Vashti by Augusta J. Evans Wilson

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CHAPTER I.

"I can hear the sullen, savage roar of the breakers, if I do not see
them, and my pretty painted bark--expectation--is bearing down
helplessly upon them. Perhaps the unwelcome will not come to-day. What
then? I presume I should not care; and yet, I am curious to see
him,--anxious to know what sort of person will henceforth rule the
house, and go in and out here as master. Of course the pleasant,
peaceful days are at an end, for men always make din and strife in a
household,--at least my father did, and he is the only one I know much
about. But, after all, why borrow trouble?--the interloper may never
come."

The girl stood on tip-toe, shading her eyes with one hand, and peering
eagerly down the winding road which stretched at right angles to the
avenue, and over the hills, on towards the neighboring town. No moving
speck was visible; and, with a sigh of relief, she sank back on the
grassy mound and resumed the perusal of her book. Above and around her
spread the wide branches of an aged apple-tree, feathered thickly with
pearly petals, which the wind tossed hither and thither and drifted
over the bermuda, as restless tides strew pink-chambered shells on
sloping strands; and down through the flowery limbs streamed the
waning March sun, throwing grotesque shadows on the sward and golden
ripples over the face and figure of the young lounger. A few yards
distant a row of whitewashed bee-hives extended along the western side
of the garden-wall, where perched a peacock whose rainbow hues were
burnished by the slanting rays that smote like flame the narrow pane
of glass which constituted a window in each hive and permitted
investigation of the tireless workers within. The afternoon was almost
spent; the air, losing its balmy noon breath, grew chill with the
approach of dew, and the figure under the apple-tree shivered
slightly, and, closing her book, drew her scarlet shawl around her
shoulders and leaned her dimpled chin on her knee.

Sixteen years had ripened and rounded the girlish form, and given to
her countenance that indefinable charm which marks the timid hovering
between careless, frolicsome youth, and calmly conscious womanhood;
while perfect health rouged the polished cheeks and vermillioned the
thin lips, whose outlines sharply indexed more of decision than
amiability of character.

There were hints of brown in the heavy mass of waveless dusky hair,
that was elaborately braided and coiled around the well turned
head, and certain amber rays suggestive of topaz and gold flashed
out now and then in the dark-hazel iris of the large eyes, lending
them an eldritch and baleful glow. Fresh as the overhanging
apple-blooms, but immobile as if carved from pearl,--perhaps it
was just such a face as hers that fronted Jason, amid the clustering
boughs of Colchian rhododendrons, when first he sought old AEetes'
prescient daughter,--the maiden face of magical Medea, innocent as
yet of murder, sacrilege, fratricide, and plunder,--eloquent of
all possibilities of purity and peace, but vaguely adumbrating all
conceivable disquietude and guilt.

The hushed expectancy of the fair young countenance had given place to
a dreamy languor, and the dark lashes drooped heavily, when a long
shadow fell upon the grass, and simultaneously the peacock sounded its
shrill alarm. Rising quickly the girl found herself face to face with
one upon whose features she had never looked before, and for a moment
each eyed the other searchingly. The stranger raised his hat, and
inclining his head slightly, said,--

"Permit me to ask your name?"

"Salome Owen. And yours, sir, is--"

"Ulpian Grey."

For a few seconds neither spoke; but the man smiled, and the girl bit
her under-lip and frowned.

"Are you the miller's daughter?"

"I am the miller's daughter; and you are the master of Grassmere."

"It seems that I come home like Rip Van Winkle, or Ulysses, unknown,
unwelcomed,--unlike the latter,--even by a dog."

"Where is your sister?"

"Not having seen her for five years, I am unable to answer."

"She went to town two hours ago, to meet you."

"Then, after all, I am expected; but pray by what route--balloon or
telegraph?"

"Miss Jane went to the railroad depot, but thought it possible you
might not arrive to-day, and said she would attend a meeting at the
church, if you failed to come. I presume she missed you in the crowd.
Sir, will you walk into the house?"

Perhaps he did not hear the question, and certainly he did not heed
it, amid the clamorous recollections that rushed upon him as he gazed
earnestly over the lawn, down the avenue, and up at the ivy-mantled
front of the old brick homestead. Thinking it might impress him as
ludicrous or officious that she should invite him to enter and take
possession of his own establishment, Salome reddened and compressed
her lips. Apparently forgetful of her presence, he stood with his hat
in his hand, noting the changes that time had wrought: the growth of
venerable trees and favorite shrubs, the crumbling of fences, the
gathering moss on the sun-dial, and the lichen stains upon two marble
vases that held scarlet verbena on either side of the broad stone
steps.

His close-fitting travelling suit of gray showed the muscular,
well-developed form of a man of medium size, whose very erect carriage
enhanced his height and invested him with a commanding air; while the
unusual breadth of his chest and shoulders seemed to indicate that
life had called him to athletic out-door pursuits, rather than the dun
and dusty atmosphere of a sedentary, cloistered career.

There are subtle countenances that baffle the dainty stipple and line
tracery of time, refusing to become mere tablets, mere fleshy
intaglios of the past, whereon every curious stranger may spell out
the bygone, and, counting their footprints, cast up the number of
engraving years. Thus it happened that if Salome had not known from
the family Bible that this man was almost thirty-five, her eager
scrutiny of his features would have discovered little concerning his
age, and still less concerning his character. Exposure to the winds
and heat of tropic regions had darkened and sallowed the complexion,
which his clear deep blue eyes and light brown hair declared was
originally of Saxon fairness; in proof whereof, when he drew off one
glove and lifted his hand it seemed as if the marble fingers of one
statue were laid against the bronze cheek of another.

Looking intently at this grave yet benignant countenance, full of
serenity, because calmly conscious of its power, the girl set her
teeth and ground her heel into the velvet turf, for _frangas non
flectes_ was written on his smooth, broad brow, and she felt fiercely
rebellious as some fiery, free creature of the Kamse, when first
confronted with the bit and trappings of him who will henceforth
bridle and tame the desert-bred.

Waking from his brief reverie, the stranger turned and extended his
hand, saying, in tones as low and sweet as a woman's,--

"Will you not welcome a wanderer back to his home?"

She gave him the tips of her fingers, but the "Imp of the Perverse"
dictated her answer,--

"As you saw fit to compare yourself, a few moments since, to certain
celebrated absentees, I am constrained to tell you that I happen to be
neither Penelope nor Gretchen, nor yet the illustrious dog referred
to."

He smiled good-humoredly, and replied,--

"I am not very sure that there is not a spice of Dame Van Winkle
somewhere in your nature. True, we are strangers, but I believe you
are my sister's adopted child, and I hope you are glad to see her
brother at home once more. Jane is a dear kind link, who should make
us at least good friends; for, if you are attached to her you will in
time learn to like me."

"I doubt it,--seeing that you resemble Miss Jane about as nearly as I
do the Grand Lama of Larissa, or the idol Bhadrinath. But, sir,
although it is not my office to welcome you, I presume you have not
forgotten the front door, and once more I ask, Will you walk in and
make yourself at home in your own house?"

As she led the way to the steps, the arched gate at the end of the
avenue swung open, a carriage entered, and Salome retreated to her own
room, leaving unwitnessed the happy meeting between an aged, infirm
sister, and long-absent brother.

Locking the door to secure herself from intrusion, she drew a low
rocking-chair to the hearth, where smouldered the embers of a dying
fire, and dropping her face in her palms, stared abstractedly at the
ashes. As she swayed slowly to and fro, her lips parted and closed,
her brows bent from their customary curves of beauty, and half
inaudibly she muttered,--

"The sceptre is departing from Judah. My rule is well nigh ended; the
interregnum has been brief, and the old dynasty reigns once more.
Just what I dreaded from the hour I heard he was coming home. I
shall be reduced to a mere cipher, and made to realize my utter
dependence,--and the iron will soon enter my soul. We paupers are
adepts in the art of reading the countenance, and I have looked at
this Ulpian Grey long enough to know that I might as well bombard
Gibraltar with boiled peas as hope to conquer one of his whims or
alter one of his purposes. There will be bitterness and strife between
us. I shall wish him in his grave a thousand times before it closes
over him,--and he, unless he is too good, will hate me cordially. I
cannot and will not give up all my hopes and expectations, without a
long, fierce struggle."

Salome Owen was the eldest of five children, who, by the death of both
parents, had been thrown penniless upon the world, and found a
temporary asylum in the county poor-house. Her mother she remembered
merely as a feeble, fractious invalid; and her father, who had long
been employed as superintendent of large mills belonging to Miss Jane
Grey, had, after years of reckless intemperance, ended his wretched
career in a fit of mania a potu. His death occurred at a season when
Miss Grey was confined to her bed by an attack of rheumatism, which
rendered her a <DW36> for the remainder of her days; but the first
hours of her convalescence were spent in devising plans for the
education and maintenance of his helpless orphans. In the dusty,
cheerless yard of the poor-house she had found the little group
huddled under a mulberry tree one hot July noon; and, sending the two
younger children to the orphan asylum in a neighboring town, she had
apprenticed one boy to a worthy carpenter, another to an eminent
horticulturist in a distant State; and Salome, the handsomest and
brightest of the flock, she carried to her own home as an adopted
child. Here, for four years, the girl had lived in peace and luxurious
ease, surrounded by all the elegances and refining associations which
though not inherent in are at the command of wealth; and so rapidly
and gracefully had she fitted herself into the new social niche, that
the dark and stormy morning of her life had become only a dim and
hideous recollection, that rarely lifted its hated visage above the
smooth and shining surface of the happy present.

Fortuitous circumstances constitute the moulds that shape the majority
of human lives, and the hasty impress of an accident is too often
regarded as the relentless decree of all-ordaining fate; while to the
philosophic anthropologist it might furnish matter for curious
speculation whether, if Attila and Alaric had chanced to find
themselves the pampered sons of some merchant prince,--some Rothschild
or Peabody of the fifth century,--their campaigns had not been purely
fiscal and bloodless, limited to the leaves of a ledger, while the
names of Goth and Hun had never crystallized into synonyms of havoc
and ruin; or had Timour been trained to cabbage-raising and
vine-dressing, whether he would not have lived in history as the great
horticulturist of Kesth, or the Diocletian of Samarcand, rather than
the Tartar tyrant and conqueror of the East? How many possible Howards
have swung at Tyburn? How many canonized and haloed heads have barely
escaped the doom of Brinvilliers, and the tender mercies of Carnifex?

Analogous to that wonderful Gulf Stream, once a myth and still a
mystery, the strange current of human existence, four score and
ten years long, bears each and all of us with a strong, steady sweep
away from the tropic lands of sunny childhood, enamelled with verdure
and gaudy with bloom, through the temperate regions of manhood and
womanhood, fruitful and harvest-hued, on to the frigid, lonely shores
of dreary old age, snow-crowned and ice-veined; and individual
destinies seem to resemble the tangled drift on those broad
bounding gulf-billows, driven hither and thither, strewn on barren
beaches, scattered over bleaching coral crags, stranded upon blue
bergs,--precious germs from all climes and classes; some to be
scorched under equatorial heats; some to perish by polar perils; a
few to take root and flourish and triumph, building imperishable
land-marks; and many to stagnate in the long, inglorious rest of a
Sargasso Sea.

For all helpless human waifs in this surging ocean of time, there is
comfort in the knowledge that the fiercest storms toss their drift
highest; and one of these apparently savage waves of adversity had
swept Salome Owen safely to an isle of palms and peace, where, under
the fostering rays of prosperity, the selfish and sordid elements of
her character found rapid development.

In affectionate natures, family ties serve as cords to strangle
selfishness; for, in large domestic circles, each member contributes a
moiety to swell the good of the whole--silently endures some trial,
makes some sacrifice, shares some sympathy and sunshine, hoards some
grief and gloom, and had Salome remained with her brothers and
sisters, their continual claims on her time and attention would have
healthfully diverted thoughts that had long centred solely in self.
Finding that fortune had temporarily sheathed in velvet the goad of
necessity, the girl's aspirations soared no higher than the
maintenance of her present easy and luxurious position, as a petted
dependent on the affection and bounty of a weak but generous and
lonely old lady. Having no other object near, upon which to lavish the
love and caresses that were stored in her heart, Miss Jane had turned
fondly to Salome, and so earnestly endeavored to brighten her life,
that the latter felt assured she was selected as the heiress of that
house and estate where she had dwelt so happily; and thus sanguine
concerning her future prospects, the strong will of the girl
completely dominated the feebler and failing one of her benefactress,
through whose fingers the reins of government slipped so gradually,
that she was unconscious of her virtual abdication.

From this pleasant dream of a handsome heritage and life-long plenty,
Salome had been rudely aroused by the unwelcome tidings that a young
half-brother of Miss Jane was coming to reside under her roof; and
prophetic fear whispered that the stranger would contest and divide
her dominion. A surgeon in the United States navy, he had been absent
for five years in distant seas, and only resigned his commission in
consequence of letters which informed him of the feeble condition of
his only surviving relative. Those who have eaten the bread of charity
learn to interpret countenances with an unerring facility that
eclipses the vaunted skill of Lavater, and the girl's brief inspection
of the face which would henceforth confront her daily, yielded little
to dispel her gloomy forebodings. The sound of the tea-bell terminated
her reverie, and rising, she walked slowly to the dining-room,
throwing her head as erect as possible, and compressing her mouth like
some gladiator summoned to the fatal arena of the Coliseum.

The dining-room was large and airy, with lofty wide windows, and
neatly papered walls, where in numerous old-fashioned and quaintly
carved frames hung the ancestral portraits of the family. Although one
window was open, and the mild air laden with the perfumed breath of
spring, a bright wood fire flashed on the hearth, near which Miss Jane
sat in her large, cushioned rocking-chair, resting her swollen
slippered feet on a velvet stool, while her silver-mounted crutches
leaned against the arm of her chair. An ugly and very diminutive brown
terrier snarled and frisked on the rug, tormenting a staid and aged
black cat, who occasionally arched her back and showed her teeth; and
Dr. Grey stood leaning over his sister's chair, smoothing the soft
grizzled locks that clustered under the rich lace border of her cap.
He was talking of other days,--those of his boyhood, when, kneeling by
that hearth, she had pasted his kites, found strings for his tops,
made bags for his marbles, or bound up his bleeding hands, bruised in
boyish sports; and, while he read from the fresher page of his memory
the blessed juvenile annals long since effaced from hers, a happy
smile lighted her withered face, and she put up one thin hand to pat
the brown and bearded cheek which nearly touched her head. To the
pretty young thing who had paused on the threshold, watching what
passed, it seemed a peaceful picture, cosy and complete, needing no
adjuncts, defying intruders; but Miss Jane caught a glimpse of the
shrinking figure, and beckoned her to the fire-place.

"Salome, come shake hands with my sailor-boy, and tell him how glad we
are to have his sunburnt face once more among us. Ulpian, this is my
dear child Salome, who makes noise and sunshine enough in an otherwise
dark and silent dreary house. Why, children, don't stand bowing at
each other, like foreign ministers at court! Ulpian, you are to be a
brother to that child; so go and kiss her like a Christian, and let us
have no more state and ceremony."

"_Sans ceremonie_ we introduced ourselves this afternoon, under the
apple-tree, and I presume Salome will accept the assurance of my
friendly intentions and fraternal regard, and decline the seal which
only long acquaintance and perfect confidence could induce her to
permit. Notwithstanding the very evident fact that she is not entirely
overwhelmed with delight at my return, I gratefully acknowledge my
indebtedness to one who has so largely contributed to my sister's
happiness, and shall avail myself of every opportunity to prove my
appreciation of her devotion."

Dr. Grey stepped forward, took Salome's hand, and touched it lightly
with his lips, while the grave dignity of his manner forbade the
thought that affectation of gallantry or idle persiflage suggested the
words or action.

Disarmed by the quiet courtesy which she felt she had not merited, the
girl's ready wit and nimbly obedient tongue for once proved
treacherous; and, conscious that the flush was deepening on cheek and
brow, she moved to the oval table in the centre of the floor, and
seated herself behind the massive silver urn.

"Ulpian, take your place yonder, at the foot, and excuse my absence
from the table this first evening of your return. I always have my
meals here, close to the fire, and Salome presides in my place. Child,
put no cream in his tea, but a bountiful share of sugar. You see, my
boy, I have not grown too old to recollect your whims."

As he obeyed her, Salome was preparing to pour out the tea; but,
catching his eye, she paused, and Dr. Grey bowed his head on his hand,
and solemnly and impressively asked a blessing, and offered up fervent
thanks for the family reunion. In the somewhat fragmentary discourse
that ensued between brother and sister the orphan took no part; and, a
half hour later, when the little party removed to the library and
established themselves comfortably for the evening, Salome drew her
chair close to the lamp, and, under pretence of examining a book of
engravings, covertly studied the features and mien of the new-comer.

His quiet, low-toned conversation was of other lands and distant
nations, and, while there was an entire absence of that ostentatious
braggardism and dropsical egotism which unfortunately attacks the
majority of travellers, his descriptions of foreign scenery were so
graceful and brilliant, that despite her ungracious determination and
premeditated dislike, she became a fascinated listener; and, more than
once, found herself leaning forward to catch his words. Her own vivid
fancy travelled with him over the lakes and isles, temples and
palaces, he had visited; and, when the clock struck eleven, and a
brief silence succeeded, she started as from some delightful dream.

"Janet, shall we have prayers, or have I already kept you up too
late?"

Dr. Grey stooped and pressed his lips to his sister's wrinkled
forehead, and her voice faltered slightly, as she answered,--

"It is never too late to thank God for all his goodness, especially in
bringing my dear boy safely back to me. Salome, get the large Bible
from the cushion in the parlor."

As the orphan placed the book in Dr. Grey's hand it opened at the
record of births, where on the wide page appeared only the name of
Ulpian Grey, and from the leaves fluttered a small bow of blue
ribbon.

He picked it up, and, considering it merely a book-mark, would have
replaced it, but Miss Jane exclaimed,--

"It is the blue knot that fastens that child's collar. Give it to her.
She lost it yesterday, and has searched the house for it. How came it
in that old Bible, which I am sure has not been used for fifteen
years?"

Whatever solution of the mystery Salome might have deigned to offer,
remained unuttered, for Dr. Grey kindly obviated the necessity of a
reply by requesting her to bring him an additional candle from an
adjoining room; and the superfluous celerity with which she started on
the errand called a twinkle to his eye and a half-smothered smile to
his lips. She felt assured that he was thoroughly cognizant of the
curiosity which had prompted her researches among the family records,
and inferred that he had either no vanity to be flattered by such
trifles, or was dowered with too much generosity to evince any
gratification at the discovery of an interest she would have
vehemently disclaimed.

It was the first time she had ever bowed before the family altar, and,
notwithstanding her avowed aversion to "Puritanic ceremonials and
Pharisaical practices," she was unexpectedly awed and deeply
impressed by the solemnity with which he conducted the brief services;
while, despite her prejudice, his grave courtesy toward her, and the
subdued tenderness that marked his treatment of his sister, commanded
her involuntary respect. When she stood before the mirror in her own
room, unbraiding her heavy hair, a dissatisfied expression robbed her
features of half their loveliness, and discontent ploughed distorting
lines about the scarlet lips which muttered,--

"I wonder if, in one of his evil fits, my father sold and signed me
away to Satan? I certainly am _bon gre mal gre_ in bondage to him;
for, from my inmost heart I hate 'good, pious, sanctified souls,' such
as that marble man upstairs, who has come back to usurp my kingdom,
and lord it over this heritage. After to-day a new regime. The
potter's hands are fair and shapely, courteous and deft, but potter's
hands nevertheless. Tough kneading he shall find it, and stiffer clay
than ever yet was moulded, or my name is not Salome Owen. After all,
how much better are we than the lower beasts of prey? In the race for
riches there is but one alternative,--to devour, or be devoured;
consequently that was an immemorial and well tested rule in the
warfare that commenced when Adam and Eve found themselves shut out of
Eden. 'Each for himself,' etc., etc., etc. Since I must _ex
necessitate_ prey or be preyed upon, I shall waste no time in
deliberation."

CHAPTER II.

When fifty-two years old, Daniel Grey amassed a handsome fortune
by speculating in certain gold and coal mine stocks, which not
only relieved him from the necessity of daily toil in his dusty
counting-room, but elevated him to that more than Braminical caste,
dubbed in Mammon-parlance--capitalists; whose decrees outweigh
legislative statutes, and by feeling the pulse of stock-boards and
all financial corporations, regulate the fiscal currents of the
State. A few months subsequent to this sudden accession of wealth,
his meek and devoted wife--who had patiently shared all the trials
and hardships of his early impecunious career, and brightened an
humble home which boasted no treasure comparable to her loving,
unselfish heart,--was summoned to the enjoyment of a heritage beyond
the stars; and Daniel Grey, capitalist, found himself a florid
handsome widower, with two children, Enoch and Jane, to remind him
continually of the pale wife over whose quiet ashes rose a costly
mausoleum, where rare exotics nodded to each other across gilded
slab and sculptured angels. That he profoundly mourned his loss no
charitable mind could doubt, notwithstanding the obstinate fact that
ere the violets had bloomed a twelvemonth over the dead mother of
his children he had provided them with one who certainly bore her
name, usurped her precious privileges, walked in her footsteps, but
wofully failed to fill her place.

Mrs. Daniel Grey, scarcely the senior of the step-daughter whose lips
most reluctantly framed the sacred word "mother," was a fresh fair
young thing, whose ideas of marriage extended no further than
diamonds, white satin, reception cards, and bridal presents; and whose
regard for her worthy husband sought no surer basis than his
bank-stock and insurance dividends. Dainty and bright, in tasteful and
costly apparel, the pretty child-wife flitted up and down in his house
and over the serene surface of his life, touching no feeling of his
nature so deeply as that colossal _parvenu_ vanity which exulted in
the possession of a graceful walking announcement of his ability to
clothe in fine fabrics and expensive jewels.

Perhaps the mildew that stained the ghastly gaunt angels who kept
guard over the dust of the dead wife, extended yet further than the
silent territory over which sexton and mattock reigned, for one dreary
December night, instead of nestling for a post-prandial nap among the
velvet cushions of his luxurious parlor, Daniel Grey, capitalist,
slept his last sleep in a high-backed, comfortless chair before his
desk, where the confidential clerk found him next morning, with his
rigid icy fingers thrust between the leaves of his check-book.

According to the old Arab proverb,--

  "The black camel named Death kneeleth once at each door,
  And a mortal must mount to return nevermore."

And, past all peradventure, having borne away one member of the
household, the "Last Carrier" from force of habit hastens to perform
the same thankless service for the remainder;--thus ere summer
sunshine streamed on the husband's grave, another yawned at its side,
and a wreathed and fluted shaft shot up close to his mausoleum, to
tell sympathizing friends and careless strangers that the second wife
of Daniel Grey had been snatched away in the morning of life.

Her infant son Ulpian was committed to the tender guardianship of his
maternal grandmother, in whose hands he remained until the close of
his fourth year, when her death necessitated his return to the home of
his only relatives, Enoch and Jane. At the request of his sister, the
former had sold the elegant new residence in a fashionable quarter of
the town, and removed to the old homestead and farm, hallowed by
reminiscences of their mother, and invested with the magic attractions
that early association weaves about the spots frequented in youth.

Manifesting, even in boyhood, an unconquerable repugnance not only to
curriculum, but the monotonous routine of mercantile pursuits, Enoch
sullenly forswore stock-jobbing and finance, and declared his
intention of indulging his rural tastes and becoming a farmer. Fine
cattle and poultry of all kinds, heavy wheat-crops, and well-stored
corn-cribs engrossed his thoughts, to the entire exclusion of abstract
aesthetic speculation, of operatic music, and Pre-Raphaelitism; while
the sight of one of his silky short-horned Ayrshires yielded him
infinitely more pleasure than the possession of all Rosa Bonheur's
ideals could possibly have done, and the soft billowy stretch of his
favorite clover-meadow was worth all the canvas that Claude or Poussin
had ever . While Enoch had cordially hated his fair blue-eyed
young step-mother, not from any personal or individual grounds of
grievance, but simply and solely because she dared to occupy the
household niche, sanctified once and forever by his own meek
gentle-toned mother, he nevertheless tenderly loved her baby-boy; and
as Ulpian grew to manhood he became the idol, at whose shrine the
brother and sister offered their pure and most intense affection.

Neither had married, and when the youngest of the household band
completed his studies, and decided to accept a naval appointment, the
consternation and grief which the announcement produced at the
homestead, proved how essential the presence of the half-brother had
become to the happiness of the sedate stolid Enoch, and equable
unselfish Jane. But the desire to travel subordinated all other
sentiments in Ulpian's nature, and he eagerly embarked for a cruise,
from which he was recalled by tidings of the death of his brother.

A brief sojourn at the homestead had sufficed to arrange the affairs
of the carefully-managed estate, and the young surgeon returned to his
post aboard ship, in distant oriental seas. The increasing infirmity
of his sister had finally induced the resignation of his cherished
commission, and brought the man of thirty-five back to his home, where
the "old familiar faces" seemed to have vanished forever; and, in lieu
thereof, legions of cold-eyed strangers carelessly confronted him.

Emancipated from all restraint, and early consigned to the guidance of
his boyish caprices and immature judgment, Ulpian Grey's character had
unfolded itself under circumstances peculiarly favorable for the
fostering of selfishness and the development of idiosyncrasies. As a
plant, unmolested by man and beast, germinates, expands, and freely
and completely manifests all its inherent tendencies, whether
detrimental or beneficial to humanity, so Dr. Grey's matured manhood
was no distorted or discolored result of repeated educational
experiments, but a thoroughly normal efflorescence of an unbiassed
healthful nature.

Habits of unwavering application and searching study, contracted in
collegiate cloisters, tightened their grasp upon him, as he wandered
away from the quiet precincts of _Alma Mater_ and into the crowded
noisy campus of life; and even the gregarious and convivial manners
prevalent aboard ship failed to divert his attention from the
prosecution of scientific researches, or to <DW44> his rapid progress
in classical scholarship.

For the treasures of knowledge thus patiently and indefatigably
garnered through a series of years, travel proved an invaluable polyglot
commentator, analyzing, comparing, annotating, and italicizing, and had
converted his mind into a vast, systematically arranged pictorial
encyclopaedia of miscellaneous lore, embellished with delicate etchings,
noble engravings, and gorgeous illuminations,--a thesaurus where
_savants_ might seek successfully for _data_, and whence artists
could derive grand types, and pure tender coloring.

Reverent and loving appreciation of the intrinsically "true, good,
and beautiful" was part of the homage that his nature rendered to its
Creator, and instead of flowering into a morbid and maudlin
sentimentality which craves low-browed, long straight-nosed,
undraped statuettes in every nook and corner,--or dwarfs the soul and
pins it to the surplice of some theologic _dogmata_ claiming
infallibility--or coffins the intellect in cramped, shallow,
psychological categories,--it bore fruit in a wide-eyed, large-hearted,
liberal-minded eclecticism, which, waging no crusade against the various
Saladins of modern systems, quietly possessed itself of the really
valuable elements that constitute the basis of every ethical,
aesthetic, and scientific creed, which has for any length of time
levied black-mail on the credulity of mankind.

Breadth of intellectual vision promotes moral and emotional
expansion--for true catholicity of mind manufactures charity in the
heart; and toleration is the real mesmeric current which brings the
extremes of humanity _en rapport_,--is the veritable ubiquitous
Samaritan always provided with wine and oil for the bruised and
helpless, who are strewn along the highway of life; and those who
penetrated beyond the polished surface of Dr. Grey's character,
realized that no tinge of cynicism, no affectation of contempt for his
country and countrymen lurked in his heart, while erudition and
foreign sojourning seemed only to have warmed and intensified his
sympathy with all noble aims--his compassion for all grovelling ones.

That his compulsory return to the uneventful routine of life at the
homestead, involved a sacrifice which he would gladly have avoided, he
did not attempt to deny; but having invested a large amount of
earnest, vigorous faith in the final conservatism of that much-abused
monster which the seditious army of the Disappointed anathematize as
"Bad Luck," he went to work contentedly in this new sphere of action,
and waited patiently and trustfully for the slow grinding of the great
mill of Compensation, into whose huge hopper Fate had unceremoniously
poured all his plans.

His advent produced a very decided sensation not only in the quiet
neighborhood in which the farm was located, but also in the adjacent
town where the memory of Daniel Grey's meteoric ascent to pecuniosity
still lingered in the minds of the oldest citizens, and pleasantly
paved the way for a cordial reception of the fortunate son who
inherited not only his mother's comeliness but his father's hoarded
wealth.

Living in the middle of the nineteenth century, and in a hemisphere
completely antipodal to that in which Utopia was situated, or
"Bensalem" dreamed of, the appearance of a good-looking, well-educated,
affluent bachelor could not fail to stir all gossipdom to its dreg;
and society, ever tenderly concerned about the individual affairs of
its prominent members, was all agog--busily arranging for the
_ci-devant_ United States Surgeon a programme, than which he would
sooner have undertaken the feats of Samson or the Avatars of Vishnu.

His published card, announcing the fact that he had permanently
located in the city and was a patient candidate for the privilege of
setting fractured limbs and administering medicine, somewhat dashed
the expectations of many who conjected that the Grey estate could not
possibly be worth the amount so long reputed, or the principal heir
would certainly not soil his fingers with pills and plasters, instead
of sauntering and dawdling with librettos, lorgnettes, meerschaums,
and curiously-carved canes cut in the Heb

Question: Summarize the above passage in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it.


The End of a Coil by Susan Warner

[System] You are a helpful assistant. You will be given a passage from a book. Read it carefully, then summarize it in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it.

[User]
Context:

CHAPTER I.

DOLLY'S ARRIVAL.

The door stands open of a handsome house in Walnut Street--the Walnut
Street which belongs to the city of William Penn; and on the threshold
stands a lady, with her hand up to her brows, shielding her eyes from
the light. She is watching to see what will come out of a carriage just
driving up to the curbstone. The carriage stops; there descends first
the figure of a handsome, very comfortable-looking gentleman. Mrs.
Eberstein's eyes pass over him very cursorily; she has seen him before;
and there is hardly a curl on his handsome head which his wife does not
know by heart. What comes next? Ah, that is she!--the figure of the
expected one; and a little girl of some eleven years is helped
carefully out by Mr. Eberstein, and comes up the steps to the waiting
and watching lady. A delicate little thing, delicate in frame and
feature alike, with a fair, childish face, framed in by loose light
brown curls, and a pair of those clear, grave, wise, light hazel eyes
which have the power of looking so young and so spiritually old at
once. Those eyes are the first thing that Mrs. Eberstein sees, and they
fascinate her already. Meanwhile kind arms are opened wide, and take
the little one in.

"Come at last, darling! And do you remember your Aunt Hal? and are you
half as glad to see her as she is to see you?" So Mrs. Eberstein gives
her greeting, while she is drawing the child through the hall and into
the parlour; gives it between kisses.

"Why, no," said her husband, who had followed. "Be reasonable, Harry.
She cannot be so glad to see you as we are to see her. She has just
come from a long stage-coach journey; and she is tired, and she is
hungry; and she has left a world she knows, and has come to a world she
doesn't know; hey, Dolly? isn't it true? Tell your Aunt Hal to stop
asking questions, and give you something to eat."

"I have come to a world I don't know," repeated the little girl by way
of answer, turning her serious small face to her questioner, while Mrs.
Eberstein was busily taking off coat and hat and mufflers.

"Yes, that's what I say!" returned Mr. Eberstein. "How do you like the
look of it, hey?"

"I wonder who is asking questions now!" said Mrs. Eberstein. "There,
darling! now you are at home."

She finished with another kiss; but, nevertheless, I think the feeling
that it was a strange world she had come to, was rather prominent in
Dolly. She suddenly stooped to a great Maltese cat that was lying on
the hearthrug, and I am afraid the eyes were glad of an excuse to get
out of sight. She touched the cat's fur tenderly and somewhat
diligently.

"She won't hurt you," said her aunt. "That is Mr. Eberstein's pet. Her
name is Queen Mab."

"She don't look much like a fairy," was Dolly's comment. Indeed, Queen
Mab would outweigh most of her race, and was a magnificent specimen of
good feeding.

"You do," thought Mrs. Eberstein. Aloud she asked: "What do you know
about fairies?"

"Oh, I know they are only stories. I have read about them."

"Fairy tales, eh?"

"No, not much fairy tales," said Dolly, now rising up from the cat. "I
have read about them in 'Midsummer Night's Dream.'"

"'Midsummer Night's Dream,' you <DW40>!" exclaimed Mrs. Eberstein.
"Have you read that? And everything else you could lay hands on?"

She took the child in her arms again as she spoke. Dolly gave a quiet
assent.

"And they let you do just what you like at home? and read just what you
like?"

Dolly smiled slightly at the obviousness of the course of action
referred to; but the next minute the smile was quenched in a mist of
tears, and she hid her head on Mrs. Eberstein's shoulder. Kisses and
caresses of course followed, not successfully. At last Mr. Eberstein's
repeated suggestion that food, in the circumstances, would be very much
in place, was acted upon. Supper was served in the next room, which did
duty for a dining-room; and the little family gathered round a
bountifully spread table. There were only those three; and, naturally,
the attention of the two elder was very much concentrated upon the
third new member of the party; although Mr. Eberstein was hungry and
proved it. The more Mrs. Eberstein studied her new acquisition,
however, the more incitement to study she found. .

Dolly was not like most children; one could see that immediately. Faces
as pretty, and more pretty, could easily be found; the charm was not in
mere flesh and blood, form or colour. Other children's faces are often
innocent too, and free from the shadow of life's burdens, as this was.
Nevertheless, it is not often, it is very rarely, that one sees the
mingling of childish simplicity with that thoughtful, wise, spiritual
look into life, which met one in Dolly's serious hazel orbs; not often
that sweetness and character speak so early in the lines of the lips;
utterly childish in their soft, free mobility, and yet revealing
continually a trait of thoughtfulness or of strength, along with the
happy play of an unqualified tender disposition. "You are lovely! you
are lovely!" was Mrs. Eberstein's inner cry; and she had to guard
herself that the thought did not come to too open expression. There was
a delicate air of refinement also about the child, quite in keeping
with all the rest of her; a neat and noiseless handling of knife and
fork, cup and saucer; and while Dolly was evidently hungry as well as
her uncle, she took what was given to her in a thoroughly high-bred
way; that is, she made neither too much nor too little of it.

Doubtless all the while she was using her power of observation, as Mrs.
Eberstein was using hers, though the fact was not obtruded; for Dolly
had heart wants quite as urgent as body wants. What she saw was
reassuring. With Mr. Eberstein she had already been several hours in
company, having travelled with him from New York. She was convinced of
his genial kindness and steadfast honesty; all the lines of his
handsome face, and every movement of his somewhat ease-loving person,
were in harmony with that impression. Mrs. Eberstein was a fit mate for
her husband. If Dolly had watched her a little anxiously at first, on
account of her livelier manner, she soon made out to her satisfaction
that nothing but kindness, large and bounteous, lodged behind her
aunt's face, and gave its character to her aunt's manner. She knew
those lively eyes were studying her; she knew just as well that nothing
but good would come of the study.

The meal over, Mrs. Eberstein took her niece upstairs to make her
acquainted with her new quarters. It was a little room off the hall
which had been destined for Dolly, opening out of her aunt's own; and
it had been fitted up with careful affection. A small bedstead and
dressing-table of walnut wood, a little chest of drawers, a little
wardrobe; it was a wonder how so much could have been got in, but there
was room for all. And then there were red curtains and carpet, and on
the white spread a dainty little eider-down silk quilt; and on the
dressing-table and chest of drawers pretty toilet napkins and
pincushion. It was a cosy little apartment as ever eleven years old
need delight in. Dolly forthwith hung up her hat and coat in the
wardrobe; took brush and comb out of her travelling bag, and with
somewhat elaborate care made her hair smooth; as smooth, that is, as a
loose confusion of curly locks allowed; then signified that she was
ready to go downstairs again. If Mrs. Eberstein had expected some
remark upon her work, she was disappointed.

In the drawing-room, she drew the child to sit down upon her knee.

"Well, Dolly, what do you think you are going to do in Philadelphia?"

"Go to school--they say."

"Who says so?"

"Father says so, and mother."

"What do you think they want you to go to school for?"

"I suppose that I may become like other people."

Mr. Eberstein burst out into a laugh. His wife's eyes went over to him
adjuringly.

"Are you not like other people now, Dolly?"

The child's sweet, thoughtful brown eyes were lifted to hers frankly,
as she answered, "I don't know, ma'am."

"Then why do you say that? or why do they say it?"

"I don't know," said Dolly again. "I think they think so."

"I daresay they do," said Mrs. Eberstein; "but if you were mine, I
would rather have you unlike other people."

"Why, Aunt Harry?"

"Yes," said Mr. Eberstein; "now you'll have to go on and tell." And
Dolly's eyes indeed looked expectant.

"I think I like you best just as you are."

Dolly's face curled all up into a smile at this; brow and eyes and
cheeks and lips all spoke her sense of amusement; and stooping forward
a little at the same time, she laid a loving kiss upon her aunt's
mouth, who was unspeakably delighted with this expression of
confidence. But then she repeated gravely--

"I think they want me changed."

"And pray, what are you going to do, with that purpose in view?"

"I don't know. I am going to study, and learn things; a great many
things."

"I don't believe you are particularly ignorant for eleven years old."

"Oh, I do not know anything!"

"Can you write a nice hand?"

Dolly's face wrinkled up again with a sense of the comical. She gave an
unhesitating affirmative answer.

"And you have read Shakespeare. What else, Dolly?"

"Plutarch."

"'Plutarch's Lives'?" said Mrs. Eberstein, while her husband again
laughed out aloud. "Hush, Edward. Is it 'Plutarch's Lives,' my dear,
that you mean? Caesar, and Alexander, and Pompey?"

Dolly nodded. "And all the rest of them. I like them very much."

"But what is your favourite book?"

"That!" said Dolly.

"I have got a whole little bookcase upstairs full of the books I used
to read when I was a little girl. We will look into it to-morrow, and
see what we can find. 'Plutarch's Lives' is not there."

"Oh, I do not want that," said Dolly, her eyes brightening. "I have
read it so much, I know it all."

"Come here," said Mr. Eberstein; "your aunt has had you long enough;
come here, Dolly, and talk to me. Tell me which of those old fellows
you think was the best fellow?"

"Of 'Plutarch's Lives'?" said Dolly, accepting a position upon Mr.
Eberstein's knee now.

"Yes; the men that 'Plutarch's Lives' tell about. Whom do you like
best?"

Dolly pondered, and then averred that she liked one for one thing and
another for another. There ensued a lively discussion between her and
Mr. Eberstein, in the course of which Dolly certainly brought to view
some power of discrimination and an unbiassed original judgment; at the
same time her manner retained the delicate quiet which characterised
all that belonged to her. She held her own over against Mr. Eberstein,
but she held it with an exquisite poise of ladylike good breeding; and
Mr. Eberstein was charmed with her. The talk lasted until it was broken
up by Mrs. Eberstein, who declared Dolly must go to rest.

She went up herself with the child, and attended to her little
arrangements; helped her undress; and when Dolly was fairly in bed,
stood still looking at the bright little head on the pillow, thinking
that the brown eyes were very wide open for the circumstances.

"Are you very tired, darling?" she asked.

"I don't know," said Dolly. "I guess not very."

"Sleepy?"

"No, I am not sleepy yet. I am wide awake."

"Do you ever lie awake, after you have gone to bed?"

"Not often. Sometimes."

"What makes you do it?"

"I don't know. I get thinking sometimes."

"About what can such a <DW40> as you get thinking?"

Dolly's face wrinkled up a little in amusement at this question. "I see
a great many things to think about," she answered.

"It's too soon for you to begin that," said Mrs. Eberstein, shaking her
head. Then she dropped down on her knees by the bedside, so as to bring
her face nearer the child's.

"Dolly, have you said your prayers?" she asked softly.

The brown eyes seemed to lift their lids a little wider at that. "What
do you mean, Aunt Harry?" she replied.

"Do you never pray to the Lord Jesus before you go to sleep?"

"I don't do it ever. I don't know anything about it."

The thrill that went over Mrs. Eberstein at this happily the little one
did not know. She went on very quietly in manner.

"Don't you know what prayer is?"

"It is what people do in church, isn't it?"

"What is it that people do in church?"

"I do not know," said Dolly. "I never thought about it."

"It is what you do whenever you ask your father or mother for anything.
Only that is prayer to your father or mother. This I mean is prayer to
God."

"We don't call it prayer, asking them anything," said Dolly.

"No, we do not call it so. But it is really the same thing. We call it
prayer, when we speak to God."

"Why should I speak to God, Aunt Harry? I don't know how."

"Why He is our Father in heaven, Dolly. Wouldn't it be a strange thing
if children never spoke to their father?"

"But they can't, if they don't know him," said Dolly.

Here followed a strange thing, which no doubt had mighty after-effects.
Mrs. Eberstein, who was already pretty well excited over the
conversation, at these words broke down, burst into tears, and hid her
face in the bedclothes. Dolly looked on in wondering awe, and an
instant apprehension that the question here was about something real.
Presently she put out her hand and touched caressingly Mrs. Eberstein's
hair, moved both by pity and curiosity to put an end to the tears and
have the talk begin again. Mrs. Eberstein lifted her face, seized the
little hand and kissed it.

"You see, darling," she said, "I want you to be God's own child."

"How can I?"

"If you will trust Jesus and obey Him. All who belong to Him are God's
dear children; and He loves them, and the Lord Jesus loves them, and He
takes care of them and teaches them, and makes them fit to be with Him
and serve Him in glory by and by."

"But I don't know about Jesus," said Dolly again.

"Haven't you got a Bible?"

"No."

"Never read it?"

"No."

"Never went to Sunday School?"

"No, ma'am."

"Little Dolly, I am very glad you came to Philadelphia."

"Why, Aunt Harry?"

"Because I love you so much!" exclaimed Mrs. Eberstein, kissing the
child's sweet mouth. "Why, Dolly, Jesus is the best, best friend we
have got; nobody loves us so much in the whole world; He gave his life
for us. And, then, He is the King of glory. He is everything that is
loving, and true, and great, and good; 'the chiefest among ten
thousand.'"

"What did He give His life for?" said Dolly, whose eyes were growing
more and more intent.

"To save our lives, dear."

"From what?"

"Why, Dolly, you and I, and everybody, have broken God's beautiful law.
The punishment for that is death; not merely the death of the body, but
everlasting separation from God and His love and His favour; that is
death; living death. To save us from that, Jesus died Himself; He paid
our debt; He died instead of us."

"Then is He dead?" said Dolly awefully.

"He was dead; but He rose again, and now He lives, King over all. He
was God as well as man, so the grave could not hold Him. But He paid
our debt, darling."

"You said, death was everlasting separation from God and good," said
Dolly very solemnly.

"For us, it would have been."

"But He did not die that way?"

"He could not, for He is the glorious Son of God. He only tasted death
for us; that we might not drink the bitter cup to eternity."

"Aunt Harry," said Dolly, "is all that true?"

"Certainly."

"When did He do that?"

"It is almost nineteen hundred years ago. And since then, if any one
trusts His word and is willing to be His servant, Jesus loves him, and
keeps him, and saves him, and makes him blessed for ever."

"But why did He do that? what made Him?"

"His great love for us."

"Us?" Dolly repeated.

"Yes. You and me, and everybody. He just came to save that which was
lost."

"I don't see how He can love me," said Dolly slowly. "Why, I am a
stranger to Him, Aunt Harry."

"Ah, you are no stranger! Oh yes, Dolly, He loves you dearly; and He
knows all about you."

Dolly considered the matter a little, and also considered her aunt,
whose lips were quivering and whose eyes were dropping tears. With a
very serious face Dolly considered the matter: and came to a conclusion
with promptitude unusual in this one subject of all the world. She half
rose up in her bed.

"Then I love Him," she said. "I will love Him, too, Aunt Harry."

"Will you, my darling?"

"But I do not know how to be His servant."

"Jesus will teach you Himself, if you ask Him."

"How will He teach me?"

"He will make you understand His word, and let you know what pleases
Him. He says, 'If ye love me, keep My commandments.'"

"His commandments are in the Bible, aren't they?"

"Certainly. You say you have not got a Bible?"

"No."

"Then we will see about that to-morrow, the first thing we do. You
shall have a Bible, and that will tell you about His commandments."

"Aunt Harry, I would like Him to know to-night that I love Him."

"Then tell Him so, dear."

"Can I?"

"To be sure you can. Why not?"

"I do not know how."

"Tell Him, Dolly, just as if the Lord Jesus were here present and you
could see Him. He is here, only you do not see Him; that is all the
difference Tell Him, Dolly, just as you would tell me; only remember
that you are speaking to the King. He would like to hear you say that."

"I ought to kneel down when I speak to Him, oughtn't I? People do in
church."

"It is proper, when we can, to take a position of respect when we speak
to the King; don't you think so?"

Dolly shuffled herself up upon her knees in the bed, not regarding much
that Mrs. Eberstein threw a shawl round her shoulders; and waited a
minute or two, looking intensely serious and considering. Then laying
her hands involuntarily together, but with her eyes open, she spoke.

"O Lord Jesus,--Aunt Harry says you are here though I cannot see you.
If you are here, you can see, and you know that I love you; and I will
be your servant. I never knew about you before, or I would have done it
before. Now I do. Please to teach me, for I do not know anything, that
I may do everything that pleases you. I will not do anything that don't
please you. Amen."

Dolly waited a moment, then turned and put her arms round her aunt's
neck and kissed her. "Thank you!"--she said earnestly; and then lay
down and arranged herself to sleep.

Mrs. Eberstein went downstairs and astonished her husband by a burst of
hysterical weeping. He made anxious enquiries; and at last received an
account of the last half-hour.

"But, oh, Edward, what do you think?" she concluded. "Did you ever hear
anything like that in your life? Do you think it can be genuine?"

"Genuine what?" demanded her husband.

"Why, I mean, can it be true religious conversion? This child knows
next to nothing; just that Jesus died out of love to her, to save
her,--nothing more."

"And she has given her love back. Very logical and reasonable; and
ought not to be so uncommon."

"But it is uncommon, Edward. At least, people generally make a longer
business of it."

"In which they do not show their wisdom."

"No; but they do it. Edward, can it be that this child is so suddenly a
Christian? Will it stand?"

"Only time can show that. But Harry, all the cases,--almost all the
cases reported in the New Testament are cases of sudden yielding. Just
look at it. John and Andrew took but a couple of hours or so to make up
their minds. Nathanael did not apparently take more than two minutes
after he saw Christ. Lydia became a Christian at her first hearing the
good news; the eunuch made up his mind as quick. Why should not little
Dolly? The trouble is caused only by people's obstinate resistance."

"Then you think it may be true work?"

"Of course I think so. This child is not an ordinary child, there is
that to be said."

"No," said Mrs. Eberstein thoughtfully. "Is she not peculiar? She is
such a child; and yet there is such a wise, deep look in her brown
eyes. What pretty eyes they are! There is the oddest mixture of old and
young in her I ever saw. She is going to be lovely, Edward!"

"I think she is lovely now."

"Oh yes! but I mean, when she grows up. She will be very lovely, with
those spiritual eyes and that loose curly brown hair; if only she can
be kept as she is now."

"My dear, she cannot be that!"

"Oh, you know what I mean, Edward. If she can be kept unspoiled;
untainted; unsophisticated; with that sort of mixture of wisdom and
simplicity which she has now. I wish we need not send her to school."

"We have no choice about that. And the Lord can keep His own. Let us
ask Him."

They knelt and did so; with some warm tears on Mrs. Eberstein's part,
and great and warm earnestness in them both.

CHAPTER II.

CHRISTINA AND HER MOTHER.

Mrs. Eberstein watched during the next few days, to see, if she could,
whether the sudden resolve taking on Dolly's part that first evening
"meant anything," as she expressed it, or not. She remained in doubt.
Dolly was thoughtful certainly, and sweet certainly; "but that don't
tell," Mrs. Eberstein remarked; "it is her characteristic." It was
equally certain that she had attached herself with a trustful, clinging
affection to the new friends whose house and hearts had received her.
Dolly's confidence was given to them fully and heartily from that very
first day; and they saw that it was.

Nearly a week passed before the school-term began. Meanwhile Dolly was
taken about, in walks and drives, to see all that her friends thought
would interest her. Everything interested her, they found; and upon
every subject presented to her, her little head went to work; the
result of which was the putting of a question now and then, which
afforded her guardians, perhaps, as much entertainment as the ground of
the question had given Dolly. These questions, however, were called
forth most of all by the subject which had seized hold of Dolly's mind
with such force that first evening. Mrs. Eberstein had not forgotten
her promise about the Bible. One of the first expeditions undertaken
the next day had been in search of one; successful, in the judgment of
both Dolly and her aunt; and since then the book was very often to be
seen in Dolly's hands.

"What are you reading there, Dolly?" Mr. Eberstein asked, corning in
one evening just before dinner. Dolly was on a low seat at the corner
of the fireplace, reading by the shine of a fire of Liverpool coal,
which threw warm lights all over the little figure. She looked up and
said it was her Bible she was studying.

"You will put out your eyes."

"Oh no, Uncle Edward; the print is so good, and the fire makes such a
nice blaze, I can see perfectly."

"And pray, what are you looking for, or what are you finding, in that
book, little one?"

"I am looking for a great deal,--and I am finding a little," was
Dolly's reply.

"Different with me," said Mr. Eberstein with a short laugh. "I
generally find more in the Bible than I look for."

"What do you look for in it?" said Dolly, raising her head which had
gone down to the reading.

Mr. Eberstein laughed again.

"Truly, Dolly," he said, "you have hit me there! I believe I often open
the Bible without looking for anything in particular."

"Perhaps that makes the difference," said Dolly, letting her eyes fall
again to her page.

"Perhaps it does; but, Dolly, I should very much like to know what you
are looking for?"

"I am looking to find out the will of God, Uncle Edward."

"Come here, my pet," said Mr. Eberstein, coaxing the little girl into
his arms and setting her on his knee. "What do you want to find out the
will of God for? what about?"

"About me."

"What do you want to know the will of God about you for?"

"I want to do it, Uncle Edward."

"There couldn't be a better reason. Jesus says, 'He that hath My
commandments, and keepeth them, he it is that loveth Me.' Do you find
what you seek?"

"I find some," said Dolly.

"Where were you reading just now?"

"About Abraham."

"Abraham! What do you find in Abraham's life, may I ask, that tells you
the will of God about Dolly Copley? You are not called upon to leave
your country and go out into a strange land."

"No; not that. But God said to Abraham, 'Walk before Me, and be thou
perfect.' And it puzzles me."

"What puzzles you?"

"I don't see how I can 'walk before Him.'"

"Dolly,--the Lord is here, here where we are, wherever we are."

"Yes. I know that."

"Then, if you know that and remember it, and do everything you do in
His presence, and feeling that it is in His presence, you will be
walking before Him; don't you see? Just as if Jesus were here again
upon earth, and you were always with Him; only you do not see Him now.
He sees you."

"And 'be perfect'?" said Dolly questioningly.

"Yes. That means, I think, don't try to serve two masters. If you love
God with all your heart, and give Him your whole life and service,--not
a part of it,--that is what the word to Abraham means, I think. A
servant of God is a perfect servant, if he does all the will of God
that he knows, and as fast as he knows it. But you cannot do that of
yourself, little Dolly."

"Why cannot I, if I want to?"

"Why, because there come temptations, and there come difficulties; and
you will want to do something you like, and not what God likes; and you
will do it too, unless the Lord Jesus keeps fast hold of you and saves
you from making such a mistake. Only He can."

"Can He?"

"Certainly He can."

"Will He?"

"If you want Him to do it, and trust Him to do it, He will. He will
just do all that you trust Him to do."

Dolly pondered. "Will He do that because He loves me?" she asked.

"Just for that reason, Dolly."

"Then He will do it," said Dolly confidently; "for I will trust Him.
Won't you show me where he says that, Uncle Edward?"

Mr. Eberstein told Dolly to find Matt. xxi. 21. Dolly read eagerly--

"Jesus answered and said unto them, Verily I say unto you, If ye have
faith, and doubt not, ye shall not only do this which is done to the
fig-tree, but also if ye shall say unto this mountain, Be thou removed,
and be thou cast into the sea, it shall be done. And all things
whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive."

Dolly read to herself, then looked up, eager and confident, for the
next reference.

"Turn to John xv. 7."

Again Dolly found and read, in silence--

"If ye abide in Me, and My words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye
will, and it shall be done unto you."

"What next, Uncle Edward?"

"Isn't that promise enough?"

"Yes; but I thought you had more."

"There is a great deal more. Look out Thessalonians v. 23, 24."

Dolly read, slowly, aloud now--

"'And the very God of peace sanctify you wholly; and I pray God your
whole spirit and soul and body be preserved blameless unto the coming
of our Lord Jesus Christ. Faithful is He that calleth you, who also
will do it.' That is beautiful, Uncle Edward!"

"Do you want another? Find Jude, and read the 24th and 25th verses."

With some trouble Dolly found it.

"'Now unto Him that is able to keep you from falling, and to present
you faultless before the presence of His glory with exceeding joy, to
the only wise God our Saviour, be glory and majesty, dominion and
power, both now and ever. Amen.'"

Dolly slipped off Mr. Eberstein's knee and retook her old place by the
fire; where she sat turning from one passage to another of those she
had been reading. Mr. Eberstein watched her, how the ribbon markers of
the Bible were carefully laid in two of the places, and a couple of
neat slips of paper prepared for the others.

"What have you been doing to-day, Dolly?" he asked at length.

"We went to see the water works."

"Oh, you did! And what did you think of the water works?"

"We went up to the top and walked about. Do the people in Philadelphia
want so much water as all that?"

"They want a great deal more. The Fairmount works give only enough for
part of the city."

"That is taking a great deal of trouble to get water."

"It would be worse trouble to do without it."

"But why don't people all live in the country, as we do at home? then
they would have water for nothing."

"Humph! That would answer, Dolly, if people were contented with water;
they all want wine. I mean, my child, that most people are not
satisfied with simple doings; and for anything more they must have
money; and they can make money faster in cities. Therefore they build
cities."

"Is _that_ what they build cities for?" said Dolly.

"Largely. Not altogether. A great many things can be better done where
people are congregated together; it is for the convenience of trade and
business, in many kinds and in many ways. What have you been doing
since you came home from the water works?"

"O Uncle Edward!" said Dolly, suddenly rising now and coming to him,
"Aunt Harry has opened for me her old bookcase!"

"What old bookcase? I didn't know she had an old bookcase."

"Oh yes; the one where she keeps the books she had when she was as old
as I am."

"And as young, eh? Well, what is in that bookcase? is it a great find?"

"O Uncle Edward, there is a great deal in it! It is wonderful. Books I
never saw, and they look so interesting!"

"What, for instance? Something to rival Plutarch's Lives?"

"I don't know," said Dolly; "you know I have not read them yet. There
is 'Sandford and Merton;' I was reading in that, and I like it very
much; and the 'Looking Glass' is another; and 'Rosamond' I am sure is
interesting. Oh there is a whole load of them."

"Well I am glad of it," said Mr. Eberstein. "That is the right sort of
stuff for your busy little brain; will not weigh too heavy. Now I
suppose you will be reading all the time you are in the house."

"Aunt Harry has begun to teach me to knit."

"Very good," said Mr. Eberstein. "I believe in knitting too. That's
safe."

They went to dinner, and after dinner there was a further knitting
lesson, in which Dolly seemed absorbed; nevertheless, before the
evening was over she brought up a very different subject again.

"Aunt Harry," she began, in the midst of an arduous effort to get the
loops of wool on her needles in the right relative condition,--"does
mother know about the Bible?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Eberstein, with a glance at her husband, "she knows
about it, something."

"Then why did she never tell me anything about it?"

Mrs. Eberstein hesitated.

"I suppose, Dolly, her thoughts were fuller of other things."

"But how _could_ they be?" said the little one, laying her hands with
their knitting work in her lap, and looking up.

Her aunt did not answer.

"How could her thoughts be fuller of other things, if she knows the
Bible?" Dolly urged.

"I don't think she really knows much of what is in the Bible," Mrs.
Eberstein said. "She has never read it much."

"I don't think she knows about Jesus," Dolly went on gravely; "for she
never told me; and she would if she had known, I think. Aunt Harriet, I
think _I_ ought to tell _her_ now."

"What would you tell her, my darling?"

"Oh, I will tell her that I know Him and love Him; and I will tell her
I have got a Bible, and some of the things I have found in it. I will
ask her to get one too, and read it. I don't believe she knows."

"The reason why a great many people do not know, Dolly, is, as your
Aunt Harry says, that they are so much taken up with other things."

"Then I think one ought to take care not to be too much taken up with
other things," said Dolly very seriously.

"But you have got to be taken up with other things," Mr. Eberstein went
on. "Here you are going to school in a few days; then your head will be
full of English and French, and your hands full of piano keys and harp
strings, from morning till night. How are you going to do?"

Dolly looked at the speaker, came and placed herself on his knee again,
and laid a hand on his shoulder; eyeing him steadily.

"Ought I not to go to school?"

"Must!--else you cannot be the right sort of a woman, and do the right
sort of work."

"How then, Uncle Edward? what shall I do?"

"I'll tell you one thing, Dolly. Don't study and practise to get ahead
of somebody else; but to please the King!"

"The King--that is Jesus?"

"Certainly."

Dolly nodded, in full agreement with the rule of action as thus stated;
presently brought forward another idea.

"Will He care? Would it please Him to have me play on the piano, or
learn French and arithmetic?"

"Dolly, the more you know, and the better you know it, the better
servant you can be; you will have the more to use for Jesus."

"Can I use such things for Him? How?"

"Many ways. He will show you how. Do you think an ignorant woman could
do as much in the world as an elegant, well-informed, accomplished
woman?"

Dolly thought over this question, nodded as one who had come to an
understanding of it, and went back to her knitting.

"What ever will become of that child," said Mrs. Eberstein an hour or
two later, when she and her husband were alone. "I am full of anxiety
about her."

"Then you are taking upon you the part of Providence."

"No, but, Edward, Dolly will have a history."

"So have we all,"

Question: Summarize the above passage in exactly 500 words and give a brief outlook on it.