"The young man was rescued from his evil ways, to acknowledge still
further the boundless mercy of Providence. The dissipation wherein

he had recklessly sought death was, for him, a marvellous
restoration to life. His lungs had become sound and free from the

tendency to disease. The measure of his forgiveness" target="_blank" title="n.原谅，饶恕；宽仁">forgiveness was almost
more than he could bear. He bore his cross thenceforward with a

joyful resignation, and was mercifully drawn nearer and nearer to
the Truth, until, in the fulness of his convictions, he entered

into the brotherhood of the Friends.
"I have been powerfully moved to tell you this story." Friend

Carter concluded, "from a feeling that it may be needed, here, at
this time, to influence some heart trembling in the balance. Who

is there among you, my friends, that may not snatch a brand from
the burning! Oh, believe that pity and charity are the most

effectual weapons given into the hands of us imperfect mortals, and
leave the awful attribute of wrath in the hands of the Lord!"

He sat down, and dead silence ensued. Tears of emotion stood in
the eyes of the hearers, men as well as women, and tears of

gratitude and thanksgiving gushed warmly from those of Asenath. An
ineffable peace and joy descended upon her heart.

When the meeting broke up, Friend Mitchenor, who had not recognized
Richard Hilton, but had heard the story with feelings which he

endeavored in vain to control, approached the preacher.
"The Lord spoke to me this day through thy lips," said he; "will

thee come to one side, and hear me a minute?"
"Eli Mitchenor!" exclaimed Friend Carter; "Eli! I knew not thee

was here! Doesn't thee know me?"
The old man stared in astonishment. "It seems like a face I ought

to know," he said, "but I can't place thee." They withdrew to the
shade of one of the poplars. Friend Carter turned again, much

moved, and, grasping the old man's hands in his own, exclaimed--
"Friend Mitchenor, I was called upon to-day to speak of myself. I

am--or, rather, I WAS--the Richard Hilton whom thee knew."
Friend Mitchenor's face flushed with mingled emotions of shame and

joy, and his grasp on the preacher's hands tightened.
"But thee calls thyself Carter?" he finally said.

"Soon after I was saved," was the reply, "an aunt on the mother's
side died, and left her property to me, on condition that I should

take her name. I was tired of my own then, and to give it up
seemed only like losing my former self; but I should like to have

it back again now."
"Wonderful are the ways of the Lord, and past finding out!" said

the old man. "Come home with me, Richard,--come for my sake, for
there is a concern on my mind until all is clear between us. Or,

stay,--will thee walk home with Asenath, while I go with Moses?"
"Asenath?"

"Yes. There she goes, through the gate. Thee can easily overtake
her. I 'm coming, Moses!"--and he hurried away to his son's

carriage, which was approaching.
Asenath felt that it would be impossible for her to meet Richard

Hilton there. She knew not why his name had been changed; he had
not betrayed his identity with the young man of his story; he

evidently did not wish it to be known, and an unexpected meeting
with her might surprise him into an involuntaryrevelation of the

fact. It was enough for her that a saviour had arisen, and her
lost Adam was redeemed,--that a holier light than the autumn sun's

now rested, and would forever rest, on the one landscape of her
youth. Her eyes shone with the pure brightness of girlhood, a soft

warmth colored her cheek and smoothed away the coming lines of her
brow, and her step was light and elastic as in the old time.

Eager to escape from the crowd, she crossed the highway, dusty
with its string of returning carriages, and entered the secluded

lane. The breeze had died away, the air was full of insect-sounds,
and the warm light of the sinking sun fell upon the woods and

meadows. Nature seemed penetrated with a sympathy with her own
inner peace.

But the crown of the benignant day was yet to come. A quick
footstep followed her, and ere long a voice, near at hand, called

her by name.
She stopped, turned, and for a moment they stood silent, face to

face.
"I knew thee, Richard!" at last she said, in a trembling voice;

"may the Lord bless thee!"
Tears were in the eyes of both.

"He has blessed me," Richard answered, in a reverent tone; "and
this is His last and sweetest mercy. Asenath, let me hear that

thee forgives me."
"I have forgiven thee long ago, Richard--forgiven, but not

forgotten."
The hush of sunset was on the forest, as they walked onward, side

by side, exchanging their mutual histories. Not a leaf stirred in
the crowns of the tall trees, and the dusk, creeping along between

their stems, brought with it a richer woodland odor. Their voices
were low and subdued, as if an angel of God were hovering in the

shadows, and listening, or God Himself looked down upon them from
the violet sky.

At last Richard stopped.
"Asenath," said he, "does thee remember that spot on the banks of

the creek, where the rudbeckias grew?"
"I remember it," she answered, a girlish blush rising to her face.

"If I were to say to thee now what I said to thee there, what would
be thy answer?"

Her words came brokenly.
"I would say to thee, Richard,--`I can trust thee,--I DO love

thee!'"
"Look at me, Asenath."

Her eyes, beaming with a clearer light than even then when she
first confessed, were lifted to his. She placed her hands gently

upon his shoulders, and bent her head upon his breast. He tenderly
lifted it again, and, for the first time, her virgin lips knew the

kiss of man.
MISS BARTRAM'S TROUBLE.

I.
It was a day of unusualexcitement at the Rambo farm-house. On the

farm, it is true, all things were in their accustomed order, and
all growths did their accustomed credit to the season. The fences

were in good repair; the cattle were healthy and gave promise of
the normal increase, and the young corn was neither strangled with

weeds nor assassinated by cut-worms. Old John Rambo was gradually
allowing his son, Henry, to manage in his stead, and the latter

shrewdly permitted his father to believe that he exercised the
ancient authority. Leonard Clare, the strong young fellow who had

been taken from that shiftless adventurer, his father, when a mere
child, and brought up almost as one of the family, and who had

worked as a joiner's apprentice during the previous six months, had
come back for the harvest work; so the Rambos were forehanded, and

probably as well satisfied as it is possible for Pennsylvania
farmers to be.

In the house, also, Mrs. Priscilla Rambo was not severely haunted
by the spectre of any neglected duty. The simple regular

routine of the household could not be changed under her charge;
each thing had its appropriate order of performance, must be done,

and WAS done. If the season were backward, at the time
appointed for whitewashing or soap-making, so much the worse for

the season; if the unhatched goslings were slain by thunder, she
laid the blame on the thunder. And if--but no, it is quite

impossible to suppose that, outside of those two inevitable,
fearful house-cleaning weeks in each year, there could have been

any disorder in the cold prim, varnish-odored best rooms, sacred to
company.

It was Miss Betty Rambo, whose pulse beat some ten strokes faster
than its wont, as she sat down with the rest to their early country

dinner. Whether her brother Henry's participated in the