At last the stage paused, and the man descended from it. Turning into a cross street, and walking slowly as if careless of the storm, he reached a large brown stone mansion, where he rang the bell. The door was opened by a fine-looking servant in livery; but as soon as he saw the man, the domestic shrank back timidly, and made room for him to enter. Throwing off his overcoat and hat, and divesting himself of his wet boots, the man gave them to the servant.

"A cup of tea, David, in the library," he said, coldly, as he passed into a luxuriouslyfurnished apartment opening from the hall.

It was a beautiful room, and great taste had been displayed in its adornment. The book-cases and furniture were of the choicest kinds, an open fire burned in the handsome grate, and even to the minutest article, everything was in its place. Perfect order reigned throughout, but there was in everything that coldness and sternness that marked the owner of so much comfort.

The man drew a large arm-chair before the grate, and sinking into it, raised his feet to the fire. He never looked about him, but kept his gaze fixed steadily before him. Only once he raised his eyes to glance at a portrait which hung over the mantel. It was a woman's face-a face so pure and tender in its loveliness, that one could but wonder if it was really that of a human being. Only once the man gazed at it, and as he did so his eyes filled with tears, and his cold, hard mouth wore an expression of intense pain. Then he sank back in his chair, and his eyes fell upon the fire. The domestic entered and placed the refreshments his master had ordered on a small stand at his side, and seeing the man so wrapped in thought, withdrew noiselessly, without disturbing him, and still with that frightened, timid look he had first worn.

He was a very lonely man, this Gideon Grindem, in spite of all his wealth. He was a proud, cold man, and his unhappiness was chiefly of his own making. Years ago he had married a woman much younger than himself, but such a woman as one meets but once in a lifetime, and having seen, can never forget. Had she lived, he might have been happier and better, but she had been dead twelve years, and no other living being had filled her place in the merchant's heart. She had left him one child, and, despite his coldness, he had lavished upon this little one a love only less strong than that he had borne her mother. At eighteen this girl had mar

ried, against his will, a poor clerk that he had taken into his employ. He had cast her off forever, and now her name was never mentioned in his house. For four years he had not seen her face save once, when she came one cold winter night to beg for aid and forgiveness. He crushed the yearning of his heart for her, and turned her into the street, as he would have done to a dog that had strayed into his house. It was a cruel act, and since then he had been harder and sterner than ever. He had no friends. His acquaintances shunned him, and sought his presence only when business made it necessary. No visitor ever crossed his threshold; no happy sounds or lights were ever heard or seen within the walls of his dwelling. Even his servants feared and avoided him. He was alone in the wide world, and he knew it. He knew he must live alone, and that when he came to die, he must go to the grave with not one loving or pitying heart to cheer his last moments, or miss him when he was gone. It was a sad, sad thought to him, and somehow it came to him to-night with redoubled force. This was why his eyes clouded and his face twitched with pain when he looked at the picture of his dead wife.

The refreshments by his side remained untouched, and the merchant sat with his hands folded wearily, and his eyes fixed absently on the fire-so still, so tranquil, that one might have thought him asleep. And as he sat there, through the storm, and through the closed and curtained windows of the room, came the sweet tones of the midnight chimes of Trinity. The music of the bells filled all the air, rising and falling with the wind. It was a glad and solemn song they sung, for it was a glad and solemn tale they told; for they sang that the Christ-child was born.

"Gideon Grindem!"

The voice was so soft, and yet so distinct and sweet, that it thrilled the merchant to his inmost soul. "Gideon Grindem," the voice said, "are you glad that Christmas has come again ?"

The voice came from the fire, and the merchant glanced down at the hearth.

There, standing just below him, was a strange, but beautiful figure. It seemed like an angel, for its face was radiant with purity and beauty, and its garments were of spotless white. It was scarcely a foot high, and its eyes were so small that they seemed like diamond points. Yet they looked straight into the merchant's soul, and read all that was

"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

"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! O my 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 asleepfor 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 has 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! 1 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 seemed 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

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

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 de 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

doubled 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, reeling 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 truc, 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, bush, 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, because 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.

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"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