give you up to me, keeping no claim upon you—
even to never seeing your face again, if I so will
it—then I will pay all his debts, and adopt you
as my own daughter."

Before he could finish all these words, I sprang
away from him, feeling more angered than I had
ever done in my life.

"It could never be," I cried. "My father
could never give me up, and I will never leave
him."

"Be in no hurry to decide, Eunice," he said;
"your father has two other daughters. I will
give you an hour to reflect."

Upon that he and his wife left me alone in the
pleasant room. My mind was firmly made up
from the beginning. But as I sat before the
glowing fire, it seemed as if all the bleak cold
days of the coming winter trooped up and
gathered round me, chilling the warm atmosphere
of the room, and touching me with icy
fingers, until I trembled like a coward. So I
opened my little lot-book, which our pastor had
given unto me, and I looked anxiously at the many
slips of paper it contained. Many times I had
drawn a lot from it, and found but vague counsel
and comfort. But I now drew therefrom again,
and the words upon the lot were, "Be of good
courage!" Then I was greatly strengthened.

When the hour was ended, my uncle returned,
and urged me with many worldly persuasions and
allurements, mingled with threatenings, until at
length I grew bold to answer him according to
his snares.

"It is an evil thing," I said, "to tempt a child
to forsake her father. Providence has put it into
your power to lessen the sorrows of your fellow-creatures,
but you seek to add to them. I would
rather dwell with my father in a jail, than with
you in a palace."

I turned and left him, finding my way out
through the hall into the deepening twilight. It
was more than a mile from the village through
which the coach passed; and the hedge-banks
rose high on each side of the deep lane. Though
I walked very swiftly, the night came on before
I had proceeded far from my uncle's house, with
such thick gloom and fog that I could almost feel
the darkness. "Be of good courage, Eunice!"
said I; and to drive away the fears which lay in
wait for me if I yielded but a little, I lifted up
my voice, and began to sing our Evening Hymn.

Suddenly a voice a little way before me, took
up the tune, in a clear deep rich tone, like that
of the Brother who taught us music in the Settlement.
As I stopped instantly, my heart leaping
up with fear and a strange gladness, the
voice before me ceased singing also.

"Good night," it said. There was such
kindness and frankness and sweetness in the
voice, that I trusted it at once.

"Wait for me," I said; "I am lost in the
night, and I want to find my way to Longville."

"I am going there too," said the voice, to which
I drew nearer each moment; and immediately I
saw a tall dark figure in the mist beside me.

"Brother," I said, trembling a little, though
wherefore I knew not. "are we far from Longville?"

"Only ten minutes' walk," he answered, in a
blithe tone, which cheered me not a little.
"Take my arm, and we shall soon be there."

As my hand rested on his arm lightly, I felt
a sense of great support and protection. As we
came near the lighted window of the village inn,
we looked into one another's faces. His was
pleasant and handsome, like some of the best
pictures I have ever seen. I do not know why,
but I thought of the Angel Gabriel.

"We are at Longville," he said; "tell me
where I can take you to."

"Sir," I answered, for I could not say Brother
to him in the light; "I wish first to get to
Woodbury."

"To Woodbury," he repeated, "at this time
of night, and alone! There is a return coach
coming up in a few minutes, by which I travel to
Woodbury. Will you accept of my escort
there?"

"Sir, I thank you," I answered; and I stood
silent beside him, until the coach lamps shone
close upon us in the fog. The stranger opened
the door, but I hung back with a foolish feeling
of shame at my poverty, which it was needful to
conquer.

"We are poor people," I stammered. "I
must travel outside."

"Not such a winter's night as this," he said.
"Jump in."

"No, no," I replied, recovering my senses, "I
shall go outside." A decent country woman, with
a child, were already seated on the top of the
coach, and I quickly followed them. My seat
was the outer one, and hung over the wheels.
The darkness was so dense that the fitful glimmer
of the coach-lamps upon the leafless hedge-rows
was the only light to be seen. All else was black,
pitchy night. I could think of nothing but my
father, and the jail opening to imprison him.
Presently I felt a hand laid firmly on my arm,
and Gabriel's voice spake to me:

"Your seat is a dangerous one," he said. "A
sudden jerk might throw you off."

"I am so miserable," I sobbed, all my courage
breaking down; and in the darkness I buried
my face in my hands, and wept silently; and
even as I wept, the bitterness of my sorrow was
assuaged.

"Brother," I said—for in the darkness I could
call him so again. "I am only just come home
from school, and I have not learned the ways and
troubles of the world yet."

"My child," he answered, in a low tone, "I
saw you lean your head upon your hands and
weep. Can I be of any help to you?"

"No," I replied; "the sorrow belongs to me
only, and to my house."

He said no more, but I felt his arm stretched
out to form a barrier across the space where I
might have fallen; and so through the black
night we rode on to Woodbury.