THE UNEXPECTED REVELATION.

Luke had not far to walk. People were going into the theatre in crowds. A feeling of sensitive shame seized upon him, the color fled from his lips, and they quivered when he held out his flowers, and attempted to speak. But he was brave, from a kind desire to prove himself of use, and moved into the thickest of the crowd, holding up his lovely merchandise. One or two gentlemen answered his timid appeal sharply, and told him to stand out of the way; at which he shrank back, with tears in his eyes, and longed to run home and never see a human face more.

As he stood leaning against the wall, forlorn and disheartened, a young man entered the building with a girl upon his arm, dressed in a showy fashion, but with an underlaying of poverty in her garments, that she attempted to cover by a dashing and jaunty air, which seemed to defy criticism.

The girl, seeing that several ladies had bouquets in their hands as they passed into the theatre, was seized with a desire for flowers herself, and, seeing Luke standing by the wall, with his head bent over a basket of flowers hanging from his listless hand, turned that way. The boy stood in shadow, and she was only led to him by a gleam of white and gold in his basket.

"See, see, there are some—there are some!" she cried, addressing her companion, and dragging him rather roughly towards Luke. "Oh mercy! they are nothing but common things from the side of some road! What trash!"

Here Luke lifted his eyes suddenly, and the light fell upon his face.

"My gracious!" cried the girl, throwing up both hands and breaking into a laugh. "If it is not Luke—Luke Weeks; did you ever!"

Luke lifted his pleading eyes, and drew back into the shadows.

"Oh don't—oh don't!" he almost moaned.

"But how on earth came you here?"

"I—I thought they would not know me," pleaded the boy.

"But those ridiculous things are nothing but weeds that grow in the crooks of fences."

"But so fresh—so lovely! Oh, please don't say that. I know they are beautiful as you are."

"As I am!" answered the girl, tossing her head in arrogant consciousness of its loveliness, "the idea!"

"Come, come, as you do not care for the flowers, let us go," said the young man, who had been restless and evidently annoyed by the manner of his companion, "you forget that the house is filling up and we have no secured seats."

"True enough," answered the girl, swinging herself back into the crowd and giving Luke a warning glance over her shoulder as she added for his benefit, "now go home, go home and tell Rhoda not to have any more of this nonsense. Ridiculous!"

"Don't speak quite so loud," whispered the young man, "you will break the child's heart; surely you did not mark the trouble in his eyes."

"Oh yes, I did. It isn't the first time I have brought it there, he's just one heap of poetry and nonsense. But did you ever see such eyes!"

"There is but one pair of eyes that I ever care to remember," answered the young man, bending his head low, and speaking in a tone that brought the bloom of a wild rose into the girl's cheek. So, forgetting the flowers and the poor boy that held them, in this sweet flattery, she moved on with the crowd, while Luke's heart sunk like lead in his bosom.

He grew weary and ashamed of holding out his basket, and dropping it partly behind him, was preparing to creep away, when a gentleman and lady stepped from a carriage, followed by a girl who was evidently the daughter. Her first glance fell upon Luke and his unlucky merchandise.

"Oh, papa! see how pretty! Stop! stop a minute, do!" she cried out eagerly.

"Do you want them, Dora?"

"Want them? Of course I do."

The gentleman smiled, and his wife laughed outright; and turning to Luke, asked the price of his flowers.

"I—I don't know; if the young lady likes them——"

The boy's face was one glow of blushes.

Dora took them, just as unmindful of the money as he was.

"Oh! thank you, ten thousand times! See, papa, how lovely they are!"

"But the price—how much, my boy?"

"I don't know—I'd rather not, if you please."

"Oh, papa! what do you ask for? Give him lots," whispered Dora.

But while the gentleman was taking out his porte-monnaie, Luke attempted to lose himself in the crowd. After looking in that bright young face, he was ashamed of taking money.

"Here! Here!" said the gentleman, following him up and thrusting some money into his hand. "Take that address, and bring a basket to my house twice a week."

"Three times," said Dora, "three times, papa, please—and don't forget the address, little boy."

Luke took the money, and, hiding himself in the crowd, watched the lady and her daughter as they stood together, while the gentleman was at the ticket-office.

"There she goes," he thought, as the plume of her dainty little hat disappeared through the door; "and she'll always remember me as the boy who took her money for the flowers that God gives to all."

Luke almost ran home, leaped up stairs, in breathless baste, and flung the money, which he had not looked at, into his sister's lap.

"Why, Luke, it's a dollar—a whole dollar! Isn't this famous?" she said. "You precious, darling old boy!"

Rhoda looked up for an answer, and was astonished to see that Luke had fallen upon a seat by the table, and, with his face buried in his folded arms, was crying passionately.

Poor Luke had cried himself asleep long before Sterling and Constance came home from the theatre. The young man had become shy of spending so much time in that shabby parlor, for his marriage was yet unacknowledged, and the secret pressed heavily upon him.

Constance bade him good night with some reluctance. She had no conscientious scruples regarding the deception practised on her father, but had accepted the marriage without a thought of its consequences, and with as little consideration as she would have given to a morning walk. She loved the young artist with passionate vehemence. He was her only friend, her gentle and kind master, handsome, talented, earnest, and she felt the influence of these qualities without possessing the power to appreciate them. To her it was a grand step in life when she saw the golden ring of wedlock on her finger. The dignity of her own person was enhanced; she longed to dress herself in white, crown herself with orange blossoms and make wedding calls on all the tenants of the house, still she felt it no grievous wrong when Sterling suggested that she should wear the wedding ring about her neck, hid away in the folds of her dress, till his mother and her father should be informed of the step they had taken. One thing was certain, they were married, and all these triumphs must yet come to her.

"Remember," she said as Sterling held her hand a moment, at parting, "we must go again one night this week. I do so love the theatre."

"Yes," he answered gently, "I will be sure to get seats."

Sterling turned from the door, and walked toward home, somewhat depressed in spirits; for things had happened at the house that night, which wounded his sensitive pride. The rude arrogance with which Constance had treated that gentle boy, with his flowers, had shocked him as before that rash ceremony no act of hers could have done,—besides this, she had accepted the staring homage of more than one man, who leveled his audacious eyes upon her beauty, in a way that wounded and repulsed her husband. So he left her at the door, and wandered off, not thinking or caring what course he took.

After awhile, the young man found himself in that part of the town, which is desolate as a wilderness after the stores are closed and business is withdrawn. It was late at night, and he had unconsciously sought the quiet streets in order to arrange the painful thoughts that crowded on him.

All at once he was aroused, almost startled by the sound of voices down a cross street, where groups of people were swarming in and out, with an appearance of unusual interest.

The young man turned listlessly, and went forward with the crowd. The sound of a voice in the interior of a house which opened on the street, sent the blood back upon his heart. He pushed forward, urged his way to the door, and looked in.

When Sterling left that crowd, and made his way into the street again, a marvellous change had fallen upon him. A revelation had been made, while standing in the shadow of that open door, which changed the whole aspect of his own conduct. He knew that the act, which he had deemed one of magnanimity, was violation of friendship, and a wrong which no power of his could atone for.