was followed by a discussion, on the high¬ 
way. He always discovered something 
which she had failed to notice, and which 
threw a light on the whole. He showed her 
how to trace the red thread, from “ In the 
beginning, &c.,” until that wondrous Xmas 
eve, when “ The word was made flesh and 
dwelt among us." And AGNES listened to 
his words. It was all so serious, so pro¬ 
found, and it concerned the whole human 
race; it made her heart tremble. Lite had 
suddenly become to her so important; she 
felt herself and her destination in life so 
high, and everything which had until now 
occupied her thoughts seemed to sink so 
low. Site could not imagine how she could 
have found pleasure in such things. Man 
had something higher to aim at, to sufTer 
for; an immortal soul, which he must enable 
to return ono day to the place whence it 
came—Heaven. And it was not only the 
great souls with strong wings who have this 
goal; no, the miserable beggar, t in! most in¬ 
significant child, even upon a weak girl, like 
herself, had God bestowed this responsi¬ 
bility. And this great thought swallowed 
up all lesser ones, and elevated the small 
affairs of daily life to something great and 
holy. 
And who had opened her eyes and shown 
her all this?—who was it that crept so often 
into her thoughts? The Student’s words 
gave rise to so many thoughts, and made her 
so happy. She could often rejoice over 
these words when her daily occupations 
were tiring or distasteful. But she could 
not help the speaker also creeping in at the 
same time as Ids words, and she saw him 
constantly before her with his serious yet 
animated look. 
A on its was thoroughly changed. She no 
longer Hew about, hanging doors and scold¬ 
ing the servants. Shu went about quietly 
and calmly, saying little, but that little was 
so kind and friendly. She seldom sang, she 
ni) longer cared to do that; she found her 
only amusement in reading. The Pastor 
was often obliged to force her to go out into 
the fresh air, for she no longer gave herself 
the time for that. She devoured every hook 
she could find—among others the little book 
the Student had given her, “ Woman’s Life 
and Destination, Considered in an Evangeli¬ 
cal Light.” What was her destination as a 
woman ? She might have spoken to any 
one else on this subject, but she felt that she 
could not to the Student. She sometimes 
took down the little hook and looked 
thoughtfully at the cover. It was the only 
thing she had ever received from him, and 
there had been a time when she had wished 
that she had never taken it. But now ?— 
what strange changes happen in this world 1 
She felt sometimes a sudden desire to leave 
home, and yet if any one had invited her she 
felt she could have wished herself at home 
again. When she had met the Student, and 
he had been gayer than usual, she felt as 
though all sorrow were dissipated, and she 
could return homo singing to herself, think¬ 
ing that her home was the best in the world. 
Bui when the long winter evenings came, 
and the rainy, misty days,—when she could 
not go out, but was obliged to sit in the 
house without auy one to talk to, — she felt 
then such an earnest longing for she knew 
not what. She sal often alone in her room, 
and, putting her head between her hands, 
cried until her heart became lighter. It 
seemed as though the St udent's words sound¬ 
ed in her ears when ho had walked with her 
that evening. “ You seek an equal in 
warmth and feeling, and yet one who is 
Somewhat your superior, so tlml he may 
lead and direcl you when you need help.” 
And lie had said more. “ That friend might 
be a woman, but do you not think lie might 
he also a man?” But where was he to he 
found? Here was no one; yes, there was 
one, but he was so occupied in his books, 
and only conversed now and then with her, 
because he pitied her loneliness. Agnes 
became sadder every day. Wlmt had be¬ 
come of her bright look? Her eyes were 
now dull, with a sad expression of lougiug 
in them. Her father noticed it, and it 
troubled him. He followed her with his 
eyes wherever she went; lie thought that 
she had beard had news from town, but 
which she would not confide to him. 
Agnes often awakened from her day¬ 
dreams when she felt his watchful eyes fixed 
on her; she was afraid he would ask her 
what ailed her. Bhe felt Lliat ho wanted her 
to say something when he came up to her 
and smoothed her hair, or kissed her, but 
yet she could not say a word; she only felt a 
wish to throw her arms round him and kiss 
him. 
But one evening, as they sat together in 
the dining-room, an explanation took place. 
Agnes sat on the sofa, looking more tired 
than usual; her father sat in his arm chair, 
smoking. At last, he said, “ Agnes 1” She 
answered, “ Yes,” and felt the warm blood 
tlow to her heart. 
“ Come here, my child 1” Agnes came. 
He sat her on his knee, and put his arm 
around her. 
“What is the matter?” he began; “are 
you ill?” 
“ I—how can you think so ?” ske said, as 
the blood rushed to her cheeks. 
“ One need not have sharp eyes in order to 
see that; you get both pate and thin; there 
is certainly something the matter.” 
“ Ho, nothing ails me,” she replied, hiding 
her face in her father’s breast, to conceal the 
tears which were beginning to flow. 
The Pastor patted her head. “ Would you 
like to go to town?” he whispered to her, as 
to a child. “ 1 once told you that 1 had not 
the means; but now if you like It, I can 
manage it. Will you go to town, Agnes?” 
Agnes’ reply was a flood of tears, so vio¬ 
lent that her father became frightened, and 
said nothing until she had somewhat re¬ 
covered. 
“ You need not be ashamed to answer yes,” 
lie continued, when A ones had done weep¬ 
ing, and only sighed deeply. “ It will bright¬ 
en you up a little, and we shall, I dare say, 
he able to manage without you for a time.” 
“ I can never be happy away from home 
and you,” she answered, clinging to him still 
more closely. 
" But I cannot hear to see you like this 
any longer, my child,” he said, kissing her. 
“ You will become quite ill; something 
must, he the matter. Will you not tell your 
old father?” and he put his ear to her mouth 
to hear her answer. 
“ I don’t know myself,” she said,rising, and 
after drying her eyes, she smiled. “ Nothing 
is the matter; it is only 1 who am so strange. 
But now 1 will ho good, and you will love 
me, will you not?” and Agnes kissed him 
and smoothed his gray hair. 
“ Yes, hut that was uot the answer I 
wanted,” lie said, yet he could uot help 
laughing. “ I wished to know if you—” 
“ No, no, darling papa,” site said, putting 
her finger on his lips. “ Never more a word 
of town. Now you must he merry again, 
for nothing is the matter with me, and I 
shall go and make you some good tea,” and 
so she ran out into the kitchen. 
“ Hem,” said the Pastor t .0 himself, shak¬ 
ing his head as he paced up and down the 
room. “ There is something ; say what she 
will, Rhe is a little obstinate thing.” 
However, Agnes went to town. She let 
her father persuade her that It might do her 
good; yet she could not quite reconcile her¬ 
self to the idea of meeting Matiiilde again. 
But her father desired her to go so much, and 
promised that she should come home again 
as soon as she wished. And so it was that 
one day the Student heard that Ac.nes had 
again gone to town. He would not believe 
it; was this girl always to remain an enig¬ 
ma? He had felt so sure that lie at lost 
knew her thoroughly, but now she had 
again deceived him. IIow could she care to 
return to this society when her soul had 
learned to soar higher, and when she, with a 
child’s joy, and a woman’s deep feeling, had 
learned to seek the truth, lie could not rest; 
he could not st udy. lie took his hat and 
went to the Parsonage. 
The Pastor was writing his sermon when 
he kuocked at the door. He entered hastily. 
“ Is it true that you have sent your daughter 
to town again?” he asked, forgetting in his 
eagerness to say “ good morning.” 
The astonished Pastor looked round. 
“ Yes, it is true,” he said, and looked at the 
Student wonderingly. 
“ Can it he possible; will you really force 
her back into that life of dissipation? Can 
you so destroy a human sou] which was just 
awakening to life ? Can you thus kill God’s 
handiwork, lor which you must one day ren¬ 
der an account?" 
The Pastor lowered his spectacles, and 
6 tnred at his visitor. “ But what is the mat¬ 
ter ?’’ he asked, rising. The Student calmed 
himself. “ I ask your pardon, Pastor," he 
said, bowing. “ I must confess it is far from 
polite, thus to enter your room, mid 1 know 
that you are her father; but if you had no¬ 
ticed her from childhood, as 1 have done—if 
you had studied her character, as I have, and 
watched her grow up, then you would cer¬ 
tainly understand.” 
“No, I certainly understand nothing!” ex¬ 
claimed the Pastor. “ What does all this 
mean ?” 
“ Have you, then, not observed that your 
daughter was much changed of late?” 
“ Yes, God knows that I have noticed it! 
She has become both thin, pale and ill.” 
“ And yet you send her to town ?” 
“Where else should I send her? That is 
my very reason for sending her to town!” 
“Yes; poison is an excellent remedy for 
the sick,” said the Student, smiling bitterly. 
The Pastor shook his head. “ I think you 
are ill,” he said at last; “you speak like one 
in delirium.” 
“No, Pastor, I am not ill; hut she was, 
and her illness was a war which God made 
on her heart, in which he wished to dwell. 
A war which should have been fought with 
tears and prayers, in the quiet of her own 
room.” 
The Pastor listened seriously to the Stu¬ 
dent. “Sit down, my friend, and explain 
your meaning. Was my daughter, then, not 
a Christian ?” 
“ I can answer both yes, and no. She was 
a Christian in the same way as most people 
who, with their lips, pray, * Our Father,’ 
several times a day, and go to church every 
Sunday, and in this maimer retain a sort of 
remembrance, or band, between God and 
themselves. But she was not on*of those to 
whom Christianity had become ]ife,M»d who 
allow their belief to hallow their e\ei-j ac¬ 
tion, and who present themselves a living 
sacrifice to God.” 
“Yes,” said the Pastor; “but the new 
theologians never let one have a moment’s 
rest, hut require a constant agitation. May 
one no longer live in peace and quiet, rejoic¬ 
ing in the blessings God has bestowed upon 
us ?” 
“That I have never denied ; but remem¬ 
ber that, in spiritual things, there must be 
agitation if there is life. Agitation is like 
the pendulum of a clock; if that stands still 
then the clock stops, and he who Is not agi¬ 
tated, sleeps. One may repose in sleep, but 
a real Christian must watch and pray. 
Your daughter lias hitherto seen Christianity 
as through a mist or dream; she has now 
awakened, and you wish her again to fall 
asleep.” 
“ But you seem to consider town worse 
than Sodom! and Agnes in the hands of 
heathens. She resides with kiud, respectable 
people." 
“ You misunderstand me, Pastor. Do not 
think that I hate mankind or towns, or that 
I am a fanat ic. I know very well that there 
is much that is good In towns—much that 
is artificial, and also much that is real. 1 
know, too, that there are many religious 
people whoso society cannot fail to be of 
use. But they of whom I speak are the 
worshipers of this world, they who have 
no other thought than its pleasures, viz., 
this Matiiilde and her mother; and in the 
company of such your daughter is now pre¬ 
cipitated—she who just now longed for 
peace and repose; amongst them she will 
learn to hide or ho obliged to stifle these 
new thoughts, which had begun to be so 
salutary to her." 
The Pastor had laid his head on the table; 
he did not look up nor answer. The Stu¬ 
dent rose. “ I am sorry, and ask your for¬ 
giveness for having behaved as 1 have now 
done, hut we cannot always command our¬ 
selves, and 1 cannot deny that it made me 
very sad to hear of this journey to town. 
Strange as it may seem to you, yet 1 am 
sure that 1 know her better than you do, al¬ 
though you are her father. You arc much 
older than she is, and engaged nearly the 
whole day •j eur affairs, and have al- 
ways seen hei her infancy near you, 
and only spoken of every-day subjects with 
her, so that your fatherly eyes have become 
less sharp; but I have only met her a few 
times, and she has spoken to me of things 
at heart, because she found me nearer her 
own age, and therefore, better able to under¬ 
stand her. And 1 found her a warm-hearted, 
deep-thinking woman, much too good to be¬ 
come one of these fashionable dolls. And 
now farewell, Pastor; let my words be for 
your car alone, 1 beg you, and so may I ask 
you again to forgive my speaking so plainly.” 
The Pastor said nothing, lie followed 
the Student to the door, and they shook 
hands. The Student looked at the Pastor, 
and it struck him that he looked old and 
careworn. He hesitated whether to go, or 
stay and talk to him a little, but he had al¬ 
ready passed the threshold, and the Pastor 
had said “ Good-by.” When he was alone, 
he sat down again in his old chair, resting 
his head on the table. He remained thus a 
long time ; at last he got up, and walked to 
and fro in the room. 
“ Could there really he truth in what, he 
said. Have 1 not understood my own 
child ? Have I sold her soul in my ignor¬ 
ance? Good God, it is terrible to think of I 
I will wait and sec what she writes, and 
then-May God direct me!’’ 
Agnes’ first letter was us follows: 
“Deaii FATHER You must forgive ray not 
having written sooner, but. I have delayed so 
long, hoping to have something pleasant to write 
to you about. Hut I can wait no longer, and 
must write, although I know these lines will not 
please you. I must toll you that 1 long to come 
home, and I feel so lonely, amidst all t hese peo¬ 
ple, ns though I would like to run away from 
them all and cry. But I have promised to be 
obedient, and therefore 1 will stay as long as you 
desire. But if you were to send for me,oh, how 
happy I should be I Ido not knowhow It is, 
but. 1 oan no longer be happy in their society. 
They take me with them to the theater, to con¬ 
certs mid balls, bat It is no longer us before; I 
only long to come away from it all. I see many 
beautiful tilings here, which would do me good 
to see, but I have iio desire to see them or to en¬ 
joy them. 1 r T tun out, I long to be at home, and 
when I am at home, I long to be out. Ido not 
know myself, but. I know that the only tiling 
which can make me happy, will be to bo able to 
pray lo Goo heartily. I cannot say otherwise 
than that t hey are good and kind to mo here, and 
do all in their power to make me gay, but it is 
just this striving which la so distasteful tome. 
1 should like best if they would leave me alone, 
but that is not to be thought of, and they some¬ 
times get Impatient, and call me obstinate, and 
say I have only come to spoil their pleasure, and 
that makes me very sad, for I do not wish to do 
that; but during the few last days they have 
been so unusually kind, that T l’ear there is some 
hidden meaning, and think I have guessed right¬ 
ly. The doctor has told Mathu.de that she re¬ 
quires country air, and I think she wants to come 
to us. God preserve us from such a visit I I can 
write do more, but if I were with you, T would 
kiss you heartily. Your Agnes." 
The Pastor said “Hem,” when lie hafi 
read this letter for the first time, and after 
the second perusal, he got up and rang. 
“ JIalvar, you must take the largest gig, 
and drive to town to-morrow to fetch your 
mistress home,” lie said to the servant when 
lie entered. 
“ Is coining home again ?” lie asked. 
“ Yes,” Answered the Pastor, shortly, and 
IIALVAR wa^-ibliged t 0 ]j C satisfied with the 
answer. 
After a month’s *bser»<te, Agnes returned 
home, and flew into lies fallw 8 a n»>« ghe 
looked so well, whether it might attrn 
ed to the sharp North wind, or to the joy ot 
being at, homo again. She took a letter from 
her pocket. 
“ It is from Matitilde’s mother,” she said. 
“ I was to give it to you.” 
The Pastor read it, and Agnes studied his 
expression as he did so. 
“Is it as 1 thought, papa?” she asked, 
half afraid.” 
“Yes” answered the Pastor. 
“ You must say no,” she exclaimed, more 
hastily than he had ever before heard her 
speak. 
“ No, my dear little, girl, you see it is im¬ 
possible. You have twice visited them with¬ 
out its having cost me anything, because 
Matiulde’s mother was an old friend of my 
wife’s, and so we cannot refuse her request 
to come here.” 
“ Yes, but I do not like her; I cannot 
bear her to come here.” 
“That is very extraordinary; you, who 
were before such good friends. And if you 
could liven month with her there,you could 
surely support her company a few weeks 
here. It is our duty to be polite to them.” 
“ You are l ight.. It must be so,” answered 
Agnes; but she said no more that evening, 
and went to her room early. But before 
going to bed she cast a long look at that 
distant spot, to see if the light, still burned in 
the window of her faithful friend. 
A week after, a heavy carriage drove up, 
loaded with trunks and carpet bags. The 
Pastor came out himself, bowing low to re¬ 
ceive the figure which was entirely enveloped 
in shawls and cloaks. 
And so Matiiilde had arrived.—[To be 
continued. 
-- 
THE MORTGAGE, 
It wa 9 New Year’s eve. Henry Bon field 
sat looking into the tire, while his wife was 
busy washing up the supper dishes and put¬ 
ting the room in order. He was unusually 
silent, and his wife, as she glanced toward 
him now and then, began to fear lliat some¬ 
thing troubled him. After she had finished 
up her work, she came and sat down by His 
side, and as she laid one hand on his shoul¬ 
der, said: 
“You are looking dull to-night, Henry. 
Don’t, you feel well ?” 
“I am a little dull,” he replied. “The 
fact is, Jenny, I don’t feel comfortable, as 
things are. 1 hoped, by this time, to have 
bad our home nearly paid for; but instead, 
I’ve only reduced the debt $150 in the last 
year. At this rate, the entire mortgage will 
not be paid off for six or seven years.” 
“ Is that all!" exclaimed Mrs. Bonfield, in 
a cheery tone of voice. “Now, I call that 
taking trouble for nothing. What’s the 
great difference whether it takes three years 
or six to pay off the mortgage, so it’s paid 
off at last, and we have a comfortable home 
all the while? Maybe it, will be bel ter for 
us to save and pinch for seven years than 
for three. Economy will become a habit by 
that time, and there is no better lmbit for a 
‘ safe passage through the world,’ as my 
father used to say." 
“All very well, Jenny, if life were cer¬ 
tain," answered the husband. “ If I live, 
everything may come out right. But if I 
should die before the bouse is paid for ?” 
“ Don’t talk of dying,” said Mrs. Bonfield, 
quickly, a troubled expression coming into 
her face. 
Her husband dropped his eyes to the floor 
and sat in thought for a good while. 
“Jenny,” be said, looking up at length, 
“ there's "one way to make tilings safe. I’ve 
been turning it over in my mind for several 
days, but didn’t just care to speak of it. I 
could get a life insurance for one or two 
thousand dollars.” 
lie saw bis wife’s cheeks grow instantly 
pale. 
“ Oh! no,” she exclaimed quickly, “ I 
wouldn’t do that. The veiy thought sends 
a colcl shiver all over me.” 
“ Thousands of people get their lives in¬ 
sured,” said Mr. Bonfield. 
But Mrs. Bonfield shook her head. “ I 
wouldn’t have you do it for the world. It’s 
just like looking death in the face." 
It was all in in vain that her husband tried 
to reason with her. 
“It’s of uo use, Henry,” she answered. 
“ I shouldn’t have a moment's peace from 
the day your life was insured. It seems to 
me a kind of flying in the face of Provi¬ 
dence. There’s something so cold and cal¬ 
culating in the whole thing— putting up so 
much money, as it were, against a lift*—val¬ 
uing a human life at one, nr two, or ten 
thousand dollars! Oh! no, Henry, I don’t 
want you to do it.” 
“ I’m sorry you feel so,” replied her hus¬ 
band. “ It. would set my mind at ease in re¬ 
gard to t he mortgage.” 
“ Don't trouble yourself about flint,” said 
Mrs. Bonfield. trying to speak cheerily; “it 
will be right in a few years.” 
But the young man could not feel at case. 
They had two children, and his wife’s health 
was not very good. If he should die, what 
would become of them ? This thought was 
perpetually haunting him, and taking away 
the pleasure of life. 
When New Year’s eve came round ngnV), 
Bonfiehl's circumstances were not much im¬ 
proved. Only one hundred dollars ka^ been 
paid on the mortgage during the wbefe year. 
There had been sickness, loss of time, large 
doctor's bills, and one or t wo badfl'ebts. An¬ 
other baby bad come, with the added care 
and expense. 
v Bun«eid wa$ less cheerful than on tlie pre¬ 
rest '“ V0 ‘ A shadow seemed to 
hopduiiy” y ^!d » ok , H 
the ravens, has us in lit-. keeping 1 as a weiV 
Why should we lose the bluings given us 
to-day, in fear of some evil to-m*rvow? We 
have our pleasant home and our dafiqig chil¬ 
dren—good gil ls and precious. Let Us be 
happy In them.” 
Good gilts and precious they were to Bon- 
tield. Few men loved wife* and children 
with a tenderer and more unselfish love. It 
was in the very depths of this love that 
anxiety was born. Fear lest he should be 
taken i'rom them haunted him night and day. 
What was to become of them it be should 
die ? 
Alas for the next New Year’s Eve! It 
found the death-angel in Boufleld’s house. 
A sudden illness bullied all the physician’s 
skill, and the life on which so much depend¬ 
ed went out, and left sorrow, and darkness, 
and desolation of spirit behind. 
“ What is to become of his poor wife and 
children ?” was the anxious question that 
passed from lip to lip among blends and 
neighbors. They bad not a relative in the 
place—noone on whom they had any natural 
claim for help or support. It was this that 
had made the husband and father so anxious 
about them, and so earnest lo get bis home 
paid for. In the year which bail just closed, 
only a hundred dollars of the mortgage had 
been canceled, and there still remained 
eight hundred dollars due. This mortgage 
was in the bauds of a man who would not 
scruple to rob the widow and orphans by 
taking any advantage within his reach. 
Three days alter the funeral, Mrs. Bonfield 
was roused from the helpless lethargy of 
grief by the reception of a legal paper, giving 
notice that the balance of money due on the 
house must be paid by a certain (lute, or it 
would be sold in satisfaction of the mortgage. 
To whom could she go in this sad extremity ? 
Alas! there was no one. In losing her hus¬ 
band she bad lost her only human friend, 
supporter and protector. She was alone in 
the world. 
The extremity of her situation quickened 
into life all the energy of Mrs. Boufleld’s 
nature, lu her painful suspense and anx¬ 
iety she went to the man who held the mort¬ 
gage, and telling him her plans, besought 
him to let the debt lie for one year, and sell 
then if she could not pay t he interest and a 
purl of the debt. He would listen to noth¬ 
ing. The chance bad come to make gain of 
oppression, ami he could not let it pass. 
The poor widow went back in despair to 
her children, and sat down among them, 
weeping uml wringing her bands, tier old¬ 
est child, a girl six years of age, tried to tell 
her something, but her ears were deaf 
“ Mother 1” said the child, with the eager¬ 
ness of one who seemed 10 torgeteverything 
for herself. 
“ Not now, dear 1" and Mrs. Bonfield tried 
to push her away. 
“ But the man told me to give it to you as 
soon as you came in. Here it is,” urged the 
child. 
“ Give me what ?” and Mrs. Bonfield roused 
herself a littlp. 
“ This letter,” and the child pushed a letter 
into her mother’s hand. 
A letter 1 When she comprehended that, 
Mrs. Bonfiehl’s interest awakened. She took 
it from her child's hand, and opening it, 
read a few lines, and then let it fall lo the 
floor. But quickly and eagerly catching it 
up, she held it in wild excitement close to 
her eyes; ihcn let it fall again, and burying 
her lace in her hands, sal very still, while 
tears fell in large drops through her fingers 
down upon the carpel. 
“ Dear Madam,” (so the letter read:) 
“ Two years ago your husband had bis life 
insured in our oflice for the sum of fifteen 
hundred dollars. The amount will be paid 
to you on demand.” 
It was from the secretary of a life insur¬ 
ance company, the oflice ot which was in a 
neighboring town. 
Sinking upon her knees among her chil¬ 
dren, the widow lifted her heart in thankful¬ 
ness to God. Light broke in upon the dark¬ 
ness of her life. The tender love of her hus¬ 
band, that was ever concerned for her good, 
seemed reaching over from the other side to 
succor and to comfort her. Death bud sud¬ 
denly taken him away to what seemed an 
infinite distance. An impassable gulf was 
bet ween them. Now it seemed as if he were 
in the very room with her, and that his 
hands were holding her up and leading her 
in safety. , „ 
“Dear husband!” she murmured, “mv 
heart blesses you for this love and care! It 
will be well with your little ones now. I 
will stand to them in your stead—toll for 
them, care fur them, make their lives blessed 
as you would have done.” 
All her way was plain now. She paid off 
the mortgage, and so bad her home secure. 
A part of the money that remained she put 
out at interest, and with the rest titled up 
her little parlor us a place of business, bought 
a few useful and fancy articles,and set upas 
a milliner. Her taste, her skill, and her in¬ 
dustry soon brought Her plenty of work, and 
in a few years she had the largest custom in 
her line that the town afforded.— The Work¬ 
ingman. 
