THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.

Hudson arose, went to the foot of a flight of stairs, and called out to Rhoda Weeks.

"Yes, yes, I'll be there in a minute," cried out a fresh young voice. "Wait till I get my hood!"

Directly the patter of steps came down the stairs, and our little match-girl put her bright face through the door.

"What shall I tell them to bring, Mr. Hudson, please?" she said, tying the strings of her hood with nimble little fingers, and looking alert as a bird. "Oysters and things?"

"Yes, child; let it be oysters and things," said Church, turning on his chair, "with some cold chicken, and a bottle of champagne—do you hear? The best they have, which will be bad enough, I dare say; and—and—Well, that will do. No, stop! There, there, go along!"

Away went the girl, almost flying down stairs, out into the street, and down into a restaurant below the street, where everybody seemed to know her, and in a way recognize her right to be there. Directly she went forth, calling out,

"Don't forget, Mr. Ward! just about eleven. Father will stop for his glass of beer, and you will know by that when the theatre is over."

"All right," answered the man, laughing goodhumoredly; for every one who saw that strange child was sure to feel kindly toward her.

A few minutes after, Rhoda's pleasant face looked in upon Hudson and Church again.

"It's all right; they will find a splendid supper when they come. Shall I set out the table?"

Hudson nodded, and the little girl came in. She saw that the room was in some confusion, and went to work at once arranging chairs, sweeping the hearth, and dusting things generally, as well as she could by the smoking lamp. Then she unscrewed the lamp-chimney, thrust her little hand into the glass, and polished off a stain of black smoke with wonderful vigor; cut the wick level, and gave double light to the room.

Hudson was used to all this; but Church watched the girl with a sidelong glance full of amusement. She drew a table into the middle of the room, spread out its leaves, covered them with a tolerably white cloth. Then made the best display possible of some unequal china-plates, a Britannia-castor, a goblet of cut-glass, one long-necked champagne-glass, from which she emptied some stale wild-flowers, and two greenish tumblers, thrust as far as possible into the back-ground.

When all this was done, the child ran up stairs, and came down again, bearing a pitcher between her little hands, half concealed behind the mass of field-flowers that rose in blue and golden spray from it. This she planted in the centre of the table, and, folding both hands under her apron, stood with her head on one side complacently regarding her work.

"That will take her eye, sure enough," she said, walking backward to the door. "Now I'll go up stairs," she added, with a questioning glance.

"But you'll not go to bed—we may want you?" answered Hudson.

"I never go to bed till father comes home," was the grave reply. "Besides, this is washing-night, and I haven't quite got through."

"What a strange, old-fashioned thing it is," said Church as the girl ran up stairs. "What did she mean by 'washing-night?'"

"Wait a moment and you'll hear her about it. There, that is her wash-board! She is, indeed, a wonderful little housekeeper; and, as she says, does the family washing while her father is at the theatre. To-morrow evening you may hear the smothered noise of her flat-irons. I tell you, sir, that child is a wonder!"

"I should think as much; how honest and happy she looks."

"And is. I tell you what. Church, when I see that child performing her duties so cheerfully, working with more energy than most women even now; absolutely buying and selling, always at a small profit, and yet keeping a comfortable home for her father and brother, it makes me ashamed of my own life. Oh, Church! it is a terrible thing to find out, so late, how noble existence might be made."

"But why allow yourself to find it out?" said Church.

"True," said Hudson. "Such things make one long to undo the past—an impossibility."

"Take things as they are," said Church; "that, after all, is the best wisdom. It is only the young who can afford to shape existence; but they will not do it any the more for all the experiences ever written—make yourself sure of that. Does any man ever profit by another's experience, I wonder?"

"Not one time in a thousand," answered Hudson. "Youth is impetuous, self-confident—anything but reasonable. Advice makes little impression on the inexperienced; they cannot comprehend its necessity. Besides, every soul shapes or accepts its own life; no two events ever happen in just the same way, as no two leaves are alike on the same tree. How, then, can any man really profit by the joys or misfortunes of another? No; these things live in the nature, not in the circumstances."

"Then you believe that every man shapes his own destiny?"

"No; I believe nothing of the kind; but I do believe that no destiny can make a good man do an absolutely wicked thing. The power of right and wrong rests in every human soul for itself. When we attempt to bring good from evil acts, we shape the destiny that falls upon us. A good mariner does not attempt to regulate the sea and the tempest that lashes it, but he stands firm and vigilant at the helm of his own vessel, taking care of that, while God regulates the waves. That is all any just man has the power of doing."

"Why, Hudson, I did not expect this from you and to me," said Church.

"No more than those who looked up to me once in love and trust would have expected what you know of me," was the sad answer.

Hudson shaded his eyes with one hand as he spoke, and Church observed not only that the hand shook, but that tears were dropping from under it. A gleam of half scornful pity came upon the hard man's face.

"Do you know," he said, at last, "you have been talking like a minister, and to me?"

"I was a minister," answered Hudson, sweeping the hand across his eyes, and dropping it over the arm of his chair with a heavy sigh.

"You, Hudson?"

"I was young, ardent, good, for the time, and felt myself sufficient, not only for my own safe guidance, but for the leadership of other men."

"Well, and they followed you. Where?"

There was something like a sneer in this speech, which Hudson felt keenly.

"But I forget myself and my audience," he said, rising and waving his hand almost fiercely.

There was a sort of desperate courage in Hudson's manner, which made Church smile.

"Why, bless you, old fellow!" he said, "I knew well enough what you had been and where all this moral wisdom came from. You are good enough, and bad enough, for me; but here comes the young people, or the supper, I don't know which. Ten to one, though, it is the supper—that tramp is too heavy for our lovers."

True enough, it was a man bearing a huge tray in his hands. Scarcely had he began to arrange its contents on the table, when a light laugh and a confusion of careless steps came up the stairs, like the rush of a spring breeze.

"Well, papa, we are home at last. What, supper? How delightful! Isn't it splendid, William?"

The girl, whom we have seen entering the theatre, saw Church, paused, blushed a little, and advanced into the room, sweeping a rather long train of cheap silk after her. Hudson introduced his friend both to her and her companion, who came forward in a quiet, gentlemanly way, and shook hands.

"Now for something nice," said Constance Hudson, pulling off a pair of rather soiled gloves, and thrusting them into her pocket. "Let us sit down and take supper comfortably. What a nice little thing that girl is to do all this for me. Come, father; and you, sir. William, here. What! champagne? delicious!"

She patted the chair next her with an inviting smile, and the young man took it, flushing a little at her open preference, which, certainly, was calculated to embarrass any sensitive man.

The two other men took their places, and a very irregular but sociable meal commenced. Constance was full of vivacity and animation. She criticised the play, jested about the audience, and so aroused the admiration of her father's guest, that he became cheerful, and almost witty, stranger as he was.

The young man kept almost silent; but he, too, seemed to enjoy the merriment of the girl, and made himself useful in her service. At last Church drew the bottle of champagne toward him, and pressing out the cork with a fillip of his thumb, sent it quickly from glass to glass, like so much topaz, molten and sparkling. Then the conversation became more brilliant; the young man joined in it with kindling animation, and while the young people drank freely, Church looked on, making observations with shrewd coolness.

Hudson scarcely tasted the wine; a cloud had fallen upon him that evening, and he looked anxiously at his daughter more than once, as if her merriment troubled him.