Macaria. Augusta J. Evans

in all this there was something so unexpected. It was the first time she had ever knelt around the family altar, and, as she rose, that sitting-room seemed suddenly converted into a temple of worship. Mutual "good nights" were exchanged, and as Irene turned toward the young minister, he held out his hand. She gave him hers, and he pressed it gently, saying—

      "I trust this is the first of many pleasant evenings which we shall spend together."

      "Thank you, sir. I hope so too, for I have not been so happy since I left home."

      He smiled, and she walked on.

      "Louisa, how came your brother to be a minister?" asked Irene, when they had reached their apartment.

      "When he was a boy he said he intended to preach, and father never dissuaded him. Harvey is a singular man—so silent, so equable, so cold in his manner, and yet he has a warm heart. He has declined two calls since his ordination; Dr. Melville's health is very poor, and Harvey frequently fills his pulpit. I know you will like him when you know him well; everybody loves Harvey."

      The inclemency of the weather confined the girls to the house the following day. Harvey was absent at breakfast, and at dinner the chair opposite Irene's was still vacant. The afternoon wore away, and at dusk Louisa opened the piano and began to play Thalberg's "Home, Sweet Home."

      Somebody took a seat near Irene, and though the room was dim, she knew the tall form and the touch of his hand.

      "Good evening, Miss Irene; we have had a gloomy day. How have you and Louisa spent it?"

      "Not very profitably, I dare say, though it has not appeared at all gloomy to me. Have you been out in the snow?"

      "Yes, my work has been sad. I buried a mother and child this afternoon, and have just come from a house of orphanage and grief. It is a difficult matter to realize how many aching hearts there are in this great city. Our mahogany doors shut out the wail that hourly goes up to God from the thousand sufferers in our midst."

      As he talked she lifted her beautiful eyes and looked steadily at him, and he thought that, of all the lovely things he had ever seen, that face was the most peerless. She drew closer to him, and said earnestly—

      "You do not seem to me a very happy man."

      "There you mistake me. I presume there are few happier persons."

      "Countenance is not a faithful index, then; you look so exceedingly grave."

      "Do you suppose that gravity of face is incompatible with sunshine in the heart?"

      He smiled encouragingly as he spoke, and without a moment's thought she laid her delicate hand in his.

      "Mr. Young, I want somebody to advise me. Very often I am at a loss about my duty, and, having no one to consult, either do nothing at all or that which I should not. If it will not trouble you too much, I should like to bring my difficulties to you sometimes, and get you to direct me. If you will only talk frankly to me, as you do to Louisa, oh, I will be very grateful!"

      "Have you no brother?"

      "I am an only child."

      "You would like a brother, however?"

      "Yes, sir, above all things."

      "Take care; you express yourself strongly. If you can fancy me for a brother, consider me such."

      When Monday morning came, and she was obliged to return to school, Irene reluctantly bade farewell to the new friends. She knew that, in conformity to the unalterable regulations of Crim Tartary, she could only leave the institution once a month, and the prospect of this long interval between her visits was by no means cheering. Harvey assisted her into the carriage.

      "I shall send some books in a day or two, and, if you are troubled about anything before I see you again write me a note by Louisa. I would call to see you occasionally if you were boarding anywhere else. Good morning, Miss Irene. Do not forget that I am your brother so long as you stay in New York, or need one."

      The books were not forgotten; they arrived the ensuing week, and his selection satisfied her that he perfectly understood what kind of aid she required. At the close of the next month, instead of accompanying Louisa home, Irene was suffering with severe cold, and too much indisposed to quit the house. This was a grievous disappointment, but she bore it bravely, and went on with her studies. What a dreary isolation in the midst of numbers of her own age! It was a thraldom that galled her, and more than once she implored her father's permission to return home. His replies were positive denials, and after a time she ceased to expect release, until the prescribed course should be ended. Thus another month dragged itself away. On Friday morning Louisa was absent. Irene felt anxious and distressed. Perhaps she was ill; something must have happened. As the day pupils were dismissed she started back to her own room, heart-sick because of this second disappointment. A few minutes after a servant knocked at the door and informed her that a gentleman wished to see her in the parlour.