proper season, and gathered it as a relic of the spot, which she

might keep without blame. As she stooped to pluck it, her own face
looked up at her out of a little pool filled by the spring rains.

Seen against the reflected sky, it shone with a soft radiance, and
the earnest eyes met hers, as if it were her young self, evoked

from the past, to bid her farewell. "Farewell!" she whispered,
taking leave at once, as she believed, of youth and the memory of

love.
During those years she had more than once been sought in marriage,

but had steadily, though kindly, refused. Once, when the suitor
was a man whose character and position made the union very

desirable in Eli Mitchenor's eyes, he ventured to use his paternal
influence. Asenath's gentle resistance was overborne by his

arbitrary force of will, and her protestations were of no avail.
"Father," she finally said, in the tone which he had once heard and

still remembered, `thee can take away, but thee cannot give."
He never mentioned the subject again.

Richard Hilton passed out of her knowledge shortly after her
meeting with him in Philadelphia. She heard, indeed, that his

headlong career of dissipation was not arrested,--that his friends
had given him up as hopelessly ruined,--and, finally, that he had

left the city. After that, all reports ceased. He was either
dead, or reclaimed and leading a better life, somewhere far away.

Dead, she believed--almost hoped; for in that case might he not now
be enjoying the ineffable rest and peace which she trusted might be

her portion? It was better to think of him as a purified spirit,
waiting to meet her in a holier communion, than to know that he was

still bearing the burden of a soiled and blighted life. In any
case, her own future was plain and clear. It was simply a

prolongation of the present--an alternation of seed-time and
harvest, filled with humble duties and cares, until the Master

should bid her lay down her load and follow Him.
Friend Mitchenor bought a small cottageadjacent to his son's farm,

in a community which consisted mostly of Friends, and not far from
the large old meeting-house in which the Quarterly Meetings were

held. He at once took his place on the upper seat, among the
elders, most of whom he knew already, from having met them, year

after year, in Philadelphia. The charge of a few acres of ground
gave him sufficient occupation; the money left to him after the

sale of his farm was enough to support him comfortably; and a late
Indian summer of contentment seemed now to have come to the

old man. He was done with the earnest business of life. Moses was
gradually taking his place, as father and Friend; and Asenath would

be reasonably provided for at his death. As his bodily energies
decayed, his imperioustemper softened, his mind became more

accessible to liberal influences, and he even cultivated a cordial
friendship with a neighboring farmer who was one of "the world's

people." Thus, at seventy-five he was really younger, because
tenderer of heart and more considerate, than he had been at sixty.

Asenath was now a woman of thirty-five, and suitors had ceased to
approach her. Much of her beauty still remained, but her face had

become thin and wasted, and the inevitable lines were beginning to
form around her eyes. Her dress was plainer than ever, and she

wore the scoop-bonnet of drab silk, in which no woman can seem
beautiful, unless she be very old. She was calm and grave in her

demeanor, save that her perfect goodness and benevolence shone
through and warmed her presence; but, when earnestly interested,

she had been known to speak her mind so clearly and forcibly that
it was generally surmised among the Friends that she possessed "a

gift," which might, in time, raise her to honor among them. To the
children of Moses she was a good genius, and a word from "Aunt

'Senath" oftentimes prevailed when the authority of the parents was
disregarded. In them she found a new source of happiness; and when

her old home on the Neshaminy had been removed a little farther
into the past, so that she no longer looked, with every morning's

sun, for some familiar feature of its scenery, her submission
brightened into a cheerful content with life.

It was summer, and Quarterly-Meeting Day had arrived. There had
been rumors of the expected presence of "Friends from a distance,"

and not only those of the district, but most of the neighbors who
were not connected with the sect, attended. By the by-road,

through the woods, it was not more than half a mile from Friend
Mitchenor's cottage to the meeting-house, and Asenath, leaving her

father to be taken by Moses in his carriage, set out on foot. It
was a sparkling, breezy day, and the forest was full of life.

Squirrels chased each other along the branches of the oaks, and the
air was filled with fragrant odors of hickory-leaves, sweet fern,

and spice-wood. Picking up a flower here and there, Asenath walked
onward, rejoicing alike in shade and sunshine, grateful for all the

consoling beauty which the earth offers to a lonely heart. That
serene content which she had learned to call happiness had filled

her being until the dark canopy was lifted and the waters took back
their transparency under a cloudless sky.

Passing around to the "women's side" of the meeting-house, she
mingled with her friends, who were exchanging information

concerning the expected visitors. Micajah Morrill had not arrived,
they said, but Ruth Baxter had spent the last night at Friend

Way's, and would certainly be there. Besides, there were Friend
Chandler, from Nine Partners, and Friend Carter, from Maryland:

they had been seen on the ground. Friend Carter was said to have
a wonderful gift,--Mercy Jackson had heard him once, in

Baltimore. The Friends there had been a little exercised about
him, because they thought he was too much inclined to "the

newness," but it was known that the Spirit had often manifestly" target="_blank" title="ad.明显的">manifestly led
him. Friend Chandler had visited Yearly Meeting once, they

believed. He was an old man, and had been a personal friend of
Elias Hicks.

At the appointed hour they entered the house. After the subdued
rustling which ensued upon taking their seats, there was an

interval of silence, shorter than usual, because it was evident
that many persons would feel the promptings of the Spirit. Friend

Chandler spoke first, and was followed by Ruth Baxter, a frail
little woman, with a voice of exceeding power. The not unmelodious

chant in which she delivered her admonitions rang out, at times,
like the peal of a trumpet. Fixing her eyes on vacancy, with her

hands on the wooden rail before her, and her body slightly swaying
to and fro, her voice soared far aloft at the commencement of every

sentence, gradually dropping, through a melodious scale of tone, to
the close. She resembled an inspired prophetess, an aged Deborah,

crying aloud in the valleys of Israel.
The last speaker was Friend Carter, a small man, not more than

forty years of age. His face was thin and intense in its
expression, his hair gray at the temples, and his dark eye almost

too restless for a child of "the stillness and the quietness." His
voice, though not loud, was clear and penetrating, with an earnest,

sympathetic quality, which arrested, not the ear alone, but the
serious attention of the auditor. His delivery was but

slightly marked by the peculiarrhythm of the Quaker preachers; and
this fact, perhaps, increased the effect of his words, through the

contrast with those who preceded him.
His discourse was an eloquent vindication of the law of kindness,

as the highest and purest manifestation" target="_blank" title="n.表明；现象">manifestation of true Christian doctrine.
The paternal relation of God to man was the basis of that religion

which appealed directly to the heart: so the fraternity of each man
with his fellow was its practical application. God pardons the

repentant sinner: we can also pardon, where we are offended; we can
pity, where we cannot pardon. Both the good and the bad principles

generate their like in others. Force begets force; anger excites
a corresponding anger; but kindness awakens the slumbering emotions

even of an evil heart. Love may not always be answered by an equal
love, but it has never yet created hatred. The testimony which

Friends bear against war, he said, is but a general assertion,
which has no value except in so far as they manifest the principle

of peace in their daily lives--in the exercise of pity, of charity,
of forbearance, and Christian love.

The words of the speaker sank deeply into the hearts of his