NIGHT had succeeded the busy labors of the day, and the curtain of darkness had lulled to slumber most of the inmates of Madame Moret's household. But a lamp was still burning in her own dressing- room, though the hour was close upon midnight. Maude and Carrie, worn out with the excitement of the day's journey, had long since fallen asleep in one of the pleasant dormitories. They were doubtless in happy unconsciousness of the loss that had fallen upon them. Perhaps they were even now living over again happy scenes of their childhood-living over again the dear old times, when a fond mother was beside them.
“Come to my dressing-room, Miss Grahame, before you retire to your bedroom," Madame had said to Kate, as she left the schoolroom as soon as the evening duties were over.
“Take this nice low seat by my side, dear,” said Madame, as she rose to receive Kate and placed a soft, luxuriant, reclining chair in a comfortable position by the fire. “And now, Kate," she continued, "I want you to tell me all about these sad troubles of the last three weeks."
“You gave me a fortnight, Madame," said Kate, "but I was away three weeks."
“Yes! I know that; but it could not be helped. You could not have done better than you did, Kate. And the lessons have been managed. Don't speak of that. I want to hear of your mother."
And Madame's voice in the last words had such a touch of tenderness in their accent, that Kate could only listen to them in wonder. And with such a listener Kate was soon led to talk of much that had passed during the interval of her absence. Words and sayings of the dear departed one were lovingly recalled, and Kate's tears flowed unhinderedly at times during the recital, To the gentle, submissive way in which the suffering mother had borne her sorrows Madame listened with intense interest, and more than once the delicate cambric handkerchief was lifted to wipe away the glistening teardrop from what people generally termed her "hard, gray eyes." They were not hard that night, however.
“Kate," said Madame, after a short pause, "will you do something for me?"
"Oh, yes, Madame; anything to show my gratitude for all your kindness," was the ready answer.
"Kate, I love you," she whispered. “Will you love me? Can you love me also?"
“I do love you, dear Madame," was all that Kate could find words to say in her surprise.
“And, Kate," continued Madame in the same soft, low voice, "I shall strive to be a mother to you, and you shall be my child." And the gray eyes filled with tears, as she clasped Kate tenderly to her bosom, and imprinted a long, fervent kiss upon her brow.
“Dear Madame, forgive me," said Kate; as they sat and spoke freely of thoughts and feelings long pent up in Madame's own bosom; "forgive me, forever thinking you cold and reserved."
“I have been a lonely woman, dear Kate," said Madame in a low, distinct tone. “Once there was one dearer to me than life; but it pleased God to take my idol from my grasp, and I was desolate. He was more to me than my God, and I knew it, Kate."
“You have had sorrow and trial, dear Madame, as well as I then!" said Kate in a sympathetic tone. “Did it bring you to the feet of Him who sent it?"
“Yes, at last, dear. The bitterness, the sadness, the loneliness drove me there. It was my only resource."
“It was a resource though, dear Madame; have you not found it so?" asked Kate.
“Blessed be His name, it was, Kate; but I dared not trust my heart to love again. Better to be sad and alone than to have the joy taken out of life a second time, I thought. And I have foolishly closed my heart against the little rays of sunshine which have been thrown across my path since that time; but God has now taught me that I should open my heart again, and let the springs of affection have their proper course. It shall be open to you, Kate."
“Not only to me, Madame," said Kate, "but to all that come under your influence."
“May be, Kate dear. He can do that also. I have thought little of that part of it. As long as the work was done, and done well, I have cared for little beside."
“But there is a higher thing than that, is there not, dear Madame?" urged Kate gently. “Dear mother taught me from a child, 'Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.'"
“It wasn't so much the hand at fault, Kate, as the heart. But now, my dear," Madame continued, as her eyes fell upon the gray ashes in the fireplace, “I must not let you take cold by sitting without a fire. I wonder what the time is."
“Half-past one, dear Madame," said my young mistress, as she drew me from her watch-pocket.
"You have an exquisite little watch, my dear," remarked Madame, as her eye fell upon my chased exterior.
“It is very precious to me, Madame," replied Kate. "It belonged to my dear mother."
“Her dying gift, I suppose, Kate?" asked Madame, as she took me in her hands for a moment.
“I used it before that," said Kate; "but she looked at it just a little before her death, and placed it again in my hand, saying words that I shall never forget."
“What were they, dear?" inquired Madame Moret, as she noticed the glistening eyes of the young girl by her side.
“They were these, Madame," replied Kate in a half-choking voice. "Take this watch again, love; and when you look at it, think what I have often told you,-‘As long as time lasts, Jesus the Lord will be with you as He has been with me.'"
“The Lord give you to realize it so, dear Kate," said Madame fervently.
"And now, Kate," she added a few moments after, "remember, if I am to be allowed the joy of helping to fill up your lonely heart, you must have confidence in me at all times. You are welcome to my room at any hour. Don't misjudge me and think me hard and cold. So good night, dear." And with one long, fervent embrace, telling of a long-lain latent love, now once more rekindling into life, Madame Moret permitted Kate to depart.
Very thankful was my young mistress to find herself alone in her own chamber. Late as it was, and weary as she had grown with the journey and excitement of the day, there was One to whom she must turn and tell out all that was in her full heart. Thanksgiving and supplication blended together in that hour of communion with her Lord and Savior; thanksgiving for unexpected mercies-supplication for strength, wisdom and guidance to carry out His will, and that she might be kept close to the Good Shepherd's side.
“What a stupid book! " said Mademoiselle to Fraulein in a half-whisper, one evening as Kate was, in accordance with Madame's request, reading from an interesting volume to the pupils. “I do wish Madame would choose more entertaining books for the young ladies-not religious ones."
“Very stooped," replied Fraulein, who had not yet acquired Mademoiselle's proficiency in the English language. "But we need not listen if we do not like."
“If it were a new French novel, or some good German poems, it would be different," said Mademoiselle, with a significant shrug of her shoulders.
“I have Goethe up in my box," said Fraulein, after a few moments' pause. “If you like. I will fetch it to you, Mademoiselle”
“Do, ma fille," replied Mademoiselle, who was in the habit of patronizing all who had to do with her. And Fraulein quitted the schoolroom, shortly to return with the book in her hand.
“This will be exceedingly better," said Mademoiselle, as she turned over the leaves of the volume and commenced reading. "That nonsense is not worth listening to."
Kate had heard the greater part of the conversation, which had been carried on almost close to her side; and now as the last remark was uttered in a tone sufficiently audible for all the young ladies to hear, the hot blood mounted to her temples, and her first impulse was to close the book, and take up a piece of work which lay upon the table at her side.
It was well that in that moment of annoyance Kate had a strong tower into which she might run for defense. Conscious that she was no match for the enemy in this subtle form, she lifted her heart in silent prayer for grace to keep down the rising temper-grace to do the "thing that was right,” and not to give the advantage to those who sought in her "occasion for stumbling." And though her cheeks for a little while remained hot, and her heart throbbed painfully with the effort, Kate read on in a clear, steady voice, till the hour appointed for other duties.
Well did the Spirit of God write, “The name of the Lord is a strong tower; the righteous runneth into it, and is set aloft." (Marg.) Yes, “aloft " where the petty annoyances of the lower atmosphere lose their power to disturb, and "the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, keeps the heart and mind by Christ Jesus."