passing there, and the proud man knew it, and shuddered.

66

"Gideon Grindem," said the voice again, are you glad that Christmas has come ?" This time the tone was so reproachful that the tears started to Gideon Grindem's eyes, and he bowed his head and replied:

"Alas! Of all the world, I alone have nothing to rejoice for to-night."

"Listen to me," said the little figure, softly. "I am Conscience, and I have come to speak with you. We have been strangers for a long time, but I have come back to you again. You must hear me to-night, for you cannot drive me away until morning; and O, if you are wise, Gideon Grindem, do not drive me away then!"

The merchant sat silent and trembling. He knew he was powerless, and he could not take his eyes from the little figure on the hearth. But it was little no longer, for it grew in size every moment, until it assumed a gigantic form, and a mien so stern and terrible that the merchant almost shrieked with terror as he gazed at it. Yet he could not turn his eyes away. One thing only remained unchanged; the voice of the figure was as sweet and solemn as ever. The merchant felt that he would give all his wealth to escape from its presence, but he could not move a limb.

"What do you want with me?" he gasped. "I will show you," said the figure, solemnly. "Come with me!"

The merchant felt a strong hand grasp him by the shoulder, and the next moment he was borne through space with a speed so rapid that it deprived him of the ability to cry out. Suddenly there was a pause, and he opened his eyes. He started in astonishment at the scene before him.

It was a little, plainly-furnished room. Everything betokened contentment, though at the same time an absence of riches. A bright fire burned in the open grate, and the soft light of a pleasant lamp lit up the room. A woman, neither old nor young, sat by the fire, and at her feet knelt a child, with his little hands folded in prayer. There was a look of quiet happiness in the pale face of the woman, and her soft eyes were bent tenderly upon the child at her feet, as he whispered his prayer so low that only she and the angels heard it. The merchant gazed at the scene in utter bewilderment. Then his eyes grew misty, and a great sob swelled up from his heart. He had recognized the two-the boy

was himself, and the woman was his mother.

"Do you ever pray now, Gideon Grindem ?" asked the voice of the figure; and the merchant knew that Conscience was still with him.

"Pray!" he shrieked. "Pray! Omy God!" The woman turned to him slowly, and he stretched out his hands imploringly.

"O mother, mother!" he sobbed. "Let me be your innocent boy again!"

But the sweet face clouded with a look of mingled sternness and horror, and the hand that had rested so tenderly upon the boy's head was raised with a repellant gesture. The merchant shrank back with a groan, and the vision faded.

"It is a terrible thing, Gideon Grindem," said the voice of Conscience, “for a parent to turn away from a child."

The merchant shuddered. He was thinking of his own child, and how he had turned from her prayer for mercy. The figure laid its hand upon him and drew him away. He knew they were now in New York again, and that they were hurrying through the city in the midst of the storm; for he could feel the snow driving furiously in his face, and the keen wind chilled him through and through. They passed into one of the lowest quarters of the city, and entered a miserable dwelling. The figure led him up long flights of stairs, until finally they entered a chamber, so wretched and mean, that the merchant shrank back with disgust.

A flickering tallow dip shed a feeble light through the room, adding to its misery an hundred fold. On a low bed a man lay, wan and emaciated. A woman sat by the candle, sewing busily, her pale, wan face seeming even more ghastly by the uncertain light; and on a low pallet two children lay asleep— for the while unconscious of the suffering around them. The fire in the stove was dying away, and the room was growing colder every moment. Gideon Grindem gazed with horror at the scene, and turned to fly from it, but the figure laid its hand heavily upon him, and drew him up close beside the sorrowful woman, as she sat sewing her life away; and as he gazed, the merchant saw that, in spite of the marks of care and suffering which it bore, the woman's face was wonderfully like that of his dead wife. No wonder, for the woman was his daughter. A cold sweat stood on his brow, and his heart seemed to stop still. It was fearful to stand thus and gaze on such a dreadful scene.

A slight movement of the man in the bed caused the woman to look up.

"Are you awake, George ?" she asked.

"I have not been asleep, darling," replied the man, sadly. "I cannot rest for thinking, and the knowledge that I am so helpless makes me wretched. Our fuel is out, and we can get no more until the day after to-morrow, and we shall freeze in this weather, and on Christmas day, too. I could bear it for myself, Nellie; but when I think of you and our children-”

His voice failed him, and he sobbed with bitter anguish. The woman dropped her work and bent over him, trying to soothe him. "We must trust in God, George,” she whispered. "He will not desert us."

"If your father was human, if he were not a fiend—” exclaimed her husband, fiercely; but she interrupted him.

"He is my father, George," said the wife, softly. "I forgive him all the wrong he las done us, and I pray God to bless him and to soften his heart."

Gideon Grindem groaned, and turning to the figure, cried imploringly:

"Let us go away! I cannot bear this!" The figure silently led him from the room, and down the long stairs, out into the street again. It was no longer night there, for the sun was shining brightly, and the thoroughfares were thronged with busy crowds hurrying to their accustomed avocations. The air was keen and frosty, and the extra wrappings and comforters which the people wore, assured the merchant that it was very cold. The figure led him into a large store on one of the business streets, and only stopped when they reached the counting-room, where several merchants were collected around the stove. Gideon Grindem and his companion paused beside them, but the gentlemen did not seem conscious of their presence.

"What was that you said about Gideon Grindem ?" asked one.

"Your heart, miserable man!" exclaimed the figure, sternly. "Would you see your heart?" And without waiting for a reply, the figure placed its hand heavily on the merchant's head, and bowed it so that it seemned to turn his eyes inward. He could but look, and, to his horror, he saw in the place where his heart should have been, a hideous mass of corruption, so foul, so horrible, that he shuddered to look at it.

"It has changed greatly since you gave it to your dad wife, Gideon Grindem," said the figure, sadly.

"Have mercy on me!" the merchant pleaded.

"Were you merciful to your child?" asked Conscience, sternly. "Have you kept the vow you made to your dead wife, to love and protect her child always ?"

The merchant was silent. He knew he had been pitiless and cruel.

"Come with me," continued the figure, "and I will show you what shall be the end of all this."

Again the merchant felt himself borne swiftly along, and when he opened his eyes again, he found himself in his own home.

He stood in his chamber, and involuntarily he marked the contrast between its luxurious comforts and the miserable garret in which his daughter had frozen to death. He saw, to his surprise, his desk, where he kept his private papers and a considerable sum of money, open, and one of his servants search

"What new thing has he done?"

"He has killed his daughter, and her husband, and children. They froze to death yesterday, in a miserable hovel near East River. Think of it-on Christmas day, too—and old Grindem rolling in wealth in his sumptuous home!"

"He has a tough conscience," said the first speaker; "but I would not like to be in his place when he comes to die."

spring forward to stop the man, but he could not move, and when he endeavored to speak, his voice failed him. The figure pointed silently to the bed, and Gideon Grindem looked helplessly in that direction.

A man lay on the bed, silent and motionless. His hands were clasped mutely on his breast, and his eyes were wide open and staring blankly at the ceiling. Gideon Grindem bent over and gazed at the countenance, but he shrank back in horror and

dismay. Never had he seen such a look of despair as that dead man's face wore. So still, so terrible was it, that it seemed to be something supernatural. The merchant shrank back with a groan; for the face upon which he looked was his own.

"Is this to be the end?" he moaned. "This will be the end," said the figure, solemnly. "To die alone, neglected and unloved, and without hope hereafter. God help you, unhappy man!"

The figure slowly faded away, and Gideon Grindem looked up with a start. He was sitting in his library, with the untasted refreshments on the stand by his side, and the embers cold and lifeless in the grate before him. The gas was burning in the chandelier with a sickly glare, and through the curtained windows streamed the broad, full light of the Christmas sun. The merchant rubbed his eyes and stared around vacantly. Then his gaze rested on the portrait of his dead wife, over the mantel-piece. The golden sunshine fell lovingly upon her face, and the eyes of the woman who had been so dear to him, seemed full of sweetness and tenderness as they shone down upon him, carrying light straight into his heart that had been so dark. Involuntarily he placed his hand on his heart, and remembered how he had seen it, then a great sob burst from him, and he cried:

"O, God be thanked! it was but a dream." Another look into the dear eyes of the woman who had loved him, and he sank down on his knees and bowed his head lowly and reverently. Gideon Grindem was praying.

It was still early morning when the handsome carriage of the merchant drove by the Park on its way to East River. The old apple woman, rejoicing in the sunlight that had followed the storm, was spreading her wares on her table, when she was startled to see the handsome equipage pause before her stand, and to hear the same voice that had repulsed her so rudely the night before, call to her to approach. She did so tremblingly, and when the merchant bade her cheerily, hold out her hand, she obeyed because she

feared to refuse. But her surprise was redoubled when she saw lying in her withered palm a bright golden eagle, which sparkled joyously in the Christmas sunlight.

"What is this for, sir?" she faltered.

"To keep Christmas with, old lady," said the merchant, cheerily. He signed to the driver to move on, but as the carriage set off again, he caught a faint "God bless you, sir!" in the tearful tones of the old woman.

Down through the vile streets, reeking with filth, and crime, and misery, that mark the worst quarter of the great city, the splendid equipage passed, amid the wondering glances and remarks of the denizens who marvelled to see it in such a place. It paused before a miserable dwelling, and the merchant sprang out with a flushed, excited face, and hurried up the rickety stairs, fearing that one part of his dream might be true, after all. He pushed open a door and entered a miserable room. A glance satisfied him that the blessed day had brought no joy to the inmates of this sad abode. A woman, pale and careworn, sat by an empty grate, with a look of hopelessness on her sweet, young face, while a man, wan and sickly, lay on the bed with closed eyes, and two children rested on a rude pallet, still happy in their innocent slumbers.

Startled by the noise, the woman looked up. Gideon Grindem's eyes clouded, and he held out his arms and faltered:

"My daughter, forgive me!"

With a glad cry she sprang into his arms, and the penitent father felt that he was forgiven.

In half an hour, the carriage returned to the mansion in Twenty Fifth street, but this time it was full of happy hearts, who left the scene of their misery never to return to it again.

The princely mansion had never seemed so gay before as on this blessed Christmas when it rang with the merry shouts of the children, and echoed the soft laughter of the elder ones; and as Gideon Grindem listened he lifted up his heart and blessed God for the dream he had sent him to bring back so much happiness.

CHAPTER VIII.

It was a plain, poorly-furnished chamber in which Amy Clair sat at her sewing, casting ever and anon hasty and anxious glances at a thin, delicate face, lying wearily against the back of her chintz-covered easy chair. Presently the brown eyes opened suddenly and detected the look.

*Amy, darling, you are worrying yourself too much about me. Why do you, when Doctor Gray says I am so much more comfortable. And my cough is really a great deal better," smiling a wan sort of smile, that was meant to be very hopeful, but which sent a shiver of terrible apprehension over her sister.

"O Alice! when I see you fading away so like a beautiful flower, my heart is wild with pain. Perhaps if we had never left dear old Lancaster you might have been strong and bright, instead of looking so like a pale Christmas rose. I wish sometimes that we had stayed there. O Alice! I long so for a sight of those graves under the daisies-"

"Amy, Amy, hush, dear. They are not there. They are just as near us now and here. Indeed, I sometimes fancy they are very near me. And at such times I feel so happy, and so content to bear all this pain and weariness, becanse I know it is, somehow, best, and that it is only for a little time."

"O Alice! How can you talk so calmly! I cannot bear it! You must get well! How could I live in this strange land, alone and friendless."

“No, not alone, Amy; we are never that. There is always one true friend—very tender and very pitiful. And then, dear, you forget kind Mrs. Vanstone, who has helped and befriended us so much since that terrible night when we came near perishing in the flames. And then, Mr. Russel, Amy; could one give stronger proofs of friendship than he did, though we were comparative strangers ?"

There was a bright blush now on the pure cheek of Amy, and a tender sweetness hovered around the grieved mouth.

"I thought he would be here to-day," Alice continued.

"Perhaps he will, darling," brightening visibly. "You know he is to bring Miss Livingston to see us sometime."

"Yes, I know," was the rather rueful reply. "They say she is very cold and haughty.”

"Mr. Russel says she is the most elegant lady he ever saw," Amy replied, with a little unconscious sigh.

There was a low rap at the door, and the sisters started nervously, half expecting it to be the very persons they were speaking of, but were sensibly relieved when the broad, good-humored face of Timmy Bryne appeared instead, with a mysterious covered basket on his arm, which he solemnly uncovered, and revealed a score of great golden pears, flanked by twice their number of amber and crimson apples as big as one's two fists, while on one side, half hidden in glossy green leaves, were long purple and white clusters of the most delicious grapes you ever saw. Amy uttered a little cry of admiration, and Alice's pale lips quivered and her great brown eyes filled with tears.

"O Timmy!" they both said, in a breath, "why did you go and bring all these nice things here? You ought not to do so, Timmy. You are always bringing us something nice, and we can never do anything for you."

"It's pay enough, and more than such an ugly fellow as I am deservin', to get a smile from your sweet faces," was the gallant reply; and Timmy protested stoutly that a friend of his had so much of such kind of stuff lying about, that it was an actual privilege to give it away. He did not mention that his friend was a fruit dealer, or that he gave him five bright shilling pieces for the privilege! But they understood and appreciated his delicacy and generosity, and after he had gone, Alice said, with a feeling of self-reproach:

"We never mentioned Timmy among our friends."

"And yet I doubt if we have one other so utterly devoted and unselfish. I never see the brave fellow but I think how grand he looked as he went steadily down that ladder of flame, never shrinking a hair though the

cinders were searing his flesh and scorching the hair from his uncovered head. I could think of nothing but the pictures I have seen of the old martyrs, and, to my eyes, there will always be a sort of halo about his scarred face, for he saved your life, darling, and—”

A well-known step on the stairs sent the quick color to Amy's face, and interrupted her speech. She knew it was Mr. Russel's step, and half suspected the clear, silvery tones, that mingled with his deeper one, were Miss Livingston's. She was correct in her impression, and the elegant lady, clad in rich and costly robes, with jewels on her fingers and at her throat, came gracefully and cordially into the humble chamber.

She was social and courteous, but with a little air of condescension that made Amy glad when the call was over, and the last rustle of her silken robes had died away on the stairs. And beside, she could not help seeing how eagerly Paul Russel watched every movement of the graceful figure, and, though he evidently tried to appear as usual, his interest in Alice's spiritual condition was plainly eclipsed by his interest in Miss Livingston's material one.

"Amy, dear, I am afraid it is very wrong, but I think I don't like Miss Livingston very well."

Amy did not reply immediately, she was thinking; by-and-by she said abruptly:

"Alice, where have I seen Miss Livingston ?" "She was on the Bermuda with us, you know."

"I don't mean that. I was ill, you know, nearly the whole voyage. I do not remember noticing her once, and do not think I saw her. But somewhere I have seen that face. It seems a great while ago, as everything does that happened in those old happy days, before we knew how long, and weary, and hard it was possible for them to be. It was in a crowd that I saw her, and I distinctly remember that Harry was with me, and he has been dead near three years. I recollect, because he called her some sort of a queen-ah! I have it now! Alice, don't you remember when Harry and I went to the "Royal" to witness the debut of Mademoiselle Olivia? and how you were ill and could not go? Well, there is where I saw that face. I should' know it among a thousand."

"O Amy, you must be mistaken. It is not at all likely that Miss Livingston was ever an actress. There may be a strong resemblance -such things happen unaccountably some

times-but it is only a resemblance, be sure

of that."

"I tell you, Alice, I know! Now, that I have the clue, every tone and gesture comes back to me perfectly, and I know there are not two women in the world so entirely and utterly alike in look, tone, gesture and carriage. But, Alice, O how white you are! I am so thoughtless; I might have known so much excitement would tire you. Lie here on the lounge-let me arrange the pillows. There, is that right, pet?" stooping down and kissing the white, thin lips.

A faint smile flickered over the wasted face, as with an air of utter exhaustion she lay back among the pillows, whose snowy whiteness scarce rivalled the pure, shadowy face pressed against them.

When Miss Livingston stepped into her carriage she ordered the driver to make the tour of the principal streets, including Carmarthen street; adding, by way of excuse, that having seen the main characters in the drama, it would be in keeping to end by visiting its locale, Perhaps the fact that Mr. Vanstone's office was in that immediate neighborhood had some slight influence in her decision. Certain it was, a visible nervousness possessed her as she neared that locality, which Mr. Russel attributed to her quick sympathy with suffering. But he did not note the deepening crimson in her cheek, or the softened light in her eyes, when, a moment after, she bowed, with one of her brightest smiles, as a thoughtful student face, with clear, truthful gray eyes, looked suddenly up from their writing at one of the little dingy windows.

They rode leisurely through the broad streets, pausing occasionally to admire some fine view. Perhaps it would have been difficult for Paul Russel to analyze the peculiar feelings with which Olive Livingston inspired him. That she attracted him powerfully he did not attempt to deny. Her presence overpowered and intoxicated him, and her voluptuous beauty held his senses in thrall. But the very intensity of the attraction tired and exhausted him. He did not realize it while the spell was on, but after he had left her presence a sense of nerveless languor and a sort of restless dissatisfaction oppressed him. It was so different from the feeling of rest and strength, the earnest longing for greater purity and holiness of thought and life, that burned in his soul when he sat in that humble chamber in Germain street, and, while he