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→ Then Carrie did not go with her mother," said I, thinking that the conversation would flow more smoothly on the level of the commonplace.

“No: she is only gone to one of the neighbors. I expect her in, every minute."

The information settled a difficulty for me. Since meeting with Rick Thorne, I had been disturbed by a suspicion that it was my duty to make him acquainted with the cause and object of Mrs. Thorne's journey to New Orleans, and the discovery of Cyrus Thorne's daughter; and so save him from the trying alternations of elation and disappointment which had befallen his mother. But it was not a pleasant task to tell a newly made bridegroom, in the presence of his bride, that his expectations of future wealth were cut off; neither was it a moment to ask for a private interview. The thought of Carrie made my way clear before me: I determined to tell her the facts, and leave her to communicate them to Rick.

It happened that the brother and sister met at the gate, and walked up the lane together. His story was told, therefore, and her surprise partly over, before they joined us. Their coming was a relief to us all. Rick was so easy, gay, and unembarrassed, and Carrie so unaffectedly glad of a sister-in-law, that the atmosphere grew light and bright at once.

Very soon, I drew Carrie aside. She listened to my statement with a gentle surprise.

"Mother did not tell me that she felt at all certain about it," said she, simply. "She only said that there was a little more hope of Rick's getting the property."

I was unfeignedly glad to hear it. I trusted that reflec tion had made Mrs. Thorne somewhat less sanguine, and that the edge of her disappointment might be proportionably blunted.

Charging Carrie to put Rick in possession of the whole story, before he chanced to hear the first part of it only from any other quarter, I took my leave.

XXXV.

A VISIT TO THE CITY.

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HE next morning, I started for New York, tak ing Ruth Winnot with me. Thus it came

about.

Ruth's progress in music has more than justified my anticipations. Exercises and studies that were Hills of Difficulty and Sloughs of

Despond to me, in the earlier stages of my musi

cal pilgrimage, she cleared almost at a bound. I was delighted, and told her so frankly, even enthusiastically. By and by, she grew careless. Content to read almost by instinct and to execute easily, she neglected to understand how and wherefore she did so. The faint dawning of conceit showed itself, not directly manifested to me, but by many subtile channels of look and tone. I had praised her too much and made her way too easy.

Then, without preparation or warning, I threw her into the thick of musical difficulties. I brought forth my old, grand songs and interminable studies, sang some of them to her, and gave her a lesson upon one or two others. She began in confidence and ended in confusion. She blundered and floundered through her hours of practice, and came to her lesson with a most dissatisfied and anxious face. She received plenty of criticism, and no word of praise. The criticism was repeated, in nearly the same words, at every succeeding lesson. At the fourth repetition, Ruth's head went down upon the piano, and sobs brake forth. I inquired, composedly enough, what was the matter?

"I never can do that in the world! It's of no use to try!" she sobbed out. “After all, I am no singer. I have got to the end of my powers; I cannot go a step further. It is all dark to me! And yet, only a little while ago, the way was so easy and plain! What does it mean ?”

"It means," answered I, drily, "that I am not like Providence."

She lifted her head and looked at me wonderingly.

"Because Providence, Ruth, rarely gives to us more than just that moderate and judicious degree of encour agement which serves to keep us in the humble and industrious exercise of our best powers, knowing that more would tend to pride and carelessness, as less does to discourage ment and despair. Whereas I, having unwisely begun by giving you too much, was forced to balance matters by giving you none at all. Having made your way too easy, at first, the only alternative was to make it too difficult, at last, so as to teach you that it was necessary to take heed to your steps."

"I see," she returned, mournfully, "I was doing in earnest what I once prophesied that I should do, in jest,—I was getting conceited. I fancied that I had but little, if anything, more to learn, and that I could learn it without effort. Forgive me!--I will not be such an idiot again! Still," she added, sighing, "I do not see, now, how I am ever to learn that exercise!

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"Neither do I, until you have been over some preparatory ground. We will return to the point where your way ceased to be easy, and work up to the exercise by degrees. By that time, I suspect that most of its difficulties will have disappeared."

"And all this time has been wasted!" she exclaimed, dolefully.

"Not so, Ruth, if it has taught painstaking and humility to genius. Without the latter, it can achieve but little; without the former, it can achieve nothing worthily."

Thenceforth, her progress was sure as well as swift. Every day seemed to add something to the compass or the beauty of her wonderful voice. Its rare quality and rich resources became continually more apparent. So much so that I had a fit of humility, one day, and doubted if I were really competent to train and develop so exquisite an organ. To settle the doubt, as well as in the hope of getting more light on the question of Ruth's future, which begins to press upon me,—I addressed a letter to my old teacher, Signor Canto. It brought me an answer, highly complimentary and encouraging, so far as concerned my qualifica tions for teaching, and closing as follows, in the Signor's customary Italian-English: "When you can teach the Signorina no more, bring her to me. If she be the prodigio of genius that you believe, it shall please me much to help her to perfect and make fruit of her talent. Voices superiores are few; if you have found one, you have rare good fortune, it must never be lost to the world for want of cultivamento."

I showed the letter to Ruth. Her eyes sparkled at first, then she grew thoughtful. After a moment, she said, "It is very nice, only-I am afraid he would expect me to go upon the stage. I could never do that, you know." And she made a silent gesture toward her feet.

"For other reasons, too, I hope, Ruth. The stage is no place for a Christian woman, such as I trust you will be. The choir of the church, and, perhaps, the platform of the concert-hall, will give ample scope for all your talent, and not take you on dangerous ground."

She shook her head. "Not the latter,-you forget-" And she gave another expressive downward look.

"No, I do not forget. Only, I do not recognise that as an insuperable obstacle."

She gazed long and earnestly in my face. Suddenly, she threw herself down at my side, hid her face on my shoulder, and burst out with

- Tell me, Miss Frost-there is no one else that I dare ask, it would be so hard for my mother to say 'no' to me!— tell me, is it not possible to have them straightened?"

I was deeply moved; there was so much pent-up suffer ing and desire in the tone. "I do not know, indeed, dar ling. Certainly, it would involve a fearful amount of pain.”

-I don't care for that! I would bear anything-everything-only to be made straight. Oh! how often I dream that I am so!—that Christ, passing by, turns his soft eye on me, and says, 'Be healed!' And then to wake, and find it only a dream, and that I am crooked still! Ah! you don't know what that is, Miss Frost!"

The result of this conversation was that Ruth and I made a flying visit to New York. First, I took her to the distinguished surgeon, Dr. Heartwell, my father's life-long friend. He gave her a rapid, but searching examination. This was his decision :—

“Your medical adviser, at home, was right. I have reason, every day, to know that my brother practitioners of the country are not so far behind us of the city as their patients are apt to imagine. Although there is not a single sign or symptom of disease about you, and you may live as long, under favorable conditions, as the majority of the human race, or even longer; yet your constitution is too delicate, your nerves too sensitive, to justify our undertak ing the operation. If done at all, it should have been done earlier. Still-not to leave you to the gnawing tooth of a miserable might-have-been-I tell you frankly that I question if it could ever have been done safely."

Then the kind old man, the practised Healer, learned in medicaments for the soul as well as for the body, laid a fatherly hand on Ruth's head. "After all, my child, it is not so serious a matter. You have youth, health, beauty, and, as Winnie tells me, talent. Why seek for more? Few have so much. And all of us have some crookedness, of

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