command himself sufficiently to 
 read. He read but a few verses, and then kneel- 
 ing, repeated simply the Lord's Prayer. Blessed 
 prayer ! how many have found it a strong refuge 
 when first essaying to lift the cross of public 
 prayer. 
 
 No one present however imagined, what a cross 
 this had been to Mr. Huntingdon. They felt it 
 must have been one, but they little knew how 
 heavy. Only He who witnessed the deep 
 struggles, and heard the earnest petitions for 
 strength the previous night, could tell. 
 
 It was rather a quiet, but still very pleasant 
 family at breakfast ; all waited for a blessing, 
 which followed from Mr. Huntingdon. 
 
 Bessie could scarcely restrain her feelings dur- 
 ing the meal ; as soon as it was finished, and her 
 father left for the library, she followed immediate- 
 ly after him, and just opening the door and 
 glancing in, said, " Dear father, please let me 
 come, just one moment." 
 
 " Gome," said he, opening his arms. 
 
 She sprang in'o them, and throwing both her 
 arms around his neck, kissed him again and again, 
 
162 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 saying, " 0, father, dear father, how we shall 
 love each other now. How very good God is to 
 us!" 
 
 " Yes, yes," replied her father, brushing away 
 a tear, and drawing back the curls from the little 
 head which now lay so quietly against him, 
 " We cannot praise him too much." 
 
 They were silent for a few moments com- 
 muning with their own hearts, then Bessie sud- 
 denly started and said, " Pa, do you recollect the 
 last time we were here ? " 
 
 Mr. Huntingdon paused a moment, then re- 
 plied, "Yes, I recollect, the night before we 
 went away. Oh ! how cruel I was to you, Bes- 
 sie, but even then the Lord was speaking to ine, 
 though I would not heed Him, I promised her, 
 I would strive to enter in at the strait gate, but 
 my proud heart would n't yield till her lifeless 
 form laid before me. May be, Bessie, she was 
 with those angels who rejoiced when the lost one 
 was found." 
 
 "Oh! mama, dear mama," said Bessie, if I 
 could only have seen her at the last ; it can't 
 seem to me now she's really gone." 
 
 " It was pleasant to her, Bessie, that she died 
 away from you all. She often mentioned how re- 
 joiced she was that ; the dear children were 
 spared witnessing her death.' She knew how you 
 
GLIMPSES OF IXXEB LIFE. ISO 
 
 would all suffer, and you know her full loving- 
 heart would ever do much, to save you un- 
 necessary sorrow." 
 
 " Noble, precious mama ! can I ever be like 
 her, papa ? " 
 
 " With God's help, Bessie." 
 
 Thus they sat and talked about her a long 
 time, till finally the day's duties obliged them to 
 separate. A new cord had been woven during 
 that interview to bind their hearts together — the 
 golden cord of Christian love which no power 
 on earth can sever. 
 
 That morning as soon as Mrs. Livingston could 
 find an opportunity, she hastened to her room, 
 and fastening her door, seated herself and drew 
 towards her, her writing-desk, then, with trembling 
 hands, took out the little package Mrs. Hunting- 
 don had given her just before her departure. 
 She opened it with a beating heart, and found a 
 small manuscript, a letter directed to herself and 
 another one to • " My husband and children." 
 Opening her own, the loved familiar writing 
 stirred up the fountains of her heart, and she 
 bowed her head in tears. As she became tran- 
 quil, she opened it again and read, 
 
 " My Dear Sister Lizzie, 
 
 " When your eyes rest upon this, I shall be sweetly 
 asleep — asleep in Jesus ; then don't mourn for me, but re- 
 jjice with ' exceeding joy.' 
 
164 THE HUNTING DONS : OR, 
 
 " I want to tell you Lizzie what I have so often inti/nated 
 to you, that 1 shall be a jewel in your crown, for it was your 
 loving example which led me to Christ. I shall always feel 
 to thank you, next to my Saviour for my salvation, and I 
 pray the Lord that you may be the means of winning many 
 unto Him. 
 
 " Lizzie, unto your earthly care I commit my children. 
 Will you not care for ray lambs ? I know I am asking much 
 of you, but I know too, your whole life is consecrated to 
 doing good, and can you do a nobler work then to train them 
 for life and immortality ? I feel you are better fitted for the 
 task, than even their poor mother, and she gives them to 
 you,' nothing doubting, that when orphans, your arms will 
 be thrown with a mother's love about them. 
 
 " You will see I have left a letter to my husband and chil- 
 dren, and also my religious experience. I have copied from 
 my journals those passages which I felt would be of most 
 benefit to them, and have destroyed the rest as there is much 
 I should not wish to have them read. Give them to Morti- 
 mer. Oh ! I feel too well, the preparing of this is my last 
 work for them. 
 
 " I can write no more ; the writing of these from day to 
 day has wearied me much. 
 
 " Good bye, sister, till we meet again. I shall be waiting 
 for you. Yours, in Christ, 
 
 Margaret E. Huntingdon .» 
 
 "Many, many times was this little note perused ; 
 finally, with trembling loving hands it was laid 
 quietly away. It was taken out again at night, 
 and, with the other letter and manuscript, was 
 placed upon Mr. Huntingdon's table in the libra- 
 ry. He saw them as he entered early in the eve- 
 
GLIMPSI.S OF INNER LIFE. 165 
 
 ning, and the clock struck twelve ere lie laid them 
 aside. Then opening a drawer in his secretary, 
 he tenderly placed them on another little package, 
 containing her picture and a lock of her hair, 
 
 The next morning he called Mrs. Livingston 
 into the library, and said, " I found them just 
 where you placed them. Here is your precious 
 note, and may I not trust your heart responds to 
 Maggie's dying wish ? " 
 
 " I accept it," said Mrs. Livingston ; " by-and- 
 by, I will talk further with you about it." 
 
 '•' Just so," returned Mr. Huntingdon, rt we 
 can't talk about such matters now. Maggie's let- 
 
 Co 
 
 ter and the manuscript I have laid aside till Lou- 
 ise is better, and the children all feel stronger. 
 It's too soon, just now." 
 
 Mrs. Livingston acquiesced, and a month passed 
 before the package was again opened. Then Mr. 
 Huntingdon gave it to Edward in the presence of 
 the rest, saying, " There is your mother's last, 
 best gift, a letter to us all, and her religious expe- 
 rience, which she left in your aunt's care, to be 
 o-iven to us in case she did not return. God 
 grant it may be the means of the salvation of our 
 whole household." 
 
 "I will read them as quickly as possible ," re- 
 plied Edward, seeing the expression of desire of 
 possession upon each face, " but afterwards I shall 
 want to copy them for myself." 
 
166 THE HUNTIXGDOXS : OE, 
 
 "So shall I," said Margaret. 
 
 " And V said Bessie. 
 
 " And I must hare one too," continued Louise. 
 
 " I suppose I must say the same," said Mrs. 
 Livingston. 
 
 " Will you let me have them for three or four 
 days," returned Mr. Huntingdon, " and then you 
 shall all have a copy." 
 
 " How ? " inquired Bessie. 
 
 " O, trust them with me, and you shall see." 
 
 Edward cheerfully yielded them to his father. 
 
 The next Sabbath morning Mr. Huntingdon 
 called them all, servants included, into the parlor, 
 and presented each one with a little book, entitled 
 " Mother's Last Gift." 
 
 It was very pretty and neatly bound, and was 
 received with great surprise, as well as pleasure. 
 
 " I suppose I may retain the original," said Mr. 
 Huntingdon, " by-and-by it may belong to one of 
 
 you." 
 
 " Oh ! papa," chided Bessie. 
 
 " Why, father ! " said Edward, " who has such 
 a right to them as vou have ? " 
 
 Mr. Huntingdon retained the originals, and soon 
 after, again laid them away in the little drawer. 
 
 Perhaps no one took the little gift with more 
 interest than Margaret, and seeking the quiet of 
 her own room as soon as possible, she opened its 
 pages with anxious throbbing heart, and read. 
 
GLIMPSES OF INS.ER LI1 E. 167 
 
 Sabbath Morning. 
 " Mr Devoted Husband, and Loving Children, 
 
 ' ; Ah ! you little know with what a trembling hand I com- 
 mence this last letter, it may be, to ycu. I have seen you all 
 this morning, and marked your pleas-ant smiles and loving 
 words, to your poor, feeble mother, who fain would have 
 gone with you to the House of God. I know you love me 
 tenderly and devotedly, and you have all of you, ever been 
 most mindful of my every desire, save one, and it is about 
 that desire — which some of you have treated with indiffer- 
 ence, and, must I say it, with scorn — I now write to you. 
 You know, probably, what I mean, and can recall many times 
 that I have spoken to you about it. I have also prayed for 
 you, and with some of you. I wish now that I had prayed 
 with you more. I hope yet I may find strength to pray with 
 you all together, husband and children, every one. And now 
 I ask — it may be for the last time — that my God may be 
 your God, my Saviour your Saviour, and the Holy Ghost, 
 my Comforter, your Comforter. To find Him, you have the 
 best of all Guides, the blessed Bible. Oh ! seek to make it 
 the ' man of your counsel and the guide of your heart.' 
 
 " Some weeks since, I wrote off my religious experience, the 
 work of Christ in my heart, and surely I can leave you noth- 
 ing of so great worth as this. Has he commenced His work 
 jet in your hearts ? Oh ! that I could hear that joyful news 
 soon. 
 
 " And now, Farewell ; God grant it may not be eternal to 
 any one of you, but that in those beautiful mansions above, 
 where no inhabitants will ever say, ' I*m sick,' we may 
 meet again, an unbroken family circle, not one left out. 
 
 " Yours, in great weariness, but with strong undying love. 
 
 Mother." 
 
168 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 WHAT CHRIST HATH DONE FOR ME. 
 
 In my girlhood, my grandmother Belden died, and hei 
 death was the means of my awakening to the realities of life 
 and to my own state. In the church, which my mother at- 
 tended, was a religious interest at that time. I soon num- 
 bered myself among the religious inquirers, visited my pas- 
 tor for religious instruction, and thought I gave my heart to 
 God, but what was my sorrow, when, after a conversation 
 with my pastor one day, he told me kindly and tenderly, 
 that he feared I was mistaken, that I was building on a false 
 foundation. 
 
 Oh ! how bitterly I wept, and how deeply I felt, cast out 
 alone, as it were, on a desert, when this hope was struck 
 from .beneath me. I felt though it must be just as he said, 
 for 1 had unbounded confidence in him. I was soon some- 
 what comforted, however, by the thought, that if my old 
 hope was gone, Christ was not, and to Him again I could 
 flee. 
 
 Soon after this, reverses in our family obliged us to re- 
 move from this place, and thus 1 came under the watch and 
 care of another pastor. After some months, I again made a 
 profession of religion, and united with the church in this 
 latter place. But a poor weak lamb, just brought into the 
 fold, I received but very little instruction and help, and the 
 influences which surrounded me were not for my growth, 
 and, therefore, I soon settled down to the level of the Chris- 
 tians about me. Naturally of a confiding disposition, I was 
 disposed to be governed and to lean upon them. Did some 
 one correct, or point out errors in my conduct, I felt it must 
 be so, and endeavored to correct them, but alas ! how few, 
 how very few were they, who pointed out those defects. 
 Not one single person can 1 remember, who spoke to me 
 about growth in grace. But I was not at all satisfied with 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 169 
 
 myself, as a portion of a journal, I -wrote at that time, testi- 
 fies. It says, 
 
 " I long for something continually. I think it is excite- 
 ment. I go away, and mix with the world, but it does not 
 satisfy my longings. I am the most contented at home, try- 
 ing to be good. I think if I should live more devoted to 
 God, I should be far happier." 
 
 But again, another change took place in my life, and I 
 was placed under very different religious influences. In a 
 little journal, which I used for self-examination at Commun- 
 ion seasons, I find how it affected me. 
 
 " A year ago, I was in C , completely swallowed up in 
 
 myself, thinking nor caring little for others, engrossed in the 
 world and its pleasures, taking no real delight in religion, 
 and acting as though I had not taken the solemn vows of 
 God upon me, to live for him and His glory, but God has, I 
 trust, in his providence, brought me to see the wickedness of 
 my ways, and to desire to return to Him again ; but Oh ! 
 when I look back, all is darkness. I am full of all unclean- 
 ness, and the future also is dark. I know, by experience, 
 what a wicked heart mine is, and deceitful above all things. 
 If it were not for the promises of Christ, how could I go 
 forward through the straight and narrow road which leads 
 to eternal life, but I know, and feel, if I place all my trust 
 in Christ, He will sustain and uphold me, through all the 
 trials and temptations of the coming year." Then I exam- 
 ined my hope, my faith, my conduct, and made new resolu- 
 tions. This was at January Communion ; for March, I find 
 I saw more sin in myself, in smaller acts, perhaps, and for 
 May, I commence, 
 
 " Again, I have commenced to write, but I tremble as I 
 do so. I dread to write and confess my sins, and make reso- 
 lutions, for I commit so many more sins, and break my reso- 
 
170 THE HUXTIXGDOXS : OE, 
 
 lutions so many times, that it is discouraging. I need severe 
 discipline to bring me low at my Saviour's feet, and keep me 
 there. I am too wild, too gay. I long to be holy and live a 
 self-denying life ! " Then follow more resolutions, but more 
 .minute than the preceding ones, while the 11th says, " No 
 matter if I break these repeatedly I will not give them up, 
 but persevere, till they become rooted and grounded, so that 
 I cannot forget or break them." 
 
 Soon after, I write, 
 
 "Oh, dear ! the faith of a Christian grows harder and 
 harder. I feel almost discouraged. To-day, I am full of hope, 
 and think I shall live more as a Christian should, and yet, 
 ere to-morrow comes, I am led into some sin. How weak, 
 how utterly weak I am ! — I think lately from the instruc- 
 tions of my pastor Tuesday evenings, I see my path of duty 
 clearer, and what is required of a true Christian. "Would 
 that I could do as he has pointed out the path to us. 1 long 
 to feel a steady fixedness of purpose, to adhere more to my 
 principles and resolutions, to let nothing swerve me from 
 them. When shall I be good and holy ? Oh ! for a humble, 
 holy heart, delighting to do the will of God ! Oh ! for holi- 
 ness, holiness. . . Saviour, help me. ' I am poor and needy, 
 weak and wounded, sick and sore,' helpless, entirely helpless. 
 Encircle thy erring child with arms of mercy, and keep her 
 from sinning so much, and living such a life of remorse for 
 committing sin, breaking new resolutions, and worse than all 
 setting a bad example of a Christian to others." 
 
 The Lord still led me, and a year and a half after this, I 
 write, 
 
 "One whole year has passed since last I wrote here 
 Pause, and think of thy past life, oh ! my soul. Deep, bit- 
 ter affliction, has been mine the past year. Thou hast chast- 
 ened me, and can I not say, ' Thy will be done,' and that, ' It 
 is good for me that I have been afflicted ? ' Did I not need 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 171 
 
 it? DicTst not Thou in love administer the blow, and shall I 
 not kiss the rod and profit by it ? God forbid that I shall 
 rush heedlessly on, and not see His all-wise purpose in it. 
 Was it not to show me how little I really tried to conquer 
 my besetting sins, how much wrapped up I was in the world, 
 and its vain allurements, how proud and vain I am ? Yes, 
 Oh ! yes ! Oh ! my heavenly Father, do Thou dwell in my 
 heart, and by Thy holy Spirit quicken me in grace ; do not 
 forsake me, my God, but in my wanderings lead me back to 
 Thee, though through the deepest waters of affliction. May 
 I be more devoted, more thoughtful than I have ever been. 
 May I see life in all its reality and earnestness of purpose, 
 and henceforth live for the glory and honor of Christ, and 
 feel that by one unkind look or word, I wound His cause 
 which it should be my highest aim to adorn. Keep me from 
 falling, and finally receive me to Thyself, through the merits 
 of Him, who died to save all, even me." Amen. 
 
 " Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it, 
 Prone to leave the God I love ; 
 Here's my heart, Lord, take and seal it, 
 Seal it for thy courts above." 
 
 Another year and more passed, a season, too, of new and 
 heavy crushing sorrows ! My Father was indeed dealing 
 with me, and I wrote : 
 
 " I feel more submissive to the will of God in His dealings 
 with me. I know I regard this world in a very different 
 light, and I feel my afflictions have benefitted me. though 
 I know, not as much as they ought. I feel a growing desire 
 to devote myself to the service of God, and to wean my affec- 
 tions from earthly objects. I love communion with God, and 
 prayer .seems the dearest of all privileges to me ; but I still 
 feel I live a poor unworthy life, accomplishing little or noth- 
 ing, in the service of God." 
 
172 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 Time passed on, and again I wrote : "I think I can truly 
 Bay, 'My God Thy will be done.' I begin to feel that I 
 have much for which to live, that it is -very sinful in me to 
 pine and grieve over the past ; and that I should be up and 
 doing something for my Lord and Saviour. I wish I could 
 feel more closely connected to Christ, but it always seems to 
 me that He is afar off, and that He has so many children to 
 care for He can scarcely notice me ; but, faithless soul ! do I 
 not know that He careth even for the flowers in the field, and 
 will He then not care for me?" 
 
 Again. 
 
 " It seems to me, my heart must be more depraved than 
 others, I have so many trials. I scarcely recover from one 
 before I am brought into another, but I deserve them ; yes, I 
 feel from the depths of my heart that every one of them is 
 deserved. Oh ! I need so much humbling, my heart is so 
 proud. 'Tis nearly ten years, since I professed Christ, and 
 the Future looms up with its ever-recurring weight of cares, 
 duties and sorrows. How am I prepared to meet them? 
 Relying upon mine own strength, I fear far too much, it has 
 taken a long, long while, for me to learn how weak I am, 
 and I do not know even now how extreme that weakness is. 
 Oh ! what would tempt me to give up the faith which I now 
 possess — how could I live to face the ills of life — what com- 
 fort could I find in the vain deceitful pleasures of the world, 
 and how could I look to the Future ! " 
 
 On my birth-day I write, " Oh ! wretched one that I am, 
 who shall deliver me from this body of sin!" how I wish I 
 could avoid writing the events of the past week. I have 
 been tempted to destroy this journal, for it is such a record of 
 sins, but I know it is best for me to keep it, even if it is so 
 humbling. I do so thoroughly loathe and hate myself! Why, 
 why am I so sinful ? It seems to me every one of my actions 
 is prompted by vanity, selfishness and ambition ; even the 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 173 
 
 Very best of them. How is it I never used to compare my- 
 self with others, but lately I do it a great deal, when I wish 
 to excuse myself from the omission of some duty, or the 
 commission of some sin. I know it is very wrong, and I al- 
 ways try to banish such thoughts as quickly as possible, but 
 Oh ! Satan tempts me now, in such entirely new ways, I 
 hardly know how to meet him." 
 
 "Shall I ever get this sinful body mortified and brought 
 under subjection, or will it ever be as it is? Sometimes, I 
 feel such a love for Christ spread abroad in my heart, that I 
 feel as though 1 never could turn aside into paths of wick- 
 edness again ; but, alas ! how soon do I find out the deceitf ul- 
 ness of my heart." 
 
 " More and more, do I think how particular I must be to 
 set a consistent example. I can see that I do exert an influ- 
 ence, and I must try and have it an healthful one. As re- 
 gards the external duties of a Christian, I do not begin to 
 find the difficulty that I do with regard to the internal. 
 Perhaps, if I was left to myself, I should not feel so, 
 though I think, if I know my own heart, I am full as 
 desirous to perform my private duties in a right manner, 
 as my public ones : I know, I think, much more about them ; 
 still I may be mistaken." 
 
 "1 hate to write to-night. For the last fortnight my 
 mind has been greatly perplexed. I earnestly desire to do 
 aright ; but I am afraid I do not go to work in the right 
 way. I try to keep my room, and to be indifferent to the 
 things around me, and I am afraid by so doing, I produce a 
 morbid state of mind. I get restless, unhappy and discon- 
 tented, and I fear get excited religiously, for I know one can 
 be excited upon religion as well as any other subject." 
 
 When can I get a more even state of mind. I certainly try, 
 but I do succeed so poorly. Little things of no consequence, 
 to which, my reason tells me plainly, it is folly to give scarce- 
 
174 the hu:ntingdons : or, 
 
 ly a passing thought, I pass hours brooding over. I have 
 resolved now to try running away from thought. I know re- 
 flection is highly profitable, but it seems to me that I reap 
 no benefit in reflecting, when I am in such a state of mind. 
 How much I need counsel from some one older and more ex- 
 perienced than myself. 
 
 " I think I see more and more of the duties of a Christian*, 
 of the trials and temptations incident to one, and the holi- 
 ness, self abnegation and entire submission which is re- 
 quired. I begin to feel my religious life has all been wrong, 
 though something, I know not what, causes me to cling to it, 
 feeling that I cannot say, my heart has never been changed ; 
 still I do not feel that I am in the strait and narrow path ex- 
 actly, which leads to Christ. 
 
 " But drops of grief can ne'er repay 
 The debt of love I owe, 
 Here, Lord, I give myself away, 
 'Tis all that I can do. " 
 
 " Would I could subscribe my name to this sentiment, and 
 feel that I really did do the deed. I desire to do it, but I 
 can't feel it would be, really so. I am afraid I should be 
 holding something back." 
 
 Thus was I, longing and hungering after the prize, which 
 was just before me, but which I failed to see. 
 
 Years passed on about in the same manner, though I had 
 new trials and new cares ; still I failed to see " the Way, the 
 Truth, and the Life, 1 ' and to secure permanent peace — that 
 peace which " passeth understanding." It was a constant 
 life of sinning and repenting, with a longing which naught 
 on earth could satisfy. 
 
 In the Spring of 18 — , Mrs. Morton, now I trust a saint in 
 heaven, placed in my hand a work upon Christian life, and 
 never, never can I forget the light which came to me through 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 175 
 
 its pages. The Holy Ghost came down with power, and re- 
 vealed my Saviour unto me in a new way — my keeper from 
 sin day by day, if I would appropriate Him by faith, just as 
 He had been, and was my Saviour from past sin. I had 
 been trying, as one has expressed it, " to subdue sin in myself ; 
 to conquer my evil habits ; trusting in Jesus, as I thought, 
 to help me to do it ;" but not expecting Him to do it alone 
 without my assistance. For past sin day by day, I saw 
 readily, that I had nothing to do, but to cast myself upon 
 His atoning blood ; but, Oh ! I little saw that for the present, 
 I might rely upon Him in the same manner. 
 
 I never shall forget the time when this truth broke upon 
 my mind ; I was perfectly overcome with joy for a season? 
 and going to the room of a friend, I told her of my discovery, 
 and declared, over and over again, " I have found it 1 I have 
 found it ! " Yes, I had indejed found the royal road for 
 Christians. 
 
 *And now had I discovered what it was to take Christ into 
 the heart for " wisdom, and righteousness, and sanctification, 
 and redemption." Had any one, however, told me previous to 
 this, that I had, in a measure been trying to work out my 
 own righteousness, I should have been surprised at such a 
 charge, and should have replied : why, " Faith without works 
 is dead." I do trust in Christ to help me, but I must work, 
 as well as trust. Ah ! I knew little then, of that work 
 which follows from faith alone, which results not from a 
 sense of duty, but from an impelling principle within, an 
 abiding Christ Now it was more faith and works, before it 
 was to a great degree, works and faith. 
 
 I should have said, however, some months previous to this, 
 I was enabled to yield my will to the Lord :'n a matter, 
 which I felt I never could relinquish ; and Oh ! the sweet 
 peace which followed this act. By doing this, I think now, 
 1 was prepared for the new way into which my blesse 
 
176 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 Master was to lead me ; for how can He abide fully in a heart 
 which has an idol. I did not see that it was an idol then, as 
 the thing of itself was right. I yielded the point because 
 there was something ever whispering to me, that I must 
 yield it. 'Twas the very last best thing I had to yield — my 
 most precious desire on this earth. 
 
 Of course, it was now easy to consecrate myself fully to 
 Christ ; the deed was soon done, and I waited for Him. 
 
 But though I saw Christ so plainly in this new relation, 
 and was all ready to receive Him, yet I could not lay hold 
 upon Him as I desired — could not believe. Ah ! one has well 
 said that " believing is the most wonderful thing in the 
 world." I wanted evidence, too, that I was believing — was 
 trusting. I found it difficult to venture right out on nothing 
 apparent to the earthly sense ; and I did not venture at once, 
 but clinging to this new revelation as I tried it, step by step, 
 I found — timid soul — upon what a firm foundation I was 
 stepping. I pressed forward, and finally felt assured. Glory 
 to God ! I was indeed trusting. This state of trust com- 
 menced a golden era in my existence which has brightened 
 more and more, the more I have seen and realized the 
 presence of the Sun of righteousness. 
 
 And now illumined by His presence, I began to find how 
 ignorant and helpless I was. I understood not Satan's devices 
 and wiles, and often used to get bewildered by duty, faint over 
 labor, or exhausted with temptation ; but come what would, 
 I would not yield my trust. I held on, assured that the 
 Master was leading me, and teaching me ; and Oh ! such 
 lessons as I learned, eternity only can reveal. He led me on, 
 and on ; sometimes on to Beulah, where I basked in his love; 
 then right down into the valley of temptation with Satan, 
 where He withdrew Himself awhile : then He revealed Him- 
 self so lovingly again, and carried me into the green pastures 
 of peace to rest. This life took on to me a wondrous beauty, 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 177 
 
 and I began to realize how much I had for which to live. 
 The simplest duties of life were radiated by the thought, 
 "I can do this for the Lord." My hatred of sin grew in- 
 tense, and I felt keenly the approach of it. I could not 
 now commit things which before I allowed myself to do, and 
 dreaded, and tried to avoid the very appearance of evil. 
 Day by day, as the Master found I could bear it, did He 
 enlighten me upon holiness and sin. How did the one 
 keep looming up higher and higher, broader and broader, 
 while the other took depths , into which I almost feared to gaze. 
 
 And the Bible and prayer, how exceedingly precious they 
 became! — the Bible seemed a new book, and eagerly did I 
 search its pages ; ever, now and then, finding some applicable 
 and comforting truth, on ground over which I had travelled 
 many times. Prayer became the season of all seasons ;• the 
 best, when I co^ld go from the world and be so alone with 
 the precious Master, telling Him all my griefs, my cares, my 
 wants. 
 
 But the life I now live, and have lived the past few years, 
 is from the Son of God. Christ liveth in me, and therefore it 
 is, that through all the sorrows and temptations of life, there 
 is underneath the ripples of my heart an ocean of peace 
 which passeth understanding Thou wilt keep him in per- 
 fect peace, whose soul is stayed on Thee, " because he trust- 
 eth in Thee." 
 
 And now, my dear husband and children, I have given you 
 a faint outline of what Christ hath done for me — a faint 
 outline I call it, for words would fail to tell all the exceeding 
 riches of His love and long suffering towards me, and the 
 precious lessons of faith, hope and charity He has taught 
 me. It is all a hidden, wondrous mystery — this inner life— 
 and must be experienced, to be known and appreciated. I 
 might sny, too, as it was passing, I could not see and un- 
 derstand it as plainly as I do now, looking back upon it. 
 
178 THE HUNTINGDON : OR, 
 
 Do not think, however, because it was so long before I 
 found Christ as my " All in All," that it need be the same 
 with you. Not at all ; for I know those who have pressed 
 directly forward from the very beginning, and whose growth 
 in grace and likeness to Christ have been evident to all ob- 
 servers ; but 1 know there are many more, who seem to feel 
 that the most important part is done, when they know their 
 sins forgiven, and unite with the church, and who ever point 
 back to this time as the evidence of their being Christians. 
 Many, 1 think, are in ignorance — as I was — of all that it 
 is their privilege and duty to attain unto, and follow rather 
 the teachings and example of those about them than the 
 directions of Holy Writ. 
 
 And now, I am well aware , you do not all understand, or 
 appreciate what I have written ; but 1 trust the time will 
 come, when the Lord will use these lines for an instrument 
 for your good. 
 
 Again I beseech of you, come to Christ your Saviour and 
 Keeper ; come and have His arms enfolded around you, 
 His grace to sustain you, and His robe of righteousness to 
 clothe you for the mansions above. 
 
 And now will you not grant me my last request, to make 
 the Holy Bible your daily study ; praying to Him to en- 
 lighten you, who has promised to guide you into all truth ; 
 and may 1 not hope that He will eventually guide you into 
 
 Heaven. Affectionately your mother, 
 
 M. Huntingdon." 
 
 To no one, perhaps, of the Iluntingdons, did 
 these words come with so much power, and as 
 good news to a thirsty soul, as to Margaret. She 
 presse I it again and again to her bosom, while 
 with streaming eyes, s :e murmured, "I see! I 
 see. Oh ! mother, you little thought how much 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 179 
 
 good you were to do me. I now see why we 
 were so different." Then followed an earnest 
 prayer of thanksgiving to God, for the glorious 
 light which had broken on her pathway, and an 
 earnest petition that He would indeed " guide her 
 into all truth." 
 
 Bessie, after finishing the book, passed to Mrs. 
 Livingston's room, and entering, said, " Aunty, 
 am I mistaken, or deceived. It seems to me I co 
 trust in Christ, just as mother did, and I am all at 
 peace ; but something says, it cannot be, it is all 
 presumption ; you do not know your own heart, 
 and you have just begun a Christian life. By- 
 and-by you will get cold and indifferent, and 
 wound the precious cause of Christ. Oh ! aunty, 
 it need n't be so, need it ? and isn't it Satan tempt- 
 ing me? " 
 
 " I think it is, darling," replied Mrs. Living- 
 ston, while drawing her closely towards her. 
 " You need never grow cold and indifferent to 
 His love. You will probably have many tempta- 
 tions and sorrows, and God will perfect that 
 which concerneth you, but He will keep that 
 which you have committed to His charge, if you 
 ever cling closely to His all-keeping hand." 
 
 " But don't you think mama kept close to Je- 
 sus ? " 
 
 " No dear, not at first. I fear she grew world- 
 ly, and perhaps became indifferent towards, if she 
 
ISO 1HE EirK'ilKGDOXS : OR, 
 
 did not neglect, prayer and her Bible. Here are 
 the places where young Christians first lose their 
 hold. After they have joined the Church, they 
 seem to feel, if I may so express it, that they are 
 safe, and Satan too often leads them captive. 
 Guard your prayer and Bible seasons, with a jeal- 
 ous watch ; allow nothing to interfere with them, 
 or to abate their interest. If you do not find a 
 growing love for the Bible, and day by day, a 
 more earnest desire for the precious ' audience 
 time ' with the Master, do not hope you are grow 
 ing in grace, you are certainly losing somewhere.' 
 
 " O, I do feel that," replied Bessie. " Some- 
 times I can't wait till the time comes, and so I go 
 away before. I think, too, I begin to know what 
 1 praying without ceasing ' means, for I pray many 
 times now during the day. It seems to come to 
 me. 
 
 "Yes, that is it," returned Mrs. L., with a 
 beaming countenance. " Commit thy way unto 
 the Lord ; trust also in Him ; and He shall bring 
 it to pass. And now I am going to send you 
 away from me, for it is my prayer time, and I 
 wouldn't be late you know." 
 
 " Why, aunty," replied Bessie in a reproach- 
 ful tone, " why didn't I see it was half-past. For- 
 give me," and with a fond kiss, Bessie passed into 
 the privacy of her own room, to pour out her 
 grateful heart to Him -who was waiting to hear. 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 181 
 
 To Edward and Louise, their mother's journal 
 was just such a mystery as she supposed it would 
 be. Louise sighed, and thought she never could 
 be such a religious enthusiast, and that there was 
 no need of it ; but she commenced to read her Bi- 
 ble, and resolved she would try and live a better 
 life in future. 
 
 Edward wondered greatly, how his gentle 
 mother could have ever written such severe 
 things against herself, and finally came to the con- 
 clusion that her ill health had probably rendered 
 her morbidlv sensitive. He then rather congratu- 
 lated himself that he was not inclined to such feel- 
 ings. That night, just as he was retiring, he re- 
 called her request about the Bible. " I wish," 
 said he to himself, " she had asked me to do any- 
 thing else in the world ; I could have done it ; but 
 to read this " — ■ taking up a small Bible which 
 she had given him — " is a regular bore." 
 
 As he opened it, his eyes rested upon the last 
 chapter of Revelations. He read it through — 
 re-read it, then dropping the book carelessly 
 down, retired to rest ; but he did not forget that 
 chapter. 
 
 Gcorgie perused only a few pages of Mrs. 
 Huntingdon's journal, then she closed the book, 
 and with tearful eyes laid it away, murmuring, 
 *'I can't read it now : no, it would crush me." 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 JATE one evening, a few days after the events 
 _j referred to in the last chapter, Louise Hun- 
 tingdon was surprised by a summons from her 
 father to the library. 
 
 "What can it mean, at this time of night ? " 
 said she, questioning Georgie, who stood looking 
 wonderingly at her. 
 
 " I don't know," replied Georgie, quizzically, 
 " unless it is an offer of marriage." 
 
 " Don't ! Georgie," returned Louise, in an an- 
 noyed tone. 
 
 She started out of the room slowly, and evident- 
 ly much bewildered, at her father's unusual re- 
 quest ; but she was gone only a moment, before she 
 returned, breathless and pale. Holding her quick, 
 beating heart with one hand, she gasped oat to 
 Georgie, " Oh ! Georgie, I know what ho wish- 
 es of me. I do believe Davenport has sent in that 
 bill for my dress. Oh ! dear, dear, if I hadn't 
 been sick I should have paid for it, and pa would 
 never have known about it ! What shall I say to 
 him ? You know how he hates deceit, and he has 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 183 
 
 utterly forbidden us ever to make a charge at any 
 store. I can't go down to him ; I can't bear his 
 reproofs ! You go for me, Georgie. Where's 
 Bessie ? perhaps she will go. : ' 
 
 " Stop ! " said Georgie, laying her hand upon 
 Louise's shoulder, as she was passing out of the 
 room. " Don't get Bessie to go. Do be brave, 
 and crush down such cowardly feelings. You 
 will have to see your father sooner or later ; so go 
 down and tell him how it all happened. Besides, 
 Bessie don't know anything about it ; and perhaps 
 your father wont mention it, and then she need 
 not know it at all." 
 
 " But I can't go anyway," returned Louise, 
 now in tears. "What shall I do? Dear me! 
 I am so weak, and just this, has brought on that 
 pain in my side again. Oh ! do you go for me ! 
 Tell pa, I'm sick, I'm sure it is the truth," and 
 still weeping, the nervous girl flung herself upon 
 the bed. 
 
 Georgie went up to her side, and brushing back 
 her hair, kissed her fondly and said, "Poor weak 
 child ! ycu are sick ; I will go down for you. 
 One of these days, though, perhaps you will be 
 as brave and well as I am." 
 
 "With a firm step, Georgie passed down to the 
 library and knocked. 
 
 " Come in," returned a voice, the tone of which 
 
184 THE HUNTIXGDOXS : OR, 
 
 Georgie eagerly marked. It was a little lower 
 than usual, and more saddened, so she decided it 
 was just as Louise feared. 
 
 " Ah ! it is you, Georgie," said Mr. Hunting- 
 don, as she entered, " I was expecting Louise. 
 Be seated." 
 
 " No, thank you," said Georgie. " I have only 
 come to tell you, that Louise is sick to-night, and 
 says she can't come down. Can I not do your 
 message ? " 
 
 " Louise sick ! " returned Mr. Huntingdon, 
 somewhat surprised. " Why she was well enough 
 this e ening. and received company in the parlor. 
 Has she retired ? " 
 
 " I think not," replied Georgie, " though she 
 was lying down when I left her." 
 
 "Well, then," said Mr. H., somewhat sternly, 
 " Tell her I wish to see her a few moments. If 
 she is unable to come down, I will go up to her." 
 
 " But couldn't I carry the message ? " contin- 
 ued Georgie. 
 
 " Not at all," replied Mr. Huntingdon, in such 
 a manner, that Georgie saw it was of no use for 
 her to say more, so she left the room immediately, 
 and informed Louise of her father's request. 
 
 " Oh ! it must be about that bill," said she, 
 " or he would have excused me. I must go then, 
 there is no help ! " 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. J 85 
 
 Rising, she advanced tremblingly towards the 
 door, and slowly passed down stairs ; then knock- 
 ed at the library door. 
 
 " Come in," said the same voice, and Louise 
 entered. She just caught sight of a bit of paper 
 in her father's hand, then she sank down on a sofa 
 which stood near the door, and covering her face 
 with her hands she burst into tears, saying, u Oh ! 
 father, you 've got that bill. Do forgive me ? I 
 know you hate me, and I hate myself; it's the 
 first time though, I ever did such a thins*." 
 
 Mr. Huntington now arose, and seating himself 
 beside Louise, he took her up from the arm of tha 
 sofa, and said tenderly, "Louise, my erring child, 
 I do forgive you. Now try and compose yourself, 
 and we will talk about it, for I want you to tell 
 me how it all happened." 
 
 As Louise felt the strong arms of her father 
 about her, and heard his gentle tones, she grew 
 more calm, and in a few moments related truth- 
 fully all the circumstances concerning it. 
 
 " I am glad you have been so truthful," return- 
 ed Mr. Huntingdon, * and that you assure me this 
 h the very first time you have thus done so entire- 
 ly contrary to my wishes. You know how par- 
 ticular I ever was with Edward about this one 
 matter, and that it is not at all the money I care 
 for, it is the principle. I give you all just as 
 
186 THE HUNTINGDON : OR, 
 
 much money as I wish you to spend, and I feel 
 you are in a measure robbing me, when you thus 
 take advantage of my credit, to contract a debt so 
 contrary to my wishes. I have never liked any 
 way the ' trusting business,' and I shall never al- 
 low any of my children to do it, as long as they 
 are under my care. I hope Louise, this will be 
 the last time it ever happens. I should be very 
 unhappy, if I thought I had a child that I could 
 
 " Oh ! father, father," sobbed Louise, " this 
 shall be the last time I assure you ! I don't be- 
 lieve I would have done it anyway, if it had not 
 been for Bell Rivers ; she persuaded me to do it, 
 I did not want to, at first." 
 
 " You should have had strength of character 
 enough of your own, to have resisted whatever 
 Miss Eivers said," responded Mr. Huntingdon, 
 " still I am sorry to hear she has such an influ- 
 ence over you, and more sorry for Edward's sake, 
 that she possesses such principles." 
 
 " May be, pa, Edward will correct them in 
 her ; you know she has no mother to teach her 
 what is right, and her father lets her do just as 
 she pleases." 
 
 " Poor child ! she is to be pitied," returned Mr. 
 H., u but I cannot let her ruin my Louise, and 
 now I must tell you, what I have feared I should 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 187 
 
 be obliged to for some time. I do not approve of a 
 number of things I have observed in Miss Rivers ; 
 she lacks principle, and as you are so greatly in- 
 fluenced by her, I think you had better drop her, 
 as an intimate friend. Were you of a stronger 
 mind I should not advise this ; but you are so 
 swayed here and there by just the influence which 
 surrounds you, I wish that influence to be good. 
 You can see less of her certainl} T , than you have 
 done ; both your aunt and myself approve of 
 this." 
 
 " Does aunt Livingston know about this ? " 
 said Louise, anxiously. 
 
 "Yes," replied her father, " I have been talk- 
 ing with her nearly all the evening about this 
 matter, and you know she is to take the place of 
 your mother now, and I shall have no secrets 
 from her as regards your welfare. You under- 
 stand our wishes about Miss Rivers. As Ed- 
 ward's friend she will occasionally visit here, and 
 you can treat her as an acquaintance, but no more. 
 Mrs. Livingston will help you manage this, so you 
 needn't give offence to Miss Rivers." 
 
 " Oh ! pa, this is very hard ; she is my dearest 
 friend ; and she will certainly notice the change, 
 and Edward, too." 
 
 u Perhaps they will," replied her father, " but 
 we cannot help it if they do ; it must be done any- 
 
188 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 way, and one day you will thank me for this, my 
 daughter. If Edward speaks to you about it, 
 refer him to me." 
 
 Mr. Huntingdon now passed to the table, and 
 taking up a paper placed it in Louise's hand, and 
 said, " There is the amount -; go down to-morrow 
 and settle the bill ; I shall deduct this, from your 
 next allowance/' 
 
 Louise took the money and bill silently, and 
 then glancing timidly up, said, u You do forgive 
 me, don't you." 
 
 " Certainly," said her father, drawing her to 
 him, and kissing her forehead, " and now, go my 
 child and ask forgiveness of your heavenly Fath- 
 er, whom you have offended more than me." 
 
 Louise passed out with a lighter heart than she 
 entered, but still with a new pain, for she felt just 
 what her father intended with regard to Miss Riv- 
 ers, and that it must be done. It was seldom Mr. 
 Huntingdon ever commanded his children, but 
 when he did, they knew he was to be obeyed. 
 Actively engaged in business, and engrossed with 
 his invalid wife, he had not marked Louise's con- 
 duct during the past few years. He thought her 
 a little heedless, but he was wholly unprepared 
 for what Mr?. Livingston had informed him of 
 her character, which she had so well read since 
 house ; and it was principally 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 189 
 
 from what she had paid, that he had forbidden 
 her farther friendship with Miss Rivers. It was 
 only after much prayer, that Mrs. Livingston had 
 given this advice. She pitied Miss Rivers, and 
 she determined to do her all the good in her pow- 
 er, but she felt her first duty, was for Louise, and 
 she must be removed from her influence as far as 
 possible. 
 
 Bell soon marked the change in Louise, and so 
 did Edward ; therefore, one day he asked Louise 
 for an explanation. She referred him to her 
 father. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " said he. 
 
 " You must a?k father," replied she, " I cannot 
 tell you," and left the room. 
 
 He passed directly to his father's library, and 
 entering rather rudely, asked in an excited tone, 
 " What fault he had to find with Miss Rivers ? " 
 
 " Be seated, and recover yourself, sir, and I 
 will tell you," said his father, somewhat sternly. 
 
 Edward seated himself, but evidently more ex- 
 cited then when he entered. His father then 
 gave him his opinion, candidly and calmly, re- 
 garding Miss Rivers, and his determination about 
 Louise. 
 
 They talked a long while, Mr. Huntingdon en- 
 deavoring to reason with and to counsel Edward, 
 but all in vain. Finally, in the midst of the con- 
 
190 THE HUNTIXGDONS : OR, 
 
 versation, Edward suddenly arose, and declared in 
 passionate tones, " If Bell was thus to be re- 
 garded, she should never enter the house again, 
 neither would he." Actuated by this feeling, he 
 quickly strode out, paying no heed to his father, 
 who endeavored to detain him. Mr. Huntingdon 
 immediately sought Mrs. Livingston for advice. 
 They hardly knew what to do, such a proceeding 
 was so unlike Edward ; they had expected some 
 opposition, should he notice Louise's manner, but 
 not in such a form or degree. 
 
 Edward had only gone a few steps after he left 
 his father's home, before he encountered his friend 
 Mr. Belmont. 
 
 " What's your hurry ? " said Mr. Belmont, 
 stopping him. 
 
 " Hurry ! hurry ! " returned Edward, excited- 
 ly, hurry enough. I w T ish I was dead ! Go your 
 way and I'll go mine," and he endeavored to 
 shake Belmont off, who had taken his arm. 
 
 But Belmont saw he was in a very unhappy 
 state of mind, and would not leave him, so passed 
 on with him, saying, '• My way shall be yours, 
 just now. Come, Ned, I have always told you 
 my troubles ; won't you tell me what's the matter ; 
 maybe I can help you." 
 
 "No you can't," said Edward, " Nobody can 
 help me. I'm a wretched, miserable fellow I 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER IIFE. 191 
 
 You'd better go and see Bessie, maybe she'll tell 
 you — maybe she has already, ha, fellow ? " 
 
 " Not at all," replied Belmont. " Come, let's 
 take a stroll on the Park," — which they were just 
 passing. " It will be more quiet there," and Ed- 
 ward suffered Belmont to lead him into the Park. 
 
 Hours passed away, but still the friends wan- 
 dered up and down, Edward by degrees relieving 
 his heavily charged heart of its sorrow. 
 
 Kindly and tenderly, his friend advised and 
 reasoned with him, that it was not Bell his fami- 
 ly disliked, but her conduct ; that he had often 
 himself been pained by it, and that he must not 
 forget his sister's good, in his interest for another. 
 If Bell changed — and if she loved him, she cer- 
 tainly would change, — he well knew how ready 
 they would be to receive her to their hearts again. 
 
 " You have been very rash," continued he, 
 " but don't, I pray you, make the matter worse. 
 Go home, you know how alarmed they must all 
 be ; and Edward, no matter how trying this is to 
 you, it seems to me, just now, you ought not to 
 add an additional sorrow." 
 
 Just here Belmont touched the right chord, and 
 Edward replied firmly, but bitterly, " Yes, for 
 mother's sake, I will go home and endure, some- 
 how, for a while, but only for a while ; then they 
 shall try endurance in return." 
 
192 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 Belmont did not reprove this spirit of revenge ; 
 he well knew his friend, and felt quite assured that 
 time would disipate it, in a measure ; so he merely 
 said, "Well, hadn't you better go now? It's 
 past one o'clock." 
 
 " As well now, as any time," replied Edward, 
 and they turned towards home. 
 
 There was not one of the Huntingdon family 
 that night, but heard Edward's entrance, and 
 ascent to his room ; and while they were listening 
 to hear if he remained, they caught Bessie's low 
 voice, and assured that she would comfort him, if 
 anybody could, they hushed their anxiety, and 
 soon found rest. 
 
 Edward did not appear at the breakfast table 
 the next morning, and Bessie informed them that 
 he had gone to pass the day with a friend, on 
 B 's Island. 
 
 " Oh ! he appears so strangly," said she, " I do 
 not know when he was ever so unkind to me be- 
 fore ; but he promised me he would not go away. 
 He says Bell shall not come here again, and he 
 intends to tell her all about the matter." 
 
 " Well, we must hope for the best," replied 
 Mrs. Livingston. " He is in the Lord's hands, 
 and we can safely leave him there ; can you not 
 feel so, brother ?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Mr. Huntingdon, slowly, " I 
 think I feel so now." 
 
GLIMFSES OF INNER LIFE. 19S 
 
 Mrs. Livingston's satisfied countenance told 
 how much pleasure this reply afforded her ; for 
 vainly had she endeavored the evening before to 
 persuade Mr. Huntingdon to seek rest, and leave 
 Edward and his affairs in the hands of that One, 
 who cared more for him than an earthly parent 
 possibly could. 
 
 " O, how little we know what it is to trust ! " 
 continued Mrs. L. — "the most important lesson 
 of our life, and the most difficult. And how ex- 
 ceedingly precious we find it when we begin to 
 comprehend it in somewhat of its fulness and 
 power." 
 
 " I wish I could be as trusting as you are," re- 
 plied Margaret, " Bessie seems to be more like 
 you, but then it is more natural for some to be 
 more trusting than others." 
 
 " But," said Louise, " what is the use of being 
 so trusting, you get so often deceived ?" 
 
 " Not in our heavenly Father, of whom we are 
 speaking, regarding trust," said Mr. Huntingdon. 
 " Earthly friends may deceive us, He never will." 
 
 Louise made no reply, she knew her father 
 meant no allusion to herself, and that he only re- 
 plied generally to her remark, but nevertheless, 
 she did personally apply it, and another one at the 
 table even more closely than she. 
 
 The events of the past few days had fallen with 
 
194 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 a crushing weight upon Miss Noble's heart. 
 Louise had o^ven her a full account of the inter- 
 view with her father, and it was just as much as 
 Miss Noble could do to control herself, and appear 
 before Mr. Huntingdon. She could not raise her 
 eyes to him, for she felt that he would read the very- 
 secret of her soul. Her anguish at times, was 
 intense. 
 
 " Oh ! where shall I go ?" said she to herself, 
 as she excitedly entered her rooom, after prayers. 
 " I cannot stay here, I cannot bear it ; I have no 
 right to be here, either ; I am a worse example to 
 Louise than even Bell. I will not stay. Let me 
 see," and all day long, and many days after, the 
 busy, active brain was planning. 
 
 For the next month Edward Huntingdon was 
 almost a stranger in his father's house. Mr. Hun- 
 tingdon, Bessie, Mr. Belmont, and even- Mrs. 
 Livingston, had tried to conciliate him, but all in 
 vain. He grew more indifferent and morose as 
 each day passed, and it was with deep anxiety and 
 pain -that Mr. Huntingdon marked this change. 
 There was not only such a painful change in his 
 conduct, but in his countenance ; now flushed, 
 now exceedingly pale and haggard ; they feared, 
 though they did not dare to whisper it to each 
 other, that terrible blight, dissipation. They di- 
 vined also, from what they observed and heard, 
 
GLIMPSES OF OXER LIFE. 195 
 
 that he suffered from other troubles, which wore 
 heavily upon him. 
 
 One day Mr. Belmont called, and suggested to 
 Mr. Huntingdon, to send Edward to South Amer- 
 ica on business, instead of one of his clerks, " but, 
 don't intimate to Edward/' continued he, " as you 
 value his true interest, that I suggested this to 
 
 you." 
 
 Mr. Huntingdon discovered at once how advan- 
 tageous this would be for Edward, in his present 
 state of mind, so immediately made the proposition 
 to him. He received it indifferently, but never- 
 theless, his father knew that it pleased him, and 
 in less than two weeks after, he left in the barque 
 Mitchell, for Rio Janeiro. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 DURING- this time, Margaret Huntingdon 
 was passing through intense mental suffer- 
 ing. Her mother's religious experience had open- 
 ed her eyes to her own spiritual wants ; and eager- 
 ly did she seek for the same experience, though 
 tossed and torn with many conflicts and tempta- 
 tions. Her Bible became her constant study, and 
 she sought instruction from all the religious works 
 she could command, but in vain ; her way seemed 
 to grow more and more dark. Often there seemed 
 to come to her a gentle voice, saying, " Seek the 
 counsel of Mrs. Livingston, or Mr. Leslie," but 
 this she could not do. Her pride rebelled again and 
 again. " No, indeed," she said, " I never could 
 tell them how I feel ; what would they think of 
 me ? No, I will keep my feelings all to myself; 
 the Bible is enough, that will teach me ; I shall 
 come right by-and-by :" and Satan thus most ef- 
 fectually hindered her progress. She did not see 
 the mountain Pride straight before her, which 
 she never could get round or over, and so she 
 wandered in temptation and conflict ; till at last, 
 one day, she heard a faithful minister speak upon 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 197 
 
 " human means ;" that though God had the power 
 to convert souls to Himself, and to lead them into 
 righteousness without any teachings of man, yet 
 He generally chose to use human means, as in the 
 case of Saul and Cornelius, and the eunuch to 
 whom Phillip was sent. Margaret now plainly 
 saw that it was her duty to seek some of the 
 Lord's chosen ones for direction. The struggle 
 between duty and pride was severe and lasted 
 long ; till finally, the proud heart broke, and Mar- 
 garet murmured in lowly penitence, " Lord, to 
 whom shall I go ? " The answer came slowly, 
 " To your pastor." 
 
 Oh ! how tremblingly she approached his house 
 a few days after ; but when she reached it, her 
 courage forsook her, and faint and weary, she re- 
 turned home, but only to weep and lament that 
 she did not take up the cross and enter. Again 
 she started weaker, oh ! much weaker in herself 
 than before, but stronger in Christ. Her con- 
 stant prayer was, " Lord build thou me up. Ena- 
 ble me to perform Thy will ;" and He, the ever 
 ready, ever willing Strength, supported her ; and 
 she found herself, she hardly knew how, one even- 
 ing, unbosoming her long sealed, proudly sealed 
 heart, to that one, of all others, she felt should 
 never read its records. 
 
 After some general conversation on the object 
 
] 98 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 of her visit, she said, " Mr. Leslie, you can 
 scarcely imagine how bitter I have felt towards 
 you all this time, and how I have avoided you 
 whenever I could, for fear you might mention the 
 subject to me ; and I have not only felt this bit- 
 terness towards you, but towards all who seem- 
 ed to live this holy and devoted life. I thought 
 they had too good an opinion of themselves, that 
 it was all self-righteousness." 
 
 " You understood them, probably," interrupted 
 Mr. Leslie, " to speak of a work that they had 
 done, and were doing ; not a work Christ had 
 done, and would continue to do." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose so," continued Margaret, 
 "though I thought I was only zealous for the 
 cause of Christ, when I condemned them. Yes, 
 I really thought, and I rather feel it now, that 
 they consider themselves, and all that they do, 
 perfectly correct and proper ; that they think they 
 cannot err in the least : and it seems to me that 
 it is perfect sacrilege to feel so. There is no one 
 perfect but God." 
 
 " Yes, Miss Huntingdon, there is indeed no one 
 perfect but the immaculate, almighty, unapproach- 
 able God. Even the angels, though perfect in 
 their sphere, are as nothing in comparison to this 
 glorious perfection of the Godhead ; but here let 
 me read you a selection from a favorite author of 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 199 
 
 mine." Rising, Mr. Leslie went to his library, 
 and taking down a book, slow]y and thoughtfully 
 read as follows : 
 
 " The highest perfection which man can attain 
 while the soul dwells in the body, does not ex- 
 clude ignorance and error and a thousand other 
 infirmities. Now, from wrong judgments, wrong 
 words and actions will often necessarily flow. 
 And in some cases wrong affections also may 
 spring from the same source. I may judge wrong 
 of you, I may think more or less highly of you 
 than I ought to think. And this mistake in my 
 judgment, may not only occasion something wrong 
 in my behavior, but it may have a still deeper ef- 
 fect ; it may occasion something wrong in my 
 affections. From a wrong apprehension, I may 
 love and esteem you either more or less than I 
 ought. Nor can I be free from a liableness to 
 such a mistake, while I remain in a corruptible 
 body. A thousand infirmities, in consequence of 
 this, will attend my spirit till it returns to God 
 who gave it. And in numberless instances it 
 comes short of doing the will of God as Adam 
 did it in Paradise. Hence the best of men may 
 say from the heart, 
 
 *' Every moment, Lord, I need 
 The merit of thy death;" 
 
200 THE HUNTINGDONS : OB, 
 
 for innumerable violations of the Adamic as well 
 -as the angelic law. It is well, therefore, for us 
 that we are not under these, but under the ' Law 
 of Love.' Love is now 'the fulfilling of the law,' 
 which is given to fallen man. This is now with 
 respect to us the ' perfect law.' But even against 
 this, through the present weakness of our under- 
 standing, we are continually liable to transgress. 
 Therefore, every man living, needs the blood of 
 atonement, or he could not stand before God. 
 
 " What is then the perfection of which man is 
 capable, while he dwells in a corruptible body. 
 It is the complying with that kind command, 
 ' My son give me thy heart.' It is the loving 
 the Lord his God with all his heart, and with all 
 his soul, and with all his mind. 
 
 "St. Paul, when writing to the Galatians, places 
 it in yet another view. It is the one undivided 
 fruit of the Spirit which he describes thus. The 
 4 fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, long-suffer- 
 ing, gentleness, goodness, fidelity, (so the word 
 should be translated here), meekness, temperance.' 
 What a glorious constellation of graces is here ! " 
 
 " Do you understand it now ? " said Mr. Leslie, 
 smilingly. 
 
 " Yes, indeed," replied Margaret. " O, how 
 greatly have I misunderstood, and misrepresented 
 it too. But I did it ignorantly." 
 
GLIMPSES OF IXXEE LIFE. 201 
 
 " I suppose so," replied Mr. Leslie. " I know 
 many Christians now, who are doing the same 
 thing, and they are probably no more aware of 
 it, than you were. And now, Miss Huntingdon, 
 to the point. Have you consecrated yourself 
 fully and unreservedly to Christ ? When you 
 joined the Church, I suppose you gave yourself 
 to him according to the light you then possessed ; 
 but you now have greater light, and see that you 
 have more to give. Are you willing to give your- 
 self — all that you possess, and are— entirely to 
 him ? Can you say this ? 
 
 " Take my soul and body's powers; 
 
 Take my memory, mind, and will, 
 All my goods and all my hours , 
 
 All I know and all I feel ; 
 All I think, or speak, or do; 
 
 Take my heart — but make it new." 
 
 Margaret was silent for a few moments, and 
 then she replied slowly and tearfully, " It seems 
 to me I can. I think when I was willing to come 
 and see you about this matter, I yielded the last 
 thing in my way ; and oh ! how it crushed me to 
 do it. But, Mr. Leslie, maybe there is something 
 I do not know or think about now, that I ought 
 to consecrate." 
 
 44 We are not required, Miss Huntingdon, to 
 consecrate unknown things. Give what you now 
 possess, and when new blessings or objects are 
 
202 THE EUNTINGDONS : CE, 
 
 given to you, consecrate them also. Keep all on 
 the altar, day by day. Can you give up all that 
 you now knowingly possess?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Margaret, " yes, I am willing ; 
 everything ! but oh ! maybe God will call upon 
 me to do something that I shall not be willing to 
 do. I am afraid I can't keep in this submissive, 
 consecrated way." 
 
 " Satan would like to frighten you, if he could," 
 pleasantly replied Mr. Leslie, " by placing some 
 great mountain in your way, which exists only in 
 your imagination. One thing is certain, God does 
 not give grace for imaginary duties ; it is too 
 precious to be wasted : and another thing, He will 
 give you grace for every trial he wishes you to 
 endure, and for every duty He calls you to per- 
 form, if you accept it, and thus will make you 
 willing and ready to perform it. Oh ! Miss Hun- 
 tingdon, let the future all alone. This life, like 
 our earthly existence, is only a present life. We 
 can live only a moment at a time, and you must 
 shut yourself up to living by the moment. This 
 moment you have the ' blood which cleanseth from 
 all sin ;' this moment you have His abiding pres- 
 ence, His strength, His wisdom, His righteous- 
 ness — if you appropriate it by faith. The next 
 moment you have nothing to do with. Ah ! it is 
 sweet, very sweet to learn to be a moment Chris- 
 tian ; then we know and feel what dependence is ; 
 
GLIMPSES OF IXXER LIFE. 203 
 
 what it is to be nothing, Christ everything ! Do 
 you think that you can live this way ? and are you 
 not now ready to believe, that Christ immediately 
 enters your heart, the moment you consecrate it 
 all to Him?" 
 
 "Yes," said Margaret, "I am, for He has 
 promised it, and I do not dare to disbelieve Him." 
 
 "Unto you, therefore, which believe, He is 
 precious," replied Mr. Leslie. 
 
 Margaret bowed her head on her hand a few 
 moments, and then raising it, a holy smile radiating 
 her face, she sweetly, mildly said, " Is this all ? 
 Oh ! how sweet, how pure I feel. Christ is in 
 my heart, I know. But oh ! will He, will He 
 keep — yes!" and again the smile came more 
 beautiful than before. " Yes, He will keep me, 
 for He has all power. If He can keep me one 
 moment, He can another ; and oh ! I've only one 
 moment to live at a time. Blessed Jesus, blessed 
 Jesus, my Saviour, my all ! " 
 
 Softly and tenderly Mr. Leslie now sang : 
 
 " Complete in thee, no work of mine 
 May take, dear Lord, the place of thine, 
 Thy blood has pardon bought for me, 
 And I am now complete in thee. 
 
 " Complete in thee — each want supplied, 
 And no good thing to me denied ; 
 Since thou my portion, Lord, will be, 
 I ask no more — complete in thee. 
 
204 THE huxtixgdoxs : OR, 
 
 " Complete in thee, forever blest, 
 Of all thy fulness, Lord, possessed, 
 Thy praise throughout eternity — 
 Thy love I'll sing, complete in thee." 
 
 And now beo;an Margaret's real life. At first 
 Satan took advantage of her naturally strict sense 
 of right and wrong, and uro;ed her into an over-scru- 
 pulousness of conscience. But the Lord showed 
 her* the error, and day by day, she grew more 
 charitable, and unwilling to judge others ; so all 
 took knowledge that she had been with Jesus. 
 Then, too, she sought for a time to make her expe- 
 rience agree with others, and felt discouraged when 
 it did not ; but again the Lord came to her relief, 
 and assured her that He was leading her through a 
 different path from those about her ; and then she 
 felt content to have an experience of her own. 
 Then, her naturally severe manner of speaking, 
 caused her great sorrow. She saw how much it 
 hindered her usefulness, but " grace will conquer 
 it," said she ; and expectant she prayed and wait- 
 ed, and gradually she saw it vanishing away, melt- 
 ed down by Divine love. 
 
 " Oh," said she to a friend whom she was en- 
 deavoring to lead into the true Christian life, and 
 who spoke of some who professed it, as not living 
 up to it ; who at home were a trial and grief to 
 their families — " My friend, I fear they do not 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE 205 
 
 possess it. If they do not evince the in-dwelling 
 Christ at home, radiating all their actions and 
 words, how can he be in their hearts ? They must 
 be mistaken. True, they may be, and often are, 
 misjudged by those who are prejudiced, and know 
 not the influence which controls them ; yet as a 
 general thing, the ' inner life ' hid in Christ must 
 tell upon all around. If you hear them called 
 6 fanatics,' ' enthusiastic ' or ' self-righteous,' don't 
 wonder, for the 4 offence of the cross ' has not yet 
 ceased ; but if they are spoken of by those who are 
 charitable and discriminating, as being discontent- 
 ed, selfish, neglectful, censorious and unkind, O, 
 these are not the fruits of the Spirit. They de- 
 serve just censure." 
 
 Margaret could well say this, for she knew her 
 Christian life now corresponded with her words, 
 though she saw much — and every attainment only 
 discovered more — which she longed to attain unto. 
 
 She especially sought to abound richly in that 
 love which " suffereth lono; and is kind, envieth 
 not, vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not 
 behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is 
 not easily provoked, thinketh no evil, rejoiceth not 
 in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth, beareth all 
 things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, en- 
 dureth all things, and which never faileth." 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 f i^HE winter passed very quietly with the 
 1 Huntingclons. One Sabbath however, there 
 was, for memory ever to look back upon with in- 
 creasing delight ; the day when Mr. Huntington, 
 Mr. Belmont and Bessie consecrated themselves 
 publicly to the cause of Christ. Margaret also re- 
 newed her vows that day, being received by letter ; 
 and it was indeed a precious Sabbath unto her. 
 During the winter she and Bessie found it their most 
 delightsome work, to minister to the poor, the sor- 
 rowing and the needy, and they ever found Mr. 
 Huntingdon and Mrs. Livingston efficient helpers 
 as well as advisers. . 
 
 Louise, debarred from her usual pleasures, by 
 the season of mourning, passed her time principal- 
 ly in pernicious-novel reading, and " castle-build- 
 ine." Che never forgot Mr. Carleton ; and often 
 looked forward with pleasure to his return in the 
 spring. She would hope, even against hope, and 
 comfort herself with " Perhaps he isn't engaged," 
 " There's many a slip between the cup and the 
 lip," or " who knows what may happen." Thus 
 
GLIMPSES OF IXNEE LIFE. 207 
 
 dreaming and sighing, although every member of 
 the family tried to rouse her to some exertion — 
 something worthy of herself — she passed the time 
 away. 
 
 In early Spring, Mr. Huntingdon decided to 
 accept a proposition from Mrs. Livingston, which 
 she had been urging during the winter, that the 
 family should all go to Easy Hall, till the next 
 winter. Mr. Huntingdon was especially affected 
 in his decision, by Louise's health, and was great- 
 ly surprised when she manifested, not pleasure, 
 but disappointment, at the arrangement. Mar- 
 garet and Bessie were delighted at the change, 
 while Georgie evinced but little interest any way. 
 
 The grass was just peeping above the bare 
 earth, and the merry birds beginning their morn- 
 ing concerts, when the Huntingdons went to Easy 
 Hall. Days and weeks passed before they were 
 domesticated for the summer. Bessie could find 
 no place so satisfying to her as the attic, and so 
 begged her aunt to allow her father to partition 
 her off a little room up there, which would include 
 an east window overlooking the village and sur- 
 rounding country — a great attraction for her. 
 It was from that attic window, one morning, 
 while gazing upon the beautiful harbor, and the 
 back ground of their landscape, she saw for the first 
 time, her " field of labor.'' It was early morning, 
 
208 THE HUNTINGDON^ : OR, 
 
 and round many a little cottage door in the vil- 
 lage beneath her, she noticed groups of children, 
 some poorly clad, others better, but all evidently 
 belonging to the laboring class of society. As she 
 gazed upon them, and watched their sports, her 
 heart warmed, and her imagination grew very 
 busy, weaving a plan for the coming summer. 
 
 She could hardly await the completion of 
 " morning duties," which, at Easy Hall, were per- 
 formed with that exactness and propriety which 
 left many hours for work and enjoyment, not found 
 in those households where any slight, but interest- 
 ing matter, may be allowed to interfere for ten, 
 perhaps for twenty minutes, with the general rou- 
 tine of the house. So Bessie knew better than 
 to mention her plan till Mrs. Livingston returned 
 to her room for the day. 
 
 Then she entered, eagerly exclaiming, " O, 
 aunty ! I have done nothing but cultivate patience 
 all the morning ! It has seemed to me as if you 
 never would get through ' mothering.' " 
 
 " Why, I have not been very long," returned 
 Mrs. Livingston, glancing at her watch, " beside, 
 it is Monday, you know, and I always have a lit- 
 tle more to attend to. But now what is the mat- 
 ter, over which you have gained such an amount 
 of patience ? — though if it is a long story, I will 
 take my work — ' a moment saved, is a moment 
 gained.' " 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 209 
 
 {i Well, take your work," said Bessie, " for then 
 I shan't feel hurried " — and while Mrs. Livingston 
 was getting it, she continued, " This morning, as I 
 was looking from my window, at the ' harbor 
 view,' I noticed the children of the village out at 
 play, and now I know, from what you have told 
 me, that I can do good amongst them/' — 
 
 Just here, Margaret entered. 
 
 " O, you here !" said she to Bessie. " Well, 
 no matter ; you can hear as well as aunt. I came 
 in, aunt Livington, to tell you of a little project, 
 about which I have been thinking, and — " 
 
 " O, Margaret ! " broke in Bessie, " I am just 
 telling one of mine to aunty, mayn't I finish it ? 
 I've been waiting so long." 
 
 " Can't you cultivate patience, a little longer ? " 
 said Mrs. Livingston. 
 
 " Yes," sighingly replied Bessie. 
 
 ■' No," returned Margaret, " You were here 
 first, and I interrupted you ; so continue your con- 
 versation, I can wait, easily." 
 
 Bessio glanced up for Mrs. Livingston's approv- 
 al, and meeting it, continued, " Well, Margaret, I 
 was telling aunty about my seeing the children of 
 the village out at play, and that I wanted to do 
 them good, in some way, and I thought — " 
 
 Hero Margaret interrupted again with a mer- 
 ry laugh, and said, " Well, I declare, just what I 
 wanted to speak with aunt about. I noticed a 
 
210 THE HUNTINGDONS: OR, 
 
 number of children playing in the streets yester- 
 day afternoon, and have been thinking how I could 
 interest them on the Sabbath. There is no service 
 in the afternoon at the church." 
 
 " Did you think you would have a Sunday 
 school ?" said Bessie. 
 
 " Yes," said Margaret, "Why ? " 
 
 "Then we are agreed," replied Bessie, for that 
 was exactly what I was to propose to aunty." 
 
 " And exactly what I intended to propose to 
 you both, this week," returned Mrs. Livingston. 
 
 " How singular !" said Bessie, " that we should 
 all be thinking of the same tiring." 
 
 " You will often find it so," replied Mrs. Liv- 
 ingston. " The Lord generally prepares all those 
 He calls to perform special work in His vineyard." 
 
 After some further conversation about how they 
 should proceed with the school, they decided to 
 go out two afternoons the coming week, in the 
 village, to obtain scholars. 
 
 " Where shall we hold the Sabbath school ? " 
 said Bessie ; " you haven't any room, aunty, ex- 
 actly right." 
 
 " No," replied Mrs. Livingston, " and though I 
 might use the dining room, yet I had rather obtain 
 a room in the village, if possible." 
 
 " Don't you think we might secure the village 
 school house ? " said Bessie. 
 
 " I dou'Dt it," returned Mrs. Livingston, " for 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 211 
 
 some who control it would not consent, I think, 
 for a Sabbath school to be held in it. We might 
 try, however." 
 
 The trial was made, but they were unsuccessful, 
 and also in one or two other places for which they 
 applied. 
 
 " Isn't there a hall in this house ? " said Mar- 
 garet, as they passed one of the village hotels. 
 
 " Yes," replied Mrs. Livingston, " but I hardly 
 think the proprietor would let it for such a pur- 
 pose. He is quite a stern man, and I don't think 
 it would be of any use to ask him." 
 
 " Mayn't I try ? " said Bessie, glancing up at 
 the bar-room windows. 
 
 " Yes," responded Mrs. Livingston, " there's no 
 harm in trying, but I can't encourage you as to 
 your success." 
 
 " Well," replied Bessie, glancing up again more 
 assuredly, " I think I will try. Somehow I seem 
 to have that faith I shall not be denied. Will you 
 wait for me ? or you can walk on ; I can over- 
 take you." 
 
 •' No," said Mrs. Livingston, " We will go in 
 to Mrs. Ireton's," — which was on the opposite 
 side of the road — " and make a call, and then you 
 can join us." 
 
 The hotel keeper had noticed from his windows, 
 the ladies conversing together, and glancing to- 
 ward the house, so that when he saw Bessie came 
 
212 THE HOTTINGDONS : OK, 
 
 on to the piazza, and heard her knock at the bar- 
 room door, he was prepared to meet her. 
 
 " Come in," said he. 
 
 Bessie hesitated at entering, but as she heard 
 again " come in," in rather a louder and more 
 urgent voice, she opened the door, and just stepped 
 in. 
 
 " Excuse me," said she hastily, and nervously, 
 too, " but I have a favor to ask of you." 
 
 "Wont you be seated?" replied he. 
 
 "No, thank you," returned she. "Would you 
 be willing to let your hall every Sabbath after- 
 noon, to Mrs. Livingston ?" 
 
 " What for?" responded he, gazing quizzically 
 at her. 
 
 " For a Sabbath School," replied she. " We 
 would pay you well for it. There are so many 
 poor children around here, and they pass all 
 the Sabbath afternoons playing in the streets, and 
 we have been trying to find a place, but no one 
 will let us one ; now, wont you ? We'll pay you 
 well." 
 
 " No ; I can't let my hall in any such way," re- 
 plied the landlord. 
 
 Bessie gave him one quick, sad glance, and 
 only saying, " I am very sorry," turned to leave 
 the room. 
 
 " Stop ! " said he ; "I said I couldn't let my 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 213 
 
 hall any such way, but you can use it. I don't 
 want any pay." 
 
 Bessie stood looking wonderingly at him for a 
 moment, then comprehending what he had said, 
 she gave him one of her own merry, winning 
 smiles, and replied. " Why sir ! you are too 
 good, T didn't expect it." 
 
 " Didn't ! " replied he, " Well, you can have it, 
 and welcome, this way ;" and turning round, the 
 stern landlord busied himself about some things 
 on the bar. 
 
 Bessie walked as decorously as possible across 
 the street, and quickly informed Mrs. Livingston 
 of her success, who could hardly persuade her- 
 self that Bessie was speaking the truth. 
 
 The calls upon the parents were made, and 
 proved quite successful ; for when the Sabbath 
 came, Mrs. Livingston, Margaret, Bessie, and 
 some friends of theirs, met eighteen children, 
 boys and girls, in the Central Hall, which had 
 been swept, cleaned and arranged, for their com- 
 fort and convenience. Amongst the pupils were 
 two children of the landlord's, bright interesting 
 girls. These two, with three others, comprised 
 Bessie's first Sabbath School class. 
 
 Margaret took an older class of misses, from 
 twelve to fourteen, while Mrs. Livingston super- 
 intended. 
 
214 THE HUNTIXGDONS : OR, 
 
 " How sweet it is to work for the Lord," said 
 Mrs. Livingston to Margaret, as they were re- 
 turning home from the Sabbath School. 
 
 " Sweet," replied Margaret thoughtfully, " yes, 
 indeed ! It seems to me as if I had only 
 just now begun to live. I felt a little sad at first 
 to leave my poor people in the city, but see how 
 soon the Lord has given me again, souls, precious 
 souls, for which to labor. I find my pupils very 
 interesting, and I know I shall love them. I only 
 wish I could see them oftener than on the Sab- 
 bath." 
 
 " Ask the Lord and He will give you oppor- 
 tunities," replied Mrs. L. 
 
 Just here they missed Bessie, and looking back 
 perceived her coming across the dam, with quite 
 a flock of children about her. 
 
 " See," said Mrs. Livingston, " the little shep- 
 herdess and her lambs. God grant that she may 
 be a faithful one unto them." 
 
 Here Margaret heaved a little sigh, which did 
 not escape Mrs. Livingston, and she said, u Why 
 do you sigh Margaret ? " 
 
 " Because I wish I was more like Bessie ; she 
 is so winning and simple, every body loves her ; 
 just see how quickly she has won the hearts of 
 those little ones." 
 
 " Bessie has a different nature from yours, 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 215 
 
 Margaret," replied Mrs. Livingston, " and as you 
 say, all love her. She is thus eminently fitted to 
 do much good in the world, and in this respect, 
 God will require more from her, than from you. 
 But Margaret, ' love begets love,' and though you 
 may be longer winning the affections of those 
 with whom you come in contact, persevere, you 
 will finally succeed." 
 
 Bessie now joined them, and half breathlessly 
 exclaimed, " Well, I have work enough now on 
 hand ! We were admiring the flowers — the 
 children and myself- — as we crossed the dam, and 
 one little bright-eyed girl — Maggie is her name 
 — asked me if I wouldn't go up to the hill 
 with them some time to gather flowers, and so I 
 promised them to go next Saturday, which is 
 their play-day ; so you see I'm getting plenty of 
 occupation." 
 
 " Just the best kind in which you can be em- 
 ployed," returned Mrs. Livingston. 
 
 But the coming Saturday, Bessie was not en- 
 gaged in rambling over the hill-side with her 
 Sabbath School children, but writing a letter, a 
 part of which was as follows : — 
 
 " A minister's wife ! Why, Harry, I am the 
 last person in the world, fitted for such a position. 
 I never had even the pleasure of being acquainted 
 with one, unless I except aunty, who held that po- 
 
216 THE HUNTIXGDOXS : OR, 
 
 sition for a year ; then dear uncle Livingston died. 
 But I never could be such a woman as she is, and 
 I am sure, I should know nothing of the duties 
 required of so important a person as a minister's 
 wife. No, no, I could not be one. Are you quite 
 certain it is your duty and calling to be a minis- 
 ter ? Hasn't Mr. Leslie rather persuaded you 
 into it ? for I know he is extremely partial to you. 
 Do think this matter seriously over, and consider, 
 how unfitted is such an inexperienced, simple 
 child as Bessie Huntingdon, to go in and out be- 
 fore a people — to be a pattern unto them. No, 
 Harry, my whole nature cries out against it. I 
 do believe, if you conclude to be a minister, it 
 will be my duty to resign my place to some other, 
 
 but Oh ! 
 
 " The above may seem to you written rather 
 lightly, but I assure you I feel this deeply, I 
 can't persuade myself it is true. I do want to be 
 an instrument of doing a great deal of good in 
 the world, but I shrink from such a position. I 
 have not told aunty about it yet, but I shall to- 
 night ; and her opinion, of course, will influence 
 me a great deal. I must acknowledge that I 
 fear to ask her. O, I hope she wont agree with 
 
 you." 
 
 Later that evening, Bessie Huntingdon was 
 seated in Mrs. Livingston's room, while Mrs. L. 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 217 
 
 was reading Mr. Belmont's letter to Bessie, in 
 which he informed her of his determination to 
 study for the ministry. 
 
 Tear after tear trickled down Mrs. Livingston's 
 face as she perused the letter, and once or twice 
 Bessie caught the ejaculation, " Thank God." 
 The moment she finished reading it, before she 
 could speak, Bessie seated herself on a low stool 
 at her feet, and burying her face in Mrs. L's lap, 
 said, in a trembling, weeping voice : 
 
 " Oh ! aunty, I know just what you are going 
 to say ; just what I don't wish you to, for I can't 
 be a minister's wife, to have everybody watch me 
 and criticise me ! If I was fitted for one, why, it 
 would be different, but I am not." 
 
 " Bessie," said Mrs. Livingston, in a grieved 
 tone, "I am surprised ! " 
 
 " Yes, I know you are," returned Bessie, "you 
 have always thought me so good ; but now 
 you see just how wicked I am. I have tried to 
 feel right about this, but I can't ; it's not that I 
 do not wish to labor for my precious Master ; no, 
 indeed ; I will work in any place but this ; I could 
 be a teacher now, quite contentedly." 
 
 " Thy will be done," replied Mrs. Livingston, 
 slowly and emphatically. 
 
 Bessie was silent a few moments, and then 
 she raised up her face, and smiling through her 
 tears, said : 
 
218 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 " Is this the Lord's will concerning me ?" 
 
 " Do you not see it so ? " returned Mrs. L. 
 
 " No," replied Bessie, " I had not looked at it as 
 His will exactly. I felt that it was more the will of 
 Mr. Belmont, but I see it now." Then, soon after, 
 she continued slowly, though tearfully, " Yes, 
 4 His will be done,' " and the head was bowed 
 again. 
 
 " Bessie," said Mrs. Livingston, " it is well that 
 you have learned thus early that ' it is not in the 
 way of man to direct his steps.' "VVe often pro- 
 pose to ourselves a certain sphere, where we think 
 we are fitted to labor, and build hopes and lay 
 plans about it. Suddenly the hopes are laid low, 
 the plans defeated, and we find to our regret, that 
 we are not doino; God's will but our own, though 
 we think we are doing His will, because we are 
 laboring for good, and that all good must be His 
 will. Now I have not the slightest doubt, but 
 that our heavenly Father has called both you and 
 Mr. Belmont to the spheres you have in prospect ; 
 and from what 1 have judged of your nature, in- 
 stead of your being unfitted, you are eminently 
 fitted for the place." 
 
 44 Why, aunty, how can you think so ? I, who 
 lean so much upon my friends, to be a leader and 
 exemplar to others ! I, who have no experience 
 or the world, and know so little what is required 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE 219 
 
 of a minister's wife ! Why, I should n't know- 
 how to do a single tiling ! " 
 
 Mrs. Livingston smiled, and patting the head 
 before her, replied, 
 
 " Well ! well ! it will be more than three years 
 before you will be required to assume such a posi- 
 tion, and in the meantime, you can be fitting your- 
 self. Shall I tell you my feelings with regard to 
 a minister's wife ? " 
 
 " Yes, aunty ; for if I have got to be one, I 
 want to be one of the best. I have heard peo- 
 ple find fault with ministers' wives, and I have 
 wondered if they were to blame. Don't you 
 think more is expected of them than should be ? " 
 
 " Not generally," said Mrs. Livingston, " for 
 what woman is there, who holds such a position, 
 for example and influence, as the wife of an ear- 
 nest, devoted pastor. All the world recognizes 
 the importance of her position, and they have a 
 standard by which they try her, as well as their 
 pastor ; and in general, I do not think this stand- 
 ard too high. Every woman, therefore, who as- 
 sumes the place of pastor's wife, knows that there 
 is this standard existing, and it will ever remain, 
 and all she can do, she cannot alter it ; therefore, 
 she ou^ht to recognize it, and endeavor to con- 
 form herself to it. It wont do for her to say, ' I 
 married my husband, and not his church.' This 
 
220 THE HUNTHSTGDONS : OR, 
 
 may be true, in one respect, but it involves a false 
 feeling in it ; for the interests of bis church and 
 himself are so intertwined, that to make her hus- 
 band a happy and useful man, she must marry, 
 in a certain way which she ought to understand, 
 his church as well as himself. 
 
 " If there is any woman who should be conse- 
 crated, soul, mind and body, to the Lord Jesus, it 
 is a minister's wife. She is not one to be con- 
 formed to the world ; to ' set fashions,' or even to 
 follow them so closely as to be marked. Ah ! 
 how grieved was I, to hear a young Christian 
 once remark to me, \ Why, Mrs. A.,' referring to 
 her minister's wife, ' is the most fashionable lady 
 that goes into our church ; everything she has is 
 so fine and nice, and she dresses with such ex- 
 quisite taste, you cannot help noticing her. And 
 again, another young lady remarked to me, in 
 whom I was endeavoring to cultivate simplicity of 
 dress, ' Why, there is Mrs. B. ; she is the minis- ■ 
 ter's wife, and she doesn't dress simply at all.' I 
 was obliged to tell her, that she must not look to 
 ministers' wives for patterns. Christ was our only 
 example. 
 
 " But though this is true, and we cannot and 
 ought not to make patterns of ministers' wives, 
 yet many will do so, especially the weak lambs of 
 the flock, and therefore, how exceedingly careful 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 221 
 
 should they be, that they do nothing but what 
 they are willing should be copied." 
 
 " Ah ! but aunty," said Bessie, " this is hard, 
 and who can do it ? I am sure I shall not." 
 
 " As your day is, so shall your strength be," 
 replied Mrs. Livingston. " God does not place 
 us in any position, but what He will give us suffi- 
 cient grace — if we seek it — for that position ; 
 therefore, if we fail the fault is only in ourselves. 
 Another reason why a minister's wife should be 
 ' consecrated, soul, body and mind to the Lord,' is, 
 that slie has more opportunities than many other 
 women to do good, and people rather expect from 
 her, as from the minister, words of Christian ad- 
 vice and comfort. Her very position affords her a 
 peculiar power and freedom, and therefore, what 
 might be taken amiss from another, would be con- 
 sidered only perfectly proper from her. She can in- 
 troduce about what plans she desires amongst her 
 people, and the minister's wife ' says so,' is often 
 taken as a standard for right or wrong." 
 
 " Well, aunty," said Bessie, " I feel more and 
 more how little fitted I am for such an one. You 
 yourself must feel it too." 
 
 " I am glad you feel it so sensibly," replied Mrs. 
 Livingston, u for I trust your very weakness will 
 enable you to rely wholly upon Him who is your 
 strength. I should feel much more alarmed for you, 
 
222 the huntingdons : on, 
 
 if you felt equal to the task, for then, I should fear 
 you would undertake it in your own strength, 
 which would be perfect weakness, and result in an 
 utter failure." 
 
 " But, aunty," said Bessie, after a few moments 
 pause, " don't you think sometimes, that people of 
 a parish expect too much work from a minister's 
 wife, visiting the sick, atterding the meetings, 
 &c." 
 
 " Yes, Bessie, I agree with you here, for we 
 have often seen it, that when a minister's wife be- 
 gins to go in and out amongst the church, it hap- 
 pens, as with her husband often, there are incessant 
 demands upon her time, and unkind feelings if 
 she does not accede to every one of those demands. 
 Now, I believe our kind Father has given each one 
 of his children just so much labor in the vineyard 
 to perform, that we are not to be continually hur- 
 ried in this world, and that there is a limit to 
 work, and I believe if we make it a subject of 
 prayer, we ' shall be guided into all truth,' in this 
 matter. Here you, as a pastor's wife, would need 
 teaching from above, to see just how to use your 
 time to the best advantage for your own soul, 
 your family, and the good of the parish. And 
 the minister's wife should be frank with the peo- 
 ple about it, tell them how she has arranged her 
 affairs, and what she can do for them, and what 
 
GLIMPSES OF IXXEH LIFE. 2Z3 
 
 she can not. Nearly all the fault finding in the 
 world arises from ignorance, and I have often 
 found it the best way to silence fault finders, to let 
 them know as far* as I thought proper, what I have 
 to do, and ask them to arrange it better for me. 
 Afterwards I have found them the ones to say, 
 ' you had better know about her affairs, before 
 you speak, she has many a care of which you 
 know nothing.' A friend of mine told me, that 
 at one time she remarked to another lady, ' that 
 she was surprised her minister's wife hired so 
 much sewing done. She kept a seamstress the 
 whole time, and she did not see how her husband 
 could afford it, as he received but a small salary. 
 She said she had totally forgotten the circum- 
 stances, until one evening, when she was visiting 
 at the minister's, and they were conversing about 
 how one could employ her time the most worthily, 
 the minister's wife remarked to her with charm- 
 ing frankness, 
 
 ' Some people think that I ought to sew more ; 
 but from childhood I was very slow with my 
 needle ; besides, sitting at sewing a loner time srives 
 
 J a © © © 
 
 me a severe pain in my side, and I have found 
 from experience, I can do but little of it, and keep 
 well. I therefore hire a sewing girl for my family, 
 but I earn her wages all myself, in one-sixth the 
 time it would take me to do her work.' 
 1 Ah ! ' said my friend, ' is that so ? ' 
 
224: THE HUNTIXGDONS : OE, 
 
 6 Yes,' said the minister's wife. ' I write a little 
 story now and then for the children, and the re- 
 ceipts fully pay my servant, if not more ; and then 
 I have so much time to visit my people, and to do 
 for others, that I can never thank my Father 
 enough for the talent he has given me." 
 
 My friend told me that this proved an excellent 
 lesson to her. She could never forget it, and 
 often relates the story, when she hears any one 
 uttering a rash judgment." 
 
 Mrs. Livingston and Bessie sat some time longer 
 conversing, and when Bessie returned to her room 
 she took out her letter and commenced on another 
 page. "It is the Lord ; let Him do what seemeth 
 Him good." 
 
CHAPTER xvirr. 
 
 AH, how wearily passed all this time to 
 Louise Huntingdon. It was in vain that 
 her father and Mrs. Livingston reasoned with her, 
 and endeavored to rouse her to something which 
 would benefit her health, and in time, interest her ; 
 they could effect no improvement, and therefore 
 her health grew more and more delicate. Finally 
 her father became quite alarmed concerning her, 
 and at her physician's recommendation, conclud- 
 ed to send her for a while to S Springs, in 
 
 hopes that the water and change might benefit 
 her. At first he thought of sending her under 
 charge of Edward, whom he expected home in a 
 few weeks, but just before the time Louise had 
 arranged to leave, Edward wrote that he should 
 stop at Cuba on his way home, so they need not 
 expect him till Autumn ; and now, as Mr. Hunt- 
 ingdon could not possibly leave himself on account 
 of business, he concluded to send Louise with 
 Georgie to accompany her, under the care of Mr. 
 and Mrs. Marchmont, intimate friends of the fam- 
 
226 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 ily, who intended to j ass some weeks at the 
 Springs. 
 
 Even the thoughts of the trip seemed tc arouse 
 and strengthen Louise, and she exerted herself more 
 to prepare for the journey, than she had done dur- 
 ing the past six months. To an attentive observer, 
 Georgie was, if possible, more pleased than Louise, 
 though she evidently tried to conceal her satisfac- 
 tion. Finally the last dress was made, and the 
 last day passed, for one at least, at Easy Hall. 
 
 The close of the next day found them at S 
 
 Springs. Then commenced " life " for Louise — 
 about the same routine every day — three or four 
 hours passed in dressing, four or five more loung- 
 ing about the drawing room and piazzas, with an 
 occasional ride, and a daily walk to the " springs." 
 
 The greatest desires of her heart were satisfied, 
 in receiving abundance of admiration and atten- 
 tion. She found also, with so many surrounding 
 her, she could forget Mr. Carleton, in a measure, 
 though now and then there would come a pang, 
 as she compared him with others. 
 
 " I suppose it was society she needed," said her 
 father to Mrs. Livingston, after reading one of 
 Louise's letters, in which she had mentioned her 
 restored health, and how thankful she was he had 
 sent her there. " I am sorry she is so fond of it; 
 I wish her tastes were more like Margaret's and 
 Bessie's." 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 227 
 
 " The Lord only can change her heart," replied 
 Mrs. L. " She is entirely engrossed with this 
 world and its pleasures, and you cannot persuade 
 her but that we are all wrong in our views of life, 
 and she right. She has often said to me, ' it is 
 my taste makes me so different from you. I can- 
 not find any pleasure in such common place affairs 
 as you do, and I do not know why I should be 
 blamed for having such taste ; it was born in me.' 
 Well, experience will teach her at least, and she 
 is in the Lord's hands, and He will lead her, just 
 as it is best." 
 
 "What is the matter with you Georgie Noble ?" 
 said Louise, one day. Why, I never saw you so 
 nervous ; first you are looking out of this window, 
 then out of that, and you keep yourself in a con- 
 stant motion." 
 
 " What is the matter ? " replied Georgie, turn- 
 ing round from the window, and gazing steadfast- 
 ly at Louise, " why I wanted to see if it was going 
 to rain ; I am going out." 
 
 " Oh ! dear me," returned Louise, "how you 
 can enjoy such long walks I don't see ; why you 
 were gone nearly three hours yesterday, and Mrs. 
 Marchmont became so alarmed that she spoke of 
 going in search of you, for fear some accident had 
 happened to you." 
 
228 THE HUNTINGDOXS I OR, 
 
 " Was that so ? " replied Georgie. " Well, I 
 shan't go again after to-day to worry her. By 
 the way. Lulu, I wish you'd lend me some money ; 
 I want to purchase some things, and I haven't 
 enough." 
 
 " Well, take what you wish," returned Louise, 
 " My purse is in my drawer." 
 
 Georgie opened the drawer, and, without look- 
 ing in the purse, took it up, and placed it in her 
 pocket, then turning round she came to Louise, 
 who was lying on the bed, and said, 
 
 " Lulu, how much better you do look. I must 
 kiss you this morning," and bending down, she 
 kissed her a number of times. 
 
 " Why, Georgie Noble," returned Louise, 
 " what is the matter with you ? Seems to me you 
 do appear very strange to-day, When can I rer 
 member of your kissing me before !" 
 
 "Do I?" responded Georgie, turning to her 
 wardrobe. " Well, don't get worried if you 
 shouldn't see me by noon, and tell Mrs. March- 
 montl will take care of myself." 
 
 A few moments more and Georgie passed out 
 saying, " Good-bye, Lulu. Let me always see 
 you looking just so bright." When the door was 
 shut, she stopped a moment and seemed to be 
 undecided about something, then murmuring, 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 229 
 
 " Better not," she passed on quickly, down the 
 stairs and out a side entrance. 
 
 Noon came, but no Georgie, and Mrs. March- 
 mont was again uneasy over her long absence. 
 Coming into Louise's room, an hour past noon, 
 she saidj 
 
 " Miss Huntingdon, I don't exactly like these 
 long rambles of your cousin. I don't see what she 
 can find with which to amuse herself so long. To 
 tell the truth, I am a little suspicious of her. She 
 has not an open frank way in speaking about it. 
 But there, perhaps I ought not to express my- 
 self so. I only mentioned it, thinking perhaps 
 you might have noticed something strange in 
 her." 
 
 " I have not before, until this morning," replied 
 Louise, " and then her conduct seemed very 
 strange to me, and I spoke of it to her, but she 
 did not pay much heed to it. She said she should 
 not go out again, after this morning, and that if 
 she did not return by noon I must not be worried. 
 She is naturally of the disposition ycu find her, 
 besides she has some private troubles which make 
 her more reserved, I think." Just here they 
 were interrupted by a knock at the door, and on 
 Louise opening it, a porter handed her a note di- 
 rected to herself. 
 
 " 'Tis from Georgie," said she, in a surprised 
 
230 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 tone, as she took it, and glanced at the hand- 
 writing. Opening it, she found another note di- 
 rected to Mrs. Marchmont, which she passed to 
 that lady, saying, in a more excited tone, " What 
 does this mean ? " 
 
 Mrs. Marchmont nervously opened hers, but 
 read only a few lines, as Louise suddenly exclaim- 
 ed, " Oh ! Mrs. Marchmont, I shall faint — pass 
 me that — that — " but the words were lost, and 
 Louise lay in a death like swoon. Mrs. March- 
 mont rang the bell immediately for assistance, 
 and administered the remedies she had at hand. 
 But, ere assistance came, Louise revived some- 
 what, and recovered, so as to be conscious. She 
 was placed upon the bed, but she said nothing, 
 and as she seemed tranquil, Mrs. Marchmont took 
 up the letter which Louise had dropped, and 
 hushing her own trembling heart, she read. 
 
 " Dear Lulu, 
 
 How sweetly you are sleeping now, at this midnight hour, 
 little dreaming what cousin Georgie is doing. 
 
 " Two — three letters has she written, and now the last one 
 she will ever write as she is — is commenced. Twenty-four 
 hours hence, oh, Lulu ! where and what will she be? Shall 
 I tell you ? can you not imagine it ? Draw down your head 
 and I will whisper it ; far from you, forever parted from you, 
 forever united to another — a wife ! Yes, Lulu, twenty-four 
 hours hence, I shall be the wife of Mr. Say brook. You 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 231 
 
 know better than any one else how I have loved him, and 
 what an idol he is to me. Yes, I do worship him. I know 
 he has faults, one vry great one — but my love o'erlooks 
 them, and I have faith he will overcome them. 
 
 " I know neither your family, nor my own, — what is spar- 
 ed to me — approve of my choice, but I marry to please my- 
 self; and as this month has made me a free woman, I feel at 
 liberty to follow this choice. Mr. Saybrook has been in town 
 during the past week, and you can now imagine with whom 
 I have been taking my long walks. We are to be married at 
 a cousin's of his, Mr. Wm. Saybrook, to-morrow morning, at 
 
 eleven o'clock. This cousin lives about five miles from S , 
 
 on the road to B , in a large white house, a weeping elm 
 
 in front. I mention this to you thus particularly, because I 
 shall expect a visit from you, and Mr. and Mrs. Marchmont, 
 day after to-morrow. Now you may wonder why I do not 
 invite you to the wedding. 1 did think of it at first, but 
 was afraid, as Mr. and Mrs. Marchmont do not understand 
 my affairs, it might produce an unpleasant explanation, if 
 not serious trouble, and Lulu, I would not invite you with- 
 out them, as it might in some way place you in a false posi- 
 tion. You understand me, you might get blamed unjustly 
 at home, perhaps. I expect your family, especially your 
 father, will be very much displeased at my taking this step, 
 and indeed I am very sorry to cause this displeasure ; but 
 how or what else can I do? I am determined to marry Mr. 
 Saybrook, and I am quite positive your father, as well as my 
 step-father would never consent to it. I therefore take the 
 matter into my own hands, and am willing to abide by the 
 consequences. I do hope, though, it will not cause you any 
 uneasiness or unhappiness. 1 have written to your father 
 and told him all the circumstances. Please read this to Mrs. 
 Marchmont, to whom I have also written, informing her of 
 my intended marriage, and inviting her to call on me. 
 
232 THE HUNTINGDONS : OE, 
 
 " Trusting to see you both Thursday morning, at eleven 
 o'clock, I remain, 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 Georgie Noble. 
 Wednesday morning. 
 
 " I will return soon the money I have borrowed of you, as 
 I am expecting some every day. I was obliged to take it all. 
 I shall send for my trunks this afternoon. They are nearly 
 all packed. Will you please have them in readiness when 
 they are called for, and oblige 
 
 G.N. 
 
 As Mrs. Marchmont finished it, she raised her 
 eyes, and saw that Louise was gazing at her, and 
 evidently waiting for her to speak. 
 
 " How do you feel now, Louise ? " said she. 
 
 " A good deal better,", replied Louise, " though 
 my head is weak, and a little bewildered. Oh! 
 Mrs. Marchmont, how could Georgie have done so ! 
 What will papa say ? Oh ! I know he would 
 have had her married at our house if she had 
 spoken to him about it. Where is the letter, I 
 want to read.it again ? " 
 
 " Had you better now ?" returned Mrs. March- 
 mont. 
 
 "Yes," replied Louise ; "it's just as well as to 
 be thinking about it. I sha'n't faint again. I 
 shouldn't then, if it hadn't come so suddenly. I 
 haven't read all the letter." 
 
 Louise perused it again, and then laying it 
 aside, she attempted to rise. 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 233 
 
 " Oh ! don't, said Mrs. Marchmont, springing to 
 her side. " Don't rise now ; you are too weak. 
 What do you want? I will get it for you." 
 
 " Nothing," replied Louise, dropping back upon 
 her pillow. " I only thought I would try to get 
 Georgie's things ready for her trunk. 
 
 " Let me attend to them," said Mrs. Marchmont* 
 " you can tell me what they are, and which trunks 
 are hers, and I will pack them." 
 
 " Oh ! dear," saitkLouise, as she watched Mrs. 
 Marchmont, " I cant believe all this. Georgie 
 Noble married ! What will her father say ? Why, 
 she was sent to our house just to get her away 
 from him, because her father thought him un- 
 worthy of her. He is addicted to drinking, I be- 
 lieve, and now to think that she has married him 
 after all ! She has corresponded with him all 
 along. I never thought that it would result in 
 anything, or I would have told father about it, al- 
 though I promised her I wouldn't. I wish now 
 I had told him. I am afraid he will blame 
 me." 
 
 "You certainly ought to have done so," replied 
 Mrs. Marchmont, "but I do not think he could have 
 hindered it eventually. Georgie is, as she says, 
 free, and can marry whom she pleases, but I am 
 sorry to have such a noble young woman thrown 
 away upon a worthless man." 
 
234 THE HUNTINGDON'S: OR, 
 
 " She loves him so much, perhaps she will re- 
 form him," returned Louise. 
 
 " We can hardly hope for that," replied Mrs. 
 Marchmont. " It has been well observed, if a 
 woman's love cannot effect a chancre before mar- 
 riage, it is not very likely to do it afterward." 
 
 " Oh ! dear," returned Louise, " but what a 
 way to get married ! What will our friends say, 
 and the people here. What shall we tell them ? " 
 
 " We can say that she has gone to some friends of 
 hers a few miles above here," replied Mrs. March- 
 mont. " I am afraid, however, that the truth will 
 soon come out ; it's rather difficult to keep such 
 matters hushed up, especially in a place like this." 
 
 " Then I want to go home," said Louise. " I 
 couldn't endure such disgrace. Oh ! I am all of 
 a flutter; how this has unnerved me." 
 
 ",Poor child ! " returned Mrs. Marchmont. " I 
 am afraid this will undo all the good you have 
 gained here. Do try and compose yourself. By 
 the way, had you not better come in my room ; it 
 is more cheerful there ; you can see out on the 
 street. These trunks are now quite ready." 
 
 An hour later and the trunks were sent to their 
 destination, a note also, saying that " Mr. and 
 Mrs. Marchmont and Louise would accept the in- 
 vitation of Mrs. Saybrook for Thursday morning." 
 
 The day after, Georgie's letter to Mr. Hunting- 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 235 
 
 don, was received at Easy Hall, and produced 
 much sorrow and consternation amongst them all. 
 
 " I do not know as we could have expected 
 anything else," said Mrs. Livingston. "Georgie 
 has a very determined will." 
 
 " It does not surprise me," said Mr. Hunting- 
 don, " for I have noticed for quite a time that she 
 has seemed very absent minded, as though she was 
 planning something, and I have rather feared, from 
 what Edward remarked to me before leaving, 
 something of this kind ; still I thought her good 
 sense would have led her to have sought an hon- 
 orable way of marriage — one that would have been 
 pleasing to us all. Her father never would have 
 given his consent to the marriage, but I do not 
 think he would have forbidden it ; and I had de- 
 cided, had she spoken to me about it, and seem- 
 ed resolved to marry him anyway, to have given 
 her a wedding, as I would one of my own daugh- 
 ters. I am extremely sorry she has done so, the 
 effect is so hurtful, both upon her character and 
 her happiness. Besides, it is setting a bad exam- 
 ple to others." 
 
 Much of the above Mr. Huntingdon wrote to 
 Georgie, and also to Mrs. Marchmont and Louise. 
 He also invited Georgie and her husband to visit 
 Easy Hall at their convenience, and enclosed a 
 check of $200 for a wedding present. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Marchmont and Louise made their 
 
230 THE HUNTIXGDONS : OR, 
 
 visit to Georgie, as they had promised, and they 
 were all agreeably disappointed in Mr. Saybrook, 
 whom they found an intelligent and pleasing gen- 
 tleman, though Mr. Marchmont detected readily a 
 "want of resolution in his character, which told too 
 well that he would easily succumb, in an hour of 
 strong temptation. No marks of intemperance 
 were now to be observed, and Louise returned 
 home quite hopeful that Georgie's love and care 
 would eventually save him. 
 
 The next week, the day before Georgie's depar- 
 ture to her new home in the West, she received 
 Mr. Huntingdon's letter, and many were the tears 
 she shed as she marked its kindly tone and fervent 
 wishes for her happiness, many also, her regrets 
 that she had not opened her heart to her uncle, 
 and pleased him and the whole family, who had 
 ever been kind and attentive to her, by a satisfac- 
 tory marriage. She wrote again, thanking him 
 for his kind wishes, the invitation to Easy Hall, 
 and the check, which was extremely mortifying 
 for her to retain under the circumstances, but 
 which she did not dare to return. She said noth- 
 ing, however, about her regrets at the manner of 
 her marriage — her proud heart rebelled against 
 acknowledging them — and, therefore, her letter 
 failed to produce that satisfaction it would have 
 done had she frankly expressed them. 
 
 A week or two after Georgie's departure, Louise 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 237 
 
 became very anxious to return home. As Mrs. 
 Marchmont feared, Georgie's marriage began to 
 be whispered about suspiciously, and Louise found 
 herself placed in a very disagreeable position, 
 when questioned about it. Besides, she could not 
 bear the knowing looks which passed around, and 
 wrote to her father to come immediately after her. 
 She returned, therefore, to Easy Hall, quite con- 
 tented, glad to escape for once from the fashionable 
 world. 
 
 On her way home in the cars, while reading a 
 newspaper, her eye caught this insertion among 
 the marriages: 
 
 " In New York, Aug. 20th, by Rev. Win. Hamilton, Her- 
 bert Carleton, Esq., to Mary Bartlett, youngest daughter of 
 Hon. George Cushing." . . 
 
 No wonder a sudden film came over Louise's 
 eyes, and her head fell heavily back against the 
 window ; no wonder that her temples throbbed, 
 and that her heart beat quick and heavy ; no won- 
 der, too, that her whole nature cried out for 
 " home," even the "dreary one" at Easy Hall. 
 One thought now only seemed to dwell in her 
 mind, and that with a heavy, stinging power. 
 " Can it be that I have so encouraged others, that 
 they have suffered as I am now suffering, without 
 such encouragement. Oh ! then is my punishment 
 just ; how thoughtless, how wickedly thoughtless, 
 have I been ! " 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 LOUISE'S journey had been beneficial to her 
 more than in the recovery of her health ; she 
 did not forget at once the mortification she had 
 experienced at S Springs, nor the self-con- 
 demning, though wholesome, thoughts following 
 upon her discovery in the cars. She really com- 
 menced practising and studying, and rode horse- 
 back with Bessie, much to her aunt Livingston's 
 satisfaction. 
 
 One evening, about a moath after her return, 
 she followed her father into the library, and placing 
 before him a letter, said, " Father, will you please 
 read this, and tell me what you think of it ? " 
 
 Mr. Huntingdon took the letter somewhat won- 
 deringly, and slowly perused it. Smilingly he 
 laid it down and said, " Well, Louise, it's a verita- 
 ble offer, isn't it ? But who is this Mr. Kemp ? I 
 have never heard you speak of him." 
 
 " No, father," replied Louise ; " it's a gentleman 
 Mr. Marchmont introduced me to at the Springs. 
 He was very kind and attentive to me ail the time 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE 239 
 
 I was there, but Iliad no idea he cared for me, 
 save as a friend, till I received this." 
 
 " What kind of a gentleman did he appear to 
 be ? " returned Mr. H. 
 
 " Well, to tell the truth," responded Louise, "I 
 am afraid you wont like him, he is so much older 
 than I am ; he is forty at least, if not more ; is 
 rather good-looking, well educated, very rich — so 
 they say — and was considered quite a chance at 
 the Springs. He is in business in New York. Mr. 
 Marchm^nt woulc tell you about him ; and perhaps 
 it is as good a chance as I shall get." 
 
 "Louise," said her father in amazement, and 
 somewhat sternly, " you surprise me. Do you love 
 this man ? You talk as though you were arrang- 
 ing a matter of business." 
 
 " Love him ! yes, I love him as well as I do any 
 gentleman." 
 
 " My child," continued Mr. Huntingdon, " I do 
 not know what to make of you ; your love for Mr. 
 Kemp does not appear to me to be such as I wish 
 one of my daughters to give to any man. Do you 
 think Bessie would speak about Mr. Belmont as 
 you do regarding Mr. Kemp ? " 
 
 " No, father ; no indeed," replied Louise, brush- 
 ing away a tear, which he did not fail to notice ; 
 " but I do respect Mr. Kemp highly, and by and 
 by I do not doubt I shall love him. I do not think 
 
240 THE EUNTIXGDOXS : OR, 
 
 I shall ever see any one I can love better. I know 
 I shall not now." 
 
 The now Was so mournful, it opened a page in 
 Louise's life that her father had never supposed 
 existed there ; but he only said tenderly, " Well, 
 Louise, I will make inquiries about this gentleman, 
 and if I find no objections, you can receive his at- 
 tentions." 
 
 Louise waited patiently till her father's return 
 from the city the next day, and was not surprised 
 when he said, " Louise, I have inquired about Mr. 
 Kemp, and I find him a very moral, respectable 
 man, though he is not a Christian. But his age is 
 seriously, a great objection. Why child ! he is 
 nearer fifty than forty — -as old as your father. Do 
 you think you can call such a man husband? and 
 do you not think you had better wait ? If you 
 loved him as you ought to love a husband, it would 
 be a different thing. I told him that I should be hap- 
 py to have him call upon us, but I felt that I could 
 not commit you, my child; so I said you would give 
 him an answer to his letter after further delibera- 
 tion. I feel as though you must wait some time at 
 least, before you engage yourself to him. I am 
 afraid you don't know your own heart just now." 
 
 " Yes I do," replied Louise, shaking her head ; 
 " and you will let me tell him how I feel about it, 
 will you not ? " 
 
GLIMPSES OF IN-NEK LIFE. 241 
 
 " Yes," hesitatingly returned her father, " if you 
 will add all I have said." 
 
 "I will do so," replied she, " but my mind is 
 decided ; I do not think I shall alter it. I never 
 liked those "young fops " you have seen me with 
 so much. I talked and laughed with them, but 
 that was all. I know I should prefer an older 
 man, any way." 
 
 " Well," responded her father, " it is of course 
 your happiness, and your's only, I wish to con- 
 sult. I know this matter of a^e does not affect 
 his character, but still I had rather you would 
 know him and yourself better, before you de- 
 cide." 
 
 No further reference was now made to the mat- 
 ter, and Mr. Kemp became quite a welcome 
 visitor at Easy Hall. But though Louise mani- 
 fested respect and seemed to enjoy his presence, 
 there was a quiet easy nonchalance in her manner 
 that pained Mrs. Livingston. 
 
 Often she and Mr. Huntingdon had conversed 
 upon the matter, and as often came to the con- 
 clusion that nothing could be done. Mr. Kemp 
 had been fully informed how Louise regarded 
 him, but he was satisfied with it, and felt quite 
 assured he would in time win her love. Mr. 
 Huntingdon proposed to them, at first, separation 
 for a while, and a journey to Europe for Louise ; 
 
242 THE HUNTINGDONS. 
 
 but she would not accede to the proposition. 
 Settled in her own mind, however, she became 
 more and more companionable, and interested in 
 the affairs of those surrounding her. She even 
 offered to teach the little girls of the Sunday 
 School to sing Saturday afternoons, and became 
 quite interested in it. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE Sunday School, during the summer, had 
 been carried on with commendable zeal, and 
 the number had increased from eighteen to thirty. 
 « To Margaret, it had been a great care, but also a 
 great pleasure. While Mrs. Livingston had her 
 household duties, and Bessie, Mr. Belmont, to 
 divide their thoughts, Margaret's were principal- 
 ly centred on the Sunday School, particularly her 
 class. She had had them meet her every Wed- 
 nesday afternoon, for instruction, in a variety of 
 ways. A number of her class were poor girls, 
 who would hereafter probably work at some 
 trade, or labor as domestics for their support, so 
 she taught them all kinds of handiwork, in which 
 she herself excelled. She also instructed them 
 intellectually ; and to interest them, and to impress 
 some lessons more vividly, and without personal 
 allusion, upon their minds, she wrote a story, and 
 read them two or three chapters as they met. 
 These were rare seasons to the young misses, and 
 Margaret soon found from many little evidences, 
 that she had indeed won their love. These marks 
 
244 THE HU^TINGDONS : OB, 
 
 of affection fell like sunbeams on her love-desiring 
 heart. 
 
 She was not only interested in her class, 
 but visited and became well acquainted with the 
 parents of her scholars, and often gave them a 
 helping hand. It was at her suggestion, that 
 their household duties were arranged more 
 methodically, and they learned from her both 
 the sentiment and the practice of, "a place for 
 everything and everything in its place." 
 
 One day, after Mrs. Livingston returned home 
 from a round of calls, she went into Margaret's 
 room and said, " Margaret, you must read that 
 story to me, you are writing for your class. I call- 
 ed to-day upon two or three of the parents of 
 your scholars, and they had scarcely anything to 
 speak about, save you and your book. Mrs. 
 Eogers fairly kept me a good deal longer than I 
 ought to have staid, by quite an account of it, that 
 Ellen had given her ; so now, wont you let me 
 have the pleasure of reading it myself, or of hear- 
 ing you read it? " 
 
 " Why, aunt Livingston ! " ^replied Margaret 
 quite abashedj " it's only a children's tale ; it 
 pleases them, but you would soon get tired over 
 such a simple story ; beside, you would find so 
 many errors in it ; the children can't discover them, 
 you know. No, don't ask of me such a favor." 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 245 
 
 But Mrs. Livingston was not to be denied, and 
 finally, Margaret was obliged to read her some 
 chapters.' 
 
 " Margaret," said Mrs. L., as she finished them, 
 " why don't you publish that book ? " 
 
 " Publish it ! " replied Margaret, " why, what 
 do you mean ? " 
 
 " I mean what I say," returned Mrs. L., " it is 
 very interesting, and well written, and I think 
 you can easily dispose of it at one of the So- 
 cieties." 
 
 Margaret was indeed surprised at Mrs. Liv- 
 ingston's proposition, but the more she considered 
 it, the more inclined she felt to try it. 
 
 " To be sure," she reasoned with herself, " I 
 never thought of such a thing as writing a book, 
 but then, aunt Livingston has good judgment, and 
 she would not propose it, if the book were not 
 worthy of being published ; beside, if I get any- 
 thing for it, I can purchase some more books for 
 our library, and we really do need them. Well, 
 I will try." 
 
 And so, with a letter of introduction to one of 
 
 the publishing houses in C- , from a friend 
 
 of the publisher, Margaret started off one pleasant 
 Autumn morning with her first attempt at " book- 
 making." It was with great nervousness and trepi- 
 dation that she announced her desire to the " pub- 
 
246 THE HUXTIXGDOXS .* OR, 
 
 lisher," expecting in reply, " Well, we are very- 
 sorry, but we have so many offers of such books ;" 
 or, " so many on hand now, we must decline it ;" 
 or, " we would like to publish it, but really, busi- 
 ness is so dull now ;" but no, he asked for the 
 manuscript, and just turning it over, said he 
 would look it through at his leisure, and she 
 could call again for his decision. That it was not 
 immediately refused, was decidedly encouraging 
 to Margaret, and she descended the stairs with a 
 lightened heart, but only to ascend them in a few 
 weeks with a heavier one. 
 
 When she entered the store, the publisher was 
 engaged, and so her heart was kept alternating 
 between hope and fear a long half hour, as she 
 studied all the bindings of the various books be- 
 fore her, wondering what hers would be like, then 
 chiding herself for such a presumptive thought, 
 " Of course the book wouldn't be accepted." 
 
 At last the publisher approached, and told her, 
 with what seemed to Margaret a very long intro- 
 duction, that her book had been examined by the 
 " board of publication ;" had been accepted and 
 placed on the list for publication ; but at present, 
 etc. Finally the understanding was, that it was to 
 be published jointly by the " board " and him- 
 self. 
 
 Margaret's heart was now almost too full to 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 247 
 
 speak, but she endeavored to behave very quietly- 
 just as though she had expected it. Taking up a 
 book before her, she turned over its leaves and 
 said, " Well, I would like to take the amount you 
 intend to give, in books for our Sunday School 
 library. When can I make a selection ? 
 
 " Just when you please," said he; " to-day, if 
 you like ; a clerk will attend to you." 
 
 And Margaret commenced her selections for 
 
 the dear children in B . It would be hard 
 
 to say which she enjoyed most, her imagination 
 that afternoon, how they would be received, or 
 the actual witnessing of it some weeks after, when 
 covered in their neat brown covers, each child 
 was furnished with one. 
 
 Margaret's unlooked-for success with her first 
 book, now woke her to the realization that God 
 had entrusted her with a talent, that she could 
 use for His honor and glory, and earnestly did 
 she now desire to find opportunities thus to use it. 
 
 During the summer, she and Bessie had often 
 mentioned how they wished they could have a 
 building of their own, for their Sunday School, 
 for then they could use it on other occasions, and 
 sometimes on Sabbath afternoons they coul(J have 
 " meetings." 
 
 They mentioned their desires to Mrs. Livings- 
 ton, and she was as interested as they were. 
 
248 THE HUXTIXGDOXS : OR, 
 
 " We must trust," said she ; " there are a num- 
 ber of our persuasion in town, and who knows but 
 that, sometime, we may get a small church here ?" 
 
 " A church ! " said Margaret, " O, how de- 
 lightful that would be ! Father says he has 
 promised you to pass the summers here, and it 
 would be so convenient and pleasant to us. It is 
 needed in town, also ; many would come to our 
 church that do not attend others." 
 
 Margaret did not forget the matter, and her 
 pen, prompted by a powerful motive, began to 
 move asrain. She did not reveal her intentions, 
 and only said, " she was writing another book." 
 
 The Autumn days passed quickly, and as De- 
 cember approached, the inmates at Easy Hall be- 
 gan to make preparations to leave for the city. 
 Edward Huntingdon had not yet returned, and 
 wrote them " that they need not expect him till 
 Christmas, when he should certainly be with 
 them." During his absence he had faithfully cor- 
 responded with Bessie, and occasionally with his 
 father. Lately his letters had assumed a very dif- 
 ferent tone ; and all became quite convinced that in 
 answer to the fervent effectual prayers which had 
 been so often offered for him, he would come 
 back to them a changed man. 
 
 Only a few days before the family were to leave 
 for the city, Margaret surprised both her father 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 2 9 
 
 and Mrs. Livingston, by an earnest request that 
 they would permit her to remain at Easy Hall 
 during the winter; " I can come up nearly every 
 week and. see you," said she, " but I do so want 
 to be here over the Sabbath, and keep up the 
 Sunday School, and instruct my class as I have 
 been doing:. I think I can find some youno; ladies 
 
 o JO 
 
 to assist me in the Sunday School, and you will 
 grant me this pleasure, will you not ? " 
 
 When her father was convinced that it would 
 be indeed a pleasure, and Mrs. Livingston also 
 approved it, he willingly consented that she should 
 remain, with the understanding that she was to 
 visit them every week. 
 
 And now, when Margaret was left sole mis- 
 tress of the house, servants and herself, she was 
 indeed in her element. 
 
 Ah ! those were joyous days which followed, 
 when seated alone beside her bright wood fire, her 
 pen flew over the pages of her consecrated book. 
 
 How radiant her countenance was at times, 
 as she felt assured that every word was written 
 for her Master's sake ! 
 
 How she enjoyed, too, at eve, her " still hour," 
 when the fire was the only light about her, and 
 alone in the country quietness, she confidingly 
 communed with her ever-present abiding Friend — 
 so different from the cold and almost heartless de- 
 
250 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 votion of only one short year ago ! Truly, truly, 
 she could say, " I will sing unto the Lord as long 
 as I live. I will sing praise to my God while I 
 have my being. My meditation of him shall be 
 sweet. I will be glad in the Lord." 
 
 S \ 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 EDWARD did come by Christmas, and a 
 happy united family was it, that gathered 
 around the fireside Christmas eve, to listen to 
 Edward's journeyings. 
 
 Many a meaning glanee was exchanged between 
 the various members of the family, as he now 
 and then dropped words full of deep meaning to 
 them — words which told that the heart of the 
 speaker was at rest. Finally, he turned to his 
 father and said with tremulous utterance, 
 
 " Father, I do not wish to dampen our joy this 
 evening by referring to the past ; but I can hesi- 
 tate no longer, and wish now in the presence of 
 all, to beg your forgiveness for the disrespectful 
 words I used to you, regarding Miss Rivers, and 
 for the pain I caused you all afterward. I shall 
 ever bless you that you sent me away, and that 
 God met me, and taught me how erring I had 
 been. And I do trust in future to be more con- 
 siderate and loving, not only as a son, but as a 
 brother. I cannot begin to tell to you all I have 
 suffered in lashings of conscience and anguish of 
 
^52 THE HUNTINGDONS I OR, 
 
 mind. I felt it keenly and intensely before 1 left 
 you, but I could succeed occasionally, by dissipa- 
 tion and gaieties, in driving such feelings away ; 
 but when I came to be alone on the ocean, Oh ! 
 then I suffered what no tongue can describe ! In 
 bitter anguish I turned at last to my Bible, and 
 after much conflict and despair, I found the Saviour 
 of our blessed mother, whose last words rung in 
 my ears and never left me, from the time I first 
 perused them." 
 
 There were tearful eyes all round, as Edward 
 spoke these words, and a dead silence followed as 
 he concluded, for each heart was too full for utter- 
 ance. Finally, Mr. Huntingdon said, " Shall we 
 return thanks to God," and kneeling, the full 
 hearts found vent in prayer. 
 
 When they arose, Bessie passed quickly to the 
 piano, whispering to Mr. Belmont, as she passed 
 him, who joined her ; and then with their sweet 
 voices they sang, 
 
 " Blest is the Christian's tie that binds." 
 
 And thus closed Christmas eve with the Hunting- 
 dons. 
 
 It was only a few days after Christmas, that 
 Edward Huntingdon stopped Mrs. Livingston, as 
 Bhe was entering the parlor after tea, and said, 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 253 
 
 " Aunt Livingston, when may I see you ? I 
 wish to have a long conversation with you." 
 
 " Just now," replied she. " "Wiill you come up 
 to the sewing room? we shall be more alone there." 
 
 " Now, aunt," said Edward, after they had 
 reached the room, " I am going to make you my 
 confidant, just as Bessie does, and I want you to 
 deal as frankly with me, as you do with her ; will 
 
 you?" 
 
 " Yes, I will endeavor to," replied Mrs. L., her 
 face radiant with happiness, at this expression of 
 Edward's confidence in her. 
 
 " Thank you," replied Edward, " and now let 
 me tell you my trouble at once. You know Miss 
 Eivers perfectly well, and in what a relation I 
 stand to her. Before I left, you could but observe 
 that there were other matters which tried me, 
 save the troubles at home. One of the principal, 
 and the most trying, was the conduct of Bell. 
 After the trouble here, she grew, very bitter to- 
 wards you all, and seemed determined to wreak her 
 revenge upon me. She tantalized me in every way 
 possible, and I felt at one time that she would be 
 the ruin of me. You probably noticed that I be- 
 gan to take intoxicating liquors ; the fact was, I 
 wi^s getting desperate through her conduct, and 
 my other trials ; and had not father proposed to 
 me to go sway, I hardly know what would have 
 
254 THE HUNTINGDONS: OR, 
 
 become of me. I clutched at the proposition, aa 
 a dying man would at a straw, for I felt that I was 
 fast losing my self-control and self-respect, and 
 desired nothing so much, as to escape from home 
 and my troubles. When at sea, as I told you 
 Christmas eve, my anguish was deeper, but dif- 
 ferent ; it was only for my sins ; and, oh I with what 
 a crushing weight did the remembrance of them 
 fall upon me. Then, separated from Bell, I be- 
 gan to see her character in its true light, and how 
 infatuated I had been ; still I felt that I had been 
 much to blame, and when I recalled how she had 
 been petted and idolized by her father, and bereav- 
 ed of a mother's care, my heart bled for her, and 
 I could not blame her. Then in deep anguish, I 
 wrote her just how I felt, and besought her, as 
 she loved me, to do differently, should we be 
 spared to meet again ! Months passed ; oh ! 
 what anxious months those were to me, but I re- 
 ceived no answer. I could never have borne, it 
 seems to me, this suspense, if there had not been 
 a new strength given to me to endure ; for during 
 this time I made as I felt, my peace with God. 
 
 But as I said, months passed and I received no 
 answer, and the time came for me to return. I 
 felt that I could not come back just then. I want- 
 ed to hear from her, and so I delayed. Finally a 
 letter came, and with trembling hands I broke the 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 255 
 
 seal, and, oh ! how bitter was the reading! The 
 self- same way, the self-same tones, breathed in 
 every word ; and I, who for the past few months 
 had dwelt upon her only in a fancied loveliness 
 of character, was now overwhelmed, with an ah ! 
 too true picture of herself— just as I left her, just 
 the same ! 
 
 " Oh ! what bitter tears I shed over that letter ! 
 I did not write again. When I returned she re- 
 ceived me much more pleasantly than I had ex- 
 pected, and then half apologized for sending me 
 such a letter. It came so unexpectedly that I 
 freely and fully forgave her ; and assured her that 
 it was all past, and that I hoped, as I had changed, 
 she would also, and then everything would be 
 pleasant for us here at home, and indeed every- 
 where. I hoped for a while, but alas ! it was 
 only for a while. There was no change ! 
 
 "And now I come to that about which I wish to 
 ask your advice. In spite of all her unkindness 
 and really wrong-doing, I love her ; yes, I do ! 
 but I am not happy with her. My religious life 
 suffers from every interview, and if I mention it, 
 she treats it with indifference and scorn. I know 
 not what to do ; I do not see how I can ever be 
 happy with her now unless she changes ; but it 
 seems as if it would cost me my life to give 
 her up. And then, would it be right ? am I re- 
 
256 THE HUNTING DONS : OR, 
 
 quired to do it ? What do you think ? Tell me 
 plainly." 
 
 " Edward," replied Mrs. Livingston, sadly, "you 
 little know what a wound you have opened by 
 your confidence, but I am going to repay it, and 
 tell you what no living soul knows save the 
 cause of it. I will tell you my story first, and 
 then we can speak better about Bell. 
 
 " The spring before your father left for Florida, 
 Henry Livingston, cousin to my husband, came to 
 Easy Hall to make me a visit. I had never seen 
 him, as he went to Europe before I was married, 
 and did not return to this country again till the 
 winter before he visited me. During this time, 
 his name had been a ' household word,' for he 
 was as a brother to my husband. They were 
 educated together, and when separated by Henry 
 Livingston's going to Europe, they kept up a most 
 lively interest in each other by a very frequent 
 correspondence. I also shared in it, and thus 
 learned to love my husband's cousin as a brother. 
 After my husband's death he continued to write 
 occasionally, and his letters were full of sympathy 
 and consolation to me in my widowhood. 
 
 " As soon as possible after his return, he visited 
 me, and Oh ! Edward, it was as though my hus- 
 band had returned to me from the grave — his looks, 
 his gestures, his manner of speaking, and all. Can 
 
GLIMPSES OF INttER LIFE. 257 
 
 yon wonder that my heart was knit about him with 
 strong cords. He had visited me only a week, 
 when he was suddenly taken sick, dangerously so. 
 I nursed him, and during five weeks, cared for him 
 with intense interest and solicitude. He was de- 
 lirious some of the time, and in his delirium re- 
 vealed to me his love, and in piteous tones begged 
 me ' to love him for himself, and not for Charles's, 
 my husband's, sake.' Oh, those were sad days ! 
 By pitying him, I found that I did learn to 
 love him for himself; and when he returned to rea- 
 son, I never mentioned to him again any resem- 
 blance to Charles. 
 
 " Soon after his recovery, he left for the city, 
 saying nothing to me t)f his love ; but after a 
 month had passed, he returned, and surprised me 
 by saying that he had engaged rooms at the village 
 hotel for the summer, as he felt his health would 
 be better in B . 
 
 " Ah ! that was a pleasant summer — a very 
 blissful summer ! — till finally one evening, Edward, 
 he told me, how deeply he love'd me. Oh ! I feared 
 then it was too idolatrous. I knew it afterwards. 
 It was only a few days later when he came to me 
 and said, he must tell me a little circumstance 
 concerning himself, which he feared I did not 
 know, but which he felt sure would not alter our 
 relations towards each other. i It is only a matter 
 
2 58 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 of religion,' said he, ' and we can agree to disagree 
 upon that. The truth is, I became a Roman Cath- 
 olic while in Europe.' " 
 
 " A Roman Catholic 1 " interrupted Edward in 
 amazement. 
 
 " Yes, a Roman Catholic,' 9 sadly replied Mrs. 
 Livingston, while brushing away the fast coming 
 tears. " Oh ! Edward, the thick darkness that 
 came over me then ! I could not speak a word ; I 
 was stunned. 
 
 " ' Why don't you speak ? ' said he tenderly, 
 but very anxiously. 
 
 " With an agonizing prayer for strength, I final- 
 ly spoke, and said, Henry Livingston, we must 
 part. My heavenly Father is first in my affec- 
 tions, and I could not so outrage His dying love 
 for me, as to countenance the horrible sacrileges 
 of the Eoman Catholic church, as I should do by 
 a union with you ; it would only be a union of 
 hands, not of hearts. 
 
 "*He grew deathly pale, and taking my hand in 
 his, said sternly, ■ Mrs. Livingston, do you know 
 what you are saying ? Will you dash aside thus 
 ruthlessly my happiness for such a slight matter ? 
 Do you know I never loved a woman before ? You 
 cannot crush me thus ! ' 
 
 64 Oh ! Edward, that was a moment when the 
 Tempter came in all his power and sophistry ; but 
 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 259 
 
 the blessed Saviour was mightier than he, and I 
 still held on to my faith, though my heart-strings 
 seemed breaking. It must be so ! said I, rising. 
 
 " i Do you mean so ? ' again said he, glancing 
 up with a haggard expression. 
 
 " Oh ! I do, I do, said I. Yes, Henry, I love 
 you, but I love my precious, precious Saviour bet- 
 ter, and I cannot be more *to you than I have been, 
 as long as you remain as you are. 
 
 " 4 Farewell forever, then,' said he, and quickly 
 passed out of the house. I have never seen or 
 heard from him since, save once, when a friend 
 said that she heard he was in the Crimea. But, 
 Edward, I have never regretted the step I 
 took ; never. I cannot help believing that he will 
 yet see and forsake his error ; I have faith. 
 
 " I have ever felt that marrying an unbeliever is 
 regarded too lightly by many calling themselves 
 Christians. The Apostle has told us 4t to marry 
 only in the Lord ;" and how can one who has re- 
 nounced the world and its vanities, conscientiously 
 join himself to another, the perfect enemy of the 
 Lord, and surround himself with everything that 
 will lead earthward instead of heavenward. There 
 is no true sympathy in such a marriage, no matter 
 how moral the irreligious partner may be ; and 
 there is constantly an under-clashing of desire 
 and sentiment. Little by little, without being 
 
260 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 scarcely aware of it, the religious partner yieltis 
 to the views and desires of the irreligious. Out- 
 ward duties may be performed as before, but 
 the inner life is not a rich, growing life. No, in- 
 deed, how can it be with such an influence so pow- 
 erfully affecting it ! 
 
 " As regards you and Bell, the case is some- 
 what different. You have not sought her since 
 you found the Lord ; but were you disengaged, I 
 should regard it your duty ; and it should be your 
 pleasure, to seek a good wife from the Lord and 
 not from the world. Bell's case is sad indeed ; 
 there is much allowance to be made for her, 
 and we must all make this a subject of prayer. 
 You ought not, according to the way I view it, 
 to marry her as she is , but you can wait for her a 
 long while, and love her soul, and seek to lead her 
 to Him who can change her, and create her anew 
 in Christ Jesus. Make it a subject of earnest 
 prayer, and cast even this care upon God. 'He 
 will guide you aright about it.' I would tell her 
 how her remarks about your religion pain you ; 
 and Edward, if she is worthy of you in the least, 
 she will cease from love for you, if from no higher 
 reason." 
 
 But, as often we seem to be preparing for 
 what the Lord is about to bring upon us, so Ed- 
 ward Huntingdon was only passing through these 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 261 
 
 internal conflicts between love and duty, to meet 
 the last trial concerning Bell. 
 
 It was one evening; as he left his closet of 
 prayer to call upon her, that she entered the room 
 dressed for the street, and said with an attempt at 
 gaiety, " Ned, I have an engagement for this eve- 
 ning with a friend of papa's, a very intimate friend 
 of his, and a gentleman much to my taste. And 
 now, seriously, Ned, I must tell you what I have 
 been considering for a long while, that I think 
 our acquaintance had better cease. Your family 
 don't like me, and I am sure I don't like them. 
 I did like you, yes, love you, but since you have 
 become so religious, I almost dread to see you ! 
 Now don't you think we had better part ?" 
 
 " Yes, Bell, if it is your wish," replied Edward, 
 " and I am glad you can so easily transfer your 
 affections." 
 
 " O, you are just as jealous as ever ! " replied 
 Bell ; " I think you ought to conquer that, now 
 you are so good ; but I shan't forget you anyway, 
 though this friend of papa's will be more to my 
 taste than you can be now. He asked papa for 
 me to-day. You can come and see me sometimes. 
 I am sure I shall always love you as a brother." 
 
 "Bell," said Edward, "it is all right; but 
 should you see the day when you need a friend, 
 when you find that this earth does not satisfy the 
 
262 THE HUNTING DONS : OE, 
 
 longings of your heart, Oh ! then seek that Jesus 
 who has proved such a friend to me. Should you 
 need an earthly one, do not hesitate to come to me." 
 
 " Yes, I will," returned Bell somewhat tender- 
 ly, " but don't feel angry at me for this ; I couldn't 
 help it ; papa is so anxious for me to have this gen- 
 tleman — he's very rich, besides other things papa 
 likes about him — and then you and I wouldn't be 
 happy, any way. I do think it's wise for us to 
 separate." 
 
 " Yes," replied Edward, " it is probably wise, 
 but I only wish you could have been won to Christ ; 
 then we should have been happy together." 
 
 " Well, I don't see it so," returned Bell tapping 
 her foot, " and I just hate this religion ! I don't 
 believe in it ; I want to enjoy the world." 
 
 Just here the bell rang, and as a fashionable 
 young man entered, Edward Huntingdon passed 
 out. He walked rapidly home to seek immediate- 
 ly Mrs. Livingston, and to tell her all. 
 
 " As thy day is so shall thy strength be," said 
 she as he concluded. " God will give you grace 
 for even this." 
 
 " I feel it," replied Edward, " and know that it 
 is necessary ; indeed, I am thankful that He has 
 thus taken the matter into his own hands ; but 
 poor Bell ! she has been very dear to me, and 
 nature will suffer." 
 
GLIMPSES OP INNER LIFE. 263 
 
 Supported by the conscious presence of Him 
 who had given the stroke, Edward was much more 
 cheerful than he imagined he could be ; and as his 
 feelings grew more quiet, his judgment acquiesced 
 more and more in the goodness of God even in 
 apparent severity. 
 
 The winter and spring passed away very quietly 
 with the Huntingdons — quietly as regarded outer 
 life, but full of hopes and fears, temptations, strug- 
 gles, conflicts and victories in the inner. 
 
 Perhaps no one had more influence over Georgie, 
 when she was with them, than Edward ; therefore, 
 at Mrs. Livingston's suggestion, he wrote to her, 
 and. gave a full account of his conversion ; and then 
 closed with an earnest, loving appeal to devote 
 herself to the service of God, to whom she had 
 been dedicated by her mother in infancy. 
 
 But alas ! Georgie's heart was so engrossed with 
 the world and her family cares, that she paid but 
 little heed to his words ; and on answering his let- 
 ter she did not refer to the subject in the least. 
 Edward was not discouraged, but determined 
 that she should be hereafter a particular object 
 of earnest, persevering prayer, both for himself 
 and all other faithful praying ones whom he could 
 find to join him at the throne of grace. Just one 
 year from the time Mr. Huntingdon and Bessie 
 joined the church, Edward was received. Stand- 
 
264 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 ing by his side, and baptised immediately before 
 him, was an aged woman who had long lived in the 
 family of Mr. Huntingdon, who guided Edward's 
 tottering steps in infancy, and whom Edward had 
 now guided to the Lamb of God. 
 
 Louise was now the only one left in Mr. Hunt- 
 ingdon's family " outside the fold." Many prayers 
 had been, and were constantly offered for her. 
 Every member of the family had in various ways 
 kindly mentioned the subject to her, and " be- 
 sought her to be reconciled," but she evaded all 
 entreaties with, " Go thy way now," " I will at- 
 tend to it by-and-by." Never, however, did she 
 feel so deeply as the day when Edward was receiv- 
 ed into the church. She felt then that she was in- 
 deed alone, forever separated from the rest of her 
 family ; and her heart ached keenly as she passed 
 down the aisle, before the Communion season, and 
 wended her way home — entered alone the quiet 
 home so oppressingly still this Sabbath evening. 
 The Holy Spirit was calling her loudly to " Come 
 to Christ ," but to stifle His calls she took up a 
 book of light reading, and thus grieved, the gentle 
 Spirit turned away. 
 
 The chief object of interest, as summer ap- 
 proached, was Louise, who still remained steadfast 
 to Mr. Kemp. And now, as he found it necessary 
 for him to be absent in Europe for the next two 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 265 
 
 years, he desired to make Louise his wife, that she 
 might accompany him. Gladly would her father 
 have retained her with him these two years, but 
 she was so determined and anxious to accede to Mr. 
 Kemp's proposal, that Mr. Huntingdon thought it 
 best to consent, and in just about one year after 
 she had met Mr. Kemp, she became his wife. 
 " She had married very brilliantly," the world 
 said, and many a gay young girl looked at her and 
 her splendid surroundings with envy. 
 
 But Mr. Huntingdon only sighed as he bade the 
 bride " farewell ;" and, as he watched the steamer 
 out of sight, which bore her from the restraints of 
 home, out on the broad gulf of Parisian life, his 
 heart sank within him, and he said to himself 
 again and again, " Oh ! Louise, Louise, God only 
 can keep thee now. Into His hands 1 commit 
 thee." 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 iASS we now over some two years or more, 
 and on one evening in the early part of Sep- 
 tember we will again glance into Easy Hall. En- 
 tering the parlor, we find Mrs. Livingston and 
 Margaret seated on the sofa, listening to the eve- 
 ning paper, which Edward Huntingdon is reading. 
 In the corner, seated by an end window, is Mr. 
 Huntingdon, holding lovingly in his arms a tiny 
 little girl fast asleep. 
 
 Just now, as Edward ceases reading, Mrs. Liv- 
 ingston says, " Brother, hadn't Georgie better go 
 up-stairs now ; it's an half hour past her bed- 
 time." 
 
 " Little one, little one," said Mr. Huntingdon, 
 shaking gently the tiny form, u do you hear that? 
 Aunty says it is time for you to go up-stairs to 
 Mary." 
 
 " Oh ! I's so tired," says the little one ; and then, 
 languidly turning her head about, she rested her 
 large, black eyes on Mrs. Livingston, saying, 
 " Where's Mary ? " 
 
 Ah ! those eyes are strangely familiar to us. 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 267 
 
 Yes ; they are the very counterpart of Georgie's, 
 Mrs. Saybrook's, and this little one is hers ; but 
 she — is sleeping — never more to waken to its ten- 
 der caresses and loving words. 
 
 One day, some months since, Mr. Huntingdon 
 received a letter from her, penned by a friend, 
 begging him to come and see her before she died, 
 which would not be long, as her physician said. 
 She had not written to them for a long time pre- 
 vious to this ; and although they had written to 
 her many times, they had failed to obtain any an- 
 swer, so that they were not entirely unprepared at 
 receiving adverse news concerning her. No men- 
 tion was made of her husband in her letter, but 
 there was such a despairing tone in it that Mr. Hun^ 
 tingdon and Mrs. Livingston felt assured that all 
 was not well with her in this respect. 
 
 With sad hearts they set out immediately on 
 their journey, for Mrs. Livingston had decided to 
 accompany Mr. IL, feeling that she would be 
 needed. Their destination was a small town in 
 Ohio, and in the outskirts of it, in a very small 
 but " neat cottage, they found Georgie, though 
 only a faint semblance of her former self. 
 
 " Oh! this is too kind ! " said she, as they en- 
 tered her sick room. Covering her eyes with one 
 wasted hand, while the tears trickled through the 
 thin fingers, she extended the other to them. 
 
268 THE HTJNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 Mr, Huntingdon could not restrain his tears, as 
 he tenderly took the little hand and marked how 
 it was wasted. A tear falling upon it started 
 Georgie, and taking her other hand from her eyes, 
 she looked up with a soul-full glance of penitence 
 and earnestness, and murmured, " Oh ! uncle, for- 
 give me, forgive me. I wanted to ask your forgive- 
 ness when I wrote to you. I saw my error, but 
 my proud heart rebelled against confessing it. You 
 do forgive me, don't you ? " 
 
 " Dear child, you have been forgiven long ago," 
 said he tremulously, while he bowed his head and 
 kissed the pale white forehead. 
 
 " Thank God ! " said she, " and Mrs. Livingston, 
 you forgive me, too, for all '( ' ' 
 
 " Certainly, dear one," replied .Mrs. L., sealing 
 her assurance, too, with a fond caress. 
 
 " Now I can die content," returned Georgie, 
 closing her eyes and folding her hands on her 
 bosom ; but she only rested thus a moment or two, 
 for a violent attack of coughing commenced, suc- 
 ceeded by perfect exhaustion. 
 
 During this time, Mr. Huntingdon ascertained 
 from her nurse that Georgie's husband was away, 
 and had been gone some six months, and that her 
 child, a little girl of two years, was now staying 
 with the physician who attended her. In speak- 
 ing of her husband, she spoke with that careful, 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 269 
 
 hesitating manner which could not fail to arouse 
 suspicion, both in Mr. Huntingdon's and Mrs. 
 Livingston's minds. 
 
 Their suspicions were confirmed the next day, 
 when they heard her story from her physician's 
 lips. 
 
 " It is at the request of Mrs. Saybrook," said 
 he, " I tell you her history since she left you, 
 which she has confided to me. She feels that she 
 cannot mention it herself, and I think that the 
 effort would be too much for her. She came 
 amongst us directly after her marriage, and 
 has lived here ever since. Her husband at 
 that time was employed as a clerk in a manu- 
 facturing establishment in town, and was doing 
 very well. But some six months after their 
 marriage, he began to take intoxicating drinks 
 again, which he had, I believe, refrained from in 
 a great measure at least, since her marriage. And 
 then — well, you know how it is, he grew worse 
 and worse ; and finally, in about a year after their 
 marriage was discharged from his place for intem- 
 perance. 
 
 " Mrs. Saybrook's little babe was then scarcely 
 two months old, and the blow fell very heavily 
 upon her. She had some jewels and other valua- 
 bles which she sold for their maintenance ; and 
 then, as he grew worse and worse, she sold a large 
 portion of her property. 
 
270 THE HUNTIXGDOXS : OR, 
 
 " Finally, in an intoxicated state, lie fell and in- 
 jured his head so severely, that he has been hope- 
 lessly insane ever since. He is now in the asylum 
 
 at T , in a very low condition. Soon after, 
 
 she was taken sick, worn down with exposure and 
 grief; I became acquainted with her then, and found 
 her in a very destitute condition. I inquired if she 
 had any friends, but she would not, though ac- 
 knowledging that she had them, give me any clue 
 so that I could find you ; but said,. ' she preferred 
 to die first.' Our family — my wife and daughter 
 — now took her under their care, and in two 
 months, she was quite recovered. Her fine educa- 
 tion and lady-like appearance procured for her a 
 situation in one of our schools. She hired about 
 that time this cottage, and has lived here ever 
 since. She resigned her school about three 
 months ago, but should have left it earlier, as all 
 through the winter, she was in ill health, and 
 troubled with a cough ; but she would not leave 
 till obliged to. And now, it gives me joy to tell 
 you, that she trusts, last winter, that she became a 
 Christian. My daughter and she have been very 
 intimate lately, and she says, that Mrs. Saybrook 
 feels that her afflictions have been a great blessing 
 to her; the means probably of her becoming a 
 Christian. She seems to be willing, and prepared 
 to die ; her only anxieties have beea to see you ; to 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 271 
 
 write for forgiveness to her step-father, toward, 
 whom, she says she has entertained very bitter 
 feelings, and to know if you would be willing to 
 give a home to her little girl. The father, of 
 course, if he lives, which is very doubtful, will 
 never be able to provide for it. I offered to take 
 her myself, and her father has written to the same 
 effect, but she desires greatly to have her under 
 your care, Mrs. Livingston." 
 
 "She couldn't <m r e me a more welcome 
 present," replied Mrs. Livingston, with deep 
 emotion. " I cannot thank her enough for it." 
 
 " It will make her very happy to have you re- 
 ceive it so warmly," replied the physician, rising 
 and glancing out of the window ; then he con- 
 tinued, " I am expecting her here every mo- 
 ment, with my daughter." 
 
 A few minutes more, and the little one arrived, 
 and both she and the physician's daughter were 
 warmly welcomed by both Mrs. Livingston and 
 Mr. Huntingdon, who could not fail to admire the 
 child's ingenuous, pleasing countenance, as well as 
 her gracefulness of manner. 
 
 " What a treasure you will be to me," said 
 Mrs. Livingston, folding her so closely in her 
 arms, as to frighten the timid child, who was, 
 however, soon comforted again. 
 
 It was not long before taking her up in her 
 
272 THE HUNTINGDONS : OB, 
 
 arms, Mrs. Livingston passed into Georgie's room 
 and said, with a voice full of meaning, " My dear 
 Georgie, what a precious baby you have got ! " 
 
 " The doctor told you, it is yours, if you want 
 it, did he not? " said Georgie, almost gasping for 
 breath. 
 
 " Want it ! " replied Mrs. L., " I cannot thank 
 you, nor my heavenly Father enough, for such a 
 treasure." 
 
 " I cannot be thankful enough either," said 
 Georgie, " that she has found such a mother. 
 God is too good to me ! I thought if uncle came 
 to see me, I should be overjoyed, but then to see 
 you, and have you love my poor baby so much, 
 Oh, I am too happy! J> and the weakened frame 
 could hardly check the now fast coming tears. 
 
 Mrs. Livingston's kind, soothing tones fell like 
 music on the ear cf the weary mother, and ere 
 long, she slept quietly. 
 
 The next day, Mr. Huntingdon was obliged to 
 bid " farewell" to Georgie, and return home. Mrs. 
 Livingston remained, however, promising to stay 
 with her, as long as her poor body remained to suf- 
 fer. Just before Mr. Huntingdon left, Georgie call- 
 ed him to her bed side, and said, with trembling 
 utterance, " Uncle, will you, can you, care for — 
 for him — the father of my child, till he — dies ; 
 and oh ! that won't be long, he is almost gone 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 273 
 
 now. He'll soon follow me, and then you will 
 bury him by my side, wont you ? Poor, poor 
 husband ! the grave will cover all his faults ! " 
 
 " My dear Georgie," tenderly replied Mr. 
 Huntingdon, " be assured it will be my pleasure 
 to attend to his wants, just as I would to one of my 
 own children. Do not give yourself the slightest 
 uneasiness regarding him, and when all is over, 
 Georgie, he shall sleep by your side, in our quiet 
 church-yard at home." 
 
 " At home ! " returned Georgie, gazing inquir- 
 ingly, but still understandingly at her uncle. 
 Then, more assured by his answering, loving 
 glance, she clasped her hands together, and rais- 
 ing her eyes upwards, murmured in touching 
 tones, " Father, I thank Thee. "Wilt Thou bless 
 him, Oh, richly, for his kindness to this poor 
 orphan child ! " She spoke no more, but reach- 
 ing out her hand, she took his, and fondly clasping 
 it, still continued in silent prayer. The tears 
 chased one another down Mr. Huntingdon's 
 cheeks, but he brushed them not away. Not for 
 the world would he have disturbed the enraptured 
 one before him, lying there so serenely calm, so 
 unearthly beautiful. She was the first to move. 
 Heavily sighing she opened her eyes, and gazed at 
 first somewhat bewilderingly around ; then resting 
 them upon Mr. Huntingdon, a tranquil smile 
 
274 THE HUNTINGDON : OR, 
 
 played over her face, and loosening her grasp of 
 his hand, she tremblingly said, " All is right now, 
 save one thing ; will you call Mrs. Livingston ? " 
 
 Mrs. Livingston immediately entered, in answer 
 to Mr. Huntingdon's summons, and passing to 
 Georgie, said, " What is it, darling ? " 
 
 " Will you get my keys, and go to my black 
 trunk, and in a little white box which you will see, 
 take out my ambrotype and bring it to me?" 
 
 " Uncle," said Georgie, " I want you to give 
 this picture — handing it to him — to Edward; 
 tell him that he was the means — in God' s hands, 
 of leading me to the precious Saviour. Oh, I 
 meant to have written and told him all about it, 
 
 — how I never could forget his letter, and how 
 much good it did me. But I put it off, thinking 
 I should be better able to write it ; but Oh ! that 
 time has never come ; you must tell him all, — I 
 had this picture taken purposely for him — I 
 wanted him to have a new remembrance of me. 
 You will give my Georgie a copy of this, I know 
 
 — and — and — send one to her father, too ; and 
 tell him I hope to meet him in heaven." 
 
 Georgie's messages to Mr. Huntingdon were 
 now all given ; and exhausted, she could say no 
 more to him, until he was about to leave ; then con- 
 troling herself as much as possible, she murmur- 
 ed, u Good-bye, uncle — we shall meet above — ■ 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 275 
 
 I shall find father, mother, and aunt Margaret, 
 too — we shall be waiting for you — you and all 
 — all — " 
 
 As Georgie touched that silent chord, Mr. 
 Huntingdon turned pale and his lips quivered, but 
 he smiled on her — a longing smile — and then, 
 taking one long, last caress, he passed sadly, quiet- 
 ly away. 
 
 Georgie swooned as he left her, and for two 
 days, she lay at " Death's door," then she rallied 
 somewhat again, and for a few days was con- 
 siderably easier. On one of these days she 
 called Mrs. Livingston to her, and said, i; Mrs. 
 Livingston, I think my end is nearly at hand, and 
 for fear that I may die suddenly, or may become 
 worse, so that I shall not be able to speak, I want 
 to tell you now, what I wish you to say from me 
 to cousin Margaret, Louise and Bessie. Oh ! 
 tell them never, never to love any one as I have 
 loved my — my poor husband — I made him an 
 idol — I worshipped him ! and Oh ! how — has 
 my heavenly Father punished me for it — how 
 was He obliged to tear my very self to pieces — 
 to get this idol out of my heart — I am glad that 
 He has done it, but Oh ! beseech them never to 
 love any one thus. ,Tell them to be careful; they 
 may be doing it, and not be aware of it, — I 
 was n't at first. Give Louise my Bible, and tell 
 
276 THE HUNTINGDON : OR, 
 
 her she has had my most earnest prayers — next 
 to my husband and child. Oh ! I hope God will 
 make my death a blessing to her ; it may be that 
 He will use me thus, Mrs. Livingston ; I wish 
 I could be the means of saving one soul." 
 
 Here a violent attack of coughing interrupted 
 her ; and as she herself feared, she grew worse 
 and worse each succeeding day, becoming unable 
 to speak, save in short sentences, till finally there 
 dawned a day, whose close found her — freed from 
 bodily pain — from spiritual conflict — a disem- 
 bodied spirit, wandering with " loved ones " in the 
 golden streets of Paradise. 
 
 A few days afterward, Mrs. Livingston, the 
 forever silent mother, and the little motherless 
 one, returned to Easy Hall. 
 
 Just across the water, over on the hillside, 
 Georgie sleeps quietly — sleeps by the side of her 
 husband, whom Death beckoned away only a few 
 short weeks after her departure. 
 
 The path leading to their graves is well worn. 
 Hither Bessie, with the little Georgie, has often 
 come to mourn during the past summer, — - come, 
 until she was called away to mourn even more 
 deeply for a while. 
 
 She is not at Easy Hall at present. Did you 
 not miss her bright, beaming face in the family 
 circle ? Just now in a distant city, she sits quiet- 
 
GLTMP&ES OF INNER LIFE. 277 
 
 ly watching . an invalid as he sleeps ; sometimes 
 moving gently backward and forward the fan she 
 holds in her hand ; sometimes tenderly laying back 
 the stray locks of hair which fall over the sick 
 man's forehead. It is Mr. Belmont, although so 
 changed. Bessie is very pale, too ; but how 
 angelic her countenance. Sorrow has done its 
 work in her heart. She told Mrs. Livingston all 
 the tale some days since, and thus she wrote : 
 
 Dear Aunty-mother, — 
 
 Mr. Belmont has just gone to sleep, and so I joyfully take 
 this opportunity to open my "full heart" to you. Oh! I 
 do trust to write this time a letter — and a long one, too — 
 instead of one of the little notes you have so long and 
 patiently received. 
 
 Aunty, I never can express to you how much I have longed 
 for your presence and comfort during these " trial weeks." 
 Sometimes when I have felt that I must tell some one my heart, 
 I have almost started to go to you, thinking you were near, and 
 I should find you somewhere ; then the reality pressed heavily 
 upon me, " I had no one but Jesus ; and so day after day He 
 has not only heard my griefs, but borne them for me, so that 
 I have been a wonder to myself. I have thus learned to cast 
 all my care en Him ; and aunty dear, oh, it's much sweeter 
 than telling you of it ! I rejoice in this experience, for 1 do 
 so desire, to have Christ all to me ; and sometimes when at 
 home I found your comfort so sweet, I used to feel sadly, 
 that when I went to Jesus, it was not so sweet. I felt it was 
 not right, and grieved over it ; I knew the comfort you gave 
 me was divine, and I received it as such, but don't you think 
 it's more precious to drink from the Fountain itself, than 
 
278 THE HUNTINGDON. 
 
 from one of the rivulets. There, aunty, I commenced to tell 
 you of my trials — no, blessings, but my heart is so full of 
 Christ, and the precious lessons He has taught me here, it 
 seems as if I could not speak of anything else. 
 
 Oh! I never can tell you how deeply, bitterly sorrowful 
 was the first night after my arrival here. I had not imagined 
 Harry so dangerously sick as I found him ; and as I sat and 
 gazed upon my heart's best earthly treasure, moaning and 
 tossing under the delirious fever, and I not able to afford him 
 one single mite of comfort, my heart groaned within me. 
 I heard, too, the physician's low words to the nurse, saying, 
 "He is very sick, be extremely cautious." I begged the 
 privilege of sitting beside him that night, but Oh ! how cold 
 and heartless seemed to me the refusal, though it was given 
 in the kindest manner possible. I went to my room ; but 
 not to sleep ; no, alone I could weep and weep, there was no one 
 near that it could trouble now. And now, dear aunty, came 
 the severest trial of all ; for then when my heart was so sore, 
 and I was all alone, no human comforter near, did the 
 tempter appear, and with such frightful temptations, I felt 
 that they must crush me. I actually ran, it seemed to me, 
 to God, " my high tower, my fortress and deliverer." Satan 
 whispered again and again, " Ah ! you have made him an 
 idol, and now God is going to take him away." My heart 
 kept answering, " Thy will be done," and it was all I 
 could say. " You only say that," said Satan, " because you 
 think God will spare his life if you are submissive." I 
 groaned, and thought perhaps it is so; and as I thought of 
 him, cold and silent, forever parted from me, my anguish 
 grew intensely deep, and I moaned aloud from the depths of 
 my soul, " My Father, the cross is very heavy ! Help Thou 
 me, or I shall utterly fall." It seemed to me then, a strong 
 arm was put directly beneath me, and I could " smile on 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE 279 
 
 Satan's rage," and whispered again, while I gazed confiding- 
 ly up to my Supporter, ' : Thy will be done." I knew, aunty, 
 afterward, it was all a temptation, for I have never dared to 
 love Mr. Belmont as it seemed to me I could, for fear he 
 should in the least rob my precious Saviour, of the love due 
 to Him, and I knew it was from my heart, I said " Thy will 
 be done." My Supporter and Comforter never left me after 
 that dark night, and on Him I leaned — leaned heavily all the 
 sad waiting days that followed. My calmness was a mystery 
 to some of the family, and you can imagine how painful to me 
 was the remark that I overheard a cousin of Mr. Belmont's 
 make, "That Miss Huntingdon didn't seem to feel very 
 badly." Oh! how little she knew of my heart, or the 
 strange mysterious power which upheld me. For a few mo- 
 ments, the remark stung me keenly, but when I thought how 
 often our Saviour was misunderstood, I was content to suffer 
 once as He did — to be misunderstood on the matter most 
 precious to my very being. 
 
 'Tvvas only a day or two after, however, that I was righted ; 
 for in company with this cousin, Mr. Belmont's father said 
 cheeringly, to me, " Bessie, you are a wonder to me, and to 
 the doctor, too ; he says you are the bravest little nurse he 
 ever saw. You don't know how much your hopeful face 
 keeps me up." 
 
 "My Father keeps me," replied I, "else I should have 
 utterly fallen the first night I came here." 
 
 "That's right," replied he* patting my head, " always 
 trust thus in Him and you will be sustained." 
 
 I think I read correctly the expression of Miss Donald's 
 cousin's face, and it assured me, that she felt she had mis- 
 judged me. 
 
 The next day Harry was pronounced better. " The crisis 
 has passed," said the doctor, "and he will recover." It 
 
280 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 did not comfort me, as it did the rest, however ; for from the 
 first day after that severe night of trial, I was assured that 
 he would not die, that the Master was only purifying us a 
 little more for our life work, and that he would be spared. 
 
 During this time, Mr. Leslie called a number of times, and 
 brought, as he always does, " sweet consolation." On one 
 of these occasions he gave me these sweet verses, which I will 
 copy for you. 
 
 BEARING THE CROSS. 
 
 [From the German of Schmolk.] 
 '* The heavier cross, the nearer heaven; 
 No cross without, no God -within, 
 Death, Judgment, from the heart are driven 
 
 Amidst the world's false glare and din. 
 ! happy he, with all his loss, 
 Whom God hath set beneath the cross! 
 
 The heavier cross the better Christian, — 
 
 This is the touchstone God applies; 
 How many a garden would lie wasting, 
 
 Unwet by showers from weeping eyes! 
 The gold by fire is purified ; 
 The Christian is by trouble, tried. 
 
 The heavier cross, the stronger faith: 
 The loaded palm strikes deeper root; 
 
 The wine juice sweetly issueth 
 When men have pressed the clustered fruit. 
 
 And courage grows where dangers come, 
 
 Like pearls beneath the salt sea foam. 
 
 The heavier cross, the heartier prayer; 
 
 The bruised herbs most fragrant are; 
 If wind and sky were always fair, 
 
 The sailor would not watch the star; 
 And David's psalms had ne'er been sung, 
 
 If grief his heart had never wrung. 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 281 
 
 The heavier cross, the more aspiring, 
 From vales wc climb to mountain's crest. 
 
 The pilgrim of the desert tiring , 
 Longs for the Canaan of his rest. 
 
 The dove has here no rest in sight, 
 
 And to the ark she wings her flight. 
 
 The heavior cro -s, the easier dying; 
 
 Death is a friendlier face to see, 
 To life's decay one bids defying, 
 
 From life's distress one then is free. 
 The cross sublimely lifts our faith 
 To him who triumphed over death. 
 
 Thou crucified ! The cross I carry — 
 
 The longer may it dearer be; 
 And, lest I faint while here I tarry, 
 
 Implant thou such a heart in me, 
 That faith, hope, love may flourish there, 
 Till for my cross the crown I wear !" 
 
 Are they not exceedingly sweet and touching ? I have read 
 them to Mr. Belmont many times, since he has been able to 
 hear me read, and he enjoys them very much. He calls me 
 now, and I must bid you adieu till by and by. 
 
 Thursday Morning. 
 I hope to complete this at this sitting. Harry has gone to 
 ride with his father, and he seems to be improving fast. The 
 day I wrote you before, we had quite a long talk, and we spoke 
 about God's design in all this affliction. Said Harry, "Bes- 
 sie, I see it all. You can hardly imagine how intensely oc- 
 cupied I became with my studies just before I was taken sick. 
 I gave all my time to them, rising up early and sitting up 
 late. I fear, also, I rather infringed on my devotional time 
 — if I did not, my mind was so occupied with other things, 
 
282 THE EOT1INGD0NS: OR, 
 
 that they were attended to in rather a careless manner. My 
 mind dwelt entirely on my graduation, and to please you and 
 my friends by a worthy one was — I see it now — my constant 
 and highest aim. Ah ! the Lord saw all this, my unholy de- 
 sire to please men, and laid me low. ' Blessed be His holy 
 name.' At first, when I felt the disease coming upon me, it 
 was deathly hard to submit, but He who alone could do it, 
 broke me down and I yielded, though I wept like a child. 
 Truly, He leadeth us in away we know not," 
 
 As Harry was saying this, it was suddenly revealed to me, 
 just the lesson I had to learn; about the same as his, for all 
 during July niy heart was full of his graduation, and I went 
 through the scene over and over again in imagination, just how 
 he would appear. Ah ! that was " the little fox that spoiled the 
 vines." I am so glad our Father did it! I cannot praise 
 Him enough for it. Does He not lead us sweetly, and chas- 
 tise us just exactly as we need ? Neither Harry nor I would 
 have thought that we needed pruning just there, but the Mas- 
 ter knew, and tenderly He put the knife on these branches. 
 You do not know how much comfort I do take because I am so 
 assured He is leading us ; it is so delightful to feel that He car- 
 eth for us, just like an earthly parent, only infinitely more 
 tender, more wise ! You know I always loved to be taken 
 care of. But there, I must not write another word to-day. I 
 promise myself, however, this pleasure again very soon. 
 
 With love and kind wishes to all, 
 
 I remain ever yours, 
 
 Bessie. 
 
 B , Sept. 7, 18—. 
 
 Good morning, Aunty dear. Harry is asleep again, and so 
 I can talk to you awhile. I believe I like to write letters full 
 as well as to talk, though perhaps it is because I am so 
 selfish, and can tell all about myself without being inter- 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 283 
 
 rupted, or obliged to listen to the affairs of others, before 1 
 have concluded mine own. I have thought so sometimes ; so 
 now-a-days I make it not only a point of courtesy but princi- 
 ple to write fully and interestedly about my correspondents' 
 " affairs " before I mention my own; and if there is any 
 cramping done anywhere, it shall be on my side — not on 
 theirs. Oh ! this self, how it protrudes everywhere, and 
 what an amount of crushing it needs! I do not need, how- 
 ever, to do this when I write to you, as our correspondence is 
 only for my benefit, though I know " Bessie's letters" do give 
 you some pleasure. 
 
 Harry gains every day. As Edward probably told you, he 
 accepted with great pleasure your invitation, and you may 
 expect us about the 20th of this month. Oh, I do long to see 
 home again, and the " home ones " ! It seems a long, long 
 time since I left you, probably because I have passed through 
 so much during the time. Yes, I may well say much — much 
 if affliction, experience, conflict, temptation ; but much of joy 
 in the Holy Ghost also. He has been " taking of the things 
 of Christ, and showing them unto me," very preciously dur- 
 ing the last week. Harry and I have been reading Hebrews 
 together ; and Oh ! how has He shown me my utter nothing- 
 ness, aside from Christ, and my unworthiness to come into 
 the presence of the Holy God, save through Christ's media- 
 tion. I cannot approach unto God as I used too, and pray, 
 closing with ' : for Christ's sake ;" but I feel I must commence 
 with that, else my prayer cannot ascend. You understand 
 me ; I want that thought to precede the prayer, rather than 
 to close it. 
 
 I wish I could begin to tell you the "blessed teachings" 
 the Master has taught me since I left you- What am I, that 
 thus He should care for me, and come and abide all the time 
 in my little heart? I never am alone, for He is with me, and 
 my thoughts turn directly to Him, when friends are away, 
 
284 THE HUNTINGDON : OR, 
 
 and often when they are present. Don't you thin»k we can 
 easily find out how we regard any one, by watching our 
 thoughts, and is it not comforting to think that our Father 
 will " bring even our thoughts into subjection.' ' lie is bring- 
 ing mine more and more. I often feel a power checking un- 
 holy thoughts, just as they, are coming, it seems to me. 
 
 Another thing which has seemed very precious lately to me, 
 is that God will use us poor mortals to work for him. You 
 do not know how thrilled I am with pleasure when I find He 
 really has used me, and I often find it to be the times when I 
 am the least expecting it — thus setting aside my will and my 
 pleasure even, in doing His work. Ah ! how constantly is He 
 obliged to " set aside our wills ; " answering our prayers, but 
 not exactly as we willed them to be answered ; giving us 
 work, but not just where we thought we could labor with 
 much success ; pruning us, but not in the place we expected. 
 Thus it is we die to self, and live only in Him. 
 
 Oh ! Aunty, how much misunderstanding there is in this 
 world ; it seems to be the root of a great deal of trouble that 
 exists, and especially the root of so much differing between 
 Christians. I see it so constantly amongst them here. Oh ! it 
 makes my heart very sad at times ! It seems to me they do 
 agree upon the vital points, but some minor matter — a term, 
 perhaps — prevents their seeing even this agreement, and also 
 besides, it prevents their progress heavenward. Oh ! for char- 
 ity, charity. Don't you believe, if Christians would make it 
 an earnest subject of prayer, that their hearts might be filled 
 with Christ's Jove? then " differings " would cease, cease at 
 least in expression, for we shall not, shall we, all fully agree 
 till we stand whsre "we shall know, even as also we are 
 known? " 
 
 I must tell you before I close, a remark I heard yesterday 
 about Margaret. It especially pleased me, because I felt 
 Christ was honored by it. Mrs. Dayton called here yester- 
 
 
GLIMPSES OF INKER LIFE. 285 
 
 day, and as we were speaking of home affairs, she said, " By 
 the way, I met your sister Margaret at my cousin's last week, 
 and I never saw such a change in anybody as in her. Whj 
 if religion would do as much for me, I would become a Chris- 
 tian right off." This remark recalled one Margaret made to 
 me last summer, that " she was such a crooked old tree, that 
 grace would abound more in her than in the graceful elms 
 and maples she had perhaps envied a little." I think Mrs. 
 Dayton's remark proves that grace does abound in her. 
 I'm sure she's anything but a " crooked tree" to me — no- 
 ble, self-denying sister. Is it wrong for me to be proud that 
 she is my sister? I'm sure it's only because I feel it such an 
 honor to have a sister in whom Christ dwells so richly. Oh ! 
 I do so ardently desire for you all to be filled with Christ more 
 and more, and not only you, but myself and all the world. 
 '' Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as in heav- 
 en," is one of my most fervent prayers. 
 
 And now, aunty, I must close. I hope you will not be 
 weary reading my long letters. Soon I shall be home to talk 
 with you. By the way, I suppose from what Edward says, 
 Louise will get home about the same time that I do. How 
 sad Bell Rivers' death was. It seems to have affected Louise 
 very much, judging from her letter. Poor sister ! European 
 life has evidently failed to satisfy her. Oh ! that she may yet 
 find Christ, the only satisfying portion. 
 
 Love, kve to everybody. 
 
 Your own Bessie. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 IT was at the close of a beautiful autumn day 
 in early October, that Bessie Huntingdon en- 
 tered the library at Easy Hall, and cheerily said to 
 the company assembled there, " Come, good peo- 
 ple, you don't begin to know how charming it 
 is out to-day. You have talked enough about 
 Europe for the present, and now I propose that 
 we take a general ramble round the village ; per- 
 paps Louise would like to see the improvements." 
 
 " O, yes," replied Margaret, " it's just the best 
 time of day for Louise to see the church ; that is 
 if she feels able to take the walk." 
 
 " Yes," replied Louise, slowly rising and smooth- 
 ing back the folds of her magnificent silk, " Yes, 
 I should like to go. I didn't notice much yester- 
 day when we came into town, I was so tired and 
 felt so dizzy after the voyage. What shall I wear, 
 Bessie ? " 
 
 " O, anything," returned she, " your little hat." 
 
 They were soon equipped, and started off, a 
 party of four ; Bessie and Mr. Belmont — nov 7 . 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 287 
 
 quite recovered from his illness — leading the way 
 and Margaret and Louise following. 
 
 " So, Margaret, the church is your hobby," said 
 Louise, as they were passing down the avenue. 
 
 " Yes, I suppose it is," replied Margaret, " and 
 I don't wonder at it, for it has been my chief ob- 
 ject of thought and labor during your absence.* 
 Look ! there it is." 
 
 '•" Where ?" returned Louise, glancing in the 
 direction of Margaret's pointed finger. 
 
 " Why, don't you see the spire, and the building 
 among the trees, just across the harbor there ? " 
 
 " O, yes!" replied Louise, "how pretty it 
 looks, and what an excellent location for it ! Why, 
 
 it's at the fork of the B and T roads, is 
 
 it not?" 
 
 " Yes," replied Margaret. " You know there 
 was a small, unoccupied piece of ground there 
 owned by Mr. Tiverton, and when we first men- 
 tioned building a church, many spoke of that place, 
 but I did not fancy it at first ; I wanted it in a 
 more secluded place — on the hill-side opposite, for 
 instance, or the road leading from our avenue to the 
 harbor. I had selected two spots, and quite set my 
 heart upon them, but father and Mrs. Livingston, 
 and all, thought the place in which it is now located 
 would be decidedly the best ; and so I yielded the 
 point, and have been very glad since that I did, 
 
288 THE HUNTINGDON^ : OR, 
 
 for I think the Tillage people enjoy it more, having 
 it right amongst them, and then I do not doubt it 
 will exert a much greater influence in its present 
 position ; and the greatest good of all, I suppose, 
 is what we ought to consult in such matters. 
 
 " I believe you are the principal owner of it, are 
 you not ? " returned Louise. 
 
 "Owner! why, what do you mean?" replied 
 Margaret ; " the church belongs to the village." 
 
 " Well, you know what I mean — you have given 
 the most towards building it." 
 
 " I gave my book," replied Margaret, " to the 
 Lord, and promised Him all that I received from 
 it should go towards the church ; and He blessed 
 me more than I had even dared to hope ; but many 
 others — father, Edward, Mr. Belmont, Aunt Liv- 
 ingston and the village people, have contributed 
 towards it. Mr. Tiverton himself gave the land.'' 
 
 " Is it possible ? " responded Louise, " why, I 
 thought he was too close to give even a dollar for 
 charitable purposes, much less a piece of land like 
 that." 
 
 " Well, Bessie succeeded in getting it, some 
 way — you know she's a great beggar — and I do 
 not know of any person who has been more inter- 
 ested in it since. He says he intends to take a 
 pew ; not that he expects to come very often him- 
 self s but then it will be handy for visitors staying 
 
GLOIPSl.S OF INNER LIFE. 289 
 
 wkh them ; but I have great hopes of him, and 
 feel that he will yet be one of the Lord's people.'' 
 
 And now they turned a corner, so that the neat 
 wooden church was perfectly visible to them. Mr. 
 Belmont and Bessie came back to them, and Bessie 
 said eagerly. " Well, Louise, how do you like our 
 church?" 
 
 " It is very neat and simple," replied she, "just 
 the building for the spot and village. Who de- 
 signed it ? " 
 
 " The young lady at your right," replied Bessie. 
 
 " Oh ! Bessie," returned Margaret, chidingly, 
 " don't say that, for I studied architecture for a 
 whole year, and stole this and that idea from vari- 
 ous buildings, and then from my rude conceptions, 
 Mr. Black, our village carpenter, designed the 
 building." 
 
 " Well, I should think, " responded Louise, 
 " pretty much of the credit of it belonged t j you. 
 By the way, when will it be finished ? " 
 
 " In a month or two," replied Margaret ; " we 
 liope to dedicate it this winter." 
 
 " AYhat are you going to have for a fence ? " 
 continued Louise, as they now passed on to the 
 enclosure of the church. 
 
 " We have not quite decided yet. We really 
 want a better one than our funds will permit just 
 now. You see there is quite a piece to be en- 
 closed." 
 
290 THE HUNTINGDONS I OR, 
 
 " Margaret, let me furnish that," whispered 
 Louise. "You shall have one to your satisfac- 
 tion." 
 
 " O, Louise, you are too kind ! " replied Marga- 
 ret ; " It was more than I expected from you." 
 
 " Why so ? " returned Louise. 
 
 " Well, I suppose it's because you are not inter- 
 ested in such things." , 
 
 " Interested in such, Margaret, as much as ijfl 
 any. Life is not so very beautiful to me, after 
 all," and she smiled so sadly and drearily, that 
 Margaret's heart was deeply touched. 
 
 " What a dear little church ! " continued Louise 
 as she entered the inside, " and ' oak finish ' too ; 
 O, I always liked that for the country ! There, 
 I know I shall love to come here, it is so pleasant, 
 if you have a good minister ! Have you thought 
 of any one yet ? " 
 
 Margaret colored, and said in a very low tone 
 of voice, " Yes, I will tell you about it by-and-by. 
 Mr. Belmont is going to preach for us next Sun- 
 day." 
 
 After examining the various parts of the church, 
 they retraced their steps, and silently wended their 
 way up to the cemetery, where they quietly gath- 
 ered round the graves of Georgie and her hus- 
 band. 
 
 " Oh ! Georgie," sobbed Louise, as she rested 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 291 
 
 her head against the tombstone, " why did you go 
 first ? " 
 
 " She was all ready to go," returned Bessie, 
 hardly conscious of what she was saying. 
 
 " Yes," continued Louise, " it was better," and 
 the same dreary smile passed over her face that 
 Margaret observed in the church. They returned 
 home more silent and sad than they, went. Little 
 Georgie met them at the door, and the mother 
 spoke through the soul-full eyes of her little one, 
 saying, " Come to Christ, weary one ; come to Him 
 and find rest." Snatching up the child, Louise 
 kissed her again and again, and sadly said to 
 Margaret, " Oh ! Margaret, if I only had such a 
 child, I should have something to live for. Why 
 didn't Georgie give it to me ? " 
 
 " Why didn't Georgie give it to me ! " with its 
 longing accent, rang and rang in Margaret's ears 
 through the long night, till she could endure its 
 pleadings no longer, and in the morning she sought 
 Mrs. Livingston, and with weeping eyes said, 
 " Dear aunt, have you noticed how very sad and 
 unhappy Louise seems to be ? What can be the 
 matter with her ? Mr. Kemp is very kind to her, 
 she says, and they seem to be happy together, but 
 she speaks so drearily to me sometimes, it seems as 
 if my heart would break for her. Have you no- 
 ticed it ? " 
 
292 THE HUNTIXGDONS: OR, 
 
 "Only too well," returned Mrs. Livingston, 
 " your father and I were speaking of it last night, 
 and it weighs heavily upon him. He said to me, 
 ' Oh ! sister, what would I give to see Louise con- 
 tented and cheerful like her sisters.' Poor wo- 
 man ! with all the happiness that money can afford, 
 she seems wretched indeed. We can only pray 
 for her now, Margaret, that God would open her 
 eyes to true happiness." 
 
 " Don't you think she would be happier if she 
 had children?" continued Margaret. 
 
 " O, yes," returned Mrs. Livingston, " I wish 
 she had one." 
 
 " I spoke of that, responded Margaret, on ac- 
 count of a remark she made to me yesterday. 
 When we came back from our walk, little George 
 met us, and Louise caught her right up in her 
 arms, and kissing her again and again, said in such 
 a pleading, aching tone, I have not forgotten it 
 since, ' Oh! Margaret, if I only had such a child, 
 I should have something to live for. Why didn't 
 Georgie give it to me ?' " 
 
 A shade of anxiety and sorrow passed over Mrs. 
 Livingston's face, but she only replied, thought- 
 fully, " Did she ? " 
 
 Mrs. Livingston was thoughtful and prayerful 
 all that day ; then at night she sought Louise, and 
 after some general conversation, said tenderly, 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 293 
 
 " Louise, you don't seem to be happy. Are you 
 sick ? or is it lonely here for you ? •" 
 
 " Oh ! aunt, neither of those, 1 ' returned Louise, 
 " but please don't ask me, for I know it is very 
 wicked for me to feel so, with such a good husband 
 and everything that heart can wish, but I can't 
 help it. I am unhappy all the time, and some- 
 times I almost wish I could die ; I feel so wretch- 
 edly, especially since Bell Rivers died. Oh ! I 
 wish I had never seen her ! I couldn't refuse, 
 however, to go to her, as her father said she was 
 constantly calling for me. I have not mentioned 
 it to an} r one before, save Edward ; I could not. 
 It affects me so much, I dread to speak of it ! Her 
 death was very, very sad. Oh ! how she begged 
 of us to do something more for her ! to save her 
 life, and then she would call on Edward so pite- 
 ously, ' to come to her ; he had promised he would, 
 and perhaps he could save her.' There was a 
 minister present, but he could not comfort her in 
 the least. She kept telling him c it was too late ! 
 too late ! God wouldn't forgive her ; she had re- 
 fused Him too many times.' She blamed her 
 father, and said ' lie was the cause of her unhap- 
 piness ; that she might have become a Christian, 
 and now been prepared to die, if he had not per- 
 suaded her to give up Edward; that she never 
 loved any one else.' You know she gave up that 
 
294 THE HUNTIXGDOXS : OR, 
 
 young man who waited upon her after Edward, 
 just before she came to Paris. Her father was in 
 perfect agony the whole time. Oh ! how I pitied 
 him ! but I did not stay with her long, for it was 
 too much for me. I fainted away, and was carried 
 from the room, and Mr. Kemp would not let 
 me return. I heard she continued, in just such 
 a state till her death. How horrible it was to 
 die so ! Poor, poor Bell ! — how Edward wep- 
 yesterday when I told him of it. I don't know 
 what he would have done had he seen and heard 
 her. I wish I never had. I can never forget it, 
 and at nights I often get so frightened over it, 
 Oh ! I wish I was at peace ! ' 
 
 "Louise," replied Mrs. L., ''you can have 
 peace. There is One who can give it to you ; will 
 you not seek Him ? " 
 
 "Dear aunt, will you believe it? gay and 
 giddy as you may have thought I have been in 
 Paris, I have been seeking Him. ' O, how many 
 times have I thought of you all praying for me, 
 and sometimes it seemed as if the very thoughts 
 of so many prayers ascending for me, would crush 
 me to the very earth, and then I would try so 
 hard to find Christ." 
 
 "And couldn't you find Him?" replied 
 Mrs. L. 
 
 " Not as I wish to," returned Louise ; and then 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 295 
 
 confidingly she told Mrs. Livingston all her heart. 
 Mrs. Livingston soon saw the " block " she was 
 stumbling over, and said, " Louise, ' Yet lackest 
 thou one thing ; sell all thou hast, and distribute 
 unto the poor, and thou shait have treasure in 
 heaven ; and come, follow me.' ' 
 
 " Oh ! aunt Livingston, I never can work for 
 the poor, as Margaret and you and Bessie do in 
 the world. I never could go near a poor person, 
 so much dirt and distress, J couldn't endure it! 
 And then I don't know why I need give so much 
 money to them, I don't have much to give any- 
 way ; it takes nearly all Mr. Kemp gives me, to 
 purchase my clothes/' 
 
 " Oh ! Louise," replied Mrs. L., " ' How hard- 
 ly shall they that have riches enter into the king- 
 dom of God.' 4 Ye cannot serve God and mam- 
 mon,' No, Louise, would you know Christ and 
 the peace His love affords you, you must give up 
 all to Him, and be willing to take up the cross 
 and be led just as He pleases." 
 
 44 What ! and dress as plainly as you and 
 Margaret and Bessie do ? " returned Louise. 
 
 " What does the apostle say about that ? " re- 
 
 ' plied Mrs. L., ' 4 about the dress of Christian, 
 
 women. If it were not important, and he did not 
 
 think, that they must dress differentl}' from the 
 
 world's people, he would not have referred to it, 
 
296 THE HUNTINGDON : OR, 
 
 He says, ( whose adorning let it not be that out- 
 ward adorning of plaiting the hair, and of wear- 
 ing of gold, or of putting on of apparel. But 
 let it be the hidden man of the heart, in that 
 which is not corruptible, even the ornament of a 
 weak and quiet spirit which is in the sight of God 
 of great price.' Is not the direction plain ? " 
 
 " It seems to be," replied Louise, " but, dear 
 me ! how few Christians follow it. Why, just look 
 round at Mr. Leslie's some Sabbath, and mark 
 how much jewelry and finery, one can see. I 
 never had a taste for wearing such things to 
 church, and I have often wondered, how people 
 of any taste could dress for church, almost the 
 same as for a party. Why, there is Miss Steele, 
 she always dressed gayly and conspicously, and 
 I don't see as she has changed her dress at all 
 since she joined the church. I have heard it 
 said, she was quite a devoted Christian ; so you see 
 one may dress a great deal and yet be a Christian." 
 
 " 1 doubt," replied Mrs. Livingston,. " whether 
 Miss Steele's attention has ever been directed to 
 the subject of dress."^ Her mother is one of those 
 persons who think ' tasty dress ' is all important, 
 and she has trained her daughters in the same 
 manner, and I presume Miss Steele would hardly 
 think now, she dresses too much. I believe, 
 however, she is a sincere Christian ; and as I have 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 297 
 
 watched her laboring for the Master here and 
 there, how have I longed to tell her how her 
 dress hinders her usefulness. I believe, I am 
 quite assured, if she could hear some of the re- 
 marks which are made concerning her, she would 
 modify it considerably ; feeling, like Paul, ' Where- 
 fore, if meat make my brother to offend, I will eat 
 no flesh while the world standeth,' or, ' It is good 
 neither to eat flesh, nor to drink wine, nor any- 
 thing whereby thy brother stumbleth, or is offend- 
 ed, or is made weak.' And then, too, Miss 
 Steele is a young lady of so much influence in the 
 church, I desire to hive that influence all tell for 
 the precious cause. By her present manner of 
 dressing, she sets a bad example to the world who 
 can well say, ' how do ye different from us ;' to 
 poorer Christians who look up to her as a stand- 
 ard, and endeavor to conform to her fashions ; to 
 the poor, to whom perhaps, she ministers, who 
 feel, ' how can you dress so richly, when so many 
 poor people are hungering for bread around you, 
 which you might give to them.' Ah ! Louise, 
 there is a greater responsibility here, than many 
 of God's people imagine. One thing, however, I 
 have observed, the nearer a soul gets to Christ, 
 the more these outside adornings disappear. I 
 remember now, a young lady friend of mine who 
 said to me soon after she joined the church, 
 
298 THE HUXTINGDOXS : OR, 
 
 1 Lizzie, I don't know whether I am getting ^ 00 
 particular, but I can't spend so much time em- 
 broidering and trimming my clothes as I used to. 
 I can't bear to wear my blue silk with so many 
 flounces either, when I remember the precious 
 time it took to make them, which I might have 
 spent, tract distributing, visiting the sick, or in 
 some other good work. No, I can't do such 
 things now, and feel my Saviour is smiling upon 
 me. Another thing, you know, how I always 
 used to braid my hair, Sundays, and all, those 
 wide braids which took me so long, — well, last 
 Sunday, as I was braiding them, the thoughts 
 came to me, How much time you spend over 
 this poor perishing body, how much have you 
 given your soul to-day ? Would n't it be better 
 to spend the remainder of your time before 
 church, preparing your soul for divine service, 
 than thus to be beautifying your body ? Do you 
 need to adorn yourself thus to go into the Lord's 
 house ? to worship at His altar ? Who are you 
 desiring to ploase, Him, or the world ? and, Liz- 
 zie, I could braid no more. I brushed my hair 
 back neatly, and flew to my closet and to my 
 Bible, and oh, I can't begin to tell you what a 
 precious season I had with my Saviour, and how 
 much I enjoyed the service that morning at 
 church ? " 
 
GLIMPSES OF INKER LIFE. 299 
 
 " But could n't she have done both ? " replied 
 Louise. " I'm sure, there was no harm in her 
 making herself look pleasing to her friends." 
 
 "She desired more the ' inward adorning,' " 
 responded Mrs. Livingston, " and she saw that 
 to gain this, the time was not to be wasted on 
 outside adornings. It did not render her less 
 pleasing, to sensible people to see her hair plain. 
 Indeed, from this time she was more anxious to 
 be pleasing to her friends, and the world, than she 
 ever was before, but to please them for ' their 
 edification,' by kind words, looks and actions. 
 Her dress was as a Christian's should always be — 
 neat, in good taste, and according to her circum- 
 stances ; she never was ashamed, or proud of it. 
 There is Louise, a propriety in all things, and 
 there is nothing which concerns our daily life, but 
 what we can carry to our Father and ask for His 
 guidance concerning it. I make my dress just as 
 much a subject of prayer as anything else, and 
 you can do the same." 
 
 " But, aunt, it don't seem so important to me, 
 it's a little thing after all." 
 
 " So little," replied Mrs. Livingston, thought- 
 fully, " that you are willing to peril your soul 
 rather than to give it up." 
 
 Louise was silent for a few moments, and then 
 she said, " No, it is not a little thing after all ; it 
 
300 THE HUNTINGDONS : OR, 
 
 is really all I live for. How could I be happy 
 without it?" 
 
 " You cannot be happy until you do relinquish 
 it," replied Mrs. L., " for it is your ' idol,' and 
 as I have said, ' ye cannot serve God and mam- 
 mon ;' you must ' Set your affections on things 
 above,' before you can find any true peace." 
 
 Louise made no reply, and they were silent 
 awhile, then Mrs. Livingston said, "Louise, I 
 have not yet told you, my true reason for coming 
 in here this evening*. Margaret mentioned to me 
 this morning, that you have said, you wished 
 4 Georgie had given little Georgie to you,' now — " 
 
 " Oh ! aunt Livingston," interrupted Louise, 
 " how could Margaret tell you that ? I did nH 
 mean anything. Little Georgie is so sweet, I 
 could n't help wishing it just then. I am glad 
 she didn't give her to me. I couldn't begin to 
 bring her up aright." 
 
 " But, Louise," continued Mrs. Livingston, "I 
 have been thinking and praying about it all day, 
 and seeing how lonely you seem to be, I have 
 thought best to loan her to you for a while, that 
 is, if you thought you would be willing to return 
 her to me when I desired. I should wish also to 
 pass three or fom months with her during the 
 year. You could come up here, and I would 
 visit you, so that she would not forget me. Then 
 
GLIMPSES OF INKER LIFE. 301 
 
 I should desire to have her dress and food very 
 plain, and that you should teach and tell her 
 about the God who made her. I feel, Louise, 
 that I have her soul to answer for, and God for- 
 bid that I should peril it in any way." 
 
 " Oh ! aunt Livingston," returned Louise, 
 brushing away the coming tears, " how can I 
 thank you enough for this kind news. Indeed I 
 will be faithful, and do with her just as you 
 would, but how can. you be willing to part with 
 her?" 
 
 "It was only through much supplication, 
 Louise, I gained the willing mind. I can well 
 afford though to part with her, for a while, if she 
 will take your heart from worldly things, and lead 
 you from loving the creature, to the love of the 
 Creator." 
 
 Thus little Georgie passed into Louise's hands, 
 and all felt how nobly and wisely Mrs. Livingston 
 had done, as they saw Louise gifted with new 
 energy and life. No one was more pleased than 
 Mr. Kemp, and little Georgie was in more 
 danger from being spoiled in his hands, than in 
 Louise's, for she could not forget how sacred was 
 the charge committed to her. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 T was not many days after, when Mr. Bel- 
 mont entered hurriedly one morning into the 
 house, and beckoning to Bessie, who was in the 
 dining-room assisting Mrs. Livingston , he led the 
 way into the library. He closed the door care- 
 fully, and then seating himself and Bessie on a 
 lounge, he dre^w from his pocket a letter and bade 
 her read it. She glanced at the outside, and 
 opening it, found it was an offer of the pastorship 
 of the " new church." She read only a few lines 
 before she said, " O, how rejoiced I am ! You 
 will accept it, wont you ? How good the Lord is 
 to us ; truly our cup is overflowing." 
 
 " Yes, indeed," replied Mr. Belmont. " I don't 
 think I could have received an offer more agreeable 
 or desirable. I have always desired to be located 
 in the country rather than in the city, and here is 
 such a good field to work, and so much to be 
 done, Bessie, we shall have to be ' busy bees.' ' 
 
 " I'm all ready," replied Bessie, " you know I 
 love to be ' busy ' — busy for the Lord. I do not 
 think there is anything for which I render to my 
 Maker more hearty, thanks, than this love I have 
 
GLIMPSES OF INNER LIFE. 303 
 
 for ' work.' Oh' ! I do pity, naturally indolent 
 people who have to rouse themselves to labor." 
 
 " Well, you will have work enough," replied 
 Mr. Belmont, " and by the way, Bessie, how for- 
 tunate we are called here ; you wont be afraid to 
 be a minister's wife now, with the 4 home ones,' 
 will you ? ' and bending his face down to gaze 
 into hers, he smilingly awaited her reply. 
 
 "I don't know about that," replied Bessie, 
 glancing up archly, "just think how staid I must 
 be, to be minister's wife to my father and aunt 
 Livingston. Well, I shan't fear them, I guess. 
 And now I think more of it," continued she, 
 after a slight pause, " how good it is of the Lord, 
 that He has called us here, for aunty can correct me 
 when I err, and I shall have her counsels the same 
 as ever. O, how just right, the Lord does lead 
 us ! Is n't it good to trust in Him ? " 
 
 " Yes, Bessie, dear," replied Mr. Belmont, 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 A moment or two now passed in silence, then 
 Mr. Belmont said, " Bessie, shall we not render 
 praise to God for this great blessing He has 
 bestowed upon us ? " 
 
 " Yes," softly responded Bessie, and — meekly, 
 lovingly, they knelt, and from overflowing hearts 
 poured forth sweet praises unto God, then conse- 
 crated themselves anew to their " life work." 
 
 The offer was in due time formally accepted, 
 
304: THE HUNTINGDONS : OK, 
 
 and only a few weeks followed before the church, 
 was dedicated, and Mr. Belmont installed. 
 
 ~No one that day was so happy as Margaret, her 
 face fairly radiated with joy, as she saw the com- 
 pletion of her past year's fervent labor, and the 
 silent song of her heart was, " My soul doth 
 magnify the Lord." Mr. Belmont's first sermon 
 as pastor was from the text she gave him, — " Oh, 
 that men would praise the Lord for His goodness, 
 and for His wonderful works to the children of 
 men ! " 
 
 The winter which followed at Easy Hall was an 
 exceedingly busy one with Mrs. Livingston, Mar- 
 garet and Bessie. Louise had returned to her 
 city home with little Greorgie, but she was very 
 busy also. Scarcely a day passed that she did 
 not send some package by Mr. Huntingdon or Ed- 
 ward to Bessie. As spring opened, too, there was 
 a great deal of passing from Easy Hall to a little 
 cottage,hidden amongst the trees, just across the 
 harbor, on the hill-side. But there came a day 
 when the hurried tripping to the cottage ceased — 
 when the last package was sent and the busy fin- 
 gers folded themselves quietly, and all was done ! 
 The next day, on a beautiful May morning, when 
 the world was bursting into life and beauty, in the 
 little village church, surrounded by joyous friends 
 and happy villagers, were the village pastor and 
 the village pet made one — forever ! 
 
CHAPTEE XXV. 
 
 ? I^IME pa/ssed on. The church nourished, and 
 J_ the village pastor and his wife labored in 
 earnest faithfully to cultivate their little vineyard ; 
 and they saw the fruits of their labors in the con- 
 version of many souls, and the progress of others 
 in holiness. Margaret Huntingdon was ever at 
 their side, and she proved not only the villagers 
 but the pastor's riglit-hand helper. Her life was 
 richly full of Christ-like deeds, and though the 
 world saw not its loveliness, angels gazed — as 
 earth's redeemed ones will hereafter — with increas- 
 ing delight on its richly perfumed pages. 
 
 Bessie's place at home was now filled by an or- 
 phan stranger — the village school-mistress Yery 
 dear was she to Margaret, but dearer to another. 
 
 Edward Livingston still came and went, " dili- 
 gent in business, serving the Lord " — a happy man, 
 looking eagerly forward to that day which would 
 commence man's truest earthly life, but not for- 
 getting the other, better, purer one, which waiteth 
 him on the other shore. 
 
 Only six short months did little Georgie comfort 
 Louise's heart, then the Angel-keeper came and 
 stole her silently away, and sadly, softly they laid 
 
306 THE HUNTINGDONS 
 
 her down upon her loving mother's breast. Her 
 little mission was all accomplished. She saved 
 the soul her mother longed to save, for through 
 blinding tears, Louise vowed forever " to be the 
 Lord's." Two homeless orphans now call her 
 " mamma," and the " Orphans' Home," and other 
 charitable societies, find in her a warm friend and 
 a liberal supporter. 
 
 Pleasant are Mr. Huntingdon's day-dreams as 
 he sees all the lambs God gave him, " safely housed 
 in the fold." He passes the long afternoons, after 
 his return from business, sometimes in the little 
 cottage near the harbor, Louise has taken for the 
 summer ; sometimes in the parsonage with Bessie 
 and Mr. Belmont ; sometimes stopping at the vil- 
 lage school to hear the little ones' merry songs, 
 and to bid the school-mistress, — " bring home rosy 
 cheeks, else Edward will frown ; " or he turns up 
 the avenue and calls at Easy Hall — for Easy Hall 
 is not his home now. Three months ago, the 
 Huntingdons left, and dwell in the large brown 
 house just beyond Bessie's home, — left, because 
 one summer afternoon a disabled soldier, wounded 
 in the Crimea, came to Easy Hall. He told to a 
 loving, waiting woman a sincere tale of error, re- 
 pentance, and simple faith in the Lord Jesus, and 
 now in a corner he sits in his arm chair, master at 
 Easy Hall — and Mrs. Livingston is no more alone. 
 
0aIimWs §xmks fax % gotmg, 
 
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 incidents of such a touching and impressive character as is like to 
 benefit the juvenile reader." 
 
 THE SECRET OF SUCCESS. 1vol. 16mo.; handsomely illus- 
 trated. " This volume shows what a sanctified ambition can ac- 
 complish by a right application of industry and perseverance." • 
 
 The above five volumes in a neat box with illuminated cover. 
 
 GRAVES AND YOUNG, 
 
 24 CornMll, Boston. 
 

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