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humility and pain my eyes filled with hot man is for one single day. You do not

tears.

I would have returned to the book again, but the words swam before me; I could not go on until my tears went back: I sat looking down upon the page; and as I so sat, Noel's voice came again to me.

"Ruth," he said gently, "what do you want ?"

But my words were gone then; I could only answer

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Nothing never mind-nothing now," and I would hurriedly have begun to read, but as I commenced, he interrupted me.

"Ruth," he said quickly, "I am often blind and selfish, so that I do not see things that I ought to know. But I am not wedded to my faults! I am a taciturn, morose, unlovable man; but I do not want to be feared; I do not want to be left forever to my own thoughts. Ruth, do not you be afraid of me. Tell me again, what you were going to say."

I raised my head, I unclosed my lips; quickened by those words I could speak again. With swift impulsive courage I began: I told him of my ignorance. I told him what I wanted. I asked him to give me help.

What followed was an hour whose happiness words can not utter. I had become his pupil, he was my master. He led me where my footsteps could follow; when he spoke he changed my darkness into daylight, and my twilight into sunshine. We had been together before, and for me his heart and soul had been like a sealed book; the change was now as the ancient flowing of the water when the rod struck the stony rock.

Once, and once only, there came a pang of pain over my joy-but alas! it came as a flood upon its close. The book I had been reading lay on my knee still; the hour that was past had been as if that book had spoken to me with a living voice. When it was nearly ended, in the gratitude of my heart I told him so.

Alas! that the thought came to me, or that I uttered it. His face changed as I spoke; with a sudden flash it changed to the old likeness it had worn before his illness; the anxious pain, the wearied turmoil, all came back.

"Ruth," he said hurriedly, "I am not like that man. If I could barter my life I would sell the whole of it to be as that

understand me? My cousin, this is the difference between us: he is clothed with power as a giant is with strength, and— God help me!" he suddenly cried, "I have the arm of a child."

My heart rose up in arms.

66

Noel, it is not true."

"It is true, Ruth. I can aspire, and I can struggle, but I can not conquer. I shall strive to my life's end, and, bound as I am, hours will come again, perhaps, as they have come already, when for a moment I shall have strength like him of old, to break the withes, as a thread of tow is broken when it toucheth the fire; but for all that, the struggle only will be mine, and not the victory. My little cousin, do not look at me so sorrowfully even though the warfare lasts through life, life itself sometimes is not very long."

Was it true? oh! was it true? I stooped my head, I turned my face from him, and wept one gush of passionate tears. The evening had drawn on, and he could not see me. He sat looking out upon the glowing sky-and he neither knew my sorrow nor my joy.

V.

SOMETIMES in our lives the whole breadth of God's light in heaven seems gathered within the single limits of one little star, and as we gaze on that we sec no other thing in heaven or on earth beyond it. So had I gazed, and so had I grown blind.

The summer was over. Noel had regained his strength, and was at work again. Once more the seat was vacant in the west window, and we two women were left alone. Then I awoke, in pain and sorrow. My star was taken from my sight, and, in the light of common day, I saw that Mrs. Erickson was dying.

She was dying! Human help could not save her. The day I knew it she told me all that she herself knew-that it was no new illness that was afflicting her, but the extension of a disease that she had suffered from for years, knowing-my brave godmother!-through the whole of it that it must end by killing her.

It was the close of autumn when the days grew dark, and the chill evenings drew in early, I began a watch that ceased no more till my godmother lay dead.

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1858.]

THE ERICKSONS.

She told Noel at the beginning of the winter. She lingered all through it. On one of the first days of spring the long, racking, bitter pain was ended, and she died. I was kneeling crying by her bed when she departed, but her last thoughts, her last words, her last look, were none Her face was turned of them for me.

where she could look on Noel, and to the final moment before death her eyes clung to his face. They closed at last-and then a cry rang through the room:

"Mother!"

But she was dead.

There was spring sunshine in the rooms, and spring life upon the earth; but my heart was like a stone in its cold heaviness. Oh! what should I do; she was dead, and I must go. We had opened the windows, that had been closed until her funeral, and I wandered alone about the solitary house. I could begin no work; I could take refuge in no occupation; I could think no thought but that she was dead, and I must go away.

I could not speak about my going that day when they laid her in the earth. Even though it was done at morning, and the empty house was open all day long, I could not do it. I stole that one day for my respite. In the evening when we two met together for a little, while we talked of other things, he was very kind to me. He never bade me leave God bless him!

him.

I

But I could not sleep all night. watched till the night was passed away; and when the morning came I knew the day had dawned that was to seal the sentence of my exile.

It was sealed in the evening when the
sun had set, and the shadow of the church
I waited
the room.
upon
was lying dark
until then, that in the gloom he might not
see my face.

I had learnt my lesson all day long,
that when the time came I might speak
it without trembling. The time had come,
I laced my fingers close together, and I
spoke it.

"Noel, when am I to go?"

He was startled. The twilight was not so deep but I could see that. I saw his sudden glance at me-his quick surprise. had no answer for a moment; and then he spoke, but not gladly-oh! God be thanked, not gladly!

"I had forgotten that you Ruth."

had to go,

87'

"Had you forgotten ?" I spoke sorrow-
"Yes, that was
fully, not in bitterness.
natural; you had other things to think
of."

66

He rose from his place and came to
He stood near to me, and
where I set.
Ruth, where are you going?"
leant his arm upon my chair.
"Where?" I raised my face to his one
"To the place I came from; to
moment.
"How soon
the house I left."

week?"

?

Not at once ?-not this

"It does not matter, this week or next; I will do what you like."

"Then give me one week longer, Ruth."

"Yes."

And I said no more; we were both silent.

I

But when some moments had gone
past, and while I still sat in my dull hope-
less resignation, suddenly I was quickened
for the first time I had ever felt it;
by his touch. It lay on my bent head;
66 Ruth,"
," he said sadly, "I wish I could
I am not
stooped beneath the pressure of his hand.
say to you remain with me.
happy now; and when you go you will
take the last ray of sunshine with you
from the house. It has been a lighter
house from the day you entered it. God
bless you, little Ruth!"

His hand was gone from me, as he himself would be all gone within one little week. If he had asked me I would have. remained with him to be a servant in his house; and I did not stir nor speak. For ing no response; but all my heart was his kindness I had no thanks; for his blessfainting in me, shrinking into death before the shadow of its lowliness.

I went away. It was a bright spring nests under the shelter of the old church day, and the birds were building their eaves. I had been very quiet all the week, I was quite still, with even a going about slowly, strangely, like one in a dream. seemed to me as if all that could be callkind of solemnity in my quietude; for it ed life in my existence was to end this day.

He was working in his studio. I had not told him the hour I was to go, but when it came I went to him. Once I had sit one hour beside him before I went. thought that I would ask him to let me had done it once or twice before, but this day I could not. I only went to him

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"Not yet; not here, Ruth." "Yes, here; I saw you first in this house. When I think of you I want you to belong to this house first and last."

He was standing before me. We both became silent; what more was there to say? Alas! I had nothing more. But I raised my face; I looked into his eyes. I should see him no more-I should never see him more, perhaps, on earth.

Then the end came. "Let me go now.”

He held my hands still; and holding them, he stooped and kissed me. Once he prayed-God bless me! Before he loosed my hands, he repeated twice:

set to work. Not to quiet in-door work, reading, studying, educating myself. I could not do these things at first: my feeble energy needed first to be sustained by something stronger than my own fainting will. I knew that: and so I bound myself to the only work within my reach that did not leave my own will free. There were helpless people and ignorant children in our village: I gave my time to them. Perhaps they did not thank me for it; but they took it, and presently they looked upon it as their right. I served them, and they counted on my service; and their dependence became my wages.

I worked all through the summer; oh! the summer that had been so bright in its last shining on me, and was so bare and desolate now. I worked all through the days, and in the long, still evenings I used to sit alone. I used to sit then, and dream and yearn. It was my day's onetreasured luxury-my light and warmth

my meat and drink after my weary toil. And yet even that bread was bitterness, that water was tears. Daily my yearnings ended in one hopeless cry: Oh! if I could but hear of him if I could but hear of him! If I could but have hope given me to see him once again!

The summer passed away. When it was gone, I was pale and thin; I was worn and weary. Perhaps I had worked too hard: I do not know: but a fainting feebleness had fallen on me, and I began to think that God was about to take my life. Then my passionate desire grew to wild feverishness to look once more on Noel Erickson's face. The longing wastAnd that was all. No tears had risen ed me away: I could not rest nor sleep: to my eyes; they were all hot and dry morning and night the thought was with but I went away from him, and closed theme that I could not die till I had seen his door, groping my steps as if the night had face again. fallen.

"Little Ruth! little Ruth!"

VI.

I was in my own house, and alone; solitary from day to day, from dawn till night. I was not happy. God had given me my lot, and I struggled hard to be contented with it, but I could not see my way in it. I did not know what to do. If I had had one single creature to have lived for, I could have been resigned to it; but I was so utterly lonely.

I knew that in some way I must work; or I could not bear it. With a courage, therefore, that was a kind of despair, I

I think there must be a time in very many lives, when grief or misfortune have seemed to reach their utmost limits, that suddenly, without a note of warning, or one sign to tell the coming change, God stays the rushing of the Marah waters, and for darkness there comes light, and for the faithless weakness of the fainting heart comes hope new-born, and strength fresh out from heaven.

It was an autumn morning; and a restless night had left me worn and ill. I could not leave the house. I was so weary (I had often grown forced of late to change day into night) that at last I laid me down in the broad noon sunshine, and tried to

sleep. And I did sleep presently: gently | and peacefully, the calmest slumber came to me that I had known for weeks.

I

I do not know how long it lasted. dreamt a happy dream that I was talking to Noel, standing with him in the half gloom, half sunshine of the old familiar room. I wakened at the gentle sound of something stirring near me. My dream was over: I lifted up my eyes, and saw

There was some one at my side, sitting beside me, leaning towards me. I looked upon him; I looked into his face; I uttered his name!

I made no movement, and gave no cry; I did not ask him how he came; I asked him nothing. Quite hushed and calm, I only lay with my eyes upon his face, in the deep stillness of unutterable joy. "Ruth!" he called.

His voice brought back my dream. I had thought there that he spoke to me in that same tone. A smile came to my lips: it was to me as if all pain, and sickness, and sorrow had passed away.

"I thought I was at home: I was dreaming of being in the old room again." I looked up into his face as he stooped over me. "Noel, it was not quite a dream." "Ruth," he cried, suddenly, "is this all my welcome ?"

We were face to face, his eyes looking into mine, mine into his; till, as still water trembles and is stirred before the wind, all my strange stillness was broken before that gaze. No, it was not all! for he knew my secret: he had read my heart: and before his look, and before the close clasp of his hand, I trembled, and I broke down like a child. I lifted up my empty hands to him:

"I have been so desolate! oh! I have been so desolate!" I cried; and I burst into a passion of tears.

He took me, and he laid me in his arms: my helpless passion he hushed upon his heart: over my low, wild weeping he spoke these words:

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"Little Ruth," he cried, come home to me! I came to seek you. I can not rest without you. My little Ruth, my little Ruth, come back!"

The year was wasted; we were standing on the verge of winter; but in that winter there dawned for me a new glad spring. He took me home. Once more in my joy I saw the old town's solemn streets, and the shadow of the ancient church: once more I stood within the old familiar house; and I was Noel's wife.

From the British Quarterly.

THE CONFLICT OF MODERN THOUGHT.*

THE gentleman whose common-place name appears on the title-page of this volume as that of its editor, is not a common-place person. Mr. William Smith has written poetry which has deserved much more attention from the public than it has obtained. He has also been a large contributor, and for many years past, to our periodical literature. Blackwood's Magazine, and the Quarterly, have been especially enriched by his pen. Every thing he does is characterized by a finished culture, by a gentlemanly propriety,

Thorndale; or, the Conflict of Opinions. By WILLIAM SMITH, Svo. Blackwood and Sons.

and by that lightness and freedom of touch withal which is rarely attained except as the result of long practice. His intelligence and his tastes dispose him to philosophical speculation, and through life his mind has been much occupied with the great problems of our time-especially with those which relate to the probable future of humanity, both in this world and beyond it. The "William Smith" who writes himself "editor" of the work before us, is of course its author. The form which his utterances are made to take is the following.

Thorndale is a consumptive invalid, who, with a single servant, makes his way

to an obscure retreat in the neighborhood | factory. There is nothing very definite of Naples-there to meditate and die. in the theological position of any of He beguiles his solitude by committing the parties here introduced. Thornhis passing thoughts and impressions to dale and Clarence, who have their place writing, and by recalling the persons of near the true line, if compared with the his friends, and his conversation with opposite extremes taken by Cyril and them in bygone days. The first and Seckendorf, dwell to the last amidst very second books give us the autobiography broad generalities in regard to religious of Thorndale. In the third book, em- truth. Clarence expresses himself, in bracing the story of "Cyril the Modern many respects, as a Christian man, but he Cistercian," the author detects the subtle lacks the real evangelical element. Neverinfluences by which Romanism makes the theless, the reader may find much in this most valuable of her "6 'perverts." The volume which has its value, as giving us fourth book brings out with much vigor the reality of modern thought, and much some of the forms of modern skepticism which, after its kind, is very true and very both in philosophy and religion, the chief beautiful. speaker being a German doctor, named Seckendorf. The fifth and sixth books set forth the basis of social progress, and of religious certainty, according to a person described as "an Eclectic and Utopian Philosopher of A.D. 1850." Such are the contents of the Thorndale Manuscript, carefully edited by Mr. Smith.

There is no doubt advantage in assigning speeches after this manner to imaginary persons. But it also has its disadvantages. When an author adopts this method, we naturally wish to know where the writer himself speaks, and where the speaker is some other person. When this information is not given, we feel that there is a want of frankness and confidence, as between author and reader, which is not pleasant. Another mischief incident to this method is, that the case may often be so well put from opposite points, that the reader who has come to the volume for help, may only find himself in the end more than ever bewildered. Mr. Smith has not avoided these mischiefs. Where he himself speaks, and where some other man, is left to conjecture; and the result of the pro and con running through the volume, is to leave you too much amidst a balance of difficulties.

The work, however, does bring out some of the prominent and the more profound thinkings of our time, and shows the "conflict" which comes from those thinkings. Much of the real spirit of the age finds its expression in these pages. How multitudes of thoughtful men among us are looking at philosophy and theology is here stated with distinctness. The great value of the work is not in its conclusiveness, for that is the quality it wants, but in its showing the ground on which conclusion must rest, if it is to be satis

Uncertain and often contradictory, as are the notes struck in these pages, there is one maxim, relative to social progress, on which all the speakers, and the editor himself, are agreed. In his introduction, Mr. Smith says:

"One general observation only we will permit ourselves to make. There is much talk But the reader need

From

here of a future Utopia.
not be alarmed. It is admitted on all hands to
be so very future, that neither he, nor any pos-
terity in which he is much interested, will be
at all affected by it. Meanwhile there is one
grand conservative maxim, which every spokes-
man throughout the volume would subscribe to
it is this, that the measures which will really
identical with those which will promote the
contribute to the progress of society, are always
welfare of the existing generation.
order, order proceeds; from prosperity, pros-
perity. We never really advance the future by
bringing confusion into the present; and he who
talks of sacrificing the present to the future,
has yet to learn the first elements of his sub-
ject. The best government for your own gene-
government which will best promote the future
ration, were it a Turkish depotism, is also the
welfare of your country; the best faith for
your own generation, were it Catholicism, as
seen in Mexico and Peru, will be the faith most
conducible to the progress of generations yet
to come. Each age, in working out truth and
and this is the only way in which it can work
prosperity for itself, is working for posterity,
for posterity at all."-Pp. 13, 14.

Mr. Smith does not mean to say that because Catholicism may be said to have been good for England in the thirteenth century, it must, therefore, be good for it in the nineteenth-but simply that the religion of that age furnished the natural antecedent to the religion of our own age. In other words, that the social reformer will do well to work, not from abstractions, but from realities, ever aim

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