CHAPTER XXIII.

MARGARET'S BIRTHDAY.

The story draws to a close, and there is little more to tell; the rest is such plain sailing that it might almost be taken for granted. There is one little scene, however, pleasant to write and possibly pleasant to read, which took place on August 15th of that same year, in the church at Sealing; and in explanation of which a short account should be given of what happened after Dr. James had come to live in New York.

He had taken rooms in that city and begun to work among the poor, doing much although with small means. He began to go regularly every day to Miss Lester's house in the afternoon; then they walked and drove together, and learned to know each other well. He was often with her in the morning, too, and together they visited many a sick and suffering soul, leaving behind them comfort, encouragement, and substantial relief. They every week knelt together at the altar of the little French chapel Margaret loved so well, and received God's greatest gift of love to man, and it was a time of pure, unclouded happiness.

It was June; and there had been a week of very warm weather. The fashionables had fled from the city, or shut themselves up in their houses, excluding every ray of light and sun. Dr. James, weary from his morning's labors, had been home, refreshed himself a little, and then, at about five o'clock in the afternoon, stood on the steps of Margaret's house, and was ushered into the shady parlor. The green blinds were closed, the carpets were gone, cool white matting was on the floors, and great bunches of roses stood about on tables and mantel-pieces. Margaret came to meet him, fresh and cool in her light dress, and holding in her hand a very beautiful line engraving of the Dresden "Madonna and Child."

"See, Dr. James, what Martha has given me for a birthday present."

"Why did you not tell me beforehand that this was your birthday, that I might have given you a present?"

"Truly, because I forgot it till I found this on the breakfast-table this morning. It seems I told Martha at Shellbeach that this was my birthday, and she remembered it. Was she not kind?"

"I want to speak to you about leaving the city," said the doctor; "the hot weather has come, and it will not be healthy for you to be here. The cholera may be about, they say, and you go into places where you will be sure to catch it."

"So do you."

"But a doctor is pretty safe; he can guard against infection in a great measure."

"Well, a great many other people stay in New York and do not get sick. The religious and priests stay in their houses, and they go among more wretched people than I do."

"Yes; but Miss Lester, you are not a religious; your life has not been wholly consecrated to God, as theirs have."

"I can't see why, because I have not a vocation for a religious life, that should make any difference."

"Plainly, then, because your life is precious, if not to yourself, to other people; to me. It should not be lightly thrown away."

"I shall not throw it away; I don't believe in contagion. God will preserve my life, if he wishes it to be spared."

"Yes; but God is not called upon to work a miracle in your behalf; and if you wilfully expose yourself to danger, he may not interpose to avert the consequences."

Margaret was silent, and the doctor continued, with an effort,

"I said your life was precious to me; and though you did not notice it, I say it again. I have never had courage till to-day to speak to you about the letter I wrote you at Shellbeach; but it is possible for me to do so now. You did not seem angry with me when I saw you at the wedding. Had you forgotten it, or didn't you care for my rudeness?"

"I cared for it; that is, of course, I was sorry, perhaps hurt; still, not for a moment angry or offended. I knew that you were not cruel but kind, for you told the truth; and any thing except the truth would have been unkindness. I honored you for writing it."

"Yet it was not the truth; although in writing it I sincerely and honestly believed it to be the truth. I said I did not love you; I believed I did not love you; but I had no sooner read your letter than scales seemed to fall from my eyes. You see, I was sure that you were perfectly indifferent to me; and I thought you would write me a polite letter, expressing friendship, esteem, etc., and regret if I had suffered disappointment; and then that you would go off to New York and leave me to support the downfall of my hopes as best I might. I was sure of this, and your parting words that night seemed to confirm me in it. 'She wishes to part friends,' I thought to myself, 'because she believes she is going to ruin my hopes of happiness.' I was filled with unpleasant and bitter feelings. I read your letter, and the ground seemed to go from under my feet, and I realized what a blind fool I had been. I felt then but one longing, which I feel still, although I know its uselessness and absurdity: that you might be, by some chance, stripped of your fortune to the last cent, that I might lay my poor little pittance at your feet and implore your acceptance of it.

"Oh! if I could tell you what I endured. Shellbeach became unbearable to me; all life and interest seemed to have left me. How I missed you! You can never imagine it, and I cannot describe it. The more I thought of you, the more wretched I became, and after that wedding I felt tenfold worse. I went home to my mother for a change; and then resolved to put you completely out of my head, and, as an assistance, resumed my study of Catholicity, that I had for a time neglected. Then, though I blush to own it, and would not risk my standing in your estimation by telling you of it except that it proves my love for you, the only thing which deterred me from entering the church was the thought that I should lose your esteem, and that it would completely cut me off from any chance I might ever have again of winning you for my wife. Your second letter came, and seemed as an answer from heaven, 'Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith?' You know the rest--but I cannot go on. Even supported by the blessed sympathy we have in our faith, I cannot ask for what my heart craves."

"Dr. James, you seem to feel as if you were before me as a criminal before his judge. Now you have done only what was right and true toward me, and you owe me no apology for any thing. You and I, I believe, have done each other real good, and we have mutually helped each other into the church; we stand on equal ground, and I will accept no other position."

Dr. James looked searchingly at her, and said in a low voice,

"You do me good and make me feel like myself. Then, Margaret, though I am not worthy of you, will you be my wife?"

Margaret laid her hand in his,

"I will, if God allows me so much happiness."