THE RELIGIOUS MISS R.

A YOUNG lady was leaving her home, on a visit to a friend’s house at the seaside. She did not care very much for the visit, as she knew by experience that they were people in many respects not thoroughly congenial to her; they lived only for this world, whereas she had learned to live for things higher and nobler, and to find her greatest joy, not in parties and dress, and novel-reading, but in pleasing her heavenly Friend and Redeemer, and in communion with him.

And now, as she sat in the railway train bearing her swiftly along, she prayed silently for the dear home she had left, and for some there who as yet knew not the secret of happiness she had attained. She was distinguished from her sisters, by her acquaintances, as “the religious Miss R.;” she knew this, and rather shrank from it, while feeling that she ought not to do so.

It was an honorable badge which she would sooner have been without.

She remembered rather too well the apostle Paul’s affirmation, that he made himself all things to all men, in order to gain the more; and forgetting that she was not exactly in strength of character or of piety an apostle Paul, she forgot also that there is such a thing as “hiding God’s righteousness within the heart, and concealing his loving kindness and his truth.”

The dread of appearing singular, and of having the old odium fixed upon her, led her to comply with everything, and to live as near like the others as could be. Whenever conscience whispered a remonstrance, she quieted the monitor by such reflections as: “I am recommending my religion by cheerfulness, and by showing how far it is from being strait-laced or severe; I am proving that a Christian is not necessarily gloomy and morose;” and so on.

It is said that the principle of human vitality deteriorates so quickly in impure air, as to be very soon unconscious of the slow poison it inhales, while gradually losing the power to struggle against the baleful influence.

This is true also in soul matters. Nothing descends so quickly as the standard of spirituality in one’s heart. Still, often when Mary R. was reading her Bible in her own room, and enjoying very much the precious words of eternal life, feeling them as the very utterance of her Father in heaven, she would have her gladness dashed with regret as she came upon such passages as these: “None of us liveth to himself, and no man dieth to himself.” “Jesus also, that he might sanctify the people with his own blood, suffered without the gate; let us go forth therefore unto him without the camp, bearing his reproach.” “Be not thou therefore ashamed of the testimony of our Lord; but be thou partaker of the afflictions of the gospel according to the power of God.” And the motto under the old picture of the Crucifixion would come into her mind: “I did this for thee; what art thou doing for me?”

Then she would resolve that in some way or other she would prove herself a Christian before the day should pass. She would get some of the ladies to talk on serious subjects, or she would tell some little child about the Saviour; or she would not spend so much

time in frivolous amusement—she would show that she possessed a source of more excellent delights. Alas! for religious resolutions, unless the strength of God go with them. The attempt at serious conversation would dwindle down from a talk about Providence to, perhaps, dead people and epitaphs; the stand against frivolity would end in a shamefaced yielding to persuasion. The very last day of Miss R.’s stay at her friend’s house arrived, and the most worldly of the visitors could have concluded that she was altogether such an one as themselves.

She was walking in the pleasure-grounds which sloped to the sea’s edge, and were bordered with shingle beyond the grass and tamarisk; a lady was with her, to whom she felt much attracted during their sojourn together in the same house. She was a young and apparently very light-hearted woman; the foremost in every plan of pleasure, the most brilliant singer, and liveliest talker among the company. But during times of unreserve, such as this walk, the gayety was supplanted by something not far from gloom; and Mary thought more than once that she was one to whom she would

like to talk about religion. But never until now, in all their intercourse, had she ventured to lead the way to the best of subjects; and to-day, only because urged by a sense of the quickly vanishing opportunity.

Mrs. Brown looked at her with some little surprise. “I did not expect to hear you talk in this way; but when your sister, the religious Miss R. came, I hoped for some profitable conversation.”

“The religious Miss R.!” Mary’s face flushed violently. “They call me by that name,” she said, in a low tone.

The lady’s countenance fell. “I beg your pardon; I never would have thought you were a Christian—I mean—” and she colored in her turn—“I never would have thought that you had any decided views on religious matters.”

“Oh, Mrs. Brown!” The implied reproach was more than the unfaithful believer could bear. Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Mrs. Brown, I profess to be a Christian. I have been most wicked in not appearing to be one more decidedly. I—I—do indeed wish above all things to serve and glorify the Lord Jesus Christ.” She paused,

overcome by an emotion which had in it much of remorse.

“And I,” said the other lady, not looking at her, “have been longing to meet with somebody who could speak from experience about religion, where I know that the only real satisfaction is to be found in this world. I have tested the world at all points, and learned its utter hollowness. I have enjoyed what is called society to the utmost. I have found nothing anywhere to fill the void in my soul; when I heard that ‘the religious Miss R.’ was coming, I thought, now I shall see a happy Christian, and I can talk to her about what I so much want—peace and rest, such as are promised in the Scriptures. And when you came, I imagined that you must be one of the others, for I knew you had sisters that were not Christians in that sense of the word.”

It may be believed how every word sank into Mary’s heart. But for her unfaithful walk and conversation, perhaps this soul would have been given her for her hire! And she had been “ashamed of Jesus!” for now she saw that this was the truth of the case. She had not confessed him, her dear Saviour,

before this company, by bearing herself as an earnest believer should; by showing that she trod a stranger soil, and that the home of her heart was with him in heaven; she had been “offended in him”—she had lived to herself, and not unto “Him who died for her, and rose again!” Like words blazoned in fire rose these in her memory: “If we deny him, he also will deny us.” “Whosoever shall be ashamed of me and my words, of him shall the Son of man be ashamed when he shall come in his own glory, and in his Father’s, and of the holy angel’s.”

Mary never forgot the lesson. She had gone down into the Valley of Humiliation that day, which is one of the most effective departments of “the school of Christ;” and he gave her strength never again in such a manner to suppress the fact of her Christianity.

MRS. DEACON GRAY’S BONNET; AND WHAT IT COST.

Poor little Lettie, how tired she was; and yet there was no break in the stream of ladies all the afternoon. Madam La Vert has just returned from the East with a superb stock of millinery; and Lettie was so pretty and obliging, and withal was noted for such excellent taste and skill in combining and blending, that her counter was constantly thronged with ladies, whose pretty, explosive comments over the fresh beauty of each new love of a bonnet, or hat, had grown so tiresome to the tired nerves of the weary little milliner, that she felt desperate enough to rush forth into the bright, free sunshine, and leave the chattering group to help themselves. But a glance at the tired face of her kind mistress gave her new endurance. And so all the bright afternoon she stood upon her tired, aching feet, and talked over and over, to each successive group, the same weary nothings.

But at length the gathering night brought a lull, and she was permitted to run home to her supper.

“Madam, need I come back to-night?”

“Why, yes, to be sure, Lettie; just see that pile of goods; they must all be marked before we sleep, for the rush to-morrow will be much greater than to-day.”

Poor Lettie went home with a heavy heart, and the way seemed longer and more dreary as she reflected upon her speedy return, so that not even the nicely prepared meal or gentle endearments of her kind mother could coax a smile upon the sad face.

“You staid late, Lettie; don’t you intend going to church to-night?”

“Oh! mother, I did want to go so badly, but Madam says I must go back to the shop. The new goods have just come to-day, and as usual we all have to work night and day.”

“I’m real sorry, daughter; but I hope, dear, you will not lose your serious impressions in the midst of so much talk and fashion.”

“I havn't a moment to think, mother; it's just fashion, and flowers, shade and

color, laces and ribbons, over and over, until I'm so tired I can hardly stand upon my feet.”

Lettie hurried back to the shop, and as she was the only one of the shop girls who was familiar enough with the business to assist in marking, she and the Madam had the room to themselves.

Lettie was a great favorite with Madam, and she ventured in the course of the evening to speak of the meetings that had been in progress during her absence.

“Yes, Mrs. Deacon Gray was speaking of it. She says a great many of our young people have united with the church. I was surprised that such girls as Delia Shaw and Hattie Holcomb were among the converts; they were so fond of dress and society, I didn’t think they ever gave a thought to their souls.”

“If you had been to the meetings, dear Madam, you would wonder how any one could come away without feeling that eternal life is the only thing in this weary world worth striving for.”

Madam turned and looked into the earnest face of the young speaker, and then, with

a queer little sigh, said, “I see you, too, are thinking about these things, and I’m glad of it. I’m no Christian; but once, when I was about your age, I was deeply impressed with my state as a lost sinner; and looking back now I believe, if I had been permitted to remain under the Christian counsel of my mother a few weeks longer, I should have led a different life. But suddenly placed in a crowded shop, with no companions save the thoughtless, giddy girls, I lost the true path and have ever since been too constantly in this busy whirl to find time to change. Ah, me! I shall have to take time to die, some day, and what then? I wish I had my life to live over again, Lettie.”

“Oh, Madam, our pastor said Sunday, that while it was better, safer, and easier, to come to Jesus while we are young, yet that it was infinitely better to come late than never.”

A silence fell upon the two, each busy with her own thoughts. Lettie looked up from her work after a while, and asked Madam if she thought she could spare her tomorrow evening to go to the inquiry meeting.

“I hope so, if we can finish marking to-night. There will be a great deal to do to-morrow, but we will crowd pretty close rather than have you miss another night.”

Lettie went home feeling more hopeful and less tired than she was at tea-time, and as she listened to her mother’s glowing account of the good meeting she thought, “To-morrow night, ah, to-morrow night, I, too, may find peace and joy in believing.”

Poor Lettie, like too many others, felt that she could make but little progress outside of the meetings. She never dared to pray, “Lord save now; right here may I believe in thee;” but as she would bend busily over her work, her thought would be, “Perhaps God will hear his people pray for me to-night. Perhaps I shall be the next to be blessed. Oh, if it would be; but I’m so wicked.”

The next day matters moved on in the old groove at the shop. There was more trimming and showing, but Lettie comforted her tired little self with the soft whisper, “To-night, yes, to-night, the good pastor is going to tell us so plainly just how to go to Jesus. And then, it seems to me, I’ll not care for

hard work and the many things that worry me so now. I wonder if Christians ever do feel real sad, or if they ever hate folks, or want to do any wrong thing. I guess not, for mother says to be a Christian is to be like Christ.” Just here her reverie was broken off by the entrance and hearty greeting of Mrs. Deacon Gray.

“How do, Lettie? Busy as a bee, as usual, but where is the Madam?”

Lettie pointed to the work-room, and Mrs. Gray hurried on. “Oh, Madam La Vert, I’ve just taken a letter out of the office that has put me in a perfect flurry. You see the folks down at Lee have heard about our good meetings, and Dr. James and wife, and Deacon and Mrs. Stoakes are coming on the evening train to stay over Sunday. You know how stylish those ladies are, and I wouldn’t have them see me wear that old spring bonnet I fixed over myself for anything. I was reading in ‘Madam Demorest’ of the sweetest thing, and I want you to get it up for me.”

“But my dear Mrs. Gray, do you know this is Saturday afternoon, and ‘opening time,’ too? Why, bless me it’s quite impossible.”

“Now, don’t say so, Madam. I know you can crowd it in some way. Now, do pray, oblige me, and you shall lose nothing by it, I assure you.”

Madam bent her head over the pattern presented by Mrs. Gray, and took in, item by item, the pretty, French design for a spring bonnet.

“Sweet, isn’t it?”

“Yes, very; it will make up elegantly,” said the demure little artist, mentally estimating, the effect such a novel, yet beautiful design would have upon her reputation.

“Mrs. Gray, I’d say we would attempt it, if it were not for one thing. You know Lettie is my only dependence for such work, and I have promised that she may go to the meeting to-night; and I have as much, and I fear more, promised than I can finish by midnight.”

“Oh, if that is all that’s in the way of my wearing the handsomest bonnet that ever entered Graysville chapel, I’m sure to do it. I can coax Lettie to give up one meeting I know.”

“But Mrs. Gray, you know Lettie is among the anxious, and really, I don’t feel

as if it would be right to place a straw in her way.”

“Oh pshaw! what difference can one meeting make? Why, Madam, any one would think there were to be no more meetings, to hear you talk.”

“Well, Mrs. Gray, we do not know that there will be, for her, or us.”

“Oh dear! you are as gloomy as a tombstone to-day. I’m not expecting to die, and you never looked better. Come, say I may try my powers of persuasion on Lettie.”

“Well, perhaps I am foolish; it certainly don’t become me to lecture one so long a Christian upon matters of conscience.”

“I’ll do the fair thing by Lettie, you see now, if she will give me this evening. They’re poor, are they not?”

“Yes; Lettie is her mother’s only dependence.”

“I thought so,” and Mrs. Gray hurried over to Lettie, and laid her proposition before her in such an enticing manner, that Lettie from the first did not see how she could refuse. But, when Mrs. Gray added, “If you will do this for my sake, I will show you how well I appreciate your little sacrifice

by allowing you to take your choice from the very best of Madam’s new hats.” Alas for Lettie! Satan had prepared the way for this by causing her to contrast her old hat (which she must still wear) with the fresh, bright ones, borne off so triumphantly by one after another of her young friends. And Sadie Lee had just asked her what kind she had got; and when she replied that she had not got hers yet, Sadie said, “Oh! but you must take time to select one to-night, for we want you to come to church tomorrow;” and now here was the offer of that beauty that she had thought upon first, saying she would be willing to work her fingers to the bone to possess, and here it was, laid at her feet for one evening’s work. But the meeting, ah, the blessing in store, was worth all the hats in the universe.

“Come, Lettie, I didn’t think you’d be so long about deciding to oblige me,” said Mrs. Gray. “You know you’ll have all day to-morrow for meetings, and will look as smart as any of the girls in your new hat.”

“I guess I’ll stay.”

“That’s a darling,” and the stately figure bent to kiss the white brow, then hastily

selecting materials for her bonnet, she left with the injunction, “Be sure and send it up to-night, Madam. I wouldn’t have it come in the morning for anything.”

How busily Lettie’s fingers plied in and out of the costly material, and yet it was eleven o’clock when she took the last survey, and then held it up for the inspection of Madam and the girls.

“Why, Lettie Lathrop! you have far excelled the pattern,” cried Madam. “You should have been born in Paris; such genius is seldom met here. And now you must go so far out of your way to carry it home. I wish Mrs. Gray was not so particular about Sunday.”

“Oh, I’m not afraid, and the walk will do me good, after sitting so long.”

Mrs. Gray bestowed as much praise upon the skill of the tired girl as the most exacting could demand.

“I’m afraid it is going to storm by morning; chilly, isn’t it? I hope it won’t turn cold, and spoil our calculations for to-morrow.”

Yes, it was chilly, and very dark. On, and still on pressed the weary little feet, and

it seemed twice the distance it ever did before. The little window, with the cheery gleam of welcome, smiled upon her. Her mother met her at the door with many anxious inquiries, all of which Lettie answered in such a cold, constrained manner as to quite alarm her.

“My dear Lettie, you are tired now; in the morning you will feel differently.”

“Oh! mother, this morning I thought I should go to meeting to-night, and some way I felt as if I should meet Jesus there for certain, and that to-morrow I could go to church, feeling that I was in my ‘Father’s house,’ and that I would be so happy that I should never grieve again.”

Near morning, Mrs. Lathrop was awakened by the loud, wild tone of Lettie’s voice. Hastily lighting her lamp, she was terribly alarmed at the change a few short hours had wrought. As soon as it was light, she sent a neighbor for the doctor, and when he came and examined the restless, tossing form, he said, “This is a singular case. Your daughter, madam, must have been overtaxed, physically and mentally, to be so completely prostrated so soon.”

He was soon informed of all the mother knew concerning her daughter’s state, and shook his head gravely as he was told of the mental excitement and overwork.

What was Mrs. Gray’s surprise, upon seeing her two friends come into her room, prepared to accompany her to church in their last spring bonnets! It spoiled half her delight in hers, to think that all her worry was far worse than a whimsical fancy.

“Oh! What a beauty of a bonnet! Why, it is a perfect little gem!” cried the ladies, with true feminine appreciation of the beautiful.

“You have not ordered yours yet,” said Mrs. Gray, surprised to hear no word of apology offered for the old hats.

“Oh! yes,” said Mrs. James; “but in the city it is so different from these country places. There, when the season opens, there is such a rush, everybody wants their bonnets and hats, and in consequence, the poor, pale girls are worked day and night. So I told my milliner not to hurry any one for me, as I could wait very well. You see I don’t care for these things as I used to,” said Mrs. James. “Nor I,” said Mrs. Stoakes, “for myself,

although I enjoy seeing them on others; but I try to keep my body under, and to never let worldly matters shut me out from higher and holier duties.”

Poor Mrs. Gray! how she wished her bonnet back again upon the quiet page of Madam Demorest, as she thought, “I do wonder if they saw or heard Lettie last night? but no, they went to their rooms full two hours before she came. Poor, little thing, how tired she looked! I hope she’ll enjoy wearing her new hat better than I do mine.”

Many were the admiring glances cast upon the new bonnet. “Why,” said little Tillie Wood, at the dinner-table, to her mother and sister, “it was all the beauty of a whole springtime compressed into one little mite of a bonnet.”

“Yes, my dear, and I fear more than that. I greatly fear that your little Lettie’s life will be the price nature will demand for this love of a bonnet;” and the good doctor told the pitiful story, and how Lettie raved continually about selling her soul for Madam La Vert’s nicest pattern hat.

Mrs. Gray was overwhelmed with grief when she heard of Lettie’s illness, and strove

in every way to atone for her want of thought; and while every word from the blue lips of the sufferer went like a dagger to her heart, she prayed that the blood of the precious soul might not be found upon her skirts. Her prayer was answered.

Out of the soft brown eyes, Lettie’s own quiet self looked once more, and the old smile, with an added brightness, lighted up her dying face. “Madam—mother, I am going home. Jesus loves me, and is calling me to come. Don’t cry, mother. Just think I’ll never sin any more; never, never get tired again. Forgive you, Mrs. Gray? Ah, yes, gladly and freely. You intended no wrong; but, oh! I ask you to watch and help those who are trying to find the way to Jesus. Madam, dear Madam, I love you. You have always been good to me. Oh! be good to yourself. Come to Jesus. Mother, kiss me. I’m going. Don’t—don’t cry. You’ll soon follow me.”

They covered her coffin with pale spring flowers, and laid her away in the quiet churchyard. *

The curious eyes of Graysville were never again gladdened by the finery of Mrs. Deacon

Gray. In sober, neat, but plain attire, she went about her Master’s work, striving to redeem the time spent in pursuing the fickle goddess Fashion; and if she ever feels a desire after any of life’s vanities, she goes to her room, and takes down a bandbox, she opens it, and takes out the soft, fleecy fabric, over which Lettie’s white fingers so diligently wrought. Pinned to one of the ties is a paper; and while she reads, with streaming eyes, we will look on :—

“This trifling vanity cost a young life, and but for the infinite mercy of God, I should to-day have to answer for a lost soul—a poor trembling, seeking soul, from whom my selfish pride had almost hid the cross.”

THE SERPENT IN THE HOME.

When first Miss Martin came to our town she was a bright attractive girl.

Her elder sister had married one of the doctors of the place, and she came on a visit to her, and as was right and fitting, her friends and she, enjoyed themselves visiting places of interest.

One day after viewing the sights of a neighboring city, and when waiting the time for a train to take them home, they stepped into one of those fashionable restaurants, with which our city abound, to rest and take refreshments. As it was a hot day the sandwich was followed, at Dr. Black’s suggestion, by a glass of wine. Chemists tell us of the affinity of certain substances.

Dr. and Mrs. Black drank their glass of wine without any apparent effect. But it was different with Miss Martin. She had never in all her life drank a whole glass of wine before, and something, I know not

what or how, in her constitution answered to its subtle qualities, and she felt its exhilarating effects. A pleasing indescribable sensation came over her. Before, she was worn out, and exhausted; now she felt light, vigorous and happy. And it is to constitutions of this kind that stimulants are an unspeakable temptation. Favoring circumstances, I grieve to say, were not wanting. Mrs. Black’s callers were numerous, and wine and cake were regularly presented. They were asked to dinner and supper parties to get acquainted with the neighborhood, and at most of these also wine was abundant, and just because other people took it Miss Martin did so too.

She thought the place delightful; the people exceedingly pleasant, and if, in a forenoon, she felt exhausted and nervous after a party, a glass of wine put her all right. No wonder that when she returned home, life seemed dull, flat and heavy. Of old she used to awake in the morning with a bright, cheery feeling, and begin to lay out her plan of work for the day. But things of an ordinary kind had no interest for her now. She became restless, her appetite failed, and she grew pale and thin. Her mother, anxious

and alarmed, called in the doctor, whose verdict was, “A little out of sorts—trying season of the year—liver dull—a little stimulant set all to rights.” Her father, good, confiding man, at once ordered in a dozen of port, which was to be administered to the patient twice a day. And so the spark was fanned and cherished which in due time was to become the raging conflagration in which health, comfort, the approval of conscience, the smile of friends, character, and life itself were to be engulfed.

As I have said, Miss Martin was a very prepossessing girl, and, admired by many; so in a little while, when on a second visit to her sister, no one was surprised when it was announced that she was to be married to one who stood high in the opinion of all, and was indeed a young man of great worth and excellence. It happened that winter that a young men’s mutual improvement society was organized in our town, and a scientific association, and a total abstinence society. Now into the first two of these, Dr. Black and Mr. Bennet, his intended brother-in-law, entered readily, and were quite willing to attend meetings, and give readings, and

deliver lectures; but for the last: “Well really,” they said, “it did seem a kind of insult to introduce the like of that among respectable people. No doubt there were many who should not drink, because they could not stop in time, and in such cases drink was a great curse; but with the like of them it was different.” And when Mr. Bennet saw Miss Martin sipping her glass of wine, he thought, as of everything else about her, how graceful it seemed, and how well the action became her. It was but a few months after, that the poor illusion was dispelled.

Some gentlemen friends of Mr. Bennet’s from a distance had come to spend the day with them, and a few neighbors had been asked to meet them at dinner. Mrs. Bennet had, like other young housekeepers, made great exertions for the entertainment of her guests. Who does not sympathize with her wish to do the honors of her house in a way worthy of the husband so devoted to her, and of whom she was so proud? Well all went off beautifully, and she had left her guests in the dining-room over their wine; but when seated by herself, with the

excitement run down, a feeling of excessive fatigue and languor came over her. As on other occasions she at once thought of a glass of wine. This was just the very time it was needed, and so without further consideration she drank one and another, and so on, till before she knew it, she was sleeping the sleep of a drunkard in her own elegant drawing-room. By-and-by the door was thrown open, and Mr. Bennet, in his usual cheery voice, said, “Here we are, Mary, all ready for your nice cup of coffee.” But, alas! there was no answering greeting, nothing but an inarticulate sound from the prostrate figure on the rug. The company took in the situation but too well, and all retired as gracefully as possible, sorry to see Mrs. Bennet so poorly, etc. Mr. Bennet was bewildered. Of all the possibilities in life this was the last that could have occurred to him, and there he sat with that terrible, mysterious smile which you may have seen on the face of the strong man when shame and agony were gnawing at his heart.

It would be tedious to record Mrs. Bennet’s resolutions of amendment made and broken, to be again renewed and with the

same result; or her husband’s patience, so often abused, and still so ready to forgive. But the most long-suffering patience may be worn out at last, and it seemed to Mr. Bennet that the only chance was to send his wife—once his pride as well as joy—to one of those asylums for the drunkard called refugees. The arrangements were made, and the day she was to go fixed. I shall never forget that afternoon. The poor husband was utterly prostrated with grief and shame by an outbreak of his wife the day before, and as an old friend he requested me to accompany her, for he could not trust himself, and feared his resolutions would give way at the parting scene. She, poor creature, not only acquiesced in the plan, but earnestly besought her husband on her knees to help her to get free from the wretched slavery in which she lived. It is easy for people outside to speak, but I do think drunkards are often deeply to be pitied as well as much to be blamed. She had been for some months in this establishment when her husband, hoping against hope, removed to the city of which I have spoken, with the view of giving her the benefit of new scenes and new surroundings in

her future life, and brought her home. How he congratulated himself, how his love and long-slumbering reverence revived, as day after day and week after week passed and still she stood the trial!

Some time after this I was invited to the marriage of their only daughter. She was one of whom any mother might have been proud, and on whom her father doted. I had been greatly gratified at hearing of my friend’s continued reformation, and when I arrived that summer evening and found the three sitting together on the lawn under a spreading tree, enjoying the sweetest hour of all the day, I thought the outward scene a fitting symbol of the inward peace, and caught myself whispering, “At evening time it shall be light.” Looking back on the past it seemed as if we had awoke from a frightful nightmare, and were being re-assured by the calm and peace of returning morning.

Next day, as the wedding guests were strolling through the grounds after the marriage till lunch was announced, and everything seemed the embodiment of calmness and comfort, he would have been thought a hard-hearted prophet of evil who would have

predicted the events of the following hours. I stepped aside and went into the house to see if I could give any assistance in the finishing of the arrangements. On looking into the dining-room what was my amazement to find the table furnished with a profusion of wines and even brandies! Thinking there must have been some strange mistake I hurried out and sought Mr. Bennet, to whom I told what I had seen, saying that his orders must surely have been misunderstood.

He looked wonderingly a moment. “Not at all,” said he; “you do not suppose I could let such an occasion as this pass without giving it all the honors.” “Honors!” I thought some people had strange ideas about honors. I implored him to alter his arrangements even yet. “Thanks,” said he, “for your kind interest; but pray don’t trouble yourself, you will see all will go off well.” And then in a lower tone, “Mary has promised me.” With a sorrowful heart I turned away. The party had not been long in the dining-room when I saw Mrs. Bennet, who had hitherto been acting the part of hostess with all the ease and grace

which in her early days had charmed so many, become suddenly pale and seemed to put a strong restraint upon herself. I felt deeply grieved when I saw those around her carelessly sipping their wine, ignorant of the fierce war they were kindling within her.

At last she could stand it no longer; it seemed as if a thunderbolt had fallen amongst us when suddenly she rose and seizing a bottle darted to the door. Mr. Bennet’s face turned ashy pale, and when he attempted to rise his knees smote against each other, like the monarch of old when the handwriting on the wall announced his doom. When I got outside the door the poor woman looked round on me with a half-triumphant, half-scared expression, and the brandy bottle, as it turned out to be, was lying empty beside her. I helped her to the bed and the doctor was sent for, but no human power could save her, and as we watched her tossing to and fro, and wildly appealing for protection from the fiery serpents which she averred were swarming around her, I wondered if her husband did not ask himself if he had fulfilled that vow made long ago of loving, cherishing and protecting her when he exposed her to what,

was indeed supremest danger possible, the smell of what, to her, was deadly poison.

At length the storm subsided; she lay wan and worn on her pillow. Leaning over her, I heard in a low whisper the words, “They shall thirst no more.” The pathos was inexpressible. These were her last words. No doubt there is pardon for the penitent drunkard as well as the penitent thief, even at the eleventh hour; but turning away from that death-bed I could not but say, “Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his.”

I have spoken of some of the outward incidents of Mrs. Bennet’s history, but who shall imagine her inner life? Sure I am that the most exquisite tortures ever invented by cruel Turks fell very far short of those she inflicted on herself and her dearest friends. When bidding good-bye to the silent and mournful mansion, where all had but the other day seemed so bright and happy, I felt with new power and emphasis the force of the wise man’s words, “Look not thou upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth his color in the cup, when it moveth itself aright. At last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder.”

Continue reading: THE GRADUATING DRESS.